At an Orchestral Concert

In popular phrase all high-class music is "classical," and all concerts at which such music is played are "classical concerts." Here the word is conceived as the antithesis of "popular," which term is used to designate the ordinary music of the street and music-hall. Elsewhere I have discussed the true meaning of the word and shown its relation to "romantic" in the terminology of musical critics and historians. No harm is done by using both "classical" and "popular" in their common significations, so far as they convey a difference in character between concerts. The highest popular conception of a classical concert is one in which a complete orchestra performs symphonies and extended compositions in allied forms, such as overtures, symphonic poems, and concertos. Change the composition of the instrumental body, by omitting the strings and augmenting the reed and brass choirs, and you have a military band which is best employed in the open air, and whose programmes are generally made up of compositions in the simpler and more easily comprehended forms—dances, marches, fantasias on popular airs, arrangements of operatic excerpts and the like. These, then, are popular concerts in the broadest sense, though it is proper enough to apply the term also to concerts given by a symphonic band when the programme is light in character and aims at more careless diversion than should be sought at a "classical" concert. The latter term, again, is commended to use by the fact that as a rule the music performed at such a concert exemplifies the higher forms in the art, classicism in music being defined as that principle which seeks expression in beauty of form, in a symmetrical ordering of parts and logical sequence, "preferring æsthetic beauty, pure and simple, over emotional content," as I have said in Chapter III.

As the highest type of instrumental music, we take the Symphony. Very rarely indeed is a concert given by an organization like the New York and London Philharmonic Societies, or the Boston and Chicago Orchestras, at which the place of honor in the scheme of pieces is not given to a symphony. Such a concert is for that reason also spoken of popularly as a "Symphony concert," and no confusion would necessarily result from the use of the term even if it so chanced that there was no symphony on the programme. What idea the word symphony conveys to the musically illiterate it would be difficult to tell. I have known a professional writer on musical subjects to express the opinion that a symphony was nothing else than four unrelated compositions for orchestra arranged in a certain sequence for the sake of an agreeable contrast of moods and tempos. It is scarcely necessary to say that the writer in question had a very poor opinion of the Symphony as an Art-form, and believed that it had outlived its usefulness and should be relegated to the limbo of Archaic Things. If he, however, trained in musical history and familiar with musical literature, could see only four unrelated pieces of music in a symphony by Beethoven, we need not marvel that hazy notions touching the nature of the form are prevalent among the untaught public, and that people can be met in concert-rooms to whom such words as "Symphony in C minor," and the printed designations of the different portions of the work—the "movements," as musicians call them—are utterly bewildering.

The word symphony has itself a singularly variegated history. Like many another term in music it was borrowed by the modern world from the ancient Greek. To those who coined it, however, it had a much narrower meaning than to us who use it, with only a conventional change in transliteration, now. By συμφωνια the Greeks simply expressed the concept of agreement, or consonance. Applied to music it meant first such intervals as unisons; then the notion was extended to include consonant harmonies, such as the fifth, fourth, and octave. The study of the ancient theoreticians led the musicians of the Middle Ages to apply the word to harmony in general. Then in some inexplicable fashion it came to stand as a generic term for instrumental compositions such as toccatas, sonatas, etc. Its name was given to one of the precursors of the pianoforte, and in Germany in the sixteenth century the word Symphoney came to mean a town band. In the last century and the beginning of this the term was used to designate an instrumental introduction to a composition for voices, such as a song or chorus, as also an instrumental piece introduced in a choral work. The form, that is the extent and structure of the composition, had nothing to do with the designation, as we see from the Italian shepherds' tune which Handel set for strings in "The Messiah;" he called it simply pifa, but his publishers called it a "Pastoral symphony," and as such we still know it. It was about the middle of the eighteenth century that the present signification became crystallized in the word, and since the symphonies of Haydn, in which the form first reached perfection, are still to be heard in our concert-rooms, it may be said that all the masterpieces of symphonic literature are current.

