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MUSIC: AN ART AND A LANGUAGE
BY
WALTER RAYMOND SPALDING
_Price $2.50 net_
THE ARTHUR P. SCHMIDT CO.
BOSTON
120 BOYLSTON STREET
NEW YORK
8 WEST 40th STREET
Copyright, 1920, by THE ARTHUR P. SCHMIDT CO.
International Copyright Secured
A.P.S. 11788
TO MY COLLEAGUES
IN THE DEPARTMENT OF MUSIC
AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY
WILLIAM CLIFFORD HEILMAN, EDWARD BURLINGAME HILL,
ARCHIBALD THOMPSON DAVISON, EDWARD BALLANTINE
SUPPLEMENTARY
ILLUSTRATIONS
for
_MUSIC:
an ART and a LANGUAGE_
Vols. I & II now ready
(_Schmidt's Educational Series No. 257-a, b_)
Price $1.00 each volume
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 analyzing certain standard compositions their attitude towards
music has changed and their love for it greatly increased.
In the illustrations (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 assumed 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 analytical comments will be of secondary importance--those of the
present writer not excepted. Special effort has been made to select
illustrations 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
analysis and sentimental rhapsody must be drawn with exceeding care.
If the subject matter be clearly presented and the analyses
true--allowance being made for honest difference of opinion--every
hope will be realized.
The author's gratitude is herewith expressed to Mr. Percy Lee Atherton
for his critical revision of the text and to Professor William C.
Heilman for valuable assistance in selecting and preparing the musical
illustrations.
W.R.S.
Cambridge, Massachusetts
_June_, 1919
Contents
I. PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS 1
II. THE FOLK-SONG 18
III. POLYPHONIC MUSIC; SEBASTIAN BACH, THE FUGUE 33
IV. THE MUSICAL SENTENCE 50
V. THE TWO-PART AND THREE-PART FORMS 69
VI. THE CLASSICAL AND THE MODERN SUITE 73
VII. THE RONDO FORM 81
VIII. THE VARIATION FORM 85
IX. THE SONATA-FORM AND ITS FOUNDERS--EMMANUEL
BACH AND HAYDN 91
X. MOZART. THE PERFECTION OF CLASSIC STRUCTURE
AND STYLE 108
XI. BEETHOVEN, THE TONE-POET 122
XII. THE ROMANTIC COMPOSERS. SCHUBERT, WEBER 160
XIII. SCHUMANN AND MENDELSSOHN 172
XIV. CHOPIN AND PIANOFORTE STYLE 188
XV. BERLIOZ AND LISZT. PROGRAM MUSIC 202
XVI. BRAHMS 228
XVII. CESAR FRANCK 255
XVIII. THE MODERN FRENCH SCHOOL--D'INDY AND DEBUSSY 280
XIX. NATIONAL SCHOOLS--RUSSIAN, BOHEMIAN AND
SCANDINAVIAN 300
XX. THE VARIED TENDENCIES OF MODERN MUSIC 326
_Music is the universal language of mankind._
--LONGFELLOW.
_Music can noble hints impart,
Engender fury, kindle love;
With unsuspected eloquence can move
And manage all the man with secret art._
--ADDISON.
_Music is the sound of the circulation in nature's veins. It
is the flux which melts nature. Men dance to it, glasses
ring and vibrate, and the fields seem to undulate. The
healthy ear always hears it, nearer or more remote._
--THOREAU.
_To strike all this life dead,
Run mercury into a mold like lead,
And henceforth have the plain result to show--
How we Feel hard and fast, and what we Know--
This were the prize, and is the puzzle!--which
Music essays to solve._
--BROWNING.
_All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by
the instruments._
--WHITMAN.
Music: an Art and a Language
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 constituted,
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 class 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 passion, 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
constituted--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 grass 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
constituent 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 participant that
everyone can get something from its picture of life--historical,
legendary, even fictitious--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 disassociated 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 participant. 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 impassioned 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 assertions 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 passive, a means of
light amusement or to pass 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 participant 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 "damnable 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_, passim
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
_Homophonic_ and _Polyphonic_. By homophonic,[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 associated 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 icumen
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 repetitions 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.
It is of more than passing interest to realize that these structural
principles of music were worked out in the same locality--Northern
France and the Netherlands, and by kindred intellects--as witnessed
the growth of Gothic architecture; and there is a fundamental affinity
between the interweavings of polyphonic or, as it is often called,
_contrapuntal_[14] music and the stone traceries in medieval
cathedrals. During the 13th and 14th centuries northern France, with
Paris as its centre, was the most cultivated part of Europe, and the
Flemish cities of Cambrai, Tournai, Louvain and Antwerp will always be
renowned in the history of art, as the birthplace of Gothic
architecture, of modern painting and of polyphonic music.[15] A great
deal of the impetus towards the systematic repetition of the voice
parts must have been caused by practical necessity (thus justifying
the old adage); for, before the days of printed music, or even of a
well-established tradition--when everything had to be laboriously
written out or transmitted orally--whole compositions could be
rendered by the singers through the simple device of remembering the
introductory theme and joining in from memory whenever their turn
came. Compositions in fact were often so recorded.[16] The following
old English round (circa 1609) shows clearly how the voices entered in
rotation.
[Music:
1 Three blind mice, three blind mice
2 ran around thrice, ran around thrice; The
3 miller and his merry old wife ne'er laugh'd so much in all their
life.]
For a Round in strict canonic imitation by the famous English composer
William Byrd (1542-1623) see the Supplement, Example No. 2. In due
time singers of that period became likewise very proficient in
improvising free parts about a given melody or _cantus firmus_, a
practice indicated by the term "musica ficta" which was beneficial in
stimulating the imagination to a genuine musical activity.
[Footnote 10: In comparatively recent times the term has been widened
to include music in which there is one _chief_ melody to which other
portions of the musical texture are subordinate; _e.g._, the
homophonic style of Chopin in whose works the chief melody, often in
the upper voice, seems to float on underlying waves of sound.]
[Footnote 11: For a complete account of these early attempts which
finally led to part-writing see Chapter IV in the first volume of the
_Oxford History of Music_.]
[Footnote 12: An historical account of this development as far as it
is ascertainable may be found in the fifth chapter of Pratt's _History
of Music_.]
[Footnote 13: Consult the article on the Round in _Grove's
Dictionary_.]
[Footnote 14: A rather crude English adaptation of the Latin term
"Punctus contra punctum" which refers to the notes as punct[=u]s
(plural) or dots which were pricked with a stylus into the medieval
manuscripts. In this phrase the emphasis is on the _contra_,
signifying a combination of _different_ melodies and rhythms, and
calling attention to that higher importance which, everywhere in art,
is caused by contrasted elements.]
[Footnote 15: For an interesting account of this tripartite activity
see Naumann's _History of Music_.]
[Footnote 16: See the facsimile of the original manuscript of "_Sumer
is icumen in_" cited in the first volume of the _Oxford History of
Music_, pp. 326-332.]
We can now begin to realize the importance of polyphonic music. In
fact, it is not too much to assert that _systematic repetition_ in
some form or other (several aspects of which we shall describe in due
season) is the most important constructive principle in music,
necessitated by the very nature of the material. This statement can be
corroborated by a glance at almost any page of music considered merely
as a _pattern_, quite regardless how the notes sound. We observe at
once that some portions of the page look much or exactly like other
portions. Frequently whole movements or long parts of a work are based
entirely upon some terse and characteristic motive. Famous examples of
this practise are the first movement of Beethoven's _Fifth Symphony in
C minor_ which, with certain subsidiary themes to afford contrast, is
entirely based on the motive:
[Music]
the Finale of Wagner's opera _The Valkyrie_ (see Supplement, Example
No. 3) the chief motive of which
[Music]
is presented in every phase of modulatory and rhythmic development,
and the middle portion of the _Reconnaissance_ from Schumann's
_Carnaval_ (see Supplement, Example No. 4.)
Music, just because its substance is so elusive and requires such
alert attention on the part of the listener, cannot continually
present new material[17] without becoming diffuse; but instead, must
make its impression by varied emphasis upon the main thought.
Otherwise it would become so discursive that one could not possibly
follow it. From these historical facts as to the structure of music
certain inferences may be drawn; the vital importance of which to the
listener can hardly be exaggerated. As polyphonic treatment (the
imitation and interweaving of independent melodic lines) is the
foundation of any large work of music, be it symphony, symphonic poem
or string quartet, so the listener must acquire what may be called a
_polyphonic ear_. For with the majority of listeners, the whole
difficulty and the cause of their dissatisfaction with so-called
"classic music" is merely lack of equipment. Everyone can hear the
tune in the soprano or upper voice, for the intensity of pitch makes
it stand out with telling effect; and, as a fact, many of the best
tunes in musical literature are so placed. But how about the tune when
it is in the _bass_ as is the case so frequently in Beethoven's
Symphonies or in Wagner's Operas? Some of the most eloquent parts of
the musical message are, indeed, often in the bass, the foundation
voice, and yet these are entirely ignored by the average listener.
Then what of the inner voices; and what--most important of all--when
there are beautiful melodies in _all parts_ of the musical fabric,
often sounding simultaneously, as in such well-known works as Cesar
Franck's _Symphony in D minor_ and Wagner's _Prelude to the
Mastersingers_! As we face these questions squarely the need for the
listener of special training in alertness and concentration is
self-evident. A very small proportion of those who attend a symphony
concert begin to get their money's worth--to put the matter on a
perfectly practical plane--for at least 50% of the musical structure
is presented to ears without capacity for receiving it. In regard to
any work of large dimensions the final test is this: can we sing all
the themes and follow them in their polyphonic development? Then only
are we really acquainted with the work; then only, in regard to
personal like or dislike, have we any right to pass judgment upon it.
The absurd attitude, far too common, of hasty, ill-considered
criticism is illustrated by the fact that while Brahms is said to have
worked for ten years on that Titanic creation, his _First Symphony_,
yet persons will hear it _once_ and have the audacity to say they do
not like it. As well stroll through Chartres Cathedral and say they
did not think much of it!
[Footnote 17: For a simple, charming example of persistent use of a
motive see Schumann's pianoforte piece _Kind im Einschlummern_, No. 12
of the _Kinderscenen_.]
We must now speak of the two other manifestations of the principle of
_repetition_. Fundamentally, to be sure, they are not connected with
polyphonic music; the third type, in fact,--restatement after
contrast--being instinctively worked out in the Folk-Song (as will be
made plain later) and definitely ratified as a structural principle by
the Italian opera composer Alessandro Scarlatti in the well-known Aria
da capo. These further applications of the principle of imitation are
_Transposition_, _i.e._, the repetition of the melodic outline, and
often of the whole harmonic fabric, by shifting it up or down the
scale; and the _Restatement_ of the original melody after an
intervening part in contrast, thus making a piece of music, the
formula for which may be indicated by A, B, A. Anyone at all familiar
with musical literature must have observed both of these devices for
securing coherence and organic unity; in fact, the principle of
restatement after contrast is at the foundation of any large work, and
supplies the connecting link between the structure of the Folk-Song
and that of the most elaborate modern music. A convincing illustration
of the use of Transposition may be found in Schumann's _Arabesque_,
[Music]
and in the opening theme of Beethoven's _Waldstein Sonata_, op. 53.
