composition by the sight of beautiful scenery. Rochlitz relates that
when he travelled with his wife through picturesque regions he gazed
attentively and in silence at the surrounding sights; his features,
which usually had a reserved and gloomy, rather than a cheerful
expression, gradually brightened, and then he began to sing, or rather
to hum, till suddenly he exclaimed: "If I only had that theme on
paper." He always preferred to live in the country, and wrote the
greater part of his two best operas, "Don Juan," and "The Magic
Flute," in one of those picturesque little garden houses which are so
often seen in Austria and Germany. In one of these airy structures, he
confessed, he could write more in ten days than he could in his
apartments in two months.
Berlioz relates somewhere that the musical ideas for his "Faust" came
to him unbidden during his rambles among Italian hills. Weber's
melodies are so much like fragrant forest flowers that one feels sure
before being told that he came across them in the woods and fields.
His famous pupil, Sir Julius Benedict, relates that Weber took as
great delight in taking his friends to see his favorite bits of
landscape, as he did in composing a fine piece of music; and he adds
that "this love of nature, and principally of forest life, may explain
his predilection, in the majority of his operas, for hunting choruses
and romantic scenery."
Richard Wagner conceived most of his vigorous and eloquent leading
melodies during his rambles among the picturesque environs of
Bayreuth, or the sublime snowpeaks of Switzerland. How he elaborated
them we shall see later on. Of Beethoven's devotion to nature many
curious anecdotes are told by his contemporaries. A harp manufacturer
named Stumpff met him in 1823 and wrote an account of his visit in
"The Harmonicon," a London journal, in which occurs this passage:
"Beethoven is a capital walker and delights in rambling for hours
through wild, romantic scenery. I am told, indeed, that he has
sometimes been out whole nights on such excursions, and is often
absent from home for several days. On the way to the valley [the
Hellenenthal, near the Austrian Baden] he often stopped to point out
the prettiest views, or to remark on the defects of the new buildings.
Then he would go back again to his own thoughts and hum to himself in
an incomprehensible fashion; which, I heard, was his fashion of
composing."
Professor Klöber, a well-known artist of that period, who painted
Beethoven's portrait, relates that he often met Beethoven during his
walks near Vienna. "It was most interesting to watch him," he writes;
"how he would stand still as if listening, with a piece of music paper
in his hands, look up and down and then write something. Dont had told
me when I met him thus not to speak or take any notice, as he would be
very much embarrassed or very disagreeable. I saw him once, when I was
taking a party to the woods, clambering up to an opposite height from
the ravine which separated us, with his broad-brimmed felt hat tucked
under his arm; arrived at the top, he threw himself down full length
and gazed long into the sky."
Another contemporary of Beethoven, G.F. Treitschke, gives us an
interesting glimpse of Beethoven's manner of creating and improvising.
Treitschke had been asked to write the text for a new aria that was to
be introduced in "Fidelio" when that opera was revived at Vienna in
1814. Beethoven called at seven o'clock in the evening and asked how
the text of the aria was getting on. Treitschke had just finished it,
and handed it to him. Beethoven read it over, he continues, "walked up
and down the room, humming as usual, instead of singing--and opened
the piano. My wife had often asked him in vain to play; but now,
putting the text before him, he began a wonderful improvisation,
which, unfortunately, there were no magic means of recording. From
this fantasy he seemed to conjure the theme of the aria. Hours passed
but Beethoven continued to improvise. Supper, which he intended to
share with us, was served, but he would not be disturbed. Late in the
evening he embraced me and, without having eaten anything, hurried
home. The following day the piece was ready in all its beauty."
