Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

In accordance with my own approach, I wrote biographies of the great musicians I had long revered. These were, above all, accounts of great composers as seen through the lens of my life—works in which I set down without reservation my abiding reverence, affection, astonishment, and at times even modest criticism, exactly as I felt them. I never wrote for the sake of scholarly verification. Nor did I intend to write mere enumerations of facts. I wrote of my sentiments toward the great musicians in a manner akin to prose poetry, interweaving even a measure of intoxication and exaltation. That was the modest passion of a sixty-year-old youth—and perhaps an expression of the youthfulness that the Japanese hold toward science and art.

Biographies of great musicians are by no means few in number; yet enlightening biographies that can appeal to anyone—even those with no interest, taste, or knowledge of music—and kindle fascination with their works are exceedingly rare. That was my aim. Furthermore, another aspiration was that through biographies of composers I had long been interested in, I wished to expound my modest life philosophy and artistic theories for the sake of general youth.

The primary aim of this account was to be deeply moving when read and to be engaging. If that aim were achieved, dear readers would proceed to the next stage—reading detailed biographies of each great musician and thereby deepening their understanding of their art.

Art is ultimately the creator themselves. Without individuality, art cannot exist; without knowing the creator themselves, grasping the essence of their work is exceedingly difficult. This is precisely why I wrote this book for young people. Of the essays in this volume, twelve had been originally published in Fujin Koron (Women's Review), while the other five were newly added. The extensive descriptions concerning works and records, along with dozens of pages of supplementary biographies all written in flowing prose, necessitated that I devote over fifty days of a single summer to their completion. I limited the records to an extremely small selection of outstanding recordings of representative works and strived to avoid encyclopedic inclusiveness. The reason was that I feared writing about every record would only increase readers' difficulty in choosing, resulting in the same outcome as not writing at all. When considering the difficulties in importing master discs and materials, I believe today’s standards for selecting records will remain largely unchanged for the next five, ten, or even over ten years. Never before have I written about record selection with such a peaceful state of mind.

September 30, 1941

*Araebisu-ki*

The Combative Handel “If you were to ask me, ‘Who is your favorite composer?’ I would answer without hesitation: ‘Handel and then Schubert.’” “If someone were to ask me, ‘What is your most important record?’ it would surely not be a mistake to name Handel’s complete eighteen-disc *Messiah*.” Indeed, when I recently moved from Seijo to Takaido, though I sent off my collection of over ten thousand records loaded onto a truck without any concern, I went so far as to pack Sir Beecham’s eighteen-disc recording of *Messiah* into two boxes and carry them in my arms from my old residence to the new one.

Regarding this record, I held profoundly personal memories and a feeling irreplaceable by anything else; yet even so, had there not been something in Handel’s humanity and Handel’s music that stirred my interest and affection, I likely would not have felt such profound attachment to the *Messiah* recording. Handel stands as a titan among classical composers. If Bach is the "father of Western music," then Handel must be its "mother." These two were coincidentally born in the same year, and the fact that Bach’s music was intellectual and contrapuntal while Handel’s was emotional and melodic formed a truly fascinating contrast. Bach remains supremely noble. But had there been no Handel, how desolate would our musical world be. I ceased debating and, for a time, sought to observe the humanity of the passionate Handel through his biography.

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 manifested in early childhood like those of many geniuses, but his father disapproved of his beloved child choosing music as a profession and strictly forbade any engagement with music or handling of instruments. The tale of young Handel—bereft of music—stealing away nightly to an attic storeroom where he practiced on a hidden clavichord by moonlight remains unforgettable to many, a narrative fit for Western masterpieces through its moonlight-guided study sessions.

There is also a story that at the age of seven, he played the organ before the Duke of Weissenfels, so impressing the duke that he himself compelled Handel’s father to consent to his son’s musical training. After losing his father at eleven, he could not bring himself to abandon his father’s wish for legal studies, once enrolling in Halle University’s law department—but at seventeen, he finally abandoned law to assume a position as church organist. Then resolving to pursue formal musical training, he found himself in Hamburg, the city of German opera, in the spring of his eighteenth year. With his calm oblong face, large earnest eyes, straight nose, broad forehead, thick yet resolute lips, and solidly proportioned cheeks and jaw beneath a square cap, contemporaries described his bearing as "rich in vigor and iron-willed."

In Hamburg, Kaiser, Mattheson, Buxtehude, and others dominated the music scene—all of whom were older than Handel and served as ideal mentors and seniors for the young composer. However, as Handel’s talent and genius gradually surpassed those three seniors, it became inevitable that he could no longer endure being treated like a ward indefinitely. The first to clash with Handel was Mattheson. A trivial misunderstanding escalated until they found themselves dueling in Hamburg’s marketplace. Mattheson’s sword nearly pierced Handel’s chest but caught on a large metal button and snapped, sparing Handel’s life by a hair’s breadth—whereupon they instantly forgot themselves and embraced. Both the roots of conflict and hatred vanished like spring frost beyond death’s threshold.

Next, it was Kaiser—the central figure of Hamburg’s opera—who created a great rift between himself and Handel. Kaiser’s decline and jealousy reduced even Hamburg’s opera to utter chaos. In 1706, the twenty-one-year-old Händel, disillusioned with Hamburg, departed for Italy—the land of music that smiles toward the sun.

An Unpleasant Position

From Florence to Rome, from Rome to Venice—young Handel’s musical journey continued for a time. “Handel was by no means infatuated with Italian music,” stated Romain Rolland. In the German Handel resided both that never-say-die spirit and fiery temperament common among his countrymen. Yet what he gleaned from Italy’s musical world proved far from insignificant. That his operas’ grandeur contained much of Italy goes without saying; yet those late-career oratorio masterpieces—adorned with Italianate chromatic brilliance and overflowing with sumptuous melodies—could only have sprung from Handel’s Italian apprenticeship.

Nevertheless, it remains true that during the early years of his Italian travels, Handel achieved greater renown as a performer than as a composer. He became acquainted with the Scarlatti father and son—considered Italy’s pride—competed against Domenico Scarlatti in an organ performance and emerged victorious; an anecdote that the two shared a bond as inseparable as fish and water also conveys tidings from this period. After visiting Naples and returning to Rome, Handel plunged Italians into delight and frenzy with his opera *Agrippina*. The audience shouted, “Long live the dear Saxon!” At that time, Bishop Stephan of Hanover—who was staying in Italy—offered Handel the position of Kapellmeister at the Hanover court, and Handel immediately accepted.

After a brief stay in Hanover, Handel set out for England, which had long been the object of his yearning. He was twenty-five years old that autumn. After Purcell’s death, the British music scene lay utterly suffocated; the capital London possessed not a single composer of its own, leaving everything to the ravages of Italian music and Italian musicians. After being granted an audience with Queen Anne—who was not only fond of music but also frequently played the harpsichord herself—Handel demonstrated superhuman genius by composing and staging the opera *Rinaldo* in a mere fourteen days.

The success was unprecedented. Handel’s victory—wielding Italian opera as his weapon—proved both dazzling and magnificent. This triumph became the catalyst for his resolve to settle permanently in England; having petitioned for release from the House of Hanover’s service, he took residence in Britain under an arrangement permitting occasional returns to his post. Handel’s rise in Britain stood without parallel. Though a foreigner elevated to royal court composer, even amid Her Majesty Queen Anne’s exceptional favor, he could not escape an undercurrent of unease toward the Hanoverian crown.

That unpleasant position, due to Queen Anne’s death, finally led to a catastrophe beyond legal remedy. The one who ascended to the British throne in place of Queen Anne was Georg of the House of Hanover, later known as George I. Handel, who had previously defied the goodwill of the House of Hanover, was inevitably kept at a distance from the court.

Suite "Water Music"

Shortly after George I's accession, a boating excursion was held on the Thames River to celebrate the grand occasion. The royal barge, perfected in every beauty and refinement, floated midstream; amidst nobles and ladies milling like clouds, George I raised his jeweled cup, gazed upon the scenery in all directions, and glided down the Thames with the current.

At this moment, from a boat that had been prepared near the royal barge, the sound of music resounded loudly and clearly. The large orchestra played by dozens of musicians resounded across the water and into the azure sky, creating a magnificence and grandeur that evoked an ineffable poetic sentiment. George I, deeply moved, called Baron Kielmansegg, who was in attendance nearby, and inquired, “Who composed that, and who is conducting it?” Baron Kielmansegg stepped forward and timidly said, “It is Handel, Your Majesty.” “He is humbly celebrating today’s grand occasion by conducting that music,” replied the Baron.

That George I immediately forgave Handel’s transgression, granted him an audience, and favored him more than even Queen Anne had done has been recorded as one of history’s admirable tales. Some have attributed these circumstances to George I’s passion for music and magnanimity of spirit, recounting: “The king could not punish Handel without first punishing himself.”

Handel’s position in England gradually underwent change. When the blood in Handel’s veins—once coursing through days of guest-like tranquility under royal patronage—blazed at thirty-five years old in 1720 at the height of his vigor, he emerged from his ivory tower to fight alongside the masses, discovering therein his artistic genius and life’s purpose. He plunged unarmed into the midst of the masses. He perceived that his art must belong to all people. He was a composer and conductor, as well as a stage director and capitalist. One can easily imagine how terrifying these new circumstances must have been for Handel, the foreigner.

He went bankrupt twice and was nearly killed three times. He collapsed twice from life-threatening illnesses and had to wage a battle lasting over twenty years against journalists, hack writers, music critics, and noblewomen. Until he reached his true vocation—the art of oratorio, imbued with immortal vitality—Handel’s struggle was literally a life-and-death frenzy.

The first enemy brought into sharp focus against Handel was the Italian Bononcini. He was more precocious than Handel, more of a popular composer than Handel, and more skillful than Handel. "The British—who adored contests of bears, pheasants, or master virtuosos"—staked the full measure of their curiosity on this desperate game. Handel, who had boldly risen to that challenge and emerged victorious, found himself sorely tested by the fierce infighting among opera stars that awaited him next. The competitors were Faustina and Cuzzoni. The two actresses continued to clash like wild beasts, and on the stage during the Princess of Wales’s attendance, they began a blood-soaked grapple. The two beasts could not be separated except by tiring them out. As conductor, Handel had the timpani played vigorously to swiftly end the dispute.

At one point, the actress Cuzzoni absolutely refused to sing the aria Handel had written. Handel suddenly seized the star by the waist and attempted to hurl her out the window into the street below. “You she-devil.” “You may understand that well enough, but I’ll show you that I’m the King of Devils!” With those words, Handel allowed a sarcastic smile to play across his powerful cheeks.

Next, Hasse and Porpora turned against Handel. Hardships continued to come one after another. The most critical issues that plagued Handel were financial ruin, followed by a grave illness that confined his massive frame to a sickbed. Yet even during this period, Handel created the masterpiece *Alcina* and wrote *Alexander's Feast* in a mere ten days.

In the spring of 1737, Handel, at fifty-two years old, was finally struck by a stroke. His right side became paralyzed, and even his head was affected—but the calamity did not end there. At the same time, his theater went bankrupt. While cast into the depths of despair and sent to a spa town, Handel—what a miracle—recovered by late autumn and reappeared on the battlefield once more.

However, calamity had not abandoned Handel for good thereafter. Creditors pursued him daily, and prison doors loomed over the giant’s shoulders more than once.

"The Profound Emotion 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 sluggish for his pace, requiring a form of shorthand. "It has even been said he composed as naturally as breathing." This astonishing genius's torrential output culminated in fifty-one operas. This was indeed labor surpassing mortal capacity. Yet at fifty-three, Handel confronted an inevitable reckoning with Italian opera's preposterous decline. The depths of operatic decadence could be grasped through its circus-like metamorphosis alone—horses, birds, even lions paraded across stages.

That Handel, at fifty-three years old, poured his ever-intensifying passion into writing the oratorio *Saul* may indeed be called a “discovery of a new path” born of divine revelation. The oratorio—traditionally confined to temples, where biblical episodes were been set to music and performed modestly without scenery or costumes in stiflingly solemn fashion—was now brought by Handel into theaters despite societal and ecclesiastical opposition. By employing backdrops and costumes while infusing Italian opera’s lyrical beauty with German music’s robust craftsmanship, he forged his oratorios into monumental spectacles. It goes without saying how profoundly these works astonished audiences. Though it is true that the value of Handel’s oratorios was not readily accepted in his time, Time came to his aid, and the crown of final victory at last adorned his head.

At fifty-five years old, Handel next composed the instrumental masterpiece *Grand Concertos*. He wrote twelve concertos. These are works etched with his character and humanitarian spirit. But society was by no means generous to Handel. The opposition’s rampage grew increasingly vicious—some hired street urchins to tear down his concert posters, while attending other Italian operas on his performance days became a fashionable trend among high society. Noblewomen even went so far as to hold parties and engage in merrymaking on the days of Handel’s concerts. Handel gazed at the empty hall and had to retort bitterly, “This way, my music actually sounds more splendid.”

Handel faced ruin several times and finally lost all patience with England. Having resolved to leave the country where he had lived for thirty years, he held his final concert in the spring of 1741. This occurred when the Governor of Ireland, lamenting Handel's impending permanent departure, invited him to Dublin and had him conduct concerts there for a time. Handel finally composed his supreme masterpiece—the oratorio *Messiah*—setting the biblical texts compiled by his friend Jennens to music.

While I lack the space here to detail what *Messiah* truly is, there can be no doubt that this work stands as both the finest commentary on the Bible and the greatest religious music humanity has ever produced. The hearts of the audience were washed with tears of emotion. The fervor was like a storm.

When the performance ended and he stepped out into the hallway，a nobleman tapped Handel’s shoulder and said， “It was most entertaining．” Handel’s face flushed with indignation．“That is most regrettable． “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—” One should recognize the vastness of spirit behind those words．

Night gave way to day.

The success of *Messiah* was overwhelming. Few pieces of music can vividly convey the overwhelming emotion felt at their premiere even two centuries later, but when it comes to the profound impact evoked by Handel’s *Messiah*, its fervor only intensifies exponentially with each passing year. Handel completed this monumental work in a mere twenty-four days. But that was not all. Handel prohibited the publication of this work and donated all profits generated from its performances to charity. It is said that from 1750 over a span of ten years, *Messiah* generated the considerable sum of six thousand five hundred and ninety-five pounds for the almshouse. Handel—who remained unmarried his entire life, a man of fiery passion, a cynic, a glutton, and prone to fits of rage, yet who wrote sorrowful arias with tears streaming down his face—even in the immediate aftermath of bankruptcy, never turned his back on charity.

Handel’s character possessed the most compelling blend of human frailty and strength. When he flew into a rage, every member of the orchestra trembled. He would even berate court ladies without hesitation. Yet on another side, he was a witty conversationalist—combative and passionate—and when a boy brought morning coffee, one might even find him composing by an all-night lamp’s light, tears streaming down his face.

*Messiah* required several more years before achieving success in London. It was when he turned sixty that he fell into a state of collapse due to his second bankruptcy and enemies' counterattacks, requiring eight months of convalescence. Had it not been for the national crisis of Charles Edward’s Rebellion coincidentally rescuing Handel by compelling him to compose two patriotic oratorios and elevating him to the pinnacle of popularity, he might truly have perished at this time.

After a long, long struggle spanning thirty-five years, Handel had finally triumphed. It was only natural that his subsequent works radiated with brilliance and triumph. Works such as *Solomon* and *Music for the Royal Fireworks* stood as testaments to this.

But even the giant Handel’s final hour had come: in 1751, while composing *Jephtha*, his eyes gradually lost their sight, and by the time he barely managed to complete it, he had become completely blind. “As night gives way to day, so sorrow gives way to my joy”—thus Handel wrote in the score and laid down his pen.

It was the spring of Handel’s sixty-sixth year.

The world plunged into darkness. The time had come for Handel’s immense creative power to end as well. In 1759, he left in his will "1,000 pounds for the relief of impoverished musicians" and quietly awaited his great death. His remains were interred in Westminster as he had wished, and his name—that of a foreigner—was engraved there for England’s honor.

As Beethoven said, "There was truth here."

There has never been a composer as masculine as he was, nor one as passionate. Humanitarian love and faith have been calling out to humanity worldwide through his works until today, two hundred years later.

Handel’s Works and Their Records

Handel’s records are by no means numerous. This is probably because the operas to which he devoted himself until past fifty are rarely performed today, while the oratorios into which he poured his energies in his later years—each being exceedingly lengthy—face practical constraints that likely prevent them from being recorded across multiple records.

*Messiah*

Amidst this, what a joy it was that one could listen to a record containing nearly the complete work of his supreme masterpiece, *Messiah*! I had written repeatedly about this record: the orchestra and choir were from Britain’s BBC, conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham, with soprano Lavette and baritone Williams particularly excelling among the soloists (Columbia Masterworks 216, J8450–67). There were no shortage of records containing select choruses and arias from *Messiah*, but even considering the merits of these excerpts, none could match this complete recording. This was truly an excellently produced record. For instance, even when considering the *Hallelujah Chorus*—which could be called the climax of this piece—only Bruno Kittel’s rendition could barely follow suit, while the rest hardly warranted consideration. The pristine beauty of the soprano aria *I Know That My Redeemer Liveth* following *Hallelujah*, and the solemn grandeur of *The Trumpet Shall Sound—* delivered by a baritone solo on the final A-side—both composition and performance struck me as impeccable masterpieces. While eighteen records with thirty-six sides were too extensive for general collection, I believed one should at least create opportunities to listen to them when the occasion arose.

Instrumental Music

Among Handel’s instrumental works, the foremost that must be listed is Polydor’s recording of *Concerto Grosso, Op. 6* (85006–18) by the Boyd Neel String Orchestra. The term *gassō kyōsōkyoku* (“ensemble concerto”) is a translation of *Concerto Grosso*. This record contains six of the twelve masterful *Concerti Grossi* from Handel’s mature period, performed by the Boyd Neel String Orchestra. While Boyd Neel was not a group that enjoyed widespread public acclaim, it was an exceedingly artistic ensemble, and there is no doubt that this performance—though somewhat somber—is executed with utmost conscientiousness. While there were various other recordings of *Concerti Grossi*, each had its merits and demerits; ultimately, Boyd Neel’s cohesive rendition remained the finest.

Next, I would like to mention Madame Landowska’s recording of the *Harpsichord Suites* (Victor JD-945–50). It is a peacefully delightful piece. For those who cherish the untainted beauty of the classics, this would be the finest record for leisurely enjoyment. Next, the famous suite *Water Music*—composed when Handel reconciled with George I after falling from favor—includes just over a dozen of its original twenty-plus movements. Columbia has Sir Hamilton Harty’s own arrangement of *Water Music* (J8247–8), while Victor offers Stokowski’s conducted version (JI166–7), though the former is superior in performance. There is also Sir Hamilton Harty’s conducted recording of *Music for the Royal Fireworks* (Columbia J8504–5), another of Handel’s late works, but *Water Music* possesses a youthful charm and proves far more engaging.

Among other orchestral works，Mengelberg’s conducted recording of *Alcina Suite*（Victor JE187–8）stood as one of the celebrated records． The recording was far from recent，but it remains a record that still comes up in conversation．

Single and double-disc items Among single and double-disc items, Landowska’s harpsichord rendition of *The Harmonious Blacksmith* (Victor JE190) proves particularly engaging. A version of the same piece exists played by Cortot on piano (Victor JD-1674). Carl Flesch’s violin performance of the bold yet cheerful *March* will forever maintain its reputation as a masterpiece among celebrated recordings (Victor EW-67). The same Flesch’s violin rendition of *Sonata No.5 in A Major* appears in Polydor’s Kanshōkai Record Third Collection. Though poorly recorded, it remains one of significant importance. Not strictly a single-disc item yet noteworthy, Szigeti’s recording of *Violin Sonata No.4 in D Major* (Columbia J5566–7) presents a somewhat labored but beautiful performance exuding high artistic fragrance. The same work performed by Enescu can also be found on Columbia. Among newer releases, Menuhin’s interpretation of *Sonata No.6* (Victor VD-8101) merits mention.

In organ works, Victor Enthusiasts’ Society Fourth Collection included *Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major* played by Dupré. This could truly be called a masterpiece. Handel’s organ works existed on both Victor and Polydor, but their recordings were either outdated or lackluster in performance—none particularly worth highlighting. For piano works, one should recommend Fischer’s *Suites* included in the same Enthusiasts’ Society’s First Collection. A composition of noble character, its graceful performance captivated listeners.

Vocal Music Among vocal works, *Song of Thanksgiving* has been recorded by baritone Hüsch (Victor JD-1583) and soprano Ráschska (included in the Enthusiasts’ Society Fifth Collection under the title *Arioso*). The latter features Elman, Feuermann, and Serkin as accompanists, but the singing of the former, Hüsch, is superior. “Largo” is Handel’s signature song, but Polydor’s Schlusnus (60183) or Victor’s Jiri (JD-171) would be preferable.

Bach, the Father of Music

When speaking of Johann Sebastian Bach, the Father of Music, neither I nor the children in my household could remain without straightening our posture. In my study, where I had never placed even a single portrait of any eminent figure, only the small likeness of Bach sent by a young French friend long adorned my desk—a presence that evoked both an intimacy blending seamlessly into my surroundings and a reverence compelling me to kneel in worship before it.

It was not merely a single portrait. My musical preferences, too, always began with Bach and circled back to Bach. The records I kept at hand might at times be Schubert, at times Brahms, and at times Handel; yet it was Bach’s intellectual music—with its somewhat challenging exterior—that, through its eternal inspiration, soothed my life and cast upon me unceasing solace.

"If one were to say, 'Bach is the founder of Western music,' it might initially sound somewhat exaggerated." However, this statement was by no means my invention; it was a paraphrase of the words of Robert Schumann, the nineteenth-century tone poet and great critic. Schumann declared: “As religion owes to its founder, so music owes the greater part of itself to Bach.” Yet even this could hardly be said to have exhausted Bach's praises. Paul Morzock took it a step further: “Bach is the Old Testament of music.” “His works are the covenant fulfilled by his successors—” he said.

The renowned nineteenth-century conductor Hans von Bülow emphatically declared of Bach’s 48 preludes and fugues: “Even if all the world’s music perishes, with these forty-eight alone, we could effortlessly recreate the music we possess today.” One must understand that the appellation “Father of Music” for Bach is by no means a mere adjective.

Had there been no Bach, not only would Beethoven and Brahms never have been born, but Western music as we know it today would likely not exist. Bach’s greatness, even in terms of his "talent" alone, deserves to be ranked above all other geniuses. However, Bach’s true value lies not merely in his musical talent or his achievements as a founder of modern music. Bach was the one who served God most faithfully through music and the one who perfected his great art beyond worldly fame and gain. Few fathers were as good as Bach, and few husbands were likely as good as Bach. To the goodness, loftiness, and nobility of Bach the man—across the span of over two centuries—I cannot help but offer my heartfelt reverence.

Noble Lineage

The fact that the lineage which produced Bach stands as a "good lineage"—a famous example in eugenics—is universally recognized by those with interest and expertise in that field. Great men and geniuses are not made in a single generation; it becomes clear from examining the Bach lineage alone that they are the fruit of generations upon generations of careful nurturing, cultivation, and judicious marriages (the Bach family tree is invariably included in works on genetics, eugenics, evolution, 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. That Johann Sebastian Bach—the seventh-generation descendant of Veit—devoted his entire life to the Lutheran faith, content with humble means while maintaining devout piety, has roots of profound depth that must be acknowledged.

Johann Sebastian Bach was born on March 21, 1685, in Eisenach, Thuringia, as the child of a music-loving father, into the finest middle-class household imaginable. The devout faith of Lutheranism, the beautiful landscapes of Eisenach, and the musical education from his father and elder brother nurtured Bach’s great talent in his later years and cultivated his gentle and amiable character.

At the age of ten, having lost his father, Johann Sebastian was taken in by his older brother Christoph—an organist in Ohrdruf—and received lessons in Clavier. Young Bach’s boundless musical ambition could not be satisfied by the set curriculum alone. Upon discovering that his older brother Christoph, fourteen years his senior, had amassed a vast collection of scores in his study, young Bach—knowing full well the difficulty of obtaining permission from his strict brother—began sneaking into the study night after night. Using his small hands to pull the scores out through the lattice and relying on moonlight, he spent six months meticulously copying every composition in his brother’s collection. It was even said that Bach’s loss of sight in both eyes in his later years stemmed from this reckless misuse of his vision during his boyhood.

Brother Christoph did not permit his youngest brother’s excessive ambition. When he discovered the copied scores in great number, he took them from his youngest brother’s hands and cast into the fire the fruit of six months of labor. Yet these five years in Ohrdruf under this strict brother served as fertile soil for the budding of his compositional talent.

At the age of fifteen, young Bach had to seek employment by joining 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-affiliated school’s library—abundantly stocked with masterwork scores from Germany, the Netherlands, and Italy—proved an immeasurable blessing in satiating his insatiable thirst for knowledge. Yet what truly enthralled young Bach was the chance to engage deeply with the organ. Though twenty-five years his senior, Georg Böhm—the renowned organist at St. John’s Church—became a cherished mentor to Bach despite their age gap, while Böhm’s own teacher, the celebrated Dutch organist Jan Adam Reinken, resided thirty miles away in Hamburg. Whenever possible, young Bach embarked on long, wearisome journeys to hear Reinken perform. One such episode stands out. Having just turned fifteen, Bach impulsively rushed from Lüneburg unprepared, driven solely by his craving to hear Reinken’s organ—only to find himself immobilized midway by crippling hunger. However profoundly Reinken’s artistry inspired him, Bach had no recourse but to abandon his penniless trek to Hamburg.

Bach, tormented by fatigue and disappointment, leaned against the wall of a house on the verge of tears. The savory aroma of roasting meat drifted toward him—when he suddenly raised his head, he found it came from an inn's outer wall. Through the window lay a feast fit for kings, a crackling hearth, and lively conversation.

Something had been thrown from the window. When he saw something graze his head and fall to the ground—it was a deliciously grilled sardine with a glittering gold coin held in its mouth. Someone, taking pity on young Bach’s utterly dejected appearance, must have played such a prank. Needless to say, Bach used that gold coin to go to Hamburg and hear the long-admired Reinken.

Fervent Devotion

In the autumn of his eighteenth year, he passed the examination for organist at Sangerhausen Church with outstanding results but was not hired due to his youth. The following year he joined the chamber orchestra in Weimar, and that autumn his long apprenticeship came to an end when he was able to take up the position of organist at Arnstadt Church. Young Bach’s fervent devotion was spurred from that time onward. He devoted himself so single-mindedly to practice that it was no small matter how he perplexed the church officials. His performances often departed from tradition, took bold leaps into freedom, and astonished the elders with beautiful improvisations. In 1707 he finally left this place as well to become the organist at St. Blasius 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 him and her. And he himself played the organ for their own blessing.

Even though this new household was supremely happy, the atmosphere surrounding Bach in the outside world held elements that were far from agreeable. Not only had the religious conflicts between Puritans and Lutherans created a situation that denied Bach any peace, but his cherished opinions on reforming church music could not avoid becoming subjects of controversy.

Bach finally left for Weimar. Subsequently, Duke Wilhelm Ernst supported Bach’s church music reform plans, enabling him to establish his stronghold there and develop his genius as the creator of counterpoint forms unprecedented in history. Within him burned a light of life that none had ever recognized. His jewel-like organ masterpieces premiered on the discordant instrument of Duke Wilhelm’s unconventional chapel. His fame soon grew so renowned that it rivaled Handel’s, resonating across East and West. It was during this period that Bach, while traveling to Dresden, found himself challenged to a musical duel by the French organist Marchand. Bach naturally never retreated from his opponent, but when the critical moment arrived, the challenger Marchand yielded to cowardice and disappeared.

In 1717, the reputation of 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 numerous children.

When viewed in the grand scope of his life, Bach’s time in Cöthen cannot be said to be without the appearance of a five-year detour. The fact that the church there lacked an organ into which he could pour his very soul must have been a profound disappointment for him—for whom the organ was Bach himself. Instead, the small ensemble he led was a group composed solely of seasoned instrumentalists; for him, well-versed in French and Italian popular music, this became the sole opportunity to pour his abundant creative energy into producing beautiful suites, overtures, and other instrumental works. That Bach’s non-ecclesiastical instrumental pieces—beautiful creations—were the hallmark of his Cöthen period rendered his oeuvre multifaceted; this has been no small boon to us music lovers today—a fact certainly worthy of special mention.

There, he lost his beloved wife Barbara and remarried his second wife, Anna Magdalena Wilken. There, he wrote six concerti of the *Brandenburg Concertos*, a generational masterpiece of instrumental music. However, upon seeing the prince’s affections shift from music to women and realizing there was no opportunity to provide his children with a proper Lutheran education, Bach left Cöthen in 1723 for Leipzig, where he assumed the position of choir director at St. Thomas School.

For Bach at thirty-eight, a new world began to unfold. Of Bach’s lifetime, the twenty-seven years in Leipzig were both the most profoundly significant period and the most illustrious era. His genius reached full maturity, and his faith burned like fire. As choir director of St. Thomas School and music director of two churches, Bach was here able—for the first time—to demonstrate his true self without reserve.

Divine Art

The St. Thomas School where Bach assumed his post was a deeply prestigious institution with traditions dating back to the thirteenth century, and its students were provided with food and education in exchange for serving in the choirs of four municipal churches. Of these four, Bach was required to have his own compositions—cantatas (choral works), oratorios (sacred oratorios), passions (passion settings), and other music—performed for two of them: St. Thomas and St. Nicholas.

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 a choir director and organist during his time in Leipzig, it is no exaggeration to say that Bach devoted himself entirely for several decades to music meant to praise God. In the two churches, grand services were held on Sundays and holidays, with a cantata performed by the choir, organ, and orchestra. At times these were performed with only organ accompaniment, while at others, lengthy passion music or oratorios resounded through the sacred spaces.

Bach composed month after month and week after week, simply fulfilling his duties as a choir director to meet those demands. The cantatas he composed amounted to as many as three hundred pieces. The score of a single piece extended from dozens to hundreds of pages, with performances lasting several hours (as in the *Christmas Oratorio*, which required five Sundays to perform in its entirety). Yet Bach continued this for half his life without seeking anything in return.

He was not the sort of man to take delight in fame. He had never composed a single measure for money. Solely to praise God and fulfill his duties, he composed and cast aside a gem-like cantata each week.

The phrase "composed and discarded" carries the most fitting resonance in this context. Bach’s cantatas were neither for publication, nor for public display, nor for monetary gain. He disliked showing his scores to others, and it was even said that he was placed at a considerable disadvantage because of this. Among Bach’s works, almost none were printed and published during his lifetime. As his genius moved him, as prayers offered to God, he composed and cast aside hundreds upon hundreds of pieces.

It is only when art is created from such motives that it attains true nobility. The nobility of his music, which remains unattainable by the endeavors of later secular musicians, should be attributed not solely to his genius but indeed to this very disposition. There may be those who remain detached from fame and gain, but as for one who did not cling even to his own artistic works except to dedicate them to God—at least in the realm of music—there is 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 composed and cast aside without a second thought, she managed to copy one hundred and ninety of them while raising their thirteen children. Anyone who contemplates Bach’s greatness must offer gratitude for the behind-the-scenes support of his second wife, Anna Magdalena, who transmitted his monumental achievements even to us two centuries later.

It is precisely for this reason that we find "divinity" in Bach’s music. What a difference in mindset there is between those involved in later art and Bach, who directed his work toward God! It is only natural that art has lost its divinity, has lost its humanity, and now verges on bestiality. Our century is unable to endure the excessive amount of music made for the "devil". During this period, Bach wrote two sets of twenty-four *Preludes and Fugues* through all keys to advocate for equal temperament, which has become standard practice in modern tuning. He wrote *The Art of Fugue* for counterpoint and fugal technique. Alongside a vast number of organ pieces, he composed dozens of gem-like works for violin and cello.

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

No epithet fits Bach as aptly as "Father of Western Music." His music was intellectual and contrapuntal—not only did it lay a firm cornerstone for modern musical forms, but he was also the first to imbue music with inner profundity while grounding it in the German spirit. Though Bach’s music may initially seem forbidding in appearance, beneath its surface flows an inexhaustible current of human love.

All music lovers inevitably return to Bach at least once. There can be no objection to calling Bach the Mecca of Western music. Indeed, I have spent these past several years without letting the records of the *Brandenburg Concertos*, the *Well-Tempered Clavier*, a few of the *Cantatas*, the *Suites*, the *Sonatas*, and certain *Organ Works* leave my side. Bach is the greatest comfort and the finest master. In both sorrow and joy, I seek the reflection of my heart in Bach’s music. Separated by two centuries, Bach’s music cannot but bestow upon our hearts unceasing light, joy, and humility.

Bach’s Works and Their Records

For those who wish to hear Bach’s music through records, I intend to briefly describe how his representative works have been recorded.

Although Bach’s works were by no means popular music, their recordings numbered second only to those of Beethoven and Mozart in sheer quantity. To detail each one would have been both impossible and meaningless; thus adhering to strict selectivity, I limited myself to listing the most exceptional records readily available in Japan during Showa 16 (1941). In truth, these amounted to less than a tenth of Bach’s complete discography—a mere handful of gem-like recordings.

Cantata (Choral Work)

Of Bach’s nearly two hundred cantatas, how many could possibly have been recorded? Cantatas No. 4 and No. 140 exist in nearly complete versions on Victor, but regrettably, the performances lack sufficient skill; moreover, being sung in Catalan and the recordings’ extreme antiquity would likely leave one feeling profoundly unsatisfied. Though Bach’s records may seem numerous, they amount to little when measured against his vast oeuvre. Even his most precious works—the cantatas into which he poured the greater part of his entire life—remain in such a state. That said, there are quite a number of recordings containing selected excerpts alone. Were one to choose only those of exceptional interest from among them, Columbia’s recordings of Thill’s solo performances—“Take My Heart” (No. 65) and “O Wondrous Love” (No. 85) (JW-45)—alongside the Reinhardt Choir’s “With Ailing Feet We Press On Boldly” (No. 78) (J-8640), these two discs might be called outstanding records. Though all are passages extracted from cantatas, through them one may perceive the nobility of Bach’s works and their pure passion. While the former merits praise, the latter’s pastoral duet aria—performed by a boys’ choir—achieves exquisite beauty. Additionally, “Lord, the Joy of Man’s Desiring” appears on the final disc of *Music History, Volume II*. Performed by the Bach Cantata Club, obtaining even a single disc proves difficult—yet it remains an outstanding recording.

In addition to the Catalan cantatas mentioned earlier on Victor, there were recordings such as Schumann-Heink’s “My Heart Sings with Joy” (No. 68) (7388) and Rasumowska’s “Come, Sweet Death” (7085). The former was an old recording but stood as one of Schumann-Heink’s masterpieces—a beloved artifact of its era. The latter belonged not to cantatas but rather to sacred art songs; paired with Casals’ cello rendition, its noble melancholy pierced the listener’s soul.

Brandenburg Concertos

Among Bach’s instrumental works, the six *Brandenburg Concertos*—his most significant—exist in multiple recordings. Apart from No. 4 conducted by Merihal (Polydor 40549-50) and No. 5 conducted by Cortot with Thibaud’s participation (Victor JD-121-2), I would recommend Columbia’s complete recording by the Busch Chamber Orchestra (JW-34-36, 62-66, 119-121, 144-146). Not only does it maintain a consistent mood across all six concertos, but it also exemplifies solid German-style playing, with well-coordinated musicians and a vein of poetic sentiment—a truly delightful rendition. Notably, the Sixth of these stands as an outstanding record.

*The Well-Tempered Clavier*

One of Bach’s lifelong masterpieces, the *48 Preludes and Fugues*—written for the clavichord to advocate for equal temperament—had a portion recorded by Columbia using the original clavichord, performed by Professor Dolmetsch (J-8141–7). While possessing a naive charm within an antique style—a record significant both for reference and devoted listening—the piano-arranged version commonly heard as *The Well-Tempered Clavier* must be represented by Victor’s records of Edwin Fischer’s performances from the *Bach Society* First to Fifth Collections. Fischer was a first-rate Bach interpreter of his time, and his refined and richly nuanced performance style truly stood unparalleled in his era. It had to be recommended as the most significant major work among Bach’s records.

*Cello Suites*

The sixth and seventh collections of the *Bach Society* records contain Bach’s *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 master cellist Casals—a renowned interpretation of these masterpieces that deserves preservation for posterity. This work was groundbreaking in Bach’s time—not only fully realizing the cello’s capabilities but also standing as the pinnacle of the suite form, this simple and unadorned structure, as a work of art. Yet through Casals’ performance, it gained a truly gem-like perfection, reaching the highest and most sublime realm among all music ever etched into shellac. As for Pau Casals—the great cellist born of Spain—and the state of mind that led him, after developing an interest in these suites from his youth and dedicating a lifetime of study, to finally record them for the first time in his sixties—that may well require its own occasion to recount.

*Orchestral Suites*

Four orchestral suites are also included. Victor has all four conducted by Bush (JD-1046–51 and JD-1052–6). Characterized by Bush’s elegance and chamber-like cohesion, the Flute Suite No. 2 in B Minor stands out as a masterful recording featuring virtuoso Moyse on flute. Yet for this particular work, even if dated, Columbia’s version conducted by Mengelberg (J-7891–3) possesses an irreplaceable quality. This quality was likely due to Mengelberg conducting the seasoned Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra.

Among these four suites, Suite No. 3 in D Major—which contained the original aria later famously arranged as "Air on the G String"—was indeed beautiful, but above all, it was the brilliance of the Second Flute Suite that must take first place. It was a masterpiece representing Bach’s "beautiful pieces."

Violin Concertos

Of the four violin concertos: No. 1, *Violin Concerto in A Minor*, is available on Columbia with Huberman (J8346–7); No. 2, *Violin Concerto in E Major*, features Huberman on Columbia (JW129–31) and Menuhin on Victor (JD413–5); and the *Double Violin Concerto* is performed by Menuhin and his teacher Enescu on Victor (JD23–4).

All of these were excellent performances through which one should come to understand how Bach—distinct from the Italian classics—established a German foundation in violin music characterized by grand and magnificent style. Additionally, for the Second Concerto in E Major, there existed Thibaud’s renowned performance on H.M.V.’s older release, said to have commanded a market price of hundreds in gold, while Victor’s older release featured a celebrated recording of the Double Concerto by the duo of Kreisler and Zimbalist. *Violin Sonatas* The six unaccompanied violin sonatas (alongside the partitas), together with the cello suites, formed the twin peaks of Bach’s instrumental works; among these recordings, might we cite Menuhin’s rendition of the *First Sonata in G Minor* (Victor JD-1247–8) as an outstanding example? While Columbia’s Szigeti and Victor’s Heifetz both offered masterful performances, I side with the young Menuhin’s grasp of Bach’s spirit—its majestic elegance.

"The 'Second Sonata in A Minor' naturally excelled in Columbia’s Szigeti recording, while for the 'Second Partita in D Minor,' Menuhin (Victor JD-740–3) and Heifetz (same label, JD-1593–6) stood in opposition." "Though Heifetz possessed astonishing technical brilliance, it proved difficult to match Menuhin’s innate radiance." "The 'Third Sonata in C Major' too had Menuhin’s recording (Victor JD-1508–10)." "My preference may have leaned too heavily toward Menuhin, but when it came to Bach, exceedingly few could surpass this young genius violinist."

Several sonatas for harpsichord and violin had been recorded. Among these—though neither the performances nor recordings were particularly commendable—the three pieces recorded by Columbia’s Dubois (violin) and Maas (piano)—the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth—remained worth noting. Above all, the Fifth Sonata in F Minor stood as a solemn yet beautiful piece (it went without saying these used piano rather than harpsichord). Another existed—the Sonata in G Major by Bush (violin) and Serkin (piano) (Victor DB-1434). It came recommended both as a single-disc release and for its reliable performance.

*The Art of Fugue* A monumental compilation of "Fourteen Contrapuntal Pieces" and "Four Canons" that Bach—a master of fugues—poured his final efforts into writing, this work stands as a jewel among Western musical classics, destined to endure through the ages. This performance is considered among the most formidable challenges, yet despite being what should be a dry textbook of counterpoint, the performative effect achieved by masterful hands reaches an unparalleled artistic realm—its solemn elegance and beauty defy description. There are two types of records. One is an arrangement for string quartet recorded by the Roth String Quartet for Columbia (S-1013–22), and the other is an arrangement for string ensemble conducted by Professor Dinner with the Collegium Musicum Ensemble for Victor (JD-1521–30). The former is graceful and beautiful, while the latter has a scholarly and antiquated charm. With records of this type, it is difficult to determine which one surpasses the other in terms of relative merits.

Masses, Passion Music, and Oratorios

Among all of Bach’s works, the *Mass in B Minor* stands as imposingly as Mount Everest. In all religious music across time, both in artistic merit and lofty solemnity, I believe there exists nothing worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as Bach’s *Mass in B Minor*—save for Beethoven’s *Missa Solemnis*. The distinctive feature of this Mass lies in how Bach—a Lutheran Protestant—adopted the form of the Mass as liturgical music of the Old Church; it may be said that this work brims with his vigorous faith and passion.

If one could tolerate its somewhat dated recording quality, Victor housed a masterful disc conducted by Albert Coates with both the Philharmonic Choir and London Symphony Orchestra. The soloists—Elisabeth Schumann among them—were all meticulously selected performers delivering earnest interpretations (JH 55–72). Victor contained Saint Bartholomew’s Church Choir’s complete *Passion According to St. Matthew*, though its execution left much to be desired. H.M.V. held several versions of this Passion music while Polydor offered Bruno Kittel’s conducted recording spanning two discs—including movements titled “We Sit Down with Tears” and “Then Was Captured Our Lord Jesus”—which remained commendable records if one overlooked their antiquated sound quality (60104–5).

From the *Christmas Oratorio*, “Glory to God” and “With Gratitude” were included on Victor under Georg Schumann’s direction with the Berlin Singakademie Choir (JH-63).

*Piano Concerto* "The 'Piano Concerto in D Minor' is not an original composition, but Fischer’s performance on the Victor record is beautiful (JD-421–3)." Above all, the Allegro of the final movement was of such breathtaking magnificence. "The *Concerto in A Major* was also available in Fischer’s recording (RL 35–6), a beautiful piece imbued with serene tranquility." The *Concerto for Two Pianos in C Major* existed on Victor in the Schnabels’ recording (JD-1289–91), an utterly delightful record. There was also the *Concerto for Four Pianos in A Minor*, but it was not a particularly notable record.

*Harpsichord Masterpieces*

The *French Suites* had the last of the six, in E Major, featured on the Victor Enthusiasts Association Record with Landowska on harpsichord. The *English Suites* also included the Second Suite in A Minor among the six, performed by Landowska in the Bach Society’s Fifth Volume—a recording that must be counted among the finest. The *Italian Concerto in F Major* existed in Landowska’s harpsichord version (Victor JD-1242–3) and Schnabel’s piano rendition (Victor VD-8115–6), but even with a pianist of Schnabel’s caliber, it could not match the antique charm of Landowska’s harpsichord.

The *Goldberg Variations* stand as a monumental work among Bach’s compositions—this piece, legend has it created to lull a nobleman to sleep—becomes inexpressibly delightful when heard through Landowska’s masterful harpsichord performance (Victor JD-271–6). The *Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue in D Minor* also exists in three versions: Landowska’s harpsichord, Dolmetsch’s clavichord, and Fischer’s piano—each beautiful and intriguing in its own right—but to savor this work’s enchanting beauty, one would rank Landowska’s harpsichord rendition first (Victor JD-801–2).

For experiencing Bach through Landowska’s harpsichord pieces with just a single record, I would recommend the *Fantasia in C Minor* (Victor DA-1129). Though a single ten-inch disc with both sides, Bach’s genius and divinity—along with his imagination and beauty—are revealed without reservation.

Organ Works

Bach spent the majority of his life as a church organist, content with his vocation, and was never remiss in his devotion to praising God and refining his art. Therefore, his works include a vast number of organ pieces—with no shortage of divine masterpieces—though to avoid complication, I shall limit myself here to presenting the most representative of his recorded works. Above all, I must state that I feel limitless respect and affection for Dr. Albert Schweitzer—a Bach scholar who devoted his life to missionary work in Africa’s interior—and his two-volume *Bach Organ Works Collection* (Columbia: First Volume JW 1–7; Second Volume *Chorale Preludes* S-1060–6). While details about Dr. Schweitzer have been thoroughly discussed in my previous works and Mr. Tsugawa Shūichi’s translation of a Bach biography—prompting me to avoid redundancy here—the two volumes recorded by this musician-turned-clergyman-and-humanitarian-warrior bear special mention: having sought out a two-hundred-year-old organ mechanism and performed in alignment with Bach’s authentic spirit, the First Volume ("Toccata and Fugue; Three Preludes and Fugues; One Fantasia and Fugue; and Little Fugue in G Minor") and Second Volume ("Thirteen Chorales") evoke Bach’s world through their simplicity, antiquity, purity, and elegance. It may not be a dazzling virtuoso performance, but it is precisely such playing that those who truly revere and love Bach would wish to hear.

Apart from Dr. Schweitzer, there are outstanding records by Dupre on Victor. Organ pieces arranged for other instruments are not included here.

Papa Haydn

There is a term: “Papa Haydn.” The soft texture and overflowing familiarity carried by this epithet must fit perfectly with Joseph Haydn’s character and his music, without any exaggeration or discrepancy. The excellence of Haydn’s music stems from its warm affection and pure form; within it, there is none of the meaningless exaggeration or emotional explosions that characterize Romantic music, nor the excessive emphasis on individuality or gray dreariness found in modern compositions. It was simply a neatly organized form, beautiful melodies, and a gentle affection that called out to everyone and could not fail to soothe our hearts in any circumstance.

If I may speak of my personal experience, when I am weary from work, when things do not go as desired, when sorrow overflows—there is nothing that comforts us as much as 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 finding a way to incorporate Papa Haydn’s music, brimming with paternal love, 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 ostentatious nor explosive; its serenity and vitality ultimately make it our most cherished companion of the heart.

The Trials of Youth

Joseph Haydn (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. His grandfather’s generation had been cartwrights, and both his father Mathias and mother Maria were diligent, cleanly, and deeply devout—traits that not only shaped Haydn’s admirable character and habits but also forged the faith that would lead him to compose the oratorio *The Creation*, a colossal peak in the history of religious music, as a gift from these pious parents.

Young Haydn’s musical talent was not miraculous like Mozart’s, but it emerged quite early; at six years old, he was entrusted to the household of a distant relative, musician Frank, where he received foundational training. Though he “received more whippings than food,” this experience laid the groundwork for the great Haydn of later years. He was enrolled as a boy soprano in a Vienna church at eight and studied music under composer Reutter’s supervision. As a choir member at Maria Theresa’s villa, he exerted his playful antics to the fullest—earning him the queen’s remark “that blond big-head” and subsequent whipping. Decades later, when the venerable composer Haydn met the elderly Queen Maria Theresa at Esterházy Castle, they shared hearty laughter over this recollection. In 1749, his voice breaking forced him out of the church choir, leaving the eighteen-year-old to wander streets clad only in what he wore. Tormented by hunger and cold, he spent nights on town benches or found refuge in friends’ impoverished homes. His parents grieved upon hearing this but, as poor cartwrights, could only advise him to “become a priest and escape your troubles.” Yet Haydn, though driven by a primal hunger, could not bring himself to take holy orders for mere sustenance.

One day during his wanderings, after being rejected for a position by a church choir director, Haydn secretly blended into the choir and, when the time came for a solo, snatched the score from the soloist’s hands and began to sing resonantly. Though he was starving, his singing was precise, his voice beautiful, and his delivery full of expression. The conductor and choir members were utterly astonished, but overwhelmed by his masterful solo singing, they offered heartfelt praise. Thanks to this, Haydn was able to partake in a long-awaited feast and stuff himself to the brim.

At that time, a braid-maker named Burgholtz took pity on Haydn’s destitution and lent him 150 florins, but in later years, Haydn repaid this kindness by specifying in his will that a portion of his estate be divided for Burgholtz’s granddaughter.

A Fortunate Life

Haydn was, as a musician, an unusually happy man. Loved by friends, blessed with talent, living in affluence, and enjoying longevity—whenever he lost one position, another was invariably prepared, and his fame was methodically accumulated in stages. What a striking contrast this presents when compared to Beethoven, who suffered lifelong torment due to his temperament and deafness, or Mozart and Schubert, whose genius brought them misfortune.

Even Haydn had only two misfortunes in his lifetime. 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 did not last long. He devoted himself to composing as an assistant to the composer Porpora, and around the age of twenty-six, as music director of Count Morzin’s chapel, he composed his first symphony.

At the age of twenty-eight, Haydn married Maria Anna Aloysia Apollonia. For Haydn, this marriage became an ill-fated burden he shouldered throughout his life—a lifetime of failure borne in matrimony. Initially, Haydn had fallen in love with Maria’s younger sister; however, when she entered a convent without reciprocating his feelings, he ended up marrying her three-year-older sister Maria—whom he did not love—through a novel-like twist of circumstances. His wife Maria was obstinate and vain, with no understanding of art whatsoever, leading Haydn to lament, “To her, whether her husband was a cobbler or an artist made no difference.” Yet the good-natured Haydn endured forty years by this disagreeable woman’s side without wavering.

