Essays in Musical Analysis  

1. 57 - ^ T

When at last a new cantabile appears as the chief member of the second group, it enters over an ostinato that has already persisted for a long time, and is going to persist much longer. Again we find ourselves in the D major characteristic of the work.

Ex. 14.

8 va.

TCHAIKOVSKY. OP. 64 65

By way of change of movement, the motto theme (Ex. 1) bursts out in full majesty without slackening the tempo, and its second figure is ingeniously paraphrased in terms of Ex. 1 1, thus initiating a development in which Ex. 13 stalks on its way, sometimes below, and sometimes above, the ostinato figure derived from the first notes of Ex. 1 1 .

At last an impressive diminuendo with fine modulations reduces fig. (6) to repeated chords, while the other ostinato, fig. (a), dis- covers that it has been representing the home tonic for a long time. Then a recapitulation begins, Ex. 1 1 bursting out suddenly as bass to a new theme. The other materials follow in more or less their original sequence, the second group answering its former D major by the new and bold colour of F sharp major. This is brought round to the home dominant, on which the rhythm, but not at first the actual theme, of Ex. 1 asserts itself. Its actual appearance as a theme is carefully deferred until a grand climax of themeless chords has duly prepared us for a triumphal march (‘moderato assai e molto maestoso*) in the major. As such, with new counter-points, Ex. 1 now displays itself at leisure, with accompaniments of increasing brilliancy. Then there is a return to presto, where a further coda deals with Exx. 12 and 13.

But the last word of the symphony is concerned with neither the issues of the finale nor the motto theme, but with the main theme of the first movement (Ex. 2) in grandiose major and unqualified cheerfulness.

My own conclusion about Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony is* that great injustice to its intentions results from regarding it as in any way foreshadowing the Pathetic Symphony. Like all Tchai- kovsky’s works, it is highly coloured ; and a critic who should call it restrained would be in evident medical need of restraint himself; but the first three movements are in well-proportioned orthodox form, and my general impression of this symphony is that from first to last Tchaikovsky, though I have never been able to impute to him a sense of humour, is thoroughly enjoying himself. And I don’t see why we shouldn’t enioy him too.

REGER

CCXLII. SERENADE IN G MAJOR, FOR ORCHESTRA, OP. 95

i Allegro moderato . 2 Vivace a Burlesca. 3 Andante semplice. 4 Allegro

con spirito.

The Orchestral Serenade, opus 95, ought to be the work by which the public has learnt to enjoy Reger. Yet it seeftis to have fallen vi F

66 REGER. OP. 95

into neglect. There is no reason why the most esoteric disciple of Reger should wish it to be neglected, for it is intensely charac- teristic of him and in no way superficial or misrepresentative of his message to the world. Yet it has a surface beauty so extra- ordinary and so directly convincing, that it was one of the very few modern works which Joachim in the last years of his life was able to enjoy. Any fool could, and many fools did, gibe at Joa- chim’s inability in old age to enjoy new music. But only wise and unselfish people are capable of the great and constant efforts that Joachim made to appreciate new works up to the end of his life, and, to those who knew him well enough to see how great these efforts were, it was a touching and historic moment when he intro- duced this Serenade to the students of the Hochschule at Berlin, as a work unquestionably of the highest importance, though repre- senting tendencies which he did not profess to follow. It was produced almost immediately after Max Reger’s most notorious work, his Sinfonietta, a work which begins as naively as that famous line, ‘Who wills may hear Sordello’s story told’, and continues as much to the bewilderment of every one whose will has failed to carry him through that story. Of the first performance of the Sinfonietta it is recorded that the eminent and witty conductor Siegfried Ochs, on leaving the concert-room, gave a pat on the back to the notorious composer of Ein Heldenleben and the Sinfonia Domestic a, saying: ‘H’m, h’m, I come back to my dear old Strauss.* The Sinfonietta is not markedly different from Reger’s other works, except in the very dangerous defect that its orchestration, if taken in strict accordance with the over-numerous directions of the com- poser, is very thick and extremely shrill. In spite of its already being his 90th opus, it shows the inexperience of a scholar who has developed rule-of-thumb procedures with an intensity that entirely defeats their object; the typical work, in fact, of a pupil of Hugo Riemann, whose editions of the musical classics are so instructive that I find I need a quarter of an hour to practise the subject of a two-part fugue of Bach in accordance with the instructions, and that the simultaneous playing of the two voices when the answer arrives is definitely beyond my capacity. But Reger was an artist who learnt quickly from experience and whose talent for composition was irrepressible, even beneath the weight of the Riemannian steam-roller. Between opus 90 and opus 95, that is to say between the Sinfonietta and this serenade, Reger somehow contrived to clear up his orchestration so far that even a rough first rehearsal of the Serenade produces an astonishingly beautiful texture. And a naive listener may for some time be satisfied to leave it at that. It is an utter mistake to regard Reger as continuing either the tradition of Brahms or any other classical tradition.

REGER. OP. 95 67

The enormous apparent complexity of his music is merely a widely diffused complexity of texture. Even as such it has its psycho- logically well-timed changes and moments of relief. You cannot improvise on a keyboard in such a texture, but Reger could and did improvise on paper.

The fact that a large proportion of his works is in sonata form is frankly and literally neither here nor there, at all events in the classical sense of sonata style. The sonata style will never be understood by people who do not realize that it is primarily and intensely dramatic. Mozart is the one triumphant exception to the rule that the writers of absolute music are not writers for the stage; and the reason for this exception is partly that Mozart's talent was universal, but also that that talent came into the world at exactly the right moment for simultaneously dramatizing the sonata style and giving perfect musical form to the treatment of situations on the stage. It is difficult to say what Reger would have done with an opera. His temperament goes with an abhorrence of staginess which would exclude that quality from the stage itself if it could. What is quite certain is that his mastery of the external forms of classical music was completely irrelevant to music drama. But my own opinion is that it was equally irrelevant to his own music, and that it did it neither good nor harm. He set up the proportions of sonata forms a priori and filled them out with his music.

One of the greatest masters of the art of extemporizing, living, here in Edinburgh, was overheard by me, after the conclusion of one of his unrecorded symphonic poems, to answer an indiscreet question of an admirer: ‘No, my fugue wouldn't bear analysis.' But it would very well have borne hearing again, if one could recapture it; and I am not much interested in the kind of analysis that such music will not bear. Reger's music will, no doubt, bear that kind of analysis, as well as the analysis that I believe in. His classical forms are according to the definitions in Riemann's dictionary. But to identify them as such will not help the listener. My own belief is that it does not help with classical music; for I find that, if I have to analyse a great classic with any efficiency, I must go from phrase to phrase as if there was no a priori definable form at all. I call the result a classical form when this process of detailed analysis convinces me that the form is the inevitable result of the material, and that the question which came first is a merely practical matter of no aesthetic importance. In the case of highly dramatic works, close attention may be needed for minute details which the further course of the work may show to be as enor- mous in their consequences as the depth into \yhich the parsley sank into the butter on a hot day in one of Sherlock Holmes's

68 REGER. OP. 95

unrecorded cases. When such a story is well told, these fatal details are put clearly enough in the first instance for an attentive memory to recognize their importance without undue length of recapitula- tion when the time comes for explanations. Now far be it from me to insinuate that the listener who misses any of Reger’s fine detail has not missed something of importance. But I can assure him that what he will miss will be such matters of proportion as are never appreciated until you have known your music by heart for years, and that, for all the extraordinary elaboration of Reger’s scores, that composer is as inveterate an extemporizer as Handel; though, unlike Handel, his texture is never either simple or thin, and every scrap of his extemporization has been most meti- culously written down. His adherence to the externals of sonata form is, in this serenade as in all his chamber-music, so strict that the old-fashioned terminology will do for every stage of the work.

The main themes of the first movement of this serenade are so attractive and so nearly normal in their phrasing that the first impression of that movement ought to suffice to carry the listener through the whole of the rest, however unfamiliar Reger’s style may be to him. It is not often that Reger gives his melodies so much time to explain themselves as is the case with Exx. i and 3. It is part of his view of musical history that modern progress has made the building of square-cut melodies an anachronism; and the avoidance of. squareness is a restriction which Reger has con- sciously laid upon his methods of extemporizing. You may take it, therefore, that the quotations I have thought necessary to give, though they are far from representing every theme in his Serenade, do as a matter of fact represent all there is of each theme. How far Reger is a composer of large paragraphs I cannot show in a short analysis. I have never yet found him at a loss. His sentences are as infallible as Gladstone’s, who is said never to have required correction in Hansard, though he could do without a full stop for pages together.

The listener who is not familiar with Reger’s style will, then, need reassurance on these points: first, that his attention may be safely concentrated on what is in fact the rule of safety for all music — listen from one moment to the next and, if the texture is rich, enjoy it as such. Secondly, do not be bewildered by Reger’s constant changes of key. This hardly applies to the present work, though opening themes in G major do not usually make their first modulation to F sharp major. If the poet tells you that ‘he thought that he saw a rattlesnake which questioned him in Greek, And when he looked again it was the middle of next week’, you had better listen for the continuation in a calmly receptive mood

REGER. OP. 95 69

before you tiy to summarize the poet’s philosophy. He may be intending to give simple pleasure without any purpose of incul- cating philosophy. As a matter of fact, the modulations in this Serenade are not very confusing, and its only non-classical feature of tonality is the key of the slow movement, A major, which Brahms would never have dreamt of choosing as an element in a work in G.

The scoring of the Serenade divides the string band into two complete groups, one muted and the other unmuted. In a footnote the composer requests that the unmuted orchestra be placed as far as possible to the conductors left and the muted orchestra to his right. I came to my first rehearsal of the work full of zeal to carry out this direction, which I found placed beyond all human ingenuity by the fact that each muted part was printed on the same pages as the corresponding unmuted part in order that both might be played by the players at one desk. It seems that before the parts were printed Reger had already found that the muted band was quite enough handicapped by its mutes without the additional disadvantage of sitting in the position of second violins with instruments turned away from the audience. In his next important work, opus 100, Variations on a Theme by Adam Hiller, he uses this division of the orchestra in passages here and there. Obviously there is no time in such a case to play a game of musical chairs while the orchestra rearranges itself, and Reger evidently found that the antiphonal effect of a change of position was not worth the trouble.

The listener will find already in the course of Ex. 1 that the change of colour with the third bar is an experience unlike any- thing in earlier music and quite thrilling enough to set the standard for his enjoyment of the whole work. In spite of an apparent inability to resist the temptation to indulge in such luxuries as harp-harmonics on every convenient occasion, Reger’s profound rhetorical instinct always keeps his music on the alert. You will find no difficulty in following it if you will only abandon your mind to it and refuse to be misled by its outward conformity to the rules of sonata music. I do not quote anything like the complete stock of Reger’s themes, and I have very little curiosity as to how far the themes which I do quote may be discovered to be derived from each other. ‘Let go your hands and your feet and you’ll come down by yourself,’ as the steward of the Clyde steamer said to the testy passenger who asked how he was to negotiate the saloon stairs.

Here are three themes from the first movement; the main theme, which haunts not only the listener’s memory, bpt the last bars of each of the other movements —

The development begins with a dramatic and impressive aug- mentation of the figures of Ex. i. Though its course comprises a vigorous fugue on derivative themes it is not inordinately long. The return is effected quietly but dramatically after Reger has combined Exx. i and 3 simultaneously. At the beginning of the recapitulation a new figure —

Ex. 4 a.

is combined with Ex. 1. Its whimsical purpose will appear later. When the recapitulation has reached Ex. 4 a typical short Reger coda follows, consisting of a ritardando that, with a plunge into

REGER. OP. 95 71

the warm dark key of B flat, loses the original tempo altogether and re-establishes the home tonic in an ever-slackening adagio. Such an obliteration of tempo is quite outside all precedent in recorded classical art-forms, but is very familiar to the church organist, who has to continue his extemporization until the clergy and choir are ready to begin the service. As successor to a certain J. S. Bach in the Cantorship of St. Thomas at Leipzig, Reger is familiar with all the devices of church organists ; and any musician who is so snobbish as to object to such devices a priori, deserves the snub of the grim old lady in the omnibus who said to the young person who was afraid of being taken for a shop-girl: T hope, my dear, that you will never be taken for anything less re- spectable.’ These organist’s ‘trailers’ of Reger’s are among the most beautiful things in the music of the early twentieth century.

The tiny little scherzo has no trio, though it has more themes than the contrasted couple which I quote.

Ex. 5.

It soon surprises us by a sudden loss of momentum, and ends by slackening to an adagio close in which Ex. 1 appears as a penulti-* mate flat supertonic.

The slow movement, in the entirely unorthodox key of A major, is a rondo, inasmuch as its main theme —

Er.7.

though not built into any too square-cut a melody for Reger’s taste, alternates with two distinct episodes, recurring several times and giving a full sonata-like recapitulation of the first episode in the tonic. A transition-theme —

leads to the first episode, which is in the dominant. I give the whole theme of the episode, to show that Reger is by no means afraid of giving a long melody to the first violins,without breaking

72 REGER. OP. 95

it up. Figure x, from the first movement, will surprise the atten- tive listener by appearing here among the accessory counterpoints.

Ex. 9. _

This leads to considerable development of the previous material. In due time the main theme (Ex. 7) returns with very gorgeous scoring and is followed by a recapitulation, full but free, of the transition and first episode in the tonic. Slow as is the tempo, the coda again gives us an organist’s ritardando, and the enormous last bar contains two distinct allusions to Ex. 1.

The finale is spirited and energetic, with a typical crowd of Reger themes all as pretty as the stories in the dictionary and all as ‘unco short*.

I select, with no very strong case for preference, two from the first group in the tonic —

73

REGER. OP. 95

and the main theme of the second group —

The movement is in full sonata form. The course of the develop- ment is deflected by an episode in double fugue which obviously owes one of its figures to the semiquavers in Ex. 12 —

After a triumphant return and full recapitulation the coda turns into a mood of Prospero-like reflection and solemn peace, recalling and developing the figures of Ex. 1 in a slow climax of euphony that gloriously crowns the work. Figure x also gives its blessing to the coda.

MAHLER

CCXLIII. SYMPHONY IN G MAJOR, NO. 4

f Bedachtig . ( Moderato .) 2 In gemdchlicher Bewegung. Ohne Hast. (At a deliberate pace; unhurried.) 3 Ruhevoll. (Calm.) 4 Sehr behaglich. (Very

comfortably.)

Mahler was born in i860, and died in 1911. He earned his reputa- tion as one of the world's greatest conductors. As a composer he fascinated a few musicians, but infuriated almost all the rest. The fury that he aroused was not partisan like that aroused by the compositions of Liszt. Even at the present day people who dislike Liszt are repelled, as Ruskin would have been repelled, by qualities to which they impute a sinister ethical significance. This is not altogether to Liszt's disadvantage. People who believe in the devil are either too much horrified by their belief to tolerate the slightest mention of him, or they find a naughty thrill in playing w T ith their superstition. On the whole, a belief in the devil is a superstition which is likely to survive, and even to flourish when all other capacity for belief is exhausted. It is so very 4 asy to live up to.

74 MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4

And it supplies ready-made every conceivable gradation of con- trast, and can give to the most facile pathos the apparent strength of sardonic humour. In the time of Ruskin and Clara Schumann it was impossible not to be angry when the devil interfered in aesthetic questions, as he always did.

The opposition to Mahler is angrier, less serious, and more damaging. In Holland Mahler has for the last fifteen years or so been as nearly deified as any composer in history. This is odd, because there is perhaps no country in which musical criticism is more blast towards older music. A great artist not long ago ven- tured to play in Holland Joachim’s Hungarian Concerto, which I personally regard as a work not only of immense historical impor- tance, but a monumental accumulation of beautiful musical thoughts second only to the greatest classics, and of a quality which none of the greatest masters could afford to despise. The most eminent Dutch critics were agreed in wondering that such stuff had ever been published at all. No great insight is needed to discover a certain stiffness in Joachim’s style as a composer. And as for its relation to earlier classical music, no listener need be a listener at all to discover its derivation. We have been told all about that. Let us hope that the vogue of Mahler in Holland is already a sign that anti-classical snobbery is becoming out of fashion. For the infuriating quality of Mahler’s music is particularly antiseptic against snobs, though perhaps it cannot prevent the rise of Mah- lerite snobs. There is no class of composer, diabolist or purist, for whom a first impression of Mahler will not cause pangs of jealousy. Mahler is no Shakespeare, and few, if any of us, are Coleridges; but we could all write like that 'if we had the mind’. He has no inhibitions. The experienced composer, academic, revolutionary, self-centred in Delian or Debussian circles ever narrowing, or eclectic in an expanding Straussian universe, en- counters the style and achievements of Mahler with something of the horror which we are told that Dr. ‘Froyd’ evinced when the blonde lady revealed to him that she had neither dreams nor inhibitions, and that she never did not do anything ‘vialent’ that she wanted to do, though ‘the bullet only went into Mr. Jenning’s lung and came out again’.

My own belief is that a vogue for Mahler has already Deen of great benefit to musical culture all over the world, and will con- tinue to be useful for a longer time than I can estimate. There is a fundamental inaccuracy in saying that an artist has too much facility, unless we make it quite clear that we mean by ‘facility’ the condition in which the artist’s thoughts have no chance of maturing. A tree that needs pruning may be said to have too much facility in producing leaves, but its trouble is that until it is pruned it has very

MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4 75

little facility for producing fruit. The stream which spreads itself into an unwholesome marsh instead of developing into a mighty river is not suffering from too much facility or too much water. It has simply not been helped by nature or art to dig a proper channel in which its waters can accumulate.

In the last resort, every artist needs all the facility he can get. What we composers find so disconcerting about Mahler is that every aspect of his work shows all the advantages of an unchecked facility and none of the disadvantages. It has us beaten at every point, and leaves us no resource but to sit upright in our dignity as men of taste and say, ‘This will never do/ We cannot fall back upon the device of classifying Mahler as one of the conductor- composers who have drifted into composition through the urge to display their vast memories as experienced conductors. Mahler was only twenty when he produced his first important work, Das Klagende Lied. We cannot say that his music is reminiscent, for our chief objection to it is that no other composer has had the effrontery to proceed further with the ideas that give Mahler his simple pleasures. The very first note of his First Symphony is a sustained A eight octaves deep. I do not suppose that I was the only eleven-year-old child to whom it occurred to strike, with the aid of two other children, all the eight A’s on the pianoforte. Weber thought Beethoven ripe for the madhouse when Beethoven in the coda of the first movement of his Seventh Symphony held a sustained E five octaves deep. But that was in a passage with a long history of highly organized development behind it; and it is* curious that Weber did not rather select the five-octave B flat at the very beginning of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony, though he had already cited that introduction with scorn as an instance of the bluff of spreading a dozen notes over a quarter of an hour.

These illustrations will give the devout Mahlerite his cue for claiming that history is repeating itself by displaying exactly the same opposition to Mahler as was shown to Beethoven in his day. We need not trouble to discuss the inference that Mahler is another Beethoven; and, though history repeats itself, its variations are extremely difficult to analyse. But we can say with certainty that Mahler’s example has set modern composers free from inhibitions which were for the most part harmful and snobbish. He has been a greater liberator in this way than Richard Strauss, for Strauss indulges his vein of naive melody under the pretext of caricature. Till Eulenspiegel and Don Quixote are his heroes. The element of caricature is present in Mahler, but he is terrified lest it should be suspected where he is as unconscious of it as Dickens in his most conscientiously pathetic passages. Nothing can lend itself more to caricature than the grotesque folk-pastofal poem from Des

76 MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4

Knaben Wunderhorn , but Mahler’s direction to the singer is: ‘The voice with an expression of childlike cheerfulness without the slightest suspicion of parody.’ In the twentieth century it is impossible for an artist to indulge himself with simple forms and simple melodies without feeling conscious of the dangers of affecta- tion or caricature. Mahler is so enormously rich in every technical resource that, as Rontgen used to say, one cannot trust his sim- plicity. This pastoral style is d la c amp ague > and Marie Antoinette could be d la campagne at the Trianons.

On the other hand, the most devout Mahlerite will hardly claim that the master’s style is aristocratic, either by nature or by affecta- tion. On the whole, we composers and men of taste will be well advised to abandon our opposition, for if we persist in it there is no point on which we can clear ourselves from the suspicion of being jealous. Mahler did not care two hoots for popularity. He was extremely exacting as a conductor, and was sometimes in bodily peril from the anger roused by his ruthless efforts in raising the standard of the Vienna Opera House to its supreme height. In point of style he might be called a musical Dickens born out of season. In every technical direction — form, counterpoint, and instrumentation — his musical facility is so enormous that we can- not compare him to any of the other monstr' -inform' -ingent'- horrendi masters that otherwise resemble him, and who become objects of fanatical worship at the expense of the more orthodox classics. And so the opposition to Mahler deprives him even of the martyr’s crown. We do not wish it generally known, but we would all like to write like Mahler if we dared ; and we all think that we could. The martyr whom he most nearly resembles is Bruckner, but Mahler is anything but helpless, and rouses none of the sympathy of a naive artist struggling for self-expression. Far from it. We find his facility deadly. His Third Symphony is a musical phantasmagoria in which all the elements that have ever been put into a symphony before are conglomerated with all the musical equivalents of a picaresque novel and a Christmas panto- mime. It was intelligently anticipated by Aristophanes in a word beginning lepado-temacho . • . and filling six or seven lines in Liddell and Scott’s Lexicon. On internal evidence it was written during a holiday at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwymdrobwll- llantysiliogogogoch. Yet the history of this Third Symphony shows that Mahler could exercise artistic restraint; for he so compressed its plan that he extruded one of its items, which he preserved for a more conspicuous existence as the finale of his Fourth Symphony.

The musical culture of Great Britain will probably be the better for the rise of a vogue for Bruckner and Mahler; and perhaps

MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4 77

Mahler will do us more good than Bruckner, because his mastery will discourage the cult of amateurishness, which keeps us con- tented with ignorance and ready to believe that ineptitude is noble in itself; and the good taste which is ready to take offence at Mahler’s sentimentality will be all the better for being shocked. It will find itself compelled to recognize that the difference between good and bad is not a matter of fashion; though, with all respect to Horace, it can never cease to be a matter of dispute. For my own part, I flatly refuse to class Mahler with either Liszt or Meyerbeer. Liszt is for me a composer whose art has a definite taint which ruins my enjoyment of much that would otherwise fascinate me. Meyerbeer is a very clever, and sometimes very inventive, com- poser who is such a thorough humbug that I cannot regard him as a real person at all, and cannot be bothered to argue with people who can. There will be reservations with all such matters; and I am entirely in agreement with Wagner, who had the courage to scandalize all his friends by praising in the highest terms the duet at the end of the fourth act of Les Huguenots ; but one decent mo- ment will not make Meyerbeer into a good artist, and all the bad taste of Dickens, Victor Hugo, Byron, and Berlioz will not make Mahler a bad composer.

Mahler’s Fourth Symphony is pastoral throughout. The orches- tra pretends to be small, inasmuch as it has no trombones and only four horns. On the other hand, it is very expensive in extra wood-wind, and denies itself nothing in what is known as the ‘kitchen department’, such as sleighbells and gongs. The first* movement begins with farm-yard noises —

I quote scarcely half the large number of themes that Mahler pours out and adorns with instrumentation and counterpoint of infallible mastery and clearness. The counterstatement of Ex. 2

78 MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4

is in free canon, combined in the third bar with a casual counter- point which afterwards becomes an important theme.

Ex. 2 a.

Another pair of yokels in double counterpoint —

leads to the dominant, upon which, with the abruptness of Mozart’s most perfunctory style, the ‘second subject* radiates expression from every pore of its infant complexion.

But under this burlesque simplicity the discerning composer may espy the cloven hoof, indicated by dropped and added beats which betray that Mahler’s phrase-rhythms are as supple and subtle as his scoring.

I may as well quote one more theme, which brings new elements and leads to the end of the exposition.

Its opening figure eventually dies away into the chord of B minor, and the initial farm-yard sounds (Ex. 1) are resumed, leading back to Ex. 2.

The movement now proceeds to shape itself more or less like a rondo, instead of going into a development section. Ex. 2 (a) is expanded into a peaceful tonic-and-dominant die-away, coming to a long-drawn full-close. Then the farm-yard sounds are re- sumed, and something like a development arises. It develops what it likes, and settles where it likes. It soon makes up its mind that A major is a proper key in which the three repeated notes of Ex. 4 may become a long-drawn ‘Cheer, boys, cheer* over rumina- tions of the figure of Ex. 2 (a). For twenty-three bars this com- plex, or simplex, refuses to be dislodged from A as its bass-note.

MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4 79

It then strides casually into the middle of next week, which you may call E flat minor if you like ; and the other figures of the exposi- tion enter into discussion with each other, modulating rapidly, and sometimes settling to episodic sections in this or that key, always with plenty of variety and quite clear sequence. At last a tremendous climax is reached in C major, with triumphant shouts of the upper theme of Ex. 3. The decline from this leads to the return of the main theme (Ex. 2), but, very cunningly, not to its opening, but to its third bar; as if the theme, after having travelled round the world, were to walk in to breakfast unannounced, re- marking, ‘As I was saying . . .* It drifts into a recapitulation which is disguised by the fact that much of the matter is now given to the bass with new counterpoint above. The transition theme (Ex. 3) enters in the bass with something of the excitement of the C major climax of the development, and Mahler puts as a mark of expres- sion the word wild (ferocious). The ‘Cheer-boys-cheer* simplex (Ex. 4) is given with grandiose full tone, which subsides only at the cadence group (Ex. 5). When this has died away the farm-yard sounds are resumed, and the unquoted sequels of Ex. 2 are worked up into a full-sized coda, which eventually settles to a passage of sustained calm developed from Ex. 2 (a) and dying away into a very slow allusion to Ex. 2, which quickly hastens its pace and ends the movement in high spirits with a derivative of both mem- bers of Ex. 3 compressed like one of Humpty-Dumpty’s portman- teau words.

The enemy dare not blaspheme at the themes of the first move-* ment, for to question their originality and distinction is to expose oneself to the charge of not seeing a joke. The themes of the scherzo will hardly give the enemy occasion to blaspheme, whether he likes them or not, for they are unquestionably original; and, if their spice has a smell of garlic, this is at all events a rural smell. The key of the movement is C minor, but it arises from an intro- duction in an outlying region.

tr~*

A solo violin enters aggressively (sehr zufahrend ), and wrenches the harmony round to C minor with the following sour theme —

8o MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4

You will notice that the tone of the instrument is not exactly that of a Stradivarius played by Joachim. Mahler’s direction is wie ein Fiedel , which may be rendered ‘like a kit*, or ‘fiddle’ if you like; and the long-suffering player has to play upon a violin that has endured the indignity of being tuned a tone higher.

The movement trips its leisurely way through a free rondo form to which the episodes might give the impression of a scherzo with two trios —

Ex. 8.

Ex. 0 .

but for the fact that they return at once to the main theme before they round themselves off. The form assumes a more important aspect after the second return of the main theme, for then the material of both trios is elaborated in a spacious development, which goes through many keys before finally settling down in C major in a coda in which all the figures of scherzo and trios are discussed in dialogue.

The third Movement is in a kind of variation form to which the nearest parallel may be found in the middle movement of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony. The theme is no fixture, either as bass, melody or scheme of harmonies. Its constant element is a type of bass, the course of which follows the convenience of the moment; and over this bass long-drawn melodies and counterpoints ruminate at leisure.

Thus it is impossible to limit the theme or to count the variations. After sixty bars Mahler makes a definite change of key to E minor, where, in a much slower tempo, an oboe sings a dirge over a version of the bass figure which is diminished from crotchets to quavers. The dirge, taken up by other instruments, develops with great passion, and a return is gradually made to the home tonic. The effect of a ritardando followed by a change to a tempo twice as fast makes it impossible to distinguish the diminished

MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4 8l

version from the original version of the bass. In a footnote, Mahler now admits that he is writing a variation. The new counter- points are richer, and the pace accelerates. Like the first variation- group, this one dies away, and the dirge complex is resumed, starting in G minor and passing soon into the remote key of C sharp minor. After an impassioned climax in this key, it subsides into a new group of variations passing one into another with absolutely abrupt changes of tempo: first andante 3/4 time, then allegretto 3/8, and then in E major allegro 2/4, quickening to allegro molto and suddenly falling back to andante. Upon this there is a long-drawn coda, which is dying away peacefully in G major when suddenly there is a tremendous burst of glory in E major, a key for which the E minor of the dirge has not prepared us. The glory dies away in a haze of light, passing back into G major and expiring very slowly on its dominant.

The discerning listener rnay perhaps have heard a figure for four horns before the expiry of the outburst in E major which surprised us so at the end of the slow movement. I have not quoted this figure, because Mahler has taken more trouble to bring out another shrill motive in the trumpets. But from this figure arise the first notes of the soprano song with which the symphony ends.

Ex. zz.

The words are a poem from the famous anthology of folk poetry, Des Knaben Wunderhom. The orchestra supplies preludes and interludes and an extremely delicate and highly coloured accom- paniment. I forbear to transcribe or translate the poem word by word. No reasonable person will be shocked at its innocent pro- fanity; but until we have all learned to accept Mahler as a classic, we had better not expose him to the blasphemy of the enemy who would cast doubts upon the composer’s reverence for sacred subjects. Lewis Carroll, in his alter ego as the Rev. C. L. Dodgson, was severe in his condemnation of those who quoted the innocent profanities of children and then pleaded the innocence of the child as if it was their own innocence. He did not consider the possibility that one might quote innocent blasphemies with something like reverence for the innocence. Certainly it is difficult to imagine that anybody would quote them, as Dodgson implied, for the jejune purpose of blaspheming.

I have already remarked on Mahler’s emphatic forbidding of any touch of parody in the performance of this finale. The poem

VI Q

82 MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4

describes the pleasures of a simple soul in Heaven, far from the strife of the world, which exists only in order that Weltgetiimmel may rhyme with Himmel , as it does in Bach’s most solemn cantatas. We live an angelic life and dance and skip while St. Peter in Heaven looks on.

Ex. za.

Sankt Pe - ter im Him - mel sieht zu!

The next stanza brings back and develops the farm-yard sounds of the first movement. A certain savagery in the tone is accounted for by the fact that Herod is the accepted Family Butcher in this unorthodox heaven, and that St. John and St. Luke allow him a free hand. St. Luke kills his ox, the wine of the heavenly cellars costs nothing, and the angels bake the bread.

The third stanza describes the heavenly vegetable gardens, with gardeners who, contrary to the severe baronial Scottish tradition, will let you have everything. Game of all sorts runs towards you, and all manner of fish swim into St. Peter’s net.

With one more short farm-yard interlude from Ex. 1, the music subsides into E major, thus accounting for the outburst in that key at the end of the slow movement. Mahler’s harmony is the most diatonic that has been heard since classical times, though it has no inhibitions whatever. His classical keys and his other ancient and modern modes are always perfectly clear; but he does not feel any obligation to end a symphony or a movement in the key in which it began, and so his Fourth Symphony, after having been as firmly centred round G major as any symphony of Haydn, calmly subsides into E major for the last stanza of its final song, which describes the music of Heaven, with St. Ursula smiling upon her eleven thousand virgin dancers, and St. Cecilia and all her relations as the most excellent of court musicians.

After all, we have the authority of Dante in more than one of the sublimest passages of the Paradiso for supposing that, though Heaven is not confined to what any mortal can understand, it includes all that we can understand. Bruckner understood con- siderably less of most things than Mahler. He would probably have been horrified at the notion of setting this poem. I, for my part, would be horrified at the idea of Meyerbeer setting it. Mahler I suspect of having wept as copiously over it as Dickens over Little Nell or Macaulay over the end of the Iliad . Such a temper has its dangers for judges and dictators; but it is much more useful in the present state of music than tastes that are too refined

MAHLER. SYMPHONY NO. 4 83

for Beethoven, and it is positively antiseptic against many types of morbid art. For Mahler himself the safeguard lies in his enor- mous technique; and for students of all kinds of musical technique Mahler will be none the less use to them if they are shocked by him.

ELGAR

CCXLIV. CONCERT OVERTURE, ‘iN THE SOUTH* (ALASSIO),

op. 50

I have not been to Alassio, and so I cannot talk of Elgar’s special sources of inspiration for this brilliant and sunshiny overture. I only hope that, if I ever do go there, I may not find myself in the position of the old lady who said to Turner that she could not see in sunsets anything like his pictorial representations of them; to which, of course, he replied, ‘Don’t you wish you could?’ If she could, she would not have been able to find words for them; and if ever I can see at places like Alassio what Elgar saw as he saw it,

I would much rather write a concert overture about it than an analytical programme.

There is still a suspicion of faintness in praising a work for its orchestration, though the time has perhaps passed since nobility was thought to be inherent in clumsy scoring; but, so long as tastes differ as to a composer’s style, there is something to be said for . calling the listener’s attention to a merit which every competent judge must admit to be supreme, not only in its artistic results, but in its practical efficiency. I shall not easily forget my impres- sion when, on first attacking this overture with considerable fear and expectation of its being as difficult as it is brilliant, I found that it simply carried the orchestra away with it and seemed to play itself at the first rehearsal. On inquiry, I found that one single member of the orchestra was not reading it at sight. This exception, of course, accounted for the whole phenomenon, and I am far from claiming that the rehearsal was such as I should willingly accept in lieu of a performance. But I and my students have never had a more impressive demonstration of the enormous efficiency of Elgar’s scoring. In brilliance the nearest approach to it in other modern music is the scoring of Richard Strauss; and Elgar and Strauss have in common a panache which is popularly expressed in both the title and the substance of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance Marches, and mystically expressed in the best parts of Strauss’s Heldenleben. But the scores of Strauss bristle with technical abnormalities, and he drives through fys musical traffic like a road-hog, with a mastery that has merely overawed the police

84 ELGAR. OP. 50

without reforming the rules of the road. Some think that even Ein Heldenlebert is now wearing too thin to reward the labour of thirty rehearsals for the purpose of securing accuracy where the composer merely intends effrontery.

To the Straussian panache Elgar adds the enormous sonority and cogency of a style which is meticulously pure. This is a matter of fact, and not of taste. Perhaps the word ‘meticulous* may be misleading, and ‘classical* might be a better epithet. But I think ‘meticulous* is right. Whether you are carried away by Elgar*s style or whether you dislike it, there is no doubt that it is not the style of a man who is at ease in himself or in Zion. Neither in poetry nor in music is the atmosphere of The Dream of Gerontius that of a muscular Christian after Charles Kingsley’s heart; and those for whom Kipling’s sixth-form imperialism obliterates his art will not like Pomp and Circumstance . But I should be surprised if the most nervous of reasonable music-lovers could not enjoy In the South . When it appeared in 1904, any approach to mastery of instrumental form on the part of a British composer was still considered dangerous. I cannot remember whether In the South had a better reception than the Cockaigne Overture; but it is both a larger and a simpler work, of which the portion normally devoted to developments is occupied by two detachable episodes. When Steinbach conducted it at a concert of English music at Cologne in, I think, 1906, 1 was surprised to find that he thought it patchy. That impression probably arose from these episodes, but I am sure that it is a superficial impression, perhaps intensified by the comparative orthodoxy and greater concentration of the other works played on that occasion. In itself, Alassio is by no means a loose-knit work. It has more unity than the Enigma Variations, and far more coherence than Elgar*s First Symphony. Classical overtures, especially when they are preludes to operas, do not pro- fess to have the concentrated texture of symphonic movements, and my most beloved overtures of Weber are things of shreds and patches compared to Alassio .

Elgar begins with a group of heroic themes swinging along at full speed from the outset.

There are more of these than it is necessary to quote, but Ex. 1 shows itself as a counterpoint to all the others. The initial impetus

ELGAR. OP. 50 85

is strong enough to survive a solemn climax marked by Elgar’s favourite direction, Nobilmente.

Even in the tranquillity of Ex. 8, Ex. 1 intrudes as a counterpoint. Soon Exx. 5 and 6 bring about a gradual revival of energy and carry us into the current of a vigorous development. But this does not last long before we are confronted with a terrifically impressive structure.

I shall be highly pleased with myself if any Roman bridge or viaduct, at Alassio or elsewhere, can make an impression on me that is not mainly dominated by my knowledge of this magnificent passage with its superbly proportioned repetitions, climax, and diminuendo. People differ greatly in the extent to which sounds suggest visual impressions. With me this happens very rarely, but then very intensely; and Ex. io gives me the strongest suggestion of a horizontal line of roadway immensely high up, with the piers descending from it into greater and greater depths along a precipi- tous hill-side.

