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                                  THE
                         Orchestral Conductor

                           THEORY OF HIS ART


                                  BY
                            HECTOR BERLIOZ.



                               NEW YORK

                       PUBLISHED BY CARL FISCHER

                   6-10 Fourth Ave., Cooper Square.


                   Copyright, 1902, By Carl Fischer.




                       THE ORCHESTRAL CONDUCTOR.

                          THEORY OF HIS ART.

                          BY HECTOR BERLIOZ.


Music appears to be the most exacting of all the Arts, the cultivation
of which presents the greatest difficulties, for a consummate
interpretation of a musical work so as to permit an appreciation of its
real value, a clear view of its physiognomy, or discernment of its real
meaning and true character, is only achieved in relatively few cases. Of
creative artists, the composer is almost the only one who is dependent
upon a multitude of intermediate agents between the public and himself;
intermediate agents, either intelligent or stupid, devoted or hostile,
active or inert, capable--from first to last--of contributing to the
brilliancy of his work, or of disfiguring it, misrepresenting it, and
even destroying it completely.

Singers have often been accused of forming the most dangerous of these
intermediate agents; but in my opinion, without justice. The most
formidable, to my thinking, is the conductor of the orchestra. A bad
singer can spoil only his own part; while an incapable or malevolent
conductor ruins all. Happy indeed may the composer esteem himself when
the conductor into whose hands he has fallen is not at once incapable
and inimical; for nothing can resist the pernicious influence of this
person. The most admirable orchestra is then paralyzed, the most
excellent singers are perplexed and rendered dull; there is no longer
any vigor or unity; under such direction the noblest daring of the
author appears extravagant, enthusiasm beholds its soaring flight
checked, inspiration is violently brought down to earth, the angel's
wings are broken, the man of genius passes for a madman or an idiot,
the divine statue is precipitated from its pedestal, and dragged in the
mud. And what is worse, the public, and even auditors endowed with the
highest musical intelligence, are reduced to the impossibility (if a
new work is rendered, and they are hearing it for the first time) of
recognizing the ravages perpetrated by the orchestral conductor--of
discovering the follies, faults, and crimes he commits. If they clearly
perceive certain defects of execution, not he, but his victims, are in
such cases made responsible. If he has caused the chorus-singers to
fail in taking up a point in a finale, if he has allowed a discordant
wavering to take place between the choir and the orchestra, or between
the extreme sides of the instrumental body, if he has absurdly hurried a
movement, or allowed it to linger unduly, if he has interrupted a singer
before the end of a phrase, they exclaim: "The singers are detestable!
The orchestra has no firmness; the violins have disfigured the principal
design; everybody has been wanting in vigor and animation; the tenor was
quite out, he did not know his part; the harmony is confused; the author
is no accompanist; the voices are----" etc.

Except in listening to great works already known and esteemed, intelligent
hearers can hardly distinguish the true culprit, and allot to him his
due share of blame; but the number of these is still so limited that
their judgment has little weight; and the hostile conductor--in presence
of the public who would pitilessly hiss a _vocal accident_ of a good
singer--reigns, with all the calm of a bad conscience, in his baseness
and inefficiency. Fortunately, I here attack an exception; for the
malevolent orchestral conductor--whether capable or not--is very rare.

The orchestral conductor full of goodwill, but incapable, is on the
contrary very common. Without speaking of innumerable mediocrities,
directing artists who frequently are much their superiors, an author for
example, can scarcely be accused of conspiring against his own works.
Yet how many are there who, fancying they are able to conduct,
innocently injure their best scores!

Beethoven, it is said, more than once ruined the performance of his
symphonies; which he would conduct, even at the time when his deafness
had become almost complete. The musicians, in order to keep together,
agreed at length to follow the slight indications of time which the
concertmeister (first violin-player) gave them; and not to attend to
Beethoven's conducting-stick. Moreover, it should be observed, that
conducting a symphony, an overture, or any other composition whose
movements remain continual, vary little, and contain few nice gradations,
is child's play in comparison with conducting an opera, or like work,
where there are recitatives, airs, and numerous orchestral designs
preceded by pauses of irregular length.

The example of Beethoven, which I have just cited, leads me at once to
say that if the direction of an orchestra appears to be very difficult
for a blind man, it is indisputably impossible for a deaf one, whatever
may have been his technical talent before losing his sense of hearing.

The orchestral conductor should _see_ and _hear_; he should be _active_
and _vigorous_, should know the _composition_ and the _nature_ and
_compass_ of the instruments, should be able to _read_ the score, and
possess--besides the especial talent of which we shall presently
endeavor to explain the constituent qualities--other indefinable gifts,
without which an invisible link cannot establish itself between him and
those he directs; otherwise the faculty of transmitting to them his
feeling is denied him, and power, empire, and guiding influence completely
fail him. He is then no longer a conductor, a director, but a simple
beater of the time,--supposing he knows how to beat it, and divide it,
regularly.

The performers should feel that he feels, comprehends, and is moved;
then his emotion communicates itself to those whom he directs, his
inward fire warms them, his electric glow animates them, his force of
impulse excites them; he throws around him the vital irradiations of
musical art. If he is inert and frozen, on the contrary, he paralyzes
all about him, like those floating masses of the polar seas, the
approach of which is perceived through the sudden cooling of the
atmosphere.

His task is a complicated one. He has not only to conduct, in the spirit
of the author's intentions, a work with which the performers have
already become acquainted, but he must also introduce new compositions
and help the performers to master them. He has to criticise the errors
and defects of each during the rehearsals, and to organize the resources
at his disposal in such a way as to make the best use he can of them
with the utmost promptitude; for, in the majority of European cities
nowadays, musical artisanship is so ill distributed, performers so ill
paid and the necessity of study so little understood, that _economy of
time_ should be reckoned among the most imperative requisites of the
orchestral conductor's art.

Let us now see what constitutes the mechanical part of this art.

The power of _beating the time_, without demanding very high musical
attainments, is nevertheless sufficiently difficult to secure; and very
few persons really possess it. The signs that the conductor should
make--although generally very simple--nevertheless become complicated
under certain circumstances, by the division and even the subdivision of
the time of the bar.

