Music: An Art and a Language Part 1
Music: An Art and a Language.
by Walter Raymond Spalding.
Preface
Although "of the making of books there is no end," this book, on so human a subject as music, we believe should justify itself. A twenty-years' experience in teaching the Appreciation of Music at Harvard University and Radcliffe College has convinced the author that a knowledge of musical grammar and structure does enable us, as the saying is, to get more out of music. This conviction is further strengthened by the statement of numerous students who testify that after a.n.a.lyzing certain standard compositions their att.i.tude towards music has changed and their love for it greatly increased.
In the ill.u.s.trations (published in a Supplementary Volume) no concessions have been made to so-called "popular taste"; people have an instinctive liking for the best when it is fairly put before them.
We are not providing a musical digest, since music requires _active cooperation_ by the hearer, nor are we trying to interpret music in terms of the other arts. Music is itself. For those who may be interested in speculating as to the connection between music and art, numerous books are available--some of them excellent from their point of view.
This book concerns itself with music _as_ music. It is a.s.sumed that, if anyone really loves this art, he is willing and glad to do serious work to quicken his sense of hearing, to broaden his imagination, and to strengthen his memory so that he may become intelligent in appreciation rather than merely absorbed in honeyed sounds. Music is of such power and glory that we should be ready to devote to its study as much time as to a foreign language. In the creed of the music-lover the first and last article is familiarity. When we thoroughly know a composition so that its themes sing in our memory and we feel at home in the structure, the music will speak to us directly, and all books and a.n.a.lytical comments will be of secondary importance--those of the present writer not excepted. Special effort has been made to select ill.u.s.trations of musical worth, and upon these the real emphasis in study should be laid.
The material of the book is based on lectures, often of an informal nature, in the Appreciation Course at Harvard University and lays no claim to original research. The difficulty in establishing points of approach makes it far more baffling to speak or write about music than about the other arts. Music is sufficient unto itself. Endowed with the insight of a Ruskin or a Pater, one may say something worth while about painting. But in music the line between mere statistical a.n.a.lysis and sentimental rhapsody must be drawn with exceeding care.
If the subject matter be clearly presented and the a.n.a.lyses true--allowance being made for honest difference of opinion--every hope will be realized.
The author's grat.i.tude is herewith expressed to Mr. Percy Lee Atherton for his critical revision of the text and to Professor William C.
Heilman for valuable a.s.sistance in selecting and preparing the musical ill.u.s.trations.
W.R.S.
Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts _June_, 1919
CHAPTER I
PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS
In approaching the study of any subject we may fairly expect that this subject shall be defined, although some one has ironically remarked that every definition is a misfortune. Music-lovers, however, will rejoice that their favorite art is spared such a misfortune, for it can not be defined. We know the factors of which music is const.i.tuted, rhythm and sound; and we can trace the historic steps by which methods of presentation and of style have been so perfected that by means of this twofold material the emotions and aspirations of human beings may be expressed and permanently recorded. We realize, and with our inborn equipment can appreciate, the moving power of music; but to define, in the usual sense of the term definition, what music really is, will be forever impossible. The fact indeed that music--like love, electricity and other elemental forces--cannot be defined is its special glory. It is a peculiar, mysterious power;[1] quite in a cla.s.s by itself, although with certain aspects which it shares with the other arts. The writings of all the great poets, such as Milton, Shakespeare, Browning and Whitman, abound in eloquent tributes to the power and influence of music, but it is noticeable that no one attempts to define it. The mystery of music must be approached with reverence and music must be loved for itself with perfect sincerity.
[Footnote 1: For suggestive comments on this point see the essays _Harmonie et Melodie_ by Saint-Saens, Chapters I and II.]
Some insight, however, may be gained into the nature of music by a clear recognition of what it is _not_, and by a comparison with the more definite and familiar arts. Music consists of the intangible and elusive factors of rhythm and sound; in this way differing fundamentally from the concrete static arts such as architecture, sculpture and painting. Furthermore, instrumental music, _i.e._, music freed from a dependence on words, is not an exact language like prose and poetry. It speaks to our feelings and imaginations, as it were by suggestion; reaching for this very reason depths of our being quite beyond the power of mere words. No one can define rhythm except by saying that rhythm, in the sense of motion, is the fundamental fact in the universe and in all life, both physical and human. Everything in the heavens above and in the earth beneath is in ceaseless motion and change; nothing remains the same for two consecutive seconds. Even the component parts of material--such as stone and wood, which we ordinarily speak of as concrete and stationary--are whirling about with ceaseless energy, and often in perfect rhythm. Thus we see how natural and vital is the art of music, for it is inseparably connected with life itself.