[Music]
It was a favorite device of Beethoven to impress the main theme upon
the hearer by definite repetitions on various degrees of the
scale.[18] For an elaborate example of Transposition nothing can
surpass the opening movement of Cesar Franck's _D Minor Symphony_, the
entire first part of which consists of a literal repetition in F minor
of what has been previously announced in D minor.
[Footnote 18: Another well-known example is the first theme of the
first movement of the _Sonata in F minor_ (_Appassionata_) op. 57.
This the student can look up for himself.]
Pieces of music which embody the principle of _Restatement after
Contrast_ are so numerous that the question is merely one of selecting
the clearest examples. In the Folk-Songs of every nation, as soon as
they had passed beyond the stage of a monotonous reiteration of some
phrase which pleased the fancy, _e.g._
[Music: _ad infinitum!_]
we find hardly one in which there is not a similarity between the
closing measures and something which had gone before. (See Supplement,
Example No. 5.) For the most elementary artistic experience would
establish the fact that the only way to avoid a monotonous repetition
of the same theme is to change to a different one. And the next step
is equally axiomatic--that, presupposing the first theme gives
pleasure on its initial appearance, it will be heard with heightened
pleasure at its reappearance after intervening contrast. A
psychological principle is herein involved which cannot be proved but
which is self-justified by its own reasonableness and is further
exemplified by many experiences in daily life. Sweet things taste the
sweeter after a contrast with something acid; we like to revisit old
scenes and to return home after a vacation. No delight is keener than
the _renewal_ of some aesthetic experience after its temporary
effacement through a change of appeal.[19] This practice is associated
with the inherent demand, spoken of above, for Variety in Unity. No
theme is of sufficient import to bear constant repetition; in fact,
the more eloquent it is, the more sated should we become if it were
continued overlong. Monotony, furthermore, is less tolerable in music
than in the other arts because music cuts deeper, because the ear is
so sensitive an organ and because we have no way of shutting off
sound. If a particular sight or scene displeases, we can close our
eyelids; but the ear is entirely unprotected and the only way to
escape annoying sounds is to take to flight.[20] We inevitably crave
contrast, change of sensation; and nothing gives more organic unity
than a return to whatever impressed us at the outset. This cyclic form
of musical expression, early discovered through free experimentation,
has remained the leading principle in all modern works, and--because
derived directly from life and nature--must be permanent. We return
whence we came; everything goes in circles. We can now understand
still more the need of a strong and accurate memory; for if we do not
know whether or not we have ever heard a theme, obviously the keen
pleasure of welcoming it anew is lost to us. Furthermore, this
principle of Restatement has in modern music some very subtle uses,
and presupposes the acquisition of a real power of reminiscence. For
example, Wagner's tone-drama of _Tristan and Isolde_ begins with this
haunting motive
[Music]
which, with its dual melodic lines, typifies the passionate love of
the two chief characters in the story. After three hours or more of
tragic action and musical development this motive is again introduced
in the very closing measures of the drama, to show that even in the
presence of transfiguring death this love is still their guiding
power.
[Music]
[Footnote 19: For some additional comments on this broad principle see
the first Chapter (passim) of Parry's _Evolution of the Art of
Music_.]
[Footnote 20: Everyone has experienced the agony of hearing the
beginner practice, in an adjoining room, the same piece for hours at a
time!]
For those who can appreciate the significance of such treatment, this
reminiscence is one of the most sublime touches in all musical drama.
The fascinating orchestral Scherzo of Richard Strauss's _Till
Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks_ likewise begins with a characteristic
motto,
[Music]
which says, in the language of music--I now have a story to tell you
of a certain freakish character; and then we are regaled with the
musical portrayal of a series of Till's pranks. As an Epilogue,
Strauss improvises on this opening theme as much as to say--you have
listened to my musical story, now let us indulge in some reflections
as to the fate of poor Till, for after all he was a good fellow. (See
Supplement, Example No. 6.)
It is evident, therefore, from the foregoing examples that the basic
principles of musical structure are coherence, refreshing variety and
such unity of general impression as may be gained chiefly by a
restatement, after contrast, of themes previously heard. Our
subsequent study will simply illustrate these natural laws of music in
their wider application.
CHAPTER II
THE FOLK-SONG
In the preceding chapter we made some general inquiries into the
nature of music and of those methods by which emotion and thought are
expressed. We shall assume therefore that the following facts are
established: that in music, by reason of the intangibility and
elusiveness of the material, sound and rhythm, the principle of Unity
in Variety is of paramount importance; and that the hearer, if he
would grasp the message expressed by these sounds and rhythms, must
make a _conscious_ effort of cooperation and not be content with mere
dreamy apathy. Furthermore, that Unity and Coherence are gained in
music by applying the principle of systematic Repetition or Imitation.
(We shall see, as we continue, how Variety has been secured by
contrasting themes, by episodical passages and by various devices of
rhythmic and harmonic development.)
We may now investigate the growth of musical structure and expression,
as manifested in the fields of the Folk-Song and of Polyphonic music,
beginning with the Folk-Song--historically the older and more
elemental in its appeal. We cannot imagine the time when human beings
did not use their voices in some form of emotional outpouring; and, as
far back as there are any historical records, we find traces of such
activity. For many centuries these rude cries of savage races were far
removed from anything like artistic design, but the advance towards
coherence and symmetry was always the result of free experimentation--hence
vitally connected with the emotions and mental processes of all human
effort. One of the most significant of the many sayings attributed to
Daniel Webster is that "Sovereignty rests with the people"; and it is
an interesting inquiry to see what wider application may be made of
this statement in the field of art. For it is a fact that there has
seldom been an important school of music, so-called--in any given
place and period--which was not founded on the emotional traits, the
aspirations and the ideals of the people. Surely one of the distinct
by-products of the Great War is to be the emancipation of the art of
music, along with that of all the other arts. Such a realization of
its nature and powers will result that it shall no longer be a mere
exotic amusement of the leisure and wealthy classes, but shall be
brought into direct touch with the rank and file of the people; even,
if you will, with the so-called "lower classes"--that part of humanity
from which, indeed, it sprung and with which it really belongs--just
human beings, just people. So in music also we may assert that
"Sovereignty rests with the people." Although all art reflects popular
sentiment to a certain extent, in no one of the arts--as painting,
sculpture and architecture--is there such a vital record of the
emotions and artistic instincts of humanity as we find in the realm of
folk-song.[21] During the early period of Church music, while
theorists and scholars were struggling with the intricate problems of
polyphonic style, the people in their daily secular life were finding
an outlet for their emotions, for their joys and sorrows, in song and
in dance. This instinct for musical expression is universal, and just
because the products of such activity were unfettered by rules, they
exercised in process of time much influence upon the development of
modern style. Folk-songs are characterized by a freshness and
simplicity, a directness of utterance, which are seldom attained by
the conscious efforts of genius. "Listen carefully to all folk-songs,"
says Schumann. "They are a storehouse of beautiful melody, and unfold
to the mind the innate character of the different peoples." They are
like wild flowers blooming unheeded by the wayside, the product of the
race rather than the individual, and for centuries were only slightly
known to cultivated musicians. It should be understood that words and
music were inextricably bound together and that, with both, dancing
was naturally associated; the very essence of a people's life being
expressed by this tripartite activity. Tonal variety is a marked
feature in folk-songs, many of them being in the old Gregorian modes,
while others show a decided inclination to our modern major and minor
scales. Great is the historical importance of Folk-music, because in
it we see a dawning recognition of the principles of instrumental
form, _i.e._, the need of balanced phrases, caused in the songs by the
metrical structure of the words, and in the dances by the symmetrical
movements of the body; a recognition above all, of the application of
a definite system of tonal-centres, and of repetition after contrast.
In fact, as we look back it is evident that the outlines of our most
important design, that known as the Sonata Form are--in a rudimentary
state--found in folk-music. Folk-melodies and rhythms play a large
part in the music of Haydn, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Grieg,
Tchaikowsky and Dvo[vr]ak. It seems as if modern composers were doing
for music what Luther Burbank has done for plant life; for by grafting
modern thought and feeling on to the parent stock of popular music,
they have secured a vigor attainable in no other way. Thus some of the
noblest melodies of Brahms, Grieg, and Tchaikowsky are actual
folk-tunes with slight variation or original melodies conceived in a
folk-song spirit.[22]
[Footnote 21: For an eloquent presentation of the significance of
Folk-music see the article by Henry F. Gilbert in the _Musical
Quarterly_ for October, 1917.]
[Footnote 22: For an able account of the important role that
folk-melodies are taking in modern music see Chapter V of _La Chanson
Populaire en France_ by Julian Tiersot.]
As music, unlike the other arts, lacks any model in the realm of
nature, it has had to work out its own laws, and its spontaneity and
directness are the result. It has not become imitative, utilitarian or
bound by arbitrary conventions. As Berlioz says in the _Grotesques de
la Musique_: "Music exists by itself; it has no need of poetry, and if
every human language were to perish, it would be none the less the
most poetic, the grandest and the freest of all the arts." When we
reach the centuries in which definite records are available, we find a
wealth of folk-songs from the Continental nations: Irish, Scotch,
English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Russian, etc.[23] In these
we can trace the transition from the old modes to our modern major and
minor scales; the principles of tonality and of rudimentary
modulation, the dividing of the musical thought into periodic lengths
by means of cadential endings, the instinct for contrast and for the
unity gained by restatement. No better definition of Folk-songs can be
given than that of Parry in his _Evolution of the Art of Music_ where
he calls them "the first essays made by man in distributing his notes
so as to express his feelings in terms of design." In folk-tunes this
design has been dominated by the metrical phraseology of the poetic
stanzas with which they were associated; for between the structure of
melody and that of poetry there is always a close correspondence. In
Folk-songs, therefore, we find a growing instinct for balanced musical
expression and, above all, an application of the principle of
Restatement after Contrast. The following example drawn from Irish
Folk-music[24]--which, for emotional depth, is justly considered the
finest in the world--will make the point clear.
[Music: THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS]
[Footnote 23: The same statement is true of the Oriental nations, the
Arabians, Persians and Greeks, who are left out of the enumeration
only because their development in many respects has been along
different lines from ours. For suggestive speculations as to early
music among all nations see _Primitive Music_ by Richard Wallaschek.]
[Footnote 24: For illuminating comments on the Folk-music of all the
English-speaking peoples see Chapter XII of Ernest Walker's _History
of Music in England_. The famous Petrie collection of Irish Folk-tunes
should also be consulted.]
