Richard Wagner (1813-1883)

Good Friday Spell from Parsifal (1882)

Scored for three flutes, four oboes and English horn, four clarinets and bass clarinet, four bassoons and contrabassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, and strings

“As the pure organ of feeling, the language of music expresses that which cannot be expressed by the language of words and which, when seen from our standpoint as rational beings, defies expression altogether.”

So said Richard Wagner in his essay Opera and Drama. It should come as no surprise that the composer of monumental, sense-shattering operas such as Tristan and Isolde and Die Walkure would make such a statement. It also explains exactly why Wagner chose an orchestra of such mammoth proportions. Though considered by some merely an egotist’s indulgence, it is only through an orchestra of such size that he could pull off stories like that. But it wasn’t simply the ability to create huge sounds that influenced Wagner, but, as Julius Harrison wrote, it turned the orchestra into an assembly of instrumental families, which can each play separately in full harmony, and which can also be combined in an almost limitless variety of mixed colors. Of course, none of this would amount to much if it wasn’t for the fact that Wagner was a supremely talented orchestrator with a seemingly inexhaustible imagination.

Another aspect of Wagner’s music is the extent to which the composer identified with the characters he had created. Quite often the attitudes, emotions and identities of the principals of his works closely mirrored his own. These beliefs were often made a subtle part of his character’s personalities, and never at the expense of those personalities or the character’s motivation. An example is the character of Walther in The Mastersingers of Nuremberg. When Walther sings his prize song, he is partly giving voice to the composer’s conviction concerning the gifted person’s ability to spontaneously create.

A further connection with character was made with the Holy Grail keeper Lohengrin, and the events in Wagner’s final opera, Parsifal. The composer wrote the following about the work’s inspiration:

“It was a beautiful spring day – the first such day that year! I was sitting on the veranda of my Asyl, the bells were ringing, - the birds were singing, the first flowers gazed up at me, and it was then, in a moment of rapt ecstasy, that Parsifal was conceived!”

Well – not quite…

As much as we’d like the story to be true, we now know that Wagner’s description is whimsical at best. But it does show the extent to which the creator came to identify with his creation.

Parsifal returns to the subject of the Knights of the Holy Grail, but here Wagner’s emphasis is on its spiritual significance. Good Friday Spell is taken from Act III of the opera which takes place on the morning of Good Friday. The magician Klingsor has been defeated by the young knight Parsifal. He returns to the castle where he absolves Kundry, who was under the magician’s spell, from her sins. Looking over the countryside, he admires its beauty, but is troubled that such beauty could accompany a day that commemorates such pain. But Gurnemanz points out to Parsifal that nature is merely rejoicing in the promise of redemption that came from that pain. The breathtakingly gorgeous music is tinged with sadness, establishing a connection between Parsifal and Gurnemanz’s words.

 

Frederick Chopin (1810-1849)

Concerto No. 2 for piano and orchestra in F minor, Op. 21 (1830)

Scored for pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horns and trumpets, trombone, timpani and strings

Frederick Chopin’s importance in the history of piano music cannot be over-stressed. He brought to the instrument a kind of poetry, subtlety and beauty that had never before been imagined. This new depth of expression encompassed richly colored sonorities, rhythmic innovation and unparalleled melodic invention. But in Chopin’s case, these new depths were born out of his unrivaled ability to carry them out. He created a new method of playing the piano that exploited every possibility the improved instrument could provide. Contemporary accounts of his playing are universal in their admiration and awe for a man who could so gently and effortlessly coax the piano into expressing the desires of his heart in exactly the way he wanted.

During his studies at the Warsaw Conservatory, it became obvious that the young Chopin was a man of rare talent. Though he appeared from time to time as piano soloist, the kind of career that befit such ability could not be found in Poland. So, like so many before him, he left Warsaw for the musical capital of the world: Vienna.

Though his intention when he arrived in Austria was to establish himself as a pianist-composer in the same way that Beethoven, Hummel and Clementi had, it became obvious that his temperament was simply not suited to the fast pace, exhausting schedule and nerve-wracking demands that such a career required. But when he arrived in Vienna he was an unknown. Though he successfully auditioned for the prestigious music publisher Tobias Haslinger, he had yet to make an impression on those people who would actually buy the published scores. So Haslinger hastily arranged for Chopin to make his Viennese debut, which took place on August 11, 1829.

Haslinger, though impressed with the young man’s music, was still a little concerned with these strange Polish rhythms and exotic harmonies derived from its folk music. But the publisher needn’t have worried; the concert was a rousing success. So much so, that Haslinger quickly put together another concert which was equally well-received. But when Haslinger suggested yet a third performance, Chopin had to politely refuse. Haslinger had not Paid Chopin a dime for these concerts, being, as he saw them, a sort of test market for the composer’s music. The simple fact was that Chopin was broke. He just couldn’t afford to be a success any longer.

