So important has been the role played by the pianoforte in the
evolution of music that it is possible in these chapters on a
pianoforte recital to give a general survey of the art, and thus
prepare the reader to enjoy not only what he will hear at such a
recital, but enable him to approach it with a more comprehensive
knowledge than that would imply. This is one reason why I elected to
lead with the chapters on the pianoforte instead of with those on the
orchestra, as usually is done, because the orchestra is something
"big." In point of fact, however, the pianoforte, so far as its
influence is concerned, is quite as "big," if not, indeed, bigger than
the orchestra; for often, in the evolution of music (as I pointed out
in the previous chapter), this instrument, which is so sufficient in
itself, has led the orchestra. In reviewing a pianoforte recital it
therefore is quite possible to review many phases of musical history.
Take as an example a composition by Bach, one of the preludes and
fugues from "The Well-Tempered Clavichord," with which a pianoforte
recital is quite apt to open. The selection illustrates a whole epoch
in music which Bach rounded off and brought alike to its climax and
its close. You will be apt to find this fugue rather complicated and,
I fear, somewhat unintelligible, and this makes it necessary for me to
point out at once that in some respects music has had a curious
development. A Wagner music-drama, a Richard Strauss tone poem, seem
elaborate and complicated affairs compared with a Beethoven sonata or
symphony. Yet even the most advanced work of a Wagner or Strauss is
neither as complicated nor as elaborate as a fugue by that past master
of his art, Johann Sebastian Bach, who, although he was born in 1685
and did not live beyond the middle of the following century, was so
far ahead of his age that not even to this day has he fully come into
his own. The result is that the early classicists, Haydn and Mozart,
who belong in point of time to a later epoch, may more readily be
reckoned as "old-fashioned" than Father Bach. When at a recital you
listen to a fugue by Bach and find it hard and labored--many people
regard it simply as a difficult species of finger exercises--you think
that is because it is so very ancient, something in the same class
with Greek or Sanscrit. In point of fact it is because in some
respects it is so very modern.
Were it not for the importance of preserving an orderly historical
sequence in a book of this kind, and that Bach usually is found at the
beginning of a recital program, it would be almost more practical, and
certainly far easier, for the author to leave Bach until later. When
you write of Mozart, or of Beethoven and the moderns, you can depend
upon more or less familiarity with their works on the part of your
readers, whereas, comparatively few laymen know much about Bach. They
associate the name with all that is formal and labored. Yet among my
acquaintances is a young woman who was brought up in a very musical
family, and who, having as a child heard her mother play the preludes
and fugues of the "Well-Tempered Clavichord," finds Bach as simple as
the alphabet. But hers is a most exceptional case. The appreciation of
Bach, as a rule, comes only with advanced age. My music teacher used
to say to me: "You rave over Schubert and Wagner now, but when you get
to be as old as I am you will go back to Father Bach." While I cannot
say that his prophecy has come true, while I still am ultra-modern in
my musical predilections, my musical gods being Schubert, Chopin,
Schumann, Liszt, Brahms, Richard Strauss and, above all, Wagner, I
should consider myself unfit to write this book if I failed to realize
the debt modern music owes to Bach, and that the more modern the music
the greater the debt.
Bach in Modern Music.
One of the most remarkable phenomena in the history of the art--and a
generalization like this is as much in place in discussing pianoforte
music as elsewhere, because the instrument has had so much to do with
the evolution of music--is the gap between Bach and modern music.
While the following must not be taken too literally, it is true in
general that Bach had little or no influence on the age that
immediately came after him, the classical age of music, that age which
we sum up in the names of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, the age of the
sonata and the symphony. The three masters mentioned probably would
have developed and composed much as they did had Bach never lived.
But when a more modern composer, a romanticist like Wagner, wanted to
enrich the means of musical expression handed down to him from the
classical period, he reached back to Bach and combined Bach's teeming
counterpoint with the harmonic system which had been inherited from
Beethoven. To understand just what this means, to appreciate the
influence Bach has had upon modern music and why he had little or none
on the classical composers, it is necessary for the reader to have at
least a reasonably clear conception of what that counterpoint is and
wherein it differs from harmony; for with Bach counterpoint reached
its climax, and all the possibilities of the style having been
exhausted by him, music of necessity took a turn in another direction
under the classicists and developed harmonically instead of
contrapuntally; so that it can be said that modern music derives its
counterpoint from Bach, its harmony from Beethoven, and its
combination of the two systems from Wagner.
