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for Mahler's "St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fish" |
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Antonius zur Predigt
die Kirche find't ledig.
Er geht zu den Flussen
und predigt den Fischen!
Sie shlag'n mit den Schwanzen,
im Sonnenschein glanzen.
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St. Antony for his
sermon
finds the church empty.
He goes to the rivers
and preaches to the fish!
They clap with their tails,
glistening in the sunshine.
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Die Karpfen mit Rogen
sind all hierherzogen;
hab'n d'Mauler aufrissen,
sich Zuhor'n's beflissen.
Kein Predigt niemalen
den Fischen so g'fallen!
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The carp together
with their spawn
have all assembled here;
have mouths wide open,
intent upon listening.
Never has a sermon
so pleased the fish.
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Spitzgoschete Hechte,
die immerzu fechten,
sind eilends hreschwommen,
zu horen den Frommen!
Auch jene Phantasten,
die immerzu fasten:
die Stockfisch ich meine,
zur Predigt erscheinen.
Kein Predigt niemalen
den Stockfisch so g'fallen.
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The pointed nose
pike,
who are always fighting
have hastily swum here
in order to hear this godly man!
Also those dreamers
who are always fasting,
the cod, I mean,
appear for the sermon.
Never has a sermon
so pleased the cod.
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Gut Aale und Hausen,
die vornehme schmausen,
die selbst sich bequemen,
die Predigt vernehmen!
Auch Krebse, Schildkroten,
sonst langsame Boten,
steign eilig vom Grund,
zu horen diesen Mund!
Kein Predigt niemalen
den Krebsen so g'fallen!
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Even the elegant
eels and sturgeon,
who feast so fashionably,
are contented
listening to the sermon.
The crabs, too, and the turtles,
normally slow movers,
rise quickly from the bottom
to hear this oracle!
Never has a sermon
so pleased the crabs.
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Fisch' grosse, Fisch'
kleine,
vornehm' und gemeine,
erheben die Kopfe
wie verstand'ge Geschopfe,
auf Gottes Begehren
die Predigt anhoren.
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Fish large and small,
genteel and ordinary,
raising their heads
like intelligent creatures,
at God's command
listen to the sermon.
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Die Predigt geendet,
ein Jeder sich wendet.
Die Hecht bleiben Diebe,
die Aale viel lieben;
die Predigt hat g'fallen,
sie bleiben wie Allen!
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When the sermon is
ended,
every one of them turns round.
The pike remain thieves,
the eels make a lot of love,
the sermon has pleased them,
they remain like everybody else!
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Die Krebs' geh'n
zurucke,
die Stockfisch bleib'n dicke,
die Karpfen viel fressen,
die Predigt vergessen!
Die Predigt hat g'fallen,
sie bleiben wie Allen!
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The crabs move backwards,
the cod remain fat,
the carp eat a great deal,
the sermon is forgotten!
The sermon has pleased them,
they remain like everybody else!
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Readings
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1. Cerone on writing a Mass in imitation of a preexisting work (a "parody
mass")
The manner or style to be observed in composing a Mass agrees with that
of the motet as regards the slow tempo which the parts should maintain,
but in other ways it is very different.
It is necessary and obligatory that the musical theme at the beginnings
of the first Kyrie, the Gloria, the Credo, the Sanctus, and the Agnus
Dei should be one and the same. The same melody, that is, but not the
same treatment or accompaniment. For example, if the treble began the
point of imitation in the first Kyrie, let another voice (the tenor, alto,
or bass) begin it in the Gloria, another in the Credo, another in the
Sanctus, and still another in the Agnus Dei. And should it happen that
the treble or some other part begins two or three times, take care that
the other parts enter each time at different intervals. Thus all the aforesaid
beginnings should maintain variety in the treatment and accompaniment,
but not in the invention or subject.
When the first Kyrie is finished, the Christe [i.e., the setting of the
text "Christe eleison"] may be written upon some subsidiary
motive from the same motet or madrigal (whichever it is) from which the
principal subject was borrowed. Know also that the composer may here use
some motive of his own invention, provided it is appropriate to the tone
and not in another style altogether....
In the course of the Mass, the more use one makes (whether with or without
imitation [see Module 9]) of motives from the middle or inside of the
composition upon which the Mass is written, the better and the more praiseworthy
the work will be.