The conductor is, above all, bound to possess a clear idea of the
principal points and character of the work of which he is about to
superintend the performance or study; in order that he may, without
hesitation or mistake, at once determine the time of each movement
desired by the composer. If he has not had the opportunity of receiving
his instructions directly from the composer, or if the _times_ have not
been transmitted to him by tradition, he must have recourse to the
indications of the metronome, and study them well; the majority of
composers, nowadays, taking the precaution to write them at the
beginning, and in the course, of their pieces. I do not mean to say by
this that it is necessary to imitate the mathematical regularity of the
metronome, all music so performed would become of freezing stiffness,
and I even doubt whether it would be possible to observe so flat a
uniformity during a certain number of bars. But the metronome is none
the less excellent to consult in order to know the original time, and
its chief alterations.

If the conductor possess neither the author's instructions, tradition,
nor metronome indications,--which frequently happens in the ancient
masterpieces, written at a period when the metronome was not
invented,--he has no other guide than the vague terms employed to
designate the time to be taken, and his own instinct, his feeling--more
or less distinguishing, more or less just--of the author's style. We are
compelled to admit that these guides are too often insufficient and
delusive. Of this we have proof in seeing how old operas are given in
towns where the traditional mode of performance no longer exists. In
ten different kinds of time, there will always be at least four taken
wrongly. I once heard a chorus of _Iphigenia in Tauride_ performed in
a German theatre _allegro assai, two in the bar_, instead of _allegro
non troppo, four in the bar_; that is to say, exactly twice too fast.
Examples might be multiplied of such disasters, occasioned either by
the ignorance or the carelessness of conductors of orchestras; or else
by the real difficulty which exists for even the best-gifted and most
careful men to discover the precise meaning of the Italian terms used as
indications of the time to be taken. Of course, no one can be at a loss
to distinguish a Largo from a Presto. If the Presto be two in a bar,
a tolerably sagacious conductor, from inspection of the passages and
melodic designs contained in the piece, will be able to discern the
degree of quickness intended by the author. But if the Largo be four in
a bar, of simple melodic structure, and containing but few notes in each
bar, what means has the hapless conductor of discovering the true time?
And in how many ways might he not be deceived? The different degrees of
slowness that might be assigned to the performance of such a Largo are
very numerous; the individual feeling of the orchestral conductor must
then become the sole authority; and, after all, it is the author's
feeling, not his, which is in question. Composers therefore ought not
to neglect placing metronome indications in their works; and orchestral
conductors are bound to study them closely. The neglect of this study on
the part of the latter, is an act of dishonesty.

I will now suppose the conductor to be perfectly well acquainted with
the times of the different movements in the work of which he is about
to conduct the performance or rehearsals; he wishes to impart to the
musicians acting under his orders the rhythmical feeling within him, to
decide the duration of each bar, and to cause the uniform observance
of this duration by all the performers. Now this precision and this
uniformity can only be established in the more or less numerous
assemblage of band and chorus by means of certain signs made by their
conductor.

These signs indicate the principle divisions, the accents of the bar,
and, in many cases, the subdivisions, and the half-accents. I need
hardly here explain what is meant by the "accents" (accented and
unaccented parts of a bar); I am presupposing that I address musicians.

The orchestral conductor generally uses a small light stick, of about
a foot in length, and rather whitish than of a dark color (it is seen
better), which he holds in his right hand, to make clearly distinct his
mode of marking the commencement, the interior division, and the close
of each bar. The bow, employed by some violinist conductors (leaders),
is less suitable than the stick. It is somewhat flexible, and this want
of rigidity, together with the slight resistance it offers to the air,
on account of its appendage of hair, renders its indications less
precise.

The simplest of all times--two in a bar--is beaten simply.

The arm and the stick of the conductor are raised, so that his hand is
on a level with his head, he marks the first beat, by dropping the point
of his stick perpendicularly (_bending his wrist_ as much as possible;
and not lowering the whole arm), and the second beat by raising the
stick by a contrary gesture.

[Illustration]

The time--one in a bar--being in reality, and particularly for the
conductor, but the time of an extremely rapid two in a bar, should be
beaten like the preceding. As the conductor is obliged to raise the
point of his stick, after having lowered it, he necessarily divides this
into two portions.

In the time--four in a bar--the first gesture, or down beat, is
universally adopted for marking the first accented part, the
commencement of the bar.

[Illustration]

The second movement made by the conducting-stick, from right to left,
rising, indicates the second beat (first unaccented part). [Illustration]
A third, transversely, from left to right, indicates the third beat
(second accented part); [Illustration] and a fourth, obliquely, from
down to up, indicates the fourth beat (second unaccented part). The
combination of these four gestures may be figured thus:--

[Illustration]

It is of importance that the conductor, in thus delivering his different
directions, should not move his arm much; and consequently, not allow
his stick to pass over much space; for each of these gestures should
operate nearly instantaneously; or at least, take but so slight a
movement as to be imperceptible. If the movement becomes perceptible,
on the contrary, and multiplied by the number of times that the gesture
is repeated, it ends by throwing the conductor behind in the time he
is beating, and by giving to his conducting a tardiness that proves
injurious. This defect, moreover, has the result of needlessly fatiguing
the conductor, and of producing exaggerated evolutions, verging on the
ridiculous, which attract the spectators' attention, and become very
disagreeable to witness.

In the time, three in a bar, the first gesture made, from up to down, is
likewise universally adopted for marking the first beat; but there are
two ways of marking the second. The majority of orchestral conductors
indicate it by a gesture from left to right; thus:--

[Illustration]

Some German Kapel-meisters do the contrary; and carry the stick from
right to left; thus:--

[Illustration]

This way has the disadvantage--when the conductor turns his back to the
orchestra, as in theatres--of permitting only a small number of musicians
to perceive the very important indication of the second beat; the body
of the conductor then hiding the movement of his arm. The other method
of proceeding is preferable; since the conductor stretches his arm
_outwards_, withdrawing it from his chest; and his stick, which he
takes care to raise slightly above the level of his shoulder, remains
perfectly visible to all eyes. When the conductor faces the players, it
is immaterial whether he marks the second beat to the right, or to the
left.

However, the third beat of the time, three in a bar, is always marked
like the last of the time, four in a bar; by an oblique movement
upwards.

[Illustration] or [Illustration]

The times,--five and seven in a bar,--would be more comprehensible for
the performers, if instead of indicating them by a particular series of
gestures, they were treated as though the one was composed of three and
two in a bar, and the other composed of four and three.

Then, these times would be beaten thus:--

[Illustration]

Example of seven in a bar:--

[Illustration]

These different times, in order to be divided in this way, are assumed
to belong to movements of moderate measure. The advice would not hold
good if their measure were either very quick or very slow.

