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Richard Wagner (translated by Edward Dannreuther) >> On Conducting (Ueber das Dirigiren):
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An indescribably repulsive effect is produced by this trivial
reading of a passage, by which the composer meant to convey, as
it were, a maiden's tender and warm effusions of gratitude.
[Footnote: See the close of the Aria in E, known as "Softly
sighing," in Der Freyschutz (No. 8).] Truly, certain people who
sit and listen again and again to a vulgar effect such as this,
whenever and wherever the Freyschutz overture is performed, and
approve of it, and talk of "the wonted excellence of our
orchestral performances"--and otherwise indulge in queer notions
of their own about music, like the venerable Herr Lobe,
[Footnote: Author of a "Kompositionslehre," "Briefe eines
Wohlbekannten," etc.] whose jubilee we have recently celebrated--
such people, I say, are in the right position to warn the public
against "the absurdities of a mistaken idealism"--and "to point
towards that which is artistically genuine, true and eternally
valid, as an antidote to all sorts of half-true or half-mad
doctrines and maxims." [Footnote: (See Eduard Bernsdorf in
Signale fur die musicalishe Welt, No. 67, 1869).]
As I have related, a number of Viennese amateurs who attended a
performance of this poor maltreated overture, heard it rendered
in a very different manner. The effect of that performance is
still felt at Vienna. People asserted that they could hardly
recognize the piece, and wanted to know what I had done to it.
They could not conceive how the novel and surprising effect at
the close had been produced, and scarcely credited my assertion
that a moderate tempo was the sole cause. The musicians in the
orchestra, however, might have divulged a little secret, namely
this:--in the fourth bar of the powerful and brilliant entrata I
interpreted the sign >, which in the score might be mistaken for
a timid and senseless accent, as a mark of diminuendo [Figure:
diminuendo sign] assuredly in accordance with the composer's
intentions--thus we reached a more moderate degree of force, and
the opening bars of the theme were at once distinguished by a
softer inflection, which, I now could easily permit to swell to
fortissimo--thus the warm and tender motive, gorgeously supported
by the full orchestra, appeared happy and glorified.
Our Capellmeisters are not particularly pleased at a success such
as this.
Herr Dessof, however, whose business it was afterwards to conduct
"Der Freyschutz," at the Viennese opera, thought it advisable to
leave the members of the orchestra undisturbed in the possession
of the new reading. He announced this to them, with a smile,
saying: "Well, gentlemen, let us take the overture a la Wagner."
Yes, Yes:--a la Wagner! I believe, there would be no harm in
taking a good many other things, a la Wagner! [Footnote:
"Wagnerisch"--there is a pun here: wagen = to dare; erwagen--to
weigh mentally: thus "Wagnerisch," may be taken as--in a daring
well considered manner.]
At all events this was an entire concession on the part of the
Viennese Capellmeister; whereas in a similar case, my former
colleague, the late Reissiger, would only consent to meet me HALF
way. In the last movement of Beethoven's A major symphony, I
discovered a PIANO which Reissiger had been pleased to insert in
the parts when he conducted the work. This piano concerned the
grand preparation for the close of this final movement, when,
after the powerful reiterated chords on the dominant seventh A
(Breitkopf and Haertel's Score, page 86) the figure
[Figure: musical example]
is carried on forte, until with "sempre piu forte," it becomes
still more violent. This did not suit Reissiger; accordingly, at
the bar quoted, he interpolated a sudden piano, so that he might
in time get a perceptible crescendo. Of course, I erased this
piano and restored the energetic forte in its integrity. And
thus, I presume, I again committed an offence against "Lobe and
Bernsdorf's eternal laws of truth and beauty," which Reissiger,
in his day, was so careful to obey.
After I had left Dresden, when this A major symphony came to be
performed again under Reissiger, he did not feel at ease about
that passage; so he stopped the orchestra, and advised that it
should be taken mezzo forte!
On another occasion (not very long ago, at Munich), I was present
at a public performance of the overture to "Egmont," which proved
instructive--somewhat after the manner of the customary
performances of the overture to "Der Freyschutz." In the Allegro
of the Egmont overture [Footnote: Beethoven: op. 84.] the
powerful and weighty sostenuto of the introduction:
[Figure: musical example]
is used in rhythmical diminution as the first half of the second
theme, and is answered in the other half, by a soft and smooth
countermotive.