As for the other factor, sound is one of the most elemental and mysterious of all physical phenomena.[2] When the air is set in motion by the vibration of certain bodies of wood, metal and other material, we know that sound waves, striking upon the tympanum of the ear, penetrate to the brain and imagination. Sound is a reciprocal phenomenon; for, even if there were systematic activity of vibrating bodies, there could be no sound without some one to hear it.[3] Good musicians are known for their power of keen and discriminating hearing; and the ear,[4] as Saint-Saens says, is the sole avenue of approach to the musical sense. The first ambition for one who would appreciate music should be to cultivate this power of hearing. It is quite possible to be stone-deaf outwardly and yet hear most beautiful sounds within the brain. This was approximately the case with Beethoven after his thirtieth year. On the other hand, many people have a perfect outward apparatus for hearing but nothing is registered within.
[Footnote 2: See Chapter II of Gurney's _Power of Sound_, a book remarkable for its insight.]
[Footnote 3: It is understood that this statement is made in a subjective rather than a purely physical sense. See the _Century Dictionary_ under _Sound_.]
[Footnote 4: Il y a donc, dans l'art des sons, quelque chose qui traverse l'oreille comme un portique, la raison comme un vestibule et qui va plus loin.
HARMONIE ET MELODIE, CHAPTER II.]
Combarieu, the French aesthetician, defines music as "the art of thinking in tones."[5] There is food for thought in this statement, but it seems to leave out one very important factor--namely, the emotional. Every great musical composition reveals a carefully planned and perfect balance between the emotional and intellectual elements. And yet the basic impulse for the creation of music is an emotional one; and, of all the arts, music makes the most direct appeal to the emotions and to those shadowy, but real portions of our being called the imagination and the soul. Emotion is as indispensable to music as love to religion. Just as there can be no really great art without pa.s.sion, so we can not imagine music without all the emotions of mankind: their loves, joys, sorrows, hatreds, ideals and subtle fancies. Music, in fact, is a presentation of emotional experience, fashioned and controlled by an overruling intellectual power.
[Footnote 5: _La musique, ses lois, son evolution_, by Jules Combarieu.]
We can now foresee, though at first dimly, what is to be our line of approach to this mystery. One of the peculiar characteristics of music is that it is both the most natural and least artificial of the arts, and as well the most complicated and subtle. On the one hand it is the most natural and direct, because the materials of which it is const.i.tuted--that is, sound and rhythm--make an instinctive appeal to every normally equipped human being.[6] Every one likes to listen to beautiful sounds merely for their sensuous effect, just as everyone likes to look at the blue sky, the green gra.s.s and the changing hues of a sunset; so the rhythm of music, akin to the human heart-beat and to the ceaseless change and motion, which is the basic fact in all life, appeals at once to our own physical vitality. This fact may be observed at a symphony concert where so many people are wagging their heads, beating time with their hands or even tapping on the floor with their feet; a habit which shows a rudimentary love of music but which for obvious reasons is not to be commended. On the other hand, music is the most complicated of all the arts from the nature of its const.i.tuent parts--intangible, evanescent sounds and rhythms--and from the subtle grammar and structure by which these factors are used as means of personal communication. This grammar of music, _i.e._, its methods of structure and of presentation, has been worked out through centuries of free experimentation on the part of some of the best minds in the world, and thus any great musical composition is an intellectual achievement of high rank. Behind the sensuous factors, sound and rhythm, lies always the personal message of the composer, and if we are to grasp this and to make it our own, we must go with him hand in hand so that the music actually lives again in our minds and imaginations. The practical inference from this dual nature of the art we are considering is clear; everyone can derive a large amount of genuine pleasure and even spiritual exaltation, can feel himself under the influence of a strong tonic force, merely by putting himself in contact with music, by opening his ears and drinking in the sounds and rhythms in their marvellous variety. The all-sufficient reason for the lack of a complete appreciation of music is that so many people stop at this point, _i.e._ for them music is a sensuous art and nothing more. Wagner himself, in fact, is on record in a letter to Liszt as saying, in regard to the appreciation of his operas: "I require nothing from the public but healthy senses and a human heart."