This anecdote appears to indicate that Beethoven sometimes composed at
the piano. Meyerbeer, it is said, always composed at his instrument,
and there is a story that he used to jot down the ideas of other
composers at the opera and concerts, and, by thinking and playing
these over, gradually evolve his own themes. It is rather more
surprising to hear, from Herr Pohl, that Haydn sketched all his
compositions at the piano. The condition of the instrument, he adds,
had its effect upon him, beauty of tone being favorable to
inspiration. Thus he wrote to Artaria in 1788: "I was obliged to buy a
new forte-piano, that I might compose your clavier sonatas
particularly well." "When an idea struck him he sketched it out in a
few notes and figures; this would be his morning's work; in the
afternoon he would enlarge this sketch, elaborating it according to
rule, but taking pains to preserve the unity of the idea."
Weber's son relates that it was his father's habit to sit at the
window on summer evenings and jot down the ideas that had come to him,
during his solitary walks, on small pieces of music paper, of which a
large number were usually lying on his table. "No piano," he adds,
"was touched on these occasions, for his ears spontaneously heard a
full orchestra, played by good spirits, while he wrote down his neat
little notes." And Weber himself remarks in one of his essays that,
"the tone poet who gets his ideas at the piano is almost always born
poor, or in a fair way of delivering his faculties into the hands of
the common and commonplace. For these very hands, which, thanks to
constant practice and training, finally acquire a sort of independence
and will of their own, are unconscious tyrants and masters over the
creative power. How very differently does _he_ create whose _inner_
ear is judge of the ideas which he simultaneously conceives and
criticises. This mental ear grasps and holds fast the musical visions,
and is a divine secret belonging to music alone, incomprehensible to
the layman."
Mozart had already learned to compose without a piano when he was only
six years old; and, as Mr. E. Holmes remarks, "having commenced
composition without recourse to the clavier, his powers in mental
music constantly increased, and he soon imagined effects of which the
original types existed only in his brain."
Schumann wrote to a young musician in 1848: "Above all things, persist
in composing mentally, without the aid of the instrument. Turn over
your melodic idea in your head until you can say to yourself: 'It is
well done.'" Elsewhere he says: "If you can pick out little melodies
at the piano, you will be pleased; but if they come to you
spontaneously, away from the piano, you will have more reason to be
delighted, for then the inner tone-sense is aroused to activity. The
fingers must do what the head wishes, and not _vice versa_." And again
he says: "If you set out to compose, invent everything in your head.
If the music has emanated from your soul, if you have felt it, others
will feel it too."
Schumann had discovered the superiority of the mental method of
composing from experience. In a letter dated 1838 he writes concerning
his "Davidstänze:" "If I ever was happy at the piano it was when I
composed these pieces;" and it was well known that up to 1839 "he used
to compose sitting at the instrument." We have also just seen how
Beethoven practically composed one of his "Fidelio" arias at the
piano. Nor was this by any means an isolated instance. To cite only
one more case: Ries relates that one afternoon he took a walk with
Beethoven, returning at eight o'clock. "While we were walking," he
continues, "Beethoven had constantly hummed, or almost howled, up and
down the scale, without singing definite notes. When I asked him what
it was, he replied that a theme for the last allegro of the sonata had
come into his head. As soon as we entered the room, he ran to the
piano, without taking off his hat. I sat down in a corner, and he had
soon forgotten me. For at least an hour he now improvised impetuously
on the new and beautiful finale of the sonata [opus 57]." Another of
Beethoven's contemporaries, J. Russell, has left us a vivid
description of Beethoven when thus composing at the piano, or
improvising: "At first he only struck a few short detached chords, as
if he were afraid of being caught doing something foolish; but he soon
forgot his surroundings, and for about half an hour lost himself in an
improvisation, the style of which was exceedingly varied, and
especially distinguished by sudden transitions. The amateurs were
transported, and to the uninitiated it was interesting to observe how
his inspirations were reflected in his countenance. He revelled rather
in bold, stormy moods than in soft and gentle ones. The muscles of his
face swelled, his veins were distended, his eyes rolled wildly, his
mouth trembled convulsively, and he had the appearance of an enchanter
mastered by the spirit he had himself conjured."
