Chapter 2

While the critics have admitted the freshness, originality and general excellence of MacDowell's work and marveled over his versatility, his shorter piano pieces and songs are as yet most popular in the making of programmes. However, Henry T. Finck says of his sonatas: "As regards the sonatas, I ought to bear MacDowell a decided grudge. After I had written and argued a hundred times that the sonata form was 'played out,' he went to work and wrote four sonatas to confute me. To be sure, I might have my revenge and say they are 'not sonatas'; but they are no more unorthodox than the sonatas of Chopin, Schumann, Liszt and Grieg, though they have a freedom of their own which is captivating. They are brimful of individuality and charm; they will be heard often in the concert halls of the future."

The "Sonata Tragica" might have been written of the composer himself, and "The Heroica" could easily have been inspired by his wife, instead of by the Arthur legends, for she is a knightly soul, combining to a most unusual degree the artistic temperament, womanly tenderness and charm, with a chivalrous sort of courage, suggesting Tennyson's lines:

"My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, As pure and true as blades of steel."

These are busy days for her at Peterboro, where she is daily striving to put the MacDowell ideals into permanent and practical effect. The plan is most appealing and can, perhaps, be better understood by contrast, if a little insight is given into a state of things, the amelioration of which is the purpose of the project.

You are invited, then, to step into a neat and attractive modern apartment kitchen, say three years ago. The grocery boy had just left. Everything was there, and of unusually good quality--crisp lettuce, golden oranges, the inevitable loaf of whole wheat bread, the sugar and lemons--and as the housekeeper compared the articles with the grocer's book which she held in her hand, she gave a start. Some one across the way was playing "To a Wild Rose." Yes, it was Wednesday, and a glance at the kitchen clock revealed the fact that in ninety minutes the MacDowell Club would be called to order, and she had promised a poem for the programme. Shades of Sappho! What was to be done? There had been no time in the two weeks since the last meeting, between housekeeping, mending, grinding out of pot-boilers and countless interruptions, to give the matter a thought, and she had never been known to forget such a promise.

Pegasus neighed reassuringly, and seizing the stub of a pencil attached to the grocer's book, after a moment of concentration, in which she closed her eyes to shut out the material vision before her, she scribbled rapidly on a few blank pages in the back of the plebeian record. After several readings of the lines and sundry interlined revisions, she tore out the sheets, blessed Pegasus for coming in under the wire so nobly, and hurried away to dress. At the appointed time, sheepishly trying to conceal her unpoetic manuscript, which there had been no time to copy, behind a lace fan, she arose, flushed but sustaining her reputation for reliability as a programme feature.

'Twas for like-conditioned people, aspiring to work out their dreams in words, tones, color or clay in congenial surroundings, undisturbed by any domestic or other distraction or inharmony, that Edward MacDowell conceived the idea now being carried out at Peterboro, New Hampshire.

The plan was not to provide a rest-cure or moderate-priced summer home for broken-down musicians, artists and writers, as many seem to think, but to give those at the very height of their productiveness a chance for undisturbed work, under the inspiration of nature in her most alluring guise, and association, after work hours, with such rare souls as could arouse higher aspiration by thought interchange and comparison of ideals.

Ask the average workman along any artistic line what he would rather have than anything else and he is very sure to tell you, "Leisure for work!" And after that, the strongest desire is for the companionship of some one who really understands what he is trying to do.

His good angel must have led Edward MacDowell to Peterboro. I can imagine no other setting so perfect for the last act of his life, with its shifting scenes. Whatever else the great power back of the universe may be, He is the Master Artist, and in the making of this village of enchantment He seems to have gathered together all His most beautiful materials and combined them with lavish hand. Quaint and picturesque houses are sprinkled over the foot-hills of the Monadnock Mountains. Green fields go down to meet clear streams of placid water, where trailing vines and overhanging boughs make charming shadows. The sun sparkles against great gray boulders, lichen-grown, and upon yellow sand dunes. There are pines, larches, firs, spruces and all their sturdy kinspeople, scattered freely that the eye may at any season be gladdened by the sight of living green, and interspersed with these are deciduous trees of every kind, to make a fantastic tracery of bare branches against the wintry sky and furnish a series of beautiful contrasts, from the earliest tender bud to the last sere autumn leaf. And the ferns! Did the Great Artist have any left after planting the fence-corners, roadsides and deep woods of Peterboro? Overarch these features with a fair dome of fleece-scattered blue and waft abroad throughout the place a succession of mountain breezes, ozone charged, and you have a place to live and work and grow young in.