The statement is sometimes made that the principles of our modern
system of tonality and of modulation are derived from Folk-music. This
is only partially true, for pure Folk-songs always developed under the
influence of the old medieval modes, long before the establishment of
our fixed major and minor scales. Furthermore, as these were single
unaccompanied melodies, they showed slight connection with modulation
or change of key in the modern sense of the term--which implies a
system of harmonization in several voices. It is true that there was
an instinctive and growing recognition of the importance of the three
chief tonal centres: the Tonic or Keynote, the Dominant (a perfect
fifth _above_) and the Subdominant (a perfect fifth _below_) and at
times the relative minor. All these changes are illustrated in the
melody just cited; _e.g._, in the fourth measure[25] there is an
implication of E minor, in measures seven and eight there is a
distinct modulation to D major, the Dominant, and in the ninth measure
to C major, the Subdominant. This acceptance of other tonal
centres--distant a fifth from the main key-note--doubtless arose from
their simplicity and naturalness, and was later sanctioned by
acoustical law; the interval of a perfect fifth having one of the
simplest ratios (2-3), and being familiar to people as the first
overtone (after the octave) struck off by any sounding body--such as a
bell or an organ pipe. The Venetian composers, notably Willaert, had
also quite fully developed this principle of Tonic, Dominant and
Subdominant harmony in order to give homogeneity to their antiphonal
choruses. Even to-day these tonal centres are still used; for they are
elemental, like the primitive colors of the spectroscope. But
modulation, in the modern sense of a free shifting of the centre of
gravity to _any one_ of the twelve semitones of our chromatic scale,
was not developed and accepted until after the acoustical reforms of
Rameau, and the system of tuning keyed instruments embodied in that
work called the _Well-tempered Clavichord_ of Sebastian Bach. Both
these men published their discoveries about the year 1720.
[Footnote 25: In counting the measures of a phrase always consider the
first _complete_ measure,--_never_ a partial measure--as _one_.]
As we have just used the term _modal_, and since many Folk-songs in
the old modes sound peculiar or even wrong (hence the preposterous
emendations of modern editors!) because our ears can listen only in
terms of the fixed major and minor scales, a few words of explanation
concerning the nature of the medieval modes should here be given.
Their essential peculiarity is the freer relationship of tones and
semitones than is found in the definite pattern of our modern scales.
It is of great importance that the music-lover should train himself to
think naturally in these modes; for there has been a significant
return to their freedom and variety on the part of such modern
composers as Brahms, Tchaikowsky, Dvo[vr]ak, d'Indy, Debussy and
others, and some of their most individual effects are gained through
the introduction of modal types of expression. The following modes are
those most commonly employed in the formation of Folk-songs.
[Music: DORIAN]
[Music: PHRYGIAN]
[Music: LYDIAN]
[Music: MIXOLYDIAN]
[Music: AEOLIAN]
[Music: IONIAN]
The Dorian mode, at the outset, is identical with our modern minor
scale; its peculiarity lies in the _semitone_ between the 6th and 7th
degrees and the _whole_ tone between the 7th and 8th. An excellent
example of a modern adaptation of this mode may be found in Guilmant's
March for organ (see Supplement, Example No. 7). The mysterious
opening measures of Debussy's opera _Pelleas et Melisande_ also owe
their atmosphere to this mode, _e.g._
[Music]
The Phrygian mode is one of the most individual to our modern ears
with its first step a _semitone_ and with the _whole_ tone between the
7th and 8th degrees. Under the influence of harmonic development there
was worked out a cadence, known as Phrygian, which is often found in
modern music, _e.g._
[Music]
The opening measures of the slow movement of Brahms's _Fourth
Symphony_ are an excellent example of a melody in the Phrygian mode,
_e.g._
[Music]
The contrast between these measures, with their archaic flavor, and
the sudden change in measure four to the modern tonality of E major,
is very striking. Bach's well-known choral, _O Sacred Head now
wounded_ also begins in the Phrygian mode, _e.g._
[Music]
For a beautiful modern example of this Phrygian mode see the
introduction to F.S. Converse's _Dramatic Poem Job_, for voices and
orchestra.
The Lydian mode is identical with our major scale except for the
semitone between the 4th and 5th degrees. That this change, however,
gives a very characteristic effect may be seen in the passage by
Beethoven from his String-Quartet op. 132--_Song of Thanksgiving_ in
the Lydian mode (see Supplement Ex. No. 8). The Mixolydian mode is
also identical with our modern major scale except for the _whole_ tone
between the 7th and 8th degrees. This mode has had very slight usage
in modern music; because, with the development of harmony,[26] the
instinct became so strong for a leading tone (the 7th degree)--only a
semitone distant from the upper tonic--that the original whole tone
has gradually disappeared. The Aeolian Mode, mainly identical with our
customary minor scale, has the characteristic whole tone between the
7th and 8th degrees. Examples of this mode abound in modern
literature; two excellent instances being the first theme of the
Finale of Dvo[vr]ak's _New World Symphony_, _e.g._,
[Music]
and the following passage from the _Legend_ for a capella voices of
Tchaikowsky, _e.g._
[Music]
The Ionian mode corresponds exactly with our modern major scale, and
the common people among all nations early showed a strong predilection
for its use. The Church, in fact, because of this popularity with the
people, named it the "modus lascivus" and prohibited its use in the
ecclesiastical liturgy. One of the very earliest Folk-tunes
extant--"Sumer is icumen in" (already referred to)--is in the Ionian
mode and, according to Cecil Sharp,[27] the majority of English
Folk-tunes are in this same mode.
[Footnote 26: The chief reason for this leading tone, in addition to
the natural tendency of singers to raise their voices as near as
possible to the upper tonic, was so that the dominant chord, the third
of which is always the 7th degree, might invariably be a _Major_
Triad.]
[Footnote 27: For many suggestive comments on the whole subject see
his book _English Folk-Song_.]
We now cite a few typical folk-songs (taken from national sources)
which, in their structure, show a natural instinct for balance of
phrase and oftentimes for that organic unity of effect gained by
restatement after contrast.
[Music: THE TRUE LOVERS' FAREWELL
Old English]
The pattern of this song, in the Aeolian mode, is A, A, A, B. Unity is
secured by the three-fold appearance of the first phrase; and a
certain balance, by having the second phrase B twice as long (four
measures) as A.
[Music: THE SHIP IN DISTRESS
Old English]
The formula of this characteristic song in the Dorian mode is A, A, B,
A; merely an extension, through repetition, of the simple type A, B, A
which, in turn, is the basis of the fundamental structure known as the
three-part form. This will later be studied in detail. It is evident
to the musical sense how complete a feeling of coherence is gained by
the return to A after the intervening contrast of the phrase B;
evident, also, that this song is a perfect example of the principle of
unity combined with variety.
We further cite a few examples from Scottish, Irish, French, Hungarian
and Russian sources. They all illustrate quaint melodic intervals and
an instinct for balance and symmetry.
[Music: WANDERING WILLIE
Here awa', there awa', Wanderin' Willie,
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame.
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
O tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.]
This song[28] expresses that note of pathos often found in Scottish
folk-music and is noteworthy also because the lyric poet, Robert
Burns, wrote for it words of which we give the first stanza.
[Footnote 28: The example quoted, together with others equally
beautiful, may be found in the collection edited by the Scottish
composer, Hamish MacCunn. See, as well, the _Cycle of Old Scotch
Melodies_ arranged for four solo voices with pianoforte accompaniment
by Arthur Whiting.]
[Music: WOULD GOD I WERE THE TENDER APPLE BLOSSOM]
This Irish tune[29] is certainly one of the most perfect that can be
imagined, remarkable alike for its organic unity, gained by the
frequent use of the first ascending motive, and for the manner in
which the successive crises are reached. Note in particular the
intensity of the final climax, in measure 13, attained by a repetition
of the preceding phrase.
[Footnote 29: For Irish folk-songs the best collections are the one by
Villiers Stanford and a _Cycle_ by Arthur Whiting, prepared in the
same way as that just cited on Scottish melodies.]
[Music: EN PASSANT PAR LA LORRAINE AVEC MES SABOTS]
This charming song[30] from Lorraine exemplifies that rhythmic
vivacity and lightness of touch so characteristic of the French.
[Footnote 30: Taken from an excellent collection of _Chansons
Populaires_ edited by Julien Tiersot.]
Observe the piquant effect, in the final phrase, produced by the
elision of a measure; there being in the whole song 31 measures
instead of the normal 32 (16 + 16).
[Music: Old Hungarian Folk-song]
Hungarian folk-music[31] is noted for its syncopated rhythm and its
peculiar metric groupings. It is also often highly embroidered with
chromatic notes; the Hungarian scale, with _two_ augmented intervals,
being an intensification of our minor mode, _e.g._
[Music]
[Footnote 31: The best popular collection of Hungarian melodies is
that by Francis Korbay, the texts for which were translated and
arranged by the American novelist, J.S. of Dale. It is well known what
artistic use has been made of Hungarian melodies and rhythms by
Schubert, Liszt and Brahms.]
Russia is fortunate in her musical inheritance; for not only has she a
wealth of folk-songs, but her famous composers, Balakireff, Borodin
and Rimsky-Korsakoff--who are men of letters as well--have published
remarkable editions of these national melodies. The Russian folk-songs
express, in general, a mood of sombreness or even depression--typical
of the vast, bleak expanses of that country, and of its downtrodden
people. These songs are usually in the minor mode--often with sudden
changes of rhythm--and based on the old ecclesiastical modes, the
Russian liturgy being very ancient and having an historical connection
with that of the Greek church. The folk-music of no nation is more
endowed with individuality and depth of emotion. Five characteristic
examples are herewith cited:
[Music: I]
[Music: II]
[Music: III Harmonized by RIMSKY-KORSAKOFF]
[Music: IV]
[Music: V]
This last melody is of particular significance, because Tchaikowsky
has used it so prominently in the Finale of his Fourth Symphony.
The growing interest in folk-music in America is a tendency concerning
which the progressive student should inform himself. For a national
basis of creative work, our country has always been at a disadvantage
in comparison with nations which, as their birthright, have much music
in their blood. Moreover, with the exception of the tunes of the
aboriginal Indians and the plantation melodies of the Negroes, it has
been asserted that America could boast no folk-songs. Recent
investigations have shown, however, that this is not entirely true.
Cecil Sharp, Henry Gilbert, Arthur Farwell and other musical scholars
have proved that there are several regions of our country, settled by
colonists from England, Ireland and Scotland, where folk-songs exist
practically in the condition in which they were first brought over.
One of the best collections of such material is the set of so-called
_Lonesome Tunes from the Kentucky Mountains_, taken down by Miss
Lorraine Wyman and Mr. Howard Brockway directly from the mountaineers
and other dwellers in that region. These melodies have great
individuality, directness and no little poetic charm. It is certainly
encouraging to feel that, in this industrial age, there are still
places where people express their emotions and ideals in song; for a
nation that has not learned to sing--or has forgotten how--can never
create music that endures.
