Modern Music

THE ethical sense which lies at the root of all that is most valuable and significant in German music tends, at times, to become over-developed, and to thwart the creative impulse. This ethical point of view in the German sense was not at all characteristic of the Austrian Bruckner, in whose simple soul was no trace of didacticism, yet the tendency to probe and moralise was rampant in many who surrounded him and exists in nearly all who worship him whole-heartedly to-day. It is obvious that ethics and ideas remain indispensable in music-in Wagner they begot the will to dramatise and were linked to calculated theatrical effects--nevertheless without the fire of the senses they cannot be artistically creative. At times the didactic propensity, over-analysis, the expression of social ideals, become excessive, smother the creative fire and destroy the work of art.

A short consideration of the work of Friedrich Klose is a proper introduction to a study of the ethical composer, Hans Pfitzner. Friedrich Klose, a curious, hybrid, half-original, halfimitative musician, formed one of Bruckner's circle and learned strict counterpoint from him. He is fertile in ideas, hovers between romantic and programme music, is highly susceptible to outside influence and is innately incapable of conceiving music apart from a mental picture. He needs a body of doctrine on which to find a firm basis, but he believes that his own ideas, pale reflections of those of his time, render it superfluous. So-called Neo-romanticism has given a fictitious value to dilettantism, but this Klose renounced reluctantly on the advice of Mottl, who was at one time a follower of Bruckner. Fundamentally, Klose feels his bondage to Bruckner irksome. The master whom he came to know first as an admiring listener to his mighty improvisations in the church at Bayreuth, initiated him into the mysteries of counterpoint, but as Bruckner had never grasped the sonata-form, except as understood in Sechter Rudiments of Musical Grammar, nor enriched that form in his own work, he was of course unable to assist his somewhat half-hearted disciple in that direction.

Both the matter and the technique of this remarkable man may be called hybrid. He is not a dilettante, but he never became a master of form, nor, through many changes, did he ever find a style that really suited his creative impulses without contradicting his intentions. The pedagogue in him hampers his romantic and programme music; Bayreuth is a perpetual stumbling-block to him, and what original imagination he possessed has been spoiled in its development by the threefold influences of Wagner, Liszt and Berlioz. Temperate by nature and choice, he attempts to establish a type for every species, but the literary idea is again and again too strong for musical inspiration, and the result lacks finality. He borrowed the subject and underlying thought for his symphonic poem, Das Leben ein Traum (Life a Dream), from the pessimist philosophy of Julius Bahnsen, a slightly modified Schopenhauerism. Ilsebill (The Fisher and his Wife), a work for the stage, is a poetic version of a rough draft left by the composer's father. In Ilsehill he has tried to tack on to a fairy tale a deeply significant idea of high aspiration and disastrous fall, but it is unlikely to have permanent value either on the stage or the concert-platform. Der Sonne Geist (The Sun Spirit) for soli, chorus, orchestra and organ is founded on an obscure poem by Alfred Mombert. In each of these works Klose attempts a new departure in form. Ilsebill is a dramatic symphony; Der Sonne Geist is derived from oratorio; but didacticism and moral purpose serve only to emphasise the hybrid character of these works, and neither the prelude and the double fugue, with four trumpets and four trombones at the close (an offering to the manes of Bruckner), nor the string-quartet--"A tribute paid in four instalments to their worships the schoolmasters of Germany" --can disguise the inner disunion. Despite occasional sideglances towards typically modern music, the progressive spirit is cheated. Lack of creative imagination is obvious.

Friedrich Klose is a noteworthy though not a powerful member of the Munich circle whose leader was Ludwig Thuille, composer of Lobetanz, an opera more full-blooded than the work of Klose, though it has similar hybrid qualities. Others of the circle who attained local celebrity are August Reuss and Johann Kaspar Schmid.

Far and away above this group of somewhat ineffective Neo-German Neo-romantics, Hans Pfitzner blazes his own path to fame. He possesses certain clearly-marked traits in common with the second generation of Wagnerians, but is distinguished from them by a very individual creative talent. All that he is and all that he does is full of character and has breadth and significance. What defects he has bear the impress of his personality, and are the defects of his qualities.

