Music

AMERICAN composers, it would seem, are bestirring themselves. Mr. John K. Paine, if report is to be believed, is again at work, having hardly given himself breathing-time after his Saint Peter, while Mr. Dudley Buck comes before us again with a fullfledged cantata for solos, chorus, and orchestra, following close upon the heels of the performance of his Forty-sixth Psalm. The Legend of Don Munio¹ calls itself a dramatic cantata. Excepting that it is a succession of disconnected scenes, it might well aspire to the title of an opera or operetta. The story is taken from Washington Irving’s Spanish Papers. Don Munio de Hinojosa, a Spanish nobleman, in the time of the Spanish and Moorish wars, while hunting one morning with a large retinue, meets a Moorish cavalcade, the escort of Abadil, a Moorish prince, and Constunza, his betrothed, on their way to their wedding. The Spaniards immediately surround and capture the Moors, no doubt with an eye to a comfortable ransom. Abadil, seeing no chance of escape, throws himself upon Don Munio’s generosity, offering all his gold and jewels, but begging that he and his betrothed may not he separated. Don Munio, being struck by Constanza’s beauty and the unhappy plight of both her and her lover, invites them to spend a fortnight at his castle, and to celebrate their nuptials there ; after which they shall have full liberty to depart. The lovers gratefully accept the invitation, and are married in due time. Just after their departure Don Munio receives a summons from the king to join in a crusade to Palestine. In this crusade he is killed, by Abadil’s hand, it would seem, who did not recognize him in the mêlée with his visor down. While Don Munio’s friends who remained in Spain are lamenting his death, Roderigo, a messenger, arrives from Palestine, saying that one evening, while walking near the Holy Sepulchre, he saw a ghostly procession of seventy Christian knights, headed by Don Munio, approach the sepulchre and then vanish. This is accepted as a proof that the Don’s soul rests in peace. These incidents are interspersed with scenes which, although they have no direct reference to the plot, give the composer some situations that are favorable to musical treatment, such as Donna Maria’s (Don Munio’s wife’s) soliloquy in her chamber, and several scenes in the castle chapel, where divine service is conducted by Escobedo, the chaplain. The cantata is preluded by a well and concisely written overture, which we have already had occasion to notice on its first performance last season in the Symphony Concerts of the Harvard Musical Association. The opening number is a chorus of huntsmen and retainers, for male voices. The stagedirection is : “ Early morning. The courtyard of Don Munio’s castle.” It is spiritedly written, containing the customary exhortations to the chase, together with some hints of a more blood-thirsty nature, in case the hunting party should happen to flush a Moor as well as a stag. No. 2 introduces us to “ The castle of Don Munio. Sunset. Donna Maria alone in her chamber.” A few bars of accompanied recitative lead up to an andante in E minor, in which the Donna rather moodily descants on her husband’s absence and the woes of solitude. The movement is exceedingly pleasing and refined in melody, and shows in its harmony the influence of good models. It is followed after a short bit of recitative by a quite brilliant though rather commonplace rondo in E major. No. 3 : “ Evening. Close of vesper service in the chapel of the castle. Escobedo, the chaplain, with the women, and such retainers as have not followed Don Munio on his expedition.” A short, solemn prelude, beginning with a unison phrase on the G string and closing with full orchestra and organ, leads to the intonation of the responses to the eighth Gregorian tone, Escobedo’s baritone alternating with the chorus in full harmony. This is followed by a few bars recitative and a short cantilena in E flat by Escobedo, in which he exhorts the congregation to evening prayer. No. 4 is an Ave Maria for full chorus, a melodious bit of four-part writing, abounding in rich, full harmony and effective modulations, rather of the sensuous, sentimental, Abtian sort. No. 5 takes us to Don Munio in the forest. A short recitative interspersed with horn-calls leads up to a very spirited hunting-song, with a brilliant accompaniment. No. 6 describes the approach of the Moors, little hints of the Moorish march-theme cropping up every now and then in the orchestra. No. 7 is an exceedingly pretty and taking three-part chorus by the “Females of the Moorish cavalcade, singing as they journey.” In No. 8 “ Don Munio’s retainers make their appearance from all sides, surrounding the Moors,” This chorus in E minor is, to our thinking, far the strongest bit in the cantata, the strongest in fact that we have yet seen from Mr. Buck’s pen. The furious theme of the Spaniards, “ Down with the Moslem,” is finely contrasted with the despairing “ Woe, woe, utter woe ” of the Moorish women. Both themes are afterwards worked up together with great ingenuity and effect. The chorus ends with a raging stretto accompanied by a perfect whirlwind on the violins and piccolo. No. 9 is a recitative and tenor aria in which Abadil makes his entreaty to Don Munio. Although well written and melodious enough, the number strikes us as weak at best, and not worthy of the rest of the work. No. 10 is a recitative followed by a short arioso, in which the Don names his terms of ransom and invites the Moorish lovers to his castle. No. 11, the closing number of the first part, is a very spirited chorus in praise of Don Munio’s generosity.

