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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 11

The Place of Sterndale Bennett in Music

page 299

The Place of Sterndale Bennett in Music.

During the past month we have lost a man of rare and individual genius in an art in which England can boast of few distinguished names. We are not without our claims to respect as a musical nation, in regard to the interest in the art manifested in our best educated society, for some time back. We have been among the earliest to recognise the genius of one or two of the world's greatest musicians; and in the present day an executant or interpreter of music of the highest class can nowhere be more sure of a cordial welcome and of appreciative audiences than in the city which has been not inaptly termed 'the meeting-place of souls.'

We have had our own great executants too; in vocal music (a traditionary heritage of the country) some of the highest rank; and among instrumental executants we can show not a few who are at least very high. But if we turn from the interpreters to the creators of music, we are forced to confess that, in comparison with the great masters of the art, our native composers seem for the most part but as children playing with it as an amusement. Writers whose temperament is rather patriotic than critical have, it is true, made plausible efforts to prove the contrary; and there is no question that a considerable list may be made up of names not to be mentioned without respect, appended to compositions not to be listened to but with pleasure, by all discreet hearers. But scarcely among any of these can we recognise that individuality of style, that distinctly original mode of feeling and form of expression, without which no artist, however pleasing and genial his productions, can claim a niche in the temple of genius, or achieve a general and permanent renown. The early English school of part-writing, noble and dignified as it is, is but an echo of Palestrina; and its greatest representatives, Gibbons and Byrd (we may perhaps add Wilbye), are scarcely distinguishable from each other in style, and are only marked out from their contemporaries by a greater breadth and power in treating the materials common to all. For in those early days of music, as in mediæval architecture, individuality was not; the art was the production of the time, rather than of special minds. Then we have the later cathedral composers, whose best works were mostly echoes of Handel, modified in manner to some extent by the musical limitations of a cathedral service in regard to executive; among whom the prominent names of Boyce and Croft are followed by a host of lesser lights, now in the limbo of forgetfulness, or only preserved, mummy-fashion, by being embalmed among the relics of cathedral worship. Handel's 'pellows-plower,' Greene, survives chiefly in virtue of one fine and striking movement ('Therefore will not we fear,' from the forty-sixth Psalm); and at a later date Crotch and the elder Wesley struck the same chords with considerable power and effect. But of not one of these can it be said that they had a style of their own, or that they have obtained any wide or general recognition out of the range of the sounds of the cathedral organ. The English Cathedral Service music (anthems especially) is, taken collectively, a distinct contribution to the forms of musical composition, and has its precise parallel nowhere else; but its composers have to be taken col- page 300 lectively also; they have not (with one exception) strength to stand alone. Then, if we look to the more recent period, when English composers emerged from the cathedral choir to take their place in the theatre and the concert-room, we hardly find matters more promising. The name of Bishop, who (one can scarcely credit it) was set up as the rival of Weber when the latter came to England, is uow the synonym for 'twaddle;' and the operas of Balfe, in spite of the statue in the vestibule of Drury Lane, have seen their day. When we look around us at the present moment, we can hardly conceal that the most popular English song writer of the day has failed to infuse any new spirit into the lied, and that the latest successful contribution to oratorio, Macfarren's John the Baptist, with all its very great and solid merit, can be said to be original in style only in virtue of the logical results of certain theories of harmony held by its composer. And if we seek, in the annals of English music, for instances of that distinctive genius which speaks its own original language, and sets its own hand and seal to all which it utters, we find no name to interpose between those of Henry Purcell and William Sterndale Bennett.

And yet it seems strange even to write the two names in the same sentence: so utterly diverse were the two men in regard both to the nature of their powers and to the circumstances which have stood in the way of their general or popular recognition. That Purcell was, potentially, one of the world's great 'tone-poets' must be obvious to all who are familiar with the fragmentary works which he has left, and who can distinguish between the accidental and the essential, and recognise the voice of genius from behind the mask of an antiquated style. Purcell's misfortune was the double one of having both lived and died too early'. He was born at least half-a-century too soon, before the resources of the art had been so expanded as to afford him the,' sail-broad vans' which the flight of his genius required; and he died too soon to have become fully conscious of his own power or of the extent to which he might have enlarged its borders. But even as it is he has left on almost everything he undertook an impress of concentrated power of imagination and expression which goes far to make us forget the restricted nature of the means at his command—as in the best of his anthems, in his Te Deum, in the extraordinary mad-man's song, or in his colossal duet for basses, 'Awake, ye dead.' Beside works, which, however imperfect in form, are so great in scale and idea, we cannot place the works of the late lamented representative of modern English music. The earlier composer reached sublimity of expression; the later one has attained to beauty, finish, and individuality of form, and to sentiment of the highest and most refined type; but something beyond these qualities, something not very easily definable, is needed to secure a place among those great artists who have spoken deep things to our souls, and have moved the heart of the people, 'as the trees of the wood are moved by the wind.'

