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Gustav Holst 1874–1934

by Edwin Evans

Of the three great English musicians who have passed away this year, Holst was the one who stood nearest to the heart of English musical life. With advancing years Elgar had gradually withdrawn from it into the secluded intimacy of a few personal friends. Delius had spent little time in the country of his birth, and for several years illness had made of him a dimly perceived half-legendary figure beyond our world. But Holst, to the end, was in the closest touch with our musical life. He had a deeper interest than most composers in the work of others, and was constantly to be seen at concerts where new works, British or foreign, were being performed. And he was a good listener, too. He was not one to dismiss a work casually or contemptuously because something in it conflicted with his musical principles. His opinions, clearly but not aggressively expressed, revealed an acute mind of the crossbench type, not easily swayed to extremes in either direction, not unduly eager to arrive at instantaneous conclusions, but anxious not to reject anything of real value. If there appeared to him room for doubt he did not hesitate to say so, which was always a refreshing change after listening to those who appear to enjoy life-long immunity from all ‘possible doubt whatever.’ There was not the slightest sign of his becoming immured in his own work, as happens to so many creative artists. Possibly his enthusiasm as a teacher preserved him, for in that capacity he was always far more interested in what he could coax out of a pupil than in what he could instil into one. The attitude of mind would be the same: more intent on what he could get out of the music than on applying his own norm – and that is a rare attitude among musicians. Combined with his frankness it made his conversation extraordinarily stimulating.

The tributes that followed upon his death have passed in review the outstanding events of his life. They are stated in fuller detail in an article which Mr. Richard Capell contributed to the Musical Times in December, 1926, and January, 1927, under the heading ‘Notes for a Biography.’ Mr. Capell opens with a detailed account of his descent from Matthias von Holst, a musician who settled in England in 1807. As both his father and grandfather contracted English marriages the Scandinavian strain was not prominent in his heredity, but it is tempting to attribute to it Holst’s early enthusiasm for the English traditions and all that appertains to it, for at the time when this began to assert itself it would have been more characteristic of a pure-bred typical Englishman to look abroad for musical treasure. The ease with which these islands absorb and assimilate immigrants within a generation or two has often come under the notice of foreign observers. What is less often remarked is that their immediate descendants are often plus royalistes que le roi. That, however, may be less relevant than the fact that the Holsts have been musicians for four generations, Imogen Holst representing the fifth. If heredity counts, that rather than the racial factor is the important point.

My own acquaintance with Holst goes back to 1902–3, when I published my first series of articles on ‘Modern British Composers’ in the Musical Standard. Dr. Vaughan Williams told me of a young composer who had been a fellow student with him at the Royal College of Music, and whose work I should find interesting. I hastened to act on the hint, and followed his career step by step. It was not, however, until 1919 that the opportunity presented itself of describing his work in detail. The Editor of this journal having invited me to write a new and more extended series of articles on ‘Modern British Composers,’ I naturally included one on Holst, which ran through the three issues of October, November, and December, 1919, and described the composer’s development up to ‘The Planets’ and ‘The Hymn of Jesus.’ His next important work was the opera ‘The Perfect Fool,’ on which he had been engaged for many years, and which was completed in 1921. (It was produced at Covent Garden by the B.N.O.C., May 14, 1923.) On this also I contributed an article to the Musical Times of June, 1923. I mention these articles for the convenience of the reader. As they were extensive, and copiously provided with musical quotations, it seems unnecessary to go back over the ground they cover. ‘The Planets’ form a landmark. Though nothing could be more English than the great tune in ‘Jupiter,’ it is on the whole in this work that Holst cane nearest to being a ‘good European,’ an eclectic with an international vocabulary. That, I believe, is what underlies the criticism which was levelled at the work after its first successes were over – criticism which claimed to find in it a compendium of recent musical history. A case could be made out that Holst yielded here and there to the eclecticism often manifested in his conversation; but why not? In a work so spacious as ‘The Planets’ there was ample room for him to deploy more then one aspect of his musical physiognomy, and if some passages appear eclectic there is plenty of the real Holst to offset them. Moreover, did he not write immediately afterwards ‘The Hymn of Jesus,’ which is in many ways the most personal of his mature works?