I have already hinted at the fact that there is an intimate relationship between the compositions usually heard at a classical concert. Symphonies, symphonic poems, concertos for solo instruments and orchestra, as well as the various forms of chamber music, such as trios, quartets, and quintets for strings, or pianoforte and strings, are but different expressions of the idea which is best summed up in the word sonata. What musicians call the "sonata form" lies at the bottom of them all—even those which seem to consist of a single piece, like the symphonic poem and overture. Provided it follow, not of necessity slavishly, but in its general structure, a certain scheme which was slowly developed by the geniuses who became the law-givers of the art, a composite or cyclical composition (that is, one composed of a number of parts, or movements) is, as the case may be, a symphony, concerto, or sonata. It is a sonata if it be written for a solo instrument like the pianoforte or organ, or for one like the violin or clarinet, with pianoforte accompaniment. If the accompaniment be written for orchestra, it is called a concerto. A sonata written for an orchestra is a symphony. The nature of the interpreting medium naturally determines the exposition of the form, but all the essential attributes can be learned from a study of the symphony, which because of the dignity and eloquence of its apparatus admits of a wider scope than its allies, and must be accepted as the highest type, not merely of the sonata, but of the instrumental art. It will be necessary presently to point out the more important modifications which compositions of this character have undergone in the development of music, but the ends of clearness will be best subserved if the study be conducted on fundamental lines.

The symphony then, as a rule, is a composition for orchestra made up of four parts, or movements, which are not only related to each other by a bond of sympathy established by the keys chosen but also by their emotional contents. Without this higher bond the unity of the work would be merely mechanical, like the unity accomplished by sameness of key in the old-fashioned suite. The bond of key-relationship, though no longer so obvious as once it was, is yet readily discovered by a musician; the spiritual bond is more elusive, and presents itself for recognition to the imagination and the feelings of the listener. Nevertheless, it is an element in every truly great symphony, and I have already indicated how it may sometimes become patent to the ear alone, so it be intelligently employed, and enjoy the co-operation of memory.

It is the first movement of a symphony which embodies the structural scheme called the "sonata form." It has a triple division, and Mr. Edward Dannreuther has aptly defined it as "the triune symmetry of exposition, illustration, and repetition." In the first division the composer introduces the melodies which he has chosen to be the thematic material of the movement, and to fix the character of the entire work; he presents it for identification. The themes are two, and their exposition generally exemplifies the principle of key-relationship, which was the basis of my analysis of a simple folk tune in Chapter II. In the case of the best symphonists the principal and second subjects disclose a contrast, not violent but yet distinct, in mood or character. If the first is rhythmically energetic and assertive—masculine, let me say—the second will be more sedate, more gentle in utterance—feminine. After the two subjects have been introduced along with some subsidiary phrases and passages which the composer uses to bind them together and modulate from one key into another, the entire division is repeated. That is the rule, but it is now as often "honored in the breach" as in the observance, some conductors not even hesitating to ignore the repeat marks in Beethoven's scores.

The second division is now taken up. In it the composer exploits his learning and fancy in developing his thematic material. He is now entirely free to send it through long chains of keys, to vary the harmonies, rhythms, and instrumentation, to take a single pregnant motive and work it out with all the ingenuity he can muster; to force it up "steep-up spouts" of passion and let it whirl in the surge, or plunge it into "steep-down gulfs of liquid fire," and consume its own heart. Technically this part is called the "free fantasia" in English, and the Durchführung—"working out"—in German. I mention the terms because they sometimes occur in criticisms and analyses. It is in this division that the genius of a composer has fullest play, and there is no greater pleasure, no more delightful excitement, for the symphony-lover than to follow the luminous fancy of Beethoven through his free fantasias. The third division is devoted to a repetition, with modifications, of the first division and the addition of a close.

First movements are quick and energetic, and frequently full of dramatic fire. In them the psychological story is begun which is to be developed in the remaining chapters of the work—its sorrows, hopes, prayers, or communings in the slow movement; its madness or merriment in the scherzo; its outcome, triumphant or tragic, in the finale. Sometimes the first movement is preceded by a slow introduction, intended to prepare the mind of the listener for the proclamation which shall come with the Allegro. The key of the principal subject is set down as the key of the symphony, and unless the composer gives his work a special title for the purpose of providing a hint as to its poetical contents ("Eroica," "Pastoral," "Faust," "In the Forest," "Lenore," "Pathétique," etc.), or to characterize its style ("Scotch," "Italian," "Irish," "Welsh," "Scandinavian," "From the New World"), it is known only by its key, or the number of the work (opus) in the composer's list. Therefore we have Mozart's Symphony "in G minor," Beethoven's "in A major," Schumann's "in C," Brahms's "in F," and so on.

