MacMillan on Music: Essays by Sir Ernest MacMillan

MacMil lan on Music

Sir Ernest MacMillan (1893-1973)

MacMillan on Music Essays on Music by

Sir Ernest MacMillan

Edited with an introduction and notes by

Carl Morey

Dundurn Press Toronto • Oxford

This compilation © copyright 1997 by Carl Morey. Copyright for each essay remains with its author. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press Limited. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective. Editor: Doris Cowan Designer: Scott Reid Printer: Transcontinental Printing Inc.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data MacMillan, Ernest, Sir, 1893-1973 MacMillan on music: essays Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 1-55002-285-7 1. Music.

I. Morey, Carl, 1934-

ML60.M143 1997 1

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3

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5

II. Title

780 SR 01

00

99

C97-931776-2 98

97

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Canadian Heritage. Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions. Printed and bound in Canada.

Printed on recycled paper.

Dundurn Press 8 Market Street Suite 200 Toronto, Ontario, Canada M5E 1M6

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Contents Acknowledgements Introduction

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This I Believe Ruhleben — University College Alumni Ruhleben — Gilbert and Sullivan Society The Organ Was My First Love The Musical Season in Toronto Novello's New Messiah Hitler and Wagnerism The Future of Music in America

Canada Problems of Music in Canada Musical Relations between Canada and the United States Musical Composition in Canada Some Problems of the Canadian Composer A Case for O Canada

Comic Interlude Wagnerian Lighter Motives A Lecture on Musical Appreciation

Education School Life and Music Music and Adult Education

Three Lectures In Quires and Places Where They Sing The Bard and Music The Canadian Musical Public

19 21 24 30 45 51 56 64

75 77 93 102 109 126

133 134 140

147 148 154

161 163 185 209

The publisher would like to acknowledge the cooperation and support of the Sir Ernest MacMillan Memorial Foundation.

Acknowledgements n first considering this collection of essays I was fortunate to have the advice and help of MacMillan's biographer, Ezra Schabas. Andrew Zinck gathered together much material from which the final selection was made, and Clara Marvin and Anita Hardeman helped with the preparation of the final text. I was fortunate to receive a grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council through the Faculty of Music, University of Toronto. Permission to publish material under the control of the MacMillan Estate was granted by Ross MacMillan, Executor. "Hitler and Wagnerism" reprinted by permission of the Queen's Quarterly; "Some Problems of the Canadian Composer" reprinted by permission of the Dalhousie Review. The Sir Ernest MacMillan Memorial Foundation contributed generously to the costs of this publication. Finally, I wish to thank my editor, Doris Cowan, who made many useful suggestions and who saved me, and MacMillan, from errors and irregularities.

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Carl Morey Institute for Canadian Music Faculty of Music University of Toronto

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Introduction rnest MacMillan lived at least nine musical lives, several of them simultaneously: he was a choral and orchestral conductor, composer, church musician, virtuoso organist, educator, administrator, writer and critic, musical ambassador and eminence in Canada's musical life. From the 1920s until the 1960s, MacMillan was very much the right man in the right place; he occupied a position of authority and influence unmatched by any musician in Canada before or since. Prodigiously talented and boundlessly energetic, he had a strong sense of duty and responsibility, and a complete commitment to the development of music in his native land. It might be argued that someone who possessed such extraordinary natural musical gifts squandered them by spreading them in so many directions, and doing so moreover in a country that through much of his lifetime offered little reward for them. With more concentration, MacMillan might have been a greater figure on the international stage, an idea that certainly had its attractions for him. But when all was said and done, it was Canada that claimed his interests and his devotion, and his rewards were in the development of a musical life in which he was not only a prime mover but a principal player. Ernest MacMillan was born August 18, 1893, in Mimico, Ontario, a town just west of Toronto on Lake Ontario and long since absorbed by the larger city. His father, a Presbyterian minister, was a musician of note in his own right; Alexander MacMillan was a distinguished hymnist and editor of several important hymnaries. The young MacMillan showed his musical talent as a child. At about the age of seven he tried out the new organ in his father's church, and at eight he was sent to study organ with Arthur Blakely, a local musician possessing equal amounts of talent and flamboyance. Thus began an association with the instrument on which he was to become a virtuoso, and which is the subject of one of the essays in this collection. When Alexander MacMillan's obligations took the family to Scotland in 9

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Introduction 1905-08, Ernest asked his father to arrange an interview for him with Friederich Niecks, a distinguished German musician who was Reid Professor of Music at Edinburgh University. Niecks allowed the twelve-year-old boy to attend the University junior classes in history of music, harmony and counterpoint, only to advance him to the senior classes two weeks later. (Niecks, incidentally, was succeeded as Reid Professor by Donald Francis Tovey, after whose death the post was offered to MacMillan in 1942; but by then MacMillan was fully committed to music in Canada.) The young MacMillan also took advantage of his time in Scotland to complete the examinations to become in 1907 an Associate of the Royal College of Organists. When the family returned to Toronto, Ernest took his first church position at the age of fifteen at Knox Presbyterian Church. In 1911 he entered the University of Toronto; while studying for a degree in modern history, he helped organize a musical club, contributed to a University hymn book, and often played the organ for University functions. He went to Paris in 1914 to undertake serious study of the piano, but a trip to Germany to the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth coincided with the outbreak of World War I and he was interned as an alien for the duration of the war. He spoke frequently about his years in the German prison camp at Ruhleben, which, unpleasant though they were, had the salubrious effect of directing the young man's talents to organizing, arranging, conducting, composing, performing, and even to acting, all of them skills that he would use throughout his career. His return to Toronto in 1919 was also the beginning of his extraordinary professional life. He became organist and choirmaster at Timothy Eaton Memorial Church and it was here that he initiated his performances of Bach's St. Matthew Passion — they were to become legendary. He began teaching at the Canadian Academy of Music which subsequently amalgamated with the Toronto Conservatory, of which MacMillan became principal in 1926. The following year he was appointed dean of music at the University of Toronto, and in 1931, despite the fact he had almost no experience as an orchestral conductor, he was made conductor of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, a post he held for twenty-five years. Royal titles were abolished in Canada in 1919, but the

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Introduction Conservative government of R.B. Bennett briefly allowed them again in 1934-35. A knighthood was given to Frederick Banting, one of the discoverers of insulin, and Bennett thought that there should be awards in the arts as well. They went to the writer Charles G.D. Roberts, to the painter Wyly Grier, and to MacMillan. He was loath to turn down the honour when it was offered, mainly because he saw it not as personal recognition so much as acknowledgement of the growing importance of music in public life. The fact that Roberts and Grier were in their seventies whereas he was only forty-one worried him a little. He feared that he would be burdened for the rest of his life with a title that he recognized was already seen to be anachronistic in Canada, and to some extent he may have been right, for the title probably has contributed to an exaggerated and erroneous view of MacMillan as a conservative, stolid and establishment figure. His own ambivalence about the honour was evident years later when in an unpublished biographical sketch he titled a chapter "The Knight Has a Thousand Sighs." For better or worse, the knighthood officially marked him as the pre-eminent musician in Canada. A Vancouver music teacher, Marjorie Agnew, founded the Sir Ernest MacMillan Fine Arts Clubs to promote music appreciation among young people in British Columbia towns. He added the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir to his directorial obligations in 1942 and with the end of war in 1945, Sir Ernest was everywhere: he conducted in Australia and Brazil (he had already made numerous appearances in the United States), was president of CAPAC, the performing rights organization, pianist in the Canadian Trio with violinist Kathleen Parlow and cellist Zara Nelsova, a member of the first Canada Council, president of the Canadian Music Centre, president of Jeunesses musicales du Canada. He lectured, wrote reports, and in general acted as consultant and agitator for government support of music. In the 1950s he even had a weekly classical music show on a Toronto radio station. When MacMillan began his career, music in Canada was relatively immature. There were some music schools and fine choral societies but no orchestras or chamber ensembles. In Toronto and Montreal there were some musicians of ability and 11

Introduction even of distinction but the range of their activity was limited and public acclamation was largely reserved for visiting artists. What was lacking were consistently high standards of performance, indigenous musical composition of scope and originality, and quality musical education from beginnings up to professional training. On behalf of these things MacMillan was an energetic and tireless propagandist. In Sir Ernest MacMillan: The Importance of Being Canadian (University of Toronto Press, 1994) Ezra Schabas listed about two hundred essays, articles and lectures by MacMillan. They appeared in magazines such as Chatelaine, Saturday Night, and Canadian Forum, in various newspapers, and in such journals as the University of Toronto Quarterly, Queen s Quarterly and Dalhousie Review, he addressed the Music Teachers' National Association in the USA, the Toronto Board of Trade, the Directors of the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, and the Institute of InterAmerican Affairs at Columbia University. Many of the items were slight and directed to a popular audience, but repeatedly he urged the case for the Canadian composer, the need to recognize Canadian artists at home, and the fundamental need to provide educational resources at every level. Positive in his endorsement of what had been accomplished, he constantly pressed for improvements. The essays in this book are a small sample from that list of some two hundred titles, but they represent the main points that MacMillan constantly reiterated, and provide as well some indications of the dimensions of the man. The first essays are biographical and, for want of a better word, philosophical. They touch on his earliest musical life, his critical writing, and his larger view of music as a universal art. In the essays that centre on Canada he takes up the cause of the composer, but these essays also demonstrate MacMillan the nationalist — not a narrow stiff-necked patriot, but a musician who wants music in Canada to be able to take its place confidently and with distinction in the world. There is MacMillan as humourist in two of his celebrated lectures for the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's Christmas Box concerts. And finally there are three lectures that suggest why Edinburgh University thought of him to be Reid Professor. They are not scholarly in the conventional academic way, but they show a grasp 12

Introduction of music history and repertoire that was not so evident in his life as conductor and administrator. Much of what MacMillan urged has been realized and we have the schools, libraries and institutions that he promoted over so many years. Nevertheless, much of what he had to say is still distressingly appropriate, and at the end of the century we are in danger of weakening or undoing what he spent a lifetime encouraging. Sir Ernest resigned as dean of music at the University in 1952, left the Toronto Symphony Orchestra in 1956, and the Mendelssohn Choir the year following. By the end of the 1960s he had completely retired from public life, and illness confined him to his home. A stroke in 1971 incapacitated him, and he died May 6, 1973. For forty years MacMillan had dominated Canadian musical life. What that life is at the end of the century was to a large extent determined by his vision and ambition. The sheer extent and variety of music in Canada, as well as changes in the nature of the country, make it impossible that anyone should again occupy a position of such pre-eminence, but we can all be grateful that, when it was possible, the place was filled by Ernest MacMillan.

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Man and Music

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Man and Music mong the great influences in MacMillan's life, three stand out: his Presbyterian background, his internment in a .German prison camp during the First World War, and the music of Bach, which he came to know through his virtuosic ability as an organist. The first essays deal in different ways with these three facets of MacMillan's life and personality. The first is a simple statement of belief, not particularly Presbyterian, but of a spiritual kind that he was able to make without apology in a world where such declarations were becoming more and more rare. References to his life in Ruhleben prison camp turn up frequently, as in the remarks to the Alumni of University College, University of Toronto. Perhaps the best account of those years is the long digression in an address on Gilbert and Sullivan. In his recollections, however, MacMillan modestly omits to mention that it was during his internment that he composed a string quartet of remarkable confidence and originality for such a young and inexperienced composer, as well as England, a work for chorus, soloists, and orchestra. England was composed as the major exercise for the Mus.Doc. degree from Oxford University. Oxford excused him from writing the various formal examinations for the degree, and granted it in June 1918. The work was subsequently published by Novello. The essay on the organ tells much about the young MacMillan, and also provides a fine sketch of musicians and musical life in Toronto at the turn of the century. But the same modesty that kept him from pointing out his personal accomplishments at Ruhleben required him to skip over the fact that he was an organist of virtuoso ability and an active recitalist. He knew and performed from memory virtually all of the organ works of J.S. Bach. The essay about musical events in Toronto in the fall of 1927 provides a glimpse of MacMillan's interest in music and performances that were outside the popular concert life. In the

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period under review, it is significant that he has not a word to say about the the local recitals of the reigning divas of the day, Geraldine Farrar, Rosa Ponselle, Amelita Galli-Curci, and Ernestine Schumann-Heink. Instead he wrote about events that he saw as being distinctive and notable among musical events. While the city had an active musical life, orchestra concerts in Toronto in 1927 were not common, and the Toronto Symphony Orchestra had only recently been re-formed after its demise during the First World War. Its concerts, and the concert of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, were worthy of special attention. Music of the Renaissance, so widely known in the 1990s, was an exotic curiosity in the 1920s and a concert of that repertoire had special status. And the appearance of a new opera was always an uncommon event. In his review of The King's Henchman, it may be observed that MacMillan was not in the least intimidated by the extraordinary success that Deems Taylor's new opera had enjoyed in the United States. Among MacMillan's personal successes were the many performances of Messiah that he conducted with the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir. During these years, the movement towards "historical" performance was beginning, a movement that would have found MacMillan's version of Messiah wanting on several counts, particularly because of the size of the choir and orchestra, and certain features of the instrumental accompaniment. His review of a new edition of Messiah is a balanced consideration of the opposing demands of "historical" and "traditional" performance, open-minded and enthusiastic, but with frankly expressed reservations. Finally, there are two essays born of the tragic events in Europe with the rise of Hitler and the outbreak of war. MacMillan pleaded for an acceptance of music untouched by the political associations that some try to surround it with. Typically, he saw the European struggle from the perspective of the American continent. For all of his British associations, MacMillan was always a Canadian in the New World

This I Believe (December 31, 1954)

am one of two billion or more human beings clinging to a planet inconceivably tiny in relation to the universe. Small as it is, the earth may yet be the only place where the thing we call life has found a means of manifesting itself through matter. At any rate we have no knowledge of life elsewhere and, even here, life has not existed long in comparison with the planet's age. Has my life then any ultimate significance? Has life in general any significance? A sense of proportion might well lead one to say no. Yet all my instincts tell me that it has. Life, whether confined to this earth or not, seems to me infinitely more important than all the vastness of space with its countless suns and planets. I think I can realize why scientists have practically given up their attempt to explain life in purely materialistic terms. Mathematical probabilities, I am told, are overwhelmingly against the accidental production of even primitive forms of life; the appearance of a Shakespeare, an Einstein or a Beethoven through a fortuitous combination of atoms seems to me an absurdity. How life has come to manifest itself through matter, whether it can exist apart from matter, whether it is confined to this earth — these things one can guess but not actually know. Science, philosophy and human reason take us only so far: take us to a point where we may either stop unsatisfied or enter the realm of faith — the realm of religion. We look to religion to endow life with ultimate and enduring significance. For my part I find belief in a personal Creator easier than belief in a nebulous and impersonal "Life Force." But the important thing is to believe that the thoughts and acts of humanity — which for present purposes means you and me — are not in the long run empty of meaning. Brought up in a God-fearing Presbyterian household, I was taught at an early age that "Man's chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever." To glorify God is primarily to accept the

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universe with glad affirmation: with gratitude, not only for life's great experiences, but for many ordinary things that we hardly notice — fresh air, good food, a job to do and sleep after exercise. Good health and fortunate outward circumstances are not granted to everyone — but we have all known great sufferers who, whatever their handicaps, have found compensations and therefore a large measure of happiness. The Kingdom of Heaven is within. Glad acceptance of life is often far from easy; there is much misery in this world and the mere Pollyanna is a fool. But to look below the surface, to discern that there is an ultimate purpose in things, to strive to understand that purpose and then devote oneself to playing a part, however small, in fulfilling that purpose — this, whatever one's conception of Deity may be, is to "glorify God and to enjoy Him forever." Being a musician, I often think of life as an unfinished symphony. The score is exceedingly complex, the music by turns exciting, cacophonous, tranquil and uplifting. The material score however is not the music; it is only a means of communication by which I can try to interpret the intentions of the composer. We listen to life's symphony as players in the orchestra; it is hard, perhaps impossible, when struggling with one's own part, to hear the music as a whole. But let us keep on trying and in doing so our own part takes on a new significance. Perhaps some day the truth may be revealed to us — "for now we see as in a glass darkly, but then face to face."

Ruhleben (Address to University College Alumni, June 5, 1965)

n the summer of 1914 I took off for Paris with a view to concentrating on the piano, which I had hitherto grossly neglected. In this venture I was encouraged by an American lady, Mrs. J. K. Burgess, whom I had met during the previous summer when I played for the services in the little Protestant church at Murray Bay.1 Arriving about the middle of June, I installed myself in a comfortable room in the rue de la Tour, hired a piano and arranged for lessons with Madame Therese Chaigneau, member of a well known musical family, wife of the American composer Walter Morse Rummel and associate of Harold Bauer. For six weeks I worked hard but not so hard as to neglect altogether the lighter side of Parisian life. Mrs. Burgess was in Paris with her daughter and very kindly invited me to go to the Bayreuth Festival as her guest. I was only too glad to accept. Bayreuth was a revelation to me and quite blotted out the clouds of war which, after the Archduke Ferdinand's assassination at Sarajevo, had been gathering so ominously. I had never heard any Wagner opera later than Lohengrin; to hear the Ring des Nibelungen in its own home was an exciting experience. I am afraid that I dozed during part of Das Rheingold, having spent the previous night in the train without sleep. The other portions of the Trilogy however found me alert and most receptive. I studied the scores intently and even endeavoured to work my way through some of Wagner's Collected Writings. The style is none too easy for one whose German is very limited. We also heard DerFliegende Hollander and Parsifal— the last on August first, the day when Germany declared war on Russia. During one of the intermissions we were told of the momentous

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La Malbaie (Murray Bay) is on the St. Lawrence River north of Quebec city. It was a popular summer resort.

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event by Karl Muck, whom Mrs. Burgess knew well, her home being in Boston where Muck was at that time Conductor. I am afraid that it never occurred to me, brought up in an age when wars were regarded, especially on the American Continent, as something in history books, that this event would have any personal bearing on me. Certainly I did not realize that the world I knew was passing, never to return. But things moved quickly and, by the following Monday, I was beginning to be worried. Overshadowing the war news for us was the illness of Mrs. Burgess' daughter, Barbara, and the necessity of finding well-qualified doctors. However, on Monday, August 3rd, I undertook to go to Nuremberg, where were located the nearest British and American consulates, to check up on the situation. I found the British consulate already closed but interviewed the American consul. He was most reassuring. The American citizens, he said, would have no difficulty whatever, and the British subjects, if Great Britain declared war, would be shipped across the border to Holland in a few weeks. While I was eating my dinner in a restaurant, a soldier came in and demanded my papers. I had none: one could at that time travel in almost any European country except Russia without a passport. The waiter, who spoke excellent English, managed to satisfy the soldier that I was not a Russian. Afterwards he told me I was lucky: "Eleven Russian spies," he said, "have been shot in Nuremberg today". I returned to Bayreuth and reported on what I had learned. The next day Britain declared war on Germany and thereafter the borders were closed to me. I had been both too illinformed and too trusting. Well, the long and the short of it was, I missed my chance of getting out of Germany and, after a period of solitary confinement in Nuremberg gaol, I was taken to the internment camp for British civilians at Ruhleben, on the outskirts of Berlin. There I stayed with several thousand others until I was released shortly after the Armistice of November 1918. It was not the most pleasant of experiences but even the most disagreeable features of Ruhleben were nothing compared to the suffering of the men in the trenches. One thing gave me great pleasure — the University [of Toronto] granted me my B.A. degree in absentia, excusing me from attendance in my fourth year. Similar exemption was granted

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for a number of men serving in the forces. I knew that they had done infinitely more than I to deserve this honour, but I felt duly grateful. I have tried by extensive reading to make up for what I missed but probably with very imperfect success.

Ruhleben (Address to the Gilbert & Sullivan Society of Toronto. Saturday, October 1, 1966)

uhleben was a racetrack and most prisoners' living quarters were located in horse-boxes — six men to a box. Still less .comfortable were the lofts above. However, one accommodates oneself readily enough to physical discomforts and an outlet was found in various activities — sports, theatrical performances, music and so on. Underneath one of the three grandstands was an oblong room which in the course of time was fitted up as a theatre and concert hall capable of accommodating a fair-sized audience, and attendances were usually substantial. The first production was Shaw's Androcles and the Lion. There was no curtain but a number of empty round cans were cut open on one side, provided with candles and worked on a swivel that was operated so that the lighted side was turned toward the audience during changes of scene and towards the stage when the nonexistent curtain was presumably up. I remember a very well-written overture, written by a musician who in his later years became well known in Canada as a brilliant organist, successful in either serious or popular music. I refer to the late Quentin MacLean1 who had studied composition with Max Reger and the organ with Karl Stroube, who occupied the same post as J.S. Bach at the Thomaskirche in Leipzig. Quentin was a most resourceful musican, being often called upon to supply, on a h a r m o n i u m , the instruments missing in the camp orchestra. In the course of time the theatre was equipped, largely through funds from the British government, with a curtain, electric lighting, costumes and props; each year further progress was made.

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Quentin Maclean (1896-1962) moved to Toronto from England in 1939 and was a notable theatre, concert and church organist. His frequent radio broadcasts made his name familiar across the country.

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Prisoners from all walks of life displayed and developed unsuspected gifts for acting, dressmaking and production in general. Some of our producers were thoroughly professional, as were a fair proportion of musicians in the orchestra. Eventually the theatrical season became extensive and varied. One week we might have Euripides and the next a music hall show. Plays, though usually given in English, were sometimes in French or German and one enterprising New Zealander directed a performance in the Maori tradition — at least, we were told it was. Costumes in the early days were most ingenious; I don't know to this day how the lion's costume for Androdes was constructed. Later on we received gifts of costumes for various productions, including some quite stylish gowns contributed by ladies attached to the American Embassy which, until 1917, had the responsibility of seeing to our safety and reasonable comfort. But most of the costumes and sets were made in the camp. However, we suffered to the end from one serious handicap — the camp was entirely male and "actresses" had to be developed. I may say that I myself was allotted several female roles, the one I enjoyed most being that of Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. Believe it or not I was responsible for one production — Shaw's Fanny's First Play, the chap I had originally chosen for the role of "Darling Dora" was for some reason unable to appear and I had reluctantly to take over the part. However, there were others, some of them professional actors, in much greater demand and more of my time and attention was devoted to musical ventures. My own first duty was to write, arrange, score and direct the music of a revue — one of a very topical nature — entitled "Don't Laugh." The cast included a bevy of beauties who had to develop the use not only of "falsies" but also of falsetto. The fact that this show proved a real hit was due in no small measure to this chorus and to a few young men who were sometimes positively disturbing in their mastery of female roles. It was not very long before a demand arose for Gilbert and Sullivan and several productions were given, beginning with Trial by Jury in which I had no part. For all performances, orchestral scores had to be prepared and parts copied. I have brought with me tonight the full score of The Mikado, in the making of which I had the collaboration of some

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excellent musicians. One of these, who also played the title role, afterwards became a conductor of the Carl Rosa Company and another was the well-known composer Benjamin Dale. Some of the arrangements might not have been approved by the composer, although I fancy he would not have objected to others. The orchestra included a very satisfactory body of strings, some of whom were seasoned professionals. The winds were a bit spotty — we had, for example, no bassoons, only one reliable horn and one reliable trombone. Our one and only oboist was a well known physicist who was naturally very much in demand. A piano was essential to most performances and the camp had been provided with a very good grand, plus a couple of uprights located in small practice rooms. Naturally there is a limit to the range of falsetto sopranos, so some of the numbers had to be transposed. However, on the whole we did not do too badly and I for one benefited by the experience of actually hearing how my orchestrations sounded. Following Trial by Jury we were able to do tolerable performances of The Yeomen of the Guard, The Mikado, The Pirates and The Gondoliers under a variety of conductors. I was responsible for The Mikado; the producer was a professional and the cast was quite good. Our Nanki-Poo afterwards was connected for many years with Sadler's Wells productions,2 though not often appearing as a singer. Some of the others I lost track of after the war, although I know that Yum Yum became a teacher in an Edinburgh boys' school and probably did not boast of his female impersonations to his pupils. Our great Mikado was, as I have said, an experienced operatic conductor, Charles Weber. I have since often wondered what became of our Koko; in peace-time I believe he had been a photographer but he showed a genuine flair for the Grossmith-Martyn Green3 parts partly because of a wonderful gift for looking worried. I can picture him yet protesting, "I can't see 2

A theatre in London, home to a resident opera company but used also for a variety of entertainments. 3 George Grossmith (1847-1912) created the principal comic baritone roles in the operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. It was in these same roles that Martyn Green (1899-1975) made his reputation with the D'Oyly Carte Company.

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how a man can cut off his own head," with an air of being anxious to oblige, while sorely puzzled. Katisha lived up to the requirements of her part; with the aid of make-up she had the required "caricature of a face" and a sufficiently dominating manner. I might say that this man, who off-stage was a most valuable dressmaker, was less convincing when playing the part of Eliza in Shaw's Pygmalion. Of course we felt bound to introduce some topical allusions in our performances. The disapproving eye of Gilbert was not on us and we had no copyright restrictions. Koko's "little list", for example, included: The footballer who kicks the ball beyond the outer track And then yells to some pedestrian to go and fetch it back, And the people who in concerts will chatter to their pals Or the choir of youthful cherubim that sing the madrigals (Yes, a madrigal choir had been formed in Ruhleben!) And the man who comes to see the camp and says "Wie schon es istl" — He never would be missed. The last was a reference to the Anglican Bishop of Northern Europe who was permitted to visit various prison camps and, carefully guided by German officers against seeing the more seamy side of our life, gave, after his return to England, an almost glowing account of what he had seen. Das Leben in Ruhleben war nicht so schon! In our presentation of The Gondoliers during the Christmas season of 1917 (our final Gilbert & Sullivan) occurred a verse which I think was worthy of Gilbert himself. When the U.S. entered the war, their Ambassador's duties to us were taken over by the Dutch embassy. As in previous years, some of the performances

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were attended by a number of his staff as well as himself. The Duke of Plaza Toro's well-known song was provided with this verse: When war broke out he piped all hands his gondola to paddle And to the peaceful Netherlands proceeded to skidaddle. He sent his cards and titles up: "The Duke of Plaza Toro" To that diplomatic, indefatigable non-belligerent The Dutch Ambassadoro. ...Even apart from our performances, parodies of Gilbert & Sullivan were written for other shows. I will mention only one. Toward the end of the war, the food shortage in Germany was very acute, whereas we were faring comparatively well on parcels from home. It became rumoured in the camp that some of our guards were so amenable to bribery that a tin of dripping would enable a prisoner to leave the camp for an hour or two to visit the quarters of some Polish women who were engaged on construction work in the neighbourhood. This appealed to some of our sailors and other not very fastidious prisoners and this practice was made the basis of a short scene — enacted in one of our variety shows. It pictured a prisoner confronting a number of these ladies and singing: Oh, is there not one maiden here Who, for a small consideration, Will let her shyness disappear And pander to a mild flirtation. To such a one, if such there be I swear by Heaven's high arch above you, If you will cast your eyes on me, Whatever you may be I'll love you.

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The prisoner is finding his way back to the camp when another guard accosts him (singing two octaves below the pitch of Mabel's song): Poor wand'ring one Though thou hast surely strayed Out of the camp, Back you must stamp, Poor wand'ring one! So we prisoners enjoyed some amenities.

The Organ Was My First Love (Canadian Music Journal 3/3 (1959): 15-25}

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t was a red-letter day in my life when a "pipe-organ" was installed in my father's church in place of the previous harmonium — or "American organ" as it was sometimes called. I must have been about seven and it was not long before I climbed on the bench and tried to make myself familiar with the mysterious names on the stop knobs: Oboe 8', Principal 4', Sw. to Gr., and so on. The sounds were quite different from those of the similarly named stops on our harmonium at home. The action was of the old-fashioned "tracker" type; St. Enoch's organ had the heaviest I ever encountered, then or afterwards, and pulling out the stops required much effort for a young 'un. Then the pedals had to be negotiated: I could not reach them when I sat on the bench, but could somehow walk on them with my posterior against it and, after some practice, contrived not to sound too many wrong notes. It was humiliating to have to summon a grown-up to start the motor, for this was done by an open switch which I was forbidden to touch. I must have presented a comical figure. The photograph taken a year or two later ... shows me still rather precariously poised and with hands spread-eagled over the keys in a fashion that any good piano teacher would deplore. I badly needed a haircut and the Eton collar fastened under an expansive white bow-tie would certainly elicit an "Aw, gee, Mum," from a presentday boy. However, if people laughed at me they mercifully did so up their sleeves and I for my part took my organ playing with the utmost seriousness. For about a year I struggled by myself, after which I was sent for lessons to Arthur Blakeley,1 then organist of Sherbourne 1

Blakeley was an English organist who was at the Sherbourne Street Church from 1897 to 1911. He later moved to the United States where eventually he became music director to the Canadian-born, and highly theatrical, Aimee Semple McPherson. When MacMillan was conducting at the Hollywood Bowl at Los Angeles in 1936, he attended a meeting at MacPherson's Temple so that he could look up his old teacher.

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Ernest MacMillan ca. 1903 or 1904 at about age 10.

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Street Methodist (now United) Church. Blakeley was a most genial soul with perhaps a touch of the charlatan (his programmes frequently featured "Storm Fantasias" and the like), and I am afraid he did little to correct my deplorable fingering. However, he was fundamentally musical by nature, and from the first I learned to treat the organ as a musical instrument and not as a mere piece of complicated mechanism. He also organized and trained a boys' trio, the personnel of which varied, though the alto voice (unusual in a boy) was always that of Arthur Beverley Baxter,2 whose name will be not unfamiliar to my readers. Our Maestro often took his trio to near-by towns as well as to other Toronto churches and I tagged along to provide instrumental support and variety. My lessons were apt to be irregular. Blakeley owned a putput in which he liked to cruise around Toronto Bay in search of wild ducks, for he was a very good shot. On occasion he would arrive, dripping wet, an hour late; this did not bother me, for I was able to put in an hour of work on an organ — a four-manual Warren with electric action — much superior to the one in St. Enoch's Church. His shooting was not confined to ducks. One day, finding him nowhere in the church, I settled down to practice and was startled by loud explosions from below. It turned out that rats had found their way into the basement and he had gone down to clean them out! During my years with Arthur Blakeley I played, as I have said, in many churches; I also made more than one appearance in Massey Hall. Legend has it that I gave a "recital" there "before an audience of four thousand" — which is more than Massey Hall ever held, even before part of the first balcony was converted into a smoking-room. Moreover, I did not give a recital; I cannot imagine that anyone would willingly give a full recital on that very unreliable two-manual instrument whose pipes, covered with unsightly brown burlap, rose ominously above the choir seats, while the console was on ground-floor level. It represented an early experiment in electric action and, as the console was 2

Baxter (1891-1964) moved to England where he became a celebrated newspaper editor and journalist, and a member of Parliament. He retained his Canadian connection by contributing a "Letter from London" to Maclean's magazine for many years.

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moveable, wires were often broken with effects most disconcerting to the player. However, I did appear more than once before very full houses at the so-called "Festival of the Lilies," a popular spring-time event in which most of the participants were children. A large juvenile chorus under the late A.T. Cringan 3 was the main attraction. On each occasion I played a couple of groups of pieces whose names I prefer to suppress and I admit I found it thrilling to play to so many people. I found it equally fascinating, on the days when I went to practise, to explore, boy-like, the ins and outs of the hall, including the upper reaches where, many years later, I sometimes installed "angelic choirs" for choral works that called for such effects. Massey Hall4 has played a role in the musical life of Toronto that cannot be over-estimated. Before the erection, after World War I, of the Municipal Auditorium in Winnipeg, it was the only real concert hall in Canada. Never beautiful to the eye (indeed much less so in my young days than now) it would be hard to surpass acoustically, as many visiting conductors and artists have borne witness, and it holds a high place in the affections of thousands who have heard there the musically great of three generations. It would be a crying shame if the old hall were torn down in the name of "progress." Unfortunately it has always lacked an adequate organ simply because its architects did not provide sufficient space. Some time after the period of which I write, the pipes were distributed in shallow chambers on the two sides of the platform; the swell-box was removed, the pitch was lowered by transposing the pipes and leaving the lowest C silent, and, mutilated though it was, it served as a reasonably satisfactory 3

Alexander Cringan (1860-1931) was an important figure in music education in Toronto. For thirty years he was director of music at the Toronto Normal School (the institution for the training of school teachers), the author of several textbooks, an organist, and the organizer of massed choirs of school children. He was also one of the first to make extensive transcriptions of Canadian Native music. 4 Massey Hall opened in 1894 and immediately became the principal concert hall in Toronto, and indeed in all of Canada. It is still in use in the 1990s but has lost its primary status with the opening of Roy Thomson Hall in 1982.

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background for certain choral-orchestral works. Finally it disintegrated and was never replaced. Church music in Toronto during the first years of this century left much to be desired in style and quality. At home I was able to browse through vocal scores of Bach and Handel as well as such things as Mozart's (spurious) Twelfth Mass. Performances of the standard oratorios under that notable pioneer, Dr. F. H. Torrington, 5 took me occasionally to Massey Hall. Augustus Stephen Vogt6 was already setting very high choral standards with his Mendelssohn Choir, with which the Pittsburgh Orchestra was then associated. But I was also exposed to music of a more questionable type. Gounod's Redemption, Rossini's Stabat Mater, and Gaul's Holy City were still regarded as serious religious works and Stainer, Barnby and Dykes were part of our staple diet in churches. Stainer on occasions could write admirable music but it is difficult to understand how he, the organist of St. Paul's Cathedral in London and Professor of Music at Oxford, could set great words from St. John's Revelation to such a jingle as:

On a still lower level were most of the "solos" that so delighted many Toronto congregations. They were mostly of American origin, as were some of the worst anthems, and, with a few exceptions, represented a very low degree of taste. I cannot pretend to have been uninfluenced by these and still blush to think 5

Frederick Herbert Torrington (1837-1917) presided over the Festival that opened Massey Hall in 1894 and continued to conduct the Festival Chorus until 1912. During the period 1873-1894 he had been conductor of the Toronto Philharmonic Society. In 1888 he founded the Toronto College of Music. From 1873 to 1907 he was organist of Metropolitan Methodist Church. 6 A.S. Vogt (1861-1926) held important posts that MacMillan himself would later assume: Principal of the Toronto (Royal) Conservatory of Music, 1913-1926; Dean of the Faculty of Music, University of Toronto, 1918-1926; founder (1894) and first conductor of the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir.

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of some works I included in church services several years later when, having just turned fifteen, I was installed as organist and choirmaster of Knox Church. However, from the first I learned some discrimination — due in no small degree to the influence of my father — and, in the end, the good drove out the bad. Some of the best music was the simplest: the sturdy old Genevan and Scottish psalm tunes and German chorales still maintain a high place in my affections. While by no means convinced that the twentieth century has witnessed a rise in the quality of music generally, except in the technical skill of performers, I am confident that music in Canadian churches has on the whole greatly improved since my childhood. In Catholic churches, the Motu Proprio of Pope Pius X (1903) laid down principles which, though sometimes more honoured in the breach than in the observance, have won increasing adherence. In English-speaking countries, investigations into the music of the great Elizabethans by Canon Fellowes7 and others have led people to look down on weak imitations of Mendelssohn by providing them with models of a vastly superior type. This tendency is illustrated nowhere better than in the church music of Healey Willan8 which, while by no means imitative of sixteenth-century style, captures much of its spirit and aligns it with our most noble traditions. Anglo-Catholicism, through in itself not a strong force in Canada, has made its influence felt musically in churches that would strongly repudiate its doctrines — and this largely through the genius of Dr. Willan, who, working unobtrusively in his own parish, has set standards that no serious church musician should ignore. Behind this is the influence of a still more notable musician, Ralph Vaughan Williams.9 Although he 7

Edmond H. Fellowes (1870-1951) was an English cleric and scholar who published extensive editions of English Renaissance music of the period c.15451640. 8 Healey Willan (1880-1968) emigrated from England to Canada in 1913. As organist, choirmaster and composer in Toronto, he established himself as one of the most important modern composers for the Anglican service. 9 The English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958) is mostly renowned for his orchestral music, including nine symphonies, the opera Riders to the Sea, songs, and many vocal and instrumental works based on English folksong.

