Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

In accordance with my own approach, I wrote biographical accounts of the great musicians I had long revered. These were, above all, great composers as seen through the lens of my own life—composers about whom I wrote freely and without reservation, laying bare the reverence I held dear, my affection, my awe, and at times even a modicum of criticism. I did not write for the sake of scholarly verification. Nor did I intend to write for the mere enumeration of facts. I wrote of my sentiments toward these great musicians in the manner of a prose poem, blending even a touch of rapture and exaltation. It is at least the passion of a sixty-year-old youth and may perhaps express the youthful spirit that the Japanese people hold toward science and art.

While biographies of great musicians are by no means few, enlightening biographies that can appeal to anyone—even those with no interest in, taste for, or knowledge of music—and spark interest in their works are exceedingly scarce. That was my aim. Furthermore, another hope was that through biographies of composers I had long been interested in, I might impart my modest views on life and art to the general youth. The primary purpose of this account was to be something that would deeply move readers and prove engaging to them. If that purpose alone is achieved, dear readers will advance to the next stage—reading detailed biographies of each great musician and deepening their understanding of their art.

Art is ultimately none other than the creator themselves. Without individuality, art cannot exist; without knowing the creator themselves, grasping the essence of their work becomes profoundly difficult. This constitutes the very reason I wrote this book for young people.

Of the essays in this volume, twelve biographical accounts were published in Fujin Kōron, while the remaining five were newly added. With voluminous descriptions concerning works and records, along with dozens of pages of supplementary biographies all written in classical Japanese, I had to spend over fifty days of one summer on this task. For the records, I limited myself to an extremely small selection of superb editions of representative works, strenuously avoiding any encyclopedic approach. For if I were to list all records, it would only increase readers' difficulty in choosing—I feared this might yield the same result as not listing any at all. When considering the difficulties in importing matrices and materials, I believed today’s record selection standards would see little change for five years—ten years—or even over a decade. Never before had I written about record selection with such a peaceful state of mind.

September 30, 1941

Araebisu’s Account

Handel: The Warrior “If asked, ‘Who is your favorite composer?’ I would answer without hesitation: ‘Händel and Schubert.’” “If asked, ‘What is your most precious record?’ I would undoubtedly name Händel’s complete Messiah—all eighteen discs.”

Indeed, when I recently moved from Seijō to Takaido, though I sent off my collection of over ten thousand records loaded onto a truck without a trace of concern, I carried Sir Beecham’s eighteen-disc recording of *Messiah*—packed into two boxes—in my own arms from the old residence to the new. To this record I have an intensely personal connection, and it holds an irreplaceable place in my heart—but even so, had there not been something in Handel the man and his music that stirs my interest and affection, I doubt I would have felt such profound attachment to this recording of *Messiah*.

Handel stands as a titan among classical composers. If Bach is called the "father of Western music," then Handel must be its "mother." These two men happened to be born in the same year, and while Bach's music remained intellectual and contrapuntal, Handel's proved emotional and melodic—a contrast of truly fascinating nature. Bach remains supremely noble. Yet had there been no Handel, how desolate would our musical realm have been. I shall abandon debate and instead, through the biography of passionate Handel, seek to glimpse his human qualities.

The Young Wanderer

Georg Friedrich Händel was born on February 23, 1685, in the town of Halle, as the second child of a wealthy barber-surgeon.

Handel’s musical talent and love for music, like those of many geniuses, awakened in his early childhood. However, his father disapproved of his beloved son choosing music as a profession and strictly forbade any involvement with music or the playing of instruments. The anecdote of the young Handel—deprived of music—stealing nightly into an attic storeroom, where by moonlight he practiced on a clavichord concealed there, is one that few who remember it would deny belongs among the subjects of Western masterpieces.

There is also a story that at age seven, he played the organ before the Duke of Weissenfels, so impressing His Grace that the duke himself compelled Handel’s father to consent to his son’s musical training. After losing his father at age eleven, he could not bear to abandon his father’s wish for legal studies and once enrolled in the law department of Halle University. Yet at seventeen, he finally abandoned law to take up a position as a church organist. Resolving to pursue formal musical training, he found himself in Hamburg—the city of German opera—by the spring of his eighteenth year. With his serene oblong face, large earnest eyes, straight nose, broad forehead, thick yet resolute lips, and cheeks and jaw solid and well-proportioned, contemporaries recounted that the figure of Handel—wearing his square cap—"radiated vigor and ironclad will."

In Hamburg, Kaiser, Mattheson, Buxtehude, and others dominated the music scene; all were older than Handel and served as fitting mentors and seniors to the young composer. However, as Handel’s talent and genius gradually surpassed those of his three seniors, it became inevitable that he could no longer endure being treated as their protégé. The first to have a conflict with Handel was Mattheson. From trivial matters grew misunderstandings until the two found themselves driven to a duel in the Hamburg market. Mattheson's sword nearly pierced Handel's chest but was halted by a large metal button and snapped; Handel's life was truly spared by a hair's breadth, and in the next instant, the two men forgot themselves and embraced each other. Both the seeds of conflict and hatred vanished like spring frost after crossing death’s threshold.

The one who next created a great rift with Handel was Kaiser, the central figure of Hamburg’s opera. Kaiser's decline and jealousy reduced even Hamburg’s opera to utter chaos. In 1706, at twenty-one years old, Handel—disillusioned with Hamburg—departed for Italy, seeking "the land of music that smiles toward the sun."

An Unpleasant Position

From Florence to Rome, and from Rome to Venice—the young Handel’s musical journey continued for some time. “Handel was by no means infatuated with Italian music,” states Romain Rolland. In the German Handel resided the never-say-die spirit and fiery temper common to his countrymen. But from the Italian music world, what Handel was able to learn proved by no means insignificant. That his numerous operas’ magnificence contained abundant Italian elements goes without saying; but the incorporation of Italianate resplendent coloration and the lavish outpouring of beautiful melodies in the oratorio masterpieces that adorned his later years could be none other than the fruit of Handel’s Italian training.

Nevertheless, it remains true that during the initial stages of his Italian travels, Handel gained renown more as a performing virtuoso than as a composer. It was during this period that he became acquainted with the Scarlattis—father and son, who might be called Italy's pride—and competed against Domenico Scarlatti in organ performance, emerging victorious; an anecdote about their profound mutual respect also stems from this time. After visiting Naples and returning to Rome, Handel sent Italians into raptures and frenzy with his opera *Agrippina*. The audience cried out, "Long live the dear Saxons!" Bishop Stephan of Hanover, then residing in Italy, offered Handel the position of Kapellmeister at the Hanoverian court, which Handel promptly accepted.

After a brief stay in Hanover, Handel set his course for England, a land that had long been the object of his yearning. It was the autumn of his twenty-fifth year. The British music scene had grown completely stagnant after Purcell’s death; the capital London possessed not a single composer of its own, leaving everything to be overrun by Italian music and Italian musicians. After being granted an audience with Queen Anne—who loved music and often played the harpsichord herself—Handel demonstrated superhuman genius by composing and staging the opera *Rinaldo* in a mere fourteen days.

The success was record-breaking. Handel’s victory—wielding Italian opera as his weapon—proved both remarkable and splendid in its brilliance. This success became the catalyst that solidified his resolve to settle in Britain; having petitioned for release from the House of Hanover, he took residence there under an agreement requiring occasional returns to his post. Handel’s advancement in Britain stood unparalleled. Though a foreigner who had risen to become Royal Composer—and despite Queen Anne’s most gracious favor—an unavoidable awkwardness lingered toward the House of Hanover.

That unpleasant position was finally driven to a catastrophe beyond the reach of law by Queen Anne’s death. The one who succeeded Queen Anne to the British throne was Georg of the House of Hanover—later known as George I. That Handel, who had previously defied the goodwill of the House of Hanover, was distanced from the court was also inevitable.

*Water Music* Suite

Not long after George I's accession, a boat excursion was held on the River Thames to celebrate the auspicious occasion. The royal barge, having attained perfection in elegance, floated midstream as nobles and ladies swirled like clouds; amidst this scene, George I raised a jeweled cup to survey the scenery on all sides while descending the Thames with the current. At this moment, from a boat prepared near the royal barge arose resoundingly the sound of music. The grand orchestra of dozens of musicians carried over the water and resonated through the azure sky, exuding magnificent grandeur and an ineffable poetic sentiment. So profoundly moved was George I that he summoned Baron Kilmansegg attending nearby and commanded, "Who created that? Who conducts it?" Baron Kilmansegg stepped forward and timidly answered, "It is Handel, Your Majesty." "In secret he conducts that music to honor today's grand celebration," he added.

That George I immediately pardoned Handel’s transgressions, granted him an audience, and bestowed upon him greater favor than even Queen Anne had done is recounted as one of history’s heartening anecdotes. Some attributed the circumstances of this episode to George I’s love of music and magnanimity, recounting, “The king could not punish Handel without first punishing himself.” Handel’s position in Britain had gradually transformed. In Handel’s veins—once coursing with the tranquil blood of a royal protégé—the vigor of his prime at age thirty-five in 1720 now blazed forth, compelling him to abandon the ivory tower and join the public fray, where he discovered both his artistic calling and life’s purpose. He plunged into the public fray unarmed and unaided. He concluded that his art must belong to all people. He was a composer and conductor, as well as a director and even a capitalist. How terrifying this new situation must have been for Handel, the foreigner, can be imagined by anyone.

He went bankrupt twice and was nearly killed three times. He was twice struck down by life-threatening illnesses and had to wage a twenty-year battle against journalists, hack writers, music critics, and noblewomen. Until reaching his true vocation—the art of oratorio, imbued with immortal life—Handel’s battle was literally a life-and-death struggle. The first enemy brought into sharp focus against Handel was the Italian Bononcini. He was more precocious than Handel, more of a popularizer than Handel, and more skilled than Handel. "The British—who adored contests involving bears, pheasants, or masters of skill—staked the full measure of their curiosity upon this desperate game." Handel valiantly rose to this challenge and emerged victorious, but even he found himself stumped by the vicious struggles that followed with opera stars. The contenders were Faustina and Cuzzoni. The two actresses continued to fight like wild beasts, and on the stage of the day when the Princess of Wales was present, they ended up in a bloody scuffle. The two wild beasts could not be separated except by exhaustion. Handel the conductor, to swiftly end the conflict, fervently had the timpani played.

At one point, the actress Cuzzoni absolutely refused to sing the aria Handel had written. Handel suddenly grabbed the star by the torso and tried to hurl her out the window into the street. “You are a she-devil! That much is clear—but I’ll show you that I’m the king of devils!” With those words, Handel let an ironic smile drift across his strong, resilient cheeks. Subsequently, Hasse and Porpora turned against Handel. Hardships continued to arise one after another. What troubled Handel most gravely was financial ruin, followed by a severe illness that confined his massive frame to a sickbed. Yet even amidst this, Handel composed the masterpiece *Alcina* and wrote *Alexander’s Feast* in a mere ten days.

In the spring of 1737, at fifty-two years of age, Handel was finally struck down by apoplexy. His right side was paralyzed and even his mind was afflicted, but the calamity did not end there. At the same time, his theater went bankrupt. Cast into the depths of despair and sent to a hot spring resort, Handel—by what miracle—had recovered by the end of autumn and reappeared on the battlefield once more. However, calamity did not abandon Handel for good. Creditors pursued him daily, and the prison door’s shadow loomed ever closer to the giant’s back.

*The Stirring Impact of Messiah* Handel’s creative power was truly superhuman. It was not uncommon for him to write an opera in two weeks, and at times he even wrote two operas simultaneously. Musical notation proved too slow for him—to such an extent that it required a kind of shorthand. “He composed as naturally as breathing”—so it has been said. This astonishing genius’s fervor culminated in fifty-one operas. This was indeed a feat surpassing human endeavor. Yet at fifty-three years old, Handel confronted a moment demanding reckoning with Italian opera’s absurd decadence. The depth of opera’s decline at that time becomes clear through just one circus-like aspect—the very practice of bringing horses, birds, even lions onto stages.

That Handel, at fifty-three years old, poured his ever-intensifying passion into composing the oratorio *Saul* in his later years may indeed be called a “discovery of a new path” wrought by divine revelation. The oratorio—traditionally confined to churches where biblical episodes were set to music and performed with austere solemnity, devoid of scenery or costumes—was now defiantly brought into theaters by Handel despite societal and ecclesiastical opposition. By weaving together Italian opera’s lyrical beauty and German music’s structural rigor, his oratorios—enhanced with staging and costumes—achieved such monumental grandeur that one scarcely needs elaborate how they astonished all who beheld them. It remains true that Handel’s oratorios found no ready acceptance in his time, but Time itself rallied to his cause, until at last the crown of final victory came to rest upon his brow.

At fifty-five years old, Handel next produced his instrumental masterpiece, the *Grand Concertos*— He wrote twelve pieces. They are works engraved with his personality and humanity. However, society was by no means generous to Handel. The opposition’s rampage grew increasingly vicious—some hired street urchins to tear down posters for his concerts, while attending other Italian operas on his performance days became a fashionable trend among high society. The noblewomen would hold parties and even make festive uproars on the days of Handel’s concerts. Handel looked out at the empty hall and had to mutter in bitter defiance, “This way, my music actually sounds more splendid.”

Handel faced ruin multiple times and finally lost all patience with England. Having resolved to leave England, where he had lived for thirty years, he gave his final concert in the spring of 1741. It was when the Governor-General of Ireland, lamenting Handel’s imminent permanent departure, invited him to Dublin and had him conduct concerts for a time. Handel finally composed his magnum opus, the oratorio *Messiah*, setting to music the biblical texts edited by his friend Jennens.

I do not have the space here to expound in detail on what *Messiah* is, but be that as it may, there can be no doubt that this stands as both the finest commentary on the Bible and the highest form of religious music humanity has ever produced. The audience’s hearts were washed with tears of emotion. The frenzy was like a storm.

When the performance ended and they stepped out into the hallway, a nobleman tapped Handel’s shoulder and said, “That was most entertaining.” Handel’s face darkened with indignation. “I’m sorry to hear that,” “I did not write this piece with the intention of amusing you all.” “I wrote it to elevate people’s hearts, if only a little—” he declared, and we should recognize the vastness of spirit behind those words.

Night followed day.

The success of *Messiah* was overwhelming. Few musical works can vividly convey the fervor felt at their creation even two hundred years later, but when it comes to the exaltation that Handel’s *Messiah* evokes, its intensity only grows exponentially with each passing year. Handel completed this magnum opus in a mere twenty-four days. Not only that. Handel prohibited the publication of this piece and donated all profits generated from its performances to charitable causes. From 1750 over a ten-year period, *Messiah* is said to have generated six thousand five hundred and ninety-five pounds for the almshouse. Handel—who remained single his entire life; a man of passion, sarcasm, gluttony, and temper; yet this same Handel, who wrote sorrowful arias with tears streaming down his face—did not turn his back on charitable works even immediately after bankruptcy.

Handel’s character possessed the human weaknesses and strengths that appeal to us most profoundly. When he flew into a rage, every member of the orchestra trembled in fear. He did not hesitate to berate even the court ladies. Yet on another side, he was a witty raconteur, combative and passionate; when a boy brought him morning coffee, there were even times he was seen composing through tears under the lamplight after working through the night.

It took several more years for *Messiah* to achieve success in London. It was when he turned sixty that he collapsed from his second bankruptcy and enemies' attacks, requiring eight months' convalescence. Had the national crisis of Charles Edward's rebellion not fortuitously saved Handel—compelling him to compose two patriotic oratorios and elevating him to peak popularity—he might well have died at this time.

After thirty-five years of long, long struggle, Handel finally triumphed. It was only natural that his subsequent works shone with radiance and triumph. Works such as *Solomon* and *Music for the Royal Fireworks* exemplified this.

But even the giant Handel’s final hour arrived—in 1751, as he composed *Jephtha*, his eyes gradually lost their sight, and by the time he barely completed it, he had become completely blind. "As night follows day, so sorrow follows my joy"—Handel wrote these words in his score and set down his pen.

It was the spring when he was sixty-six years old.

The world went completely dark. The time had come for Handel’s vast creative power to reach its end. In 1759, having bequeathed “one thousand pounds for the relief of impoverished musicians” in his will, he quietly awaited his great death.

His remains were buried at Westminster as he had wished, and his name was engraved for British honor as a foreigner.

As Beethoven said, "There was truth there." There has never been a composer as masculine as he was, nor one as passionate. Through their works, humanity and faith continue to speak to people across the world even two centuries later.

Handel’s Works and Their Records

Handel’s records are by no means numerous. This is likely because the operas he devoted himself to until he was over fifty are rarely performed today, and each of the oratorios into which he poured his energies in his later years is so exceedingly lengthy that circumstances do not permit them to be recorded in multiple versions. *Messiah*

What a joy it is that among these, we can listen to records encompassing nearly the entirety of his magnum opus *Messiah*! I have written repeatedly about this record—the orchestra and chorus being from Britain’s BBC, conducted by Sir Beecham, with soprano Rabette and baritone Williams being particularly outstanding among the soloists (Columbia Masterworks 216, J8450–67). There are no shortage of records that include partial choruses and arias from *Messiah*, but even among these partial renditions, not a single one matches the quality of this complete recording. This is truly an excellent record. For example, even when considering the “Hallelujah Chorus”—which could be called the climax of this piece—only Bruno Kittel’s conducted version can barely keep up, while the rest hardly warrant consideration. The pure beauty of the soprano aria “I Know That” following “Hallelujah,” the majesty of the baritone solo “The Trumpet Shall Sound—” on the final A-side of the last disc—among other elements—I find both the composition and performance to be flawless masterpieces. While eighteen discs with thirty-six sides may be too lengthy for general collectors to acquire, I believe one should at least create opportunities to listen to them when the occasion arises.

Instrumental Works

Among Handel’s instrumental works, the first that must be listed is Polydor’s recording of *Concerto Grosso Op.6* (85006–18) by the Boyd Neel String Orchestra. The term *Concerto Grosso* translates to “ensemble concerto,” and this record contains six of Handel’s twelve masterful *Concerto Grossos* from his mature period. While the Boyd Neel String Orchestra was not a group that enjoyed widespread public acclaim, it was an exceptionally artistic ensemble, and there is no doubt that this performance—though slightly somber—is executed with utmost integrity. While various other recordings of the *Concerto Grossos* exist, each has its strengths and weaknesses, but ultimately the cohesive Boyd Neel version remains the best.

Next, I would like to mention Madame Landowska’s recording of the *Harpsichord Suites* (Victor JD 945–50). It is a serene yet delightful piece. For those who cherish the unadulterated beauty of classical works, this would be the finest record for leisurely enjoyment. Then there is the famous suite *Water Music*, composed when Handel reconciled with George I after incurring his displeasure—of its over twenty pieces, only just over ten are included. For records, Columbia has Sir Harty’s own arrangement (J8247–8), and Victor has Stokowski’s conducted version (JI66–7), but Sir Harty’s is better recorded. While this Columbia release also includes Sir Harty’s conducted recording of *Music for the Royal Fireworks* (J8504–5)—another late-career work of Handel’s—the *Water Music* possesses a youthful charm that makes it far more engaging.

Among other orchestral works, *Alcina Suite* conducted by Mengelberg (Victor JE187–8) stands as one of the celebrated records. The recording may not be particularly recent, but it remains a record that is still talked about today.

1. One- and Two-Disc Works Among one- and two-disc works, Landowska’s harpsichord recording of *The Harmonious Blacksmith* (Victor JE190) proves particularly delightful. The same piece performed by Cortot on piano also exists (Victor JD-1674). As for violin works, Carl Flesch’s bold yet cheerful “March” will likely remain a masterpiece preserving its celebrated recording’s reputation through the ages (Victor EW67). The same Flesch’s violin performance of *Sonata No. 5 in A Major* is included in Polydor’s Appreciation Society Record Vol. 3. Though the recording quality leaves something to be desired, it remains one of significant importance. While not a single-disc work, Szigeti’s rendition of the *Violin Sonata No. 4 in D Major* (Columbia J5566–7), though somewhat strained in execution, presents a composition of beauty radiating profound artistic essence. The same piece performed by Enescu is also available through Columbia. Among newer recordings, Menuhin’s interpretation of *Sonata No.6* (Victor VD-8101) merits mention.

For organ works, Victor’s Enthusiasts’ Society Vol. 4 included Marcel Dupré’s performance of *Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major*. This could truly be called a masterpiece. Handel’s organ works existed on both Victor and Polydor, but their recordings were either outdated, their performances not particularly commendable, or simply not noteworthy enough to mention. For piano works, one had to recommend Fischer’s *Suites* contained in the same Enthusiasts’ Society Vol. 1. A composition of noble character, its graceful performance captivated listeners.

Songs

As for songs，*Song of Thanksgiving* was recorded by baritone Hüsch（Victor JD-1583）and soprano Rasjanska under the title *Arioso* in *Enthusiasts' Society Vol．5*．The latter featured Elman，Feuermann，and Serkin as accompanists，though Hüsch's vocal performance surpassed it．*Largo* stands as Handel's signature piece；Polydor's Schlusnus（60183）or Victor's Jussi（JD-171）make commendable choices．

Bach: Father of Music

When speaking of Johann Sebastian Bach, the Father of Music, neither I nor the children of my household could help but straighten our collars. In my study, I had never placed a single portrait of any great hero, but the small portrait of Bach sent by a young French friend long adorned my study, evoking both a melting familiarity and reverence that made one wish to kneel before it.

It was not merely a single portrait. My musical tastes too always began with Bach and circled back to Bach. The records I kept at hand might sometimes be Schubert, sometimes Brahms, and sometimes Handel, but it was Bach’s intellectual music—with its somewhat challenging exterior—that, through their eternal inspiration, soothed my life and offered ceaseless solace. "If one were to say, 'Bach is the founder of Western music,' it might initially have sounded like an exaggeration," I wrote. However, this statement was by no means my own invention; it was a paraphrase of the words of Robert Schumann, the 19th-century tone poet and great critic. Schumann had said, “As religion owes to its founder, music owes the greater part of itself to Bach.” But even this could not be said to have fully praised Bach. Paul Morszook took a step further, stating, “Bach is the Old Testament of music.” “His works are the covenant fulfilled by his successors—”

The nineteenth-century maestro Hans von Bülow emphatically declared of Bach’s 48 preludes and fugues: “Even if all music in the world were to perish, these forty-eight alone would suffice to effortlessly recreate all the music we possess today.” One must understand that the epithet “Father of Music” applied to Bach is by no means a mere adjective. If Bach had not existed, neither Beethoven nor Brahms would have been born, and Western music would likely not exist in the form it does today. Bach’s greatness, even when considered solely in terms of his talent, would rank above all other geniuses. However, Bach’s true worth lies not merely in his musical talent or his achievements as a founder of modern music. Bach was the person who served God most faithfully through music and who completed his great art beyond fame and profit. There were few fathers like Bach, and there would have been few husbands like him. To the goodness, loftiness, and nobility of Bach the man—separated by over two hundred years—I cannot help but offer my heartfelt reverence.

*A Noble Bloodline*

The lineage that produced Bach is a famous example in eugenics as a “good bloodline,” something known to all those with interest and knowledge in that field. That great geniuses are not made in a single generation—that they are the product of generations upon generations of careful attention, cultivation, and judicious marriages—becomes evident simply by examining the Bach lineage (the Bach family tree is invariably included in works on genetics, eugenics, evolutionary theory, and related fields).

It is said that Veit Bach, a distant ancestor, went to Hungary and opened a bakery, but in the mid-sixteenth century, to protect his Lutheran faith, he had to sell all his household possessions and leave Hungary. It must be said that there is profound significance in the fact that Johann Sebastian Bach—the seventh-generation descendant of Veit—entrusted his life to the Lutheran faith and continued a pious existence, content with humble poverty.

Johann Sebastian Bach was born on March 21, 1685, in Eisenach, Thuringia, as the child of a music-loving father into the best middle-class family imaginable. The pious faith of Lutheranism, the beautiful scenery of Eisenach, and the musical upbringing from his father and elder brother nurtured Bach’s later great talent and his gentle, dignified character. At the age of ten, having lost his father, Johann Sebastian was taken in by his elder brother Christoph—an organist in Ohrdruf—and received instruction in the clavichord. The young Bach's boundless musical ambition could not possibly be satisfied by the established curriculum. Upon discovering the vast collection of musical scores in the study of Christoph—his elder brother fourteen years his senior—young Bach, who knew all too well the difficulty of obtaining permission from this strict sibling, began sneaking into the study night after night. Using his small hands to pull scores through the lattice from outside, he spent six months copying every last composition in his brother’s collection by moonlight. It is even said that Bach’s loss of sight in both eyes in his later years was attributed to the reckless overuse of his vision during this boyhood.

Christoph would not tolerate his youngest brother’s excessive ambition. Upon discovering the copious copied scores, he snatched them from his younger brother’s hands and flung the fruits of six months’ labor into the flames. However, those five years in Ohrdruf under this strict brother’s roof proved fertile ground for the budding of his compositional talent.

At the age of fifteen, the young Bach had to seek employment and join the choir of St. Michaelis Church in Lüneburg. Not only did his beautiful boy soprano secure him a stable position for two years, but the church school’s library—abundantly stocked with musical masterpieces from Germany, the Netherlands, and Italy—must have been an immeasurable blessing for his insatiable intellectual curiosity. More than that, what captivated the young Bach was the opportunity to become familiar with the organ as an instrument. Though twenty-five years his senior, the renowned Georg Böhm—organist at St. John’s Church—became a close friend to Bach despite their age difference. Böhm’s own teacher, the celebrated Dutch organist Jan Adam Reincken, resided thirty miles away in Hamburg, and whenever circumstances allowed, the young Bach would embark on long, tedious journeys to hear him perform.

There was once such an incident. Bach, who had just turned fifteen, set out from Lüneburg completely unprepared in his eagerness to hear Reincken’s organ, but halfway there, he was overcome by such intense hunger that he could no longer move a step further. However much Reincken’s organ might have inspired the young Bach, he found himself with no choice but to abandon his attempt to reach Hamburg without a single penny to his name.

Bach, tormented by fatigue and disappointment, leaned against the house wall in a heartrending state. A delicious smell of roasting meat wafted from nowhere—when he suddenly looked up, it was coming from the outer wall of an inn, where through the window he could see a veritable feast, a warm fire, and merry conversation. Something had been thrown from the window. When he saw what had grazed his head and fallen to the ground, it was a deliciously grilled sardine—and in its mouth gleamed a single gold coin. Someone, taking pity on young Bach’s utterly dejected figure, must have played this prank. Needless to say, Bach used that gold coin to go to Hamburg and listen to his idol Reincken.

Fervent Devotion

In the autumn of his eighteenth year, he passed the examination for organist at Sangerhausen Church with outstanding results, but due to his extreme youth, he was not appointed. The following year, he joined the chamber orchestra in Weimar, and that autumn, after his long apprenticeship ended, he was able to assume the position of organist at Arnstadt Church. Young Bach’s fervent devotion gained momentum from that time. He devoted himself so single-mindedly to practice that he perplexed the church officials more than once. His performances would often break from tradition, take bold creative leaps, and astonish the elders with beautiful improvisations. In 1707, he finally left there to become organist at St. Blaise Church in Mühlhausen, and the following year at twenty-three years old, Bach married his cousin Maria Barbara. The only ones present at the ceremony were he and she. And he himself played the organ for their blessing.

Although this new household was supremely happy, the atmosphere surrounding Bach in the outside world held much that was far from pleasant. Not only had the religious conflicts between Puritans and Lutherans created a situation that denied Bach any peaceful settlement, but his cherished opinions on reforming church music had inevitably become a subject of controversy. Bach finally left Weimar. Subsequently, Duke Wilhelm Ernst supported Bach’s church music reform plan, and Bach was able to establish his stronghold there, thereby developing his genius as the creator of unprecedented counterpoint forms. Within him burned a light of life that none had ever been able to recognize. His jewel-like organ masterpieces were first performed on the ill-suited organ of Duke Wilhelm’s unconventional chapel. His fame eventually grew to rival Handel’s in both East and West. It was around this time that Bach, during his travels to Dresden, was challenged to a musical duel by the French organist Marchand. Bach, of course, did not show his back to the enemy, but the challenger Marchand, at the critical moment, was seized by cowardice and vanished from sight.

In 1717, the fame of the thirty-one-year-old Bach resounded throughout all of Germany. Prince Leopold appointed Bach as Kapellmeister of the court chapel orchestra, and Bach departed for Cöthen with his wife and many children.

When viewed in the context of his grand life as a whole, Bach’s time in Cöthen could not escape the appearance of having been a five-year detour. The absence of an organ worthy of his full devotion at the local church must have proven a profound disappointment for him—for whom the organ was Bach himself. Yet his small ensemble, composed entirely of seasoned instrumentalists, became his sole opportunity to channel abundant creativity into producing beautiful suites, overtures, and other instrumental works, drawing upon his intimate familiarity with French and Italian popular music. That Bach’s non-ecclesiastical instrumental masterpieces became the hallmark of his Cöthen period—diversifying his oeuvre and bringing immeasurable joy to us music lovers today—remains particularly worthy of emphasis.

There, he lost his beloved wife Barbara and remarried his second wife, Anna Magdalena Wilcken. There, he composed his crowning instrumental masterwork—the six *Brandenburg Concertos*. Seeing that the Duke’s affections had shifted from music to women and knowing there was no opportunity to provide the children with a proper Lutheran education, Bach left Cöthen in 1723 for Leipzig, where he took up the position of choir director at St. Thomas School.

For Bach at thirty-eight, a new realm opened up. Of Bach's life, the twenty-seven years spent in Leipzig were both the most significant period and the most glorious era. His genius matured beyond measure, and his faith blazed like fire. As choir director of the Thomas School and music director of two churches, Bach was finally able to demonstrate his true self there without reserve.

Sacred Art The St. Thomas School where Bach assumed his post was a time-honored institution with traditions dating back to the thirteenth century; its students，provided with food and education，served in the choirs of four municipal churches. Of these four churches—St. Thomas and St. Nicholas being two—Bach had to have his own music performed: cantatas，oratorios，and Passions.

Needless to say, the school had a repertoire of pieces composed and expanded by successive choir directors, but Bach had to compose a great many pieces himself to incorporate a new style of music. As both choir director and organist during his time in Leipzig, it is no exaggeration to say that Bach devoted decades entirely to music for the glorification of God. At the two churches, grand services were held on Sundays and feast days, and a cantata was performed by the choir, organ, and orchestra. At times they were performed with only organ accompaniment, while at other times, lengthy Passions and oratorios were performed.

Bach composed month after month, week after week, simply to meet those demands as a choir director. The cantatas he composed amount to as many as three hundred. A single piece’s full score ranged from dozens to hundreds of pages, with some performances lasting several hours (as in the case of the Christmas Oratorio, which required five Sundays to perform in its entirety). Yet Bach devoted half his life to this pursuit without seeking anything in return.

He was not so shallow a man as to rejoice in fame. Needless to say, he did not compose even a single measure for money. Simply to praise God and fulfill his duties, he composed and discarded after creation jewel-like cantatas—one each week.

The phrase "discarded after creation" carries the most fitting resonance in this context. Bach’s cantatas were not for publication, nor for display, nor for monetary gain. He disliked showing his own scores to others, and it is even said that because of this, he was placed in a highly disadvantageous position. Almost none of Bach’s works were printed and published during his lifetime. He created and discarded hundreds of pieces, following where his genius led and as prayers offered to God.

It is only when art is created from such motives that it attains nobility. That his music possesses a nobility unattainable by the endeavors of later secular musicians stems not merely from his genius but should indeed be attributed to this very disposition. While there may be those who remain detached from fame and gain, when it comes to those who held no attachment even to their own artistic works except to dedicate them to God, in the realm of music at least, one hears of none other than Johann Sebastian Bach.

Fortunately, his second wife understood music and was skilled at copying scores; of the three hundred cantatas her husband Bach had composed and discarded without a second thought, she managed to transcribe one hundred ninety while raising their thirteen children. Those who contemplate Bach’s greatness must offer gratitude to the invaluable assistance of his second wife, Anna Magdalena, who transmitted his monumental achievements to us two hundred years later.

It is precisely for this reason that we discern "divinity" in Bach’s music. What a difference there is in mindset between those who engage in later art and Bach, who dedicated his work to God! It is only natural that art has lost its divinity, lost its humanity, and now verges on taking even beastliness. Our century can no longer endure the excessive music created for the "devil." During this period, Bach wrote two sets of twenty-four *Preludes and Fugues* through all keys to support equal temperament—now the standard tuning method. He composed *The Art of Fugue* for counterpoint and fugal techniques. Alongside his numerous organ pieces, he created dozens of gem-like works for violin and cello.

On July 28, 1750, surrounded by thirteen children, Bach—who had gone blind in his later years—entered into peaceful eternal sleep.

There is no adjective as fitting as "Father of Western Music" for Bach. His music was intellectual and contrapuntal—not only did it lay a firm foundation for the form of modern music, but he was also the first to imbue music with spiritual depth and underpin the German soul. Though Bach’s music may present a difficult outward appearance at first glance, an inexhaustible wellspring of human love flows in its depths.

All music lovers must inevitably return to Bach at least once. What possible objection could there be to calling Bach the Mecca of Western music? Indeed, I have spent these past few years keeping close at hand records of the *Brandenburg Concertos*, the *Well-Tempered Clavier*, several cantatas, suites, sonatas, and organ works.

Bach is the greatest comfort and the greatest mentor. In sorrow and in joy, I seek a reflection of my own heart in Bach’s music. Across two hundred years, Bach’s music cannot help but bestow upon our hearts ceaseless light, joy, and humility.

Bach’s Works and Their Records

For those who wished to hear Bach’s music through records, I intended to briefly describe how his representative works were recorded.

Despite Bach’s works being by no means popular music, the number of their recordings was second only to those of Beethoven and Mozart in abundance. Since detailing each one individually would have been both impossible and meaningless, I limited myself here to presenting the most outstanding records from those readily available in Japan during Showa 16 (1941), adhering to a selective approach. That was truly but a small fraction—less than one-tenth—of all Bach’s recordings, yet each a jewel-like disc.

Cantatas (Cantatas)

Out of Bach’s nearly two hundred cantatas, how many had actually been recorded? The cantatas No. 4 and No. 140 existed in nearly complete versions through Victor; unfortunately, the performances were not particularly skilled, and moreover, being sung in Catalan along with the recordings’ extreme antiquity was likely to leave one feeling profoundly unsatisfied. While Bach’s records might have been numerous, they amounted to but a small number when viewed against his vast body of works. Even the *Cantatas*—his most precious creation into which he had poured most of his lifetime—remained in such a state. That said, there were a considerable number of recordings containing only selected portions. Were one to select only those of deepest interest from among them, Columbia’s recordings of Till’s solo performances—“Take My Heart” (No. 65) and “O Wondrous Love” (No. 85) (JW45), along with the Reinhardt Chor’s “With Our Ailing Feet We Boldly Hasten” (No. 78) (J8640)—these two discs could truly have been called outstanding records. While all were taken from cantata excerpts, one could perceive the nobility of Bach’s works and their pure passion. The former were also excellent, but particularly the latter’s pastoral duet aria performed by the boys’ choir proved infinitely beautiful. Additionally, “Lord, the Joy of Man’s Desiring” was included on the last disc of *Music History Volume II*. Performed by the Bach Cantata Club, obtaining just one disc might have been difficult, but it remained an excellent record.

In addition to the aforementioned Catalan-language cantatas, Victor holds Schumann-Heink’s *My Heart Sings with Joy* (No. 68) (7388), Ráschka’s *Come, Sweet Death* (7085), and others. The former is an old recording, yet remains one of Schumann-Heink’s masterpieces and an endearing disc. The latter should not be classified as a cantata but rather belongs to religious art songs; together with the record performed by Casals on cello, its noble pathos strikes deep into the human heart.

*Brandenburg Concertos*

Among Bach’s instrumental works, the six *Brandenburg Concertos*—his most significant compositions—existed in multiple recordings. However, excluding Merihal’s No. 4 (Polydor 40549–50) and Cortot’s No. 5 with Thibaud (Victor JD121–2), I would recommend Columbia’s complete recording by the Busch Chamber Orchestra (JW34–36, 62–66, 119–121, 144–146). It not only maintained a consistent mood across all six concertos but also delivered a solid German-style performance, with musicians of uniform quality and a vein of poetic sentiment—a truly gratifying interpretation. Among these, No. 6 was an outstanding record.

*The Well-Tempered Clavier*

One of Bach’s lifelong masterpieces, the *48 Preludes and Fugues*—written for the clavichord to advocate equal temperament—is partially available on Columbia Records featuring Professor Dolmetsch’s performance on an original clavichord (J8141–7). While possessing a naive charm within antiquated dignity—important both for reference and devoted listening—these recordings must yield pride of place to Victor’s records of what is commonly heard today: the piano-arranged *Well-Tempered Clavier*, for which Edwin Fischer’s *Bach Society* recordings from the First to Fifth Collections should be considered definitive. Fischer stood as the foremost Bach interpreter of his time, his refined and deeply expressive performance style truly unrivaled in that era. They must be regarded as the most significant masterpieces among Bach’s records.

Cello Suites

The Sixth and Seventh Collections of these "Bach Society" records contained Bach’s unaccompanied cello suites—No. 2 in D minor and No. 3 in C major, along with No. 1 in G major and No. 6 in D major—performed by the preeminent cellist Casals of that era. These recordings stood as one of those definitive performances of masterworks that ought to be preserved for posterity. This work was groundbreaking in Bach’s time, not only fully showcasing the cello’s capabilities but also standing as the pinnacle of the suite form—this simple and unadorned structure—as an artistic masterpiece. Through Casals’ performance, it attained a truly jewel-like perfection, reaching the highest and most beautiful realm among all music ever etched into shellac. As for the great cellist born of Spain, Pau Casals, and the state of mind that led him—after developing an interest in these suites from his youth and dedicating a lifetime of research—to finally record them in his sixties, there may come another occasion to discuss these matters separately.

Orchestral Suites

The orchestral suites also include four works. Victor has all four works conducted by Busch (JD1046–51 and JD1052–6). Characterized by Busch’s elegance and chamber music-like cohesion, the recording of Suite No. 2 in B minor for flute—featuring virtuoso Moyse on flute—stands as a masterpiece. However, for this particular work, even though the recording is older, Columbia’s version conducted by Mengelberg (J7891–3) possesses an irreplaceable quality. This excellence likely stemmed from Mengelberg conducting the Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra, with which he was thoroughly familiar.

Of these four suites, the Third Suite in D major—which contains the original aria later famously arranged as "Air on the G String"—was indeed beautiful, but above all, one would consider the brilliance of the Second Flute Suite to hold first place. It stands as a masterpiece representing Bach’s “beautiful pieces.”

Violin Concertos

Of the four violin concertos, No. 1 in A minor, *Violin Concerto in A Minor*, was available on Columbia through Huberman’s recording (J8346–7); No. 2 in E major, *Violin Concerto in E Major*, had Huberman’s version on Columbia (JW129–31) and Menuhin’s on Victor (JD413–5). For the *Double Violin Concerto*, Victor preserved a performance by Menuhin and his teacher Enesco (JD23–4).

All of these were fine performances through which one should recognize how Bach established a German foundation in violin music distinct from Italian classical traditions—a grand and magnificent achievement. For the Second Concerto in E Major there existed Thibaud’s renowned performance on HMV’s old discs, said to have commanded a market price of several hundred yen, while for the Double Concerto there was Victor’s old disc featuring the collaboration of Kreisler and Zimbalist.

Violin Sonatas The six unaccompanied violin sonatas (and partitas), together with the cello suites, formed the twin peaks of Bach’s instrumental works. As for outstanding records among them, should one cite Menuhin’s recording of the “First Sonata in G Minor” (Victor JD1247–8)? Both Columbia’s Szigeti and Victor’s Heifetz offered renowned performances, but I sided with the young Menuhin’s grasp of Bach’s spirit in its grandeur and refinement.

The “Second Sonata in A Minor” was naturally well-served by Columbia’s Szigeti, while for the “Second Partita in D Minor,” Menuhin (Victor JD740–3) and Heifetz (same label JD1593–6) stood in opposition. Though Heifetz possessed astonishing technical brilliance, it might still have fallen short of Menuhin’s innate radiance. The “Third Sonata in C Major” also had Menuhin’s recording (Victor JD1508–10). While my preference may have leaned too heavily toward Menuhin, when it came to Bach, there were exceedingly few who could match this young genius violinist.

Several sonatas for harpsichord and violin had been recorded. Among these, though both performances and recordings left much to be desired, the three pieces—Nos. 4, 5, and 6—recorded by Columbia's Dubois (violin) and Maas (piano) deserved preservation. Particularly the Sonata No. 5 in F minor stood as a solemnly beautiful work (needless to say, these used piano in place of harpsichord). There also existed the "Sonata in G Major" recorded by Busch (violin) and Serkin (piano) (Victor DB-1434). Being the only existing recording of this work, it came highly recommended for its solid performance.

*The Art of Fugue* A grand compilation of *Fourteen Counterpoint Pieces* and *Four Canons* that Bach—a master of fugues—poured his final efforts into writing, this gem should endure through the ages as a classic of Western music. This performance was considered the pinnacle of difficulty, yet despite being what might have been a dry textbook of counterpoint, the masters' execution elevated it to an unparalleled artistic realm—its solemn elegance defied description.

The records come in two types. One is an arrangement for string quartet recorded by the Roth String Quartet for Columbia (S1013–22), and the other is an arrangement for string ensemble conducted by Professor Diner with the Collegium Musicum Orchestra for Victor (JD1521–30). The former is graceful and beautiful, while the latter carries a scholarly and antiquated charm. When comparing such records, it is difficult to determine which surpasses the other in quality.

Masses, Passions, and Oratorios Among all of Bach’s works, the *Mass in B Minor* towers like Everest in its majesty. In religious music throughout history—whether measured by artistic merit or sublime grandeur—I believe none could stand alongside Bach’s B Minor Mass save Beethoven’s *Missa Solemnis*. The work’s defining characteristic lies in how Bach—a Lutheran Protestant—appropriated Catholic liturgical form; this composition may truly be said to be imbued with his vibrant faith and passion.

If one could tolerate the somewhat dated recording quality, Victor held a renowned disc conducted by Albert Coates with the Philharmonic Choir and London Symphony Orchestra. The soloists were handpicked—Elisabeth Schumann among them—all delivering earnest, excellent performances (JH55–72). The complete Passion existed on Victor Records through St. Bartholomew’s Church Choir’s St. Matthew Passion, though the performance was not of particularly high quality. HMV contained several recordings of the St. Matthew Passion, while Polydor included Bruno Kittel’s conducted version featuring movements like “We Have Knelt in Tears” and “Then Was Seized Our Lord Jesus” across two discs (60104–5). These remained worthy records if one endured their aged sound.

From the *Christmas Oratorio*, "Glory to God" and "With Hearts Full of Gratitude" were included on Victor Records under Georg Schumann’s direction with the Berlin Singakademie Choir (JH63).

*Piano Concertos* The *Piano Concerto in D Minor* was not an original composition, but Fischer’s Victor Records performance proved splendid (JD421–3). Above all, the Allegro of the final movement achieved breathtaking grandeur. The *Concerto in A Major* had Fischer’s recording (RL35–6), a beautiful piece imbued with serene atmosphere. The *Concerto in C Major for Two Pianos* existed on Victor Records through Schnabel and his son’s performance (JD1289–91), forming a truly delightful record. There was also a *Concerto in A Minor for Four Pianos*, but its recordings were not particularly notable.

*Harpsichord Masterpieces* Of the six *French Suites*, the last one in E major had been recorded by Landowska on harpsichord for the Victor Enthusiast Association Records. Of the six *English Suites*, the Second Suite in A minor performed by Landowska was included in Volume 5 of the Bach Society’s collection—a recording that must surely be counted among the greats. The *Italian Concerto in E Major* existed in Landowska’s harpsichord version (Victor JD1242–3) and Schnabel’s piano version (Victor VD8115–6), but even when engaging a pianist of Schnabel’s caliber, it could not match the antique charm of Landowska’s harpsichord rendition.

The *Goldberg Variations* stands as one of Bach’s monumental works, but this piece—legend has it was composed to lull a nobleman to sleep—becomes utterly delightful when heard through Landowska’s masterful harpsichord performance (Victor JD271–6). The *Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue in D Minor* also exists in three renditions: Landowska’s harpsichord, Dolmetsch’s clavichord, and Fischer’s piano—each possessing its own beauty and interest. Yet to fully savor this piece’s enchanting splendor, one would place Landowska’s harpsichord rendition foremost (Victor JD801–2).

For those seeking to savor just one disc of Bach’s works on Landowska’s harpsichord, I recommend the *Fantasia in C Minor* (Victor DA-1129). Though a single ten-inch disc with both sides, Bach’s genius, divinity, imagination, and beauty are displayed without reserve.

Organ Works

Bach spent the majority of his life as a church organist, content with his vocation, never neglecting his ceaseless praise to God and dedication to his art. Therefore, his works include a vast number of organ pieces, with no shortage of divinely inspired masterpieces; however, to avoid complication, I shall limit myself to presenting the most representative among those that have been recorded. Above all, I must declare my boundless respect and affection for Dr. Albert Schweitzer—a Bach scholar who dedicated his life to missionary work in the African interior—and his two-volume *Bach Organ Works Collection* (Columbia: First Series JW1–7, Second Series *Chorale Preludes* S1060–6). While Dr. Schweitzer has been discussed in detail in my earlier works, and Mr. Tsugawa Shuichi has translated a Bach biography—thus avoiding redundancy here—the first collection by this musician, religious figure, and humanitarian warrior, who burned with passion to convey Bach’s true essence, comprising “Toccata and Fugue; Three Preludes and Fugues; One Fantasia and Fugue; along with the Little Fugue in G Minor,” and the second collection of “Thirteen Chorales,” both performed on an organ two hundred years old that he rediscovered and played in alignment with Bach’s authentic spirit, exhibit a simplicity, antiquity, purity, and elegance that truly evoke the world of Bach as it existed two centuries ago. It may not be a flamboyant virtuoso performance by nature, but such playing is precisely what those who truly revere and love Bach would wish to hear.

Apart from Dr. Schweitzer, there existed excellent records by Victor's Dupré. Here I did not include organ pieces arranged for other instruments.

Papa Haydn

“There is the term ‘Papa Haydn.’” The soft touch and overflowing familiarity of this term fit perfectly with Joseph Haydn’s character and music without any exaggeration or discrepancy. The excellence of Haydn’s music stems from its warm affection and pure form—here one finds none of the meaningless exaggerations or emotional outbursts characteristic of Romantic music, nor the excessive emphasis on individuality or gray dreariness found in modern compositions. It was simply an orderly form, a beautiful melody, and a gentle affection that calls out to everyone and soothes our hearts in any circumstance.

If I may speak personally—when weary from work, when things fall short of expectations, when sorrow overflows—there is nothing that comforts us like Haydn’s music. I always keep one or two records of Haydn’s chamber music—particularly his string quartets—close at hand, and I believe I have succeeded in incorporating the music of Papa Haydn, brimming with paternal affection, into my daily life. This is both a benefit of recorded music and the true joy of Haydn’s music. In Haydn’s music, there is nothing showy or explosive, but its serenity and wholesomeness may ultimately become our heart’s finest companion.

*The Trials of Youth*

Franz Josef Haydn was born on the night spanning March 31 to April 1, 1732, in the town of Rohrau, located about four ri (approximately 15.7 kilometers) from Hamburg. From cartwrights since his grandfather’s generation to both his father Mathias and mother Maria—diligent, cleanliness-loving, and devout believers—they not only shaped Haydn’s fine character and habits but also forged the faith that would lead him to create *The Creation*, an oratorio often hailed as one of religious music’s greatest peaks—a faith said to be the gift of these pious parents.

The young Haydn’s musical talent was not miraculous like Mozart’s, but it sprouted quite early. At the age of six, he was entrusted to the household of a distant relative, the musician Frank, where he received basic education—though he “received more whippings than meals”—laying the groundwork for the great Haydn he would become. He was enrolled as a boy soprano in a Vienna church at the age of eight and for a time studied music under the supervision of composer Reutter. He served as a member of the choir at Maria Theresa’s villa, where he displayed his most mischievous antics, was pointed out by Maria Theresa as “that big-headed blonde,” and even received the punishment of a whipping. Decades of spring winds and autumn rains later, when Haydn, the musical saint, had an audience with the elderly Queen Maria Theresa at Esterházy Castle, he brought up this incident, and they shared a hearty laugh together. In 1749, when his voice broke and he was expelled from the church choir, the eighteen-year-old youth had to wander the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back. Tormented by hunger and cold, he spent nights on town benches or was taken in by a friend to lodge in their poor household. His parents were pained to hear this, but with their poor cartwright hands, they could do nothing but advise him, “Become a priest to escape your troubles.” But Haydn, though driven by the slavish desire to eat his fill, could not bring himself to become a priest for that reason.

One day during his wanderings, Haydn had been rejected for a position by a church choir director. So he secretly joined the choir, and when it came time for a solo, he snatched the score from the soloist’s hands and began singing resoundingly. Though he was terribly hungry, his singing remained precise, his voice pleasant, and his expression full of emotion. The conductor and choir members were utterly astonished, yet overwhelmed by his masterful solo performance, they offered heartfelt praise. Thanks to their kindness, Haydn was able to indulge in a long-awaited feast and stuff himself to the brim.

Around that time, a man named Bruhlholz in the braiding trade took pity on Haydn’s destitution and lent him 150 florins, and years later, to repay this kindness, Haydn specified in his will that a portion of his estate be allotted to Bruhlholz’s granddaughter.

A Fortunate Life

Haydn was an unusually fortunate man among musicians. Beloved by friends, blessed with talent, living in affluence, and enjoying longevity, whenever he lost one occupation, another was invariably prepared for him, and his fame rose incrementally, steadily accumulating over time. What a striking contrast this presented when compared to Beethoven, who suffered lifelong torment from his temperament and deafness, or Mozart and Schubert, whose genius brought them misfortune.

Even Haydn had only two misfortunes in his life. One was that his wife was a notorious shrew, and the other was the single instance of unemployment hardship he endured in his youth. However, those hardships never lasted long. He worked diligently as an assistant to composer Porpora, and by around the age of twenty-six, he had composed his first symphony while serving as music director for Count Morzin’s chapel. At the age of twenty-eight, Haydn married Maria Anna Aloysia Apollonia. For Haydn, this was a misfortune that burdened him with a lifetime of barrenness. Initially, Haydn had fallen in love with Maria’s younger sister, but when she entered a convent without reciprocating his affections, he married her three-year-older sister Maria—whom he did not love—through a storybook twist of circumstances.

Maria was stubborn and deeply vain, utterly devoid of any understanding of the arts—so much so that she drove Haydn to sigh, “To her, it mattered not whether her husband was a cobbler or an artist.” Yet the good-natured Haydn endured without change for forty years at the side of this disagreeable woman. The following year, Haydn was invited by Prince Esterházy of Eisenstadt to become Second Music Director of the chapel, assuming a position that would define the latter half of his life. In 1762, when the prince died and was succeeded by his brother Nikolaus, this Nikolaus—flamboyant, generous, and music-loving—wholeheartedly embraced Haydn, gradually elevating his position until he was soon established as First Music Director, where he would put down roots for thirty years.