CHAPTER III
POLYPHONIC MUSIC; SEBASTIAN BACH
We have traced, in the preceding chapter, some of the fundamental
principles of design in musical expression, as they were manifested in
the Folk-music of the different nations. All music of this type was
homophonic, _i.e._, a single melodic line, either entirely
unaccompanied or with a slight amount of instrumental support. Hence
however perfect in itself, it was necessarily limited in scope and in
opportunity for organic development. Before music could become an
independent art, set free from reliance on poetry, and could attain to
a breadth of expression commensurate with the growth in other fields
of art, there had to be established some principle of development, far
more extensive than could be found in Folk-music. This principle[32]
of "Thematic Development"--the chief idiom of instrumental music--by
which a motive or a theme is expanded into a large symphonic movement,
was worked out in that type of music known as the Polyphonic or
many-voiced; and Polyphonic music became, in turn, the point of
departure for our modern system of harmony, with its methods of key
relationship and of modulation. As we have stated in Chapter I, the
principle of systematic repetition or imitation--first discovered and
partially applied by the musicians[33] of the early French School and
by the Netherland masters--finally culminated in the celebrated vocal
works (a capella or unaccompanied) composed by Palestrina and his
contemporaries for the Roman Catholic Liturgy. Up to this point the
whole texture of music had been conceived in connection with voices;
but with the development of the organ, so admirably suited for
polyphonic style, and the perfection of the family of stringed
instruments, the principles of polyphony were carried over and applied
to instrumental treatment. The composer who, through his constructive
genius, most fully embodied these principles[34] was John Sebastian
Bach (1685-1750). We are now prepared to explain the characteristics
of polyphonic music and then to analyze some typical examples from
Bach and other polyphonic composers. The essential difference between
homophonic and polyphonic style is implied by the terms themselves.
When there is but one melody, the skill of the composer and the
attention of the listener are concentrated upon this single melodic
line; and even if there be an accompaniment, it is so planned that the
chief melody stands out in relief against it. The pre-eminence of this
chief melody is seldom usurped, although the accompaniment often has
interesting features of its own. As soon as we have more than one
melody (whether there be two, three or still others) all these
voice-parts may be of coequal importance, and the musical fabric
becomes an interwoven texture of a number of strands. The genius and
skill of the composer is now expended on securing life and interest
for each of these voices--soprano, alto, tenor, bass--which seem to be
braided together; and thus a much more comprehensive attention is
required of the listener. For instead of the single melody in the
soprano, or upper voice, of the Folk-song, we now must listen
consciously to the bass and to both of the inner voices.[35] Too much
emphasis cannot be laid upon the recommendation that, in appreciating
music, the first task is to train the ear to a wide range of
listening. These differences in style are often apparent just as a
pattern of design--to be seen from the following examples:
[Music: Homophonic Style. Irish Folk-Song]
[Music: Polyphonic Style. BACH: Fugue in C Minor]
[Footnote 32: The statement might be qualified by saying that, since
Beethoven, instrumental style has become a happy mixture of homophony
for the chief melodies and polyphony for the supporting harmonic
basis. Stress is laid in the above text on the polyphonic aspect
merely to emphasize the matter under discussion.]
[Footnote 33: Notable names are Leonin and Perotin, both organists of
Notre Dame at Paris.]
[Footnote 34: Although this is not the place to set forth all the
details of this development, in the interest of historical justice we
should not think of Bach without gratefully acknowledging the
remarkable work of such pioneers as the Dutchman, Sweelinck
(1562-1621), organist at Amsterdam; the Italian, Frescobaldi
(1583-1644), organist at Rome, and--greatest of all, in his
stimulating influence upon Bach--the Dane, Buxtehude (1636-1707),
organist at Luebeck. Sweelinck and Frescobaldi may fairly be called the
founders of the genuine Fugue, and there is a romantic warmth in
Buxtehude's best work which makes it thoroughly modern in sentiment.]
[Footnote 35: In connection with the statement that music has
developed according to natural law, it is worth noting that the
four-part chorus early became the standard for both vocal and
instrumental groups for the simple reason that there exist two kinds
of women's voices--soprano and alto, and two of men's voices--tenor
and bass. Originally, the chief voice in the ecclesiastical chorus was
the tenor (teneo), because the tenors _sustained_ the melody. Below
them were the basses (bassus, low); above the tenors came the altos
(altus, high) and still higher the sopranos (sopra, above).]
In the latter example it is evident that there is an interweaving of
_three_ distinct melodic lines.
The polyphonic instrumental works of Bach and his contemporaries were
called by such names as Preludes, Fugues, Canons, Inventions, Toccatas
and Fantasies; but since a complete account of all these forms would
lead too far afield, we shall confine ourselves to a description of
the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue. A Canon (from the Greek
[Greek: Kanon], meaning a strict rule or law) is a composition in
which there is a _literal_ systematic imitation, carried out to the
end, between two or more of the voices (often with subsidiary voices
filling in), and may be considered a kind of musical dialogue in which
the second, or answering, part reenforces the message previously
uttered by the leading voice. This imitation may take place at any
degree of separation; and Canons are in existence at the interval of
the second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. The most effective Canons,
however, are those in which the answering voice is an octave away from
the leading one. Although the Canon is not a form employed frequently
by modern composers for an entire composition, Canonic imitation
appears so often in all large works for orchestra, string quartet or
ensemble combinations, that the music-lover should acquire a certain
ease in listening to a structure of this type. The Canon, moreover, is
an integral factor in the style of Cesar Franck, d'Indy and Brahms;
and illustrations of its use abound in their works. The organ is
particularly well suited to the rendition of Canons; since, by its
facilities for tone-color, the two voices may be clearly contrasted.
Those interested in organ literature should become acquainted with the
following excellent examples: The _Canon in B-flat major_, op. 40, by
Guilmant; the 4th movement of the _Fifth Organ Symphony_ by Widor; the
Canon in B minor, op. 54, by Schumann; the _Canon in F-sharp major_,
op. 30, by Merkel, and the set of _Ten Canonic studies_, op. 12, by
G.W. Chadwick. In other fields of composition the following should be
cited: The set of _Pianoforte Pieces in Canon form_, op. 35, by
Jadassohn; a like set by Rheinberger, op. 180; the _Canonic Vocal
Trios_, op. 156, by Reinecke and the famous Canon from the first act
of Beethoven's opera _Fidelio_. There is also a beautiful bit of
Canonic imitation between two of the upper voices in the introduction
of Berlioz's _Carnaval Romain Overture_ for orchestra. One of the most
appealing Canons in modern literature is the setting for soprano and
barytone, by Henschel, of the poem _Oh that we two were Maying_ by
Charles Kingsley. This example alone would sufficiently corroborate
the statement that the firmness of structure inherent in the canonic
form is perfectly compatible with genuine freedom and poetry of
inspiration. In the first movement of Cesar Frank's _Symphony in D
minor_, at the recapitulation (page 39 of the full score) may be found
a magnificent example of the intensity of effect gained by a canonic
imitation of the main theme--in this instance between the lower and
upper voices. Possibly the finest example of canonic writing in all
literature is the Finale of Cesar Franck's _Sonata in A major_ for
Violin and Pianoforte in which, for several pages, there is an
eloquent dialogue between the two contrasting instruments. The
movement is too long for citation but it should certainly be procured
and studied. In the Trio of the Scherzo in Beethoven's _Seventh Sonata
for Violin and Pianoforte_ there is a free use of canonic imitation
which will repay investigation. Lastly, the _Aria with 30
Variations_--the so-called _Goldberg Variations_ of Bach--is a perfect
storehouse of every conceivable canonic device.
A few standard examples are to be found in the Supplement. These
should be played over and studied until they are thoroughly
familiar--not only for the pleasure to be derived, but for the
indispensable training afforded in polyphonic listening.
Ex. No. 9 Canon by Thomas Tallys (1510-1585).
Ex. No. 10 Canonic Variation by Schumann from the _Etudes
Symphoniques_.
Ex. No. 11 of Bach's _Goldberg Variations_.
Ex. No. 12 Canon in B-flat minor, op. 38, Grieg.
Ex. No. 13 Canon in F-sharp major, op. 35, Jadassohn.
One of the most simple and direct types of polyphonic composition is
the form known as the _Invention_ in which, as the term implies, the
composer--through his _inventive genius_ and by means of the
polyphonic devices of imitation and transposition--develops to a
logical conclusion some short and characteristic motive. We are
fortunate in having from Bach himself, that consummate master of
polyphony, two sets of such Inventions: fifteen for two voices, and
fifteen for three. These flights of fancy--in which art so subtly
conceals art--though originally composed for the clavichord and
harpsichord (the precursors of the pianoforte), are very effective on
our modern instrument and should be in the possession of every
music-student.[36] A brief analysis is now given of the first one in
the set for two voices, and Nos. 4, 8 and 10 in this set are
particularly recommended for study; also Nos. 2, 6 and 14 among those
for three voices. The opening motive
[Music]
is the foundation of the entire composition and is at once imitated,
canonically, in the lower voice. Then the two voices play about, with
figures clearly derived from the motive, until we reach, in measures
three and four, a systematic downward transposition of the material.
Such transpositions or shiftings up or down in pitch are called
_Sequences_. They are very frequent in all polyphonic composition,
give a strong sense of unity to melodic progression and are generally
carried out in groups of three, _i.e._, the original figure and two
repetitions. After the sequence the music naturally works toward the
most nearly related key (the dominant) and in the seventh measure
reaches in that key its first objective. These Inventions of Bach, as
well as the Dance forms soon to be studied, are almost invariably in
what is known as _Two-part_ form, _i.e._, the music consists of two
main divisions, clearly marked off by cadences[37]; the first of which
modulates to the dominant or some related key while the second part,
starting in this key, works back to a final close in the home key. In
Inventions it early became customary in the second part to begin with
the same motive as the first--but in the _opposite_ voice. Thus we
see, in the Invention now being discussed, that the seventh measure
begins with the original motive in the bass which, in turn, is
imitated by the Soprano--a process just the reverse of that in the
opening measures.
[Footnote 36: The best edition is that by Busoni, published by
Breitkopf and Haertel.]
[Footnote 37: This technical term as well as others will later be more
fully explained.]
[Music]
In pieces in this Two-part form the second portion is generally longer
than the first; for the composer, by the time he has reached this
second part, may consider the material sufficiently familiar to be
expanded and varied by excursions into more remote keys, and by more
intricate manipulations of the chief motive. In measure 11 we find a
modulation to D minor and then, after some free treatment of the
motive, we reach--in measure 15--a cadence in A minor. A long
sequential passage brings us, through a modulation to the subdominant
key of F major (in measures 18 and 19), to a strong closing cadence in
the home key. It should be noticed that in this Invention and in some
of the dance forms there is shown a strong leaning towards a
tripartite division of the material as is indicated by the _three_
cadences in measures 7, 15 and 22. Since, however, the middle part is
lacking in any strong _contrast_--which is such an essential factor in
the fully developed three-part form--it seems better to consider this
piece, and others like it, as a tendency rather than as a complete
embodiment of tripartite arrangement. It is expected that the music
lover will take these Inventions for what they really are and not
search in them for those notes of intense subjectivity and dramatic
power so prevalent in modern music. They are merely little pieces--a
"tour de force" in polyphonic ingenuity; music rejoicing in its own
inherent vitality. Accepted in this spirit they are invigorating and
charming.
The form in which polyphonic skill reaches its highest possibilities
is the Fugue; and the immortal examples of this form are the Fugues of
John Sebastian Bach, found in his _Well-tempered Clavichord_ and in
his mighty works for the organ. The fundamental structure of a fugue
is implied in the term itself (from the Latin "fuga"--flight); that
is, in a fugue the main theme or subject is always announced in a
single voice, and the remaining voices, appearing successively in
accordance with definite principles of key-relationship, seem to chase
each other about and to flee from pursuit. The several stratified
entrances of the subject are relieved by intermediate passages called
"Episodes." An Episode, as shown by the derivation ([Greek: ipi
hodos], by the way), is something off the beaten path--a digression;
and it is in these episodical portions of a fugue rather than in the
formalistic portions that the genius of the composer shines forth.
