Of the thousands of people who consider themselves lovers of music, it is surprising how few have any real appreciation of it. It is safe to say that out of any score of persons gathered to hear music, whether it be hymn, song, oratorio, opera, or symphony, ten are not listening at all, but are looking at the others, or at the performers, or at the scenery or programme, or are lost in their own thoughts. Five more are basking in the sound as a dog basks in the sun—enjoying it in a sleepy, languid way, but not actively following it at all. For them music is, as a noted critic has said, "a drowsy reverie, relieved by nervous thrills." Then there are one or two to whom the music is bringing pictures or stories: visions of trees, cascades, mountains, and rivers fill their minds, or they dream of princesses in old castles, set free from magic slumber by brave heroes from afar. Perhaps also there is one who takes a merely scientific interest in the music: he is so busy analysing themes and labelling motives that he forgets to enjoy. Only two out of the twenty are left, then, who are actively following the melodies, living over again the thoughts of the composer, really appreciating, by vigorous and delightful attention, the beauties of the music itself.
Can we not, you and I, join the ranks of these true lovers of music? Can we not learn to free our minds of all side issues as we listen—to forget audience, performers, and scene, to forget princesses and heroes, to forget everything except this unique experience that is unfolding itself before our ears? Can we not, arousing ourselves from our drowsy reverie, follow with active co-operation and vivid pleasure each tone and phrase of the music, for itself alone?
One thing is sure: Unless we can do so, we shall miss the keenest enjoyment that music has to offer. For this enjoyment is not passive, but active. It is not enough to place ourselves in a room where music is going on; we must by concentrated attention; absorb and mentally digest it. Without the help of the alert mind, the ear can no more hear than the eye can see. Sir Isaac Newton, asked how he had made his wonderful discoveries, answered, "By intending my mind." In no other way can the lover of music penetrate its mysteries.
Knowledge of musical technicalities, on the other hand, is not necessary to appreciation, any more than knowledge of the nature of pigments or the laws of perspective is necessary to the appreciation of a picture. Such technical knowledge we may dispense with, if only we are willing to work for our musical pleasure by giving active attention, and if we have some guidance as to what to listen for among so many and such at first confusing impressions. Such guidance to awakened attention, such untechnical direction what to listen for, it is the object of this book to give.
II. WHAT TO NOTICE FIRST.
It is no wonder, when one stops to think of it, that music, in spite of its deeply stirring effect upon us, often defeats our best efforts to understand what it is all about, and leaves us after it is over with the uncomfortable sense that we have had only a momentary pleasure, and can take nothing definite away with us. It is as if we had been present at some important event, without having the least idea why it was important, or what was its real meaning. All of us, at one time or another, must have had this experience. And, indeed, how could it be otherwise? Music gives us nothing that we can see with our eyes or touch with our hands. It does not even give our ears definite words that we can follow and understand. It offers us only sounds, soft or loud, long or short, high or low, that flow on inexorably, and that too often come to an end without leaving any tangible impressions behind them. No wonder we are often bewildered by an experience so peculiar and so fleeting.
Yet these sounds, subtle as they are, have a sense, a logic, an order of their own; and if we can only learn how to approach them, we can get at this inner orderliness that makes them into "music." The process of perception which we have to learn here is somewhat akin to certain more familiar processes. For example, what comes to our eyes from the outer world is simply a mass of impressions of differently colored and shaped spots of light; only gradually, as we grow out of infancy, do we learn that one group of these spots of light shows us "a house," another "a tree," and so on. Similarly words, as we easily realize in the case of a foreign language, are to the untrained ear mere isolated sounds of one kind or another; only with practice do we learn to connect groups of them into intelligible sentences. So it is with music. The sounds are at first mere sounds, separate, fragmentary, unrelated. Only after we have learned to group them into definite melodies, as we group spots of lights into houses or trees, and words into sentences, do they become music for us. To approach sounds in such a way as to "make sense" of them—that is the art of listening to music.