There was a sequel to ‘The Perfect Fool’ taking the form of a Fugal Overture which, though having no organic connection with the opera, came to be prefaced to it in performance. With it may be coupled, as representing the same trend of thought, a Fugal Concerto for flute, oboe and strings. These two works, dating from 1922–23, indicate a new preoccupation. Throughout his career Holst was always essentially a practical craftsman. The mysticism that showed itself in the Sanskrit period and in ‘The Hymn of Jesus’ was purely meditative. When confronted with music-paper there was nothing speculative about his work. He knew so well what he was doing that it was almost a misnomer to call him adventurous despite the ‘pioneer’ character of so much of his work. But about this time he began to think more closely in terms of linear counterpoint. Whether it was a reaction against the huge slabs of colour employed in ‘The Planets,’ or a desire for counterpoint of closer weaving than that which ‘Servitri’ was such a splendid example, or whether he was simply experiencing a kind of response to the wave of neo-classicism and the ‘back to counterpoint’ movement of the Continent, are questions I should not care to answer. If the motive was any or all of these, the manner of realising it was characteristic. The Fugal Concerto may be neo-classic, but it is essentially Holst in anew mood, or, preferably, off on a new tack.

It is at this point that occurred the accident which undermined his health. In February, 1923, at Reading, he fell from the platform and sustained concussion. In spite of this he fulfilled his engagement at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor; but the following year he found his health seriously impaired and was compelled to throw up all teaching and other activities, save those that could be continued quietly at home. Thus in 1924 he wrote two important works – the Choral Symphony and the short opera ‘At the Boar’s Head,’ which were the subjects of analytical articles by Harvey Grace in the Musical Times of October and April, 1925, respectively (the works having meanwhile been issued in the reversed order of their composition). I should not care to add to the expositions given there, but the fact that neither of these works has met with the success Harvey grace anticipated calls for a few words of comment. They have been called experimental because one employs the chorus as one of the integral elements of a symphony (not a supplementary feature as it is in most so-called choral symphonies), and the other is a skilfully contrived mosaic of folk-tunes (which I should like, if I dared, to call a ‘quodlibet on a grand scale’). Personally I believe that their tepid reception, as compared with that accorded to others of Holst’s works, is due in a much greater degree to the fact that in neither case has the text anything to gain from being wedded to music. The sheer phonetic beauty of Keat’s verse is music in itself, and, though there is not the same reason for eschewing Shakespeare, his comedy scenes move at such a pace that music tends to hamper them. If shortcomings there be in these two works, they are not musical, nor practical in the technical sense, but purely aesthetic. In the greater part of the Choral Symphony Holst was painting the lily. Some of the painting is very beautiful, but the lily is better without it. The Scherzo is the movement that best justifies itself, and many have suggested that this is due to the conciseness of the form that holds it together. But if they will read again the two poems used for it they will find that Keats in this mood does not strive for the euphony that is in the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ He is in a different mood, in which phonetic beauty is not the first consideration. In fact, some of the lines are, phonetically speaking, almost ugly. Hence music had something to offer them, and the movement is the most successful of the whole symphony. As for ‘At the Boar’s Head,’ it is a triumph of ingenuity, and an exquisite little score; but Holst trusted too much to the theatrical technique of operatic artists. I seem to remember Richard Capell writing of the first performance that it would never realise Holst’s intentions until it came to be performed by a first-rate company of Shakespearian actors who could sing. Actors who can sing may not be quite as singers who can act, but they are rare enough for Mr. Capell’s suggestion to appear visionary. I believe that this ‘musical interlude,’ as the composer calls it (presumably on the precedent of the Italian intermezzi), could be performed perfectly, and if it were it would convince everyone that Holst, as usual, knew what he was about. But such a performance would demand such ideal conditions and such prolonged and disinterested devotion on the part of all concerned that I am afraid it will not take place this side of the millennium. But stay! Have we not Mr. John Christie, of Glyndebourne? There is the man who, if he had a mind to it, could give us ‘At the Boar’s Head’ as Holst would have wished. The opera house he has built would be an ideal frame for it, and the acoustical conditions would ensure its being heard, which it was not at the performance I attended.

My opinion of these two works must be regarded as purely personal. The doubtful factors in each being non-musical, one would have to acquire intimate experience in their presentation to say definitely whether their present neglect is likely to prove permanent. The score tells one only of their musical quality, which is as high as one would expect from Holst. If I am not so sure of the choral ballet, ‘The Golden Goose,’ it is again on personal grounds, the subject being one in which I found it difficult to become absorbed. It is not that I reject the notion of the folk-dance ballet. On the contrary, when the right choreographer presents himself I can imagine him doing as much with our country dances as has been done in a different way with those of Spain, Hungary, or Russia. But the conception will have to be robust, and that of ‘The Golden Goose’ was not. So much was I affected by this impression that perhaps I did less than justice to Holst’s music. That is why I make the reservation that it is a personal view. Of his other ballet, ‘The Lure,’ I know nothing, nor have I heard the setting of Vaughan’s poem ‘The Evening Watch,’ first performed at the Gloucester Festival of 1925. There is, however, one more work of this period on which I should like to touch, although the composer would appear to have discarded it, since he has allotted the same opus number to another work. Op. 44 was originally a Terzetto for flute, oboe, and viola. That number is now attached to a set of part-songs for female voices and strings, to words by Robert Bridges, one of which is the beautiful ‘Angel spirits of sleep.’