The second movement in the symphonic scheme is the slow movement. Musicians frequently call it the Adagio, for convenience, though the tempi of slow movements ranges from extremely slow (Largo) to the border line of fast, as in the case of the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony of Beethoven. The mood of the slow movement is frequently sombre, and its instrumental coloring dark; but it may also be consolatory, contemplative, restful, religiously uplifting. The writing is preferably in a broadly sustained style, the effect being that of an exalted hymn, and this has led to a predilection for a theme and variations as the mould in which to cast the movement. The slow movements of Beethoven's Fifth and Ninth Symphonies are made up of variations.

The Scherzo is, as the term implies, the playful, jocose movement of a symphony, but in the case of sublime geniuses like Beethoven and Schumann, who blend profound melancholy with wild humor, the playfulness is sometimes of a kind which invites us to thoughtfulness instead of merriment. This is true also of some Russian composers, whose scherzos have the desperate gayety which speaks from the music of a sad people whose merrymaking is not a spontaneous expression of exuberant spirits but a striving after self-forgetfulness. The Scherzo is the successor of the Minuet, whose rhythm and form served the composers down to Beethoven. It was he who substituted the Scherzo, which retains the chief formal characteristics of the courtly old dance in being in triple time and having a second part called the Trio. With the change there came an increase in speed, but it ought to be remembered that the symphonic minuet was quicker than the dance of the same name. A tendency toward exaggeration, which is patent among modern conductors, is threatening to rob the symphonic minuet of the vivacity which gave it its place in the scheme of the symphony. The entrance of the Trio is marked by the introduction of a new idea (a second minuet) which is more sententious than the first part, and sometimes in another key, the commonest change being from minor to major.

The final movement, technically the Finale, is another piece of large dimensions in which the psychological drama which plays through the four acts of the symphony is brought to a conclusion. Once the purpose of the Finale was but to bring the symphony to a merry end, but as the expressive capacity of music has been widened, and mere play with æsthetic forms has given place to attempts to convey sentiments and feelings, the purposes of the last movement have been greatly extended and varied. As a rule the form chosen for the Finale is that called the Rondo. Borrowed from an artificial verse-form (the French Rondeau), this species of composition illustrates the peculiarity of that form in the reiteration of a strophe ever and anon after a new theme or episode has been exploited. In modern society verse, which has grown out of an ambition to imitate the ingenious form invented by mediæval poets, we have the Triolet, which may be said to be a rondeau in miniature. I choose one of Mr. H.C. Bunner's dainty creations to illustrate the musical refrain characteristic of the rondo form because of its compactness. Here it is:

"A pitcher of mignonette In a tenement's highest casement: Queer sort of a flower-pot—yet That pitcher of mignonette Is a garden in heaven set, To the little sick child in the basement— The pitcher of mignonette, In the tenement's highest casement."

If now the first two lines of this poem, which compose its refrain, be permitted to stand as the principal theme of a musical piece, we have in Mr. Bunner's triolet a rondo in nuce. There is in it a threefold exposition of the theme alternating with episodic matter. Another form for the finale is that of the first movement (the Sonata form), and still another, the theme and variations. Beethoven chose the latter for his "Eroica," and the choral close of his Ninth, Dvořák, for his symphony in G major, and Brahms for his in E minor.

I am attempting nothing more than a characterization of the symphony, and the forms with which I associated it at the outset, which shall help the untrained listener to comprehend them as unities despite the fact that to the careless hearer they present themselves as groups of pieces each one of which is complete in itself and has no connection with its fellows. The desire of composers to have their symphonies accepted as unities instead of compages of unrelated pieces has led to the adoption of various devices designed to force the bond of union upon the attention of the hearer. Thus Beethoven in his symphony in C minor not only connects the third and fourth movements but also introduces a reminiscence of the former into the midst of the latter; Berlioz in his "Symphonie Fantastique," which is written to what may be called a dramatic scheme, makes use of a melody which he calls "l'idée fixe," and has it recur in each of the four movements as an episode. This, however, is frankly a symphony with programme, and ought not to be treated as a modification of the pure form. Dvořák in his symphony entitled "From the New World," in which he has striven to give expression to the American spirit, quotes the first period of his principal subject in all the subsequent movements, and then sententiously recapitulates the principal themes of the first, second, and third movements in the finale; and this without a sign of the dramatic purpose confessed by Berlioz.

