represent, for all that anybody knows, non-entities. Far more than the poet his nearest of kin through the common bond of neglect or abuse has the composer opportunities for uttering hidden things unintelligibly; for he prophesies in an esoteric tongue, and he may employ it in a way that shall puzzle the elect. In all other arts the classics are the old; in music the true classics are the newest. The last word on sculpture was spoken two millenniums ago; the best poetry of those early times has caused perennial despair to poets ever since; as for painting, though late in attaining an equal degree of excellence with its sister arts,' it is doubtful whether pigments and canvas will in any future age speak a loftier message to man than they have already spoken.

But in music the last word can never be spoken. The latest of the fine arts to reach a highly artistic state of development, it promises to go on develop ing forever. Its forms are protean; its rules are temporary bridges over temporary floods, the rushing torrents of taste and custom. These bridges the real genius who is neither radical nor conservative makes use of when he can; but he reserves the privilege of ignoring them, and often boldly fords the flood or leaps over it. The changes that may be rung upon musical sounds, as regards their relative pitch, duration, accent, or combination, are not to be reckoned; their name is Infinitude, while the subject matter of which they are the symbols embraces all entities in the universe, uttering the unutterable, voicing the soul of man's soul.

Thus it will be readily seen why the great composer par excellence must always be far in advance of his age, since he not only undertakes to express more than has ever before been expressed in music, but at the same time has to edu

1 I omit mention of architecture, because as a primarily useful art its standard of perfec

tion is relative.

cate his listeners to comprehend and accept his very methods, methods wholly strange and of his own devising, wherein, it may be, he breaks without compunction every law of his art which they have been taught to regard as inviolable.

In view, then, of the strong tendency and wide opportunity of the composer toward discarding usage and convention, it is almost too much to hope for, that contemporary appraisal should ever do him entire justice. In such a case sympathy can perhaps reach down deeper and draw out more than scientific knowledge could do. For, after all, music is a means, not an end; its whole history is a reproof to those who would treat it chiefly as a thing of forms and technicalities; it breathes its living spirit into the souls of multitudes who know not theories. The composer has a message to deliver, and they to whom the message speaks clearly enough need have little concern with the terms in which it is delivered.

Let no one who may be unacquainted with the works of Edward MacDowell judge from these preliminaries that this young master in music is a scorner of all forms and standards that have come down out of the great past. He reverences these for what they are worth, whether intrinsically or as helps in building up his own art structures. But he is too potently individual to be made the slave of any system, too full of strong, original invention to revere rules for their own sake. Whatever will best express his thought, of that will he avail himself. It is the "thing-in-itself" he is pursuing; modes and methods are to him but modes and methods. He has been accused of "posing as original,"

a senseless criticism, and not worthy of notice save that it points to the undoubted unconventionality of his ideas, which could seem hardly more novel to an unaccustomed ear if the scores had fallen out of Jupiter. To take them in, it is necessary that one should cultivate a quite new tonal sense and divest him

self of many preconceived notions. We must be ourselves modern to the extremest extent of that term, if we would apprehend the message of this essentially modern composer.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to define anything concisely, especially "To clothe a complex thing with a single word;"

but if I were asked to express in a line what is the main essential that makes for modernity in music, I should answer, the effective management of discords, whose æsthetic and expressive value began to be appreciated at a comparatively recent date.

Mr. MacDowell is well aware of the vast scope they offer both for pure soundeffects and for the utterance of all feelings and thought-suggestions, while his strong melodial instinct and what Richter would call his Stimmführung — referring to the invention and harmonious balancing of contrapuntal parts - give to his passages of greatest daring a positive delightfulness. The most emotional of musical artists, he is likewise the most intellectual, and makes himself felt as such in his slighter productions. Of his best compositions it might be said that the concentrated richness of these works makes them confusing to the popular ear, and in some cases, too, to the educated ear, until the latter has grown used to the composer's peculiarly subtle ways of stat ing his poetic views. His modulations have a meaning in themselves. His sequences accomplish more than leading us to something they convey thought; they are logical sequences of musical sentiHe gives us common scales run in unison, yet so set as to be of tragic import; listening to them, we believe we have never heard these scales before. With him tremolo and trill are not sheer noise or useless ornament, "sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal," but thrill and quiver with the heart of the composition which they embellish. As a readily comprehended instance of Mr. Mac

ment.

Dowell's aversion to "blank spaces," compare the revised with the early edition of the Intermezzo, First Suite. It may be likewise noted in any of his oftrepeated subordinate figures. They are more than simple accompaniment; they possess a distinct dramatic value, supplying the required atmosphere of serenity, sportiveness, pathos, or passion.

Let me illustrate this by the Prélude of the First Suite. Here a theme of great power and stateliness is carried by the left hand, and accompanied by arpeggios in figures, or groups, of six and five notes. The theme is in one voice, and has no coloring save that added by the everflowing, kaleidoscopic design of the treble. Nothing could be farther from the inane or the ordinary than this right-hand part. It is as essentially characteristic as the strong, weird melody to which it serves not only for a background, but for a varied harmonic support, directly enhancing the latter's significance by being nearly equivalent to a counter-theme.