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wrote little ostensibly intended for the Church, Vaughan Williams gave a powerful impetus to others who, infected by his spirit, have written music, doubtless variable in quality but deriving some inspiration from Byrd, Tallis and Gibbons. The Hymnal of the United Church of Canada, for example (afterwards adopted with some minor changes by the Baptists), would not have been the excellent compilation it is had it not been for Vaughan Williams' musical editorship of the English Hymnal. I have just been glancing through the programmes of organ recitals printed in the February issue of The Diapason, the official journal not only of the American Guild but also of the Canadian College of Organists. It is interesting to compare these programmes with those of bygone days. In 1904 I attended a recital by the late Edwin Lemare in the Metropolitan Church, Toronto. I remember it particularly, because it took place on the night of the great fire, when most of Toronto's wholesale district fell victim to the flames. Emerging from the church, my father and I were startled by the vivid red glow in the sky. I was forcibly prevented from rushing into the threatened area, although we came as near it as he thought safe. At the recital the brillantly executed programme had included the Ride of the Valkyries. Wagner transcriptions for the organ (many made by Lemare himself) were liable to appear on the programme of almost any well-equipped organist unless he were a dyed-in-the-wool purist. What organist would play them now? Before condemning such monstrosities please remember that, except in the great operatic centres, most people had no other means in 1904 of hearing Wagner. Nowadays one can sit comfortably at home, or even in one's car, and listen to the Bayreuth Festival on the radio or through recordings. Many a music lover of my generation owes his first introduction to Wagner to the organ and I, for one, feel no shame in admitting that I have played, for instance, the Vorspiel and Liebestod from Tristan and Isolde on recital programmes. This would be foolish nowadays; orchestral and operatic music can be heard anywhere and organists, quite rightly, concentrate on music written for the instrument. The organist's repertoire suffers by comparison with that of the pianist or violinist, though it is probably more extensive than

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that of the cellist. Many of the great composers — such as Beethoven, Schubert and Wagner — can be said to have virtually ignored the organ. The nineteenth century produced a limited number of works by Mendelssohn, Cesar Franck and Liszt as well as a few choice chorale preludes by Brahms; Schumann contributed six delightful fugues and Saint-Saens a number of minor works but there was no worthy successor to Bach and Buxtehude. The real revival of organ music (apart from that of Max Reger) came from France. Under the influence of Franck and, to a lesser extent, of Saint-Saens, French composers from Widor to Olivier Messiaen have immensely enlarged the repertoire and other lands, including the United States, have contributed their share. It does not, however, lie within my province to give even a brief review of modern organ music; I merely suggest a few reasons why today's programmes have greatly improved on those of my young days. Unfortunately this improvement has not been accompanied by any notable increase in popularity. Quite possibly the reverse is the case, for the organist has now to compete with far more varied types of musical attractions. All honour to those who persevere — handicapped though many are by having to practise in unheated churches and play to unappreciative congregations. As these reminiscences have to do with organ music in Canada I shall pass briefly over the three years (1905-1908) which I spent in Edinburgh and other parts of the British Isles. They were very fruitful years for me; my general schooling being somewhat irregular, I was able to devote much of my time to music. The blind organist and composer Alfred Hollins was my principal instructor in organ-playing. For him I had a great affection and, although a stricter teacher would perhaps have been better for me, I owe him a deep debt. He set me an excellent example in rhythmical playing (a thing some organists never learn) and, having a very keen ear, was usually able to detect faults in my fingering and pedalling with uncanny precision. When in doubt he would put his hand over my fingers or even dive down to feel what my feet were doing. I often had the privilege of guiding him to a new organ; it was remarkable to see how he found his way about the stops and other accessories by touch alone. I must have been unconsciously inspired to gain some of the same facility — invaluable in reading new music,

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when a moment's distraction from the printed page might result in one losing one's place. I gained much experience in service playing, for Rollins often left me in charge at St. George's in his absence, and also in rehearsing his and other church choirs. I gave occasional recitals in Scottish and English cities and still cherish a poem, written in the Burns metre, sent to me after a recital in Kirriemuir — the "Thrums" of J. M. Barrie. Let me quote one stanza: The folk wha heard him a'admired His style, and as they oot retired, A siller offerin' was desired, Which was maist fit. A few gied less, but less gied mair Than thrupenny bit. The "thrupenny bit" was at that time the lowest silver coin minted and is said to have been invented to enable a Scot to feel generous. Returning to Canada in May, 1908, armed with an A.R.C.O. diploma, I was soon appointed organist and choirmaster of Knox Church, Toronto. The site of the original building had been sold to the Robert Simpson Company and the new church was not opened until January 1909. As the organ was still under construction, I had to make shift for some weeks with a harmonium, which was not easy, as the congregations were large and congregational singing enthusiastic. However, in the end all was well, and the very fact that the organ was only a two-manual one taught me to make the most of modest resources — also a valuable lesson. This article turns out to be more autobiographical than I had intended but some blame may rest on the Editor who asked me for personal reminiscences of days gone by and particularly of the organ world in Toronto. It was not long before I came to know most of the leading organists. In 1909 the Canadian College of Organists was founded, not in Toronto, but through the efforts of a number of musicians in Brantford. They soon enlisted the support of Dr. Albert Ham, organist and choirmaster of St. James' Cathedral, whose boy-choir set a high standard for all Anglican

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churches. Dr. Ham was the model English gentleman — so British, indeed, that he might well have worn a Union Jack as waistcoat and posed as John Bull. I do not recollect having any connection with the C.C.O. until after the First World War, but the annals of the college reveal that "Mr. E. A. MacMillan" took part in a recital given under its auspices in 1911. Dr. Ham also directed the "National Chorus" which included some of his boys and gave fine concerts, though it never reached the standards of A. S. Vogt's Mendelssohn. Vogt himself was an organist and the Mendelssohn Choir was partly an outgrowth of his choir at Jarvis Street Baptist Church. At the period I have reached in my narrative, the Mendelssohn Choir was associated with the Chicago Orchestra under Frederick Stock; their annual festivals — the core of Toronto's musical season — were a great inspiration to musiclovers. Having enjoyed regular orchestral fare in Edinburgh and London I felt rather starved for it; although Frank Welsman10 was already building up the Toronto Symphony into a praiseworthy body, and its concerts featured guest artists of international fame, it could not hope to rival the standards of visiting American orchestras. One of Vogt's great triumphs was his presentation of Gabriel Pierne's Children's Crusade, in which his regular forces were supplemented by a large choir of children with beautifully trained voices. Though perhaps out-dated to some modern ears, it is a colourful work and the orchestra score, graciously lent me by Dr. Vogt, so fascinated me that I made an organ arrangement of one of the interludes. During my days at Knox Church I spent some time catching up on my neglected school-work and with much reading and some coaching in mathematics, I managed to matriculate at Toronto University in 1910. I had little formal instruction in music but spent much time browsing among the Bach church cantatas and other standard classics then little known in Toronto. I found a 10

Frank Welsman (1873-1952) organized the Toronto Conservatory of Music Symphony Orchestra in 1906, which became the Toronto Symphony Orchestra in 1908. Its activities were reduced with the outbreak of the First World War in 1914, and it dissolved in 1918.

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staunch friend in Richard Tattersall, then organist of the neighbouring St. Thomas' Church, Huron Street. He fully shared my enthusiasm for the Master of Eisenach and, many years later, collaborated with me in the first performances of the St. Matthew Passion. Never brilliant, Dick Tattersall was nevertheless a musician of high ideals and extensive knowledge and, despite disparity of age, we spent many happy hours together. Resigning from Knox Church at the age of sixteen in the Autumn of 1910, I took off again for the Old Land where I completed requirements for the Oxford B.Mus. degree and for Fellowship of the Royal College of Organists. In the playing tests for the latter I thought I had done a pretty good job with the Bach A minor fugue and a miserable one with the Elgar Sonata in G. However, to my unutterable astonishment, I was awarded the Carte-Lafontaine prize for the highest marks at that session. In London I again seized every possible opportunity to hear orchestral music — including the Spring Festival in Queen's Hall, and, returning once more to Canada, I was soon plunged into the Modern History course at the University of Toronto. During my first academic year I commuted every week-end to Hamilton, where I served as organist and choirmaster at St. Paul's Presbyterian Church. Finding this rather taxing, in view of my other work, I was happy to accept (at a lower salary) the job of playing at the Sunday morning University Services in Convocation Hall, where a particularly fine organ had recently been installed. The hymn-book used had been especially compiled for these services; I had been charged with the musical editing and proofreading, which again took me briefly to London and Oxford in the summer of 1912. The University Organist (and Bursar), Dr. F. H. Moure often called on me to play at various academic functions or to give a recital, so that I was able to keep my hand in. On one occasion I had to play for a function in which the Duke of Connaught (then Governor General) was the speaker. His Royal Highness' train was forty-five minutes late and I found it a strain to keep going (for the most part extemporaneously) in constant readiness to break into the National Anthem. However I enjoyed most of my varied experiences, particularly when, sitting directly behind the

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President's chair, I could overhear snatches of conversation not intended for an undergraduate's ears. Apart from organ recitals, music played little part in University life at that time and was accorded no place on the Arts curriculum. I remember being positively startled when one of our lecturers referred on one occasion to Beethoven as the musical prophet of the French Revolution; no other reference to music was, to the best of my recollection, made in any of my classes. I fancy that things are very different nowadays. Feeling that something had to be done about this situation, some of my pals and I organized a "University Musical Society," pressing into service several willing Toronto musicians, including Frank Welsman, who kindly came to lecture on the Instruments of the Orchestra and brought with him several of his players to demonstrate. In our second year we ran into some troubles, engaging outside artists whom we were unable to pay, and finally in March of 1914 we plunged heavily into debt by giving a programme of works for organ and orchestra to one of the smallest audiences I have ever seen at a concert. Fortunately I had foreseen a deficit and extracted promises from three of our wealthy and public-spirited citizens — Sir Edmund Walker, Sir Edmund Osier and Mr. (afterwards Sir) Joseph Flavelle — who nobly came to the rescue. The conductor for this concert was Luigi von Kunits11 who, after the war, was to play so important a part in re-establishing the Toronto Symphony. I hope the concert — the first of its kind in Toronto — was a musical success; at any rate I thoroughly enjoyed playing three concertos and violently disagreed with Berlioz's dictum that the orchestra is King, the organ is Pope, and neither will yield place to the other. It was with a view to improving my much neglected piano playing that I took off for Paris in the early summer of 1914, got lodgings in the rue de la Tour and began my work with Therese Chaigneau, assistant to Harold Bauer with whom I intended to 11

The Viennese violinist Luigi von Kunits (1870-1931) settled in Toronto in 1912 where he immediately became one of the most important teachers of the time. He organized the New Symphony Orchestra in 1922, which became the present-day Toronto Symphony Orchestra in 1927. At his death, von Kunits was succeeded as conductor of the Orchestra by MacMillan.

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study on his return to Paris. My lessons however were destined to last only a few weeks: a friend invited me to attend the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth. War broke out a week later and I was interned as an enemy alien. My years behind barbed wire form no part of this narrative, for of course there was no organ in the camp. There was however a fine organist — Quentin Maclean, now known to Canadian listeners far and wide. For my part, I gained much valuable experience in conducting the camp orchestra — a mixed body but one that included several very good professionals. Landing at Leith in late November 1918, I found myself surrounded by friends, including my old organ master, Alfred Rollins. He insisted that I play a service for him. After so many years in exile from the instrument I felt clumsy but Hollins was most complimentary and was also particularly touched when, in a Mendelssohn sonata, I used the registration he had taught me some twelve years before. By the end of January 1919 I was back in Toronto, eager to embark on a professional career. Through my father's extensive connections I was able to arrange a recital tour to the Pacific Coast — the first time I had been farther west than Chicago — and experienced at first hand the vastness and variety of our great land. The fact that I had, at the intermission of each recital, to give a talk on "My Four Years as a German Prisoner" was the only fly in the ointment. I was unaccustomed to public speaking and hated it; probably my audiences, too, were disappointed that I did not paint a more lurid picture. However, once again the experience proved useful, for in subsequent years I have had to do a good deal of public speaking and face my audience instead of (as is usual on the organ bench) turning my back on them. Toward the end of the year I was appointed organist and choirmaster of Timothy Eaton Memorial Church and, on New Year's Eve, took to myself as wife the girl to whom I had been engaged since Varsity days. My church position offered every opportunity for improving my playing; the organ, though then badly placed, was a fine four-manual Casavant and the church — mirabile dictu! — was heated throughout the week. I buckled to and was soon giving numerous recitals (including many Bach programmes) in Toronto and elsewhere. It was flattering to be

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selected as the first resident Canadian to play to the National Association of Organists at the 1921 convention in Chicago. I say the first resident Canadian, because my noted fellow-countryman Lynnwood Farnam, 1 2 organist at the Church of the Holy Communion in New York, was also among the performers. His beautifully finished style and unerring accuracy presented a challenge to all the rest of us. He played, by the way, in the beautiful Fourth Presbyterian Church designed by Ralph Adams Cramb, where I had been invited, during my Varsity days and before the building was completed, to become organist and choirmaster. In the early twenties the Canadian branch of the American Guild of Organists decided to throw in its lot with the Canadian College and to cease functioning as a separate body. For a time this move occasioned some controversy but resulted in bringing into the C.C.O. many leading Canadian organists to the great benefit of the College. By this time Dr. Ham had retired as President, his place being taken by the burly and genial Dr. Percival Illesley, of St. George's Church, Montreal. Montreal organists came to play an important role in our activities and several of the annual conventions were held in that city. At that time the excellent organist of Christ Church Cathedral was Arthur Egg; the fact that the cathedral organists of Toronto and Montreal were respectively Ham and Egg gave rise to some amusement and doubtless accounted partially for Arthur's changing his surname to Egerton. Efforts were made to interest some of the French-speaking organists in the College. For a time a number co-operated and gave fine recitals at Montreal conventions. However in the end our attempts proved abortive; perhaps the former name "Guild," although it had long since been discarded, held some masonic significance for the ecclesiastical authorities; perhaps the Roman Catholic organists themselves felt that their work had too little in common with that of their Protestant colleagues. Although the 12

Farnam (1885-1930) held important posts in his native Montreal before moving to Boston in 1913, and later to New York. He had a prodigious memory and was among the great organ performers of his time. In 1928-29 he played the complete organ music of Bach in a series of twenty recitals.

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College still numbers some notable members of the Catholic faith and is strictly undenominational in principle, its membership is predominantly Protestant. The establishment, over a period of many years, of local centres in all parts of Canada from Newfoundland to the Pacific Coast has justified the claim of the C.C.O. to be a truly national body. During the Second World War members raised no less than £10,000 for assistance in erecting an organ for the new Coventry Cathedral; Dr. Healey Willan and our devoted Secretary-Treasurer, Gordon Langlois, were the moving spirits in this effort. More recently another special project, that of raising funds for permanent headquarters, has been energetically tackled; years of uphill work may still lie ahead but the fund is already making satisfactory progress. Although my own activities since the 1920s have lain in other fields, I still follow the affairs of the C.C.O. with deep interest and was proud when, two years ago, I was made an Honorary Life Member. This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the College; its first woman President, Muriel Gidley Stafford, and her energetic committee, are planning special celebrations for this summer's convention in Toronto. For myself, however rusty my technique, climbing on the organ bench is still like coming home. It is some years since I undertook to give a recital; most of my playing is done for the weddings and funerals of friends. Perhaps, with time at my disposal, I may tackle something more ambitious. Meantime, although not a Fellow of the American Guild of Organists, I sometimes dub myself "F.A.G.O.," which some of my American friends interpret as "formerly a good organist." I hope I was.

The Musical Season in Toronto (Canadian Forum 5/92 (May 1928): 642-3)

he first half of the present musical season, from September to the New Year, was fairly full, and, on the whole, concertgivers had reason to feel encouraged by attendances. While some noteworthy events have been cold-shouldered by an overconservative public, the general average of audiences has been perceptibly higher this year than last. That Madame Galli-Curci would draw a full house was a foregone conclusion, but it was encouraging to see the Detroit Orchestra equally well patronized — especially in view of the number of vacant seats that has greeted some of its previous appearances. Possibly the attendance spurred conductor and players to exceptional efforts; at any rate, rarely has a visiting orchestra given us a more satisfying evening. To sit down at the piano, as did Mr. Gabrilowitsch, after a strenuous hour's conducting, and give a masterly performance of the second Rachmaninoff concerto, was a most unusual achievement. Mr. Gabrilowitsch is a fine and musicianly conductor, but he is a great pianist, and one felt that, so far as performance was concerned, he kept the good wine to the last. In the first half of the programme Strauss' Don Juan (regarded as somewhat vieux jeu in these days of swiftly changing fashions), stood out by reason of its exuberant spirits and brilliant scoring: it sparkled like champagne, and after it the audience was almost too excited to settle down to a delightful draught of Munchener Hofbrau in the shape of Brahms' Academic Festival Overture. This concert marked the conclusion of a notable week, not the least interesting feature of which was the production of Deems Taylor's much-discussed opera, The King's Henchman.1 As a

T

1 The King's Henchman was commissioned by the Metropolitan Opera Company and premiered there February 17, 1927. This work, and the later Peter Ibbetson (Metropolitan Opera, 1931) made Taylor (1885-1966) the most-performed American composer at the Metropolitan. Both operas were heard widely in North America. The Canadian tenor Edward Johnson sang in their premieres.

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production it left little to be desired, from the point of view of Torontonians, being undoubtedly the finest operatic venture presented here for many a long year. If one or two of the singers displayed an excessive "wobble," if nearly all of them required lessons in English diction, and if the very efficient orchestra showed at times a regrettable tendency to drown them out (owing partly to over-scoring), such faults could readily be forgiven by the inhabitants of an operatic Sahara. The work itself is full of interest, though one is reminded at times that the composer, as critic of the New York World, must have heard many, many, operas, and does not always find it easy to forget them. The libretto of Edna St. Vincent Millay purports to be Early, or Middle, or some other kind of English — just what period it would be hard to say — but there is little to suggest an English origin in the music, which, apart from the opening of the third act and scattered passages in the first, owes its inspiration almost entirely to Wagner. The situations are, indeed, dangerously like some in Tristan, which helps to complete the illusion that we are travelling Bayreuth-wards. The score is thoroughly musicianly and well conceived, yet somehow the music remains emotionally unconvincing. And while one hesitates to criticize a libretto which, with all its absurdities (far fewer than in ninety per cent, of operas), contains passages of real poetic beauty, one finds it hard to forgive such lines as, "Go now, and go lively, for my marrow oozeth," and: 'Tis a known thing: I never ope my mouth But to put my foot in it. One wonders whether such "chestnuts" grew upon the trees of Anglo-Saxon England, and whether bobbed hair was a usual subject of domestic discussion, as the opening of the third act suggests. This notable week brought also a return visit of the English Singers.2 The Women's Musical Club is to be thanked for bringing them, and thus giving Toronto an opportunity of effacing the bad impression made by the poor audiences of last season. The English 2

The English Singers specialized in music of the English Renaissance, a repertoire that, in 1927, was a novelty in historically stylistic performance.

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Singers are not a subject for criticism; both their programmes and their execution are above reproach. At times, perhaps, their tone lacked some of its customary freshness — easily accounted for by the constant travel and excessive number of engagements which are the penalty of an overwhelming success — but in balance, ensemble, restraint, humour, emotional appeal, clearness of technique, and, above all, in perfection of diction they leave little or nothing to be desired. One of the best and most popular of American contraltos told me that she regarded a concert by the English Singers as better than any lesson she had ever received: would that many a lesser singer would be content to sit, in the same humble fashion, at their feet! Incidentally, what an immense amount they teach us about the musical greatness of England! The Twilight Concerts,3 given by what is now known as the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, under the direction of Dr. Luigi von Kunits, have also attracted, on the whole, better audiences than formerly. The reduction of its membership to fifty was both a necessity and a wise move, for, apart from the impossibility of financing an orchestra of eighty players without a permanent endowment, the former personnel included some whose musical proficiency left something to be desired. The absence of certain instruments places further restrictions upon a repertoire already circumscribed by lack of funds for the purchase of new music, yet on the whole Dr. von Kunits has at his disposal this year a much more wieldy, if a lighter weapon. It is good to see at the concertmaster's desk a musician of the calibre of Mr. Donald Heins. The programmes have been of a comparatively light nature; from the point of view of the public this is also wise, for it is difficult to compose one's mind to listen to a complete symphony immediately before dinner. Dr. von Kunits has put all Toronto in his debt by his indefatigable labours, and he continues to demonstrate his complete control over his forces, as well as his thorough musicianship. One wonders, incidentally, how so busy a man finds it possible to memorize so many scores each season. It is to be 3

The concerts were given in Massey Hall at 5 p.m. From 1923 to 1927 the orchestra was called the New Symphony Orchestra.

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hoped, also, that his policy of presenting new compositions by Canadians will result in the production of something of exceptional merit. The Hart House Quartet announced, at the beginning of the season, a series of five concerts, of which two were to be given by visiting quartets. We owe to them not only delightful performances of well-known works, but also some interesting new ones, notably Dohnanyi's latest quartet, with its clever reminiscences of Broadway, and modern American works by David Mannes (played by the Flonzaley Quartet) and Howard Hanson (played by the Persinger Quartet of San Francisco). In a series of interesting sonata recitals, Mr. and Mme. de Kresz5 have presented several works new to Toronto audiences: notably, sonatas by Busoni and Jarnach, and most challenging of all, the new sonata for violin and piano by Ravel. This last presents a new Ravel to us — one that recalls the acrid dissonances of Les Six and (in the second movement) indulges in a refined and languid type of jazz, Europeanized to the point of degeneracy. When this sort of thing creeps under the skin of so fastidious a composer, one feels one must resign oneself to the Americanization of the world. Coming, as it did, two days after Christmas, the appearance of the Harvard Glee Club in Convocation Hall did not attract so large an audience as it merited, but those who attended were delighted with the excellence of their work, and astonished that a body of college students could achieve such results. Clearly the secret is to be found in the remarkable personality of Dr. Archibald Davison, who adds to his cultivated musicianship the faculty of getting things done without unnecessarily getting himself disliked. The Harvard singers gave us more than a concert — they gave us a demonstration. They made it clear that, taken seriously, good music is preferable to bad — not because it is one's duty to prefer 4

The Quartet gave its first concerts in 1924 and subsequently toured throughout Canada and the United States as well as in Europe. Its farewell concert was in 1946. 5 Geza de Kresz (1882-1959) was first violinist of the Hart House Quartet and a distinguished soloist. He frequently gave recitals with his wife, the pianist Norah Drewett (1882-1960).

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it, but because there is far more actual enjoyment to be derived from it. There is no reason why Toronto University should not produce a chorus (preferably a mixed chorus) which will demonstrate the same thing, providing another Davison is found. It is difficult to know what to select for notice from the many individual and ensemble recitals of the season. Of such experiments as that of "Five Pianos" it is not for me to speak:6 it served at least to demonstrate that Toronto can provide an exceptional array of pianistic ability. I must not, however, overlook some interesting performances of original compositions by Torontonians. The Women's Musical Club did wisely in arranging a recital of works by Dr. Healey Willan: two violin sonatas, one in eighteenth-century and one in twentieth-century style, were admirably played by Mr. Harry Adaskin7 with the composer at the piano, and Mme. Jeanne Dusseau8 sang two groups of songs with excellent finish and taste. Nor must I neglect to mention the pleasure with which I heard Mr. Donald Heins9 play his concertino; I understand that a performance with orchestra is likely to take place in the near future. If it is not out of order to mention a private performance, I should like to commend one of our musical clubs for the excellent performance of Canadian compositions given some weeks ago at the home of one of our prominent 6

MacMillan was the conductor of the Five Piano Ensemble, which was made up of Toronto pianists Viggo Kihl, Ernest Seitz, Reginald Stewart, Alberto Guerrero, and Norah Drewett de Kresz. 7 Harry Adaskin (1901-1994) was not only an active orchestral and chamber music player, chiefly in Toronto, but also a distinguished teacher. He later established the first regular music courses at the University of British Columbia in 1946. He wrote two volumes of memoirs: A Fiddler's World: Memoirs to 1938. Vancouver: November House, 1977; A Fiddler's Choice: Memoirs 1938 to 1980. Vancouver: November House, 1982. 8 Jeanne Dusseau (b. 1893 - ?) was one of the most successful Canadian singers of the 1930s and 1940s in both concert and opera. She sang throughout Canada and abroad with such companies as the Chicago Opera and the Sadler's Wells Opera in London. 9 Donald Heins (1878-1949) moved to Toronto from Ottawa in 1927 to become concertmaster of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. He composed a few instrumental and choral pieces, but was primarily a performer.

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citizens. A group of songs by Mr. Leo Smith,10 sung with fine feeling by Miss Myrtle Hare, and a piano concerto by Mr. Scott Malcolm,nplayed by the composer with Mr. Ernest Seitz12 at the second piano, were of exceptional interest, and argued well for the future of Canadian music. Yet, when all is said and done, we have scarcely crossed the threshold in the matter of original work, and one continues to scan the horizon for signs of a real awakening of serious interest among our young students in this, the most important and fundamental branch of musical activity.

10

Leo Smith (1881-1952) was a notable cellist, a professor at the University of Toronto, the author of three successful text-books on music, and in his later years, critic for the Toronto Globe and Mail He wrote a number of instrumental works and songs in a conservative but original and sensitive style. For many years, the Smiths and the MacMillans were neighbours. 11 Scott Malcolm was a student of Ernest Seitz. During the 1930s he formed a highly successful two-piano team with Reginald Godden. 12 Ernest Seitz (1892-1978) achieved prominence as a pianist with appearances in recital and with major orchestras in Canada and the United States from the 1920s until he retired from performance activity in 1946. He became most famous, however, as the composer of the extraordinarily successful 1918 song, The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise.

Novello's New Messiah (Canadian Music Journal 4/2 (1960): 57-60)

W

atkins Shaw is Honorary Librarian of St. Michael's College, Tenbury Wells, Worcestershire, where one of the two "unimpeachable" autograph scores of Messiah is housed. The other is in the British Museum, and Mr. Shaw has obviously given the most intensive study to both. We can therefore be confident that his edition represents what Handel actually wrote. In view of the mass of traditions, adaptations, additional accompaniments and the like which have, in the course of two centuries, accumulated like barnacles about this much-adored and much-abused masterpiece, this is of the greatest value. We are also provided with an illuminating table showing to what voices the various solo numbers were allotted in various performances under Handel's direction — often these are at variance with modern practice. Handel himself made many changes and alterations in his scores and the various versions have been meticulously noted by the editor. It would be refreshing to hear "Rejoice greatly" in the twelveeight rhythm which the composer adopted for his second version and which also appears in the Handel Gesellschaft score.1 No less intriguing is the duet form of "How beautiful are the feet," written for two altos and leading into an exhilarating chorus, "Break forth into joy." These and other alternatives are given in an appendix. In the main body of the vocal score the accompaniment (designed primarily for organ but readily playable on the piano) gives in bold type the original instrumentation as closely as performance by two hands will allow, together with a simple filling up of the continue in smaller notes. All "additional accompaniments," such as those of Mozart, Costa, Prout and others, have been discarded, and presumably full score and parts 1

The reference is to the complete edition of Handel's works, published 1858-1894 as G. F. Hdndels Werke: Ausgabe derDeutschen Hdndelgesellschaft, ed. F. W. Chrysander.

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to accompany this edition will appear soon. The text throughout is so edited as to leave no doubt about what appears in the manuscripts. This is given in bold type, whereas the simple filling-up of the continuo is shown in smaller notes. Handel's few appoggiature and other ornaments are carefully differentiated from those conjectured by the editor as being in keeping with eighteenth-century practice. I doubt if anyone now living has heard Messiah (the definite article does not appear in the earliest editions) as Handel wrote and first performed it. His choruses were small, usually consisting of boys and men, and the tone of the oboes, which often doubled the string parts, was probably rather strident. A modern audience would be surprised to hear "But who may abide" sung by an alto or, in a transposed version, by a soprano; there is no evidence that Handel ever gave it to a bass. One wonders too how present-day listeners would react to "Rejoice greatly," "He was despised," or "I know that my Redeemer liveth" sung with the "partly conjectural" ornaments given in this edition; they conform with what we know of eighteenth-century practice but would probably cause not a few raised eyebrows in a modern audience. The voice of the countertenor, so often employed by Handel, is now rarely heard except in male choirs and a handful of recordings. Further surprise would be occasioned by a performance that followed Handel's "underlaying" of words in certain solo numbers. Even in more generally used editions we are sometimes reminded that English was not the composer's native language and his original scores show that he sometimes out-Beckmessers Beckmesser in false accentuations.2 ... Shaw's edition is "designed as a performing, not a critical edition" and therefore suggests alternatives where, for one reason or another, the original might be impractical. This means that time and time again the conductor must decide on such matters as the use of ornaments, alterations to note values in accordance with eighteenth-century practice, the barring and "underlaying of 2

Beckmesser is the pedantic critic in Wagner's Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg who competes in the song contest with a grotesquely comic song with misplaced accents.

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words" and, above all, instrumentation. Handel's score is in many movements exceedingly sketchy, partly because he often wrote in a great hurry; merely filling up the continuo on an organ — still more on a piano or harpsichord — is not always adequate from the point of view of balance. "Rejoice greatly," for instance, is scored for a single violin part and continuo; considering the large body of strings in a modern orchestra, an inconspicuous viola part would surely make for a more unified effect. How far one can go in adapting the score without violating the essentials of Handel's style must be left to the discretion of the individual conductor. The purist will make as few alterations as possible and the (in many ways) laudable tendency of the present day is to play eighteenth-century music as it stands. Mr. Shaw's edition will prove invaluable to those who wish to do so and even the non-purist should study it carefully if he hopes to justify any changes he may think advisable. Yet in aiming at historic accuracy one may go too far and allow Handel's great work to become a museum piece. Perhaps the reader will forgive me if I strike a personal note. In my earliest p e r f o r m a n c e s of Messiah I was as uncompromising in my adherence to the original orchestration (as given in the Handel Gesellschaft score) as circumstances allowed. Being unable to find a set of parts that satisfactorily reproduced this, I spent many hours grimly marking facet where additions had been made to Handel's score.3 With the passing of years, however, I weakened, feeling that a modern audience did not listen with the ears of the eighteenth century. Eventually I combined two different editions (to the despair of the players) and, without overelaborating, filled in such string parts as seemed to me necessary. I even weakened so far as to include Mozart's delicate wood-wind parts in "The people that walked in darkness"; I did so with my eyes open and in the face of Rockstro's 4 comment that they do not suggest darkness, as do Handel's stark unisons, but rather "an 3

Tacet is marked in a score or orchestral part to indicate that the instrumentalist does not play during the indicated passage. 4 William Rockstro (1823-95) was an influential English musician and writer. He lectured on music history, became an authority on early music, and published several notable books on music, among them a biography of Handel (1883).

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enchanted atmosphere of soft golden light." I admit that, in this aria, the soft golden light still enchants me and confess to having sinned with respect to some other numbers. However, on the whole I always tried to make the music sound as Handelian as possible under conditions imposed by a large choir and orchestra, an electronic organ and a modern audience. Whether I succeeded or not must be left to the judgement of others. At any rate from the first I used only Handel's glorious trumpet parts, reserving their first entry, as did the composer, for the appearance of the angels in "Glory to God in the Highest." Reverence for the written score is an excellent thing but "the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life."5 Performance, on stage or platform, has a quality of immediacy as distinct from the written word, and the audience shares in this. To my mind the important thing is to reproduce as nearly as possible the effect intended by the playwright or composer. This, of course, involves guess-work and is dangerous. But playing safe may be deadly. The emotions evoked by great works of art — awe and exaltation, terror and tenderness — are partly subjective, and audiences of one age listen with ears different from those of another. I am glad to have my non-purist views backed up by Ralph Vaughan Williams in his admirable (though admittedly contentious) essay, "Bach the Great Bourgeois." (Ralph Vaughan Williams, Some Thoughts on Beethoven's Choral Symphony with Writings on Other Musical Subjects [London: Oxford University Press, 1953]) "We cannot," he says, "perform Bach exactly as he was played in his time even if we wanted to, and the question is, do we want to? I say emphatically, No! Some music dies with its period, but what is really immortal endures from generation to generation. The interpretation and with it the means of interpretation differ with each generation. If the music is ephemeral it will disappear with any change of fashion. If the music is really alive it will live on through all alterations of musical thought." As with Bach, so with Handel; some adaptations and 5

2 Cor. 3:6.

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compromises are necessary, but we can make them with a clear conscience only if we have thoroughly studied the original scores. Opinions will always differ as to how far this or that alteration violates the essential style but we must first know exactly what the composer wrote. Shaw's edition of Messiah leaves us in no doubt of this and for this reason alone would be highly valuable. However, it is not only scholarly but also practical and can be warmly recommended to any conductor who wishes to perform the work as originally conceived. I hope many conductors will do so; I for one would be happy to try the experiment.

Hitler and Wagnerism (Queen's Quarterly (Summer 1941): 97-105}

\ he Fiihrer tells us in Mein Kampfthat at the age of twelve he saw the first opera of his life, Lohengrin. "I was captivated at once. My youthful enthusiasm for the master of Bayreuth knew no bounds. Again and again I was drawn to his works, and today I consider it particularly fortunate that the modesty of that provincial performance reserved for me the opportunity of seeing increasingly better productions." Hitler's enthusiasm has not abated with the years. He has been a constant attendant at Bayreuth, an intimate friend of Siegfried Wagner's widow and daughter, and his mind is coloured by Wagnerian theories and concepts. Most of these theories and concepts are themselves derived from German philosophical and metaphysical writings of earlier or contemporary date. Wagner's mentality, however complex and versatile, was, in so far as it was genuinely creative, essentially the mind of a musician. Most of the philosophical ideas, arguments and obsessions that swim about in the turgid sea of his Collected Writings, or occasionally hold up the action and obscure the dramatic sequence in his later music-dramas (particularly the Ring), are anything but original in themselves. In their first fever of hero-worship, countless followers accepted Wagner at his own valuation — that is to say, as poet, philosopher and political reformer no less than as musician. On the other hand, many people lose much musical enjoyment because they are unable to penetrate through the encrustation of Wagner's wordy and dubious philosophy, through the thick fog of social, economic, political, ethical and aesthetic theory with which he surrounded himself, to the genuine greatness of the musician. Within the last ten years there has even arisen in many quarters an aversion to Wagner's music, often, I suspect, because antipathy to the man has unfairly prejudiced people against the musician. Those who know Wagner best, however, realize that his prose writings, his lengthy explanations of his own dramatic works, and

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his polemics all have their ultimate roots in, and are subconsciously subordinated to, the demands of the musician. I do not propose to enlarge upon this thesis; it has been done frequently and ably by many writers, perhaps the bestinformed being Ernest Newman. In A Study of Wagner, published in 1899, he argues this point lucidly and convincingly.1 In instance after instance we are shown how Wagner's poems, regarded by himself as on a parity with his music and to a great extent dominating it, are in reality determined in form and content by the music, and may be considered simply as admirable operatic libretti. That other composers might not have found them suitable for their own purposes does not alter the fact. They were admirable libretti for Wagner himself and for the new type of music-drama created by his highly original mind. Wagner's own objection, that in old-fashioned opera the libretto was written merely to fit the music, may in fact be turned back upon himself. Read the words of Tristan or the Ring without reference to the music, and judge whether you can accept them as (in Newman's words) "poetry developed so far that the expressive power of words could go no further." Wagner is strongest when he frankly subordinates words and action to music. The weaknesses in certain works, particularly in certain parts of the Ring, are found precisely where the musician temporarily loses control and the voice of the preacher or the philosopher is heard. Yet the words in such passages are by no means always inferior as poetry to other passages which, in their musical setting, give us great delight. Wagner's self-deception in this respect is mentioned only as a particular instance of a fundamental egotism, amounting practically to self-hypnosis, which permeates his entire attitude to life. Newman writes: From the beginning to the end of his career he laid down for universal acceptance ideas and theories that were purely personal to himself, and he was unable to conceive how the whole world, when it 1

Ernest Newman, A Study of Wagner (London: B. Dobell, 1899; reprinted New York: Vienna House, 1974).

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came to its senses, could think differently from him.... His faith in his own philosophical ideas, his belief in their importance for the regeneration of the universe, would surely be grotesque if it were not so pathetic. His purely musical gift, which has never been equalled among men, he seemed to lay comparatively little stress upon; while he constantly troubled himself, his correspondents, his readers, and his hearers with speculations in philosophy and other subjects for which he had only the most mediocre capacity. When we contemplate the rise and growth of National Socialism in Germany, we ask ourselves what is the fatal quality in the German people that can permit a great nation to subscribe solemnly to such a threadbare philosophy and to deliver itself up body and soul into the hands of such a sorry mountebank crew? Can it be possible that, under pressure of similar circumstances we, too, might succumb to so hollow a system? What is the secret of the apparent devotion, not certainly of the whole German nation but at least of many millions, to the Fiihrer? To what extent is it genuine and to what extent does it merely conceal fear? How much of it would prove sufficiently substantial to withstand an influx of conflicting ideas were the rigid censorship removed? Can fear and ignorance, of themselves, hold a great and intelligent nation in thrall? Although, no doubt, fear plays a leading role with many, we should, I think, be grossly deceiving ourselves if we did not look deeper. There may be more than a little truth in the remark once made by Hitler that he regarded himself first and foremost as an artist. It is very unfortunate for the world that at the outset of his career he was rejected as a bad artist, but it is his mental attitude and not his ability that concerns us. The soul of an artist, we may recollect, lived also in the Emperor Nero. One wonders whether Wagner, given less success in his musical career and more in his excursions into revolutionary politics, might not have anticipated Hitler. Much of Wagner's strength in building that career lay in his passionate conviction that he was always right and in his typically

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Teutonic capacity for rejecting or ignoring any inconvenient facts that might have shaken that conviction. He was completely convinced of the importance of his message to the world, and, unlike some other egotists, he proved himself right, musically if not philosophically. He was utterly unscrupulous in making use of his friends or of anyone else to further his purposes, and sublimely disdainful of the rights of others. Identifying himself completely as he did with the forces of light and his opponents with those of darkness, he accepted sacrifices from others as though in so doing he were conferring a favour. He lied without hesitation when it suited his purpose, and contradicted himself time and time again in matters of detail, yet maintained a firm consistency in pursuing his broad aims. He held views only too familiar to us on the superiority of the German race, and his anti-Semitic opinions are too strong to be accounted for exclusively by envy in his early years for the success of Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer. He wrote an autobiography notoriously inaccurate in matters of fact, but selfrevealing to a degree. In all this, are we not continually reminded of his admirer, Adolf Hitler? Wagner's pamphlets, Deutsche Kunst und deutsche Politik and Was ist Deutschf2 give expression to a Teutonic idealism derived mostly from Fichte. What he calls the "German" spirit is something of a mystic nature evolving from a sort of inner folk-consciousness among the German people — not a materialistic, superficial veneer such as the French derive largely from their aristocracy. "Ever since the regeneration of European folk-blood, considered strictly," he says, "the German has been the creator and inventor, the romantic, the modeller and exploiter; the true foundation of continual renovation has remained the German nature." If one had asked Wagner what he really meant by the German spirit, I fancy his answer would have been a pretty comprehensive summary of all the finest elements of human character. As Newman points out, "On Wagner's method you could prove any proposition you set out to prove; could show, for example, the 2

English versions of these two essays may be found in vol.4 of Richard Wagner's Prose Works, translated by William Ashton Ellis (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1892-99; reprinted New York: Broude Brothers, 1966), 8 volumes.

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beauty of the monarchical system by selecting the best types of monarchy and quietly ignoring the rest." It is a form of argument which has become familiar in recent years. Gilbert Chesterton once remarked: "It is sad to witness a Christian nation degenerating into a chosen people." It may appeal to our sense of irony to reflect from what source comes the conception of a chosen race now prevailing in Germany. Wagner's views on the Hebrew race are set forth in a pamphlet dating from 1850, Das Judentum in der Musik.3 He makes great play of the fact that the Jew is essentially uncreative, that he is always an alien, that he speaks the language of his abode as an alien, and that his emancipation has resulted merely in the enslavement of the true Europeans by his dealings in international finance. To be sure, there is little of that venomous hatred toward the Jew that the author of Mein Kampf pours out in an almost continuous stream. To Wagner the Jewish question was probably a minor one, yet his sentiments are sufficiently strong to place him definitely among the anti-Semites, and his attitude is supported by logic as insubstantial and assumptions as entirely unproved as those of Hitler himself. Hitler can give no cogent reasons for his intense antipathy to the Hebrew race. "It was only when I was fourteen or fifteen," he says in Mein Kampf, "that I came upon the word 'Jew' more frequently, partly in connection with political discussions. I felt a slight dislike and could not ward off a disagreeable sensation which seized me whenever confessional differences took place in my presence." One continues to read of the growth of his anti-Semitic feeling and can only be amazed by his lack of any genuine factual grounds for this obsession. That this introversive type of mind is more frequently found in Germany than in any other European country may go far toward accounting for the present world disaster. Intense pride of race is found in many peoples; magniloquent orators have their followings in many lands; resurgence after defeat may be looked 3

In Richard Wagner's Prose Works, vol.3.