This is especially true of Bach, for almost any well-trained musician
can invent a subject which will allow of satisfactory fugal treatment
according to accepted usage; but no one save Bach has ever invented
such free and fanciful episodes--so daring in scope and yet so closely
connected with the main thought. The general effect of a fugue is
_cumulative_: a massing and piling up of voices that lead to a
carefully designed conclusion which, in some of Bach's organ fugues,
is positively overwhelming. A fugue may be called a mighty crescendo,
like the sound of many waters. There is a popular conception, or
rather _mis_conception, that a fugue is a labored, dull or even "dry"
form of composition, meant only as an exhibition of pedantic skill,
and quite beyond the reach of ordinary musical appreciation. Nothing
is farther from the truth, as a slight examination of musical
literature will show. For we see that the fugal form has been used to
express well-nigh every form of human emotion, the sublime, the
tragic, the romantic; very often the humorous and the fantastic. When
we recall the irresistible sparkle and dash of Mozart's _Magic Flute
Overture_, of the Overture to the _Bartered Bride_ by Smetana, of the
Finale of Mozart's _Jupiter Symphony_, and of many of the fugues in
the _Well-tempered Clavichord_, it is evident that to call a fugue
"dry" is an utter abuse of language. It is true that there are weak,
artificial and dull fugues, where the composer--frankly--had nothing
to say and merely filled out the form; but the same may be said of
every type of composition, _i.e._, among them all are examples
inspired and--less inspired. This, however, is no indictment of the
fugue _per se_, against which the only thing to be said is that it
requires on the part of the listener an exceeding concentration. Some
of the masterpieces of the world being wholly or partially in the
fugal form, it is the duty of those listening to polyphonic music to
train their powers to the same seriousness of attention expected and
freely given in the appreciation of an oration, a drama or a
cathedral. These latter manifestations of artistic expression, to be
sure, are less abstract than the fugue and more closely related to
daily life. Yet no effort is more repaying than the mental and
emotional energy expended in listening to the interweavings of a good
fugue; for, conscious of missing the periodic divisions of the
Folk-song, we have to listen to more than one melody at a time. A
fugue being a composition, as the French say, of "longue haleine,"
our attention, in order to follow its structure, must be on the "qui
vive" every moment. The fugue, in fact, is an example of the intricate
and yet organic complexity found in all the higher forms of life
itself; and whenever a composer has wished to dwell with emphasis on a
particular theme, he almost invariably resorts to some form of fugal
treatment, strict or free. The most effective media for rendering
fugues are the chorus of mixed voices, the organ (by reason of its
pedal key-board always making the subject in the bass stand out
majestically) and the stringed orchestra which, with the "bite" of the
strings, brings out--with peculiar sharpness--the different entrances
of the subject. The student should become familiar with standard
examples in each of these classes and should, above all, seek
opportunity to hear some of the organ fugues of Bach performed on a
really fine instrument. A few well-known fugues are herewith cited in
order to stimulate the student to some investigation of his own. In
all the Oratorios of Handel and in the choral works of Bach, such as
the B minor Mass, may be found magnificent fugues--as free and vital
in their rhythmic swing as the ocean itself. Particular attention
should be called to the fugue in the Messiah "And by His stripes we
were healed [Transcriber's Note: And with His stripes we are healed]."
One of the most impressive fugues in modern literature is the a
capella chorus _Urbs Syon Unica_ from H.W. Parker's _Hora Novissima_.
From among the organ works of Bach everyone should know the Fugues in
G minor, in A minor, in D major[38] and the Toccata and Fugue in D
minor. These have all been transcribed for the pianoforte by Liszt and
so are readily available; they are often played at pianoforte recitals
by Paderewski and other virtuosi. In hearing one of these masterpieces
no one can remain unmoved or can fail to reverence the constructive
genius which fashioned such cathedrals in tone. For orchestra we have
the Prelude to Puccini's opera _Madama Butterfly_, and the beginning
of the Prelude to the third act of Wagner's _Mastersingers_. There are
striking fugal passages in Beethoven's Symphonies, _e.g._, the first
movement of the _Heroic Symphony_ and the rollicking Trio of the
Scherzo in the _Fifth Symphony_. In more modern literature there is
the fugal Finale to Arthur Foote's _Suite for Orchestra_ and in
Chadwick's _Vagrom Ballad_ a humorous quotation of the theme from
Bach's _G minor Fugue_ for organ. One of the most superb fugues in
free style is the last movement of Cesar Franck's _Prelude, Choral and
Fugue in B minor_ for Pianoforte. This movement alone would refute
all charges of dullness or dryness brought against the fugue by the
unthinking or the unenlightened. A good fugue, in fact, is so full of
vitality and demands such _active_ comprehension[39] on the part of
the listener that it is not difficult to imagine where the dullness
and dryness are generally found.
[Footnote 38: Whenever Percy Grainger performs this fugue in his own
arrangement for pianoforte, he always electrifies an audience.]
[Footnote 39: It is worthy of observation that, for those who will
listen to them intelligently, fugues do not merely demand such a state
of mind but actually _generate_ it.]
At this point by an analysis of a fugue from the _Well-tempered
Clavichord_, let us explain some of the technical features in fugal
structure. We shall then be in a position to understand the more
subtle devices of fugal treatment and to appreciate more
enthusiastically some additional comments upon Bach's style in
general.
FUGUE IN E-FLAT MAJOR, NO. VII, IN THE FIRST BOOK.
[Music: Subject
Counter-subject
Answer]
This fugue in three voices begins with a graceful subject, announced
in the upper voice. In the third measure this is answered by an
imitation of the subject in the alto; while the opening voice
continues with a contrasting part called the counter-subject.[40] As
the whole subsequent fabric is organically derived from these two
motives, both subject and counter-subject should be played frequently
and so committed to memory. Observe also the contrasts in rhythm and
melodic outline between the subject and counter-subject. In measures
4 and 5 we have a short sequential passage leading, in measure 6, to
the third entry of the subject in the bass. Then after another
sequential passage, which includes an emphatic assertion of the
subject in the soprano (measures 11 and 12), we enter upon a long
episode which leads, at measure 17, to our first objective point of
rest--a cadence in C minor. With the entry, in this measure, of the
subject in the alto we have an interesting example of what is termed
"shifted rhythm;" the subject beginning on the third beat instead of
the first, as at the outset. In the middle portion of the fugue we
have two appearances of the subject in the related keys of C minor
(measures 17 and 18) and G minor (measures 20 and 21). Then, following
two very vigorous sequences, a modulatory return is made to the
subject in the home key, and with its normal rhythm at measure 26. A
repetition, in more brilliant form, of one of the previous episodes,
in measures 31 and 32, gives a strong impression of unity; leading in
measures 34 and 35 to a last appearance of the subject, with a
beautiful change in one of the intervals (E-flat-G-flat). The closing
measures establish the main tonality of E-flat major, rendered still
more expressive by the counterpoint associated with the last chord. As
to the general structure of this fugue, it is evidently tripartite,
the first part A presenting the material, the second part B affording
variety by modulating into different keys, and the third part A'
reasserting the material of A and bringing the composition to a
logical close in the home key. (See Supplement Ex. No. 15.)
[Footnote 40: It is left to the teacher to explain to the student the
key-relationship of Subject and Answer, and the difference between
fugues, tonal and real; for as these points have rather more to do
with composition they play but a slight part in listening to a fugue.]
We should now acquaint ourselves with the more subtle devices of fugal
treatment; although but one of these is employed in the fugue just
studied, which is comparatively simple in structure. I. Inversion; the
melodic outline is turned upside down while identity is retained by
means of the rhythm, _e.g._
[Music: BACH: 3rd English Suite
Theme
Inversion]
An excellent example from an orchestral work is the theme of the third
movement of Brahms's _C minor Symphony_, the second phrase of which is
an Inversion of the opening measures, _e.g._
[Music: Inversion]
II. Augmentation and Diminution; the length of the notes is doubled or
halved while their metrical relativity is maintained, _e.g._
[Music: BACH: Fugue No. 8, Book I
Theme
Augmentation]
[Music: BACH: Fugue No. IX, Book II
Theme
Diminution]
Augmentation is very frequent in modern literature when a composer, by
lengthening out the phraseology of a theme, wishes to gain for it
additional emphasis. Excellent examples are the closing measures of
Schumann's _Arabesque_, in which the reminiscence of the original
motto is most haunting, _e.g._,
[Music: Motto]
[Music: Motto augmented]
the Finale of Liszt's _Faust Symphony_, where the love theme of the
Gretchen movement is carried over and intoned by a solo baritone with
impressive effect, _e.g._
[Music]
[Music: In augmentation
_Das ewig Weibliche_]
III. Shifted Rhythm; the position of the subject in the measure is so
changed that the accents fall on different beats, _e.g._
[Music: BACH: Fugue No. V, Book II
Subject
Shifted]
IV. Stretto; (from the Italian verb "stringere," to draw close) that
portion of a fugue, often the climax, where the entrances are
_crowded_ together, _i.e._, the imitating voice enters before the
leading voice has finished, _e.g._
[Music: _Fuga giocosa_, J.K. PAINE, op. 41
Subject]
The effect is obviously one of great concentration and dramatic
intensity--with a sense of impending climax--and its use is by no
means limited to fugal composition; being frequently found in all
large symphonic works of the classic and modern school. For a
magnificent example of the climactic effect produced by a Stretto,
witness the last part of Bach's Fugue in G major (see Supplement, Ex.
No. 16).
Although there is considerable complexity in any complete fugue, and
although it requires great concentration on the part of the listener,
we should avoid thinking of the form as mechanical in any derogatory
sense, but rather as a means to a definite artistic end. Certainly no
greater mistake can be made than that of considering Bach, the supreme
master of polyphonic writing, as too austere, too involved, for the
delight and edification of every-day mortals. Bach means brook, and
the name[41] is most appropriate; for Bach is a never ceasing stream
of musical life, the fountain-head from which spring the leading
tendencies of modern music. In these days when stress is laid on the
romantic element in music, on warm emotional appeal, it is well to
consider the quality so prevalent in Bach of spiritual vitality.
Exactly because the romantic element represents the human side of
music, it is subject to the whims of fashion and is liable to change
and decay. Bach carries us into the realm of universal ideas,
inexhaustible and changeless in their power to exalt. Schumann says
that "Music owes to Bach what a religion owes to its founder"; and it
is true that a knowledge of Bach is the beginning of musical wisdom.
By some, Bach is considered dry or too reserved for companionship with
ordinary human beings. Others carelessly assert that he has no melody.
Nothing can be further from the truth than these two misconceptions.
