Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 3, No. 3 (1928-12)

December, 1928 The Phonograph Monthly Review 81 recurs again and again. We cannot hear too much Brahms. It grows on us and there always remains a possibility of “getting to the heart” of Brahms through repetition. Take another composer,—Wagner, for instance. To un- derstand his music thoroughly, is a study by itself. Even though Wagner is programmed over and over again, yet those who really appreciate the great heritage he has given the world, are in the minority. Not long when the opera Parsifal was given in Philadelphia by the Metropolitan Opera Company of New York, someone made the remark to me on learning that I was going to atttend the perfor- mance—“Oh, Parsifal, I've seen that so often Pm tired of it!” How can any one knowing the spirituality underlying the whole theme of this drama; realizing the symbolic history of the Holy Grail, ever become so indifferent to so vital a message? Either they have no true appreciation of Music as an Art, or, they haven’t the patience to delve down deep enough within themselves to discover the hidden truths. But that seems to be the way of the world in this present age. We can also speak in like manner about the “Nibelung Ring.” To my mind it is nothing more than an outline of this present age. We want the gold, and we want it quick. We don’t care how much of our life it costs to get it. So, if we turn our thoughts to this opera with the above in mind we can see how the characters represent —Strength, Stupidity, Heroism, Power, Love, Hatred, Cun- ningness. Are these emotions not the leading expressions of this present day? Don’t misunderstand me. I, too, enjoy modern music but too often I see the great masters neglected, “pushed aside” and without a thorough understanding and appreciation of the old I cannot see how the new can be rightly accepted. Often we hear the remark “what will happen to us, there are no more Bachs, Beethovens, Mozarts, etc.” If this is true would it not be a good idea to drain the old music dry before we complain? In the above paragraphs I have tried to write to you what music means to me—and why it means so much to me. If the few thoughts embodied in this short paper arouse but a small number of you to investigate the reality and beauty that can be gotten from an earnest study of the great masters, the writer will feel that it has been well worth his while to have put his feelings about the matter on paper. Franz Schubert By PHILIP HALE I T is often said, “Would that there were a satis- factory life of Schubert!” But was the life of Schubert so varied or dramatically path- etic or heroic, or rich in association with celeb- rities of his period that it could excite and stimu- late and encourage the labor of a Jahn, a Pohl, or a Thayer? The biographical sketch by Grove answers in the main all questions concerning the drab life of the composer, even if Sir George does speak enthusiastically of Schubert’s “splendid bases.” For of what advantage would be a more detail- ed account of the prosaic struggles of this clumsy, round-shouldered, thick-fingered, tallow-faced, spectacled, inspired being? Was he unappreci- ated by aristocratic patrons of music? Would they have been charmed by his neat performance of “The Erl King” on a comb, or by a practical jokes that delighted his tavern companions. He was a musician pure and simple. That he had little taste in literature is proved by his eager- ness in setting dull, or wishy-washy songs to music. He was not interested in painting, sculp- ture, books, travel, politics, or sociological prob- lems. He never could have been a man of the world, even if he had been caught young. It is impossible to think of him as of Gluck at the court of Marie Antoinette, or Sarti at the beck and call of Catherine II, or as a lackey at the court of his own Emperor. No Grim or Diderot would have relished his conversation. There are no scandalous reports of noble, perfumed dames looking upon him too kindly and imprudently. His dissipation, no doubt grossly exaggerated if we consider the enormous amount of work done by him, was essentially vulgar. He is not a heroic figure like Beethoven. Unlike Schumann, he invites no inquiry into morbidness; his suf- ferings have not the sentimental interest that en- wraps Mozart, although they were more poig- nant. The life of Dittersdorf is better reading. The memoirs of Blangini are more entertaining by reason of the smug vanity displayed. The philosophical speculations of Saint-Saens explain the arid technique of certain of his compositions. But the life of Schubert, as Sir George Grove well says, was music; “apart from his music, Schubert’s life was little or nothing.” Through and by his music, there is a strangely distorted Schubert dear to romancers and hyster- ical women. This Schubert is such as Zola’s Gagniere in alcohol-inspired monologue saw him: Weber passes through a romantic landscape, con- ducting the ballad of the Dead, in the midst of weeping willows and oaks that twist their arms; Schubert follows him under the pale moon, along silvern lakes.” This is the Schubert who was 30 long known in France as the composer of “The Adieu,” which he did not write; a sentimentalist raised to the highest power. And there is a pot-house Schubert, the com- poser in the tavern, a figure equally absurd, but used for years by the ignorant to point a moral to young men wishing to be musicians, and young women wishing to be musicians’ wives. The real Schubert known to the police of Vienna, was a simple, kindly, inoffensive, truth- ful man, whose trade was music. He would never enter into a political plot; he played pretty tunes for the pleasure of those who wished to end the night with a dance. The Schubert of genuine interest was a disembodied musician. Even now there is not full agreement concern- ing the position held by Schubert in the domain of music. Some follow Chorley, the Englishman, who objected to certain songs by Schubert be- cause they “are liable to the objection of being piano-forte compositions with a voice part;” who