The time, two in a bar, I have already signified, cannot be beaten
otherwise than as we have before seen--whatever its degree of rapidity.
But if, as an exception, it should be very slow, the conductor ought to
subdivide it.

A very rapid four in a bar, on the contrary, should be beaten two in a
bar; the four accustomed gestures of a moderate movement becoming then
so hurried as to present nothing decided to the eye, and serving only to
confuse the performer instead of giving him confidence. Moreover,--and
this is of much more consequence,--the conductor, by uselessly making
these four gestures in a quick movement, renders the pace of the rhythm
awkward, and loses the freedom of gesture which a simple division of the
time into its half would leave him.

Generally speaking, composers are wrong to write in such a case the
indication of the time as four in a bar. When the movement is very
brisk, they should never write any other than the sign [Symbol: two in
a bar], and not that of [Symbol: four in a bar], which might lead the
conductor into error.

It is exactly the same for the time, three in a bar, fast 3/4 or 3/8.
Then the conductor must omit the gesture of the second beat, and, by
remaining the period of a beat longer on the first, only raise the stick
at the third.

[Illustration]

It would be absurd to attempt to beat the three in a bar of one of
Beethoven's scherzos.

In slow movements the rule for these two times is like that for two in
a bar. If the movement is very slow, each time must be divided; and
consequently eight gestures must be made for the time, four in a bar,
and six for the time, three in a bar, repeating (and shortening) each
of the principal gestures we have before instanced.

Example of three in a bar, very slow:

[Illustration]

Example of four in a bar, very slow:

[Illustration]

The arm should take no part in the little supplementary gesture
indicating the subdivision of the bar; merely the wrist causing the
stick to move.

This division of the different times is intended to prevent the rhythmical
divergences which might easily take place among the performers during
the interval which separates one beat from the other. The conductor not
indicating anything during this period (rendered somewhat considerable
by the extreme slowness of the movement), the players are then entirely
left to themselves, _without conductor_; and as the rhythmical feeling
is not the same with all, it follows that some hurry, while others
slacken, and unity is soon destroyed. The only exception possible to
this rule is that of a first-rate orchestra, composed of performers who
are well acquainted with each other, are accustomed to play together,
and know almost by heart the work they are executing. Even then, the
inattention of a single player may occasion an accident. Why incur its
possibility? I know that certain artists feel their self-love hurt when
thus kept in leading-strings (like children, they say); but with a
conductor who has no other view than the excellence of the ultimate
result, this consideration can have no weight. Even in a quartet, it is
seldom that the individual feeling of the players can be left entirely
free to follow its own dictates. In a symphony, that of the conductor
must rule. The art of comprehending it, and fulfilling it with
unanimity, constitutes the perfection of execution; and individual
wills--which can never agree one with another--should never be permitted
to manifest themselves.

This being fully understood, it will be seen that subdivision is still
more essential for very slow times; as those of 6/4, 6/8, 9/8, 12/8 etc.

But these times--where the triple rhythm plays so important a part--may
be divided in various ways.

If the movement is brisk or moderate, it is rarely well to indicate
other than the simple beats of these times, according to the procedure
adopted for the analogous simple times.

The times of 6/8 allegretto, and of 6/4 allegro, therefore, are to be
beaten like those of two in a bar:--[Symbol: two in a bar] = or 2 = or
2/4; the time, 9/8 allegro, should be beaten like that of three in a
bar--3/4 moderato, or like that of 3/8 andantino; and the time, 12/8
moderato or allegro, like the time, simple four in a bar. But if the
movement be adagio, largo assai, or andante maestoso, either all the
quavers, or a crotchet followed by a quaver, should be beaten, according
to the form of the melody, or the predominant design.

[Illustration]

It is unnecessary, in this three in a bar, to mark all the quavers; the
rhythm of a crotchet followed by a quaver in each beat suffices.

As to the subdivision, the little supplementary gesture for simple times
should be made; this subdivision will however separate each beat into
two unequal portions, since it is requisite to indicate visibly the
value of the crotchet, and that of the quaver.

If the movement is still slower, there can be no hesitation; the only
way to ensure unity of execution is to beat all the quavers, whatever be
the nature of the written bar.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Taking the three measures shown above in order, the conductor must beat
three quavers down, and three up, for the time of 6/8:--

[Illustration]

Three down, three to the right, and three up, for the time of 9/8:--

[Illustration]

Three down, three to the left, three to the right, and three up, for the
time of 12/8:--

[Illustration]

A dilemma sometimes presents itself when certain parts--for the sake of
contrast--are given a triple rhythm, while others preserve the dual
rhythm.

[Illustration]

If the wind-instrument parts in the above example are confided to
players who are good musicians, there will be no need to change the
manner of marking the bar, and the conductor may continue to subdivide
it by six, or to divide it simply by two. The majority of players,
however, seeming to hesitate at the moment when, by employing the
syncopated form, the triple rhythm clashes with the dual rhythm, require
assurance, which can be given by easy means. The uncertainty occasioned
them by the sudden appearance of the unexpected rhythm, contradicted
by the rest of the orchestra, always leads the performers to cast an
instinctive glance towards the conductor, as if seeking his assistance.
He should look at them, turning somewhat towards them, and marking the
triple rhythm by very slight gestures, as if the time were really three
in a bar, but in such a way that the violins and other instruments
playing in dual rhythm may not observe the change, which would quite
put them out. From this compromise it results that the new rhythm of
three-time, being marked furtively by the conductor, is executed with
steadiness; while the two-time rhythm, already firmly established,
continues without difficulty, although no longer indicated by the
conductor. On the other hand, nothing, in my opinion can be more
blamable, or more contrary to musical good sense, than the application
of this procedure to passages where two rhythms of opposite nature
do not co-exist, and where merely syncopations are introduced. The
conductor, dividing the bar by _the number of accents he finds contained
in it_, then destroys (for all the auditors who see him) the effect of
syncopation; and substitutes a mere change of time for a play of rhythm
of the most bewitching interest. If the accents are marked, instead of
the beats, in the following passage from Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony,
we have the subjoined:--

[Illustration]

whereas the four previously maintained display the syncopation and make
it better felt:--

[Illustration]

This voluntary submission to a rhythmical form _which the author intended
to thwart_ is one of the gravest faults in style that a beater of the
time can commit.