MacDowell thought that the fine arts were supplemental, each of the other, and wished to include them all in his scheme, so well-built rustic studios, equipped to suit the needs of the occupant, are being placed at intervals on advantageous sites in the woods, tree-screened and far enough apart to insure quiet and privacy, but sufficiently near to give that comfortable sense of human comradeship and safety. There is a common domicile at the foot of "Hill Crest," called "The Lower House," presided over by a capable housekeeper, where the workers sleep, breakfast, dine and recreate in the evening; but after breakfast, provided with a simple lunch, each hies away happily to his own studio to spend the day in alternate working and waiting on the Muses in blissful solitude. This routine is broken sufficiently by cups of tea with Mrs. MacDowell at "Hill Crest," rambles in garden and wood, drives over the picturesque mountain roads and tramps to the village, to prevent Jack from having any chance of becoming a dull boy.

The departed musician's own log cabin, already referred to as the place where most of his later works were composed, was the first of the studios to be built, and it would be difficult to imagine a more perfect retreat for his purpose.

"It looks out over the whispering treetops, And faces the setting sun,"

which glints on the bark roof, now covered with a thick shower of fragrant brown pine needles, giving the appearance of a pre-designed thatch.

Within, the personality of the absent composer lingers perceptibly, and the two names--"Edward--Marian-1899"--written in his bold chirography in the damp cement, when the cabin hearth was laid before the open fireplace, tell a touching story of a union so real as to make no plan complete, no realization of a long-cherished hope perfect, that did not openly include his wife.

These two were married in New York in 1884. A gifted South Carolina aunt, who went to New York after the war and soon made her way to the front rank of metropolitan teachers, gave to Marian Nevins, a country-bred girl of York State, the only musical training she ever had until she went abroad in 1880 to pursue her studies. Edward MacDowell was at that time in high favor with his masters, Heymann and Raff, at the Frankfort Conservatory, and she became his pupil. Her industry and ambition aroused his interest in the development of her talent, and he put her through a long season of severe drill and study, imparting to her all his original methods and personal ideals, as well as those acquired from his masters. It was hard work between the gifted teacher and his promising pupil, with no idea of romance; but with her preparations for her return to America, at the expiration of three years, came the revelation to each of the meaning of the impending separation, and in a twelvemonth after her departure he went to New York and returned to Germany with his bride, settling at Wiesbaden, where they spent some ideal years. While he began his career as a composer in that inspiring atmosphere and won a hearing and a verdict that opened the way to fame, it was after his return to America that he did his best work, when he freed himself from the chance of unconscious imitation and reflection and gave rein to individuality and imagination in the Peterboro retreat. Weber says: "To be a true artist you must be a true man." This tribute has been paid MacDowell by his associates: they say he was a true man. Nobleness has been called the chief characteristic alike of himself and his music, with a simplicity that is ever the accompaniment of real nobility. In playing, he had certain little tricks of using his fingers that produced certain effects, but he did not teach these to his pupils, preferring that they should use their own ingenuity, explaining: "You might find a better way than mine," showing a modest willingness to be taught, even by his own pupils, instead of always posing as master. He never forced his personality, as a man or as a musician, upon any one, choosing rather to encourage and foster originality.

Much is said and written about an American national music. I am reminded of a colored mammy who was left in charge of "Marse John" and the house while "Miss Mary an' de chillun" were away at the springs. When the larder needed replenishing she would break the news to her employer like this: "Marse John?" "Yes, Mammy!" "You know the flour?" "Yes, Mammy!" "Well, _there ain't none_!" It is even so with our national music--"there ain't none."

