Books: On Conducting (Ueber das Dirigiren):
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Richard Wagner (translated by Edward Dannreuther) >> On Conducting (Ueber das Dirigiren):
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A large part of their education has ever since consisted in
learning to watch their behaviour, and to suppress any
indications of passion; much as one who naturally lisps and
stammers, is careful to keep quiet, lest he should be overcome by
a fit of hissing and stuttering. Such continuous watchfulness has
assisted in the removal of much that was unpleasant, and the
general humane amalgamation has gone on much more smoothly;
which, again, has brought it about that many a stiff and poorly
developed element of our home-growth has been refreshed and
rejuvenated. I have already mentioned that amongst musicians
roughness of speech and behaviour are going out, that delicate
details in musical execution are more carefully attended to, etc.
But it is a very different thing to allow the necessity for
reticence, and for the suppression of certain personal
characteristics, to be converted into a principle for the
treatment of our art! Germans are stiff and awkward when they
want to appear mannerly: BUT THEY ARE NOBLE AND SUPERIOR WHEN
THEY GROW WARM. And are we to suppress our fire to please those
reticent persons? In truth, it looks as though they expected us
to do so.
In former days, whenever I met a young musician who had come in
contact with Mendelssohn, I learnt that the master had admonished
him not to think of effect when composing, and to avoid
everything that might prove meretriciously impressive. Now, this
was very pleasant and soothing advice; and those pupils who
adopted it, and remained true to the master, have indeed produced
neither "impression nor meretricious effect;" only, the advice
seemed to me rather too negative, and I failed to see the value
of that which was positively acquired under it. I believe the
entire teaching of the Leipzig Conservatorium was based upon some
such negative advice, and I understand that young people there
have been positively pestered with warnings of a like kind;
whilst their best endeavours met with no encouragement from the
masters, unless their taste in music fully coincided with the
tone of the orthodox psalms. The first result of the new
doctrine, and the most important for our investigations, came to
light in the execution of classical music. Everything here was
governed by the fear of exaggeration (etwa in das Drastische zu
fallen). I have, for instance, hitherto not found any traces that
those later pianoforte works of Beethoven, in which the master's
peculiar style is best developed, have actually been studied and
played by the converts to that doctrine.
For a long time I earnestly wished to meet with some one who
could play the great Sonata in B flat (Op. 106) as it should be
played. At length my wish was gratified--but by a person who came
from a camp wherein those doctrines do NOT prevail. Franz Liszt,
also, gratified my longing to hear Bach. No doubt Bach has been
assiduously cultivated by Liszt's opponents; they esteem Bach for
teaching purposes, since a smooth and mild manner of execution
apparently accords better with his music than "modern effect," or
Beethovenian strenuousness (Drastik).
I once asked one of the best-reputed older musicians, a friend
and companion of Mendelssohn (whom I have already mentioned
apropos of the tempo di menuetto of the eighth symphony),
[Footnote: Ferdinand Hiller] to play the eighth Prelude and Fugue
from the first part of "Das Wohltemperirte Clavier" (E flat
minor), a piece which has always had a magical attraction for me.
[Footnote: i.e. Prelude VIII., from Part I. of Bach's 48 Preludes
and Fugues.] He very kindly complied, and I must confess that I
have rarely been so much taken by surprise. Certainly, there was
no trace here of sombre German gothicism and all that old-
fashioned stuff; under the hands of my friend, the piece ran
along the keyboard with a degree of "Greek serenity" that left me
at a loss whither to turn; in my innocence I deemed myself
transported to a neo-hellenic synagogue, from the musical cultus
of which all old testamentary accentuations had been most
elegantly eliminated. This singular performance still tingled in
my ears, when at length I begged Liszt for once to cleanse my
musical soul of the painful impression: he played the fourth
Prelude and Fugue (C sharp minor). Now, I knew what to expect
from Liszt at the piano; but I had not expected anything like
what I came to hear from Bach, though I had studied him well; I
saw how study is eclipsed by genius. By his rendering of this
single fugue of Bach's, Liszt revealed Bach to me; so that I
henceforth knew for certain what to make of Bach, and how to
solve all doubts concerning him. I was convinced, also, that
THOSE people know NOTHING of Bach; and if anyone chooses to doubt
my assertion, I answer: "request them to play a piece of Bach's."
