This ability to capture and transcribe the music resonating within is the fruit of a thorough artistic musical training resulting in a spontaneous, voluble mastery of musical notation, so that we produce a kind of hieroglyphic as an individualized language to express musical thoughts, evoking the most intimate link between note and word. But in music – this universal language of nature, in which there is no need for the link between the thought and its hieroglyph – wondrous secret sounds often swish past our ears and we attempt in vain to find the fitting notations for an auditory language resistant to transcription. Just as wonderful as the capture of music in musical notation is the dynamic emergence of music at the sight of these notes, and so musical amateurs able to read a score can gain an inkling of the dynamic element and conjure up the sound signified by a string of notes often spawned by a single moment of consciousness, irrespective of the fact that composition demands the highest degree of this cognitive capacity. It is only from that spontaneous, unconscious, inner impulse that sparks the consciousness of music that true music emerges; this we must admit, much as we are inclined to doubt random emanations of ecstasy in which the wondrous language of nature resonates. But how often do the words of the poet accord with the music resounding in the ear of the musician, and in general how often does the poet’s language match up with the language of music? On occasion, the musician is clearly conscious of having conjured up the melody independent of the words, and it leaps forth in the delivery of the song as if awakened by a stroke of magic.

  Should there not then exist a special physical rapport between poet and musician? Might it be that the poet’s spirit, enthralled by the ecstasy of conception, inspired the musician, and the latter conceived the melody, so that the same string, as it were, resonated in tune in the echo chamber between his ears? As if completed masterworks of song, in which word and music that remain inseparably coalesced, could only come into being out of that lofty physical bond between poet and musician, so that the work was simultaneously versified and composed? As if oftentimes a third cognitive principle in nature were to loop a bond around both, and word and music were, like a message of love, to be conveyed from one to the other, just as butterflies transport the fertilizing dust from flower to flower? Music makes available the contact with yesterday. Often in the stillness of night, in a dark room, splendid songs flood the musician’s ears. Is it not as if, at such moments, distant friendly spirits spoke with us, as if, indeed, even the voices of those long departed from this earth lived on in our heart of hearts, in the sounds of an ethereal singing? It is certain that the living remembrance of a friend with whom one had a musical bond can only be sustained in sound and song; resplendent melodies may pour forth from deep inside, but is that living remembrance of the departed friend not the embodiment of the friend himself?

  It often seems to me as if I now have a better grasp of notions that only brushed past my soul when I was a boy. The legend of the wondrous stranger and the girl is a telling metaphor of earthly perdition through the malevolent influence of hostile force— the misuse of music— but then an uplifting to a heightened state— apotheosis through sound and song. My dream reveals itself as the interpretation of a wondrous presentiment at that sacred place. It is that which I hear; beauteous chords ring out, and their song radiates in wondrous melodies. My ever-constant force of will is rewarded, my willful musings are embodied by my music, and as long as I keep them in mind, music lives in my soul. But will I ever succeed in expressing the songs I hear, so that it may be audible to another listener? I don’t believe I ever will, and when I contemplate transcribing all that I have heard and felt in musical notations, it is as if I were to betray a carefully guarded secret.

  Should then the true essence of a musician only resonate most acutely in his music, and all that he gives the world remain nothing but a faint echo of the apparitions singing within?

  The Fermata

  1817

  Hummel’s lively, vital painting “Gathering in an Italian Locanda” became known after being exhibited at the Berlin Art Exhibit in the fall of 1814, where it caught many an eye and cheered many a spirit. A lush overgrown arbor— a table beset with wine and fruit— two Italian ladies seated on opposite sides, one is singing, the other playing a guitar, an abbot standing in the back between the two, serving as conductor. With raised baton he waits for the signora – her gaze raised heavenward – to complete her cadenza in an extended trill so that he can bring down the baton and the guitarist can strum a jaunty dominant cord. The abbot is full of admiration, infused with soulful delight, and yet all the while fraught with fearful premonitions. He will not miss the timely downbeat for the world. He hardly dares breathe. He looks like he would bind the wings and gag the mouth of every little bee, every little gnat, just to still the buzz. All the more noxious to him is the bustling innkeeper, now of all times bringing the ordered jug of wine at this most crucial moment. Behind them, a view of a leafy passageway, the greenery pierced with glimmering rays of sunlight, where a horseman has pulled up, and water is brought to his thirsty steed.