He has been called a Romantic, but it is a romanticism subordinated to understanding and purpose. Romanticism at the present day always has something autumnal about it; it is not a possible attitude for a true son of this era, but, in addition to this, other elements cloud the sources of Pfitzner's inspiration. He looks backwards; he is typical of the bourgeois ideals of education. He has the scholar's interest in solving historical enigmas, rejoices in the poetry and wisdom of the past, and is convinced that the present is a time of decline. knowing little of affairs he has never attained the public recognition which he believes his due, and the whole business side of art at the present time is hateful to him. With increasing self-knowledge he tilts against the fashions of the period, using his knowledge of music, philosophy, philology and aesthetics as weapons for the fight. The more he sees the consequences of what he believes to be disintegrating forces, the more he becomes the pedagogue, and during the late war which overthrew all his ideals, he wrote leading articles, musical polemics, which had a marked influence on those who seek in art a basis of conviction.

Nothing short of the creative strength of Richard Wagner could enable a composer of such deeply ethical purpose, such penetrating understanding, to achieve expression without confusion. As a matter of fact the author of On Musical Drama (Vom musikalischen Drama) does succeed in carrying on the Wagner tradition, but his gift is not altogether in accord with the subject of his work, nor is it, generally speaking, powerful enough to support the burden of his comprehensive philosophy. Pfitzner really wishes to use the stage as, a means of expression, yet he constantly draws away from it. His markedly non-sensuous nature is against it, preventing him from finding there the milieu for the poetic expression of his moral outlook. He feels obliged to use his Wagnerian inheritance, and accordingly studies methods of theatrical presentation, but at heart he loves Schumann, feels the spell of elfish dance and fairy ring, is indeed in certain qualities of bitterness, reserve and subtle brooding very like Brahms. He wavers between the opposite poles of opera and chambermusic, and this affects his technique, which, although it gives in enhanced form the beauties of the romantic style and adopts modern ideas as to colour, sometimes evinces by an obstinate revival of horizontal part-music more learning than originality. His object is clearly announced in a powerful rhythm which from time to time gives proof of a faculty for development of form, but for all that his work is not homogeneous, not fused by the fire of the senses, seldom evoking a clear image. Romance, dreaminess, thirst for knowledge, ethical purpose and effort to impress a meaning--these are the qualities of Pfitzner's work. His uncompromising individuality is obvious and all the more striking by contrast with contemporaneous habits of thought. A Wagnerian with a sense that Wagner's mission is not yet fulfilled, a descendant of Schumann and Brahms by the nature of his talent, Pfitzner might have found a means of reconciling opposites had he not been constantly checked by rigid convictions, a superfluity of character and theory.

As a Wagnerian imbued with the philosophy of Schopenhauer, he expressed the typically Wagnerian idea of deliverance in two music-dramas, and again, in the fulness of his powers, with all the earnestness, wisdom and solemnity at his command, in Palestrina.

Pfitzner's love of the Middle Ages, his visionary tendency, is expressed in Der arme Heinrich, a legend of a knight who was cleansed from leprosy through the sacrifice of a Swabian maiden. The author, James Grun, however, fails to make Hartmann von der Aue consistent and convincing throughout, although occasional scenes are excellently written. The composer is carried away by a passion of grief, pity and ecstasy, the spirit of Wagner is strong in him, notably in his use of "spoken song" and orchestra; yet he seems to get lost in his dreams; harshness and delicacy, the archaic and the modern, "Wagner" and "Brahms," mingle but do not blend. The orchestra trembles under the breath of romanticism; will and understanding struggle in vain to join what refuses to be joined; the work has not the quality of directness which gives life, but it is nevertheless one of the highest achievements of the post-Wagnerian music-drama.

 

Pfitzner's second act of faith in Wagnerian doctrine is Die Rose vom Liebesga, ten, the production of which at the Opera of Vienna, through the sympathy and interest of Gustav Mahler, was so deeply impressive that again and again, under the spell of delightful memories, one is tempted to build too much upon it. This is, however, mere delusion. The whole of Die Rose vom Liebesgarten, including Grun's libretto, is imitative, not original. Once again it is as though the naturespirits, the little people of moor and wood, had by their spells charmed Pfitzner, the fairy-tale teller, away from the realities of the stage to a far country. Here and there he achieves romance, but ultimately he seems to lose himself in a maze of names and words, a desert of meaningless mythology.

For a long time Pfitzner composed no more music-dramas and endured the disillusionments of one who sees his contemporaries going after other gods. As conductor of a theatre orchestra he was in his own way productive, and his activities in Strasburg undoubtedly influenced his work.

