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Richard Wagner (translated by Edward Dannreuther) >> On Conducting (Ueber das Dirigiren):
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THE RIGHT COMPREHENSION OF THE MELOS IS THE SOLE GUIDE TO THE
RIGHT TEMPO; these two things are inseparable: the one implies
and qualifies the other. As a proof of my assertion that the
majority of performances of instrumental music with us are faulty
it is sufficient to point out that OUR CONDUCTORS SO FREQUENTLY
FAIL TO FIND THE TRUE TEMPO BECAUSE THEY ARE IGNORANT OF SINGING.
I have not yet met with a German Capellmeister or Musik-director
who, be it with good or bad voice, can really sing a melody.
These people look upon music as a singularly abstract sort of
thing, an amalgam of grammar, arithmetic, and digital
gymnastics;--to be an adept in which may fit a man for a
mastership at a conservatory or a musical gymnasium; but it does
not follow from this that he will be able to put life and soul
into a musical performance. The whole duty of a conductor is
comprised in his ability always to indicate the right TEMPO. His
choice of tempi will show whether he understands the piece or
not. With good players again the true tempo induces correct
phrasing and expression, and conversely, with a conductor, the
idea of appropriate phrasing and expression will induce the
conception of the true tempo.
This, however, is by no means so simple a matter as it appears.
Older composers probably felt so, for they are content with the
simplest general indications. Haydn and Mozart made use of the
term "Andante" as the mean between "Allegro" and "Adagio," and
thought it sufficient to indicate a few gradations and
modifications of these terms.
Sebastian Bach, as a rule, does not indicate tempo at all, which
in a truly musical sense is perhaps best. He may have said to
himself: whoever does not understand my themes and figures, and
does not feel their character and expression, will not be much
the wiser for an Italian indication of tempo.
Let me be permitted to mention a few facts which concern me
personally. In my earlier operas I gave detailed directions as to
the tempi, and indicated them (as I thought) accurately, by means
of the Metronome. Subsequently, whenever I had occasion to
protest against a particularly absurd tempo, in "Tannhauser" for
instance, I was assured that the Metronome had been consulted and
carefully followed. In my later works I omitted the metronome and
merely described the main tempi in general terms, paying,
however, particular attention to the various modifications of
tempo. It would appear that general directions also tend to vex
and confuse Capellmeisters, especially when they are expressed in
plain German words. Accustomed to the conventional Italian terms
these gentlemen are apt to lose their wits when, for instance, I
write "moderate." Not long ago a Capellmeister complained of that
term (massig) which I employed in the score of "Das Rheingold";
the music, (it was reported) lasted exactly two hours and a half
at rehearsals under a conductor whom I had personally instructed;
whereas, at the performances and under the beat of the official
Capellmeister, it lasted fully three hours! (according to the
report of the "Allgemeine Zeitung"). Wherefore, indeed, did I
write "Massig"? To match this I have been informed that the
overture to "Tannhauser," which, when I conducted it at Dresden,
used to last twelve minutes, now lasts twenty. No doubt I am here
alluding to thoroughly incompetent persons who are particularly
shy of Alla breve time, and who stick to their correct and normal
crotchet beats, four in a bar, merely to shew they are present
and conscious of doing something. Heaven knows how such
"quadrupeds" find their way from the village church to our opera
theatres. But "dragging" is not a characteristic of the elegant
conductors of these latter days; on the contrary they have a
fatal tendency to hurry and to run away with the tempi. THIS
TENDENCY TO HURRY is so characteristic a mark of our entire
musical life latterly, that I propose to enter into some details
with regard to it.
Robert Schumann once complained to me at Dresden that he could
not enjoy the Ninth Symphony at the Leipzig Gewandhaus concerts
because of the quick tempi Mendelssohn chose to take,
particularly in the first movement. I have, myself, only once
been present at a rehearsal of one of Beethoven's Symphonies,
when Mendelssohn conducted; the rehearsal took place at Berlin,
and the Symphony was No. 8 (in F major). I noticed that he chose
a detail here and there--almost at random--and worked at it with
a certain obstinacy, until it stood forth clearly. This was so
manifestly to the advantage of the detail that I could not but
wonder why he did not take similar pains with other nuances. For
the rest, this incomparably bright symphony was rendered in a
remarkably smooth and genial manner. Mendelssohn himself once
remarked to me, with regard to conducting, that he thought most
harm was done by taking a tempo too slow; and that on the
contrary, he always recommended quick tempi as being less
detrimental. Really good execution, he thought, was at all times
a rare thing, but short-comings might be disguised if care was
taken that they should not appear very prominent; and the best
way to do this was "to get over the ground quickly." This can
hardly have been a casual view, accidentally mentioned in
conversation. The master's pupils must have received further and
more detailed instruction; for, subsequently, I have, on various
occasions, noticed the consequences of that maxim "take quick
tempi," and have, I think, discovered the reasons which may have
led to its adoption.
