Lecture Ten
Chamber Music and the
music of
Brahms, Mendelssohn,
Mahler, and Bruckner
The
classical composer par excellence of the present day, who free from any
provincialism of expression or national dialect... writes for the whole world
and for all time -- Johannes Brahms
For many
romantic composers, chamber music was an awkward form; on one hand, it lacked
the personal expressiveness of the then-popular solo piano piece, but on the
other hand it did not offer the colors and overpowering sound of the full
orchestra. For these reasons, composers such as Berlioz, Liszt, Chopin, Mahler,
and Wagner wrote very little chamber music, or ignored the form completely.
Many composers, especially those who still held to various Classical ideals,
continued to produce chamber music. Also,
Chamber Music in the 19th century, changed from the music composed
for home use in the 18th century, and became more a form for the
professional musicians. In the Classical period, music had changed to a more
simple style than the polyphonic selections of the baroque. These pieces were
often written for amateurs, and not intended to be played in public. When music
is composed for more than two instruments, it is called Chamber music. We thus
have the Trio, Quartet, Quintet, Sextet, Septet and Octet for 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and
8 instruments respectively. Of these the Quartet has been the most favored by
the great composers and some of the greatest Chamber music is in the Quartet
form. The String Quartet is always for two Violins, one Viola and one Cello.
In chamber music of the last
half of the 19th century, only a few dozen works by composers other than Brahms
survive in the repertory of the period. A piano quintet, and one string quartet
by
César Franck
or the Trout quintet of Franz Schubert are examples. One of the
composers responsible for bringing chamber music to the concert hall is
Ludwig van Beethoven.
He wrote chamber music for amateurs, such as the Septet of 1800, but his last
string quartets are very complex works which amateurs would have struggled to
play. Outstanding compositions of this type are the last 7 of 16 Quartets of
Beethoven. They are also seen as pushing the boundaries of acceptable harmony of
the era.
Another popular chamber
group was the string trio and
is made up of a violin, a viola and a cello.
The earliest string
trio form consisted of two violins and cello, a grouping which had grown out of
the baroque trio sonata.
A piano trio is a group
of piano and two other instruments, almost always a violin and a cello, or a
piece of music written for such a group. It is one of the most common forms
found in classical period.
The Piano Quintet
is usually one piano, two violins, a viola and a cello, or a piano with a
string quartet. This combination of instruments is so prevalent in classical
music, that when the phrase
piano quintet
is used with no qualifications, it usually refers to this particular group.
We could go on and on with
combinations but the above are the most prevalent.
The phrase
chamber music
suggests a piece for at least two instruments, but there is no theoretical upper
limit to the number of instruments. In practice, chamber works for more than
five instruments are unusual, and works scored for more than eight are very
rare.
Also, while chamber music
is frequently played in public concerts, it is usually heard in halls much
smaller than those used for orchestral concerts. The more intimate acoustics of
a smaller space, imitating the drawing rooms in which such music was originally
played, are more suitable for a small group of instruments.
Here is a list of three
of the most important chamber music composers and we will mention more as we
have time but we also want to play some important symphonic music of the
period.
I.
Beethoven:
1. Sixteen string
quartets
2. Nine piano trios
3. Ten sonatas for violin
and piano
4. Five sonatas for cello
and piano
II. Schubert:
Featured Music:
'Trout' Quintet
A. Early string
quartets
1. His earliest quartets
were modeled on those of Mozart and Haydn.
B. Mature quartets
1. The A-minor Quartet
(1824) uses melodies from his other works.
2. The D-minor quartet,
D. 810 ("Death and the Maiden") uses his lied Der Tod und das Mädchen (Death and
the Maiden) as the basis for variations.
3. String Quintet in C
major, D. 956 (Composed in the last year of his life, for string quartet plus an
added cello)
4. The virtuoso
'Wanderer' and Fantasy String Quartet in G Major
III.
Brahms
A. Considered the
true successor of Beethoven in chamber music.
B. Twenty-four
works in many combinations.
The
list is impressive in its size and diversity of styles: three string quartets,
three piano trios, three piano quartets, three violin sonatas, two each of
string quintets, cello sonatas, and string sextets, and a clarinet quintet, horn
trio, and piano quintet each.
Composers are generally known for their large-scale orchestral works. When you
think of Brahms, what comes to mind? 4 large symphonies, 2 piano concertos and a
violin concerto. All huge works, worthy successors to Beethoven.
Yet these all came relatively late in Brahms' career. His true love was a more
pure form of music and in fact his chamber pieces far outnumber the larger
works.
Brahms was heavily influenced by folk music, which he regarded as the essence of
true music. Folk themes come through in these pieces, either Austrian lieder or
the pseudo-Hungarian motifs, so popular in Vienna in the latter half of the 19th
century, and brings a certain enchanting simplicity to these works.
IV.
Many others including Faure Piano Quartets and Franck Piano Quintet.
JOHANNES BRAHMS:
Biography by Sue Talley
During his lifetime,
even, Johannes Brahms (1833 1897) heard his name linked with Bach and Beethoven
of one of the three great “B’s” of music. He brushed off the appellation, but
it stuck. To this day, music critics refer to Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms in
one breath. And Brahms was said to have written “Beethoven’s Tenth,” although
he expressed embarrassment at the comparison of himself with Beethoven and put
off writing symphonies, saying, “Composing symphonies is no laughing matter…you
have no idea of how if feels to hear behind you the tramp of a giant like
Beethoven.” [Schonberg, p. 305]
Born later in the century
than they, Brahms is introduced at this point in our course because of his
intimate connection with Robert and Klara Schumann. He carried on a classical
tradition which was very much opposed by the followers of the “new music”
represented by Richard Wagner, some of whom poked fun at Brahms and called him a
“relic” of bygone years. In fact, “Brahms was the classicist who dealt with
abstract forms and never wrote a note of program music in his life, much less an
opera…Brahms, like Bach, summed up an epoch.” [Schonberg, page 296]
Brahms was born in
Hamburg, Germany, on May 7, 1833. His father played the bass viol, and at the
age of 6 Brahms was found to have perfect pitch and extraordinary musical
talent. He was sent to a teacher by the name of Eduard Marxsen, who fostered in
him the love for J.S. Bach and was an excellent teacher. Interestingly, Marxsen
accurately stated that Brahms would be an even greater musician than
Mendelssohn, who died when Johannes was only 14.