After the vision has become distant, the progress of development is resumed with a new bustling theme.

Eventually Ex. i intervenes, and there is another glimpse of the bridge or viaduct before Ex. 1 1 is resumed. The incident quoted in Ex. 4 becomes important in an impressive diminuendo, typical of Elgar’s most mystic style; and eventually we have what has become known in a separate arrangement as a piece for small orchestra, Canto Popolare {In Moonlight). As a separate piece it is a very pretty thing, but in its context in this Overture it is as gravely and romantically beautiful as music can be.

Es. ra.

Viola solo.

fee.

Quiet and slow reminiscences of Ex. i intervene contrapuntally, and there are warnings of a revival of energy in allusions to Exx. 4 and 5.

ELGAR* OP. SO 87

The Canto Popolare dies away, and in the original key and tempo Ex. 1 returns pianissimo, but with a rapid crescendo which soon brings us into the full swing of a regular recapitulation of everything from Exx. 1 to 8 : the F major group from 6 to 7 being, of course, now in the home tonic. From the quiet end of this recapitulation arises Ex. 3, a fourth lower and in the tenderest pianissimo. It swells out and leads to fresh developments of the livelier themes in a noble coda which is one of the best of all Elgar’s perorations, its rhetoric entirely unspoilt by tub-thumping, and leaving us with a magnificent impression of punctuality in its end.

CCXLV. INTRODUCTION AND ALLEGRO FOR STRINGS (quartet and orchestra), op. 47

Comparisons of this important work with the concerto grosso of the early eighteenth century are misleading. In its form and tex- ture there is neither the antiquity of Wardour Streete Englisshe nor that of the genuine furniture that may be bought in that street by those who know. It is a piece of modern music, modern in the lasting sense of the term. That is to say, its date, 1905, is no more identifiable in 1937 than it will be in 2005. The kind of concerto form which it embodies is in line with Beethoven and Brahms, and definitely out of line with Handel and Bach. The sound of the strings, in both solo and tutti, will remind us of the. older masters, simply because the Concerti Grossi of Handel and his predecessors and the third Brandenburg Concerto of Bach are the only classical works for string orchestra that we ever hear, with the solitary exception of Mozart’s toy masterpiece, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. But if it had ever occurred to Beethoven or Brahms to experiment with the problem of concerto form for an orchestra of strings alone, they would have produced something with the essential features of the present work. It is highly probable that, like Elgar, they would have treated the contrast between string quartet and string tutti as rather a matter of fine shades than of the intense dramatic opposition of solo and orchestra that inspired them when the orchestra was full. Also the fitness of the occasion for fugue-writing would not have escaped their notice, nor would they have been slow to take advantage of it.

In the present work, as in others, Elgar’s form is his own; and doubtless Beethoven and Brahms would each have achieved a different and unique solution of its special problem. A long classical orchestral ritornello has another function besides that of giving scope to the full orchestra. It presents fhe main features of the movement in an introductory form. This introduction

88 ELGAR. OP. 47

naturally has a processional character when the ritornello is long; and only something highly dramatic can be justified in curtailing it. Hence nothing could be more appropriate than that, instead of the formal ritornello, the present work should have a grand introduction in which the themes appear at first as fragments in a highly dramatic dialogue between orchestra and quartet; the united forces propounding a sternly majestic question —

Ex. x. 8itt

to which the quartet adds another in wistful tones —

After the dialogue has made some progress with the discussion the viola is allowed to give full lyric form to a new melody in E flat —

which the quartet and orchestra take up with quiet enthusiasm. Ex. i intervenes again dramatically, bringing back the key of G minor. The lyric melody pathetically accepts the decision; but its dying fall, after a long pause, resolves in the cheerful and active daylight with which the allegro now begins.

Nobody could have foreseen what the functions of these themes are now to be. Ex. 2, with its typically Elgaresque quick dactylic figure, becomes the main theme. A new three-bar theme, stated in a lower octave by the quartet and answered by the tutti —

executes a broadly designed transition to the dominant, in which key the second group begins in triumph. The a-priori theorist expects it to consist of an enlargement of the lyric melody, Ex. 3. It proves, on the contrary, to consist of a grand tutti on Ex. 1, in terms of the utmost confidence and power, worked out in a brilliant paragraph, the close of which is reached through an allusion to Ex. 4. Suddenly, as the figure of Ex. 1 reverberates above, through and below the last chords, the beginning of the

ELGAR. OP. 47 89

lyric melody is faintly heard in a tremulous unison of the muted string quartet — a moment of romantic power worthy to be set by the Romanza in the Enigma Variations. A lively fugue in G minor has the function of the development-portion of the work. It exer- cises this function the more efficiently by being completely inde- pendent of previous themes. In all genuine concerto styles the exposition itself is compelled by circumstances to have many features more typical of development than of exposition; and thus only by means of episodic matter can the development-portion maintain a character of its own.

Here is the new fugue-subject —

The key-changes of fugues are necessarily drifting rather than sharply contrasted. In as far as a fugue can be dramatic it is a debate; and dramatic action will probably stop a debate alto- gether. Hence Elgar leaves us to discover only when this debate has reached its climax that we have been at home in the tonic all the time. (No two works could be less like each other than this allegro and the finale of Beethoven’s Sonata, op. 101, but you will find exactly the same phenomenon there, as a result of the same insight into the nature of music.) As the fugue dies away, allusions to the transition theme (Ex. 4) indicate that the most episodic 0/ developments can be organically connected with the exposition so long as there is a B in Both.

A full and regular recapitulation brings symmetry into the design; but the symmetry extends beyond the allegro and includes the Introduction; for the lyric melody, Ex. 3, is now neither a far- off echo nor a gentle strain with a dying fall for the ear of Duke Orsino, but a solemn triumphal march of full Elgarian pomp.

Throughout the whole work the instrumentation has all Elgar’s subtlety and consummate mastery, shown more obviously by the limited means here available, though not more perfectly than in works for full orchestra.

SIBELIUS

CCXLVI. SYMPHONY IN C MAJOR, NO. 7, OP. 105

In spite of the violent objection which every self-respecting musi- cian must feel towards the use of good music as a background to talking and eating, I confess that I was thrilled when, in its New- Year’s-Eve review of 1933, the British Broadcasting Corporation

90 SIBELIUS. OP. 105

used a gramophone record of parts of Sibelius’s Seventh Sym- phony as ‘slow music’ during the recital of the flight over Mount Everest. Let this sentence do duty for all further efforts to describe in words the austere beauty and rare atmosphere of Sibelius’s mature style. Unlike mountain atmospheres, however, that of Sibelius is by no means lacking in oxygen.

It is well that this symphony has met with something like proper appreciation while it is still new. That appreciation has not ex- aggerated its merits; but it has exaggerated one or two aspects, the report of which may alarm the naive listener. That versatile if Conservative critic, Mr. Punch, has already remarked that the word ‘bleak’ has been overworked by the exponents of Sibelius. That word might easily be overworked by admirers of Mount Everest or of the moon. For such things it is a jejune epithet, but we need not trouble to find a better. Only a real poet can afford to tell us that the sky is blue, and he probably will not need to call it azure. If the listener can put up with a good description of the flight over Mount Everest he need not be afraid of the bleakness of Sibelius.

Reports of the length and difficulty of this one-movement sym- phony are more definitely alarming: it has been described as the longest single and continuous design as yet achieved in absolute music; and experts who have discovered the main theme, as given three times by the first trombone (near the beginning, towards the middle, and at the end), have announced that discovery as the result of a closer familiarity with a complex work. As to its length as a single design, it is not much longer than Leonora No. 3, or the first movement of Schubert’s G major Quartet, and not as long as Beethoven’s Grosse Fuge> which was intended to be the finale of a quartet in six movements, but which makes no allusion to the themes of the other five. As to its difficulty, far be it from me to underrate the technical difficulties of any work for which the rare (and, in this category, unoxygenated) musical-economic atmo- sphere of Modern Athens gives its orchestral players only six hours’ practice a week. Nothing is easy in such conditions; but Sibelius was a very experienced composer many years ago, and this is his opus 105. But the work has a reputation for complexity as well; and this is misleading. Subtlety is quite a different thing, and easily misunderstood; but nobody ever began to understand subtleties by suspecting complexities that do not exist.

In any tolerably competent performance of a typical work of Sibelius, the listener may rest assured that if he finds that an im- portant melodic note has been in existence some time before he was aware of it, the composer has taken special trouble to conceal the beginning of that note. If the listener feels that unformed

SIBELIUS. OP. 105 91

fragments of melody loom out of a severely discordant fog of sound, that is what he is meant to feel. If he cannot tell when or where the tempo changes, that is because Sibelius has achieved the power of moving like aircraft, with the wind or against it. An aeronaut carried with the wind has no sense of movement at all; but Sibelius’s airships are roomy enough for the passengers to dance if they like : and the landscape, to say nothing of the sky-scape, is not always too remote for them to judge of the movement of the ship by external evidences. Sibelius has not only mastered but made a system of that kind of movement which Wagner established for music-drama, and which the composers of sym- phonic poems before Strauss have often failed to achieve and have not always realized as essential to their problem. Moreover, he achieves it in absolute music without appealing to any external programme. He moves in the air and can change his pace without breaking his movement. The tempi of this Seventh Symphony range from a genuine adagio to a genuine prestissimo. Time really moves slowly in the adagio, and the prestissimo arouses the listener’s feeling of muscular movement instead of remaining a slow affair written in the notation of a quick one. But nobody can tell how or when the pace, whether muscular or vehicular, has changed.

An adequate analysis of this noble work would be too subtle to be readable; and the listener would probably find its points more evident in the music than in any words. The following five quota-, tions will, I believe, serve the reader’s purpose, though there should be at least ten themes to make a complete list.

The beginning is in darkness, with adumbrations of more than one future theme. Dawn grows into daylight with a long-drawn passage beginning with violas and ’cellos and pervading the whole string-band in a kind of Mixolydian harmony, differing, like all Sibelius’s modal harmony, from Palestrina’s only in the boldness of its dissonances. The winds join towards the climax; and then the main theme is given out by the first trombone —

Ex. i.

Fragments of other themes, including figures of the introduction, follow; and the time quickens gradually, while one of the new figures gains ascendancy and eventually takes shape as a dance —

The presto on the home dominant to which this acc umulati on leads proves to be the accompaniment of the final return of Ex. i in its proper solemn adagio. With this, and with some of the un- quoted introductory figures, the symphony ends in tones of noble pathos.

( 93 )

CCXLVII. ‘tapiola’, symphonic poem

FOR FULL ORCHESTRA, OP. I 12

Tapiola is the god of the northern forests, and the following verses represent the ‘programme’ of this tone-poem —

Wide-spread they stand, the Northland’s dusky forests,

Ancient, mysterious, brooding savage dreams;

Within them dwells the forest’s mighty God,

And wood-sprites in the gloom weave magic secrets.

The music is quintessential Sibelius, and is, perhaps, even more typically than most of his works, describable as a vast and slow crescendo to a climax, after which the descent into silence is short and solemn.

I have attempted on other occasions to write of Sibelius’s peculiar methods and art forms, which have always struck me as triumphantly achieving what Bruckner might have achieved in a purely instrumental music on the Wagnerian time-scale, if only he had not encumbered himself with misconceived survivals of sonata form. Sibelius’s emancipation from such things is complete, and he is no less independent of the sense of duty which forces the construction of brand-new systems of harmony upon ninety-nine out of a hundred of the composers whose names strike terror into the hearts of simple souls who ‘do not like this modern music’. There is plenty of unorthodoxy in Sibelius’s harmony, and it has many strange modes, most of them ruthlessly diatonic. But there is no concession to fashion.

Tapiola is a god who pervades a mighty forest; and a detailed analysis of his music will make it impossible for us to see the wood for trees. On the other hand, there is such a thing as having so nobly generalized an idea of the wood as not to be able to know a tree when you see it. Music, after all, must be heard from one moment to the next; and, while there is a strong family resemblance between Sibelius’s many short themes which reiterate themselves in emotional outbursts, the listener may find some help in a series of quotations showing roughly how one thing leads to another. The ingenious analysis of the connexion between one theme and another, either by transformation or by figures common to both, is quite beside the mark. More illumination might be obtained by a description of the orchestration, but this again is of use mainly for students who wish to know how to orchestrate, and for con- ductors who have to realize the composer’s intentions. For the listener, a much shorter way to appreciate Sibelius’s orchestra- tion is to listen to it. This is particularly easy in Tapiola , inasmuch as the orchestral colours not only do not change rapidly, but often show their changes against a background of extraordinary

94 SIBELIUS. OP. I 12

tone-colour which persists for an amazingly long time, as in the case of the vast passage which contains Exx. 2, 3, and 4. Here, then, is an incomplete, but fairly representative, series of the themes, or phases of themes, which will meet the listener as he wanders through this dark forest with due reverence for its presiding deity.

Ex. x.

A darker theme emerges in Sibelius’s characteristic way at an unexpected rhythmic point in a long note.

In the course of an ominous crescendo it becomes associated with another new figure.

and soon afterwards the tone-poem takes shape as a purely musical form by means of a definite recapitulation of the group of themes comprised between Exx. 2 and 3 with their strange background.

At last a hurricane rises, which bends the tree-tops and threatens the giants of the forest. The last themes that are heard are a combination of Exx. 8 and 7. The tone-poem then closes with an Amen of slow, bright, major chords, which I give, to save space, in their ancient values of dotted breves and longs.

( 96 )

HAVERGAL BRIAN

CCXLVIII. FANTASTIC VARIATIONS ON AN OLD RHYME

I hope that performances of such works as this may draw attention to a composer who has achieved things on a vast scale which may have to wait as long for recognition as usual. This composer will achieve more; but even for the recognition of his smaller works he is being made to wait longer than is good for any composer; and far longer than is good for any country whose musical reputation is worth praying for.

The humour of these Fantastic Variations is dangerously evident. The composer has since written a fantastic opera to a libretto of his own, which shows that he is a satirist of very wide range, with whose deeper thoughts, musical and other, we shall have to reckon.

I shall not dwell on the humour of these variations, nor shall I quote the theme. The listener will be well advised to take the whole composition seriously as a thing admirable in general design, full of contrasts, and rich in beautiful melodic ideas of the com- poser’s own. I see in it none of the commonplaces into which a facile writer would fall if his notion of musical humour were confined to the dressing up of a nursery rhyme in learned terms. It need not fear comparison with Dohndnyi’s masterpiece in the same kind.

I quote the human feminine element in the saga :

It seems, to judge from the later expansion of this melody, that the Muricide was of a nature to invite pursuit as well as to pursue. (In fact, the legend tells us that her victims pursued her.) I have not succeeded in identifying the Agriculturalist as an actor in this music-drama; and I have no reason to suppose that his jealousy introduced a human note into the tragedy. The final chorale is unquestionably a Requiem for the Three, and for no others.

ADOLF BUSCH

CCXLIX. CAPRICCIO FOR SMALL ORCHESTRA, OP. 46

Some day I may attempt to give an account, at large and in detail, of what I know of the work, careers, and characters of the brothers Fritz and Adolf Busch. To me it has been profoundly interesting to see how two younger artists who never knew Joachim are

ADOLF BUSCH. OP. 46 97

spontaneously repeating, after an interval of some eighty years, many typical processes in that great man’s development. One is never quite sure of having attained a completely detached view of one’s own upbringing; and few thrills are more rejuvenating than the discovery that one’s loyalties have been given not only to cer- tain persons, but to the things those persons represented; that one’s own world has been no home of impossible loyalties and lost causes, but a climate of bracing reality for younger artists.

Among modern composers the chief influences on Adolf Busch have been Reger, the dominating influence from his earliest days, and Busoni, the friend of his maturity. These composers differ widely from Joachim and from each other in racial type and general outlook, but all three have in common the most obvious feature of their style. This I believe the criticism of our day would call its ‘intellectuality’ ; but I am not very sure of my capacity to under- stand contemporary criticism, and I have an uneasy suspicion that this term means something which the critic does not like. What is certain is that neither Reger nor Busoni suffered fools gladly. Joachim was more patient. No two people have the same sense of humour. I am not sure that Reger’s has much ground in common with Busoni’s; but I think I can see my way about Adolf Busch’s, which certainly can hold its ground independently of both the elder composers. This Capriccio could be analysed as a structure of classical counterpoint and harmony — and the analysis would be quite interesting to students, inasmuch as the counterpoint really is classical — that is to say, it is harmony. The harmony is produced by the counterpoint; a quite different process from that of playing several different themes simultaneously and calling the resulting casual misfits harmonic freedom. The disadvantage alleged against the classical procedure is that ‘you can’t hear it’ ; when the com- bination really harmonizes, the individual themes vanish, except for the topmost. But perhaps this is one of the real meanings of the adage about the art of concealing art. Anyhow it seems more defi- nite than to suppose that art is to artist as bone to dog, and that round Sirius there revolves some Platonic planet containing a garden where all the highest art lies concealed . 1

And yet that supposition has attractions for me at the present moment. Readers of my notes, aware of my propensity to attach external ‘programmes’ to the most absolute music, will appreciate how much more readable I could make my analysis of Busch’s Capriccio if I were permitted to call the work A Dog-Fight in

1 Some colour is given to this theory by the fact, revealed by recent astrophysics, that actually in the companion or satellite of Sirius matter is thousands of times more dense than anything known under terrestrial conditions.

VI

H

98 ADOLF BUSCH. OP. 46

Sirius and to display my knowledge of such events without further attention to the music. Whatever is not known of such events, it is at least certain that they are very funny, and they cannot be more difficult to describe than the humour of absolute music. However, dogmatism (the enharmonic modulation is uninten- tional) must suffice for my account of Busch’s Capriccio. There is extant an old German play-bill of a tragedy which gives notice that

• Das Lachen ist verboten , da es eirt Trauer spiel is?. This capriccio

is not a tragedy, and unless I am grievously mistaken, you are not forbidden to laugh in the right places. They are, of course, the places which make me laugh. But to point them out would be but a variant of the psychological error of the old play-bill.

Nevertheless I shall take the precaution of remarking that there is nothing funny about the beauty of the mysterious introductory adagio. The beauty is, of course, the foundation of all the humour; and the humour is perfectly compatible with the return of the adagio in a passage near the end of the work. Another harmonious element in this return is the fact that the adagio is and remains mysterious: if it had been more concrete or formal its return might have had a tinge of sentimentality or tub-thumpery; and against either of these qualities the atmosphere of Busch’s art is the strong- est of antiseptics.

The adagio announces a pair of themes —

Ex. r.

both of which will eventually take shape in the main body of the work. At present the key, F minor, is the harmonic antipodes of the B minor which is to become our tonic. Towards B minor the music drifts on a tide which is none the less cogent for its direction not being obvious; while the general tendency is that of a great crescendo. Of the two themes the more mobile, Ex. 2, soon com- bines contrapuntally with Ex. 1 over which it gradually gains the ascendancy. A tendency to accelerate becomes evident, but is checked, until with the imminence of the destined key of B minor, the restraint is removed.

The presto gives Ex. 2 as its main theme, in two versions, a tirade —

ADOLF BUSCH. OP. 46

99

and a more formal measure.

Ex. 4.

As my figures show, Ex. 4 at first appears at a different rhythmic angle from Ex. 3 ; but this displacement turns out to be only an illusion resulting from an odd bar. The listener will hear many more subtle displacements of this theme by half a bar or even by a single crotchet. The whole work is polyphonic, even when not actually in fugue, and there is no predicting how and when its several themes will combine. Soon Ex. 1 sails in, beginning in its original F minor, now infinitely remote but drifting with surprising ease to our B minor within the length of its own phrase. A new theme, in close fugato, shows some pugnacity —

and with its development the Sirian warfare (if I may use my un- authorized analogy) is soon in full swing. But it collapses suddenly ; and more complex strategies ensue in conspiratorial whispers in

which old themes are busy around the following new figures.

The council of the conspirators is soon broken by sudden loud indiscretions, which lead to an outburst of Ex. 3, fortissimo in D major. This works up to a climax, from which there is another dramatic collapse into a quiet central episode beginning in C major. The tempo does not change, but the rhythm becomes so broad

100 ADOLF BUSCH. OP. 46

that I find the new melody best displayed by giving my quotation

another time-signature so as to throw two bars into one.

With this episode the underlying romantic depth of the work appears on the surface. Perhaps I ought not to use the word ‘romantic*. Long before modern art had definitely revolted from it, a great French critic, quoted by Matthew Arnold, had roundly declared that ‘the romantic* was simply ‘le faux*. And I confess to a violent dislike both of the term and the thing when conceived as in opposition to ‘the classic*. But I have a not less violent objec- tion to ‘the classic’ as conceived in such opposition; and when I use the word ‘romantic* I beg to be understood as talking not history, but plain English. In plain English ‘romantic* is just what this episode is, and it consists of not less adamantine fact than the rude remarks from Ex. 6, which eventually dispel it and lead to the return of Ex. 4 in a triumphant tonic major. Further developments of this, the main theme, now seem to go abroad again, Ex. 1 intervening in its own remote F minor; but the general tendency of all the modulations and new devices proves to be that of a peroration or coda, and the tonic asserts itself more and more, even though the final cadence of the work is a joke on the flat-supertonic topic (C natural to B). The reappearance of the actual tempo and material of the introductory adagio is as rom- antic as moonshine and as cosmic as Einstein ; and the runaway end is as funny as the x-te Streich of the immortal creations of another Busch, Max and Moritz.

zAdor

CCL. RONDO FOR ORCHESTRA

Eugen Zddor was born in 1895 at Bdtdszek, Hungary. He studied under Heuberger and Max Reger in Leipzig. Since 1922 he has been a Professor at the Conservatorium at Vienna. His works comprise songs, pianoforte works, chamber music, orchestral works of many kinds, operas, and ballets.

The Rondo for Orchestra is one of his latest works, being written

zAdor. rondo for orchestra ioi

in 1933. It has been already performed in almost every country except Great Britain. It admirably represents the style of a master who, being versed in every form of classical technique, has devised a pleasantly humorous modus vivendi with every modern tendency that does not display a conscientious objection to mastery.

The classical rondo form appears with crystal clarity in the alternations of the main theme —

Ex. 1.

with the two contrasted episodes —

Ex. 2.

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the recapitulation of the first episode (Ex. 2) in the home tonic, and the final return of the main theme expanded into a coda.

But the most essentially classical feature of the whole work is its freedom in matters of detail. Nothing can be more clearly recognizable than the return of the main theme, and its various developments by diminution and other devices; but the appear- ance of regularity is as deceptive as in the mature style of Haydn. Ex. 1 shows only the first statement of the theme. On each return, the theme swings in at a different angle and at a different position,

102 zAdor. rondo for orchestra

and is continued in some new and unpredictable way. Such facts should be mentioned, just because they do not at once strike the listener. Nor, indeed, is it necessary that they should; they are symptoms of a vitality that makes its own immediate impression, without displaying its mechanism. The quality upon which every listener will seize with avidity is the brilliant orchestration, in which ZAdor’s mastery is obvious even in an age and an environ- ment in which all musicians are supposed to orchestrate brilliantly. But, as my old friend John Farmer used to say, many of the finest things in music seem playable with two clothes-pegs and a tooth- pick. Such resources would perhaps be inadequate for the execu- tion of this Rondo. But on paper it presents a deceptive appearance of having been constructed out of the less ambitious of Czerny’s 1,000,001 exercises. This the listener would not guess; and I do not advise him to believe in such appearances even when they are pointed out to him.

ccli. WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

In the middle of the nineteenth century there was one main reason why the teaching of musical composition fell into bad ways. This was the delusion that musical art-forms exist in a generalized state and can be grasped as in a bird’s-eye view. In the later nine- teenth century another delusion arose, and both are now preva- lent. This other delusion arose from the persecution and the triumph of Wagner. Both the persecutors and the Wagnerians argued without knowledge of any genuine principles of musical composition, and both sides were in unconscious agreement that, whether Wagner could or could not compose, he did not, as a matter of fact, do so. It is as absurd and as essentially underbred to com- plain of the ‘vogue’ of Wagner as to complain of the ‘vogue’ of Beethoven. But extracts of Beethoven as accompaniments to cow- puncher films are not more artistic than Wagner concerts of selec- tions which, like Mr. Punch’s early classification of trains, consist of (a) those which start but do not arrive ; ( 6 ) those which arrive but do not start ; and (c) those which neither start nor arrive. With the vogue of such concerts and the approval of them by critics, the last vestiges of popular and academic instinct for composition dis- appeared. It has now been decided to ordain that Wagner shall be out of fashion. To this I move an amendment. Let it be decided that Wagner is a composer; and that until the arbiters of musical fashion have shown themselves capable of recognizing the dif- ference between a composition and a scrap-book the public that goes to hear Wagner’s music-dramas shall be allowed to enjoy its

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM IO3

normal and healthy activity of understanding Wagner’s music through his drama without fear or favour of fashion. How grave the destruction of all critical and academic standards of composi- tion has become through the acceptance of inartistic Wagner excerpts may be seen from a recent example when a highly educated writer on music contributed to a musical journal some interesting and important remarks upon the prelude to Tristan , in which he assumed that in the concert-room it was inseparable from the Liebestody and accordingly had no complete key-system. No doubt to the general public key-systems are academic technicalities which concern only teachers of harmony. Similarly, to repeat one of my favourite illustrations, the distinction between the nominative and accusative is an affair for grammarians. But the general public will miss something of material interest to it if the translators and producers of a tragedy in a foreign language do not know who killed whom; and a piece without a key-system or with an in- coherent key-system does not give the naive listener the same coherent impression, or even the same tuneful impression, as he will get, without any knowledge of theory, from a piece that has a key in which it begins and ends. Now the excellent critic who wrote so well about the prelude-and-liebestod monstrosity be- trayed that he did not know that Wagner wrote a page, one of the most beautiful in all his works, that finishes the prelude in its proper key and makes it as coherent and as exact in its proportions as any movement by Bach. The critic was thus quite unaware that the modulations which lead to the rise of the curtain upon the first* act are a powerful and subtle dramatic catastrophe in their proper place.

This orthodox view of Wagner’s later style is no better than a conviction that Wagner’s mind was a mush. Here we see a rever- ential Wagnerian actually unaware that Wagner did his best, and an absolutely perfect best, to make the Tristan Vorspiel a coherent piece of music in A minor ending in A major, with a sense of tonality strengthened, instead of being weakened, by what has been happily called his ‘chromatic iridescence’ at its highest power. Most unfortunately, it happens that the catastrophic darkening to C minor upon which the curtain rises at the beginning of the play makes a grammatically correct join with the dark chords from which Isolde’s dying utterances emerge into a key not only different from, but totally destructive of the harmonic basis of the prelude. What do we gain by joining these two pieces in the concert-room? For those who know the whole music-drama we gain the oppor- tunity of listening to a quotation from the end of the opera after we have heard the uncompleted prelude. We can, if we like, imagine that the rest of the three acts are past. But vte do not gain the

104 WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

living or dying presence of Isolde herself, because the problem of how to represent the voice-part in a purely instrumental perfor- mance is solved by the sublimely simple process of leaving it out. Liszt, in his wonderful transcription of the Liebestod for pianoforte, did not go quite so far, inasmuch as he contrived to represent no less than seven independent vocal notes and a grace-note near the beginning: seht ihr's Freunde? Seht ihr's nicht? For the rest, it is a remarkable symptom of an abnormality in Wagner’s art that, though the voice inevitably dominates the attention whenever it is heard among instruments, and though the vocal writing of Isolde’s Liebestod is perfect both in declamation and singability, it is so little essential to Wagner’s invention that Isolde’s Liebestod is a complete piece of music without Isolde at all. She is singing for sixty-eight bars, and in twenty-five of these she is able to deliver the main theme, constantly broken, sometimes quite awkwardly, by pauses and other necessities of declamation. For the other forty-three bars she is descanting in counterpoints, of which, as I have already remarked, Liszt has been able to preserve seven notes and a grace-note. How much of these counterpoints does any one, except the singer, remember? Surely her last notes should be memorable? They are the right notes in the right declamation; they easily penetrate the orchestra, and they will do justice to the most golden of voices. How many music-lovers can quote them? They have never been heard in the concert-room, except when a singer was engaged ; but I should not be surprised if many of the music-lovers who go to every stage performance of Tristan found themselves unable to quote them.

If we wish to use Isolde’s Liebestod in the concert-room as a quotation, just as we might enjoy an eminent actor reciting a soliloquy from Shakespeare, we cannot object to doing the Liebestod without Isolde. It is no case of Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark. The only possible objection to playing the Liebestod as an instrumental piece is that it begins nowhere. Liszt’s piano- forte transcription remedies this by four magnificently powerful and subtle introductory bars which ought obviously to be used in the orchestral version. For the rest, not only is the Liebestod a mere quotation in the concert-room, but it owes most of its power in the opera itself to the fact that it is there a quotation from the love-duet in the second act. That is one reason why Isolde’s vocal part in it is so fragmentary. In the original duet both she and Tristan are much more centred upon the real themes of the music.

Busoni argued the case for Wagner excerpts. He objected strongly to Wagner on various grounds of taste, some of which we may regard as indisputable in the Horatian sense. Horace was a

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM IO5

wise man whose guiding principle in life was to avoid causes of irritation; and no stupidity irritates me so much as the intelligence which sees so instantly through everything that it has no time to see into anything. Swift noted with admiration the use of a special blunt-edged knife that could cut folded paper safely and neatly, whereas more acute instruments would leave the crease. The interesting point in Busoni’s defence of concert-room extracts of Wagner lies in his complaint that the emotional concentration of such music, added to the effect of stage action and poetry, becomes intolerable when presented as Wagner intended, but is acceptable when diluted and dosed out as elegant extracts in the concert- room. This argument begins to concern us when we have some idea of what Wagner is driving at ; but in the present state of know- ledge as represented by a popular Wagner concert it is far above our heads, for the people who can accept such concert-pieces as the Walkurenritt and Waldweben attach no more emotional or intel- lectual ideas to these extracts than they attach to whisky. The exciting sensuous quality of Wagner’s music — and not only of Wagner’s, but of any music — may become as bad for them as the exciting sensuous quality of whisky; and they will not long be able even to keep up appearances as persons of discriminating taste. The expert wine-taster must take care to be a sober man.

I have before me a collection of the most usual Wagner concert- room excerpts, and propose to describe some of them. First, as a matter of principle, let us be quite clear that there can be no objection to producing large scenes from Wagner’s operas upon* the concert platform with singers, but without scenery and cos- tumes. We know that we are listening to dramatic scenes, and we gain as much by hearing them with unfatigued attention as we lose by the self-evident fact that these scenes are fragments. I should not have the slightest objection to covering most of the ground of Wagner’s music-dramas in concert-room performances of whole scenes with singers. In this way I have enjoyed at a Leeds festival the end of Siegfried , beginning with the passage of Siegfried through the fire, and have felt myself rather than the conditions to blame for any feeling of absurdity when music which represented Siegfried as setting the sleeping Briinnhilde free from the burden of her armour could receive no illustration from the deportment of a lady and gentleman standing up in evening dress on the platform. Together with a financial licence for performing the complete works of Berlioz and Mahler, I should like nothing better than the oppor- tunity to take the Reid Orchestra on such terms through every- thing of Wagner that they ought to know, and I should think that I was participating in educating the public for a better appreciation of the dramatic, as well as the musical, values of Wagner’s art by

106 WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

an all-comprehending series of such concerts. But I cannot speak too strongly in condemnation of some of the most popular concert- pieces that have been carved from Wagner’s works. Even some of the vocal ones are miserably scrappy, and seem almost deliberately calculated to reveal weaknesses which in the magnificent flow of the drama would pass unnoticed by any one with a sense of proportion, Siegmund ’s love-song from the Walkiire {Wintersturme wichen dent Wonnemond) comes at one of the supremely poetic moments in the first act of Walkiire . Wagner’s bitterest enemies have confessed themselves overwhelmed by the poetic beauty of the moment when the doors of Hunding’s house fly open and reveal the moonlight that has followed upon the departure of the storm. The accepted concert extract misses this moment and confines itself to Sieg- mund ’s tune, which begins well, but taken by itself reveals certain weaknesses from which Wagner’s more sustained melodies are seldom free ; it then carries the tune as far as Siegmund can carry it, and adds an orchestral cadence which finishes the business with a bump. In its proper context the slight local weaknesses of the melody are negligible, and the whole passage begins to take shape with a glorious flow when Sieglinde takes it up in the same tempo, but in a broader musical metre. I could greatly enjoy the whole act without scenery, and I should have no objection to beginning half- way through, where Siegmund has been left alone to reflect by the firelight upon his desperate plight, before Sieglinde re-enters to tell him of the sword awaiting his grasp in the trunk of the very tree which supports his enemy’s house where he is sitting. In such an extract it would be pedantic to detect a weakness in a few bars of Siegmund’s spring-song.

The Walkurenritt is more effective, and for that very reason considerably worse. In the drama it comes with sublime effect after the human tragedy seems over. Siegmund is slain in spite of Briinnhilde’s attempt to protect him, and the disobedient Valkyrie has rescued Sieglinde and fled from the wrath of Wotan. The curtain rises upon the third act, and we are on mountain heights among the storm clouds, far away from human tragedies, watching the personified storm clouds assembling as Valkyries riding through the air bearing the souls of slain warriors to become Wotan ’s garrison in Valhalla. But what is the use of describing all this to an audience which is going to hear nothing but a scrap of orchestral fireworks that fails to achieve any musical form and yet lasts too long for its musical content? The Walkurenritt , as chopped off for concert purposes, spends twelve bars in establish- ing a galloping rhythm beneath a continued vibration punctuated by noises like the discharge of rockets. The noises and the gallop- ing rhythm continue beneath a good broad sequential theme moving

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM IO7

in four-bar steps with four-bar pauses. With necessary repetitions, this is built up into two statements, the second of which achieves some emphasis by ending on a sudden tonic major chord. At this point the curtain should rise, but of course in the concert-room no- thing happens. The Ho-jo-to-ho of the Valkyries, one of the most thrilling war-cries ever devised by a musician, suggests nothing as an instrumental formula; and all that remains for the naive listener in the concert-room is to wonder why the whole bundle of sequences merely repeats itself some three or four times with the same climaxes and then ends with a bump. What people enjoy in the Walkiirenritt as a concert-piece is an orchestral firework which is neither more nor less than vulgar ; but the vulgarity is not Wagner’s. One of the main types of vulgarity consists in effects without causes. Here you have a set of effects which originally had perfect dramatic causes. There is accurate gradation in the arrival some- times of one Valkyrie, sometimes of two, and of the heightened expectation of the arrival of Briinnhilde, the cause of whose delay is known to the audience but not to the Valkyries. Wagner is tied to his monotonous key region by reasons self-evident on the time scale not only of the drama, but of the music itself. Thanks to the vulgarizing of the Walkiirenritt as a cheap and nasty orchestral firework, our up-to-date anti-Wagnerians, including Busoni himself, listen to Wagner even on the stage with ears trained to accept the abysmal ignorance of composition that has been inculcated by these mis- representations of him in the concert-room.

The Walkiirenritt degrades a sublime episode into a vulgar fire- work, but does not reach the grovelling imbecility of the extract from Siegfried known as Waldweben. In the second act of Siegfried the hero, having been guided to the cave where the dragon Fafner lurks, is for a while left alone by his treacherous guide and foster- father, Mime. He spends the time in delightful speculations as to his origin and destiny and in listening to the song of the birds, which he wishes he could understand. He tries to imitate the bird-songs by piping on a reed which he plucks and cuts on the spur of the moment. Finding the resources of his pipe (or of the cor anglais in the orchestra) insufficient, he begins a tune on an instrument he knows better, his hunting-horn. This calls up a response from Fafner the dragon; and in the ensuing dialogue the tactlessness of the interlocutors ends fatally for Fafner, whose dying utterances reveal something, but not enough, to Siegfried as to his destiny. In pulling his sword from Fafner’s body Siegfried’s hand is stung by the dragon’s blood, and when he puts it to his lips the taste of the blood magically reveals to him not only the language of the birds, but the real meaning of all that the treacherous Mime has to say to him. Consequently, the song of the birds f is from this point

108 WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

represented by the voice of an invisible singer telling Siegfried of the Ring and the Tarnhelm, warning him against Mime, and reveal- ing to him that a bride awaits him on a fire-encircled mountain. There are a few other incidents, such as a quarrel between Mime and his elder brother Alberich. Then there is the slaying of Mime by Siegfried as the inevitable climax of a dialogue in which the audience as well as Siegfried hear with the insight conveyed by the dragon’s blood the real intention of Mime disguised in the flatteries with which he offers the hero a poisonous brew to refresh him. Siegfried is then so lonely that he almost regrets this ; but the bird tells him of the bride that awaits him on the fire-encircled rock and flies before him to show him the way.

