4
 
 V 
 
 /N 
 
 SOUTHFRN BRANCH 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 LOS ANGBtSS! CALIF.
 
 THE SYMPHONY SINCE BEETHOVEN
 
 THE SYMPHONY 
 
 SINCE BEETHOVEN 
 
 BY 
 
 FELIX WEINGARTNER 
 
 (CONDUCTOR OF THE ROYAL SYMPHONY CONCERTS, 
 
 BERLIN, AND OF THE KAIM ORCHESTRA, 
 
 MUNICH) 
 
 Translated, from the second German edition 
 {with the author' s permission) 
 
 BY 
 
 MAUDE BARROWS DUTTON 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 OLIVER DITSON COMPANY 
 
 New York Chicago 
 
 C. H. Ditson & Co. Ly °n & Healy 
 
 Copyright, MCMIV, by Oliver Ditson Company 
 
 \0 6 ^5-
 
 [the symphony since beethoven]
 
 E.
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AUTOGRAPH LETTER 
 
 London, April 19, 1904. 
 Miss Maude Barrows Dutton. 
 
 Your translation of " The Symphony Since Bee- 
 thoven " has been very highly praised by one of my 
 friends who is familiar with English, and I am 
 glad to give you my permission to publish it. 
 Yours most respectfully, 
 
 FELIX WEINGARTNER. 
 
 [6]
 
 (Reproduction of Weingartner's Autograph Letter.) 
 
 rv 
 
 * 
 
 
 r-1
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION 
 
 The necessity of getting out a second edition 
 of this book two years after the publication of the 
 first is a gratifying proof to me that the thoughts 
 expressed therein did not fall upon unfruitful soil, 
 although nothing was done for their dissemination. 
 The present edition differs from the first, primarily 
 in being more carefully finished in style, and 
 furthermore in a greater precision, to obtain 
 which some wordy passages have been struck out 
 and some supplementary ones have been added. 
 No reader of this edition will suffer under the 
 false impression that I consider the further devel- 
 opment of the symphony impossible and speak a 
 good word for programme music only. It is in- 
 comprehensible to me how any one could have 
 read this idea into the first edition. 
 
 There have been complaints, also, that I have 
 overlooked composers. Especially in Paris, where 
 the little book has become known through the 
 translation made by Madame Chevillard, has this 
 criticism been raised against me. Although more 
 names are spoken of here than before, still there 
 are of course many deserving artists who are not 
 mentioned. My book is not a catalogue, and no 
 one should expect to find in it just what he would 
 in the latter. 
 
 Finally, the question is often put to me with no
 
 Preface to the Second Edition 
 
 little wit, why I, after writing this book, should 
 have composed two symphonies, and what was 
 my aim in doing this. I will take the trouble here 
 to answer this query with corresponding wit. _ Aim 
 had I none. Both symphonies were written simply 
 because they came to me. 
 
 Felix Weingartner. 
 Munich, December, 1900. 
 
 M
 
 THE 
 
 SYMPHONY SINCE BEETHOVEN 
 
 If in wandering through some Alpine valley, 
 while we were standing awestruck before a colossal 
 mountain, whose snow-crowned peak rose shim- 
 mering in the distance, and we were perhaps deem- 
 ing that man happy whose courage and strength 
 were great enough to carry him over this peak to 
 enjoy the view beyond, when suddenly our medi- 
 tations were interrupted by a voice at our side 
 saying in all seriousness, "I am going to climb 
 over that mountain into the blue clouds beyond," 
 we would have little doubt but that we were con- 
 fronted either by a foolhardy dreamer or a mad- 
 man. We would scarcely ridicule the man, but 
 rather look upon his simple faith with eyes of pity. 
 
 Such a feeling of pity can also seize upon us, 
 when we come into the full consciousness of Bee- 
 thoven's greatness, when our whole being becomes 
 filled with the infinitely deep significance of his 
 compositions, and then meet so many young com- 
 posers who are striving under the title of sym- 
 phony to win for themselves money or reputation. 
 
 Compared with the inexhaustible wealth of emo- 
 tion and thought that Beethoven gave us through 
 his music, compared with his expression of that 
 world of feelings which embraces the most pow- 
 
 Ci* 1
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 erful passions and the tenderest feelings of love, 
 the deepest humor and metaphysical transporta- 
 tions, it must at first seem like a foolhardy if not 
 an insane undertaking, — like the dream of the 
 man who would climb the impassable mountain, 
 
 — where works to-day are written in the same 
 form as Beethoven's symphonies. Richard Wag- 
 ner, not only the greatest musician but also the 
 greatest musical critic of the last half-century, 
 pours out his bitterest satire on the symphony- 
 writers since Beethoven. He is astonished that 
 composers saw in Beethoven's creations only the 
 finished form and gaily went on writing more 
 symphonies without observing that the "last" 
 symphony, Beethoven's Ninth, had been given to 
 the world; without observing that in this sym- 
 phony lay the extreme emanation of music as a 
 separate art, as a direct transition to collective art, 
 
 — by which he means works which are freed from 
 all vagueness by their artistic finish, — and that 
 with its birth the right of existence of all other 
 symphonies had in itself to fail. Wagner con- 
 sidered, at the same time, the "Ninth Symphony" 
 as a precursor of his own lifework, and character- 
 ized Beethoven's great tone -poem as working a 
 reform in his mind. Although I have referred 
 to Wagner's broader treatment of this subject in 
 "Opera and Drama," I wish to state clearly, here 
 at the beginning of this treatise, that on this point 
 I am not agreed with Wagner. A nature like his, 
 that with such incredible energy sought to reach 
 its highest goal, and did reach it, as he was able to 
 do, must finallv look at all else in the light of this 
 
 [»]
 
 Beethoven 
 
 goal, and lose to a certain extent that objectivity 
 which distinguishes other great men, who are not 
 in this sense revolutionary, as for instance Goethe. 
 The question next arises: What indeed can be 
 said of a form which stands there complete in 
 itself, which in relation to its own parts, even in 
 case of a change of key, seems almost immovably 
 placed under rule; of a form which after a mas- 
 ter had filled it with such wonderful content that 
 it proved too small, so that he in the end, after he 
 had expressed the vastness of his soul in it, broke 
 its fetters forever, as Beethoven did in the last 
 movement of his "Ninth Symphony," as well as in 
 his last sonatas and quartets ? We may question 
 further if it is not the love of experimentation, and 
 no longer the art impulse, which leads a composer 
 to gather up the debris of form which Beethoven's 
 genius snapped asunder and seek to bring them 
 together again into a perfect whole. In fact, we 
 may justly ask if such composers are capable of 
 conceiving Beethoven's immortal greatness. In 
 opposition to this, it must be emphatically asserted 
 that Beethoven, after he had once deserted the 
 usual form, did not always continue to do so. He 
 in no wise wished his act to be interpreted as the 
 laying down of a deliberate principle. The sonata, 
 Opus ioi, which is like a free fantasia, is followed 
 by the monumental Opus 106, which in its four 
 gigantic movements is perfectly rounded off as to 
 form; the sonatas in E-major and A-flat major, 
 even freer in their form, are followed by the last 
 one in C-minor, which, if one overlooks the omis- 
 sion of the customary quick-moving finale, is so
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 complete in form that Biilow could justly point it 
 out as a model of its kind. The two quartets in 
 B-flat major and C-sharp minor stand between 
 the two in E-flat major and A-minor, which in 
 form do not deviate in the least from earlier quar- 
 tets. At any rate, it is clear that Beethoven left 1 
 the accustomed form only when the arrangement 
 of the entire work required it,— as, for example. 
 guided by his inspiration, he introduced the choral 
 part, with Schiller's words, into his "Ninth Sym- 
 phony,"— and that he in no wise treated the form 
 as obsolete, although at times he stepped beyond 
 its bounds. Face to face with these examples we 
 can justly conjecture, although we can never know, 
 whether Beethoven if he had lived would haw- 
 written another symphony in the old form. Wag- 
 ner by his hypothesis of the last symphony seems 
 to consider it improbable. We tan more easily 
 answer the question, whether in the present day 
 when we see a composer heap up an immense pile 
 of abnormal instrumental and perhaps vocal music 
 in order to produce tone-pictures surpassing the 
 old form, if it here also was really the deliberate 
 intention and not perchance only the mass of aver- 
 age work which wore out the form, and if that mass 
 of average work did not correspond to the crea- 
 tive power which produced the compositions. It 
 so, no Phoenix will fly forth from the ashes of the 
 cooling debris of form, but, on the contrary, a 
 thick, strange liquor will ooze forth from the broken 
 vessel and fall heavily to the ground. On the 
 other hand, in case of a truly significant work, a 
 trulv inspired work which has withstood victori- 
 
 ['4]
 
 Beethoven 
 
 ously the duly assigned struggle with contempo- 
 rary shortsightedness, one will recognize in its 
 form and instrumentation, if they do not deviate 
 too greatly from the customary, only the necessary 
 means for the embodiment of the composer's in- 
 spiration. We will no longer measure such a 
 work by the old laws, but will seek to deduce new 
 laws from it. 
 
 1 No musical form has developed from its origin 
 to its incontestable zenith within such a remark- 
 ably short time as the symphony. The song, for 
 example, although it found its first great master 
 early in this century, is still discovering through 
 the blending of words and music, which have 
 each in their own way adapted themselves to the 
 melodious character of the song, new outlets for 
 itself, so that many a song written since Schubert's 
 death may fear nothing from a comparison with 
 those of this immortal singer. For the musical 
 drama, through Richard Wagner's reformatory 
 deed, innumerable ways now stand open which 
 depend only upon the choice and the poetical elab- 
 oration of the subject. And now we must remem- 
 ber that Haydn wrote his first symphony about 
 the year 1760, and that in 1823, only sixty-three 
 years later, those harmless, playfully joyous cre- 
 ations had gloriously developed into the grandest 
 of tragedies, and Beethoven's " Ninth Symphony " 
 had come into being. .More than three-quarters 
 of a century have passed between the appearance 
 of that wonderful creation and to-day, and still 
 in the realm of symphonies it wears, undisputed, 
 the crown. But as in all spheres of life we ob- 
 
 ['S]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 serve that a temporary retrogression, often a com- 
 plete decline, follows the highest development, so 
 I believe that nature here, after she had produced 
 Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, men of immortal 
 greatness, needed a period of comparative rest 
 after the overpowering strain. Productive power 
 has turned towards the opera, the musical drama, 
 and borne its ripest fruit thus far in Richard 
 Wagner. But who can therefore conclude that 
 "music is going over into the collective arts," and 
 consequently that the symphony, as well as music 
 in general, is losing its right of existence as a sepa- 
 rate art ? All further development depends solely 
 on the birth of the ruling genius, which can neither 
 be foreseen nor predicted, and when it does conic 
 will cast all calculations to the winds. And if we 
 cannot know with what contents a future com- 
 poser will fill the symphonic form, so is it equally 
 wrong to lay the blame of the degeneration of 
 symphonic productions since Beethoven to the 
 forms being obsolete. Wagner himself seems to 
 take back, partially at least, what he pronounced 
 so harshly in "Opera and Drama," in that in his 
 treatise "Upon the Application of Music to the 
 Drama " (Volume X. of his collected works) he ac- 
 knowledges, under certain conditions, the possi- 
 bility of a symphony being written about which 
 "something too might be said." 
 
 In order to reach a comprehensive view of this 
 heretofore only suggested possibility, we will wish 
 to run through, here briefly, there more exten- 
 sively, the chief works which have been produced 
 in the line of symphonies. 
 
 [16]
 
 Haydn 
 
 Haydn becomes acquainted with the sonatas of 
 Philip Emanuel Bach, — freer, more worldly forms 
 of the suites of his great father, — and creates 
 similar compositions for the private orchestras of 
 nobles in whose service he is employed as musical 
 director. Masterpieces, of which a large number 
 will never grow old, but will so charm us by their 
 youthful freshness that we always believe we are 
 hearing them for the first time, sprang from his 
 sunny, childlike nature. Mozart's nature was of 
 greater depth than Haydn's. Treated in the 
 struggle for existence much more roughly, — much 
 too roughly, — so that his delicate body was soon 
 worn out, he shows many a time in his composi- 
 tions the seriousness that hung over his life. The 
 gentle melancholy of the G-minor symphony, the 
 harsh severity of the C-major, the partly majestic, 
 partly heartfelt earnestness in the first two move- 
 ments of the E-flat major, are characteristic fea- 
 tures of Mozart's work, but quite foreign to 
 Haydn's instrumental compositions. But his in- 
 dividuality reveals itself particularly in the opera. 
 The strains which he intones in the last scene of 
 "Don Giovanni," and in the "Magic Flute," the 
 prophecy of power in his treatment of the orches- 
 tra in "Figaro," are not found in his symphonies. 
 Beethoven, also, in his first two symphonies de- 
 pends on his predecessors. Had he died after the 
 completion of his symphony in D-major, no one 
 would have had a suspicion of his actual genius. 
 Then came a miracle. A great personality in the 
 political world, the First Consul of the French 
 Republic, inspired the young musician. He felt
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 called to celebrate his deeds in a great tone-poem, 
 an d _ as Athene once sprang from the head of 
 Zeus — the ^'Eroica Symphony" burst from the 
 soul of Beethoven. Xo other artist ever took such 
 a gigantic stride as Beethoven did between his 
 second and third symphony. He felt in the depth 
 of his great being that the ideal life, freed from 
 the dross of humanity, I might say the true life of 
 a hero, the fruits of his labors, and the full appre- 
 ciation of his worth, comes only after his death. 
 So Beethoven shows us, only in the first move- 
 ment, the hero himself, in his wrestlings and strug- 
 gles, and in the full glory of victory. As early as 
 the second movement, sounds forth the majestic 
 lament for his death. In the third, that remark- 
 ably short scherzo, is given a picture of the human 
 race, busy one day as another with itself, hurrying 
 by all that is sublime with jesting or indifference, 
 or at most commemorating the hero's deeds with 
 a resounding fanfare. In the last movement the 
 peoples come together from the ends of the earth, 
 bringing building-stones for a worthy monument 
 to the now fully recognized hero, — a monument 
 which cannot be more beautiful than is the love 
 paid to his memory. This movement surpasses 
 the first two in its boldness of conception and 
 in its 'polyphonic working-out, and makes the so 
 greatly admired fugue-finale in Mozart's "Jupiter 
 Symphony " seem like a child's toy. When at last 
 the veil falls from the monument, when the strains 
 of the consecration music arise, and all eyes filled 
 with tears look up at the image of the deified hero, 
 then ring upon our ears the sounds that tell us 
 
 [18]
 
 Schubert 
 
 that with this symphony, music has learned to 
 speak a language for which it hitherto seemed to 
 possess no organ. 
 
 How Beethoven strode further from one won- 
 derful work to another and finally crowned all his 
 efforts with the "Ninth Symphony, " — who does 
 not linger gladly there! But I will not speak to 
 you of Beethoven himself, but of those who came 
 after him. Perhaps I have already diverged too 
 far from my real theme; but, as in wandering 
 through the mountains, — to hold to the simile in 
 the beginning of this treatise, — when we know 
 that the majestic snow peak, upon which we have 
 gazed spellbound, will vanish at the next turn in 
 the path, it is a temptation to linger there and en- 
 joy its splendor to the very last, so here I felt that 
 I must needs say a few words about one of Bee- 
 thoven's works before he fades from our horizon 
 to be visible later only in the far distance. 
 
 Turning now completely away from our gigan- 
 tic peak to the surrounding neighborhood, we find 
 many a pleasant range of hills, and many a ro- 
 mantic cliff, that can fascinate and charm us to no 
 small degree. Such is the case also with the sym- 
 phonies written since Beethoven, as far as it is a 
 question of the customary symphonic form. We 
 will find in them beauty and worth, but to appre- 
 ciate them we must turn completely away from 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Close to Beethoven, rather his contemporary 
 than his -successor, there appears a wonderful 
 musician, Franz Schubert. Probably no other 
 
 pa
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 musician was ever gifted with such a wealth of 
 pure melodic imagination, with such an abundance 
 of musical invention, combined with the dec; 
 and tenderest since: - >ul. If we find when- 
 
 ever we are allowed to look into the workshops of 
 Beethoven's mind, a powerful wrestling, a working, 
 conscious of its goal, for the final musical expres- 
 sion of his genius, so we see Schubert's fancies 
 springing and bubbling forth from an inexhaust- 
 ible fountain. The great number of his works in 
 comparison with the years of his life astounds us. 
 He died at thirty-one. but he has written much 
 more than the other masters. His entire being 
 was saturated with music. He went on and on 
 composing, writing down his fancies without sift- 
 ing or polishing. Thus he was of a lovable, 
 rene disposition, a thoroughly genial Viennese who 
 
 "y surmounted embarrassments. The mis 
 able condition of his poverty-stricken life could not 
 silence the godlike voice in his soul. ' 
 
 an aneede: - was told me 
 
 r.d of 
 day Lachner had asked - 
 bert to make an e>. to the con S ubert 
 
 s unable, as he had : t in his 
 
 pocket. As Lachnei -nuch better off, the embarras- 
 
 adl the gre„- r. So S ~ gave Lachner a book 
 
 manuscript, asking hi iblisher ar r the 
 
 fee on it. He said he did not d. id been refused 
 
 so often. The pu': - ed Diabelli» proved very 
 
 much averse t are by that Schubert," saying 
 
 there was no call for his s er, he consented 
 
 the magnificent sum — .anuscript. The two 
 
 friends went on their excursion, hap: : and finding a spinet 
 
 in a country inn, - -ubert at once played several songs to Lachner, 
 which had occurred to him on the way. Unfortunately, Lachner could 
 not remember exactly which they were, but he assured me there was one 
 of them which is now among the most celebrated of Schubert's songs.
 
