Interpreting Music

by SERGE KOUSSEVITZKY

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THE realm of interpretation in music, and especially the realm of conducting, is still very young, when we think that Berlioz, Mendelssohn, and Wagner, who appeared about the same time as the leading conductors of their epoch, were, indeed, the first conductor-interpreters. In fact, they founded a new school. I believe that Wagner was the very first conductor who turned his back to the audience when leading an orchestra. Before him, the conductors stood à trois quarts facing the public. You may well imagine what little influence a conductor could have on the orchestra, standing with his back to the musicians. But, as I said, at that time the art of interpretation in conducting was not known. The conductors were mostly “timebeaters" who did not even trouble to rehearse, letting the concertmaster rehearse in their stead. Hence originated the word “concertmaster.” The performance consisted in playing in time, without any consideration of details or perfection. If there was in the orchestra a virtuoso player, and if he had a solo passage to play, he performed his musical phrase with the utmost individuality, disregarding the whole conception of the work, its general meaning or line.

Wagner and Mendelssohn created a real revolution in the sphere of conducting. They no longer “beat time”; they built up the musical phrase. Yet this, of course, was far from the modern art of conducting. The geniuses of Wagner and Mendelssohn were totally opposite: Wagner was essentially romantic, Mendelssohn essentially constructive. I would say that Mendelssohn’s art of conducting is nearer to our day than the art of Wagner, because Mendelssohn’s approach to musical compositions is more abstract than Wagner’s approach. I would remark that in their time almost the entire young generation followed Wagner, not Mendelssohn, because Wagner reflected his epoch immeasurably more than did Mendelssohn. Which of the two was right? We cannot say.

Here we actually come to the problems of interpretation. Before the First World War, interpretative art was strongly influenced by the romantic school. That is, the interpreter regarded a musical composition as an artist-painter would regard a landscape: to him it is an “aspect of nature.” He takes that “aspect of nature” and reflects it as he sees, feels, and understands it. Therefore, one and the same landscape in the hands of two artists will have different reflections. Also the form of one and the same object will be given different lights and shadings.

In all ages, artists were prophets of either the rise or downfall of a culture. In the pre-war period, leading artists introduced decadence into art before it manifested itself in the social and political life of the post-war period. Decadence in musical interpretation in some countries grew to such proportions that not only were the lights and shadings distorted, but the form itself was lost. At the same time, artists in other countries, also instinctively foreseeing that decline, attempted to straighten the distorted line of classical art.

We have a great deal of evidence, however, that musical performers have a right to interpret compositions freely. They hold that right from the composer. Take Bach, for example. In his works we very often find no nuances. Does it mean that Bach intended to have his compositions played without nuances? Positively no. The great Bach leaves that freedom to the performer. Take the classical concertos by Mozart and Beethoven: we find that cadenzas are very rarely written by the composer, who leaves the freedom of improvisation to the performer. In Wagner’s scores, after Tannhäuser and Lohengrin, we find no exact indication of tempi. Wagner omitted it intentionally, and says in his book on the art of conducting that it is unnecessary to mark the exact tempo, because a talented conductor will find the right tempo anyway, and the untalented conductor will never grasp the tempo even if it is printed in the score. For that reason, Wagner marks his tempi in a general way, such as: Bewegt, Mässig bewegt, slower, faster, and so on.

I recall a personal experience with the most outstanding contemporary composer, Jean Sibelius. When I studied his Fourth Symphony for a performance here, I found that the tempo of the last ninety-eight bars of the scherzo was marked twice as slow as the preceding tempo — and was one that I could neither feel nor understand. I wrote to Sibelius asking for an explanation, thinking that it was a possible misprint and saying I did not feel that tempo. And Sibelius answered: “The right tempo is the one that the artist feels.” Where is, after all, the truth of interpretation, and how can an artist justify that truth?

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PERSONALLY, I believe that a composer, when creating a work, transfuses it not only with his musical power, but also with the entire meaning of his life — the essence of his being. That is why we can and we must find a “central line” in the creation of every composer. What is the central line of a composer? It is the meaning of his life and ideals, which he brings to us through the medium of his music.

With Bach, the central line is religion. Bach came to glorify God. And we find in his entire life his praise of God, exaltation of heaven and divinity. Haydn’s line is joyfulness, humor, which he wants to share with others. We feel it in every symphony, in every minuetto and allegro. Mozart gives us pure tonal harmony, absolute purity of musical form. If we analyze his creative work, we will find how free Mozart was of any outward influence: he believed in music for the sake of music, sound for sound, beauty for beauty. Let us take Beethoven. His central line is transcendentality: he reflects universal emotion in music. When Beethoven grieves, he grieves with the world; when Beethoven is joyful, it is universal joy; when he feels a tragedy, it is a world tragedy. We can well say that the central line of Beethoven’s art is the unifying element of universality. I shall not overburden you by enumerating other composers. But I cannot go by an outstanding figure in musical art — Wagner. The central line of Wagner’s art is love and devotion, which we can trace in all his creative work: the love and devotion of Senta in The Flying Dutch-man; of Elizabeth in Tannhäuser; of King Marke to Isolde; of Isolde and Kurwenal to Tristan. And so, we can find in the work of each master a central line expressed in sound.

Here emerges the truth of interpretative art. When the artist-interpreter is able to perceive the inner meaning, the central line, of a composition, he will find in himself the right and illuminating emotion to perform it. It may not be difficult to trace externally the central line, because there exists a vast literature of the life and activity of every composer, especially those belonging to history. It is not difficult for a musician to analyze a score externally, to determine its form, its melodic and harmonic plan, and entire structure. But this only takes us halfway; this is only the surface part of the central line, which will give us no true understanding of the depth and emotion of this or the other work or composer. The most important part is that which can neither be read nor learned; it rests in the interpreter himself, in his own emotions, depth, and feeling.