However, young Brahms had
a very peculiar childhood. Apparently the family was quite poor, and as early
as age 8, Johannes was sent to play the piano in brothels. The prostitutes who
lived there teased him, tried to seduce him, and in general caused him to feel
very uneasy about women. He said to a friend, “That was my first impression of
women. And you expect me to honor them as you do!” [Schonberg, page 300]
Perhaps the poverty and strangeness of his childhood kept Brahms from the
married state; he was engaged, but never married. Although he became a portly,
unkempt older bachelor, he was a striking and slender youth.
By the age of twenty,
Johannes had composed several important piano works. His pieces were not full
of difficult virtuoso passages, but had a depth and detail that caused pianists
to work very hard, and to marvel at their complexity. In 1853, while touring
with the violin virtuoso, Reményi, Johannes met another great violinist by the
name of Joseph Joachim (1831-1907), who did him the kindness of introducing him
to Franz Liszt. That great composer and big-hearted man, ever one to encourage
young talent, proceeded to sight-read some of Brahms’ music. Not much is said
about their meeting, but that is not true of the meeting of Johann and Robert
Schumann, who, on September 30, 1853, noted in his diary: “Brahms to see me (a
genius).” [Schonberg, p. 301] Not to be outdone in the sightreading
department, Klara Schumann sat down and sightread the very lengthy and difficult
“Variations and Fugue on a Theme of Handel.” Robert Schumann took to Brahms so
much that he asked him to live in his home.
Schumann wrote his last
article for the publication he had founded, “Neue Zeitschrift für Musik,” about
Johannes Brahms, expounding upon the young man’s genius and predicting great
things for his future.
So “Robert’s Johannes,”
as Klara Schumann called him, received publicity as his violin and piano works
were played by Joachim and by Mrs. Schumann herself. He not only composed for
piano and violin, but, of course, for orchestra, and he created around 300
lieder of distinction, although some of them sound heavy and a little sad
after the graceful songs of Franz Schubert. (Brahms was preoccupied with death,
and wrote some of his best songs on the topic.) After Robert Schumann’s
attempted suicide and subsequent commitment to an insane asylum, Johann grew
very close to Mrs. Schumann. The two musicians had similar ideals; both were
conservative with regard to the music they preferred and what they hoped would
be the future of music. Together, they squared off against Richard Wagner and
his friends, perhaps not so intentionally at first, but simply because their
very different styles were always a subject for comparison.
The premiere of the first
important orchestral work of Brahms, the D minor Piano Concerto, in 1859, was
not immediately well received by all listeners, as seems to be the fate of a lot
of great music. “It was too difficult, too uncompromising, too big, too
demanding intellectually,” according to Schonberg. [p. 305] Although it has
recently become a favorite of pianists, it was once considered less a piano
concerto than a collaboration of the piano with orchestra, neither gratifying to
the soloist nor to the listener. (It is unfortunate, in some ways, that rival
schools of thought appear, and that the people who have opposing feelings about
a certain subject tend to waste time tearing each other down. Yet greatness
grows in an atmosphere of opposition. Had Brahms and Wagner been the best of
friends, they might not have inspired one another to struggle for what each
believed in, and produce the great music that they did.)
Brahms was hopeful of
taking over the Hamburg Symphony in 1862, but he was turned down for the job.
The next year he moved to Vienna, where he was given the post as conductor of
the Academy of Singing, which he maintained for two years. However, he wanted
nothing more than to compose; he made some short concert tours, but he did not
move out of Vienna. Although he had many friends there, they were all tested by
his short temper and rather boorish manners. Unfortunately, he had a way of
alienating even his best friends. For example, Hans von Bülow was a great
conductor of his day, and had slavishly followed Wagner around until his wife,
Cosima Liszt, ran off with Wagner. He then turned to the music of Brahms, and
played it with orchestra all over Europe. But Brahms managed to alienate him,
also. Von Bülow was touring with the Meiningen Orchestra and planned to premier
Brahms’ Fourth Symphony in Hamburg. Instead, Brahms got there ahead of him.
Possibly because he had been denied the job in Hamburg, he could not resist
conducting his own symphony. Von Bülow was so hurt and angry that he not only
did not play the piece, but resigned from the orchestra.
Brahms’ most beloved
choral piece was “A German Requiem.” Although he was not a conventional
believer, he took his text from the Bible. The most famous selection from the
“Brahms Requiem” is “How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling-Place.” When Klara Schumann
died in 1896, he wrote the “Four Serious Songs” (Vier ernste Gesänge), perhaps
his most important song-cycle. Mrs. Schumann had been his greatest friend and
the inspiration for all of his adult life. Just a year after she died, Brahms
developed cancer of the liver. He suffered greatly, but a month before he died,
he managed to hear his Fourth Symphony conducted by Hans Richter. He received a
tremendous ovation.
Brahms’ music has been
divided into three periods, like Beethoven’s. In the first period, he was, of
course, finding himself. The music tended to be thick, heavy, and labored.
Later in his life, he preferred not to hear music from his earlier years.
Approximately 1861 marks a new period, which is marked by grace, shortness, and
brilliance, without frivolity. This period included many songs and the
Liebeslieder Waltzes, for example. The works of his final period, after
about 1885, are gentle and reflective, with “a serenity unique in the work of
any composer.” [Schonberg, p. 309] These works include the D minor Violin
Sonata, the Clarinet Quintet, the Intermezzi for piano, and eleven chorale
preludes for organ, which were the last things he composed.
Featured Music:
Johannes Brahms
1. First Symphony, first
movement (Brahms worked on it for twenty years)
2. Fourth Symphony (The
final movement is a passacaglia/chaconne, reflecting Brahms' interest in Baroque
music).
FELIX MENDELSSOHN:
Biography by Sue Talley
Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholody,
usually referred to as Felix Mendelssohn, was born into a pleasant, cultured
home in Hamburg, on February 3, 1809. His father and grandfather, who were of
Jewish heritage, were successful in the banking business, and Felix did not have
to face the misery of some of his outstanding but less fortunate colleagues.
Felix, his brother, and his two sisters were baptized into the Christian faith,
a fact which is sometimes downplayed or ignored altogether by some of his
biographers. It should not be; he lived a joyful life, seemingly according to
Christ’s principles, frequently lending a helping hand to other musicians,
restoring to its rightful place the music of the great Lutheran composer, Johann
Sebastian Bach, and writing some oratorios on both Old and New Testament
themes. Moses Mendelssohn, Felix’ grandfather, was a distinguished philosopher,
whose personal integrity helped overcome the prejudice which Jewish people had
to suffer in those days. In his grandfather’s day, Jewish people were required
to go through a separate gate into the city. Not only did this older
Mendelssohn overcome Christian prejudice, but he overcame some of the bigotry
present in his own confession, by virtue of his philosophy. Perhaps that is why
much of Felix Mendelssohn’s music is used in synagogues, as well as in Christian
churches.