Arthur Farwell, president of the American Music Society, thinks differently. He says: "One must make a very broad study of the works of eighty or one hundred American composers before he will begin to perceive the indisputable American qualities arising in our music. The endeavor not to repeat, parrot-like, the formulæ of the Old World has driven many American composers to seek out new inventions and has led to a freshness, in a considerable mass of American work, as in MacDowell's, which may be said to be directly a product of American conditions."

Music is seldom a thing of nationality or locality. Early opera in Germany was Italian and the French grand opera school was founded by a Florentine. The style of music that appeals most keenly to the people of a country or community influences largely the method and manner of its native composers. Authors, musical and literary, write more often to fill a demand, subjectively felt perhaps, than to create one or to establish a form representative of their nation or section, though occasionally, when the author is a genius and fearlessly gives expression to his own divinity, regardless of precedent, he finds himself responsible for a new order, though in that case the individuality of the author is the leaven that leaveneth the lump, and not the locality.

We are only beginning, as a nation, to recognize music as an essential to general culture. A new country must become familiar with and learn to appreciate what has already been done along artistic lines before it is capable of evolving its own type in any permanent, living fashion. We have no people's music. "Give me, oh give me, the man who sings at his work," said Carlyle, and I often think when I hear an American laborer singing at his task that if dear old Carlyle were only alive and I _could_ give him the unmelodious disturber of the public peace, the pleasure would be _all mine_. American music, the music of the people, is built upon the Puritan hymn tunes and savors of the persecution that made the Pilgrim Fathers fly to the new land.

Some think that the negro melodies should form the basis of our American music; but why? The negro is an importation, not a native, and if we want the real thing, it seems to me that we will have to find it in the Indian melodies, but it will take artistic handling to develop them from aboriginal simplicity to the intricacy necessary to represent in any sense present-day, cosmopolitan America.

Universality is just now the philosophical ideal, and it seems to me that America, the composite nation, is the proper center from which such a spirit should emanate. Why try to foster the limited local idea with regard to music, or any artistic or intellectual pursuit? Why encourage the production of distinctive American music in a country in which there is not even a distinctive type of face or mode of speech? Here is a Virginian, descended from an American Indian and an English colonist, living next door to a Plymouth Rock Yankee whose husband is a French Canadian. Across the street is a German-American born in the Middle West, who is married to a Californian of Spanish lineage. My cook is an African, yours is Chinese and perhaps your housemaid is Scandinavian, your chauffeur Irish, and so on. Music, to be effective in such a patchwork civilization as this, would have to be _simply music_--universal, composite, international.

MacDowell has created a typical music, typical of _himself_, not of any locality, and he wished it to be judged as _music_, not as _American_ music, and the justice of his desire cannot be gainsaid. Recalling all of the influences of inherited and natural temperament, education, foreign environment and American experience, jealous as we are of his genius, we must admit that he caught in his productions the complexity of his time. His music is universal and reflects the genius of his contemporaries, as well as that of the older masters, impregnated with his individual creativeness. He had seeing eyes and hearing ears, and realizing the eternal principle of rhythm and the universality of tone, he caught the keynote of everything related to him in the outer world, with its corresponding relation in the inner or unseen realms, producing compositions that are complete in form, accurate in intellectual grasp and spiritually prophetic.

He fashioned his own wreath of immortelles, With matchless skill. Tones lent themselves with subtle eagerness To do his will. Repeat them as his genius did design, His pow'r devise; No higher tribute to his name and fame From us could rise.

POETICAL INTERPRETATIONS

By ELIZABETH FRY PAGE

TO MACDOWELL

Now, in the darkness, mute, from hour to hour, Sits one who lov'd all life, and from the strings Of well-tuned harp brought sounds of common things, And sang of sea and wood and tree and flow'r. His task all done, fled usefulness and pow'r, Through the deep shade his uncurbed fancy wings, While with his fame his proud land loudly rings, And praise falls on his work in lavish show'r.

