Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Famous Composers and their Works

Edited by

John Knowles Paine

Theodore Thomas and Karl Klauser

Illustrated

Boston

J. B. Millet Company

Copyright, 1891, by

J. B. Millet Company.

JOSEPH JOACHIM RAFF
Reproduction of a photograph from life, made in 1878 by Mondel & Jacob, in Wiesbaden.

JOSEPH JOACHIM RAFF

Joseph Joachim Raff, was the son of an organist and teacher, Franz Joseph Raff, who early in 1822 left the little Würtemberg city of Weisenstetter in the Horb district of the Black Forest to settle in Lachen on the lake of Zurich in the canton Schwyz. Here on May 27 of the same year the boy was born. In his early childhood he displayed that mental ability which does not always fulfill its promise in years of maturity. He was able to translate Homer at the age of seven and generally preferred books to rude outdoor sports. He displayed musical tendencies, too, learning to play the organ and to sing in the choir; but no special attention was given to his musical training, probably because his facility in this art was regarded as only an evidence of his general activity of mind. He was first put to school at the Würtemberg Institute, and after a thorough preparation there, was sent to the Schwyz Jesuit Lyceum. He was graduated with distinction, carrying off prizes in Latin and mathematics, but his means were not sufficient to enable him to take a university course. He obtained the post of tutor of Latin at St. Gallen, where he remained a short time, afterward going as a teacher to Rapperswyl. He was at this time hardly twenty years of age. He now began his study of music, for which his fondness had been growing. He was unable to afford a teacher, but he diligently practised at the piano and made many earnest attempts at composition.

The patron saint of musical Germany in 1842 was Mendelssohn and in August of that year he set off on one of his tours in Switzerland. No date is recorded, but we may be sure that Raff seized upon this visit as his opportunity. Mendelssohn, with his customary promptness in recognizing and assisting aspirants, gave the young man a warm letter of recommendation to the great publishing house of Breitkopf & Härtel. So effective were the master’s words that Raff’s first work was published in January, 1843. Thenceforward the current of his life could not be checked, and despite the opposition of his parents, he devoted his future to music. No critical notice of Raff’s opus 1 has been found, but opus 2 (“Trois Pièces Caracteristique” for piano) is mentioned with kindness in Schumann’s journal, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, of Aug. 5, 1844. The critic found in the composition “something which points to a future for the composer.” One readily discerns here the keen insight of the greatest of all music critics, Schumann himself. Favorable comments were made on the young composer’s works numbered opus 2 to 6 in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung of Aug. 21 in the same year, and we may readily understand that with such encouragements Raff bent his whole mind to the production of music.

In 1845 the wizard Liszt appeared in Switzerland. The great pianist was not long in discovering Raff’s gifts and was equally quick to see that the young man was struggling against privations that would have overwhelmed a weaker nature. Liszt invited Raff to accompany him on a concert tour, and thus laid the foundations of the beginner’s reputation. Together they travelled in the principal German cities, the tour ending at Cologne. Thence Liszt returned to Paris, but Raff remained. This stay in Cologne was a happy one, for it led to a personal acquaintance with Mendelssohn. The famous master, who had given the young composer his first help, now displayed fresh interest in him and made him a proposition to go to Leipsic and continue his studies under Mendelssohn’s own guidance. Such an offer was not to be refused, but the fates were not propitious. Just as Raff was making his preparations to go to Leipsic in the fall of 1847 Mendelssohn’s untimely death put an end to his hopes. He had not been idle while in Cologne, however, for he had studied composition with great earnestness, and had sent to the Cäcilia, published in Berlin by the noted contrapuntist, Siegfried Dehn, many contributions displaying wide knowledge of musical science. Later he published “Die Wagnerfrage” (“The Wagner Question”), a pamphlet which attracted much attention, as did all discussions of the works of the Bayreuth genius.

Raff now became anxious to make a permanent home for himself in one of the larger German cities. He appealed once more to Liszt, who gave him a letter of introduction to Mechetti, at that time a prominent publisher of Vienna. It seemed as if ill luck relentlessly pursued Raff, for while he was actually on the way to visit Mechetti, the latter died. In spite of such obstacles to his advancement the composer continued his labors with undaunted spirit. He returned to his old home at Würtemberg and resumed his studies. For a short time he taught and studied at Stuttgart, seeking in the latter city to fill the gaps in his early training. That his ambition was unconquered is well proved by the fact that in Stuttgart he wrote his first large work, an opera in four acts entitled “King Alfred.” In Stuttgart, too, he was in some measure recompensed for his many trials and adversities by making the acquaintance of one who was destined to be his life-long friend and his champion after death. This was Hans von Bülow, then a youth of barely twenty, not yet the famous pupil of Liszt, but a law student who was neglecting his studies for the pursuit of music. Von Bülow, no doubt, perceived that to introduce to the public a new composer of merit would add to his own success as a player, and he accordingly performed from memory a recently finished composition of Raff’s, which he had seen for the first time two days before. The result was a storm of applause for both player and composer. This success cemented the friendship of the two, and, as all who have often heard the pianist well know, Dr. von Bülow very rarely plays a miscellaneous programme on which the name of Raff does not appear.

It was in 1850 that the young man met Liszt again, this time in Hamburg, and followed the magnet of attraction to Weimar. Here at last it seemed as if Raff had found the atmosphere for which his spirit hungered. Music, literature and art permeated the air; and the foreign artists who came to lay their tributes of flattery before the throne of the musical idol of the hour had smiles of approval for Raff, who basked in the sunlight and let the essence of the new German ideas in music saturate his soul. He went to work with renewed vigor, and inspired by the presence of competent performers wrote his first chamber music (Quatuor No. 1 in D minor for strings), some of his best piano suites, his setting of Geibel’s “Traum König und Sein Lieb” (“Dream King and his Love”), “Wachet auf” and other well known works. Raff made himself popular and respected in the artistic circles of Weimar by his learning. When Berlioz, who was ignorant of German, was there and a banquet was given in his honor, Raff relieved the situation of some difficulty by making the address to the guest in Latin, an attention which highly delighted the Frenchman.

In the meantime Raff had found his domestic fate in Doris Genast, an actress, grand-daughter of Goethe’s favorite actor. This young lady having accepted an engagement in Wiesbaden, the composer followed her thither in 1856. He speedily became the most popular music teacher in the city, but his compositions still failed to find a ready market. Nevertheless he employed his spare hours unceasingly in writing. In 1859 he and Fräulein Genast were married, and a daughter was the result of their union. Previous to his marriage he composed in 1858 his second violin sonata and the incidental music to “Bernhard von Weimar,” a drama by Wilhelm Genast. The overture to this drama became a favorite and was played frequently in many parts of Germany. In the summer of 1859, however, he began the work which was to establish his fame. This was his first symphony, “In the Fatherland.” It was ready for the publisher in 1861, when the composer was informed of the prize offered by the “Society of the Friends of Music of the Austrian Empire” (“Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde”), for the best symphony offered in competition. Raff sent in his new work, and in 1863 a committee consisting of Ferdinand Hiller, Carl Reinecke, Dr. Ambros, Robert Volkmann and Vincenz Lachner adjudged it the best of thirty-two compositions. Other large works followed, and their success enabled him to give up teaching to devote himself wholly to composing. No artist’s life shows more plainly than Raff’s the result of escape from poverty’s iron control. Hitherto he had written copiously for the drawing-room, but now he sought to produce works wholly artistic in purpose. His retirement after the beginning of the year 1870 was almost idyllic, being broken only by the visits of fellow artists. It is impossible to agree with the oft-repeated statement that his best works date from this period, for the beautiful “Im Walde” (“In the Forest”) symphony appeared in 1869; but there is every proof of a higher purpose in the compositions after 1870 than in the majority of those originating earlier than that year. Perhaps, too, Raff’s lack of business ability may be accepted as an evidence of his artistic sincerity. For his first, second and fourth symphonies he received no cash payment; for the third (“Im Walde”) he got sixty thalers, the same amount being paid him again, when the work was sold to a French publisher. Thereafter, however, he seems to have acquired courage enough to ask fair prices for his works.

In 1877 Raff left Wiesbaden to become director of the new Conservatory of Music at Frankfort. He taught composition himself, arranged the library, and conducted the institution upon such a broad-minded plan that its success was assured from the beginning. He continued his labors in composition, his symphonies after the seventh, having been written at Frankfort together with other important works. Ignorant of the fact that a mortal disease had fastened upon him he worked with undiminished zeal till 1882, when on the night of June 24, heart disease ended his career.

Fac-simile autograph letter from Raff to a personal friend.

Raff’s principal works are the following: operas—“King Alfred,” Weimar, 1850; “Dame Kobold,” (comic) Weimar, 1870; “Benedetto Marcello,” (lyric), not performed; “Samson” (opera seria), not performed.

For voices and orchestra—“Wachet Auf” (“Be on Guard”), opus 80; “Deutschland’s Auferstehung” (“Germany’s Resurrection”), opus 100; festival cantata for the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of Leipsic; “De Profundis” (Psalm CXXX.) for eight voices and orchestra, opus 141; and “Morgenlied” (“Morning Song”), for mixed chorus and orchestra, opus 171.

For orchestra: symphonies—“In the Fatherland,” opus 96; No. 2, in C, opus 140; No. 3, “Im Walde,” in F, opus 153; No. 4, in G minor, opus 167; No. 5, “Lenore,” in E, opus 177; No. 6, in D minor, opus 189; No. 7, “In den Alpen,” B flat, opus 201; No. 8, “Frühlingsklänge,” (“Sounds of Spring”) in A, opus 205; No. 9, “Im Sommer” (“In the Summer”) in E minor, opus 208; No. 10, “Im Herbstzeit” (“In Autumn”), F minor, opus 213; No. 11, “Der Winter,” A minor, opus 214; four suites in C, F, E minor and B flat; and nine overtures, including those to “Romeo and Juliet,” “Othello,” “Macbeth” and the “Tempest.”

For piano with orchestra—“Ode to Spring,” opus 76; concerto in C minor, opus 185; and suite in E flat, opus 200.

For violin with orchestra—concerto No. 1 in B minor, opus 161; concerto No. 2, in A minor, opus 206.

In addition to these principal works there is a great mass of chamber music, piano compositions, songs and ’cello pieces.

It may, perhaps, be unfortunate for Raff’s fame that his dramatic works are unknown in this country, though it is indisputable that none of them has achieved high repute in German. It is probable, although we in America know far less about the music of this gifted man than the Germans do, the estimate of his abilities generally accepted on this side of the Atlantic is a wise one. He is regarded as a composer who, possessing exceptional fecundity of melodic invention and rare mastery of orchestral tone-color, sought to impose upon music a definiteness of expression somewhat beyond its power. This eagerness to delineate in detail a chain of feelings or impressions led Raff into diffuseness of style and to frequent sacrifices of those formal elaborations which are regarded as essential to the construction of artistic music. He has been generally thought to lack self-criticism and a want of restraint resulting therefrom; but it has always seemed to the present writer that Raff’s errors were not in the direction of criticism, but of fundamental belief. In other words he let the beautiful vision of a genus of pictorial programme music which is to be more expressive than speech run away with his reason. The preface to his “In the Fatherland” symphony clearly exhibits his idea of the possibilities of music.

Now it is neither necessary nor expedient to repeat here any of the familiar discussion as to the expressive power of music. The most serious thinkers about the art, even when they disagree in details, are generally of the opinion that music can express only the broader emotions, and requires text to make clear the cause of the feelings. We are able to get great pleasure, and at times genuine emotional exaltation from the music of Raff provided we are willing to approach it in the only fair spirit in which programme music can be approached—that of willingness to accept the composer’s premises. The first movement of the “Fatherland” symphony has strength and aspiration, and we have only to accept Raff’s explanation that he is singing of Germany to enter into the heart of his composition. In the same way we are obliged to approach the “Lenore,” the “Im Walde” and his other symphonies. The grisly story of Burger’s “Lenore” is told in detail in the finale of the symphony, but in order to follow the music we need the poem. Having that, we perceive the aptness and peculiar fitness of the composer’s rhythmic and melodic fancies. Nothing could have a more stimulating effect upon the imagination—once the key to the secret is possessed—than the inexorable persistence of the groups of a quaver and two semi-quavers by which the infernal flight of the lovers is indicated. If perchance we find an instrumental representation of a gallop not new (it having been invented by Claudio Monteverde in the beginning of the seventeenth century) we can at any rate get all the effect designed by Raff in his woodwind shrieks of the nightbirds and his trombone hymn for the dead.

Fac-simile autograph manuscript of an “Album Leaf” by Raff.

He has achieved a greater fidelity of feeling and a subtler realism of tones, however, in his “Im Walde,” which is generally looked upon as his masterpiece. The first movement is intended to bring to the hearer’s mind the woods in the sunlit beauty of noon. The second reveals them to us in the suggestive shadow of twilight. In the third movement the composer entertains us with an airy and delicate dance of Dryads, a woodland scherzo in deed and in truth. In the fourth and last movement we have a musical embodiment of the familiar German legend of the Wild Huntsman. A gentle fugal thought pictures the repose of the woods. Suddenly the rhythm of the galloping hunt is heard, as it were, in the distance. Nearer and nearer it comes, till the whole orchestra thunders with its riotous fury. It dies away in the distance, returns and dies away again. Then comes the glory of sunrise. This symphony makes less demands in the way of preparation than many of Raff’s other works. The single suggestion that he is painting the forest and that there is a wild hunt is all that the imagination needs to give it complete enjoyment of this work. Freedom of form is a natural result of the kind of composition in which Raff excelled and his ability to write quickly and with little effort prevented his feeling the necessity of working out his compositions with the care and science of the classical school. One gets much less intellectual satisfaction, therefore, out of Raff’s work than out of Schumann’s, who was his precursor, and still less than out of Mozart’s. But the ear and the imagination are delighted by the clear intelligibility of his melodic ideas, their unfailing poetic sentiment and musical grace. It is these qualities of his themes, together with the splendid colors in which his orchestral palette is so rich, that have given to his symphonic works their wide popularity, and have made the name of Raff recognized as that of one of the really gifted followers of the romantic school founded by Schumann and Schubert. In the general outline his symphonies follow the laws of the earlier masters, notably in the distribution of the movements. His separate movements, however, are not always built according to the old rules, his finales being notably free and irregular. It can only be said, then, in concluding this brief estimate of his symphonic writing, that his works in the large orchestral form are admirable examples of that class of modern composition in which structural skill and scientific development are sacrificed to warmth of sentiment and opulence of color. In a word, they belong to what may be called the impressionist school of music.

Lest it be supposed that Raff was deficient in musical learning, let us note that his chamber music, always melodious and graceful, frequently displays profound mastery of the resources of his art. His sextet in G minor, opus 178, deserves especial mention because it is one of his most carefully written productions. It is written for two violins, two violas and two ’cellos in six real parts, and every trick of canon and imitation is introduced. One commentator enthusiastically describes it as “a veritable triumph of counterpoint.” In his treatment of the first subject of his “In the Fatherland” symphony, too, he writes a canon in augmentation and double augmentation that would have delighted the eye of Bach himself. Dr. Franz Gehring, of Vienna, in his article on Raff in Grove’s “Dictionary of Music” calls attention to the interesting fact that “in the pianoforte concerto in C minor (opus 185) in each movement all the subjects are in double counterpoint with one another, yet this is one of Raff’s freshest and most melodious works.” The composer’s piano music is very popular, and some of it, notably the variations on an original theme (opus 179) and most of the suites, is remarkable for its fertility of resource as well as for the composer’s usual readiness for the production of new melodies. His songs are equally rich in tunefulness and many of them have attained the rare distinction of becoming the common property of the German people.

Raff may not deserve a seat among the Titans of music. Yet his originality, his grace of thought and his oriental gorgeousness of utterance lift him above the level of mediocrity and stamp him as a man possessed of rare and valuable gifts. His larger works show every evidence of artistic earnestness, and had he been less imbued with impressionistic ideas and more free from the burdens of poverty, he might have attained perfection of art.

JOHANNES BRAHMS
Reproduction of a triplex photograph from life, made in 1889 by Brasch.

JOHANNES BRAHMS

The spirit of modern civilization is preëminently a critical one. A vast amount of knowledge and talent is constantly put in its service and it seems as though education had no higher purpose than to enable man to become as early as possible a critic of everything offered for material or spiritual use or enjoyment. In no field have these tendencies become more conspicuous than in the most delicate and complicated art of music. Our generation is brought up not so much for a life-long devotion, study and true appreciation, as for a most premature forming and uttering of opinions as to the merits, and particularly the shortcomings, of any production. Most of our critics, too, work in this wrong direction, instead of preaching that modesty and prudence and earnest devotion which alone enables us to become familiar with new talent or works of a higher order. Goethe accuses critics in general, that they have the habit of ignoring really great things and of showing an unusual interest in mediocrity. He ascribes to them a bad influence upon creative artists, saying that these can only follow the path dictated by their nature, while arrogant criticism, which assumes to prescribe to them how to do or not to do a thing, may destroy them. He doubts whether in modern England, with the criticising daily press, such an astounding appearance as that of a Shakespeare would be possible, and, as an expert, declares that great things can be accomplished only in a state of absolutely undisturbed, innocent, almost somnambulistic creation, attained by complete isolation. That such self-chosen isolation, resting upon a strong personal and artistic character, yet combined with a hearty interest in all human concerns and the most comprehensive general culture, is possible, even in our modern time, and that it can be crowned with most wonderful results, is splendidly shown by the career of Johannes Brahms, whose greatness rests mainly on this unswerving fidelity to his genius in spite of all adverse criticism during the years of his development and attained mastership.

He was born in Hamburg, May 7th, 1833, being the eldest of three children of Johann Brahms, a remarkable musician, who played double bass at the theatre, and Christiane Nissen, a lady of an affectionate, noble character. There was never a doubt as to his becoming a musician. Under the instruction first of O. Cossel and, from his tenth year, of Eduard Marxsen, a most thorough musician and excellent teacher in the sister city Altona, the boy made rapid progress on the piano. Marxsen soon began also to give him theoretical instruction and was at once attracted by the rare keenness of the intellect of his pupil. Indeed, in his first productions he recognized a spirit which convinced him of a profound latent talent. He therefore spared no effort to awaken and guide this talent that his pupil might become another priest of art to “preach in a new way what is high, true and imperishable.”

As a lad of fourteen Brahms played for the first time in public, pieces of his favorite masters, Bach and Beethoven, and original variations on a folk-song, thus showing an early liking not only for popular melodies, but for a musical form which he has cultivated more assiduously and for higher purposes than any other modern composer. Indeed this combination of popular elements with most artistic and complicated forms has perhaps remained the most characteristic feature of Brahms’ music.