Part second opens with a short, solemn orchestral prelude and recitative for Abadil, followed by a tenor aria, “ O thou, my star,” with a broad, pleasing, sentimental melody of rather Italian flavor, in which the lover pours forth his devotion to his mistress. No. 13, “The chapel choir singing the evening hymn,” is a choral, “ Jesu, dulcis memoria,” though of quite different character from what we usually call chorals. It is indeed to us the most questionable piece of writing in the work. It is full of crude mediæval triad progressions and cross relations which would indeed have a certain raison d'être as a bit of local color, had not the composer every now and then strayed into some more sensuous, modern chromatic harmonies. As it is, these harsh progressions have at best the air of a rather affected preraphaelitism, wholly at variance with that ingenuous spontaneity which is one of the prime characteristics of Mr. Buck’s usual style. No. 14 is a love-duet, sung on the castle terrace by the two lovers. In general form and treatment it is not unlike the favorite Notte gentil, in Gounod’s Roméo. It is well written, and will be probably one of the most effective numbers when the work is performed. In spite of a certain tendency to the commonplace, it is yet full of real beauties, and is generally what singers call a “ repaying ” number. No. 15, a joyful bridal chorus, and No. 16, a quite piquant and graceful bolero for orchestra, form the festival music incidental to the marriage of the lovers. These are followed by No. 17, a quartette without accompaniment, “ It is the lot of friends to part,” in which Don Munio and Donna Maria take leave of Abadil and Constanza—a sonorous and quite pleasing bit of four-part writing, fully up to the better class of four-part songs. No. 18 is a Spirited duet between Don Munio and his wife, in which he announces to her his departure for Palestine, ending with a vivace movement a due rather of the “O sole, piu rapido” order, which is followed by No. 19, a march-like battlehymn for male chorus, full of life and vigor. No. 20, “ The chapel of the castle. Choir chanting the dirge for the dead,” is an extremely beautiful requiem in the calm, solemn key of G minor. This number is the purest, as well as in every way the finest piece of sacred music that we know of Mr. Buck’s. It is without the slightest trace of mawkish sentimentality or sham mediæval asceticism, and is strong, earnest, and full of real, healthy sentiment. In No. 21 Escobedo tells the assembled crowd how Don Munio came to his death, and in No. 22 Roderigo, the messenger, describes his vision at the sepulchre, in an air which, in spite of its general sentimental-ballad cut, has yet some fine points, especially the short passage in B minor at the words “ All deadly pale, with visor raised, in silence moved their steady march.” No. 23, the final chorus, “ In thankful hymns ascending,” begins with the beautiful theme with which the overture opens, followed by a very brilliant, though, it seems to us as yet, a rather trivial stretto, with quite an effective todo on the violins.

We can give no opinion of any value upon the work as a whole, until we actually hear it performed. That the work is musically written throughout is plain enough. Of marked originality we see little if any in it. It is not to be denied that many passages border dangerously on the commonplace. It seems at times almost as if Mr. Buck had nothing higher in view than to write good musical commonplaces, such as appeal directly to the generality of hearers. His writing always evinces sound musical culture, and no mediocre degree of musical science and technical aptitude. None of his compositions, least of all this very Legend of Don Munio, smell of the lamp. They bear the mark of spontaneity upon their very surface. This does not mean by any means that the workmanship is not carefully finished. The workmanship is on the contrary often only too good, and we sometimes feel a touch of wondering ill-humor that he should often do insignificant things so well, when he has done so much that is by no means insignificant. Don Munio is as yet upon the whole rather a mystery to us. We wait for a performance to help clear it up.

—Francis Boott’s O Domine Deus,1 to the Latin words attributed to Mary Stuart, is, all things considered, the most sterling of the composer’s songs that we know. Here we have the purely religious element, tinged with, but not obscured by one knows not what fascinating atmosphere of romanticism and poetry. Musically considered, the song has no little intrinsic beauty.