  The two friends Eduard and Theodor stood before this painting. “The more I gaze at that, albeit no longer young, but truly virtuoso singer in her colorful clothes,” said Eduard, “the more I delight in the perfect Roman profile and the lovely figure of the guitar player, the more that most admirable abbot amuses me, the more freely and powerfully the whole bursts into the buoyant confines of my real life— it is clearly a caricature in the purest sense, but full of zest and charm! Right here and now I’d like to climb into the arbor and pop open one of those wicker bottles beaming down at me from the table— it’s as if I already had a sweet whiff of that fine wine— no, we cannot allow this artistic incitement to evaporate in the cold, prosaic air that surrounds us— let us honor that lovely work of art, that tribute to Italy’s lust for life, and break open a bottle of Italian wine.”

  While Eduard spoke in broken sentences, Theodor stood by, listening in silence, deeply preoccupied. “Yes, let’s do that!” he suddenly piped up, as if awakening from a dream; but he could hardly break free of the painting. He mechanically followed his friend, and when he soon found himself at the door, he cast a longing look back at the singers and the abbot. Eduard’s proposition was easily realized. A wicker bottle very much like the one in the depicted arbor awaited them in the little blue cup room of the Sala Tarone directly across the street.

  “It seems to me, my friend,” Eduard remarked after they’d both emptied several glasses, and Theodor remained silent and very much still turned in upon himself, “it seems to me as if the painting affected you in a most peculiar manner, and not at all in the way it did me.”

  “I can assure you,” Theodor replied, “that I, too, thoroughly delighted in all the lighthearted and charming allure of the painting, but the odd thing is that it faithfully portrays a scene I myself experienced in life, down to a precise portrayal of the depicted persons. You will admit, however, that even the most cheerful memories can trouble the mind if suddenly reawakened in such an unexpected, peculiar way, as if by a magic bolt of lightning. That is what just happened to me.”

  “From your own life?” Eduard interrupted in stunned amazement. “The painting, you say, depicts a scene from your own life? I immediately judged the depictions of the singers and the abbot to be faithful portraits of real persons, but do you really mean to say that you encountered them in real life? Pray tell, my friend, how this all fits together; it’s just you and me here, nobody else is likely to show up at this hour.”

  “I’ll gladly do as you wish,” said Theodor, “but will, I regret, have to reach far back— all the way to my youth.”

  “I’m all ears, my friend,” Eduard replied, “I know precious little about your younger years. If the telling takes more time than expected, we risk nothing more than having to break open another bottle – the prospect of which no one will take badly, neither us nor the innkeeper Signore Tarone.”

  “It took no one by surprise when I finally swept everything else aside and committed myself heart and soul to noble Musica,” began Theodor, “since even as a boy I hardly cared a fig for anything else, and plunked away night and day on my uncle’s clunky old piano. Music got short shrift in the small town where I grew up; there was nobody around to teach me except for an obstinate old organist, but he was a deadbeat arithmetician and tormented me with dark, awful sounding toccatas and fugues. But without letting myself be discouraged, I faithfully kept at it. The old fellow often banged something awful on the keyboard, but then all he had to do was play a fleet movement in his powerful manner for me to be reconciled with him and the art of music. Often then I found myself wafted into a wondrous state of mind, listening to some movement – especially one by old Sebastian Bach – almost resembling a ghostly tale, when I was gripped by shudders of delight of the sort we gladly embrace in the fantastic frenzy of youth. But a veritable Eden revealed itself to me when, in the dead of winter, the town piper gave a concert accompanied by a band of mediocre dilettantes, and because I could keep time, I was permitted to play the timpani in some symphony. Only later did I come to realize how ridiculous and madcap these concerts often were.