[Figure: musical example]
The conductor, [Footnote: Franz Lachner] in accordance with
"classical" custom, permitted this concise and concentrated
theme, a contrast of power and gentle self-content, to be swept
away by the rush of the Allegro, like a sere and withered leaf;
so that, whenever it caught the ear at all, a sort of dance pace
was heard, in which, during the two opening bars the dancers
stepped forward, and in the two following bars twirled about in
"Laendler" [Footnote: Laendler--an Austrian peasant's dance, in
triple time, from which the waltz is derived.] fashion.
When Bulow, in the absence of the favourite senior conductor, was
called upon to lead the music to Egmont at Munich, I induced him,
amongst other things, to attend to the proper rendering of this
passage. It proved at once strikingly effective--concise,
laconic--as Beethoven meant it. The tempo, which up to that point
had been kept up with passionate animation, was firmly arrested,
and very slightly modified--just as much, and no more than was
necessary to permit the orchestra properly to attack this
thematic combination, so full of energetic decision and of a
contemplative sense of happiness. At the end of the 3/4 time the
combination is treated in a broader and still more determined
manner; and thus these simple, but indispensible, modifications
brought about a new reading of the overture--the CORRECT reading.
The impression produced by this properly conducted performance
was singular, to say the least of it; I was assured that the
manager of the Court theatre was persuaded there had been "a
break-down."
No one among the audience of the celebrated Odeon Concerts at
Munich dreamt of "a break-down" when the above-mentioned senior
"classical" conductor led the performance of Mozart's G minor
symphony, when I happened to be present. The manner in which the
Andante of the symphony was played, and the effect it produced
was altogether surprising. Who has not, in his youth, admired
this beautiful piece, and tried to realize it in his own way? In
what way? No matter. If the marks of expression are scanty, the
wonderful composition arouses one's feelings; and fancy supplies
the means to read it in accordance with such feelings. It seems
as though Mozart had expected something of the kind, for he has
given but few and meagre indications of the expression. So we
felt free to indulge ourselves in the delicately increasing swing
of the quavers, with the moon-like rise of the violins:
[Figure: musical example]
the notes of which we believed to sound softly legato; the
tenderly whispering
[Figure: musical example]
touched us as with wings of angels, and before the solemn
admonitions and questionings of
[Figure: musical example]
(which, however, we heard in a finely sustained crescendo) we
imagined ourselves led to a blissful evanescence, which came upon
us with the final bars. Fancies of this sort, however, were not
permitted during the "strictly classical" performance, under the
veteran Capellmeister, at the Munich Odeon; the proceedings,
there, were carried on with a degree of solemnity, enough to make
one's flesh creep, with a sensation akin to a foretaste of
eternal perdition.
The lightly floating Andante was converted into a ponderous
Largo; not the hundredth part of the weight of a single quaver
was spared us; stiff and ghastly, like a bronze pigtail, the
battuta of this Andante was swung over our heads; even the
feathers on the angel's wings were turned into corkscrew curls--
rigid, like those of the seven year's war. Already, I felt myself
placed under the staff of a Prussian recruiting officer, A.D.
1740, and longed to be bought off--but! who can guess my terror,
when the veteran turned back the pages, and recommenced his
Largo--Andante, merely to do "classical" justice to the two
little dots before the double bar in the score! I looked about me
for help and succour--and beheld another wondrous thing: the
audience listened patiently: quite convinced that everything was
in the best possible order, and that they were having a true
Mozartian "feast for the ears" in all innocence and safety.--This
being so, I acquiesced, and bowed my head in silence.
Once, however, a little later on, my patience failed. At a
rehearsal of "Tannhauser" I had quietly allowed a good deal to
pass by unnoticed--even the clerical tempo at which my knights
had to march up in the second act. But now it became evident that
the undoubtedly "veteran" master could not even make out how 4/4
time was to be changed to an equivalent 6/4: i.e., two crotchets
[Figure: two crotchets (quarter notes)]
into a triplet of three crotchets
[Figure: a triplet of three crotchets (quarter notes)]
The trouble arose during Tannhauser's narrative of his pilgrimage
(Act III.), when 4/4
[Figure: musical score example]
is replaced by 6/4
This was too much for the veteran. He was very properly
accustomed to beat 4/4 on the square; but it is also the custom
of such conductors to beat 6/4 after the manner of 6/8, that is,
with an Alla breve beat--two in the bar. (Only in the Andante of
the G minor symphony did I witness six grave quaver beats = 1, 2,
3,--4, 5, 6). But, for my poor narrative about the Pope at Rome,
the conductor thought two timid Alla breve beats sufficient--so
that the members of the orchestra might be left at liberty to
make out the crotchets as best they could. Thus it came to pass
that the tempo was taken at exactly double the proper pace:
namely, instead of the equivalents just described, things
appeared thus:
[Figure: musical score example]
Now, this may have been very interesting, musically, but it
compelled the poor singer of Tannhauser to relate his painful
recollections of Rome to a gay and lively waltz-rhythm (which,
again, reminds me of Lohengrin's narrative about the Holy Grail,
at Wiesbaden, where I heard it recited scherzando, as though it
were about Queen Mab). But as I was, in this case, dealing with
so excellent a representative of Tannhauser as Ludwig Schnorr,
[Footnote: Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld, the first "Tristan"
died 1865.] I was bound to establish the right tempo, and, for
once, respectfully to interfere. This, I am sorry to say, caused
some scandal and annoyance. I fear in course of time, it even
caused some little martyrdom, and inspired a cold-blooded Gospel-
critic [Footnote: David Strauss, author of "Das Leben Jesu."] to
celebrate and console the veteran-martyr in a couple of sonnets.