Today we often hear “musical authorities” declare, when discussing a performance, “Let music speak for itself.” That up-to-date motto is dangerous, because it paves the way for mediocre performers to come and accurately play over a composition from beginning to end, claiming that they “let the music speak for itself.” That argument is also not correct because a talented artist, no matter how accurately he follows the markings in the score, renders the composition through his own prism, his own perception of the score, his own temperament and emotion. And the deeper the emotion of the interpreter, the greater and more vivid the performance.

A perfect interpretation may have two different aspects, equally faithful to the score of the composer. One may be called mechanically perfect, the other organically perfect. The first gives the beauty of mathematical balance, symmetry, and clarity; the second is the indivisible, living, pulsating élan vital of the composition. One aims to present a beautified surface or reflection of the composition. In the other, the composition — its central idea — lives as a reality. One may be compared to a perfectly symmetrical building; the other to a great Gothic cathedral, with its partly asymmetrical yet organic order of unity. One is always enjoyable, pleasant and delightful, but remains, like a beautiful scene, external to the listener. The other takes and carries him with the élan vital of the work, merges him with the reality of the central meaning, makes him co-live and co-experience the élan vital of the composition. Like a mystic experience, the organic interpretation puts the listener in direct touch with the absolute reality hidden in the great work.

Approaching further the question of orchestral performance, I must say that at no time has the standard of musical performance been set as high as it is in America today. This is not a mere statement: facts speak for themselves. In Europe, even in the best of the old days, the symphony orchestras had not nearly the same possibilities that we have here. Nor was there the same intensity of work and interest. I shall take, for example, the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, one of the oldest in Europe. How many concerts did that orchestra give in the course of one season under the leadership of a great conductor? In its most brilliant period, the Berlin Philharmonic gave ten concerts with Nikisch conducting. The remaining concerts were led by different and indifferent conductors. Yet that was the foremost orchestra of the time. A strikingly interesting period of the musical life of Vienna, which may well be termed “heroic,” is the period when Gustav Mahler was at the head of the Vienna Opera Orchestra. That same orchestra gave also symphony concerts and was then called “The Philharmonic.” However, it was, in the first place, an opera orchestra, the concerts came in between; there were perhaps eight or ten symphony concerts in a season, also conducted by various conductors. The possibilities in America are infinitely better, and give a new idea of orchestral performances.

It is a mistake to think that musical life in America develops only because of America’s wealth. This is wrong. Musical life in this country grows because there is the need for music. That need for music today has an explanation: men seek an outlet for their best and deeper emotions, and they find it in music. For music is the recovered word of true feeling, liberated from the banality, hypocrisy, and cruelty of life. Music is to help the souls of men. It is the pure language, regenerating, like the mountain air.

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IN the presence of her lofty mission, music of our time makes an increased demand upon the high moral standing of the musician, his integrity and complete devotion to his art.

How far has the musician progressed on this ascending path? What is his actual standing in the life and society of our day? By way of an answer, let us examine and question the past. In less than two centuries, the standing of the musician has undergone a remarkable evolution through three distinctive periods.

The first period finds the musician in the inconspicuous place of an “entertainer,” a member of the staff and at the service of some princely European court. It was not unusual, for example, to read notices asking for a valet or a steward who would also be a good accompanist. It is interesting to note that despite these circumstances, the musician of that period manifested an astounding spiritual independence, a profound individuality, and exceptional creative powers, for this was the epoch of such inimitable masters and geniuses as Haydn and Mozart, and partly covered the time of Beethoven.

The second period extends into the post-romantic era, when the musician finds himself wrapped in a cloak of exclusiveness and adorned with a halo of the privileged; he becomes l’enfant gâté of his society, which takes pleasure in his eccentricities, his long hair, and allows him to break accepted and conventional rules. The artist, however, was soon to realize the artifice of his position and to detect the condescending attitude of society toward him. He was eager to free himself of such travesty and to claim recognition on equal grounds with society.

Now we have entered a third stage — a period which was pointed out to us by great artists who were also great men. It seems only yesterday that we had among us Paderewski, the musician-patriot, statesman, and aristocrat of the spirit. We still have with us — though not among us — Albert Schweitzer, the musician philosopher, scientist, and humanitarian, who has set a singular example for mankind. The advent of such men announces a new era in music, an era where outer perfection, brought to a definite point of attainment, does not suffice; where a new dimension is sought — the infinite fourth dimension which rests with and within us.

This elevated concept asks for a new spiritual strength, for an increased concentration and penetration into the innermost strata of self.

When a student decides to become a musician, let him first take counsel with himself. Does he possess the true gift and qualifications that give him a right to step upon the stage where thousands of eyes watch him and thousands of hearts beat in anticipation of the message he is to bring through music and his art? Will he, indeed, open the gates of heaven and let the people experience ecstasy — were it for an infinitesimal moment; or will the gates stay closed and heaven remain a promise unfulfilled?

A musician should realize that the new strength of which we speak lies in the coördination and coöperation of all his faculties, both as an artist and as a human being. He should be true to himself on as well as off the stage. He should be clean inside and out.

“Strive for true humanity,” says Goethe. “Become yourself a man who is true to his inner nature, a man whose deed is in tune with his character.”

The true artist-man will not submit to circumstances or to passing whims of society; rather, he will conquer circumstance and guide society, not with self-satisfaction but with self-confidence born of a full consciousness and acceptance of his mission and task.

As one chosen by destiny and richly endowed by nature, the artist must have a sense of obligation toward those who are denied these riches. It is for him to repay nature and to offer his gifts to humanity, in all humility of heart, as an act of gratitude for the grace bestowed upon him.