Laughing Truths/Music
There are two prejudices which do injustice to many of Schubert's sonatas. In the first place, we have all deliberately placed Schubert in the class of composers of songs, and accordingly feel that it is contrary to our sense of fitness, when the composer of the Müllerlieder mixes himself up with things which do not seem properly to belong to him. "I value and honour Schubert enormously, but mainly for his songs." Further, a rumour has reached our ears that Schubert did not find himself at home in the sonata form. "Yes, I like his slighter pianoforte pieces very much indeed."—No man of experience undertakes to oppose prejudices directly. I shall therefore confine myself, and quite without prejudice, to trying to throw what light I can on the merits and demerits of Schubert's sonatas, or, rather, on their peculiarities.
No particular subtlety is needed to recognize at once an essential difference between Schubert's sonatas and those of the so-called classical composers. This, however, does not necessarily mean that the former are inferior, and still less that they are irregular in construction. Their chief defect, if any defect there be, is their too rigid adherence to formal rules—not, as alleged, to their want of form. The conditions, it is true, must be very unfavourable before regularity degenerates into rigidity. Such conditions I observe first in the independence and fullness of the themes, especially in the opening theme. The so-called classicists of the sonata, in order to facilitate its handling, make their first theme as short as possible; some of them, indeed, occasionally content themselves with a quite unimportant rhythmical figure as their first theme. Schubert, on the other hand, begins at once with a wonderful musical phrase, complete in every respect and usually from three to six times as long as a classic theme. And the whole first part is treated in the same way. In such circumstances there is naturally no question of a multiplication by thematic elaborations. Schubert therefore contents himself with addition. Even so, however, it is impossible to avoid the notorious "heavenly length",[1] not because Schubert goes to work arbitrarily or episodically (which, emphatically, is not the case), but simply because three themes, which in themselves are too long by half, would become a dozen times too long, if each of them were repeated several times according to rule.
The fullness of the theme, moreover, influences the structure of the sonata much more sensibly than by mere expansion. In composing complete and rounded periods from the very start, Schubert no doubt obtains a great initial advantage over the classicists. But later, in the final repetition, where the aim is to charm at once by proportion and surprise, he loses much more than he originally gained. For the periods so wonderfully finished from the very beginning cannot, towards the end, be over-trumped (I apologise for this rather low but expressive epithet); they are, on repetition, capable merely of unimportant variation, not of impressive or surprising development. Thus the hearer, after he has passed the middle portion and has to expect a merciless repetition of the whole of the first part in its original form, naturally feels impatience, i.e. boredom. As an unavoidable consequence of the same causes there results an artistic neglect of the thematic elaboration (after the repeat sign of the first movement), i.e. the cardinal section of the sonata. Here Schubert simply evades the issue. This passage marks also in his case the central point of the beauty, but it does not mark the central point of suspense. Is there, in fact, any suspense in Schubert's sonatas? In some of them, yes; but usually, no. The gigantic proportions prevent a general view and blunt the sense of focus, all the more as two other conditions contribute to the disorientation of the hearer. These are the equable sweetness of both the main and the secondary motifs, and the lack of tempo. Schubert possesses force, such as no other composer except Beethoven can show, but he has little temperament; he likes to loiter and he goes to sleep to dream, even in the middle of one of his so-called allegros.
The liberties taken by Schubert seem to me of much less significance than his regularities. When, for example, he follows up a movement in B with one in C♯ Minor and perhaps a third in C Minor, the harm done seems to me slight, whereas the gain, viz. the vivid colour, is incomparable. This brings me back again to my main proposition; not arbitrariness but misapplied conscientiousness is the distinguishing mark of Schubert's sonatas in the matter of form. Schubert wishes to erect, with geometrical exactitude, a gigantic structure of flowers; to this end, he thrusts three-foot rules through the garlands, measures the nosegays with a T-square, and bolts the wreaths to four-cornered frames. "Why then does he go out of his way to use the sonata form?" Because that form involves special and dignified beauties, which, outside of it, have no purpose and no place anywhere else in the wide world. Schubert perceived joy and strength in these special and dignified beauties, and so he had to choose the sonata form, even in disregard of the canons.
It costs me no little effort to refrain from proceeding from the outer ring to the inner core and, after the form, to define the essence, viz. the musical peculiarities of the separate groups. But the measure of an essay is, alas, even more relentless than that of a sonata, and I dare not allow myself a "heavenly length". One thing, however, I owe both to my subject and to my reader: my tribute to Schubert's incontestable, brilliant, incomparable, and incredible merits. These are to be found in prodigal fullness in two diametrically opposite directions; he is supreme both in strength and in tenderness.
