ON INTERPRETATION IN MUSIC
By SIR GEORGE HENSCHEL, Mus.Doc.
THE question of interpretation, especially in the field of music, and more particularly as regards song, has been prominent of late. Lectures on interpretation, books on the subject have been announced in the papers under more or less attractive titles, but I fear I have never read the latter, nor gone to any of the former. Indeed I confess that throughout my life I have given little, if any, thought to interpretation: a fact not easily accounted for, unless it be that when I was young, people must have been more unsophisticated. Interpretation in music was a thing rarely spoken of. If, for instance, there was a Beethoven symphony on the programme of a concert, people went because they wanted to hear the symphony, not how a conductor interpreted it. It evidently sufficed these good people to have confidence in the musicianship and skill of the members of an orchestra and in the loyalty of their conductor as regards carrying out the composer's wishes as to tempo and expression, confidence altogether in the efficiency of any artist ready to brave the test of publicity. Moreover, conductors were then stationary; the fashion of prima-donna conductors, travelling from one place to another, each trying to outdo his rival in so-called originality, had not come into being, and there was little opportunity for a comparison.
Of course, I had read or heard of points in law being capable of different interpretation by different lawyers, also was aware of the fact that interpreters are persons who, being masters of several languages, act between two people ignorant of each other's tongue, or whose office it is to translate orally in their presence the words of parties speaking different languages, but I never connected the term with music, which, I thought, being a language spoken and understood all the world over, did not require the services of an interpreter. This, of course, was a very youthful notion. But even in later years the question did not interest me very much, and it was not until three or four years ago the editor of an American musical magazine asked me to write for his paper an article which he wished to be entitled "Some Elementary Truths on Song-Interpretation" that the matter attracted my serious attention. I remember answering the gentleman: "My dear sir,—Since we are still waiting for a satisfactory answer to the ancient question 'What is truth?' I must confess myself utterly incompetent to gratify your flattering desire; indeed, without immodesty, I hope, should be reluctant to accept any mortal's opinion regarding a question of art as truth." Somehow or other, however, the thing got hold of me and I began to be curious to see what could be said, or at any rate what I might be able to say on the subject. So, first of all, I consulted the Oxford Dictionary to see whether among the various definitions of the word "Interpretation," which that wonderfully complete book was sure to offer, there might not be one applicable to music, or altogether to art. And there I found that "To interpret" may mean:
Expound the meaning of, bring out, make out the meaning of, explain, understand, render by artistic representation or performance.
Well, this was something to start from, anyhow. Let us see: "Expound the meaning of."
From the oracles of old, not infrequently more obscure on purpose to give them greater importance, down to a speech from the front benches, utterances in words may, and indeed often do, need expounding the meaning of, but it seems to me in music, and, perhaps, in art altogether, the necessity for explanation nearly always indicates a certain degree of inferiority. I cannot imagine anyone looking at a Velasquez, or Titian, or Rembrandt, or Michelangelo asking "What does it mean?" but I am sure we all have heard that question, very likely emphasised by the addition of two little words, like "on earth," or something stronger, at exhibitions of Futurist art.
So in a piece of absolute music, i.e., music without words, for an orchestra or a solo instrument, any attempt at expounding the meaning of, make out the meaning of, must, in my humble opinion, always be more or less of a failure, whilst, of course, there can be no need of such an attempt at all if the music be programme music, or if, by the title given to it, like, for instance, Elegy, Reverie, Humoreske, Nocturne, Barcarolle, and so on, the composer clearly has indicated his intention. There is no need asking what Bach, Beethoven, Brahms meant by their symphonies, their fugues.
You might as well ask what the meaning of a cathedral. These things are there for us to wonder at the greatness and power of the human mind, to lose ourselves in admiration of the various forms of beauty in which they reveal themselves, to bow down, to worship. On the other hand, in music with words, the poems chosen by the composer are rarely sufficiently obscure or eccentric to require "expounding the meaning of."
