pianoforte, in which the strings are no longer plucked but struck with
hammers, so that every _nuance_ of touch depends on the fingers. The
story of the pianoforte is the usual Story of Inventions. While people
were labouring to solve the problem by theoretical calculation, it
had long lain solved in an unsuspected fashion before them, and those
who were slowly working at the practical realisation were personally
forgotten, until a positively sufficient experience made the new
invention popular. The beginnings of the pianoforte are therefore,
as usual, obscure. The striking of the strings with hammers had long
been the method employed in the dulcimer. At the beginning of the last
century an artist named Pantaleon Hebenstreit was much talked of, who
played the dulcimer so perfectly, that everyone was astounded at the
new sound-effects. It is possible that his success gave the impulse:
in any case, in the year 1711 there emerges in Italy an instrument
called the pianoforte--because it could be played piano as well as
forte--elaborated by a certain Bartolommeo Cristofori, who was soon
forgotten. This instrument is clearly pictured in writings recently
recovered as a hammer-clavier; Cristofori, as curator to Ferdinand
de’ Medici, had a splendid collection of Belgian, French, and Italian
Flügel-instruments to look after, the study of which, without doubt,
aided him in his invention. His pianoforte, which at first shows a
still more primitive technique, gradually draws sensibly nearer to the
modern system; yet, on account of its unaccustomed tone and touch, it
was unable to gain any appreciable results in the following decades.
Cristofori could not have dreamt that an Italian society of our time
would build a monument to him as inventor of the world-charming
pianoforte, in the national sanctuary, the Santa Croce of Florence.
Whether Hebenstreit built on Cristofori, Cristofori on the French, or
the French on the Germans, is unknown. Possibly the pianoforte was
invented thrice over, in Italy, France, and Germany. In France appears
Marius in the year 1716 as the inventor; in Germany it would seem that
a certain Schröter, incited by the success of Hebenstreit, invented it
in 1717; at least he himself says so in a writing first published in
Freiberg in 1763, ten years after the death of the instrument-maker,
Silbermann. But Silbermann had in any case the merit of having, at a
more fortunate time than Cristofori, worked so hard at the perfecting
of the pianoforte, that from him its increasing spread and the gradual
displacement of the clavicymbal and clavichord may be dated. Yet this
very Gottlieb Silbermann had constructed a “cimbal d’amour,” which by
a cleverly devised mechanism heightened the tone of the clavichord--so
“lonesome, melancholy, and inexpressibly sweet.” But his later renown
rests on his exquisitely manipulated pianoforte. He had a good master
in this difficult work--John Sebastian Bach. When he brought his first
model to Bach the latter found it too weak in the treble and too hard
to play. Silbermann was first vexed, then stimulated by this censure.
He then sold no more, and went on making improvements in it until the
old Bach, as Agricola[94] says, gave him unmixed commendation.
If we play Bach to-day on our extremely refined pianofortes, we are
inclined to imagine that his fine effects are solely due to the
perfection of the instrument. And this opinion is not wholly false.
Though in the cembalo there sounded in his ear something of the
accustomed solemnity of the organ, there is yet in his music a cry for
a subtle and expressive instrument which he as little possessed as
Beethoven possessed an orchestra suited to his ideas. In every great
tone-creator lives a superabundance of imaginative form which the
instruments of the time cannot embody, and to which the instruments
instantly strive to become equal. Because Berlioz was, the modern
orchestra is. Because Bach was, the pianoforte is, which knows how
to express with justice the subtleties of his soul-music. I think
for example of the never-to-be-forgotten theme of the C sharp minor
prelude in the first volume of the Wohltemperiertes Klavier. The
clavichord could only give this theme in a thin lament; the spinet in
a rigid and unmanageable form. But what features does not the motive
show as the piece runs on! Now it has the slow-breathing rhythm of a
noble aspiration, now the opening eyes of an expectant Cecilia, now
the heavy oppression of a martyr soul, now the holy rage of a last
noble complaint, now the sweet weariness of Christian humility. And
with these various tints the piece builds itself up into a broad
picture, which leads from renunciations through pain to renunciations;
with these tints every line, every note of the theme is given an
active life, as it pursues its course. Composition like this demanded
an instrument which should be capable of a new expression in every
touch. All that Bach dreamed of, the pianoforte gave, awakening the
gentle soul of the clavichord to an unthought-of fulness of existence,
and changing the mechanical force of the clavicymbal to a sudden
consciousness of personality. The voices of a fugue-passage would
now be personally separated from each other; every line in the great
lacework could be brought out at the moment according to the feelings
of the performer. What, under the sacred laws of Bach’s music,
slumbered in the depth of the breast, found in the new instrument its
unreserved interpretation.