The Mendelssohn family
was cultured and musical, and Felix’s sister, Fanny, was also an excellent
pianist and composer. Their mother taught both her and her brother at first,
but then Fanny and Felix had to study with “the best instructor money could
buy,” a man who was a friend of the poet, Goethe, by the name of C. F. Zelter. [Siegmeister,
p. 466] Both children made wonderful progress, although, of course, Felix was
probably the most celebrated, being a young man in a day when men were
particularly encouraged, and women not so much so.
The Mendelssohns moved to
Berlin when Felix was quite young, and it was there that he wrote the overture
to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This was in 1826,
when Felix was seventeen years old! It is a wonderful, imaginative, sparkling
piece of work. One critic observed, “It would not be fair to say that his later
compositions were only variations of this youthful work, or that they represent
a less high standard. But surely this first work encompasses the whole of his
creative individuality so clearly that it does indeed represent the essence of
his artistic being.” [Bekker, p. 134]
Young Mendelssohn made a
tremendous contribution to music when he performed the St. Matthew Passion
of Bach, March 11, 1829, at Berlin. [The “Passion” is the story of Christ’s
death, according to the Gospel of Matthew. There is also a “Passion
According to St. John” by J. S. Bach.] The works of this master had been
somewhat neglected, and the young conductor really took a chance in reviving the
music of Bach, for which he received some criticism—as well as the world’s
everlasting gratitude. His own study of Bach, fostered by Friedrich Wieck,
Klara Schumann’s father and a great teacher, very much helped Mendelssohn’s
composition. [The Bach revival was possible, actually, because of the revival
of choral music societies, which had begun in Berlin with Carl Friedrich Fasch
(1736-1800) and continued under Mendelssohn’s own teacher, Carl Friedrich Zelter.
In Mendelssohn’s time, the choral society, Berliner Singakademie, grew
from its 27 original members to nearly five hundred, and to more than six
hundred, after 1840. All over the Western world, choral societies began to
spring up, including in the United States. The choral movement encouraged a
return to earlier music, especially the sacred music of Palestrina, Bach,
Handel, and Arcadelt.] [Sachs, p. 278]
In 1829, Felix visited
England, where he made a great hit as pianist, composer, and conductor. He must
have enjoyed England as much as the British enjoyed him, for he visited England
nine times, and wrote his “Scottish” Symphony after a visit to Scotland, and the
“Italian “ Symphony after a visit to that country.
Mendelssohn wrote a book
of “Songs Without Words” for piano. It is said that the “Songs without Words”
are really “the sketches of a traveler, written for the delectation of those who
had stayed at home.” [Siegmeister, p. 467.] These wonderful songs are
descriptive, in a musical way, of various moods, activities, and even seasons.
For example, there are the hymnlike “Consolation,” (sung, at one time to the
words, “Still, Still with Thee,”) “Spring Song,” unfortunately made famous by
dancing hippos in Walt Disney animation, the rapid and descriptive “Spinning
Song,” and the delightful “Hunting Song.” These songs are rather brief
sketches, but they have lasting beauty and grace.
Besides the symphonic
works mentioned above, Mendelssohn produced some fine chamber music, an
excellent Piano Concerto and Violin Concerto, and other good instrumental
works. He is remembered, also, for his oratorios, which, like Handel’s
Messiah, are rather like church operas, but are not staged. Married to a
Protestant minister’s daughter, Mendelssohn turned out two very famous
oratorios, St. Paul and Elijah. St. Paul was written after
he had accepted the position of Musical Director at Düsseldorf, in 1836. In
1843, he founded the Leipzig Conservatory of Music, a very important model for
music conservatories. Elijah was written on his last visit to England,
in 1846.
Felix Mendelssohn, like
some of the other Romantic composers, did not have a long life, but his seemed
to be a singularly happy one. He was, however, very close to his sister, Fanny,
and her death seemed to overwhelm him. He passed away November 4, 1847.
Mendelssohn has been
criticized for the very quality that endeared him so much to the music world,
his joyfulness and even temper, which seemed to show up in his music as well as
in his personal life. It’s a stupid criticism; Mendelssohn was perhaps the
finest all-around musician in his day, and his compositions, while more
conservative for a Romantic than that of his colleagues, are imaginative,
fantastic, at times, and sparkling. He was, perhaps, “the only composer who
succeeded in striking a certain balance between the great classic foundation and
the loosening influence of Romantic fantasy.” [Bekker, p. 133] He maintained a
tightness of form that eluded some other composers of his time, and it was an
admirable organizational skill.
In spite of the fact that
it was one of Mendelssohn’s earliest compositions, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
was one of his finest. He apparently was particularly fond of the flute sounds,
and used them to excellent effect, although all his instrumentation was
outstanding. The only piece in A Midsummer Night’s Dream which is
“brassy,” rather than “woodsy,” is the famous “Wedding March,” which was written
much later, as part of the incidental music for the same play. He was 34 when
he wrote the March, used to be played at the conclusion of every
wedding, while the bride, groom, and members of the wedding party joyfully made
their escape.
The story of Mendelssohn
is closely woven with that of Robert and Klara Schumann, his fellow-students and
admirers of the Well-Tempered Clavier of J. S. Bach. Mendelssohn was a
true friend to the Schumanns, and stood by Robert until his death. Conservative
by nature, he was able to appreciate Romantic composers of a more extreme
temperament. His spiritual, social, and musical lives seemed to be unusually
well balanced.
Featured Music:
Mendelssohn:
A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, Hebrides, or Fingal’s Cave, Italian Symphony, Scotch Symphony, St. Paul,
Elijah, Concerto in E minor for violin, Concerto in G minor for piano; any of
his chamber music. And, of course, Songs Without Words, for piano.
MAHLER AND STRAUSS: by
Sue Talley
By the turn
of the 20th century, the composers who were born in the 1860s and 70s
were in their maturity. As we have seen, there was a revolt against Romanticism
by composers such as Debussy (actually started by his teacher, Gabriel Fauré),
and others. But there were those who were dedicated to continuing the German
legacy as they understood it, and chief among those were the composers Gustav
Mahler (1860-1911) and Richard Strauss (1864-1949).