It seems to me, therefore, that the only definition of the word interpretation with which we need concern ourselves is "Render by artistic representation or performance." And that would seem simple enough were it not that when it comes to a song we have to deal with a compound of poetry and music which complicates matters inasmuch as there is art required for reciting a poem as well as for singing the music.
That the music of a song, as such, may be beautifully rendered by an instrument other than the voice we all know. Who—to quote only one example—has not heard Schubert's Ave Maria played on a 'cello? And the words of a song detached from the music may find an ideal interpreter in the person of a talented reciter, who, as regards music, may not know one note from another. The perfect interpreter of a song, therefore, would have to combine in him or herself the talents and qualities of both a reciter and a singer, and it will be seen at once that, as in song the music is of the first importance, not only should an intending singer make a point of studying music as well as singing, but the study of theory, harmony, counterpoint, etc., that is to say, of music as a creative art should always be made the foundation on which all special studies for expressing that art should rest.
I have just said that in a song the music is first in importance. Should, therefore, by any chance a composer have failed, as some of the best have been known to now and then, to make the music fit the words completely, it would be the duty of the singer to consider the musical phrase in the first instance and fit in the words as well as possible under the circumstances, even at the risk of breaking between two words which otherwise it would be better not to separate.
The question of breathing is altogether one which puzzles a great many singers. Take, for instance, a Bach or Handel aria, with semiquaver runs, often extending over half-a-dozen bars or more. There are singers who deem it beneath their dignity to breathe during such a run, and go on until they are red in the face, or else, if they see they must after all, put in additional words. This is quite unnecessary. Such occasions should be treated instrumentally. Give such a run to, say, an oboe player and you will find that he now and then will take an instantaneous little breath which enables him to do justice to every note and carry the thing through successfully and without exhaustion. It is generally the childish fear of being thought lacking in physical strength which induces some singers to delay breathing until the thought of their bursting a blood vessel remains the only one left in the poor listener, rendering anything like interpretation and, therefore, artistic enjoyment of such a performance utterly impossible. If you know how to breathe, i.e., how to replenish your lungs in the twinkling of an eye and imperceptibly, you cannot really breathe too often, for by such judicious breathing you are infinitely better able to satisfactorily accomplish the task before you. I remember being asked, years ago, to hear, with a view to giving my opinion on her talent and voice, a young singer, now quite famous, and being horrified at her utterly mistaken idea as to breathing. Disregarding all thought of intelligent phrasing, she actually never breathed unless positively obliged to do so. I stood it as long as I could and then got really angry. I stopped her short and said, "My dear young lady, do you wish to show the people what wonderful lungs you have, or what a beautiful song it is you are singing?" You can only do one of the two things at a time. Supposing even your breathing be good, which, being neither inaudible nor invisible, I am sorry to say it is not; you will have to learn that an accomplishment, be it ever so great, in anything pertaining to a detail in the mere technique of an art becomes a fault the moment attention is drawn to it. A singer who after the singing of a beautiful song is complimented on the excellent management of his breath or the wonderful articulation of his words should go home and resolve to do better next time, and not rest satisfied until he feels that the singer's highest aim should be the full appreciation and enjoyment on the part of the listener of the work interpreted. That aim being achieved he need wish for no greater praise.
For an intelligent and thoroughly satisfactory rendering of a song it is absolutely imperative that the vocal technique of the singer—and the breathing is as important a part of it as the actual singing—be developed to a state of efficiency, such as to need no more thought than, for instance, a pianist interpreting a Beethoven sonata should have to give to the fingering. All technical difficulties should have been overcome once for all and technique itself become a matter of course before an attempt at interpretation is made.