The following year, Haydn was invited by Prince Esterházy of Eisenstadt and appointed as Second Music Director of the chapel—a position to which he entrusted half his life. In 1762, when the prince died and was succeeded by his younger brother Nikolaus, this new patron—flamboyant, generous, and passionate about music—wholeheartedly embraced Haydn, gradually promoted his standing, and soon installed him as First Music Director, a role that would anchor Haydn’s life for thirty years.

The thirty years of life in Hungary kept Haydn away from Vienna’s central music scene, but in exchange, his life became stable, his works were printed, and his fame, though spreading extremely gradually, steadily expanded across all of Europe. As for this reclusive and secure position, even if Haydn’s anguish occasionally transformed into a fervent longing to fly off to Italy, Prince Nikolaus’s preferential treatment rejected such desires, and thus thirty years slipped by unwittingly.

The Esterházy palace was an embodiment of all that was good and beautiful, and its musicians were treated with utmost favor; however, due to stringent court regulations, they could not easily obtain leave, and visiting family members were not permitted to stay beyond a day and a night. It is said Haydn composed his famous "Farewell Symphony" to voice his musicians' loneliness and distress. As the piece enters the finale of its fourth movement, musicians whose parts conclude extinguish the candles at their music stands one by one and depart the stage—until only two first violinists and the conductor remain to bring the poignant work to a close. The desolation of the stage was utterly disheartening. Needless to say, the astute Prince Esterházy perceived Haydn’s allegorical intent and granted the musicians their leave.

Haydn's mischievousness continued until his death, ever since being disciplined by Maria Theresa. Prank-loving, cheerful, and free from malice, Haydn was also renowned for his affection toward children. When Haydn walked through town, crowds of children would follow him and never leave. One day, he went to a toy shop, bought every noisemaking plaything available, distributed them to his musicians, and had them perform his new symphony. The musicians' astonishment was only natural. The only proper instruments were a violin and one contrabass—the rest being toy drums, pigeon whistles, and rattles—yet the effect surpassed all imagination, creating magnificent artistry that channeled childlike wonder through unprecedented brilliance. This became Haydn's "Toy Symphony," preserved to our time.

Light approached from afar.

In 1790, when Prince Nikolaus died, Haydn was dismissed from Esterházy Castle with the promise of a 2,000-florin annual pension. From 1761—a full 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 frustrated over a dull razor and mutter, “If someone would bring me a good razor, I’d give them my finest string quartet—”. Upon hearing this, the man returned to his inn, fetched his own razor, and thereby secured the publishing rights to Haydn’s quartet. This is what became colloquially known as the "Razor Quartet."

Due to this connection, Haydn accepted Salomon’s invitation and resolved to go to London, departing Vienna at the end of 1790 and making his first appearance in the British capital the following January. London’s welcome far exceeded all expectations. In gratitude for the honorary doctorate conferred upon him by Oxford University, Haydn composed and conducted the "Oxford Symphony."

The following year, Haydn returned to his new residence in Vienna bearing honors and renown, but the luster he had acquired in England now exerted a profound influence even upon Vienna. The Viennese people, in sudden urgency, clamored: "Let us hear the symphonies our great composer wrote in London!" In 1794, the sixty-three-year-old Haydn visited London once more. Haydn—who had been but a provincial presence under Esterházy—now stood upon the stage with gallant bearing, shouldering worldwide fame and popularity. There were composed six symphonies, with works including the *Military Symphony* being conducted.

Among the series of symphonies known as the "Salomon Set" that Haydn composed at Salomon’s request, there were remarkable masterpieces that felt like a grand conflagration of his entire talent—Haydn in his later years growing ever more vigorous. Among them, the third symphony in the Salomon Set—the "Symphony in G Major"—was notably called the "Surprise Symphony," preserving an innocent anecdote about Haydn.

The concert programs of that time were several times more grueling than today's, and it was common for noble lords and ladies to nod off drowsily midway through a piece. It is said that Haydn delighted in startling the slumbering audience with a sudden fortissimo blast from the entire orchestra during the sleep-inducing Andante of this symphony’s second movement. From the perspective of modern sensibilities, this change would hardly startle anyone, yet it amusingly conjures nostalgic visions of the tranquil atmosphere permeating late 18th-century English court life.

During his second visit to London, the two oratorio librettos he obtained from Salomon and the profound emotion he felt upon hearing Handel’s *Messiah* became the impetus that led Haydn to compose his lifetime masterpiece *The Creation*. It is said that Haydn shed tears upon hearing Handel’s *Messiah* and declared, “Handel is the greatest musician.” It is not hard to imagine that the honest and good-natured soul of Haydn, inspired by Handel, achieved its ultimate creative leap.

Upon returning from London, he revised the libretto edited from Milton’s *Paradise Lost* that he had received from Salomon, had it translated into German, and devoted his lifelong passion to embarking on its composition. “I have never been more reverent toward God than when composing this work,” said Haydn—words that ring profoundly true. The devout and majestic beauty of this oratorio has been compared throughout history to Handel’s *Messiah* alone; one cannot fathom how many souls it has nourished. Subsequently, *The Seasons* and *The Seven Last Words* were composed, and Haydn’s labors as a musician came to a close.

After a long seclusion in 1808, seventy-seven-year-old Haydn attended a performance of his own composition *The Creation*. This was the final memory of the venerable great composer. Carried into the venue in his armchair, Haydn grew increasingly excited as the performance progressed. Upon reaching the passage “There light appeared,” he stood up in overwhelming emotion, pointed to a corner of the heavens, and collapsed unconscious after exclaiming, “From afar!”

After having grown accustomed to his sickbed, Haydn—when the French army invaded Vienna in May of the following year, 1809, and cannonballs began falling near his house—rose up and had someone change his clothes, then said to his panicking family members, “There is nothing to fear. As long as Haydn is here, there’s no cause for alarm.” While speaking these words, he went to the piano and played his own Austrian National Anthem three times in succession. The Austrian national anthem composed by Haydn is renowned as one of the most artistically beautiful among the many national anthems in the world.

True to Haydn’s confidence, not only did the invading French army refrain from any action toward his 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 even honor guards from enemy France were added to his modest—yet splendid—funeral procession.

That lucidity

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 classicism and Beethoven’s passionate Romantic music.

Haydn was not only a melodist and the finalizer of sonata form but also—following Cherubini—established the foundational structure of string quartets; having built upon the work of Bach's successors, he became the first to codify the four-movement symphony form that stands as modern music's supreme structure. Without Haydn, neither Mozart nor Beethoven would have taken shape as we know them today. Haydn stood as classical music's final giant while simultaneously inaugurating modern music; his achievements will endure through countless generations alongside his voluminous works. His compositions were distinguished by balanced beauty and lucidity—never succumbing to subjective excess—with serenity and brightness governing every piece. Likely this reflects how Haydn's essential human decency manifested through his art.

His representative works include the oratorios *The Creation* and *The Seasons*, as well as symphonies such as the *Surprise*, *Military*, *Farewell*, and *Oxford*—selected from over a hundred he composed. As for his string quartets—which occupy Haydn’s unique realm—one could cite from his seventy-seven works such pieces as the *Serenade* (Op. 3 No. 5), *Emperor*, *Lark*, and a dozen others.

There is nothing as fitting as Haydn’s music to keep close at hand for life’s comfort and encouragement. It could be said that Haydn’s music is something that can be recommended to anyone without any hesitation.

Haydn’s Works and Their Recordings Haydn’s recordings would amount to about one-third of Bach’s and roughly three times Handel’s. Owing to its serene simplicity, Haydn’s music undoubtedly serves as the finest accompaniment for quiet solitude, for comfort, for meditation, and for family gatherings. It should be said that being cherished by all is the very essence of Papa Haydn’s music.

From Within the Symphonies

When selecting the most famous *Surprise Symphony* from Haydn’s numerous symphonies, it proved exceedingly difficult to choose between Koussevitzky, Blech, and Horenstein. The new recordings left one dissatisfied with their performances, while those with somewhat better performances suffered from overly old recordings. Should one instead opt for Toscanini’s conducted *Clock Symphony* (Victor JD1495–8), Walter’s conducted *Military Symphony* (Columbia JS38–40), and the *Oxford Symphony* (Columbia JS117–9)? Each of these could be counted among exemplary recordings, allowing one to fully savor Haydn’s excellence.

Additionally, I would like to list the *Toy Symphony* as a manifestation of Papa Haydn’s earnestness. Though it is but a single two-sided record, Haydn’s playful spirit overflowed delightfully in this anecdote: he went into town to gather toy noisemakers and had the astonished musicians perform with them. The record conducted by Weingartner in Columbia’s catalog remains the longest (J7982).

Chamber Music

Haydn’s achievement was monumental: he standardized 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 recorded Haydn’s string quartets exhaustively, releasing them in seven volumes of six records each, with Japan Victor issuing from Volume III to Volume VII. Although there were some critics of Pro Arte’s austere performances, this achievement demands respect. Particularly with Haydn’s string quartets—which might be called the very essence of classicism—one ought to avoid rendering them too sweetly or sentimentally; I find myself more often concurring with Pro Arte’s restraint.

When considering standalone 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 S-5001–3). The beauty of the noble lark’s song presented in this first movement evokes the splendor of spring fields and stands as one of the late Capet’s masterful records.

Should we next list the Lener Quartet’s *String Quartet in C Major, “Emperor”* (Columbia J8471–4) among others? However, it is difficult to decisively favor either the Pro Arte from Haydn Society’s fourth volume or the Lener Quartet. The renowned *String Quartet in E-flat Major, Op. 3 No. 5 (Serenade)* appears as a single-disc Pro Arte recording in Volume I of the Enthusiasts’ Association series; for a two-disc set, though older, Columbia’s Lener version remains serviceable (J7661–2). Additionally, the Roth Quartet’s *String Quartet in C Major (Bird)* stands as another fine record showcasing Haydn’s distinctive qualities (Columbia J8680–2).

When speaking of the world’s most artistic ensemble, one cannot help but mention the Casals Trio—composed of Casals (cello), Thibaud (violin), and Cortot (piano). Not only is each artist a consummate master among the first rank, but the organic union of these three titans under Casals’ leadership possesses an artistic expression without equal. While there are quite a number of Casals Trio records, even accounting for the handicap of their dated recordings, works such as Haydn’s *Trio in G Major* (Victor JF78–9, included in *Famous Home Records Vol. III*) stand alongside Beethoven’s *Archduke Trio* as gem-like masterpieces of the recording world. I believe these discs’ masterful performances—spinning like jewels 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 [recordings], but Columbia’s Feuermann version stood out as superior (J8511–4). Madame Landowska’s *Harpsichord Concerto in D Major* likewise could not be overlooked among indispensable recordings (Victor JD1316–8).

*The Creation*

It may well be called curious that there are so few records of Haydn’s lifetime masterpieces—the oratorios *The Creation* and *The Seasons*. Victor has one disc each for the former (JB54) and the latter (C2383), and Columbia also has a single disc of *The Creation*—this is truly disheartening. Given that there’s little prospect of complete recordings being made anytime soon, I wish they had at least included the recent New Symphony Orchestra performance of *The Seasons*.

The True Genius Mozart

“Mozart conquered the world through music,” said Romain Rolland. At first glance this statement may seem eccentric, but upon quiet reflection one will realize it is a profoundly insightful and incomparably apt adjective.

In a certain light, it could be said that Beethoven too conquered the world through music. However, Beethoven’s conquest was forcible, aggressive, and imperialistic. Beethoven’s music is beautiful and powerful, but one cannot ignore that in every corner of the world, in every age, there are not a few "Beethoven haters."

In contrast, Mozart’s music, like spring rain moistening the earth, was deeply accepted into people’s hearts worldwide without obstacle or resistance, and though Mozart himself had not the slightest such intention, over a century and a half it musically conquered the world.

The artistic works in this world are countless in number and vast in variety, but among those created by human hands in the realm of music, there can absolutely be nothing as beautiful as Mozart’s works. Music is an extremely sensual art, heavily governed by the listener's likes and dislikes; yet I have yet to encounter a single person who has openly professed to dislike Mozart’s music.

To what can Mozart’s beauty be likened? It is truly a crystalline beauty—a beauty overflowing with selfless love and radiant light. Mozart’s music smiles immediately upon children and amateurs alike, yet it is also this same music that must serve as the ideal “fertile soil of beauty” where even the most astute newcomers—particularly music specialists—ultimately arrive.

Mozart’s music was profoundly European while simultaneously embodying the unparalleled resplendence befitting the last great figure of classical music. Mozart’s music was both a great deluge of beauty and something possessing a mysterious spirit akin to a cold flame. Though Mozart himself never possessed a healthy body, his music was said to be “health incarnate.” That Mozart’s music—beautiful, wholesome, and burning with nostalgic warmth—was immediately and inherently music for the home goes without saying. To discuss the works and musical tendencies of this last giant of classical music, I intend to look back for a time on Mozart’s eventful biography.

The Super-Genius Boy

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born on January 27, 1756, in Salzburg, Austria. Leopold, his father, was a musician of ambitious nature who had mastered the art of shaping his daughter Nannerl (Maria Anna) and her younger brother Wolfgang into prodigious girl and boy geniuses.

His father’s education was said to be exceedingly ingenious—even likened to the whip methods used to tame circus animals—yet fortunately, the Mozart siblings not only became child prodigies wildly celebrated by European journalism, but Wolfgang, the younger brother, managed to preserve the budding of his astonishing genius entirely unharmed, thereby laying the foundation for a lifelong passion for music. Mozart’s genius was utterly unparalleled even among other precocious great musicians. In the realm of music for posterity, it is by no means unreasonable that Mozart is invariably cited as the exemplar when speaking of genius. For example, it is said that he first took an interest in playing the piano at the mere age of three, after watching his five-years-older sister Nannerl practice.

At four years old, he could play any piece he heard just once without a single mistake; he then astonished people by writing his own "minuet" on his sister’s staff paper. At six, he composed a "concerto," and at seven, he published his first "sonata." When attempting to play his father’s friend’s violin, he remarked, "Your violin is tuned one-eighth of a tone lower than mine"—and when the adults compared them, they found it precisely true. Such prodigious anecdotes have been passed down.

The precocious Mozart—who wrote an oratorio at eleven, composed an opera at twelve, and created a symphony at fourteen—could lose himself in mathematics but showed not the slightest interest in boyish games. André Schachtner, a musician who knew Mozart in his youth, remarked of him during that period: "He was pure fire." "And he took interest in everything." "If his education had been deficient," Schachtner added, "he would have become an ungovernable rogue."

Fortunately, Mozart—who ceaselessly demanded to be loved by others—possessed a kind and merciful nature alongside his dangerously obsessive tendencies. He easily grew attached to anyone who loved him. And he possessed the beautiful virtue of never abandoning those who once became his friends. It should be said that this small anecdote—of young Mozart asking people ten times a day whether they loved him, smiling when told they did, and welling up with tears if jokingly told they did not—was precisely the "honesty" and "hunger for love" that dominated his entire life.

The eleven-year-old sister Nannerl and her six-year-old brother Wolfgang became a favored topic of conversation across Europe for a time. The concert tours numbered nine in total, and while the siblings' popularity only soared ever higher, it remains an undeniable fact that these travels impaired Mozart's health for his entire lifetime.

The young siblings—Nannerl and Wolfgang—conquered every challenging piece; but above all, Wolfgang effortlessly performed violin concertos and piano symphonies, even flawlessly mastering difficult compositions with a handkerchief draped over the keys, and went on to play various instruments while attempting feats that seemed almost magical. Regarding Mozart’s appearance at that time, the great poet Goethe later recounted, "I saw Mozart, who was seven years younger than me. “At the time I was fourteen years old, but I still remember Mozart’s small build, the way his hair was arranged, and the sword he carried—” he recounted.

The innocence of the boy Mozart was heartwarming. Once, he slid on the floor of Schönbrunn Palace and was helped up by a little princess. “You’re so kind,” he said. “I’ll make you my bride—” he would declare, or climb onto the Austrian Empress’s lap to plant a loud kiss.

At thirteen years old, when Mozart heard the choir perform the jealously guarded secret piece *Miserere* at Rome’s Sistine Chapel, he returned to his lodgings and transcribed it entirely from memory; upon hearing it a second time, he made only minor corrections and produced a flawless copy of the forbidden score. It is said that upon learning of this feat, the Pope—far from punishing Mozart—bestowed upon him membership in the Order of the Golden Spur. The vividness of Mozart’s genius remains unmatched before or since. In his brief 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—truly totaling one thousand compositions.

A constant stream of musical ideas gushed forth like a spring, and every utterance and gesture sparkled like pearls. If one were to seek true genius throughout history in the realm of music, one would have to name Mozart, Schubert, and then Chopin. It should be said that Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner are not mere geniuses but rather heroic figures—titanic entities forged through their craft.

Unfortunate Pride

Despite being endowed with this unparalleled genius, Mozart's life was one of profound misfortune. At seventeen, upon returning from his travels, he continued his earnest musical studies from Italy to France and entered the service of the Archbishop of his hometown Salzburg. But after the Archbishop’s death, unable to endure this successor’s lack of understanding, he engaged in reckless conduct and was stripped of his position. From then until his death at thirty-five, Mozart was never granted anything resembling proper employment.

In contrast to his father, who had exploited Mozart’s labor without respite, Mozart had indeed been a “good child”—yet only when he left Salzburg and when he married at twenty-seven did he face vehement opposition from his parents and sisters. 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.

After Mozart’s death, it is said that Constanze—astonished by how the world unanimously mourned him and how many admirers visited his former residence—only then came to barely realize that the man she had lived with for ten years was an extraordinary genius without equal. Constanze possessed no concept of financial management. Mozart was no better than Constanze in this regard. The two would even dance through winter nights without coal, struggling to fend off the cold. Mozart was often driven to the direst depths of poverty, composing adagios for musical clocks and writing sonatas for a mere few florins. “I compose because I need money,” he would declare. “I have to eat, you know,” he’d add with self-deprecating cynicism.

While steeped in such afflictions, Mozart continued to love his wife Constanze and his friends. “The truest friends are poor people. The wealthy hardly know friendship”—this was one of Mozart’s expressions of love, undeterred by adversity or poverty.

Beethoven declared, “I don’t write for money,” while Mozart said, “I write because I want money.” These statements stand in complete opposition, and compared to Beethoven’s integrity, one might suspect some duplicity in Mozart’s true feelings. But that is a grave mistake. Critics of posterity must discern that Beethoven carried a certain bluster and pretense, while Mozart’s tone revealed hypocritical self-deprecation. Upon hearing Mozart’s crystalline music, free of base thoughts—who could possibly believe he wrote for money? That sacred and beautiful music could never have arisen from base motives such as thoughts of money.

What preserved Mozart’s art amid poverty and misfortune was indeed his immense self-respect. Mozart’s childhood yearning to “be loved” manifested this self-respect, just as his refusal to tolerate Salzburg’s demeaning post in youth revealed its same essence. His heart remained childlike in purity—incapable of contemplating even the slightest compromise or craven concession.

“A certain duke said that someone like me comes along only once every hundred years”—so Mozart himself declared. At first glance, this may sound boastful, but it would not be wrong to say that in truth, it was an exceedingly humble remark. Looking back from today, 150 years later, a genius like Mozart is not born once in a hundred years—indeed, not even once in a millennium.

“Even if you were reborn, you could never become like me. Compared to that, taking every medal you could ever receive would be child’s play for me.” Mozart once told this to arrogant worldly people. “Whether servant or count—once they insult me, they’re nothing but lowlifes.” This too erupted from Mozart’s unyielding self-respect.

When Mozart was invited by a certain duke but excluded from the banquet and made to dine with the servants, he returned home staggering like a drunkard due to the humiliation of being "treated as a servant" and his fury—it is even said that he remained unsettled the following day.

Beethoven, too, was a man of immense self-respect. This self-respect 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-respect—an inability to pander to vulgar tastes—that allowed his music to retain its noble cool beauty while being readily accepted by all audiences?

Great Monument

Mozart thus wrote his jewel-like works. His daily life was cheerful, and he always seemed driven by an impulse to laugh, but as his death approached, his works gradually grew darker, and an ineffable, fateful terror began to loom at his back. The late chamber music works and the Symphony in G minor are examples of this.

Mozart’s health deteriorated markedly, yet the theater manager dragged him into a dissipated lifestyle and focused on compelling him to write bright, cheerful works, while his wife Constanze—having relocated with their child—ceaselessly demanded funds for endless extravagance from her husband Mozart.

One summer day, a tall, solemn man dressed in gray visited Mozart, requested a Requiem (a piece to mourn the dead), and pledged a substantial fee. He was an eerie man akin to an emissary from hell who withheld even the commissioner’s name, but Mozart—consumed by financial desperation—accepted the commission and began composing what would become his life’s Requiem. As his health worsened, Mozart became ensnared by the obsessive delusion that he had struck a pact with this hellish messenger and was “composing funeral music for himself.” Despite this fixation, he completed only up to the second movement and three-quarters of the remaining score before dying at dawn on December 5, 1791, leaving behind Constanze—disoriented and helpless—in his wake.

After his death, it came to light that Count Franzberg had dispatched his steward to commission Mozart to ghostwrite a requiem in his own name to mourn his wife’s passing—but it was all too late.

The following day, Mozart's remains were buried in a common grave. Fearing the raging storm, even the few friends who had accompanied the coffin turned back at the town gates, leaving two gravediggers to continue their pitiful task through wind and rain. At Mozart's grave there were no flowers, no tombstone, not even a cross—it is said that for some time afterward, even the location of his burial remained unknown, treated more harshly than paupers. But do not Mozart's thousand-odd works stand majestically before all as a great monument soaring to heaven? Who today, a hundred and fifty years later, would lament the poverty of Mozart's burial? Not one musician as beloved and cherished as Mozart has ever been born into this world.

Music of Radiance and Joy

Mozart’s music stood at the pinnacle of classical music, its resplendent formal beauty unrivaled by any other. One might say the distinguishing features of Mozart’s music lay in its limpid clarity, lucid brightness, endowment with brilliance and affection, and its attainment of the ultimate richness and grace.

That his late works introduced a streak of darkness, conveying something willful or fiery, might well be said to serve a prophetic role heralding Beethoven's advent. The masterpieces are his last three symphonies—No. 39 in E-flat major, No. 40 in G minor, and No. 41 *Jupiter*—alongside the operas *The Magic Flute* and *The Marriage of Figaro*. Alongside numerous chamber works, particularly these final three symphonies were even said to have been composed in a mere six weeks—a superhuman feat that became the stuff of legend.

To comprehend Mozart in his entirety, one should savor those masterpieces; yet for ordinary families wishing merely to glimpse his beauty, charm, and scintillating genius, it suffices to experience a single lullaby, a Turkish March, or a serenade. That is truly music that makes life joyous. It is music brimming with radiance and delight. How Mozart’s legacy—left by one who died in obscurity at thirty-five—has enriched posterity’s lives and imbued them with vigor!

Mozart's Works and Their Records

Mozart’s crystalline music stands as one of humanity’s greatest blessings. Mozart remains our light and solace in any place, at any time. I once read an article stating that when airmen of the squadron—exhausted from intense training or combat and utterly drained—returned to base, the first thing they rushed to hear on the phonograph was Mozart’s music. That seems only natural.

As music to console daily toil, there could be nothing surpassing Mozart’s works. It was better suited to hearthside and living room than to salons or stages, and would serve humanity all the more for it. Mozart’s music—scattering brilliance, charm, beauty, and loveliness—was what should be said to hold the deepest connection to our lives.

Symphony

When it comes to records of Mozart’s symphonies, one must first obtain his three final masterpieces: the *Jupiter*, the *G Minor*, and the *E-flat Major*. It is truly a joy to hear the *Symphony No. 41 in C Major, K. 551*—named “Jupiter” for its grandeur—on a Columbia recording (JS 19–22) conducted by Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. This indeed could be said to combine Jovian majesty with beauty.

“Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, K. 550” is a work imbued with a vein of melancholy and often preferred by some over the *Jupiter*; among recordings, Toscanini’s rendition with the NBC Symphony Orchestra for Victor stands as the crowning achievement (JD 1720–2). There is also a recording by Walter conducting the Berlin State Orchestra, though it is somewhat dated; for *Symphony No. 39 in E-flat Major, K. 543*, there remains no better version than Walter’s Columbia record with the BBC Orchestra (J8331–3).

While acquiring these three symphonies alone suffices to comprehend Mozart’s mature artistry in his later years, for those desiring more, I will list Toscanini’s recording of *Symphony No. 35 in D Major, K. 385 “Haffner”* (Victor VD-8028–30) and Walter’s recording of *Symphony No. 38 in D Major, K. 504 “Prague”* (Columbia JW-8–10). Especially the latter—conducted by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra—stands out among Walter’s finest recordings, possessing rich emotional depth and refined beauty, reaching the pinnacle of elegant and resplendent artistry.

Violin Concertos

As for Mozart, even just considering his Violin Concertos alone, one cannot fathom how many recorded sets exist. The third *Violin Concerto in G Major K.216* has recordings by Menuhin and Hubermann; the former’s Victor release lacks Mozart’s characteristic sweetness, while the latter’s Columbia version may fall short in crystalline refinement. The fourth *Violin Concerto in D Major K.218* exists in two renditions by Szigeti and Kreisler. The Columbia recording by Szigeti feels somber and wanting in Mozartian vitality, whereas Kreisler’s newer Victor interpretation pushes the wizened austerity of advanced age beyond redemption. Kreisler did have a pre-electric acoustic recording that became legendary for this piece, though it remains unobtainable today. The fifth *Violin Concerto in A Major K.219 “Turkish”* features versions by Wolfsthal, Heifetz, and Damen. Wolfsthal’s Columbia recording (3910–3), though antiquated, I treasure as an emotional keepsake from this young departed violinist. Heifetz’s Victor release (JD 378–81) stands out for its modern engineering and technical mastery—its execution so chillingly precise as to verge on unearthly beauty.

The sixth *Violin Concerto in E-flat Major, K. 268* has recordings by Thibaud and Dubois. Thibaud’s Mozart interpretation possessed a certain dignity and warmth—while this too was a masterful recording, the recording itself is very old (Victor VD-8048–50). The seventh *Violin Concerto in D Major* exists on Victor with Menuhin’s rendition. There is also the *Violin Concerto in D Major (Adelaide)*—purportedly composed when Mozart was ten years old—performed by Menuhin. While it may lack significance, it remains an utterly charming piece.

Piano Concertos

There were numerous records of *Piano Concertos*, but I would limit myself to citing two or three exceptionally outstanding ones from among them. The *Piano Concerto No. 9 in E-flat Major, K. 271* was a sweetly youthful piece, and Gieseking’s performance of it proved profoundly moving. It remained perfectly suited for light-hearted listening (Columbia J8705–8). The *Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor, K. 466* had Fischer’s recording (Victor JD 315–8). This was a professor-like, earnest performance—refined yet undeniably beautiful. There existed too a recording of the same piece by the late Little Nikisch, though its significance lay more in being a memento than anything else. The record where conductor Bruno Walter had adhered to Mozart-era practice by conducting the orchestra while playing the piano might have carried a lackluster quality but still stood as a calm and refined performance that could be counted among the masterpieces (Columbia JS43–6).

The *Piano Concerto No. 26 in D Major, K. 537* ("Coronation") demonstrated that harpsichordist Madame Landowska stood as a first-rate woman pianist. Her performance radiated feminine consideration and exquisite craftsmanship (Victor JD1076–9). Lastly, Schnabel performed the *Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat Major, K. 595*. The work possessed the profound depth characteristic of Mozart’s late period. The interpretation adopted an unconventional approach that made hearing Schnabel’s Mozart particularly intriguing.

Flute Concertos

Three of Mozart’s beautiful *Flute Concertos* had been recorded. While the *Flute Concerto No. 1 in G Major, K. 313* was beautiful, the *Flute Concerto No. 2 in D Major, K. 314*—though its recording was older—proved far more engaging, as it too was performed by the masterful Moyse. The orchestral direction was by Coppola, and this gem-like resplendent beauty stood utterly beyond measure (Victor JB207–8). Amadio’s flute recording of the same piece, which fit only the second and third movements onto a single disc, was also splendid (Victor JH206). Moyse’s flute produced a crisp, transparent sound in the French style, while Amadio’s Italianate soft and sweet tones made for an intriguing contrast.

Then there was another masterpiece: three 12-inch discs of the *Concerto for Flute and Harp in C Major, K. 299* (Victor JB1–3). With Moyse on flute and Raskin on harp—two masters breathing as one—the piece’s dazzling beauty seemed almost otherworldly. One might say it was here that the true essence of Mozart’s genius lay.

Violin and Piano Sonatas

The combination of Goldberg (violin) and Klaus (piano) was once heard even in Japan, but their Mozart performances possess a fresh transparency and an elegant quality. While not lavish nor suited for grand stages, these wax recordings—meant for intimate listening—strike me as Mozart perfectly attuned to modern sensibilities. Their Columbia recordings include a substantial number of works: *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 adore the *Sonata in B-flat Major K. 454* recorded by violinist Morini with Kentner (piano). The gentle, song-filled sweetness of this piece suits the female Morini beyond description (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 mastery. It goes without saying that both performance and recording hold ample superiority on Heifetz’s side.

The Menuhin siblings recorded the *Sonata in A Major K.526*. To highlight his sister’s piano playing, her brother Menuhin inevitably took a backseat. Heifetz and Bay’s rendition of another *Sonata in B-flat Major K.378* exhibited a crystal-clear technical brilliance; the thrill of hearing this youthful work—an almost hedonistic, unbridled pursuit of beauty—rendered through Heifetz’s superhumanly precise yet frigid virtuosity was nothing short of extraordinary (Victor JD1021–2). The same piece performed by Flesch for Polydor, bundled with Handel’s sonata in an album, revealed the old professor’s idiosyncratic presence through its subpar recording quality in an oddly endearing way.

Piano Sonatas

Mozart’s simple piano sonatas are endlessly delightful, but here I will list only two or three representative records.

The famous *Turkish March Sonata K.331* has been recorded in four or five versions, with Victor’s Fischer (JD367–8) and Polydor’s Kemp (45231–2) serving as representative examples. The former was graceful and radiant. It could be called the finest embodiment of classical playing, while the latter was weighty and feverish yet carried an undercurrent of familiarity. I would rather choose Fischer, but there are likely not a few people who prefer Kemp.

Gieseking’s recording of the *Piano Sonata in C Minor K.457* was renowned as a singular interpretation of Mozart (Columbia JW223–4). In this new pianist’s classical approach, there existed the vitality of a fresh realism that had shattered the husk of old traditions. A Mozart both chaste and fervently impassioned—a wondrous duality. There was also Gieseking’s *Sonata in B-flat Major*.

String and Other Quartets, Quintets

Mozart’s chamber music—particularly his string quartets and quintets—were themselves jewels among masterpieces. In this world, there existed no music as unconditionally beautiful as this. Born from Haydn’s chamber music as its foundation yet opening a unique artistic realm, it stood entirely apart from Haydn’s—a dazzling succession of even more splendid, more radiant, and more beautiful gem-like masterpieces. In his late works, even where there was a quality akin to joy reaching its peak and giving rise to sorrow—as in the G Minor Symphony—such elements did not diminish their beauty; rather, they added profound shading, elevating Mozart’s artistic realm yet another level.

The Lehner Quartet had recorded four Mozart pieces, but all were over ten-year-old recordings, making it feel almost cruel to critique them today. If one 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 "Hunt"* and the *String Quartet No. 14 in G Major, K. 387*—but taking into account the original work’s appeal, I think it would be prudent to choose the former (Columbia J7854–6). This piece stands among Mozart’s most solemn quartets, and Lehner’s exquisitely tender beauty set our blood racing when first released. For those of us who had no opportunity to hear fine string quartet performances, it possessed a truly magical beauty.

The release of the Capet Quartet’s Mozart recordings caused Lehner’s reputation to plummet drastically. Take the Capet Quartet’s *String Quartet in C Major K.465* (Columbia J7786–9), for instance—a recording over a decade old, just like Lehner’s. Yet in technique, mindset, and sensibility alike, it stood wholly apart from Lehner’s work, attaining the highest artistic realm accessible to us in modernity. At first glance, it appears starkly simple and unadorned, but its all-pervading radiance and dripping richness irresistibly guide listeners to the loftiest heights of rapture.

There are also Mozart recordings by the Pro Arte, Kolisch, Crétry, and other quartets—but those should be savored only after fully appreciating the aforementioned pieces.

The *Quartet in A Major for Flute and Strings, K. 298* is a youthfully beautiful piece. René Le Roy and the Pasquier Trio’s moderately priced record is included in the fourth collection of the Lovers’ Association.

The *Quartet in F Major for Oboe and Strings, K. 370* by oboe virtuoso Goossens and the Lehner Quartet is available on Columbia (J8209–10). The collaboration between Schnabel and the Pro Arte Quartet for the *Quartet for Piano and Strings in G Minor, K. 478* should also be noted as a reference. Among quintets, the *String Quintet in G Minor, K.516*—filled with the melancholy of Mozart’s later years—is commonly regarded as a masterpiece among viola quintets. Columbia offers the Lehner Quartet with Drivela (J7763–6), while Victor provides the Pro Arte Quartet with Hobday (JD371–4); listeners may prefer either the emotionally lush former or the intellectually restrained latter. The Pro Arte recording remains far more recent.

Among quintets, the most captivating is the *Clarinet Quintet in A Major, K.581*. Alongside Brahms’s Clarinet Quintet, this work stands as a masterpiece composed for the instrument—its entrancing beauty without equal. Three recordings are available: The oldest features the Lehner Quartet with Draper (Columbia J7451–4); next comes the Budapest Quartet with Benjamin Goodman (Victor JE167–9, JD1374); the newest pairs the Roth Quartet with Bellison (Columbia JW203–6).

Among these three, the version by Benny Goodman—the jazz conductor and clarinetist also known as Benjamin Goodman—and the Budapest Quartet was well-reputed, with no shortage of ardent admirers. Yet it remained a fact that many longtime fans still clung affectionately to the Lehner and Draper collaboration, feeling they could not truly claim to have heard this piece without it. This stemmed from Lehner’s sweetly lingering quality and Draper’s unexpectedly masterful clarinet, whereas Benny Goodman—though skilled—could not escape the rough articulation and emotional deficiency typical of a jazz player.

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

Orchestral Works

From the vast array of overtures, German dances, serenades, and divertimentos, I would attempt to list several of the most outstanding.

The serenade *Eine kleine Nachtmusik*—often simply called "Mozart’s Serenade" and resembling the very embodiment of affection, charm, and brilliance—has been recorded a great many times; but for its elegant and refined beauty, I must place Columbia’s version conducted by Walter first (JS23–4). Next, if one can tolerate the somewhat poor recording quality, I would recommend choosing Polydor’s Furtwängler-conducted version for its grandeur and magnificence (G108–110).

While there are many "German Dances" available, I will limit myself to just three pieces conducted by Walter on Columbia—Nos. 1 to 3 (J5557). Divertimentos (Divertimenti) are also extremely delightful, but I do not recall any records that are particularly noteworthy to mention. Overtures include many famous ones duplicated, but would the truly outstanding ones not be limited to Furtwängler’s *The Marriage of Figaro* (Polydor 4513) and Mengelberg’s *The Magic Flute* (Victor 1486)?

Opera, Religious Music, and 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 grand total of seventy records. Mozart, following the custom of musicians of his time, had poured his heart and soul into composing operas—indeed, that his work on *The Magic Flute* hastened his death remained a sorrowful point for readers of his biography—yet to possess such complete recordings over a hundred years after his passing must offer at least some measure of consolation.

This performance was a recording from Britain’s Glyndebourne Mozart Festival—said to have gathered Mozart singers from around the world—with both orchestra and vocalists proving reliable and excellent. There exists an excerpt of *Don Giovanni* conducted by Coppola alone, featuring Panzera (baritone) and others (Victor JE44–6). Though sung in French lyrics, it remains an exceptionally polished performance through which it’s impossible not to appreciate Mozart’s operatic brilliance.

Standalone opera arias are omitted here.

It was regrettable that the complete recording of Mozart’s *Requiem*—the most important work in his sacred music—had no prospect of being obtainable in Japan. The nearly complete recording under Joseph Metznar’s direction, performed by the Salzburg Dome Choir and Orchestra and spread across six discs on Christal records, should have had only about two sets available in Japan. The performance was not the finest, but among the soloists was included the late renowned singer Richard Meyer.

Columbia has included two or three records from the *Mass* and *Requiem*, but there’s nothing particularly noteworthy to mention about them. The motet "Alleluia" became widely known through Deanna Durbin in the film *Orchestra Girl*, but Columbia’s Ginstere performs it more skillfully than Durbin; H.M.V.’s Elisabeth Schumann surpasses Ginstere; Victor’s Onegin outdoes Schumann in proficiency; and ultimately, the older Farrell recording holds greater charm than even Onegin.

Mozart’s art songs are remarkably few. Among these, the masterpiece would be Elisabeth Schumann’s “Lullaby” (E555) on Victor. Schumann’s Mozart is supreme, but I know no other example that sings that lullaby so well. Her pure voice and gentle affection will soothe even our souls.

“Violet” was considered one of the finer works among Mozart’s art songs, though Victor’s Onegin (1556) possessed an abundance of beauty. Lotte Lehmann’s *Das Geheimnis* likewise had to be acknowledged as one of the masterful examples (Victor JE30).

Hero Beethoven

Beethoven was not only a hero among musicians but a hero among heroes, and in a certain sense, a conqueror among conquerors. Though Napoleon and Beethoven shared many connections in life and were often compared and contrasted, while Napoleon may have reigned as "emperor of emperors" during his lifetime, over a hundred years later his achievements had vanished like a dream—his deeds now no different from those of legendary dragon-slaying heroes. In comparison, what an incredible boon our Beethoven bequeathed to humanity!

It had been 114 years since Beethoven’s death, yet the vast body of music he left behind—through live performances, radio broadcasts, or records—ceaselessly set the very atmosphere of this spherical world trembling, becoming a source of comfort, inspiration, and illumination for billions of humanity. The influence of art on human life was far greater than one might idly have assumed, yet even within this realm, something as vast as Beethoven’s music and as intense as Beethoven’s music could scarcely be found.

There was one among my young student friends who obtained a record of Beethoven’s *Fifth Symphony* and listened to it two hundred times over and over. During exam periods, they would listen to it three or four times a day—not only to relieve mental fatigue and regain new courage—but also because if they carelessly played too much, they would say, “I can’t face Beethoven like this,” and promptly return to their notes in the study where Beethoven was surely waiting.

Listening to the same record two hundred, three hundred times over is by no means good taste, but nevertheless, even while believing myself to be fully aware of the profound emotional power and overwhelming persuasiveness of Beethoven’s music, I find myself astonished anew time and again. Since the dawn of human history, art has been countless in both variety and number, yet I have never heard anything possessing a "power" that rivals Beethoven’s music.

Michelangelo’s paintings, Shakespeare’s plays, Rodin’s sculptures—these are noble and grand creations, undoubted prides of human culture—yet they lack the virtuous mass appeal of Beethoven’s music. Consequently, when compared to Beethoven’s art—which for over a hundred and several decades has ceaselessly flowed through the hearts of hundreds of millions like a surging black current of inspiration—one cannot deny their divergence in universality and in the acuity with which they stir the human soul.

In every country of 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, records—indeed, a full third of anything related to music—is dominated by the name of Beethoven. Were Beethoven's works to be removed from this world, we would undoubtedly feel a spiritual desolation akin to attempting survival in air stripped of atmospheric pressure.

The Great Countryman

Why does Beethoven’s music ceaselessly engage us so profoundly? —To answer this, one must begin with his biography; yet Beethoven’s biographies are literally voluminous, their contents exhaustively known to all, and recounting his tumultuous life within a few-page essay proves nearly impossible. Thus, I shall instead compile several characteristic and intriguing anecdotes from his life to evoke the shadow of this giant, while simultaneously illuminating 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 benevolent mentor. One such instance saw this father forcing the boy into round-the-clock piano practice of cruel intensity, seeking to profit from him as a child prodigy—a regimen that nearly extinguished Beethoven’s nascent love for music. Yet through some twist of fortune, these brutal lessons enabled him not to become a ten-year-old marvel, but rather to forge the bedrock of his emergence as a heroic musician for the ages.

It is impossible to know how much his father’s alcoholism tormented the young Beethoven. Amidst the jeers of street urchins, the humiliation of carrying his drunken father home must have further hardened Beethoven’s defiant spirit, marking the grim-faced start of his determined march down a thorny path. Moreover, when he was seventeen—after losing his kind yet naive mother, who had possessed nothing but love—Beethoven’s slender shoulders had to bear the entire burden of supporting his father, who had lost his job to drink, and his young brothers.

Beethoven’s genius took root amid these adversities: at thirteen, he was appointed as court organist in Bonn, and by sixteen, he composed his first symphony, the *Jena*.

Beethoven met Mozart not long after that, during his first visit to Vienna. For Mozart, whose fame then dominated all of Europe, the visit from this provincial youth held little significance; he likely assumed the impromptu played before him had been prepared in advance and offered only cursory praise. The young Beethoven, infuriated by Mozart's cold reception, demanded a theme for improvisation and instantly crafted a set of variations of magnificent splendor. Upon finishing his performance, he slammed the door behind him and stormed out, leaving a dumbfounded Mozart in his wake. Mozart, pointing at the retreating figure, reportedly turned to his friend and cried, "That youth will make his name thunder across the world!"

Having lost his father, Beethoven finally resolved to settle permanently in Vienna, the capital of music. 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, it is said he endeavored to adapt to urban manners—following the trends of the time by lengthening his coat tails, growing a beard, and even taking dance lessons. The mere thought of Beethoven’s dandyish appearance cannot help but provoke a wry smile; fortunately, Beethoven himself realized that the life of a fashionable gentleman did not suit him, and before long he abandoned that urbane existence to return to his true self as a rustic.

In his later years, Beethoven remained an uncouth and unpolished man—his unkempt lion’s mane of hair, piercing heron-like eyes, an untrimmed beard left to grow wild, a coat stuffed with belongings and worn inside out, shoes with worn-out soles—roaming through Vienna and its outskirts in such a state, even startling cows on his beloved country walks. The *Appassionata Sonata*, the *Fate Symphony*, and the *Emperor Concerto* could only have been born from a state of artistic conflagration into which everything was cast. Had Beethoven remained a dapper gentleman of urban refinement—the mere thought of which fills me with dread—we would likely never have gained the vast realm of musical art that stands as humanity’s most precious treasure.

A Colossal Self-Respect

Beethoven's self-respect was colossal in scale, unparalleled among all artists. His unyieldingly indomitable soul and haughtily unyielding attitude—at times turning all of Vienna into his enemy—compelled the entire world to kneel at his feet. Haydn kept his distance by dubbing him the "Mongol King," while Goethe recoiled in astonishment, declaring him an "untamable savage." There was the time he rebuked murmuring noblewomen at a concert with "This piano isn't for swine like you!" before slamming the lid shut and storming out; or during the Franco-Prussian War, when French officers at Prince Lichnowsky's battle-free estate demanded he play for them—only for him to resolutely refuse and march two hundred kilometers back to Vienna.

He quarreled with servants, neighbors, theater managers, and patron nobles, spending nearly his entire life in conflict. While walking with Goethe, when they encountered Viennese court nobles, he declared, “Let’s see what attitude those people will take toward us—why don’t we try this?” Pulling down his hat brim and buttoning his coat, he marched straight into the midst of the nobles. The princess in the entourage, upon seeing Beethoven’s audacious demeanor, smiled and greeted him, stepping aside to let him pass; yet when he looked back, Goethe stood by the roadside, bowing respectfully at the waist with utmost courtesy as he let the nobles pass. “You are a great man,” said Beethoven to Goethe as he caught up to him, “but you are too courteous toward those people.” Goethe—a distinguished retainer of Weimar, a great poet, a great statesman, and a man of high social standing—must have given a bitter smile at Beethoven’s barbarity.

When Napoleon decisively ended the bloody tragedy of the French Revolution, Beethoven—enraptured by his heroic spirit—composed his *Third Symphony* and sought to dedicate it to him. He had already gone so far as to complete the formalities through the French ambassador, but upon hearing that Napoleon had become Consul and de facto dictator of France, he tore the title from the score—declaring "He too is just an ambitious upstart!"—and hurled it into a cabinet. But years later, when Napoleon fell from power and was exiled to Saint Helena, he retrieved that score and, pointing to the funeral march of 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—which he had written as the second movement of the *Third Symphony* and which might be called "the sorrow of victory"—coincidentally aligned with the fact of Napoleon’s downfall.

Beethoven’s haughtiness was the subject of countless anecdotes. Yet we must not overlook that what formed the undercurrent of his character was an exceptional "love for humanity" and an affectionate nature toward people. Beethoven’s biographers state that he was sociable yet prone to loneliness—a man of deep affection. Why did this friend-loving soul have to seclude himself within a shell of solitude and view the world with scorn? That was—for a musician—a fatal affliction; needless to say, the result of his ear disease having progressed.

Conquering the Fear of Deafness

For a musician to lose their hearing is unimaginable terror. Beethoven’s ear disease first showed symptoms shortly after he turned twenty; by twenty-seven or twenty-eight, it had become impossible to conceal. At thirty-four, he abandoned piano performance, and by thirty-eight, he had reached a state where he could barely hear. For a musician who must possess auditory organs superior to ordinary people to discover their gradual deterioration and resign oneself to it—this was akin to enduring a drawn-out massacre, inch by inch. Beethoven initially concealed his hearing loss but ultimately abandoned social interactions and had to deliberately become a “misanthrope.” He wrote of his state of mind at that time to a friend as follows: “I must lead a truly sorrowful 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 all that God has created.” A first-rate musician whom both he and others acknowledged was gradually losing his hearing. In all the world, there was nothing so terrifying as this.

At thirty years old, Beethoven wrote his first will and subsequently attempted suicide twice. "My ears must be more perfect than those of ordinary people—how can I say that I cannot hear? Death will liberate me from infinite adversity—" Beethoven wrote thus. But this suffering was not the scourge given to slay the giant. After despair and loneliness had ceaselessly tormented the giant’s great soul, he awakened in a sudden flash of enlightenment.

That was an idea imparted by Plutarch’s *Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans*. “As long as one can still do some good in this world, one must not take one’s own life.” Thus, Beethoven, believing in the loftiness of his mission and the immortality of art, painfully refrained from committing suicide.

The *Fifth Symphony*, said to depict the struggle between fate and humanity, was composed around this time. Under fate's cruel oppression, humans raising feeble moans through their will's power finally overcame destiny and charged toward final victory with a triumphant cry—this formed the essence of the piece. Beethoven was the musician who first pioneered "art for life's sake." Before Beethoven, mainstream music had largely been written for formal refinement and an insatiable pursuit of beauty—works often containing entertainment elements. But with Beethoven came music incorporating life philosophies and metaphysics, channeling his inner spiritual substance and lived experience directly into musical expression to create compositions that bled raw vitality when cut. For Beethoven, life itself was music, and music his autobiography. "I don't write my works for money," Beethoven once boasted—though it might be more accurate to say he didn't compose for technical display or contrivance. For his music reflected the mindset of each era it was created—not a single piece was artificial, each one being living, pulsing music coursing with vitality.

After the *Fifth Symphony* and the *Appassionata Sonata*, Beethoven wrote bright and serene pieces—splendid and grand works—for a time. The *Pastoral Symphony*, *Violin Concerto*, and *Emperor Concerto* are prime examples of this.

Beethoven, who never missed making two daily circuits around Vienna's outskirts regardless of rain or wind, boldly declared, “I love nature more than humankind,” believing that God’s glory was most profoundly manifested through nature. The *Pastoral Symphony*—music of unparalleled beauty praising nature—was born from this very state of mind.

*Grand Resignation*

The *Missa Solemnis* and the *Ninth Symphony* were Beethoven’s final two great masterpieces. One was the crystallization of Beethoven’s faith, as expressed in the inscription “From the heart—may it return to the heart,” while the other should be called a grandiose manifestation of the human love possessed by the giant. Above all, a work such as the *Ninth Symphony* stands as the highest form of art humanity possesses, its noble strength transcending language. At the end of fate’s oppression, the struggle against evil, and all tribulations, the jubilant joy of victory awaits us. Borrowing Schiller’s poem, the jubilant song of the final chapter soars and resounds even to the heavens—. Never before had music possessed such a grand form; never before had art moved people so profoundly. In later years, there is a famous anecdote that when Wagner, tormented by despair and poverty, had become utterly self-destructive, he heard the Ninth Symphony and was so moved that he was inflamed with passion, rising resolutely to embark on the path toward his great success.

After the *Ninth Symphony*, Beethoven gradually entered the serene and solitary realm that would come to characterize his final years. Deafness, loneliness, grievances—all were conquered, and a grand resignation soothed the giant’s soul. After resolving the troublesome problem with his nephew Karl, he spared no effort in borrowing the string quartet form to give voice to his innermost thoughts on staff paper.

The late string quartets composed for four string instruments by the great musician who had severed all ties with the sounds of the external world are truly noble (Op. 127, 130, 131, 132, 135). These works did not save Beethoven economically, but for us of later generations, they are irreplaceable gems. Beethoven’s inner voice, having renounced worldly desires and severed ties with society, adopts the form of string quartets to fully depict the sacred beauty of grand resignation.

