Scan 28
Musical Courier 1893-05-17: Vol 26 Iss 689, 1893
48 lines. Read by computer on 24 September 2026. Printed page 29. See the scan on archive.org.
1serted itself as the means of communication between man and man, every sound, natural or artificial, came to be referred by association to the cadence of human utterance. Man discovered his sighing in the breeze, his laughter in the ripples, his moaning in the tempest. But it was not until the frets were removed from the old viols that an instrument was found which could really reproduce the cadence of human utterance. Thenceforward the wail of suffering, the portamento of rising emotion, the vibrato of pleading entered into the orchestra and became the primary realities of the world of artificial sound. This is the sense, and this the only sense, in which it is allowable to say that music expresses anything. Speaking strictly, music expresses nothing; says not a word; it cannot describe; it bears no sort of relation to any event that ever happened or to any passion that was ever suffered. But its material is that in which human passions have always been expressed, and almost all its devices are suggestive of the movement of human emotion; not indeed of any definite emotion, but of the mode or degree or rate of excitation of passion in general.
3These three elements, the element of vastness, the element of unknown danger, the element of human utterance, together constitute that power by which sound moves our emotions. They by no means explain all our interest in a musical composition as a work of art. That is principally a matter of intellect and of training. It is quite possible to possess the susceptibility without the interest, and to acquire the interest with the smallest modicum of susceptibility. There are many, even among persons calling themselves musical, who are unable to listen to a single orchestral movement unless they are given some picture or story to connect it with. The taste for program music is an absolute proof of the fact that intellectual interest in a musical work is something essentially different from susceptibility to emotional impressions through the ear.
5Nor do the three elements offer any explanation of our pleasure in rhythm, or of our delight in certain harmonies, as those of the third and sixth. Both of these pleasures have a physical basis, but they have assumed their special forms under the pressure of civilization. No doubt the present sum of our pleasures in music as a complex whole is very different from what it would have been if the three elements of its impressiveness had stood alone, without the reinforcements which come of intellect and civilization. But they have not stood alone. They originally gave to artificial sounds the power of exciting our emotions. When artificial sounds had acquired that power they became of themselves objects of interest to us. They connected themselves with our lives, shared in our progress and developed with us. Nowhere can we better trace this than in the sound of the bells.
7Apart from the element of vastness to which its emotional effect is due, there is nothing beautiful in the sound of a bell. Its strong and discordant overtones frequently produce an uncertainty of intonation which is distressing to sensitive ears. Yet compared with other means of calling attention, with a foghorn or a steam whistle, how poetical and full of meaning it seems by comparison! And the reason is clear. Its very peculiarities of intonation have given to the bell a personality; history and legend have endowed it with the character of a warning voice. For centuries its sound has been the bearer of tidings; it has summoned the burghers to the market place, the mourners to the bier, the brides to the altar, the worshippers to the shrine; it has marked the flight of time; it has proclaimed the death of princes and the fate of empires; it has given token of flood and fire, of invasion and rebellion; it has mourned the bereavement of courtier and of peasant; it has rung out more than a thousand old years; it has sent the tidings of victory or peace over the country side.
9Its first note proclaims that some event has happened or is about to happen; it is the voice of conscience summoning the hearer to suspend his work for matters of life and death, of safety and truth and the common weal. "So Fate knocks at the door (So pocht das Schicksal an die Pforte)," was Beethoven's comment on the bell-like phrase which opens the first movement of his C minor symphony. Whenever we hear the sound which has announced so many changes in human affairs, whether we hear it in actual life from some distant church tower or in the romantic world of music or drama, we become sensible of the presence of an unseen destiny.—J. B. C., in "Macmillan's Magazine."
11Alexandre Guilmant.
13VISITORS to Paris invariably pause at the top of the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin to admire the imposing front of the Church of La Trinité. In the foreground stands a garden with lawn and fountain, and with seats in which the wayfarer can always snatch a moment's rest. The church is of the period of the Second Empire, in Renaissance style, and its commanding situation sets off its height and magnificence. Enter: climb the private stair—if you are privileged to do so—in the southwest corner, and on emerging from the narrow spiral path you find yourself suddenly upon a floor containing an organ console at which Mr. Guilmant, the celebrated organist of the church, is sitting. It is a special 8 o'clock evening service, the "Salut," and the music is proceeding as you enter. The great organ of Cavaillé Coll by which we stand is at the west end, and the console faces toward the altar. We are at a great height from the floor. Far below, in the dimly lighted church, a kneeling worshipper here and there peoples the solitude.