When we see Schubert lying on the flower-starred sward—and that is his usual posture—we are inclined to regard him as a harmless shepherd and dreamer. When he stands up, we are astounded by his gigantic stature, the majesty of his gestures, the Herculean strength of his feats. Dissonances, cutting like the edge of a rapier, especially in intervals of the second, are his delight; he loves to set sforzato chords battering against each other; syncopated passages are to him as a festal banquet. He needs pompous octaves, in order to enjoy life fully; if he cannot ride them as a fiery Pegasus, they must at least help him to mount his wooden hobby-horse; to do without them is impossible. Grand above all are his enharmonic modulations and chromatic colouring; these he hammers into solid metal, which emits flashes of brazen lightning (as, e.g., in the first part of the first movement of the posthumous A Major sonata, after the cantilena—a thematic chain, which, it may be noted incidentally, any other composer would have transferred to the middle portion). The titanic wrath of the passionate progressions of the sixths in Op. 143 (first movement), and, again, the regal dignity of the rhythm in the modulations of the last movement of the C Minor sonata (e.g. from E♭ Minor to E♭ Major) are alone enough to stamp Schubert as the nearest kinsman of Beethoven.
In point of melting sweetness, Schubert's sonatas not only defy comparison, but exceed our wildest anticipations. They reveal magical arts and twilight effects, before the tenderness of which our imagination holds its breath. I can think of a hundred instances of this. Perhaps the best are the middle passages of the first movements; compared with these the short song-forms of the andante seem somewhat overloaded and cramped. Such measures as the following must sound like greetings from Paradise to even the most sober and critical hearer: the D Minor motif in the modulation of the (posthumous) B♭ Major sonata (first movement), or the C Major section of the andante in Op. 147, or the pianissimo passages from A♭ Minor to E Minor in the scherzo of Op. 42, or (above all) the whole of the long middle portion of the first movement of the (posthumous) A♭ Major sonata. Every tone melts in pure beauty, free from all dross; it exhales the pure fragrance of music. It is sheer, harmonious, spiritual joy transposed into music. In its inmost being a nerve thrills with melancholy-sweet adumbrations of the cosmos.
And does anyone say that Schubert should have suppressed these inspirations? All Schubert's sins against form eventually land gloriously on virtue's side; they become an irresistible stream of heavenly visions. Before ever he began to work, this gleam of supernatural beauty shone before his eyes. In vain his intellect whispered him that he should murder it, in vain his will unsheathed the steel. The wonderful eyes of the damsel implored mercy; and he did what the hunter did in the fairy tale of Snow White (Schneewittchen): he let her live because she was so beautiful.
A Prophet Samuel may condemn him for this; but I am no Samuel.
However zealously I try to argue myself out of the notion, I have to confess that, as often as I hear the Drinking Song in Don Giovanni, my verdict remains the same: the song does not fly, but flops; it has haste, not fire. Numerous similar examples lie to hand of compositions in over-driven tempo, which tear past the hearer without carrying him along with them. They occur oftenest in the coda of the instrumental finale, when the composer, having exhausted all other means to produce an effective close, seeks salvation in the presto. I venture here to include (e.g.) the A♭ Major presto in the finale of the Sonata Appassionata and the final prestissimo in the rondo of the C Major sonata (Op. 53), along with most other prestissimo passages, as seldom attaining what they aim at. And this failure is most significant when they simply accelerate a theme already dealt with. Acceleration means hurry, not speed. The composer who best knew how to produce the full tempo effect of a presto was one whom childish legend accuses of grandfatherly smugness:—I mean, Haydn. Everyone should study his prestos.
I have raised a difficult question, and I do not profess to be able to answer it with any completeness. The little, however, that I have found or imagined, I venture to offer, in the hope that it will at least ventilate the matter.
The first condition for the creation of fiery movement is that the beat to which the rhythm moves shall be perfectly obvious. The measure, however, derives its effect from the human pulse-beat. Whatever makes the pulse throb and excites the nerves has fire and animation: march time, dance rhythm, the galop, six-eight time, the dotted note, triplet figuring, the sustained rest, opposing rhythm, emphasis on the unaccented part of the bar, the appoggiaturas of the accompaniment before the beginning of the theme, and so on.
