THE SONGS
Any one who should undertake casually to examine MacDowell's songs
_seriatim_, beginning with his earliest listed work in this form--the
"Two Old Songs," op. 9--would not improbably be struck by an apparent
lack of continuity and logic in the initial stages of his artistic
development. At first glance, MacDowell seems to have attained a
phenomenal ripeness and individuality of expression in these songs,
which head the catalogue of his published works; whereas the songs of
the following opus (11-12) are conventional and unimportant. The
explanation, which I have elsewhere intimated, is simple. The songs of
op. 11 and 12, issued in 1883, were the first of his _Lieder_ to appear
in print; the songs numbered op. 9, which would appear to antedate
them in composition and publication, were not written until a decade
later, when they were issued under an arbitrary opus number as a
matter of expediency. Their proper place in MacDowell's musical
history is, therefore, about synchronous with the mature and
characteristic "Eight Songs" of op. 47. From the five songs now
published in one volume as op. 11 and 12, the progress of MacDowell's
art as a song writer is both steady and intelligible.
He has not been especially prolific in this field, when one thinks of
Grieg's one hundred and twenty songs, and of Brahms' one hundred and
ninety-six; not to mention Schumann's two hundred and forty-eight, or
Schubert's amazing six hundred and over. MacDowell has written
forty-two songs for single voice and piano, together with a number of
ingenious and effective pieces for men's voices and for mixed chorus.
He has avowed his methods and principles as a song writer. In an
interview published a few years before his death he declared his
opinion to be that "song writing should follow declamation"--that the
composer "should declaim the poems in sounds: the attention of the
hearer should be fixed upon the central point of declamation. The
accompaniment should be merely a background for the words. Harmony is
a frightful den for the small composer to get into--it leads him into
frightful nonsense. Too often the accompaniment of a song becomes a
piano fantasie with no resemblance to the melody. Colour and harmony
under such conditions mislead the composer; he uses it instead of the
line which he at the moment is setting, and obscures the central
point, the words, by richness of tissue and overdressing; and all
modern music is labouring under that. He does not seem to pause to
think that music was not made merely for pleasure, but to say things.
"Language and music have nothing in common. In one way, that which is
melodious in verse becomes doggerel in music, and meter is hardly of
value. Sonnets in music become abominable. I have made many
experiments for finding the affinity of language and music. The two
things are diametrically opposed, unless music is free to distort
syllables. A poem may be of only four words, and yet those four words
may contain enough suggestion for four pages of music; but to found a
song on those four words would be impossible. For this reason the
paramount value of the poem is that of its suggestion in the field of
instrumental music, where a single line may be elaborated upon....
To me, in this respect, the poem holds its highest value of
suggestion.... A short poem would take a lifetime to express; to do
it in as many bars of music is impossible. The words clash with the
music, they fail to carry the full suggestion of the poem ...
"Many poems contain syllables ending with _e_ or other letters not
good to sing. Some exceptionally beautiful poems possess this
shortcoming, and, again, words that prove insurmountable obstacles. I
have in mind one by Aldrich in which the word 'nostrils' occurs in the
very first verse, and one cannot do anything with it. Much of the
finest poetry--for instance, the wonderful writings of Whitman--proves
unsuitable, yet it has been undertaken....
"A song, if at all dramatic, should have climax, form, and plot, as
does a play. Words to me seem so paramount and, as it were, apart in
value from the musical setting, that, while I cannot recall the
melodies of many of the songs that I have written, the words of them
are so indelibly impressed upon my mind that they are very easy of
recall.... Music and poetry cannot be accurately stated unless one has
written both."
It is clear that these are the views of a composer who placed
veracious declamation of the poetic idea very much to the front in his
conception of the art of the song-writer. They explain in part, also,
the fact that MacDowell himself wrote the words of many of his songs,
though, quite characteristically, he did not avow the fact in the
printed music. The verses of all the songs of op. 56, save one, op.
58, and op. 60 (the last three sets that he wrote), of the "Slumber
Song" of op. 9, of "The Robin Sings in the Apple Tree," "Confidence,"
and "The West Wind Croons in the Cedar Trees" (op. 47), and of some of
the choruses, were of his authorship. He enjoyed what he called
"stringing words together," and most of his verses were written
off-hand, with a facility which betrayed the marked gift for verbal
expression which is apparent in his often admirably stated lectures.
