Mezzotints in modern music

In Short

This volume is a series of critical essays examining the masters of late nineteenth-century music, including Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Chopin. Moving between technical analysis of piano compositions and broader cultural observations, the work serves as both a historical record and a personal manifesto. It has endured because it captures the fervor of an era where debates over musical "form" versus "emotion" were matters of intense public passion. It provides a rare, intimate look at how these composers were perceived by a contemporary listener living through the shifting tides of artistic modernism.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book is defined by the shifting status of musical giants. It opens with the death of Johannes Brahms in 1897, an event that marks the end of a foundational era. The author establishes Brahms as the last "immortal," a man of virile, muscular composition who stood apart from the superficiality of theater music. Through this lens, the text explores the struggle of maintaining traditional structure—the symphony and the sonata—against the rising tide of more colorful, dramatic, and sometimes garish modern styles.

As the book progresses, the focus shifts to the Russian school, specifically Tchaikovsky. Here, the narrative changes tone; the "muscular male" of Brahms is replaced by the "stripling" of Russia, characterized by fire, caprice, and deep, existential melancholy. The author traces the tragic life of Tchaikovsky, touching upon the rumors of his suicide and his role as a "master pessimist." This section bridges the gap between the structured, Germanic tradition and a more emotionally volatile, narrative-driven style of music that begins to lean toward the theater and the dramatic poem.

The argument then moves into the radical territory of Richard Strauss. By analyzing Strauss’s Also Sprach Zarathustra, the author confronts the question of whether music has the right to abandon traditional form entirely in favor of poetic or philosophical narrative. This is the crux of the book’s intellectual struggle: the tension between the "absolute music" of the past and the "modern" impulse to use sound as a vehicle for Nietzschean ideas or intense, non-linear expression.

Finally, the text circles back to Chopin. However, this is not the "melancholy dreamer" of popular myth. The author peels away the sentimental "violets and tuberculosis" often attached to Chopin’s legacy, arguing instead for a "greater Chopin"—a hard, technical, and architectonic genius whose work is frequently ruined by modern pianists who either rush the tempo or misunderstand the nature of his rubato. The book concludes by surveying the landscape of technical study, advising the reader to discard bloated pedagogical methods and return to the foundational rigor of Bach, Clementi, and Chopin. It is a plea for clarity and strength in an age increasingly dominated by what the author views as empty virtuosity and the "rape" of masterpieces by uncomprehending performers.

How It Unfolds

The death of the immortals The author sets the stage with the passing of Brahms, framing him as the last bastion of true, logical, and structurally rigorous musical art. This section establishes the dichotomy between the "white light" of Brahms’s line and the "garish" colors of theatrical composers.

The Russian temperament The transition to Tchaikovsky introduces a more fluid, volatile, and deeply emotional perspective on composition. The narrative examines how national spirit and personal suffering manifest in the orchestral suite and the tone poem.

The challenge of modernity The discussion of Richard Strauss serves as a philosophical pivot, questioning the boundaries of music. The author debates whether the abandonment of classical form is a liberation or a descent into chaotic noise.

The rediscovery of Chopin The author attempts to rescue the composer from the "ravening wolves" of concert pianists and sentimental biographers. By focusing on technical execution and the "new" Chopin, the text reclaims the composer as a master of structure rather than just a salon poet.

The pedagogical purge The final movement is a rigorous critique of piano instruction, dismissing a century of useless methods. The author provides a final, defiant list of essential masters who alone remain worthy of serious study.

The People

Johannes Brahms is the moral center of the book, representing the "muscular" and "philosophic" ideal. He stands in opposition to the superficial, theatrical trends of his day, often appearing as a stubborn, unyielding figure who prefers the "lean" of hard work to the "fat" of popular appeal.

Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky appears as the embodiment of the suffering artist, defined by his "fire, caprice, and revolt." He is presented as a tragic figure whose music is deeply tied to his own personal unhappiness, marking him as the quintessential Romantic individual in contrast to Brahms’s more reserved classicism.

Richard Strauss represents the encroaching future. He is the figure who challenges the "normal eight-bar theme" and pushes music toward the brink of philosophy, forcing the author to decide whether the new, experimental path is valid or simply a departure from the "beautiful."

Frédéric Chopin is the subject of the author’s most intense devotion. Though long dead, he is treated as a living, breathing artist who has been misunderstood by the masses. The author wants to strip away the "Thaddeus of Warsaw" pose—the image of a frail, weeping aristocrat—and replace it with the image of a meticulous, almost mathematical technician who demands the highest level of intellectual and physical rigor.

In Its Own Voice

Regarding the legacy of Brahms, the author highlights the composer’s dedication to traditional, if difficult, forms:

For half a century he pursued the beautiful in its most elusive and difficult form; pursued it when the fashions of the hour, day and year mocked at such wholesale, undeviating devotion.

Discussing the way Chopin’s work has been degraded by performers and sentimentalists, the author offers this defense:

The new Chopin that we Chopin idolaters believe will endure, is not the Chopin of the valses, of the nocturnes—interesting as they are—nor of the tricksy, impish mazourkas.

On the dangers of overwrought piano practice, the author warns against technical vanity:

When you have thoroughly mastered the Philipp Daily Studies—which will be never—I commend these Henselt perversions.

What It's Really About

The book is fundamentally an argument about the nature of artistic excellence in a changing world. The author is deeply concerned with the erosion of formal standards in the face of commercialism and emotional indulgence. The central question is whether music should be a servant to narrative, philosophy, and national identity, or if it must remain an "absolute" art governed by its own internal logic. It is a meditation on the survival of high culture, suggesting that true genius is always "above its age," and that the reader’s responsibility is to look past the "garish" trends of the present to find the "still, small voice" that provides lasting consolation.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the history of ideas, music theory, or the sharp, opinionated prose of the late nineteenth century will find this book deeply rewarding. The writing is warm and precise, though it assumes a listener familiar with the basic repertoire of the era. It is an honest piece of criticism; the author does not hide his biases or his disdain for what he considers "vulgar" interpretations.

One should be prepared for the author’s period-specific attitudes, which manifest in his somewhat stiff, sometimes exclusionary language regarding national character and the "manners" of the musical salon. He is a critic of his time, and his prose reflects the intellectual hierarchies of the 1890s. However, the experience of reading this book feels like sitting with an elderly, brilliant, and slightly irritable teacher who has spent his life in concert halls and is finally speaking his mind. What stays with you is the author’s reverence for the "white light" of true art, and his conviction that despite the noise and "carnage" of the modern world, the work of the masters—when treated with the correct, disciplined reverence—remains an absolute necessity for the human spirit. It is a rare, authentic artifact of a time when the critic was as much a performer as the musician.