Gustav Mahler
came from a background of the Jewish intelligentsia. He did, however, convert
to Catholicism before the turn of the century, perhaps because of his imminent
move to Vienna, with its strongly Roman Catholic prejudices. (This was a time
when to be a Jew in Germany, Hungary, or Austria in particular was beginning to
be particularly dangerous.) Mahler was studying piano by the time he was six,
and when he was fifteen, he entered the Vienna Conservatory, and was influenced
by another good composer, Anton Bruckner. He even arranged Bruckner’s Third
Symphony. He had a strong devotion to Richard Wagner and was an energetic
composer, teacher, and conductor. In fact, his conducting was so impressive
that by the age of 28, he was conducing the Royal Opera at Budapest. (In those
days, as even now, Budapest was no mean city, but, in some ways, on a par with
Vienna in musical standing.) Finally, Mahler went to Hamburg to conduct, and
revived the music of Mozart, Beethoven, Gluck, and uncut Wagner operas, which
the public had not been willing to accept until he championed these works.
Mahler had a
hard time feeling truly at home, as he put it, “as a Bohemian born in Austria,
as an Austrian among Germans, and as a Jew throughout the world.” [Machlis, p.
76] He was a dynamic conductor, and a perfectionist whose lively personality
made enemies. Before his early death at 52, he spent three years in New York,
directing both at the Metropolitan Opera House and at the New York Philharmonic
Orchestra. Like other composers before him since Beethoven, he completed nine
symphonies, but not ten. He developed strep throat, then very serious, in New
York, and died in Vienna, with the word, “Mozart” on his lips. [Machlis, p. 77]
Mahler was an
intense composer and a master of orchestration. Along with all the Romantics,
he loved the themes of nature, poetry, loneliness, folk tunes, and faith. He
seemed to be haunted by his dreams of immortality, and yet an awareness of the
awesome finality of death. This duality was expressed in his “Resurrection”
Symphony, #2, to which he added a line at the end of a poem he was setting, “Ode
to Immortality”: “Believe, my heart…I shall soar upwards, I shall die that I
may live!” [Machlis, p. 79] He was a great song-writer, and he incorporated his
own songs into his symphonies. For example, the Songs of a Wayfarer were
incorporated into one symphony, The Boy’s Magic Horn into another three
of them, and The Song of the Earth was the theme of the last completed
symphony, which he did not call the Ninth, out of the common superstition that
it would then be his last. Surely enough, he did not live to complete his
tenth, or, as he called it, his “Ninth” Symphony.
Although I
have accused Mahler of being somewhat of an heir to Wagner, he was definitely
his own person, just as indebted to Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert,
Bruckner, and Brahms. One might find in Mahler the summation of an era. The
incredible length of his symphonies is certainly similar to the length of Wagner
operas, and similar in scope—for example, his Eighth Symphony is nicknamed “The
Symphony of a Thousand” because it takes so many musicians to execute the work:
“an expanded orchestra with extra brass choir, eight solo voices, double chorus,
boys’ chorus, and organ.” [Machlis, p. 79] Additionally, Mahler lent his
particular understanding of orchestral color to the music, writing for
instruments in their extreme ranges, accentuating the percussion group, and
contributing to texture by sometimes writing two melody lines at the same time.
Finally, he expanded symphonic form and range of keys. He was both a visionary
and among the last of the Romantics. Nevertheless, as we shall see, the
Romantic in music was far from over.
RICHARD
STRAUSS (1864-1949)
Richard
Strauss came from Munich, Germany, and was the son of a virtuoso horn player.
It’s no wonder that some of his most famous pieces have wonderful horn parts!
Oddly enough, his father was “a confirmed anti-Wagnerite,” but by the time he
was 21, Strauss had turned from chamber music to program music. In his words,
he desired ‘“to develop the poetic, the expressive in music, as exemplified in
the works of Liszt, Wagner, and Berlioz.”’ [Machlis, p. 84]
From the
earlier period of his composition come several of Strauss’ most familiar and
beloved works, including “Death and Transfiguration (1889), “Till Eulenspiegel’s
Merry Pranks” (1895), “Thus spake Zarathustra” (1896), “Don Quixote” (1897), and
finally, an amazingly egotistical work: “A Hero’s Life” (1903), which was an
autobiographical symphony! His wife, Pauline de Ahna, whom he married in 1894,
presented her husband’s songs, which he often accompanied, and traveled with him
throughout Europe and, in 1904, to the United States. The famous
department-store, John Wanamaker’s, featured a concert of his in the auditorium,
which somewhat scandalized the public, since the Strausses received the fabled
sum of $1000 per appearance. Richard retorted, “True art ennobles any hall.
And earning money in a decent way for wife and child is no disgrace—even for an
artist!” [Machlis, p. 85]
Before World
War I, Strauss produced the operas Salome, Elektra, and Der
Rosenkavalier. For these operas, Strauss was popular enough to demand
enormous sums. He hoped to be a millionaire by the time he was fifty, so he
could give himself to his art. However, he didn’t produce anything very
exciting after about fifty years of age. Perhaps part of the reason is that in
1933, Adolph Hitler promoted him to the Presidency of Reichmusikkammer,
or the Chamber of Music for the Third Reich. To stay in Germany as Hitler’s
official composer, when such great musicians as Paul Hindemith were leaving, was
a bad choice. Unfortunately for him, many of the musicians and artists of the
world never forgave Strauss for his apparent loyalty to Hitler. Although he
retired to Bavaria at 81 because he could no longer stand the pressure of the
Nazi censorship, he still got a bad reputation for “collaboration” with
Hitler—as did some of the famous artists who performed his music, such as
Elizabeth Schwartzkopf.
[Parenthetically, Elizabeth Schwartzkopf was a beautiful woman and a marvelous
German soprano and a favorite of Hitler. I remember hearing her sing the “Four
Last Songs” of Strauss in an unforgettable way. She also spent years giving
master classes to young singers; my husband participated in such a class at San
Francisco Opera. The artists who remained in Germany during the Hitler years,
as well as those outside the country who were understood to be collaborators
with the Nazi regime, were truly in an unenviable position after the War. They
were marked people, and their careers were profoundly affected. It must have
been extremely difficult to know what to do during those years. Strauss claimed
that he had to keep some kind of decent music in Germany, and perhaps he hoped
for a change of regime. Perhaps not everyone could leave the country so easily,
but those who were unfortunate enough to get stuck with the Nazi regime were
forced to make up their minds whether or not to support it, if they were in a
public position. Some were out-and-out collaborators; some probably just got
caught. It is worthwhile to think about what we might do if an antiChristian
regime took over our government and we were in a position of prominence. Should
we remain in place, and give it the appearance of legitimacy?]
