STORIES OF
SYMPHONIC MUSIC
THE ORCHESTRA AS POET, PAINTER, AND DRAMATIST
"How can an orchestra, without the aid of voices or pantomime or scenery, tell the story of Don Quixote, paint a picture of the sea, or describe the visions of a dying man?" asks an intelligent but somewhat puzzled layman. "I have always thought of instrumental music," he goes on to say, "as the art of arranging tones according to more or less binding laws of design and effect; and yet I hear constant talk nowadays of the 'expressive capacity' of music, its ability to paint pictures, tell stories, enact dramas. What, briefly, is meant by the 'expressive (or pictorial or descriptive) capacity' of music?" Perhaps it may be possible to tell him—"briefly," as he requests.
Music in the old days—the days before Beethoven, let us say—was, outside of the church and the opera-house, primarily an art of pure design. The musician of those days was concerned mainly with the arrangement of tones according to certain well-defined rules and conventions, to the end of producing a euphonious and beautiful pattern of sound. The symphonies of Mozart, the early symphonies of Beethoven, had no other aim than to be beautiful. Music was then, as has been aptly said, a species of "sensuous mathematics." The musician who, in the year 1797, set out to compose a symphony, proceeded according to very definite rules. He must invent what was called a "first theme," usually rather vigorous and assertive in character, and a "second theme," of contrasting character—usually of a gentler and more feminine quality. These themes were then developed at length—presented in different keys, altered as to rhythm, harmony, and instrumentation, in whatever manner was made possible by the composer's skill and the fertility of his invention. Finally, the two themes were recalled in their original state, and the first movement of the symphony was at an end. The composer had accomplished a complete musical organism in what was called, among his craft, "sonata form." He might then proceed with the other movements of his symphony, which must also be constructed according to certain specific laws. Always he must proceed according to rule. His "second theme," for example, must be sounded in a key which bore a hard-and-fast relationship to the key of his "first theme"; and if his symphony began, let us say, in F major, it must end in F major, or in some closely related key. It would never for a moment have occurred to him—this excellent eighteenth-century music-maker—to begin a serious composition in F major and end it, say, in C-sharp minor: that would have seemed an aberration of the most preposterous kind.
Our eighteenth-century instrumental composer, then, was a builder of tonal edifices of a very plain and solid kind, which must be proportioned and fashioned strictly according to rule. Moreover, his constructive material, so to speak, was of the sparest. His range of harmony was extremely small, his melodic patterns were simple in outline and of limited expressiveness, his rhythms were square-cut and obvious, his orchestral technique of the most meagre order. There were, it is true, composers prior to the nineteenth century who wrote a crude kind of orchestral programme-music [2]— music which aimed to describe scenes and events, to picture aspects of nature and definite states of mind. Karl von Dittersdorf (1739-1799) composed a number of symphonies descriptive of Ovid's "Metamorphoses"—"The Downfall of Phaëton," "Acteon's Transformation into a Deer," "Andromeda's Rescue by Perseus," "Phineus with his Friends in the Mountains." Justin Heinrich Knecht (1752-1817) anticipated certain features of the "Pastoral" symphony in his "Tableau musical de la nature," composed when Beethoven was fourteen years old; and Haydn gave to certain of his multiple symphonies naively indicative titles—"The Hunt," "The Morning," "Fire." But such manifestations of the "programmatic" tendency bore little relation to the really serious and important musical art of the period. The symphonist of Haydn's day little dreamed of a time when men of his trade would erect tonal structures of strange and fantastic shape, from materials whose rarity and richness were beyond his conception; and that within these gorgeous and curiously wrought structures, dramas of human passion and emotion, comedies and tragedies, would be enacted for other men to see and to be moved thereby.
Yet that is what happened. As the years went by musicians began to discern that the art in which they were working contained singular and unsuspected possibilities. They began, by laborious and slow experiment, and by unconscious inspiration, to evolve new harmonies, more subtle and complex than the old, which thrilled them oddly; their melodies took on a freer, more pliant, more expressive character; their rhythms became more varied and supple, their instrumentation richer, fuller, more complex. Then it dawned upon them that this art of theirs, which had been but a kind of inspired and innocent pattern-weaving, might be made to express definite emotions, moods, experiences, even many things in the material world, without the aid of scenery, singers, or singing-actors. They found that certain combinations and sequences of tones could be made to convey to the hearer certain more or less definite feelings and ideas: that minor harmonies, in slow and grave rhythms, suggested grief or depression; and that, conversely, harmonies in the major mode, in rapid and energetic movement, suggested gaiety, or jubilation, or relief. And then, of course, there were directly imitative effects which might be employed to suggest an aspect of nature or to aid in the telling of a story—the songs of birds, the whistling of wind, the crash of thunder, the rhythmic tramping of armies, the trumpets and drums of martial conflict, the horn fanfares of the chase; for all these things suggested easily and naturally their analogies in tone.
But it soon became evident to the composer that no matter how intense and vivid his music might be, it could be made to express, unaided, only general emotions, moods, passions. He could say—as does Chopin, for example, in the funeral march in his B-flat minor sonata—"I am sad"; but he could not say why he was sad; he could not say, "I am sad because my mother has died," or "because my country has been vanquished." So, to supply this need—to make it possible for his music to speak both eloquently and concretely—the composer called in the aid of the written and associated word, and the miracle was accomplished. Upon the score of his symphony or his "tone-poem" he wrote, for example, the title "Don Quixote"; this title he made known to his audience; and the hearers, with this clew, were thus made aware that they were listening to an expression in tones—tones of a kind unimagined by Haydn or Mozart, tones of marvellous poignancy and vividness—of the dreams and longings and passions and griefs of a particular person whose story they intimately knew: the definite emotions and events of a definite drama, rich in comedy, pathos, tenderness, and human fascination.
This, then, is the miracle of modern "programme-music"; this is why we say of it that it is capable of voicing comedy or tragedy, pathos or ecstasy; this is why, in brief, we may speak of its "expressive capacity."
The growth of the art in this direction has been as steady as it has been amazing. Music, with Haydn and Mozart (it is always to be remembered that we are discussing here only symphonic music) was, as has been said, largely a weaving of tonal arabesques, innocent of meaning or definite expression. The great Beethoven came, and transformed its naïve tones into new and powerful sonorities, developing, expanding, discovering, until he had endowed it with a novel and unfamiliar eloquence. Schubert followed him, adding new effects of harmony, new and unparalleled ways of grouping tones, and filling the art with a fresh and wonderful exuberance, making it sing with a new tenderness and ecstasy. He left it a richer, a more amply expressive medium than he had found it. Came Berlioz, a master of orchestral utterance, of orchestral delineation. He made of music the handmaid of romance and passion as he found them in the world's dramas and poems and novels. Franz Liszt, a man of fervid imagination and intrepid individuality, added still other notes to the instrument—enlarged its compass, increased its sonority. Under him the symphony renounced its strict allegiance to the classic forms and became frankly a medium of dramatic and poetic expression. He made a thing which he called a "symphonic poem," in which the music was conceived and evolved, not in accordance with those classic rules of form of which we have spoken, but in accordance with the outlines of a chosen poem or a drama; so that he was able to illustrate in music, with the aid of title or descriptive text, the story of Hamlet or the Divine Comedy or Orpheus or Tasso or Prometheus. Wagner, though his field was not the concert-room, but the opera-house, so enlarged the possibilities of tonal speech as to make of it virtually a new language. His genius yielded, with magical fertility, a bewildering wealth of novel harmonic, melodic, and orchestral ideas—ideas which have been appropriated to the music of the concert-hall by all those who have followed him.