Pfitzner, true German as he is, has suffered unprecedented neglect at the hands of his countrymen. This is to be accounted for partly by the fact that he lives in a utilitarian age and his work, neither typical of the time nor easy to classify, is particularly unmarketable. A few songs such as Sonst and Gretel are to be heard from time to time in the concert-room, and a ballad, Die Heinzelmännehen, attracts because its instrumentation imparts such remarkably grotesque and intense life to the little dwarfs. Some of his chamber-music, too, such as the pianoforte trio, Op. 8, a few quartets, etc., in which his love of the romantic mingles strangely with an obstinate didacticism which obscures beauty, is performed occasionally. All this work has unquestionable sincerity and a high degree of contrapuntal skill, but caprices of style do, none the less, from time to time produce a spasmodic effect.

During the pause in his ' activities as composer, Pfitzner, surrounded by a throng of disciples, became a determined reactionary. The more he withdrew from a world which misunderstood him, the more bitter and defiant he became. As he reaches maturity, intellectual activity preponderates in him and interpenetrates the visionary side Of his nature. He fights passionately for his principles. To hear Pfitzner in the fulness of his powers conduct Beethoven Pastoral Symphony or Schumann Symphony in D minor is to realise that, underlying all his pedagogic and premeditative qualities, there is originality of conception and deep understanding, springing from the intuition of a creative musician.

The fruit of his quiescent period was Palestrina. During this time his followers had increased in number, and it is not surprising to find among them such an one as Thomas Mann, whose democratic mind gropes slowly, deliberately, progressively, for some satisfying philosophy of life. He was naturally drawn to Pfitzner, who uses all the resources of ripe artistic understanding and keen historic judgment for the tireless promulgation of his creed.

Palestrina, a "musical legend," is highly self-conscious romanticism. It is inspired by suffering, the work of a sorely-tried man, and reminds one of the like origin of the Missa Papæ Marcelli. The aim of Palestrina is to reveal the sources of the composer's inspiration, to show the origins of his work, to proclaim his victory in his struggles with men and ideas. But it is a clouded triumph and what one may call "the self-apotheosis" of the close is not free from bitterness. The philosophy of Schopenhauer is in both root and branch of this work.

It is curious that a work intended to honour creative art, to show the creative artist as one above and beyond the things of this world, should be so little blessed with inspiration. Learning, will, purpose, were the forces which begot it, without a trace of that fantastic romanticism which seemed to be, and indeed was, one of Pfitzner's essential attributes. Neglecting all non-essentials, the composer aims at something monumental. The composition is packed with the results of hard work, anything of an erotic nature is decisively barred, woman appearing as the protectress of inspiration and in no other rôle. This idea is successful. At the particular moments when the inner meaning of the creative act is revealed by a creative artist, we realise that here is an original and absorbing piece of work. The scene of the vision of the dead composers who charge Palestrina to create anew, is perhaps merely a clever stage device of little musical value; nevertheless Pfitzner attains an intellectual harmony rare in modern opera. Much of it is somewhat laboured. The revival of mediacval, polyphonic music is simply an example of Pfitzner's perversity, a piece of toilsome ingenuity. Skilful craftsmanship pervades the whole, and is very noteworthy in the spacious Act II., the Council of Trent, where the coinage of the Meistersinger is systematically reissued, bearing, however, the stamp of Pfitzner. The orchestral intricacies, the use of the voices in the manner of " spoken song," all combine to produce a deliberately non-sensuous effect quite unparalleled.

Palestrina is a considerable intellectual and ethical achievement, the high-water mark of a career in which strength of purpose has predominated over an artistic talent by no means trifling. In ethical pathos, in welding poetic and musical talents in a single work, it is a last example of successful Wagnerism. The poetry and music are full of high mission, but they spring from mental activity alone without Wagner's transforming sensuousness, and even with this they could not have been successful. The matter of the work being Italian, such asceticism seems doubly strange. Palestrina will always be considered good work, but only a highly-finished performance can bring out its qualities. In this respect it is more Wagnerian than Wagner, yet it lacks the vitality to persist as a commemorative festival work.

Other works of Pfitzner are musical settings for Ibsen Das Fest auf Solhaug, and Kätchen von Heilhronn, which add little to our survey; and Das Christelflein, intended as a Christmas play, shows little understanding of childish romance, and is only a musical counterpart of a very second-rate libretto.

Pfitzner's personality, to sum up, is a gnarled and tangled thicket of mingled qualities--of the romantic, the aesthetic, the poet, the student, the musician, and the schoolmaster. His work will have value only in the history of the development of music; but he himself remains, in spite of limitations, one of the greatest Germans of the age.