[95]It seems at first sight almost tragic that Bach himself can never
have realised these effects, which are so familiar to us in connection
with his music as it is nowadays interpreted on the pianoforte. But
perhaps it is the wisdom of Fate to ordain that the cup of the artist
should ever be dashed by a certain bitterness, the conscious falling
short of attainment as it appears in complete idea before his mind.
[Illustration: “Bundfrei” Clavichord (_i.e._ with a separate string to
each key), by Chr. G. Hubert, Bayreuth, 1772. De Wit collection.]
When an artistic form reaches perfection, its active life is over, and
it is a subject of contemplation, no longer a tool to be used.
And just so, when the instrument necessary to the full interpretation
of Bach’s clavier-music, the pianoforte, had arrived within measurable
distance of perfection, then did Bach’s own Art reach its highest
formal expression, then once more did the fashion of things suffer a
change, and his work began to take its place as a colossal monument
pointing on the road towards the House Beautiful.
Bach is, as it were, the priest of modern music. His congregation
sit at his feet daily. Wherever a pianoforte is found, there is his
temple. But though the priest cannot utterly control the worship of
his hearers (nay, many will bow the knee to Rimmon in the house of the
God), still his voice is strong, his words are true, and they may hear
if they will.] This is the significance of Bach, and the longer we
live, the more we shall believe it.
[73] The word “Intavolata” was used about 1600 to describe
the “arrangement” of a many-voiced madrigal for the
keyed instrument. Hence “intavolatura” comes to mean a
“copy” presenting all the parts at one view, and such
“arrangements” for clavier were common and popular.
[74] More than a century before Kuhnau, an English
clavier composer, John Munday, composed a piece of
“programme-music,” with the various sections labelled,
_e.g._--Faire Wether, Lightening, Thunder, Calme Wether,
A Cleare Day. It is the third piece in the Fitzwilliam
Virginal Book.
[75] Bach died in 1750. Hawkins published his great History
of Music in 1776, and in spite of the fact that he had his
information direct from Bach’s son, John Christian Bach,
then living in London, he appears quite ignorant of any of
his works but the Clavierübung (1731-42), from which he
prints three short harpsichord pieces.
[76] This is certainly not so, historically speaking.
The strict canon is far older than what we understand by
“imitation.”
[77] Long before Bach was born, we find an English composer
anticipating this comprehensive treatment of the scales.
Before 1667, John Jenkins wrote a series of “Fancies” on
each degree of the alphabetical scale, three movements to
the set. The keys actually used are C, D, E, F, G, A, B
flat, all minor except F and B flat. But, as is mentioned
in a previous note, in one of the three movements in F,
Jenkins modulates nearly through all the flat keys, at
any rate as far as D flat, thus showing that already
in the middle of the seventeenth century an Englishman
contemplated Bach’s accomplished work of using the scale
on every semitone. And this by no means fixes the ultimate
limit. Bull’s fantasia on Ut, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La--piece
number 51 in the Fitzwilliam book--modulates into all the
twelve keys. Though this does not _prove_ that instruments
were as yet tuned with an equal temperament, it does prove
that Bach was in no sense the originator of the idea,
and the probability is very great that the system was in
practical use in England in Elizabethan times. Bull was
flourishing in 1590.