 Schubert 
 
 This fabulous productivity of Schubert's had of 
 course this disadvantage, that often insignificant 
 and superficial music, which would not be worthy 
 of preservation, came from his pen. Indeed, one 
 must count half his compositions as such, but those 
 of his works that far exceed mediocrity place him 
 for all time in the ranks of the great masters. 
 I read recently in a work on one of the newer com- 
 posers, that this musician could not really be called 
 a genius because he had not enriched music with 
 any new forms. How little of a genius Schubert 
 must then have been who, in truth, presented us 
 with no new forms, but instead filled the old ones 
 with extremely rich and individual contents ! 
 
 Schubert was the lyric singer, «"■' 4«^. What 
 he wrote, the most joyous as well as the most 
 tragic, seems to have been imbued always with 
 that gentle, melodious element that causes his 
 figure to appear, as it were, through tears of gentle 
 emotion. A happy warmth floods his music. 
 Think of the great 'symphony in C-major. Schu- 
 bert himself probably never heard it, and we must 
 realize with horror that it would have remained 
 unknown if Robert Schumann had not discovered 
 it in Vienna, not long after Schubert's death. 
 How grand it stands before us in its four glorious 
 movements ! — the first swelling with life and 
 strength, the second a gipsy romance with the 
 wonderful secret horn motive (the heavenly guest, 
 as Schumann so beautifully expressed it), the 
 splendid scherzo, and the finale filled with gigantic 
 humor. No worked-up harmonic effects, no poly- 
 phonic combinations, awaken our interest, and yet 
 
 [«]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 this work, lasting in performance over an hour 
 without break, — which is quite unusual for a 
 symphony, — is able to fascinate us and carry us 
 along with it. It is quite incomprehensible to me 
 how, in the presence of such a direct expression of 
 truly divine power, there are always those people 
 who find this symphony too long and desire to 
 shorten it. I do not belong to this class, and con- 
 fess that whenever I hear this work well conducted, 
 or conduct it myself, I always experience the i 
 joyous sensations and become fairly intoxicated 
 with the music. Free flying about through a 
 clear and shining ether might perhaps arouse 
 similar feelings. Nature has denied us this de- 
 light, but great works of art can give it. 
 
 What shall I say concerning the two movements 
 which have been preserved for us in the B-minor 
 symphony? Generally speaking, it is a misfortune 
 if an author is not able to complete his work, but 1 
 might almost call it fortunate that this symphony 
 has remained unfinished. The first movement is 
 of a tragic greatness that, with the exception of 
 Beethoven, no symphony-writer and Schubert 
 himself only in some of his songs has attained. 
 I consider the second theme, given out by the 
 violoncellos, as one of the most majestic inspira- 
 tions that was ever permitted a musician to expr< 
 That which thrilled us in the first movement as a 
 mental strife sounds forth in the second mild and 
 cleared up, as if the composer had already soared 
 to the eternal realms. According to my opinion, 
 this finale is so satisfying that I never have any 
 desire to hear a continuation of the work after the 
 
 [»]
 
 Mendelssohn 
 
 first two movements. We might believe that Schu- 
 bert, like Beethoven in his piano sonatas, Opus 
 109 and in, wished to close with the slower move- 
 ment, if we were not led to infer that a continua- 
 tion was planned, since the second movement is 
 written in a different key from the beginning. In 
 truth, there exists an instrumental introduction and 
 a sketch of a scherzo belonging to the B-minor 
 symphony which, if one may judge from what ex- 
 ists of it, would not have reached the significance 
 of the first movements. In greatness and strength 
 of feeling combined with the tender lyrical ele- 
 ment that runs like a scarlet thread through his 
 works, Schubert appears like a noble and, as it 
 were, womanly complement to Beethoven. His 
 two symphonies in which his significant personal- 
 ity fully expressed itself, as well as the string quar- 
 tets in D-minor and G-major, and the C-major 
 quintet, stand in the above sense worthily beside 
 Beethoven's creations. 
 
 The second great contemporary of Beethoven, 
 the composer of "Der Freischütz," has produced 
 remarkable works in the field of the piano sonata, 
 but not in that of the symphony. Thus we turn 
 from Schubert to the real symphony-writers since 
 Beethoven, and first of all to the clever and ele- 
 gant Felix Mendelssohn. It may be said of him 
 that he gives the lie to the German proverb, "No 
 master falls from heaven." He who at the age of 
 seventeen, when most of us are merely stepping 
 out of childhood, composed the " Overture to the 
 Midsummer Night's Dream," is indeed a master 
 fallen from heaven. When we think of the elves
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 which Weber showed us in "Oberon," we must 
 agree with Wagner, who, in reference to the '^lid- 
 summer Night's Dream Overture," said that those 
 were not elves but midgets. But the formal per- 
 fection and conscious certainty of invention and 
 workmanship which the composer showed in this 
 overture, as well as in the string-octet written even 
 earlier, — which is a perfect masterpiece in t he- 
 melodious treatment of string instruments, — elicit 
 our astonished admiration, and have been attained 
 at such an early age only by Mozart. Mendels- 
 sohn, after he had written this piece, had noth- 
 ing more to learn about form.' What he would 
 have had to possess to create works equal to t: 
 of his predecessors, he could not acquire, ror 
 Mendelssohn's peculiar genius demanded that it 
 should have been born in him, and it was not. An 
 aristocratic and yet lovable nature, full of poetry 
 and of intellectuality, speaks to us from his music 
 and letters. ' Deep passion and subjectivity he did 
 not possess. Not until four years before his death, 
 that is seventeen years after he composed the over- 
 ture, did he write the rest of the music to the 
 "Midsummer Night's Dream." Almost all of 
 Mendelssohn's works were composed between these 
 two dates, and yet it seems to have been written 
 without a break, so little difference is to be distin- 
 guished in the compositions. In contrast, com] »are 
 the works of the other great masters between the 
 writing of which a great length of time elapsed. 
 Compare "The Flying Dutchman 1 ' with "Tris- 
 tan;" Beethoven's first symphony with his seventh; 
 Mozart's "Idomeneo" with "The Magic Flute."
 
 Mendelssohn 
 
 What a wonderful difference ! How little did 
 Wagner succeed in ingrafting into his Parisian 
 version of "Tannhäuser" the language of "Tris- 
 tan" and the "Nibelungen," and how creditable 
 for him that he did succeed so little! Mendels- 
 sohn did not, like other artists, go through a pe- 
 riod of development, a period of inner growth. 
 From the beginning to the end of his life and 
 works he was "a master fallen from heaven/' 
 whose easy mastery of all the technique of music 
 assures for him still to-day the astonishment of all , 
 those who avoid works of great passion. Whether 
 he wrote pianoforte music, songs, symphonies, ora- 
 torios, or fragments of operas, there is always the 
 same finished form, the same care and thought 
 for the harmonious treatment of the orchestra, the 
 same elegance, the same lack of passionate feeling. 
 ,/Two of his symphonies, the one in A-major and 
 the one in A-minor, have come down to the present 
 day. Both owe their origin to rural scenes, to 
 which Mendelssohn was particularly impression- 
 able. Thus they have this advantage over the 
 dry " Reformation Symphony " and the "Hymn of 
 Praise," that they sprang from some lively impulse, 
 and therefore their effect is more animated than 
 the other two works, which to-day exist in name 
 only. '-In them, as in Schubert's symphonies, the 
 author's individuality is perfectly expressed. The 
 real difference between the works of these two 
 masters is in their individuality. Raphael paints 
 Saint Cecilia; Jan van Huysum, a little bunch of 
 flowers. Mastery of an art must be accorded the 
 one as much as the other. By mastery I under- 
 
 [■5]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 stand especially the ability to express perfectly 
 and continuously one's own individuality in some- 
 particular art, to which power belongs, as a very 
 vital addition, pure technical skill, but this can 
 and will be attained if the first-mentioned ability 
 is there. Lying at the bottom of mastery, and ex- 
 pressing itself effectively in every important work 
 of art, is a truthfulness which does not attempt to 
 give more than it can. This sincerity Mendels- 
 sohn possessed in a high degree; therefore, even 
 if we do not look upon him as one of the great 
 men, we must still consider him as a very gifted 
 and skilful musician. Hence his compositions, al- 
 though they lack strong passion, possess a sym- 
 pathetic perfection which quite obliterates in the 
 consideration of his artistic personality the ques 
 tion of how it was done, and leaves only to be con- 
 sidered what it really is. His immediate follow- 
 ers cannot claim a similar mastery of form. 
 
 With Mendelssohn began a new epoch in music, 
 generally known as the new-classical. Its repre- 
 sentatives remain true to the traditions in form of 
 the old masters, but bring into music a sentimental, 
 mystical vagueness that, contrary to the naive, ob- 
 jective method of their predecessors, calls for a 
 subjective explanation. Knightly legends and the 
 fairy tales of the Middle Ages spring again into 
 life; the world of elves and spirits draws over the 
 classical ideal of beauty a sort of ghostlike mist. 
 The period of "Hineingeheimnissen" (hiding 
 crets in a work) sets in. " Analogous with an al- 
 most contemporaneous period in German poetry, 
 this new-classical epoch has been called the ro-
 
 Schumann 
 
 mantic epoch. Mendelssohn has always been the 
 perfect example in his little sphere. He has al- 
 ways been the objective artist. Before all other 
 musicians, in relation to the old masters, he de- 
 serves the predicate "new-classical." 
 
 The first and the most peculiarly subjective of 
 the romanticists, if we turn now from the objective, 
 classical romanticist Weber, is Robert Schumann. 
 His individuality was diametrically opposed to 
 Mendelssohn. Highly gifted as Mendelssohn was 
 in mastery of form, was Schumann in inspiration. 
 The former was a perfect artist, even in his early 
 years; the latter pressed impetuously forward, 
 ceaselessly struggling for something new and more 
 perfect than his last endeavor, until gloomy fate 
 fettered the power of his spirit. In the first period 
 of his works we meet Schumann only as a piano- 
 forte composer. Poetical pictures give rise to his 
 compositions : he intwines the name of his youth- 
 ful love in a theme and writes variations on it; the 
 motley scenes of the carnival give him the inspira- 
 tion for one of the most spirited pianoforte pieces 
 that we possess; Hoffmann's imaginative tales 
 cause him to write " Kreisleriane " and the signifi- 
 cant sonata in F-sharp minor; he represents "the 
 two souls that dwell within his breast" by two per- 
 sonalities, " Florestan " and "Eusebius," and as- 
 cribes his works now to the one, now to the other. 
 Violently abused by the critics and musicians who 
 belonged to a guild, Jie formed, with friends shar- 
 ing his opinions, the "Davidsbündler league," 
 and dances roughly about on the toes of the Phil- 
 istines. I may as well sav at once that Schumann 
 
 [=7]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 achieved his greatest significance as a pianoforte 
 composer, as the poet of the pianoforte, one might 
 almost say. 'Here he possessed the sincerity of 
 the great masters; here he is just what he is, with 
 no pretence of being more. New, daring concep- 
 tions speak to us from these works, and we meet, 
 even to-day, the offerings of his rich imagination 
 with unabated delight. His treatment of the 
 pianoforte is also original and thoroughly adapted 
 to the nature of the instrument as well as to the 
 musical thought, while, on the other hand, his 
 management of the orchestra leaves, as we shall 
 see later, almost everything to be desired. 
 
 At the age of thirty-one he first turns his atten- 
 tion to the greater forms of music, among others 
 to the symphony. Mendelssohn's brilliant figure 
 moving with playful ease through all the domains 
 of music was the shining ideal in Schumann's 
 early life and works, — much to the latter's dis- 
 advantage. In the attempt to imitate Mendels- 
 sohn, to attain the same finish, — in the endeavor, 
 as I might say, to be classical, — his own origi- 
 nality suffered severely without his being able to 
 reach his model. Throughout his life the spirit of 
 romance and fantasy forced its way into his 
 works, but no longer as it did in his youth. A 
 strange and to a certain extent ingrafted element, 
 — that very Mendelssohnian polish which he 
 struggled in vain to acquire, — robs his later 
 works of that spontaneity which charmed us so in 
 his first compositions. His talent, which bore in 
 smaller forms such precious fruit, became, without 
 growing richer, pulled in this way and that into
 
 Schumann 
 
 greater dimensions, and therefore thinner and more 
 thread-like; he was required to yield more than 
 he possessed. His productivity and versatility 
 were nevertheless astonishingly great, even in the 
 second period of his creative work, for there is 
 hardly a musical form which he did not attempt^ 
 Since he, apparently in consequence of his being 
 a free-thinker, was averse to writing oratorios with 
 biblical text, he accordingly chose secular poems, 
 even fragments from Goethe's " Faust," for' his 
 compositions which are sort of half-way between 
 operas and oratorios. Besides numerous songs, 
 many of which are among our very best, Schumann 
 wrote concertos, chamber music of all kinds, melo- 
 dramas, one opera, and, as is to be expected from 
 such a versatile artist, also symphonies. I sup- 
 pose many of you will now look upon me as a 
 heretic when I openly acknowledge that I count 
 Schumann's symphonies as in no wise among his 
 most important works. 
 
 •In his pianoforte pieces the invention of little, 
 but very expressive, themes, which he knew how 
 to vary and use in an ingenious manner, is very 
 characteristic. *fn his great symphonies he does 
 not succeed with these themes and themelets, how- 
 ever warm and beautiful the feeling may have 
 been from which they sprang. If you examine 
 his orchestral pieces closely, you will find that he 
 was often forced to repeat single bars or groups 
 of bars in order to spin out the thread further, be- 
 cause the theme in itself is too small for such con- 
 tinuation. Sometimes even the theme itself is 
 formed through the repetition of this and that 
 
 [-9]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 phrase. On account of these copious tonic and 
 consequently rhythmical repetitions, his greater 
 pieces for the orchestra become naturally monoto- 
 nous. One can retaliate that the theme of the 
 first movement of Beethoven's C-minor symphony 
 is much smaller than Schumann'.- themes. Here 
 is the real difference between the two: in Bee- 
 thoven's work, after the first entrance of the theme. 
 consisting of four notes, a simple melody, which 
 makes use of the original theme only for rhythmical 
 framework and not really for is own spinning 
 out, arises over the pause of the first violins and 
 the repetition of the theme- in A-tlat - I . and 
 evolves from itself up to the second subject (en- 
 trance of the horn- in K-llat major). But in 
 Schumann's works the melodious flow of the com- 
 . position is preserved only by the repetition ol 
 themes as such, and the taking refuge in phrases 
 which do not grow out of the subject. This weak- 
 ness of Schumann's is most apparent in the first 
 movements, and in the finales, of his symphonies, 
 which — with the exception of the finale of the 
 B-flat major symphony, which is graceful in its 
 principal theme, but not important — are conven- 
 tional and noisy. Involuntarily we ask ourselves 
 why we must always rejoice at the end of this sym- 
 phony, while in Beethoven's works in a similar i 
 the thought never arises? The reason is because 
 in the latter's works the rejoicing follows with psy- 
 chological necessity from the conquered grief, as in 
 the C-minor or the ninth, or is already contained 
 in the elementary ground voice of the entire work, 
 as in the seventh symphonv. In place of the great, 
 
 [30]
 
 Schumann 
 
 broad adagio of the Beethoven symphony appear 
 in Schumann's pleasing, melodious, lyrical inter- 
 mezzi, which are much better suited to the piano- 
 forte than to the orchestra. ' In the main, a Schu- 
 mann symphony is more effective pla-yed as a 
 pianoforte duet than in a concert hall. 'The reason 
 lies in a circumstance which the most uncondi- 
 tional admirers of Schumann can scarcely avoid 
 recognizing, — namely, he did not know how to 
 handle the orchestra, either as director or com- 
 poser. He worked almost always with the full 
 material, but did not take the pains to elaborate 
 the parts according to the character of the sepa- 
 rate instruments. With almost childlike stupidity 
 he expected to obtain fulness and strength by 
 doubling the instruments. Therefore', the instru- 
 mentation is heavy and inflexible, the color gray 
 against gray, the most important themes, if played 
 according to his directions, sometimes cannot be 
 heard, and a true forte is about as impossible as a 
 true piano. Whenever I see the players working 
 with all their might, and compare, as a conductor, 
 the labor of the rehearsals and the performance 
 with the final effect, there comes over me a feeling 
 similar to that I have towards a person in whom 
 I expected to find mutual friendship and was dis- 
 appointed. No sign of life gleams in this apa- 
 thetic orchestra, which, if given even a simple Men- 
 delssohnian piece to play, seems quite transformed. 
 Schumann's symphonies are composed for the 
 pianoforte, and arranged — unhappily, not well at 
 that — for the orchestra. To be sure, in these 
 works there are flashes of genius, beautifully deep 
 
 [3']
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 and moving passages that recall the earliest period 
 of the composer's work, as for example the intro- 
 duction to the B-flat major symphony, which prom- 
 ises great power. The middle movements up to 
 the first trio of the scherzo, which is quite mean- 
 ingless and makes Schumann's weakness most 
 frightfully apparent, are more important than the 
 first. In my opinion, the adagio rs press iro of the 
 C-major symphony, with the ideal ascending and 
 descending figure for the violins, is the best m< 
 ment in all of his four symphonies. 
 