There are
incredible contrasts in the music of Richard Strauss, between that which is
lovely and tuneful, and that which is distorted, purposefully ugly, and
cacophonious. Perhaps the most familiar to the American public is the theme of
“Thus Spake Zarathustra,” which was used in the movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey.
The following is a brief list of some of the characteristics of Richard Strauss’
music.
1.
Orchestration: Huge orchestras; all instruments used as solo instruments, at
times; saxophones used; “special effects” (wind, thunder, etc.); instruments
used at extremes of their ranges. Rich texture; scores very difficult to read
at times.
2.
Melody
line: Sweeping, grandiose. He worked hard on melodies. Polytonal effects;
dazzling openings, designed to “overwhelm”.
3.
Harmonies: Very complex; some created by polytonality, others by rich
chromaticism, etc. Used for strong emotional/psychological impact.
4.
Instrumental Compositions: Program music, brought to its extremes, along with
some other fine solo works, such as the Horn Concerto.
5.
Operas: These are the best-respected of Strauss’ works. Both Salome and
Elektra are horrifying one-act tragedies; the former struck the public as
downright indecent, if not blasphemous, and the latter has a shrieking intensity
as Elektra goes to her revenge, which is both fascinating and, at times,
boring. Der Rosenkavalier is funny and beautiful, old-fashioned and
sweet, although it certainly rings with the complicated characteristics of
Strauss’ writing. (Other operas: Adriane auf Naxos, 1912, a chamber
opera; Die Frau ohne Schatten, 1917, which was revived in the ‘80s by the
Metropolitan Opera, complete with great special effects, and eight others, which
are occasionally revived.
5.
Songs:
Perhaps the most beautiful of Strauss’ works, the Songs are in the great German
tradition of lieder. The Four Last Songs make one think of the
Serious Songs of Brahms, except that the subject matter is different; like
those, they were written when Strauss was at the end of his creative life, at
the age of 84.
Strauss and Mahler were
perhaps the last great proponents of German Romanticism. They attempted to
enlarge the tradition of Wagner, and they used huge orchestras. Both
individuals came to this country and Mahler led the New York Philharmonic, so
they are important in our own musical history.
BRUCKNER AND MAHLER: by
Bruno Walter
THROUGHOUT its ten years
of existence the Bruckner Society of America has striven manfully and
efficiently in behalf of Bruckner and Mahler. Therefore, in connection with its
decennial retrospect, I gladly respond to its plea for an expression concerning
these masters. To combine propaganda for Bruckner and Mahler into a single plan
is to express the conviction that the success of the one helps the other's
cause, that they belong side by side because of their artistic kinship.
I should not have agreed
to write about Bruckner and Mahler did I not regard that little word "and"
highly pertinent. Its appropriateness is borne out by Mahler's own words. I
often heard him call Bruckner his forerunner, asserting that his own creations
followed the trail blazed by his senior master. Of course that was over forty
years ago, in the days of Mahler's Second, the symphony which, more
vividly than all his other works, reveals his affinity with Bruckner. Yet from
the Third Symphony on, his development was marked by an ever increasing
deviation from Bruckner's course. I cannot recall Mahler making the same remark
during later years. Nevertheless, down to his latest works, we meet with
occasional features which might be called Brucknerian. Thus it is worth while
attaining a clear idea of the nature and degree of their relationship.
Much has been written
concerning Bruckner. To the literature on Mahler I myself have contributed a
book. Yet (as far as I know) a comparative study of Bruckner and Mahler is still
to be made. Therefore I shall attempt in these comments to measure their
relationship, to thrash out the features which unite and separate them. We shall
find them alike in many important respects, but different, even opposite, in
others of not less consequence. We shall find them so related, that
understanding the one includes a certain degree of access to the other; yet so
different, that affection for the one may seem consistent with total
inaccessibility to the other. Certainly, to understand and love both requires a
very complex musical disposition and an unusually broad spiritual span. My
comparison cannot limit itself to details of actual musical creation. The
spiritual sources of their works, the personalities of both masters, are vital
to the theme of our survey, not merely because they are more amenable to words
than music itself, but because the light they shed upon the music is
indispensable in an essay striving for knowledge. To demonstrate really and
clearly the relationships between these composers' works, there is only one way:
through performances. Renouncing for once this (to me) most agreeable method,
resorting to words, though aware that no bridge leads straight from
them to music, I must also seek to approach my subject indirectly. The mystic
connection between the inner life of a composer and his music makes it possible
to discover his soul in his work. Understanding his heart lays bare an inner
path to his music. Hence I hope a discussion of the individualities of both
masters will enable me to fill in some of the gaps inevitable to an essay on
their works alone.
WHAT JOINS THEM
Nine symphonies composed
by Bruckner, as well as Mahler, in the course of about thirty years, constitute
the chief product of their creative power. The nature of the themes,
developments, combinations, is (in keeping with their creator's nature) truly
symphonic. Remarkable coincidences in the periodic progress of their work are
the decisive step from the Third to the Fourth and the change of
style between the Fourth and Fifth symphonies. The Fourth
of each opens a new field of expression scarcely glimpsed in his previous works.
A warm, romantic light rises over Bruckner's hitherto heroic tone-world; a
tender fairy-tale-like idyll soothes Mahler's tempestuous heart. For both the
Fifth, with its intensification of the polyphonic style, inaugurates the
period of mature mastery. The laconic idiom of restraint, the art of mere
suggestion, involving economy of means and form, is not theirs. Only in a number
of his songs do we find Mahler's contradictory nature master of this style too.
Otherwise both share in common the urge to yield their entire beings
symphonically through unrestrained expression in huge dimensions. Their
symphonies resemble each other also in the special significance of the finale in
the total-architecture. Broadly spun, essentially diatonic themes and a
counterpoint directly joined to the classical tradition characterize both. To be
sure, Mahler's later polyphony trod more complex, daring, and highly individual
paths. To both (and to them alone) the church chorale comes as naturally as the
Austrian Ländler. The utmost solemnity and folk-like joviality constitute the
opposite poles in both their natures. They are linked with the classicists, the
way leads through Schubert. Their association is strengthened, among other
things, by the fundamentals of their harmony, their style of cadence and (all
their deviations notwithstanding) their fondness for symmetry and regular
periodic structure. Even the later Mahler, no matter to what regions his formal
and harmonic boldness led him, maintained clear periodic structure and a firm
tonal foundation. Both revel in broadly built climaxes, in long sustained
tensions, whose release requires overwhelming sonorous dynamics.