The Gloria and Credo are composed as continuous movements, without embellishment
and with less imitation among the parts, using melodic ideas that are
short, clear, familiar, and closely woven, unlike those of the Kyries,
the Sanctuses, and the Agnus Deiās, which should be long, elaborate, less
familiar, and less closely woven....
The composer is free to write the middle sections of all the movements
of the Mass for fewer voices than are used in the work as a whole. In
other words, if the Mass is for five voices, the aforesaid sections may
be written for four or for three; if the Mass is for four voices, they
may be written for three or even two. But it should be noted that, being
written for fewer voices, these sections should be composed with greater
artifice and greater learning and in a loftier, more elegant style. These
reduced parts are the flower of the whole work....
As a rule, the Mass is usually composed upon some motet, madrigal, or
chanson, even though by another author; thus it afterwards takes its title
from the first words with which the said motet, madrigal, or chanson begins.
If the composer does not wish to use the above-mentioned materials, but
prefers to write his Mass upon a new invention of his own, he may give
it a title of another sort, thus "Missa sine nomine" [Mass without a name],
or, if it is short, he may call it "Missa brevis" [Short Mass] or "Missa
Lāhora e tarda" [Mass for when itās getting late]. He may also name it
from the subject of the composition as was done by some composers who,
having contrived Masses dependent upon the notes of the scale, gave them
the title "Missa Ut re mi fa sol la"; and Josquin took for a subject or
theme the five notes La sol fa re mi. If the Mass is composed upon the
formulas of any mode it should take its title from the name of the mode
to which the formulas belong, thus "Missa Primi toni," "Missa Secundi
toni," etc. If it is written upon a plainsong, that is, if it is formed
upon the notes of the Kyries, Glorias, Credos, Sanctuses, Agnus Deiās,
ot any other chant, but using the various figures of figured [i.e. polyphonic]
music, it should be named after the plainsong, namely, "Missa de Beata
Virgine" [Mass of the Blessed Virgin], "Missa Apostolorum" [Mass of the
Apostles], "Missa Dominicalis" [Mass for Sundays throughout the year],
etc....
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2. Barry S. Brook on Stravinsky's
Pulcinella
Pastiche, potpourri, collage, melange ö all of these terms have been applied
to Stravinskyās ballet score for Pulcinella. And with justification, for
it was put together from twenty-one pre-existing sources. All the manuscripts
that he worked from bore the name of Pergolesi, but they were, in fact,
works of five different composers.
Seven of the twenty-one sources were from trio sonatas by Domenico Gallo
(born c.1730 in Venice); two were from keyboard suites by Carlo Ignazio
Monza of Milan (1696?-1739); one was from the Concerti armonici by a Dutch
nobleman, Count Unico Wilhelm van Wassenaer; one, the well-known "Se tu
māami," comes from a collection of Arie antiche [old songs], compiled
and first published in 1885 by Alessandro Parisotti, and widely used to
train young singers; and the remaining ten are indeed authentic Pergolesi:
eight from his two full-length comic operas Il Flaminio and Lo
frate innamorato; one from his cantata Luce degli occhi miei;
and one from his cello Sinfonia [sonata].
The full title of the work that marks Stravinskyās plunge into neoclassicism
in 1919-20 is Pulcinella; ballet avec chant en un acte dāapres Giambattista
Pergolesi [ballet with song in one act after Giambattista Pergolesi].
It was composed in Morges (Switzerland) between the end of September 1919
and 20 April 1920, and first performed by Sergei Diaghilevās Ballets russes
at the Paris Opera on 15 May 1920 with Ernest Ansermet conducting. The
choreography was by Leonide Massine (who also danced the title role),
the scenery and costumes by Pablo Picasso. The scenario was said to have
been developed from a 1700 Neapolitan commedia dellāarte plot by
Diaghilev, Massine, and Stravinsky in collaboration.
Virtually all of the melodic substance of Pulcinella is taken from the
21 disparate sources mentioned above. This raises two intriguing questions:
why did Stravinsky believe that all of the sources were by Pergolesi?
How did Stravinsky transform these diverse compositions into this remarkably
coherent neoclassic masterpiece?