 Schumann, as an orchestral composer, appears 
 quite different when he conceives some poetical in- 
 spiration that is congenial to him. as for instance 
 Byron's "Manfred." Then he loses his desire to 
 be classical; he dares to be what he is, tie imagi- 
 native romanticist leaning towards the supernat- 
 ural and the mysterious. In this mood, which 
 was closely akin to his nature, he succeeded in 
 writing a piece of music that can with all justice 
 be called classical. That wonderfully planned 
 and unusually lofty overture to "Manfred," in 
 which piece lie was also more fortunate in his or 
 chestration, is his only piece of orchestral music 
 which can be compared with that he wrote for the 
 pianoforte. From the rest of the " Manfred " score, 
 we can see that, under certain circumstances, even 
 an artistic absurdity, like the melodrama, may be 
 of overwhelming effect if a great spirit wanders 
 within its precinct. I am thinking here above all 
 of "The Conjuration of Astarte." This scene, if 
 well performed by actor and orchestra, leaves in 
 its overpowering effect no wish unsatisfied, least
 
 Schumann 
 
 of all that Manfred might actually sing. This 
 would be worse than composing the dialogue in 
 "Fidelio" and "Der Freischütz." I have no idea 
 here of championing melodrama, which is rising 
 up again in these days, and which is even cultivated 
 and defended by YYagnerians. It would be equally 
 foolish to condemn, for instance, "The Conjuration 
 of Astarte" merely because it is melodrama. Espe- 
 cially to-day when the disintegrating mind more 
 frequently than ever lays hold upon works of art, 
 and a number of art principles, — the same in 
 German as art condemnations, — which for the 
 most part have arisen through a misunderstand- 
 ing, or a senseless echoing, of Richard Wagner's 
 prose works, are vaguely ringing in everybody's 
 heads, ready to trip up the first independent com- 
 poser, it cannot be strongly enough advised that 
 each one shall strengthen within himself the abil- 
 ity to accept without prejudice the impressions 
 offered him. It will then be much simpler to dis- 
 tinguish between true and false, for art principles 
 are dead and unfruitful; it is only the work or the 
 act of genius, that is pulsating with life, let it ex- 
 press itself as it will. Therefore Wagner's ex- 
 planation of the " Ninth Symphony," and the place 
 he assigned to this work in history previous to his 
 dramas, will never be convincing, while his con- 
 ducting of this symphony in 1872 created new 
 pathways in the art of conducting, and its effect 
 has been productive of large results. 
 
 Schumann, who always supported all ideal effort 
 most loyally and zealously, after showing a brief 
 interest in the greatest of his contemporaries, in 
 
 [33]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 whose glory he should have participated, turned 
 from him first indifferently and then hostilely. 
 Those who love Schumann should try to erase 
 from their memories his small grumblings over 
 "Tannhäuser." He turned from Wagner to herald 
 a young musician, just coming into public notice 
 through his pianoforte sonatas, with the spirited 
 cry that here was the future Messiah of music. 
 This young musician was Johannes Brahms. 
 
 The destiny of this artist was prefigured in 
 Schumann's prophecy. He was t" he held up as 
 a counterweight by the enemies of the hold opera 
 reformer, he was to he the advocate of SO-called 
 "'absolute" music in opposition t<> poetical music, 
 programme music, and the music of the future. 
 In truth, Brahms owed, I do not say his signifi- 
 cance, but a great deal of his reputation, which 
 came to him very early, in comparison with other 
 composers, to the unceasing efforts of a band of 
 antagonists to the Bayreuth master who lost no 
 opportunity of playing Brahms off against Wag 
 ner. There was no sense in this sort of rivalry, 
 for, in the first place, in spite of Wagner's detailed 
 treatise on the subject, the difference between ab- 
 solute music which is ascribed to the symphony- 
 writer in opposition to the composer of dramas. 
 and other music, is not of such weighty impor- 
 tance as it is generally believed to-day to be. Mu- 
 sic that one can call "absolute." in a certain sense, 
 that is, music which is fabricated without any in- 
 stigation, formal conglomerations of notes and tri- 
 fling with phrases, flows often from the pen of a 
 Philistine to art, but is not worthy of consideration 
 
 [34]
 
 Brahms 
 
 on account of its tediousness ; and it is therefore a 
 matter of indifference whether a work in question 
 coquettes with the new-classical school, the mod- 
 ern, or both. ' All other kinds of music, even with- 
 out song or programme, betray the spiritual in- 
 fluence of the composer. In this sense none of 
 our great masters were absolute musicians, — 
 Beethoven least of all. Then there is something 
 else that is much too often overlooked by those 
 who use the power of position, or of influence, or 
 of the pen, in order to be able, through the degra- 
 dation, slander, or belittlement of one figure, to 
 raise another one better suited for their purposes 
 upon the shoulders of the party runners — yes, is 
 too often overlooked by those who out of blind 
 fanaticism, or from other reasons than the real 
 esteem of what is offered them, are friends or foes 
 of those who wish to mould public recogni- 
 tion according to their opinion: — namely, the 
 slow but surely conquering strength of the truth. 1 
 
 Manufactured, ungenuine success is like a rush- 
 ing whirlpool caused by a heavy rain. It rushes 
 suddenly over the spot where usually no water 
 flows, bearing with it all that comes in its way. 
 After a short time no trace of it is to be seen. 
 'True, genuine success is like the spring hidden 
 deep in the earth. First it flows for a long while 
 unnoticed, a thin thread of water, then becomes 
 a brook, then a river, then a flood, and finds its 
 last outlet in the sea of eternity. One may try to 
 
 1 I do not direct these remarks, and the following, against Brahms 
 himself. One had only to know the plain, straightforward artist, to 
 be certain that he held himself quite aloof from intrigue and flattery. 
 
 [35]
 
 1 he Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 uproot the spring or dam it up, but it always gushes 
 forth anew. 
 
 Fortunately, it is an established fact to-day that 
 the zeal of the "Brahmsians" could not take one 
 tittle from Wagner's greatness, and it underlies all 
 doubt that Brahms also, in spite of the all too 
 zealous attacks directed toward him by certain re- 
 venging Wagnerians. will receive his befitting place 
 in the history of music. 'Time is the severest 
 judge. She devours what belongs to her. < >nly 
 what stands above her she cannot touch. Just 
 how far Brahms belongs to the immortals we to- 
 day cannot with any certainty decide. Unques- 
 tionably many who are not his blind worshippers 
 would feel more sympathy for him if it were not 
 for two reasons: hrst. the above-mentioned fact 
 of his being played off successfully as a counter- 
 weight to Wagner's greatness, which is no Longer 
 done to-day; second, the linking of the three 
 "B's," — Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. Thislast 
 was a witticism of Billow's which, though it origi- 
 nated for a personal motive, has found perhaps all 
 the more favor on that account; for. let me 
 speak it out now again after so many others have 
 done so, — Bulow never would have made it for 
 Brahms's propaganda but for his breach with Wag 
 ner, so painful to himself and so lamentable for 
 all future encouragement to art. In this instance 
 a great, and, in the depth of his soul, a noble man 
 fell into the error, so often committed by small and 
 malicious natures, of making sport of one artist's 
 fame in order to stifle the fame of another. If 
 one reads Billow's letters, and compares them with 
 
 [36]
 
 Brahms 
 
 what he said and effected in the latter years of his 
 life, it is impossible not to lament that such a 
 character and spirit as his stood off from Wagner's 
 work, and hence from the new development of 
 music in general, just at the time when he was 
 especially needed there. If, in the case of other 
 great artists, the struggle with which they were 
 forced to pierce their way through the misunder- 
 standing and stupidity of their contemporaries, 
 causes a holy light to enshroud their figures, one 
 will remember unwillingly in the case of Brahms 
 — be it granted that he took no active part in this 
 game — that he was on the one side supported 
 by a party, and on the other by a famous con- 
 ductor, whose slightest whims brought about a 
 thousand adherents, and that both of these en- 
 deavored to raise him up in opposition to an artist 
 far greater than he. In the following I will try 
 to picture the impression which his compositions 
 alone have made upon me. 1 
 
 When Brahms presented his first symphony, 
 there went forth the cry from the camp of his 
 friends, "This is the tenth symphony." Of 
 course Beethoven's tenth was meant by that. Al- 
 lowing for all exaggeration, there still remains for 
 me in Brahms's C-minor symphony a masterly 
 
 1 I expressly wish to state that I am no longer fully agreed with 
 the following criticism of Brahms. The weaker works which could 
 be affected by it are by far in the minority. I look up to most of 
 the others in love and admiration. If I now, in spite of this fact, 
 leave the following remarks for the present unchanged, so I consider 
 it only honorable openly and frankly to confess my error. — F. W. 
 
 Translator's Note. — This note does not appear in either 
 the German edition of 1S98 or 1901. It was sent me by the author 
 with the request that it be inserted in mv translation. — M. B. D. 
 
 [37] 
 
 ■VO&5S
 
 The Svmphonv since Beethoven 
 
 worked-out piece of music of inflexible, austere 
 character, which corresponds much more with my 
 
 idea of a symphony than Schumann'- and also is 
 much more skilfully orchestrated. I esteem chiefly 
 the adagio, and above all the beautiful, slow intro- 
 duction to the last movement; the horn, that after 
 the gloomy minor sounds through the tremolo o! 
 the strings in C-major brings out a very int. 
 effect, ju>t like the sun gleaming through the ris- 
 ing morning mist.' Brahms drew hack from the 
 often vague romanticism of Schumann, and sought 
 to a] »] »roach the energetic and plastic mode of ut- 
 teranceof the old masters; aboveall,of Beethoven. 
 He succeeds in attaining a certain resemblance in 
 the first and last movements of his C major sym- 
 phony, a resemblance similar at any rate to that 
 which a concave mirror u r i\r- of our face. The 
 second symphony in I> major I place high above 
 the Inst. In none of his other works does Brahms's 
 spring of invention How so freshly and spontane- 
 ously as in this one; never before or afterwards 
 did he handle the orchestra so sonorously. 'The 
 first movement is, from its beginning to its end, 
 a masterpiece. The second, a slower movement, 
 can be satisfactorily comprehended only after fre- 
 quent hearing. It is difficult for it to disclose 
 itself to the musical mind, hut it does it thoroughly 
 in the end. If I may he allowed the comparison, 
 I should like to suggest a Dutch landscape at sun- 
 set. The eye at first sees nothing but the sky 
 over the wide, wide plain; heedlessly and almost 
 wearily it lets the glance pass over it. Gradually 
 a feeling arises, quietlv, from afar, and speaks to
 
 ßrah 
 
 ms 
 
 us. The intermezzo, in the form of a minuet, is 
 a graceful trifle almost too insignificant for the 
 other three movements. The finale gives a pow- 
 erful close to this work, which I esteem above all 
 four of Schumann's symphonies, — in fact even 
 count among the best symphonies which have been 
 written since Beethoven in the new-classical school. 
 As in the case of Schumann, I consider Brahms's 
 last two symphonies inferior to his first ones. In 
 these works reappears, according to my opinion, a 
 subtle element, arising more from reflection than 
 from real artistic feeling, which is peculiar to 
 Brahms, and from which he could never quite free 
 himself. I would like to speak more in detail of 
 this. I will remark right here that I prize certain 
 other works of Brahms in the same degree as the 
 second symphony, — as, for instance, the " German 
 Requiem:' several songs, the "Song of Destiny," 
 and portions of his chamber music, — but I must 
 add that these works are free, at least more than 
 the others, from that pondering element which 
 clings to Brahms's creations and which soon be- 
 came a mannerism with him. By this special man- 
 nerism of Brahms, I understand certain means 
 which occur again and again in the construction 
 of his compositions. A favorite device with 
 Brahms is syncopation : that is, displacing the bass 
 against the rhythm of the upper parts, or vice versa, 
 so that the one hobbles, as it were, after the other! 
 This syncopation is a peculiar thing. Think of a 
 simple melody, consisting of crotchets, with a har- 
 monic accompaniment, and then let the bass notes 
 not come exactly with the corresponding notes of 
 
 [39]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 the melody, but always a quaver behind; then 
 the whole will assume a very strange and learned 
 aspect, without gaining in intrinsic value. It is 
 just as if some one were to make a most solemn 
 face to say the most simple thing in the world. 
 Furthermore, Brahms loved to combine a rhythm 
 of two beats with one of three beats, thus pro- 
 ducing a form which, if used on a long stretch or 
 often, causes a feeling of disagreeable vacillation. 
 Another of his mannerisms is t< i let the u\ >] >er v< rice, 
 or oftener the middle parts or the bass, be accom- 
 panied by thirds, or still oftener by sixths, ami 
 then again to mix up the parts with artificial syn- 
 copation. Entire sections of his works are built 
 up in this way. There are certain tone combina- 
 tions, and indeed actual themes, made from the 
 fifth of the common chord, together with the third 
 above, — always avoiding the keynote, — which we 
 come across so frequently that a clever causeur 
 recently pointed out the phrase 
 
 _ r _ ^ 
 
 -&- 
 
 as the "Brahms leit-motif." If you look for these 
 mannerisms in Brahms's various kinds of compo 
 sitions, you will find my statements confirmed, even 
 though many of you will not agree with my de- 
 ductions. Indeed, I believe that the complicate« 1 
 character of the harmony, rhythm, and melody, 
 (which, by the way, is called by his partisans ' ' de} >t h 
 of meaning") resulting from these mannerisms, 
 
 [40]
 
 Brahms 
 
 and which destroys the clearness of the musical 
 impression, is the reason why so many of Brahms's 
 works leave the impression of being artificial and 
 unnatural, and fail to please in spite of all the 
 masterly technical construction. Nor can it be 
 denied that this very complicated character of the 
 works produces a certain monotony which is in 
 marked contrast to mere simplicity. At all times, 
 and from every point of view, simplicity will have 
 a happy, animated effect; it will ever appear new 
 and young; we admire it even to-day in Haydn 
 and Mozart after a century has elapsed. But 
 monotony, particularly if it comes from excessive 
 complication, will first attract our thought and in- 
 vestigation, but then tire us, and at last produces 
 that dangerous and art-killing poison, feared by 
 all as greatly as death, — the poison of boredom. 
 Seldom are Brahms's compositions really simple, 
 but when they are, they are always beautiful, — for 
 instance, the "Feldeinsamkeit," the "Sappische 
 Ode," and the first movement of the "German 
 Requiem." But if we receive the impression that 
 he was trying to write simply, in which case the 
 endeavor to strike a popular tone becomes con- 
 spicuous, then the invention is insignificant, and 
 reminds one of the weaker " Songs without Words" 
 by Mendelssohn; for example, I refer to the C- 
 minor movement of his third symphony. A 
 French critic has written of Brahms: "II tra- 
 vaille extremement bien avec ses idees qu'il n'a 
 pas." This assertion is doubtless too severe; but 
 if, after noble thoughts and periods, the composition 
 is distorted by syncopation, by continual combi- 
 
 [4.]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 nations of unequal rhythms, and by those curious 
 additions of thirds and sixths, and then here and 
 there comes in that artificial simplicity, one re- 
 ceives the impression that the composer wished to 
 stop the flight of his own genius, and, fearing the 
 betrayal of his innermost feelings, preferred to 
 clothe himself in silence and rather let the listener 
 divine what he wanted to say, than actually say it. 
 It is a bad sign when a composer can be con- 
 victed of a mannerism. Who could do this with 
 the great masters? How similar Haydn's com- 
 positions are, and yet how different; what a gulf 
 lies between " The Marriage of Figaro" and "The 
 Magic Flute!" Who could speak seriously of a 
 Beethoven or a Wagner mannerism? Let any 
 one who does not believe this, attempt to parody 
 the great masters; that is, to present to us in an 
 exaggerated way whatever their mannerism is sup- 
 posed to be. He would either not succeed, or else 
 only very clumsily, as do those who. for example, 
 work Wagner themes into quadrilles or marches 
 — which is blasphemy, but not parody. But it is 
 very easy to write a parody on Brahms, and it has 
 already been done very brilliantly by Moritz Mosz- 
 kowsky. The same may be said of actual imita- 
 tion. When we hear modern chamber music, 
 written in Brahms's style, oftentimes, if we did not 
 know the composer's name, we would accept it 
 in good faith for a piece by Brahms himself; while 
 I believe that no one hearing under similar cir- 
 cumstances a piece out of an opera of one of our 
 "New German" composers would confuse it with 
 one of Wagner's. 
 
