Scan 16
Musical Courier 1895-02-27: Vol 30 Iss 781, 1895
104 lines. Read by computer on 20 September 2026. Printed page 17. See the scan on archive.org.
1BOSTON, Mass., February 24, 1865.
3THE sixth Kneisel Quartet concert was given the 18th in Union Hall. The program included Schubert's D minor quartet (op. posth.); C. M. Loeffler's quintet in one movement for three violins, viola and 'cello (MS., first time) and Beethoven's septet. The club was assisted in the quintet by Mr. Kraft; in the septet by Messrs. Pourtau (clarinet), Hackebarth (horn), Litke (bassoon) and Golde (double bass).
5The performance of the septet was admirable, and it caused one to forget the purely academic nature of much of the work. String and wind instruments were in friendly rivalry, and the result was the perfection of ensemble. So, too, the performance of the quartet was excellent, but may the day soon come when only the second movement is heard in chamber concerts!
7Mr. Loeffler's quintet is distinguished first of all for its extraordinary beauty of tonal color. As in his fantastic violin composition played here recently by himself and the Symphony Orchestra there are instrumental effects that are undoubtedly new and ravishing, so in this quintet are passages that charm the ear by their absolute novelty in shades of color. And I think it is such tonal impression that Mr. Loeffler chiefly seeks. The themes are not particularly striking—one of melancholy nature suggests Russia, indeed, it may be the memory of some folk-song, for all I know—but the treatment throughout is bold and original. It is as though Mr. Loeffler was discontented with old forms and conventional harmonies and European scales; and he would fain experiment. The technical mastery and the rare, exquisite taste of the man forbid sensationalism or any crudeness.
9The quintet sounds like Loeffler; there is no suggestion, no thought of another composer. The conservative may say: "Yes, but this music is all vague, and episodes follow without special meaning, and I don't know what it all means." And for this very reason it is all the more delightful. The hearer is in a new world. He forgets that quintets have, as a rule, four movements, and he is not conscious of fiddlers or fiddles. To him there is a new joy in living; and the dead may hear stranger and more beautiful music. And while he listens, he too weaves fancies, hopes, aspirations and dreams pleasant dreams. There are music makers who go to work at a piece of chamber music as a carpenter constructs a box, and they measure carefully the distance between the first theme and its reappearance. Such are the whippers of Pegasus, unwilling, balky Pegasus, who feels his rider to be an earnest, heavy thing of clay. They compel him to trot in sonata form; to walk sedately; to prance and be skittish; and finally to gallop, that audiences may applaud. And Pegasus is then a livery horse. Let Mr. Loeffler mount him, and he soars airward.
11Mrs. Elene Eaton gave a concert in Chickering Hall the 18th. I was unable to be present. She sang Händel's As When the Dove, an air by Mascagni, and songs by Woolf, Norris, Moroni, Mrs. Beach, Foote and Scott. Mr. C. L. Capen, who reviewed the concert for the Boston Journal, found fault with "the disloyalty of her interpretation" of the air by Händel, but he added: "Mrs. Eaton did much artistic singing later in the concert, and was very happy in her thoughtful and refined performance of two new songs by Homer A. Norris."
13César Thomson played in Music Hall the 19th. He was assisted by Mrs. Julie L. Wyman and Mr. Luckstone. He played the first movement from Bruch's D minor concerto; polonaise, Wieniawski; Tartini's La Trille de Diable; an adagio by Ries, and his own arrangement of Händel's Passacaglia from the G minor suite for clavecin, and the variations by Paganini on Non piu Mesta.
15He gave a noble performance of the music by Bruch; he played the polonaise with amazing brilliancy, and of course he excited admiration and wonder by the exhibition of his colossal technic in the pieces chiefly remarkable for technical difficulties. Admirable too, was his delivery of the sustained passages in the famous piece by Tartini. In answer to recalls he played a romanza by Rubinstein, a berceuse by Simon, and one of Brahms' Hungarian dances.
17He showed this time his artistic versatility. No school seems foreign to him. And again he showed great qualities of the true artist—seriousness, breadth, sincerity, simplicity and an authority that mastered the audience in a moment. It is a long time since I have heard such sustained, sublime violin playing as that of Thomson in the music of Bruch.