The rosemary we bring, and no rude hand The laurel would withhold, the plaudits stay. For him is seen the magic circled wand That to creative genius points the way. His music's bold, true note Time's test will stand. His age in art begins with cloudless day.

A.D. 1620

Exiled from home, for sake of faith held dear, To distant shores the Pilgrim Fathers turned. Their grief-stung hearts for Freedom's blessing yearned, Where persecution's lash they need not fear. In stately ships they sailed the ocean drear, And more of trial and of hardship learned; But in their loyal bosoms still there burned Religious zeal that lent heroic cheer.

One hundred souls from Mother England came, And many days fared on a storm-tossed sea, Men, women, children, to be known to Fame For braving death for sacred Liberty. To our bleak, shelt'ring port they gave a name, And marked an epoch in our history.

SONG

A merry song the pilgrim sang To check the sigh of pain, At thought of leaving his dear home He ne'er might see again. 'Twas o-ho-ho and ah-ha-ha, He laughed and sang alway; When comrades' eyes were filled with tears, Or sad heads turned away.

A cheery song, a merry song, As o'er Life's sea we sail, Will send a thrill of courage new To hearts about to fail. So sound a note, oh singer brave, Whate'er your own soul's pain; When time repeats its echo sweet, 'Twill bless your life again.

IN DEEP WOODS

A solitary soul, I walk at eve Without the village walls, and in the deep And sacred hush of woods, where fairies sleep, Calm Nature soothes my senses, and I live In realms that only creatures can conceive, Who with their holy guardian spirits keep Firm faith, and into loving arms I creep, And mundane cares no more my spirit grieve.

Cool breezes blow about me, and I hear The mellow bells of distant churches chime. I wander on, with never thought of fear, Secure as in some peaceful heav'nly clime. Majestic, mystic things seem close and clear, And all my soul is wrapt in thoughts sublime.

SHADOW DANCE

We two sat watching the shadows dance, (Long years had passed since we were young), And o'er the days that had fled there hung A mist of sorrow and sad romance.

From out the gloom of an old stone wall, The moon drew creatures of wondrous shape, And none of our lost dreams could escape, A cruel magic revealed them all.

They bowed and swayed with a mocking grace, And held our gaze as they flitted by; Our deep-drawn breaths were our sole reply, As one by one we beheld each face.

A dream of Wealth and a dream of Fame, And Love's dream, these were the foremost three, Each with its shadowy train, till we Could greet the phantoms of youth by name.

Our faces paled and we trembled there, Watching the shadows dance on the wall; Wealth, Fame and Love--we had missed them all, And Sorrow's chalice had been our share.

But there was hope and we still had life, And hearts are brave that the years have tried; We looked in each other's eyes and sighed, Sad, pain-filled eyes, but free of strife.

Dance on, gaunt shadows, beside the wall, We shrink from you in your cruel mirth; But what are _you_ and the dreams of Earth? Our hard-won peace is worth them all.

AT AN OLD TRYSTING-PLACE

Where, dearest, fare thy feet this summer eve? Hast found a pasture green in which to tread, Beside refreshing waters art thou led, Content beyond my powers to conceive? Does overflowing cup thy thirst relieve, With princely feast hast thou thy hunger fed, Uplifted high is thine anointed head, Among thy kind dost thou esteem receive?

I pray 'tis so; and evermore shall be, That year by year thy honors may increase, No shadow darken thy prosperity, Nor treach'rous pitfall mar thy way of peace. My loving eyes would always joy to see Thy path lie fair until thy journey cease.

TO A WATER LILY

This is her bed! Dip the oars lightly, Guide the craft rightly, Where her sweet head Nestles so calmly.

What says her heart, Fragrant and golden? In its depths holden, With maiden art, Whose image hath she?

Dare I disturb Fancies so tender, E'en to surrender? Better to curb Self for her peace.

