an intelligible system of related tonic notes, the value of key
distribution began _pari passu_ to be recognised. Men refused any longer
to acquiesce in mere indefiniteness or mere monotony, and set themselves
to find some means of organising the form of composition by combining
different tonal centres into a coherent system. Scientific composers,
loyal to the traditions of counterpoint, endeavoured to solve their
problem by the elaboration of the fugue in which unity of style is
secured by the recurrent subject, and diversity of structure by the free
modulation. This form, which may be said to start with the Gabrielis,
and to culminate in Sebastian Bach, is of the highest interest to
musicians as an attempt to make style and structure play into each
other's hands: the former possessing too little diversity, the latter
too little coherence to stand as separate organisms. But as it is
factitious in its origin, so it is liable to become rigid and mechanical
in its results; an exercise of barren ingenuity, not a warm vital
expression of true emotion. Bach no doubt could breathe poetry into it,
as Corneille could fill with his splendid rhetoric the hard outlines of
the classical drama, but both results are great in spite of their form,
not in consequence of it. Considered merely as examples of fugue
structure, Bach's compositions are not greater than those of a hundred
kapellmeisters of his time: they owe their greatness to the purity of
their themes, and to the unapproachable perfection of their harmony. But
lay aside all questions of melody and harmony, everything, in short,
which can be classed under the head of style, and Beethoven's sonatas
will still remain supreme in virtue of their structure. Fugue form is an
artificial thing which a man can learn: sonata form is a living thing
which a man must feel.
Hence it is interesting to notice that all the forms most intimately
associated with the sonata may be directly traced to one primitive type
of Volkslied.[12] The simplest possible contrast of key which man can
adopt without falling into incoherence, is that of a melody in three
strains: the first asserting the tonic, the second leading to some
related key, the third repeating the tonic in order to complete the
outline. Now, if we imagine the first strain given in duplicate, so as
to suit the requirements of a four-line stanza of verse, we shall find
ourselves with a melodic form of which 'The Bluebells of Scotland' and
'The Vicar of Bray' may be taken as familiar examples. It is probable
that the immediate reiteration of the first phrase is a concession to
the poet rather than a point of musical structure: in any case, the
essential element of the form is to be found in the three clauses,
assertion, contrast, and reassertion. 'Of this simple type,' says Dr
Parry, 'there are literally thousands of examples.' It is, indeed, the
most natural form of melodic sentence which the popular songs of any
nation can assume: it is the living germ from which all our most complex
musical organisms are developed.
At the outset there are two possible lines of evolution. First, the
clause of contrast and the clause of reassertion may be repeated
alternately so as to extend the number of strains to five or seven, or
whatever is required by the exigencies of the words. Thus we get the
primitive type of rondo, which may be illustrated by Burns' 'John
Hielandman,' or by the Skye Boat Song, or by our well-known hymn for
Palm Sunday. A further stage of development is reached when the number
of clauses is fixed at five: and when the fourth, instead of being an
exact repetition of the second, affords a change of contrast by
presenting a new episode in a new key. This gives us the rondo form as
used by Rameau and Purcell, Haydn and Mozart, and occasionally Beethoven
himself. We need only compare the exquisite song, 'I attempt from Love's
sickness to fly,' with the Adagio of the Sonata Pathétique to see that
in point of structure they are identical. No doubt there were some
experiments on the way. Haydn tried the form as a vehicle of variations;
Mozart opened a new path in his Piano Sonata in A minor: but all these
were only variants of the established type which either left its
structure unaltered, or remained as exceptions. It was not until the
time of Beethoven that the rondo passed into its third stage of
development, and even with him the earlier form is of not infrequent
occurrence.[13]
Secondly, the number of clauses may be restricted to the original three,
and each strain by itself organised into a higher degree of diversity.
