It was once my good fortune to stay in an Italian country house, where
among many treasures there were some old music-books.
These books were in manuscript, and they had been written in the
fourteenth or the fifteenth century. They seemed to have existed as long
as the old house. They were kept in a little black ebony cabinet in a
long room full of soft old colors.
There was a grand piano in the room, for the young ladies of the house
played beautifully, and there was an organ for the use of the master of
the house. The old music-books seemed suited to the room and to the
organ.
I did not play any of the music. It would have been very difficult
indeed to have done so, as the notation was not like ours, but it
suggested many grave sweeping chords. Taking the chord of G major, for
instance, I tried to see just how much the writer of this old music knew
about it. Not a great deal; yet the Gregorian chant had been
established, and in this music were various ideas which we have since
developed.
Now the most interesting part of it all to me was certain queer little
marks in the music. Here and there was a tiny _f_, which, as you know,
meant what we now write as _forte_. There was a little _t_, or _bt_,
meaning _teneatur_, or _ben tenuto_; a little _c_, meaning _celeriter_,
or _con moto_, and so on.
I think the beginning of any art is interesting. All sorts of little
shadowy suggestions of things that we have now in perfection seemed to
me to lurk in those faded pages. As I put the books back in the ebony
cabinet, and sat down by the wood fire, while B---- was drumming on the
piano, I thought a great deal of the earnest, hopeful, patient old monk
who had written it. And now, taking these little marks for my text, I
want to tell you something about musical terms and signs.
Before you try to understand any great work like a symphony or sonata,
you ought to thoroughly acquaint yourself with its very first
principles. A great deal of hidden meaning lies in these simple little
signs and terms.
That little _f_ in the old music meant, as I say, _forte_, that is,
loud, strong, as you know by its connection with the piano. The Italians
called it _fragor_, and when you see it _Fp_, or _fp_, it means a quick,
loud sound, suddenly subsiding into a _piano_ or soft sound. Try the
chord of A flat; it is a beautiful one, and you can best practice on it
the _fp_.
The old _teneatur_, or _tenuto_, means that the note or chord should be
sustained or held on to. I think this is best practiced at first in
duets, for as you play you will see the effect of the _tenuto_ on the
notes your companion is playing, without having to worry yourself over
holding the note properly, and playing with the other hand at the same
time.
_Con moto_ means with celerity or rapidity. Any gavotte music practices
this.
These are only a few signs, but I have explained them just to show you
how very necessary they can be both to practice and performance, and I
think it well for all beginners in music to study certain bits just for
the purpose of learning how to interpret such signs quickly at sight. An
interesting half-hour's practice might be expended any day, I think, in
this direction. I once knew a very ardent little student who always gave
twenty minutes a day to what she called "rules." They were the study of
sight reading, the learning of signs and reading music accordingly, the
formation of chords, and the practice of making harmonic changes. I
think it was a very useful part of her practicing. She often looks back
to it now, thankful that she then accustomed herself to _thinking_ in
her music.
Now, as I suppose you know, besides these dynamic signs, there are many
terms used to indicate both the time and the character of the music to
be played. You see them on every piece of music. Many of these are
necessarily parts of long works like symphonies and sonatas; but of
them, when so used, I hope I may tell you at some other time. I speak of
them now in their general significance. Take the constantly used
_allegro_. It always looks to me just what it means--brightness and
gayety. Literally, it means _cheerful_. Now, as a matter of _time_, when
you see _allegro_, you may know that you ought to play it between
_andante_ time and _presto_ time.
Sometimes composers have simply called a piece an "allegro," just as
Milton called his famous poem "L'Allegro." You will find it often
modified by some other word, like _allegro assai_ or _con brio_, meaning
a quick allegro; and if you go to a large concert, and have some
knowledge of the music to be played, you may be surprised to find that
the orchestra will take the _allegro_ rather more slowly than you would
if you were playing at home. But this is a sort of unwritten rule which
governs performers in a large hall. To me the word written beside my
music as I turn the page seems to mean some fair and smiling country,
peace and plenty, joyful content, the gay look of youth, and the
sweetness of a gentle life. Try to play some _allegro_ movement,
thinking of these happy things, and see if your fingers do not move more
readily.
