CHAPTER IV
MUSIC FROM THE INVENTION OF NOTATION TO DATE
The sweep of events in this new era has been so grand in its cumulative momentum and high tendency, that one is quite as much embarrassed by its richness in data as by the poverty of the older period.
At the opening of its second era music began to make history, and many painstaking and erudite men have devoted the best years of their lives to collating her records; we are therefore amply supplied with books of reference, which fact would seem to justify me in still further pursuing the path marked out by my individual impressions. My deductions and theories may not always follow beaten paths; indeed, I am only led to discuss the well-known events of this era by the hope that these digressions may afford my readers new points of view, and thus, perhaps, incite them to acquire a more intimate knowledge of the nature of music.
Before commencing our explorations I should like to emphasize the theory advanced in Chapter II.,--viz., that the progress of musical evolution is more or less rapid as the quality of its culture environment is better or less well suited to its requirements. Great composers are not eccentric growths, but they are the natural fruits of the conditions into which they are born and in which they create.
Acorns thrown upon bare rocks will decay; planted in sands exposed to the violent winds from the sea, they grow into gnarled scrubs; but if they fall into a soil possessing qualities calculated to expand their inherent germs, they become noble oaks, differing in size according to the assertive vitality of their several germs and to the impulses which they receive from earth and sky. These conditions also mould their forms, for their branches reach out for sunlight and rain just as their root-tendrils seek more substantial, but no more necessary, sustenance. This quest gives direction to their growth.
The forest giants are like our Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, and Wagner; they, like these musical giants, tower above their fellows. Our musicians spread their roots out into the past (into the knowledge of what others have achieved), their aspirations are warmed into activity by the sunlight of widely diffused culture, and their creations take form from their surroundings.
To illustrate my theory: if Beethoven were now living and composing music, it would necessarily differ as much from that which he did produce, in form and means, as our life conditions and modes differ from those of seventy-five years ago, for such a genius would be quick to feel the presence of new elements in either his material surroundings or art atmosphere.
Some of these new elements are helpful to the composer, while others tend to stifle his spontaneity or to distort the outlines and too much brighten the colors of his tone pictures. In the first class I would put the universal increase of musical intelligence; the mechanical devices, which, as applied to the organ, piano, and most of the orchestral wind instruments, greatly increase their efficiency; Berlioz's idea of color integrity, which has revolutionized orchestral writing; the decrease of conventionality in form; the greater intensity in harmonic successions; and the somewhat Bach-like import with which the writer of to-day attempts to endow the bass and middle voices.
At the head of the second class (harmful elements) I should place the immense practicality of our age, which intrudes its steam ploughs upon our rural pictures, and, with its unending procession of mechanical innovations, crowds poetic fancy into dark recesses, where she survives but does not thrive; then comes the feverish haste to become rich or famous, which so dominates our generation as to disturb the contemplative moods of the artist, imparting sometimes a suggestion of prosaic utility to his creations, and in other cases endowing them with incongruous form and colors; and last, but not least, comes the modern habit of self-introspection, which, springing from a laudable desire to reason philosophically, smothers spontaneity.
Beethoven would have rebelled against these adverse conditions, but he would nevertheless have been influenced by them. His spirit will defy time, but his models and methods have become antiquated. A modern composer, however gifted, could not follow them without sacrificing his claims to recognition.
We willingly allow Bach and Beethoven to transport us back into their times, and we draw refreshment from the natural atmosphere that pervades them, but would reject a modern product which embodied similar elements; for they would, in such case, be artificial, not the elements suggested by and characteristic of an emotional mood.
Notation, which defined musical achievements, and thus fitted each stage of development to serve as a stepping-stone to formulated art, was unaccountably long in coming.
There is no absolute certainty as to who invented our present system of writing music, but the honor is usually accredited to Huchbold, of Flanders (840-930). He was a learned Benedictine monk and an ardent worker in the field of music. Huchbold certainly employed a form of notation at least suggestive of that now in use, but, according to some historians, Huchbold's own writings mention the device as if not original with him. He left examples of part writing, which, however, mark no improvement on the implied methods of the ancient Egyptians (suggested through the mural paintings referred to in Chapter II.), for his voices progress in parallel fourths, fifths, and octaves, and consequently have no independent significance.
The earliest example of modern notation is to be seen in the Winchester Cathedral. It is the setting of a prayer, and is supposed to have been written in 1016 A.D. England also claims to have furnished the first example of contrapuntal composition,--a four-voiced canon with two free _bassi_, written in, or prior to, 1240. If this be authentic, it is a phenomenon, like "thunder out of a clear sky," for there was not at that time, nor for three hundred years afterwards, any manifest scientific tendency in England's musical methods. This piece may have been a direct or indirect product of the Flanders school, of which Huchbold was the progenitor.
This learned priest, who strove to materialize and co-ordinate musical means (not its spirit), may be taken as an index of the intellectual bent of his time in the Netherlands, whose people, undaunted by human foes, or by the more merciless sea, which was a perpetual menace to their very existence, devoted much attention to the development of the arts and sciences and to building up industries. Their intelligent and persistent enterprise walled out the North Sea and made it a tractable servant, and created on those reclaimed marshes a civilization which for several hundred years represented the highest attainments of man.