Bach surely is not dry, because his work abounds in such vitality of
rhythm. As Parry says, in his biography, "No composer ever attained to
anything approaching the spontaneity, freshness, and winsomeness of
his dances, such as the gavottes, bourrees, passepieds and gigues in
the suites; while many of his great choruses and instrumental fugues
are inspired with a force of rhythmic movement which thrills the
hearer with a feeling of being swept into space out of the range of
common things." The charge of a lack of melody is the same which used
to be brought against Wagner. Instead of there being no melody, it is
_all_ melody, so that the partially musical, who lack the power of
sustained attention, are drowned in the flood of melodic outpouring. A
strong claim, in fact, may be made for Bach as a _popular_ composer in
the best sense of the term. Many of his colossal works, to be sure,
are heard but seldom, for they require the most highly trained
executive ability. But if the average music-lover will become familiar
with the French and English Suites, with the Preludes and Fugues of
the _Well-tempered Clavichord_, with some of the Violin Sonatas, he
will find for his imagination and mental machinery a food which, once
enjoyed, becomes indispensable. For his music has that greatest of
qualities in art as in human relationships--it wears well and _lasts_.
We all know that books which reveal everything at a first reading are
soon thrown aside, and that people whose depth of character and
sweetness of disposition we discern but slowly, often become our
life-long friends. Music which is too easily heard is identical with
that which is immediately forgotten. The first impulse created by any
great work of art is our longing to know it better. Its next attribute
is its power to arouse and hold our steady affection. These
observations may be applied literally to Bach's music, which can be
heard for a lifetime, never losing its appeal but continually
unfolding new beauties. Furthermore, in Bach, we feel the force of a
great character even more than the artistic skill with which the
personality is revealed. In this respect Bach in music is quite on a
par with Shakespeare in literature and Michael Angelo in plastic art.
With many musicians, there is so disconcerting and inexplicable a
discrepancy between their deeds as men and the artistic thoughts for
which they seem to be the unconscious media, that it is inspiring to
come into touch with one who rings true as a man whatever demands are
made upon him; whose music is free from morbidity or carnal blemish,
as pure as the winter wind, as elemental as the ocean, as uplifting as
the stars. In Bach let us always remember the noble human traits; for
the universal regard in which his work is held could never have come
merely from profound skill in workmanship, but is due chiefly to the
manly sincerity and emotional depth which are found therein. The
revival of his works, for which the world owes to Mendelssohn such a
debt, has been the single strongest factor in the development of music
during the 19th century; and their influence[42] is by no means yet at
an end, as may be seen from the glowing tributes paid to him by such
modern composers as Franck, d'Indy and Debussy.[43]
[Footnote 41: Beethoven, commenting on the name, majestically said:
"He is no brook; he is the open sea!"]
[Footnote 42: For a very suggestive article on this point by Philip
Greeley Clapp see the Musical Quarterly for April, 1916.]
[Footnote 43: Some eloquent comments on Bach's style and significance
may be found in Chapter III of _The Appreciation of Music_ by Surette
and Mason.]
Two additional fugues are now given in the Supplement (see Nos. 17 and
18) for the consideration of the student: the _Cat-Fugue_ of Domenico
Scarlatti, with its fantastic subject (said to have been suggested by
the walking of a favorite cat on the key-board) and the _Fuga Giocosa_
of John Knowles Paine, (the subject of which is the well-known
street-tune "Rafferty's lost his pig"). This latter example is not
only a brilliant piece of fugal writing but a typical manifestation of
American humor.
Several eulogies of the fugue are to be found in literature; three of
the most famous are herewith appended.
"Hist, but a word, fair and soft!
Forth and be judged, Master Hugues!
Answer the question I've put you so oft:
What do you mean by your mountainous fugues?
See, we're alone in the loft."
--Browning, _Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_.
Throughout, a most fantastic description of fugal style.
"Whence the sound
Of instruments, that made melodious chime,
Was heard, of harp and organ; and who mov'd
Their stops and chords was seen; his volant touch
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue."
--Milton, _Paradise Lost_, Book XI.
"Then rose the agitation, spreading through the infinite
cathedral to its agony; then was completed the passion of
the mighty fugue. The golden tubes of the organ which as yet
had but sobbed and muttered at intervals--gleaming amongst
clouds and surges of incense--threw up, as from fountains
unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir and
antichoir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also,
Dying Trumpeter! with thy love which was victorious, and thy
anguish that was finishing, didst enter the tumult; trumpet
and echo--farewell love and farewell anguish--rang through
the dreadful Sanctus."
--From De Quincey's _Dream Fugue in the "Vision of Sudden
Death_."
Truly a marvellous picture of the effect of a fugue in a great
medieval cathedral!
CHAPTER IV
THE MUSICAL SENTENCE
Before passing on to an explanation of the fundamental types of
musical structure, we must give some idea of the constituent parts of
the _Period_ in music. Every art has its units of expression: the
straight line, the curve, the arch, the poetic stanza and the prose
sentence. Just as poetry and prose are a series of stanzas or
sentences, so a musical composition is a succession of definitely
organized portions of thought and emotion, in terms of rhythm and
sound. In the heart of a composition, to be sure, we often find a
great freedom in the phraseology, comparable to blank verse or to a
rhapsodic kind of prose; but with few exceptions, such as a Fantasie,
every composition always _begins_ with one or two periods which, in
regard to subdivision, balance and directness of statement, are
carefully planned and are complete in themselves. Before it is
possible to follow intelligently the structure of a musical sentence
we must gain a clear idea of what is meant by the frequently used
terms Tonality and Modulation. Since the evolution and acceptance of
our three modern scales:[44] the major, the minor and the
chromatic--which gained their sanction chiefly through the
investigations and compositions of Bach and Rameau--every melody and
the accompanying harmony are said to be in a certain "tonality" (or
"key") which takes its name from the first tone of the scale in
question, _e.g._, C, E-flat, F sharp, etc. Hence this first tone is
called the Tonic or chief tone and from it ascend the other tones of
the scale. That is, a melody in E-flat major will employ only those
tones found in the scale of E-flat major, and is said to be in that
"key," or "tonality." The same would be true of the harmony involved,
_i.e._, the chords would consist of combinations of the different
tones of this scale. When a melody, as is often the case, employs
tones _not_ found in the scale in question, these are called
_chromatic_[45] changes, and may or may not effect a "modulation" or
departure into another key, _e.g._
[Music]
[Footnote 44: It is assumed that the music-lover has, as his
birthright, an instinctive knowledge of the grouping of tones and
semitones in our modern scales. Those who may wish to refresh their
knowledge are recommended to the second Chapter in Foote and
Spalding's _Harmony_, and to the chapter on Scales in Parry's
_Evolution of the Art of Music_.]
[Footnote 45: Color in music is brought about chiefly through their
use.]
The most important means of gaining unity and coherence in a
composition is to have it written in a clearly defined tonality,
especially at the outset. This definite tonality is the "centre of
gravity," so to speak, about which the whole composition revolves. If
this tonal centre were uncertain or wandering, we should have a
feeling of vagueness and perplexity which, except for special dramatic
effect, is never found in works of the great composers. Thus we speak
of a Symphony in C minor, of a Quartet in F major and of a Sonata in
B-flat minor;[46] this foundation key being comparable to the basic
color-scheme of a painting. There is also a particular aesthetic
effect and color-appeal associated with each key; and the listener
should train himself to be sensitive to the brilliance of such keys as
D major and E major, the richness of B major, the dignity of E-flat
major, the almost cloying sweetness of D-flat major and of G-flat
major and the tragic depth of B minor and G minor. No piece, however,
should remain for long in the same key; for music cuts so deeply into
the consciousness that there would result an intolerable monotony.[47]
Even in the simplest folk-songs, therefore, we often find manifested
an instinct for those changes of tonal centre which are technically
called "Modulations." All the keys founded on the twelve semitones of
the chromatic scale are related--though in varying degrees of
closeness; and in modern music, no matter how complex the modulations
often sound, we may be sure that the composer plans them as carefully
as the painter adjusts his color-scheme. For definite acoustical[48]
and harmonic reasons, however, the keys most closely related to a
given tonal centre are those situated a perfect fifth above--the
Dominant; a perfect fifth below--the Subdominant; and the Relative
Minor, the key-note of which is a minor third below, _e.g._, A minor
in relation to C major, C minor to E-flat major. The relative minors
of the Dominant and Subdominant also bear a close relationship to a
given tonic; and into these _five_ keys is made a large majority of
the modulations in any piece of music.[49]
[Music:
Subdominant Tonic Dominant
Relative Relative Relative
Minor Minor Minor]
[Footnote 46: As for example the famous one of Chopin.]
[Footnote 47: Even great composers have at times made this mistake,
_e.g._, Mendelssohn in the first movement of the _Scotch Symphony_,
where the interminable length of the portion in A minor (of all keys!)
is simply deadening in its effect. Compare also the _Prelude to the
Rheingold_; where, however--for dramatic purposes--to depict the world
as "without form and void" Wagner remains in the key of E-flat major
for some 150 measures!]
[Footnote 48: It is left to the teacher to explain, by the ratios
found in the overtones of the Harmonic Series, the validity of this
statement.]
[Footnote 49: Some modern theorists, _e.g._, Calvacoressi (see the New
Music Review for September, 1909) have thought that the dominant
relationship was "overworked." It is true that the great charm of
modern music is its freedom and boldness in modulation; but the
dominant keys can never be entirely abandoned, for the relationship
between them and a tonic is as elemental as that between the colors of
the spectroscope.]
Beginning with Beethoven, a modulation into what are known as the
_mediant_ keys became frequent; and is, in fact, a favorite change in
all modern music--the mediant keys being those situated half-way
between a Tonic and Dominant or a Tonic and Subdominant, _e.g._
[Music: Sub-mediant Mediant]
Anyone at all familiar with Beethoven's style will remember how often
his second theme, instead of following the more conventional line of
dominant relationship, is in a mediant key. Good examples may be found
in the first movement of the _Waldstein Sonata_ and in the first and
last movements of the 8th Symphony. A little thought will make clear
that the relationships just set forth include nearly all the possible
ones save those of 2nds and 7ths. Even into these apparently distant
keys, _e.g._, to D-flat major or to B major from C major, modulations
may easily be made by means of the "enharmonic"[50] relationship found
in that frequently used modern chord--the Augmented Sixth, _e.g._
[Music: C major B major C major D-flat major]
[Footnote 50: Two tones are said to be "enharmonic" when, although
written differently, they sound the same on an instrument of fixed
temperament like the pianoforte, or organ, _e.g._, D-sharp and E-flat,
E and F-flat. A violin, however, can make a distinction between such
notes and often does.]
Next to rhythm, modulation is the most stimulating and enchanting
element in music. No composition of any scope can be considered truly
great unless it abounds in beautiful modulations. Certain composers,
to be sure, have in this respect more genius than others--notably
Schubert, Chopin, Wagner and Franck whose music seems to waft us along
on a magic carpet of delight. But just as Unity depends upon a
definite basic tonality, so Variety is gained by this very freedom of
modulation. Without it is monotony; with too much modulation, an
irritating restlessness. By the perfect balance in his works of these
two related elements a genius may be definitely recognized.