 M
 
 Brahms 
 
 I have not contented myself after the custom of 
 many Wagnerians, to stop my ears and sneer, in 
 imitation of respective places in Wagner's col- 
 lected works, whenever I am confronted by the 
 artistic personality of Brahms. I have gone over 
 and studied deeply the greater part of his works. 
 When I dissected this kind of music my intellect 
 always grew. I admired the work and the con- 
 struction, and found therein the same joy that a 
 physician perhaps feels when he lays bare the 
 muscles of a beautifully developed dead body. 
 If I let it work upon me as a whole, I experience, 
 except by the works already mentioned, that sick- 
 ening faintness that must come over the same phy- 
 sician when he dares to wish to bring to life again 
 the corpse which he has but just dissected. 
 " Brahms is always a master of form. His works 
 appear in faultless technical perfection. But 
 warm, pulsating life I have discovered only in a 
 few of them, but these are, indeed, the more valu- 
 able because in them beautiful thoughts are united 
 with perfect form, and one feels at once that it was 
 permitted the author to pour forth in a happy 
 hour a free utterance of his individual nature. 
 What was it that hindered him so often from ex- 
 pressing himself in this way? This seems to me 
 to be the answer: he believed himself to be what 
 Schumann had prophesied and what his later parti- 
 sans constantly claimed him to be, — "the Mes- 
 siah of absolute music," the et successor of Bee- 
 thoven." Incidentally, while speaking of his first 
 symphony, I have already pointed to an exterior 
 resemblance to Beethoven. We see also many a 
 
 [43]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 time how he strove, without falling into reminis- 
 cence, to imitate the peculiarities of style of the 
 last period of the master's works, those bold, se- 
 verely harmonic transitions, those manifold rhyth- 
 mic combinations (which became in the case of 
 Brahms his typical syncopation), and those often 
 apparently scattered melodious steps. But it was 
 never permitted him to attain to Beethoven's pro- 
 foundness, which the artist must possess within his 
 own nature. Brahms could only assume the mask. 
 Thus in his works, in spite of the outward simi- 
 larity, we find only the abstract idea, wh'le 
 Beethoven's is revealed the real essence of mu 
 Brahms's music as a whole — if I may be all »wed 
 the expression — is scientific music, a playing 
 with tone forms and phrases, but not that most 
 expressive and comprehensible world language 
 which our great masters could and had to speak. 
 that language which arouses us and strikes to our 
 very souls, because we recognize in it our own 
 selves with our own joys and our own sorrows, 
 our own struggles and our own victories. Their 
 music is artistic. Brahms's is artificial. It is not 
 akin to Beethoven's, but lies at the opposite pole, 
 — is just what Beethoven's music is not. Its char- 
 acter is, therefore, really more abstract, repelling 
 those who would approach, and stimulating the in- 
 tellect more than the feelings. It is a character- 
 istic experience of mine that those works of Brahms 
 which attract my attention as being his most re- 
 markable productions are by no means considered 
 as the best by strong "Brahmsians." They point 
 out among others the " Triumph-lied," the fourth 
 
 [44]
 
 Bruckner 
 
 symphony, the clarinet quintet, which are to my 
 mind bare tone-scaffolding. And just this cool 
 style of composing, oftentimes showing a marked 
 tendency for a feeling no longer free, but reflective 
 and mannered, as well as the fact that Brahms 
 went out of his way to avoid any purely sensuous 
 charm of sound, either in melody or instrumen- 
 tation, that gave him the reputation of having 
 escaped the erroneous ways of the modern com- 
 posers. ^ 
 
 He is probably the last great artist who will 
 deserve this reputation. New thoughts about mu- 
 sic have come from another side, new inventions 
 have broken paths through for themselves, new 
 composers have taken up the struggle with the 
 guardians of the classic ideals of form. We may 
 say to-day that these last were in the end the vic- 
 tors. Before we turn our attention to the so- 
 called " modern school," I must mention several 
 isolated artists who were certainly influenced by 
 that school but who did not belong to it, and stand, 
 therefore, as connecting-links between the two 
 schools. 
 
 During the last ten years many a time there has 
 been mentioned the name of a powerful rival in 
 connection with Brahms, — a rival who arose in 
 Brahms's second home-city, Vienna, which seems 
 destined to be the city of symphony- writers. '• An- 
 ton Bruckner, although he was much older than 
 Brahms, came into public recognition much later. 
 His reputation was by no means general, but rather 
 confined itself to a special party. What attracts 
 us in this composer is his wealth of invention, the 
 
 [45]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 pregnancy of his themes, and the astonishing long- 
 windedness of his melodies. He was a richly 
 talented musician. One would almost be tempted 
 to compare him to his great compatriot Schubert 
 in this respect if he had only produced some work 
 which kept on a uniform level of excellence so as 
 to be truly called a masterpiece. This is not the 
 case, for, unfortunately, his ability to utilize his in- 
 spirations, to bind them one to another, and so 
 build up the composition organically, did not keep 
 pace with his inventive powers. I cannot share 
 the opinion of his pupils and admirers, that he was 
 a great master of counterpoint. He may have Ix^en 
 so as a teacher; but in his compositions the purely 
 technical part is often awkward, the polyphonic 
 texture of the parts often doubtful and lacking in 
 clearness, and the organic structure always inter- 
 broken. His wonderful themes are more like 
 pearls strung on a string than organically connect» 1 . 
 This is why Bruckner's power usually deserts him 
 in the finales of his symphonies, which should 
 contain the climax, and causes the last movement 
 to be inferior to the others, which is not favorable 
 to his success. This also explains the breaking 
 down, fragmentary manner of his compositions, — 
 a manner which does not admit of pure enjoy- 
 ment. One is almost inclined to wish that he had 
 had fewer inspirations, but that the structure of his 
 creations had been more logical, uniform, and car- 
 ried out with a more definite aim in view. v t)ften 
 the noblest thoughts flutter away into an ineffective 
 nothingness because they come into being but are 
 not w T orked out. This is the more irritating since 
 
 [46]
 
 Bruckner 
 
 his themes resemble Wagner's dramatically sym- 
 bolic motives. Could they but have been worked 
 out psychologically by a masterly hand, Bruckner 
 would have stood before us a shining light and 
 led us on to make comparisons. Bruckner also 
 lapses into mannerisms. Endings over an oft re- 
 peated bass passage, — in imitation of the close 
 of the first movement of the " Ninth Symphony," — 
 certain peculiarly empty-sounding passages (his 
 admirers call them passages soaring far from the 
 world) in his slower movements, thematic figures, 
 with a simultaneous sounding of these same fig- 
 ures in the counter-movement as if they had worn 
 themselves out playing, and, finally, those unbear- 
 able general pauses and breathing pauses which 
 for the most part give the impression that he has 
 lost his way, are mannerisms found in all of his 
 works with which I am acquainted. 
 
 What elicits our sympathy for Bruckner both as 
 man and artist, and also what had a great deal to 
 do with his future reputation, was his large ideal- 
 ism, a characteristic altogether too rare in our 
 day. Think of this schoolmaster and organist, 
 risen from the poorest surroundings and totally 
 lacking in education, but steadfastly composing 
 symphonies of dimensions hitherto unheard of, 
 crowded with difficulties and solecisms of all kinds, 
 which were the horrors of conductors, performers, 
 listeners, and critics, because they interfered sadly 
 with their comfort. Think of him thus going un- 
 swervingly along his way toward the goal he had 
 set himself, in the most absolute certainty of not 
 being noticed, and of attaining nothing but failure 
 
 [47]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 — and then compare him with our fashionable 
 composers, borne on by daily success and adver- 
 tisement, who puzzle out their trifles with the ut- 
 most rafjinerie ; and then bow in homage to this 
 man, great and pathetic in his naivete and his 
 honesty. I confess that scarcely anything in the 
 new symphonic music can weave itself about me 
 with such wonderful magic as can a single theme 
 or a few measures from Bruckner. I am think- 
 ing, for example, of the beginning of the " Romantic 
 Symphony." T< be sure, this magic diminishes in 
 the course of the work, and vanishes more and 
 more as one studies the piece, for great and beauti- 
 ful sentiments continue to satisfy us only when 
 they are presented in artistically perfect form. In 
 the strife between the Brahms and Bruckner fac 
 tions in Vienna I was once asked my opinion of 
 the two men. I replied that I wished that nature 
 had given us one master in whom the character- 
 istics of both composers were united, — the mon- 
 strous imagination of Bruckner with the eminent 
 possibilities of Brahms. That would have given 
 once more a great artist. 
 
 Here honorable mention must also be made of 
 an artist quite worthy of celebration, who was re- 
 lated to Bruckner in his high idealism, and who. 
 according to my opinion, stands higher as a writer 
 of one-act operas than as a dramatic or symphonic 
 composer. I refer to "Alexander Ritter, the friend 
 and nephew of Wagner. 
 
 Of other German composers I mention next that 
 most prolific writer^ Joachim Raff, whose principal 
 works are his poetic symphonv "Im Walde" and 
 
 M]
 
 Foreign Composers 
 
 the romantic "Leonore ; " Robert Volkmann, who 
 in his B-minor trio above all others has created 
 a work of first rank ; Felix Dräsecke ; and Hermann 
 Goetz, who died so young, and who in fineness of 
 feeling was akin to the poet-musician, Peter Cor- 
 nelius. It is incomprehensible to me how his de- 
 lightful comic opera, "The Taming of the Shrew, " 
 has vanished from the repertoires of the opera- 
 houses as completely as his F-major symphony, 
 which surely came from the "quiet and sacred 
 recesses of the heart" as its motto says, has dis- 
 appeared from concert programmes. What other 
 people than the Germans would dare pride them- 
 selves of possessing among their stars of second 
 magnitude a Hermann Goetz, and then afterwards 
 seize those personalities tending most towards that 
 superficiality, which is brought in with some skill 
 and claims from foreign countries, and often neg- 
 lect their own most worthy creations? Will it 
 never be otherwise ? is the question so often asked, 
 but seldom spoken out with complaint and threat; 
 and this is the call to those summoned for the 
 practical answering of this question. 
 
 I must lastly refer to some important sympho- 
 nies by foreign composers which up to this time 
 have not found their deserved recognition in Ger- 
 many; and the example given here by me of di- 
 recting them has been little followed. The latest 
 of these works is the symphony in D-minor by the 
 Danish composer, Christian Sinding, a piece born 
 of the gloomy romanticism of the North, often 
 harsh and rugged, but having a bold, powerful 
 verve. The B-minor symphony by the Russian
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 composer, Alexander Borodin, is of a genuine na- 
 tional character, a masterpiece of its kind, and the 
 most significant work of the new Russian school 
 that I know. This piece is so pregnant and char- 
 acteristic that I always feel as if one merely from 
 hearing this music must get a picture of Russia 
 and her people, even if one had never visited that 
 land. As far as regards public recognition, the 
 French composers, C6sar Franck and Camille 
 Saint-Saens, have fared much better. The former 
 has created in his D-minor symphony a signifi- 
 cant work; the latter has acquitted himself hap- 
 pily and successfully in the line of symphonies and 
 symphonic poems. At a somewhat earlier date 
 Vincent d'Indy, who was influenced by modern 
 German art, produced some noteworthy things in 
 France. The compositions of the young Russian. 
 Alexander Glazounow, offer much that is interest- 
 ing. A talented maiden-attempt in the symphony 
 has come from the hand of Joseph Suk. Carl 
 Goldmark's "Ländliche Hochzeit " (a country 
 wedding) has found considerable circulation. 
 Those are not peasants that we see in this com- 
 position, but spoilt townfolk who have conceived 
 the idea of celebrating the wedding of a bridal 
 pair of their acquaintance in the country. Often 
 we perceive the perfume of the drawing-room in 
 those sounds which are supposed to be pastoral. 
 Aside from this, Goldmark's work is a brilliant, 
 interesting piece of music, worthy of performance 
 and of universal applause. Let me also notice A. 
 Rubinstein's honest endeavor to awaken the classic 
 symphony to new life. Onlv once, however, in some 
 
 [5°]
 
 Tschaikowsky 
 
 of the movements of his "Ocean Symphony" 
 has he succeeded in rising above the dull string- 
 ing together of musical phrases. With immens- 
 success the "Symphonie Pathetique " of Peter 
 
 rschaikowsky has made its way through the con- 
 cert halls of Germany during the last four years 
 calling attention also to the earlier works of this 
 composer. It resembles an effective drama rich 
 in exciting and fascinating situations, and its effect 
 upon the public never fails. It is said that Tscha'- 
 kowsky himself feared that it never would be con- 
 sidered as a symphony. It is true that it departs 
 Irom the usual form, both in the arrangement 
 and the construction of the separate movements 
 In the first movement the form may be traced, but 
 the construction is free. The middle movements 
 are quite concise, while the last is free again 
 Moreover, this comes from the adagio, whkh as a 
 rule, stands in the middle of a symphony but the 
 fundamental idea demanded a close which should 
 lose itself in gloomy darkness. It is said that the 
 foreboding of death guided the composer's pen as 
 he wrote this work; he therefore departed from 
 the usual form for the sake of a poetical idea. 
 
 It may serve for a definite purpose in the sec- 
 ond part of this book to turn our attention to a 
 consideration of the so-called modern school, and 
 writers of programme music. 
 
 About the time of Beethoven's death there 
 arose among our Western neighbors in France a 
 remarkable artist, whose greatness and far-spread- 
 ing significance in music have been recognized only
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 for a comparatively short time, — namely. Hector 
 Berlioz. The most remarkable of his early pieces, 
 the "Symphonie Fantastique" (Opus 14a), is so 
 original that we are not surprised, considering the 
 common tendency arising everywhere to denounce 
 the new, rather than prove its worth by careful 
 investigation, that such a work was looked upon 
 as a monstrosity by such eminent men as Cheru- 
 bini, and was absolutely incomprehensible to the 
 general public, upon whom it rather made the im- 
 pression of a violent fright. Berlioz, during his 
 lifetime, obtained much the same effect with his 
 later works, although Liszt's untiring efforts at 
 length won some consideration for them in Ger- 
 many. It was not until long after his death, 
 through repeated and excellent performances, first 
 by Biilow and later by others, that the high worth 
 of his compositions became felt and understood, 
 in spite of the many external peculiarities. At last 
 the sweet kernel has been found within the rough 
 shell. 
 
 If we ask ourselves, with Berlioz's intimate 
 friends, how it was possible for such inspired 
 works, which are now so universally admired, to 
 have been looked upon for decades as the pro- 
 ductions of a half-diseased mind, we find three 
 possible explanations. At first acquaintance" Ber- 
 lioz's musical invention appears reserved and un- 
 approachable. None of his melodious phrases 
 bear a character like, e.g., the celebrated clarinet 
 melody in the "Freischütz Overture," or like 
 Schubert's themes which irresistibly bewitch the 
 ear and heart of the listener. We imagine at first 
 
 [5*]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 that we find a coolness and even a harshness in 
 those very strains which are seeking to express 
 passion and consuming fire. Berlioz's music re- 
 minds one of those rare human physiognomies 
 which appear unsympathetic until, after closer ob- 
 servation, we discern the mental storms and strug- 
 gles of which those angular features, those deep, 
 scarred furrows, and those sad, weird eyes give 
 testimony. Any one who has studied a good pic- 
 ture of Berlioz will understand my meaning. ^An- 
 other reason why he remained for so long a time 
 misunderstood is his abnormal and grotesque bold- 
 ness in instrumentation. Not only does he bring 
 into play a larger number of orchestral means 
 than usual, but his manner of using these means, 
 the great demands that he makes upon the tech- 
 nical skill of the musicians, his extraordinary deli- 
 cate sense for the combinations of tone color, his 
 full appreciation of clearness in design, all these 
 give to his treatment of the orchestra that pecul- 
 iar coloring which did not exist before him and 
 has not been imitated since. This, likewise, has 
 induced ignorant or ill-willed critics to say that 
 Berlioz first invented the instrumental effect and 
 then adapted the music to it. And yet his instru- 
 mentation does not show that sensuous element 
 which seems to carry us along on the waves of 
 sound, as in Weber's orchestra, which was also 
 built up with wonderful boldness as regards the 
 various utilization of the instruments, and as it 
 finally appears in the hitherto most perfect orches- 
 tra, that of Wagner. We are dazzled by Berlioz's 
 orchestration, but not intoxicated ; it is bright sun- 
 
 [53]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 shine upon light green leaves around which a clear, 
 pure air is playing; the deep fragrance of the spicy 
 shade in the pine wood is lacking. The third 
 cause which renders the understanding of Berlioz 
 difficult lies in the materials and poetical subjects 
 which he chose for his works, as also in the rela- 
 tion in which his music stands to those subjects, 
 and the way in which it illustrates them. 
 