The two principal factors in the technique of singing are vocalisation and articulation, the one referring to music, the other—articulation—to speech, each complementing the other, though I hold that of the two articulation is the more important, since it is not the vowels but the consonants which enable a singer to "bring out the meaning of," i.e., to interpret a word. You may sing the vowel, for instance, of the word "soul" ever so beautifully, it is not until you add the "l" with the same intensity of purpose that the word puts on flesh and blood, as it were, and becomes a living thing. Or take the word "remember." No actor, impersonating, for instance, the ghost of Hamlet's father, could make an impression with the word by dwelling on the vowel "Reme-e-e——," but leaving the vowel quickly and continuing to sound the "m" a good actor could walk almost across the whole stage holding on to that consonant without exaggeration—"Remem-m-m-ber." It is the consonants, as I said before, which convey the meaning of a word, and they should be made the subject of special study. If you wish to interpret you should, in the first place, strive to make yourself understood, and that, with the best vocalisation in the world, you can do only by a mastery of the consonants, i.e., by a perfect articulation. You all know that delicious story of the dear old lady coming home from a village concert, where the hit of the evening had been made by a girl singing, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie." Being asked whether she had enjoyed the concert, she said, "Not very much; I couldn't understand half the people who sang, except one girl who sang a nice funny song." "Do you remember the title?" "No, but she kept on asking 'Where's me fourpence, Charlie?'" This singer evidently had not made a special study of consonants.
In vocalisation, too, there are certain details which often fail to receive, on the part of the singer, the attention which should be paid to them. One of them, and, in my opinion, a very important one, because of its great help towards interpretation, is the colouring of the tone. I have heard many an otherwise good singer whose singing became exceedingly monotonous after a while by reason of a lack of variety in tone-colour, and I remember one lady in particular, the possessor of a beautiful rich contralto voice, from whose singing—had it not been for the words—you could not possibly have told whether what she sang was sad or cheerful. And yet our five vowels A, E, I, O, U being what we may call the primary colours of the voice, a singer should be able, by skilful and judicious mixing of these colours, to produce as many different shades of, let us say, the vowel A as a painter of the colour, say, of red. I have in my long experience of a teacher found it of the utmost value to make a pupil sing even a whole song on nothing but the vowels of the words, with the object of expressing the character of the music by mere vocalisation. We all love that glorious aria in the Messiah, "He was despised." Well, let a student try to convey its sadness, its deeply religious feeling in that way, i.e., without words, by the instrument of the voice alone, and, if after a while she succeeds, she will have taken a very big step toward realising, i.e., toward interpreting, the full beauty of that exquisite blending of words and music. For a thoroughly artistic rendering of emotional songs of that kind or of songs of dramatic character, such as ballads in which the singer has to impersonate character and run up and down the gamut of passion, it is of the greatest importance that the singer should have under perfect control not only his technique, but his feelings too. If your feelings get the better of you before the public, you are apt temporarily, and for physical reasons, to lose the mastery of your technique. There is a story told of the famous American actor, Edwin Booth, whose daughter, his severest critic, always, at his request, had to be in the stage-box where and whenever he acted. On one occasion the play was Victor Hugo's The King's Jester, known to us all from Verdi's Rigoletto. The part of the Jester was considered one of the best of Booth's many fine impersonations. When the harrowing scene came in which the poor man finds the body of his murdered daughter in the sack, Booth on that night for some reason or other was so overcome by the situation that actual tears ran down his cheeks, and he thought he had never acted that scene better or with greater feeling. The first thing his daughter said to him as they met in his dressing-room after the play was, "Were you quite well, father?" "Quite. Why?" "Because that scene with Gilda's body never made so little impression on me and on the people, as far as I could see."
And naturally. When you lose control of yourself you must not expect to be able to control your audience.
On the other hand, there was a great singer, Wilhelmina Schroeder-Devrient, the greatest exponent of the part of Leonora in Beethoven's Fidelio. In that wonderful scene in the underground prison when, disguised as the jailor's boy, and unrecognised by her unfortunate husband, the chained prisoner Florestan, she hands the starving man a crust of bread, singing to Beethoven's touchingly appealing notes, and in a voice choked with emotion, "There, take this bread, thou poor, poor man," that great singer was often known to actually crack a little aside joke with old Rocco, the jailor, whilst the front of the house was in tears. That is what I call art. Very likely she had cried herself many a time over that same scene when studying it.