After giving a few other concerts, Marxsen kept him for several years from appearing in public, until in 1853 he could send him as a master of his instrument upon his first journey with the Hungarian violin virtuoso Remenyi. In Hanover, where he played much before the king, he met Joachim, who became his life-long friend, and Joachim was especially impressed when Brahms, in one of these concerts with Remenyi, transposed on account of the low pitch of the piano, without any preparation and even without notes, a Beethoven violin sonata, raising it a semitone. Marxsen was not surprised; for years Brahms had been accustomed to transpose great pieces at sight into any key, and so astonishing was his memory, that he never carried notes with him upon a concert trip. The compositions of Beethoven and Bach and a long list of modern concert pieces were safely committed to memory by him. Brahms remained several weeks in Weimar as the guest of Liszt, who delighted in playing the young composer’s manuscripts. Then he parted from Remenyi and went with Joachim’s recommendation to Robert Schumann in Düsseldorf. The impression which his personality, playing, and works made upon the latter was profound. Nothing in his later career, rich in honors and triumphs, can be dearer to his memory than the enthusiastic greeting with which Schumann introduced him to the musical world.

Without some citation from an oft-reprinted article in the “Neue Zeitschrift für Musik” no sketch of Brahms’ life is complete. Schumann greets him as the one whom he had expected to appear to utter the highest ideal expression of his times, claiming the mastership not by a gradual development, but appearing suddenly before us fully equipped as Minerva sprang from the brain of Jupiter. “And he has come, a youth at whose cradle graces and heroes kept watch.” “Sitting at the piano he began to unveil wonderful regions. We were drawn into more and more magical circles by his playing, full of genius, which made of the piano an orchestra of lamenting and jubilant voices. There were sonatas, or rather veiled symphonies; songs, whose poetry might be understood without words; piano pieces both of a demoniac nature and of the most graceful form; sonatas for violin and piano—string quartets—each so different from every other, that they seemed to flow from many different springs.” “Whenever he bends his magic wand, there, when the powers of orchestra and chorus lend him their aid, further glimpses of the ideal world will be revealed to us. May the highest genius strengthen him; meanwhile the spirit of modesty dwells within him. His comrades greet him at his first step into the world of art, where wounds may perhaps await him, but bay and laurel also; we welcome him as a valiant warrior.”

This cordial introduction created quite a sensation, yet it was by no means a guaranty of an enthusiastic reception of the young composer’s works. For, far from being an imitator of Schumann’s style, he appeared at once in his own strong personality and as a stranger, who even in Leipsic was not understood. Yet he found publishers for three pianoforte sonatas, a scherzo, a trio and several songs. For years the interest in him was confined to a small circle. He stayed for a while in Hanover, making from there several concert tours with Joachim or Stockhausen, the great singer, another devoted friend, visiting also Schumann in his retreat in the Endenich hospital. In his variations on a theme from Schumann’s Op. 99, he gave a touching expression to his sympathy with the master’s sufferings. After the publication of these and the ballads Op. 10, Brahms devoted several years to profound study. Schumann’s praise had not spoiled him, nor was he discouraged by the lack of success. For a few seasons he was the director of the orchestra and chorus in Detmold, spending also some time in Hamburg and in travelling. Meanwhile he finished many songs and choruses, two serenades for orchestra, and two sextets. In Jan., 1859, he played in Leipsic his first great pianoforte concerto; most of the criticisms thereon were, however, such as to now excite our mirth. It was in Switzerland and Vienna that his genius found a sincere recognition. About thirty years ago the writer first saw Brahms in his Swiss home; at that time he was of a rather delicate slim-looking figure, with a beardless face of ideal expression. Since then he has changed in appearance, until now he looks the very image of health, being stout and muscular, the noble, manly face surrounded by a full gray beard. The writer well remembers singing under his direction, watching him conduct orchestra rehearsals, hearing him play alone or with orchestra, listening to an after-dinner speech or private conversation, observing him when attentively listening to other works, and seeing the modest smile with which he accepted, or rather declined, expressions of admiration.

The Alpine summits and glaciers had great attractions for Brahms, but also the welcome which he was always sure to find in Basel and Zürich. For his permanent home he selected Vienna, in 1862, where he was surrounded by the spirits of the classic masters. He was received most favorably. His interpretation of Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and Schumann was particularly praised. He was appointed chorus master of the Sing-Academie for a season, and prepared a memorable performance of Bach’s Passion Music. Yet his genius would not allow him to devote much time to such services, and once only in later years he accepted a similar appointment, directing from 1872–1875 the concerts of the “Society of the Friends of Music.” Aside from this all his time was devoted to composing, interrupted only by frequent journeys to performances of his works, and by giving valuable assistance in the revision of the works of Couperin, Mozart and Chopin. During the first years of his residence in Vienna he finished many important chamber works, variations, waltzes and Hungarian dances for the pianoforte, and vocal compositions of every kind. The first great success was won by the “German Requiem,” begun after the death of his mother in 1866, and completed, for the greater part, in Switzerland, in the two following years. After the first famous performance in the Bremen Cathedral in the spring of 1868, it was soon heard in other cities and was greatly admired, although certain features were severely criticised. Other works of high importance followed: the “Song of Destiny,” “Rinaldo,” the “Rhapsody,” Op. 53, the “Song of Triumph” for the celebration of the happy ending of the Franco-German war, besides many songs, chamber works, and the charming Love-Song Waltzes. By all these works Brahms rose gradually higher and higher in the general estimation both at home and abroad. But he steadfastly avoided the one field in the reform of which all musical interest seemed to centre,—the opera. Perhaps the time will come when we may be fully informed as to his relation to dramatic music and the reasons which kept him away from the stage. Much might be guessed. But it is needless to pay attention to mere rumors and suppositions. There were other fields in which he was called upon to achieve great things. Nothing shows better the greatness of Brahms’ artistic character than the fact that, in spite of Schumann’s prophecy and many early instrumental masterpieces, he waited with his first symphony until he was a man of over forty years. Four great symphonies have appeared between 1876 and 1885, preceded by orchestral variations on a theme of Haydn; also, during the same time, two overtures, a second pianoforte concerto, one for violin, two smaller choruses with orchestra, chamber works, piano pieces and songs. Another great choral composition, “Deutsche Fest-und Gedenksprüche,” a double concerto for violin and violoncello, Gipsy songs and many other vocal and chamber works complete the list of his more recent compositions. And more great things may be expected from him. If there is anything inspiring in the present aspect of musical art, it is the fact that Johannes Brahms is still among us, physically and mentally as strong as if perpetual youth were granted to him. Indeed, the graces and heroes have not only kept watch at his cradle, but guided him throughout his long career.

JOHANNES BRAHMS.
In early youth.

Those who have met him will never forget the impression of his strong personality. Nor will those who saw him conduct or heard him play ever enter into the superfluous discussion whether he was a great leader of orchestra and chorus or a master of his instrument. For in both directions he was not only equal to the most exacting demands, but always appeared as if inspired, and inspiring everybody who sang or played under him or listened to the genius of his music. At the pianoforte and the conductor’s desk he is a king, but socially he appears unaffected and easy, neither reticent nor predominating in conversation, jolly and kind among friends and children. He has never married. Many honors have been conferred upon him: the degrees of Doctor of Music by the University of Cambridge, England, in 1877, and of Doctor of Philosophy by the Breslau University in 1879; also several orders and the membership of many societies and institutes. Throughout the musical world his music, especially his instrumental works, is now received with enthusiasm, although still finding a strong opposition on the part of many critics of either too conservative or too progressive tendencies. Yet the time is not far distant when it will be generally granted a high position in the history of our art.

Fac-simile autograph manuscript of Canon by Brahms. “An Album Leaf.”

Fac-simile autograph letter from Johannes Brahms to Karl Klauser.

Three prominent characteristics of Brahms’ works command our admiration. From the start he appeared as a strong individuality, and notwithstanding a leaning towards Bach’s polyphonic art and harmonic wealth, Beethoven’s virile pathos and ideality of purpose, and Schubert’s melodic charm, he has spoken his own distinct language. In every field of composition except the opera he has contributed masterpieces which show that in each he has to-day no superior, and in but few an equal. Throughout he impresses us by the fact that to him art has always been something sacred, worthy of highest effort and noblest purpose. In this respect one may well compare him to Bach or Beethoven or Schiller, of whom Goethe so beautifully said, that “far behind him lay that which conquers us all,—vulgarity.” Whoever honestly strives for the sympathy of his genius must be filled with a like earnest spirit, willing to be guided by his subtle art into ideal regions full of higher joys than common musical amusements afford.

The wealth of his melodic, rhythmic and harmonic invention is truly astonishing; his combinations are so new and often intricate, the thematic material so rich or peculiar, its development so elaborate, that it is a commonly expressed opinion that his music has to do more with the intellect than with imagination and feeling. The truth is, that no modern composer has expressed deeper and more fervent feelings, either jubilant or sad, than Brahms. His great intellect only guides the wealth of emotion in order to find a well balanced, wholly original and artistic construction for the creatures of his rich imagination. And he is an eminently modern composer; with all his so-called conservative tendencies there is hardly a page in his works which could have been written at an earlier stage of musical art. Familiar with all the subtleties of modern expression and innovations of harmony, rhythm, and instrumentation, he has himself introduced many new and bold features.

To speak in detail of the one hundred and fifteen published works of Brahms would require a space far beyond the limits of this sketch. Thus only a summary classification is possible. Looking first at the instrumental compositions, one cannot praise Brahms too highly, that in opposition to prevailing tendencies towards a neglect of cyclic forms in favor of free, rhapsodic or programmatic fantasias, he has cultivated the former with supreme devotion, enriching and modifying them in many ways, but so that they still appear as worthy representatives of their types.

The three pianoforte sonatas and the Scherzo Op. 4 reveal the cardinal features of his later chamber and orchestral works: a most excellent thematic material, consisting often of but a few notes, awakening highest expectations; a rich, ingenious development, always coherent and logical; a Beethovenish virility; distinct contrasts and wonderful climaxes in the lively opening and closing movements, usually beginning directly with the principal subject, the working-out section being especially interesting and elaborate, the coda often of rare charm; the slow movements of delicate or intense, always noble feeling, in the form of variations or a long cantilena; the scherzos on a large plan, in three-four or six-eight time, very spirited, with a quieter trio preceding the finale, except in No. 3, where a short intermezzo is interpolated. Everywhere we note an ample and effective use of syncopations, a peculiar style of accompaniments, bold modulations and rhythmic devices, occasionally even some programmatic suggestions. Few masters have shown such originality and maturity in their first works.

Of independent pianoforte variations there are sixteen on a touching theme of Schumann, eleven on a beautiful original theme, thirteen on a Hungarian theme (with a combination of three-four and four-four time), twenty-five splendid variations on a short theme of Handel ending with a great fugue, some very difficult variations on a theme of Paganini, and—in a more romantic spirit—nine for four hands on that peculiar theme which Schumann had received “from the spirits of Schubert and Mendelssohn.” Some of these important works have a suggestive and refined sentimental character, others are virtuoso pieces of the highest order. As regards free conception of the variation form and variety of construction and mood, Brahms goes decidedly farther than Beethoven or Schumann. He seems inexhaustible in this form, which he used later most ingeniously also in chamber and orchestra works. The four poetic ballads Op. 10, the capriccios and intermezzos Op. 76 and two Rhapsodies Op. 79 are fine concert pieces of a freer but always coherent style, often very difficult. More popular are the famous Hungarian dances (fascinating settings of melodies, the authorship of which Brahms has never claimed), which he has orchestrated and arranged for four hands. His waltzes Op. 39, also for four hands, are short character-pieces of a bright, graceful or passionate spirit, in certain features recalling Schubert and Schumann, yet so original that they have been much imitated by younger composers. Several piano works for technical study (after Weber, Chopin and Bach), and fine arrangements of most of his chamber works and orchestra serenades and of a gavotte of Gluck may at least be mentioned. The difficulties of his pianoforte style, so rich in polyphonic figuration, harmonic and rhythmic combinations, syncopations, and wide stretches, especially abound in the two seldom-played concertos. Yet, without the highest appreciation and sympathetic devotion, the greatest virtuosity would never be able to make their inner life clear.

Like a giant appears the early written D minor concerto. Quick modulations, syncopations, chains of trills and a Beethovenish importance of themes and development impress us mightily in the passionate first movement, divine sweetness in the long adagio, while the finale, with its fantasia-like cadenza, rises from a simple mood to the acme of enthusiasm. The B flat concerto Op. 83 has even four movements, the long and romantic opening allegro being followed by an allegro appassionato of a superior scherzo character, the delightful andante by a highly effective allegro grazioso as finale. In spite of the elaborate development and the variety of contrasting moods, the whole work retains a bright and inspiring character. In both concertos the important and richly scored symphonic accompaniment only raises the solo part to greater prominence.

A fugue and a choral prelude with fugue are Brahms’ only but significant compositions for the organ.

The chamber works secure our master a place of honor beside the greatest representatives of this high branch of composition; they comprise three sonatas for violin and two for violoncello and pianoforte, five pianoforte trios (one with horn and one with clarinet), three string quartets, three pianoforte quartets, three string quintets (one with clarinet), one pianoforte quintet and two string sextets. In the older works one feels often the struggle of a great soul with strong passions, longings, hopes and anxieties, joys and pains, yet not lacking in sunshine and humor, while in the more recent compositions a quieter, more contemplative spirit prevails. The classic arrangement of four movements forms the rule, most of them being very elaborate and extensive, rich in themes of importance and beauty, the working out and coda showing Brahms’ genius in the finest light, the treatment of the different instruments being throughout masterly. The complicated development often prevents an immediate enjoyment, but increases our desire for a closer acquaintance; for this counterpoint goes always hand in hand with true feeling. In the opening movements the first part is not always repeated, and other novel features are introduced; the slow movements in the form of variations or of a long developed cantilena often lift us into high and unwonted regions; the scherzos are so full of genius that one wonders why Brahms has not used this form in his symphonies. The finales are of the highest order, seldom reached by other modern composers. In the works with horn and clarinets these much neglected instruments have received a wonderful treatment in music of great beauty. Unusual and complicated rhythms appear frequently, but treated in a surprisingly easy way. The details are throughout deeply interesting, yet often strange, even the most peaceful movements requiring closest attention. If one of all these great works must be distinguished as the greatest, we would name the pianoforte quintet in F minor, Op. 34. Yet the very latest work, the clarinet quintet, shows the same freshness and originality of invention, wonderful thematic net-work, variety of distinctly expressed moods, and the finale displaying an unsurpassed skill in variations.

The two orchestra serenades are real gems of spirited, delightful, well constructed music, one being for complete orchestra, the other for violas, ’celli, basses, reed instruments and horns. Besides the lively first and last movements and adagios they contain each a scherzo and one of them two minuets.

The theme for the nine orchestra variations Op. 56 is taken from one of Haydn’s divertimenti for wind instruments. They crown Brahms’ glorious achievements in the writing of variations; for, far from being “mere algebraic experiments,” they are delightful and ingenious tone pictures of distinct character and mood, with a nearer or more remote relation to the principal theme. The composer has thus initiated a new field of independent orchestral music, already successfully followed by others. The instrumentation is prominently interesting. It is generally admitted that Brahms is very conservative compared with Wagner and Berlioz in the matter of instrumentation. At least he never allows orchestral colors to divert our attention from the higher, inner meaning of a work. Yet in this score and in all his other works for or with orchestra, there are many features either of wonderful brilliancy or peculiar colors, which as novelties are worth studying. The finale, built upon a much repeated bass figure, successively joined by the different groups of the orchestra with other themes, reaches a beautiful climax in the pompous return of the original melody.

JOHANNES BRAHMS.
From an engraving by Weger, after a photograph from life.

The four symphonies in C minor, D, F and E minor are justly regarded as the most important orchestral works of our generation. Much is still written against them, and not everybody is willing or able to share the enthusiasm which their good performance arouses among the majority of cultivated audiences. Yet nothing can shake their high position among all symphonic works written since the great master of the immortal Ninth has left this earth. They have each a very individual character and, although in the main the old form is retained, new features are to be found in almost every movement. The first symphony opens with an impressive sostenuto introduction, the others begin at once with the principal subject of the allegro. Usually the first part of the latter is brought to a formal close and repeated; only in the fourth symphony, so rich in thematic material, no repetition occurs, but a very elaborate working out prepares for the climax reached in the concentrated recapitulation. Everywhere noble themes are finely contrasted, wonderfully developed, wholly or in fragments, in the working out, so as to hold the listener in breathless suspense. The allegros of the first and second symphonies have particularly fine codas. The slow movements are not very extensive and are easily enjoyed, their quieter and lofty mood being but little disturbed. However, the adagio in No. 2 is more complicated, has richer material, more frequent changes of key and rhythm, a more elaborate figure work and a peculiarly intimate spirit. A remarkable innovation is the consequent substitution for a minuet or scherzo of a sort of intermezzo, full of grace, sunshine and innocent playfulness, hardly disturbed by more serious episodes. Most extended is this in No. 4, a rondo with themes of an almost grotesque character, surprising details in their development and a spirit of true Beethoven-like humor. Yet those of the first three symphonies are of no less importance, having two distinct parts, of which the second one (contrary to the older trio) has a livelier character. Especially that of No. 2 is one of the most delightful orchestral pieces of modern literature. That Brahms is indeed a symphonist of the highest rank, is particularly evident in his finales. That of No. 1 is conceived in the grandest spirit, opened by a solemn introduction of overwhelming beauty and impressiveness, the allegro based on themes of rare inspiration, their wonderful development rising from climax to climax like a great triumphal procession. Still the finale of No. 2 is not less inspiring; even more brilliant, with its glorious themes, the splendid instrumentation and exciting coda. In No. 3 the closing movement has the unusual minor key, is less dithyrambic, yet not lacking in life, a choral-like episode forming a fine contrast, and the whole ending happily in a long, quiet coda in F major with a poetic reminiscence of the principal subject of the opening movement. One may justly regard the finale of No. 4 as a musical wonder, a new experiment gloriously carried out. It has the shape of a passacaglia, an old dance constructed upon a ground bass. The theme consists of eight bars, each represented by a chord, and is treated in about thirty variations of the most ingenious contrapuntal devices, greatly contrasted, yet so coherently that it sounds like an uninterrupted logical development, holding our interest keenly alive and increasing our enjoyment till the splendid end is reached.

We have thus seen how many strong features Brahms has introduced in the symphonic form, without departing from its classic foundation; but it is still more important that as a genius of a superior mind and noble soul he had the right material in himself to fill this greatest form of instrumental music with an adequate and original inner life, reflecting the highest spirit of modern German civilization.

The characteristic feature of the Academic Festival Overture is the successive introduction of several German student melodies, not in the form of a potpourri, as it has been unjustly regarded, but as themes developed with consummate art, expressing the inspiration of a solemn festival, of loyalty to the fatherland, of merrymaking and youthful exultation. Every page shows the hand of a superior master. Still greater is the tragic overture, its spirit reflecting a heroic struggle, gloom, solemnity, but also hope and comfort; its form being particularly interesting by an ingenious combination of the working out and recapitulation into a sort of free, yet coherent, wonderfully constructed and deeply impressive fantasia.

