TRUSTY FERDINAND
The Germans have a curious story in which an incident occurs calling to mind Arion's famous adventure. It will be remembered that Arion, after having gained by his musical talents great riches, was, during a voyage, in imminent danger of being murdered by the sailors, who coveted the treasures he was carrying with him. When he found that his death was decided upon, he asked permission to strike once more his beloved lyre. And so feelingly did he play, that the fishes surrounding the ship took compassion. He threw himself into the water, and was carried ashore by a dolphin.
As regards Trusty Ferdinand, the hero of the German story, we are told that he, seeing a fish struggling near the shore and gasping for water, takes it by the tail and restores it to its element. Whereupon the fish, in gratitude, puts its head out of the water, and presents Trusty Ferdinand with a flute. "Shouldst thou ever stand in need of my assistance," says the fish, "only play upon this flute, and I will come and help thee." Sometime afterwards Trusty Ferdinand embarks on a voyage to a distant country. While on board a ship he has the misfortune to let drop into the sea a precious ring, upon the possession of which depends the happiness of a beautiful princess as well as his own happiness. He takes up his flute; as soon as he begins to play, the fish appears and reaches back to him the precious ring.
THE WILD HUNTSMAN
The Wild Huntsman tears through the forest at night attended by a noisy host, pursuing his furious chase with unearthly singing, with sounding of horns, with the barking of dogs, the clattering of horses, and with fearful shouting and hallooing. This widespread conception has been ascertained to date from ancient pagan time, in which Wuotan, (or Woden), the principal deity of German mythology, exhibits the characteristics commonly attributed to the Wild Huntsman. But it is new as well as old; for it suggests itself not less naturally at the present day than it suggested itself in bygone times – as the reader will perhaps know from his own experience, if he has ever found himself alone on a stormy moonlight night in a forest of Bohemia or Germany. In any case, he may be sure that it is no joke to traverse in such a night a forest which still continues in almost its primeval state.
For awhile everything appears silent as the grave, and the lonely pedestrian, pursuing some old track which faintly indicates the way to a village, is only occasionally bewildered by the sudden darkness occurring when a cloud obscures the moon, or by the startling brightness, should he reach unexpectedly a clearing in the forest just at the moment when a cloud has passed across the moon, casting not far before him its shadow, which like a spectre rapidly flits over the brushwood, assuming various uncouth shapes. Soon his imagination is excited by distant sounds never heard in open day – yelping of foxes, howling of wolves, grunting of wild boars; and now by the piteous cry of agony emitted by a bird which has fallen a prey to some ravenous beast. Presently he is startled by an awful noise like the galloping of a cavalcade: a herd of stags is hastily fleeing through the wood. The cavalcade seems to come straight upon him; but soon the noise grows weaker, and quickly dies away. Now a whirlwind sweeping over the forest, and violently shaking the tops of the trees, gradually approaches the harassed pedestrian. At first only groaning and grumbling, it soon bursts forth into a terrific howl; and as it furiously passes over the head of the involuntary witness, it scares from their hiding-places sundry owls, the hooting and screeching of which alone would suffice to make his hair stand on end. And when the whirlwind has swept over, and is only heard faintly murmuring in the distance, other sounds and apparitions not less terrifying are sure soon to arise. In short, the lonely wanderer, be he ever so intelligent an observer of nature, will most likely feel his heart eased of a heavy weight when he has left the forest behind him. Soon, having reached the end of his journey, he may put on his slippers with that comfortable sensation of relief which people are sure to experience when they have escaped an imminent danger. It is all very well for him now to persuade himself that, after all, he has only witnessed some interesting natural phenomena; he may perhaps even smile at the superstitious notions of simple-minded peasants. But of what avail is this to him? The night is not yet over, and he cannot escape a fearful dream of a personal encounter with the Wild Huntsman and his furious host.