The thirty years spent in Hungary kept Haydn distant from Vienna’s central music scene, but in exchange brought stability to his life, saw his works published, and allowed his reputation—though spreading with extreme gradualness—to steadily expand across all of Europe. Though Haydn’s discontent with this reclusive yet secure position occasionally flared into a fervent longing to fly off to Italy, Prince Nikolaus’s generous patronage kept him grounded, and thus thirty years slipped by unwittingly.

The Esterházy Palace was a paragon of virtue and beauty, and its musicians were treated with utmost favor; however, due to the strict court regulations, the musicians could not easily obtain leave, and visiting family members were not permitted to stay beyond a single day and night. It is said that Haydn composed his famous “Farewell Symphony” to give voice to the musicians’ loneliness and distress. When the piece entered the finale of the fourth movement, the musicians whose parts had ended extinguished the candles before their music stands one by one and departed the stage, until finally only two first violins and the conductor remained to bring the plaintive composition to its close. The desolation of the stage was utterly disheartening. Needless to say, the astute Prince Esterházy, having grasped Haydn’s satirical intent, granted the musicians their leave.

Haydn's mischievous streak continued until his death after being punished by Maria Theresa. Fond of jests, cheerful, and free from malice, Haydn was also renowned for his love of children. When he walked through town, crowds of children would follow behind him and refuse to leave. One day Haydn went to a toy shop, bought every noise-making toy available, distributed them to his musicians, and had them perform his new symphony. The musicians' astonishment was only natural. The only real instruments were violins and a single contrabass; all else consisted of toys like rattle drums, pigeon whistles, and rattles—yet their effect proved far more splendid than imagined, an unprecedented artistic masterpiece resonating with childlike innocence. That work remains Haydn's Toy Symphony preserved to this day.

Light from afar

In 1790, when Prince Nikolaus died, Haydn was promised an annuity of 2,000 florins and dismissed from Esterházy Castle. From 1761—truly thirty years—Haydn became free for the first time at the age of fifty-nine. There is a story that Salomon’s representative—who had long been urging Haydn to visit England—one morning heard Haydn grow irritated at his dull razor and say, “If someone would bring me a good razor, I’d give them my finest string quartet—”. Upon hearing this, the representative returned to his lodging, fetched his own razor, and thereby secured the publishing rights to Haydn’s string quartet. Colloquially, this came to be known as the “Razor Quartet.”

Due to this connection, Haydn accepted Salomon’s invitation and resolved to go to London, departing Vienna in late 1790 and making his debut in the British capital the following January. London’s welcome far exceeded all expectations. Haydn composed and conducted the "Oxford Symphony" in gratitude for the honorary doctorate conferred upon him by Oxford University. The following year, Haydn returned to his new home in Vienna bearing honors and fame, but the prestige he had gained in Britain exerted a profound influence even in Vienna, prompting the people of Vienna to clamor in haste, “Let us hear the symphonies our great composer created in London!”

In 1794, the sixty-three-year-old Haydn visited London once again. Haydn, who had been nothing more than a provincial figure of Esterházy, now stood gallantly on stage bearing worldwide renown and popularity. There he composed six symphonies and conducted works including the "Military Symphony." Among the series of symphonies called the "Salomon Set"—composed at Salomon’s urging—there existed extraordinary masterpieces that gave one the sense of a grand conflagration of his entire talent: Haydn flourishing ever more vigorously in his later years. Chief among these was the third symphony in the Salomon Set—the “Symphony in G Major”—particularly known as the “Surprise Symphony,” preserving an innocent anecdote about Haydn.

The concert programs of that era were several times more dreadful than those of today, and noble ladies would commonly find themselves nodding off midway through performances. It is said that Haydn, during the sleep-inducing andante of this symphony’s second movement, took delight in startling the dozing audience with a sudden thunderous fortissimo from the entire orchestra. By today’s standards, this change may not seem particularly startling, yet it unintentionally evokes the tranquil air of late eighteenth-century British court life in an intriguing manner.

During his second visit to London, the two oratorio librettos obtained from Salomon and the profound emotion he felt upon hearing Handel’s *Messiah* became the impetus that led Haydn to create his magnum opus *The Creation*. It is said that Haydn shed tears upon hearing Handel’s *Messiah* and declared, “Handel is the greatest musician.” It is not difficult to imagine that Haydn’s honest and virtuous soul, inspired by Handel, achieved its final great leap.

Upon returning from London, he revised the libretto edited from Milton’s *Paradise Lost*—which he had received from Salomon—had it translated into German, and devoted his lifelong passion to embarking on its composition. “Never have I been more devout than when composing this work,” Haydn’s words ring true. The devout and majestic beauty of this oratorio has been compared throughout the ages to Handel’s *Messiah* alone, becoming spiritual sustenance for countless souls. Following this, *The Seasons* and *The Seven Last Words* were composed, bringing Haydn’s labors as a musician to an end.

After a long seclusion in 1808, the seventy-seven-year-old Haydn attended a performance of his own oratorio *The Creation*. This was the final memory of the elderly great composer. Carried into the venue still in his armchair, Haydn grew increasingly agitated as the performance progressed. When it reached the passage “There light appeared,” he rose to his feet in overwhelming emotion, pointed to a corner of the heavens, and shouted “From yonder!” before collapsing unconscious. Haydn, who had since grown familiar with his sickbed, rose up when in May of the following year, 1809, French forces invaded Vienna and cannonballs began falling near his home; he had his clothes changed and said to his panicking family, “There is nothing to fear.” “As long as Haydn is here, there is no cause for concern that anything will occur,” he said, then went to the piano and played his own composition of the Austrian national anthem three times in succession. The Austrian national anthem composed by Haydn is renowned among the many national anthems of the world as an artistically beautiful one.

Just as Haydn had been confident, the invading French forces not only did nothing to Haydn’s house, but the French officers even went out of their way to visit the elderly Haydn and pay their respects.

On May 31 of that year (1809), Haydn’s soul finally returned to heaven—and to the modest yet dignified funeral procession was even attached an honor guard from the enemy nation of France.

That clarity Haydn was born in the year Bach composed the *St. Matthew Passion* and died in the year Beethoven completed the *Pastoral Symphony*. Just as these two works suggest, he was the bridge between Bach’s contrapuntal Baroque masterpieces and Beethoven’s passionate Romantic compositions. Haydn stood not only as a melodist and perfector of sonata form but also—following Cherubini—as the architect who established the string quartet’s foundational structure; moreover, by inheriting the work of Bach’s musical heirs, he became the first to codify the symphony’s four-movement format, that supreme form of modern music.

Without Haydn, neither Mozart nor Beethoven would have existed in the form they do today. Haydn stands as the last giant of classical music while simultaneously inaugurating modern music; his achievements, along with his prodigious output, will endure through countless generations. His compositions distinguish themselves through symmetrical beauty and lucidity—never yielding to subjective excess—with tranquility and radiance pervading every work. Likely, Haydn’s fundamental decency as a man found reflection in his creations.

Representative works would likely include the oratorios *The Creation* and *The Seasons*, along with symphonies such as the *Surprise*, *Military*, *Farewell*, and *Oxford* selected from over a hundred symphonies. The string quartets, occupying Haydn’s unique realm, could be exemplified by selections from his seventy-seven string quartets—such as the “Serenade” (Op. 3 No. 5), “Emperor,” “Lark,” and over a dozen others.

To keep at hand for bringing comfort and encouragement to daily life, there is nothing as fitting as Haydn’s music. It could be said that Haydn’s music is something to recommend to anyone without hesitation.

Haydn's Works and Their Records Haydn’s records are approximately one-third as numerous as Bach’s and three times as many as Handel’s. Owing to its serene simplicity, Haydn’s music undoubtedly serves as the finest accompaniment for seclusion, comfort, meditation, and family gatherings. It should be said that being cherished by all is the very essence of Papa Haydn’s music.

From among the symphonies

When selecting Haydn’s most famous "Surprise Symphony" from his numerous symphonies, it proved exceedingly difficult to choose between Koussevitzky, Blech, and Horenstein. The new recordings had unsatisfactory performances, while the somewhat better performances existed on overly old recordings. Rather than those, should one choose Toscanini’s conducted “Clock Symphony” (Victor JD 1495–8), Walter’s conducted “Military Symphony” (Columbia JS 38–40), and the “Oxford Symphony” (Columbia JS 117–9)? Each of these deserved to be counted among the finest recordings, allowing listeners to fully savor Haydn’s excellence.

In addition, I would like to mention the "Toy Symphony" as a work that demonstrates Papa Haydn's earnestness. Though just a single two-sided record, it overflows with Haydn’s playful spirit—how he went into town to gather toy noisemakers and had the astonished musicians play them—making it utterly delightful. The record conducted by Weingartner included in Columbia is the longest (J7982).

Chamber Music

Haydn’s achievement was monumental—he established the string quartet form, left behind dozens of masterpieces, and built a treasure trove of chamber music for posterity. Under the banner of the Haydn Society, HMV’s Pro Arte Quartet systematically recorded Haydn’s string quartets, releasing seven volumes of six records each; Nippon Victor has published from Volume 3 to Volume 7. Though some may oppose Pro Arte’s austere performances, this achievement must be respected. Particularly for string quartets like Haydn’s—works that could be called the quintessence of classical music—one should avoid overly saccharine and sentimental performances; I find myself more frequently in sympathy with Pro Arte’s unadorned approach.

Among independent Haydn chamber music records, one cannot help but first recommend Columbia’s Capet Quartet performance of "String Quartet No. 67 in D major 'Lark'" (Capet Society S5001–3). The beauty of the noble lark song presented in this first movement evokes the splendor of spring fields, standing as one of the late Capet Quartet’s masterpiece recordings.

Should one next mention the Lener Quartet’s "String Quartet in C major 'Emperor'" (Columbia J8471–4), among others? However, when compared with Pro Arte’s recordings in Volume 4 of the Haydn Society series, it proved difficult to decisively favor one over the other. The renowned *String Quartet in E major "Serenade," Op. 3 No. 5* appeared in the first volume of the Enthusiasts’ Society series as a single-disc recording by the Pro Arte Quartet; for a two-disc set, though the recording was older, Columbia’s Lener Quartet version remained quite decent (J7661–2). Additionally, the Roth Quartet’s *String Quartet in C major "Bird"* stood as another fine recording that showcased Haydn’s distinctive qualities (Columbia J8680–2).

When speaking of the world’s most artistic ensemble, one must mention the Casals Trio—formed by Casals (cello), Thibaud (violin), and Cortot (piano). Not only is each of these artists first-rate among first-rate individuals, but the organic union of these three masters—with Casals as their leader—possesses an unparalleled artistic expression. The Casals Trio has a considerable number of records, but even accounting for the handicap of their recordings’ age, works such as Haydn’s *Trio in G Major* (Victor JF78–9, also included in the Home Masterpiece Collection Vol. 3) stand alongside Beethoven’s *Archduke Trio* as gem-like masterpieces of the recording world. I believe these renowned performances—which set these jewels spinning on the turntable—deserve to be long remembered and revered.

*Cello Concerto*

The *Cello Concerto in D Major* was also one of Haydn’s representative masterpieces. There were two or three versions available, but Columbia’s Foerrmann recording stood as the best (J8511–4). Madame Landowska’s *Harpsichord Concerto in D Major* could not be overlooked either (Victor JD1316–8). *The Creation* It seemed strange that so few recordings existed of Haydn’s crowning masterpieces—the oratorios *The Creation* and *The Seasons*. Victor had one disc for the former (JB54) and one for the latter (C2383), while Columbia also possessed a recording of *The Creation*, but this remained meager indeed. With little prospect of complete recordings emerging anytime soon, I wished they had at least included the recent New Symphony performance of *The Seasons*.

*The True Genius Mozart*

“Mozart conquered the world through music,” says Romain Rolland. At first glance, this statement may sound eccentric, but upon quiet reflection, one will realize it is an incomparably apt characterization brimming with profound depth. Depending on how one views it, it could be said that Beethoven too conquered the world through music. However, Beethoven’s conquest was forceful, aggressive, and imperialistic. Beethoven’s music may be beautiful and powerful, but one cannot ignore that in every corner of the world, throughout all eras, there exists no small number of “Beethoven haters.”

In contrast, Mozart’s music—like a spring rain nourishing the earth—was profoundly accepted into the hearts of people worldwide without obstacle or resistance, and even if Mozart himself had no such intention, it musically conquered the world over the course of a century and a half. In this world, artistic works are countless and their variety immense; yet within the realm of music created by human hands, there can absolutely be nothing as beautiful as Mozart’s works. Music is an intensely sensual art form, one greatly governed by listeners' personal preferences, and yet I have yet to encounter a single person who has ever openly professed to dislike Mozart's music.

Mozart’s beauty—what could it be compared to? It is a beauty truly crystalline, a beauty brimming with untainted affection and radiant light. Mozart’s music smiles upon children and amateurs alike without hesitation, yet it was also Mozart’s music that had to become the ideal “fertile soil of beauty” where even the most astute newcomers—particularly music specialists—would ultimately arrive.

Mozart’s music was profoundly European while simultaneously being resplendent beyond compare—as befitted the last great figure of classical music. Mozart’s music was both a great deluge of beauty and possessed a mysterious spirit akin to a cold flame. Though Mozart himself was by no means the possessor of a healthy physique, his music came to be regarded as “health itself.” That this music—beautiful, wholesome, and ablaze with human warmth—was inherently domestic in character went without saying. To discuss the works and musical tendencies of this last giant of classical music, I resolved to revisit Mozart’s eventful biography.

*The Boy Prodigy*

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born on January 27, 1756, in Salzburg, Austria. Leopold, his father, was a musician and an ambitious man who knew how to mold his daughter Nannerl (Maria Anna) and her younger brother Wolfgang into child prodigies. Their father’s education was said to be exceedingly ingenious, even likened to the whip methods used to tame circus animals; yet fortunately, not only did the Mozart siblings become child prodigies celebrated throughout Europe by the press, but Wolfgang also managed to cultivate a foundation for sustaining his lifelong passion for music without ever damaging the sprout of his astonishing genius.

Mozart’s genius was utterly exceptional, even among precocious great musicians. In the realm of later music, when speaking of genius, it is by no means unreasonable that Mozart is invariably cited as the example. For example, it is said that he first took an interest in playing the piano at the mere age of three after watching his elder sister Nannerl—five years his senior—practice. At age four, he played any piece flawlessly after hearing it just once; astonished others by composing his own "Minuet" on his sister’s manuscript paper; at six wrote a "Concerto"; at seven published his first "Sonata"; and when attempting to play his father’s friend’s violin, pointed out: "Uncle’s violin is exactly one-eighth of a tone lower than mine"—a prodigious anecdote that has been preserved in history, as adults confirmed this was true when they compared the instruments.

Mozart—who composed an oratorio at eleven, wrote an opera at twelve, and created a symphony at fourteen—could immerse himself in mathematics but showed no interest whatsoever in boyish play. Andreas Schachtner, a musician who knew Mozart in his youth, said of him at that time: "His entire being was aflame. And he took an interest in everything. If his education had been poor, he would have become an uncontrollable rogue."

Fortunately, Mozart—who combined a dangerously obsessive temperament with a kind and compassionate nature—constantly craved to be loved by others. He readily grew attached to anyone who showed him affection. Moreover, he maintained the beautiful virtue of never abandoning those who became his friends throughout his life. A small anecdote from his childhood—how he would ask people ten times daily if they loved him, beam when they said yes, and shed tears of sorrow if told no even in jest—should be considered emblematic of the "honesty" and "hunger for love" that governed Mozart’s entire existence.

Eleven-year-old Nannerl and her six-year-old brother Wolfgang became the talk of Europe for a time. The concert tours spanned nine occasions, and while the siblings' popularity soared ever higher, it is also true that these travels inflicted lifelong harm upon Mozart's health. The young siblings—Nannerl and Wolfgang—conquered every challenging piece, but particularly Wolfgang: he effortlessly performed violin concertos and piano symphonies, even flawlessly mastering difficult works with a handkerchief covering the keys, and further played various instruments while attempting feats that seemed almost magical. Regarding Mozart’s appearance at that time, the great poet Goethe later recalled, "I saw Mozart, who was seven years younger than me. “I was fourteen years old at the time, but I still remember Mozart’s small frame, the state of his hair, and his sword—” he stated.

The innocence of the young Mozart was endearing. Once slipping on the floor of Schönbrunn Palace and being helped up by a little princess, he said, “You’re so kind. I’ll take you as my bride—” or climbed onto the Austrian Empress’s lap and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. At age thirteen, when Mozart heard the choir perform the secret, never-to-be-published piece *Miserere* at Rome’s Sistine Chapel, he returned to his lodgings and transcribed it entirely from memory; on the second occasion, with only minor corrections, he perfectly reproduced the forbidden score. It is said that upon hearing this, the Pope was greatly astonished, but instead of punishing Mozart, he welcomed him and knighted him into the order.

The brilliance of Mozart’s genius remains unparalleled before or since. In his short thirty-five-year life, he composed twenty-one operas, forty-one symphonies, fifty-eight sacred works, over seventy orchestral pieces, more than forty chamber music works, ninety-eight piano pieces, forty-two violin sonatas, twenty-two piano sonatas, and indeed over a thousand compositions in total. Unending musical ideas gushed forth like a spring, every utterance sparkling like pearls. If one were to seek true genius in the realm of music throughout history, one would have no choice but to name Mozart, Schubert, and then Chopin. It should be said that Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner were not mere geniuses, but rather heroic figures—constructed giants of their craft.

Unfortunate Pride

Despite being an unparalleled genius, Mozart’s life was one of profound adversity. At seventeen, upon returning from his travels, he continued his earnest study of music from Italy to France and entered the service of the Archbishop in his hometown of Salzburg; however, after the Archbishop’s death, unable to endure his successor’s lack of understanding, he engaged in reckless behavior and was stripped of his position—from then until his death at thirty-five, Mozart was never granted anything resembling proper employment.

Though Mozart was truly a "dutiful son" to his father who exploited him relentlessly, he faced fierce opposition from his parents and sisters only when leaving Salzburg and when marrying at twenty-seven. His wife Constanze was the sister of Mozart’s first love, Aloysia Weber, and a dancer in Vienna; however, she was merely an object of his squandered affection—too ignorant to show any understanding or respect toward her husband Mozart.

It is said that after Mozart’s death, when the world united in mourning him and she grew astonished at the throngs of admirers visiting his former residence, Constanze merely “dimly realized” for the first time that the husband she had lived with for ten years had been a once-in-an-era genius. Constanze had no concept of financial management. Mozart was no less than Constanze in that regard. The two of them would even dance through winter nights without coal, barely managing to distract themselves from the bitter cold. Mozart was often driven to the direst depths of poverty, composing an Adagio for musical clocks and writing sonatas for mere florins. And then he would say things like, “I compose because I want money—I have to eat,” his words tinged with self-deprecation.

Even while immersed in such tribulations, Mozart continued to love his wife Constanze and friends. “The truest friends are the poor,” he said. “The wealthy scarcely understand friendship”—this became one of Mozart’s declarations of affection, unbroken by adversity or poverty. Beethoven boasted, “I don’t compose for money,” while Mozart stated, “I write because I need funds.” Though these utterances stand diametrically opposed—and Beethoven’s apparent nobility might cast doubt on Mozart’s sincerity—this would be profoundly mistaken. Critics of posterity must recognize that Beethoven maintained a degree of theatrical bravado, whereas Mozart adopted a deliberately sardonic self-effacement. Who could hear Mozart’s lucid music, utterly free of base motives, and imagine he wrote for coin? That hallowed beauty could never spring from such vulgar incentives as financial gain.

Amid poverty and misfortune, what truly saved Mozart’s art was his immense self-esteem. Mozart’s desire to "be loved" during his boyhood was an expression of self-esteem, and his inability to endure the lowly position in Salzburg during his youth was likewise an eruption of that same pride. His heart was as pure as a child’s, incapable of contemplating even a trace of compromise or a hint of cowardly concession. "A certain duke said, 'Someone like me comes along only once a century,'" declared Mozart himself. At first glance, this may sound boastful, but in reality, it could very well be said to be an exceedingly humble remark. Looking back from today, 150 years later, a genius like Mozart is not merely someone born once in a century—indeed, it seems unlikely that even one such person would emerge in a millennium.

“Even if you’re all reborn, there’s no way you could become like me.” “Compared to that, making all the medals you could ever receive mine would be child’s play”—Mozart once declared to arrogant, worldly people. “Whether servant or count—let them insult me just once, and they’re scum.” This too was an utterance born from the detonation of Mozart’s self-esteem.

It is even said that when Mozart was once invited by a certain duke but excluded from the banquet and made to dine with the servants, he staggered home like a drunkard due to the humiliation of being “treated like a servant” and his furious anger, and even the next day had yet to regain his composure. Beethoven, too, possessed a powerful sense of self-esteem. This self-esteem was a trait common among artists and may have been an essential qualification for producing their noble works. Was it not Mozart’s immense self-esteem—his refusal to pander to vulgar tastes—that allowed his music to retain its noble, cool beauty even as it was embraced by the masses?

Monument of Greatness

Mozart thus wrote his jewel-like works. His daily life was cheerful, and he seemed constantly driven by the impulse to laugh; yet as his death approached, his works gradually grew darker, carrying an inexplicable sense of fateful terror closing in from behind. The late chamber music works and the Symphony in G minor are examples of this.

Mozart’s health deteriorated markedly, but the theater manager focused on dragging him into a life of indulgence and making him compose bright, cheerful works, while his wife Constanze, having relocated with their child, ceaselessly demanded from her husband Mozart the financial means for endless extravagance.

One summer day, a tall, solemn man dressed in gray visited Mozart, requesting a Requiem (a piece to mourn the souls of the dead) and promising a substantial fee. He was an eerie man like a messenger from hell who did not even give the client’s name, but Mozart, driven by his need for money and with no time to consider anything else, accepted the commission and set to work composing the Requiem of his lifetime. As his health gradually deteriorated, Mozart became gripped by the obsessive belief that he was composing funeral music for his own sake, having made a pact with a messenger from hell. Nevertheless, Mozart—engrossed in the Requiem—managed to complete only up to its second movement and three-quarters of the remaining score before passing away at dawn on December 5, 1791, leaving behind Constanze, who was distraught and at a loss for what to do.

After his death, it was discovered that Count Flamberg had sent his house steward to commission Mozart to ghostwrite a Requiem—intending to publish it under his own name to mourn his wife’s passing—but this revelation came too late. The next day, Mozart’s remains were buried in a common grave; however, the few friends who had accompanied the coffin, terrified by the raging storm, turned back at the town gate, leaving two laborers to continue their pitiful task in the wind and rain.

It is said that Mozart’s grave had neither flowers, a tombstone, nor even a cross, and that for some time, due to treatment worse than that of paupers, even where Mozart was buried remained unknown. But do not Mozart’s over a thousand works stand majestically before all as a great monument towering to the heavens? Who today, 150 years later, would lament the meagerness of Mozart’s burial? Not a single musician as loved and cherished as Mozart has ever been born into this world.

Music of Radiance and Joy

Mozart’s music stands at the pinnacle of classical music; in the resplendence of its formal beauty, none can rival it. One might say the essence of Mozart’s music lies in its crystalline clarity, radiant brightness, abundance of luminous affection, and consummation of opulent grace. That his late works acquired a vein of shadow—imparting a sense of willful urgency or smoldering intensity—may well be deemed prophetic foreshadowing of Beethoven’s advent.

The masterpieces are his final three symphonies—No. 39 in E-flat Major, No. 40 in G Minor, and No. 41 "Jupiter"—along with the operas *The Magic Flute* and *The Marriage of Figaro*. Alongside a wealth of chamber music—particularly regarding those final three symphonies—Mozart left behind the superhuman legend of having composed them in a mere six weeks. To grasp Mozart’s full essence, one must immerse oneself in those masterpieces; yet for ordinary households seeking to glimpse his beauty, charm, and scintillating genius, even a single lullaby, Turkish March, or serenade would suffice. That is truly music that makes life joyous. It is music brimming with radiance and delight. How Mozart’s legacy—left when he died in obscurity at thirty-five—has enriched and invigorated posterity’s existence!

Mozart's Works and Their Records Mozart’s crystalline music stands as one of humanity’s greatest blessings. Mozart shall remain our beacon and solace in every place, at every hour. I recall reading an article that described how air squadron soldiers—exhausted from grueling drills or actual combat—would stumble back to base and immediately rush to play Mozart’s music on the phonograph. This strikes me as entirely plausible.

As music to console daily hardships, there can be nothing surpassing Mozart’s works. It belongs not so much in salons or on stages as hearthside or in restful spaces, and will likely serve humanity all the more. Mozart’s music, scattering brilliance and charm, beauty and loveliness, is precisely what should be said to hold the deepest connection to our lives.

Symphony For Mozart's symphony records, one must first acquire his three final masterpieces: *Jupiter*, *G Minor*, and *E-flat Major*. It remains a profound joy that we can hear the "Symphony No.41 in C Major K.551"—christened *Jupiter* for its grandeur—through Walter's interpretation with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra on Columbia records (JS 19–22). This indeed embodies both Jovian majesty and sublime beauty.

*Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, K. 550*, imbued with a vein of melancholy, is a work some prefer over the *Jupiter*; among recordings, Toscanini’s performance with the NBC Symphony Orchestra for Victor stands as the crowning achievement (JD 1720–2). There exists a recording of Walter conducting the Berlin State Orchestra, though it is somewhat dated, and for the *Symphony No. 39 in E-flat Major, K.543*, there are no good options besides Walter’s Columbia record with the BBC Orchestra (J8331–3).

Having just these three symphonies alone was sufficient to appreciate Mozart’s mature artistry in his later years, but for those who desired more, I listed Toscanini’s recording of *Symphony No.35 in D Major “Haffner” K.385* (Victor VD 8028–30) and Walter’s *Symphony No.38 in D Major “Prague” K.504* (Columbia JW 8–10). The latter in particular—conducted with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra—stood as a masterpiece among Walter’s recordings, possessing rich emotional depth and refined beauty while achieving exquisite elegance and splendor.

Violin Concerto

As for Mozart’s violin concertos alone—it is impossible to know how many sets of records exist. For the third Violin Concerto in G Major K.216, there are recordings by Menuhin and Hubermann; however, the former’s Victor release lacks Mozart’s sweetness while the latter’s Columbia disc may lack crystalline refinement. For the fourth Violin Concerto in D Major K.218, there are two recordings: one by Szigeti and another by Kreisler. The former Columbia release is somber and lacks Mozart’s characteristic briskness, while the latter’s newer Victor release goes too far in its austere simplicity of old age to the point of being irredeemable. Kreisler had a masterpiece recording of this piece from the pre-electric era, but there is no prospect of obtaining it now. The fifth Violin Concerto (Turkish) in A Major K.219 has recordings by Wolfsthal, Heifetz, and Damen. Wolfsthal’s recording (Columbia 3910–3), though very old, is one I cherish as an emotional performance serving as a memento of this young deceased violinist. Heifetz’s recording (Victor JD 378–81) is both recent in its pressing and masterful in execution. His technique is so coldly brilliant it seems almost inhuman.

For the sixth "Violin Concerto in E-flat Major, K.268," there were recordings by Thibaud and Dubois. Thibaud’s Mozart possessed a certain dignity and tenderness—this too had been a renowned recording, though its pressing was exceedingly old (Victor VD 8048–50). The seventh "Violin Concerto in D Major" existed in a Menuhin recording on Victor. Additionally, there was Menuhin’s performance of the "Violin Concerto in D Major (Adelaide)," attributed to Mozart as a work from his tenth year. Though it might lack significance, it remained a thoroughly charming piece.

**Piano Concerto**

There are numerous records of "Piano Concertos," but I will limit myself to citing two or three exceptionally outstanding ones among them. The 'Piano Concerto No. 9 in E-flat Major, K.271' is a sweet and youthful piece, and Gieseking’s performance shines with crystalline clarity. It is perfectly suited for lighthearted listening (Columbia J8705–8). The "Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor, K.466" has Fischer’s recording (Victor JD 315–8). It is a scholarly earnest performance yet refined and truly beautiful. There is also the same piece by the late Little Nikisch, but it holds no importance beyond being a memento. The record of this piece conducted by Bruno Walter—who followed Mozart-era custom by playing piano while directing the orchestra—though seemingly unremarkable at first blush, delivers a composed and elegant performance that merits inclusion among masterworks (Columbia JS43–6).

The *Piano Concerto No. 26 in D Major, K.537 “Coronation”* attested to Madame Landowska’s standing as a first-rate harpsichordist and pianist. It was a performance marked by feminine sensitivity and exquisite technique (Victor JD 1076–9). Finally, Schnabel performed the *Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat Major, K.595*. The piece possessed the depth characteristic of Mozart’s final years. The interpretation was unconventional, with the interest lying in experiencing Schnabel’s Mozart.

Flute Concerto

Three of Mozart’s beautiful *Flute Concertos* have been recorded. While the *Flute Concerto No.1 in G Major K.313* remains beautiful, the *Flute Concerto No.2 in D Major K.314*—also performed by master flautist Moyse despite its older recording—proves far more compelling. Coppola’s orchestral direction created a jewel-like radiance of dazzling beauty that bordered on extravagance (Victor JB 207–8). Amadio’s interpretation of the same work—condensing only the second and third movements onto a single disc—stood equally magnificent (Victor JH-206). Moyse’s flute embodied the crisp transparency of French style, while Amadio’s soft sweetness typified Italianate tones—a fascinating stylistic contrast.

Then there was another masterpiece: three twelve-inch discs of the *Concerto for Flute and Harp in C Major, K.299* (Victor JB 1–3). With Moyse on flute and Laskine on harp—two masters perfectly synchronized—the dazzling beauty of this piece seemed almost otherworldly. Here, one might say, lay the true essence of Mozart’s genius.

Violin and Piano Sonata The combination of Goldberg (violin) and Kraus (piano) was once heard in Japan as well; their Mozart was a performance that felt fresh and transparent, possessing an elegant quality. It was not lavish nor suited for the stage, but when recorded on wax for intimate listening, I believe it truly represents Mozart aligned with modern tastes. The duo’s Mozart works remain extensively available on Columbia—including the *Sonata in B-flat Major K.378*, *Sonata in C Major K.296*, *Sonata in G Major K.379*, and *Sonata in E-flat Major K.481*—each distinctive and excellent in its own right.

I love the "Sonata in B-flat Major K.454" recorded by female violinist Morini with Kentner (piano). The gentle, song-filled sweetness of this piece suits Morini with an ineffable perfection (Victor DB1429–31). Compare it with the crisp, cool beauty of the same piece recorded by Heifetz and Bay (Victor JD1329–31). This too is an impeccable record, but one's affinity would likely lie more with the former. However, affinity does not equate to technical skill. It goes without saying that both the performance and recording are decisively superior in Heifetz’s case.

The Menuhin siblings recorded the *Sonata in A Major K.526*. To showcase his sister's piano playing, Menuhin inevitably had to diminish his own role. Heifetz and Bay's recording of another work—the *Sonata in B-flat Major K.378*—boasted crystalline technical perfection; their rendition of this youthful composition, which pursues hedonistic beauty with complete abandon, achieved extraordinary heights through Heifetz's superhumanly precise yet icy virtuosity (Victor JD 1021–2). The same piece performed by Flesch on Polydor—packaged in an album with Handel's sonata mentioned earlier—revealed glimpses of the elderly professor's character through its poor recording quality, an effect both curious and endearing.

*Piano Sonata*

Mozart’s unadorned piano sonatas were delights without equal—yet here I would confine myself to presenting merely two or three exemplary recordings.

The famous *Turkish March Sonata K.331* was recorded in four or five versions, represented by Fischer on Victor (JD 367–8) and Kempff on Polydor (45231–2). The former was elegant and brilliant. The former exemplified the highest dignity of classical performance, while the latter was weighty and impassioned, yet carried an undercurrent of familiarity. I would rather choose Fischer, but there are likely not a few people who prefer Kempff.

Gieseking’s recording of the *Piano Sonata in C Minor K.457* was regarded as an unconventional take on Mozart (Columbia JW 223–4). In this pianist’s approach to the classics lay the vitality of a new realism that shattered the husk of old traditions—a Mozart pure yet infused with passion, a wondrous enigma. There also exists Gieseking’s *Sonata in B-flat Major*.

String and Other Quartets and Quintets

Mozart’s chamber music—particularly his string quartets and quintets—are gems in their own right. In this world, there exists no music of such absolute beauty. Emerging from Haydn’s chamber music as its foundation yet opening a unique artistic realm, it stood as a remarkable succession of gem-like works—far more resplendent, far more luminous, and far more beautiful than anything Haydn created. In his late works, even when displaying that quality found in his Symphony in G minor—where exuberance peaks only to birth melancholy—it never diminished their beauty; rather, by adding profound shadows, it elevated Mozart’s artistic domain to an even higher plane.

The Lener Quartet recorded four Mozart pieces, but all were over ten years old—so antiquated that it felt almost pitiful to discuss them today. If I were to select from among them, it would at least be the two works—the "String Quartet No. 17 in B-flat Major, K.458 'The Hunt'" and the "String Quartet No. 14 in G Major, K.387"—but taking into account the appeal of the original compositions, I believed choosing the former would be prudent (Columbia J7854–6). This piece stood as one of the most solemn among Mozart’s string quartets, and the Lener Quartet’s delicate grace stirred our blood when it was first released. For those of us who had never had the opportunity to hear a good string quartet performance, it was truly a magical beauty.

With the release of the Capet Quartet’s Mozart recordings, the Lener Quartet’s reputation plummeted significantly. Take for example the Capet Quartet’s *String Quartet in C Major K.465* (Columbia J7786–9)—though recorded over a decade ago like Lener’s versions, it stood entirely apart from them not only in technical mastery but in artistic commitment and sensibility, attaining the highest artistic plane accessible to us in modernity. At first glance supremely plain and simple, yet through its all-pervading light and dripping richness, it irresistibly guides listeners to the most exalted state of rapture.

There were also Mozart recordings by the Pro Arte, Koritsch, Crettaz, and other quartets, but those were to be explored after savoring the aforementioned pieces. The *Quartet for Flute and Strings in A Major K.298* was a youthful and beautiful work. René Le Roy and the Pasquier Trio’s moderately priced recording could be found in the fourth collection of the Enthusiasts’ Association. The *Quartet for Oboe and Strings in E-flat Major K.370* by oboe master Goossens and the Lener Quartet existed on Columbia (J8209–10).

I will also note as a reference the collaboration between Schnabel and the Pro Arte Quartet for the *Quartet for Piano and Strings in G Minor K.478*. In the realm of quintets, the *String Quintet in G Minor K.516* was a work imbued with the melancholy of Mozart’s later years and was commonly regarded as a masterpiece among viola quintets. Columbia had recordings by the Lener Quartet and Drivela (J7763–6), while Victor offered those by the Pro Arte Quartet and Hobdy (JD371–4). Preferences might vary between the emotionally rich and sweet former and the intellectually austere latter. The Pro Arte’s recording was far more recent.

Among the quintets, the most captivating was the *Clarinet Quintet in A Major K.581*. Alongside Brahms's Clarinet Quintet, it stood as a masterpiece created for this instrument, its lingering beauty without equal. Three recorded versions existed. The oldest featured the collaboration between the Lener Quartet and Dreaper (Columbia J7451–4), followed by the Budapest Quartet with Benjamin Goodman (Victor JE167–9, JD1374), while the newest was by the Roth Quartet and Belison (Columbia JW203–6).

Among these three recordings, the version by Benny Goodman—that is, Benjamin Goodman—the jazz conductor and clarinetist, and the Budapest Quartet was highly regarded, with no shortage of ardent admirers; however, it remained a fact that many older fans still felt attached to the collaboration between Lener and Dreaper, believing that without it, they could not truly feel they had heard this piece. This preference stemmed from Lener’s sweet lingering quality and Dreaper’s clarinet playing with its unexpectedly superb skill, whereas Benny Goodman—though technically proficient—could not escape the rough-edged precision and emotional deficiency so characteristic of a jazz player.

Three or four piano trios have been recorded. Of these, I will limit myself to mentioning just one—the Columbia record of the Piano Trio in E Major K.542 performed by the Belgian Court Trio (J7883–4).

Orchestral Works

From the countless overtures, German dances, serenades, and divertimentos, I will attempt to highlight several of the most outstanding. The serenade often simply referred to as Mozart’s *Eine kleine Nachtmusik*—the very embodiment of love, charm, and radiance—has been recorded a great many times, but for its elegant and refined beauty, I must foremost recommend Walter’s Columbia recording (JS 23–4). If one can tolerate the somewhat inferior recording quality, it would be reasonable next to opt for Polydor’s Furtwängler-conducted version with its grandeur and magnificence (G108–110).

"There are many German Dances included as well, but I will confine myself to just the three pieces from No. 1 to No. 3 conducted by Walter on Columbia (J5577)." Divertimentos (Divertimenti) are also supremely worthy of affection, but I do not recall any recordings worth singling out for particular mention. While numerous famous overtures are redundantly available, those that truly stand out would it not be limited to Furtwängler’s *The Marriage of Figaro* (Polydor 4513) and Mengelberg’s *The Magic Flute* (Victor 1486)?

Operas, Sacred Music, Songs

The complete opera recordings by Glyndebourne’s “Mozart Opera Society,” released by Victor, stood as a monumental achievement in the global record industry. Already available were four sets: *Così fan tutte* (JD1294–1313), *Don Giovanni* (JD1444–66), *The Marriage of Figaro* (JD1209–25), and *The Magic Flute* (JD1467–86)—a truly grand total of seventy records. Mozart, following the customs of musicians of his time, had poured his heart and soul into composing operas, and the fact that he hastened his own death through his work on *The Magic Flute* remained a sorrowful matter for those who read his biographies; yet, to possess such complete recordings of his operas over a century after his death must be no small consolation.

This performance was a recording from England's Glyndebourne Mozart Festival—reputed to have gathered Mozart singers from across the globe—where both orchestra and vocalists delivered solid, splendid work. There existed excerpts from *Don Giovanni* conducted by Coppola and sung by Panzera (baritone) among others (Victor JE44–6). Though employing French lyrics, this remained an exquisitely polished performance through which one could not help but savor the excellence of Mozart's operas.

The individual operatic arias are omitted here. It remains regrettable that there was no prospect of obtaining a complete recording of Mozart’s *Requiem*—his most important work in sacred music—in Japan. This nearly complete recording—conducted by Joseph Messner with the Salzburg Dome choir and orchestra—spans six discs on Christal Records; however, it was believed only about two sets had ever reached Japan. The performance was not the finest but included among its soloists such late renowned singers as Richard Meyer.

Columbia had two or three records of the "Missa" and "Requiem," but none were particularly worth mentioning. The "Alleluia" from the motet became widely known through Deanna Durbin in the film *Orchestra Girl*, but Columbia’s Ginstar proved more skilled than Durbin; HMV’s Elisabeth Schumann surpassed Ginstar; Victor’s Onegin outdid Schumann; and ultimately, the older Farrer recording held more charm than Onegin.

Mozart’s songs are exceedingly few. The masterpiece among these would be Elisabeth Schumann’s *Lullaby* (E555), available on Victor. Schumann’s Mozart is supreme, but I know of no instance where that lullaby has been sung so exquisitely. Her pure voice and tender affection will soothe even our very souls. *The Violet* is regarded as one of the better works among Mozart’s songs, but Victor’s Onegin (1556) is blessed with abundant beauty. Lotte Lehmann’s rendition of *Secrets* must also be cited as one of the exemplary performances (Victor JE30).

Hero Beethoven

Beethoven was not merely a hero among musicians, but a hero among heroes—indeed, in one sense, a conqueror among conquerors. Napoleon and Beethoven shared many connections during their lifetimes and are frequently compared; while Napoleon may have reigned as "emperor of emperors" in his day, now that over a century has passed, his achievements have vanished like a dream, his deeds indistinguishable from those of legendary dragon-slayers. By contrast, our Beethoven—what magnificent blessings he bestowed upon humanity!

It has been 114 years since Beethoven’s death, but the vast body of music he created continues ceaselessly—through live performances, radio broadcasts, or records—to reverberate through the atmosphere of this globe, becoming solace, profound emotion, and illumination for billions of humanity. The influence of art on human life is far greater than one might idly assume, but even among such influences, there are scarcely any as vast or intense as Beethoven’s music.

Among my young student friends, there was one who obtained a record of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and listened to it two hundred times over and over again. During exam periods, he would play it three or four times a day—not only to soothe his mental fatigue and renew his courage, but also because if he carelessly indulged in too much leisure, he would mutter, “I can’t face Beethoven like this,” then hurry back to his study, where Beethoven must have been waiting, and return to his notes.

Listening to the same record two hundred or three hundred times over was by no means a mark of good taste—yet even so, despite believing myself thoroughly acquainted with Beethoven’s music in its profound emotional power and overwhelming persuasiveness—I found myself astonished anew time and again. Since humanity’s earliest days through all recorded history, art has existed in countless forms and varieties; yet I have never encountered anything possessing a “force” comparable to Beethoven’s music.

The paintings of Michelangelo, the plays of Shakespeare, the sculptures of Rodin—these were noble and grand creations, undeniably proud achievements of human culture. Yet they lacked the wholesome universality of Beethoven’s music. Consequently, when compared to Beethoven’s art—which for over a century had flowed ceaselessly through hundreds of millions of hearts like a surging undercurrent of inspiration—one could not deny that there were inherent differences in their universality and their capacity to resonate with the human spirit.

In any country in the world, when one speaks of music, it is none other than Beethoven. It would not be an exaggeration to say that concerts, radio broadcasts, and records—indeed, a full third of anything remotely related to music—are dominated by Beethoven’s name. Were Beethoven’s works to be stripped from this world, we would surely feel a spiritual desolation akin to existing in air deprived of atmospheric pressure.

The Great Rustic

Why does Beethoven’s music continue to affect us so profoundly? To answer this requires beginning with his biography; however, Beethoven’s biographies are literally as numerous as cart-pulling oxen sweating under their loads—their contents already exhaustively known to most—and condensing his tumultuous life into a few short pages proved exceedingly difficult. Therefore, I shall instead compile notable anecdotes that characterize his existence—vignettes that evoke the giant’s visage while simultaneously conveying the astonishing greatness of Beethoven’s music.

In December 1770, Ludwig van Beethoven was born in Bonn, Germany, into a family of musicians. His father served as a court musician in Bonn—a man of weak character plagued by alcoholism, far from being a virtuous mentor. One instance of this was how he forced his son into merciless day-and-night piano practice, seeking to mold him into a child prodigy for profit—a regimen that nearly extinguished the young Beethoven’s budding love for music. Yet through some twist of fortune, these brutal lessons allowed Beethoven not to become a ten-year-old marvel, but instead to forge the foundation of a heroic musician for the ages.

One cannot know how much his father’s drinking habits tormented the young Beethoven. Amidst the jeers of street urchins, the humiliation of carrying his drunken father home must have further hardened Beethoven’s indomitable spirit, marking the first defiant step along a thorn-strewn path he would grimace through yet forge ahead upon. Moreover, after losing his kind yet naive mother—who had nothing but love—at seventeen years old, Beethoven’s slender shoulders were forced to bear the full burden of supporting his father, who had lost his position to alcoholism, and his young brothers.

Beethoven’s genius took root amidst these adversities: at thirteen, he was appointed court organist in Bonn, and by sixteen had composed his first symphony, the *Jena*. It was not long after this—during his initial visit to Vienna—that he encountered Mozart. For Mozart, whose renown then dominated all Europe, the provincial youth’s visit held little significance; whether he believed the “Impromptu” performed before him had been prepared beforehand or not, he offered only cursory praise. The young Beethoven, incensed by Mozart’s frigid reception, requested a theme from him; upon receiving it, he instantly fashioned a set of variations of utmost grandeur and brilliance. Finishing his performance, he slammed the door and stormed out, leaving a dumbfounded Mozart behind. Mozart, pointing at his retreating figure, is said to have turned to a companion and cried: “Mark my words—his name shall echo across the world.”

Having lost his father, Beethoven resolved to settle permanently in Vienna, the musical capital of Europe. He was twenty-two years old at the time. At that time, Beethoven was still young and ambitious. Due to the nature of his work requiring frequent social engagements, he strove to adapt to urban manners; following the trends of the time, it is said he grew his pomaded hairstyle long, cultivated a beard, and even took dance lessons. The mere thought of Beethoven’s dandyish attire cannot help but provoke a wry smile; yet fortunately, Beethoven himself realized that the life of a fashionable gentleman did not suit him, and before long he cast aside that urbane existence to revert to his true rustic self.

In his later years, Beethoven remained a rough-hewn eccentric to the end—with an uncombed lion-like mane, piercing heron-like eyes, an unkempt beard growing wild, a coat stuffed to bursting with belongings and worn inside out, and shoes with worn-out soles—roaming about Vienna in such a state; he would stroll his beloved country lanes, even startling cows at farmers’ houses. The *Appassionata Sonata*, the *Fate Symphony*, and the *Emperor Concerto* were born solely from this state of total artistic conflagration into which he cast everything he had. Had Beethoven remained a dandyish gentleman of urban refinement—the mere thought of which fills me with dread—we would likely have been deprived of the vast realm of musical art and humanity’s most precious treasure.

Immense Self-Esteem

Beethoven’s self-esteem was of a scale unparalleled among all artists. His unyielding soul and unbending demeanor turned all Vienna against him at times, yet compelled the entire world to kneel at his feet. Haydn dubbed him “Mongol King” and kept his distance, while Goethe declared in astonishment, “An unmanageable savage!” There was the time he rebuked whispering noblewomen at a concert, slamming the piano lid with “This isn’t for swine!” before storming out; and another during the Franco-Prussian War when, cornered at Prince Lichnowsky’s estate to play for French officers, he refused outright and marched two hundred kilometers back to Vienna.

He clashed with servants, clashed with neighbors, clashed with theater managers, clashed with patron nobles—spending his life in near-constant conflict. When walking with Goethe and encountering Viennese court nobles, he thought, "Let us see what attitude those people will take toward us," then lowered his hat brim, fastened his coat buttons, and strode straight into their midst. The princess among their party, upon seeing Beethoven’s brashness, smiled and greeted him, stepping aside to let him pass; but when he looked back, Goethe stood by the roadside, bowing deferentially and letting the nobles pass with utmost courtesy. "You are a great man, but you are too courteous toward those people," Beethoven said to Goethe, who had caught up to him. Goethe of Weimar—distinguished retainer, great poet, great statesman, a man of high social standing—must have smiled wryly at Beethoven’s barbarity.

When Napoleon brought an end to the French Revolution’s bloody tragedy in one stroke, Beethoven—enthralled by his heroic spirit—sought to compose and dedicate his Third Symphony to him. He had already initiated the procedures through the French ambassador, but upon learning that Napoleon had effectively become France’s autocratic ruler as Consul, tore off the symphony’s title page and threw it into a cabinet, declaring, “He too is nothing but an ambitious schemer!” However, years later when Napoleon fell from power and was exiled to Saint Helena, it is said Beethoven took out the score and, pointing to the funeral march in the second movement, declared to those around him, “I had foreseen this.” Beethoven could not have prophesied Napoleon’s downfall. It was likely that the funeral march—written as the second movement of his Third Symphony and what might be called the “Sorrow of Victory”—coincidentally aligned with the fact of Napoleon’s downfall.

Beethoven’s haughtiness is the subject of countless anecdotes. Yet we must not overlook that what formed the undercurrent of his character was an extraordinary "love for humanity" and an affable nature. Beethoven’s biographers state that he was sociable, prone to loneliness, and a man of abundant affection. Why did this sociable loner have to withdraw into the husk of solitude and view the world with scorn? That this was none other than the result of his worsening hearing loss—a fatal affliction for a musician—goes without saying.

Conquering the Dread of Deafness

For a musician to lose their hearing is a terror beyond imagination. Beethoven’s hearing loss first manifested symptoms shortly after he passed twenty years of age; by twenty-seven or twenty-eight, it had progressed beyond concealment; at thirty-four, he abandoned piano performance; and by thirty-eight, he had become almost entirely deaf. For a musician—who must possess hearing superior to that of ordinary people—to discover their growing deafness and be forced to accept it is akin to enduring a torturous ordeal of repeated, relentless trials. Beethoven too had initially concealed his hearing loss, but eventually was forced to abandon social interactions and deliberately become a “misanthrope.” He described his state of mind at that time in a letter to a friend as follows: “I must lead a truly wretched life. If only these ears could hear, how happy I would be! I must avoid all people. A sad resignation—I must take refuge there—” He also wrote: “I have often cursed my very existence to the Creator. My life is the most miserable among God’s creations.” A first-rate musician whom both he himself and others acknowledged was gradually losing his hearing. In this world, there is nothing more terrifying.

At the age of thirty, Beethoven wrote his first will and subsequently attempted suicide twice. "My ears must be more perfect than those of ordinary people—how could I say that I cannot hear? Death will liberate me from endless adversity—" Beethoven wrote this. Yet this anguish was not a scourge meant to destroy the giant. After despair and loneliness had mercilessly tormented his great soul, the giant attained sudden enlightenment.

That was an idea imparted by Plutarch’s *Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans*. “As long as one can still accomplish something good, one must not take one’s own life.” Thus, believing in the loftiness of his mission and the immortality of art, Beethoven barely managed to refrain from taking his own life. The *Fifth Symphony*, often said to depict the struggle between fate and humanity, was composed around this time. This piece portrays humans who, under fate’s cruel oppression, raise feeble moans but through sheer willpower finally overcome destiny and charge toward ultimate victory with triumphant cries.

Beethoven was the musician who pioneered "art for life's sake." Prior to Beethoven, music had been predominantly an entertainment-oriented art form—written for structural refinement and a boundless pursuit of beauty—but with Beethoven came the incorporation of worldview and philosophy into music; he harnessed his own spiritual essence and experiences directly into musical expression, creating works so visceral they seemed to bleed when cut. For Beethoven, life was none other than music, and music none other than autobiography. Beethoven boasted that he "did not write his works for money," but it might be more accurate to say he did not write them for technical display or contrivance. For his music was a reflection of the state of mind in each era it was written—not a single piece was contrived, each one imbued with life and pulsing with vitality.

After the "Fifth Symphony" and the "Appassionata Sonata," Beethoven wrote bright and serene pieces—magnificent and grand works for a time. The "Pastoral Symphony," "Violin Concerto," and "Emperor Concerto" stand as prime examples of this period. Beethoven, who never missed his daily two walks through Vienna's outskirts regardless of rain or wind, boldly declared, "I love nature more than mankind," believing God's glory found its highest expression through nature's lens. From this spiritual soil grew the "Pastoral Symphony"—music of unparalleled beauty exalting nature's splendor.

Great Resignation

The *Missa Solemnis* and the *Ninth Symphony* were Beethoven’s final two great masterpieces. The first, bearing the inscription "From the heart—may it return to the heart," stood as the crystallization of Beethoven’s faith; the other could be called a grand and magnificent manifestation of the human love harbored by this giant. Above all, a work such as the *Ninth Symphony* represented the highest art humanity possessed, its noble strength defying all description. At the end of fate’s oppression, the struggle against evil, and all suffering, the joy of victory awaited us. Borrowing Schiller’s poem, the Ode to Joy in the final movement soared resoundingly even unto the heavens— Music had never before possessed such a grand form, and art had never before spoken so profoundly to people. There existed a famous anecdote that in later years, when Wagner—tormented by disappointment and poverty—had sunk into complete self-destruction, he heard the *Ninth Symphony* and was so moved that he burned with feverish inspiration, rising resolutely to embark on the path toward his great success.