I remembered it well, when I came to lead the orchestra of the
Philharmonic Society in London, 1855. Mendelssohn had conducted
the concerts during several seasons, and the tradition of his
readings was carefully preserved. It appears likely that the
habits and peculiarities of the Philharmonic Society suggested to
Mendelssohn his favourite style of performance (Vortragsweise)--
certainly it was admirably adapted to meet their wants. An
unusual amount of instrumental music is consumed at these
concerts; but, as a rule, each piece is rehearsed once only. Thus
in many instances, I could not avoid letting the orchestra follow
its traditions, and so I became acquainted with a style of
performance which called up a lively recollection of
Mendelssohn's remarks.
The music gushed forth like water from a fountain; there was no
arresting it, and every Allegro ended as an undeniable Presto. It
was troublesome and difficult to interfere; for when correct
tempi and proper modifications of these were taken the defects of
style which the flood had carried along or concealed became
painfully apparent. The orchestra generally played mezzoforte; no
real forte, no real piano was attained. Of course, in important
cases I took care to enforce the reading I thought the true one,
and to insist upon the right tempo. The excellent musicians did
not object to this; on the contrary, they showed themselves
sincerely glad of it; the public also approved, but the critics
were annoyed and continued so to browbeat the directors of the
society that the latter actually requested me to permit the
second movement of Mozart's Symphony in E flat to be played in
the flabby and colourless way (ruschlich herunter spielen) they
had been accustomed to--and which, they said, even Mendelssohn
himself had sanctioned.
The fatal maxims came to the front quite clearly when I was about
to rehearse a symphony by a very amiable elderly contrapuntist,
Mr. Potter, [Footnote: Cipriani Potter, 1792-1871, pianist and
composer, author of "Recollections of Beethoven." etc.] if I
mistake not. The composer approached me in a pleasant way, and
asked me to take the Andante rather quickly as he feared it might
prove tedious. I assured him that his Andante, no matter how
short its duration might be, would inevitably prove tedious if it
was played in a vapid and inexpressive manner; whereas if the
orchestra could be got to play the very pretty and ingenious
theme, as I felt confident he meant it and as I now sang it to
him, it would certainly please. Mr. Potter was touched; he
agreed, and excused himself, saying that latterly he had not been
in the habit of reckoning upon this sort of orchestral playing.
In the evening, after the Andante, he joyfully pressed my hand.
I have often been astonished at the singularly slight sense for
tempo and execution evinced by leading musicians. I found it
impossible, for instance, to communicate to Mendelssohn what I
felt to be a perverse piece of negligence with regard to the
tempo of the third movement in Beethoven's Symphony in F major,
No. 8. This is one of the instances I have chosen out of many to
throw light upon certain dubious aspects of music amongst us.
We know that Haydn in his principal later symphonies used the
form of the Menuet as a pleasant link between the Adagio and the
final Allegro, and that he thus was induced to increase the speed
of the movement considerably, contrary to the character of the
true Menuet. It is clear that he incorporated the "Landler,"
[Footnote: A South German country dance in 3/4 time, from which
the modern waltz is derived.] particularly in the "Trio"--so
that, with regard to the tempo, the designation "Menuetto" is
hardly appropriate, and was retained for conventional reasons
only. Nevertheless, I believe Haydn's Menuets are generally taken
too quick; undoubtedly the Menuets of Mozart's Symphonies are;
this will be felt very distinctly if, for instance, the Menuetto
in Mozart's Symphony in G minor, and still more that of his
Symphony in C major, be played a little slower than at the
customary pace. It will be found that the latter Menuet, which is
usually hurried, and treated almost as a Presto, will now shew an
amiable, firm and festive character; in contrast with which, the
trio, with its delicately sustained
[music score excerpt]
is reduced, as usually given, to an empty hurry-skurry (eine
nichtssagende Nuschelei). Now Beethoven, as is not uncommon with
him, meant to write a true Menuet in his F major Symphony; he
places it between the two main Allegro movements as a sort of
complementary antithesis (ein gewissermassen erganzender
Gegensatz) to an Allegretto scherzando which precedes it, and to
remove any doubt as to his intentions regarding the Tempo he
designates it NOT as a Menuetto: but as a Tempo di Menuetto. This
novel and unconventional characterization of the two middle
movements of a symphony was almost entirely overlooked: the
Allegretto scherzando was taken to represent the usual Andante,
the Tempo di Menuetto, the familiar "Scherzo" and, as the two
movements thus interpreted seemed rather paltry, and none of the
usual effects could be got with them, our musicians came to
regard the entire symphony as a sort of accidental hors d'oeuvre
of Beethoven's muse--who, after the exertions with the A major
symphony had chosen "to take things rather easily." Accordingly
after the Allegretto Scherzando, the time of which is invariably
"dragged" somewhat, the Tempo di Minuetto is universally served
up as a refreshing "Landler," which passes the ear without
leaving any distinct impression. Generally, however, one is glad
when the tortures of the Trio are over. This loveliest of idylls
is turned into a veritable monstrosity by the passage in triplets
for the violoncello; which, if taken at the usual quick pace, is
the despair of violoncellists, who are worried with the hasty
staccato across the strings and back again, and find it
impossible to produce anything but a painful series of scratches.