[78] The date of the first edition of the “Forty-eight” is
uncertain, namely, 1799 or 1800, London. (Author’s note.)
[79] August Gottlieb Muffat, of Vienna, 1690-1770, son of
Georg Muffat, organist of Strassburg Cathedral.
[80] This movement is in three parts, and the allusion
is to the two upper voices, which maintain a duet in
_cantabile_ on a gently moving quaver bass.
[81] The idea of the two subjects, and of the “free”
section after the central double bar, was already realised
incompletely. In the shortest “binary” movements the scheme
of _keys_ is found to be P, Q. (double bar) || Q, various,
P.
[82] This paragraph is suggested by a corresponding one in
the author’s German edition.
[83] The author means such composers as Rameau, Galuppi,
Couperin, who wrote for their audience to a great extent.
[84] This expression may be misunderstood unless reference
is made to the music. The passage arrives at the key of B
(the “dominant” key), but the F sharp mentioned is merely
the bass note.
[85] See above, p. 92.
[86] A “ground” bass is a short passage repeated an
indefinite number of times through an extensive movement.
In this case it consists of four bars, and is not repeated
so strictly as usual, though its general figure is kept up
throughout.
[87] This expression, “deceptive” cadence, is a translation
of _cadenza d’inganno_, one of the several cadences or
closes which had names given to them by the old theorists.
The “inganno” cadence was something like the “interrupted”
cadence, but was supposed to lead into _another key_, hence
the “deception.”
[88] The author possibly refers to the flowing freedom of
the counterpoint in the quintet in Wagner’s opera. But
there is no need nowadays to demonstrate that the Bayreuth
master is as necessarily a contrapuntist as he of Weimar.
[89] Meaning, of course, that the fingering methods of
the father and son are by no means identical. The former
employed the crossing of the fingers over one another
freely; whereas Philip Emanuel’s notions of fingering
are practically ours. See his “Exempel nebst achtzehn
Probe-Stücken, etc.,” date 1780.
[90] This method is still commonly practised. Chopin,
Liszt, and others, supply innumerable examples,
particularly of the passing of 4 over 5.
[91] That is, “for the lute _or_ clavier.”
[92] It is necessary once more to remind the reader of the
_essential_ difference in “action,” power of expression,
and strength of tone, between these two instruments; and of
the unfortunate ambiguity which exists in the use of the
name “clavichord.” _Vide supra_, pp. 21 and 89, note.
[93] Kiel = quill, flügel = wing, _i.e._ a keyed instrument
with a plucking “action” of _quill_ plectrums, with a case
made in the shape of a bird’s _wing_. Grand pianofortes
are still made in this shape, and therefore are still
called “flügel” in Germany. Kiel-flügel is synonymous with
clavicymbal (hence “cembalo”), and means “harpsichord.”
[94] Agricola was a pupil of John Sebastian Bach, and in
1754 helped Bach’s son Emanuel to write a biography of his
father.
[95] Suggested by corresponding paragraphs.
[Illustration: Philip Emanuel Bach, as he was in his Hamburg period.]
The “Galant” School
When Bach died, the musical centre of gravity tended to Germany; but
it was doubtful what precise line would be followed. On Bach anything
could be built. A great period of counterpoint might rise in which
voices might go through a new series of harmonic complexities, similar
to, and yet so different from those of the Middle Ages. Or there
might come a period of great suites in which the simple dance-forms
might grow in many-sided development. A high pathetic style might be
introduced, or the details of expression might attract the attention
of the amateur. The forms of the various compositions might alter in
either direction, of new freedom or new restraint. Counterpoint might
be deserted, concerted playing might be improved in the direction of
increased grace.
For all or any of these possibilities Bach laid a foundation, and it
only remained for the taste of the time to decide on the choice that
should be made.