From what has been said it will not surprise the reader that the reports of witnesses who profess to have met with the Wild Huntsman are at variance in many points. Much evidently depends upon the nature of the locality in which the mysterious apparition shows itself. In some parts of Germany particular stress is laid upon the softness and sweetness of his music. This conception may have originated in the pine-forests where the delicate needle-shaped leaves of the trees are vibrated by the wind like the strings of an Æolian harp. But, the blowing of the huntsman's horn seems to be an indispensable attribute to the furious chase. The country-folks in Mecklenburg, and in some other provinces in the North of Germany where Low German is spoken, on hearing the mysterious noise in the wood, say, "De Wode tüt!" ("Woden is tooting!") thereby implying a series of unrhythmical sounds rather than a melodious succession of tones on the horn – in fact, sounds very much like the hooting of the owl. It is moreover a common belief that a kind of owl, called by the peasants Tutosel, always accompanies the Wild Huntsman with his furious host.
An account of an extraordinary occurrence given by an honest witness is, of course, generally preferable to a statement of the same occurrence merely obtained from hearsay; and the evidence of the witness deserves all the greater attention if he shows himself to be an intelligent and keen observer. The subjoined report of the German Baron Reibnitz may therefore interest the reader. It was communicated by the Baron to the Philosophical Society in Görlitz, Silesia. As Görlitz possesses a Philosophical Society, there must be clever fellows in the town. Be this as it may, the document is authentic, and has been faithfully translated from the German.
THE BOLD GERMAN BARON
"The popular tradition of the Wild Huntsman, current in many places, prevails also still at the present day in my village of Zilmsdorf. From my earliest years I had been acquainted with it, but only from hearsay; and as soon as I had come into possession of my paternal inheritance, I gave the most stringent orders, especially to the nightwatch, to inform me immediately, at any hour of the night, should this event come to pass.
"About thirty years ago, towards eleven o'clock on a clear night in the month of May, I heard a knocking at my window: —
"'Gracious Baron!' cried my nightwatch, 'The Wild Huntsman! In the upper wood of Teuplitz!'
"I directly gave orders to arouse Stäglich, my gamekeeper, who at that time – I being then a bachelor – was groom, gamekeeper, house-steward, in short all in all to me, and was moreover just of my own age, and certainly an excellent forester.
"'Go, fetch the horses! Make haste! Don't stop to saddle – only the horse-cloth; the Wild Huntsman is in the forest; we will welcome him!'
"This was the very thing for Stäglich. In less than ten minutes we were mounted, well-armed, and were flying over meadows and ploughed fields towards the sounds of hunting-horns and the crying of hounds. Scarcely had we reached the heath when the noise ceased. We remained quiet. On a sudden we heard close by us a yelping much like that of a badger-dog when it has recovered the lost scent. Rapidly the yelping of dogs, large and small, with the sounds of horns, increased; and now commenced a truly furious chase, which moved towards the middle of the forest, where other hunting-horns besides were winding awfully. We spurred our horses and rushed forwards, but an impenetrable thicket compelled us to change our course, and to turn into a part of the forest where there was but little underwood, but where, notwithstanding the beautiful starlight night, it was so pitch dark that we really could not see the wood for the trees, as the saying is. The horses – which, as is well-known, are at night more nervous than men – shied several times.
"On a sudden the Wild Hunt appeared to come directly towards us, with a clamour so terrible that, as soon as we reached the summit of the hill where the highest forest trees stand, we called out to each other: 'Now at them!'
"Like a whirlwind it rushed past us, with awful music of voices and instruments, at a distance of scarcely forty paces. The horses snorted and shied, and that of my gamekeeper reared and fell backwards.
"'Heaven be merciful to us, and protect us!' we both cried. I hastened to his assistance, but he was already rising. Soon he was again at my side. Our horses nervously pressed close to each other. The Wild Hunt appeared to be over, when, after a little while, we heard it commencing anew a great distance off, in the open fields. Without waste of time we hastened in that direction, and soon reached the fields.
"The stars shone brightly and cheerfully. Now the Wild Hunt passed before us; but as we approached, it gradually went off in a curved line, with sounding of horns, crying of hounds, and clattering of horses. Soon it was far away on the distant heath.