There is another dilemma, extremely troublesome for a conductor,
and demanding all his presence of mind. It is that presented by the
super-addition of different bars. It is easy to conduct a bar in dual
time placed above or beneath another bar in triple time, if both have
the same kind of movement. Their chief divisions are then equal in
duration, and one needs only to divide them in half, marking the two
principal beats:--

[Illustration]

But if, in the middle of a piece slow in movement, there is introduced a
new form brisk in movement, and if the composer (either for the sake of
facilitating the execution of the quick movement, or because it was
impossible to write otherwise) has adopted for this new movement the
short bar which corresponds with it, there may then occur two, or even
three short bars super-added to a slow bar:--

[Illustration]

The conductor's task is to guide and keep together these different bars
of unequal number and dissimilar movement. He attains this by dividing
the beats in the andante bar, No. 1, which precedes the entrance of the
allegro in 6/8, and by continuing to divide them; but taking care to
mark the division more decidedly. The players of the allegro in 6/8 then
comprehend that the two gestures of the conductor represent the two
beats of their short bar, while the players of the andante take these
same gestures merely for a divided beat of their long bar.

[Illustration: Bar No. 1.]

[Illustration: Bars Nos. 2, 3, and so on.]

It will be seen that this is really quite simple, because the division
of the short bar, and the subdivisions of the long one, mutually
correspond. The following example, where a slow bar is super-added to
the short ones, without this correspondence existing, is more awkward:--

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Here, the three bars allegro-assai preceding the allegretto are beaten
in simple two time, as usual. At the moment when the allegretto begins,
the bar of which is double that of the preceding, and of the one
maintained by the violas, the conductor marks _two divided beats_ for
the long bar, by two equal gestures down, and two others up:--

[Illustration]

The two large gestures divide the long bar in half, and explain its
value to the hautboys, without perplexing the violas, who maintain the
brisk movement, on account of the little gesture which also divides in
half their short bar.

From bar No. 3, the conductor ceases to divide thus the long bar by 4,
on account of the triple rhythm of the melody in 6/8, which this gesture
interferes with. He then confines himself to marking the two beats of
the long bar; while the violas, already launched in their rapid rhythm,
continue it without difficulty, comprehending exactly that each stroke
of the conductor's stick marks merely _the commencement_ of their short
bar.

This last observation shows with what care dividing the beats of a bar
should be avoided when a portion of the instruments or voices has to
execute triplets upon these beats. The division, by cutting in half the
second note of the triplet, renders its execution uncertain. It is even
necessary to abstain from this division of the beats of a bar just
before the moment when the rhythmical or melodic design is divided by
three, in order not to give to the players the impression of a rhythm
contrary to that which they are about to hear:--

[Illustration]

In this example, the subdivision of the bar into six, or the division of
beats into two, is useful; and offers no inconvenience _during bar
No. 1_, when the following gesture is made:--

[Illustration]

But from the beginning of bar No. 2 it is necessary to make only the
simple gestures:--

[Illustration]

on account of the triplet on the third beat, and on account of the one
following it which the double gesture would much interfere with.

In the famous ball-scene of Mozart's _Don Giovanni_, the difficulty of
keeping together the three orchestras, written in three different
measures, is less than might be thought. It is sufficient to mark
downwards each beat of the _tempo di minuetto_:--

[Illustration]

Once entered upon the combination, the little allegro in 3/8, of which a
whole bar represents one-third, or one beat of that of the minuetto, and
the other allegro in 2/4, of which a whole bar represents two-thirds, or
two beats, correspond with each other and with the principal theme; while
the whole proceeds without the slightest confusion. All that is requisite
is to make them come in properly.

A gross fault that I have seen committed, consists in enlarging the time
of a piece in common-time, when the author has introduced into it
triplets of minims:--

[Illustration]

In such a case, the third minim adds nothing to the duration of the bar,
as some conductors seem to imagine. They may, if they please, and if the
movement be slow or moderate, make these passages by beating the bar with
three beats, but the duration of the whole bar should remain precisely
the same. In a case where these triplets occur in a very quick bar in
common-time (allegro-assai), the three gestures then cause confusion,
and it is absolutely necessary to make only two,--one beat upon the first
minim, and one upon the third. These gestures, owing to the quickness of
the movement, differ little to the eye, from the two of the bar with two
equal beats, and do not affect the movement of those parts of the
orchestra which contain no triplets.

[Illustration]

We will now speak of the conductor's method of beating in recitatives.
Here, as the singer or the instrumentalist is reciting, and no longer
subject to the regular division of the bar, it is requisite, while
following him attentively, to make the orchestra strike, simultaneously
and with precision, the chords or instrumental passages with which the
recitative is intermingled; and to make the harmony change at the proper
instant, when the recitative is accompanied either by holding-notes or
by a tremolo in several parts, of which the least apparent, occasionally,
is that which the conductor must most regard, since upon its motion
depends the change of chord:--

[Illustration]

In this example, the conductor, while following the reciting part, not
kept time to, has especially to attend to the viola part, and to make it
move, at the proper moment, from the F to the E, at the commencement of
the second bar; because otherwise, as this part is executed by several
instrumentalists playing in unison, some of them would hold the F longer
than the rest, and a transient discord would be produced.

Many conductors have the habit, when directing the orchestra in
recitatives, of paying no heed to the written division of the bar, and
of marking an up beat before that whereon a brief orchestral chord
occurs, even when this chord comes on an unaccented part of the bar:--

[Illustration]

In a passage such as this, they raise the arm at the rest which
commences the bar, and lower it at the time of the chord.

I cannot approve of such a method, which nothing justifies, and which
may frequently occasion accidents in the execution. Neither do I see
why, in recitatives, the bar should not be divided regularly, and the
real beats marked in their place, as in music beaten in time. I therefore
advise--for the preceding example--that the first beat should be made
down, as usual, and the stick carried to the left for striking the chord
upon the second beat; and so on for analogous cases; always dividing the
bar regularly. It is very important, moreover, to divide it according to
the time previously indicated by the author, and not to forget,--if this
time is _allegro_ or _maestoso_, and if the reciting part has been some
time reciting unaccompanied,--to give to all the beats, when the orchestra
comes in again, the value of those of an allegro or of a maestoso. For
when the orchestra plays alone, it does so generally in time; it plays
without measured time only when it accompanies a voice or instrument in
recitative.

In the exceptional case where the recitative is written for the orchestra
itself, or for the chorus, or for a portion of either orchestra or chorus,
it being then requisite to keep together, whether in unison or in harmony,
but without regular time, a certain number of performers, _the conductor
himself becomes the real reciter_, and gives to each beat of the bar the
duration he judges fit. According to the form of the phrase, he divides
and subdivides the beats, now marks the accents, now the semiquavers, if
there are any, and, in short, indicates with his stick the melodic form
of the recitative.