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for in any nation of real vitality. But one doubts whether in any nation not hopelessly addicted to self-hypnosis the fictive conceptions and confused reasonings from unsupported hypotheses of an Adolf Hitler could have so taken root in the national consciousness as to have shaken the world to its foundations. The unpreparedness of other countries for the crisis is the measure of their incredulity in the face of this astounding spectacle. Someone has said of Neville Chamberlain that, being a sound Birmingham business man, he was simply unable to conceive that anyone who was offered a really good bargain wouldn't take it. Whether this was or was not his view, we now realize that there was too great a disposition on the part of all the greater nations to discount the seriousness of the Nazi programme as announced by Hitler in the candid pages of Mein Kampf. We shall be deceiving ourselves if we underestimate the influence which the Fuhrer exercises upon the mind of young Germany, or if we estimate that influence by any reactions that similar methods would effect in ourselves. It is because that strange faculty of self-hypnosis which we have seen illustrated in Wagner is so ingrained in masses of the German people, that they, more than any other intelligent race, are capable of falling prey to such an influence. One has only to compare Hitler the mystic with Mussolini and Stalin the realists to appreciate the nature of that appeal, or to realize how little response it would have awakened in Italy or Russia. Students of German philosophy need no reminder that its qualities are those of introspection, of self-examination, and subjectivity generally. It includes such diverse manifestations as we find in Kant, Hegel, Fichte, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. For example, the Schopenhauerian "Will to Life" and the Nietzschean "Will to Power" are essentially the same romantic conception, seen through the minds of two introverts of differing temperament. Wagner was impressed with Schopenhauer and injected into his prose writings much of the Schopenhauerian phraseology. Many have read Schopenhauerian philosophy into Tristan. More obvious is the influence of Nietzsche in the Ring and especially in Siegfried. No doubt this influence was reciprocal, for Nietzsche had

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a prodigious admiration for Wagner until the appearance of Parsifal, when his furiously anti-Christian spirit revolted to see Wagner, as he expressed it, "sink down helpless and disjointed, at the foot of the Christian cross." Perhaps we shall yet see Wagner's implied renunciation of the Siegfried ideal reproduced in a supreme gesture of self-denial by Hitler; already we have witnessed some strange transvaluations. It would be most unwise, however, to count on such a consummation, for Hitler loves power. Twenty-five years ago the name of Nietzsche was upon everyone's lips: responsibility for the Great War was made to rest in no small degree on his shoulders. That outspoken apostle of extreme individualism and anarchy was identified in the minds of many with the highly regimented German nation and even with the machine-like German army. To-day we seldom hear his name. Hitler does not once mention it in Mein Kampf, and he obviously regards himself not as the exalted and inhuman Nietzschean Superman, but rather in a mystical sense as the embodiment, in the form of a common German soldier, of the German nation. If one may make the comparison without giving offence, he regards himself as a sort of living "Unknown Warrior." Nevertheless, a Nietzschean influence is present, and I venture to guess that it exercises its effect at second-hand, so to speak, through Wagner. Can we doubt, knowing of his devotion to the Master of Bayreuth, knowing of his impressionable and highly romantic nature, that Hitler sees himself as a knight in shining armour, appearing like Lohengrin at the most critical moment of Germany's history to rescue her, as Lohengrin rescued Elsa, from slander, torture and death? Perhaps at times he even imagines himself another Hans Sachs, though there is little trace in his rabid jingoism of the noble patriotic feeling expressed by the grand old shoemaker-poet. When he departed with heroic gestures to lead his injured nation against the treacherous Poles, can we doubt that the militant sword-motif of the Ring sounded continuously in his ears, and that he saw himself as Siegfried setting forth to slay the dragon? Premonitions of his approaching death, said to be familiar to members of his entourage, and hinted at in his speech of September 1, 1939, lead one to suppose that he may regard the

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present holocaust in the light of a sort of Gotterdammerung with the whole of Europe afire as a funeral pyre for Adolf Hitler. Anyone who thinks such a picture too outrageously disproportionate for even Hitler's imagination cannot have followed his career carefully. From the time that I first saw Hitler in Bayreuth in 1933 I have felt a perverted Wagnerism in almost all his actions and speeches. Like Wagner, he must be forever explaining himself, and his speeches suggest a parody of Wagnerian music, with their fluent spate of sound, their constant reiteration of the same leading motifs and their continually rising climaxes. Furthermore, his elaborate staging of those speeches is Wagnerian in its splendour, and in the monumental party rallies and similar national occasions the artist in him is seen in its most impressive and most dangerous aspects. The Wagnerian elements in Hitler's mentality are real and concern us very deeply. An understanding of Wagnerism is, to my mind, essential to a complete picture of National Socialism. The personal resemblances between Wagner and Hitler, while less important, are by no means without significance. But Wagner presents us with the picture of the Artist who found in his art a fulfilment that makes his personal failings and confused thinking unimportant; whereas Hitler appears as the supreme perversion of the romantic imagination, the frustrated artist, not lacking in elements of greatness, but pursuing his aims regardless of any considerations save those dictated by his own dangerously vivid imagination. When we admire and enjoy the great music-dramas of Richard Wagner, as I hope we shall long continue to do, let us keep them in their rightful place on the stage, and oppose any further attempt to drag their philosophy into the uncongenial atmosphere of national and international politics.

The Future of Music in America (Address to the Music Teachers' National Association, Cleveland, December 30, 1940)

uring the darkest days of war-torn England, I heard the late Leslie Howard give an interesting radio talk. His subject was "Our Destiny" — the destiny, that is, not only of Great Britain but of the whole English-speaking world. The Nazi, he said, claims to know and to will his own destiny and that of others before the event, yet in point of fact no one can know his destiny until it happens. However one may bluster about willing one's destiny, no one is the master of his fate to that extent — far less of everyone else's. That is the prerogative not of a human being but of a god, and outside of Germany, those who claim the prerogative of deity are only to be found in lunatic asylums. A mere man can, however, look back on his own life or upon the history of the world and trace the workings of destiny therein. He can say, "This step led to my making my fortune," or "That decision brought disaster in its train." About the future we can only make conjectures, based, if we are wise, upon a study of the past, and plan to meet such emergencies as seem most likely to arise. We may also, within the limits of our personal powers and influence, share in moulding the future "nearer to our heart's desire." But our destiny may, and usually does, turn out to be something quite different from what we had anticipated. When one speaks of the future of music in America, it is, therefore, not with any prophetic pretensions. It would be vain to indulge in mere speculation. At best one can only glance over musical developments of the past years, re-awaken if necessary a sense of gratitude toward those who have bestowed on us so great a heritage, observe how contemporary music is being affected by the political and economic upheavals of the present day, and finally consider our responsibilities to those who come after us. We cannot, to be sure, control the future. The appearance of a single great musical personality might be sufficient to upset all

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our plans and turn events into quite unexpected paths. Genius is unpredictable. It cannot be created and can rarely be controlled. "The wind bloweth where it listeth and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth."1 But to see clearly the course that events have taken in recent years and to apprehend the main tendencies of to-day may help to endow our immediate problems with a new significance and to persuade us that destiny is not altogether beyond control. Above all we can ensure that great personalities, if and when they appear, will find the ground prepared for their reception. It is not unfair to say that in past years America has been on the whole a musical debtor — an importer rather than an exporter. It has been so, indeed, in nearly every cultural sphere, though the voice of America has at times rung out over the world with an individual note that now falls with increasing emphasis upon the ear of a sorely tried Europe. No nation is altogether a debtor in the realm of painting when it gives to the world a Whistler or a Sargent. Some important branches of modern architecture are American and American alone. The new art of the moving picture — a genuine art in its finest manifestations and a thoroughly original one in the hands of a Walt Disney — now influences the lives of countless millions, and of this art America is the great exporter. Mexico and other Spanish American countries are exercising an increasing influence on Europe as well as on their northern neighbours. Canada, though backward in some cultural fields, has begun to assert herself especially in the realms of painting and literature. Yet the excess of our cultural debts over our cultural credits, especially in relation to Euorpe, remains enormous. Most particularly is this the case in music — always the latest among the arts to develop individuality in a new field. True, our students have for some years had no need to flock in great numbers to study abroad, but the excellent training provided for them at home is often in the hands of European musicians, and nine-tenths of the music on which they base their study is of 1

John 3:8.

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European origin. In the last twenty years or so there has been a growing percentage of native-born players in our leading orchestras, but how many of their conductors are American or Canadian by birth? The flood of first-class musicians who have been driven to our shores of recent years through troubles in their native lands may postpone natural development, but it should not be long before our own young conductors come into their own. More and more is the young American composer receiving recognition, although the average audience is still inclined to be a little sceptical of a new native work. Certainly no concert-giving organization would last long in the open market if the standard classics did not form the backbone of its programmes. And it is right that it should be so, for we still need the musical nourishment provided by those that have been tried and proved in the winnowing winds of Time. The disquieting question then arises: are the sources of our present musical culture drying up? If they are, have we prepared adequately for the stream to flow through our own garden? Under what conditions of life can we hope to cultivate that garden so that it may bear fruit and flower worthy of the garden that has provided it with seed? What is happening to music in war-torn Europe? What effect have the new so-called idealisms upon art? Is our own cultural future along with our political and economic future threatened by those idealisms? We hear a great deal from friends in England about the troubles of the musical profession and about the heroic efforts of those who carry on under conditions of almost inconceivable difficulty. Nearly every newspaper brings us accounts of that simple heroism of the British people which has wrung reluctant admiration even from our enemies, and we musicians of this continent can only bow our heads in respect and endeavour, under somewhat abnormal but infinitely less trying circumstances, to carry on our own daily routine in the same spirit. We are brought frequent evidence, too, of the hunger for music felt by people in war-time. A letter received from Sir Adrian Boult described a London concert held during a bombardment, and prolonged by additional numbers, skits, and contributions from members of the audience, until after 3 a.m. This letter

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contained the significant statement that when the concert began at eight, in spite of the fact that several alerts had already sounded that evening, the hall was full. For the time being, music is chiefly a distraction, and too much stress can hardly be laid upon its value as a balm to tired nerves and as a means of escape from grim realities into a happier world. But we in America can look farther ahead. It is our privilege, removed as we are from the scene of the immediate conflict, to take a broader view of the function of music. Concertgoers need to be constantly reminded that music is not a mere entertainment, just as musicians sometimes need to be reminded that it is not a mere business. Music is an art: that is to say, it is medium of human expression and one through which some of the greatest minds of the human race have spoken. It may yet fall to our lot on this continent to be the chief preservers of that art, along with so much of the cultural greatness that seems to be crumbling in Europe. It may be our proud destiny to hand on the torch to coming generations, so that, in happier times, we may restore to a pacified Europe much of that great heritage which she has bestowed on us. Every teacher of music may have it in his or her hands to preserve and to hand on with every lesson a portion of that heritage. Ours is not the heroism of a Lieutenant Davies who, with his intrepid squad, dug out and carted away the delayedaction bomb that threatened to destroy St. Paul's Cathedral. But it may lend some significance to our trivial round and common task to feel that, if our work is done conscientiously and thoroughly, the results may be the same in kind if not in degree. Why is it suggested that the great musical traditions of Europe are in danger? Bombs may destroy art treasures in museums and galleries as well as architectural master-pieces, but will not music be produced and performed much as usual after the storm has passed? Are not even the Nazis conscious of the importance of music in their much vaunted new order? Did not the British Government, early in the war, vote a large subsidy to keeping leading musical organizations alive? Cannot the man in the street be trusted, once he is free to give them his attention, to foster the finer things of life? It is quite possible that he may, provided his more

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immediate needs are met, though that in itself is going to be a large order. If our view of life prevails in this conflict, music will have its due place, though musical organizations may suffer for the time being. But it is equally true that if the Nazi view of life were to prevail, not only music but all the arts would wither and die. This can be asserted in full consciousness of the fact that Germany, which has given to the world its greatest musicians, has been a model to other countries in publicly subsidizing musical organizations. It can be stated, too, in full consciousness of the fact that music can and may flourish apart from democratic institutions; the history of the eighteenth-century shows this, though the case might have been different if the eighteenthcentury patrons of music had been dictators on a twentiethcentury scale and with twentieth-century facilities for interfering with their subjects. The Nazi system has proved terribly efficient in strangling true culture. Its attack on the human mind has been more disastrous even than its attack on life and property. When education and culture are imposed and directed by governmental authority, not only political thought and economics are strait-jacketed. The Nazi prides himself on making no compromises. During celebrations of the 550th anniversary of the foundation of the University of Heidelberg, the Minister of Science and Education reminded his hearers that: "The old idea of science has gone forever. Science used to aim at discovering the truth; now it must confine itself to working under the State, in such ways as the State may consider useful." If Science must sacrifice truth to purposes of utility, art must sacrifice beauty to purposes of propaganda or to political and racial formulae. When the National Socialist party in May 1933 celebrated its accession to power by the cermonial burning of 25,000 "unGerman" books in front of the State Opera House in Berlin, it served notice on the world that the Dark Ages had returned. Most people did not realize it at the time: some even thought the details of the solemn ceremony funny, as, indeed, they would have been had this event not been the herald of further destruction. Any country that drives from her borders her Einsteins, Thomas Manns, Sigmund Freuds and, in general, her most distinguished thinkers, is impoverishing herself incalculably. Not only does she lose them, but,

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by making an example of them, she suppresses the moral courage of those among her younger sons who might have taken their place. The strait-jacketing of culture has taken such fantastic forms in the musical field that one finds it difficult to credit what one hears. One may or may not like the music of Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer and Max Bruch, or the poetry of Heine, but that it should be banned as dangerous to the State because of the antiSemitic prejudices of a handful of fanatics strikes one as positively insane. In their dealings with other countries which have come under their heel, the Nazis have shown a savage determination to stamp out all that is most characteristic of each nation. When we hear that Smetana has been banned in Czecho-Slovakia and Chopin in Poland, can we doubt that England under their control would be forbidden Purcell and Elgar, and that America would no longer hear MacDowell, Stephen Foster or George Gershwin? Some of us might not greatly miss any or all of those mentioned, but think how we should resent such high-handed interference. And think of having to work in such an atmosphere! No musician can afford to be indifferent to the outcome of this struggle, nor can anyone else whose interests lie in the realms of art, science or education. America has been a shining example to the world — as, indeed, has England also — in the catholicity of its musical tastes and the generosity with which it has welcomed the music and the musicians of other nations. It is to be hoped that it will be long before our programmes are impoverished by the exclusion of anything of genuine worth, from whatever source it comes. In spite of all the wealth of Europe's musical culture, one cannot but regret a certain narrowness in most continental programmes, arising usually from strong national predilections and sometimes encouraged by officialdom. That narrowness has increased rather than diminished of late years. One could, for example, hear little of Brahms in Paris, less of Sibelius in Berlin, and practically no English music in Italy. In England, where concert programmes show almost as wide a range of choice as in America, promoters of opera from Handel to Sir Thomas Beecham have, with few exceptions, ended by tearing their hair in despair. America, however, with first-class orchestras and other

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musical organizations springing up with mushroom-like rapidity in every part of the country, with broadcasting facilities second to none, and with a younger generation awakened from its earliest years through well-organized school music to the fundamental qualities of the art, has fallen heir to all that Europeans have stupidly discarded for other than aesthetic reasons. To all this America is adding her own quota and, year by year, is standing more firmly on her own musical feet. It would be an irreparable tragedy if, through any turn of political events, this splendid progress were to be interrupted. What, then, is the "destiny" of music in America, and how can teachers equip themselves to meet the challenge presented by this great opportunity? When all is said and done, the ultimate responsibility for musical salvation rests upon the individual musician or teacher; no theories, methods or curricula can suffice if the old well-worn human qualities of industry, patience and enthusiasm are lacking. That teacher best succeeds who looks on every lesson given, even to the dullest of pupils, as a heaven-sent opportunity to reveal to a young mind some fresh aspect of the infinite realm of music. Whatever may be the classifications, methods and systems, it is the individuality of each pupil and of each teacher — the individuality of each lesson and of each problem tackled in each lesson — that keeps music or any other art a living thing. During the nineteen-twenties there seemed to be a tendency for music to degenerate into mathematical formulae. Theories about what paths "modern" music should follow were rampant, and cleverness was unduly exalted. If old Guiseppe Verdi had been alive, he would doubtless have repeated what he said in 1868 in a letter to Arrivabene: "I am willing to be an enthusiastic follower of the musicians of the future, provided that their music be not a system or a theory, but music." In more recent years this saner view seems to be prevailing. Composers continue to experiment boldly in what they used to call "juxtaposition of sonorities", and it is right and necessary that they should experiment, but there is more sonority now in their music and less in their words. How much will survive of what is being produced to-day only time will reveal, but let us be courageous in our judgements. Future events may prove us wrong,

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but if we have among us a Beethoven or a Wagner, nothing that we say about him will do him any particular harm in the end. The modern world is not without its dangers, and we must avoid in particular the sacrifice of aesthetic qualities on the altar of mass production. It is true that amazing results can be achieved by intelligently directed class teaching. Nor should we forget how valuable can be the reproduction of a single performance on thousands of gramophone discs in disseminating a knowledge of the great musical classics. Radio, too, has extended the musician's audience immeasurably by bringing the world's masterpieces interpreted by the world's greatest artists into millions of homes. Nevertheless, it remains as true as ever that the essence of art is individuality — the individuality of a performance or a performer, of a composition or a composer, of a musical experience or a music lover. And in perfecting technique let us never lose sight of the fact that the driving, vitalizing force of art is emotion. If individuality and emotion are the driving forces in the great things of music, they are also so in the small things. They are so in the ordinary routine music lesson. In all musical instruction mental development must keep pace with — or rather should lead — technical facility. If there is nothing to express in the first place, of what avail is technique? It is only by keeping this constantly in mind and in driving home fundamental principles that music teachers can meet the challenge of the future. In whatever field they may be working each can be a part, and an essential part, of the great world of music, and share in passing on to coming generations the glory it has been their privilege to inherit. There are countless problems to be solved before we can call ourselves truly democratic, but the example of the Nazi way of life, over-regimented, ant-like and essentially cruel, has driven home to our consciousness as never before the supreme value of the individual. In the forefront of influences for the preservation and development of individuality are the arts, and second to none is the art of music. We deceive ourselves, however, if we think that we can preserve art without putting life first.

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Canada

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Canada acMillan never tired of writing about music and Canada. Sometimes in popular magazines he was primarily a .propagandist, but usually he cast a critical eye over both the accomplishments and the needs of his country. He campaigned constantly for better musical education, more money, and above all the acknowledgment and acceptance of Canadian musicians ahead of mindless admiration of foreign imports. Central to his concern was the need to develop our own composers. In later years, because his programs with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra (as with orchestras almost everywhere) included relatively little contemporary music, MacMillan's support of Canadian composers tended to be forgotten, and he himself to be dismissed as hopelessly old-fashioned. In fact, he seldom lost an opportunity to make the point that it is the composer who finally gives substance and shape to a musical culture, and that Canada's would not be complete until it celebrated its own musical creators. And he began making the point in the 1930s, when serious musical composition in Canada was given scant consideration, and he continued to make it to the end of his life. When he wrote "Problems of Music in Canada" in 1936 there was little professional musical life in this country. Only Toronto and Montreal had regular orchestras, to which Vancouver was striving to add a third; only the McGill Conservatorium and the Toronto (Royal) Conservatory offered anything approaching professional musical training. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation was created in the year of MacMillan's essay, 1936. (His view that radio would be important in determining the national character was prescient, and it is still a view that is put forward.) There were no arts councils, no opera companies. The burgeoning of musical life that is taken to be the norm at the end of the century really began only in the 1950s. MacMillan was an optimist indeed to make demands on the future, but he was

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virtually alone in articulating those demands in the 1930s and 1940s. What is more, the prestige that attached to him, especially after his knighthood in 1935, provided him with forums in which to expound his views and audiences to listen. Unfortunately, his lament about the lack of government funding has a hollow ring in the 1990s. The establishment of the Canada Council in 1957 as the federal arts council was the model for many provincial and urban councils and seemed to be the realization of MacMillan's ambitions for government support of the arts. With the cut-backs to those councils and to the CBC in the 1990s, it appears that that realization may be short-lived. In his address to American music teachers in 1931, he took the opportunity not so much to t r u m p e t Canada's accomplishments — although he does have things to say on the subject — as to speculate on the the advantages and disadvantages for Canadian music of being so close to and so influenced by the United States. It is not encouraging that much of what he said in 1931 is as applicable to the situation in the 1990s. In 1963 the Conservative government led by Prime Minister John Diefenbaker was defeated. Diefenbaker had been motivated by a fiery nationalism that ignited tremendous support for him in the late 1950s, but his nationalism retained a strong sense of the British and Commonwealth associations. The Liberal government of Lester B. Pearson that defeated him created a new Canadian flag, and along with the flag debate went discussions of the need for an official anthem to replace the less and less pertinent "God Save the Queen." In his sober and scholarly way, but with perspicacity, MacMillan comes down on the side of "O Canada." His modest plea for biculturalism predates its appearance in public policy, and was made in the midst of the Quiet Revolution in Quebec that would make such an achievement increasingly difficult.

Problems of Music in Canada (Yearbook of the Arts in Canada (1936): 185-200)

here is much cause for satisfaction in certain aspects of music in Canada, and there are not wanting those who readily seize on those aspects as subjects for self-satisfied contemplation, to the almost complete exclusion of the darker side of the picture. If I seem to be unduly critical of our present situation it is largely because of my conviction that we have it in our own hands to supply what is lacking, to rectify what is amiss and to develop what we consider desirable. We Canadians as a rule fight shy of stating our problems to ourselves, and we are apt to resent criticism from outside. We talk a good deal about Canada as a nation, yet find it singularly difficult to develop institutions on a national scale. We waver between paying lip-service to home-grown products and cherishing an inferiority complex when it comes to making practical use of those products. We are, as a rule, not easily satisfied, which is fortunate, but we are too ready to be impressed by outside opinion, especially when served up at the hands of the expert salesman. We are, in short, apt to combine with our conviction that we should develop independent and national institutions, an almost paralysing fear that it can't be done. All this is familiar ground to all of us, whatever may be our particular interests. We have inherited a country of almost boundless possibilities and natural resources, but one also that suffers from severe handicaps. The geographical divisions of Canada for instance affect every phase of our national life; we must accept the fact of four natural divisions — the Maritimes, Quebec and Ontario, the Prairies and the Pacific Coast — as something that will endure for all time. We must accept the disadvantages as well as the advantages of having the United States as our neighbour. We must accept the division of language and tradition in Quebec and other parts of the Dominion. Great areas with sparse population may be to some extent filled up in the course of time, but we have vast stretches that are never likely to support a large population, nor

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is our population belt likely to extend more than a few hundred miles to the north of the line now stretching from East to West. These considerations affect music as they affect other aspects of Canadian life. Perhaps they affect music even more acutely than other lines of activity for, with respect to performance at least, music is a social art. Music, too, suffers in Canada from having no independent tradition other than French-Canadian folksong (mostly imported from France) and a handful of Indian lore alien to the white race. One might expect that in a country holding such an appeal to the imagination — a happy hunting ground for the painter and the poet — composers would have arisen to give musical expression to our great rivers, lakes, prairies and mountains. Yet comparatively little has been done in this direction and there is little sign that the near future will bring forth masterpieces. Music is of all the arts the most introspective and has always been the slowest to develop. The executive side of music has no parallel in the other arts — even a play can be read by the ordinary man — and performance overshadows creation in the minds of at least ninety-nine students out of a hundred. The development of a distinctive style depends less in music than in any other art on external associations. The elements of musical style, even of a revolutionary style, are largely inherited, and as our musical inheritance is almost entirely European, most of the music written in Canada is a reflection of European music. We cannot by taking thought produce a national music; all we can do is to create an atmosphere in which strong musical personalities can express themselves creatively and naturally. We are gradually developing that atmosphere in many parts of Canada, but have a long way to go. Our children and older students are too seldom encouraged to turn their attention to composition on even a small scale; a vast majority of would-be composers have not begun to develop the necessary craftsmanship and often think of publication long before their work has reached a reasonable degree of maturity. The first and perhaps the most important of our problems, then, is the fostering of a genuine interest in composition, coupled with a realization that "inspiration" is helpless without technique, in the hope that such an interest will eventually bear fruit in works soundly written and individual in expression. We must insist on

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quality and rid ourselves of the notion that by labelling a piece with a Canadian title we are giving musical expression to Canada. Should we ever be so fortunate as to produce a composer whose music expresses Canada as, let us say, the music of Sibelius expresses Finland, it will be quite unnecessary to label it "Made in Canada." What is more, the composer who expresses Canada adequately will at the same time have transcended all narrowly national peculiarities; to be truly national, a work of art must meet international standards. A pressing problem is the organization of the musical profession, and especially of the music teaching profession. This problem is by no means peculiar to this country, but owing to geographical and other considerations we have made less progress than have many other lands, and most efforts at organization have remained local in scope. Musical ability is a difficult thing to measure, but it is emphatically not in the public interest that anyone should be allowed to teach music without enquiry into his or her qualifications. Possession of a diploma from a public examining body does not always indicate great musical ability in the higher sense, but if the examinations have been conducted impartially and on sound lines it does represent at least a minimum standard of knowledge and efficiency. We do not expect the average medical practitioner to be a Lister or an Osier, but we know that if he possesses a recognized degree he is not altogether a quack. Many people are coming dimly to realize that similar standards are necessary for music, but finding firstrate musicians without such distinctions and fourth- or fifth-rate ones with them naturally induces scepticism. We need a recognized and authoritative body to determine what minimum qualifications are to be expected of a teacher of music and what examining bodies are to be regarded as legitimate; until this is established on a permanent and entirely non-commercial basis, there is bound to be great confusion, and parents wishing their children to receive musical instruction are likely to be at the mercy of any charlatan who offers his services at a cheap rate, or even, in some cases, at a high rate. The musical profession would gain greatly in prestige and dignity if organized on lines similar to the professions of medicine and the law, and if a truly sensitive

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feeling for professional ethics prevailed! This problem can be solved only by musicians themselves, but I emphasize it here because it lies at the root of many other difficulties which I shall mention later. There is also the problem of the individual approach to music teaching, particularly to the teaching of beginners. Most people do not seem to understand what a musical education is. An impression still prevails in many quarters that it consists in teaching Mary or Jimmy to play a certain number of "pieces" with a reasonable degree of accuracy and a reasonable freedom of expression — a desirable thing in itself, but not to be regarded as an exclusive measure of progress. While it is impossible to draw up a curriculum inclusive of everything desirable for a music student, it is surely possible to reduce the most important factors to a semblance of system and to take a far-sighted view of our aims. Of the thousands and thousands of young people now studying music, only a very small proportion will ever make their name, still less their living, as performers. A rather larger proportion will perhaps make their living as teachers — a field where different qualifications are desirable — and a few will be able to combine the two. The great bulk of pupils will either forget most of what they have learned or continue to take an interest in music as listeners in public and occasional performers in private. Yet an enormous proportion of what our pupils are taught aims at nothing but performance. This is not always the fault of the teachers; pupils to the average teacher are customers, and as parents are too apt to gauge the progress of their offspring by finger facility, the teacher sets himself to supply the demand, though he may know full well that a lesson in music is successful only to the degree in which it opens a child's mind and enlarges his faculties of perception and appreciation. Performance doubtless plays a great part in this respect; in order to enjoy music to the full it is highly desirable to be able to make music for oneself. The universal substitution of the radio for the piano or other instruments in our homes would be a retrograde step. But neglect of aural training, of sight-reading, of a knowledge of musical history and the lives and works of the great composers would be no less disastrous. Someone said not long ago that the

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piano teacher's business in the early stages was not to teach the piano but to teach music through the piano. The same applies to any other instrument, including the human voice. If parents select for their children teachers who take this view and know how to apply it, they should trust those teachers to make the best possible use of the time at their disposal. Progress will perhaps appear less rapid at first — it takes more time to lay a solid foundation than a flimsy one — but in the end this method will be abundantly justified. The pupil who has not learned to read readily at sight will drop music entirely in future years rather than go on forever playing through the same slim repertoire, whereas a good sight reader has open to him an unlimited field. Similarly the pupil who has learned from the first to listen intelligently to music will in future find pleasure and profit as a member of the kind of audience a performer craves, the kind of audience that arouses him to his best efforts. Musicians do appreciate applause, but if they are worth their salt, they have a still greater appreciation of understanding. One recalls Nietzsche's despairing cry: "I looked for the echo and heard only praise." We must for our future welfare build audiences whose enthusiasm is backed by discrimination and taste, and parents must realize that they are doing their children a greater service by giving them opportunities of developing a love and understanding of music than by encouraging them to show what they can do. School music is playing an increasingly important part in our musical life. In many parts of Canada school authorities have awakened to a realization of the part music can and should play in education. In some centres school singing is of a very high order, and even instrumental music is coming into its own. But a great deal remains to be done, and many other countries have left us far behind. Too often the musical standard is dependent on the ability and enthusiasm of individual teachers; there will, of course, always be wide variations in individual ability, but adequate and expert training and supervision would make a world of difference. We suffer from lack of financial support, from lack of understanding between school musicians and the musical profession in general, and above all from lack of intercommunication. It is astounding how little one town knows of what is being done in another town, not to mention another province. The United States can teach us a

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great lesson in organization; conventions, meetings and discussions, though no substitute for sound knowledge and wellstudied methods, are an excellent supplement. The poorly equipped teacher realizes his shortcomings and learns how to overcome them, and even the best can learn much through interchange of ideas. In organization, intercommunication, systematized methods and enthusiasm we may learn much from our southern neighbours, and the results they achieve often put us to shame. We must do everything possible to break down the comparative isolation of our communities and to ensure that solutions to our problems are based on broad lines. The spirit of rivalry prevailing between the various cities of Canada may have its uses when applied to music. It will, however, do no city good to keep up a monotonous claim to leadership in this or that field, instead of ascertaining the facts and striving for excellence. What is said here of school music applies to many another phase of the art. We must learn where we actually stand and, if the knowledge should prove humiliating, take the necessary steps to improve ourselves. Music in Canada has suffered and is still suffering from lack of adequate financial support. Benefactions on a large scale to musical institutions have been singularly few and far between, and apparently public opinion is not yet ripe for governmental subsidies except in isolated instances. It is astounding, in view of the widespread assumption that music is just another business, how much we have achieved, but that assumption must not be allowed to go unchallenged. Whether the solution be governmental subsidies, as in most European countries, or private foundations such as we often find in the United States, the public must learn to class our leading musical institutions with Art Galleries, Museums, Universities and the like if those institutions are to fulfil their proper functions. The natural result of expecting them to "pay their way" is that students are treated as customers — and, as we know, the customer is always right provided he has enough money to spend. Under such conditions genuine talent often goes to waste or seeks assistance abroad. I have watched Toronto papers for years hoping to see some word of a legacy left for any kind of musical purpose, but have found none; I fancy the same is true of

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other cities. Canadians simply do not seem to think of music in that connection. Yet the amount of money spent annually on music is very considerable. Cities of less than 75,000 will spend $3,000 for one performance by an operatic "star" who contributes nothing to our musical life, but it is difficult to raise money for any really constructive purpose. One does not overlook the benefaction of Sir William MacDonald which established the McGill Conservatorium, the subsidies of the Massey Foundation to various musical organizations, nor the annual gifts to the sustaining funds of our Orchestras, but these in the aggregate are not comparable to donations received for many purposes of less public interest than music. The Universities of Saskatchewan and, more recently, Western Ontario have received gifts enabling them to form or reestablish schools of music, but these came from outside Canada.1 Music does not look for more than its fair share of benefactions, but I think it will be agreed that up to now musical institutions, and especially educational institutions, have with a few honourable exceptions, been treated rather shabbily. If financial support is essential to the musical development of Canada, it is no less essential that Canadians who have gained distinction by their artistry be paid the tribute of attention from their fellow-countrymen. No one pretends that we have in Canada musicians of the rank of a Rachmaninoff, a Heifetz or a Toscanini; such men are of no one country but belong to the world. But clever press agenting and managerial efforts lend a strong proAmerican bias to the attitude of our public, which is often inclined to give a hearing (and a good fat fee) to many a second-rater from New York, to the neglect of a native artist whose work may be distinctly superior. It will be a long time before our public is prepared to judge every artist on his own merits; the delighted surprise which often greets achievements of Canadians in other parts of the world is in itself a sure indication of an inferiority complex. We shall make little progress until we become reasonably i n d e p e n d e n t in our musical j u d g m e n t s , and measure the achievements of Canadians by the same yardstick as we measure 1

Both grants were from the Carnegie Foundation of New York.

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those of others. In the meantime, many of our most talented artists are leaving or contemplating leaving Canada in order to be adequately heard. As I write these words, I learn that the Hart House String Quartet, one of the few Canadian musical organizations with anything more than a local reputation, is to make its headquarters in New York and will give no concerts in Canada this season,2 and one of our most outstanding singers left our shores a few days ago to take up her residence in London. At the same time "community" concerts, supported in nearly every medium-sized town in Canada, in which only occasionally a Canadian artist appears, are being cited as evidence of the healthy condition of our musical life. Boards responsible for our larger musical organizations often regard "local" assisting artists as of little help, if not actually a handicap to seat-sales, and it is to be feared they may be right. A very acute problem in Canadian music is that created by the invention of radio. Here, perhaps more than in any other sphere, our geographical peculiarities, the distribution of our population, sectional interests and the proximity of the United States render the issues a welter of confusion. It is not surprising that the original Radio Commission did virtually nothing to develop Canadian musical organizations. Faced with line charges out of all proportion to the population supplying revenue, the Commission had little enough to spend on programmes and it was easy to pick up first-class programme material from the United States. Yet the development of Canadian musical organizations was one of the chief reasons for the creation of the Commission.3 Changes in the organization and personnel announced shortly before these lines were penned will probably be operative by the time they appear in print, and at present comments of anything but the most general nature are inopportune. It is obvious that a public service must fulfil a function far beyond that 2

In fact, MacMillan need not have worried. The Hart House Quartet underwent several changes of membership but remained in Toronto until it disbanded in 1946. 3 The Canadian Radio Broadcasting Commission was set up in 1932. The changes to which MacMillan refers in the next paragraph resulted in the creation in 1936 of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation/Radio Canada.

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of a purely commercial organization, and the radio as an institution will be one of the chief factors in determining our national character. It will require much courage and diplomacy to grasp and uproot the nettle represented by the slogan "Give the people what they want." Giving people what they want sounds reasonable enough from certain points of view, but as generally interpreted, this practice turns this mighty force into a mere medium for ephemeral amusement with an occasional sop thrown to appease the "highbrows." Even on purely commercial grounds such a policy is bound to fail; stronger meat is necessary if the radio shall continue to hold public interest, but is it necessary to wait for a drop in radio sales before revising our view of the matter? Obviously light amusement has an important place in radio programmes, but let us see that other functions are recognized in reasonable proportion. Let us not emphasize the consumers' side of the question to the almost entire neglect of the producers' side. If musical organizations of national scope have any hope of existence it is by the Radio Commission that they must be fostered. It would obviously be silly to suggest banning American programmes; our public wants many of them and they can often be picked up cheaply. Some of them are moreover of the highest artistic value and show a perfection of technical (musical and engineering) skill that should constitute a challenge to Canadians. Yet the cold fact remains that for every American broadcast relayed, a potential Canadian one is crowded out, and this fact should be given due consideration. Very few industries would exist in Canada if the interests of the consumers only were studied. Having established the desirability of taking the radio seriously as something holding untold potentialities for good or ill, and having admitted the necessity, if we are to have a distinctive national life at all, of fostering native effort in this field, we are still faced with the problem of reconciling local interests with due regard for quality. We are only too familiar with the situation that arises when any public money is to be spent in Canada: influence is brought to bear on all hands to divert it into the pockets of interested parties. A national radio board which seeks to uphold the principle of quality first — of selecting the best material

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available for every type of programme, regardless of all other considerations — is bound to be vigorously attacked by those whom they pass over. It must, however, be kept in mind that satisfaction of local pride and yielding to political "pull" will, if quality be sacrificed, displease many to satisfy few. There is much good musical material in most parts of Canada, but it takes careful sifting to find what is best, and those in charge of our broadcasting cannot be too careful. Those best fitted to take part in programmes are by no means always clamorous to be heard on the air, nor can our most gifted artists be expected to submit themselves to the judgement of unqualified local directors. Having had opportunities of hearing musicians in all parts of Canada, I can testify to the amount of really fine work that is being done, but only a small proportion of the best reaches the microphone, and the contemptuous tone in which one hears Canadian broadcasts mentioned would surely be altered if a more discriminating choice were made. One has profound sympathy with those in charge of our broadcasting — it is difficult to think of a more unenviable position — but an attempt to satisfy everybody at once will satisfy nobody in the end and, until a firm stand is taken on the principle of quality first, we shall never enjoy happy conditions. This brings me to the most fundamental of all problems — the attitude of the public mind. Strictly speaking, I suppose, there is no such thing; the "public mind" means the minds of millions of individuals, every one differing in some particular from his neighbour. The vast majority either have no opinions whatever regarding music or never voice them. Some of those who do voice opinions have had no experience to justify them. Actual participants in our musical life, who take time and trouble to hear music, still form a very small percentage of our population, although even that small percentage represents a remarkable growth in the last ten years. Probably, too, the proportion of genuine music-lovers to musical snobs — those who attend musical functions as a matter of good form — has increased. It is a great step in advance to have genuine expression of opinion in place of sentimental gush or self-conscious superiority, but to replace these by ill-informed, opinionative self-assertiveness would be to jump from the frying-pan into the fire. We need a careful

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dissemination of knowledge and, still more, increased opportunities of hearing the best music. For some reason or other a large proportion of our public would seem to distrust knowledge. We see this tendency in the contempt poured upon the term "highbrow," regardless of what we mean by it. Surely it makes all the difference in the world whether by "highbrow" we mean a mere intellectual snob who parades his superiority in order to seem impressive, or a man who knows more than his neighbours. As Sir Henry Hadow once remarked, "After all, it is better to have the brow of a man than that of a monkey." Yet there is a tendency, particularly dangerous on this Continent, to transfer the contempt rightly felt for the intellectual snob to the man of knowledge. Why should experts be expected to grovel before ignorance? Every man has some scrap of knowledge which may benefit his neighbours and he is usually willing to share it; his neighbours can reciprocate if he has the patience to listen. Distrust of knowledge, fear of technical terms, deliberate apathy — these are silly attitudes, especially when adopted toward a subject in which one at the same time professes a genuine interest. This is peculiarly the case with regard to music. I often hear the phrase "I love music but I don't know anything about it!" Naturally the direct, sensuous appeal of music is the first step in its appreciation, and must, indeed, bulk large in the appreciation of even the most sophisticated. But where love of music is genuine, the lover will want to meet music at least half-way. Mere passivity in listeners brings incomplete satisfaction. A taste for music does not depend on a knowledge of the processes which brought it into being any more than a taste for food implies a knowledge of cooking, but surely even the most indifferent eater wants at least to know whether he is eating a joint or a souffle and in order to express an opinion he should know what qualities are desirable in both. If a music-lover wishes to get the best out of music why should he not learn to differentiate between its various forms and why should his guides in this field shy at teaching him the simpler technical terms? Technical terms form a very convenient shorthand, and those who make the small mental effort required to learn the meaning of a few are able to avoid many clumsy circumlocutions. The matter of form as related to content is fundamentally

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important in any art: the poet, for example, who writes in sonnet form thoughts that would better be expressed in a limerick stands self-condemned, but in music many good people cannot understand why a composer should not use the same kind of material in writing a symphony as he uses in writing a waltz. There is, then, a place for the wider dissemination of even a little technical knowledge among our audiences, although this need not be carried too far. There is, too, a place for wider public discussion of musical matters. I should like to see more serious musical questions thrashed out in the correspondence columns of our newspapers. At present we see less reference to music in these columns than we should find in the corresponding journals of other countries; any references there usually concern performers' personalities or something entirely trivial or ephemeral. So far as the treatment accorded to music by our newspapers is concerned, great care should be taken to secure writers whom one can at least trust to be sound in matters of fact. We appreciate those who are well equipped in this respect, but if some of the "howlers" which I have read in certain papers were to find a counterpart in, let us say, our sporting pages, our sport-conscious public would laugh them out of court. It is not the business of a musical journalist to please the musical profession (though many musicians seem to think it is) but as the musical intelligence of the public increases it will be found increasingly difficult to impose on them the imperfect knowledge and undigested opinions that one occasionally reads. The demand for improvement must come from that section of the public which regards the matter as important. It is a great pity that we have in Canada no adequate journal devoted to music. Various attempts have been made to establish such a journal, and some publications have found it possible to keep above water over a fairly extensive period. Competition with British, and even more with American, musical journals has proved too severe. Advertisers find that their announcements receive greater attention, even in Canada, if they appear in English or American publications, many of which enjoy an extensive Canadian circulation. Interest in musical affairs in Canada is, as I have pointed out, far too local, and satisfactory

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reports from different centres are often difficult to obtain. Canadian musicians are inclined to be somewhat apathetic in the face of this crying need and those most alive to that need have been discouraged in the past by the narrowness of viewpoint and the surrender to commercialism of those journals that have appeared. I know of no paper in Canada where new music and books on music are adequately and impartially reviewed (though the little Western Music News of Vancouver deserves honourable mention) and the Canadian College of Organists, after valiantly supporting Musical Canada* until it became submerged under the waves of depression, and after even attempting to issue its own journal, has capitulated and now supports the Chicago Diapason as its offical publication. A combination of publishers and music trades generally might find it profitable to combine with a view to maintaining an all-Canadian journal of music; intelligently and skilfully edited, it might make a wide appeal to the profession, provided that the commercial aspect were kept in the background and that adequate means were found to secure a supply of musical news from all parts of the country. In discussing the position of Church Music in Canada I am doubtless treading on dangerous ground, yet I cannot pass it by without being guilty of a serious omission. Here again too much generalization is dangerous, but, while in many of our churches the music is fitting and adequately rendered, far too little attention is generally given to underlying principles, and too little appreciation felt of the ethical questions involved. If music is to be regarded simply as an additional "attraction" for the purpose of filling the pews, and increasing the collection, we might as well give up discussing the question and go after the dollars. Often this motive is covered up by a husk of sentimentality: there are those who would have us believe that, in order to "touch the hearts of the people" we must descend to the most meretricious trash. Many 4

The monthly journal was established in 1906 as The Violin and adopted the name Musical Canada in the following year. It continued to publish until 1933 and acted as the journal not only for the Canadian College of Organists but also for the music section of the Ontario Educators' Association. The CCO continues to use the Diapason as its journal in the 1990s.

