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Title: Sketch of a New Esthetic of Music
Author: Busoni, Ferruccio, 1866-1924
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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  [ Transcriber's Note:
    Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
    possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation;
    changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the
    original text are listed at the end of this file.
  ]



                                 Sketch
                                   of
                        A New Esthetic of Music


                                   by
                            FERRUCCIO BUSONI


                     Translated from the German by
                             Dr. TH. BAKER



                         NEW YORK: G. SCHIRMER
                                  1911



                            Copyright, 1907
                          By FERRUCCIO BUSONI

                            Copyright, 1911
                             By G. SCHIRMER

                                 22375



SKETCH OF A NEW ESTHETIC OF MUSIC

    "What seek you? Say! And what do you expect?"--
    "I know not what; the Unknown I would have!
     What's known to me, is endless; I would go
     Beyond the end: The last word still is wanting."

                         ["_Der mächtige Zauberer._"]


LOOSELY joined together as regards literary form, the following notes
are, in reality, the outcome of convictions long held and slowly
matured.

In them a problem of the first magnitude is formulated with apparent
simplicity, without giving the key to its final solution; for the
problem cannot be solved for generations--if at all.

But it involves an innumerable series of lesser problems, which I
present to the consideration of those whom they may concern. For it is a
long time since any one has devoted himself to earnest musical research.

It is true, that admirable works of genius arise in every period, and I
have always taken my stand in the front rank of those who joyfully
acclaimed the passing standard-bearers; and still it seems to me that of
all these beautiful paths leading so far afield--none lead _upward_.

_The spirit of an art-work, the measure of emotion, of humanity, that is
in it--these remain unchanged in value through changing years; the form
which these three assumed, the manner of their expression, and the
flavor of the epoch which gave them birth, are transient, and age
rapidly._

Spirit and emotion retain their essence, in the art-work as in man
himself; we admire technical achievements, yet they are outstripped, or
cloy the taste and are discarded.

Its ephemeral qualities give a work the stamp of "modernity;" its
unchangeable essence hinders it from becoming "obsolete." Among both
"modern" and "old" works we find good and bad, genuine and spurious.
There is nothing properly modern--only things which have come into being
earlier or later; longer in bloom, or sooner withered. The Modern and
the Old have always been.

Art-forms are the more lasting, the more closely they adhere to the
nature of their individual species of art, the purer they keep their
essential means and ends.

Sculpture relinquishes the expression of the human pupil, and effects of
color; painting degenerates, when it forsakes the flat surface in
depiction and takes on complexity in theatrical decoration or panoramic
portrayal.

Architecture has its fundamental form, growth from below upward,
prescribed by static necessity; window and roof necessarily provide the
intermediate and finishing configuration; these are eternal and
inviolable requirements of the art.

Poetry commands the abstract thought, which it clothes in words. More
independent than the others, it reaches the furthest bounds.

_But all arts, resources and forms ever aim at the one end, namely, the
imitation of nature and the interpretation of human feelings._

                           *       *       *

Architecture, sculpture, poetry and painting are old and mature arts;
their conceptions are established and their objects assured; they have
found the way through uncounted centuries, and, like the planets,
describe their regular orbits.[A]

  [A] None the less, in these arts, taste and individuality can and will
  unceasingly find refreshment and rejuvenation.

Music, compared with them, is a child that has learned to walk, but must
still be led. It is a virgin art, without experience in life and
suffering.

It is all unconscious as yet of what garb is becoming, of its own
advantages, its unawakened capacities. And again, it is a child-marvel
that is already able to dispense much of beauty, that has already
brought joy to many, and whose gifts are commonly held to have attained
full maturity.

                           *       *       *

Music as an art, our so-called occidental music, is hardly four hundred
years old; its state is one of development, perhaps the very first
stage of a development beyond present conception, and we--we talk of
"classics" and "hallowed traditions"! And we have talked of them for a
long time![B]

  [B] Tradition is a plaster mask taken from life, which, in the course
  of many years, and after passing through the hands of innumerable
  artisans, leaves its resemblance to the original largely a matter of
  imagination.

We have formulated rules, stated principles, laid down laws;--we apply
laws made for maturity to a child that knows nothing of responsibility!

                           *       *       *

Young as it is, this child, we already recognize that it possesses one
radiant attribute which signalizes it beyond all its elder sisters. And
the lawgivers will not see this marvelous attribute, lest their laws
should be thrown to the winds. This child--it _floats on air_! It
touches not the earth with its feet. It knows no law of gravitation. It
is wellnigh incorporeal. Its material is transparent. It is sonorous
air. It is almost Nature herself. It is--free.

                           *       *       *

But freedom is something that mankind have never wholly comprehended,
never realized to the full. They can neither recognize nor acknowledge
it.

They disavow the mission of this child; they hang weights upon it. This
buoyant creature must walk decently, like anybody else. It may scarcely
be allowed to leap--when it were its joy to follow the line of the
rainbow, and to break sunbeams with the clouds.

                           *       *       *

Music was born free; and to win freedom is its destiny. It will become
the most complete of all reflexes of Nature by reason of its untrammeled
immateriality. Even the poetic word ranks lower in point of
incorporealness. It can gather together and disperse, can be motionless
repose or wildest tempestuosity; it has the extremest heights
perceptible to man--what other art has these?--and its emotion seizes
the human heart with that intensity which is independent of the "idea."

It realizes a temperament, _without_ describing it, with the mobility of
the soul, with the swiftness of consecutive moments; and this, where
painter or sculptor can represent only one side or one moment, and the
poet tardily _communicates_ a temperament and its manifestations by
words.

Therefore, representation and description are not the nature of music;
herewith we declare the invalidity of program-music, and arrive at the
question: What are the aims of music?

                           *       *       *

ABSOLUTE Music! What the lawgivers mean by this, is perhaps remotest of
all from the Absolute in music. "Absolute music" is a form-play without
poetic program, in which the form is intended to have the leading part.
But Form, in itself, is the opposite pole of absolute music, on which
was bestowed the divine prerogative of buoyancy, of freedom from the
limitations of matter. In a picture, the illustration of a sunset ends
with the frame; the limitless natural phenomenon is enclosed in
quadrilateral bounds; the cloud-form chosen for depiction remains
unchanging for ever. Music can grow brighter or darker, shift hither or
yon, and finally fade away like the sunset glow itself; and instinct
leads the creative musician to employ the tones that press the same key
within the human breast, and awaken the same response, as the processes
in Nature.