It must of course be understood that the performers, knowing their parts
almost by heart, keep their eye constantly upon him, otherwise, neither
security nor unity can be obtained.

In general, even for timed music, the conductor should require the
players he directs to look towards him as often as possible.

_An orchestra which does not watch the conducting-stick has no conductor._
Often, after a pedal-point for instance, the conductor is obliged to
refrain from marking the decisive gesture which is to determine the
coming in of the orchestra until he sees the eyes of all the performers
fixed upon him. It is the duty of the conductor, during rehearsal, to
accustom them to look towards him simultaneously at the important
moment.

[Illustration]

If the rule just indicated were not observed in the above bar, of which
the first beat, marking a pedal-point, may be prolonged indefinitely,
the passage--

[Illustration]

could not be uttered with firmness and unity; the players, not watching
the conductor's stick, could not know when he decides the second beat
and resumes the movement suspended by the pedal-point.

The obligation upon the performers to look at their conductor necessarily
implies an equal obligation on his part to let himself be well seen by
them. He should,--whatever may be the disposal of the orchestra, whether
on rows of steps, or on a horizontal plane,--place himself so as to form
the centre of all surrounding eyes.

To place himself well in sight, a conductor requires an especial
platform, elevated in proportion as the number of performers is large
and occupies much space. His desk should not be so high that the portion
sustaining the score shall hide his face for the expression of his
countenance has much to do with the influence he exercises. If there is
no conductor for an orchestra that does not and will not watch him,
neither is there any if he cannot be well seen.

As to the employment of noises of any kind whatever, produced by the
stick of the conductor upon his desk, or by his foot upon the platform,
they call for no other than unreserved reprehension. It is worse than a
bad method; it is a barbarism. In a theatre, however, when the stage
evolutions prevent the chorus-singers from seeing the conducting-stick,
the conductor is compelled--to ensure, after a pause, the taking up a
point by the chorus--to indicate this point by marking the beat which
precedes it by a slight tap of his stick upon the desk. This exceptional
circumstance is the only one which can warrant the employment of an
_indicating noise_, and even then it is to be regretted that recourse
must be had to it.

While speaking of chorus-singers, and of their operations in theatres,
it may here be observed that chorus-masters often allow themselves to
beat time at the side-scenes, without seeing the conductor's stick,
frequently even without hearing the orchestra. The result is that this
time, beaten more or less ill, and not corresponding with that of the
conductor, inevitably induces a rhythmical discordance between the
choral and instrumental bodies, and subverts all unity instead of
tending to maintain it.

There is another traditional barbarism which lies within the province
of an intelligent and active conductor to abolish. If a choral or
instrumental piece is performed behind the scenes, without accompaniment
from the principal orchestra, another conductor is absolutely essential.
If the orchestra accompany this portion, the first conductor, who hears
the distant music, is then strictly bound to _let himself be guided_ by
the second, and to follow his time _by ear_. But if--as frequently
happens in modern music--the sound of the chief orchestra hinders the
conductor from hearing that which is being performed at a distance
from him, the intervention of a special conducting mechanism becomes
indispensable, in order to establish instantaneous communication between
him and the distant performers. Many attempts, more or less ingenious,
have been made of this kind, the result of which has not everywhere
answered expectations. That of Covent Garden Theatre, in London,
moved by the conductor's foot, acts tolerably well. But the _electric
metronome_, set up by Mr. Van Bruge in the Brussels Theatre, leaves
nothing to be desired. It consists of an apparatus of copper ribbons,
leading from a Voltaic battery placed beneath the stage, attached to
the conductor's desk, and terminating in a movable stick fastened at one
end on a pivot before a board at a certain distance from the orchestral
conductor. To this latter's desk is affixed a key of copper, something
like the ivory key of a pianoforte; it is elastic, and provided on the
interior side with a protuberance of about a quarter of an inch long.
Immediately beneath this protuberance is a little cup, also of copper,
filled with quicksilver. At the instant when the orchestral conductor,
desiring to mark any particular beat of a bar, presses the copper key
with the forefinger of his left hand (his right being occupied in
holding, as usual, the conducting-stick) this key is lowered, the
protuberance passes into the cup filled with quicksilver, a slight
electric spark is emitted, and the stick placed at the other extremity
of the copper ribbon makes an oscillation before its board. The
communication of the fluid and the movement are quite simultaneous,
no matter how great a distance is traversed.

The performers being grouped behind the scenes, their eyes fixed upon
the stick of the electric metronome, are thus directly subject to the
conductor, who could, were it needful, conduct, from the middle of the
Opera orchestra in Paris, a piece of music performed at Versailles.

It is merely requisite to agree upon beforehand with the chorus-singers,
or with their conductor (if as an additional precaution, they have one),
the way in which the orchestral conductor beats the time--whether he
marks all the principal beats, or, only the first of the bar--since the
oscillations of the stick, moved by electricity, being always from right
to left, indicate nothing precise in this respect.

When I first used, at Brussels, the valuable instrument I have just
endeavored to describe, its action presented one objection. Each time
that the copper key of my desk underwent the pressure of my left
forefinger, it struck, underneath, another plate of copper, and,
notwithstanding the delicacy of the contact, produced a little sharp
noise, which, during the pauses of the orchestra, attracted the
attention of the audience, to the detriment of the musical effect.

I pointed out the fault to Mr. Van Bruge, who substituted for the lower
plate of copper the little cup filled with quicksilver, previously
mentioned. Into this the protuberance so entered as to establish the
electric current without causing the slightest noise.

Nothing remains now, as regards the use of this mechanism, but the
crackling of the spark at the moment of its emission. This, however, is
too slight to be heard by the public.

The metronome is not expensive to put up; it costs £16 at the most.
Large lyric theatres, churches, and concert-rooms should long ago
have been provided with one. Yet, save at the Brussels Theatre, it is
nowhere to be found. This would appear incredible, were it not that the
carelessness of the majority of directors of institutions where music
forms a feature is well known; as are their instinctive aversion to
whatever disturbs old-established customs, their indifference to the
interests of art, their parsimony wherever an outlay for music is
needed, and the utter ignorance of the principles of our art among
those in whose hands rests the ordering of its destiny.

I have not yet said all on the subject of those dangerous auxiliaries
named chorus-masters. Very few of them are sufficiently versed in the
art, to conduct a musical performance, so that the orchestral conductor
can depend upon them. He cannot therefore watch them too closely when
compelled to submit to their coadjutorship.