The taste of the time, leaving on one side both the pathetic and the
scholarly, went off into the domain of the graceful. The experience
of music was similar to that of architecture, which had already
gone through the epoch of the “baroque” and “rococo,”[96] by which
designers had sought to give variety to the lines of their work.
Compared with the energy and manly swing of the Italian Concerto, a
sonata of Philip Emanuel Bach is fairly characterised as “rococo.”
In place of the sober delight in bold outline appears the “galant”
appreciation of eccentricities and wayward curvings. Passion is
ashamed of confessing itself openly, and offers the amusing spectacle
of a natural emotion wilfully covering itself with an incongruous
vesture of conventional form.
The newly formed tendency towards simple sensuousness does not obtrude
itself; it merely smiles in the graceful oscillations of subtle
harmonies.
Caprice is the true ruler, and in improvised outpourings, speaking
pauses, piquant leaps, stupefying enharmonic changes, purposed
perverseness of motive, she places the same material under the hands
of the fair performers, which, a short time before, had taken such a
scholarly form.
Where strict canons of the voices used to be carried honestly through,
we now observe a pleasant trifling with imitation which becomes
coquettish, and the pedantic old Dux and Comes[97] put up very well
with the change in their conditions of service. Counterpoint turns
into mere accompaniment, and daintiness with humorous ornament is the
object of the composer.
The new auditor is the delicate dilettante who listens no longer so
much to the inner parts, the ancient severity of which vanishes
and is replaced by chord music. Now we listen to the melody, to the
over-part, and we unfold its whole charm, revealing a hundred secrets
of melodic pleasure, and disentangling them at ease. And in all this
capricious enlivening of music there remains the same delightful
contradiction as in the paintings and buildings of the time--the
contradiction between inner freedom and the aim at a fixed form. The
external form is to replace what was offered by the inner; and yet,
from these new free figures, the intention is primarily to gain this
form. The aim is not at collections of suites, but at the type of the
free movement, of the piece, of the sonata. It is the same spectacle
as when we see Hogarth and Greuze expressing a definite moral lesson
in their pictures, or architectural principles conveyed in the play
of childhood. In music, however, that exclusive predominance of form,
which the French Revolution caused to prevail in the representative
art, has never been quite attained. It is important to notice that
this was only possible since music had emancipated itself from French
influence. It was only in Germany that a Beethoven could arise.
The distinction between “professional” and “amateur” is one to
which our attention is always more and more drawn. “Tablatures” and
apparatus for the scholar vanish gradually, and titles meant to
attract the amateur become more frequent. Bach’s inscription--“for the
delight of amateurs”--over suites and concertos, appears on more than
one title-page. We read “Cecilia playing on the clavier and satisfying
the hearing,” or “Manipulus musices, a Handful of Pastime at the
Clavier,” or again, “the Busy Muse Clio,” or even “Clavier-practice
for the delight of mind and ear, in six easy _galanterie parties_
adapted to modern taste, composed chiefly for young ladies.” A certain
Tischer has put it very shortly on some suites--“The Contented
Ear and the Quickened Soul.” As the most complete refiner of this
taste, relying on the public at large, appears Philip Emanuel Bach,
who inscribes his sonatas “easy” or “for ladies,” and thus openly
confessed, much as he was censured therefor by the pedants, that he
had systematically introduced the light _genre_ as a music for the
future.
[Illustration: F. W. Marpurg, Theoretician and Clavier Teacher.
1718-1795.]
