attention as the Composer of a long succession of works, designed on a scale much grander than that foreshadowed in his earlier efforts, and worthy of much more serious study—as furnishing clearer indications of the principles by which he is guided. Unmoved by the revolutionary tendencies of an age which has identified itself with swift progress and violent reform, Rubinstein has consistently abstained from fraternising with any prominent party: not, like a dry pedant, blindly following in the wake of greater men than himself; but, as an original thinker, honestly convinced, that, within certain limits, classical forms are the best forms, and expressing this conviction, in his works, with a boldness which has secured him the respect of many advanced 'reformers' who are very far from agreeing either with his practice or his principles. These latter may be briefly described as the unconscious result of a determination to reject, as heterodox, no means of developing the capabilities of an original idea, provided only that neither the idea nor the mode of treatment refuse to submit to some sort of orderly arrangement. The effects of this determination are as patent in Rubinstein's Chamber Music, as in his Concertos or his Symphonies. All are essentially modern in style, and, it must be confessed, marred not unfrequently by a violence of expression savouring rather of impulse than of careful thought. Yet the design, even of his 'Ocean Symphony'—probably the finest, and certainly the most imaginative of all—betrays a familiarity with classical models which the descriptive character of the piece may disguise, but certainly does not neutralise. Though his latest Opera, 'Demonio,' is so strikingly original, that it has been described as belonging to no School whatever, its strong dramatic character, tinged with a curiously Tartar colouring, in illustration of the story, does not prevent him from using many familiar forms, consecrated, by long tradition, to the Lyric Stage, and thus making the Music valuable, for its own sake, apart from its primary office of assisting the Action of the piece. It is impossible but that the well-planned conduct of such Music should tend to its longevity; though, at present, public opinion runs strongly in the opposite direction.
We speak of Rubinstein in our notice of the German School, because, notwithstanding his nationality, his sympathies are evidently with the greatest German Masters. For the same reason we speak of Anton Dvořák[1]—another strong advocate for the retention of the principles by which the great family of Classical Composers has so long been guided. The numerous instrumental works of this talented Bohemian prove him to be one of the greatest Masters of modern Part-writing now living; and are remarkable for a continuity of treatment, inexpressibly refreshing in these days of spasmodic phrasing and broken Melody, suggestive rather of the unfinished sentences of a faltering orator than of a well-studied work of Art. The most marked characteristic of Dvořák's style is singularly antagonistic to that of Brahms. We have said that Brahms delights in illustrating his Subject with a copious embroidery of lateral motivi. Dvořák, on the contrary, makes his Subject illustrate itself, to the almost total exclusion of all ideas not directly traceable to its outward configuration. In both cases, the device is legitimate, and valuable; and, in both, it clearly emanates from a source inseparable from the Composer's natural temperament.
Did space permit, we would gladly speak, in detail, of Hiller, the friend of Mendelssohn and Chopin; of Kiel, whose 'Second Requiem' has lately produced so marked an effect in Berlin; of Brüll, Goldmark and Scharwenka; of Reinecke, R. Franz, Julius Röntgen, and many another worshipper at the Shrine of Art. But it is time that we should turn to a class of Composers whose works have attracted more attention than those of any other writers of the present day.
Chopin's close sympathy with the Imaginative School is evident at a glance; yet it is with its inner life alone that he claims relationship. Not only does he utterly repudiate its external mechanism, its harmonic combinations, its methods of development, one and all; but, he does not even accord with it in his manner of expressing a simple idea. The more closely we study his works, the more plainly shall we see, that, with him, the idea and its treatment invariably owed their origin to the inspiration of a single thought. Both suggested themselves at the same moment; and therefore remained for ever indivisible. To this, his writings are indebted for a personality which sets imitation at defiance. He stands alone. But, the inspirations of his loneliness are open to all who are capable of sympathising with the Poetry of Art; and, for these, the charm of his Music will never pass away.
A certain analogy is traceable between the genius of Chopin and that of Liszt. A strong feeling of personality pervades the Music of both. But Chopin's personality has never changed. We see the same man, in his first work and his last; whereas Liszt's Ideal has changed a hundred times. Much of his Music is, in the highest degree, both Romantic, and Imaginative, at the same moment. In technical matters, he submits to no law whatever. The Compositions which seem most faithfully to represent the man himself are absolutely amorphous. Yet one rarely finds, even in them, the spontaneity so obvious in all the works of Chopin. The idea seems to have been worked out—though in some way unknown to the laws of Art. With all this, Liszt stands as much alone as Chopin. He has had, and still has, disciples; but his ideas, and his method of treating them, are too much a part of himself to admit the possibility of his founding a School.
We have already spoken freely of the theories, and productions, of Richard Wagner, in another place.[2] No one who has thought upon the subject at all will attempt to controvert Wagner's main proposition, that Dramatic Truth is the first
- ↑ Pronounced Dvorshak. [See Appendix, Dvořák.]
- ↑ See vol. ii. pp. 526–529.