In order to enjoy the second act of Siegfried , I do not feel the need of Wagner’s naively illusionistic Bayreuth scenery, and still less do I desire the interference of some of the modern forms of inattention which are foisted on Wagner’s dramas by our severer Disillusionists ; but I know few things sillier than the concert- piece known as Waldweben. In their place Wagner’s bird-song themes are charming, and beautifully balanced between pure or- chestral music and the necessary but quite unrealistic suggestion of actual birds. But we do not want to hear them built up twice into nothing in particular. This Waldweben extract begins harmoni- cally nowhere, at the only point at which some means can be found for leading to Siegfried’s meditations about his parentage. These meditations have to be boiled down into an affair with neither struc- ture nor contrasts ; and then the bird-song figures are given, also without structure or contrasts, some three times. (It is impossible to count precisely with piles of Wagner’s inherently self-repetitive expanses.) Anyhow, there is nothing left but bird-song, uninter- rupted by Fafner or Mime. But one problem remains: how is Wagner, or his arranger, to represent the difference made by the dragon’s blood ? Why, what could be more self-evident and thrill- ing than to add a glockenspiel? As soon as the notes are thus invested with the surprising moisture of a chocolate which you have crunched before you knew that it contained a liqueur, the miracle is accomplished, and one of Wagner’s most poetic scenes has been reduced to an even sillier triviality than the concert Walkurenritt .

I am, as I have insisted elsewhere, entirely in favour of giving whole acts, or final scenes (not middle scenes), in the concert- room, with the requisite singers. Wotan’s Farewell in Walkiire 9 and Briinnhilde’s last scene in Gotterdammerung , for instance, with no cuts in the orchestral sequels, are intelligible musical propositions which carry dramatic meaning wherever they are produced. But Siegfried’s funeral march, out of its context, is nonsense. The

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM IO9

annotator or critic who calls it a marvellous piece of musical texture and composition might as well apply the same praise to the pictorial values of the ‘cloud-clock’, or steam jets, or the ordinary curtain, or whatever means are taken to cover the change of scene. The funeral march in Gotterdammerung is part of a marvellous piece of texture and composition, but that marvellous piece has taken most of four days to reach the beginning of the march. And if you must take one triglyph and two blocks of masonry as constituting a sample of a monument you could hardly make a worse selection than this funeral march. Of its four main themes (I exclude the so- called Death-theme as a mere descriptive gesture) two are among Wagner’s most obvious lapses. In the vast achievement of the Ring they matter far less than a single perfunctory coloratura in one of Handel’s greatest works ; but if we are to regard such a frag- ment as this funeral march as an independent composition, it is a serious defect that one of its main themes should be the very awkward and mechanical transformation of Siegfried’s juvenile horn-theme into a sophisticated grown-up affair in learned syn- copations, and that another should be the theme of Briinnhilde as a mortal woman, a theme which descends markedly below Weber’s most suburban (spiessbiirgerlich) style. In a decent per- formance of Gotterdammerung these lapses are more negligible than a line like ‘Flies may do this, but I from this must fly’ in Romeo and Juliet ; and not less negligible from the fact that they are irremovably imbedded in the whole structure. There was a % time when Hamlet’s Soliloquy had its place along with Cato’s in volumes of Elegant Extracts. Dr. Johnson was compelled to hear Cato’s Soliloquy recited by a little girl who proved not only ignorant of the meaning of the words ‘bane’ and ‘antidote’ but unable to tell how many pence there were in sixpence. No doubt the lexicographical manner was alarming to one so young. But there are plenty of people not so very young who would be the better of something alarming when they start a fashion of abusing, or even patronizing, Wagner on the basis of their vast experience as concert-goers, enlarged later in life by the discovery that Wotan and King Marke are tedious ; a discovery which is far more jejune than honest George the Third’s observation that much of Shake- speare is sad stuff, and which lacks the royal common sense which inspired that under-rated monarch to add ‘but one must not say so’. We no longer try to appreciate Hamlet’s soliloquy as an inde- pendent poem. It is not so fragmentary as the funeral march in Gotterdammerung ; and for such disjecta membra in music the dif- ference is negligible between the genuine article and the version of the two rapscallions in Huckleberry Finn , which began To be or not to be, that is the bare bodkin

IIO WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

and ended

But soft! the fair Ophelia!

Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,

But get thee to a nunnery; hence I away!

A Good-Friday concert is considered orthodox if, and only if, it contains the Charfreitagszauber from Parsifal . At the end of the nineteenth century, when the dawn of British musical criticism was represented by the vitriolic attacks which writers of brilliant English in the Saturday Review and the Star directed against Stan- ford and Parry and any other musician who was guilty of holding an official post, this Good-Friday music from Parsifal was often adduced as an example of music which held its own in the concert- room on its pure musical merits in spite of all that Wagner himself said against the practice of representing him by such fragments, I had often heard it myself as a concert-piece, and have no reason to believe that I saw less of its purely musical beauty than did the late J. F. Runciman of the Saturday Review ; but when I first heard Parsifal at Bayreuth I noticed with some amusement that the Good- Friday music in its proper place did not strike a familiar chord at all. Not only did it mean all that was implied and explained by its position in the drama, but it became a piece of quite sensible music, instead of a piece of orchestration beginning nowhere in particular, repeating its figures, like all unsound Wagner extracts, far too often for variety, obstinately refusing to change its ground when change of ground is musically due, making no effort towards a climax un- less a belated one conscious of its untimeliness, and ending vaguely from exhaustion in a region which, like that of the beginning, is nowhere in particular, but different inasmuch as it is elsewhere. If your notion of music is that of Charles Lamb in his famous Essay on Ears, you may or may not like ‘sugar piled upon honey’ better than he did; but you and the late Mr. Runciman will be well advised to refrain from attacking as ‘proud academics’ such patient and faithful servants of music for its own sake as Stanford and Parry.

The Charfreitagszauber is not as stupidly disconnected an ex- tract of Parsifal as the Waldweben is of Siegfried , but there is a version of it that reaches what we may hope to be the lowest and most elaborate stupidity that has been attained in concert-music since the days when the flute was a fashionable instrument for gentlemen, and Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus was published in an arrangement for two flutes representing four-part harmony by grace-notes. Some years ago, one of the world’s leading orchestras gave two concerts in London, one of which was a real concert, and the other was a Wagner night. It was a condition of etiquette that the leader of the orchestra should play a solo, and there was no room

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM III

for this in the genuine concert; and he accordingly was allowed, or even encouraged, to spend a quarter of an hour of the Wagner night in playing Wilhelmj’s arrangement of the Good-Friday music as a violin solo. That is to say, the first-rate leader of a first-rate orchestra, with the connivance of the conductor, consummated the iniquities of the perpetrator of Bach’s Air on the G String by publicly performing a version of the Good-Friday music which added to the horrors of its mutilated condition the process of drain- ing it of all orchestral colour except in its accompaniments. Wil- helmj substituted, for every tone in the melody of voices, strings, and wind, a uniform whitewash of high and thin solo violin tone with nothing resembling violin style, until the climax where the glorious tone of the tutti strings made the poor solo player ever- lastingly ridiculous by answering him with his own phrase at the same pitch. How the distinguished leader of a distinguished orchestra could consent to make such a fool of himself is as incomprehensible as that the conductor could touch such an arrangement with a pair of tongs.

The scope for Wagner concerts is wide if singers can be engaged and time found for the inclusion of whole scenes that comprise a definite dramatic or poetic entity. Without voices the scope is so restricted that I doubt whether more than two concerts could be given of which the programmes did not overlap. The following programme almost exhausts the possibilities of a ‘legitimate* Wagner concert without voices:

i. Overture to Der Fliegende Hollander .

а. Prelude to Act III of Tannhauser (Tannhauser’s Pilgrimage), in

the Original Version.

3. Venusberg Music.

4. Vorspiel to Lohengrin.

Interval .

5. A Faust Overture.

б. Siegfried Idyll.

7. Vorspiel to Tristan und Isolde .

8. Kaisermarsch.

The overture to Der Fliegende Hollander is excellent as a musical whole and immeasurably riper than any other part of the opera. The introduction to the third act of Tannhauser is interesting in its original version, published long after Wagner’s death and rejected by him as redundant in the opera. It comprises the whole of Tannhauser’s narrative, and thus amounts to an instru- mental piece of which the contents are emotionally complete; for

1 12 WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

which very reason it would weaken the effect of Tannhauser 's narrative later on. The Venusberg Ballet holds an extraordinary position in Wagner's works. Every one with a sense of integrity in style will agree with Weingartner in pleading that the opera of Tannhauser should be given in its native crudeness according to Wagner's first ideas. When his fame had been established beyond the power of Parisian and international hostilities, he attached enough importance to the possibility of a triumph in Paris to acquiesce in the local etiquette that demanded opportunity for the Parisian corps-de-ballet. The opening scene in the Venusberg was the only place where a ballet could be inserted, and he wrote one in his ripest style. He also confessed that his original ‘Venus of the coulisses' horrified his mature taste, and so he rewrote her share of the dialogue in a musical language as ripe as that of Isolde. But poor Tannhauser was past praying for. His famous song, and his whole share in the scene, hardly acquits itself better in these sur- roundings than the Tichborne Claimant. The ballet itself can neither by position nor substance achieve any important dramatic meaning. In order to make room for it, the contest of singers in the Wartburg, to which the opera owes its sub-title and half its dramatic importance, has had to be so shortened that Tann- hauser has no time to develop a gradual crescendo of his tragic opposition to the ascetic minstrels, but must act as under demoniac possession from the outset. Every musician must agree with Weingartner that the Venusberg Ballet is on the one hand destructive to the opera of Tannhauser , and on the other a highly effective concert-piece. But this is not all. We hear it year in and year out tacked on to the overture, as Wagner himself tacked it on for the Paris Opera. In this condition it is a monster without its Loch Ness. Nobody can tell how many humps it has, nor what purpose they serve. The overture to Tannhauser is a mix- ture of the best and worst things in Wagner’s early style. It is ripest where it is naughty — that is to say, in its Venusberg elements ; it is blotchy and feeble in Tannhauser’ s song; and where it means to be holy and humble it is predestined to a Moody-and-Sankey tub-thumping end, and of that end I would not see it deprived. As a whole it is not good music, but it is very good bad music. When the naughty Venusberg music of Wagner’s mature style encroaches upon it, the result is that the overture, instead of naively fulfilling its honest destiny as a piece of rather bad edifying music, proceeds to develop its naughty elements in a very much better style than it had ever dreamed of before. But the new climaxes do not rise from their own basis. They have been exhausted by two or three cruder climaxes of the same kind. No doubt it is well that the Moody- and-Sankey elements should disappear. There is no humour in

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM II3

their being discountenanced by all this wicked superiority; but why put up with such a squalid misalliance at all ? It was a revela- tion to me when I first took the Venusberg Ballet by itself and realized that Wagner had achieved a perfect composition, of which the climaxes are exactly as many as are necessary, and the decline to exhaustion is entirely beautiful and perfectly proportioned. As printed, the ballet is a little indefinite in its beginning: enough so to make a plausible case for drifting into it from the overture; but a tradition, the origin of which I cannot trace, has added two bars to the printed opening which throw the whole thing into a shape hardly less perfect than that of the Tristan Vorspiel as Wagner ended it.

The Lohengrin Vorspiel is another piece which is entirely admir- able by itself and immeasurably riper than anything in the opera. Joachim, as inveterate an anti- Wagnerian as ever refrained from joining in controversies, always expressed the greatest admiration for it, and overrode all opposition to including it in the repertoire of his Hochschule students. On the other hand, I have no use for the prelude to the third act of Lohengrin , which relapses very successfully into Wagner’s vulgarest early style and fizzles out more ineptly than most fragments. I would not mind swallowing it in its proper function as a prelude to the very pretty bridal march which, with singular disregard for ominous associations, replaces our beloved Mendelssohn’s march in American weddings.

The other pieces in this programme are obviously not theatre music. The Siegfried Idyll is connected with Siegfried only by thematic links which amount to hardly more than quotations privately current in a family because their connexion with their source is jocular; yet some of our new anti-Wagnerians pose as serious critics and call this most important of all Wagner’s instru- mental works an operatic pot-pourri.

The Faust Overture I have often performed, and have analysed fairly fully in Vol. IV of these essays.

Irresponsible writers have latterly held up the Kaisermarsch to contempt: presumably on political grounds that are more worthy of elderly eggs than of human beings. No person who has read or heard the Kaisermarsch need imagine that he has the smallest claims to musical culture if he cannot see that it is a composition of the highest order and the noblest style. Even in the dawn of imperial Germany for which it was written, Wagner did not expect that there would be many occasions in which its concluding Volks - gesang could be actually sung by audiences, however carefully the text and notes* were distributed amongst them ; and he was too wise to make this consummation an essential part of his musical scheme, though no doubt the final element of community singing would vi 1

114 WAGNER IN THE CONCERT-ROOM

add greatly to the effect. I refrain from quoting the text, which is neither better nor worse than is to be expected from patriotic poetry written for a nation that could not disguise its satisfaction at having recently walloped a neighbouring nation ; but its boast is modest compared with the claims and powers of the humblest dictators of modern times, and I see no reason why politics should interfere with the integrity of this grand specimen of Wagner’s music at this time of day,

CCLII. THE VENUSBERG MUSIC (‘TANNHAUSER’)

Wagner himself is responsible for the bad effect of welding his magnificent and mature Venusberg music on to his crude Tann - hauser Overture. His temptation was overwhelming, for he was at the height of his fame, and the occasion was his opportunity for generously allowing Paris to rehabilitate its reputation after the riot with which its Jockey Club had ruined the production of Tannhduser years before. And perhaps he did not himself realize how effectively his own mature style ruins the rest of Tannhduser. The only position for a single ballet in that drama is at the opening, before the action has begun: the work is already dangerously long and quite incapable of digesting two ballets ; and to have dancers in the decorum of the Landgrave’s Hall of Song would be absurdly incongruous with any restriction of their share in the orgies of the Venusberg. The result is that the Venusberg ballet has no drama- tic significance at all. Neither, for that matter, has 70 per cent, of the ballet-music of Gluck; most of it has to be explained into the dramas by the choreographers.

The Paris bacchanale replaces a cruder affair that serves to set the scene and pose the actors in the original version of Tannhduser. In the immense grottoes of the Horselberg Tannhauser is lying at the feet of Venus, who, knowing that his longing for a return to earthly daylight will soon transcend her power to retain him, is watching with some anxiety the growing frenzy of other denizens of her realm. Both in the perfunctory original ballet and in the mature Paris version, the frenzy of the dancers shocks the goddess’s sense of decorum; and at her command a posse of her winged archers discharge narcotic arrows at the dancers, who subside into languorous slumbers.

The original Tannhduser ballet followed the overture, and made an excellent contrast to its Moody-and-Sankey end. The Paris ballet was tacked on by Wagner himself to the overture just after the recapitulation of its crudest passage, Tannhauser’s song, with the result that three passages of Venusberg naughtiness in the overture forestall and destroy all appetite for the perfectly balanced

WAGNER. THE VENUSBERG MUSIC 115

scheme of the new ballet, which I myself am now hearing for the first time in its musical integrity. Its only discoverable defect as a detached piece is that, as printed, it begins nowhere; but either some authentic tradition or the inspiration of a conductor who understands composition has removed this defect by the addition of two bars of Ex. i in a manuscript slip inserted in the hired orchestral material.

Exx. 1 and 2 are common to the original and the Parisian ballet.

Ex. x.

Ex. 6 is a song of the sirens, which is the most thrilling feature both of the original and of the Parisian ballets.

Ex. 6.

Il6 WAGNER. THE VENUSBERG MUSIC

Voices are needed to give it its full effect; but to bring these into the concert-room would commit us to the whole scene in which, while Wagner has rewritten his Kulissen- Venus into the divinest style of Isolde, he has left poor Tannhauser’s song in its original ragged bumptiousness.

Although the defects of Wagner’s early style are sufficiently Meyerbeerish to account for his aversion to that master in parti- cular, it would be fairer to compare them with the style of a more disappointed master, Spontini. The mixture of styles is distressing in any version of Tannhauser as a whole. Might we be forgiven for claiming that the original unadulterated opera has at all events the virtue of ‘Spontineity’ ?

According to the Paris ballet, in the magnificent slow movement that follows upon Venus’s orders the song of the sirens introduces two tableaux, representing two of Jupiter’s adventures: as the bull that carries off Europa, and as the swan with Leda. Both as music and as drama, these matters are neither here nor there; though the text informs us that both were classical examples of the power of love. What concerns the listener is the exquisite development of another new theme in Wagner’s ripest style, ‘conflated’ with Ex. 3 —

which brings the movement to its musically appointed close. The last appearance of Ex. i indicates, as in the original ballet, how the troop of archers bow to Venus, signifying that they have succeeded in quelling the riot. The faint suggestion of church bells that haunts Tannhauser’s dreams of earthlight is accompanied by Wag- ner’s new theme (Ex. 7) as the music dies away in its appointed time.

CCLIII. * KAISERMARSCH ’

Let us listen to the Kaisermarsch as a piece of music no more to be degraded by politics than Beethoven’s Weihe des Houses . To put it on the same level would be an error akin to the opposite extreme of criticism which rejects the Weihe des Houses . The Kaisermarsch is not of that supreme order of subtlety and sublimity; but it has nothing to fear from the presence of Beethoven at his greatest: and its style is quite as useful as any Amoldian ‘touchstone of poetry* for the purpose of revealing the poverty of weaker music. Its

WAGNER. ‘KAISERMARSCH’ 117

scheme anticipates Sibelius’s idea of displaying fragments of themes in an inchoate way, and reserving for the final climax their gathering-up into a complete tune. Here is Wagner’s complete tune —

Ex. i.

with which the composition ends; but the beginning is not frag- mentary. Wagner starts at once with the first eleven bars. The phrase-rhythm, with its cumulative repetitions and its avoidance, of symmetry, promptly shows that beyond all questions of taste this artist can compose. For my part, I do not understand how any disputes of taste can arise on any point in this composition. I can see nothing but the noblest music in it at every moment, and have no more use for political prejudices about it than for the eggs by which such prejudices are appropriately and practically symbo- lized.

Wagner follows these first eleven bars by a running figure —

&c*

c?

0

which in two processes — first on the tonic, then on the dominant — turns this opening statement into an introduction ending on a pause. Then the larger structure begins. Its analysis would need an essay not less elaborate than my full discussion of the Weihe des Houses Overture, which cost me almost more labour than any of

IIS WAGNER. KAISERMARSCH

my other essays. All I can do here is to tabulate its main incidents. First there is a slow crescendo on a swinging ‘left-right, left-right’

Em* feste Burg.

followed by fanfares and a continuation of Ex. 3 in the dominant. This leads, by a parallel incident of modulation, to another impact of Eiri feste Burg in the subdominant, thus closing into the tonic. The fanfares thereupon conclude the matter and die away at leisure. Then Ex. 3 is developed quietly on a large scale. Gradually the harmony leaves its home tonics and flashes out into bright remote keys.

The note of das ewig Weibhche appears m the Walter-and-Eva stream of melody which ensues. Gradually the materials of Ex. 1 assert themselves, and its figure ( b ) shows a power of shining like a rainbow in the remotest keys. The modulations eventually come round to the subdominant; and the approach to the climax is then indicated by a grand rising sequence developed from figure (e) which penetrates the softer counterpoints above, and is at length surmounted by a third quotation of Etn* feste Burg in A|? followed for the first and only time by its second line.

WAGNER. ‘KAISERMARSCH* 119

This closes with a grand interrupted cadence into the home- dominant upon which an adequate length of fanfare leads to the complete Volksgesang as given in Ex. 1. Musicians whose sense of composition has suffered from the various inept ways in which Wagnerian excerpts end either with a bump, an inexplicable fade- out, or a couple of exasperatingly conventional chords, will find more and more cause to admire the accuracy of the simple- seeming conventional fanfare and last chords of the Kaisermarsch ; the sort of detail which Wagner and Beethoven may perhaps take in their stride, or may (as we know from some cases in Beethoven) attain through dozens of sketches, the last of which may have been the same as the first.

CCLIV. ‘PARSIFAL’, ACT III

My objections to concert-room extracts of Wagner do not apply to whole scenes given with all the singers. Much is lost by the absence of scenery and action; but for some listeners almost as much is gained. The listener who has the intelligence to appre- ciate the loss will also have the imagination to supply what is missing, and may even find himself free from aesthetic discomforts that are inseparable from all efforts to present Wagner on the stage. There is not much to be said for people whose minds rise superior to any wish to see Wagner or Shakespeare acted. People who will not put up with reasonable, practical compromises may just as well confess that they do not want to put up with life. We may all wish that we knew what Shakespeare’s audiences knew, but, while we should be the better for the sum of that knowledge, we should probably be the worse on the whole for being transformed into Elizabethan groundlings or Elizabethan aristocrats. Wagner is nearer to our own time ; and those of us who can best appreciate his music can probably recognize that in matters concerning the stage his aesthetic sensibilities were less highly developed than his musical sense. Of the new highbrow anti-Wagnerian fashion I have no more to say than I have of the Edwardian anti-Beethoven reaction. Wagner’s mature style fought its way upward from squalid antecedents with a force of character and an instinct for purity unsurpassed by the masters whose salad-days gave them no cause for regret. His detestation of the style of Meyerbeer was intensified by his recognition that his own early style was not without affinity to it. This did not prevent him from acknowledg- ing in the most generous terms such good things as the end of the fourth act of Les Huguenots . With all his unscrupulous egotism, he was no snob. The anti-Wagnerians of the present-day have dis- covered with small labour and research that Wagner’s style, like

120 WAGNER. 4 PARSIFAL*, ACT III

most operatic styles, arose from squalid origins. They have dis- covered nothing else, and they proclaim from the housetops their inability to distinguish between Wagner and Meyerbeer. Won ragionam di lor , ma guarda e passa *

It is permissible to find in Wagner’s temperament, as in Dante’s, Milton’s, Carlyle’s, Henry VIII’s, and Queen Elizabeth’s, much that one dislikes; and it is nobody’s duty in life to go in deliberate search of diets that one knows to be beyond one’s digestion. In Wagner’s lifetime there was something more than mere respect- ability in the cause of the anti-Wagnerites. To-day we can see that the musical language of Tristan is a rigorously logical, and even conservative, extension of the principles of classical tonality and harmony, arising naturally from the extension of the whole time- scale of music. To most of Wagner’s contemporaries that language was unintelligible in its grammar, and very upsetting in its effect upon the listener’s nerves. So great a musician as Joachim went to his grave in the twentieth century firmly convinced that the musical language of Tristan was nonsensical as well as morbid. And the musicians who knew that this was the result of their best efforts to construe it were wiser than the people who saw no difficulty in it at all. Their scepticism was based on a conviction, strongly held by Wagner himself, that his earlier work contained much that was not worthy of his ideals and was most popular where it least represented them. The modern anti- Wagnerian is either an artist so preoccupied with his own work that he resents even the most unquestioned classics if their systems conflict with it, or he is a dilettante who has drifted into music through current literature and cannot construe anything whatever. No reasonable person would expect Debussy to enjoy Wagner, or Berlioz to enjoy Bach. We want such artists to get on with their own work, and we do not see why they should be asked to listen to what disturbs them. But I frankly own that my social tact will never be equal to meeting with urbanity the anti- Wagnerian table-talk of the present day. At its best it represents a natural inability to enjoy music on a time-scale enormously larger than anything to which the listener has been trained. Great artists like Vernon Lee and Maurice Baring earn our gratitude by describing accurately the almost physical dis- comfort they experience by having their attention racked by the Wagnerian time-scale. But no illumination is given by gossip repeated at second-hand by people who have overheard the reac- tionary utterances of sensitive artists. The popular taste — and, for that matter, the fashionable taste — of those who are in a position, geographical and financial, to go to operas, is far in advance of critical fashions. Wagner continues to draw full houses because his dramas are among the most exciting that have been realized

WAGNER. * PARSIFAL*, ACT III 121

on the stage, and are the foundation of a music that has revealed the meaning of that art to persons who in former times never ven- tured to think themselves musical. He is one of the non-musicians* composers; and, by a curious paradox, he is a dramatist for listeners who are not habitual theatre-goers. A good claim could be made for Wagner as one of the most powerful of all influences upon modem drama. This is not evident in a country of such imperfect and discontinuous musical traditions as England; and even in musical countries it is obscured by the evident amateurishness of some aspects of Wagner*s poetry. Moreover, the genuine qualities of Wagner’s stagecraft are obscured by the determination with which he took upon himself the burden of every conceivable prob- lem of scenery and production. In this he was probably wise; for his multiform talents did not all mature at the same rate, and he would have needed three hundred years of life before his Allkunst - zuerk could be equally mature in ail its elements. Music was the art in which he attained full maturity. His poetry never became mature, though in Tannhauser , and even in Lohengrin , it was far riper than his music had yet become. Through his mature music we can learn that he did indeed achieve an Allkunstwerk ; that the imperfections of The Ring , Tristan , Meister singer, and Parsifal , though they be as obvious as the imperfections of Shakespeare, are relatively as unimportant. The music is music-drama, the language is music interpretative of words, and the import of the words as interpreted by music is poetry of the highest order, whatever literary critics may be compelled to think of the words, apart from the music.

The third act of Parsifal should be heard after the other two acts, and all three should be seen in action on the stage. Yet, even for listeners who have no such opportunity, the presentation of the third act in the concert-room has some advantages that can also be appreciated by listeners who know the whole work in its integrity. Brahms, who was by no means the anti-Wagnerian that most of his friends wished him to be, used to enjoy his Wagner operas one act at a time. One of my own most vivid experiences was that of hearing the second act of Tristan when I arrived in London too late for the first act. The unfatigued impression of it was enormously greater than any of my previous experiences. Of course it was essential to bring to the experience an intimate knowledge of the first act. Let us see now what we can make of the third act of Parsifal on the supposition that we have just heard and seen the other two acts and prefer now to listen to music with our eyes shut.

We have heard the wonderful prelude, which has given us all the themes of the Holy Grail; the curtain has risen upon a peaceful scene in the grounds of Monsalvat at dawn; ^nd the good old

122 WAGNER. ‘PARSIFAL*, ACT III

Brother Gurnemanz explains to two acolytes the story of the Grail and the present tragic position of its guardian, Amfortas, whose father, Titurel, still lives, but is kept alive only by the sight of the Grail, which is unveiled in the communion service of its temple. Long ago Klingsor had aspired to become a Knight of the Grail. Unable to control his natural lusts, he made himself a eunuch and offered himself to Titurel as a chaste candidate. Titurel rejected him with scorn. In revenge he established himself in a wilderness that lay in the path of pilgrims to Monsalvat, and turned this wilderness into a magic garden full of temptations into which many aspirants for the Brotherhood of the Grail fell. Amfortas sallied forth to vanquish the sorcerer. He rashly took with him a talisman of sanctity co-equal with the Grail itself: the Spear which pierced the side of Christ crucified and drew the Blood that filled the Cup. In Klingsor’s enchanted garden Gurnemanz himself saw the terrible fall of Amfortas, beguiled by a woman of appalling beauty and caught in that unguarded moment by Klingsor, who seized the holy Spear and wounded him with it. Gurnemanz rescued him, but the Spear remained in Klingsor’s unholy hands and nothing can heal the wound of Amfortas.

Gurnemanz’s tale is interrupted by the entry of Kundry, a wild and distraught woman who brings with her a new balsam from Arabia, with grimly small hope that it will be of any use for the King’s wound. The Brethren of the Grail always regard her with suspicion, and she seems to hate them ; yet, as Gurnemanz points out, she is for ever busy on errands for them, and it is in her absence that grave disasters befall them.

We see the suffering King Amfortas borne in a litter on his way to bathe. He accepts the balsam with gratitude, and Gurnemanz resumes his tale. In a vision Amfortas received a promise of salva- tion implied in the command to wait for the chosen one, the Pure Fool who understands by pity. Gurnemanz’s listeners, deeply moved, softly repeat the well-remembered words of this promise, but they are startled by a new and drastic interruption. In this sanctuary, where all wild creatures are tame, somebody has shot a swan. A trespasser, a youth strong and childlike, is brought in, overpowered by four men. He is armed with a bow and arrows, and sees no harm in hitting everything that flies. Gurnemanz soon fills him with remorse for his thoughtless destruction of beautiful life. He breaks his bow and arrows, and to all questions his only answer is, T do not know*. He cannot remember his name, though he has had many. All he can remember is that he has left his mother, Herzeleide, and gone into the world with a bow and arrows of his own making. Kundry suddenly supplements his story, and tells us that he was born after the death of his father, Gamuret, in

WAGNER. ‘ PARSIFAL* , ACT III I23

battle. His foolish mother brought him up as a fool in order to preserve him from a like fate. She adds that the boy became a terror to robbers and giants. The strange youth asks in surprise: ‘Who fears me?’ She answers: ‘The wicked/ ‘Then were those who fought me wicked? Who is good?’ Gurnemanz says: ‘Thy mother, whom thou hast deserted and who is yearning and grieving for thee/ To which Kundry roughly says: ‘No more grief for her. His mother is dead. I was riding by, and I saw her die. And she sent her greeting to thee, thou fool/ Whereupon the strange youth springs at her throat. Gurnemanz restrains him. The strange youth trembles and is on the point of fainting. Kundry brings him water and retires from the scene, over-mastered by the dark power that enslaves her. Gurnemanz points out to him how she returns good for ill. But we learn from her broken exclama- tions that her own view is that she never does good. She longs for peace and for sleep — but no, not sleep, anything rather than sleep!

Gurnemanz is forming the opinion that the strange youth is the Pure Fool whose coming was promised. He goes with him to the Hall of the Grail, in the hope that the promise may now be accom- plished. Amfortas is borne on a litter to fulfil his holy office. The voice of Titurel is heard from behind the altar, demanding the un- veiling of the Grail. Amfortas protests passionately, for the per- formance of this office renews all the agonies of his wound. At last voices from the heights of the dome remind him of the pro- mised coming of the Pure Fool who understands by pity. Am- fortas unveils the Grail and the solemnities proceed. At the end * it is evident that his wound has broken out again. Gurnemanz and the youth are left alone, and Gurnemanz is disappointed to find that the youth shows no understanding except a bewildered dis- tress. He pushes the youth roughly out through a side-door, advising him to leave swans alone and seek a goose for his gander- ship. Nevertheless, a voice from above ends the act with an echo of the promise.

In the second act we first see Klingsor in the topmost room of a tower. He summons Kundry, who is in his power because he is the only man who has not yielded to her. A rash boast, for she is able to taunt him with the shameful secret of his power. She, the Rose of Hell, had (as we learn later) seen Christ bearing His Cross and had laughed. His gaze had fallen upon her, and she was doomed to tarry till He should come again. Now she must deal with the most dangerous of all Klingsor’s enemies, as she had already dealt with Amfortas. From his tower Klingsor sees the youth fighting his way into the garden through all the opposition the recreant knights can give. The scene changes, and we see the youth beset by a crowd of enchantresses in flower-like guise. He is quite ready

124 WAGNER. * PARSIFAL*, ACT III

to play with them, if only they will give him room and not crowd round him so closely. Suddenly he hears an over-mastering voice calling him by his forgotten name, Parsifal. The Blumenmadchen are dismissed by a mightier enchantress. Kundry appears in radiant beauty and holds him spellbound with talk of his mother, Herzeleide. At last she says that his dying mother sent him through her a kiss. At the kiss Parsifal starts up, enlightened by pity and terror, crying: ‘Amfortas, the wound!* The prophecy is fulfilled. He knows all, and Kundry’s most agonized efforts can force from him only the promise that he was sent for her salvation also, but by means far other than those she asks. Her only remaining power is to lay upon him a curse which shall make his return to the suffering Amfortas a long wandering through devious ways. Klingsor appears, imagining himself once more triumphant, and hurls the sacred Spear at Parsifal. Parsifal grasps the Spear and makes with it the sign of the Cross ; whereupon Klingsor’s castle crashes into ruin and all the flowers wither. Parsifal departs, telling Kundry that she knows where she will find him again.

The third act begins with a mysterious quiet prelude on themes which we have not heard before. It gives an impression of sorrow —

and of wandering footsteps that must often be retraced in order to find the right path.

A short crescendo incidentally reminds us of the Dresden Amen and leads to Kundry’s wildest outcry, accompanied by three notes that suffice to remind us of fig. (c) of the Grail-theme that has become associated with the holy Spear.

continued in Ex. 6.

(For convenience I append the Dresden Amen and the Grail- theme in their original forms.)

126 WAGNER. * PARSIFAL*, ACT III

which had once been a lively feature of the whirling seductive dance of the Blumenmadchen in Klingsor’s garden. The curtain rises upon a lovely forest-scene at the edge of the Grail-precincts, profuse with springtide flowers far lovelier and more life-enhancing than the tropical glories of Klingsor’s garden. Some creature con- cealed in the bushes is moaning.

&CT

From Ex. 9 we know that it is Kundry ; and while we are reminded of Klingsor —

&C.

the door of a hut opens and Gurnemanz, now much aged and retired as a hermit, comes out to see what this moaning may be, more piteous than the plaint of any stricken hare, and most un- likely on this holiest of days (themes anticipating Exx. 22 and 16). He finds Kundry collapsed and unconscious in a thicket of brambles. He revives her with difficulty. At last she awakens with a wild cry. Yet there is no wildness left in her. She is in the robe of a penitent, her face is pale, and after gazing long at Gurnemanz she rises, sets in order her hair, and moves as if to go to work like a serving-maid. Gurnemanz asks in surprise if she has no word to say to him. At last, after a long effort, she is able to say: ‘Dienen, dienen/ Gurnemanz shakes his head. Service will give her no trouble. There are no more errands. We seek our simples and herbs for ourselves, learning from the beasts of the forest. Kundry sees the hut and goes into it, as if she knew her duty. Gurnemanz watches her in wonder. Is this the effect of Good Friday? And has Heaven allowed him to revive her to-day for her salvation ? Kun- dry, coming out of the hut with a water-jug, goes with it to the well. She points out to Gurnemanz an approaching stranger.

Gl tx.

He is in black armour with closed visor. Bearing a lowered spear, he enters slowly with drooping head. He seats himself on a little knoll by the spring. Gurnemanz, watching him in astonishment,

WAGNER. ‘PARSIFAL*, ACT III 127

greets him and asks him if he has lost his way. He gently shakes his head and merely nods when Gurnemanz asks him if he has no greeting. ‘If thou art vowed to silence, I am vowed to tell thee what is fit. This is a holy place, where no man comes armed with closed helmet and shield and spear, least of all to-day. Do you not know what holy day this is? No? What heathen company have you been keeping, that you do not know that this is the holiest Good Friday morning? Down with those weapons! Vex not the Lord Who to-day weaponless gave His holy Blood as atonement for the sinful world/

The knight thrusts the holy Spear into the ground before him, lays his shield and his own spear down, opens and takes off his helmet and puts it with the other weapons, and then kneels in silent prayer. Gurnemanz watches him with astonishment and emotion, and calls to Kundry, saying: ‘Do you recognize him? This is he who killed the swan. This is the Fool whom I angrily dismissed. The Spear, I know it. Oh that I should awaken to see this holiest of days l*

Ex. 12.

Kundry turns away her face, overcome with the sorrow of peni- tence.

Ex. 12.

Parsifal slowly rises from his prayer, recognizes Gurnemanz and greets him. In his long wanderings the beardless youth has grown into a Christlike man. He tells how he has trodden the path of error and suffering (Ex. 2). He now recognizes the murmur of this forest and the greeting of this good old man, yet all seems altered. Is he still at loss? ‘Whom are you seeking?’ asks Gurnemanz. Parsifal replies that he is seeking one whose deep woe he once saw in foolish wonder —

Ex. 14. ^

and for whose healing he deems himself ordained. But a curse has driven him in pathless wanderings, and he has had to fight his way, defending the Spear itself from attack, for he dared not use it as a

128 WAGNER. ‘PARSIFAL’, ACT III

weapon; undefiled, he has carried it and brought it here, the holy Spear of the Grail. When Gurnemanz has mastered his emotion at this fulfilment of the vision of Titurel —

Ex. 15.

aL

z$=j 5 5 =

&c.

he assures Parsifal that, whatever curse kept him from his goal, its power has ceased. This is indeed the region of the Grail, whose Knighthood awaits Parsifal and is in dire need of the healing that he brings. Since Parsifal has left them, Amfortas has wished for nothing but death —

and refused to perform his office. Now at last Titurel, deprived of the sight of the Grail that gave him life, has died, like all mortal men.