Indeed, we have now got sundry "martyrs of classical music"
crowned with a halo of poetry. I shall beg leave to examine them
still more closely in the sequel.
It has repeatedly been pointed out that our conductors dislike
attempts at modification of tempo, for the sake of perspicuity in
the rendering of Beethoven and other classical music. I have
shewn that plausible objections can be urged against such
modifications, so long as they are not accompanied by
corresponding modifications of tone and expression; and I have
further shewn that such objections have no foundation other than
the incompetence of conductors, who attempt to perform functions
for which they are not fit. In fact, there is but one valid
objection which can be urged against the mode of procedure I
advocate, namely this: nothing can be more detrimental to a piece
of music than ARBITRARY NUANCES of tempo, etc., such as are
likely to be introduced by this or that self-willed and conceited
time-beater, for the sake of what he may deem "effective." In
that way, certainly, the very existence of our classical music
might, in course of time, be undermined. Now, what is to be said
or done in the face of so sad a state of things? A sound public
opinion with regard to questions of art does not exist in
Germany; and there is nothing amongst us that could effectually
put a stop to such vagaries. Thus, the above objection, valid as
it is (though seldom put forward in good faith), again points
towards the conductors; for, if incompetent persons are not to be
permitted to maltreat classical music at their pleasure, how is
it that the best and most influential musicians have not taken
this matter in hand? why have they themselves led classical music
into such a groove of triviality and actual disfigurement? In
many instances the objection in question is merely put forward as
a pretext for opposition to all efforts in the direction I have
indicated. Indolent and incompetent persons form an immense
majority: and, under certain circumstances, incompetency and
sluggishness unite, and grow aggressive.
The first performances of classical compositions with us have, as
a rule, been very imperfect. (One has but to recall the accounts
of the circumstances under which Beethoven's most difficult
symphonies were first performed!). A good deal also has, from the
first, been brought before the German public in an absolutely
incorrect manner (compare my essay on "Gluck's Overture to
Iphigenia in Aulis" in one of the earlier volumes of the "Neue
Zeitschrift fur Musik.") [Footnote: Wagner. "Gessammelte
Schriften." Vol. V.. p.143.] This being so, how can the current
style of execution appear other than it is? In Germany the
"conservators" of such works are both ignorant and incompetent.
And, on the other hand, suppose one were to take an unprejudiced
and impartial view of the manner in which a master like
Mendelssohn led such works! How can it be expected that lesser
musicians, not to speak of musical mediocrities generally, should
really comprehend things which have remained doubtful to their
master? For average people, who are not specially gifted, there
is but one good guide to excellence--a good example; and a
guiding example was not to be found in the path chosen by the
host of mediocrities. Unfortunately, they entirely occupy this
path or pass, at present,--without a guide or leader--and any
other person who might, perchance, be capable of setting up a
proper example, has no room left. For these reasons I deem it
worth while to strip this spirit of reticence and shallow
pretence of the halo of sanctity with which it poses as the
"chaste spirit of German art." A poor and pretentious pietism at
present stifles every effort, and shuts out every breath of fresh
air from the musical atmosphere. At this rate we may live to see
our glorious music turned into a colourless and ridiculous bug-
bear!
I therefore think it advisable to take a straightforward survey
of this spirit, to look closely into its eyes, and to openly
assert that it has NOTHING in common with the true spirit of
German music. It is not easy to estimate the positive weight and
value of modern, Beethovenian, music--but we may perhaps hope to
get at some negative proof of its worth, by an examination of the
pseudo-Beethovenian-classicism now in the ascendant.
