Certain learned college professors were once heard discussing methods of
literary criticism and interpretation. They spoke of external and
technical forms, and how magnificently these were illustrated in the
world's acknowledged masterpieces of literature. Every work read or
studied, they decided, should be carefully weighed, measured and
analyzed, and should be judged solely by the maxims and laws deduced
from classical standards. The critical faculty must never be permitted
to slumber or to sleep. Above all, the literary student should beware of
trusting to impressions.
Not a word was uttered in regard to the contents of the masterpieces in
question, the special emotions, the overwhelming passions they revealed,
the mighty experiences of which they were the result. Nothing was said
about the source of a great book in the life of its author, or its value
as a record of what many minds and hearts of an entire epoch have
thought, felt and desired. The learned professors were so deeply
concerned with what they considered the demands of strict scholarship
that they lost sight of the spirit which animates every true work of
art. To them literature consisted of words, phrases, sentences, figures
of speech, classical allusions, and well-constructed forms. They
regarded it apparently as an artificial product, compounded according to
traditional and cautiously prescribed recipes.
An aged man of letters present, one who was characterized by his ripe
scholarship, his richly cultured personality, sat listening in silence
to the conversation. Suddenly he rose up, and, in vibrant tones,
exclaimed: "Where hath the soul of literature fled, its vital part? If
we are to trample upon our impressions the best that is within us will
be chilled. Of what avail is education if it does not lead to the
unfolding of our God-given intuitions? Friends, if the trend of modern
criticism be to divorce literature from life, the throb and thrill of
great art will soon cease to be felt."
The lesson conveyed by these words may with equal propriety be applied
to the field of music. Viewing certain current tendencies the cultured
musician is often moved to wonder where the soul of music has fled. The
critical faculty is keenly alive to-day, but musical criticism, shorn of
its better part, musical appreciation, can never lead to the insight
requisite for true musical interpretation. Observation and perception,
intellectual discernment and spiritual penetration are essential to gain
insight into a great musical composition until its musical ideas, the
very grade and texture of its style, are absolutely appropriated.
In his "Death in the Desert," Robert Browning tells of the three souls
that make up the soul of man: the soul which Does; the soul which Knows,
feels, thinks and wills, and the soul which Is and which constitutes
man's real self. Appreciation of music requires the utmost activity of
all three souls. The more we are, the broader our culture, the more we
think, feel and know, the more we will find in music. Dr. Hiram Corson,
commenting on Browning's words, says the rectification, or adjustment of
what Is, that which constitutes our true being, should transcend all
other aims of education. If this fact were more generally accepted and
enforced it could soon no longer be said that few persons reach maturity
without the petrifaction of some faculty of mind and heart.
Every faculty we possess needs to be keenly alive for the interpretation
of the best in music. One who is accustomed to earnest thinking, quick
observation and sympathetic penetration will see, hear and feel much
that utterly escapes those whose best faculties have been permitted to
lie dormant, or become petrified. The interpreter of music must have
vital knowledge of the inner, spiritual element of every work of art he
attempts to reproduce. His imagination must be kindled by it, and
musical imagination is infinitely more precious than musical mechanism.
It is by no means intended to underrate technical proficiency. No one
can be a satisfactory exponent of music whose technique is deficient,
however profound may be his musicianly understanding and feeling. At the
same time, with every tone, every measure, mechanically correct, a
performance may fail to move the listener, because it lacks warmth and
glow. Only they can make others feel who feel themselves, but sentiment
is apt to be confounded with sentimentality unless it is guided by a
scholarly mind. The more feeling is spiritualized with thought the
nobler it will be. Heart and head need to operate in company with
well-controlled physical forces, in order that a fine interpretation of
music may be attained. Faultless technique, in the service of a lofty
ideal, indeed ceases to be mechanical and becomes artistic.
