is an entire command over materials and method. Nothing is more ugly
than palpable failure: nothing more likely to destroy confidence than an
appearance of uncertainty or vacillation. In many of our so-called
popular song-tunes, we can lay our finger on some place where the
composer was in evident difficulty: where he inserts an awkward or
irrelevant phrase, because, like an unskilful chess-player, he can only
extricate himself by breaking his design. Again, in ill-written harmony,
we shall often find poor or hollow chords inserted, not because the
composer wanted them, but because he could find no other way of
resolving their predecessors. Of course, it will sometimes happen that a
great, though imperfect master will stray from his appointed domain, and
wander for a moment in unfamiliar territory. The fugue in Dvořák's
Requiem is conspicuously unsuccessful, but it need not affect our
estimate of the '_Dies Iræ_' or the '_Recordare Jesu pie_.' We only feel
it a pity that the artist who can do such magnificent work in his own
style, should be forced by convention into a manner for which he has no
aptitude. In structure the first movement of Chopin's Pianoforte Trio is
as badly drawn as some of the later Correggios: but the error, though
more fundamental than that of Dvořák, only circumscribes the master's
province, without overrunning it. We remember the circumstances under
which the Trio was written, and turn aside to the Études and the
Nocturnes. One genuine success in art is enough to outweigh a thousand
failures: but the difference between failure and success remains
unimpaired.
At the same time, it is most important that we should recognise the
necessary limitations to which musical expression is subject. It is idle
for us to go about lamenting, like the fool in Rabelais, that 'there is
no better bread than that which can be made with wheat.' Our scale is
notoriously a rough approximation in which only certain types of melodic
curve are possible. Our harmony is often reduced to a choice between two
incompatible alternatives: the striking chord required by the context,
or the smooth progression required by the parts. In such cases the test
lies ready to hand. Is the material difficult? Let us see how the great
masters have treated it. Are the options mutually exclusive? Let us see
which of them makes for organism of structure and general effectiveness
of function. We have no right to pass final criticism on any detail of a
work until we have heard the whole: and even then our judgment must
depend on some knowledge of precedents and parallels. The chief danger
of 'a little learning' is its predisposition to intolerance.
If unskilfulness be the death of style, cleverness is among the
most insidious of its diseases. Nothing in all literature is more
exasperating than that 'cult of the unusual word' which arises now
and again as a periodic fashion. Whether it take the form of the
sham-antiquarianism which has been happily nicknamed from Wardour
Street, or of an ostentatious acquaintance with the by-ways of the
dictionary, or of the unsynonymous synonyms of the country journalist,
it is in equal measure the sign-manual of euphuism and affectation. No
doubt the unusual word may have a perfectly legitimate employment. It
may carry a metaphor, it may complete a rhythm, it may make a point of
colour: and in all such instances it is justified by the purpose that it
achieves. But if it is merely unusual, it had far better be left out
altogether. We do not think very highly of a verse-writer who invariably
says 'quaff' instead of 'drink,' because 'quaff' is poetical and 'drink'
is commonplace.
The same is true of musical euphuism. A recondite chord is of absolutely
no value in itself; its whole worth depends on its purpose and its
context. A fresh twist in the shape of a melody is only beautiful if the
preceding curve leads up to it. For instance, we appear to be passing,
at the present day, through a period of feverish activity in the
invention of new cadences. Now a new cadence in the hands of a master
like Brahms or Parry is a delight, for, with all its novelty, we feel
that it is the logical outcome of the passage from which it springs. It
is only necessary to quote the close of the first stanza in the
_Schicksalslied_ or of the 'Sacrificial Chorus' in _Judith_, or the
brilliant practical joke of the 'Æschylus Motif' in the _Frogs_. Again,
the new cadences of Grieg and Dvořák are always charming, because
they are in exact harmony with the chromatic style which is natural to
those two writers. But when inferior composers attempt the same thing,
they only produce results which are crude and incongruous, or, at worst,
make their exit on a mechanical epigram, in which the head of one
platitude is appended to the tail of another. Indeed, self-consciousness
is only a more subtle form of unskilfulness. The 'clever' artist is like
the enchanter's servant in the old story, possessing just enough magic
to raise the spirit, but not enough to keep it under control.
