Symphonie fantastique, ‘Episode in the
Life of an Artist’, Op. 14
Hector Berlioz (1813-69)
Day Dreams – Passions; A Ball; In the Meadows; March to the Scaffold;
Sabbath Night’s Dream
The adjective fantastique refers to the ‘fantasy-like’ character of this symphony, not to a value judgement on its quality. However, we must own to its being ‘fantastic’ in the second sense as well. When it was first performed in 1830 it struck the contemporary audience as something outside their understanding of what a symphony should be. It was, and is, not only fantastic; it is amazing! Before finding a justification for that opinion, a glimpse at the responses of the time will show how bewildered audiences were. The symphony’s première at the Paris Conservatoire caused such an outcry, the School’s Director, Luigi Cherubini, struck Berlioz from the registry of ex-students. The Musical Review of London wrote of this work, ‘Berlioz, musically speaking, is a lunatic … his music is simply and undisguisedly, nonsense.’ A New York newspaper commented, ‘The Fantastic Symphony is a nightmare set to music.’ Similar verdicts were offered well into the 20th century. The general feeling seems to have been that Berlioz was a much-flawed genius whose music should not merit close attention. The musicologist, Sir Donald Tovey, whose five volumes of musical analysis are regarded by some as being of almost Biblical authority, did not include this symphony. Currently, Berlioz enjoys a much better press, thanks to devoted scholarship and advocacy.
The innovations are numerous and significant. Starting with the orchestration, Berlioz asks for a cor anglais, piccolo clarinet, two harps, four bassoons, four timpani, tubular bells, and a rarely-used brass instrument, the ophicleide – generally replaced by a tuba these days. We should remember that Berlioz started to compose this work before Ludwig van Beethoven died in 1827, and Beethoven himself was regarded by many as a maverick. The form of the symphony is equally innovative. It has five movements instead of the conventional four, and it tells a story. Berlioz provided a narrative to help the listener capture the mood of each movement and follow the ‘episode in the life of an artist’. To strengthen the story’s coherence, he based the work on an idée fixe, a musical idea which is something of a cross between a motif and a melody. That idée fixe appears in all five movements in various guises. Extracts from Berlioz’s verbal descriptions are included below. Illuminating though they may be, the work stands sturdily without the prop of a story. In short, its musical genius outshines its literary underpinning.
The first movement depicts a ‘young musician, troubled by sickness’ falling in love with a woman whom he regards as ideal, nothing less. A slow and mysterious introduction leads to a lively allegro in which we hear the idée fixe for the first time, played by the flute and first violins. In real life, Berlioz was the ‘sick’ (i.e. opium-influenced) musician, and the woman was the Irish actress, Harriet Smithson. For the record, Smithson attended the first performance, was drawn by the magnetism of its composer, married him, divorced eleven years later, and ended her days as an alcoholic. The movement depicts the turmoil of unrequited love, the passions, frustrations and occasional moments of tenderness.
In the second movement, a graceful waltz, the musician (now called ‘the artist’ of the title) finds himself at a ball where he catches frequent glimpses of his beloved, ‘bringing trouble to his soul’. It is here that the harps come into their own. And it must have astonished the first listeners because harps had never been used symphonically before. At the German premier of the work, no harpists could be found to complete the orchestral line-up.
The third movement is daringly expansive – one of the longest symphonic movements composed up to that time. Berlioz wrote, ‘One evening in the country, (the artist) hears in the distance two shepherds playing a ranz de vaches; this pastoral duet, and the effect of his surroundings … bring an unfamiliar peace to his heart…’ But the peace is repeatedly disturbed by undefined foreboding. The movement ends with one of the shepherds calling to the other, but this time there is no reply, and four timpani rumble like distant thunder, intensifying the sense of unease.
Berlioz wrote, ‘The artist, now knowing beyond all doubt that his love is not returned, poisons himself with opium.’ This causes him to dream that he has murdered his beloved and is being led to the scaffold to be beheaded by guillotine. In the fourth movement, we are invited to imagine the march that accompanies the prisoner on his final journey, to picture the blade falling and his head plopping into a basket. The final chords depict the cheers of the mob and their jubilation at this edifying display of justice.
Maybe the fifth movement depicts Hell. Berlioz didn’t say so specifically, but wrote of ‘… a ghostly crowd of spirits, sorcerers and monsters of every kind.’ Noble thoughts of love are banished and the idée fixe is transformed into a crude dance tune that fuels an orgy of revelry. Amid the clamour, we hear the bells ring out Dies irae, the ‘Day of Wrath’ that traditionally serves to discomfit mourners at funeral services. The frenzy makes extraordinary demands on the players: woodwind trilling on every note at one stage, and the strings playing ‘col legno’, that is, with the wood rather than the hair of their bows. Even today, with all the developments in music for film and television coupled to the wizardry of computers, this music remains as chilling and thrilling as ever it did.