In the second place, the production of a fiery effect demands that the beat shall carry the whole score with it, not (e.g.) a single part. Even the utmost speed of a single part does not accelerate the tempo by a single pulse-beat, as we may learn from the rhythm passages of an adagio or from the bravura figures of the variations. Yes, runs even of furious rapidity on one instrument may occur during a pause in the harmony without detracting from its effect of silence; on the contrary, they emphasize it. So, on the other hand, a sustained and weighty top part or treble melody may attain the rushing effect of a storm, if the whole score, which bears this treble melody, is passionately agitated. We experience this (e.g.) when the national anthem is sung at the end of Weber's Jubilee Overture.
The third consideration is whether I hear the notes of a theme as crotchets or quavers or semiquavers—alla breve or alla grande. [By the way, does one say alla grande?] It is no use for the composer to write a presto in crotchets, if his hearer's impression halves the crotchets into quavers. For, in so doing, he also halves the tempo, substituting pleasant ease for the tension of speed.
What are the respective conditions which make the hearer's impression of the tempo alla breve or alla grande, as the case may be? The character of the theme has to be considered as well as the measure of the accompaniment. There are, as everyone knows, both fiery and slumbrous themes. But there are also themes, intended to be fiery, which lack kindling power in spite of all their haste and restlessness. This is the case (e.g.) when the theme moves within the intervals of the arpeggio-i.e. when it is not sufficiently diatonic in its working out. Variations on the arpeggio cannot possibly strike sparks, no matter how passionate the gestures of the composer or the singer or the player may be. The theme of the "Drinking Song" rests upon the arpeggio, and therefore all the puffing and blowing in the world cannot make it incandescent.
It must, indeed, be no slight strain to conduct oneself throughout the whole of winter in a "European" manner. I am driven to this conclusion when I observe with what feverish haste humanity takes refuge with the goats and cows in summer, showing a positively nervous antipathy to a decent overcoat, a good book, or high-class music. "For heaven's sake, no more of that! We need recreation!" The need of recovery from civilisation strikes me as a little suspicious. But I think I understand; the poor things are satiated. "Yes, that's the word! We are 'fed up' to the point of boredom, to the point of nausea!" If, however, I venture, in winter, to put forward the modest advice that they had better not torment themselves with such merciless satiety, I am called a barbarian. From this it would appear that it is a mark of culture to overload the soul during one half of the year, and to offset this by a course of purgatives in the second half. And these pills have a sugar-coating, sentimentally called "Nature".
However this may be in other matters, this miserable spring mood is enough to explain the programmes of the summer concerts in our gardens, promenades, and watering-places. These must form a sort of musical herring salad, in which any ingredient may find a place, provided it smells badly. And, in fact, we must give credit to the programme-makers for accomplishing their task well. Let us study the recipe they seem to use.
In the first place we must order a trumpet from Säckingen,[2] hide it in the shrubbery about twenty-five yards from the rest of the orchestra, and then leave it to its fate, until homesickness forces it to burst out in a plaintive wail. Then there must be a flute in readiness, to storm the heavens, and a clarinet, in case a demand for Weltschmerz should arise. A few potpourris are naturally indispensable, and it will usually be found that the cheapest of these are the most satisfactory. Then take a handful of musical hiccoughs and throw them into the programme—the more the better. These may be obtained at moderate rates from any bandmaster, under such names as "Cavalry March", "Singers" March", "Gymnasts' March", "Festival Galop", "Students" Galop", "Hussars' Galop", "Amelia Polka", "Eliza Polka", "Matilda Polka", or "Harlequin Polka". Having done this, take half a dozen bedizened "Ranz des Vaches", some steamed "Reveries", some boiled "Souvenirs de Teplitz"[3] and a few well-soaked folksongs (of all of which a good supply is always on hand), and crush and squeeze these until crocodile tears flow out. Stir the mess carefully. When it seems ready, cut the dough with a sharp knife into two equal parts, and stick an overture into each, so as to give the cake substance and good appearance. Your programme may then be presented to any audience without anxiety.