  “Generally, my teacher played two piano concertos by Wolff or Emanuel Bach, a journeyman piper tormented himself attempting to play Stamitz, and the excise tax collector blew so mightily on his flute that he blew out both lanterns on the stage, which had to keep being lighted. Singing was out of the question, lest they risk the reproaches of my uncle, a great friend and aficionado of the musical arts. He still recalled with delight the old days when choirmasters from the four churches in town got together for a performance of “Lottchen am Hofe” in the concert hall. He extolled the tolerance with which the four singers came together to perform the piece, since in addition to the Catholic and the Evangelical, the Reformed congregation was divided into a German and a French contingent. The bespectacled French choirmaster refused to let go of Lottchen and, as my uncle assured me, sang his part in a lovely falsetto of a pitch never heretofore emitted by a human throat.

  “Meanwhile, back home (that is to say, in our town), a fifty-five-year-old demoiselle by the name of Meibel was eating away at her meager pension granted her as retired court singer, and my uncle rightfully thought that she still really ought to be able to emit a retiring little trill in concert for her money. She played hard to get and let them keep asking, but finally gave in, and so we finally got some arias di bravura in concert. She was a most peculiar person, this Demoiselle Meibel. I still have a vivid memory of her haggard little figure. With the score in hand, she had a very solemn and serious way of striding forward in a brilliantly colored dress and greeting the audience with a slight bow of the torso. She wore a rather outlandish headdress, to the front of which was fastened a bouquet of Italian porcelain flowers which had a strange way of shivering and nodding as she sang. When she finished singing and the audience responded with a good deal of applause, she handed the score with a stern expression to my teacher, who had the privilege of bringing forward a pug-shaped porcelain jar which she reached into with much ado to extract a pinch of tobacco. She had a ghastly, squawking voice, made all manner of droll twists and turns, and emitted curious coloraturas, and you can well imagine what impression all this posturing, along with her preposterous appearance, must have made on me. My uncle burst out in exalted hurrahs of praise hard for me to fathom, and I tended rather to favor my organist, a despiser of song who, in his venomous, hypochondriac manner, mercilessly parodied the droll old demoiselle.

  “The more vigorously I shared my teacher’s scorn for singing, the more he fired up my musical genius. He took great pains to teach me the principles of counterpoint, and soon I was composing the most contrived fugues and toccatas. I was playing one of these very contrived compositions of mine for my uncle on my birthday (I had just turned nineteen), when the waiter from our poshest restaurant strode in, announcing the visit of two foreign ladies who had just arrived in town. Even before my uncle managed to cast off his flowery dressing gown and get dressed, the announced guests strode in. You know how every manifestation of the foreign electrifies a sensibility raised in the confinement of small-town life – this appearance, in particular, that barged in unannounced in my life was ideally suited to strike me like a bolt of lightning. Just imagine two slender, tall Italian ladies colorfully attired in the latest fashion, swiftly, and yet gracefully, headed straight for my uncle with a virtuoso bravado, and addressing him with powerful and yet sonorous voice.— But what sort of strange language are they speaking?— only from time to time does it almost sound like German!— my uncle doesn’t understand a word— confounded, he steps back— falling absolutely silent, he points to the sofa. They sit down— talking between themselves, their words sound like music. They finally manage to make it clear to my uncle that they are singers passing through town, they would like to give a concert here, and have come to him, since he appears to be in charge of organizing such musical events.