Beethoven was lonely and poor. Although he never lacked for daily necessities, he never earned enough to live a wealthy life; even when patrons had provided numerous annuities, these too ceased in his later years, and despite various efforts, the Viennese government did not willingly protect this giant’s livelihood.

Beethoven had an unremarkable appearance and such a rough manner that he was once mistaken for a vagrant and detained. In his youth, beginning with his marriage proposal to the actress Magdalena Wilmann—rejected with the reason “because you’re ugly”—Beethoven had relationships with Therese von Brunswick and Giulietta, to whom he dedicated the *Moonlight Sonata*. Yet though he kept Therese’s photograph until his death, leaving behind the legend of an “eternal beloved,” he never married anyone. Beethoven was not the sort of man to be favored by women in general, and as his biographer Paul Bekker states, his heroic spirit was also “not one to throw away his life for women.”

Moreover, Beethoven’s music was not easily understood in his time; Goethe was terrified by the Fifth Symphony, and even his own disciples were dissatisfied with the Ninth. It was only natural that Beethoven, having finally given up on Vienna where he had long resided, sought to find a settled home in Britain, following the precedents set by Handel and Haydn. At the time when he was buying and eating his favorite fish with the advance payment sent from Britain, burning with hope for his new life there—Beethoven’s health was already beyond saving. On March 26, 1827, amid a day when spring thunderstorms raged violently, he died saying, “The comedy has ended—applaud, my friends!”

The funeral two days later drew tens of thousands of mourners, and soldiers were mobilized to manage the crowds, but whether Beethoven would have truly welcomed this remains unknowable. Beethoven's works are prodigious in number, with half being recognized masterpieces and distinguished pieces. To select the truly representative works from among them, one should count: from the nine symphonies—the Fifth, Sixth, and Ninth; from the thirty-two piano sonatas—the *Appassionata*, *Waldstein*, and Opp. 109, 110, 111; from the ten violin-piano sonatas—the *Kreutzer*; from the sixteen string quartets—Opp. 131, 132, and 135; along with the *Emperor Concerto*, *Violin Concerto*, *Archduke Trio*, and finally the *Missa Solemnis*.

Regarding Beethoven’s biography and his music, it remains impossible to discuss them exhaustively. Yet one may affirm with certainty that across all artistic domains, no works exist possessing such formidable power and passion. Through Beethoven’s music alone can we mortals apprehend—with greatest clarity—the searing emotional convulsions, profound agonies, willpower to conquer them, and extraordinary exaltations beyond our lived experience. This might well be called the profound joy reserved solely for those granted earthly life and initiated into art’s mysteries.

Beethoven's Works and Their Records

I finally reached Beethoven's records. While reverence for Beethoven was not unique to Japan, the notion that Western music would be unthinkable without him—though somewhat excessive—was truly commendable in terms of music's power to spread and penetrate culture. In a virgin soil for music like Japan, how invaluable Beethoven proved in rapidly implanting good music—artistic music. That heroic soul and music of power and heat would ultimately compel every person at least once before they yielded.

I intend to speak here solely about records, but approximately twenty percent of the world's artistic records (so-called masterpiece 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 it would be fair to say that half of the letters in record magazines' Q&A columns are entirely occupied by discussions about selecting recordings of his *Fifth Symphony* and *Violin Concerto*.

From that vast number of records, selecting truly excellent ones was an extremely difficult task, but from among them I resolved to list only the representative records of representative works.

Symphony

First are the nine symphonies. Even covering all the records for these alone would likely require dozens of pages of description, but I intend to proceed by adhering as much as possible to a one-work-one-record principle.

For the "Symphony No. 1 in C Major, Op. 21," let us select Mengelberg’s newer Telefunken recording (53620–2), with the Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam. Next, Toscanini’s Victor recording with the BBC, though somewhat dated, offers an exhilarating performance (JD-1546–9). For the "Symphony No. 2 in D Major, Op. 36," interest leans toward the graceful beauty of Weingartner’s Columbia recording with the London Symphony Orchestra (JW 299–302), while Telefunken’s Kleiber subsequently garners attention.

The "Symphony No. 3 in E-flat Major, Op. 55 (*Eroica*)" is a significant work with a vast number of recordings. Recently, three types of records have been slated for pressing in Japan: Toscanini conducting the NBC Orchestra for Victor, Walter leading an American orchestra for Columbia, and Mengelberg directing the Concertgebouw Orchestra for Telefunken. Which of these is superior will likely have become a topic of deep interest by the time this book sees publication. Among those released in Japan so far, Mengelberg for Victor and Weingartner for Columbia were the ones in question.

For the "Symphony No. 4 in B-flat Major, Op. 60," there were Mengelberg’s recording with Telefunken’s Concertgebouw Orchestra (43608–11) and Toscanini’s with Victor’s BBC (VD8086–9), but due to the orchestras involved, the former held greater appeal. The *Symphony No.5 in C Minor, Op.67* stands apart. Even among records made after the advent of electric recording alone, there were at least twelve or thirteen sets, each one painstakingly recorded by the world’s great conductors exerting their utmost skill. However, time had winnowed out anything even slightly outdated or inferior, and it was now safe to say that the records of the *Fifth Symphony* standing at the forefront were limited to four conducted by Weingartner, Mengelberg, Toscanini, and Furtwängler.

If one were to select a *Fifth Symphony* with enduring longevity from among these, ultimately seven or eight out of ten people would likely bow to Toscanini and Furtwängler. Toscanini’s Victor recording of the *Fifth Symphony* (JD-162–4), conducted with the NBC Orchestra—a mysteriously dry production stripped of reverberation—combines a blazing power that subtly builds to its climax, classical refinement at a slightly brisk tempo, and a performance imbued with indomitable spirit and passion: it stands as magnificent. In contrast, Furtwängler’s Columbia recording of the *Fifth Symphony* with the Berlin Philharmonic (JS 1–5) proves thoroughly dramatic, fiercely subjective, and abundant in inventive touches. Though no *Fifth Symphony* matches this one in meticulous nuance, compared to Toscanini’s, it risks feeling unmoored from reality and tinged with theatricality. Yet I believe no listener would ever regret hearing both together.

The "Symphony No.6 in E Major Op.68 (Pastoral)" stood as the most beloved among Beethoven's nine symphonies. While numerous recordings existed, I regarded Bruno Walter's rendition with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra as paramount at that time (Columbia J8748-52). Never had this serene pastoral symphony been performed with such exquisite beauty. It remained quintessentially Viennese while Walter's distinctive sensibility - transformed into a delicate gleam and tenderness - gently suffused the entire work. By contrast, Toscanini's interpretation emerged grandly vigorous yet ruggedly elemental; Weingartner's recording showed its age through antiquated acoustics; Paray's reading struck one as emotionally frigid. I felt compelled to add that Schalk's vintage interpretation still commanded devotion among certain connoisseurs.

For the "Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Op. 92," I recommend Toscanini’s recording with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD-819–23). It combined the orchestra’s eager precision with Toscanini’s vigor in controlling them, achieving such intensely magnificent heights that calling it merely splendid would be inadequate. The passion and vigor inherent in this piece—what has been termed its Bacchanalian frenzy—undeniably finds its truest expression in Toscanini’s interpretation. Weingartner’s Seventh remains sufficiently beautiful, yet its excessive elegance leaves one craving greater visceral impact.

For Symphony No.8 in F Major Op.93 conducted by Mengelberg through Telefunken—a master of Concertgebouw Orchestra—his seasoned artistry would likely claim primacy through moderate passion paired with meticulous attention and cumulative excitement—a truly masterful achievement indeed (43601–3). Though somewhat dated among electric recordings Columbia’s Weingartner remains an indispensable interpretation one cannot disregard. Beethoven’s Symphony No.9 in D Minor Op.125 ("Choral") stands peerless among his hundreds of works—a masterpiece leaving none unmoved—yet surprisingly few recordings exist surpassing Weingartner’s Columbia production from seven years prior featuring Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and State Opera Choir.This performance dazzles through restrained grandeur typical of Weingartner yet achieves flawless cohesion; its extraordinary craftsmanship guides this spiritually intense work toward supremely elegant climaxes unmatched elsewhere upon listening(J8371–8). First-rate soloists and choristers abound particularly baritone Meyer whose contribution shines preeminently.

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

Overture

Beethoven composed as many as twelve overtures, among which *Leonore No. 3*, *Coriolan*, and *Egmont* stand out as both famous and exceptional. *Leonore No. 3* was one of four overtures Beethoven composed for his opera *Fidelio*, standing as one of his masterpieces that most fully exemplifies his distinctive qualities. There are countless records available, but Columbia’s recording of Walter conducting the Vienna Philharmonic (JS50–1), while free of dramatic exaggeration, remains the most serene listening experience. Next, Columbia’s Mengelberg also proves excellent.

The *Coriolan* Overture recording is slightly dated, but there remains none better than Mengelberg conducting the Concertgebouw Orchestra (Columbia J8042). The world's great record collections include Walter's interpretation, though the London Symphony Orchestra's performance shows a slight decline in quality. There exist numerous recordings of the *Egmont* Overture. Among these, Furtwängler's Polydor recording with the Berlin Philharmonic—though imposing—stands as likely the finest (45105 and Famous Works Collection). Though somewhat dated in recording quality, Mengelberg's conducted versions also qualify as masterpieces, available through both Victor and Columbia.

Piano Sonata

Beethoven's thirty-two piano sonatas could be said to be a record of his soul poured into this instrument, standing as his most significant works after the nine symphonies. If I were to write about each individual record, it would require an enormous number of pages, so I decided to list representative recordings for the works deemed most important. The only recording to have performed all thirty-two pieces in their entirety was Victor’s *Beethoven Piano Sonata Society* record. The performer was Artur Schnabel, the foremost Beethoven interpreter of his time, this monumental work spanning thirteen volumes comprising eighty-one discs. This stood as a colossal spectacle in the record world—one that might be said to establish the standard for Beethoven’s piano sonatas—with its exquisitely refined interpretation and consummate technique evoking the image of an immense pyramid being erected. Even when comparing each piece individually, while there were those who played Beethoven differently from Schnabel, none could easily surpass him. Combining professorial rigor with virtuosic splendor, it was a performance anyone could appreciate—one radiating an exceptionally high degree of polish.

When listing outstanding records for each of the famous sonatas, Kemp’s passionate performance of the *Pathétique Sonata Op. 13* for Polydor deserves mention (65024). For the *Moonlight Sonata*, I endorse Victor’s Backhaus (JD-489–90), though Polydor’s Kemp also delivers a robust, German-infused gravitas (30108–9). The *"Waldstein"* is among the most brilliant of the thirty-two sonatas, but excluding Schnabel, I hold a fondness for Victor’s older recording by Lamond (D-1983–5). Kemp’s Polydor recording is also excellent, brimming with rich emotion (40536–8). The *Appassionata* would still be Kemp’s Polydor recording as the choice apart from Schnabel (S-4033–5). However, the recording quality of this record is quite poor. For the *Farewell Sonata*, apart from Schnabel’s interpretation, there exists no excellent recording other than Backhaus’s Victor record (JD-622–3). "Sonata No. 109 in E Major," "Sonata No. 110 in A-flat Major," and "Sonata No. 111 in C Minor" unfortunately have no recordings comparable to Schnabel’s. Among these, Kemp’s recording possesses a somewhat distinctive merit. Above all, Schnabel’s performance in the final C Minor Sonata is masterful; though the recording is somewhat dated, it remains truly radiant.

String Quartet

It is precisely through these sixteen string quartets that one can come to know Beethoven’s true essence. Above all, the late works from Opus 127 onward—composed after Beethoven had completely lost his hearing—embody his final state of mind, in which one might say his grand resignation, purified through art, is profoundly encapsulated.

The sixteen string quartets have been recorded in various ways, but the records made by the Capet Quartet—led by the French master Capet, who passed away in 1929—are the finest, followed by those of the Busch Quartet and the Lener Quartet. The Capet Quartet’s recordings are now twelve or thirteen years old, and though the age of the recordings is undeniable, their polished artistic realm has reached the highest and purest level; the five sets of records they left of Beethoven’s string quartets may truly be called treasures of the world’s music community.

As a general rule, anyone assembling these sixteen string quartets should first acquire the Capet recordings; where Capet was unavailable, one could opt for Busch, and where Busch was absent, choose Lener—there could hardly be any significant misstep with this approach. Of the six quartets in Opus 18, I recommend Busch for No. 1 and Capet for No. 5. For Opus 59’s *Razumovsky Quartet No. 1*, there existed Capet’s renowned performance (Columbia J8055–60); for No. 2, Lener’s new recording was available (same label JW225–8); and for No. 3, there was Busch’s interpretation (Victor JD311–4).

For the *Harp Quartet in E-flat Major, Op. 74*, there was Capet (Columbia J7410–3), while for Op. 95’s *String Quartet in B Minor*, Victor’s Busch delivered a masterful performance (JD71–2). This piece proved notoriously difficult to perform, with renditions rarely capturing Beethoven’s full depth and beauty—yet Busch’s solid yet fervent playing conquered it triumphantly. For the late quartet, Op. 127’s *String Quartet in E-flat Major*, Victor’s Busch existed (JD1008–12), while Quartet No. 130 survived only in Lener’s aged recording.

The *String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, Op. 131* stood as one of Beethoven’s greatest masterpieces alongside his two subsequent works, though there existed two outstanding recordings: Capet and Busch. The Capet Quartet offered delicate beauty while the Busch Quartet possessed venerable grandeur—it proved difficult to definitively favor either, though Capet held a slight edge in performance (Columbia S1093–7), whereas Busch’s recording boasted superior sound quality (Victor JD925–9). Capet’s performance of the *String Quartet in A Minor, Op. 132* constituted a masterful rendition marked by subtle grace and exquisite beauty. As for the divine quality permeating the third movement’s *Convalescent’s Hymn*, nothing comparable could be found (Columbia S1098–1102). Busch’s Victor record also represented an overall superb production.

The final *String Quartet in F Major, Op. 135* is where Victor’s Busch reigns supreme (JD476–9). This grandeur and lucid beauty lie beyond Lener’s reach—it may truly be called a masterful record.

Trio

There are quite a number of trios, but not so many recordings exist, and only two piano-cello-violin trios have been recorded. Of these, the *Ghost Trio (Op. 70 No. 1)* is unremarkable, but the *Archduke Trio, Op. 97* stands as one of Beethoven’s mid-period masterpieces. The Victor record by the Casals Trio—featuring Casals (cello), Thibaud (violin), and Cortot (piano)—is an old recording from twelve or thirteen years ago, yet it remains a majestic and radiant presence. The piece’s quality is undeniable, but this stately beauty truly defies description (JI80–4).

Violin Sonata

There are ten violin and piano sonatas. The only complete recording of all ten pieces is Victor’s *Beethoven Violin Sonata Society* record by Kreisler and Rupp, comprising four volumes and twenty-seven discs—though authoritative, it somewhat betrays Kreisler’s advancing years. For those wishing to collect one or two pieces, they should first listen to the two works: 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 recording was once considered excellent, those who find it somewhat dated may prefer Columbia’s Goldberg and Kraus version (J8521–3). It is an exquisitely beautiful performance—so perfect it feels almost cold. Victor’s Busch and Serkin also deliver a masterful performance, but it lacks emotional warmth.

The 'Kreutzer Sonata' stood as one of Beethoven’s most bewitchingly elegant and magnificent works across his entire oeuvre—yet even now I find something astonishing in Columbia’s vintage recording featuring Hubermann and Friedmann. However, if we consider that version too antiquated by modern standards—should we then default to Kreisler and Rupp after all? Yet Thibaud and Cortot’s Victor recording continues to enjoy widespread popularity even today. This owes to its serene French-styled interpretation—arguably the most approachable rendition available. Though its sonic quality remains decidedly archaic by contemporary measures.

Romances The two violin Romances were not so much known for being good or interesting as they were commonly recognized. In recordings, Elman included both *Romance No. 1 in G Major, Op. 40* and *Romance No. 2 in F Major, Op. 50*, but they lacked significant charm. Thibaud had his supporters, but his style was undeniably dated.

Cello Sonatas and Cello Pieces

Three cello sonatas were recorded. The recording of Beethoven's *Cello Sonata in A Major, Op. 69* by Casals (cello) and Schulhof (piano) stood as an absolute masterpiece; though aged in its recording quality, its vast spiritual force and stately grandeur compelled listeners to doff their hats in reverence. Another recording—the *Cello Sonata in C Major, Op. 102 No. 1*—appeared in the Victor Lovers' Association's third volume collection. This work, together with the final cello sonata (in D Major), portrayed Beethoven's late-life mentality—a composition marked by some bitterness yet imbued with passionate profundity. Casals' (cello) and Horszowski's (piano) performance remained free from vulgarity while achieving splendid execution.

Piatigorsky (cello) and Schnabel (piano) have recorded the *Cello Sonata in G Minor, Op. 5 No. 2*, but it lacks brilliance. Rather, though an old recording, Casals’ *Seven Variations on a Theme from The Magic Flute* (Victor JF80–1) exudes charm and beauty.

Piano Concerto For the five "Piano Concertos," I unhesitatingly favored Victor’s Schnabel recordings. Even if Sargent—who conducted the orchestra—proved highly unsatisfactory, one could not say it significantly marred Schnabel’s golden discs. Particularly No. 4 and No. 5 ("Emperor") stood out as exceptional. Though Backhaus’s excellent recording existed for No. 4, common sense dictated it remained prudent to choose Schnabel for a complete set. Gieseking’s recordings of No. 1 and No. 5 offered unconventional performances that might appeal to modern tastes yet somehow felt 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 was the most beloved composition, and its blazing beauty never ceased to inspire. Among that vast array of records, I still felt an attachment to Kreisler’s early electric-era recording despite its age (Victor 8074–9). It was indeed a faint-sounding recording, yet it captured Kreisler in his forties at the pinnacle of his artistry—its opulent beauty overflowed with tenderness that remained utterly unparalleled. The orchestra was that of the Berlin State Opera under Blech’s baton; I could not forget the thrill when H.M.V. first imported this record.

It was seven or eight years later that Kreisler recorded this piece for the second time. Technically, there was no notable decline, but it no longer possessed the brilliance of its earlier days; though rich in depth, its beauty could not be spoken of in the same breath. Columbia’s Szigeti and Parlophon’s Wolfsthal, among others, remain unforgettable recordings that followed Kreisler’s.

Sacred Music and Art Songs

The *Missa Solemnis*, alongside the *Ninth Symphony* and *Late Quartets*, stands as one of Beethoven’s invaluable late works—a creation that should perhaps be placed among the highest echelons of artistic works ever conceived by humankind. Beethoven’s state of mind—who inscribed “May it come from the heart and return to the heart”—is also noble. The sole recording available is from Polydor (DaNippon Meikyoku Record Distribution Society M1–11). The renowned Bruno Kittel conducts the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra and Bruno Kittel Choir, with soloists of exceptional quality. The recording was made twelve or thirteen years ago, yet one feels that this particular record has not diminished in value in the slightest.

Among art songs, Lotte Lehmann’s rendition of “Leonore’s Aria” from Act I of *Fidelio* (Columbia JW30) and “The Drums Are Beating” from *Egmont* stand out. "Joy and Sorrow" (Columbia J5550) stand out among others. Polydor baritone singer Schlusnus’s recording of *Adelaide* is likely the foremost record among Beethoven’s art songs, both for the song and the singer (60184). *The Majesty of God* features solos by Hüsch and Tauber along with choral contributions from the Berlin Singers' League, but I always recall Schwarz’s older recording. "In the Dark Grave" features both Chaliapin and Schlusnus as masters of their craft.

Schubert: Fountain of Melody

Is there anyone who speaks of music yet does not know the beauty of the *Unfinished Symphony* or *Winterreise*? It was not music concocted through petty intellectual reasoning. Like birds singing in the fragrant breeze of early summer, these melodies overflowing from the heart were shaped by his wondrous genius, preserved on staff paper for millennia to come—this itself stood as Schubert’s gift to humanity.

Franz Schubert—who composed the *Unfinished Symphony*, composed *Linden Tree*, composed the *Trout Quintet*, composed *Ave Maria* and *Erlkönig*—to call him a friend to all hearts who remains by our side through all eras, what exaggeration could there be? The great 19th-century Russian pianist and eccentric Anton Rubinstein, upon hearing Schubert’s “Resting Place” from *Schwanengesang*, declared: “Once more—no, a thousand times (repeat that song).” “Alongside Bach and Beethoven, it is Schubert who truly stands as one of the three towering peaks of German music.”

There was not a hint of exaggeration in these words. The music that penetrated our spiritual lives, bringing pure solace and profound emotion morning and evening—there had likely been no one who would dispute placing Schubert first in this regard. Schubert’s music lacked Bach’s stately dignity, Beethoven’s solemn majesty, Mozart’s dazzling brilliance, and Brahms’ poised refinement—yet its nostalgic tenderness, overflowing affection, and radiant beauty stood unparalleled in all human music since its very inception. One might well have called this an oasis in the history of human culture, nor was there any hindrance to viewing it as art within art. It could indeed be said that Schubert was truly the noblest soul among those born of human mothers and an unwavering friend to humanity through a hundred generations.

It is said of Schubert that he was "the only composer who did not presume himself to be the greatest in the world." He was a soul of such humility that he scarcely recognized his own genius; whenever one of his songs happened to be met with thunderous applause, he would believe, "That’s all thanks to the singer Vogl’s skill." In fact, he even wrote in his diary: "The majority of that applause must have been for 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 way. What a stark contrast in character this presents when compared to Mozart, who never doubted his belief that "I am a once-in-a-century genius."

Schubert's gentle and beautiful music was conceived in this childlike heart. Like the spring sun, it is only natural that there is a reason why it does not fail to soothe the hearts of its listeners.

A Life Devoted to Song

Franz Schubert was born in 1797 in Vienna, the musical capital, as the thirteenth child of a poor schoolmaster. Despite his father’s meager salary and their far-from-easy livelihood, the atmosphere at home was sacred and profoundly musical. Schubert received his first music lessons from his father and elder brother; during their family’s chamber music performances that enlivened their home gatherings, his father—playing the cello—would constantly make mistakes, necessitating hesitant corrections from Schubert on viola.

He learned music theory and vocal techniques from a local choir conductor, but the young Schubert had already stealthily mastered everything the teacher sought to impart, so before long, the teacher had no choice but to resign. At twelve years old, a small-statured, timid boy with a pale face behind thick glasses—wearing his elder brother’s hand-me-down old hat and clothes sewn by his mother—entered the Convict school for training court musicians. There, he was taught by the renowned Salieri, once Beethoven’s teacher, and Rucziczka.

From around that time, young Schubert’s musical ideas gushed forth like a fountain, but he had no paper to write them down. His senior and lifelong friend Spaun would supply paper, allowing the fruits of Schubert’s genius to be committed to the page. At sixteen, when his voice changed and he had to leave the court choir, Schubert had already completed his First Symphony—such was the remarkable leap forward he had made. For the next two or three years, he assisted at his father’s elementary school as a substitute teacher, and at seventeen, composed seventeen songs, including *Gretchen am Spinnrade*. These were the first of Schubert’s legacy to be left to posterity. The following year, 1815, he wrote 157 songs, among which were *Heidenröslein* and *Erlkönig*. Above all, *Erlkönig* was composed in four or five hours one day toward the end of that year when, after reading Goethe’s poem and struck by inspiration, he worked as if possessed—yet Schubert had no piano to aid him in this composition. Just then, Spaun—who had come to visit—took Schubert to the Convict school, where Schubert himself sang while playing the accompaniment and was met with thunderous applause from his friends.

From then until his death in 1828 at the young age of thirty-one, Schubert left behind a staggering 1,200 compositions, more than half of which were art songs. Schubert seemed like a person born to sing. One might say he sang like a wild bird. Schubert’s musical ideas gushed forth inexhaustibly; if a poetry collection lay at hand, he would seize it and immediately set it to music. Owing to the torrential surge of his astonishing genius, he may have chanced upon this outlet in the poetry within reach. For Schubert, composition held no labor—rather, a fountain of melody and harmony ceaselessly welled up within him, perpetually seeking channels for its outpouring. Schubert composed operas, symphonies, masses, chamber music, lieder, and works in every other form, never once betraying any hint that this fount of genius might run dry. There exists an adage about “all things reverting to gold,” but for Schubert, it was “all things reverting to music.” No phenomenon in creation failed to serve as musical material for him; nor would it be excessive to say every motion of his thought was imbued with melody and harmony.

A Wandering Life

At nineteen years old, Schubert aimed for the position of music school director in Laibach but was defeated by a far less talented candidate; from then until thirty-one, he had to remain completely unemployed for the rest of his life. During this time, he worked as a tutor and received fees for composing pieces like *Geometrica*, yet his bohemian lifestyle persisted unchanged. Before long, a group called the "Schubert Circle" had formed around him, and days spent in frivolous merrymaking over trivial matters continued without end.

The unknown poets, solely because they were Schubert’s friends, had their poems set to music by him and thus left their names for a hundred generations. Some among them did help Schubert, but more often than not, many would turn the few florins he happened to earn into alcohol and sausages.

Schubert seems to have been loved by everyone. His humble and endearing personality was something those who met him even once could never forget. Spaun later gained social status and provided Schubert with material support, while the much older singer Vogl told him, “You show promise, but you lack the flair of a stage performer. You mustn’t squander such beautiful ideas in this way,” yet he could not forget the charm of Schubert’s songs and took every opportunity to perform them, introducing their beauty to society. Gradually, many people came to understand what Vogl had called “words and poetry transformed into music” and “thoughts clothed in musical garments.”

There was even a time when Schober, fearing that Schubert’s poverty would wither the budding sprout of his genius, took him into his own home and covered his living expenses so he could continue composing works unlikely to earn money. Professor Watteroth, Vienna’s eminent scholar; his beloved daughter Wilhelmine; Wilhelmine’s husband Witteczek—all remained Schubert’s steadfast friends throughout their lives. Moreover, Witteczek even went so far as to organize and collect Schubert’s manuscripts after his death. All of these should be seen as a reflection of Schubert the man’s good character.

Sacred Poverty

In 1818, the twenty-one-year-old Schubert was hired as a tutor by Count Esterházy of Hungary, parting from many friends to stay for a time at Esterházy Castle. At that time, Count Esterházy’s daughter Marie was thirteen years old and her younger sister Caroline was eleven; the Count’s bass, the Countess’s and Caroline’s alto, and Marie’s beautiful soprano sang joyfully to Schubert’s accompaniment. The compensation Schubert received amounted to a mere two florins per lesson, but having time to compose and being able to immerse himself in pastoral surroundings proved a thoroughly delightful experience for the Vienna-born Schubert.

The film *Unfinished Symphony* takes its subject from Schubert’s Hungarian period and skillfully dramatizes it, though in reality, the two young ladies may have been slightly too young to serve as Schubert’s companions.

Schubert’s Hungarian period also did not last very long. How he managed to live in Vienna during those several years—

There were times when aspects of Schubert’s financial life remained unclear. Under the pretext of being occupied with publishing mediocre works by popular writers, even when publishers took on twelve songs for a mere 160 florins, Schubert could not protest. From just one song among them—*Der Wanderer*—the publishers earned 27,000 florins over forty years starting in 1822. The magnum opus of his lifetime, the twenty-four songs of *Winterreise*, were bought for a mere one florin each. It was like trading jewels for lead coins, yet the publishers even pretended this was an act of benevolence.

Years of poverty and hardship continued.

Schubert was a true son of Vienna who knew no art of making wealthy patrons or nobles overvalue him to simplify his existence. It was Schubert who withdrew from all acclaim and scrutiny, ever living serenely among his impoverished companions. Though Schubert’s timidity bordered on the extraordinary, even his veneration of Beethoven proved no straightforward affair. He had never conceived of approaching this venerable master alone; only in 1822, when a music publisher escorted him there, did their first meeting occur. Though the elder composer produced pencil and paper for him, not a single musical phrase could he set down. Beethoven perused the works Schubert had brought and noted two or three harmonic lapses—yet the young man, overcome by embarrassment at even this attention, stole away like a chastened schoolboy.

Beethoven loved his pieces and had his nephew Karl play them, saying, “Schubert possesses a divine fire.”

Five years later, when Schubert visited again, Beethoven was already lying on his deathbed in a condition so grave he could no longer speak. Schubert gazed at this dying master and, without uttering a word with his hands clasped together, returned with tears welling in his eyes. Fourteen days later, Beethoven died. As one of thirty-eight torchbearers, Schubert walked alongside the coffin bearing this giant’s remains—but from that time onward, his own health too began to fail.

In the summer of the following year, 1828, plagued by dizziness and headaches, he moved to the suburbs on his doctor’s advice. One day at October’s end, while dining with a friend, he threw down his knife and fork, exclaiming, “The food tastes like poison.” This proved to be a sign of his fatal illness.

In November, there were days when he went without eating or drinking for eleven days straight. He had written to a friend that he could barely manage to go from his bed to a chair and stagger back—but a few days later, he developed a raging fever and died on November 19th, saying, “I cannot remain on this earth—there is no Beethoven here.” As Henry Finck observed, it might have been “a life that could have been prolonged had there only been money.”

In accordance with his will, he was buried beside Beethoven’s grave—a meager consolation for this once-in-a-generation genius who had perished at thirty-one years of age. The left-behind junk—old shoes, an old bedstead, and worn-out trousers—was appraised at sixty-three florins. Amidst these lay the handwritten manuscript of his immortal masterpiece, the Symphony in C Major—a fact that stands as nothing short of heartrending irony.

The Miracle of Genius

I have written fully of Schubert’s poverty and his human goodness. I must now add just a few words about the most important traits—the miracle of Schubert’s genius and his musical achievements, particularly his groundbreaking work in establishing German lieder. Schubert's genius was utterly transcendent. When taking a walk in the suburbs with friends and resting at an inn, he pulled out a volume from the complete works of Shakespeare on the shelf and said, “A wonderful musical idea has come to me—I wonder if there’s any staff paper here?” When his friend promptly drew staff lines on the back of a menu with a pencil, he swiftly wrote down upon it the noble masterpiece that would become the famous song *Hark! Hark! The Lark*.

When a musical idea came to him at night—and partly out of sheer laziness—Schubert would sleep with his glasses on so he could leap up and write it down immediately. One night he sprang from bed and wrote *Trout* as inspiration struck, but mistook the inkwell for the sand shaker used instead of blotting paper, sprinkling ink across the manuscript—an accident preserved among Schubert’s precious relics to this day. He composed *Issunboushi* while chatting with friends, while *Die schöne Müllerin* came to life after he visited a friend’s house, became enchanted by Müller’s poems he found in their empty room, and borrowed the poetry collection without permission to set it to music.

What a striking contrast this presents—the miracle of his torrential genius compared to Beethoven’s painstaking efforts: ten years to complete his First Symphony and thirty years spent preserving the choral theme of his Ninth in notebooks! Schubert moved from poem to poem, from musical idea to musical idea. Once he finished one composition, he would blithely forget it and immediately begin the next—this was Schubert’s method. When his friend, the singer Vogl, made slight adjustments to a song Schubert had composed and brought it to show him two weeks later, Schubert remarked, “This isn’t bad at all—who wrote this?” He had completely forgotten it was his own work.

Schubert surrendered himself to inspiration and composed like a torrential stream. The production of 1,200 works over eighteen years was not something he created in exchange for fame or money.

Regarding the time when he composed the twenty-four songs of *Winterreise*—a masterpiece among masterpieces—his good friend Spaun left behind 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 them to hear. We were utterly bewildered by the bleakness of those songs. When Schober said he only liked “Der Lindenbaum” among them, Schubert replied, “I love all these songs more than any others I’ve composed. Someday the time will come when you all come to love them too.”

What a sorrowful confidence that was! *Winterreise*, which might be likened to twenty-four luminous pearls, was not understood even by his friends at the time of its composition. However, Schubert’s words—"The time will come when you all come to love them"—proved remarkably accurate. Could there truly exist in this world any songs that surpass the twenty-four of *Winterreise*? Among all that humans have created, could there have been any other beautiful songs to rival those such as *Gute Nacht*, *Der Lindenbaum*, *Frühlingsglaube*, *Der Wegweiser*, or *Der Leiermann* among them?

Subsequently, the fourteen songs composed to poems by Rellstab and Heine were published posthumously as *Schwanengesang* ("Swan Song"), and now at last the world came to feel profound regret for having been so harsh toward the ill-fated genius Schubert. Among the fourteen songs of *Schwanengesang*, *Atlas*, *Die Stadt*, *Ständchen*, and *Aufenthalt*, *Am Meer* and *Der Doppelgänger*, among others, stand out as particularly exquisite gems. The German Lied was brought to perfection by Schubert.

Lieder existed before Schubert，but when it came to lieder，even Mozart and Beethoven produced few masterpieces． Schubert paid profound attention to German accents and，by harnessing the beauty of German poetry，founded an entirely new form of lied． Schubert was not only a treasure trove of melodies but also a master of modulation． Furthermore，he assigned the accompaniment a vital role as a backdrop，thereby embodying the ideal trinity of poetry，song，and accompaniment，and achieved an organic union of music and poetry．

Schubert’s lieder overflowed with entirely unique beauty. The masterpieces included twenty songs from _Die schöne Müllerin_, twenty-four from _Winterreise_, and _Schwanengesang_. In addition to these fourteen songs, his standalone works comprised *Der Wanderer*, *Erlkönig*, *Die Forelle*, and *Death and the Maiden*, “You Are My Repose,” “Litany”—and so on endlessly.

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 just one piece—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 delicate piano *Impromptus*, Schubert’s music always remains close to us, lavishly scattering love, beauty, and brilliance.

Schubert’s Works and Their Records I wrote repeatedly about how close a presence Schubert’s music is to us. Therein lies unparalleled beauty and an abundance of love. But without imposing weight or the intimidating aura typical of so-called masterpieces, it plunges directly into the depths of our hearts—possessing a goodness that compels us to sing along with Schubert.

The number of Schubert’s records was second only to Beethoven’s in abundance and likely surpassed even those of Mozart and Bach, but from among them I shall limit myself to selecting just one or two out of ten—the most representative and profoundly interesting.

Symphony

As far as the author knew, records of the *Unfinished Symphony* had existed for thirty years. There were likely over twenty recordings of the *Unfinished Symphony* in the world. Among all music created by human hands, there might exist works greater than this or more magnificent—but something as beautiful as this was scarcely ever found. Even if there had been a hundred varieties of recordings of the “Unfinished Symphony,” we would have had no reason whatsoever to be surprised.

If I were to select just one recording of the *Unfinished Symphony*, I would choose Walter’s Columbia record with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (J8642-4). Though it is a performance devoid of theatricality—simple and unadorned—it gently envelops our hearts in tender affection and romantic dreams. Following this, I would next cite Telefunken’s recording under Kleiber’s direction, which is sweeter still and more deeply sentimental.

The *Symphony in C Major* was known as a lengthy symphony, but by today’s standards, it was not particularly long; rather, considering its beauty, I even felt it was too short. The recording of Walter conducting the London Symphony Orchestra was available on Columbia (JS107–12). There were four or five other recordings available, but they were either outdated or unremarkable.

Overtures, Intermezzos, and Dance Pieces

The overtures, intermezzos, and dance pieces from *Rosamunde* were imbued with Schubert’s signature simplicity and charm, but for some reason, there were few good recordings of them. Though somewhat old, there was Furtwängler’s recording with the Berlin Philharmonic on Polydor (S-4041, Furtwängler’s Famous Recordings Collection) and, among newer ones, Walter’s with the London Symphony Orchestra on Columbia (JS-115). As for the "German Dances," I did not recall any good recordings other than Victor’s under Blech’s direction (JD-202).

Chamber Music There are two piano trios; among them, the *Trio in B-flat Major, Op. 99* is more beautiful, with four or five recordings available. Victor Records 8070-3—featuring the three masters Casals (cello), Thibaud (violin), and Cortot (piano)—despite being an extremely old recording from the early days of electrical recording technology, still unshakably reigns supreme over this piece. Additionally, Polydor carries the Nai Trio’s version, while Columbia has that of the Hess Trio.

The Trio in E-flat Major, Op. 100 was available on Victor with Adolf Busch (violin) and Rudolf Serkin (piano) (JD745–9). In the realm of string quartets, recordings had concentrated overwhelmingly on the *String Quartet in D minor*, known as the *Death and the Maiden* Quartet. This was because the second movement incorporated the song *Death and the Maiden*, transforming it into a beautiful yet supremely sorrowful set of variations; among string quartets, no one other than Beethoven had ever composed a piece so exquisitely beautiful and profoundly moving. The records were quite old, but the Columbia recording by the Capet Quartet, with its delicate and refined quality, remained foremost (Capet Society Volume 8 S-1103–6), followed by the Victor recording by the Busch Quartet with its robust excellence (JD-1031–4).

I thought it appropriate to mention another quartet: the Koritsch 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 adequately. This was also because the variations created using the song *Die Forelle* as the theme in the fourth movement were beautiful. For records, I ranked Victor’s Schnabel (piano) and Pro Arte Quartet’s bright and expansive performance as first (JD786–90), with Telefunken’s Rupp (piano) and Ströss Quartet’s recording as second.

The *String Quintet in C Major, Op. 163* is a quintet that includes a second cello—a large-scale, robust work. Victor has Pro Arte’s (JD615–9).

Piano Works

The "Piano Sonata in A Major (Posthumous)" stands out among Schubert’s piano sonatas, with the depth of his late years concealed within its brilliant form. Victor has Schnabel’s renowned recording (JD1087–91). The *Fantasia in C Major, Op. 15 (Der Wanderer)*—a characteristically passionate Schubert piece featuring a theme and variations from his song *Der Wanderer* in the second movement—is available on Victor with Fischer’s recording. I consider it a sincere and commendable performance (JD606–8).

The *Impromptus* are a deeply fascinating manifestation of Schubert’s innocence and unrestrained genius. Victor has two volumes of Fischer’s performances. In *Impromptus Op. 90* (JD1424–6) and *Impromptus Op. 142* (JD1427–9), this performance delights with the straightforwardness and passion befitting a professor of classical performance.

For *Moments Musicaux (Op. 94)*, there was Schnabel’s renowned recording on Victor Records (JD1584–6). This too spoke to an aspect of Schubert’s genius—its beauty untainted by worldly thoughts compelled quiet smiles. The *Marches* were included in five pieces through a collaborative performance by the Schnabels (father and son) on Victor Records (VD8021–3), both enjoyable and refreshing. The three piano works mentioned above—the *Impromptus*, *Moments Musicaux*, and *Marches*—had numerous recordings available, including arrangements for violin, cello, and orchestra, but I believed those by Fischer, Schnabel, and the Schnabels were more than sufficient. There was an excellent recording by Brailowsky on Polydor (40508) of Tauzig’s solo arrangement of the *Military March* from the Marches.

Violin and Cello Works

Several violin-piano sonatas have been recorded, but ultimately there is nothing of great note aside from the *Grand Fantasia in C Major, Op. 159*. This piece, even among Schubert’s works, possesses a profoundly ethereal first movement and a lively second movement that contrasts with it by employing the same melody as the song *Greeting*. The sole Victor record featuring Busch (violin) and Serkin (piano), though an old recording, is an elegant and fine one (VD8203–5).

Among cello sonatas, there was the *Sonata in A minor (Arpeggione)*. Schubert had written it for the arpeggione—an instrument now extinct—and Columbia Records had produced a version arranged as a cello concerto; both remained fascinating. Here I would cite the former: Victor Records JH22–3 with Hölscher (cello) and Ney (piano), alongside Columbia Records JW75–7 with Feuermann (cello) and Moore (piano). It was a sweetly delightful piece.

Lieder The true merit of Schubert lies in his songs, and the radiance of his genius will endure as an eternal charm through his Lieder.

Among the three great song cycles, for *Die schöne Müllerin*, I absolutely recommend Victor’s baritone singer Gerhard Hüsch (JD724–31). There was no one who could sing this cycle of twenty romantic songs as skillfully and honestly as he did, bringing forth delicate beauty and profound sadness within a seemingly straightforward delivery. The twenty-four songs of *Winterreise* surpass even *Die schöne Müllerin* in their vocal excellence, but Hüsch’s rendition of them was even more magnificent. This song cycle—said to foreshadow Schubert’s death—was an exceedingly grim work; yet Hüsch’s performance maintained rigorous fidelity to Lieder conventions while possessing infinitely profound expressiveness and heartrending beauty. I believe Victor pressed this monumental nine-disc collection three times due to Japanese appreciation for German Lieder (Schubert Lieder Collection JD357–62, JF50–2).

In *Winterreise*, there are one or two songs with recordings worthy of recommendation alongside Hüsch’s. That will be addressed in a later entry.

*Swan Song* was even bleaker than *Winterreise*. Among its pieces, works like *Rast*, *Der Doppelgänger*, and *Am Meer* could feel unbearable to hear, yet their vocal beauty remained unparalleled. In the realm of tragic artistic beauty, few creations could rival this. Of these fourteen songs, there existed no recording by Hüsch—the sole complete version on Victor was baritone Hans Duhan’s (JE114–7, JD1057–9). Duhan was hardly a virtuoso, but his sincere directness made renditions like *Rast* remarkably compelling.

In single-disc records, when classified by singer, Polydor’s renowned tenor Slezak shone brightest in his early electrical recordings—particularly *Lindenbaum*, *Serenade*, *By the Sea*, *Rest You Now*, and *Restlessness*, which stood as masterpieces (Polydor: *Slezak’s Favorite Song Collection*). There had been no Schubert sung with such meticulous affection and masterful artistry. The same Polydor’s baritone singer Schlusnus excelled in songs delivered with a flamboyant tone and rapturous sentiment. *Erlkönig*, *Serenade*, and *Der Wanderer* were likely representative records (Polydor: *Schlusnus’s Favorite Song Collection*).

Among female artists, mezzo-soprano Elena Gerhardt stood out. In particular, among the Schubert recordings from the very early days of electrical recording that she made when still young, there were indeed what one might call masterpieces. It was a depth of understanding, a profound voice, and an exceptionally unique expression. The Victor recordings of *Der Leiermann*, *Frühlingsglaube*, *Die Forelle*, and *Auf dem Wasser zu singen* represented her most outstanding achievements, while *Der Wegweiser*, *Nacht und Träume*, *Der Lindenbaum*, and *Die Post* followed closely behind.

Elisabeth Schumann, Victor’s soprano singer, was beloved by Japanese fans for her lovely, clear voice. "Heidenröslein," "Ave Maria," and "Hark! Hark! The Lark" stood as fine examples of her charming repertoire.

Lotte Lehmann’s recordings of *Erlkönig* and *Death and the Maiden* on Columbia could be heard. Victor’s Ginstar also had several [recordings], and there were some by Mrs. Schnabel as well, but those would be omitted.

Among alto singers, there was Victor’s Anderson, who had recently gained fame as a Black and mixed-race artist. Though I never particularly cared for them, pieces like *Death and the Maiden* were likely considered his representative works. Victor’s Onegin remained peerlessly seasoned, demonstrating exceptional skill in *You Are My Repose*. Schumann-Heink’s *Erlkönig* also deserved mention here. As for the rest, I believed there were no other Lieder singers of real note.

The Pure-Hearted Prodigy: Berlioz

The Heart of a Child

Hector Berlioz is the most extraordinary musician in the world.

As a composer, his achievements were superhuman leaps from mountaintop to mountaintop, and his artistic vision was even heroic; yet Berlioz the man possessed a childlike innocence, a maiden-like sentimentality, such that even his own self-control was tenuous, and he did not hesitate to lay bare his vulnerabilities at every turn. Berlioz—who had not ceased mountain climbing until sixty-five, who casually took walks in rain and even slept in snow when driven by passion, Berlioz with his iron-like physique—could not forget the yearning he had felt at twelve for Estelle, a girl six years his senior with large eyes and rose-colored shoes. Even at sixty-one, fifty years later, he desperately tried to find traces of her eighteen-year-old self in the wrinkled face of Estelle, now a woman nearing seventy. He concentrated his very life on the remote village where she lived, declaring, “This autumn, I shall spend a month by her side.” “If no letter comes from her, I will die in this hell of Paris,” declared Berlioz.

He sat on the stone pavement of Paris’s streets and wept. But there was no way old woman Estelle could comprehend this madman’s antics. She could at best write to him, “What good would that do now?” But the aged Berlioz, despite that, could only dream of dying by her side. “To sit at your feet, rest my head on your knees, and hold your hand—” such was the spirit of Berlioz, a sixty-year-old boy, as he wrote these words.

Yet in music, this man with the heart of a child was a warrior who boldly and straightforwardly accomplished the most innovative work. The masterpiece *La Damnation de Faust* had been begun the year following Beethoven’s death, and two years later—in 1830—he had already commenced work on *Symphonie fantastique*, the first great programmatic work, thereby paving the thorny path for modern music. At that time, not only had Liszt yet to emerge, but even Wagner’s *Rienzi* had not appeared; needless to say, the world still lay bound by classical musical forms’ constraints, oblivious to tomorrow’s dawn, indulging in dreams of peace. Romain Rolland declared Berlioz to be “the only French musician,” and Felix Weingartner stated that “had Berlioz not existed—regardless of Wagner or Liszt—we would not be where we are today”: these remarks are truly apt.

Poverty and Pure-Heartedness

Hector Berlioz was born in 1803 near Grenoble, France. His father, a physician, educated the child at home and even gave him his first lessons in music; but when Berlioz’s interest gradually shifted toward music and eventually developed into an abnormal passion for it, his father—like most parents of the time—sternly opposed his son becoming a musician.

Berlioz, who was initially placed in medical school, could no longer endure the atmosphere of the dissection room and finally fled the school to devote himself to music. This impatience—a lifelong flaw that clung to Berlioz—provoked his father’s wrath, leading to the severing of tuition support; thus, Berlioz’s bleak existence began as early as this time. Berlioz’s dedication was splendid to the point of tears. It is no exaggeration to say that his seven years of arduous studies while battling poverty were heroic. He completed the regular curriculum of the Paris Conservatory, but his embraced Romantic tendencies—particularly his attitude of deviating from established conventions and ignoring antiquated traditions—could not avoid incurring the world’s resentment and attacks.

Berlioz was the most courageous destroyer of form. No—it could be said that destruction itself was Berlioz’s form. He was willing to write music that was not beautiful in the slightest if it meant answering his heart’s demands. Rather than cling to convention and resign himself to intellectual poverty, he chose to become the boldest rebel—a single spark striving to ignite new life through flame. Abandoned by both teachers and friends, Berlioz had to join a lowly theater choir to survive, scraping by through daily singing—yet the indomitable heroic spirit rooted deep within his fragile heart never wavered at such trials.

In 1830, Berlioz fortunately won the Rome Prize with his cantata *Sardanapale*, securing the opportunity to study in Rome for three years; but even here, Berlioz could not endure and ultimately returned to Paris in less than two years. To support his livelihood, he reluctantly had to take up music criticism as well.

Berlioz’s extraordinary eccentricity reached its peak in his relationship with Henrietta Smithson. This actress was a British-born beauty, but from the moment Berlioz glimpsed her Shakespearean performance, it became an indelible memory. Needless to say, the actress—then at the zenith of her popularity—bluntly rejected the impoverished composer’s proposal. Berlioz, that man of passion, wandered aimlessly like a madman. Night and day alike, it is said he “spent one evening in a field near town, one day in a pasture outside Sois­sons, another time in snow along the Seine’s banks—even startling a waiter who thought him dead by lying motionless on café tables—”

He wandered until he grew sleepy. And he despised her and cursed her. Berlioz’s masterpiece *Symphonie fantastique* depicts a young musician’s morbid fantasies, and as indicated by its movement titles—“Reveries,” “Passions,” “A Ball,” “Scene in the Countryside,” “March to the Scaffold,” and “Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath”—it plainly wrote of his ardent passion and curses toward Henrietta Smithson.

Several years passed.

When Smithson reappeared before Berlioz, she was no longer the woman she had once been. Having completely lost her charm, with her Shakespearean performances ending in utter failure and burdened by massive debts, she threw herself into the arms of Berlioz—the very man she had once refused to even glance at. Needless to say, the pure-hearted Berlioz welcomed her with open arms. The fourteen thousand francs of debt she brought with her—needless to say how this tormented Berlioz. He declared he would take revenge on Parisian audiences for his beloved wife Smithson, but such hopes remained but a dream. Even when *La Damnation de Faust* was staged with great expectations, not a single soul paid to attend, and Berlioz was utterly ruined.

Smithson, now his new wife, proved sensible and loyal but remained an utterly ordinary Englishwoman. Around that time, Berlioz once obtained a magnificent symphonic theme in a nighttime dream. Upon waking, he went to his desk and instinctively seized his pen—the beautiful music rang clear in his mind—but Berlioz had to pause. Downstairs, his wife and child lay moaning in sickness; with their medicine costs already precarious, what would become of them if he abandoned worldly pursuits to immerse himself in symphony composition? He knew full well he would forfeit all income for months through such work. Moreover, driven by fervor to stage it, he would need to assemble an orchestra, endure lengthy rehearsals, and somehow procure exorbitant funds for performances destined to lose money.

“Now is not the time to be engrossed in such things,” Berlioz told himself as he burrowed into bed. The following night, Berlioz dreamed the same dream again. A sublime theme rang clear in his ears—but the moans of his sick wife and child from downstairs shattered this fantasy once more, forcing him to resign himself to his pillow again. On the third night, the dream did not return. Nor did the symphony’s theme ever revive for Berlioz, no matter how he strained in later years. Thus Berlioz forfeited a celestial inspiration, and through his humanity—his fragile heart—we of posterity lost a beautiful symphony to the darkness from which it had come.