Per contra, "absolute music" is something very sober, which reminds one
of music-desks in orderly rows, of the relation of Tonic to Dominant, of
Developments and Codas.

Methinks I hear the second violin struggling, a fourth below, to emulate
the more dexterous first, and contending in needless contest merely to
arrive at the starting-point. This sort of music ought rather to be
called the "architectonic," or "symmetric," or "sectional," and derives
from the circumstance that certain composers poured _their_ spirit and
_their_ emotion into just this mould as lying nearest them or their
time. Our lawgivers have identified the spirit and emotion, the
individuality of these composers and their time, with "symmetric"
music, and finally, being powerless to recreate either the spirit, or
the emotion, or the time, have retained the Form as a symbol, and made
it into a fetish, a religion. The composers sought and found this form
as the aptest vehicle for communicating _their_ ideas; their souls took
flight--and the lawgivers discover and cherish the garments Euphorion
left behind on earth.

    A lucky find! 'Twas now or never;
    The flame is gone, it's true--however,
      No need to pity mankind now.
    Enough is left for many a poet's tiring,
      Or to breed envy high and low;
    And though I have no talents here for hiring,
      I'll hire the robe out, anyhow.

Is it not singular, to demand of a composer originality in all things,
and to forbid it as regards form? No wonder that, once he becomes
original, he is accused of "formlessness." Mozart! the seeker and the
finder, the great man with the childlike heart--it is he we marvel at,
to whom we are devoted; but not his Tonic and Dominant, his Developments
and Codas.

                           *       *       *

Such lust of liberation filled Beethoven, the romantic revolutionary,
that he ascended one short step on the way leading music back to its
loftier self:--a short step in the great task, a wide step in his own
path. He did not quite reach absolute music, but in certain moments he
divined it, as in the introduction to the fugue of the Sonata for
Hammerclavier. Indeed, all composers have drawn nearest the true nature
of music in preparatory and intermediary passages (preludes and
transitions), where they felt at liberty to disregard symmetrical
proportions, and unconsciously drew free breath. Even a Schumann (of so
much lower stature) is seized, in such passages, by some feeling of the
boundlessness of this pan-art (recall the transition to the last
movement of the D-minor Symphony); and the same may be asserted of
Brahms in the introduction to the Finale of his First Symphony.

But, the moment they cross the threshold of the _Principal Subject_,
their attitude becomes stiff and conventional, like that of a man
entering some bureau of high officialdom.

                           *       *       *

Next to Beethoven, Bach bears closest affinity to "infinite music."[C]
His Organ Fantasias (but not the Fugues) have indubitably a strong dash
of what might be overwritten "Man and Nature."[D] In him it appears most
ingenuous because he had no reverence for his predecessors (although he
esteemed and made use of them), and because the still novel acquisition
of equal temperament opened a vista of--for the time being--endless new
possibilities.

  [C] "Die Ur-Musik," is the author's happy phrase. But as this music
  _never has been_, our English terms like "primitive," "original,"
  etc., would involve a _non sequitur_ which is avoided, at least, by
  "infinite." [Translator's Note.]

  [D] In the recitatives of his Passions we hear "human speech"; _not_
  "correct declamation."

Therefore, Bach and Beethoven[E] are to be conceived as a _beginning_,
and not as unsurpassable finalities. In spirit and emotion they will
probably remain unexcelled; and this, again, confirms the remark at the
beginning of these lines: That spirit and emotion remain unchanged in
value through changing years, and that he who mounts to their uttermost
heights will always tower above the crowd.

  [E] As characteristic traits of Beethoven's individuality I would
  mention the poetic fire, the strong human feeling (whence springs his
  revolutionary temper), and a portent of modern nervousness. These
  traits are certainly opposed to those of a "classic." Moreover,
  Beethoven is no "master," as the term applies to Mozart or the later
  Wagner, just because his art foreshadows a greater, as yet incomplete.
  (Compare the section next-following.)

                           *       *       *

What still remains to be surpassed, is their form of expression and
their freedom. Wagner, a Germanic Titan, who touched our earthly horizon
in orchestral tone-effect, who intensified the form of expression, but
fashioned it into a _system_ (music-drama, declamation, leading-motive),
is on this account incapable of further intensification. His category
begins and ends with himself; first, because he carried it to the
highest perfection and finish; secondly, because his self-imposed task
was of such a nature, that it could be achieved by one man alone.[F] The
paths opened by Beethoven can be followed to their end only through
generations. They--like all things in creation--may form only a circle;
but a circle of such dimensions, that the portion visible to us seems
like a straight line. Wagner's circle we can view in its entirety--a
circle within the great circle.

  [F] "Together with the problem, it gives us the solution," as I once
  said of Mozart.

                           *       *       *

THE name of Wagner leads to program-music. This has been set up as a
contrast to so-called "absolute" music, and these concepts have become
so petrified that even persons of intelligence hold one or the other
dogma, without recognition for a third possibility beyond and above the
other two. In reality, program-music is precisely as one-sided and
limited as that which is called absolute. In place of architectonic and
symmetric formulas, instead of the relation of Tonic to Dominant, it has
bound itself in the stays of a connecting poetic--sometimes even
philosophic--program.

                           *       *       *

Every motive--so it seems to me--contains, like a seed, its life-germ
within itself. From the different plant-seeds grow different families
of plants, dissimilar in form, foliage, blossom, fruit, growth and
color.[G]

  [G] "... Beethoven, dont les esquisses _thématiques ou élémentaires_
  sont innombrables, mais qui, sitôt les thèmes trouvés, semble par cela
  même en avoir établi tout le développement ..." [Vincent d'Indy, in
  "César Franck."]

Even each individual plant belonging to one and the same species
assumes, in size, form and strength, a growth peculiar to itself. And
so, in each motive, there lies the embryo of its fully developed form;
each one must unfold itself differently, yet each obediently follows the
law of eternal harmony. _This form is imperishable, though each be
unlike every other._

                           *       *       *

The motive in a composition with program bears within itself the same
natural necessity; but it must, even in its earliest phase of
development, renounce _its own proper mode of growth_ to mould--or,
rather, twist--itself to fit the needs of the program. Thus turned
aside, at the outset, from the path traced by nature, it finally arrives
at a wholly unexpected climax, whither it has been led, not by its own
organization, but by the way laid down in the program, or the action, or
the philosophical idea.