"We rode home, where the nightwatch anxiously awaited us. He had already begun to doubt whether we should ever come back. It was past one o'clock."18
PROPHETIC CALLS OF BIRDS
The calls of birds are perhaps more frequently considered as good presages than as unlucky ones. Among the Slavonic nations, especially the Poles and Lithuanians, the hooting of the owl predicts misery and death. Also in Germany, if the little screech-owl makes its appearance in a village during a moonlight night, and settling on a farm-building emits its melancholy notes, some people are sure to hint that there will be ere long a death in the family of the householder. Moreover, a similar superstition prevails in Hindustan.19
The croaking of a raven is considered in Russia and Servia as foreboding the shedding of blood.20 The ancient tradition of the singing of the dying swan is familiar to everyone. Although our common swan does not produce sounds which might account for this tradition, it is a well-known fact that the wild swan (cygnus ferus), also called the whistling swan, when on the wing emits a shrill tone, which, however harsh it may sound if heard near, produces a pleasant effect when, emanating from a large flock high in the air, it is heard in a variety of pitches of sound, increasing or diminishing in loudness according to the movements of the birds and to the current of the wind. With the idea of the song of the dying swan appears to be connected the Scandinavian tradition of the Valkyrjas, who were maidens in armour with wings of swans. During a battle the Valkyrjas approached floating through the air, and hovering over the scene of carnage, they indicated who were to fall in the fight.21
The cuckoo is regarded by the Russians and by most other Slavonic nations as a bird of sadness. According to a Servian tradition the cuckoo (called kukawiza) was a girl who wept so continually for her deceased brother that she was transformed into a bird, which in two melancholy tones sends its unabating complaint through the air. A Servian girl who has lost her brother (lover?) never hears the cuckoo without shedding tears. Moreover, in Servia the cuckoo is considered as a prophetic bird, especially by the heyduk, or robber, who augurs from its earlier or later singing.22
Among the Germanic races the notes of the cuckoo, when in the spring it first makes itself heard, are generally considered as a good omen. It is still, as from Teutonic mythology it appears to have been in ancient time, a belief among the peasantry in Germany that if anybody counts the number of times this bird repeats its call, he may ascertain from it how many years he has still to live, or how many years will elapse before an event comes to pass which he has reason to expect. There is an old story told of a person who, having led a rather wicked life, in order to atone for it resolved to become a monk for the rest of his life. It happened that, just as he was entering the monastery, he heard the cuckoo crying its name the first time in the spring. He anxiously counted the number of calls; and finding them to amount to twenty-two repetitions, he at once changed his mind. "If I have to live twenty-two years longer," he argued with himself, "I may as well enjoy twenty years longer the pleasures of this world, and then I shall have two whole years left to denounce its vanities in a monastery." So he at once returned to the world.
The country-lasses in Sweden count the cuckoo's call to ascertain how many years they have still to remain unmarried; but they generally shut their ears and run away when they have heard it a few times. Should a girl hear it oftener than ten times, she will declare rather vexedly that she is not superstitious, and that she has not the least faith in the cuckoo's call.
WHISTLING
"Why! he makes music with his mouth!" exclaimed a native of Burmah when he observed an American missionary whistling; and the missionary noted down the words in his journal, with the reflection: "It is remarkable that the Burmese are entirely ignorant of whistling."23 But may not the simple-minded Asiatic only have been astonished in observing what he thought unbecoming in a gentleman who had come to Burmah to teach a new religion?