 Let us first consider the "Symphonie Fantas- 
 tique." Berlioz has headed it with a programme 
 which describe> each <»f the movements separately. 
 This is an indication of tue poetical tenor that the 
 listener is to bear in mind the while the symphony 
 is being played. This proceeding was in no wise 
 extraordinary. It would be very gratifying if some 
 musical historian would establish the fact once fur 
 all that what is lightly called "programme music," 
 nowadays, is by no means an invention of modern 
 composers. The endeavor to express definite 
 thoughts, yes, even events, by music is, apparently, 
 as old as music itself. We find compositions 
 bearing titles and explanations among the old 
 Dutch and Italian composers just as frequently 
 as with the German masters before Bach. Thayer, 
 in his excellent biography of Beethoven, mentions 
 a number of long-forgotten compositions, dating 
 from the beginning of the century, which either 
 bore titles for the whole piece, or had special 
 names for the separate movements. — for example, 
 general title, "The Naval Battle:" first movement, 
 the beating of the drums; second movement, war- 
 like music and marches; third movement, motion 
 of the ship; fourth movement, cruising over the 
 
 [54]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 waves ; fifth movement, firing of the cannon ; sixth 
 movement, cries of the wounded; seventh move- 
 ment, victorious shouts of the triumphant fleet. 
 Great battles and events of political importance 
 have always excited the imagination of contem- 
 porary musicians. Beethoven himself did not dis- 
 dain to compose a piece in honor of Wellington's 
 victory, and in Wagner's "Kaiser March" we hear 
 the artistic echo of the successful war. Espe- 
 cially important appears to us the following pro- 
 gramme quoted by Thayer: "The delightful life 
 of a shepherd, broken in upon by a thunder-storm, 
 which, however, passes over, and then the na'ive 
 joy on that account." Who does not here recog- 
 nize the suggestion for a pastoral symphony? 
 Thayer adds the very fitting comment, which is 
 also very significant in regard to the so-called pro- 
 gressive artists of to-day, that it was not so much 
 Beethoven's ambition to find new forms for musi- 
 cal presentation as it was to have his compositions 
 excel in those forms which had already been de- 
 veloped. Every good opera overture has its pro- 
 gramme, namely, the text-book of the opera which 
 is to follow; and Spohr has not hesitated in his 
 overture to "Faust" to add, besides that, a de- 
 tailed description of the subjects he wishes a lis- 
 tener to imagine while he hears it. In the course 
 of this book it will be clearly expressed that the 
 programme is no wise a reflection on the compo- 
 sition for which it is supplied, unless, as in some 
 cases, the music places itself in a false relation to 
 the programme, so that it seems to revolt against 
 its own nature and resolves into non-music. 
 
 [55]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique" is said to 
 represent the feverish dream of a young artist who. 
 in despair at having been refused by his beloved, 
 has poisoned himself with opium. The dose, too 
 small to kill him, produces in his mind first pleas- 
 ant and then later horrible images. The sepa- 
 rate movements, explained more in detail through 
 the programme, are named, — "Dreams and Pas- 
 sions," "A Ball," "Secne in the Country," " March 
 to the Scaffold." "Witches' Sabbath." Later Ber- 
 lioz added a second part "Lelio," a melodrama, 
 incomparable in worth to the symphony. In this 
 he lets the artist awaken from his sleep and speak, 
 and turning again to his occupations find release 
 from the grief of love. Imagine how baffled a 
 public of that day must have been at the bold at- 
 tempt to express in music so unheard-of a subject. 
 And yet how grandly Berlioz has succeeded in do- 
 ing the apparently impossible without in the least 
 violating the form of the symphony or falling into 
 empty tone-painting. All five movements are per- 
 fect pieces of music, ingenious and powerful in in- 
 vention, construction, and instrumentation, and 
 needing no further explanation for their right of 
 existence. When Berlioz became more certain of 
 the purely musical perfection of his work, he said 
 that the programme might be omitted, for the 
 work must be comprehensible without it; he asked 
 only that the names of the separate movements 
 might remain. A listener, endowed with a little 
 imagination and knowing that the third move- 
 ment was called a "Scene in the Country," would 
 easily discover at the close, where the cantilena 
 
 [56]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 of the English horn is accompanied by a soft roll 
 on the drums, that the composer intends to imi- 
 tate a tune played on a shepherd's reed, inter- 
 rupted by distant thunder; this is similar to Bee- 
 thoven's " Scene by the Brook," where the^ songs 
 of the birds are imitated. In both cases this imi- 
 tation of nature is by no means inartistic, a re- 
 proach flung at Brahms and even at Beethoven in 
 his time, for it springs from the absolute under- 
 lying mood of the whole composition, and could 
 only come from a soul highly capable of appreci- 
 ating the wonders of nature and then giving them 
 out again in artistic form. In both cases the clos- 
 ing measures, which imitate nature, are musically 
 and logically connected with what goes before, 
 and are therefore perfectly intelligible from the 
 music alone without the programme. In the case 
 of Berlioz the imitation of nature gives the oppor- 
 tunity for an especially beautiful and formal round- 
 ing off of the whole. The opening of the move- 
 ment, before the entrance of the real theme, is 
 already formed by a duet of two shepherd's reeds 
 (oboe and English horn), and the end seems to be 
 only a varied repetition of the beginning. For the 
 last movement the title "Witches' Sabbath" would 
 have been quite sufficient, for the movement con- 
 sists of an introduction which prepares one for the 
 weird character of the piece, of a chorale executed 
 by deep wind-instruments (a sort of parody upon 
 the "Dies Irae"), and a splendid fugato culmi- 
 nating in the combination of the chorale with the 
 theme of the fugue. It is only a question whether 
 the public, knowing only the titles of the five 
 
 [57]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 movements, would be able to discover the internal 
 relation between the first three and the last two. 
 The programme, which explains that the whole 
 work is only intended to be the picturing of an 
 ecstatic dream, may be freely used at performances, 
 because the thoroughly musical character of the 
 symphony guards the listener against inartistic in- 
 terpretations, and only excites his fancy, which in 
 reality is the true object of the title. 1 
 
 If we examine more closely the musical contents 
 of this work, we will find that one theme runs 
 through all live movements, — a decided devia- 
 tion from earlier symphonies. In his dreams, 
 represented musically in the symphony, the figure 
 of his beloved one incessantly pursues the young 
 artist in varied forms and surroundings. It as- 
 sumes the character of a melody called by Berlioz 
 an idee fixe; and this melody while retaining its 
 structure, as concerns the mutual relation of in- 
 tervals, is changed in rhythm and expression to 
 suit the situation about to be represented. The 
 idee fixe appears in noble simplicity in the first 
 movement (score, page 8). 2 In the second move- 
 ment, entitled "A Ball," it is represented in waltz- 
 time, yet without losing its stateliness (score, page 
 
 1 Liszt, in his pianoforte arrangement of the "Symphonii 
 tastique," has changed the programme, stating that the first n 
 ments represent actual events, and only the last two are dreams. I 
 do not think this alteration a good one, as it unnecessarily dii 
 the work into two parts. The keen appreciator of this piece will 
 explain the character of the last two movements as tin- climacti 
 velopment of the underlying mood of the entire composition, rather 
 than something new brought in from outside. 
 
 2 These references are to the score as published by Breitkopf and 
 Härtel, Leipzig. 
 
 [58]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 38). Adapted to the character of the " Scene in 
 the Country," it is changed into a pastoral melodv 
 given out by the wood wind-instruments (score, 
 P a g e 57)- In the fourth movement it appears only 
 as a fleeting thought to the man as he is led to the 
 scaffold (score, page 84), and finally, in the 
 Witches' Sabbath," it becomes a distorted and 
 grotesque dance-time. The beloved one has 
 turned into a she-devil, who joins in the spectral 
 uproar of witches and other mystic beings (score 
 pages 91 and 92). Berlioz did not, as some crit- 
 ics will always claim, build this symphony upon 
 one theme from lack of musical invention, but the 
 different forms of this theme are woven into all 
 the movements which otherwise are quite inde- 
 pendent. 
 
 The changing and transforming of a theme is 
 nothing new. We know that the old masters 
 above all Beethoven and Schubert, created many 
 of their works in the form of variations. We 
 know also that, in our day, Brahms attained a 
 great perfection in the mastery of this form. But 
 the variation of a theme arising from a perceptible 
 reason — I might say the dramatic-psychological 
 variation — was first used by Berlioz in this sym- 
 phony, and is absolutely his own creation. It is 
 the same kind of variation which Liszt expands 
 and perfects in his symphonic poems, and which 
 Wagner at last uses as an intense means of ex- 
 pression in his dramas. These Wagnerian themes 
 varied psychologically in the service of the drama' 
 have received the name of " leading motives" 
 (Leitmotiven). 
 
 [59]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 This is the place to say that the- name is just as 
 unsuitable and out of taste as are most of the 
 names of the so-called leading motives themselves. 
 A motive that should guide us, as it were, through 
 musical labyrinths (as such, Wagner's scores were 
 at first considered), and which is to keep us from 
 losing the thread should indeed, never change, 
 but always be clearly recognizable to us. But 
 Wagner's themes change continually, and enter 
 into the most varied relations with each other, 
 just as the emotions of tue will do within our own 
 mental life. In their Protean nature they would 
 be but little adapted to serve a- guides for the 
 ignorant through dark pathway-. But by their 
 variations and by their combinations, which are 
 only possible in polyphonic music, they become 
 the true images of the dramatis persons, and it 
 is through this kind of thematic work that \\ 
 ner's drama obtains its impressive force and clear- 
 ness. The "leading motives,' 1 with their strange 
 names and their consequent guide books (leit- 
 faden), have brought about more confusion than 
 instruction concerning Wagner's art. We often 
 find people who think they have studied Wagner's 
 work sufficiently when they have discovered the 
 largest possible number of leading motives. They 
 take the same delight in his dramas that children 
 do in trying to find the hidden face in a puzzle 
 picture. Others think all that is needed to com 
 prehend a musical composition is to learn by heart 
 the themes enumerated in the guide books. They 
 spend their time in useless memory-work, and gain 
 no deeper insight into the music. Nevertheless, 
 
 M
 
 Berlioz 
 
 these guide-books may have furnished the means 
 of study for intelligent readers who know how to 
 go farther. Nowadays, however, this leading-mo- 
 tive system is applied to all kinds of music, even 
 to classic symphonies, and the latest productions of 
 this kind are the "programme-books," which are 
 distributed in some cities at every orchestral con- 
 cert. The intellectual harm they do the listener 
 is even greater than the material gain they bring 
 to the publisher. Nothing could be said against 
 those written by a musician and containing music 
 examples, particularly in case of a new work, pro- 
 vided we could induce the public to read them 
 before the performance. At home there is hardly 
 an opportunity. The time before the beginning 
 of the concert and the pauses are filled, as a rule, 
 with conversation. Therefore the reading begins 
 after the performance of the music has already 
 commenced. Observe now a group of listeners 
 supplied with programme-books. For economy's 
 sake, naturally two or three always look over the 
 same book. Is it not ludicrous to see how the 
 heads come together and how the fingers point to 
 the music example printed in the book when that 
 particular passage is being played! Immediately 
 afterwards the continuation of the text is read, as 
 quickly as possible, so that the entry of the next 
 music example may not be missed. What value 
 can there be in such distracted listening and in- 
 sufficient reading ? ' ' The programme-books make 
 it so easy," is the reply. This "making it easy" 
 will eventually bring it about that the conductor 
 will need only to "bring out" as pointedly as pos- 
 
 [61]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 sible the passages quoted in the programme-books 
 in order to be sure of being praised for "clean 
 
 in elaborating the performance of the orchestra:" 
 and the listener will need only know these | 
 in order to be able to talk about and criticise the 
 work, to have always a quotation from it on hand, 
 and in fact to assume the character of a connoisseur. 
 Moreover, to spare expense the programme l*»<>ks 
 are gotten up hurriedly and superficially, so that 
 they are of no use either to dilettantes or musicians. 
 I lose no opportunity to point out the harm that 
 the reading of these analyses does, and to urge 
 such as believe that they cannot dispense with 
 these programme-books, to read them at home in 
 connection with the study of a good pianoforte 
 score, but not in the concert during the music. 
 
 There is still another bad habit resulting from 
 the "leading motives," namely, reminiscence hunt- 
 ing, which has become in our day- >o ostenta- 
 tiously obtrusive. Now that it is the ( ustom, since 
 programme and guide-books are so prevalent, not 
 to look at a piece as a whole, but only in fragments, 
 few listeners endeavor, in hearing of a new work, 
 to gain an impression of the entire piece and then 
 turn to the details, which can only be intelligible 
 in their relation to the whole. The themes 
 "leading motives," from which the piece is said to 
 be built, are first sought out; then when these are 
 found, or after they have been neatly extra 
 by some guide-book (like eyes from the head of a 
 carp), they are compared with themes already 
 known, — that is, with those printed as examples 
 in other programme-books, — first of all with those 
 
 [<■]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 of Wagner, because he is nearest us in point of 
 time, and is the most powerful figure of the re- 
 cent past ; and the younger composers must, there- 
 fore, become his disciples before they dare be 
 followers of other masters. Woe to them if there 
 occurs some slight similarity of notes, say C, G, 
 for instance, in some phrase where there is also a 
 C, G, in a Wagner theme! Woe if an upward 
 chromatic progression can be discovered*! The 
 new theme is then immediately from Tristan and 
 Isolde's " longing love motive?' two consecutive 
 lourths become at once Beckmesser's "thrilling 
 thrashing motive," and a dotted rhythm in 6-8 time 
 is Alberich's " furious forging motive;" finally, the 
 whole work is "woven from sacred Wagner." It 
 is astonishing with what speed a new work can be 
 disposed of in this way before one has had any 
 opportunity to become acquainted with it. If 
 nothing or little could be found in Wagner's works 
 to render the victim suspected, then a search is 
 made among the compositions of the little father- 
 in-law (Schwieger-väterchen) Liszt, or of Berlioz or 
 of older masters, — yes, even among those of Mey- 
 erbeer, or in operettas or street ditties. It would 
 be a fine task for some experienced musician to 
 gather together and criticise all the nonsense which 
 has been found in these "r esearches." x » The rem- 
 
 u- 1 u S ° me J ng f ni . OUS person ' for instance, claims that the theme to 
 which, in the closing scene of "Götterdämmerung," Brünnhilde sines 
 aken°f S ' £** ™^ Bru* auch, wie sie entbrennt,» has beS 
 
 There ?f m ; he ™ lgar -; ? Uty> " DU hast >' a die schönsten Augen» 
 There is, indeed, a similarity of notes, but how long the ear of the 
 
 oIo P o P f y ti 1SC 7 erer mUS i h £ VC be £ n! ° n the ° ther ha "d, a short trem- 
 olo of the strings on A E, or D, A, has sufficed to connect Brahms' 
 Tr aglC Overture» with Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony.» 
 
 6<
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 iniscencc hunters forget, in their half childish, 
 half malicious joy at having found some such sim- 
 ilarity of notes, to examine the character of the 
 theme itself, the position it occupies, the manner 
 of its elaboration; finally the aspect, the quality, 
 the physiognomy of the entire work. They hear 
 with their eves and not with their ears. They 
 also forget that the same sequence of tones is not 
 a reminiscence; they forget that many items must 
 enter in, such as time, kind of tones, expression, 
 arrangement of the whole, and forget, alxwe all, 
 the recognizable and similar inner cause that calls 
 for just this and no other sequence of tones, and 
 proves tlie composer's capability for finding the 
 right expression, and the necessity for holding to 
 it. 1 Moreover, the}- forget on the other hand, that 
 the whole mood of a given passage may recall an- 
 other without there being discernible the slightest 
 similarity in the succession of notes. These mood 
 reminiscences are noticeably overlooked, and yet 
 they are the only ones worthy of consideration, 
 because they go much farther towards proving a 
 composer's want of originality than do these acci- 
 dental note similarities. Similarities appear every- 
 where and quite frequently in the ma.-terpicces 
 from Bach to Wagner; they have never before 
 had any influence in estimating a work, and un- 
 til to-day it never occurred to any one t<> want to 
 use them thus. 
 
 1 Incidentally let it Ik- said that one finds with especial pice rem- 
 iniscences whenever one is determined to find them, but, on the 
 other hand, is silent concerning the obvious harmonies which one 
 prefers not to hear. 
 