It now follows to consider more directly the manner in which the
influence of Music is exercised. And first, we may notice that the art,
as appealing primarily to the ear, necessarily involves a fixed
continuity in time, and so, in a sense, is always throwing our attention
forward to its issue. The conditions under which we apprehend a picture,
and those under which we apprehend a melody, are entirely different; the
former enables us to follow the constituent parts in any order we
choose, the latter binds us to a settled and irreversible sequence.
Indeed, so firmly is this law established, that we are notoriously
incapable of recalling the most familiar tune backwards, and are even in
some straits to recognise a fugue-subject when it appears 'cancrizans,'
as it does, for instance, in the Finale of the Hammerclavier Sonata.
Hence a great part of the effect of Music is prospective, and depends
upon the particular way in which it rouses and satisfies an attitude of
expectation.
This method may roughly be classified under three heads. First, the
Music may give us precisely what we should naturally anticipate; in
other words, it may suggest some coming resolution or cadence, and
proceed to it at once without interruption. Everyone remembers the
æsthetic damsels, in Mr Du Maurier's picture, who 'never listen to
Mendelssohn, because there are no wrong notes.' They were unconsciously
enunciating an important piece of scientific criticism. For Mendelssohn
never disappoints, and never surprises; his style flows on as placidly
as a level stream in a pastoral country, and the hearer floats down it
with no effort of intelligence, with no expectation of adventure,
knowing that even beyond the distant bend there will be the same
overhanging willows, and the same intervals of sunny meadow, and the
same rippled reflections of an April sky. Hence, of all composers,
Mendelssohn appeals most intimately to audiences that are untrained or
inexperienced; and hence, also, critics, who are anxious to acquire a
cheap reputation, usually begin by expressing contempt for him. The best
of his lighter work is as charming as that of Miss Austen; and it is
only now and then that we feel inclined to say--as Charlotte Brontë said
after reading _Emma_--'I don't want my blood curdled, but I like it
stirred.'
Secondly, the Music may directly contradict our anticipation by
diverting an apparently straightforward passage into an unforeseen
channel. Under this head come all effects of surprise, all sudden
modulations, all unusual cadences and unexpected turns of phrase. An
amusing instance is the change from A minor to D flat major in the 'Pro
Peccatis' of Rossini's _Stabat Mater_, which is almost as irresistible
as a joke from Aristophanes: a far more august and magnificent example
is the great Neapolitan sixth, which, in the first movement of
Beethoven's A major Symphony, comes just before the cadence phrase in
the exposition. Indeed, the device may be used for purposes of humour,
as it is in Mr Aldrich's delightful story of Marjory Daw, or for
purposes of romance, as it is by Victor Hugo in 'Le Roi s'amuse.' The
finale of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony contains a distinct effect of
comedy in the unexpected C sharp, which persistently intrudes itself
among other people's keys, until at last it worries the orchestra into
accepting it. On the other hand, the slow movement of Dvořák's
F-minor Trio notably exemplifies the romantic use. No one who has ever
heard it can forget the last page: the innocent diatonic opening of the
melody, and the abrupt, bewildering change which follows in its second
bar. It is obvious that the sense of incongruity, which stimulates all
astonishment, may, under different conditions, arouse either laughter or
apprehension: and both these effects lie well within the range of
musical art. They form, in fact, two of the most important emotional
types which it has the power of adumbrating: not, of course, by
depicting any humorous scene or suggesting any particular terror, but by
administering the appropriate kind of nervous shock. Grant that if a man
knows nothing at all about music, he will form no expectations, and
consequently will never be either astonished or amused. It does not
follow that his limitations are representative of the human race. One
might as well argue that there is no fun in a French comedy, because
none was detected by Mr Anstey's British audience.