From the outset, and almost until this very day, the phrase "dāapres Pergolesi"
was accepted unquestioningly by Stravinsky and his biographers. On the
other hand, Pergolesi scholars, starting in 1949, have labeled as spurious
many works attributed to the composer. It has been shown that of the approximately
330 works ö manuscripts and prints ö that bear Pergolesiās name in the
libraries of the world, only about 33, or 10% are authentic!
The extraordinarily high percentage of spurious Pergolesi works was an
indirect result of his untimely death at the age of twenty-six; his posthumous
fame created an enormous demand for his works, one that unscrupulous copyists
and publishers of the second half of the eighteenth century were quick
to exploit.
To answer the second question, I would like to turn to Stravinskyās writings
about Pulcinella. Unfortunately, as the world has come to know, Stravinskyās
"own words" were often written by others and although fascinating, are
frequently contradictory and inaccurate. Here are a few examples from
Stravinsky (and company); my [Barry S. Brook's]comments are given in square
brackets.
"The suggestion that was to lead to Pulcinella came from Diaghilev one
spring afternoon while we were walking together in the Place de la Concorde."
(Expositions and Developments, London 1962, p. 111) "Diaghilev had gone
through a number of this masterās unfinished manuscripts that he discovered
in various Italian conservatories [and] in the libraries of London." (Autobiography,
1936; corrected London edition, 1985, p. 80) [Virtually none of the extant
Pergolesi manuscripts are unfinished. And there was only one Italian conservatory
and one London library.]
"The material I had at my disposal ö numerous fragments and shreds of
compositions either unfinished or merely outlined, which by good fortune
had eluded filtering academic editions ö made me appreciate more and more
the true nature of Pergolesi [and my] sensory kinship with him." (Autobiography,
p. 82) ["Fragments and shreds", with one curious exception, never existed.]
"I looked and fell in love. My ultimate selection of pieces derived only
partly from Diaghilevās examples, however, and partly from published editions,
but I played through the whole of the available Pergolesi before making
my choices." (Expositions and Developments, p. 111) [All but two of Stravinskyās
21 "selections" were made from the manuscript copies provided by Diaghilev.
They have only recently become available for study in the Sacher Foundation
in Basel. There are no "published editions" among them. The two "selections"
not found today in Basel may well have been based on printed editions,
both misattributions.]
"I began by composing on the Pergolesi manuscripts themselves, as though
I were correcting an old work of my own. I began without preconceptions
or aesthetic attitudes, and I could not have predicted anything about
the result. I knew that I could not produce a "forgery" of Pergolesi because
my motor habits are so different; at best, I could repeat him in my own
accent. . . the remarkable thing about Pulcinella is not how much, but
how little has been added or changed." (Expositions, p. 112) [In 1933,
in an effort to secure a higher compensation from a French performance
rights society, Stravinsky had written: "I relied only in part on his
themes and fragments; for the most part unpublished and only in manuscript
form. The entire musical conception. . . represents my own personal work."]
"Pulcinella is one of those production ö they are rare ö where everything
harmonizes, where all the elements ö subject, music, dancing, and artistic
setting ö form a coherent and homogeneous whole." (Autobiography, p. 85)
"Pulcinella was my discovery of the past, the epiphany through which the
whole of my late work became possible. It was a backward look, of course
ö the first of many love affairs in that direction ö but it was a look
in the mirror too." (Expositions, p.126) [These last two excerpts need
no comment.]
Pulcinella consists of an overture and eight scenes of differing length.
There are nineteen unnumbered "movements." The vocal numbers found in
scenes 1, 2, 4, 5, and 8 have nothing to do with the scenario of the ballet.
Their texts and music were taken from two operas and a cantata by Pergolesi
and the aforementioned Parisotti concert aria. As Stravinskyās ghost-writer
has written (posthumous program notes, 1972), "the singers are not identified
with stage characters, except that the songs they sing ö serenades, duets,
trios ö are Īin characterā."
The balletās plot is based on a Neapolitan comedy entitled Four Identical
Pulcinellas: All the young girls in town loved Pulcinella, while the young
men, consumed with jealousy, seek to kill him. When they think the moment
has come to realize their intention, they disguise themselves as Pulcinellas
with the idea of impressing their loved-ones. But Pulcinella, craftily,
has changed places with a double, who pretends to die under the blows
of his enemies. Pulcinella himself, disguised as a magician, comes to
bring his double back to life. Just as the young men, thinking they are
finally rid of him, come to find their fiancees, the real Pulcinella appears
and arranges all their marriages. He himself weds Pimpinella, with the
blessing of his double (Fourbo), who in his turn assumes the character
of the magician.