The simplest and on the whole most frequent type of musical sentence
or period consists of eight measures, subdivided into two balancing
phrases of four measures[51] each--the component parts plainly
indicated by various cadences and endings soon to be explained. These
four-measure phrases are often, though not invariably, still further
subdivided into two sections of two measures each. Let us now
corroborate these statements by an examination of the opening sentence
of the Scherzo of Beethoven's _Second Sonata for Pianoforte_. This
concise sentence is an epitome of the chief principles of organic
musical expression. At the outset[52] we see the leading motive, which
consists of an ascending broken chord twice repeated. We see also
[Music]
the first phrase of 4 measures and the second phrase[53] of similar
length, alike subdivided into two sections of 2 measures each. In the
third measure we find a modulation into the dominant key (indicated by
the D-sharp) and in the fourth measure a cadence with a feminine
ending in this key. The second--or after--phrase corresponds exactly
to what has gone before: we have the same repetition of the motive in
a different part of the scale; and finally, in the 8th measure, a
cadence in the home key, also with feminine ending.
[Footnote 51: This assertion holds for most of our Western European
music; though in Hungarian and Scotch music we find a natural fondness
for phrases of _three_ measures, and the Croatians are known for their
phrases of _five_ measures so often used by both Haydn and Schubert.
But it is true that we _tend_ to think in groups which are some
multiple of 2, _i.e._, either 4, 8, 12 or 16 measures.]
[Footnote 52: Always count the first _complete_ measure as _one_.]
[Footnote 53: The two phrases are often designated Thesis and
Antithesis.]
[Music]
When the sentence is played, it is evident how unsatisfactory would be
the effect if a complete stop were attempted at the 4th measure; and
how symmetrical and convincing is the impression when the eight
measures are considered an unbroken sweep of musical thought.[54]
There are, in fact, a few complete compositions in musical literature
which contain but a single sentence of eight measures. As an example
may be cited the song from Schumann's _Lieder Album fuer Jugend_, op.
79, No. 1. (See Supplement No. 19.) For purposes of practical
appreciation[55] it is enough to state that a cadence is an accepted
combination of chords (generally the tonic, dominant and subdominant)
which indicates that some objective, either temporary or final, has
been reached. When the dominant chord or any dominant harmony is
immediately followed by the tonic the cadence is called perfect or
final, and may be compared to a period in punctuation, _e.g._
[Music] [Music: CESAR FRANCK]
[Footnote 54: In listening to a clock it is impossible to think of the
ticks singly, or otherwise than in groups of two: an accented beat and
an unaccented; although the beats are of equal strength and duration.
This principle of dual balance is derived from the rhythmic pulsation
of the human heart and, as we shall see, runs through all music.]
[Footnote 55: Whenever this book is used in class, the teacher can
easily explain, on the pianoforte and by charts, the different
cadential effects. For those who have sufficient harmonic insight
Chapter XIV in Foote and Spalding's _Modern Harmony_ is worth
consulting.]
A reversal of this order produces what is called the half-cadence,
akin to the semicolon, _e.g._
[Music]
The union of the subdominant and tonic chords is known as the Plagal
Cadence, _e.g._,
[Music]
and always gives a feeling of religious dignity and impressiveness.
Magnificent examples may be found in the closing measures of Wagner's
Overture to the _Mastersingers_ and of Brahms' _First Symphony in C
minor_. In the final cadence of Debussy's humorous piece for
pianoforte, _Minstrels_, the effect is burlesqued, _e.g._
[Music]
When dominant harmony is followed by some unexpected chord we have the
so-called Deceptive Cadence, which is not unlike the mark of
interrogation (?) or even exclamation (!) _e.g._
[Music: WAGNER: _Overture to the Mastersingers_]
[Music: TCHAIKOWSKY: _5th Symphony_]
This last cadence gives an effect of dramatic surprise--certainly an
exclamation of great force. One of the glories of modern music is the
daring novelty of cadential effect which has been achieved by such
composers as Franck, Debussy and Ravel; the student should try to
become more and more familiar with such harmonic combinations. A
beautiful example[56] is cited from Cesar Franck's _Sonata for Violin
and Pianoforte_.
[Footnote 56: See also the strikingly original cadences in Debussy's
_L'Isle joyeuse_.]
[Music]
The two endings for phrases are classified as Masculine and Feminine
and they correspond exactly to the same effects in the metre of a
poetic stanza. When the second chord of the cadence, whatever it may
be, coincides with a _strong_ beat, _i.e._, the first beat of the
measure, the ending is Masculine, _e.g._
[Music]
When the chord is carried over to a weak beat of the measure the
ending is Feminine, _e.g._
[Music]
We now give two more examples of the eight measure Sentence which
clearly exemplify the principles just stated, _e.g._
[Music: BEETHOVEN: 3rd Sonata]
In this vigorous and clear-cut sentence we find in the 4th measure an
effect of surprise and suspense; for the chord on the first beat is an
inverted position of the dominant chord in the dominant key. Both the
endings are masculine, _i.e._, the chords which end the phrases
coincide with the strong beats.
[Music: BEETHOVEN: 1st Sonata]
This graceful sentence is noteworthy for the clear division of the
first phrase into two contrasting sections; whereas, in the second
phrase, a climactic effect is gained by having no marked subdivision.
In the fourth measure occurs a good example of a half-cadence. All the
endings are feminine, _i.e._, the cadential chord occurs on a _weak_
beat of the measure.[57]
[Footnote 57: Another interesting eight-measure sentence may be found
at the beginning of the slow movement of Beethoven's Eighth Sonata, in
which every section differs from any one of the others; in the opening
sentence of the first movement of the Tenth Sonata--noticeable for the
indefiniteness of the cadences until the final close is reached in
measure 8, and in the first sentence of the Allegretto of the Sixth
Sonata which is one long sweep, with only the faintest indications of
subdivision.]
Music, however, would be very rigid and would seem measured off with a
yard-stick if the sentences were equally of eight measures. The
"sing-song" effect of much so-called popular music is due to the
stereotyped metrical pattern. You can always tell just where and how
you are coming out. In order to gain a free and elastic phraseology,
composers early began to combine three four-measure phrases into a
_twelve_ measure sentence. It is obvious that with three phrases there
can be more subtle effects of contrast and balance than with two, as
the following chart makes plain:
____________
/ \
A Contrast B Contrast C
\____________/
(4 measures) (4 measures) (4 measures)
balance
\______________________________________/
[Music: BEETHOVEN: 6th Sonata]
In this sentence it is evident that we cannot stop at the 8th measure
and that our first definite conclusion is in measure 12. Let the
student observe the varied melodic outline in the three phrases, and
question himself as to the types of cadence and ending.
MINUETTO OF BEETHOVEN'S FIRST SONATA.[58]
[Footnote 58: Lack of space will prevent hereafter the citation in
actual notes of the examples from Beethoven. His works are readily
accessible, and it may even be assumed that every music-lover owns the
Pianoforte Sonatas.]
In this beautifully constructed twelve-measure sentence we have the
main motive of the entire movement set forth in measures 1 and 2;
then a contrasting secondary motive in measures 3 and 4. The second
four-measure phrase, _i.e._, measures 5, 6, 7 and 8, repeats the
material exactly, but with a modulation into the relative major. In
measures 9 and 10 we find the secondary motive appearing in the alto
voice (which should be brought out in performance), and in measures 11
and 12 a free ending in the relative major. The closing measures, 13
and 14, give an echo-like effect, which will be explained when we come
to extended sentences. Such a sentence is not to be considered as one
of 14 measures, although the literal counting gives that number; for
the first complete cadence occurs in the 12th measure at the end of
the third four-measure phrase; the remaining measures being
supplementary.[59]
[Footnote 59: Another excellent example of a 12 measure sentence with
an extended cadence may be found at the beginning of the first
movement of the Third Beethoven Sonata.]
The last type of simple, normal sentence is that of 16 measures,
divided into 4 phrases of 4 measures each. A clear distinction must be
drawn between two successive sentences of 8 measures and the long
sweep of a genuine 16 measure sentence. In the latter case there is no
complete and satisfactory stop until we reach the cadence in the 16th
measure.
FIRST SENTENCE OF THE FIRST MOVEMENT OF THE TWELFTH SONATA.
No difficulty will be found in following the cadences and endings of
this sentence, the long-drawn out lines of which give an impression of
repose and tranquillity. Two more excellent examples of 16 measure
sentences may be found in the Adagio of the Fifth Sonata, and in the
Scherzo of the Third; the latter movement is remarkable for the
polyphonic treatment of the opening motive.
Although the three types of sentence just studied, _i.e._, of 8, 12
and 16 measures are the normal ones, and would include a majority of
all sentences--especially in smaller works--in large compositions
there would be an unendurable monotony and rigidity were there
invariably to be cadential pauses at every 4th measure. We all know
the deadening effect of poetry which has too great uniformity of
metric pattern; and verses of "The boy stood on the burning-deck" type
are considered thoroughly "sing-song." It is obvious that elasticity
may be gained, without disturbing the normal balance, by expanding a
sentence through the addition of extra measures, or contracting it by
the logical omission of certain measures or by the overlapping of
phrases.
The simplest and most common means of enlarging a sentence is by the
extension, or repetition, of the final cadence--that effect which is
so frequent in the chamber and symphonic music of Haydn, and which has
its comic manifestation in the so-called "crescendo" of the Rossini
Operatic Overture.[60]
[Footnote 60: For a burlesque of this practise see the closing
measures of the Scherzando movement of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony.]
[Music: HAYDN: _Quartet, op. 74, No. 2_]
As Haydn was an important pioneer in freeing instrumental structure
from dependence on the metre of words, his periods are always clearly
organized; the closing measures of this example seem, as it were, to
display a flag, telling the listener that the first breathing-place is
reached. Very often both the fore-phrase and the after-phrase have
cadential prolongations, an example of which may be found in Haydn's
Quartet, op. 71, No. 3. The two following illustrations (the first
movement of Beethoven's Fifth Sonata and the third movement of the
Fourth) furnish remarkable examples of extended 16 measure sentences;
each sentence being normal and symmetrical at the outset and then, as
the fancy of the composer catches fire, expanding in a most dramatic
fashion. Sometimes the additional measures, in an extended sentence,
are found at the start; a clear example of this is the first sentence
(with its repeated opening measure) of the Largo of the Seventh
Sonata. Sentences are also often expanded by the insertion of one or
more measures in the middle of the phrase, _e.g._, the beginning of
the first movement of the Seventh Sonata and the corresponding place
in the Fourth. In the former sentence the first phrase is perfectly
regular, but as we reach our final cadence only in the tenth measure,
we must account for some additional measures. The polyphonic imitation
of the descending motive of measure 5 makes clear that this measure
has two repetitions. In the latter case we reach the end of the
sentence in the 17th measure and careful counting, and consideration
of the melodic outline, will convince us that the 9th measure,
emphasized by the _sf_ mark, is repeated.
When an extra measure is systematically introduced into each phrase of
4 measures we have what is known as "five-bar rhythm"--so prevalent in
the works of Schubert and Brahms.
[Music: SCHUBERT: _Sonata in E[flat] major_]
[Music: BRAHMS: _Ballade in G minor_]
As everyone is familiar with the latter composition, only the melody
is cited. This propulsion of the mind forward beyond the accustomed
point of rest always produces a stimulating rhythmic effect.[61]
[Footnote 61: Other charming examples of five-bar rhythm may be found
in Schubert's Quartet in A minor, op. 29, and in the opening choral
(St. Anthony) of Brahms's _Orchestral Variations_, op. 56a.]