Life of an Artist’, Op. 14
Hector Berlioz (1813-69)
Day Dreams – Passions; A Ball; In the Meadows; March to the Scaffold;
Sabbath Night’s Dream
The adjective fantastique refers to the ‘fantasy-like’ character of this symphony, not to a value judgement on its quality. However, we must own to its being ‘fantastic’ in the second sense as well. When it was first performed in 1830 it struck the contemporary audience as something outside their understanding of what a symphony should be. It was, and is, not only fantastic; it is amazing! Before finding a justification for that opinion, a glimpse at the responses of the time will show how bewildered audiences were. The symphony’s première at the Paris Conservatoire caused such an outcry, the School’s Director, Luigi Cherubini, struck Berlioz from the registry of ex-students. The Musical Review of London wrote of this work, ‘Berlioz, musically speaking, is a lunatic … his music is simply and undisguisedly, nonsense.’ A New York newspaper commented, ‘The Fantastic Symphony is a nightmare set to music.’ Similar verdicts were offered well into the 20th century. The general feeling seems to have been that Berlioz was a much-flawed genius whose music should not merit close attention. The musicologist, Sir Donald Tovey, whose five volumes of musical analysis are regarded by some as being of almost Biblical authority, did not include this symphony. Currently, Berlioz enjoys a much better press, thanks to devoted scholarship and advocacy.
The innovations are numerous and significant. Starting with the orchestration, Berlioz asks for a cor anglais, piccolo clarinet, two harps, four bassoons, four timpani, tubular bells, and a rarely-used brass instrument, the ophicleide – generally replaced by a tuba these days. We should remember that Berlioz started to compose this work before Ludwig van Beethoven died in 1827, and Beethoven himself was regarded by many as a maverick. The form of the symphony is equally innovative. It has five movements instead of the conventional four, and it tells a story. Berlioz provided a narrative to help the listener capture the mood of each movement and follow the ‘episode in the life of an artist’. To strengthen the story’s coherence, he based the work on an idée fixe, a musical idea which is something of a cross between a motif and a melody. That idée fixe appears in all five movements in various guises. Extracts from Berlioz’s verbal descriptions are included below. Illuminating though they may be, the work stands sturdily without the prop of a story. In short, its musical genius outshines its literary underpinning.
The first movement depicts a ‘young musician, troubled by sickness’ falling in love with a woman whom he regards as ideal, nothing less. A slow and mysterious introduction leads to a lively allegro in which we hear the idée fixe for the first time, played by the flute and first violins. In real life, Berlioz was the ‘sick’ (i.e. opium-influenced) musician, and the woman was the Irish actress, Harriet Smithson. For the record, Smithson attended the first performance, was drawn by the magnetism of its composer, married him, divorced eleven years later, and ended her days as an alcoholic. The movement depicts the turmoil of unrequited love, the passions, frustrations and occasional moments of tenderness.
In the second movement, a graceful waltz, the musician (now called ‘the artist’ of the title) finds himself at a ball where he catches frequent glimpses of his beloved, ‘bringing trouble to his soul’. It is here that the harps come into their own. And it must have astonished the first listeners because harps had never been used symphonically before. At the German premier of the work, no harpists could be found to complete the orchestral line-up.
The third movement is daringly expansive – one of the longest symphonic movements composed up to that time. Berlioz wrote, ‘One evening in the country, (the artist) hears in the distance two shepherds playing a ranz de vaches; this pastoral duet, and the effect of his surroundings … bring an unfamiliar peace to his heart…’ But the peace is repeatedly disturbed by undefined foreboding. The movement ends with one of the shepherds calling to the other, but this time there is no reply, and four timpani rumble like distant thunder, intensifying the sense of unease.
Berlioz wrote, ‘The artist, now knowing beyond all doubt that his love is not returned, poisons himself with opium.’ This causes him to dream that he has murdered his beloved and is being led to the scaffold to be beheaded by guillotine. In the fourth movement, we are invited to imagine the march that accompanies the prisoner on his final journey, to picture the blade falling and his head plopping into a basket. The final chords depict the cheers of the mob and their jubilation at this edifying display of justice.
Maybe the fifth movement depicts Hell. Berlioz didn’t say so specifically, but wrote of ‘… a ghostly crowd of spirits, sorcerers and monsters of every kind.’ Noble thoughts of love are banished and the idée fixe is transformed into a crude dance tune that fuels an orgy of revelry. Amid the clamour, we hear the bells ring out Dies irae, the ‘Day of Wrath’ that traditionally serves to discomfit mourners at funeral services. The frenzy makes extraordinary demands on the players: woodwind trilling on every note at one stage, and the strings playing ‘col legno’, that is, with the wood rather than the hair of their bows. Even today, with all the developments in music for film and television coupled to the wizardry of computers, this music remains as chilling and thrilling as ever it did.