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THE PROSPECTS OF CHORAL MUSIC.

For the first time in the history of modern music the natural development of the art is now being quite obviously deflected by the pressure of outside economic influences. During the last three centuries music has largely developed from within, and the line of internal development has been coincident with the direction in which society itself has progressed. The new life infused into instrumental music, for example, at the beginning of the seventeenth century was not only the result of the internal working of artistic principles, but also the outcome, first of all, of the ingenuity of makers of instruments of the violin family, and, secondly, of a condition of society which made it possible for very large numbers of people to devote time and money to the study of instrumental technique. Fashion has from time to time influenced, or rather assisted, musical development, but never has any force it has exercised been in unquestionable and direct antagonism to the inner principles which have impelled music to one period of fruition after another. By a series of coincidences social life for three centuries has provided a fertile field for musical growths; the art has developed to its present stature with its roots deep in the structure of society; and society and music for many decades have been SO constantly inseparable as to appear interdependent parts of the same organ

ism.

But this peaceful alliance is at a point of rupture. Art has become selfconscious, and music has begun to criticize society. All art is barren that does not enjoy a wide circulation; music that is never heard were best left unwritten. And the economic conditions to-day are such that a vast quantity of fine music composed during the

last three or four decades has never been either performed or published. It is impossible to conceive that any really fine or noble poetry of recent years is still in manuscript, that scores of wonderful paintings are refused a hanging at all the public galleries, that original and vivid dramas languish unrecognized and scorned by managers, or that a new Fielding or Thackeray is starving in Fleet Street. These things do not happen. But in the musical world manuscripts are passed from hand to hand and studied and admired; they are recognized by capable judges as being works often of enormous talent, and sometimes of genius; but no publisher can afford to publish them, and no society of music has the means to give them a performance. No artist is in so bad a case as the musician. The poet can (and does) invite the verdict of his generation by himself providing the money for the publication of a volume of his muse, and often enough a very slender talent is sufficient to generate a notoriety that is regarded by the poet as more than sufficient recompense for the trouble and expense involved; and the painter can with ease exhibit his works. at little expense. But the composer of orchestral music has no such open door to the public, for the expense either of publication or performance is so large as to be absolutely prohibitive save in exceptional cases. Unless fate is unusually kind, or his own personality uncommonly persuasive, he will be the sole begetter and almost the sole admirer of his own work, and the music that a hundred years ago would have brought him European fame is now praised only by a handful of his friends.

Three centuries ago the orchestra as we know it to-day had no existence;.

and neither artistic propriety nor custom had yet decided which of the various musical instruments were to be considered orchestral and which were to be used simply for chamber music. In the year 1600 an oratorio by Emilio del Cavalieri was given at Rome with an orchestra of five instruments; eight years later Monteverde's "Orfeo" was played at Mantua, the orchestral play ers consisting of thirty-six musicians: five players or thirty-six, it was merely a matter of taste. And for a hundred years the constitution of the orchestra was uncertain, and in all probability was governed by nothing save immediate convenience. If instruments provided for in the score were lacking in performance the organist would fill in the parts that were missing. But when, in the course of time, purely orchestral writing became popular for its own sake, the orchestra itself became standardized and its constitution fixed. The orchestra required for the performance of Beethoven's symphonies became the model for all composers, and it persisted in favor for nearly half a century, in spite of the efforts of Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner to increase its size and extend its scope. Indeed, it was not until these three composers had imposed their work upon the public by the sheer weight of their genius that the Beethoven orchestra came to be altered, and it was then seen that the convention which had stood in the way of orchestral progress had no artistic warrant, but was merely the result of a rigid artistic conservatism having its origin in intellectual inertia. Beethoven's symphonies, it was felt, were sufficiently difficult of comprehension without enlarging the orchestra by the addition of newly-invented instruments, to the everlasting confusion of the listener. That mere size was not objected to may be gathered from the fact that as early as 1784 in England-the least musically pro

gressive of all European countries— Handel's "The Messiah" was given in Westminster Abbey with an orchestra of no less than 252 musicians. The feeling that hindered the broadening of the scope of the orchestra was merely founded on prejudice and on the authority of Beethoven's name; it was forgotten that Beethoven himself had disregarded all authority and that much of his music had had to contend with charges of extravagance and incoherence, just as Haydn's music had done in previous years, and as Richard Strauss's work is doing to-day.

