MacDowell never hesitated, as I have elsewhere said, to adapt some would say “warp” the sonata form to the needs of his poetic purposes. Moreover, he declared his convictions as to the considerations which should govern its employment. “If the composer’s ideas do not imperatively demand treatment in that [the sonata] form,” he has observed “that is, if his first theme is not actually dependent upon his second and side themes for its poetic fulfilment he has not composed a sonata movement, but a potpourri, which the form only aggravates.” There can be little question of the success which has attended his application of this principle to his own performances in this field, nor of the skill and tact with which he has reshaped the form in accordance with his chosen poetic or dramatic scheme.

His four sonatas belong undeniably, though with a variously strict allegiance, to the domain of programme-music. Neither the “Tragica,” the “Eroica,” the “Norse,” nor the “Keltic,” makes its appeal exclusively to the tonal sense. If one looks to these works for the particular kind of gratification which he is accustomed to derive, for example, from a sonata by Brahms (to name the most extreme of contrasts), he will not find it. It is impossible fully to appreciate and enjoy the last page of the “Keltic,” for instance, without some knowledge of the dramatic crisis upon which the musician has built although its beauty and power, as sheer music, are immediately perceptible.

With the exception of the “Tragica,” the poetic substratum of the sonatas has been avowed with more or less particularity. In the “Tragica” his first essay in the form he has vouchsafed only the general indication of his purpose which is declared in the title of the work, though it is known that in composing the music MacDowell was moved by the memory of his grief over the death of his master Raff (it might stand even more appropriately as a commentary on the tragedy of his own life). The tragic note is sounded, with impressive authority and force, in the brief introduction, largo maestoso. The music, from the first, drives to the very heart of the subject: there is neither pose nor bombast in the presentation of the thought; and this attitude is maintained throughout in the ingratiating loveliness of the second subject, in the fierce striving of the middle section, in the noble and sombre slow movement, a largo of profound pathos and dignity, and in the dramatic and impassioned close (the scherzo is, I think, less good). Of this final allegro an exposition has been vouchsafed. While in the preceding movements, it is said, he aimed at expressing tragic details, in the last he has tried to generalise. He wished “to heighten the darkness of tragedy by making it follow closely on the heels of triumph. Therefore, he attempted to make the last movement a steadily progressive triumph, which, at its close, is utterly broken and shattered, thinking that the most poignant tragedy is that of catastrophe in the hour of triumph.... In doing this he has tried to epitomise the whole work.” The meaning of the coda is thus made clear: a climax approached with the utmost pomp and brilliancy, and cut short by a precipitato descent in octaves, fff, ending with a reminiscence of the portentous subject of the introduction. It is a profoundly moving conclusion to a noble work a work which Mr. James Huneker has not extravagantly called “the most marked contribution to solo sonata literature since Brahms’ F-minor piano sonata”; yet it is not so fine a work as any one of the three sonatas which MacDowell afterward wrote. The style evinces, for the first time in his piano music, the striking orchestral character of his thought yet the writing is not, paradoxical as it may seem, unpianistic. The suggestion of orchestral relationships is contained in the massiveness of the harmonic texture, and in the cumulative effect of the climaxes and crescendi. He conveys an impression of extended tone-spaces, of a largeness, complexity, and solidity of structure, which are peculiar to his own music, and which presuppose a rather disdainful view of the limitations of mere strings and hammers; yet it is all playable: its demands are formidable, but not prohibitive.