Russell was probably one of the witnesses of whom Richard Wagner
remarked, in his essay on Beethoven, that they have testified to the
incomparable impression which Beethoven made by his improvisations at
the piano. And Wagner adds the following suggestive words: "The
regrets that there was no way of writing down and preserving these
instantaneous creations cannot be regarded as unreasonable, even in
comparing these improvisations with the master's greatest works, if we
bear in mind the fact, taught by experience, that even _less_ gifted
musicians, whose written compositions are not free from stiffness and
inelegance, sometimes positively amaze us by the quite unexpected and
fertile inventiveness which they display while improvising."
A similar remark was made by De Quincey, in pointing out the
spontaneous origin of some of his essays: "Performers on the organ,"
he says, "so far from finding their own _impromptu_ displays to fall
below the more careful and premeditated efforts, on the contrary have
oftentimes deep reason to mourn over the escape of inspirations and
ideas born from the momentary fervors of inspiration, but fugitive and
irrevocable as the pulses in their own flying fingers."
By way of illustrating this thesis a few more cases may be cited.
Mozart used to sit up late at night, improvising for hours at the
piano, and, according to one witness, "these were the true hours of
creation of his divine melodies," a statement which, however, we shall
presently see reason to modify somewhat. Schubert never improvised in
public like Mozart, but only "in the intervals of throwing on his
clothes, or at other times when the music within was too strong to be
resisted," as Mr. Grove remarks. What an inestimable privilege it must
have been to witness the spontaneous overflow of so rich a genius as
Schubert! And once more, Max Maria von Weber writes that his father's
improvisations on the piano were like delightful dreams. "All who had
the good fortune to hear him," he says, "testify that the impression
of his playing was like an Elysian frenzy, which elevates a man above
his sphere and makes him marvel at the glories of his own soul."
In reading such enthusiastic descriptions--and musical biographies are
full of them--we cannot but echo De Quincey and Wagner in regretting
that there has been no shorthand method of taking down and preserving
these wonderful improvisations of the great masters. Future
generations will be more favored, if Mr. Edison's improved phonograph
fulfils the promises made of it. For by simply placing one of these
instruments near the piano it will be possible hereafter to preserve
every note and every accent and shade of expression, and reproduce it
subsequently at will. And not only will momentary inspirations be thus
preserved, but musicians will no longer be compelled to do all the
manual labor of writing down their compositions, but will be able to
follow the example of those German professors, who when they wish to
write a book, simply engage a stenographer to take down their
lectures, which they then revise and forward to the publisher. True,
the orchestration will always have to be done by the master's own
hands, but in other respects musicians of the future will be as
greatly benefited as men of letters by the new phonograph which, it is
predicted, will create as great a revolution in social affairs as the
telegraph and railroad did when first introduced.
The charm of improvisation lies, of course, in this, that we hear a
composer creating and playing at the same time. This very fact,
however, ought to make us cautious not to overestimate the value of
such improvisations. For we all know how a great genius can invest
even a commonplace idea with charm by his manner of expressing or
rendering it. It is probable, therefore, that in most cases these
improvisations, if noted down and played by _others_, would not make
as deep an impression as the regularly written compositions of the
great masters. It is with music as with literature. Schopenhauer says
that there are three classes of writers: The first class, which is
very numerous, never think at all, but simply reproduce echoes of what
they have read in books. The second class, somewhat less numerous,
think only while they are writing. But the third class, which is very
small, only write _after_ thinking and because their thoughts clamor
for utterance.
If we apply this classification to music we see at once that
improvising comes under the second head: improvising is thinking or
composing while playing. But the greatest musical ideas are those
which are conceived entirely in the mind, which needs no pen or piano
mechanically to stimulate its creative power. Of this there can be no
question, whatever. With an almost absolute unanimity we find that the
greatest composers conceived their immortal ideas in the open air,
where there was no possibility of coaxing them out of an instrument.