When he was composing the Terzetto, Holst wrote me that he was then engaged upon something that was either chamber music or rubbish, and time alone could decide which. I sincerely trust he has not taken the decision out of time’s hands, for the little work is full of interest. The trend of thought which led to the Fugal Concerto had carried him onwards towards that form of polytonality which is a logical extension of fugal principles. If I may quote myself: ‘In principle every canonic comes at an interval other than the octave (or unison), and every fugal answer, constituted tentatives towards bitonality; and the comprises effected in the intervals of a canon, or the transient modulations in its progress, and the substitution of a tonal answer for the real answer to a fugal subject, were so many concessions made by composers because the time was not yet ripe for contrapuntal intransigence.’ (‘Cobbett’s Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music,’ article on Atonality and Polytonality) Holst never displayed that intransigence, as has, for instance, Milhaud in his Chamber Symphonies. In this Terzetto he appears, in fact, to have been striving for a new compromise. He uses several keys simultaneously, but whereas Milhaud’s intention is clearly that they shall impinge dissonantly one upon another and create a definite impression of clashing tonalities, Holst’s is to reconcile them by ingenious enharmonic devices. My article on Holst in Cobbett’s Cyclopedic Review gives three quotations which illustrate my meaning, and an even more striking example of enharmonic reconciliation is cited in the article on ‘Atonality and Polytonality.’ The importance of the Terzetto is more symptomatic than actual. It is a pleasant little work, the virtuosity of which is scarcely realised until one examines the score. Throughout the first movement and part of the second the flute part is written in A, the oboe in A flat, and the viola in C. Afterwards the flute is in E, the oboe in D flat, and the viola in E flat. It will be observed that not only are the keys changed, but the relations between them; but the main purpose of Holst’s ingenuity is to conceal itself, which, so far as the ear is concerned, it does most effectively. The real interest of the work lies, however, less in its ingenuity than in the evidence it supplies of the direction in which the composer’s musical thought was developing.

In referring to these recent works of Holst I have used the expression ‘linear’ which, after gaining currency in Germany, has been adopted in other countries to express the concept of non-harmonic counterpoint. Strictly speaking it is not correctly applied. In one sense Holst’s music, and particularly his vocal music, has always been linear, and his efforts at reconciliation in polytonality show that he did not intend it to become linear in the modern German sense, in which it does not apply to counterpoint that can be justified harmonically. In fact I used the term, for want of a better, to indicate a new departure in Holst’s technical methods. At this stage he had not definitely struck out in the new direction, for the part-songs which superseded the Terzetto as Op. 44 are less venturesome. It is, of course, possible that some were composed at an earlier date, but scarcely all of them. Apart from the one mentioned above there is special interest in the ingenious treatment of ‘When first we met,’ with the augmentation in the alto part.

It is in ‘Egdon Heath’ that the two methods meet and prove to be, not antithetical, but complementary. The score bears a quotation from ‘The Return of the Native’: ‘A place perfectly accordant with man’s nature – neither ghastly, hateful nor ugly; neither commonplace, unmeaning, nor tame, but like man, slighted and enduring, and withal singularly colossal, and mysterious in its swarthy monotony.’ Is it stretching a point to conjecture that the choice of this pre-eminently static subject and Holst’s new horizontalism were intimately and mutually dependent, that each was penetrated with the other? I have a string feeling that this elusive composition has received less than justice, from myself among others. I have little patience with those who profess inability to arrive at an opinion of a piece of music until they have studied the score. It is the ear, not the eye, that is the arbiter on matters of sound. If there is music that does not disclose its meaning at the first hearing, the reason is generally not a musical one at all, not a matter of sound, but a matter of psychology. Musically ‘Egdon Heath’ is not intricate, but its mood is elusive, remote, and an audience that has spent all the hours of the day in the turmoil of modern life is not attuned to it. This is a work that should be heard again and again if it is to disclose the mysteries that lie beyond its mere notes. But these in themselves are not mysterious. The strange cantilena on the double-basses with which the work opens indicated its musical character. The fact that there is an oboe solo nebulously harmonized on the strings does not impair the general linear trend of its material. Its chromaticism verges on the atonal – there are many passages to which it is difficult to assign a definite tonality. Yet the effect is not vague in the musical sense. It is the emotion that sets the ear guessing. It is one more frequently expressed by painters. One is reminded of those landscaped which at the first glance present a flat, monochrome surface and come to life gradually as the eye probes into them. That is what the ear needed to do with this music; but it has not been given the chance.