And how primitive must this art remain! True, there are unequivocal
descriptive effects of tone-painting (from these the entire principle
took its rise), but these means of expression are few and trivial,
covering but a very small section of musical art. Begin with the most
self-evident of all, the debasement of Tone to Noise in imitating the
sounds of Nature--the rolling of thunder, the roar of forests, the cries
of animals; then those somewhat less evident, symbolic--imitations of
visual impressions, like the lightning-flash, springing movement, the
flight of birds; again, those intelligible only through the mediation of
the reflective brain, such as the trumpet-call as a warlike symbol, the
shawm to betoken ruralism, march-rhythm to signify measured strides, the
chorale as vehicle for religious feeling. Add to the above the
characterization of nationalities--national instruments and airs--and we
have a complete inventory of the arsenal of program-music. Movement and
repose, minor and major, high and low, in their customary significance,
round out the list.--These are auxiliaries, of which good use can be
made upon a broad canvas, but which, taken by themselves, are no more to
be called music than wax figures may pass for monuments.

                           *       *       *

And, after all, what can the presentation of a little happening upon
this earth, the report concerning an annoying neighbor--no matter
whether in the next room or in an adjoining quarter of the globe--have
in common with that music which pervades the universe?

To music, indeed, it is given to set in vibration our human moods: Dread
(_Leporello_), oppression of soul, invigoration, lassitude (Beethoven's
last Quartets), decision (_Wotan_), hesitation, despondency,
encouragement, harshness, tenderness, excitement, tranquillization, the
feeling of surprise or expectancy, and still others; likewise the inner
echo of external occurrences which is bound up in these moods of the
soul. But not the moving cause itself of these spiritual
affections;--not the joy over an avoided danger, not the danger itself,
or the kind of danger which caused the dread; an emotional state, yes,
but not the psychic species of this emotion, such as envy, or jealousy;
and it is equally futile to attempt the expression, through music, of
moral characteristics (vanity, cleverness), or abstract ideas like truth
and justice. Is it possible to imagine how a poor, but contented man
could be represented by music? The contentment, the soul-state, can be
interpreted by music; but where does the poverty appear, or the
important ethic problem stated in the words "poor, but contented"? This
is due to the fact that "poor" connotes a phase of terrestrial and
social conditions not to be found in the eternal harmony. And Music is a
part of the vibrating universe.

                           *       *       *

I may be allowed to subjoin a few subsidiary reflections:--The greater
part of modern theatre music suffers from the mistake of seeking to
repeat the scenes passing on the stage, instead of fulfilling its own
proper mission of interpreting the soul-states of the persons
represented. When the scene presents the illusion of a thunderstorm,
this is exhaustively apprehended by the eye. Nevertheless, nearly all
composers strive to depict the storm in tones--which is not only a
needless and feebler repetition, but likewise a failure to perform their
true function. The person on the stage is either psychically influenced
by the thunderstorm, or his mood, being absorbed in a train of thought
of stronger influence, remains unaffected. The storm is visible and
audible without aid from music; it is the invisible and inaudible, the
spiritual processes of the personages portrayed, which music should
render intelligible.

                           *       *       *

Again, there are "obvious" psychic conditions on the stage, whereof
music need take no account. Suppose a theatrical situation in which a
convivial company is passing at night and disappears from view, while in
the foreground a silent, envenomed duel is in progress. Here the music,
by means of continuing song, should keep in mind the jovial company now
lost to sight; the acts and feelings of the pair in the foreground may
be understood without further commentary, and the music--dramatically
speaking--ought not to participate in their action and break the tragic
silence.

Measurably justified, in my opinion, is the plan of the old opera, which
concentrated and musically rounded out the passions aroused by a moving
dramatic scene in a piece of set form (the aria). _Word_ and stage-play
conveyed the dramatic progress of the action, followed more or less
meagrely by musical recitative; arrived at the point of rest, music
resumed the reins. This is less extrinsic than some would now have us
believe. On the other hand, it was the ossified form of the "aria"
itself which led to inveracity of expression and decadence.

                           *       *       *

THE audible presentation, the "performance," of music, its _emotional
interpretation_, derives from those free heights whence descended the
Art itself. Where the art is threatened by earthliness, it is the part
of interpretation to raise it and reëndow it with its primordial
essence.

Notation, the writing out of compositions, is primarily an ingenious
expedient for catching an inspiration, with the purpose of exploiting it
later. But notation is to improvisation as the portrait to the living
model. It is for the interpreter to _resolve the rigidity of the signs_
into the primitive emotion.

But the lawgivers require the interpreter to reproduce the rigidity of
the signs; they consider his reproduction the nearer to perfection, the
more closely it clings to the signs.--

What the composer's inspiration _necessarily_ loses[H] through notation,
his interpreter should restore by his own.

  [H] How strongly notation influences style in music, and fetters
  imagination, how "form" grew up out of it and from form arose
  "conventionalism" in expression, is shown very convincingly and
  avenges itself in tragic wise in E. T. A. Hoffmann, who occurs to me
  here as a typical example.

  This remarkable man's mental conceptions, lost in visionary moods
  and revelling in transcendentalism, as his writings set forth in oft
  inimitable fashion, must naturally--so one would infer--have found in
  the dreamlike and transcendental art of tones a language and mode of
  expression peculiarly congenial.

  The veil of mysticism, the secret harmonies of Nature, the thrill of
  the supernatural, the twilight vagueness of the borderland of dreams,
  everything, in fact, which he so effectively limned with the precision
  of _words_--all this, one would suppose, he could have interpreted to
  fullest effect by the aid of music. And yet, comparing Hoffmann's best
  musical work with the weakest of his literary productions, you will
  discover to your sorrow how a conventional system of measures, periods
  and keys--whereto the hackneyed opera-style of the time adds its
  share--could turn a poet into a Philistine. But that his fancy
  cherished another ideal of music, we learn from many, and frequently
  admirable, observations of Hoffmann the _littérateur_.

To the lawgivers, the signs themselves are the most important matter,
and are continually growing in their estimation; the new art of music is
derived from the old signs--_and these now stand for musical art
itself_.

If the lawgivers had their way, any given composition would always be
reproduced in precisely the same tempo, whensoever, by whomsoever, and
under whatsoever conditions it might be performed.

But, it _is_ not possible; the buoyant, expansive nature of the divine
child rebels--it demands the opposite. Each day begins differently from
the preceding, yet always with the flush of dawn.--Great artists play
their own works differently at each repetition, remodel them on the spur
of the moment, accelerate and retard, in a way which they could not
indicate by signs--and always according to the given conditions of that
"eternal harmony."