Naturally, this difficulty disappears as soon as the delicate
melody of the horns and clarinets is taken at the proper tempo;
these instruments are thus relieved from the special difficulties
pertaining to them, and which, particularly with the clarinet, at
times render it likely to produce a "quack" [FOOTNOTE: Anglice,
"a goose,"] even in the hands of skilful players. I remember an
occasion when all the musicians began to breathe at ease on my
taking this piece at the true moderate pace: then the humorous
sforzato of the basses and bassoons at once produced an
intelligible effect; the short crescendi became clear, the
delicate pianissimo close was effective, and the gentle gravity
of the returning principal movement was properly felt. Now, the
late Capellmeister Reissiger, of Dresden, once conducted this
symphony there, and I happened to be present at the performance
together with Mendelssohn; we talked about the dilemma just
described, and its proper solution; concerning which I told
Mendelssohn that I believed I had convinced Reissiger, who had
promised that he would take the tempo slower than usual.
Mendelssohn perfectly agreed with me. We listened. The third
movement began and I was terrified on hearing precisely the old
Landler tempo; but before I could give vent to my annoyance
Mendelssohn smiled, and pleasantly nodded his head, as if to say
"now it's all right! Bravo!" So my terror changed to
astonishment. Reissiger, for reasons which I shall discuss
presently, may not have been so very much to blame for persisting
in the old tempo; but Mendelssohn's indifference, with regard to
this queer artistic contretemps, raised doubts in my mind whether
he saw any distinction and difference in the case at all. I
fancied myself standing before an abyss of superficiality, a
veritable void. SOON after this had happened with Reissiger, the
very same thing took place with the same movement of the Eighth
Symphony at Leipzig. The conductor, in the latter case, was a
well-known successor of Mendelssohn at the Gewandhaus concerts.
[FOOTNOTE: Ferdinand Hiller.] He also had agreed with my views as
to the Tempo di Menuetto, and had invited me to attend a concert
at which he promised to take it at the proper moderate pace. He
did not keep his word and offered a queer excuse: he laughed, and
confessed that he had been disturbed with all manner of
administrative business, and had only remembered his promise
after the piece had begun; naturally he could not then alter the
tempo, etc. The explanation was sufficiently annoying. Still I
could, at least, flatter myself that I had found somebody to
share my views as to the difference between one tempo and
another. I doubt, however, whether the conductor could be fairly
reproached with a want of forethought and consideration;
unconsciously, perhaps, he may have had a very good reason for
his "forgetfulness." It would have been very indiscreet to risk a
change of tempo which had not been rehearsed. For the orchestra,
accustomed to play the piece in a quick tempo, would have been
disturbed by the sudden imposition of a more moderate pace;
which, as a matter of course, demands a totally different style
of playing.
We have now reached an important and decisive point, an
appreciation of which is indispensable if we care to arrive at a
satisfactory conclusion regarding the execution of classical
music. Injudicious tempi might be defended with some show of
reason inasmuch as a factitious style of delivery has arisen in
conformity with them, and to the uninitiated such conformity of
style and tempo might appear as a proof that all was right. The
evil, however, is apparent enough if only the right tempo is
taken, in which case the false style becomes quite unbearable.