In the last movement of his Ninth Symphony Beethoven calls voices to the aid of his instruments. It was a daring innovation, as it seemed to disrupt the form, and we know from the story of the work how long he hunted for the connecting link, which finally he found in the instrumental recitative. Having hit upon the device, he summons each of the preceding movements, which are purely instrumental, into the presence of his augmented forces and dismisses it as inadequate to the proclamation which the symphony was to make. The double-basses and solo barytone are the spokesmen for the tuneful host. He thus achieves the end of connecting the Allegro, Scherzo, and Adagio with each other, and all with the Finale, and at the same time points out what it is that he wishes us to recognize as the inspiration of the whole; but here, again, the means appear to be somewhat extraneous. Schumann's example, however, in abolishing the pauses between the movements of the symphony in D minor, and having melodic material common to all the movements, is a plea for appreciation which cannot be misunderstood. Before Schumann Mendelssohn intended that his "Scotch" symphony should be performed without pauses between the movements, but his wishes have been ignored by the conductors, I fancy because he having neglected to knit the movements together by community of ideas, they can see no valid reason for the abolition of the conventional resting-places.

Beethoven's augmentation of the symphonic forces by employing voices has been followed by Berlioz in his "Romeo and Juliet," which, though called a "dramatic symphony," is a mixture of symphony, cantata, and opera; Mendelssohn in his "Hymn of Praise" (which is also a composite work and has a composite title—"Symphony Cantata"), and Liszt in his "Faust" symphony, in the finale of which we meet a solo tenor and chorus of men's voices who sing Goethe's Chorus mysticus.

A number of other experiments have been made, the effectiveness of which has been conceded in individual instances, but which have failed permanently to affect the symphonic form. Schumann has two trios in his symphony in B-flat, and his E-flat, the so-called "Rhenish," has five movements instead of four, there being two slow movements, one in moderate tempo (Nicht schnell), and the other in slow (Feierlich). In this symphony, also, Schumann exercises the license which has been recognized since Beethoven's time, of changing the places in the scheme of the second and third movements, giving the second place to the jocose division instead of the slow. Beethoven's "Pastoral" has also five movements, unless one chooses to take the storm which interrupts the "Merry-making of the Country Folk" as standing toward the last movement as an introduction, as, indeed, it does in the composer's idyllic scheme. Certain it is, Sir George Grove to the contrary notwithstanding, that the sense of a disturbance of the symphonic plan is not so vivid at a performance of the "Pastoral" as at one of Schumann's "Rhenish," in which either the third movement or the so-called "Cathedral Scene" is most distinctly an interloper.

Usually it is deference to the demands of a "programme" that influences composers in extending the formal boundaries of a symphony, and when this is done the result is frequently a work which can only be called a symphony by courtesy. M. Saint-Saëns, however, attempted an original excursion in his symphony in C minor, without any discoverable, or at least confessed, programmatic idea. He laid the work out in two grand divisions, so as to have but one pause. Nevertheless in each division we can recognize, though as through a haze, the outlines of the familiar symphonic movements. In the first part, buried under a sequence of time designations like this: Adagio—Allegro moderato—Poco adagio, we discover the customary first and second movements, the former preceded by a slow introduction; in the second division we find this arrangement: Allegro moderato—Presto—Maestoso—Allegro, this multiplicity of terms affording only a sort of disguise for the regulation scherzo and finale, with a cropping out of reminiscences from the first part which have the obvious purpose to impress upon the hearer that the symphony is an organic whole. M. Saint-Saëns has also introduced the organ and a pianoforte with two players into the instrumental apparatus.

Three characteristics may be said to distinguish the Symphonic Poem, which in the view of the extremists who follow the lead of Liszt is the logical outcome of the symphony and the only expression of its æsthetic principles consonant with modern thought and feeling. First, it is programmatic—that is, it is based upon a poetical idea, a sequence of incidents, or of soul-states, to which a clew is given either by the title or a motto; second, it is compacted in form to a single movement, though as a rule the changing phases delineated in the separate movements of the symphony are also to be found in the divisions of the work marked by changes in tempo, key, and character; third, the work generally has a principal subject of such plasticity that the composer can body forth a varied content by presenting it in a number of transformations.