The mention of this Prélude brings me to a consideration of that which distinguishes the most important piano works of MacDowell, namely, their marked or chestral character. This is more or less true of the two Suites; it is especially so of their opening movements. But though we find throughout both of them a comprehensive treatment of singularly noble themes, they are thin in comparison with the two sonatas. The designs of these are cast in symphonic moulds; their subjects are treated in large epic fashion, and the impression they give of volume and of wide tone-spaces, usually associated only with great masses of instruments, is at first startling. They are, in fact, nothing less than symphonies brought within the scope of a pianoforte keyboard.

Some may wonder why a man who has so complete an understanding and mastery of orchestral resources as MacDowell, and who, moreover, is overflowing with great ideas, should deliberately

choose to give many of those ideas no wider field to display themselves in than the limitations afforded by a single soulless instrument. But the bringing out of an orchestral work is not a simple matter. Manifold are the conditions that must converge and unite before an ideal presentation is possible; ideal from the composer's standpoint, something quite important, and not always taken into account. Mr. MacDowell, being a piano virtuoso as well as a composer, naturally writes much for an instrument on which he can interpret his own music directly to the public without the intervention of another personality. Hence, that which enters his mind as a symphony suffers a change, and comes forth from the workshop a sonata.

There is an opinion frequently met with in certain quarters, a reference to which may not be out of place here. According to this opinion, the sonata form is consigned to a hopeless antiquity. In a recent article upon Hadow's Studies in Modern Music,' the critic accuses Mr. Hadow of "weakness" in that "he accepts the sonata as the perfection of musical form." Yet Dr. Ernst Pauer, who should be an authority, says, "The sonata is by far the most important form, and may be considered the mainstay of modern music; "going on to show how the principles of its construction are the same as those that underlie the symphony, trio, quartette, overture, and even some of the lesser instrumental forms.

The writer in The Nation quotes Dr. Hubert Parry as saying, in Art of Music, that "the aspect of pianoforte music in general seems to indicate that composers are agreed that the day for writing sonatas is past; " though Dr. Parry himself elsewhere freely admits that the form "is most elastic and satisfying in practice," an expression which would hardly seem applicable to a totally outworn model. This model served Schubert's purposes right well, also Chopin's, 1 In The Nation, April 18, 1895.

notwithstanding that Mr. Hadow's critic states it as a "fact" that "all the great composers since Beethoven have turned their backs upon it." No one, I think, would assert that either Schubert or Chopin succeeded in making as much of the sonata as did Beethoven,

"in whose hands

The Thing became a trumpet;' yet Schubert, at least, embodied some of his greatest thoughts very effectively in this" obsolete" form. Our writer furthermore remarks that "if all the critics in the world stood up for the sonata, it could not be saved." Perhaps not. But very possibly a great composer can save it. It is idle to insist that any form is obsolete so long as genius can express itself therein.

Not only does Mr. MacDowell, by his practice, refuse to consider the sonata as archaic, but, speaking with the unaffected note of authority, he says, "Sonata form is a necessary thing; " adding, however, "But if the composer's ideas do not imperatively demand treatment in that form (that is, if his first theme is not actually dependent upon his second and side themes for its poetic fulfillment), he has not composed a sonata movement, but a potpourri, which the form only aggravates." And further on he writes, "Any collection of themes which has musical coherence embodies a form worthy of respect."

Had Mr. MacDowell invented the particular form in question, it could not fit his ideas more spontaneously and perfectly than it does in the Sonata Tragica. His selection of it forcibly illustrates his catholic attitude towards the past, as well as his independence of criticism and his immunity from fear of that bugaboo consistency. Great romanticist that he is, he finds room within the sternest of classic moulds for the free play of his freest imaginations. For there is nothing archaic nor even old-fashioned in his use of this ancient type. It is un2 In The Musical Herald, January, 1892.

doubtedly better suited to the dignified treatment of a great subject than any purely modern form could be. Giving little scope for sensationalism, it is the natural exponent of "the grand style" applied to the pianoforte. In choosing it as the setting of his Tragedy in Tones, Mr. MacDowell has shown himself to be a genuine artist; he has also revealed, to an extent undreamed of before, the capacity of the piano for conveying the richest and broadest symphonic effects.

than

This extraordinary composition, while sufficiently formal to satisfy the worshipers of "schools," is so spontaneous as to make one forget all about schools and the fetters they have forged for submissive geniuses. In its themes and their treatment there is a breadth of tragic passion which gives to the whole that universal character demanded by true dramatic art; it is as old as nay, older Eschylus; it is as new as Ibsen, and, let me add, much more healthful. The Sonata Tragica strikes at the start the highest key of sorrow; it carries us by the insistent force of its first subject straight into the thick of the eternal conflict between man and his environment. After a scherzo suggesting the wild, overstrained efforts of breaking hearts to simulate gleefulness, its slow third movement opens black with the blackness of an immemorial woe. Pathos, femininely tender, rises almost to the height of her brother Tragedy; but the closing allegro the most elaborate movement of the sonata - clashes forth an energetic protest against despair; and the coda (maestoso), containing a quiet, chastened, comforting recollection of the tragic introduction, is the apotheosis of a noble grief which finds its rightful end in "Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory."