Of these, then, it must be admitted that Sterndale Bennett was not. But he had this in common with his greater predecessor, that what he gave us was eminently his own. He spoke no borrowed language; and nothing can be more unjust than the flippant and ignorant criticism (so called) which sets him down as a mere imitator of Mendelssohn; an opinion we have often heard authoritatively pronounced on the strength of an acquaintance with some one solitary page 301 composition of Bennett', or still oftener on pure hearsay.1 That he was influenced by Mendelssohn there is no doubt, just as Schubert was influenced by Beethoven: but not to the detriment of originality in either case. As a general rule, Bennett's instrumental music is as clearly marked by his own specialities of manner, feeling, and treatment—in other words, by the impress of his own genius—as is the work of any of the acknowledged masters of music; and if we turn to his principal choral works, we surmise that no one will have the hardihood to claim the 'Woman of Samaria' or the 'May Queen' as specimens of Mendelssohnian manner.

If we endeavour to define the characteristics of Sterndale Bennett's genius, we become conscious of two conditions in his practice of his art, which colour all his works, and one of which fully accounts for their comparative unpopularity with the ordinary run of amateurs and concert audiences. The fact is that the composer belonged to that rare and interesting class of men of genius (rarest of all perhaps in music) who may be termed in a special sense artistic artists—men who write or paint or compose for the sake of the art, and with whom the means are of almost as much interest as the end, in whose eyes finish of form is one of the most important objects, and whose works therefore present to other producers in the same art a special interest which is only partially comprehended by the dilettante mind. It was with a just sense of this that Lord (then Sir John) Coleridge, in his speech on the occasion of the testimonial to the composer in May 1872, observed that—

Most of those who were listening to him were cultivated, intelligent, and critical musicians, who could appreciate the value of Sir Sterndale Bennett's compositions; but, not being a musician himself, he could only listen to them, feeling something of their grace and beauty of order—fancying, indeed, in some dim and distant way, that he could distinguish something of their scholarly character and finished structure; but still feeling more as a child towards them than as possessed of that full and intelligent knowledge which belonged to those whom he was addressing.

In such works musicians find the same kind of pleasure which most literary men find in the writings of Jane Austen, of whom Scott observed that though 'he could do the big bow-wow business himself as well as anyone, those delicate touches of hers were beyond him.' In music the 'big bow-wow business' is at present in full career; nor would we wish to see it checked until it has fulfilled its mission for bad or good. But for the present the result is that the spirit and intent of a musical work is everything, the form nothing, both with composers and hearers: and 'æsthetic' frequenters of concert-rooms are indifferent as to balance of form in composition or correctness and finish in performance, if only they can be thrilled and astonished by 'powerful' scoring and 'impassioned' execution. There is a 'soul of goodness' in all this perhaps, as a reaction which may leave fruit behind it; but we must be pardoned for saying that the feeling which underlies it is essentially amateurish, not artistic. It is no wonder that such unobtrusive yet finished workmanship as Bennett's obtains little popular favour at present. For the composer falls short too (and this is the second point we alluded to) in another demand of the day, which wills that all music page 302 have its meaning, its intention, its 'poetic basis,' we had almost said its moral purpose. To point out the fallacy of this view of the function of the art (to which the support given by Beethoven was more apparent than real) would demand a separate essay. It must suffice to say here that Sterndale Bennett was not of this school. His instrumental compositions, like those of Mozart, 'mean' nothing; the occasional suggestive titles to them serving rather as distinguishing mottoes than as in any way limiting the listener's associations in regard to them. The overture, Paradise and the Peri, is, of course, a declared exception, in which the passages illustrated are pointedly interwoven with the music; and the composer has lent himself to the modern theory of music to some extent in his latest pianoforte work, the Maid of Orleans Sonata, in which quotations from Schiller's play form the key to the intent and meaning of the respective movements. It is very interesting to see the composer taking up this new ground, and the sonata is in the main equal to anything he has written for pianoforte alone, combining as it does breadth and intensity of expression (in the second movement especially) with his own peculiar grace of detail. In regard to finish of form, however, it must be admitted that in this work Bennett a little lost the old balance and completeness which marked his own proper manner. It is interesting to hear, as we do on good authority, that this work attracted the frank admiration of the prophet of the new German school, Lizst, and that it was mainly owing to his recommendation that Dr. Von Billow, who has so fluttered the dove-cots of the pianoforte-playing world here of late, made the Sonata one of his prominent performances in London and the provinces, though not handling it, to our thinking, with the care and finish it deserved. But, in the main, Bennett is for the present the last representative, perhaps, of that purely intellectual school of music which illustrates no fixed idea, but addresses itself to the hearer's general sense of melodic beauty and sentiment, of harmonic proportion and logical relation. Hence he has found little favour with the literary prophets of the new school, who have generally named him with covert sneers or impertinent patronage. But in art, as in morals, Time 'brings in his revenges.'