And not only is the bare outline thus composed mentally, but the whole
composition with all its involved harmonies and varied orchestral
colors is present in the composer's mind before he puts it down on
paper. The composition of "Der Freischütz" affords a remarkable
confirmation of this statement. Weber began to compose this opera
mentally on February 23, but did not write down a single note before
the second of July. That is, he kept the full score of this wonderful
work in his brain for more than four months, and, as his son remarks,
"there is not a number in it which he did not work over ten times in
his mind, until it sounded satisfactory and he could say to himself
'That's it,' and then he wrote it down rapidly without hesitation and
almost without altering a note."
This power of elaborating a musical score in the mind, and hearing it
inwardly, is a gift which unmusical people find it difficult to
comprehend, and which even puzzles many musical people. Yet it is a
power which all students of music ought to possess; and, like other
capacities, it can be easily cultivated and strengthened.
A comparison with two other senses will throw some light on the
matter. Most of us can, by thinking fixedly of some appetizing dish,
recall its flavor sufficiently to start a nerve current and stimulate
the salivary glands. The image of the flavor, so to speak, makes the
mouth water. What do we do when we go to a restaurant and look over
the bill of fare? We simply, on reading the list, recall a faint
gastronomic image, as it were, of each dish, and the one which is most
vivid, owing to the peculiar direction of the appetite, decides our
choice.
The sense of sight presents many curious analogies. Mr. Galton, in his
"Inquiries into Human Faculty," gives the results of a series of
investigations which show that there are great differences among
persons of distinction in various kinds of intellectual work in the
power of recalling to the mind's eye clear and distinct images of what
they have seen. Some, for instance, in thinking of the breakfast
table, could see all the objects--knives, plates, dishes, etc., in the
mental picture as bright as in the actual scene, and in the
appropriate colors; others could recall only very dim or blurred
images of the scene, or none at all; and all stages, from the highest
to the lowest visualizing power, were represented in the letters he
received on the subject.
Sometimes these mental images are as vivid as the actual images, or
even more vivid. Everybody has heard the story of Blake, who, when he
was painting a portrait, only required one sitting, because
subsequently he could see the model as distinctly as if he were
actually sitting in the chair. Mrs. Haweis wrote to Mr. Galton that
all her life she has had at times a waking vision of "a flight of pink
roses floating in a mass from right to left," and that before her
ninth year they were so large and brilliant that she often tried to
touch them; and their scent, she adds, was overpowering.
Much has been written regarding the remarkable feats of Zuckertort and
Blackburn who can play as many as sixteen to twenty games of chess at
once, and blindfolded. Of course the only way they can do this is by
having in the mind a clear picture of each chess-board, with all the
figures arranged in proper order.
Mr. Galton says he has among his notes "many cases of persons mentally
reading off scores when playing the pianoforte, or manuscripts when
they are making speeches;" and he knows a lady, the daughter of an
eminent musician, who often imagines she hears her father's playing.
"The day she told me of it," he says, "the incident had again
occurred. She was sitting in her room with her maid, and she asked the
maid to open the door that she might hear the music better. The moment
the maid got up the music disappeared."
It is obvious that this case, like that of the eminent painter just
referred to, borders closely on the hallucinations of the insane, and
Blake _did_ become insane subsequently. But usually there is nothing
abnormal or pathologic in the power of mentally recalling sights or
sounds, and it would be well if everybody cultivated this power. Mr.
Galton mentions an electrical engineer who was able to recall forms
with great precision, but not color. But after some exercise of his
color memory he became quite an adept in that, too, and declared that
the newly-acquired power was a source of much pleasure to him.
In music most of us have the power of recalling a simple melody; and
who has not been tormented at times by an unbidden melody persistently
haunting his ears until he was almost ready to commit suicide? But to
recall a melody at will _with any particular tone-color_, _i.e._, to
imagine it as being played by a flute, or a violin, or a horn, is much
less easy; and still more difficult is it to hear two or more notes
_at once_ in the mind, that is to recall harmonies. It is for this
reason that people of primitive musical taste care only for operas
which are full of "tunes." These they can whistle in the street and be
happy, while the harmonies and orchestral colors elude their
comprehension and memory. Consequently they call these works "heavy,"
"scientific," or "intellectual;" whereas if they took pains to educate
their musical imaginations, they would soon revel in the magic
harmonies of modern operas, with their infinite variety of gorgeous
orchestral colors.
