[94] Dietrich.

[95] The Variations are dated 1866 in the published catalogue.

[96] Max Kalbeck, p. 497. The reader must be reminded that at this period German bank-notes frequently represented but small sums.

APPENDICES

I.

MUSICAL FORM--ABSOLUTE MUSIC--PROGRAMME-MUSIC--BERLIOZ AND WAGNER

The word Form, as applied to instrumental music, is synonymous with Design. A movement is built up on a certain ground-plan, the outlines of which are constructed according to some given arrangement of keys, or melodies, or both, which secures symmetry for the work and facilitates its presentment as a whole to the intelligence of the hearer. A chief element in musical form is recurrence, the simplest illustration of which--three sections of which the third repeats the first (A, B, A)--is to be found in a vast number of folk-melodies.

The main source to which the instrumental music of classical art owes its primitive origin is the Folk-melody, whether of dance or of song.

This Folk-melody was entirely nave, and as free from the imitative or pictorial, as from the reflective, element. The dance-melody was conditioned by the rhythm of the dance. The song-melody, also rhythmical as distinct from declamatory, more or less reflected the sentiment of the text; verses of a joyous character naturally suggested joyous tunes, those of a plaintive character, plaintive tunes; but the ideas constituting the melody were essentially musical thoughts, and contained no attempt at pictorial illustration of the subject of the words; the melody formed from them was Absolute music.

In process of time these melodies came to be treated apart from their text or their dance, and new ones were invented whose primary object was not the dance or the song, but the gratification of the ear and intelligence by the pleasing succession of musical phrases. Instrumental movements were constructed, and these bore unmistakable impress of their descent, since the ideas and series of ideas forming them were rhythmical and symmetrical.

It is obviously impossible in the short space at our disposal even to touch upon the history of the process by which early instrumental pieces of a few bars have gradually developed into the elaborate movements of classical art, but, by sketching as slightly as possible two of the forms, one or other of which underlies the vast majority of the instrumental works of modern classical music, we hope to enable all our readers to follow the allusions to Form in our text, which must be understood to include other forms than these, but such as have in common with them the essential element of design or symmetry.

The Rondo-form has been used by composers of almost all periods, and has, in modern times, developed into two large varieties. The idea from which it originated is best realized by reference to the old rondeau dance-song, the design of which is simplicity itself. A short melody sung several times in chorus was alternated with others contributed by solo voices, which were sometimes called 'couplets,' and which are now generally termed 'episodes.' The form required two, and permitted any number, of episodes, each of which was bound to furnish a new melody.

The performance terminated as it began, with the chorus. The form, therefore, may be thus represented: A, B, A, C, A, _ad libitum_.

The reader will find many examples of the early eighteenth-century instrumental Rondo in Couperin's 'Pieces de Clavecin,' published in Paris in 1713, and edited for republication by Brahms (Chrysander's 'Denkmaler der Tonkunst'). With these he may compare the great rondo-movement of Beethoven's Sonata in C major, Op. 53.

The so-called Sonata-form underlies the immense majority of the first movements composed by the great masters of the last century and a half--the first movements, not only of those works for pianoforte solo or pianoforte and another instrument which are called by the name sonata, but of trios, quartets, and so forth, and of symphonies, which are, in fact, sonatas for orchestra.

A movement in Sonata-form consists of three essential parts--the Statement or Exposition of themes, the 'thematic material'; their Development; their Repetition. To these was formerly appended a short Coda, which has gradually developed, and now frequently extends to the dimensions of a fourth part.

The first part, the Statement, is itself divided into two sections, not necessarily or even generally of equal duration, marked by difference of tonality. The first is dominated by the tonic key of the movement. It contains the First Subject, which may be either short and concise, of sixteen or even eight bars only, or of several different paragraphs; a principal idea and subordinate themes. The second section is dominated by some other key; formerly, in a major movement by that of the dominant, in a minor movement by that of the relative major or dominant minor. It contains the Second Subject, a new melody followed or not by subordinate themes. These two sections are connected by a modulatory 'bridge passage,' which leads the ear from the first to the second principal key of the Statement, and which used generally to come to a pause on the dominant harmony of the new key in preparation for the entry of the Second Subject. The Statement closes, with or without a Codetta, in the key of the Second Subject. Formerly it was invariably played twice, its termination being followed by a double bar with repetition marks.

