WE have traced, in the preceding chapter, some of the fundamental principles of design in musical expression, as they were manifested in the Folk-music of the different nations. All music of this type was homophonic, i.e., a single melodic line, either entirely unaccompanied or with a slight amount of instrumental support. Hence however perfect in itself, it was necessarily limited in scope and in opportunity for organic development. Before music could become an independent art, set free from reliance on poetry, and could attain to a breadth of expression commensurate with the growth in other fields of art, there had to be established some principle of development, far more extensive than could be found in Folk-music. This principle[32] of "Thematic Development"—the chief idiom of instrumental music—by which a motive or a theme is expanded into a large symphonic movement, was worked out in that type of music known as the Polyphonic or many-voiced; and Polyphonic music became, in turn, the point of departure for our modern system of harmony, with its methods of key relationship and of modulation. As we have stated in Chapter I, the principle of systematic repetition or imitation—first discovered and partially applied by the musicians[33] of the early French School and by the Netherland masters—finally culminated in the celebrated vocal works (À capella or unaccompanied) composed by Palestrina and his contemporaries for the Roman Catholic Liturgy. Up to this point the whole texture of music had been conceived in connection with voices; but with the development of the organ, so admirably suited for polyphonic style, and the perfection of the family of stringed instruments, the principles of polyphony were carried over and applied to instrumental treatment. The composer who, through his constructive genius, most fully embodied these principles[34] was John Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). We are now prepared to explain the characteristics of polyphonic music and then to analyze some typical examples from Bach and other polyphonic composers. The essential difference between homophonic and polyphonic style is implied by the terms themselves. When there is but one melody, the skill of the composer and the attention of the listener are concentrated upon this single melodic line; and even if there be an accompaniment, it is so planned that the chief melody stands out in relief against it. The pre-eminence of this chief melody is seldom usurped, although the accompaniment often has interesting features of its own. As soon as we have more than one melody (whether there be two, three or still others) all these voice-parts may be of coequal importance, and the musical fabric becomes an interwoven texture of a number of strands. The genius and skill of the composer is now expended on securing life and interest for each of these voices—soprano, alto, tenor, bass—which seem to be braided together; and thus a much more comprehensive attention is required of the listener. For instead of the single melody in the soprano, or upper voice, of the Folk-song, we now must listen consciously to the bass and to both of the inner voices.[35] Too much emphasis cannot be laid upon the recommendation that, in appreciating music, the first task is to train the ear to a wide range of listening. These differences in style are often apparent just as a pattern of design—to be seen from the following examples:

Homophonic Style. Irish Folk-Song

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Polyphonic Style. Bach: Fugue in C Minor

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In the latter example it is evident that there is an interweaving of three distinct melodic lines.

The polyphonic instrumental works of Bach and his contemporaries were called by such names as Preludes, Fugues, Canons, Inventions, Toccatas and Fantasies; but since a complete account of all these forms would lead too far afield, we shall confine ourselves to a description of the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue. A Canon (from the Greek ?a???, meaning a strict rule or law) is a composition in which there is a literal systematic imitation, carried out to the end, between two or more of the voices (often with subsidiary voices filling in), and may be considered a kind of musical dialogue in which the second, or answering, part reËnforces the message previously uttered by the leading voice. This imitation may take place at any degree of separation; and Canons are in existence at the interval of the second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. The most effective Canons, however, are those in which the answering voice is an octave away from the leading one. Although the Canon is not a form employed frequently by modern composers for an entire composition, Canonic imitation appears so often in all large works for orchestra, string quartet or ensemble combinations, that the music-lover should acquire a certain ease in listening to a structure of this type. The Canon, moreover, is an integral factor in the style of CÉsar Franck, d'Indy and Brahms; and illustrations of its use abound in their works. The organ is particularly well suited to the rendition of Canons; since, by its facilities for tone-color, the two voices may be clearly contrasted. Those interested in organ literature should become acquainted with the following excellent examples: The Canon in B-flat major, op. 40, by Guilmant; the 4th movement of the Fifth Organ Symphony by Widor; the Canon in B minor, op. 54, by Schumann; the Canon in F-sharp major, op. 30, by Merkel, and the set of Ten Canonic studies, op. 12, by G.W. Chadwick. In other fields of composition the following should be cited: The set of Pianoforte Pieces in Canon form, op. 35, by Jadassohn; a like set by Rheinberger, op. 180; the Canonic Vocal Trios, op. 156, by Reinecke and the famous Canon from the first act of Beethoven's opera Fidelio. There is also a beautiful bit of Canonic imitation between two of the upper voices in the introduction of Berlioz's Carnaval Romain Overture for orchestra. One of the most appealing Canons in modern literature is the setting for soprano and barytone, by Henschel, of the poem Oh that we two were Maying by Charles Kingsley. This example alone would sufficiently corroborate the statement that the firmness of structure inherent in the canonic form is perfectly compatible with genuine freedom and poetry of inspiration. In the first movement of CÉsar Frank's Symphony in D minor, at the recapitulation (page 39 of the full score) may be found a magnificent example of the intensity of effect gained by a canonic imitation of the main theme—in this instance between the lower and upper voices. Possibly the finest example of canonic writing in all literature is the Finale of CÉsar Franck's Sonata in A major for Violin and Pianoforte in which, for several pages, there is an eloquent dialogue between the two contrasting instruments. The movement is too long for citation but it should certainly be procured and studied. In the Trio of the Scherzo in Beethoven's Seventh Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte there is a free use of canonic imitation which will repay investigation. Lastly, the Aria with 30 Variations—the so-called Goldberg Variations of Bach—is a perfect storehouse of every conceivable canonic device.