Of course the actor—and by that I mean the operatic-singer as well—has a not inconsiderable advantage over the concert-singer, in that he possesses in facial expression and gesture two additional aids to interpretation, both important and powerful. I say two, although facial expression is available to the concert-singer as well, but whilst that and gesture form an essential part in the training of the actor, facial expression is hardly ever systematically studied by the singer of songs who, in this respect, is left to his own resources with often rather curious results. I have listened to many a singer—I am sorry to say mostly of the fair sex—who, very likely for fear of making grimaces, maintained throughout a whole song, and heedless of the varying moods and sentiments expressed in it, a sickly, inane, apologetic sort of a smile, whilst, on the other hand, I remember hearing a famous singer who, in Schubert's great song, Der Doppelgänger, allowed his features already during the short prelude to the song to assume a most ghastly expression of pain and terror which, quite apart from such a proceeding being apt to have the opposite effect, was in this case quite the wrong thing to do, for the opening of the song is merely a sad recollection, on the part of the unfortunate lover, of happier times when his beloved was still inhabiting the house he is passing. "The night is still, the streets are silent, 'twas in this house my true love lived." The tragedy and horror only commence with "There too stands a man and gazes up on high, and wrings his hands in agony of pain," reaching the climax with the words, "I shudder when I behold his face, the moon reveals to me my own image." But when this climax came it was robbed of much of its impressiveness by the singer having anticipated it. He evidently took it for granted that his listeners knew Heine's poem and Schubert's song, or had made themselves acquainted with the words beforehand by looking into the book of words. That is a great mistake. You should always sing as if the song you are interpreting had never been known or sung before, and you were the first to make it public. Every one of you, I am sure, has at one time or other told a little fairy-story to a child. You know how deliberately such a story should be told, how distinctly the pronunciation of every syllable, every consonant, in order that the little ones may grasp the meaning of what you are saying the very moment you are saying it, so as not to lose the thread of the tale, to break the spell. Well, that's the way you should sing. Even if you know that what you are singing is the most well-known, popular, hackneyed thing, always imagine one person in your audience—sitting in the very last row—to whom it is something absolutely new, and that imaginary person should be the child to whom you are telling a story. So you see all these little details have to be thought out. The singer should even be careful in the selection of his songs. (When I speak of "him" and "his" I, of course, mean "her" and "hers" as well.) The greater the singer's art the more will he be able to force his hearers into forgetfulness of a possible discrepancy between, for instance, his personal appearance and the sentiment or character he is endeavouring to represent. But here, too, some discretion should be exercised. A lady, for instance, weighing fourteen stone and a half should not, as I have heard one do, put the audience's capacity for self-control to too severe a test by singing baby-songs like, "Put me in my little bed, mother," or "If nobody ever marries me and I don't know why he should." Yes, even the time of day, and the scene and the occasion should find a place among the questions to be considered by a singer when choosing a song for performance, as under circumstances the best interpretation may not only fail to be appreciated, but even produce an effect utterly unlooked for.
It was many years ago, two or three nights after Gilbert and Sullivan's incomparable Mikado had been launched on its triumphal career at the Savoy, that there was a big evening party at Sullivan's flat, to have the honour of meeting the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh. An excellent little programme of music had been gone through, and just after midnight, supper being over, the whole party once more repaired to the drawing-room for some jollier things. Nearly all the principal singers from the Savoy had come over in their Mikado costumes and, with the composer at the piano, delighted the guests with excerpts like "Three little Maids from School" and "The flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra-la," doubly fascinating then on account of the novelty of the thing.
Everybody, and none the least so the two Royal guests, who occupied two armchairs in front, with the programme in their hands, enjoyed the entertainment to the utmost, and the fun was at its height when one of the guests, a celebrated contralto, famous for her rendering of ballads—I mean the style of ballads in vogue thirty-five years ago—was asked if she wouldn't sing one of them. She, of course, readily consented, solemnly mounted the little platform, and there was a hush as she stood there, motionless like a statue, her face expressing a seriousness so strangely in contrast with the mirth and laughter that had pervaded the room but a few minutes before, that I noticed the two Royal programmes being brought somewhat nearer the Royal faces. Then the accompanist struck the first chords of the introduction and—could we really believe our ears?—the lady began to sing—you'll never guess—"The Three Fishers!" Higher and higher up went the Royal programmes, a dead silence reigned in the room until it came to the "Three Corpses," when, little by little, small noises like half-suppressed sneezes or sobs could be heard here and there, increasing in frequency and volume, and when it came to the refrain—it was now a little after 1 a.m.—"The sooner it's over the sooner to sleep," the last "moa-oa-oa-ning" was drowned in a vociferous applause of a character such as I am sure that ballad had never before evoked.