How much we should like to speak in detail of the two concertos for violin and for violin and ’cello! It would be a misnomer to call them symphonies with obligato solo parts, notwithstanding the very elaborate orchestral score, but more incorrect to compare them with any virtuoso concertos. Enormous technical difficulties are to be conquered in the service of high musical purposes. The arrangement is after the classic model, in three movements. Of these the slow movements with their melodic breadth are the more enjoyable, while the extensive outer movements, with their rich development of peculiarly fine and original themes, require repeated hearings to reveal all their innate beauty and greatness. And these works, too, belong to the future and can afford to await their time for a general appreciation.

Brahms’ earlier chorus works are an Ave Maria for female chorus and orchestra, a funeral chant with wind instruments, four female choruses with harp and two horns, seven Marianan songs, a setting of the 23d Psalm for female chorus and organ, several motets and part songs for four, five or six voices, sacred songs, and twelve romances for female chorus, partly with piano accompaniment. Now and then we are reminded of the style of Palestrina or old German folk-songs, then again of Bach’s polyphonic art with fugues, simple and double canons, yet throughout of a new, peculiar mode of expression, full of poetic sentiment. Among the works of later years we mention two motets, which are praised as Brahms’ highest achievements in polyphonic writing, seven songs for mixed voices, and many arrangements of old German folk-songs.

The German Requiem is of such great importance, that without a knowledge of it neither a full estimation of Brahms’ individual genius nor of the significance of the latest epoch of music in general can be obtained. Taking from the old Latin funeral mass only the name, Brahms selected certain verses from the Bible, expressing not only the sadness and terror of death and judgment, but also hope and consolation,—even thankfulness and praise. His work, independent of any church service and to be sung in a living language, contains in each note music which came from the depth of a noble soul and was written by a master of the highest and most complicated field of vocal composition. Entirely free from conventionalities or dry learning, each of the seven numbers gives completely what his genius was able to accomplish. It is indeed the great funeral chant of modern music, at least for Germans and Protestants. Choruses I., IV., V. and VII. have a quiet character, finely expressing the milder feelings above mentioned, yet with all their seeming simplicity showing a consummate art in the details of their construction, No. V. being mainly given to a difficult soprano solo. No. II. (“Behold all flesh is as the grass”) is a peculiar funeral march in three-four time, the chorus singing partly in unison to strange and impressive orchestral music; after a touching animato (“Be patient unto the coming of Christ”) the principal melody is repeated, followed by a long fugue (“The redeemed of the Lord shall return again”). No. III. opens with a baritone solo, lamenting the frailty of life, soon joined by the chorus, rising to a climax expressive of hope. Then follows that famous fugue, in an astonishingly rich polyphonic treatment, moving over an uninterrupted, much criticised pedal point on D to emphasize the words, that “the righteous souls are in the hand of God.” No. VI. is regarded as the culmination of the work. After the chorus’ lament that “Here on earth we have no continuing place,” comfort is brought by the baritone voice unfolding the mystery of the resurrection. The chorus repeat this and burst out in an ecstatic vivace, “The trumpet shall sound, the dead shall be raised!...” “... Grave, where is thy victory, death, where is thy sting?” In wonderful modulations climax after climax is reached; finally in glorious C major a double fugue is added, a hymn of praise to “the Lord of honor and might,” whose proportion, art and impressiveness alone suffice to make Brahms a compeer of the greatest masters of polyphonic music. Throughout, chorus, orchestra and soloists have to overcome the greatest difficulties, but seldom are their efforts directed to more ideal purposes.

JOHANNES BRAHMS.
From a photograph from life by Fr. Luckhardt, Vienna.

For the “Song of Triumph” Brahms selected some mysterious verses from the Apocalypse. Of the three large numbers for double chorus, orchestra and organ, some portions have been called direct imitations of Handel; yet even there one finds enough of Brahms’ individuality and throughout an intense heartiness and directness of feeling. In singing this music, one is overwhelmed by its grandeur. The second number, more purely Brahms’, is of particular beauty, the chorus “Let us rejoice” being joined by a cantus firmus of the wood instruments on the choral “Now, thank ye all the Lord!” In No. III., opened by a baritone solo, an enthusiasm is reached in the Hallelujah surpassing any jubilant chorus music written since the Ninth Symphony.

The “Deutsche Fest-und Gedenksprüche” have a uniform patriotic purpose. There are again three large and most difficult numbers for double chorus, without solo or accompaniment. No. I. refers to the battle of Leipsic in 1813 and the regained liberty from the Napoleonic bondage (“Our fathers hoped in thee, thou helpedst them,” etc.), and has an imposing character of resolution and vigor. No. II., referring to the collapse of the French in 1870, illustrates in lively contrasting colors “a palace guarded by one strongly armed and remaining in peace” and “an empire that falls in discord and becomes waste.” No. III. praises the splendor of the new united empire, but warns its people “to beware and guard thy soul well, that it shall never forget the story which thine eyes have seen.” A deeply religious spirit also pervades this great and but little known work.

The Rhapsody for alto solo, male chorus and orchestra treats a portion of Goethe’s “Journey through the Hartz in Winter.” Once in 1777 the poet left a hunting party to pay an incognito visit to a young admirer of his genius, who was in a Wertherish despondent condition of mind. The impression received by this adventure gave rise to one of his deepest yet somewhat mysterious poems, which inspired Brahms to one of his greatest works. The opening orchestral sounds touch our inmost heart; sighs and the anguish of a trembling soul is their spirit; then the solo voice in tones of intense feeling asks for comfort for one “who from the fullness of love drank hate of man and in loneliness devours all that hath worth in him.” A peculiar combination of three-two and six-four time illustrates finely this anguish and restlessness. Gradually the music becomes more quiet, till with a harp-like accompaniment, chorus and soloist sing a hymn of indescribable beauty and loftiness, imploring “the all-loving Father to enlighten the heart of the unfortunate, if but one tone from his psalter can reach His ears.” The solo part requires a truly inspired musician, whose voice is the instrument of his soul. The short chorus is also a difficult task. Many times has the writer heard this heavenly work, but never without its repetition being demanded and given. Yet how little known it is in this country!

An extensive work for male chorus with tenor solo and orchestra is the cantata “Rinaldo,” the text being again from Goethe. It deals with a romantic story from Tasso’s “Jerusalem Delivered,” has partly a solemn, partly a lively dramatic character and breathes the refreshing air of the sea. The more or less extensive and elaborate choruses are very different from the conventional style, the solo part is unusually difficult and so exacting that an adequate performance is seldom secured.

In three works Brahms has illustrated the relentlessness of Fate, selecting poems of almost Greek grandeur and beauty. Hölderlin’s “Song of Destiny” contrasts the blessed abode of the divine spirits with the fate of the “restless, grief-laden mortals, who blindly wander from one sad hour to another.” Schiller’s “Nänie” mourns “that even the Beautiful fades and the Highest must die,” and “The Song of the Fates,” from Goethe’s “Iphigenia,” warns the human race “to fear the gods, doubly those whom they have exalted, for they turn from entire races the light of their eyes.” The last work is for six, the others for four chorus voices. Everywhere the orchestra is important, rich in weird, characteristic effects. Bold modulations and rhythmic combinations always in keeping with the composer’s high conception of the poetry affect deeply ear and heart. Who but Brahms could have found music so worthy of such profound poetical subjects! In the “Song of Destiny” he even surpasses the poet by repeating at the end the wonderful orchestral introduction indicating hope for our own final attainment of the abode of the blessed spirits. The “Nänie” is dedicated to the mother of the lamented painter Feuerbach, who had been a true art companion of Brahms. Only a careful, sympathetic rendering will reveal the beauty of this work. In the “Song of the Fates” there is a movement of a quiet, melodious character, which many critics have declared to be entirely contrary to the meaning of the text. To us it seems more like a well justified, touching expression of pious submission, wonderfully calming our excitement for the mysterious ending with its harmonies and orchestral sounds never heard before.

Brighter is the character of some works belonging to a field which Schumann had specially cultivated, yet where Brahms shows again such originality that he has been much imitated. His delightful vocal quartets with piano accompaniment, graceful and bright or deep and gloomy, charm greatly by their artistic construction, beauty of thought, feeling and sound and peculiarity of colors. Still more famous are the two collections of Love-Song Waltzes for voices and piano for four hands, resembling the sparkling pianoforte waltzes Op. 39, most varying in shape and mood, the words being mainly from Daumer’s “Polydora,” those of the fine, quiet closing movement in nine-four time being selected from Goethe. The eleven Gipsy Songs Op. 102 are also meeting with an enthusiastic reception, Hungarian spirit and rhythm giving them a peculiar color, the moods being either humorous or passionate, melancholy or exuberant, quartets alternating with solos, the accompaniment being as elaborate as it is effective.

Of the twenty highly remarkable duets some have, in spite of many harmonic and rhythmic finesses, quite a plain character, while others are very elaborate, the voices either joining or alternating. As particularly typical we mention “The Seas,” “The Nun and the Knight,” “The Sisters,” “The Messengers of Love,” “Edward,” and “Let us wander.”

Finally we have reached the field in which Brahms has been especially fertile and original, his “Lieder.” To speak of them only in a general way is difficult indeed. Thirty-one of the published 115 works contain nearly 200 songs. Throughout his whole career Brahms has been writing songs; there was in his soul a lyric element, kindled again and again by the beauty of feeling, thought and diction of the great German poets, and he found a style of song-writing so independent, that in spite of some more or less striking exceptions one can hardly trace his relation to Schubert, Schumann and Franz. He is their equal as regards wealth of invention, noble conception of the text, finishing of details. Yet in treatment of the voice, relation between vocal and instrumental part, and construction of the latter he opens a new path. In the selection of poems he shows eminent knowledge and taste. Many half-forgotten poems of a superior order he has awakened to fresh life; others, which on account of their peculiar metre or meaning have been avoided, have found in him an unexpectedly effective interpreter. However, it seems to us as if the poems often suffer transformation. They have inspired the composer with certain tone-pictures, which in turn impose upon them very distinctly the spirit of his own strong individuality. This individuality is by no means always deep and heavy, for smiles and dancing are no strangers to it. Often the melodies are as plain as folk-songs, but always of great nobility. With a few notes the composer reaches our hearts and lifts us at once into a higher region. Other melodies again are as elaborate as a dramatic scene. The accompaniment, inexhaustible in forms, yet never conventional, simple or with great harmonic wealth and peculiar figuration, rivals the singer in expressing the moods of the poem. Of the so-called folk-songs (old German, Swiss, Bohemian, Scotch, Italian, etc.) some are treated most artistically, others with a touching simplicity. Very few poems composed by other masters are found among his list, and the favorite poets Heine, Eichendorff, Chamisso are almost avoided. A remarkable exception is the separately published “Moon-night,” very different from Schumann’s jewel song, yet not inferior. Goethe, Hölty, Platen, Tieck, Schenkendorf, Groth and Möricke are fully represented, often by poems of an antique spirit and form. Keller, Daumer, Heyse, Schack, Herder and many others inspired Brahms too, and it is noteworthy that he had no music for meaningless trivialities. The majority of these songs are devoted to love in all possible phases and moods, often wonderfully reflected in scenes of nature. There is perhaps more of twilight and autumn than of sunshine and spring, but exultant and happy moods are well represented,—also flowers, birds, woods, oceans and storms and the stillness of the fields,—but all these more in a symbolic than realistic conception and with a wonderful coloring of the prevailing mood. The sweet little “Cradle song,” “Erinnerung,” “Minnelied,” “Wie bist du, meine Königin?” “Meine Liebe ist grün,” “Von ewiger Liebe,” “Ruhe, Süssliebchen,” “Mainacht,” “Vergebliches Ständchen” are only a few familiar jewels among the rich collection; how many more deserve the same sympathy and study from singers with noble artistic ambitions! Special mention is due to the two fine songs for alto with viola obligato Op. 91 and to the fifteen romances from Tieck’s half-forgotten fairy tale “Die schöne Magelone,” which have a most elaborate form and an intensely emotional character. Nowhere indeed can one get a better estimate of Brahms’ high significance as a song writer than here, where the poet appears like a dwarf in the light of the composer’s higher genius.

Greatness indeed remains Brahms’ characteristic feature, wherever we look at him or at his works; greatness in ideas, purposes and powers; greatness in self-criticism and faithfulness to the dignity of his art; greatness in the devotion to past masters and independence of contemporary influences; greatness in the sincerity and simplicity of his manners and relation to the outer world. Never appearing as a revolutionary spirit, yet he has himself introduced many strong innovations in various fields, and for a long time his works will not only afford profound enjoyment to earnest lovers of our art, but be a source of the most valuable studies for those to whom its further development will be entrusted. Long has he been ignored, patiently has he waited, till the world has come to him to respect in him the noblest musical genius of our time.

Louis Keeserborn

CARL GOLDMARK
Reproduction of a photograph from life, made by J. Löwy in Vienna.

CARL GOLDMARK

The date of the birth of Carl Goldmark, the eminent Austrian composer, is incorrectly given in the various biographical dictionaries to which the writer has had access. For correct information on this point and for the facts contained in the following sketch of the musician’s life, thanks are due to Leopold Goldmark, his brother. Carl Goldmark was born at Keszthely, Hungary, May 18, 1830. He came by his musical inclinations naturally, for his father, Ruben Goldmark, was a precentor, much esteemed on account of his fine voice. The son showed a fondness for music at an early age and when very young began to take lessons on the violin at the Musikverein of Oedenburg. His progress was such that at the age of twelve his father permitted him to play in public. Soon afterward he began to play professionally in theatre orchestras. He continued to do so until the revolution of 1848, when he was obliged to go into service in the army under the landsturm law.

When his term of service had come to an end he went to Vienna, where, with the assistance of his eldest brother, Dr. Joseph Goldmark, he resumed his studies, becoming a pupil in the Böhm Conservatorium. Unfortunately for the young man, Dr. Goldmark had been an active participant in the insurrection and was suspected of implication in the killing of Minister of War, La Tour. He was compelled to leave Austria and came to America, where he died in 1863. His flight threw Carl on his own resources, and the young musician succeeded in obtaining an engagement in the theatre orchestra at Raab, Hungary. Toward the end of 1850, however, he returned to Vienna, where he secured employment in the orchestra of the Theatre in the Josefstadt.

Young Goldmark at this time showed very plainly of what sort of material he was made. His salary amounted to about $8 a month, but his ambition was worth hundreds. He was consumed by a desire to learn to play the piano, but he could not afford to pay a teacher. He managed, however, to hire an instrument, and began to study by himself with occasional hints from friends. Returning late from the theatre to his humble lodgings, he would spend half the night in practising by the light of a tallow candle. It may as well be said here that he became sufficiently proficient as a pianist to give lessons in later years, and he also taught himself the art of singing with such success that he became the instructor of Mme. Bettelheim, a contralto who attained prominence on the Austrian stage. With the exception of his violin lessons and a short course in composition at the Vienna Conservatory under Sechter, self-instruction was all the teaching enjoyed by young Goldmark. He studied assiduously the scores of Mozart, Weber and Beethoven, and attended the Helmesberger chamber music concerts in Vienna, thus gaining a valuable acquaintance with the instrumental works of the best masters. Goldmark was, however, not only a student of music. He made himself conversant with the German, French, Italian and English Languages. He also became a devoted student of philosophy, and learned to look up to Schopenhauer with a truly Wagnerian admiration. In 1850 he became a contributor to the Grenzboten and to some of the Leipsic musical papers. His writings have always shown evidence of his wide culture.

It was in 1855 that he began to compose, and in 1857 he gave a concert of his own works at the Vienna Musikverein-Halle. The compositions presented were an overture, a piano quartet, a ballad for tenor, chorus and orchestra, and two songs. He was at that period of his career a devoted follower of Mendelssohn, and the works played at his concert were in that master’s style. Goldmark’s fondness for his early offspring was short-lived and the works were not published. He outlived his Mendelssohnian devotion and subsequently became a fervent admirer of Schumann, whose influence is clearly discernible in some of his later works.

The composer’s first decided success was the overture to “Sakuntala,” opus 13, written in 1864, and now known favorably all over Europe and in this country. In 1865, while walking in one of the principal streets of Vienna, he saw a picture of the Queen of Sheba visiting Solomon. The picture made a vivid impression on his imagination, and at length he went to H. S. Mosenthal, the well known dramatist, author of “Leah, the Forsaken,” and begged him to undertake the task of constructing a libretto out of the story which had grown up in the composer’s mind. In three years the opera was finished in its first shape, but Goldmark was dissatisfied with it. Mosenthal made the desired changes in the book, and about one-half of the score was rewritten, the work being finished early in 1872. Goldmark then submitted it to Joseph Herbeck, conductor of the court opera at Vienna. It is believed that Herbeck was jealous of Goldmark, because the latter had defeated him in a competition for a Government prize of 800 gulden. At any rate Herbeck kept the score of “The Queen of Sheba” locked up for two years. Finally, at a musicale given by the Princess Hohenlohe, whose husband was master of ceremonies to the Emperor, Ignatz Brüll, then a rising young pianist, played some selections from Goldmark’s opera. The Princess and others, pleased by the music, asked Brüll some questions about the work, and the story of Herbeck’s delay over the score came out. The influence of the Princess and the Countess Andrassy led to an imperial command for the production of the opera, and it was accordingly performed on March 10, 1875. The success of the opera was great and the composer was called out nearly forty times. “The Queen of Sheba” has been given in various European cities, and was first performed in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, on Wednesday, Dec. 2, 1885, with the following cast: Sulamith, Frau Lilli Lehman; the Queen, Frau Krämer-Wiedl; Astaroth, Fräulein Marianne Brandt; Solomon, Herr Robinson; Assad, Herr Stritt; Baal Hanan, Herr Alexi; High Priest, Herr Fischer. The conductor was Anton Seidl. It was the most successful opera in the repertory of the house that season, being presented fifteen times, to aggregate receipts of $60,000. It was given four times the following season, and again five times in the season of 1889–90, always to audiences of good size.

His second opera, “Merlin,” was produced in Vienna Nov. 19, 1886, and at the Metropolitan Opera House Jan. 3, 1887, with the following cast: Viviane, Lilli Lehmann; Morgana, Brandt; Artus, Robinson; Modred, Kemlitz; Gawein, Heinrich; Lancelot, Basch; Merlin, Alvary; Dämon, Fischer. The conductor was Walter Damrosch. It was performed five times in the course of the season, but did not achieve the success of its predecessor. While waiting for the production of “The Queen of Sheba,” Goldmark wrote his B flat quartet and his suite for piano and violin.

Goldmark has devoted his life to composition. He takes no pupils and has refused not only all orders and distinctions, but all offers of posts as conductor. The only office he has ever held—and that but briefly—is the presidency of the Vienna Tonkünstlerverein. His home is in Vienna, but about May 1st of every year he goes to Gmunden, on the Traunsee in upper Austria. There he remains till October, working incessantly except during four weeks in midsummer. He then takes a vacation, going to the Fusch valley, near Salzburg, where he spends six to eight hours a day in mountain climbing. All his composing is done at Gmunden. He is a widower and has a daughter twenty years of age.