There is another reason why the meaning of counterpoint should be
explained and the difference between counterpoint and harmony be made
clear to the reader now. Nearly all the early music, the music that
preceded Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, and that sometimes is to be
found on recital programs, is contrapuntal--written in counterpoint.
As I have said before, it would be much easier to start with the
sonata form, with harmony instead of counterpoint, for of the two
harmony is the simpler. But we must "face the music"--the music of the
old contrapuntal composers--and the best way to do this is to explain
what harmony and counterpoint are and wherein they differ.
Harmony and Counterpoint.
A melody or theme is a rational progression of single tones. Here is
the melody or theme with which Beethoven begins the familiar
"Moonlight Sonata":
[Music illustration]
It is a melody, but it does not constitute harmony, for harmony is the
rational combination of several tones, as distinguished from the
rational progression of single tones which constitute melody. But when
Beethoven adds an accompaniment to his theme and it becomes:
[Music illustration]
the passage also becomes harmony, since it is an example of the
rational combination of several tones. As has often been pointed out
in books on music, and probably often will have to be pointed out
again, because as a mistake it is to be classed with the hardy
perennials, melody is not harmony, but only a part of it. When,
however, a composer conceives a theme or melody he usually does so
with the purpose of combining it with an accompaniment that shall
support it and throw it into bold and striking relief. Composers of
the contrapuntal school, on the other hand, conceived a theme, not for
the purpose of supporting it with an accompaniment, but in order to
combine it with another or with several other equally important
themes. That, in a general way, is the difference between harmony and
counterpoint.
In harmony, then, or, more strictly speaking, in music composed
according to the harmonic system, of which the "Moonlight Sonata"
is a good example, the theme, the melody, stands out from the
accompaniment, which is subordinate. Counterpoint, on the other hand,
rests on the combination of several themes, each of equal importance.
This is the reason why, when there is a fugue or other complicated
contrapuntal work on the program of a pianoforte recital, the
average listener is apt to find it dry and uninteresting. His ear
readily can distinguish the themes of a sonata, which usually are
heard one at a time and stand out clearly from the accompaniment,
but it has not been trained to unravel the themes of the fugue as
they travel along together. Counterpoint, the term being derived
from the Latin _contra punctum_, which means point against point
or note against note, when complicated, as in a fugue, is about the
most elaborate kind of music there is, and a person who is unable to
grasp a fugue may console himself with the thought that, excepting
for the elect, it is a pretty stiff dose to swallow at the very
beginning of a recital.
There are, however, simpler pieces of counterpoint than a fugue.
Sometimes, as in the charming little "Gavotte" by Padre Martini, which
now and then figures among the lighter numbers on the programs of
historical recitals, the contrapuntist combines a theme with itself,
or, rather, "imitates" it, which is a simple form of the canon.
Another form of canon is the round of which "Three Blind Mice" is a
familiar example. How many people, when singing this, have realized
that they were being initiated into that mysterious thing known as
counterpoint? A comparatively simple form of counterpoint is well
illustrated by a dapper little piece in Bach's "Two-Part Inventions,"
in which the spirited theme given out by the right hand answers itself
a bar later in the left, an "imitation" which crops out again and
again in the piece and gives it somewhat the character of a canon.
[Music illustration]
For any one who wishes to become acquainted with Bach there is
nothing better than these "Two-Part Inventions," especially the
fascinating little piece from which I have just quoted, compact,
buoyant and gay, even "pert," as I once heard a young girl characterize
it; a perfect example of old Father Bach in moments of relaxation when
he has laid aside his periwig and is amusing himself at his clavichord.
What a Fugue Is.
Bach's fugues, and especially his "Well-Tempered Clavichord,"
forty-eight preludes and fugues in all the keys, form the climax of
contrapuntal music. Goethe once said that "the history of the world is
a mighty fugue in which the voice of nation after nation becomes
audible." This is a freely poetic definition of that highly
complicated musical form, the fugue. Let me attempt to illustrate it
in a different way.
Imagine that a composer who is an adept in counterpoint places four
pianists at different pianofortes, and that he gives a different theme
to each of them, or a theme to one and modified versions of it to the
others. He starts the first pianist, after a few bars nods to the
second to join in with his theme, and so on successively with the
other two. It might be supposed that when the second player joins in,
the two themes sounding together would make discord, which would be
aggravated by the addition of the third and fourth. But, instead, they
have been so conceived by the contrapuntist that they sound well
together as they chase and answer each other, or run counter to and
parallel and enter into many different combinations, sometimes flowing
along smoothly, at other times surging and striving, yet always, in
the case of a truly great fugue, borne along by a momentum as
inexorable as the march of Fate. Of course, it must not be supposed,
because I have called four pianists into action in order to emphasize
how distinct are these themes, which yet, when united, are found to
blend together, that several players are required for the performance
of a complicated piece of counterpoint like a fugue. What is demanded
of the player is entire independence of the fingers, so that he can
clearly differentiate between the themes and enable the hearer to
distinguish them apart, even in their most complicated combinations.