Parsifal breaks out in an agony of remorse at his own folly that has caused all this woe. He is on the point of fainting. Kundry hastily fetches a bowl of water. As she returns we hear a pathetic echo of the lalst plea of her temptation of Parsifal: ‘Nur eine Stunde dein.’

Gurnemanz gently intervenes, for the Holy Well itself must be the pilgrim’s bath.

He has a high task to-day before him.

Kundry and Gurnemanz lead Parsifal to the edge of the spring. They remove his breastplate and greaves. Parsifal asks: ‘Shall I be led to Amfortas to-day ?’ Gurnemanz answers that the Hall of the Grail awaits them.

129

WAGNER. ‘PARSIFAL*, ACT III

To-day is the funeral of Titurel, and Amfortas has promised as a last token of repentance to unveil the Grail. Parsifal, now in his white robe an unmistakable type of Christ, gazes on Kundry as, like the Magdalene, she washes his feet. He says to her : as she has washed his feet, so let his friend now besprinkle his head. Gurne- manz, scooping with his hand water from the spring, performs the rite; and Kundry completes the history of the Magdalene by pro- ducing a vessel of precious ointment which she pours over Parsifal's feet and then dries with her hair. Parsifal takes the vessel gently from her and hands it to Gurnemanz that the friend of Titurel may anoint his head as King.

With this ceremony the well-known concert-room excerpt known as the Good-Friday music begins. As a beautiful piece of orchestral colour I had often enjoyed it in the concert-room, like the kind of ‘sugar piled upon honey' that Lamb disenjoyed as his only idea of music ; and I was interested to find, when I heard it in its proper context at Bayreuth, that I had no recollection of it whatever. In the early days of modern Homeric criticism, one Lachmann discovered that the Iliad of Homer was cleverly put together from a number of old ballads or lays. The difficulty about Lachmann’s lays was that, though the lays of this person and that person all had excellent beginnings, they all petered out vaguely. ♦ More recent criticism has found precisely the same phenomenon in the novels of Dickens and of every writer of fiction sufficiently voluminous to be driven to introduce characters and groups of persons with a separate exposition. With a great epic or a great novel these separate expositions can always be prised out of the total mass by misplaced ingenuity; but the naive reader or listener is the better critic in that he does not notice this possibility. With Wagner the popularity of concert extracts with (or without) plausible beginnings has efficiently destroyed all standards of musical finality and form. The Good-Friday music can be shut off somehow, as you can switch off your wireless.

Gurnemanz solemnly anoints Parsifal as King. Parsifal fulfils his first office by baptizing the kneeling Kundry.

Her age-long curse is over. Her laughter at the suffering Christ had always overcome her again and again whenever, a sinner fell into

VI K

130 WAGNER. ‘PARSIFAL’, ACT III

her power, but now at last she can weep, and she is shaken with the peaceful tears of her penitence (Ex. 13).

Parsifal admires the lovely springtime flowers around him, so different from the tropical glories of Klingsor’s garden.

Ex. 21.

Gurnemanz says that this flowering is the magic of Good Friday. Parsifal is astonished that on this day of highest agony all that breathes should not mourn and sorrow. Gurnemanz says: ‘You see, that is not so.’ All creation blossoms, watered by the sinners’ tears. Unable to see Christ Himself on the Cross, it looks up to redeemed mankind.

Ex. 22.

At last Kundry raises her head and gazes in grave longing up to Parsifal. He, remembering the mocking flowers of Klingsor’s garden, recognizes that they too may look for redemption. Kundry weeps, and the landscape smiles. He kisses her on the brow with the kiss of peace. The bells of the temple peal in the distance.

&o.

Orchestral version.

It is midday. Gurnemanz and Kundry array Parsifal in the mantle of a Knight of the Grail. Parsifal grasps the holy Spear and follows Gurnemanz with Kundry. We approach the Hall of the Grail with dark harmonies of tremendous solemnity. First they recall the sorrow of Herzeleide, Parsifal’s mother, as related to him by Kundry. Then they merge into the funeral of Titurel, amid the thunderous tolling of bells.

Within the Hall, from one side a procession bears the body of Titurel in his coffin. From the other side a procession carries Amfortas on his sick-bed with the veiled Shrine of the Grail. The procession of Amfortas asks the other procession what it is that they are bringing. They answer that their burden is the hero to whom God entrusted a holy power.

Ex. 23.

WAGNER. 1 PARSIFAL 1 , ACT III 131

First Procession: Who has slain him who was thus protected by God?

Second Procession: He was felled by the burden of age, since he could no more behold the Grail.

I : Who barred him from seeing the grace of the Grail ?

II: He whom you are bearing, its sinful warden.

I: We bring him to-day, for once more he will do his office for the last timel

Both Processions: Alas, for the last time!

Amfortas wearily raises himself. He would rather receive death from them as the lightest atonement for his sin. The coffin is opened; and at the sight of Titurers corpse all cry out with grief. Amfortas raises himself upright and addresses the corpse. He implores his father, most blessed and purest of heroes, to whom angels had spoken, and to whom he who alone wished to die had given death. He beseeches him who is now beholding the Re- deemer Himself in divine glory, to beg that the holy Blood which gives new life to the Brethren shall at last give death to the sufferer.

The Knights press around Amfortas, bidding him uncover the Grail. In a fury of despair Amfortas leaps from his bed, tears open his robe, and bids them plunge their swords into his wound. Let them kill the sinner with his pain, and the Grail will shine by itself.

Meanwhile, Parsifal has entered unnoticed among the Knights. , He comes forward and touches the wound of Amfortas with the holy Spear. Gurnemanz supports the enraptured Amfortas, whose wound is healed. He is now simply a Knight of the Grail. Blessed from henceforth are his past sufferings, which gave the highest power of pity and pure knowledge to the timid Fool. From the point of the holy Spear, which has healed Amfortas’s wound, there is a miraculous flow of Blood, which aspires to rejoin its origin in the Holy Grail. The Grail shall never be closed again. Uncover the Grail; open the Shrine!

Parsifal fulfils his office. The choir sings ‘Salvation to the Saviour!* The White Dove descends and hovers over Parsifal’s head. For Kundry this is the second coming of Christ, and she is released from the bondage of earthly life.

Ex. 24.

8 va.

loco .

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

The lacunae in these volumes are vast, obvious, and casual. In Vol. II, in the Preface I have explained those that result from general and local conditions; and I have now to fill up merely capricious gaps by mentioning some of the missing works.

The greatest and most obvious defect is in the representation of modern music. I have explained the cause of this in the Preface to Vol. II, and need only repeat here that I am not to blame for not producing things hopelessly beyond local opportunities.

As to the classics, the most apparent lacuna is Handel, who is represented only by Israel in Egypt , and by one not very well- known concerto. In my analysis I have referred to the ‘de-Bestifica- tion’ of Handers organ concertos as a task second in difficulty only to that imposed on us by Handel’s inveterate habit of not writing his music down. On the other side of the late W. T. Best yawns the deep sea of the still later Chrysander and his surviving hosts of Musikgelehrte. In my Companion to the Art of Fugue I have pointed out h ow im possible it is for a rapid writer not to let such

figures as 3 . m j degenerate into every permutation and com- bination of q J and q m J. On the main-

tenance of these subtle distinctions the Musikgelehrte are all Mumpsimites 1 to a man. But they are not less zealous in putting into the solo and orchestral parts of Handel’s works their own cadenzas and conjectures, together with every record of what any eighteenth-century singing-master may have taught to any singer within living memory of Handel. The fact is that every self-respecting conductor wants to rewrite Handel; or rather, to write him out completely in the first place, and, in the second place, to adapt him to the severely restricted conditions of the modern orchestra. For the paradox of Handel’s orchestration is that while neither it nor any other music, not even the Requiem of Berlioz nor the symphonies of Mahler, was ever designed for performance on the scale of our Crystal Palace Handel Festivals, it nevertheless presupposes quite as many oboes and bassoons as strings; and at present the proper conditions for its performance simply do not exist. Various great conductors have their ways of tackling Handel : my own conceit enables me to agree with them

• This word is not in nor in its Supplement. It refers to the

scrupulous monk, mentioned in one of Sir Walter Scott’s introductions, who persisted in reading mumpsimus for sumpsimus.

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I33

only as the missionary agreed with his fellow-workers of another denomination: ‘we both serve the same Master, you in your way and I in His.’

Bach is easier : his works are technically more difficult and there- fore present problems which the performers learn on the spot; and, except for the continuo, they are completely written out. The continuo itself is an ideal method of training students in harmony. The only thing that has prevented me from doing more Bach at the Reid Concerts is that his orchestra contributes little to the heartbreaking task of improving the musical climate of Edinburgh.

Mozart is not badly represented in these essays. The ‘Prague* Symphony has arrived too late for inclusion ; and the ‘Paris* Sym- phony, a very important historic document, I have just been able to produce in the present volume, where with Gluck and C. P. E. Bach it completes the picture of the transition from the continuo to the self-supporting orchestra. It was a shock to me to realize that the most famous (and justly famous) of all Mozart’s pianoforte concertos, the D minor, is missing. We have played it several times, but on Sundays. The ‘Coronation* Concerto in D major we have not done; that splendid comedy the F major (Kochel 459) has occurred too late; so has the larger B flat major (K. 456) with its wonderful G minor variations; and there are at least four other pianoforte concertos which I intend to produce as opportunity arises. At Sunday concerts we have produced the concerto for two pianofortes; and some day we may find it amusing to pro- duce the opusculum for three, perhaps on an occasion when* we are producing the triple concertos of Bach. It is difficult to get together three harpsichords, ancient or modem, that will match, and I have no more scruple than Philipp Emanuel Bach had in using the pianoforte for Bach and Handel, so long as the instru- ment is under more intelligent control than that of a ‘pianistic’ player of the Tschopsztiksy school.

Of Mozart’s violin concertos the two represented here are the perfect examples. There are three 1 earlier ones; and a slightly later one in D major, discovered in this century and certainly genuine though the solo part has been tampered with. By a per- versity not unusual in the case of Mozart, the violin concerto that is most often played is a voluminous work in E flat, welcome to violinists because its technique is more advanced than that of the other concertos, but obviously in so shocking a mess as to scoring and details that it cannot possibly be genuine as it stands. Perhaps a genuine work might assume such a shape, if an unmusicianly enthusiast had before him the solo part with its outline of the

• Four, since the recent discovery of a sketchy specimen of his pro-

digious childhood, •« 

>34 RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

tuttis, and tried to make a full score from its data. At present the work looks as if the composition were all wrong (as is demonstrably the case with the Concertante for four wind instruments and orchestra). But incompetent or spurious accompaniments have an astonishing power to obliterate masterly form. Among Mozart’s ripest and wittiest works is a set of Divertimenti for two clarinets and bassoon which, until early in this century, were, in the most accurate sense of the term, obliterated by spurious parts for a pair of horns. I have not yet investigated the E flat violin concerto closely enough to see whether it presents a case for restoration. At present it does not make sense or grammar. The Concertante for four wind instruments, on the other hand, presents no case for restoration. In the sense that ‘the soul is either blue or not blue’, it can be construed ; but the man who wrote it could not compose. He could not, for instance, have been Pleyel, who wrote concer- tantes galore, but who was a pupil of Haydn.

The Concertante Symphony (a curious but authentic title) for violin and viola is an important early work which we have played several times. My excellent first horn, Mr. Walter Worsley, has produced for us Mozart’s four horn concertos in all their bubbling humour. The analysis of them yields amusing points, but nothing quite so funny as the scurrilous remarks in Mozart’s autographs. And these would distract attention from the music.

Mozart’s flute music with orchestra is represented completely in these essays. This we owe to the kindness of that great flautist, my lamented friend Louis Fleury, who came to our aid in the earliest days of the Reid Orchestra and joyfully helped us to com- memorate the founder of the Reid Chair on or about his birthday, February 13, by producing his genuine flute sonatas, instead of the traditional pot-pourri, heavily upholstered in orchestration of the Mahogany Age that passed for ‘the Reid Music* from the ’sixties onwards. Fleury created quite a vogue for General Reid’s sonatas in Paris.

In the wildly improbable event of any demand arising for more of these essays, I may as well say that I do not propose to collect any more analyses of Mozart’s and Haydn’s instrumental works in future volumes. Nothing short of precis-writing can reveal the constant and vital differences between each work. And it may be news to some readers that I find precis-writing of Haydn and Mozart far too difficult for any but the most advanced of my students; especially if they have come to the University primed with traditional views of musical form. These are about as useful as bird’s-eye views of architecture ; and half the energy of three or four years of intensive training is spent in getting the Bird’s Eye into human pedestrian focus.

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA 135

Something has been said in these essays about the infuriating conditions for producing Haydn’s symphonies. By great good for- tune Haydn himself looked after the publication of his string quartets ; with the result that, while much remains to be discovered, such as Miss Marion Scott’s first-rate historical document, Haydn’s actual first quartet, earlier than Op. 1, No. 1, all such discoveries are certain to be of historic rather than artistic importance. Haydn himself wished to ignore everything earlier than his set of six quartets known as Op. 9. From that point onwards his art, as shown by the quartets, lives by its absolute values, and makes enormous progress from perfection within primitive conditions to perfection on higher and higher planes. Now the symphonies, acknowledged as such, begin at a higher level than the quartets of Opp. 1 and 2. (The line between string quartet and string orchestra is at first obscure, and wind parts have been discovered for some of the early ‘quartets’.) But the first fifty symphonies do not advance to the level of the best quartets in Op. 9; and, as I have reiterated elsewhere, a case might be argued for the proposi- tion that Haydn’s famous opportunities for experimenting with the orchestra at Esterhaz did him as much harm as good. At all events, the experimental elements in the first fifty symphonies consist in outbreaks of fantastic virtuosity for individual players, who, whether residents or visitors, were doubtless able to do justice to them. But meanwhile the general orchestral organization made no appreciable progress. The learned editor of the fourth volume does not comfort me for the delay in its appearance by his remarks about the impossibility of reproducing the living features of Haydn’s handwriting by any process short of facsimile. The remarks are charmingly expressed, but they will apply to any handwriting by any lively person. I saw the whole volume in proof on Mandyczewski’s table in 1928. A delay of six years in publishing does not seem adequately excused by the discovery that one sym- phony is five years earlier than Mand yczewski supposed, and that

here and there Haydn wrote r^r_? rjJ in the score where the parts

read Such matters can be treated, as was the custom of

the best nineteenth-century scholars, in a later volume of Revisions - berichte . Moreover, I confess to an attitude which the modem Musikgelehrte may perhaps think snobbish, but which would cer- tainly advance or restore the standard of musical scholarship if it were more often adopted. I am prepared to appreciate the impor- tance of the erratum ‘for buz'd read buzz'd ’ if the work concerned is Paradise * Lost , but if it occurs only in Johnson’s translation of Lobo’s Travels in Abyssinia I shall not even trouble to see if I have quoted that title correctly. »

136 RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

Meanwhile, not being an expert collector, I cannot pick up printed full scores of more than twelve of the forty-two most epoch-making symphonies in the history of music ; those in which Haydn matured his style after leaving Esterhaz and before crowning his work with the twelve London symphonies. On the back of the fourth volume of the critical edition of Haydn’s symphonies the contents of the whole first series of the Denkmdler Deutscher Tonkunst are advertised. Far be it from me to deny that there are good things galore in those sixty-five volumes. But in comparison with the missing middle Haydn symphonies their catalogue reads like the list Stevenson drew up of the books a certain firm of publishers triumphantly issued as compared with the list of what they rejected. Jones's Latin Irregular Verbs ; Robinson's Stately Homes of Salop, &c., &c., as against the rejected comedy April Rain , the Biblical tragedy of David and Bathsheba , and an autobiography up to the production of King John — by William Shakespeare ; five books of an unfinished novel, Solomon Crabbe , by Henry Fielding, &c.

Beethoven’s orchestral music is almost completely represented in these essays. The second concerto (really the first) in B flat is missing. A few words here will prevent the omission from being a serious lacuna. The first movement is full of jolly early Beethoven diversions, but is far more scattered than even the first movement of the C major concerto. The most amusing thing about it is that, as with the C major concerto, Beethoven revived his interest in the work later on and wrote a big cadenza for it. But whereas the best of the three cadenzas for the first movement of the C major con- certo is a magnificent thing which raises the status of the whole work, this cadenza to the B flat concerto is one of the most amusing exhibitions of temper that any artist or animal ever showed in the first or last stages of casting a skin. Brahms’s grafting of his latest ideas on to the stock of his early B major trio shows, as Rontgen always complained, a certain unfriendliness at the moments when the old composer grabs the young one by the scruff of his neck and kicks ripe wisdom into him ; but it shows nothing like the temper of the improvisatorial-inquisitorial, valedictory-maledictory fugato in which Beethoven storms for several pages over the whole newly extended compass of his pianoforte on a subject and counter- subject as loosely connected with the rest of the movement as all its themes and developments are connected with each other. The slow movement and rondo are masterpieces ; and it is a mere acci- dent that I have not yet produced the whole concerto at the Reid Concerts. The rondo is Beethoven’s second finale; he wrote an earlier one which appeared posthumously and would be worth playing as a separate piece, if the pianoforte part had not unfortu- nately been completed by Czerny in his most musical-box style.

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I37

The first movements of two juvenile concertos exist, but my programmes are concerned only with absolute musical values. Slightness and inequalities do not matter ; but I have no use for merely historical music, though the chamber music of Edinburgh University is produced under the title of the Historical Concerts.

I have not had an opportunity of producing the Egmont music, which in Germany keeps what is by no means Goethe’s best play alive upon the stage. The difficulties of producing the music in the concert-room can be surmounted only by some form of recitation. This would certainly be worth while. Of Die Ruinen von Athen the overture is an amusing piece of genuine ‘light music* for which I may some day find room ; the solemn March in E flat, with or without chorus, is noble; the chorus of Dervishes is first-rate; and the famous Turkish March is neither better nor worse than its reputation. Altogether this piece <T occasion does not contain enough good fragments to group together in a satisfactory way. Of Konig Stephan I intend to produce neither the overture nor any of the rest. The eminent critic Rochlitz, like some of Beethoven’s best friends, was distressed at the master’s small output in the year 1812, and at its increasingly theatrical style. In fact, Beethoven’s energy was at this period sadly drained by lawsuits, chiefly about the guardianship of his scapegrace nephew; and the theatricality of Die Ruinen von Athen and Konig Stephan was hardly out of place in the theatre. Nevertheless Beethoven was irritated by Rochlitz’s criticisms ; though he thought far worse of these works than the elegant Rochlitz ventured to suggest. The late Dr. Prieger, of • Bonn, showed me a bound volume of Rochlitz’s musical journal with Beethoven’s furious notes. In these outspoken days it may be permissible to convey the substance of Beethoven’s remarks by summing it up as a comparison between his waste products and Rochlitz’s highest thoughts, to the disadvantage of the latter.

The early ballet Die Geschopfe des Prometheus presents a rather intriguing problem to the designer of classical programmes. The editors of the Gesammtausgabe of Beethoven’s works were such absolute musicians that they removed almost all such vulgarities as stage-directions and dialogue from most of the theatre-music of Mozart and Beethoven. Much of the Prometheus music is broken up by pauses in a manner entirely pointless without the choreo- graphy; and large tracts of the music are monotonously frivolous. But the overture is excellent early Beethoven, beginning with a stroke of genius and leading to quite a good thunderstorm on the stage. In all there is something like an hour and a half of orchestral music in the work. The high lights are a piece with a solo violon- cello and a harp, doubtless representing how the lyre and voice of Prometheus gave life to his clay images; and the finale, a rondo on

138 RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

the theme which afterwards became glorified in the Variations, Op. 35, and in the finale of the ‘Eroica’ Symphony. The famous ‘Battle’ Symphony ( Wellington's Sieg oder die Schlacht bei Vittoria) I shall neither produce nor describe here. A description of it would be amusing ; but the perky-precious reaction against Beethoven is too recent for fun at Beethoven’s expense to be permissible now.

My conscience is clear as to the representation of Schubert’s orchestral music. In the case of Schumann, the omission of the C major Symphony is a serious lacuna; but, by way of compensa- tion, in the present volume I have been able to produce the Over- ture , Scherzo , and Finale which sheer perversity induced Schumann to deprive of its original title of Sinfonietta. We have also success- fully produced the Concerto for four horns, an interesting though nearly impossible work, of which my analysis has been crowded out.

Brahms is completely represented, except for some of the choral works. Some day I hope to deal with certain misunderstood aspects of his style. At present things like the middle 4/4 section of the ‘Tragic’ Overture, and the ruminating triplet theme in the finale of the Second Symphony (see Vol. I, p. 105, Ex. 26) are as completely beyond the comprehension of the average concert- goer as the style of Bach was beyond John Hullah, who, in the ’sixties or ’seventies, was the first person to say that ‘Bach is so satisfactory’, but who denied him all intention or capacity of expression beyond such as we can ascribe to the Great Pyramid. A supplementary note on the ‘Tragic’ Overture in the present volume attempts to discuss this matter, or at least to indicate its existence (Essay ccxxxix).

It only remains for me to deal with Wagner. I claim for these programmes that they represent fairly exactly so much of Wagner’s mature work as can be decently produced in the concert-room at all. Time is running short, space is exhausted; your patience, dear reader, does not matter so much, because you have been emphati- cally warned that these volumes are intended to be read skippingly; but my patience is now completely exhausted and I must beg leave to hasten this conclusion by pontificating. Perhaps it has escaped your notice that hitherto I have always tried to prove my points; and, as Dr. Johnson said in the most pathetic of all his recorded utterances, ‘Sir I consider myself a very polite man’. But now, as Dr. Johnson said on another occasion, taking the words out of his disputant’s mouth, ‘we are to be as rude as we please’. I don’t ask for belief : but it will save time if I pontificate that anybody who turns up his nose at the Kaisermarsch will just have to keep it turned up, as is the fate of nurse-scared children who make faces when the wind changes. The merits of the Kaisermarsch are not political

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I39

affairs. Either you can recognize grand style and grand composi- tion or you can’t. I have attempted to analyse the Kaisermarsch in this volume, and have taken the opportunity of dealing faithfully with the question of Wagnerian excerpts.

For the rest, let us never forget that these volumes are a collec- tion of occasional notes, produced mainly over a period of twenty- one years and including material already written in 1902. It would be a mistake to try to give them more coherent form. The collec- tion has, in fact, a form that arises naturally from its origin, and which secures an immunity from criticisms that would be fatal to a work with more serious pretensions. Yet the whole collection has been noticed to present the appearance of a solid body of con- sistent musical doctrine; and, if I had an uneasy conscience as to the duty of changing one’s opinions as one changes one’s linen, I should have been worried by the fact that the opinions I expressed in 1902 were essentially the same as those I wish to express in 1938. Part of this immutability comes from my subject-matter.

I have never been concerned with musical fashions ; and my master, Parry, taught me to study the classics of music from point to point according to the course of each individual work, instead of setting up classical forms a priori and treating the individual work as if it were compelled to fit the forms. Parry’s method, being thus elastic, cannot change; and a series of essays all written according to this method can show no progress, except in the range of its subjects. That range, as I am always pointing out, has been limited for me, by no means by my taste but by the practical restrictions 4 on the repertoire of an orchestra limited to six hours’ practice a week and seldom able to afford instruments that Brahms would have regarded as extras. Obviously in such circumstances my reviews of modern music must be few, and irreducible to a coherent scheme. If my orchestra had had daily practice and support for some such series as the London Promenade Concerts, these volumes would have represented my views on modern music with a much less reactionary appearance. On this matter I think the time now ripe for me to divulge a piece of musical history.

In 1902, when the second edition of Grove’s Dictionary was in progress, I was invited to write an article on Richard Strauss. I was gratified by the invitation, and had every intention of comply- ing with the editor’s request. I understood that he would prefer my detached view to that of a partisan who was likely to see little merit in any other music. On the other hand, he could trust me not to be shocked out of all sense of proportion by unorthodoxies in Strauss’s technique. Unfortunately I was in Berlin at the time; and there both the Straussians and the anti-Straussians were actively making what capital they could by sniggering over minor

140 RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

details in Strauss’s subject-matter which persons unacquainted with French literature were pleased to call Rabelaisian, and which canny Scots would call ‘sculduddery’. These things were neither here nor there. I was then, and still am, adequately impressed with Strauss’s immense powers of composition; moments of high pathos, such as were to culminate later in the recognition of Orestes by Electra, moved me profoundly; I rather enjoyed the more sensational and horrific elements of his style; and the only thing that thoroughly repelled me was his frequent fits of prettiness, in which he seemed to treat beauty with a parodistic patronage which I thought insulting. I felt then much as I feel now : that it was little use to be rein musikalisch unless one was thoroughly rein to begin with; and some of the Straussian beauty seemed to me as ineligible for great music as Klingsor was for the Brotherhood of the Grail. Of the ‘sculduddery’ I also thought then as I think now: it re- minded me of a boy showing a younger boy life in a railway refreshment room by ordering a brandy-and-soda, into which he solemnly dropped three lumps of sugar.

Such were my views in 1902; neither then nor now would they have prevented me from contributing to Grove’s Dictionary an article on Strauss which Grove himself would have approved. I should have explained to the best of my ability the enormous efficiency of Strauss’s mastery, his command of movement in free composition, and, had Elektra by then appeared, his musical stage- craft and capacity to inspire the actors of his music-dramas. To matters of taste I should have referred as to things about which dispute is proverbially unprofitable. Unfortunately, in 1902 the habit of scandal-mongering in musical criticism was not yet obsolete. Even then this difficulty could have been tackled by a man of the world with a light touch. I felt that I had neither the lightness of touch nor the knowledge of the world; and I accord- ingly wrote to the editor of the second edition of Grove and told him that any contribution from me on the subject would be far too heavy-handed. When the new edition appeared I bitterly regretted my withdrawal, and wondered how I had ever been gulled by charm of manner into taking the editor for a man of the world. He wrote the article himself and produced one of the most notorious and ill-timed outpourings of vituperation in the whole history of criticism. Much of the article was judicious enough in a patronizing way, but it descended to an implication of ‘porno- graphy’ (which is a much worse word than ‘sculduddery’) and angrily accused Strauss of ‘impertinence*, besides constantly im- plying that the whole of Strauss’s intentions were fraudulent. It is not too much to say that that article sufficed to ruin the reputation of the second edition of Grove’s Dictionary . The music of Richard

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I4I

Strauss may have stood for everything that Sir George Grove would have hated if he had known it; but everybody who knew his conception of his duties as editor felt that this article must have made him turn in his grave. In the light of the event, I should have been far wiser to have contributed my own fumbling efforts. If I had had the slightest idea that the editor would have taken the line he did, I would have risked any number of tactless blunders of my own.

But the reason why Strauss appears only twice in these volumes is not a matter of taste. It is the mere result of the fact that he regards as the normal orchestra three of each wind instrument instead of two. Some modern composers — Bax, for instance — will describe their own scores as written for a chamber orchestra unless they are using three or four of each wind instrument. Until the Reid Orchestra is better supported, such luxuries can seldom appear in my programmes ; and the Edinburgh public will forgive me for pointing out that it is rather more proud than ashamed of its dislike of modern music. By way of compensation, we have covered an unusually wide range of classical music, and the pieces which we have performed oftenest have not been those that are most hack- neyed elsewhere; nor have we played anything so often that it has become stale to us.

Our Sunday concerts, for which no analytical programmes are issued, have included much that we have not produced at a Reid Concert. Hence several lacunae, of which the most astonishing is that there is no analysis of the most famous, the most perfect, and, * if so disputable a term be worth risking, the greatest of all Mozart’s concertos: the D minor, Kochel No. 466. Obviously no review of Mozart’s concertos could be regarded as complete if it omitted the most important of all; but these volumes cannot pretend to give a complete view of any particular set of classics. I could hardly have gone to press with a collection which, containing as much as it does, should omit any one of the nine symphonies of Beethoven; but even with these the essays are manifestly too unequal in scale to be regarded as much more than a chance collection of obiter dicta.

The reception given by the Press to these volumes has far ex- ceeded my wildest expectations. Without exception, those critics who have pointed out my mistakes have reserved their strictures to the end of reviews that strike a note of generous appreciation. My errors are numerous, and nothing would have been easier than for a critic to draw up a list of them in a form calculated to expose me as a humbug. I owe it to the critics, and to the general public, to correct these errors, and I beg individual critics to forgive me for shirking the complicated task of distinguishing to which of them I owe particular corrections. One quality I may claim to share

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with Dr. Johnson, and that is a complete lack of method and a shameless and indolent reliance upon a well-stocked memory. If and when these volumes, or any parts of them, are reprinted, many corrections will be incorporated in the text, but no attempt will be made to turn my armchair garrulity into a serious work of reference. My only claim to solidity is in respect of purely musical analysis; and here I am far too slippery a customer to reward criticism, my fundamental proposition being that most of the orthodox terms and methods of musical analysis are rubbish, so that I am as free in my terminology as Humpty Dumpty, while my lacunae are self-confessed. One very important musical matter which I despair of clearing up is the innumerable errors in the musical examples. It is difficult to discriminate between legiti- mate sketchiness, such as a generalized form for a theme that recurs in several versions (with the consequent omission of slurs and other marks of expression), and real slips of memory and of the pen. But if ever another edition of this collection is required I will try to secure some Hercules to wash out the Augean stables of my quotations.

As to dates and biographical details, I owe the debt of gratitude we all owe to the authors of that most emancipating intellectual maxim of modern times, viz. History is what you remember . Their cardinal date of 1066 is the only one that is indelibly graven on the tablets of my mind, and I often feel vague as to what event it com- memorates. I only know that it is too early for the birth of Bach. In writing my essays I have consulted, when time and opportunity permitted, the nearest available references, which have usually been the second edition of Grove and my own articles in the Encyclopcedia Britannica. However, now for an effort to correct some errors that have been pointed out by my generous and tolerant critics.

Of these, the grossest are certain statements about Brahms’s Requiem and Debussy’s Damoiselle Slue. Brahms’s Requiem was not written in commemoration of the fallen in the Franco-Prussian War; and its soprano solo commemorated his mother, not his step-mother. Debussy did not submit La Damoiselle Slue for the Prix de Rome .

Misprints (which, I flatter myself, I could correct more easily if the Oxford University Press committed more of them) have, for the most part, been corrected in second impressions. Of my own mistakes I can find nothing important in Vol. I. On page 101 the Allegretto of Brahms’s Second Symphony is said to have four horns: it has only three. This is the kind of thing the composer himself may or may not discover after he has finished his score.

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I43

Page 161: — the fanfares in the Allegretto of the ‘Military’ Symphony may possibly have some connexion with the fact that Haydn did actually write a set for an English regiment while he was in London.

The footnote on page 214 raises a question slightly more com- plex than I thought at the time of writing. The fact is that the only possible range of tempo for Andante con moto § is precisely the same as that for Allegro moderato f , beat for beat. Accordingly, most conductors assume that the andante beats must at all costs be decidedly slower than those of the first movement. This is one of those scruples which, cogent as articles of a priori faith, absolutely vanish in real life. No two symphonic movements are more per- fectly contrasted than the Allegro and Andante of the ‘Unfinished’ Symphony, and the contrast would not be impaired if the tempi were exactly equal, or even if the Allegro were broadened, and the con moto of the Andante exaggerated till it were actually the faster of the two movements.

On page 220 acknowledgement should be made to Prout for his comment on Mendelssohn’s wisdom in omitting oboes from the repeated chords at the beginning of Mendelssohn’s ‘Italian’ Sym- phony. Prout is less happy in remarking that Mendelssohn’s effect is better than that of Beethoven in the Allegretto of his Eighth Symphony; there is nothing in common between the passages but their appearance on paper. Beethoven’s is a deliber- ate ‘tick-tick-tick’, first drafted by him as a canon on Maelzel’s metronome. Mendelssohn’s is the avrjptdfLov ydXaofia of the sea, a tour de force of tonguing for the wood-wind.

The inequalities in the analyses of the Beethoven symphonies are beyond remedy, nor do I wish to deprive students of the opportunity of working out for themselves what is needed to make the analyses as complete as my precis of the Ninth Symphony.

Volume II

The mistakes in Vol. II are more numerous and serious. My desperate struggles, on page 46 and in the foreword to the Second Impression, are worth recording for the obiter dicta about Rubin- stein and Tchaikovsky which they occasion, but of course they do not attempt to excuse the slander and blunder the consequences of which they attempt to evade.

The footnote on page 47 states a mystery which I cannot attempt to explain. I am sure that Schumann would have scrupled to write such consecutive fifths if he had not echoed them ; but why the echo remedies them I cannot think. Since it undoubtedly does, we need not worry.

Much new light has been thrown upon Bruckner by the recent

144 RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

pious publication of his works in their original form as he con- ceived them before certain eminent conductors took them in hand. Now this is not such a simple matter as it might seem. Bruckner was an object of party warfare in his lifetime, a butt for the ‘Brahminen’, who saw no merit in him at all, a mascot for the ‘Wagnerians’, who had for the most part a poor grasp of instru- mental music. The only musicians who had any chance of under- standing Bruckner were the Wagnerians, who were, probably without exception, violently opposed to Brahms, as Bruckner was himself. And whatever the limitations, and however provocative the arrogance of the Brahminen, there is no question that, except in matters of theatre music, the deeper musical knowledge and finer sensibilities were mainly on their side. To-day the pious restoration of Bruckner’s original form and scoring is acclaimed as the restoration of things that were beyond the spiritual grasp of the age, and particularly beyond the grasp of the great conductors who made Bruckner’s works practically possible by revising his scoring and making cuts in his recapitulations and digressions. If these changes had been made after Bruckner’s death or against his will, there would be a strong case for returning to his original versions; but, apart from their intrinsic merits, they were all accepted and published by him as expressing his final intentions. And it is to these that piety is due.

In future performances of Bruckner’s works I shall certainly profit by a close study of his original versions. But I do not expect to find any reason, in piety to Bruckner, for rejecting the experi- ence he accepted from Loewe. We are told that cuts were made because the spirit of the age was not ripe for Bruckner. The limitations of Bruckner’s champions certainly did not include a blindness to his spiritual qualities; on the contrary, an out-and-out Brucknerite was, in his day as now, a person of slow intellectual processes to whom subtleties were as unintelligible as they were to Bruckner himself, and for whom Brahms’s mind was eight times too alert. We ought rather to expect to find them obtuse as to much that we pride ourselves on appreciating. But the situation is by no means that of the transformation of Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov at the hands of Rimsky-Korsakov. Rimsky-Korsakov’s brilliant mastery was the perfect expression of a perky and con- ceited little mind, which was no more capable of telling a blunder from a stroke of genius or feature of style, than Herbert Spencer was capable of producing an authoritative edition of Plato. Bruck- ner’s champions were modest practical men, inspired conductors worthy of the confidence Wagner showed in them; and Bruckner did well to publish his works in the form in which these faithful champions revised them. I cannot claim, as yet, to have made a

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I45

study of the evolution of Bruckner’s scores; but I can already cite one obvious example showing both the futility of returning to the original and the advisability of knowing something about it. I quote with praise, on p. 74 of Vol. II, the ‘flowing figure in muted violins’ that weaves clouds of incense round the main theme on its return deepened in octaves. To an expert in orchestration it must seem incredible that this figure should have been entrusted merely to an unsupported flute; yet such is the case. The flute is still there in the revised version, but the weight of the tone, and all its security of legato, is in the muted violins. I have heard the ‘Romantic’ Symphony since the publication of the original score, and have noticed with pleasure that the conductor used the ordinary revised version but made the flute more prominent than usual, thus realizing the composer’s first idea under the far better conditions of the revision, and incidentally showing how history repeats itself, since Haydn’s orchestration shows frequent signs of the inability of his flutes to support themselves.

I should be very much surprised to find myself tempted to restore Bruckner's original complete recapitulations. The most ungebildet phenomenon in his treatment of form is his failure to see the irrelevance of his vestiges of classical procedure.

On page 124-5 I give, from personal information, the demand of Sibelius that the conductor should visibly change his beat according to the shifting accents. In common with other and per- haps more widely experienced conductors I find this unnecessary and confusing. In ordinary syncopations it is a fault if the con- ' ductor falls out of the normal beat. Sibelius’s } versus | is not a case of syncopation: he wishes both forms of accent to be equally normal and hence desires the conductor to indicate the change. But sometimes the two rhythms are simultaneous, and in any case the conductor’s efforts will fail to make the listener believe hi9 eyes rather than his ears.