  “Listening to them speak with each other, I deciphered their Christian names, and though I was totally bewildered by their duality before, it now seemed to me that I could more clearly register what each was saying. Lauretta, apparently the older one, her sparkling eyes beaming, addressed my poor confounded uncle with overwhelming vitality and lively gesticulations. Not overly tall, she was voluptuously built, and my gaze grew befuddled with heretofore unknown sensations. Taller, slimmer, with an elongated serious face, Teresina spoke little, but was more comprehensible. Every now and then she flashed the strangest smile – it was almost as if she reveled in the spectacle of my good uncle, who withdrew into his silk dressing gown as into a shell, and tried in vain to hide a traitorous yellow string with which to tie the garment shut, that instead kept slipping and unraveling from his breast where he clutched it.

  “At last the two sisters got up. My uncle promised to arrange for the concert three days hence, whereupon he was respectfully invited, along with me, whom he introduced as a young virtuoso, for chocolate.

  “Ceremoniously and with heavy steps we climbed the stairs to our rendezvous, both in an odd mood, as if headed for an adventure which we were not up to. After my uncle, having duly prepared for the occasion, discoursed many a fine phrase about art which neither he nor the rest of us understood, and I twice sank my tongue into the burning hot chocolate, but pulled a Scaevola,[*1] smiling with stoic equanimity at the excruciating pain, Lauretta said she’d like to sing us something. Teresina took hold of a guitar, tuned it, and strummed a couple of chords. Never having heard that instrument played, I was greatly stirred by the muffled, mysterious sounding clang of the vibrating strings. Softly, Lauretta sang a note, which she held for a long fortissimo and then quickly broke out in a lively, ruffled figure which she held for one and a half octaves. I can still recall the opening line: ‘Sento l’amica speme.‘ Never having heard the like, I felt a fluttering in my breast. But the more Lauretta let loose, the song spilling ever more audaciously and freely from her lips, the increasingly fiery, scintillating notes enveloping my ears, my own inner music, so long numb and dormant, was ignited and flared up in mighty brilliant bursts of flame. Oh! It was the first time in my life I heard real music. Then the two sisters sang those solemn sonorous duets by the Abbot Steffani. Teresina’s resonant, heavenly clear alto voice thrilled my soul. I could not hide how moved I was; tears streamed from my eyes. My uncle cleared his throat, casting disobliging glances at me, but it was no use – I was really beside myself with emotion. The two singers seemed to be pleased, and asked about my musical studies; ashamed of my musical dabbling, with the audacity prompted by my enthusiasm, I responded in all honesty that it was only today that I heard real music.

  “ ‘Il bon fanciullo!’[*2] Lauretta whispered sweetly and softly.

  “When I got home, I was overcome by a fit of anger, grabbing all the toccatas and fugues I could lay my hands on, including the forty-five variations on a canonical theme the organist had composed and transcribed for me, threw everything into the fire, and laughed sardonically as the double counterpoint smoked and crackled in the flames. Then I sat down to my instrument and first tried to imitate the sounds of the guitar, and then the melodies sung by the sisters.

  “ ‘Will the little lad please stop squawking so egregiously and kindly lay his head on the pillow and go to sleep!’ my uncle finally cried out at midnight, blew out both my candles, and returned to his bedroom from which he had emerged. I was obliged to obey. My dream revealed the secret of the song – or so I believed – as I did a splendid rendition of ‘sento l’amica speme’ in my sleep. The following morning, my uncle auditioned anyone in town who could stroke a fiddle or blow a pipe. He proudly sought to show off our local musical talent, but things didn’t work out as he’d wished. Lauretta made a big to-do, but already in the recitativo the musicians made an awful clamor – none had the faintest notion of accompaniment. Lauretta screamed— ranted— wept in anger and impatience. The organist sat at the piano, and she assailed him with the bitterest reproaches. Struck dumb, he got up and walked out the door. The town piper, whom Lauretta called an ‘Asino maledetto‘[*3] clasped his fiddle under his arm and truculently plunked his hat on his head. He, too, made his way to the door. The other fiddlers and tooters packed up their bows, unscrewed their mouthpieces, and followed suit. Only the dilettantes looked around with weepy expressions, and the assize collector gesticulated and cried out, ‘Oh God, how annoying!’

 

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