And if, in a journal not specially devoted to art, it may be permitted to go a little beyond generalities in speaking of the gifted country, man whom we have lately lost, we should say that the genius of Sterndale Bennett was essentially that of the pianoforte. He was, so to speak, a pianist by nature. His numerous compositions for his favourite instrument have not that orchestral largeness and breadth of manner which belongs to the pianoforte compositions of Beethoven, and in a lesser degree to those of Mendelssohn. But they are remarkable and most interesting, in addition to their intrinsic beauty, as specimens of composition in which the capabilities of the instrument are strictly consulted—which represent precisely what the pianoforte can best do, and that only, and what no other instrument can imitate. There is not anywhere in art an instance of a nicer perception of means to an end than is furnished by the pianoforte works of Bennett. The hardness and glitter which characterises some of these compositions, and which amateurs of the sentimental school (if they are acquainted with them, which they generally are not) find so cold and unsympathetic, are only the result of this consideration of the peculiar genius of the instrument, pushed to its completest result. For the page 303 pianoforte essentially is not an instrument for the expression of melody and of sentiment; it is only made so for convenience sake and by partially ignoring its special capabilities and limitations. Essentially it is an instrument for the display of glittering and brilliant effect. It is this quality which gives, to trained perceptions, such an exquisite charm to the combination of piano and orchestra in the concerto, where the pianoforte passages seem to glance and sparkle against the sustained and heavier tones of the band, like the play of a fountain against a background of dark foliage. And it is the specially clear perception of this characteristic of the instrument that renders Bennett's pianoforte concertos so effective, and makes it not improbable that the principal one, in F minor, will eventually be recognised as the most successful contribution to this class of composition since Beethoven. With less breadth of manner than Mendelssohn's concertos, it is marked by a truer artistic instinct and a more refined handling of the instrument. That the composer could use the piano in its borrowed character, as an instrument of melody and sentiment, in equal perfection, is proved by the barcarolle in this same concerto, one of the few of Bennett's compositions which has found its way to the popular mind. And not less exquisite here are the characteristic touches of effect; the contrast between the broken chords from 'the strings' in the orchestra and that rippling phrase for the solo instrument which, once heard, can never be forgotten; or the joining of the flute with the piano at the return of the leading melody, suggesting, according to Mr. Macfarren's pretty fancy in his analysis of the work, 'the reflection of loved faces in the sleeping water.'

It was in these 'delicate touches' that Bennett excelled; touches which appeal only to cultivated listeners, and which even cultivated ears, if too much drenched with the strong doses of the contemporary Sturm-und-Drang school of music, may easily fail to appreciate. For with Bennett nothing is thrust forward or disproportionately emphasised; what he intended is there if you have ears to hear it, but he will be at no pains to force it on his listeners' apprehension. And this reticent character extends to his larger works for the orchestra also. We do not find in these that irresistible sweep and power with which Beethoven, and in his greatest moments, Schumann, carry us away like Elijah, 'in a whirlwind to Heaven.' In that one published symphony which was played to perfection by the Crystal Palace band, before a delighted audience, only the week before its composer's lamented death, we find the same reserve, the same sensitiveness as to the specialities of the various instruments, which combine in a total effect not of the grand or colossal order, but of perfectly Greek finish and symmetry, and in which every note plays its own part in the ensemble. This beautiful work, so distinct from every other composition of its class, is steadily progressing to fame, and will be ere long an accepted item in the programmes of our highest class of concerts, by general listeners, as it is now by musicians and connoisseurs.