It is curious to note how the opposition to the things I advocate
finds vent in the press, where uneducated scribblers clamour and
create a disturbance, whilst in the profession proper, the
utterances are far from noisy, though sufficiently bitter. ("You
see he cannot express himself," a lady once said to me with a sly
glance at one of these reticent musicians). As I have said at the
outset this new musical Areopagus consists of two distinct
species: Germans of the old type, who have managed to hold out in
the South of Germany, but are now gradually disappearing; and the
elegant Cosmopolites, who have arisen from the school of
Mendelssohn in the North, and are now in the ascendant. Formerly
the two species did not think much of each other; but latterly,
in the face of certain disturbances which seem to threaten their
nourishing business, they have united in mutual admiration; so
that in the South the Mendelssohnian school, with all that
pertains to it, is now lauded and protected--whilst, in the
North, the prototype of South-German sterility is welcomed
[Footnote: Franz Lachner and his Orchestral Suites.] with sudden
and profound respect--an honour which Lindpaintner of blessed
memory [Footnote: Peter Josef von Lindpainter, 1791-1856,
Capellmeister at Stuttgart] did not live to see. Thus to ensure
their prosperity the two species are shaking hands. Perhaps at
the outset such an alliance was rather repugnant to those of the
old native type; but they got over the difficulty by the aid of
that not particularly laudable propensity of Germans: namely, a
timid feeling of jealousy which accompanies a sense of
helplessness (die mit der Unbeholfenheit verbundenc Scheelsucht).
This propensity spoilt the temper of one of the most eminent
German musicians of later times, [Footnote: Robert Schumann.] led
him to repudiate his true nature, and to submit to the
regulations of the elegant and alien second species. The
opposition of the more subordinate musicians signifies nothing
beyond this: "we cannot advance, we do not want others to
advance, and we are annoyed to see them advance in spite of us."
This is at least honest Philistinism; dishonest only under
provocation.
In the newly-formed camp, however, things arc not so simple. Most
complicated maxims have there been evolved from the queer
ramifications of personal, social, and even national interests.
Without going into details, I will only touch one prominent
point, that HERE THERE IS A GOOD DEAL TO CONCEAL, A GOOD DEAL TO
HIDE AND SUPPRESS. The members of the fraternity hardly think it
desirable to show that they are "musicians" at all; and they have
sufficient reason for this.
Our true German musician was originally a man difficult to
associate with. In days gone by the social position of musicians
in Germany, as in France and England, was far from good. Princes,
and aristocratical society generally, hardly recognised the
social status of musicians (Italians alone excepted). Italians
were everywhere preferred to native Germans (witness the
treatment Mozart met with at the Imperial Court at Vienna).
Musicians remained peculiar half-wild, half-childish beings, and
were treated as such by their employers. The education, even of
the most gifted, bore traces of the fact that they had not really
come under the influence of refined and intelligent society--
(think of Beethoven when he came in contact with Goethe at
Teplitz). It was taken for granted that the mental organisation
of professional musicians was such as to render them
insusceptible to the influence of culture. When Marschner,
[Footnote: Heinrich Marschner, 1796-1861, operatic composer;
Weber's colleague at Dresden, subsequently conductor at Leipzig
and Hanover.] in 1848, found me striving to awaken the spirit of
the members of the Dresden orchestra, he seriously dissuaded me,
saying he thought professional musicians incapable of
understanding what I meant. Certain it is, as I have already
said, that the higher and highest professional posts were
formerly occupied by men who had gradually risen from the ranks,
and in a good journeyman-like sense this had brought about many
an excellent result. A certain family feeling, not devoid of
warmth and depth, was developed in such patriarchal orchestras--
and this family feeling was ready to respond to the suggestions
of a sympathetic leader. But just as, for instance, the Jews
formerly kept aloof from our handicraftsmen, so the new species
of conductors did not grow up among the musical guilds--they
would have shrunk from the hard work there. They simply took the
lead of the guilds--much as the bankers take the lead in our
industrial society. To be able to do this creditably conductors
had to show themselves possessed of something that was lacking to
the musicians from the ranks--something at least very difficult
to acquire in a sufficient degree, if it was not altogether
lacking: namely, a certain varnish of culture (Gebildetheit). As
a banker is equipped with capital, so our elegant conductors are
the possessors of pseudo-culture. I say pseudo-culture, not
CULTURE, for whoever really possesses the latter is a superior
person and above ridicule. But there can be no harm in discussing
our varnished and elegant friends.