Stravinsky subjected every one of his chosen sources to a variety of recompositional
techniques, sometimes using an entire work, and at other times only a
small section of it; he reorchestrates every bar, sometimes condensing,
truncating, expanding, or developing the melodic lines, frequently altering
or enriching the harmonies, often playing with meters and rhythms, but
except for some brief transitional flourishes and a very occasional countermelody,
never interpolating any really new material.
With these diverse 18th-century building blocks and 20th century recompositional
techniques, Stravinsky created that remarkably coherent neoclassic masterpiece
that is Pulcinella. In recomposing other works, he transformed them and
made them his own; at the same time ö and herein lies another aspect of
his genius ö he did not permit them to lose their own identity.
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3. David Osmond-Smith on
Berio and Mahler
The second movement of Sinfonia, like the Chemins, had been
the result of reopening a set of creative questions that were temporarily
closed. But in the third movement Berio undertook a more daring and problematic
project: that of building fresh layers of material not out of the residue
of his own past compositional decisions, but around a work by another
composer. He had long admired and studied Mahlerās music, finding in its
vivid but ironic eclecticism a congenial example for his own work; and
his choice accordingly fell on the scherzo from Mahlerās Second Symphony.
But its diatonic language posed a complex technical problem. For if Berio
had sought to generate layers of commentary from the Mahler text itself
he would have had to subject it to extensive transformation. If instead
he had relied entirely upon his own harmonic vocabulary the gap between
text and commentary would have been too great. So he opted for materials
that establish a wide harmonic range ö many of them quotations from other
composersā work. Thus against Mahlerās predominant diatonicism are set
the more sumptuous harmonies of Ravel, Strauss and Debussy, the atonality
of the second Viennese school, and massive, chromatically saturated orchestral
clusters. Merely to superpose these leaving the original intact, as in
the previous movement, would clearly make for a cloying density of texture
ö as well as demanding gargantuan forces. Berio therefore blocked out
ever greater amounts of the original material, at first so as to provide
room for the various commentary materials, but later as an autonomous
process that leaves only a skeleton of Mahlerian fragments. It is this
incremental obliteration that provides the large-scale shape of the movement.
The movement from Mahlerās Second Symphony chosen by Berio as a vehicle
for this experiment was in several respects a peculiarly suitable starting-point.
In the first place it, too, was the product of elaboration from a pre-established
musical text. Although Mahlerās song, "Des Antonius von Padua Fischpredigt"
and its expansion into the scherzo of the Second Symphony both reached
completion at roughly the same time in the summer of 1893, it is clear
from Mahlerās comments to Natalie Bauer-Lechner concerning the genesis
of the scherzo that it must have been preceded by a more or less complete
draft of the song. The song in question sets an ironic text from the Des
Knaben Wunderhorn, a collection of Īold German songsā, compiled by
Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano and published in two volumes of 1806
and 1808 with a dedication to Goethe. It narrates how, for lack of a congregation,
St. Anthony goes to preach to the fishes who are listed ö each with their
more or less venial characteristics ö as they rise to the surface to listen
in admiration. But, after enjoying a momentās edification, each returns
refreshed to its favorite indulgence....
[T]he first orchestral draft
of the scherzo was completed only eight days after the piano score of
the song, and...the Īmeticulousā instrumental indications of the latter
were fleshed out into an orchestral palette of the scherzo as being a
commentary or elaboration upon the simpler, Īchoralā use of chamber orchestra
resources in the song....[T]he two versions would appear to offer a remarkable
example of closely related melodic, harmonic and rhythmic materials projected,
more or less concurrently, into two contrasting sound-worlds.
But Mahlerās scherzo provides a further and rather more curious precedent
for Berioās experiment. The idea of using materials from other composersā
works as a means of blocking out the Mahler text is complemented by Mahlerās
own use ö conscious or unconscious ö of alien materials in his Fischpredigt.