The linear preoccupation asserted itself more outspokenly in the Concerto for two violins and orchestra, first performed in April, 1930. In the first movement, a Scherzo, the spirit of the Terzetto shows itself in a duet between the two solo violins, the first playing a 2-4 melody in A mixolydian (A major with G natural) and the second a sprightly 6-8 measure in F. If that appears to some as closely recalling some of Holst’s earlier rhythmic matings, let them turn to the second movement, a Lament, the greater part of which is for the two violins unaccompanied. At first there are no key signatures, but the feeling is distinctly bitonal, particularly in those parts which are in canon, and it is with no surprise that we find the first violin ending the cantilena in G sharp minor over a figure on the second violin which is in E minor and which continues when the orchestra takes up the story. The Variations on a Ground which bring the work to an exhilarating conclusion have the same linear character, though their excursions into bitonality are episodic. This is another work which should be given more frequent hearing.

But the most intimately personal of Holst’s last works is the set of twelve songs, settings of poems by Humbert Wolfe, which made their appearance that same year, and of which the first performance was given by a Miss Dorothy Silk. Here we have a combination of Holst’s best qualities – his unswerving loyalty to his text, the form and inflection of which he preserves intact whilst devising music that is spare but complete, giving just as much as will enhance the poetic values and not an iota more, with the result that each song – even the weaker of them, for they are unequal – presents a wholly admirable unity. Even technically they are full of interest, as Dr. Ernest Walker has shown in analytical review; but it is less their technical aspect that impresses one than the vista they open of a new type of song, capable of infinite variety (for these differ considerably one from another), but with a common denominator in that scrupulous regard for proportion. ‘The Thought’ is poetic declamation, supported by a minimum of harmony. It is the simplest and perhaps the most completely satisfying, but none of them is at all elaborate, though in some instances pianistic figuration may give that appearance in songs of the more rapid type such as ‘Persephone’ and ‘The Floral Bandit,’ of which the former is, and the latter is not, one of my favourites in the set. The first song, ‘The Dream City,’ with its simple but suggestive background, is an earnest of what the listener is to expect, and ‘Things Lovelier,’ which immediately precedes the ‘Envoi,’ reminds him once more that the poet is no caged bird, no bird confined within musical bars, but one to whom metre is as the breath of free song. No poet would declaim his verse, unaccompanied, in the measured gait which is normal to the musician. Always there would be a rubato, an elasticity of time-measures that would give breath to the poem. It is the great merit of these songs that, with the exception of a few passages of more formal character, they appear to take that rubato into consideration, not as a liberty accorded the singer, but as integral to the character of the song. A great deal depends, of course, on the interpretation. It is one more instance in which freedom entails greater responsibility than bondage.

Of the Choral Fantasia composed for the Gloucester Festival of 1931 I am not in a position to write, not having heard a performance, which in choral works I find more necessary than in instrumental music – probably a matter of habit. ‘Hammersmith,’ written first for military band and then for symphonic orchestra, is a clever piece of musical construction on the part of Holst, the craftsman; but although in the Prelude, with its slow moving bass, the composer has given us a glimpse of the river, the Scherzo purporting to depict the crowded Cockney population is somewhat less convincing, at all events to one of his listeners. Mendelssohn is reported to have said of his ‘Fingal’s Cave’ Overture that it smelt less of the sea than of counterpoint. He was wrong, as it happens, but if Holst had made an analogous remark concerning ‘Hammersmith’ I am not sure that I would have contradicted him with the same emphasis. On the other hand, considered as craftsmanship pure and simple, it has distinct merits.

The last composition I have seen is one that he sent me last year with a personal inscription. It consists of two bitonal canons for two voices with pianoforte accompaniment – ‘Evening on the Moselle’ and ‘If ‘twere the time of lilies,’ the poems being taken from Helen Waddell’s ‘Mediaeval Lyrics.’ They are simple illustrations of principles which have been referred to in the foregoing. Milhaud showed long ago that Bach invented bitonality in a canonic passage of his Duetto in F major, and it is really in that sense that these canons are bitonal, but there is a special piquancy in the fact that the second of them is at the interval of the tritone. I suspect that to have been Holst’s reason for sending the canons personally to me without waiting for his publishers to do so. But in doing so he has left me a memento of the long friendship that death has terminated.

Musical Times, July 1934