[Footnote: See Appendix C]
I would like further to question any member of that musical
temperance society and, if it has ever been his lot to hear Liszt
play Beethoven's great B flat Sonata. I would ask him to testify
honestly whether he had before really known and understood that
sonata? I, at least, am acquainted with a person who was so
fortunate; and who was constrained to confess that he had not
before understood it. And to this day, who plays Bach, and the
great works of Beethoven, in public, and compels every audience
to confess as much? a member of that "school for temperance?" No!
it is Liszt's chosen successor, Hans van Bulow.
So much for the present on this subject. It might prove
interesting to observe the attitude these reticent gentlemen take
up with regard to performances such as Liszt's and Bulow's.
The successes of their policy, to which they are indebted for the
control of public music in Germany, need not detain us; but we
are concerned in an examination of the curious religious
development within their congregation. In this respect the
earlier maxim, "beware of effect"--the result of embarrassment
and cautious timidity--has now been changed, from a delicate rule
of prudence and security, to a positively aggressive dogma. The
adherents of this dogma hypocritically look askance if they
happen to meet with a true man in music. They pretend to be shocked,
as though they had come across something improper. The spirit of
their shyness, which originally served to conceal their own
impotence, now attempts the defamation of other people's potency.
Defamatory insinuations and calumny find ready acceptance with the
representatives of German Philistinism, and appear to be at home
in that mean and paltry state of things which, as we have seen,
environs our musical affairs.
The principal ingredient, however, is an apparently judicious
caution in presence of that which one happens to be incapable of,
together with detraction of that which one would like to
accomplish one's self. It is sad, above all things, to find a man
so powerful and capable as Robert Schumann concerned in this
confusion, and in the end to see his name inscribed on the banner
of the new fraternity. The misfortune was that Schumann in his
later days attempted certain tasks for which he was not
qualified. And it is a pity to see that portion of his work, in
which he failed to reach the mark he had set himself, raised as
the insignia of the latest guild of musicians. A good deal of
Schumann's early endeavour was most worthy of admiration and
sympathy, and it has been cherished and nurtured by us (I am
proud here to rank myself with Liszt's friends) in a more
commendable and commending way than by his immediate adherents.
[Footnote: See Appendix D.] The latter, well aware that Schumann
had herein evinced true productivity, knowingly kept these things
in the background, perhaps because they could not play them in an
effective way. On the other hand, certain works of Schumann
conceived on a larger and bolder scale, and in which the limits
of his gifts become apparent are now carefully brought forward.
[Footnote: Such as the Overtures to Faust, Die Braut von Messina,
Julius Caesar; the "Balladen," Das Gluck von Edenhall, Des Sanger
Fluch, Vom Pagen und der Konigstochter, etc.] The public does not
exactly like these works, but their performance offers an
opportunity to point out how commendable a thing it is to "make
no effect." Finally, a comparison with the works of Beethoven in
his third period (played as they play them) comes in opportunely.
Certain later, inflated (schwulstig) and dull productions of R.
Schumann, which simply require to be played smoothly (glatt
herunter gespielt) are confounded with Beethoven; and an attempt
is made to show that they agree in spirit with the rarest,
boldest and most profound achievements of German music! Thus
Schumann's shallow bombast is made to pass for the equivalent of
the inexpressible purport of Beethoven--but always with the
reservation that strenuous eccentricity such as Beethoven's is
hardly admissible; whereas, vapid emptiness (das gleichgiltig
Nichtssagende) is right and proper: a point at which Schumann
properly played, and Beethoven improperly rendered, are perhaps
comparable without much fear of misunderstanding! Thus these
singular defenders of musical chastity stand towards our great
classical music in the position of eunuchs in the Grand-Turk's
Harem; and by the same token German Philistinism is ready to
entrust them with the care of music in the family--since it is
plain that anything ambiguous is not likely to proceed from that
quarter.
BUT NOW WHAT BECOMES OF OUR GREAT AND GLORIOUS GERMAN MUSIC? It
is the fate of our music that really concerns us. We have little
reason to grieve if, after a century of wondrous productivity,
nothing particular happens to come to light for some little time.
But there is every reason to beware of suspicious persons who set
themselves up as the trustees and conservators of the "true
German spirit" of our inheritance.