On the other side I have only one objection to raise. There are, after all, some men who do not regulate their taste by the calendar, but find a musical impertinence just as offensive in July as in December. Now, is it reasonable to force these men, however few they be, to retire, abashed, from the beautiful green gardens of summer? Seeing they have done nothing wrong, is it not simply fair-play to concede them, like the other, a seat in the open air? I entertain so much confidence in the goodwill of humanity that I am convinced our Summer Concert Conductors would willingly draw up programmes that would please the musical, as well as the unmusical, members of their audience, if someone would only give them an idea of how it can be done.—But is that really so difficult? I think not. All that is wanted is to find out what is liked or disliked by both these (apparently) so different groups of the public. The really musical person seeks the beautiful in music, no matter in what form, or style, or emotional sphere this presents itself, and no matter what name it bears. On the other hand he passionately dislikes the ugly, the mediocre, and the platitudinous, whether it be a platitude in a major key (i.e. impudence) or one in a minor key (i.e. sentimentality). The unmusical man, however, moves, in his sympathies and antipathies, outside the æsthetic sphere. It is not the ideas of "beautiful" and "ugly", "noble" and "mean", that determine his judgment, but the less defined qualities of "pleasant" and "tedious". In order, however, that a piece may "please" and not "bore" him, it must possess a more direct relation to his personality than that of its musical value, which, indeed, he is not able to recognise. There are two ways in which this relation may be established. The music either speaks to his "feelings", i.e. it must use the gestures of a tune, whether horrible or attractive; or it affects his "nerves", i.e. it makes him jump by its exciting rhythm, quite without reference to whether this rhythm is inspired by a celestial soul or the beat marked merely by the drums and trumpets in the crudest and most mechanical fashion.
Now, neither a moving tune nor a catchy rhythm lies in itself outside the sphere of beauty. It may therefore easily be seen that on both sides a compromise may be reached in the most natural manner, simply by a proper selection of individual pieces within the limits of the beautiful. As a matter of fact, however, the demand for "moving" tunes is very hard to satisfy, for nowhere in art is the aristocratic temperament more crucially divided from the vulgar than in matters of "feeling". A trivial, turgid, importunate, sentimental tune is always sure of the enthusiastic applause of the majority, whose feelings have been worked on, while the musical sense of the minority feels the torture of the damned. Here, then, extreme caution is a law of love for one's neighbour.
The matter of rhythm is a little less difficult. Here hundreds of musical pieces may easily be found, equally adapted to charm the most naïve listener and the most accomplished musician. I mean the genuine, characteristic dances and marches, whether these have a social or a national origin, whether they are from classical compositions or are merely folk music, i.e. by unknown authors. A tarantella, a czardas, a bolero, a guarrache, a true polka or mazurka, a Hungarian march, a polonaise, a minuet, or a gavotte are all essentially different from the silly restlessness of the deux temps and the trois temps that we honour with the name of "dance" and "march". The former afford real revelations of the beautiful; the latter do not. What superb programmes could be drawn from the material named without going farther afield! Of the polka and mazurka in particular, it is high time that one significant remark should be made. The way in which these spirited dances are treated by composers and players is a crying shame. Why do they not use the classical examples in A Life for the Czar as their models? Why are these practically never given? If they were, we should probably get rid of the deluge of watered polkas and mazurkas; and our piano-players might, perhaps, handle Chopin in a more direct and instinctive fashion.
My proposal is very tentative. But I really must press home, in the name of all musical people, my suggestion that some attention should be paid, in our open-air concerts, to the taste of the minority. The present rule seems to be "much rubbish for the common herd, with slight interludes of a higher character for the few". This rule is, however, cowardly and cruel. I propose another one: "as much as you will of the merry, the cheerful, the lively, but in no circumstances anything paltry, whether bold or moving". We do not suffer anyone to soil the benches; there is no reason why we should allow musical garbage to be hurled at our ears from a malignant kiosque.
It was after a performance of Sudermann's Sodom's Ende that, in a self-respecting tavern, I heard a little man with no self-respect fulminate, in the tone of a Jeremiah, against the Directors and Manager of the theatre because they dared to put on the boards plays to which a man would be ashamed to take his wife. I was deeply impressed, and seriously considered whether it was not my duty to approach the Board of Education with a valuable memorandum (freely adapted from Schiller) on the importance of the stage as an institution for moral training. But what was my surprise when last Monday I had to suffer the pain of seeing this same little man, not only with his wife but also with three blooming daughters, comfortably installed at a performance of Don Giovanni, their countenances beaming with devotion, as if they were listening to an Easter sermon. The fact that an action, a mere reference to which in Sodom's Ende had excited him to an attack of virtuous indignation, was performed not less than four times in the opera (practically on the open stage), did not seem to worry him or his young ladies in the least. Such riddles of human nature might well perplex the most clearsighted observer in the world. I found it, therefore, highly desirable to try to trace the causes why the same occurrence should give offence when it is portrayed once, and edify when it is portrayed four times. Does the spectator get accustomed to it? Or does it lie in the difference of the season? Does the moral feeling react better in October than in December? Or has music, perhaps, the power to convert vice into virtue and scandal into edification? Did not Beaumarchais once say that "when a thing is too immoral to say, we sing it"? Or do I misquote?