The most to be dreaded are those whom age has deprived of activity and
energy. The maintenance of vivacious times is an impossibility to them.
Whatever may be the degree of quickness indicated at the head of a piece
confided to their conducting, little by little they slacken its pace,
until the rhythm is reduced to a certain medium slowness, that seems to
harmonize with the speed at which their blood flows, and the general
feebleness of their organization.

It must in truth be added, that old men are not the only ones with whom
composers run this risk. There are men in the prime of life, of a
lymphatic temperament, whose blood seems to circulate _moderato_. If
they have to conduct an allegro assai, they gradually slacken it to
_moderato_; if, on the contrary, it is a largo or an andante sostenuto,
provided the piece is prolonged, they will, by dint of progressive
animation, attain a _moderato_ long before the end. The _moderato_ is
their natural pace, and they recur to it as infallibly as would a
pendulum after having been a moment hurried or slackened in its
oscillations.

These people are the born enemies of all characteristic music, and the
greatest destroyers of style. May Fate preserve the orchestral conductor
from their co-operation.

Once, in a large town (which I will not name), there was to be performed
behind the scenes a very simple chorus, written in 6/8, allegretto. The
aid of the chorus-master became necessary. He was an old man.

The time in which this chorus was to be taken having been first agreed
upon by the orchestra, our Nestor followed it pretty decently during the
first few bars; but, soon after, the slackening became such that there
was no continuing without rendering the piece perfectly ridiculous. It
was recommenced twice, thrice, four times; a full half-hour was occupied
in ever-increasingly vexatious efforts, but always with the same result.
The preservation of allegretto time was absolutely impossible to the
worthy man. At last the orchestral conductor, out of all patience, came
and begged him not to conduct at all; he had hit upon an expedient:--He
caused the chorus-singers to simulate a march-movement, raising each
foot alternately, without moving on. This movement, being in exactly
the same time as the dual rhythm of the 6/8 in a bar, allegretto, the
chorus-singers, who were no longer hindered by their director, at once
performed the piece as though they had sung marching; with no less unity
than regularity, and without slackening the time.

I acknowledge, however, that many chorus-masters, or sub-conductors of
orchestras, are sometimes of real utility, and even indispensable for the
maintenance of unity among very large masses of performers. When these
masses are obliged to be so disposed as that one portion of the players
or chorus-singers turn their back on the conductor, he needs a certain
number of sub-beaters of the time, placed before those of the performers
who cannot see him, and charged with repeating all his signals. In
order that this repetition shall be precise, the sub-conductors must
be careful never to take their eyes off the chief conductor's stick for
a single instant. If, in order to look at their score, they cease to
watch him for only three bars, a discrepancy arises immediately between
their time and his, and all is lost.

In a festival where 1200 performers were assembled under my direction,
at Paris, I had to employ four chorus-masters, stationed at the four
corners of the vocal mass, and two sub-conductors, one of whom directed
the wind-instruments, and the other the instruments of percussion. I had
earnestly besought them to look towards me incessantly; they did not
omit to do so, and our eight sticks, rising and falling without the
slightest discrepancy of rhythm, established amidst our 1200 performers
the most perfect unity ever witnessed.

With one or more electric metronomes, it seems no longer necessary to
have recourse to this means. One might, in fact, thus easily conduct
chorus-singers who turn their back towards the chief conductor; but
attentive and intelligent sub-conductors are always preferable to a
machine. They have not only to beat the time, like the metronomic staff,
but they have also to speak to the groups around them, to call their
attention to nice shades of execution, and, after bar-rests, to remind
them when the moment of their re-entry comes.

In a space arranged as a semicircular amphitheatre, the orchestral
conductor may conduct a considerable number of performers alone, all
eyes then being able to look towards him. Nevertheless, the employment
of a certain number of sub-conductors appears to me preferable to
individual direction, on account of the great distance between the chief
conductor and the extreme points of the vocal and instrumental body.

The more distant the orchestral conductor is from the performers he
directs, the more his influence over them is diminished.

The best way would be to have several sub-conductors, with several
electric metronomes beating before their eyes the principal beats of the
bar.

And now,--should the orchestral conductor give the time standing or
sitting down?

If, in theatres where they perform scores of immense length, it is very
difficult to endure the fatigue of remaining on foot the whole evening,
it is none the less true that the orchestral conductor, when seated,
loses a portion of his power, and cannot give free course to his
animation, if he possess any.

Then, should he conduct reading from a full score, or from a first
violin part (leader's copy), as is customary in some theatres? It is
evident that he should have before him a full score. Conducting by means
of a part containing only the principal instrumental cues, the bass and
the melody, demands a needless effort of memory from a conductor; and
moreover, if he happens to tell one of the performers, whose part he
cannot examine, that he is wrong, exposes him to the chance of the
reply: "How do you know?"

The disposal and grouping of the players and chorus-singers come also
within the province of the orchestral conductor; particularly for
concerts. It is impossible to indicate arbitrarily the best method of
grouping the performers in a theatre or concert-room; the shape and
arrangement of the interior of these places necessarily influence the
course to be taken in such a case. Let us add, that it depends, moreover,
upon the number of performers requiring to be grouped; and, on some
occasions, upon the style of composition adopted by the author whose
work is to be performed.

In general, for concerts, the following disposal of the orchestra seems
best:--An amphitheatre of eight, or at least, five rows is indispensable.
The semicircular form is the best for the amphitheatre. If it is large
enough to contain the whole orchestra, the entire mass of instrumentalists
can be disposed of along these rows; the first violins in front on the
right, facing the public; the second violins in front on the left; the
violas, in the middle, between the two groups of violins; the flutes,
hautboys, clarinets, horns, and bassoons behind the first violins; a
double rank of violoncellos and double-basses behind the second violins;
the trumpets, cornets, trombones, and tubas behind the violas; the rest
of the violoncellos and double-basses behind the wooden wind instruments;
the harps in the foreground, close to the orchestral conductor; the
kettle-drums, and other instruments of percussion behind or in the
centre of the brass instruments; the orchestral conductor, turning his
back to the public, at the base of the orchestra, and near to the
foremost desks of the first and second violins.

There should be a horizontal flooring, or stage, more or less wide,
extending in front of the first rows of the amphitheatre. On this
flooring the chorus-singers should be placed, in form of a fan turned
three-quarters towards the public, so that all shall be able easily
to see the motions of the orchestral conductor. The grouping of the
chorus-singers, in consonance with their respective order of voice, will
differ according as the author has written in three, four, or six parts.
At any rate, the women--sopranos and contraltos--should be in front,
seated; the tenors standing behind the contraltos; and the basses
standing behind the sopranos.