Although this may be particularly true of opera, which is a composite form of art, making so varied an appeal to the partic.i.p.ant that everyone can get something from its picture of life--historical, legendary, even fict.i.tious--as well as from the actors, the costumes and the story, the statement is certainly not applicable to what is called absolute music, where music is disa.s.sociated from the guiding help of words, and expressed by the media of orchestra, string quartet, pianoforte, and various ensemble groups. For in addition to its sensuous appeal, music is a language used as a means of personal expression; sometimes in the nature of an intimate soliloquy, but far more often as a direct means of communication between the mind and soul of the composer and of the listener. To say that we understand the message expressed in this language just because we happen to like beautiful sounds and stimulating rhythms is surely to be our own dupes. We might as well say that because we enjoy hearing Italians or Frenchmen speak their own beautiful languages we are understanding what they say. The question, therefore, faces us: how shall we learn this mysterious language so as readily to understand it? And the answer is equally inevitable: by learning something of the material of which it is composed, and above all, the fundamental principles of its structure.
[Footnote 6: Just as some people are color-blind there are those who are tone-deaf--to whom, that is, music is a disagreeable noise--but they are so few as to be negligible.]
In attempting to carry out this simple direction, however, we are confronted by another of the peculiar characteristics of music. Music, in distinction from the static, concrete and imitative arts, is always in motion, and to follow it requires an intensity of concentration and an accuracy of memory which can be acquired, but for which, like most good things, we have to work. We all know the adage that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and that any work of art must be recreated in the imagination of the partic.i.p.ant. The difficulty of this process of recreation, as applied to music, is that we have, derived from our ordinary daily experiences, so little to help us. Anyone can begin, at least, to understand a work of architecture; it must have doors and windows, and should conform to practical ideas of structure. In like manner, a painting, either a portrait or a landscape, must show some correspondence with nature herself, and so we have definite standards to help our imagination. But music has worked out its own laws which are those of pure fancy, having little to do with other forms of thought; and unless we know something of the constructive principles, instead of recreating the work before us, we are simply lost--"drowned in a sea of sound"--often rudely shaken up by the rhythms, but far from understanding what the music is really saying. As the well-known critic, Santayana, wittily says, "To most people music is a drowsy revery relieved by nervous thrills."
Notwithstanding, however, the peculiar nature of music and the difficulty of gaining logical impressions as the sounds and rhythms flood in upon us, there is one simple form of cooperation which solves most of the difficulties; that is, familiarity. It is the duty of the composer so to express himself, to make his meaning so clear, that we can receive it with a minimum of mental friction if we can only get to know the music. All really good music corresponds to such a standard; that is, if it is needlessly involved, abstruse, diffuse, or turgid, it is _in so far_ not music of the highest artistic worth. In this connection we must always remember that music does not "stay put,"
like a picture on the wall. We cannot walk through it, as is the case with a cathedral; turn back, as in a book; touch it, as with a statue.
It is not the expression of more or less definite ideas, such as we find in prose and poetry. On the other hand, it rushes upon us with the impa.s.sioned spirit of an eloquent orator, and what we get from it depends almost entirely upon our own intensity of application and upon our knowledge of the themes and of the general purpose of the work.
Only with increased familiarity does the architecture stand revealed.
Beethoven, it is said, when once asked the meaning of a sonata of his, played it over again and replied, "It means that." Music is itself.
The question for every music-lover is: can I equip myself in such a way as to feel at home in this language, to receive the message as directly as possible, and finally with perfect ease and satisfaction?
This equipment demands a strong, accurate memory, a keen power of discrimination and a sympathetic, open mind.