Goldmark’s principal works are the two operas already mentioned, the “Sakuntala,” “Penthesilea,” “Spring” and “Prometheus” overtures, the symphony in E flat and the “Ländliche Hochzeit” symphony, and the violin concerto in A minor, opus 28. These are the works by which he is best known in this country, his chamber music being played infrequently. The composer’s musical development is readily divided into two periods. He made the division himself when, in 1875, he decided that he would abandon his earlier style of writing, in which he had made extensive use of Oriental melody and color. He imbibed a fondness for this style when in his childhood he listened to the voice of his father in the synagogue. He himself seems to have felt, however, that in giving his music a local or racial coloring he was detracting from its universality, and after the production of the “Queen of Sheba,” he said to his friends that he would write no more eastern music. It was doubtless this determination which led him to select the story of Merlin as the subject for his next opera. The most thoughtful critics of Goldmark’s music are of the opinion that he was not wise in his determination. As an Oriental colorist in music, he certainly has no superior, and probably no equal, while his “Merlin” is without the most interesting manifestations of his individuality. Goldmark without his color is Swinburne without his versification. The composer’s best works, except the overture to “Prometheus,” are surely those written before the resolution of 1875.

The story of “The Queen of Sheba” is not taken from the Bible, but is purely imaginary. It deals with the fascination of Assad, a courtier, by the beautiful Queen, who has indulged in a passage of love with him on her journey to Solomon’s court. When Assad recognizes her in Solomon’s palace, she denies having met him before, but both Solomon and Sulamith, Assad’s promised bride, see that something is wrong. The Queen again shows herself to Assad by night, and the next day in the palace. Assad proclaims the truth. Solomon decrees that the youth must work out his salvation by defeating the powers of evil, and banishes him to the desert. Sulamith seeks him and he dies in her arms, while the Queen and her caravan are seen in the distance returning homeward. Dr. Mosenthal’s libretto is not a fine poetic achievement, but it is theatrically very effective, blending spectacular and dramatic scenes in a telling manner. The composer has made excellent use of his opportunities. Assad’s recital of his first adventure with the Queen, is set to admirably descriptive music, and it is followed by a most captivating ballet and an inspiring chorus of greeting to the Queen. The ensuing scene is richly dramatic. The duet between the Queen and Assad in the moonlit garden is intensely passionate and glows with the warm color of eastern melody. The instrumental richness of the score seems to be quite as natural an outcome of the composer’s fancy as his easy adoption of Oriental rhythms and cadences, which he handled as one to the manner born. The most important objection which has been made to this music is that it is “so unvaryingly stimulated that it wearies and makes the listener long for a fresher and healthier musical atmosphere.” The production of “The Queen of Sheba” in New York was one of the most brilliant spectacles ever seen in America, and the performances were rich in musical merit.

The comparative failure of “Merlin” was due largely to the effort of the librettist, Herr Siegfried Lipiner, to mingle the supernatural with the story of Merlin and Vivien and to drag in Goethe’s principle of saving womanhood—a favorite theme with Wagner. Indeed, there are many things in the libretto which indicate that it was suggested by Wagnerian works, chiefly “Parsifal.” The librettist’s greatest success was in his characterization of Vivien, which is excellent. The composer also fell into the Wagnerian pit and strove vainly to handle the Leitmotif. His music, moreover, suffered, as has already been intimated, from his determined effort to rid himself of the Oriental color which was his natural garb. Nevertheless it must be said in justice to Goldmark, that no operatic writer of our time has shown a greater seriousness of purpose than that manifested in “Merlin.” The musical dialogue of the opera is nobly elevated in style, but lacks variety. The orchestration is rich and glowing in color, yet is without complexity of construction, and there is a delightful absence of the set forms of the old-fashioned opera. But “Merlin” lacks the inspiration and the spontaneity of style which are displayed by the composer when laboring in his congenial Oriental field.

The “Ländliche Hochzeit” symphony is a symphony in name rather than in fact. It is a series of descriptive movements, written with a little of the composer’s characteristic tinge of Orientalism and with all of his mastery of instrumental coloring. It is fluent, melodious and strongly rhythmical. In short, it is music that pleases a miscellaneous audience without offending the discriminating music-lover. The symphony in E flat, like the violin concerto, the present writer regards as one of the composer’s least happy achievements. It is but just to say, however, that some good judges do not hold this opinion of the work. The first movement is built on a flowing and rhythmic theme announced by the violins, and from this the second subject is very happily deduced; but neither is fruitful in itself. The scherzo is by far the best movement, and is, indeed, a bit of writing of which any recent symphonist might be proud. It is light and airy in theme and the instrumentation is effective.

The violin concerto in A minor is lacking in spontaneity of thought.

When we turn to Goldmark’s overtures, however, we find the composer at his best. All his overtures are admirable, one is exceptionally fine, and another is great. The “Sakuntala” overture is deemed Goldmark’s best by many critics, but the present writer prefers the “Prometheus.” The story of the love of King Dushyanta for Sakuntala, daughter of the Saint Viswamitra and the water nymph Menaka, is one of the most beautiful in the Hindoo mythology. The maiden is reared in the forest by Kanwa, and there Dushyanta, while hunting, meets and loves her. The principal themes in Goldmark’s overture are the melodies representing Sakuntala’s loneliness in the forest, the royal hunt, and the love of the king and the maiden. The composition is opulent in its Oriental richness of color and is full of the passionate intensity and vigorous aggressiveness of the strongest scenes in the “Queen of Sheba.”

The “Prometheus” overture, a product of Goldmark’s maturity, is a superb work, one of the most admirable produced in recent years, and one that ought to live. The composer has chosen some of the salient features of Æschylus’s sublime tragedy, and has expressed them eloquently. The opening measures speak of the loneliness of the chained Prometheus, surrounded by the empty infinity of space. A beautiful theme in the wood is said to signify the prostrate god’s hope, but such an interpretation is not justified by the tragedy. The writer prefers to regard it as an expression of the repose of the sea, whence floats up a few measures later the sympathetic chorus of sea-nymphs, represented by two themes, one a lovely undulating melody in the wood, the other, speaking more eloquently of their yearning over Prometheus, a flowing melody for the strings. The bold, restless spirit of the god is finely expressed by the allegro, with which the sea-nymph music is worked out in effective contrast. An increase in tempo and a change in the melody near the end of the work lead to a forcible proclamation of Jove’s sentence by the trombones, and the whole closes with the music of space and the sea. In form, in instrumentation and in elaboration, as well as in emotional content, the overture is noble.

The “Penthesilea” overture is founded on the Homeric episode of the emotion of Achilles over the beautiful corpse of the Amazon queen, slain by him in battle. The composition is very clear in purpose and is well written. The “Spring” overture is the least striking of the works under consideration, yet it displays much of the composer’s mastery of orchestral technique.

Goldmark’s music, on the whole, is distinguished by a deep and manly warmth, a restless aggressiveness and a hyperbolic instrumental language. In this latter respect it resembles Eastern poetry in the extravagance of its forms of expression, at times approaching bombast. At his best, however, as in the “Prometheus” overture, the composer is capable of strong, serious, lofty feeling, noble dignity of utterance and reposeful symmetry of form. It is because this overture exhibits these powers of Goldmark in a higher form than his other compositions that the present writer looks upon it as his greatest work. His operas are eclectic in style and the result is something between Meyerbeer and Wagner; but in his overtures the individuality of Goldmark is most clearly revealed. Admirable as much of his chamber music is, it suffers by comparison with his larger works because of the lack of those instrumental colors which the composer uses with such dazzling effect. It is impossible to predict the future of Goldmark’s music; but it certainly belongs to the present, and some of it seems likely to live.

MAX BRUCH
Reproduction of a photograph from life, made by Falk in New York.

MAX BRUCH

In the latter part of the nineteenth century probably no composer has done more for the development of the chorus, and especially of the Maennerchor, than Max Bruch, and although he has achieved much in orchestral scoring, and has written fine concertos, symphonies, and even large operas, it is upon his great choruses that his fame as a composer, and his right to admission to the ranks of the masters, chiefly rests. He was born in Cologne, Jan. 6, 1838, and his musical powers developed very early, for by the time that he had reached his fourteenth year, he had already written upwards of seventy compositions, although wisely forbearing to print them and thereby take rank as a “musical prodigy.” One of these juvenile works was a symphony, and received a public performance in Cologne in 1852. As with the first compositions of Mendelssohn, however, these early works are to be regarded merely as records of juvenile possibilities and are not reckoned with the great and serious contributions to music which Bruch was able to make in riper years.

His parents gladly aided his efforts to develop his musical abilities by thorough training, and to his mother he owes much of the success of his juvenile studies. This lady, once famous as Fräulein Almenräder, was herself a distinguished singer, and came of a well-known musical family of the lower Rhine country. She personally attended to the elementary steps of Bruch’s musical curriculum, but he was early sent to Professor Heinrich Karl Breidenstein of Bonn, who took charge of his theoretical studies. These succeeded so well that the compositions of the nine-year-old boy attracted the notice of Ferdinand Hiller, who soon after took him in charge and developed his abilities so rapidly and thoroughly that at fourteen years the boy was able to enter for the Mozart scholarship awarded in Frankfort. The string quartette which he wrote for this occasion won the prize. This obtained for him a yearly stipendium of four hundred gulden, which he enjoyed for four years, and which enabled him to continue his studies with Hiller, and also to obtain instruction from Professors Carl Reinecke and Ferdinand Breuning, studying piano under the latter with especial zeal and success. Long visits to Munich, Leipsic and other musical centers followed, and continued to broaden the musical horizon of the young genius. At Munich he made the personal acquaintance of the poet Emanuel Geibel, who had much influence upon his later work in the large musical forms. The winter of 1857–8, passed in Leipsic, seems to have also wielded a great influence in awakening Bruch’s enthusiasm for the higher walks of music. After this year, we find him once more in his native city of Cologne, enjoying a reputation which even at that time was much more than local. He had, until this time, published only compositions in the small forms, piano pieces, songs, and duets, but with his first two choruses we find the first ocular evidences of talent, and from the very beginning the massing of voices seems to have possessed a peculiar charm for, and to have been well understood by him.

In 1862, after the death of his father, Bruch began a two-years’ stay in Mannheim, and his friendship with Vincenz Lachner, which began at this time, undoubtedly had an influence on his compositions. In 1865, he went to Coblentz to assume the directorship of the musical institute there, and this was the beginning of the period of his greatest creative activity. In 1867, he became director of the court orchestra in Sondershausen, a position which had been held by such masters as Spohr and Weber, and for three years we find him diligently perfecting himself in the art of conducting, in which he has become very celebrated, being one of the few composers who are successful on the conductor’s stand. In 1870, Bruch went to Berlin, where he lived some years, not accepting any position, but busying himself entirely with composition. After this he settled in Bonn for a short time. In 1878 he was called to Berlin to succeed Julius Stockhausen as director of the famous Stern Gesangverein. His next engagement took him across the seas, and he went to Liverpool to succeed Sir Julius Benedict as director of the Philharmonic society in 1880. This engagement ended in the Spring of 1883 (some biographies commit an error here, in setting the date a year earlier), and he immediately came to America where he conducted a number of his compositions. In the summer of 1883 he returned to Germany, and from September of that year he was the director of the Breslau Orchestral Society.

MAX BRUCH
From a wood engraving at the British Museum.

This continued until the spring of 1890, when he closed his labors as conductor and settled in Friedenau, near Berlin, where he is at present; but he is so fond of travel, so full of energy and activity, that he is not likely to remain in retirement very long. In 1890 he received the honorary title of Royal Professor.

In personal appearance Bruch is by no means as majestic as one would suppose from his works. He is small of stature, and his dark eyes peer through his spectacles with the sharp glance of a teacher rather than of a creator of heroic cantatas. He is quick and nervous in motion and, when directing an orchestra or chorus, his gestures are spontaneous and expressive.

It is pleasant to notice that the juvenile compositions of Bruch had their origin in filial affection and that one of the earliest of his works is a prayer for his parents, which the nine-year-old boy arranged as a song. But the actual career of the composer commenced with the choruses, which he began to write in his twenty-first year.

The first of these choruses (Op. 8) bore the title of “Birken und Erlen” (“Birches and Alders”), and the second (Op. 3) “Jubilate, Amen.” In both of the works a soprano voice is used obligato against four-part chorus, and there are not only rich harmonies, but a wonderful blending of the solo with the chorus part. Just before these works, Bruch had written a little one-act opera, his Opus I, entitled “Scherz, List, und Rache,” on Goethe’s libretto, but it made no very marked impression; soon after, however, he turned his attention to larger opera, and the result was that Emanuel Geibel’s libretto, “Loreley,” which had been written years before, for Mendelssohn (that master was at work upon this subject when he met his early death), was now brought to the operatic stage by him. At first the poet opposed the thought of presenting the work save on the concert platform, but finally consented to allow it a trial at the theatre of Mannheim. The opera deals with one of the most poetical conceptions of the Rhine-witch, which makes her appear at first as a pure and beautiful maiden, named Leonore, but heartbroken and frenzied by betrayal and desertion, she seals a bond with the spirits of the stream, and with them wages war on mankind. Mendelssohn had already composed the scene of the invocation of the river-demons, and the festival of the vintagers, and Bruch’s music to these scenes bears the test of comparison, which is saying much when it is considered that the earlier setting was the last work of the more celebrated composer, and this was composed at the beginning of Bruch’s career. Bruch’s “Vintage Chorus” is frequently given by male choruses as a concert selection. The performance at Mannheim was successful and the opera was afterwards presented at many other theatres, and notably at Hamburg and Leipsic, in both of which cities it won great applause from public and press. Yet the work has now totally disappeared from the stage, since it is not really a dramatic subject, the change of the heroine from an innocent and confiding maiden to a fierce and revengeful spirit, a first cousin to the Greek Sirens, is rather a metaphysical than a theatrical one, and the plot occasioned some repetition of style which weakened the music. About ten years later Bruch once more essayed opera, and failed. This time Shakespeare was the librettist, and under the title of “Hermione” the new work, which was the “Winter’s Tale,” was performed in Berlin and Dresden, but in neither city did it win more than a succès d’estime. It has disappeared from the repertoire altogether, yet the second act is a gem that will bear rescuing from oblivion. It represents Hermione in prison, and at her trial, and so well is the pathos and intensity of the music fitted to the situation, that it is not exaggeration to speak of this portion of the opera as being among the finest things that Bruch has ever written, and it may be ranked with the very best of modern music.

Fac-simile manuscript of beginning of Adagio in Max Bruch’s first Violin Concerto.
Original in possession of Prof. Dr. Emil Naumann, in Dresden.

We now approach the epoch when Bruch produced a work which at once drew the attention, not of Germany alone, but of the entire musical world towards his labors; we have intimated that the composer’s fame rests chiefly on what he has done for chorus singing, and it is in the treatment of male chorus that Bruch is unsurpassed; it was with such a work,—“Frithjof” (Op. 23),—that he won his first great triumph. The text, by Esaias Tegner, taken from the grand old Sagas, afforded a sombre dignity that suited well to a massive use of maennerchor, and once more Bruch added a female voice, not in combination, but rather in contrast to the chorus work, to illustrate the character of the unhappy Ingeborg. The baritone solos, the utterances of the viking Frithjof, are full of expression, and the chorus of the returning heroes at the beginning of the cantata is melodious in the highest degree. Seldom, in a modern work, has so much of melody been employed, without weakening the dramatic treatment, but the final chorus of the departing warriors may be cited as a perfect example of this happy combination in Bruch’s choruses. “Frithjof” may also stand as a model of condensation in dramatic music; every note has its purport, and there is not a measure in the entire work that is supererogatory. The contrasts are also managed with a master-hand, so that the emotions of peace and war are given in kaleidoscopic, yet logical, succession.

Immediately following this there came an almost equally important contribution to the repertoire of mixed chorus; this was “Schön Ellen,” a cantata for chorus combined with soprano and baritone solos. The subject taken was again a warlike one, being founded on the fabulous tale invented by a newspaper correspondent, that during the siege of Lucknow, a Scotch girl named Jessie Brown heard the bagpipes of the regiments sent to the relief of the place, long before they were audible to the rest of the garrison, and was able thereby to prevent a surrender to the merciless Sepoys surrounding it. Emanuel Geibel, the poet, turned the mythical Jessie Brown into an equally mythical “Fair Ellen,” and gave the libretto to the composer, who began its composition within sound of the cannon at the battle of Sadowa the culmination of the Austro-Prussian war. The subject was full of dramatic possibilities, and Bruch used these in the condensed manner characteristic of the preceding work. Naturally he was impelled towards Scotch music by the color of the poem, and the entire cantata is founded on “The Campbells are comin’,” which is omnipresent in it, and forms a grand climax to the whole as a hymn of thanksgiving. Yet many may have blamed Bruch for departing from the Scotch character of the theme in this lofty finale; few musicians will join in this censure, for the composer has but allowed himself the freedom of the Fantasie in this development of a folk-theme. It is not the only time that a German composer has used this melody in a developed musical work, for Robert Volkmann employed it in his overture “Richard III.”; a Scotch theme written in 1568, in an English battle fought in 1485!

It may be fitting in this place to speak of the influence which the Scotch folk-music exerted upon Bruch. He once assured the writer of this article that he was familiar with over four hundred of the Scotch folk-songs. After the completion of “Fair Ellen” his taste in this direction was again shown in the “Scotch Fantasie” (Op. 46) for violin and orchestra, which is one of Sarasate’s favorite solos, and he also arranged twelve Scotch folk-songs with considerable success. Yet it may fairly be doubted whether Bruch has ever been able to reproduce the lilt so characteristic of Gaelic music; in this failure, however, he is not alone, for Beethoven, Schumann, and others among the German masters have attempted this vein fruitlessly; Mendelssohn alone, among the ranks of these, accomplished the transplanting of the delicate flower of Scotch folk-music into German classical works.

The immense success that followed the production of “Frithjof,” and the almost equal favor extended to “Fair Ellen,” was reflected on Bruch’s earlier works, and the “Roman Song of Triumph” (Op. 19, No. 1) was brought into popularity in its wake, and once more we hear the stern notes of war and victory sounding in the massive chords of the male chorus. Soon after the triumph of “Frithjof” we find the composer returning to the subject, and Op. 27 deals with “Frithjof at the grave of his father,” but it was like Milton’s “Paradise Regained” after “Paradise Lost,” a weak work after a masterpiece, and this concert-scene for baritone solo, female chorus, and orchestra, fell rather flat.

The true successor of “Frithjof” was to come later in the shape of another warrior, this time a Grecian; in the “Odysseus,” Op. 41, with Ulysses as his hero, we find the composer rising to the height of the preceding subject, but in another and less stern manner. This had been preceded by yet another tone-picture of warriors, in the “Normannen-zug,” a stately union of baritone solo, with unison male chorus and orchestra (all the above-mentioned cantatas have orchestral accompaniment) but in “Odysseus” all the resources of modern scoring are employed and both mixed and male choruses are present in most effective numbers. “Odysseus” exhibits Bruch’s instrumentation in the best light, and proves him a master of the modern orchestral resources. These instrumental forces are always employed with the most perfect taste, and the accompaniment of the great unison male chorus of the Rhapsodes by tremendous pizzicato chords, as of a giant harp, is a touch of indescribable dignity; some of the finest mixed choruses which the composer has written are to be found in this work.