And then the lawgiver chafes, and refers the creator to his own
handwriting. As matters stand to-day, the lawgiver has the best of the
argument.

                           *       *       *

"Notation" ("writing down") brings up the subject of Transcription,
nowadays a term much misunderstood, almost discreditable. The frequent
antagonism which I have excited with "transcriptions," and the
opposition to which an ofttimes irrational criticism has provoked me,
caused me to seek a clear understanding of this point. My final
conclusion concerning it is this: Every notation is, in itself, the
transcription of an abstract idea. The instant the pen seizes it, the
idea loses its original form. The very intention to write down the idea,
compels a choice of measure and key. The form, and the musical agency,
which the composer must decide upon, still more closely define the way
and the limits.

It is much the same as with man himself. Born naked, and as yet without
definite aspirations, he decides, or at a given moment is made to
decide, upon a career. From the moment of decision, although much that
is original and imperishable in the idea or the man may live on, either
is depressed to the type of a class. The musical idea becomes a sonata
or a concerto; the man, a soldier or a priest. That is an Arrangement of
the original. From this first transcription to a second the step is
comparatively short and unimportant. And yet it is only the second, in
general, of which any notice is taken; overlooking the fact, that a
transcription does not destroy the archetype, which is, therefore, not
lost through transcription.

Again, the performance of a work is also a transcription, and still,
whatever liberties it may take, it can never annihilate the original.

For the musical art-work exists, before its tones resound and after they
die away, _complete and intact_. It exists both within and outside of
time, and through its nature we can obtain a definite conception of the
otherwise intangible notion of the Ideality of Time.

For the rest, most of Beethoven's piano compositions sound like
transcriptions of orchestral works; most of Schumann's orchestral
compositions, like arrangements from pieces for the piano--and they are
so, in a way.

                           *       *       *

Strangely enough, the Variation-Form is highly esteemed by the Worshippers
of the Letter. That is singular; for the variation-form--when built up
on a borrowed theme--produces a _whole series of "arrangements"_ which,
besides, are least respectful when most ingenious.

So the arrangement is _not_ good, because it _varies_ the original; and
the variation _is_ good, although it "_arranges_" the original.

                           *       *       *

THE term "musikalisch" (musical) is used by the Germans in a sense
foreign to that in which any other language employs it.[I] It is a
conception belonging to the Germans, and not to culture in general; the
expression is incorrect and untranslatable. "Musical" is derived from
_music_, like "poetical" from _poetry_, or "physical" from _physic(s)_.
When I say, "Schubert was one of the most musical among men," it is the
same as if I should say, "Helmholtz was one of the most physical among
men." That is musical, which _sounds_ in rhythms and intervals. A
cupboard can be "musical," if "music-works" be enclosed in it.[J] In a
comparative sense, "musical" may have the further signification of
"euphonious."--"My verses are too musical to bear setting to music," a
noted poet once remarked to me.

  [I] The author probably had in mind the languages of southern Europe;
  the word is employed in English, and in the tongues of the
  Scandinavian group, with precisely the same meaning as in German.
  [Translator's Note.]

  [J] The only kind of people one might properly call _musical_, are the
  singers; for they themselves can sound. Similarly, a clown who by some
  trick produces tones when he is touched, might be called a
  _pseudo-musical_ person.

    "Spirits moving musically
     To a lute's well-tuned law,"

writes Edgar Allan Poe. Lastly, one may speak quite correctly of
"musical laughter," because it _sounds_ like music.

Taking the signification in which the term is applied and almost
exclusively employed in German, a musical person is one who manifests an
inclination for music by a nice discrimination and sensitiveness with
regard to the _technical aspects_ of the art. By "technics" I mean
rhythm, harmony, intonation, part-leading, and the treatment of themes.
The more subtleties he is capable of hearing or reproducing in these,
the more "musical" he is held to be.

In view of the great importance attached to these elements of the art,
this "musical" temperament has naturally become of the highest
consequence. And so an artist who plays with perfect technical finish
should be deemed the most musical player. But as we mean by "technics"
only the mechanical mastery of the instrument, the terms "technical"
and "musical" have been turned into opposites.

The matter has been carried so far as to call a composition itself
"musical,"[K] or even to assert of a great composer like Berlioz that he
was not sufficiently musical.[L] "Unmusical" conveys the strongest
reproach; branded thus, its object becomes an outlaw.[M]

  [K] "But these pieces are so musical," a violinist once remarked to me
  of a four-hand worklet which I had characterized as trivial.

  [L] "My dog is _very_ musical," I have heard said in all seriousness.
  Should the dog take precedence of Berlioz?

  [M] Such has been my own fate.

In a country like Italy, where all participate in the delights of music,
this differentiation becomes superfluous, and the term corresponding is
not found in the language. In France, where a living sense of music does
not permeate the people, there are musicians and non-musicians; of the
rest, some "are very fond of music," and others "do not care for it."
Only in Germany is it made a point of honor to be "musical," that is to
say, not merely to love music, but more especially to understand it as
regards its technical means of expression, and to obey their rules.

A thousand hands support the buoyant child and solicitously attend its
footsteps, that it may not soar aloft where there might be risk of a
serious fall. But it is still so young, and is eternal; the day of its
freedom will come.--When it shall cease to be "musical."

                           *       *       *

THE creator should take over no traditional law in blind belief, which
would make him view his own creative endeavor, from the outset, as an
exception contrasting with that law. For his individual case he should
seek out and formulate a fitting individual law, which, after the first
complete realization, he should annul, that he himself may not be drawn
into repetitions when his next work shall be in the making.

The function of the creative artist consists in making laws, not in
following laws ready made. He who follows such laws, ceases to be a
creator.

Creative power may be the more readily recognized, the more it shakes
itself loose from tradition. But an intentional avoidance of the rules
cannot masquerade as creative power, and still less engender it.

The true creator strives, in reality, after _perfection_ only. And
through bringing this into harmony with _his own_ individuality, a new
law arises without premeditation.

                           *       *       *

So narrow has our tonal range become, so stereotyped its form of
expression, that nowadays there is not one familiar motive that cannot
be fitted with some other familiar motive so that the two may be played
simultaneously. Not to lose my way in trifling,[N] I shall refrain from
giving examples.