Another paradoxical characteristic of music on which it is interesting to reflect is this: Music is the oldest as well as the youngest of the arts, _i.e._, it has always[7] existed generically, and all human beings born, as they are, with a musical instrument--the voice--are _ipso facto_ musicians; and yet in boundless scope of possibilities it is just in its infancy. For who can limit the combinations of sound and rhythm, or forecast the range of the human imagination? The creative fancy of the composer is always in advance of contemporary taste and criticism. Hence, in listening to new music, we should beware of reckless a.s.sertions of personal preference. The first question, in the presence of an elaborate work of music, should never be, "Do I like it or not?" but "Do I understand it?" "Is the music conveying a logical message to me, or is it merely a sea of sound?"
The first and last article in the music-lover's creed, I repeat, should be _familiarity_. When we thoroughly know a symphony, symphonic poem or sonata so that, for example, we can sing the themes to ourselves, the music will reveal itself. The difference between the trained listener and the person of merely general musical tendencies is that the former gains a definite meaning from the music often at a first hearing; whereas, to the latter, many hearings are necessary before he can make head or tail of the composition. Since the creative composer of music is a thinker in tones, our perceptions must be so trained that, as we listen, we make sense of the fabric of sounds and rhythms.
[Footnote 7: From earliest times, mothers have doubtless crooned to their infants in instinctive lullabies.]
It is evident from the foregoing observations that our approach to the subject is to be on the intellectual side. Music, to be sure, is an emotional art and so appeals to our emotions, but these will take care of themselves. We all have a reasonable supply of emotion and practically no human being is entirely deficient in the capacity for being moved by music. We can, however, sharpen our wits and strengthen our musical memories; for it is obvious that if we cannot recognize a theme or remember it whenever it appears, often in an amplified or even subtly disguised form, we are in no condition to follow and appreciate the logical growth and development of the themes themselves which, in a work of music, are just as real beings as the "dramatis personae" in a play. The would-be appreciator should early recognize the fact that listening to music is by no means pa.s.sive, a means of light amus.e.m.e.nt or to pa.s.s the time, but demands cooperation of an active nature. Whether or not we have the emotional capacity of a creator of music may remain an open question; but by systematic mental application we _can_, as we listen to it, get from the music that sense which the composer meant to convey. Music--more than the other arts--demands, to use a happy expression of D.G. Mason, that we "mentally organize our sensations and ideas"; for the language of music has no such fixed grammar as verbal modes of expression, and the message, even when received, is suggestive rather than definite. In this way only can the composition be recreated in our imaginations.
For acquiring this habit of mind, this alertness and concentration, the start, as always, is more than half the battle. Schumann's good advice to young composers may be transferred to the listener: "Be sure that you invent a thoroughly vital theme; the rest will grow of itself from this." Likewise in listening to music, one should be sure to grasp the opening theme, the fundamental motive, in order to follow it intelligently and to enjoy its subsequent growth into the complete work.[8]
[Footnote 8: In this connection we cannot refrain from suggesting the improvement which should be made in the concert manners of the public.
How often, at the beginning of a concert, do we see people removing their wraps, looking at their neighbors, reading the programme book, etc., instead of concentrating on the music itself; with the result that the composition is often well on its way before such people have found their bearings.]
Every piece of music, with the exception of intentionally rhapsodic utterances, begins with some group of notes of distinct rhythmic and melodic interest, which is the germ--the generative force--of the whole, and which is comparable to the text of a sermon or the subject of a drama. This introductory group of notes is called, technically, a _motive_ or moving force and may be defined as _the simplest unit of imaginative life in terms of rhythm and sound_, which instantly impresses itself upon our consciousness and, when heard several times, cannot be forgotten or confused with any other motive. A musical theme--a longer sweep of thought (to be explained later)--may consist of several motives of which the first is generally the most important.
Just here lies the difference between the Heaven-born themes of a truly creative composer and the bundle of notes put forth by lesser men. These living themes pierce our imaginations and sing in our memories, sometimes for years, whereas the inept and flabby tunes of certain so-called composers make no strong impression and are forgotten almost as soon as heard. Motives obviously differ from each other in regard to the intervals of the tones composing them, _i.e._, the up and down relationship in pitch, the duration of the tones and their grouping into metric schemes. But a real motive is always terse, concise, characteristic and pregnant with unrevealed meaning. The chief glory of such creative tone-poets as Beethoven, Wagner, Brahms and Franck is that their imaginations could give birth to musical offspring that live for ever and are loved like life itself. The first step, then, in the progress of the appreciator of music is the recognition of the chief motive or motives of a composition and the development of power to follow them in their organic growth. This ability is particularly necessary in modern music: for frequently all four movements of a symphony or string-quartet are based upon a motive which keeps appearing--often in altered form and in relationships which imply a dramatic or suggestive meaning. A few of such motives are cited herewith, taken from works with which, as we proceed, we shall become familiar.