The second part of the movement, the Development, sometimes called the Free Fantasia or the Working-out, is what its name implies. It is constructed from the material of the Statement, which the composer works or develops according to his fancy, using either or both of his subjects, his bridge passage, his codetta, entire or in part, alone or combined, with much or little modulation to near or distant keys, just as he pleases. The Development part of the movement is not visibly and mechanically cut off from what follows it by a double bar like the Statement, nor does it end with a final cadence, but usually closes with some sort of half-cadence--formerly it was the typical one, a pause on the dominant--which leads to the third part of the movement, the Repetition.

In this the Statement is repeated, modified by the circumstance that both its sections are dominated by the tonic key of the movement, in which the Second Subject as well as the First is heard, such modulations as may have occurred in the Statement being represented in the Repetition with the changes required by this fact.

The Coda is more often than not retrospective, but its character and arrangement are at the discretion of the composer, provided that it gives sufficient emphasis to the original key to leave the mind of the hearer impressed with the tonality of the movement.

We have not troubled the reader in this short sketch with the varieties or exceptions to be found in the works of the great composers of the period indicated above. Their movements in this form, whether we examine those of the simple sonatina or of the complex symphony, will be found, broadly speaking, to conform to our description. A very clear illustration of the outlines of Sonata-form may be studied in the first movement of Beethoven's Sonata in G major, Op. 14, No. 2.

The developed instrumental movements of classical art, capable of stirring the highest aspirations of which the spirit of man is capable, are, like the short pieces from which they have sprung, constructed from 'musical ideas'--ideas, that is to say, which act upon the nerves, emotions, intellect of the listener, directly through the sense of sound, and are not dependent for their effect upon intermediate mental translation into images perceptible to the mind's eye, the vision of imagination. This does not mean that a composer of pure music never is and never may be pictorial, but the cases in which he is so are, as it were, accidental, and the pictorial element in a given work is not of the essence of his art, but is something added to it, something, moreover, which does not affect the value of the composition as a work of art. A composer of Absolute music may indeed, and often does, stimulate his imagination by recalling a poem, a legend, a scene of nature or life; and either of these may leave a more or less definite impress on his music; whilst a title or a motto placed above a short pianoforte piece, an orchestral overture, or, in very few cases, a symphony, may sometimes stimulate the hearer's appreciation; but the music is not in such a case to be taken as 'meaning' this or that in detail. The composer aims at making his movement a work of art complete in itself, and relies for his effects upon his musical thoughts and their treatment as such, though he may be willing to let his hearers know that his fancy was encouraged by extraneous aid.

The listener may, on the other hand, if it assist his enjoyment, attach his own 'meaning' to what he hears, but he must understand that this is relative to himself only. No one can assure him that his 'meaning' is right or wrong. The music as such should stand high above such interpretations, and, if it is to fulfil its supreme destiny, must speak directly to the soul in its own infinite language of sound, infinite just because it is capable of transcending the defined objects of sight.

Vocal forms have always necessarily been to a great extent dependent on the text chosen for musical treatment. Nevertheless, certain vocal forms have been developed--the aria, the ballad, the lied, the ensemble--which, though freer than those of instrumental music, have the common characteristics of symmetry more or less, and of rhythmic melody as distinct from the mere accentuation of the recitative.

The Art-song of the classical masters, whether for one or more voices, mirrors, like its parent the Folk-song, the sentiment of the text, but is not pictorial. Its instrumental accompaniment may, and at times does, reflect or emphasize the suggestion of the words, but it does not attempt to imitate or illustrate in detail the images which they represent; or only in an insignificant number of instances, which may be classed with the cases to which we have referred in our remarks upon instrumental music.

A good deal of confusion prevailed in the mind of the general musical public of the middle of the nineteenth century as to the views held by the musicians of the New-German party, and it has not been cleared away even at the present day. This has resulted chiefly from the fact that, like many another body of radical reformers, they were by no means at one as to the positive articles of their faith.

It is far from the desire of the present writer to enter into a lengthy discussion of vexed controversies which time alone can settle. The object of this appendix is simply to assist the general reader to follow certain allusions and incidents in the text of the narrative, and especially to make clear how it was that Brahms, an uncompromising champion of musical tradition, whose very existence as an artist was staked on the vitality of Absolute music, could deeply respect the art of Wagner. With these ends only in view, it is proposed to limit the few words to be said here to the attempt to show what the fundamental difference was which separated the methods of Berlioz and Wagner, the two giants of the Weimar party, in their efforts to establish a basis for the Music of the Future so far as they conceived this could be achieved by the closer union of the arts of instrumental music and poetry.