And now I should like to mention another factor in the rendering of music, the importance of which is often underrated, and that is the tempo. Good music, I have found, not only does not lose but rather gains by the tempo, whatever it might be, being taken with deliberation. There are degrees in any designation of time, and one is apt to forget that the Italian words in common for that purpose may refer, not only to the metronomic measure, but also to the character, the mood of a piece. Allegro means lively. But there are degrees of liveliness. An elephant may be lively, but I take his liveliness to be of a somewhat different kind from that, for instance, of the frisky little chap whose antics are so deliciously and humorously described in Goethe and Berlioz's immortal "Song of the Flea" in Faust. I remember once hearing Schubert's Erlking taken at such a break-neck speed that I wondered both father and child were not killed before the end of the first stanza. It reminded me of a rather amusing series of telegraphic versions of celebrated poems, which many years ago appeared in the Fliegende Blätter—the Continental Punch—and of which that of the Erlking might be rendered in English by something like this: "Night wild—Father and child—Ride through the dark—Erlking out for a lark—Boy frightened—Father's grip tightened—Father, ride on—Yes, my son—Reach home in fear and dread—Father alive, child dead."
When we recall the definition of the word Interpretation as it refers to music and poetry, viz., Rendering by artistic representation or performance, we shall find that that little qualification "artistic" makes all the difference in the world, inasmuch as it clearly shows that a mere representation or performance may not necessarily be an interpretation and that it requires an artist to make it such. And it follows that there must be any amount of variety in the interpretation of one and the same thing. An old Latin proverb says: "Duo si faciunt idem, non est idem." When two people do the same thing, it isn't the same thing. Well, if that be true in any undertaking, how infinitely great must be the possibility of such variety when the two people of the proverb are artists! For though we speak of the artistic temperament as if it were something absolute and definable, we know in how many different ways such a temperament may manifest itself.
There are no two painters who, put before the same landscape, would paint it, i.e., interpret it, in the same way. Neither, I maintain, are there two actors who would interpret Hamlet, or two singers who would sing the same song exactly alike. They each have, when they have attained maturity, their own style, and style, as an eminent painter of the last century has admirably expressed it, is the leaving out of everything superfluous, a definition which fits our subject equally well. No two artists will think the same thing superfluous; indeed, what the one considers so, the other may deem essential. Here, too, the actor—to come back to poetry and music—is better off than the musician. He has a far greater scope, i.e., a far wider outlet for his imagination. He is given the words to do what he likes with. One actor—to keep to Hamlet—might after long study have come to the conclusion that, for instance, the last lines of that fine monologue at the end of the second act should be triumphantly exclaimed in a loud voice:
The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
Whilst another, equally eminent, would make an equally great impression by almost whispering the words to himself, as if afraid of betraying the secret: "The play's the thing...." Who could say of the one or the other interpretation "This is right," or "This is wrong"? In this case the same result is arrived at by different means. On the other hand, I remember a little story my father told me when I was a boy, of a man who had been made very angry by a letter from his son at the University asking him for money. In that mood he is met by an old friend who asks him, "What's the matter? Why are you thus out of sorts?" "Well," says the other, "look at this impertinent letter I've just got from my son, 'Father, please send me money!'"—reading out the words in a quick, impatient, commanding voice. "Of course," he adds, "I shan't do anything of the kind."
