Music: An Art and a Language

by Walter Raymond Spalding

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IV. Stretto; (from the Italian verb "stringere," to draw close) that portion of a fugue, often the climax, where the entrances are crowded together, i.e., the imitating voice enters before the leading voice has finished, e.g.

Fuga giocosa, J.K. Paine, op. 41

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The effect is obviously one of great concentration and dramatic intensity—with a sense of impending climax—and its use is by no means limited to fugal composition; being frequently found in all large symphonic works of the classic and modern school. For a magnificent example of the climactic effect produced by a Stretto, witness the last part of Bach's Fugue in G major (see Supplement, Ex. No. 16).

Although there is considerable complexity in any complete fugue, and although it requires great concentration on the part of the listener, we should avoid thinking of the form as mechanical in any derogatory sense, but rather as a means to a definite artistic end. Certainly no greater mistake can be made than that of considering Bach, the supreme master of polyphonic writing, as too austere, too involved, for the delight and edification of every-day mortals. Bach means brook, and the name[41] is most appropriate; for Bach is a never ceasing stream of musical life, the fountain-head from which spring the leading tendencies of modern music. In these days when stress is laid on the romantic element in music, on warm emotional appeal, it is well to consider the quality so prevalent in Bach of spiritual vitality. Exactly because the romantic element represents the human side of music, it is subject to the whims of fashion and is liable to change and decay. Bach carries us into the realm of universal ideas, inexhaustible and changeless in their power to exalt. Schumann says that "Music owes to Bach what a religion owes to its founder"; and it is true that a knowledge of Bach is the beginning of musical wisdom. By some, Bach is considered dry or too reserved for companionship with ordinary human beings. Others carelessly assert that he has no melody. Nothing can be further from the truth than these two misconceptions. Bach surely is not dry, because his work abounds in such vitality of rhythm. As Parry says, in his biography, "No composer ever attained to anything approaching the spontaneity, freshness, and winsomeness of his dances, such as the gavottes, bourrées, passepieds and gigues in the suites; while many of his great choruses and instrumental fugues are inspired with a force of rhythmic movement which thrills the hearer with a feeling of being swept into space out of the range of common things." The charge of a lack of melody is the same which used to be brought against Wagner. Instead of there being no melody, it is all melody, so that the partially musical, who lack the power of sustained attention, are drowned in the flood of melodic outpouring. A strong claim, in fact, may be made for Bach as a popular composer in the best sense of the term. Many of his colossal works, to be sure, are heard but seldom, for they require the most highly trained executive ability. But if the average music-lover will become familiar with the French and English Suites, with the Preludes and Fugues of the Well-tempered Clavichord, with some of the Violin Sonatas, he will find for his imagination and mental machinery a food which, once enjoyed, becomes indispensable. For his music has that greatest of qualities in art as in human relationships—it wears well and lasts. We all know that books which reveal everything at a first reading are soon thrown aside, and that people whose depth of character and sweetness of disposition we discern but slowly, often become our life-long friends. Music which is too easily heard is identical with that which is immediately forgotten. The first impulse created by any great work of art is our longing to know it better. Its next attribute is its power to arouse and hold our steady affection. These observations may be applied literally to Bach's music, which can be heard for a lifetime, never losing its appeal but continually unfolding new beauties. Furthermore, in Bach, we feel the force of a great character even more than the artistic skill with which the personality is revealed. In this respect Bach in music is quite on a par with Shakespeare in literature and Michael Angelo in plastic art. With many musicians, there is so disconcerting and inexplicable a discrepancy between their deeds as men and the artistic thoughts for which they seem to be the unconscious media, that it is inspiring to come into touch with one who rings true as a man whatever demands are made upon him; whose music is free from morbidity or carnal blemish, as pure as the winter wind, as elemental as the ocean, as uplifting as the stars. In Bach let us always remember the noble human traits; for the universal regard in which his work is held could never have come merely from profound skill in workmanship, but is due chiefly to the manly sincerity and emotional depth which are found therein. The revival of his works, for which the world owes to Mendelssohn such a debt, has been the single strongest factor in the development of music during the 19th century; and their influence[42] is by no means yet at an end, as may be seen from the glowing tributes paid to him by such modern composers as Franck, d'Indy and Debussy.[43]

Two additional fugues are now given in the Supplement (see Nos. 17 and 18) for the consideration of the student: the Cat-Fugue of Domenico Scarlatti, with its fantastic subject (said to have been suggested by the walking of a favorite cat on the key-board) and the Fuga Giocosa of John Knowles Paine, (the subject of which is the well-known street-tune "Rafferty's lost his pig"). This latter example is not only a brilliant piece of fugal writing but a typical manifestation of American humor.

Several eulogies of the fugue are to be found in literature; three of the most famous are herewith appended.

"Hist, but a word, fair and soft! Forth and be judged, Master Hugues! Answer the question I've put you so oft: What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See, we're alone in the loft." —Browning, Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha.