seems to be influenced by discipline, but we do not know much about the processes. In composition of the intellectual or deliberately methodical type, the second period tends to be dominated by the first and much modified by the latter. In composition of the opposite type, it tends to dominate the others. Thus, Schönberg's music even at its best (and a great deal of Bach) is something we admire. It satisfies our curiosity and stimulates our intellectual life. But it does not stimulate a lively emotional reaction, and, as an afterthought, we often blush that we "like" music that moves us so little. And so, Puccini, even at his best moments, stirs our vitals -we grow hot and cold, feel tears and choking sensations-but after it is over we are apt to have contempt for ourselves for having been moved so by what we cannot admire. Reliance upon one or the other of these extremes has conditioned most of the important contributions of modern mannerism; it is conceivable, however, that some of us should want to see our work rewarded by both types of reaction and so neutralise the unpleasant afterthoughts. They have been combined before in all great styles, but rarely, and then sporadically, at times when there was no great style. "One must have both the heart and the head," we say (as if you could separate them!). One cannot write inspired music by the most patient cerebration any more than one can write a fine ricercar by the most thrilling inspiration. Periods of inspiration are apt to be short, incomplete and difficult to re-induce. The characteristics of prevision and revision must, on the other hand, be sustained, consistent and calculated. III The existence of a great style does not imply anything regarding the existence of genres or various types of music for various classes of people or various occasions. All the present genres would reflect a grand style, but it is the task of one genre, namely, that one which pursues the highest refinement of the art-the magisterial ricercar-to prepare the ground for this style, and it is with the disciplining or rather self-disciplining of this genre that the present suggestions are offered. In other genres preparatory work is undoubtedly done, but less deliberately; and there is reason to believe that modern ideas of pedagogy will tend as far as conscious effort is concerned to look rather to the ricercar than to the street song or salon piece for guidance. At all times when there has been a great style, there has been a close relation between the pedagogy and the living art. The living art was visible to the neophyte all through his initiationhis first exercises, prototypes of the work he eventually, if successful, achieved. It was so in Palestrina's, in Bach's and in Beethoven's day. But now, the teaching of composition (why is it called "theory"?) is a purgatory to be survived, if possible-and few do. It is a thing to be different from, a dead historical abstraction, even to comparatively orthodox writers. It forms the basis for the work of some distinguished epigones, but even they fear the reproach that they are not "modern," and doctor the orthodox chord-connections or weaken the contrapuntal texture by mere polyphony to the practical negation of the tenets of textbooks. Reducing our adverse criticism to its simplest form it is surprising to find it substantially the same as that which we advanced against the principal monuments of the last half century of composition-a half century largely hostile, consciously hostile, to its pedagogy. Both the pedagogy and the resulting composition that presumably revolted against it stress the same resources, namely, the tonal harmony. It is only fair to say that the pedagogy has shown the greater balance and the composition a greater imagination; but the general attitude of both has been to explore deliberately and thoroughly the art of the combination of tones (recall the study of "harmony" as it is studied to-day), the art of dynamics (especially shading) and the combination of varied timbres (color or tone-values), while the use of the rest has been left to convention or accident. One of the peculiar means-I cannot say methods-by which accident has been brought about is the arbitrary negation of convention, the mere determination to be different from it in some respect. Thus, as long as a piece ended in some other key than it began in, fell into any phraseology not four-by-four, or as long as its melody did not end with finality but faded away, to that extent it was "modern." This is the cult of wrong notes. Resources involving rhythmic materials, and in general the melodic and phraseological branches of the technique, have been practically ignored in the pedagogy and left to chaos in composition-an interesting phenomenon in the breaking down of a worn-out style, but certainly not necessary of indefinite extension. Rhythmically we exist to-day in a state comparable to the state of tonal development at the time of Hucbald. In the perception and ordering of differences of pitch, we accept as consonant combinations roughly approximating the ratio 3-5 (read "three against five"), the major sixth, 5-8, the minor sixth, etc. But these ratios in rhythm can be said to be liked by few and recognisable or performable by fewer. As to tonal dissonance that allows the sounding and appreciation of combinations such as 