"Let me see the letter," the benevolent friend asks—he was very fond of the boy—and, reading the words with a gentle, pleading, affectionate inflexion of the voice, he says, "Why, my dear fellow, it's a very charming letter. He writes, 'Father, please send me money.'" "Ah," says the father, "if he writes like that, he shall have it!" Here, without doubt, the different interpretation had a different result. Certainly the son will have thought so.
Varieties such as just quoted are, however, quite impossible in music. Here we are faced by absolute orders given by the composer who says: "This is to be forte, this piano; here you must increase, there decrease; here hurry, there retard." But this apparent clipping of the interpreter's wings is only a blessing in disguise, for it makes it possible for even a singer of inferior intelligence to render by artistic representation or performance, i.e., to interpret a song; so that, whilst we would not listen to a representation of the character of Hamlet by a stupid or uneducated man, we may thoroughly enjoy the rendering of a song by a singer with a fine voice, even if he be a most uninteresting, commonplace person otherwise, as long as he masters the technique of his art and loyally and conscientiously follows the directions given by the composer.
A loyal, reverent attitude to the author is a thing on which too great stress cannot be laid. A work deemed worth performing should be rendered as the author wrote it. By this I do, of course, not mean that an orchestral work or an organ fugue or a string quartet should not be played on the pianoforte. Quite the contrary. Skilful transcriptions and arrangements are indeed as great a boon as are reproductions of the famous masterpieces of painting or sculpture, without which our knowledge of the art would be lamentably defective. There have also been cases where one great master has thought it desirable to complement the work of another, either by writing accompaniments to originally unaccompanied instrumental works, as Schumann did to Bach, or by strengthening the accompanying orchestra in a choral work, as Mozart did to Handel's Messiah. As far as I know the original text has in all such cases been allowed to remain intact; and works thus treated being obtainable in the original as well as in the complemented version, the choice is left to the personal taste of the musicians responsible for the performance. What I mean is that the text of the composer should not be tampered with. There have now and then attempts been made at improving Beethoven's scores on the plea that some instruments employed by the master—like, for instance, the flute—have been developed so as to allow notes to be played on them now which were impossible at the time Beethoven wrote, and that very likely, had these notes been at the master's disposal, he would have made use of them. This may or may not be so, but it seems to me a dangerous theory to work upon, for once you commence meddling with a master work it would be difficult to know where to draw the line, and there is no saying whither it would lead. Besides, every great period in the history of art has its own characteristics. A so-called full orchestra in Beethoven's time was a very different thing from what we are accustomed to consider one to-day, when woodwind, brass, percussion, harps, and what not often alone outnumber the entire personnel of a grand orchestra a century ago. Moreover, if you leave Beethoven's scores untouched, his mastery of orchestration becomes all the more wonderful. There are instances—just think of that glorious climax in the Third Leonora Overture, or the end of that to Egmont—where, even considering only the mere physical power of sound, he gets results from his orchestration that no modern writer has as yet surpassed.
It is hardly credible that, arrogant enough as such attempts at improving Beethoven's orchestration are, there exist people who go further still and actually alter a great composer's directions as to expression. Most of us know how particularly fond Beethoven was of interrupting a seemingly increasing fortissimo by a sudden pianissimo. You will recall that splendid scherzo in the "Seventh Symphony," where he commences with an exultant fortissimo, evidently meaning to continue in that vein, when all of a sudden the ft on the last crotchet of the second bar is followed by a pp on the first crotchet of the third, the result is simply marvellous.
Well, some years ago I had to conduct that symphony as a deputy for the regular conductor, who was prevented from being at his post on that occasion. Can you imagine my surprise and disgust when, at the rehearsal, commencing with the Scherzo, and looking forward to that sudden pp on the first note of the third bar, that pp appeared already on the last note of the second bar, which should have still been ft. Stopping the orchestra indignantly, I asked, "What on earth are you doing, gentlemen?"
"We have got it so in our parts," was the answer. "Impossible," I said. "Let me see!" The leader handed me the part, and there, to be sure, I was flabbergasted to find the mark of pp on the first note of the third bar actually transferred in blue pencil to the preceding note, thus not only completely spoiling Beethoven's fun, but altering and weakening the subject, which, as anybody might see, commences with the down, not the up beat. I wonder if one should envy a man or pity him for a degree of self-estimation which could render him capable of blue-pencilling Beethoven!