  [N] With a friend I once indulged in such trifling in order to
  ascertain how many commonly known compositions were written according
  to the scheme of the second theme in the Adagio of the Ninth Symphony.
  In a few moments we had collected some fifteen analogues of the most
  different kinds, among them specimens of the lowest type of art. And
  Beethoven himself:--Is the theme of the Finale in the "Fifth" any
  other than the one wherewith the "Second" introduces its Allegro?--or
  than the principal theme of the Third Piano Concerto, only in minor?

                           *       *       *

That which, within our present-day music, most nearly approaches the
essential nature of the art, is the Rest and the Hold (Pause).
Consummate players, improvisers, know how to employ these instruments of
expression in loftier and ampler measure. The tense silence between two
movements--_in itself music_, in this environment--leaves wider scope
for divination than the more determinate, but therefore less elastic,
sound.

                           *       *       *

What we now call our Tonal System is nothing more than a set of "signs";
an ingenious device to grasp somewhat of that eternal harmony; a meagre
pocket-edition of that encyclopedic work; artificial light instead of
the sun.--Have you ever noticed how people gaze open-mouthed at the
brilliant illumination of a hall? They never do so at the millionfold
brighter sunshine of noonday.--

And so, in music, the signs have assumed greater consequence than that
which they ought to stand for, and can only suggest.

How important, indeed, are "Third," "Fifth," and "Octave"! How strictly
we divide "consonances" from "dissonances"--_in a sphere where no
dissonances can possibly exist_!

We have divided the octave into twelve equidistant degrees, because we
had to manage somehow, and have constructed our instruments in such a
way that we can never get in above or below or between them. Keyboard
instruments, in particular, have so thoroughly schooled our ears that we
are no longer capable of hearing anything else--incapable of hearing
except through this impure medium. Yet Nature created an _infinite
gradation_--_infinite!_ who still knows it nowadays?[O]

  [O] "The equal temperament of 12 degrees, which was discussed
  theoretically as early as about 1500, but not established as a
  principle until shortly before 1700 (by Andreas Werkmeister),
  divides the octave into twelve equal portions (semitones, hence
  'twelve-semitone system') through which mean values are obtained;
  no interval is perfectly pure, but all are fairly serviceable."
  (Riemann, "Musik-Lexikon.") Thus, through Andreas Werkmeister, this
  master-workman in art, we have gained the "twelve-semitone" system
  with intervals which are all impure, but fairly serviceable. But what
  is "pure," and what "impure"? We hear a piano "gone out of tune," and
  whose intervals may thus have become "pure, but unserviceable," and it
  sounds _impure_ to us. The diplomatic "Twelve-semitone system" is an
  invention mothered by necessity; yet none the less do we sedulously
  guard its imperfections.

And within this duodecimal octave we have marked out a series of fixed
intervals, seven in number, and founded thereon our entire art of music.
What do I say--_one_ series? Two such series, one for each leg: The
Major and Minor Scales. When we start this series of intervals on some
other degree of our semitonic ladder, we obtain a _new key_, and a
"foreign" one, at that! How violently contracted a system arose from
this initial confusion,[P] may be read in the law-books; we will not
repeat it here.

  [P] It is termed "The Science of Harmony."

                           *       *       *

We teach four-and-twenty keys, twelve times the two Series of Seven;
but, in point of fact, we have at our command only two, the major key
and the minor key. _The rest are merely transpositions._ By means of the
several transpositions we are supposed to get different shades of
harmony; but this is an illusion. In England, under the reign of the
high "concert pitch," the most familiar works may be played a semitone
higher than they are written, without changing their effect. Singers
transpose an aria to suit their convenience, leaving untransposed what
precedes and follows. Song-writers not infrequently publish their own
compositions in three different pitches; in all three editions the
pieces are precisely alike.

When a well-known face looks out of a window, it matters not whether it
gazes down from the first story or the third.

Were it feasible to elevate or depress a landscape, far as eye can
reach, by several hundred yards, the pictorial impression would neither
gain nor lose by it.

                           *       *       *

Upon the two Series of Seven, the major key and the minor key, the whole
art of music has been established; one limitation brings on the other.

To each of these a definite character has been attributed; we have
learned and have taught that they should be heard as contrasts, and they
have gradually acquired the significance of symbols:--Major and
Minor--Maggiore e Minore--Contentment and Discontent--Joy and
Sorrow--Light and Shade. The harmonic symbols have fenced in the
expression of music, from Bach to Wagner, and yet further on until
to-day and the day after to-morrow. _Minor_ is employed with the same
intention, and has the same effect upon us now, as two hundred years
ago. Nowadays it is no longer possible to "compose" a funeral march, for
it already exists, once for all. Even the least informed
non-professional knows what to expect when a funeral march--whichever
you please--is to be played. Even such an one can anticipate the
difference between a symphony in major and one in minor. We are
tyrannized by Major and Minor--by the bifurcated garment.

                           *       *       *

Strange, that one should feel major and minor as opposites. They both
present the same face, now more joyous, now more serious; and a mere
touch of the brush suffices to turn the one into the other. The passage
from either to the other is easy and imperceptible; when it occurs
frequently and swiftly, the two begin to shimmer and coalesce
indistinguishably.--But when we recognize that major and minor form one
Whole with a double meaning, and that the "four-and-twenty keys" are
simply an elevenfold transposition of the original twain, we arrive
unconstrainedly at a perception of the UNITY _of our system of keys_
[tonality]. The conceptions of "related" and "foreign" keys vanish, and
with them the entire intricate theory of degrees and relations. _We
possess one single key._ But it is of most meagre sort.

                           *       *       *

"Unity of the key-system."

--"I suppose you mean that 'key' and 'key-system' are the sunbeam and
its diffraction into colors?"

No; that I can not mean. For our whole system of tone, key, and
tonality, taken in its entirety, is only a part of a fraction of one
diffracted ray from that Sun, "Music," in the empyrean of the "eternal
harmony."

                           *       *       *

However deeply rooted the attachment to the habitual, and inertia, may
be in the ways and nature of humankind, in equal measure are energy, and
opposition to the existing order, characteristic of all that has life.
Nature has her wiles, and persuades man, obstinately opposed though he
be to progress and change; Nature progresses continually and changes
unremittingly, but with so even and unnoticeable movement that men
perceive only quiescence. Only on looking backward from a distance do
they note with astonishment that they have been deceived.