An edition of Bach's "Well-Tempered Clavichord" by Bernardus Boekelman
prints the themes in different colors, so that they are easy to trace
through all their interweaving, and is interesting to study from.
The Fugue and the Virtuoso.
In his book, "Beethoven and His Forerunners," Daniel Gregory Mason
devotes a paragraph toward dispelling the mystery regarding the fugue
that prevails with the public, and points out that "the actual formal
rules, despite the awe they have immemorially aroused in the popular
mind, are few and simple. After the first announcement of the subject
by a single voice, it is answered by a second voice, at an interval of
a fifth above; then again stated by a third voice, and answered by a
fourth. This process goes on until each voice has had a chance to
enunciate the motif, after which the conversation goes on more freely;
the subject is announced in divers keys, by divers voices; episodes,
in a congruous style, vary the monotony; at last the subject is
emphatically asserted by the various voices in quick succession
(_stretto_), and with some little display or grandiloquence the piece
comes to an end."
Further along in the same book Mr. Mason has a page of apostrophe to
the Bach fugues. When he characterizes them as "the first great
independent monuments of pure music," and refers to their "consummate
beauty of structure," he pays them an eminently just tribute. But
when he speaks of the "profundity, poignancy and variety of feeling
they express," I am inclined to quote his own qualifying sentence
from the next page of his book: "It is true, nevertheless, not only
that the fugue form makes the severest demands on the attention and
intelligence of the listener, but also that, because of the
ecclesiastical origin and polyphonic style, it is incapable of the
kind of highly personal, secular expression that it was in the spirit
of the seventeenth century to demand." The same is even more true
of the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The progress
of music toward individual freedom of expression on the part of the
composer, and equally so on the part of the interpreter, has been
steady, and when, through the very perfection which Bach imparted
to counterpoint, it ceased to attract composers as a means of
expression because he had accomplished so much there was nothing
more left for them to do along the same lines, the progress I have
indicated received a great lift and stimulus.
What Counterpoint Lacks.
The lack of highly personal expression in contrapuntal compositions
explains why most concert-goers find them less attractive than modern
music. The "D Minor Toccata and Fugue" or the "Chromatic Fantasie and
Fugue" by Bach, even in the arrangements of Tausig and Liszt, on the
program of a pianoforte recital, are tolerated because of the modern
pieces that come later. Nine out of ten persons in the house would
rather omit them. Why deny so obvious a fact, especially when it is
easy enough to explain? To follow a contrapuntal composition
intelligently requires a highly trained ear. Moreover, in such a work
as a Bach fugue the individuality of the player is of less importance
than in modern music. Yet a virtuoso's individuality is the very thing
that distinguishes him from other virtuosos and attracts the public to
his concerts, while those of other players may be poorly attended. I
firmly believe in personality of the virtuoso or singer or orchestral
conductor, for in it lies the secret of individual interpretation, the
reason why the performance of one person is fascinating or thrilling
and that of another not. Modern music affords the player full scope to
interpret it according to his own mood and fancy, to color it with his
own personality, whereas contrapuntal music exists largely for itself
alone. It is music for music's sake, not for the sake of interpreting
some mood, some feeling, or of painting in tone colors something quite
outside of music. The player of counterpoint is restricted in his
power of expression by the very formulas of the science or art of the
contrapuntist. We may marvel that Bach was able to move so freely
within its restricted forms. But I think it true that it is far more
interesting for a person even of only moderate proficiency as a player
to work out, however awkwardly, a Bach fugue for himself on the
pianoforte than to hear it played by some one else, however great;
for, cheap and easy as it is to protest in high-sounding phrases about
the duty of the interpreter to subordinate himself to the composer,
and against what I am about to say, I nevertheless make bold to affirm
that it is the province of the virtuoso to express himself, his own
personality, his moods, his temperament, his subjective or even his
subconscious self, through music; and in music that is purely
contrapuntal there is a barrier to this individual power of
expression.
The Mission of the Player.