He certainly has arrived at what a witty American friend of mine would call the "Shoehorn stage." To my enquiries about a mutual acquaintance, that gentleman answered, "He? Why, he's that big now he has to use a shoehorn to put on his hat!"
But this is by no means an isolated example of the lamentable lack of reverence in this country toward the works of the great masters of music. However much one might be horrified at the utterly mistaken tempi one often has to listen to in the rendering of the classics, especially Mozart and Beethoven, that, after all, sad and deplorable as it is, may only be the consequence of ignorance or the result of insufficient musical training on the part of the performer. It is the wanton, deliberate tampering with the text of a great composer which is unpardonable. No one among the classics was more explicit or exacting as to the way he wished his works to be rendered than Beethoven. Take once more that surpassingly beautiful Leonora Overture No. III. Who has not been thrilled to the innermost depths of his soul by those distant trumpet-calls, each ending with a long pause on the last note, and followed immediately, i.e., without any further pause and whilst that last note still lingers in one's ears, by one of the most divinely inspired phrases ever penned by even that great master? After the first call the orchestra plays it, in a mysterious pianissimo, in the same key as the call itself—B flat; after the second, more impressive still, a third lower, in G flat. Well, at a recent performance of that great work the conductor, according to the papers an "acknowledged authority" on Beethoven, coolly added a "general pause" on to each of those two pauses on the last note of the trumpet-call; that after the second call lasting for fully ten seconds. No words can express my disappointment, my indignation, for, of course, the sublime beauty of that low G flat with which the double-basses and 'celli enter whilst the high B flat of the trumpet-call is slowly dying away in the distance was lost completely. Indeed it would have mattered little now in what key the orchestra had come in—the thing was irretrievably spoiled.
Anywhere on the Continent the audience would have given unmistakable signs of their disapproval, and the Press been unanimous in the condemnation of such practices on the part of the conductor. Here that gentleman was vociferously applauded by the audience and—with, I think, one solitary exception—lauded to the skies by the Press, the one or two papers which were bold enough to timidly admit his "occasionally taking liberties with Beethoven" declaring such liberties to be those of "an intimate, an adept."
Intimate indeed! If a hundred years ago an intimate of Beethoven's had dared to do such a thing in Beethoven's presence, the master, as we know him from his letters, would have flung the score at his head, thundering, "Knave, canst thou not read? Dost thou think if I had wanted those two general pauses, I did not know how to put them in my score?"
What are we coming to? Irreverence, contempt of traditions, breaking with a glorious past, disregard of law, of form—are they also in the realm of music a sign of the times, a sort of Bolshevism?
Fancy an actor, tired of that everlasting "To be or not to be," and thinking it too hackneyed, surprising the audience by commencing the great monologue for a change with "To exist or not to exist"; or another, going one better, and considering the absence of rhyme in that monologue rather a mistake of Shakespeare's, hitting on the happy and original idea of correcting it into something like:
To be or not to be—
That is what staggers me.
And yet that would not be one whit less of a sacrilege.
And take a song or an aria; how often does one not hear even good singers change a note into a higher one, with the object of showing the voice to better advantage, or of making a phrase, generally the final cadence, more effective, so as to get a few more handfuls of applause, or perhaps even an additional recall at the end?
"That's villainous," says Hamlet, "and shows a most pitiful ambition."