To illustrate this, in the simplest possible way, let us take the
opening of the C minor Symphony
[Musical Score excerpt of the famous main motif from Beethoven's
Fifth]
Usually the fermata of the second bar is left after a slight
rest; our conductors hardly make use of this fermata for anything
else than to fix the attention of their men upon the attack of
the figure in the third bar. In most cases the note E flat is not
held any longer than a forte produced with a careless stroke of
the bow will last upon the stringed instruments. Now, suppose the
voice of Beethoven were heard from the grave admonishing a
conductor: "Hold my fermata firmly, terribly! I did not write
fermatas in jest, or because I was at a loss how to proceed; I
indulge in the fullest, the most sustained tone to express
emotions in my Adagio; and I use this full and firm tone when I
want it in a passionate Allegro as a rapturous or terrible spasm.
Then the very life blood of the tone shall be extracted to the
last drop. I arrest the waves of the sea, and the depths shall be
visible; or, I stem the clouds, disperse the mist, and show the
pure blue ether and the glorious eye of the sun. For this I put
fermatas, sudden long-sustained notes in my Allegro. And now look
at my clear thematic intention with the sustained E flat after
the three stormy notes, and understand what I meant to say with
other such sustained notes in the sequel."
[FOOTNOTE: In the original this fine passage is: "Nun setzen wir
den Fall, die Stimme Beethoven's habe aus den Grabe einem
Dirigenten zugerufen; Halte du meine Fermate lange und furchtbar!
Ich schrieb keine Fermaten zum Spass oder aus Verlegenheit, etwa
um mich auf das Weitere zu besinnen; sondern, was in meinem
Adagio der ganz und voll aufzusaugende Ton fur den Ausdruck der
schwelgenden Empfindung ist, dasselbe werfe ich, wenn ich es
brauche, in das heftig und schnell figurirte Allegro, als wonnig
oder schrecklich anhaltenden Krampf. Dann soll das Leben des
Tones bis auf seinen letzten Blutstropfen aufgesogen werden; dann
halte ich die Wellen meines Meeres an, und lasse in seinen
Abgrund blicken; oder hemme ich den Zug der Wolken, zertheile die
wirren Nebelstreifen, und lasse einmal in den reinen blauen
Aether, in das strahlende Auge der Sonne schauen. Hierfur setze
ich Fermaten, d. h. plotzlich eintretende lang auszuhaltende
Noten in meine Allegro's. Und nun beachte du, welche ganz
bestimmte thematische Absicht ich mit diesem ausgehaltenen Es
nach drei sturmisch kurzen Noten hatte, und was ich mit allen den
im Folgenden gleich auszuhaltenden Noten gesagt haben will."]
Suppose a conductor were to attempt to hold the fermata as here
directed, what would be the result? A miserable failure. After
the initial power of the bow of the stringed instruments had been
wasted, their tone would become thin and thinner, ending in a
week and timid piano: for--(and here is one of the results of
indifferent conducting)--our orchestras now-a-days hardly know
what is meant by EQUALLY SUSTAINED TONE. Let any conductor ask
any orchestral instrument, no matter which, for a full and
prolonged FORTE, and he will find the player puzzled, and will be
astonished at the trouble it takes to get what he asks for.
Yet TONE SUSTAINED WITH EQUAL POWER is the basis of all
expression, [FOOTNOTE: Die Basis aller Dynamik.] with the voice
as with the orchestra: the manifold modifications of the power of
tone, which constitute one of the principal elements of musical
expression, rest upon it. Without such basis an orchestra will
produce much noise but no power. And this is one of the first
symptoms of the weakness of most of our orchestral performances.
The conductors of the day care little about a sustained forte,
but they are particularly fond of an EXAGGERATED PIANO. Now the
strings produce the latter with ease, but the wind instruments,
particularly the wood winds do not. It is almost impossible to
get a delicately sustained piano from wind instruments.
The players, flautists particularly, have transformed their
formerly delicate instruments into formidable tubes
(Gewaltsrohren). French oboists, who have preserved the pastoral
character of their instrument, and our clarinetists, when they
make use of the "Echo effect," are the exceptions.
This drawback, which exists in our best orchestras, suggests the
question: why, at least, do not conductors try to equalise
matters by demanding a somewhat fuller piano from the strings?
But the conductors do not seem to notice any discrepancy.
To a considerable extent the fault lies not so much with the wind
instruments, as in the character of the piano of the strings; for
we do not possess a TRUE PIANO, just as we do not possess a TRUE
FORTE; both are wanting in fulness of tone--to attain which our
stringed instruments should watch the tone of the winds. Of
course it is easy enough to produce a buzzing vibration by gently
passing the bow over the strings; but it requires great artistic
command of the breath to produce a delicate and pure tone upon a
wind instrument. Players of stringed instruments should copy the
full-toned piano of the best winds, and the latter, again, should
endeavour to imitate the best vocalists.