Every student of music should carefully heed Schumann's advice.
"Exercise your imagination," he says, "so that you may acquire the
power of remembering not only the melody of a composition, but also
the harmonies which accompany it." And again he says, "You must not
rest until you are able to understand music on paper." I remember
that, as a small boy, I used to wonder at my father, who often sat in
a corner all the evening looking over the score of an opera or
symphony. And I was very much surprised at the time when he informed
me that this simple reading of the score gave him almost as vivid a
pleasure as if he heard it with full orchestra. This power of hearing
music with the eyes, as it were, is common to all thorough musicians,
and is, of course, most highly developed in the great composers.
Schumann even alludes to the opinion, which some one had expressed,
that a thorough musician ought to be able, on listening for the first
time to a complicated orchestral piece, to _see_ it bodily as a score
before his eyes. He adds, however, that this is the greatest feat that
could be imagined; and I, for my part, doubt whether even the
marvellously comprehensive mind of a musical genius would be able to
accomplish it.
These facts illustrate the manner in which composers, being virtuosi
of the musical imagination, are able to elaborate mentally, and keep
in the memory, a complete operatic or symphonic score, just as, for
example, Alexander Dumas, when he wished to write a new novel, used to
hire a yacht and sail on Southern waters for several days, lying on
his back--which, by the way, is an excellent method of starting a
train of thought--and thus arranging all the details of the plot in
his mind.
The exact way in which _original_ ideas come into the mind is, of
course, a mystery in music as in literature. Every genius passes
through a period of apprenticeship, in which he _assimilates_ the
discoveries of his predecessors, reminiscences of which make up the
bulk of his early works. Everybody knows how Mozartish, _e.g._,
Beethoven's first symphony is, and how much in turn Mozart's early
works smack of Haydn. Gradually, as courage comes with years, the
gifted composer sets out for unexplored forests and mountain ranges,
attempting to scale summits which none of his predecessors had trod. I
say, as courage comes, for in music, strange to say, it requires much
courage to give the world an entirely new thought. An original
composer needs not only the courage that is common to all explorers,
but he must invariably come back prepared to face the accusation that
his new territory is nothing but a howling wilderness of discords.
This has been the case quite recently with Wagner, as it was formerly
with Schumann, Beethoven, Mozart, the early Italian composers, and
many others, including even Rossini, who certainly did not deviate
very far from the beaten paths. Seyfried relates that when Beethoven
came across articles in which he was criticised for violating
established rules of composition, he used to rub his hands gleefully
and burst out laughing. "Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, "that amazes them,
and makes them put their heads together, because they have not seen it
in any of their text-books."
Fortunately for their own peace of mind, the majority of the minor
composers never get beyond a mere rearrangement of remembered melodies
and modulations. Their minds are mere galleries of echoes. They write
for money or temporary notoriety, and not because their brains teem
with ideas that clamor for utterance. The pianist Hummel was one of
this class of composers. But whatever his short-comings, he had at
least, as Wagner admits, the virtue of frankness. For when he was
asked one day what thoughts or images he had in his mind when he
composed a certain concerto, he replied that he had been thinking of
the eighty ducats which his publisher had promised him!
Yet even the greatest composers cannot always command new thoughts at
will, and it is therefore of interest to note what devices some of
them resorted to rouse their dormant faculties. Weber's only pupil,
Sir Julius Benedict, relates that Weber spent many mornings in
"learning by heart the words of 'Euryanthe,' which he studied until he
made them a portion of himself, his own creation, as it were. His
genius would sometimes lie dormant during his frequent repetitions of
the words, and then the idea of a whole musical piece would flash
upon his mind, like the bursting of light into darkness."