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confuse a softening of the heart with a softening of the head; music, we are told, must "carry a message," which in many cases means a dressed-up platitude. All fine music does, indeed, carry a message — the message that humanity can be divinely inspired — but a banal musical phrase will do no such thing, however admirable the sentiment of the words it is supposed to adorn. We need above all to base our choice of music on approved principles; our divinity students need to be instructed in those principles and their historical basis, and the personal preferences of the influential pew-holder must give way to those principles. Until our whole point of view regarding church music is clarified we shall continue to plunge about in a confused welter of eclecticism. Many church musicians feel very apologetic about what they offer; others, it must be confessed, know no better. Still others have not yet realized that the demand for simplicity which reaches them from the pews is not necessarily a demand for bad music. In many cases our choirmasters have been unwise in thrusting down the throats of a reluctant congregation elaborate lengthy works which would have a place only as an accompaniment to an equally elaborate ritual on festive occasions. Simplicity and elaboration depend on circumstances, and quality is independent of both. The whole subject, as I see it, must be attacked fairly and squarely from the ethical and spiritual as well as from the musical point of view. I have up to now, perhaps, presented too one-sided a picture, and I should not like to end without paying tribute to the many fine features of our musical life. We have in many centres developed an excellent discrimination with regard to performance, especially performances of pianists, violinists and orchestras. An appreciation of technical efficiency is by no means to be despised, and our audiences as a rule can detect slipshod work. We definitely prefer to have fewer performances rather than allow quality to suffer; in fact, as I saw it expressed in a Montreal paper recently, we like our music both rare and well done. The competitive festival in Western Canada (and to some extent also in the East) has proved valuable, not only as a means of fostering a better type of performance, but also and more particularly as a means of developing critical taste among the public. The experience of hearing a piece of music played, let us say, a dozen

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times by different people, and then of hearing various points of the performances analysed and judgement delivered by a wellqualified musician has proved most illuminating to many an unsophisticated lover of music. Our choirs and orchestras have in many cases achieved a high standard of excellence and, while we welcome distinguished visiting artists, it seems no longer necessary to depend on them for the bulk of our musical diet. Good Canadian artists are available if we will give them a hearing. We have in all parts of the country capable and often distinguished teachers and, in spite of the economic difficulties of the last few years, students of music are now offered more complete facilities by our leading institutions than they were in prosperous times. I wish that our music libraries were adequate; I know of no complete collection in Canada of the well-known classics. In Toronto, for example, the only complete Bach Gesellschaff edition (unless I am much mistaken) is privately owned, and although several other composers have complete representation in our University and other libraries, there are many serious gaps. The Canadian student does not as a rule show much ambition in building up a private library; the cost of music is usually high out of proportion to what it would be in other countries, much of it being supplied through American agencies and hence subject to double duties and retailers' profits. But there is abundant activity which should increase in years to come, especially if the very young receive adequate guidance through well-qualified teaching in our schools. One regrets that our musical activities should be so little coordinated, and that each community should be so little aware of 5

The edition of the complete works of J.S. Bach, published in Leipzig 1851-99 by the Bach Society. The owner in question was H.H. Langton, an amateur music lover and librarian of the University of Toronto, 1892-1923. One of the original member-subscribers of the Bach Society's Complete Works of J.S. Bach was Carl Reinecke, teacher and later director of the Leipzig Conservatory and for thirtyfive years the conductor of the famous Gewandhaus Concerts. Reinecke died in 1910 and his set of the Bach works appeared for sale in the catalogue of a German dealer. Langton bought the set in 1914. It was shipped just at the outbreak of war, but fortuitously it was sent to Boston, where it arrived safely as the United States was a neutral country, and then on to Toronto. Langton later gave it to the University of Toronto and it remains a part of the present-day Music Library. (The Toronto Conservatory of Music Review, March 1934, p.5-7.)

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what is being done elsewhere. Progress will be slow until some means is found of mending this fault. It is a problem from which most of our intellectual and cultural life suffers, and, geographically, Nature would almost seem to have set herself against its solution. Yet the spirit of Canada has already triumphed over similar obstacles that once seemed insurmountable, and we can face the future with faith and determination to do our share in carving a niche where Canada will take her place in the gallery of the world's musical nations.

Musical Relations between Canada and the United States (Address to the Music Teachers' National Association, 1931)

t is indeed a privilege to be asked to address this distinguished gathering on such a subject — a privilege which carries with it a somewhat heavy responsibility. I feel to some extent a musical ambassador, though I have no mandate from musicians in Canada to speak in their name, and it may be that in the course of my remarks I shall give utterance to opinions and sentiments which many among them would be inclined to repudiate. But an accredited representative of the musical profession in Canada would be at the present time an impossibility, for there is no body to apoint him. We have in Canada many teachers' associations which do excellent work in their various localities, but none of them are national in scope. Such a body as the Music Teachers' National Association, if duplicated in Canada with such minor variations as our somewhat different conditions demand, would without a doubt prove a valuable asset from both the musical and the purely professional point of view. The difficulties of forming such a body are doubtless familiar to those of you who have followed the progress of this federation since its inception. Those difficulties are accentuated with us by our small population. It is obviously much more difficult for a small local organization than for a large one to meet the expenses of delegates to a c o n v e n t i o n , and there is equally less chance in a small organization that a delegate can be found to pay his own expenses. Moreover, in choosing a place of meeting for any gathering we can, broadly speaking, look in only two directions — East and West — from which members can come, for our population extends in a not very thick line from Atlantic to Pacific, and outside of this line there are comparatively few to draw on. This difficulty is one which every Canadian organization of national extent has had to overcome, and I trust that music teachers, too, will not find the obstacle insuperable.

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The first advantage, therefore, which occurs to me as arising from a more intimate relationship between the musical profession in our respective countries, is to be found precisely in the body which I am now addressing. We may learn much from your plans of organization; we may emulate the spirit of cooperation which has brought this body into being; we may, for aught I know, be able to learn from your mistakes (I do not know of any, but I have yet to hear of any successful organization which has invariably kept to the right path); finally, we can be inspired to effort by a contemplation of the benefits which the Music Teachers' National Association confers on the profession. The benefits and the drawbacks which arise from having as our nearest neighbor the wealthiest and one of the most powerful nations in the world — a nation, moreover, to which we are bound by a common language and strong similarity of history and of institutions — these benefits and drawbacks are felt as strongly in musical life as elsewhere, perhaps more strongly than in other matters. Music is a social art and, in modern times, musical activity of the highest type tends to become more and more concentrated in the larger centres. A metropolis like New York has an enormous gravitational pull which those of you who live in smaller centres feel much as we do. When we see numbers of our most promising young students leaving us, we rejoice in the greater scope which the greater community offers them, but we feel a keen regret for our own sakes at their departure. Many of them have come to fill positions of great prominence; when this is so, there is little room left for regret, for the great artist is neither American nor Canadian, but international. Such singers as Albani, Donalda, Edvina, Florence Easton, Edward Johnson; such an organist as Lynnwood Farnam; these and many other Canadians have joined the international band of distinguished artists. On the other hand, the profession always needs leadership, and we in Canada are not content with mediocre talents in our leaders. We have among us not a few musicians of real distinction. Of late years the exodus has been less marked than formerly, and the best antidote is in our own hands, namely, the building up of a musical community in which the finest of our young musicians will find room to exercise their talents.

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The obverse side of the picture shows the United States, particularly the outstandingly great things in the musical life of the United States, in the light of a challenge. You have a large proportion of the finest orchestras of the world: this should and I think does encourage us to strain every effort toward the a t t a i n m e n t of a similar degree of p e r f e c t i o n in our own orchestral bodies. Indeed we are bound to do so, else will our musical life suffer atrophy. Were we in the geographical position of, let me say Australia, we should find it advantageous in being left comparatively free to work out our own musical salvation, but would also be in danger of an excess of localism. I do not suggest that this is actually the case in Australia, of whose musical life I know little, but on purely geographical grounds I should imagine that this was a danger which Australian musicians of the better type would have to fight. We in Canada, on the other hand, find a tendency on the part of certain sections of our public to accept anything that comes to us stamped with the magic name of New York, and naturally managers and others with a commercial interest do not scruple to foster this feeling. No attitude other than that of eager welcome should prevail towards the many artists of high calibre whom the United States sends to Canada, but it is sometimes galling to see those of a vastly inferior grade given important engagements when our home-grown article is frequently superior. Again I must admit that the cure is in our own hands; things will right themselves when our own public develops the faculty of d i s c r i m i n a t i o n i n d e p e n d e n t l y of extraneous influences. Certainly the least desirable cure is a musical tariff barrier or an appeal to local patriotism as opposed to genuine artistic merit, for the true musical outlook must be international. We know how much the United States has to offer Canada. Has Canada anything to offer in return? I think she has a great deal, and is much too modest about crying her wares. In outlining some of the noteworthy features in Canada's musical life I wish it to be distinctly understood that I am speaking as a musician and not as a Canadian. Flag waving never did benefit art, though love of one's country — a vastly different thing — f r e q u e n t l y has done so. There is a distinctive Canadian

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atmosphere which has been reflected in such poets as Bliss Carman, Wilson MacDonald, and Pauline Johnson and in such painters as Tom Thomson, the so-called "Group of Seven," SuzorCote, and others. The more introspective art of music lags behind, as it has lagged behind in the history of practically all nations, but there are signs of an awakening. No musician could pass down the noble St. Lawrence River and see on all hands the evidences of that most romantic of sights — the civilization of pre-Revolutionary France transported to the New World — without feeling how it cries out for musical expression. No one could stand at night on the shore of one of the innumberable lakes in the woods of northern Ontario and hear the weird cry of the loons without feeling an emotion which can find its true outlet only in music. With us and with you, the endless expanse of the prairies and the overwhelming grandeur of the Rockies might well be a source of musical inspiration, and the sharper outlines seen through the Northern atmosphere give a distinctive quality to the Canadian scene. Most of this remains to be expressed in music, but in the meantime we have in our folk-song literature an abundance of raw material scarcely to be surpassed by any European country. An interesting subject for a musicologist, and one whose possibilities have as yet, so far as I know, been little explored, is the relationship of French folk tunes to those of French Canada. Much research has been given to the relationship in the case of the lyrics and ballads, little to the music. While it is assumed that the origin of most of the tunes, as of the words, is European, a detailed comparison of the resemblances and differences should prove of fascinating interest. With all the identity of origin, I should say (judging on such superficial grounds as are available) that in the course of some three centuries these melodies have taken on a distinctive character. Furthermore, there may be more music of purely Canadian origin than has been generally supposed. Be that as it may, the amount of material is astonishing: at least five thousand folk songs have been recorded in French Canada alone, and the bulk of these will be found in the National Museum at Ottawa. Only a comparatively small number have been published. One cannot in this connection fail to pay a grateful tribute to the

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1

work of Mr. Marius Barbeau, who, in addition to securing a large proportion of these songs, has built up a collection of some 2,000 North American Indian songs, many of them of fascinating interest, and drawn from widely separated parts of the country. Many melodies of Scottish, English, and French origin have been collected in the Maritime Provinces and Ontario. Our newcomers from Central, Northern, and Eastern Europe bring with them much that is valuable: it is not, like the Indian folk lore, indigenous to the country, and it has not, as has the French music, had time to saturate our soil, but much of it is too good to be lost. It is a happy sign that there are among us those who, in their attempts to Canadianize our newcomers, do not forget that we ourselves may learn much from them. A few years ago the Canadian Pacific Railway, by holding a series of folklore festivals in various parts of the country, did a valuable work in drawing attention to the great potential artistic worth of our inheritance.2 Composers made a good beginning, and if the movement thus inaugurated seems to have flagged for the time being, it is probable that in the long run it will have farreaching results. I am not one of those who believe that decking out simple folk melodies in sophisticated and elaborate garb constitutes a high artistic achievement, but the history of art shows that before art becomes international it must be national. For that reason we must begin by studying intensively all that our own country has to offer. I see no reason why, given a distinctive national background, Canada should not give to the world as great masterpieces as have appeared from any quarter, but we must plough before we can sow and sow before we can reap, and the present process of ploughing our land at least reveals an amazingly rich soil. 1 Marius Barbeau (1883-1969), anthropologist and folklorist, was responsible for the collecting of vast materials, both musical and verbal, of Native Peoples and FrenchCanadians. He and MacMillan were close friends, and in 1927 the urbane MacMillan accompanied Barbeau on an adventurous field trip to the Tsimshian People of northwestern British Columbia. MacMillan was transcriber and a sort of musical consultant to Barbeau. He later made artful arrangements of three of the songs, with an English text by the poet Duncan Campbell Scott. 2 These festivals, held in various cities across Canada from 1927 to 1931, were an early example of enlightened corporate sponsorship, and promoted a variety of newly composed works as well as folk material.

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In the realm of composition one must needs speak of possibilities rather than of achievements. We have some composers of note and a few of real distinction, but most of their music is European in conception and execution. When we come to performance, however, we have much more to show. From England we inherit a very fine choral tradition, and such organizations as the Mendelssohn Ghoir of Toronto and the Winnipeg Male Voice Choir have been heard on this side of the border, the former on many occasions. It is the fashion, in certain quarters, to decry the British tradition in music, associating it with the idea of pedantic organists, with pianists who play as though they had just emerged from a cold water bath, and with the anthems of Barnby and Stainer. Some are so ignorant as to suppose that England's musical life is non-existent. In point of fact the England of today seethes with musical activity, and this in the face of as stolid an indifference on the part of great sections of the public as one will find anywhere in the world. It is unfortunately true that in Canada as in the United States, we have shown a tendency in our church music to adopt some of the least admirable of England's musical traditions, and by mingling with them operatic reminiscences, rendered it worse than it was originally. Fortunately there are signs of improvement, and if we come to realize what the truly great features of England's musical traditions are, we may learn to emulate them. So far as choral singing is concerned, our close association with the Motherland has greatly enriched our musical life. Perhaps we still have something to teach the United States in this respect. Our choral bodies are not by any means all admirable, but they usually stand for the truly democratic spirit in art, and for love of music for its own sake. At their best they are very fine. Stimulated by the prodigious success of the competitive festivals, choral music has made great strides in Western Canada. Many music lovers look with a sceptical eye on competition festivals, feeling that the sporting instinct is already over-nourished, and is likely to have unfortunate consequences when applied to art.3 But a competitive festival is good or bad in 3 Competitive music festivals for amateur performers of all kinds originated in western Canada in the early years of the twentieth century and were approaching their greatest successes in many cities across Canada when MacMillan gave this address. Subsequently there was a good deal of controversy over their real value, but if they have declined somewhat, competitive festivals remain a sharp focus for amateur music-making in the 1990s.

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proportion as it is permeated by the right or the wrong attitude on the part of the competitors and of the public. Experience has convinced me of its value in many quarters, and particularly in Western Canada. I am sure that a study of this movement would be of value to those of you who are interested primarily in the making of music for its own sake — music-making where the professional element is kept in the background. Above all it seems to me to have worked miracles in the realm of school choral music. If any of you chance to visit Winnipeg, do not fail to hear some of the best of the school choirs if it can be arranged. I am greatly interested to hear of the Alliance for the encouragement of choral music in the United States, and trust it will bear much fruit. I do not intend to enlarge on the good qualities of our instrumental organizations; in Toronto and elsewhere there is a remarkably widespread interest in chamber music, and at least one of our organizations (the Hart House String Quartet4) is well known on this side of the border. Montreal and Toronto have both well-established orchestras, which have m a i n t a i n e d themselves under financial handicaps that would certainly have brought them to naught if it had not been for the loyalty and enthusiasm of the members and a few devoted music lovers. Other similar organizations have done good work in smaller centres, but it must be admitted that the lavish gifts which have enabled your orchestras to reach such heights of excellence have not as yet been forthcoming in Canada, though there are signs of a change in this respect. There is at any rate a growing public interest in orchestral music, and I think we can look forward to the future with confidence. The general standard of teaching in Canada, particularly piano teaching, is a high one. I fancy that our examination system, with all its drawbacks, has worked great good in this respect. The Toronto [Royal] Conservatory of Music, in addition to providing instruction for five or six thousand pupils in Toronto, examines about 20,000 annually throughout the length and breadth of the 4

The Hart House Quartet (1924-1946) had an international reputation and toured regularly throughout Canada and the United States, as well as in Europe.

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country as far west as the Pacific coast. The numbers, though impressive as indicating a widespread interest in music study, mean little in themselves. The important feature is that such examinations provide a stimulus to work, a broad curriculum which embraces many important general and theoretical subjects, the value of which it is not always easy for the private teacher to explain to parents, and, finally, an impartial standard which serves to show to small communities the merits and demerits of various teachers. Undoubtedly there is a tendency to narrow a pupil's work to the bare requirements of the curriculum, but the wise teacher is on guard against this, and the really talented pupil will exhibit a curiosity which no set requirements will satiate. On the whole, I have little doubt that an impartial enquiry would vindicate our examination system, provided always that the examiners are competent musicians and that the institution itself is not a commercial body. That many teachers in the United States feel the value of some such examination system is evidenced by the fact that we are frequently in receipt of requests for the holding of such examinations in American centres. Our policy is, however, to confine our activites as an examining body to Canada where, it must be confessed, we find our hands fairly full; if we can, out of our not inconsiderable experience, be of use to American organizations who wish to establish some such system here, we shall be only too glad to do so. I have tried to indicate in rough outline one or two sides of musical life in which I think the United States and Canada may be of assistance to each other, and I fear I have covered the ground most inadequately. One or two additional matters occur to me. I am sure that we have much to learn from you with regard to instrumental music in schools, and particularly in high schools. There are a few outstanding high school orchestras in Canada, but for the most part our attempts have been sporadic, ill-organized, and too dependent upon the good will and enthusiasm of individuals. Perhaps we could also in some way cooperate in establishing some better standards of English diction as applied to singing. I find, in criticizing vocal students, that a large proportion of my criticism is usually concerned with their diction — yet, so far as I know, there is no professional body in a position to fix

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standards. Again, we in Canada do not always find it easy, in assessing academic qualifications, to discriminate between the systems of credits which operate so differently in different American institutions. In university faculties, for example, we are often called upon to decide on the standing of certain institutions with regard to which our information is very inadequate. We should greatly welcome your cooperation in this regard. Finally, the great question of radio broadcasting emerges — a question of such vast proportions that I dare not embark upon it here. It is, of course, a national question and one which the Canadian people may be called upon to deal with at no distant date, but its international implications are so far-reaching and so intricate that any permanent solution will have to be the creation of many of our best minds. In conclusion, allow me to express my sincere thanks for the honor you have done me in asking me to be your guest and to address you on this occasion. No one can realize more than I do how much I have left unsaid. I trust, however, that you will at least realize that I have a profound interest in the topic which was suggested to me, and that my words may have stimulated others to take a greater interest than hitherto in our i n t e r n a t i o n a l relationships. May our beloved art of music prove yet another of the many ties which bind our two nations in bonds of friendship and mutual helpfulness!

Musical Composition in Canada (Culture 3 (1942): 149-154)

n inquiry into the musical life of any nation must deal first of all with its composers and with those distinctive features that differentiate their music from that of other countries. We have in Canada gifted composers of both the French and British traditions, and of recent years there has been a marked increase in composition of a modern type among some of our young people. Yet it is difficult to trace in their music as a whole such distinctive national features as we find, for instance, in much Canadian painting and literature. The painter finds in all parts of the Dominion types of landscape peculiar to the country, and paints them as he sees them in their bold outlines and through their own distinctive atmosphere. The man of letters has abundant material to stimulate his descriptive powers; he can re-create in literary form a type of scenery and mode of life which have many features of their own and are far removed from the landscapes and the civilizations of Europe. But the musician has little to go on. His is a more introspective art than any other. As a rule, musical self-expression matures more slowly in any nation than does self-expression in the other arts. In its highest manifestations music becomes individualistic rather than national. Nevertheless the history of other countries teaches us that a period of nationalistic selfconsciousness generally precedes the appearance in any nation of great composers, preparing and fertilizing the soil in which they can grow and come to fruition. It requires a development of centuries to produce a distinctive musical idiom, and when that idiom is strongly nationalistic — as, for instance, so much of the music of Spain and Russia — it is invariably bound up closely with the nature of the folk-song of the nation. Folk-song need not, of course, be drawn upon consciously and specifically as thematic material (it rarely is

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in the case of great composers), but, by permeating the spiritual atmosphere surrounding the composer, it is subconsciously assimilated by him and becomes part and parcel of his inspiration. Indeed, it would not be difficult to trace back the characteristics of all music worthy of the name to the character of the nation which gave it birth, as expressed in the song of the people. Many of us think of folk-song as something belonging to other folk — folk, of course, more humble and less cultivated than ourselves. It is from a peasantry that the arts ultimately spring, however far thence they may travel. The artistic age par excellence was the age when every kitchen utensil, every stick of furniture, every stone in a church expressed something, an age when people made their own music, invented their own dances, organized their own games. I sometimes wonder if we children of a mechanical age will ever find any means of artistic expression in a land and generation when the very idea of a peasantry is usually regarded with scorn. European folk-song literature accumulated during the ages when a peasantry was closely attached to the soil, and when there was little movement, except on the part of the upper classes, from one community to another. Local customs are in this day and generation rapidly being swept away. In some respects this is doubtless a good thing, and for most of us it undoubtedly makes life more comfortable. But it also makes life much less picturesque, and surrounded as we are on all sides by standardized products, we are in danger of losing altogether our feeling for the shape and taste of things. This is particularly so on this continent, where civilization is so new that in most districts we have hardly had time to develop any local colour whatever. Except in certain areas, we have no such thing as a peasantry. Canada, however, is rich in folk music. We have two main sources of material which we may consider distinctively Canadian: Indian music indigenous to the soil but alien to the white race, and the great literature of French Canadian folk-song, most of it of European origin but so long established in Canada that it has developed a distinctive flavour unlike that of European French music. It is, moreover, often associated with words that deal with the Canadian scene. The leaders of Canadian musical life are fully awake to the importance of preserving the traditional songs of the

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people and of allowing them to colour and permeate the work of Canadian composers. For the collection and preservation of some six or seven thousand Indian and French Canadian folk songs, Canada owes a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Marius Barbeau of the Canadian National Museum. Thousands of records have been collected all over the country and are housed in the National Museum at Ottawa. It is not surprising that many British as well as French Canadian composers draw on these folk-songs for thematic material. It is gratifying to see how many of our younger writers are awakening to the possibilities of this great body of material. One would like to call their attention also to the numerous sea chanties, mainly British in origin, which have been collected in the Maritime Provinces, and to the widely varied musical traditions brought to our shores by the "New Canadians" of many nationalities. Mr. J. Murray Gibbon has well named these varied traditions a Canadian Mosaic and his book of that title will repay careful study. It will remain for future generations to blend the assorted colours of the mosaic into a consistent and eloquent pattern, in music as in other fields. Mrs. Ella May Walker of Edmonton has made an admirable survey of musical composition in Canada, from which a brief extract follows: There may be said to be three main sources of influence at work upon Canadian composition today. One is the indigenous primitive music of the Indian and Eskimo, still largely undigested by the dominant culture, which was thrown in contact with French folk music imported by the French people of early Canada, giving us our FrenchCanadian folk music. As the primitive Indian melodies are an entirely oral tradition and the early French folk music very nearly so, the extent of the ensuing fusion is difficult to ascertain. But sufficient evidence has been put forward by such eminent archivists in the field as Marius Barbeau of the National Museum

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in Ottawa to make the musical composition based on this rich and abundant source of thematic material a distinctly Canadian art, in as far as subject matter is concerned. As Canadian composers are to form the subject of a second article in Culture (the September issue), the present brief review will deal principally with composers of British origin or those resident in English-speaking Canada. It is natural that modern British music should have a dominating influence on much of the music written in Canada. Many of the leading composers are English by birth and others, Canadian born, have studied in English schools. Much fine church and secular choral music has been written by Healey Willan (Toronto), Alfred Whitehead ( M o n t r e a l ) , W.H. Anderson ( W i n n i p e g ) , Hugh Bancroft (Winnipeg) and others; some of these have made valuable contributions in other fields. An outstanding addition to the list of those who have recently made their home in Canada is the Australian-born Arthur Benjamin of Vancouver, whose orchestral and chamber works are widely known and whose witty one-act opera The Devil Take Her was recently heard for the first time over the Canadian air. Other British or European-born composers whose best known works are songs or instrumental music are: Leo Smith (Toronto), Frederick Lord (Brantford), Arnold Walter (Toronto) and Donald Heins (Toronto). An exhaustive list in an article such as this is clearly impossible, but in selecting representative names one must not forget the contributions made to Canadian music by such former leaders, now deceased, as the English-born Albert Ham, the Viennese Luigi von Kunits and the Canadian A.S. Vogt, all of whom have left to us works frequently performed. It does not, however, lie within the scope of this article to include Canadian composers now resident in the United States or elsewhere, though many of them have won notable distinction. Among the younger Canadian-born composers there has been much activity of late years; Canadian students of music as a body are much more conscious of the importance of creation as opposed to performance than was the case ten years ago. The more modern methods taught in the leading schools of the United States have exercised an influence, not only on those who have studied there, like John Weinzweig (Toronto), Barbara Pentland

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(Winnipeg) and Eugene Hill (Toronto), but also on many whose chief or entire schooling has been Canadian, like Godfrey Ridout (Toronto), Jean Coulthard Adams (Vancouver) and Robert Farnon (Toronto). Some of the foregoing, however, seem to cling to a great extent to European models, as the gifted Graham George (formerly of Montreal, now serving overseas) and Walter McNutt (Toronto) whose tuneful Sonata for Violin and Piano, written some years ago, gave evidence of sensitive feeling and genuine melodic invention. It is encouraging to hear of an increasing number of performances of works by Canadian-born composers not only in Canada itself, but in the United States and other countries as well: a recent programme in New York, arranged by the League of Composers, including works by John Weinzweig, Godfrey Ridout and Barbara Pentland seems to have created a very favourable impression, while other works by Mr. Ridout have been performed in New York, and Robert Farnon's colourful Symphonic Suite has been recently played by the Philadelphia Orchestra, after receiving two performances in Toronto. One might add many other names and still leave the catalogue incomplete, but enough has been said to show that there has been great activity in Canadian composition of recent years. It is too early to prophesy what effect the war may have in this regard; although publishers, conductors and others find their mail flooded with patriotic songs of varying musical and literary merit it can hardly be said that as yet the emotional pressure of these strenuous times has found very notable expression except, perhaps, in the Radio Opera Transit through Fire, composed by Healey Willan to a libretto by John Coulter and produced recently under the aegis of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. In this opera a Canadian soldier and his wife are represented as spending his last leave in their skiing shack, and they look back from 1942 at the period of chaos and frustration of the thirties. Their story in retrospect depicts the whole panorama of the Canadian scene during that troubled period. Translated into musical idiom we have the background of glittering snow and the warmth of the hearth inside the shack; then impressions of the past decade: the young man's incoherent striving at Varsity and the Presidential address; the dancing class and the cocktail party; the stock market

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crash and the young man in search of work; the cynicism and disillusion of the pre-war years and the apathy of the post-Munich period; the early days of the war and the "sacrificial death of democracy's fighting men"; and lastly an inspired marching song full of hope for the future. Whether or not it is "good theatre," Transit through Fire is undoubtedly an artistic creation of the first importance. The Canadian scene has nowhere been more faithfully portrayed in musical form, and it is an augury of the achievement of a truly Canadian musical idiom. Considerable stimulus has been given to young composers within the last few years by the Canadian Performing Right Society's scholarship for composition. The scholarship, of the value of $750, is awarded annually to the student under twenty-two years of age whose compositions show the most talent and imagination, in order that he or she may study for at least one year at the Toronto Conservatory of Music. In addition to the scholarship there are other money prizes; these include three for a Junior Division, open to competitors under sixteen years of age. Young composers from all parts of the Dominion have been successful in this competition, now in its fifth year. The number of entries is an indication of the widespread interest in composition among our young people, and already such composers as Eldon Rathbone (St. John, N.B.), Lawrence Goodwill (formerly of Vancouver, now serving with the R.C.A.F.), Phyllis Gummer (Kingston, Ont.) and Jean Davis (Sackville, N.B.) are, in varying degree, developing their talents and producing in some cases works of much interest and more promise. If we hope to develop a national idiom, every effort should be made to familiarize our people with those elements that might have a part in its make-up. In this connection, b r o a d c a s t i n g is potentially the most influential factor. Unfortunately, broadcasting in Canada is powerfully affected by geographical conditions; line charges are out of all proportion to revenue, and too little money has hitherto been available for p r o g r a m m e s . N e v e r t h e l e s s , the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is giving increasing evidence of its desire to foster Canadian t a l e n t and in p a r t i c u l a r a Canadian school of composition. A series of broadcasts of Canadian works given last

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year under the direction of Samuel Hersenhoren unearthed some striking works, and other conductors have shown commendable enterprise in producing Canadian works both on the radio and in concert performance. We cannot by taking thought produce a national music; all we can do is to create an atmosphere in which a strong musical personality can express itself creatively and naturally.... Art, like religion, seems to be a need of man's inner nature, and has a way of emerging at the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected places.

Some Problems of the Canadian Composer (The Samuel Robertson Memorial Lecture, delivered at Prince of Wales College, Charlottetown, P.E.I., on Monday, May 7, 1956; The Dalhousie Review 36 (1956): 130-143)

have chosen to speak this evening on the subject of the Canadian composer, first because I feel composition to be of fundamental importance to the musical life of this or any other country and, secondly, because I find that the composer's problems are on the whole less understood than are those of the performer. Within the last ten or fifteen years, creative activity in Canada has grown by leaps and bounds. If we wish to foster this growth effectively we must try in some measure to appreciate the composer's point of view. And the first question is, What is he trying to say? To a composer of genuinely creative gifts the initial stages of writing present the least of his problems. A melodic strain, a rhythmical figure, a striking harmonic progression comes into his mind, he knows not how. Perhaps his imagination is fired by a poem, a painting or an historical event which assumes a musical form; perhaps the musical idea comes first and the outside association later. At any rate he can without great effort jot down a few sketches; he has at least a general idea of what he wants to say. The real effort comes later in giving those ideas shape and expression and the effort will be more or less proportionate to the technical skill the composer has acquired as well as to the adaptability of his technique to his creative needs. His second problem, then, is the development of technique and style. In music even more than in literature and the plastic arts, style and content tend to become inseparable. Broadly speaking, the expansion of his ideas is likely to be matched by increased technical mastery, and vice versa, although one may at times lag behind the other. A certain technical groundwork is a necessary preliminary to all successful composition and the wouldbe composer who fears that the study of conventional harmony and counterpoint will hamper his individuality handicaps himself

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at the very outset. Even if he possesses a natural instinct for such things, a solid technical foundation, far from impairing his originality, will set him free to give rein to his imagination. Building on this solid foundation and on the experience of past ages, he may then proceed to develop a style suitable to his needs and natural capacities. It may be that, having laid this foundation, he will come to realize that he hasn't very much to say after all. If he is wise he will then turn to some other activity. If he finds that he has a moderate flair, he may turn it to good commercial account by writing pot-boilers. If he lacks creative gifts but does not realize it, he is likely to go on for some time turning out technically finished but dull and conventional works and wonder why he is unappreciated. If on the other hand he possesses creative gifts and burns to give his thoughts to the world but has neglected the fundamental elements of his craft, the result is apt to be clumsy and amorphous, even though showing occasional flashes of inspiration. Having solved these problems with some degree of success in his own eyes, and perhaps in the eyes of his immediate friends, there still remains the problem of the market — of getting his music performed, published and generally known. This is again closely bound up with the style and content of the music and its relation to the tastes and preferences of his audiences. In the concert field of today the music-loving public relies as never before on the past. The Elizabethans gathered of an evening to sing the madrigals and ballets of Wilbye, Weelkes and Morley or the airs of Dowland and Rosseter, while the churches resounded to the strains of Byrd and Orlando Gibbons. Bach and his German contemporaries supplied, week by week, cantatas and other musical fare demanded by the Lutheran liturgy, while at the same time Handel was purveying operas and oratorios for his English audiences. A little later the guests of Prince Esterhazy were being entertained by the string quartets and symphonies of the Prince's distinguished Kapellmeister Haydn: in fact, throughout the eighteenth century, audiences favoured contemporary music. Read Charles Burney's account of his continental tours in 1773 and you will find that he heard little but contemporary music except in a few churches. The nineteenth century indeed began to

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lean a little more on the past and even the immense personal prestige of Liszt did not quite overcome a certain amount of opposition to the avant-garde, yet on the whole the nineteenthcentury composer succeeded in winning a place in the hearts of his contemporaries; concert programmes and the repertoire of operatic houses included a substantial proportion of newly written works. What a different picture is presented by present-day musical life! With all the efforts of influential organizations, sometimes backed by wealthy foundations or generous individuals, the great bulk of music heard in our concert halls and opera houses is drawn from the past. Why? Well, in the first place, we are more historically minded than our ancestors. The well-informed music-lover is more appreciative of the styles of past ages and his hearing is, on the whole, attuned to their products. The bi-centenary of Mozart's birth this year has given rise to a perfect orgy of Mozartian performances; one wonders what sixteenth-century composer (and some of them were very eminent indeed) could have conceivably aroused such excitement in 1756. I am not quarrelling with this and yield to no one in my admiration and affection for Wolfgang Amadeus, but merely point out that the tendency to lean on the past is growing. Even the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven's death, in 1927, was celebrated on a more moderate scale. But listening to music, whether in the concert-hall, the opera-house or at home takes time; every work new or old included in our programmes is bound to crowd out another. Are we, in our devotion to the great masters of the past, not doing an injustice to our contemporaries? After many years of concert-giving with an organization dependent on public support, I am bound to say that our audiences as a whole are definitely conservative in their tastes — more so in Toronto perhaps than in Montreal. This conservatism is by no means confined to Canada. It is discouraging at many of the Philharmonic concerts in New York to see so many people walk out before a new work is to be performed. A few years ago when I was attending the Edinburgh Festival, a newspaper conflict was raging on the subject of modern works; many were in favour of enterprising programmes but it seemed generally agreed that new

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works had an unfavourable effect on attendances. Later in the same year in Berlin I sat in a box with the manager of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, who was lamenting the smallness of the audience, and attributing it to the modern programme. It is, of course, a natural human instinct to like what we know, although some of us are too distrustful of what we don't know. One is reminded of the story of Charles Lamb, who, when asked by a friend to "come and meet Mr. So-and-So," replied: "I don't want to meet him, I don't like him." "But," said his friend, "you don't know him!" "That's why I don't like him," rejoined Lamb. I am afraid that far too many people are of his way of thinking; to be sure, they may be protecting themselves from unpleasant or boring experiences but, on the other hand, they may be missing some very delightful and enriching ones. After all, our best friends were at one time strangers and perhaps some of our most valued friendships were at first hard to cultivate. These observations may seem trite and obvious but they deal with an attitude which must be overcome if musical composition in Canada is to progress. Whether we like it or not, our composers are almost all contemporary and most of them speak in a contemporary idiom. It would be futile for them to do otherwise. They cannot, even if they would, produce more Beethoven symphonies or Mozart operas. On the other hand we need not assume that the most adventurous are necessarily the most original or that their works will outlast those of their more conservative brethren. During the second half of the nineteenth century Liszt was regarded as the prophet of the avant-garde and Brahms as the hidebound reactionary. Yet of Liszt's many symphonic poems only one (Les Preludes) finds its way with any degree of regularity on to our programmes, whereas all the Brahms symphonies are staple articles of diet. In the end, it is the innate quality of the work that gives it endurance, and quality can manifest itself in any medium. The accusation most often levelled at the modern composer is that his music is cacophonous and ugly. Now I venture to say that no composer is deliberately ugly unless he is attempting to express an ugly emotion or pictorial idea, or

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unless he is intentionally employing cacophony for the sake of contrast. Beethoven, in introducing his "Hymn to Joy and Human Brotherhood," begins with a fortissimo chord that includes every note of the harmonic minor scale: the effect does not startle our audiences as it doubtless did his but it is still arresting enough and acts as a high-light to what follows. However, this is admittedly a special instance and hardly analogous to the practice of the present-day composer who deliberately discards all those key-relationships that are the foundation of the great classics. Naturally, most people find this bewildering and perhaps even repulsive. We may or may not like the products of the twelve-tone system of Schonberg and his followers; we may or may not approve of Stravinsky's frequent subordination of all other musical elements to that of rhythm; we may or may not see eye to eye with Hindemith's theories on " G e b r a u c h s m u s i k " ( f u n c t i o n a l m u s i c ) ; we may be either attracted or repelled by the dry, unemotional qualities of Eric Satie. But at least we should try to approach them on their own ground — try to see some logic in their methods before reproaching them for failing to please and convince us. To understand all is not necessarily to love all, but it is at least a necessary preliminary to forming sound judgements. Up to now I have been speaking for the most part of modern music in general rather than of Canadian music in particular. Our musical background is European rather than native, and it so happens that Canada's cultural coming-of-age is taking place in a period of change and experimentation in music. Yet the music offered by our composers is by no means as novel as many people imagine. In his stimulating book Music Ho!,1 the late Constant Lambert points out that most of the experiments that form the basis of the new music were carried out before the First World War. (As his book first appeared in 1934, the expressions "pre-war" and "post-war" refer to the war 1

Constant Lambert, Music Ho! A Study of Music in Decline (London, Faber & Faber, 1934; reprinted Penguin Books, 1948). Lambert was a well-known composer whose jazz-influenced and very modernist work The Rio Grande (1927) MacMillan conducted at the Toronto Symphony Orchestra concerts in 1930 and 1933.