[Music: CeSAR FRANCK: _Symphony in D minor_]
[Music: BRAHMS: _First Symphony in C minor_]
[Music: TCHAIKOWSKY: _5th Symphony_]
[Music: DVO[VR]aK: Symphony _From the New World_]
It is now necessary for the student to know something about the constructive principles by which large works of music are fashioned; not so much that he could compose these works himself, even if he had the inspiration, but to know enough, so that the reception of the music is not a haphazard activity but an intellectual achievement, second only to that of the original creator. Every genuine work of art in whatever medium, stone, color, word or tone, must exhibit _unity of general effect with variety of detail_. That is, the material must hold together, be coherent and convince the partic.i.p.ant of the logical design of the artist; not fall apart as might a bad building, or be diffuse as a poorly written essay. And yet, with this coherence, there must always be stimulating and refreshing variety; for a too constant insistence on the main material produces intolerable monotony, such as the "d.a.m.nable iteration" of a mediocre prose work or the harping away on one theme by the hack composer. In no art more than music is this dual standard of greater importance, and in no art more difficult to attain. For the raw material of music, fleeting rhythms and waves of sound, is in its very nature most incoherent. Here we are not dealing with the concrete, tangible and definite material which is available for all the other arts, but with something intangible and elusive. We know from the historical record[9] of musical development, that, only after centuries of experimentation conducted by some of the best intellects in Europe, was sufficient coherence gained so that there could be composed music which would compare with the simplest modern hymn-tune or part-song. And this was long after each of the other arts--architecture, sculpture, painting and literature--had reached points of attainment which, in many respects, have never since been equalled.
[Footnote 9: Compare Parry's _Evolution of the Art of Music_, pa.s.sim and D.G. Mason's _Beethoven and his Forerunners_, Chapter I.]
Before carrying our inquiries further, something must be said about the two main lines of musical development which led up to music as we know it to-day. These tendencies are designated by the terms _h.o.m.ophonic_ and _Polyphonic_. By h.o.m.ophonic,[10] from Greek words signifying a "single voice," is meant music consisting of a _single_ melodic line, as in the whole field of folk-songs (which originally were always unaccompanied) or in the unison chants of the Greeks and the Gregorian tones of the early church, in which there is _one melody_ though many voices may unite in singing it. Later we shall see what important principles for the growth of instrumental music were borrowed from the instinctive practise a.s.sociated with the folk-song and folk-dance. But history makes clear that the fundamental principles of musical coherence were worked out in the field of music known as the _Polyphonic_. By this term, as the derivation implies, is meant music the fabric of which is made by the interweaving of _several_ independent melodies. For many centuries the most reliable instrument was the human voice and the only art-music, _i.e._, music which was the result of conscious mental and artistic endeavor, was vocal music for groups of unaccompanied voices in the liturgy of the church. About the tenth century, musicians tried the crude experiment,[11] called Organum, of making two groups of singers move in parallel fifths _e.g._,
[Music: Tu Patris sempiternus es Filius.]
but during the 13th and 14th centuries a method was worked out by which the introductory tune was made to generate its own subsequent tissue. It was found that a body of singers could announce a melody of a certain type and that, after they had proceeded so far, a second set of singers could repeat the opening melodic phrase--and so likewise often a third and a fourth set--and that all the voices could be made to blend together in a fairly harmonious whole.[12] A piece of music of this systematic structure is called a _Round_ because the singers take up the melody in _rotation_ and at regular rhythmic periods.[13]
The earliest specimen of a Round is the famous one "Sumer is ic.u.men in" circa 1225 (see Supplement of musical Examples No. 1), which shows to what a high point of perfection--considering those early days--musicians had brought their art. For, at any rate, by these systematic, imitative repet.i.tions they had secured the first requisite of all music, coherence. This principle, once it was sanctioned by growing musical instinct, and approved by convention, was developed into such well-known types of polyphonic music as the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue; terms which will be fully explained later on.