OF CLASSICAL MUSIC

by Stephen Fry

  Luckily for him, he got in with a useful clique that included poets and singers. Handy, really, because he would use the poets' words for his songs and then call upon the singers to sing them. And the writing is flowing too - the muse is good and all that - it's just that he's not doing too well on the public recognition front. Yes, he's written the songs and other pieces till they're coming out of his ears, but virtually none of them are getting performed. Even fewer are getting published. Nothing so far, in fact. He is a tad down about it, but it doesn't stop him keeping on keeping on, and this year he produces a trout. Quite a feat, I think you'll agree. His trout, though, is a piano quintet, written in five movements, the last but one being a set of variations on one of his own songs, 'Die Forelle' - 'The Trout' - which he'd written a couple of years earlier. It's a very pleasant piece, whose significance is more than a little outweighed by its popularity, but, nevertheless, it's fun enough. It's said he wrote it while he was on holiday and, certainly, this would explain its general lightness in comparison to the tragic nature of a lot of his stuff.

  Just by way of an aside - well, two asides, really - it's not a particularly well-known fact that Schubert's nickname among his friends was 'SchwammerP which translates, more or less, as 'the little mushroom'. This is because Schubert was both none too tall and none too thin, and his short, squat frame, complete with his little round face, earned him his own affectionate little moniker. What is more widely known is that Schubert was a great one for routine, particularly when it came to composing. It's said he would compose every morning, come rain or come shine. After lunch, he'd meet friends for walks or a coffee, and then most evenings were reserved for music-making, or 'Schubertiads', as they came to be known. A Schubertiad was basically our Franz saying 'Hey, everyone, back to mine!' and then an evening of jolly good fun round the piano, with all the musician friends he could muster. Add to this all Schubert's friends from the bohemian arty circles of Vienna, and I imagine you got some rather interesting evenings. Rumour has it that, on one occasion, somebody even blew a raspberry. Heady times, I'm sure.

  SCHUBERT'S 8TH SYMPHO

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  chubert's routine was something he kept almost all his life, particularly with regard to his composing times. Religious, he was, about when he composed as, indeed, he was about how he composed. In this respect, too, he had one big rule - he would never start a new composition before he had finished the last one. It was an unbreakable rule of his. Even when he was producing gallons and gallons of music -and Schubert really did knock it out - he would still religiously finish one piece before starting the next. Take the year 1815. In that year alone, he composed a massive 140 songs, sometimes writing up to eight a day! But even then, with so many songs to be written, he would still… finish one before starting another.

  Do you get my point? I'm not labouring it, am I? You see, it's because what /want to know is this. How did he manage to leave his Symphony No 8 unfinished? Eh? Answer me that! It was written in 1822, when he still had six years left to live. OK, not an age, or anything, but certainly, at Schubert's rate, plenty of time to finish a symphony. So what about his rule? Why was it left UNFINISHED? I mean! If Schubert was the Magnus Magnusson of classical music, how come he left us only two movements oftSymphony No 8, instead of four? I think we need to look at this more, but first, let's get our bearings.

  1822: Brazil gets its independence, and, consequently, football gets its greatest exponents. Queen Caroline is now sitting on the great throne in the sky, probably as far away as possible from Napoleon, who has also recently gone up there somewhere. Both Spain and Piedmont have had revolutions - well, you have to, don't you? - and, next year, central America, too, has a bit of a general spring clean. Mexico goes it alone, while Guatemala, San Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras and Costa Rica all join hands to form the Confederation of Central America. In the Confederation of Central Luwiedom - or the Arts, as it's more commonly known - Percy Shelley has made his final overtures to Mary. Or maybe, more accurately, H20vertures. Canova, he of the Three Graces, has gone too, as has, on a more scientific note, Sir William Herschel. From deaths to births - and the Sunday Times is a new arrival in 1822. Stretching it a little, there's a marriage, too, as Stephenson's engineering feat joins Stockton to Darlington.