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of 1914-18.) Says Mr. Lambert: To the seeker after the new, or the sensational, to those who expect a sinister frisson from modern music, it is my melancholy duty to point out that all the bomb throwing and guillotining has already taken place. If by the word "advanced" we mean art that departs as far as possible from the classical and conventional norm, then we must admit that pre-war music was considerably more advanced (if that is any recommendation) than the music of our own days. Schonberg's Erwartung, for example, still the most sensational essay in modern music from the point of view of pure strangeness of sound, was actually finished in 1909. If your ear can assimilate and tolerate the music written in 1913 and earlier, then there is nothing in post-war music that can conceivably give you an aural shock, though the illogicality of some of the present-day pastiches may give you a "rare turn" comparable to the sudden stopping of a lift in transit. But, Mr. Lambert goes on to say, the interruption of the war as well as other causes delayed in England the knowledge of many of these works; therefore, he says, "there is a large mass of the public that has only become modern-music conscious since the war, and they are hardly to be blamed if they lump the two periods together as 'all this modern music.'" And in his preface to the 1948 edition, Mr. Lambert says of his book that "though a period piece, it still, as far as I can judge, presents the public with the problems that face the contemporary composer." In Canada, broadly speaking, such knowledge has been delayed still longer; only in the last ten or twelve years has music of this type begun to attract the attention of the average music lover and even many a professional musician is strangely ignorant of its various trends. The Canadian works which scandalize so many are therefore much less "advanced" than they

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seem; whether admired or not, they do not startle European audiences. Our audiences, I am afraid, have not yet learned to discriminate; the more conservative reject well-constructed and expertly w r i t t e n c o n t e m p o r a r y works on the g r o u n d of "ugliness," while I am afraid some of the avant-garde accept what a more critical listener would dismiss as mere musical doodling. One of the chief obstacles to a p p r e c i a t i o n is the single performance: so many works are played once and laid aside indefinitely. I well remember the lady who said to me, after I had conducted a new work: "Please don't play that thing again or I might get to like it — and I do hate it so!" Nowadays so much new music is pressing for attention, and there is so little public demand for it, that the butter must be spread very thinly: a single performance of a new and abstruse work can bewilder even the most astute critic. The e x p e r i m e n t m i g h t be occasionally tried of presenting a new work twice on the same programme; such an event would, I fear, have to be heavily subsidized because of its effect on the box-office, but it would be worth trying. Many a Canadian work of significance could be played twice in the time allotted to, say, the thousand-and-nth performance of Tchaikovsky's B-flat minor concerto. The gramophone record has presented us with unprecedented opportunities for repeated hearings of almost any music we can spare the time to hear. It is an even more important factor than radio in broadening public appreciation for the best in music; almost anyone can, if he will, become thoroughly familiar, through frequent repetition, with the standard or lesser-known classics and even with a good deal of contemporary music. In this field however, the Canadian composer suffers from especial handicaps. His name is not widely known outside of his own country; even within it, where performances are bound to be comparatively few, all the valiant efforts of the CBC and others on his behalf have succeeded in publicizing him only to a very limited extent. The larger recording companies therefore do not find him commercially profitable and we have practically no support from governmental or private sources such as many other countries enjoy, to redress the balance. Consequently, regularly marketed recordings of extended works by Canadian composers could

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almost be counted on the fingers of one h a n d . * 2 The International Service of the CBC has, indeed, been responsible for recording a considerable number of Canadian works and fulfils in this respect a function similar to that of the British Council in Great Britain. But these recordings are made almost exclusively for distribution abroad through our embassies and other agencies and are not available in Canada through the regular channels and by the ordinary buyer. Thus arises the paradoxical situation where Canadians may well know less of the music of their own composers than do people of other lands. I am bound to add, however, that the CBC itself makes frequent use of the recordings of its International Service, whereas some of those sent abroad seem to have lain neglected in the office quarters of our representatives. Recently established Canadian companies, such as Beaver and Hallmark, have rendered a most valuable service in recording Canadian p e r f o r m i n g artists; so far as our composers are concerned, Hallmark has at least tried out the temperature of the water, so to speak, by putting in a toe or two, but financial restrictions have not allowed its directors to venture far.3 I stress the importance of the recording problem for the reason I have given, that it facilitates repeated hearings which in turn facilitate the formation of sound judgements. I shall return to this point but, for the moment, let us turn again to the concert field. *For a useful list of recorded Canadian music (i.e., composed or performed by Canadians) see the bulletin of the Canadian Library Association for April, 1956. [MacMillan's footnote] 2 MacMillan's complaint is still valid in the 1990s. Virtually no major recording company distributes Canadian music. Except for a few of the most famous, even Canadian performers have relatively limited recording distribution. The leaders, certainly in Canadian music, are the CBC and the Canadian Music Centre, and a few enterprising small companies. 3 Both record companies were short-lived. Hallmark (1952-59) issued a small number of recordings, including the first recording by Glenn Gould and Lois Marshall's first solo recording. One of the founders of the company was Sir Ernest's son, Keith MacMillan. Beaver Records (1950-C.1960) issued only about six recordings, but among them were celebrated issues of Messiah and the St. Matthew Passion performed by the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir under MacMillan's direction. The Messiah recording was the first of that work made specifically for the new Long Playing record process.

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Apart altogether from audience resistance, several factors little known to the average person tend to hinder the presentation of new works. Costs of rehearsal time, for instance, have in our generation increased to an unprecedented extent, and a new orchestral work — even if of moderate difficulty — takes more rehearsal time than does one familiar to the performers. Moreover in most cases (especially in Canada) it has to be read from manuscript, and sometimes the manuscript is none too clear. First performances also present the hazard of possible mistakes in the parts; correcting these makes further inroads on rehearsal time. Finally, the modern composer, relying on the skill of the modern performer, often writes passages of extreme difficulty which can be executed only after much practice. Nor is resistance to new works confined to audiences; there are usually at least some members of an orchestra or choir whose enthusiasm is difficult to arouse. They will even feel resentful if an inexperienced composer presents them with passages that "lie" badly for their instrument. All this causes delay and costs money. On the other hand a new work, if reasonably well written, offers a challenge which many performers are eager to meet and, as I have said, there is always at least a minority among the audience to welcome novelties. Thus the pros and cons achieve some kind of a balance and the work gets done. Meanwhile, what of the composer himself? What is his reward? Unless he has a flair for writing popular song-hits or musical revues, he cannot expect any great financial return and even in these fields success is hedged about with difficulties. The vogue of any popular song is generally very short-lived and calls for much so-called "plugging." Powerful interests outside this country are active in this operation and any response Canada can give is bound to be feeble in comparison. You may say our composer should work through an American or English publisher, and indeed he often does or tries to do so. But the man on the spot has a great advantage, especially if he has already won some measure of success. As for the big musical show, even if we produced another Rodgers and Hammerstein (and there is no fundamental reason why we should not) what chance would they stand in Canada of having their work staged in the expensive and elaborate fashion demanded by present day audiences?

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Two new possible sources of substantial income have in our day presented themselves to the Canadian composer, namely film music and background music for radio and television shows. I say "substantial" only in relation to the income of the more serious composer; a successful lawyer or stockbroker would probably regard it as a miserable pittance. In both cases the composers in question rely to a great extent on publicly subsidized bodies — the National Film Board and the CBC. The former has on its regular staff some three or four composers and occasionally commissions background music from others. The CBC engages composers to provide background music as occasion offers and, in some cases, this may be fairly frequently. Yet even so successful a man in this field as Lucio Agostini has recently gone to Hollywood.4 In any case the number of lucrative openings for writers of background music in this country is bound to be small and its highly specialized technique takes time to acquire. Another field to which the Canadian composer may look for at least a moderate return is that of short choral works for churches, schools and competitive festivals. Even here he is limited by the provision of our Copyright Law, which prohibits the collection of performing fees from churches and educational institutions. However, if he writes well, he stands a pretty good chance of finding a publisher and, if he is lucky, of collecting something worthwhile in royalties. It is not likely that, if we had a chance of looking over his income tax returns, we would be impressed by the amounts recorded, but at least it is something. Sales of drawing-room songs, once so lucrative, have, of course, dropped almost out of sight since music in the home became largely a matter of twisting knobs: in fact very few such works are published nowadays. But if financial returns are meagre in the case of the composer of light music, they are still more so in the field of serious and extended compositions. I know of no composer in Canada who makes his entire living, or even a substantial part of 4

Agostini (1913-1996) stayed only a year in Hollywood, then resumed his successful career in Canada. He composed literally hundreds of scores for film, radio and television, and for more than twenty years was musical director for one of the most popular of CBC-TV programs, "Front Page Challenge."

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his income, by writing music of this type. He is not likely to get his extended works published; look through Helmut Kallmann's Catalogue of Canadian Composers published a few years ago and you will see that the vast majority of published works are songs, short piano and violin pieces and choral numbers for church or school use.5 Works for orchestra and chamber groups are almost all in manuscript, which is not surprising in view of the great expense involved in printing them, and whatever monetary return they bring to the composer consists almost entirely of performing fees collected by the Composers, Authors and Publishers' Association or by BMI Canada. Naturally any work not performed brings in no return of this nature unless it has been commissioned, which happens only occasionally and frequently leads to but one performance. However, as the Canadian poet John Reeves says, "somehow or other people go on creating things" and of late years the output in Canada has been surprisingly large. Composers making their living by teaching and other forms of musical activity or even, as in the case of one of our most gifted composers, by driving taxicabs and the drudgery of music-copying, have enough faith in themselves to continue writing in the hope that their work will be eventually recognized.6 Lack of sufficient time to develop their powers is of course a fearful handicap; I fancy they would all agree that, given a reasonable amount of leisure, they would write better. But to what extent are they writing, or can they be expected to write music recognizably Canadian? A few minutes ago I remarked that, in music more than in most of the arts, style and content tend to become inseparable. A novel may be regarded as distinctively Canadian irrespective of its style on the strength of its dealing with a typically Canadian milieu; a landscape painter can, in the length and breadth of Canada, find countless subjects recognizably Canadian, however individual his interpretation of them. But in music the subject does not in itself 3

Helmut Kallmann, Catalogue of Canadian Composers (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, 1952; reprinted Scholarly Press, St. Clair Shores, Mich., 1972). 6 The taxi-driving music-copyist was Harry Somers, who already in the 1950s was recognized as one of Canada's most important composers.

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give any local or national flavour to the work. A composer may entitle a piece "Sunset on the St. Lawrence," 7 "Noon on the Prairies" or "Evening in the Rockies" without revealing any national traits in the music itself. On the other hand, when Borodin writes his picturesque sketch On the Steppes of Central Asia, although — apart from the suggestion of caravans — he might equally well have been setting his scene in Saskatchewan, the music is unmistakably Russian. When Wagner opens Das Rheingold in the depths of the Rhine we might perhaps guess that he is trying to evoke the picture of a mighty river though it might equally well be the St. Lawrence or the MacKenzie; we should however be aware of the Germanic quality of the music. I have intentionally refrained from taking as my examples works strongly influenced by national folk-songs or the rhythms of national dances, to which so much Spanish, Czech and Hungarian music owes its distinctive flavour. How can we in Canada expect to develop a similarly national style based on folk material? Even that of French Canada — the most extensive and the bestpreserved that we have — is largely European in origin, although the words have in some cases been adapted to the Canadian scene. Many works by both French and English speaking Canadians based on this material have been written and performed, yet collectors like the indefatigable Marius Barbeau express disappointment that so little use is made of them and that dust is gathering on the recordings of several thousand songs lying in the National Museum. Doubtless other collectors like Helen Creighton and Louise Manny have felt similarly disappointed. Most of our younger composers seem indisposed to use folk material — some of them maintaining that it has already served its purpose — and not a few able critics question its suitability for thematic use in symphonic music.8 It is 7

MacMillan may have forgotten that Sunset on the St. Lawrence was an actual piano piece composed by Frederick Harris, issued under his pseudonym "Maxime Heller," and published in 1910 by the Frederick Harris Music Company. 8 Elaine Keillor developed a representative list of almost 150 titles of works by Canadians based on Amerindian or Inuit material and composed from 1858 to 1993. Appendix to Keillor, "Indigenous Music as a Compositional Source: Parallels and Contrasts in Canadian and American Music." In Taking A Stand: Essays in Honour of John Beckwith, ed. T. McGee (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995),p.l85-218.

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true that one often finds a strong national flavour in the work of composers who rarely if ever make use of folk-songs: Sibelius, for instance, seems to us typically Finnish and to his fellow-countrymen he almost embodies Finland. Elgar's music, while borrowing German symphonic technique, could not be anything but English. In point of fact the great composers of any country contribute as much to giving it a national character as does its folk-song. Canada is rapidly maturing as a nation but innumerable elements of her population have yet to be completely assimilated. Perhaps the time is not far distant when a Canadian Sibelius or Elgar will give musical expression to all that we feel about our country; in doing so he will probably exhibit national traits almost unconsciously and his music will by its innate quality transcend national boundaries. In the meantime, let our composers concern themselves with simply writing the best music they can. The best of it is already very good, but I would be hesitant to call much of it typically Canadian, nor do its composers, with a few exceptions, particularly wish it to be so. The onus of responsibility for producing a great body of musical literature does not rest on the shoulders of the composer alone; it must find a receptive audience. I have pointed out that our concert-going and radio-listening public is reluctant to accept the unfamiliar. That is of course true to a large extent in other countries but in most cases to a lesser degree. It is asking too much of our audiences to accept, from patriotic motives, a great deal of music they dislike, but if the old is judiciously mixed with the new in our programmes they can at least be tolerant and patient; in the end dislike may well change to respect and affection. Music is meant to be enjoyed and to inspire; if it does neither, it fails of its purpose and the completely uncompromising composer is likely to suffer neglect, although a great personality may in the end fight his way through. To achieve complete rapport between composer and audience, concessions must at times be made by both. The composer must have some audience in mind; failing to persuade his own contemporaries, he may console himself by reflecting that future generations will hail him as a master. But he can be far from certain of this, for the music of the past that survives (except on library shelves) bears much the same proportion to what has

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become submerged as does the portion of an iceberg that is seen above the sea. Some composers are perhaps a little too concerned about preserving their artistic integrity, and their conscientiousness does them credit; if their creative gifts and technique match their self-confidence they are likely to be justified sooner or later. If not, they will almost inevitably go to swell the ranks of the forgotten. Nor does an occasional compromise necessarily affect a man's finer works. Even Beethoven wrote what he must have recognized as mere potboilers without sacrificing the quality of his masterpieces. To our audiences in Canada I would say: Approach a new work in a receptive mood — if possible with eager anticipation, but at all events with an unprejudiced mind. The composer has probably laboured hard to give you his message and if he speaks a language unfamiliar to you, at least give him your full attention and perhaps in the end you will discern something of what he has to say. His work may or may not be important, but give him the benefit of the doubt and in the end you may well be surprised and delighted. Of one thing you may be sure: music as we know it is a comparatively young art and still holds undreamed-of future possibilities. This or that composer, having discerned this, may stumble in his efforts to open up new paths, and the new paths may, even at that, turn out to be blind alleys. But never forget that it depends on you as well as on him whether or not Canada expresses herself worthily in music. In addition to more receptive audiences and performers able and willing to present his music, the Canadian composer usually needs more concrete assistance. Sympathy with his efforts will not pay the rather formidable costs of copying scores and parts or of having them reproduced by photographic and similar processes. No publisher, however well-wishing, can afford to take more than limited financial risks — and in the case of extended orchestral works the risk is considerable. So far as I know, no symphony or symphonic poem by a Canadian has ever been printed. Sympathy will not make scores accessible to conductors and other possible performers nor provide funds to ensure that more Canadian music will be recorded. Sympathy will not send the music abroad, where the potential market is so much more

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extensive than here. All these things call for a measure of o r g a n i z a t i o n and in this m a t t e r not a little has been accomplished since the end of the last war. In forming the Canadian League of Composers some years ago a group of composers themselves took an important step in the right direction. 9 In the last two years they have received valuable help from a group composed chiefly of laymen (Canadian Music Associates) and are able to p r e s e n t each season several programmes of works by their members. Through the efforts of the Canadian Music Council the Department of External Affairs has been induced to photostat and send abroad a number of Canadian works for a string or chamber orchestra, thus to some small extent s u p p l e m e n t i n g the recordings of the CBC's International Service. Much attention was aroused in the United States a few years ago [1953] by a concert of Canadian works given in Carnegie Hall, New York, under Leopold Stokowski. It naturally sustained a considerable financial loss which was met by Broadcast Music Incorporated (usually known as BMI). Previous to this, the Composers, Authors and Publishers Association of Canada (CAPAC) had underwritten a similar concert in Toronto under my direction; more recently the same organization, co-operating with our zealous Ambassador to France, M. Desy, and the French National Radio, arranged a Canadian orchestral concert which took place in Paris last January. Most helpful of all, of course, has been the CBC, part of whose regular policy is to present as many Canadian works as can be fitted into its schedule. A symposium comprising several concerts of Canadian music was organized and carried out some years ago in Vancouver by the British Columbia Arts Council. I mention these instances as indicating that our composers are not by any means entirely neglected. But much more remains to be done and we look forward eagerly to the establishment by the 9

The Canadian League of Composers was formed in 1951 with John Weinzweig as the first president. One of the direct results of the CLC was the formation of the Canadian Music Centre in 1959, which makes available thousands of scores by Canadian composers. MacMillan was President of the Centre, 1959-1970.

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Canadian Government of a Canada Council10 to operate on lines suggested in the Massey Report of 1950. Meanwhile voluntary bodies such as the Canadian Music Council, H severely handicapped by lack of funds and depending on voluntary effort, do what little they can. In an age when the government of practically every civilized country is concerned with disseminating and publicizing its nation's cultural wares, we still lag woefully behind. We are losing more than we realize. Apart from all other considerations, I am convinced that music can be an important factor in promoting world peace; after singing with a man you are less likely than before to quarrel with him. I would not suggest that it is our patriotic duty to love the music written by our composers; such an attitude would spell defeat in advance. Music is neither better nor worse for being written by Canadians: it should be and in the end will be, judged on its merits. We in Canada are too apt to boast of our vast natural resources; after all it is by sheer luck that we have fallen heir to them. We can and do take legitimate pride in the energy, skill and effort put into their development. In the realm of the Fine Arts, however, we are apt to suffer from a national inferiority complex: "Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?"12 In the case of music as in many other lines of activity, this attitude has led to our 10

The Canada Council/Conseil des arts du Canada was created by Act of Parliament on March 28, 1957. It is sustained by grants from Parliament and administers a wide range of awards, scholarships and various forms of support for all aspects of the arts in Canada. Programs of research and scholarship in humanities and social sciences, which were originally part of the Council, were separated in 1977 as the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada/Conseil de recherches en sciences humaines du Canada. MacMillan served as one of the original Council members 1957-63 11 The Canadian Music Council grew out of a committee organized by MacMillan in 1944 to draw up a brief to the House of Commons' Committee on Post-War Reconstruction. The Council subsequently acted as a pressure group, an umbrella organization for many musical associations of all kinds, it awarded prizes, and maintained international connections to other similar organizations. By the late 1980s it was increasingly apparent that it had done its many jobs well and that other organizations, many deriving from the Canadian Music Council, had assumed its obligations and activities. It suspended operations in 1990. 12 John, 1:46.

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losing some of our most promising men and women to other countries. Let us not be over-boastful of what our composers have done; no one in his senses would dream of comparing it with the product of many more mature lands. But we are already making our contribution to the musical literature of the world. Let us recognize its right to be heard and encourage it by a judicious measure of propaganda, using the word in its best sense. Many a Canadian performer has proved his worth at home and abroad: the best are recognized as second to none. Musical composition, though less widely recognized, is in the long run more important; through our creative output we shall be ultimately judged as a musical nation. Perhaps we shall succeed in winning an important place in the musical world; perhaps we shall fail. No amount of effort will produce a great composer; "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth."13 But if our composers fail, let it not be through indifference and neglect on our part.

13

John 3:8.

A Case for O Canada (The Globe and Mail, March 16, 1963)

f the number of manuscripts that arrive in my mail are any indication, a surprising number of people — often musically and even grammatically illiterate — seem to think themselves capable of solving one of Canada's most perplexing problems. Yet exceedingly few national anthems written off the cuff, so to speak, have met with success. One notable exception, of course, is the "Marseillaise" — probably the most stirring of all patriotic songs. Words and melody were written in a single night by Rouget de Lisle who, being a musical amateur, left it to be harmonized and arranged for military band a few days later. But this occurred during the fiery days of the French Revolution, when the composer was campaigning with the Army of the Rhine. The fact is most national anthems have a long history. "God Save the Queen" first came into general use in England about 1745 and learned musicologists have for long sought the origins of the tune, tracing suggestions of it as far back as the Middle Ages. But they have failed to establish the identity of the composer. That the tune is an excellent one for its purpose is evident from the fact that about twenty other countries have made use of it and sometimes have given it official sanction. Franz Joseph Haydn was so inspired by the devotion of the English people to their national anthem that he gave his native Austria the fine "Kaiser's Hymn," later adopted by the Germans with its all too familiar refrain of "Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles." What criticisms have been levelled at "God Save the Queen" usually concern the words, especially those of the second verse. The lines "Confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks" have been justifiably attacked on both literary and ethical grounds and are now rarely used, though, as far as I know, they have never been officially repudiated. An English friend of mine suggested "On Thee our hopes we sticks" as an alternative for the final line.

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Apart from this stanza the words, like the tune, have stood the test of time and nobody seems to object to such questionable rhymes as "victorious" and "over us" or "give us cause" and "heart and voice". I have mentioned the wide use of this tune by other countries. An example familiar to most Canadians is the U.S. Version, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee."1 Until "The Star-Spangled Banner" was given official sanction in 1931, "My Country" held an almost equal place with the "Banner" and even now it is heard fairly often. The tune of "The Star-Spangled Banner" 2 is a fine eighteenth-century English one, but its formidable compass of an octave and a fifth obviously presents difficulties to untrained singers who can negotiate with ease the more modest compass (a minor seventh) of "God Save the Queen." Francis Scott Key's words are, however, decidedly preferable to "Tizzov-thee" which to my mind vies in ugliness with the "knavish tricks" of the British anthem. It might be noted that "Tissov-thee" is by no means the only U.S. text to have been used with this tune. Long before it was written by Samuel Francis Smith, the Revolutionary War had produced "God Save Great Washington," "God Save the President," and even "God Save the Thirteen States." Revolutionary fervor did not alienate the affections of the newly independent nation from the melody. Many Canadians who have grown up with "God Save the Queen" are reluctant to see it discarded and I heartily approve of the suggestion that it be retained as a national anthem for the Commonwealth. Many years ago I made a three-verse setting omitting the "knavish tricks" and adding as a third stanza Robert Murray's words:

The title is America, a version often known by its first line. The text is by Samuel Francis Smith. 2 Music by John Stafford Smith (1750-1836), words by Francis Scott Key (17791843).

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Our loved Dominion bless With peace and happiness From shore to shore And Let our Empire be Loyal, united, free, True to herself and Thee Forever more. This is still, I believe, sung by some choral societies, though the words "Dominion" and "Empire" are now in disfavour. I would of course not expect this version to be officially adopted as a Canadian national anthem. Our French-speaking compatriots would never accept it, and, anyhow, three stanzas are excessive for ordinary occasions. But I cannot for the life of me see why "O Canada,"3 which has for years been sung from coast to coast, should not be given official sanction. Calixa Lavallee's melody is well shaped and dignified and its compass of a minor ninth should be well within the range of any average singer. I must admit to being somewhat amused by those knowing souls who attribute it to Mozart (not that this in itself would be any disadvantage) because the first three notes coincide with those of the Priests' March in Die Zauberflote. I am reminded of the retort of Johannes Brahms when someone remarked on the resemblance of the great tune in the finale of his first symphony to that of Beethoven's "Hymn to Joy": "Any fool can see that!" Lavallee's tune is his own and its wide acceptance would seem to render it unlikely that it could be easily supplanted. About the time Lavallee wrote "O Canada," the Marquis of Lome arrived to assume office as governor general. Being something of a poet himself (his version of the 121st Psalm, "Unto the Hills," is deservedly popular), he had written a national anthem for Canada and had it set by Sir Arthur Sullivan. Dr. Eugene Lapierre prints this in his biography of Lavallee and 3

Music by Calixa Lavallee (1842-91), text by Adolphe Basile Routhier (18391920); first performed June 24, 1880. The English version referred to by MacMillan was written in 1908 by Robert Stanley Weir (1856-1926).

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4

anything more banal would be difficult to imagine. Officialdom probably delayed wide acceptance of "O Canada" for some time and Lavallee ended his life in the United States, probably a very disappointed man. "O Canada," however, has won through and I for one hope it will be established as our national anthem.5 I only regret that Stanley Weir's English version is almost universally used. In a country so largely dependent on others for its defence, the reiteration of "We stand on guard for thee" seems a little boastful. But we cannot forget that there have been periods when the boast was justified, when our men have stood shoulder to shoulder and made great sacrifices in defence of Canada and the free world. Who can say this will not happen again? Stanley Weir's words have well nigh obliterated the memory of other and, to my mind, superior versions and it would be a herculean task to displace them. However, it could be done. Objections to "O Canada" have probably been raised on the grounds of its French origin. Personally, I feel that when our French cousins provide us with a good thing, we should accept it gladly. I do not favor the suggestion that a competition be held for a new national anthem; such competitions rarely bring fruitful results. Certainly French-speaking Canada will continue to sing Judge Routhier's words to Lavallee's tune for a long time to come. It would assist us in our strivings toward unity if our children were taught the French words and the French-Canadian young the English words. This would represent at least one small step — surely not a difficult one — in the direction of that biculturalism which many of us think should give Canada its distinctive character but which we are still so far from achieving.

4

Eugene Lapierre, Calixa Lavallee, musicien national du Canada (Montreal: Editions Albert Levesque, 1937; reprinted Montreal: Fides, 1950, 1966). Sullivan's anthem is found on page 190 in the reprint editions. 5 Parliament officially "approved" the use of "O Canada" in 1967, but the legislation making it the national anthem was adopted only on July 1, 1980, the centenary of the song's composition.

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Comic Interlude

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Comic Interlude ith his sober appearance on the concert platform and his somewhat anachronistic knighthood, Sir Ernest did not immediately impress as being someone with a sense of humour, and his success as a star of the annual Christmas Box concerts of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra may seem a little improbable (though not perhaps if we recollect his very wellreceived Lady Bracknell at Ruhleben). Along with his appearances as Santa Glaus, possibly his most memorable contributions were his illustrated lectures. The two given here reflect his musical attachment to Wagner and Bach, both of them musicians whose music meant much to him but who were not immune to a MacMillan send-up. The subject of the Wagner lecture is obvious, but time has probably erased much trace of a highly popular song of the 1950s, "Irene, Goodnight, Irene." Even the most staid audience at Massey Hall would have known "Irene." Indeed, the musical selections in the Wagner lecture suggest a familiarity with popular culture that some might find surprising. The lectures were fully illustrated by the orchestra as the cue indications show, and were delivered with high seriousness in Sir Ernest's best refined, upper-class Toronto accent.

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Wagnerian Lighter Motives (Toronto Symphony Orchestra Christmas Box Concert, 1952)

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would invite your attention this evening to certain elements in the Wagnerian psychosis and to their efflorescence in the technique of the Music Drama. The evolution of the "Lighter Motive" in the composer's later works evidently represents the response to an inner urge or, to use the more laconic German term, eine selbstbewusstseins Aufdrdnglichkeit, such as no musician — and certainly no German musician — could have resisted. Elements of the Lighter Motive are not absent from even so early a work as Das Liebesverbot — or "The Love Forbid"; and the hervorbringende Erschaffungs mode or creative method, develops by leaps and bounds through Tannhduser and Lohengrin — both of whom leap and bound within the limits imposed by the avoirdupois of the Wagnerian tenor. When we arrive at Tristan and Isolde, the Lighter Motive comes into its own: as the composer expresses it — "Hier geht das Orchester wirklich in die Stadt"— "Here, the orchestra really goes to town." Only the bare outlines of the plot are enacted on the stage: we are made subtly aware, for instance that Tristan and Isolde are in love — we can see that King Mark has a legitimate grievance which he doesn't entirely keep to himself; we know that Tristan comes off a poor second in his fencing bout with Melot; in the last act we can see that he misses his lady-love — and so on. These and similar circumstances are made clear to us by visual scenes. But in many cases the orchestra is helpful in elucidating particulars that might otherwise remain obscure. When, for instance, a character appears on a dark stage — and of course the stage in Wagnerian opera is more often dark than not — it is helpful to hear in the orchestra a theme associated with this particular character — a sort of musical visiting card, as Debussy put it. Of course we need to know these motives in advance: fortunately critics have provided us with several hundred different tables of them; in some cases they agree but it is best to select one

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table and stick to that. If we know these tables we can recognize the character even if the stage is too dark to let us see him. This is doubtless the origin of the term "Light" motive. But the Light Motive is still more revealing: we have to know not only that Isolde, for example, is there — the average Wagnerian soprano's figure is not easily missed — we have to know that she is angry or meditating revenge or melting with amorous desire — and sometimes the conflict of emotion becomes so turbulent in the orchestra that you don't hear her sing at all. It is the inner development — die innere Entwicklung — that counts; the Light Motives lighten up her inside thoughts as a fluoroscope would light up her inside — well, you see what I mean. After all, Isolde was a queen and I don't want to be too familiar. As it is the Love Drink or Liebesgetrdnk that the whole action hinges on, we hear it at the beginning of the Prelude [CUE: PRELUDE to TRISTAN] and presently the curtain rises. We all know — or do we? — the tale of how King Mark of Cornwall sent Tristan across the Irish Sea to fetch Isolde to be his Queen and bride. Isolde's previous dealings with Tristan had left her with no friendly feelings towards him, and, believe me, when an Irishwoman gets her knife into you, it isn't at all funny. In the first act everyone is at sea — including those of the audience who have neglected to study the libretto and the leitmotifs in advance. A sailor off-stage sings a wistful sea-song. [CUE: SAILOR'S HORNPIPE] Isolde sits in her cabin brooding — brooding on the wrongs she has suffered, chiefly at the hands of Tristan. Here again the orchestra comes to the rescue and we have the motive of revenge: [CUE: I'M GONNA WASH THAT MAN RIGHT OUTTA MY HAIR]1 Brangane, her nurse, has to listen to a good deal on this subject, but presumably that is what she is paid for. Isolde expatiates at some length on her Tod geweihtes Haupt — her "Death dedicated Head." Of course many people feel that way at sea, so at first Brangane is not unduly worried. 1

From the musical South Pacific by Rodgers and Hammerstein (1949).

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But as her mistress proceeds to enlarge on her wrongs and makes it clear that she has it in mind to use the poison thoughtfully provided by her mother — mothers do think of everything, don't they? Well, anyhow, when Brangane realizes that Isolde means to kill both Tristan and herself, she becomes really agitated — in the German phrase sie krieft den Wind auf. She points out the advantages of marrying a king, and paints a rosy picture of the future. "We never," she asserts bravely, "had it so good!" Isolde, unconvinced, says it's time for a change and commands her with an imperious gesture, such as only a two-hundred-pound Wagnerian soprano can achieve, to prepare the Todesgetrdnk — the death drink. [CUE: TEA FOR TWO] Brangane is a trustworthy soul — no one more so — but on this occasion practises a seemingly harmless deception. In place of poison she prepares a love-philtre. It might have been better, from the point of view of general human welfare and happiness had she done as she was told, but of course there wouldn't have been any opera. In the course of time Tristan presents himself and accepts the lady's hospitality as many a man has done before and since to his own undoing. The love-motive is heard in the orchestra. [CUE: FM FALLING IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE]2 And so the trouble starts. The ship is nearing the coast of Cornwall. King Mark is there awaiting his bride with all the impatience of an old man who has made a date with a young woman. [CUE: I'LL BE DOWN TO GET YOU IN A TAXI, HONEY] And the sailors, though still remaining prudently off-stage, greet the King with shouts of "Hail! Hail!" [CUE: HAIL, HAIL, THE GANG'S ALL HERE]. And in the very moment of their new-found love the lovers are torn apart. The curtain falls on Act One. [CUE: WHACK ON BASS DRUM] When it rises again on Act Two [CUE: SLIDE WHISTLE] Isolde, who has by some sweet feminine device managed to arrange to meet Tristan in secret, is impatiently awaiting his arrival. The King her husband is out hunting — at an unusual hour, to be 2

From Victor Herbert's operetta, Naughty Marietta (1910).

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sure, for it is night-time — but perhaps womanly persuasion has entered into the matter. Anyhow hunting horns sound more glamorous at night and we hear the distant music played on the four horns of a dilemma: [CUE: A HUNTING WE WILL GO] One can only surmise what their quarry can be at that time of night, but the leitmotif in the orchestra gives us a hint. [CUE: RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER]s As she waits, Isolde's impatience reaches a height that only Wagnerian music can adequately portray. The motive of Ungeduld or Impatience is unmistakable. [CUE: HURRY ON DOWN...]4 "Ich bin in der Liebesstimmung" says Isolde — "I'm in the mood for love." And when Tristan arrives she proceeds to demonstrate the fact in no uncertain manner — nor is he less amorously inclined. The long love scene that ensues runs the gamut of all the emotions connected with the tender passion. Day is contrasted with Night to the great disparagement of the former: "O nun wdren wir Nachtgeweihte," says Tristan: "Der tiickische Tag, der Neid-bereite trennen konnt'uns sein Trug" — "O now were we by Night enchanted — the troublesome day with envy haunted, might part us with its lies but never dazzle our eyes." However, the music makes it clear that they are devoted to each other for twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four. [CUE: NIGHT AND DAY]5 It is difficult to describe the varied emotions of this music. "Die Nacht ist Jung, " says Tristan "und du bist so schon. " [CUE: THE NIGHT IS YOUNG AND YOU'RE SO BEA UTIFUL]6 And the scene prolongs itself with an occasional warning from a rather over-officious Brangane who has been set to watch, being the only one left with any remnants of common sense. But her warnings are unheeded and presently the royal hunting party returns. King Mark acts with perhaps more restraint than many an 3

Words and music by Johnny Marks (1949). The song had phenomenal popularity, with more than 300 recorded versions within fifteen years. 4 Words and music by Nellie Lutcher (1947). 5 Words and music by Cole Porter (1932). 6 Words by Billy Rose and Irving Kahal, music by Dana Suesse (1936).

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injured husband but his bitter reproaches for the perfidy of the lovers, if not violent, are decidedly prolonged; the scene is built largely around the Vorwurfsmotif or Reproach-Motive: [CUE: PERFIDA]7 Some of the King's retainers, however, are more violent — the hot-headed Melot in particular: a fight ensues [CUE: CYMBAL], Tristan being the first casualty. The curtain falls. [CUE: CYMBALS AND BIG DRUM] Though mortally wounded, Tristan manages to survive through the greater part of Act Three and to do a good deal of singing in the interim. His faithful retainer Kurvenal has managed to bring him to a castle on the coast of Careol. We hear sounds of the sea in the distance. [CUE: BUBBLES OFF STAGE] While a shepherd-boy pipes a mournful tune on the English Horn, or is it an English tune on the mournful horn? [CUE: ENGLISH HORN — two-measure phrase] Tristan is sure that Isolde is on her way to visit him and, when the ship at last heaves in sight [CUE: SAILING, SAILING, OVER THE BOUNDING MAIN] he becomes no less excited than was Isolde an act and a half earlier. But the effort is too great and as Isolde finally appears on the crest of a high A — audible above even a full Wagnerian orchestra — he dies with her name on his lips. [CUE: GOODNIGHT, IRENE]8 Irene — I mean Isolde, in a daze, is hardly aware that her husband Mark and his retinue have followed her. It is in something of a trance that she hears the long explanations which follow; she is not even aware that Mark has learned from Brangane the truth about the love-philtre and that he is ready to 7

Spanish (Mexican) words and music by Alberto Dominguez (1939). The song was made popular in 1941 by Glenn Miller and his orchestra, and again in 1953 by the Four Aces. 8 Words and music by Huddie Ledbetter and John Lomax (1937). The song was given great popularity by the Weavers in the 1950s and was the subject of a lecture on music appreciation by MacMillan, given below.

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forgive and forget. She has nothing to live for — nothing but memories [CUE: THANKS FOR THE MEMORY]9 9 and it is a thankless business living on memories. And with the great Liebestod the opera ends.

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Words and music by Leo Robin and Ralph Rainger (1937). It was used by the American entertainer Bob Hope as his theme song through most of his career.

A Lecture on Musical Appreciation: John Sebastian Is Back (Toronto Symphony Orchestra Christinas Box concert, 1950)

ou will doubtless remember that, in that popular treatise A Brief Prolegomenon upon Polyphonic Co-ordination, on page 726 of Volume 13, the erudite though often facetious author remarks that "Ordinary interchange of parts by an octave does not alter the roots of a harmonic structure, but a properly managed Double Counterpoint at the 12th produces two markedly different harmonic effects besides changing the expressive ethos of the shifted theme." One hesitates to take issue with so profoundly learned an authority as Dr. Otto Pflumpheimer, especially when one suspects that a laudable desire for conciseness and clarity has betrayed him into over-simplification of a problem which most of us have hitherto felt to be exceedingly complex. Nevertheless, it would be dangerous for anyone laying claim to aesthetic discrimination to accept such a snap judgment at its face value. I for one am prepared to challenge Dr. Pflumpheimer's statement. Take for example the matter of the shifting theme. E x p e r i m e n t a l research, if genuinely conscientious, should in this instance not stop with a mere vertical shifting of themes such as the Doctor suggests in his light-hearted, not to say flippant, words. I myself spent a whole morning shifting themes from one corner of my study to another and spent the rest of the day carrying them from cellar to attic and vice versa, after which I carried them from attic to cellar and versa vice. Having done so, I downed a litre or two of beer, played through the 198 Church Cantatas of old John Sebastian Bach and settled down to a good evening's work. The great Master of Eisenach is, of course, untrammelled by the straitjacket of a Pflumpheimer. Let us take a paradigmatic excursion and examine the magnificent Choralv or spiel based on the Chorale "GuteNach, du Welt, gute Nacht" — "Good Night, thou world, good night." It is derived from the Opening Chorus in

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Cantata No. 165 ; the chorale melody, like so many others, is of secular origin, the original words being a Liebesabschied or Song of Parting from the loved one — and beginning Gute nacht, Irene, gute nacht — "Good night, Irene, good night."2 It is not unlikely that this cantata was written to a text by Picander for a Gesangfest in honour of the Burgermeister of Leipzig at the Ratskeller, in the Spring of 1736, shortly after the birth of Bach's eighteenth child. It may be that the infant had just begun to add its voice to the general domestic polyphony, or perhaps one of the older olive branches had distracted his father's attention by climbing to the roof of the Thomaskirche in search of pigeons' eggs. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, there is a certain suggestion of agitation in the mood of this chorus. Let us hear the opening bars [CUE: WITHOUT TRUMPET]. One is bound to agree with that portion of Pflumpheimer's analysis which declares that "The interstitial episode which leads to an inversion of the four-part canonic passage forms the only characteristic episode of a fugue in which simultaneous augmentation and inversion are skilfully conbined. The canonic writing in particular is pretty hot stuff." Let us now hear the same bars into which the Master has so skilfully woven the initial phrase of the chorale melody. [CUE: ILLUSTRATION 1 WITH TRUMPET PLAYING THE "IRENE" THEME] When we recollect that Bach may have written it as a pure distraction late of an evening when all the young 'uns had been tucked up in bed and he had just finished wading through his income tax forms, I think we will have no hesitation in re-echoing Dr. Otto Pflumpheimer's inspiring and stirring words — "The principle of tonal answer rests on the fact that it is seldom desirable that each voice should crudely transpose the subject into its own key. Accordingly a tonal answer begins by lying on the dominant, not in the dominant. Or, in other words, the 5th from the tonic to the dominant corresponds 1 The erudite reference to a specific work is part of the spoof. There is a Cantata No. 165, but it is not based on an imaginary chorale of MacMillan's invention, "Gute nacht, du Welt, gute Nacht." 2 Goodnight Irene. Word and music by Huddie Ledbetter and John A. Lomax. TRO©-Copyright 1936 (Renewed), 1950 (Renewed) Ludlow Music, Inc., New York, NY. Used by permission.