Other large compositions for solo voices, chorus, and orchestra, followed. “Arminius” (this time a German warrior was the hero) may not be ranked with the inspired works mentioned above, but is nevertheless a favorite with the composer, and all creators in art have the privilege of loving their weakest children best; “The Song of the Bell,” on Schiller’s great poem, although a fine work, full of power and majesty, does not bring out all the dramatic possibilities of the subject, but is never-less far more effective than the Romberg setting; “Achilleus” (again a martial theme) is one of the most recent works of the master, and in his Op. 52 he turns again to Scotia and in the “Fiery Cross” we find Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” appearing in some of its warlike phases.

So much for the chief vocal works of this master; it will be seen that he loves historic pictures, and the poets Geibel, Lingg, and Scheffel have helped him by libretto and advice in this direction; and he sings so constantly of war and warriors, that he may be called the Tyrtæus of modern music. But it must not be supposed that his entire work has been in this field only; he has won much success in some of the large instrumental forms as well. His three symphonies in E flat, F minor, and E major, are but seldom performed, but it is difficult to discover the cause of this neglect; possibly the earnest, sombre, even gloomy tints of the second are not to the taste of those who seek only pleasure in music. But the third symphony in E is genial and attractive and would please almost any cultured audience although it is not in the strictest form. The first two symphonies are built in classical style, and Bruch seems to have taken Beethoven for his model in this field. It must be confessed, however, that none of the three works has yet received due appreciation. Vastly different is it with the two violin concertos, the first of which is dedicated to Joachim, the second to Sarasate; these are very frequently heard in our concert rooms and the first, (in G minor, Op. 26) may be mentioned as one of the chief works in this form, and equal, and by some held superior, to Mendelssohn’s well-known violin concerto.

The third violin concerto is scarcely known yet in America. It was played at the music festival of Düsseldorf, by Joseph Joachim, with great success. It has a dreamy, prayerful, second movement, and a most martial and brilliant finale, but its first movement is prolix when compared with the power of the themes of the G minor concerto.

It may be of interest to append a list of the most important of Bruch’s published compositions; they are as follows:—

Op. 1. “Scherz, List und Rache.” (Goethe.) A comic opera in one act.

Op. 3. “Jubilate, Amen.” For Soprano, Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 8. “The Birches and the Alders.” Soprano solo, Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 9. String Quartette. C minor.

Op. 10. Quartette in E major. (Both rather too broad in their ideas for the vehicle of expression.)

Op. 12. Six pieces for Piano. (Simple, yet beautiful in expression, and showing the composer in a very different field from that of his majestic cantatas.)

Op. 16. “Loreley.” Grand romantic opera.

Op. 19. “Römischer Triumphgesang”; “Wessobrunner Gebet.” Male choruses with orchestra; the first has become celebrated.

Op. 20. “The Flight of the Holy Family.” (Libretto by Eichendorff.) A great work for Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 22. Does not exist! By a clerical error the Frithjof music was numbered Opus 23 instead of 22.

Op. 23. “Frithjof.” (See above.)

Op. 24. “Schön Ellen”: “Fair Ellen.” (See above.)

Op. 25. “Salamis.” Words by Lingg. Male Chorus and Orchestra. One of the large choral works; a grand historical tone-poem.

Op. 26. Violin Concerto. No. 1. G minor. (See above.)

Op. 27. “Frithjof at his Father’s Grave.” Baritone. Female Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 28. Symphony in E flat.

Op. 29. “Rorate Coeli.” Chorus, Orchestra, and Organ. Probably this is the loftiest of Bruch’s sacred works.

Op. 31. “The Flight into Egypt,” and “Morning Hours.” (By Lingg.) Soprano, Female Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 32. “Normannen-zug.” Baritone, Chorus in unison and Orchestra.

Op. 34. “Römische Leichenfeier”: “Roman Funeral Sacrifice.” Mixed Chorus and Orchestra. (Has been erroneously classified as a male chorus.)

Op. 35. “Kyrie, Sanctus and Agnus Dei.” Choral work.

Op. 36. Symphony in F minor.

Op. 37. “Song of the German Emperor.” Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 39. “Dithyrambe.” (Schiller.) Tenor voice, Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 40. “Hermione.” (“Winter’s Tale.”) Grand Opera.

Op. 41. “Odysseus.” (See above.)

Op. 43. “Arminius.” A large work for Chorus and Orchestra. Sometimes classified as an oratorio.

Op. 44. Violin Concerto. No. 2. D minor.

Op. 45. “The Song of the Bell.” (Schiller.) Chorus, four solo voices, Orchestra and Organ. This is the most ambitious work of the composer; by some it is accounted his greatest, but whoever undertakes the setting of this masterpiece of a great poet, will find his music overshadowed by the grandeur of the poetry.

Op. 46. Scotch Fantasie. Violin and Orchestra.

Op. 47. “Kol Nidrei.” A wonderfully effective setting of the ancient Hebrew hymn (many believe this to be the oldest piece of Hebrew music in existence) for Violoncello and Orchestra.

Op. 50. “Achilleus.” Solo voice, Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 51. Third Symphony. E major. The most free in form, and the brightest in character, of all of Bruch’s symphonies.

Op. 52. “The Fiery Cross.” Dramatic Cantata upon portions of Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” (arranged by H. Bulthaupt). Solo, Chorus and Orchestra.

Op. 53. “Thermopylae”; “War Song of Tyrtaeus.” Two Male Choruses, with Orchestra.

Op. 54. Songs. (Text by Heyse.) Piano and Violin accompaniment.

Op. 55. Canzone. ’Cello and Orchestra.

Op. 56. Adagio on Celtic Melodies. ’Cello and Orchestra.

Op. 57. Adagio Appassionato. Violin and Orchestra.

Op. 58. Third Violin Concerto. (D minor.) Dedicated to Joachim.

Without Opus number. One Male Chorus, and a set of Hebrew Melodies for Chorus, Orchestra and Organ.

JOSEPH RHEINBERGER
Reproduction of a photograph from life, made by Fr. Muller, in Munich.

JOSEPH GABRIEL RHEINBERGER

Most of the more or less prominent German composers of the present time may be easily divided in two different classes. On one side we may place those who seem to be all their lives in a period of “Sturm und Drang;” who are always bitterly in earnest, ever appearing either melancholy or passionate, always longing and striving for the unattainable, often mournful, despairing and reticent. These composers present, even in their normal state, gloomy D minor physiognomies, quite in harmony with the prevailing pessimistic philosophy. On the opposite side are those who look more at the bright and sunny side of life and art, who are the good friends and neighbors of their fellow beings, with simpler, quieter feelings, perhaps also with less high, less far fetched aspirations, and who are less anxious to introduce in every work some new and original feature. The musical physiognomies of this class reflect more the peaceful F, the lively D or the festive E flat keys. To be sure, this is rather a queer and fanciful generalization of the truth, and the most remarkable exceptions could be named on either side, both in regard to the sincerity of such domineering tendencies and to the degree of acquired knowledge and ability or inborn talent of the respective composers. There are particularly some of the second class, to whom art is as high and sacred as it is to the others, and who are worthy of a more prominent position, owing to the possession of rare creative powers and a complete mastery in the use of old and modern means of musical expression, as well as of all the different forms of composition. Such a master is Rheinberger. Joseph Gabriel Rheinberger was born the 17th of March, 1839, being the son of a revenue officer in Vaduz, the small capital of the principality of Lichtenstein, between Switzerland and Tyrol. At a very early age it became evident that nature had destined for him a musical career. He was not five years old, when the piano lessons of his eldest sister attracted his attention in a way which induced her teacher to also begin a musical instruction with the little boy; and so great and rapid was his progress, both on the pianoforte and the organ, that after two years he was competent to fill the position of organist at the church. Even his productive instincts manifested themselves in these tender years, and the little tot of eight years was allowed to have a short mass in three parts with organ accompaniment of his own composition performed at church. Thus his musical vocation was beyond all question, and fortunately the best possible professional education was granted to him very early in life.

From 1851 till 1854 young Rheinberger was a pupil of the Royal Conservatory at Munich, having as teachers Leonard for the pianoforte, Herzog for the organ, and Maier for composition. Since then the Bavarian capital has been Rheinberger’s second home. When he had graduated with high honors, he took his permanent residence there as a music teacher, and in 1859 was appointed Leonard’s successor at the Conservatory, which was then directed by Hauser, the famous baritone and vocal teacher. Later on he began teaching composition, a work in which he has won particular distinction. In 1865 Hauser was pensioned, the conservatory reorganized, and Rheinberger appointed as solo-repetitor of the Opera, but in 1867, when Bülow assumed the directorship of the newly organized “Royal Music School,” Rheinberger again received a call as Professor and Inspector at the new institution. This position he has held ever since, teaching composition and organ. For many years he has also conducted the Munich Oratorio Society, and after Wüllner’s departure in 1877, for some time he led the choir of the Royal Chapel, which was once so justly celebrated for its marvelous rendering of unaccompanied choral works, but which unfortunately has now disappeared from Munich’s musical life. Rheinberger has been the recipient of many honors, titles and orders, and is an honorary member of the Berlin Academy of fine Arts, and of numberless choral societies in and outside of Germany. Yet he has found the most intimate sympathizer with his artistic work in his wife, the poetess Franziska von Hoffnaass, who has written the text to so many of his best known choral works.

As Munich has been Rheinberger’s home since boyhood, it may be interesting to examine the influence, which the life in this metropolis of arts, sciences, literature, music and drama, must necessarily have had upon the development of his talents. It is well known how much the musical life of Munich has changed during the last thirty years. At the time of Rheinberger’s arrival there, Franz Lachner stood in the zenith of his long musical career; he was the highly respected, influential General Music Director of Bavaria and a representative of the old strictly methodical art of composition, and of the old-fashioned, strictly objective mode of rendering the works of the classic masters in the field of opera and concert. Twelve years later King Max II., who had surrounded himself with eminent poets, artists and scientists, was succeeded by Ludwig II., the young enthusiastic admirer of R. Wagner and his ideas. The great opera reformer was invited to live in Munich and his ardent pupil Bülow was appointed as court pianist and director of the orchestra and of the new Music School. How soon master and pupil had to leave Munich again every one knows. Nevertheless their powerful influence remained, especially at the Royal opera house, which became the headquarters of Wagner’s music-dramas. The change in the concert life was slower. Gradually the musicians and the public were forced to become accustomed to Brahms and other modern composers, whose art rests mainly upon the classical models, till of late Berlioz and Liszt also have found at last a more general recognition.

Besides Lachner, Wagner and Bülow we may name as the principal representatives of Munich’s musical life, and the colleagues of Rheinberger during the last thirty years, Peter Cornelius, the long neglected composer, intendant and composer von Perfall, Max Zenger, directors Wüllner, Levi, Fischer and Porges, the æstheticians Riehl, Nohl and Carrère, the pianists Baermann and Bussmeyer, the violinists Walter, Abel, Venzl, all the famous singers of the opera and many others. Through his position at the opera and at the Music School, Rheinberger stood in a close personal and active relation to almost all these men, as well as to this transformation of the musical life of Munich. Yet it certainly speaks very well in his favor, and honors both the originality of his talent and his artistic character, that under all these circumstances he has never been untrue to himself and his individuality, has never stepped beyond his sphere nor trodden a path unsuited to him. An early knowledge of his own nature happily protected him, and his early acquired thorough technical and theoretical education stood him in good stead.

A review of Rheinberger’s published compositions shows at once his great versatility; no field was neglected by him, in many he has written excellent works, in others, if he did not reach the same degree, at least his musical skill and fine musicianship awaken our sincere interest and high consideration. If he was not in every work guided by inspiration, his rare knowledge, ability and artistic instinct preserved him against failure or triviality. Even in his compositions of smaller forms the hand of a master is always to be recognized. What a truly musical character have his themes, how clever and tasteful is his use of all the different instrumental or vocal means, how broad and melodic his cantilena, how fine and charmingly rich and varying his modulations, how fresh and energetic his rhythm, how well does he understand how to find the right tone for the intended mood, and how carefully are all the details finished and connected into a most harmonious whole! Often his pieces give the impression that the composer had really found the truest expression and most beautiful form for what he wished to say or illustrate. Certain chamber works, piano or organ pieces, are so delightful, that they awaken a desire for their immediate repetition, and there are quite a number of his choral compositions which one cannot hear or sing often enough.

JOSEPH RHEINBERGER.
From a photograph by Karl Lützel, Munich.

As a sincere Catholic, Rheinberger has contributed very considerably to the sacred literature of his church, these works being directly intended for the service more than for concert purposes. They are partly in a plain, easy style, and partly on a grander scale, where the composer found ample opportunity to show his complete mastery of contrapuntal and polyphonic art, especially of the fugue. Yet he always keeps himself free from uninteresting features and all mere exhibition of learning. A mood of pious devotion prevails in these works, among the large number of which special mention must be made of the great mass for double chorus, dedicated to Pope Leo XIII., two settings of the Stabat Mater and the Requiem for the victims of the war of 1870–71; besides many hymns and motets. Of even greater importance are Rheinberger’s compositions for the musical instrument of the church, the organ. His many sonatas, belong to the most valuable contributions to organ literature. They have the usual three or four movements, an intermezzo taking the place of the less appropriate scherzo, and a great fugue forming the finale. And they are by no means tedious, antiquarian imitations of old masters, but are full of warm, modern sentiment, in spite of the strictness of form bearing a thoroughly modern physiognomy, yet never going beyond the limits of dignity, becoming this sacred instrument. Some movements have become especially famous and are favorite numbers of organ recitals, as for instance, the Passacaglia of No. 8. Not less valuable are the many monologues and fughettes and the organ concerto with accompaniment of strings and horns.

A review of Rheinberger’s pianoforte compositions may justly be opened with his beautiful concerto in A flat, dedicated to Carl Baermann. It is written in a truly symphonic style and contains throughout in its three extended movements noble and sympathetic music, rich in colors, contrasts and climaxes, the orchestra accompaniment being raised to great importance, yet the solo part always remaining brilliant and effective, especially in the splendid cadenza. The same thorough mastery of the classic forms also appears in several of the great sonatas for either two or four hands; yet the old forms breathe all the modern romantic spirit and even their construction occasionally shows modern influences. Particularly interesting is the great “symphonic sonata,” opus 47, with a charming minuet and a magnificent tarantella in the last movement, the entire work betraying quite a distinct influence of Brahms and his early sonatas. In tarantellas Rheinberger has been as fertile as successful, illustration being found in the violin sonata in E flat and in several independent piano works for two, four, or even eight hands. This happy combination of old strict forms with modern expression and feeling is also the distinguishing feature of his several toccatas, some of which require a great virtuosity of playing. And thus it is with his Fugues, Capriccios, Gavottes, Scherzinos, Etudes, etc., while many other pieces such as Humoresken, Romances, Mazurkas or the collections “From Italy” and “Vacation Pieces” remind us more of the character-pieces which Mendelssohn and Schumann had cultivated. With a Scherzoso and Capriccio on a theme by Handel, Rheinberger paid a special tribute to his admiration of the genius of Brahms, whereas a most interesting improvisation on themes from Mozart’s “Magic Flute” bears some resemblance to Liszt’s virtuoso style, yet showing a decidedly better musical workmanship

In looking at Rheinberger’s chamber works we at once admire his complete familiarity with the old quartet style, and his eminent skill in counterpoint, but these do not hide the bright, charming, sympathetic character of his music, the energetic life of the allegros, the broad, smooth, coherent cantilena of the slow movements, and the grace and spirit of the Scherzos. Beauty of feeling and sound go most happily hand in hand. Of the two violin sonatas in E flat major and E minor the former has become particularly well known, and the effective treatment of this string instrument makes us regret that Rheinberger has never written a complete violin concerto in a great symphonic style. He has, however, composed several suites for violin or violoncello with organ.

In E flat major, which is apparently a favorite key with our master, are the splendid and justly famous pianoforte quartet, opus 38, and the more recently written nonet for horn, four string and four wood instruments. Besides these there are three pianoforte trios, a great pianoforte quintet in C, a string quintet in A minor, variations for five strings, and his latest contribution to this class of music, the string quartet in F. This very remarkable and noble production is distinguished by the most masterly treatment of attractive themes, by the charm and grace of the middle movements and an unsurpassed skill in the closing fugue.

It is not surprising, that a composer of such prominent qualities both in regard to the mastery of the old sonata form and the excellent use of the different instruments, has written some works for complete orchestra; rather are we surprised that he has not cultivated this field more. However his works of this kind are certainly not his best and it is not unlikely that a clear estimation of his own powers has prevented him from further attempts in this field. Of his two symphonic works the more recent one entitled “Florentine Symphony” is far less known and appreciated than the symphonic tone-picture, “Wallenstein,” which was composed much earlier. Both in the old and new world this work still appears in concert programmes, the part performed most frequently being the fascinating Scherzo “Wallenstein’s Camp” with the amusing sermon of the garrulous capuchin in the trio. The opening Allegro is superscribed “Prelude,” the adagio “Thekla,” the finale “Wallenstein’s Death.” The latter is unduly long, and without the help of a direct programme hardly comprehensible and enjoyable. In spite of the undeniably noble and high purpose, the marked skill in technical respects and the truly musical character of the thematic material, we doubt whether Rheinberger, an ever growing representative of old theories and absolute music, would to-day write another such programmatic work. The above mentioned passacaglia for organ, has, in a most magnificent orchestral arrangement, found a very sympathetic reception in many concert rooms, and quite often one reads of performances of his overtures to Shakespeare’s “Taming of the Shrew,” and to Schiller’s “Demetrius.”

We now approach the theatre, for which Rheinberger has also written. He was once connected in a practical way with the operatic stage, and at that time composed the incidental music to dramas of Raimund and Calderon, as well as a great romantic fairy opera, “The Seven Ravens.” The writer remembers with pleasure an excellent performance of this delightful work at the Munich Opera House, though it was many years ago. There was a wealth of beautiful, delicate or strong music full of poetry and romanticism of a truly fairy character, yet not lacking in stronger dramatic emotions. This work was followed later on by a comic opera, “Thürmer’s Töchterlein,” which was quite successfully given on the Munich stage. The preludes of both operas are often heard in orchestral concerts. One of Rheinberger’s most recent works is a little “Singspiel” for young folks, in two acts, with piano accompaniment, “das Zauberwort.”

At last we reach in our review the field, in which Rheinberger has been especially fertile and successful, his many choral compositions. As a writer of chorus-ballads, he occupied a similar high position as that held by Loewe for solo ballads, and as by far the worthiest successor of Schumann and Gade, if not in some respects their superior. His choral works afford ample opportunity to admire his fine sense for novel, charming vocal effects, for a correct, grateful and always effective treatment of the human voice, a careful finishing of details, a great variety of colors and a distinct and fine characterization of the various moods of the poems. Whenever a piano or orchestra accompaniment is added, it is most refined, truly musical, and adequately arranged. Many such happy features could be quoted, but it is impossible to enter further into details. Most of these works do not require a very large chorus or the mastery of unusual difficulties, and have therefore justly become favorites with smaller choral societies. Others however, particularly those for male voices, demand numerous, well-trained voices and a very thorough study, as their difficulties are quite extraordinary.