8-15, the major seventh, it is unreasonable to expect rhythmic harmony to contemplate the ratio for some years to come. Most of our rhythmic material is based upon the homologue of the relation of the fundamental to its partials-i.e., several against one, rather than upon the relations between the partials as in tonal distinctions. In the study of form there is no adequate treatment of modern procedure, no treatment of the possibilities of arrangement, but rather a superficial prescription of the forms of fifty or a hundred years ago. In the writing of melody has been the greatest falling off. I have not heard of a pedagogy that has successfully combatted the universal tendency to apoplectic abbreviation in thematic construction or the incessant breaking down of the "flow" in longer melodic work. Even in the class-room the bulk of the melodic invention depends almost wholly upon fancy. I must not be understood as wanting to rule out fancy. What I object to is all the order being in one or two places and all the fancy (only too often on crutches) in others. Both order and fancy are hampered by such lack of balance, and friction follows. The ideal would seem to be the equal presence of both, finely coordinated, in each resource, for ultimately-and originally, too— they depend, for their very existence, upon each other. The desideratum that any discipline in composition should offer the student, from the very beginning, a prototype of the sort of work he eventually wishes to do cannot, then, in a day when mannerism is supreme, be met. For, unlike the style (which lasts for some time), the manner changes before the student matures. All we can do, if we accept the hypothesis above advanced, is to consider ourselves in a transition stage. Hence, our main occupation should be to allow for the commensurate development of all the essential resources by outlining a set of preparatory disciplines by which we may hope to correct the disparity now existing and prepare a way for their more balanced articulation at the hands of someone who is able and at a time ripe for the undertaking. Such a set of disciplines would serve, in a way, as a temporary substitute for the unattainable style they aim eventually to establish and at the same time would serve as a corrective for the mannerisms against which they revolt. Work in them would, indeed, be half stylistic and half manneristic, and while it might have the propedeutical virtues of both it might just as easily suffer the corresponding drawbacks of both. It should attempt to com promise or balance between tradition and experiment; as much would depend upon what in its tradition were accepted, what rejected, as upon what untouched possibilities were explored and what left untouched. Like their homologues, the non-Euclidean geometries, they might sometimes carry the disciple pretty far from the beaten track. But as long as their pursuit were continued in the spirit of sound musicianship (i.e., talent plus appropriate training), good might be expected of them. Where there is no talent, there is no need of discipline. We do not, of course, any longer need to tolerate the old hard and fast divisions into talented and not talented. We know that all We know that all approximately normal human beings have a ratable musical talent. The discipline should, of course, conform to the talent; but it should in all cases balance between the drawing upon tradition (regardless of date) and the founding of a new one-between having ancestors and being one. MUSSORGSKY'S LETTERS TO HIS FRIENDS By M.-D. CALVOCORESSI T is only many years after Mussorgsky's death, and at a time when students had almost given up the hope of any addition IT to the somewhat scanty biographical materials provided by Stassof (in his pamphlet of 1881) and a few other writers, that his correspondence-which constitutes an invaluable source of information on his life, his works, and his ideals-began to be published. His letters to Stassof appeared in book form in 1911. Those to others have not yet been collected, but are to be found scattered in the columns of the Russian Musical Gazette (now, unfortunately, almost unprocurable). The letters to Balakiref, his master and friend, refer to the early period of his life. In June, 1858 (he was then nineteen years of age), occurs the first mention of a musical composition—a pianoforte Sonata-undertaken upon Balakiref's advice: I have begun writing the Sonata, which is in E flat major. I am striving hard to do well. My idea is to start with a short introduction in B major, and lead up to the Allegro by means of a pedal-point. I am also laying the foundations for the Scherzo; and I devote my hours of leisure to the practice of harmony: I do so long to write correctly! . . . . . . Cui is constantly at Bamberg's house. I played there the Overture to Edipus and a few motives which are to be used in the sequel. They satisfied Bach, apparently—which is very gratifying.1 In the following August he writes: Kito2 and I are having a good time in the country. There has been a popular festival-a fine one-on the occasion of a wedding. So I have decided to write my Sonata in E flat major, and to inscribe it to the young couple. Here are motives from it: Introduction to the Finale : Scherzo (which you already know): "Bach," a nickname for Stassof; Bamberg was Cui's father-in-law. |