_
I--PROLOGUE
INTRODUCTORY FOOTNOTE BY CHARLES IVES
"These prefatory essays were written by the composer for those
who can't stand his music--and the music for those who can't
stand his essays; to those who can't stand either, the whole is
respectfully dedicated."
INTRODUCTION
The following pages were written primarily as a preface or reason
for the [writer's] second Pianoforte Sonata--"Concord, Mass.,
1845,"--a group of four pieces, called a sonata for want of a
more exact name, as the form, perhaps substance, does not justify
it. The music and prefaces were intended to be printed together,
but as it was found that this would make a cumbersome volume they
are separate. The whole is an attempt to present [one person's]
impression of the spirit of transcendentalism that is associated
in the minds of many with Concord, Mass., of over a half century
ago. This is undertaken in impressionistic pictures of Emerson
and Thoreau, a sketch of the Alcotts, and a Scherzo supposed to
reflect a lighter quality which is often found in the fantastic
side of Hawthorne. The first and last movements do not aim to
give any programs of the life or of any particular work of either
Emerson or Thoreau but rather composite pictures or impressions.
They are, however, so general in outline that, from some
viewpoints, they may be as far from accepted impressions (from
true conceptions, for that matter) as the valuation which they
purport to be of the influence of the life, thought, and
character of Emerson and Thoreau is inadequate.
PROLOGUE
How far is anyone justified, be he an authority or a layman, in
expressing or trying to express in terms of music (in sounds, if
you like) the value of anything, material, moral, intellectual,
or spiritual, which is usually expressed in terms other than
music? How far afield can music go and keep honest as well as
reasonable or artistic? Is it a matter limited only by the
composer's power of expressing what lies in his subjective or
objective consciousness? Or is it limited by any limitations of
the composer? Can a tune literally represent a stonewall with
vines on it or with nothing on it, though it (the tune) be made
by a genius whose power of objective contemplation is in the
highest state of development? Can it be done by anything short of
an act of mesmerism on the part of the composer or an act of
kindness on the part of the listener? Does the extreme
materializing of music appeal strongly to anyone except to those
without a sense of humor--or rather with a sense of humor?--or,
except, possibly to those who might excuse it, as Herbert Spencer
might by the theory that the sensational element (the sensations
we hear so much about in experimental psychology) is the true
pleasurable phenomenon in music and that the mind should not be
allowed to interfere? Does the success of program music depend
more upon the program than upon the music? If it does, what is
the use of the music, if it does not, what is the use of the
program? Does not its appeal depend to a great extent on the
listener's willingness to accept the theory that music is the
language of the emotions and ONLY that? Or inversely does not
this theory tend to limit music to programs?--a limitation as bad
for music itself--for its wholesome progress,--as a diet of
program music is bad for the listener's ability to digest
anything beyond the sensuous (or physical-emotional). To a great
extent this depends on what is meant by emotion or on the
assumption that the word as used above refers more to the
EXPRESSION, of, rather than to a meaning in a deeper sense--which
may be a feeling influenced by some experience perhaps of a
spiritual nature in the expression of which the intellect has
some part. "The nearer we get to the mere expression of emotion,"
says Professor Sturt in his "Philosophy of Art and Personality,"
"as in the antics of boys who have been promised a holiday, the
further we get away from art."
On the other hand is not all music, program-music,--is not pure
music, so called, representative in its essence? Is it not
program-music raised to the nth power or rather reduced to the
minus nth power? Where is the line to be drawn between the
expression of subjective and objective emotion? It is easier to
know what each is than when each becomes what it is. The
"Separateness of Art" theory--that art is not life but a
reflection of it--"that art is not vital to life but that life is
vital to it," does not help us. Nor does Thoreau who says not
that "life is art," but that "life is an art," which of course is
a different thing than the foregoing. Tolstoi is even more
helpless to himself and to us. For he eliminates further. From
his definition of art we may learn little more than that a kick
in the back is a work of art, and Beethoven's 9th Symphony is
not. Experiences are passed on from one man to another. Abel knew
that. And now we know it. But where is the bridge placed?--at the
end of the road or only at the end of our vision? Is it all a
bridge?--or is there no bridge because there is no gulf? Suppose
that a composer writes a piece of music conscious that he is
inspired, say, by witnessing an act of great self-sacrifice--
another piece by the contemplation of a certain trait of nobility
he perceives in a friend's character--and another by the sight of
a mountain lake under moonlight. The first two, from an
inspirational standpoint would naturally seem to come under the
subjective and the last under the objective, yet the chances are,
there is something of the quality of both in all. There may have
been in the first instance physical action so intense or so
dramatic in character that the remembrance of it aroused a great
deal more objective emotion than the composer was conscious of
while writing the music. In the third instance, the music may
have been influenced strongly though subconsciously by a vague
remembrance of certain thoughts and feelings, perhaps of a deep
religious or spiritual nature, which suddenly came to him upon
realizing the beauty of the scene and which overpowered the first
sensuous pleasure--perhaps some such feeling as of the conviction
of immortality, that Thoreau experienced and tells about in
Walden. "I penetrated to those meadows...when the wild river and
the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as would have
waked the dead IF they had been slumbering in their graves as
some suppose. There needs no stronger proof of immortality."