 ["4]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 Who would have dreamed, for instance, in Bee- 
 thoven's day, of pointing out his "Eroica Sym- 
 phony" as not original because in the first theme 
 the notes are similar to those in the beginning of 
 Mozart's "Bastien und Bastienne"? The entire 
 work was misunderstood; critics complained of 
 lack of form, of an inflated style for dazzling 
 effects, etc. But Beethoven would have had to 
 have lived in our day to have been called a plagi- 
 arist because of the similarity above mentioned. 
 Now for the first time, in these days of "lead- 
 ing motives" and "programme-books'," is a slight 
 similarity of sounds sufficient to condemn an en- 
 tire work as plagiaristic and to give a bad start to 
 the journalistic slaughtering which in consequence 
 of its widespread distribution takes the place, es- 
 pecially in large cities, of intelligent and consci- 
 entious criticism. If a composition bears the 
 characteristics of its author, and is perfect as a 
 whole and as to its separate parts, then it is of no 
 consequence if there are also some accidental 
 notes similar to places in some other composers' 
 works. I state this as clearly and decidedly as 
 possible, — on the one hand, for the protection of 
 such composers as may be in danger of losing 
 confidence in their own gifts on account of the 
 judgment passed upon them by the reminiscence 
 hunters, and, on the other hand, as a warning to 
 those who, from fear of this judgment, nervously 
 and violently avoid every innocent similarity of 
 sound, and thus give their work the stamp of 
 forced originality, which is the very worst thing 
 they can do. For the result of this is stilted, far- 
 
 [65]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 fetched, and distorted conglomerations of sound, 
 with their superficial profoundness and superfine 
 banalities, which we meet to-day in the song as well 
 as in the symphony and opera, and which expect 
 to attain success if only they are cleverly and art- 
 fully done. Hence the morbid and nervous music- 
 Lovers of our time who need the strongest stimu- 
 lants to awaken them for a few moments from 
 their dreamy languor, and who close their glassy 
 - immediately afterward- in slothful slumber. 
 Indeed, I believe I am quite right when I point 
 out this fear of not being thought original as the 
 evil spirit which robs many of our young com- 
 posers of their sense and feeling of what is healthy, 
 Strong, and true. Therefore [ do not in the least 
 fear the reproach of encouraging plagiarism when 
 I freely and openly exclaim. "Rather an honest 
 reminiscence than contrariety to nature!" How- 
 ever, it is a comforting thought that this remi- 
 niscence-hunting is only a fashionable ailment, 
 which will vanish with time, although in the mean- 
 while it attacks many a wise head and although 
 many a creative artist of the present day may die 
 of this disease, for not every one has the strength 
 to resist its doubtless unpleasant effects: not.every 
 one has the presence of mind to offer his brow 
 courageously to this demon. " Fear of lack of origi- 
 nality;" not everyone has the sound self-confi- 
 dence to meet this foolish degeneration of sound 
 judgment with at least a shrug of the shoulder. 
 if it does not seem necessary to him to pause and 
 say a few strong words on the subject. 
 
 But to return to our theme. The prize for be- 
 [66]
 
 Berlioz 
 
 ing the real discoverer of these dramatic-psycho- 
 logical variations that have had a magnificent pos- 
 itive effect, but, as we have seen, also some nega- 
 tive ones, ^belongs without question, to Hector 
 Berlioz. Thus he can in all justification be called 
 the predecessor of Wagner. 
 
 Besides his pioneer w T ork, the "Symphonie Fan- 
 tastique," Berlioz wrote another symphony, in 
 four movements, entitled " Harold in Italy." This 
 symphony hardly attains the level of his first one. 
 Of his other works, apart from his important 
 overtures, "Le Corsaire," "King Lear," "Benve- 
 nuto Cellini," and "Carnaval Romain," we have 
 still to consider the dramatic symphony, "Romeo 
 and Juliet," and the legend, "La Damnation de 
 Faust," which almost belongs to the domain of 
 opera. In both these works Berlioz shows him- 
 self as the ingenious musician rather than the artist. 
 Apparently his inner being drew him towards the 
 opera, but the bold symphony writer and master 
 of orchestration was not capable of making that 
 great stride, which was reserved for Richard Wag- 
 ner, — namely, to let the music of his drama grow 
 out of the spirit of the text without troubling him- 
 self about the opera form. Berlioz selected, and 
 composed for himself, opera texts according to the 
 old models, and then adorned them with charm- 
 ing and spirited pieces of music, which are among 
 the very best operatic music that we possess, after 
 the classical masterpieces. He also took hold of 
 great existing operas, such as Shakespeare's "Ro- 
 meo and Juliet," and Goethe's "Faust," and ar- 
 ranged them so as to serve his own purpose. This 
 
 [67]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 purpose was to open up new ways of expression for 
 his energetic musical soul, to create music and 
 more music, the most beautiful, most ingenious 
 music of which he was capable. He did not con- 
 sider whether the form he chose was artistically 
 justified. Asa matter of fact, I cannot justify it 
 from a purely aesthetic standpoint any more than 
 I can Schumann's "Paradise und Peri." It is 
 but a style-less mixture of different forms; not 
 quite oratorio, not quite opera, not quite sym- 
 phony — fragments of ail three, and nothing per- 
 fect. In "Romeo and Juliet" a fugatO pictures 
 the strife between the two hostile houses, a long 
 recitative for the orchestra, the meeting, interfer- 
 ence and threats of the prince. Little choruses 
 and solos tell of tin- unhappy lot of the lovers, of 
 the power of love, of Queen Main great orches- 
 tral pieces depict the hall at Capulet's house, the 
 love scene, and again Queen Mab. Thus this 
 little episode, so unimportant in the drama, is 
 brought in twice, while the tragic conflict, on tin- 
 contrary, is entirely omitted. A chorus piece il 
 lustrates the lament of the women over Juliet's 
 supposed death; an orchestral piece, without a 
 vocal part, paints the awakening and tragic end 
 of the lovers; finally, a thoroughly operatic finale 
 describes the gathering of the crowd. Father Law- 
 rence's sermon, and the reconciliation of the rival 
 houses. Berlioz chooses the situations, which 
 seem to him best suited for musical composition, 
 without any regard for the organic connection of 
 the whole. In "La Damnation de Faust," he lays 
 the opening scene in Hungary. Why? During 
 
 [68]'
 
 Berlioz 
 
 a trip through Austria he had heard the "Rakoczi 
 March;" he had scored it brilliantly, and was 
 looking for an opportunity to utilize it in a larger 
 work. This opportunity he found, curiously 
 enough, in "Faust," and, in order to find some 
 justification for the " March," changed the scene to 
 Hungary. He confesses this very willingly in the 
 preface to his work. In order to be able to com- 
 pose a "ride to hell," a real "Pandemonium," he 
 had Faust perish in that place, quite at variance 
 with Goethe's drama, to which he otherwise, for 
 the most part, adheres, and in which Faust is 
 saved. But this "ride to hell" is such an ingen- 
 ious piece of music that we can scarcely regret the 
 violence Berlioz has done to Goethe's poem. The 
 excrescence — if I may so call it — in "Romeo 
 and Juliet," the episode of Queen Mab, has given 
 us a wonderfully fantastic orchestral scherzo, ab- 
 solutely unique of its kind. In both these works, 
 the other symphonic pieces, with the exception of 
 one about which I will speak later on, are also 
 marvels of ingenious and remarkable music. I 
 may mention the feast at Capulet's house, the 
 magnificent and passionate love scene, and the 
 dance of the will-o'-the-wisps and of sylphs in "La 
 Damnation de Faust." On the whole, I consider 
 this work, apart from the " Symphonie Fantas- 
 tique," as his most significant creation. The 
 dramatic-psychological variation of a theme is 
 used in none of his other works, not even in the 
 "Harold" symphony, with such a brilliant effect 
 as in this symphony. Berlioz had a great idea, 
 but he himself did not bring it to its greatest
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 perfection. That was left for his successors to 
 
 His collected works, even if the last-mentioned 
 ones seem lacking in perfectioD of style, haw 
 erted a weighty influence upon musical art. He 
 stands as the real originator and founder of the 
 modern school, which is the leading one to-day, 
 and whose advocat« often with im- 
 
 petuous haste, to attain new aims and the highest 
 possible success. Berlioz will always represent a 
 milestone in the development of music, however 
 that school may grow. He did not approach, by 
 any means, that ethical depth, that ideal perl 
 tion and purity, which surround Beethoven's name 
 with Mich unspeakable glory; but no composer 
 since Beethoven except Wagner has enriched 
 music with so many new means of expression; 
 has pointed to so many new paths, as did this 
 great Frenchman whose sheer inexhaustible fan- 
 tasy only appears the more powerful and rich the 
 more we try. through loving study, to appre 
 his compositions. 
 
 Berlioz, like Schumann, opposed Wagner. In 
 both cases we see the aversion of one great man to 
 recognize a greater one, by no means a ran- oo ur- 
 rence, but which causes us to remember that 
 beneath highly talented natures lie human weak- 
 ness and error; and the sting at the sight of for- 
 eign superiority torments also enlightened minds. 
 If any artist be troubled by such feelings, let him 
 lenk to one sublime example, to a man towering 
 high above all other modern composers in this 
 spect, — to the venerable figure of Fran I 
 
 [7°] / '
 
 Liszt 
 
 How this man, who was himself so great, was al- 
 ways advancing other artists of a kindred nature, 
 and trying to spread abroad the fame of their 
 works; how he took young genius and talent by 
 the hand, supporting them with word and deed, 
 and always without the smallest advantage to 
 himself; how often he absolutely neglected his 
 own creations for the sake of others, — all this is 
 a matter of history. And I believe no one, even 
 those who take exception to his compositions, will 
 wish to rob him of the shining crown which un- 
 selfishness and noblest love have placed, for all 
 times, upon his head. As a man, Liszt was the 
 king of artists. 
 
 As a composer, he surpasses Berlioz, because in 
 the latter's symphonic work, in spite of all the 
 free fancy, the outline of the old form is almost 
 always visible, fettering his music; while Liszt 
 wanders away from this form, and thus often 
 gives his work the character of improvisation. 
 He starts directly from the poetical subject, from 
 the programme, and takes it alone as a guide. 
 Sometimes he goes so far as to express certain 
 events, or conditions of mind, in musical phrases, 
 and places them side by side as the programme 
 prescribes. It is true that Berlioz was his prede- 
 <>r in this. I refer to the next to the last 
 orchestral piece in " Romeo and Juliet," en- 
 titled "Romeo at the Tomb of the Capulets ; 
 Invocation, Awakening of Juliet ; Frenzy of joy 
 and the first effects of the poison ; Anguish 
 of death and parting of the lovers." Berlioz 
 sought here to picture the details of the dramatic 
 
 V ' [7i]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 action by fragments of melody, by accents, by 
 combinations of chords and expressive figura- 
 tions, and all with such clearness that one is able 
 to follow the scene almost bar by bar. But this 
 piece is generally omitted at concerts because the 
 impression it makes, even with the most perfect 
 rendering, is absolutely confusing, sometimes even 
 — my veneration for Berlioz dor- not prevent 
 my saying this — downright ludicrous. The 
 cause lies here, that a task is allotted music which 
 it cannot perform. Were we not given through 
 the title an indication of the subject of the drama, 
 we certainly would not know what we were listen- 
 ing to. We would receive the impression only of 
 a senseless confusion of sounds. But the feeling 
 of senselessness is not removed, even when we do 
 know from the title what images we are to 1 
 in mind; indeed, we are astonished to notice how 
 clear and distinct the bare words of the title are, 
 compared with the music, which at other times is 
 able to impress us much more powerfully than 
 even an excellent word-poem. We experience 
 similar feelings also in listening to the orchestral 
 recitative at the beginning of "Romeo and Juliet." 
 which is said to represent the arrival and inter- 
 ference of the prince. Only the tormenting im- 
 pression in this case is soon over. 
 
 Here we have reached the point where the true 
 mission of music is revealed in all its splendor." 
 Here we see that it is an art which can never con- 
 vey conceptions to us because it shows us the 
 deepest reality of the world in the most subtle 
 pictures, and for this reason stands high above the
 
 Liszt 
 
 
 
 other arts. Here we see that it is robbed of its 
 majesty if the artist seeks to convey concepts by 
 it as language does; that it is debased and shorn 
 of the subtle peculiarities of its being if he at- 
 tempts to bind it bar by bar, or episode by epi- 
 sode, to a programme. Music can interpret moods, 
 it can represent a mental state that some event 
 has caused in us, but it cannot picture the event 
 itself. 1 That is the task for poetry, and, in an- 
 other sense, for painting or sculpture. If this 
 task is attempted with music, the effect is some- 
 thing the same as when one tries to speak a for- 
 eign language but little known to him. The 
 result is not only incomprehensible, but also ridic- 
 ulous. In such cases music has entered into the 
 above-mentioned false relation to the programme, 
 and then it ceases to be music. He, who can do 
 nofhing more, can in listening form in his imagi- 
 nation an idea of the piece of music; it will not 
 materially injure his receptive ability, for a good 
 piece of music stands on a much firmer, much 
 deeper foundation than the presentation of this or 
 that event, and speaks to us with much more 
 power than anything else. It tells us of things 
 from the deepest depth, of which that idea is only 
 a copy, only an apparition; it unveils for us its 
 secrets and makes them transparent — therein is 
 the great importance of music in the drama. 
 But the reverse, to take as a subject an event, be 
 
 1 I refer here to the beautiful explanation of the nature of music 
 found in both volumes of Schopenhauer's "Die Welt als Wille und 
 Vorstellung." Musicians will not agree with certain details. But 
 taken as a whole, the conception will never lose its significance for me. 
 
 [73]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 it physical or mental, of dramatic or philosophical 
 content, and to wish to express it through music, 
 in the exact order in which it happened, — the 
 event, I repeat, and not, forsooth, its effect upon 
 us, — is, on the one hand, a foolish and senseless 
 undertaking, because only words, or in certain 
 exceptional case-, a painted or plastic represen- 
 tation, possess this ability. Then the artist makes 
 a mistake in the selection of his medium. He low- 
 ers a lofty and eternally noble art to a service far 
 beneath it. Music, the language of the spirit of 
 the universe, is used as a means of expressing 
 often what is ordinary and vulgar, and — in case 
 it is adopted extensively for work of such style — 
 gives rise to a perversity of possible musical feel- 
 ing which hinders the appreciation of true mas- 
 terpieces. I have too firm a faith in the constantly 
 increasing power of music, to believe in the last- 
 ing success, especially in this direction, of the 
 newer endeavors, — hence my often critici-ed 
 coolness towards a certain kind of "modernity." 
 
 Although the orchestral piece out of "Romeo 
 and Juliet" prepares the way for Liszt's creations, 
 to a certain extent, still the latter has given us 
 works of incomparably greater value than this 
 piece, for, in many of his compositions, he suc- 
 ceeded in finding an artistic form which presents 
 them as finished creations, and these same com- 
 positions are not contrary to the nature of music, 
 although each follows a definite programme. But 
 this form, which Liszt invented, is fitted exclu- 
 sively to the poetical subject of each particular 
 work, and would be quite senseless if used with 
 
 [74]
 
 Liszt 
 
 another programme. Think, for example, of 
 "Mazeppa," one of Liszt's most famous produc- 
 tions. A wild movement, soaring almost to mad- 
 ness, pictures the death-ride of the hero; a short 
 andante his downfall; the following march, in- 
 troduced by a fanfare of the trumpets and 
 increasing to highest triumph, describes his eleva- 
 tion and coronation. Now think of his sympho- 
 nic poem "Orpheus," the form of which really 
 consists only of a great crescendo followed by a 
 great diminuendo. Orpheus strikes the golden 
 strings of his lyre, and all nature listens with de- 
 votion to the wondrous sounds. With majestic 
 strides the god passes by us, charming the world 
 with his personality and his playing. The tones 
 of his lyre grow weaker. Farther and farther 
 recedes the heavenly figure. At last it vanishes 
 entirely from sight. 1 The disposition of this piece 
 of music, commencing with the softest pianissimo, 
 growing to the most powerful volume of sound, 
 and then gradually dying away again, is surely 
 quite justified both by itself and in its connection 
 with the programme; but a similar piece with 
 the title " Mazeppa" would be quite impossible. 
 Yet I feel certain that, were we to hear " Mazeppa" 
 and "Orpheus" without any titles, we should rec- 
 ognize in the former, a painfully stormy element 
 which breaks down and immediately afterwards 
 rises again victoriously, and in the latter, a gentle 
 and majestic being who first approaches and then 
 
 1 The form of the composition "Orpheus" is not unlike the 
 overture to "Lohengrin." 
 
 [75]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 recedes, without needing necessarily to think of 
 either Mazeppa or Orpheus. ( Kir fancy will be 
 powerfully stimulated by the title, but not uncom- 
 fortably fettered. The chief thing will always be 
 the musical feeling and not the petty interpreta- 
 tions of this or that passage, because, and in fact, 
 especially for this reason, a positively musical 
 power dwells within these pieces which I have 
 mentioned, and because they owe their origin to 
 musical feeling and Inspiration, and not merely to 
 intellectual illustrations. 
 