On page 146 I cite a record ‘in Mendelssohn’s letters’ of a per- formance of the Scherzo of his Octet in church. I cannot trace thi9, and I may as well suppose that I have dreamt it.

Bach’s C minor Double Concerto has recently been published restored for Violin and Oboe in D minor. Nevertheless, I remain convinced that C minor is the right key. The compass of the oboe would already make this probable, for D minor would take the oboe up to E, whereas D is Bach’s inviolable limit for the instru- ment. But there is conclusive evidence for C minor in passages where the clavier faithfully records the fact that the violin sub- stitutes its open G for the low F that would have resulted from an exact transposition of the figures as first given in a higher key.

Apropos of Handel’s Hornpipes (page 201), I now finally yield

VI L

I46 RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA

to the temptation to quote the following spirited example, which ought to be found somewhere in the British Museum. (If not, I shall put it there myself.)

Volume III

An occasional feature in these essays is an attempt to present the facts so that listeners may enjoy the element of surprise where the composer so intends. Thus in Vol. Ill, p. 54 , 1 have tried to leave the listener only half prepared for the solo violin’s production of the opening ‘trumpet’ theme at the pitch of a piccolo.

As my addendum to the reprint of Vol. Ill shows, the Violon- cello Concerto attributed to Haydn is by Anton Kraft, and will be found under that heading in the Index.

I am glad to hear that the title ‘Emperor’ for Beethoven’s E flat Concerto is quite unknown in Germany.

The preface to the miniature score of Brahms’s Violin Concerto gives many interesting particulars as to the genesis of that work. (But the English translation must first be translated back into German; it makes appalling blunders and implies that Brahms disapproved of Joachim’s interpretation.)

I was at first inclined to be violently sceptical as to Dr. Altmann’s suggestion that the rejected scherzo of the Violin Concerto may have become the tremendous second movement of the B flat Pianoforte Concerto. But sketches may advance a considerable way before they become too firmly set for drastic transformation. This is by no means an unlikely violin theme —

In the Violin Concerto, Ex. 6, p. 127, there is some reason to suspect an allusion, personal to Joachim and Brahms, to a pro- minent theme in Viotti’s A minor Violin Concerto, a work of which both masters were specially fond (see the following example). With less probability, Viotti may be suspected of haunting Brahms with the rhythm of Ex. 2 in the Double Concerto (p. 141), but by this time the causal nexus is thinning out in uncontrolled diffusion, and might as well be extended to a similar figure in the first movement of the Clarinet Trio, Op. 114.

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA 147

Volume IV

Here my troubles really begin. Evil communications corrupt good manners, and what I have called ‘the encyclopaedic inatten- tion' of the gratuitously illustrative composer enwraps my mind in a fog of that kind of General Culture which is to be sharply and exclusively distinguished from musical culture. We cannot be too grateful to Elgar for his courtesy, so soon before he joined the ages, in allowing me to ‘control' my analysis of that greatest of symphonic poems, Falstaff, by his own. Thus far I am protected. But Nemesis descends upon me with my footnote to page 77. Having fallen into the usual booby trap of the legend of Paganini's playing the viola part in Berlioz's Harold Symphony, I took an insolent pride in shifting my responsibility for the error upon Berlioz after having argued that his word was as the word of Baron Miinchhausen. But on that argument the legend would be true, for Berlioz's word happens to be precisely the contrary: he tells us the truth, that Paganini not only commissioned the work but paid him generously for it, and heard its first performance but refused to play the viola part.

In answer to many friendly critics, and in defence of the printing- „ office proof-readers whose accuracy far transcends mine, I must point out that ‘Phileas' Fogg is not a misprint. Jules Verne's ‘Phileas’ is one of the strongest of bilingual ties between England and France, worthy to be ranked with The First of the Fourth ( le premier du quatrieme), which Hugo persisted in believing to be our queer name for a certain Scottish estuary, his typical British Tar Mr. Tom-Tim-Jack, and the alias of the anarchist Ravachol when he passed as that eminent English man-about-town Mr. Flitpot.

I ought not to be surprised at the indignation aroused by my giving no authority for my statement, on page 82, that Berlioz coolly confessed that his famous story of Habeneck's inviting disaster by taking a pinch of snuff at a critical moment while con- ducting the Grande Messe des Morts was a fabrication told simply because it was ben trovato. (It certainly was not ben trovato ; a more impossible story has never been told since Sir Boyle Roche wrote a letter with a pistol in each hand and a sword in the other.) This habit of quoting from memory will certainly get me into hot water some day. But my authority is first-rate, though I had forgotten it. The story was told to Sir Charles Stanford by t J. A. Osborne and quoted in Pages from an Unwritten Diary, pp. 68-9.

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I ought to have known all the time, instead of waiting till Vol. IV was reprinted, that the wonderful chord, Ex. 2, in Men- delssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream, had already been written in 1790 by Mozart in Cosi fan tutte .

No light has yet reached me as to the ‘well-known tune’ con- cealed beneath the theme of Elgar’s Enigma Variations. For some time the rumour was rife that the tune was Auld Lang Syne . It was not. We may be perfectly certain that whatever it was there would be nothing Straussian or archaic about the combination as counterpoint. With all his admiration for Strauss, Elgar is one of the cleanest contrapuntists in musical history. Road-hog counter- point simply did not interest him; and, if it did, to make an enigma of road-hog counterpoint is merely to put ‘barking like a dog’ into a riddle about a partridge ‘to make it harder*.

Alas and alack-a-day, Hindemith, in his new Anweisungen zur Tonsatz, expressly repudiates atonality and polytonality, in terms, which give no support to the idea that he ever used these privileges even in early works! Still, facts are facts; and while I apologize to the composer of Hindemith’s Op. 24, No. 1, I see nothing to retract either in my account of that particular work or in my account of the hypotheses on which I now know that it is not con- structed. Hindemith’s development is rapid, and his practice as well as his theory has cleared up since 1921. Certainly it is a fact that Herr Wilm Wilm’s fox-trot is in one of the twelve major keys, and that it is accompanied by simultaneous identical runs in each of the other eleven. Moreover, in rehearsing an early violin sonata with a great violinist I found it impossible at first to get good intonation for a passage in which the violin was on the top, the right hand of the pianoforte playing the same melody a major sixth below, and the left hand playing it another major sixth below the right. But, taking the tune at its face value, I found that it lent itself naturally to harmonization in terms of Spohr. Thus har- monized, the violinist read it easily at sight, and, having once learned it, did not forget it when it was doubled in two other keys. Be this as it may, Hindemith’s later work is undoubtedly broaden- ing its range and getting rid of a priori encumbrances.

Volume V

Apart from a misplaced bass clef, which made the ‘rude Sylvanus’ intrude too soon into the peace of Weelkes’s Three Virgin Nymphs , the first and chief serious mistake is the wild statement that Brahms’s Deutsches Requiem commemorated the fallen in the wars of 1870. The first three numbers of the Requiem were performed in 1867, the whole work, except for the soprano solo, in 1868 ; and the soprano solo commemorates not his step-mother, who died

RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA I49

much later, but his mother, whose death in 1865 was presumably the occasion from which the whole Requiem originated.

Debussy did not submit his Blessed Damozel for the Prix de Rome. He had already won that prize with his cantata L'Enfant Prodigue. But when he did send La Damoiselle Blue from Rome, the Section des Beaux-Arts of the Institut rejected it. So the point I was trying to make is good enough for conversational purposes.

One or two anachronisms seem to have slipped in, rather from grammatical ambiguity than from real confusion. Loewe’s Erlkonig , for instance, is only a year or two later than Schubert’s: yet I still think his clever economy typical of the decline from a golden to a silver age. That is a golden age which is dominated by men of supreme genius, who are just as likely to put the clock back from an already tarnished silver age as to put it forward. At all events the preference for Loewe is a typical silver-age taste.

When I said that Parry and Stanford offended our professional librettists and critics by choosing their own words instead of leaving English choral music in that state of culture to which it had pleased Mr. Chorley to call it, I did not mean to imply that Chorley was a contemporary, nor had I any curiosity as to the date of his death, which I find to be 1872. The Chorleys we have always with us: like Herodotus, I know their names but forbear to mention them. Chorley was an honourable man. So are they all, all honourable men. Peace be to their waste-paper baskets and to mine.

GLOSSARY

This glossary does not attempt the hopeless task of making an equivalent of a systematic treatise out of the disjecta membra of which these six volumes consist: it merely explains such musical terms as I find I have used without the explanation that some of my most intelligent readers may be glad to have. To those who can read music much of this glossary may seem unnecessary, though not all its explanations are orthodox; but there are many persons highly gifted in musical sensibility to whom the informa- tion here given will at least explain the extent to which my ter- minology is Pickwickian.

ARPEGGIO

A chord of which the notes are delivered one after another, whether or not then sustained, and regardless of their order in succession. As the word implies, such chords are characteristic of the harp, on which instrument chords are most sonorous when the strings are plucked in rapid succession from the bass upwards instead of all exactly together.

ATONALITY

The art of composing not merely ambiguously as to key, or with change of key too constant to be followed, but actually in a style that excludes all association whatever with keys or tonality. Not to be confused with ‘polytonality* (q.v.); though, like poly- tonality, it will probably prove to be, in all its forms, a mere con- tradiction in terms resulting from trying to make an abstraction out of a small number of special effects ultimately derived from classical music. (See also ‘Whole-tone Scale’.) (See Essay No. cxcv, vol. iv, pp. 172-3. Analysis of Hindemith’s Kammermusik , No. 1, op. 24, No. 1; but note that Hindemith expressly repu- diates atonality and polytonalitv.)

AUGMENTATION

The delivery of a theme in notes systematically longer than those of the original; a device used primarily in fugues, though aug- mentations, both strict and free, are used as means of transforma- tion or development in other compositions. Distinguish between genuine augmentation and the appearances of notation when a slow theme returns over accessories in quick tempo, as the Pil- grims’ Chorus at the end of the Overture to Tannhduser .

CEMBALO

For all practical purposes the reader may take this as meaning

GLOSSARY 151

‘harpsichord*. The forms Clavicembalo and Gravicembalo are found.

CHACONNE

Originally a dance in rather slow triple time, with a strong accent on the second beat; closely allied to the ‘passacaglia’ (q.v.). It had a processional character which, like the passacaglia, made its music conveniently fall into a long series of variations (q.v.) on a single phrase. In the ballets of Gluck’s operas the chaconne is no such series, but a long and freely developed symphonic move- ment in an energetic tempo of three in a bar.

CHROMATIC

A chromatic (i.e. ‘coloured’) scale is one that fills up the tones of the diatonic scale with semitones. Important matters of style depend on the harmonic meaning of such semitones. Their mean- ing may range from mere colourless inter-harmonic gliding to the profoundest and most iridescent ambiguities and paradoxes of Chopin and Wagner. Moreover, not everything that results in a chromatic scale is chromatic harmony. The following example is an entirely diatonic series of rapid changes of key (see ‘Modulation’ ; and Introduction, on ‘Tonality’):

A chord is chromatic only if, while foreign to the key in which it appears, it does not intend or imply a change of key. The simplest case of a chromatic chord is the supertonic triad or seventh with a major third, as in the following cadence in C major:

CLAVICHORD

The strings of the clavichord are not plucked by ‘jacks’ (plec- trums) but set in vibration by ‘tangents’, upright metal laths, which are both the exciting cause of the sound and determinative of its pitch. The shorter portion of the string emerges from a wrapping of baize which permanently damps it. When the player puts down a key he thereby causes the tangent to press the string upwards. This pressure produces a musical note whose pitch depends on the length of the string between the tangent and the tuning-pin. It becomes sharper with increased pressure, and is

152 GLOSSARY

capable of vibrato; emotional effects much esteemed and artisti- cally used by the great musicians of the period. Thus the clavi- chord, though possessed of a very small tone unsuitable for display in a large room, is an extremely sensitive and suggestive instru- ment. See also ‘Clavier*. Certain features of style in Das Wohl - temperirte Clavier lead to the inference that Bach is often thinking of the clavichord rather than the harpsichord. But this is not an ascertainable matter. Composers did not limit the circulation of their clavier works by too precisely specifying what clavier they intended. They were as practical as the modern publisher who pointed out that the nobly alliterative title The Bad Boy's Book of Beasts would necessarily have only half the selling power of The Bad Child's Book of Beasts . In any case the conscientious editor who translates Bach’s title as The Well-tempered Clavichord com- mits the mistake of attributing too precise a temperament to an instrument whose unison-strings were always tuned slightly at variance (like the voix celeste of the organ) in order to make the tiny tone more penetrating and expressive.

CLAVIER

Generic term, up to the middle of the eighteenth century, for keyboard instruments, including the manuals of the organ. Thus it comprises the ‘clavichord* (q.v.), the ‘harpsichord’ (q.v.), and the harpsichord’s ancestral and diminutive forms, the virginals and spinet.

COMMON CHORDS

Common chords are ‘triads* (q.v.) of which the 5th is perfect and the 3rd major or minor. Doublings and dispersal through various octaves are ignored so long as the ‘root* (q.v.) is in the bass. They are concords, and every normal piece of classical music closes on a complete or implied major or minor tonic common chord; a bare 5th, 8ve, or unison, being the skeleton of such a chord. (See Introduction on ‘Tonality* (vol. i, pp. 7-9).)

CONCORD , CONSONANCE: DISCORD , DISSONANCE

Concord and discord are relative terms signifying opposite differences of degree in resonance, relevance, and finality. The literary uses of these terms make it advisable to warn the general reader that in musical parlance the terms are grammatical as well as relative. The musician knows what the non-musician means by complaining that such and such a music is ‘full of discords* ; but, strictly speaking, one might as well complain that a narrative was full of transitive verbs. It is only in an almost pre-harmonic state of music that pure acoustic smoothness is the main criterion of concord. When classical poets speak of ‘symphony* and ‘perfect

GLOSSARY I53

diapason* they imply (purposely or unintentionally) unison and octaves. (See vol. v, Essay ccxvm, p. 232, analysis of Parry’s Blest Pair of Sirens.) The ‘perfect concords’ (4ths, 5ths, and 8ves) have, in classical harmony (including counterpoint), so elementary a resonance that many restrictions govern their consecutive use between any two parts of the harmony lest false resonances and hollows result. The ‘imperfect concords’ were considered dis- cords in the twelfth century, before counterpoint was evolved. In classical music no harmony is complete without them, and on them depends the distinction between minor and major modes. (See Introduction on ‘Tonality’.) Moreover, a chord without dis- sonance in itself may become grammatically discordant in an unexpected context. In such cases it would make no grammatical difference if actual dissonances from the context were introduced into the chord. Many of Wagner’s discords that most shocked his contemporaries are thus acoustically less harsh than some of the most familiar classical chords.

(See also ‘Preparation’ (a); ‘Resolution’; ‘Suspension’; ‘Passing- note’; ‘Essential’.)

CONJUNCT MOTION ( movement).

See ‘Motion’.

CONTRAPUNTAL The adjective of ‘Counterpoint’ (q.v.).

CONTRARY MOTION (movement).

See ‘Motion’.

COUNTERPOINT

‘Point counter point’, i.e. ‘note against note’; the art of making harmony by means of a combination of melodies. Ouseley’s famous definition, ‘the art of combining melodies’, is inadequate, and applies better to the primitive efforts from which counter- point (and hence harmony) arose; the simultaneous singing of pre- existing melodies with rough-hewing to get rid of the worst discords. (See vol. iv, pp. 126-7, analysis of Vorspiel to Meister- singer.) Counterpoint is a general category of music, best under- stood as the origin of most of the classical grammar of harmony, and as comprising polyphony , which *s implicitly limited to the case of textures in which all parts are of more or less equal value.

COUNTER-STATEMENT

A restatement immediately following the original statement and turned in another direction. Distinguish from Recapitulation , Variation and mere repetition. 4

GLOSSARY

• 54

COUNTER-SUBJECT

A theme consistently maintained as a counterpoint combined with the main subject of a fugue. The use of this term is normally restricted to the case of a recognizable theme systematically used as counterpoint to the subject of a fugue. (For ‘Fugue* see Intro- duction, vol. i, pp. 17 ff.) The counter-subject normally first appears as the accompaniment furnished to the Answer by the part which announced the Subject. Counter-subjects that first appear later in a fugue become so conspicuous from the delay that they earn the courtesy title of second subjects, though Cherubini, for obscure reasons of discipline, deals harshly with such pretensions.

DEUX-TEMPS

A waltz-rhythm in which the melody floats in a pattern of thrice two (12 3456) over the ordinary waltz basis of thrice three (I23 456). The waltz in Gounod’s Faust is a deux-temps J r Jl r J. JMJ r JD- The cross-rhythm of f over J, as in

Chopin’s Waltz, op. 42, is another matter, beyond the range of ordinary dance-music.

DEVELOPMENT

(a) The breaking up of themes and recombining their portions (figures, q.v.) into new phrases and sequences (q.v.). (6) The section specially devoted to such processes (sometimes called ‘working out’ of* ‘free fantasia’) in the middle of a ‘movement’ (q.v.). Distinguish from Variation and the devices specially ap- plied to the subjects of fugues.

DIATONIC

A scientific definition of the diatonic scale is beyond the scope of these essays, if, indeed, it has yet been achieved to the satisfac- tion of musicians and men of science. The reader may therefore rest for the present contented with his familiar notion of the scale approximately produced by the white keys of the pianoforte, and transposable to other pitches by apt use of the black keys. This notion, however, should not be confined to the scale typified by C major (otherwise the Ionian Mode), but should include all the other Church Modes as producible by the white keys; the Dorian, from D to D; Phrygian, from E to E; Lydian, from F to F; Mixolydian, from G to G; and Aeolian, from A to A. Moreover, we should realize that good choirs, and also good string-quartet players, when left to their own instincts without the accompani- ment of pianoforte or organ, will produce diatonic music in ‘just intonation’, with a precision, and a consequent euphony, far beyond reach of any instrument with a number of notes limited, and there-

GLOSSARY I55

fore ‘tempered* in their tuning, by practical necessity. (See ‘Chro- matic*, ‘Temperament*, and ‘Enharmonic*.)

DIMINUTION

The opposite of ‘Augmentation* (q.v.), i.e. the delivery of a theme in notes systematically shorter than those of the original.

DISCORD , DISSONANCE

See ‘Concord*.

DOUBLE COUNTERPOINT , TRIPLE COUNTERPOINT , &c.

To the explanation given under ‘Inversion* (6) it remains to add that combinations may be so devised that one (or in rare cases more) of the melodies may be transposed by some other interval than the octave relatively to the others. In the case of Double Counterpoint in the 12th this gives rise to new harmonies and a new tonal orientation (see Brahms, Variations on a Theme of Hadyn , Essay LXI, vol. ii, p. 138). With Double Counterpoint in the 10th it makes numerous doublings and interlockings in 3rds and 6ths possible.

ENHARMONIC

An enharmonic modulation is one which changes the intonation of part of a chord by a quantity inexpressible on keyboard instru- ments (as from C# to Db), and then treats the chord in its new sense. Not everything that looks enharmonic on paper is so in reality: convenience or caprice of notation may make a simple diatonic change seem enharmonic, when mere transposition to a key where the complex notation becomes inconvenient will cause the enharmonic semblance to vanish. (See Essay xlvii, on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, vol. ii, p. 15, Ex. 6, with remarks on the parallel passages, pp. 19-20.)

An enharmonic circle is a series of keys that returns to its starting- point on tempered instruments, but in mathematically ideal intona- tion fails to do so by an enharmonic quantity. Thus the finale of Beethoven’s Sonata, op. 54, goes right round the ‘circle of 5ths*, the longest possible of enharmonic circles; and the first movement of Brahms’s Third Symphony goes several times round a circle of major 3rds (F, Db, Bbb = A, F). The same circle is shown in the four movements of his First Symphony, moving in the oppo- site direction (C minor, E major, G# major = Ab, C major). Another case is that of Schumann’s first Novelette.

There is a widespread, but totally wrong, idea that enharmonic modulations depend on the tempered scale. They were explored by one of the greatest masters of the Golden Age, Marenzio, long before singers dreamt of singing in anything but ‘just intonation*;

156 GLOSSARY

and they mean exactly the same on keyboard instruments, that cannot express their actuality, as they mean on voices and stringed instruments that can. The musical ear has no more difficulty in understanding their meaning as implied on the keyboard than the linguistic ear has in ignoring the phonetic inaccuracy of a pun.

EPISODE

Generally any fairly definite section separating the main themes, or interpolated into the development of a composition. More specially:

(а) Those passages in a fugue which separate one completed entry of the subject from another entry after an appreciable inter- val. Such passages do not interrupt the flow, and they develop previous material rather than displaying independence.

(б) A new theme appearing in the course of the development of a movement in sonata form: e.g. the E minor theme in the first movement of the Eroica Symphony (Essay iv, vol. i, pp. 29 ff., Ex. 3). Some teachers, deeply committed to the terms First Subject and Second Subject, apply the term Episode to passages in the exposition of a sonata-form movement lying between the theme they call Second Subject and the closing theme or cadence- theme. This throws upon the analyst the vexatious task of deciding in compositions like the Eroica Symphony, which of half a dozen themes is worthiest to be called the Second Subject. (See ‘Subject’ and Introduction on Sonata form.)

(c) The episodes of a Rondo (see Introduction) are the more or less well defined and important sections which separate the recur- rences of the rondo-theme.

ESSENTIAL DISCORDS

Essential discords are discords which have become established in their own right as secondary only to common chords . They are practically all ultimately referable to the dominant (see ‘Tonality’ in Introduction) and there is no clear borderline between essential and unessential. No discord was thought of as essential until the Monodic revolution (see ‘Monody’) had done its work.

FIGURE (German: MOTIF)

The smallest recognizable fragment broken off from a theme. In mature Wagnerian opera every theme and every figure naturally becomes a dramatic symbol of the situation and words with which it was first associated; and the fascinating and easy analysis of the resultant Leitmotive has greatly promoted the doctrine, against which my essays constantly protest, that good music is built up from small figures, instead of consisting of larger things from which small figures can be broken off.

GLOSSARY 157

FIGURED BASS or CONTINUO

A bass part for the use of the organist or cembalist (harpsi- chordist) in music between c. 1 600 and the Church music of Mozart, indicating by numeral figures the chords of the harmony to be filled in at the keyboard.

FUGATO

A passage in the style of a fugue. (For ‘Fugue* see Introductory Essay, vol. i.)

FUNDAMENTAL BASS

A bass, imaginary except in so far as coinciding with the actual bass, consisting entirely of the ‘roots* (q.v.) of the harmony. The theory of the Fundamental Bass (with the term itself) was worked out by Rameau (1683-1764) and had its use in giving students a more definite notion of chords and tonality than could be obtained from purely contrapuntal principles. But Philipp Emanuel Bach already saw its limitations when he remarked to Burney that it childishly reduced all music to a series of full closes ; and it did in fact lead to the worst rigidities and complexities of the teaching of harmony in the nineteenth century. These are more or less like analysing language without understanding the uses of meta- phor, and most typically, without understanding how much of current English is metaphorical as compared with classical Greek prose.

HARMONICS

Overtones in the ‘harmonic series* (q.v.) producible by varied lip pressure in the tubes of ‘brass* instruments, and by touching a string at a point corresponding to a harmonic segment, lightly so as not to check the vibration of the whole string. Until valves were applied to trumpets and horns, so as to provide instant changes in the length of the tube, these instruments could produce only the notes of a single harmonic series, except the muffled ‘closed* notes producible in the horn by blocking part of the bell with the hand.

HARMONIC SERIES

The natural series of overtones, or upper partials, corresponding in ratio to the harmonic progression 1. &c. The first sixteen, reckoned from the open C string of a violoncello, are as follows:

z

158 GLOSSARY

No. 7 is so flat as not to lie within the scales of classical harmony at all. Probably the fashion (now become banal) of corrupting triads with an ungrammatical ‘added 6th* is an unconscious striving to represent this flat 7th. The difference between the ratios 8-9 and 9-10 asserts itself wherever singers and string-players produce pure polyphony without accompaniment. No. 11 is another note outside classical harmony, and so is No. 13. No. 14 is, of course, the octave of No. 7. Nos. 15 and 16, on the other hand, give a perfectly classical diatonic semitone. The intervals between suc- cessive higher numbers, of course, continue to diminish, and so pass out of classical reckoning except for the octaves of the classical notes. The folly is manifest which would seek to derive all the phenomena of classical music from a natural series which already contradicts classical harmony after its first six terms. On the other hand, there is no sanity in a scepticism which would deny the musical relevance of those six.

HARPSICHORD

The strings of the harpsichord, virginals, and spinet are plucked by ‘jacks’, upright carriers of horizontal spines of raven-quill operated by the keys under the player’s hands. (Nobody knows what Shakespeare means by describing the jacks as kissing the palms of his lady’s hands; they are as obviously incapable of this as the hammers of the pianoforte; and it is no less inconceivable that Shakespeare’s meaning can be the nonsense that it seems to be.) Large harpsichords have several sets of jacks and several sets of strings, including octave strings above and below the central pitch, and also furnishing decided contrasts of tone-colour accord- ing to the position and nature of the plectrum. (The position does not affect the pitch, as in the clavichord, for the whole string vibrates.) Besides these resources large harpsichords have two keyboards. Composers were, nevertheless, careful not to limit the circulation of their works by often writing intricacies impossible on one keyboard. Only three of Bach’s clavier works explicitly demand simultaneous contrasts of tone, and only one of these three contains passages otherwise too involved for one keyboard.

Thus the harpsichord has a large variety of contrasted tone- colours, six distinct combinations being implicit in the lay-out of Bach’s Italian Concerto and French Overture . On the other hand, it lacks the subtle nuances directly controlled by the fingers of the clavichord-player (see ‘Clavichord’).

HOMOPHONY; HOMOPHONIC

Music that avoids all appearance of its opposite, polyphony (see ‘Counterpoint’), expressing its harmony in terms of chords simply

GLOSSARY IS9

massed, broken (see ‘Arpeggio’), or repeated in rhythmic formulas. Not coextensive with ‘Monody* (q.v.).

IMITATION

Free and sporadic canon , i.e. the imitating of one voice by one or more others at short time-intervals so that the voices overlap. Canon is strict and continuous imitation, sc. relation of one part to another by a rigid rule; the actual ‘canon’ being, in early examples, the rule by which the unwritten follower was to be deduced from the leader; e.g. ‘I give tithes of all I possess’ indi- cating canon in the 10th; and ‘Get thee behind me, Satan’ ( Vade retro) indicating that the answering voice should sing backwards.

INTERVAL

The musical sense of this word applies only to the pitch-relations of notes. As a rule, care is taken in these essays to avoid using musical terms in any non-musical sense that they may have in ordi- nary language, except in cases where the author fails to suspect any source of confusion. Experience shows that the word ‘interval’ can cause confusion to general readers who take considerable trouble to inquire into musical matters. An exact grammatical article on intervals, however necessary for students, is not to the purpose of these volumes: but I have known Balliol scholars to waste labour on Greek music from not knowing that our names of intervals do not denote fractions but are the results of counting the steps of a scale from the bottom note of the interval to its top, both inclusively; thus the 5th from C is G, because C and G are boundaries of five notes of the scale (C,D,E,F,G). Many transla- tions of musical treatises teem with blunders on these points. There is an old English version of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Musical Dictionary which must be translated back into French before you can be sure whether ‘5th’ means $, No. 5, or the viola! It seldom seems to mean the interval.

INTONATION

1. {a) Tuning (see ‘Just Intonation’); (b) the art of singing or playing in tune. 2. Any piece of Gregorian or Ambrosian or Anglican chant (including monotone) as delivered by a single voice.

INVERSION

(а) The more or less exact reversal of the rise and fall of the notes of a melody (e.g. several cases in Brahms’s First Symphony; see Essay xi, vol. i, pp. 84 ff., Exx. 7, 10, 16, 23).

(б) The inversions of Double (and Triple, &c*) Counterpoint (q.v.) are the permutations of its possible positions.

l60 GLOSSARY

(c) A chord is inverted when its root is not in the bass; thus a common chord has two inversions:

Root position. 1 st inversion. 2 nd inversion.

JUST INTONATION

Performing in tune with a mathematical precision according to what classical harmony implies. Voices, instruments of the violin tribe, and slide trombones can approximate to this, since they make their own notes with continuous graduation. Hence, as they can perform indefinitely out of tune, so they can perform in better tune than keyed instruments with a limited number of notes. What degree of mathematical precision classical harmony implies, where it implies it, and what harmony is classical, are questions which science will not answer in haste. But the experience of unaccompanied (and uncorrupted) choirs and first-rate string- quartet players shows that just intonation does exist, under certain favourable conditions. (See ‘Temperament*.)

MARKS OF EXPRESSION

The reader will need no information about the commoner marks of expression and their abbreviations ; but certain distinctions are worth noting. Whereas fp means forte-piano , i.e. a loud note suddenly damped to softness, pf does not mean the opposite pro- cess (an effect in any case difficult to make convincing) but stands for poco forte , just as tnf stands for mezzo-forte .

Distinguish between sf sforzando y a sharp accent on a single note, and rf rinforzando , a sudden reinforcement maintained at a level presumably until the next indication.

Dim . for diminuendo is used by Beethoven and most composers as the opposite of crescendo . But some connect it also with a slackening of time; notably Schubert, who often follows it by a tempo , having previously used no such sign as rail, (rallentando) or rit. ( ritardando ). With this possibility the word decrescendo is less ambiguous. But if composers adopt the picturesque habit of

spreading a cres cen do thus over several lines,

they must not blame the printers if the turn of a line or a page produces disaster to a de - - - - cres cen do .

MODULATION

The general reader may need warning that in music the word modulation means change of key and nothing else. Even the modulations of the Church Modes, which are simply the privi- leges of making full closes on chords based elsewhere than on the

GLOSSARY l6l

final of the mode, differ from changes of key only in degree, in so far as the modal composer never thought of ‘establishing* a key. The ordinary use of the word, as when we speak of a beautifully modulated voice, must be allowed its actual precedence over the musical sense. Contrast the case of ‘tonality* (see Introduction, Vol. I, on that subject), a word which has never had any but a musical sense. One of our most famous novelists, who often says good things about music, and who has more than once remarked upon the pitfalls which it prepares for the the unwary conversationalist, has represented some musicians as discussing a young player’s tonality. They might have discussed his tone, or even his capacity for modulating his tone; but they ought never to have used the word ‘tonality* of anything but the work of a composer.

MONODY

The art by which the Monodists (Peri, Cavalieri, Monteverdi, &c.) at the outset of the seventeenth century laid the foundations of opera, oratorio, and (incidentally) instrumental music: the development of dramatic and lyric singing by one voice over an instrumental accompaniment of homophonic chords. Thus not coextensive with ‘Homophony’ (q.v.).

MOTION (or Movement (c)).

The rise and fall of two parts relatively to each other is obvi- ously classified into three kinds of motion , or movement.

In Contrary motion one part rises while the other falls. In Similar motion both parts move in the same direction, though not necessarily to the same extent. In Oblique motion one part moves while the other stands still. The term Parallel motion has been applied (perhaps first by some Irish school of theorists, or by the drivers of colliding motors) to the condition where neither part moves.

Contrary motion is an element of safety as well as of variety in harmony and counterpoint. Not only does it tend to resolve most discords (see ‘Discord* and ‘Resolution’) but it explains away many otherwise unclassifiable discords and reduces their harsh- ness often to imperceptibility. Most errors in harmony and counterpoint occur only in similar motion, which, as such, can be neither blamed nor avoided, since up and down are the only ways in which parts can move, so that with more than two moving parts some must be in similar motion. Polyphony cannot always fly for safety to oblique motion.

Conjunct movement (here ‘movement* is more usual than ‘motion’) is the movement of any part by degrees qf a scale with- out skips. This is what Grove means by saying that many of

VI M

1 62. GLOSSARY

Beethoven’s melodies consist largely of ‘consecutive notes*— a statement that has puzzled many leaders who cannot see how a sentence could fail to consist, not only largely but entirely, of consecutive syllables.

MOVEMENT

(а) Used in the ordinary significance of the word; the sense of movement being a fundamental element in music, and one in which the great composers are strongest, as the small composers are weakest.

(б) In the technical musical sense a movement is a complete self-contained part of a larger composition, needing other move- ments to complement its emotional effect, but not needing them to complete its form or its treatment of its themes. Any allusion by one movement to the themes of a former one is thus an allusion to a finished past. The tempo of a classical movement is either fixed or subject only to changes which alternate in a simple and symmetrical way.

( c ) The relative movement of parts: see ‘Motion’.

OBLIQUE MOTION (or Movement).

See ‘Motion’.

PASSING NOTES

Dissonant notes, usually on unaccented moments of rhythm, normally passing up and down the scale between concordant notes. They are the most ‘unessential* of discords. Passing notes by skip are possible, in a complex musical language. See the Aoidante of Mozart’s E flat Symphony; Essay xxm, vol. i, pp. 189-90. (See ‘Essential Discords’.)

PEDAL

(a) A note, normally in the bass and either the tonic or domi- nant, sustained immovably through harmonies that proceed regard- less of conflict with it. (It is not worth calling a pedal if it is merely a normal component of the harmonies.) A pedal-note elsewhere than in the bass is called an inverted pedal. Another term for a. pedal is organ-point ; but readers should be warned that the French expression point-d'orgue means any kind of sustained pause, such as is expressed by the sign /tn over a chord or note.

(b) The pedal notes of certain brass instruments (especially trombones) are the fundamental notes of the tube, obtained with some difficulty by a specially loose lip and a great quantity of breath.

(c) The seven pedals of the harp convert its scale one by one 9

GLOSSARY 163

in two stages, from the diatonic scale of C[> to all other scales up to C#, and hence give it command of the chromatic intervals with possibilities restricted by the agility of two human feet.

The reader presumably needs no information about the pedals of the pianoforte and the organ,

POLYTONALITY

Not the mixing of several keys in a harmonic scheme, but the writing of several parts (whether independent or duplicates of each other) each in its own different key. As with ‘Atonality’ and the ‘Whole-tone Scale’ (q.v.), the listener will do well to enjoy without prejudice the pleasure which the masterly handling of these devices can give, without committing himself to a belief in the official theories of their propagandists, who are often weak and superficial in their efforts to relate and contrast the new theories with classical practice. (See Hindemith, Chamber Music No. 1, op. 24, no. 1, Essay cxcv, vol. iv, pp. 172-3.)

PREPARATION

(a) A discord is said to be prepared when the dissonant note has first been heard as part of a concord, and becomes a discord by being retained while the rest of the harmony changes.

(b) Dominant preparation is the emphatic and formal establish- ment of a key by harping on its dominant before settling down to a main theme or other event in that key. (See Introduction, on ‘Tonality’.)

RECAPITULATION

Repetition of one or more large groups of material, usually after intermediate developments or episodes, and turned in the direction of finality.

RECITATIVE

Musical declamation governed entirely by speech-rhythm, and accordingly absolved from fixed ‘tempo’ (q.v.) and conforming with a time-signature (see ‘Time’) only by a convention of notation.

RESOLUTION

The completion of the sense of a discord by making the disso- nant voice proceed with melodic logic to a concord. The smoothest and most normal resolutions are by a step down one degree of the scale. Upward resolutions and resolutions by skip are usually harsher and often imply some ellipsis or circumlocution. If a discord is compared with a transitive verb, preparation would be its subject and resolution its object. Most of the more complex

164 GLOSSARY

associated phenomena develop in music in much the same way as in language.

ROOT

That note of a chord from which, if it is placed in the bass, the rest of the chord is seen to arise wholly or in great part as ‘essential’ (q.v.), consisting mainly of a common chord or a dominant discord. (See Introduction on ‘Tonality’, vol. i, p. 7; example giving the common chords in the key of C major. See also ‘Fundamental Bass’.)

SEQUENCE

Repetitions of a ‘figure’ (q.v.) whether in melody alone or also in harmony, on different degrees of a scale. The second part of ‘God save the King’ (‘Send him victorious, Happy and glorious’) shows two steps in sequence in the melody, and also shows that these require a somewhat different sequence in their bass.

When, as in this and most melodic examples, the figure is warped by its changes of position within the same scale, the sequence is tonal. When the figure is exactly transposed, changing its key at each step, the sequence is real. Thus in Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata, op. 53, bars 5-8 repeat bars 1-4 in real sequence. Some 40 bars before the end the same figures, with brilliant counter- points, are developed in tonal sequence with powerful rhetorical effect highly characteristic of perorations in which topics, at first separated, have become concentrated into one key.

