Various

(From the French of Gretry.)

AS from instinct we love and admire all that is beautiful in nature, so a feeling for, and love of the fine arts may exist without a knowledge of their principles. One day, when a party of professors and myself were discussing the question as to the ideas best adapted to express our sensations in music, an amateur interrupted us by asking what an idea in music could possibly be? As his question was abruptly put, we all looked at him for some moments without answering; he prided himself upon the idea that he had pozed us, and laughing, repeated several times over, “An idea in music, how singular!” A musical idea, said I to him, is nothing more than the sound, the inflexion of words employed to communicate an idea, whether verse or prose. If you agree that, with respect to accent, it is indifferent, however it may be placed, I am ready to allow that music has no fixed principle.—No, replied he, I will not agree to that; on the contrary, I think that improper accents, or misplaced punctuations, may spoil the most elegant prose, and disguise the finest poetry.—In the same manner, said I, sounds at variance with the sentiment of the words make bad music.—But, added he, there is such a thing as music without words; and when it is good and well executed, I like it much. What say you of such music?—It is, said I, a discourse of sounds, a song from which the words have been withdrawn. Have you never seen a woman on the point of fainting? she has only strength sufficient left to make herself understood by the signs of those words which she is incapable of uttering.—Very well.—Still you comprehend her?—Yes, I understand that she complains; that she says to her children, her husband, the friends who surround her, ‘I feel better now, do not be frightened.’—Well, in this instance, and in a thousand others, we see exemplified the principle of music without words.

The Italians, in public places, either from indolence, or from a fear of openly declaring their opinions, speak little and much at the same time; that is, by articulating some solitary words, preceded and followed by one of the vowels a, e, i, o, u, all enforced by an expressive pantomime, they make their thoughts understood without the aid of speech. Go, for example, and tell a composer that such a man spoke very freely in the coffee-houses against his work:—What did he say?—i, a, u, o, of such an air, e, i, a, u, of another, he will perfectly comprehend you: this is another instance of the principle of instrumental music. Men of more northern latitudes are but little acquainted with this species of dissimulation, but it is natural to Italians. If therefore a musician is unable to discover any meaning in a sonata, rest assured the reason is that the sonata has no meaning; and if Fontenelle could not understand a good sonata, you may take it for granted that it was owing to his possessing more wit than imagination and feeling. A fine piece of instrumental music has always a reference to some sentiment or passion, which has its characteristic accent, its peculiar movement: one is expressed in acute sounds; another in grave; another, between the two, consists of long-drawn tones.

Again, if it be said that a sound is not an idea, yet it must be allowed that a tone is; at the very instant I utter mi, I argue that mi is the third of ut, re precedes, and fa succeeds it. To be a good musician, an idea both can and ought to be attached to every musical phrase of a different character: for example, such a phrase is only composed of grave sounds, sustained and lengthened without any rhythm or measure; immediately, and by analogy, I picture to myself darkness, and the horrors which it inspires. But if the sound of a reed is heard breaking this gloomy harmony, I imagine the awakening of a shepherd, I look in the sky for the morning star, and the phantoms of night are dispersed.

I was not eight years old when I went to the wise man of our neighbourhood[85], and said to him, ‘Give me some words, I want to compose music,’ and he gave me the above four Latin verses, first translating them to me in the LiÉgois dialect.

With respect to moral ideas in music, they, like the accents of oratory, depend on the declamation of the words; and if the inexperienced musician declaims all in one tone, there will, as long as he lives, be a sameness in his music: this fault is much more common than is generally supposed. But to declaim is not all; the declamation must be just: I prefer the music that is vague,—that says nothing, or says every thing—to improper declamation. Let us then conclude that in music, as in nature, a sensation is not an idea; but that many sensations compared with each other constitute an idea. Again it must be recollected that the undefined effect of instrumental music acts differently upon individuals, according to their respective organization: it is like a cloud floating in the air; the warrior sees a battle; the peasant girl the flock conducted by her lover.