In its simplest form, which may be exemplified by the minuets of many
early sonatas, the first strain ends with a full close in the tonic, and
thus, while it fulfils the function of asserting its key, does so at the
expense of complete detachment from the second. Hence it is a step
towards organisation if the first strain is made to end with a half
close, or even to modulate to the key from which the second is going to
start. If this is so, the cadence of the third clause will have to be
modified--since the tune must end with a full close in the key in which
it began--and thus a new element of diversity is introduced into the
work as a whole. Of this stage an instance may be found in the Minuet of
Haydn's Piano Sonata in D (No. 6), where the first strain is divided
into two sub-clauses, one in the tonic, the other in the dominant, and
the third strain transposes the latter back and presents both of them in
the same key. Here another point offers itself for consideration. If the
clause of assertion has been allowed to modulate, and still more, if it
has been allowed to dwell upon a key other than the tonic of the piece,
it is obvious that the clause of contrast must be allowed still freer
modulation--otherwise its purpose will remain unaccomplished. And by
this time our clauses have grown in size and extent until it is not
appropriate to call them clauses any longer. They have become sentences,
or even paragraphs, each with its own subdivisions, its own structural
character, and its own function in the general economy of the whole
movement. For instance, in the Minuet of Mozart's Piano Sonata in A
major, the first part consists of a 10-bar tune in A followed by an
8-bar tune in E: the second begins in B minor, drops to A minor, and
then passes through an augmented sixth to the dominant of A, while the
third brings the work to a logical conclusion by repeating the two
sections of the first in the tonic key.[14]
In its present stage of development the form is admirably suited to the
short lyric movements in which it usually appears. Taken by itself it
typifies the classical minuet, the air for variations, and the majority
of such pianoforte pieces as the Kinderscenen and the Poetische
Tonbilder. Extended by the addition of a second example, and completed
by a restatement of the first, it gives us the minuet and trio of our
sonatas and the common structure of the march and the polonaise. But, as
the form grows in bulk and importance, as it discovers new functions and
adapts itself to a new environment, so it will naturally submit to
certain changes of organism. The two sections of which the first part is
composed, appear at present in a direct juxtaposition which will seem
crude and disconnected if the movement be increased to a larger size:
and it will therefore be advisable to join them by a link of modulation
that shall carry the ear gradually over the change of key. Again, the
sections of contrast in the second part have hitherto fulfilled their
purpose by a complete digression, not only presenting new keys but using
them to exhibit new material; and it is obvious that, after the limit of
a few bars, such a digression will be fatal to the unity of the work as
a whole. Now the variety of key in this part is, as we have already
seen, a structural necessity: and thus the readiest means of unification
will be attained if we minimise the novelty of material, and use the
sections of contrast, either wholly or mainly, to express phrases and
themes that have been already stated in the first part of the
composition. Lastly, we may notice that the third part ends by repeating
in the tonic precisely the same melodic cadence which the first part
ended by asserting in the dominant; and it will sometimes happen, that
the clause which served admirably as the finish of a paragraph may
appear abrupt or inconclusive as the finish of a chapter. In such cases
the composer can extend his third part by the addition of an epilogue or
coda, completing and rounding off the outline, which would otherwise be
left imperfect. It must be remembered that, as a point of structure, the
existence of the coda is optional. The composer may wish, for certain
reasons of style, to make the first part of his work conclusive, or the
last inconclusive: and in either event the need of an epilogue
disappears. But, as a general rule, it may be said that the more highly
organised the movement the more it will require the employment of this
particular device. Continuity is best secured if all the parts of the
work be made interdependent, and in that case it is only by a coda that
any real climax of phraseology can be attained.
One more detail and the organism is complete. Among the many experiments
in structure which mark the course of musical evolution, one of the most
important is the so-called French Overture. The main feature of this
form, which may be readily illustrated by the Overture to the _Messiah_,
was its habit of prefacing the chief division with an introduction or
prologue in slower tempo; and this device has been adopted by the great
cyclic composers, and especially by Beethoven, in order to prepare the
hearer for movements of unusual importance or solemnity. Like the coda,
the introduction is optional in its use: depending not on the structure
of the work, but on the manner of its thought and the style of its
expression. In Beethoven we find three principal types: the first merely
calling attention to the key of the piece, either by directly asserting
it, as in the Piano Sonata in F sharp major, or by rousing expectation,
as in the third Rasoumoffsky Quartett, the second containing in addition
some melodic phrase which is to be employed in the succeeding movement,
as in the Sonata Pathétique or the Piano Trio in E flat; and the third,
as in the A major Symphony, foreshadowing the key-system, not only of
the opening allegro, but of the whole work. It is hardly fantastic to
compare the respective prologues of _Henry VIII._, of _Pericles_, and of
_Romeo and Juliet_.