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to the 4th from the dominant to the tonic, and not to another 5th." On this point at least Dr. Pflumpheimer's position is unassailable. Let us now look briefly at the words of the original poem — reflecting as they do the simple, unaffected sentiment of the sixteenth-century rustic poet. The opening phrase is repeated several times: Irene, gate nacht, Irene, gute nacht, gute Nacht Irene, gate Nacht, Irene — "Irene, good night, Irene, good night, good night Irene, good night, Irene." In its classic economy of words this repetition lends an increased poignancy to the pain of parting. And then, striking a brighter note, comes the phrase Ich werde dich in meinem Trdumen sehen — "I will thee in my dreams see." (The chromaticism of the accompanying cadence accentuates in subtle fashion the suggestion evoked by the word Trdume. One can only speculate how far this may have influenced Wagner in the song of that title.) The poem continues in the happy atmosphere of a wedding. [CUE: WEDDING MARCH] Letzte Sontag war ich verheiratet — "Last Saturday night I got married." But the happiness is of short duration. Two lines further we are told,Jetzt sind ich und meine Fran geschieden. — "Now me and my wife are parted." It is not without significance that these words are, in the music, followed by a rest. But this too is of short duration. The erstwhile groom is restless. He must not give way to brooding. He must move; he must act: he announces with firm resolution, "I'm gonna take another stroll downtown." In the translation, the archaic word "gonna" — G-O-N-N-A (equivalent to "I have the intention of) is but a pale reflection of the resolute "will" in the original German: Ich will in die stadt ein Spaziergang machen. But again tragedy strikes. In the second strophe the pathetic swain wanders from town to country and from country to town but all to no purpose. The tragedy is within. Ghosts of happier days haunt him and, like Hamlet he even meditates on self-destruction: "Sometimes I have a great notion to jump into the river and drown." — Zuweilen hab' ich die Absicht, mich in den Fluss zu werfen und mich zu ertrdnken. [CUE: OLD MAN RTVERY 3

From the musical Show Boat by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein (1927).

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Yet tragedy is not to be the final note. He is given good counsel — by whom, we are not told. The identity of Irene also is not revealed — is she the missing wife or is she perchance a pickup? If the latter, evidently the nobler side of her soul re-asserts itself and it is she who urges him: "Go home to your wife and your family." (The family has presumably been acquired since last Saturday night.) At any rate, with a firm gesture of renunciation she utters the noble words. And he? The denouement is left an enigma. We can only hope that in his case too, the better side of his nature prevails. At all events the parting seems irrevocable. [CUE: ORCHESTRA BEGINS REFRAIN, VERY SOFTLY] Irene, good night, Irene, good night Good night, Irene, good night, Irene, I'll see you in my dreams. Let us hope at least that if he returns to the domestic circle he is not unduly given to talking in his sleep. [CUE: ORCHESTRA UP, AND FINISHES OFF] I have tried, ladies and gentlemen, to suggest in straightforward language what this fine work conveys to me and I trust you have been helped in your enjoyment of it by these few simple comments.

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Education

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Education lementary schools often had singing instruction for their pupils, usually taught by an itinerant teacher or by a classroom teacher with few musical skills, but serious musical education on a broad basis was virtually unknown when MacMillan addressed the Ontario Educational Association in 1934. As universities began to develop programs specifically to train school music teachers — the University of Toronto was the first in 1946 — school music programs in elementary and secondary schools developed dramatically. In many ways, what MacMillan wanted was realized in the high-school orchestras and bands that became a standard part of so many school curricula, as well as in choirs, jazz ensembles, and classes in history and theory. Unfortunately, the status of music for which he began to argue in the 1930s has been one of the first things under attack in the educational financial cutbacks of the 1990s, supported by the view that the chief aim of public education is job training. Though music in the public schools has improved, MacMillan's arguments for adult music-making have probably lost ground. Choirs and amateur bands remain numerous, but the growth of broadcast and recorded music has exceeded anything MacMillan could have imagined in the purveying of "music at second-hand."

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School Life and Music (Address to the Ontario Educational Association, Toronto, April 4, 1934)

usic as a subject of education is very much in the air at present: we meet it on all sides. There are still traces of the old attitude toward music as a sort of accomplishment for young ladies who did not have anything particular to do until the time that they got husbands; but I think it is now realized that music is something more than an elegant accomplishment — it is a great many things. It is also a very valuable mental and even to some extent moral discipline, and therefore we must ensure to our young people the best opportunities in the pursuance of their musical studies. And in this connection, I can't speak too highly of the valuable work of the Home and School Clubs. The demand for more and more music in the schools must come primarily from the parents and from the public. It is easy for professors and musicians to talk about it. What they say is usually discounted because they are naturally prejudiced people, but when the demand comes from the public, from the parents of the children, it is a very different matter. Now I want to speak a few words of a very general nature about the place of music in school life. I am not going to discuss methods of teaching or try to draw up any kind of curriculum; I just want a very few basic considerations to be brought before your minds. When one begins to discuss the place of this or that subject in a school curriculum one is inevitably driven back to the fundamental question — What are our schools striving to do? Somewhere in the backwaters of our educational life there may remain a few of those quaint survivals of a past age who see nothing but the vocational side of education. For the most part, however, these highly exclusive traditionalists have been shamed into concealing their prejudices, and betray themselves only occasionally and by implication in some of their public utterances. Music, like every other subject, has, of course, its vocational

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side, but this aspect our young folks may well be encouraged to ignore until their yearning for a musical career has become overwhelming, and their ability has demonstrated itself beyond dispute in the eyes of those best qualified to judge. However, the vocational side of music must be a secondary consideration in anything I may have to say to-day, for with it school music has little or no direct concern. The greatest function of school music will be that of building the audiences of the future, of enabling thousands upon thousands of children to form friendships with the great composers, or sharpening their receptive and analytical aural faculties, and of bringing keen joy into those leisure hours which, economists tell us, future years will bestow in more abundant measure. Music is not primarily something that you do — it is something that you live. One of the most tragic f e a t u r e s of our m o d e r n civilization, and particularly of our modern Anglo-Saxon civilization, is its tendency to foster indifference to music. The hard-headed business man of the past surrounded himself with a protective wall against emotional expression, and relaxed only in rare moments; in those moments he was apt to become either maudlin or excessively boisterous; frequently both. I doubt if he ever thought of music as something which could colour his more reasonable moments. The serious study of music was something to be left to long-haired foreigners and women. Neither Pecksniff nor Babbitt had a place for such frills. Well, the whole world now knows where Pecksniffery and Babbittry lead. 1 The treasons, stratagems and spoils of "big business" have come within an ace of capsizing our whole civilization. If it is to survive, mankind's perceptive faculties for the finer things of life must be given a chance to function, and to function throughout the whole community. The arts are emphatically not a luxury — though, of 1

Babbitt, a novel (1922) by Sinclair Lewis. George F. Babbitt is a successful realestate dealer who sometimes, but with little success, tries to escape from his futile life of snobbishness and dishonesty. Pecksniff is a character in Dickens's Martin Chuzzlewit. Hypocritical and mean-minded, he is motivated entirely by his own selfinterest. MacMillan's reference to where such character leads is to the stockmarket crash of 1929 and the Great Depression that raged as he spoke in 1934.

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course, they may in many instances become so. They are the natural expression of human minds that have fostered sensitivity, and like religion are more fundamental than most of our cherished political and economic insitutions. E d u c a t i o n a l i n s t i t u t i o n s have always, I suppose, recognized this with respect to literature. It has never been assumed that Dante, Shakespeare and Goethe should be studied exclusively by those who wish to become authors. Of late years, Raphael, Michelangelo and Titian have been given a somewhat unofficial entree into our schools, although I suppose the exports and imports of Kamchatka and Patagonia are still considered matters of greater moment for our young. But the attitude of educational authorities as a whole to music has frequently been nothing short of astounding. Bach, Beethoven and Mozart have had literally to fight every inch of the way. To be sure, this is not surprising when one remembers that so widely read and open-minded a man as H.G. Wells could write The Outline of History in which not a single reference to music appeared! Let me quote from my own experience. In all my school years I do not remember any of my teachers making reference to music in any of my classes (apart from the very occasional singing classes in which we hopped up and down the scale at the bidding of a pointer and modulator), until in my early University years I was startled to hear one of our most outstanding lecturers on History refer to Beethoven as being of greater significance to his age than Napoleon. The remarkable thing was that, until the matter was thus brought home to me, I had not even been surprised at the omission. My own musical studies had been fairly extensive even at an early age, but I had not thought of their being connected with school work. Once given this hint, I realized that the two should have been inseparable. I can now no more dissociate Beethoven from the French Revolution or Handel from the early Georgian age than I can dissociate Schumann from Heine. I find it exceedingly difficult to overcome this watertight-compartment habit of mind in music students. Had I realized the intimate association of mathematics with music I might even have been inspired to overcome my natural incapacity for mathematics — at least to a

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degree which would not have left me in the helpless condition in which I find myself now with regard to this fundamental subject. My first point, therefore, is that whatever place we give music in our education scheme (and to deny it any place is simply to proclaim oneself an ignoramus, not of music, but of education) it should not be given a grudging admission as a thing apart, but to some extent be incorporated with practically every other subject — with history, literature, languages, and even mathematics. It need not be stressed unduly, and should certainly not be ridden to death as this or that teacher's individual hobby, but every teacher should realize that it is not natural to ignore it. Why, for instance, should simple arithmetical divisions be applied only to space and not also to time? Why should not the rhythm of music be associated naturally and at an early stage with the accent of poetry? To take an example from history — if there is one among the dreary list of the kings of Mediaeval England that appeals to the imagination of the average boy it is Henry V; wouldn't the imagination of your classes be the more greatly fired if they neglected to learn the date of the battle of Agincourt and learned instead to sing the great song of victory associated with it? Think of the reality of a geography lesson if each country were associated with one or two folk-songs! They might be chosen on account of references to imports and exports. Sea-chanties frequently tell us a good deal about cargoes! Looking back on my school days I can think of no subject into which some music might not with advantage have been infused. I have said that music is not something you do but something you live. That does not mean, however, that only a few people should be performers and all the others listeners. In fact, every child should be able to make music of some sort long before he is told anything about it, not for the sake of an audience but for his own sake; just as he is able to speak before he begins to study grammar. The kindergarten has been a wonderful help in eradicating this abuse, but its work must be definitely linked up with what is to follow. A child should make music before he studies it; names of things are hard to remember if one does not know what the things are, and musical notation, time systems and all the rest of it are no exceptions to the rule.

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I have stressed the necessity of linking up music with other subjects and of giving practice precedence over theory. My third point is the necessity of continuity and consistency in the instruction. Admirable though much of the musical instruction in our schools is, it still suffers from a lack of organized effort and from the hit-or-miss method of relying on individual teachers who may be interested in and understand the subject. That of course means if we are going to right this that we must secure well-equipped teachers for this subject wherever we can possibly manage it, and to secure the proper equipment of all the teachers who are going to teach it. Any improvement in this respect obviously depends to a great extent on more adequate financial support and Boards of Education are everywhere aware of the irate taxpayer in the background. Clearly much will depend on the attitude of the public, and here we have, I think, good reason for hope. And I would appeal to the Home and School Clubs in particular to see that this important matter is reasonably well cared for. It may take some time. It is of the utmost importance that we link up music with all periods of school study, both by direct instruction in the schools and by allowing credits on extra-mural work in music, as is the custom in many other parts of the world. The proportion of students of high school years who find it impossible to continue their musical studies is very great. This situation strikes one as particularly serious when we reflect that it is in these years above all that the emotional life of the child is developing, and that legitimate outlet for the emotional life is a primary necessity. It is at this time particularly that instrumental music might well claim the attention of a greater number of our young people, and by instrumental music I mean not only the piano and the violin, but orchestral instruments. Command over these will enable the student to take part with others in the performance of music and apart from its musical value, the practice is mental and moral discipline of the highest order, provided it is well directed. I feel that boys particularly of this age, who find piano study somewhat irksome, would show keen enthusiasm for study of wind instruments, for example, provided really adequate instruction were available. No one can attend the classes held in connection with many of the American high schools without being struck by the

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remarkable progress which is made in a very short time and also by the keenness of the students. Some of our Canadian Western Provinces are making great progress in this respect. You have probably heard of the very fine Winnipeg high school orchestra under the direction of Mr. Padwick,2 which has enlarged its scope and bids fair to become a national institution, drawing visiting members from other parts of Manitoba and from other Provinces. The average standard of playing is very good, but we can still make far more progress if sufficient encouragement is given. Now that the place of music in our matriculation scheme has been confirmed and enlarged, we hope to find a place for much more active participation in musical activities for our high school students. It is not my intention to-day to discuss details of the musical curricula for schools, nor methods of teaching in class or individually. My wish has been chiefly to stress once more the supreme value of music, not as a luxury, but as a factor in forming the mental habits of the young. A few years ago, statistics showed that in one of the most important colleges at Oxford, 25 per cent of the students were studying music, and yet among this small number were 75 per cent of the scholarship holders of the college. When a musician speaks of the value of music in education, the public is not likely to be impressed as he is presumably a prejudiced person, but leaders in every walk of life are coming more and more to recognize the value of music, and in particular, authorities on education are achieving something approaching unanimity on the subject. I believe the late Dr. Eliot Norton of Harvard once expressed himself as being of the opinion that music should be the last subject dropped from the curriculum. Once it forms part of the curriculum, I am quite sure that it will be the last subject dropped. The great problem now is to see that it becomes part of every curriculum.

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Percy G. Padwick held Saturday morning radio rehearsals that were broadcast widely in Manitoba (1927-1938). With an orchestra in the studio, he directed the programs to students in their homes who would join in with the broadcast rehearsals. Padwick began a school orchestra in Winnipeg in 1923 and developed a Winnipeg Junior Symphony Orchestra.

Music and Adult Education (CBC radio broadcast, February 3, 1958) he study of music is now admitted by all but the most reactionary educationalists to be a valuable factor in enlarging and enriching the mental and spiritual life of our people, and especially in the education of the younger generation. If it is beneficial to children and adolescents it can and frequently does bestow similar benefits on those of riper years. In discussing music as a subject for Adult Education this evening, I propose not to touch on the training of the professional musician but to confine myself to the effect of music first on the listener and secondly on the amateur performer. The educational aspect of music for the amateur is intimately bound up with its recreational aspect. We regard it as natural that, in the advertising columns of our newspapers, concerts of symphonic and chamber music should be listed as "Amusements," together with sensational movies, burlesque shows and night clubs. Certainly the concert hall, though an educational force, is not a school, and no sensible person will want to treat it as such. Yet concert-giving organizations, in so far as they present to the public the masterpieces of the past and present, are fulfilling a public function analogous to that of the Art Gallery, the Museum, or the Library — that is, they preserve for the public the musical literature of the past and display at least some contemporary works. Without such organizations many of the greatest musical masterpieces (especially those on too large a scale to be performed in the home) would die, for to most people only music that is performed is alive. We must therefore take into our serious consideration the music people select for themselves to hear.... In many homes I am afraid the radio is left on when nobody is listening to it, but if you want to learn anything about music it can only be done by active response. Listening to radio calls for no physical effort but it is all the more important to make a mental effort. By so doing you will discern for yourself what is worth listening to and what is not. You will develop preferences and judgements — preferences and

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MacMillan in his studio at home — Toronto, 1942

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judgements that mean not only discrimination of taste, but also development of character. Listening with attention will make you want to know more about music you are hearing. Never in the history of the world were greater facilities provided for this purpose, and all evidence goes to show that people are taking advantage of them. Booksellers tell me that within the last few years sales of books on music have increased by 300 per cent, and the sale of the better type of gramophone records, after a serious slump during the earlier days of radio, has returned to nearly all its old volume and is still increasing. Reports from Libraries indicate the same trend. Obviously the present flood of books on musical appreciation is the result of a widespread demand. A genuine desire to study music seriously has swept over most civilized countries; radio sponsors may be assured that the musical intelligence of the public is on the whole far superior to what it was a few years ago, in spite of the more clamorous section that writes in support of meretricious programmes. For the keen listener, classes in musical appreciation, eartraining and allied subjects are held in many cities and the number of excellent books published as an aid to listening is legion. I would suggest the formation of libraries — public or private — of good gramophone records. A Gramophone Club would divide the expense of purchasing records, and there is an enormous advantage to the music lover in being able to hear his favourite works frequently repeated.

No one derives from music, however, the greatest possible pleasure and benefit who does not at least try to make music in some form for himself, nor can any listener's ear be as acute as it would otherwise be if he is not also in one way or another a performer. Dozens of people come to me every month enquiring whether I think it "worth while" for them to study music — to study it, that is, with a view to performance. In some cases what they have in mind is a concert career, in which case an affirmative answer can very, very rarely be given, unless the enquirers are very young and obviously talented. But if one is fond of music it is always worth while to study it seriously and to try, with however little technical

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success, to make it for oneself. Above all it is worth while to be able to make music with others, even when there is no audience, for music is the most social of the arts. As an example of the form which such purely amateur music-making may take, I might mention the recent growth of Home and School Club Choirs in various parts of Ontario and no doubt also in other provinces. I had the pleasure shortly before Christmas of hearing about twenty such choirs and of conducting their combined forces — over four hundred mothers of school children, few of whom had enjoyed any previous experience of singing. I only hope it will not be long before the fathers follow their good example. They will not regret the time and effort expended. Anyone with an ear can take part in amateur choral singing with comparatively little instruction, but I suggest that for the less musically equipped members, special periods be devoted to instruction in sight reading and the elements of vocal technique, breathing, diction and allied matters. The report of a survey of Adult Education in Canada, made a few years ago, includes a chapter on Music and the Drama which very properly stresses the Competitive Festivals which bulk so large in the musical life of Western Canada. I should like to add that there are about fifty local festivals held annually in Ontario, at least two in the Maritime Provinces and a large and newly organized Festival in Montreal. While school music is perhaps the most outstanding feature of many of these, the grown-ups — especially the amateur grown-ups — have in many cases learned much from them. When the pot-hunting spirit prevails it is possible that they do more harm than good, especially to those who win, but when competitors enter with a view primarily to increasing their knowledge and enlarging their abilities, they may, and usually do gain a great deal. One is also interested in their effect on the public. The experience of hearing several performances of the same work followed by the critical remarks of the judge (whether you agree with him or not) cannot fail to sharpen your own critical instinct. Moreover you learn to discern the varied qualities of the music itself, and you find very soon that, while good music stands up well under the test of frequent repetition, poor music soon begins to pall. Those most experienced will tell you that the success

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of a festival depends primarily on the selection of the music and the selection of the adjudicators, and only secondarily upon the ability of the entrants. The competitive (or for that matter the non-competitive) festival is therefore a valuable aid to adult education in music, but only so long as the pot-hunting spirit is kept under restraint. From amateur instrumental study, a great deal of satisfaction may be secured. It is true that not many people who begin the study of an instrument in adult years attain any great degree of facility, yet even limited command of an instrument may open up a world of interest to many an amateur. It would be a thousand pities if, through the dissemination of radio programmes, music making in the home were to decay: for some years it looked as though that would be the case but here, too, there are indications of a reaction. Let us sum up. To the grown-up, anxious to know something about music (whether he has studied it in his youth or no) the first requirement is that he listen to as much good music as possible, giving it all his attention. The radio is a wonderful means of making this possible, but it is only music at second hand, and when you can hear it at first hand it is worth making an effort to do so.

When it comes to making music for yourself and with others, rest assured that, even though you make slow progress technically, your effort will finally lead to understanding and pleasure. But remember that you must be an aristocrat in taste, though you may be a tramp in occupation, if you would appreciate to the full. The public is the judge, it is true, and on occasion has proved itself a better judge than the specialist. But the undiscriminating public is not the final judge, as every individual member admits when he allows that, in some aspect of life, his own judgement has ripened with knowledge. In matters of art, it is not the people's feeling that is at fault, it is their experience.

Three Lectures

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Three Lectures n 1963 the p e r f o r m i n g rights o r g a n i z a t i o n CAPAC (Composers, Authors and Publishers Association of Canada) initiated the CAPAC-MacMillan lectures, to be given each summer in Toronto. The inaugural lecturer was Glenn Gould, and the second was Sir Ernest himself. The lectures, fittingly, were given in the new MacMillan Theatre at the University of Toronto. MacMillan's lectures were of a kind that might be called "popular"; certainly they were neither scholarly nor ponderous, but they were on subjects that, though dear to him, must in 1964 have seemed oddly old-fashioned to many of his listeners. Church music, it might be said, was where MacMillan's musical life began, and church music remains a kind of music that touches untold numbers of people but which is rarely accorded serious consideration. MacMillan took it seriously, and if his sweeping survey lacks the underpinnings of serious scholarship, the reader must be impressed by the breadth of his grasp and the critical and personal insights that he offers. Shakespeare and music seems an especially treacherous subject for someone who was neither literary scholar nor musical historian, but MacMillan was addressing neither scholar nor historian but the interested public. He ranges over the whole subject with a freedom forbidden to the "authority" and binds together the musical worlds of the Renaissance and the contemporary opera house. Finally, he spoke of that creature to whom he addressed his lectures and with whom he had lived his entire life: the Canadian musical public. At the age of seventy he was still praising what had been done, yet urging always more. The questions that he had addressed all his life — of national i d e n t i t y , of e d u c a t i o n , of standards, of c o n t e m p o r a r y composition — were still being raised. The public that he had

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served and prodded for fifty years must still work to achieve his standards. These lectures were given at the MacMillan Theatre (named for him) at the Faculty of Music, University of Toronto, on July 7, 14 and 21, 1964.

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n Quires and places where they sing, here followeth the Anthem." My quotation is taken from the Prayer Book of the Anglican Church and is the only direct reference to choral music in that book. This seems strange, for the choir has almost always taken an important part in the service of the Anglican Church — sometimes to the virtual exclusion of the congregation. Hymns are not mentioned in the regular order of service except that the medieval hymn "Veni, Creator Spiritus" is directed to be sung at the ordination of priests. In the course of time, however — and due in no small measure to the influence of Nonconformity — hymns have found their regular place in most churches, but in many cases the congregation is content to let the choir take over the singing of the psalms and canticles, the settings of which are often beyond the powers of untrained singers. The office of Holy Communion, based on the Roman Catholic Mass but sung in the vernacular, also affords much scope for choral singing, especially those movements, such as the Kyrie, Gloria and Sanctus, that correspond to the Common of the Mass. The Common of the Mass, I need hardly tell you, consists of those portions that are included in all masses; other portions which vary from season to season are called the "Proper." Choral settings of the Mass are nearly always confined to the Common; the remainder, if sung at all, usually is heard in plainsong settings and includes the Introits, Antiphons, Graduals, Sequences, office hymns and so on; these are omitted from the regular Anglican liturgy but are often included in the services of so-called "High" or "Anglo-Catholic" churches. Time does not allow of my dealing with the vast literature of plainsong — that rich store-house of melody, built up throughout a period of more than a thousand years and still the core of Catholic church music. It has been sanctified by the ages and will doubtless continue to minister to the spiritual need of millions for centuries to come. To treat of such a subject even superficially would demand an extensive course of lectures;

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plainsong has indeed engaged many scholars in a lifetime of study and research. Nevertheless, I feel that every church musician, especially those serving in churches where the liturgical element is stressed, should have at least a reasonable grasp of its principles. He should be familiar with at least a portion of its literature, with its notation and its melodic and rhythmic qualities. He should be able to accompany it effectively and unobtrusively, although to the purist accompaniment is unnecessary. When well rendered, lightly and with due attention to verbal rhythm, this music yields to none in sheer beauty. I would recommend everyone interested to make a pilgrimage, if at all possible, to the Benedictine Monastery at St. Benoit du Lac in southern Quebec or to any Benedictine monastery. Here in Toronto musicians of the Anglican communion should not fail to visit the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, to which Dr. Healey Willan has devoted himself for more than forty years and brought his influence to bear throughout Canada in both Anglican and non-Anglican churches.1

I must forbear discussing the development, covering several centuries, of polyphonic music in the medieval church, fascinating and important though this subject is. Rather do I propose to take as my starting point the late fifteenth century, when the great Flemish school of musicians came to full fruition in the works of Josquin des Prez. The German historian August Wilhelm Ambros spoke of him as "perhaps the first composer who can be regarded as a genius" and Martin Luther, himself no mean musician, said "He is the master of the notes; others are mastered by them." Orlandus Lassus is often referred to as the greatest composer of the Flemish School, but Josquin, who died some years before Lassus was born, is to my mind quite equal in stature. Certainly the name of des Prez is one of far more than merely historical 1

Healey Willan (1880-1968) was organist and choir master at the small parish church of St. Mary Magdalene in mid-town Toronto from 1921 until his death. He greatly influenced not only the standard of music there but also the form of the musical service itself. He composed an extraordinary amount of music for his own use, music which when published in turn influenced the Anglican community — and indeed other religious communities as well —worldwide.

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significance and we of today are fortunate that so much of his music, after centuries of neglect, is now available to us. You may hear it occasionally in churches served by choirs capable of overcoming its difficulties. In recent years excellent recordings and published scores have made much of it readily accessible. We shall hear presently the Kyrie from des Prez's fine Missa Pange Lingua. In this the lower voices are accompanied by an alto shawm (predecessor of the oboe), a tenor trombone and a double bass. These instruments are not given independent parts but, as in so much music of the period, double the voices. This Kyrie is relatively simply but much of des Prez's music is characterized by the extreme contrapuntal complexity in which so many Flemish composers took great delight. One is rarely disturbed by this complexity for true art conceals art and subordinates technique to expression. It might be noted in passing that this mass abounds in examples of so-called "musica flcta" — literally "feigned music." This signifies the flattening of the B or sharpening of the F — speaking in terms of modern notation. These changes were originally made chiefly in order to avoid the awkward interval of the tritone or augmented fourth, which medieval theorists called "the devil in music." Flats and sharps were not always noted in written score; it is frequently a matter of surmise how and when they should be made in performance. The history of the tritone is a fascinating study in itself; the existence of this troublesome interval has affected the development of harmony up to the present day. It has at times proved a powerful means of expression: I have always thought of Sibelius's Fourth Symphony as the apotheosis of the tritone. It should be noted that "musica ficta" with its modifications of the old modes represents the first step in the process that led eventually to the chromatic scale and to all the musical resources that it provides. Let us now hear the "Kyrie" from the Missa Pange Lingua so called because it is based partly on the plainsong melody to the Latin hymn of St. Thomas Aquinas sung on the festival of Corpus Christi. A familiar English translation of this hymn, beginning "Now my tongue the mystery telling, of the glorious Body sing," is often sung in some Anglican churches.

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(A recording of the "Kyrie" from Missa Pange Lingua by Josquin des Prez) I mentioned a few minutes ago that most composers of the Flemish school took great delight in contrapuntal complexity. The artist, absorbed in solving difficult technical problems, sometimes oversteps the mark, to the bewilderment of his public. In the field of church music this has frequently led to serious conflict with ecclesiastical authorities who naturally feel that all art must be subordinated to higher purposes. Both may be equally sincere but this can sometimes result in accentuating their differences. Another frequent cause of conflict is the use in church music of material secular in origin. During the later Middle Ages many good people were scandalized when this or that composer substituted a secular melody, familiar to all, for the plainsong that normally served as basis for mass or motet. In the early fourteenth century Pope John XXII forbade this practice and, indeed, attempted to ban the use of harmony altogether. Again in the middle of the sixteenth century the Council of Trent recommended bishops to exclude "music in which anything impious or lascivious finds a part." Objection was also raised to the complexity of much church music, chiefly on the grounds that the words were indistinguishable. This struggle has gone on in varying degrees of intensity, not only in the Roman Catholic Church but to an even greater degree under the Puritans. For a long period most Presbyterians, for example, objected not only to the singing of anthems by choirs but even to the use of hymns, confining themselves to metrical psalms and paraphrases of scripture. These, they felt, were admissible as being of divine origin, whereas hymns were a merely human product. To this day one finds, especially in the North of Scotland, churches where similar restrictions are still in force and where any form of instrumental music is anathema. The organ, contemptuously referred to as a "kist o' whistles" has only in the last century or so come into general acceptance in the majority of Scottish churches. Time and time again attempts have been made to draw a sharp line of distinction between sacred and secular music. In 1903 the encyclical Motu Proprio of Pope Pius X insists that the music of the Church "must be holy and must, therefore, exclude all

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profanity not only in itself, but in the manner in which it is presented by those who execute it." At the same time, "it must be true art, for otherwise it will be impossible to exercise on the minds of those who listen to it that efficacy which the Church aims at obtaining in admitting into her liturgy the art of musical sounds." "It must be universal in the sense that, while every nation is permitted to admit into its ecclesiastical compositions those forms which may be said to constitute its native music, still those forms must be subordinated in such a manner to the general characteristics of sacred music that nobody of any nation may receive an impression other than good on hearing them." All of which leads up to the conclusion that "the more closely a composition for church use approaches in its movement, inspiration and savour the Gregorian Chant, the more sacred and liturgical it becomes: and the more out of harmony it is with that model, the less worthy it is of the temple." The encyclical goes on to express the wish that Gregorian chant be restored to use "by the people" and, indeed, the simpler type of plainsong is admirably adapted to congregational singing. A good deal of it is however too elaborate for that purpose. My own experience is that Anglo-Catholic congregations are more ready than those of the Roman persuasion to take part in the singing, although recent years have witnessed a considerable change. But I must keep reminding myself that our subject is choral music. A vast store of this fully meets the requirements of the Motu Proprio. Certainly the Church welcomes the use of the music of Palestrina, Lassus, Victoria and most of their contemporaries, including those of the English school. In them, vocal polyphony reaches a glorious climax. By no means all of this music is based specifically on plainsong. It is noteworthy that Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli, which, according to hearsay, was the chief factor in inducing the Church to accept polyphonic music, is based on the secular tune L'Homme Arme.2 Yet it takes no great discernment to 2

MacMillan is in error on this point. Although the popular tune "L'homme arme" was frequently used in the musical material of Renaissance masses, including two by Palestrina, the Missa Papae Marcelli is not one of them. It is freely composed and is not based on any pre-existing material.

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savour a plainsong influence. Even so late a composer as Orlando Gibbons, who, apart from his secular works, wrote exclusively for the reformed church, carries on faithfully the traditions of Tye, Tallis and Byrd. Those traditions, though not entirely broken in the succeeding three hundred years, were for long obscured by secularizing influences. We shall discuss these presently but first let us hear a short extract from the music of William Byrd, whose name, in the words of his younger contemporary Thomas Morley, is "never without reverence to be named of the musicians." Byrd remained a Roman Catholic all his life, yet his prestige was so great that he retained his position as Gentleman of the Chapel Royal under Elizabeth at a time when Roman Catholic priests had to administer rites and celebrate mass in secret. Most of his church music, including three masses and many motets of the finest quality, is set to Latin texts. However, he has also provided some fine settings of the Anglican liturgy and, in particular, has left us, in his so-called Great Service, probably the finest of all such settings. The Great Service calls for performance by only the most expert choirs and is therefore seldom heard in smaller parish churches. Nevertheless it stands out as a high peak of liturgical music, worthy to be compared with the finest music of Palestrina or Lassus. From it I have selected the "Venite" — the 95th Psalm which is always sung at matins. Our time allows the playing of only part of this psalm; the recording was made in Washington Cathedral. I would have preferred a boy choir but the chamber chorus of Washington is a very fine one. Note the archaic pronunciation of such words as "salvation" and "provocation." (A recording of part of the "Venite" from the Great Service by William Byrd) A full discussion of Christian Church music should, of course, include Byzantine and Russian music; we hear a fair amount of Russian music in our churches although those heavy bass voices necessary to give it full flavour are rare in this country. With regret I pass by this vast literature, remarking only that much of it conforms to the spirit of the Motu Proprio although its roots do not, of course, lie in Gregorian chant but in an equally allied art.

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The music of the reformed churches of Western Europe represents a break with Medieval tradition. Nevertheless one can often trace Gregorian strains in some of those sturdy Genevan psalm tunes from which the Calvinistic churches for long derived their chief musical inspiration. In these, however, the rhythm of plainsong has lost its fluidity. In the Lutheran chorales, on which a long succession of composers culminating in J.S. Bach have lavished so great a wealth of art, one finds similar influences. Martin Luther's well-known dictum that "the devil should not have all the good tunes" is decidedly at variance with the distinction enunciated in the Motu Proprio between sacred and secular music, but to a considerable degree it has been justified in the course of time. Many chorale melodies that have long been associated with sacred words are of secular origin. Yet in listening to Bach's St. Matthew Passion is anyone disturbed by knowing that the melody of the so-called "Passion Chorale" is originally a love song, the opening lines of which can be roughly translated "My spirit is distracted by a tender maiden"? This is only one among hundreds of secular tunes that have been imported year after year into our churches. In the eighteenth century John Wesley enthusiastically endorsed Luther's dictum and, in our day, the use of well known secular tunes has been adopted — sometimes with startling results — by the Salvation Army. Recently jazz has found its way into some churches and is being used in television messages to attract young people to Christ. Whether this is more effective in bringing the church to the world or the world to the Church is a matter of opinion. Recently, too, I have come to know the so-called "Luba" Mass from Africa in which native melodies of the Congo have been adapted to the Latin text with characteristic drum accompaniment. One wonders whether Pope Pius would have approved had he heard this interpretation of "native music." It is obviously sincere and doubtless brings a spiritual message to those whose ears are attuned to such music. Yet it is strange to hear the familiar Latin words in such a setting. Here is part of the "Gloria in Excelsis Deo." (Recording of part of the Missa Luba.)

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In listening to this African Mass we should not forget the beautiful and moving spirituals of the Negro churches of America. Many of them are Bible stories or sermons in song, and all of them are expressions of close personal relationship with the Heavenly Father. Their deep religious fervour is interwoven with melodies and highly characteristic rhythms probably allied to the native music of their African forebears. Can we, after all, arrive at any principles that divide the sacred from the secular in music? I think not: the fundamental distinction lies in the words and when we have long come to associate a piece of music with secular words it is difficult to banish them from our thoughts when the music has been forcibly wed to a religious text. A short time ago I mentioned that many fine German chorale melodies were of secular origin. This in no way disturbs us; even if we have some knowledge of the original poem it is not likely to have become deeply engraved on our minds and the music itself is perfectly adaptable for use in church. One wonders, however, what may have been the reactions of those familiar with both words and music when they heard the two associated for the first time. Modern hymn books often abound in folk-song tunes. The late Ralph Vaughan Williams gave strong encouragement to this practice when he edited the admirable English Hymn-Book of 1906 on which many subsequent compilations have drawn freely. But when the secular words are too familiar such associations can be very upsetting. I still remember the shock I received years ago when I heard Horatius Bonar's familiar hymn "I heard the voice of Jesus say" sung in church to the tune of "Drink to me only with thine eyes." One cannot quarrel with the music qua music and, barring the false stress on some syllables, it fits the words well enough. This same hymn, by the way, is one of those set in the English Hymnal and in many later books to a beautiful folksong melody; the original poem deals with the legend of Dives and Lazarus but most of the other folk-songs adapted by Vaughan Williams had no scriptural associations whatever. After all it is a matter of degree and there are surely impossible extremes. How many people, I wonder, would favour the admission to our hymnals of tunes from the latest hit-parade? Anything is liable to happen in these modern times however and

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such an outrage is certainly more likely to be committed than the equally incongruous introduction into a Broadway musical of a Palestrina motet. I have dwelt at some length on this question because we have reached the point in our brief historical outline where the entire art of music begins to undergo a transformation, most of the changes tending toward secularization. In the sixteenth century one finds little difference in fundamental principles between a madrigal of Marenzio or Wilbye and a motet of Palestrina or Byrd. But by the end of the seventeenth century vast changes had taken place; the development of the opera with its emphasis on the solo voice and increased cultivation of instrumental music was bound to influence all branches of the art, including the music of the Church. In England the Civil War and the domination of the Puritans under Cromwell left a hiatus of almost twenty years in the composition of church music. Cromwell himself was an enthusiastic music lover and the Puritans in general never questioned the lawfulness of ordinary practice of the art, although they frowned down upon the use of profane music on the Sabbath, on the use of organs and choirs in churches and, of course on stage plays. In many churches the organs were destroyed; in some of the great cathedrals however they were saved by the personal intervention of the Protector from his over-zealous followers. Organs were however forced to remain silent throughout the period. It was not due entirely to the Puritans that Church music in England suffered a decline — an equal cause was the absence of outstanding composers. Byrd and Orlando Gibbons in England left no successor of anything approaching their stature to continue the traditions they had established and much of what the great Elizabethans bequeathed would probably have been lost had it not been for Barnard's remarkable collection of Selected Church Music, published in 1641 by a minor canon of St. Paul's Cathedral; unfortunately the Civil War prevented him from compiling a second set. Much fine music contained in cathedral libraries was unearthed by William Boyce in the eighteenth century and by Horace Fellowes and others in the twentieth. In Spain and Italy the development of church music suffered no such sharp break yet,

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after the death of Thomas Luis de Victoria the old style, when cultivated at all, was left to composers of lesser stature. The interests of genuinely great men such as Claudio Monteverdi were largely concentrated in other fields and gradually they evolved a new style widely at variance with that of the past. While within church walls in countries little affected by Puritanism the old traditions were often faithfully followed, in many others secularizing influences crept in and by the end of the century church music, especially in France, was in musical essentials little different from that of the stage. These changes came about gradually in most European countries although parts of the continent suffered breaks through devastating religious wars. In England the new style of church music burst suddenly on the scene with the force of a thunderbolt after the Restoration of Charles II. The King's personal tastes had been formed largely in France, where new styles had made great headway, and the whole life of his court took on a French aspect. Early in his reign he sent Pelham Humfrey, a gifted teen-age student, to study under Lully in Paris and after his return appointed him a Gentleman of the Chapel Royal. Humfrey's musical gifts were limited but he was one of Henry Purcell's teachers and must have familiarized his pupil with the new style. Purcell's strong individuality preserved him from succumbing completely to French influences and both his other teachers, Henry Cooke and John Blow, had been well grounded in the music of earlier days. Consequently we find in Purcell's church music a wide diversity of character. On the one hand such anthems as "Remember not, Lord, our offences" and the very fine "Hear my prayer, O Lord" for eight-part a cappella choir, while not modal in tonality, are strongly Elizabethan in flavour. On the other hand it must be admitted that, being of an accommodating disposition, he fell in too frequently with the more superficial fashions of his time. Listening to some of his anthems with their extended instrumental ritornels often characterized by a gay and rather irritating tum-ti-tum rhythm, one can picture the Merry Monarch in the royal stall beating time on his knees or the arm of his chair. However, it must not be imagined that all Purcell's anthems even in the new style were of this type. After all, Purcell

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was probably the greatest composer of his time and greatness can transcend all accidents of time and fashion. Such anthems as "O sing unto the Lord," "O God, thou hast cast us out" and the magnificent but little known "Hear me, O God and that soon" bear the stamp of true genius. Unfortunately their length precludes my offering recorded examples but a large number are readily available. Most of Purcell's anthems of this order are scored for orchestra — usually one of strings. One is reminded that the King was so devoted to his "twenty-four violins" that he frequently had them accompany him on royal tours; it need hardly be said that the players took part in a wide variety of activities and were by no means confined to church services. "With all their imperfections on their heads," says Ernest Walker, "Purcell's anthems form a collection of splendid music, even if we feel that his true greatness is hardly, save for a handful of exceptions, represented in them to a really adequate extent."3 The same may be said of his fine "Service in B flat," as well as of his "Jubilate" and "Te Deum" — Purcell's only contributions to the liturgy. Still more impressive than these is his Latin motet "lehove, quam multi sunt," one of his most solemnly beautiful inspirations. Inspiration however reaches still greater heights in his settings of religious words for non-liturgical use. Presumably they were intended for private gatherings. The well known "Evening Hymn on a Ground" for solo voice and continuo is only one example among many. Purcell was very partial to the use of the ground bass — no less than three arias in Dido and Aeneas are cast in this form — and he handles it with the utmost mastery. I have purposely confined my discussion of the Restoration period to Purcell, not because others did not produce much music — some of genuine distinction — but because he so dominates the scene as to embody musically the finest qualities of the era. He died, as did Mozart, at the age of thirty-six; fifteen years later an even greater giant among musicians was to arrive in England and initiate a long period during which the native musician yielded first 3

Ernest Walker, A History of Music in England (London: Oxford University Press, 2nd edition, 1924; reprinted 1931, 1939), p.154.