“He was heroic in sacrificing genius for love—had this been Wagner, he would have endured any hardship to write that symphony.” “And Wagner would have been right,” said Romain Rolland. It was around this time that Niccolò Paganini, the demonic virtuoso of the violin, moved by Berlioz’s destitution, suddenly presented him with an enormous sum of 20,000 francs—unconditionally and without any warning. Berlioz’s ecstasy danced across the pages of his autobiography. Paganini had publicly proclaimed of Berlioz, “He is none other than Beethoven’s successor,” which explained the significance of this gift of twenty thousand francs.

A Series of Torments

Berlioz’s life was truly an unending series of torments. Because of his capriciousness and purity—traits that common sense would find hard to sympathize with— It might be more accurate to attribute it to passion. His works received enthusiastic reception only during a brief period in his prime, while his middle age became an unbroken chain of bleak misfortunes. The Parisian audience never sought to understand Berlioz, and his works consistently became subjects of heated debate abroad—particularly in Germany. This was likely due to the presence of sympathetic figures like Liszt, Schumann, and Wagner there. And even today, it is said one must go to Germany to hear *La Damnation de Faust*.

When Wagner met Berlioz, he unconsciously let out a sigh of relief. When it came to "He had finally found someone more unfortunate than himself—", I felt as though I could see Berlioz's wretchedness right before my eyes. At forty-five years old, Berlioz said, "I've grown so old and weary— "I've lost even illusions—and everything." It was only natural that his works from middle age onward lacked vitality.

Later, Berlioz married the Spanish singer Maria Recio, but in his later years he lost his sisters, Smithson, and Louis—Smithson’s only son—becoming utterly alone and lamenting, “I have suffered greatly.” “But now I do not want to die.” “I have enough money to live on,” he said as he closed his eyes forever on March 8, 1869. ——When he had finally achieved stability in life, that day became the lonely Berlioz’s last.

Berlioz’s music was grand and richly shaded. Though Romantic, it lacked any trace of sweetness; he conceived orchestral works of unimaginable scale for his time and sought to overturn classical formalism at its very foundation. In program music, he clearly preceded Liszt, while his idée fixe technique may be said to have paved the way for Wagner’s leitmotif. Berlioz remained unrestrained, passionate, and directionless. This stemmed from his own inability to govern either his life or works. “To declare ‘He believes neither in beauty nor in himself’ rings true.” “Yet even a fragment of his work—even a fragment of the *Symphonie fantastique*—reveals more genius than all French musical works from his lifetime combined.” “There are but four or five musicians in the world who surpass him: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, and Wagner”—nor can this assessment by Romain Rolland be dismissed as mere nationalistic pride.

Berlioz’s Works and Their Records

Berlioz’s records were exceedingly scarce. These works were diverse and elegant, and of profound interest, but they possessed a quality that remained rather inaccessible to the general public. His music was too large-scale—likely overwhelming popular ears with its grandeur. “Berlioz will be understood half a century after Wagner” proved an astute prophecy.

*Symphonie fantastique* and Other Orchestral Works

For this representative work of Berlioz, there were up to four types of records—either complete or nearly complete performances conducted respectively by Monteux, Mylowits, Pierné, and Walter. Among these, the recent record conducted by Walter with the Paris orchestra—which appeared from Victor and was soon discontinued (VD 8146–51)—was likely the finest among recordings of this piece. Walter’s romanticism and technical brilliance, combined with Paris’s seasoned orchestra, skillfully rendered Berlioz’s fantastical vision. Another Victor record conducted by Monteux with the Paris Symphony Orchestra—though not newly recorded—possessed a rich allure and stood as a recording that would endure in contrast to Walter’s (11093–8).

The overture *Roman Carnival* is boisterous though it may be, but it is the most popular piece among Berlioz’s works. Various people such as Boult, Beecham, and Mengelberg have conducted it, but Mengelberg’s recording with the Concertgebouw is likely the best (Telefunken 33610).

Additionally, there were records of overtures such as *The Inquisitor*, *King Lear*, and *Benvenuto Cellini*. *La Damnation de Faust* and Vocal Records

Berlioz’s magnum opus, the dramatic narrative *La Damnation de Faust* based on Goethe’s poem, had been released by Victor as a celebrated complete ten-disc recording (JH 74–83). The lead role was sung by Panzerà, with Coppola conducting the Concerts Pasdeloup Orchestra and Sam Jervis Choir. This record became an impeccably splendid production that allowed one to fully savor the authentic merits of the original performance; even the famous "Rákóczi March" alone had no rival in this complete recording.

There are many recordings that include only the "Rákóczi March," but Stokowski’s conducting and the like would be interesting.

"The Rest of the Holy Family," a section from *L’Enfance du Christ (Op. 25)*, was available on Columbia as a recording conducted by Rühlmann with the Paris Symphony Orchestra and sung by Jean Planel (J-8436). As religious music, it possessed a distinctly earthy character while remaining profoundly beautiful. The Columbia record (J-8488) of “Vaines plaintes” and “Dernier naufrage” from *Les Troyens à Carthage*, sung by tenor Georges Thill, proved less compelling than “The Rest of the Holy Family” but nevertheless merited inclusion here.

The Fortunate Genius Mendelssohn

Mendelssohn’s name was once expunged from German music textbooks under the Nazi anti-Semitic campaign, but even as his name was erased, his exceptional music could not be eradicated—performances persisted under generic titles like “Violin Concerto in E minor” and “Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Recently, however, whether due to some easing of policies, Mendelssohn’s name has been restored to German textbooks, and his music now enlivens the German musical scene with great fanfare.

This is indeed 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 an immeasurable loss to human culture.

The Embodiment of Happiness

Throughout his short life, Mendelssohn was unusually fortunate among musicians. Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy—born February 3, 1809, in Hamburg as the eldest son of wealthy banker Abraham Mendelssohn—grew up bearing the world's full measure of good fortune, nurtured amidst overflowing 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 loving care of his mother and tutored by some of the most eminent masters, he came of age like a prince in a fairy tale alongside his sister Fanny, his sister Rebecca, and others. What a staggering contrast this presents when compared to Schubert, who grew up as the son of a poor elementary school teacher, and Beethoven, the son of an impoverished, alcoholic musician!

Mendelssohn’s music bore no trace of bitterness—it was bright, cheerful, pure, and splendid, possessing an almost excessive beauty and excessively polished craftsmanship—qualities that could indeed be said to stem from these circumstances. There were not a few people in the world who openly declared their dislike for Mendelssohn’s music; these individuals likely preferred music with richer contrasts, emotional outbursts, ideological themes, or tragic elements. However, one must remember that among seasoned elders, there were by no means few who said, “It is only when one grows old that one comes to appreciate Mendelssohn’s merits.”

Mendelssohn’s music may have been somewhat superficial, yet it remained fully Romantic, its technique exquisite and subtle beyond reproach. One might describe it as aristocratic. To call his music free from vulgarity would still fail to capture its peculiar charm. If any trace of melancholy could be found within it, this was a vein of pathos necessarily born from an inescapable sense of happiness—the wistfulness inherent in perfection itself. Yet extracting that "pathos" and "wistfulness" from Mendelssohn’s music proved exceedingly difficult. For his compositions were so richly steeped in resplendent joy, splendid and radiant through every measure from first to last.

Prodigious Genius Young Mendelssohn, within this environment, steadily nurtured his innate talent. At seven years old, his extraordinary talent for the piano was already recognized; at nine, he astonished Berliners with a public performance; by eleven, he had composed numerous works; and by fifteen, he had written several chamber music pieces, two operas, five concertos, a considerable number of solo works for piano and organ, and violin and piano sonatas.

The Mendelssohn family was intensely musical; not only did no one hinder Felix’s dedication to music, but they would occasionally gather close friends to host so-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. Needless to say, his sister Fanny played the piano and his sister Rebecca played the violin, participating in these concerts. The delight of young Mendelssohn’s works being premiered—sometimes in luxurious drawing rooms, sometimes in spacious gardens—is so heartwarming to imagine that it can’t help but bring a smile.

During this time, Mendelssohn met Goethe—the great poet revered by an entire generation—and was showered with words of praise; he formed a close friendship with Moscheles, then a renowned pianist; in 1824, at fifteen years old, he composed his *First Symphony in C Minor (Op. 11)*; and the following year, visiting Paris, he gained recognition from eminent seniors such as Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Cherubini. Mendelssohn was not only exceptional as a musician but also possessed an elegant demeanor, excelled in various sports, had a cheerful disposition, and was kind-hearted. As a result, he was loved by everyone he met, had many friends and admirers, and wherever he went, beautiful displays of friendship were always witnessed. Mendelssohn lacked the arrogance, coldness, or superficiality so often found in those raised in wealth.

In 1826, as Shakespeare’s German translations were completed, Mendelssohn developed an extraordinary fascination with *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*’s ethereal poetic qualities and composed its Overture in one breath before performing it at a Mendelssohn family concert. At that time—having just completed *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*—he lost its full score in a carriage and missed his performance deadline; yet he reconstructed it from memory with such haste that later comparisons revealed not even subtle discrepancies from his original manuscript. This stands as testament that Mendelssohn’s genius had already achieved full maturity by seventeen or eighteen years of age.

The thirteen pieces comprising Part II of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*—the “Scherzo,” “Nocturne,” “Wedding March,” and others—were composed seventeen years later in 1843, three years before his death. Yet it is said there was neither a difference in compositional approach nor any technical progression compared to the “Overture” written seventeen years earlier—further evidence that Mendelssohn’s genius had already reached full maturity in his youth. At the same time, this very fact underscores a striking contrast: Mendelssohn’s unexpectedly premature decline stands in sharp relief against Beethoven, who ceaselessly advanced and evolved while grappling with artistic struggles throughout his life.

Tragic Early Death Mendelssohn visited Britain as many as ten times during his short lifetime. Whether Britain’s climate agreed with Mendelssohn’s constitution or his works resonated with British sensibilities, he was acclaimed on every occasion and returned home brimming with satisfaction. It was likely that Mendelssohn’s aristocratic character and works aligned with the conservative, academic tastes of the British, who disdained anything crude. Even Mendelssohn’s somewhat superficial artistry cannot help but strike us today as remarkably British in character.

During this time, he composed the "Scottish Symphony," wrote an organ piece to celebrate his sister Fanny’s marriage, and created the famous overture "Hebrides." This is the famous tone poem he composed as an overture after visiting Scotland’s Fingal’s Cave and being awestruck by its grand vistas.

In 1831, while traveling through Italy, he conceived the musical ideas for his *Italian Symphony*, and in the following year saw the publication of the first volume of his tender piano piece *Songs Without Words*—which he had sent to his sister Fanny in place of personal correspondence. In 1833 he relocated to Düsseldorf and established himself there; two years later in 1835, he was appointed to the prestigious position of conductor at Leipzig’s Gewandhaus concerts, where he first encountered Chopin and Clara Wieck (later Mrs. Schumann). This marked a momentous occurrence in music history.

In 1837, Mendelssohn married Charlotte and was lifted to the pinnacle of happiness. The five years as conductor of the Gewandhaus were likely a time when even Mendelssohn—a man who seemed the very embodiment of happiness—experienced his most peaceful life and deepest fulfillment.

In 1841, King Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia, aiming to enhance Berlin's cultural prestige, set out to establish the Academy of the Grand Synthesis of Arts and invited Mendelssohn to serve as director of its music department. This was an honorable position that entailed considerable physical and mental strain and tedium, but the appointment was imperious and allowed no refusal; Mendelssohn had to shoulder this weighty responsibility with his already declining physical strength.

During this period, he continued his occasional visits to England and the work of founding the Leipzig Conservatory, fathered four children, met the young Joachim (who would become a great violinist), and completed Part II of *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*. It was around this time that he embarked on his magnum opus, the oratorio *Elijah*, while also completing his masterpiece, the *Violin Concerto*. In 1844, his health too began to show signs of decline from this period onward. In 1846, having devoted all his energy to composing *Elijah* and becoming utterly exhausted, Mendelssohn undertook his final visit to England in 1847 despite the strain. Upon returning to Frankfurt from Calais, he received news that his sister Fanny—who had supported him since their youth—had suddenly passed away. For Mendelssohn—a sensitive genius whose health had already completely deteriorated at the worst possible time—this blow seems to have been beyond imagining. He no longer had the strength to compose or the vigor to conduct.

In October of that year, he suffered a seizure and though he had once recovered, on November 4th he finally passed away. He was just thirty-nine years old—a tragically young age.

Mendelssohn’s Works and Their Recordings Mendelssohn’s music is utterly bright and beautiful. There is no profound gloom nor bitterness; instead, there is a gentle brightness akin to spring light, an overflowing tenderness, a noble orderliness, and a crystalline beauty. There are not necessarily many records, and one cannot help but feel that companies focused their efforts more on the single "Violin Concerto" rather than on famous symphonies or chamber music.

Violin Concerto in E minor Alongside Beethoven’s and Brahms’s violin concertos, it stands as one of the world’s so-called three great violin concertos. Positioned between the resplendent grandeur of Beethoven’s concerto and Brahms’s magnificent vigor, this work achieves supreme elegance and delicacy, its romantic emotional beauty remaining peerless. Following the ethereal grace of the first movement and the refined beauty of the second, the blazing passion of the third movement contrasts splendidly with its bold and triumphant magnificence.

There were numerous recordings available, but among Kreisler’s Victor releases where he had recorded this piece twice, the older one conducted by Blech with the Berlin State Opera Orchestra was the finest (8080–3). The later recordings made by the same Kreisler with a London orchestra, while not showing any decline in technical skill, could not match the initial recording—despite its poor sound quality—in terms of brilliance, youthful vigor, and beauty. However, when listening to this piece with good sound quality, one still could not discard Kreisler’s later recording (Victor JD 593–5).

Additionally, Menuhin's recording with the Colonne Orchestra conducted by Enescu exists on Victor. Those who consider choosing Kreisler to be a nostalgic affectation would do well to value Menuhin's youthfulness. Yet even so, I still cannot help feeling a nostalgia verging on tears for the tender affection and beautiful expressiveness Kreisler brought to this piece. If compelled to name a fourth choice, I would select Columbia's Szigeti for his unassuming solidity.

*A Midsummer Night’s Dream* and *Fingal’s Cave* It was rare to encounter works so celebrated yet so poorly represented by quality recordings. Typically only the *Overture*, *Nocturne*, *Scherzo*, and *Wedding March* were recorded—never the complete work. For the *Overture*, Furtwängler’s Polydor recording with the Berlin Philharmonic (45213–4), though technically antiquated, remained unmatched in its grandiosity and meticulous execution. Toscanini’s Victor record of the *Scherzo* with the New York Philharmonic (JD-1498) stood as a magnificent rendition. As for the *Nocturne* and *Wedding March*, no truly satisfactory recordings existed; given the latter’s utilitarian popularity, one reluctantly resorted to Sir Beecham’s Columbia version with the London Philharmonic (JW-108). On a tangential note, Rachmaninoff’s piano arrangement of the *Scherzo* proved exceptional—an exhilarating accomplishment (Victor JD803).

"There must be at least around twenty different recordings of *Fingal’s Cave*." The foremost recommendation among these is the Polydor recording conducted by Furtwängler with the Berlin Philharmonic (45088, or Furtwängler Masterpieces Collection Volume 3). While his conducting feels slightly heavy-handed for depicting this famous seascape, it remains flawlessly graceful, evoking the ocean's wondrous vistas.

Symphonies Mendelssohn’s symphonies are of utmost importance, though their recordings leave much to be desired. The *Scottish Symphony* and *Italian Symphony* have been recorded—for the former, we have Weingartner’s rendition with the Royal Philharmonic on Columbia; for the latter, we need only note Sir Hamilton Harty’s version (Columbia) and Koussevitzky’s conducting on Victor.

*Songs Without Words*

The series of piano pieces *Songs Without Words* was simple and clean, appropriately romantic, melodic, and truly delightful. Alongside Chopin’s *Preludes*, they formed a collection of minor gems in piano music; however, they lacked Chopin’s charm, and only a few of the forty-nine pieces were recorded. Among these, the outstanding pieces included the third piece *Hunting Song*, the sixth and twelfth pieces *Venetian Gondola Songs*, the thirtieth piece *Spring Song*, and the thirty-fourth piece *Spinning Song*. Columbia had a record of Friedman’s nine pieces across four ten-inch discs (J5221, 5306, 5307, 5310). Though the recording was notably old and the performance lacked freshness and vitality, it remained—for better or worse—the sole existing record of these works. Victor included five discs by Carl Schnabel (JK4–8); while they lacked Friedman’s originality, they were skillful and dexterous performances. The two aforementioned recordings of *Songs Without Words* were difficult to definitively label as either, and I was satisfied with neither.

When it came to single discs, there were strangely no good ones. Cortot included the first piece, *Sweet Remembrance*, but it was not particularly impressive, and Moiseiwitsch’s rendition of *Hunting Song* was only somewhat listenable (Victor E-478). For *Spinning Song*, there was an old recording by Rachmaninoff (Victor 1326), but as for the beautiful *Spring Song*, there was not a single good record to be found. If one had to choose, Schmeé’s violin arrangement of *Spring Song* (Victor VE-1037) and Kreisler’s *May Breeze* (the same Victor JD 294 or 8083) would not have been a bad choice to listen to.

*Elijah* and Songs

A monumental work of such painstaking effort that it shortened Mendelssohn’s life, as an oratorio it could likely be called a historic masterpiece second only to Handel’s *Messiah* and Haydn’s *The Creation*. It lacked the radiance and passion of *Messiah*, but with its splendor and romanticism—into which Mendelssohn poured his life’s work—it stood as a colossus among religious music. Columbia’s complete recording, performed in English with British musicians, did not achieve *Messiah*’s polished result, though the BBC Chorus performed admirably and baritone Williams delivered a solid performance here as well. It was regrettable that the soprano was not Ravet from *Messiah* (J5319–33).

In songs, there were Lehmann’s “Greeting” (Columbia J5557), Schumann’s “On Wings of Song” (Victor JE-12), and Schulsnus’s “Gondola Song” (Polydor 50042). These three records could be listed.

Chamber Music

There were not many good recordings of Mendelssohn’s chamber music. Only one recording deserved special mention: Victor’s release by the so-called Casals Trio—Cortot (piano), Thibaud (violin), and Casals (cello)—performing the *Piano Trio in D minor (Op. 49)*, an early electrical recording from the technology’s infancy. This work epitomized Mendelssohn’s chamber music virtues; through these three masters’ performance, its meticulously structured surface beauty and romantic sensibility emerged with visceral immediacy from within the aged recording’s limitations (JI 87–90).

There were two or three other string quartets included, but none were particularly noteworthy.

The Poet of the Piano: Chopin

Is there anyone involved with piano music who can remain without loving Chopin? A hundred years ago, as the great pianist and critic Rubinstein declared, Chopin remains—even today—unchanged as “the singer of the piano, the poet of the piano, the heart of the piano, the soul of the piano.” Chopin’s music is always fresh. That may be a characteristic of art created by true genius, but in Chopin’s case—whose beauty and charm remain utterly undimmed by time’s passage and continue to speak to humanity as powerfully as ever—to say he achieved an artistic miracle would be no exaggeration.

*Soul of the Piano* Even fragments and minor pieces are gems as far as Chopin’s piano works are concerned. Within his modest études alone, Chopin packed artistic content surpassing grand symphonies—a hallmark of his music being how its depth of thought, boldness of intent, and beauty of expression leave us a century later utterly astonished. For instance, the disappointment and fury over Warsaw’s fall, condensed into the mere two-minute *Étude in C minor, Op. 10, No. 12 (Revolutionary)*, constitutes an emotional explosion unreachable by any but Beethoven.

The sadness of unfulfilled love depicted in the *Waltz in C-sharp minor, Op. 64, No. 2* was a tender yet profoundly sorrowful realm that even a grand opera in four acts and ten scenes could not have exhausted. *The Heroic Polonaise* evoked the valiant figures of Poland’s resplendent medieval knights; *the Raindrop Prelude* revealed a fiercely beautiful anguish—what could possibly compare? As music crafted from a single piano, who before Chopin could have imagined such a magnificent and subtly graceful art?

In his thirty-two piano sonatas, Beethoven maximized the piano’s expressive power to its utmost limit, creating the sensation that he halted just one step short of shattering the instrument. Liszt’s piano works could be called the rhetoric of the piano, having reached the physiological 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 himself became completely immersed in the piano, becoming one with its soul. Instead of 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 incompletely smoldering emotions. The defining characteristics of his works were pearl-like perfection and noble sweetness. That Chopin’s music transcends age, leaps over eras, ignores borders, and is beloved by all was likely because of this.

In Chopin’s music lay the tenderness of a maiden and the vigor of a hero; yet when savored over time, it left no residue of excess—like a wild goose traversing a wintry pond or wind passing through a bamboo grove—achieving realms of utmost mystery and supreme subtlety, a truly astonishing feat. At least in its refreshing aftertaste, humanity had never before experienced anything akin to Chopin’s music.

For some time now，I had intended to read through Chopin’s biography and explore the origins of this gem-like art.

Frédéric François Chopin was born on February 22, 1810, in a humble village on the outskirts of Warsaw, the capital of Poland. His father was a cultured gentleman born in France who had once taken up arms and fought for Poland; his mother, a pure Polish woman, was a wise lady to whom Chopin would later offer words of reverence and affection, calling her “the finest of mothers.” As the only son born after two older sisters, Chopin was raised amidst his entire family’s adoration; yet with the delicate constitution typical of an only child, he suffered frequent illnesses from an early age. He is said to have possessed a bright personality—mischievous, cheerful, and even endowed with a sense of humor.

His love of music awakened in early childhood, and upon hearing good music, he was “unable to stop his tears.” He was endowed with great sensitivity. His first music teacher was the Silesian musician Elsner, whose insightful educational method flawlessly and freely nurtured the budding genius of Chopin. The absence of pedantic difficulty in Chopin’s later works seems to have been thanks to Elsner’s educational method.

Chopin in his boyhood was joyful yet free-spirited. He kept a piano in his bedroom and would sometimes wake in the dead of night to play it; while attending the Warsaw Lyceum, he edited a newspaper to show his friends, drew caricatures of his homeroom teacher and got scolded, rode precarious horses, and studied harder than anyone else—thus his joyful days passed by. His first trip to Berlin came at eighteen, where he met Mendelssohn and was fortunate enough to attend a performance of Weber’s *Der Freischütz*; the following year, after meeting the composer Hummel and hearing the violin virtuoso Paganini, he resolved to devote himself to music. In that same year, he visited Vienna, the city of music, and held two concerts, but they could hardly be called successful; however, it is said that the following year, at a concert held in Warsaw, Chopin earned what could be considered his first substantial income.

Polish soil

In 1830, as Poland's political situation gradually deteriorated and anguish over lacking the courage to approach his first love, Konstancja, tormented him, these forces drove twenty-year-old Chopin to finally embark on a "journey from which there would be no return."

When Chopin’s carriage, having departed Warsaw, arrived at his birthplace Zelazowa Wola, his teacher Elsner and disciples unexpectedly welcomed him there. They celebrated his departure on a distant journey by singing a cantata and sent him off with a silver goblet filled with soil from their homeland Poland. Nineteen years later, this very soil was sprinkled upon Chopin’s remains when he was interred in a Parisian cemetery and engraved on his epitaph: “Though he was buried in Paris, he sleeps in Polish soil.”

When Chopin visited Vienna again, he was forced to endure a disastrous failure due to various obstacles. While the primary causes were the Viennese people’s forgetfulness and the cholera outbreak, Chopin’s financial blow proved so severe that after agonizing over his options and resolving to head for Paris, he could only just manage to reach Munich—a feat that pushed him to his absolute limits. When he traveled from Munich to Stuttgart—on September 8, 1831—he heard news that Warsaw, the capital of his Polish homeland, had been occupied by Russian forces. Chopin’s grief and fury defied imagination. The lion’s soul within his frail physique found expression in the *Étude in C minor, Op. 10, No. 12 (Revolutionary)*—a heartrending lament of patriotic love.

At twenty-one years old, Chopin finally entered his long-cherished Paris. In 1831, Paris stood as the undisputed center of world culture—a garden ablaze with splendor. It was an era when literary titans like Hugo, Dumas, Balzac, Sand, Chateaubriand, Baudelaire, and Mérimée gathered like stormclouds, while musical giants—Berlioz, Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Liszt—clashed in rivalrous dominance across concert halls. Amid this maelstrom emerged the youthful Chopin, ethereal in his twenty-first year. Initially an unknown foreigner, neither Parisian musicians nor connoisseurs nor the public could have comprehended his music from the outset. As economic hardships tightened their grip—pushing him toward thoughts of American exile—an improbable twist of fortune intervened: Prince Radziwill's patronage catapulted the young composer into sudden stardom as music's newest sensation.

Gentle Chopin Another factor that propelled Chopin to the height of his popularity was the sympathy Parisians of all classes felt toward the Polish people. The antipathy toward the Russian army lifted this unknown young pianist from the deepest abyss to the highest heavens. The third reason lay in how Chopin’s personality and appearance perfectly aligned with Parisian tastes. Chopin’s sartorial refinement was legendary; his meticulous elegance extending from head to toe must have charmed Parisian socialites at first glance.

The remark that “Chopin’s demeanor resembled his music” referred to his refined taste and delicate purity; one person likened this to “a morning glory bearing a celadon-hued flower balanced on a slender stem.” The flower would be hurt and seem to shed tears at even the slightest touch. His hair was as soft as silk; his eyes shone brightly; his limbs were slender; he was not particularly tall; and his nose alone featured a distinctively curved line.

Chopin’s laughter held an indescribable charm, and his good-natured character shone through clearly. His voice was musical, and at times he would take on a somewhat feminine demeanor and hesitate.

Given such qualities, it was only natural that Chopin became the center of Parisians’ admiration and took his place among the elite. The twenty-three-year-old Chopin became an unquestionable presence. Though true to his status as a darling of the times he had inevitably made enemies on one front, on another unknown artists began vying to dedicate their works to Chopin. During this period he renewed his friendship with Mendelssohn and met Schumann—who would become his lifelong great confidant—receiving through this connection the famous words: “Gentlemen, hats off—a genius is among us!”

However, Chopin himself gradually began to withdraw from public concerts around that time. For being shy, he felt oppressed by the audience; his free imaginative leaps were hindered, and thus he began to doubt his qualifications as a performer. “The crowd intimidates me,” Chopin said to Liszt around that time. “Their breath threatens to suffocate me.” “I am paralyzed by a strange spectacle, and a sea of unfamiliar faces deafens me,” he is said to have declared.

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

The Woman Writer Sand

The most significant chapter in the chronicle of Chopin’s personal life was his relationship with the woman novelist George Sand. Sand was a literary luminary who cast a striking figure in the French literary world of her time—older than Chopin and his polar opposite in character, physique, and tastes—yet through an unlikely twist of fate became bound to the genius Chopin, ultimately exerting a profound influence on his final years.

Sand had once been married and had even borne a son with her former husband.

According to portraits surviving today, she could be called a woman of lush beauty; however, it is even said that in reality she was not beautiful at all—short in stature with a sallow complexion, an ill-proportioned nose, and a coarse mouth. However, her feminine allure was nothing short of formidable, and it is hardly difficult to imagine how Chopin—who had initially detested Sand—gradually found himself drawn to her mysterious magnetism until his feelings became inescapable.

It is said that Chopin and Sand’s first meeting took place at a tea party hosted by Liszt, and it is also recounted that when Chopin attempted an impromptu performance, Sand was the one with large, burning eyes who leaned on the piano and listened intently. In any case, the pull of their opposing personalities soon rendered them inseparable, and when Chopin—afflicted with lung disease—relocated to Spain’s Majorca Island from 1838 to 1839, 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 instead of benefiting Chopin's health, his condition only continued to deteriorate. One day Sand went shopping in Palma with her maid and encountered a fierce storm. The floodwaters submerged the roads; having lost her shoes and with no carriage for the return journey, Sand faced multiple dangers before finally staggering back alive—by which time it was already midnight.

The ailing Chopin, left alone, was tormented by visions of Sand as a drowned corpse with water dripping relentlessly upon it; tears welling in his eyes and his face deathly pale, he kept playing the piano. It is said the anxiety and fear that seized Chopin then gave birth to his masterpiece, the "Raindrop Prelude". The persistent dripping sound that had induced Chopin’s vision was none other than rainwater leaking through the ceiling of their long-occupied house.

Chopin and Sand’s relationship, too, did not last particularly long. Chopin, honest and single-minded in his pursuit of formal marriage, faced an unavoidable breakup when the older and astute Sand refused her consent.

Chopin's torment was heart-wrenching to witness. Yet when Sand visited his residence twice, he never spoke a word; even at death's door—though yearning to die in her embrace—he resolutely refused her visit, such was the depth of Chopin's obstinate pride. While Sand's conduct naturally warrants condemnation, and many claim her callousness hastened his end, figures like Liszt maintained that Chopin—with his willow-like constitution—only lived to thirty-nine through her devoted nursing and vigilance.

Lonely Death

After parting permanently with Sand, Chopin’s life became truly pitiful to behold. His health gradually declined, and it was a wonder he remained alive, completely weakened as when he fled to Britain to escape the 1848 Revolution. Regarding his state of mind at that time: "I have not experienced true joy for a long time; I no longer feel anything," Chopin wrote.

Chopin’s concerts in Britain were disastrous. When he appeared on stage, his figure was nearly bent double, and he coughed incessantly. Yet despite this, the women gave him no rest at all. He was worn down to exhaustion every day by patrons forcing their unwanted attentions upon him.

In January 1849, Chopin finally returned to Paris. Though the miraculous resilience of life had lifted Chopin up time and again despite being pronounced dead multiple times, that resilience had its limits. On October 17 of that year, his condition suddenly worsened, and the genius Chopin, nursed by a few close relatives and friends, met his final hour.

When his admirer Countess Potocka rushed from Nice, the dying Chopin asked this compatriot to sing something for him. Liszt wrote of this scene as follows—when Countess Potocka, drenched in tears, sang “Ave Maria,” Chopin said, “What beauty… “My God, once more, once more,” he implored desperately. Countess Potocka once again sat down at the piano and sang, exerting every effort. As the beautiful melody continued sadly, choked by sobs, Chopin quietly breathed his last.

His lifeless face remained as purely beautiful as in life.—Though it was said there were over fifty countesses and young ladies across Europe who would have offered their arms to support him in his final moments—Chopin, nursed by only a few friends, passed away in such solitude.

That Chopin, so beloved during his lifetime, has increasingly garnered global reverence a century after his death remains profoundly significant. That Chopin's music constitutes no mere ephemeral popular fare—that he himself was a true artist—should we not recognize precisely through this fact?

I have never met anyone with even a passing interest in piano music who can definitively say they do not like Chopin. For Chopin’s music is always fresh, possessing a charm that remains unchanged for a hundred years and a beauty that seeps into people’s hearts.

Although Chopin’s works are numerous, with the exception of a few songs, they are almost entirely piano pieces, each one as precious and beautiful as gems. 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.

They are the quintessence of condensed beauty and the most economical artistic expression. It may be said to represent the pinnacle of musical art—the profound of the profound, the exquisite of the exquisite.

Among the impromptus, the sweetness of the *Fantaisie-Impromptu*; among the waltzes, the majestic beauty of the *Grande Valse Brillante* and the melancholic grace of the *Waltz in C-sharp Minor*; twenty-four études, four scherzos, three sonatas, four ballades, numerous nocturnes steeped in pathos, twenty-four preludes, over a dozen polonaises, countless mazurkas—when one begins to enumerate them, Chopin’s works prove endless. Yet who could hesitate to declare that every single one of them is a treasure of the world, left behind by genius?

Chopin’s Works and Their Recordings

Chopin's recordings are indeed numerous. In terms of how many recordings exist of the same pieces, even Beethoven cannot rival Chopin. This may be because Chopin's piano pieces are easily enjoyable and their recordings serve practical listening purposes, but the greatest reason lies in how Chopin's charm inevitably captivates all who encounter it—it is no exaggeration to say their beauty and approachability possess a universal quality that speaks to all humanity. Where Chopin is concerned, one can hardly claim concertos and sonatas hold particular significance; rather, I shall take an approach introducing his quintessential smaller compositions first.

Nocturne

Rather than arranging the three kanji characters for *夜想曲* (nocturne), writing it as “Nocturne” in katakana better suits Chopin’s compositions. Under this title, Chopin wrote twenty pieces that embody the night’s atmosphere—its mood, air, sentimentality, and dreamlike exaltation. Columbia’s Godowsky recorded two sets containing twelve pieces (J7395-8, J7441-4) during his later years; while these performances by the modern master pianist are splendid and beautiful, they lack Chopin’s oneiric quality. Victor’s *Complete Nocturnes* by Rubinstein include nineteen pieces—resplendent and opulent yet missing the hazy nuance intrinsic to nocturnes, leaving an impression of grandeur that slightly betrays expectations. Nevertheless, their superior recording quality and technical mastery make them invaluable for comprehending the pieces’ structures (Victor JD1035–45).

Among excellent individual recordings, while the "Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat Major (Op. 9, No. 2)" is the most popular piece, known to everyone, I opt for Victor's Cortot (Society of Music Lovers, Fourth Series). "Nocturne No. 5 in F-sharp Major (Op. 15, No. 2)" is performed magnificently by Paderewski. This piece was also excellent in Paderewski's older recording, but his evident mastery and the sublime beauty of emotion that permeates his grand style are truly unparalleled (Victor 6825 and Society of Music Lovers Second Series). As for "Nocturne No. 8 in D-flat Major (Op. 27, No. 2)," though recorded in his later years, I find Pahman's record intriguing. While there may be some age-related distortions and roughness, it exudes an atmosphere utterly unattainable by others (Victor, Pahman Collection).

Waltz

Chopin’s brilliance must be sought in these fourteen waltzes. Among comprehensive collections, Victor includes Cortot’s *Waltz Collection* (JD434–9). This was truly an unfettered masterful performance—fourteen resplendent jewels. Above all, the seventh Waltz in C-sharp Minor (Op. 64, No. 2) possessed a beauty beyond words and an eloquence rivaling a dramatic poem. For individual pieces, other outstanding recordings besides Cortot’s included Brailowsky’s *No. 1 in E-flat Major (Op. 18)*, notable for the splendor of the Victor Society of Music Lovers Fifth Series and the opulence of “No. 2 in A-flat Major (Op. 34, No. 1)”. Brailowsky excelled particularly at this type of external brilliance.

In Paderewski’s rendition of “Waltz No. 1,” the grandeur remained undiminished; though the recording was old, it unmistakably bore the mark of a supreme master (Victor VD8). Gieseking’s *Minute Waltz* (Columbia J-5604) captured briskness. Pamaman’s recording of the same piece included narration (Victor JF-17). Then there was Rachmaninoff’s *Waltz No. 7 in C-sharp Minor*—though an older recording, it remained a distinctive entry (Victor 1245).

In conclusion, unless one has particular preferences, I believe Cortot’s *Waltz Collection* should suffice for Chopin’s waltz recordings.

Étude Chopin’s genius—crafting wondrous poems under the name of Études—remains truly astonishing. The twelve pieces of Opus 10 and twelve of Opus 25 were both available through Victor: Backhaus’s *Études* Set (6971–6) and Cortot’s (JD299–301 and JD431–3). Backhaus’s technical brilliance—hailed as the Lion King of the keyboard—and Cortot’s emotional warmth formed a strikingly clear yet fascinating contrast. While individual preferences might dictate choosing between the former’s crystalline solidity and the latter’s abundant tenderness, both were undeniably excellent—though Cortot’s newer recording undeniably held a distinct advantage.

Among single-disc recordings, Victor’s Pahman rendition of the fifth *Black Key Étude in G-flat Major (Op. 10, No. 5)* stood out for its peculiar allure—even the infamous monologue inclusion exuded a portentous mystique (JF55). Paderewski’s rendition adopted such an imposing expression it might as well have been an entirely different piece—now surviving as a memento of his legacy (JE-192). There was also Horowitz. This showcased the pinnacle of technical mastery (JD-1494). The No. 8 in F Major (Op. 10, No. 8) was a fine piece, but Horowitz’s remained the only newly recorded version available (Victor JE-84).

The *Revolutionary Étude in C Minor (Op. 10, No. 12)*—said to have been composed in furious response to Warsaw’s fall—was best rendered by Cortot, yet Paderewski’s interpretation, resonating with Chopin through their shared Polish patriotism, proved intensely dramatic and compelling (Victor JE-192). This performance was by no means orthodox, but its distinction lay in the fascination beyond mere music—how Chopin’s soul was refracted through Paderewski, who had once served as Poland’s president.

The "Étude in A-flat Major (Op. 25, No. 1)," known as the "Shepherd Boy," was a beautiful piece that appeared twice in Cortot’s recordings—both renditions brimming with poetic beauty. As for the twenty-first étude called "Butterfly" and the twenty-third dubbed "Winter Wind," none surpassed Cortot’s interpretations in any instance. Only one or two recordings by Polydor’s Brailowsky and Victor’s Levin warranted attention.

Prelude

Using this free form, Chopin wrote twenty-four splendid masterpieces. In recordings, Cortot’s two versions made after the advent of electrical recording were definitive: the earlier one dated from around 1927 (Victor 6515–8), and the later one was recorded approximately five years afterward (Victor JD387–90). The relative merits of these two recordings of the Preludes were repeatedly debated, but even with its inferior sound quality, the older version—brimming with youth and dreams—remained favored by many Japanese listeners. The newer one was somewhat more detached, delicate, and even objective. Comparing the fifteenth piece in this set—the "Raindrop" Prelude in D-flat Major—made the difference quite clear. In contrast to the old recording’s imposing dramatic intensity, the new one was unadorned and coldly analytical. There had never been an instance of a single person performing the same piece with such vastly different emotional approaches.

In each individual record, here too Pahman and Paderewski made their mark. Particularly noteworthy were Paderewski’s *Raindrop* (Victor 6847) and No. 17 *Prelude in A-flat Major (Op. 28, No. 17)*, which stood magnificent beyond mere commemorative significance.

Impromptus Imparting high artistry to unrestrained improvisation was Chopin’s exclusive domain. The three Impromptus and Fantaisie-Impromptu likewise had Cortot’s definitive recordings on Victor (JD264, JD265), which truly permitted no rivals. Yet Cortot’s performance proved unexpectedly light in touch—one might have reasonably expected a more deeply felt sentiment. The Fantaisie-Impromptu was said to be among Chopin’s most popular works, yet he reportedly refrained from publishing it due to its excessive brilliance. In performances of this piece, an intriguing quality emerged in the approaches of female pianists like Tagliaferro (Columbia J-8369), Long (same collection), and Scharrer (Columbia JW-126), which offered a different perspective from Cortot’s.

Scherzos

Chopin’s Scherzos possess the bitter taste of life’s hardships. Victor has Rubinstein’s *Scherzo Collection* (JD191–4), a comprehensive recording; while he was a splendid technician, there was something about it that left one wanting. It could have stood to be more detached and straightforward. Yet curiously, there were no other good recordings of the Scherzos. Only Moiseiwitsch’s performance of Scherzo No. 3 and Horowitz’s Victor record of Scherzo No. 4 commanded attention.

Ballades

The four Ballades were akin to four dramatic poems. The third Ballade was regarded as the most beautiful while the last stood as the most highly esteemed. Cortot’s *Ballades* had been recorded twice on Victor (7333–6 and JD1589–92). Much like with his *Preludes*, one could generally opt for his newer JD-numbered recordings without reservation. Cortot’s renditions of these Ballades surpassed even his Waltzes in brilliance—their spirited elegance and profound beauty may well represent virtuosity at its zenith. I have always harbored particular yearning and affection for that third Ballade.

In addition, Columbia’s Casadesus set included four discs. This artist’s French-style realism—stripped of affectation—rendered Chopin’s Ballades rather lacking in emotional depth, yet one could not deny the validity of his interpretive approach. Discontinuing them had been premature. There were also those by Friedman and Moiseiwitsch, but they amounted to little.

Mazurkas

Borrowing the form of Polish folk dances, Chopin wrote over fifty exquisitely beautiful pieces. For these works, Columbia features Friedman's four-disc recording showcasing his national-style performances (J8010–3), while Victor offers a single-disc recording by Niederelsky, a Polish pianist (JA134). Though Polish like Chopin and confident in his interpretations, Friedman seemed most compelling in live Mazurka performances—his playing with abandon felt rustic yet vibrant and engaging. Niederelsky displayed greater refinement, his poised elegance earning favorable reception. Other notable recordings include Pahman's *Mazurka in G Major (Op. 67, No. 1)* (Victor JF55), 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 historically significant—alongside Horowitz's *Mazurka in F Minor (Op. 7, No. 3)* (Victor JE-84), *Mazurka in C-sharp Minor (Op. 50, No. 3)* (Victor JD-1494), and *Mazurka in E Minor (Op. 41, No. 2)* (Victor JE-142), noted for their performance delicacy.

Polonaises

This was none other than the grand or elegant national dance through which Chopin most fully expressed his Polish soul. Of the fifteen polonaises, Rubinstein had recorded up to eight pieces for Victor as his *Polonaise Collection* (JD655–62). This stood out among Rubinstein’s Chopin interpretations—while lacking in depth, its formal beauty proved extraordinary.

There are few other good recordings. In the era of old records, Paderewski’s *Military Polonaise* made fans’ blood boil with excitement, but this piece is absent from electrical recordings; among Paderewski’s available works are 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, with its touch of youthful vigor, is preferable. Paderewski was an ideal pianist for polonaises, his playing overflowing with patriotic fervor to intriguing effect; though the *Heroic Polonaise* remains the most famous among Chopin’s polonaises, when he recorded it, his advanced age lent the performance an irredeemable sense of decline. There are also recordings of this piece by Cortot, Friedman, Gieseking, and Brailowsky, but none are considered the best.

The recording of Pahman performing the *Polonaise in C-sharp Minor (Op. 26, No. 1)* could be found in Victor’s *Pahman Collection*, yet this remained an indispensable record even when accounting for the limitations of advanced age. It deserved preservation alongside Paderewski’s *Heroic Polonaise* as a historical testament.

*Fantasia*, *Lullaby*, *Barcarolle*

Chopin's *Fantaisie in F Minor, Op. 49*—said to represent the final pinnacle of his piano artistry—cast aside his characteristic sweetness to embody a grand and profound meditation within classical form. Recordings existed by Victor's Cortot (JD330-1), Columbia's Long, and Friedman, yet Cortot's robust performance stood foremost among them. However, records with greater spiritual depth were called for. Though falling short of this ideal, one could not help but dream of Paderewski in his younger days.

“Lullaby (Op. 57)”—there are few pieces as tenderly beautiful as this one that reveals Chopin’s childlike heart. Victor’s Cortot recording stands decisively superior (JD-1674). Columbia’s Long might have her feminine qualities valued in turn (renowned record collection).

The "Barcarolle (Op. 60)" is a profound marine fantasy. Within Chopin's oeuvre, it stands as one of his grand-scale masterworks. The recordings include Cortot (Victor JD-509), Long, and Rubinstein among others.

Piano Concertos

Chopin’s concertos had long been criticized for their clumsy orchestration; however, the distinctive qualities of Chopin, the poet of the piano, breathed a singular vitality into these concertos, making both works extraordinarily beautiful.

"Piano Concerto No. 1 in E Minor (Op. 11)" had a refreshing character and was appealing. The available recordings were Brailowsky on Polydor, Rosenthal on Columbia, and Rubinstein on Victor. While all three had their respective merits, it would be conventional wisdom to choose Rubinstein’s version with its exquisite recording quality. The orchestra was the London Symphony Orchestra conducted by Barbirolli (Victor JD1270–3).

The "Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Minor (Op. 21)" was graceful and beautiful. The available recordings were Rubinstein and Cortot on Victor (two versions) and Long on Columbia, but Cortot's should be chosen. The conducting was by Barbirolli (Victor JD794–7). Columbia's Long was also said to be commendable for her feminine grace and elegance (J7832–5).

Sonatas

Chopin wrote three piano sonatas, but like his concertos, it is said that these works constrained his genius within their rigid forms and failed to fully showcase his brilliance. However, among the three, the second and third sonatas are indeed beautiful.

The Sonata No. 2 in B-flat Minor (Op. 35) was renowned as the Funeral March Sonata. This derived from its third movement containing a funeral march of beautiful sorrow. For this work, Victor housed two legendary recordings: Cortot's (JD306–7) and Rachmaninoff's (1489–92). Cortot had recorded it twice, his performances standing as truly exceptional masterpieces. Through his renowned interpretation, elegant melancholy and heartrending lamentation found their most exquisite expression. As for Rachmaninoff's version—though I once struggled to appreciate it—listening anew revealed its mastery. This phenomenon stemmed from the performer's overpowering individuality; while deviating from the original score, it contained an enigmatic passion.

The "Sonata No.3 in B Minor (Op.58)" reveals an even more refined Chopin than its predecessor—the Funeral March Sonata. A difficult yet beautiful piece indeed. For recordings, Cortot’s renowned version exists on Victor (DA2109–12). The drawback here was its somewhat dated sound quality; for this work’s intricate essence, one would do well to hear Brailowsky’s interpretation on the same label (JD-1643–5).

Songs

There existed a famous vintage recording of Chopin’s song *The Maiden’s Wish* sung by Zembrycz during the era of acoustic records. Though I play the piano myself, I adore the delicate charm of this recording that transcends its antiquated sound. In electrical recordings, Korjus recorded it for Victor under the title *The Little Ring*, though it lacked the same refinement. As a general rule, one could rarely go wrong choosing Cortot’s recordings for Chopin’s piano works. These might be supplemented with select performances by Paderewski, Brailowsky, and Rubinstein. Godowsky was a masterful pianist, but his recordings captured him past his prime.

Then there was the *Pahman Collection*—containing *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*, and *Waltz Op.64 No.3*—which remained indispensable. Even as he had entered old age, there was still a mysterious beauty in his Chopin. It ought to be preserved for posterity alongside Paderewski’s records.

Passionate Schumann

Robert Schumann, who composed the stylish piano suite *Carnival* and the beautiful song cycle *Dichterliebe*, was not only Romantic music’s greatest champion that swept through mid-19th century Europe but also its pure-hearted knight.

Introducing this man’s entire life and all his works within the confines of limited pages proved difficult. I had to limit myself to discussing Schumann’s love life and two or three works that might be called its crystallization.

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 insane asylum (psychiatric hospital). His forty-six-year life could indeed be described as an unbroken succession of bloodied struggles, and within those struggles, anguishes, and madnesses, there was not a trace of the superhuman reverence accorded to idolized genius. He dwelled on the very same earth as we do and fought the same battles of life as we do—a fact which gives us a neighborly sense of familiarity.

The Boy Romanticist

Unlike many great composers, Schumann’s lineage contained not a drop of musicians’ blood.

In this respect, he was similar to Wagner; both were alike in having fought to shatter the traditions of the music world and build something new and more vital. For Schumann, music was not a hereditary "family art" but something that purely belonged to his people, to humanity, and ultimately to himself. Among nineteenth-century Romantic composers, Schumann was the most erudite, the most earnest, and the most artistic person. In his life, there was not a single trace of the caprices typical of geniuses, and among his works, there is not one that gives the impression of having been produced with consideration for the market or public opinion. When encountering Schumann’s biography and works, one cannot help but feel both an unpolished earnestness verging on awkwardness and the oppressive weight of a mindset pushed to the brink of madness.

Let us examine his biography for a moment. The young Schumann’s love for music awakened quite early. He performed in ensembles with boys his own age, composed pieces, received instruction from the town church organist, and dreamed of becoming a great pianist. At age nine, moved by a performance by the master Moscheles, he had already resolved to make his living through music—but at fifteen, upon his father’s death, that hope was shattered.

Schumann’s mother had intended for her son to become a lawyer, as was customary. But Schumann—having graduated secondary school at eighteen—had devoured the works of Byron and Jean Paul until Romanticism permeated his very being. Particularly decisive was his journey that year to southern Germany with friends, where meeting the poet Heine marked a watershed in his outlook. Heine was, needless to say, the preeminent poet of the age and a towering figure of Romanticism. With his fiery passion and wryly perceptive nature, it was little wonder he utterly captivated the young Schumann.

Schumann the Fighter

While studying law at Leipzig University, he met Friedrich Wieck—Clara’s father and a renowned piano professor—and began frequenting his household. Later, he transferred to Heidelberg University, but Schumann’s heart had left law behind as he devoted himself to composition and piano practice. Eventually, he even involved Wieck to persuade his mother, abandoned his legal studies, and returned to Leipzig.

While boarding at Wieck’s house and continuing his intense piano practice, Schumann injured his fingers through excessive haste in his training and was forced to abandon his aspirations of becoming a pianist. This, however, proved both a misfortune and a blessing for the ambitious young Schumann. Taking this as his turning point to devote himself to composition—though he himself endured anguish verging on madness—he bequeathed to posterity dozens of outstanding piano works, songs, chamber pieces, and symphonies.

In his early twenties, Schumann rejected the perennial tide of vulgar musical trends and, together with like-minded colleagues, founded a music journal to bring fresh air and principled criticism into the musical world. The influence this journal exerted on the music world was immense; not only did it introduce to society the genius Chopin, who was called the "poet of the piano," but Schumann himself courageously challenged the established musical order under two pseudonyms. Around this time, Schumann published several excellent works. The piano work *Carnival Suite* is 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 around this time that he sought her father Wieck’s permission for marriage, only to face bitter opposition.

