Music at Night
this June night is all the more alive with stars. Its darkness is perfumed with
faint gusts from the blossoming lime trees, with the smell of wetted earth and
the invisible greenness of the vines. There is silence; but a silence that
breathes with the soft breathing of the sea and, in the thin shrill noise of a
cricket, insistently, incessantly harps on the fact of its own deep perfection.
Far away, the passage of a train is like a long caress, moving gently, with an
inexorable gentleness, across the warm living body of the night.
you say; it would be a good night for music. But I have music here in a box,
shut up, like one of those bottled djinns in the Arabian Nights, and
ready at a touch to break out of its prison. I make the necessary mechanical
magic, and suddenly, by some miraculously appropriate coincidence (for I had
selected the record in the dark, without knowing what music the machine would
play), suddenly the introduction to the Benedictus in Beethoven's Missa
Solemnis begins to trace its patterns on the moonless sky.
Blessed and blessing, this music is in some sort the equivalent of the
night, of the deep and living darkness, into which, now in a single jet, now in
a fine interweaving of melodies, now in pulsing and almost solid clots of
harmonious sound, it pours itself, stanchlessly pours itself, like time, like
the rising and falling, falling trajectories of a life. It is the equivalent of
the night in another mode of being, as an essence is the equivalent of the
flowers, from which it is distilled.
is, at least there sometimes seems to be, a certain blessedness lying at the
heart of things, a mysterious blessedness, of whose existence occasional
accidents or providences (for me, this night is one of them) make us obscurely,
or it may be intensely, but always fleetingly, alas, always only for a few
brief moments aware. In the Benedictus Beethoven gives expression to
this awareness of blessedness. His music is the equivalent of this
Mediterranean night, or rather of the blessedness as it would be if it could be
sifted clear of irrelevance and accident, refined and separated out into its
benedictus. . ." One after another the voices take up the theme
propounded by the orchestra and lovingly mediated through a long and exquisite
solo (for the blessedness reveals itself most often to the solitary spirit) by
a single violin. "Benedictus, benedictus. . ." And then,
suddenly, the music dies; the flying djinn has been rebottled. With a stupid
insect-like insistence, a steel point rasps and rasps the silence.
school, when they taught us what was technically known as English, they used to
tell us to "express in our own words" some passage from whatever play
of Shakespeare was at the moment being rammed, with all its annotations -
particularly the annotations - down our reluctant throats. So there we would
sit, a row of inky urchins, laboriously translating "now silken dalliance
in the wardrobe lies" into "now smart silk clothes lie in the
wardrobe," or "To be or not to be" into "I wonder whether I
ought to commit suicide or not." When we had finished, we would hand in
our papers, and the presiding pedagogue would give us marks, more or less,
according to the accuracy with which "our own words" had
"expressed" the meaning of the Bard.
ought, of course, to have given us naught all round with a hundred lines to
himself for ever having set us the silly exercise. Nobody's "own
words," except those of Shakespeare himself, can possibly
"express" what Shakespeare meant. The substance of a work of art is
inseparable from its form; its truth and its beauty are two and yet, mysteriously,
one. The verbal expression of even a metaphysic or a system of ethics is very
nearly as much of a work of art as a love poem. The philosophy of Plato
expressed in the "own words" of Jowett is not the philosophy of
Plato; nor in the "own words" of, say, Billy Sunday, is the teaching
of St. Paul St. Paul's teaching.
own words" are inadequate even to express the meaning of other words; how
much more inadequate, when it is a matter of rendering meanings which have
their original expression in terms of music or one of the visual arts! What,
for example, does music "say"? You can buy at almost any concert an
analytical program that will tell you exactly. Much too exactly; that is the
trouble. Every analyst has his own version. Imagine Pharaoh's dream interpreted
successively by Joseph, by the Egyptian soothsayers, by Freud, by Rivers, by
Adler, by Jung, by Wohlgemuth: it would "say" a great many different
things. Not nearly so many, however, as the Fifth Symphony has been made to say
in the verbiage of its analysts. Not nearly so many as the Virgin of the Rocks
and the Sistine Madonna have no less lyrically said.
by the verbiage and this absurd multiplicity of attributed
"meanings," some critics have protested that music and painting signify
nothing but themselves; that the only things they "say" are things,
for example, about modulations and fugues, about color values and
three-dimensional forms. That they say anything about human destiny or the
universe at large is a notion which these purists dismiss as merely
the purists were right, then we should have to regard painters and musicians as
monsters. For it is strictly impossible to be a human being and not to have
views of some kind about the universe at large, very difficult to be a human
being and not to express those views, at any rate by implication. Now, it is a
matter of observation that painters and musicians are not monsters.