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place to the foreigner. But mention of Handel reminds me that we must retrace our steps and discuss briefly another development in church music that was to lead to unsurpassed achievements. Germany and Austria came late into the musical foreground but development of the art made steady progress partially interrupted by the Thirty Years' War and in the end it was the Germanic nations that produced a very large proportion of immortal Great Masters. In Catholic Germany and Austria church music in the sixteenth century was enriched by the works of numerous gifted composers but as these differed but little from those produced in Italy, Spain and England and were, on the whole, of less significance, we may in so brief a survey pass them by. Far different is the case with the Lutherans. Fundamental to the music of the Lutheran church is the chorale and the astonishing wealth of great works based thereon. One must not forget, however, that Luther had been anticipated by John Huss in advocating congregational singing in the vernacular. The Moravian Church in particular can probably boast a longer continuous tradition of church music than any other Protestant body. It has carried that tradition into many lands, including North America. Of this more later; let us first consider musical developments under Luther and his followers. The word "choral" is derived from the Latin cantus choralis associated with those portions of the plainsong sung by more than one voice, though not, in the unreformed church, by the congregation. Many Lutheran chorales are derived from Gregorian chant and, as we have noted, not a few others are of secular origin. The Lutheran service for Holy Communion is, like that of the Anglican prayer-book, a simplification of the Roman liturgy usually sung in the vernacular. From an early date, however, the original words were often replaced by hymns in metrical verse, a number of them even from the pen of Luther himself. Counterparts of this type for the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo and so on are found in any German hymnbook as well as others taken from offices other than the Mass. The hymn "Vater unser in Himmelreich," for example, is a metrical version of the Lord's Prayer, "Wir glauben all' an einen Gott," of the Creed. "Mit Fried und Freud fahr' ich dahin," of the Nunc Dimittis, and so on. No doubt from the first the people

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joined fervently in the singing and the melodies with which such hymns were associated came to have a special significance to everyone. When such melodies were introduced in music of a more elaborate and extended character such as a church cantata or Choral-prelude, they would be recognized and carry their message to the heart of every devout listener. Most musicians and all organists will be familiar with the nature of the choral-prelude as developed, during the century and a half before Bach in whom it reached its culmination, by such composers as Sweelinck, Scheidt and, later, Pachelbel and Buxtehude. The German church cantata evolved later, beginning with works for solo voice or voices on the Italian model. It was not until a fairly late date that chorales came to be incorporated in the scheme, sometimes in their simplest form, sometimes serving as thematic material for elaborate choral movements with instrumental accompaniment. Meanwhile composers continued to produce great numbers of motets to Latin or German texts, sometimes a cappella, sometimes with orchestral accompaniment. We have not time to discuss these developments, important though they are, but must at least linger over one dominating figure — that of Heinrich Schutz. Born just a century before Bach and Handel and, like them, of Saxon birth, Schutz spent some years of study in Venice under Giovanni Gabrieli and, in the course of a long life, wandered far and wide finally returning to Saxony to spend his last sixteen years in Dresden. Although a famous man in his time, Schutz was almost completely forgotten for seventy-five years after his death and even after this only a small fraction of his vast output was published until the later nineteenth century. Today we have ready access to most of it and the twentieth century is beginning to make up for past neglect. His settings of the Passion, prefiguring those of Bach, and having a very high value in themselves, are now extensively performed in churches great and small; the same may be said of his intensely expressive Seven Last Words in which he anticipates Bach's St. Matthew Passion by adorning the words of Christ with a background of strings, while those of the Narrator are supported by the continue only. Schutz has provided us with a rich store of motets to both

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Latin and German words as well as many fine settings of the Psalms, to which he was especially devoted. It must be remembered that the Lutheran Church, unlike the more extreme Protestant sects, did not banish the Latin tongue from its services, and furthermore that, although Saxony as a whole was Protestant, its Court, which Schiitz served for long periods, was Catholic. His studies in Venice with Gabrieli taught him much about the effectiveness of choral forces used antiphonally and of brass choirs such as were employed with great impressiveness in St. Mark's Church, Venice. His music represents a link between Italy and Germany not only with respect to the older traditions but also to the new style which had made notable advances by the time of his second visit to Venice after the death of Gabrieli. His native dramatic instincts were supplemented by an almost unerring skill in the musical declamation of German words and there can be no doubt that J.S. Bach owed much to him in writing these wonderful recitatives that delight and move us profoundly. Before we pass on, let us hear one of the fine motets that Heinrich Schiitz has contributed to the literature of church music. The text is from the hymn "Also hat Gott die Welt geliebt" — "God so loved the world" — on which Bach based one of his well known church cantatas. (Recording of "Also hat Gott die Welt geliebt" by Heinrich Schiitz) I think no one can accuse me of lacking devotion to the church music of J.S. Bach: his music is, as Schumann expressed it, "the musician's daily bread." It is intensively studied by every music student — at least I hope so — but to discuss it in the few words that time allows me would be an impertinence. We could not hope to scale the peaks of this colossal mountain and we dare not, even in this supersonic age, presume to fly over it: mountains are much less impressive from above than from below. For similar reasons I do not propose to speak of the almost equally colossal figure of Handel. After all, his church music, superb though it often is, represents only a by-product of his remarkably versatile mind. True, Messiah and portions of others among his oratorios are often heard in our churches but this must not blind us to the fact that

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they were not conceived as church music; on the other hand we must not underrate these works merely on the ground that Handel's motive in writing them in preference to operas was largely commercial. Uneven in quality though they are — due in part to over-hasty writing — the oratorios are the work of a very great man and at their best move us profoundly by their genuine sincerity and religious fervour. The hold that Handel gained over the musical public in the land of his adoption resulted in his being imitated by most of his contemporaries and immediate successors, usually with only moderate success. Perhaps too the fact that the great Master was often intent primarily on pleasing his public tempted many into adopting a similar attitude. It is significant that, shortly after this time, Charles Burney, who in the course of his travels had made a fleeting acquaintance with some of Bach's works, felt it unfortunate that the Leipzig cantor did not "extend his fame by simplifying his style more to the level of his judges" and by "writing in a style more popular and generally intelligible and pleasing." Nevertheless, the finest traditions of English church music were not forgotten. It is noteworthy that, whereas the composition of hymn tunes by German composers practically ceased with the death of Bach, it was just beginning in England. Probably the earliest original English hymn tunes are those of William Croft, an older contemporary of Bach and Handel. Such well known tunes as "St. Anne" and "Hanover" are — probably with justice — attributed to him. The best of Croft's anthems and those of the more gifted Maurice Greene are of excellent quality, although it is only occasionally that inspiration burns bright. I pass over the better-known names of Thomas Arne, whose natural gifts were for the stage, and of William Boyce, who, in my opinion, contributed more to church music as an editor than as a composer. Passing on to a later generation and again dismissing with a mere mention such composers as Battishill, Arnold and Crotch, we come to one who must not be so lightly regarded. Samuel Wesley, son of the notable hymn-writer and nephew of the founder of Methodism, was the foremost organist of his day. He was also probably the first Englishman to appreciate fully the genius of Johann Sebastian Bach and did much to disseminate a knowledge

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of his works. The brilliant promise of Wesley's youth was only partially fulfilled: at the age of twenty-one, he met with an accident that, intermittently, affected his brain. It is uncertain whether he ever joined the Roman Church but a goodly proportion of his church music takes the form of masses and Latin motets. These frequently show influences of Italian models of a rather superficial type, but when at their best show their composer to be a worthy disciple of Johann Sebastian. Such Latin motets as the eight-part In exitu Israel and O magnum mysterium show qualities that would rank him high in any company save that of the very greatest. His betterknown son, Samuel Sebastian Wesley, belongs to the Victorian era, and all his choral works are designed for use in Protestant, and especially Anglican, churches. His natural gifts were slighter than those of his father and, unfortunately his best-known anthems are not his finest. Nevertheless, among Victorian church musicians he stands high — head and shoulders high indeed — in comparison with most of those who were to follow him. I apologize if, in devoting so much time to English composers, I have neglected those of the Continent. It is not that in any way I underrate their importance but rather that the very volume of church music originating in all continental lands leaves me well-nigh breathless. Most notable composers of the eighteenth century devoted a good deal of attention to opera. Opera, of course, lies outside the scope of this lecture, but operatic influence on eighteenth-century church music is strong. Church music as a rule calls for a much more extensive use of choral forces than does opera, and much of the choral writing in the religious works of this period harks back to earlier models. On the other hand movements for solo voice or group of solo voices are often extremely operatic in character, even in the masses of Haydn and Mozart which tower high above those of their contemporaries. Their finest settings of the Mass are monumental. Mozart's great Mass in C minor, for example, stands comparison with his best work in any medium in exaltation and dignity. It must be added, however, that it departs far from the principles of the Motu Proprio. I shall not attempt to discuss Beethoven's Missa Solemnis, especially after having passed over Bach's supreme achievement,

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the Mass in B minor. The Missa Solemnis is a highly individual expression of religious emotion but the very dimensions of these masterpieces practically preclude their use as an accompaniment to the liturgy. Rather than attempt the impossible in following the main stream of religious music left us by the great Masters, I would like to speak briefly of an interesting though minor development — the early Moravian music of the United States. Only within recent years have we been made aware of the amazing musical fertility of the early Moravian settlers in such centres as Salem, North Carolina, and Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Mention has already been made of the fifteenth-century music of Bohemia and Moravia. At an early date the followers of Huss became divided into various sects, some of which, like the Calvinists, restricted the music used in their churches to congregational hymns, banning the use of instruments. Not so the Moravians, most of whom were of German origin. While strict in their way of life, they embraced music as an essential part of the good life and, on emigrating to the New World, carried with them the almost unbroken traditions of the sect. Only within very recent years has the outer world become aware of the great store of music left by these pioneers. Probably the first music composed in the United States is the work of Moravians, some of it being of very fine quality. Their enthusiasm was by no means confined to their own productions, for they imported much from Europe, sometimes copying by hand works of Haydn, Mozart and others. To give you a picture of musical life in these communities let me quote from an anonymous note that appears on the cover of a recent recording:4 Quite literally, the Moravians kept their whole lives in tune with music. From morn to sunset music was with them as chorales in the fields, at the table, on journeys, at christenings, weddings and funerals. In the evening it graced special worship services or offered such satisfaction as the l a t e s t 4

Air, Anthems and Chorales of the American Moravians 1760-1860, Columbia MS 6102; notes by Donald M. McCorkle.

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quartets of Haydn or Mozart played by the Collegium musicum. On Saturday night it was civic music by the Collegium musicum, the Philharmonic Society, or perhaps the Mdnnerchor. The fare on such occasions was variously symphonies, concertos, oratorios, woodwind suites, or songs. Sunday morning there was the customary Sabbath service but with music in full glory, and especially so in the Advent and Lenten seasons. It is doubtful that any other communities so resounded with beauty as did the Moravians' with their brasses, woodwinds, strings and organs. These same instruments were often re-tuned for a sacred or secular concert in the afternoon of the Sabbath. No wonder a New England divine once asked a Moravian youth, who had just finished some Haydn chamber music on Saturday afternoon, whether he would use the same instruments tomorrow to worship the Lord. The Moravian, to whom a division of music into sacred or secular was unthinkable — his only criterion being whether the music was good or bad — answered: 'And shall you, sir, pray with the same mouth tomorrow with which you are now eating sausages?' One of the most notable composers of this school was John Antes. Born in Pennsylvania in 1740, he showed great talent from his earliest years, both in composition and in the making of string instruments. In his later life he became a missionary, spending some years in Egypt. I would like you to hear his anthem for mixed chorus and string orchestra: "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows" — an intensively expressive work which, while simple, demonstrates some of the finest qualities of eighteenth-century church music. (Recording of "Surely he has borne our griefs..." by John Antes)

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The Moravians have indeed done much to enrich our musical life in both the United States and Canada. Some of the most beautiful choral singing I have heard anywhere has been from a Moravian choir in Manitoba. But let us press on. In the nineteenth century we are again confronted by a positive flood of religious music — some of it, like the Requiem Mass of Hector Berlioz, on a colossal scale — some of it, like Rossini's Stabat Mater, excessively operatic. I pass reluctantly over the six masses of Schubert, the earliest two of which, written in his teens, show much of the freshness and vigour of youth, together with the richness of melodic invention that never failed him. We owe to Schubert, also, many smaller works, like his wellknown setting of the 23rd Psalm; one can accord it no higher praise than to say that it is worthy of the words. Countless other names, some of great distinction, come to my mind; the choral music of Liszt, Dvorak and Cesar Franck, for example, all of them notable figures of the Romantic school. Their chief choral works almost all call for orchestral accompaniment. But from this period let me select the name of Mendelssohn, largely because he exercised so powerful an influence on English church music. A short time ago I mentioned that with Handel began a long period of foreign domination over English church music. Mendelssohn won almost equal acclaim in the Island Kingdom; his oratorios Elijah and St. Paul were seized upon by countless choral societies and imitated by many composers who, while exhibiting much of his technical facility, by no means equalled him in imagination and invention. Probably few of them had a similar knowledge of the works of Bach. Mendelssohn's actual church music, which includes a cappella settings of several psalms, indicates that he had learned much from Bach but is characterized by polish rather than depth. From Bach to Mendelssohn we feel a notable decline and such a composer as Sterndale Bennett is in turn but a pale shadow of Mendelssohn. Sebastian Wesley, whom I have already noticed, perhaps the most outstanding English church composer of his day, was by no means free from Mendelssohnianism and the same may be said of most English composers of the mid and late Victorian era. A little later a third and less healthy foreign influence began to make itself felt: that of Charles Gounod. With Gounod's

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merits and demerits as an operatic writer we are not concerned. His religious works, such as his oratorios The Redemption and Mors et Vita as well as his motets and Messe Solennelle, though doubtless sincere expressions of his faith, seem to us decidedly tawdry. They won great acclaim and, in my own youthful days, were accepted by many with the utmost seriousness. Fortunately this popularity was short-lived but for a time a considerable number of church composers borrowed some features of his style to their great detriment. Cantatas like Gaul's Holy City and Maunder's From Olivet to Calvary probably brought substantial returns to their composers and publishers; tuneful enough and not taxing the capacity of the average voluntary choir, they seem to us nowadays very shallow. I trust we shall not look upon their like again. The services, anthems and hymn-tunes of later Victorian composers such as Barnby, Dykes and Stainer have fortunately given way to music of both the past and present of a more lasting quality. Stainer, much the best of those I have mentioned, could rise well about the others, as in his eight-part anthem I saw the Lord] even this however is marred at the end by a commonplace hymn tune. Sullivan, devoting his best gifts to the light operas which continue to delight many of us, can hardly be taken seriously as a religious composer, although probably no editor of a hymn-book would dare to omit his bluff and vigorous setting of Onward, Christian Soldiers. Let us turn from this melancholy picture, which has its counterpart in several continental countries, and consider briefly some subsequent developments. In England, Parry and Stanford, although not uninfluenced by Mendelssohn, drew their chief inspiration from Bach and (especially in the case of Stanford) Brahms. They have to a great extent lost their hold on the present generation but in their time did much to rescue English music from the trough into which it had fallen. Since then much improvement has resulted from increased interest in plainsong, sixteenth century polyphony and modal folk-music. The Motu Proprio, although perhaps more honoured in the breach than in the observance, has pointed the way to higher ideals and many churches inside and outside the Roman communion have benefited thereby. It is a pity that the Vatican found no composer

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of greater natural gifts than Lorenzo Perosi to demonstrate application of its principles to present day composition. Perosi is said to have played a significant part in the compilation of the Motu Proprio, but what little I know of his work hardly seems worthy of wholehearted sanction by the Vatican. In England Vaughan Williams might have been helpful had he been a Roman Catholic; as it was, he accomplished much in turning the minds of church musicians to the principles outlined by Pius X and demonstrated how twentieth-century technique could be adapted to the spirit of the encyclical. In Canada the general improvement in church music owes a debt of deep gratitude to Healey Willan. A life-long devotee of plainsong and the Elizabethan masters, he has greatly stimulated church musicians not only in Anglican churches but in those of many denominations, not excluding the Roman Catholic. My gramophone illustrations would be sadly incomplete did they not include an example of his music. Let us therefore hear his motet Rise up, my love as sung by the University of Toronto Chorus. (Recording of Rise up, my love, my fair one by Healey Willan) Church music today suffers from the difficulty of adapting itself to modern techniques. It must be admitted that the style of most composers of church music harks back to that of much earlier generations. This has been the case at almost every period of musical history. It takes time for listeners to become accustomed to unfamiliar idioms and many a devout church-goer would doubtless be unduly distracted by sounds strange to him. The vast bulk of so-called "advanced" music is fundamentally instrumental: it could hardly have evolved from a purely vocal style. Even after having become accustomed to hearing modern works singers find its strange intervals difficult to negotiate even with instrumental assistance. However, time and time again the music of the church has accepted new techniques, though sometimes reluctantly and 5

Perosi (1872-1956) was music director of the Sistine Chapel for most of his professional life. Around the turn of the century he enjoyed immense success with his oratorios, which he composed in a freely eclectic style that reflected influences from plainsong through to Wagner and Mascagni.

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after a considerable lapse of time, and I for one believe that history will repeat itself. After all, many churches have eagerly welcomed modern architecture, modern sculpture and even modern painting. Already some outstanding composers of our time have written fine religious works, although not by any means always for church use. One thinks of Kodaly's Psalmus Hungaricus, Honegger's Le Roi David and others which already are almost established classics. But for my final illustration I turn to Igor Stravinsky, whose religious faith is undoubtedly a primary factor in his many-sided nature. His fine and thoroughly liturgical Mass and Symphony of Psalms have become familiar to most of us but he can also be very simple and direct. I would like you to hear his little setting of the Lord's Prayer. It derives its style from the liturgical music of his native country. It was first heard some thirty years ago in the Russian Church in Paris and adapted to the Latin text in 1949. What could be more devout or more completely suitable for church use? (Recording of Pater Nosterby Igor Stravinsky) It does seem strange that this Pater Noster should come from the same pen as The Rite of Spring. Yet The Rite of Spring has also religious connotations, though of a very different religion. Which reminds one forcibly that religion — a deep instinct common to almost all humanity — manifests itself in innumerable forms. I am only too aware that my brief, unbalanced and rather disjointed review of one among many aspects of religion has only skirted the fringe of a vast subject. Probably my only success consists in having indicated how very vast it is.

The Bard and Music

n undertaking to speak this evening on the subject I rashly selected, I was fully aware that I had assigned myself a most formidable task. I have no doubt that among you are Shakespearean scholars who have reason to despise my lack of erudition. Some of you may be musicologists well versed in Elizabethan music, who will be inclined to mutter to themselves "Que fait-il dans cette galere?" To these I cannot hope to be enlightening and I can only hope that they will not be unduly bored. My remarks will be directed chiefly at the less informed — to those who, like myself, love the Bard and welcome any unconsidered trifles of information that an enthusiastic Autolycus may have snapped up through the years. Musical settings of Shakespeare's text and instrumental works based thereon are of course legion. In Grove's invaluable Dictionary of Music and Musicians you will find five columns of very small type listing those that are reasonably well known but such a list is obviously far from exhaustive. 1 Throughout the ages thousands of Shakespearean productions must have been accompanied by specially composed music, most of which is long since forgotten. To give one example from personal memory: when in 1916 the inmates of Ruhleben prison-camp celebrated the tercentenary of Shakespeare's death, some of my fellow prisoners supplied very effective music for our productions of Twelfth Night, Othello, and As You Like It; I doubt if any of this music has been heard since. At our own Stratford, Ontario, nearly every production has been given its own musical setting; I doubt if any great proportion of this music will survive the test of time, although the best of it deserves a place in the permanent

I

1

Grove's Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 5th edition, ed. Eric Blom (London: Macmillan & Co., 1954, 9 vol.). The list of works which appears under "Shakespeare" in volume 7 is not included in the 6th edition, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London, 1980). The later article deals with the use of music in Shakespeare's plays, including incidental music, as well as works derived from the plays.

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repertory. Great quantities of music have been provided for Shakespearean productions all over the world; only a small proportion of it can have been listed in Grove. It is clearly impossible therefore to deal with my vast subject in more than superficial fashion. Let me begin by glancing at the type of music used on Shakespeare's own stage. Some contemporary settings of his songs have come down to us and may have been written for and used in his original productions but I know of no instance in which such use has been firmly established. Modern research has, however, brought to light an immense amount of Elizabethan music, and we have become familiar with the sound of many i n s t r u m e n t s of the period. With this background and the inferences we may draw from the texts of the plays we can, if we will, provide musical settings not very different from those heard by the audiences at the Globe Theatre. On the other hand, any number of composers of the intervening centuries have seen and expressed Shakespeare in terms of their respective periods, and our own is no exception. Later on I will review briefly some outstanding examples of vocal and instrumental incidental music written in these centuries and, finally, speak of a limited number of operas and instrumental works based on Shakespeare's text. But first let us go back to Shakespeare's own day. Evidence of Shakespeare's love of music abounds in nearly all his plays. It may be rash to father on him the sentiments expressed by this or that character, but the cumulative effect is irresistible: The man that hath no music in himself Nor is not moved with concourse of sweet sounds Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils, ... Let no such man be trusted.2 Is it Lorenzo or his creator who speaks here? These and similar lines are constantly quoted — sometimes ad nauseam — especially by musicians, whether or not in their heart of hearts they condemn the tone-deaf as necessarily anti-social. 2

The Merchant of Venice, V, i.

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Love of music seems to have been ingrained in the Elizabethans. Exaggerated inferences have been drawn from contemporary writers; from Thomas Morley, for instance, who suggests in a well-known passage that no man could be considered a gentleman if he were unable to sing at sight his part in a madrigal. It may be that, if we could bring them back to life, we might find Morley's contemporaries on the average no more musically skilled than ourselves. Nevertheless we know that more than eighty collections of madrigals, ayres and songs were printed and published between 1587 and 1630 and that, in addition, vast collections remained in manuscript. We know, too, that lutes and other instruments were provided for use by customers in barber shops and other public places where nowadays we are treated to "piped in" music. The "singing commercials" to which we are subjected day by day on radio and television are certainly no improvement on the "Street Cries of London" which fulfilled a similar purpose four hundred years ago. It is evident that, in almost all Elizabethan theatres, music was played between the acts of plays, except where the action was continuous. Usually this took the form of dance tunes of various types — lively jigs or stately almains and pavanes. It was probably not until a later date that actual dances appeared on the stage during the entr'actes, often violating the spirit of the play. Eighteenth-century playbills of Hamlet have been found bearing the announcement that Mr. So and So "will dance a Hornpipe between Acts three and four." Surely Shakespeare's age was not as tasteless as that. In any case music heard between the acts was merely incidental: of much greater importance is the music demanded by the play itself. Music-lover as Shakespeare was, he rarely called for music without some dramatic purpose. The lines from The Merchant of Venice which I have just quoted, for example, are taken from a scene clearly intended to relax the minds of listeners after the grim Trial Scene which precedes it. These lines are spoken over a background of soft music probably played by a consort of viols offstage; shortly afterwards a trumpet call announces the arrival of Bassanio — a dramatic contrast to the peaceful opening scene. A detailed examination of the musical directions for almost

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any play throws much light on the dramatic insight of the author. Note, for instance, that in A Midsummer Night's Dream the music is almost entirely reserved for the fairies and the clowns. Titania is lulled to sleep with a charming song and is awakened by the raucous voice of Bottom. Apparently the magic drops that Puck had poured on her eyes have wrought their spell on her ears as well. "Mine ear," she tells him, "is much enamoured of thy note";3 certainly no one else would find it entrancing. Note too that the four lovers, being mere mortals, are sent to sleep without music and are awakened by a hunting horn which, while earthy enough in itself, has in this context an almost magical effect. We find a similar contrast in Twelfth Night. The sentimental Duke, Orsino, calls frequently for music. To him it is "the food of love"; one suspects him of being in love with love rather than with any woman, for he is suspiciously ready, at the end of the play, to switch his allegiance from Olivia to Viola. In Twelfth Night Feste is a very different type of clown from the horny-handed sons of toil that produced the "lamentable comedy" of Pyramus and Thisbe for the delectation of Theseus and his guests. The roistering scene which brings down the wrath of Malvolio is preceded by Feste's singing of "O mistress mine" — a very gentle prelude to what follows; the singer is congratulated on his "mellifluous voice," but one suspects that Sir Toby Belch, who dominates the scene, is already impatient to "rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw the soul out of one weaver" — for he promptly proceeds to do so, aided and abetted by all the others, not excepting the rather elegant clown himself. One would like to think, by the way, that the well-known "O Mistress Mine" of Thomas Morley, found in an instrumental piece from his First Booke of Consort Lessons and adapted by Byrd for a set of variations, was used in the original production. The evidence, however, seems to be against this supposition. Shakespeare and Morley were indeed neighbours at the time and may have collaborated on occasion, but Morley's original melody, though it bears the same title as the song and was written about the same time as the play, requires a good deal of adaptation to fit the words. 3

A Midsummer Night's Dream, III, i.

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One would greatly like to know what musical settings were used for Shakespeare's original productions but almost the only music that can be identified with certainty is that of songs and airs already popular long before the end of the sixteenth century. This applies not only to such things as the catch "Hold thy peace, knave" and the assortment of convivial snatches that follow in Twelfth Night but also to the lovely "Willow" song of Desdemona which dates from many years before Othello. (Recorded example of the "Willow" song) But, although we can only occasionally identify the music that was used in Shakespeare's productions, we know very well the types, both vocal and instrumental, that he must have adapted to his purposes. Obviously the contrapuntal style of the Madrigal would hardly be suitable for theatrical presentation although madrigals were sometimes published as "apt for voices or viols" and may have occasionally been heard in instrumental form. On the other hand the "Ayres" of such composers as Dowland, Campion, Johnson and many others are of a style that fits admirably the mood of Shakespeare's more lyrical creations. These ayres for voice and lute constitute a whole literature in themselves and we of today are fortunate in knowing them in their original form. At the other end of the scale many of what I may call "pop" songs, such as one would hear in almost any tavern throughout the land, have been preserved. The song of the drunken Caliban in The Tempest, "The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I" fits almost exactly in metre the popular tune "Leather Bottel" and, as Professor John Long remarks, "If Shakespeare did not write or borrow the chantey with this tune in mind, he overlooked a most appropriate musical setting." Reverting to Twelfth Night, let us hear a portion of the third scene of Act II, where wine and conviviality flow so freely. The music is a melange of the type of tavern song familiar to Shakespeare's audience. Some of the words are found in earlier plays and the music associated therewith, being already popular, was probably used in Shakespeare's productions. The tune associated with "There dwelt a man in Babylon," for instance, is a

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corruption of the very familiar Greensleeves. On the other hand, Sir Toby, who is after all a gentleman, is apparently familiar with a finer type of music. He greets Malvolio's sentence of banishment from Olivia's household by bursting out: "Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone." This song is taken from Robert Jones's First Booke of Songs and Ayres; Feste is also familiar with it, for he chips in in alternate lines. Jones's volume was first printed in 1600 which is close to the date of the play; probably the song was well known before it was published and it is not unlikely that the same tune was used in the original production. Once more, however, this is a mere conjecture. Here is part of the boisterous scene: (Excerpt from a radio broadcast produced by Sir Ernest's son, Keith MacMillan) So much for the tavern songs, the "hit parade" of the Elizabethans. We can assume with confidence that such familiar songs as "Under the greenwood tree," "Where the bee sucks," "Tell me where is fancy bred," "O mistress mine," "Who is Sylvia" and so many others would be set in a style similar to that of the "Ayres" — sometimes with lute accompaniment, sometimes accompanied by several instruments and sometimes unaccompanied. Desdemona's lovely "Willow" would doubtless be sung without accompaniment, as would the songs of poor Ophelia: these melodies would also be well known to patrons of the Globe Theatre. Any intrusion of instrumental music here would seem out of place. A close examination of the various texts with their meagre stage directions has been made by Professor Long and others: scholars are as a rule cautious in making conjectures but those they do make are based on firm grounds. Although, as I have said, stage directions are usually meagre, I think we can assume, from the form of certain passages in many of the plays, that the singing voice was called for. For example, the Fool in King Lear— surely the most pathetic clown in all dramatic literature — is directed to sing his little ditty, "He that has and a little tiny wit,/ With hey ho! the wind and the rain." Presumably he used the tune that ends Twelfth Night but with what

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a poignant difference! The wind and the rain rage furiously t h r o u g h o u t while the u n f o r t u n a t e King's voice rings out, challenging all the forces of Nature. But surely the Fool's singing voice would also lend additional dramatic contrast to such nonsense rhymes as: The cod-piece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many.5 In the same play the banished Edgar, in his feigned madness, is probably expected to break into song here and there. One might cite similar instances from many other plays. Leaving our very inadequate review of the types of vocal music used by Shakespeare, let us pass on to the instrumental music. Here too historical research has rendered us much more familiar than were our immediate ancestors with its various features, and the instruments themselves are no longer confined to museums. Thanks to artists-cum-artisans such as the Dolmetsch 6 family and others, we have become reasonably familiar with the sound of many instruments that were long regarded as obsolete. The lute has become almost as popular as the guitar and, in some households, recorders have practically supplanted the piano as a means of domestic relaxation. Gramophone companies find a ready market for discs and tapes of Elizabethan music: when they present it with questionable authenticity, they are sure to suffer at the hands of knowledgeable critics. If anything, we run the risk of being too purist in our attitude toward the music of the past. Meticulous insistence upon historical accuracy can degenerate into what my 4

A song of five verses with the same refrain as the Fool's song in King Lear serves as the epilogue to Twelfth Night. ' King Lear, III, ii.

6

Arnold Dolmetsch (1858-1940) was a pioneer in the performance of early music on historical instruments and in a style appropriate to the repertoire. He was both a performer and builder of instruments, and from 1920 made Haslemere in England a centre for historical performance.

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son once termed "pedantic embalming." The very word "baroque" (applied of course to music of a later period) has become a sort of sacred cow to many whose historical sense, I sometimes suspect, outweighs their aural perception. They insist that Bach's organ music, for example, must be played only on instruments resembling those of the early eighteenth century. These modern baroque organs, referred to contemptuously by the late Ralph Vaughan Williams as "this bubble and squeak type" may or may not be faithful reproductions of their prototypes. They do have the great virtue of ensuring clarity but have also serious limitations. "We cannot," says Vaughan Williams, "perform Bach exactly as he was played in his time even if we wanted to, and the question is, do we want to? I say emphatically, No! Some music dies with its period, but what is really immortal endures from generation to generation. The interpretation, and with it the means of interpretation, differs with each generation. If the music is ephemeral it will disappear with each change of fashion. If the music is really alive it will live on through all the alterations of musical thought."7 Like Bach himself, Vaughan Williams was a restless innovator and, although his views as expressed here and elsewhere are decidedly extreme, they cannot be dismissed lightly. However, when all the pro's and con's are weighed, we should be thankful that we can, if we wish, present Shakespeare in approximately the style and with the forces used by him. I say "if we wish," for I can see no reason why the rich store of music provided by later composers, including those of our own day, should not be drawn upon, providing that the style of production is kept consistent in itself. In any case we do not hear Shakespeare's noble language as did his contemporaries, for English pronunciation has in the course of time undergone vast changes. But I am afraid I digress. Let us return to Shakespeare's orchestra — if we may call it so. It did not suffer from lack of variety. Its personnel, presumably, untrammelled by strict Union 7

Ralph Vaughan Williams, "Bach, the Great Bourgeois" in Some Thoughts on Beethoven's Choral Symphony with writings on other musical subjects (London: Oxford University Press, 1953; reprinted 1959), p.123.

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rules, was exceedingly flexible, and could be adapted to the needs of each occasion. Strolling players — as a class, the lowest of the low — were no doubt often drafted in; a contract from an established theatre gave to those that received one an improved social status. It is most unlikely that any well-defined musical establishment was attached to any theatre. We can however often find in the text indications of what this or that play called for and comparisons with stage directions in many plays other than Shakespeare's can be illuminating. Today we have time only for a general survey: for details I refer you to such authorities as G.H. Cowling, E.W. Naylor and John H. Long.8 The lute was of course the instrument chiefly favoured for accompanying solo voices; as it was made in three or four sizes, chamber combinations were often used. Such a combination, or a similar combination of viols was known as a "consort." A group of instruments of a single family — lutes, viols or recorders — was called a "whole consort." "Whole consorts" might also, though more rarely, consist of members of the "shawm" or oboe family, which goes back to very ancient times. They were louder and coarser in tone than the modern oboe, English horn and bassoon and were usually used in large halls or the open air. I suspect that the unidentified musicians who appear with Cassio at the beginning of Act III of Othello would be a consort of shawms, for the Clown asks them: "Why my masters, have your instruments been in Naples that they speak i'th'nose thus?" The general, he tells them, "does not greatly care for music" and perhaps we ourselves would agree with Othello in not relishing this particular type. Yet shawms could be very gay and jolly. I would like you to hear a delightful little quartet for treble and alto shawms, with alto and bass trombones by an anonymous Flemish composer: it dates, of course from much earlier than Shakespeare's day. 8

George Herbert Cowling, Music on the Shakespearian Stage (London: Russell & Russell, 1964). Edward Woodall Naylor, Shakespeare and Music, with illustrations from the music of the 16th and 17th centuries (Toronto: J.M. Dent and Sons, 1931; first published 1896, reprinted New York: AMS Press, 1965). John H. Long, Shakespeare's Use of Music (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, Svols., 1955-71).

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Brass combinations often included the cornets which, although usually made of horn or wood and pierced with fingerholes, had a cup mouthpiece which doubtless blended well with the sackbuts — predecessors of the modern trombone. When well played, cornets produce a delicate, soft tone and were often used with choral groups. Trumpets, capable of playing only the harmonics of the fundamental tone, were rarely included in the brass choir, largely, no doubt, because trumpeters belonged to a different guild of musicians. I hope that the different guilds did not quarrel over union jurisdiction! Trumpets were largely reserved for military or quasi-regal scenes and frequently associated with a drum or drums. The word flourish which appears so often in the text usually denotes a brass fanfare. A sennet was a more extended flourish. None of the music of this type has been preserved and it may have been improvised. In contrast with the "whole" consort, the "broken" consort was composed of instruments of different types. Such groups were becoming increasingly popular toward the end of the sixteenthth century and were probably more frequently heard than were the whole consorts on Shakespeare's stage. As a rule we can only deduce from the text what combinations were likely to be used for this or that scene but the instrumentation indicated in Morley's First Book of Consort Lessons which appeared in 1599 throws light on the subject. His orchestra consists of treble lute, pandora (the "long-necked" lute), cittern (or guitar) with treble viol, bass viol and flute. A few years later the Headmaster of the English College of St. Omer [in France], Pas de Calais, recommends as the best combination for a broken consort the bass viol or viola da gamba, the lute or opharion, the treble viol, the cither, the flute and, to add effectiveness and charm, the tenor violin and bassoon. The number of players that could be accommodated in the music room of the Globe playhouse, situated about twenty-three feet above and behind the stage, could hardly have exceeded six or eight. However, it is likely that more players could be employed, for they were free to move about as called for by the action of the play and often appeared on the stage itself.

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From internal evidence one may assume that some of the actors were able to accompany themselves. The character of Baltasar would seem to have been introduced into the cast of Much Ado About Nothing because a well-qualified singer was available: his may well have been also the "mellifluous voice" that sang "O mistress mine" in Twelfth Night. In neither case is there any suggestion that an instrumentalist was on the stage. However, some of the "Blackfriars Boys," a group from a neighbouring theatre often drawn upon for female parts, were trained in the playing of recorders and other instruments as well as in singing and their services were probably employed for both functions. The sound of recorders ("of all sounds the most pleasing to me," says Samuel Pepys) has of late years become so familiar to us that there is no need of comment. The recorder, says Hamlet, in the hands of a skilful player, "will discourse most eloquent music" and is "as easy as lying" — a pardonable exaggeration in its context. Certainly it would be favoured as a background to quiet scenes and was often used in connection with funerals. Take, for instance, the third scene in the last act of Much Ado, where the penitent Claudio appears at the bier of Hero who, it turns out, had "died but while her slander lived." Having read his epitaph he calls for a "solemn hymn." This song, "Pardon, goddess of the night" would almost certainly have been accompanied by recorders. Of the viols and the spinet or virginals I need say little, for they too have become familiar to modern ears. It seems unlikely that any keyboard instrument would often, if ever, be included in a theatre orchestra: it would occupy valuable space and could hardly have appeared on any stage; a lute would furnish the normal light accompaniment. On the other hand the small portable organ known as the "regal" may occasionally have been called into service — perhaps for church-scenes — although its tone was somewhat coarse. Organs were certainly to be found in some private theatres. It is time we brought to a close this altogether brief review of music on the Shakespearean stage. Anyone who has heard some of the old instruments and has studied such authorities as Cowling, Naylor and Long can, by calling on his imagination, form a fairly precise idea of what was heard by Shakespeare's audiences. Modern productions often provide Elizabethan music

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or music in the Elizabethan manner with a reasonable degree of authenticity. But Shakespeare is for all time. Every subsequent age has heard and seen him through its own ears and eyes. Let us therefore consider a few of the countless settings of his songs, the incidental music for his plays and operatic versions based thereon. We need not linger over the first half of the seventeenth century. Although the art of music as a whole was undergoing profound changes, that of the Shakespearean stage seems to have been little altered until the Puritan and Cromwellian regime put a temporary stop to all theatrical ventures. With the accession of Charles II a new style came into fashion. The monarchy was restored but not the stage of former years. The introduction of the proscenium arch alone was bound to alter the whole type of production. The orchestra, when one was called for, came to be accommodated in a pit between actors and audience. Even more revolutionary were the changes in taste brought about largely to satisfy the wishes of a monarch whose French up-bringing and somewhat frivolous disposition affected the entire nation and particularly the Court. To be sure the Merry Monarch did not adopt French ways as slavishly as many a continental princeling afterwards imitated Versailles, but the French influence was very strong. Not even the essentially English individuality of Henry Purcell was immune. Some of his music — the string fantasies, for instance — harks back to Orlando Gibbons, but a good deal of his church music is gay and light-hearted rather than devotional and would probably have scandalized William Byrd. On the stage, Shakespeare himself suffered a "sea change" into something, not perhaps rich, but certainly strange. "Adaptations" of his text, such as those of Davenant and Shadwell, stray far from the original and cause a raising of eyebrows today but were widely used in their time. Such an adaptation — in this case of A Midsummer Night's Dream — forms the text of The Fairy Queen for which Purcell wrote some of his most delightful music without, as far as I remember, setting a single line of genuine Shakespeare. His incidental music for The Tempest is also set to a very much adapted text and the very title of Lacy's "Sawney the Scot," based on The Taming of the Shrew, sets one wondering how

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afield our ancestors could go. However, remembering the highly successful hits The Boys from Syracuse* and Kiss me Kate,w our generation can hardly cast the first stone. A debt to Shakespeare is like a debt to Nature, and for centuries to come he will doubtless continue to inspire and provide material for the most diverse types of music and drama. Although the eighteenth century was not very fruitful in providing settings of Shakespeare, we have reason to be thankful for a number of delightfully fresh songs by Thomas Arne and others; some of these still appear frequently on concert programmes. Adaptations of the plays had by no means passed out of fashion; the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries erred less in this respect than the seventeenth, but even in our own time Hamlet's line "the rest is silence" has been too literally applied to the text; the scene with Fortinbras was for long being considered superfluous. A good eighteenth-century example of adaptation is Garrick's version of A Winter's Tale, given under the title of Flonzel and Perdita and provided with incidental music by William Boyce, who also wrote music for a masque on the subject of The Tempest. But at least eighteenth-century England was beginning to rediscover Shakespeare and nowadays, thank God, he is often allowed to speak for himself. By the end of the eighteenth century, continental countries had begun to take Shakespeare to their hearts — in translations, of course. Handel, Gluck and Mozart had made no use of Shakespearean subjects for operas and Haydn's incidental music for Hamlet is now forgotten.11 It is a pity that Beethoven's powerful imagination was never engaged by a Shakespearean subject: his Coriolan, written for a play by the now forgotten H J. von Collin, is thoroughly Shakespearean in spirit and might well be used in productions of Coriolanus. Indeed it may be regarded as opening 9

Based on The Comedy of Errors, music by Richard Rodgers (1938). Based on The Taming of the Shrew, music by Cole Porter (1948). 11 The music for Hamlet is among the doubtful works attributed to Haydn (Hoboken, Joseph Haydn: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, XXX.B). 10

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the gates to the flood of symphonic and operatic masterpieces that were to follow. Curiously enough, Rossini was in the vanguard, producing his opera Otello in Naples in 1816 and later providing it with an incongruous "happy ending" to suit the tastes of his Roman audience. Understandably it was never a success and has long been completely overshadowed by Verdi's masterpiece. Another forgotten work by a great composer is Wagner's early opera, Das Liebesverbot, which is based on Measure for Measure. Of far greater significance is Berlioz' opera Beatrice et Benedict,12 it too is rarely heard, although its overture is still enjoyed by modern audiences. Berlioz' overture to King Lear fails to measure up to the towering stature of that tragedy but his choral symphony Romeo et Juliette is one of his finest works. Let us hear part of the inimitable "Queen Mab" scherzo, which reflects so admirably the wit, poetry and volatile spirit of Mercutio. (Recording of "Queen Mab" scherzo) The "Queen Mab" scherzo is in itself sufficient justification for allotting Berlioz a place among the immortals. To what extent his first wife, the actress Harriet Smithson, was responsible for his great interest in Shakespeare it is difficult to say, but often one feels a natural affinity between poet and musician. Certainly Gounod's opera Romeo et Juliette is far inferior in quality; for all its pleasing melodiousness, its atmosphere is not that of Verona — still less of Elizabethan London — but rather of the Paris salon. Earlier in date than either of these is Nicolai's opera The Merry Wives of Windsor — probably the first opera dealing with that noble rogue Sir John Falstaff.13 However Falstaff does not dominate the opera as he does the play; most of the music is conventional in character and the listener has to wait patiently for the final scene in Windsor Forest, where themes from the popular overture re12 13

Based on Much Ado About Nothing (1862).