The Arabs generally disapprove of whistling, called by them el sifr. Some maintain that the whistler's mouth is not to be purified for forty days; while others are of opinion that Satan touching a man's person causes him to produce the offensive sound.24
The natives of the Tonga Islands, Polynesia, consider it wrong to whistle, as being disrespectful to their gods.25
In European countries people are met with who object to whistling on a certain day of the week, or at certain times of the day. The villagers in some districts of North Germany have the saying, that if one whistles in the evening it makes the angels weep. The villagers in Iceland say that even if one swings about him a stick, whip, wand, or aught that makes a whistling sound, he scares from him the Holy Ghost; while other Icelanders, who consider themselves free from superstitions, cautiously give the advice: "Do it not; for who knoweth what is in the air?"26
There seem to have been, however, in all ages light-hearted persons who, defying the superstitious views of their compatriots, have whistled to their heart's content, or for the amusement of those who set at nought popular prejudices.
Joseph Strutt, in his 'Sports and Pastimes of the People of England' records the astonishing performance of a whistler who, assuming the name of Rossignol, exhibited at the end of the last century his talent on the stage of Covent Garden Theatre. Again, an amusing account is given in the 'Spectator' (Vol. VIII., No. 570) of a skilful whistler, who was the host of the tavern especially patronised by Addison and Steele; and the writer concludes his description of the host's surprising talent by recommending his readers to repair to the tavern and to order a bottle of wine for the sake of the whistling.
The Russians in the Ukraine tell a queer story about a whistling robber of old, who must have been a person of fabulously large dimensions, for he used to sit, we are told, on nine oak trees at once. His name is still known; but it would be an infliction upon the reader to put before him a name almost entirely made up of consonants, and only pronounceable by a Russian. This celebrated robber had, however, also a nickname signifying "Nightingale," which was given to him on account of his extraordinary whistling powers. Whenever a traveller happened to enter the forest in which the robber Nightingale had his domicile, it was pity for him if he had neglected to make his will; for the robber Nightingale whistled so impressively that the poor traveller must needs faint away, and then the wretched whistler stepped forward and killed him outright. But, at last, a great hero, who was besides a holy man, and whose name was Ilja Murometz, repaired to the forest to subdue the robber Nightingale. Having hit him with an arrow, and taken him prisoner, he bound him to the saddle of his horse and escorted him to Kiev to the court of the Grand-Prince Vladimir. Even there the fettered whistler proved most dangerous. For when the Grand-Prince, merely from curiosity, and perhaps to see whether his courtiers had told him the truth, commanded the robber to whistle before him – the Grand-Princess and all the royal children being present – the man at once commenced whistling in a manner so overpowering that soon Vladimir with his whole family would inevitably have been dead, had not some brave courtiers, perceiving the danger, got up and shut the whistler's mouth.
Moreover, some enlightened Russians say that the story must not be taken literally. At the time of the introduction of Christianity into Russia there lived near Kiev, they say, a pagan high-priest who was so distinguished an orator that he actually succeeded in drawing many to his side to check the spread of Christianity. This man, whose powers of persuasion were so great that his adherents called him Nightingale, was at last vanquished by his Christian antagonist Murometz. The bones of Murometz, we are further informed, have never decayed, and are still annually exhibited in Kiev to be venerated by an assemblage of pious believers.27
THE STUDIES OF OUR GREAT COMPOSERS
An inquiry into the gradual cultivation of the genius of our great musical composers is as instructive as it is interesting to the lover of music. Before attempting this inquiry, it is advisable to ascertain exactly what is meant by the designation "our great composers."
To compose music does not only imply to invent musical ideas, but also to employ ideas which are already invented in such a way as to exhibit them in a new light. Certain modulations, passages, and rhythmical combinations occurring in our musical compositions may be regarded as common property; but how surprisingly original and fresh do they often appear to us through the new way in which they are employed by composers in connection with other ideas! Now, a composer who has the power to construct very beautiful works of art in a certain form, by inventing ideas and by showing in a new light ideas not invented by him, deserves to be regarded as a great composer.
However, in order to trace the gradual progress of his genius, it is not sufficient to examine his studies, or, so to say, to watch him in his workshop; we must commence our inquiry further back, and observe him first as a promising child.
Unfortunately, of the early initiatory lessons of our great composers but little is generally ascertainable. Celebrated musicians have more important occupation than to explain their earliest instructions; or they have to a great extent forgotten how they learnt in childhood the rudiments of their art. Still the initiatory lessons are especially noteworthy, since the foundation exercises an almost ineffaceable influence upon the subsequent direction of the musical student.