A musical work of art originates in the deep well of the fertile
imagination of genius, and can only be drawn forth when the composer is
in that highly exalted frame of mind we call inspiration. The theme, or
musical subject, is a vital spark of the divine fire, and has flashed
unbidden into his consciousness, demanding undivided attention for its
logical development. With infinite care he molds and groups the musical
factors which are his working forces, and of which he has both an
intuitive and a practical knowledge. The manifold forms he fashions all
combine for one purpose, and lead persistently to one grand climax, from
which they may return to the repose whence they came. Unity in diversity
is the goal he sets before himself. All aglow though he is with the joy
of artistic production, he dare not permit his mind to waver from the
task in hand.
Music is not to be played with, and the labor of composition is no
trifling matter. It demands the keenest mental activity, the most
profound mental concentration. It demands consecration. The composer
thinks and works in tones, in an ideal realm, far removed from the
realities of the external world. His business is to bring his theme to
its most magnificent unfolding, treating it with absolute definiteness,
that his intention may be perfectly clear.
It is the business of the interpreter of music to be so thoroughly
acquainted with the elements of which music is composed that he can
promptly recognize the color, complexion and individual character of
every interval, chord and chord-combination, every consonance and
dissonance, every timbre and nuance, and every degree of phrasing and
rhythm. He must have so complete a mastery of his materials and working
forces that his imagination may be influenced unimpeded by the
emanations from the composer's imagination which animate the moving
forms he commands.
It is his business to respond with his whole being to the appeal of the
musical masterpiece he attempts to interpret, and so express the
emotions aroused by it from their slumbers in his own bosom that a
responsive echo may be found in the bosoms of the listeners. A most
ingeniously constructed music-box, with the presentation of a
complicated piece of music, may fail to move a heart that will be
stirred to its depths by a simple song, into which the singer's whole
soul has been thrown.
Though the mind of the inventive genius be a mystery that may not fully
be explained, its product is within the grasp of the intelligent seeker.
The æsthetic principles of musical construction rest on certain
elementary laws governing both the human organism and the phenomena of
sound, and may become familiar to any one who is capable of study. In
the same way the established canons of musical expression, observed by
the skilful artist, consciously or unconsciously, are traceable to
natural causes. Without realizing the inherent properties of music, as
well as its technical possibilities and limitations, we cannot know the
art.
The tonal language is one that is not translatable into words. It is
composed of an infinite variety of tone-forms, now sharply contrasted,
now gradually blending into one another, all logically connected, all
tending to form a perfect whole. The profusion of harmonic, melodic,
dynamic and rhythmic changes it brings forth invests it with a meaning
far beyond that of words, a musical meaning. Every masterpiece of music
clothes in tonal form some idea which originated in the composer's mind.
To the interpreter it is given to invest it with living sound.
Chords and chord combinations all have their individual characteristics.
Some cause satisfaction, for instance, others unrest. When a chord of
the dominant seventh is heard, the educated musician knows that a
solution is demanded. The unspoiled ear and taste instinctively feel
something unfinished, and are disturbed if it be not followed by a
return to the key chord. Where the faculties are dormant or petrified,
its significance will be unobserved.
The story is told of a young lady whose musical education had been
utterly hollow and false, but who, having been overwhelmed with flattery
for her voice and her singing, was deluded into a belief that she was
destined to shine as a star on the operatic stage. She consulted the
famous basso, Karl Formes, who good-naturedly had her sing for him. He
perceived at once that she possessed neither striking talent nor
adequate training.
As a supreme test he struck on the piano a chord of the dominant
seventh, and asked the young aspirant for dramatic glory what she
thought it meant. Presuming it to be incumbent upon a prospective prima
donna to have uppermost in her mind the grand passion, she replied, in a
sentimental tone, "Love!" Promptly Karl Formes sounded the solution to
the chord. "There is your answer," quoth he. "I ask a question, and it
is thought I speak of love. Go home, my good girl, and seek some other
avocation. You have a fair voice, but you are tone-deaf. You can never
make a musician."
A favorite motto of the piano teacher Leschetitzky is, "Think ten times
before you play once." If this rule were more generally observed we
should have better interpreters of music. A great composition should
completely occupy mind and heart before it is attacked by fingers or
voice. In that case it would be analyzed as to its form, its tonal
structure, its harmonic relations, its phrasing and rhythms, and its
musical intention would become luminous. The interpreter would
understand where accents and other indications of expression should
occur and why they should so occur, and would be able, in however feeble
a way, to find and reveal the true heart music that lies hidden in the
notes.