In 1895 MacDowell published his “Sonata Eroica” (o, and those who had wondered how he could better his performance in the “Tragica” received a fresh demonstration of the extent of his gifts. For these sonatas of his constitute an ascending series, steadily progressive in excellence of substance and workmanship. They are, on the whole, I think it will be determined, his most significant and important contribution to musical art. The “Eroica” bears the motto, “Flos regum Arthuris,” and as a further index to its content MacDowell has given this explanation: “While not exactly programme music," he says, “I had in mind the Arthurian legend when writing this work. The first movement typifies the coming of Arthur. The scherzo was suggested by a picture of Dore showing a knight in the woods surrounded by elves. The third movement was suggested by my idea of Guinevere. That following represents the passing of Arthur.” MacDowell had intended to inscribe the scherzo: “After Dore”; but he finally thought better of this because, as he told Mr. N.J. Corey, “the superscription seemed to single it out too much from the other movements.” Concerning this movement Mr. Corey writes: “The passage which it [the Dore picture] illustrates, may be found in [Tennyson’s] Guinevere, in the story of the little novice, following a few lines after the well known ‘Late, late, so late!’ poem. I always had a little feeling,” continues Mr. Corey, “that the sonata would have been stronger, from a programme standpoint, with this movement omitted that it had perhaps been included largely as a concession to the traditions of sonata form. The fact that no scherzos were included in the two sonatas that followed, strengthened my opinion in regard to this. I questioned him in regard to it later when I saw him in New York, and he replied that it was a matter over which he had pondered considerably, and one which had influenced him in the composition of the last two sonatas, as the insertion of a scherzo in such a scheme did seem something like an interruption, or ‘aside.’”

In this sonata MacDowell has been not only faithful to his text, he has illuminated it. Indeed, I think it would not be extravagant to say that he has given us here the noblest musical incarnation of the Arthurian legend which we have. It is singular, by the way, how frequently one is impelled to use the epithet “noble” in praising MacDowell’s work; in reference to the “Sonata Eroica” it has an emphatic aptness, for nobility is the keynote of this music. If the work, as a whole, has not the dynamic power of the “Tragica,” the weight and gravity of substance, it is both a lovelier and a more lovable work, and it is everywhere more significantly accented. He has written few things more luxuriantly beautiful than the “Guinevere” movement, nothing more elevated and ecstatic than the apotheosis which ends the work. The diction throughout is richer and more variously contrasted than in the earlier work, and his manipulation of the form is more elastic.

Apparent as is the advance of the “Eroica” over its predecessor, the difference between these and the two later sonatas the “Norse” and the “Keltic” is even more marked. The first of these, the “Norse” sonata (o appeared five years after the publication of the “Eroica.” In the interval he had put forth the “Woodland Sketches,” the “Sea Pieces,” and the songs of o and o; and he had, evidently, examined deeply into the resources and potentialities of his art. He had hitherto done nothing quite like these two later sonatas; they are based upon larger and more intricate plans than their predecessors, are more determined and confident in their expression of personality, riper in style and far freer in form: they are, in fact, MacDowell at his most salient and distinguished. He has placed these lines of his own on the first page of the score of the “Norse” (which is dedicated to Grieg):

“Night had fallen on a day of deeds.
The great rafters in the red-ribbed hall
Flashed crimson in the fitful flame
Of smouldering logs;
And from the stealthy shadows
That crept ’round Harald’s throne
Rang out a Skald’s strong voice
With tales of battles won:
Of Gudrun’s love
And Sigurd, Siegmund’s son.”

Here, evidently, is a subject after his own heart, presenting such opportunities as he is at his happiest in improving and he has improved them magnificently. The spaciousness of the plan, the boldness of the drawing, the fulness and intensity of the colour scheme, engage one’s attention at the start. He has indulged almost to its extreme limits his predilection for extended chord formations and for phrases of heroic span as in, for example, almost the whole of the first movement. The pervading quality of the musical thought is of a resistless and passionate virility. It is steeped in the barbaric and splendid atmosphere of the sagas. There are pages of epical breadth and power, passages of elemental vigour and ferocity passages, again, of an exquisite tenderness and poignancy. Of the three movements which the work comprises, the first makes the most lasting impression, although the second (the slow movement) has a haunting subject, which is recalled episodically in the final movement in a passage of unforgettable beauty and character.