But all this by the way. To-day I want for once to get off my chest the stuff that has so long oppressed me. "Merry be my supper!" says Don Juan in the last act. These words are as clear as can be; they are as obvious as the band that he engaged to play during the banquet, and that still delights us with its cheerful melodies. But what do we see? In a magnificent Moorish hall, which could easily accommodate hundreds of guests, the poor man sits lost and solitary between two lean and bony chorus-ladies, who are so embarrassed that they do not know how to dispose their limbs properly. And he furtively sips champagne, like a runaway traveller in Spanish wine, who, with cash stolen from his master, has escorted two light women to the ante-chamber of a ballroom. It is quite in keeping that the Ghost should give him a musical recital of his sins through the peephole of a screen. Verily, if that is a merry supper, Don Juan is by no means exigant! The director, naturally, finds himself in great embarrassment as to how he may find a suitable moment to make the two ladies disappear. The two girls must either run off immediately on Donna Elvira's entry, like ghosts at cockcrow—as if a woman ever gave place like that to a rival! Or Don Juan himself must politely escort them to the door (in spite of the fact that he had invited them to supper), as I once saw actually done by an eminent singer in the rôle. If, however, Don Juan was not really more gallant than that, I cannot believe in a single one of his thousand-and-three conquests. Who ever shows a lady to the door? There is also the absurd invention of a statue which takes the trouble, for the sake of four persons, to haul its weighty body from the churchyard and lumber up a long staircase. But no miracles are really done in small private circles; supernatural personalities, as we all know, are chary of their appearances and carefully choose an occasion when their entry is sure to have a sensational success. Stone guests like empty houses no better than flesh-and-blood ones do. A Last Judgment staged for one lost soul is like shooting sparrows with an eighteen-pounder.
If, to complete the picture, the Spectre (as has recently happened here) cheerfully steps up to the position near the wings, indicated to him by the Stage Manager, and allows himself to be illuminated by the electric spot-light, with his face turned towards it, like a cockchafer in the sun, how on earth can 1 experience any thrill of awe or mystery?
The scene should really be played as it sometimes (but too rarely) is in the theatres of the great towns. Don Juan, Grand Seigneur and hereditary Lord of the Manor, has invited a numerous and brilliant assemblage of ball-guests; the whole stage is occupied. In the midst of the dancing and general animation Elvira appears like a madwoman, to sing her prescribed aria. The company, astonished but polite, makes place for her and lets her sing, though, possibly, they may whisper a little, to save the public the trouble. Don Juan, with elaborate and ironic courtesy, invites Elvira to take a seat. This she refuses to do, and then, abashed by the false position in which she finds herself, shamefacedly flees. The painful episode causes a little embarrassment, which yields to the encouraging gestures of Don Juan to go on with the dance. A little later the terror of Leporello is reflected in the faces of the company. The dancers, male and female, follow their host to see what is the matter. Terrible confusion follows, and at sight of the real Ghost all scatter and scream, disappearing by door and window. It might have been worth while to attempt to keep back some of the guests. A ghost sings with this seven-league voice only when it is worth the trouble; for Don Juan alone the Commendatore could manage his job pizzicantando. We have often tried to find out how the Ancients used the chorus; let us for once consider how we might use it to best advantage. If anyone, however, objects that fidelity to the text forbids the introduction of a chorus in the finale of the second act, my answer is this. By what right does the chorus linger on the stage in the finale of the first act, although Mozart directs it to disappear? But sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander; what is right in one finale cannot be wrong in the other.
- ↑ The reference is to a phrase by Schumann in an article on Schubert.
- ↑ The reference is, of course, to Victor Scheffel's well-known romance Der Trompeter von Säckingen. It is as if we said "send to Tara's Hall for a harp".
- ↑ The German words for "steamed" and "boiled" imply also the secondary meanings of "subdued" and "insipid".
- ↑ "Merry be my supper"—a well-known song in Don Giovanni.