such a burden. Only some mighty, typi cal character, standing for all mankind, ought artistically to be made to bear it. If Mr. MacDowell had named his sonata Prometheus, no one could charge him with failing to bring his work up to the level of his subject, nor would the demon of "programme music " itself experience much difficulty in searching therein after the exposition of a god's vengeance, a Titan's "dread endurance," the final triumph of the Earth-born, and of Love, who at last

"folds over the earth its healing wings."

sug

There is in MacDowell an enchanting, extra-mundane quality which reminds of Shelley. The poet in tones, like the poet in words, breathes as his native air the atmosphere of a strange, high, thriceclarified, rainbow-illumined realm, where images, not of terror, but of stupendous beauty dwell, images that the programme fiend cannot fasten upon, because they are less images than suggestions, gestions of moods intellectual rather than sensuous, spiritual rather than intellectual. And the diction of our poet in tones (if I may speak of diction in reference to music) has at times, in common with that of his brother in verse, a splendor entirely foreign to our sphere, reflected as it were from the calm empyreal domain whence themes and inspiration are alike drawn. It is this splendid style which, notwithstanding the abstruseness of his themes, enables him to carry his listeners upwards with him; and if they cannot at first, without gasping, inhale the hypertenuous air, yet they come down to earth invigorated, and longing for another temporary translation.

That Mr. MacDowell can also deal cleverly and gracefully with the commoner themes his many lesser pieces plainly show. Yet, while never quite touching the level of the commonplace. it cannot be denied that he sometimes inclines to be dry, with a dryness arising certainly not from paucity of ideas,

but very possibly from too much selfrestraint, as if he had sworn to strangle at their birth the chiefest faults of youth, bombast, turgidity, over-elaboration; a good resolve, especially since, thanks to his inherent emotionalism, he is not in the least danger of injuring those virtues which are their nearest of kin. He has also occasionally fallen short of the best results by requiring of the piano what it is unable to do. In his sonatas, as I have already indicated, he has with amazing skill contrived to simulate the ear-filling, cumulative effect of grand orchestra, using the entire keyboard in a way that makes the performer appear to be at least four-handed, and so selecting his harmonic materials as to bring for ward most vividly those points in which a pianoforte can best compete with the unspeakable fusion of tones produced when all varieties of wood, wind, and stringed instruments are played together. In several of his smaller pieces, however, he has wrought designs which nothing except the gliding, sustaining, swelling capacities of horns or bowed strings can ever adequately render. He has, it is true, often written these little morceaux in the duet form, thus gaining in solidity of movement and weight of tone. Yet take, for example, the opening of Der Schwan (No. 4 in Mondbilder), where for sixteen bars the right-hand performer is given a slow, sustained solo upon the highest keys of the piano; no one save a virtuoso would be able to do more than faintly suggest its potential beauty of color and shading. One cannot play this little piece, which is as daintily conceived as its prototype, the work of that absolute artist Hans Christian Andersen, and not long to hear it clearly and softly blown through hautboys, clarinets, bassoons, with their reedy, out-of-doors voices, or carried along on the smooth flowingness of violins. It is the same, but to a lesser degree, with Nachts am Meere, and also though it be flat heresy to say it with that mi

raculous bit of tone-poetry, The Eagle (solo), which belongs to a much later opus.

The loss in hearing these upon the piano, for which they were written, is akin to the loss experienced in reading a poem translated from one language to another. But orchestras, even small ones, are not at the command of ordinary human mortals, while the piano we have always with us. The utterances of the great, even in translation, are worth much, and the passing fancies of one whose deep, conscious thoughts carry weight are exceedingly precious. All said, the matter is hardly a serious one. These compositions are so lovely, in spite of the inadequacy of hammers and strings to bring out all their loveliness, that one feels hypercritical in making any strictures upon them. Furthermore, they are interesting as marking a period when Mr. MacDowell was very decidedly under the influence of what is commonly known as a "school," though it is more properly denominated a "spirit," that spirit which in its extremest manifestation leads its followers to search after musical designs that shall definitely suggest material images or the course of actual occurrences. The Symphonic Poems for full orchestra, Hamlet and Ophelia, and Lancelot and Elaine, show the composer at the height of his ardor for inventing such designs. Hamlet offers as bold a specimen of the dramatic concrete in music as can well be imagined. Here, truly, is meat for strong men, and, it would appear, meat too strong for some musical stomachs.

Yet, young as he was when the Symphonic Poems were produced, they are by no means his earliest serious work. Long before Hamlet and Ophelia came out, when he was between eighteen and twenty and studying in Germany under Ehlert and Raff, he composed and published his two piano Suites and his first Concerto, while Lancelot and Elaine was preceded by his second Concerto. Thus we find him almost in his boyhood han