SIMILAR MOTION (or Movement).

See ‘Motion’.

STRINGENDO

= pulling together. It is purely an indication of time-hurrying, perhaps more intense than accelerando', whereas its cognate ‘stretto’ is almost exclusively used as a term of musical form. (See Intro- duction, vol. I, on ‘Fugue’.)

SUBJECT

A term the musical uses of which are deplorably confused.

(a) The subject of a fugue is its theme (see Introduction to vol. i under ‘Fugue’, where also the fugal sense of Answer is described).

( b ) The two main groups of material in the exposition of a sonata- form of movement are usually called First Subject and Second Subject. I regret that most of my analytical essays were written before I had hit upon the terms First Group and Second Group for such aggregates. (See Introduction to vol. i, pp. 11-12. Also see ‘Counter-subject’.)

GLOSSARY

SUSPENSIONS

The typical case of prepared discords (see ‘Preparation’), the suspended note being actually tied over from its previous concor- dant existence till it becomes an accented (but unessential) discord. Such a tied note is not a suspension if it produces an essential discord that must resolve on another chord, as in the following example of the preparation and resolution of a dominant 7th (an essential discord).

A true suspension requires no new chord on which to resolve but is merely a delay in the arrival of part of the chord over which it is suspended. Thus Ex. 1 will become a suspension if the lower parts remain as part of an E minor chord.

Example 3 is a true suspension —

and remains a true suspension even if the bass move to form another chord, since the suspended 9th has no more ‘essential’ meaning in any case.

TEMPERAMENT

Instruments whose notes are limited in number and rigidly tuned must represent the infinite mathematical complexities of harmony by striking such an average in the tuning of their notes as may give tolerable approximations to the greatest number of harmonic facts. Until the example set by Das Wohltemperirte Clavier of J. S. Bach was followed, systems of unequal tempera- ment were used, by which the keys easiest for most orchestral instruments were tuned as well as possible at the expense of the rest. Bach’s equal temperament, dividing the 8ve into twelve equal semitones (each in the ratio of I2 V2), secure^ tolerable in- tonation for all keys, at a slight sacrifice in the tuning of the hitherto

l66 GLOSSARY

most favoured keys; and so gave the keyboard instruments freedom over all harmonic ranges. But it is a fundamental mistake to sup- pose that this was the means by which he created new harmonic values.

TEMPO

A uniform rate of rhythmic units. The classical Italian tempi may be ranged in the following order. The literal meanings of the words have for the most part ceased to have any relation to the mood of the music, except in the case of earlier composers.

Very slow tempi: Grave (lit. ‘heavy*, ‘solemn*). Largo (‘broad*). Larghetto (less broad than largo). Adagio (‘at leisure*).

Moderately slow tempi: Andante (‘at a walking pace*). The diminutive Andantino should mean at a slower walk than Andante . See Beethoven’s effort, in his Sonata, op. 109, Variation 4, to correct the already current mistake as to the meaning of meno andante . Moderato and Allegretto are not easily distinguished from Andante con moto.

Quick tempi: Allegro (‘cheerful*) is merely the average quick tempo and implies nothing as to mood. Handel, however, still means by Andante allegro ‘going cheerfully*. Vivace (‘lively’) is quicker than allegro; and so we end with Presto and Prestissimo . Schumann, however, goes further, both in German and Italian; and in two of his works, having started presto possibile , indicates piii presto.

THEME

(0) A single musical statement recognizable apart from its original context and capable of maintaining its identity through processes of development and transformation. There is no reason to seek a means of rigidly defining the length of a theme or delimit- ing it from its neighbours.

(b) The theme of a set of ‘Variations* (q.v.) is normally a com- plete melody. In the case of a ‘Passacaglia* (q.v.) or Chaconne , it is a single phrase of not more than eight bars, usually placed as a ‘Ground-Bass* (q.v.). But see analysis of Brahms’s Fourth Sym- phony (Essay xiv, vol. i, pp. 115 ff.) for a description of a passacaglia with its theme announced in the treble. Most varia- tions are built on themes of more than one phrase, constituting complete tunes in one of the so-called binary and ternary forms (see Introduction, vol. i) with repeated sections. See also ‘Figure*, ‘Subject*.

TIME

The regular grouping of rhythmic units, preserved under all changes of the audible rhythm. Thus, triple time is that in which

GLOSSARY

167

the regular counting of rhythmic units by threes will keep every note of every part in place, whatever its length. The normal series of note-values is graded by subdivision into two, the semibreve being divided into two minims, the minim into two crotchets, the crotchet into two quavers, &c. Time-signatures resemble fractions of which the numerator shows the group and the denominator the note-value of the unit: thus % \ (two crotchets; three crotchets). Normal subdivision of the units is ignored, however slow the tempo and however large the resulting unit, though if the units are permanently divided by three the time is called compound and the triplet notes are designated as the units. Thus J is not a slow form of l but is a duple time of two dotted crotchets each containing three quavers.

For historic reasons \ is represented by and is called alia breve time, and J (or common time) is represented by C. These signs stand for the ancient semicircle indicating ‘imperfect* time, so distinguished from the full circle indicating ‘perfect* or triple time.

TRIAD

Any combination of a note with its 3rd and 5th. If the 5th is ( a ) imperfect, or ( b ) augmented, the triad is named accordingly

tion is not a triad at all but part of some more complex chord or progression. Concordant triads are Common chords (q.v.).

VARIATION

Applied in music to the transformation of a complete phrase or melody, preserving its integrity as a whole, whether the essential whole be conceived as melody, bass, harmony, or rhythmic scheme. Distinguish from Development .

WHOLE-TONE SCALE

A scale purporting to proceed in the whole tones of instruments tuned by equal temperament. It has undoubtedly been discovered in the course of extemporizing on such instruments; and before those who use it become tired of it they may believe that it and other phenomena of modern harmony are founded on the equally tempered scale. This is like supposing that geometry is founded

l68 GLOSSARY

on the carpenter’s inability to make a microscopic approximation to incommensurable quantities. To the charge that the whole-tone scale is an impossible monstrosity the obvious replies are solvitur ambulandOy and that it is vain to confront the giraffe with the asser- tion that ‘there ain’t no such animal’. But extravagant claims for the importance of the whole-tone scale are confronted by the fact that even in the too short career of its greatest master, Debussy, it represents a middle (though important) phase by no means co- extensive with his style, and that in his last works it tends to cede more place to other resources. At all times its charm depends on the fact that it really has an enharmonic kink —

which becomes the more obvious with every effort to ignore it. Recently Walford Davies and others have shown that it is really a complicated chord projected into one octave. As such its absorption into the scheme of classical polyphony is inevitable as soon as that system is rediscovered.

Here are the six possible enharmonic variants of Holst’s ‘Word of wisdom* (vol. v, p. 256) in a position of an extended chord. This is neither better nor worse than other paradigms of harmonic possibilities: it is strictly grammatical according to classical prac- tice, and, while no spontaneous composer would write so schematic a passage, all the six progressions are equally likely to pass unnoticed in Wagner or Brahms. It is a mere accident if they have not occurred before; and if you enjoy exploring haystacks for needles you may amuse yourself with seeking for these six progressions in Tristan and Parsifal . You are more likely to find each chord collapsing on the same augmented triad (F# B|j D) in various spellings.

INDEX

This index relates to all the six volumes of Essays in Musical Analysis. Those works to which a complete essay is devoted have their titles printed in small capital letters.

INDEX

Aachen, li. 2.

Abaco, Dal, vi. 21.

Ablative Absolute, see Passacaglia. Acadlmie Fran9aise, vi. 44.

Accent, reversal of, i. 60, 173, 176, 220, 221, ii. 95, 200, iii. 143, iv. 149 (Ex. 9), v. 5, 6, 109.

Hemiole (jj v. J), ii. 124-5, 186, iii. 184, 215, iv. 149, v. 5, 226, vi. 2. Acle, see Walker, Dr. Ernest. Afterthoughts, i. 64, 65, 73, 84, 89 (?), 197, 206, 207, 210, 216, ii. 36, iii. 183 passim , iv. 23, 25, 30-41, 48, v. 39-40, 193, vi. 137 (Brahms), 145 (Bruckner).

Agelastic Philosophy, untenability of, see Edwards.

Agnostic, see Dachshund.

Alassio, vi. 83.

Albert Hall, the, v. 107.

Allen, Sir Hugh, ii. 201.

Altmann, Dr., vi. 146.

America, and Dvofak, ii. 106. Andalusian Merchant, see Weelkes. Anderton, H. Orsmond, ii, p. xi. Andr£ (publisher), iv. 25.

‘Annie Laurie’, vi. 5.

Appendicitis, see Cadenza.

Arbbs, Fernandez (pupil of Joachim), v. 229.

Architecture and music, ii. 4, 5, 55,

v. 123, 130, 149, 199, vi. 8. Aristophanes, iv. 164, 165.

Arnim, Gisela von, iii. 108.

Arnold, Matthew, iii. 1 12, iv. 87, 89,

vi. 17, 44, 100.

Arpeggio, vi. 150.

Arrangements and conjectural restora- tions, i. 27, 62, 193, 199, xl, ii. 17 (footnote), lxiv, lxix, 171, 177, 185,

LXXII, LXXIV, LXXVII, LXXVIII, 1 92,

195, iii. 12-14, iv. clxi. 63-6, v. 32, 33, 35, 38, 40, 4L 45, 47, 49, 194, vi. ccxxv.

Art forms, i. 9 if; in Bach’s Choral Music, v. 24.

Asch, iv. no, iii.

Atonality and Poly tonality, iv. 172-3;

repudiated by Hindemith, vi. 150. Augmentation, i. 18.

Examples, i. 88, 98, 104, 1 13, 1 14, 118, 119, 137 , ii« 74, 93, 173, 174, 2x1, iii. ng f 186, 226, v. 12, 32, 37, 44, 130, 153, 171, 216, 220.

‘Auld Lang Syne*, vi. 148.

Austen, Jane (Love and Freindship quoted), v. no.

Austria, i. 161, ii. 72, vi. 60.

Bach and Abel Concerts, the, I. 167. Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, i. 21, 139, 167, 168, v. 126, vi. 8-12, 15, X33» *57; openings in foreign keys, i. 2 1 . Works : symphony in d major, vi. ccxxvi. 8-12.

Bach, Johann Christian, i. 139, 167. Bach, J. S., i. 7, 8, n, 12, 15, 17, 39, 65, 135, 138, 140, 142, 144, I5L 186, 202, ii, p. ix, 2, 8, 33, 37, 48, 55, 72, 123, 130, 162-8, 172, 175-99, 202, 203, 205, 208, iii. 4, 7, 8, 10-15, 61, 105, 109, no, 116, 119, 131,215, 217, iv. 4, 72, 91, 125, v. 1, 7, 13, 14, 20-83, 94, 95, 97, xoi, 106, 119, 120, 123, 124, 146, 149, 164, 167, 172, 175, 179, 198, vi. 1-8, 10, 17, 45, 58, 71, 82, 87, 103, in, 120, 133, 138, 142, 145, 152, 158, 165.

LINEAR HARMONY, vi. CCXXIV. 4-7 ; and Handel, art-forms of, ii. 20S; and Haydn, compared, v. 116, 121, 126, 127, 136, 149; and orchestral polyphony, ii. 162 (see ii, p. ix); and stretto, ii. 165, v. 32, 37; as a contrapuntist, ii. 181, v. 66; ‘Bach- gesellschaft’ editions, v. 32, 45, 49, 55, 60, 61, vi. 7, 8; compared with Palestrina and Mozart, v. 42; reli- gious significance of his B minor Mass, v. 22, 23. See also Art-forms; Balfour ; Eight-part writing ; Handel ; Hullah; Joy-motives; Quintessence.

Works: cantata (Halt im Ge- dachtniss) for the first Sunday after easter (Sonntag Quasimo- dogeniti), ‘hold in affection jesus

CHRIST’, V. CCI. 60-6, V. 71 ; CANTATA FOR THE SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY, ‘VERGNOGTE RUH\ V. CCII. 66-70 ; PRELUDE TO CHURCH CANTATA,

No. 29 (‘Wir danken Dir Gott*),

FOk ORGAN AND ORCHESTRA, vi.

ccxxv. 7-8. CONCERTOS : Bran- denburg in g major, No. 3, ii. lxxv. 190-3, iii. n, vi. 87; Bran- denburg in o major, No. 4, ii. LXXVI. 193-5; IN A MAJOR FOR OBOE d’amore, ii. lxxvii. 196-8; in a

MINOR FOR CLAVIER, FLUTE, AND

violin, ii. lxxviii. 198-9, ii. 188;

FOR VIOLIN AND OBOE IN C MINOR, ii. LXXIV. 188-90; IND MINOR FOR CLA- VIER AND STRINGS, ii. LXXII. 180-5,

iii, p. ix; in d minor for two

VIOLINS AND ORCHESTRA, il. LXXIII. 185-8; DOUBLE CHORUS, ‘NOW IS THE

grace’, v. cciii.*7i- 3, vi* 8 ; magni-

172 INDEX

FICAT, V. CC. 50 - 60 , V. 6 l, 64 , 1 12 ;

MASS IN B MINOR, V. CXCIX. 20-49,1. 1 ,

II. 8, v. 53, 61, 63, 71, 94, 125, 127,

163, *73t *79, vi.8, 10; motet, ‘jesu,

PRICELESS TREASURE*, FOR FIVE-PART CHORUS, V. CCIV. 73-82 J ORCHESTRAL SUITE (OVERTURE) IN D MAJOR, No. 3, 11. LXX. 175 - 8 ; OVERTURE IN B MINOR FOR FLUTE AND STRINGS, 11. LXX I. 178-80, Vi. 2; OVERTURE IN C MAJOR FOR ORCHESTRA, vi. CCXXIII. 1 - 4 , 6 .

CONCERTOS : Brandenburg No. i , ill. 13, v. 52; Brandenburg No. 2, 11 . 188, 191, ill. 12; Double in C major, ii. 188, ill. 15, v. 53, vi. 145 ; the Italian, ii. 194, vi. 158; the Triple, vi. 133 ; Chromatic Fantasia, vi. 58; Fugue in A minor, v. 89; ‘Kunst der Fuge*, ii. 165 ; ‘Matthew* Passion, ii. 8, ill. xi6, v. 77, 81, 94; Mass in A major, v. 65; the French Overture, vi. 158 ; Partita in E major for unaccompanied Violin, vi. 7; Sonata in B minor, ill. 14; Suite for Violoncello in C minor, vi. 6 ; Toccatas (F major, D minor, G minor), v. 71; Coffee Cantata , V. 70.

Bacon, Francis, iv. 176.

Bagehot, Walter, v. 197.

Baini, v. 14.

Balance of tone, Beethoven and, 1. 170,

ii. 24, 159; Chopin and Klindworth,

iii. 104; Handel and Haydn, ii. 159; Handel, v. 96; Schubert, i. 202; Wagner, ii. 171.

Balfour, Lord, and Bach, v. 39. Bantock, Granville, ii, p. xi, 123, 124,

iv. 158-60, v. 247-50.

Works I ‘DANTE AND BEATRICE*, POEM FOR ORCHESTRA, iv. CLXXXVIII. I58-60; ‘SAPPHO*, PRELUDE FOR OR- CHESTRA AND NINE FRAGMENTS FOR CONTRALTO, V. CCXXI. 247-50; Hebridean Symphony, ii, p. xi. Bantock, Lady, v. 248.

Barcelona, ii, p. x.

Baring, Maurice, vi. 120.

Basevi, Professor, v. 196.

Bass, paradoxical relation between vocal and instrumental, vi. 29-30. Bassoon jokes, and Sullivan, i. 66; the great, i. 152, 170, 173, ii. 156.

• Battle of Prague * (pianoforte piece by

Kotzwara), v. 222.

Bax, Sir Arnold, vi. 141.

Bayreuth, ii. 69, 70, iv. 116, vi. 108;

orchestra, the, i. 181.

B.B.C., the, vi. 89.

Beaver as lace-maker, see Continuo. Beecham, Sir Thomas, iv. 112, vi. 35. Beethoven, L 3, 8, 12-16, 21-85, 88-

91, 105, 106, 109, 115, 1 16, 118-20, 123, 128, 129, 13L 138-4*. 145, 146, IS®, 151. 153, 154, 157-9. 161, 162, 165, 167-71, 174, 175, 184, 187, 188, 190, 192, 193, 196, 198-202, 207-9, 21 1, 213, 215, 216, 218, ii, p. ix, 1- 45, 47, 48, 53-5, 58, 59, 61-3, 65, 7°- 2, 75, 82, 84, 90, 92, 94, 95, 97, 102, 105, 108, 122, 124, 128, 129, 133-7, 142, 143, 147, 148, 156-75, 180, 204, 208, iii. 1, 3-5, 7, 9, 14, 16, 18, 20, 23, 25-7, 40, 43-7, 56, 58, 59, 64- 105, 107-10, 1 14, 1 15, 117-20, 125, 129, 130, 131, i34, 135, 140, 149, 153, 160, 178, 181, 2xx, 216, iv. x, 3, 4, 26-50, 52, 56, 62-4, 76, 78, 80, 91, 93, 94, 97, 99, 104, 108-10, 115, 1 18, 120-2, 130, 139, 173, v. 7, 13, 23, 33, 40, 42-4, 86, 88, 100, 1 16, 123, 126, 132-4, 136, 142, 154, 161- 94, 198, 209, 228, 235, 238, vi. 4, 17, 20, 31-5, 41, 60, 75, 83, 87, 89, 90, 102, 1 16, 1 19, 136-8, 141, 143, 146, 155, 160, 166.

and Brahms, striking parallels, i. 85 ; and the British Grenadiers, iii. 66; and Haydn, theme variations contrasted, ii. 30; and the Coda, i- 34, 56, 145, 157, 158, 160, 162, 165, 167, 170, 174, ii. 20; as a con- trapuntist, iv. 1, 1 18, y. 164; as a conservative revolutionist, i. 21; as a Latin scholar, v. 166; as the in- ventor of the Scherzo, i. 25; choral style of, not a good model, v. 164; deafness of, and balance of tone (q.v.), i. 170, ii. 159; religious sig- nificance of ‘Missa Solemnis*, v. 163-4; strain on voices in Op. 123,

v. 164. See also Balance of tone, Cherubini, Mendelssohn, Military Music, Scoring, Weber.

Works : cantata, ‘becalmed sea and prosperous voyagb* (dedicated to Goethe), Op. 112, v. ccx. 193-4, iv. 93; choral fantasia, Op. 80,

ii. lx. 133-6, ii, p. ix, iii. 1. CON- CERTOS'. PIANOFORTE, FIRST IN C major, Op. 15, with beethoven*s cadenza, iii. c. 64-9, iii. 18, 78,

vi. 136; pianoforte, third in c minor, Op. 37, iii. ci. 69-75, i* 26, 89, iii. 16, 40, 64, 65, 78, 96, 104, 107, 108, 1 18, 1 19, 149, 160; PIANO- FORTE, FOURTH IN G major, Op. 58,

iii. cii. 75-84, i. 39, iii. 26, 65, 66, 71, 96, vi. 17; PIANOFORTE, IN B FLAT MAJOR, Op. 73, ill. CIII. 84“7 i iii. 26, 65, 71, 72, 96, 100, 120, vi. 146 (Rhythmic specimens, i. 39); VIOLIN, IN D MAJOR, Op. 6l, iii. CIV.

87-96, iii. 72, 99. no. 1 14. 120,

INDEX

129 , ▼. 1235 TRIPLE, FOR PIANO- FORTE, VIOLIN, AND VIOLINCBLLO,

Op. 56, iii. cv. 96-103, ill. 71, 78;

DUNGEON SCENE FROM ‘FIDELIO*, Act II, V. CCIX. 185-93; FIFTEEN VARIATIONS AND FUGUB, ‘PROME- THEUS’, Op. 35, vi. ccxxxii. 31-5, 1. 33, Vi. 138; GRAND FUGUB IN B FLAT, Op. 133 , li. LXIX. 170 - 5 , Vi. 90; 4 MISS A SOLEMNIS’, Op. 1 23, V.

ccviii. 161-84, i. 179, ii. 173, V. 23, 235, 236. OVERTURES: ‘zur

WEIHB DES HAUSES’, Op. 1 24, H. lxviii. 156-70, ii, p. ix, iv. 48, vi. 1 17; 4 Leonora*, Nos. 2 and 3, iv. CXLVI. 28-40, v. 186, vi. 90; ‘LEONORA*, No. I, Op. 138, iv. cxlvii. 40-1, ii. 9, iii. 130, v. 186-7 ; ‘FIDELIO*, iv. CXLVIII. 41-3; ‘CORI-

olan*. Op. 62, iv. cxlix. 43-5, iii. 105, iv. 46; ‘egmont*, Op. 84, iv. CL. 45-7, iv. 97, 104, vi. 137; FOR

THE NAME-DAY OF KAISER FRANZ,

Op. 1 14, iv. cli. 47-50. SYM- PHONIES : FIRST, IN C MAJOR,

Op. 21, i. 11. 21-5, ii. 157, 158, vi.

141, i. l 8 g\ SECOND, IN D MAJOR, Op. 36, i. iii. 25-9, i. 123, 129, 216, ii. 27, 61, v. 132-3, vi. 141; THIRD, in e flat major (Sinfonia Eroica), Op. 55, i. iv. 29-34, i- 1. 8, 12, 14, 58, 85, 175, 188, 196, ii. 4, 5, 8, 20, 53, 54, 75, 82, 137, 138, 158, iii. 4, 84, 86, iv. 3, 109, vi. 3 1—4, 138, 156; FOURTH, IN B FLAT MAJOR, Op. 60, i.

V. 34-7, *• 42, 184, ii. 5, iv. 50, v. 1 16, vi. 75, 141 ; FIFTH, IN c minor, Op. 67, i. VI. 38-44, i* 37, 47, 53, 57, 58, 85, 141, 190, 192, 215, ii. 9, 30, 53, 58, 59, 61, 9a, iii. 153,

iv. 139, vi. 141; SIXTH, IN F MAJOR (‘Sinfonia Pastorale*), Op. 68, i. VII. 44-56, 1. 15, 4*. 57, 8s, 128, li. 102, 129, iv. 1, v. 134, vi. 141 (Rhythmic Specimen, i. 39); SEVENTH, IN A MAJOR, Op. 92, i. VIII.

57 - 6 i, i. 34, 38, 42. 62, 219, ii. 5 , 128, iv. 47, 48, 78, vi. 75, 141 (Rhythmic Specimen, i. 39) ; eighth, in F major. Op. 93, i. ix. 61-7, i. 34, 57, 59, *4*, U. 55, iv. 173, vi. 143;

NINTH, IN D MINOR, Op. 1 25, PRECIS,

i. x. 67-83 ; essay (Its place in musi- cal art), ii. xliii. 1-45 ; other refer- ences: i. x, 2, 26, 34, 57, 91, 93, 140, 171, 192, 208, ii, p. ix, 65, 70, 75, 92, 169, 170, iii. 1, 107, 1 14, ns,

130, iv. 3, 80, 85, 120, 121, v. 133, vi. 4*. 55, 141.' 143, 155 (Rhythmic Specimen, 1. a8, 40). Ballet, ‘Pro- metheus*, vi. 32, 137; Concerto in B flat, Op. 19, iii. 64, 78; ‘Fidelio*,

173

Op. 72, iii. 75. iv. 48, 50; ‘Kflnig Stephan*, Op. 117, iv. 50, vi. 137; ‘Kreutzer* Sonata, Op. 47, 1. 10, ii. 90, iii. 65; ‘Lebewohl* Sonata, iv. 62; ‘Leonore*, v. 185, 193; ‘Les Adieux* Sonata, v. 228; Overture, ‘Prometheus*, ii. 157, 158, iv. 26; Pianoforte Duet, Op. 134, ii. 171; Pianoforte Fantasia, Op. 77, ii. 36; Pianoforte piece, Op. 89, iii. 10 1. PIANOFORTE SONATAS : Op. 22 in B flat, ii. 122; Op. 31, No. 2, in D minor, i. 26, 52, ill. 46; Op. 31, No. 3 in E flat, i. 64; Op. 54, vi. 155; The Hammerklavier, in A, Op. 101, vi. 89; Op. 106 in B flat, ii. 124, 164, v. 126; Op. 109 in E, ii* 35, vi. 166; Op. iii in C minor (the last sonata), ii. 35, lift. 76. QUARTETS : Op. 18, No. 4 in C minor, i. 15, 23, iii. 70; Op. 59, No. 1 in F, i. 15; Op. 59, No. 2 in E minor, i. 13, 42, 192; Op. 59, No. 3 in C major, ii. 163 (Rhythmic Specimen), i. 39; Op. 74, Haip, i. 39, 42, 157, ii* 204 ; Op. 95 in F minor,

i. 42, 192, ii. 75, iii. 46; Op. 130 in B flat, ii. 62, 63, 170, v. 125, 142 (Rhythmic Specimen, i. 39); Op.

131 in C sharp minor, ii. 122; Op.

132 in A minor, i. 42, 192, ii. 4, 30, 42; Op. 135 in F (the last quartet),

ii. 143 ; Quintet in C major, Op. 29, i. 23 ; ‘Die Ruinen von Athen*, Op. 1 13, iv. 50, 52, vi. 137; Septet, Op. 20, i. 123, 129; Serenade Trio, Op. 8,

iii. 101 ; ‘Sonata Appassionata*, Op. 57, i. 39, 1 16, iii. 93; Sonata in E minor, Op. 90 (Rhythmic Speci- men), i. 39. TRIOS: Op. 1, No. 2, v. 126; Op. 1, No. 3, in C minor, i. 26; Op. 9, No. 1, v. 126; Op. 70, No. 1, in D major, i. 14, ii. 23; Op. 70, No. 2, in E flat, i. 42, ii. 30; Op. 97 in B flat, i. 42, 140, iii. 93, iv. 109, no, v. 126; Violin Sonata, Op. 24, in F major, i. 52, 123, 129, iii. 216; Violin Sonata, Op. 30, No. 1, i. 52, 192, iii. 70; Violin Sonata, Op. 30, No. 3, in A major, iii. 76; ‘Wald- stein* Sonata, Op. 53, in C major, i. 36, iii. 65, 130, vi. 164 (Rhythmic Specimen, i. 39); Wellington's *Sieg oder die Schlacht bei Vittoria* (‘Battle Symphony*), vi. 138.

Benedict, Julius, iv. 61.

Bennett, Arnold, i. 61.

Bentley, iv. 16.

Bergerac, Cyrano de, iv. 74, 82. Berlin, ii. 38, iii. 65, 194, 217, iv. 52, v. 185, vi. 139.

Berlioz, i. 57, 194, &2Z, 11 . 3, 6, 7, 9,

174 INDEX

33, 143, iii- 86, 105, 221, iv. 1, 74- 89, 100, 105, 155-7, v. 25, 103, 1x2, 174, 198, 222, vi. 16, 17, 43-54, 77, 105, 120, 132, 147.

and Debussy, v. 242-3; and the giraffe, iii. 221 ; and the serpent, iv. 100; and technique, iv. x ; and Jules Verne, iv. 75; as a contrapuntist, iv. 85. See also Mendelssohn.

Works : ‘ HAROLD IN ITALY* SYM- PHONY, iv. CLXII. 74-82, vi. 43, 46, 52, 147. OVERTURES : ‘kino

LEAR', iv. CLXIII. 82-6; ‘LE CORSAIR*, vi. CCXXXVII. 50-2; ‘BEATRICE ET

b£n£dict*, vi. ccxxxviii. 53-4;

‘sefeNE D'AMOUR* FROM ‘ROmSo ET JULIETTE*, iv. CLXIV. 86-9, iv. IO5,

vi. 51; ‘symphonib fantastique', Op. 14, vi. ccxxxvi. 44-50, vi. 43 ; Requiem, i. 222, v. 103, 174, 198, 255; ‘Grande Messe des Morts*, iv. 82, vi. 46, 147; ‘L61io', vi. 46; ‘Mort de C16opatre', v. 242; ‘Te Deum', vi. 46.

Bernard, St., see Pope.

Best, W. T., ii. 200, vi. 132.

Birds, musical representation of, V. 134-5. See also Starling, Mozart’s, and Schindler's ‘Yellow-hammer*. ‘Bo!', Haydn's Lion says, V. 139. BOcklin, iv. 166-8.

Bohemia, ii. 101.

Boito, v. 209, 210.

Bologna, Respighi’s birthplace, iii. 217.

Bonn, vi. 137.

Bononcini (Buononcini), I. 132, v. 84,

85-

Boult, Sir Adrian, iv. 143.

Bradley, Professor Andrew, ii. 2, 3. Brahms, i. 10, 12, 25, 28, 61, 84-137, 142, 153, 175, 176, I79> x 99» 202, 216-18, 221, ii. 2, 29, 47, 70-4, 81, 89, 90, 94 » io 4> *o5> *08, 127, 136-9, 148, 151-6, 178, iii. 7. 8, 15, 18, 20, 22, 23, 38, 43, 50, 56, 72-4, 84, 85, 107-10, x 13-48, 164, 167, 178, 185, 195, 211, iv. 1, 6, 71, 92, 133, 135-7, *44, 147, v. 75, 76, 21 1- 29, 230, 248, vi. 55-7, 59, 66, 69, . 87, 136, 138, 139, 142, 144, 146, 148, 155, *66, 168.

and BUlow on Verdi's Requiem, V. 198; as a contrapuntist, iii. 119; his test, ii. 178, iv. 6; on Dvof&k's ’Cello concerto, iii. 148 ; on Haydn's Letter V, i. 142; on plagiarism, i. 105, 153; the religious significance of Requiem, Op. 45, v. 21 1, 212. See also Beethoven, Orchestration, Quintessence.

‘akademischb festouvertCrb',

Op. 80, ii. ucvii. 154-6, iv. 1. CONCERTOS : violin in d major, Op. 77, iii. cx. 126-39, vi. 146; violin and violoncello, Op. 102, iii. cxi. 139-47, i. 107, vi. 146; pianoforte in d minor, Op. 15, iii. cviii. 1 14-20, i. 84, 107, iii. 22, 74, 107, 108, 1 13, iv. 133; PIANO- FORTE IN B FLAT MAJOR, Op. 83, iii. CIX. 120-6, vi. 146; ‘DEUTSCHES requiem', Op. 45, v. ccxrv. 211-25, i. 84, vi. 142, 148; ‘rhapsodie* for

ALTO VOICES, MALE CHORUS, AND ORCHESTRA, V. CCXV. 225-6; SERE- NADE IN D MAJOR, Op. II (for orchestra), i. xv. 123-31, i. 28, 84, 13 1 ; SERENADE IN A MAJOR, Op. l6 (for small orchestra), i. xvi. 13 1-7, i. 84, 123; ‘SONG OF DESTINY*

(schicksalslied), for chorus and

ORCHESTRA, Op. 54 , V. CCXVI. 227~9,

i. 84. SYMPHONIES : No. i in c minor, Op. 68, i. xi. 84-95, iii. 73, vi. 155, 159; No. 2 in d major, Op. 73, i. xii. 95-106, i. 12, 85, 175,

iii. 126, vi. 56, 138, 142; No. 3 inf major, Op. 90, 1, xiii. 107-15, vi. 57, 155 ; no. 4 in e minor, Op. 98, i. xiv. 115-23, iii. 50, vi. 166; tragic overture, Op. 81, ii. lxvi. 15 1-4; a further note, vi. ccxxxix. 55-7,

iv. i, 144, vi. 138; variations for

ORCHESTRA ON A THEME BY HAYDN, Op. 56a, ii. lxi. 136-9, vi. 155; Clarinet Trio, Op. 114, vi. 146; Quartet in G minor, Op. 25, vi. 55; Quartet in C minor. Op. 60, i. 89, 1 15, iii. 75, vi. 56; Quintet in F minor, Op. 34, i. 10, 85, 115, 218; ‘Rinaldo' Cantata, i. 84; Sextet in B flat, Op. 18, i. 179; Sonata in F sharp minor, Op. 2, i. 85 ; Sonata in F minor, Op. 5, i. 85; Sonata in G for Violin, Op. 78, i. 114, iii. 15, iv. 92; Trio in B major. Op. 8 (in its two versions), vi. 136; ‘Triumph- lied’, Op. 55, i. 84, iii. 18, v. 2i i. Breitkopf and Hartel edition of Mozart, v. 1, 2.

Brema, Marie, v. 90.

Bretzner, vi. 25.

Brian, Havergal, vi. 96. Works: fan- tastic variations on an old rhyme, vi. ccxlviii. 96.

Bridges, Robert, v. 232.

British Grenadiers, see Beethoven. Browning, ii. 48, iii. 185, 207, iv. 54, xi8, v. 4, 60.

Bruch, Max, iii. 126, 176, 194-7, 21 1, 2x7, iv. 6x. Works : concerto in o

MINOR FOR VIOLIN AND ORCHESTRA,

,iii.cxxvL x94-7,iILx76,2ii,iv.6x;

INDEX

Concerto in D minor for two violins, iii. 194; Kyrie and Sanctus, iii. 194; ‘Odysseus*, iii. 194; Scottish Fan- tasia, iii. 194.

Bruckner, i. 95, ii. 3, 6, 7, 13, 20, 62, 69-84, 97, 1 18, 121, iii. 167, 21 1,

222, vi. 60, 76, 77, 82, 93, i43“5 •

See also Quintessence.

Works : ‘romantic* symphony,

No. 4, IN B FLAT MAJOR, ii. XLVIII. 69-79, vi. 145; SYMPHONY IN A major, No. 6, ii. xlix. 79-84; Third Symphony, ii. 6; Seventh Sym- phony, ii. 81, 83 ; Eighth Symphony, ii.81 ; Ninth Symphony, ii. 6, 13, 70. Brunetti, iii. 59.

Brussels, the Conservatoire of, iii. 63. Billow, Hans von, i. 31, 210, ii. 39,

170, iii. 126, v. 198, 204, vi. 10.

See also Brahms.

Buononcini, see Bononcini.

Bunyan, John, v. 128, 137.

Burne-Jones, v. 123.

Burney, Charles (his History of Music), v. 17, 104, 108, vi. 157.

Busch, Adolf, vi. 96-100. Works : CAPRICCIO FOR SMALL ORCHESTRA,

vi. ccxlix. 96-100.

Busch, Fritz, i. 203, iv. 55, 65, 67, vi.

96.

Busoni, vi. 97, 104, 105, 107.

Butler, Samuel, iv. 92, 139.

Byrd, v. 7, 13. Works : ‘Bow Thine Ear*, v. 13.

Byron, iv. 74“6, ”2) ”3» *55; and Horace, ii. 163, vi. 46, 50-2, 77.

Calverly, quoted, v. 129.

Calzabigi, vi. 13, 14, 19, 25.

Cambridge, i. 92, iii. 3.

Canon and Imitation, ii. 179, v. 5, 33,

39, 44, 18 1, vi. 32.

Carey, Clive, iv. 23.

Carlyle, iv. 17, v. 147, vi. 56, 120. Carroll, Lewis, iv. 56, 100, 172, v. i35> vi. 81.

Caruso, Enrico, iv. 138.

Casals, ii. p. x.

Case, Professor, iv. 91.

Cassel, iv. 115.

Castelli, iv. 65.

Cathedral-polyphony, ii. 55, 56.

Cato, vi. 109.

Catalieri, vi. 161.

Cavfilleria Rusticana (Mascagni), iv.

76.

Cellini, Benvenuto, iv. 82.

Cembalo, vi. 150, 151.

Chaconne, vi. 151.

Chaucer, and Artemus Ward on his spelling, v. 243.

Cherubini, i. *58, ii. 73,161, iii. 97,

• 75

101, iv. 29, 30, 75, 76, v. 179, vL 36, 41. 45. 53-

and Beethoven, iv. 29, 30, v. 179. Works: ‘The Water Carrier*, iv. 30; Overture to ‘Faniska*, ii. 73; M£d6e, vi. 36; Overture to ‘Lea Deux Journdes*, vi. 41.

Chesterfield, iv. 170, 17 1.

Chesterton, the, iii. 47.

Chevalier, Albert, iv. 153.

Chezy, Helmine von, iv. 54-6, 69. Chisholm, Dr. Erik, iv. 6, 89.

Chopin, Frederic Francois, i. 25, iii. 46, 51, 71, xoi, 103-6, iv. 161, vi. 1 5 1 . See also Schumann, Balance of tone.

Scherzos, L 25; Polonaises, iii. 101.