After the Ninth Symphony, Beethoven gradually entered the realm of serene solitude that characterized his later years. Having conquered his hearing loss, loneliness, and grievances—everything—the Great Resignation soothed the giant’s soul. After resolving his nephew Karl’s troublesome issues, he devoted himself entirely to expressing the voice of his heart through the form of string quartets.

The late quartets composed for four string instruments by the great musician who had severed himself from the sounds of the outer world were indeed profoundly sacred (Op. 127, 130, 131, 132, 135). These works did not save Beethoven economically, but for us in posterity, they remain irreplaceable gems. Beethoven’s inner voice—having renounced worldly desires and severed ties with society—took the form of string quartets to depict, with exhaustive depth, the sacred beauty of the Great Resignation.

Beethoven was lonely and poor. Though he never lacked daily necessities, he never earned enough to live comfortably; even the numerous annuities provided by patrons eventually ceased in his later years, and despite various campaigns, the Viennese government refused to actively safeguard this giant's livelihood. Beethoven had an unkempt appearance—so uncouth that he was once mistaken for a vagrant and detained. In his youth, he first proposed marriage to actress Magdalena Wilmann only to be rejected for being "ugly"; he later pursued relationships with Therese von Brunswick and Giulietta (to whom he dedicated the *Moonlight Sonata*), yet though he kept Therese's portrait until death and left behind the "Immortal Beloved" legend, he never married. Beethoven was not the sort of man to appeal to ordinary women—his heroic spirit, as biographer Paul Bekker notes, "was not one to squander his life over women."

Moreover, Beethoven’s music was not easily understood at the time; Goethe was terrified by the *Fifth Symphony*, and even his disciples had misgivings about the *Ninth*. It was only natural that Beethoven—having finally given up on Vienna where he had long resided—sought to find a place of permanent settlement in England, following the precedents set by Handel and Haydn. Around the time when Beethoven was buying and eating his favorite fish with part of the advance payment sent from Britain while burning with hope for his new life there—his health had already deteriorated beyond recovery. On March 26, 1827—a day when spring thunder raged violently—he died saying, “The comedy is over, gentlemen—applaud!”

Two days later, tens of thousands attended his funeral, and the military was deployed to manage the crowds—but whether Beethoven truly took pleasure in this remains unknown.

Beethoven’s works were numerous, with half being masterpieces and notable works widely recognized by people. If one were to select the truly representative pieces from among them, they would include: from the nine symphonies—the *Fifth*, *Sixth*, and *Ninth*; from the thirty-two piano sonatas—the *Appassionata*, *Waldstein*, *Op. 109*, *110*, and *111*; from the ten violin-piano sonatas—the *Kreutzer*; from the sixteen string quartets—*Op. 131*, *132*, and *135*; along with the *Emperor Concerto*, *Violin Concerto*, *Archduke Trio*, and finally the *Missa Solemnis*.

When it comes to Beethoven’s biography and Beethoven’s music, one can hardly do justice to them all. However, one can be certain that in all fields of art, there exists no work that possesses such immense power and passion. The fierce emotional turmoil, profound anguish, power of will to conquer them, and uncommon ecstasy—all beyond what we mortals can experience—can be best understood through Beethoven's music. It could be said that this is also a great joy experienced only by those born on this earth who know art.

Beethoven's Works and Their Records

I finally reached Beethoven’s records. Reverence for Beethoven was not a phenomenon unique to Japan; though the notion that “there would be no Western music without Beethoven” might seem excessive, I believe it proved truly beneficial in terms of music’s power to spread and permeate culture. Above all, in musical virgin soil like Japan, how invaluable Beethoven became for rapidly implanting good music—artistic music. That heroic soul and music of power and fervor—after all—refused to rest until it had compelled every person to follow along at least once.

I intend to speak here solely about records, but approximately twenty percent of the world's artistic recordings (so-called masterwork records) are Beethoven's, and half of all record sales are likely attributable to Beethoven. Beethoven has always reigned supreme in the music world, and one could say that half the letters in record magazines' correspondence columns are entirely consumed by debates over selecting recordings of his Fifth Symphony and Violin Concerto.

Although selecting truly outstanding works from this vast array of records proves an extraordinarily daunting task, I intend to list here only the representative records of representative works from among them.

Symphony

First are the nine symphonies. Even covering just these would require dozens of pages of description, but I intended to proceed by adhering as much as possible to a one-work-one-recording approach. For the "Symphony No. 1 in C Major, Op. 21," let us select Telefunken’s recent recording conducted by Mengelberg (53620–22), with the Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam. Next, Toscanini’s BBC recording for Victor, though somewhat dated, offered a breathtaking performance (JD1546–9).

The "Symphony No. 2 in D Major, Op. 36" saw interest gravitating toward the graceful beauty of Columbia's Weingartner conducting the London Symphony Orchestra (JW299–302), while Telefunken's Kleiber subsequently commanded attention. The "Symphony No. 3 in E-flat Major, Op. 55 (Eroica)," being a significant work with numerous recordings available, would soon have three new records pressed in Japan: Toscanini conducting the NBC Symphony Orchestra for Victor, Walter leading an American orchestra for Columbia, and Mengelberg directing the Concertgebouw Orchestra for Telefunken. Which of these would prove superior had likely become a topic of intense interest by this book's publication. Until then in Japan, Mengelberg for Victor and Weingartner for Columbia had remained the primary contenders under discussion.

For the *Symphony No.4 in B-flat Major, Op.60*, there were Mengelberg conducting Telefunken's Concertgebouw Orchestra (43608–11) and Toscanini conducting Victor's BBC Orchestra (VD8086–9), but owing to the orchestras involved, the former held greater appeal. The *Symphony No.5 in C Minor, Op.67* was formidable. Even among records made since the advent of electric recording alone, there were at least twelve or thirteen complete sets, each one painstakingly recorded by the world’s great conductors applying their full artistry. However, through time’s power having eliminated anything even slightly outdated or inferior, it became safe to say that by then, the frontline "Fifth" Symphony records had become effectively limited to four types conducted by Weingartner, Mengelberg, Toscanini, and Furtwängler.

If one were to select a Fifth Symphony with longer-lasting vitality from among these, ultimately seven or eight out of ten people would likely bow to Toscanini and Furtwängler. Toscanini's NBC Symphony Orchestra recording of the *Fifth* for Victor (JD162–4) is a magnificent performance that combines a mysterious reverberation-free acoustic quality with blazing power building to its climax unobtrusively, all enveloped within slightly brisk tempos, classical refinement, and an indomitable spirit of passion. In contrast, Columbia’s recording of the *Fifth Symphony* (JS1–5) conducted by Furtwängler with the Berlin Philharmonic is thoroughly dramatic, intensely subjective, and rich in ingenuity. There exists no *Fifth Symphony* as meticulously detailed as this latter interpretation, yet compared to Toscanini’s, it lacks grounding realism and risks appearing theatrical. Nevertheless, I believe no listener would regret experiencing both recordings in tandem.

The *Symphony No.6 in F Major, Op.68 'Pastoral'* stood as the most beloved among the nine symphonies. While numerous recordings existed, I considered Bruno Walter’s recording with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (Columbia J8748–52) to be preeminent at that time. Never had this serene pastoral symphony been performed with such beauty—thoroughly Viennese in character while suffused with Walter’s distinctive sensibility that transformed into a delicate glimmer of affection, softly enveloping the entire work. By contrast, Toscanini’s interpretation emerged grand and vigorous yet tempestuous, Weingartner’s recording felt dated, and Paray’s struck one as coldly detached. To these I must add that Schalk’s older recordings still retained their devotees among certain listeners even then.

For the *Symphony No.7 in A Major, Op.92*, I recommend Toscanini’s recording with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD819–23). It combined the orchestra’s taut brilliance with Toscanini’s volcanic control, achieving such devastating grandeur that to call it merely splendid would be reductive. The work’s primal energy—that famed Bacchic frenzy—found its ultimate interpreter in Toscanini. Weingartner’s *Seventh*, while undeniably beautiful, erred toward excessive refinement, leaving one faintly unsatisfied.

"For the *Symphony No.8 in F Major, Op.93*, Telefunken’s Mengelberg conducting the Concertgebouw Orchestra took first place through his seasoned mastery. With moderate passion, meticulous attention, and building excitement, it stood as a truly masterful achievement (43601–3). Though somewhat dated, Columbia’s Weingartner recording also offered a masterpiece not to be overlooked. The *Symphony No.9 in D Minor, Op.125 'Choral'* remained the pinnacle among Beethoven’s hundreds of works—an unmissable masterpiece that left no listener untouched. Yet surprisingly few recordings existed, and none had yet surpassed Columbia Records’ version conducted by Weingartner with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and Vienna State Opera Chorus, released seven or eight years prior. This performance shone with overwhelming resplendence, bearing Weingartner’s signature understated vigor while achieving seamless perfection that guided this spiritually intense piece to an exquisitely elegant climax through extraordinary finesse. To hear it was to know no Ninth could rival its beauty (J8371–8). The chorus and soloists maintained first-rate quality, with baritone Meyer standing particularly outstanding."

Telefunken’s Jochum, by comparison, was intense and youthful, possessing its own distinct merits.

Overture

Beethoven wrote as many as twelve overtures, but among them, "Leonore No.3," "Coriolan," and "Egmont" stood out as both famous and exceptional. "Leonore No.3" was one of four overtures Beethoven had written for his opera *Fidelio*, and stood as one of his masterpieces where his distinctive traits were most fully exhibited. There were countless records available, but Columbia’s recording of Walter conducting the Vienna Philharmonic (JS50–1), though lacking dramatic exaggeration, was likely the most serene listening experience. Next, Mengelberg’s recording for the same Columbia label was excellent.

The *Coriolan* Overture recording may be somewhat dated, but there was none better than Mengelberg conducting the Concertgebouw Orchestra (Columbia J8042). There existed one conducted by Walter in the world’s renowned record collections, but the London Symphony Orchestra’s performance proved of slightly inferior quality.

There were numerous recordings of the *Egmont* Overture. Among these, Polydor’s Furtwängler conducting the Berlin Philharmonic—though imposing—was likely the finest (45105 and Famous Works Collection). Though somewhat dated in their recording quality, Mengelberg’s conducted versions were also masterpieces, existing in two distinct releases: Victor and Columbia.

Piano Sonata

Beethoven’s thirty-two piano sonatas could be said to stand as his most significant works after the nine symphonies—a record of his soul poured into this instrument. To write about each record individually would have required an enormous number of pages; therefore, I decided instead to list representative recordings for those works deemed most significant.

The only recording to include all thirty-two pieces was Victor’s "Beethoven Piano Sonata Society" records. The performer was Arthur Schnabel, the foremost authority on Beethoven interpretation of his time—a monumental achievement comprising thirteen volumes and eighty-one discs. This stood as a colossal landmark in the record industry, establishing what could be called the definitive standard for Beethoven’s piano sonatas through its exquisitely balanced interpretation and peerless technical mastery that erected an immense artistic edifice. Even when comparing each piece individually, one might find pianists who played Beethoven differently from Schnabel, but none could readily surpass him. It was a performance blending professorial rigor with virtuosic splendor—one that allowed anyone to appreciate its brilliance while radiating an extraordinary sense of consummate perfection.

When listing outstanding records for each of the famous sonatas，Kemp’s passionate performance on Polydor for the *Pathétique Sonata，Op.13* was certainly worth mentioning (65024). For the “Moonlight Sonata，” I endorsed Backhaus on Victor (JD489–90)，but Kemp on Polydor also offered a robust and substantial German-style rendition (30108–9). The “Waldstein” was among the most brilliant of Beethoven’s thirty-two sonatas，but aside from Schnabel，I held a fondness for Victor’s older recording by Lamond (D1983–5). Rich in emotional depth，Polydor’s Kemp was also excellent (40536–8). For the *Appassionata*，aside from Schnabel，it remained Kemp on Polydor (S4033–5). However，the recording quality of this record was rather poor．For the “Farewell Sonata，” aside from Schnabel’s，there were no good recordings other than Backhaus’s Victor record (JD622–3)．For Sonata in E Major，Op．109；Sonata in A-flat Major，Op．110；and Sonata in C Minor，Op．111，unfortunately there were none that compared to Schnabel．Among these，Kemp’s possessed a somewhat distinctive merit．Above all，Schnabel’s performance in the final Sonata in C minor was masterful；though the recording was somewhat dated，it remained truly dazzling．

String Quartet

It was precisely through these sixteen string quartets that one could come to know Beethoven's true essence. Above all, the late works from Op.127 onward represented Beethoven's final state of mind—attained after complete hearing loss—and could be said to contain his Great Resignation, purified through art. The sixteen string quartets had been recorded in various ways, but the records made by France’s late master Capet and his Capet String Quartet—who passed away in 1929—stood as the finest, followed by those of the Busch String Quartet and Lener String Quartet. The Capet Quartet’s recordings were by then twelve or thirteen years old, their dated sound undeniable; yet their polished artistry had reached the pinnacle of purity. The five sets of records they left of Beethoven’s string quartets might truly be called treasures of the global music world.

For those acquiring these sixteen string quartets, the principle is to choose Capet; where Capet is unavailable, choose Busch, and where Busch is unavailable, choose Lener—you can’t go far wrong. Of the six quartets in Op.18, I recommend Busch for No.1 and Capet for No.5. For Op.59’s *Razumovsky Quartet No.1*, there is Capet’s renowned performance (Columbia J8055–60); No.2 has Lener’s new recording (JW225–8); and No.3 features Busch’s rendition (Victor JD311–4).

For the *Harp Quartet in E-flat Major, Op.74*, there was Capet’s recording (Columbia J7410–3), while Victor’s Busch delivered a masterful performance of the *Quartet in B minor, Op.95* (JD71–2). This piece proved notoriously difficult to perform, rarely allowing listeners to fully grasp Beethoven’s depth and beauty—yet Busch’s solid yet fervent performance masterfully conquered it. For the late quartets—the *Quartet in E-flat Major, Op.127*—there existed Victor’s Busch recording (JD1008–12), while for Op.130’s quartet, there was only Lener’s older rendition.

The *String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, Op.131* stands as one of Beethoven’s greatest masterpieces alongside the two later works, with renowned recordings by Capet and Busch. Capet offers delicate beauty while Busch possesses antique grandeur—it’s difficult to choose between them. However, Capet’s performance holds a slight edge (Columbia S1093–7), whereas Busch’s recording benefits from newer quality (Victor JD925–9).

Capet’s rendition of the *String Quartet in A Minor, Op.132* was a renowned performance of subtle grace and exquisite beauty. As for the divine quality of the third movement’s “Heiliger Dankgesang” (Holy Song of Thanksgiving), it stood absolutely unparalleled (Columbia S1098–1102). Busch’s Victor record was also a splendid achievement overall.

The final *String Quartet in B-flat Major, Op.135* stands as Victor’s Busch’s undisputed domain (JD476–9). This grandeur and crystalline beauty lie beyond Lener’s reach—it can rightly be deemed a masterful recording.

Trio

There are quite a number of trios, but recordings are not so abundant; only two piano trios—for piano, cello, and violin—have been recorded. Of these, the *Ghost Trio (Op.70 No.1)* proves less distinguished, but the *Archduke Trio, Op.97* stands as a mid-period masterpiece of Beethoven’s. The Victor record by the so-called Casals Trio—comprising Casals (cello), Thibaud (violin), and Cortot (piano)—remains an old recording from twelve or thirteen years ago, yet persists as an imposing yet radiant presence. The work has its virtues, but this stately beauty wholly transcends words (JI80–4).

Violin Sonata

There were ten violin-piano sonatas. The only complete recording of all ten pieces was Victor’s *Beethoven Violin Sonata Society* records by Kreisler and Rupp—a monumental achievement spanning four volumes and twenty-seven discs—though even these authoritative recordings faintly revealed Kreisler’s advancing years. For those seeking to acquire one or two works, they would do well to begin with two compositions: the so-called *Spring* Sonata in F Major, Op.24, and the *Kreutzer* Sonata in A Major, Op.47.

The "Spring Sonata" is an exceedingly sweet piece; while Morini’s version was once considered excellent, those who find it somewhat dated may prefer Columbia’s Goldberg and Klaus (J8521–3). It was a performance of such beauty it bordered on coldness. Victor’s Busch and Serkin also delivered a renowned performance, though it lacked emotional warmth. The "Kreutzer Sonata" stands as one of the most enchantingly gorgeous works even among Beethoven’s oeuvre, yet I still find myself astonished by Columbia’s old recording featuring Huberman and Friedman. However, if that were already too old to be considered, should one then opt for Kreisler and Rupp after all? Nevertheless, this record by Thibaud and Cortot on Victor remains widely cherished by listeners today—a graceful French-style performance that likely makes it the most accessible. The recording was quite old.

Romances

The two violin "Romances" were not known for being particularly good or interesting; they were simply widely recognized. In recordings, Elman included both the "No.1 in G Major, Op.40" and "No.2 in F Major, Op.50," but they possessed no remarkable charm. Thibaud might have had his supporters, but his recordings were undeniably dated.

Cello Sonatas and Cello Works Three cello sonatas were included. The Cello Sonata in A Major, Op.69 by Casals (cello) and Schurhoff (piano) was an absolute masterpiece; despite the age of the recording, its vast spirit and majestic dignity compelled listeners to doff their hats. Another recording, the *Cello Sonata in C Major, Op.102 No.1*, could be found in the third volume of the Victor Lovers’ Association series. This piece, together with his final cello sonata (D Major), portrayed Beethoven’s state of mind in his later years—a work tinged with bitterness yet imbued with passionate depth. The performance by Casals (cello) and Horszowski (piano) was devoid of vulgarity yet splendid.

Piatigorsky (cello) and Schnabel (piano) recorded the "Cello Sonata in G Minor, Op.5 No.2," though it lacked particular brilliance. Rather, Casals’s "Seven Variations on a Theme from The Magic Flute" (Victor JF80–1), despite being an old recording, exuded charm and beauty.

Piano Concerto The five Piano Concertos unhesitatingly side with Victor’s Schnabel recordings. Though Sargent’s orchestral conducting proves highly unsatisfactory, it cannot be said to significantly mar Schnabel’s golden discs. Particularly No.4 and No.5 ("Emperor") stand out as exceptional. While Backhaus’s excellent recording exists for No.4, conventional wisdom still deems it prudent to collect Schnabel’s. As for No.1 and No.5—though Gieseking’s distinctive interpretations might appeal to modern tastes—they somehow leave one wanting. Here I shall list only Schnabel’s record numbers.

Piano Concerto No.1 in C Major (Victor JD17–21)

Piano Concerto No.2 in B-flat Major (JD639–42)

Piano Concerto No.3 in C Minor (JD174–8)

Piano Concerto No.4 in G Major (JD124–7) Piano Concerto No.5 ("Emperor") in E-flat Major (JD3119–23) Violin Concerto The Violin Concerto in D Major, Op.61 likely had at least ten different recordings. Among Beethoven’s works, it remained the most beloved piece—its fiery beauty never ceased to inspire listeners. Among these numerous records, I still felt attachment to Kreisler’s early electric recordings despite their age (Victor 8074–9). It was indeed a sonically fragile recording, yet it preserved Kreisler’s supreme artistry from his forties—its opulent beauty and dripping affection stood utterly beyond comparison. The orchestra came from the Berlin State Opera under Blech’s baton; I could never forget the thrill when H.M.V. first imported this record.

The second time Kreisler recorded this piece was seven or eight years later. Technically, there was no notable decline, but it lacked the radiance of former days; though possessing depth, in beauty it could not be spoken of in the same breath. Columbia’s Szigeti, Parlophon’s Wolfsthal, and others following Kreisler remain unforgettable records.

Sacred Music, Lieder

The *Missa Solemnis*, alongside the *Ninth Symphony* and *late quartets*, stands as one of Beethoven’s precious late works and should likely be placed at the highest rank among all artistic creations humanity has ever produced. The mindset of Beethoven—who inscribed “From the heart, may it return to the heart”—is also noble. The record was released by Polydor in only one set (Great Japan Masterpiece Record Distribution Society M1–11). The renowned Bruno Kittel conducted the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra and the Bruno Kittel Choir, and the soloists were also exceptionally fine. The recording was made twelve or thirteen years ago, but this particular record alone seems to me to have lost none of its value.

Among the Lieder stood Lotte Lehmann’s rendition of “Leonore’s Aria” from Act I of *Fidelio* (Columbia JW30) and “The Drums Sounded” from *Egmont*, with “Joy and Sorrow” (Columbia J5550) ranking among the finest. Polydor baritone Schlusnus’s recording of “Adelaide” remained unsurpassed in Beethoven’s Lieder repertoire—both song and performance peerless (60184). While “Divine Majesty” boasted soloists like Hüsch and Tauber alongside the Berlin Singers’ League choir, my thoughts invariably returned to Schwarz’s vintage recording. Both Chaliapin and Schlusnus proved consummate masters in “Dark Graveyard.”

Schubert: The Fountain of Melody

Is there anyone who speaks of music yet remains unaware of the beauty of the "Unfinished Symphony" or "Winterreise"? It is not music laboriously kneaded from petty intellectual reasoning. Like a bird singing in the balmy breeze of early summer, the melodies that welled up from the heart—processed with his magnificent genius and committed to staff paper to leave for centuries to come—were themselves a blessing bestowed upon humanity.

To say that Franz Schubert—who composed the *Unfinished Symphony*, created *Linden Tree*, crafted the *Trout Quintet*, and gave us *Ave Maria* and *Erlkönig*—has always lived among us through the ages as a friend to every heart would be no exaggeration. The great 19th-century Russian pianist and eccentric Anton Rubinstein, upon hearing Schubert’s “Am Meer” (By the Sea)—one of his *Schwanengesang* (Swan Song)—spoke these words: “Once more—no, a thousand times more! (Repeat that song for me.) Alongside Bach and Beethoven, Schubert truly stands as one of the three towering peaks of German music.”

There was not a trace of exaggeration in these words. The music that penetrated our spiritual lives, bringing pure solace and profound emotion morning and evening, would likely be ranked first as Schubert’s—a claim with which few could disagree. In Schubert’s music there existed neither Bach’s ceremonial dignity, Beethoven’s majesty, Mozart’s opulence, nor Brahms’s refined elegance; yet its nostalgic tenderness, its welling affection and radiant beauty stood unparalleled since music first arose among humankind. This could rightly be called an oasis in cultural history, nor was it improper to regard it as art within art. One might indeed say that Schubert was truly the noblest soul ever born of human mothers—an eternal friend to humanity, unchanging through a hundred generations.

Schubert is said to have been "the only composer who did not consider himself the greatest in the world." He was a soul of such humility that he remained entirely unaware of his own genius; whenever one of his songs happened to be met with thunderous applause, he would sincerely believe, “That’s all thanks to the singer Fogl’s skill.” Indeed, he went so far as to write in his diary, "The majority of that applause must be due to Goethe’s poetry." Even in a diary not meant to be shown to others, Schubert's endearing humility could not help but be reflected in this manner. What a striking contrast in character this presents when compared to Mozart, who firmly believed himself to be “a once-in-a-century genius” without ever doubting it!

Schubert’s gentle and beautiful music was conceived in this childlike heart. Like the spring sun, it does not fail to soothe the listener’s heart—and with good reason.

A Life for Song

Franz Schubert was born in 1797 in Vienna, the musical capital, as the thirteenth child of a poor elementary school principal. Despite his father’s meager salary and their far-from-easy circumstances, the atmosphere at home was sacred and profoundly musical. Schubert received his first musical instruction from his father and brother; during the family’s chamber music performances that enlivened their home gatherings, his father—on cello—would frequently pause to offer tentative guidance to Schubert, who played viola.

He studied music theory and vocal technique under a local choir conductor, but the young Schubert already knew everything the teacher tried to impart, so before long, the teacher had no choice but to withdraw. At twelve years old, a pale-faced boy of small stature and timid demeanor—wearing his older brother’s hand-me-down hat, his mother’s hand-sewn clothes, and thick glasses for severe myopia—entered the *Konvikt*, a school for training court musicians, where he studied under the renowned Salieri and Ruzicka, who had once been Beethoven’s teacher.

From that time onward, young Schubert’s musical ideas surged forth like a fountain, but with no paper to write them down, his senior and lifelong friend Spaun would provide sheets, allowing Schubert to commit his genius’s creations to paper. At sixteen, when his voice changed and he had to leave the court choir, Schubert had already achieved such a leap forward as to have completed his "First Symphony." For the next two or three years, he worked as a substitute teacher assisting at his father’s elementary school, and at seventeen composed seventeen songs including "Gretchen am Spinnrade." These were the first of Schubert's legacy to endure for posterity. In the following year of 1815, he wrote 157 songs, among which were *Heidenröslein* and *Erlkönig*. Above all, *Erlkönig* was composed in four or five hours one evening late that year when Schubert—inspired after reading Goethe’s poem and as if possessed—wrote it down in a frenzy; yet he had neither a piano nor anything else to aid him in this composition. Just then, Spaun, who had come to visit, took Schubert to the Konvikt, where Schubert himself sang while playing the accompaniment, earning thunderous applause from his friends.

Then, from that point until his death in 1828 at the age of thirty-one, Schubert left behind a staggering 1,200 compositions, more than half of which were Lieder. Schubert was like a man born to sing. It could be said he sang like a wild bird. Schubert’s musical ideas gushed forth ceaselessly; whenever a poetry collection lay within reach, he would seize it and immediately set it to music. Perhaps it was due to the surging of his astonishing genius that he coincidentally sought its outlet in the poetry at hand. For Schubert, composing was not laborious in the slightest; a fountain of melody and harmony gushed forth ceaselessly, seeking their path of torrential flow. Schubert composed operas, symphonies, masses, chamber music, lieder, and works in every other form, never once showing any sign that the fountain of his genius might run dry. There exists a concept called “universal reversion to gold,” but for Schubert, it was “universal reversion to music.” There was no phenomenon in all creation that could not serve as a subject for music; it would be no exaggeration to say that every movement of thought possessed melody and harmony.

A Wandering Life

At nineteen, Schubert aimed for the position of director at Laibach Music School but was defeated by a far less talented candidate; from then until thirty-one, he had no choice but to remain without formal employment for the rest of his life. During this period, he took up work as a tutor and received meager composition fees, yet his bohemian existence persisted unchanged. Before he knew it, a group called the "Schubert Circle" had formed around him, and days filled with frivolous merrymaking stretched on endlessly.

The unknown poets, simply by virtue of being Schubert’s friends, had their poems set to music by him, thus securing their names for posterity. Some among them did help Schubert, but more often than not, they would spend the few florins he occasionally earned on alcohol and sausages. Schubert seems to have been loved by everyone. Those who met him even once could never forget his humble and endearing personality. Spaun later gained social status and financially supported Schubert, while the much older singer Vogl told him, "You show promise, but you’re too earnest by half. Though he admonished, "You mustn't squander such beautiful thoughts," Vogl could never resist the allure of Schubert's songs, performing them at every opportunity to introduce their beauty to society. Gradually, many came to understand Vogl’s descriptions of “words and poetry transformed into music” and “thoughts clothed in music’s garments.”

Schober, fearing that Schubert’s poverty would stifle his burgeoning genius, once took him into his own home and covered his living expenses so he could continue composing works unlikely to earn money. Professor Watterroth, Vienna’s eminent scholar; his beloved daughter Wilhelmine; her husband Witteczek; and others—all remained Schubert’s steadfast friends throughout their lives. Moreover, Witteczek himself undertook the organization and collection of Schubert’s posthumous manuscripts after the composer’s death. All of these should be regarded as reflections of Schubert’s admirable character as a person.

Noble Poverty

In 1818, the twenty-one-year-old Schubert was hired as a music tutor by Count Esterházy of Hungary and, parting from many friends, stayed for a time at Esterházy Castle. At that time, Countess Marie was thirteen years old, her sister Caroline eleven; the Count’s bass voice, the Countess and Caroline’s alto voices, and Marie’s beautiful soprano sang joyfully to Schubert’s accompaniment. Though Schubert received merely two florins per lesson, having time for composition and becoming acquainted with rural scenery made it quite a pleasant experience for the Viennese-born composer.

The film *Unfinished Symphony* took its subject from Schubert’s Hungarian period and skillfully dramatized it, though in reality, the two young countesses may have been somewhat too young to serve as Schubert’s counterparts. Schubert’s Hungarian period did not last very long either. How he managed to live in Vienna for several years after that remains unclear. There were occasional uncertainties regarding Schubert’s financial circumstances. Publishers—using the pretext of being busy printing works by mediocre popular writers—accepted twelve pieces for a mere 160 florins, which Schubert could not protest. From the single song *The Wanderer* among them alone, these publishers earned 27,000 florins over forty years starting in 1822.

The twenty-four songs of his lifelong masterpiece *Winterreise* were purchased for a mere one florin each. It was akin to exchanging jewels for petty cash, yet the publishers even acted as though they were doing him a favor.

Years of poverty and hardship continued. Schubert was a true son of Vienna who knew no art of inducing the wealthy and nobility to overvalue him for an easier life. Withdrawing from all praise and attention, he always lived serenely among his poor friends. Schubert's timidity was extraordinary, but his worship of Beethoven was no easy matter. He had never even imagined visiting this old master alone; when finally taken to meet him by a music shop owner in 1822—though Beethoven produced pencil and paper—he could not write a single phrase. Beethoven looked through the works Schubert had brought and pointed out two or three harmonic errors, but the young composer grew so embarrassed that he furtively slipped away.

Beethoven cherished these compositions and had his nephew Karl play them, declaring, "Schubert possesses a divine fire." Five years later when Schubert visited again, Beethoven lay on his deathbed in a state too grave for speech. Schubert gazed at this dying titan, hands clasped, and departed without uttering a word—tears glistening in his eyes. Fourteen days passed, and Beethoven died. As one of thirty-eight torchbearers escorting the colossus' remains by the coffin-side, Schubert too began showing signs of failing health from that time onward.

In the summer of 1828 that followed, plagued by dizziness and headaches, he moved to the suburbs on his doctor's advice. One day in late October while dining with a friend, he threw down his knife and fork, declaring, "This food tastes like poison." This proved to be the harbinger of a fatal illness. Come November, there were stretches of eleven days when he consumed neither food nor drink. He had written to a friend that merely shuffling from bed to chair and back again exhausted his strength—then several days later developed a violent fever. On November 19th, he died uttering, "I cannot remain on this earth. There is no Beethoven here." As Henry Fink observed, it might have been "a life extendable had money been available."

Buried beside Beethoven’s grave in accordance with his will, this was perhaps the small comfort for that peerless genius who died young at thirty-one. The left-behind junk—old shoes, an old bedstead, and worn-out trousers—was valued at sixty-three florins. Among these items was included the handwritten score of his immortal masterpiece, the C Major Symphony—a heartbreaking irony that defies description.

The Miracle of Genius

I have now fully documented Schubert's poverty and his admirable human qualities. I must append a few final words regarding his most essential attributes—the miraculous nature of Schubert's genius and his musical accomplishments, particularly his revolutionary establishment of German art song.

Schubert's genius was utterly transcendent. When strolling through the suburbs with friends and resting at an inn, he pulled out a poem from Shakespeare’s collected works on the shelf and exclaimed, "A marvelous musical idea has just come to me—if only I had some staff paper!" When his friends promptly drew staff lines in pencil on the back of a menu, what Schubert swiftly wrote upon them was the renowned masterpiece song "Hark, Hark, the Lark," a work of sublime melody.

When musical inspiration struck at night—partly out of laziness so he could leap up and write immediately—Schubert had a habit of sleeping with his glasses on. One night he sprang up and wrote "The Trout" in a burst of inspiration, but mistook the ink pot for the sand shaker used instead of blotting paper, sprinkling ink over the completed score—a mishap preserved to this day among Schubert’s precious relics. He composed "Issunboshi" while chatting with friends and created "The Beautiful Miller’s Maid" after visiting a friend’s house—where he read Müller’s poems in their absence, became captivated, and borrowed the collection without permission to set them to music. What a profoundly fascinating contrast this miracle of Schubert’s torrential genius presents when measured against Beethoven’s painstaking methods—the decade required to complete his First Symphony and the thirty years he kept the choral theme of his Ninth Symphony concealed in his notebooks.

Schubert moved from poem to poem, from musical idea to musical idea. When he finished one composition, he would nonchalantly forget it and proceed to the next—this was Schubert’s way. When his singer friend Vogl made slight modifications to the songs Schubert had composed and showed them to him two weeks later, he said, “This isn’t half bad. Who wrote this?” He had completely forgotten that it was his own composition.

Schubert entrusted himself to inspiration and composed as if swept along by a torrent. The production of 1,200 works over eighteen years was not something he pursued for fame or monetary reward.

Regarding the time when he composed the twenty-four songs of his crowning masterpiece *Winterreise*, his good friend Spaun wrote this account: “Schubert was sullen and withdrawn. When we asked what was wrong, he said, ‘You’ll understand soon.’ One day, Schubert went to Schober’s house and sang all twenty-four songs of *Winterreise* for us to hear. We were utterly bewildered by their bleakness. When Schober said that only ‘Linden Tree’ pleased him, Schubert replied: ‘I love every one of these songs more than any others I’ve written. The day will come when you too shall love them all.’”

What a sorrowful conviction that was—*Winterreise*, comparable to twenty-four luminous pearls of night, remained uncomprehended even by his friends when composed. Yet Schubert's words—"Someday the time will come when you all will love them too—"—proved brilliantly prophetic. Could there exist in this world any songs surpassing those twenty-four of *Winterreise*? Among all human creations, were there ever other beautiful songs to rival even one among these—*Gute Nacht*, *Der Lindenbaum*, *Frühlingstraum*, *Der Wegweiser*, or *Der Leiermann*?

The fourteen songs subsequently composed to poems by Rellstab and Heine were published after Schubert’s death as *Swan Song* (meaning “farewell songs”), and now at last, people of the world profoundly regretted their harshness toward the ill-fated genius Schubert. Among the fourteen songs of *Swan Song* are *Atlas*, *The Town*, *Serenade*, and *Resting Place*. “By the Sea” and “The Apparition” stand out as especially jewel-like masterpieces among them.

The German Lied was perfected by Schubert. Though art songs existed before Schubert, neither Mozart nor Beethoven produced many masterpieces within this genre. Schubert paid profound attention to German prosody, and by harnessing the beauty of German poetry, he founded an entirely new form of art song. Schubert was not only a treasure trove of melodies but also a master of modulation. Furthermore, he gave the accompaniment an important role as a background, thereby embodying there the ideal trinity of poem, song, and accompaniment, and achieving an organic union of music and poetry.

Schubert’s Lieder overflow with a beauty entirely their own. The masterpieces are *The Beautiful Miller’s Maid* (twenty songs), *Winter Journey* (twenty-four songs), and *Swan Song*. Beyond these fourteen songs, individual standalone works include *Der Wanderer* (“The Wanderer”), *Erlkönig* (“The Erlking”), *Die Forelle* (“The Trout”), and *Der Tod und das Mädchen* (“Death and the Maiden”). *Du bist die Ruh* (“You Are My Rest”), *Litanei* (“Litany”)—and on and on without end. What a blessing it is that Schubert’s music exists in this world. The excellence of Schubert’s Lieder goes without saying, but I have even gone so far as to argue that to preserve a single piece like the "Unfinished Symphony," I would not regret discarding all other symphonies.

From the *Trout Quintet* and *Death and the Maiden Quartet* to his many chamber works and the exquisite piano *Impromptus*, Schubert’s music remains ever close at hand, scattering love, beauty, and radiance without reservation.

Schubert’s Works and Their Records

I have written repeatedly about how profoundly close Schubert’s music feels to us. Within it lies matchless beauty and an abundance of overflowing affection. Yet without any ponderous weight or the intimidating air typical of so-called masterworks, it pierces straight to our very core—possessing a quality that irresistibly compels us to sing alongside Schubert.

The quantity of Schubert’s records ranked second only to Beethoven’s in abundance and likely surpassed those of Mozart and Bach; however, from among them, I limited myself to selecting merely one or two out of ten—those most representative and profoundly intriguing.

Symphonies

As far as the author knows, recordings of the 'Unfinished Symphony' have been in existence for thirty years. There are probably more than twenty different recordings of the 'Unfinished' Symphony in the world. Among all music created by human hands, there may exist works greater than this, works more splendid than this—but something as beautiful as this is scarcely to be found. Even if there were a hundred different recordings of the 'Unfinished Symphony,' we would have no reason to be surprised.

"If I were to select just one recording from those of the 'Unfinished Symphony,' I would choose Bruno Walter’s Columbia Records release with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (J8642-4). It was a performance utterly devoid of theatricality—plain and unadorned—yet one that gently enveloped our hearts in tender affection and romantic dreams. Following this, I would next mention Telefunken’s recording under Kleiber’s baton, which was even sweeter and more sentimental."

The "Symphony in C Major" is known as a lengthy symphony, but by today's standards, it isn't particularly long. In fact, I feel that considering its beauty, it might even be too short. The recording of Walter conducting the London Symphony Orchestra remains available in Columbia's catalog (JS 107–12). There are four or five other recordings listed, but they're either outdated or unremarkable.

Overtures， Intermezzos， and Dance Pieces The overtures， intermezzos， and dance pieces from *Rosamunde* are imbued with Schubert’s characteristic simple charm， but surprisingly few good recordings of them existed． Though slightly dated， Furtwängler conducting the Berlin Philharmonic for Polydor (S4041， Furtwängler’s Celebrated Recordings Collection) was available， while among newer releases， Walter conducting the London Symphony Orchestra could be found on Columbia (JS115)． As for the “German Dances，” I could not recall any good recordings besides Victor’s under Blech’s direction (JD202)．

Chamber Music There are two piano trios, of which the "Trio in B-flat Major, Op. 99" is the more beautiful, with four or five recordings available. The Victor record (8070-3) featuring the trio of Casals, Thibaud, and Cortot—despite being an extremely old recording from the early electrical era—remains unshaken in its reign over this piece. Additionally, Polydor includes the Ney Trio’s version, while Columbia has the Hess Trio’s.

The Trio in E-flat Major, Op. 100 was available on Victor by the Busch (violin) and Serkin (piano) Trio (JD745–9). Among string quartets, recordings were concentrated on the "String Quartet in D minor," commonly known as the "Death and the Maiden" quartet. This derived from its second movement incorporating the song *Death and the Maiden*, resulting in variations of exquisite beauty yet profound sorrow—indeed, among string quartets, none but Beethoven ever created a piece so beautiful and so deeply moving. Though quite old, Columbia’s Capet Quartet recording still held first place for its delicate refinement (Capet Society Vol.8 S1103-6), with Victor’s Busch Quartet following next through its robust quality (JD1031-4).

I thought it appropriate to mention the Kolisch Quartet's recording of the *String Quartet in A minor, Op. 29* (Columbia J8413–6). The *Piano Quintet in A major ("Trout"), Op. 114* alone sufficed to represent Schubert. This was also because the variations based on the song *Die Forelle* ("The Trout") in its fourth movement possessed such beauty. For recordings, I ranked Victor's Schnabel (piano) and Pro Arte Quartet's lucid and expansive performance as first (JD786–90), while considering Telefunken's Rupp (piano) and Stross Quartet's rendition as second.

The String Quintet in C Major, Op. 163 was a quintet with an added second cello—a large-scale, substantial work. Victor contained Pro Arte's recording (JD615–9).

Piano Works The "Piano Sonata in A Major (Posthumous)" stood as an exceptional work among Schubert’s piano sonatas, with the profundity of his late years concealed within its splendid form. Victor had Schnabel’s celebrated recording (JD1087–91). The "Fantasia in C Major, Op. 15 ('Der Wanderer')" was a work imbued with characteristic Schubertian passion, featuring a theme and variations in its second movement drawn from the song "Der Wanderer," and Victor possessed Fischer’s recording of it. I considered it a straightforward and excellent performance (JD606–8).

The *Impromptus* manifest Schubert’s innocence and unrestrained genius, making them profoundly fascinating. Victor contains two volumes of Fischer’s performances. In *Impromptus Op. 90* (JD1424–6) and *Impromptus Op. 142* (JD1427–9), this performance delights with its straightforwardness and passion, fitting for a professor of classical interpretation. For *Moments musicaux (Op. 94)*, there exists Schnabel’s celebrated recording (Victor JD1584–6). This too articulates an aspect of Schubert’s genius, likely to elicit smiles through its beauty untainted by worldly thoughts. The *Marches* are available on Victor in a joint performance by the Schnabels—father and son—containing five pieces. A delightful and invigorating set (VD8021–3).

The three piano works discussed above—the *Impromptus*, *Moments musicaux*, and *Marches*—have numerous recordings available, including arrangements for violin, cello, and orchestra. However, I believe the recordings by Fischer, Schnabel, and the Schnabels (father and son) are more than sufficient. Of the marches, only the "Military March" arranged by Tauzig for solo performance has an excellent rendition by Brailowsky on Polydor (40508).

Violin and Cello Pieces

Several violin-piano sonatas had been recorded, but ultimately, aside from the "Grand Fantasia in C Major, Op. 159," there was nothing of great significance. This piece stood out even among Schubert’s works, featuring an ethereally mysterious first movement contrasted by a lively second movement that employed the same melody as his song "Greeting." The sole Victor record of this work—performed by Busch (violin) and Serkin (piano)—was an older recording but remained an elegant and excellent rendition (VD8203–5).

Among cello sonatas, there is the *A minor ("Arpeggione")*. It was written for the now-extinct arpeggione instrument, and while Columbia has a version arranged as a cello concerto, both are interesting. Here I will note Victor Records' version by Helsher (cello) and Ney (piano) (JH22–3), and Columbia Records' version by Feuermann (cello) and Moore (piano) (JW75–7). A sweet and delightful piece.

Lieder Schubert's true strength lay in his songs, and the brilliance of his genius would endure through his Lieder as an eternal charm.

Among the three great song cycles, I absolutely recommend Victor’s recording of *Die schöne Müllerin* by baritone Gerhard Hüsch (JD724–31). No one could sing this twenty-song cycle of romantic pieces with such masterful yet sincere artistry, drawing forth delicate beauty and profound melancholy from within their deceptively simple framework.

The twenty-four songs of *Winterreise* surpass even *Die schöne Müllerin* in vocal artistry, yet Hüsch’s rendition achieves still greater mastery. Though said to foreshadow Schubert’s death with its macabre undertones, Hüsch’s performance—while scrupulously honoring Lieder conventions—attains an expression of infinite depth that aches with devastating beauty. That Victor pressed this monumental nine-disc collection three times over owes much to Japan’s grasp of German Lieder (Schubert Lieder Collection JD357–62, JF50–2).

Within *Winterreise*, there were one or two recordings worthy of recommendation alongside Hüsch. That would be addressed in a later section. *Schwanengesang* was even bleaker than *Winterreise*. Among its pieces, works like *Resting Place*, *Shadow*, and *By the Sea* proved unbearably poignant to hear, yet retained extraordinary beauty in their songs. As embodiments of tragic artistry, few works could rival these. For these fourteen songs, there existed no recording by Hüsch; Victor's complete version by baritone Hans Duhan stood as the sole option (JE114–7, JD1057–9). Duhan was by no means a masterful performer, but his straightforward approach rendered pieces like *Resting Place* exceptionally effective.

Among single-disc records classified by singer, Polydor's celebrated tenor Slezak shines brightest in his early electrical recordings—particularly "Lindenbaum," "Serenade," "By the Sea," "You Are My Rest," and "Restlessness," which stand as masterpieces (Polydor: Slezak's Favorite Songs Collection). There is no Schubert sung with such meticulous devotion and masterful technique. Also on Polydor, baritone Schlusnus excels in songs performed with flamboyant style and ecstatic sentiment. "Erlkönig," "Serenade," and "Der Wanderer" would be representative records (Polydor: Schlusnus’s Favorite Songs Collection).

Among female artists, mezzo-soprano Elena Gerhardt stands out. Above all, I believe that among the very early electrical recordings of Schubert made during her youth, there are indeed works worthy of being called masterpieces. It combines profound insight, a deeply resonant voice, and an exceptionally distinctive style. The Victor recordings of "The Hurdy-Gurdy Man," "Spring's Faith," "The Trout," and "To Be Sung on the Water" represent her most outstanding interpretations, while "The Signpost," "Resting Place," "The Linden Tree," and "The Post" follow closely behind.

Victor soprano Elisabeth Schumann captivates Japanese fans with her charmingly pure voice. Pieces like “Heidenröslein,” “Ave Maria,” and “Hark! Hark! The Lark” exemplify her excellence in delicate repertoire. Lotte Lehmann’s renditions of “Erlkönig” and “Death and the Maiden” remain accessible through Columbia releases. While Victor houses additional recordings by Ginster and Mrs. Schnabel, these warrant no further elaboration here. Among alto vocalists, Victor’s Anderson—a recently prominent Black mixed-race artist—commands attention despite my reservations; works like “Death and the Maiden” likely define her legacy. Victor’s Onegin demonstrates peerless maturity in interpreting “Du bist die Ruh,” while Schumann-Heink’s “Erlkönig” merits inclusion here as well. Beyond these figures, no Lieder singers of particular note come to mind.

The Pure-Hearted Prodigy, Berlioz

The Childlike Heart

Hector Berlioz was a musician of truly wondrous nature. As a composer, his achievements had been superhuman leaps from mountaintop to mountaintop; as an artist, his vision was heroic in scale. Yet Berlioz as a man remained childlike in his purity, maiden-like in his sentimentality, so lacking in self-control that he repeatedly laid bare the fragility of his heart without hesitation. Berlioz—who never ceased mountain climbing until age sixty-five; Berlioz of ironclad constitution, unfazed by walks in the rain or even sleeping in snow when seized by passion—could not relinquish the yearning he had felt at twelve for Estelle, a girl six years his senior with large eyes and rose-colored shoes. Even fifty years later at sixty-one, he struggled desperately to discern traces of her eighteen-year-old self within the wrinkled visage of Estelle, now a woman nearing seventy. He devoted his entire being to the remote village where she lived, thinking, "This autumn, I will spend a month by her side." "If no letter comes from her, I shall die in this Parisian hell," declared Berlioz.

He sat weeping on Paris' cobblestone streets. Yet there was no way the elderly Estelle could comprehend this madman's conduct. "What purpose would that serve now?" was all she managed to write him. But the aged Berlioz nevertheless clung to dreams of dying at her side. "To sit at your feet, lay my head upon your knees, grasp your hand—" Such were the yearnings penned by Berlioz at sixty—this eternal youth in an old man's frame.

Yet this man of childlike heart was, in the realm of music, a warrior who boldly and straightforwardly accomplished the most innovative work. The masterpiece *The Damnation of Faust* was begun the year after Beethoven’s death, and by 1830—just two years later—Berlioz had already embarked on *Symphonie fantastique*, the first great work of program music, blazing the trail for modern music. At that time, not only had Liszt yet to emerge, but even Wagner’s *Rienzi* had not yet appeared; needless to say, the world still lay bound by the constraints of classical musical forms, indulging in peaceful dreams while unaware of the coming dawn of tomorrow. Romain Rolland’s declaration of Berlioz as “the only French musician” and Weingartner’s assertion that “had Berlioz not existed, we would not be where we are today—regardless of Wagner or Liszt” must indeed be called aptly said.

Destitution and Pure-Heartedness

Hector Berlioz was born in 1803 in the vicinity of Grenoble, France. His father, a physician, educated the child at home and even gave him his first music lessons. However, as Berlioz’s interests increasingly gravitated toward music and he developed an extraordinary passion for it, his father—like most conventional parents—sternly opposed his son becoming a musician.

Initially placed in medical school, Berlioz could no longer endure the atmosphere of the dissection room and ultimately left the institution to devote himself entirely to musical studies. —This impatience, a lifelong flaw that clung to Berlioz—provoked his father’s wrath, cutting off his financial support, and thus began Berlioz’s bleak existence from this very moment. Berlioz’s dedication was splendid to the point of being heartrending. It would not be an exaggeration to call his seven years of diligent study while battling destitution heroic. He completed the formal curriculum of the Paris Conservatory, but his new Romantic tendencies—particularly his attitude of deviating from established conventions and disregarding antiquated traditions—could not escape provoking public backlash and attacks.

Berlioz was the most audacious destroyer of musical form. No—or rather, it could be said that destruction itself was Berlioz’s form. To answer the demands of his own heart, he was willing to write music that was not beautiful in the slightest. Rather than depend on convention and resign himself to poverty of thought, he chose to become the most daring rebel—a splinter of kindling to ignite new life. Berlioz was abandoned by both teachers and friends, forced to join a back-alley theater chorus to survive through daily song—yet the indomitable heroic spirit rooted deep within his fragile heart would not falter before such trials.

In 1830, Berlioz fortunately won the Rome Prize with his cantata *Sardanapale* and gained the opportunity to study in Rome for three years—yet even there, he could not endure and ultimately returned to Paris in less than two years. And to support his livelihood, he reluctantly had to take up the pen of music criticism.

Berlioz's extraordinary eccentricity reached its peak in his relationship with Henriette Smithson. This actress was a British-born beauty, but when Berlioz saw her Shakespearean play at a mere glance, it became something he could never forget. Needless to say, the actress, then at the height of her popularity, bluntly rejected the impoverished composer’s proposal. The passionate Berlioz wandered aimlessly like a madman. Night and day, it is recounted how he would spend "one night in fields near town, one day in pastures outside So, another time in snow along the Seine riverside—at times startling waiters who thought him dead—even atop café tables——"

He wandered about until he grew sleepy. And he despised her and cursed her. Berlioz’s masterpiece *Symphonie fantastique* depicts the morbid fantasies of a young musician. As indicated by its movement titles—“Dreams,” “Passions,” “A Ball,” “Scene in the Countryside,” “March to the Scaffold,” and “Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath”—the work clearly channels his fervent passion and curses toward Henriette Smithson.

Several years passed. When Smithson reappeared before Berlioz, she was no longer the woman she had once been. Having completely worn away her charm, with the Shakespeare play ending in utter failure and burdened by massive debts, she threw herself into the arms of Berlioz—the man she had once refused to even glance at. Needless to say, the pure-hearted Berlioz welcomed her with open arms.

It goes without saying how terribly the fourteen thousand francs in debt she had brought tormented Berlioz. Berlioz declared to Parisian audiences that he would exact revenge for his beloved wife Smithson, but such a thing remained nothing but a dream. When *The Damnation of Faust* was performed under great expectations, not a single person paid to attend, and Berlioz was utterly ruined.

His new wife Smithson turned out to be a sensible and faithful yet utterly ordinary British woman.

Around that time, Berlioz once obtained a magnificent symphony theme in a dream one night. Awakening from the dream, he went to his desk and instinctively picked up his pen—the beautiful music resounded clearly in his mind—but Berlioz had to deliberate. Downstairs, his wife and child lay groaning with illness; with even the cost of medicine growing uncertain of late, what would become of things if Berlioz were to abandon all moneymaking trivialities and devote himself to composing a symphony? It was perfectly clear that he would lose all income for a month or two due to that work. Moreover, driven by his fervent desire to perform it, he would organize an orchestra and undergo prolonged rehearsals—only to then have to procure astonishing funds from somewhere for a performance that would surely yield no profit.

“This is no time to indulge in such things,” Berlioz told himself, burrowing into bed. The next night too, Berlioz dreamed the same dream. A magnificent theme rang clear in his ears—yet the moans of his sick wife and child downstairs shattered this vision once more, forcing him back to his pillow of resignation. On the third night, the dream did not return. Nor did the symphony’s theme ever revive in him, no matter how he strained afterward. Thus Berlioz lost a celestial inspiration, while we posterity—through his very humanity, that fragile heart—lost a beautiful symphony, plunged from darkness into darkness.