This altering of notes brings me upon a question which has ever been the subject of much controversy among musicians: Are there any rules as to the singing of recitatives or, rather, to the substituting now and then, in the singing of recitatives of notes other than those written by the composer? Should, for instance, the phrase in the Messiah
My answer as regards the first of these two examples is as decided a "No" as my "Yes" is in regard to the second. This may, perhaps, be considered somewhat arbitrary and entirely a matter of taste, but I venture to hope that after what I have to say on the subject it will be found to be only partly a matter of taste, and of arbitrariness not at all. I base my objection to the alteration in the first, and my approval of that in the second example on a theory which seems to me to commend itself by its simplicity, and may be explained in the shape of a rule something like this:
Take the note as to the changing of which into a higher or lower you are in doubt, and look first at the note preceding and then at the note following that doubtful note. Then see if the note you wish to substitute for the printed note lies on the way from the preceding to the following note. If it does, you are justified in making the change; if not, leave it alone. Here is our first example:
The doubtful note is the C on "shep," the preceding one is the G below, the following is the C. Now, does the D you wish to substitute for the C on "shep" lie between that "G" and that "C" on the second syllable of shepherd? No, let the phrase therefore remain as written. In the second example:
The questionable note is the A on "Da" and does lie on the way from the C sharp to the A on the second syllable of David; it is, therefore, not only perfectly legitimate, but even good to make the change, and the phrase should be sung:
The question of taste enters when it comes to the exception to the rule. According to that it would be legitimate, taking yet a third example from the Messiah:
In this case, however, it would be decidedly better to leave the phrase unchanged, for we have had four B flats already in that short sentence, and the A, coming pat on the F major chord, is rather relieving and refreshing. Here, as in many other cases, "let your own discretion be your tutor." Of an exception to the rule as regards the first of these three examples being either justifiable or advisable I know no instance. Of course, all I have said on this subject refers to the slow, deliberate, serious recitative in oratorio and other sacred music only, and not at all to what is called "secco" recitative in opera, which is practically no more than speech somewhat rapidly delivered in specified musical terms. There you should change the doubtful note into one above or below it at every opportunity, for by doing so you impart a certain spontaneity and freedom to the sentences, emphasising their resemblance to the spoken word. Here is an example in the style of Mozart:
But I am reaching the limit of the space allowed for this article and fear my chat has been on "kindred topics" rather than on the alleged main theme of interpretation. But surely none of my readers expected me to answer the question "How to Interpret"? If so, I should be as truly sorry for having disappointed them as I was some years ago to have been obliged to disillusion the organist of the little Parish Church of Alvie. I don't mean myself, for I only officiated there in that capacity during the summer months, when I was at home. I mean the regular, appointed, salaried, real organist. She was a young girl of sixteen, a native of the parish, who, fond of music, like all Scots people, could strum two or three tunes on the piano, and to whom I had given a few lessons in the managing of the American organ in the church. At the request of my old friend, the Rev. James Anderson, our late and much lamented minister, I had introduced the playing of a voluntary during collection, always, of course, improvising on the Psalm or hymn tunes of the day's service, or on whatever came into my head. Well, a week after I had left Alvie for London, the first year of that innovation, I received a letter from the young lady, consisting of the following five lines: "Dear Mr. Henschel—Mr. Anderson wishes me to play voluntaries during collection, just as you did. Would you please let me know how you do it?"
I was touched by so much faith and innocence. The playing of an instrument—and singing, as such, is but playing on the vocal instrument in our throats—may be taught and, with patience and perseverance, brought to as near a degree of perfection as humanly possible; that is a matter of craft, of physical, I may say muscular, skill. The mystery of what is best, imperishable in any art, lies in the soul and in the brain. If dormant, it may be awakened and fostered; if absent, it cannot be acquired by teaching. Interpretation, though but recreative, certainly is an art, or at least part of one. And art is long and life is short, and of learning there is no end.
To have a chance of becoming an artist in the true sense of the word, the student, fortunate in the possession of the heavenly gift of talent, should from the outset resolve to strive for none but the highest ideals, refuse to be satisfied, both in taking and giving, with anything but the best and purest, and last, though by no means least, resist the temptations which the prospect of popularity and its worldly advantages, frequently the result of lowering that high standard, may place in his way.
ROBERT BRIDGES'S LYRICAL POEMS[41]
[41] October and Other Poems. By Robert Bridges. Heinemann. 1920. 5s. net. Poetical Works, Excluding the Eight Dramas. By Robert Bridges. 1912. Oxford University Press. For other works see "Bibliography" in current issue.
By J. C. SQUIRE