Enthusiasm must permeate it, but what it is that inspires an art-
effort is not easily determined much less classified. The word
"inspire" is used here in the sense of cause rather than effect.
A critic may say that a certain movement is not inspired. But
that may be a matter of taste--perhaps the most inspired music
sounds the least so--to the critic. A true inspiration may lack a
true expression unless it is assumed that if an inspiration is
not true enough to produce a true expression--(if there be anyone
who can definitely determine what a true expression is)--it is
not an inspiration at all.
Again suppose the same composer at another time writes a piece of
equal merit to the other three, as estimates go; but holds that
he is not conscious of what inspired it--that he had nothing
definite in mind--that he was not aware of any mental image or
process--that, naturally, the actual work in creating something
gave him a satisfying feeling of pleasure perhaps of elation.
What will you substitute for the mountain lake, for his friend's
character, etc.? Will you substitute anything? If so why? If so
what? Or is it enough to let the matter rest on the pleasure
mainly physical, of the tones, their color, succession, and
relations, formal or informal? Can an inspiration come from a
blank mind? Well--he tries to explain and says that he was
conscious of some emotional excitement and of a sense of
something beautiful, he doesn't know exactly what--a vague
feeling of exaltation or perhaps of profound sadness.
What is the source of these instinctive feelings, these vague
intuitions and introspective sensations? The more we try to
analyze the more vague they become. To pull them apart and
classify them as "subjective" or "objective" or as this or as
that, means, that they may be well classified and that is about
all: it leaves us as far from the origin as ever. What does it
all mean? What is behind it all? The "voice of God," says the
artist, "the voice of the devil," says the man in the front row.
Are we, because we are, human beings, born with the power of
innate perception of the beautiful in the abstract so that an
inspiration can arise through no external stimuli of sensation or
experience,--no association with the outward? Or was there
present in the above instance, some kind of subconscious,
instantaneous, composite image, of all the mountain lakes this
man had ever seen blended as kind of overtones with the various
traits of nobility of many of his friends embodied in one
personality? Do all inspirational images, states, conditions, or
whatever they may be truly called, have for a dominant part, if
not for a source, some actual experience in life or of the social
relation? To think that they do not--always at least--would be a
relief; but as we are trying to consider music made and heard by
human beings (and not by birds or angels) it seems difficult to
suppose that even subconscious images can be separated from some
human experience--there must be something behind subconsciousness
to produce consciousness, and so on. But whatever the elements
and origin of these so-called images are, that they DO stir deep
emotional feelings and encourage their expression is a part of
the unknowable we know. They do often arouse something that has
not yet passed the border line between subconsciousness and
consciousness--an artistic intuition (well named, but)--object
and cause unknown!--here is a program!--conscious or subconscious
what does it matter? Why try to trace any stream that flows
through the garden of consciousness to its source only to be
confronted by another problem of tracing this source to its
source? Perhaps Emerson in the _Rhodora_ answers by not trying to
explain
That if eyes were made for seeing Then beauty is its own excuse
for being: Why thou wert there, O, rival of the rose! I never
thought to ask, I never knew; But, in my simple ignorance,
suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
Perhaps Sturt answers by substitution: "We cannot explain the
origin of an artistic intuition any more than the origin of any
other primary function of our nature. But if as I believe
civilization is mainly founded on those kinds of unselfish human
interests which we call knowledge and morality it is easily
intelligible that we should have a parallel interest which we
call art closely akin and lending powerful support to the other
two. It is intelligible too that moral goodness, intellectual
power, high vitality, and strength should be approved by the
intuition." This reduces, or rather brings the problem back to a
tangible basis namely:--the translation of an artistic intuition
into musical sounds approving and reflecting, or endeavoring to
approve and reflect, a "moral goodness," a "high vitality," etc.,
or any other human attribute mental, moral, or spiritual.
Can music do MORE than this? Can it DO this? and if so who and
what is to determine the degree of its failure or success? The
composer, the performer (if there be any), or those who have to
listen? One hearing or a century of hearings?-and if it isn't
successful or if it doesn't fail what matters it?--the fear of
failure need keep no one from the attempt for if the composer is
sensitive he need but launch forth a countercharge of "being
misunderstood" and hide behind it. A theme that the composer sets
up as "moral goodness" may sound like "high vitality," to his
friend and but like an outburst of "nervous weakness" or only a
"stagnant pool" to those not even his enemies. Expression to a
great extent is a matter of terms and terms are anyone's. The
meaning of "God" may have a billion interpretations if there be
that many souls in the world.
There is a moral in the "Nominalist and Realist" that will prove
all sums. It runs something like this: No matter how sincere and
confidential men are in trying to know or assuming that they do
know each other's mood and habits of thought, the net result
leaves a feeling that all is left unsaid; for the reason of their
incapacity to know each other, though they use the same words.
They go on from one explanation to another but things seem to
stand about as they did in the beginning "because of that vicious
assumption." But we would rather believe that music is beyond any
analogy to word language and that the time is coming, but not in
our lifetime, when it will develop possibilities unconceivable
now,--a language, so transcendent, that its heights and depths
will be common to all mankind.
Content of I--PROLOGUE [Charles Ives' essays: "Essays Before a Sonata"]
_