Fac-simile autograph manuscript written by Jos. Rheinberger in Munich in 1891.

Of the large works for mixed chorus, soli and orchestra, we mention the often sung cycle of romances, “Toggenburg,” “Montfort” (a saga from the Rhine), “Christoforus” (an old Christian legend), and his latest work, “The Star of Bethlehem,” a Christmas cantata, the words of all of which were written by Rheinberger’s wife, Fanny von Hoffnaass. Less extensive and with only a pianoforte accompaniment are “King Erich,” “The Willow Tree,” “The Water Sprite,” “The Shepherdess from the Country,” “The Dead Bride,” “May Dew,” “Harald,” “Night,” etc. Of smaller part songs for mixed voices we mention those contained in the collection, “Love’s Garden,” and some sacred hymns. Those for male voices are of greater prominence and rise far above the plane of the conventional “Liedertafel” style. They are true works of art in every respect, of a very noble, interesting and impressive musical character, sweet and characteristic melodically, richly colored and surprisingly original harmonically, while each one is a real tone-picture, clearly reflecting the various poetical moods and situations. Some, too, are quite extensive and have a piano or orchestral accompaniment, such as the wonderful “Valley of the Espingo,” “The Roses of Hildesheim,” “Wittekind,” and “St. John’s Eve.” Most of the part songs, too, are perfect gems of modern male chorus music, although they are very difficult as vocal music and require the most careful preparation. Rheinberger has also written a number of solo songs, some of which in cyclic form such as “Love’s Life,” “On the Seashore,” etc.

In reviewing this great number of compositions, we must admit that Rheinberger does not rank as an epoch-making genius in musical history. But in sincere admiration and gratitude we recognize that the latest period of German music is not wanting in those whose music reflects the sunshine and serenity of a clear blue sky, the happiness of a sound heart and refined mind, whose first purpose it is, by a masterly and thoughtful use of all musical means of expression, to delight hearers and performers alike.

This, then, is Rheinberger’s position as a composer. We will not, however, forget to do full justice to his eminent ability as a teacher, which enables him to impart to his pupils that thorough and systematic theoretical education, which must remain the indispensable basis for the productions of even the most gifted composers, especially at a time when many are inclined to parade with immature experiments of a fiery, but inordinate imagination, long before the necessary technical ability corresponds with their enthusiastic, and perhaps really worthy intentions.

Reproduction of a steel engraving made by Krauss, after a photograph.

RICHARD WAGNER

The life of the great German reformer of the lyric stage is a most instructive story. In no respect is it more so than in its illustration of the fact that genius sometimes requires development, that the aspirations of a young man of promise may be altogether out of the line of the inspirations of maturity. Wagner began his musical career as the admirer and imitator of that which was most popular and facile in the lyric drama, and became at last the regenerator of that art which some of his early models had dragged in the mire of time-service and gain. There seems to have been a special providence in the utter failure of his inartistic attempts, which forced him in his despair to write what was in him without hope of pecuniary reward. Destiny drove him toward the goal of fame with the stinging whip of adversity.

Wilhelm Richard Wagner was born in Leipsic, May 22, 1813. His father, Friedrich Wagner, a man of considerable education though simply a police superintendent, died in October of the same year of a nervous fever caused by the carnage at the battle of Leipsic. Left with a family of seven children, of whom Albert, the oldest, was only fourteen, the widow married again. Her second husband was Ludwig Geyer, an actor at the Dresden Court Theatre. He was a man of artistic tastes, a poet, and a portrait painter, and withal a kindly man, who had a fatherly regard for his stepchildren. After removing with his family to Dresden, Geyer died in 1821, and Wagner was once more without a father. The day before his death Geyer bade little Richard play two simple pieces which he had learned to strum on the piano, and said feebly to the mother, “Has he perchance a talent for music?” The next day, when the stepfather lay dead, Wagner’s mother said to him, “He hoped to make something of thee.” And the composer adds in his autobiographic sketch, “I remember, too, that for a long time I imagined that something indeed would come of me.”

In his ninth year Wagner went to the Kreuzschule, where he studied Greek, Latin, mythology, and ancient history, and in secret worshipped Weber, whom he saw daily passing by. The boy received some piano lessons, but beguiled his time with attempts to play “Der Freischütz” overture with “fearful fingering.” He never became a good pianist. More important for his future were his poetic studies. On the death of a schoolfellow he wrote a lament which was printed. He made a metrical translation of Romeo’s monologue, and he built a terrible tragedy, compounded of “Lear” and “Hamlet,” in which forty-two persons died, most of them returning as ghosts to finish the play. In 1828 he left Dresden and entered the Nicolaischule in Leipsic. At the Gewandhaus concerts he heard Beethoven’s music. The effect he afterwards described thus: “One evening I heard, for the first time, a Beethoven symphony. I then fell sick of a fever, and when I recovered I found myself a musician.” He tried to write music for one of his tragedies, but discovered that he needed instruction. Gottlieb Müller tried to teach him, but found his pupil too wilful. His wilfulness, however, secured the performance of an overture at the theatre in 1830. The public laughed at it because of the persistent thumping of the bass drum. Fortunately he realized his lack of knowledge, and applied to Theodore Weinlig, cantor at the Thomasschule. Weinlig led him in the right direction, and in less than six months dismissed him as competent to “solve with ease the hardest problems of counterpoint.” The immediate results of this course were an overture, applauded at a Gewandhaus concert, and a symphony in C major, modelled on Beethoven and Mozart.

In 1832 he wrote his first opera libretto, “Die Hochzeit” (“The Wedding”), the music for which he abandoned after a few numbers. In 1833 he visited his brother Albert, tenor and stage manager at the Würzburg theatre, and accepted the position of chorus master. He now had leisure to write another opera. This was “Die Feen” (“The Fairies”), founded on Gozzi’s “La Donna Serpente.” Beethoven, Weber, and Marschner were his models. The work was accepted by Ringelhardt, of the Leipsic Theatre, but not produced. It was resurrected, however, in 1891, and was performed ten times in Germany. In 1834, Wagner heard Wilhelmina Schroeder-Devrient sing in Bellini’s “Montecchi e Capuletti,” and her power as an actress seems to have set his mind to work on the possibility of an intimate union of music with acting. A performance of “Massaniello,” with its quick succession of incidents, completed the formulation of his idea of the road to success. As Adolphe Jullien remarks, his object was “first to imagine an animated scene of action, then to write music easy to sing, and of a nature to catch the public ear.” He now began his second opera, “Das Liebesverbot” (“The Love Veto”), based on Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure,” but so altered as to become practically a glorification of free love.

RICHARD WAGNER’S BIRTHPLACE IN LEIPSIC.
From a photograph.

In 1834 he secured the post of musical director at the Magdeburg Theatre, and there, in the season of 1835–36, he produced his new work after only ten days’ rehearsals. The result was failure, penury, and debt. In Magdeburg he fell in love with Wilhelmina Planer, an actress, and following her to Königsberg, when she was engaged there, he became conductor at the theatre. On Nov. 24, 1834, they were married. In 1837 he read Bulwer’s “Rienzi,” and conceived the idea of using it as an opera plot. In the fall of that year he became conductor at Riga, where in 1838 he finished his libretto and began the music. He now wrote without hope of an immediate production, but with a view to future performance at some theatre of large resources. His mental eye, however, fixed itself on Paris, and his “Rienzi” began to develop along lines suggested by the popular composers of the time, Spontini, Meyerbeer, Bellini, and Rossini. In 1839 he and his wife started for Paris, by way of London, on a sailing ship. Stormy weather and the legend of “The Flying Dutchman,” told by the sailors, sowed in his mind seed which grew and subsequently blossomed. At Boulogne he became acquainted with Meyerbeer, who gave him letters to Parisians of note in music, and in September, 1839, he arrived in the French capital.

“Das Liebesverbot” was accepted by Jolly, director of the Renaissance Theatre, which went into bankruptcy before the work was rehearsed. Wagner wrote “A Faust Overture,” which also failed to come to a performance, and other attempts were fruitless. He was now reduced to arranging music for a publisher, and contributing to a musical journal. He wrote at this time some charming songs and his notable article, “A Pilgrimage to Beethoven,” and he worked hard at his “Rienzi.” An overture, “Columbus,” was played, but was not liked. He tried to get a position as a chorus singer at a small theatre, but was rejected. In “the last stage of his misery,” Meyerbeer arrived, and Leon Pillet, under his influence, allowed Wagner to have hopes of preparing a work for the Grand Opéra. He wrote a sketch of the book of “Der Fliegende Holländer” (“The Flying Dutchman”), and to his disgust, Pillet proposed to buy it of him and have some one else write the music. Finally, reserving the German rights, he did sell the sketch to Pillet for five hundred francs. Then he wrote the libretto and began to compose his own fine music. He had not composed for so long a time that he doubted his powers. “As soon as the piano had arrived,” he writes, “my heart beat fast for very fear; I dreaded to discover that I had ceased to be a musician. I began first with the ‘Sailors’ Chorus’ and the ‘Spinning Song’; everything sped along as though on wings, and I shouted for joy as I felt within me that I still was a musician.” His sketch, sold to Pillet, was made into a French opera under the title of “Le Vaisseau Fantôme,” music by Dietsch, and failed signally. Wagner, taking no thought for the future, but working according to his own artistic impulses, completed his own version in seven weeks, and began to develop the system which was to remodel opera. In the mean time “Rienzi” had been accepted by the Dresden Court Theatre, and early in 1842 the “Holländer” was accepted. “As regards Paris itself,” he writes, “I was completely without prospects for several years; I therefore left it in the spring of 1842. For the first time I saw the Rhine; with hot tears in my eyes, I, poor artist, swore eternal fidelity to my German fatherland.”

LUDWIG GEYER.
Reproduction of a portrait painted by himself. Original now in possession of the Brockhaus family in Leipsic.

“Rienzi” was produced on Oct. 20, 1842, with the following cast: Rienzi, Tichatschek; Irene, Frl. Wüst; Stefano, Dettmer; Adriano, Mme. Schroeder-Devrient; Paolo, Wachter; Raimondo, Rheinhold; Baroncelli, Vestri; Cecco, Risse; Messenger, Frl. Thiele. The opera achieved an immediate and emphatic success, which fifty years of popularity have approved. “Der Fliegende Holländer” was now hurried upon the stage, and produced at Dresden, Jan. 2, 1843, with Schroeder-Devrient as Senta, and Mitterwurzer as Vanderdecken. The great change in style from “Rienzi,” the sombreness of the story, the simplicity of the action, and the originality of the music surprised and disappointed the public. Only Spohr seemed to perceive its real value. He said, “Among composers for the stage pro tem., Wagner is the most gifted.” Spohr produced the “Holländer” at Cassel on June 5, 1843, and was to the end an admirer of Wagner.

Immediately after finishing this work in Paris, Wagner cast about for new material. He read a new version of the story of “Tannhäuser,” which set him to work to trace to its source the connection of this tale with that of the Wartburg song contest. Thus he came to read “Der Wartburgkrieg,” which introduces the story of “Lohengrin,” and Wolfram von Eschenbach’s “Parzival”; “and thus,” as he says, “an entirely new world of poetical matter suddenly opened before me.” Before the rehearsals of “Rienzi” he began the book of “Tannhäuser.” He completed the opera (though he afterwards made some changes) on April 13, 1844. In the mean time (January, 1843) he was made court conductor at Dresden, where he served seven years, producing the masterpieces of Gluck, Mozart, Weber, Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Spontini, and even Palestrina in the most artistic manner. He produced “Tannhäuser” at Dresden, Oct. 19, 1845, with Tichatschek in the title rôle; Schroeder-Devrient as Venus; his niece, Johanna Wagner, as Elizabeth; and Mitterwurzer, as Wolfram. The work pleased neither the public nor the critics. The music, except the simple broad march and chorus of Act. II., was pronounced ugly. Even the mellifluous “Evening Star” song was disliked; Tannhäuser’s dramatic story of his pilgrimage was called “a pointless and empty recitation,” and Wagner was blamed for not marrying his hero and heroine. Even Spohr, though he saw much that was “new and beautiful,” was troubled. Schumann alone declared of the work: “It contains deeper, more original, and altogether an hundred-fold better things than his previous operas; at the same time, a good deal that is musically trivial.” Wagner was discouraged, but instead of losing faith in his ideals, he decided on a course of literary propagandism: “to induce the public to understand and participate in my aims as an artist.” From this resolve sprang his subsequent theoretical writings: “Art and Revolution” (1849), “The Art Work of the Future” (1850), “Opera and Drama” (1851), etc.

RICHARD WAGNER’S MOTHER.
Reproduction of a portrait painted by Ludwig Geyer. Original now in possession of the Brockhaus family in Leipsic.

Before the production of “Tannhäuser,” he had made sketches for the books of “Lohengrin” and “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg” (“The Mastersingers of Nuremberg”). He finished the former work in March, 1848. In the mean time failure had brought debt and trouble upon him. Even his wife, though an admirable woman in other respects, did not comprehend his intellect, and grieved at his preference of artistic works over paying operas of the familiar sort. Restless and irritated, he plunged into the revolutionary movement and gave utterance to radical opinions, even arguing in a lecture that the king ought to proclaim Saxony a free state. In May, 1849, Dresden streets were barricaded against troops sent to disperse rioters, and in spite of assertions to the contrary, there is good evidence that Wagner was fighting on the people’s side.[^[1]] The Prussian troops scattered the revolutionists, and Wagner fled to Weimar, where he was received with open arms by Franz Liszt, thenceforward his most devoted friend. The police were on his track, however, and he hastened by way of Paris to Zurich, Switzerland.

Wagner’s exile lasted from 1849 till 1861, and this period embraces the climax of his creative labors. He began his career as a citizen of Zurich by pouring forth a long series of literary works, of which those above mentioned and “Judaism in Music” may be regarded as the most important. There will be occasion to speak later of those bearing on his operatic ideas, but the “Judaism” article produced bitter comment at the time, and has remained a source of offence to many. It was published in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, over the nom de plume K. Freigedank. The chief contentions of the article were that the Jews, being of no nation, but of all nations, are without national feeling; that their art work, especially in music, lacks that genuineness which is one of the products of nationality; and that an instinct for gain causes them to sacrifice pure art for the profitable fashion of the time. His examples were Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, the latter of whom he again censured in “Opera and Drama.” The authorship of the strictures on the Jews was speedily suspected, and a host of pamphlets appeared in answer to it. The principal result was that Wagner’s writings sold well. In a letter written in 1847 he declared that he esteemed Meyerbeer as a man, but as a composer viewed him as the embodiment of “all that is repellent in the incoherency and empty striving after outward effect of the operatic music of the day.” This was his only answer to the charge that he had repaid Meyerbeer’s early assistance with ingratitude.

VILLA TRIEBSCHEN.
Richard Wagner’s Residence on Lake Lucerne, where the “Meistersinger,” “Rheingold,” and “Götterdämmerung” were composed.

His opera, “Lohengrin,” was produced by Liszt at Weimar, Aug. 28, 1850, with the following cast: Lohengrin, Beck; Telramund, Milde; King Henry, Höfer; Elsa, Frl. Agthe; Ortrud, Frl. Faisstlinger. It was received very much as “Tannhäuser” had been, but it gradually won its way through Germany, being brought out at Wiesbaden in 1853, Leipzic, Schwerin, Frankfurt, Darmstadt, Breslau, and Stettin, in 1854; Cologne, Hamburg, Riga, and Prague, 1855; Munich and Vienna, in 1858; Berlin and Dresden, 1859. In the mean time Wagner was laboring on the largest, if not the greatest, of his works, “Der Ring des Nibelungen” (“The Nibelung’s Ring”). In 1848 he had considered two subjects, the story of Frederick Barbarossa and that of Siegfried, the hero of the “Nibelungen Lied.” The latter was his choice, and he wrote an essay entitled “Der Nibelungen Mythus als Entwurf zu einem Drama” (“The Nibelung Myth as Subject for a Drama”). Immediately afterward, in the fall of 1848, he wrote “Siegfried’s Tod” (“Siegfried’s Death”) in three acts and a prologue, and even conceived some of the musical ideas for the setting. In May, 1850, he had this poem printed and read parts of it as illustrations in a lecture on the music-drama delivered at Zurich. The prospects of “Lohengrin” moved him to take it up again, and we find him writing to Liszt thus:—

“You offer to me the artistic association which might bring ‘Siegfried’ to light. I demand representatives of heroes, such as our stage has not yet seen; where are they to come from? Not from the air, but from the earth, for I believe you are in a good way to make them grow from the earth by dint of your inspiring care.... Well, then, as soon as you have produced ‘Lohengrin’ to your own satisfaction, I shall also produce my ‘Siegfried,’ but only for you and for Weimar. Two days ago I should not have believed that I should come to this resolution; I owe it to you.”[^[2]]

WAHNFRIED.
The home of Richard Wagner in Bayreuth. From a photograph.

The immediately subsequent letters are full of his determination soon to begin work on “Siegfried’s Death”; but when he attempted it, he found that there was too much explanatory matter, and he decided to embody that in a prefatory drama to be called “Young Siegfried.” Here again, however, he found the same difficulty, and on Nov. 20, 1851, he writes to Liszt that “this ‘Young Siegfried’ also is no more than a fragment.” He continues thus:—

“Two principal motives of my myth, therefore, remain to be represented, both of which are hinted at in ‘Young Siegfried,’ the first in the long narrative of Brünnhilde after her awakening (Act III.), and the second in the scene between Alberich and the Wanderer in the second act, and between the Wanderer and Mime in the first. That to this I was led not only by artistic reflection, but by the splendid and, for the purpose of representation, extremely rich material of these motives, you will readily understand when you consider the subject more closely. Think then of the wondrously fatal love of Siegmund and Sieglinde, of Wotan, in his deep, mysterious relation to that love, in his dispute with Fricka, in his terrible self-contention when, for the sake of custom, he decrees the death of Siegmund; finally of the glorious Valkyrie Brünnhilde, as, divining the innermost thought of Wotan, she disobeys the god, and is punished by him; consider this wealth of motive indicated in the scene between the Wanderer and the Wala, and at greater length in the above-mentioned tale of Brünnhilde, as the material of a drama which precedes the two ‘Siegfrieds’; and you will understand that it was not reflection, but rather enthusiasm, which inspired my latest plan. That plan extends to three dramas: (1) ‘The Valkyrie’; (2) ‘Young Siegfried’; (3) ‘Siegfried’s Death.’ In order to give everything completely, these three dramas must be preceded by a grand introductory play, ‘The Rape of the Rhinegold.’ The object is the complete representation of everything in regard to this rape; the origin of the Nibelung treasure, the possession of that treasure by Wotan, and the curse of Alberich, which in ‘Young Siegfried’ occur in the form of narration.”

RICHARD WAGNER’S STUDIO IN BAYREUTH.
From a photograph of a painting by R. Steche.

