The young musician has soon to commence the study of the theory of music, especially if he exhibits decided talent for composing. He must learn to write with facility any musical composition strictly according to the rules which have been laid down by our theorists as they found them observed in the works of the great masters. When he has acquired the skill to write correctly and fluently in the different forms of composition, it will be early enough for him to disregard the rules occasionally where he thinks it advisable for his purpose. Perhaps he may establish a new one. By far the greater number of our rules of composition are not dictated by any physical law traceable in acoustics, but only by human taste, which is continually undergoing modifications in the course of time. Thus, most of our great composers have caused some alterations in our theory of music. It is not only possible, but probable, that in a hundred years' time we shall have admirable musical compositions very different in form and construction from our present ones.
Several of our great composers in their youth excelled in extemporising. They were fond of it, and spent many an hour in pouring forth on their favourite instrument their momentary inspirations and fanciful conceptions. Extempore fantasias are sometimes so original and effective that it is a pity they cannot be preserved by being committed to notation at the moment of their creation. However, charming as such spontaneous effusions may be on account of their freshness, they do not possess the artistic value of an elaborately constructed and carefully finished work. At any rate, our great composers have in their youth derived greater benefit from carefully working out in notation a theme according to a certain form of composition, than from indulging in extempore fantasias. These have, however, often helped them in creating beautiful ideas for their works.
It may easily be understood that a retentive memory is of great value to the musician, be he composer or merely performer. Talented young musicians not unfrequently possess an astounding memory. Sonatas, symphonies, and even fugues, which they practise, they can soon play by heart. As they advance in years the power of memory generally becomes somewhat weaker. Blind musicians appear to preserve it undiminished for a longer period than others. The blind flutist Dulon knew 120 flute concertos by heart, which he had numbered, and any one of which he could play instantly on its number being mentioned to him. True, there is musically little gained by burdening the memory with compositions which chiefly consist of compilations of passages calculated to display the dexterity and skill of the performer. The works which the musician ought to be able to recall to his memory are the classical works, such as Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' Mozart's 'Don Giovanni,' Beethoven's Symphonies, Handel's 'Messiah,' Bach's 'Passion according to St. Matthew.' There are not a few among our great composers who studied the master-works of their predecessors so effectually that they knew by heart a considerable number of them from beginning to end, with the instrumentation of every bar.
As regards the different forms of composition, that of the sonata is the most important; for, if the composer is able to express his ideas with facility in this form, he possesses the key to all the other forms—except some of the older ones, as that of the fugue. Certain theorists recommend the student of composition to select a sonata by Mozart, or some other master, in which the established form is strictly adhered to, and to write a precisely similar sonata by imitating the model bar for bar, using the same time, tempo, modulations, changes in loudness, and so on—only substituting other notes. No doubt he may thus manufacture a sonata which is correct in form, whatever it may be in spirit. Our great composers did not arise from students trained to make music as the shoemaker makes shoes.
The form of the fugue has already become antiquated, and that of the sonata is more and more neglected by our present composers, and apparently will likewise become antiquated in the course of time. But until we have beautiful examples of some new form, it is not probable that those forms which have been gradually brought to a high degree of perfection will be entirely dispensed with, whatever modern composers may produce exhibiting an indifference to the rules observed by their predecessors.
Our great composers were particularly careful in the choice of the theme. This is only what might be expected. An orator who discourses on an uninteresting subject will not easily command the attention of his hearers. Still, if he is gifted with extraordinary powers of eloquence, he may discourse on almost any subject interestingly. Thus also in music. Beethoven and other great composers have occasionally chosen a theme which becomes significant only from its original and spirited treatment.
The artistic charm of a well-constructed composition consists in the development of the theme, so that it is exhibited in a variety of beautiful aspects—appearing, though always the same, yet always new. The skill of thus treating the theme, our great composers, by constant study and practice, have cultivated to an admirable degree of perfection. They were fully aware that it is as indispensable to the composer as is the power of creating an interesting musical idea. However, the development of the theme may be carried too far. It appears pedantic when it is contrived more with regard to the form than to the spirit of the music; and it disturbs the unity of the composition when the theme is so much changed as to appear an entirely new idea. Schubert, in his pianoforte sonatas, has not unfrequently altered the theme so much that its second exposition does not bear the required resemblance with its first; it becomes another theme, which is not wanted. For the clever development of a theme Schubert did not possess sufficient practical experience acquired by systematic study. Had he possessed a full command over the rules of the art—and especially, had he written less hastily—he might, with his wonderful gifts, have been as great a composer as Beethoven.
A few examples from Beethoven's book of sketches may find a place here, since they throw some light upon his studies. The alterations which he marked with "meilleur" are generally decided improvements upon the first notation of the idea to which they refer. This is, for instance, strikingly apparent in his sketches of his famous song 'Adelaide,' the beginning of which, noted down at first thus:—