Works: CONCERTO IN F MINOR (Pianoforte and Orchestra), Op. 21, iii. cvi. 103-6, iii. 71 ; Concerto in E minor, Op. 11, iii. 103, 106; Sonata in B flat minor, Op. 35, iii. 103; Violoncello sonata, Op. 65, iii. 103; Variations for Pianoforte, Op. 2, iii. 103.

Chorale: (a) Complete settings, V. cciv; ( b ) Ecclesiastical tones, iii. cxxxiv, iv. 28, 126, 138, v. 36, 37, 44. 59. 87 (Ex. 2), 251, 252; (c) Allu- sions, vi. 118.

Christie (Mr.), vi. 30.

Chromatic, vi. 15 x.

Chrysander, v. 86, 102, iii, vi. 132. Cimarosa, ii. 160, iv. 22. Works : ‘II Matrimonio Segreto*, iv. 22; Over- ture to ‘ Gli Orazii e Curiazii* [ii. 60]. Clarino, see Trumpet.

CLASSICAL CONCERTO, THE, iii. LXXXV. 3-27-

Clavicembalo, see Cembalo. Clavichord, vi. 15 1.

Clavier, vi. 152.

Clement, iii. 87, 88.

Clementi, i. 140, iii. 7, iv. 16. Coleridge, Arthur D., iv. 11, x6. Collin, iv. 43.

Cologne, ii. 55, vi. 84.

Combinations of themes (unusual con- trapuntal examples), i. 81, 86, 87, 1 14, 197 (quintuple counterpoint), ii. 43, 67, 138 (double and triple counterpoint in 12th and 9th), 171- 5, 210, 21 1, iii. 181, iv. 10, 22, 77, 126, 127, 138, y. 71 (sextuple counterpoint), 43 (in nth and 13th), 47 (in 3rds), 106 (in 3rds).

Common Chords, vi. 152. Comparisons, impertinent, vi. I. Composer, learned, see Verdi. Concerto principle, the, iii. 6-14; the Sonata-form, ULS4-25*

176

Concerts Spirituels, vi. 21, 23,

Concord, vi. 152.

Conjunct motion, see Motion.

Consonance, vi. 152.

Constance, ill. 23.

Contes Drolatiques (Balzac), ill. 191.

Continuo, i. 155-6, v. 34, vi. 157.

Contrapuntal, see Counterpoint.

Contrary motion, see Motion.

Costa, Sir Michael, iii. 104, v. 113, 181.

Counterpoint, vi. 153.

Counter-statement, vi. 153.

Counter-subject, vi. 154.

Couperin, i. 15, 142, iii. 215, vi. 20.

Critics, see Experts.

Crotch, Dr., i. 92; ‘Chimes', i. 92.

Crystal Palace, see Handel Festivals.

Cyril Scott, see Scott, Cyril.

Czechoslovakia, ii. 105, iv. 132.

Czerny, vi. 102, 136.

Dachshund, see Bernard.

Dalcroze, and the sixteenth century, V. 4-

Dannreuther, iii. 46, iv. 76, 121.

• das Chez 1 , see Chezy, Helmine von.

Davies, Sir Walford, vi. 168.

Debussy, Claude Achille, ii. 17, 129, 130, iii. 175, 204, iv. 167, v. 242-7, 251, vi. 75, 77, 82, 129; and Prix de Rome (a correction), vi. 149. See also Berlioz.

Works: ‘thb blessed damozel’ (‘La Demoiselle filue*), v. ccxx. 242-7, vi. 142,' 149; ‘L'Enfant Prodigue’, v. 242; vi. 149; ‘La Mer*, iv. 167; ‘Sir&ncs', v. 1.

Delius, ii, p. xi, iii. 203-5. Works : violin concerto, iii. cxxix. 203-5 ; Double Concerto, iii. 203.

Dent, Professor E. J., iii. 3, iv. 23, vi. 28.

Deppe, Ludwig, iii. 30.

‘Der rote Igel', see Brahms on Haydn.

Deux-Temps, vi. 154.

Development, vi. 154.

Devil, Symbolized by the Tritone Fourth, v. 70.

Diatonic, vi. 154.

Dickens, Charles, Iv. 152, vi. 75, 77, 82, 129.

Dickinson, Lowes, iv. 24.

Dictionaries of Music, see Grove, Rousseau.

Dimension in music, ii. 4, 5, iii. 15.

Diminution, I. 18, vi. 155.

Examples, i. 80, 82, 94, 96, 102, 103, 107, 108, 172, 176, ii. 41, 104, 113, 172, 173, iii* 102 (Ex. 13), 1 17, JJ9, 124 (Ex. 8), 143 (Ex. 9), x66, 191, 193, 207, 210, iv. 10, 126, 127, 131, 138, 148, 149 (153)# v. 176.

INDEX

Discord, vi. 155.

Dissonance, vi. 155.

Ditters, Karl, see Dittersdorf, Ditters von.

Dittersdorf, Ditters von, iv. 16-19. Works: ‘fall of phaeton*, sym- phony, iv. cxxxviii. 16-19. Dohn&nyi, iii. 173-6. Works: varia- tions, nursery song (Pianoforte and Orchestra), iii. cxvm. 173-6. Dolmetsch, Arnold, ii. 18 1. Dominant: when and when not a key in its own right, i. 5-6, 23, 25, 125 (before Ex. 3), 162, iii. 17-18+21-2, 98, iv. 49.

Dor6, Gustave, iii. 190.

Double Counterpoint, vi. 155. Dresden, ii. 12, 23, iv. 62, V. 22. Dresden Amen , The, vi. 125.

Drury Lane, v. 119.

Dryden, iv. 57.

Dupont, iv. 140.

Dlisseldorf, ii. 53, vi. 38, 39.

Dvof&k, i. 2, 13, 41, ii. 89-110, 139- 42. I47-5L iii* 140* 148-52, iv. 137-9.

His na’ivetl, il. 89, 94; his transi- tions compared with Schubert's, ii. 148. See also Brahms.

Works: SCHERZO CAPRICCIOSO, Op. 66, ii. LXV. 147-51; SLAVONIC RHAPSODY IN D MAJOR, Op. 45, No. I, iv. CLXXX. 137-8; SLAVONIC RHAP- SODY IN A FLAT, Op. 45, No. 3, iv. CLXXXI. I38-9; SYMPHONIC VARIA- TIONS ON AN ORIGINAL THEME, Op.

78, ii. lxii. 139-42. SYMPHON- IES: No. I IN D MAJOR, Op. 63, ii. LI. 89-94, ii* IOI, 105; No. 2 IN D MINOR, Op. 70, ii. LII. 94-101; No. 3 IN F MAJOR, Op. 76, ii. liii. 101-6; in b minor, Op. 95 (from the ‘New World’), ii. liv. 106-10, ii. 89;

VIOLONCELLO CONCERTO IN B MINOR,

Op. 104, iii. cxii. 148-52, iii. 140; ‘Camaval* Overture, Op. 92, ii. 89 ; Moravian Duets, Op. 32, ii. 101; Symphony in G major, No. 4, ii. 10 1 ; ‘St. Ludmila ', ii. 89.

Dykes, Rev. John Bacchus, vi. 28.

Eddington, Professor, iii. 206. Edinburgh, ii, pp. ix-xii, no, 205, iv.

25* 52, 109, vi. 23, 67, 133. 137* Edwards, i. 149 et passim .

Eight-part writing, Bach's and Han- del’s compared, v. 94.

Elephant, see Haydn.

Elgar, Sir Edward, i. 112, ii. p. xi, xx, 1 14-21, 140, iii. 152-9, 166, 200-3, Iv. 3-16, 94. 149-54. 163. vi. 83-9,

INDEX

177

147, 148; and Schumann compared, iv. 11.

Works : ‘falstaff’, symphonic study, Op. 68, iv. cxxxvii. 3-16, ii.

1 15, vi. 147; CONCERT OVERTURE, ‘iN THE SOUTH* (Alassio), vi. CCXLIV. 83-7; INTRODUCTION AND ALLEGRO FOR STRINGS (QUARTET AND OR- CHESTRA), Op. 47, vi. ccxlv. 87-9; OVERTURE ‘COCKAIGNE*, iv. CLXXXVI. 152-4, Vi. 84; SYMPHONY IN E FLAT,

No. 2, Op. 63, ii. lvi. 1 14-21;

VARIATIONS FOR ORCHESTRA, Op. 35

(‘Enigma*), iv. clxxxv. 149-52, ii. 140, iii. 152, iv. 94, 163, vi. 84, 89, 148; violin concerto in b minor, Op. 61, iii. cxiii. 152-8, ii. 1 15, iii. 159; violoncello concerto in e minor, Op. 85, iii. cxxviii. 200-3 ; ‘Canto Popolare’ (‘In Moonlight’), vi. 86 ; ‘Dream of Gerontius’, vi. 84 ; Pomp and Circumstance Marches, vi. 83; Symphony, No. 1, vi. 84. Elssner, iii. 103.

Encyclopedia Britannica f i. v, iv. 170, 176, v. 2, vi. 37, 142.

England, i. 132, 161, ii. 10 1, iii. 84, 185, iv. 45, 57, 87, 98, 166, v. 15,

1 14, 158, vi. 76, 10 1, 1 21 ; Joachim’s last visit to, v. 229.

English Handel Society, the, v. 1 1 1 . Enharmonic, vi. 155, 156.

Enharmonic Modulations, notable ex- amples: (a) genuine, i. 135 (Ex. 9);

( b ) mere convenience of notation, i. 69, ii. 15; (c) Enharmonic circles, v. 170; (d) an illusory conflict, vi. 16,

17 .

Epigram, Schumann a master of, ii. 46, 85.

Episode, vi. 156.

Erba, Dionigi, his ‘Magnificat* and Handel, v. 91, 102, 103, 107-8, 113.

• Eroica f the\ and Napoleon, i. 29.

Essential Discords, vi. 1 56.

Esterhaz, i. 124, 143, 144, 15s, iii. p.

xi, 62, vi. 135-6.

Esterhazy, Prince, i. 151, v. 142. Europe, i. 177, iii. 45.

Eurhythmies, iii. 215.

Experts, see Critics.

Farmer, John, i. 142, vi. 102.

Fay, Amy, iii. 30.

Figure (German Motif), vi. 156.

Figured Bass (or Continuo), vi. 157. Finland, iii. 21 1, 215.

Fitzgerald, Edward, i. 194.

Fleury, Louis, iii. 47, v. 52, vi. 134. Florence, v. 196*.

Forsyth, Cecil, iii. 52, 90, iv. 54.

Fox Strangways, see Strangways, Fox.

VI N

France, iv. 87.

Franck, Cdsar, ii. 62-9, iii. 166-9. Works: SYMPHONY in d minor, ii. xlvii. 62-9; ‘variations SYMPHON- iques*, iii. cxvi. 166-9; ‘bolides’, ii. 62; ‘Le Chasseur Maudit’, ii. 62; Trio in F sharp minor, Op. 1, ii. 62. Franz, and Bach’s polyphony, v. 66. Fraser, Mrs. Kennedy-, see Kenncdy- Fiascr, Marjorie.

Fugato, vi. 157.

Fugue, i. 17-18, 32, 33, 80, 81, 198, ii. 41, 43, lxviii. 162 foil., lxix. 176, 179, 199, lxxxii, lxxxiii, iii. 1 19, v. 28, 31, 36, 3«, 43, 47, 55, 59, 80, 89, 98, 103, 105, 106, 130, 141, 152, 153, 158, 161, 169, 175, 180, 206, 208, 218, 238, 239, vi. 89; masked fugues, v. 57, 77; round fugues, v. 24, 26, 30, 71 ; fugues with litornello,

v. 24, 26, 36, 62.

Fundamental Bass, vi. 157. Furtwangler, ii. 17 1.

Gastein, i. 215.

George III on Shakespeare, vi. 109. Germany, i. 132, 198, ii. 58, 72, iv. 104, 166, v. 176, 185, 196, vi. 20, 60, 137.

Gevacrt, i. 160, 11. 19, iii. 9, 63, v. 36. Gibbons, Grinling, v. 123, 136. Giraffe, see Berlioz.

Glasgow, ii, pp. ix, x, xi, iv. 89. Glazounov, ii. iii, iii. 209-10. See also Transformation of Themes. Works: PIANOFORTE CONCERTO IN F minor, Op. 92, iii. cxxxi. 209-10. Gluck, i. 122, 186, 187, iii. 8, 50, 81,

iv. i, 17, 24, 63, 90, v. 1 12, 128, vi. 8, 10-20, 24, 25, 44, 1 14. Works : overt ure to ‘iphigenib en aulide*

— ‘ORPHEUS AND EURIDICE’, Act. Ill,

vi. ccxxvil. 12-19 (Iphigdnie), iv. 24; ‘Iphigdnie en Tauride’, v. 112 (Orpheus), i. 122, iii. 50, 81; ‘ Al- ceste*, vi. 12-14; ‘Armide*, v. 12S, vi. 1 5 ; Overture to ‘Alccste’, iv. 24; ‘Telemacco*, vi. 15.

Glyndebourne, vi. 30.

Goethe, iv. 24, 45, 46, 93, 94, 104, v.

193-5, 225, vi. 137.

Golden Age, sixteenth century as the,

v. 3, 4, 14, 195, 196, vi. 149, 155; and silvery v. 195, vi. 149; and ‘ Mahogany * , vi. 134.

Gounod, vi. 154. Works ; ‘Faust*, vi. I 54‘

Gozzi, iii. 165.

Grabu, iv. 57.

Grainger, Percy, iv. 147. Gravicembalo, see Cembalo.

Great Britain, see England*

Ij 8 INDEX

Greene, iii. 10.

Gr^try, i. 133.

Grieg, iv. 11.

Grierson, Dr. Mary, ii, p. xi.

Grimm, Gisela, see Arnim, Gisela von.

Grinling Gibbons (Gibbon), see Gib- bons, Grinling.

Grocer, see Hindemith.

Gros, M’sieur Le, vi. 23.

Grove, Sir George, i. 22, 42, 55, 89, 192, 213, 215, ii. 8, 9, 17, 23, iii. 136, iv. 31, 32, vi. 141.

Grove's Dictionary , v. 95, 114, 149, vi. 3, 19, 139, HO.

Guines, the Duke of, iii. 60, 61.

Haagsche Hopjes, iv. 170, 17 1. Habeneck, iv. 82, vi. 147.

Hadow, Sir Henry, i. 11, 53, 167, iii. 191, iv. 85, v. 242.

Haffner, Elizabeth, i. 177.

Hall£, Lady, vi. 7.

Hall£, Sir Charles, vi. 7.

Handel, i. 12, 92, 124, 132, 138, 140, 186, 220, ii. 2, 8, 37, 85, 124, 162-6, 168, 200-1, 208, iii. 7-9, 12, 61, 21s, 217, iv. 1, 17, 23, 90, 91, v. 4, 5, 25, 39, 82-113, 119, i2i, 123, 136, 149, 165, 167, 171, 176, 216, 223, 248, vi. 1, 13, 15, 68, 87, 109, no, 132, 133; and Bach, i. 12, 186, ii. 37, 208, iii. 12, 61, v. 53, 58, 66, 73, 83,94, 95, iai, 136, vi. 87; and Hay- don, i. 138; Handehan pause, V. 53; Handelgesellschalt, v. 73 ; his death, v. 1 19; his hornpipes, vi. 145, 146; his musical form, v. 85; his triple time, v. 4, 5, 108, 109; in England,

v. 91; on himself, v. 85. See also Balance of Tone, Erba, Urio.

Works : ‘ISRAEL IN EGYPT*, v. ccv. 82~1 13; ORGAN CONCERTO, No. 7 (Op. 7, No. i), ii. LXXIX. 200-1,

vi. 132; ‘Athalia*, v. 93; ‘Deborah’, v. 93, 94; ‘Jephtha’, v. 86; ‘Mes- siah’, i. 220, ii. 8, iv. 91, v. 86, 95, 97, n°; ‘Every Valley’, V. 58; ‘Samson’, v. 248; ‘Saul*, v. 87, 91; ‘Semele’, iv. 17; ‘Solomon’, v. 94.

Handel Festival, and the Crystal Palace, ii. 85, v. 103, 107, 113, vi. 132.

Hanslick, ii. 70, 71, iii. 140.

Hardy, Thomas, ii. 41.

Harmonic freedom, Straussian, i. 196. Harmonics, vi. 157.

Harmonic Series, vi. 157.

• Harmoniemusik ’ (music for wind-

band), i. 21, 22.

Harpsichord, vi. 158.

Harvey, Christopher, v* 68.

Haslinger, Tobias (Beethoven’s pub- lisher), v. 40.

Hasse, vi. 13.

Hauptmann, Moritz, v. 6i.

Hausmann, iii. 140, 148.

Havard, vi. 19.

Havergal, Henry, ii, p. xi.

Hawkins, his history of music, v. 101.

Haydn, Joseph, i. 8, 10-12, 15, 16, 19, 23, 26-8, 32, 34, 35, 37, 41, 45, 46, 52, 61, 62, 64, 84, 104, 106, 124, 127, 131, 138-76, 183-7, 190, 202, 223; ii. 2, 19, 27, 30, 59, 89, 102, 107, 108, 1 14, 122, 136-9, 159, 164, 180, iii. p. ix, 7, 15, 27, 44, 56, 61-3, 73, 74, 159, iv. 19, 27, 31, 68, 76, 90, 133, 137, 173, v. 13, 30, 44, 89, 104, 114-61, vi. 4, 6, 10-12, 39, 101, 134-6, 143, 145, 146.

HAYDN THE INACCESSIBLE, i. XVII. 138-40; and Mozart, v. 116; as the lather of the symphony, i. 139, 155; formality of, i. 149; his early style, i. 139 ; his freedom of form, v. 136; his modem treatment of the brass,

v. 41; his pupil Pleyel, vi. 134; ‘not an elephant’, v. 137; on Mozart, iii. 159. See also Balance of Tone, Beethoven, Brahms, Handel, Hers- chel, London, Paradox, Quintes- sence, and Scoring.

Works: SYMPHONIES , No. 88, in G MAJOR (Letter ‘V’), i. xviii. 140-3; No. 92, in g (the Oxford), i. xix. 143-7, *59; No.

94, IN g major (the Surprise: Salomon, No. 5), i. xx. 147-8, 152, V. 151; No. 95, IN C MINOR (Salo- mon, No. 9), i. xxi. 149-50; No. 98, in b flat (Salomon, No. 8), i. xxn. 150-6, v. 151, vi. 12; No. 99, in B flat (Salomon, No. 10), i. xxiii. 156-9; No. 100, in G major (the Military: Salomon, No. 11), i. xxiv. 159-62, iv. 173, vi. 143; No. 1 01, in d major (the Clock; London, No. 11), i. xxv. 162-4; No. 102, in B flat (Salomon, No. 12), i. xxvi. 164-70; No. 103, in B flat (Salomon, No. 1) (with the drum roll), i. xxvii. 170-3; No. 104, in d major (Salomon, No. 2), i. xxviii. 174-6, i. 104, 165; violoncello concerto in d major, iii. xeix. 62-3. See also: anton kraft, addendum, iii. p. ix and

vi. 146; ‘the creation’, v. ccvi. 114-46, i. 27, v. 154-6, 160, vi. 39; compared with ‘The Seasons’, v. 148-9; ‘thb seasons’ (Jahreszeiten), v. ccvii. 146-61,1. 153, v. 131, 145 ; chorus Set uns gntidig (prayer for

INDEX

the future harvest) erroneously re- ferred to as ‘chorus in honour of work*,!. 153. QUARTETS , Op. 1, No. 1, vi. 135; Op. 9, vi. 135; Op. 2, vi. 135; in F, Op. 50, No. 5 (‘Golden Sections’), i. 19; in A minor, Op. 20, v. 89; Op. 9, Op. 1, No. 1, and Op. 2, vi. 135; String, No. 2, in E flat, i. 154; String, No. 2, in F, i. 165, 174; Symphony in B flat (9th London), v. 116. Haydn, Michael, i. 184.

Hedgehog, see Brahms.

Helmholtz, ii. 132, v. 4, 25.

Henley, W. E., i. 57, vi. 44.

Henschel, Sir George, v. 165.

Hensel, Fanny, vi. 38, 39.

Henselt, vi. 32.

Herbert, George, v. 68.

‘ Heritage of Music*, The, vi. 8, 14. Herodotus, vi. 149.

Herschel, Sir John, v. 114, 115, 119, 125; and Haydn, 114.

Hesiod, v. 1 14.

Heuberger, vi. 100.

Higgs, James, v. 130.

Hiller, Adam, see Reger, Works (vi.

69).

Hindemith, Paul, iv. 172-6, vi. 148, 150, 163; and sugar, iv. 174.

Works: chamber music, No. 1,

FOR SMALL ORCHESTRA, Op. 24,

No. i, iv. cxcv. 172-6, vi. 148. Hipkins, A. J., iii. 12, 126.

Histories of Music (&c.), see Burney, Hawkins, Oxford; and Rousseau, Riemann, Grove’s (Dictionaries). Hochschule (Berlin), The, vi. 66. Hoffman, vi. 36.

Hofmannsthal, iii. 206.

Holderlin, Friedrich, v. 227.

Holland, iv. 170, vi. 74.

Hollins, Dr. Alfred, iv. 109, 1 10, vi.67. Hollywood, iv. 62, 78.

Holmes, Sherlock, vi. 67.

Holst, Gustav, ii. 42, 208-12, iv. 169- 70, v. 1 , 250-6. See also Mozart.

Works : ballet from ‘the per- fect fool', iv. cxciii. 169-70; FUGAL CONCERTO, Op. 40, No. 2, ii. LXXXII. 208-10; FUGAL OVER- TURE — Orchestra, ii. lxxxiii. 210- 12; ‘THE HYMN OF JESUS*, Op. 37, v. ccxxii. 250-6; ‘The Perfect Fool’,

ii. 212.

Homer, v. 8, vi. 129; and Vergil,

v. 133.

Homophony, vi. 158.

Horace, iii. 108, *v. 266, vi. 77, 104; also see Byron.

House of Orange, the, iv. 171. Huberman, iii. 126.

VI

I79

Hueffer, Francis, v. 186, 210.

Hugo, Victor, iv. 94-6, vi. 77.

Huller, John, vi. 56, 138.

Hummel, i. 140, iii. 45, 71, 106, vi. 32. Humperdinck, i. iii. Works: ‘Hansel und Gretel*, i. iii.

Hungary (Bataszek), vi. 100.

Imitation, vi. 159.

Imperfect Concords, see Concord. Interval, vi. 159.

Intonation, vi. 159. introductions, i. 1. 1-19, ii. xlii. (Here and Elsewhere), pp. ix-xii,

iii. lxxxiv. 1, iv. cxxxvi. 1, v.

CXCVI. 1-2.

Inversion, vi. 159, 160.

Invisibility, How not to symbolize, v. 38.

Italian Opera, vocal tradition of, v. 195-

Italy, iv. 92, 102, v. 119.

Jacobi, iii. 187.

Jahn, Otto, i. 181, iv. 28, 54; on Vogler, iv. 54.

James, Dr. M. R., iv. 52.

Jameson, Frederick (translations of Wagner), v. 2.

Joachim, Frau, v. 229.

Joachim, Josef, i. 112, 199, 202, 215- 17, i>. 47, 57, 89, iii. 38, 59, 71, 74, 88, 106-15, 1 18, 131, 148, 160, 164-6, iv. 60, 67, 70, 71, 109, 133-7, v. 61, no, 220, 229-31, vi. 57, 66, 74, 80, 96, 97, 1 13, 146; see also England, Orchestration.

Works: ‘HUNGARIAN CONCERTO,’

iii. evil. 106-14, iii. 71, 74, 88, 118, 160, vi. 74; marfa’s soliloquy,

FROM SCHILLER’S UNFINISHED DRAMA ‘DEMETRIUS’, SET FOR MEZZO- SOPRANO AND ORCHESTRA, Op. 14, V. CCXVII. 229-31; OVERTURE TO A COMEDY BY GOZZI, iv. CLXXIX. 133- 7 ; VARIATIONS VIOLIN AND ORCHES- TRA, iii. cxv. 164-6.

Joachim quartet, iv. 137.

Johnson, Dr., i. 149, 171, 212, ii. 1, 5i, 75, 1 14, 156, iii. 60, 74, iv. 175, v. 128, 147, 202, vi. 58, 109, 135, 138, 142.

his friend Edwards, ii. 156, iv# 175, v. 139 (see also Edwards). ‘Joy-motives’, Bach’s, v. 30.

Just Intonation, vi. 160.

Kalbeck, ii. 136.

Kant, v. 1 14.

Kennedy- Fraser, Marjorie, ii, p. xi,

iv. 165.

l8o INDEX

Kensington, ill. 185.

Kerll, Kaspar, v. 101. Works : Organ Canzona, v. 101.

Key, key relations and tonality, i. 3-9.

Kingsley, Charles, iv. 106, vi. 84.

Kipling, Rudyard, i. 66, ill. 63, vi. 51, 84.

Klindworth, ill. 103, 104. See also Balance of Tone.

KotzebUe, iv. 50.

Kotzwara (Kocfwara), Franz, see Battle of Prague , the.

Korsakov, see Rimsky- Korsakov.

Kortte, Dr., iii. 12.

Kraft, Anton, iii, p. ix. Works : vio- loncello CONCERTO IN D MAJOR, iii. xcix. 62-3; see reference iii, p. ix addendum, vi. 146.

Kreutzer, Conradin, vi. 38.

Kuhac, Dr., i. 173.

Kuhlau, Ui. 47.

Lablache, see Thumb.

Lamb, Charles, i. 37, iv. 66, v. 85, vi. no.

Laplace, v. 1 14.

Lauckner, Rolf, iv. 55, 56, 65, 67.

Lasso, Orlando di, i. 15, v. 6, 8, 29.

Lear, Edward, iv. 56.

Lee, Vernon, vi. 120.

Leeds Festival, the, v. 229, vi. 105.

Leighton, Sir William, v. 15.

Leipzig, iii. 114, vi. 7, 39, 71, 100.

Lenau, iv. 155-7.

‘Liceo Musicale', the (Bologna), iii. 217.

Lidley, see Linley.

Lincoln, Abraham, ii. 106.

Linley (Lidley), v. 119.

Linley, Thomas, v. 119, 122, 138.

Liszt, Franz, i. 176, 193, ii. 7, 9, 14, 121, iii. 33, 80, 81, 85, 107-10, 190, 209, iv. 63, 70-3, 121, 130, 158, v. 230, vi. 17, 4L 53, 54, 73, 77, 104; Works : Concerto in E flat, iii. 209, 210; Dante Symphony, iv. 158; Faust Symphony, iii. 190, iv. 70, 73, 121; ‘Mazeppa*, ii. 121; ‘Or- pheus’, ii. 121.

Loch Ness, see Wagner and the Paris Opera.

Loewe, v. 194, 195, vi. 144, 149* Works: ‘ErlkUnig’, vi. 149.

London, i. 95, 107, 124, 153, 167, ii. 47, 7*. 73, iii- 88, 127, iv. 22, 65, 109, 152, 154, v. 14, 61, 82, 85, 1 14, 119, vi. 12, 18, no, i2i, 143; Haydn ’8 visit to, i. 153; Promenade Concerts, vi. 139.

Londoner, proletarian, agnosticism of, see Elgar ‘Cockaigne’, iv. 153.

Lost Chord, see Subdominant.

Lully (Lulli), ii. 178, v. 129, vi. 1.

Works : ‘Armide’, v. 129.

Luther, v. 217.

Macaulay, ii. 4, 46, v. 197. Macfarren, v. 185, 186.

Macfarren, Lady, i. 79, ii. 42. McEwen, Sir John B., iv. 161-2. Works: ‘grey galloway’, ballad

FOR FULL ORCHESTRA, iv. CCXXXIX. l6l-2.

Madhouse, see Weber on Beethoven. Maelzel, vi. 143.

Mahler, ii. 3, iv. 1, v. 1, 2, 25, 96, 103, 158, vi. 73-83, 105, 132. Works: SYMPHONY IN G MAJOR, No. 4, vi. ccxliii. 73-83; ‘Das Knaben Wun- derhorn, vi. 76; ‘Des Klagende Lied*, vi. 75; First Symphony, vi. 75; Second Symphony, v. 158; Third Symphony, vi, 76; Eighth Symphony, v. 96, 103.

‘ Mahogany Age\ see Golden Age. Maitland, Fuller, iii. 10. Mandyczewski,v. 121, 138, 143, vi. 135. Mannheim, vi. 24.

Marenzio, vi. 155.

Marks of Expression, vi. 160. Marschner, iv. 122.

Martin, John, vi. 51.

MASONIC MUSIC, iv. cxlv. 27-8; style,

i. 200; symbolism, ii. 16 1; rhythm,

ii. 168.

Mattheson, v. 92.

Mazzucato, v. 198, 207, 208. Medtner, v. 1. Works : ‘Vocal Sonata 9 , v. 1.

M6hul, i. 132, iv. 30, v. 157, vi. 35-7.

Works: OVERTURE, ‘LE JEUNE SAGE ET le vieux fou*, vi. ccxxxni, 35-7; ‘H6tene’,iv. 30; ‘Joseph’, vi. 35 ; ‘La chasse du Jeune Henri’, v. 157; ‘Uthal*, i. 132-3.

Meiningen, Brahms’s Tragic Overture performed at, vi. 57; Concerts, the, i. 95, 107 ; Orchestra, the, i. 177, ii. 47 . iii. 1 * 7 , V. 185.

Mendelssohn, 1. 25, 65, 137, 138, 193, 197, 210, 218-23, ii. 27, 42, 47, si, SS, 145-7. iii* *7, a8, 47, 56, 72, 74, 1 18, 178-81, 192, 194, 21 1, iv. 4, 45, 59. 61, 75, 90-109. 153, 163, V. in, 129, 132, 136, 194, vl. 4, 12, 37~4»* 1 13, 143, 145.

and Beethoven, v. 194; and witchery, iv. 107; on Berlioz, iv. 75 ; ‘Mendelssohn- Baiting’, v. 129.

Works : incidental music to ‘a midsummer-night’s dream’, iv.

CLXIX. 102-9; ITALIAN 8YMPHONY IN A MAJOR, Op. 90, i. XLI. 218-23, ii- 55, vi. 142. OVERTURES: ‘a mid-

INDEX

181

bummer-night’s DREAM*, iv. CLXVIII. 97-103, iv. 45, 59, 90, 94, vi. 40,

148; ‘CALM 6EA AND PROSPEROUS VOYAGE*, iv. CLXVI. 93-4, 1 52, 1 63,

v. 194; ‘melusina*, vi. CCXXXIV. 37-40; ‘ruy blas*, iv. CLXVII. 94-7; ‘THE HEBRIDES*, iv. CLXV. 90- 3, vi. 38, 40; SCHERZO IN G MINOR FOR ORCHESTRA, ii. LXIV. 1 4 5-7; VIOLIN CONCERTO IN B MINOR, Op.

64, iii. cxx. 178-81 ; ‘Elijah*, v. 52,

vi. 40; Duetto, Op. 38, No. 6, v. 132; ‘Lobgesang*, v. 136; Octet in E flat, Op. 20, ii. 145, 146 (a correction about performance of vi. 145); Pianoforte Rondo in E flat, vi. 38; Quartet, Op. 12 (erroneously referred to as Op. 1 1 in text), ii. 51 ; Quartet in F minor, Op. 2, iv. 90, 85; ‘Song without words*, iv. 90, vi. 39; Thirteenth Symphony (now first) (1824), ii. 145-6; Trio in C minor, iii. 74; Violin Concerto (Op. 64), iii. 21 1.

Mercator’s Projection, see Weelkes and Iceland.

Meredith, George, ii. 147.

Metastasio, iv. 26, 58, vi. 13, 14, 28. Meyerbeer, iii. 108, iv. 54, 62, 115, 118, 133, 138, vi. 51, 59, 77, 82, 119, 120. Works : ‘Les Huguenots*, vi. 59, 77, i*9-

Milan, iii. 176, 177, v. 198.

Military Music, Beethoven and, ii. 40. Milton, ii. 9, 185, iii. 49, 54, 205, v. 38, 84, 115, 118, 129, 137, i39, 144, 147, 175, 232-4, 248, vi. 120. Modes (Ecclesiastical), examples : Dorian, ii. 42, 205 ; Phrygian, ii. 83 ; Lydian, ii. 42, 207, 210, iii. 205; Mixolydian, ii. 132, vi. 91; Ionian, ii. 207; Aeolian, ii. 207. Modulation, vi. 160, 161.

Monody, vi. 161.

Monster, see Loch Ness.

Monteverdi, v. 6, vi. 14. Works: ‘Or- feo*, vi. 14.

Moody and Sankey, vi. 112, 114. Morgann, iv. 5.

Moscheles, iii. 103.

Moser, iii. 164.

Motet, Palestrina’s meaning of, v. 12,

13, 165.

Motion, vi. 161, 162.

Moussorgsky, v. 229-30, vi. 144. Works: ‘Boris Godunov*, v. 229, vi. 144.

Movement, vi. 162.

Mozart, Leopold, iii. 159.

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, i. 8, 12,

14, xs, 21, 23-6, 34-7. 4*» 4$, 61, 62, 64, 84, 99. 1*5. 131. *38-41.

• 53-5, *57, *59, *60, 165, 167, 168,
• 7*, 173, 177-205, 213, 219, ii. 2, 5,

6, 10, 16, 18, 19, 27, 43, 44, 98, 122, 129, 158, 161, 163, 164, 182, 191, 204, 205, 208, iii. p. ix, 3, 7, 14, 16-18, 20-63, 65, 66, 70, 71, 76, 80, 85, 88, 91, 100, 101, 105, 112, 119, 125, 140, iv. 4, 16, 21-30, 56, 59, 64, 76, 91, *08, 130, 143, 156, v. 1,

2, *3, 34, 42, 59, 83, 95, **4, **6, 1 19, 120, 123, 142, 149, 152, 180, 182, 186, 196, 199, 242, vi. 10, 12, 13, 19-31, 67, 87, 133, 134, 137, 141, 148, 157, 162.

and Holst, unison and discord, v. 255; and the pianoforte, iii. 29; and Rondo form, iii. 24, 41 ; Haydn and the Serenade, i. 13 1 ; his use of polyphony, iii. 22-3 ; neglect of, iii.

3. See also Haydn.

Works: ADAGIO in e for violin and orchestra (Koch, 261), iii. xcvn. 59-60; ANDANTE for flute with orchestra (Koch, 315), iii. xciii. 5 1-2. ARIAS : from ‘die ent- fOhrung* (‘martern aller arten*) (Koch, 384), vi. ccxxix. 24-27, iii. 23; FROM ‘la CLEMENZA DI TITO* (Koch, 621), vi. ccxxx. 27-30. CONCERTOS: pianoforte in a major (Koch, 414), iii. lxxxvi. 27- 30; pianoforte No. 15, in b flat major (Koch, 450), iii. lxxxvii. 30- 3, iii. 26, 30, 36; pianoforte in g major (Koch, 453), iii. lxxxviii. 33-6, iii. 30, 51; PIANOFORTE IN A major (Koch, 488), iii. lxxxix. 37- 42 ; PIANOFORTE IN C MINOR (K6ch, 491), iii. xc. 42-6, iii. 36, 37, 46, 72; FLUTE IN G MAJOR (Koch, 3 1 3), iii. XCI. 47-8; FLUTE IN D MAJOR (Koch, 3 14), iii. xcii. 48-51, iii. 47 ; CLARINET IN A MAJOR (Koch, 622), iii. XCIV. 52-3 ; VIOLIN IN D MAJOR (Koch, 218), iii. xcv. 54-6, vi. 133; VIOLIN IN A MAJOR (Koch, 2 1 9), iii. XCVI. 56-9, iii. 26, 54; FLUTE AND harp (Koch, 299), iii. xcvm. 60-2;

SERENADE IN D MAJOR, 1 . XXIX. 1 77- 80, i. 13 1 ; PIANOFORTE SONATA IN F MAJOR FOR FOUR HANDS (Koch, 497) (erroneously as Kdch 452 in Volume 1), i. xxxv, 198-201, iii. 30, 41, iv. 64. OVERTURES: to ‘der schauspieldirektor*, iv. CXL. 21-2, i. 191; to ‘le nozzb di FIGARO*, iv. CXLI. 22-3, iv. 21, 1 32,

(quoted) v. 134; to *cosi fan tutte*, vi. ccxxxi. 30-1, vi. 13, 148; to ‘die zauberflOte*, iv. cxlii. 23-5, iv.