The sustained soft tone here spoken of, and the sustained
powerful tone mentioned above, are the two poles of orchestral
expression. [FOOTNOTE: Dynamik des Orchesters.]
But what about orchestral execution if neither the one nor the
other is properly forthcoming? Where are the modifications of
expression to come from if the very means of expression are
defective? Thus, the Mendelssohnian rule of "getting over the
ground" (des flotten Daruberhinweggehens) suggested a happy
expedient; conductors gladly adopted the maxim, and turned it
into a veritable dogma; so that, nowadays, attempts to perform
classical music correctly are openly denounced as heretical!
I am persistently returning to the question of tempo because, as
I said above, this is the point at which it becomes evident
whether a conductor understands his business or not.
Obviously the proper pace of a piece of music is determined by
the particular character of the rendering it requires; the
question, therefore, comes to this: does the sustained tone, the
vocal element, the cantilena predominate, or the rhythmical
movement? (Figuration). The conductor should lead accordingly.
The Adagio stands to the Allegro as the sustained tone stands to
the RHYTHMICAL MOVEMENT (figurirte Bewegung). The sustained tone
regulates the Tempo Adagio: here the rhythm is as it were
dissolved in pure tone, the tone per se suffices for the musical
expression. In a certain delicate sense it may be said of the
pure Adagio that it cannot be taken too slow. A rapt confidence
in the sufficiency of pure musical speech should reign here; the
languor of feeling grows to ecstasy; that which in the Allegro
was expressed by changes of figuration, is now conveyed by means
of variously inflected tone. Thus the least change of harmony may
call forth a sense of surprise; and again, the most remote
harmonic progressions prove acceptable to our expectant feelings.
None of our conductors are courageous enough to take an Adagio in
this manner; they always begin by looking for some bit of
figuration, and arrange their tempo to match. I am, perhaps, the
only conductor who has ventured to take the Adagio section of the
third movement of the Ninth Symphony at the pace proper to its
peculiar character. This character is distinctly contrasted with
that of the alternating Andante in triple time; but our
conductors invariably contrive to obliterate the difference,
leaving only the rhythmical change between square and triple
time. This movement (assuredly one of the most instructive in the
present respect), finally (in the section in twelve-eight time),
offers a conspicuous example of the breaking up of the pure
Adagio by the more marked rhythms of an independent
accompaniment, during which the cantilena is steadily and broadly
continued. In this section we may recognize, as it were, a fixed
and consolidated reflex
[FOOTNOTE: In the original: "Hier erkennen wir das gleichsam
fixirte Bild des zuvor nach unendlicher Ausdehnung verlangenden
Adagio's, und wie dort eine uneingeschrankte Freiheit fur die
Befriedigung des tonischen Ausdruckes das zwischen zartesten
Gesetzen schwankende Maass der Bewegung angab, wird hier durch
die feste Rhythmik der figurativ geschmuckten Begleitung das neue
Gesetz der Festhaltung einer bestimmten Bewegung gegeben, welches
in seinen ausgebildeten Konseqnenzen uns zum Gesetz fur das
Zeitmaass des Allegro wird."]
of the Adagio's tendency towards infinite expansion; there,
limitless freedom in the expression of sound, with fluctuating,
yet delicately regulated movement; here, the firm rhythm of the
figurated accompaniments, imposing the new regulation of a steady
and distinct pace--in the consequences of which, when fully
developed, we have got the law that regulates the movement of the
Allegro in general. We have seen that sustained tone with its
modifications is the basis of all musical execution. Similarly
the Adagio, developed, as Beethoven has developed it in the third
movement of his Ninth Symphony, may be taken as the basis of all
regulations as to musical time. In a certain delicate sense the
Allegro may be regarded as the final result of a refraction
(Brechung) of the pure Adagio-character by the more restless
moving figuration. On careful examination of the principal
motives of the Allegro it will be found that the melody (Gesang)
derived from the Adagio, predominates. The most important Allegro
movements of Beethoven are ruled by a predominant melody which
exhibits some of the characteristics of the Adagio; and in this
wise Beethoven's Allegros receive the EMOTIONAL SENTIMENTAL
significance which distinguishes them from the earlier naive
species of Allegro. However, Beethoven's [Musical Score: Symphony
III. "Eroica."] and Mozart's [Footnote: Symphony in C major,
"Jupiter."]
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