In their gay or lyric
moments we often meet with a typically Austrian charm recalling Schubert, though
in Mahler's case it is frequently mixed with a Bohemian-Moravian flavor. Above
all, however, Mahler and Bruckner are (though in different ways) religious
beings. An essential part of their musical inspiration wells from this
devotional depth. It is a main source of their thematic wealth, swaying an
all-important field of expression in their works; it produces the high-water
mark of their musical surf. The tonal idiom of both is devoid of eroticism.
Often inclined to pathos, powerful tragedy, and emotional extremes of utterance,
they attain climaxes of high ecstasy. Clear sunshine and blue sky seldom appear
in the wholly un-Mediterranean atmosphere of their music. "Romantic" was the
name Bruckner gave his Fourth. In a related sense we find Mahler's
earlier
work romantic, aside from his un-Brucknerian diabolism. Yet in the later works
of both the romantic note is rarely sounded. Highly characteristic seems to me
one negative manifestation of their relationship. Moved by their tremendous
experience of Richard Wagner to an undying faith in his art, they show (aside
from a slight influence over Bruckner's instrumentation) no Wagnerian traces in
their work, or at most, so few, that the impression of their complete
independence is in no wise affected thereby. Their individuality was of so
sturdy a nature (astonishing in that epoch of musical history) that despite the
open ear, open heart, and unreserved sympathy they lent the Wagnerian
siren-song, they did not succumb to it. Of course, being essentially
symphonists, they were equal to the threat of the dramatist against their
self-determination, for the inspirational
sources of their creation, as well as their native urge toward formal
construction, differed fundamentally from his. Neither of them felt drawn to the
stage, a phenomenon particularly remarkable in the case of Mahler, whose
reproductive genius for the opera, expressed through incomparable
interpretations, opened new paths in that field, actually instituting a
tradition. Two abortive attempts of his early youth are his sole original
contributions to the theater. Otherwise he never wrote for the stage, unless we
include his arrangement of Weber's "Three Pintos."
Like Bruckner he took
root in absolute music, save when he drew his inspiration from poetry, as in his
songs. Yet was his work really rooted in absolute music? Is his First
Symphony (originally named "Titan" after Jean Paul's novel) with its
"Funeral March in the manner of Callot," are the Second and Fourth
with their vocal movements, the Third with its (later) suppressed
subtitles, genuine symphonic music in the Bruckner sense? Indubitably Mahler's
music differs from Bruckner's in the degree of absoluteness intended. It was
induced and influenced by more specific imagery, fantasy, and thought than
Bruckner's music, which rose from less tangible, darker spiritual depths. But
does this really involve an essential difference? Is not Beethoven's
Pastorale, despite the "Scene at the Brook", "Rustic Festival," and "Storm,"
absolute symphonic music, its lesser absolute intention notwithstanding? Let us
conjure up the basic process of musical creation. The composer suddenly has a
musical idea. Where there existed apparently nothing before, save perhaps a
mood, an image, there is, all at once, music. A theme is present, a motive. Now
the shaping hand of the composer grasps it, unfolding and guiding its trend.
Fresh ideas come streaming in. Whether or not more definite imagery plays a role
in the creative process, the decisive factors governing the result remain the
"grace" of basic musical creation and the power of symphonic construction. That
"grace" and that power were granted Mahler, as well as Bruckner. Therefore,
despite the thoughts and visions that influenced his creation, he also took root
in absolute music.
After all, do we know
whether Bruckner, or for that matter even Mozart was not visited by imagery and
thoughts during the creative process, or, whether many of their ideas, looming
up out of the subconscious, did not take turnings over some conscious path,
thereby acquiring more vivid coloring and more subjective character? In Goethe's
Elective Affinities the image of Ottilie fills Eduard's eyes during a
conjugal meeting with his wife Charlotte, while the latter beholds the captain's
image. Though the offspring of this union bore external traces of these
wandering visions, it was nevertheless the child of Eduard and Charlotte, sprung
from their natural union. Deep mystery surrounds the genesis and pure music may
result, despite the influence of extra-musical ideas upon the act of generation.
Yet if the composer's intention is really descriptive, i.e., if he makes the
music the means of portraying an idea or image, then, of course, he has himself
blocked the path to pure music. To Mahler as well as Bruckner music never was
the means of expressing something, but rather the end itself. He never
disregarded its inherent principles for the sake of expression. It was the
element in which both masters lived, impelled by their nature toward symphonic
construction. Mahler's enchanted creative night was filled with violently
changing dream-forms; Bruckner's was dominated by a single lofty vision. Since
Bruckner (so far as I know) had, until his death in 1896, acquired no
acquaintance with Mahler's work, whereas the latter was well versed in
Bruckner's art, it remains to be considered whether it was not this influence,
acting only upon the younger composer, that aroused the impression of the
kinship felt by Mahler himself. Without a certain relationship, however, no
influence can be exerted. Moreover, Mahler's individual tonal language reveals
no sign of dependence, whether similarity or reminiscence. Yet we find in one of
his main works, the Second, indications of a deeper, essential kinship
and meet with occasional "Bruckner" characteristics down to Mahler's very last
creations. Nevertheless he was as little dependent upon Bruckner as Brahms upon
Schumann, many of whose "characteristics" haunt the work of Brahms. To both
Bruckner-Mahler may be applied the Faust-verdict concerning Byron-Euphorion: to
each of them was granted "a song his very own," i.e., originality.
WHAT DIVIDES THEM
Bruckner's nine
symphonies are purely instrumental works. Mahler, on the other hand, enlists
words and the human voice for his Second, Third, Fourth, and Eighth.