With the publication, in 1901, of the “Keltic” sonata (his fourth, o, MacDowell achieved a conclusive demonstration of his capacity as a creative musician of unquestionable importance. Not before had he given so convincing an earnest of the larger aspect of his genius: neither in the three earlier sonatas, in the “Sea Pieces,” nor in the “Indian” suite, had he attained an equal magnitude, an equal scope and significance. Nowhere else in his work are the distinguishing traits of his genius so strikingly disclosed the breadth and reach of imagination, the magnetic vitality, the richness and fervour, the conquering poetic charm. Here you will find a beauty which is as “the beauty of the men that take up spears and die for a name,” no less than “the beauty of the poets that take up harp and sorrow and the wandering road” a harp shaken with a wild and piercing music, a sorrow that is not of to-day, but of a past when dreams were actual and imperishable, and men lived the tales of beauty and of wonder which now are but a discredited and fading memory.

It was a fortunate, if not an inevitable, event, in view of his temperamental affiliations with the Celtic genius, that MacDowell should have been made aware of the suitability for musical treatment of the ancient heroic chronicles of the Gaels, and that he should have gone for his inspiration, in particular, to the legends comprised in the famous Cycle of the Red Branch: that wonderful group of epics which comprises, among other tales, the story of the matchless Deirdre, whose loveliness was such, so say the chroniclers, that “not upon the ridge of earth was there a woman so beautiful,” and the life and adventures and glorious death of the incomparable Cuchullin. These two kindred legends MacDowell has welded into a coherent and satisfying whole; and in a verse with which he prefixes the sonata, he gives this index to its poetic content:

“Who minds now Keltic tales of yore,
Dark Druid rhymes that thrall;
Deirdre’s song, and wizard lore
Of great Cuchullin’s fall.”

At the time of the publication of the sonata he wrote to me as follows concerning it:

“... Here is the sonata, which it is a pleasure to me to offer you as a token of sympathy. I enclose also some lines [of his own verse] anent Cuchullin, which, however, do not entirely fit the music, and which I hope to use in another musical form. They may serve, however, to aid the understanding of the stimmung of the sonata. Cuchullin’s story is in touch with the Deirdre-Naesi tale; and, as with my 3rd Sonata, the music is more a commentary on the subject than an actual depiction of it.”

The “lines anent Cuchullin” I quote below. They do not, as he said, have a parallel in the sonata as a whole; but in the coda of the last movement (of which I shall speak later) he has attempted a commentary on the scene which he here describes:

“Cuchullin fought and fought in vain,
’Gainst faery folk and Druid thrall:
And as the queenly sun swept down.
In royal robes, red gold besown,
With one last lingering glance
He sate himself in lonely state
Against a giant monolith,
To wait Death’s wooing call.
None dared approach the silent shape
That froze to iron majesty,
Save the wan, mad daughters of old Night,
Blind, wandering maidens of the mist,
Whose creeping fingers, cold and white,
Oft by the sluggard dead are kissed.
And yet the monstrous Thing held sway,
No living soul dared say it nay;
When lo! upon its shoulder still,
Unconscious of its potent will,
There perched a preening birdling gray,
A’weary of the dying day;
And all the watchers knew the lore:
Cuchullin was no more.”

To Mr. Corey MacDowell wrote:

“... Even though you are not on intimate terms with Deirdre, Cuchullin, etc., you will easily perceive from the music that something extremely unpleasant is happening. Joking aside, I will confess to a certain fascination the subject has for me. So much so that my ‘motto’ [the original motto the verses which I have quoted above] spread beyond the music; therefore I am going to make a different work of the former, and for the sonata I adopted the modest quatrain that is printed in it.... Like the third, this fourth sonata is more of a ‘bardic’ rhapsody on the subject than an attempt at actual presentation of it, although I have made use of all the suggestion of tone-painting in my power, just as the bard would have reinforced his speech with gesture and facial expression.”