But his especial reason for writing the words for his songs was his
difficulty hi finding texts which quite suited him. Many poems which
he would have liked to set were, as he explained in the words I have
quoted, full of snags in the way of unsingable words. And though it
used to make him uncomfortable to do so, he often felt compelled for
this reason to refuse much otherwise excellent poetry that was sent to
him with the request that he use it for music. Some of the verse that
he wrote for use in his songs is of uncommon quality--imaginative,
distinguished in diction, and, above all, perfectly suited to musical
utterance. Of uncommon quality, too, are some of the brief verses
which he used as mottos for certain of his later piano pieces--as for
the "Sea Pieces" and "New England Idyls."
That his songs, as a whole, are comparable in inherent artistic
consequence with his sonatas, or with such things as the "Woodland
Sketches," the "Sea Pieces," and the "New England Idyls," I do not
believe, although I readily grant the beauty and fascination of many
passages, and of certain pages in which he is incontestably at the
height of his powers. Here, as in his writing for piano and for
orchestra, one will find abundant evidence of his distinguishing
traits--sensitiveness and fervour of imagination, a lovely and
intimate sense of romance, whimsical and piquant humour, virility,
passion, an unerring instinct for atmospheric suggestion. But there
are times when, despite his avowed principles in the matter, he
sacrifices truth of declamation to the presumed requirements of
melodic design--when he seems to pay more heed to the unrelated effect
of tonal contours than to the dramatic or emotional needs of his text.
As an instance of his not infrequent indifference to justness of
declamatory utterance, examine his setting of "in those brown eyes,"
at the bottom of the last page of "Confidence" (op. 47), and of the
word "without" in the fourth bar of "Tyrant Love" (op. 60). I dwell
upon this point, not in any spirit of captiousness, I need scarcely
say, but because it exemplifies a fairly persistent characteristic of
MacDowell's style as a song writer.
Of that other trait to which I have referred--his not exceptional
preoccupation with a purely musical plan at the expense of dramatic
and emotional congruity--the attentive observer will not want for
examples in almost any of MacDowell's song-groups. As a single
instance, I may allege the run in eighth-notes which encumbers the
setting of the second syllable of the word "again," in the fourth bar
of "Springtide" (op. 60). Such infelicities are difficult to account
for in the work of a musician so exceedingly sensitive in matters of
poetic fitness as he. It may be that his acute sense of dramatic and
emotional values operated perfectly only when he was unhampered by the
thought of the voice.
I have dwelt upon this point because it should be noted in any candid
study of his traits as a song writer. Yet it is not a defect which
weighs heavily against him when one considers the musical quality of
his songs as a whole. Not, as a whole, equal to his piano music, they
are admirable and deeply individual; and the best of them are not
surpassed in any body of modern song-writing.
[Illustration: THE MUSIC-ROOM AT PETERSBORO]
In almost all of his songs the voice is predominant over the piano
part--although he is far, indeed, from writing mere accompaniments:
the support which he gives the voice is consistently important, for he
brings to bear upon it all his rich resources of harmonic expression.
But though he makes the voice the paramount element, he uses it, in
general, rather as a vehicle for the unconscious exposition of a
determined lyricism than as an instrument of precise emotional
utterance. When one thinks of how Hugo Wolf, for example, or Debussy,
would have treated the phrase, "to wake again the bitter joy of love,"
in "Fair Springtide," it will be felt, I think, that MacDowell's
setting leaves something to be desired on the score of emotional
verity, although the song, as a whole, is one of the loveliest and
most spontaneous he has written. I do not mean to say that he does not
often achieve an ideal correspondence between the significance of his
text and the effect of his music; but when he does--as in, for
instance, that superb tragedy in little, "The Sea,"[16] or in the
still finer "Sunrise"[17]--one's impression is that it is the
fortunate result of chance, rather than the outcome of deliberate
artistic purpose. It is in songs of an untrammelled lyricism that his
art finds its chief opportunity. In such he is both delightful and
satisfying--in, for instance, the six flower songs, "From an Old
Garden"; in "Confidence" and "In the Woods" (op. 47); in "The Swan
Bent Low to the Lily," "A Maid Sings Light," and "Long Ago" (op. 56);
and in the delectable "To the Golden Rod," from his last song group
(op. 60). This is music of blithe and captivating allurement, of grave
or riant tenderness, of compelling fascination; and in it, the word
and the tone are ideally mated. Yet even in others of his songs in
which they do not so invariably correspond, one must acknowledge
gladly the beauty and freshness of the music itself: such music as he
has given us in "Constancy" (op. 58), in "As the Gloaming Shadows
Creep" (op. 56), in "Fair Springtide"--which represent his ripest
utterances as a song writer. If he is not, in this particular form,
quite at his happiest, he is among the foremost of those who have kept
alive in the modern tradition the conception of the song as a medium
of lyric utterance no less than of precise dramatic signification.
[16] No. VII. of the "Eight Songs," op. 47.
[17] Op. 58, No. II.