Thus we find him impelled by the demands as well as the artistic possibilities of a fruitful story to the construction of his great tetralogy, consisting of the dramas eventually named “Das Rheingold” (“The Rhinegold”), “Die Walküre” (“The Valkyrie”), “Siegfried,” and “Die Götterdämmerung” (“The Dusk of the Gods”). A further incentive to the creation of this four-part work was his belief that the true lyric play should be modelled after the Greek drama, in whose literature he found the trilogy of Æschylus—the “Agamemnon,” “Chœphoræ,” and “Eumenides” and “The Seven against Thebes,” believed to have been the final play of a tetralogy. He began to labor at this gigantic undertaking without any definite hope of its performance; indeed, with doubts as to his living to complete it. So great, however, was his enthusiasm that, in spite of the formidable artistic problems which he had to solve and the novelty and complexity of his own musico-dramatic system, now to be developed for the first time to its logical outcome, he had the poem completed and printed for private circulation early in 1853.[^[3]]

“During the summer of 1853 he visited a place near Saint Maurice, and from there he undertook a trip into the North of Italy.... It was during a sleepless night at Spezzia that the first ideas of the ‘Rheingold’ music passed through his mind. He brought his journey to an end, and hastened to regain his tranquil home at Zurich, that he might not commence such a work on Italian soil.”[^[4]] The score of “Das Rheingold” was completed in May, 1854. The next month he began “Die Walküre” and finished all save the instrumentation in the winter of 1854–55. The score was done in 1856, and in 1857 most of the first two acts of “Siegfried” were composed and orchestrated. His labors had been interrupted by the production of “Tannhäuser” at Zurich in 1855, by a visit from his best of friends, Liszt, and by a journey to London to conduct the concerts of the Philharmonic Society from March to June, 1855. He felt that he must accept this engagement or, as he said in a letter to Praeger, “renounce the public and all relations with it once and for all.”[^[5]]

BAYREUTH HILL AND THE THEATRE OF THE FESTIVALS.
From a photograph.

A more important interruption, however, was to come. In 1851, Arthur Schopenhauer’s “Parerga und Paralipomena” was published, and created a sensation which called attention to his earlier philosophical work, “The World as Will and Representation” (1818), hitherto unnoticed in the glare of Hegel’s and Schelling’s success. Wagner plunged into Schopenhauer’s pessimistic philosophy with ardor. At the same time he was reading Godfrey von Strassburg’s “Tristan,” and conceived the idea of embodying Schopenhauer’s pessimism in a story of unhappy passion. He read Strassburg’s poem to Praeger, who was visiting him, and spoke of its adaptability to operatic treatment. The next morning at breakfast, in a fit of abstraction, he conceived some of the love music. Now the desire seized him to write a work which could be completed and produced. Moreover he needed money. And to end all, a mysterious agent appeared with a commission for an opera from the Emperor of Brazil. Wagner hesitated about the commission, but he began “Tristan and Isolde.” He finished the poem early in 1857, the music of the first act in the winter, the second act in Venice, March 2, 1859, and the third act in Lyons, August, 1859.

THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE, SHOWING RESIDENCE OF RICHARD WAGNER.
From a photograph.

In September of the same year he went to Paris with a faint hope of getting the new work, or one of his earlier ones, produced. M. Carvalho, of the Théâtre-Lyrique, was favorably inclined toward “Tannhäuser,” but afraid. Wagner gave a concert and lost money. Then help came from an unexpected quarter. Under the persuasion of the Princess de Metternich the Emperor ordered a production of “Tannhäuser” at the Grand Opéra. The text was translated into French, a great number of rehearsals was held, $40,000 were spent on the mounting, and Wagner was allowed to select his own singers. The cast he chose was as follows: Tannhäuser, Niemann; Elizabeth, Mlle. Saxe; Venus, Mlle. Tedesco; the Shepherd, Mlle. Reboux; the Landgrave, Cazaux; and Wolfram, Morelli. In his first interview with the director of the Opera, Wagner was informed that a ballet in the second act was an absolute necessity, because the subscribers, chiefly members of the Jockey Club, never arrived till the middle of the evening, and they demanded a ballet at that time for their especial delectation. Wagner refused to introduce a meaningless dance into his second act, but “saw in the first act, at the luxurious court of Venus, a most perfect opportunity for a choreographic scene of some real meaning.”[^[6]] In accordance with this idea he rewrote the Venus scene, arranging what is now known as the Paris version of “Tannhäuser.” M. Adolphe Jullien’s account of the production on March 13, 1861, and the ensuing performances (Chap. VIII.) is careful and candid; and it settles conclusively the fact that the failure of the work was due to the persistent opposition of the members of the Jockey Club, who blew hunting whistles, indulged in hisses and catcalls, and otherwise made such a disturbance that the work did not get a fair hearing. Wagner withdrew it after three performances, in spite of the increase of receipts, which ran as follows: first, 7,491 francs (subscription, 2,790); second, 8,415 francs (subscription, 2,758); third, 10,764 francs (subscription, 230). The smallness of the subscription at the third performance is accounted for by its having been given on Sunday night in order to get rid of the irate subscribers, who, nevertheless, went en masse, buying admission tickets. Wagner fully comprehended the meaning of it all. “Never,” he said, “have I been in the least disposed to doubt the Parisian public when it is upon an impartial ground.”

Through the intercession of the Princess de Metternich he received permission in 1861 to return to Germany. The succeeding three years, owing to the smallness of the royalties on his operas, were years of pecuniary distress. His hopes in “Tristan” were shattered, for after fifty-seven rehearsals at Vienna it was shelved as impracticable. In 1861 (May 15) at Vienna he had the pleasure of hearing “Lohengrin” for the first time. He was encouraged to begin a new work, and he took up his old sketch of “Die Meistersinger” made in 1845. In “Tannhäuser” he had drawn a picture of a contest of song among knightly minnesingers; in this comic opera he gave a humorous representation of a contest among the common people. In the winter of 1861–62 he finished the libretto, though he afterwards made alterations. He went to a little place opposite Mayence to work on the music. He gave a number of concerts to keep the wolf from the door, and in 1864 published the poem of “Der Ring des Nibelungen” with a pathetic renunciation of all hope of living to see it completed or performed. Pecuniary distress finally broke his spirit, and in 1864 he accepted an invitation to live in Switzerland. He was on his way thither when his earthly providence intervened.

This providence was the young King Ludwig II. of Bavaria, a sincere lover of art and a warm admirer of Wagner. Hardly had he mounted the throne before he sent a messenger after the composer with the words, “Come here and finish your work.” Wagner’s joy may be imagined. He went to Munich, where he was provided with a stipend of $500 a year from the king’s private purse. One of the musician’s first acts was to compose his familiar “Huldigungs Marsch” (“March of Allegiance”). He received the royal order to complete the “Nibelungen” in the fall of 1864; his allowance was increased, and a house given him. The king began to talk about building a theatre for the production of the tetralogy; “Tristan und Isolde” was put in preparation, and Hans von Bülow was summoned to conduct it. On June 10, 1865, this formidable work was produced in exact accordance with the composer’s ideas. The original cast was as follows: Tristan, Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld; Isolde, Frau Schnorr von Carolsfeld; King Mark, Zottmayer; Kurvenal, Mitterwurzer; Melot, Heinrich; Brangäne, Frl. Deinet; Shepherd, Simons; Steersman, Hartmann. In December, 1865, the composer went to live at the Villa Triebschen, on Lake Lucerne, where he finished “Die Meistersinger,” twenty-two years after he had made the first sketch. It was produced under Von Bülow at Munich on June 21, 1868, with these principals: Eva, Frl. Mallinger; Magdalena, Frau Dietz; Hans Sachs, Betz; Walther, Nachbauer; David, Schlosser; Beckmesser, Hölzel. While at Triebschen he also continued his work on the “Nibelungen,” and in June, 1870, had finished the first act of “Die Götterdämmerung.”

It was in this year that he married a second time. His first wife had never understood his artistic ideas, and the two were wholly without sympathy, though Wagner never ceased to speak with kindness of Mina. His professional intercourse with Von Bülow led to his intimate acquaintance with Cosima von Bülow, the daughter of Liszt. Wagner found in her the comprehension and sympathy which he craved. Mina was unable to endure the supremacy of the more brilliant woman, and in 1861 left her husband and went to Dresden. She died in 1866, and in 1870, Cosima, having secured a divorce from Von Bülow, became Mme. Wagner, destined to survive her husband and perpetuate his triumphs.

Now began the remarkable series of events with which Wagner’s career culminated. The king abandoned his idea of building a Wagner theatre in Munich, and the composer selected Bayreuth as a place adapted, by reason of its seclusion, to the consummation of his ambitious plans. Money had to be raised, and Emil Heckel, of Mannheim, conceived the notion of Wagner Societies. The success of his scheme was beyond expectation. Such organizations were founded all over the world—even in Milan and New York—and more than $200,000 was subscribed. Wagner settled in Bayreuth in April, 1872, and on May 22 gave a concert to celebrate the beginning of the building of the theatre. The music of the tetralogy was finished in November, 1874, and rehearsals were begun under Hans Richter. The first performances were given on Aug. 13, 14, 16, and 17. The work was twice repeated in the same month. The principals were: Wotan, Betz; Loge, Vogel; Alberich, Hill; Mime, Schlosser; Fricka, Frau Grün; Donner and Gunther, Gura; Erda and Waltraute, Frau Jaïde; Siegmund, Niemann; Sieglinde, Frl. Schefzky; Brünnhilde, Frau Materna; Siegfried, Unger; Hagen, Siehr; Gutrune, Frl. Weckerlin; Rhinedaughters, Frl. Lili and Marie Lehmann and Frl. Lambert; concert-master, Wilhemj; conductor, Hans Richter. The performances, like all successive festivals at Bayreuth, attracted music lovers from all over the world and called forth volumes of criticism, favorable and bitterly unfavorable.

PALAZZO VENDRAMIN, VENICE, WHERE RICHARD WAGNER DIED.
From a photograph.

A very large deficit caused Wagner to try the experiment of grand concerts in London in 1877; but he made only $3,000 out of that venture. Wagner’s last work was now well under way. Early in life, as already noted, he had read Wolfram von Eschenbach’s “Parzival,” and in 1857, at Zurich, he began his own “Parsifal,” with a sketch of the Good Friday music. The completed libretto was published Dec. 25, 1877. The sketch of the first act was finished early in 1878, and the whole was completed April 25, 1879. The instrumentation was finished at Palermo, Jan. 13, 1882.[^[7]] The first performance took place at Bayreuth on July 25, 1882, and the work was given altogether sixteen times that summer. The performers who alternated in the principal parts were as follows: Parsifal, Winklemann, Gudehus, and Jäger; Kundry, Materna, Brandt, and Malten; Gurnemanz, Scaria and Siehr; Amfortas, Reichmann and Fuchs; Klingsor, Hill, Degele, and Plank. Conductors, Hermann Levi and Franz Fischer. “Parsifal” was assailed fiercely by the now numerous opponents of Wagner’s musical system, but it has continued to draw great crowds to Bayreuth years after its creator’s death. The power of this and the other dramas was due not only to their inherent truth and beauty, but also to the manner of their production. As an American newspaper correspondent (W. S. B. Mathews) wrote:—

“‘Parsifal,’ as here given, is a revelation. The performance is of such a consistently elevated character, and so evenly carried out in every department, as to make one realize that in his whole life he has never before witnessed an artistic presentation of opera.”

LUIGI TREVISAN.
Richard Wagner’s Venetian Gondolier. Drawn by Giacomo Favretto.

In the autumn of 1882, Wagner went to live in Venice. His health had been failing. He recuperated sufficiently to conduct a performance of his youthful Symphony in C; but on Tuesday, Feb. 13, 1883, as M. Jullien relates, “as he was about to step into his gondola, some discussion arose, and he gave way to a fit of anger; suddenly he started up from his seat, choking, and cried, ‘I feel very badly!’ He fell fainting. They carried him to his bed, and when his physician, Dr. Keppler, arrived, in all haste, he found him dead in the arms of his wife, who believed him sleeping.” On Feb. 18 he was buried in the garden of his villa, “Wahnfried” (“Fulfillment of Ideal”), at Bayreuth. He left one son, Siegfried, the fruit of his second union.

This outline of a remarkable career, in which artistic success was pursued by pecuniary embarrassment, in which envy, malice, and vituperation barked at the heels of progressive intellect, will best be closed by the quotation of a few lines concerning the man’s personality. M. Jullien, who writes with kindness and yet with candor, says:—

“The most striking thing about Richard Wagner, at first sight, was the extraordinary life and energy which animated this insignificant body, surmounted by a very large head, with an enormous frontal development.... His bright eyes and pleasant glance softened the strongly marked face, and his mouth, notwithstanding the undue prominence of nose and chin, had a singular expression of sweetness and affability. With his extreme rapidity of movement, gait, and gesture, he gave from the first an impression of unusual and powerful originality; he fascinated by his conversation, so animated was he on all subjects which interested him, and he always acted out his discourse. He was violent, even explosive in temper; with him gayety, like wrath, was tempestuous and overflowing.”

RICHARD WAGNER
Reproduction of a photograph from life, made in 1877, by Elliott & Fry in London.

Mr. Dannreuther, who knew him well, testifies that he was most amiable among his friends, with whom he was a very different person from “the aggressive critic and reformer who addressed himself to the public.” There is no doubt that Wagner was fully convinced of the tremendous importance of his own work, and that he developed to its fullest extent the exasperating egotism of a man whose whole soul is absorbed in his aims. He was intolerant of opposition, and ungenerous in his views of other musicians. He was dogmatic in style, even when most logical in thought; and like many another genius, he had some very small weaknesses, such as a sybaritic love for silk and satin clothing, and a belief that the world ought to gratefully pay the expenses of his support while he completed his great works. With all his peculiarities, which were largely the outcome of his fierce struggle for recognition, he possessed “a simple kindness of heart, an extreme sensibility.” As to his manner of work, Dr. Praeger has given testimony:—

“Wagner composed at the piano, in an elegantly well-arranged studio. With him composing was a work of excitement and much labor.... He labored excessively. Not to find or make up a phrase; no, he did not seek his ideas at the piano. He went to the piano with his idea already composed, and made the piano his sketch book wherein he worked and reworked his subject, steadily modelling his matter until it assumed the shape he had in his mind.”

The names, dates of production, and principal singers of his music-dramas have already been given, together with some mention of his minor compositions. An overture (“Faust”), three marches, the “Siegfried Idyll,” built on themes from the drama, a chorus, a male quartet, a funeral march for Weber, five piano pieces, a few lovely songs (two of them studies for “Tristan” music), and nearly a dozen arrangements (among them piano scores of “La Favorita,” and “L’Elisir d’Amore,” pathetic mementoes of his starving days in Paris), are the musical remains of this genius, outside of his operatic works. The lyric stage was the theatre of his career, and in the works prepared for it he expended the force of his intellect, and developed the ideas that proclaim him an epoch-maker. Let us, therefore, turn our attention to the Wagner theories, and their practical exposition in the so-called “music of the future,” which has become so intensely that of the present. What is the Wagnerian theory of the opera? How does it differ from that which preceded it? From what germs did Wagner develop it? How has he embodied it? These are questions which naturally arise, and which demand answers.

It may well be questioned whether Wagner had a wholly comprehensive view of the essence and results of his own artistic theories. There can be no doubt that much of his work was the fruit of what were in his own mind vaguer inspirations, which he himself was unable to reduce to theoretical formulæ. Therefore, while we may appeal to his prose writings for evidence as to the sincerity and direction of his intentions, we may readily agree with the assertion of Mr. Hadow that “the arguments which have established the Wagnerian theory of opera are to be found not in ‘Opera and Drama,’ but in the pages of ‘Tristan’ and ‘Parsifal.’”[^[8]] It behooves us, therefore, to endeavor to trace the development of the Wagnerian theory in the mind of its inventor, and in order to do that we must follow the plan of Mr. Krehbiel,[^[9]] and make some inquiry into “the origin and nature of the lyric drama.”

Of the origin of the drama it is not the province of this article to speak, but we may note that the introduction of music into plays was a natural movement. In Italy, where the opera was born, choruses had been sung in plays as far back as 1350, but up to 1597 the ecclesiastical contrapuntal style prevailed, and in that year the speeches of a single personage, in a comedy of Orazzi Beechi’s, were sung in five-part choruses of sombre canonic form. The younger and more progressive minds in Florence began to perceive the unsuitability of this kind of music to the drama. In their search after a new form they were guided by the revival of interest in classic antiquity, known as the Renaissance; and they set about reconstructing the musical declamation of the Greeks. Their work began with the production of “monodies,” or what we should call to-day dramatic scenes for one voice. Encouraged by their success in this direction, two of these enthusiasts, Ottavio Rinuccini, poet, and Jacopo Peri, musician, wrote a pastoral called “Daphne.” This had all the elements of modern opera, and its favorable reception at a private performance led the two men to try again. This time they wrote “Eurydice,” performed in public in 1600, and recognized as the first opera. The pregnant achievement of Peri in these works was the foundation of dramatic recitation. It was nothing like the recitation of the Greeks, but it was a new and noble art form, in which music strove to imitate the nuances of speech without ceasing to be music. “Soft and gentle speech he interpreted by half-spoken, half-sung tones [modern parlando], on a sustained instrumental bass; feelings of a deeper emotional kind, by a melody with greater intervals, and a lively tempo, the accompanying instrumental harmonies changing more frequently.”[^[10]] Peri’s theory, in short, was that recitative should copy speech, and that his new art form, which was christened drama per musica, should follow the Greek tragedies as its models. Claudio Monteverde advanced along the path indicated by Peri, and furthermore began to make the orchestra a potent factor in the musical exposition. But instrumental music now exercised a baneful effect on the opera, and in Cavalli’s “Giasone,” produced in 1649, we find the germs of the operatic aria, modelled on the simple cyclical forms used by the fathers of the sonata. Cavalli was opposed to recitative, and furthered the cause of simple rhythmical tune in opera. This new style was easy of comprehension and popular. Alessandro Scarlatti took it up and developed the aria so that it became the central sun of the operatic system. The result was inevitable. The person who could most beautifully sing an aria captured the public heart; the singer became the dominating power in opera, and the composer was relegated to a secondary place. From that time onward, the history of the artistic development of opera is a series of contests between the singer and the composer, with the supremacy mostly on the side of the former. The result of this was the imposition upon the opera of a number of meaningless, artificial forms, in which a musical purpose was manifest, but a dramatic design wholly undiscernible. In Handel’s time this artificiality had reached an absurd stage. The different kinds of arias were labelled with extreme minuteness in the matter of distinctions, and the composer was required to produce just so many in each opera and in each act. No vocalist might have two consecutive arias, nor might two arias of the same kind be sung in succession. But in the second and third act the hero and the heroine each had a claim to one grand scena followed by an aria di bravura, the latter being designed simply to display agility in ornamental passages. These laws were afterwards modified, but down to the time of Wagner’s supremacy an opera librettist was expected to construct his book so that arias, duets, trios, quartets, and ensemble numbers should be found at places suitable to the composer. In short, the nature and purpose of the opera had been lost sight of; it was no longer drama per musica, but drama pro musica,—a vastly different thing.