I have always thought that good music must produce more or less effect, in proportion as its language is more or less familiar. I have been at the side of Voltaire, and seen him grow irritable under the influence of the most melodious strains; I have often thought of it since, and I conclude that he experienced sensation without ideas, because he was not sufficiently conversant with musical language, and the variety of emotions which it produces. A more simple being would have said, ‘I feel enjoyment, what else do I want?’ or he would have enjoyed without any reflection; but Voltaire became irritated with a pleasure of which he did not comprehend the cause. Yet at last he was softened, and I have seen the tears start into his eyes. Yes, music, contrary to our nature, at first irritates, but if its seductions are listened to for some considerable time, it calms, softens, and finally triumphs over every resistance. Thus Orpheus, in the infernal regions, soothed the anger of Cerberus, and softened the hearts of the divinities of Tartarus. If you find a man who does not love music, be assured that it is either because he has not yet heard any suited to his peculiar turn of mind, or that his heart is for ever closed against pure pleasures.

I must however confess, that since speech, with its inflexions, is not always sufficient to explain certain ideas, still less will accent alone do so; yet still the gentle agitation caused by good instrumental music, that undefined repetition of our feelings; that aËrial flight which suspends us midway between earth and heaven, without fatiguing our organs; that mysterious language which captivates without persuading, which speaks to our senses without the aid of reasoning, and yet which is equivalent to reason, since it charms, gives to the unsophisticated heart the most refined pleasure. Never will a wicked man understand the language of sounds; such a faculty is the result of the most harmonious organization, and the perfection of our being. The virtuous man seems to hear a choir of angels, the echo of which is in his own heart.

Enough has already been said as to what constitutes a good musician; yet perhaps it has not been sufficiently enforced, that without genius, without original ideas, the most scientific composition is nothing else than a copy, more or less excellent. In looking at the origin of the thoughts of a phlegmatic man, it will always be found that the type is the same as in a man of impassioned soul. Second-rate talents come after him, and criticise, distort, and misplace the same ideas. Following this course, it is always seen that A. has taken from B. what B. borrowed from C. and that the latter took all from D. the original proprietor, who only copied from nature.

Again it may be said, that our ideas in music arise from the choice of sounds and their measures. The time alone in sounds, only gives birth to ideas emanating little or not at all from sentiment; in music, as in poetry, great poetical effects may be produced without the charm of poetry: such movements belong to harmony; melody possesses essentially the beauty of sentiment. We know that in natural, and even in moral philosophy, nothing can exist without motion; but this argument does not prove that immoderate motion produces true feeling: on the contrary, too vehement motion is a convulsion, and a moderate movement causes agreeable sensations. Nature without doubt has her convulsions, but happily they are rare, and only occur in their proper place. Let us follow her example, and not be too lavish of violent effects.

When a young man of talent exhibits originality of thought, however wild, however untutored, he ought to be encouraged, and have the path smoothed for him: he is a choice plant, and should be cultivated. Such a young man is, perhaps, at first devoid of any knowledge of harmony, yet there is within him a genuine reservoir, whence the purest beauties may flow. I would add, that the young artist born with original genius may be looked on as one of the benefactors of the human race.

Why did the ancient philosophers recommend so strongly the practice of sounds? Why consider music as the principle of all morality? Why publicly reproach Themistocles with not understanding music? Because they knew that, in rendering a man sensible to the harmony of sounds, it was establishing in him the principle of order, which tends to general happiness. They seized the cause, to arrive at the effects. They said, ‘If we preach wisdom to you, before your mind is disposed towards it, we shall lose our time; but if by harmonious sounds we establish harmony in your mind, you will yield without opposition.’ Let us then, like these philosophers, make men more or less musicians, and they will be disposed to every sort of harmony—for that of colours in a picture, or the order that pervades an architectural pile.

In short, to be alive to the beauties of harmony is to love the order which pervades the system of the Creator. When I behold a true musician, I say to myself, ‘That man is a lover of peace; he is my friend.’ When the philosopher tells us that he comprehends the language of birds; that he hears the music of the stars as they roll above us, it is the pure harmony of his nature that effects these prodigies. Let us be one with nature, and all her treasures will be our portion. In short I will boldly say with Shakspeare:—