19Mrs. Wyman sang songs by Nevin, Massenet, Lacome and Ferrari. In answer to a recall she sang her old favorite, Bonne Nuit. She was not in first-class condition, but she gave pleasure in the song by Lacome.
21* * *
23The program of the sixteenth Symphony Concert, given last night, included Händel's Concerto Grosso No. 6, G minor; Haydn's Symphony No. 12, B flat major; Mozart's overture, Entführung aus dem Serail; Beethoven's Egmont overture and Wagner's Centennial March. What do you think of this for a program? As Thackeray said of Tupper, "We don't think of Mr. Tupper in England." Lord! what a program! Do you wish a learned discourse on Händel's concertos, with quotations from the ancients? Or a disquisition on the meaning of the themes in the Egmont overture? Or an essay on the inherent pessimism of Haydn? Or a rhapsody on the popular nature of Wagner's march? I should like to hear Mrs. Shaw whistle the tune, or hear it played by two flutes and a bimbonifono. Or an inquiry into the use of the seraglio in music? There is nothing else to write about. Mr. Paur is of late a liberal contributor to the volume entitled "How Not to Make Programs."
25* * *
27THE SONG OF TRIUMPHANT LOVE.
28(Begun in THE MUSICAL COURIER of February 20.)
30VI.
32Fabio had begun the portrait of his wife as Saint Cecilia some weeks before the return of Muzio. He had improved greatly in his art. The celebrated Luini, the pupil of the great Leonardo, had visited him at Ferrara and imparted to him the precepts of his master. The portrait was nearly finished; there were still a few touches to be made, and Fabio could then be justly proud of his work.
34After Fabio saw Muzio on his way to Ferrara he went to his studio, where it was Valeria's wont to await him. She was not there. He called out loudly. She did not answer. He hunted the house over and he did not find her. Anxious, he ran to the garden, and there in a far distant walk he saw her. She sat on a bench; her head leaned breastward; her hands were folded on her knees. Behind her, boldly projected from the sombre green of the cypresses, was a marble satyr, who, with face distorted by a mocking grin, pressed his thin lips to the pipes.
36Valeria rejoiced at the sight of her husband, and in answer to his questions she said that she had a slight headache, but that she would sit for him.
38Fabio led her to the studio, put her in position, took his brushes; it was impossible for him to finish the face according to his liking. It was not because the face was pallid and tired. He could not find there the pure and holy expression which so charmed him, and had suggested the idea of painting her as Saint Cecilia. He threw down his brushes. "I am not in the vein," he said; "go and rest." Then he turned the easel with the face of the picture to the wall. Valeria agreed with him; her head was worse; she went to her room.
40Fabio was alone in the studio. He could not shake off a vague fear.
42He had longed for Muzio to be under his roof, and now his visit disquieted him. He was not jealous; Valeria did not provoke that passion; but he no longer recognized his old comrade in the friend and visitor. All the new, strange characteristics which Muzio had brought from far-off lands and which seemed to have entered into his blood; these magic tricks, these songs, these singular drinks, this dumb Malay; even the perfume of spices which exhaled from the clothes, the hair and even the breath of Muzio—all these inspired Fabio distrust and almost fear. Why did the Malay, as he served at meat, look at him with an ironical and cunning glance? It was as though he understood Italian. Muzio had told him that the Malay had acquired a mighty power by the sacrifice of his tongue. What sort of power? And how could he acquire it by giving up his tongue? All this was very singular; very incomprehensible.
44Fabio went into his wife's bedroom. She was on the bed, and she did not sleep. When she heard footsteps she shivered, and yet she was glad to see him, as in the garden. Fabio sat by her side, took her hand and asked her to tell the strange dream that had frightened her the night before. Was it anything like the one Muzio described?
46Valeria blushed and replied hurriedly: "Oh, no! I saw a monster which wished to tear me in pieces!"
48"A monster shaped like a man?" asked Fabio.
50"No, like a beast, like a beast!"
52And Valeria buried her crimson face in the pillows.
54Fabio held his wife's hand in his, pressed it to his lips without a word, and went away. They passed a dreary day. It seemed as though something heavy, something mysterious hung over them. But what? They could not tell. They wanted to be together, as though danger threatened them; but they could find nothing to talk about. Fabio tried to finish the portrait, to read Ariosto, whose poem published at Ferrara was already talked of throughout Italy; but he could do nothing. Muzio came back very late in the day, at supper time.