I have not met with a case in which the results of true culture,
an open mind and a free spirit, have become apparent amongst
them. Even Mendelssohn, whose manifold gifts had been cultivated
most assiduously, never got over a certain anxious timidity; and
in spite of all his well-merited successes, he remained outside
the pale of German art-life. It seems probable that a feeling of
isolation and constraint was a source of much pain to him, and
shortened his life. The reason for this is to be found in the
fact that the motives of a desire for culture, such as his, lack
spontaneity--(dass dem Motive eines solchen Bildungsdranges keine
Unbefangenheit innewohnt)--and arise from a desire to cover and
conceal some part of a man's individuality, rather than to
develop it freely.
But true culture is not the result of such a process: a man may
grow extremely intelligent in certain ways; yet the point at
which these ways meet may be other than that of "pure
intelligence" (reinschende Intelligenz). To watch such an inner
process in the case of a particularly gifted and delicately
organized individual is sometimes touching; in the case of lesser
and more trivial natures however, the contemplation of the
process and its results is simply nauseous.
Flat and empty pseudo-culture confronts us with a grin, and if we
are not inclined to grin in return, as superficial observers of
our civilization are wont to do, we may indeed grow seriously
indignant. And German musicians now-a-days have good reason to be
indignant if this miserable sham culture presumes to judge of the
spirit and significance of our glorious music.
Generally speaking, it is a characteristic TRAIT of pseudo-
culture not to insist too much, not to enter deeply into a
subject or, as the phrase goes, not to make much fuss about
anything. Thus, whatever is high, great and deep, is treated as a
matter of course, a commonplace, naturally at everybody's beck
and call; something that can be readily acquired, and, if need
be, imitated. Again, that which is sublime, god-like, demonic,
must not be dwelt upon, simply because it is impossible or
difficult to copy. Pseudo-culture accordingly talks of
"excrescencies," "exaggerations," and the like--and sets up a
novel system of aesthetics, which professes to rest upon Goethe--
since he, too, was averse to prodigious monstrosities, and was
good enough to invent "artistic calm and beauty" in lieu thereof.
"The guileless innocence of art" becomes an object of laudation;
and Schiller, who now and then was too violent, is treated rather
contemptuously; so, in sage accord with the Philistines of the
day, a new conception of classicality is evolved. In other
departments of art, too, the Greeks are pressed into service, on
the ground that Greece was the very home of "clear transparent
serenity;" and, finally, such shallow meddling with all that is
most earnest and terrible in the existence of man, is gathered
together in a full and novel philosophical system [Footnote:
Hanslick's "Vom Musicalish-Schoenen," and particularly Vischer's
voluminous "System der AEsthetik."]--wherein our varnished
musical heroes find a comfortable and undisputed place of honour.
How the latter heroes treat great musical works I have shewn by
the aid of a few representative examples. It remains to explain
the serene and cheerful Greek sense of that "getting over the
ground" which Mendelssohn so earnestly recommended. This will be
best shown by a reference to his disciples and successors.
Mendelssohn wished to hide the inevitable shortcomings of the
execution, and also, in case of need, the shortcomings of that
which is executed; to this, his disciples and successors
superadded the specific motive of their "CULTURE": namely, "to
hide and cover up in general," to escape attention, to create no
disturbance. There is a QUASI physiological reason for this which
I accidentally discovered once upon a time.
For the performance of Tannhauser, at Paris, I re-wrote the scene
in the "Venusberg" on a larger scale: at one of the rehearsals I
explained to the ballet master that the little tripping pas of
his Maenads and Bacchantes contrasted miserably with my music,
and asked him to arrange something wild and bold for his corps--
something akin to the groups of Bacchantes on ancient bas-
reliefs. Thereupon the man whistled through his fingers, and
said, "Ah, I understand perfectly, but to produce anything of the
sort I should require a host of premiers sujets; if I were to
whisper a word of what you say, and indicate the attitudes you
intend to my people here, we should instantly have the 'cancan,'
and be lost." The very same feeling which induced my Parisian
ballet-master to rest content with the most vapid pas of Maenads
and Bacchantes, forbids our elegant, new-fangled conductors to
cut the traces of their "culture." They are afraid such a thing
might lead to a scandal a la Offenbach. Meyerbeer was a warning
to them; the Parisian opera had tempted him into certain
ambiguous Semitic accentuations in music, which fairly scared the
"men of culture."
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