22 *, tO ‘LA CLEMENZA DI TITO*, iv. CXLIII. 25-6; ORCHESTRAL DANCES.

1 82 INDEX

iv. CXLIV. 26-7; MASONIC DIRGE (Koch, 477), iv. CXLV. 27-8. S YM - PHONIES : The Prague in D (Koch,

504), vi. 133. Thematic Example, iii. 28 ; the Paris in D major (Koch,

297), vL ccxxvm. 19-24, i. 181-3,

219, vi. 10, 133; c. major (Koch

338), i. XXX. 181-3; THE LINZ, IN C major, No. 36 (Koch, 425), i. xxxi. 183-6, i. 24, iii. 31; B FLAT (Ktich,

543), i. xxxii. 187-91, i. 186, iii.

37, vi. 162; G minor (Koch, 550), i. xxxm. 191-5, i. 186, iii. 37; the

JUPITER, IN C MAJOR (Koch, 551), i.

xxxiv. 195-8, i. I25» 149 (153, Ex. 5),

154, 186, 219, ii. 138, iii. 17, 35, 37,

v. 151,152; ‘ Acis and Galatea’, v. 95 ;

Aria Bufla (‘ Voi siete un po* tondo’),

‘Un bacio di mano’ (Koch, 541), i.

140. CONCERTOS : ‘The Corona- tion*, in D major (Koch, 537), vi.

133 (quoted, Ex. iii. 28) ; in D minor (Koch, 466), iii. 44, 45, 65, vi. 133,

141 ; Pianoforte in C major (Koch,

503) , iii. 16-24; in C major (Koch,

467), iii. 26; Violin in E flat, iii. 30,

56, vi. 133, 134; in E flat (Koch,

271), iii. 76; F major (Koch, 459), iii. 28, vi. 133; in G, iii. 30, 51 ; in C major (Koch, 415), iii. 28; in F major (Koch, 413), iii. 28; (Koch,

504) , Thematic example, iii. 28; Pianoforte in B flat major (Koch,

456), vi. 133; Concertante in Ser- enade (Koch, 320), i. 177; Con- certante for four wind instruments,

vi. 134; Concertante symphony for Violin and Viola, vi. 134; ‘Die Ent- fuhrung* (Koch, 384) (see vi. 24-7), i. 203, iii. 50, iv. 23, v. 120; ‘Die Zauberfldte* (Koch, 620) (see iv. 23- 5), i. 160, 195, 200, ii.43, 158, 161, 163,^1.3,35,49,51,^.21,22,27,56,

V. 120, vi. 13, 27, 28; Divertimento for two Clarinets and Orchestra, vi.

134; ‘Don Giovanni* (Koch, 527), i.

183, 190, ii. 180, iii. 34, iv. 24, 29,

V. 1, vi. 10, 30; ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik*, vi. 87; ‘Figaro’, iii.

27, 3 6, v. 1, 199, vi. 30; ‘Idomeneo’, vi. 13, 25 ; ‘Ode to St, Cecilia’s Day*, v. 95. QUARTETS : D major (Koch, 291), iii. 50; Pianoforte (Koch, 478 and 493), iii. 25, 41. QUINTETS : in G minor (Koch,

516), i. 99; for Clarinet (Koch,

f 8i), iii. 52; Requiem (Koch, 626),

, 192, iii. 35, iv. 27, v. 59, 152, 180,

182, 199; Rondo (Koch, 386), iii.

36; ‘Rondo alia Turca* (K6ch, 331), iv. 59; Serenade (Koch, 320), i. 177,

179; Serenade (Octet) in C minor

(Koch, 388, 388 a) — Quintet

(Koch, 406), i. 131. SONATAS : Violin in F (Koch, 377), i. 204; Violin in A major, iii. 25, 41 ; Trio, Pianoforte, Viola, and Clarinet (Koch, 498), iii. 52 (Koch, 575), Thematic example, v. 255. Mass ( K6ch , 25;), ‘Credo Missa*, iii. 61. Munich, iv. 50.

Museum, the British, v. 132, vi. 146. Music, and illiteracy tradition, iv. 98; for four hands, list of, i. 198, 199,

iv. 64; in England, iv. 57.

Musical Antiquarian Society, the, V. 8.

‘ Musical Times*, the , iv. 2.

‘ Musikalische Zeitung *, the, vi. 39.

Naples, i. 222.

Napoleon, i. 29, 30, it. 40, 41. See also Eroica.

Nawr&til, ii. 71, 82.

Neapolitan School, Handel and the,

v. 88.

Netherlands, the, see Holland.

Niecks, Professor, ii. 57, vi. 41. Noodles, see Brahms on plagiarism. Norfolk, iv. 162.

Norway, v. 112.

Nottebohm, iii. 75, iv. 48.

Novello (publishers), v. 61, 78.

Oakeley, v. 45.

Oblique motion, see Motion.

Ochs, Siegfried, vi. 66.

Orchestral Polyphony, ii. lxviii- lxxxiii. 156-212, ii. p. ix. Orchestration, Dvof&k, ii. 108; Joa- chim, iv. 133; Rfintgen, iv. 147; Strauss, iv. 155; and Bach, vi. 1; Operatic, v. 7.

Osborne, J. A., vi. 147.

Ostinato, Example, i. 71 (Ex. 10), 72 (Ex. 13), ii. 22, 23, 179 (Ex. 5), iv. 164, vi. 62, 64.

Ovid, iv. 16, 17, 19, 21, v. 1 14. Oxford, i. 143, ii. 2, iv. 91.

Oxford History of Music, v. 83, 92, 95.

Paderewski, iv. 71.

Paganini, iv. 77, vi. 147.

Palestrina, i. 4, 119, 138, ii. 2, 42, 71, 1*4, iv. 173, v. 4, 7, 8, 14, *9, 4*. 73. 75. 109, 163, 165, 171-3, 178, 196,

• 97. *99. 238, *50, Vi. 57, 58, 91.

and triple time, v. 4, 109, vi. 2; his cross rhythms, v. 226; his modes, i. 4, ii. 42; Phrygian mode, i. X19.

Works : ‘Dum Complerentur*, v. 14; ‘Exaltabo te*, v. 13, 14; ‘Missa dum Complerentur*, v. 14; Palestrina, Mass: Sanctorum meritis 9

INDEX 183

an error for Sacerdotes Domini , v. 39; ‘Stabat Mater*, ii. 71, vi. 57, 58. Palgrave, v. 147.

Paradox and Haydn, v. 1x6, 125, 126. Paraprosdokian, i. 155.

Parasitism and musical culture, il. 71. Paris, i. 177, ii. 71, 132, iii. 48, 56, 60, 1 14, iv. 75, 1 17, v. 103, 257, 272, vi. 18, 20, 21, 24, 1 12, 114; Con- servatoire of, vi. 53; Opera, vi. 112. Parratt, Sir Walter, ii. 200, v. 76. Parry, Sir Hubert, i. 1,2, 10, 67, 218, 221, ii. 28, 53, 139, 142-5, iii. 170,

iv. 1, 18, 143-7; v. 50, 175, 232-5, vi. 23, 139, 149.

and English style, ii. 143; his method of analysis, i. 1, 2, vi. 139.

Works l SYMPHONIC VARIATIONS FOR ORCHESTRA, ii. LXIII. 1 42-5, iii. 170; OVERTURE TO AN UNWRITTEN TRAGEDY, iv. CLXXXIII. I43-7, iv. I ; ‘at A SOLEMN MUSIC*, V. CCXVIII.

232-5, v. 175, ‘Blest Pair of Sirens*, vi. 153; Magnificat in F, v. 50. Passacaglia, i. 115.

Passing Notes, vi. 162.

Pathos, in sonata form, ii. 19.

Pedal, vi. 162; remarkable examples: Tonic, i. 134, v. 218-19; Domi- nant, i. 88; Inverted, i. 41 -{-ref. Dvofdk, ii. 92; Mediant, ii. 54, Ex. 8, 87, Ex. 4, vi. 64, Ex. 11. Peel, Sir Robert, \i. 39.

Pepys, iii. 217, v. 128.

Perfect concords, see Concord. Pergolese (Pergolesi), v. 9, vi. 58.

Works : ‘Stabat Mater*, v. 9.

Peri, vi. 14, 161. Works: ‘Euridice*, vi. 14.

Peters (score of Haydn’s Creation),

v. 138, 143.

Pfitzner, Hans, i. 50.

Philharmonic, the (London), i. 210,

ii. 38, 146, vi. 12; (Berlin), ii. 171. Phrygian Mode, v. 101. See also Palestrina.

Piatti, iv. 109.

Planch^, iv. 58, 59, 102.

Plato, iii. 95.

Pleyel, vi. 134. See also Haydn.

Poe, E. A., iv. 75.

Polyphony, see Cathedral Polyphony, Bach and Orchestral Polyphony. Polytonality, vi. 163. See also Atona- lity.

Pope, see Bruckner.

Prague, iv. 40, vi. 28.

Preparation, vi. 163.

‘Pretty Tinkle*, see Mozart and the pianoforte.

Prieger, Dr. (of Bonn), vi. 137.

Prout, ii. 9 5, 124, iv. 23, 69, vi. 143.

Puccini, iv. 156.

Purcell, ii. 201, iii. 217, iv. 57, v. 40, 41, 91, 119.

his independence, v. 89.

Works: ‘Dido*, v. 41.

Pushkin, iv. 140, 142, v. 229-30.

Quantz, v. 67.

Queen’s Hall, the, iv. 143. Quintessence, of Brahms, i. 105, 125; of Bruckner, ii. 81 ; of Bach, v. 36; of Haydn, v. 127 ; of Sibelius, vi. 93.

Rachmaninoff, iv. 100. Works : Pre- lude in C sharp, iv. 100.

Racial Characteristics, ii. 106-7. Racine, vi. 19.

Raff, vi. 5.

Raimondi, ii. 182.

Raleigh, Sir Walter, iv. 175.

Rameau, vi. 16, 157.

Range of Modulation, ii. 165. Rasoumovsky, Count, iii. 75.

Ravel, i. 169, ii. 205, 210, iii. 139,

v. 134, 250, 251. Works: Trio, i. 169, ii. 210.

Ravogli, The Sisters, vi. 18, 19. Recapitulation, vi. 163.

‘Recherchd*, used in the sense of polyphonic, ii. 173.

Recitative, vi. 163; and language, v. 1 19, 120; classical, not Wagnerian declamation, v. 12 1.

Reger, Max, ii. 208, iv. 69, 166-9,

vi. 65-73, 97, 100. Works: four

TONE POEMS AFTER BOCHLIN, iv. CXCII. 166-9; SERENADE IN G MAJOR FOR ORCHESTRA, Op. 95, vi. CCXLII. 65-73; Conzert im alten Stil, ii. 208; Sinfonietta, vi. 66; Variations on a Theme by Adam Hiller, Op. ioo, vi. 69.

Reicha, iii. 100.

Reid, General, vi. 134.

Reid Orchestra, the, ii. pp. xi, xii, vi. 23, 105, 134, 141; Concerts, the, ii. p. xi, iv. 1, v. 61, vi. 55, 133, 136, 141 ; Chair, the, vi. 134; library, the, v. 45-

Resemblances, real and casual, i. 24, 26, 27-8, 41, 92, 93, 104-5, m» 1 12, 1 14, 128, 129, 140, 141, 148, 153, 154, 175-6, 178-9, 196, 217, ii. 14, 61, 83, 204, iii. 22, 29, 32, 50, 63, 67, 69, 73, iv. 77, 94, 99 [ see ‘Cosl fan Tutte’], 102, 152, 163, 209, v. 84, 89, 90-3, 99, 100, 101-3, 105, 107, 108, 109, v. 130, 133, 151, 152, 136, 140, i. 140. See also Top-knot exegesis.

Resolution, vi. 163/ 164.

184 INDEX

Respighi, Ottorino, ill. 217-20. Works : 'concerto gregoriano',

FOR VIOLIN, iii. CXXXIV. 2 I 7 ~ 20 . RETROSPECT AND CORRIGENDA, vi. 1 32-

49.

Richter, Hans, il. 70, iv. 128.

Richter, Jean Paul, ii. 102.

Riemann, vi. 66; his Dictionary of Music, vi. 67.

Ries, ii. 2, iii. 46.

Rimsky- Korsakov, i. 170, iii. 217, iv. 140-3, v. 229, vi. 20, 144. Works : ‘Conte F6erique', iv. clxxxii. 140-3. Ritter, iv. 155.

Robinson, P. (Handel and his Orbit),

v. 91, zoi.

Rochlitz, iv. 50, vi. 137.

Rockstro, W. S., i. 222, v. 95, 96, 102. Rome, v. 14, 133, 242.

Rdntgen, Julius, ii. 1 10-14, 202-4,

208, iii. 175, iv. 147-9, vi. 76, 136. See also Orchestration.

Works : triple concerto in b FLAT, ii. LXXX. 202-4, 208; OLD netherland suite, iv. CLXXXIV. 147-9; SYMPHONY IN F MINOR, ii. lv. 1 10-14; Azzopardi Variations, iii. 175.

Root, vi. 164.

Rore, Cipriano da (de), v. 6, 7. Rossetti, v. 243, 245.

Rossini, i. 186, 193, ii. 160, iii. 49, 181, iv. 54, v. 196, 198, 200, 207,

209.

Rossini-fever, ii. 160; Rossinian Operas, v. 123. Works: Overtures, ‘Barbiere', i. 193, v. 196; ‘William Tell*, v. 196; ‘Otello', v. 209. Rousseau, Jean -Jacques, vi. 16. Rousseau's Dictionary, vi. 159. Rubinstein, Anton, ii. 46, iii. 180,

vi. 143. Works : Violin Sonata, iii. 180.

Rubinstein, Joseph, ii. 46.

Rubinstein, Nicholas, ii. 46. Runciman, J. F., of the Saturday Review , vi. no.

Ruskin, ii. 40, iii. 170, 225, vi. 73, 74. Russia, iii. 217, iv. 143.

Rust, Wilhelm, ii. 196.

Sacchini, iv. 78, 89.

St. James's Hall, the, iv. 109, 143, V. 61.

Saint- Sagns, i. 223, iii. 156, 176, 189- 94, 197, 200, iv. 18-21, 61, vi. 44.

Works : FOURTH pianoforte con- certo in c minor. Op. 44, iii. cxxiv.

189-92; SYMPHONIC POEM, ‘ PHAE- TON*, iv. cxxxix. 19-21, i. 2, iv. 18;

VIOLONCELLO CONCERTO IN A MINOR,

Op. 33, iii. cxxv. 192-4, 197; ‘L©

Rouet d’Omphale\ I. 2; Second Pianoforte Concerto, G minor, i. 223; Third Symphony, iii. 190, 193; Violin Concerto in B minor, iii. 156, 193; Violoncello Sonata, C minor, iii. 193.

Saintsbury, Professor, iii. 49, iv. 174. Salieri, iv. 64.

Salomon, i. 164.

Salzburg, i. 177, 191, iii. 56. Sammartini, vi. 10.

Sand, see Sugar.

Saturday Review , the, vi. no. Scarlatti, Alessandro, iii. 7-12. Scarlatti, Domenico, i. 8, ii. 146, iv.

103, v. 106; the manner of, ii. 146. Schiller, ii. 1, 35-9, 41, 42, 136, iii.

18 1, v. 229.

Schindler, i. 46, 47, 51; his ‘Yellow- hammer', i. 47, 51.

Schmidt, Franz, iii. 216-17. Works:

VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF BEET- HOVEN’S FOR PIANOFORTE WITH ORCHESTRA, iii. CXXXIII. 216-17.

Schopenhauer, i. 124.

Schubert, i. 2, 13, 25-8, 61, 138, 142, 198, 199, 201-18, ii. 72, 90, 94, 100,

104, 105, 108, 123, 139, 148. 160,

iii. 7i, 148, 155, iv. 1, 26, 55, 63-73, no, v. 122, 140, 142, 159, 194-5, 200, 248, vi. 90, 138, 160. See also Balance of Tone, Dvof&k.

OBITER DICTA, i. XXXVI. 201-2 J A CENTENARY CONCERT, iv. CLVII. 63-

5; and Italian style, i. 28, 208; and counterpoint, iv. 73.

Works : ‘erlkOnig’, v. ccxi. 194- 5, vi. 149; entr'acte in b minor

AND BALLET IN G MAJOR FROM ‘ROSA- MUNDE' MARCH IN E MAJOR, iv. CLX. 69-70; FANTASIA (THE WANDERER), ARRANGED FOR PIANOFORTE AND OR- CHESTRA BY LISZT, iv. CLXI. 7O-3.

O VERTURES : ‘the faithful sen- tinel', iv. clix. 67-8, i. 203, iv. 65 ; ‘die weiberverschwOrung' (The Conspiracy of Wives), iv. CLViiia, 65-7, iv. 70; POLONAISE IN F MAJOR,

iv. clviii*, 67. SYMPHONIES:

No. 5, IN B FLAT, 1 . XXXVII. 203-5; No. 7 , IN C MAJOR, i. XXXVIII. 205- li; IN C MAJOR, ORCHESTRATED BY JOACHIM FROM THE GRAND DUO, Op. 140, i. xl. 215-18 (iv. CLVIII C, reference to i. xl), i. 26-8, 67, 70, 71 ; No. 8, IN B MINOR, THE UN- FINISHED, i. xxxix. 211-15, iii. 155; ‘Die Allmacht', . Op. 79, v. 140; Du Bist die Ruh, Op. 59, ii. 72; Drei-Mdderl-Haus, iv. 65; First Mass in F, i. 203, iv. 67; ‘Gretchen am Spinnrade', Op. 2, v. 1 59 ; Over-

INDEX

ture, ‘Die Zwillingsbriider’, iv. 66; Quartet in D minor, No. 14, iv# 1 10; Quartet in G major, vi. 90; ‘Die Schone Miillerin, iv. 68.

Schumann, I. 24-6, 28, 38, 125, 138, 199, ii. 17, 45-62, 66, 84, 85, 87, hi, 1 19, 139, 142, iii- 8, 32, 86, 87, 103, 105, 1 17, 170, 177, 182-9, 200, an, iv. 11, 109-15, 117, 151, 162,

v. 199, vi. 4, 5, 22, 40-5, 138, 143, 155. See also Scoring.

on Chopin, iii. 103.

Works : ‘CARNAVAL*, FOR PIANO- FORTE solo, Op. 9 (Scenes Mi- gnonnes sur quatre notes), iv. clxx. 109-12, iii. 87, iv. 162; INTRODUC- TION AND ALLEGRO APPASSIONATO FOR PIANOFORTE WITH ORCHESTRA, Op. 92, iii. CXXIII. 188-9 ; OVERTURE, SCHERZO AND FINALE, Op. 52, vi. CCXXXV. 4O-4, Vi. 138; OVERTURE TO BYRON’S ‘MANFRED’, Op. 1 1 5, iv. CLXXI. 1 1 2-1 5; PIANOFORTE CON- CERTO in a minor, Op. 54, Hi. CXXI. 182-4; SYMPHONY IN B FLAT MAJOR,

No. i, Op. 38, ii. xliv. 45-52, ii. 57,

Vi. 40; SYMPHONY IN E FLAT MAJOR,

No. 3, Op. 97, ii. xlv. 53-6, ii. 87;

SYMPHONY IN D MINOR, No. 4,

Op. 120, ii. xlvi. 56-62, i. 26, 28, ii. 53, iv. 1 17, vi. 40; VIOLONCELLO CONCERTO IN A MINOR, Op. 1 29, iii. CXXII. 184-7; Concerto for four horns, vi. 138; ‘Etudes Sym- phoniques*, Op. 13, ii. 144, iv. 151 ; Kreisleriana, Op. 16, ii. 51; Noc- turne in E flat, iv. iii; ‘Phantasie- stttcke’, vi. 43; Quintet, vi. 22; Symphony in C major, vi. 138; Symphony No. 2, vi. 40, 44. Schumann, Clara, i. 84, ii. 57, iii. 80, iv. 109, no, vi. 74.

SchUtz, i. 138, v. 37, 94, 96. Schweitzer, v. 23, 3°, 33, 34, 37, 4*, 43, 48, 149, vi. 9.

Scoring, Beethoven and Haydn com- pared, i. 144; Schumann’s, clumsi- ness of, ii. 47, and successful, iii. 188; Wagner’s, iv. 125.

Scott, Cyril, iii. 204.

Scott, Miss Marion, vi. 135.

Scott, Sir Walter, vi. 132.

Seiffert, Dr. Max, ii. 186, 189, 200. Sequence, vi. 164.

Shakespeare, i. 41, 197, 202, ii. 49, 151, 152, iv. 4, 5, 7, 1 1, 43-6, 59, 75, 83, 86, 89, 94, 101-5, v. 23, 84, 91, 209, 210, vi. 20, 46, 55, 104, 109, 1 19, 121, 136, 158; and George III,

vi. 109.

Shaw, G. B., ii. 102, iv. 151.

Shelley, ii* 114.

185

Sheridan, Mrs. Richard Brinsley, v. 119.

Sherlock Holmes, see Holmes. Sibelius, ii. 121-9, iii. 211-15, vi. 80, 89-95, 1 17, 145; and Wagnerian music-drama, ii. 12 1-2.

Works : concerto for violin, Op. 47, iii. CXXXII. 211-15; SYM- PHONY in c major, No. 3, Op. 52,

ii. LVII. 121-5, iii. 215; SYMPHONY IN E FLAT MAJOR, No. 5, Op. 82, U. LV1II. 125-9, vi. 80; SYMPHONY IN c major, No. 7, Op. 105, vi. CCXLVI. 89-92; ‘tapiola*, symphonic poem,

FOR FULL ORCHESTRA, Op. 1 12, vL CCXLVII. 93-5.

Silver Age, see Golden Age.

Similar motion, see Motion.

Simrock, ii. 101, iv. 133.

Slough, see Herschel and Haydn. Smetana, iv. 132. Works : ‘the bar- tered BRIDE’, OVERTURE, iv. CLXXVIII.

132.

Smyth, Dame Ethel, iv. 165, v. 42, 235-42; and Palestrina, v. 238. Works : mass in d, v. ccxix. 235-42, v. 42.

Sneeze, see Cherubini and Beethoven. Somervell, Sir Arthur, iii. 158-64, 169-73. Works: concerto in g minor for violin and orchestra,

iii. cxiv. 1 58-64; ‘normandy’, sym- phonic variations for pianoforte

WITH ORCHESTRA, Hi. CXVII. 169-73. Sonata, progress of, as an art-form, v. 12-13.

Spencer, Herbert, iv. 174, vi. 144. Speyer, Edward, ii. 17 1; possessor of Beethoven, Op. 1 12, autograph MS., v. 194.

Spinoza, v. 18, 235.

Spitta, v. 59.

Spohr, i. 37, 44, 140, 157, ii. 158, iii. 38, 71, 101, 176-7, 194, iv. 61, 109, 1 15, 173, vi. 12, 148. Works: scena

CANTANTE FOR VIOLIN WITH OR- CHESTRA, iii. cxix. 176-7; ‘Bacarolle and Scherzo*, iv. 109; ‘Gesangszene*, Concerto, iv. 61; Ninth Concerto, ii. 158 (Ex. ic).

Spontini, iv. 115, 122, vi. 116. S.P.C.C.A.,5*«‘Mendelssohn-baiting\ Stanford, Sir Charles, i. 2, ii. 14, 26, 38, 42, 142, iii* 52, *°8, 197-200, v. no, vi. no, 147, 149; on Saint- Saens, i. 2. Works : clarinet con- certo in one movement, Op. 80, iii* cxxvii. 197-200.

‘Star’, The, vi. no.

Starling, Mozart’s, see Pianoforte Con- certo in G major, iii. 36.

| Steinbach, ii. 47, vi. 57, 84.

i 86 INDEX

Stevenson, R. L., i. 38, il. p. x, vi. 136. Stradella, v. 90-3, 99, 100, 102, 105, hi, 1 13; his Serenata and Handel, v. 90-3, 100, 105, 107, hi. Works : ‘Piet h Signore’, v. 90.

Strangways, Fox, Hi. 54, 55, v. 2, 120. Strauss, Richard, i. 190, ii. 11, Hi. 3, 22, 41, 70, 206-9, iv. 6, 83, 86, 154- 8, v. 197, vi. 30, 66, 75, 83, 91, i.39, 140, 141, 148; his musical aesthetics, V. 250. See also Orchestration.

Works : PARERGON TO THE ‘SIN- FONIA DOMESTICA* FOR PIANOFORTE WITH ORCHESTRA, Op. 73 , Hi. CXXX. 206-9, vi. 66; TONE-POEM, ‘DON juan* (after Nicholas Lenau), Op. 20, iv. clxxxvii. 154-8 ; ‘Also sprach Zarathustra*, Hi. 22; ‘Ein Helden- leben’, iv. 6, vi. 66, 83, 84; ‘Death and Transfiguration*, Op. 24, iv. 154; ‘Till Eulenspieger,iii.4i ;‘Tod und Vcrkiarung’, iv. 154; Tone- poem, ‘Macbeth’, Op. 23, iv. 154. Stringendo, vi. 164.

Subdominant, i. 6-7.

Subject, vi. 164.

Sugar, see Grocer.

Sullivan, Sir Arthur, i. 66. See also Bassoon Jokes; compared with Haydn, v. 133-4- Suspensions, vi. 165.

Sweelinck, i. 138.

Swieten, Baron von, v. 115, 118, 122, 138, 146-8, 150, 152, 154-7, 159- Swift, vi. 105.

Swinburne, v. 138.

Talich, Vaclav, i. 22.

Tallis, v. 7.

Tastenbrecher, Herr Hammerfaust, iv. no.

Tchaikovsky, ii. 46, 72, 84-9, 145, 151, iii. 209, iv. 26, 144, vi. 58-65, 143. Works : PATHETIC SYMPHONY IN B MINOR, No. 6, Op. 74, ii. L. 84-9, ii. 72, 15 1, iv. 144, vi. 59, 60, 62, 65; SYMPHONY IN E MINOR,

No. 5, Op. 64, vi. ccxli. 58-65; Trio, Hi. 209.

Technical Terms, an explanation, i.

2-18. See also vi, Glossary. Telemann, ii. 185.

Temperament, vi. 165-6.

Tempo, vi. 166.

Tennyson, i. 104, v. 135, 147.

Terry, Dr. Sanford, v. 23, 63, 68, 78. Thalberg, vi. 32.

Theme, vi. 166.

Thibaut, Schumann’s friend, on Palestrina, v. 199.

Thinking, disclaimed by future Chief Magistrates [ii. p. xii], iv. 153.

Thomson, George (publisher), vL 4. Thomson, James, v. 147-60.

Thumb, General Tom, i. 62.

Time, vi. 166-7.

Tolstoi, vi. 57.

Top-knot exegesis, i. 141 ; othet examples, i. 92, ii. 14, iv. 38, 172, v. 84.

Transformation of themes, Glazou- nov’s facility with, Hi. 209. Translations, v. 78, 79, 81, vi. 19. Trevelyan, Robert Calverley (dedica- tion to), i. p. vi, ii. 8.

Triad, vi. 167.

Triangle, i. 121, ii. 49, 139. See also Turkish Music.

Triple time (and Sibelius), iii. 215.

See also Palestrina.

Troutbeck, v. 227.

Trumpet, primitive characters em- phasized, i. 54, ii. 38; Bach’s Clarino, ii. 176; humorous imita- tions of trumpets, iii. 54, vi. 3. Tschopsztiksy, school of pianoforte playing, vi. 133.

Tub-practise, i (dedication), p. vi, ii. 170.

Turgenev, iv. 46.

‘Turkish music*, i. 159, ii. [40], 45, 170, iv. 59; equivalent to ‘military music*, ii. 40, 45. Used as such for music of the spheres in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony , ii. 169-70. Turner, vi. 51, 83.

Twain, Mark, v. 155.

Two-part writing (Brahms’s test of mastery), ii. 178, iv. 6.

Unaccompanied ‘motet*, v. 74.

Urio, Padre Francesco, his Te Deum and Handel, v. 91, 102, 106, 113.

Variation, vi. 167.

Variations, unsuitable themes for, ii. 144.

Vaughan Williams, Ralph, ii. p. xi, 129-33, 205-8, iv. 162, 164, 165.

Works : PASTORAL SYMPHONY, H. lix. 129-33; ‘concerto accadem-

ICO*, IN D MINOR FOR VIOLIN, H. LXXXI. 205-8; OVERTURE TO ‘THE

wasps’, iv. cxci. 164-5; incidental music to ‘The Wasps’, ii, p. xi. Verdi, i. 150, 195, 222, ii. 71, iv. 90, v. 12, 146, 195-21 1, vi. 57-8; and Haydn, i. 150; his fundamental tempo for church music, v. 202 ; his only musical idiom, v. 198.

Works : REQUIEM IN MEMORY OF MANZONI, V. CCXII. 195-209, i. 222 ; SCENA FROM ACT III OF ‘OTELLO* (THE

willow song), v. ccxiii. 2og-zx;

INDEX

187

‘star AT MATER* TOR CHORUS AND orchestra, vi. ccxl. 57—8 ; ‘Aida’,

v. 198, 209; ‘Falstaff’, i. 195, v. 146, 197, 209; ‘Otello*, v. 197, 209 ; ‘Rigoletto’, v. 12, 196; ‘Te Deum’,

vi. 57; ‘II Trovatore*, v. 196, 204, 209, vi. 57; ‘La Traviata*, v. 196.

Vergil, v. 132, 133.

Verne, Jules, iv. 75. See also Berlioz. Victoria, Luis de, i. 138.

Vienna, i. 29, 185, 191, ii. 1, 69, 156, 160, iii. 148, iv. 16, 26, 27, v. 23, 140, vi. 28 ; Conservatonum, vi. 100. Vienna Opera, v. 1 ; House, vi. 76. Viennese Rococco, i. 168, 169.

Viotti, iii. 38. Works: a minor violin concerto, vi. 146.

Vivaldi, ii. 185.

‘Vocal-Polyphony*, v. 23.

Vogler, Abt, iii. 207, iv. 54. Volkmann, Dr. Hans, iii, p. ix. Voormolen, A., iv. 170-2. Works: overture, ‘baron hop*, iv. cxciv. 170-2.

Wagner, Frau, iv. 128.

Wagner, Richard, i. 39, 65, 68, 121, 176, 190, 193, ii. 7, 9-i2, 15, 24, 32, 52, 65, 69-72, 81-3, 106, no, 146, 148, 171, iq 1 , iii. 107, 108, 114,203,

iv. 28, 43-6, si, 56, 59, 70-2, 89, 90, 103, 104, 115-32, 143, 155, 156,

v. 2, 8, 1 16, 120, 135, 185, 196, 227,

vi. 13, 15, 16, 18, 45, 51, 59, 77, 91, 92, 102-31, 138, 144, 151, 168; his discords, vi. 153.

WAGNER IN THE CONCERT ROOM, vi.

ecu. 102-14.

Works: A ‘FAUST* OVERTURE, iv. clxxiii. 117-22, ii. 106, vi. 1 13; INTRODUCTION TO ‘TRISTAN AND ISOLDE’, iv. CLXXV. 124-6, iv. IO4; OVERTURE, ‘DER FLIEGENDE HOL- LANDER*, iv. CLxxii. 1 15-17, vi. 51, 92 , 1 13; ‘PARSIFAL*, ACT. Ill, vi. CCXLIV. 1 1 9-31; PRELUDE ‘KAISER- MARSCH*, Vi. CCLIII. 116-19; vi. 113, 13 8, 139; PRELUDE TO ACT III, TANN- HAUSER (TANNHAUSER’S PILGRIMAGE) IN THE ORIGINAL VERSION, iv. CLXXIV. 122 - 4 ; PRELUDE TO THE ‘MASTER SINGERS*, iv. CLXXVII. i26-8,vi. 1 1 3; ‘SIEGFRIED IDYLL*, iv. CLXXVII. 128- 32 , ‘VENUSBERG* MUSIC, Vi. CCLII. 114-16, vi. 1 12, ‘Der fliegende Hollander*, iv. 51, 117; ‘Gottei- dammerung*, ii. 70, v. 52, vi. 108, 109; ‘Die Meistersinger’, i. 121, 175, 70. iii.* 125, iv. 54, 154, vi.

12 1 ; ‘Liebestod*, vi. 103, 104; ‘Lohengrin’, iv. 54, 59, 115, 118, 119, v« 196, vi. I2i; ‘Das Rhein-

gold’, iv. 117; ‘Rienzi*, iv. 90, 115, ‘Siegfried*, i. 121, iv. 128, 129, vi. 105, 107, 108; ‘Parsifal’, iv. 124, v. 244, vi. 110, 121, 168; ‘Tann- hauser*, i. 133, iii. 107, 1 14, 212, iv.

115, 116, 120, v. 196, vi. 1 12, 114,

116, 121, 150; ‘Tristan and Isolde’, iii. 125, iv. 45, 88, v. 116, 118, vi. 103, 120, 121, 168; ‘Die Walkure*,

i. 124, vi. 106, 108; ‘Walkurenntt’,

ii. 71, vi. 105-8; ‘Waldweben’, ii. 71, vi. 105, 107, 108, no; list of works for a ‘legitimate* Wagner concert without \01ces, vi. in.

Wagner, Siegfried, iv. 128-9. Wagnerian Leit-motiv, i. 39, ii. 8i,

iii. 153, 203, iv. 54, 70; and the Paris Opera, vi. 112. See also Balance of Tone, Scoring.

Walford Davies, see Davies, Sir Wal- ford.

Walker, Dr. Ernest, i. 24, iv. 162-4. Works: FANTASIA VARIATIONS ON A NORFOLK FOLK-SONG, Op. 45, iv.

cxc. 162-4.

Walton, William, iii. 220-6. Works: VIOLA CONCERTO IN A MINOR, iii. CXXXV. 220 - 6 .

Weber, i. 34, 59, ii. 5, 102, 160, iii. 27, 101, iv. 26, 29, 50-63, 68, 69, 102, 122, 15 1, v. 142, vi. 32, 59, 75, 84, 109; and Hollywood, iv. 62; on Beethoven, i. 34, 59, vi. 75.

Works: conzertstCck in f minor

FOR PIANOFORTE WITH ORCHESTRA,

Op. 79, iv. clvi. 61-3, iii. 27. OVERTURES: ‘the ruler of thl SPIRITS*, iv. CLII. 50-2; ‘DER FREI schOtz*, iv. cliii. 52-4; ‘eury- anthe’, iv. cliv. 54-7, 59, 65, 68, 69; ‘oberon*, iv. clv. 57-60, i. 159,

iv. 102, 151; ‘Der Freischutz*, ii. 93, iv. 29, 54, 61 ; Sonata in A flat No. 2, ii. 102.

Weelkes, v. 3-12, 15, vi. 148; and Ice- land, v. 10; a great contrapuntist, V. 5-

Works ; four madrigals, v. cxcvii. 3-12; First set of Madrigals, v. 7; ‘Three Virgin Nymphs*, vi. 148. Weimar, iii. 107.

Weimar Group, v. 230.

Weingartner, i. 31, 32, 38, 41, 51, ii. 12, 14, 15, 24, 5L 58, 71, I5L 170. 171, 178, iv. 31, 47, 140, vi. 112. Weisse, Dr. Sophie, v. 68. Weissnichtwo, see Tastenbrecher. West, Rebecca, iv. 155.

Whitman, Walt, ii. 9.

Whole Tone Scale, vi. 167-8. Whymper, Edward, ii. 169.

Widor, v. 33, SO, 54-

INDEX

188

Wieck, ii. 45,

Wieck, Clara, see Schumann, Clara. Wilbyc, v. 7; and Palestrina, v. 12-19.

Works'. FOUR SIXTEENTH-CENTURY MOTETS, V. CXCVIII. 1 2-1 9 .

Wilde, Oscar, iv. 74.

Wilhelmj, August, ii. 177, 178, vi. 1 1 1. Wilm, Wilm, iv. 176.

Wilson, Steuart, v. 2, 120.

Windsor (St. George’s Chapel), v. 76.

Witchery, see Mendelssohn. Wittgenstein, Paul, ill. 206, 216. Wordsworth, ii. 27, 71, 72, 129, iil.40. Worsley, Walter, vi. 134.

Wotton, Tom, iv. 100.

Zador, vi. 100-2. Works: rondo for

ORCHESTRA, vi. CCL. IOO- 2 .

Zippel, Dr. Otto (his critical edition of ‘The Seasons’), v. 147.

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