Besides the symphonies Bruckner composed three Masses, the Te Deum, the
150th Psalm, smaller devotional vocal works, and (to my knowledge) two
male choruses. Of all entirely different stamp was Mahler's non-symphonic
creation. He wrote Das Klagende Lied, set to his own narrative poem; the
four-part song cycle Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen, the words also by
himself; songs with piano accompaniment and with verses from Des Knaben
Wunderhorn; during a later period, orchestral songs set to poems by Rückert,
among them the Kindertotenlieder cycle; and finally his most personal
confession, Das Lied von der Erde, with verses by the Chinese poet
Li-Tai-Po. We see Bruckner, therefore, aside from his symphonies, concentrated
almost entirely upon sacred texts, while Mahler is inspired by highly varied
fields of poetic expression. In his symphonies, Das Urlicht from Des
Knaben Wunderhorn and Klopstock's "Resurrection Ode" furnished him with the
solemn affirmative close of his Second, Nietzsche's Midnight
yielded the questing, foreboding fourth movement and verses from Des Knaben
Wunderhorn the answering fifth movement of the Third. From the same
collection Mahler chose a poem of childlike faith to give symbolical expression
to his own hope of celestial life. In the Eighth the hymn "Veni Creator
Spiritus" and the closing scenes of Faust constitute his confessions of
faith. Thus the record of his vocal creations is at the same time a clue to the
story of his heart. It tells of his struggles toward God, through discovery and
renewed quest, through ever higher intuitions and loftier yearnings. Yet over
this dominant note, the "Ostinato" of his life, resound many other tones,
defined by accompanying verses: Love and death, lansquenet life and a spectral
world, the joy of life and its woe, humor and despair, savage defiance and final
resignation, all these find individual and convincing expression in his musical
eloquence. If I wished to present the difference between the two masters in the
shortest imaginable formula, I would say (conscious of the exaggeration of such
a summary): at bottom Bruckner's spirit was repose, Mahler's unrest. With
Bruckner the most impassioned movement has a foundation of certainty; not even
Mahler's inmost depths remain undisturbed. Bruckner's scope of expression is
unlimited, though it has but few main subdivisions; with Mahler these are
prodigal in number, embracing all lights and shades of a weird diabolism, a
humorous buffoonery, even resorting to the eccentric and banal, besides
countless expressive nuances ranging from childlike tenderness to chaotic
eruption. His heartfelt, folk-like themes are as Mahlerian as his sardonic
cacophonies, whose lightning apparitions render all the darker the night of his
musical landscape. Mahler's noble peace and solemnity, his lofty transfiguration
are the fruits of conquest; with Bruckner they are innate gifts. Bruckner's
musical message stems from the sphere of the saints; in Mahler speaks the
impassioned prophet. He is ever renewing the battle, ending in mild resignation,
while Bruckner's tone-world radiates unshakable, consoling affirmation. We find,
as already stated, the inexhaustible wealth of the Bruckner music spread over a
correspondingly boundless, though in itself not highly varied realm of
expression, for which the two verbal directions, "feierlich" (solemnly) and "innig'
(heartfelt), most often employed by him, almost sufficed, were it not for the
richly differentiated scherzi that remind us of the wealth of the humoristic
external ornaments of impressive Gothic cathedrals. Even Bruckner's orchestra
undergoes scarcely any change. With the Seventh he adds the Wagnerian
tubas, in the Eighth the harp, but he does not alter his instrumental
methods as such. Beginning with the Fifth the character of his harmony
and polyphony no longer varies, though (to be sure) it is sufficiently rich and
inspired to require no change.
Mahler renewed himself
"from head to toe" with each symphony: the First, his "Werther," as I
once named it; the Second, a kind of "Requiem''; the Third, which
one might be tempted to call a pantheistic hymn; the Fourth, a fairy-tale
idyll. From the Fifth to the Seventh imagery and ideas yield to
absolute musical intentions. Even though each of these three symphonies has its
own individual atmosphere, they stand considerably closer to each other in style
and general content than the widely separated first four. They share in common a
musically more complex, polyphonically more profound idiom, richer in
combinations, imparting a new, stronger impression of Mahler's varied emotional
life. The human voice is the main instrument in the Eighth. A
magnificent, specifically choral polyphony determines the style of the hymn-like
first movement, while in the Faust-scenes the composer adapts his musical
idiom to the Goethe-word and the demands of lyric singableness, through a sort
of simplification. In Das Lied von der Erde we meet with still another
Mahler, inaugurating a third creative period, with a new manner of composition
and orchestration. On this highest plane is born the Ninth, the mighty
symphonic presentation of the spiritual sphere of Das Lied von der Erde.
The sketches toward a Tenth bring to a sudden end this sharply defined
course of creative evolution, the outstanding feature of which was its rich
differentiation. This applies also (as already stated) to his instrumentation.
An inborn, extremely delicate sense of sound, an ear open to orchestral
possibilities lead, at the beck of expression and clarity, to unique mastery
over the orchestra. From wealth of color and charm of sound to an objective
exposition of his increasingly complex polyphony, this is the path Mahler's
orchestral technique, changed and intensified by the increasing demands of each
work, had to travel. Each orchestral song, from the very earliest, reveals an
individual instrumental combination, mainly of an amazing economy. The
symphonies, with the exception of the Fourth, are inhabited by orchestral
masses over which an unbounded tonal fantasy holds sway. In contrast to Bruckner
he was compelled to struggle ceaselessly for the solution of orchestral
problems, increasing with each new work. In this respect he always felt himself,
as he complained to me, "a beginner". The great stress in Bruckner's music rests
upon the idea, in Mahler's upon the symphonic elaboration of the idea involving
processes of forming and transforming which in the course of years scaled the
highest peaks of constructive power. It is characteristic of the difference
between the two composers that their opponents attack the form in Bruckner's,
the substance in Mahler's work. I can understand these objections to some extent
without, however, acquiescing in them. From Schenker comes this charming
thought: that "even a little bouquet of flowers requires some order (guiding
lines) to make it possible for the eye to encompass it at a glance," i.e., to
see it as a bouquet. "Form" is such order, premeditated, organic association,
complete, strict unity. Our classic literature contains matchless examples of
organic unity. Yet we have art works of undoubtedly highest value (I mention
Goethe's Faust as the most significant instance) the genesis of which
resisted this strict organic unity of form, gaining more in richness thereby
than they lost in lucidity. I confess that for many years, despite my love for
Bruckner's tonal language and his wonderful melodies, despite my happiness in
his inspirations, I felt somewhat confused by his apparent formlessness, his
unrestrained, luxurious prodigality. This confusion disappeared as soon as I
began performing him. Without difficulty I achieved that identification with his
work which is the foundation of every authentic and apparently authentic
interpretation. Now, since I have long felt deeply at home in his realm, since
his form no longer seems strange to me, I believe that access to him is open to
everyone who approaches him with the awe due a true creator. His
super-dimensions, his surrender to every fresh inspiration and new, interesting
turning, sometimes not drawn with compelling musical logic from what has gone
before, nor united to what follows, his abrupt pauses and resumptions: all this
may just as well indicate a defect in constructive power as an individual
concept of symphony. Even though he may not follow a strictly planned path to
his goal, he takes us over ways strewn with abundant riches, affording us views
of constantly varying delight. Mahler's striving for form succeeded in bringing
transparent unity to the huge dimensions of his symphonies. His was a conscious
effort towards order. All his singularities of mood, his excesses of passions,
his outpourings of the heart are seized and united according to a plan dictated
by his sovereign sense of form. He once told me that, because of the pressure of
time (his duties as director left him only the summer months for composing) he
may perhaps not have been, at times, sufficiently critical of the quality of an
idea, but that he had never permitted himself the slightest leniency in the
matter of form. Yet the objection to his thematic art finds no corroboration in
this confession, for that objection refers, as far as I know, only to so-called
"banalities," i.e., intentional ironic turns, meant to be humorous and dependent
for acceptance or rejection upon the listener's capacity for humor. It is not in
these that Mahler perceived a deficient quality. He referred to a few
transitional lyrisms in later works, which struck him as perhaps not select
enough, though they would scarcely disturb anyone's enjoyment of the gigantic
whole.