The term _andante_ used only to be employed in its most literal sense,
which means _going_, and they then put other words with it, but now it
is only used to mean _going slowly_. Beethoven has written many pieces
just known as _andantes_. The word is constantly used to express a slow
and solemn movement, but _adagio_ means something even more stately and
pathetic. _Presto_ means a quick, sudden movement; it comes in often as
a change from a richer, fuller sound. _Scherzo_, a term you will
constantly see, literally means a _jest_, but it is employed to
designate a humorous or lively movement.
These are, as you must know, only a few of the many terms employed in
music, but I have given you their significations chiefly because they
have to do with the arrangement of the sonata and the symphony.
Some day I shall hope to tell you a great deal about famous sonatas and
symphonies, and concertos also, but here I can only give you some of the
rules which have to be employed in their composition. All this, I am
sure, ought to be very thoroughly understood by any one who plays a
sonata or wishes to fully enjoy listening to one.
Originally the sonata consisted of slow, solemn movements when it was
for church music, and of one or two only when it was for secular music,
but the form in which we have it now is called the modern sonata, and
_must_ consist of four movements.
First comes an _allegro_. This has two of what are called _themes_, or
subjects, one in the _tonic_ or key-note, the other in what is called
the _dominant_. This is the fifth note above the key-note. For example,
should the first theme of an allegro be written in C, the second would
have to be in G. It is called _dominant_, because the key of any passage
can not be accurately known unless it has this note for root. Should the
first theme of the sonata be written in the _minor_ key, then the second
would have to be in the relative major.
The second movement of the sonata is the _andante_. This has usually one
theme or subject, and it is in a key which _relates_ in some way to the
tonic or leading key. I give you these rules simply, but they are worth
remembering as first steps to much deeper study.
The third movement is a _minuet_ or _scherzo_ (this was introduced by
Beethoven). The fourth movement is again an _allegro_, or _presto_, or
_rondo_. Here we go back to the original key, but there is only one
theme, and this is often gone over and over in various ways. Now, then,
with these rules to govern them, musicians are allowed certain licenses,
so that occasionally you will find a sonata written not quite in this
form. Schubert, a wonderful composer, often disregarded rules in his
sonatas, and occasionally Beethoven did the same. To Haydn, Mozart, and
Beethoven we owe the sonata as we have it now, and for beginners I
should recommend Haydn and Mozart as the simplest reading and best music
to begin upon.
A _symphony_, properly speaking, is an elaborate work like the _sonata_,
divided into movements, but arranged chiefly with a view to
orchestration. Any number of instruments may be used, and solos for
different instruments are introduced. Sometimes voices are added, as in
the famous Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. This is often called the Choral
Symphony. The first writer of genuine symphonies was Boccherini, and
Haydn brought them nearer to the form in which we have them. Mozart did
a little more, and Beethoven perfected them.
Boccherini's music is often very dull, yet someway I like to think of
him, and to hear his symphonies. He must have been a very interesting
man to know. He was kindly, good-humored, and generous, and in the last
century he played divinely on the 'cello. Often he was very poor; he led
a wandering life, and wrote some delicious bits of music to pay for his
dinner. In those days musical opportunities were rare, and yet good
musicians often lived and died unappreciated. We of to-day owe poor,
gentle Boccherini a great deal. I well remember a dull day in London,
when at the house of a famous artist I heard some of his music rehearsed
by the greatest musicians in the world. They were preparing for a
concert, and asked a few friends to hear this impromptu practice. I
thought how glad poor Boccherini (who died in 1805, fairly tired of his
cruel life) would have been to hear such musicians render his work.
Somehow it seemed to shut out all the fog and cheerlessness of the
square below the window in which I sat.