 This kind of programme music I defend as en- 
 ergetically as I condemn tin- other, —namely, 
 formless extemporization on supposed underlying 
 subjects. When Liszt, for instance, in his sym- 
 phonic poem, "Die Ideale." endeavors to inter- 
 pret musically certain fragments of Schiller's 
 poem in due succession, and then tries to weld 
 these renderings together into one movement, — 
 when he even goes so far as to use for headings 
 the different parts of the poem, which he wishes 
 the listener to imagine during the music (so that 
 only those who are provided with the score can 
 know just what he is to imagine at any particular 
 moment), — the result is that the music produces 
 only a lame effect, because it cannot freely develop 
 according to its nature, but is a priori bound to 
 the successive fragments of the poem, that is, 
 to a series of conceptions. Compare this to the 
 overture of the first version of "Fidelio," the 
 first "Leonora" overture (though always falsely 
 called the second). Its musical value does not 
 attain to the great one, but it is a true operatic
 
 Liszt 
 
 overture because certain important moments of 
 the drama are represented in it, — Florestan's im- 
 prisonment, Leonora's courageous endeavor to re- 
 lease her husband, her searching and inquiring, 
 her meeting and her fight with Pizarro, her vic- 
 tory, a short retrospect of the horrors overcome, 
 with feelings of gratitude towards God, and finally 
 the exultation of the happily reunited pair. See 
 how well Beethoven, with all his dramatic clear- 
 ness, guarded in this piece the symphonic char- 
 acter, and with what musical means he knew how 
 to depict the scenes. I would point out the grand 
 and sudden entrance of C-minor in the place where 
 the usual repeat of the first part in C-major is ex- 
 pected; it is intended to picture the moment of 
 highest danger, Leonora's meeting with Pizarro. 
 Notice how naturally, and without any violent 
 effort, the reminiscences from the opera — the 
 passage where Pizarro falls back before Leonora's 
 pistol — are introduced. I should like to select 
 this overture as a model to demonstrate just how 
 far a certain programme is compatible with music 
 without injuring the latter in its very nature. 
 Mendelssohn's "Hebrides" overture and Schu- 
 mann's " Manfred" overture were occasioned by 
 poetical images and events. At one time the en- 
 deavor to express such things in music led to a 
 coincidence of the new-classical and the modern 
 school; indeed, composers did not seem at first 
 aware that there were two schools to be repre- 
 sented, as we may see from Schumann's relations 
 with Berlioz and Liszt. It was only with the ap- 
 pearance of the totally abstract Brahms and the ris- 
 
 [77]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 in<* of Wagner, who soared far above all others, that 
 people began to feel that there were two schools. 
 When the consciousness of Wagner's power dawned 
 upon them, the new-classical school, feeling that its 
 last hours were come, played the trump-card — 
 Brahms. The "schools" wire well defined again. 
 and to-day there are so many that every one feels 
 called upon to work for one or the other. The 
 man who belongs to no school naturally arouses 
 suspicion everywhere with his productions, and 
 can scarcely rely upon tne sane judgment of the 
 people, which in spite of all misdirection, finally, 
 though often at a late day, finds out the true. 
 
 Here I must warn against a grievous error 
 which I believe I still discover in many modern 
 compositions; namely, the confusing of the dra- 
 matic with the symphonic style. Referring once 
 more to Wagner's treatise "On the Application of 
 Music to the Drama," I would add that with a 
 few exceptions a characteristic mark of all sym- 
 phonic themes is their breadth and their special 
 melodious character, while the themes of a musi- 
 cal drama are distinguished by their pregnancy, 
 and thus often by their significant brevity. On 
 none of Wagner's themes, not even the very sim- 
 plest, could a symphonic movement be built up; 
 on the other hand, the first theme of Beethoven's 
 "Eroica," for instance, consisting of twelve bars 
 (not of four, as many seem to think), the melodies 
 of Beethoven's slower movements, indeed, the 
 themes of any true symphony, could not be used 
 in opera. The dramatist's inventive gifts are ex- 
 cited to production by quite other factors than 
 
 [78]
 
 Liszt 
 
 are the symphony writer's. Persons and events 
 which are represented bodily on the stage suggest 
 to him those pregnant and plastic motives which 
 reveal the significance of the events, often like 
 lightning, and which are much more expressive 
 than words. But moods of an inward and con- 
 templative nature, the mental reaction after great 
 deeds or events, real or fictitious, which do not re- 
 quire realization by the drama, inspire the symphony 
 writer to create. His work is like the living—- 
 out of his very being in music (ein Sich-Ausleben 
 seines Wesens in Musik); hence the breadth of 
 the themes and the true instrumental melody, 
 which is rarely possible in the drama. If it is 
 admissible to designate the orchestral part of the 
 musical drama as "symphonic, " — that is, as built 
 up in ingenious polyphony, — then a symphony 
 may in turn be called " dramatic" if the underly- 
 ing moods are very passionate and variable. The 
 whole world is a great drama, and music shows us 
 its innermost being. In this sense, music itself is 
 "dramatic," as we can recognize to our satisfac- 
 tion in our great hero Beethoven, to whom we 
 always turn when we wish really to understand 
 what music is. But the "symphonic" quality of 
 a musical drama must be taken in a concrete 
 sense, and the "dramatic" nature of a symphony 
 movement in a metaphysical sense; and compos- 
 ers should keep this difference constantly in mind, 
 so as to avoid the confusing of the two, which 
 can have no other effect than the giving rise 
 to pieces which will look more like fragments of 
 operas than symphonies, or, on the other hand, 
 
 [79]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 the airing of symphonic pieces in operas where they 
 do not belong. It is well worth noticing that Wag- 
 ner points to the necessity of keeping strictly to 
 the same key unless there is an imperative reason 
 for leaving it. He explains also that this necessity 
 applies in a higher degree to the symphony, lie- 
 cause daring modulations, which in the drama are 
 absolutely required by the action would be unin- 
 telligible in the symphony. There is scarcely an- 
 other principle in music which is so sinned against 
 to-day as this one, which lay in the natures of all 
 great masters, Wagner included. Most of Bruck- 
 ner's symphonies, for instance, suffer from ini 
 sant and senseless modulations, so that often one 
 cannot tell why one is called "in E-flat major" 
 and another "in C-minor," since only the final 
 bars of a movement coincide with the key of tin- 
 beginning, while all the other parts wander, with- 
 out rule, through all the remaining keys. Hut I 
 do not think Wagner is right when he reja ts 
 the varying of a theme in the symphony, — the 
 psychological-dramatic variation, to use m\ 
 pression, of a theme in a symphony, as a "far- 
 fetched effect." Is not the sudden entrance of 
 the minor key, to which I referred in Beethoven's 
 first "Leonora" overture, a variation of this kind? 
 If in Liszt's "Mazeppa" the terrible, increasing 
 speed of the death-ride is expressed through grad- 
 ual, rhythmical — let us say almost breathless — 
 shortening or condensations of the main theme, 
 from 6-4 time through 4-4 and 3-4 to 2-4; if at 
 the close of the march this theme is introduced in 
 a triumphant manner, — then these variations are 
 
 [so]
 
 Liszt 
 
 not the result of far-fetched effects, but of a very 
 genuine power of expression. As in the musical 
 drama these variations are determined by the ac- 
 tion, in the symphony they must submit them- 
 selves to the laws of symphonic form, be it the old 
 ones or new ones which a composer, incited by 
 some poetical inspiration, has discovered. Should 
 I be asked for the rule of a new form of this kind, 
 I confess I should have to reply in the words of 
 Hans Sachs: " First make your rule, then follow it." 
 Indeed, this following, this relentless and consistent 
 keeping, of the rule one has made, this never devia- 
 ting until all is clear, this working with the sweat 
 of one's brow until the gradual growth corresponds 
 to one's inspiration, without the labor and sweat 
 being apparent, — this is what, in the end, pro- 
 duces a work of art. There is no merit in depart- 
 ing from the old form unless a definite object is 
 attained; it is absolutely senseless to designate 
 those keeping to the old form as reactionaries. 
 The "Neo-Germans," the revolutionists, forget 
 that in their zealous campaign against form, they 
 are just as much Philistines as are the pseudo- 
 classicists with their tirade against innovations. 
 All depends entirely upon what the work as a 
 whole has to express, and the form will be merely 
 the adequate mode of expression for the content. 
 Of course this applies only to masters, and not to 
 every agreeable dabbler who thinks he can con- 
 ceal his inability by a pathetic programme and, 
 more than this, make us believe that it was his in- 
 tention that the entire piece should hobble along 
 in a confused, mutilated fashion. 
 
 [8,]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 Other of Liszt's works suffer from the same 
 defect as does the "Ideale," which also are in- 
 ferior because less significant in their {tower of 
 invention, as, for example, "Hamlet." "Prome- 
 theus," and "Heroide Funebre." There- is a cer- 
 tain extemporaneous quality, which sometimes 
 approaches raggedness, which is peculiar to most of 
 Liszt's works. I might say that, just asm Brahms 
 a meditative element predominates, so a rha; 
 die feature gains the upper hand with Liszt, and 
 becomes a disturbing element in his weaker works, 
 and. I am sorry to say. even in the "Mountain 
 Symphony," which is so rich in beautiful details. 
 Masterpieces in which the rhapsodic element as 
 cends to its greatest and most impressive power 
 arc-, besides "i >rpheus" and "Mazeppa" already 
 mentioned. " Ilungaria," " Festklang« ." " Die Hun- 
 nenschlacht " (a fantastic piece- of uncanny and 
 elemental power), "Les Preludes," and, ab 
 all, tlie two great symphonies on "Faust" and 
 Dante's "Divine Comedy." The "Faust Sym- 
 phony" is not intended to embody musically 
 Goethe's poem, but gives, as its title promises, three 
 character sketch es, -"Faust," "Gretchen," and 
 " Mephistopheli The third movement shows 
 
 us with what art and imagination Liszt has used 
 and developed the dramatic-psychological varia- 
 tion of a theme (the inventor of which I have- 
 already designated as Berlioz). Mephistopheli 
 "the spirit who evermore denies;" for the princi- 
 ple of his actions is, "for whatever has come into 
 life deserves to be reduced to nought again." 
 Hence Liszt could not give him a theme of his 
 
 [82]
 
 Liszt 
 
 own, but built up the whole movement from cari- 
 catures of previous themes, particularly from those 
 belonging to " Faust." For this reason ignorant 
 critics have been even more ready to reproach 
 Liszt than they did Berlioz for lack of invention. 
 I ask, if our great masters have built up long move- 
 ments by manifold variations of themes of a few 
 bars, why should not a composer to-day do the 
 same, if a perceptible poetical thought is his guid- 
 ing principle ? Is there no invention in these char- 
 acteristic variations, and, forsooth, invention of 
 the same degree that the old masters possessed? 
 And just the last movement of the " Faust Sym- 
 phony" best reveals to us Liszt's deep insight into 
 the true nature of music. When the infernal, 
 diabolical spirit has risen to its most brilliant 
 power, there appears, as if soaring in bright clouds, 
 the main theme of the Gretchen movement in 
 virgin beauty. By this motive the power of the 
 demon is shattered, and it sinks back into noth- 
 ingness. The poet could let Gretchen perish, and 
 even become a transgressor; the musician, in ac- 
 cordance with the ideal, subtle nature of his art, 
 preserved for her the exalted, heavenly form! 
 Mighty trombone sounds are heard through the 
 discordant hell-music as it dies away; a male 
 chorus softly intones Goethe's sublime words of the 
 " Chorus Mysticus," — "All that is transitory is 
 only illusion ; " and in the clearly recognizable notes 
 of the Gretchen theme, continues a tenor voice, 
 "The Ever-Feminine draweth us on " (Das Ewig- 
 Weibliche zieht uns hinan). One can identify 
 this tenor voice with Goethe's Doctor Marianus, 
 
 [83]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 and imagine Gretchen transfigured into the Mater 
 Gloriosa; one might also recall Faust's words 
 when he beholds Gfetchen's image in the vanish- 
 ing clouds: — 
 
 "Like a pure soul, still fairer grows the form, 
 Dissolves not, but to higher realm.- of air ascends, 
 
 And hears with it my nobler self, my heart, away." 
 
 So in great pieces of music goldeD threads, spun 
 from sunshine, are woven lightly and airily, be- 
 tween the music and the inspiring poetry, making 
 both more beautiful, but confining neither. 
 
 Still more unified and more powerful than the 
 "Faust Symphony," is the tone poem to Dante's 
 "Divine Comedy." with its vivid representation of 
 the torments of hell and its "Purgatory," ' which 
 gradually rises into the higher sphere of pure 
 sentiment. In both these works Liszt has given 
 the highest art of which he was capable. They 
 can be compared only with the creations of the 
 great masters. They mark not only the highest 
 point in Liszt's work, but also, with Berlioz's 
 symphonies, are the ripest fruit thus far of artistic 
 programme music. It is gratifying to know that 
 Berlioz's and Liszt's compositions are constantly 
 gaining ground for themselves, and becoming 
 more generally appreciated, in fact, are even 
 awakening enthusiasm, although a large number i >f 
 critical reviews of their works have taken the oc- 
 casion to grumble over them or insult them with 
 
 1 A. ting on the wish of the hyper-Catholic Prim ess Wittgenstein, 
 Liszt added a second close, indicating the triumphant church. It 
 is very weak, and I alwavs recommend its omission. 
 
 M
 
 Liszt 
 
 their traditional air of superiority. The pseudo- 
 classicists break their noses, and the ultra-mod- 
 erns would like to treat both of these great mas- 
 ters as surmounted obstacles, as steps now passed 
 over, in reaching the state of perfection where 
 the "new gods" now sit throned. Idle endeavor! 
 Time gives its potent judgment, without regard 
 to the pigmies which are swelling themselves up, 
 and strutting about in their narrow nothingness; 
 and already it is being seen that Berlioz and 
 Liszt are, with Wagner, the great stars in the new 
 musical epoch, the heroes of the last half of the 
 nineteenth century, just as Haydn, Mozart, Bee- 
 thoven, Weber, and Schubert were the heroes of 
 the first. 
 
 Apart from these two symphonies, each con- 
 sisting of several movements, Liszt's orchestral 
 works have, as a rule, but one movement, and are 
 entitled "Symphonic Poems." This name is a 
 very happy one, and seems to me to express in 
 two words just the law, perhaps the only law, 
 which a piece of music must obey if it is to have 
 a right to exist. Let it be a poem; that is, let it 
 spring from some poetical source, from some im- 
 pulse of the spirit which the author may convey 
 to the public by title and programme, or may 
 withhold; but let it also be "symphonic," which 
 is here, speaking in general terms, synonymous 
 with "musical." Let it have a definite form, 
 either one taken from the old masters, or a new 
 one developed from its content and corresponding 
 to it. Lack of form in any art is unpardonable, 
 and in music can never be excused by a pro- 
 
 [85]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 gramme, or by what the composer " imagined." 
 Liszt's symphonic works stand for a great first 
 step along a new path. Any writer who will go 
 farther on this way must take good care not to 
 imitate Liszt's weakness, that raggedness of con- 
 ception which he often displays, but to compose 
 pieces which are more than tone-illustrations of 
 programmes. 
 
 I trust that I have made it sufficiently clear 
 what we owe the modern school which has reached 
 its highest development in Berlioz and Liszt, and 
 what are the dangers that we have inherited from 
 them. Besides the positive gain, which we enjoy 
 in the works of these two masters, we have also 
 learned that there are other arts and forms of 
 composition besides those of the sonata, rondo, 
 and variation which seem so unavoidable. It has 
 disclosed to the imagination a rich though dan- 
 gerous field of action, where precious fruit may 
 still be reaped. As it is customary in every great 
 revolutionary movement, that some shoot beyond 
 the mark, so must it here also be confessed that 
 music, while men were striving to increase its power 
 of expression, at times was lowered from its sacred 
 pedestal to become the slave of words and con- 
 ceptions. The boundary line over which music 
 cannot step without becoming unmusical, is very 
 hard to recognize. We are in need of a larger 
 number of new and significant works in order 
 that it may be more clearly drawn. If the younger 
 generation of our composers comes to know that 
 music is not a language of conceptions, if it recog- 
 nizes the demand for form in composition, and if 
 
 [86]
 
 Strauss 
 
 it learns strictly to separate the symphonic from 
 the dramatic style, then we need not give up the 
 hope of hearing, in the future, symphonies about 
 which — to use Wagner's words — something may 
 be said ; provided that some one comes who knows 
 all this without being told. 
 