We often hear it said of the greatest contemporary pianist that he is
a great Chopin player, but not a great Bach player. He could not be,
and at the same time be the greatest living virtuoso. It is the
worshiper of tradition, the reserved, continent, scholarly player, the
player who converts a Chopin nocturne into an icicle and a Schubert
impromptu into a snowball, who revels in counterpoint--the player who
always is slavishly subordinating himself to what he is pleased to
call the "composer's intentions" and forgets that the truly great
virtuoso creates when he interprets. Some times the virtuoso may go
too far and depart too much from the character of the piece he is
playing, subjecting it more than is permissible to his temporary mood;
but it is better for art to err on the side of originality, provided
it is not bizarre or freakish, than on the side of subserviency to
tradition.
While I have no desire, in writing as above, to exalt unduly the
virtuoso, the interpreter of music, at the expense of the composer, I
must insist that the great player also is creative, in the sense that
every time he plays a work he creates it over again from his own point
of view, and thus has at least a share in its parentage. Indeed, it
seems more difficult to attain exalted rank as a virtuoso than to gain
immortality as a composer. The world has produced two epoch-making
virtuosos--Paganini on the violin, Liszt on the piano. Within about
the same period covered by the careers of these two there have been
half a dozen or even more composers, each of whom marks an epoch in
some phase of the art. "The interpretive artist," says Henry G.
Hanchett in his "Art of the Musician," "deserves a place no whit
beneath that of the composer. No two composers have influenced musical
progress in America more strongly than have Anton Rubinstein by his
_playing_, and Theodore Thomas, who was not a composer."
Music as a Science.
But, to return to Bach and the other contrapuntists, music owes them
an immense debt on the technical side. And right here, so universal
are the deductions that can be drawn from the program of a pianoforte
recital, it should be pointed out that music differs from other arts
in having for its basis a profound and complicated science, a science
that concerns itself with the relations of the notes of the musical
scale to each other. Upon this science are based alike the "coon song"
and the Wagner music-drama. What is true of "Tristan" is true also of
"Bedelia." Each makes its draft upon the science of music; the
music-drama, of course, in a far greater degree than the song. This
science has its textbooks with their theorems and problems, like any
other science, and theoretical musicians have produced learned and
useful works on the subject which the great mass of laymen, many
virtuosos, and indeed the average professional musician, may never
have heard of, let alone have read. For a person not intuitively
predisposed toward the subject would find the science of music as
difficult to master as integral calculus; nor, in order to appreciate
music, or even to interpret it, is it necessary to be versed in this
science. A virtuoso can play a chord of the ninth, the listener can be
thrilled by the virtuoso's playing of the chord of the ninth, without
either of them knowing that there is such a thing as the chord of the
ninth.
Science versus Feeling.
In fact, the person who is so well versed in the science of music that
he can mentally analyze a composition while listening to it is apt to
be so absorbed in the mere process of technical analysis that he
misses its esthetic, its emotional significance. Thus a person may be
very musical without being musical at all. He may have profound
knowledge of music as a science and remain untouched by music as an
art, just as a physicist may be an authority on the laws of light and
color, yet stand unmoved before a great painting. With some people
music is all science, with others all art, and I think the latter have
the better of it. A musical genius is equipped both ways. The great
composer employs the science of music as an aid in giving expression
to his creative impulse. He makes science of service to the cause of
art. Otherwise, while he might produce something that was absolutely
correct, it would make no artistic appeal whatsoever. Thousands of
symphonies have been composed, performed and forgotten. They were
"well made," constructed with scientific accuracy from beginning to
end, but had no value as art; and music is a profound science applied
to the production of a great art.
The composer, then, masters the science of music and bends it to his
genius. If he is a great genius, he soon will discover that certain
rules which his predecessors regarded as hard and fast, as inviolable,
can be violated with impunity. He will discover new tone combinations,
and thus enrich the science and make it serve the purposes of the art
with greater efficiency than before he came upon the scene. And always
the composers who have grown gray under the old system, the system
upon which the new genius is grafting his new ideas, and the theorists
and critics, who are slaves of tradition, will throw up their hands in
horror and cry out that he is despoiling the art and robbing it of all
that is sacred and beautiful, whereas he is adding to its scope and
potency. Did not even so broad-minded a composer as Schumann say, "The
trouble with Wagner is that he is not a musician"? So far was Wagner
ahead of his time! While the great composer nearly always begins where
his predecessors left off, he is sure to outstrip them later on. Even
so rugged a genius as Beethoven is somewhat under Mozart's influence
in his first works, and Wagner's "Rienzi" is distinctly Meyerbeerian.
But genius soon learns to soar with its own wings and to look down
with indifference upon the little men who are discharging their shafts
of envy, malice and ignorance.