Thirdly, the music may baffle anticipation by suggesting alternatives
and throwing us in doubt as to the selection that it is going to make.
After a little experience, we come to learn that there are certain
typical shapes of melodic stanza, certain common devices of modulation,
certain forms of cadence which are in ordinary use. Hence, when
we listen to a new work, we frame a half-conscious forecast of
probabilities, and the composer, if he has the skill, may stimulate our
minds by offering two or three possible issues and defying us to
determine which he means ultimately to accept. This is the highest form
which the prospective effect in Music can assume, and is roughly
parallel to ingenuity of plot in narrative or dramatic literature. For
example, a common type of four-line stanza in music opens with a
clear-cut phrase, then repeats it a degree higher or a degree lower in
the scale, then goes on to the clause of contrast, and finally returns
to the original key. So when we hear the central tune in Chopin's F
minor Fantasia, and find that its first two strains exactly correspond
to this pattern, we feel that we know already how it is going to
proceed, and settle ourselves to watch our expectations fulfilled. But
Chopin knows better, and gives us a third strain which, instead of
embodying the clause of contrast, consists of another repetition of the
same phrase, a tone lower still. By this time we begin to wonder whether
the tune is going to be entirely homogeneous in style, and whether, in
the one strain that is left to complete the stanza it can possibly get
back without awkwardness to the key from which it has strayed. Both
these doubts are solved in the most masterly fashion by the concluding
line, which not only carries the modulation with consummate ease, but
completes the organic outline of the melody with the daintiest delicacy
and finish. Again, in Grieg's F major Violin Sonata, the principal theme
of the middle movement seems to get into inextricable difficulties of
phraseology, and we listen to it with the same apprehensive interest
with which we look on at the imbroglio in _Evan Harrington_. But at
precisely the right moment there appears a new cadence, which would
never have occurred to anyone but Grieg, and the difficulties are
cleared away as if by magic. It is hardly necessary to point out
that Bach and Beethoven are equally rich in this kind of musical
resourcefulness. The harmonic progressions of the one, the melodic form
of the other, constantly suggest a balance of alternative issues, and
as constantly make the selection which the hearer finally acknowledges
as the best.
The same rule holds good in the matter of key distribution. When the
sonata form was young, the key of its second subject was fixed by an
almost unalterable convention: if the movement was in a major mode, it
was the dominant, if in a minor mode, it was the relative major. Hence
the audiences of Haydn and Mozart always expected the same key system,
and were hardly ever disappointed. But Beethoven, from the outset of his
career, broke through this traditional arrangement, and so began by
surprising his hearers, and ended by making their intelligence
co-operate with his own. Take, for instance, the first movement of the
Hammerclavier Sonata. The first subject is in B flat, and the transition
after modulating to its dominant F, proceeds with a vehement and
emphatic assertion of the new key, as though Beethoven intended to
revert to the customary usage, which, it must be remembered, he often
follows. But the very emphasis makes the hearer suspicious. It is not in
Beethoven's manner to underline his keys with so much flourish and
ostentation: perhaps, after all, appearances are deceitful, and he is
only throwing us off the scent. Then our uncertainty is artfully
intensified by an interpolation of the opening theme, which, at this
stage of the movement, is the last thing in the world that we expect;
and immediately after it comes a modulation to G major, and a
presentation of the second subject in that key. The anticipation of this
event is an exercise of critical sagacity not dissimilar to that
afforded by a novel of Balzac or a play of Shakespear. In the famous
scene of Madame Marneffe's confession, we are half-cheated into
believing that the woman's repentance is real, though we know that its
reality is rendered impossible by all laws of characterisation. When
Lear decides between his three daughters, we feel that Cordelia's
coldness of manner has raised a false issue which the subsequent
development of the drama will correct. In short, the true function of
structure, whether it be in literature or in music, is to set before us
two competing impulses and bid us reflect upon them.