Berlioz (1803-1869) has been accepted as the typical champion of what is called Programme-music. The question as to what is to be understood by this term, however, has become very difficult to answer, because nowadays anything may become a programme or supply a label. A poem, a romance, or a commonplace situation of everyday life; an emotion, a series of emotions, or the individuality of a man or woman; or, again, the emotion or mental action which a certain personality may excite in another. If, however, we restrict the question and examine only what meaning attaches to the term Programme-music as applied to Berlioz's instrumental works, the answer is that the composer is so intent on conveying, as an essential part of his movements, definite and detailed ideas outside the art of sound _per se_, which he finds in certain poems or plays or narratives, that he not only places verbal headings above them, but in many cases prefaces his works with an explanation minutely describing the scenes which they are intended to represent point by point, or the emotions that he desires to excite at successive steps of their progress. Such detailed labels and expositions are what is commonly termed the Programme.

However the purpose be described which Berlioz thus set himself to fulfil, whether it be said that the music was to absorb or to clothe the poem, to translate or reflect it, it is obvious that, if words have any real meaning, its ultimate _raison d'etre_ was to be either imitative or, at best, illustrative. Instrumental music necessarily becomes one or the other the moment that material outside the domain of sound is accepted as of its essence, and it is thereby debased from the level of the fine art of sound. If it be said that the object of the programme is to be a sort of guide-post to the emotions or sentiments to which the music is addressed, the position becomes worse, for the incapacity of the musician as such stands confessed. The union of poetry and music in the sense of the instrumental Programme composer is, from the point of view of the creator of Absolute music, fatal, not only to the dignity, but to the vital force, of both arts. The poem becomes a phantom, the music a conundrum; the listener wastes his time and fancy in trying to fit them together, and is without means of knowing how far he has been successful, and the product of these processes is a something which, in the words of Wagner, is neither fish nor fowl.

Whatever may be the ultimate fate of Berlioz's works, his immense capacity, the extraordinary sensitiveness and force of his imagination of tone-colour, and his phenomenal mastery of the resources of the orchestra, have insured the survival of his name. If on no other account, it will live as that of the creator of the complex art of instrumentation in its modern sense, which was assimilated by Wagner and developed by him in his dramas with vitalizing energy.

Very far removed from Berlioz's position was that of Wagner (1813-1883), who not only implied his disbelief in Programme-music by his practice, but expressly recorded it by direct avowal, and illustrated his remarks by references to Berlioz's works.[97] If, as may be the case, he received his first impulse as a reformer from Berlioz, he clearly saw the fallacies in which the theories of the French musician were involved, and avoided them in a sufficiently convincing manner. He perceived, firstly, that the rejection of a future for Absolute music was the same thing as the rejection of a future independent art of sound; secondly, that a union of instrumental music with poetry in Berlioz's sense meant that the function of music must be illustrative; thirdly, that the subject to be illustrated by musical sound must be presented to the perception of the audience in as real and indubitable a manner as the illustration; that, as the musical illustration was to be heard, so the subject illustrated must be seen.

Having boldly faced his premises, a splendid vision dawned upon his imagination, and he shrank from no consequences which they involved.

Rejecting the future existence not only of music, but also of poetry, as a separate art, he predicted for both a future, as co-ordinate elements with action and scenic effect, of a larger art, the drama, the object of which he explained to be dramatic truth. Concentrating his immense energies upon a reform of the stage, he adopted as his fundamental principle that of a return, in the modern sense, to the practice of Greek Tragedy. He substituted musical declamation of a very highly-developed order for the rhythmic melody and symmetrical movements of opera. Relinquishing the aria, the scena, the regularly-constructed ensemble linked by _recitativo secco_, which he conceived to be contradictory and obstructive to dramatic truth, his method was to set his poem to a glorified species of recitative, called by him the Melos, and to support and give it additional force and vividness by a gorgeous illustrative orchestral accompaniment, its other self. An important feature in his scheme, which is to be regarded as his substitute for the Subject of traditional form, was the adoption and development of the Leitmotif, a device employed to some extent by Weber in 'Der Freischutz,' and by Berlioz. By it the successive appearances on the stage of each prominent person of the drama, and often the anticipation and remembrance as well as the occurrence of an important situation, are signalized by a special harmonic progression or a particular rhythmic figure. These became in the case of Wagner, who was his own poet, something more than mere labels or mottoes. Growing up in his mind with the progress of his poem, his series of Leitmotive became for him, as it were, his musical dramatis personae. He felt them as an inseparable part of his persons and events, and they became with these the framework on which his works were constructed.