“He was heroic in sacrificing his genius to love—had it been Wagner, he would have endured any hardship to write that symphony.” “And Wagner would have been correct,” said Romain Rolland.

It was around this time that Niccolò Paganini—the devilishly talented violinist—unexpectedly sent Berlioz an unconditional gift of twenty thousand francs, without any prior notice whatsoever, unable to bear witnessing his destitution any longer. Berlioz’s ecstasy leaps across the pages of his autobiography. Paganini had publicly declared of Berlioz, “He is none other than Beethoven’s successor”—a declaration that made clear the significance of this twenty-thousand-franc gift.

A Life of Unrelenting Torment

Berlioz's life was truly a continuation of suffering. Because of his capriciousness and purity of heart—something that common sense would find difficult to sympathize with—. It might be more accurate to say it was due to passion. While his works received enthusiastic acclaim for but a brief period in his prime, his middle age was in truth an unrelenting series of misfortunes.

The Parisian audiences never sought to understand Berlioz, and his works consistently became a subject of discussion abroad—particularly in Germany. This was likely because there were understanding supporters such as Liszt, Schumann, and Wagner there. And even today, it is said that to hear *The Damnation of Faust*, one must go to Germany. When Wagner met Berlioz, he involuntarily let out a sigh of relief. When it comes to “He has finally found someone more wretched than himself—”, I feel as though I can see Berlioz’s misery before my very eyes. At forty-five years old, Berlioz declared, “I have grown so old and weary. I have lost even illusions—everything.” It is unavoidable that his post-middle-age works lack vitality.

Later, Berlioz married the Spanish singer Maria Recio, but in his later years, he lost his sisters, Smithson, and Smithson’s only son, Louis, becoming utterly alone. “I have suffered so much,” he said. “But now I don’t want to die.” “I have enough money to live on,” he said as he closed his eyes for the last time on March 8, 1869. When his life had finally stabilized—that was the final day of the solitary Berlioz.

Berlioz’s music was grand and deeply shaded in its contrasts. While Romantic in style yet devoid of any saccharine quality, he conceived orchestral works on a scale unimaginable for his time and sought to overturn classical formalism at its very foundations. In program music, he clearly preceded Liszt, and his idée fixe technique could be said to have anticipated Wagner’s leitmotif. Berlioz was unrestrained, passionate, and lacked direction—a consequence of his own inability to govern both his life and works. "It is right to say he believed neither in beauty nor in himself," yet "even a single fragment of his work—a mere fragment of the *Symphonie fantastique*—reveals more genius than all French musical works from his lifetime combined." When Romain Rolland states that "only four or five musicians in the world rank above him—Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, and Wagner," this cannot be dismissed as mere national pride.

Berlioz's Works and Their Records

Berlioz’s records are exceedingly scarce. His music is diverse, elegant, and profoundly intriguing, yet on one hand, it possesses elements that remain quite inaccessible to the general public. His music was perhaps too grandiose in scale to resonate with common ears. “Berlioz will be understood half a century after Wagner” is an apt remark.

Symphonie fantastique and Other Orchestral Works This representative work of Berlioz’s has up to four types of records—either complete or nearly complete versions—each conducted respectively by Monteux, Meyrowitz, Pierné, and Walter. Among these, the recent record conducted by Walter with the Paris orchestra, released by Victor but soon discontinued (VD 8146–51), is probably the finest among the recordings of this piece. Walter’s romanticism and technical brilliance, combined with the seasoned Paris orchestra, deftly render Berlioz’s fantastical vision. Another Victor record conducted by Monteux with the Paris Symphony Orchestra, though not a recent recording, is one exuding a rich vitality and, in contrast to Walter’s, has maintained its longevity (11093–8).

The overture *Roman Carnival* may be boisterous, but it remains Berlioz’s most accessible work. Though Boult, Beecham, Mengelberg, and others have conducted it, Mengelberg’s recording with the Concertgebouw Orchestra stands as the finest choice (Telefunken 33610).

There were also records of overtures such as *The Roman Inquisitor*, *King Lear*, and *Benvenuto Cellini*.

*The Damnation of Faust* and Vocal Records

Berlioz’s magnum opus, the dramatic legend *The Damnation of Faust* based on Goethe’s poem, had been released by Victor as a celebrated complete 10-disc set (JH74–83). With Panzera singing the lead role and Coppola conducting the Concerts Pasdeloup Orchestra and Sam Jeunesse Choir, this recording exemplified authentic excellence—a truly splendid production where even the famous "Rákóczi March" alone rendered this complete set incomparable.

While there were many recordings containing only the "Rákóczi March," those conducted by Stokowski proved particularly engaging. *The Holy Family at Rest* formed part of *The Childhood of Christ (Op. 25)*, with Rühlmann conducting the Paris Symphony Orchestra and Jean Planel as vocalist in a Columbia recording (J-8436). As religious music, it retained distinctly earthy qualities while achieving a beautifully troubled grandeur. The Columbia record (J-8488) featuring tenor Till's performance of *Vaines plaintes* ("Futile Lament") and *Dernier naufrage* ("Final Shipwreck") from *Les Troyens à Carthage*, though less captivating than *The Holy Family at Rest*, nevertheless merited inclusion here.

Fortunate Genius Mendelssohn

Mendelssohn's name once fell victim to the Nazis' anti-Jewish purge campaign and was even expunged from German music textbooks; however, though they could erase Mendelssohn's name, there remained no means to eradicate his exceptional music, resulting in the peculiar situation where his works continued to be performed simply by writing "Violin Concerto in E minor" and "Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream." Yet recently, through some manner of mitigation measures, Mendelssohn's name has been restored to German textbooks, and his music now once again openly enlivens Germany's musical world.

This is truly as it should be. Whatever the circumstances may be, to lose the name of Felix Mendelssohn—a German Protestant who provided groundbreaking masterpieces to German music and formed the pinnacle of German Romanticism—along with his jewel-like works, would be too great a loss for human culture.

Incarnation of Happiness

Mendelssohn was remarkably fortunate throughout his brief life as a musician. Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy—born on February 3, 1809, in Hamburg as the eldest son of wealthy banker Abraham Mendelssohn—grew up bearing all the world’s good fortune upon himself, nurtured amidst abundant affection and an education of almost excessive thoroughness. When he was three years old, his family—driven by the ravages of Napoleon’s wars—relocated to Berlin. Under the tender care of his mother, they engaged several preeminent masters as tutors, and alongside his sisters Fanny and Rebecca, he grew into adulthood like a prince from a fairy tale. What a tremendous difference this makes when compared to Schubert—who grew up as the child of a poor elementary school teacher—and Beethoven—the son of an alcoholic, impoverished musician!

Mendelssohn's music possesses not a trace of bitterness—being bright, agreeable, pure, brilliant, endowed with a beauty almost too exquisite and a polish nearly too perfect—and may indeed be said to derive from these very circumstances. It is by no means rare to find those who openly declare their dislike for Mendelssohn’s music; such individuals likely prefer music with richer contrasts, works accompanied by emotional outbursts, ideological compositions, or tragic pieces. However, we must also remember that among experienced elders, there are by no means few who say, "It is only with age that one comes to understand Mendelssohn's merits."

Mendelssohn’s music, though somewhat superficial, was thoroughly Romantic, its technique being exquisite and subtle, leaving no room for criticism. It might well be described as aristocratic. To call it music free from vulgarity would also be apt. If any sorrow could be found within it, this was a vein of pathos necessarily born of inescapable happiness—the melancholy inherent in perfection itself. It proved exceedingly difficult to extract that 'pathos' and 'melancholy' from Mendelssohn’s music. This was precisely because his music remained blessed with resplendent happiness and stayed thoroughly splendid and radiant from start to finish.

Prodigious Genius The young Mendelssohn developed his innate talents within this environment. By the age of seven, he had already been recognized for his extraordinary piano ability; by nine, he astonished Berliners with public performances; by eleven, he had composed numerous works; and by fifteen, he had written several chamber music pieces, two operas, five concertos, along with a substantial number of piano and organ solos, as well as violin-piano sonatas.

The Mendelssohn family was highly musical; not only did no one hinder Felix's dedication to music, but they would occasionally gather close friends to host what were called "Mendelssohn family morning concerts," where the young Mendelssohn would climb onto a chair, conduct a small orchestra, and perform classical masterpieces alongside his own compositions.

It goes without saying that his older sister Fanny played the piano and his younger sister Rebecca played the violin, participating in these concerts. The delight of imagining the premieres of the young Mendelssohn’s works—sometimes in opulent drawing rooms, sometimes in vast gardens—is enough to bring a smile to anyone’s face. During this period, Mendelssohn met the great poet Goethe—who commanded universal reverence—and received his words of praise; befriended the eminent pianist of the time, Moscheles; composed his Symphony No. 1 in C minor (Op. 11) at the age of fifteen in 1824; and the following year visited Paris, gaining recognition from senior composers such as Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Cherubini.

Mendelssohn was not only outstanding as a musician but also possessed an elegant demeanor, excelled in various sports, had a cheerful disposition, and maintained a gracious attitude; consequently, he was beloved by all who met him, gathered many friends and admirers, and wherever he went, beautiful expressions of friendship unfailingly blossomed. Mendelssohn lacked the arrogance, coldness, and superficiality that those raised in wealth are so often prone to.

In 1826, as Shakespeare’s German translations reached completion, Mendelssohn became extraordinarily captivated by the dreamlike poetic essence of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*, composing its overture in a single burst and performing it at a Mendelssohn family concert. Having lost the newly finished score of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream* in a carriage and finding himself unable to arrive in time for the performance, he frantically reconstructed it from memory; yet when later compared with the original manuscript, they say not the slightest discrepancy could be found even in the most minute details. This stands as evidence that Mendelssohn’s genius had already attained full maturity by seventeen or eighteen years of age.

The thirteen pieces comprising Part II of *A Midsummer Night's Dream*—including the Scherzo, Nocturne, and Wedding March—were composed in 1843, three years before his death and seventeen years after the overture. It is said there were neither differences in compositional approach nor technical advancements compared to the overture written seventeen years prior—further evidence that Mendelssohn's genius had already reached full maturity in his youth. Yet this very circumstance paradoxically highlights the striking contrast between Mendelssohn's surprisingly early decline and figures like Beethoven, who ceaselessly progressed, evolved, and grappled with artistic struggles throughout his entire lifetime.

Tragic Premature Death

Mendelssohn visited England ten times during his brief life. Whether because England’s climate suited his constitution or because his works inherently resonated with British sensibilities, he returned from each visit brimming with satisfaction after receiving rapturous applause. Likely, Mendelssohn’s aristocratic demeanor and compositions perfectly matched British tastes—conservative, academically inclined, and averse to anything crude. Even Mendelssohn’s somewhat surface-level artistry strikes us today as profoundly British in character.

During this period, he composed the Scottish Symphony, wrote an organ piece to celebrate his sister Fanny's wedding, and created the famous overture The Hebrides. This renowned tone poem was written as an overture after he visited Scotland's Fingal's Cave and marveled at its grand vistas. In 1831, while traveling through Italy where he conceived musical ideas for his Italian Symphony, the first volume of his tender piano pieces titled Songs Without Words—reportedly sent to his sister Fanny in lieu of letters—was published the following year. In 1833, he moved to Düsseldorf and settled there, then two years later in 1835 was appointed as the esteemed conductor of Leipzig's Gewandhaus Concert, where he first met Chopin and Clara Wieck (later Mrs. Schumann). This marked a momentous event in music history.

In 1837, Mendelssohn married Charlotte and was lifted to the pinnacle of happiness. The five years as conductor of the Gewandhaus must have been a time when even Mendelssohn—a man who seemed the very incarnation of happiness—experienced his most peaceful life and fullest contentment. In 1841, King Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia planned to establish a grand Academy of Arts to enhance Berlin's culture and invited Mendelssohn as the director of its music department. The position was an honorable one that entailed considerable physical and mental burdens; however, the appointment being compulsory and impossible to refuse forced Mendelssohn to undertake this weighty responsibility with his already declining strength.

During this period, he continued his occasional visits to England and his efforts to establish the Leipzig Music School, fathered four children, met the young Joachim (who would later become a great violinist), and completed Part II of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*.

It was around that time that he began his life's great work, the oratorio Elijah, while also completing his masterpiece the Violin Concerto. That was in 1844, when his health first began showing signs of decline. In 1846, having exhausted himself pouring all energy into Elijah's composition, he pushed through his final strenuous visit to England in 1847; upon returning from Calais to Frankfurt, he received news that his sister Fanny—his steadfast supporter since boyhood—had suddenly died. For Mendelssohn—this sensitive genius already cruelly weakened in health—the blow proved unimaginably devastating. He now lacked both strength to compose and vitality to conduct.

In October of that year, he suffered an attack; though he recovered once, on November 4, he finally passed away. He was only thirty-nine years old.

Mendelssohn's Works and Their Recordings

Mendelssohn’s music remains, above all else, bright and beautiful. There is nothing profound or bitter to be found within it; instead, there is a gentle brightness akin to spring sunlight, an overflowing affection, a noble order, and a crystalline beauty. The records are not necessarily numerous, and one cannot help but feel that rather than famous symphonies or renowned chamber music, companies concentrated their efforts on a single *Violin Concerto*.

Violin Concerto in E minor Alongside Beethoven’s and Brahms’ violin concertos, it was one of the world’s so-called three great violin concertos. Positioned between Beethoven’s work with its splendor and grandeur and Brahms’ with its vigorous magnificence, this concerto achieved ultimate elegance and delicate beauty, its romantic sensibility standing particularly unparalleled. Following the ethereal grace of the first movement and the refined beauty of the second, the blazing passion of the third movement formed a magnificent contrast with its bold, triumphant splendor—a masterful juxtaposition.

There are numerous recordings available, but among Kreisler’s two Victor label recordings of this piece, the earlier one conducted by Blech with the Berlin State Opera Orchestra remains the finest (8080-3). The later recording made by the same Kreisler with a London orchestra—though it shows no decline in technical skill—cannot compare to the technically inferior earlier version in terms of its brilliance, youthful vigor, and beauty. However, when listening to this piece in superior sound quality, one still cannot dismiss Kreisler’s later recording (Victor JD-593-5).

Additionally, there exists a Victor recording of Menuhin performing with the Colonne Orchestra conducted by Enescu. Those who consider choosing Kreisler to be a nostalgic inclination should value Menuhin’s youth. However, even so, I cannot help but feel a nostalgia so tearfully poignant for the tender affection and beautiful expressiveness that Kreisler brought to this piece.

If I must name a fourth choice, I would opt for Columbia’s Szigeti with his unassuming solidity.

A Midsummer Night's Dream and Fingal’s Cave It is rare to encounter works so celebrated yet so poorly represented in quality recordings. The most frequently recorded sections tend to be the "Overture," "Nocturne," "Scherzo," and "Wedding March," though this hardly means the complete work has been captured. For the "Overture," Furtwängler’s Polydor recording with the Berlin Philharmonic (45213-4), though technically antiquated, remains unmatched in its grand conception and meticulous execution. Toscanini’s Victor recording of the *Scherzo* with the New York Philharmonic (JD-1498) stands as a magnificent achievement. Regarding the *Nocturne* and *Wedding March*, one finds no truly satisfactory recordings—given the latter’s utilitarian nature, Sir Beecham’s Columbia version with the London Philharmonic (JW-108) becomes the unavoidable choice. As an aside, Rachmaninoff’s piano arrangement of the *Scherzo* makes for splendid listening. This remains an electrifying performance (Victor JD-803).

“Fingal’s Cave” likely has at least twenty different recordings. Foremost among these is the Polydor recording conducted by Furtwängler with the Berlin Philharmonic (45088, or Furtwängler Masterpieces Collection Vol. 3). While his conducting feels slightly weighty for depicting this famous tone poem’s landscapes, it remains exquisitely elegant, vividly conjuring the sea’s spectacular vistas.

Symphonies

Mendelssohn’s symphonies are of utmost importance, yet there exist few outstanding recordings of them. While both the *Scottish Symphony* and *Italian Symphony* have been recorded, I shall confine myself to noting that for the former there exists a Columbia recording conducted by Weingartner with the Royal Philharmonic, and for the latter, one by Sir Harty on Columbia and another conducted by Koussevitzky on Victor.

*Songs Without Words* The series of piano pieces *Songs Without Words* was simple, clean, moderately romantic, melodic, and truly engaging. Alongside Chopin’s *Preludes*, they formed a collection of small gems in piano music; however, they lacked the charm of Chopin’s works, with only a mere few of the forty-nine pieces having been recorded. Among these, the outstanding pieces included the third piece *Hunting Song*, the sixth and twelfth *Venetian Gondola Songs*, the thirtieth *Spring Song*, and the thirty-fourth *Spinning Song*. Columbia had a record of nine pieces by Friedman spread across four ten-inch discs (J5221, 5306, 5307, 5310). Though the recordings were notably old and the performances lacked crispness or vitality, they nevertheless remained the sole existing records of these works. Victor had five recordings by Schnabel the Younger (Karl), which, while lacking Friedman’s originality, were skillful and adept performances (JK4–8). The two aforementioned recordings of *Songs Without Words* made it difficult to definitively state which was superior, and I was not fully satisfied with either.

Strangely,there were no good single-disc recordings.Cortot included the first piece,"Sweet Remembrance,"but this was not particularly impressive,and Moiseiwitsch’s"Hunting Song"was only somewhat listenable(Victor E-478).The*Spinning Song*had an old recording by Rachmaninoff(Victor 1326),while the beautiful*Spring Song*did not have a single good record.

If one must choose, then Schmée’s arrangement for violin of *Spring Song* (Victor VE-1037) and Kreisler’s *May Breeze* (the same JD-294 or 8083) would not be a bad choice to listen to.

*Elijah* and Lieder It was a monumental work of such labor that it shortened Mendelssohn’s life, and as an oratorio, it could likely be said to be a historical masterpiece second only to Handel’s *Messiah* and Haydn’s *The Creation*. While it lacked *Messiah*'s brilliance and passion, its opulence and romanticism—combined with being the work into which Mendelssohn poured his life's efforts—made it worthy to stand as a monumental peak within religious music. Columbia’s complete recording of *Elijah*, recorded in English in Britain, did not reach the same level of realization as *Messiah*, but the BBC Chorus performed quite admirably, and baritone Williams held his own there. It was regrettable that the soprano was not Labbette from *Messiah* (J-5319-33).

In songs: Lehmann’s “Greeting” (Columbia J-5557), Schumann’s “On Wings of Song” (Victor JE-12), and Schlusnus’s “Gondola Song” (Polydor 50042)—these three records stand as notable examples.

Chamber Music

There were not many good recordings of Mendelssohn’s chamber music. There was just one particularly noteworthy Victor record—an old early electrical recording by the so-called Casals Trio consisting of Cortot (piano), Thibaud (violin), and Casals (cello)—of the *Piano Trio in D minor (Op. 49)*. This piece represented the finest of Mendelssohn’s chamber music, where its structured external beauty and romantic sentiment surged forth with vivid emotional impact through the performance of the trio of masters, even amidst the aged recording (JI87-90).

There were two or three string quartets included as well, but none worth singling out for special mention.

Frédéric Chopin: Poet of the Piano

Could there be anyone involved with piano music who does not love Chopin? A century ago, the great pianist and critic Rubinstein declared that Chopin was "the singer of the piano, the poet of the piano, the heart of the piano, the soul of the piano"—a description that remains entirely unchanged even today.

Chopin's music remains perpetually fresh. Even if this is characteristic of art created by true geniuses, in Chopin's case—whose beauty and charm remain utterly undiminished by time's erosion, continuing to speak to humanity as they always have—it would not have been an exaggeration to say he achieved an artistic miracle.

Soul of the Piano Even the fragments and minor pieces among Chopin’s piano works were gems. Within his modest études lay artistic content surpassing grand symphonies—the depth of thought, boldness of intent, and beauty of expression that never failed to astonish us a century later. This remained the defining characteristic of Chopin’s music. For example, the disappointment and fury toward Warsaw’s fall as Poland’s capital, compressed into the two-minute span of his *Étude in C minor, Op. 10 No. 12 ("Revolutionary")*, constituted an emotional detonation whose magnitude only Beethoven could have matched.

The sorrow of unfulfilled love depicted in the "Waltz in C-sharp minor, Op. 64 No. 2" attained a gentle yet profoundly sorrowful emotional depth that even a grand opera in four acts and ten scenes could not exhaust. The valor of Poland's resplendent medieval knights evoked in the "Heroic Polonaise," the fiercely beautiful anguish revealed in the "Raindrop Prelude"—what could possibly compare? Who before Chopin could have imagined that from a single piano might emerge art of such magnificent and exquisitely graceful beauty?

In his thirty-two piano sonatas, Beethoven elevated the instrument’s expressive power to its utmost limits and teetered on the brink of shattering it. Liszt’s piano works can be described as the rhetoric of the piano, having reached the very limits of human finger technique.

Chopin pioneered fertile new territories in piano music in a direction entirely different from these two great composers. In Chopin’s case, he became utterly immersed in the piano, merging completely with the instrument’s very soul. Instead of merely wielding the piano, he wrote poetry for it and made it sing. In Chopin’s piano pieces, there was neither a flood of technical display nor half-realized emotion. The major characteristics of his works were a jewel-like sense of completion and noble sweetness. Chopin’s music transcends age, leaps across eras, and disregards borders—it is likely for these reasons that it is beloved by all.

Chopin's music possesses both maidenly tenderness and heroic vigor, yet when deeply savored, leaves no trace of dross—as pure as geese traversing a frigid pond or wind passing through a bamboo grove—achieving a realm of supreme profundity and exquisiteness that inspires awe. In terms of refreshing aftertaste alone, humanity has never before experienced anything like Chopin’s music.

I intend to spend some time reading through Chopin's biography to explore the origins of this jewel-like art.

Frédéric François Chopin was born on February 22, 1810, in a small, cold village on the outskirts of Warsaw, Poland’s capital. His father—a French-born gentleman of education who had once taken up arms for Poland—and his mother, a pure Polish woman to whom Chopin would later dedicate the reverent words “the finest among mothers,” raised him as their only son following two daughters. Though cherished by the entire family, Frédéric possessed a willow-like delicacy typical of an only child and had been sickly since infancy. His temperament was said to be bright rather than frail—mischievous, vivacious, and even endowed with a sense of humor.

His love for music awakened in early childhood; upon hearing good music, he became "unable to stop his tears." He possessed keen sensitivity. His first music teacher was the Silesian musician Elsner, whose insightful pedagogical methods flawlessly nurtured Chopin's burgeoning genius. The absence of pedantic rigidity in Chopin's later works seems attributable to Elsner's educational approach.

In his boyhood, Chopin was both joyful and unrestrained. He kept a piano in his bedroom, sometimes waking at midnight to play it. While attending the Warsaw Lyceum, he would edit newspapers to show friends, draw caricatures of his homeroom teacher and get scolded, ride precarious horses, and study twice as hard as others—thus his joyful days passed by. His first trip to Berlin came when he was eighteen years old, where he met Mendelssohn and had the opportunity to see Weber’s *Der Freischütz*; the following year, he met the composer Hummel and heard the demonic violinist Paganini, which solidified his resolve to pursue music as his vocation. In the same year, he visited the musical capital of Vienna and held two concerts, though they could hardly be called successful; it is said that the following year, at a concert held in Warsaw, Chopin earned what could be considered his first proper income.

Polish soil In 1830, as Poland’s political situation grew increasingly perilous and the torment of lacking courage to approach his first love, the girl Konstantia, drove twenty-year-old Chopin to finally embark on his “journey of no return.”

When Chopin’s carriage, having departed Warsaw, arrived at his birthplace of Zelazowa Wola, his teacher Elsner and disciples unexpectedly welcomed him there, singing a cantata to celebrate his embarkation on a distant journey and filling a silver goblet with soil from their Polish homeland as a farewell gift. Nineteen years later, it was this very soil that was sprinkled upon Chopin’s remains when he was interred in a Parisian cemetery and engraved upon his tombstone with the epitaph: "Though he lies buried in Paris, he sleeps in Polish soil."

When Chopin returned to Vienna, he was forced to endure bitter failures due to various obstacles. Though the primary causes lay in Viennese forgetfulness and a cholera outbreak, the financial blow proved so severe that after agonizing over options, he resolved to head for Paris—only barely managing to reach Munich through immense effort. When traveling from Munich to Stuttgart on September 8, 1831, he received news that Warsaw, the capital of his Polish homeland, had fallen to Russian forces. Chopin's grief and fury defied comprehension. The lion's soul dwelling within his willow-like frame manifested in his work as the *Étude in C minor, Op. 10 No. 12 ("Revolutionary")*—a lamentation born of patriotic love.

At twenty-one, Chopin finally entered the Paris he had long yearned for. In 1831, Paris stood as the undisputed center of world culture—a garden ablaze with resplendent glory. It was an era when literary titans like Hugo, Dumas, Balzac, Sand, Chateaubriand, Baudelaire, and Mérimée shone like constellations across the firmament, while musical giants—Berlioz, Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Liszt—stood opposed like rival sovereigns staking their claims in the realm of sound.

Amidst this whirlwind, the twenty-one-year-old Chopin made his ethereal entrance as a youthful presence. At first, he was a foreigner unknown to anyone; naturally, neither Parisian musicians, music connoisseurs, nor the general public could have understood Chopin’s music. The economic destitution that gradually assailed him led Chopin to consider emigrating to America, but through the patronage of Prince Radziwill and his introductions, the young composer was suddenly propelled to stardom as the music world’s rising star—a stroke of miraculous fortune.

The Gentle Chopin Another factor that propelled Chopin to the zenith of popularity was the sympathy felt by all levels of Parisian society toward the Polish people. The animosity toward the Russian army lifted an unknown young pianist from the deepest abyss to the loftiest heights. The third reason lay in how Chopin’s personality and bearing perfectly matched Parisian tastes. Chopin’s sartorial refinement was legendary; his meticulously curated elegance from crown to toe surely captivated Parisian socialites at first glance.

The remark that “Chopin’s demeanor resembled his music” referred to his refined propriety and delicate purity, with some likening it to “a morning glory with a slender stem bearing a celadon-hued flower in perfect balance.” That flower seemed to bruise and weep at the slightest touch. His hair was soft as silk; his eyes sparkled vivaciously; his limbs were slender; his stature was not particularly tall; and only his nose traced a distinctively curved line.

Chopin’s laughter held an indescribable charm, vividly reflecting his kind-hearted nature. His voice was musical; at times, he would take on a feminine demeanor and hesitate. Given such a Chopin, it was only natural that he became the center of Parisians’ admiration and secured a place among the elite. At twenty-three years old, Chopin was now a firmly established presence. Though true to his status as an enfant terrible he had made enemies on one front, unknown artists on another had begun vying to dedicate their works to him. During this period, he renewed his friendship with Mendelssohn and met Schumann—who would become his lifelong great confidant—receiving the famous declaration: "Gentlemen, remove your hats—here stands a genius!"

However, Chopin himself began gradually withdrawing from public concerts around this time. His shy nature made him feel oppressed by audiences, hindering his ability to freely unleash his imagination and leading him to doubt his qualifications as a performer. It is said that during this period, Chopin confided to Liszt: “The crowd intimidates me. Their breath threatens to suffocate me. I grow paralyzed by strange visions—a sea of unfamiliar faces that deafens me.”

How immeasurably grateful we of later generations should be that Chopin abandoned public performances and devoted himself entirely to composition.

Female Novelist Sand

The most crucial chapter in Chopin's human record lies in his dealings with the female novelist George Sand. Sand was a celebrated woman writer who blazed brilliantly across France's literary world at the time—older than Chopin and his diametric opposite in character, physique, and tastes; yet through an unforeseen twist of fate she became bound to the genius Chopin, ultimately exerting profound influence upon his final years.

Sand had been married before and even had a son with her former husband. According to portraits extant today, she could be called a full-figured beauty; however, in reality, she was by no means beautiful—it is even said she was short in stature with a pale and dusky complexion, an awkward nose, and a coarse mouth. Yet her feminine charm was formidable indeed. Chopin, who had initially detested Sand, gradually found himself drawn to her bewitching allure until he reached a point of inescapable bond—a development hardly difficult to imagine.

It is said that Chopin and Sand’s first meeting occurred at Liszt’s tea party, and it is also recounted that when Chopin attempted an improvisation at the piano, she leaned close, listening intently with her large, burning eyes. In any case, the pull of their contrasting personalities soon rendered them inseparable. When Chopin—afflicted with a lung condition—relocated to Spain’s Majorca Island from 1838 to 1839 for convalescence, Sand accompanied him, undertaking his care and devoting herself to nursing him amidst persecution by the islanders.

Life on the island was by no means pleasant, and Chopin's health only continued to deteriorate. One day, Sand went shopping in Palma with her maid and encountered a violent storm. The flood had submerged the roads, and Sand, having lost her shoes with no carriage to return in, faced repeated dangers before barely managing to return alive by midnight. The ailing Chopin, left alone, was tormented by visions of Sand as a drowned corpse upon which water dripped relentlessly. With tears welling in his eyes and his face deathly pale, he continued to play the piano. It is said that the anxiety and terror which gripped Chopin at that time gave birth to his masterpiece, *“Raindrop Prelude”*. The persistent sound of dripping water that had conjured Chopin’s visions was none other than the sound of raindrops leaking through the ceiling of the weather-beaten house.

Chopin and Sand’s bond did not endure long either. While the single-mindedly earnest Chopin sought formal marriage, the older and astute Sand withheld her consent, forcing them into an inevitable rupture. Chopin’s torment was harrowing to witness. Yet when Sand visited his residence twice—even as he burned with longing to die in her embrace during his final hours—he resolutely refused to meet her, such was his unyielding resolve. While Sand’s conduct warrants condemnation for hastening his demise through callousness, figures like Liszt conversely argued that Chopin—with his willow-delicate constitution—survived until thirty-nine precisely due to her attentive care.

Lonely Death

After parting permanently with Sand, Chopin's life became truly pitiful to behold. His health gradually declined, and by the time he fled to England to escape the 1848 Revolution, he was so utterly weakened that it seemed a wonder he was still alive. Regarding his state of mind at that time: “I had not tasted true joy for a long time." “I no longer felt anything.” Chopin wrote this.

Chopin's concerts in England were disastrous. His figure as he appeared on stage was nearly doubled over, coughing incessantly. Yet despite this, the women granted him no respite whatsoever. He was compelled to exhaust himself daily through overzealous patrons forcing their attentions upon him.

In January 1849, Chopin finally returned to Paris. Even the miraculous resilience of life that had raised Chopin up time and again after he had been pronounced dead many times had its limits. On October 17th of that year, his condition suddenly worsened, and the genius Chopin met his final hour, nursed by a few close relatives and friends.

When his admirer Countess Potocka hurried from Nice to his side, the dying Chopin asked his compatriot to sing something for him. Liszt wrote of this scene as follows: As Countess Potocka sang *Ave Maria* drenched in tears, Chopin exclaimed, “What beauty this is! My God, once more—once more,” he pleaded brokenly. Countess Potocka once again sat down at the piano and sang with every effort she could muster. While the beautiful melody continued sadly despite being choked by sobs, Chopin quietly breathed his last.

His lifeless face remained as pure and beautiful as in life.—Chopin, who was said to have had over fifty countesses and young ladies across Europe ready to lend him their arms when death came, passed away in such loneliness, attended only by a few friends.

That Chopin, so beloved in life, has continued to gather ever-increasing reverence from the world a century after his death remains a matter of profound interest. That his music was never mere fashionable trifles, and that Chopin himself stood as a true artist—should we not recognize this truth through this very fact?

I have never encountered anyone with even the slightest interest in piano music who can definitively claim not to like Chopin. This is because Chopin's music remains eternally fresh, possessing both a charm undiminished through a hundred years and a beauty that seeps into the human heart.

Although Chopin’s works are numerous, with the exception of several songs, nearly all are piano pieces, each as precious and beautiful as jewels. The genius of Chopin, who truly grasped the soul of the piano and made it sing, will endure as a treasure of humanity for as long as the instrument exists.

It is the quintessence of distilled beauty and the most economical artistic expression. It may well be called the ultimate realm of sonic artistry—profound upon profound, subtlety upon subtlety.

The sweetness of the *Fantaisie-Impromptu* among his impromptus, the majestic beauty of the *Grande Valse Brillante* among his waltzes, the melancholic grace of the *Waltz in C-sharp Minor*, twenty-four études, four scherzos, three sonatas, four ballades, numerous deeply poignant nocturnes, twenty-four preludes, over a dozen polonaises, countless mazurkas—to count them all was to reveal how Chopin’s works knew no bounds. Yet who could hesitate to declare that every single one stood as a treasure of the world bequeathed by genius?

Chopin's Works and Their Recordings

Chopin's recordings are truly numerous. In terms of having numerous recordings of the same pieces, even Beethoven cannot rival Chopin. This may be attributed to how Chopin’s piano pieces are both readily accessible and enjoyable, and how their recordings serve practical listening purposes; but it would not be an exaggeration to say that the greatest cause lies in Chopin’s charm—which inevitably captivates all—and in the universal quality of his beauty and familiarity that speaks to all humanity. As far as Chopin is concerned, it would be difficult to claim that concertos and sonatas hold significant importance; rather, I intend to adopt a method of introducing his works starting from his quintessential smaller pieces.

Nocturnes

For Chopin’s pieces, writing “Nocturne” in katakana better suited their character than lining up three kanji characters for “夜想曲”. Under this title, Chopin wrote twenty pieces capturing the essence of night—its atmosphere, its melancholy, and its dreamlike celebration. Columbia’s Godowsky had two volumes of records containing twelve pieces (J7395–8, J7441–4). Though this modern master pianist recorded them in his later years—and while they were admirable and beautiful—they no longer held Chopin’s dream. Victor had Rubinstein’s *Complete Nocturnes* containing up to nineteen pieces; while resplendent and grand, they lacked the hazy sentiment intrinsic to nocturnes—impressive yet somewhat diverging from what one expected. However, with their excellent recording quality and assured technique, they served admirably for grasping the structure of the pieces (Victor JD-1035–45).

Among individual outstanding recordings of *Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat Major (Op. 9 No. 2)*—the most popular piece known to all—I choose Cortot’s rendition on Victor (Society of Music Lovers Volume 4). *Nocturne No. 5 in F-sharp Major (Op. 15 No. 2)* was magnificently performed by Paderewski. While Paderewski’s older recording of this piece had been commendable, his rendition truly excelled—within its majestic grandeur exuded a beautiful sentiment without equal (Victor 6825 and Society of Music Lovers Volume 2). As for *Nocturne No. 8 in D-flat Major (Op. 27 No. 2)*, though recorded in his later years, I found Pachmann’s interpretation intriguing. It may have had some distortions and roughness due to age, but it exuded an atmosphere that others could never hope to achieve (Victor Pachmann Collection).

Waltzes

Chopin's splendor must be sought in these fourteen waltzes. Among comprehensive collections, Victor includes Cortot's *Waltz Collection* (JD-434–9). This was truly an unrestrained masterful performance—fourteen resplendent gems. Above all, the seventh Waltz in C-sharp Minor (Op. 64 No. 2) possessed a beauty beyond description, with an eloquence rivaling a dramatic poem.

Among individual pieces where others excelled besides Cortot, there was Brailowsky’s "No. 1 in E-flat Major (Op. 18)". The splendor of (Victor Society of Music Lovers, Volume 5) and the grandeur of "No. 2 in A-flat Major (Op. 34 No. 1)" stood as notable examples. Brailowsky excelled particularly at this kind of external brilliance.

In Paderewski’s rendition of the *Waltz No. 1*, the grandeur—though the recording was old—indeed bore the mark of a supreme master (Victor VD-8). Gieseking’s *Minute Waltz* (Columbia J5604) carried its characteristic briskness. Pachmann’s recording of the same piece with spoken commentary (Victor JF-17). Then there was Rachmaninoff’s *Waltz No. 7 in C-sharp Minor*—an unconventional record despite its age (Victor 1245).

In short, unless one has particular preferences, I believe Chopin's waltz recordings can be satisfactorily enjoyed with Cortot's *Waltz Collection*.

Études

It was astonishing how Chopin’s genius painted mysterious poetry under the name of études. The twelve pieces of Op. 10 and the twelve pieces of Op. 25 were both included in Victor’s catalog with Backhaus’s *Étude Collection* (6971–6) and Cortot’s (JD-299–301 and JD-431–3). The technical brilliance of Backhaus, hailed as the Lion King of the keyboard, and the emotional warmth of Cortot formed a strikingly interesting contrast. The former’s transparent solidity and the latter’s abundant tenderness—while preference dictated which one chose, both were undoubtedly excellent; there was no doubt that Cortot’s newer recording held the advantage.

In single-disc recordings, Pachmann’s Victor rendition of the fifth étude, *Black Keys* in G-flat Major (Op. 10 No. 5), stood out as intriguing—even the inclusion of his signature muttering scattered an eerie mystique (JF-55). Paderewski’s rendition adopted an imposing expression as if it were an entirely different piece, now preserved as a memorial recording (JE-192). Then there was Horowitz. This showcased technical brilliance at its finest (JD-1494). The No. 8 in F Major (Op. 10 No. 8) was a good piece, but among new recordings, only Horowitz’s version existed (Victor JE-84).

The C minor "Revolutionary Étude (Op. 10 No. 12)," said to have been composed in outrage over Warsaw's fall, remained best performed by Cortot; however, Paderewski's rendition—as a Polish patriot sharing an emotional lineage with Chopin—proved highly dramatic and compelling (Victor JE-192). While this performance was by no means orthodox, its distinctive feature lay in the interest beyond music—how Chopin’s soul resonated with Paderewski, who had once served as Poland’s president.

The "Étude in A-flat Major (Op. 25 No. 1)," known as "Shepherd Boy," was a beautiful piece; Cortot had recorded it twice, both renditions rich in poetic beauty. Additionally, there were the twenty-first étude called "Butterfly" and twenty-third called "Winter Wind"—in all cases none surpassed Cortot’s interpretations. Only one or two recordings from Polydor’s Brailowsky and Victor’s Levin remained worth hearing.

Preludes Using this free form, Chopin wrote twenty-four splendid masterpieces. In recordings, Cortot’s two renditions made after the advent of electrical recording were considered representative—the earlier dating from around 1927 (Victor 6515–8), and the later following approximately five years afterward (Victor JD-387–90). The relative merits of these two prelude recordings were repeatedly debated; even with its inferior recording quality, many Japanese listeners favored the older version for its abundance of youthful dreams. The newer one proved somewhat analytical—delicate and even objective. When comparing one piece among them—the fifteenth “Prelude in D-flat Major” known as “Raindrop”—I believe the difference becomes clearly apparent. Against the old recording’s imposing dramatic intensity stood the new version’s stark clinicality. Never before had a single individual performed identical music with such divergent emotional approaches.

In each individual recording, here too, Pachmann and Paderewski spoke volumes. Above all, Paderewski’s *Raindrop* (Victor 6847) and No. 17 *Prelude in A-flat Major (Op. 28 No. 17)* stood as magnificent achievements that transcended mere commemorative significance.

Impromptus Imparting high artistry to unrestrained improvisation was Chopin’s true domain. The three Impromptus and the Fantaisie-Impromptu also had Cortot’s masterpiece recordings on Victor (JD-264, JD-265), which were, without question, unmatched by any others. However, Cortot proved unexpectedly understated; one might have anticipated a bit more profound sentiment. "The 'Fantaisie-Impromptu' is said to be among Chopin’s more popular works, yet precisely because of its excessive brilliance, he reportedly hesitated to publish it." In performances of this piece, there was an intriguing quality in the recordings by female pianists such as Taliafero (Columbia J8369), Long (collection of the same name), and Scharrer (Columbia JW126) that differed from Cortot’s approach.

Scherzos

Chopin's Scherzos bore the bitter savor of lived experience. Victor had Rubinstein’s *Scherzo Collection* (JD-191–4), a comprehensive recording; while he was a splendid technician, there remained something unsatisfying about it. It could have stood to be more analytical and unaffected. Yet strangely enough, no other worthy recordings of Scherzos existed. Only Moiseiwitsch’s performance of Scherzo No. 3 and Horowitz’s Victor recording of Scherzo No. 4 (JD-1494) garnered attention.

Ballades The four Ballades were nothing less than four dramatic poems. The third Ballade stood as the most beautiful, while the last Ballade came to be regarded as his highest achievement. Cortot’s *Ballade Collection* had been recorded twice (Victor 7333–6 and Victor JD-1589–92). In this case too, one might say what had been said of his preludes—though generally there proved no drawback in choosing the newer JD-numbered recordings. Cortot’s execution in these ballades surpassed even his waltzes; their crisp elegance and depth of beauty might well be called consummate artistry. I have always harbored such longing—nay affection—for that third Ballade.

Additionally, Columbia's Casadesus set included four discs. His French-style unaffected realism made Chopin's ballades lack emotional depth, yet one must acknowledge the legitimacy of his interpretive approach. Its discontinuation was premature. There were also recordings by Friedman and Moiseiwitsch, but they amounted to little.

Mazurkas

Borrowing the form of Poland’s folk dances, Chopin wrote over fifty exquisitely beautiful pieces. These include Columbia’s four-disc set where Friedman performed in folk style (J8010–3), and Victor’s single disc by Nierzelski, a Polish pianist (JA134). Friedman, being Polish and confident in his Chopin interpretations, had been at his best in live performances of mazurkas; this style of playing with unrestrained abandon felt rustic yet spirited and engaging. Nierzelski demonstrated greater refinement compared to him, his poised delicacy evoking a favorable impression. Other notable recordings included Pachmann’s *Mazurka in G Major (Op. 67 No. 1)* (Victor JF-55), Paderewski’s *Mazurka in C-sharp Minor (Op. 63 No. 3)* (Victor 7416), and Rosenthal’s *Mazurka in B Minor (Op. 33 No. 4)* (Victor JD-924)—all significant for their commemorative value—alongside Horowitz’s *Mazurka in F Minor (Op. 7 No. 3)* (Victor JE-84), *the same in C-sharp Minor (Op. 50 No. 3)* (Victor JD-1494), and *the same in E Minor (Op. 41 No. 2)* (Victor JE-142), noted for their performative finesse.

Polonaises

This was indeed the national dance—bold or graceful—in which Chopin most fully expressed his Polish soul. Of the fifteen polonaises, Rubinstein had recorded eight pieces in his *Polonaise Collection* for Victor (JD-655–62). This stood out among Rubinstein’s Chopin interpretations—while it lacked depth, its formal beauty was extraordinary. There were not many other good recordings. In the era of old recordings, Paderewski’s *Military Polonaise* had stirred fans’ passions, but this piece was absent from electrical recordings. Among Paderewski’s available works were the *Polonaise in E-flat Minor (Op. 26 No. 2)* (Victor 7391) and the *Polonaise in A-flat Major (Op. 53)*—the Heroic Polonaise (Victor JD-1104)—though the former possessed a certain youthful vigor that made it preferable. Paderewski had been an ideal pianist for polonaises, his performances brimming with patriotic fervor to fascinating effect; yet even the Heroic Polonaise—among Chopin’s most celebrated works in this form—when recorded by him, could not escape conveying an irredeemable decadence born of his advanced age. In addition to these, there existed versions by Cortot, Friedman, Gieseking, and Brailowsky for this piece, but none were considered the finest.

The performance of the *Polonaise in C-sharp Minor (Op. 26 No. 1)* by Pachmann is included in Victor’s *Pachmann Collection*, but even when accounting for the limitations of his advanced age, this remains an indispensable record. Alongside Paderewski’s *Heroic Polonaise*, they too should be preserved as commemorative artifacts.

Fantasia, Berceuse, Barcarolle

Chopin’s *Fantasia in F Minor (Op. 49)*—said to represent the final culmination of his pianistic artistry—discarded his characteristic sweetness to embody grand, profound meditation within classical form. Among existing recordings, Cortot’s robust performance on Victor (JD-330–1), along with those by Long and Friedman on Columbia, stood foremost. However, recordings with a bit more spiritual content might well have been desired. Though they fell short, one could not help but imagine what the young Paderewski might have achieved.

"Berceuse (Op. 57)"—a rare piece revealing Chopin's childlike innocence through such gentle beauty. Victor’s Cortot recording stands unrivaled (JD-1674). Columbia’s Long might be valued for her feminine grace (renowned recordings collection). "Barcarolle (Op. 60)" embodies a distant marine reverie. Among Chopin’s oeuvre, it ranks as one of his grand-scale commendable works. Existing recordings include Cortot (Victor JD-509), Long, and Rubinstein.

Piano Concertos

Chopin’s concertos were long criticized for their clumsy orchestral treatment; however, the distinctive qualities of Chopin, the Poet of the Piano, breathed a singular vitality into these works, rendering both of them uncommonly beautiful. "The First Piano Concerto in E minor (Op. 11) has a refreshing flavor and remains appealing." There were recordings by Brailowsky on Polydor, Rosenthal on Columbia, and Rubinstein on Victor; while all three had their respective merits, it was conventional to choose Rubinstein’s for its beautiful sound quality. The orchestra was the London Symphony Orchestra; conducted by Barbirolli (Victor JD-1270–3).

"The Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor (Op. 21) was graceful and beautiful." "For recordings of this concerto, Victor had two versions by Rubinstein and Cortot while Columbia included one by Long; however, Cortot’s should have been chosen." "The conductor was Barbirolli (Victor JD-794–7)." "Columbia’s Long was also said to possess feminine elegance and grace (J7832–5)."

Sonata Chopin’s piano sonatas numbered three, but just like his concertos, it was said that the constraining form prevented his genius from being fully expressed. However, of the three, the second and third sonatas were undeniably beautiful. The *Sonata No. 2 in B-flat Minor (Op. 35)* was famous as the Funeral March Sonata. This was because a beautiful yet sorrowful funeral march was employed in the third movement. There were two renowned recordings of this work on Victor. These were Cortot’s (JD-306–7) and Rachmaninoff’s (1489–92); though Cortot had recorded this work twice, both stood as truly extraordinary performances. Elegant sorrow and a beautiful, heartrending lament were depicted with unparalleled beauty through Cortot’s renowned performance. I once found Rachmaninoff’s interpretation difficult to accept, but listening to it now, it remains masterful. This was a phenomenon arising from the performer’s strong individuality; while not faithful to the original score, it harbored a mysterious passion.

"The 'Sonata No. 3 in B Minor (Op. 58)' revealed an even more perfected Chopin than its predecessor—the Funeral Sonata." "It was difficult yet remained a beautiful piece." "For recordings, Victor had Cortot's celebrated version (DA 2109–12)." "The drawback lay in its somewhat dated sound quality; to appreciate this work's refined nuances, one would do well to hear Brailowsky's interpretation on the same Victor label (JD 1643–5)."

Songs There existed a famous antique recording from the era of old shellac discs where Sembrich sang Chopin’s song “The Maiden’s Wish.” Though she accompanied herself on piano with a charm transcending the recording’s age, I cherished this fragile beauty most deeply. In electrical recordings, Koljus had included it for Victor under the title “The Little Ring,” though its dignity paled in comparison. In conclusion, when selecting Chopin’s piano works, one could hardly err in choosing Cortot’s recordings as foundational. To these might be added sparing selections from Paderewski, Brailowsky, and Rubinstein. Godowsky had been a masterful artist, but his records captured him past his prime.

Then there is the *Pachmann Collection* (Impromptu No. 2; Nocturne Op. 27 No. 2; Op. 72 No. 1; Mazurka Op. 24 No. 4; Op. 50 No. 2; Op. 63 No. 3; Op. 67 No. 4; Polonaise Op. 26 No. 1; Waltz Op. 64 No. 3), which cannot be overlooked. Even in his advanced years, there remained a mysterious beauty in his Chopin. Alongside Paderewski’s records, these too deserved preservation for posterity.

Passionate Schumann

It was Robert Schumann—composer of the stylish piano piece *Carnaval Suite* and the beautiful song cycle *Dichterliebe*—who stood as both Romantic music’s greatest champion in mid-nineteenth-century Europe and, simultaneously, its pure-hearted knight.

Introducing this person’s entire life and complete works within limited pages was difficult. I had to limit myself to speaking solely about Schumann’s love life and what might be called its crystallizations—two or three of his works.

Robert Schumann was born in June 1810 as the son of a bookseller in Saxony, Germany, and died in July 1856 in a room at an asylum (psychiatric hospital). His forty-six-year life could indeed be described as an unbroken series of blood-soaked struggles, and within those struggles, torments, and madness, there lingered not a trace of the superhuman aura surrounding idolized geniuses. Here was something that dwelled on the same earth as we do, continued battling through the same existence we share, and evoked the familiarity of a neighbor.

The Boy Romanticist

In Schumann’s lineage, unlike many great composers, not a drop of musician’s blood flowed. In this respect, he resembled Wagner; both men shattered musical traditions and fought tenaciously to build something newer and more vital. For Schumann, music was not a hereditary "family art," but rather something purely of the people, of humanity, and ultimately of himself.

Schumann was the most erudite, the most earnest, and the most artistic among nineteenth-century Romantic composers. In his life, there was not a single trace of a genius’s caprice, and among his works, there is not one that could be thought to have been produced with consideration for the market or public opinion. When encountering Schumann’s biography and works, one cannot help but feel the oppressive weight of his almost clumsy earnestness and the mental state that was pushed to its limits—even to madness.

Let us now examine his biography. The young Schumann's love for music awakened quite early. He played in ensembles with boys his age, composed pieces, received guidance from the town church organist while dreaming of becoming a great pianist, and at nine years old—deeply moved by a performance from master Moscheles—strengthened his resolve to build a life through music; yet at fifteen, with his father's death, that hope was dashed.

Schumann’s mother conventionally intended to make this child a lawyer. However, Schumann, who graduated from middle school at eighteen, devoured the works of Byron and Jean Paul and became a Romanticist to his very core. Particularly significant was that in that year, when he traveled to Southern Germany with friends and met the poet Heine, it can be said without exaggeration that this marked a turning point in Schumann’s state of mind. Needless to say, Heine was a great poet of his time and a leading figure of the Romantic school. That burning passion and his ironically astute personality had completely captivated the young Schumann—a development that could hardly be considered unnatural.

Schumann the Fighter

While studying law at Leipzig University, he met Friedrich Wieck—the father of Clara, who would later become his wife, and a renowned piano professor—and began frequenting their household. Later, he transferred to Heidelberg University, but Schumann’s heart had left law behind; he devoted himself to composition and piano practice, eventually involving even Wieck to persuade his mother, abandoning his legal studies, and returning to Leipzig.

While boarding at Wieck’s home and continuing his intense piano practice, Schumann injured his fingers through overzealous training and was compelled to abandon his aspirations of becoming a pianist. This, however, proved both misfortune and blessing for the ambitious young Schumann. Taking this as his turning point, he devoted himself to composition; though he endured torments verging on madness, he left for posterity dozens of exceptional piano works, songs, chamber pieces, and symphonies.

At twenty-three or twenty-four years old, Schumann rejected the perennial tide of vulgar musicians and, together with like-minded comrades, founded a music magazine to usher fresh air and sound arguments into the musical world. The impact this magazine had on the music world proved immense; not only did it introduce to society Frédéric Chopin—the genius hailed as the “poet of the piano”—but under two pseudonyms, Schumann himself boldly challenged the established musical order.

Around this time, Schumann published several masterpieces. The piano piece *Carnaval Suite* was one such example. During this period, he became acquainted with Mendelssohn—then a central figure in the music world—while his love for Clara grew; it was also then that he requested her father Wieck’s permission for their marriage and faced fierce opposition.