Regarded as individuals, there is not much to blame in these
musicians; most of them compose very well. Herr Johannes Brahms
once had the kindness to play a composition of his own to me--a
piece with very serious variations--which I thought excellent,
and from which I gathered that he was impervious to a joke. His
performance of other pianoforte music at a concert gave me less
pleasure. I even thought it impertinent that the friends of this
gentleman professed themselves unable to attribute anything
beyond "extraordinary technical power" to "Liszt and his school,"
whilst the execution of Herr Brahms appeared so painfully dry,
inflexible and wooden. I should have liked to see Herr Brahms'
technique annointed with a little of the oil of Liszt's school;
an ointment which does not seem to issue spontaneously from the
keyboard, but is evidently got from a more aetherial region than
that of mere "technique." To all appearances, however, this was a
very respectable phenomenon; only it remains doubtful how such a
phenomenon could be set up in a natural way as the Messiah, or,
at least, the Messiah's most beloved disciple; unless, indeed, an
affected enthusiasm for mediaeval wood-carvings should have
induced us to accept those stiff wooden figures for the ideals of
ecclesiastical sanctity. In any case we must protest against any
presentation of our great warm-hearted Beethoven in the guise of
such sanctity. If THEY cannot bring out the difference between
Beethoven, whom they do not comprehend and therefore pervert, and
Schumann, who, for very simple reasons, IS incomprehensible, they
shall, at least, not be permitted to assume that no difference
exists.
I have already indicated sundry special aspects of this
sanctimoniousness. Following its aspirations a little further we
shall come upon a new field, across which our investigation on
and about conducting must now lead us. Some time ago the editor
of a South German journal discovered "hypocritical tendencies"
(muckerische Tendenzen) in my artistic theories. The man
evidently did not know what he was saying; he merely wished to
use an unpleasant word. But my experience has led me to
understand that the essence of hypocrisy, and the singular
tendency of a repulsive sect of hypocrites (Mucker), may be known
by certain characteristics:--they wish to be tempted, and
greedily seek temptation, in order to exercise their power of
resistance!--Actual scandal, however, does not begin until the
secret of the adepts and leaders of the sect is disclosed;--the
adepts reverse the object of the resistance--they resist with a
view to increasing the ultimate sense of beatitude. Accordingly,
if this were applied to art, one would perhaps not be saying a
senseless thing if one were to attribute hypocritical tendencies
to the queer "school for chastity" of this Musical Temperance
Society. The lower grades of the school may be conceived as
vacillating between the orgiastic spirit of musical art and the
reticence which their dogmatic maxim imposes upon them--whilst it
can easily be shewn that the higher grades nourish a deep desire
to enjoy that which is forbidden to the lower. The "Liebeslieder
Walzer" of the blessed Johannes (in spite of the silly title)
might be taken as the exercises of the lower grades; whereas the
intense longing after "the Opera," which troubles the
sanctimonious devotions of the adepts, may be accepted as the
mark of the higher and highest grades. If a single member, for
once only, were to achieve a success with an opera, it is more
than probable that the entire "school" would explode. But,
somehow, no such success has hitherto been achieved, and this
keeps the school together; for, every attempt that happens to
fail, can be made to appear as a conscious effort of abstinence,
in the sense of the exercises of the lower grades; [Footnote: For
a curious example of such exercises, see Ferdinand Hiller's "Oper
ohne Text;" a set of pianoforte pieces, a quatre mains.] and "the
opera," which beckons in the distance like a forlorn bride, can
be made to figure as a symbol of the temptation, which is to be
finally resisted--so that the authors of operatic failures may be
glorified as special saints.
Seriously speaking, how do these musical gentlemen stand with
regard to "THE OPERA?" Having paid them a visit in the concert-
room to which they belong, and from which they started, we shall
now, for the sake of "conducting," look after them at the
theatre.