The solo-singers should occupy the centre, and foremost, part of the
front stage, and should always place themselves in such a way as to be
able, by slightly turning the head, to see the conducting-stick.

For the rest, I repeat, these indications can be but approximate; they
may be, for many reasons, modified in various ways.

At the Conservatoire, in Paris, where the amphitheatre is composed of
only four or five rows, not circular, and cannot therefore contain the
whole orchestra, the violins and violas are on the stage; while the
basses and wind instruments alone occupy the rows; the chorus is seated
on the front of the stage, facing the public, and the women, sopranos
and contraltos, turning their backs directly upon the orchestral
conductor, are utterly unable to see his motions. The arrangement is
very inconvenient for this portion of the chorus.

It is of the greatest consequence that the chorus-singers placed on the
front of the stage shall occupy a plane somewhat lower than that of the
violins; otherwise they would considerably deaden the sound of these
instruments.

For the same reason, if there are no other rows for the choir in front
of the orchestra, it is absolutely needful that the women should be
seated, and the men remain standing up; in order that the voices of the
tenors and basses, proceeding from a more elevated point than those of
the sopranos and contraltos, may come forth freely, and be neither
stifled nor intercepted.

When the presence of the chorus-singers in front of the orchestra is not
necessary, the conductor must take care to send them away; since this
large number of human bodies injures the sonority of the instruments. A
symphony performed by an orchestra thus more or less stifled, loses much
of its effect.

There are yet other precautions, relative especially to the orchestra,
which the conductor may also take, to avoid certain defects in performance.
The instruments of percussion, placed, as I have indicated, upon one of
the last rows of the orchestra, have a tendency to modify the rhythm,
and slacken the time. A series of strokes on the drum struck at regular
intervals in a quick movement, like the following:--

[Illustration]

will sometimes lead to the complete destruction of a fine rhythmical
progression, by checking the onward bound of the rest of the orchestra,
and destroying the unity. Almost always, the drum player, through not
observing the original time given by the conductor, is somewhat
behindhand in striking his first stroke. This retardment, multiplied by
the number of strokes which follow the first one, soon produces--as may
be imagined--a rhythmical discrepancy of the most fatal effect. The
conductor,--all whose efforts to re-establish unanimity are then in
vain--has only one thing left to do; which is, to insist that the long
drum player shall count beforehand the number of strokes to be given
in the passage in question, and that, knowing his part, he shall no
longer look at his copy, but keep his eyes constantly fixed upon the
conducting-stick; by which means he will follow the time without the
slightest want of precision.

Another retardment, arising from a different cause, frequently takes
place in the trumpet-parts; it is when they contain a quick flow of
passages such as this:--

[Illustration]

The trumpet-player, instead of taking breath _before_ the first of these
three bars, takes breath at their commencement, during the quaver-rest,
A; and, not counting for anything the short time it has taken him to
breathe, gives its whole value to the quaver-rest, which thus becomes
super-added to the value of the first bar. The result of this is the
following:--

[Illustration]

an effect all the worse because the final accent, struck at the
commencement of the third bar by the rest of the orchestra, comes a
third of the time too slow in the trumpets, and destroys unity in the
striking of the last chord.

To obviate this, the conductor must first previously warn the players
against such inexactness, into which they almost all are led to fall
unawares; and then, while conducting, must cast a glance towards them at
the decisive moment, and _anticipate a little_, by beating the first
beat of the bar where they come in. It is incredible how difficult it is
to prevent trumpet-players from doubling the value of a quaver-rest thus
placed.

When a long _accelerando, little by little_, is indicated by the
composer, for passing from an allegro moderato to a presto, the majority
of orchestral conductors hurry the time _by jerks_, instead of quickening
it equally throughout, by an insensible onward rate. This should be
carefully avoided.

The same remark applies to the converse proposition. It is even more
difficult to slacken a quick time smoothly, and without checks, so as
to transform it little by little into a slow time. Often, from a desire
to testify zeal, or from defect of delivery in his musical feeling, a
conductor demands from his players _an exaggeration of nice gradations_.
He comprehends neither the character nor the style of the piece. The
gradations then become so many blemishes; the accents, yells; the
intentions of the poor composer are totally disfigured and perverted;
while those of the orchestral conductor--however politely meant they may
be--are none the less injurious: like the caresses of the ass in the
fable, who crushed his master while fondling him.

And now let us instance many deplorable abuses that are obtained in
almost all the orchestras of Europe--abuses which reduce composers to
despair, and which it is the duty of conductors to abolish as soon as
possible.

Performers playing stringed instruments will rarely give themselves the
trouble to play a _tremolo_; they substitute for this very characteristic
effect, a tame repetition of the note, half, and sometimes three-quarters
slower than the one whence results the tremolo: instead of demisemiquavers,
they make triple or double ones; and in lieu of producing sixty-four notes
in a bar in four-time (adagio), they produce only thirty-two, or even
sixteen. The action of the arm necessary for producing a true tremolo,
demands from them too great an effort. This idleness is intolerable.

Many double-bass players permit themselves--from idleness, also, or from
a dread of being unable to achieve certain difficulties--to simplify
their part. This race of simplifiers has existed for forty years; but it
cannot endure any longer. In ancient works, the double-bass parts were
extremely simple; therefore there can be no reason to impoverish them
still more: those in modern scores are rather more difficult, it is
true; but, with very few exceptions, there is nothing in them impossible
of execution; composers, masters of their art, write them with care, and
as they ought to be executed. If it is from idleness that the simplifiers
pervert them, the energetic orchestral conductor is armed with the
necessary authority to compel the fulfilment of their duty. If it is
from incapacity, let him dismiss them. It is his best interest to rid
himself of instrumentalists who cannot play their instrument.

Flute-players, accustomed to having their parts written in the upper
octave, and not admitting that their part can be written below that of
clarinets or hautboys, frequently transpose entire passages an octave
higher. The conductor, if he does not carefully peruse his score, if he
is not thoroughly acquainted with the work he is conducting, or if his
ear lacks keenness, will not perceive the strange liberty thus taken.
Nevertheless, multitudes of such instances occur, and care should be
taken to banish them entirely.