The Noble Clara

Prior to this, it was in 1828—when Schumann was eighteen and Clara a mere nine years old—that Schumann began frequenting the Wieck household and discovered the jewel-like Clara, the beloved daughter. However, Clara was already known as a child prodigy pianist at that time—a girl of unparalleled beauty and nobility, and above all, intelligence.

Even when imagining from various documents and photographs today, there can be no doubt that Clara’s exceptional qualities and her beauty were astonishing.

From the time she was thirteen years old and performed Schumann’s First Symphony on the piano, Schumann’s interest began to burn toward the girl Clara; when, accompanied by her father Wieck, she toured all of Europe and made her name resound as a child prodigy pianist, a beautiful affection sprouted between them, growing into an inescapable state.

“My beloved Clara, do you know how much I love you? “Farewell.” It was in 1835, when Schumann was twenty-five and Clara sixteen, that he wrote “Your Robert Schumann.” The following year, a letter of proposal from Schumann arrived for Clara, who was shining amidst glory and fame, and Clara gave a favorable response to it. The pure passion between Clara and Schumann can be imagined through their exchanged letters and the numerous documents that remain to this day. For five long years, they loved each other with undivided devotion and battled every hardship to win her obstinate father’s consent.

Clara’s delicate beauty—so fragile it might not withstand a breeze—was not the main cause of Schumann’s captivation. Even Clara the child prodigy’s peerless piano mastery did not account for the whole of Schumann’s devotion. Beyond all these attributes, Clara possessed a magnetism that drew people in, talent, and purity. Not only did Clara’s keen intellect and profound understanding make her an irreplaceable advocate for Schumann’s elevated piano works, but many have reasoned that it was precisely this noble lady’s comprehension and encouragement that enabled Schumann to devote his entire life to purely artistic composition—never once pandering to popular tastes—persisting in creating works that were somewhat austere and solitary (and how artistically exquisite they were!).

Schumann always composed through Clara’s encouragement, and it seemed as though he composed precisely because he was with Clara. Both sorrow and joy came into being because of Clara. One could even argue that his lifelong masterpieces—*Dichterliebe*, *Frauenliebe und -leben*, the *Piano Quintet*, and the *Piano Concerto*—were created only when enveloped in Clara’s love. However, Clara’s father Wieck—father to a genius bearing all of Europe’s adoration—had no reason to choose an impoverished and disheveled composer as her husband. It was simply the way of the world that their engagement was shattered before her father’s wrath. The two were separated and kept under surveillance. In the depths of anguish and despair, Schumann wrote to his sister: “Clara still loves me as she did before.” “But I have given up on her forever,” he added around this time. Yet Clara, gentle and delicate in appearance, proved resolute in spirit. “No matter what happens, I will not abandon Robert,” she wrote and vowed.

In order to obtain—in Schumann’s own words—“the most glorious daughter the world had ever seen,” Schumann resolved to build social status and fame. In other words, he resolved to enhance his social standing and persuade Clara’s father Wieck. After prolonged efforts, it was in 1840, when Schumann was thirty years old, that he was awarded the title of Doctor of Philosophy from Jena University.

However, Wieck, who held his daughter in the highest esteem, adamantly refused to consent to their marriage. The matter was finally brought to court, and after lengthy deliberations, sanctioned by law, the two were married in September of that year.

Triumph of Love, Descent into Madness

They prevailed through love. Their lives had never been brighter or more joyous than during this period. Clara was not only chaste and pure but also served as a source of charm and compositional inspiration for Schumann. Over the next decade, Schumann flooded the world with a torrent of masterpieces in rapid succession; moreover, the works composed during the initial two to three years of their marriage not only marked the pinnacle of his career but also represented the Everest of German Romanticism.

Although Schumann soon reconciled with her father Wieck, dark shadows began to fall over him due to overwork and nervous exhaustion. He abandoned his position as a professor at the music school, but his nerves grew increasingly irritable and pathologically strained beyond control. After obtaining temporary respite—writing operas and taking up conducting—his melancholia gradually intensified until February 1854, when he suddenly suffered a seizure and threw himself into the Rhine River. Though rescued at that time, in July two years later, he finally passed away at the young age of forty-six.

Schumann’s profoundly human character and ceaseless anguish rendered his works dark and obscure; yet precisely because of their introspective nature and solid ideological foundation, there existed no music as deeply fascinating as his, and few compositions as purely artistic. Schumann—who had originally aspired to make his name as a pianist—opened a major new frontier in piano compositions that neither Liszt nor Chopin had explored. In works such as *Fantasiestücke* ("Fantasy Pieces"), *Kinderszenen* ("Scenes from Childhood"), *Carnaval Suite*, and *Kreisleriana*, the artistic realm Schumann demonstrated remained purely pianistic while attaining supreme artistic refinement. In Schumann one finds neither vulgar sweetness nor cheap theatricality. Through the piano’s medium, he seemed determined to perfect the most artistic expression of his thoughts. Here the piano ceased being merely an instrument—it appeared to become Schumann’s very life essence. Though Chopin is celebrated as the piano’s poet, Schumann stands as its philosopher.

Even more than his piano pieces, what characterized Schumann was his songs. Schubert elevated the German Lied to its highest and purest form, and Schumann achieved its advanced development through a different method. Schubert wrote beautiful melodies and added significant accompaniment parts to give German poetry supreme musical expression. Having been born after Schubert and endowed with higher education, Schumann was granted conditions for selecting poetry that Schubert could never match; furthermore, as both pianist and piano composer, he succeeded in furnishing his songs with astonishingly intricate backgrounds—accompaniment parts. While various distinctive features account for why works like *Dichterliebe* and *Frauenliebe und -leben* are hailed as timeless masterpieces of German Lieder, Schumann’s erudition and his accompaniments must be acknowledged as major contributing factors. As for chamber music, Schumann’s characteristic works remain somewhat abstruse; yet his masterpieces are not limited to just two or three. Though they may not delight untrained ears, they possess a beauty that never wearies those of refined musical sensibility and an artistic purity. The symphonies number four works from the First to the Fourth. The First, bearing the title "Spring," and the Third, known as the "Rhenish," remain particularly beloved. Schumann’s symphonies are by no means popular fare; yet their elegance, profundity, and deeply heartfelt romantic beauty undeniably form a monumental peak between Beethoven and Brahms. For here too, in passionate tone poet Schumann, we feel an overflowing humanity that moves listeners boundlessly.

Schumann’s Works and Their Records

The characteristic and intriguing aspects of Schumann’s compositions must be found not in his grandiose symphonies but rather in his piano pieces and songs. While each of the four symphonies harbors its own unique circumstances and struggles—playing an exceedingly important role in any discussion of Schumann—and though each one triumphantly sings of the grand Romantic ideals he cherished, standing as supremely transcendental and noble works—their structure lacks coloristic elements, bearing instead a gray heaviness and oppressive monotony that make them far from entertaining for general listeners; consequently, they remain exceedingly scarce on records. The only currently available recording of the "Third Symphony in E-flat Major (Op. 97)," known as the "Rhenish"—performed by the Paris Conservatory Symphony Orchestra under Coppola on Victor Records (JD 339–41)—is merely a serviceable version. This too amounts to a brisk and easygoing performance, with no trace of Schumann’s melancholy to be found (though this piece is considered an exceedingly bright and beautiful work, being a late composition of Schumann’s, one might expect somewhat deeper shadows).

Piano Works

Schumann’s pioneering in piano music, alongside Chopin and Liszt, represented a major field, and his works were exceedingly conscientious, having reached a noble and profoundly deep artistic realm. Among them, the work that combined popular appeal with artistic elegance would undoubtedly hold first place as *Carnaval* (Op. 9). Composed of numerous miniatures modeled after carnival masquerades, *Carnaval* contained within it Schumann’s convictions and pride, his wit and hedonism, his faint loves and friendships, while technically gathering the very essence of his piano works into something utterly fascinating. The recordings may not have been recent, but one would regard Victor’s Cortot performance as the foremost (JD 751–3), with Victor’s Rachmaninoff following close behind. Among contemporary interpreters of Schumann, there was none who surpassed Cortot in embodying Schumann’s essence through erudition, mindset, taste, and technique; it would not have been an exaggeration to say that the Romanticism inherent in Schumann was most thoroughly understood and recreated by Cortot. While I had criticized Rachmaninoff in my previous work, upon listening again, one could not help but concede that even this intensely individualistic performance possessed an unexpected merit.

*Reminiscences of Childhood* (or *Kinderszenen* [Scenes from Childhood]) may have seemed innocuous, but it was a piece that depicted a child’s world, rich in childlike innocence and poetic charm. This too had been regarded as the crowning jewel in Victor’s Cortot recording (JD 840–1), with others including Victor’s Moiseiwitsch and Ney, as well as Columbia’s Nat. However, choosing Cortot without hesitation would never lead to regret. The famous *Träumerei* from this collection had gained renown through violin and cello arrangements—Casals’s Victor record (JE 59), though an old recording, remained a masterpiece; Columbia’s Maréchal and Feuermann were cherished for their recording’s pristine clarity. For violin, Victor’s Elman maintained a solid reputation (JE-163).

While *Davidsbündlertänze* (Op. 6) lacks the kaleidoscopic charm of *Carnaval*, it could be described both as an expression of Schumann’s passion for Clara and as an idealistic manifesto directed at the masses. In recordings, Victor’s Cortot remains peerlessly magnificent (JD 1502–4). *Kreisleriana* (Op. 16), though based on a novel that demands irony and humor, wove an intriguing poignancy through Schumann’s unrelenting earnestness and peculiar fervor—making Cortot’s recording the sole truly distinguished one (Victor JD 951–4).

"Symphonic Études (Op. 13)" is a composition of profound mystery, consisting of one theme, nine variations, and a final movement—this elegant beauty I adore. The record of Cortot on Victor is a masterful performance imbued with somber depth (JD 7493–5); though three or four other records are included, compared to Cortot’s they remain insubstantial, scattered, and unworthy of consideration.

*Fantasiestücke* ("Fantasy Pieces," Op. 12) comprised small pieces bearing no thematic connection to *Carnaval*, and Victor included it under the title *Fantasia* (Op. 12) performed by the veteran pianist Bauer. However, what stood out here were pieces like "Leap," "Entangled Dreams," and "Why"; when listening to a single piece included here, one recalled Paderewski’s "Leap" and "Why" from the early recording era. The "Fantasia in C Major (Op. 17)" was a large-scale work entirely different from the former, containing an appeal rooted in Schumann’s pure fantasy. Among records, Victor included Backhaus’s crisp and technically beautiful performance (JD 1162–5).

"The Butterfly Piece (Op. 2)" was an extremely early work that possessed a childlike charm worth cherishing. Cortot’s rendition was excellent (Victor JE 97–8). Other notable examples that could be mentioned included Horowitz’s Arabesque (Victor JE-205) and Paderewski’s The Prophet Bird (Victor 1426). The Piano Sonata in G Minor (Op. 22) was available on Victor performed by Horowitz. It was masterful but not particularly interesting.

Songs *A Poet’s Love* could be said to reflect not only the excellence of Heine’s poetry but also embody Schumann’s convictions and innate genius devoted to *Lieder*, while simultaneously depicting his overflowing affection for Clara. The complete recordings exist in two versions on Victor Records: one sung by baritone Denis (D-2062–4), and another where Panzéra sings with Cortot’s piano accompaniment (JD-798–800). Though Panzéra demonstrates consummate skill and Cortot’s piano accompaniment remains splendid, I still prefer Denis’s emotional depth and charm. It was a gently sorrowful expression that seemed poured forth with one’s entire being.

*Frauenliebe und -leben* ("A Woman’s Love and Life," Op. 42) stood as one of Schumann’s two great song cycles alongside *Dichterliebe*, a masterpiece created in the year he married Clara—what biographers had termed his "Year of Song." It traced a woman’s journey from maidenly love’s awakening through marriage and childbirth to a widow’s solitude across eight songs, their pure affection and exquisite anguish profoundly stirring listeners. Among recordings, Columbia’s rendition by Lotte Lehmann remained unquestionably supreme (J5392–5). This version employed an orchestral accompaniment incorporating piano—a grave transgression against Schumann’s Lieder tradition—yet Lehmann’s singing retained its magnificence, with lingering pathos and chaste expressions of love that defied comparison. It remained one of my most cherished records.

In the realm of single-song records, the most famous was likely “The Two Grenadiers.” The skillful use of France’s national anthem and technique of portraying Napoleon’s defeated soldiers proved intriguing. Among recordings, Polydor’s Schlusnus (60203; later included in Schlusnus’s Favorite Songs Collection Vol. 2) stood out, with Victor’s Chaliapin (6619) following close behind. “The Walnut Tree” emerged as a quintessential Schumannesque song that placed particular emphasis on piano accompaniment—a feature drawing both criticism and recognition for its distinctiveness. Polydor’s Slezak (E207 or within Slezak’s Favorite Songs Collection) delivered a masterful performance blending tenderness and passion; Victor’s Elisabeth Schumann (JD-110) ranked as another commendable choice. Beyond these stood Lehmann’s “Lotus Flower,” Schlusnus’s “Moonlit Night,” and Schumann’s “Spring”—all excellent renditions.

Concertos and Chamber Music The *Violin Concerto in D minor* was a recently discovered posthumous work whose circumstances of discovery had drawn considerable interest, and the piece itself proved remarkably engaging for a late-period composition. The notion that Joachim had avoided performing this work due to sensing something mad lurking within it must have been, if not a legend’s error, then Joachim’s own prejudice, I thought. It was safe to say that this piece stood undoubtedly as one of the masterpieces that should be counted among the top ten—or perhaps even five—violin concertos of all time.

The records contained Kulenkampff’s German premiere performance (Telefunken 23653–6) and Menuhin’s American premiere performance (Victor JD-1514–7S), but here alone, sympathies leaned toward Kulenkampff’s honest elegance and wholehearted commitment. Menuhin’s recent mastery stood truly exceptional, and in this piece too he revealed astonishing natural talent; yet the violin world did not bow entirely to Menuhin’s dominion—though many undoubtedly sided with him—for the ambiguous grandiosity he displayed in this work led one to feel it fell short of Kulenkampff’s guileless and refined grace.

The Piano Concerto in A Minor (Op. 54) remains an exceedingly famous work and stands as one of Schumann's masterpieces. The efforts of Madame Clara—who played this piece with all her might for her husband Schumann while striving to persuade audiences feigning ignorance—are fondly remembered even today. Among recordings, Victor preserves Cortot's definitive interpretation (JD 347–50). The London Philharmonic under Sir Ronald delivered a supremely magnificent performance that compels one's deepest admiration. Columbia's Nat recording distinguishes itself through crystalline French-style realism (J8279–82). The Cello Concerto in A Minor (Op. 129) may stand alongside its violin counterpart as proof of Schumann's mastery over string instruments. It remains an elegant and beautiful composition. Victor's Piatigorsky recording excels through its artistry (JD 353–5). Barbirolli conducted with the London Philharmonic Orchestra providing accompaniment.

There were no good recordings of the "Violin Sonata," but for the "Piano Trio in D minor (Op. 63)," there existed Cortot, Thibaud, and Casals’s renowned recording (Victor VD-8232–5). This recording was not recent either, but it stood as one of the masterpieces by the Casals Trio—a trio that could be called the ensemble of the century—and its ethereal grace remained unparalleled. For the "String Quartets," having just one set—the Columbia Records release by the Capet Quartet that included the First in A minor (Op. 41 No. 1) (J7629–31)—was more than enough. The recording might have been old, but its refined beauty defied comparison. However, it was also a fact that Schumann’s string quartets were not particularly engaging for amateurs. Even though his spirit and imagination had been considerable, Schumann’s shortcoming lay in his inability to fully grasp the nature of string instruments and handle them freely—this had been an unavoidable limitation.

"The 'Piano Quintet in E-flat Major (Op. 44)'—this is a masterpiece." While it possesses Schumann-esque persistent darkness, all in all it remains a work of dramatic leaps that hints at one of the happiest periods in Schumann’s life. The recording is available on Victor with Schnabel and the Pro Arte String Quartet (JD 691–4). This combination should be excellent.

Franz Liszt: The Piano Master

Father of the Symphonic Poem

Franz Liszt—who wrote twelve symphonic poems that marked a grand epoch in the musical world and resoundingly heralded the dawn of modern music; who as a pianist pioneered realms untouched by predecessors, becoming a conqueror of technique elevated to mythical heights akin to Paganini’s violin mastery—must indeed be called the most fascinating presence even amidst the mid-19th century European musical sphere teeming with masters as numerous as clouds.

The author, very recently on a train, instinctively pricked up his ears upon hearing the name "Liszt" in a conversation between a young, intellectual-looking woman and her friends. The woman spoke.

“I’ve been reading Liszt’s biography lately and was completely impressed. Among all the great musicians of the past, there is none as splendid as Liszt.”

This remark set me thinking about many things.

Roughly a hundred years ago, the magnetic charm of Franz Liszt in his twenties and thirties could not help but stir up a kaleidoscopic storm across all of Europe. Some women quarreled over flowers Liszt had touched; others scoured for cigar stubs he had discarded; among the women of leisure, there were even those who chased after Liszt from town to town and country to country, as far as their wealth and circumstances allowed.

To escape this siege by women, Liszt had no choice but to arm himself with priestly robes. He finally became a devotee of Saint Francis, obtained a clerical rank in the Roman Catholic Church, and thereby secured stability in his life for the first time.

Abundant Love Why does Liszt’s charm continue to inspire admiration among intellectual women even a century later to this day?

I found myself compelled to once again examine Liszt’s biography and explore its origins.

There was no doubt that Liszt’s status as an unparalleled pianist and revolutionary composer constituted a significant attraction, but an even greater cause likely lay in his abundant love, rare elegance, and further, his human nobility—qualities that made Liszt the “object of reverence” for all people. Through his compositions alone, Liszt commanded many ardent admirers alongside no small number of detractors. Without needing to await Rubinstein’s critiques, Liszt’s compositions proved exceedingly verbose and superficial; particularly his piano pieces prioritized technical prowess, leaving no shortage of those who found them wearisome. Regarding his personal character too, there remains the all-too-famous anecdote in which young Brahms—introduced by Joachim—visited Liszt during his reign as European music’s preeminent figure, only to flee aghast at the atmosphere of falsehood, sycophancy, extravagance, and arrogance surrounding him.

Liszt’s exaggerated gestures, ceremoniousness, and unfailing flattery—all of these must surely have been unbearable for the provincial Brahms. However, if there were those who would immediately take this as grounds to despise Liszt and seek to denounce him, that would be far too hasty a judgment. Liszt, though possessing such flamboyant tastes and being even morally timid in some respects, was a natural-born magnate—generous to all people, endowed with abundant love and thoughtful sympathy.

A certain biographer praised Liszt’s abundant love, declaring it truly without parallel. He could not help but shower every person he encountered with heartfelt warmth and affection. This must have stemmed from his refined cultivation and noble character. However cold or severe one might have been—even those who were at times his adversaries—they ultimately found themselves captivated by him and inevitably joined the ranks of his ardent admirers.

Liszt was an unparalleled friend. He never betrayed nor wavered. For his disciples, there could be no teacher as benevolent as Liszt; for his friends, there was no man more dependable than he.

Liszt's caring nature was truly an unparalleled virtue. How Frédéric Chopin, the young Polish composer, debuted in the French musical world through Liszt's patronage is something that the film *Farewell Waltz*, though its plot was pure fabrication, still conveyed at least in spirit. Schumann, who at the time was waging war against the entire European musical establishment, owed an immeasurable debt to Liszt's encouragement and support. It was Liszt who staged Berlioz's *Symphonie fantastique*—which had found no understanding in his native France—in Weimar, introduced its astonishing artistry, and first enabled German audiences to grasp it. It was Liszt who encouraged the struggling Wagner, staged his masterpieces of supreme complexity, and brought them to public attention. Without Liszt's assistance, *Tannhäuser* and *Lohengrin* would likely never have gained such widespread acceptance.

Liszt was said to have never known jealousy from birth. "A genius devoid of envy"—could there exist a nobler being in this world? He possessed both a sincere heart and magnanimity that allowed him to rejoice wholeheartedly in anyone's success. Like the Date clan retainers of Edo during the Tokugawa era, he was incapable of refusing any request made of him. The mouth of his purse unfastened whenever necessity arose. It was Liszt who nearly single-handedly erected that splendid Beethoven monument in Vienna. For a musician's undertaking, this was by no means an easy task.

When Liszt visited a provincial town, there happened to be a recital in that very town by a female pianist who claimed to be his disciple. Liszt had never even heard of the female pianist’s name, and of course she was not his disciple. Thinking it strange yet taking a room at the hotel, Liszt soon received a visit from a young woman. The woman had been passing herself off as Liszt’s disciple, but with tears streaming down her face, she apologized, saying, “If I didn’t borrow the Maestro’s name, there would be no one to listen to my piano playing.”

Liszt nodded magnanimously and, while calming the woman, had her play the pieces from that evening’s program on the hotel piano in any case. After giving her two or three technical pointers, he said, “I have taught you piano.” “From now on, there will be no issue at all in calling yourself my disciple,” he said, then lightly kissed the woman’s white forehead—just as he always did for any accomplished pupil. The female pianist’s name was omitted, but Liszt’s acts of kindness were generally of this nature.

Wagner, who had been temporarily estranged from Liszt due to his ill-advised marriage to Liszt’s daughter Cosima, praised his father-in-law’s character, stating, “Like Christ on the cross, Liszt was always prepared to save others rather than himself.” Even if there were many blameworthy aspects in Liszt’s private conduct, this selfless pure love of his would be more than sufficient to redeem all transgressions.

Dazzling Success

Franz Liszt was born on October 22, 1811, as the son of musician Adam Liszt in a small, cold village in Hungary. His mother was Austrian.

Liszt’s upbringing followed the classic trajectory of a child prodigy. The nine-year-old pianist had already attracted the attention of wealthy nobles, secured a pension, and from the following year was able to lead a life of rich musical study in Vienna, the city of music. Czerny, his first piano teacher—how he nurtured and trained this boy genius with such affection! It goes without saying that Liszt’s demonic technique as a pianist was the gift of his excellent teacher Czerny. He then studied harmony and composition under Salieri, laying the foundation for his later role as the “founder of the symphonic poem,” and at twelve years old journeyed to Paris with his father, where he received the finishing touches as the human Liszt; from there began a splendid, radiant musical tour across all of Europe, thus commencing the triumphant history of Liszt, the giant of the piano.

Later, in Weimar, Paris, and Rome—wherever he went as a central figure in the music world—he exerted great influence among many friends and disciples, remaining truly Europe’s preeminent musical authority in both name and reality until his death at seventy-five years of age on July 31, 1886. A musician so abundantly blessed during his lifetime is unthinkable except for Mendelssohn.

Liszt’s achievements in music were immense. The classical symphonic form, perfected from Bach’s children through Haydn, reached its developmental zenith through Beethoven’s genius and efforts. When no means of further advancement remained, many geniuses demanded and devised new forms in Romanticism’s fresh frontier to fully extend their artistic creative power. The sonata form, rondo form, and song form—which had been rigidly bound by conventional fixed rules—were now deemed nothing more than shackles of the past; there, to match the soaring of unfettered imagination and creative power, the symphonic poem was conceived. The pioneer in this was France’s Berlioz, whose works such as *Symphonie fantastique*, *Harold en Italie*, and others successively astonished the world’s music circles.

Liszt responded to this by writing *Hero’s Lament*, depicting *Tasso*, and creating his generation-defining masterpiece *Les Préludes*, thereby establishing the field of music with literary titles. On the foundation of musical expression, he set forth entirely new hopes and paved the way for modern music.

Among Liszt’s twelve symphonic poems, in addition to the aforementioned *Tasso* and *Les Préludes*, there were works such as *Mazeppa* and *Hamlet*. Above all, *Les Préludes* remained renowned, continuing to be performed frequently to this day and widely recognized as a quintessential masterpiece among symphonic poems. Liszt, the pianist of all time, had employed his superhuman technique to create countless unparalleled virtuosic works throughout history. Incorporating the dance tunes of his native Hungary, his nineteen "Hungarian Rhapsodies" stood as truly radiant masterpieces—monumental edifices in piano music. They were an exuberant beauty that dazzled the eyes, existing amidst rustic sentiment and tempestuous passion.

Furthermore, with an open and unbiased mind, Liszt arranged songs and orchestral works by his seniors, friends, and juniors, leaving behind numerous gem-like masterpieces. Even Rubinstein, who openly brandished his aversion to program music, doffs his hat to Liszt’s gem-like arrangements—a fact of profound interest.

Liszt’s Works and Their Records

Symphonic Poems Recordings of Liszt's music were not very numerous except for the Hungarian Rhapsodies. Among Liszt’s symphonic poems, *Les Préludes*—based on Lamartine’s poem declaring “Life is but a prelude to that unknown song whose first solemn note is struck by death”—proved the most popular and engaging, with numerous recordings available. Among these, I wish to reiterate what I wrote five years ago in my earlier work *Romantic Music* and recommend Mengelberg’s recording with the Concertgebouw as a masterpiece (Columbia J7611–2). There were also records conducted by Mylovitz (Columbia), Ormandy (Victor), and Kleiber (Telefunken).

The *Faust Symphony* was a work into which Liszt poured his life’s blood, representing the ultimate synthesis of his genius and technique. Deeply moved by Goethe’s *Faust*, he depicted the characters of Faust, Gretchen, and Mephistopheles while striving to express Goethe’s philosophy and worldview through music in this ambitious composition. The piece remains profoundly challenging even today, devoid of any saccharine appeal to popular tastes. Among recordings, Columbia’s version conducted by Mylovitz with the Paris Symphony Orchestra and Vlasov Choir (JW563–9) stands as a notable example.

There are also *Mazeppa* and *Mephisto Waltz*, but they are not particularly noteworthy.

Hungarian Rhapsodies and Hungarian Fantasia The First Rhapsody exists on Polydor with Borovsky’s recording (D123–4). The Second Rhapsody is extremely famous and consequently beautiful. It is music like scattering sparks. Cortot’s version (Victor JD-1264), though an old recording, remains the most commendable. Additionally, Polydor’s Brailowsky and Columbia’s Friedman can be cited. The Sixth Rhapsody is a beautiful piece. Victor’s Levitzky excels in this work, delivering a breathtaking performance (D-1383). The Tenth Rhapsody is splendid in Rubinstein’s rendition (Victor JD-1356), while Cortot’s Eleventh Rhapsody, though an older recording, remains excellent (Victor 1277).

The Twelfth [Rhapsody] featured Brailowsky and Levitzky, while the Thirteenth [Rhapsody] featured Levitzky (the old Columbia record of Busoni performing this Thirteenth was what you might call a rarity). The Fifteenth [Rhapsody] featured Kreutzer and Solomon. In conclusion, for general collections, Cortot’s No. 2 and Levitzky’s No. 6 sufficed. For the orchestral arrangement of the Second Hungarian Rhapsody, there existed a slightly old but renowned recording on Victor by Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra (JD-1236), and for wind band, an acclaimed performance on Columbia by Dupont leading the Garde Républicaine (J-3234).

The "Hungarian Fantasia" for piano and orchestra stands as Liszt's most quintessentially brilliant composition. For older recordings, there was De Greeff (piano) with Sir Landon Ronald conducting the Royal Albert Hall Orchestra on Victor (9110–11); among newer ones existed Wolf (piano) with Weisbach conducting the Berlin Symphony Orchestra on Victor, and Dupont (piano) with Rühlmann conducting the Paris Symphony Orchestra on Columbia. Yet despite being an extremely aged recording, I found myself captivated by the depth and affection in elderly De Greeff’s performance—one of Liszt’s direct disciples who still conveyed the dignity of sound even today. Still, the Wolf recording offered superior technical conditions.

Piano Concertos and Piano and Orchestra Ensemble Works Of the two piano concertos, despite some decline stemming from advanced age, Sauer (piano) with Weingartner conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra should be recommended for the "First Concerto in E-flat Major". The profound devotion these two venerable masters held for Liszt and their magnificently antiquated expressions merit appreciation (Columbia JS101–3). Additionally, Levitzky’s exists on Victor and Gieseking’s on Columbia. Neither was inferior.

The same could be said of the "Second Concerto in A Major" (Columbia JS120–2). While there exists a Petri recording of this work, in terms of artistic dedication it proved incomparable to the veteran musicians' interpretations. Though Sauer had become an octogenarian by this time, he still commanded profound reverence within musical circles, his resplendent expressions retaining a youthful vigor and brilliance. The inclusion of these two concertos might well be deemed a celebratory milestone for the record industry.

*Danse Macabre* was superficial yet remained an astonishing piece. In terms of both intent and technique, Columbia’s Kireny (piano) with Mylovitz conducting the Paris Symphony Orchestra delivered a masterful performance (JW540–1). “Wanderer Fantasy” and “Fantasia on the Ruins of Athens” were among Liszt’s expert arrangements, but there were no particularly commendable recordings of them.

Piano Sonatas and Other Works The *Sonata in B Minor* sustains its monumental structure through a single continuous movement brimming with Liszt's dynamic power. Horowitz's recording on Victor (JD-216–8) delivered astonishing virtuosity—arguably his definitive interpretation of this work. For alternative perspectives, Cortot's version on Victor (7325–7) remains historically significant. Among notable recordings worth attention are Cortot's *Concert Étude No. 2* (Victor JD-196), Rubinstein's lyrical *Liebestraum No. 3 in A-flat Major* (Victor JD-768), and Cortot's evocative *St. Francis Walking on the Water* (Victor JD-1250).

Among other arrangements, *La Campanella* had been transcribed for piano from Paganini’s original violin piece; Levitzky made this his signature work (Victor JD-1660). Paderewski’s remained an excellent commemorative record (Victor VD-8198).

The Titan Wagner

I remember that in the summer of 1902, when Ishikawa Takuboku first came to Tokyo, he was engrossed in reading an English translation of Wagner’s *Lohengrin* at a modest boarding house in Kohinata. The memory remains vivid: Ishikawa Takuboku argued for Wagner as a dramatic poet, while I advocated the futility of discussing Wagner without his music—we spent half a day in spirited debate. Thirty-seven or thirty-eight years later, last summer, I visited Hakodate Library and, through Director Okada’s kindness, examined Takuboku’s diary in question. There, in the Meiji 35 (1902) entries, I unexpectedly discovered records of our frequent interactions and linked them to those youthful debates about Wagner—a moment that stirred in me an overwhelming sense of time’s passage.

The Wagnerism movement that swept the world at the time—introduced by figures like Dr. Ueda Bin (then a bachelor’s degree holder)—enthused even Japanese youths, who became enthralled by Wagner’s music they had yet to hear. This is something middle-aged and older former literary youths must surely remember in its entirety. The ferocity of Wagner’s influence was such an overwhelming reality that it once swept through the world of music, making people believe, “If it is not Wagner, it is not music.”

The impression left by Wagner’s music was immense and profound, and while his supporters were exceedingly fervent, it is also true that seeds of anti-Wagnerism were constantly nurtured—indeed, there were times when people sought to bury all of Wagner’s achievements and art in the deepest abyss. The phrase “praise and blame are equally mixed” does not necessarily apply to Wagner’s case. From the 1860s for approximately three-quarters of a century, there were times when the entire world stood as Wagner’s enemy, and times when two-thirds of the world became his ardent supporters.

In today's world, there can no longer be anyone who fully supports Wagner's doctrines or music. Yet it remains an indisputable fact that the music world as we know it could never have existed without Wagner.

The waves of Wagnerism swept through the world of music time and time again. Though love and hatred varied by person, country, and era, the magnitude of Wagner’s influence could not be escaped by Verdi, Mussorgsky, or Bizet, nor could it be denied even in the works of Debussy—a figure who stood in complete contrast to Wagner. It is correct to regard Wagner, alongside Bach and Beethoven, as one of the three great giants of music. Whether one likes it or not, there is no denying the era Wagner defined and his heroic achievements.

Effort and Struggle

Richard Wagner was born on May 22, 1813, in Leipzig as the ninth child born to police clerk Friedrich Wagner and his wife Pätz. Friedrich succumbed to typhus that same year, and six months later his mother remarried a man named Geyer—an actor, amateur painter, and playwright. With so many children to support, there had been no prospect of sustaining the household. Fortunately, stepfather Geyer proved good-natured and affectionate; Wagner grew up without hardship and reportedly maintained lifelong gratitude toward him.

In Wagner’s youth, there was no dazzling manifestation of musical genius akin to Mozart’s. Yet there is no doubt he was a boy of exceptional character—both free-spirited and resolute. He loved drama and became engrossed in Homer and Shakespeare; at the age of eleven, he even wrote a play titled *Leubald*. His stepfather Geyer had him practice painting, but he apparently couldn’t bear being confined to sketching and copying models; similarly, in music, such systematic training was not Wagner’s forte.

At eight years old, he reportedly wept upon seeing Weber’s *Der Freischütz* and played its beautiful songs on the piano to his bedridden stepfather’s astonishment. Yet when later studying under piano teachers, he disliked technical drills and was dismissed with “This child will never become a musician,” while violin teachers branded him “the most hopeless pupil.” It was at fourteen that he was stirred as if by a divine revelation upon hearing Beethoven’s *Egmont* and symphonies. Upon realizing that musical foundations could not be gained overnight, he devoted himself to six months of rigorous study as a music student at Leipzig University under the excellent teacher Weiling, mastering harmony and counterpoint to forge the groundwork for flying on his own wings. A glance at Wagner’s biography reveals it as a blood-red chronicle of struggle—from tender youth through middle age battling the world as his enemy, to accomplished old age—the convulsions of a lion’s soul, the image of a giant crushing every thorn underfoot as he advanced. In all music history, there has likely been no composer as combative as Wagner.

Wagner’s musical career began when he created the opera *The Fairies*. In 1833 at age twenty, he became a vocal teacher at Würzburg Theater, then conductor in Königsberg, followed by conductor in Riga—spending six years seeking posts in provincial theaters and tasting every variety of life’s hardships.

At the age of twenty-three, Wagner married the beautiful actress Minna, but this marriage was never a happy one for either Wagner or Minna. Minna was too beautiful and too shallow—not only unsuited to Wagner's impoverished circumstances—but even after entering their middle-aged marital life that had weathered several crises of collapse, she lacked understanding of Wagner's genius and art, and sought to confine her husband Wagner to an unbearable existence of trivial hardships. While it is true that Wagner's attitude regarding the final collapse of their married life was far from transparent and deserves full censure on that point, it may be said without reservation that the fundamental cause leading to their rupture originated from his wife's failure to comprehend her husband and sympathize with his true vocation.

Wagner began with the Romantic school of art. In his later years, his ideology took root in German nationalism and developed into a lofty idealism; however, the young Wagner, influenced by the reformist ideas of his time, plunged headlong into new directions—a course that was, again, inevitable.

Salvation in the Ninth Symphony

Driven out from his position as conductor in Riga, Wagner rushed to Paris at the command of his passion, seeking to bring his art directly to the people. Yet Paris proved far from generous enough to welcome an unknown young composer with open arms—his every expectation and hope met with disappointment. Cunning competitors, ill-natured theaters, and uncomprehending publishers cast this pitiful foreign youth into starvation's streets. Bone-deep disappointment and hunger tormented Wagner without respite. His shoes worn through their soles, having fully tasted the marrow-piercing bitterness of disillusionment—lacking even coins for a haircut—what now filled his profoundest dreams was Germany's soil: its people and art. But day by day the hunger pressing against his back could not be dispelled by dreams or regrets. For Wagner—so it is said—only two possibilities remained: "To die or become a thief."

Wagner, who had completely lost confidence through despair and self-abandonment, one day heard Beethoven's Ninth Symphony with chorus conducted by Habeneck at the Paris Conservatoire. The divine voice resounded powerfully in Wagner's ears. "The hope of life resides here. Light! Joy!—That is true music!"

Wagner staggered back to his poor room but developed a fever from the terrible excitement and could not leave his bed the following day. Thus Beethoven became a divine revelation, teaching Wagner the path he should follow. In 1839 he composed the Faust Overture; in 1840, Rienzi; in 1841, he sketched The Flying Dutchman—Wagner’s genius began to burn like fire. Thus, in the following year of 1842, *Rienzi* was performed at the Dresden Court Theater, achieving success beyond expectations and propelling Wagner to sudden stardom as the darling of the musical world. Following this, *The Flying Dutchman* was performed, and after its rapturous reception, Wagner finally assumed an important position in the musical world of his German homeland as conductor of Dresden’s Royal Opera House.

Wagner’s life was happy and smooth. Before long, his masterpiece *Tannhäuser* was staged, and while introducing works by Mozart and Beethoven on one front to elevate public understanding, this was not, however, the goal that had been prepared for Wagner. From that time onward, Wagner’s growing influence drew the envy of theater managers, and with newspapers turned against him, he gradually descended into an inescapable predicament. To make matters worse, through his associations and other connections, he became involved in political movements—and though he did not actually participate in the movements themselves, an arrest warrant was finally issued for him. Narrowly escaping to Zurich, Switzerland, thus began Wagner’s long, long life of wandering.

The life of wandering in exile lasted from 1849, when he was thirty-six, until 1861, when he was forty-eight—a span of twelve long years. It goes without saying that the first thing to assail Wagner, who had lost his base of life, was terrible destitution. Even when Wagner himself realized he harbored no political ambitions and was simply an artist, this realization now amounted to nothing. Throughout Wagner’s long period of destitution, his steadfast supporter was his friend Liszt—a true connoisseur of his art who worked tirelessly to promote Wagner’s music. Moreover, Wagner acquired a circle of young aesthetes and even discovered among them the exceptional young pianist Hans von Bülow, who would later become a great conductor.

As Wagner himself described—a solitary life with no joy but sleep; a destitute life perpetually plagued by financial worries; a life devoid of satisfaction or hope—it was indeed true that for Wagner, this became in one respect a life of liberation. It was during this period that he completed nearly all of his lifelong masterpiece—the four-part grand music drama *The Ring of the Nibelung*. *Das Rheingold*, *Die Walküre*, and *Siegfried* The tetralogy *Götterdämmerung* stood not only as a great masterpiece embodying Wagner’s ideal of music drama but also as a resplendent monumental pyramid in the entire history of music.

His ideology and techniques gradually matured together; into the heightened heroism was blended a Schopenhauerian pessimism, and the profound darkness of tragic fate became linked with an ideal of love expanding worldwide. The oppressive weight of Wagner’s music stems not only from its relentless barrage of sound but also from this Greek-inspired heroism and the ideological gravity of tragic destiny.

Family Life

Around that time, Wagner’s household gradually collapsed. Minna—Wagner’s wife, four years his senior and described as “a beautiful but prosaic woman”—saw an insurmountable rift deepen between herself and Wagner with each passing year. The two began quarreling on their wedding day; though Minna had attempted to elope with a wealthy man during Wagner’s years of hardship, it was also she who appeared before the Saxon court during his exile and petitioned three times for her husband’s pardon. Yet this same Minna—like Mozart’s wife before her—never understood Wagner until her death, asking others, “Richard is so great, you say?” She remained so utterly lacking in comprehension that she would inquire, “Huh… Is that really true?”

Minna developed a lung disease and began taking opium to forget her suffering, her suspiciousness gradually intensifying. At this critical juncture, Mathilde—the young and beautiful wife of industrialist Wesendonck—persuaded her husband to welcome Wagner into their villa, and as Wagner’s most ardent admirer, visited daily to engage with his poetry, music, and philosophy. Mathilde was beautiful and wise. The sight of Mathilde discussing art with Wagner in the study of a villa overlooking the Alps and a lake—even if there were no impure thoughts—needs no explanation as to how it appeared in Minna’s eyes.

Minna finally left Wagner’s side forever, embracing her ailing lungs. Though the divorce was Minna’s will and Wagner continued providing financial support to his estranged wife afterward, he could not escape condemnation for failing to care for his ignorant ailing spouse throughout her life. Moreover, Wagner later formally remarried—albeit in an undesirable union—to Cosima, wife of his friend and beloved disciple Hans von Bülow and daughter of Liszt. It remains an undeniable fact that Wagner’s moral principles regarding women contained more than a few elements difficult to reconcile. The masterpiece *Tristan und Isolde*, which depicts a love tragedy, has long been said to allude to his relationship with Mathilde.

Be that as it may, after being pardoned and returning to Germany, Wagner continued to be plagued by the ignorant masses and formidable rivals. After repeated disappointments and setbacks, in 1864, fortune came to Wagner in the form of an emissary from Ludwig II, King of Bavaria.

The Final Victory

Although Wagner, having been summoned to Munich, encountered many enemies and obstacles during this period, through the king’s benevolence he retired to the shores of Lake Lucerne, married young Cosima, welcomed their beloved child Siegfried, and composed the exquisite miniature masterpiece *Siegfried Idyll*. Wagner’s battle was a struggle against society’s incomprehension of his art, a fight against traditionalists, and simultaneously a conflict with commercial theaters. Amidst these formidable adversaries, he realized that to perform his music without restraint and await its true appreciation by genuine art lovers required building an ideal artistic sanctuary—a theater founded on nonprofit principles.

Wagner formulated a plan to establish a festival theater in Bayreuth by gathering a thousand comrades, aiming to protect the sanctity of its performances by elevating music drama art to the status of a festival. It was in 1873, the year Wagner turned sixty. With the assistance of King Ludwig II of Bavaria, the theater was completed in 1876, and that autumn under his auspices, three historic consecutive performances of the tetralogy *The Ring of the Nibelung* were realized. Thus were Wagner’s ideals for music drama realized for the first time. *The Ring of the Nibelung* is a monumental work requiring four days for a single performance; it is said to be music that revived Greek tragedy, ideally realized the fusion of poetry and music, and ventured into the realm of religion.

Afterward, even though the Bayreuth Theater began admitting paying audiences, the traditional festival was continued by the long-lived widow Cosima Wagner until recent years, and as is well known, it still occupies a solemn position today as one of the world’s renowned musical landmarks.

With *Parsifal* as his final masterpiece, Wagner suffered a stroke in Venice on February 13, 1883 while visiting Italy. He was exactly seventy years old. The coffin that departed Venice for Bayreuth was welcomed by the king’s envoys, artists from across Europe, and a tear-drenched crowd, and was laid to rest with the utmost grandeur at the Wahnfried mausoleum on February 18, 1883.

Finally, I wish to briefly present Wagner’s musical theories and his accomplishments.

Grand Synthesis of the Arts

According to Wagner, all arts should be unified and subsumed into music—poetry, painting, drama, sculpture, and all others—each linked to music to form a vast, integrated whole; he believed that in the form of music drama, art should occupy its highest position. Wagner’s music dramas, to fulfill their sacred ideal, were to be separated from commercial art and should be supported as a festival by those who truly love art.

Wagner’s preparations for his music dramas were nothing short of extraordinary. To rescue music drama from the vulgarity of traditional commercial opera, he not only forged an intimate relationship with poetry but abolished the hollow arias crafted for virtuosic singers, replacing them with exquisite recitative set against expansive orchestral backdrops. Through leitmotifs that embodied the drama’s characters, objects, and ideological landscapes—and through their evolving interplay—he achieved theatrical development of unparalleled opulence and splendor. A lifelong masterpiece such as *The Ring of the Nibelung* indeed possessed over ninety leitmotifs, their interweaving presenting a monumental spectacle akin to a vast Gobelin tapestry blotting out the sun.

Bold use of dissonance, strengthening of the middle voices, innovative orchestration—when enumerated, his musical innovations were indeed numerous. Above all, it was distinguished by its complex and intensified use of wind instruments; at times deploying nine harps in unison, it seized every nerve of the audience and unleashed a deluge of passion—the overwhelming ferocity of this "art of power" remains unparalleled before or since. Wagner’s music dramas—with their overwhelming power and intensity that granted listeners no moment’s respite, their refusal to permit emotional identification, their exclusive use of mythological subject matter steeped in heroism and inescapable tragic fate—proved profoundly unwelcome to those of sensitive nerves. Yet their lofty idealism and passionate elevation akin to a religion of love shattered the tepid Romanticism of contemporary music, inaugurating a new intellectual music while imbuing tonal art with an expressive vigor far surpassing what one might imagine.

Wagner—who had many admirers and formidable rivals in both conduct and music, in life and even after death—nonetheless took strides worthy of a giant, and the profound influence his music has had on posterity remains undeniable. I reiterate: without Wagner, the world’s music as we know it today would not exist. He was, in one aspect, an artistic hero—what doubt can there be? Wagner’s music is vast in quantity, but works such as *The Ring of the Nibelung*, portions of *Lohengrin*, the overture to *Tannhäuser*, and the preludes to *Die Meistersinger*, *Parsifal*, and *Tristan und Isolde* can easily be heard on records. To engage deeply with the music of the titan Wagner and savor its essence proves impossible for those who consider music mere sweet diversion. Yet this very challenge may indeed be called a worthy trial of true artistic discernment.

Wagner’s Works and Their Records Wagner’s records were by no means few. I had attempted to detail each of these in my earlier work *Romantic Music*, but by lapsing into an encyclopedic approach, I only compounded the difficulty of selecting truly good records. Here I resolved to list only the truly good ones, refraining from mentioning eight or nine out of ten. It went without saying that Wagner’s music held immense importance in musical culture, but due to its grand structure and extreme complexity and refinement, its inherent difficulty never diminished over time. In Japan, while it proved truly unavoidable that Wagner’s records were not necessarily commercially welcomed, one could not help but feel a certain awkwardness.

Based on my actual experiences at concerts held at Tokyo Imperial University and elsewhere, Wagner’s music stirred far more intense emotion than anticipated among intellectual audiences and cast profoundly suggestive implications for the future. I believe that one day in Japan too will come an opportunity for Wagner to become cherished and understood by the general public.

Bayreuth Wagner Festival Records

Among Wagner’s records, those of deepest interest are the nine records that recorded the 1936 Bayreuth Wagner Festival. Though Wagner’s ideals had been partially modified, the fact that his theater in Bayreuth continued operating to this day remained deeply interesting in itself. While performances had been recorded once in 1927, those recordings suffered from such poor sound quality that they were now beyond consideration; however, the 1936 recordings proved truly splendid and allowed one to fully experience Bayreuth’s distinctive atmosphere.

The unique setup where the orchestra was placed beneath the stage, rendering the musicians invisible from the audience seats, could also be discerned in this recording. Both orchestra and chorus were sources of pride and honor, and though I knew not what sort of man conductor Tietjen might be, I supposed him a figure of considerable stature. The records compiled only a selection from *Lohengrin*, *Die Walküre*, and *Siegfried*, yet they exhibited a natural dramatic progression with somewhat discernible contextual relationships, achieving fluidity and engagement. The singers too were first-rate performers—not only did they convey Bayreuth Festival's atmosphere quite thoroughly, but they made one feel this must indeed be what Wagner's music dramas truly were (Polydor SKB 2047–55).

*Tannhäuser* and *Lohengrin* The overture to *Tannhäuser* was especially magnificent. It was an early masterpiece of Wagner. Though numerous records existed, I would recommend the Columbia recording conducted by Mengelberg with the Concertgebouw Orchestra for its grandeur, even if the recording was old (J8092-3). The music of 'Venusberg' conducted by Stokowski, while being a revision of the *Tannhäuser* overture, lacked the overture's dramatic intensity.

Among individual song recordings from *Tannhäuser*, Victor's rendition of "Hall of Song" (JD-1375) performed by Flagstad and her "Elisabeth's Prayer" (JD-763) stood as splendid achievements. Following these, Victor's slightly older Elizza recordings remained excellent. Particularly, Elizza's "Hall of Song" had been one of the celebrated recordings, though it had since gone out of print. Columbia's Lehmann also demonstrated mastery in her recordings of "Elisabeth's Aria" and "Prayer."

“Evening Star” recalled Schwarz’s old Deutsche Grammophon recording. There was Hüsch’s electric recording (Victor JD-1143), but for this piece, Schwarz’s older version remained superior. The absence of a complete recording of *Lohengrin* was unsatisfying. The preludes were both extremely famous and superb, but Toscanini’s Victor recording of the “Third Act Prelude” (from the *Wagner Masterpieces Collection*) stood out, while Furtwängler’s Polydor rendition of the “First Act Prelude” (60187) likely qualified as another masterpiece. The “Wedding March” (Bridal Chorus) was famous but lacked quality recordings. If compelled to choose, one had no option but to select the aforementioned Bayreuth Festival records and Victor’s Metropolitan Chorus version (11249).

The famous "Elsa’s Dream" had excellent recordings through Victor’s Flagstad (JD-1375) and Columbia’s Lehmann (J-5593). Among older versions, Victor maintained one by Elizza.

*The Mastersingers of Nuremberg* and *Tristan und Isolde* The "Prelude" to *Die Meistersinger* may be somewhat dated, but Victor’s recording of Muck conducting the Berlin State Opera Orchestra stands as a likely masterpiece (6858-9). For Act III’s "Prelude," Victor offered both Stokowski’s conducted version and Böhm’s newer recording (JH153), with freshness favoring the latter. Yet Columbia’s Walter-conducted and Polydor’s Furtwängler-led interpretations must not be overlooked.

“Dance of the Shoemakers and Entry of the Mastersingers” had a Columbia recording conducted by Walter with a British orchestra (J8175). "The Prize Song" was an exceptionally beautiful and widely beloved piece, yet strangely there existed no truly good recordings of it. For *Tristan und Isolde*, there existed Stokowski’s "Symphonic Synthesis," but while the editing proved skillful and the conducting masterful, that very competence caused it to lose all dramatic development, breathing space, expansiveness, and lingering emotion.

The recording combining the “Prelude” and “Isolde’s Liebestod,” conducted by Furtwängler with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, was available on Polydor (60196–7) and Columbia (S1044–5, *Masterpiece Collection Vol. 3*). Furtwängler’s *Tristan und Isolde* had been hailed as peerless, with both recordings being magnificent. The Columbia version was presumed to be somewhat newer in its recording date.

*The Ring of the Nibelung*

*The Rhinegold*, *Die Walküre*, *Siegfried* The records of this grand music drama consisting of four parts—*Götterdämmerung*—were available in quite a number of partial recordings. For *Die Walküre*, there was a Columbia recording (JS6–13) of the complete Act I conducted by Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, featuring Lehmann (soprano), Melchior (tenor), and List (bass). In what may have been the finest performance a record could offer at the time, the singers, conductor, and orchestra flawlessly brought Wagner to life. There was also Stokowski’s conducted synthesis, and among older recordings, Victor had complete versions conducted by Coates and Blech, but these were no longer worth considering.

For individual records, there was Stokowski’s conducted *Magic Fire Music* (Victor Enthusiasts Association Vol. 6), along with Flagstad’s rendition of *Ho-jo-to-ho* (Victor JE-128). Regarding *Siegfried*, aside from the Bayreuth Festival music records, Victor had Mengelberg’s recording of *Forest Murmurs* with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra (JD-1570). It remained exceptionally beautiful but had grown slightly dated. Stokowski’s synthesized versions were not preferable.

*Götterdämmerung* also had few records apart from Stokowski’s grandiose synthesized versions. “The Rhine Journey” is exceptionally beautiful music, and this recording conducted by Muck with the Berlin State Opera Orchestra was available on Victor (6859–60). There were several versions of the “Funeral March” included, but Muck’s conducted version remained particularly compelling (Victor 6861). Among newer recordings, there were those conducted by Walter, Furtwängler, and Kleiber.