This, then, is the highest type of structural development to which Music
has yet arrived. The three clauses of the primitive ballad-tune have
grown into three cantos, all different in character and function, all
working together in the maintenance of a single economy. The first,
technically known as the Exposition, presents two subjects or
paragraphs, diverse in key, and connected by a short episodical link of
modulation: the second, technically known as the Development Section,
consists of a fantasia on themes or phrases of the first, with such
freedom of key as the composer chooses to adopt: the third, technically
known as the Recapitulation, repeats the two subjects with any minimum
of change that may be implied in the transposition of the second to the
tonic key. Finally, if the style of the movement require it, the whole
may be introduced by a Prologue and summed up by an Epilogue.[15] It is
hardly necessary to point out that the principle of perfect symmetry
embodied in this form is precisely the same as that on which is
constructed a great drama or a great novel. At the outset our attention
is divided between two main centres of interest; as the work proceeds
the plan is complicated by the introduction of new centres; at its close
the complications are cleared away and the interests identified. For
instance, the _Alcestis_ of Euripides opens with the bare contrast of
life and death, continues with those of youth and age, of mourning and
hospitality, of vacillating weakness and genial strength, and finally
returns to its two first themes, and unifies them by restoring its
heroine from the grave. But the parallel is hardly a matter for further
illustration. The exact balance and proportion of the structure will
best be exhibited if we epitomise its three parts under their
appropriate abstract names:--duality for the first, plurality for the
second, unity for the third.
Omitting a few rare exceptions, such as the Finale of the Hammerclavier
Sonata, we may say that all movements in so-called Classical form
represent some definite stage in this line of evolution. No doubt
experiments were tried by Schumann and Chopin and other composers of the
Romantic School, but even these are not so much new discoveries as
variants of the established type, sometimes due to carelessness or
indifference, and sometimes to deliberate plan. It must be remembered
that the generation which succeeded Beethoven paid much less attention
to structure than to expression. The essays of Berlioz and Schumann,
admirable in most respects, are almost entirely silent on the subject of
musical form, and their work, considered from this standpoint, is not an
advance but a retreat. Schumann, of course, was far the greater of the
two; yet even with him we feel that deliberation has not always brought
counsel. The introduction to his A minor Quartett, and still more the
first movement of his C major Symphony, are really steps away from
organism, condoned in part by undeniable beauties of style, but at the
same time needing condonation as structural errors. Even in the shorter
narrative forms of ballade and impromptu, of fantasia and novellette,
the same rule holds good. Their structure will be found satisfactory in
proportion as it is organic, it will be found organic in proportion as
it conforms to this law of natural development.
There remains a word to be said about the combination of different
numbers or movements into a continuous work. The complete sonata-form,
like the Trilogies or Tetralogies of the classical drama, is a complex
organism of which each part is itself organic, a corporate body composed
of separate but interdependent members. Hence we should naturally expect
that in the earliest examples there would be a comparative homogeneity
of melodic style and key system, and that this homogeneity would be
gradually differentiated as the form advanced towards perfection. This
is precisely what has happened. In the first pianoforte sonata of Haydn
all the movements are in the same key, as they were in the suites and
partitas of a previous age; then, by steps which are readily traceable,
the form progressed and developed until it reached its structural climax
in Brahms. So also with the style of the work as a whole, by which is
meant the selection of different organic types in its constituent
members. Out of all possible alternatives--the minuet, the rondo, the
air with variations, the fully-developed 'ternary' form--it is clearly
the composer's business to choose specimens which will afford the most
complete contrast and yet combine into the most organic unity. The
gradual application of this rule is simply another name for the growth
of the sonata form. One has only to compare Haydn's first quartett with
one of the Rasoumoffskys to see the advance; one has only to compare the
_Eroica_ Symphony with Chopin's B-flat minor Sonata to see the
retrogression. In this, as in other respects, Brahms has restored the
balance and has adapted the traditions of Beethoven to the language of
the present day.