These analogies are set out below:
- Anton Bruckner, Fourth Symphony,
Trio, and Mahler, measures 44-52
- Ludwig van Beethoven, Violin
Sonata Op. 96, trio, and Mahler, measures 104-12
- Robert Schumann, "Das ist
ein Floeten und Geigen," Dichterliebe, No. 9, end, and Mahler,
final measures.
The parallel between b. 44-52
of the Mahler and the trio from Brucknerās Fourth Symphony is fairly straightforward....However,
the similarity to Beethovenās trio does not end merely with the thematic
material, for the overall structure of the central section of the Fischpredigt
(and therefore of Trio I of the scherzo) also shows close affinities with
Beethovenās model. In both cases the eight-bar phrase quoted is repeated
once, with some textural variation, followed by two two-bar phrases that
develop their respective opening gestures to provide some tonal and harmonic
variety, followed by a reprise of the original phrase which is, however,
extended ö in the Beethoven by the extensive canonic repetitions based on
the first half of the phrase, in the Mahler by developing a repetition of
the second half of the phrase. The allusion to the final gesture from Schumannās
"Das ist ein Floeten and Geigen" at the end of both song and scherzo is
straightforward from a musical point of view. Its possible programmatic
significance will be discussed below.
Whether or not these should be regarded as conscious quotations is difficult
to determine. Despite Mahlerās notorious delight in incongruous stylistic
juxtapositions, there would appear to be little evidence in the current
literature for the deliberate use of quotation elsewhere in his works. And
his allegiance to a largely diatonic idiom inevitably encouraged parallels
with the earlier nineteenth-century repertoire ö though parallels as substantial
as those discussed above can hardly be attributed to chance. Furthermore,
Mahler was not unduly reticent in commenting on his own work, and while
he does indeed acknowledge the influence of popular music from his Bohemian
childhood in the Fischpredigt, he makes no direct acknowledgement
of these other influences.
On the other hand, since Mahler was well acquainted with all three works
in question it seems unlikely that the parallels should have entirely escaped
him. Indeed, there is some flimsy evidence to support the view that they
were entirely deliberate. In another discussion of the Fischpredigt
with Natalie Bauer-Lechner, Mahler is reported as saying: "St. Anthony preaches
to the fishes; his words are immediately translated into their thoroughly
tipsy-sounding language (in the clarinet)". The clarinet entry in question
could be either that at b.16 of the song (b.20 of the scherzo) or that following
the Bruckner quotation at b.48 of the song (b.52 of the scherzo). If the
latter is indeed the case, then we have a delightfully wicked parallel between
St. Anthony and the similarly nave but devout Anton Bruckner. Further hints
at hidden meaning are proffered as Mahler describes the recalcitrant fishes
returning to their indulgences: "Not one of them is one iota the wiser for
it, even though the Saint has performed for them! But only a few people
will understand my satire on mankind." Could that satire include the deliberate
use of the "tootling of the Bohemian pipers" as a counter-subject to Beethoven?
And might not a parable on that permanent Mahlerian obsession, the philistinism
of his bourgeois public, well end with the final bars of a song whose last
two lines run "dazwishen schluchzen und stoehnen die lieblichen Engelein"?
[Amidst all this, the lovely angels sob and sigh]
At different times, Mahler proposed two partly related images to convey
the emotional import of his scherzo. The first was conserved by Natalie
Bauer-Lechner after a conversation with Mahler. She records his words as
follows:
"If at a distance,
you watch a dance through a window, without being able to hear the music,
then the turning and twisting movement of the couples seems senseless,
because you are not catching the rhythm that is the key to it all. You
must imagine that to one who has lost his identity and his happiness the
world looks like this ö distorted and crazy, as if reflected in a concave
mirror. The Scherzo ends with the appalling shriek of this tortured soul."
The image of the meaningless,
maniacal dance seems to have stimulated musical associations for Mahler
himself, since the song from Dichterliebe, "Das ist ein Floeten
and Geigen," whose final bars end the movement, is itself an alienated
description of a wedding ball observed by the brideās abandoned lover.
Berio enlarges upon this image, introducing quotations from the second
movement (ĪLe Balā) of Berliozās Symphonie fantastique, whose programme
describes a parallel situation, and from Ravelās La Valse, whose
Viennese lyricism grows increasingly hysterical as the work progresses.