*Parsifal*

It was the work that formed the final pinnacle of Wagner’s music dramas and remained profoundly meditative in nature. For *Prelude* and *Good Friday Music*, Victor had Stokowski’s conducted recording (JD1653–6), while Columbia possessed Furtwängler’s conducted version (JS47–9). Both were excellent performances, but Furtwängler’s introspective and serene interpretation surpassed Stokowski’s lavish American-style rendition. Furtwängler’s *Parsifal* stood as another peerless achievement—a realm even a master like Stokowski could not hope to attain. The orchestras were the Philadelphia Orchestra and the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.

There were also recordings conducted by Coppola, Muck, and Boult, but there was no longer any need to list them.

*Siegfried Idyll*

This music carries a profound legacy: Wagner, having reached his later years when he welcomed his son Siegfried, composed this piece in an effusion of joy to celebrate both his wife Cosima's birthday and Christmas, then arranged for a small orchestra to perform it at his home's entrance on Christmas morning—thrilling Cosima Wagner beyond measure. Drawing themes from the music drama *Siegfried* and interweaving an ancient German lullaby, it stands as a work of unparalleled beauty even among Wagner's oeuvre, with tenderness suffusing every measure.

There are several recordings available, but I would consider Columbia Records’ version conducted by Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra as the foremost (J8567–8). It was a performance imbued with affection and executed with consummate skill. Toscanini’s conducted recording is also a distinctive entry (from the *Wagner Masterpieces Collection*), though it carries a certain detachment typical of his approach. Another recording of this piece conducted by Siegfried Wagner, Wagner’s late and deceased son, is included in Victor (D1297–8). He was not a particularly skilled conductor, but his recording holds deep commemorative interest.

To summarize, the indispensable Wagner records were: the "Bayreuth Festival Records," Toscanini’s *Wagner Masterpieces Collection*, Muck’s Overture to the music drama *Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg*, the music drama *Götterdämmerung*, the *Parsifal* Prelude, Furtwängler’s *Parsifal*, and Walter’s *Die Walküre*. While skillful, Stokowski’s versions were ultimately of little consequence.

César Franck: The Hidden Saint of Music

In the annals of modern music history, the figure of César Franck, standing modestly yet resolutely tall, is both venerable and dear. Franck, who spent the majority of his life concealed as an organist at Sainte-Clotilde Church and finally received his first acclaim in the year before his death, should indeed be called both the "saint of music" and the "modern-day Bach." While the fact that Franck's works almost entirely originated from Catholic faith and once disregarded both the masses and musical showmen contributed to his belated recognition in the world, it was simultaneously a shared nobility with Johann Sebastian Bach—who similarly entrusted his life to Lutheran faith and found complete satisfaction as a church organist across a century and a half—and indeed this very sincere attitude became the reason why true art—the most noble and finest of things—was produced.

Franck’s music, however magnificent its exterior may appear, was deeply rooted in faith—much like Bach’s had been—or, to put it another way, it was music of renunciation and aspiration, of confession and atonement. That Franck never wrote a single measure of music merely for the "pursuit of beauty" would be readily acknowledged by anyone with even a passing familiarity with him. For example, even within the opulent splendor of his masterpiece "Sonata in A Major"—a work counted among the greatest violin-piano sonatas of all time—Franck could not help but imbue it with religious passion and pure, untainted joy.

A Time of Trials

César Franck was born on December 10, 1822, in Liège, Belgium. From boyhood, he displayed extraordinary talent at the piano and, bearing his parents' great expectations, entered the Paris Conservatoire at age fifteen, where he frequently received awards for both piano and organ performance. The resplendent figure of Franz Liszt—who then reigned over all Europe as a virtuoso pianist, commanding honor, status, and vast wealth—likely kindled in Franck's parents the ambition to raise their son as a great pianist. However, the young Franck defied these hopes by immersing himself in composition, persistently striving to win the Rome Prize—that gateway to success in the compositional world—which provoked such fierce opposition from his father that he was forced to abandon both composition and formal studies, returning to his Belgian homeland. This occurred in 1842, when he was twenty years old.

Why are secular rewards so meager for composers yet so generous for performers? I do not presume this applies solely to Franck's case. How many geniuses throughout history has this supremely vexing imbalance starved in dire straits? Be that as it may, two years later in 1844, Franck once again threw himself into Paris's crucible, battling single-handedly to carve out his destiny. This stemmed partly from his parents' modest means, but regardless, Franck's life of hardship began then; from scaling revolutionary barricades erected across Paris in 1848 to attending his wedding with actress Desmousseaux's daughter, he faced mounting adversities demanding both his resolve and health.

To earn bread for two, he rose at five-thirty every morning to devote himself to composition, then had to spend the entire day teaching harmony and piano.

The young men around him In 1846, his first oratorio *Mercy* premiered, and by 1850, a portion of his opera had been completed; however, Franck himself, realizing how distant the path to achieving his ideal remained, virtually ceased composing for the next decade, and even after 1860, there appears to have been no significant activity. Meanwhile, Franck’s reputation as an organist steadily grew. In 1858, he secured the position of organist at Sainte-Clotilde Church, remaining in this post for nearly his entire life and maintaining an unshakable reputation as an organist. In 1872, he became a professor of organ at the Paris Conservatoire, naturalized as a French citizen the following year in 1873, and over approximately twenty years until his passing in 1890, his masterpieces were successively completed.

Around Franck gathered young men who admired his dignity and were devoted to his works. It was truly a case of peaches and plums needing no words—their very presence drew disciples. Among these young men were luminaries such as d’Indy, Chausson, Duparc, Ropartz, Pierné, Vidal, and Chapuis—all of whom would later make a profound impact on the French musical world—and there, centered around Franck, a vibrant momentum for a new era was being fostered. However, despite this, Franck’s works did not easily come to be known to the world. Franck’s music, being unassuming, intellectual, and devoid of unnecessary coquetry, likely remained beyond the comprehension not only of the general public but even of contemporary musicians.

The Year Before His Death

In the year before his death—1889—when Franck’s magnum opus, the "Symphony in D Minor," which could be called the first great symphony since Beethoven, premiered at the Paris Conservatoire, Charles Gounod—then a towering figure in the French musical world—attended with his entourage. When asked for his impressions after the performance, he publicly declared, "An incompetent affirmation—" thus openly disparaging Franck. These words do nothing to elevate Charles Gounod—the composer of *Faust*—but they do lay bare the merciless degree of public incomprehension that Franck’s works endured in his time.

When Franck returned home after completing this premiere and his family asked about how the performance went, he reportedly responded, “Hmm, it resonated beautifully, just as I expected.” This anecdote even evokes a heartrending image of the elderly sixty-eight-year-old Franck in his loneliness. In the early spring of the following year, his *String Quartet in D Major* premiered, and for the first time, appreciative acclaim arose for Franck’s works. “Finally,” Franck said to those nearby, “just as I believed, people have come to appreciate my music.”

But for Franck, who at sixty-nine had finally tasted acclaim, there remained no life left to live. Soon injured in an unfortunate accident and having developed pleuritis, on November 8, 1890—that very winter—he passed away at his Paris residence, mourned by his many disciples.

Franck's Nobility

I believe I have nearly written of the nobility of Franck the man. Franck’s works are classical in form, yet their expressive methods are thoroughly modern; apart from Debussy’s Impressionism, they carved out a fresh and profoundly meaningful domain within modern music. The core of Franck’s thought lies in Catholic doctrine, yet it is said to share a common thread with the Neo-Spiritualism movement; as artistic works, they possess a sincerity beyond what one might imagine. While Franck lacks both the emotional exaggerations of Romanticism and German-style pedantry, his compositions possess architectural rationality and grandeur—qualities that are mystical yet intensely colorful. This very combination that made them difficult to recognize also explains why they contain profound substance and an inexhaustible spiritual essence.

Franck's Works and Their Recordings Due to Franck’s limited output and the lack of popular appeal in his works, recordings were by no means numerous. However, in Franck’s case, the fact that even these few recordings were all eminently listenable stood in stark contrast to other composers—and this very quality only deepened one’s reverence for him.

Symphonies, Symphonic Variations "Symphony in D Minor" was Franck’s only symphony, unparalleled before or since in its structural grandeur and the depth of its spiritual content. Both Franck’s genius and efforts, as well as the quintessence of the French symphony, could be seen to have been perfected in this single work. The recording by Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra was regarded as the foremost magnificent performance (Victor JD998–1003).

The *Symphonic Variations* was an elegant concerto for piano and orchestra. Even amidst this dazzling beauty, it thankfully retained the substantive quality characteristic of Franck. The recording by Cortot (piano) and Landon Ronald conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra on Victor (JD527–8) deserved citation. It possessed radiant clarity that took one’s breath away while abounding in warmth.

Violin Sonata

The "Violin Sonata in A Major" stands as one of the great masterpieces among violin-piano sonatas across all ages—a renowned work whose splendor rivals Beethoven’s and whose depth matches Brahms’s. There are numerous recordings, but none—even among those made somewhat earlier—can match the dignity and elegance of Victor’s Cortot (piano) and Thibaud (violin) (JD8175–8). It would be sheer folly to hesitate in choosing among records of this caliber.

Quartets, Quintets

The *String Quartet in D Major* was not only Franck’s sole quartet but also an expression of the profoundly serene state of his late years, far removed from popular appeal. The recording on Victor features the Pro Arte Quartet's austere performance (JD521–6).

The "Piano Quintet" may not be particularly showy for this type of composition, but it possesses a profound and ethereal quality. A recording had recently been reissued by the Capet Quartet and Champi (piano) on Columbia S-1110–4. The recording, made over a decade earlier, lacked considerable clarity, but one could not help but acknowledge the Capet Quartet’s excellence. Additionally, Victor contained a recording by Cortot (piano) and the International Quartet, but here too—though Cortot’s piano excelled—the strings were not of the highest quality and the recording was not recent.

Piano works, organ works

The two pieces—*Prélude, Choral et Fugue* (Victor 7331–2) and *Prélude, Aria et Final* (Victor JD77–9)—stand as representative works of Franck’s piano compositions. Combining profound thought likened to that of a modern Bach with contemporary expressive techniques, they are masterpieces imbued with religious piety. Cortot’s performance here remains the finest we could hope for, but whether due to Cortot’s youthfulness, a shift in temperament, or the work’s inherent quality, the former imparts an even greater nobility.

*Prélude, Fugue et Variations* was an organ work, and Victor had a recording by the masterful Dupré (JD1629). One should recall the visage of the renowned organist Franck.

Orchestral Works *The Accursed Huntsman* was a work based on Bruegel’s ballad, where an arrogant count was cast into hell during a hunt—a programmatic piece with an intriguing flavor. A recording existed on Polydor conducted by Wolff with the Paris Conservatoire Lamoureux Orchestra (40482–3). Though somewhat dated, there were no better alternatives. The symphonic poems *Redemption* and *Psyché* were available on Polydor under Wolff’s direction, but their recordings were regrettably incomplete and showed their age.

The Lonely Philosopher Brahms

“Composing an opera is more difficult than getting married,” Brahms declared. While various theories exist about why Brahms remained solitary throughout his life, this much is clear: that he—a composer who mastered every musical form—never wrote a single opera likely stemmed from his unyielding nature; an integrity that refused to admit compromise, exaggeration, or even theatrical expression into his works. Brahms was a man of fearsome probity. He barred all gaudiness, ostentation, and superficiality from both his compositions and daily existence. Such artifices—clever tricks meant to court listeners’ favor, rash pursuits of novelty, gestures and tones discordant with substance, emotions spilling forth without purpose—these things proved utterly insufferable to Brahms.

I have often spoken and written of my fondness for Brahms’s music alongside that of Bach and Schubert. For it is especially in his chamber music—meticulously stripped of superficial brilliance yet imbued with orderly formal beauty and overflowing richness—that one finds this indescribable excellence. Brahms’s music is "content as expression." It was an unadulterated white marble statue fashioned from the raw material of Brahms’s entire being. It could indeed be said that Brahms’s music was the springwater of life—dug a hundred feet underground with purity and honesty, enveloped in classical forms, without any embellishment or exaggeration.

I have also said, "Brahms's life too was an unyielding truth that never distorted art." His music constituted both a declaration of war against hypocrisy and frivolity, and an act of iconoclasm against ostentation and pretense. During that era when modern music was burgeoning - when both authentic and spurious elements were single-mindedly pursuing novelty - Brahms returned to a classical spirit of grandeur, solemnity, simplicity, and piety, resolutely charging toward the ideal of "restoring the sacred ground of absolute music."

I have written articles and delivered lectures praising Brahms more than ten times since the start of this year. Brahms’s music remains unassuming and solid—never easily popularized—and this very fact that the world holds but a small number of Brahms enthusiasts against a multitude many times their number of detractors is precisely what affords us Brahms admirers such frequent opportunities to write and speak in this vein. Why was Brahms never embraced by the masses? And yet, why does his music possess such beauty and nobility? Following my customary approach, I shall examine his brief biography to arrive at an answer.

Fine Youth

Johannes Brahms was born on May 7, 1833, in Hamburg, Germany. His father Johann was a musician who undoubtedly provided the ideal environment for nurturing Brahms's innate musical talent without distortion. At age ten, when recommended as a child prodigy for an American concert tour, his teacher Kossell wisely refused this proposal to protect Brahms's artistic development—though he had placed great hopes on Brahms becoming a concert pianist—yet Brahms's passion increasingly turned toward studying harmony through the piano, advancing single-mindedly into composition rather than performance.

Yet Brahms's start as a musician was by no means glorious. As a boy, Brahms had to play piano in taverns at fourteen to support his impoverished family’s finances while entertaining patrons. Had Brahms lacked his ferocious drive, not immersed himself in the Bible, and not devoted himself to cultivating his education, he might well have ended his days as a tavern pianist. Fortunately, young Brahms’s diligence stole moments from his scant free time to cultivate knowledge, painstakingly building amidst adversity the foundation for the noble sentiments and philosophical insights of his later years.

He published his Op. 3 Sonata and song collection at the age of seventeen. By the age of twenty, Brahms was already teaming up with the young violinist Reményi and setting out on a concert tour to Hungary.

It was when they held a concert in a small rural town. Just before the concert began, upon discovering that the piano on stage was tuned a half-step lower than standard pitch, Reményi turned pale. However, with the opening time imminent, they could do nothing. Brahms calmly faced the piano and played the entire Kreutzer Sonata from memory while transposing it a half-step higher. The one who was most astonished upon hearing this was the great violinist Joachim, who happened to be among the audience. He immediately sought to establish a bond with him—a bond that would remain unbroken for the rest of their lives.

Upon discovering Brahms, Joachim promptly introduced this outstanding young musician to Liszt—the great pianist and composer who had established a grand musical kingdom in Weimar at the time. It goes without saying how well Liszt, with his inherent generosity and kindness, treated Brahms. First, he himself sat at the piano and played the "Scherzo" composed by the then-unknown young Brahms with superhuman comprehension while deciphering the messy score; furthermore, he showed eager interest in Brahms' Second Sonata.

The rustic Brahms could only stand utterly dumbfounded at the lavish reception from Liszt—his senior and an undisputed titan of the musical world. Yet the atmosphere swirling through Liszt's domain was opulent yet insipid, saturated with pretense and sycophancy. When Liszt became encircled by guests and disciples to expound at length on his Sonata in B minor, Brahms—seduced by the comfort of an armchair he'd never known since emerging from the womb—had begun drowsily nodding off. Needless to say, Liszt and Brahms parted ways desolately from that moment onward.

Because of this anecdote, we must never ridicule or disparage Liszt. Liszt was undoubtedly a generous, caring, and admirable man, but he inhabited a world entirely separate from that of the untamed Brahms; the two were ultimately as incompatible as oil and water.

Schumann and Him Next, Brahms was introduced by Joachim and visited the household of Robert Schumann and his wife Clara. At that time, Schumann had been suffering from an incurable brain disease, but upon receiving the twenty-year-old Brahms—whose cool eyes and beautiful hair made him appear like a long-lost brother—he rejoiced as if encountering kin of his own flesh; Clara, the renowned virtuosa, shared this joy with her husband. Schumann became utterly enraptured upon examining Brahms' compositions, proclaiming his discovery in his journal *Neue Bahnen* while bestowing the highest accolades. Through this endorsement, young Brahms achieved nationwide fame overnight—though this very acclaim sowed seeds of resentment in certain quarters, causing him to be regarded henceforth with envious eyes.

The influence of the Schumann couple on Brahms’s career, and particularly on his music, was profoundly significant. That Brahms never pandered to vulgar trends and resolutely rejected novel yet superficial elements—persisting throughout his life in creating music that was unassuming and lackluster yet supremely artistic through this uncompromising attitude—was fundamentally rooted in his inherent character; however, it would not be wrong to say that this was also partly due to the influence of the idealist Schumann and the astute Clara. Just as there can be no doubt that Clara’s encouragement greatly contributed to Schumann accomplishing so much as a champion of Romantic music, it is impossible to say that the brilliant Clara had no influence on Brahms, who was far younger, after Schumann’s death. Through literature, we can vividly evoke Clara Schumann's piano technique and her astute intellect.

In 1854, Schumann, afflicted by brain disease, threw himself into the Rhine River and was narrowly rescued. Subsequently, to repay Schumann's patronage, Brahms organized his works and books, and to secure funds for Schumann's medical treatment, aided Clara during her postpartum recovery by undertaking distant concert tours. After Schumann's death in July 1856, Brahms became Clara and Schumann's orphaned children's foremost advisor and steadfast lifelong friend, supporting them both overtly and discreetly.

Even if Schumann’s influence on Brahms was by no means insignificant, Brahms’s unwavering goodwill over the subsequent forty long years—having repaid the debt of a mere two or three years of acquaintance—deserved praise.

After Schumann’s death, Brahms increasingly forged his own path. He delved deeply into classical forms and spirit, rejecting unnecessary exaggeration and ornamentation to seek new beauty within them. The first Piano Concerto was published as Op. 15 to fulfill this vision, but not only contemporary audiences but even professional critics failed to comprehend it. "Dull and dry" "Dismissed with irresponsible critiques like 'unpleasant sonorities,' it remained buried beneath scorn, ridicule, and indifference until thirty years later, when d'Albert performed it and drew the first fervent ovation."

The subsequent chamber works and numerous beautiful art songs, encouraged by his friends, were somehow released into the world, but at the time, no one paid them any heed. For Europe’s musical world to understand Brahms, it unquestionably required thirty or even fifty years.

A Solitary Figure

It was in 1862 that Brahms visited the musical capital Vienna and resolved to settle there. The allure of Vienna—where Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert had entrusted their glorious lives—must have powerfully drawn Brahms in. Brahms's life in Vienna was by all means a success both as a pianist and as a composer. The two years he spent as choir director at a singing school could be called an unusually settled occupation for the unconventional Brahms. Subsequently, numerous instrumental works and song collections—including the masterpieces *Eternal Love* and *May Night*—were made public, and in 1866, his famous masterpiece *A German Requiem* was completed.

This work, into which Brahms poured his heart and soul in remembrance of his late teacher and friend Schumann and in mourning the recent loss of his mother, stands renowned as the first Requiem written in German and one of the most artistic pieces of religious music. However, its premiere at the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde could scarcely be deemed successful; what brought this composition to triumph was when Brahms himself conducted it two years later at Bremen Cathedral—now deeply imprinted in the hearts of the German people as their most reverent musical offering.

At that time, Brahms was a broad-chested man of imposing stature with beautiful hair, piercing blue eyes, and a solemn demeanor—revered by all, a fact that becomes evident when viewing surviving photographs.

The famous "Lullaby" was composed when he was thirty-five. During the Franco-Prussian War from 1870 to 1871, burning with patriotic fervor, he composed the grand choral work "Triumphal Song." In 1873, when a dispute arose within the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Brahms resigned from his position as conductor along with its annual salary of 3,000 marks; fortunately, from around that time, Brahms’s music finally began to be understood, and he became able to sustain his livelihood through composition royalties.

Around that time, the renowned surgeon and passionate music enthusiast Billroth invested his personal fortune to sponsor concerts, and Brahms, stimulated by this, successively published his beautiful string quartets. This fact, as the reason Brahms was able to produce such an abundance of jewel-like chamber music, remains by no means insignificant to us of later generations. At the age of forty, Brahms published his first symphony—what could be called the ultimate objective of his musical career. This "First" harbored a surging passion, was likened to a dormant volcano, and stood as a grand and magnificent work—yet it did not gain immediate recognition. The renowned pianist and conductor Hans von Bülow severed his decade-long association with Wagner, became an ardent advocate for Brahms, declared "This is none other than Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony," and took up the baton himself to silence the throngs of opponents. Subsequently, he published his "Second Symphony," imbued with pastoral beauty, which—alongside Beethoven’s "Sixth Symphony (Pastoral)"—came to be cherished by later generations as a sonic portrait of Vienna’s tranquil outskirts.

By that time, Brahms had fully become a Viennese, yet his life remained solitary—marked only by occasional interactions with a few friends, rare public appearances—and he continued this profoundly lonely, solitary existence for over thirty years.

It was around that time that Brahms published his Violin Concerto, which followed his famous Academic Festival Overture and Tragic Overture in renown. This concerto by Brahms at forty-five, brimming with fully matured musical ideas and technique, is praised alongside Beethoven's and Mendelssohn's concertos as one of the three great violin concertos; however, its true worth was not recognized from its premiere. Gradually—yet steadily—it elevated its reputation, and that it now stands as a source of profound admiration for music lovers worldwide is something known all too universally.

Brahms released his Third Symphony in 1884 and unveiled his final symphony, the Fourth, in 1886. Exactly ten years had passed since his First Symphony's premiere; these years between forty and fifty marked Brahms's artistic zenith, during which his numerous masterpieces seemed concentrated. His subsequent compositions included two monumental works—the *Double Concerto for Violin and Cello* and the *Clarinet Quintet*—which cast his twilight years in resplendent sunset hues. Yet around 1896, symptoms of liver cancer intensified, progressing stealthily until the sixty-four-year-old composer had lost all traces of his former vigor. At a January 1897 Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde concert, Brahms rose in the gallery to acknowledge applause for his work—but where once shone clear azure eyes now lingered clouds, once-ruddy cheeks bore deathly pallor. Witnessing mortality's shadow claim this noble visage, the audience waved handkerchiefs fervently while choking back tears.

March passed, and on April 3rd, having penned his final tender letter to his stepmother, this solitary yet great soul returned to heaven. On the day of the funeral, a passage from Brahms’s *A German Requiem*—sung through tears—stated: "Though the labors of those who die may cease, their works shall endure in the world."

Like a candle

Many people undoubtedly love Brahms for his graceful and unadorned music; however, as one delves into the biography of the man who created this music, one cannot help but become devoted to his character—gentle and beautiful—which might as well be called an extension of his art itself. Above all, Brahms’s virtue lay in his filial devotion and love for children. Brahms was averse to socializing and ostentation, rarely attending public banquets and utterly avoiding what had become almost a professional obligation for musicians of his time—associating with noblewomen—yet his interactions with his very few friends remained nearly unchanged throughout his life. Schumann and Mrs. Clara, Hans von Bülow, Hanslick, Johann Strauss, and Joachim numbered among these cherished companions.

It is also true that Brahms inadvertently made enemies precisely because Schumann and Bülow had been so eager to champion him. Above all, Wagner and his faction’s hatred of Brahms reached such ferocity that related organizations and institutions even refused to perform Brahms’ works; yet Brahms remained remarkably composed. When Wagner visited Vienna—both due to his own initial unfamiliarity with the situation and out of sympathy for those who harbored considerable resentment toward Wagner—he went to great lengths to mediate on Wagner’s behalf, striving to have his true worth recognized.

"There is a saying that Brahms was as straight as a candle." Some people at the time already understood Brahms correctly and both loved and respected his candle-like character. There are many anecdotes that attest to Brahms’ admirable character, but we will mostly omit them here. Those who wish to know Brahms’s greatness and virtue must first and foremost listen to his music. For the opulent beauty of his Violin Concerto, the elegant tenderness of his Clarinet Quintet, and the numerous songs filled with emotion and love—and for those who seek something more challenging—one should listen to his four symphonies, piano-violin sonatas, those most Brahmsian of austere string quartets, and piano concertos.

Brahms's music contains no saccharin. It may not immediately captivate, but through repeated listening, there is nothing so richly astringent and abundant in hidden beauty. The reason I ardently advocate for Brahms lies precisely in this quality of harboring a solid, unadorned beauty that remains inexhaustible no matter how deeply one draws from it. When Hans von Bülow grouped Brahms alongside Bach and Beethoven as the Three Bs of German music, we can now see that this was by no means an exaggerated statement.

Brahms's Works and Their Records

Whether Brahms’s music is difficult to comprehend or simply unapproachable, there seems to be a certain aversion among Japanese fans; yet the number of his records stands abundantly second only to Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart—likely rivaling Bach and surpassing Wagner and Chopin. This remains an estimate based on the proportional shelf space in my collection, but I believe there’s scarcely any significant error in this assessment.

In contrast to Brahms detractors being numerous among dilettantes and musical dandies, it remains a deeply interesting tendency that Brahms enthusiasts are often found among scholars, researchers, and those leading modest lives. If someone were to ask, "And what of you who makes such claims?" I would respond immediately—and willingly—take up Brahms's cause. In Brahms one finds no facile passion, no brilliance, no pride; instead, there exists only an unvarnished solidity and a poised depth—and above all, I believe his richness of flavor and profoundly sedimented beauty stand without equal.

Music is the most sensual of arts; conversely, even the greatest masterpiece will eventually induce weariness through repeated listening. However, Brahms has remarkably little of this. In this respect, Brahms’s music—alongside Bach’s—can be among the most intimately familiar to our daily lives.

Symphonies and Orchestral Works Brahms’s four symphonies had been recorded in considerable number. When I recall how twenty years prior we had said, "If only even one Brahms symphony could be recorded," it truly felt like an epochal shift. "Some would call the Symphony No.1 in C minor (Op.68) his most compelling work." This was the piece hailed as Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony. Recordings conducted by Weingartner, Walter, Stokowski and others existed, yet none captured this symphony’s grandeur or its peculiar passion. If compelled to choose, should one select Walter’s elegant conducting with the Vienna Philharmonic (Columbia JS26-30)? The Symphony No.2 in D major (Op.73) came to be cherished for its pastoral charm. Curiously, no truly satisfactory recordings emerged.

"The 'Symphony No. 3 in F major (Op. 90)' may be a symphony with few distinctive features, but I love this healthy passion." The recording of Walter conducting the Vienna Philharmonic had recently been released (Columbia JS15–8). It was undoubtedly a masterful performance—elegant and refined—but I found it hard to forget the affection and vigor of Mengelberg’s older recording with the Concertgebouw (Columbia J8154–7), though it was somewhat dated.

The "Symphony No.4 in E minor (Op.98)" stands as Brahms's final symphony, possessing a mysterious depth that evokes philosophical profundity. For recordings, one must ultimately select Columbia's vintage performance with Walter conducting the BBC Orchestra (J8617–21), though this requires accepting the considerable disparity between this British ensemble and Vienna's own.

For *Variations on a Theme by Haydn (Op.56a)*, there exists a Victor recording of Toscanini conducting the New York Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra (JD1327-8). The *Academic Festival Overture (Op.80)* is an interesting piece but lacks good recordings. Walter's Columbia record (JS14) stands as the only one worth mentioning. As for the *Tragic Overture (Op.81)*, Beecham's version remains somewhat problematic.

Concertos The Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor (Op.15) possessed a youthful purity that made it a delightful work. Victor had a recording featuring Schnabel at the piano with the London Philharmonic Orchestra under Sargent's baton (JD1679–84). This was a skillful yet graceful performance. The Piano Concerto No.2 in B-flat major (Op.83) belonged to Brahms' mature period and reached the height of magnificence. Victor included two notable recordings: Rubinstein with the London Philharmonic conducted by Coates (7237–41), and Schnabel with the BBC Symphony Orchestra led by Boult (JD830–5). Both were excellent recordings, and it proved noteworthy that Mr. Nomura Koichi praised Rubinstein's emotional depth and youthful vigor. While I agreed with this assessment, conventional wisdom suggested one should choose Schnabel's newer and more refined recording. A new collaboration between Horowitz and Toscanini had also recently appeared on Victor (VD8187–92).

"The 'Violin Concerto in D major (Op. 77)' stands famous as one of the three great violin concertos alongside those of Beethoven and Mendelssohn." Indeed, this work's depth, beauty, and nobility transcend language; even the most ardent Brahms detractors would find themselves compelled to doff their hats before it. Among records, Victor holds two Kreisler versions—old and new. The older one with Blech conducting the Berlin State Opera Orchestra (JD538–42) belongs among supreme masterpieces, though undeniably burdened by its aged recording. The newer version with Barbirolli leading the London Philharmonic Orchestra (JD937–41S) boasts pristine sound quality, yet Kreisler’s advancing years lay bare, while the orchestral accompaniment feels thin and emotionally wanting. Additionally, Victor carries Heifetz’s new recording (VD8056–8).

Telefunken’s Kulenkampff recording was unexpectedly excellent. After all, Brahms’s Violin Concerto was one of the essential items to collect and required careful research and selection. The 'Double Concerto in A minor (Op. 102)' is a concerto for violin and cello and one of Brahms’s final masterpieces. Victor had a recording with Thibaud (violin), Casals (cello), and Cortot conducting the Casals Orchestra (8208–11). Because the recording was extremely old, it had become somewhat excessively murky, but it was undoubtedly a masterful performance.

Sonatas

The "Violin Sonata No.1 in G major (Op.78)" is called the "Rain Song." There exists an excellent Victor recording by Busch (violin) and Serkin (piano) (7487–9). This duo's Brahms repertoire also includes the "Violin Sonata No.2 in A major (Op.100)" (Victor JD151–2), both of which are beautiful. The "Violin Sonata No.3 in D minor (Op.108)" stands as a masterpiece among Brahms's violin sonatas. These works exemplify Brahms's steadfast virtues—one might say they manifest a noble soul. While numerous recordings exist, Victor's version with Kochanski (violin) and Rubinstein (piano) would likely claim first rank (JD41–3). Kochanski departed this world leaving only this single recording behind, now transformed into a cherished memento.

For the *Cello Sonata No. 1 in E minor (Op. 38)*, Columbia had Feuermann (cello) and Del Pas (piano) (J8317–9), while Victor offered Piatigorsky (cello) and Rubinstein (piano) (JD993–5). Both had their merits and demerits. The Victor recording of *Cello Sonata No. 2 in F major (Op. 99)* by Casals (cello) and Horszowski (piano) stood as a masterful performance (JD1226–9).

Trios, Quartets, Quintets When written out as "Trio for Piano, Violin, and Horn in E-flat major (Op. 40)," the title becomes cumbersome, though it was conventionally known simply as the Horn Trio. This work radiated Brahms's youthful vigor and possessed extraordinary beauty. Victor maintained an acclaimed recording by Serkin (piano), Busch (violin), and Brain (horn) (JD554–7). It remained one of my most cherished records.

The *Piano Trio in C major (Op. 87)* was romantic and beautiful. The mellifluous Casadesus (cello) was added to the two female artists—Hess (piano) and d'Aranyi (violin)—in a recording included in Columbia’s World Masterpieces Collection. Brahms’s piano quartets and piano quintets possessed spirit and passion and were profoundly engaging. This form must have suited Brahms’s temperament. The collaboration between Rubinstein (piano) and the Pro Arte String Quartet for the *Piano Quartet No. 1 in G minor (Op. 25)* (Victor JD444–7), though a rather old recording, left me with fond memories—despite a tendency for the piano to dominate excessively due to the disparity between Rubinstein’s brilliant technique and the Pro Arte’s simple elegance—as I became captivated by the original work’s allure and Rubinstein’s vigorous performance.

"The *Piano Quartet No. 2 in A major (Op. 26)* proved even more graceful and elegant. Victor's recording featuring Serkin (piano), Busch (violin), Doctor (viola), and Hermann Busch (cello) surpassed its predecessor through both balanced execution and profound insight into Brahms (JD764–7)."

For the *String Quartet No. 1 in C minor (Op. 51 No. 1)*, one should listen to Brahms’s excellence in chamber music along with its muted austerity. There are recordings by the Lener Quartet and the Busch Quartet, but I still choose the Busch (Victor JD134–7).

"The *String Quartet No. 2 in A minor (Op. 51 No. 2)* existed only in a recording by the Lener Quartet (Columbia J8023–6)." "The 'Piano Quintet in F minor (Op. 34)' stood as a Brahmsian masterpiece of rigorous precision." While only aged recordings remained, Victor's release featuring Bauer (piano) and the Flonzaley Quartet had been renowned (6571–5). Columbia maintained one with the Lener Quartet and Madame Levelt (piano).

The "Clarinet Quintet in B minor (Op.25)" stood alongside Mozart's work in the same form as two great jewels of the genre. It was an exquisitely beautiful and profoundly moving piece. Columbia had a recording by the Lener Quartet with Draper on clarinet (J7600-4), while Victor possessed one by the Busch Quartet with Kell on clarinet (JD1534-7). Though Columbia's recording was already twelve or thirteen years old with markedly dated sound quality, Draper remained a master clarinetist—I had previously noted his superiority over Benny Goodman in Mozart's *Clarinet Quintet*, and here too he demonstrated far greater artistry than Victor's Kell despite the latter's newer recording. When evaluating records, the recency of recording naturally weighed heavily as a criterion, but I wished to hold up this disc as proof that older recordings could still excel when truly exceptional. That being said, the Busch-Kell combination was by no means inferior.

Piano Works Brahms carved out his own path in piano works. They are introspective, vigorous, and often even lofty, yet possess a strangely wondrous depth and austerity. The *Piano Pieces* collection features Backhaus’s performances of Brahms’s representative short works (Victor JD545–51) and is likely both the finest and most accessible of Brahms’s piano records. The contents consist of four ballads, two rhapsodies, one scherzo, six intermezzos, two Hungarian Dances, and three waltzes—Backhaus’s performance being splendid. One can scarcely find anyone who plays Brahms with such mature technique, confidence, and profound understanding. Even interpretations with a slightly subdued austerity and free from unnecessary sentimentality could instead be appreciated as authentic Brahms performances.

"Variations on a Theme by Paganini"—this too stood as one of Brahms's celebrated piano works. Victor possessed Backhaus's recording (7419–20), while Columbia offered Petri's version (JW71–2). Both were virtuosos' renditions, yet even with its aged acoustics, Backhaus's interpretation commanded greater sympathy.

Requiems, Art Songs Brahms’s *German Requiem* held significant importance in various respects. This work had emerged from Brahms’s sincere heart—mourning Schumann from afar and freshly grieving his mother’s death—and stood as both the first Requiem written in German and a work of the highest artistic value. Among recordings, Georg Schumann—a scholar of sacred music and conductor—leading the Berlin Singakademie Choir and Berlin State Opera Orchestra was included in Victor’s catalog (C2377, 2381–3). This represented only a portion of the *German Requiem*, and though the recording was old, the performance remained splendid; it was regrettable that it did not contain the complete work. HMV likely had more included at the time, but in Japan, only those four records were pressed.

The *Alto Rhapsody (Op. 53)* was a composition based on Goethe’s landscape poetry that stood out among Brahms’s art songs as particularly exceptional. A recording by the Berlin State Opera Orchestra conducted by Kurt Sgond and featuring the renowned alto singer Onegin existed in Victor’s catalog. Though this too was a rather old recording, Onegin’s opulent voice and solid technique proved exceptional, rendering it an exceedingly precious entry among Brahms’s discography (7417–8).

Among the individual art songs, if I were to briefly list the most outstanding ones: *“Lonely Fields”* (Or *Wilderness Solitude*) is a lonely song quintessential to Brahms, singing of the quietude of the fields. It does not appear in the Nippon Polydor catalog, but Slezak’s rendition remains peerless. Next I selected Gerhard (Victor JD75) and Schlusnus (Polydor D117). My choice of Gerhard’s “By the Window” may stem from nostalgic preference (Victor JF4), but Lotte Lehmann’s “May Night” (Columbia J5483) and “My Love Is Like Fresh Greenery” (Victor JE33) offer performances as fragrant as new foliage. She had several other Brahms recordings—all equally commendable.

Elisabeth Schumann’s charming “Lullaby” (Victor JE61) and Therese Schnabel’s “Love’s Sincerity”—more renowned for her husband’s piano accompaniment—were equally delightful (Victor JF20). But Schlusnus the baritone’s rendition of "Love’s Song" (Polydor 50036) proved far superior. As for the "Sappho Ode," while few good recordings existed, Nancy Evans’s "Gypsy Songs" (Polydor E124–5) stood out as distinctly unique.

Tchaikovsky, the Embodiment of Sorrow

"I once wrote, 'Sorrow is the true prelude to joy.'" The despairing sense of sorrow that characterized Tchaikovsky’s music—though perhaps slightly sentimental—had been loved and cherished by all for fifty years without losing its charm; one might say this was precisely why. Tchaikovsky’s kindness, honesty, sensitivity, and profound affection gave birth to that unprecedented art of tears, which seeped into every heart like spring water nourishing all valleys. Indeed, there had been nothing that comforted us as much as "works brimming with tears."

To rephrase it differently: Tchaikovsky's tear-soaked figure—his music brimming with sobs, sighs, and wails—grieved wholeheartedly on our behalf—on behalf of us who were not even permitted to weep freely—and ultimately, could this have been anything other than a suggestion of joy beneath sorrow and hope beyond despair? In this sense, even within the highly developed realm of Western music since Bach, there existed no figure as profoundly human as Tchaikovsky, and no music as intimately familiar to us as his. That Tchaikovsky’s music possessed a vein of popular appeal did not prove its vulgarity; rather, one might say it resulted from its nobility and the universality of excellence. Beneath his despairing music—said to "command the entire diatonic scale of melancholy"—there lay an indescribable warmth, and within its grief and wailing, there sprouted a premonition of great light.

Bach’s divinity was not something easily approachable by ordinary mortals, and Beethoven’s passion soared far beyond the experiences of common people. Yet when it came to our Tchaikovsky’s sorrow and despair, these were realms anyone could envision—emotions no one found difficult to comprehend. In our actual lives, where we mourn yet cannot fully fathom grief’s depths through its lukewarm immediacy, it is only via Tchaikovsky’s art that we first strike the very bedrock of melancholy and savor sorrow’s beauty once purified. Was it not precisely because Tchaikovsky’s music—beloved by all—so effortlessly and exquisitely rendered those emotional extremes that everyone recognizes yet none can fully grasp?

In any case, to understand music imbued with such distinctive hues and fragrance, it was undeniably essential—needless to say—to first examine his tragic biography. Tchaikovsky’s music was music profoundly rooted in his character.

A Series of Misfortunes

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (Pyotr Il'yich Tschaikovsky) was born on May 7, 1840, in Viatka Province, Russia, as the son of a mining engineer.

He created no brilliant anecdotes of genius during his boyhood, yet the love of music rooted in his heart flourished vigorously even with sporadic watering. After graduating from law school at nineteen and entering service at the Ministry of Justice, he never neglected to diligently pursue his beloved path by attending music school. Walking two paths, however, did not last long. Soon admonished by his harmony teacher Anton Rubinstein, he severed ties with his unfulfilling job and immersed himself in musical studies—this occurred at the age of nineteen.

Once he awakened to his vocation, Tchaikovsky's devotion became something truly extraordinary in the world. There was even an instance when his teacher Anton Rubinstein assigned a theme as a compositional exercise, instructing him to write as many contrapuntal variations as possible. While expecting perhaps twelve at most, Tchaikovsky instead produced over two hundred variations—an output that left Rubinstein utterly dumbfounded.

In 1866, when the Moscow Music School was established, the twenty-six-year-old Tchaikovsky took up his post as a harmony teacher there. The principal was Nikolai Rubinstein, brother of Anton Rubinstein, and Tchaikovsky—whose monthly salary was pitifully low—boarded at the principal’s home, wearing ill-fitting overcoats left behind a year prior by the great violinist Wieniawski, presenting himself as a pitiable yet self-satisfied teacher commuting to the school.

At that time, he devoted himself to reading Tolstoy and Dickens, focusing solely on study and composition, but he was never adept at socializing with friends and seemed remarkably poor at recreational activities. Instead, even when others reproached him, he endured it in good humor, and even when attacked, he never once attempted to defend himself or pick a fight. Rubinstein, his senior, was a scathing critic who unsparingly found fault with Tchaikovsky’s compositions, yet Tchaikovsky himself was not one to take offense at such things.

Tchaikovsky was immersed in composing his first symphony, No. 1 "Winter Daydreams," during this period; his approach to the work was careful and composed, extremely diligent, and knew nothing of weariness. This commendable habit of Tchaikovsky's was owed to his French-born governess who had cared for him in his boyhood; it appears there was even an instance where Tchaikovsky, a year before his death, visited and comforted this elderly woman as she spent her twilight years in southern France.

When "Winter Daydreams" was completed, Tchaikovsky took it to Saint Petersburg to show his former teachers—Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba—fully expecting to receive their lavish praise. But his ambition and hope were mercilessly shattered. Rubinstein and Zaremba delivered harsh criticism and declared that unless it was revised, it could not be included in the Music Society’s performance program. The first of the tragic stumbles that would permeate Tchaikovsky’s long, long composing career was this minor incident.

In 1867, at a charity concert for Finland famine relief, he conducted his own composition "The Maid’s Dance" for the first time, completely panicking and making a blunder, but fortunately, as the orchestra knew the piece well, no major mishap occurred. Tchaikovsky’s ineptitude at conducting was so notoriously poor that he did not pick up a baton again for twenty years thereafter. Even in his later years, he occasionally conducted, but when leading others’ compositions, he would contort his body unnaturally and adopt an expression as though something pained him. Tchaikovsky’s timidity was absolute; to feel gratified by applause was utterly out of the question, and he had a tendency to fear even the popularity and praise that gathered around him.

In Russia, where Italian opera reigned supreme, the staging of Tchaikovsky's first Russian opera *Voyevoda* proved extremely difficult, ultimately being presented in second- and third-rate theaters. Yet Tchaikovsky—kind-hearted to a fault—remained too timid to even critique the singers' performances, let alone reprimand them, his sole preoccupation being the desperate wish: "If only this production would just conclude quickly—" Rubinstein attended the rehearsal but became so enraged by the composer’s laxity that he kicked his seat and stormed out. Needless to say, the opera *Voyevoda* ended in failure, and Tchaikovsky, in his despair, burned all of its scores. The third stumble tormented Tchaikovsky’s fragile heart in this manner.

Next, "Romeo and Juliet" was performed by the Music Society, but when a dispute erupted between Principal Rubinstein and the students, the concert descended into an insane protest demonstration that completely destroyed Tchaikovsky’s music. This was the fourth stumble. The full score for the opera *Undine* was lost in transit due to a bureaucrat’s negligence and only reached Tchaikovsky’s possession several years later. This constituted the fifth and sixth stumbles.

Thus, Tchaikovsky’s youth was an endless procession of disappointments. How lamentable that Tchaikovsky—so beloved by all in his later years and posthumously adorned with wreaths of nostalgia and affection—should have had such a wretched beginning. Who could possibly guarantee it was not this unending procession of misfortunes that rendered Tchaikovsky taciturn and melancholic, compelling him to compose the "Pathétique Symphony"?

Exceptional Timidity Resignation gave Tchaikovsky new courage and new themes. By chance, he was inspired by a plasterer’s song singing outside his window and created the famous “Andante cantabile” from his String Quartet No. 1 in D Major. It was around that time that Tchaikovsky fell in love with an actress from an opera. The actress was beautiful, endowed with talent and wit. Around the time when friends were celebrating their relationship, she had completely forgotten about Tchaikovsky and married a male singer from a troupe in Poland. Tchaikovsky was more surprised than angry. When she appeared in Moscow the following season, he watched her on stage from the distant audience seats, so deeply moved that he even shed tears.

Some time later, when Tchaikovsky went to visit Rubinstein, he suddenly encountered her in the waiting room. Tchaikovsky turned deathly pale and leapt up from his chair; she let out a startled cry and began frantically searching for an exit door like a cornered mouse. Tchaikovsky’s good-naturedness was generally of this kind. The dramatic music *The Snow Maiden*, into which he had poured his heart and soul, also ended in failure, and the Rubinstein brothers—then regarded as pillars of the Russian music world—ignored Tchaikovsky’s works, showing not the slightest favor. The String Quartet No. 2 in F Major was met with dissatisfaction and contempt, and even a pianist of Anton Rubinstein’s stature did not so much as crack a smile at Tchaikovsky’s dedicated “Six Pieces on a Single Theme,” nor did he ever perform them in public.

In 1873, his Second Symphony and other masterpieces were presented to the world. Yet even this work was reluctantly forced to undergo significant revisions due to protests from friends, while *The Tempest*, composed around the same time, was performed at the Paris Exposition in France and met with frenzied acclaim—an irony indeed. "The Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor" was intended to be dedicated to his senior Nikolai Rubinstein; however, Rubinstein—taking offense at Tchaikovsky not seeking his advice when writing the piano part—showed outright hostility toward the work. Before a crowd, Rubinstein mercilessly criticized the piece in a manner as if deliberately playing it poorly, and even the gentle Tchaikovsky could no longer endure it, dedicating the work to Hans von Bülow instead. Upon hearing that the piece had received an enthusiastic welcome at its Boston premiere under Bülow’s direction, Tchaikovsky spent every penny he had to send a return telegram.

Madame von Meck offered Tchaikovsky an annual pension to provide him with a quiet life and allow him to devote himself to composition. It was in 1873. The proposal was accepted with Madame von Meck’s true circumstances concealed and even incorporating Tchaikovsky’s self-centered condition that they would not exchange greetings if they met, enabling Tchaikovsky to resign from his teaching position at the music school and continue his compositional work in a serene location for three years. Beginning with the "Third Symphony," numerous masterpieces were created during this period, and Tchaikovsky’s musical career finally achieved stability and confidence at this point.

In 1876, he wrote the renowned Slavonic March, and in the following year of 1877, completed his lifelong masterwork, the opera Eugene Onegin. When this opera was first staged and came to be recognized as Russia's greatest and most popular operatic work, it was said that "the one most astonished was Tchaikovsky himself." This opera—romantic in spirit, abundant in melody, and tinged with sweetness—may indeed be called the consummate embodiment of its era's artistic predilections.

It was in the early summer of 1877 that misfortune suddenly visited Tchaikovsky. It was a marriage conducted in complete secrecy from all his friends, and as an example of how this marriage ended in misfortune, even his closest friend Kashkin is said to have seen the Tchaikovsky couple together only once.

Tchaikovsky's marriage ended in a disastrous collapse. He grew increasingly taciturn and despondent, and on a night thick with frost, attempted suicide by submerging himself in a river to escape life's burdens. After being nursed back to health by his brother, Tchaikovsky composed the paradoxically bright Fourth Symphony, the Italian Rhapsody, and the Second Piano Concerto. Most notably, the 1812 Overture—depicting Napoleon's invasion of Moscow—reportedly used cannon fire instead of drums at its premiere, becoming phenomenally popular, though Tchaikovsky himself found these performances acutely mortifying.

Nikolai Rubinstein, both mentor and revered friend, died in 1881. It is all too well known that Tchaikovsky—who had been so ignored and mistreated during his own lifetime—composed the beautiful yet sorrowful masterpiece titled *Piano Trio in A Minor* "In Memory of a Great Artist" in remembrance of this man. Tchaikovsky’s profound sincerity and amiable nature, alongside this beautiful trio, will be recounted for millennia to come.

On the opening night of the opera *Mazeppa*, it was Tchaikovsky who fled Moscow in astonishment at its popularity. In 1885, while living in the countryside near Klin town, he even fled from the exasperating practice pianos of seaside visitors. At that time, Tchaikovsky—like Beethoven in his later years—never missed his daily walks and would give all his small change to neighborhood children who begged him; however, when a friend admonished him that such meaningless gifts were immoral acts, he once tried to return to his lodgings by changing his route only to be surrounded by children who had posted lookouts—forcing even his accompanying friend to borrow money and spend it all—a testament to his unassuming kindness.

In 1886, he wrote the *Fifth Symphony* and completed the opera *The Queen of Spades*. It was in 1892 that he presented to the world the ballet *The Sleeping Beauty* and his lifetime masterpiece *The Nutcracker Suite*.

The Reckoning of Melancholy

From around that time, even Tchaikovsky’s robust body began to decline, and his eyes gradually worsened. He settled on the outskirts of Klin for the second time and continued his hermit-like life in a tranquil setting. “By the lonely hearth, while hoping to win every one of those three consecutive matches he had never won—” a friend recorded his life at that time. Amidst these circumstances, the flame of this final genius blazed forth as his Sixth Symphony, *Pathétique*. This work bears the date August 31, 1893. This very symphony—the one about which he wrote to his publisher, “I have more confidence in this than any other work”; initially titled *Program Symphony* but renamed *Pathétique Symphony* upon his brother’s advice—is said to be the summation of Tchaikovsky’s entire life’s work, his autobiography, while also being hailed as a mysterious masterpiece containing a “premonition of death” due to its irredeemable despair.

This symphony is said to represent a reckoning of Tchaikovsky's innate melancholy—a work sustained by intense tragic tension from start to finish, an excavation into pains unknown to others, and a seal stamped upon the demise of all human hope. Those who hear this symphony, however deeply mired in despair and grief, would come to feel, "Still, I was fortunate." Such was the profound and irredeemable nature of Tchaikovsky's sorrow.

On the day the *Pathétique Symphony* was performed in Moscow, Tchaikovsky's unexpected death was announced. There were some who claimed it was suicide, but in reality, it was due to contracting cholera from drinking unboiled water. The people who had listened to the performance of the *Pathétique Symphony*, upon hearing the news of composer Tchaikovsky’s death, wept as they made their respective ways home. That was November 6, 1893.

The strength of Tchaikovsky’s music lies in its ability to portray a universally comprehensible beauty of sorrow. His melancholy, though tinged with a fin de siècle quality, possesses an honesty free from ulterior motives, ostentation, embellishment, or artifice; its raw pathos pierces deeply and relentlessly into the human heart. Even when composing bright pieces like *The Nutcracker* and the *Fourth Symphony*, Tchaikovsky cannot conceal the undercurrent of sorrow flowing beneath them.

Tchaikovsky possesses not a trace of Russian earthiness or barbaric passion. He remains thoroughly European, romantic, and is even said to be Byronic. That sensitive, beautiful sentiment will surely move even the most stubborn heart.

Tchaikovsky’s Works and Their Records

Tchaikovsky’s general popularity was likely second only to Beethoven’s. The majority of his supporters were undoubtedly from the general public, but it could also be said that precisely because of this, Tchaikovsky’s music came to be widely heard, cherished, and possessed something that pierced every heart. What made Tchaikovsky so endearing was not only that his music proved unexpectedly free of affectation—sentimental, direct, and unapologetically sweet and likable—but also that despite its European-style formal discipline, its emotional core belonged to the earthy Russian folk tradition, with uniquely beautiful melodies and a pervading melancholy that characterized his entire body of work. Tchaikovsky’s greatness was ultimately the greatness of tragedy, for it had to flow from his personal goodness permeating every composition.

Symphonies Of his six symphonies, the "Symphony No. 4 in F Minor (Op. 36)" stands as an uncharacteristically bright work for Tchaikovsky, with performances conducted by Stokowski, Mengelberg, and Koussevitzky among others. However, Stokowski and Mengelberg’s recordings sound dated, Koussevitzky’s interpretation lacks conviction, and there exist no recordings here worthy of particular commendation. "Symphony No. 5 in E Minor (Op. 64)" is magnificent and exquisitely tender. Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra is a renowned recording (Victor JI 74-9). This is also a piece deeply familiar from the film *Orchestra no Shoujo*.