56VII.
58He seemed satisfied and at peace with everyone, but he had little to say. He asked Fabio about their common friends, about the Emperor Charles and the German campaign; he said that he wanted to go to Rome to see the new Pope. Again he offered Valeria the wine of Chiraz; and as she refused it he murmured as to himself, "There is no longer any need of it."
60After Fabio with his wife entered their bedroom he was soon asleep; he awakened in about an hour, and no one shared his bed. Valeria was not there. He jumped up and at the same time saw his wife in her night gown coming into the room through the French window that was on a level with the garden. The moon was full, although a few moments before drops of rain had fallen. With closed eyes, with a look of secret terror Valeria approached the bed, feeling her way with her hands. She got into bed hurriedly and silently. Fabio spoke to her; she said nothing; she seemed to sleep. He touched her and found raindrops on her robe and hair, and grains of sand on the soles of her feet. Then he jumped from his bed and leaped into the garden through the open window. The moonlight flooded all things. Fabio looked about him and saw on the sand the prints of two pair of feet, and two of the feet were unshod; and these tracks led to a jasmine arbor which was between the pavilion and the house. Stupified, he stopped; when suddenly again was heard the tune played the night before. Fabio ran into the pavilion. Muzio stood in the middle of the room and played the violin.
62Fabio walked toward him.
64"You have been in the garden, you have been out, your coat is damp with rain."
66"How's that?—No, I do not know," replied Muzio slowly, as though astonished at the appearance of Fabio, as well as at his excitement.
68Fabio seized his arm.
70"Why do you always play that tune? Have you again had a dream?"
72Muzio looked at Fabio in a heavy yet astonished manner. He kept still.
74"Answer!"
76"The moon is up there like a round buckler,
77The river shines like a serpent,
78The friend awakened, the enemy slept,
79The hawk tears the bird."
81"Help!" hummed Muzio, as in a dream.
83Fabio recoiled, looked silently at Muzio, hesitated a moment, went back to his room.
85With head on shoulder and arms stretched out inert, Valeria slept a heavy sleep. Fabio could hardly awaken her. When she saw him she threw her arms about his neck and embraced him wildly. Her body shivered.
87"What's the matter, dear one?" said Fabio, over and over, seeking to calm her. But she panted and choked on his breast.
89"Ah! What frightful dreams!" she answered, and she hid her face.
91Fabio asked other questions and still she shivered.
93The window panes reddened with the jets of daybreak when she fell asleep in her husband's arms.
95VIII.
97Muzio had disappeared at dawn, and Valeria told her husband that she should visit the monastery where her confessor lived, an old and worthy monk in whom she had full confidence. She replied to him questioning her: "I wish to confess and ease my soul of the burden which the strange experiences of the last days have put on me."
99Her face was peaked, her voice was weak. Fabio approved her plan. Escorted by four servants Valeria went toward the monastery. Fabio stayed at home, and, until his wife came back, wandered about the garden, trying to guess her secret thoughts, knowing fear, anger and the anguish of vague suspicion. He went several times into the pavilion. Muzio did not come back, and the Malay stood before Fabio like a statue, with head bowed meekly, with a wicked smile hidden—so Fabio thought—under his mask of bronze.
101Valeria meanwhile confessed with less shame than terror. Father Lorenzo listened attentively, blessed her, absolved her and thought: "This is witchcraft; I must look into it." Under pretext of completely soothing her and consoling her he, too, went back to the villa.
103When Fabio saw him he was anxious; but the old and intelligent monk had fashioned in his head the course to pursue. Alone with Fabio he, of course, did not tell the secret of the confessional, but he advised him to get rid, if possible, of the guest whom he had invited, and who, by his tales, songs and his very existence disturbed the imagination of Valeria; and particularly because, according to the best of his recollection, Muzio had never had orthodox views concerning religion, and, having sojourned long in countries unillumined by the light of Christianity, he could not fail to bring back with him the pestilence of false doctrines; why, it was even possible that he had tainted his soul with the black art. Despite the rights of ancient
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