The second, rather more generic image that Mahler suggested for this movement
was formulated in a programme for the whole work that Mahler sketched
in Berlin in 1901. The first three movements are all described as retrospects
upon the life of a dead hero, After the struggles of the first movement,
and the temporary idyll of the second, in the third, "the spirit of unbelief,
of presumption has taken possession of him, he beholds the tumult of appearances,
and together with the childās pure understanding he loses the firm footing
that love alone affords; he despairs of himself and of God. The world
and life become for him a disorderly apparition; disgust for all being
and becoming lays hold of him with an iron grip and drives him to cry
out in desperation."
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4. Luciano Berio in conversation
with Rossana Dalmonte
Question: To go back to the principle of transformation that you were
talking about before. How do you connect your use of folklore, whether
as gesture or as process, with the function that quotation and self-quotation
have in your work? Iām thinking of a work like Sinfonia, for instance.
Berio: Thereās a very close link, provided that you donāt view the third
part of Sinfonia to shich youāre no doubt referring, as a collage
of quotes. Iām not interested in collages, and they amuse me only
whem Iām doing them with my children: then they become an exercise is
relativizing and "decontextualizing" images, an elementary exercise whose
healthy cynicism wonāt do anyone any harm. This third part of Sinfonia
has a skeleton which is the scherzo from Mahlerās Second Symphony ö a
skeleton that often reemerges fully fleshed out, then disappears, then
comes back again . . . But itās never alone: itās accompanied throughout
by the "history of music" that it itself recalls for me, with all its
many levels and references ö or at least those bits of history that I
was able to keep a grip on, granted that often thereās anything up to
four different references going on at the same time. So the scherzo of
Mahlerās Second Symphony becomes a generator of harmonic functions and
of musical references that are pertinent to them which appear, disappear,
pursue their own courses, return to Mahler, cross paths, transform themselves
into Mahler or hide behind it. The references to Bach, Brahms, Boulez,
Berlioz, Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Strauss, Stockhausen etc. are therefore
also signals which indicate which harmonic country we are going
through, like bookmarkers, or little flags in different colours stick
into a map to indicate salient points during an expedition full of surprises.
Iād had it in mind for a long time to explore from the inside a piece
of music from the past: a creative exploration that was at the same time
an analysis, a commentary and an extension of the original. This follows
from my principle that, for a composer, the best way to analyze and comment
on a piece is to do something, using materials from that piece. The most
profitable commentary on a symphony or an opera has always been another
symphony or another opera. My Chemins are the best analyses of
my Sequenzas, just as the third part of my Sinfonia is the
most developed commentary that I could have possibly produced on a piece
by Mahler. But originally, the idea of this third part of Sinfonia
was linked not to Mahler, but to Beethoven. I was in fact thinking of
harmonically "exploding" the last three movements of Beethovenās Quartet
in C sharp minor, Op. 131 ö though without quotations, and with "little
flags" composed by me instead. The vocal parts would have had a more instrumental
character and the text would naturally have been quite different. I finally
opted for Mahler not only because his music proliferates spontaneously,
but also because it allowed me to extend, transform and comment on all
of its aspects: including that of orchestration. I needed, that is, a
structural basis that could be recognized every so often in its original
form. Translating Beethovenās Op. 131 into orchestral terms would have
been a very risky operation and, in view of the task in hand, not an entirely
justified one. And using Mahler was also a tribute to Leonard Bernstein
who has done so much for his music. As you know, Sinfonia is dedicated
to him.
However, this voyage to Cithera on board a Mahlerian vessel only acquires
a complete sense when it is itself the subject of commentary in the fifth
and final part of Sinfonia, which is by far the most complex because
it takes up, transforms and comments on all the others. The first four
parts of Sinfonia are to the fifth as Mahlerās scherzo is to the
third.
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5. Henry-Louis de la Grange
on Mahler
If music critics could consign to oblivion music they considered unworthy
of survival, Mahlerās music would have been finally forgotten long ago,
for the "infernal judges" of his time were almost unanimous in finding
him guilty of unforgivable faults. Their verdict was delivered in tones
ranging from the most sarcastic irony to violent indignation, but the
substance was always the same: such "Kapellmeistermusik," consisting exclusively
of "banalities" and "reminiscences" of the past, was clearly fated to
be soon forgotten, since its author revealed in it nothing so much as
a total lack of melodic imagination. The severest judges went so far as
to call Mahlerās symphonies "gigantic pots-pourris." Whether it was possible
to identify the origin of all these borrowings ö intentional or unintentional
ö was quite irrelevant as far as they were concerned.