We must only shortly advert to the two principal choral works of the composer. The short oratorio, under the title of the Woman of Samaria, must be admitted to be the most individual contribution of this kind to English music, in point of style, even if the force and fervour of portions of Mr. Macfarren's later work, before referred to, may seem to give the latter a claim to higher public estimation at present than page 304 the more original work of Bennett, pitched as it is in a much lower key. Yet, in regard to this latter, we know not where we can look, even in the pages of Mendelssohn, the most ardent modern student of Bach, for anything in which the spirit of that mighty teacher in the art is so revived as in the opening chorus of the Woman of Samaria, with its remarkable combination of chorale and instrumental movement in opposing rhythms. We look confidently to the time when this work will be returned to, after more recent and popular productions of the same class have gone the way of all mediocrities, as one deserving renewed study, and which only requires to be better understood to receive its due recognition. The cantata, the May Queen, we never hear without a double regret; first, that the music should have been wedded to such feeble words and such a foolish story (written by one who should have known better), in which any interest for its own sake is impossible; and, secondly, that (supposing the 'book' improved) the composer did not make an opera of it. If the work as it stands is not to all intents and purposes an operetta without the stage action, it at least serves to prove what an opera Bennett might have given us, could he have been induced to turn his thoughts to the lyric stage. Music more happily illustrative of scenic effect and of character has seldom been written—of scenic effect in the buoyant Maypole chorus, where we almost seem to see the merry group of dancers swing past

With a laugh as we go round;

and in the stately pageant music, especially the passage at the words 'Thames is proud,' when the pompous flotilla seems to come suddenly upon us, as it were, round a bend of the river ('Hark! what fine change is in the music;') and of character and feeling in the exquisite air of the lover, in the jovial bragging song of the supposed 'Robin Hood,' with its genial touches of humour in the accompaniment, and in the beautiful trio, now an established favourite in concert-rooms, and which even the inanity of the words can hardly blemish. But we cannot quit the subject of Bennett's vocal music without a word for those two groups of songs 'with English and German words,' only one or two among which can be said to be popularised. And perhaps we have no wish that the others should be; we would almost prefer to see them kept for a more select enjoyment. These songs have the advantage of having been written to good and suggestive words. To say that a musician has given adequate expression to Shelley's sad, regretful lines, 'Wilt thou forget the happy hours,' is to say that he is himself a poet. But, in truth, we never know which one to prefer out of these two garlands of song. When we consider the pure and spontaneous flow of the melody, the delicate suggestiveness of the accompaniments, and the distinct individuality of design and of sentiment in each of these little compositions, so concentrated yet so complete in form, we could fancy them the spiritual essence of some lost fragments of Greek art, which have thus contrived to get themselves translated into music.

Of the probable future position of Sterndale Bennett's compositions it might seem premature to pronounce an opinion, were it not that they have already to some extent received the test of time, the most important and best of them dating far-enough back to afford us already some ground for conclusions as to their progress in the appreciation of those best able to form a judgment. Indeed, the long intervals of silence during the later portion of the composer's life are remarkable page 305 on the part of one who had early showed such enthusiasm for his art, and had written so well and (as far as the praise of those who understand can be called success) so successfully. If this reserve in regard to artistic production was, as is stated, the result of a modest distrust of, and dissatisfaction with, his own powers (a point on which the present writer can speak only from hearsay), we shall, perhaps, not be wrong in thinking that this want of self-confidence was the one deficiency in character which has prevented the composer from achieving a position among the first musicians of the world. Some critics will probably be ready to say that no music which has so little in it for the masses can hope to retain a permanent position. The analogies of art history will hardly bear out this view, however. Music is almost too young an art to make conclusions regarding it, yet we may point to the fact that the great master, whom all schools are now combining to reverence, had in his own day about as little popular recognition as could well be. Indeed, even the apparent popularity of Bach (in London at least) at present is probably to a great extent mere empty show, resulting from a kind of 'follow-my-leader' impulse on the part of many who do not in the least know what they worship. And if we may draw a comparison between music and poetry, we might point to Horace as an instance of a poet who was essentially the poet of the few, and who was totally without sympathy for the masses, or care for their suffrages. Yet it is probable that we could name no literary reputation which is more absolutely safe, so far as it goes, than that of Horace. Finish of form is, in short, one of the most important elements in a permanent artistic reputation; and finish of form Bennett possesses in perfection, with much besides. His works will not, as we have already said, take their stand among those great musical inspirations which have moved all hearts (Horace is not Homer); and it is quite possible that they may never attain a wide popularity. But we believe their reputation, with the esoteric circle at least, rests on a secure basis, and is certain to increase as their peculiar and rare beauties are more studied and appreciated; that they will be returned to frequently as sources of fresh and lasting pleasure by all who can appreciate beauty without pretentiousness, and finish without ostentation; that they are such as, to borrow the words in which Wordsworth so beautifully gave expression to his own hopes of future recognition,

The high and tender Muses may accept With gracious smile, deliberately pleased.

H. H. S.

Sketch of a flower

1 The popular idea that Bennett was a pupil of Mendelssohn has been contradicted in print, on good authority, over and over again: yet we never go to a concert whore any composition of the former is given without hearing the story repeated among the audience.