The talent for music in children is not always so easily discovered as might be supposed. Idleness, not unusual in fast-growing children, or indifference caused by injudicious training, may be mistaken for want of talent. There are records extant of distinguished musicians who in early childhood evinced neither talent nor fondness for music. Others, who, showing no inclination to learn the musical instrument on which they received instruction, have unexpectedly exhibited much talent and industry in practising on another kind of instrument of their own choice. Most of our distinguished musicians have manifested from early childhood a preference for a particular instrument which they perseveringly cultivated, and on which they afterwards excelled.
Parents are apt to see talent in their children where it does not exist, or, at least, not in the supposed degree. Some even find unmistakable evidence of musical talent in the shape of the head of their offspring. A peculiar formation of the skull, especially about the temples, is certainly observable in many clever musicians, and may be recognized in the few portraits which are known to be faithful likenesses of great composers. It would be interesting to know whether the infantine musical prodigies, of which there have been so many during the present century, generally possessed this phrenological indication. Be this as it may, they have become great composers in only exceptional instances. Indeed, early musical prodigies have but seldom achieved in after-life so much as was expected from them. There are, however, exceptions; for instance, Mozart. Dr. Crotch in his infancy displayed abilities as extraordinary as Mozart's. At the age of three years and a half he could play some harmonized tunes on the pianoforte, and when he was five years old he performed in public on the organ at a benefit concert in London. He afterwards achieved comparatively but little, and did not realise the expectations which as a child he had excited.
There are instances on record of musicians who in their early childhood were forced against their inclination to practise assiduously, and who must have been tortured by the incessant care for their progress bestowed on them by their parents. They became brilliant players, making music like a well-constructed machine. Our great composers have generally had a happier childhood. They were, in most instances, children whose physical development was especially attended to; who were permitted to ramble about in fields and forests, and by outdoor amusements and bodily exercises to lay the foundation for a healthy life. This, perhaps, sufficiently explains why not all of them have displayed a precocity of talent in early childhood. Indeed, their full development has been in many instances but slow, and several of them did not produce their best works until they had attained an age exceeding that generally allotted to musicians. Gluck composed his 'Iphigenia in Tauris' at the age of sixty-five; Haydn composed the 'Creation' in his sixty-ninth year, and the 'Seasons' in his seventy-second year. Handel was fifty-six years old when he wrote the 'Messiah,' and sixty-one when he wrote 'Judas Maccabæus.'
Some of our most gifted musicians have required much longer time than others for cultivating their talent, because they had not in childhood the same advantage of guidance which others had, and were consequently compelled to find out for themselves the best method of cultivation. Perhaps there now walks behind a plough a Handel, who has not shown that he is a man of genius because circumstances prevented his knowing and cultivating his powers. Happy is the artist who, in his childhood, was led by a judicious guide in the way which saves much time, trouble, and disappointment! Mozart had such a guide in his father; also Mendelssohn. Weber deserves, perhaps, all the greater praise from the fact of his father having been an impediment rather than a help to him.
A systematic education in childhood presents the greatest advantage; this is too self-evident to require further comment. It may also be taken for granted that the moral and mental education of the young composer is not less important than are his musical studies. Nay, his moral training is even of higher importance, since one may be a good musician, but must be a good man. Moreover, he is sure to become a better musician if he possesses an acute discernment of right and wrong, with love for the former and dislike to the latter.
As regards his mental education, it is more important for him to know how to think than what to think. A clear discernment is preferable to much information; at any rate, it is better to know but little and to understand that little clearly, than to know a great deal confusedly.
