The Psychology of Beauty by Ethel D. Puffer (good non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

The first unique cause to settle the type of a regular scale is the instrument.” To this material we have to apply only that “natural persuasion of the ear” which we have already explained, to account for the full development of music.

<1> Primitive Music, 1893, p. 156.

The beauty of music, in so far as beauty is identical with pleasantness, consists in its satisfaction of the demands of the ear, and of the whole psychophysical organism as connected with the ear. It is now time to return to a thread dropped at the beginning. It was said that a common way of settling the musical experience was to make musical beauty the object of perception, and musical expression the object, or source, of emotion. This view seems to attach itself to all shades of theory. Hanslick always contrasts intellectual activity as attaching to the form, and emotion as attaching to the sensuous material (that is, the physical effects of motion, loud or soft sound, tempo, etc.). He speaks of the aesthetic criterion of INTELLIGENT gratification. “The truly musical listener” has “his attention absorbed by the particular form and character of the composition,” “the unique position which the INTELLECTUAL

ELEMENT in music occupies in relation to FORMS and SUBSTANCE

(subject).” M. Dauriac in the same way separates the emotion of music<1> as a product of nervous excitations, from the appreciation of it as beautiful. “It is probably that the pleasure caused by rhythm and color prevails with a pretty large number, with the greatest number, over the pleasure in the musical form, pleasure too exclusively PSYCHOLOGICAL for one to be content with it alone….The musical sense implies the intelligence….The theory…applies to a great number of sonorous sensations, and not at all to any musical perceptions.”

Mr. W.H. Hadow<2> tells us that it is the duty of the musician not to flatter the sense with an empty compliment of sound, but to reach through sensation to the mental faculties within.

And again we read “the art of the composer is in a sense the discovery and exposition of the INTELLIGIBLE relations in the multifarious material at his command.”<3>

<1> “Le Plaisir et l’Emotion Musicale,” Rev. Philos., Tome 42, No. 7.

<2> Op. cit., p. 47.

<3> Grove’s Dict. Art. “Relationship.”

Now it is not hard to see how this antithesis has come about.

But that the work of a master is always capable of logical analysis does not prove that our apprehension of it is a logical act. And the preceding discussion has wholly failed to make its point, if it is not now clear that the musical experience is an impression and not a judgment; that the feeling of tonality is not a judgment of tonality, and that though the aesthetic enjoyment of music extends only to those limits within which the feeling of tonality is active, that feeling is more likely than not to be quite unintelligible to the listener.

Indeed, if it were not so, we should have to restrict, by hypothesis, the enjoyment of music to those able to give a technical report of what they hear,—which is notoriously at odds with the facts. That psychologist is quite right who holds<1> that psychology, in laying down a principle explaining the actual effect of a musical piece, is not justified in confining itself to skilled musicians and taking no notice of more than nine tenths of those who listen to the piece. But on the understanding that the tonality-feeling acts subconsciously, that our satisfaction with the progression of notes is unexplained by the laws of acoustics and association, we are enabled to bring within the circle of those who have the musical experience even those nine tenths whose intellects are not actively participant.

<1> Lazarus, Das Leben der Seele, ii, p. 323.

The fact is that musical form, in the sense of structure, balance, symmetry, and proportion in the arrangement of phrases, and in the contrasting of harmonies and keys, is different from the musical form which is felt intimately, intrinsically, as the desired, the demanded progress from one note to another. Structure is indeed perceived, understood, enjoyed as an orderly unified arrangement. Form is felt as an immediate joy. Structure it is which many critics have in mind when they speak of form, and it is the confusion between the two which makes such an antithesis of musical beauty and sensuous material possible. The real musical beauty, it is clear, is in the melodic idea; in the sequence of tones which are indissolubly one, which are felt together, one of which cannot exist without the other. Musical beauty is in the intrinsic musical form. And yet here, too, we must admit, that, in the last analysis, structure and form need not be different. The perfect structure will be such a unity that it, too, will be FELT as one—not only “the orderly distribution of harmonies and keys in such a manner that the mind can realize the concatenation as a complete and distinct work of art.” The ideal musical consciousness would have an ideally great range; it would not only realize the concatenation, but it would take it in as one takes in a single phrase, a simple tune, retaining it from first not to last. The ordinary musical consciousness has merely a much shorter breath. It can “feel”

an air, a movement; it cannot “feel” a symphony, it can only perceive the relation of keys and harmonies therein. With repeated hearing, study, experience, this span of beauty may be indefinitely extended—in the individual, as in the race. But no one will deny that the direct experience of beauty, the single aesthetic thrill, is measured exactly by the length of this span. It is only genius—hearer or composer—who can operate “a longue haleine.”

