But what of the difficulties which such a theory must meet?
The most obvious one is the short life of musical works. If
musical beauty is founded in natural laws, why does music so
quickly grow old? The answer is that music is a phenomenon
of expectation as founded on these natural laws. It is the
tendency of one note to progress to another which is the basis
of the vividness of our experience. We expect, indeed, what
belongs objectively to the development of a melody, but only
that particular variety of progression to which we have become
accustomed. So it is that music which presents only the old,
simple progressions gives the greatest sense of ease, but the
least sense of effort--the ideal motion not being hindered on
its way. Intensity, vividness, would be felt where the
progression is less obvious, but felt as "fitting in" when it
is once made; and where it is not obvious at all--where the
link is not felt, a sense of dissatisfaction and restlessness
arises. So it is with music which we know by heart. It is
not that we know each note, and so expect it, but that it is
felt as necessarily issuing out of the preceding. A piece of
poor music, really heterogeneous and unconnected, might be
thoroughly familiar, and yet never, in this sense, felt as
SATISFYING expectation. In the same way, music in which the
progressions were germane to the existing tonality-feeling,
while still not absolutely obvious, would not be less quickening
to the musical sense, even if learned by heart. It is clear
that there is an external and an internal expectation--one,
imposed by memory, for the particular piece; the other constituted
partly by intrinsic internal relations, partly by the degree to
which these internal relations have been exploited. That is,
the possibility of musical expectation, and pleasure in its
satisfaction, is conditioned by the possession of a tonality-
feeling which covers the constituents of the piece of music, but
which has not become absolutely mechanical in its action. Just
as rhythm needs an obstacle to make the structure felt, so
melody needs some variation from the obvious set of relations
already won and possessed. If that possession is too complete,
the melody becomes as stale and uninteresting as would a 3-4
rhythm without a change or a break.
The test of genius in music, of the width and depth of mastery,
is to be able to become familiar without ceasing to be strange.
On the other hand, if in music to be great is always to be
misunderstood, it is no less true, here as elsewhere, that to
be misunderstood is not always to be great. And music may be
merely strange, and pass into oblivion, without ever having
passed that stage of surprised and delighted acceptance which
is the test of its truth to fundamental laws.
But how shall music advance? How shall it set out to win new
relations? It is at least conceivable that it takes the method
of another art which we have just studied. To get new beauties,
it does not say,--Go to, I will add to the beauties I already
have! It makes new occasions, and by way of these finds the
impulse it seeks. Renoir paints the baigneuse of Montmartre,
and finds "the odd, beautiful huddle of lines" in so doing;
Rodin portrays ever new subtleties of situation and mood, and
by way of these comes most naturally to "the unedited poses."
So a musician, we may imagine, comes to new and strange
utterances by way of a new and strange motion or cry that he
imitates. Out of the various bents and impulses that these
give him he chooses the ones that chance to be beautiful. And
in time these new beauties have become worn away like the trite
metaphors that are now no longer metaphors, but part of the
"funded capital." That was a ridiculous device of Schumann's,
who found a motif for one of his loveliest things by using the
letters of his temporary fair one's name--A B E G G; but it
may not be so utterly unlike the procedure by which music grows.