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240 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2010
The inward searching nature of artistic developments after the Congress of Vienna was in part a subconscious, self-defensive tactic for avoiding despair over the condition of restoration Europe. Anyone who has lived under repressive regimes in more recent times will understand the phenomenon. In order to survive, you are forced to pretend to believe in something in which you do not believe, and what that may in fact detest. At the same time, you cannot help but wonder of what conceivable use or consequence your survival could be under such circumstances. But the Romantics, who lived not only before Hitler and Stalin, but also before Darwin, Marx, Freud, and Einstein, did possess as vast a gamut of uncertainties. Not to mention nihilistic beliefs and attitudes as later generations would have at their disposal. Although the despair factor was as present in the human psyche was as present in the early 19th century as it is today, and as it has been throughout human history, the search for absolute meaning was still a reasonable option 200 years ago. Many commentators have described Romanticism as the inspiration behind Europe’s striving towards freedom. But that notion seems to me less sustainable than the converse. The European aspiration for freedom was the inspiration behind Romanticism. And what Stendhal seems to have grasped earlier than anyone else is the fact that the Romantics were not the children of the Revolution, but rather its orphans.
Beethoven had to camouflage his libertarian aspirations and pay lip service to the rulers on whose patronage he depended, and for whom expressions about universal brotherhood were only too reminiscent of the ideals bandied about by the French Revolution. Ideals that that these rulers had only recently managed to smother. And yet, Beethoven required the singers and instrumentalists who gathered in Vienna on a spring day in 1824 for the world premiere of his new symphony to proclaim repeatedly and insistently the potentially subversive goal of universal brotherhood.
Who is he that shall control me? Why may not I act and speak and write and think with entire freedom? Who hath forged the chains of wrong and right, of opinion and custom, and must I wear them? Is society my anointed king? I am solitary in the vast society of beings, I consort with no species, I indulge no sympathies. I see the world, human, brute, and inanimate nature. I am in the midst of them, but not of them. I hear the song of the storm, the winds and warring elements sweep by me, but they mix not with my being.
In his essay “Is Music Unspeakable?�, the Franco-American cultural historian, Jacques Barzun tells the story of a composer who goes to the piano and plays, for some guests, a piece he has just written. Afterward, one of his listeners asks him what the piece’s meaning is. The composer responds by returning to the piano and playing the piece a second time. “The composer’s answer was entirely right�, says Barzun, “the meaning is inside any work of art, and it cannot be decanted into a proposition.� Or, as Stravinsky put it, “Music means itself.� But Barzun goes on to point out “if music merely tickled the ear, it would still be agreeable, but it would remain a trifling pastime. We know it as much more, and it is plain that the composer can use sounds to set off a particular stirring within us. But the stirring is nameless, so that if it does not accompany the words of a text, and yet we want to refer to it, we have to make up some analogy.� The analogy chosen will vary from one listener to another, regardless of whether the listener is a professional musician, or a musicologist or critic, or a music lover who does not pretend to have inside information. But what most musicians, including this book’s author, hear and feel and imagine in outstanding pieces is of music is� music.