The Reformer of any given period excites irritation for the reason that
his changes find men unprepared, and, above all, because these changes
are appreciable. The Reformer, in comparison with Nature, is
undiplomatic; and, as a wholly logical consequence, his changes do not
win general acceptance until Time, with subtle, imperceptible advance,
has bridged over the leap of the self-assured leader. Yet we find cases
in which the reformer marched abreast of the times, while the rest fell
behind. And then they have to be forced and lashed to take the leap
across the passage they have missed. I believe that the major-and-minor
key with its transpositional relations, our "twelve-semitone system,"
exhibits such a case of falling behind.

                           *       *       *

That some few have already felt how the intervals of the Series of Seven
might be differently arranged (graduated) is manifested in isolated
passages by Liszt, and recently by Debussy and his following, and even
by Richard Strauss. Strong impulse, longing, gifted instinct, all speak
from these strains. Yet it does not appear to me that a conscious and
orderly conception of this intensified means of expression had been
formed by these composers.

I have made an attempt to exhaust the possibilities of the arrangement
of degrees within the seven-tone scale; and succeeded, by raising and
lowering the intervals, in establishing _one hundred and thirteen
different scales_. These 113 scales (within the octave _C-C_) comprise
the greater part of our familiar twenty-four keys, and, furthermore, a
series of new keys of peculiar character. But with these the mine is not
exhausted, for we are at liberty to _transpose_ each one of these 113,
besides the blending of two such keys in harmony and melody.

There is a significant difference between the sound of the scale
_c-d♭-e♭-f♭-g♭-a♭-b♭-c_ when _c_ is taken as tonic, and the scale of
_d♭_ minor. By giving it the customary _C_-major triad as a fundamental
harmony, a novel harmonic sensation is obtained. But now listen to this
same scale supported alternately by the _A_-minor, _E♭_-major, and
_C_-major triads, and you cannot avoid a feeling of delightful surprise
at the strangely unfamiliar euphony.

But how would a lawgiver classify the tone-series
_c-d♭-e♭-f♭-g-a-b-c_, _c-d♭-e♭-f-g♭-a-b-c_, _c-d-e♭-f♭-g♭-a-b-c_,
_c-d♭-e-f-g♭-a-b♭-c_?--or these, forsooth: _c-d-e♭-f♭-g-a♯-b-c_,
_c-d-e♭-f♭-g♯-a-b-c_, _c-d♭-e♭-f♯-g♯-a-b♭-c_?

One cannot estimate at a glance what wealth of melodic and harmonic
expression would thus be opened up to the hearing; but a great many
novel possibilities may be accepted as certain, and are perceptible at a
glance.

                           *       *       *

With this presentation, the unity of all keys may be considered as
finally pronounced and justified. A kaleidoscopic blending and
interchanging of twelve semitones within the three-mirror tube of Taste,
Emotion, and Intention--the essential feature of the harmony of to-day.

                           *       *       *

The harmony of _to-day_, and not for long; for all signs presage a
revolution, and a next step toward that "eternal harmony." Let us once
again call to mind, that in this latter the gradation of the octave is
_infinite_, and let us strive to draw a little nearer to infinitude.
The tripartite tone (third of a tone) has for some time been demanding
admittance, and we have left the call unheeded. Whoever has
experimented, like myself (in a modest way), with this interval, and
introduced (either with voice or with violin) two equidistant
intermediate tones between the extremes of a whole tone, schooling his
ear and his precision of attack, will not have failed to discern that
tripartite tones are wholly independent intervals with a pronounced
character, and not to be confounded with ill-tuned semitones. They form
a refinement in chromatics based, as at present appears, on the
whole-tone scale. Were we to adopt them without further preparation, we
should have to give up the semitones and lose our "minor third" and
"perfect fifth;" and this loss would be felt more keenly than the
relative gain of a system of eighteen one-third tones.

But there is no apparent reason for giving up the semitones for the sake
of this new system. By retaining, for each whole tone, a semitone, we
obtain a second series of whole tones lying a semitone higher than the
original series. Then, by dividing this second series of whole tones
into third-tones, each third-tone in the lower series will be matched by
a semitone in the higher series.

Thus we have really arrived at a system of whole tones divided into
sixths of a tone; and we may be sure that even sixth-tones will
sometime be adopted into musical speech. But the tonal system above
sketched must first of all train the hearing to thirds of a tone,
without giving up the semitones.

To summarize: We may set up either two series of third-tones, with an
interval of a semitone between the series; or, the usual semitonic
series _thrice repeated_ at the interval of one-third of a tone.

Merely for the sake of distinction, let us call the first tone _C_, and
the next third-tones _C♯_, and _D♭_; the first semitone (small) _c_, and
its following thirds _c♯_ and _d♭_; the result is fully explained by the
table below:

[Music]

A preliminary expedient for notation might be, to draw six lines for the
staff, using the lines for the whole tones and the spaces for the
semitones:

[Music]

then indicating the third-tones by sharps and flats:

[Music]

The question of notation seems to me subordinate. On the other hand, the
question is important and imperious, how and on what these tones are to
be produced. Fortunately, while busied with this essay, I received from
America direct and authentic intelligence which solves the problem in a
simple manner. I refer to an invention by Dr. Thaddeus Cahill.[Q] He has
constructed a comprehensive apparatus which makes it possible to
transform an electric current into a fixed and mathematically exact
number of vibrations. As pitch depends on the number of vibrations, and
the apparatus may be "set" on any number desired, the infinite gradation
of the octave may be accomplished by merely moving a lever corresponding
to the pointer of a quadrant.

  [Q] "New Music for an Old World." Dr. Thaddeus Cahill's Dynamophone,
  an extraordinary electrical invention for producing scientifically
  perfect music. Article in McClure's Magazine for July, 1906, by Ray
  Stannard Baker. Readers interested in the details of this invention
  are referred to the above-mentioned magazine article.

Only a long and careful series of experiments, and a continued training
of the ear, can render this unfamiliar material approachable and plastic
for the coming generation, and for Art.

                           *       *       *

And what a vista of fair hopes and dreamlike fancies is thus opened for
them both! Who has not dreamt that he could float on air? and firmly
believed his dream to be reality?--Let us take thought, how music may be
restored to its primitive, natural essence; let us free it from
architectonic, acoustic and esthetic dogmas; let it be pure invention
and sentiment, in harmonies, in forms, in tone-colors (for invention and
sentiment are not the prerogative of melody alone); let it follow the
line of the rainbow and vie with the clouds in breaking sunbeams; _let
Music be naught else than Nature mirrored by and reflected from the
human breast_; for it is sounding air and floats above and beyond the
air; within Man himself as universally and absolutely as in Creation
entire; for it can gather together and disperse without losing in
intensity.