The relative beauty of
themes and the value of musical ideas cannot be a subject for discussion. I
limit myself to the declaration that, after life-long occupation with his works,
Mahler's musical substance seems to me essentially music, powerful and
individual throughout, beautiful when he strives for beauty, graceful when he
strives for charm, melancholy when for sorrow, etc. In short it was truly the
material suited to the rearing of such mighty structures, and worthy of the
sublime feelings it served to express. Mahler was, like Bruckner, the bearer of
a transcendental mission, a spiritual sage and guide, master of an inspired
tonal language enriched and enhanced by himself. The tongues of both had, like
that of Isaiah, been touched and consecrated by the fiery coal of the altar of
the Lord and the threefold "Sanctus" of the seraphim was the inmost meaning of
their message.
THE PERSONALITIES
The favor of personal
acquaintance with Bruckner was not granted me, but that Vienna, into the musical
life of which I entered as a young conductor, was still full of the most lively
memories of him. I came in touch with "Bruckner circles," which abundantly
supplemented Mahler's narratives of his own Bruckner-experiences. I gathered
from reports of pupils and friends of the master, from numerous anecdotes, so
vivid a picture of his personality, his atmosphere, his mode of life, his
conversation, his habits and eccentricities, that I feel as if I had known him
thoroughly. One drastic difference between Bruckner and Mahler struck me even
then: no feature in Bruckner's personal make-up reflected the greatness and
sublimity of his music, while Mahler's person was in full harmony with his work.
What a contrast in the very appearance of the two masters! Gustav Mahler's lean
figure, his narrow, longish face, the unusually high, sloping forehead beneath
jet-black hair, eyes which betrayed the inner flame, the ascetic mouth, his
strange, irregular gait -- these impressed one as the incarnation of the
diabolical conductor Johann Kreisler, the famed musical self. reflecting
creation of the poet E. T. A. Hoffmann. Anton Bruckner's short, corpulent,
comfortable figure, his quiet, easy manner contrast as strongly as possible with
such romantic appearance. But upon the drab body is set the head of a Roman
Caesar, which might be described as majestic, were it not for the touch of
meekness and shyness about the eyes and mouth, giving the lie to tide commanding
brow and nose. As might be expected from their contrasting exteriors the two men
themselves differed. Bruckner was a retiring, awkward, childishly naive being,
whose almost primitive ingenuousness and simplicity was mixed with a generous
portion of rustic cunning. He spoke the unrefined Upper-Austrian dialect of the
provincial and remained the countryman in appearance, clothing, speech, and
carriage till the end, even though he lived in Vienna, a world-metropolis, for
decades. His conversation never betrayed reading, whether literature or poetry,
nor any interest in scientific matters. The broad domains of the intellectual
did not attract him. Unless music was the topic he turned his conversation to
the narrow vicissitudes and happenings of everyday existence. Nevertheless his
personality must have been attractive, for almost all reports agree upon the
peculiar fascination exerted by his naivete, piety, homely simplicity, and
modesty, bordering at times on servility, as borne out by many of his letters. I
explain this attractive power of his strange personality to myself as due to the
radiance of his lofty, godly soul, the splendor of his musical genius glimmering
through his unpretending homeliness. If his presence could hardly be felt as
"interesting", it was heartwarming, yes, uplifting.
It was entirely otherwise
with Mahler, who was as impressive in life as in his works. Wherever he appeared
his exciting personality swayed everything. In his presence the most secure
became insecure. His fascinating conversation was alive with an amazingly wide
culture reflecting a world of intellectual interests and an uncommon capacity
for swift, keen thinking and expression. Nothing of importance ever thought,
accomplished, or created by man was foreign to him. His philosophically trained
mind, his fiery soul grasped and assimilated the rich, nourishing intellectual
diet without which so Faustian a being could not exist, yet which could as
little satiate or appease him as it had Faust. A firm consciousness of God that
knew no wavering filled Bruckner's heart. His deep piety, his faithful
Catholicism dominated his life, even though it is rather his work that reveals
the true greatness of his faith and his relationship to God. Not only his
Masses, his Te Deum, his devotional choral works, but his symphonies also
(and these before all) sprang from this fundamental religious feeling that
swayed Bruckner's entire spirit. He did not have to struggle toward God; he
believed. Mahler sought God. He searched in himself, in Nature, in the messages
of poets and thinkers. He strove for steadfastness while he swung between
assurance and doubt. Midst the thousand-fold, often chaotic impressions of world
and life he tried to find the ruling prime thought, the transcendental meaning.
From his Faustian urge for knowledge, from his commotion by the misery of life,
from his presentiment of ultimate harmony stemmed the spiritual agitation which
poured from him in the shape of music. Change characterized Mahler's life;
constancy Bruckner's. In a certain sense this is also true of their work.
Bruckner sang of his God and for his God, Who ever and unalterably occupied his
soul. Mahler struggled toward Him. Not constancy, but change ruled his inner
life, hence also his music.
Thus their work and their
nature were in many respects akin, in many at variance. Yet both belong to that
wide, august circle of friends who never abandon us to languish in grief or
solitude, but offer us solace in all pain. Theirs is a precious legacy that for
all time belongs to us. Those friends are always present. Their spirits dwell in
our book-chests, music-cabinets, in our memory, at our beck and call day and
night. Our two masters have long since been received into this circle because
they continue the work which the great musicians of the past have left. Great
was the difference between the two, as I have shown; but conjure up one and the
other is not very distant. Along with Bruckner's music (aside from the described
more concrete connections) there vibrates a secret Mahlerian undertone, just as
in Mahler's work some intangible element is reminiscent of Bruckner. From this
intuition of their transcendental kinship it is clearly permissible to speak of
"Bruckner and Mahler"; therefore it is possible that, despite the differences in
their natures, despite the very incompatibility of important features of their
work, my unqualified and unlimited love can belong to them both.