Enough has been said to show that this principle of organic growth not
only explains the style and structure of all great Music, but answers to
a fundamental need in human nature. Its laws are not mere grammatical
rules, framed in one generation to be broken in the next; it makes no
transitory appeal to faculties that change with every mood and every
condition: if there be anything permanent and abiding in the mind of
man, it is here that it will find its counterpart. Not, of course, that
the present stage of development is to be regarded as final: there is
probably no such thing as finality in any art. But progress is not
change, it is a kind of change, and one which, from its very nature,
points to a fixed ideal. We, with our limited capacities of knowledge,
and our limited appreciation of beauty, may still be far behind the
position that is to be occupied in future ages. But, unless the teaching
of History be wholly false, we may predict with some security the
direction in which that position will lie. It is as inconceivable in
art as it is in physical nature, that the process of organic evolution
should revert or turn aside. No doubt there will be further modification
of detail--some 'Shakspearian convention' abandoned, some scheme of
artistic composition revised; but every step that brings greater freedom
will bring greater responsibility, and will shift the issue from
artificial laws to the great code of human intelligence. We cannot
suppose that the generations which look back upon our own masters will
ever rest satisfied with incoherence or shapelessness or monotony. There
will be new methods in the days to come, but the principles of art will
remain unaltered.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] _On Education_, pp. 41-42.
[5] _See_ Example A.
[6] _See_ Example B.
[7] _See_ Example C.
[8] _See_ Example D.
[9] _See_ Example E.
[10] Finale of the A major Sonata, Op. 101.
[11] Quoted in Grove's _Dictionary_, Vol. ii. p. 501.
[12] The term sonata is here employed in the sense which it has borne
since the time of Haydn. If it is widened so as to include composers of
the 17th and early 18th century, we must start from two primitive types
in place of one.
[13] The development may be illustrated if we take alphabetical letters
to represent the clauses. The primitive ballad form is A B A: each verse
being a unit, and therefore the whole song inorganic. The primitive
rondo form is A B A B A B A, etc., the whole song being a unit, and
therefore slightly organised. The form of Purcell's song is A B A C A,
and therefore the most highly organised of the three.
[14] The analysis of the Mozart Minuet may be tabulated as follows:--
FIRST PART. | SECOND PART. | THIRD PART.
| |
(_a_) Melody in A | (_a_) New episode | (_a_) Repetition of
major. | in B minor. | first melody in
(_b_) Melody in E | (_b_) The same | A major.
major. | repeated in A | (_b_) Repetition of
| minor. | second melody
| (_c_) New cadence- | in A major.
| phrase to |
| dominant of A. |
[15] As a simple instance of the form, we may take the first movement of
Beethoven's Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 14, No. 3:--
_Prologue_|_First Canto_ |_Second Canto_ |_Third Canto_ |_Epilogue_
_or_ | _or_ |_or_ |_or_ |_or Coda._
_Intro- |_Exposition._ |_Development_ |_Re-_ |
_duction._| |_Section._ |_capitulation._ |
| | | |
None |(_a_) First |(_a_) Treatment|(_a_) First |Final
| Subject in | of First | Subject in G |reminiscence
| G major | Subject, G | major (bars |of First
| (bars 1-8). | minor to | 124-131). |Subject
|(_b_) Transition| B flat major |(_b_) Transition|(bars
| modulating |(bars 64-73). | extended so as | 187-199).