The acceptance by the public of the work of Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner involved the acceptance of their orchestras also, and very quickly musicians of less note imitated them by the introduction of new instruments. There is so much general misunderstanding of the aims and intentions of these composers in extending the scope of the orchestra that it may here be explained that mere size did not intrigue Wagner in the least, though Berlioz' imagination was undoubtedly obsessed by everything that was of vast proportions. But even in Berlioz' case the motive prompting him in the increase of his orchestra was the desire to secure more variety of tone-color; largely an experimentalist, as indeed every artist must be who works with new and untried material, he sought for astoundingly beautiful effects by new combinations of instruments, detecting subtleties of sweet sound where others could discern only banality and ugliThe search in his own case, and in that of Wagner, was amply justified and the year 1850 marks well the period when the Beethoven orchestra was undergoing disintegration, to be replaced by an orchestra that is still fluid and shifting in its component parts. Since 1850 the term "orchestra" has had no definite connotation: it has implied the small handful of men em

ness.

ployed by Mozart, the compact, wellbalanced and larger band of Beethoven, the heavy, impressive and often overwhelming organism constructed by the romantics of the middle of the nineteenth century, and, finally, any particular orchestra now used by Richard Strauss, Frederick Delius or Joseph Holbrooke, with or without sarrusophones, heckelphones, or concertinas.

The objection often raised against the modern additions to the orchestra that they will, by mere confusion of varied sounds, make themselves inaudible to the human ear and thus obscure any meaning they may contain, has been proved to have no foundation in fact; nature has kept pace with art, and the capacity of the human ear for separating combined sounds, and for combining sounds that are themselves separate, appears to be infinite. Aural delicacy, so far from being destroyed by the demands made upon it, is naturally increased by those demands. But a more serious objection might legitimately have been brought forward fifty years ago, though in all probability it would have been quite ineffective. I refer to the crude but powerful factor of cost. The bigger the orchestra and the more varied the instruments it contains, the greater is the cost of upkeep. Though modern orchestras are not unwieldy in a musical sense, they are becoming, and many of them have already become, economic impossibilities. The orchestral concerts given in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and London-to speak only of Great Britain-rarely pay their working expenses, the deficit more often than not being supplied by public-spirited guarantors who recognize the social utility of symphonic, and indeed of all orchestral, music. Some of the concerts-like the Hallé concerts in Manchester-do continue just to cover their expenses, but this evasion of ac

tual loss is consummated only by a rigid economy in the engagement of artists and in the performance of new works that call for extended rehearsal.

It is this question of rehearsal that is at the root of the whole matter. Music that is familiar-that is to say, all the "classical" works that are constantly being played in public-costs little to rehearse; sometimes, indeed, it is not rehearsed at all; the idiom is familiar, even if the actual notes are not; no fee is charged by the composer for the right of performance, and the size of the orchestra is kept within safe bounds. If music composed before the year 1850 were as attractive to the public as the music that has been composed during the last sixty years, concert managers and orchestral conductors would not be faced by the difficulty that now threatens to reduce them to poverty; for the receipts would cover all the costs incurred by advertising, the engagement of the hall, the musicians' fees, etc., and leave a substantial margin of profit. This supposititious profit is now almost entirely swallowed up by the swollen orchestra favored by modern composers and by the increased cost of extra rehearsal. For modern music is not only avid of mere size, but it also searches for complicated rhythms, rich and involved harmony, and enormously difficult passage work that cannot be understood save by arduous and prolonged study. Each hour that ninety or a hundred men are rehearsed increases appreciably the cost of performance; and when one adds to this cost the time spent by the conductor in learning a new score before bringing it to rehearsal-time that, in the end, has to be paid for-and the composer's fee (anything from £10 to £50) that is charged for the privilege of a single performance, it will be seen that the artistic claims and the popu larity of modern music must indeed be very great, or else the temptation to

ignore it altogether would before now have proved irresistible.

Not only in England, but in Germany, France and America, orchestral concerts are now either run at a loss or with a small margin of profit that year by year approaches more nearly to vanishing point, and already a reaction has set in among composers against the swollen orchestras now so popular with the public. Writers like Claude Debussy, Jan Sibelius and Sir Edward Elgar have quite recently scored new compositions for comparatively small orchestras with a large amount of artistic and commercial success; for nothing of their particular idiom or individuality has been sacrificed by limiting their means of expression to a smaller number of instruments than they have been accustomed to, and the reduced cost of performance consequent upon employing few musicians has made it possible for the works in question to be heard in places where the ordinary modern composition is necessarily excluded. But this reaction is sporadic, individual and unorganized, and until it receives the active support of conductors and concert managers it is not likely to be of much benefit to those who do not already possess the authority and the power that reputation brings to force a small orchestra on a public that craves for a large one. Besides, the form of reaction I have referred to is a compromise, and it is clear enough to all outside observers that the matter of large orchestras has gone too far to admit of any compromise whatsoever. The attitude of revolt is the only one likely to be of service to the composer, and here and there, both in England and on the Continent, there are not wanting signs that a revolt has already set in, and that the artistic products of this revolt will constitute the music of the future.