The Celebrated 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, their beloved daughter. However, Clara was already known as a child prodigy pianist at that time—a girl of extraordinary beauty and nobility, and even more remarkably, wisdom. Even today, when imagining her through various documents and photographs, there can be no doubt that Clara’s exceptional talents and beauty were nothing short of astonishing. From the time she was thirteen years old and performed Schumann’s First Symphony on the piano, his interest in the girl Clara began to burn; by the era when she toured all of Europe under her father Wieck’s accompaniment, her name resounding as a prodigy, a beautiful affection had sprouted between her and Schumann, growing into a state beyond retreat.

“Beloved Clara, do you know how much I love you? Farewell. Your Robert Schumann.” It was in 1835, when Schumann was twenty-five and Clara sixteen, that he wrote these words.

The following year, Schumann’s letter of proposal reached Clara, who now shone with glory and fame, and she gave him a favorable reply. The chaste passion between Clara and Schumann can be imagined through their exchanged letters and the numerous documents preserved to this day. For five long years, the two loved each other with undivided devotion, battling every hardship to gain approval from her unyielding father.

Clara’s delicate beauty—so fragile it seemed it might not withstand a breeze—was not the main cause of Schumann’s captivation. Nor was Clara’s consummate piano mastery as a child prodigy the full measure of Schumann’s devotion. More than all these qualities, Clara possessed a charm that drew others in, talent, and purity. Her brilliance and profound understanding not only made her an irreplaceable interpreter of Schumann’s lofty piano works; many have reasoned it was precisely Clara’s comprehension and encouragement that enabled him to devote his life to purely artistic composition—persisting in writing pieces that were somewhat austere and solitary (yet how artistically beautiful they were!)—without ever pandering to popular trends.

Schumann always composed through Clara’s encouragement, and it seemed as though he composed precisely because he was with her. All his sorrows and joys existed because of Clara. There was even reason to believe that his lifelong masterpieces—"Dichterliebe," "Frauenliebe und -leben," the "Piano Quintet," and the "Piano Concerto"—had been created only when immersed in Clara’s love. However, Clara’s father Wieck—with his daughter bearing all of Europe’s acclaim as a genius—had no reason to choose a poor and disheveled composer as her husband. The shattering of their engagement before her father’s wrath followed society’s common course. The two were separated and placed under surveillance. In his torment and despair, Schumann wrote to his sister: “Clara still loves me as before.” “But I have given her up forever,” he added in that letter. Yet Clara—gentle and delicate in appearance—proved unexpectedly resolute. “No matter what happens, I will not abandon Robert,” she wrote and resolved.

In Schumann’s own words, to win "the most honorable daughter the world had ever seen," Schumann resolved to build social status and fame. In other words, he resolved to gild his credentials and win over Clara’s father Wieck. After long 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 valued his daughter exceedingly highly, stubbornly refused to consent to their marriage. The matter was finally brought to court, and after lengthy deliberations, permitted by law, the two were married in September of the same year.

The Triumph of Love, Madness

The two triumphed through love.

Their life had never been as bright, nor as joyful, as it was at this time. Not only was Clara chaste and pure, but for Schumann, she was also a source of charm and an inspiration for his compositions. For the next decade, Schumann sent forth a torrent of masterpieces into the world in rapid succession. However, the compositions from the first two or three years of his marriage were not only the pinnacle of Schumann’s career but also the Everest of German Romanticism.

Although he soon reconciled with Father Wieck, a dark shadow began to cast over Schumann due to overwork and nervous strain. He abandoned his position as a professor at the music school, but his nerves grew increasingly irritable and morbid, and there was nothing he could do to manage them. After a brief respite during which he wrote operas and took up conducting, his melancholia gradually intensified until—in February 1854—he suddenly suffered a breakdown and threw himself into the Rhine River. Though rescued then, he finally passed away in July two years later at the young age of forty-six.

Schumann’s deeply human character and ceaseless anguish rendered his works dark and obscure; yet precisely because of their introspective nature and solid ideological foundation, there is no music as profoundly intriguing as his, and few as purely artistic.

Schumann, who had intended to establish himself as a pianist, opened a grand new frontier in piano works—one that neither Liszt nor Chopin had explored. In works such as *Fantasiestücke*, *Kinderszenen*, *Carnaval*, and *Kreisleriana*, he demonstrated a realm that was purely pianistic and possessed the utmost artistic refinement. In him there existed neither vulgar sweetness nor cheap theatricality. Through the piano, he seemed to strive to perfect the most artistic expression of his ideas. In such instances, the piano was not merely a tool; it even appeared to be Schumann’s very life itself. While Chopin is called the poet of the piano, Schumann became its philosopher.

Even more than his piano works, what characterized Schumann was his songs. Through a different approach, Schumann brought German Lieder—which Schubert had elevated to the highest and purest realm—to an even loftier level of development and completion. Schubert wrote beautiful melodies and added significant accompaniments to provide German poetry with the finest musical expression. Born after Schubert and possessing a refined education, Schumann was first granted conditions in selecting poetry that Schubert could not match; furthermore, as a pianist and piano composer, Schumann succeeded in providing his songs with astonishingly intricate accompaniments. That works such as *Dichterliebe* ("A Poet’s Love"), *Frauenliebe und -leben* ("A Woman’s Love and Life"), and others are acclaimed as timeless masterpieces of German Lieder can be attributed to various distinguishing features, but it is fair to say that Schumann’s erudition and his accompaniments were significant contributing factors. Schumann’s chamber music—characteristically somewhat obscure—is not limited to just a few masterpieces; though it may not delight untrained ears, it possesses a beauty that never wearies those with refined musical sensibilities and a purely artistic excellence. There are four symphonies, from the First to the Fourth. The First Symphony, bearing the title *Spring*, and the Third, known as the *Rhenish*, are particularly beloved. Schumann’s symphonies are by no means popular, but their nobility, profundity, and romantic beauty from the depths of the soul undeniably form a monumental peak in the period after Beethoven and before Brahms. For here too overflow the human qualities of Schumann—the passionate poet of sound—making one feel something infinitely moving.

Schumann’s Works and Their Records

What was distinctive and intriguing about Schumann’s compositions had to be sought not in his grandiose symphonies but rather in his piano works and songs. The four symphonies each harbored their own unique circumstances and struggles, playing an indispensable role in any discussion of Schumann. Though every one of them sang forth Schumann’s ideals of grand Romanticism with extraordinary sublimity and noble refinement, their structures lacked chromatic richness, bearing instead a gray heaviness and oppressive monotony. To general listeners, they were anything but engaging, and recordings of them remained exceedingly scarce. The only one that retained any contemporary relevance was Victor’s recording of the Third Symphony in E-flat Major (Op. 97), known as the Rhenish—performed by the Paris Conservatory Symphony Orchestra under Coppola’s baton (JD 339–41). This too was a nimble yet facile performance devoid of Schumann’s melancholy (though this work is considered an exceedingly bright and beautiful composition—a late work of Schumann’s where one might reasonably expect somewhat deeper shadows).

Piano Works

Schumann’s pioneering in piano music, alongside Chopin and Liszt, represented a major field, and his works were extremely conscientious, having reached a noble and profoundly deep artistic realm. Among these, the work that combined popular appeal with artistic refinement would undoubtedly be *Carnaval (Op. 9)*, which should be regarded as foremost. Composed of numerous small pieces modeled after Carnival masquerades, *Carnaval* harbored within it Schumann’s convictions and pride, his wit and playfulness, as well as faint traces of love and friendship—technically gathering the very essence of his piano works into something supremely engaging. The recordings were not recent, but Victor’s performance by Cortot should be considered foremost (JD 751–3), with Victor’s Rachmaninoff following next. Among contemporary performers of Schumann, none could match Cortot in embodying Schumann’s essence through erudition, mindset, taste, and technique. It would be no exaggeration to say that Schumann’s Romanticism was most faithfully understood and reproduced by Cortot. Though I had criticized Rachmaninoff in my previous work, upon re-listening, one was compelled to acknowledge that even this intensely individual performance possessed a strange allure.

"Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood)" may appear deceptively simple at first glance, but it vividly depicts a child’s world through melodies rich in youthful innocence and poetic quality. This work too finds its definitive interpretation in Victor’s recording by Cortot (JD 840–1), though other versions exist—Victor’s Moiseiwitsch and Ney, along with Columbia’s Nat—none compare. Yet one need never regret choosing Cortot without hesitation. The collection’s famous "Träumerei," widely known through violin and cello arrangements, shines in Casals’ Victor recording (JE59)—a masterpiece despite its vintage—while Columbia’s Maréchal and Feuermann captivate listeners with their recording’s crystalline clarity. For violin renditions, Victor’s Elman remains the benchmark (JE163).

The *Davidsbündlertänze (Op. 6)* may not possess the colorful charm of *Carnaval*, but it can be interpreted both as an expression of Schumann’s passion for Clara and as his idealistic manifesto to the masses. Among records, Victor’s Cortot stands alone as magnificent (JD1502–4).

*Kreisleriana (Op. 16)* was based on the novel of the same name and should by rights have been ironic and humorous; yet Schumann’s relentless earnestness and a peculiar passion wove an uncanny allure into it, making Cortot’s recording the sole magnificent one (Victor JD951–4). The *Symphonic Études (Op. 13)*—a profoundly mystical work comprising one theme, nine variations, and a finale—was a piece whose graceful beauty I loved. Among records, Victor’s Cortot delivered a masterful performance steeped in somber atmosphere (7493–5). Though three or four other recordings existed, they paled in comparison—thin-textured, scattered, and ultimately negligible when measured against Cortot’s.

*Fantasiestücke (Op. 12)* was a collection of short pieces bearing no connection to *Carnaval*, and Victor had included a recording under the title *Fantasia (Op. 12)* by the veteran pianist Bauer. However, what stood out here were pieces like "Aufschwung," "Traumes Wirren," and "Warum?"—when listening to a single piece, one was reminded of Paderewski’s "Aufschwung" and "Warum?" from the old recording era.

The *Fantasy in C Major (Op. 17)* was a lengthy composition entirely distinct from its predecessors, deriving its appeal from Schumann’s unadulterated fantasy. Among recordings, Victor preserved Backhaus’s incisive and technically exquisite performance (JD1162–5).

"Butterfly (Op. 2)" was an extremely early work that possessed an endearingly childlike quality. Cortot’s recording stood as excellent (Victor JE97–8). Other notable examples included Horowitz’s *Arabesque* (Victor JE205) and Paderewski’s *Prophecy Bird* (Victor 1426). For the *Piano Sonata in G Minor (Op. 22)*, Victor carried Horowitz’s recording. Though splendid, it remained not particularly interesting.

Lieder *Dichterliebe* ("A Poet’s Love") could be said to pour Schumann’s devotion to Lieder and his innate genius into Heine’s poetry while simultaneously depicting his overflowing affection for Clara. Complete recordings of the work on Victor included two versions: one sung by baritone Denis (D-2062–4), and another featuring Panzera with Cortot’s piano accompaniment (JD-798–800). Though Panzera was supremely skilled and Cortot’s accompaniment magnificent, I still found myself preferring Denis for his emotional depth and allure. It was a tenderly melancholic expression, as though he had poured his very heart and soul into it.

*Frauenliebe und -leben (Op. 42)* stands as one of Schumann’s two great song cycles alongside *Dichterliebe*, a masterpiece from the year he married Clara—what biographers term his "Year of Song." It traces eight songs from a maiden’s awakening love through marriage and childbirth to the loneliness of widowhood, its pure affection and beautiful sorrows profoundly stirring the listener. Among records, Columbia’s recording of Lotte Lehmann’s singing remains unquestionably supreme (J5392–5). This orchestral arrangement incorporating piano borders on sacrilege against Schumann’s Lieder, yet Lehmann’s performance retains its magnificence—her expression of lingering pathos and chaste love defies comparison. It stands as one of my most cherished recordings.

Among single-song records, the most famous would be "The Two Grenadiers." The skillful use of the French national anthem to portray soldiers from Napoleon's defeated army made for an intriguing compositional technique. Among recordings, Polydor’s Schlusnus (60203; later included in the *Schlusnus Favorite Songs Collection Vol. 2*) stood out, with Victor’s Chaliapin (6619) likely following next. "The Walnut Tree" was a fine Schumann-esque song. The piano accompaniment received particular emphasis, inviting both criticism and recognition of its distinctive qualities. Polydor’s Slezak (E 207 or from *Slezak’s Favorite Songs Collection*) offered a masterful performance imbued with both affection and artistry, followed by Victor’s Elisabeth Schumann (JD 110) as another excellent choice. In addition, Lehmann’s "Lotus Flower," Schlusnus’s "Moonlit Night," and Schumann’s "Spring" were all likely commendable in their own right.

Concertos and Chamber Music The *Violin Concerto in D minor* was a recently discovered posthumous work whose circumstances of discovery had not only aroused interest but also proved remarkably engaging for a late composition. The claim that Joachim avoided performing this piece at the time due to sensing madness lurking within it must be, I should think, either a legend’s error or Joachim’s own prejudice. It is safe to say this concerto undoubtedly ranks among those masterpieces that merit inclusion in the top ten—or perhaps even top five—violin concertos of all time.

The records contained Kulenkampff’s German premiere performance (Telefunken 23653–6) and Menuhin’s American premiere (Victor JD1514–7S), but here one inevitably felt drawn to Kulenkampff’s honest grace and wholeheartedness. Menuhin’s recent technical prowess stood truly exceptional, and in this piece too he revealed astonishing innate talent; yet the violin world did not wholly belong to Menuhin (though certainly many might side with him), and the ambiguous, exaggerated gestures he displayed in this work led one to feel they could not match Kulenkampff’s sincere and refined elegance.

The "Piano Concerto in A minor (Op. 54)" was an extremely famous work and stood as one of Schumann’s masterpieces. The efforts of the distinguished Frau Clara—who had played this piece with all her might for her husband Schumann and sought to persuade the uncomprehending, or feigning incomprehension, audiences of that time—were remembered with touching nostalgia even now. Among records, Victor’s Cortot stood alone as magnificent (JD347–50). The orchestra was the London Philharmonic under Sir Ronald’s baton—a supremely glorious performance that compelled one to doff one’s hat to this opulent beauty. Columbia’s Nat was distinguished by his clear-spirited French-style realism (J8279–82). The "Cello Concerto in A minor (Op. 129)" could be said to stand alongside the violin concerto as one of Schumann’s masterpieces demonstrating his command of string instruments—a graceful and beautiful piece indeed. Victor’s Piatigorsky proved excellent (JD353–5), with Barbirolli conducting and the London Philharmonic as orchestra.

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 might not have been recent, but as one of the masterpieces by the Casals Trio—a trio worthy of being called the ensemble of the century—its ethereal grace had remained unparalleled. For the string quartets, having just one set of Columbia Records by the Capet Quartet that included No. 1 in A minor (Op. 41 No. 1) (J7629–31) had been more than sufficient. The recording might have been old, but its refined beauty was beyond compare. However, it was also a fact that Schumann's string quartets were not interesting to amateurs. Even if his spirit and imagination had been formidable, Schumann’s shortcoming lay in his inability to fully grasp the nature of string instruments and wield them freely—this had been an unavoidable limitation.

The Piano Quintet in E-flat Major (Op. 44) stands as a masterpiece. While retaining Schumann’s characteristic obstinate darkness, this work nevertheless represents a dramatic leap forward—a composition that suggests one of the happiest periods in Schumann’s life. The recording available on Victor features Schnabel with the Pro Arte String Quartet (JD691–4). This combination should prove satisfactory.

Liszt, the Master Pianist

Father of the Symphonic Poem

Franz Liszt—who composed twelve symphonic poems that marked a grand epoch in the musical world and resoundingly rang the dawn bell of modern music; who as a pianist pioneered uncharted realms, becoming a conqueror of technique elevated to mythical heights akin to Paganini’s violin—must indeed be called the most captivating presence in mid-nineteenth-century Europe’s musical sphere, where masters were as plentiful as clouds.

The author, quite recently on a train, involuntarily pricked up his ears upon hearing the name "Liszt" in a conversation between a young woman who seemed to be an intellectual and her friends. The woman said: "I recently read Liszt’s biography and was thoroughly impressed. Among all the renowned musicians of old, there is none as splendid as Liszt."

This remark set me thinking about many things.

Roughly a century ago, the magnetic charm of Franz Liszt in his twenties and thirties could not help but unleash a kaleidoscopic storm across all of Europe. Some women quarreled over flowers Liszt had touched; others scoured for his discarded cigar stubs; and among ladies of leisure, there were even those who pursued him from town to town and country to country, to the extent their means permitted.

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

Boundless Love

Why does Liszt’s charm continue to astonish intellectual women even today, a century later? I found myself compelled to once again examine Liszt’s biography and delve into its origins.

There was no doubt that Liszt’s status as an unparalleled pianist and revolutionary composer constituted a significant part of his allure. Yet an even greater cause likely lay in his abundant love, rare elegance, and profound human nobility—qualities that made him an object of universal reverence. Even through his compositions, Liszt had many admirers and no small number of detractors. Liszt’s compositions were—even without awaiting Rubinstein’s arguments—exceedingly verbose and superficial; particularly his piano pieces, with their technique-centric focus, never lacked those who found them unbearable. As for his character, it remains an all-too-famous anecdote that the young Brahms once visited Liszt—then a towering figure in European music circles through Joachim’s introduction—only to be astonished by the atmosphere of falsehood, sycophancy, luxury, and arrogance surrounding him and flee in dismay.

Liszt’s exaggerated gestures, formalities, and flattery that never missed its mark—all of these must have been unbearable for Brahms, a man of provincial origins. However, if there were those who would immediately take this to despise Liszt and seek to attack him, that would be far too hasty a judgment. Liszt, despite his penchant for ostentation and even considerable moral timidity, was by nature a magnanimous soul—generous to all, possessing abundant love and well-considered sympathy.

A certain biographer praised Liszt’s abundant love, declaring it to be utterly unparalleled. He could not help but pour out an overflowing warmth and affection to everyone he encountered. It must have been his refined education and noble character that led him to do so. No matter how cold and strict a person might be—even those who were at times his enemies—they ultimately found themselves captivated by him, unable to resist becoming one of his ardent admirers.

Liszt was a friend beyond compare. He never betrayed nor wavered. For his disciples, there could be no teacher as kind as Liszt; for his friends, there was no man as reliable as he.

Liszt’s helpfulness was truly a peerless virtue. How the young Polish Chopin made his debut in the French music world through Liszt’s benevolence was conveyed, if only in sentiment, by the film *Farewell Waltz*, even if its plot was entirely fabricated. Schumann, who at the time had been engaged in a struggle against the entire European music world, was encouraged and supported by Liszt—it remains impossible to know just how much this saved him. It was Liszt who staged Berlioz’s *Symphonie fantastique*—a work that had gone unappreciated in his native France—in Weimar, introducing its astonishing artistry and first enabling Germans to understand it. It was also Liszt who encouraged Wagner—then facing adversity and obscurity—by staging his masterpieces of utmost complexity and making them known to the world. "Tannhäuser" and "Lohengrin" would never have been accepted so smoothly by audiences without Liszt’s assistance.

It was said that Liszt had been born without knowing jealousy. "A genius who knew no jealousy"—could there exist a being more noble in this world? He possessed both the sincerity to genuinely rejoice in anyone's success and the magnanimity to do so. Like the Date retainers of Edo during the Tokugawa period, he was a man who could never refuse when asked a favor. His purse strings would loosen whenever there was even a need. It was Liszt who nearly single-handedly erected that magnificent Beethoven monument in Vienna. For a musician's undertaking, this was by no means an easy task.

When Liszt visited a rural town, there happened to be a recital by a female pianist who claimed to be his disciple. Liszt had never even heard her name and, of course, she was no disciple of his. Puzzled by this, he took a room at a hotel and soon received a visit from a young woman. She was the pianist who had passed herself off as his student. With tears streaming down her face, she apologized: “If I hadn’t borrowed your name, Maestro, no one would have come to hear me play.”

Liszt nodded magnanimously, calming the woman as he had her play the pieces from that evening’s program on the hotel piano. After giving a few technical pointers, he said, “I have now taught you piano. From this moment onward, you may call yourself my disciple without reservation,” then lightly kissed her pale forehead—just as he would always do for his most accomplished pupils. Though the female pianist’s name has been lost to history, such was the nature of Liszt’s kindness.

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 aspects worthy of criticism in Liszt’s private conduct, this selfless pure love would more than redeem all his debts.

Brilliant 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 was typical of that of a child prodigy. The nine-year-old boy pianist had already captured 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. How Czerny, his first piano teacher, must have instructed this young genius with such affection! It goes without saying that Liszt’s demonic technique as a pianist was the gift of his esteemed teacher Czerny. He then studied harmony and composition with Salieri, laying the groundwork for his later role as the founder of symphonic poems. At age twelve, he went to Paris with his father, where he completed his maturation as an individual. From there began a brilliant and glorious musical tour across all of Europe, marking the start of the triumphant history of Liszt, the piano giant.

Later, in Weimar, Paris, and Rome—wherever he went—he invariably stood as a central figure in the music world, exerting significant influence among many friends and disciples. As both a titular and actual doyen of the European music scene, his illustrious reputation endured until his death at seventy-five on July 31, 1886. A musician as blessed during his lifetime as he was remains unthinkable except in Mendelssohn's case.

Liszt's musical achievements 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 further avenues for advancement remained, many geniuses of the time demanded and devised new forms within Romanticism’s uncharted realm to fully unleash their artistic creativity. The sonata, rondo, and song forms—shackled by rigid traditional rules—were now deemed relics of the past. Thus the symphonic poem was conceived to match this soaring freedom of imagination and creative power. The pioneer in this endeavor was France’s Berlioz, whose works such as *Symphonie fantastique*, *Harold en Italie*, and others successively astonished the global music world.

Liszt responded by composing *Héroïde funèbre*, depicting *Tasso*, and creating his magnum opus *Les Préludes*, thereby establishing the field of programmatic music with literary themes and planting entirely new hopes for musical expression, thus ushering in the dawn of modern music. Among Liszt’s twelve symphonic poems, in addition to the aforementioned *Tasso* and *Les Préludes*, there are works such as *Mazeppa* and *Hamlet*. Above all, *Les Préludes* remains famous, continues to be widely performed to this day, and is widely recognized as a quintessential masterpiece of the symphonic poem.

Liszt, the renowned pianist of all ages, created numerous pieces of unparalleled difficulty to wield his superhuman technique. By incorporating the dance music of his native Hungary, he produced nineteen Hungarian Rhapsodies—truly brilliant masterpieces that stand as one of the most monumental pyramids in piano music. They represent a flood of dazzling beauty that captivates the eye, existing amidst rustic sentiments and violent passions. Furthermore, Liszt—with his open-minded impartiality—arranged songs and orchestral works by his seniors, friends, and juniors, leaving behind countless gem-like masterpieces. It remains deeply interesting that even Rubinstein—who brandished outright disdain for program music—doffed his hat to these jewel-like arrangements by Liszt.

Liszt’s Works and Their Records

Symphonic Poems Recordings of Liszt’s music are not very numerous apart from the Hungarian Rhapsodies. Among his symphonic poems, *Les Préludes*—based on Lamartine’s poetic declaration that “Life is but a prelude to that unknown song whose first solemn note is sounded by death”—remains the most popular and engaging, with recordings abounding. Among these, I would reiterate what I wrote five years ago in my previous book *Romantic Music* and highlight Mengelberg’s recording with the Concertgebouw Orchestra as a masterwork (Columbia J7611–2). There are also records conducted by Mylovitz (Columbia), Ormandy (Victor), and Kleiber (Telefunken).

The *Faust Symphony* stood as a work into which Liszt poured his life’s efforts and the grand culmination of his genius and technical mastery. Deeply moved by Goethe’s *Faust*, he depicted the characters of Faust, Gretchen, and Mephistopheles through music in an ambitious attempt to express Goethe’s philosophy and worldview. This piece remained quite abstruse even then, lacking any melodious sweetness that might appeal to the general public. A Columbia record existed of Mylovitz conducting the Paris Symphony Orchestra and Vlasov Choir (JW563–9).

There are also *Mazeppa* and *Mephisto Waltz*, but they are not noteworthy enough to merit special mention. *Hungarian Rhapsodies* and *Hungarian Fantasy* The First [Rhapsody] is available on Polydor by Borovsky (D123–4). The Second [Rhapsody] is extremely famous and therefore beautiful. It’s music that sends sparks flying. Cortot’s (Victor JD-1264) is an old recording but likely the best. Other notable recordings include Brailowsky on Polydor and Friedman on Columbia.

The Sixth [Rhapsody] is a beautiful piece. Victor’s Levitzki excels in this piece, delivering a thrilling performance (D-1383). The Tenth [Rhapsody] by Rubinstein is magnificent (Victor JD-1356), and Cortot’s Eleventh, though an old recording, is excellent (Victor 1277). For the Twelfth [Rhapsody], recordings by Brailowsky and Levitzki are available, while for the Thirteenth [Rhapsody], there is Levitzki’s version (the old Columbia record of Busoni performing this Thirteenth [Rhapsody] is what might be called a rarity). For the Fifteenth [Rhapsody], there are recordings by Kreutzer and Solomon.

In short, for general collecting purposes, Cortot’s No. 2 and Levitzki’s No. 6 should suffice. As for the orchestral arrangement of Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, though somewhat old, there was Stokowski’s renowned recording with the Philadelphia Orchestra on Victor (JD-1236), while for wind ensemble, there existed Dupont’s celebrated performance with the Garde Républicaine on Columbia (J-3234). The "Hungarian Fantasy" for piano and orchestra stood as the most Lisztian of brilliant compositions. Among older recordings, there was De Greeff (piano) with Ronald conducting the Royal Albert Hall Orchestra on Victor (9110–11), while newer ones included Wolf (piano) with Weissbach conducting the Berlin Symphony Orchestra on Victor, and Dupont (piano) with Rühlmann conducting the Paris Symphony Orchestra on Columbia. Though an extremely old recording, I found myself drawn to the depth and affection in old De Greeff’s performance—he being one of Liszt’s direct disciples who still preserved the dignity of sound to this day. However, the one with the best recording and other conditions remained the newer Wolf.

Piano Concertos and Piano-Orchestra Ensemble Pieces

Of the two piano concertos, while No. 1 in E-flat Major showed some signs of aging decline, one should recommend Sauer (piano) with Weingartner conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra. The devoted affection these two elders held for Liszt and their magnificent old-fashioned expression deserved appreciation (Columbia JS101–3). There were also Levitzki’s on Victor and Gieseking’s on Columbia. Neither was bad.

The same could be said of the "Second Concerto in A Major" (Columbia JS120–2). While there exists a recording by Petri, it cannot compare to those of the elder musicians in terms of artistic commitment. Though Sauer was already an octogenarian, he still commanded reverence in musical circles, his resplendent interpretations retaining a youthful vigor and luster. The inclusion of these two concertos might well be called a celebratory event for the recording industry. *Danse Macabre* remains superficially dazzling yet fundamentally astonishing. Both in conception and execution, Columbia's recording featuring Kilenyi at the piano with Mylovitz conducting the Paris Symphony Orchestra stands as a masterful performance (JW540–1).

Works such as *Wanderer Fantasy* and *Fantasy on The Ruins of Athens* were among Liszt’s masterful arrangements, but there were no particularly good recordings of them.

Piano Sonatas, and Other Works

The "Sonata in B minor" was a work that persisted through just a single movement, overflowing with Liszt's formidable power. The recording by Victor’s Horowitz (JD-216–8) was astounding. It was likely Horowitz’s masterpiece recording. There was also one by Cortot (Victor 7325–7). Cortot’s recording of *Concert Étude No. 2* (Victor JD-196), Rubinstein’s *Liebestraum No. 3 in A-flat Major* (Victor JD-768), and Cortot’s *St. Francis Walking on the Water* (Victor JD-1250) were among the noteworthy records.

Among other arrangements, "La Campanella" was transcribed for piano from Paganini’s original violin composition; Levitzki made this his signature work (Victor JD-1660). Paderewski’s remains an excellent commemorative recording (Victor VD-8198).

The Giant Wagner

I remember that in the summer of Meiji 35 (1902), Takuboku Ishikawa, who had come to Tokyo for the first time, was engrossed in reading an English translation of Wagner’s *Lohengrin* at a private boarding house in Kohinata. The memory remains vivid: Takuboku Ishikawa argued for Wagner as a dramatic poet, while I insisted on the absurdity of discussing Wagner without his music—we spent half a day in this delightful debate. Last summer, thirty-seven or eight years later, I visited Hakodate Library and, through Director Okada’s kindness, examined Takuboku’s diary in question. There, in the Meiji 35 (1902) section, I unexpectedly discovered frequent records of our interactions. Connecting them with memories of our naive Wagnerian debates, I was truly overcome with a sense of the passage of time.

The Wagnerian movement that swept the world at the time, introduced by figures like Dr. Ueda Bin (then a bachelor), had even Japanese youths—who had yet to hear Wagner’s music—so fired up with enthusiasm that all middle-aged and older former literary youths must surely remember it. The vehemence of Wagner’s influence was such an all too vivid a fact that it once swept through the entire music world, leading people to believe "Without Wagner, there is no music."

Wagner’s music made an immense and profound impression, and while his supporters burned with extraordinary fervor, it remains true that seeds of anti-Wagnerism were constantly taking root—there were times when some sought to bury all of Wagner’s achievements and artistry in the depths of the earth. The phrase "mixed praise and criticism" does not quite fit Wagner’s case. From the 1860s through roughly three-quarters of a century, there were periods when the whole world stood against Wagner, and others when two-thirds of it became his fervent allies.

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

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

Effort and Struggle

Richard Wagner was born on May 22, 1813, in Leipzig as the ninth child to police clerk Friedrich Wagner and his wife Pätz. Friedrich, his father, 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 care for, there was no prospect of managing. Fortunately, his stepfather Geyer was a kind and affectionate man, and Wagner is said to have grown up without any troubles, maintaining a sense of gratitude toward his stepfather throughout his life.

In his youth, Wagner did not exhibit the dazzling musical genius seen in Mozart. However, there is no doubt he was a boy of distinctive character—both unruly and resolute. He became engrossed in drama, immersing himself in Homer and Shakespeare, and at age eleven even wrote a play titled *Leubald*. His stepfather Geyer had him practice painting, but he could not endure being confined to sketching and copying; similarly in music, such systematic training proved ill-suited to Wagner.

At the age of eight, Wagner reportedly watched Weber’s *Der Freischütz*, shed tears, played one of its beautiful melodies on the piano, astonishing his bedridden stepfather—but when he later studied under a piano teacher, he disliked technical training and was dismissed with “This child will never become a musician,” while his violin teacher branded him “the most hopeless pupil.” It was at fourteen that he was stirred as if by divine revelation upon hearing Beethoven’s *Egmont* and symphony. Realizing that musical cultivation could not be achieved overnight, he devoted six months to rigorous study under his mentor Weiling at Leipzig University, mastering harmony and counterpoint to forge wings for independent flight. To survey Wagner’s biography is to trace a crimson chronicle—from tender boyhood through middle-aged battles against the world to triumphant old age—a lion-souled struggle against thorns, a giant’s advance through brambles. In all music history, there has likely been no composer more combative than Wagner.

Wagner’s life as a musician began with his composition of the opera *The Fairies*. In 1833, at the age of twenty, he became a vocal coach at the Würzburg theater, then a conductor in Königsberg, followed by Riga; for six years, he sought employment in provincial theaters, experiencing every facet of life’s hardships. At twenty-three, he married the beautiful actress Minna, but this marriage was never a happy one for either Wagner or Minna. Minna, too beautiful and too shallow, was not only ill-suited to Wagner’s impoverished life but also—even after they entered middle-aged married life following multiple crises that nearly ended their union—failed to comprehend Wagner’s genius and art, seeking instead to confine her husband to an intolerably mundane existence. However, regarding the final breakdown of their life together, while Wagner’s attitude was far from transparent and deserves full condemnation on that point, it can be said without hesitation that the initial cause leading to their rupture stemmed from the wife’s failure to comprehend her husband and sympathize with his true vocation.

Wagner began with Romantic art. In his later years, his ideology took root in German nationalism and developed into a lofty idealism, but in his youth, Wagner—influenced by the reformist ideas of the time—had plunged headlong toward new horizons, which too proved an inevitable course.

The Redemption of the Ninth Symphony

Driven out from his position as conductor in Riga, Wagner raced to Paris at passion’s command, 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 rivals, spiteful theaters, and uncomprehending publishers cast this pitiful foreign youth into starvation’s streets. Disillusionment’s bone-deep chill and gnawing hunger tormented Wagner without mercy. His boots gaped soleless; he lacked even coins for a haircut—steeped in marrow-piercing sorrow, what he truly yearned for was Germany’s soil: its people and art. But hunger’s daily encroachment could not be repelled by dreams or remorse. For Wagner, they say only two choices remained: “To die or turn thief.”

Wagner, who had completely lost all confidence through despair and recklessness, one day heard Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with chorus conducted by Habeneck at the Conservatoire. The celestial voice resounded thunderously in Wagner’s ears. “Life’s hope lies here. Light! Joy! — That is true music!” Wagner staggered back to his impoverished room, but such terrible excitement brought on a fever that kept him from leaving his pillow the next day. Thus Beethoven became a divine revelation, illuminating the path Wagner must take.

In 1839 he wrote the *Faust Overture*, in 1840 *Rienzi*, and in 1841 sketched *The Flying Dutchman*—Wagner’s genius began to burn like fire. Thus in 1842, *Rienzi* was performed at the Dresden Court Theater, achieving success that surpassed all expectations, and Wagner suddenly rose to become the darling of the musical world. Following this, *The Flying Dutchman* was performed, and after receiving an enthusiastic reception, Wagner finally secured an important position in the music 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 enhanced public understanding, this was not the goal that had been prepared for Wagner. From that time onward, Wagner’s growing influence incurred the envy of the theater director, turned the press against him, and step by step plunged him into an inescapable predicament. To make matters worse, through his associations and other connections, he became embroiled in political movements—even if he did not actively participate in them—until finally an arrest warrant was issued against him, forcing him to narrowly escape to Zurich, Switzerland, thus beginning Wagner’s long life of wandering.

His wandering life in foreign lands lasted a full twelve years, from 1849 when he was thirty-six until 1861 when he turned forty-eight. The first thing to strike Wagner, who had lost his home base, was—needless to say—terrible poverty. Even after Wagner himself had come to realize he harbored no political ambitions and was merely an artist, that understanding now served no purpose.

Throughout his long period of poverty, the one who consistently aided Wagner was his friend Liszt—an understanding patron who strove to promote Wagner’s music. Moreover, Wagner gained a following of young aesthetes, from among whom he discovered the exceptional young pianist Hans von Bülow, who would later become a great conductor. As Wagner himself said—a solitary life with no joy but sleep, an impoverished life perpetually plagued by financial worries, a life devoid of satisfaction or hope—it was also 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 life’s great masterpiece—the four-part grand music drama cycle *The Ring of the Nibelung*. This *Das Rheingold*, *Die Walküre*, and *Siegfried*, The tetralogy *Götterdämmerung* stood not only as a monumental work embodying Wagner’s ideal of music drama but truly as a radiant-colossal monument in all music history—past and present.

His ideology, along with his techniques, gradually matured; into the surging heroism was blended a Schopenhauerian pessimism, and the profound darkness of tragic fate became linked with an ideal of love that expanded on a global scale. The weight of Wagner’s music stems not only from the relentless mass emission of sound but also from this Greek-style heroism and the ideological gravity of tragic fate.

Family Life

Around that time, Wagner’s family gradually disintegrated. Minna, Wagner’s wife—four years his senior and described as a "beautiful but prosaic woman"—deepened an insurmountable rift between herself and Wagner with each passing year. The two began quarreling from their wedding day; this was the Minna who attempted to elope with a wealthy man during Wagner’s time of hardship, yet it was also the same Minna who appeared before the Saxon court during his exile to plead for her husband’s pardon no fewer than three times. Yet this same Minna, like Mozart’s wife before her, never understood Wagner until her death, asking others, “Is Richard really that great?” “Huh—is that really true?” she would ask others, so profound was her lack of understanding.

Minna developed a lung disease and began taking opium to forget her suffering, her paranoia growing steadily stronger. At this very juncture, Mathilde—the young and beautiful wife of industrialist Wesendonck—prevailed upon her husband to receive Wagner at their villa, visiting daily as his most ardent admirer to immerse herself in his poetry, music, and philosophy. Mathilde was beautiful and wise. The vision of Mathilde discussing art with Wagner in the Alpine villa's study overlooking lake and mountains—however free from improper intent—required no elaboration as to how it struck Minna's eyes.

Minna finally left Wagner forever, cradling her ailing chest. Though the divorce was Minna’s decision and Wagner continued supporting his ex-wife financially afterward, he cannot escape censure for failing to properly care for his uninformed, sickly wife throughout her life. Moreover, Wagner later remarried—a formal yet unsavory union—to Cosima, the wife of his friend and beloved disciple Hans von Bülow and daughter of Liszt. It remains an undeniable fact that there were more than a few aspects of Wagner’s moral principles regarding his relationships with women that proved hard to reconcile. The masterpiece *Tristan und Isolde*, which depicts a love tragedy, is said to allude to Wagner’s 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 experiencing repeated disappointments and setbacks, in 1864 fortune came to Wagner in the form of an envoy from King Ludwig II of Bavaria.

The Final Victory

Though Wagner—summoned to Munich—faced countless enemies and obstacles during this period, through the king’s benevolence he retired to the shores of Lake Lucerne, married the young Cosima, welcomed his beloved son Siegfried into the world, and composed the charming masterpiece *Siegfried Idyll*. Wagner’s struggle was a battle against the world’s incomprehension of his art, a fight against traditionalists, and simultaneously a conflict with commercial theaters. Amidst these formidable adversaries, he realized that the only way to perform his music without restraint and allow its full appreciation by true lovers of art was to build a theater—a veritable sanctuary of art—based on non-commercial principles.

Wagner devised a plan to build a festival theater in Bayreuth by gathering a thousand comrades, in order to protect the sanctity of performances and celebrate music drama as a festival art. That was in 1873, when Wagner was sixty years old. With the support of King Ludwig II of Bavaria, the theater was completed in 1876; that autumn, under the king’s auspices, three historic performances of the four-part *The Ring of the Nibelung* were realized. Thus, Wagner’s ideal for his music dramas was realized for the first time. *The Ring of the Nibelung* is a monumental work that requires four days for a single performance, and it is said to be music that revives Greek tragedy, ideally realizes the fusion of poetry and music, and even ventures into the realm of religion.

Thereafter, even with paying audiences admitted, the Bayreuth Festival Theatre had its traditional festival continued under the direction of the long-lived widow Cosima Wagner until recent years, and as is well known, it still occupies an august position as one of the world's musical landmarks today. With *Parsifal* as his final masterpiece, Wagner—while visiting Italy in 1883—suffered a stroke in Venice on February 13. 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 all possible grandeur at the Wahnfried mausoleum on February 18, 1883.

Finally, I wish to briefly convey Wagner's musical theories and his achievements.

Grand Synthesis of the Arts According to Wagner, all arts should be unified under and subsumed into music; poetry, painting, drama, sculpture—all were to connect with music to form a single grand synthesis, and he believed that in the form of music drama, art must occupy its supreme position. Wagner’s music dramas—to fulfill their sacred ideal—were to be divorced from commercial art and sustained as festival works by true art lovers.

Wagner’s preparations for his music dramas were nothing short of extraordinary. To rescue opera from the vulgarity of traditional commercial theater, he not only forged a close relationship with poetry but abolished the hollow arias designed to showcase singers' virtuosity. Instead, he employed beautiful recitatives set against expansive musical backdrops, using leitmotifs to represent characters, objects, and ideological environments within the drama. Through their development, interweaving, and transformation, he achieved a theatrical evolution of unparalleled splendor. A monumental work of his lifetime such as *The Ring of the Nibelung* indeed possessed over ninety leitmotifs, their interweaving presenting a spectacle akin to a vast Gobelin tapestry obscuring the sun.

The bold use of dissonance, the strengthening of middle voices, innovative approaches to orchestration—when enumerated, his musical innovations proved indeed numerous. Its most distinctive feature lay in the intricate intensification of wind instrument usage, at times deploying nine harps to seize every nerve of the audience and drench them in a deluge of passion—the ferocity of Wagner’s “Art of Power” remained unparalleled before or since. Wagner’s music dramas—with their overwhelming intensity that allowed listeners no moment’s respite, their refusal to permit emotional identification, their exclusive use of mythological subject matter steeped in heroism and offering no salvation from fated tragedies—found little favor among those of delicate sensibilities. Yet their lofty idealism and fervent passion—akin to a religion of love—shattered the tepid Romanticism of their time, inaugurating a new era of intellectual music while unleashing an expressive power in sound art that surpassed all imagination.

In both conduct and music, in life and even after death, Wagner—though he had many admirers and formidable rivals—took titanic strides, and the profound depth of his music's influence on posterity cannot be denied. I say again: without Wagner, the music of the world could not exist as it does today. And who could doubt that he was, in every sense, an artistic hero? Wagner’s musical output is vast, but selections from *The Ring of the Nibelung* and *Lohengrin*, the overture to *Tannhäuser*, and preludes to *Die Meistersinger*, *Parsifal*, and *Tristan und Isolde* can be readily heard on records. To grapple with and savor the music of the titan Wagner is something impossible for those who regard music as a sweet indulgence. However, it can truly be said to be a fine trial of artistic appreciation.

Wagner’s Works and Their Records

Wagner’s records are by no means scarce. I previously attempted to detail each of these in my old work *Romantic Music*, but this devolved into a mere catalog, only compounding the difficulty of selecting truly good records. Here, I will list only the truly good ones and leave nine-tenths unmentioned. It goes without saying that Wagner’s music holds immense importance in musical culture; however, due to its grand structure and extreme complexity and refinement, the inherent difficulty never diminishes, no matter how much time passes. In Japan, Wagner’s records are not necessarily commercially successful—a truly unavoidable reality—yet one cannot help feeling a sense of embarrassment about it.

Based on my actual experiences at concerts held at Tokyo Imperial University and elsewhere, Wagner’s music stirred up unexpectedly intense emotions among intellectual audiences and cast deeply intriguing suggestions for the future. I believe that someday in Japan as well, there will come an opportunity for Wagner to be embraced and widely understood.

Bayreuth Wagner Festival Records

Among Wagner’s records, those of greatest interest are the nine discs recorded at the 1936 Bayreuth Wagner Festival. Even if Wagner’s ideals had been partially revised, the fact that they had continued at the Bayreuth Wagner Theatre up to that time remained deeply intriguing in itself. While a performance had been recorded in 1927 as well, its sound quality was so poor that it was no longer worth considering; however, the 1936 recording proved splendid indeed, allowing listeners to fully savor Bayreuth’s distinctive atmosphere.

The unconventional arrangement of placing the orchestra beneath the stage, concealing the musicians from audience view, could also be perceived in this recording. Both orchestra and chorus took pride in their work with honor, and though I remain unacquainted with conductor Tichen's character, I surmised he must have been a figure of considerable stature. These records focused solely on the central works of *Lohengrin*, *Die Walküre*, and *Siegfried*, yet their dramatic progression unfolded naturally, with contextual relationships becoming somewhat clear through fluid and engaging development. The singers too were first-rate—not only did they capture the Bayreuth Festival's atmosphere admirably, but they led one to believe this was indeed the authentic essence of Wagner’s music dramas (Polydor SKB 2047–55).

*Tannhäuser* and *Lohengrin* The overture to *Tannhäuser* was particularly magnificent. It stood as an early masterpiece of Wagner. Though records abounded, I would recommend—despite their age—the Columbia recordings conducted by Mengelberg with the Concertgebouw Orchestra for their grandeur (J8092-3). The music of *Venusberg* conducted by Stokowski, while constituting a revision of the *Tannhäuser* overture, lacked the overture's dramatic potency.

Among single-song records from *Tannhäuser*, Victor’s recording of “Hall of Song” (JD-1375) sung by Flagstad and the same singer’s “Elisabeth’s Prayer” (JD-763) are splendid. Next, though slightly older, Victor’s Elizza is good. In particular, I believe Elizza’s *Hall of Song* was one of the celebrated recordings, but it has gone out of print. Columbia’s Lehmann’s *Elisabeth’s Aria* and *Prayer* were also masterful.

*Evening Star* reminds me of Schwarz’s old Deutsche Grammophon recording. Among electrical recordings there exists Hüsch’s version (Victor JD-1143), but for this particular piece, the old Schwarz was better.

The absence of a complete recording of *Lohengrin* left one wanting. The preludes were both extremely famous and excellent, but Victor’s Toscanini made the "Prelude to Act III" stand out (*Wagner Masterpieces Collection*), while Polydor’s "Prelude to Act I" conducted by Furtwängler (60187) likely qualified as another masterpiece. The *Wedding March* (Bridal Chorus) was famous, but no good records of it existed. If one had to choose, there was no option but to take either the aforementioned Bayreuth Festival records or Victor’s recording by the Metropolitan Chorus (11249).

The famous "Elsa's Dream" was excellently recorded both in Victor's Flagstad (JD-1375) and Columbia's Lehmann (J-5593). Among older recordings, there was Elizza on Victor.

*The Mastersingers of Nuremberg* and *Tristan and Isolde*

The "Prelude" from *Die Meistersinger* may be somewhat old, but Victor’s recording of Muck conducting the Berlin State Opera Orchestra remains an absolute masterpiece (6858-9).

For the "Prelude" to Act III, Victor had Stokowski’s conducted version and Böhm’s conducted version (JH-153), with the latter possessing only the advantage of being newer. However, Columbia’s version conducted by Walter and Polydor’s by Furtwängler must not be overlooked. For "The Cobbler’s Dance and Entry of the Mastersingers," there existed a Columbia recording with Walter conducting a British orchestra (J-8175). Though "The Prize Song" was an exquisitely beautiful piece beloved by many, curiously no truly satisfactory recordings of it could be found.

In *Tristan und Isolde*, there exists Stokowski’s “Symphonic Synthesis.” While its editing was skillful and conducting masterful, these very qualities caused it to lose all dramatic development, breathing room, expansiveness, and lingering emotion.

The combination of the "Prelude" with "Isolde’s Liebestod" under Furtwängler’s direction with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra was available on both Polydor (60196–7) and Columbia (S-1044–5, *Famous Recordings Collection Vol. 3*). Furtwängler’s *Tristan und Isolde* was hailed as peerless, with both recordings being splendid. The Columbia version was likely somewhat newer.

*The Ring of the Nibelung* *Das Rheingold*, *Die Walküre*, and *Siegfried* Records of this grand music drama comprising four parts—*Götterdämmerung*—were available in quite substantial numbers for individual sections.

In *Die Walküre*, Walter conducted the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, and Columbia had the complete first-act recording sung by Lehmann (soprano), Melchior (tenor), and List (bass) (JS6–13). In what may have been the finest recording imaginable at the time, the singers, conductor, and orchestra flawlessly brought Wagner’s music to life. There were also Stokowski’s conducted synthesized versions, and among older recordings, Victor had complete versions conducted by Coates and Blech, though these were no longer worth considering.

Among single-disc records, there was *Magic Fire Music* conducted by Stokowski (Victor Lovers Association Vol. 6), and there was also Flagstad’s rendition of “Ho-jo-to-ho” (Victor JE-128).

For *Siegfried*, aside from the Bayreuth Festival recordings, Victor had Mengelberg conducting the New York Philharmonic Orchestra in *Forest Murmurs* (JD-1570). Though exquisitely beautiful, it had grown somewhat dated. Stokowski’s synthesized versions fared poorly in comparison. Of *Götterdämmerung*, few recordings existed beyond Stokowski’s overwrought syntheses. *Rheinfahrt*’s exceptional beauty found worthy preservation in Muck’s Berlin State Opera Orchestra recording held by 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 existed those conducted by Walter, Furtwängler, and Kleiber.

*Parsifal*

A work that formed the final pinnacle of Wagner’s music dramas and was profoundly meditative.

The *Prelude* and *Good Friday Music* were available on Victor conducted by Stokowski (JD-1653–6), and on Columbia conducted by Furtwängler (JS-47–9). Both were superb performances, but Furtwängler’s introspective and serene interpretation surpassed Stokowski’s American-style opulence. Furtwängler’s *Parsifal* stood as another peerless achievement; even a master like Stokowski could not attain such heights. The orchestras were the Philadelphia Orchestra and the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.

There are others conducted by Coppola, Muck, and Boult as well, but there is no need to list them anymore.

*Siegfried Idyll*

This music has a storied origin: Wagner, having entered old age when he fathered his only son Siegfried, composed this piece in his excessive joy to celebrate both Madame Cosima’s birthday and Christmas, and on Christmas morning had a small orchestra perform it at the entrance of their home, which sent Madame Cosima into raptures. Drawing themes from the music drama *Siegfried* and weaving in an old German lullaby, it stands as an exceptionally beautiful work even for Wagner, with affection permeating every measure.