| to D major |(_b_) Treatment| to lead back |
| (bars 9-25). | of Second | to G major |
|(_c_) Second | Subject in B | (bars 132-151).|
| Subject, | flat major |(_c_) Second |
| consisting of | (bars 74-80). | Subject in G |
| four sections,|(_c_) Treatment| maj. |
| in D major | of First | 152-186). |
| (bars 26-63). | Subject in A | |
| | minor, F | |
| | flat, G minor | |
| | and E flat | |
| |(bars 81-106). | |
| |(_d_) New | |
| | Episode on | |
| | dominant pedal| |
| | of G, and | |
| | anticipation | |
| | of First | |
| | Subject | |
| |(bars 107-123).| |
III
FUNCTION
A character in one of Mr Sturgis' delightful comedies propounds a recipe
for beauty, and is met by the criticism that he has omitted one
important element--the beauty itself. Some such objection may perhaps be
brought against the analysis of the preceding chapter. It may be said
that Music cannot be appraised in terms of law and method, that
scientific theories can tell us nothing about inspiration, and that
without inspiration art degenerates into a soulless and mechanical
exercise. No discussion of balance and design, of diversity and
coherence will ever explain why we are stirred to the depths of our
being by the love-duet in _Tristan_, or the slow movement in the _Fifth
Symphony_, or the _Missa Papæ Marcelli_. No account of proportion in
phraseology or system in key-relationship can answer the question why we
find Grieg piquant, or Schumann vigorous, or Chopin graceful. In short,
our _Ars Poetica_ is a mere _Gradus ad Parnassum_, containing, it may
be, some hints for versification, but leaving the essentials of artistic
conception entirely untouched.
This objection is only of force if it confines itself to the bare
truism, that inspiration is not a matter which we can define. It breaks
down if it goes on to infer that inspiration is not a matter which we
can detect. For the artistic organism, which has hitherto been under
consideration, necessarily requires life as its formative condition; and
any attempt to produce it artificially must result either in total
failure or in the mere copy of some existing scheme. Our academic
composers who publish music on the ground that they have studied
counterpoint, are, as a rule, only tolerable where they are imitative:
as soon as they try to devise a new melody or elaborate a new cadence
they are almost certain to become trivial or vulgar. Indeed, it would
seem to be shown by experience that Music has no chance of surviving
unless it arise spontaneously from a healthy state of emotion, and that,
if it does so arise, it will naturally manifest itself, to a greater or
less degree, in an organic shape. We may, therefore, fairly conclude
that perfection of musical form, in its widest and deepest sense, is a
mark or sign of genuineness in musical feeling, and that analysis,
though it can never tell us whence inspiration comes, may at least
direct us where we can look for it.
But as yet the analysis itself is incomplete. It has attempted to
describe what Music is, not what Music does: in other words, it has
investigated the problem of structure, but not that of function. There
remains, therefore, the further question of the object for which the art
exists, the place that it occupies in our æsthetic life, and the
particular means of action by which its purpose is fulfilled. Some hints
towards an answer have already been suggested: the sensuous pleasure
communicated to the nervous system by certain air-vibrations: the
emotional impulses which can be aroused by sense or association, or
both: and the intellectual satisfaction which naturally answers to the
spectacle of organic balance and symmetry. It follows, then, to arrange
these premises, and to carry them, as far as possible, to their logical
conclusion.
Now, the general function of music may be stated in a single word--to be
beautiful. It is the one art in which no human being can raise the false
issue of a direct ethical influence. It allows absolutely no scope for
the confusion of thought, which, on one side, brought _Madame Bovary_
into the law-courts, and, on the other, has taught the British public to
regard as a great religious teacher the ingenious gentleman who
illustrated the _Contes Drolatiques_. Of course, all contemplation of
pure beauty is ennobling, and in this sense music may have the same
indirect moral bearing as a flower or a sunset or a Greek statue. But of
immediate moral bearing it has none. It means nothing, it teaches
nothing, it enforces no rule of life, and prescribes no system of
conduct. All attempts to make it descriptive have ended in disaster: all
attempts to confine it to mere emotional excitement have ended in
degradation. Grant that nations and individuals of imperfect musical
experience have not advanced beyond the emotional aspect: that Plato had
to prohibit certain modes as intemperate, that governments have had to
prohibit certain melodies as dangerous. In almost all such cases it will
be found that the music in question is vocal, and that more than half
the stimulus is due to its words or its topic. Considered in and by
itself, the ultimate aim and purpose of the art is to present the
highest attainable degree of pure beauty in sound.