15Right round the church at this high level, merely for ornament, there runs a narrow gallery from which gigantic pillars rise. It has no seats and is barely wide enough to allow two people to pass. As we stand by Mr. Guilmant's console we can see away at the southeast end of this gallery—at the corner of the south transept—the boys and men of the choir, accompanied by Mr. Salomé, who sits at a small organ, the console facing northward, and alternately plays and beats time for the singers around him. The choir is not surprised; the men and boys are in everyday dress. Their trainer is Mr. Bouichère. Thus the music of La Trinité is directed by three professional musicians—Mr. Guilmant, the solo organist; Mr. Salomé, organiste accompagnateur, and Mr. Bouichère, maître de chappelle and director of the choir.
17The congregation of course cannot see the choir; they can only feel the music dropping upon them from above with an almost celestial softness and purity. The two organs are tuned together, and the two organists, who can see each other, are both playing. The great organ, under Mr. Guilmant's hands surges in at the symphonies; as the voices enter he drops out, and leaves the accompaniment to Mr. Salomé. The service over, Mr. Guilmant plays an outgoing voluntary. It is a composition of his own still in MS., and as he lifts his hands from the last chord he gives us the sheet of music paper to look over. It is written in a peculiarly neat and careful hand.
19Shift the scene. We are at No. 62 Rue de Clichy close at the side of La Trinité, Mr. Guilmant's town apartments. He lives as Meudon, a pretty village on the Seine, about 5 miles from Paris—where Wagner finished his score of "The Flying Dutchman"—but has chambers here for lessons and for occasional use when he is obliged to stay in town.
21The street of busy shops hardly gives promise of the comfortable residential quarters that it contains, but in Paris these contrasts are everywhere. Turning under an archway we enter a courtyard full of handsome houses, and being directed by the porter to the first floor of one of them are soon greeted by Mr. Guilmant in a hearty fashion. Below the middle height, with bushy grayish hair and beard and benevolent face, he looks more like an Englishman than a Frenchman. Most noticeable are the quiet and modesty of his manner. In answer to our inquiry he says he does not speak English. Nevertheless, he understands it when spoken, though his replies are all given in his own language. Cast a look round the room. An Erard grand piano, with metronome on it, is near the window. On either side of the fireplace are large bookcases containing bound volumes of music.
23On the walls are several objects of interest. A crayon sketch of Mr. Guilmant himself in youth, seated at an organ console. A signed portrait of Cavaillé Coll, the great French organ builder. Two oils by a lady, David playing before Saul, and St. Cecilia. Two large gilt wreaths, fashioned after oak leaves and tied with ribbons—both expressions of esteem, one of them from Amiens and the other from Boulogne. In the music room is a small one manual and pedal organ built by Guilmant's father.
25In quiet fashion our chat begins, Mr. Guilmant's gentle responses being as characteristic as the animated smile which lights up his face as we strike points of agreement.
27"Have your visits to England led you to make any note of English musical taste and English audiences?"
29"I think that the musical taste of the English is most eclectic. They love classical music and yet show a lively interest in works of a new and advanced tendency."
31"Do you notice any parts of England that are specially responsive to your playing?"
33"In the North, at Sheffield and Manchester, where I play every year."
35"What sort of organ music do English people seem to like best?"
37"Both fugal and melodic."
39"Are our organs, as a rule, good, and equal to those of France?"
41"There are some very good organs in England, especially from the point of view of foundation stops. There are also English organists of very great talent. I have always admired the English church choirs, and the boys' voices are beautiful."
43"What do you think of the harmonium? The French seem to understand it and like it better than the English. Have you written for it specially?"
45"The harmonium is a special instrument, and must be treated differently to the organ. There are both delicate and charming effects to be got from it, but it has not power. I prefer the French harmonium, and above all those of Mustel to all others. I have written some special pieces for this instrument."
47"We have already announced in the 'Musical Herald' the arrangement you have so generously made by which any of your compositions can be played in England without fee. Do you think that other French composers are likely to make the same arrangement? The collection of fees for performance is contrary to English ideas, the impression being that the composer makes sufficient profit on the sale of his music. Hence there is often a little ill feeling
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