George L. Osgood’s Guide in the Art of Singing² is a valuable addition to a class of literature in which there exists little that is really trustworthy, and very much that is bad. It is one of the most exhaustive treatises on the art of singing that we know. Basing his system upon the true old Italian method, Mr. Osgood has yet had the sense to appreciate the effect that the modern German school of vocal writing, the songs of Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, and Franz, and the declamatory lyric drama of Wagner and others, must necessarily have upon singing and singers. Many vocal theorists, disgusted with the German method, or rather absence of method in singing, have been too prone in their Italian enthusiasm to ignore German vocal music as foreign to the proper ends of song. That this large class of vocal music has an intrinsic musical importance, which in no way justifies this neglect, is self-evident. Mr. Osgood has wisely distinguished between the Italian vocal method and the Italian style of singing, and has seen that the two are by no means inseparable, but that the Italian method, as the true one, can be applied as well to German as to Italian singing. One point of peculiar merit in Mr. Osgood’s book is the very careful and elaborate exposition he has made of the means of articulating the various vowels and consonants, a point which rarely receives enough attention.

—Carl Prüfer’s reprint of the complete German edition of Plaidy’s Technical Studies for the Piano-Forte³ is most valuable. It may be regarded as the standard work on fingering. The immense progress that has been made in the art of fingering, since Liszt, Thalberg, Tausig, Von Bulow, and others have made what at first sight appears to be a complete revolution in the art, is not to be lost sight of. But it must be remembered that whatever innovations these men have made in fingering (with perhaps the single exception of Thalberg’s peculiar use of the thumb in cantilena accompanied with arpeggios) are only applicable to particular cases. The fundamental general rules for fingering are not one whit affected by them, and are as indispensable to the pianist to-day as they ever were. Plaidy’s book is not, neither does it pretend to be, a manual of “ piano-forteplaying without a master.” It is a complete and exhaustive compendium of all important finger-exercises, and as such cannot be too highly estimated.

— All those who are not already intensely interested in the subject will probably find Reissmann’s Geschichte des deutschen Liedes⁴ extremely dry reading. The book indeed hardly deserves the name of a history, being little more than a most matter-of-fact chronological list of songs and song-writers, catalogued with great pains, and compared with each other with sometimes no small amount of critical acumen. But the true investigating spirit of history is almost wholly wanting. After reading the book we do not feel that we really know much more on the subject than before. None of the composers are brought before us with that graphic, vital power of delineation that makes them living realities to us, and makes us feel as if we really knew them. The book abounds in facts of the Gradgrind sort, and we can find in it, for instance, that Johann Abraham Peter Schultz lived between the years 1747 and 1800, that he wrote songs in a certain style to words written by such and such poets, and that he was a man of more importance in the history of art than Friedrich Silcher and others. The book is admirably adapted for a text-book on the old class-recitation system, and will not interfere with the stupidest scholar’s rank by overburdening his brain with ideas. Nevertheless it is not without its value as a catalogue of conscientiously collected facts.

— In strong contrast to the foregoing is Ludovic Celler’s Les Origines de l’Opéra,⁵ which is by far one of the most readable and diverting books we have met with. It is a little odd that the author should have used a plural in his title, as the greater part of the book is taken up with describing the performance of Baltazarini’s Circé, otherwise called Le Ballet de la Reine, at the court of Henri III., to celebrate the nuptials of the Duc de Joyeuse and Marguerite de Vaudémont de Lorraine. According to the author, this Circé was the first spectacular performance in which dancing, music, and mise en scène were united in a manner to deserve the name of opera. According to Celler, Circé was really the first opera.

Not only the work itself, but the circumstances connected with its composition and performance, together with the manners and morals of Henri’s court, are described in that inimitable French familiar style, which is the more fascinating that it conceals so much real learning and sound knowledge. The author’s grasp of his subject is evidently perfect. One feels that in every line. But he handles his materials so lightly and deftly that all his dry details become irresistibly amusing. Even his account of the instruments of which the orchestra was made up, and the notation of the score, is made diverting by a skillful use of language and a not-to-be-silenced wit. In reading the book, we feel that we are personally acquainted with the king, composer, lovers, queen, and all the court. The author makes the whole mode of life and court etiquette so real to us, he plunges us into such an atmosphere of the sixteenth century, that the raison d’être of the whole pageant of Circé appears on the very surface. The thing carries the conviction of its own why and wherefore with it. Would that history were oftener written in the same spirit!