At the end of the nineteenth century, originality of thematic material
was fully enshrined as the first principle for a work of art, rather as
though nothing had changed since German classical literature had reached
its zenith, when Friedrich Schelgel in 1797 could declare: "originality
is the supreme goal of the artist, the ultimate criterion of the connoisseur."
Romanticism, on the other hand, had not been so categorical. Thirty-five
years after Schlegelās observation, when the new aesthetic had conquered
the whole of Europe, the idealist philosopher Hegel, whose aesthetic theories
profoundly influenced German art and thought throughout the nineteenth
century, stated flatly in 1832 that an authentic work of art had to "produce
itself spontaneously in strict coherence and in a single outpouring."
In his opinion, the source "of any true originality" must be "the identity
of the artistās subjectivity with the authentic objectivity of the presentation
[Darstellung]." For the young Robert Schumann, the notion of originality
had been even less restrictive. On 6 August 1828 he wrote in his diary:
"Just as no man resembles another, so everyone carries within himself
the stamp of originality and spiritual strength . . . The person who goes
looking for originality has to a certain extent lost it . . ."
Seventy years later, however, the music critics of Germany and Austria
considered Mahlerās music far from unique and personal; on the contrary,
they regarded it as a jumble of borrowings and reminiscences. In their
view it did not satisfy the fundamental criterion of "internal coherence
[in sich Geschlossenheit]" to which all artistic creativity had
to conform; Mahler had simply attempted to "produce superficial effects
[Effekten]" with material he had collected from all over the place.
The German word Effekt has a pejorative flavor, unlike Wirkung
ö the force which captivates because it comes from within and is produced
by the quality of the musical ideas and the thematic development. Mahler
himself was perfectly aware of the difference between Effekt and
Wirkung, and firmly rejected the charge of plagiarism. He was highly
aware of his own originality, and considered that quality equally significant
in appraising the work of his contemporaries. Two passages from Natalie
Bauer-Lechnerās Erinnerungen illustrate this: in the first, Mahler
(rather surprisingly) accuses Alexander von Zemlinsky of having had a
very bad memory because he had failed to eliminate some obvious thematic
reminiscences from his opera Es war einmal; in the second he criticizes
himself, in the presence of his friend and confidante, for having unconsciously
introduced reminiscences of Beethoven and Brahms into his Fourth Symphony.
The heterogeneity of style for which he was constantly reproached was
also a characteristic of which Mahler was fully aware: in a letter written
to Bruno Walter in June 1896 he ironically alludes to the "trivialities"
that his favorite disciple would not fail to discover in the Third Symphony.
Nevertheless, Mahlerās confidence in himself and in his destiny as a composer
was never seriously shaken by the criticsā reproaches. Only on one occasion
did he apparently consider the intrusions of plebeian music into his works
to be a genuine weakness. That was in Holland, in August 1910, during
his celebrated interview with Freud in Leiden. Mahler told Freud of an
incident in his childhood, when he had witnessed a violent quarrel between
his father and mother; when he could stand it no longer, he fled outside
into the street and heard a barrel organ playing a well-known folk-song
"Ach, du lieber Augustin." The incident was so traumatic that it was continually
reflected in his compositions, with the result that, as Freud later recounted,
"his music had always been prevented from achieving the highest rank through
the noblest passages, those inspired by the most profound emotions, being
spoilt by the intrusion of some commonplace melody." In my opinion this
single moment of doubt should not be given too much prominence, and that
for three quite distinct reasons. First, composers themselves are rarely
the best judges of their own music; second, Freud recalled this incident
many years after the fact when speaking to his disciple Marie Bonaparte,
and may not have remembered Mahlerās exact words; and third, when Mahler
went to see Freud he was still suffering from the most painful crisis
of his entire life: his discovery of Almaās [his wife's] affair with the
young Walter Gropius. This left him feeling deeply pessimistic both about
his previous achievements and about his future.
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