Herr Eduard Devrient, in his "Erinnerungen," has given us an
account of the difficulties his friend Mendelssohn met with in
the search for a textbook to an opera. It was to be a truly
"GERMAN" opera, and the master's friends were to find the
materials wherewith to construct it. Unfortunately, they did not
succeed in the quest. I suspect there were very simple reasons
for this. A good deal can be got at by means of discussion and
arrangement; but a "German" and "nobly-serene" opera, such as
Mendelssohn in his delicate ambition dreamt of, is not exactly a
thing that can be manufactured--nor old nor new testamentary
recipes will serve the purpose. The master did not live to reach
the goal: but his companions and apprentices continued their
efforts. Herr Hiller believed he could force on a success, simply
by dint of cheerful and unflagging perseverance. Everything, he
thought, depends upon a "lucky hit," such as others had made in
his very presence, and which steady perseverance, as in a game of
chance, must, sooner or later, bring round to him. But the "lucky
hit" invariably missed. Schumann also did not succeed, [Footnote:
"Genoveva," Oper in vier Acten, nach Tieck und F. Hebbel, Musik
von Robert Schumann. Op. 81."] and many other members of the
church of abstinence, both adepts and neophytes, have since
stretched forth their "chaste and innocent" hands in search of an
operatic success--they troubled greatly--but their efforts proved
fruitless--"the fortunate grip" failed.
Now, such experiences are apt to embitter the most harmless
persons. All the more so, since Capellmeisters and Musikdirectors
are daily occupied at the theatres, and are bound to serve in a
sphere in which they are absolutely helpless and impotent. And
the causes of their impotence, with regard to the composition of
an opera, are also the causes of their inability to conduct an
opera properly. Yet such is the fate of our public art, that
gentlemen who are not even able to conduct concert music, are the
sole leaders in the very complicated business of the opera
theatres! Let a reader of discretion imagine the condition of
things there!
I have been prolix in showing the weakness of our conductors, in
the very field, where, by rights, they ought to feel at home. I
can be brief now with regard to the opera. Here it simply comes
to this: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."
To characterize their disgraceful doings, I should have to show
how much that is good and significant MIGHT be done at the
theatres, and this would lead me too far. Let it be reserved for
another occasion. For the present I shall only say a little about
their ways as operatic conductors.
In the concert room these gentlemen go to work with the most
serious mien; at the opera they deem it becoming to put on a
nonchalant, sceptical, cleverly-frivolous air. They concede with
a smile that they are not quite at home in the opera, and do not
profess to understand much about things which they do not
particularly esteem. Accordingly, they are very accommodating and
complaisant towards vocalists, female and male, for whom they are
glad to make matters comfortable; they arrange the tempo,
introduce fermatas, ritardandos, accelerandos, transpositions,
and, above all, "cuts," whenever and wherever a vocalist chooses
to call for such. Whence indeed are they to derive the authority
to resist this or that absurd demand? If, perchance, a
pedantically disposed conductor should incline to insist upon
this or that detail, he will, as a rule, be found in the wrong.
For vocalists are at least at home and, in their own frivolous
way, at ease in the opera; they know well enough what they can
do, and how to do it; so that, if anything worthy of admiration
is produced in the operatic world it is generally due to the
right instincts of the vocalists, just as in the orchestra the
merit lies almost entirely in the good sense of the musicians.
One has only to examine an orchestra part of "Norma," for
instance, to see what a curious musical changeling (Wechselbalg)
such innocent looking sheets of music paper can be turned into;
the mere succession of the transpositions--the Adagio of an Aria
in F sharp major, the Allegro in F, and between the two (for the
sake of the military band) a transition in E flat--offers a truly
horrifying picture of the music to which such an esteemed
conductor cheerfully beats time.
It was only at a suburban theatre at Turin (i.e., in Italy) that
I witnessed a correct and complete performance of the "Barber of
Seville;" for our conductors grudge the trouble it takes to do
justice even to a simple score such as "Il Barbiere." They have
no notion that a perfectly correct performance, be it of the most
insignificant opera can produce an excellent impression upon an
educated mind, simply by reason of its correctness. Even the
shallowest theatrical concoctions, at the smallest Parisian
theatres, can produce a pleasant aesthetical effect, since, as a
rule, they are carefully rehearsed, and correctly rendered. The
power of the artistic principle is, in fact, so great that an
aesthetic result is at once attained, if only some part of that
principle be properly applied, and its conditions fulfilled: and
such is true art, although it may be on a very low level. But we
do not get such aesthetic results in Germany, unless it be at
PERFORMANCES OF BALLETS, in Vienna, or Berlin. Here the whole
matter is in the hands of one man--the ballet-master--and that
man knows his business. Fortunately, he is in a position to
dictate the rate of movement to the orchestra, for the expression
as well as for the tempo, and he does so, not according to his
individual whim, like an operatic singer, but with a view to the
ensemble, the consensus of all the artistic factors; and now, of
a sudden, it comes to pass that the orchestra plays correctly! A
rare sense of satisfaction will be felt by everyone who, after
the tortures of an opera, witnesses a performance of one of those
Ballets.