This earnestness of character and high culture were congenial elements to the growth of music, and there is abundant evidence that their complement, a distinct sense for sound expression, was not wanting, for Taine, in his "Art in the Netherlands," says, "Other people cultivate music; to them it seems an instinct." It is not strange that this instinct, coupled with the perpetuated spirit of Huchbold, should have produced a formulated art at that propitious stage in music's evolution. Music itself had become a ripe impulse, ready and waiting for just such conditions. The Flanders school adjusted tone relationships and invented counterpoint and canon. John Osteghem and his pupil Despres were the greatest masters of that initial school, which for nearly two centuries, beginning with the middle of the fourteenth, furnished all the European courts with singers, instrumentalists, and composers.
Their more elaborate music was written for the Church, and a damper was consequently put upon production by the Reformation, which greatly simplified religious observances and closed choir doors to the composers of ambitious works.
Before the development of opera and the institution of the concert orchestra and chorus, the Church was the sole patron of high musical endeavor. Fortunately, the Netherlands musicians had forestalled the calamitous results of this religious revolution through the establishment of conservatories of music in Venice and Naples. They transplanted their knowledge and high aspirations into sunny and Catholic Italy, where they flourished and bore fruit after their native land had ceased to be musically supreme.
A new art is unavoidably over-conservative. The natural laws, upon which it is founded, hold its devotees to literal conformity until experience has evolved a sense of their broader meaning.
They are in reality but rigid outlines, drawn in accordance with fundamental art adjustments, the recognition of which saves the curved lines of our fancy's pictures from abnormity and chaos. They are quite analogous to the anatomical knowledge which is essential to the artist, who conforms to its general requirements and still endows his figures with individual character.
The Netherland music of that period was more intellectual than emotional; therefore, taking the comparative characteristics of the two peoples into account, we can but regard the migration of the focus of musical activity to Italy as an extremely fortunate event; beside the fact that this change of base avoided delay in evolution, or possible decadence.
The emotional Italians would not have made music's foundation as deep or as broad, but they were well fitted to contribute grace and beauty to its superstructure. The sensuous element in music is almost wholly a reflex of Italian temperament. We northern peoples, recognizing the power inherent in this quality, cultivate it with more or less success, but it is an exotic in our colder natures.
Under the influence of Italian character music soon began to assume more graceful lines, purer euphony, and richer significance. Science was further developed, but it was treated as a means, subject to individual conceptions. The success of this school transplanted from the Netherlands to Italy culminated in the production of Palestrina (1524-1594), the first high-priest of our finally clarified art.
The inherent qualities of music, which were considered at some length in Chapters I. and II., make our art exclusive. They wall it about, forming an outer temple, an inner temple, and a holiest of holies. The first is accessible to all sincere and responsive adherents of the musical faith. The second is for those who minister, priests dedicated to the service. To the innermost sanctuary, which holds the presence of our musical goddess, Aaron-like high-priests alone are admitted, but the song incense which they bring forth diffuses itself, filling the inner and the outer temples to their farthermost recesses. It is primarily to the ministrations of these high-priests that we owe the widely diffused musical culture of to-day. It shall therefore be one of my tasks to trace the characteristic influence of each one of this line, whose creations will endure throughout time. In the course of music's refining she had necessarily become more and more exclusive, less accessible in her ever higher estate to coarse and uncultivated mankind. This exclusiveness had from the first step in evolution been raising the walls of our now finished temple.
My theory in regard to the essential character of widely diffused interest in music finds full endorsement in the conditions which prevailed at that time, and still continue in Germany. Luther's chorals were written for and were sung by the people. Each worshipper found in them a conveyance for his devotional feelings. This feature of church service, this song essence, gradually permeated every-day life and bore wonderful fruit; produced a really musical nation, out of which our second high-priest, Johann Sebastian Bach, and his less German contemporary, George Frederick Händel, could arise.
Before the advent of these giants Germany had written and performed numerous operas, and had in various ways manifested high aspirations, but her musicians had composed no monumental works.
Her early troubadours, of whom Walther von der Vogelweide was the greatest, and the "Meistersänger," of whom Hans Sachs, who lived 1494-1576, was the most gifted, left no record of their melodies. The very existence of these Meistersänger guilds for hundreds of years shows vitality of purpose and high aim. Spurred on to ever higher accomplishment by friendly rivalry, these guilds doubtless contributed much to the lyric strain in the German nature, and therefore to the ultimate greatness of their "Fatherland." The last of these guilds was disbanded at Ulm in 1836.
Bach was the mightiest man who has composed music. A writer who saw him says, "His black eyes, shining out of his massive head, looked like flames bursting from a rock." He was the descendant of a line that was both mentally and physically stalwart. His remotest traceable ancestor was a baker who migrated from Hungary to Saxony, and his son, Johann Sebastian's great-grandfather, was a carpet-weaver and musician. The two succeeding generations devoted themselves exclusively to music, and they furnished half Thuringia with capable musicians. Their conscientious work, however, gave no premonition of the coming sublime climax in their family achievements.