The last two characteristics Liszt has carried over into his pianoforte concerto in E-flat. This has four distinct movements (viz.: I. Allegro maestoso; II. Quasi adagio; III. Allegretto vivace, scherzando; IV. Allegro marziale animato), but they are fused into a continuous whole, throughout which the principal thought of the work, the stupendously energetic phrase which the orchestra proclaims at the outset, is presented in various forms to make it express a great variety of moods and yet give unity to the concerto. "Thus, by means of this metamorphosis," says Mr. Edward Dannreuther, "the poetic unity of the whole musical tissue is made apparent, spite of very great diversity of details; and Coleridge's attempt at a definition of poetic unity—unity in multiety—is carried out to the letter."

It will readily be understood that the other cyclical compositions which I have associated with a classic concert, that is, compositions belonging to the category of chamber music, and concertos for solo instruments with orchestral accompaniment, while conforming to the scheme which I have outlined, all have individual characteristics conditioned on the expressive capacity of the apparatus. The modern pianoforte is capable of asserting itself against a full orchestra, and concertos have been written for it in which it is treated as an orchestral integer rather than a solo instrument. In the older conception, the orchestra, though it frequently assumed the privilege of introducing the subject-matter, played a subordinate part to the solo instrument in its development. In violin as well as pianoforte concertos special opportunity is given to the player to exploit his skill and display the solo instrument free from structural restrictions in the cadenza introduced shortly before the close of the first, last, or both movements.

Cadenzas are a relic of a time when the art of improvisation was more generally practised than it is now, and when performers were conceded to have rights beyond the printed page. Solely for their display, it became customary for composers to indicate by a hold

a place where the performer might indulge in a flourish of his own. There is a tradition that Mozart once remarked: "Wherever I smear that thing," indicating a hold, "you can do what you please;" the rule is, however, that the only privilege which the cadenza opens to the player is that of improvising on material drawn from the subjects already developed, and since, also as a rule, composers are generally more eloquent in the treatment of their own ideas than performers, it is seldom that a cadenza contributes to the enjoyment afforded by a work, except to the lovers of technique for technique's sake. I never knew an artist to make a more sensible remark than did M. Ysaye, when on the eve of a memorably beautiful performance of Beethoven's violin concerto, he said: "If I were permitted to consult my own wishes I would put my violin under my arm when I reach the fermate and say: 'Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the cadenza. It is presumptuous in any musician to think that he can have anything to say after Beethoven has finished. With your permission we will consider my cadenza played.'" That Beethoven may himself have had a thought of the same nature is a fair inference from the circumstance that he refused to leave the cadenza in his E-flat pianoforte concerto to the mercy of the virtuosos but wrote it himself.

Concertos for pianoforte or violin are usually written in three movements, of which the first and last follow the symphonic model in respect of elaboration and form, and the second is a brief movement in slow or moderate time, which has the character of an intermezzo. As to the nomenclature of chamber music, it is to be noted that unless connected with a qualifying word or phrase, "Quartet" means a string quartet. When a pianoforte is consorted with strings the work is spoken of as a Pianoforte Trio, Quartet, or Quintet, as the case may be.

The form of the overture is that of the first movement of the sonata, or symphony, omitting the repetition of the first subdivision. Since the original purpose, which gave the overture its name (Ouverture = aperture, opening), was to introduce a drama, either spoken or lyrical, an oratorio, or other choral composition, it became customary for the composers to choose the subjects of the piece from the climacteric moments of the music used in the drama. When done without regard to the rules of construction (as is the case with practically all operetta overtures and Rossini's) the result is not an overture at all, but a pot-pourri, a hotch-potch of jingles. The present beautiful form, in which Beethoven and other composers have shown that it is possible to epitomize an entire drama, took the place of an arbitrary scheme which was wholly aimless, so far as the compositions to which they were attached were concerned.

The earliest fixed form of the overture is preserved to the current lists of to-day by the compositions of Bach and Handel. It is that established by Lully, and is tripartite in form, consisting of a rapid movement, generally a fugue, preceded and followed by a slow movement which is grave and stately in its tread. In its latest phase the overture has yielded up its name in favor of Prelude (German, Vorspiel), Introduction, or Symphonic Prologue. The finest of these, without borrowing their themes from the works which they introduce, but using new matter entirely, seek to fulfil the aim which Gluck set for himself, when, in the preface to "Alceste," he wrote: "I imagined that the overture ought to prepare the audience for the action of the piece, and serve as a kind of argument to it." Concert overtures are compositions designed by the composers to stand as independent pieces instead of for performance in connection with a drama, opera, or oratorio. When, as is frequently the case, the composer, nevertheless, gives them a descriptive title ("Hebrides," "Sakuntala"), their poetical contents are to be sought in the associations aroused by the title. Thus, in the instances cited, "Hebrides" suggests that the overture was designed by Mendelssohn to reflect the mood awakened in him by a visit to the Hebrides, more particularly to Fingal's Cave (wherefore the overture is called the "Fingal's Cave" overture in Germany)—"Sakuntala" invites to a study of Kalidasa's drama of that name as the repository of the sentiments which Goldmark undertook to express in his music.