But it may be urged that a musical composition can only surprise or
baffle on the first occasion: after that we remember what is coming, and
can foretell the end as readily as the composer himself. This view pays
an undeserved compliment to the capacities of human nature. The average
listener does not really hear a work of any complexity the first time
that it is performed in his presence: he apprehends more or less of it
according to the degree of his ability or experience, but there will
certainly be effects that escape his notice, and, if the composition be
truly organic, those effects will be vital to the appreciation of the
whole. Indeed, we have here one of the most obvious tests of a great
work. We grow tired of a trivial melody or a shallow fantasia, for it
tells us its whole secret at a single hearing: but we may spend our
lives over Bach's Fugues or Beethoven's Symphonies without ever hoping
to exhaust their limitless reserve. Again, we are not such creatures of
pure logic that an effect once produced in us is incapable of
repetition. We may know our Shakespear by heart, and yet be moved by the
humour of Falstaff and the pathos of Imogen, by the subtle questionings
of Hamlet and the frenzied self-accusations of Othello. So in listening
to great Music we often allow ourselves to be carried away by the
impulse of the moment: we forget that we know what is going to happen,
or expect it in a new mood and from a new standpoint. There are many
avenues by which the sense of novelty can be approached, and among them
not the least important is that of our own imagination. No doubt this
influence would be seriously impaired if we were to hear the same
passage day after day and hour after hour, but this, of course, we are
never called upon to do. With the present range and variety of our
musical literature, an effect that is genuinely striking may be weakened
by familiarity, but can hardly be ever wholly obliterated.
It will thus be seen that the manner in which we are impressed by Music
is enormously complex. First, there is the sensuous appeal, the
different characteristics of _timbre_ and tone, of rich harmony and full
orchestration, of all those devices which are usually described in
metaphors of taste and colour. Second, and inclusive of the first, is
the emotional appeal, the exhilaration of rapid movement, the gravity of
stately chords and broad diatonic melody, the restlessness of broken
rhythm and frequent modulation, the shades of surprise which follow upon
a sudden change or an unexpected crisis. Third, and inclusive of the
other two, is the intellectual appeal, the exhibition of balance and
symmetry in the management of these several effects, the definiteness of
plan and design, the vitality and proportion of organic growth. If to
these be added the two supreme requirements of originality in the
composer and of fitness to the occasion of display, we shall have at
any rate a rough criterion for determining work that, in the truest
sense of the term, is classic. In thus summing-up results, it is almost
a presumption for any writer to suggest illustrations: but if it be
permissible to point to masterpieces, in which these principles are
embodied with absolute and unfaltering perfection, we may select, as
typical instances, the choral numbers from Bach's B minor Mass, the
Seventh Symphony of Beethoven, and Brahms' _Schicksalslied_.
Before leaving this subject, of which, indeed, only the outer courts
have been trodden, there are three objections which it may be advisable
to meet. The first would discard the whole analysis as a piece of _a
priori_ inference. As a matter of fact, it would say, the hearer does
not trouble himself about these elaborate questions, he does not follow
the subtleties of style or the coherence of key-system, he does not
anticipate the course which a passage is going to adopt, he simply
listens to the music, and enjoys it, because he finds it pleasant. It is
idle to suppose that a man cannot admire Beethoven without being
prepared to pass an examination in the technicalities of abstract
science. This objection is wholly beside the mark. Men reasoned
correctly long before Aristotle invented the syllogism, but none the
less his theory of the syllogism is an analysis of correct reasoning. In
like manner the unscientific hearer may be totally unconscious of the
causes which underlie his enjoyment, and yet the causes themselves be
both operative and capable of analysis. The laws of musical philosophy,
like those of physiological science, are not artificial subtleties: they
are an attempt to explain the ordinary conditions of health, and every
man who has the taste to prefer one tune to another must necessarily
have made reference, however unconscious, to some principles of
discrimination. Indeed this argument from ignorance has already been
anticipated in a parallel form. '_Voici quarante ans que je dis de la
prose_,' says M. Jourdain, '_sans que j'en susse rien_.'