 At all events, the modern school has been more 
 stimulating and fruitful than the new-classical. 
 It has become the yeast in the bread of the Philis- 
 tines, and its fermentation is more and more ap- 
 parent in Germany and abroad. Thus I believe 
 that some remarkable modern symphonies, in the 
 old form, and, therefore, belonging to the new- 
 classical school, would not have been composed 
 exactly as they were, if Berlioz and Liszt had not 
 lived. I refer among others to the symphonies of 
 Sinding and Borodin, which I have already men- 
 tioned. In our days we see also desertions from 
 the old school to the new. Dvorak, no longer a 
 young man, who can be considered as a pupil of 
 Brahms, and who has attained great success 
 with his symphonies, has suddenly turned to pro- 
 gramme music, and is composing symphonic poems. 
 — Some years ago we witnessed a similar conver- 
 sion in the case of Richard Strauss, who was then 
 a very young man. As a pupil of Hans von Bil- 
 low, after Biilow had deserted Wagner, he swore 
 by Brahms, and wrote an excellent symphony of 
 which the model is evident. Later he went over 
 to the modern school, began a series of symphonic 
 poems by no means finished yet, and now in the 
 public opinion stands as the leader of the most ex- 
 tremely progressive school. I consider "Tod und 
 
 [87]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 Verklärung," as one of the most worthy of t: 
 symphonic poems, more so than "Don Juan/' 
 which is perhaps better known and liked. The 
 former is a piece of spent passion, powerful both 
 in invention and construction, and very sincere 
 and genuine in feeling, except the close, which 
 seems to me more pompous than glorious. A 
 piece of equal value is the scherzo for orchestra, 
 "Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche," which is 
 most brilliant both thematically and instrument- 
 ally, indeed truly witty, if 1 may apply this word 
 to music. In "Also sprach Zarathustra," Strauss 
 falls into the same error which Liszt made before 
 him with the "Ideale." Lis t intended t<> pic- 
 ture a succession of moments during which man 
 rose from his every day life t<> a higher sphere; 
 and so in Strauss"> pi< ries of world con- 
 
 ceptions passes before us, each of which attempts 
 to solve the great secret of life, represented by tin- 
 succession of notes, C, G, C. Noneof them suc- 
 ceeds, and at the end the C, (i. (\ stand there 
 as obstinately as in the beginning, and doubt — 
 the "father of truth." according t<> Nietzsche, the 
 chord C, E, F-sharp, according to Strauss -may 
 go on forever assailing it. No doubt different 
 moods, such as religious feeling, passion, pleasure, 
 and superhuman dionysiac serenity remember 
 the last movement in Beethoven's A major sym- 
 phony -may V- rendered musically; even grant- 
 ing that a fugue may symbolize science, which is 
 barren in the solution of the final and highest 
 questions of life, yet by the welding together of 
 such widely differentiated moods into one move- 
 
 [88]
 
 Strauss 
 
 ment, which makes it necessary for the listener 
 to hunt out bar by bar the thoughts — no doubt 
 ingenious — which guided the composer, the im- 
 pression of the music, in the true sense of the 
 word, is lost. Aside from these considerations, 
 which even the masterly treatment of the orches- 
 tra does not dispel from my mind, the positive 
 power of invention seems to me to be less in this 
 piece than in earlier works by Strauss. This is 
 due, I believe, to the fact that from impulse to ex- 
 ecution the path of the composer in this piece 
 lay in the domain of conceptions; that is, that 
 music is brought into an uncongenial sphere 
 through which it always seems to be seeking the 
 right way without ever being able to find it, and 
 loses itself in experimentation. Strauss seems to 
 be just as far from what I consider music in 
 his newest worksj "Don Quixote" and "Ein Hel- 
 denleben," as in "Zarathustra." With the old 
 masters we got along without programmes; with 
 Berlioz and Liszt a title was sufficient. Strauss 
 finds it necessary, even before the appearance of 
 one of his new works, to bring out an exten- 
 sive explanation and guide, written by another 
 hand. Wliy is this necessary if he really believes 
 that his music has reached that elevation where 
 it is in a position to speak to us as clearly as 
 words ? If he had accomplished this, we would be 
 able to hear w T hat he wishes to say to us without 
 elucidation or programme. Then he would have 
 reached his goal. Fortunately, at the time of 
 the first performance of "Eulenspiegel," Strauss, 
 confident of the musical character of this piece,
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 tactfully one might say (when one recalls some 
 of the Eulenspiegel anecdotes), avoided giving 
 the programme. In hearing this piece, even if it 
 were performed without its title, we would get a 
 certain impression of being seized or preyed upon, 
 even if we did not think of Eulenspiegel. In his 
 later works this is the exception. No one. for 
 instance, hearing the great violin solo in "Hel- 
 denleben," would think of a rebellious woman who 
 was gradually won by the love of the hero, or. 
 listening to the adventurous "wind kakophonions" 
 of the second portion, would think of "the hi 
 adversary," if he did not know that this was what 
 he was to imagine. The fact that the author 
 himself considers it necessary previously to in- 
 terest the public is evidence that the new way 
 which he has pretended to break through is only 
 seemingly passable, for those extensive elucida- 
 tions are nothing more than an open confession 
 that, in spite of the polyphonic art and our aston- 
 ishment over the instrumentation, these creations 
 are senseless without intellectual explanation. < >n 
 the other hand, a rial programme is not ] »re- 
 sented with these pieces, and thus the public is to 
 a certain extent brought by an ambiguous way 
 to their comprehension, in that it must first be 
 instructed, as to what it should think, and then 
 must consider it all as a direct language. The 
 character of incompleteness with which, on ac- 
 count of this proceeding, these extravagant com- 
 positions seem afflicted, and which presents itself 
 in all the more striking a manner since their origi- 
 nality in regard to spirituallv rich harmonies, 
 
 M
 
 Strauss 
 
 but in no wise in regard to original melodies and 
 themes, can be exhorted, prevents them from hav- 
 ing anything to do with works of genius. The 
 truly original stands out free and independent, 
 and strides boldly through the world. It needs 
 no preliminary studies, and — no crutches. 
 
 Many aesthetic questions have been raised over 
 Strauss's compositions, among others, if a flock of 
 sheep (Don Quixote) could be represented in 
 music. In my opinion, in this and similar cases, 
 it is a question of how it is done. A mere imita- 
 tion of the sounds of nature, as in Strauss's piece, 
 can call up a recognition of the story; as, for ex- 
 ample, a picture of a rubbish heap painted in 
 masterly, realistic style, shows the wonderful 
 technique of the painter. In both cases we need 
 only the odors to make the illusion complete. A 
 truly artistic and musical conception of a bleating 
 flock of sheep could be scarcely less faithful than 
 is Strauss's, but it would have to be much more 
 full of sentiment, of humor, and music. May not 
 one suspect in many places in Strauss's pieces, 
 where he, apparently in accordance with the prin- 
 ciple, "Nothing is true; everything is permissible," 
 heaps up the ugly on top of the ugly, that the 
 composer, — so accustomed from youth up to 
 praise and recognition (for one cannot help 
 being astonished at this man) that he celebrated 
 himself in his latest tone-poem, "the hero strug- 
 gling with his adversary," — that this composer 
 now riding on the high wave of prosperity, 
 wished to see how much he could offer the public 
 with serious mien, before the joke was discov- 
 
 [91]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 ered? In truth, did he not try some " Eulenspie- 
 gelei" in his compositions, just as, for example, 
 Biilow, according to my conviction, here and 
 there attempted in directing concerts ? Thus it is 
 not the harmonic and instrumental abnormities 
 of the first rank, but rather the deeper observa- 
 tions, which I have given above, that make it im- 
 possible for me to agree with Strauss in his works 
 during the last few years. Xor can his brilliant, 
 even phenomenal success lead me to agreeing, 
 especially as the significance of contemporary suc- 
 cess is but of ephemeral worth to him who directs 
 his glance back away from the figures of our day 
 over the history of hundreds and thousands of 
 years. 
 
 Here I will speak of a curious feeling which I 
 have often experienced, but which I haw not 
 found shared by others. If I hear a piece that 
 reveals to me the weakness of the modem school. 
 then there comes over me after a short time of 
 attentive listening, in spite of the great external 
 difference, exactly the same sensations that a weak 
 work of Brahms awakens in me; the same insipid, 
 emptv, and heavy feeling of torment. Docs this 
 similarity of effect lie in the fact that Brahms's 
 music appears to me as the conception of music, 
 as opposed to its essence, while in the programme 
 pieces conceptions — as opposed to the essence 
 of things — are intended to be expressed? May 
 it be that the erroneous and artificial products of 
 both schools are closely related after all, as is 
 undoubtedly the case with their great produc- 
 tions? Perhaps, from a very high point of view,
 
 Mahler 
 
 there are not really two schools, but only one. 
 Time alone can tell. 
 
 As I spoke before of an older and a younger 
 composer, I may mention two other artists in the 
 same purely external connection. Standing under 
 the direct influence of Liszt, Friederich Smetana, 
 a Bohemian, wrote a series of six symphonic 
 poems. He gave them the collective title, "Mein 
 Vaterland," as he had found his poetical impulse 
 in Bohemian folk-lore. I mention as especially 
 valuable "Vltava," and then "Vysehrad" and 
 "Aus Böhmens Hain und Flur." The first men- 
 tioned is an especially beautiful example of how 
 far a prescribed programme is compatible with 
 music. An interesting figure of our day, but far 
 too little esteemed as a composer, is Gustav Mahler. 
 His works are of colossal dimension, and require 
 an unusually large number of executants, which 
 makes more difficult their performance and repu- 
 tation. But if we overlook these considerations, 
 which, after all, are secondary, and turn to the 
 composer himself, we find in him deep, strong 
 feeling which has its own mode of expression, and 
 which says what it has to say quite unconcerned 
 about the possibilities of performance and success. 
 Mahler's most striking characteristic is the re- 
 markable breadth of his themes, as well as their 
 thoroughly musical nature. In many points he is 
 like his teacher, Bruckner, only he understands 
 better how to work with his themes and how to 
 construct his movements. There may be bizarre 
 passages, there may be needless difficulties in his 
 works; we may notice a certain prolixity, and, 
 
 [93]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 perhaps, a want of severe self-criticism in the 
 selection of his themes; but everything that 
 Mahler writes bears the stamp of a rich imagina- 
 tion and of a passionate and a vivid, almost fanatic 
 enthusiasm, which always has awakened my sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 I have now spoken of the modern composers 
 also, chiefly of Strauss and Mahler, who, standing 
 still in the middle of their creative work, lead our 
 thoughts on from the present to the future. 
 Whether there will come- an artist, who in his 
 own way can carry on further the work of Berlioz, 
 Liszt, and Wagner, and worthily bring to a i loa- 
 the ranks of our great geniuses, no one to-day can 
 tell. 
 
 But we need n<>t hinder our imaginations from 
 picturing him as he would appear in our day. I 
 think of him first as independent of all parties, 
 and not meddling with them because he is above 
 them. I think of him. nut narrow-mindedly Ger- 
 man nor yet cosmopolitan and shallow, but having 
 a strong, purely human feeling, because music is a 
 universal art. I picture him inspired with a glow- 
 ing enthusiasm for what the great minds of all 
 times and of all nations have produced, and hav- 
 ing an invincible aversion to mediocrity, with which 
 he comes in contact only through his own kindni 
 I think of him as free from envy because conscious 
 of and trusting in his own worth, far above any 
 mean ways of advertising his own works; pro- 
 foundly sincere, and, where needful, even indiffer- 
 ent — hence not a gnat favorite in many places. 
 I imagine him not anxiouslv avoiding social in- 
 
 [94]
 
 Conclusion 
 
 tercourse, but with a tendency towards seclusion 
 — not hating men in exaggerated world-grief, but 
 despising their meanness and narrow-mindedness, 
 and so choosing only special persons for his daily 
 intercourse. I think of him as not indifferent to 
 success or failure, but refusing to allow either to 
 alter his course by a hair's breadth; very indif- 
 ferent to so-called public opinion, and politically 
 a republican in Beethoven's sense. I see him 
 wandering, as it were, in an Alpine region where 
 the clear white mountain-tops greet us kindly, but 
 yet are awe-inspiring, with his gaze constantly 
 fixed on the highest peak, toward which he is al- 
 ways advancing. Although he feels himself akin 
 only to the greatest geniuses, still he knows he is 
 only one link in the chain and that other great 
 men will succeed him. So he belongs, indeed, to 
 a school, but to one which soars over the heads 
 of humanity and vanishes. 
 
 If we come down to reality after this flight of 
 our imagination, we recognize that we are living 
 in an interregnum, in a period of transition. 
 Everywhere we notice a pulsating, restless activ- 
 ity, an uncertain groping after dim objects, a 
 hankering for success and celebrity at all costs 
 and by any means. "Progress," "Neo-German- 
 ism," ''hitherto unheard-of originality," "precur- 
 sor," "epigone," "eclectic," "founder of a new 
 school," "superseded standpoint," — these are 
 many of the catchwords which strike our confused 
 ear. Now we hear of a new tone-poem in com- 
 parison with which the works of Wagner, Liszt, and 
 Berlioz are but the productions of pigmies; there 
 
 [95]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 the true popular vein is said to have been rediscov- 
 ered. As in a Fata Morgana, the new pass before 
 us, fade, and die away. An almost frivolous ad- 
 miration of the willful, the irregular, the ugly, has 
 manifested itself in many places. Where for- 
 merly every Philistine crossed himself before every 
 "tritonus," and eagerly searched for every "in- 
 harmonic relation," nowadays they sanction every 
 harmonic absurdity, calling it a •"bold act," if 
 only it occurs absolutely without reason; and he 
 who has accomplished the most along that line is 
 styled a "reformer!" No doubt in the midst of 
 all this confusion, the great, the truly new and 
 original, is silently preparing, but far away from 
 the art market. Its appearance will be a ques- 
 tion of personality and not of education. The 
 artist cannot live far from the activity of the world. 
 He must get his ideas, his inspirations, and the 
 plumb-line for his work from life. Will our pr 
 ent most intense, nervous, and strenuous exist- 
 ence let some soul develop within, in the midst 
 of all the press and drive, that degree of intuitive- 
 ness and poise from which alone great work< of 
 art, stamped neither more nor le>s with the fad of 
 the day, can come? Will without reaction — ■ 
 that loftiness without pathos, that charm without 
 coquetry, that strength and sweetness of spirit, 
 by which our great masters were character] 
 return to-day upon the basis of the modern phil- 
 osophy of life? In this age of invention and me- 
 chanics is an art possible that, standing as far 
 above all time as everything really great does, is 
 still the child of its time ? 
 
 [96]
 
 Conclusion 
 
 The answer to this question must be left to 
 the future. 
 
 Meanwhile we may reach firm standing-ground 
 in the conviction that true progress will not come 
 from the outward but from the inner man. If 
 an artistic production is the result of speculation 
 only, and not of an inspiration, it may dazzle «us, 
 but will never truly interest or permanently fas- 
 cinate us. Those who share with me this con- 
 viction will cry out to the gifted and ambitious 
 composers: Let your feelings, your thoughts, your 
 ideas, be great and noble, as great and noble 
 as those of our great masters; then you will pro- 
 duce the right kinds of works, and just as you 
 produce them, they will be right. And if you can- 
 not do this, then mount Pelion upon Ossa, write 
 for a thousand trombones and for two hundred 
 thousand kettledrums; nothing will result but a 
 bogey. ■ Brilliant technicality is not enough. Nat- 
 uralness, straightforward and powerful sincerity, 
 — that is what we want. Write down without 
 fear what your spirit impels you to write, and ex- 
 press what must be expressed. Then it will be an 
 image of yourself, an expression of your own na- 
 ture. Have, moreover, the courage to remain 
 what you are, even if you are misjudged or "torn 
 to pieces." Only do not think that a " Ninth 
 Symphony" or a " Nibelungen tetralogy" will re- 
 sult from your attempts. The world will be very 
 thankful to you for an opera in the style of Lort- 
 zing, or for a symphony such as Hermann Goetz 
 has written, provided what you have composed is 
 genuine and not artificial. Do not imagine that 
 
 [97]
 
 The Symphony since Beethoven 
 
 every one of you must be ''superhuman" if the 
 misunderstood teachings of Zarathustra ring in 
 your ears and set your brain in feverish agita- 
 tion. To only a few is it permitted to wander on 
 the highest summits of humanity, and this "su- 
 perhuman" state cannot be constructed, learned. 
 or 'acquired. That endowment comes only as a 
 transcendent gift from the regions above. '* From 
 which?" you eagerly ask. Well — from that re- 
 gion which only he would deny who has never 
 felt its breath wafted across to him! — Be it a little 
 song or a greal symphony that you compose, it 
 will only be a masterpiece if it deserves the same 
 motto that the great Beethoven wrote on the -tore 
 of his"Missa Solemnis:" 
 
 "Von Herzen — möge es zu Herzen gehen." 
 
 I'll IX \\ l.I.NOARIM K. 
 
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