If orchestral be the most expensive kind of music that is heard in the conLIVING AGE. VOL. LI. 2672

cert-room, the cheapest is choral. Indeed, choral singing of the most wonderful description may be had at very little expenditure. Up and down the country, in London, in North and South Wales, in Lancashire, in Yorkshire and in Worcestershire are as fine bodies of singers as are to be heard in the world; they can sing equally well the music of the madrigal writers of the earlier part of the seventeenth century and the work of ultra-moderns like Debussy, Granville Bantock and Richard Strauss. By far the great majority of the members of these choirs have received no profound or prolonged musical training; what they know of music and of singing has been picked up in a haphazard kind of way, and they have been attracted to choral singing in a large measure by the obvious social advantages to be reaped from an extensive acquaintance with members of their own class. But as soon as they join a choral society-and membership is readily secured provided the raw material of good singing is sufficiently evident-they begin to undergo systematic and expert training in greatly contrasted styles of music. A few months of such training is sufficient to produce excellent results, for the class from which these people are drawn (shopkeepers and clerks, for the most part) is noted for its readiness of mind and its practical use of temperamental gifts. Their services in every case are given without money payment; the musical benefit they reap from regular training and from singing constantly with others is regarded as ample reward. For this reason the cost of upkeep of a choir of two or three hundred voices is not a tithe of the cost of an orchestra one-third the size. Instead of a choral society paying its members it is the members who pay the society, both in work and in a small nominal subscription; the expenses they incur in the purchase of

music, in the engagement of a hall in which to practice, and in paying their conductor a small salary are so inconsiderable as to be easily met by the subscriptions which they themselves contribute

Thus we see that, in writing for large choirs of singers, the composer is not hampered by any question of cost; there are other restrictions, it is true, but not one of them is of a direct economic description. Indirectly the question of money does enter even into choral music, and in a manner that is restrictive; but the early removal of this restriction is quite practicable, and already it is disappearing with encouraging rapidity. I refer to the comparative indifference of the public towards choral music and choral singing. If this indifference were the result of too much familiarity, or if it were caused by some irremediable defect in the nature of choral music itself, it would be vain to hope for its removal; but it has come into existence as a natural consequence of the dominance of three personalities whose influence has been to prevent any legitimate progress of choral music in England for nearly two centuries. These personalities are Handel, Mendelssohn and Wagner. "The Messiah" of Handel has been the staple mental and artistic food of all respectable choral societies ever since it was first produced in 1742. Great and noble work as this oratorio may be, it has so imposed itself upon the affections of British people that it has prevented the introduction into our concert-rooms of more modern work of the same kind, and has been the chief cause of that mental inertia so characteristic of a great portion of those who hold official positions in our British musical life. It has barred the way of progress for generation after generation. And what "The Messiah" has done in its big, powerful and massive way, Mendelssohn's "Elijah" has accomplished in

its effeminate, artistic and dangerously sweet manner. The original production of "Elijah" was at Birmingham in 1846, under the composer's direction; the magnetic personality of the composer, the favor in which he was held by Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, and the suave, easy genius of the work itself, all conspired to give it an enormous success, and at last "The Messiah" had to contend for public favor with a composition which was immeasurably its inferior in artistic worth. Enthroned for six decades in the programmes of all the great provincial festivals, awarded place of honor in all the series of concerts given by the vast vocal societies up and down the country, "Elijah" ruled over the musical world of Great Britain; it was the standard by which the quality of all other music was judged; its style was the pattern for all our native composers to work by; and critical opinion, drugged into sleep by the subtle religiosity exhaling from the oratorio, had no single adverse remark to make. Now that the work has ceased to hypnotize the modern mind into worship we see for the first time that its influence has been entirely retrograde; in power it is inferior to "The Messiah," and its square-toed harmony, its conventionality of expression, and its conformity with all the vicious practices of the oratorio style have done more to retard legitimate musical progress in this country than any other discoverable combination of causes. Wagner,

the last figure in this ill-assorted triumvirate, was effective in damming up the stream of progress in choral music by refusing to write for the chorus at all. His later music-dramas, faithful in their adherence to his dramatic ideals, exclude the chorus entirely, and the kind of chorus we get in "Der Fliegende Holländer," "Tannhäuser" and "Lohengrin" does not show the slightest advance on the work done by contempo

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