A few standard examples are to be found in the Supplement. These should be played over and studied until they are thoroughly familiar—not only for the pleasure to be derived, but for the indispensable training afforded in polyphonic listening.

Ex. No. 9 Canon by Thomas Tallys (1510-1585).

Ex. No. 10 Canonic Variation by Schumann from the Études Symphoniques.

Ex. No. 11 of Bach's Goldberg Variations.

Ex. No. 12 Canon in B-flat minor, op. 38, Grieg.

Ex. No. 13 Canon in F-sharp major, op. 35, Jadassohn.

One of the most simple and direct types of polyphonic composition is the form known as the Invention in which, as the term implies, the composer—through his inventive genius and by means of the polyphonic devices of imitation and transposition—develops to a logical conclusion some short and characteristic motive. We are fortunate in having from Bach himself, that consummate master of polyphony, two sets of such Inventions: fifteen for two voices, and fifteen for three. These flights of fancy—in which art so subtly conceals art—though originally composed for the clavichord and harpsichord (the precursors of the pianoforte), are very effective on our modern instrument and should be in the possession of every music-student.[36] A brief analysis is now given of the first one in the set for two voices, and Nos. 4, 8 and 10 in this set are particularly recommended for study; also Nos. 2, 6 and 14 among those for three voices. The opening motive

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is the foundation of the entire composition and is at once imitated, canonically, in the lower voice. Then the two voices play about, with figures clearly derived from the motive, until we reach, in measures three and four, a systematic downward transposition of the material. Such transpositions or shiftings up or down in pitch are called Sequences. They are very frequent in all polyphonic composition, give a strong sense of unity to melodic progression and are generally carried out in groups of three, i.e., the original figure and two repetitions. After the sequence the music naturally works toward the most nearly related key (the dominant) and in the seventh measure reaches in that key its first objective. These Inventions of Bach, as well as the Dance forms soon to be studied, are almost invariably in what is known as Two-part form, i.e., the music consists of two main divisions, clearly marked off by cadences[37]; the first of which modulates to the dominant or some related key while the second part, starting in this key, works back to a final close in the home key. In Inventions it early became customary in the second part to begin with the same motive as the first—but in the opposite voice. Thus we see, in the Invention now being discussed, that the seventh measure begins with the original motive in the bass which, in turn, is imitated by the Soprano—a process just the reverse of that in the opening measures.

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In pieces in this Two-part form the second portion is generally longer than the first; for the composer, by the time he has reached this second part, may consider the material sufficiently familiar to be expanded and varied by excursions into more remote keys, and by more intricate manipulations of the chief motive. In measure 11 we find a modulation to D minor and then, after some free treatment of the motive, we reach—in measure 15—a cadence in A minor. A long sequential passage brings us, through a modulation to the subdominant key of F major (in measures 18 and 19), to a strong closing cadence in the home key. It should be noticed that in this Invention and in some of the dance forms there is shown a strong leaning towards a tripartite division of the material as is indicated by the three cadences in measures 7, 15 and 22. Since, however, the middle part is lacking in any strong contrast—which is such an essential factor in the fully developed three-part form—it seems better to consider this piece, and others like it, as a tendency rather than as a complete embodiment of tripartite arrangement. It is expected that the music lover will take these Inventions for what they really are and not search in them for those notes of intense subjectivity and dramatic power so prevalent in modern music. They are merely little pieces—a "tour de force" in polyphonic ingenuity; music rejoicing in its own inherent vitality. Accepted in this spirit they are invigorating and charming.