The *Symphony No. 6 in B Minor, "Pathétique" (Op. 74)* stands as Tchaikovsky’s supreme masterpiece, and owing to his death shortly after its completion, it has been said to carry a “premonition of death.” Profoundly sentimental, it brims with despairing sorrow throughout its entirety. The Columbia recording featuring Furtwängler conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (JS 31-6) remains a celebrated disc—its anguished tragic beauty conveys an overwhelming intensity that presses upon one’s very being. Equally passionate and renowned is the Telefunken recording with Mengelberg leading the Concertgebouw Orchestra (23681–5). These recordings prove difficult to definitively rank against one another.

Orchestral Works In the ballet suite *The Nutcracker (Op. 71a)*, Tchaikovsky’s childlike innocence and amiable nature leap forth vividly. It remains a beautiful and lovely piece. The definitive recording was Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra (Victor JD 601–3). The overture *1812* (Op. 49), which took Napoleon’s invasion of Moscow as its subject, became popularly best known alongside the anecdote that cannons were fired instead of drums during its premiere. Though slightly pandering to American nouveaux riches, its flashy device of intertwining *La Marseillaise*, *God Save the Tsar*, and the French and Russian national anthems likely accounted for its general appeal. The Victor records conducted by Stokowski (JD 1399–400) and the Polydor records with chorus (E 221–3) would have been good choices. The latter featured performances conducted by Kitchen with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra and Ural Cossack Choir.

There were also records of the overture *Romeo and Juliet*, the overture *Hamlet*, the *Slavonic March*, the *Italian Rhapsody*, the ballet suite *Swan Lake*, and the ballet suite *The Sleeping Beauty*, but none proved particularly compelling.

Concertos The "Violin Concerto in D Major (Op. 35)" was regarded as a masterpiece second only to the three great violin concertos of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Brahms. It stood renowned for its Tchaikovsky-esque graceful melodies and technical difficulty. While records existed in considerable numbers featuring Elman, Heifetz, Kulenkampff, and others, I held a lingering attachment to the Columbia record (J7550–3) of Hubermann on violin with the Berlin State Opera Orchestra conducted by Steinberg—even if the recording was old, being over a decade old. Heifetz proved technically conquering, while Elman lacked his former luster. This piece demanded a performance brimming with lingering songfulness yet one that remained crisp and articulate.

"The 'Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor (Op. 23)' stands as one of Tchaikovsky’s masterpieces; while the former work presents violinistic challenges, this concerto remains renowned as a pianistic tour de force." Among recordings, Rubinstein’s performance (piano) with the London Philharmonic Orchestra under Barbirolli’s baton emerges as preeminent (Victor JD 67–70). In this instance too, Columbia’s Petri proves overly preoccupied with technical display and ultimately unsatisfying.

Trios, Quartets The *Piano Trio in A minor: In Memory of a Great Artist (Op. 50)* was a piece composed in memory of Nikolai Rubinstein—an elegant work imbued with melancholy that maintained deeply familiar appeal. The ensemble of the Menuhin siblings with Eisenberg on cello stood out as excellent (Victor JD 1178–83). This cellist represented young promise.

It is regrettable that there exists no complete recording of the "String Quartet No. 1 in D Major," which includes the famous "Andante cantabile."

Other Works *Santo-tachi no Sori* featured a renowned piano performance by Rachmaninoff. It had been recorded three times since the original pressing (Victor JD 1695). Other notable recordings included Piatigorsky in *Valse Triste* and Elman in *Sérénade Mélancolique*, among others.

Dvořák’s Nostalgia One need not be someone who ardently loves music or studies it. Could there exist anyone with even a passing interest in music who does not know the lovely violin miniature "Humoresque" and that beautiful yet profoundly sorrowful symphony—the "New World," overflowing with nostalgia and elegy?

Antonín Dvořák, that very composer—existing as the most human of presences, a creator far removed from mythical genius—stood cherished by all people alongside Tchaikovsky and Grieg, his music of poignant elegance continuing to breathe close to us through time. When I recalled Dvořák’s name and quietly closed my eyes, I felt as though hearing anew the famous melody from the Largo of the "New World Symphony’s" second movement—that strain of peerless beauty and heartrending sorrow said to draw from Black spirituals during his American years or perhaps from Bohemian folk songs of his distant homeland—now transformed into eternal nostalgia that leaves no listener untouched by tears.

Additionally, there is the "Dumky Trio". There is the "American Quartet." There is the "Slavonic Dances." There is the "Cello Concerto." There is not a single one of Dvořák’s compositions that is not imbued with a pure soul, an honest heart, abundant human love, and gentle nostalgia. One need not be a genius like Schubert or Mozart, nor a superhuman like Beethoven or Wagner—it is no hindrance at all. Is Dvořák not always living among us, sharing our sorrows and singing alongside us? That is good. That is what is best. To lose ourselves in Dvořák’s nostalgia and shed tears is both our greatest bliss as music listeners and the purest solace that music in this world can offer.

The Success He Built

Antonín Dvořák (Antoín Dovořák) was born on September 8, 1841, in Mühlhausen in former Bohemia and later Czech. His father ran a butcher shop while concurrently operating an inn, and appeared to have some modest musical inclinations; traveling music troupes from the countryside and low-budget operas would occasionally lodge at the inn, and whenever village performance plans were arranged, it was not uncommon for rehearsals to promptly commence in the inn's garden.

How profoundly the young Dvořák’s love for music was inspired by hearing those performances! Eventually, of his own accord, he began learning violin and vocal music from the village schoolteacher, thereby setting out on the path toward the "music" to which he would devote his life. Bohemia has long been called a land of music. Just as Italians excel at singing, Bohemians are masters of violin playing—it is said that "the second person a traveler meets in Bohemia is a violinist," and that "Bohemians can find joy even in prison if they have a violin." One must not dismiss the musical training young Dvořák received from rural traveling musicians and schoolteachers as inferior by Japanese standards.

At twelve years old, he went to the nearby town of Zlonice where, under his uncle’s supervision, he apprenticed to a church organist and finally began receiving formal musical education. He mastered everything from organ and piano techniques to foundational theory and harmony with exceptional zeal before undertaking a year of further training in Kamnitz and returning to his father. Upon returning home after many years away, Dvořák—now musically trained—naturally needed a gift to present to his hometown community. At that very moment, with a festival underway in the town, the young and ambitious local composer arranged for the town band to perform his new work “Polka.” Before Dvořák—quivering with anticipation and pride—and the surrounding crowd, the polka resounded clearly—or rather, it should have resounded clearly—but suddenly devolved into out-of-tune dissonances that left the music in disarray, culminating in an ignominious conclusion before the shocked and clamorous audience. When the conductor later investigated, it emerged that due to Dvořák’s carelessness and ignorance, the F trumpet part had been left in its original key instead of being properly transposed for performance—a revelation that forced the young town composer to endure shame so profound he wished to vanish into a hole.

However, Dvořák was not a boy to abandon his ambitions after such a setback. When he recognized his own ignorance and carelessness, he roused an even fiercer determination and threw himself single-mindedly into musical training. It was only natural that his father refused to easily sanction what appeared to be such reckless aspirations. For a son who couldn't even compose a proper polka, managing the family's inherited butcher shop and inn in the countryside still seemed the safer path.

After months of debates, pleas, scoldings, and coaxing, the father could no longer remain unmoved by his son’s fervor. The sixteen-year-old Dvořák finally set out shouldering his pack for the capital city of Prague, enrolled at the Organ School of the Bohemian Church Music Association, and was able to devote himself wholeheartedly to formal musical training. However, the son who had gone to the capital against his father’s wishes could not be blessed with ample tuition funds, and to make matters worse, as his father’s family business was not faring well, the remittances became intermittent. Dvořák had no choice but to continue his studies while barely staving off hunger by making use of the violin he had practiced in his youth. It is not hard to imagine how deeply the hardships of study penetrated the young Dvořák’s very bones. He played the viola in cafés and the organ in hospitals, all while maintaining his yearning for loftier music, and thus completed his three-year course.

At twenty-one years old, Dvořák was hired as a member of the orchestra at Prague’s newly built National Theatre, and while working as a violist under Smetana—who could be called the father of Bohemian national music—he established the foundation for dedicating his life to developing the Bohemian national music tradition that Smetana had pioneered. Dvořák—I repeat—was by no means a flamboyant genius-type of individual. After long years of training and preparation, he achieved his great metamorphosis at thirty-two years old—the age when his opera *The King and the Miner* premiered at the National Theatre, and a symphony infused with national elements was published, gradually elevating his reputation until he began commanding attention across the musical world.

When Dvořák married at thirty-three, he did not have to endure the poverty of his new household for long. In 1875, the following year when he turned thirty-four, after rigorous examination, the Austrian Ministry of Fine Arts decided to grant Dvořák a pension—albeit modest—for his work (Bohemia being under Austrian rule at the time). What fortune it was for Dvořák that Brahms sat on that pension committee! The discerning Brahms, upon encountering Dvořák's works among the submissions, recognized within them both the distinctive qualities of Bohemian music and the poetic wisdom that grasped those traits, recommending them for first prize. He then met with Dvořák to assist in publishing his compositions, enabling this unknown young Bohemian composer to publish one of his masterpieces—the Slavonic Dances—through which he suddenly achieved renown across Europe. Brahms’s benevolence toward younger musicians likely stemmed from the kindness he himself had once received from Schumann. It remains told as one of music’s beautiful anecdotes.

Following Liszt and Bülow in introducing Dvořák, as his name became widely known, the Prague Conservatory promptly welcomed him as a professor of composition. While half of that good fortune was owed to Brahms, in the end it was the fruit of Dvořák’s long efforts—truly a splendid case of a great talent blooming late. Dvořák's name spread across both the Old and New Worlds; in 1884, he crossed to London at Britain's invitation to conduct his own work *Stabat Mater*; the following year he composed a new piece for the Birmingham Music Festival; the year after that he once again traveled to Britain to conduct his own oratorio; and in 1891 he received the title of Doctor of Music from Cambridge University. In 1892, at fifty-one years old, Dvořák was invited to America, where he became the artistic director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York; his stay there lasted until 1895, spanning three years during which his generation-defining masterpiece, the *New World Symphony*, was composed.

Noble Nostalgia

If we exclude Beethoven's grand symphonies—those records of anguish, conquest, struggle, and victory—and Brahms' majestic symphonies of archaic grandeur cloaked in rigorous form, there were likely no symphonies that spoke so intimately to us while embodying all humanity’s sorrows and joys as Tchaikovsky’s "Pathétique Symphony" and Dvořák’s "New World Symphony." Dvořák was shy and socially reticent. Above all, glittering social affairs and etiquette-bound exchanges seem to have been utterly intolerable for Dvořák—a man born of Bohemian soil. Moreover, this tender-hearted composer could not endure the pressures of New York life; plagued by incurable homesickness, he often spent his days steeped in melancholy.

Whenever he had a little free time, Dvořák would retreat to Spillville, Iowa, to soothe his homesickness for a while. It was a settlement where multitudes of Bohemians lived clustered together, their customs, traditions, and even language remaining purely Bohemian. Dvořák loved that environment, immersing himself in the authentic Bohemian atmosphere to console the nostalgia that weighed on his fragile heart. It was in that secluded retreat in Iowa that Dvořák completed his masterpiece, the "New World Symphony." It was amidst the boundless Midwestern prairies, sensing the loneliness beneath the splendor of the New World and closely observing the lives of Black people, all while his thoughts turned back to his Bohemian homeland, that he composed that symphony. Consequently, while it is said that the "New World Symphony" incorporates melodies from African American spirituals—a belief held by many—Dvořák himself dismissed claims of using "Native American or American melodies" as "utter nonsense," asserting that the symphony's melodies stem not from America but from his Bohemian homeland; some even suggest they originate from a particular region of Russia.

In any case, the nostalgia that characterizes the New World Symphony is distinctly Dvořák's own, and I would rather emphasize that this can be observed in all of his compositions. Therefore, one may well view this as the blood-deep nostalgia of Black people for their ancestral Africa, one may call it the nostalgia of Native Americans for the great plains before the arrival of whites, and one may also regard it as Dvořák’s unrelenting nostalgia for his Bohemian homeland—all interpretations remain equally valid. Dvořák—kind-hearted, timid, and unable to resist loving humanity and nature—composed works such as the New World Symphony, in which one can acknowledge a depiction of "humanity’s longing for primitive life." Socializing, hypocrisy, hollow formalities, scheming, and the overwhelmingly complex modern life must have been an immense burden for Dvořák. Dvořák’s heart, yearning to return to a simple life, became this nostalgia, leaving behind many masterpieces and serving as a poignant warning to those at risk of being swept up in falsehoods and complexities, thereby losing sight of humanity’s inherent beauty. It is through this interpretation that I find nobility in Dvořák’s compositions and weep at their nostalgia.

Beauty, Love, and Light Dvořák’s music was an excellent union of classical formal beauty and gentle Romantic sentiment, with each piece being governed by the mood of mono no aware. It went without saying that mono no aware formed the essence of Eastern art. This was why Dvořák came to be cherished by flamboyant Americans, logic-loving Europeans, and contemplative Easterners alike. The claim that Dvořák’s nostalgia had been learned from Native Americans and Black people during his American visit stemmed from ignorance of how that same nostalgia and mono no aware had already permeated his works long before he crossed the ocean.

Dvořák’s works each overflowed with profound human compassion, their warmth and beauty pervading every measure. There was no need to insist on mentioning only the "New World Symphony." In the "Slavonic Dances," the "Cello Concerto," the "Violin Concerto," and the "American Quartet," one savored abundant human compassion and—a nostalgia tormented by a surplus of love that could never be fully given. Lately, the world’s music had been rushing headlong in pursuit of novelty, becoming something not necessarily beautiful. But for ordinary people, what was music if not beauty? It was precisely when blessed with beauty and warm human compassion that art would continue to flourish through all ages. The music of Tchaikovsky and Dvořák might perhaps have been too sweet for today’s avant-garde, but compared to certain new French music with its decadent tendencies and America’s frenetic jazz, its power to enrich human life and nourish the soul could not be spoken of in the same breath. After all, there could be no argument that music should hold first place those works created with a gentle soul and beautiful technique.

In 1895, Dvořák returned to his Bohemian homeland, taught composition at the Prague Conservatory, later earned distinction as its director, became a lifetime senator while maintaining his musical career, and having attained both accomplishment and renown, passed away on May 1, 1904 at sixty-three years of age. That gentle soul shall eternally bring beauty, love, and illumination to hearts across the world through the *New World Symphony* and *Humoresque*.

Dvořák’s Works and Their Records Apart from the *New World Symphony*, there were few truly outstanding recordings. Yet through this single work alone, Dvořák would come to be cherished by listeners worldwide. *Symphony No.5 in E minor ("From the New World")*: The definitive version remains Stokowski’s recording with the Philadelphia Orchestra (Victor JD 665–9). Victor also released recordings of the Second Symphony and this Fifth "New World" Symphony—conducted in Dvořák’s Bohemian homeland by Talich and Sejna respectively with the Czech Philharmonic—but these were ultimately distinguished more by their regional nostalgic flavor than artistic supremacy.

The *Cello Concerto in B minor (Op. 104)* was one of Dvořák’s masterpieces—its nostalgic sorrow lingered endearingly. There existed a recording with Casals on cello and Sejna conducting the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD-1187–91). It stood as one of the definitive cello recordings. The same piece performed by Feuermann could be found on Columbia, while Cassadó’s rendition was on Telefunken—both were commendable, but ultimately this remained Casals’s domain.

The "String Quartet No. 6 in F Major (Niger)" shares similar craftsmanship but differs in form from the *New World Symphony*. Columbia’s recording by the Roth String Quartet (JW 257–9) offers a somewhat restrained yet commendable performance. There also exists a version by the Léner Quartet. The "Piano Trio in E minor (Dumky)" stands as another renowned melancholic work, though no satisfactory recordings exist apart from that by the Elly Ney Trio (Polydor 45262–5).

For the *Piano Quintet in A major (Op. 81)*, there was one by Schnabel and the Pro Arte Quartet (Victor JD 334–7). It was splendid but lacked some enthusiasm in its performance.

Other Works Among his orchestral works were the overture *Carnival* and *Slavonic Dances*. The *Slavonic Dances* had been extensively recorded by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra under Talich’s direction (Victor JH 149–52, JK 46–50). These recordings not only possessed distinctive local color but were also performed quite well. The *Humoresque* became famous through its violin arrangement. Along with *Indian Lament*, this one was Kreisler’s.

The Triumph of Impressionism: Debussy

Claude Debussy decisively liberated music from old conventions. In the sense of being Impressionism's founder in France, Debussy is often compared to painters Manet and Monet. However, even if not entirely mistaken, isn't this comparison somewhat of a different order altogether? Debussy's achievements in music were far more revolutionary than those of Manet or Monet in painting, and his works proved immeasurably more captivating.

Three main characteristics were broadly cited for Debussy’s music: "an almost absolute freedom in form," "a neurotic aversion to vulgarity," and "an excessive pursuit of harmonic effects." In Debussy’s music there existed no traditional forms or dominant balance. He discarded all musical legacies and refused to act unless he could do so with complete freedom. All old forms were discarded as he stood resolutely upon his own originality.

In Debussy’s music, there were no songs that returned as expected with grandiose gestures; instead, there were hazy, smoke-like sounds—melodies that moved across harmonies’ soft fabric, embroidering floral patterns as they appeared and vanished. There was none of Wagner’s conquering ecstasy here, none of Franck’s rational elements, nor any trace of the theatrical passion typical of Romantic-era composers. The “melancholic cheerfulness” of refined modern French sensibility moved lightly as air, vividly as a gadfly, and as aimlessly as a dream.

Though Impressionism's triumph had been hard-won, he thereby established modern music's greatest epoch since Beethoven and became a towering landmark guiding the coming age.

He Who Was Not Understood Claude Achille Debussy was born on August 22, 1862, in the suburbs of Paris. He received his early education from his mother, never attended formal schooling, and grew up in a decidedly non-musical household. However, during a trip to Cannes at age seven, his aunt Madame Roustan discerned his musical talent, leading him to take introductory piano lessons from an Italian instructor for a time. The young Debussy disliked both studying and playing—by modern standards, he would hardly be considered a model child. It is said he would often spend entire days sitting absentmindedly in a chair as if lost in dreams, never uttering a word.

Madame Mauté, mother-in-law of the poet Verlaine and a pupil of Chopin, happened to discover Debussy’s talent; she persuaded his father, who had resolved to make the boy a sailor, and succeeded in enrolling the eleven-year-old Debussy in the conservatory in 1873.

Debussy’s life as a music student was somewhat unusual. He had an extraordinary sensitivity to sound but disliked practicing the piano, and his teacher even reached the curious conclusion, “That boy dislikes the piano but seems to love music.” Debussy was clumsy and timid, and thus unsuited to being a pianist. He then advanced into composition but was not understood by his old-fashioned teachers; moreover, from around the age of thirteen or fourteen, he had to take time to teach piano lessons to other families’ children in order to help his poor parents.

At eighteen, through the goodwill of his teacher Guiraud, he embarked on a journey to Russia, staying with Madame von Meck—Tchaikovsky's famous patron—where he gained opportunities to come to know Russian musicians and was profoundly influenced by Mussorgsky’s music. Afterward, he became infected with Wagnerian fervor and even followed Wagner’s path to Italy. It was a trend of the time; Debussy alone could not have remained aloof from the Wagnerians.

In 1883, on the advice of his teacher Guiraud, he applied for the Prix de Rome, and his famous cantata *L'Enfant prodigue* won first prize. Naturally, he went to study in Rome, but this unfortunately led him to taste bitter disillusionment. The academic mediocrity permeating the atmosphere at Villa Medici became utterly unbearable, and in 1887, he finally returned to Paris. As his study-abroad works, *Spring* and *The Chosen Maiden* were submitted, but the latter was rejected on the grounds of being written “in F-sharp major, unsuitable for orchestra,” while Debussy himself withdrew *Spring*.

Striking Victory After returning to Paris, Debussy’s life involved interacting with friends from various circles to cultivate his intellect, and his works were gradually revealed to the world. Even though he had to publish them at his own expense because they did not serve commercial purposes, Debussy’s social connections gradually expanded.

In 1894, *Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun* was performed by the Société Nationale de Musique, and Debussy glimpsed his first dawn of success. Critics, though bewildered, found themselves compelled to offer measured praise. When the lyric drama *Pelléas et Mélisande* premiered in 1902, it irrevocably secured Debussy’s triumph. A decade earlier in 1892, having read Maeterlinck’s original text with profound admiration and obtained the author’s consent through personal entreaty, he had devoted ten full years to its completion. The performance sent shockwaves through musical circles—yet though Maeterlinck, nursing private grievances, denounced it publicly in *Le Figaro*, Debussy’s victory emerged wholly unscathed.

However decisive his triumph may have been, it was never anticipated from the outset. On the premiere night, the audience seethed with hostility as the drama unfolded amid jeers, mockery, and disruptions—yet they found themselves imperceptibly drawn into a strange fascination, gradually falling silent despite themselves. When the second performance took place three days later, not a single disturbance arose. Rather, as the music drama progressed, it ignited an unprecedented frenzy since Wagner’s time, with encores demanded tenfold and the audience’s fervor only intensifying.

It is said that this success was aided by conservatory students and other young students who were readily moved by new beauty. Meanwhile, Dubois, the Director of the Conservatory, forbade students from listening to *Pelléas*. The reasoning was that it violated the musical rules taught at the school. Debussy suddenly became a world-renowned figure. Afterward, he began work on *La Mer*, completed the piano pieces *Estampes* and *Images*, and declared, “I would be positioned to Schumann’s left or Chopin’s right.”

In 1908, he wrote *Children's Corner*, and two years later premiered *The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian*. In 1914, with the outbreak of World War I and driven by patriotism, he composed several war-themed musical works and wrote three sonatas for various instrumental combinations; on March 25, 1918, he died alone in Paris during an air raid.

Debussy’s Works and Their Records

Anyone would initially be surprised at the unexpectedly large number of Debussy’s recordings. Among composers active since the twentieth century, there may have been few with such appeal. He was a figure particularly deeply familiar to the Japanese people, and Mr. Koichi Nomura’s statement about Debussy—that his music is “one of the more readily comprehensible types from the perspective of Japanese sensibilities”—remains a particularly intriguing observation.

*Pelléas et Mélisande*

How fervently we must have longed for the music drama *Pelléas et Mélisande*—it remains one of those tender memories cherished by music lovers from twenty years ago, who knew this piece only through written accounts. Immediately after the Great Kanto Earthquake, excerpts of this work recorded by French Gramophone were imported to Japan in about ten sets; though exorbitantly priced, their frenzied acquisition became a legend in Japan’s record industry. Indeed, Panzéra and Protier’s renditions of scenes like "The Hair Scene" and "The Fountain Scene" induced a dreamlike intoxication. Those today can scarcely imagine it—this was a memory steeped in profound emotion.

Afterward, French Gramophone re-recorded the exact same cast and orchestra under Coppola’s direction during the early electrical era, and these were pressed by Victor, becoming part of our standard collections today. This record was also a recording from over a decade ago now; while the orchestra among other things was rather feeble, one can discern the splendid combination of Panzéra’s Pelléas, Protier’s Mélisande, and Marçot’s Golaud (Victor 4174–6, 9636–9).

Columbia’s were several years newer than those, with Truc’s orchestra sounding far more vivid and brilliant. Moreover, while Cloëz’s portrayal of Geneviève gave it distinctive character, Victor ultimately proved superior in both principal singers’ quality and orchestral execution (J8179–84). A separate Polydor recording conducted by Wolf contained only “The Scene of the Hair.” Though sonically rough, Brio’s soprano and Godan’s tenor delivered commendable performances (60177). Two discs featuring Mary Garden—who originated Mélisande in the premiere—singing with Debussy’s own accompaniment had been issued by I.R.C.C., though these remained elusive finds in Japan at the time.

“Nocturnes,” “La Mer,” “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun,” and others *Nocturnes*, consisting of three pieces—“Clouds,” “Festivals,” and “Sirens”—was a masterwork that decisively cemented Debussy’s reputation. It painted an impression of profound ambiguity through fresh, richly perfumed harmonies. Particularly intriguing was the wordless women’s chorus in “Sirenes.” The Columbia recording by Pierné conducting the Concerts Colonne Symphony Orchestra remains excellent (J8338–40). However, Victor’s version with Coppola leading the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (JD1543–5) is recommended for its more modern recording technology.

"Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun" was music based on Mallarmé’s poem, an ambitious work from Debussy’s early period that depicted a mysterious atmosphere and light. It could be called the first victory of Impressionism. There were numerous recordings. Stokowski, Wolf, Pierné, Coppola, and Straram—great conductors all—had competed to record it. However, for those choosing just one recording, Columbia’s record of the late conductor Straram leading his own Orchestre des Concerts Straram would be the finest (J7745). Next, Columbia’s recording conducted by Pierné should also be noted.

*La Mer* was a masterpiece from Debussy’s mature period, but the only recordings available were Victor’s under Coppola conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (JD 204–6). *Spring*, a very early work composed with inspiration from Botticelli’s famous painting *Primavera*, had been recorded by Victor with Coppola conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (JD 863–4). *The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian* was similarly recorded by Victor under Coppola’s direction (JD 1–2). *Iberia* followed the same pattern (Victor JD 850–2).

The *Petite Suite*—originally a piano four-hands piece arranged for orchestra—was recorded two or three times. The arrangement by Büsser, who conducted the Paris Symphony Orchestra, was available on Columbia though somewhat uninspired (J5237–8). Victor was also said to have a recording conducted by Coppola.

Sonata Debussy planned to compose six sonatas for various instruments in his later years but completed only three before his death. All three of these sonatas were exquisitely polished masterpieces, and among them, the recording of the "Violin Sonata" performed by Thibaud (violin) and Cortot (piano) stood as a peerless example. Such records of such exquisitely fragrant expression were rarely encountered (Victor JD 59–60).

"Sonata for Flute, Violin, and Harp" was an enchantingly beautiful piece. The Victor record featuring three masters—Moyse (flute), Merkel (viola), and Laskine (harp)—proved excellent (VH 4006–7). A version of this work’s viola part played by Gino existed on Columbia. For the *Cello Sonata*, there were two types of records: one pairing Marechal (cello) with Casadesus (piano) (Columbia J7795–6), and another combining Casals (cello) with Gordigiani (piano) (JW124–5). Though the former’s recording was somewhat dated, I favored its French-style refined performance.

Piano Works Debussy’s piano works were no less distinctive than his orchestral works—exquisitely fragrant and captivating. The records were numerous; listing only the most outstanding ones first, the twelve pieces from Book One of *Preludes* were available on Victor with Cortot (DA1240–4/DB1593) and on Columbia with Gieseking (J5633–9). The relative merits of these two would likely have been debated extensively. In truth，both had their distinctive merits and qualities; I would choose Cortot—slightly more Romantic and evocative—over Gieseking whose essence lay in cold technical refinement. Cortot’s performance of these twelve pieces may have lacked Gieseking’s mechanical beauty yet each became—as with Chopin’s preludes—a tone painting realized through Cortot’s extraordinary interpretation.

“Children’s Corner”—there exists no art as beautiful nor as profoundly understanding of childhood’s realm as this. It embodies a felicitous interweaving of dream and reality, poetry and life—a nostalgic vision of children’s world through adult eyes. Recordings by Cortot (Victor 7147–8) and Gieseking (Columbia J8728, J5563) both exist, yet here too I align myself with Cortot’s extraordinary poetic sensibility and childlike spirit. Gieseking’s playing, while masterful and astonishing, remains coldly dispassionate—a pianist’s piano piece through and through.

*Estampes* consists of three pieces: "Pagodas," "Evening in Granada," and "Gardens in the Rain." This was likely conceived as an impression of these scenes through the lens of Japanese woodblock prints. For *Evening in Granada*, it was delightful to find a recording by Ricardo Viñes—the elderly pianist who had premiered this piece in 1903—on Columbia J7747. However, for pure listening purposes, the younger Gieseking's recording would be preferable (Columbia J8539).

*Gardens in the Rain* was a specialty of Moiseiwitsch, existing on pre-electric records; when he came to Japan, he often played it, and a new record had also been released (Victor JD-1610). However, the performance still fell one step short of Gieseking’s (Columbia J5639). The pouring rain depicted in this piece and the atmosphere of the garden clearing up were of a beauty that transcended language.

*Images* was a beautiful work containing only "Reflections in the Water" from its first book. Gieseking’s recording remained superlative (Columbia J8539), appearing on the reverse side of *Evening in Granada*. The second book included *Goldfish*. Columbia’s World Famous Recordings Collection featured Gieseking’s interpretation alongside Viñes’s version (Columbia J-5151). Additional entries comprised Ron’s *Lentement plus que lent*, Champi’s *Feux d’artifice*, Ron’s two *Arabesques*, and Gieseking’s four *Suite bergamasque* pieces—notably the famed *Clair de lune*—all on Columbia. Blancard’s six *Etudes* on Polydor completed the catalog.

I do not list here piano pieces arranged for violin or orchestra.

Art Songs

Of the three songs from *Ariettes oubliées* (*Forgotten Songs*), "C'est l'extase langoureuse" was sung by Batori (Columbia J5187), "Il pleure dans mon cœur" by Kuroaza (Columbia J5157), and "Green" by Varan (Columbia J5505). Batori and Kuroaza relied solely on technique and intellect while lacking beauty; I would rather choose Nino Varan’s flamboyant rendition. *Marionettes* and *Mandoline* (Columbia J5505) were included on the B-side of *Green*, but this *Mandoline* was a beautiful song. I recalled Nordica’s rendition from long ago.

Batori’s rendition of *Three Songs of Bilitis* was a bit too subdued but masterful (Columbia J5186–7). *Three Ballads by François Villon* is a late work, similarly subdued and unadorned. There is one sung by Panzéra (Victor JF67).

The *Debussy Song Collection* features British soprano Maggie Teyte singing *Fêtes galantes* and other works with Alfred Cortot’s accompaniment. She was a skillful and intellectual singer, though ultimately lacking the calmness and affection characteristic of French performers. Cortot’s piano accompaniment remained extraordinary (Victor JE76–82).

From the cantata *The Prodigal Son*.

From the cantata for which Debussy won the Prix de Rome，Ninon Vallin’s performance of *Lia’s Recitative and Aria* remains at least noteworthy（Columbia J8704）．Additionally，records such as Krup’s rendition of *Hoshizukiyo*—Debussy’s earliest song—accompanied by Debussy himself，and Melba’s recording of *Romance* are recognized as antique masterpieces，though they are scarcely obtainable．

Rhapsody

*Rhapsody for Saxophone and Orchestra* features Viard on saxophone with Coppola conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (Victor W-1027). There was particular interest in Debussy’s engagement with the saxophone. Another *Rhapsody for Clarinet and Orchestra* features Hamlin on clarinet under Coppola’s orchestral direction (Victor DB-4809), though it proves less compelling than its saxophone counterpart.

Supplementary Biographies

Great Composers and Their Important Works Along with Outstanding Records

In this volume, I wrote about the biographies of seventeen great composers along with their important works and records; however, music's history stretches far longer—even quintupling that number would still fall short of encompassing all masters requiring documentation here. Detailing them all proved impossible within these limited pages, and exhaustively covering every composer would have rendered this volume's purpose meaningless. Thus I omitted most—alongside all opera composers and living contemporaries—from this main text. Here instead I provide a music-historical survey: selecting several dozen overlooked yet crucial figures from prior omissions, arranging them chronologically with concise biographies while listing their key works and exemplary recordings for reference.

Before Bach

If we were to trace music predating Bach back three thousand years to ancient Egypt, it would indeed constitute a geologically colossal volume. However, here I shall eschew music’s Cretaceous and Cambrian epochs, confining myself to enumerating the scarce works—and their corresponding records—worthy of appreciation by ordinary listeners. To collect and appreciate pre-Bach music through records,

"Anthologie Sonore Society" records

Columbia’s “Music History” First Collection and Second Collection Parlophone’s *Two Thousand Years of Music History* I thought preparing these three record sets would prove most convenient and effective. Among them, the “Anthologie Sonore Society” records—edited by world-renowned musicologist Dr. Curt Sachs—were said to have already sold over fifty discs in France. By early 1941, Nippon Columbia had pressed and marketed eighteen discs for the Japanese market, forming a truly exquisite selection of beautiful and important classical works. This collection’s distinction lay not only in its superb musical selections but also in its scrupulously conscientious performances, making it thoroughly enjoyable not just for musicology students but also general record enthusiasts and music lovers. The gentle beauty of its ancient instruments and serene delight of age-old songs remained unparalleled. Listing every track would prove tedious, but even as I continued writing this section, I found myself wielding my pen while intoxicated by the unadulterated beauty of Bolin Aubert’s performance of seventeenth-century clavecin pieces.

In the realm of art, the classic masterpieces that have passed through time’s powerful filtering mechanism and been preserved for posterity are always beautiful. It is because they are not products of fleeting trends, whims, affectations, or journalism, but are always rooted in fundamental human desires and possess an eternal appeal to the human heart. It can be said that enjoying classical works is an extremely healthy and privileged pleasure granted to humans in any time or world.

First and foremost, obtaining the already-released *Anthologie Sonore* records is quite difficult today; however, those fortunate enough to own them would do well to take them out from the bottom of their storage boxes once more and savor the spirit of the ancients. Therein lie both faith and love; through music, the vibrant human life of bygone eras is recreated, yet one will also find—with a smile—the realm of which the ancient sage spoke: “Though the *Book of Songs* contains three hundred poems, a single phrase covers them all: ‘Let there be no depravity in thought.’”

There were many who meticulously researched every detail of Beethoven’s symphony records—the orchestras, conductors, and recordings—yet few could likely recall even one-third of the Anthologie Sonore’s repertoire. That was a matter of course, but I somehow found it somewhat unsatisfying. Columbia’s “Music History” had also recently released its fifth volume. Compared to the lackluster Third and Fourth Collections, the Fifth Collection’s selection appeared skeletal in purpose, though I still held considerable interest in the arrangements of the First and Second Collections. True to its title as *Columbia’s Music History for the Ears and Eyes*, this collection gave equal weight to its commentary book while maintaining track selections worthy of listening—one could not help but admire its efficiency in presenting these classics for enjoyable appreciation. Within it, the Bach Cantata Club’s recordings of religious choral pieces represented exceptional quality in Britain, while the medieval instrumental pieces performed by the Dolmetsch family on period instruments offered distinctly revivalist charm.

Parlophone’s *Two Thousand Years of Music History*, like the *Anthologie Sonore*, was edited by Dr. Curt Sachs and commands admiration for its skillful compression of two millennia of musical essence—from pre-Christian times to the seventeenth century—into merely twelve 10-inch records, as well as for the musicological discernment evident in its programming. While its auditory appeal fell short of Columbia’s *Music History*, its historical selection and masterful sequencing far surpassed it, offering immense value to researchers; yet regrettably, the commentary proved crude and failed to function as a scholarly resource, compounded by its early discontinuation that has rendered it difficult not only to acquire but even to hear today.

These master matrices should already exist in Japan, and if they were to be re-pressed by Columbia, which has inherited Parlophone’s rights, I believe the joy of this would not be mine alone. I hereby present this as one issue facing the record industry.

There are quite a few classical music records out there, but those that general enthusiasts would find enjoyable to listen to—rather than ones intended for researchers—are not so plentiful. Victor’s Ben Stad conducting, “Music of Antiquity” is an exceptionally significant compilation of classical works, performed superbly by the American Ancient Instrument Research Society; however, the general public would likely find more charm in Madame Landowska’s harpsichord pieces.

Couperin’s (François Couperin, 1668–1733) *Pièces de clavecin* stands as a representative example of this. The simple beauty of antique imitative music produced by this instrument becomes supremely engaging through Madame Landowska’s masterful performance.

There are no small number of important and interesting classical violin pieces, but if one were to select one or two from among them, Corelli’s (Arcangelo Corelli, 1653–1713) *La Folia* stands as one of the representative works of Italian classical music and is notoriously difficult to perform; however, Columbia’s Enescu (J7940) and Victor’s Menuhin (JD208) recordings exist, each offering profound interest in this master-disciple pair’s interpretations. The former’s recording may be old, but its performance is refined; when contrasted with the latter’s youthful vigor, both prove equally indispensable. However, as a matter of common sense, general collectors would truly choose the latter with newer recordings.

Tartini’s (Giuseppe Tartini, 1692–1770) Violin Sonata “Devil’s Trill” was famous for its legend—that the composer Tartini had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a musical idea—and among its recordings, Victor’s Menuhin version (JD8–9) was likely the most authoritative. It was a spirited performance. Antonio Vivaldi’s (1678–1741) Violin Concerto in G minor, arranged by Naschetz, was available on Victor (JD1155–6). Elman’s performance might have been somewhat excessively lush and graceful, but his approach to making representative Italian classics enjoyable to listen to was flawless. It could indeed be called a fine performance. The same Vivaldi’s Concerto Grosso was an important work that later influenced Bach, and while there were not few recordings of it, Mengelberg’s performance of the “Concerto Grosso in A minor, Op. 3 No. 8” (Telefunken 23660–1) stood out as one of the finest. It was an extremely brilliant piece that would be enjoyed by anyone.

From the pre-Bach classics, as records intended for enjoyable listening, I ultimately selected only these works. Upon reflection, I realized I had overlooked Domenico Scarlatti’s (Giuseppe Domenico Scarlatti, 1685–1757) *Harpsichord Sonatas* performed by Madame Landowska (Victor JD 682–7). These twenty age-old yet genial sonatas hold musicological significance while serving as unassuming music that enhances convivial gatherings—sure to please any listener. They stand as a sequence of magnificently luminous masterworks.

After Bach Bach's Children

Bach’s Children

Among Bach’s children, the eldest, Wilhelm Friedemann Bach (1710–1784), was considered an unworthy son and led a rather unhappy life, though one of his works survives on record. This would be Brailowsky’s piano performance of the *Concerto in D minor* on Victor (VD 8004–5). The second son, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–1788), preceded Haydn as the establisher of sonata form and made significant contributions to modern music’s development. The recording includes his *Piano Sonata in F minor* in Columbia’s *Music History* collection.

The youngest son, Johann Christian Bach (1735–1782), composed many beautiful Italian-style pieces. He also had the most recordings among the three brothers, with Victor’s "Concerto in G Major for Harpsichord, Two Violins, and Cello" standing out through Champion’s exquisite performance (JA 1252–3). Columbia’s World Famous Record Collection featured Champion’s solo rendition of the “Rondo from the Harpsichord Concerto in C Major,” while Victor’s “Symphony in B-flat Major”—conducted by Mengelberg with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra—though recorded over a decade prior, could rightly be called a masterful interpretation (7483–4).

Gluck

(Christoph Willibald Gluck 1714–1787) The modern opera reformer born in Germany was the first to break with the then-world-dominating tradition of Italian opera and introduce dramatic elements. Fortunately, his representative opera *Orpheus*— a nearly complete recording of all three acts—had been released by Columbia. Henri Tomasi conducted the Vlasov Russian Choir and Paris Symphony Orchestra, with Alice Lavo (alto) in the solo lead role—a seasoned singer (JS 130–7).

Boccherini (Luigi Boccherini 1743–1805) The most intriguing composer of Italian classics, he produced excellent works for cello and chamber music. Above all, Casals' performance of the "Cello Concerto in B-flat Major" stood peerless through its antique elegance and superb execution. Ronald conducted the orchestra (Victor JD-1023–5). Such records remain truly delightful.

Weber (Carl Maria von Weber 1786–1826)

A great composer who defined an era in German opera and may be called the founder of the Romantic school. The opera *Der Freischütz* remains his representative masterpiece. While no complete recording of the opera existed, Polydor had released an abridged version; Furtwängler's conducting of the overture with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra became a renowned recording (Polydor E217–8). Among single-disc vocal recordings emerged Lehmann’s (soprano) “Agathe’s Aria” (Columbia J8586).

*Invitation to the Dance* was one of the masterpieces originally composed as a piano piece; though an older recording, Cortot’s version exists on Victor (JE-185). Berlioz’s orchestral arrangement conducted by Stokowski became famous through its Victor release (JD-1325). Weingartner’s recording of his own arrangement could be found on Columbia.

The Columbia record of Casadesus performing the *Piano Concerto in F minor (Op. 79)* with the Paris Symphony Orchestra (conducted by Bigot) was also excellent (J8591–2). Additionally, there were Victor records such as Piatigorsky’s arrangement for cello of a violin sonata.

Rossini

(Gioachino Rossini 1792–1868)

It was impossible to imagine how Rossini’s light and beautiful Italian operas had captivated all of Europe at the time. On record, the complete opera *The Barber of Seville* was recorded by La Scala’s best members under Morajoli’s direction. It was an excellent, authentic performance (Columbia J8732–9, J8740–7). In single-disc recordings of this opera, Toscanini’s renowned recording of the “Overture” existed (Victor JD-1287), while Tetrazzini (Victor JD-259) and Galli-Curci (Victor 7110) were featured for the famous aria “Soft Voices,” and Chaliapin’s record for “In the Shadow of the Slanderer” could be found (Victor 6783).

The overture to the opera *William Tell* was a tasteful popular music favorite. Both Coppola conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (Victor JF-9–10) and Toscanini conducting the NBC (Victor JE-208–9) were excellent. Additionally, Toscanini’s conducting of the overture to the opera *Semiramide* was splendid (Victor JD-943–4).

Loewe (Karl Loewe 1796–1869) He was said to have been far more popular than Schubert at the time. There were excellent ballads, and Slezak’s rendition of *Tom der Reimer* stood as a remarkable performance, though it had not been pressed in Japan. Hüsch (baritone)’s renditions of *Heinrich der Vogler* and *Prinz Eugen* were recommended (Victor JE-71).

Donizetti (Gaetano Donizetti 1797–1848) A composer of Italian opera and preserver of tradition, he was renowned for operas such as *Lucia di Lammermoor* and *La Fille du Régiment*. The mad scene in *Lucia* stood as an ideal showcase for a coloratura soprano’s skill—Tetrazzini had excelled in it historically, while Dal Monte and Galli-Curci were celebrated as contemporary interpreters. The sextet from *Lucia* also gained fame, with three vintage recordings featuring Caruso remaining available. Numerous records by Dal Monte existed for arias from *La Fille du Régiment*.

Bellini

(Vincenzo Bellini 1801–1835) An Italian opera composer who succeeded Rossini and Donizetti, he was known for the operas *La sonnambula* and *Norma*. As operas, they were not particularly compelling works, but the beautiful Italianate arias that emerged throughout them became renowned. There existed excellent recordings by Dal Monte and others. Glinka

(Mikhail Glinka 1803–1857) The great pioneer of the Russian national school; his records were exceedingly scarce. Chaliapin’s recording of *Suspicion* (Victor DB-1469) stood as a masterpiece. Among orchestral works existed *Kamariinskaya*.

Thomas (Ambroise Thomas 1811–1896)

A French opera composer known for the opera *Mignon*. Among these, the song *Do You Know the Land?* has become astonishingly widespread in popular culture. In the past, there were recordings by Farrar and Schumann-Heink, but among newer ones, there was only Bori’s Victor record. Then Dal Monte’s *Polonaise* and others should also be recommended.

Verdi (Giuseppe Verdi 1813–1901) The towering giant of Italian opera who guarded tradition and confronted Wagner—in their rich creative power, endlessly varied facets, and profound emotional impact, none could rival his Italian operas. *Rigoletto*, *Aida* Each had complete recordings on Victor, and *La traviata* had a complete recording on Columbia. They were all old recordings but remained excellent performances. Each song featured outstanding renditions by Caruso, Gigli, Dal Monte, Galli-Curci, and others.

In the prelude to *La traviata*, Toscanini’s conducting of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra was a renowned recording.

Dargomïzhsky (Alexander Dargomïzhsky 1813–1869) His Russian-style art songs were intensely distinctive. While Chaliapin maintained a substantial repertoire of them and Rozing likewise favored performing them, only two recordings survived: Chaliapin’s *The Old Sergeant* (Victor 7422) and the “Mad Scene” from the opera *Rusalka* (Victor JD-149). Franz (Robert Franz 1815–1892) Franz stood as the natural heir to Schubert’s German Lied tradition, yet despite his compositions’ tender beauty, his want of Schumann’s poetic vision and Wolf’s dramatic intensity rendered his works conspicuously ordinary—ultimately deficient in lasting allure.

The *Robert Franz Lieder Collection* compiled sixteen of his representative pieces in a solo performance by Ernst Wolf (baritone) and could be considered Franz’s sole surviving record (Columbia J8660–2). Gounod (Charles François Gounod 1818–1893) France’s most renowned opera composer, Gounod’s *Faust* remained a point of French pride. While complete recordings had existed on Pathé and Columbia in earlier times, only abridged “mini-opera” versions remained available through Polydor. For single records of the soprano “Jewel Song,” Melba and Farrar had been celebrated in their day, though more recent contenders included Columbia’s Valandré or Polydor’s Champi. The bass Méphistophélès’s “Sérénade” fared best in older renditions by Plançon or Journet, with no satisfactory modern versions available. Chaliapin’s vintage recording stood supreme for “The Song of the Golden Calf,” while “Valentin’s Prayer” found its sole worthy interpretation in Victor’s Thibault.

The “Tavern Chorus” from Act II was well done by Victor’s Metropolitan Opera recording, and the “Soldiers’ Chorus” from Act IV was good in Columbia’s version conducted by Morajoli with the La Scala Chorus. In addition to Gounod, his opera *Romeo and Juliet* had been recorded to some extent, and there was his famous *Ave Maria* set to Bach’s Prelude in C Major as accompaniment. This had been recorded extensively, but Columbia’s Ninon Vallin was considered the best choice.

Offenbach (Jacques Offenbach 1819–1880)

A French opéra comique composer; there were good popular works among his output. The overture to *Orpheus in the Underworld* could be considered light music's grand champion. Victor maintained one conducted by Blech (JD-1246). The "Barcarolle" from *The Tales of Hoffmann* remained famous. While older Farrar recordings had been superior, Polydor's recent German-language version with Mihaczek (soprano) and Haender (baritone) proved acceptable (60168). Columbia's Bailey and Walker recording stood as an authentic soprano-alto duet (J7539).

Vieuxtemps

(Henri Vieuxtemps 1820–1881) A Belgian-born violinist who composed numerous works for violin, including six concertos alone. His *Violin Concerto No. 5 in A minor* was among these works, with Columbia preserving a recording by Dubois and the Brussels Royal Conservatory Orchestra. Both the aged recording quality and performance left much to be desired.

Lalo (Edouard Lalo 1823–1892) A Frenchman of Spanish descent, he was renowned for the opera *Le roi d’Ys* and the violin piece *Symphonie espagnole*.

For *Symphonie espagnole*, there were recordings by Menuhin, Huberman, and Merckel. Menuhin’s was good (Victor JD-260–3), but I found myself more drawn to Huberman’s conquering warrior’s tremor (Columbia J8320–2). When Menuhin recorded this, he had been far too young. Merckel’s green-label recording offered a refined, masterful violin performance. The *Cello Concerto in D minor* with Maréchal on cello and Goehr conducting also stood out as excellent (Columbia J8133–5).

Smetana (Bedřich Smetana 1824–1884) Smetana was Bohemia’s national composer who passed down its folk music traditions to Dvořák. The symphonic poem *The Moldau*, a movement from his large-scale cycle *Má vlast*, had several recordings available at the time, including a recent Telefunken release conducted by Hans Schmidt-Isserstedt leading the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (Telefunken 53613–4). The overture to Smetana’s famous opera *The Bartered Bride*, conducted by Walter with the London Symphony Orchestra, was included in Columbia’s World Famous Record Collection.

Bruckner (Anton Bruckner 1824–1896) A Romantic composer who had once opposed Brahms, he remained largely unappreciated outside Germany and was poorly served by recordings. Victor released Karl Böhm’s complete recording of the *Symphony No. 4 in E-flat Major*. Yet it was not for general audiences. Polydor’s older catalog had included his Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Symphonies. These are now considered essential acquisitions.

Johann Strauss

(Johann Strauss 1825–1899) The epithet "Waltz King" was so widely publicized that it nearly eclipsed his given name. He composed many beautiful Viennese-style waltzes, each one as exquisite as a jewel. One could rightly call him the king of popular music. Such a man truly embodied an artist intimately connected to people's daily lives.

The most famous masterpiece was *The Blue Danube* waltz, which had been extensively recorded; among these, Telefunken’s version conducted by Kleiber (13104), Victor’s by Stokowski (Lovers’ Association Vol. 5), and Columbia’s by Weingartner (J7343) were all excellent recordings. For comprehensive collections, Telefunken had Kleiber conducting *Johann Strauss Waltzes*, while among single-disc recordings, there was Walter’s *Emperor Waltz* (Columbia World Famous Record Collection Vol. 3).

*Vienna Blood*, *Tales from the Vienna Woods*, *Roses from the South*, and *Wine, Women and Song* *Artist’s Life* and others—these masterpiece waltzes existed in great numbers, with each having been recorded in multiple renditions.

In addition to these, if one were to count all the recordings of people singing *The Blue Danube* or playing it on piano, there would be no end. The overtures *The Gypsy Baron* and *Die Fledermaus* were also recorded by renowned conductors. Those by Walter, Mengelberg, Kleiber, and Weingartner were good.

Rubinstein (Anton Rubinstein 1829–1894)

Anton Rubinstein—Tchaikovsky’s mentor and friend—was once renowned across all of Europe as a pianist. A number of his piano pieces survive. *Kamennoi-Ostrow* stands as a representative example of his beautiful works; there existed an acclaimed old recording by Godowsky on piano. More recently, there is an orchestral recording conducted by Fiedler (Victor Lovers’ Association). Additionally, *Melody in F* remains well-known—Casals performs it on cello. Piano records such as the *Staccato Étude* and *Waltz-Caprice* also exist.

Borodin

(Alexander Borodin 1833–1887)

A member of the Russian Nationalist School, his works such as the symphonic poem *In the Steppes of Central Asia* and the opera *Prince Igor* are strongly redolent of Tatar influences. The "Polovtsian Dances" from *Prince Igor* conducted by Stokowski is excellent (Victor JD-1500–1).

Cui (Cesar Antonovich Cui 1835–1918) A member of the Russian "Mighty Five," he was famous for his charming Oriental-style piece *Orientale*. Only this piece had been recorded. There was one played by Elman on violin (Victor VE-1029). Saint-Saëns (Camille Saint-Saëns 1835–1921) He was a master of the French Neoclassical school and had been revered as a national composer. In his native France, he was given greater prominence than Debussy and even received a state funeral, but his overly conventional French style made him paradoxically difficult for Japanese audiences to understand. However, it must be noted that he possessed many splendid, well-organized works, and his art, while superficial, was thoroughly orthodox in nature.

As for records, those like the suite *Carnival of the Animals* conducted by Stokowski with the Philadelphia Orchestra prove more engaging (Victor JD 562–4). Among these, while recordings of "The Swan" played on cello are innumerable, Casals’s rendition—despite its age—is probably the finest (Victor JE7).

The *Piano Concerto No. 4 in C minor (Op. 44)* was partly due to Cortot’s performance but proved splendid and excellent. It remained an effective record for appreciating Saint-Saëns’s surface-level beauty (Victor JD 921–3).