It happens everywhere (I do not say in some orchestras only)--that when
ten, fifteen, or twenty violinists have to play the same part in unison,
that they do not count the bars' rest; each, from idleness, relying on
the others doing it. Whence it follows that scarcely half of them come
in again at the right moment; while the rest still hold their instrument
under their left arm, and look about them. Thus the point is greatly
weakened, if not entirely missed. I invoke the attention and vigor of
orchestral conductors to this insufferable habit. It is, however, so
rooted that they will only ensure its extirpation by making a large
number of violinists amenable for the fault of a single player; by
inflicting a fine, for example, upon a whole row, if one of them misses
coming in. Even were this fine no more than half-a-crown, I will answer
for it that each of the violinists would count his rests, and keep watch
that his neighbors did the same, since it might be inflicted five or six
times upon the same individuals in the course of one performance.

An orchestra, the instruments of which are not in tune individually, and
with each other, is a monstrosity; the conductor, therefore, should take
the greatest care that the musicians tune accurately. But this operation
should not be performed in presence of the public; and, moreover, every
instrumental noise--every kind of preluding between the acts--constitutes
a real offence to all civilized auditors. The bad training of an
orchestra, and its musical mediocrity is to be inferred from the
impertinent noise it makes during the periods of quiet at an Opera or
Concert.

It is also imperative for a conductor not to allow clarinet-players to
use always the same instrument (the clarinet in _B♭_), without regard to
the author's indications; just as if the different clarinets--those in
_D_ and _A_, particularly--had not a special character of their own, of
which the intelligent composer knows the exact value; and as if the
clarinet in _A_ had not moreover a low semitone more than the clarinet in
_B♭_--, the C♯, of excellent effect, [Illustration] produced by the E,
[Illustration] which E gives only the D, [Illustration] on the clarinet
in _B♭_.

A habit as vicious, and still more baneful, has crept into many
orchestras since the introduction of horns with cylinders and pistons:
it is that of playing _in open sounds_; by means of the new mechanism
adapted to the instrument, those notes intended by the composer to be
produced _in closed sounds_, by means of the right hand within the bell.
Moreover, the horn-players nowadays, on account of the facility afforded
by the pistons or cylinders for putting their instrument into different
keys, use only the _horn in F_ whatever may be the key indicated by the
author. This custom gives rise to a host of inconveniences, from which
the conductor should use all his efforts to preserve the works of
composers _who know how to write_.

He should also set his face against the economical fashion adopted by
certain theatres--called lyric--of causing the cymbals and the long drum
to be played by the same performer. The sound of the cymbals when attached
to the drum--as they must be to render this economy feasible--is an
ignoble noise, fit only for bands at tea-gardens. This custom, moreover,
leads mediocre composers into the habit of never employing one of these
instruments without the other, and considering their use as solely
confined to forcibly marking the accented parts of the bar. This is an
idea fruitful in noisy platitudes; and one that has brought upon us the
ridiculous excesses beneath which, if a stop be not put to them,
dramatic music will sooner or later sink.

I conclude by expressing sincere regret at beholding choral and
orchestral studies still so badly organized. Everywhere, for grand
choral and instrumental compositions, the system of rehearsals in the
mass is maintained. They make all the chorus-singers study at once,
on the one hand; and all the instrumentalists at once, on the other.
Deplorable errors, innumerable mistakes, are thus committed--particularly
in the intermediate parts--errors which the chorus-master and the
conductor do not perceive. Once established, these errors degenerate
into habits, and become part and parcel of the execution.

The hapless chorus-singers, moreover, are by far the worst treated of
all the performers during their studies, such as they are. Instead of
giving them _a good conductor_, knowing the times of the different
movements accurately, and proficient in the art of singing, to beat the
time, and make critical observations: _a good pianist_, playing _from a
well-arranged pianoforte score_, upon _a good piano_; and a _violinist_,
to play in unison or in octave with the voices as each part is learned
alone--instead of these three _indispensable artists_, they commit them
(in two-thirds of the lyric theatres of Europe) to the superintendence
of a single man, who has no more idea of the art of conducting than of
that of singing, who is generally a poor musician, selected from among
the worst pianists to be found, or who cannot play the pianoforte at
all--some old superannuated individual, who, seated before a battered
out-of-tune instrument, tries to decipher a dislocated score which he
does not know, strikes false chords major, when they are minor, or
vice-versa, and under the pretext of conducting and of accompanying by
himself, employs his right hand in setting the chorus-singers wrong in
their time, and his left hand in setting them wrong in their tune.

One might believe one's self in the Dark Ages, on witnessing such an
exhibition of Gothish economy.

A faithful, well-colored, clever interpretation of a modern work, even
when confided to artists of a higher order, can only be obtained, I
firmly believe, by partial rehearsals. Each part of a chorus should be
studied singly until it is thoroughly known, before combining it with
the others. The same step should be taken with regard to the orchestra,
for a symphony at all complicated. The violins should first be practised
alone; the violas and basses by themselves; the wooden wind instruments
(with a small band of stringed instruments, to fill in the rests, and
accustom the wind instruments to the points of re-entrance) and the
brass instruments the same; and very often it is necessary to practise
the instruments of percussion alone; and lastly, the harps, if they be
numerous. The studies in combination are then far more profitable, and
more rapid; and there is then good hope of attaining fidelity of
interpretation, now, alas, but too rare.

The performances obtained by the old method of study are merely
_approaches_ to achievement; beneath which so very many masterpieces
have succumbed. The superintending conductor, after the butchering of a
master, none the less serenely lays down his stick with a satisfied
smile; and if some few misgivings remain with him as to the mode in
which he has fulfilled his task, should no one venture at the close to
dispute its accomplishment, he murmurs aside: "Bah! væ victis!"

                                                 HECTOR BERLIOZ.




[ Transcriber's Note:

  The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first
  line is the original line, the second the corrected one.

them by the sudden appearance of the unexcepted rhythm, contradicted
them by the sudden appearance of the unexpected rhythm, contradicted

conduct may conduct a considerable number of performers alone, all
conductor may conduct a considerable number of performers alone, all

eyes then being able to look towards him. Neverthless, the employment
eyes then being able to look towards him. Nevertheless, the employment

violas, in the middle, between the two groups of violins; the flutes
violas, in the middle, between the two groups of violins; the flutes,

superadded to the value of the first bar. The result of this is the
super-added to the value of the first bar. The result of this is the

with each other, is a monstrosity; the conductor, therfore, should take
with each other, is a monstrosity; the conductor, therefore, should take
]





End of Project Gutenberg's The Orchestral Conductor, by Hector Berlioz