Therefore. . . The conclusion follows, unescapably.
not only in program music and problem pictures that composers and painters
express their views about the universe. The purest and most abstract artistic
creations can be, in their own peculiar language, as eloquent in this respect
as the most deliberately tendencious.
for example, a Virgin by Piero della Francesca with a Virgin by Tura. Two
Madonnas - and the current symbolical conventions are observed by both artists.
The difference, the enormous difference between the two pictures is a purely
pictorial difference, a difference in the forms and their arrangement, in the
disposition of the lines and planes and masses. To any one in the least
sensitive to the eloquence of pure form, the two Madonnas say utterly different
things about the world.
composition is a welding together of smooth and beautifully balanced
solidities. Everything in his universe is endowed with a kind of supernatural
substantiality, is much more "there" than any object of the actual
world could possibly be. And how sublimely rational, in the noblest, the most
humane acceptation of the word, how orderedly philosophical is the landscape,
are all the inhabitants of this world! It is the creation of a god who
"ever plays the geometer."
does she say, this Madonna from San Sepolcro? If I have not wholly
mistranslated the eloquence of Piero's forms, she is telling us of the
greatness of the human spirit, of its power to rise above circumstance and
dominate fate. If you were to ask her, "How shall I be saved?"
"By Reason," she would probably answer. And, anticipating Milton,
"Not only, not mainly upon the Cross," she would say, "is
Paradise regained, but in those deserts of utter solitude where man puts forth
the strength of his reason to resist the Fiend." This particular mother of
Christ is probably not a Christian.
now to Tura's picture. It is fashioned out of a substance that is like the
living embodiment of flame - flame-flesh, alive and sensitive and suffering.
His surfaces writhe away from the eye, as though shrinking, as though in pain.
The lines flow intricately with something of that disquieting and, you feel,
magical calligraphy, which characterizes certain Tibetan paintings. Look
closely; feel your way into the picture, into the painter's thoughts and
intuitions and emotions. This man was naked and at the mercy of destiny. To be
able to proclaim the spirit's stoical independence, you must be able to raise
your head above the flux of things; this man was sunk in it, overwhelmed. He
could introduce no order into his world; it remained for him a mysterious
chaos, fantastically marbled with patches, now of purest heaven, now of the
most excruciating hell. A beautiful and terrifying world, is this Madonna's
verdict; a world like the incarnation, the material projection, of Ophelia's
madness. There are no certainties in it but suffering and occasional happiness.
And as for salvation, who knows the way of salvation? There may perhaps be
miracles, and there is always hope.
limits of criticism are very quickly reached. When he has said "in his own
words" as much, or rather as little, as "own words" can say, the
critic can only refer his readers to the original work of art: let them go and
see for themselves. Those who overstep the limit are either rather stupid, vain
people, who love their "own words" and imagine that they can say in
them more than "own words" are able in the nature of things to
express. Or else they are intelligent people who happen to be philosophers or
literary artists and who find it convenient to make the criticism of other men's
work a jumping-off place for their own creativity.
is true of painting is equally true of music. Music "says" things
about the world, but in specifically musical terms. Any attempt to reproduce
these musical statements "in our own words" is necessarily doomed to
failure. We cannot isolate the truth contained in a piece of music; for it is a
beauty-truth and inseparable from its partner. The best we can do is to
indicate in the most general terms the nature of the musical beauty-truth under
consideration and to refer curious truth-seekers to the original. Thus, the
introduction to the Benedictus in the Missa Solemnis is a
statement about the blessedness that is at the heart of things. But this is
about as far as "own words" will take us. If we were to start
describing in our "own words" exactly what Beethoven felt about this
blessedness, how he conceived it, what he thought its nature to be, we should
very soon find ourselves writing lyrical nonsense in the style of the
analytical program makers. Only music, and only Beethoven's music, and only
this particular music of Beethoven, can tell us with any precision what
Beethoven's conception of the blessedness at the heart of things actually was.
If we want to know, we must listen - on a still June night, by preference, with
the breathing of the invisible sea for background to the music and the scent of
lime trees drifting through the darkness, like some exquisite soft harmony
apprehended by another sense.
(From Music at Night)