Coppola’s conducted *Symphony No. 3 in C minor (Op. 78)* was a lavish piece featuring an organ and two pianos, quintessentially Saint-Saëns in character. However, not everyone could like these (Victor JH 17–20). It included two *Violin Concertos*, a *Cello Concerto*, and a *Cello Sonata*, but unless one had a particular interest in Saint-Saëns, these were not particularly interesting. Rather, it was in his smaller pieces that there were those which evoked popular interest.

"Danse Macabre" was one such piece—a trifling work, yet Stokowski’s conducted version felt grandiose (Victor JD-559). Recordings like Cortot’s piano performance of *Étude in Waltz Form* (Victor JD-196) and Heifetz’s violin renditions of *Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso* (Victor JD-829) and *Havanaise* (Victor JD-1292) would likely appeal more broadly through their popular charm.

There were other works such as the suite *Algérie* and the opera *Samson et Delilah*, but no good recordings existed. The opera *Samson et Delilah*, while one of Saint-Saëns' masterpieces, stood as a fine Romantic work in its own right. Delilah’s arias and the banquet music had been preserved in multiple versions.

Wieniawski (Henri Wieniawski 1835–1880) A Polish violinist who composed renowned violin works. For instance, a piece like *Moscou* captivates listeners immediately. Victor holds Menuhin’s recording (JD-1567). Elman’s rendition has long been celebrated. Among significant works exists Heifetz’s interpretation of the *Violin Concerto in D minor (Op. 22)*. The London Philharmonic performed under Barbirolli’s baton (Victor JD 717–9). Heifetz mastered this concerto—though the second movement’s tenderness falls short, it stands as an exquisitely refined performance.

Delibes (Léo Delibes 1836–1891) A French composer whose representative work was the opera *Lakmé*. Among these works, the "Bell Song" stood as a brilliant coloratura soprano piece, with performances by Tetrazzini in earlier times and Lily Pons in more recent years being excellent choices. Other ballets such as *Coppélia* and *Sylvia* were also recorded.

Balakirev (Mily Balakirev 1837–1910)

Although he was the de facto leader of the Russian Nationalist School’s “Five,” his compositional output was surprisingly limited. It was his influence on Mussorgsky and others that truly made an impact. The symphonic poem *Tamara* remains his sole recording. This work—a famous piece of Russian ballet—had been recorded under Coppola’s direction (Victor JD 144–5).

Bizet

(Georges Bizet 1835–1875) With just the opera *Carmen*, Bizet secured a millennium of enduring charm. The philosopher Nietzsche’s disillusionment with Wagner and subsequent ecstatic discovery of *Carmen* at a provincial opera house makes for a particularly compelling anecdote. Though Bizet’s life proved far from happy—cut short before he could witness *Carmen*’s global acclaim—as an artist he achieved nothing less than immortality. To date, five or six near-complete recordings of *Carmen* have been produced. Those twenty-seven vertical-cut French Pathé discs that thrilled us in the shellac era—I too acquired them much later, treasuring them as cherished relics. While their sonic quality remains abysmal, the vocal performances retain remarkable merit. With electrical recording’s advent came Columbia’s Paris Opéra-Comique production under Cohen (J7361–75) and Victor’s equivalent under Coppola (9540–56), though neither decisively surpasses the other. Both suffer from dated acoustics. Polydor offers five discs of excerpts besides these.

There were countless single discs available, yet it remained curious that those from the era of old discs—like Farrar and Caruso—were better. Even so, Columbia’s recordings of “Habanera” and “Segguidilla” sung by Ninon Vallin were truly excellent, befitting the great Carmen singers of old. Supervia, a fellow Spaniard like Carmen who died young, also brought a distinctive quality to “Habanera” and “Segguidilla.” José—whether in Victor’s much-discussed Björling or the older tenor Gigli—must both have been excellent. For the bullfighter’s song, there were no good recordings other than Tibet’s.

Then there was Stokowski’s conducted *Carmen* Suite on Victor, which stood out with Stokowski’s characteristic efficiency and grandeur. The opera *The Pearl Fishers* had no complete recordings; only a few single discs were available. *L’Arlésienne* The suite was Bizet’s second most beloved work after *Carmen*, but there were no truly outstanding recordings that leaped to mind. The only complete recording of the First and Second Suites in their entirety was Columbia’s version conducted by Angelbrecht with the Paris Symphony Orchestra. When it came to excerpts, the most compelling would likely have been Stokowski’s Victor recording.

Bruch (Max Bruch 1838–1920) His music was characterized by Hebraic grace, melancholic beauty, and meditative quality. He stood as an unusual figure within the German Romantic school. The Violin Concerto No.1 in G minor (Op.26) remains a work of majestic beauty. Victor’s Menuhin recording stands as its definitive interpretation (7509–11). Though his Second Concerto contains fine material, no recordings exist. “Kol Nidrei,” drawn from Jewish liturgical tradition, has come to be regarded as Bruch’s signature composition. It achieves supreme elegance through its profound religiosity. Casals’ recording (Victor Enthusiasts Association Second Collection) dominated popularity among all society releases. His earlier Columbia version of this piece, though crackling with surface noise, possessed a youthful vigor that was indescribably excellent.

Musorgsky (Modest Musorgsky 1839–1881) He was the most distinctive genius among the Russian Nationalist School’s "Five." Though he ignored compositional traditions and remained unrecognized during his lifetime, his works’ intense modern realism would exert enormous influence on later generations. The opera *Boris Godunov* stands as an astonishing composition—its drenched realism makes conventional operas full of artifice pale in comparison. Victor released three discs (JD 1518–20) documenting Chaliapin’s live performance at London’s Covent Garden Opera House. While the recording quality is poor, its visceral intensity remains unmatched. Another disc (Victor JD 226) contains Chaliapin’s “Clock Scene” and “I Hold Supreme Authority,” while a separate disc (Victor JD 862) preserves “Boris’s Farewell” and “Boris’s Death.” Two discs of the chorus from “Revolutionary Scene” had also existed but were discontinued—a regrettable loss despite their quality.

"Khovanshchina" was an opera no less excellent than "Boris Godunov," but recordings remained extremely scarce, with only Koussevitzky's conducted overture included in the Victor Enthusiasts Association collection. Musorgsky's independent songs proved equally astonishing. While Chaliapin's "Song of the Flea" (Victor 6783-A) and "Trepak" (Victor JD723) stood as famous recordings, among more comprehensive collections Columbia featured an extraordinary tenor—Rozing—in its *Musorgsky Song Collection* spanning two volumes (J8610–2, J8614–6). This singer possessed a uniquely intense mode of expression while maintaining exceptionally polished technique.

In orchestral music, *Night on Bald Mountain*, which depicted a nocturnal banquet of mountain demons, proved fascinating. It was an extremely bizarre piece yet remained a well-proportioned symphonic poem. Columbia’s recording conducted by Paray stood out (J8365). While the original piano version of *Pictures at an Exhibition* held greater interest, Ravel’s orchestral arrangement conducted by Koussevitzky was included (Victor 7372–5). This was a lackluster effort.

Chabrier (Alexis Emmanuel Chabrier 1841–1894) He was a distinctive French composer who pioneered modern music. *España Rhapsody* remains well-known. The Columbia Records version conducted by Pierné may be cited (J8356). In vocal works, Bernac sings one or two pieces in Victor’s *French Chanson Collection*. Massenet (Jules Massenet 1842–1912) He was a composer who created operas containing the most enchantingly beautiful and decadent beauty of late nineteenth-century France.

It was ironic that none of the recordings of “Dream Song” from the opera *Manon* could match Charles Klement’s old disc, and none of the “Méditation” from *Thaïs* could compare to Geraldine Farrar’s old recording. In *Thaïs*, the French soprano Fanny Heldy excelled, and her “Mirror Song” was included in the French Gramophone catalog, though there were no Japanese pressings. The operas *Le Cid* and *Werther* had one or two discs each, but Victor’s *Werther* was an interesting version that included a children’s chorus. Otherwise, perhaps one should consider the “Skipper” edition of “Dream Song”?

The *Elegy* is famous both as a song and in its cello arrangement, but it's overly sweet and makes one feel slightly queasy. For those who insist, perhaps they should listen to Columbia's Varan version?

Grieg (Edvard Grieg 1843–1907) A great Scandinavian composer, his works are characterized by Nordic regional characteristics and approachable pieces that could also be said to reflect his graceful personality. His representative work is the music he composed for Ibsen’s play *Peer Gynt*. Despite being performed as frequently as Bizet’s *L'Arlésienne*, there are surprisingly few such works with good recordings. Victor’s version conducted by Goossens, though a mediocre performance, includes both suites.

The Piano Concerto in A minor (Op. 16) was a gentle and fine piece. Victor included a recording of Backhaus’s piano performance with Barbirolli conducting the New Symphony Orchestra (JD 287–9). Among vocal works, "Solveig’s Song" from *Peer Gynt* had achieved astonishingly wide circulation. Galli-Curci’s recording was famous (Victor 6924). Elisabeth Schumann also had distinctive characteristics. There were also works such as the *Violin Sonata*, *Cello Sonata*, *String Quartet*, *Lyric Suite*, and *Symphonic Dances*, but there were no recordings worth recommending.

Rimsky-Korsakov (Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov 1844–1908) The youngest member of the Russian Nationalist School’s "Five," he was highly educated, a master of orchestration, and his compositions often featured elaborate technical craftsmanship. Another achievement was his revision of Musorgsky’s rough-hewn works, leaving us masterpieces. The symphonic suite *Scheherazade* was a representative work. Drawing from *The Arabian Nights*, the craftsmanship in weaving an opulent dream was masterful. Among recordings, Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra was absolutely the best (Victor JD 771–6).

The opera *Sadko* was an interesting piece. However, only its “Song of India” had been sung by various performers and arranged for violin in recordings. The “Hymn to the Sun” from *The Golden Cockerel* was also famous but scarcely merited special mention.

Fauré (Gabriel Fauré 1845–1924) The greatest charm of modern French music was Gabriel Fauré. Though he should have been influenced by Saint-Saëns, his works bore no resemblance to Saint-Saëns, and standing apart from Wagner’s sweeping influence that dominated his era, he forged something truly French. It was graceful, pure, and infinitely beautiful. He was likely, alongside Debussy, to be the composer with the greatest vitality among modern French composers.

The *Requiem Mass* was a middle-period masterpiece that possessed a beauty imbued with humanity distinct from classical religious music. For records, Victor had Bret conducting the Bach Society Choir (JD 627–31), while Columbia had Bourmauck conducting the Lyon Mixed Choir (JW 509–13). Though the recording was old, Victor’s version remained far superior. The *Violin Sonata No. 1 in A Major (Op. 13)* was a sonata of such profound beauty that it could have been called *yūgen*. The Victor recording by Cortot and Thibaud had once been so expensive it became legendary in the secondhand market, but its antiquated sound quality rendered it unsuitable for general listening. As for newer recordings, Columbia had those by two female artists—Soriano (violin) and Tagliaferro (piano) (J8301–3)—while Victor featured versions by Heifetz (violin) and Bay (JD1014–6). It was hard to say which was better.

The *Piano Quartet No. 1 in C minor (Op. 15)* was a profoundly deep piece imbued with classical sensibility. Victor had a recording featuring Merkel on violin and Tenrock on piano among others (JH26–9), while Columbia offered one with Casadesus at the piano and Calvet on violin alongside other performers (J8622–5). This too proved difficult to assess definitively. The former shone in its violin performance, while the latter excelled in piano artistry.

The *Ballade for Piano and Orchestra (Op. 19)* featured a renowned performance by Lon (Columbia 8029–30). The Kretly Quartet’s recording of the *String Quartet (Op. 121)* could not be overlooked (Columbia J7907–9). Among piano works, Lon’s *Nocturne No. 6* (Columbia J-8755) and *Impromptu No. 2* (Columbia J-5476) were notable examples. Fauré’s songs, alongside Duparc’s, represented the quintessence of French art songs. They were endlessly gentle and beautiful. “After a Dream” (Columbia J5313), “Cradle Song” (Columbia J5622), “Clair de lune” (Columbia J5622), “Autumn” (Columbia J5498), “Poèmes d’un jour” (Columbia J5543)—all were masterful performances by Ninon Vallin. If one were to select one or two from these, *After a Dream* and *Clair de lune* would be good choices. Fauré’s music aligned perfectly with Vallin’s flamboyant sweetness. For *Gensō no Chiheisen* (“Fantasy Horizon”), Victor’s Panzéra recording was excellent (JD-1285).

Duparc (Henri Duparc 1848–1933) He had been one of the new French composers who once gathered in Franck’s circle, but his French songs’ unique melodies were inexpressibly beautiful. One could rightly say they evoked the highest refinement of vocal artistry. “L'Invitation au voyage”—a dreamlike song setting Baudelaire’s poetry to invite listeners to an unknown land—stood as one of Duparc’s masterpieces, but baritone Panzéra’s recording of it became a masterpiece in its own right (Victor JD-148). This song existed on HMV in two versions: one with orchestral accompaniment and another with Madame Panzéra’s piano accompaniment.

“Sad Song” should likely be chosen from Columbia’s Kuroaza (J-5195). For *“Wave and Bell”* and *“Fidèle”*, there are Panzéra’s renowned recordings. There are still more of Duparc’s songs, but beyond this, they become limited to those with a special interest.

D'Indy (Vincent D'Indy 1851–1931) He inherited Franck’s mantle but cultivated his own distinct tendencies. His Symphony *On a French Mountain Air* was recorded. A performance exists by Lon (piano), Barley conducting, and the Colonne Symphony Orchestra (Columbia J8527–9). A piano recording of D'Indy performing his own *Mountain Poem* existed in France but became an antiquarian rarity. In Japan, it remains difficult to obtain.

Chausson (Ernest Chausson 1855–1899) He was the most distinctive composer among Franck’s disciples. His pure and refined modern French aesthetic, imbued with heartfelt emotion, remains beloved by all. The *Concerto for Piano and Violin in D Major (Op. 21)* is a passionate and beautiful piece, and the recording by Cortot (piano), Thibaud (violin), and a string quartet remains exceptionally fine (Victor DB1649–53).

The *Poème for Violin and Orchestra* possessed greater philosophical depth than its predecessor. Graceful yet direct, it carried compelling emotional force. Menuhin’s performance on violin—with his teacher Enescu conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra—stood out as exceptional (Victor JD 239–40). *When the Lilacs Bloom* remained Chausson’s definitive song. While Melba’s acoustic-era recording had become a prized antique masterpiece, Panzéra’s electrical-era version now existed (Victor JD-1251). It lacked Melba’s crystalline softness and sweetness.

Lyadov (Anatol Lyadov 1855–1914) A pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov, he composed some charming pieces of note. He was not a great figure, but he produced noteworthy dance suites and piano pieces, making significant contributions to the study of Russian folk songs. Coates conducted the *Russian Folk Song Selections* (Victor 9797–8), and under his direction, *Musical Jewel Box* was included on the fourth side of the folk song collection. There was a story that Mr. Masamichi Iwasaki had long searched for the record of *Musical Jewel Box* played on the piano and finally obtained it as a vintage pressing.

Ippolitov-Ivanov (Mikhail Ipplitov-Ivanov 1856–1935)

A modern Russian composer and conductor, his suite *Caucasian Sketches* was his representative work—a popular piece. Stokowski conducted *In the Village* (Victor JI-921) and *March of the Chieftain* (JE-176). This person’s compositions seemed to appeal to Japanese tastes, as they surely played a record on the radio about once a week.

Elgar (Edward Elgar 1857–1934) A composer who commanded national reverence in modern Britain. There exists an anecdote from over a decade ago: when his friend Mr. Zenkichi Nakamura placed an order for HMV records in England, declaring “Send all the Red Label masterpieces, but Elgar’s works need not be included,” the proprietor of Limington Shokai haughtily retorted: “Elgar is the foremost great composer of our time. No matter what you say, I shall send all Elgar’s work records!” This reveals how one should understand British fervor for Elgar. His compositions were balanced and quintessentially British in style, yet he fully possessed the gravitas befitting a great contemporary composer. While numerous records exist—including famous works like *Pomp and Circumstance* and *Enigma Variations*—there are also recordings of Elgar himself conducting his *Second Symphony* and Menuhin performing the *Violin Concerto in B Minor*.

Puccini

(Giacomo Puccini 1858–1924) An Italian opera composer who created sweetly melodic operas such as *Madama Butterfly* and *La Bohème*. While not as monumental as Verdi, he produced no shortage of works that remain widely beloved.

For both *Madama Butterfly* and *Tosca*, complete recordings conducted by Morajoli existed on Columbia, while *La Bohème* contained only the fourth act conducted by Beecham. I consider single-disc opera recordings from the shellac era superior when performed by older singers, though Björling’s *Thy Little Hand* (Victor Lovers’ Association Third Collection) stands as a masterpiece.

Leoncavallo (Ruggero Leoncavallo 1857–1919)

He became famous with just one opera: *Pagliacci*. *Pagliacci* was a short opera of merely two acts, yet it stood as a masterpiece. The complete recording featured renowned tenor Gigli alongside other singers, with Ghione conducting La Scala’s orchestra and chorus (Victor JD 510–8). For single-disc versions, Caruso’s remained superior.

Wolf

(Hugo Wolf 1860–1903) German Lieder evolved from Schubert through Schumann and branched into two types: those of Franz and Wolf. Wolf’s Lieder expanded the accompaniment parts, imbuing the expression with profound depth while developing a meticulous attention to accents that created a distinctive flavor; yet compared to early Lieder, they could not escape a certain darkness and oppressive quality. Nevertheless, he remained a distinctive composer who maintained ardent supporters within specific circles. About ten years ago, when HMV organized the "Wolf Society" through the advocacy of Mr. Mackenzie from Gramophone magazine, hundreds of participants joined from Japan—the enthusiasm of the Japanese greatly astonished the British—though there were likely few in Japan who collected all five sets of seven records each. After all, Wolf’s songs are inherently difficult and not easily accessible to the general public in Japan.

The first collection was sung solely by Gerhard, while the second and subsequent collections featured various singers. Though Gerhard was already entering old age at this time, he remained the most outstanding performer (Gerhard of the Wolf Society is discussed in detail in the small book *Masterpieces of Music*). In single-disc records, Polydor included quite a number by Schlusnus. This singer’s beautiful vocal quality made Wolf’s dark songs compelling to hear. Additionally, Polydor’s Slezak recording of *Insei* stands as a masterful performance (50030). Victor’s Gerhard also delivered *Insei* with an entirely different character overall (DA1219), while Victor’s Lehmann recording of *Anacreon’s Tomb* comes highly recommended (JE34, German Lieder Collection).

Though it is an old story, Wolf’s *Homesickness*, recorded by Gerhard with piano accompaniment by the renowned conductor Nikisch, remains a celebrated recording that allows us to fondly recall the excellence of Gerhard at twenty-five. It has been released by I.R.C.C. and the Historical Masterpieces Collection.

Albéniz (Isaac Albéniz 1860–1909) The most distinguished modern Spanish composer and precursor to Falla and Granados, he blazed trails for contemporary Spanish music. Complete collections have seldom been recorded. The suite *Iberia* remains his sole large-scale work. Among piano single-disc recordings, Columbia features *Seguidilla* and *Granada* by veteran pianist Vines, while Victor includes *Cádiz*. Victor additionally preserves two Cortot discs: *In the Shade of the Coconut Palms* and *Seguidilla*. Victor’s Iturbi rendition of *Córdoba* stands apart through its distinctive character. In violin arrangements, Victor houses Thibaud’s interpretations of *Tango* and *Malagueña*.

Mahler (Gustav Mahler 1860–1911) As a modern German-style symphonic composer, none had matched his grand scale and magnificent expression. Though unparalleled in beauty of craft, his grandiose tendencies ultimately hindered accessibility, leaving his works rather difficult to embrace. His recordings were by no means scarce. The Symphony No. 2 in C Minor—a monumental work featuring alto solo and chorus—was recorded twice, with Ormandy’s newer version conducting the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra on Victor Records (JD 955–65) standing out. While richly beautiful and competently performed, its excessive vastness and lack of climactic focus left one wondering how it might fare with general audiences.

There exists a recording of only the fourth movement of the *Symphony No. 5 in C-sharp Minor* conducted by Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (Columbia JS25). There is only one disc, but this is excellent.

*Das Lied von der Erde* was a monumental song cycle composed with inspiration drawn from German translations of poems by Li Bai and Wang Wei. This was likely Mahler’s greatest recording. Neither the vocal parts nor the music were in any way Chinese, yet they possessed a beauty that approached the grandeur of their venerable creator. It was conducted by Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and featured Thorborg (alto), Kullman (tenor), and others (Columbia JS139–45).

"Songs on the Death of Children" is a sadly heart-wrenching song. The realism is perhaps too visceral, yet its piercing tenderness compels tears. Polydor’s Rekemper recording is old but splendid (45154–6).

"I Am Forgotten in This World" was skillfully sung by Thorborg under Walter’s direction (Columbia JD5606). There was also Schlusnus’s rendition of *Des Knaben Wunderhorn* (Polydor 45129).

Charpentier

(Gustave Charpentier 1860–1956) The composer of *Louise* crafted an opera that uniquely depicted a Parisian tale of ordinary life—a work not only splendidly beautiful and rich in suggestion but also deeply engaging and enjoyable. Alongside Wagner and Debussy, it merits respect. Records assembled great singers like Ninon Vallin and Thill under the composer’s supervision, standing as one of the masterpieces among opera recordings (Columbia J8672–9).

The symphonic drama *The Poet’s Life* conducted by the composer and the Padeloup Orchestra (Victor JD 702–5) was also recommended. The suite *Impressions of Italy* was also famous, but there existed only old recordings conducted by the composer.

Paderewski

(Ignacy Jan Paderewski 1860–1941)

A great pianist who became Poland’s president after World War I and a heroic musician of his era, he passed away in the United States while observing his homeland’s urgent plight. His performances possessed colossal magnificence, yet his compositions remained showy and superficial, lacking substantial merit. Though said to have composed operas and concertos, on records it is his *Minuet in G Major* that endures as beloved. The composer’s own rendition was recorded three to four times by Victor (JD-1280 and Lovers’ Association Second Collection). There also exists the brilliant *Fantastic Krakowiak*, though this Columbia recording features Kreutzer’s performance.

Chaminade

(Cecile Chaminade 1857–1944) Including the sole female composer in this collection offered the singular charm of a lone red blossom. Chaminade was a true Parisian through and through and had once been renowned as a beautiful pianist. In old records there existed a short song titled *The Ring* sung by Clara Butt, and five piano records played by Chaminade herself—documented as the most antique of antique records—though there remained no prospect of obtaining them. The only record one could hear in Japan was the *Concertino* with master Amadio playing the flute (Victor JD-1194).

MacDowell (Edward MacDowell 1861–1908)

He was America’s most artistic composer. While his romantic songs possessed distinctive individuality and included excellent works, not a single vocal recording of them existed. The *Piano Concerto No. 2 in D Minor* was recorded by Victor with Jesús María Sanromá on piano under Fiedler’s direction.

Mascagni (Pietro Mascagni 1863–1945) The opera *Cavalleria Rusticana* secured its position in modern Italian opera with this single work. As for records, aside from the Victor Black Label, there are none worth mentioning.

Pierné

(Gabriel Pierné 1863–1937)

Sharing the same era as Debussy, he was characterized by French elegance of taste, a new sensibility, and a nostalgic interest in classical traditions. There were several recordings where he conducted his own compositions. Examples included his dance piece *Whirl* (Columbia J8306). He nevertheless enjoyed greater renown as a conductor and recorded a substantial number of modern French works.

Richard Strauss

(Richard Strauss 1864–1949)

He was the greatest composer of the modern era. His compositions may have been difficult for the general public to comprehend, but this stemmed from his extraordinary intent and exceptional talent in elevating the expressive power of symphonic poems into the realms of literature and philosophy. This person’s bold innovative attitude and intense individuality, by wielding his unparalleled skill in orchestration, undeniably brought to completion astonishing works without precedent. Whether one liked it or not, R. Strauss’s greatness had to be acknowledged.

There were also an exceptionally large number of recordings. When selecting the finest among them, one had to first mention the Polydor record of *Festival Music* composed to celebrate Japan’s 2600th anniversary. Among symphonic poems, *Don Juan* conducted by Böhm with the Saxon State Orchestra was the most recent (Victor VD 8024–5), and *Death and Transfiguration* conducted by Stokowski was new (Victor JI 41–4).

There was a recording of *Also sprach Zarathustra* conducted by Koussevitzky (Victor JD 571–5). "The Makeshift Aristocrat" had no fewer than two different recordings. For *Don Quixote*, there existed a Polydor recording conducted by Strauss himself (45070–4). While numerous recordings of *Till Eulenspiegel* were available, Furtwängler’s performance with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra remained preferable (Polydor 60188–9).

*Ein Heldenleben* also existed in an American Victor recording conducted by Mengelberg, to whom the piece had been dedicated, but there was no Japanese pressing, and moreover, the recording was already outdated.

Although not the complete opera *Der Rosenkavalier*, there exists a monumental recording on Victor that evokes the entire work. Featuring Lehmann (soprano), Mayer (baritone), Olszewska (mezzo-soprano), and Elisabeth Schumann (soprano)—the best ensemble imaginable of their time—this deluxe edition was conducted by Hager with the Vienna State Opera Chorus and Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD 391–403).

The *Dance of the Seven Veils* from the opera *Salome* was a famously sensual scene, and while many recordings existed, none were recent. For older versions, there was Polydor’s recording conducted by the composer himself; for relatively newer ones, Victor’s under Coppola’s direction. Among songs, Elisabeth Schumann’s renditions of *Serenade* (Victor JD-386) and *Morning* (same JD-386) were both considered excellent works. Schumann was regarded as particularly adept at interpreting Strauss. There were also instances where Strauss personally selected Schrunsus to perform his compositions—the *Serenade* among these could be called a masterpiece (Polydor 60100).

Glazunov (Alexander Glazunov 1865–1936) He had been a leading figure in the Soviet musical world since Imperial Russia. The performance of the *Violin Concerto in A Minor (Op. 82)* by Heifetz remains only technically interesting (Victor JD 427–9).

The dance suite *The Seasons* conducted by himself existed on Columbia, but it was dull. There were also works such as the symphonic poem *Stenka Razin*.

Dukas (Paul Dukas 1865–1935)

He was a man of wondrous technique. The high refinement and nervous freshness drew interest. The symphonic poem *The Sorcerer’s Apprentice* remains his representative work. A definitive recording features Toscanini conducting the New York Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD-1245). Another exists under Göbel’s direction on Columbia.

Sibelius

(Jean Sibelius 1865–1957) Finland’s national musician received the Finnish government’s exhaustive support, extending even to subsidizing record production and distribution. *Finlandia* is a tone poem praising Finland’s homeland and remains Sibelius’s representative work. The recording conducted by Stokowski would likely be the best choice (Victor 7412). *Valse triste* is also a famous work, with versions including Stokowski’s orchestral interpretation and Elman’s violin performance.

There was a recording of the *Violin Concerto in D Minor* performed by Heifetz (Victor JD 1490–3). At the very least, this and *Finlandia* should have been acquired.

Of Sibelius’s eight symphonies, four had been recorded, with three receiving Japanese pressings. *Symphony No. 1 in E Minor* and *Symphony No. 2 in D Major* were conducted by Kajanus and issued by Columbia. These had been released under Finland’s patronage and were distinctively excellent works, but *Symphony No. 4 in A Minor*... ...was discontinued along with Stokowski’s Victor recording.

Satie

(Erik Satie 1866–1925) He was a highly eccentric composer. As the elder of the French avant-garde group “Les Six,” his works infused absurd humor into earnest music, paradoxically achieving a kind of intense sincerity. Recordings remained exceedingly scarce. Copland performed the piano piece *Gnossienne No. 1* (Victor JF-33), while Bernac recorded the songs *Statue* and *Chapelier* with Poulenc’s accompaniment (*Victor Modern French Songs Collection*). Columbia too had released two or three Satie records, but regrettably these had gone out of print.

Granados (Enrique Granados 1867–1916)

He was the man who composed the sweetest Spanish-style pieces. During World War I, he met his fate alongside a ship sunk in the Atlantic. "Spanish Dance" stands as his representative masterpiece. There should originally have been five pieces available in both their piano and orchestral versions, but they no longer appear in catalogs. Of these five, Nos. 2 and 5 particularly excelled—the violin arrangements ironically gained greater renown, with Thibaud recording Spanish Dance No. 5 in E Minor and No. 6 in D Major (Victor JD-652), while Casals' cello rendition of No. 5 (Victor 1311) and the intermezzo from the opera Goyescas (Victor 6635) also exist. They possess unparalleled sweetness.

Roussel (Albert Roussel 1869–1937) A composer who elevated French Impressionist music to an exquisitely refined realm; though too refined to achieve popular appeal, he produced no small number of works imbued with high artistic fragrance. *Le Festin de l'araignée* is his representative work. Columbia’s recording of the late Straram conducting his own orchestra is a fine work, and it also holds commemorative significance for Straram (J7830–1).

Schmitt (Florent Schmitt 1870–1958)

He was one of the Impressionist composers. The suite *The Tragedy of Salome* conducted by the composer himself was included on Columbia.

Vaughan Williams (Ralph Vaughan-Williams 1872–1958) A modern British composer deeply rooted in regional character, he incorporated folk-inspired lyricism into both symphonic and chamber music. Records were almost nonexistent after the advent of electrical recording. In acoustic recordings, there had been good works such as the *London Symphony* and the song cycle *On Wenlock Edge*.

Scriabin (Alexander Scriabin 1872–1915) From the dawn of the century until the eve of the First World War, Scriabin was hailed as music’s boldest and most revolutionary figure. His theories pursued sensualism to its extremes while flouting tradition—yet ultimately, like Kandinsky in painting, he became so entangled in abstraction that he fell before fully harnessing his extraordinary gifts. Still, his audacious efforts to integrate visual and olfactory dimensions into music remain profoundly compelling.

*Poem of Ecstasy* and *Prometheus* were his representative works, and fortunately they were recorded by Stokowski for Victor (7515–8). His piano works included some quite commendable pieces, such as his *Piano Sonata No. 9* and *No. 10*, which had been released over a decade earlier by Nihon Polydor’s Masterpiece Appreciation Society in performances by Szántó, though admittedly the recordings now sounded dated. Additionally, Polydor had released Brailowsky’s recordings of the *Étude in D-flat Major* and *Prélude, Op. 11 No. 10*.

Reger (Max Reger 1873–1916) A conservative German composer whose song *Maria’s Lullaby* remains exquisite. Victor’s Collection of Hidden Pieces by Famous Performers contains an outstanding recording of Gerhard’s rendition. Though several instrumental works are included among them, none prove particularly engaging. To this day, recordings of his signature organ compositions appear to remain absent. Schoenberg (Arnold Schönberg 1874–1951) The Austrian-born composer who championed atonal music—implementing it with destructive force while forging daring new frontiers—remained active at the time of writing. His early work *Verklärte Nacht*, a string sextet, retains its singular beauty. A recording exists of Ormandy conducting the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra in this piece (Victor JD777–80).

Hahn (Reynaldo Hahn 1875–1947)

He was a French song composer. The records include pieces like *Le Bal de Béatrice d’Este*, but Ninon Vallin’s renditions of *La Dernière Valse* and *Paysages* remain superior.

Ravel

(Maurice Ravel 1875–1937) While influenced by Debussy, Ravel in turn influenced Debussy himself and established his own distinct domain in French music. Though lacking Debussy’s poetic sensibility, he was more grounded in realism, his technique both more refined and concise. His recordings are numerous.

*Ma Mère l'Oye* was a suite adopting material from Mother Goose fairy tales - a beautiful and pristine composition. Columbia's recording conducted by Pierné remained an old acoustic take yet retained its beauty (J8649–50). "Daphnis et Chloé" stood as a representative dance work; while it might have lacked joyousness, its meticulous craftsmanship achieved astonishing excellence. Suite No. 1 existed in Coppola's conducting (Victor JD443), while Suite No. 2 had Goebel's interpretation available (Columbia J7749–50).

“Spanish Rhapsody” conducted by Pierné for Columbia was an old recording but remained good without excessive noise (J8295–6). “Boléro,” among Ravel’s works—perhaps owing to its use in films—remained his most widely known and beloved composition. Yet it was an audaciously clever work, its very simplicity likely accounting for its broad acceptance. It had been recorded countless times, but the version conducted by Ravel himself on Polydor, though an old recording, held interest (E186–7). Next would come Koussevitzky’s Victor recording, one supposed?

The suite *Le Tombeau de Couperin* was both famous and a fine work. What made it intriguing was how Ravel’s fresh sensibility enlivened these antiquated dance forms. Coppola’s conducting remained preferable (Victor JH157–8). In chamber music, the *String Quartet in F Major* stood as a masterpiece, with Columbia’s Capet String Quartet recording retaining its beauty (S-1119–22). For piano concertos, the “Piano Concerto for the Left Hand” had been composed for pianist Wittgenstein—who lost his right hand in the previous European war—with Polydor preserving a recording by Blancard (E167–8). Another *Piano Concerto* existed as well—a masterful performance by Ron on Columbia (J8035–7).

In piano pieces, Cortot’s recording of the *Piano Sonatine* was an old acoustic take but beautiful (Victor JD576–7). "Morning Song of the Jester" had a recording by Gieseking (Columbia JD6011), and "Jeux d'eau" featured Cortot’s masterpiece (Victor JD577). They were old recordings but remained excellent.

In violin pieces, *Tsigane* bore Ravel’s characteristic ambitious intent. Victor had Menuhin’s and Heifetz’s versions, while Columbia had Francescatti’s—each possessed distinctive qualities. As for the opera *L'Heure espagnole*, a nearly complete version had once been available on Columbia Records, but regrettably appeared to have gone out of print. *Three Hebrew Songs* existed in a recording featuring Gree (soprano) in solo vocal performance with Ravel himself accompanying on piano (Polydor 50043). Another work—*Chansons madécasses* with Gree—proved equally intriguing through its trio accompaniment conducted by Ravel (Polydor 50044–5).

When one lists this many works, it becomes impossible to discern what truly stands out. From my own taste, Cortot’s *Sonatine* and *Jeux d’eau*—alongside the Capet Quartet’s string quartet—remain the most intimately appealing. While *Boléro* enjoys broad popularity, I cannot shake the sense that it is somewhat disparaged. How splendid it would be if a truly fine recording of *Daphnis et Chloé* existed.

Kreisler (Fritz Kreisler 1875–1962)

The most famous violinist of his time, born in Vienna and later residing in the United States. Fritz Kreisler had recently been injured in a car accident but fortunately appeared to be recovering. Though he was overwhelmingly renowned as a violinist—so much so that his compositions were often overlooked—there existed an indescribable charm in his Viennese-style violin miniatures. *Caprice Viennois*, *Liebesfreud* *Liebesleid* and *Schön Rosmarin*. “*Chinese Drum*” and others—all of these compositions were available on Victor in performances by the composer himself. Works such as his *String Quartet* had also been recorded but were not interesting.

Falla

(Manuel de Falla 1876–1946) A composer who represented modern Spain, his work was characterized by consummate technique and an intensely aromatic local color. *Nights in the Gardens of Spain* stands as a profoundly evocative composition. The recording features Navarro on piano with Arbós conducting the Spanish Orchestra (Columbia J7771–3).

The *Harpsichord Concerto* likely stood as Falla’s most beautiful recorded work. Having the composer himself perform on harpsichord alongside Moyse’s flute made for an extraordinary treat (Columbia J7844–5). The ballet *El amor brujo* had been recorded by the Seville Bética Orchestra under Arbós’s direction. Velásquez’s mezzo-soprano solos remained excellent (Columbia J5179–82), while Spervia’s Columbia recording of “Song of Love’s Sorrow” and “Song of the Fox Fire” from this piece proved an exceptional acquisition (J5490).

Rubinstein excelled at his piano arrangement of *Dance of the Fire Festival* and *Dance of Terror*, which he performed in Japan and which was recorded (Victor JE200). "Seven Spanish Folk Songs" stands as Falla's representative vocal work, containing within it the famous "Jota." The Columbia recording of Spervia's rendition remains a masterpiece (J5384–6).

Dohnányi

(Ernest von Dohnányi 1877–1960) A modern Hungarian pianist and composer, he also left behind recordings of his piano performances. His compositions extended to symphonies, chamber music, and even operas—moderate in style yet rich in local color. Recordings included Stock conducting his *Suite for Orchestra* and Horowitz performing the piano piece *Capriccio in F Minor*.

Schreker

(Franz Schreker 1878–1934)

An Austrian composer. There existed a recording of his ballet suite *The Princess’s Birthday* conducted by himself (Polydor 45081–3).

Respighi

(Ottorino Respighi 1879–1936)

He was Italy’s most outstanding modern composer—a master craftsman who frequently created descriptive works.

The symphonic poem *Pines of Rome* had a new recording by Coppola on Victor (JD1098–9). *Fountains of Rome* conducted by Molajoli was available on Columbia (J7554–5). Of the trilogy, there existed no recording of *Roman Festivals*, while *The Birds* conducted by Dufourneaud could be found on Columbia (JW159–60).

Scott (Cyril Scott 1879–1970) The most outstanding among modern British composers. There existed a recording of *Lotus Land* played by Scott himself on piano for H.M.V., but it was not available in Japan. A recording of Kreisler playing it on violin existed on Victor (JD1588).

Pizzetti (Ildebrando Pizzetti 1880–1968) The most notable composer in modern Italy. The "Violin Sonata in A Major," said to depict experiences from World War I, stands as a work worthy of special mention. Its psychological portrayal of warfare was skillfully executed. Victor holds a recording by the Menuhin siblings (JD1622–5). It remained rather surprising that such a composer emerged from Italy.

Bartók (Béla Bartók 1881–1945) A Hungarian composer, characterized by innovative approaches to rhythm and robust regional color.

The piano record of Bartók himself playing *Allegro Barbaro* and *Bagatelle No. 2* remains fascinating (Victor AM2622). Additionally, several years ago Nippon Polydor distributed the Amar Hindemith Quartet’s performance of *String Quartet No. 2* through their Masterpiece Appreciation Society (Polydor 45157–60).

Rakhmaninov (Sergey Rakhmaninov 1873–1943) Belonging to the Moscow School lineage as opposed to the Russian Nationalist School, the influence of Tchaikovsky from his youth persisted in altered form in the modern-era Rakhmaninov. As a pianist, he was first-rate, and his works included many excellent pieces. *Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor* was recorded with Rakhmaninov himself on piano under Stokowski’s direction (Victor 8148–52). A piece that utterly dazzled with its riotous splendor. There was also a recording of the *Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor* with Horowitz on piano and the London Symphony Orchestra, but it went out of print.

The *Rhapsody for Piano and Orchestra* had also been recorded with Rakhmaninov on piano under Stokowski’s direction (Victor JD706–8). While he composed many preludes for piano, the "Prelude in C-sharp Minor (Op. 3 No. 2)" stood as his most famous work. This profoundly sorrowful miniature was recorded by the composer himself (Victor 1326).

In orchestral works, *Isle of the Dead* was included. Based on Böcklin’s painting, it was an exceedingly intricate piece but felt somewhat gloomy. The recording featuring Rakhmaninov himself with the Philadelphia Orchestra had been released but later went out of print.

Stravinsky (Igor Stravinsky 1882–1971)

He was likely the composer who generated the most discussion among those still living. Born in Russia and influenced by Rimsky-Korsakov, he wrote fresh and captivating dance pieces for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, which was then rising to prominence, instantly capturing the world’s attention. His free techniques and bold intentions drew both praise and criticism, but he subsequently released a succession of profound large-scale works that silenced his critics through their unique charm. The recent trend of returning to classical styles particularly intrigued observers.

The ballet suite *Petrushka* was likely the most intriguing among his early works. It transformed a fictional incident from a puppet show performed at Moscow’s Shrovetide Fair into a ballet, and its blend of refreshing vitality and faint melancholy remained unparalleled. There were recordings conducted by Stravinsky himself, but the most vivid was Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra (Victor JD1649–52). The ballet suite *The Firebird* was Stravinsky’s breakthrough work and a fairy-tale ballet. There were not many good recordings available. The composer-conducted version was available on Columbia, and Stokowski’s conducted version was on Victor.

Additionally included were numerous dance pieces: *The Rite of Spring* conducted by Stokowski; *The Soldier’s Tale* conducted by the composer; *The Wedding* for chorus and piano; *Apollo Musagète* by the Boyd Neel String Orchestra; and *Jeu de Cartes* conducted by the composer—to name a few. It was fascinating to observe Stravinsky gradually growing and changing, losing his initial beauty while simultaneously becoming more intricate and dark. The *Symphony of Psalms* was a new religious work that drew its text from the Psalms; its distinctive feature lay in this earthy, unresolved darkness. The composer conducted the Concert Straram Orchestra and Vlassov Choir (Columbia J7904–6).

A recent interesting record features the composer conducting the Concerts Lamoureux Orchestra with Dushkin on violin in the *Violin Concerto in D Major* (Polydor Appreciation Society). The *Rhapsody*, performed by the composer on piano with Ansermet conducting, proves intriguing not only for allowing us to hear Stravinsky’s pianism but also for its implied return to classical styles. Additionally listed are works like the *Octet for Wind Instruments* and orchestral piece *Fireworks*.

For those seeking a single representative work by Stravinsky, *Petrushka* would be the best choice. For those who desire his later works, I would recommend the *Symphony of Psalms*. The newest *Jeu de Cartes* would also prove quite interesting.

Grainger

(Percy Grainger 1882–1961) A composer born in Australia, he resided in America. He studied under Busoni and was also known as a pianist. He researched English folk songs and composed excellent folk-style works. Works such as *Molly on the Shore* stand among his finest examples. His own recordings were released on Columbia but are no longer available. Among existing records, Kreisler’s violin performance of *Londonderry Air* remains excellent (Victor JD294). There is also an orchestral version conducted by Ormandy. Other recordings like *Pastorale* and *Shepherd’s Song* under Ormandy’s baton exist but are not particularly noteworthy.

Szymanowski (Karol Szymanowski 1881–1937) A Polish modernist composer who created novel and intriguing violin works. Beyond recordings of *The Fountain of Arethusa* performed by Thibaud (Victor JD305) and Szigeti (Columbia JW179), no complete versions exist on record.

Gruenberg

(Louis Gruenberg 1884–1964) The composer of the opera *Emperor Jones*—this alone made him famous. Tippett (baritone)’s rendition of *A Prayer Is Needed* is tremendous (Victor JD1628).

Ibert (Jacques Ibert 1890–1962)

A modern French composer known in Japan for his 2600th Anniversary Celebration Music and the score for the film *Don Quixote*. The record of Chaliapin singing *Don Quixote* stands as the most compelling (Victor JF22–3). There is also *Port of Call* conducted by Straram (Columbia 7822–3), though it does not prove particularly engaging.

Prokofiev (Sergey Prokofiev 1891–1953)

He was one of the most intriguing among modern composers. Born in Russia, he once visited Japan as well. As a composer, he was quite innovative and somewhat symbolic, but his powerful compositional approach was commendable. He was a man of refined taste who suggested intellectual depth, and his works included many excellent pieces. *The Love for Three Oranges* is regarded as a representative masterpiece among his early operas, though only a portion conducted by Koussevitzky exists (Victor Appreciation Society).

The ballet suite *The Steel Step* was the most substantial piece. It was said to be dynamic, passionate, and rich in implications of modern life. The recording of Coates conducting the London Symphony Orchestra remained excellent (Victor JD64–5). The suite *Lieutenant Kijé*, being a recent work, proved ingenious but lacked *The Steel Step*'s powerful charm. There existed one conducted by Koussevitzky (Victor JD1505–7). The *Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Major* stood as a powerfully excellent piece. That which featured Prokofiev himself at the piano with Coates conducting the orchestra also maintained excellence (Victor JD83–5).

The Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major had a recording by Szigeti. It was an interesting piece (Columbia J8607–9). I believe Szigeti performed this when he came to Japan. The Violin Concerto No. 2 in G Minor had a recording with Heifetz on violin conducted by Koussevitzky. It was almost too polished (Victor). The Prokofiev Piano Collection—performed by the composer himself—was a deeply interesting work that brought together as many as ten pieces of diverse character (Victor).

For those preparing one or two Prokofiev records, *The Steel Step* and the *Piano Concerto* would likely be appropriate choices. There are no good recordings of *The Love for Three Oranges*.

Milhaud (Darius Milhaud 1892–1974) A member of Les Six in French music, significant alongside Honegger, he had a considerable number of his innovative works recorded. The String Quartet No. 7 in B-flat Minor was fresh, sensual, and interesting. There existed one by the Galimir Quartet (Polydor).

Another recording of Milhaud’s Second String Quartet performed by the Krettly Quartet was available on British Columbia Records. A recording existed of Mae (soprano) and Luchetti (tenor) singing the duet and tango from his ballet suite Salade on Victor. Other notable works included Ron’s Piano Concerto. Performances such as Astruc’s rendition of Spring Concertino on violin exemplified his stylistic range.

The Black dance piece *The Creation of the World* was a highly unusual work—an artistic composition that depicted Black life through jazz techniques. The version conducted by Milhaud himself was available on Columbia (J8127–8).

Honegger (Arthur Honegger 1892–1955) He was the leader of Les Six. He possessed a concise and powerful expression and the courage to sacrifice anything for it. Pacific 231 was Honegger's representative work that musically depicted the powerful structure and movement of a locomotive. There is a recording he conducted himself (Columbia J8229). Rugby followed the same vein but felt somewhat derivative. This one was conducted by Coppola (Victor W-1015).

The "Piano Concerto" was appreciated for being condensed into a single record. It featured Norton on piano with Ormandy conducting (Victor JD689). Of Honegger’s masterpiece *King David*, two discs were released by Nippon Columbia but were tragically discontinued. There was another disc that was not pressed in Japan; its chorus and orchestra were exceedingly beautiful and excellent—which was truly a shame. We awaited its reissue. What was most accessible to us was the *String Quartet* on British Columbia (four 10-inch records), performed by the Krettly Quartet.

Hindemith (Paul Hindemith 1895–1963) A leading figure of New Objectivity, he represented Germany's newest musical trends. His technique remained classical, imparting greater solidity compared to his French modernist contemporaries. The opera *Mathis der Maler* stood as his masterpiece. Hindemith himself conducted the Berlin Philharmonic in its definitive recording (Telefunken 13601–3). Feuermann's interpretation of the *Cello Sonata* appeared in Columbia's World Masterpieces Collection, while the *String Trio No. 2* featured the composer on viola alongside Goldberg's violin and Feuermann's cello (Columbia J8501–3).

Weinberger (Jaromir Weinberger 1896–1967) A Czech composer who was forging a new path—it remained intriguing how much jazz he could assimilate into classical-style music. Two versions of "Polka and Fugue" from *Schwanda the Bagpiper* were available on Victor. One was conducted by Ormandy (JI29), another by Blech (JA705). I recall there had been another on Columbia, but I could not find it in the catalog.

Tansman (Alexandre Tansman 1897–　　)

He was of particular interest as he had visited Japan. Born in Poland, his robust and fresh chamber music remained distinctive. *Three Pictures for Strings* was performed by the Curtis Chamber Orchestra under Bailey’s direction (Victor JH71–2). Additionally, there existed a self-recorded *Mazurka Collection* (Victor JA54).

Gershwin (George Gershwin 1898–1937) He was the most quintessentially American composer, astonishing the world with his jazz concertos and operas. Yet there was something enduring and suggestive in his work. His early death was a profound loss. "Rhapsody in Blue" became his breakthrough piece. While the most famous recording features Gershwin himself on piano with Paul Whiteman conducting his orchestra (Victor JB223), a superb recent version by the Boston Pops Orchestra now exists (Victor JH30–1). Few today likely realize this work had been pressed on Victor’s green label records prior to the era of electric recording.

The opera *Porgy and Bess* was likely Gershwin's masterpiece. Its music felt remarkably fresh yet savage, carrying a deep-rooted vitality. The recording with Smolens conducting and Tippett in the lead role remained commendable (Victor JH45–8). Gershwin's own performance of his "Piano Concerto" had once been available on Columbia, though it appeared to have fallen out of print.

Poulenc (Francis Poulenc 1899–1963) A member of Les Six, he crafted simple yet beautiful compositions. "Moto Perpetuo" features the composer himself on piano (Columbia J5228), while Horowitz’s performances of "Pastoral Poem" and "Toccata" stand out as excellent (Victor JD690). The *Piano Trio* gains additional interest with Poulenc himself performing the piano part (Columbia J8190–1). *Aubade*, a dance concerto for piano and eighteen instruments, was recorded with Poulenc at the piano under Straram’s direction (Columbia J5191–3). Kuroaza’s rendition of the song cycle *Animal Tales* offers particular stylistic flair (Columbia J8107).

Ferroud (Pierre Octave Ferroud 1900–1936)

A radical French composer, he died young in a car accident. The performance of the *Cello Sonata in A Major* by Maréchal is included on Columbia (J8433–4).

Mosolov (Alexandr Mosolov 1900–1973)

A Soviet-born composer active in America. He remained ideological, attempting to directly transpose reportage art theory into practice. The Iron Foundry stood as his representative work. Two recordings existed: one conducted by Erich (Columbia J5500) and another by Fiedler (Victor JK55).

Shostakovich

(Dmitry Shostakovich 1906–1975) He was regarded as the Soviet Union's greatest composer. Recordings existed of Symphony No.1 in F Minor and Symphony No.5 conducted by Stokowski. From the ballet *The Golden Age*, there was also a recording of "Polka and Russian Dance" conducted by Erich with the Paris Symphony Orchestra (Columbia J5427). Among contemporary composers, he stood as one of the most outstanding.

Weill (Kurt Weill 1900–1950) A cutting-edge German composer who incorporated jazz techniques to create music with a distinctive, stimulating flavor. What made it fascinating was being both artistic and enjoyable. "The Threepenny Opera" became his representative work. The film adaptation remains familiar to Japanese audiences, with songs like "Dagger Mickey’s Theme" retaining their stylish appeal. Klemperer’s conducted version was included on Polydor (30082–3).

Supplement

Foster (Stephen Collins Foster 1826–1864) It went without saying that songs such as "Old Folks at Home," "My Old Kentucky Home," and "Old Black Joe" were beloved not only in America but in countries around the world. These beloved songs of Foster had been abundantly recorded, but among comprehensive collections, the Victor label included the *Foster Famous Songs Collection* and *Foster Folk Songs Collection*. In the America to come, there would likely emerge many composers who rivaled or even surpassed Saint-Saëns and Elgar, but folk musicians like Foster—those firmly rooted in the motherland—would not be born so readily. Alongside Johann Strauss of Vienna, he was truly to be regarded as a rare national genius.

Lekeu

(Guillaume Lekeu 1870–1894)

Guillaume Lekeu, a singular luminary born in Belgium, stood as one of the geniuses who left an indelible mark on music history despite dying at the mere age of twenty-four. As Franck’s youngest disciple who later studied under d’Indy, his few surviving works—the *Violin Sonata* (performed by Cocq and Raneqel—Polydor) and the *Unfinished Piano Quartet* (performed by Raneqel, Cocq et al.—Polydor)—were recorded; these remain truly endearing compositions.

Carpenter

(John Alden Carpenter 1876–1951) He was the most orthodox and lyrical composer among America’s contemporary composers. The record *Nyūbasha Kitan* is included on Victor—exquisitely charming and beloved for its touch of humor. In addition, *Skyscraper* stands as a lavish Elgar-style piece. The former was conducted by Ormandy, the latter by Silklett.