It must be clear to all unprejudiced minds that the principles which guided the creator of the great music dramas were perfectly logical and coherent, and that Wagner acted on them throughout the course of his career, properly so called, with entire consistency and with magnificent success. His error, and the error of his disciples, lay in their arrogant and senseless propaganda of the Wagnerian articles of faith, as expressions of the ultimate and universal principles of art. Wagner went so far as to claim that Beethoven, recognising that instrumental music had reached its natural term of existence, had given practical expression to such a belief by setting Schiller's 'Ode to Joy' in the finale of his ninth symphony. The assumption is controverted by the facts that Beethoven composed the works known as the posthumous string quartets, and sketched a purely instrumental tenth symphony after the completion of the ninth.

The rejection of a future for Absolute music is, of course, purely arbitrary. Wagner's achievements for the stage were transcendent, but it is even conceivable that the progress of time may sooner or later produce a composer able successfully to champion, in a manner of his own, the cause of rhythmic melody, of traditional form, on Wagner's own arena, on the stage itself.

If we examine the pretensions of the so-called larger art, the musical Drama, versus the capacities of the several arts of poetry, of music, of dramatic action, by the testimony of Wagner's own works, is it possible to contend that these make for, and not against, the wholly superfluous proposition from which he started as a reformer?

One of the reproaches frequently levelled by the New-Germans against ante-Wagnerian opera was that its form hardly rose above the level of an entertainment; that entertainment was its _raison d'etre_. What, however, is the ultimate result of the musical Dramas? Is it not also entertainment--entertainment of a highly complex and luxurious form, conceived and accomplished, certainly, in the most perfect and perfectly consistent manner? The famous Dramas are gorgeous stage poems; but are they so exceptionally and extraordinarily elevating to the mind? They address the senses with exceptional power. Could either of them replace amongst our highest possessions a really great play, a great poem, a great symphony? The art of sound, the art of music, is and remains the special art divine because it is capable of reaching beyond the limited impressions of which words are the symbols, and of suggesting the infinite.

Let us be grateful for the splendid gifts which the genius of Wagner has bestowed on the world. May the supreme art of music, however, be always recognised as such. May a musical prophet again arise in due time, capable of speaking with authority in its language--the language of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, of Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Schumann, the language of Bach and of Brahms.

[97] 'Music may accompany action, but can never become its substitute.'

'In the case even of the best and most ideal examples [of Programme-music] it always happened that I so completely lost the thread that no effort enabled me to recover it,' etc.

Wagner, at a certain period of his career, professed himself a partial convert to Programme-music--_i.e._, as it is exemplified in the works of Liszt; but it is scarcely possible to read his remarks at this point without feeling that they were wrested from him by his conception of the obligations of friendship, and the circumstances of the time. Confessing that he finds it extremely difficult to explain himself, he says that he leaves to others the task of developing his meaning, and returns repeatedly to the expression of his general dislike of Programme-music.

II.

THE MAGELONE ROMANCES

The story of the Count Peter of Provence and the beautiful Magelone, Princess of Naples, which is associated with a well-known ruin on the south coast of France, is said by Raynouard to have formed the subject of a poem written towards the close of the twelfth century by Bernhard de Treves, Canon of Magelonne in Languedoc. It was adapted as a prose romance not later than the middle of the twelfth, and printed in at least five different editions before the end of the fifteenth, century.

Of these, rare copies are to be found in some of the famous libraries of England and the Continent. Two editions, copies of which are in the British Museum, were issued by Maitre Guillaume Le Roy. With slight differences of spelling they begin:

'Au nom de notre seigneur ihesucrist, cy comm[=e]ce listoyre du vaillant chevalier pierre filz du cote de prov[=e]ce et de la belle maguelonne fille du roy de naples.'