There were multiple recordings available, but Columbia’s recording of Walter conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (J-8567–8) was considered the foremost—a performance imbued with affectionate care and executed with consummate skill. Toscanini’s conducted version stood as a distinctive record (*Wagner Masterpieces Collection*), though it carried his characteristic bluntness. Another recording by Siegfried Wagner, Wagner’s late son, remained preserved in Victor’s catalog (D-1297–8). Though not a particularly skilled conductor, his interpretation held deep commemorative interest.

In summary, 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 prelude to *Parsifal*, Furtwängler’s *Parsifal*, and Walter’s *Die Walküre*. Though skillful, Stokowski’s recordings remained ultimately inconsequential.

The Hidden Saint of Music: Franck

In the history of modern music, César Franck—standing resolutely yet modestly tall—remains both dignified and nostalgic. Franck, who spent most of his life hidden as an organist at Sainte-Clotilde Church and received his first acclaim only in his final year, stands as one who truly deserves to be called both the "Saint of Music" and the "modern Bach."

That nearly all of Franck’s works stemmed from Catholic faith and that he once disregarded both the masses and the clamorous figures of the music world was indeed a reason why Franck’s recognition came so late in his lifetime. Yet this very quality also constituted a nobility shared across a century and a half with Johann Sebastian Bach—who similarly entrusted his life to Lutheran faith and found utter contentment as a mere church organist. In time, this sincere attitude itself became the very reason true art—the noblest and best of all things—is born.

Franck’s music, however magnificent its exterior may be, was deeply rooted in faith—just as Bach’s had been—or, in other words, 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 who knows even a little about him. For example, even within the opulent and resplendent *Sonata in A Major*—a masterpiece among violin and piano sonatas across the ages—César Franck could not help but imbue religious passion and pure, untainted joy.

An Era of Trials

César Franck was born on December 10, 1822, in Liège, Belgium. From boyhood, he displayed exceptional talent at the piano and, bearing his parents’ great expectations, entered the Paris Conservatory at age fifteen, where he frequently received awards for his performances in both piano and organ. The resplendent figure of Franz Liszt—who at that time reigned as a great pianist across all of Europe, possessing honor, status, and immense wealth—must have instilled in Franck’s parents the hope of raising their son to become a great pianist. However, young Franck betrayed his parents’ aspirations by immersing himself in composition and persistently striving for the Rome Prize—reputed as the gateway to success in the composition world—which provoked fierce opposition from his father. As a result, he was compelled to abandon both composition and his studies and return to his Belgian homeland. This occurred when he was twenty years old, in 1842.

Why are secular rewards so meager for composers yet so generous for performers? This is not limited to Franck alone. This pernicious imbalance—how many geniuses throughout history has it starved into dire straits?

Be that as it may, two years later in 1844, Franck once again threw himself into Paris's crucible, struggling resolutely on his own to carve out his destiny. While this stemmed partly from his parents' far from affluent circumstances, Franck's life of hardship began at this time. From around 1848—when he climbed over the revolutionary barricades erected across Paris and attended his own wedding ceremony to actress Desmousseaux's daughter—he found himself facing adversities that increasingly demanded both his resolve and physical endurance.

He had to rise at five-thirty every morning to devote himself to composition in order to earn their daily bread, then spent the entire day teaching harmony and piano.

The Young Men Around Him

In 1846, his first oratorio *Mercy* premiered, and in 1850, part of an opera was completed; however, Franck himself, realizing how distant the path was to reaching his ideals, thereafter refrained from composing for nearly ten years, and even after 1860, there appears to have been no significant activity. Meanwhile, Franck’s reputation as an organist gradually grew; in 1858, he secured the position of organist at Saint-Clotilde Church, where he remained for nearly his entire life, maintaining an unwavering reputation as an organist. In 1872, he became a professor of organ at the Paris Conservatory; the following year in 1873, he was naturalized as a French citizen; and until his passing in 1890, over approximately twenty years, his masterpieces were gradually completed.

Around Franck gathered young men who admired his dignified bearing and were devoted to his works. It truly had the air of silent influence, where virtue needs no proclamation. Among these young men were included future luminaries—d’Indy, Chausson, Duparc, Ropartz, Pierné, Vidal, and Chapuis—who would later raise great banners in the French music world; centered around Franck, a vibrant new movement began to brew here. However, despite this, Franck’s works did not easily come to be known to the world. Due to Franck’s music being modest, intellectual, and devoid of unnecessary flattery, it is likely that not only the general public but even the musicians of his time failed to understand it.

The Year Before Death

In the year before his death—1889—when Franck’s magnum opus, the *Symphony in D minor*, which could be called the great symphony since Beethoven’s time, premiered at the Paris Conservatory, Charles Gounod—then a leading figure in the French music world—attended with his entourage. When asked for his impressions after the performance, he publicly declared it “an incompetent affirmation,” blatantly slandering Franck. This remark does nothing to elevate the composer of the opera *Faust*, but it reveals the merciless degree of misunderstanding with which Franck’s works were received by public opinion at the time.

When Franck returned home after the premiere and his family asked about the performance's reception, he reportedly responded, "Hmm—it resonated well, just as I expected." This anecdote paints the sixty-eight-year-old composer's solitary figure in such a heartrending light that it borders on the tragic. In early spring of the following year, when his *String Quartet in D Major* premiered, applause born of true understanding finally greeted Franck's work for the first time. Turning to someone beside him, Franck murmured, "At last... Just as I always believed—the world has finally come to appreciate my music."

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

The Nobility of Franck

I believe I have now written sufficiently about the nobility of Franck as a human being. Franck’s works, while classical in form, are thoroughly modern in their expressive methods; 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, but it shares a common thread with the Neo-Spiritualism movement—as artistic works, they possess a sincerity surpassing ordinary imagination. Though devoid of Romanticism’s emotional excesses or German pedantry, his music’s architectural rationality and grandeur—mystical yet vividly colorful—proved difficult to comprehend during his lifetime while simultaneously containing profound substance and an inexhaustible spiritual quality.

Franck's Works and Their Records As Franck was not prolific and his works lacked popular appeal, records of them were far from numerous. However, in Franck’s case, the fact that even those few records were all eminently listenable—a quality that greatly differed from those of other composers—only deepened the reverence for him.

Symphony, Symphonic Variations The *Symphony in D minor* stands as Franck’s sole symphony, unparalleled before or since in its architectural grandeur and depth of spiritual content. One should regard both Franck’s genius and labor and the quintessence of the French symphonic tradition as having been perfected in this single work. Among recordings, Stokowski’s resplendent performance with the Philadelphia Orchestra remains paramount (Victor JD-998–1003).

The *Symphonic Variations* is an elegant concerto for piano and orchestra. It is gratifying that even amidst this dazzling beauty, it does not lose the substantive goodness characteristic of Franck. The record to cite would be Victor’s release of Cortot (piano) with Landon Ronald conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra (JD 527–8). It is a work abundant in heartfelt warmth and possesses breathtaking brilliance.

Violin Sonata The *Violin Sonata in A Major* stood as one of the great masterpieces among violin-piano sonatas across history—a renowned work whose brilliance approached that of Beethoven and whose depth rivaled that of Brahms. While there were numerous recordings, none—even among slightly older ones—could match the refinement and elegance of Victor’s Cortot (piano) and Thibaud (violin) (8175–8). Records of this caliber made it sheer folly to hesitate in choosing.

String Quartets, Piano Quintets

The *String Quartet in D Major* was not only Franck's sole string quartet but also expressed the profoundly serene state of his final years, remaining distant from popular interest. The record on Victor featured the Pro Arte Quartet’s austere performance (JD 521–6). The *Piano Quintet* might not have been particularly showy for a work of its kind, but it stood as something profound and ethereal. A recent re-press by the Capet Quartet with Champi (piano) had been released on Columbia S-1110–4. The recording was over a decade old and lacked considerable clarity, but one still could not help acknowledging Capet's excellence. There was also a recording by Cortot (piano) and the International Quartet on Victor, but here too—though Cortot’s piano work remained excellent—the strings were not of particularly high quality, and the recording itself was not recent.

Piano Works, Organ Works The two pieces—*Prélude, Choral et Fugue* (Victor 7331–2) and *Prélude, Aria et Final* (Victor JD 77–9)—stood as representative works among Franck’s piano compositions. These masterpieces united the profound thought that had earned him the epithet “the modern Bach” with contemporary expressive techniques, even evoking a religiously reverent quality. Cortot’s performance remained the finest one could hope for, but whether due to Cortot’s relative youth at the time, differences in interpretative approach, or simply the inherent superiority of the composition itself, the former imparted an even greater nobility.

*Prélude, Fugue et Variation* was an organ piece, with a recording by the master Dupré available on Victor (JD-1629). It should evoke the image of Franck, the renowned organist.

Orchestral Works *The Accursed Huntsman* is a work based on Bruegel's ballad depicting an arrogant count being cast down from a hunt into hell—a programmatic piece with intriguing flavor. A recording exists on Polydor conducted by Wolff with the Paris Conservatoire Lamoureux Orchestra (40482–3). Though somewhat aged, there are no better alternatives. The symphonic poems *Redemption* and *Psyché* are also available on Polydor under Wolff’s direction, but regrettably the recordings are somewhat old and incomplete.

The Lonely Philosopher Brahms “To compose an opera is more difficult than marrying,” Brahms declared. Though various theories exist about why Brahms remained solitary throughout his life, this much is certain: that he—who created music in every form—never composed a single opera likely stemmed from his unyieldingly straightforward nature, an honesty that refused to admit compromise, exaggeration, or even dramatic expression into his works. Brahms was a man of terrifying integrity. Nothing gaudy, showy, or frivolous could infiltrate either his compositions or his daily existence. Attention-seeking technical tricks, avant-garde novelty-mongering, gestures mismatched to substance, emotions spilling over without purpose—all such things proved utterly insufferable to Brahms.

I have often spoken and written of my fondness for Brahms’ music alongside that of Bach and Schubert. Above all, in his chamber music there exists an indescribable excellence that—while meticulously stripped of gloss—possesses both an orderly formal beauty and overflowing richness.

Brahms’ music was “content as expression.” It stood as a pure white marble statue hewn from the totality of Brahms’ being. Devoid of all embellishment or exaggeration, enshrouded in classical forms, scrupulously digging a hundred feet underground to reach life’s crystalline springwater—this might well describe Brahms’ music. I had also declared, “Brahms’ life too was an unyielding truth that never bent art to its will.” His music became a declaration of war against hypocrisy and superficiality, an iconoclasm confronting ostentation and pretense. During that burgeoning era of modern music—when both genuine and counterfeit elements pursued novelty with single-minded fervor—Brahms returned to the grand, solemn, simple, and devout classical spirit, charging resolutely toward his ideal of “restoring absolute music’s sacred ground.”

I have repeated articles and lectures praising Brahms more than ten times since the beginning of this year. Brahms’s music is unadorned and solid, not easily gaining popular appeal; the world contains a small number of Brahms enthusiasts and several times as many who dislike him—a reality that likely compels us who love Brahms to write and speak of him so often.

Why was Brahms never embraced by the masses? And yet, why does Brahms's music remain so beautiful and noble? Following my usual method, I shall investigate his brief biography to reach a conclusion.

The Fine Young Man

Johannes Brahms was born on May 7, 1833, in Hamburg, Germany. His father Johann was a musician, and there can be no doubt that he provided the ideal environment for nurturing Brahms's innate musical talent without distortion. At age ten, when advised to tour America as a child prodigy, his mentor Kossel wisely refused this proposal—judging it detrimental to Brahms's full development—and pinned great hopes on his future as a virtuoso pianist. Yet Brahms's heart inclined rather toward studying harmony through the piano instrument itself, and his fierce passion began steering steadfastly toward composition rather than performance.

However, Brahms's start as a musician was by no means glorious. Young Brahms had to play piano in taverns to support his impoverished family by age fourteen. Had he lacked fierce ambition, neglected Bible study, and failed to cultivate his intellect, he might have ended his days as a tavern pianist. Fortunately, young Brahms's scholarly drive led him to steal moments for self-improvement, laying amid hardships the foundation for his later noble sentiments and philosophical insights.

He published his Sonata Op.3 and a collection of songs at seventeen. At twenty, Brahms had already partnered with young violinist Reményi and embarked on a musical tour to Hungary. It happened during a concert they held in a small provincial town. Just before curtain time, upon discovering the stage piano was tuned a half-step below standard pitch, Reményi turned pale first. But with the doors about to open, nothing could be done. Brahms calmly faced the instrument and played the entire Kreutzer Sonata from memory while transposing it up a semitone. The most astonished listener was the great violinist Joachim, who happened to be in attendance. He immediately sought acquaintance, and their bond of mutual respect—like fish finding water—remained unbroken throughout their lives.

Upon discovering Brahms, Joachim promptly introduced this outstanding young musician to Liszt—the great pianist and composer who had by then established a grand musical kingdom in Weimar. Needless to say, Liszt—who had welcomed Brahms—treated him with his characteristic generosity and kindness. First, he himself sat at the piano and played the *Scherzo* composed by the unknown young Brahms—deciphering the messy score with superhuman comprehension—and even expressed eager interest in Brahms’s Second Sonata.

The rustic Brahms could only stand utterly astonished at the warm reception from Liszt, who was both a senior and a towering figure in the musical world. But the winds swirling through Liszt’s sanctuary were opulent but tepid, saturated with pretense and flattery. By the time Liszt, surrounded by guests and disciples, began his lengthy explanation of his Sonata in B minor, Brahms—lulled by the comfort of an armchair he might never have truly relaxed in since cutting his umbilical cord—had started dozing off. Needless to say, Liszt and Brahms parted ways for good in loneliness.

Because of this anecdote, we must never mock or underestimate Liszt. There can be no doubt that Liszt was a generous, caring, and admirable man, but he inhabited a world entirely separate from the rustic Brahms; ultimately, the two were simply as incompatible as oil and water.

Schumann and He Subsequently introduced by the same Joachim, Brahms visited the home of Robert Schumann and his wife Clara. At that time, though tormented by his fateful brain disease, Schumann rejoiced as if encountering a flesh-and-blood younger brother when welcoming twenty-year-old Brahms—a youth with clear eyes and handsome hair—while the renowned prodigy Clara shared this joy with her husband. Schumann became utterly enraptured upon examining Brahms's works, reporting the discovery in his journal *Neue Bahnen* (New Paths) and bestowing the highest praise. Thus did young Brahms become a musician of overnight renown; yet this very fact sowed widespread resentment in certain quarters, truthfully rendering him an object of jealous scrutiny.

The influence of the Schumanns on Brahms’s life, and particularly on his music, was profoundly significant. That Brahms persisted throughout his life in creating unadorned—though supremely artistic—music through his uncompromising attitude, never pandering to popular trends nor countenancing anything novel yet superficial, was certainly rooted in his inherent character; however, it would be no mistake to say this was also partly due to the influence of the idealist Schumann and the astute Clara. Just as there is no doubt that Clara’s encouragement greatly contributed to Schumann accomplishing so much as a champion of Romantic music, it is equally undeniable that the brilliant Clara’s influence extended to Brahms—far her junior—after Schumann’s death. Through literature, we can quite vividly evoke Mrs. Clara Schumann’s piano technique and her astuteness.

In 1854, Schumann, who was suffering from a brain disease, threw himself into the Rhine River and was barely rescued. Afterward, Brahms organized Schumann’s works and books to repay his debt of gratitude, and to secure funds for Schumann’s medical treatment, he assisted Clara during her postpartum recovery and undertook distant concert tours. In July 1856, after Schumann’s death, Brahms became Clara and Schumann’s orphaned children’s foremost advisor and an unwavering lifelong friend, supporting them in all matters both publicly and privately.

Even if Schumann’s influence on Brahms was by no means insignificant, Brahms’s unwavering devotion over the subsequent forty years—maintained in return for a mere two or three years of mentorship—deserves the highest praise. After Schumann’s death, Brahms resolutely embarked on 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 realize this vision, but audiences of the time—let alone professional critics—could not comprehend it. "Dull and lifeless" Dismissed with irresponsible critiques like “an unpleasant sound,” the concerto remained buried under scorn, ridicule, and indifference for thirty years—until Dalbéra’s performance finally drew its first fervent ovation.

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

Lonely Figure

It was in 1862 that Brahms visited the musical capital of Vienna and decided to settle there. The allure of Vienna—where Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert had entrusted their illustrious lives—must have powerfully captivated Brahms. Brahms’s life in Vienna was, both as a pianist and as a composer, a success by all means. The two years he spent as choir director at the singing school could be said to have been an oddly settled occupation for the typically unrestrained Brahms. Subsequently, numerous instrumental works and song collections including the masterpieces "Eternal Love" and "May Night" were made public, and in 1866, the renowned masterpiece "German Requiem" was completed.

This work, into which Brahms poured his heart and soul to commemorate the death of his late mentor and friend Schumann and to mourn his recently deceased mother, stood as the first Requiem composed in German and became renowned as one of the most artistic religious musical works. However, its premiere at the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde could scarcely be deemed successful; it was not until two years later, when Brahms himself conducted it at Bremen Cathedral, that the work attained recognition, and today it remains deeply imprinted in German hearts as their most reverent musical composition.

At that time, Brahms was a magnificent figure—broad-chested with lustrous hair, piercing blue eyes, and an imposing demeanor—revered by all, as surviving photographs readily attest. The famous "Lullaby" was created when he was thirty-five. During the Franco-Prussian War spanning 1870-71, aflame with patriotic zeal, he composed the monumental choral work *Triumphlied*. In 1873, when discord arose within the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Brahms abandoned his conducting post along with its 3,000-mark annual salary; fortunately, from this period onward his music gradually gained comprehension, allowing him to sustain himself through composition royalties.

Around that time, Theodor Billroth—the renowned surgeon and passionate music lover—sponsored concerts by investing his personal wealth, and Brahms, inspired by this patronage, successively published beautiful string quartets. This fact remains profoundly significant for us in later generations as the key reason Brahms could amass such an abundance of gem-like chamber music. At forty years old, Brahms published his first symphony—the crowning goal of his musical career. This "First," containing volcanic passion beneath its surface and likened to a dormant volcano in its grandeur and splendor, initially met with public incomprehension. The eminent pianist-conductor Hans von Bülow—having severed his decade-long association with Wagner—became Brahms's ardent champion, declaring with epigrammatic force that "this truly constitutes Beethoven's Tenth Symphony," then personally took up the baton to silence legions of detractors. He next unveiled his "Second Symphony," imbued with pastoral beauty, which—alongside Beethoven's "Sixth Symphony ('Pastoral')"—would be cherished by posterity as sonic landscapes capturing Vienna's tranquil suburbs.

By that time, Brahms had become thoroughly Viennese; however, his life remained one of solitude—interacting only occasionally with a few friends, rarely appearing in public—and he maintained this solitary existence for over thirty years. It was around that time that Brahms published his *Violin Concerto*, which gained renown following the *Academic Festival Overture* and the *Tragic Overture*. This concerto by the forty-five-year-old Brahms, brimming with fully matured musical ideas and technique, stands praised alongside Beethoven’s and Mendelssohn’s concertos as one of the three great violin concertos. However, its true worth was not recognized upon its premiere; gradually—yet steadily—it elevated its reputation, and today it stands as a source of profound emotion for music lovers worldwide—a fact so widely known it has become common knowledge.

The Third Symphony was released in 1884, and in 1886 he published his final symphony, the Fourth. Exactly ten years had passed since the First Symphony's publication; these years from age forty to fifty marked Brahms's artistic zenith, with a sense that his numerous masterpieces were concentrated within this decade. Subsequent compositions included two great masterpieces—the *Double Concerto for Violin and Cello* and the *Clarinet Quintet*—which lit up Brahms's twilight years like a resplendent sunset glow. Yet around 1896, symptoms of liver cancer grew severe; unbeknownst to him, the disease advanced until Brahms at sixty-four no longer retained his former majesty. In January 1897 at a Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde concert, Brahms rose in the box seats to acknowledge applause for his work—but as the audience witnessed his once-lucid azure eyes grown clouded, his once-ruddy cheeks pallid, death's hue deeply encroaching upon the great composer's noble visage, they fluttered handkerchiefs fervently while choking back tears.

When March had passed, with a kind letter to his stepmother as his final writing, on April 3rd this lonely and great soul ascended to heaven. On the day of the funeral, a passage from Brahms’s *German Requiem*—sung amid tears—declared: "Though the labors of those who die may cease, their works shall endure in the world."

Like a candle While many undoubtedly love Brahms for his graceful and unadorned music, as you delve into the biography of the man who created this music, you cannot help but become devoted to his character—gentle and beautiful—which mirrors his art itself. Above all, Brahms’s most admirable qualities were his filial piety and love for children. Brahms detested socializing and ostentation, rarely attended public banquets, and considered the expected socializing with noblewomen—a common duty for musicians of his time—utterly unthinkable; yet his interactions with his few close friends remained virtually unchanged throughout his life. Schumann and Clara Schumann, Hans von Bülow, Hanslick, Johann Strauss, Joachim, and others numbered among these cherished companions.

It is also a fact that Brahms inadvertently made enemies due to Schumann and Bülow’s haste in promoting him. Wagner and his faction’s hatred of Brahms reached a fever pitch, to the extent that related organizations and institutions even refused to perform Brahms’ works; yet Brahms remained remarkably calm and detached. When Wagner visited Vienna, for instance, Brahms—sympathizing both with Wagner’s initial unfamiliarity with local customs and the widespread resentment many held toward him—mediated tirelessly 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’s admirable character, but they will mostly be omitted here. For those who seek to understand Brahms’s greatness and goodness, first and foremost, they must listen to his music. For the opulent beauty of the *Violin Concerto*, the refined tenderness of the *Clarinet Quintet*, and the multitude of lieder brimming with sentiment and love—and for those who seek something slightly more challenging—let them listen to the four symphonies, the piano-violin sonatas, the most quintessentially Brahmsian and austere string quartets, and the piano concertos.

Brahms’s music contains no saccharin. The initial appeal is decidedly poor, but with repeated listening, there is nothing else so rich in austerity and abundant in hidden beauties. The reason I ardently advocate for Brahms lies precisely in this point: his music contains a steadfast simplicity and an inexhaustible beauty. When Hans von Bülow grouped Brahms with Bach and Beethoven as the Three Bs of German music, we now realize 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 contingent among Japanese fans who have an aversion to it; yet the number of his recordings is vast—second only to Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart, likely on par with Bach and exceeding Wagner and Chopin. This estimate is based on the ratio of shelf space occupied in my collection, but I believe there is likely no significant error.

In contrast to Brahms detractors being common among dilettantes and music-world dandies, it was a deeply interesting trend that Brahms enthusiasts were often scholars, researchers, or those leading modest lives. If someone were to ask, "And what about you?" I would immediately—and gladly—take Brahms’s side in his defense. In Brahms there was no superficial passion, no glamour, no pride; instead, there existed an unadorned solidity and calm depth, and I believe that above all, its richness and profoundly deep beauty were unparalleled.

While music is the most sensual of arts, even the greatest masterpiece will eventually induce weariness through repeated listening. But in Brahms's music, that weariness proves remarkably rare. In this respect, Brahms’s compositions—alongside Bach’s—can become one of the most deeply familiar presences in our daily lives.

Symphonies and Orchestral Works

Brahms’s four symphonies had been recorded quite extensively. When I recall how twenty years earlier we used to say, "If only even one of Brahms’s symphonies would be recorded," it truly gives one a sense of how times had changed. Some would say that the "Symphony No. 1 in C minor (Op. 68)" was the most fascinating symphony—a work once declared to stand as Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony. Recordings conducted by Weingartner, Walter, Stokowski, and others existed, yet none captured this work’s grandeur or its peculiar passion. If forced to choose, might we reluctantly select Walter’s graceful interpretation with the Vienna Philharmonic (Columbia JS 26–30)? The "Symphony No. 2 in D major (Op. 73)" came to be cherished for its pastoral charm, though curiously no satisfactory recordings of it could be found.

"Symphony No. 3 in F major (Op. 90)" may lack distinctive features as a symphony, but I love its wholesome passion. The recent record features Walter conducting the Vienna Philharmonic (Columbia JS15–8). While this is undoubtedly a masterful performance—elegant and even refined—I still find myself unable to forget the affection and vigor of Mengelberg's older recording with the Concertgebouw Orchestra (Columbia J8154–7), though it has grown somewhat dated.

"Symphony No. 4 in E minor (Op. 98)" was Brahms's final symphony, possessing a mysterious profundity that evoked a kind of philosophical enlightenment. For recordings, there remained no choice but to take Columbia's vintage recording of Walter conducting the BBC Orchestra (J8617–21). However, one had to be prepared for the considerable gap between this British orchestra and its Viennese counterpart.

For *Variations on a Theme by Haydn (Op. 56a)*, there existed a Victor recording of Toscanini conducting the New York Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra (JD-1327–8). The *Academic Festival Overture (Op. 80)* was an interesting piece, but there were no good recordings. Walter’s Columbia recording (JS14) was about the only one that could be mentioned. As for the *Tragic Overture (Op. 81)*, only Beecham’s recording presented somewhat of an issue.

Concertos

"The 'Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor (Op. 15)' was a likable piece, brimming with youthful vitality and purity." Victor had a recording of Schnabel (piano) with the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Sargent (JD-1679–84). It was a deft and elegant performance. "The 'Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat major (Op. 83)' belonged to Brahms’s period of maturity and reached supreme magnificence." Victor held recordings of Rubinstein (piano) with the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Coates (7237–41), and Schnabel (piano) with the BBC Symphony Orchestra conducted by Boult (JD-830–5). Both were excellent records, and I found it intriguing that Mr. Koichi Nomura emphasized Rubinstein’s emotional richness and youthful vigor. While I shared this view, conventional wisdom suggested choosing Schnabel’s newer and more refined recording as the authentic option. A record by Horowitz (piano) and Toscanini had recently been issued (Victor VD-8187–92).

The "Violin Concerto in D major (Op.77)" is renowned as one of the Three Great Violin Concertos, alongside those by Beethoven and Mendelssohn. Indeed, the depth, beauty, and nobility of this piece are beyond words; even the most ardent Brahms detractors would find themselves compelled to take off their hats before it. For records, Victor has two versions by Kreisler—old and new. The older one, conducted by Blech with the Berlin State Opera Orchestra (JD-538–42), should be counted among the masterpieces of masterpieces; however, after all, the recording is dated. The newer version features the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Barbirolli (JD-937–41S); while the recording is crisp, Kreisler’s advancing years are unmistakable, and the orchestra’s thinly textured performance lacks emotional depth. Additionally, Victor also has Heifetz’s new recording (VD-8056–8).

Additionally, Telefunken’s Kulenkampff recording proved unexpectedly excellent. After all, Brahms’s Violin Concerto stands as an essential acquisition for any collection, demanding careful study and judicious selection.

The "Double Concerto in A minor (Op. 102)" was a concerto for violin and cello, one of Brahms's final masterpieces. Victor had a recording featuring Thibaud (violin), Casals (cello), and Cortot conducting the Casals Orchestra (8208–11). Though the aged recording had grown somewhat murky through time, it remained indisputably a masterful performance. Sonatas

The "Violin Sonata No. 1 in G major (Op. 78)" was known as the "Rain Song." There existed an excellent recording by Bush (violin) and Serkin (piano) (Victor 7487–9). This duo's Brahms also included another work, the "Violin Sonata No. 2 in A major (Op. 100)" (Victor JD-151–2), both of which were beautiful. The *Violin Sonata No. 3 in D minor (Op. 108)* was a masterpiece among Brahms's violin sonatas. Brahms's steadfast excellence—one might say it was the manifestation of a noble soul. Though many recordings existed, Victor's Kohanski (violin) and Rubinstein (piano) would likely be ranked first (JD-41–3). Kohanski passed away leaving only this single recorded set, which became a memento.

For Brahms's *Cello Sonata No. 1 in E minor (Op. 38)*, there existed a Columbia recording by Feuermann (cello) and Del Pas (piano) (J-8317–9), and a Victor recording by Piatigorsky (cello) and Rubinstein (piano) (JD-993–5). Both had their merits and demerits. As for Brahms's *Cello Sonata No. 2 in F major (Op. 99)*, the Victor record featuring Casals (cello) and Horszowski (piano) was a masterful performance (JD-1226–9).

Trios, Quartets, Quintets

"Writing it out as 'Trio for Piano, Violin, and Horn in E-flat major (Op. 40)' is lengthy, but it is commonly known simply as the Horn Trio." A piece that exudes Brahms’s youthful spirit and is exceptionally beautiful. There is a renowned recording on Victor by Serkin (piano), Bush (violin), and Brain (horn) (JD-554–7). It is one of my favorite records.

The Piano Trio in C major (Op. 87) was romantic and beautiful. The addition of Cassadó’s mellow cello to the two female artists—Hess on piano and d'Aranyi on violin—was included in Columbia’s World Masterpieces Collection. Brahms’s piano quartets and piano quintets possessed vigor and passion, making them profoundly engaging works. This form must have suited Brahms’s temperament.

The recording of *Piano Quartet No. 1 in G minor (Op. 25)* by Rubinstein (piano) and the Pro Arte String Quartet (Victor JD-444–7), though quite dated, remains in my memory as a favorable experience—despite its tendency to lean too heavily on the piano due to the discrepancy between Rubinstein’s brilliant technique and the quartet’s austere elegance—swept along by both the original work’s inherent appeal and Rubinstein’s impassioned performance.

The *Piano Quartet No. 2 in A major (Op. 26)* proved even more graceful and elegant. The performance by Serkin (piano), Bush (violin), Doktor (viola), and Hermann Busch (cello) on Victor surpassed its predecessor through balanced execution and profound insight into Brahms' idiom (JD-764–7).

"For Brahms's *String Quartet No. 1 in C minor (Op. 51 No. 1)*, one should listen to appreciate both his chamber music excellence and its muted austerity. Regarding recordings, while those by the Léner Quartet and Busch Quartet exist, I ultimately selected the Busch (Victor JD-134–7). The *String Quartet No. 2 in A minor (Op. 51 No. 2)* remains available solely through Léner's rendition (Columbia J8023–6)."

The *Piano Quintet in F minor (Op. 34)* was a Brahmsian masterpiece of rigorous precision. While only older recordings existed, Victor’s Bauer (piano) and the Flonzaley String Quartet had been famous records (6571–5). Columbia had one by the Léner Quartet and Mme. Levett (piano). The *Clarinet Quintet in B minor (Op. 25)* stood alongside Mozart’s work in the same form as one of the twin jewels of the genre. It was an exquisitely beautiful and profoundly deep piece. Columbia had a recording by the Léner String Quartet and Draper (clarinet) (J-7600–4), while Victor had one by the Busch String Quartet and Kell (clarinet) (JD-1534–7). Columbia’s recording was already twelve or thirteen years old, and though the sound quality was quite dated, Draper’s clarinet playing here was masterful—I had written before that he surpassed even Benny Goodman in Mozart’s *Clarinet Quintet*, and in this case too, he far outshone Victor’s newer recording with Kell. When it came to records, the age of the recording was undeniably a significant factor; however, I wanted to present this record as an example that even old recordings could be excellent if they were truly good. That said, the combination of Busch and Kell was by no means a bad one.

**Piano Works**

Brahms also carved out a unique realm in piano works. They were introspective, vigorous, and often even lofty, yet possessed a strangely worldly richness and austerity.

The *Piano Pieces Collection* compiles representative short works by Brahms performed by Backhaus (Victor JD-545–51), likely standing as both Brahms’s finest piano recording and his most accessible one. Its contents—four ballads, two rhapsodies, one scherzo, six intermezzos, two Hungarian Dances, and three waltzes—received magnificent treatment in Backhaus’s performance. One could scarcely find another pianist who played Brahms with such mature technique, confidence, and profound understanding. Those performances that were somewhat austere and free of unnecessary sentimentality could instead be viewed favorably as embodiments of Brahmsian interpretation.

“Variations on a Theme by Paganini” was also one of Brahms’s famous piano pieces. Victor had Backhaus (7419–20), and Columbia had Petri (JW-71–2). Both were master technicians, but even if the recording was old, Backhaus’s performance was more sympathetic.

Requiem, Lieder

Brahms’s *A German Requiem* held significance in many respects. It emerged from Brahms’s sincere heart, which had mourned Schumann from afar and grieved anew over his mother’s death; it was both the first requiem written in German and possessed the highest artistic value. Victor included a recording by Georg Schumann—a scholar of religious music and conductor—leading the Berlin Singakademie Choir and Berlin State Opera Orchestra (C-2377, 2381–3). This was only a partial recording of *A German Requiem*, and though the recording itself was old, the performance remained splendid; it was regrettable that it did not contain the complete work. HMV was believed to contain more [of the recording], but only the aforementioned four discs were pressed in Japan.

The *Alto Rhapsody (Op. 53)* sets Goethe’s landscape poem to music and stands among Brahms’s most exceptional lieder. A Victor recording features the Berlin State Opera Orchestra under Kurt Singer’s direction with the celebrated alto Onegin. Though rather antiquated technically, this disc remains extraordinarily valuable in Brahms’s discography—Onegin’s opulent timbre and unerring artistry shine peerlessly (7417–8).

If I were to list a few of the most outstanding individual lieder, “Lonely Fields” (Or, *The Desolation of the Fields*) was a characteristically Brahmsian song of loneliness that sang of the stillness of the countryside. It did not appear in the Nippon Polydor catalog, but Slezak’s recording stood as a masterpiece. Next, I chose Gerhardt (Victor JD-75) and Schlusnus (Polydor D-117). My selection of Gerhardt’s *By the Window* might have reflected my nostalgic preference (Victor JF-4), while Lotte Lehmann’s *May Night* (Columbia J-5483) and *Like the Fresh Greenery* (Victor JE-33) offered performances as sweetly fragrant as fresh greenery. She had three or four other Brahms recordings—all equally excellent.

Elisabeth Schumann’s charming “Lullaby” (Victor JE-61) and Therese Schnabel’s “Love’s Faithfulness”—more famous for her husband’s piano accompaniment—were also lovely (Victor JF-20). However, the baritone Schlusnus’s "Love Song" (Polydor 50036) was far superior to those. There were not many good recordings of the *Sappho Ode*, but Nancy Evans’s *Gypsy Song* (Polydor E-124–5) stood out as distinctive.

Tchaikovsky: The Embodiment of Sorrow

"I once wrote: 'Sorrow is indeed the prelude to true joy.'" The despairing sorrow that characterized Tchaikovsky’s music—though somewhat sentimental—had been loved and cherished by all for fifty years without losing its allure; one might say this was precisely why. Tchaikovsky’s kindness, honesty, timidity, and profound depth of affection gave birth to that unprecedented art of tears, which must have seeped deeply into every heart like spring water nourishing all corners of the land. Truly, nothing had comforted us as much as those "works filled with tears."

To rephrase it, Tchaikovsky’s tear-drenched visage—his music saturated with choked sobs, stifled sighs, and anguished wails—has always mourned wholeheartedly on our behalf—for us who cannot even weep freely—and ultimately, could this be anything but an intimation of joy beneath sorrow and hope beyond despair? In this sense, even within the highly developed domain of Western music since Bach’s era, there exists no figure more quintessentially human than Tchaikovsky, nor any music more intimately familiar to us than his. That his music possesses an undercurrent of popular appeal does not attest to vulgarity; rather, one might say it arises from its inherent nobility and excellence’s universal nature. Beneath his despairing music—said to have “commanded melancholy’s full chromatic scale”—there lies an inexpressible warmth, while within its grief-stricken lamentations germinates a premonition of radiant illumination.

Bach’s divinity was not easily approachable by ordinary people, and Beethoven’s passion far transcended the experiences of the general public. Yet when it came to Tchaikovsky’s sorrow and despair, these were realms anyone could imagine—emotions universally accessible yet profoundly elusive to fully experience. In our real lives, where we grieve yet struggle to plumb sorrow’s depths in their tepid half-measures, it was through Tchaikovsky’s art that we first pierced grief’s abyss and came to savor the beauty of purified sorrow. Was it not precisely because his music so effortlessly and exquisitely captured this pinnacle of emotions—at once familiar and unattainable—that Tchaikovsky’s works became beloved by all?

In any case, to understand music imbued with such unique hues and aroma, it goes without saying that one must first examine his tragic biography—an absolute necessity. Tchaikovsky’s music is deeply rooted in his very nature.

A Series of Misfortunes

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was born on May 7, 1840, in Viatka Province, Russia, as the son of a mining engineer.

He left behind no dazzling tales of prodigious genius in his youth, yet his deeply rooted love for music flourished vigorously even through irregular nurturing—so much so that after graduating from law school at nineteen and taking up a post at the Ministry of Justice, he still faithfully attended music school and dedicated himself to his cherished path. This balancing act between two lives, however, proved unsustainable in the long run.

Before long, persuaded by his harmony teacher Anton Rubinstein, he severed ties with the unwelcome job and devoted himself to the study of music—this occurred at the age of nineteen. Once he awakened to his calling, Tchaikovsky’s dedication became something astonishing to the world. When his teacher Anton Rubinstein happened to assign a theme as a composition exercise, instructing him to write as many contrapuntal variations as possible—anticipating perhaps twelve at most—Tchaikovsky produced over two hundred variations, leaving Rubinstein utterly astounded.

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 director was Nikolai Rubinstein, brother of Anton Rubinstein. With his meager salary, Tchaikovsky lodged at the director’s house and became a pitiful teacher who proudly commuted to school wearing a loose-fitting coat—among other items—left behind a year earlier by the great violinist Wieniawski.

At that time, he read Tolstoy and Dickens, devoting himself entirely to study and composition; however, he was by no means adept at socializing with friends and seems to have been terribly inept at playful matters. Instead, even when criticized by others, he remained in good spirits and endured it; even when attacked, he never attempted to defend himself or quarrel. Senior Rubinstein was a scathing critic who unsparingly nitpicked Tchaikovsky’s compositions, but Tchaikovsky was not one to grow angry over such things.

Tchaikovsky was at that time engrossed in composing his First Symphony, *Winter Daydreams*; his approach to the work was meticulous and composed, and he was extremely diligent, knowing no weariness. This commendable habit of Tchaikovsky’s was owed to the French-born governess who had cared for him in his boyhood; indeed, it seems that Tchaikovsky himself visited and comforted this elderly woman in southern France, where she was spending her old age, just one year before his death.

When *Winter Daydreams* was completed, Tchaikovsky took it to Saint Petersburg to show his former teachers—Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba—fully expecting to receive lavish praise. Yet that ambition and those hopes were mercilessly crushed. Rubinstein and Zaremba delivered scathing criticism, declaring it could not be included in the Music Society's performance program unless substantially revised. This minor incident marked the first of the tragic setbacks that would haunt Tchaikovsky throughout his interminably long composing career.

The following year in 1867, at a charity concert for Finnish famine relief, Tchaikovsky conducted his own composition "The Maid's Dance" for the first time; though he panicked and made a blunder, the orchestra knew the piece well, so fortunately they managed to avoid major disaster. Tchaikovsky’s ineptitude as a conductor was so notorious that he did not touch a baton for twenty years thereafter. Even in his later years, he occasionally conducted, but when directing others’ compositions, he would contort his body unnaturally and adopt an expression as if in pain somewhere. Tchaikovsky's timidity was thoroughgoing; the thought of feeling good about applause was utterly unthinkable, and he had a tendency to fear even the popularity and praise that gathered around him.

In Russia, where Italian opera reigned supreme, staging Tchaikovsky’s first Russian opera *Voyevoda* proved exceedingly difficult, and it came to be presented only in second- and third-tier theaters. Yet the ever-good-natured Tchaikovsky, too timid even to critique the singers’ performances—let alone reprimand them—could do nothing but fervently wish, “If only the production would just be over with...” 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 out of sheer disappointment, Tchaikovsky burned all of its scores. The third stumble tormented Tchaikovsky’s fragile heart in this manner.

Following this, *Romeo and Juliet* was performed by the Music Society, but a dispute arose between Director Rubinstein and the students, resulting in the concert being buried under a madness-like protest that left Tchaikovsky’s music utterly ruined. This was the fourth stumble. The score of the opera *Undine* was lost during mailing due to a government official’s carelessness and ended up reaching Tchaikovsky years later. This constituted his fifth and sixth stumbles.

Thus, Tchaikovsky’s youth became an endless procession of disappointments. Tchaikovsky, who was so beloved by all in his later years and posthumously adorned with wreaths of longing and affection—how inauspicious were his beginnings! Who could guarantee that it was not this series of misfortunes that made Tchaikovsky silent and melancholic, compelling him to compose the *Pathétique Symphony*?

Extraordinary Timidity Resignation gave Tchaikovsky fresh courage and fresh themes. Inspired by a plasterer’s song drifting through his window, he composed the renowned “Andante cantabile” from his String Quartet No. 1 in D Major. It was during this period that Tchaikovsky fell in love with an opera actress. The woman possessed beauty, talent, and wit. Just as their friends began blessing their potential union, the actress—casting all thoughts of Tchaikovsky aside—married a Polish troupe singer. Tchaikovsky felt more astonishment than anger. When she reappeared in Moscow the following season, he watched her from the distant audience seats, moved to tears by her performance.

Some time later, when Tchaikovsky went to visit Rubinstein, he once encountered her abruptly in the green room. Tchaikovsky turned deathly pale and leapt up from his chair; she let out a startled cry and, like a cornered mouse, began searching for a door to escape outside. 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, while even a pianist of Anton Rubinstein's stature never once performed *Six Pieces on a Single Theme*—which Tchaikovsky had dedicated to him—in public, nor did he show any semblance of pleasure toward it.

In 1873, the *Second Symphony* and other masterpieces were released to the world. Yet even this was met with protests from friends, forcing him to reluctantly make significant changes—a bitter irony, given that *The Tempest*, composed around the same time, was performed at the Paris Exposition in foreign France and received rapturous acclaim. Tchaikovsky had intended to dedicate his *Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor* to his senior Nikolai Rubinstein, but Rubinstein—taking offense at Tchaikovsky’s failure to seek his advice while writing the piano part—displayed outright hostility toward the work. In front of a large audience, he mercilessly tore into the piece while playing it as if deliberately poorly; even the mild-mannered Tchaikovsky could no longer endure this, dedicating the work instead to Hans von Bülow. 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 annuity to provide him with a tranquil life and enable his complete devotion to composition. This occurred in 1873. The arrangement was formalized with Madame von Meck concealing her identity and accepting Tchaikovsky's eccentric stipulation that they would exchange no greetings should they meet; he consequently resigned from his teaching post at the conservatory and sustained three years of creative work in seclusion. From the Third Symphony onward, numerous masterpieces emerged during this interval, marking the point where Tchaikovsky's musical career finally achieved both stability and self-assurance.

In 1876, he composed the renowned Slavonic March, and in the following year of 1877 brought to completion his lifelong masterwork—the opera Eugene Onegin. When this opera finally reached performance and came to be acknowledged as Russia's greatest and most beloved operatic work, it was said that "none were more astonished than Tchaikovsky himself." This opera—romantic in essence, abundant in melody, with a touch of saccharine charm—could indeed be called perfectly calibrated to gratify contemporary tastes.

The sudden misfortune that befell Tchaikovsky occurred in early summer of 1877. It was a marriage conducted in secret from all his friends—so ill-fated that even his closest friend Kashkin reportedly saw the Tchaikovskys together just once. Tchaikovsky’s marriage ended in dreadful collapse. He grew increasingly silent and melancholic; on one night thick with frost, he attempted suicide by submerging himself in a river to cast off life’s burdens.

After being nursed and recuperating with his brother, Tchaikovsky wrote the strangely bright *Fourth Symphony*, *Italian Capriccio*, and *Second Piano Concerto*. Above all, the *1812 Overture*—depicting Napoleon’s invasion of Moscow—is said to have fired cannons instead of drums at its premiere and became the foremost popular masterpiece; yet it remains true that Tchaikovsky found its performances profoundly discomfiting.

Nikolai Rubinstein, who was both his mentor and respected friend, died in 1881. It is well known that Tchaikovsky—who had been so ignored and oppressed during his lifetime—composed his Piano Trio in A Minor, titled "In Memory of a Great Artist," a beautiful yet sorrowful masterpiece dedicated to this man’s memory. The depth of Tchaikovsky’s camaraderie and his innate good-naturedness, along with this beautiful trio, will surely be recounted for millennia to come.

At the premiere of his opera *Mazeppa*, Tchaikovsky fled Moscow in astonishment at its popularity. In 1885, while living in the countryside near Klin, he became so exasperated by seaside visitors' piano practicing that he would flee. During this period, Tchaikovsky—like Beethoven in his later years—never missed his daily walks and would give every last coin he had to neighborhood children who pestered him. Yet when friends admonished him that these meaningless gifts were immoral, he once changed his route to escape back to his lodgings—only to be surrounded by children who had posted lookouts, forcing even his accompanying friend to borrow money for their indulgence—thus demonstrating his guileless good nature.

In 1886, he wrote the Fifth Symphony and completed the opera *The Queen of Spades*. In 1892, Tchaikovsky 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 physique finally began to decline, and his eyesight gradually worsened. He settled for the second time on the outskirts of the town of Klin, continuing to live a hermit-like existence in a tranquil setting. “By his lonely hearthside, hoping to win outright a threefold contest he had never won—” a friend recorded his life at that time.

Amidst those circumstances, the flame of this last genius blazed forth as his Sixth Symphony, the *Pathétique*. This work bears the date August 31, 1893. The symphony about which he wrote to his publisher—"I have more confidence in this than in any other work"—the symphony first titled *Program Symphony* then renamed *Pathétique Symphony* at his brother's urging; this became known as the reckoning of Tchaikovsky's entire life, his musical autobiography, while its unrelenting despair led others to call it an enigmatic masterpiece bearing a "premonition of death."

This symphony is said to be the full reckoning of Tchaikovsky’s innate melancholy—a work sustained throughout by intense tragic tension, an excavation into unknown depths of suffering, and a seal stamped to extinguish every last human hope. Anyone who listens to this symphony will feel, “I was still fortunate,” no matter how deeply immersed they are in despair and grief. Tchaikovsky’s grief was indeed so profound and hopeless.

On the day the *Pathétique Symphony* was performed in Moscow, the news of Tchaikovsky’s sudden death was announced. There were some theories of suicide, but in reality, it was because he had drunk unboiled water and contracted cholera.

The people who heard the performance of the *Pathétique Symphony* made their way home in tears, each to their own homes, upon learning of composer Tchaikovsky’s death. It was November 6, 1893. The strength of Tchaikovsky’s music lies in its portrayal of sorrow’s beauty—something anyone can grasp. His melancholy, though tinged with fin-de-siècle sensibility, possessed an honesty free of malice, ostentation, pretense, or artifice—its raw pathos continuing to seep unceasingly into the human heart. Even when writing bright works like *The Nutcracker* and the *Fourth Symphony*, Tchaikovsky could never mask the undercurrent of sorrow flowing beneath their surface.

Tchaikovsky possessed none of the Russian earthiness or barbaric passion. He remained thoroughly European, Romantic, and was even said to be Byronic in nature. That sensitive, beautiful sentiment would surely move even the most stubborn of hearts.

Tchaikovsky's Works and Their Records

Tchaikovsky’s general popularity was likely second only to Beethoven’s. While the majority of his supporters undoubtedly belonged to the general public, one might say this very fact demonstrates how widely Tchaikovsky’s music was heard, cherished—indeed, how it pierced through to the hearts of all people.

What made Tchaikovsky so deeply relatable was not only that his music—unexpectedly free of pretension—was sentimental, direct, and unapologetically expressive in its sweetness and human affection, but also that despite its structured European form, its emotional core belonged to the earthy Russian sensibility, owing to uniquely beautiful melodies and the pervasive sorrow that characterized the whole. The merit of Tchaikovsky’s music was ultimately the merit of tragedy, for his innate goodness had to permeate every one of his works.

Symphonies

Among his six symphonies, the Symphony No. 4 in F minor (Op. 36) was unusually bright for Tchaikovsky and had been conducted by Stokowski, Mengelberg, Koussevitzky, and others; however, Stokowski’s and Mengelberg’s recordings were too dated, Koussevitzky’s performance was unsatisfying, and there were no records here worth mentioning. "Symphony No. 5 in E minor (Op. 64)" was magnificent and amply tender. The renowned recording was Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra (Victor JI74–9). This was also a piece deeply familiar from the film *Girl of the Orchestra*.

The Symphony No. 6 in B minor, 'Pathétique' (Op. 74) was Tchaikovsky’s magnum opus, and because he died shortly after its completion, it was also said to harbor a "premonition of death." It remained intensely sentimental, with despairing sorrow pervading the entire work. The renowned Columbia recording by Furtwängler conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (JS31–6) stood as a masterpiece, its wailing pathos evoking an overwhelming sense of urgency against one's very being. Another Telefunken recording featuring Mengelberg leading the Concertgebouw Orchestra (23681–5) presented an equally fiery and celebrated performance. Among these records, it proved difficult to definitively choose between them.

Orchestral Works

In the ballet suite *The Nutcracker (Op. 71a)*, Tchaikovsky’s childlike spirit and affable nature radiate vividly. It stands as a beautiful and enchanting piece. The definitive recording remains Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra (“Victor JD601–3”). The overture *1812 (Op. 49)* takes Napoleon’s Moscow campaign as its subject, remaining his most widely recognized work through its premiere anecdote of cannon fire replacing drums. Though catering to American nouveaux riches tastes, its broad appeal stems from the theatrical interplay of *La Marseillaise* with *God Preserve Thy People* and the French/Russian anthems. The recommended versions are Stokowski’s Victor Records (“JD-1399–1400”) and Polydor’s choral recording (“E-221–3”). The latter features the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra and Ural Cossack Choir under Kitchin’s direction.