He aimed to make his music, as he says, “more a commentary on the subject than an actual depiction of it”; but the case would be stated more truly, I think, if one were to say that he has penetrated to the heart of the entire body of legends, has imbued himself with their ultimate spirit and significance, and has bodied it forth in his music with splendid veracity and eloquence. He has attempted no mere musical recounting of those romances of the ancient Gaelic world at which he hints in his brief motto. It would be juster to say, rather, that he has recalled in his music the very life and presence of the Gaelic prime that he has “unbound the Island harp.” Above all, he has achieved that “heroic beauty” which, believes Mr. Yeats, has been fading out of the arts since “that decadence we call progress set voluptuous beauty in its place” that heroic beauty which is of the very essence of the imaginative life of the primitive Celts, and which the Celtic “revival” in contemporary letters has so signally failed to revive. For it is, I repeat, the heroic Gaelic world that MacDowell has made to live again in his music: that miraculous world of stupendous passions and aspirations, of bards and heroes and great adventure the world of Cuchullin the Unconquerable, and Laeg, and Queen Meave; of Naesi, and Deirdre the Beautiful, and Fergus, and Connla the Harper, and those kindred figures, lovely or greatly tragical, that are like no other figures in the world’s mythologies.

This sonata marks the consummation of his evolution toward the acme of powerful expression. It is cast in a mould essentially heroic; it has its moods of tenderness, of insistent sweetness, but these are incidental: the governing mood is signified in the tremendous exordium with which the work opens, and which is sustained, with few deviations, throughout the work. Deirdre he has realised exquisitely in his middle movement: that is her image, in all its fragrant loveliness. MacDowell has limned her musically in a manner worthy of comparison with the sumptuous pen-portrait of her in Standish O’Grady’s “Cuculain”: “a woman of wondrous beauty, bright gold her hair, eyes piercing and splendid, tongue full of sweet sounds, her countenance like the colour of snow blended with crimson.”

In the close of the last movement we are justified in seeing a translation of the sublime tradition of Cuchullin’s death. This it is which furnished MacDowell with the theme that he celebrates in the lines of verse which I have quoted above. I believe that he was planning an orchestral setting of this scene; and that, had he lived, we should have had from him a symphonic poem, “Cuchullin.”

The manner of the hero’s death is thus described by Standish O’Grady: “Cuculain sprang forth, but as he sprang, Lewy MacConroi pierced him through the bowels. Then fell the great hero of the Gael. Thereat the sun darkened, and the earth trembled ... when, with a crash, fell that pillar of heroism, and that flame of the warlike valour of Erin was extinguished.... Then Cuculain, raising his eyes, saw thence northwards from the lake a tall pillar-stone, the grave of a warrior slain there in some ancient war. With difficulty he reached it and he leaned awhile against the pillar, for his mind wandered, and he knew nothing for a space. After that he took off his brooch, and removing the torn bratta [girdle], he passed it round the top of the pillar, where there was an indentation in the stone, and passed the ends under his arms and around his breast, tying with languid hands a loose knot, which soon was made fast by the weight of the dying hero; thus they beheld him standing with the drawn sword in his hand, and the rays of the setting sun bright on his panic-striking helmet. So stood Cuculain, even in death-pangs, a terror to his enemies, for a deep spring of stern valour was opened in his soul, and the might of his unfathomable spirit sustained him. Thus perished Cuculain ...”

Superb as this is, it is paralleled by MacDowell’s tone-picture. That, for nobility of conception, for majestic solemnity and pathos, is a musical performance which measures up to the level of superlative achievements.

If there is anything in the literature of the piano since the death of Beethoven which, for combined passion, dignity, breadth of style, weight of momentum, and irresistible plangency of emotion, is comparable to the four sonatas which have been considered here, I do not know of it. And I write these words with a perfectly definite consciousness of all that they may be held to imply.