In this way the stage manager might lend his aid to the ensemble
of the opera. But, singularly enough, the fiction that the opera
is a branch of absolute music is everywhere kept up; every
vocalist is aware of the musical director's ignorance of the
business of an opera; yet--if it should happen that the right
instincts of gifted singers, musicians and executants generally
are aroused by a fine work, and bring about a successful
performance--are we not accustomed to see the Herr Capellmeister
called to the front, and otherwise rewarded, as the
representative of the total artistic achievement? Ought he not
himself to be surprised at this? Is he not, in his turn, in a
position to pray, "Forgive them, they know not what they do?"
But as I wished to speak of Conducting proper, and do not want to
lose my way in the operatic wilderness, I have only to confess
that I have come to the end of this chapter. I cannot dispute
about the conducting of our capellmeisters at the theatres.
Singers may do so, when they have to complain that this conductor
is not accommodating enough, or that the other one does not give
them their cues properly: in short, from the stand-point of
vulgar journeyman-work, a discussion may be possible. BUT FROM
THE POINT OF VIEW OF TRULY ARTISTIC WORK THIS SORT OF CONDUCTING
CANNOT BE TAKEN INTO ACCOUNT AT ALL. Among Germans, now living, I
am, perhaps, the only person who can venture openly to pronounce
so general a condemnation, and I maintain that I am not exceeding
the limits of my province when I do so.
If I try to sum up my experiences, regarding performances of my
own operas, I am at a loss to distinguish with which of the
qualities of our conductors I am concerned. Is it the spirit in
which they treat German music in the concert rooms, or the spirit
in which they deal with the opera at the theatres? I believe it
to be my particular and personal misfortune that the two spirits
meet in my operas, and mutually encourage one another in a rather
dubious kind of way. Whenever the former spirit, which practices
upon our classical concert music, gets a chance--as in the
instrumental introductions to my operas--I have invariably
discovered the disastrous consequences of the bad habits already
described at such length. I need only speak of the tempo, which
is either absurdly hurried (as, for instance, under Mendelssohn,
who, once upon a time, at a Leipzig Gewandhaus concert, produced
the overture to Tannhauser as an example and a warning), or
muddled (like the introduction to Lohengrin at Berlin, and almost
everywhere else), or both dragged and muddled (like the
introduction to "Die Meistersinger," lately, at Dresden and at
other places), yet never with those well-considered modifications
of the tempo, upon which I must count as much as upon the correct
intonation of the notes themselves, if an intelligible rendering
is to be obtained.
To convey some notion of faulty performances of the latter sort
it will suffice to point to the way in which the overture to "Die
Meistersinger" is usually given. The main tempo of this piece is
indicated as "sehr massig bewegt" (with very moderate movement);
according to the older method, it would have been marked Allegro
maestoso. Now, when this kind of tempo continues through a long
piece, particularly if the themes are treated episodically, it
demands modification as much as, or even more than any other kind
of tempo; it is frequently chosen to embody the manifold
combinations of distinct motives; and its broad divisions into
regular bars of four beats are found convenient, as these tend to
render modifications of movement both easy and simple. This
moderate 4/4 time can be interpreted in many and various ways; it
may consist of four vigorous crotchet-beats, and thus express a
true animated Allegro (this is the main tempo I intend, which
becomes most animated in those eight bars of transition
[2 measures of music are shown here]
which lead from the march proper to the theme in E major); or, it
may be taken to consist of a demi-period made up of two 2/4
beats; as when, at the entrance of the shortened theme,
[2 measures of music are shown here]
it assumes the character of a lively Scherzando; or, it may even
be interpreted as Alia breve (2/2 time) when it would represent
the older, easily moving Tempo andante (often employed in church
music) which is to be rendered with two moderately slow beats to
a bar. I have used it in the latter sense, beginning from the
eighth bar after the return to C major, in a combination of the
principal march theme, now allotted to the basses, with the
second main theme, now sung broadly and with commodious ease, in
rhythmical prolongation, by the violins and violoncellos:
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