The form in which polyphonic skill reaches its highest possibilities is the Fugue; and the immortal examples of this form are the Fugues of John Sebastian Bach, found in his Well-tempered Clavichord and in his mighty works for the organ. The fundamental structure of a fugue is implied in the term itself (from the Latin "fuga"—flight); that is, in a fugue the main theme or subject is always announced in a single voice, and the remaining voices, appearing successively in accordance with definite principles of key-relationship, seem to chase each other about and to flee from pursuit. The several stratified entrances of the subject are relieved by intermediate passages called "Episodes." An Episode, as shown by the derivation (?p? ?d??, by the way), is something off the beaten path—a digression; and it is in these episodical portions of a fugue rather than in the formalistic portions that the genius of the composer shines forth. This is especially true of Bach, for almost any well-trained musician can invent a subject which will allow of satisfactory fugal treatment according to accepted usage; but no one save Bach has ever invented such free and fanciful episodes—so daring in scope and yet so closely connected with the main thought. The general effect of a fugue is cumulative: a massing and piling up of voices that lead to a carefully designed conclusion which, in some of Bach's organ fugues, is positively overwhelming. A fugue may be called a mighty crescendo, like the sound of many waters. There is a popular conception, or rather misconception, that a fugue is a labored, dull or even "dry" form of composition, meant only as an exhibition of pedantic skill, and quite beyond the reach of ordinary musical appreciation. Nothing is farther from the truth, as a slight examination of musical literature will show. For we see that the fugal form has been used to express well-nigh every form of human emotion, the sublime, the tragic, the romantic; very often the humorous and the fantastic. When we recall the irresistible sparkle and dash of Mozart's Magic Flute Overture, of the Overture to the Bartered Bride by Smetana, of the Finale of Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, and of many of the fugues in the Well-tempered Clavichord, it is evident that to call a fugue "dry" is an utter abuse of language. It is true that there are weak, artificial and dull fugues, where the composer—frankly—had nothing to say and merely filled out the form; but the same may be said of every type of composition, i.e., among them all are examples inspired and—less inspired. This, however, is no indictment of the fugue per se, against which the only thing to be said is that it requires on the part of the listener an exceeding concentration. Some of the masterpieces of the world being wholly or partially in the fugal form, it is the duty of those listening to polyphonic music to train their powers to the same seriousness of attention expected and freely given in the appreciation of an oration, a drama or a cathedral. These latter manifestations of artistic expression, to be sure, are less abstract than the fugue and more closely related to daily life. Yet no effort is more repaying than the mental and emotional energy expended in listening to the interweavings of a good fugue; for, conscious of missing the periodic divisions of the Folk-song, we have to listen to more than one melody at a time. A fugue being a composition, as the French say, of "longue haleine," our attention, in order to follow its structure, must be on the "qui vive" every moment. The fugue, in fact, is an example of the intricate and yet organic complexity found in all the higher forms of life itself; and whenever a composer has wished to dwell with emphasis on a particular theme, he almost invariably resorts to some form of fugal treatment, strict or free. The most effective media for rendering fugues are the chorus of mixed voices, the organ (by reason of its pedal key-board always making the subject in the bass stand out majestically) and the stringed orchestra which, with the "bite" of the strings, brings out—with peculiar sharpness—the different entrances of the subject. The student should become familiar with standard examples in each of these classes and should, above all, seek opportunity to hear some of the organ fugues of Bach performed on a really fine instrument. A few well-known fugues are herewith cited in order to stimulate the student to some investigation of his own. In all the Oratorios of Handel and in the choral works of Bach, such as the B minor Mass, may be found magnificent fugues—as free and vital in their rhythmic swing as the ocean itself. Particular attention should be called to the fugue in the Messiah "And by His stripes we were healed." One of the most impressive fugues in modern literature is the À capella chorus Urbs Syon Unica from H.W. Parker's Hora Novissima. From among the organ works of Bach everyone should know the Fugues in G minor, in A minor, in D major[38] and the Toccata and Fugue in D minor. These have all been transcribed for the pianoforte by Liszt and so are readily available; they are often played at pianoforte recitals by Paderewski and other virtuosi. In hearing one of these masterpieces no one can remain unmoved or can fail to reverence the constructive genius which fashioned such cathedrals in tone. For orchestra we have the Prelude to Puccini's opera Madama Butterfly, and the beginning of the Prelude to the third act of Wagner's Mastersingers. There are striking fugal passages in Beethoven's Symphonies, e.g., the first movement of the Heroic Symphony and the rollicking Trio of the Scherzo in the Fifth Symphony. In more modern literature there is the fugal Finale to Arthur Foote's Suite for Orchestra and in Chadwick's Vagrom Ballad a humorous quotation of the theme from Bach's G minor Fugue for organ. One of the most superb fugues in free style is the last movement of CÉsar Franck's Prelude, Choral and Fugue in B minor for Pianoforte. This movement alone would refute all charges of dullness or dryness brought against the fugue by the unthinking or the unenlightened. A good fugue, in fact, is so full of vitality and demands such active comprehension[39] on the part of the listener that it is not difficult to imagine where the dullness and dryness are generally found.