Before Chopin returned to Warsaw, though, Haslinger suggested to the 19-year-old that his next project must be a concerto. As yet the young Pole had not written a full-scale work in this form, but bolstered by his reception in the concert hall, he set to work.

In fact, the composer completed two works in the genre during 1830, thinking that it would be better to be able to choose between them as the situation dictated. The first of these to be completed was the Concerto in F minor, Op. 21, though it was the second to be published. The concerto was given its first performance in Warsaw in March of 1830.

Word of his Viennese success had begun to spread by this time, and the turnout was more than could have been expected. The performance was repeated the following month with slight changes to the program. Both were triumphs. Now, with the accolades of his compatriots, a publishing contract, two concerti, and numerous works for solo piano behind him, he set off for Western Europe in October of 1830, and never looked back.

It would still be a few years before Chopin was established enough to give up frequent public performance, but the concerti contributed to his success; a concerto is always the work that will bring music-lovers to the concert halls to hear a fresh talent. But ultimately it was the mesmerizing playing, the fertile imagination, the musical originality and the commanding presence of Frederick Chopin that ultimately won them over.

The first movement basically follows the classical sonata structure of Mozart; a lengthy orchestral exposition setting the stage for the piano’s brisk commentary on it. The piano’s striking ornamentation actually gives new life to the majestic first theme, and the more lyrical second theme. It is clearly the piano that is the focus of attention. The amazing synthesis of soloist and orchestra that Brahms brought to his own works in the genre are not the point here. Chopin has no delusions of grandeur as an orchestrator. The accompaniment, though competent, is merely support, even when it occasionally rises to the fore. The object of the composer’s empathy is the piano itself, and by the time the movement reaches its magnificent conclusion, we’re with him all the way.

Chopin admitted, in an uncharacteristic display of intimacy, that the second movement Larghetto, was inspired by his deep feelings for Konstancja Gladkowska, a singer and classmate at the Warsaw Conservatory. His feelings unfortunately were unrequited, so he was forced to express his longing only through the pages of his score. He also confided in a letter to his friend Tytus, “Under her inspiration have been born the adagio of my concerto in F minor. No one will know about it but you…I tell to the piano what I confide in you.”

The movement begins in uncertainty, as if unburdening a full expression of feelings is too painful. Then the piano enters in rapturous beauty. The piano part is rhapsodic and improvisational in its manner - this confession of a yearning heart could be presented in no other way. The music is soaringly lyrical, lovingly ornamented and embellished, occasionally rising to heights of deep passion and searching melancholy. One cannot help but be reminded of the profundity of Chopin’s Nocturnes, their immense beauty tinged with tragedy, which are also glimpses into the composer’s true heart. The orchestra is a sympathetic voice throughout.

Chopin’s passionate patriotic fervor is evident in the finale. The main theme is a vibrant Mazurka, one of Poland’s national dances, and infuses the whole with fiery exhilaration. The pianist has scarcely time to relax throughout, save for some brief orchestral declarations. The middle section is a lighter, but no less exuberant scherzando, in which Chopin calls for the strings to hit with the wood, rather than the hair of their bows. A dramatic orchestral outburst finally ends by bringing a brief respite to the proceedings as a horn call ushers in the coda. But the respite is short, and the piano gleefully takes up the Mazurka once again and leads the way to a vivacious conclusion.

 

Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

Symphony No. 4 in F minor, OP. 36 (1878)

Scored for 3 flutes and piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, timpani, percussion, strings

Perhaps if he had gone just a little deeper into the icy waters of the Moscow River on that night in 1877, he would never have come out, but the water stood only up to his waist. Confusion, uncertainty, fear, doubt and turmoil racked his troubled mind as he wondered if this would really be what was best for everyone. Perhaps if he could have held his ground just a little longer, hypothermia would have decided the matter, but he could stand it no more, and he grimly waded back to shore, still not sure if he could face his life again.

Earlier that year, Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky had entered into marriage with a young pupil from the Moscow Conservatory named Antonina Milyukova. He was aloof, but she was persistent. She even threatened suicide if he did not return her feelings. But Tchaikovsky had become fascinated of late with the idea of a home and family life, and had even confessed a desire to marry. The reasons for giving in to this fantasy are difficult to comprehend. Perhaps it was his intense desire to hide his homosexuality, or some thought that this might cure him of it. This was certainly foremost in the mind of Antonina. Perhaps it was the idea that, despite his aversion to her, they could still somehow live as friends in a peaceful co-existence. Whatever the reasons, the situation was nothing more than a dream that suddenly became a nightmare. Tchaikovsky, whose manic-depressive tendencies had already begun to establish themselves, suffered a nervous breakdown followed by the failed suicide attempt. Under doctor’s orders, he hastily fled to Switzerland where, gradually, he began to recover.

But even this might not have been possible were it not for another woman with whom he had been corresponding for some time. Nadezhda von Meck, who started out as a distant admirer, never demanding anything more than friendship, had now become his patroness. She stood by him during this difficult time, and never wrote a harsh word in reproach. As they corresponded regularly for the rest of their lives, Tchaikovsky would call her his best friend. By mutual consent, the two would never meet face-to-face.

But now the composer was in shambles, and Nadezhda promised him the money he needed to remain in Switzerland. While there, slowly regaining his strength, he wrote his opera Eugene Onegin, and continued to work on something that he had already revealed to Nadezhda in a letter: his Fourth Symphony.

Eventually, Tchaikovsky would find the strength to finish the work, which he did on January 7, 1878. In his continued correspondence with Nadezhda, Tchaikovsky frequently referred to the piece as “our symphony,’ eventually dedicating it to her anonymously. He did not attend the first performance which took place under the baton of Anton Rubinsten on February 22 nd. The symphony was met with the same kind of indifference that the composer had come to expect from the St. Petersburg public, but within a year it would gain ground considerably.

In response to a question about the work posed by his pupil, the composer Sergei Taneyev, Tchaikovsky wrote, “Of course my symphony has a program. Basically, [it is] patterned after Beethoven’s Fifth. Not Beethoven’s musical ideas, but his fundamental idea. The Beethoven Fifth has a program. There can be no doubt what the composer wishes to express. The same idea underlies my own symphony…

The ‘idea’ that Tchaikovsky wrote of is clear from a letter he wrote his patroness Nedezhda von Meck: in which he set out a detailed program of the feelings and themes that the work presents. It is also a fascinating look into the mind of a manic depressive:

The introduction contains the germ of the entire symphony, without question its central idea. This is Fate, the decisive force which prevents our hopes of happiness from being realized, which watches jealously to see that our bliss and peace are not complete and unclouded, and which, like the Sword of Damocles is suspended over our heads and perpetually poisons our souls. One must submit to it and take refuge in futile longings.

The unconsolable (sic), hopeless feeling grows stronger and more consuming. Would it not be better to turn away from reality and immerse oneself in dream? Oh joy! A sweet, tender vision has appeared. A blessed, luminous being flies by and beckons somewhere. How wonderful! How distantly already sounds the importunate first theme of the Allegro. Little by little dreams have enveloped the soul. All that was gloomy and joyless is forgotten. Happiness is here; it is here! But no! They were only dreams, and fate awakens us harshly. And thus all life is an incessant shifting between grim reality and the waves hither and thither until the sea swallows us….

The second movement of the symphony expresses another phase of longing. This is the melancholy feeling that suffuses you toward evening when you are sitting alone, weary from work….It is pleasant to remember one’s youth and to regret the past, but there is no wish to begin again. Life has tired you out. It is pleasant to rest and cast a glance backward. Many things flit through the memory. There were happy moments when young blood pulsed warm and life was gratifying. There were also moments of grief, of irreparable loss. It is all remote in the past. It is both sad and somehow sweet to lose oneself in the past.

The third movement expresses no definite sensations. It is a capricious arabesque, fleeting apparitions that pass through the imagination when one has begun to drink a little wine and is beginning to feel the first phase of intoxication. The soul is neither happy nor sad. You are not thinking of anything; the imagination is completely free and for some reason has begun to paint curious pictures. Among them you suddenly remember some muzhiks (Russian peasants) on a spree, and a street song. Then the disconnected images that pass through our heads as we begin to fall asleep. They have nothing in common with reality, they are strange, exotic, incoherent.

The fourth movement. If you cannot discover the reasons for happiness in yourself, look at others. Get out among the people. Look, what a good time they have, surrendering themselves to joy! A picture of popular merriment on a holiday. You have scarcely had a chance to forget yourself when indefatigable fate appears once more and reminds you of herself. But the others pay no attention to you. They do not even turn around, do not even look at you, do not notice that you are alone and sad. Oh, how gay they are! How fortunate they are that their emotions are direct and uncomplicated! Upbraid yourself and do not say that all the world is sad. Strong, simple joys exist. Take happiness from the joys of others. Life is bearable after all.

 

This program, of course, can serve only as a simple insight into the composer’s mind. The symphony is much more than the program can provide. The composer also included in his letter to Taneyev the futility of mere words to describe such a work: “But ought this not always to be the case with a symphony, the most lyrical of musical forms? Ought it not to express all those things for which words cannot be found but which nevertheless arise in the heart and cry out for expression?”

Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony is a re markable statement and one which set his orchestral music on a new path. It states its case with powerful clarity and stands on its own merits among the great symphonies of the nineteenth century.