There can be no doubt that a classical education is of great advantage to the musician, not only on account of the refining influence which a familiarity with classical literature exercises upon the artistic mind, but also on account of the languages. An acquaintance with two or three modern languages is almost indispensable to the composer. Latin poetry occurs not unfrequently in Church music; and several old treatises on music have been written in Latin, and are therefore not accessible to musicians unacquainted with this language. It does not, of course, follow that to be a great composer one must know Latin; however, many musicians have thought it advisable in their later years to study this language, when they had not the opportunity of studying it in their youth.
Talented young musicians sometimes appear rather deficient in their mental cultivation. The enthusiasm with which they pursue their musical studies is apt to cause them to neglect other studies. But there is no real deficiency of intellectual gifts; on the contrary, they have generally a great versatility of talent. This often becomes apparent in their later years. Several eminent musicians have evinced much talent for painting. The humorous, witty, and clever remarks of some of our great composers are notorious.
Without having thoroughly mastered the technicalities of the art, it is impossible to achieve anything of artistic value. An assiduous and persevering cultivation of the talent is as necessary as the talent itself. It has generally cost a musical composer long and continued labour to produce a valuable work of art. He attained his aim by knowing what was requisite for its achievement, and by labouring perseveringly to attain it.
As has been already intimated, it is of great importance for the progress of the future composer that his initiatory lessons should be correct, so that there is nothing learnt which afterwards requires to be unlearnt. A bad touch on the pianoforte, or a wrong method of bowing in playing the violin, is scarcely ever entirely remedied in later years. Example is better than precept. A teacher who, by playing to his pupil, can show him how a passage ought to be executed, may save him much time and trouble. Our celebrated singers have generally learnt the most easily the best they are able to accomplish by having been sung to. However, music may be learnt by different methods, and each method may have something to recommend it. The teacher must study the pupil to find out what is the best for him.
Our great composers had generally instruction in singing very early. Indeed, a composer who has not cultivated his voice in childhood is not likely to write vocal music so effectively as would be the case if he had accustomed himself to sing his melodies while inventing them. Even the melodious phrases in his instrumental compositions are likely to be more impressive if he has been a singer from early age.
Furthermore, the young student has to learn to play in a high degree of perfection at least one musical instrument. The pianoforte is – in our time, perhaps – the best suited for his purpose, on account of the harmony and of the arrangement of orchestral works executable on the instrument. Most of our great composers were pianists, harpsichord players, or organists. There are, it is true, exceptions. Gluck's instrument was the violoncello; Spohr's, the violin. But even composers who are not pianists, generally, while composing for the orchestra, make use of the pianoforte.
The best musical performer is he who can play the most simple melody with the greatest expression; and the second best is he who can play the most difficult passages with the greatest correctness. Some pianists of astonishing manual dexterity are unable to play a simple tune with proper expression; others cannot execute well a technically easy sonata by Mozart, because they have not learnt – or, perhaps, have forgotten – the pure expression required for such unaffected music. The execution of many modern pianists is best suited for the performance of their own compositions.
If the young musician is bent upon becoming a distinguished virtuoso, it may easily be disadvantageous to him as a composer, not only on account of the time he will require for practising his fingers, but also because his fingers are apt to induce him to compose for them instead of for the heart. A great composer generally plays one instrument masterly; and he has, probably, found it expedient to learn another instrument or two besides that which he has principally cultivated. If, in addition to the pianoforte, he can play the viola or violoncello in a quartet, or Bach's pedal-fugues on the organ, he possesses the means of familiarising himself more thoroughly with many of our classical compositions than he could possibly do by merely hearing or reading them; and the familiarity thus acquired is beneficial to him. Moreover, some practical experience with wind-instruments is useful to the composer of orchestral works. Our great masters knew this, and acted upon it.
The exercise of the fingers takes up time, but not necessarily much. One hour of practice with great attention is better than three hours of careless practice. The former has not only the advantage that it advances the student more rapidly, but also that it leaves him the time required for other studies, reading, and recreation. Several of our great composers could be named who, notwithstanding their diligent studies from their youth, always found plenty of time for bodily exercise, and for amusements conducive to the preservation of health and energy – such as pedestrian tours, riding, fencing, swimming, dancing, etc.