The second objection is of more interest. Grant, it may be said, that
our analysis enables us in some measure to explain the supreme
masterpieces of Music, there will still remain a wide range of lower
achievements with which it would appear wholly inadequate to deal. If a
composition is weak in structure or careless in style, it has failed to
satisfy our test, but we have no right to infer that it is without
value. On the contrary, an imperfect work may often survive in spite of
its imperfections, and may counterbalance its worst errors by some
attractiveness of charm or some inherent vitality of thought. In _Jane
Eyre_ are faults which would have killed a novel of less genius, but the
reviewers who condemned it are now only remembered as carping and
illiberal pedants. Shelley may be 'ineffectual,' and Keats 'immature,'
but the most adverse critic can no longer deny the beauty that they have
added to English literature. And in like manner we shall find musical
compositions which fall short of the highest level, which fail to attain
the most satisfying completeness of organic form, and which yet deliver
a message that is well worth the hearing. There is a broad expanse
between the summit of Olympus, where the gods have their habitation, and
the low-lying meadows and valleys of our ordinary life.
In such a case we can only judge fairly by a careful balance of merits
and defects, and, above all, by a careful revision of our standpoint in
relation to both. It may be that the structure which we regard as
inorganic is really a new type of organism, a further development along
the line which we have already traced. It may be that the style which
appears careless, has really some subtle method which we are as yet too
clumsy to detect. And even if we are honestly unable to convince
ourselves of error, even if our certitude only grows and gathers as we
study the passage afresh, it by no means follows that the fault which we
have noted is a final ground for condemnation. There can be no
perfection without entire control of resource, but control is
notoriously difficult in proportion to the variety and novelty of the
emotional expression. Hence the more complex and striking the ideas
which a composer wishes to embody, the harder he will find it to present
them in a supreme artistic form. In Schumann, to take the highest
example at once, we sometimes seem to find a great thought struggling
with an intractable medium: we feel rather than hear what it is that he
wishes to express, we apprehend his meaning from broken phrases and
incomplete suggestions. Compare his symphonies with those of Beethoven,
and you see the baffled Titanic strength beside the serene unerring
mastery of the divine hand. Yet, if it be failure, it is noble failure,
better by far than the elaboration of smooth commonplaces and finished
platitudes. It is not carelessness but preoccupation, not unskilfulness
but audacity, not scantiness of resource but prodigality of expenditure.
Schumann's music is always manly, forcible, genuine, and it is no
serious dispraise to say that in the larger forms he is a less perfect
artist than he is in his lyrics.
Here, then, we may see the solution of the present problem. All music
which appeals to us as true has for us a certain measure of value. It is
only conceit and dishonesty, and self-conscious artifice, that merit
absolute and unqualified reprobation: for the rest we may appraise our
work partly in reference to its particular purpose, partly by an
estimate of the success with which its object is attained. If it present
any passage of real interest, we owe it a corresponding debt of
gratitude: if it counterbalance a fault of one kind by a beauty of
another, then criticism should determine which of the two has the more
important bearing on the case. But there can be no sound judgment
without a code, and no code in music without a recognition and
acknowledgment of its masterpieces. Thus the analysis of perfect art
does not preclude us from the consideration of art that is imperfect,
for it is only through the former that the latter is possible.
In the third place, there may be enthusiasts who are still inclined to
cry, with Gebir,--
'Is this the mighty ocean, is this all?'
Are we to hold seriously that Music can be explained by any system of
laws and regulations, that its influence upon us can be classified under
heads and reduced to scientific maxims? Is it not rather degrading to
analyse the divine art into tricks of surprise and devices of rhetoric,
into this kind of figure and that kind of modulation, into a nice
adjustment of curve and harmony and cadence? Where is the 'fine
careless rapture' of the artist? Where is the inspiration of the poet?
Surely it is better that we should ignorantly worship than that we
should be turning Apollo into a sophist and setting the Muses to keep
school.