Like the princes in the seventeenth century, or the middle classes in
the nineteenth, it was the nobles in the eighteenth who played the
part of Maecenas; and under their patronage appears, for the first
time, a precisely marked musical society. Here too, in music, the
nobility became an invaluable link between the artistic court and
that public interest in art which, it would seem, is the necessary
condition of all future advance. Even in the didactic musical romance
which old Kuhnau wrote in 1700 under the title of “The Musical
Quack,” we miss the type of the amateur Maecenas. In the background,
invisible, stands the prince who keeps the chapel; in the foreground
there are only musicians and quacks. The amateur who is not a quack,
the genuine dilettante, first attains importance in the beginning of
the century; but very shortly the concerts which are given in the
salons of the Fürnbergs, Esterhazys, and Schwarzenbergs, do more for
the beneficial advancement of art than even the devotion of a keenly
musical court such as that of Frederick the Great at first was. The
greater courts, like Dresden and Munich, begin somewhat to decline,
while the smaller advance, and in England, Italy, and elsewhere, the
nobility, who are not unlike small sovereign princes, aid the spread
and development of music. The nobility are soon followed by the
gentry; but it was not till the Revolution had shattered the nobles
that the bourgeois Maecenas steps upon the scene. In this displacement
of old relations it was inevitable that the clavier should play its
important part; in accordance with its social nature it advanced more
and more from an accompanying or supplementary instrument into an
independent centre of drawing-room existence, as well as of bourgeois
evening parties. Thus, in the attractive and successful pieces of the
generation from 1750 to 1800, its popularity was for the first time
established. Old Bach had as yet been the most serious professional
musician who had yielded to “galant” impulses; and his concessions
to the popular taste were only by the way. The distinction between
public improvisation on set themes, and public interpretation of
written works, was not yet sharply defined. The player was at his
highest when he extemporised variations or fugues on a given subject.
Such had been the improvisations of Sebastian Bach; but the spirit
of improvisation, as it lives in the works of Philip Emanuel, is
something quite different. In him the hand directly follows the inner
feeling, constructs easily and simply, and plays for the sake of the
playing, not for the sake of the art. Before the clavier had become
a social instrument, this division of labour between composers and
players had become imperative; reproduction was bound to diverge into
a separate branch. The amateur, on whom more and more the art depends,
is incapable of composing, but he will, on his clavier, hear the works
of the masters, which are now so numerous, or even play them himself.
He desires to have acts of operas, arrangements of concertos, or many
dainty short pieces. The old clavier-books, which we can trace from
the Elizabethan Virginal Book to the volumes of Bach’s children, now
gradually disappear. Instead of copying with its personal character,
the press is more and more in requisition, and the musical treasury
is more and more thrown open to the public. The engraving of notes,
during the eighteenth century, rapidly improves, and the clefs and
types become more simple. The ornamental devices become constantly
more fixed, and the player has less and less liberty in his use
of them. And whereas, in earlier times, the instruction-books did
not always distinguish between composition and playing, now, since
Couperin’s time, the instruction-book of pure playing became
constantly more common; while Philip Emanuel, to whom, perhaps with
justice, we trace the systematisation of the principles of modern
clavier-playing, wrote a book on playing, and then waited eight years
before publishing a second part on the thorough bass.
The extension of musical interest led further to such a multitude of
musical magazines as even to-day is not to be found. For the most part
they disappear after a few years, but we have, as a matter of fact,
in a year’s issue of such a paper, a very fair picture of musical
tendencies. I have before me a volume of the last of these, published
in 1762, by George Ludewig Winter, in Berlin. It is well printed,
with dainty rococo borders. Very amusing and characteristic is the
sanguine Preface, in which also is to be discerned the inability of
the German tongue to restrain itself while talking of our classics.
“Music,” says the publisher, “serves either to delight with its mere
art the professor, whether he be such by nature or by cultivation--as
a well-built house, or a well-laid out garden, satisfies the
connoisseur; or, on the other hand, it is the language of emotion.
Then roar forth tones teeming with revenge, sorrow glides over the
strings, passion frantically beats the air, joy revels in the blue
æther, friendship and love sigh forth on the delicate notes, praise
and thankfulness well from a full heart on the vigorous melody, or
rise, cleaving the clouds on the tongues of men, to the very throne of
the Almighty.”