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

Concertos

The *Violin Concerto in D major (Op. 35)* was regarded as a masterpiece following the three great violin concertos of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Brahms. A work bearing Tchaikovsky’s characteristically graceful melodies and renowned for its technical challenges. While numerous recordings exist by Elman, Heifetz, Kulenkampff and others, I retain lingering fondness for Columbia Records’ decade-old recording (J7550–3) featuring Hubermann’s violin with the Berlin State Opera Orchestra under Steinberg’s baton. Heifetz conquers technical demands masterfully while Elman lacks his former brilliance. This concerto demands performances saturated with lingering lyricism yet maintaining crisp articulation.

The *Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor (Op. 23)* stands as one of Tchaikovsky’s masterpieces; just as its predecessor presents formidable challenges for violinists, this concerto remains renowned as a pianistic tour de force. Among recordings, Rubinstein’s performance with the London Philharmonic Orchestra under Barbirolli’s baton excels (Victor JD67–70). Petri’s Columbia recording likewise succumbs to technical overindulgence at the expense of musical interest.

Trios, Quartets

The *Piano Trio in A minor: In Memory of a Great Artist (Op. 50)* was a piece composed in memory of Nicholas Rubinstein—a profoundly familiar, elegant work suffused with melancholy. The ensemble of the Menuhin siblings and Eisenberg (cello) stood out as exceptional (Victor JD-1178–83). This cellist was young and promising.

It was regrettable that there existed no complete recording of the *String Quartet No. 1 in D major*, which included the famous *Andante cantabile*.

Other Works In *Troika*, Rachmaninoff’s piano playing is a renowned performance. It has been recorded three times since the original version (Victor JD-1695). Other notable recordings include Piatigorsky’s *Valse Triste* and Elman’s *Sérénade Mélancolique*, among others.

Dvořák's Nostalgia I do not mean those who ardently love and study music specifically. Is there anyone with even a passing interest in music who does not know the charming violin miniature *Humoresque* and that beautiful yet profoundly sorrowful symphony—the *New World*—overflowing with nostalgia and elegy? The composer Antonín Dvořák—as a profoundly human presence far removed from mythical genius—is cherished by all alongside Tchaikovsky and Grieg, and his music of poignant elegance continues to breathe close to our lives. When I recall Dvořák’s name and quietly close my eyes, I feel as though I can vividly hear the famous melody from the Largo of the *New World Symphony*’s second movement. This melody—said to have been inspired either by Black spirituals during Dvořák’s American sojourn or by his longing for distant Bohemia’s folk songs—possesses such exquisite beauty and heartrending sorrow that it crystallizes into eternal nostalgia, leaving no listener untouched by tears.

Additionally, there was the *Dumky Trio*. There was the *American Quartet*. There were the *Slavonic Dances*. There was the *Cello Concerto*. Every one of Dvořák’s works was imbued with a pure soul, an honest heart, abundant human love, and gentle nostalgia. Even if he was neither a genius like Schubert or Mozart nor a titan like Beethoven or Wagner, it mattered not at all. Was Dvořák not always living with us, grieving with us, and singing with us? That was well enough. That was precisely what mattered most.

For us music listeners, immersing ourselves in Dvořák’s nostalgia and shedding tears is both our greatest ecstasy and the purest solace that music in this world can offer.

Hard-Earned Success

Antonín Dvořák was born on September 8, 1841, in Mühlhausen in former Bohemia and later Czechoslovakia. His father ran a butcher shop while also operating an inn, and had some modest musical inclinations. From time to time, traveling rural music troupes and budget opera companies would lodge at the inn, and whenever arrangements for village performances were settled, it was by no means uncommon for rehearsals to promptly commence in the inn’s courtyard.

How profoundly those performances must have ignited young Dvořák’s love for music! Before long, he voluntarily began learning the violin and singing from the village elementary school teacher and thus embarked on his lifelong journey with music. Bohemia has long been called a land of music. Just as Italians excel at singing, Bohemians are adept at playing the violin; it has been said that "the second person a traveler meets in Bohemia is a violinist," and that "a Bohemian with a violin can find joy even in prison." One must not dismiss the musical training young Dvořák received from rural traveling bands and elementary school teachers as inferior by Japanese standards.

At the age of twelve, he went to the nearby town of Zlonice and studied under a church organist supervised by his uncle, finally beginning to receive formal musical education. He mastered everything from organ and piano techniques to fundamental theory and harmony with extraordinary zeal, then spent a year honing his craft in Kamnik before returning to his father. After years away from home, Dvořák—now musically trained—felt compelled to demonstrate his skills to his hometown. At that very moment, as there happened to be a festival in town, the young and ambitious local composer provided his newly composed *Polka* for the town band to perform. Before Dvořák—buzzing with pride—and the surrounding crowd, the *Polka* began resounding clearly—no, it should have resounded clearly—but suddenly collapsed into out-of-tune dissonances, ending in cacophony before the shocked spectators. The conductor later discovered that Dvořák had carelessly written the F trumpet part in its original key rather than transposing it for performance—a blunder that forced the young composer to endure humiliating shame.

However, Dvořák was not a boy to abandon his ambitions after such a setback. When he recognized his own ignorance and carelessness, he summoned renewed resolve and threw himself single-mindedly into musical training. His father could hardly be blamed for resisting what seemed like reckless aspirations. To the elder man, it appeared far safer for his son—who couldn't even compose a proper polka—to remain in the countryside managing the family's inherited butcher shop and inn.

After months of arguments and entreaties, scoldings and placations, his father could no longer remain unmoved by his son’s fervor.

The sixteen-year-old Dvořák finally set out for the capital Prague, shouldering his traveling pack, enrolled at the Organ School of the Bohemian Church Music Society, and was at last able to devote himself formally to his musical studies. However, the son who had gone to the capital against his father’s wishes could not expect generous tuition support, and furthermore, as his father’s family business fared poorly, remittances were often interrupted. Dvořák had no choice but to employ the violin he had practiced since boyhood, barely staving off hunger while continuing his studies. It is not hard to imagine how deeply this hardship permeated young Dvořák’s very being. He played viola in cafés and organ in hospitals, clinging to his aspiration for loftier music until he completed the three-year course.

At twenty-one years old, Dvořák was hired as a musician at Prague’s newly built National Theatre. While working as a violist under the baton of Smetana—regarded as the progenitor of Bohemian national music—he laid the foundation for dedicating his entire life to building the Bohemian national music that Smetana had pioneered.

Dvořák—it must be reiterated—was by no means a flamboyant genius-type of person. After long years of training and preparation, it was indeed at thirty-two that he made the great metamorphosis from chrysalis to butterfly. That year saw his opera *The King and the Miner* performed at the National Theatre and a symphony imbued with national elements published, gradually elevating his reputation until he commanded the musical world’s attention. When Dvořák married at thirty-three, he did not have to endure his new household’s poverty for long. In 1875—the following year when he turned thirty-four—after rigorous review, Austria’s Ministry of Arts granted him a modest pension (Bohemia being then under Austrian rule).

What a stroke of fortune it was for Dvořák that Brahms was among the members of that pension committee! The keen-eyed Brahms, upon seeing Dvořák’s work among the reviewed submissions, discerned within it both the distinctive characteristics of Bohemian music and the wisdom and poetic sensibility that grasped those traits, recommending it for first prize. He then met Dvořák personally to assist in publishing his compositions, enabling the once-unknown young Bohemian composer to release one of his masterpieces—the *Slavonic Dances*—and suddenly gain renown across all of Europe. Brahms’ kindness toward younger musicians likely stemmed from what he himself had once received from Schumann. It has been told and passed down as one of the beautiful musical 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. Even if half of that good fortune had been thanks to Brahms, in the end it was the fruit of Dvořák’s long efforts—a truly splendid case of a great talent blooming late. Dvořák’s name spread across both the Old and New Worlds: in 1884, he traveled to London at Britain’s invitation to conduct his own *Stabat Mater*; the following year, he composed a new work for the Birmingham Music Festival; the year after that, he returned 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 Artistic Director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York, staying until 1895 for a three-year tenure during which he composed his era-defining masterpiece, the *New World Symphony*.

Noble Nostalgia

If we exclude Beethoven’s monumental symphonies—chronicles of anguish, overcoming, struggle, and triumph—and Brahms’ grand and timeless symphonies anchored in rigorous forms, there have likely been no symphonies that speak so intimately to us while embodying all of humanity’s sorrows and joys as Tchaikovsky’s *Pathétique Symphony* and Dvořák’s *New World Symphony*.

Dvořák was reserved and reclusive. Above all, the lively social gatherings and exchanges bound by formalities seemed utterly unbearable to Dvořák, a man born of Bohemian soil. Moreover, the composer—being a man of gentle heart—found himself unable to endure the pressures of life in New York, tormented by incurable homesickness, and often spent his days in anguish. Whenever he had a little free time, Dvořák would escape to Spillville, Iowa, and there console himself from homesickness for a while. It was a settlement where a large number of Bohemians lived together in close quarters, its customs, traditions, and even language remaining purely Bohemian. Dvořák loved that environment, immersed himself in the Bohemian-like atmosphere, and consoled the homesickness that weighed upon his somewhat fragile heart.

In that secluded residence in Iowa, Dvořák completed his masterpiece, the *New World Symphony*. Amidst the vast midwestern prairies, sensing a hidden loneliness beneath the New World's splendor and closely observing the lives of Black people, he must have written that piece while longing for his homeland of Bohemia. Consequently, while it is said that the *New World Symphony* incorporates melodies from African American spirituals—a claim many believe—Dvořák himself dismissed this as “sheer absurdity, this talk of using Native American or American melodies,” asserting instead that the symphony’s themes originated not from America but from his Bohemian homeland; some even argue they derive from a specific region of Russia.

In any case, the nostalgia that characterizes the *New World Symphony* was distinctly Dvořák’s own, and I would rather emphasize that this quality could be discerned in all of his compositions. Therefore, one might well view this as Black people’s blood-deep nostalgia for their African homeland, or as American Indians’ longing for the great plains before white settlers arrived; nor was there any issue in regarding it as Dvořák’s own futile nostalgia for his Bohemian homeland. Kind-hearted, timid, and unable to resist loving humanity and nature, Dvořák—in his *New World Symphony* and other works—could well be acknowledged as having depicted “a longing for humanity’s primitive life.” Socializing, hypocrisy, empty formalities, maneuvering, and the frenetic pace of modern life must have been profoundly burdensome to Dvořák. His heart’s yearning to return to simpler times became this nostalgia, leaving behind masterpieces that served as timely warnings against those entangled in falsehoods and complexities—those on the verge of losing humanity’s original beautiful form. It was through this interpretation that I found nobility in Dvořák’s compositions and shed tears for their nostalgia.

Beauty, Love, and Light Dvořák’s music was a splendid union of classical formal beauty and romantic tender sentiment, with the mood governing each work being “the pathos of transience.” It goes without saying that the pathos of transience lies at the heart of Eastern art. It was for this reason that Dvořák came to be cherished by flamboyant Americans, logic-loving Europeans, and contemplative Easterners alike. The claim that Dvořák’s nostalgia was something he learned from Native Americans and Black people during his American visit remained an argument made by those unaware that the same nostalgia and “pathos of transience” had already permeated his works composed before he ever set foot in America.

Dvořák’s compositions each overflowed with profound human love, warmth and beauty pervading every piece. There was no need to insist solely on the "New World Symphony." In the "Slavonic Dances," the "Cello Concerto," the "Violin Concerto," and the "American Quartet," one could savor abundant human love—and a nostalgia tormented by a surplus of love that could not be fully requited. Lately, the world’s music had been rushing indiscriminately to pursue novelty, becoming something not necessarily beautiful. But for the general public, music that lacked beauty was no music at all. It was precisely when blessed with beauty and warm human love 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 decadent tendencies or America’s frenzied jazz, their power to enrich human life and nourish the soul could not be mentioned in the same breath. After all, there could be no argument that music created with a gentle soul and beautiful technique should be considered foremost.

In 1895, Dvořák returned to his homeland of Bohemia, taught composition at the Prague Conservatory, later gained renown as its director, became a lifelong member of the Senate as a musician, and having achieved both success and fame, passed away on May 1, 1904, at the age of sixty-three.

That gentle soul, alongside the *New World Symphony* and the *Humoresque*, will forever bring beauty, love, and light to the hearts of people across the world.

Dvořák’s Works and Their Records

Apart from the *New World Symphony*, there were not many good recordings. Yet Dvořák would come to be cherished worldwide through this single work alone. The recording of *Symphony No. 5 in E minor ("From the New World")* conducted by Stokowski with the Philadelphia Orchestra remained definitive in its excellence (Victor JD 665–9). Victor also released recordings of Symphony No. 2 and this Fifth Symphony in Dvořák’s Bohemian homeland—Talich and Sejna respectively conducting the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra—but these were ultimately distinguished chiefly by their rustic local charm.

The *Cello Concerto in B minor (Op. 104)* was one of Dvořák’s masterpieces, imbued with nostalgic melancholy. There existed a recording with Casals’ cello where Sejna conducted the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD 1187–91). It stood as one of the celebrated cello recordings. Versions of the same piece played by Feuermann on Columbia and Casado on Telefunken each had merit, but ultimately this had to be Casals’.

The *String Quartet No. 6 in F Major ("American")* shared the same craftsmanship as the *New World Symphony* but differed in expression. The version by Columbia’s Roth String Quartet (JW 257–9) was somewhat straightforward but remained a good performance. There was also one by the Lener Quartet. The *Piano Trio in E minor (Dumky)* was another famous melancholic work, but aside from the Elly Ney Trio’s recording (Polydor 45262–5), there were no good versions available.

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 enthusiasm in its performance. Other Works Among his orchestral works were the *Carnival Overture* and *Slavonic Dances*. The *Slavonic Dances* had been recorded in considerable number by the Czech orchestra under Talich’s direction (Victor JH 149–52, JK 46–50). Not only did they possess a distinctive local color, but the performances were also quite good.

The "Humoresque" was famous for its violin arrangement. Along with *Indian Lament*, these were Kreisler’s arrangements.

Debussy: The Triumph of Impressionism

Claude Debussy decisively liberated music from old rules. 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, might this not be a comparison of fundamentally different orders? Debussy's achievements in music were far more revolutionary than those of Manet or Monet in painting, while his works remain immeasurably more captivating.

Three characteristics are broadly cited for Debussy’s music: "an almost absolute freedom of form," "a neurotic fear of vulgarity," and "an excessive pursuit of harmonic effects." In Debussy’s music, there existed no traditional forms or dominant balance whatsoever. He refused to comply unless he stripped away all musical inheritance and acted with utter freedom. Every old form was decisively discarded as he stood unyieldingly upon his own originality.

In Debussy’s music, there were no grandiose gestures or songs that returned as expected; instead, smoke-like, hazy acoustics—melodies that vanished and emerged as if embroidering floral patterns upon the soft fabric of harmony—were what moved. There was neither Wagner’s conquering ecstasy, nor Franck’s rational elements, nor the theatrical passion of Romantic composers. The "melancholic gaiety" of the refined modern Frenchman moved as lightly as air, as vividly as a gadfly, and as aimlessly as a dream.

Although the triumph of Impressionism was fraught with difficulties, he thus established the greatest epoch in modern music since Beethoven and became a towering beacon for the next era.

He Who Was Not Understood

Debussy (Claude Achille Debussy) was born on August 22, 1862, in the suburbs of Paris. His elementary education came from his mother; he never attended a formal school, and his household showed no musical inclinations whatsoever. However, during a trip to Cannes at age seven, his aunt Madame Roustan recognized his musical talent, and he briefly took piano lessons from an Italian instructor.

The young Debussy disliked both studying and playing—by today’s standards, he was far from being a model child. He would often spend entire days sitting vacantly in a chair as if lost in reverie, scarcely uttering a word. Madame Mauté—mother-in-law of the poet Verlaine and a former pupil of Chopin—chanced upon the boy’s talent and managed to persuade his father, who had resolved to make him a sailor, to enroll eleven-year-old Debussy at the conservatory in 1873 despite all reservations.

Debussy’s life as a music student was unconventional. He possessed an extraordinary sensitivity to sound but disliked practicing the piano, leading his teacher to the curious conclusion: “That boy detests the piano but seems to love music.” Debussy was clumsy and timid, and was not suited to be a pianist. He then turned to composition but was not understood by his old-fashioned teachers; moreover, from the age of thirteen or fourteen, he had to devote time to helping his impoverished parents by teaching piano lessons to other families’ children.

At eighteen, through the kindness of his teacher Guiraud, he embarked on a journey to Russia, staying with Madame von Meck—renowned as Tchaikovsky’s patron—where he gained opportunities to acquaint himself with Russian musicians and was frequently influenced by Mussorgsky’s music in particular. Afterward, he became infected with Wagnerian fervor and even followed the composer’s footsteps to Italy. This was a prevailing trend of the era, and Debussy could not remain aloof from the Wagnerians like others might have.

In 1883, on the advice of his teacher Guiraud, he entered the Prix de Rome competition, and his famous choral work *L’Enfant prodigue* won first prize. As a natural consequence, he went to study in Rome, but to his dismay, he had to taste bitter disillusionment there. Unable to endure the academically mediocre atmosphere of Villa Medici, he finally returned to Paris in 1887. As his study-abroad works, *Spring* and *The Chosen Maiden* were submitted, but the latter was rejected on grounds of being “deemed unsuitable for orchestra as it was written in F-sharp major,” while *Spring* was withdrawn by Debussy himself.

A Dazzling Triumph

After returning to Paris, Debussy cultivated his intellect through interactions with friends from various circles while gradually unveiling his works to the world. Though these compositions lacked commercial viability—necessitating publication at his own expense—his social engagements steadily expanded. In 1894, when *Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun* was performed by the National Society of Music, Debussy glimpsed the first dawn of success. Critics offered measured praise despite their bewilderment.

In 1902，his opera *Pelléas et Mélisande* premiered，decisively cementing Debussy’s triumph． Ten years prior，in 1892，he had read Maeterlinck’s original work and been deeply moved；after visiting the author to obtain permission to compose，he spent a full decade completing it． The performance stirred up a great whirlwind in the musical world，but Maurice Maeterlinck，the original author，published an open letter in *Le Figaro* condemning it out of personal grievances；yet Debussy’s triumph remained entirely undiminished by this．

However decisive the victory may have been, it had by no means been anticipated from the outset. On the premiere night, as the drama progressed amidst jeers, mockery, and disruptions from an audience seething with hostility, they found themselves unwittingly drawn into its strange spell and gradually fell silent against their will. Three days later at the second performance, not a single disturbance arose. On the contrary, as the music drama unfolded, it ignited an ardor unlike anything Wagner had witnessed since his own triumphs—encores reached ten repetitions while the audience's fervor blazed white-hot.

It is said that those who aided this success were conservatory students and other young students who were readily moved by new beauty. Meanwhile, Dubois, the director of the conservatory, forbade his students from listening to *Pelléas*. This was on grounds that it contravened the musical rules taught at the institution. Debussy abruptly became a luminary celebrated throughout the world. Thereafter he commenced work on *La Mer*, completed the piano pieces *Estampes* and *Images*, and declared of himself: "I would be situated 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, burning with patriotism, he composed several war-inspired pieces and furthermore 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 Recordings

Anyone would initially be surprised at how unexpectedly numerous Debussy’s records are. Among composers who became active since the twentieth century, there may have been few who possessed such charm. Above all, he was someone deeply familiar to the Japanese people, and Mr. Koichi Nomura’s remark about Debussy—“one of the more easily comprehensible types of music from the perspective of Japanese sensibility”—remains an extremely interesting observation.

*Pelléas et Mélisande*

The music drama *Pelléas et Mélisande* must surely be one of those tender memories cherished by music lovers of twenty years ago—those who knew this piece only through literature—so fervent was our longing for it. Shortly after the Great Earthquake, excerpts of this work recorded by French Gramophone—of which about ten sets must have been imported to Japan—were snapped up in a frenzy despite their exorbitant prices, becoming a notable episode in Japan’s record industry. Indeed, Panzéra and Protier’s renditions of scenes such as “The Hair” and “The Fountain” even induced a dreamlike intoxication. People today cannot possibly imagine it; I believe it was a memory imbued with profound emotion.

Subsequently, French Gramophone re-recorded the exact same cast and orchestra under Coppola’s direction during the early days of electrical recording, and those recordings were pressed by Victor, becoming what we now consider standard additions to any collection. This record—recorded over a decade ago now—features an orchestra that sounds rather unsteady; however, one can still discern the marvelous combination of Panzéra’s Pelléas, Protier’s Mélisande, and Marçou’s Golaud (Victor 4174–6, 9636–9).

Columbia’s version was several years newer than that, and the orchestra conducted by Truc proved far more vivid and brilliant. Moreover, its distinctive trait lay in Cloëz singing Geneviève; though it was hard to say which was better, Victor’s main singers excelled in quality and its orchestra remained superior (J8179–84).

Additionally, Polydor has a recording containing only "The Hair Scene" conducted by Wolf. Though the recording is rough, Brio (soprano) and Godin (tenor) sing commendably (60177). Two records of Mary Garden—who sang at *Pelléas et Mélisande*'s premiere—performing with Debussy’s own accompaniment were released by the IRCC (International Record Collectors’ Club), but they remain difficult to obtain in Japan at present.

*Nocturnes*, *La Mer*, *Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun*, and others

*Nocturnes* consisted of three pieces—"Clouds," "Festivals," and "Sirens"—and was a masterpiece that decisively established Debussy's reputation. It painted an exceedingly hazy impression while remaining fresh and richly fragrant. Particularly fascinating was the wordless women's chorus in *Sirens*. The Columbia recording conducted by Pierné with the Concerts Colonne Orchestra stood as excellent (J8338–40). However, the Victor recording under Coppola with the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (JD1543–5) recommended itself through its newer recording quality.

*Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun* was music based on Mallarmé’s poem—an ambitious early work by Debussy that depicted an atmosphere of mysterious air and light. It could be said to have been Impressionism’s first decisive victory. There were numerous recordings. Stokowski, Wolf, Pierné, Coppola, and Staram—all great conductors—had competed fiercely to record it. Yet for those choosing just one version, Columbia’s recording by the late conductor Staram leading his own Concert Staram orchestra would likely stand as the finest choice (J7745). Next came Columbia’s version under Pierné’s direction.

*La Mer* was a masterpiece from Debussy’s mature period, though only Victor’s recording conducted by Coppola with the Paris Conservatory Orchestra existed (JD 204–6). “Spring” was an extremely early work he composed inspired by Botticelli’s famous painting *Primavera*, with its recording featuring Coppola conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra on Victor (JD 863–4). “The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian” was likewise available on Victor under Coppola’s direction (JD 1–2). *Iberia* followed similarly on Victor (JD 850–2).

*Petite Suite*, originally a piano four-hands piece arranged for orchestra, had been recorded two or three times. The version conducted by Büsser—the arranger of this piece—with the Paris Symphony Orchestra was included in Columbia’s catalog, though it remained somewhat lackluster (J5237–8). Victor would also have had a version conducted by Coppola.

Sonatas

Debussy planned to compose six sonatas for various instruments in his final years but passed away after completing only three. All three of these sonatas were exquisitely polished masterpieces, with the recording of the "Violin Sonata" performed by Thibaud (violin) and Cortot (piano) standing as a peerless work. Records with such exquisitely fragrant expression can rarely be encountered (Victor JD 59–60).

The *Sonata for Flute*, *Viola*, *and Harp* was an enchantingly beautiful piece. Victor’s record featuring three masters—Moyse (flute), Merkel (viola), and Laskine (harp)—stood as excellent (VH 4006–7). The version with Gino performing this piece’s viola part existed on Columbia. The *Cello Sonata* had two recordings: one by Marechal (cello) and Casadesus (piano) (Columbia J7795–6), and another by Casado (cello) and Golschmann (piano) (JW124–5). Though the former’s recording was somewhat dated, I chose its French-style refined performance.

*Piano Works* Debussy’s piano works were no less distinctive than his orchestral works, being exquisitely fragrant and utterly captivating. The records were numerous, but if we list only the most outstanding ones, firstly,

The first book of *Préludes*, comprising twelve pieces, was available on Victor with Cortot (DA 1240–4, DB 1593) and on Columbia with Gieseking (J5633–9). The relative merits of these two would likely be debated extensively. In truth, both had their distinctive merits, but I would choose Cortot—slightly more romantic and suggestive of something deeper—over Gieseking, whose lifeblood lay in cold technical refinement. Cortot’s performances of these twelve pieces might have lacked the mechanical beauty of Gieseking’s, but each one was, just as with his Chopin preludes, a sonic painting realized through Cortot’s extraordinary interpretations.

*Children’s Corner*—there exists no art more beautiful that demonstrates such profound understanding of a child’s world. It represents a delightful interplay of dreams and reality, poetry and daily life—the nostalgia of childhood as perceived through adult eyes. Though recordings exist by Cortot (Victor 7147–8) and Gieseking (Columbia J8728, J5563), here too I align myself with Cortot’s extraordinary poetic sensibility and childlike spirit. While Gieseking’s playing is undeniably skillful and astonishing, it remains coldly dispassionate—the very epitome of a pianist’s piano piece.

*Estampes* consists of three pieces: "Pagodas," "Evening in Granada," and "Gardens in the Rain." This scenery was likely conceived as an impression in the style of Japanese woodblock prints. It is delightful that there exists a recording of *Evening in Granada* played by Ricardo Viñes—the pianist who premiered this piece in 1903—available 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; it appeared on pre-electric records, was frequently performed by him during his visits to Japan, and a new recording was released by Victor (JD-1610). However, [Moiseiwitsch’s] performance still yielded a step to Gieseking’s (Columbia J5639). The pouring rain depicted in this piece and the tranquil atmosphere of the garden clearing afterward possess a beauty that defies description.

*Images* was a beautiful work that contained only *Reflections in the Water* from the First Book. Gieseking’s version remained excellent (Columbia J8539), appearing on the reverse side of *Evening in Granada*. From Book II, *Goldfish* was included. Columbia’s World Masterpiece Collection featured Gieseking’s interpretation alongside Viñes’ recording (Columbia J5151). The compilation also included Ron’s *Lent (Slower Than Lent)*, Champi’s *Fireworks*, two of Ron’s *Arabesques*, and Gieseking’s four pieces from *Suite Bergamasque*—notably the famous *Clair de Lune* [“Moonlight”]—all on Columbia. Blancard’s six *Études* (Polydor) were among the other recordings listed.

Piano works arranged for violin or orchestra are not listed here.

*Art Songs* Of the three songs from *Forgotten Songs*, Batori sang “Let It Be Ecstasy” (Columbia J5187), Kuroaza sang “The Rain of Tears Falls in My Heart Too” (Columbia J5157), and Varan sang “Green” (Columbia J5505). Batori and Kuroaza lacked beauty, relying solely on technical skill and intellect; I would rather have chosen Ninon Varan’s flamboyant rendition. “Marionette” and “Mandolin” (Columbia J5505) were on the B-side of “Green,” but this “Mandolin” 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 of François Villon* is a work from his later years, similarly unadorned and subdued. There is one sung by Panzéra (Victor JF67). *Debussy’s Art Songs Collection* features British soprano Maggie Teyte singing “A Splendid Feast” and other pieces with Cortot’s accompaniment. She is a skilled and intellectual singer, but she still lacks the serenity and warmth of the French. Cortot’s piano accompaniment is extraordinary (Victor JE76–82).

From the cantata *The Prodigal Son*. From the cantata for which Debussy won the Rome Prize, Ninon Varan’s performance of “Lia’s Recitative and Aria” remains noteworthy in any case (Columbia J8704). Additionally, records such as Klup’s rendition of “Starry Night”—arguably Debussy’s first art song—with Debussy himself at the piano accompaniment, and Melba’s recording of “Romance” are recognized as antique masterpieces, though they are not items one can readily acquire.

Rhapsody The *Rhapsody for Saxophone and Orchestra* was recorded with Viard on saxophone, Coppola conducting, and the Paris Conservatory Orchestra (Victor W-1027). What interested me was how Debussy had approached the saxophone. The other work, *Rhapsody for Clarinet and Orchestra*, was recorded with Hamlin on clarinet and Coppola conducting the orchestra (Victor DB-4809), but it proved less compelling than its saxophone counterpart.

Supplementary Accounts

*Great Composers and Their Important Works Along with Excellent Records*

In this volume, I wrote about the biographies of seventeen great composers along with their important works and records; however, the history of music is long, and even multiplying seventeen by five would still not suffice to account for all great composers needing chronicling here. Yet to explicate this in detail proved impossible within these pages' confines, and comprehensively covering all composers would run counter to this volume's purpose. Thus I omitted the majority—including all opera composers and living composers—from this main text. Here, through a music-historical overview, I selected several dozen important composers overlooked in prior selections, briefly chronicled them chronologically, and presented their key works with outstanding records to serve as reference.

Before Bach

If we were to trace music before Bach back three thousand years to ancient Egypt, it would indeed amount to a geologically colossal scale. However，I decided against delving into music’s Cretaceous and Cambrian periods here，limiting myself instead to enumerating the scant works—and their recordings—that withstand the scrutiny of general appreciation.

To collect and appreciate pre-Bach music through records,

*Anthologie Sonore Society* records

Columbia’s *Music History* First Collection and Second Collection

Parlophone’s “Music History of Two Thousand Years”

I believed that preparing these three record collections would prove most convenient and effective.

Among the aforementioned,

*Anthologie Sonore Society*

The records of the Anthologie Sonore Society were edited by Dr. Curt Sachs, a world-renowned music historian. While over fifty discs had already been released in France, Nippon Columbia pressed and distributed eighteen discs in the Japanese market (as of early Shōwa 16 [1941]), each one a handpicked gem of beautiful and important classical works. The distinctive feature of this collection lay not only in its excellent selection of repertoire but also in its conscientiously crafted performances, making it thoroughly enjoyable not just for musicology scholars but also for general record enthusiasts and music appreciators. The gentle beauty of its ancient instruments and the serene delight of its archaic songs stood without equal. Listing each piece would have been tedious, but even as I continued this section, I found myself holding my pen while enraptured by the untainted beauty of seventeenth-century clavecin pieces performed by Bolin Ober.

In the realm of art, the classical masterpieces that have passed through time's mighty filtration system and been preserved for posterity are always beautiful. This is because they are not products of transient trends, whims, affectation, or journalism, but are always rooted in humanity's fundamental desires and possess an enduring appeal to the human heart. It may indeed be said that enjoying classical works constitutes an exceptionally wholesome and privileged pleasure granted to humankind, in every era and every world.

First and foremost, obtaining the already-released *Anthologie Sonore* records is exceedingly difficult today; however, those fortunate enough to own them would do well to dust them off from the bottom of their storage chests and savor the spirit of the ancients. Therein lie both faith and love; through music, the vibrant human life of old is vividly recreated. Yet, as the ancient sage said, “The three hundred poems can be summed up in a single phrase: ‘Have no depraved thoughts,’” and one may discover with a smile that very realm of purity.

There are many who scrutinize every detail of Beethoven's symphony records—the orchestras, conductors, and recordings—down to their minutiae, yet few could likely recall even a third of the Anthologie Sonore's program listings. This seems only natural, yet I find myself vaguely dissatisfied all the same.

Columbia’s *Music History*

Columbia had also recently released the fifth volume. Compared to the underperformance of the Third and Fourth Collections, the Fifth Collection’s selections were skeletal in intent; nevertheless, I still found much of interest in the arrangement of the First and Second Collections. True to its title *Columbia’s Music History Through Ear and Eye*, it gave equal weight to commentary books, yet all selections proved listenable—one could not help but admire this efficient approach to presenting classical works for pleasurable appreciation. Within this collection, the Bach Cantata Club’s recordings of religious choral pieces represented exceptional quality in Britain, while medieval instrumental pieces performed by the Dolmetsch family on period instruments stood out through their distinctively revivalist character.

Parlophone’s “Music History of Two Thousand Years”

Parlophone’s “Music History of Two Thousand Years,” like the *Anthologie Sonore*, was edited by Dr. Curt Sachs and compels admiration both for its remarkable efficiency in compressing the essence of two millennia of music—from before Christ to the seventeenth century—into merely twelve ten-inch records, and for the musicological acumen evident in its selection of repertoire. While its auditory appeal did not match that of Columbia’s *Music History*, its historical curation far surpassed it in ingenuity, offering immense benefits to researchers. Regrettably, the commentary was crude and failed as a reference resource; moreover, having been discontinued early on, not only obtaining them but even simply listening to them had become difficult.

The master discs for these should already exist in Japan, and if Columbia—which has inherited Parlophone’s rights—were to re-press them, I believe the joy would not be mine alone. I hereby present this as one issue facing the record industry. There is certainly no shortage of classical music records, but those that are genuinely enjoyable for general enthusiasts rather than researchers are not so plentiful.

Victor’s Ben Stadt conducting, “Ancient Music” Ben Stadt’s *Ancient Music* was an edition of classical works of great importance, with performances by the American Ancient Instrument Research Society being excellent; however, for the general public, Madame Landowska’s clavecin pieces would likely hold greater appeal.

Couperin’s *Clavecin Works* (François Couperin, 1668–1733) were quintessential examples of this. The simple beauty of this instrument’s antique-style music, imitative of ancient forms, was rendered profoundly enjoyable through Madame Landowska’s superb performance. There were no shortage 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* stood as one of the representative works of Italian classical music and was also challenging to perform; however, there existed Columbia’s Enescu (J-7940) and Victor’s Menuhin (JD-208), these master-disciple records each being profoundly interesting. The former’s recording might have been old, but its graceful performance stood in such contrast to the latter’s youth and vigor that it became irresistible. Yet general collectors would rightly choose the latter with its newer recording as a matter of common sense.

Tartini’s (Giuseppe Tartini, 1692–1770) violin sonata *The Devil’s Trill* was famous for its legend—that the composer Tartini had obtained a musical idea in exchange for selling his soul to the devil—and among its recordings, Victor’s Menuhin version (JD-8–9) was likely the most accomplished. It was a brisk performance.

Antonio Vivaldi’s (1678–1741) Violin Concerto in G minor is included in Victor’s catalog with Nachez’s arrangement (JD-1155–6). Elman’s performance may be somewhat overly lush and graceful, but he remains flawless in the art of making representative Italian classics enjoyable to listen to. It can indeed be called a fine performance. The same Vivaldi’s Concerto Grosso—an important work that later influenced Bach—has been recorded numerous times, but would not Mengelberg’s conducting of the *Concerto Grosso in A minor, Op. 3 No. 8* (Telefunken 23660–1) stand among the most outstanding versions? A supremely brilliant piece that anyone could enjoy.

From classical works predating Bach that were intended as listening records, I had ultimately selected only these. But 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 serene sonatas from antiquity would be enjoyed by all—not merely for their musicological interest but as unassuming music to enliven family gatherings. They remain an exquisitely beautiful and luminous series of masterworks.

After Bach

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 was recorded. This would be the "Concerto in D minor" performed by Brailowsky on piano, included in Victor (VD 8004–5). Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–1788), the second son, preceded Haydn as the establisher of the sonata form and made significant contributions to the development of modern music. The record containing the "Piano Sonata in F minor" is included in Columbia’s *Music History*.

The youngest son, Johann Christian Bach (1735–1782), composed many beautiful Italian-style pieces. His records were also the most numerous among the three; Victor’s *Concerto for Harpsichord, Two Violins, and Cello in G Major* was beautifully performed by Champion (JA 1252–3). Columbia’s *World Famous Record Collection* included *Rondo from the Harpsichord Concerto in C Major* with Champion as soloist, while Victor’s *Symphony in B-flat Major*—conducted by Mengelberg with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra—though recorded over ten years prior, could be called a fine performance (7483–4).

Gluck (Christoph Willibald Gluck 1714–1787) The German-born reformer of modern opera who first broke with the then world-dominating tradition of Italian opera and incorporated dramatic elements. Fortunately, a nearly complete recording of all three acts of his masterpiece, the opera *Orpheus*, was 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 interesting composer of Italian classics, he had notable works for cello and chamber music. Above all, Casals’ performance of the *Cello Concerto in B-flat Major*—with the work’s antique and graceful beauty paired with his superb playing—was truly a masterpiece. The orchestral direction was handled by Ronald (Victor JD-1023–5). Such records were truly enjoyable.

Weber (Carl Maria von Weber 1786–1826) He was a great composer who defined an era in German opera and could be called the founder of the Romantic school. The opera *Der Freischütz* stood as his representative masterpiece. Though no complete recording of the opera existed, Polydor had an abridged version; the overture conducted by Furtwängler with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra was a renowned recording (Polydor E-217–8). For single-disc vocal pieces, there was Lehmann’s (soprano) “Agathe’s Aria” (Columbia J-8586).

*Invitation to the Dance* was one of those masterpieces originally composed for piano; though an old recording, Cortot’s version existed on Victor JE-185. Berlioz’s orchestral arrangement conducted by Stokowski remained famous on Victor JD-1325. Weingartner’s 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 good (J-8591–2). Additionally, there were Victor records such as those by Piatigorsky, who had arranged violin sonatas for cello and recorded them.

Rossini

(Gioachino Rossini 1792–1868) It was impossible to imagine how Rossini’s light and beautiful Italian operas had swept across all of Europe at the time. On records, the complete opera *The Barber of Seville* was recorded under Morajoli’s direction with La Scala’s best members. It was an excellent performance true to its origin (Columbia J-8732–9, 8740–7). For single-disc recordings from this opera, there was Toscanini’s renowned recording of the “Overture” (Victor JD-1287), Tetrazzini (Victor JD-259) and Galli-Curci (Victor 7110) for the famous aria “A Faint Voice,” and Chaliapin’s record for “In the Shadow of Slanderers” (Victor 6783).

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

Loewe

(Karl Loewe 1796–1869)

It is said he was far more popular than Schubert at the time. He composed excellent ballads, and though Slezak’s rendition of *Tom der Reimer* was a masterful performance, it was never pressed in Japan. The performances of *Heinrich der Vogler* (The Birdcatcher Heinrich) and *Prinz Eugen* (Prince Eugene) sung by Hüsch (baritone) come recommended (Victor JE-71).

Donizetti

(Gaetano Donizetti 1797–1848)

He was a composer of Italian opera and a preserver of its traditions, renowned for operas such as *Lucia di Lammermoor* and *La Fille du Régiment*. The Mad Scene in *Lucia* was an ideal piece to showcase a coloratura soprano’s virtuosity, with Tetrazzini having excelled in it in the past and Dal Monte and Galli-Curci mastering it today. The sextet from *Lucia* was also famous, with three different old recordings featuring Caruso available. There were also many records by Dal Monte of the 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*. While not particularly compelling as dramatic works, these operas became famous for their beautiful Italianate arias that emerged throughout. Fine recordings exist by Dal Monte and others.

Glinka (Mikhail Glinka 1803–1857)

The great pioneer of the Russian national school; records remain exceedingly scarce. Chaliapin’s recording of *Doubt* (Victor DB-1469) stands as a masterpiece. Among his orchestral works lies *Kamariinskaya*.

Thomas (Ambroise Thomas 1811–1896) A French opera composer, he was known for the opera *Mignon*. Among its pieces, the song *Knowest Thou the Land* had achieved astonishing popularity. While recordings by Farrar and Schumann-Heink existed in earlier times, among newer versions only Bori’s Victor records remained available. Dal Monte’s *Polonaise* should also be recommended among such works.

Verdi

(Giuseppe Verdi 1813–1901) The towering giant of Italian opera who guarded its traditions and confronted Wagner, Verdi’s works remained unmatched in their creative richness, infinite variety of expression, and profound emotional impact. *Rigoletto* and *Aida* Each has complete recordings on Victor, while *La Traviata* exists in full on Columbia. Though all are early recordings, they represent outstanding performances. For individual arias, one finds superb interpretations by Caruso, Gigli, Dal Monte, Galli-Curci, and others.

The prelude from *La Traviata* conducted by Toscanini with the New York Philharmonic was a renowned recording.

Dargomïzhsky (Alexander Dargomïzhsky 1813–1869) His songs were distinguished by their fiercely Russian character. While Chaliapin included a significant number in his repertoire and artists like Rozing frequently performed them, only two recordings survive: Chaliapin’s *The Old Sergeant* (Victor 7422) and the *Mad Scene* from the opera *Rusalka* (Victor JD-149).

Franz (Robert Franz 1815–1892) Franz was one who should have inherited the orthodox tradition of the German Lied after Schubert; though possessing warmth and beauty, his lack of the talent seen in Schumann or Wolf gave him a tendency to appear rather ordinary and somewhat lacking in charm. The *Robert Franz Lieder Collection* compiles sixteen of his representative pieces in solo performances by Ernst Wolf (baritone) and could be considered Franz’s only existing record (Columbia J-8660–2).

Gounod

(Charles François Gounod 1818–1893) France’s most celebrated opera composer, the opera *Faust* remains a source of pride for the French people to this day. Pathé and Columbia once had complete recordings, but now only Polydor’s abridged “condensed operas” remain. For single records of soprano renditions of the "Jewel Song," Melba and Farrar were famous in the past, but nowadays it would be Columbia’s Valandré or Polydor’s Champi. For bass renditions of Mephisto’s *Serenade*, the old recordings by Plançon or Journet were excellent, but there are none of quality today. Chaliapin’s old recording of *The Song of the Golden Calf* was superb. For *Valentine’s Prayer*, there are no good recordings besides Victor’s Tibet.

The "Tavern Chorus" from Act II was well-rendered in Victor’s Metropolitan Opera recording, while the "Soldiers’ Chorus" from Act IV stood out in Columbia’s version with Morajolli conducting the La Scala Chorus.

Additionally, a few recordings exist of Gounod’s opera *Romeo and Juliet*, and there remains his famous *Ave Maria* set to Bach’s Prelude in C Major as accompaniment. This has been recorded copiously, but Columbia’s Ninon Vallin stands as the finest.

Offenbach (Jacques Offenbach 1819–1880) A French opéra comique composer who had some fine popular works to his name. The overture to his opera *Orpheus in the Underworld* might well be called the grand champion of popular music. Victor released a version conducted by Blech (JD-1246). The "Barcarolle" from his opera *The Tales of Hoffmann* remains celebrated. While Farrar’s old recording was superb, Polydor’s recent German-language version with Mihaczek (soprano) and Haender (baritone) proves quite respectable (60168). Columbia’s recording by Bailey and Walker offers an authentic soprano-alto duet rendition (J-7539).

Vieuxtemps (Henri Vieuxtemps 1820–1881)

A Belgian-born violinist who composed numerous violin works, including six concertos among them. The *Violin Concerto No. 5 in A minor* was one of these; there existed a Columbia recording by Dubois and the Brussels Royal Conservatory Orchestra. The recording was old, and the performance wasn't particularly good.

Lalo (Edouard Lalo 1823–1892)

A Frenchman of Spanish descent, he was renowned for his opera *Le roi d'Ys* and violin work *Symphonie espagnole*. For *Symphonie espagnole*, there were recordings by Menuhin, Huberman, and Merkel. Menuhin’s was also good (Victor JD-260–3), but I remained more intrigued by Huberman’s conquering warrior’s tremble (Columbia J-8320–2). When Menuhin played this, he had been simply too young at the time. Merkel’s might have been on the green label, but it remained a high-quality and masterful violin.

The *Cello Concerto in D minor* with Maréchal (cello) and Goehr conducting was also excellent (Columbia J-8133–5).

Smetana (Bedřich Smetana 1824–1884) Bohemia’s national musician passed on its local musical traditions to Dvořák.

The symphonic poem *Moldau*, a movement from the large-scale work *Má vlast*, had several recordings available, but a recent one on Telefunken conducted by Isserstedt with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra was included (Telefunken 53613–4). Smetana’s opera *The Bartered Bride* had its overture conducted by Walter with the London Symphony Orchestra included in Columbia’s World Famous Recordings Collection.

Bruckner

(Anton Bruckner 1824–1896) A Romantic composer who had opposed Brahms, he found little favor outside Germany and remained poorly represented on records. Victor released his complete *Symphony No.4 in E-flat Major* under Karl Böhm’s direction, though it was not for all listeners. Polydor’s older recordings had included his Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Symphonies. I now think I should have acquired them when I could.

Johann Strauss

(Johann Strauss 1825–1899) The epithet “Waltz King” had been promoted to such an extent that it overshadowed his very name. He composed many beautiful Viennese waltzes, each one as exquisite as a jewel. It would not have been inappropriate to call him the king of popular music. Such a person was precisely what one would call a true artist intimately connected to the lives of the people. The most famous masterpiece was *The Blue Danube Waltz*, which had been recorded extensively; notable versions included Kleiber conducting for Telefunken (13104), Stokowski conducting for Victor (Amateur Association Series 5), and Weingartner conducting for Columbia (J7343)—all of which were excellent recordings.

For comprehensive collections, there was Kleiber conducting the *Johann Strauss Waltz Collection* on Telefunken, while among single-disc releases, Walter’s *Emperor Waltz* (Columbia World Famous Recordings Series 3) stood out. *Viennese Blood*, *Tales from the Vienna Woods*, *Roses from the South*, *Wine, Women and Song* Works like *Artist’s Life* and other masterpiece waltzes were numerous, each having been recorded in multiple versions. If one were to count all vocal renditions and piano performances of *The Blue Danube* in addition to these, there would have been no end to them. The overtures to *The Gypsy Baron* and *Die Fledermaus* had also been recorded by all renowned conductors. Walter’s, Mengelberg’s, Kleiber’s, and Weingartner’s versions were counted among the good ones.

Rubinstein (Anton Rubinstein 1829–1894)

(Anton Rubinstein 1829–1894)

A teacher and friend of Tchaikovsky, he gained renown across Europe as a pianist for a time. He left several piano works. "Kamenyi Ostrov" stands as his representative beautiful piece; among older recordings existed a renowned version played by Godowsky on piano. There has been a recent recording of Fiedler conducting an orchestra (Victor Amateur Association). Additionally, *Melody in F* remains well-known. Casals performs it on cello. There also exist piano recordings such as *Staccato Étude* and *Waltz-Caprice*.

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 opera *Prince Igor* were strongly imbued with a Tatar flavor. The "Polovtsian Dances" from *Prince Igor* conducted by Stokowski were excellent (Victor JD-1500–1).

Cui (Cesar Antonovich Cui 1835–1918)

A member of the Russian “Five,” he was famous for his charming Oriental-style piece “Orientale.” Only this piece had been recorded—there existed one played by Elman on violin (Victor VE-1029).

Saint-Saëns (Camille Saint-Saëns 1835–1921) A master of the French neoclassical school, he was revered as a national composer. In his native France, Saint-Saëns received far greater recognition than Debussy—even being granted a state funeral—yet his music’s very adherence to conventional French sensibilities made it unexpectedly difficult for Japanese audiences to appreciate. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that he left many splendidly structured works and that his art, while superficial in expression, remained rigorously orthodox.

Among records, those like Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra in the suite *Carnival of the Animals* were more interesting (Victor JD-562–4). There were countless recordings of “The Swan” for cello from this suite, but even among older recordings, Casals’s rendition remained superior (Victor JE-7).

The *Piano Concerto No. 4 in C minor, Op. 44* is splendid and effective, owing much to Cortot’s performance. This recording serves well for appreciating Saint-Saëns’s surface-level beauty (Victor JD-921–3). Coppola conducting the *Symphony No. 3 in C minor (Op. 78)* presents a lavish work featuring organ and two pianos, thoroughly characteristic of Saint-Saëns. However, such works are not to everyone’s taste (Victor JH-17–20).

There were two *Violin Concertos*, a *Cello Concerto*, and a *Cello Sonata*, but unless one had a particular interest in Saint-Saëns, these were not particularly engaging. Rather, it was in his smaller pieces that there were those which evoked popular interest.

“Danse Macabre” was one such example; though a lighthearted piece, Stokowski’s conducted version proved grandiose (Victor JD-559). Cortot’s *Étude in Waltz Form* on piano (Victor JD-196), Heifetz’s *Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso* on violin (Victor JD-829), and Heifetz’s *Havanaise* (Victor JD-1292) offered more popular appeal and engagement potential.

There are other works such as the suite *Algérie* and the opera *Samson et Dalila*, but there are no good recordings. The opera *Samson et Dalila* is also one of Saint-Saëns’s masterpieces—a splendid Romantic work. Delilah’s songs and the banquet music are featured in numerous versions.

Wieniawski (Henri Wieniawski 1835–1880) A Polish violinist who composed several famous violin pieces. For instance, works like *Souvenir de Moscou* were pieces anyone would grow fond of initially. Victor released Menuhin’s recording of it (JD-1567). Elman’s version had long been celebrated. Among major works, there was Heifetz’s recording of the *Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. 22*, with the London Philharmonic under Barbirolli’s baton (Victor JD-717–9). Heifetz particularly excelled in this concerto; though the second movement’s tenderness fell somewhat short, it remained a consummately polished performance.

Delibes (Léo Delibes 1836–1891) A French composer, Léo Delibes was best known for his opera *Lakmé*. The "Bell Song" from this work stands as a splendid coloratura soprano piece, with Tetrazzini’s historical interpretation and Lily Pons’s contemporary version likely remaining the finest renditions. Ballet works such as *Coppélia* and *Sylvia* were also recorded.