It is never too early in a course of music study to consider the
requirements of musical expression. Persistent observance of them will
inevitably quicken the artistic sense. The rules to which they have
given rise are for the most part simple and easily explained. For
obvious reasons, all musical interpretation is expected to imitate song
as closely as possible. The human voice, the primitive musical
instrument, in moments of excitement, ascends to a higher pitch,
increasing in intensity of tone as it sweeps upward. Consequently every
progression from lower to higher tones, whether played or sung, demands
a crescendo unless some plainly denoted characteristic of the music
calls for different treatment. A descending passage, as a return to
tranquillity, requires a decrescendo.
"The outpouring of a feeling toward its object, whether to the endless
heavens, or forth into the boundless world, or toward a definite,
limited goal, resembles the surging, the pressing onward of a flood,"
said the great teacher, Dr. Adolph Kullak. "Reversely, that feeling
which draws its object into itself has a more tranquillizing movement,
that especially when the possession of the object is assured, appeases
itself in equable onward flow toward the goal of a normal state of
satisfaction. The emotional life is an undulating play of up-surging and
subsidence, of pressing forward beyond temporal limitations and of
resigned yielding to temporal necessities. The crescendo and decrescendo
are the means employed in music for the portrayal of this manifestation
of emotional life."
Another important matter which may to a great extent be reduced to rule
is that of accentuation. Through it a tone-picture is invested with
animation, and a clue is given to the disposition of tonal forms.
Accents are always required to mark the entrance of a theme, a phrase or
a melody. Where there are several voices, or parts, as in a fugue, each
voice denotes its appearance with an accent. Every daring assertion
hazarded in music, as in speech, demands special emphasis. Dissonances
need to be brought out in such prominence that they may not appear to be
accidental misconceptions, and that confident expectation may be aroused
of their ultimate resolution. Accentuation must be regulated by the
claims of musical delivery. At all times too gentle an accent is without
effect, too glaring an accent is to be condemned.
Hans von Bülow strenuously advised young musicians to cultivate their
ears and strive to attain musical beauty in what is termed phrasing,
which he regarded as the real beginning of greatness in a performer.
Phrasing and time keeping are two of the prime essentials in musical
delivery, and cannot be neglected with impunity.
Time may well be called the pulse of music. Upon some occasions the
pulse beats more rapidly than others. It is incumbent on the interpreter
of music to ascertain the harmonic and other causes which determine the
tempo of a musical composition, as well as those which make slight
variations from it admissible. Among other points to be noted is the
fact that sudden transition from repose to restless activity calls for
an accelerando, while the reverse requires a rallentando.
It is absolutely imperative for one who would interpret music to
cultivate the memory. The musician who cannot play or sing without notes
is compelled to expend a large amount of mental activity on reading
these, and will find it difficult to heed the manifold requirements of
musical expression and delivery, of which a few hints have here been
given. A musical composition is never thoroughly understood until it has
been intelligently memorized. One who can play or sing without notes is
as free as a bird to soar aloft in the blue ether of musical
imagination.
[Illustration: FRANZ LISZT]
Every interpreter of music longs for appreciative listeners, and young
musicians, in especial, often lament the lack of these. It is well to
remember that the genuine musical artist is able to create an atmosphere
whose influences may compel an average audience to sympathetic
listening. A good plan for the artist is to be surrounded in fancy with
an audience having sensitively attuned ears, intellectual minds, and
warm, throbbing hearts. Music played in private before such an imaginary
audience will gain in quality, and when repeated before an actual public
will hold that public captive.
We have it from Ruskin that all fatal faults in art that might otherwise
be good arise from one or other of three things: either from the
pretence to feel what we do not; the indolence in exercise necessary to
obtain the power of expressing the Truth; or the presumptuous insistence
upon, or indulgence in, our own powers and delights, with no care or
wish that they should be useful to other people, so only they should be
admired by them.
These three fatal faults must be avoided, or conquered, by the person
who would interpret music.
V