                           *       *       *

IN his book "Beyond the Good and the Bad" (_Jenseits von Gut und Böse_)
Nietzsche says: "With regard to German music I consider precaution
necessary in various ways. Assuming that a person loves the South (as I
love it) as a great training-school for health of soul and sense in
their highest potency, as an uncontrollable flood and glamour of
sunshine spreading over a race of independent and self-reliant
beings;--well, such an one will learn to be more or less on his guard
against German music, because, while spoiling his taste anew, it
undermines his health.

"Such a Southlander (not by descent, but by belief) must, should he
dream of the future of music, likewise dream of a redemption of music
from the North, while in his ears there rings the prelude to a deeper,
mightier, perchance a more evil and more mysterious music, a
super-German music, which does not fade, wither and die away in view of
the blue, sensuous sea and the splendor of Mediterranean skies, as all
German music does;--a super-European music, that asserts itself even
amid the tawny sunsets of the desert, whose soul is allied with the
palm-tree, and can consort and prowl with great, beautiful, lonely
beasts of prey.

"I could imagine a music whose rarest charm should consist in its
complete divorce from the Good and the Bad;--only that its surface might
be ruffled, as it were, by a longing as of a sailor for home, by
variable golden shadows and tender frailties:--an Art which should see
fleeing toward it, from afar off, the hues of a perishing moral world
become wellnigh incomprehensible, and which should be hospitable and
profound enough to harbor such belated fugitives."

And Tolstoi transmutes a landscape-impression into a musical impression
when he writes, in "Lucerne": "Neither on the lake, nor on the
mountains, nor in the skies, a single straight line, a single unmixed
color, a single point of repose;--everywhere movement, irregularity,
caprice, variety, an incessant interplay of shades and lines, and in it
all the reposefulness, softness, harmony and inevitableness of Beauty."

Will this music ever be attained?

"Not all reach Nirvana; but he who, gifted from the beginning, learns
everything that one ought to learn, experiences all that one should
experience, renounces what one should renounce, develops what one should
develop, realizes what one should realize--he shall reach Nirvana."[R]
(Kern, _Geschichte des Buddhismus in Indien_.)

  [R] As if anticipating my thoughts, M. Vincent d'Indy has just written
  me: "... laissant de côté les contingences et les petitesses de la
  vie pour regarder constamment vers un idéal qu'on ne pourra jamais
  atteindre, mais dont il est permis de se rapprocher."

If Nirvana be the realm "beyond the Good and the Bad," _one_ way leading
thither is here pointed out. A way to the very portal. To the bars that
divide Man from Eternity--or that open to admit that which was temporal.
Beyond that portal sounds _music_. Not the strains of "musical
art."[S]--It may be, that we must leave Earth to find that music. But
only to the pilgrim who has succeeded on the way in freeing himself from
earthly shackles, shall the bars open.

  [S] I think I have read, somewhere, that Liszt confined his Dante
  Symphony to the two movements, _Inferno_ and _Purgatorio_, "because
  our tone-speech is inadequate to express the felicities of Paradise."



ADDENDA


FEELING--like honesty--is a moral point of honor, an attribute of whose
possession no one will permit denial, which claims a place in life and
art alike. But while, in life, a want of feeling may be forgiven to the
possessor of a more brilliant attribute, such as bravery or impartial
justice, in art feeling is held to be the highest moral qualification.

In music, however, feeling requires two consorts, taste and style. Now,
in life, one encounters real taste as seldom as deep and true feeling;
as for style, it is a province of art. What remains, is a species of
pseudo-emotion which must be characterized as lachrymose hysteria or
turgidity. And, above all, people insist upon having it plainly paraded
before their eyes! It must be underscored, so that everybody shall stop,
look, and listen. The audience sees it, greatly magnified, thrown on the
screen, so that it dances before the vision in vague, importunate
vastness; it is cried on the streets, to summon them that dwell remote
from art; it is gilded, to make the destitute stare in amaze.

For in life, too, the _expressions_ of feeling, by mien and words, are
oftenest employed; rarer, and more genuine, is that feeling which acts
without talk; and most precious is the feeling which hides itself.

"Feeling" is generally understood to mean tenderness, pathos, and
extravagance, of expression. But how much more does the marvelous flower
"Emotion" enfold! Restraint and forbearance, renunciation, power,
activity, patience, magnanimity, joyousness, and that all-controlling
intelligence wherein feeling actually takes its rise.

It is not otherwise in Art, which holds the mirror up to Life; and still
more outspokenly in Music, which repeats the emotions of Life--though
for this, as I have said, taste and style must be added; Style, which
distinguishes Art from Life.

What the amateur and the mediocre artist attempt to express, is feeling
in little, in detail, for a short stretch.

Feeling on a grand scale is mistaken by the amateur, the semi-artist,
the public (and the critics too, unhappily!), for a want of emotion,
because they all are unable to hear the longer reaches as parts of a yet
more extended whole. Feeling, therefore, is likewise economy.

Hence, I distinguish feeling as Taste, as Style, as Economy. Each a
whole in itself, and each one-third of the Whole. Within and over them
rules a subjective trinity: Temperament, Intelligence, and the instinct
of Equipoise.

These six carry on a dance of such subtility in the choice of partners
and intertwining of figures, in the bearing and the being borne, in
advancing and curtesying, in motion and repose, that no loftier height
of artistry is conceivable.

When the chords of the two triads are in perfect tune, Fantasy may--nay,
must--associate with Feeling; supported by the Six, she will not
degenerate, and out of this combination of all the elements arises
Individuality. The individuality catches, like a lens, the
light-impressions, reflects them, according to its nature, as a
negative, and the hearer perceives the true picture.

                           *       *       *

In so far as taste participates in feeling, the latter--like all
else--alters its forms of expression with the period. That is, one
aspect or another of feeling will be favored at one time or another,
onesidedly cultivated, especially developed. Thus, with and after
Wagner, voluptuous sensuality came to the fore; the form of
_intensification of passion_ is still unsurmounted by contemporary
composers. On every tranquil beginning followed a swift upward surge.
Wagner, in this point insatiable, but not inexhaustible, turned from
sheer necessity to the expedient, after reaching a climax, of starting
afresh softly, to soar to a sudden new intensification.

Modern French writers exhibit a revulsion; their feeling is a reflexive
chastity, or perhaps rather a restrained sensualism; the upstriving
mountain-paths of Wagner are succeeded by monotonous plains of twilight
uniformity.