  That's the broad world, then, but what is going on in the mind of Franz Schubert, the absolute stickler - some might say, pain - about not picking up a blank page for one work until he's finished the last. Well, as you can imagine, there have been more than a few theories as to why it stayed at just two movements, and, subsequently, the most famous 'unfinished' in history. Some say he lost inspiration. Some say he did, indeed, finish it but that a friend lost it. And some say no: on this occasion, he simply broke his own rule and moved on to something else. Mmmm, I'm not sure. I don't think I fully buy any of those, to be honest. I just think it's much simpler than all that. I think there is no real mystery. I think Schubert is quite simply the first REAL romantic. True-blue, dyed-in-the-wool, floppy-fringed, bespectacled ROMANTIQUE. And I think he just got to two movements and thought: 'Wow, that's fantastic. You know what? Sod it. It doesn't get any better than that. Who says I have to write four movements? I'm a romantic and proud. There are no rules, now! All bets are off. IF I WANT A TWO-MOVEMENT SYMPHONY… I'LL HAVE ONE!'

  Just one year later, in 1823, Beethoven unveiled his latest offering - a massive, five-movement Mass. Rather like Delius a hundred-odd years later, Beethoven's Missa Solemnis is rather less of a hymn to God and more of a personal celebration of all things natural and creative. Where a traditional Mass celebrated God, Beethoven's Missa Solemnis celebrates man. It had proved a real labour of love for him over the five years or so it took to write - so much so that the event for which it was written was long gone. On this occasion, at least, Beethoven was not going to find himself, as Schubert had, with an unfinished work on his hands.

  A BOTTLE OF YOUR FINEST 1825

  1825, and it's not merely by chance that I've chosen to focus on this small but perfectly formed year. If we were talking about a wine, you would have to find a turn of phrase a little more superlative than the old Sinatra line 'it was a very good year'. 1825 was vintage. Classic, as they say round these parts - more than that, really. Let me gradually focus in, if I may. In France, it's a case of'what goes around, comes around' as a new law compensates the aristocracy for losses incurred during the Revolution. John Nash - yes, the John Nash - comes up with a cute little thing at the end of The Mall, called Buckingham Palace. Pushkin follows up his Eugene Onegin which he'd started a couple of years ago, with a cool Boris Godunov, laying the groundwork for some of the nationalist operas in years to come. The diaries of Samuel Pepys are finally published, some 122 years after they were written. Now that's what I call playing hard to get. All of this, though, pales into insignificance really, when you realize that 1825 is the year that Beethoven came to England.

  The previous year, he'd received a commission from the Royal Philharmonic Society. It was for a symphony, which fitted in with Beethoven's plans perfecdy. He'd been making the odd sketch for a symphonic work from as early as 1815, and the commission prompted him to look at the last movement again. He revisited a text that had been in his sights for the last thirty years or so. It was by Johann Schiller and called 'An die Freude', but is most often translated into English as the 'Ode to Joy'. Odd to think now that, when it comes to one of the most famous symphonies ever written, one of its defining features, the choral movement, was only added at a very late stage. But for the RPS gig, the work would be perfect - Beethoven would provide them with a symphony. By now totally deaf yet, somehow, able to hear music better than almost anyone on the planet at the time, he set to work hacking away at Schiller's words. In the end, he used only about a third of them, and those he did use he totally rearranged to suit his own symphony. Nevertheless, the result was the symphony's finest hour - something which, today, is enjoyed by millions of concert-goers the world over - in a way the composer him
self never could. It's said that at the first performance, with Beethoven himself conducting, the piece came to a close after a somewhat ragged performance, in which the orchestra and the chorus had even got out of sync with each other. Nevertheless, get to the end they did and Beethoven put down his baton, somewhat physically drained from trying to keep his brand-new work together. At this point, he didn't really know how it had gone. He was, remember, totally deaf now. He apparently looked deflated and a little disappointed. It was left to a young alto soloist from the chorus - Caroline, her name was - to come across to make him aware of how it had been received. She walked across and physically turned him round 180 degrees. It was only at this point that Beethoven realized quite what a hit his new symphony had been. The entire audience was on its feet, clapping like there was no tomorrow. Many in the crowd at this point realized that Beethoven had been unaware of the applause, and this made them clap and cheer even louder. To Ludwig, the applause seemed to go on for years. Now he knew his symphony had arrived. If you add to this the fact that William Webb Ellis was busy running with the ball down at Rugby School and 1825 adds up to one hell of a year.