The normal phraseology of four and eight measures is altered at times
by the _omission_ of certain measures. This often takes place at the
beginning of the sentence, as may be seen from the structure of the
so-called Anglican chant, familiar to all Protestants, _e.g._
[Music: SAVAGE]
The beginning of Mozart's _Overture to Figaro_ is also well known,
_e.g._
[Music]
The elision of a measure often takes place in the middle of a phrase
as may be seen from the theme of Mendelssohn's familiar _Spring-Song_.
[Music]
Just as in the case of the systematic insertion of an extra measure,
which produces "five-bar rhythm," so when a measure is omitted in each
phrase which would usually consist of four measures, we have
"three-bar rhythm." This gives an effect of great concentration and
intensity and is a prevalent feature in Scottish and Hungarian
folk-music, _e.g._
[Music: Scotch]
[Music: Hungarian]
Additional examples of three-bar rhythm may be found in the Scherzo of
Beethoven's Tenth Sonata and in the Minuet of Mozart's _G minor
Symphony_--the latter, one of the most striking examples in
literature.
When a measure is systematically omitted from the normal structure of
the 8 measure sentence we have "seven-bar rhythm"; of which beautiful
examples may be found in the Scherzo of Beethoven's Sonata in B-flat
major, op. 106, and in Mozart's Quartet in F major, No. 23. As these
examples are readily accessible they are not quoted. The humorous
effect produced, in the Beethoven example, by the unexpected elision
of the 7th measure is very marked.
Flexibility in the structure of a sentence is often gained by what is
known as "overlapping"[62] of phrases, _i.e._, where the closing
measure of a sentence, the 8th or 12th for example, is identical with
the first measure of the following phrase. A clear example is this
passage from the first movement of Beethoven's Third Sonata, _e.g._
[Music]
[Footnote 62: This effect is clearly brought out in symphonic music
where one portion of the orchestra, with a certain tone color, may be
ending a phrase at the same moment at which another part, with a
contrasting tone color, begins. An excellent example is the first
theme of the Slow movement of Schumann's Second Symphony (measures
7-8).]
As the principles of sentence-formation are closely involved with the
general subject of rhythm, something must be known about the number of
beats within the measure itself. While it is true that we Anglo-Saxons
tend to think in terms of 2 and 3 or their multiples, _i.e._, our
customary measures consist of 2 or 4 beats or of 3, 6, 9 and 12, in
modern music--particularly that of other races (the Slavs, Hungarians,
etc.)--we often find measures with 5 and 7 beats and even phrases
containing a mixture of rhythms. Three excellent examples of
compositions with measures of 5 beats each are the Slow Movement of
Chopin's Sonata in C minor, op. 4, the F-sharp major portion of
d'Indy's Symphonic Variations, _Istar_, and the second movement of
Tchaikowsky Sixth Symphony, _e.g._
[Music]
A delightful example of a melody with 7 beats a measure is the Andante
Grazioso of Brahms's Trio in C minor, op. 101--the result undoubtedly
of his well-known fondness for Hungarian music, _e.g._
[Music]
The following theme from Tchaikowsky's Quartet in F major,
notwithstanding the time signature, certainly gives the effect of a
long, seven-beat measure, _e.g._
[Music]
Those who wish to do a little investigating of their own in the field
of modern music will find interesting examples of 5/4 and 7/4 metres
in Ravel's _Daphnis and Chloe_, in d'Indy's Sonata for Violin and
Pianoforte and in the Ballet music of Stravinsky.
We even find passages where, for special effect, the usual beats are
elided or extra beats inserted. Schumann was one of the most daring
experimenters in this respect and such fantastic effects are frequent
in his pianoforte works--notably in the _Carnaval_, op. 9, and in the
_Phantasiestuecke_, op. 12, _e.g._
[Music: SCHUMANN: _Carnaval_]
With reference to all the foregoing principles and comments the
music-lover is cautioned against the assumption that music, from the
standpoint of the composer or the listener, is merely a matter of
mechanical counting; or that the "swing" of music is as regular as
that of a sewing-machine. But, as order is Heaven's first law, it is
true that music tends to move in definite, symmetrical groups; and
where departure is made from this practise the effect is one most
carefully planned. The matter deserves earnest consideration, for, in
what is known as the "rhythmical sense," Americans--as a people, in
comparison with foreign nations--are still woefully deficient. As
rhythm is the basic element in all music, there is nothing in which
the listener should more definitely train his faculties than in
intelligent cooperation with the freedom of the composer.
CHAPTER V
THE TWO-PART AND THREE-PART FORMS
Now that a clear insight has been gained into the formation of the
normal sentence, we are in a position to understand how sentences may
be combined to make complete compositions. The simplest and most
primitive structure is that which contains _two_ complete sentences;
dividing itself naturally into _two_ parts and hence known as the
Two-Part Form. This form by reason of its simplicity and directness is
often found in the short pianoforte pieces of Schumann, Tchaikowsky,
Brahms, Grieg and Debussy. For a long period there was no attempt at
differentiation between vocal and instrumental style; music, in fact,
during the 15th and 16th centuries was often entitled "buon da cantare
ou suonare," _i.e._, equally well suited for voices or instruments.
When instrumental players were in search of pieces, they simply
transferred to their instruments the voice-parts of the Madrigals and
Canzonas which were then so fashionable.[63] With the development of
instruments--especially of the Violin family--and with the desire for
an instrumental style which should be independent of words, principles
of coherent design had to be evolved; and they were suggested by the
definite metre in the stanzas of the Folk-song and, above all, by the
symmetrical phrases of the Folk-dance, used to accompany the
_rhythmical_ motions of the body. By a utilization of these principles
of balanced phrases, of contrasted keys and of periodic themes,
instrumental music gradually worked out a structure of its own,[64]
of which we find examples in National dances and in the compositions
of such pioneers of instrumental style as the Italians Corelli and
Vivaldi, the Frenchmen Lully, Couperin and Rameau, and the Englishman
Purcell.
[Footnote 63: For a complete account of this process see Parry's
_Evolution of the Art of Music_, p. 115 _seq._]
[Footnote 64: This book makes no attempt to give an historical account
of the development of instrumental form. The subject is set forth
comprehensively in the article on Form in Grove's Dictionary (Vol. II,
p. 73) and in the Fifth and Sixth Chapters of Parry's _Evolution of
the Art of Music_.]
[Music:
Viens dans ce bocage belle Aminte,
Sans contrainte L'on y forme des voeux;
Viens, Viens dans ce bocage belle Aminte,
Il est fait pour les plaisirs et les jeux.]
In this rhythmic and sprightly dance of exactly 8 measures (an old
French _Tambourin_ taken from Weckerlin's _Echos du Temps Passe_) we
see clearly the influence of the metrical stanza of words and of the
balanced phrases in the instrumental part, necessary to accompany the
steps of the dancers. The melody of the accompaniment was played on a
flute or some simple kind of pipe, and the bass on a Tambour de
Basque--a rude form of drum, which repeated continually the tonic and
dominant of the key; the same effect which we associate with the
Bagpipe and Hurdy-gurdy.
[Music: PURCELL: Jig.]
In this Jig, which was a favorite type with the English
peasantry--divided into three sentences of exactly 8 measures
each--the dance rhythm is very sharply defined. From various
dance-patterns a structural type was gradually evolved, of which the
chief features will now be indicated. The music was divided into _two_
distinct halves and it became the convention to gain length by
repeating each half--in the early days of the form, _literally_ (with
a double bar and sign of repeat); later, as composers gained freedom,
with considerable amplification. Each half presented the _same_
material (it was a _one_-theme form) but the two halves were
contrasted in _tonality_, _i.e._, the first part, beginning in the
home-key, would modulate to some related key--generally the dominant;
the second part, starting out in this key, gradually modulated back to
a final cadence in the original key, and often--especially in Haydn
and Mozart--repeated the entire main sentence of the first part. The
general effect of such a form has been wittily described[65] as
resembling the actions of "the King of France who, with twenty
thousand men, marched up the hill and then marched down again"--but he
surely had no exciting adventures in between! It is evident that this
form, while favorable to coherence and unity, is lacking in scope and
in opportunity for variety and contrast. It did, however, emphasize
the principle of recapitulation; in fact it became the convention (as
we shall see in the dances of the Suite) for the closing measures of
the second part to be an exact duplicate in the home-key of that which
had been presented at the end of part one. We shall observe, as we
continue our studies, that the trend of musical composition gradually
swung over to the Three-part form, the essential feature of which is
restatement after _intervening contrast_.
[Footnote 65: See _The Appreciation of Music_ by Surette and Mason, p.
36.]
For illustrations of the Two-part Form see the Supplement Nos. 20, 21,
22, 23, 24.
Only in such comparatively simple examples as those just cited is
found this perfect balance in the length of the two parts. We often
observe extended sentences in the first part; and it became the custom
for the second part to be considerably lengthened, to include
modulations into more remote keys and even to display certain
developments of the main material. For a striking example of a
movement which, although definitely in Two-part form, (_i.e._, it is
in two clear divisions and has but _one_ theme) is yet of considerable
scope and variety, see the Allegretto of Beethoven's Fourth Sonata. It
was, in fact, this instinct for contrasting variety in the second
part[66] which (as can be shown from historical examples)[67]
gradually led to the developing and establishment of the Three-part
form.
[Footnote 66: As an illustration of this tendency see the Scherzo of
Beethoven's Second Sonata, the second part of which has a new theme of
its own, although the movement as a whole is clearly in Two-part
form.]
[Footnote 67: See _The Sonata Form_ by W.H. Hadow, Chapter III.]
The essentials of this structure, so frequent in all pianoforte
literature, are the existence of _three_ distinct _parts_--hence the
name: a clause of assertion in the home-key; a second clause,
affording a genuine _contrast_ to the first part in regard to key,
melodic outline and general treatment, and a third clause of
reassertion, which shall repeat--either literally or in varied
form--the material of part one.[68] In the Three-part form, as
employed in the classic Minuet and Scherzo, each of the three parts
_taken by itself_ is in complete Two-part form; and as the third part
was generally a literal repetition of part one, it was not written
out, but at the end of the middle part (called the Trio, because it
was originally written in three-voiced harmony) we find the direction
"Minuet or Scherzo da capo," meaning a return to the first part. A
coda or tail-piece is often added to round out the form. As the
student will become thoroughly familiar with the Three-part form, in
connection with the classic Symphonies soon to be studied (each
Minuet, Scherzo or Trio being an example), our illustrations show the
use of this form in independent pieces and are chiefly taken from
modern literature; the object being so to interest the student in the
beauty of these compositions as to convince him that in all good music
content and design go hand is hand. For examples[69] see Supplement
Nos. 25, 26, 27.
[Footnote 68: The three-part form is derived partly from the Italian
"da Capo Aria" and partly from the fundamental instinct for
restatement which we have seen in the Folk-song.]
[Footnote 69: Additional illustrations, which will repay study are the
following: the Allegretto of Beethoven's Sixth Sonata; the Schubert
Impromptu, op. 90, No. 4; Brahms's Intermezzo, op. 117, No. 1 and the
Ballade in G minor, op. 118, No. 3, and for orchestra--in extended
treatment--Debussy's _Prelude a l'apres-midi d'un Faune_.]