Johann Sebastian Bach inherited an iron will, self-abnegation, and devotion to art. His conceptions soared so far above the existing traditions, and he did so little to attract public attention, that he was but slightly heeded during his lifetime; indeed, it required a century after his death and the appreciation of a Mendelssohn to make the world realize that a veritable god had lived among men. The modest cantor of Leipzig's St. Thomas' school was obliged to struggle to support his large family, but he made no concessions to prevailing taste; he did not depart from the lines of his ideal to secure popularity. He patiently submitted to whatever teaching-drudgery was necessary to earn bread for his children, but when seated on his organ-bench or when he took his quill in hand he admitted no other allegiance than that to art, and no other impulse than that which prompted him to serve her with his fullest powers.
The force, dignity, simple loveliness, pathos, and grandeur which in turn characterize his conceptions are so wonderful, when considered as products of the eighteenth century, that they and his serene indifference to recognition stamp him a unique man,--a musical Messiah.
Bach's versatility, facility, and physical endurance were as remarkable in their way as was the quality of his creations. He wrote for organ, piano, violin, for voices unaccompanied and with organ or orchestra, and asserted his mastery in each and all of these fields. His preserved writings would busy a copyist ten hours per day for fourteen years, and still Bach, in the absence of other outlets, found time to engrave much of his own music. It is to be hoped that the tardy appreciation of his character and works, which have at last filled the world with adoration, may penetrate the Beyond and warm his heart towards mankind, who during his life so little fathomed the depths of his emotions and failed to see the loftiness of his ideals.
Händel was also great, unless compared with his greater contemporary. His best work was the oratorio "Israel in Egypt." His style was a mixture of Italian grace and German vigor. He was a master of vocal resources, and his works are therefore strong in sonority, and grateful to both singers and hearers. Händel wrote fluently, but with a less sustained earnestness than Bach, and his compositions have done more to foster chorus singing than have all other agencies combined; for which reason the musical world is but discharging a just debt in assigning to him the place of honor on its vocal repertoires.
Of these two masters, Händel wrote less involvedly. Bach depended upon the legitimate development of his themes, whereas Händel often resorted to tone masses,--was more harmonic than contrapuntal.
Soon after the middle of the eighteenth century the ever-rising flood of musical culture became highest in Vienna. This resulted quite as much from the city's contiguity to Italy, whose lyric springs had by no means run dry, as from the stream of northern influence. Musical intelligence had by this time become so diffused that bright lights showed themselves at many points on the horizon, but Vienna was made resplendent by a galaxy that illumined her musical life and prepared her for our third and fourth high-priests, Beethoven and Schubert.
The most brilliant of this galaxy were Haydn, Mozart, and Gluck, each and all of whom bequeathed treasures to the world surpassed in value only by those with which our priestly line endowed us. "Papa Haydn" gave expression to his pure aspirations and childlike simplicity in symphonies, stringed quartets, and other ensemble works, and in large vocal compositions. The "Creation" and "Seasons" are his most ambitious writings. Few of Haydn's works have great intellectual power, but they are as refreshing as rural scenes or well-told tales. Mozart and Gluck will be necessarily discussed in Chapter V., so I will pass them now.
Beethoven was our third high-priest, because his somewhat earlier appearance entitles him to precedence over his later coadjutor. The Vienna school had originated or evolved the sonata form, had endowed music with more sustained and more clearly defined melody, richer harmonic color, and dramatic power, and had greatly enriched the orchestra; so Beethoven began his work with far ampler resources at his command and more fertile traditions in which to root his art than had any of his predecessors.
Beethoven was like Bach in many of his characteristics; he was self-reliant, manfully tender, and forcible without violence. His best conceptions are so high and noble that they leave human frailties far behind and suggest the music of the spheres, but he was less constant in his fidelity to art than Bach; not because he yielded to pressure from without, but because of his impatient nature, which at times impelled him to follow routine rather than wait for inspiration to outline his course. This resulted in lapses, which will, when awe has given place to discriminating judgment, lead the musical world to discard some of his now blindly accepted works. This is to be desired, for those who profess to, or actually do, derive pleasure from all of Beethoven's works are either untrue to themselves, or they are incapable of responsiveness to his supreme moments, which produced such wonders of tonal expression as "Fidelio" and the "Eroica."
It will not matter what forms music may assume in the course of her further evolution, Beethoven's more intensely individual creations will retain their monumental character, looking serenely upon passing generations of mankind like the Pyramids, but even less perishable than they.
In scanning Beethoven's methods and the spirit which pervades his compositions, as compared with those of Bach, we must take cognizance of the different social and musical conditions which prevailed in their respective periods. Europe was, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, shaking off her powdered wigs and their attendant austerity. Culture was becoming more confident and audacious, and music reflected the features of her new environment in increased geniality and breadth of scope. Beethoven's methods were quite opposed to those employed by Bach. The former drew a grand sweep of outline, and then used counterpoint as a contributive element, whereas thematic counterpoint was the substance of Bach's creations,--the tissue which gave them form. Each was a reflex of the noblest tendencies of his time.