Balakirev

(Mily Balakirev 1837–1910) He was the de facto leader of the Russian Nationalist School’s Five, yet his own compositions were surprisingly few in number. His influence on Mussorgsky and others proved far more significant. The symphonic poem *Tamara* remained his sole recording. This was a celebrated production of the Russian Ballet, with Coppola’s conducted version being recorded (Victor JD-144–5).

Bizet

(Georges Bizet 1835–1875)

With just the opera *Carmen*, Bizet secured enduring charm for a thousand years. The story of how philosopher Nietzsche, having grown dissatisfied with Wagner, discovered *Carmen* at a provincial opera house and rejoiced ecstatically remains truly fascinating. Though Bizet’s life proved far from happy—cut short before he could witness the world’s acclaim for *Carmen*—as an artist he stood by no means unfortunate.

The opera *Carmen* has had five or six complete or nearly complete recordings made to date. The twenty-seven vertical-cut Pathé records from France that stirred our blood in the era of old recordings—I too acquired them much later, and they remain treasured with deep nostalgia in my collection. The recording quality was very poor, but the singers were quite good. Since the advent of electrical recording, Columbia had released a version by the Paris Opéra-Comique under Cohen’s direction (J7361–75), and Victor had one by the same Paris Opéra-Comique under Coppola’s direction (9540–56), but it was difficult to decisively favor one over the other. However, both recordings were old. Additionally, there were five discs of excerpts on Polydor.

Single discs are available in countless numbers, yet it is curious that those from the era of old recordings—like Farrar’s and Caruso’s—remain superior. Still, Columbia’s recordings of Ninon Vallin singing “Habanera” and “Seguidilla” are truly excellent, as one would expect from the great Carmen singers of old. The “Habanera” and “Seguidilla” by Supervia—a Spaniard like Carmen who died young—also possess a distinctive character. For José, both Victor’s recently acclaimed Bjorling and the veteran tenor Jiri are likely excellent. For the Toreador Song, there are no good recordings apart from Tibbett.

Then there was Stokowski’s *Carmen* Suite on Victor, which stood out with his characteristic organizational flair and opulence. The opera *The Pearl Fishers* had no complete recording; only a few single discs were available. *L’Arlésienne* Among Bizet’s works, his suites were second only to *Carmen* in popularity, but there were no truly compelling recordings. The sole complete recording of both the First and Second Suites was Columbia’s version led by Ingelbrecht with the Paris Symphony Orchestra. As for the most popular excerpts, Stokowski’s Victor recording would likely have been the choice.

Bruch (Max Bruch 1838–1920) His music was characterized by a Judaic gracefulness and meditative quality. He stood as a distinctive figure within the German Romantic school. The "Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor (Op. 26)" remained a magnificent piece. Victor’s Menuhin recording stood as its definitive version (7509–11). Though his Second Concerto too was a fine work, no recordings of it existed. “Kol Nidrei,” drawn from Jewish liturgical music, came to be regarded as Bruch’s representative composition. It achieved religious solemnity and consummate elegance. Casals’s recording reigned as the acclaimed performance (Victor Lovers Association Volume 2), said to have claimed the greatest popularity among all records in the Association. Even Casals’s earlier version of this piece—though marred by noise on Columbia’s acoustic label—retained a youthful quality that defied description.

Mussorgsky

(Modest Musorgsky 1839–1881) He was the most distinctive genius among the Russian Nationalist School’s Five. Though never rewarded in his lifetime for disregarding compositional traditions, his modern realism’s intense expression would exert enormous influence on later generations. The opera *Boris Godunov* remains an astonishing composition; its visceral realism makes conventional operas’ artifice pale in comparison. Victor released three discs from Chaliapin’s live performance at London’s Covent Garden Opera House (JD-1518–20). The recordings fared poorly technically but overwhelm with their raw intensity. Chaliapin’s “Clock Scene” and “I Am Supreme Authority” filled one disc (Victor JD-226), while “Boris’s Farewell” and “Boris’s Death” occupied another (Victor JD-862). Two discs of the “Revolutionary Scene” chorus once existed but went out of print. Their excellence makes their loss regrettable.

*Khovanshchina* was an opera no less excellent than *Boris Godunov*, but records of it were extremely scarce, with only Koussevitzky’s conducted overture included in the Victor Lovers Association. Mussorgsky’s independent songs were also astonishing. Chaliapin’s “The Flea Song” (Victor 6783-A) and “Trepak” (Victor JD-723) were famous records, while as a complete collection, Columbia featured the unusual tenor singer Rozing’s *Mussorgsky Song Collection* in two volumes (J-8610–12, J-8614–16). He was a singer with a uniquely intense form of expression, but his technique was exceptionally skilled.

In orchestral works, *Night on Bald Mountain*, which depicted a nocturnal banquet of mountain spirits, was fascinating. It was an extremely eerie piece yet remained an accessible symphonic poem. The Columbia record conducted by Paray stood out as outstanding (J-8365). *Pictures at an Exhibition* proved more compelling in its original piano version, though Ravel’s orchestral arrangement was recorded under Koussevitzky’s direction (Victor 7372–5). This version felt lifeless.

Chabrier (Alexis Emmanuel Chabrier 1841–1894) A distinctive French composer who pioneered modern music. *España Rhapsody* remains his best-known work. A Columbia recording conducted by Pierné serves as a notable example (J-8356). In vocal repertoire, Bernac contributed one or two pieces to Victor's *French Chanson Collection*.

Massenet (Jules Massenet 1842–1912) He was the composer who created operas embodying the most bewitchingly beautiful and decadent aesthetics of fin-de-siècle France. Ironically, neither the "Dream Song" from *Manon* could surpass older Klemperer recordings, nor could the "Meditation" from *Thaïs* equal Farrar's vintage versions. *Thaïs* finds its finest interpreter in French soprano Fanny Heldy, whose “Mirror Song” appears on French Gramophone though lacking Japanese pressings. The operas *Le Cid* and *Werther* each have a couple of recordings available, but Victor’s *Werther* stands out as a unique version incorporating a children’s chorus. Might we then consider the Skipper recording of *Dream Song*?

*Elegy* was famous both as a song and in its cello arrangement, but being overly sweet, it left one feeling somewhat queasy. For those who absolutely must, should they listen to Columbia’s Vallin recording?

Grieg (Edvard Grieg 1843–1907) A great Scandinavian composer whose works were characterized by Nordic regional color and accessible compositions that reflected his refined personality. His representative work was the music he composed for Ibsen’s play *Peer Gynt*. Though the First and Second Suites ranked among the few pieces performed as frequently as Bizet’s *L’Arlésienne*, there existed no good recordings. Victor’s version conducted by Goossens made both suites available despite its mediocre performances.

The *Piano Concerto in A minor (Op. 16)* is a gentle, good piece. Victor includes Backhaus’s piano with Barbirolli conducting the New Symphony Orchestra (JD 287–9).

In vocal works, “Solveig’s Song” from *Peer Gynt* has achieved astonishing ubiquity. Galli-Curci’s is famous (Victor 6924). Elisabeth Schumann’s rendition also has distinctive characteristics.

There were also works such as the *Violin Sonata*, *Cello Sonata*, *String Quartet*, *Lyric Suite*, and *Symphonic Dances*, but there existed no recordings worthy of recommendation.

Rimsky-Korsakov (Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov 1844–1908)

The youngest member of the Russian Nationalist School’s Five, he was highly cultured and a master of orchestration, his compositions often featuring intricate technical craftsmanship. Another achievement lay in his polishing of Mussorgsky’s rough-hewn works, bequeathing us masterpieces.

The symphonic suite *Scheherazade* was his representative work. Drawing material from *Arabian Nights*, his technique of weaving opulent dreams proved masterful. Among recordings, Stokowski conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra remained unsurpassed (Victor JD 771–6). The opera *Sadko* made for an intriguing piece. Yet only its “Indian Song” had been widely performed—sung by various vocalists and arranged for violin in recordings. Though famous, the “Hymn to the Sun” from *The Golden Cockerel* offered little worth special mention.

Fauré

(Gabriel Fauré 1845–1924) The greatest charm of modern French music was Gabriel Fauré. Though this man had likely received Saint-Saëns' influence, his works bore no resemblance to Saint-Saëns whatsoever; standing apart even from Wagner's sweeping dominance that had captivated the era, he forged something authentically French. It was elegant, pure, and infinitely beautiful. Among modern French composers, he was likely—alongside Debussy—the one who possessed the greatest vitality.

The *Requiem Mass* was a masterpiece from his middle period, possessing a beauty imbued with human warmth that differed from classical religious music. For recordings, Victor had one conducted by Brée with the Bach Society Choir (JD 627–31), and Columbia had one conducted by Bourmauck with the Lyon Mixed Choir (JW 509–13). Though these recordings were old, Victor’s was far superior. The *Violin Sonata No. 1 in A major (Op. 13)* was a sonata possessing a beauty so profoundly mysterious it might be called *yūgen*. Cortot and Thibaud’s Victor recording had become so expensive it was a talking point in the secondhand market for a time, though the recording was undeniably old and unsuitable for general appreciation. For newer recordings, Columbia had two female artists—Soriano (violin) and Tagliaferro (piano) (J-8301–3)—while Victor had Heifetz (violin) and Bay (JD-1014–6). It remained difficult to definitively recommend either.

The *Piano Quartet No. 1 in C minor (Op. 15)* was a profoundly beautiful piece imbued with classical sensibilities. Victor had a recording featuring Merkel on violin, Tenroc on piano, and others (JH 26–9), while Columbia offered one with Casadesus on piano, Calvet on violin, and others (J 8622–5). This too proved difficult to definitively choose between. The former excelled in its violin work, while the latter boasted superior piano performance.

The *Ballade for Piano and Orchestra (Op. 19)* featured Ron’s renowned performance (Columbia 8029-30). The Kreutzer Quartet’s recording of the *String Quartet (Op. 121)* could not be overlooked (Columbia J7907-9).

In piano works, one might mention Ron’s *Nocturne No. 6* (Columbia J8755) and *Impromptu No. 2* (Columbia J5476), among others. Fauré’s songs, together with Duparc’s, represented the quintessence of French mélodie. They were endlessly gentle and beautiful. “After a Dream” (Columbia J5313), “Lullaby” (Columbia J5622), “Moonlight” (Columbia J5622), “Autumn” (Columbia J5498), and “Poème d’un jour” (Columbia J5543)—all were masterfully performed by Ninon Vallin. If one were to select one or two from these, *After a Dream* and *Moonlight* would have been good choices. Fauré’s music fit perfectly with Vallin’s flamboyant sweetness. *Fantasy Horizon* was best performed by Panzéra on Victor (JD-1285).

Duparc (Henri Duparc 1848–1933) He had been one of the new French composers who once gathered at Franck’s door, yet his uniquely French melodies possessed an indescribable beauty. One could say they evoked the highest refinement of vocal artistry. *L'Invitation au voyage*, set to Baudelaire’s poem—a dreamlike song beckoning listeners to unknown lands—stood as one of Duparc’s masterpieces; the baritone Panzéra’s recording of it remained a masterpiece in its own right (Victor JD-148). For this song, HMV included two versions: one with orchestral accompaniment and another featuring piano accompaniment by Mme. Panzéra.

For *Chanson triste*, one should probably choose Columbia’s Croiza recording (J-5195). *La vague et la cloche* and *Phidylé* have renowned recordings by Panzéra. There are still more of Duparc’s songs, but beyond this point, 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 stylistic tendencies. His *Symphony on a French Mountain Air* was recorded. A performance exists by Ron (piano) with Ballet conducting the Concerts Colonne Symphony Orchestra (Columbia J8527–9). A piano recording of D’Indy performing his own *Mountain Poem* survives in France as a collector’s rarity. It remains scarcely obtainable in Japan.

Chausson

(Ernest Chausson 1855–1899) He was the most distinctive composer among Franck's disciples. His pure and refined modern French style, imbued with heartfelt emotion, was beloved by all. The *Concerto for Piano and Violin in D major (Op. 21)* was a passionate and beautiful piece, and the recording by Cortot (piano), Thibaud (violin), and a string quartet remained exceptionally fine (Victor DB 1649–53).

The *Poème for Violin and Orchestra* possessed greater ideological depth than the former. Elegant and straightforward, yet powerfully compelling, the record featuring Menuhin’s violin—conducted by his teacher Enescu with the Paris Conservatory Orchestra—stood out as exceptional (Victor JD 239–40). “When the Lilacs Bloom” was Chausson’s representative song. Melba’s old recording remained a grand champion-caliber masterpiece among antique records, though from the post-electric era there existed one sung by Panzéra (Victor JD-1251). It lacked Melba’s pure softness and sweetness.

Lyadov

(Anatol Lyadov 1855–1914)

A disciple of Rimsky-Korsakov, he had produced some lovely compositions of merit. He was not a major figure, but his dance pieces and piano works had notable merits, and he made significant contributions to the study of Russian folk songs in particular. Coates conducted *Russian Folk Song Selections* (Victor 9797–8), which included *Ongaku Tamatebako* on the fourth side of the folk song collection under his direction. There was a story that Mr. Masamichi Iwasaki had long searched for the piano record of *Ongaku Tamatebako* and finally obtained an old pressing.

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

A Russian modern-era composer and conductor, his representative work being the suite *Caucasian Sketches*—a popular composition. Stokowski led *In the Village* (Victor JI-921) and *March of the Chieftain* (Victor JE-176). This composer’s works seemed to cater to Japanese tastes, as their records were surely played on the radio at least once a week.

Elgar (Edward Elgar 1857–1934)

Elgar—a composer who had garnered national reverence in modern Britain—was the subject of an anecdote from over a decade ago: when Mr. Zenkichi Nakamura, a friend, placed an order for HMV records in Britain, he declared, “Please send all the Red Label Masterworks, but there’s no need to include Elgar’s works.” To this came a haughty reply from Limington Trading Company: “Elgar is the foremost great composer of our time. No matter what you say, we will send all of Elgar’s work records.” One should understand the British people’s fervor for Elgar. His compositions were well-balanced and British in style, yet he possessed the full stature of a great contemporary composer. There were quite a number of records, including not only famous works like *Pomp and Circumstance* and *Enigma Variations* but also Elgar’s own conducting of his *Second Symphony* and Menuhin’s performance of the *Violin Concerto in B minor*.

Puccini

(Giacomo Puccini 1858–1924) He was an Italian opera composer who created lyrical operas such as *Madama Butterfly* and *La Bohème*. While not as great as Verdi, he has no shortage of works that are widely beloved. Both *Madama Butterfly* and *Tosca* have complete recordings conducted by Morajoli on Columbia, while *La Bohème* includes only the fourth act conducted by Beecham. Single-disc opera recordings were better with singers from the old recording era, but Björling’s *Your Tiny Hand* (Victor Lovers’ Association Third Series) stands as a masterpiece.

Leoncavallo

(Ruggero Leoncavallo 1857–1919) He became famous for his single opera *Pagliacci*. *Pagliacci* was a short two-act opera but stood as a masterpiece. The complete recording featured renowned tenor Gigli and other singers, with Ghione conducting the La Scala Orchestra and Chorus (Victor JD 510–8). Among single-disc recordings, Caruso’s was considered superior.

Wolf (Hugo Wolf 1860–1903) German Lieder developed from Schubert through Schumann and split into two types: Franz and Wolf. Wolf’s Lieder expanded their accompaniments into broader forms while deepening their expressive weight, becoming meticulous in their accents to impart a distinctive character—yet compared to earlier Lieder, they could not escape a certain gloomy oppressiveness. Nevertheless, he remained an exceptional composer who commanded ardent support within certain 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—their enthusiasm astonishing the British—though likely few in Japan collected all five sets of seven records each. After all, Wolf’s songs are difficult and not easily embraced by general audiences in Japan.

The first set was sung solely by Gerhard, while from the second set onward various performers took part. Though Gerhard was already entering old age at this time, he remained peerless in his artistry (I have discussed Gerhard’s contributions to the Wolf Society in detail within my small volume *Masterpieces of Classical Music*).

In single-disc recordings, Polydor’s Schlusnus had quite a number available. His beautiful vocal quality made Wolf’s somber songs engaging to listen to. Another standout was Polydor’s Slezak in *Seclusion* (50030). Victor’s Gerhard also performed *Seclusion* with a distinct flavor overall (DA-1219), and Victor’s Lehmann’s *Anacreon’s Tomb* was likewise recommended (JE-34, German Lieder Collection).

Though it was an old story, Gerhard’s recording of Wolf’s *Homesickness* with the renowned conductor Nikisch on piano accompaniment remained a masterpiece that allowed one to appreciate the excellence of Gerhard at twenty-five. It had been released on I.R.C.C. and the Historical Masterpieces Collection.

Albéniz (Isaac Albéniz 1860–1909) He was modern Spain’s most outstanding composer and a pioneer of its music as a predecessor to Falla and Granados. His cohesive works were not extensively recorded. The suite *Iberia* stood as his sole cohesive collection. In single-disc piano works，veteran pianist Vines’ performances of *Seguidilla* and *Granada* were available on Columbia，while his *Cádiz* was on Victor. Additionally，Cortot had two records on Victor：*Under the Palm Trees* and *Seguidilla*. Victor’s Iturbi also offered *Córdoba*, which stood out as distinctive. As for violin arrangements，Thibaud performed *Tango* and *Malagueña* on Victor.

Mahler

(Gustav Mahler 1860–1911) As a modern German-style symphony composer, none had ever matched such grand scale and magnificent expression. In beauty he stood without equal; yet this very penchant for monumentality proved his undoing, rendering his works profoundly unapproachable. His discography was by no means meager. The Symphony No. 2 in C minor—a massive work incorporating alto solo and chorus—had been recorded twice, with Ormandy’s newer version conducting the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra on Victor JD955–65. Richly splendid in composition and competently performed, its excessive vastness lacking climactic focus left one questioning its general appeal.

There was 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). Though merely a single disc, it was excellent.

"Das Lied von der Erde" was a lengthy song cycle composed by drawing inspiration from German translations of poems by Li Bai and Wang Wei. This was probably Mahler’s greatest recording. Neither the songs nor the music were in the least Chinese, yet they possessed a beauty that evoked the archaic grandeur of humanity. It was conducted by Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and featured Torborgh (alto), Kullman (tenor), and others as vocalists (Columbia JS139–45).

"Songs on the Death of Children" was a sadly heart-wrenching work. The emotional rawness might have been slightly overpowering, but its poignant tenderness moved listeners to tears. Polydor's Rekemper recording remained splendid despite its aged acoustics (45154-6).

Torborgh’s rendition of “I Am Forgotten by This World” under Walter’s direction is superb (Columbia JD-5606). There is also Schlusnus’s recording of *Des Knaben Wunderhorn* (Polydor 45129).

Charpentier (Gustave Charpentier 1860–1956) The composer of the opera *Louise*—this work that uniquely depicted a Parisian tale of common life—was not only a splendid, beautiful creation rich in suggestion and implication but also an approachable and captivating piece. Alongside Wagner and Debussy, it deserved respect. There were recordings that mobilized great singers such as Ninon Vallin and Thill under the composer’s supervision, which could rightly be called one of the masterpieces among opera recordings (Columbia J8672–9).

The symphonic drama *The Poet’s Life*, conducted by the composer with the Pasdeloup Orchestra (Victor JD 702–5), is also recommended. The suite *Impressions of Italy* is also famous, but only old records conducted by the composer exist.

Paderewski

(Ignacy Jan Paderewski 1860―1941)

Ignacy Jan Paderewski—the great pianist who was elected President of Poland after World War I and stood as a heroic musician of his era—died abroad in the United States while witnessing his homeland's urgent crises. His performances were of colossal magnificence, but his compositions, though brilliant and showy, lacked substantial quality. He composed operas and concertos, but on records, it is his *Minuet in G Major* that came to be cherished. The composer’s own performance was recorded anew three or four times by Victor (JD-1280 and the Lovers' Association’s second volume). There is also the brilliant *Fantastic Krakoviak*, though this exists as a Columbia record played by Kreuzer.

Chaminade (Cécile Chaminade 1857–1944)

(Cecile Chaminade 1857–1944) Including just one female composer in this collection might offer the charm of a single red blossom among greenery. Chaminade was a true Parisian through and through and was once renowned as a beautiful pianist. Among old records, there existed a small song titled "The Ring" sung by Clara Butt, and five piano records played by Chaminade herself were documented as antique among antique records, but there was no prospect of obtaining them. In Japan, the only record one could hear was the "Concertino" performed by master Amadio on flute (Victor JD-1194).

MacDowell

(Edward MacDowell 1861–1908) He was America’s most artistic composer. His romantic songs possessed unique individuality, yet no recordings of these vocal works exist.

The *Piano Concerto in D minor* had been recorded by Victor with Sanroma on piano and Fiedler conducting.

Mascagni

(Pietro Mascagni 1863–1945) With only a single work—the opera *Cavalleria Rusticana*—he secured his position in modern Italian opera. As for records, aside from Victor’s black label, there were none that could compare.

Pierné (Gabriel Pierné 1863–1937)

Sharing an era with Debussy, he was characterized by French elegance, a modern sensibility, and a nostalgic fascination with classical traditions. Several records existed of his own works that he had conducted and recorded. His dance piece *Rotation* (Columbia J8306) was one such example. He nevertheless achieved greater renown as a conductor, having 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 be abstruse for the general public, but this stems from his extraordinary intent and exceptional talent, which elevated the expressive power of symphonic poems into the realms of literature and philosophy. This person’s bold innovative attitude and intense individuality completed astonishing works without precedent through his unparalleled skill in orchestration. Whether one likes it or not, the greatness of R. Strauss must be acknowledged.

Records were also extremely numerous.

When selecting the most outstanding from among them, one had to first list Polydor’s record of *Celebration Music* composed to commemorate Japan’s 2600th anniversary. For the symphonic poems, *Don Juan*—the most recent recording being Böhm conducting the Saxon State Orchestra (Victor VD-8024–5)—and *Death and Transfiguration*, newly recorded under Stokowski’s direction (Victor JI-41–4).

*Also sprach Zarathustra* was available in a recording conducted by Koussevitzky (Victor JD 571–5). *Nise Kizoku* had two different recordings. *Don Quixote* conducted by Strauss himself was available on Polydor (45070–4), and while there were many recordings of *Till Eulenspiegel*, Furtwängler’s with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra was preferable (Polydor 60188–9).

Mengelberg’s conducting of *Ein Heldenleben*—the work dedicated to him—exists on American Victor, but there are no Japanese pressings, and moreover, the recording is now outdated.

Though not the complete opera *Der Rosenkavalier*, a grand recording that evoked the entire work existed on Victor. Featuring what was considered the best lineup imaginable at the time—Lehmann (soprano), Mayer (baritone), Olszewska (mezzo-soprano), and Elisabeth Schumann (soprano)—this lavish recording was conducted by Hager with the Vienna State Opera Chorus and Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD 391–403).

The *Salome* opera’s “Dance of the Seven Veils” was a famously seductive scene, and while there were many recordings available, the trouble was they were all outdated. For older versions, there was Polydor’s recording conducted by the composer; for somewhat newer ones, Victor’s under Coppola’s direction stood as options. As for songs, Elisabeth Schumann’s recordings of "Serenade" (Victor JD-386) and "Morning" (Victor JD-386) were both excellent works. Schumann was considered to excel in Strauss. Additionally, there were instances where Strauss himself had designated Schlusnus to perform his compositions, and his "Serenade" could be considered a masterpiece (Polydor 60100).

Glazunov (Alexander Glazunov 1865–1936) He had been a pillar of the Soviet music world since Imperial Russia. The *Violin Concerto in A minor (Op. 82)* performed by Heifetz remained merely technically interesting (Victor JD-427–9). The ballet suite *The Seasons* conducted by Glazunov himself existed on Columbia but proved uninspired. There were works such as the symphonic poem *Stenka Razin*.

Dukas

(Paul Dukas 1865–1935) He was a man of unusual technical ingenuity. The combination of sophisticated refinement and nervously fresh vitality commands attention. The symphonic poem *The Sorcerer’s Apprentice* stands as his definitive work. Consider Toscanini’s interpretation with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra (Victor JD-1245). Columbia alternatively offers Goebel’s conducted version.

Sibelius (Jean Sibelius 1865–1957) Finland’s national musician, Sibelius received all-encompassing patronage from the Finnish government, which even subsidized the production and distribution of his recordings.

*Finlandia* was a tone poem praising the Finnish homeland and stood as Sibelius’s representative work. Among records, Stokowski’s conducting remained preferable (Victor 7412). "Sad Waltz" too was a famous composition, with versions conducted by Stokowski and one featuring Elman’s violin performance.

The *Violin Concerto in D minor* was recorded by Heifetz (Victor JD-1490–3). These along with *Finlandia* sufficed as essential acquisitions.

Of Sibelius's eight symphonies, four were recorded, with three pressed in Japan. "Symphony No. 1 in E minor" and "Symphony No. 2 in D major" were released by Columbia under Kajanus’s direction. These were marketed under Finnish patronage and were distinctively excellent works, but the *Symphony No. 4 in A minor*... It went out of print along with the Victor record conducted by Stokowski.

Satie

(Erik Satie 1866–1925) He was a highly unconventional composer. As the eldest of France’s avant-garde musical group *Les Six*, he created works that took earnest music and infused it with absurd humor, paradoxically producing an unexpected intensity. Recordings remain scarce. Aaron Copland performed the first of his piano pieces *Gymnopédies* (Victor JF-33), while Pierre Bernac sang *Statue* and *Le Chapelier* with Francis Poulenc’s accompaniment (Victor Modern French Songs Collection). Columbia had released two or three Satie recordings as well, but regrettably these appear to have gone out of print.

Granados (Enrique Granados 1867–1916) He was the composer who created the most exquisitely sweet Spanish-style compositions. He shared the fate of a ship sunk in the Atlantic during World War I. *Spanish Dances* stands as his representative masterpiece. Originally, all five pieces were supposed to exist in both piano and orchestral versions, but they no longer appear in catalogs. Of these, Nos. 2 and 5 proved particularly outstanding—ironically, their violin arrangements gained greater fame. The recordings include Thibaud’s “Spanish Dance No. 5 in E minor” and “No. 6 in D major” (Victor JD-652), along with Casals’ cello rendition of “No. 5” (Victor 1311) and the Intermezzo from the opera *Goéscas* (Victor 6635). They remain exquisitely sweet.

Roussel

(Albert Roussel 1869–1937)

A composer who elevated French Impressionist music to a realm of extraordinary refinement; though overly refined and lacking popular appeal, his works abounded with artistic fragrance. *Le Festin de l'araignée* was his representative work. Columbia’s recording by the late Stralam conducting his own orchestra stood as an excellent performance while holding commemorative significance for Stralam (J7830–1).

Schmitt

(Florent Schmitt 1870–1958)

One of the Impressionist composers. The suite *Tragédie de Salomé* was included on Columbia under the composer’s own direction.

Vaughan-Williams

(Ralph Vaughan-Williams 1872–1958) A British modern composer deeply rooted in local traditions, he incorporated folk-inspired lyricism into both symphonic and chamber music. There have been almost no records since the advent of electric recording. Among older recordings, there were works such as the *London Symphony* and the excellent song cycle *On Wenlock Edge*.

Scriabin (Alexander Skryabin 1872–1915)

From the beginning of this century until just before the First World War, he was heralded as the most daring and revolutionary musician. His musical philosophy was thoroughly sensualist, disregarding tradition, but ultimately—much like Kandinsky in painting—he succumbed to theory and collapsed before fully realizing his outstanding talent. However, his attempt to incorporate even sight and smell into music was an audacious and profoundly intriguing endeavor.

*Poem of Ecstasy* and *Prometheus* stand as his representative works, fortunately preserved on Victor records under Stokowski’s direction (7515–8). His piano compositions include several notable pieces—the *Piano Sonata No. 9* and *No. 10* were released over a decade ago through Nippon Polydor’s Masterpiece Appreciation Society in performances by Schunkeiwicz, though admittedly showing their age in recording quality. Polydor also issued Brailowsky’s renditions of the *Étude in D-flat Major* and *Prelude (Op. 11 No. 10)*.

Reger

(Max Reger 1873–1916) A German conservative composer whose song *Maria’s Lullaby* was beautiful. Victor’s Famous Performers’ Secret Pieces Collection contained an excellent recording of Gerhard’s rendition. There were also some instrumental pieces included, but none proved interesting. It appeared there were still no records of this composer’s specialty—his organ pieces.

Schoenberg (Arnold Schönberg 1874–1951) A composer who advocated atonalism and put it into practice—the most destructive yet simultaneously most daring innovator of new approaches—born in Austria and still alive at the time. *Verklärte Nacht* was an early work—a string sextet—that also possessed beauty. There was a record of Ormandy conducting the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra (Victor JD 777–80). Hahn (Reynaldo Hahn 1875–1947)

A French song composer. While records include works such as *Le Bal de Béatrice d’Este*, Ninon Vallin’s renditions of *Dernier Valse* and *Paysages* remain superior. Ravel (Maurice Ravel 1875–1937) Though influenced by Debussy, Ravel in turn exerted influence upon Debussy himself, establishing a distinct realm in French music. He lacked Debussy’s poetic quality but proved more realistic than his counterpart, with a technique both more refined and concise. The recordings are innumerable.

*Ma Mère l'Oye* was a suite drawing from the fairy tales of Mother Goose—a composition of beautiful clarity. Columbia’s recording under Pierné’s direction remained an older take but retained its beauty (J8649–50). *Daphnis et Chloé* stood as his representative ballet work—while lacking in joyous vitality, it displayed meticulous craftsmanship and astonishing brilliance. The First Suite had Coppola’s interpretation (Victor JD 443), while Goehr conducted the Second Suite (Columbia J7749–50).

*Rapsodie espagnole* conducted by Pierné for Columbia has an old recording but remains commendable for its lack of noise (J8295–6). “*Boléro*,” among Ravel’s works—perhaps due in part to its use as film material—is the most widely known and beloved. Yet it was audaciously clever, and its very simplicity was likely what made it so widely accepted. There were countless recordings, but the one conducted by Ravel himself on Polydor, though the recording was old, proved interesting (E186–7). Next would be Koussevitzky’s Victor recording, I suppose?

The suite *Le Tombeau de Couperin* was both famous and a fine work. The way he infused old-fashioned dance pieces with Ravel’s freshness proved fascinating. The recording conducted by Coppola would be preferable (Victor JH 157–8). In chamber music, the *String Quartet in F Major* stood as a masterpiece, with Columbia’s recording by the Capet String Quartet retaining its beauty (S-1119–22). Among piano concertos, the *Piano Concerto for the Left Hand* had been composed for Wittgenstein—a pianist who lost his right hand in the previous European War—and was preserved on Polydor through Blanquart’s performance (E167–8). There remained another *Piano Concerto*—a masterful interpretation by Columbia’s Ron (J8035–7).

Among piano works, Cortot’s performance of the *Piano Sonatina* was an old recording but remained beautiful (Victor JD 576–7). *Clown’s Morning Song* had a recording by Gieseking (Columbia JD-6011), while *Jeux d’eau* featured Cortot’s renowned recording (Victor JD-577). These were old recordings but excellent ones. In violin works, *Tzigane* stood as a piece with quintessentially Ravelian ambitious design. Victor contained Menuhin’s and Heifetz’s versions, Columbia held Francescatti’s—each bearing its own distinctive characteristics.

The opera *L'Heure espagnole* had a nearly complete recording on Columbia, but unfortunately, it appears to have been discontinued. There exists a recording of *Three Hebrew Songs* featuring Gree (soprano) as soloist with Ravel himself on piano (Polydor 50043). Another piece, *Madagascar Natives’ Song* with Gree and accompaniment by a trio conducted by Ravel, was also intriguing (Polydor 50044–5).

When you list this many, it becomes hard to tell what stands out as truly exceptional. From my personal taste, Cortot’s "Sonatina" and "Jeux d’eau"—alongside Capet’s string quartet—remain the most immediately approachable. While "Boléro" enjoys broad popularity, I cannot shake the sense that it’s faintly disparaged in critical circles. What I long for is a truly definitive recording of *Daphnis et Chloé*.

Kreisler (Fritz Kreisler 1875–1962) The most famous violinist of his time, born in Vienna and later residing in the United States. He was reportedly injured in a recent car accident but fortunately appeared to be recovering. Though his fame as a violinist often overshadowed his compositional work, his Viennese-style violin pieces contained some ineffably exquisite works. "Vienna Rhapsody," "Liebesfreud" "Liebesleid," "Beautiful Rose-Marie" "Chinese Drum" and others—all existed in recordings of the composer’s own performances on Victor. His string quartets and other works were also recorded, though they are not particularly engaging.

Falla

(Manuel dé Falla 1876–1946) A composer representing modern Spain, characterized by his refined technique and richly aromatic local color. *Nights in the Gardens of Spain* was a highly impressive piece. Navarro (piano) and Alfert conducting the Spanish Orchestra had recorded it (Columbia J7771–3). The *Harpsichord Concerto* was likely the most beautiful among Falla’s recordings. The inclusion of the composer’s own harpsichord with Moyse’s flute proved a great treat (Columbia J7844–5).

The ballet *El amor brujo* was recorded by the Sevilla Betica Orchestra under Alfert’s direction. Velásquez’s (mezzo-soprano) solo was also excellent (Columbia J5179–82). The recording of "Song of Love’s Sorrow" and "Song of the Fox Fire" from this piece, sung by Columbia’s Spervia, proved an excellent acquisition (J5490). Rubinstein demonstrated particular skill in his piano arrangements of "Dance of the Fire Festival" and "Dance of Terror," which he performed in Japan and later recorded (Victor JE-200).

*Seven Spanish Folk Songs* was Falla’s representative song cycle, containing the famous *Jota* within it. The recording by Columbia’s Spervia was exquisite (J5384–6).

Dohnányi (Ernest von Dohnányi 1877–1960) A modern Hungarian pianist and composer, he also had recordings of his piano performances. His compositions extended to symphonies, chamber music, and even operas, maintaining a restrained style rich in local color. There existed recordings of Stock conducting his *Suite for Orchestra* and Horowitz performing the piano piece *Capriccio in F Minor*. Schreker (Franz Schreker 1878–1934) An Austrian composer. He left a recording of the ballet suite *The Birthday of the Infanta* conducted by himself (Polydor 45081–3).

Respighi (Ottorino Respighi 1879–1936) He was Italy’s finest modern composer—a consummate craftsman who often created descriptive works. The symphonic poem *Pines of Rome* had a new recording by Coppola on Victor (JD-1098–9). *The Fountains of Rome* conducted by Morajoli was available on Columbia (J7554–5). Of the trilogy, there was no recording of *Roman Festivals*, while *The Birds* conducted by Dofoe was available on Columbia (JW-159–60).

Scott (Cyril Scott 1879–1970) The foremost figure among modern British composers. HMV had a recording of "Lotus Land" played by Scott himself on piano, though it was unavailable in Japan. There existed a recording of Kreisler playing it on violin on Victor (JD-1588).

Pizzetti (Ildebrando Pizzetti 1880–1968) He was modern Italy’s most noteworthy composer. The Violin Sonata in A Major—said to depict experiences from the First World War—stood as a work deserving special mention. Its psychological portrayal of warfare had been masterfully executed. A Victor recording by the Menuhin siblings documented this work (JD-1622–5). That such a composer emerged from Italy remained astonishing in itself.

Bartók

(Béla Bartók 1881–1945) A Hungarian composer, he pioneered innovative rhythms and is distinguished by robust folk-inspired hues. The piano record of Bartók himself playing *Allegro Barbaro* and *Bagatelle No. 2* remains fascinating (Victor AM-2622). Additionally, Nippon Polydor once distributed the Amar-Hindemith Quartet’s performance of *String Quartet No. 2* from the Masterpiece Appreciation Society several years ago (Polydor 45157–60).

Rachmaninoff

(Sergey Rakhmaninov 1873–1943) He belonged to the Moscow school lineage opposed to the Russian national school, with Tchaikovsky’s influence from his youth persisting, transformed, in Rachmaninoff’s modern persona. As a pianist he stood among the foremost ranks, his oeuvre containing no small measure of distinguished works.

The *Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor* had been recorded with Rachmaninoff himself on piano and Stokowski conducting the orchestra (Victor 8148–52). It was a piece that dazzled with bewildering brilliance. There had also been a recording of the *Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor* with Horowitz on piano and the London Symphony Orchestra, but this had gone out of print. The *Rhapsody for Piano and Orchestra* had also been recorded with Rachmaninoff on piano and Stokowski conducting (Victor JD-706–8).

He composed many preludes for piano, but the *Prelude in C-sharp Minor (Op. 3, No. 2)* stands as a famous work. There exists a recording of this profoundly melancholic miniature performed by the composer himself (Victor 1326).

In orchestral works, *Isle of the Dead* stands included. Based on Böcklin’s painting, this astonishingly intricate composition carries a somewhat oppressive quality. The recording featuring Rachmaninoff himself with the Philadelphia Orchestra had been available but has since gone out of print.

Stravinsky (Igor Stravinsky 1882–1971) He would likely be the most discussed composer among those still living. Born in Russia and influenced by Rimsky-Korsakov, he composed fresh and captivating dance pieces for Diaghilev’s then-emerging Ballets Russes, instantly capturing the world’s attention. While his free technique and unrestrained intent drew both praise and criticism, he went on to release a succession of profound masterpieces that silenced his detractors through their unique allure. The recent reports of his return to classical forms have been met with profound interest.

The ballet suite *Petrushka* stands as Stravinsky’s most profoundly intriguing early work. It transforms a fictional incident from a Shrovetide puppet show at Moscow Square into ballet form, its crisp vitality and lingering melancholy remaining unmatched in their poignancy. While recordings conducted by Stravinsky himself exist, Stokowski’s rendition with the Philadelphia Orchestra emerges as the most luminously vivid interpretation (Victor JD-1649–52). The ballet suite *The Firebird* marks Stravinsky’s breakthrough composition—a fairy-tale dance drama of singular importance. Few truly satisfactory recordings exist of this work. The composer’s own conducting appears on Columbia, while Stokowski’s version resides in Victor’s catalog.

Additionally included are a vast number of dance pieces: *The Rite of Spring* conducted by Stokowski; *The Soldier’s Tale* conducted by the composer; *Les Noces* for chorus and piano; *Apollo Musagète* by the Boyd Neel String Orchestra; and *Jeu de Cartes* conducted by the composer. It was fascinating to observe Stravinsky gradually growing and evolving, losing his initial beauty while simultaneously becoming more intricately dark.

The *Symphony of Psalms* was a new religious work drawing its text from the Psalms, characterized by this earthly yet unresolved darkness. The composer conducted the Concerts Straram Orchestra and Vlassov Choir (Columbia J7904–6). A noteworthy recent recording featured Dushkin performing the *Violin Concerto in D Major* with the composer leading the Concerts Lamoureux Orchestra (Polydor Appreciation Society).

The *Rhapsody*, with the composer on piano and Ansermet conducting, was intriguing not only for allowing listeners to hear Stravinsky’s piano playing but also for hinting at a return to classical forms. Additionally, there were works such as the *Octet for Wind Instruments* and the orchestral piece *Fireworks*.

For those who would choose just one piece by Stravinsky, *Petrushka* would be the one to select. To those who desired his later works, I recommended the *Symphony of Psalms*. His newest work at the time, *Jeu de Cartes*, would likely also have been interesting.

Grainger (Percy Grainger 1882–1961) An Australia-born composer who resided in America during his later years. As a pupil of Busoni, he was also recognized as a pianist. He researched British folk songs and composed fine folk-inspired works. Works such as *Molly on the Shore* stand among his exemplary pieces. His self-performed records were once available on Columbia but have since gone out of print. Among extant recordings, Kreisler’s violin rendition of *Londonderry Air* remains outstanding (Victor JD-294). Ormandy also conducted orchestral versions of his works. Other Ormandy-conducted pieces like *Pastorale* and *Shepherd’s Song* exist but hold little significance.

Szymanowski

(Karol Szymanowski 1881–1937)

A new Polish composer; he had some novel and interesting violin pieces. Apart from recordings by Thibaud (Victor JD-305) and Szigeti (Columbia JW-179) performing *The Fountain of Arethusa* on violin, there were no full-length versions available on records.

Gruenberg

(Louis Gruenberg 1884–1964)

He became famous solely for this one work: the opera *Emperor Jones*. Tippett (baritone)’s rendition of *Prayer is Needed* was astounding (Victor JD-1628).

Ibert (Jacques Ibert 1890–1962) A French modern composer beloved in Japan for his 2600th Anniversary Celebration Music and the score for the film *Don Quixote*. The most interesting record remains Chaliapin’s rendition of *Don Quixote* (Victor JF-22–3). There is also *Ports of Call* conducted by Straram (Columbia 7822–3), but I don’t find it compelling.

Prokofiev

(Sergey Prokofiev 1891–1953)

He was one of the most profoundly intriguing figures among modern composers. Born in Russia, he had once visited Japan. As a composer, he proved remarkably innovative—though somewhat symbolic—with a compositional approach whose vigor remained commendable. A man of refined sensibilities and intellectual depth, his works included many fine pieces. *The Love for Three Oranges* stood as a representative masterpiece among his early operas, though only a portion conducted by Koussevitzky existed (Victor Enthusiasts Association).

The ballet suite *The Steel Step* was his most substantial work. Dynamic, passionate, and rich in implications of modern life—it was said to embody all these traits. Coates’s recording with the London Symphony Orchestra stood as an excellent rendition (Victor JD 64–5). The suite *Lieutenant Kijé*, while a recent composition at the time and cleverly crafted, lacked *The Steel Step*’s forceful charm. There existed a version conducted by Koussevitzky (Victor JD-1505–7).

The *Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Major* was a powerful, excellent piece. Prokofiev himself took on the piano with Coates conducting the orchestra—an equally fine recording (Victor JD 83–5). The *Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major* had Szigeti’s recording. It was an interesting piece (Columbia J8607–9). I believe Szigeti played this when he came to Japan. For the *Violin Concerto No. 2 in G Minor*, there was one with Heifetz on violin conducted by Koussevitzky. It was almost too polished (Victor).

The *Prokofiev Piano Collection*, performed by the composer himself, collected ten pieces of varied character—a work of profound interest (Victor). For those assembling one or two sets of Prokofiev’s records, *The Steel Step* and the *Piano Concerto* would likely prove appropriate choices. No satisfactory recordings exist of *The Love for Three Oranges*.

Milhaud

(Darius Milhaud 1892–1974) A member of Les Six in French music, he stood as an important figure alongside Honegger, with his novel-filled works having been extensively recorded. *String Quartet No. 7 in B-flat Minor* proved fresh, sensory, and intriguing. A recording by the Galimir String Quartet existed on Polydor.

Another recording of his *String Quartet No.2*, performed by the Kretly Quartet, can be found on British Columbia.

There was a recording of the duet and tango from the ballet suite *Salade* sung by Marae (soprano) and Rucettii (tenor) (Victor). In addition to Ron’s *Piano Concerto*, Astruc’s violin performance of *Spring Little Concerto* could be cited as another example.

The dance piece *The Creation of the World* was a highly unconventional work—an artistic depiction of Black life through jazz techniques. A recording conducted by Milhaud himself existed on Columbia (J8127–8).

Honegger (Arthur Honegger 1892–1955)

Arthur Honegger had been the leader of Les Six. He possessed both concise, powerful expression and the courage to sacrifice anything for its sake. *Pacific 231* stood as Honegger’s representative work—a musical depiction of a locomotive’s mighty structure and motion. There existed a recording he himself conducted (Columbia J8229). *Rugby* followed a similar concept but felt somewhat like a rehash. This one had Coppola conducting (Victor W-1015).

I liked how the *Piano Concerto* was handled in just one record. It featured Norton on piano with Ormandy conducting (Victor JD-689).

Of Honegger’s masterpiece *King David*, two discs had been released by Nippon Columbia, but they were tragically discontinued. There existed another disc not pressed in Japan—one where both choir and orchestra transcended conventional beauty, truly excellent, yet it became a profound loss. We await reissue. What remains most accessible to us is the *String Quartet* on British Columbia (four ten-inch discs), performed by the Kretly Quartet.

Hindemith (Paul Hindemith 1895–1963)

He was a New Objectivity composer who represented Germany’s most progressive musical tendencies of his era. His technique remained classical in foundation yet conveyed a heightened sense of structural integrity when contrasted with his French contemporaries’ innovations. The opera *Mathis der Maler* stands as his magnum opus—a recording exists with Hindemuth conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (Telefunken 13601–3). The *Cello Sonata* survives in Feuermann’s interpretation (Columbia World Famous Recordings Collection), while his *String Trio No. 2* preserves a unique historical document: Hindemith himself appears as violist alongside Goldberg’s violin and Feuermann’s cello (Columbia J8501–3).

Weinberger

(Jaromir Weinberger 1896–1967) The Czech composer was forging a new path, but the extent to which he could assimilate jazz into classical musical forms remained a subject of interest. “Polka and Fugue” from *Schwanda the Bagpiper* was available in two versions on Victor. One was conducted by Ormandy (JI-29), and the other by Blech (JA-705). I believed there had been another on Columbia, but it didn’t appear in the catalog.

Tansman (Alexandre Tansman 1897–　　) Alexandre Tansman’s visit to Japan made him of particular interest. 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 JH 71–2). There was also his self-performed *Mazurka Collection* on the same label (Victor JA-54).

Gershwin

(George Gershwin 1898–1937) He wrote jazz concertos and operas that astonished the world—the quintessentially American composer. Yet there was something deeply rooted and suggestive in his work. It was a pity that he died so young. "Rhapsody in Blue" was his breakthrough work. Aiming for symphonic jazz, the most famous recording featured composer George Gershwin on piano with Paul Whiteman conducting his orchestra (Victor JB-223), but more recently there has been a splendid recording by the Boston Pops Orchestra (Victor JH-30–1). Few people today likely know that this piece had been on Victor’s green label before electric recording.

The opera *Porgy and Bess* is probably Gershwin’s masterpiece. It is music that feels remarkably fresh, wild, and imbued with an enduring vitality. There’s also a fine recording conducted by Smolens with Tippett in the lead role (Victor JH-45–8). There was also a recording of his *Piano Concerto* on Columbia with Gershwin himself on piano, but it has apparently been discontinued.

Poulenc (Francis Poulenc 1899–1963)

A member of Les Six, he had simple yet beautiful compositions. *Moto Perpetuo* was performed by the composer on piano (Columbia J5228), while *Pastorale* and *Toccata*, played by Horowitz on piano, were excellent (Victor JD-690). The fact that the composer himself played the piano in the *Piano Trio* was also noteworthy (Columbia J8190–1). *Aubade*, a concertante work for piano and eighteen instruments for dance, was also performed by Poulenc on piano with Straram conducting (Columbia J5191–3). Additionally, Claire Croiza’s rendition of the song cycle *Animal Anecdotes* made for a charming choice (Columbia J-8107).

Ferroud

(Pierre Octave Ferroud 1900–1936) A French radical composer, he died young in a car accident. The performance of the *Cello Sonata in A Major* by Maréchal remains available in Columbia’s catalog (J8433–4). Mosolov (Alexandr Mosolov 1900–1973)

A new composer from the Soviet Union who was active in America. Ideologically driven, he attempted to directly implement reportage art theory into practice. *The Steel Plant* stands as a representative work. There are two recordings: one conducted by Erich (Columbia J5500) and another by Fiedler (Victor JK-55). Shostakovich (Dmitry Shostakovich 1906–1975) He was regarded as the Soviet Union’s greatest composer. Recordings exist of Stokowski conducting his *Symphony No. 1 in F minor* and *Symphony No. 5*. Erich also led the Paris Symphony Orchestra in “Polka and Russian Dance” from *The Golden Age* ballet (Columbia J5427). He remains one of modern composers’ most outstanding figures.

Weill

(Kurt Weill 1900–1950)

A cutting-edge German composer, he incorporated jazz techniques to create music with a uniquely stimulating quality. What’s intriguing is that it remained artistic while also being enjoyable. "The Threepenny Opera" stands as his representative work. While the film adaptation remains familiar even to Japanese audiences, songs like that "Dagger Mickey" number retain their stylish appeal. There was a recording conducted by Klemperer 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’s had been extensively recorded, but among comprehensive collections, Victor included the *Foster Masterpieces Collection* and *Foster Folk Songs Collection*. In the America to come, many composers might emerge who rivaled or even surpassed Saint-Saëns and Elgar, but a folk musician like Foster—one so firmly rooted in the motherland’s soil—would not be born so readily. Along with Vienna’s Johann Strauss, he should indeed be regarded as a rare national genius.

Lekeu

(Guillaume Lekeu 1870–1894)

Guillaume Lekeu, a singular luminary born of Belgium, remains one of those geniuses who left an immortal imprint on music history despite perishing at the tender age of twenty-four. The youngest disciple of Franck who later studied under d’Indy, his scarce surviving works—the *Violin Sonata* (performed by Koch and Raskin on Polydor) and the *Unfinished Piano Quartet* (Raskin, Koch et al. on Polydor)—have been recorded; these are utterly endearing compositions.

Carpenter (John Alden Carpenter 1876–1951) The most traditional and lyrical composer among American modern composers. The record *Perambulator Fantasy* is included in Victor’s catalog; it is exquisitely charming and beloved for its touch of whimsy. Additionally, *Skyscraper* is an opulent piece in the Elgarian style. The former is conducted by Ormandy, the latter by Silvestri.