So it is that we must understand the development in musical form from the cut and dried sonata form to the wayward yet infinitely greater beauty of Beethoven; and thence to the “free forms” of modern music. “Infinite melody” is a contradiction in terms, because when the first term cannot be present in consciousness with the last there is nothing to control and direct the progression; and our musical memory is limited. Yet we can conceive, theoretically, the possibility of an indefinite widening of the memory.

It was on some such grounds as these that Poe laid down his famous “Poetic Principle,”—that a long poem does not exist; that “a long poem” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

He says, indeed, that because “elevating excitement,” the end of a poem, is “through a psychical necessity” transient, therefore no poem should be longer than the natural term of such excitement. It is clearly possible to substitute for “elevating excitement,” immediate musical feeling of the individual. What is the meaning of “feeling,” “impression,”

here? It is the power of entering into a Gestaltsqualitat—

a motor group, a scheme in which every element is the mechanical cue to the following. Beauty ceases for the hearer where this carrying power, the “funded capital” of tone-linkings ceases. In just the same way, if rhythm were a perception rather than an impression, we ought to be able to apprehend a rhythm of which the unit periods were hours. Yet we may so bridge over the moments of beauty in experience that we are enabled, without stretching to a breaking-point, to speak of a symphony or an opera as a single beautiful work of art.

But what of the difficulties which such a theory must meet?

The most obvious one is the short life of musical works. If musical beauty is founded in natural laws, why does music so quickly grow old? The answer is that music is a phenomenon of expectation as founded on these natural laws. It is the tendency of one note to progress to another which is the basis of the vividness of our experience. We expect, indeed, what belongs objectively to the development of a melody, but only that particular variety of progression to which we have become accustomed. So it is that music which presents only the old, simple progressions gives the greatest sense of ease, but the least sense of effort—the ideal motion not being hindered on its way. Intensity, vividness, would be felt where the progression is less obvious, but felt as “fitting in” when it is once made; and where it is not obvious at all—where the link is not felt, a sense of dissatisfaction and restlessness arises. So it is with music which we know by heart. It is not that we know each note, and so expect it, but that it is felt as necessarily issuing out of the preceding. A piece of poor music, really heterogeneous and unconnected, might be thoroughly familiar, and yet never, in this sense, felt as SATISFYING expectation. In the same way, music in which the progressions were germane to the existing tonality-feeling, while still not absolutely obvious, would not be less quickening to the musical sense, even if learned by heart. It is clear that there is an external and an internal expectation—one, imposed by memory, for the particular piece; the other constituted partly by intrinsic internal relations, partly by the degree to which these internal relations have been exploited. That is, the possibility of musical expectation, and pleasure in its satisfaction, is conditioned by the possession of a tonality-feeling which covers the constituents of the piece of music, but which has not become absolutely mechanical in its action. Just as rhythm needs an obstacle to make the structure felt, so melody needs some variation from the obvious set of relations already won and possessed. If that possession is too complete, the melody becomes as stale and uninteresting as would a 3-4

rhythm without a change or a break.

The test of genius in music, of the width and depth of mastery, is to be able to become familiar without ceasing to be strange.

On the other hand, if in music to be great is always to be misunderstood, it is no less true, here as elsewhere, that to be misunderstood is not always to be great. And music may be merely strange, and pass into oblivion, without ever having passed that stage of surprised and delighted acceptance which is the test of its truth to fundamental laws.

But how shall music advance? How shall it set out to win new relations? It is at least conceivable that it takes the method of another art which we have just studied. To get new beauties, it does not say,—Go to, I will add to the beauties I already have! It makes new occasions, and by way of these finds the impulse it seeks. Renoir paints the baigneuse of Montmartre, and finds “the odd, beautiful huddle of lines” in so doing; Rodin portrays ever new subtleties of situation and mood, and by way of these comes most naturally to “the unedited poses.”

So a musician, we may imagine, comes to new and strange utterances by way of a new and strange motion or cry that he imitates. Out of the various bents and impulses that these give him he chooses the ones that chance to be beautiful. And in time these new beauties have become worn away like the trite metaphors that are now no longer metaphors, but part of the “funded capital.” That was a ridiculous device of Schumann’s, who found a motif for one of his loveliest things by using the letters of his temporary fair one’s name—A B E G G; but it may not be so utterly unlike the procedure by which music grows.

But what provision must be made for the emotions of music? It cannot be that the majority of musicians, who are strangely enough