  THAT WAS THEN, THIS IS THEN TOO

  Ј rrihen' is now - 1826. So who are the mad, bad and dangerous to JL know people of 1826? One is James Fenimore Cooper. He's just written a book all about early Native American cobblers, and he's called it The Last of the Mohicans - you can still see the original last on display at the Museum of Footwear at 27, Rue D'Immelda Marcos, Marseille.© Elsewhere Andre Ampere published his paper 'Electrodynamics' which was, well, basically about dynamics and, basically, how electric they are. Yes, good. Think that's covered it. It was also the same year that Thomas Jefferson died and Russia declared war on Persia. Ooh, Persia! We are getting imaginative.

  Au sujet de la musique, on the one in, one out rule, we'd just gained Johann 'The Waltz King' Strauss, and just lost Antonio 'Look, I'm telling you, I never touched him' Salieri. Actually, while we're on the subject of Salieri, can I call a time out? Salieri Time Out.

  It's just that, well, I feel more than a little sorry for Salieri. Let me see if I can build a case for the defence of this man who is now forever vilified as the 'the-man-who-we-know-probably-didn't-poison-Mozart-but-nevertheless-let's-say-he-did.' I mean, why let the facts get in the way of a good story? Salieri was from Legnago, which is now just a short hoik down the 434 from Verona, but was no doubt then a delightful little village on the banks of the Adige river - a perfect place to nurture musical talent. Salieri was orphaned at fifteen, and then more or less adopted by the well-to-do Mocenigo family. He moved to Vienna, where things seemed to fall into place for him and he became court composer at the age of only twenty-four. He was well regarded as an opera composer - it was one of his that opened the new La Scala opera house, in Milan, in 1776 - and he eventually became Kapellmeister at the Viennese court. OK, so he may have not got on with Mozart, but then Mozart could be a little… what's the word… puerile? One look at his letters tells you that - more bottom references than Rik Mayall and Ade Edmondson put together. And Salieri almost certainly didn't poison him. Yes, he had a few digs at him, but then he was probably one of the few people around at the time in a position to realize quite what a genius Mozart was, and that must have been somewhat daunting. So, I guess what I'm saying is…well, look, lay off Salieri, OK? Good. Now. Time in, again.

  This was also the year that a rather ill young man by the name of Carl Maria von Weber had travelled to London, to oversee the premiere of his new opera, Oberon. Weber was the head of the German Opera Theatre, in Dresden, and had never been a healthy individual at the best of times. In fact, although he didn't know it, he would never make it back home. Oberon was a big hit with the Covent Garden audiences but Weber himself died just a couple of months later, his successor at Dresden being a name that had yet to make its rather large mark. Richard Wagner! Watch this space/

  There were important things afoot in 1826. Back over in Germany, fun times were almost certainly being had by the sixteen-year-old Felix Mendelssohn - as befits his name, really/ "

  Mendelssohn came from a prosperous family. His granddad, Moses Mendelssohn, was a philosopher, the Plato of his day, and very much revered and his Dad, Kaschpoint Mendelssohn, had his very own bank and, as a boy, Felix and his cousin ATM Mendelssohn, would shun games of doctors and nurses in favour of tellers and bankclerks©. The young composer did, however, have to put up with a great many insults, simply for being Jewish. So much so, in fact, that when his Dad realized that his son was destined for big things, he converted to Protestantism, adding the extra name 'Bartholdy' in a cunning and subtle rebranding exercise that would have made Snickers proud. fi Well, obviously, not THIS space, because this is just the mention of his name. I suppose I should say 'watch the space about forty pages further on really, but no one ever says that, do they? fi fi Latin dictionary definition: felix (1) (adj.) happy, (2) (n.) cat'. Felix was the classic 'boy genius' composer - playing piano in public at nine, enrolled in the Berlin Singakademie at ten and home for lunch at twelve. He wasn't yet in his teens before he'd rattled off two operas, several symphonies and the odd string quartet, as well as being able to build, dissemble and then reassemble a fairly complicated Meccano dinosaur. Along with his first pimple, at the age of sixteen, came a work of such vision that it was said not even Mozart had written with such maturity at the same age. The work? It was the overture to Shakespeare's play A Midsummer Night's Dream.