The first resolute opposition to this style of thing was made by Gluck, who had the same high regard for the classics of antiquity as Peri and his confreres had. Gluck’s theories and purposes are succinctly expressed in his preface to “Alceste.” He says:—

“I endeavored to reduce music to its proper function, that of seconding poetry by enforcing the expression of the sentiment and the interest of the situations without interrupting the action or weakening it by superfluous ornament. My idea was that the relation of music to poetry was much the same as that of harmonious coloring and well-disposed light and shade to an accurate drawing, which animates the figure without altering the outlines.... My idea was that the overture ought to indicate the subject and prepare the spectators for the character of the piece they are about to see; that the instruments ought to be introduced in proportion to the degree of interest and passion in the words; and that it was necessary above all to avoid making too great a disparity between the recitative and the air of a dialogue, so as not to break the sense of a period or awkwardly interrupt the movement and animation of a scene. I also thought that my chief endeavor should be to attain a grand simplicity; and consequently I have avoided making a parade of difficulties at the cost of clearness.”

Fac-simile autograph letter from Richard Wagner, written in Zurich, May 30, 1853, addressed to some musical director, and advising him to give “Tannhäuser” before producing “Lohengrin.”

Fac-simile autograph musical manuscript written by Richard Wagner for lithographic reproduction. Opening bars of the “Song to the Evening Star,” from the full score of his “Tannhäuser” thus reproduced. The original is in the Bibliotheca Musica Regia in Dresden.

These words make it plain that Gluck distinctly perceived the fundamental principle of artistic truth in opera,—that the music must be considered as a means and not an end. He felt that the music should be devoted, not to the exploitation of musical possibilities, but to the faithful expression of the emotions of the characters on the stage. His reforms met with determined opposition, and some of his contemporaries complained bitterly that they were compelled to pay two florins “to be passionately excited and thrilled instead of amused.” But while Gluck made sweeping changes for the better, he failed to reach the root of all evil. He did not abolish from the operatic stage the set forms, which made the musician the superior officer of the poet, commanding the insertion of here a solo and there a duet. The continuance of these forms was conserved, too, by the splendid genius of Mozart, who breathed into them a verisimilitude which they had not before possessed. The glorious boy had no reformer’s blood in his veins, but with the instinct of spontaneous mastership he made the spirit of his music vital, even though its form was conventional. He founded no school, but he was an excuse for the continuance of old traditions by others less gifted than himself. So only twenty-six years after Gluck’s death all Europe went mad over “Ditanti palpiti,” and the name of Rossini became the watchword of the lyric stage. The opera was regarded as a parade ground for great singers, and its music was expected to be cast in the simplest melodic moulds, so that it could be hummed, strummed, whistled, or indifferently sung by the most poorly equipped amateurs. All conception of the opera as a drama employing music as a means of expression had been lost, and a man who asserted that its model had originally been and ought always to be the Greek play would have been stared at as one unsound of mind. That there were a few who were ready to raise from triviality so splendid an art form was proved by the gathering of warm and faithful adherents around the banner of reform raised by Wagner.

Like most young artists he began his career by imitating the work of the acknowledged masters of his time. As we have already seen, he had no novel ideas in the composition of “Die Feen.” He simply tried to imitate Beethoven, Weber, and Marschner. At this time the music of Beethoven was his ideal. Heinrich Dorn has testified that no young musician could possibly have known the works of the immortal symphonist more thoroughly. But Wagner soon saw very clearly that it was not in his power to adopt the Beethovenian style to the lyric drama. For models for his second work, therefore, he chose Auber and Bellini. The former’s “Massaniello” had opened his eyes to the value of action with brisk music to accompany it. The latter’s “Montecchi e Capuletti,” or rather Schroeder-Devrient’s inspiring performance of Romeo, had given him suggestions as to the dramatic possibilities of vocal melody. In his second work, “Das Liebesverbot,” he tried to effect a combination of the styles of these two masters. It must not be supposed that he was searching merely for popular applause. He was intensely in earnest even at that stage of his career, and his aim was to produce real art. He did not yet perceive the utter falsity of the prevailing system, though he was honest in his endeavor to make it tell the truth. In his autobiographical sketch he records thus the ideas raised in his mind by the Bellini performance:—

“I grew doubtful as to the choice of the proper means to bring about a great success; far though I was from attaching to Bellini a signal merit, yet the subject to which his music was set seemed to me to be more propitious and better calculated to spread the warm glow of life than the painstaking pedantry with which we Germans, as a rule, brought naught but laborious make-believe to market. The flabby lack of character of our modern Italians, equally with the frivolous levity of the latest Frenchmen, appeared to me to challenge the earnest, conscientious German to master the happily chosen and happily exploited means of his rivals, in order then to outstrip them in the production of genuine works of art.”

Artistic sincerity of purpose, then, was already the man’s moving force. The immediate impulse which led him to take the first step in the development of his own individuality was the conviction that the provincial public of the smaller German cities was incapable of forming a judgment as to the value of a new work. He, therefore, began “Rienzi” with a determination to write an opera which could be produced only at a grand opera house, and he decided not to trouble his mind as to what theatre of that rank would give him an entrance. He says:—

“I allowed naught to influence me except the single purpose to answer to my subject. I set myself no model, but gave myself entirely to the feeling which now consumed me, the feeling that I had already so far progressed that I might claim something significant from the development of my artistic powers, and expect some not insignificant result. The very notion of being consciously weak or trivial, even in a single bar, was appalling to me.”

Wagner never wrote words fraught with greater significance. To sit down with a determination to not be weak or trivial in a single bar, and to be always faithful to his subject, and yet to construct his opera on the prevailing models, was for a man of Wagner’s intellectual power and artistic temperament to discover the radical defects of the opera of his day. He could not follow his models without being consciously weak or trivial at times. An examination of the libretto of “Rienzi” shows that while there is carelessness in the poetry, the dramatic construction is excellent. No better opera libretto dates from the time of its production. But it was constructed, as Wagner confessed, to enable him “to display the principal forms of grand opera, such as introductions, finales, choruses, arias, duets, trios, etc., with all possible splendor.” Consequently, while there is much in the music that is noble, dignified, and characteristic of Wagner, there is more that is weak, trivial, and imitative. “Rienzi” is a very good opera of the old sort, and the dramatic force of its book, together with the excellence of much of its music, has kept it favorably before the public. But it lacks artistic coherency, because its fundamental principle is false; and Wagner knew it before he had completed the work. The writer of this article does not believe that this master, as some of his warmest admirers have asserted, began “Rienzi” with a deliberate intention of catering to a depraved public taste for the sake of success. Wagner earnestly craved success at that time; he needed money, and he yearned for public recognition; but his own words show that he was deluded into supposing that artistic work could be done on the lines of the popular opera of his day. It required the writing of “Rienzi” to bring to his mind the convictions, which were put to test in “The Flying Dutchman,” after he had abandoned the hope of pecuniary success. This is not the place for a discussion of the relative importance of objectivity and subjectivity in art; but it is certain that “The Flying Dutchman” is the result of an overwhelming desire for self-expression. Wagner at this period of his mental growth could have cried with Omar Khayyám:—

“I sent my soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that after-life to spell;

And by and by my soul returned to me,

And answered, ‘I myself am heaven and hell.’”

Overcome by his first real draught of the bitterness of life, he found that his emotional moods were clamoring for expression. With the splendid egotism of genius, he discerned the sorrow of a world in his own suffering. To dramatize this became his burning desire. The legend of the Ahasuerus of the sea, cursed by his own determination to overcome obstacles, opposed by all the powers of nature, seemed to Wagner the embodiment of his own experience; and he turned to the work of making an opera out of it, with no purpose except a complete and convincing expression of the prevailing moods of his own soul. And it was thus that he came upon the fundamental principles of the theory which set the musical world agog and raised up lions in his path. The first conviction that came to him was that of the superiority of a legendary over a historical story. He subsequently wrote of it thus:—

“In this and all succeeding plans, I turned for the selection of my material once for all from the domain of history to that of legend.... All the details necessary for the description and presentation of the conventionally historic, which a fixed and limited historical epoch demands in order to make the action clearly intelligible,—and which are therefore carried out so circumstantially by the historical novelists and dramatists of to-day,—could be here omitted. And by this means the poetry, and especially the music, were freed from the necessity of a method of treatment entirely foreign to them, and particularly impossible as far as music was concerned. The legend, in whatever nation or age it may be placed, has the advantage that it comprehends only the purely human portion of this age or nation, and presents this portion in a form peculiar to it, thoroughly concentrated, and therefore easily intelligible.... This legendary character gives a great advantage to the poetic arrangement of the subject for the reason already mentioned, that, while the simple process of the action—easily comprehensible as far as its outward relations are concerned—renders unnecessary any painstaking for the purpose of explanation of the course of the story, the greatest possible portion of the poem can be devoted to the portrayal of the inner motives of the action,—those inmost motives of the soul, which, indeed, the action points out to us as necessary, through the fact that we ourselves feel in our hearts a sympathy with them.”[^[11]]

The second conviction that came to him was that of the folly of writing music at random, instead of clinging to the musical investiture of a mood once formed. This led him to the abandonment of the set forms of the established opera, and to the adoption of his own plan of making the music and poetry an artistic unit. His words in regard to this matter are worth quoting:—

“The plastic unity and simplicity of the mythical subjects allowed of the concentration of the action on certain important and decisive points, and thus enabled me to rest on fewer scenes with a perseverance sufficient to expound the motive to its ultimate dramatic consequences. The nature of the subject, therefore, could not induce me, in sketching my scenes, to consider in advance their adaptability to any particular musical form, the kind of musical treatment being in each case necessitated by these scenes themselves. It could, therefore, not enter my mind to engraft on this my musical form, growing, as it did, out of the nature of the scenes, the traditional forms of operatic music, which could not but have marred and interrupted its organic development. I therefore never thought of contemplating on principle and as a deliberate reformer the destruction of the aria, duet, and other operatic forms; but the dropping of those forms followed consistently from the nature of my subjects.”[^[12]]

RICHARD WAGNER.
From a photograph from life taken in Vienna about 1875 by Fr. Luckhardt.

He found the germs of his future musical system in the ballad of Senta. In this the legend of the unhappy Hollander is told, and in its musical investiture Wagner invented two melodic themes with distinct purposes. The first was intended to illustrate the personality of the Dutchman as an embodiment of yearning for rest. The second was designed to represent the redeeming principle, the ewig weibliche, the eternal womanhood, which became the ruling ethical feature of all Wagner’s lyric works. Here are the two themes:—

These two themes being designed to represent certain ideas, it was inevitable that the composer should use them whenever those ideas recurred. As he tells us himself in the essay quoted above:—

“I had merely to develop, according to their respective tendencies, the various thematic germs comprised in the ballad, to have, as a matter of course, the principal mental moods in definite thematic shapes before me. When a mental mood returned, its thematic expression also, as a matter of course, was repeated, since it would have been arbitrary and capricious to have sought another motive so long as the object was an intelligible representation of the subject, and not a conglomeration of operatic pieces.”

We have now traced the origin of the three elementary principles out of which Wagner elaborated his system: First, the dramatic advantage of mythological or legendary subjects; second, the “intelligible representation of the subject”; and third, the use of the representative theme, “typical phrase” or leit motif. In “The Flying Dutchman” we find his system in its embryonic state, but the perfected system, as displayed in “Tristan” and “The Ring,” is only a logical outcome of these first thoughts, intensified, as it were, by his realization that the whole thing was simply a modernization of the practice of the greatest Greek dramatists. This realization caused him to question whether, through the medium of an art founded on his theories, the modern stage could not acquire a national importance and influence, such as the Greek theatre possessed. It will undoubtedly be easier for the reader now to take a comprehensive survey of the full-blown Wagnerian system than to try to follow its growth through the transitional stage of “Tannhäuser” and “Lohengrin.”

Wagner’s first law, as formulated succinctly by W. F. Apthorp in a magazine article, is: “That the text—what in old-fashioned dialect was called the libretto—once written by the poet, all other persons who have to do with the work—composer, stage architect, scene painter, costumer, stage manager, conductor, and singing actors—should aim at one thing only: the most exact, perfect, and lifelike embodiment of the poet’s thought.” So far as the composition of the music is concerned, this is precisely what Peri and Gluck believed. But Peri had to invent dramatic recitative; and standing, as it were, just on the hither side of chaos, he could not be expected to produce at once a perfected art world. The materials of operatic art were in process of making; the first builder had not the wherewith to rear a musical cathedral. Gluck erred in preserving the cut-and-dried operatic forms which made it impossible for him to achieve his sincere design,—“to reduce music to its proper function, that of seconding poetry by enforcing the expression of the sentiment and the interest of the situations, without interrupting the action, or weakening it by superfluous ornament.” It was comparatively easy to get rid of the “superfluous ornament”; but the methodical distribution of the old forms was found to interrupt the action. It remained for Wagner to see that these forms were unavailable for the composer who aimed at the complete embodiment of the poet’s thought; and it remained for him also to discern that the ideal lyric drama demanded an ideal harmony among its various elements. In other words, the perfected Wagnerian theory of the lyric drama contemplates the compact union of poetry, music, painting, action, and all the other factors of dramatic illusion on a basis of common interdependence, so binding that it shall be impossible to say that one is more important than another, so perfect that no separation can be made without a loss of vital force.

Wagner discerned in the theatre the source of such art influence as reached the great mass of the people. Looking upon its managers and its public as they actually appeared before his eyes, he saw the theatre in the hands of those to whom art was nothing and gain everything, while the public, jaded and sated, ceaselessly clamored for new sensations. Continued attempts of the money-seeking managers to satisfy this public demand, which was in its very nature insatiable, had led to a condition of opera in which the music had no organic connection with the text, the pageantry and ballets no logical relation to the pictorial ensemble. Turning his gaze backward to the home of true art, Greece, he saw a drama in which poetry, action, and music were indissolubly united.

“Thus,” he says, “we can by no means recognize in our theatrical art the genuine drama; that one, indivisible, supreme creation of the mind of man. Our theatre merely offers the convenient locale for the tempting exhibition of the heterogeneous wares of art manufacture. How incapable is our stage to gather up each branch of art in its highest and most perfect expression—the drama—it shows at once in its division into the two opposing classes, play and opera; whereby the idealizing influence of music is forbidden to the play, and the opera is forestalled of the living heart and lofty purpose of actual drama. Thus on the one hand the spoken play can never, with but few exceptions, lift itself up to the ideal flight of poetry; but, for very reason of the poverty of its means of utterance,—to say nothing of the demoralizing influence of our public life,—must fall from height to depth, from the warm atmosphere of passion to the cold element of intrigue. On the other hand the opera becomes a chaos of sensuous impressions jostling one another without rhyme or reason, from which each one may choose at will what pleases best his fancy; here the alluring movements of a dancer, there the bravura passage of a singer; here the dazzling effect of a triumph of the scene painter, there the astounding efforts of a Vulcan of the orchestra....”

“The public art of the Greeks, which reached its zenith in their tragedy, was the expression of the deepest and the noblest principles of the people’s consciousness; with us the deepest and noblest principle of man’s consciousness is the direct opposite of this, namely, the denunciation of our public art. To the Greeks the production of a tragedy was a religious festival, where the gods bestirred themselves upon the stage and bestowed on men their wisdom; our evil conscience has so lowered the theatre in public estimation that it is the duty of the police to prevent the stage from meddling in the slightest with religion; a circumstance as characteristic of our religion as of our art. Within the ample boundaries of the Grecian amphitheatre the whole populace was wont to witness the performances: in our superior theatres loll only the affluent classes. The Greeks sought the instruments of their art in the products of the highest associate culture: we seek ours in the deepest social barbarism. The education of the Greek, from his earliest youth, made himself the subject of his own artistic treatment and artistic enjoyment in body as in spirit: our foolish education, fashioned for the most part to fit us merely for future industrial gain, gives us a ridiculous, and withal arrogant, satisfaction with our own unfitness for art, and forces us to seek the subjects of any kind of artistic amusement outside ourselves.”[^[13]]

Making due allowance for the heated utterance of one to whom the questions at issue had such grave personal importance as to prevent judicial calmness of speech, we cannot fail to perceive that Wagner had penetrated to the essence of the difference between the stage of Greece and that of Europe in his day. The compact union of the arts tributary to the stage had been at once the outcome and the embodiment of that intensely national art-feeling which he contrasted so bitterly with the modern European lack of art-feeling, as he saw it. With the downfall of the Athenian, state tragedy fell also, and “art became less and less the expression of the public conscience.” In Wagner’s mind this downfall resembled that of the tower of Babel, with its subsequent dispersion of the tribes. The dramatic union of arts was dismembered. Poetry, painting, music, rhetoric, all separated, and each went its own way in pursuit of its own ends. No one who has reviewed the history of the fine arts in the Middle Ages can fail to have observed how blindly they seemed to grope their way toward the gates of truth until the guiding light of the Renaissance, with its new revelation of the classic antiquity, was turned upon Italy by the scholars driven out of Constantinople by the fall of Rome’s Eastern Empire. Wagner has reviewed the dissevered condition of the arts and their employment as means, and not ends, in a few terse sentences in the essay already quoted; and then he says:—

“Each one of these dissevered arts, nursed and luxuriously tended for the entertainment of the rich, has filled the world to overflowing with its products; in each great minds have brought forth marvels; but the one true art has not been born again, either in or since the Renaissance. The perfect art work, the great united utterance of a free and lovely public life, the Drama, Tragedy,—howsoever great the poets who have here and there indited tragedies,—is not yet born again; for the reason that it cannot be reborn, but must be born anew.”[^[14]]

This, then, was the herculean task which this self-appointed reformer of the drama set before him; to demonstrate that the modern theatre had the power to bring itself into the same relation to the noblest ideal life of man as the Greek theatre had; and in order that this might be achieved it was necessary, in his opinion, to return to that union of the arts, which has been mentioned so often. He believed that in his day each art had done all that it could do without the aid of the other. Music unaided could go no further than it had in Beethoven’s symphonies. Indeed, even the mighty Ludwig had called in the help of poetry to complete his Ninth Symphony. Poetry could rise no higher than the wings of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller had carried her. At this point, then, must come that fusion of the arts, in which each would sacrifice something of its egotism for the sake of the splendid whole; and that whole would be the art work of the future, the drama for the people. In order fairly to appreciate Wagner’s purposes we must pause here to inquire, what people? The answer to this question lies at the root of the whole controversy which has arisen about Wagner’s works; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it is the neglect to make and properly answer this inquiry which leads insufficiently informed persons to look upon Wagner as a rabid iconoclast. The people for whom he sought to rear anew the ideal drama was the German people. As Mr. Krehbiel has expressed it: “Wagner believes that the elements of the lyric drama ought to be adapted to the peculiarities, and to encourage the national feeling of the people for whom it is created.... One of Wagner’s most persistent aims was to reanimate a national art spirit in Germany. The rest of the world he omitted from his consideration.”[^[15]] This was an inevitable result of his conviction, acquired from study of the Greek stage, that the ideal drama should be national in spirit.