Dream on, my flow'r! Eyes have caressed thee, I have confessed me, In this still hour. Will she requite me?

TOLD AT SUNSET

Upon the mountain's top we pensive stood, The day was waning and the sun drooped low; Long shadows fell across the vale below, And deepened as they reached the distant wood. The sky seemed in arm's reach: in holy mood, The trees stretched forth their boughs as to bestow A vesper blessing, ere we turned to go. Like feathered mother hovering her brood, Gray twilight o'er the landscape spread her wings. I looked into your eyes: in their clear glow, There dwelt the light that altar candles throw On imaged saint and penitent who clings To God, whose likeness such pure beings show. The strength'ning peace that contemplation brings, Obliterating trace of earthly things, Wrapt you in radiant aura, safe from woe. The path became a long cathedral aisle, The sinking sun, the Host to bow before With folded hands and rev'rently adore, The zephyrs wafting incense sweet the while. There was a far-off priest, with gentle smile, Whose parting benediction seemed to pour Upon us, from the verge of some blest shore, To which our ling'ring steps he would beguile. An organ pealed from somewhere in the heights Above us, and a sweet-voiced chorus rang A "Nunc Dimittis," and from caverns sang In echo all the list'ning mountain wights. Uniting fervently in their "amen," We stood a moment in the dark'ning gray; In silence, as the knowing only may, And then, refreshed, turned to our tasks again.

TO A WILD ROSE

Awake, wild rose, lift up your lovely face And smile a welcome sweet to one whose days Were spent of yore in rose-embowered ways, Where lovingly he marveled at your grace And found in music lore for you a place, Telling in tones the world heard with amaze, How fair you were to his inspiréd gaze. A grieving people lost him for a space, And 'round his darkened home there hung a band Of messengers, half-dreading, day by day, Lest they should bear sad tidings o'er the land. But now, as Nature wakes, joy hath full sway. MacDowell lives! Grim death could not withstand The tide of loving thought that flowed his way.

THE SPIRIT CALL

(_Celtic myth: "The ghosts of Fathers, they say, call away the souls of their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst of woe." "Erin's clouds are hung 'round with ghosts."_--OSSIAN.)

I go: my father's spirit calls! From his gray cloud beholding, He sees how thickly sorrow falls, My lonely path enfolding.

So near he comes: I see him well: He beckons, smiling, pleading! I cannot in this sad world dwell, When he is drawing, leading.

My heart is sore, he loves me dear, My soul is weary, weary! Father, I come, naught holds me here: Thou lov'st, and life is dreary!

Bend lower, cloud, his spirit's home, My helpless form to cover! A gasp, a sigh, one faint, low breath, And all life's woes are over.

A DESERTED FARM

Seeking a lodge remote from men, A place for rest and labor, Where I might inspiration gain, Dame Nature for close neighbor,

I came on a deserted farm, By forest deep surrounded; 'Twas mine, by ev'ry subtle charm, I saw, with joy unbounded.

I wandered through its empty halls, And 'mong its spreading acres, Where birds and bees and frisky squirrels Were undisturbed caretakers.

What sturdy youth and maid demure Within that garden olden, Their vows of love and constancy Pledged in the sunset golden?

What lady hands in lilac hedge Or tansy bed went gleaning? Who placed that rusty flintlock there, Against the stone fence leaning?

The very nails within your walls Handwrought, with skill, proclaim you A relic of colonial days, And home of comfort name you.

The spinning-wheels, in attic hid, Tell me of busy fingers; And 'round the farm, long tenantless, An air of home still lingers.

Of bygone days you speak to me, With all your ling'ring treasures; You summon musings of the past, And promise future pleasures.

My Sleeping Beauty, I'm your Prince, At my kiss you will waken To fuller life than e'er you knew, Before you were forsaken.

The great of earth will gather here, 'Twill be the home of Muses; Thy beauty and thy peacefulness A wondrous charm diffuses.

I have a dream that years ahead, From out your humble portals Will issue music, art and song, To bless aspiring mortals.