  It really was a remarkable work for a sixteen-year-old - gorgeous orchestral writing, very light-handed and with a maturity beyond its composer's years. Having penned the overture, Mendelssohn stopped. The overture remained unplayed and largely unknown for some sixteen or seventeen years. By then, he was a celebrated and respected composer, the Kapellmeister to the King of Prussia, and boss of the top music academy in Leipzig. It was at this time that the King of Prussia, an ardent fan and supporter, pressed him to look again at the overture he'd written as a youth, and maybe add some more parts, which could act as both a suite and incidental music to the play. Felix duly stumped them up, and stuck them on the end. The extra pieces included a cute little scherzo, and the now famous/infamous 'Wedding March', which, alongside Wagner's 'Bridal March' still to come, has formed the entrance and exit to virtually every wedding ceremony since. Until, that is, the late 1960s onwards, when many folk started to get a little bit more adventurous with their choice of in and out music. Hence, today, a bride can sweep majestically down the aisle, white-knuckling her impoverished father, while the beautiful strains of Bryan Adams's 'Everything I Do, I Do It For You' echoes around the nave, in an ill-advised arrangement for Bontempi organ. Still, that's neither here nor there. Humour me a moment, will you, if I tell you it's 1829.

  It's 1829, and here's how things stand. Since Mendelssohn coughed up the overture to A Midsummer's Night's Dream, the world has changed. Not surprising, really. We've lost William Blake and Goya and, indeed, Sir Humphry Davy's lamp has finally been snuffed out. On the world stage, the combined powers of Russia, France and Great Britain have banded together to give Turkey a sort of diplomatic 'clip round the ear', as it were. In fact, and this is true, they literally sent Turkey a note. Honest! True as I'm wearing this shalwar kameez, it's true. They sent Turkey a note. Turkey goes to war with Greece and so three of the world's greatest superpowers at the time get together and SEND IT A NOTE! I say, Turkey, lay off, old chap. There's a good fellow. Something like that. Needless to say, it ends up lining the Sultan of Turkey's wastebin and he carries on regardless. Russia, meanwhile, has won its little spat with Persia, taking Erivan - or Armenia - as the spoils. In Britain, the Duke of Wellington becomes Prime Minister -the boy done well - and London gets a brand-new police force. There've been some jolly good reads in the last three years, too. Dumas wrote Les trots mousquetaires, Tennyson wrote his sequel, Timbuctu - the further adventures of Tim - and the Spectator starts publication. And, leaving the literary world behind us, London's Evening Stand
ard appears for the first time.

  In fact, it's a great time for 'firsts', as you might imagine - first everything. The first sulphur matches from John Walker; the first Oxbridge Boat Race, at Henley; the first Webster's Dictionary; and the first real train - George Stephenson had won Ј500 with his new train, the Rocket, at the Rainhill Trials. Elsewhere, another George, this time George Ohm, formulates 'Ohm's Law', which, er, which states that, er, well, it's all about resistance. It's left-handed, I think. Or is that Fleming? Anyway, it's all about resistance. Yes. Er, which I think, it says, is futile. Roughly. Good.

  HIHO, ROSSINI… AWAY!

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  ver to Paris now, and the French capital seems to be rapidly becoming the centre of the musical universe - that is, if there is a centre of the musical universe. To be fair, the epicentre is probably still Vienna, but France, particularly Paris, and Italy are essential territories to crack, as it were. London? Well, London is somewhere to earn money if you are famous in the classical music world, but it's not anywhere near as important as the rest. Just five years ago, Rossini moved here. He'd already sampled the delights of Vienna and Ixwidon, but now found Paris unpeu more to his liking. He stayed for some six years then left, before returning, late on, for his twilight, 'Indian summer' pieces. The first Paris period, though, saw Rossini at the absolute peak of his powers. Under his belt already - La Cenerentola (Cinderella), La Gazza Ladra (The Thieving Magpie), II Barbiere di Siviglia (The Barber of Seville) and Semiramide (Half a Pint of Mild®'), as well as a goodly number of pies. Emboldened by his worldwide fame, he decided to reel off a couple of operas that would really suit the current French tastes - ones written particularly to please the Paris audience of the late 1820s. The first came out as Le Comte Ory (The Tory Bastard)® which went down well enough and was very politely welcomed. His second attempt, though, was to put it in the shade - in fact, it would almost become his signature tune.