A form which is variously employed, for solo instruments, small combinations, and full orchestra (though seldom with the complete modern apparatus), is the Serenade. Historically, it is a contemporary of the old suites and the first symphonies, and like them it consists of a group of short pieces, so arranged as to form an agreeable contrast with each other, and yet convey a sense of organic unity. The character of the various parts and their order grew out of the purpose for which the serenade was originated, which was that indicated by the name. In the last century, and earlier, it was no uncommon thing for a lover to bring the tribute of a musical performance to his mistress, and it was not always a "woful ballad" sung to her eyebrow. Frequently musicians were hired, and the tribute took the form of a nocturnal concert. In Shakespeare's "Two Gentlemen of Verona," Proteus, prompting Thurio what to do to win Silvia's love, says:

"Visit by night your lady's chamber window With some sweet concert: to their instruments Tune a deploring dump; the night's dread silence Will well become such sweet complaining grievance."

It was for such purposes that the serenade was invented as an instrumental form. Since they were to play out of doors, Sir Thurio's musicians would have used wind instruments instead of viols, and the oldest serenades are composed for oboes and bassoons. Clarinets and horns were subsequently added, and for such bands Mozart wrote serenades, some of which so closely approach the symphony that they have been published as symphonies. A serenade in the olden time opened very properly with a march, to the strains of which we may imagine the musicians approaching the lady's chamber window. Then came a minuet to prepare her ear for the "deploring dump" which followed, the "dump" of Shakespeare's day, like the "dumka" of ours (with which I am tempted to associate it etymologically), being a mournful piece of music most happily characterized by the poet as a "sweet complaining grievance." Then followed another piece in merry tempo and rhythm, then a second adagio, and the entertainment ended with an allegro, generally in march rhythm, to which we fancy the musicians departing. The order is exemplified in Beethoven's serenade for violin, viola, and violoncello, op. 8, which runs thus: March; Adagio; Minuet; Adagio with episodic Scherzo; Polacca; Andante (variations), the opening march repeated.

The Suite has come back into favor as an orchestral piece, but the term no longer has the fixed significance which once it had. It is now applied to almost any group of short pieces, pleasantly contrasted in rhythm, tempo, and mood, each complete in itself yet disclosing an æsthetic relationship with its fellows. Sometimes old dance forms are used, and sometimes new, such as the polonaise and the waltz. The ballet music, which fills so welcome a place in popular programmes, may be looked upon as such a suite, and the rhythm of the music and the orchestral coloring in them are frequently those peculiar to the dances of the countries in which the story of the opera or drama for which the music was written plays. The ballets therefore afford an excellent opportunity for the study of local color. Thus the ballet music from Massenet's "Cid" is Spanish, from Rubinstein's "Feramors" Oriental, from "Aïda" Egyptian—Oriental rhythms and colorings being those most easily copied by composers.

The other operatic excerpts common to concerts of both classes are either between-acts music, fantasias on operatic airs, or, in the case of Wagner's contributions, portions of his dramas which are so predominantly instrumental that it has been found feasible to incorporate the vocal part with the orchestral. In ballet music from the operas of the last century, some of which has been preserved to the modern concert-room, local color must not be sought. Gluck's Greeks, like Shakespeare's, danced to the rhythms of the seventeenth century. Vestris, whom the people of his time called "The god of the dance," once complained to Gluck that his "Iphigénie en Aulide" did not end with a chaconne, as was the rule. "A chaconne!" cried Gluck; "when did the Greeks ever dance a chaconne?" "Didn't they? Didn't they?" answered Vestris; "so much the worse for the Greeks." There ensued a quarrel. Gluck became incensed, withdrew the opera which was about to be produced, and would have left Paris had not Marie Antoinette come to the rescue. But Vestris got his chaconne.