Thus "style" forms itself out of feeling, when led by taste.

                           *       *       *

The "Apostles of the Ninth Symphony" have devised the notion of "depth"
in music. It is still current at face-value, especially in Germanic
lands.

There is a depth of feeling, and a depth of thought; the latter is
literary, and can have no application to tones. Depth of feeling, by
contrast, is psychical, and thoroughly germane to the nature of music.
The Apostles of the Ninth Symphony have a peculiar and not quite clearly
defined estimate of "depth" in music. _Depth_ becomes _breadth_, and the
attempt is made to attain it through _weight_; it then discovers itself
(through an association of ideas) by a preference for a _deep register_,
and (as I have had opportunity to observe) by the insinuation of a
second, mysterious notion, usually of a literary sort. If these are not
the sole specific signs, they are the most important ones.

To every disciple of philosophy, however, depth of feeling would seem to
imply exhaustiveness in feeling, a complete absorption in the given
mood.

Whoever, surrounded by the full tide of a genuine carnival crowd, slinks
about morosely or even indifferently, neither affected nor carried away
by the tremendous self-satire of mask and motley, by the might of
misrule over law, by the vengeful feeling of wit running riot, shows
himself incapable of sounding the depths of feeling. This gives further
confirmation of the fact, that depth of feeling roots in a complete
absorption in the given mood, however frivolous, and blossoms in the
interpretation of that mood; whereas the current conception of deep
feeling singles out only one aspect of feeling in man, and specializes
that.

In the so-called "Champagne Aria" in Don Giovanni there lies more
"depth" than in many a funeral march or nocturne:--Depth of feeling also
shows in not wasting it on subordinate or unimportant matters.

                           *       *       *

ROUTINE is highly esteemed and frequently required; in musical
"officialdom" it is a _sine qua non_. That routine in music should exist
at all, and, furthermore, that it can be nominated as a condition in the
musician's bond, is another proof of the narrow confines of our musical
art. Routine signifies the acquisition of a modicum of experience and
artcraft, and their application to all cases which may occur; hence,
there must be an astounding number of analogous cases. Now, I like to
imagine a species of art-praxis wherein each case should be a new one,
an exception! How helpless and impotent would the army of practical
musicians stand before it!--in the end they would surely beat a retreat,
and disappear. Routine transforms the temple of art into a factory. It
destroys creativeness. For creation means, the bringing form out of the
void; whereas routine flourishes on imitation. It is "poetry made to
order." It rules because it suits the generality: In the theatre, in the
orchestra, in virtuosi, in instruction. One longs to exclaim, "Avoid
routine! Let each beginning be, as had none been before! Know nothing,
but rather think and feel! For, behold, the myriad strains that once
shall sound have existed since the beginning, ready, afloat in the
æther, and together with them other myriads that shall never be heard.
Only stretch forth your hands, and ye shall grasp a blossom, a breath of
the sea-breeze, a sunbeam; avoid routine, for it strives to grasp only
that wherewith your four walls are filled, and the same over and over
again; the spirit of ease so infects you, that you will scarcely leave
your armchairs, and will lay hold only of what is nearest to hand. And
myriad strains are there since the beginning, still waiting for
manifestation!"

                           *       *       *

"It is my misfortune, to possess no routine," Wagner once wrote Liszt,
when the composition of "Tristan" was making no progress. Thus Wagner
deceived himself, and wore a mask for others. He had too much routine,
and his composing-machinery was thrown out of gear, just when a tangle
formed in the mesh which only inspiration could unloose. True, Wagner
found the clew when he succeeded in throwing off routine; but had he
really never possessed it, he would have declared the fact without
bitterness. And, after all, this sentence in Wagner's letter expresses
the true artist-contempt for routine, inasmuch as he waives all claim to
a qualification which he thinks meanly of, and takes care that others
may not invest him with it. This self-praise he utters with a mien of
ironic desperation. He is, in very truth, unhappy that composition is at
a standstill, but finds rich consolation in the consciousness that his
genius is above the cheap expedients of routine; at the same time, with
an air of modesty, he sorrowfully confesses that he has not acquired a
training belonging to the craft.

The sentence is a masterpiece of the native cunning of the instinct of
self-preservation; but equally proves--and that is our point--the
pettiness of routine in creative work.

                           *       *       *

RESPECT the Pianoforte! Its disadvantages are evident, decided, and
unquestionable: The lack of sustained tone, and the pitiless, unyielding
adjustment of the inalterable semitonic scale.

But its advantages and prerogatives approach the marvelous.

It gives a single man command over something complete; in its
potentialities from softest to loudest in one and the same register it
excels all other instruments. The trumpet can blare, but not sigh;
contrariwise the flute; the pianoforte can do both. Its range embraces
the highest and deepest practicable tones. Respect the Pianoforte!

Let doubters consider how the pianoforte was esteemed by Bach, Mozart,
Beethoven, Liszt, who dedicated their choicest thoughts to it.

And the pianoforte has one possession wholly peculiar to itself, an
inimitable device, a photograph of the sky, a ray of moonlight--the
Pedal.

The effects of the pedal are unexhausted, because they have remained
even to this day the drudges of a narrow-souled and senseless harmonic
theory; the treatment accorded them is like trying to mould air or water
into geometric forms. Beethoven, who incontestably achieved the greatest
progress on and for the pianoforte, divined the mysteries of the pedal,
and to him we owe the first liberties.

The pedal is in ill-repute. For this, absurd irregularities must bear
the blame. Let us experiment with _sensible_ irregularities.

                           *       *       *

"I FELT ... that the book I shall write will be neither in English nor
in Latin; and this for the one reason ... namely, that the language in
which it may be given me not only to write, but also to think, will not
be Latin, or English, or Italian, or Spanish, but a language not even
one of whose words I know, a language in which dumb things speak to me,
and in which, it may be, I shall at last have to respond in my grave to
an Unknown Judge."

                                   (Von Hofmannsthal: A letter.)



  [ Transcriber's Note:

    The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first
    line is the original line, the second the corrected one.

     I know not what; the Unknown I would have!
    "I know not what; the Unknown I would have!

  même en avoir établi tout la développement ..." [Vincent d'Indy, in
  même en avoir établi tout le développement ..." [Vincent d'Indy, in

                                    (Von Hoffmannsthal: A letter.)
                                     (Von Hofmannsthal: A letter.)

  ]





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