At this point by an analysis of a fugue from the Well-tempered Clavichord, let us explain some of the technical features in fugal structure. We shall then be in a position to understand the more subtle devices of fugal treatment and to appreciate more enthusiastically some additional comments upon Bach's style in general.

Fugue in E-flat Major, No. VII, in the First Book.

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This fugue in three voices begins with a graceful subject, announced in the upper voice. In the third measure this is answered by an imitation of the subject in the alto; while the opening voice continues with a contrasting part called the counter-subject.[40] As the whole subsequent fabric is organically derived from these two motives, both subject and counter-subject should be played frequently and so committed to memory. Observe also the contrasts in rhythm and melodic outline between the subject and counter-subject. In measures 4 and 5 we have a short sequential passage leading, in measure 6, to the third entry of the subject in the bass. Then after another sequential passage, which includes an emphatic assertion of the subject in the soprano (measures 11 and 12), we enter upon a long episode which leads, at measure 17, to our first objective point of rest—a cadence in C minor. With the entry, in this measure, of the subject in the alto we have an interesting example of what is termed "shifted rhythm;" the subject beginning on the third beat instead of the first, as at the outset. In the middle portion of the fugue we have two appearances of the subject in the related keys of C minor (measures 17 and 18) and G minor (measures 20 and 21). Then, following two very vigorous sequences, a modulatory return is made to the subject in the home key, and with its normal rhythm at measure 26. A repetition, in more brilliant form, of one of the previous episodes, in measures 31 and 32, gives a strong impression of unity; leading in measures 34 and 35 to a last appearance of the subject, with a beautiful change in one of the intervals (E-flat-G-flat). The closing measures establish the main tonality of E-flat major, rendered still more expressive by the counterpoint associated with the last chord. As to the general structure of this fugue, it is evidently tripartite, the first part A presenting the material, the second part B affording variety by modulating into different keys, and the third part A´ reasserting the material of A and bringing the composition to a logical close in the home key. (See Supplement Ex. No. 15.)

We should now acquaint ourselves with the more subtle devices of fugal treatment; although but one of these is employed in the fugue just studied, which is comparatively simple in structure. I. Inversion; the melodic outline is turned upside down while identity is retained by means of the rhythm, e.g.

Bach: 3rd English Suite

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Inversion

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An excellent example from an orchestral work is the theme of the third movement of Brahms's C minor Symphony, the second phrase of which is an Inversion of the opening measures, e.g.

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II. Augmentation and Diminution; the length of the notes is doubled or halved while their metrical relativity is maintained, e.g.

Bach: Fugue No. 8, Book I

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Augmentation

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Bach: Fugue No. IX, Book II

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Diminution

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Augmentation is very frequent in modern literature when a composer, by lengthening out the phraseology of a theme, wishes to gain for it additional emphasis. Excellent examples are the closing measures of Schumann's Arabesque, in which the reminiscence of the original motto is most haunting, e.g.,

Motto

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Motto augmented

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the Finale of Liszt's Faust Symphony, where the love theme of the Gretchen movement is carried over and intoned by a solo baritone with impressive effect, e.g.

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In augmentation

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Das ewig Weibliche

III. Shifted Rhythm; the position of the subject in the measure is so changed that the accents fall on different beats, e.g.

Bach: Fugue No. V, Book II

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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.

Throughout, a most fantastic description of fugal style.

"Then rose the agitation, spreading through the infinite cathedral to its agony; then was completed the passion of the mighty fugue. The golden tubes of the organ which as yet had but sobbed and muttered at intervals—gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense—threw up, as from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir and antichoir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also, Dying Trumpeter! with thy love which was victorious, and thy anguish that was finishing, didst enter the tumult; trumpet and echo—farewell love and farewell anguish—rang through the dreadful Sanctus."

—From De Quincey's Dream Fugue in the "Vision of Sudden Death."