Nicolai's opera was first performed in Berlin in 1849. In fact, there were earlier operas in which Falstaff appeared: Peter Ritter's Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor (Mannheim, 1794); Karl Ditters von Ditterdorf's Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor (Oels, 1796); Antonio Salieri's Falstaff (1799); Michael Balfe's Falstaff (London, 1838).

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appear. Years had to pass before Verdi was to bring the genuine Falstaff to the operatic stage. Meanwhile, Felix Mendelssohn had given to the world his ever-fresh incidental music to A Midsummer Night's Dream. It is many years now since I last heard this music in a stage presentation:14 the orchestral forces required alone would render it unfit for production on the restored Elizabethan stage and the cost might well be prohibitive. However, to my mind most of it accords admirably with the spirit of the play and still holds a place in the affection of most concert-goers. The overture, you will remember, was written by a boy of seventeen and the supplementary movements, though of much later date, are quite similar in character. Mendelssohn was indeed a very mature teenager. One can accept the fact that many people now regard him as demode and certainly his facility and sentimentality often betray him into banality. However, I for one think that his best works will continue to live. Nineteenth-century settings of Shakespeare's songs are of course legion and my lecture already threatens to degenerate into a mere catalogue. Schubert's contributions, though only three in number, call for special notice. His familiar versions of "Who is Sylvia" from The Two Gentlemen of Verona and "Hark, hark the Lark" from Cymbeline, although of course set to translations, fit the English text very well and in my opinion would be ideal for stage productions — provided that they could be supplemented by other incidental music of similar style and equal quality. Some of the ballet music from Rosamunde, for example, might well fit the spirit of The Two Gentlemen. I doubt, however, whether his third Shakespearean song, "Come, thou monarch of the vine" would accord equally well with the exotic atmosphere of Antony and Cleopatra. Songs good, bad and indifferent to words of the bard have continued and still continue to pour out year by year but I have no 14

MacMillan probably recalled a lavish production in Toronto by the visiting company of the London Old Vic in 1954, starring Moira Shearer and Robert Helpman. The orchestra in the pit was the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, although MacMillan did not conduct.

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intention of inflicting long lists on you. Part-songs too are legion, for Shakespeare is an inexhaustible well of inspiration for musicians. Among German composers, Schumann, Brahms, Richard Strauss and others have made contributions in both categories; French and Italian settings are hardly less numerous and, of course, countless English and American composers have followed suit to a bewildering extent. I should not be surprised if composers in Ghana, Kenya and other "new" nations have already done the same, although I cannot quote specific instances. Shakespeare is not only for all time but for all people. The Bard is a United Nations in himself. Russia has for long taken Shakespeare to her heart. Tchaikovsky's Fantasy-Overture Romeo and Juliet springs to mind: it has become a regular war-horse on concert programmes and one of its themes, like so many Tchaikovsky melodies, has been made the basis of a popular song. The excessive popularity of Romeo and Juliet, which many experienced orchestral players could probably play in their sleep, should not blind us to its merits: certainly it is much superior to the same composer's Hamlet which I have always found a dull work. Shostakovich has provided incidental music for Hamlet, Khachaturian for Macbeth, and the repertoire of the ballet has been greatly enriched by Prokofiev whose Romeo and Juliet created such a stir recently in Canada.15 I could go on at length on this subject alone but forbear: I have no wish to become a Bureau of Statistics. Passing over the host of symphonic poems, overtures and the like from Smetana's Richard III and Strauss' Macbeth to Milhaud, Blacher and others among our contemporaries, let us review briefly a few of the more important operatic works of the past century. One's mind naturally turns to Verdi. His supreme masterpieces, Otello and Falstaff, were written at an extremely advanced age, but each in its own way shows a lusty vigour worthy of the Bard himself, whose creative activity, it must be remembered with astonishment, ceased before he was fifty. 15

The production of Romeo and Juliet, choreographed by John Cranko and designed byjurgen Rose, entered the repertoire of the National Ballet of Canada in 1964. That original production continued to be performed into the 1990s, until a new production, still with Cranko's choreography, was mounted in 1995 with designs by Susan Benson.

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It was probably inevitable that Verdi allotted the title role of Otello to a tenor: lago obviously had to be a baritone and it was doubtless a feeling for musical balance as well as the convention of the day that dictated this arrangement. Although I personally feel a measure of incongruity here, I cannot justify such a feeling: perhaps my mind has dwelt too long on the rich speaking voice of Paul Robeson. Certainly Verdi's dramatic imagination and musical technique are here found at their height and the personalities of the drama are presented with the hand of a great master. It is to be remarked in passing that Verdi was at a great advantage in having as librettist for his last works a fellow composer; Boito thoroughly understood the technical and dramatic demands of the musical stage. No doubt many will think it strange that, after reaching such a summit of tragedy as he did in Otello, the eighty-year-old composer should have, for his final work, turned to sparkling comedy — to some extent even to farce. But did not Shakespeare in a sense do the same? The Winter's Tale and The Tempest, although there is a measure of tragedy in both, are, emotionally at least, light fare as compared with Macbeth, Lear and Othello. Certainly we have reason to be thankful that Verdi, after indulging in so much blood and thunder, was able to show this new facet of his nature. There are obvious Wagnerian influences in both Otello and Falstaff but these are largely matters of technique: no one with ears could possible attribute the music to Wagner himself. Wagner's influence is to be found chiefly in the structure of these operas. In Otello we have, to be sure, lago's aria in which he declares his belief in a demon god on whom he thrusts responsibility for his own evil actions and purposes; we have also Desdemona's heart-rending Willow Song — "Sake, salce." These are self-contained passages and are frequently heard (as, indeed, are a good many in even the later Wagner) on the concert platform. But it is difficult to detach from their context similar extracts from Falstaff— especially extracts for solo voice. For this reason it is unlikely that Falstaffwill ever win the wide popularity of Rigoktto or La Traviata, or indeed that of any opera built on the old model of set arias and ensembles; its qualities can be appreciated only in a fine stage performance. The difficulties of mounting such productions are

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indeed formidable and therefore the work is rarely heard outside the leading operatic centres except by radio and recordings. We must be thankful for these — especially when the production is of such superb quality as the one given during the past season at the Metropolitan. But even here it is tantalizing to miss seeing the stage action which is supremely important in a farcical comedy of this nature. I was privileged many years ago to be present when Falstaffwas mounted in Salzburg with an entirely Italian cast under the musical direction of Toscanini; in spite of the limitations of the pre-war Salzburg stage it still remains in my memory as the finest operatic production I have ever seen. Verdi's Falstaff is genuine Shakespeare in its lustiness and driving force and its orchestration is superb. Yet it is inevitably Shakespeare seen through Italian eyes and, while Shakespeare is infinitely adaptable, I have always wanted to see one version of Falstaff which seems to me truly English. I refer to Vaughan Williams' Sir John in Love which has probably never been given outside of England but deserves to be widely known.16 In 1930, when the score was first published, I reviewed it in The Conservatory Quarterly Review and I hope you will bear with me while I read you what I said. Vaughan Williams' opera challenges comparison with other musical works on the subject of Falstaff, and in his short preface the composer indicates that he is prepared to meet such comparison. One's mind reverts to Nicolai's Lustige Weiber von Windsor,this, apart from its deservedly popular overture, is comparatively little known in Englishspeaking countries, and is much less frequently performed even in Germany than it was fifty years ago. Verdi's last (and perhaps greatest) work is a much more formidable rival; it is heard far too infrequently, for it takes its place among the most 16

Sir John in Love had been given a student production at Columbia University, New York, in 1949. It was given a fully staged production with orchestra by the Opera Division of the University of Toronto in 1984 in the MacMillan Theatre.

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delightful creations of the spirit of comedy. But whereas Verdi's Falstaffis a lineal descendant of Mozart, Sir John in Love derives its spirit more directly from Shakespeare. Boito's libretto, eliminating as it does at least half the minor characters of The Merry Wives, and skilfully planned as it is to strike an even balance between music and comedy, presents a comparatively simple problem to the composer, though even admitting this, one cannot but marvel at the brilliance of the great Italian, who, after a life-time almost entirely devoted to tragedy could, at the age of eighty or more, produce this sparkling comedy. But Shakespeare's play is not so much a comedy as a farce, and it is just this farcical spirit, so difficult to reproduce in music on a large scale, that Vaughan Williams had managed to catch. Sir John in Love is not so great a work of art as Verdi's opera — it is much less homogeneous, much less even in quality, and there are times when one feels that Shakespeare's blank verse and prose (which is extensively used) is very intractable material for the composer. But it is thoroughly English, thoroughly Shakespearean and, incidentally, a much more successful experiment in this genre than Hoist's At the Boar's Head, in which the Shakespearean text (from Henry IV) is practically unaltered. A word regarding the libretto which (as no indication is given to the contrary) we may take to be the composer's own adaptation. The need of lyrical interludes by way of relief must strike everyone who knows Hoist's work, and with the experience of his fellow-composer to guide him, Vaughan Williams has, at suitable moments, skilfully introduced lyrics from other Shakespearean plays and by other Elizabethan poets. For instance, Ben Jonson's lovely lines beginning, "Do but look on her eyes," followed by the better-known "Have you seen

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but a bright lily grow," are sung by Fenton in a charmingly delicate love scene in the first act, and recur in the last act, set as a bridal chorus when "Sweet Anne Page" appears as his bride. Again after the two merry wives have read Sir John's letter (in canon!) and have conspired with Mistress Quickly to fool the knight, we have a hilariously jolly version of "Sigh no more, ladies," the words being lifted bodily out of Much Ado about Nothing. Perhaps most effective of all is the Finale to Rosseter's words "Whether men do laugh or weep" — almost Handelian in its beefiness — and possibly designed as a counterpart to Verdi's glorious fugue, "Tutto nel mondo e burla"; different as they are in musical style, in dramatic effect they are almost identical. One is perhaps somewhat startled when the peppery Frenchman, Dr. Caius (a farcical little grasshopper if there ever was one) suddenly and without warning bursts into the exquisite old French love song, "Vrai dieu d'amours, confortezmoy"; musically it is undoubtedly justifiable, but one hesitates to approve of it from a dramatic point of view. Yet after all does not Shakespeare himself constantly surprise us by putting lyrical outbursts into the mouths of unlikely characters? To say that folk-songs (and quasi folk-songs) abound is only to say that Sir John in Love is written by the composer of Hugh the Drover. Most charming of all, perhaps, is the well-known Greensleeves, first sung by Mrs. Ford as she sits with her lute awaiting the fat knight, and afterwards used as an entr'acte. In the first act, where Falstaff announces: "I do mean to make love to Ford's wife," we hear "John come kiss me now" in the orchestra; it is presently taken up in rollicking fashion by the Host, Bardolph and Pistol, and is used as an orchestral background to some of Falstaff's soliloquies. Many other folk-songs are similarly treated as orchestral

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backgrounds — not always so pertinently. One might grow weary in detailing the many delightful touches of humour, lyrical charm and musical invention with which this opera abounds. The opening of the third act, for instance, finds Parson Evans (whose Welsh inflections throughout are delicious), waiting for Caius with whom he is to fight a duel. The orchestra, in a ridiculous chromatic figure, gives us a graphic representation of "that sinking feeling," while the Parson himself tries in vain to keep his mind serene by singing from his psalm-book (to the tune "St. Mary,") alternating this with the folk-song "To Shallow Rivers," and getting them absurdly mixed. The "curtain" of the first act, too, calls for comment. Ford has just been warned of his wife's coming "affair" with Sir John, and is consumed with jealousy, when the two wives appear, Mrs. Ford singing the song, "When daisies pied and violets blue" (from Love's Labour's Lost). The references to the cuckoo appear to him as a taunt. "Cuckold!" he repeats in rage as the women go o f f — "Cuckold!" — and, as the curtain falls he is re-echoed by the full orchestra. Another amusing touch is the search by Ford and the great company he brings with him for Falstaff (who has already been carried off in the clothes basket), while the orchestra plays the merry dance tune, "T'old wife of Dallowgill," with its fascinating three-bar phrases; the search party gradually falls into the rhythm, until the result is almost a folk-dance. As in Verdi's opera, the episode of the "fat woman of Brentford" is omitted, much to the improvement of the dramatic effect. Falstaff's soliloquy after he has been thrown into the river was, of course, much too good to omit, and it is ingeniously introduced into the last act, when the fat knight, disguised as Herne the Hunter, is

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awaiting developments in Windsor Park. It is not likely that lovers of Shakespeare will miss any of their favourite passages, and the minor characters are all given full justice. We have Slender with his "O Sweet Anne Page," Pistol, with all his swagger and pseudo-classical allusions, Simple, who is provided with a new "gag" — "Ay, forsooth!" — and the jolly host. Needless to say, there is enough drinking to warrant the banning of the opera from the United States of America. [Remember that this review was written in the days of the "Noble Experiment."17] But let us hope we in Canada are more fortunate; may we at no distant date be given an opportunity of gratifying our wish — the wish once expressed, so they say, by the Virgin Queen — the wish to which, ultimately, we owe the whole affair — the wish "to see Sir John in Love." I do not apologize for quoting myself at such length, for I feel that this little-known opera should be accorded an important place in the vast gallery of Shakespearean music. While we are on the subject of Falstaff I would like to turn for a few moments from operatic settings and speak of an orchestral work which I regard as one of the finest achievements of its composer. Edward Elgar's symphonic poem Falstaff presents the fat knight, as we see him, not in the Merry Wives but in Henry TV— a still richer and more skilfully drawn character. The composer runs the full gamut of his powers and, if we are reminded, in the music of Prince Hal — especially after his accession to the Throne — of the jingoism of the Pomp and Circumstance marches, we must admit that the occasion does call for some flag-waving. Falstaff's outrageous boasting is admirably depicted in a widely sweeping theme that recurs frequently — naturally so, for boasting with him scarcely yields second place even to drinking. By way of contrast to 17

MacMillan's aside is a reminder that in 1930, when the review was written, Prohibition was in force in the USA

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the drunken scenes and the noisy fight near Gadshill, the march of Sir John's nondescript followers across England takes them through some lovely scenery such as only the English landscape provides. One wonders whether the marchers were as sensitive to its beauties as was Elgar. When Falstaff, after indulging in his usual long draughts of sack, falls asleep to the accompaniment of lusty snores in the double bassoon and tuba, another contrasting passage ensues — a little sentimental if you like but even Sir John may be allowed to indulge in sentimentality when dreaming of his boyhood. The end too is quite touching — as, indeed, it is in the play. Falstaff is cruelly disowned by the monarch who had shared so many roguish escapades with him. You probably remember his immediate reaction — a touch of supreme genius on the part of the author. "Master Shallow," says he, "I owe you a thousand pound." This piece of drollery is admirably pictured by Elgar: one can readily picture the disconsolate expression on the faces of the knight and his dependants. Reminiscences of the Prince Hal of former days recur nostalgically, suggesting that he is still loved by the man he has treated so badly. So dies the fat rogue and one forgives him everything.

In compiling material for my very superficial study I have been frequently reminded of the traveller on an Atlantic liner. Gazing out over the ocean, he remarked to a friend: "Such a vast expanse of water fills me with a sense of awe!" "Yes," said the other, "and you can see only the top of it!" Year by year new works large and small continue to appear. Works by contemporary composers include Benjamin Britten's version of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Two years ago I attended a performance sung in Swedish at the Bergen Festival and found it delightful entertainment. The role of Puck, allotted entirely to a speaking voice, stands out notably against the sung parts, giving it a special piquancy. One might mention, too, Britten's Rape of Lucretia which, like Walton's Troilus and Cressida, is not strictly Shakespearean although one feels that the initial drive emanates from the Bard. I hope some day to see certain contemporary operas by such non-English composers as

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the Midsummer Night's Dream of Carl Orff, Ernst Krenek's treatment of the same subject, and the Romeo and Juliet of the Swiss composer, Heinrich Sutermeister, which has won wide popularity in Europe. Although I know of no Canadian opera on a Shakespearean subject, Canadian composers have provided an abundance of music in the smaller forms, especially music written for CBC productions and the Stratford Festivals. To say that Shakespeare is one of the most astounding miracles of all time is to belabour the obvious. That this miracle should have been accomplished within the space of about twenty years is well nigh incredible. Let us therefore not waste words but bow our heads in wonder and, having done so, return to the plays themselves — plays that so often breathe the very spirit of music. "Soul of the age," says Ben Jonson, "the applause, delight, the wonder of our stage." But no one knew better than Jonson that Shakespeare was much more than this: He was not of an age but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When like Apollo he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm.18

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From Jonson's introductory poem in the folio edition of Shakespeare's plays, London, 1623.

The Canadian Musical Public

he Canadian musical public is probably not very different from the musical public elsewhere — that is to say that it includes a fair proportion of knowledgeable listeners, but far more that remind one of Max Beerbohm's heroine, Zuleika Dobson. You will remember that Zuleika "didn't know much about music, really, but knew what she liked." With most people this means that they like what they know and their repertoire of favourites may be very restricted. At the other extreme we find the musical snob who must at all costs differ from the common run. More or less sincerely, he proclaims his taste for the unfamiliar and exotic. This may mean that, in his estimation, music began with Stravinsky or that it ended with Mozart — in some cases it means both. In any case he likes what others don't know and "old favourites" — usually those of nineteenth-century romanticism — leave him cold. This classification is obviously very arbitrary: one seldom meets with pure and unadulterated representatives of either type. Most people's tastes lie somewhere in between these extremes, although they are likely to show strong tendencies in one or other direction. I have for the moment based my distinction on relative preference for music of different historical periods — Chopin is well known to many who never heard of Dufay or Stockhausen. There are however many other criteria: indeed to the less knowledgeable listener musical history may be quite irrelevant and his acceptance of one style and rejection of another purely instinctive. Any one with or without knowledge may love or detest any type of music, irrespective of historical perspectives. Our listener may have an almost exclusive preference, let us say, for opera or for glowing orchestral colour. He may be one of those rare music lovers whose approach is more intellectual than aesthetic, one to whom esoteric mathematical formulae appeal profoundly. He may be over-sensitive to loud sounds and is likely to take delight in chamber music while being repelled by a blare of

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brass, whether the composer be Berlioz or John Philip Sousa. He may respond to the more subtle types of jazz or to the more raucous sort that stirs the legs rather than the gentler emotions. He may prefer his music dreamy, strongly rhythmical, elegant or erotic. Very probably, like most of us, he wants music to minister to the mood of the moment — to soothe him when he is tired, to elevate him when he is depressed, to arouse him when he is bored. Music can do all these things and more for anyone who is not tone-deaf whether or not he is prepared to give it his full attention. But let us not forget that a good deal of music — or what passes as music — is not really heard at all but is merely an additional noise in an already over-noisy world. I cannot believe that a busy housewife is likely to give much attention to what is piped in to a super-market while she is selecting tomorrow's groceries. Speaking personally, I have often gone without a meal because the only available restaurant was equipped with a noisy and over-active juke-box. Tolerant though I am by nature, I resent having my ears thus assaulted. When music is good, the music-lover wants to give it full attention. When it is bad, it affects him like a bad smell. No doubt a painter is similarly disturbed by ugly sights but it is easier to close ones eyes than ones ears. Let us however turn from the cacophony of modern life to music that can be listened to for its own sake, not forgetting that back-ground music of all kinds has its place. Indeed background music of various types has, throughout the ages, served a variety of purposes. Savage tribes were stirred to martial ardour or religious frenzy by the sound of the drum. This reaction is, of course, not peculiar to savages. Lullabies have put babies to sleep from time immemorial. During the Middle Ages music was the handmaid of the Church — as it still is; a congregation is not — or should not be — an audience. No doubt there are always some who To church repair, Not for the doctrine but the music there,1 1

Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism, Part II, lines 342/343.

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but they constitute a minority; every church organist knows that his music for the most part falls on deaf ears. Even the minstrels and strolling players of medieval days were, I fancy, listened to for the tales of valour related in their lays and the erotic stimulation of their love-songs rather than for the music itself. Music has for centuries been associated with the drama and still is, though for some types of play it is unnecessary and even intrusive. That many people find it distracting and tending to obscure the lines of radio plays is evidenced by letters that appear in the CBC Times. Though I sometimes agree with these complaints, it is foolish not to discriminate between cases. Background music, skilfully written and discreetly introduced, can do much to heighten the emotional effect of a dramatic scene, whether on the stage or the screen. Background music, however, is only incidental and the audience I have in mind is one composed of people who value music sufficiently to devote time, attention and usually money to its cultivation. To the concert audience, a phenomenon of scarcely more than two hundred years' existence, this may involve considerable effort and sacrifice of comfort. One can imagine many an habitual concert-goer looking out from the window of a cozy living-room at a raging blizzard, torn between his desire to hear "live" music and the temptation to relax by his fireside and enjoy a similar or even the same programme by radio or gramophone. If he is a record collector he has the additional advantage of being able to select his own programme. The benefits of mechanically made music are obvious. It has immensely enlarged the musical public and widened the horizon of countless millions. It has made the study of musical history a joy rather than a drudgery to the student. Gramophone companies have unearthed dust-covered tomes from library shelves and brought to life the works of long-neglected composers. The names of Vivaldi, Telemann, and many others have taken on a new significance; medieval music has emerged from the secluded studies of specialists and folk music from the far corners of the earth. Much contemporary music too has been recorded and frequent repetition can accustom receptive ears to its complexities and strange idioms. Familiar standard classics and even a wide variety of little known works by the great masters can be readily

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heard in our homes. When I was a lad never did I hear all Beethoven's Immortal Nine within a single season. The majority of Haydn's 104 symphonies existed for me only in four-hand a r r a n g e m e n t s — delightful to play with a friend but comparatively colourless when stripped of their orchestral dress. Altogether we are highly favoured of the gods and should approach our gramophones with a prayer of thanks — a sort of grace before meat. Mechanical reproduction has brought to life so much formerly dead music that it seems ungracious to restrict the term "live" to the music we hear at first hand. Nevertheless the latter has a quality which even the highest of "hi-fis" fails to recapture. I suppose there are plenty of people who practically never hear "live" music at all; even the open-air band concert has in many places given way to radio-diffusion. Some years ago, the Toronto Globe and Mail carried an article by a truck-driver who had just attended his first concert in Massey Hall — one of the Sunday "Pops" for which no admission was then charged. He was obviously both observant and intelligent and his description of what went on was pithy, fluently written and often amusing. Let me quote a couple of paragraphs: To one whose listening has been largely confined to the mechanical reproduction of sound, the true sound of an instrument is almost a shock. It is nearly as if one had never heard it before. The violins lose their shrillness, the drums their monotony. A sense of majesty and immediacy enters into the ear. It was impossible to remain untouched by the concord of sounds that issued from instruments in the hands of those who play them with skill and affection. The incredible range, the diversity of their effects, the extremes of volume produce a constant interest, unknown though the pieces may be. Listening to a symphony in person is like reading Dickens after a diet of comic books.

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Thus far our truck-driver, Mr. Bernard Coady, to whom I tender thanks for putting so vitally and lucidly what I have often tried to say. After all, most of us habitual concert-goers take a good deal for granted when we listen to gramophone or radio: perhaps we have heard the works at first hand so often that much of our pleasure in recordings is derived from our memory of live performances. Of course it works both ways. Hearing a work at first hand is more enjoyable and more intelligible if we have previously come to know and love it through records. Similarly, to see a great painting in the original is a completely new and different experience from that of seeing it in even the best photographic reproduction, but each of these experiences can be helpful to the other. A radio engineer of my acquaintance used to deplore the fact that most music lovers in this country had developed what he called "tin ears." Coming from an engineer this struck me as most significant. I remembered how, in the German prison camp where I spent most of the first World War, we subsisted for the most part on tinned food — and were very glad to get it. Although much of it was very good, I shall never forget my delight when, after our release, we were taken aboard a Danish ship and found that each man had been provided with two fresh apples and a fresh egg. I know how our truck-driver felt about live music. Nevertheless it must be admitted that modern soundreproduction by means of tapes has enabled us to hear performances of a perfection unattainable in the past. Accidents are liable to occur in the singing or playing of even the finest artists but if anything goes wrong in a "taped" performance it is easy to repeat a passage and have the improved version "dubbed in." The radio or gramophone devotee naturally develops an exceedingly critical ear. Certainly he is likely to be outraged by many performances that would have passed muster twenty or thirty years ago. This is all to the good and has a salutary effect on the performer. Conscious that he is playing to a highly critical audience the conscientious musician is stimulated to his best efforts. Sometimes, however, the gramophone listener may base his opinion of a performance exclusively on the interpretations recorded on one disc or set. If he wants to include in his library the same

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Beethoven Sonata as interpreted say, by Rubinstein, Serkin and a number of other piano virtuosi, it is likely to cost him a mint of money — probably more than he can afford. Repeated playing of any one record may result in a mental fixation with regard to the work in question: this can be unfortunate in the case of a professional musician or music critic, who should keep a reasonably open mind, but it is of no great consequence to the amateur. There can be no doubt that mechanical reproduction has greatly widened the musical horizon of many thousands in Canada. Intelligent discussion on matters musical has become quite common in circles where music was formerly a closed book. In particular, the gramophone has stimulated wide interest in prenineteenth-century music and especially chamber music, for here sheer volume is usually of minor importance. I would like to think that this interest had projected itself into the concert hall but many fine chamber groups still find it difficult to attract audiences. True, chamber music was not designed for a large concert hall but it is still a pity that so many genuine connoisseurs seem content to rely exclusively on the radio and gramophone. Present-day enthusiasm for Baroque music strikes me as one very salutary result of the use of the gramophone. Until recent years comparatively little of it was heard at public concerts except in large centres but its gramophone devotees seem to be legion. On the other hand I imagine that most lovers of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Brahms have come to love them through hearing live performances: after doing so they hie them to the recorddealer hoping to re-live that experience. Musical Gallup-polls among regular concert-goers practically always result in a victory for the nineteenth century. To some of our "moderns" Brahms and Tchaikovsky are names of reproach; reaction against the past is almost always against the immediate past, and today's reaction would seem in some cases to go back to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and combine with a taste for modern music reechoing that of those early days. One need not quarrel with such a preference; musical research and fine recordings have opened our ears to the beauties of much music by composers whom previously most of us knew only as names. Still, widening our horizon in one direction need surely not necessitate closing it in another. To reject

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outright the rich literature of romanticism strikes me as sheer musical snobbery: perhaps romantic music is too obviously enjoyed by the hoi polloi. If, as I believe, we have in Canada a much larger, better informed and more discriminating musical public than we could have hoped for in the past, much of the credit must go to the radio and particularly to the CBC. In the days of my youth even so large a city as Toronto was, comparatively speaking, a musical desert, although there were a few oases. The immensity of our country still handicaps many of our efforts, musical and otherwise, but fifty years ago many communities were isolated to a degree that we can recall only through a mighty imaginative effort. We are still provincial enough, Heaven knows, but then we were much more restricted in our outlook. To be sure, there was plenty of home music-making — a good thing as far as it went and I fervently wish we had more of it now. But there is no point in over-idealizing the past, for a good deal of this home music was pretty feeble — sometimes even painful to the listener though it gave pleasure to the performer. Where there were fine concerts, most of their patrons were star-worshippers — as, indeed, many are today — but, lacking a background of musical experience, they were rarely discriminating in their judgment of the music itself. Contrast our situation in Canada at the turn of the century with that of European countries where music benefited by substantial state subsidies and where some leading centre was likely to be reasonably close. Centuries of development had rendered music as essential a part of life to many as eating and sleeping. The arrival on our shores of so many "New Canadians" has brought us, in addition to other benefits, a keener awareness of what we lacked and has stimulated us to greater efforts. The surprise expressed by the more cultivated among these newcomers that Canadian cities lacked opera-houses and large concert halls has played at least some part in encouraging us to repair the omission. Even operaloving Montreal was not adequately provided until last year. 2 Within the last ten years, however, palatial structures have been 2

Place des Arts opened in 1963.

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erected in Calgary, Edmonton, Vancouver and Toronto and now Fredericton and Charlottetown have followed suit. Up to the year of my birth Canada could not boast of a single concert-hall capable of adequately accommodating a full orchestra. Massey Hall — with its almost unrivalled acoustics — was opened a year later (a happy event for which I claim no credit) and remained, until the 1920's the only adequate building of the kind from coast to coast. Then followed Winnipeg and, after a long interval, the others. It would be foolish to over-rate the importance of these halls in themselves. Of far greater significance is the use to which they are put and the extent to which they stimulate musical life in each community. The indications are that they fulfil genuine needs; in all cases, I am told, they are very fully booked and although they serve purposes other than music, in every case they are ministering to our flowering musical life. A similar building spree has brought into being many excellent school halls in both large and small centres: these meet admirably the requirements of smaller groups or of solo artists and public response is often most gratifying. Here in the Royal Conservatory, after having been so long handicapped by cramped quarters in days gone by, we are most fortunate in having this splendidly equipped opera theatre as well as two fine concert halls.3 We must not indulge in complacency. To whom much is given, of him much will be required, and we must supplement our building efforts by ensuring that abundant talent is available to justify them. One of the brightest signs of recent years has been the development of the National Youth Orchestra4 which for the past two weeks or so has been busily rehearsing in this building. These young people do not need to be urged to work hard: having on many occasions seen them in action, I can only express the wish 3

MacMillan was giving his address in the MacMillan Theatre of the Faculty of Music. In 1964 the somewhat complicated structure of music at the University of Toronto included the Faculty of Music and a School of Music, both subsumed under the title Royal Conservatory of Music. 4 Established in 1960 under the direction of Walter Susskind, the Orchestra holds an annual summer school for intensive training and rehearsal of young orchestral musicians.

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that some of our too-seasoned professionals would follow their good example. Fortunately their work meets everywhere with enthusiastic public response and this is immensely important, for not only can the performer inspire or bore his audience but the audience can inspire or depress the musician. One of the serious drawbacks to broadcasts from either a radio or a television studio is that one plays as a rule to dead walls. Probably every musician would admit that he needs an audience to stimulate him to his best work. Music demands emotional fire — something not readily generated by spontaneous combustion. To be sure, the performer is stimulated by the music itself and, in a radio studio production, by his consciousness of the unseen audience, but these are only a partial compensation. In the long run the dampening effect on performers of playing to walls is likely to be detected by the unseen audience. The fusion of performer and listener, like that of two chemical elements, produces a third indefinable something. At its best it is like the descent of the Holy Ghost at Pentecost. When this miracle fails to happen it is likely to be the fault of the musician — performer or composer or perhaps both. When our elder son was five he was taken to hear a certain singer and afterwards asked how he liked him. "Well, daddy," he said, "he had a fine voice but he didn't make us listen to him." Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings cometh forth wisdom. I have been speaking of our audiences as though they represented one collective mind. There is of course such a thing as "mob psychology" — in a good as well as bad sense — yet every audience consists of individual listeners and each listener is likely to form his own opinion and experience his own reactions. If he is himself a performer he is bound to be acutely conscious of technical flaws in what he hears and anything short of perfection may leave him cold. Music teachers attending concerts are also likely to be discriminating critics especially with regard to technical matters, engaged as they are, day by day, in criticizing students. I am afraid that many teachers of music are not habitual concert-goers. Some of them perhaps can't afford the price of a ticket and others, after spending long hours listening to the efforts of their pupils, have (I hope only temporarily) lost their appetite for music. This is

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understandable but it is a pity that so many who have to endure a great deal of mediocre playing or singing should neglect to check their standards by hearing the best performances available. Speaking of music teachers, perhaps you will allow me to digress for a moment and give you the late Sir Hugh Allen's list of qualifications for a good one. "He must have the eye of a hawk, the ear of a rabbit, the patience of Job, the adaptability of a chameleon and the diplomacy (as regards parents) of an archangel." To this I can only add that he must continue to love music in spite of occupational hazards. The position of the music critic is very different. He has to go to concerts whether he will or no because that's his job and he must often, I imagine, resent the necessity. No wonder he sometimes vents his spleen on a mediocre pianist or soprano and may even be grudging in voicing praise of a fine artist. Having expressed myself on the subject of critics in a recent article which many of you are likely to have read, 5 I shall pass them by, remarking only that both radio and newspaper criticism in Canada has on the whole greatly improved in recent years. I can remember the days when some newspapers relegated write-ups on music to the women's pages. I can remember too some delightful faux pas made by critics even here in Toronto: in one case a bass tuba was said to have been played pizzicato^ and, in another, the same instrument was given credit for a passage actually allocated to the double bassoon. I remember also one of our critics who referred, several times, to Ravel's Jeu d'eau as "Eyes of Water." This kind of thing could hardly happen nowadays, yet it is not many years since I heard a visiting orchestra — a very fine one — get into difficulties in a Brahms Symphony and no critic seemingly noticed that at one point the wood-wind and strings were two beats apart. However, I am bound to say that such instances are rare. Conscientious, well-informed criticism (when forthcoming) plays its part in developing public taste and keeping the performer on his toes. I have no doubt that most of our critics across Canada are conscientious and some are even well-informed. 5 6

"Music Critics, by One of Their Targets," TSO News, September 1963. A term to indicate plucked strings.

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Although only one member of the audience, the critic carries a special responsibility and it is incumbent on him to give concentrated attention to what he hears and sees. But I would like to think that every listener felt a similar responsibility. Audiences in this country are on the whole well behaved and do not talk during the music. But I have yet to hear hissings and boos such as one does, for example, in the opera houses in Italy. We greet what has bored or displeased us with polite hand-clapping; unrestrained enthusiasm is rare even for what we have enjoyed. In other words the dynamic range of our applause is limited. This may be due to national temperament but not altogether; we do let ourselves go at a hockey game. Not that I want a Beethoven symphony to be acclaimed with the excitement that greets a winning goal by the Maple Leafs or Canadiens — still less that it should arouse audience participation in the shape of accompanying shouts and yells. But I would like our audiences to give more concrete evidence of a feeling that music really mattered — greater elation at the first-rate, less tolerance of the mediocre. I might remark that, in my experience, Montrealers demonstrate their enthusiasm more generously than do Torontonians. But, judging by what some of our travelling artists tell us, the palm must be awarded to the Russians. In last weeks's CBC Times our own Lois Marshall, who has paid several visits to the USSR, is quoted as saying: The Russians welcomed us so warmly in Moscow that we could not begin either of the concerts for several minutes. Those awful tears of mine were beginning to creep out, but I managed very well, and so began our two unforgettable evenings. They shouted and applauded. They brought flowers and were certainly prepared to stay all night. But that doesn't really describe it at all. This is so special, this quality of devotion and love which the Russian people have for music. The atmosphere becomes so charged with their feelings and respect that it is perfectly overwhelming.

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Well, I have often seen Canadian audiences carried off their feet by Lois Marshall but, according to her own showing, Russian response was a unique experience — an experience shared by other Canadian artists. How long will it be, I wonder, before it will be duplicated here? Of course it is asking a good deal to look for such discrimination in an audience. Many of its individual members can and do discriminate, but the whole audience is both greater and less than the sum of its parts. When two or three — or two or three thousand — are gathered together, a certain something is in the air; the Scots call it the "sough." Whether it be what I have called the Holy Ghost or the Spirit of Hell, it has a character of its own. But, making all allowance for mob psychology or whatever you want to call it, an audience is composed of individuals. No performance before an audience is single: in a sense there are as many performances as there are people in the hall. This includes the performers. An orchestra, let us say, is giving a first performance of a suite by a contemporary composer known personally to many of those present. One of the violinists is a bosom pal of the composer. On this account he is genuinely interested in the work and anxious to give of his best; however, he doesn't think much of the conductor's interpretation and will blame the latter if the work proves a flop. The first clarinet can't understand why the blank so-and-so should write passages that lie so badly for the instrument: at one spot it's just unplayable but perhaps the other instruments will cover it up. Perhaps most of the players are grumbling at the copyist: how the unquotable are they expected to read this ghastly manuscript, especially in the bad light of the hall? The percussion player responsible for the glockenspiel and xylophone parts hopes the conductor won't forget (as he did at rehearsal) to give him his cue: it's no fun counting a whole page of rests with the time signature shifting from 5/4 to 3/4, to 7/8, to Iiy2/16 and what have you. Roy Szezowsky in the violas has just gotten himself engaged and can't wait for the second concert to end so that he can see his girl. The harpist, Nan Blank, is married and has two children: Mary had a sore throat this morning and may have developed the measles — there's so much of it about! And so on.

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It takes a genuine effort on the part of all concerned to do justice to the work. The conductor wants to give it every chance, especially as the composer is present, but that girl in the front row, just within his range of vision, tt^Y/keep fanning herself with her programme in the most distracting cross-rhythms and the cymbal player hasn't yet picked up the cymbals for the clash due just two bars ahead. In spite of all this, when the work is finished, most of the players have a pretty fair idea of how it went, though obviously each has been too much concerned with his own part to have a very lucid conception of the piece as a whole and I am afraid a good many are not much interested. Meanwhile, what of the audience? Let us say it includes the composer, who has probably been allotted a prominent seat with a view to taking a bow afterwards. He finds it very exciting to hear his brain-child ushered into the world, but it doesn't do to give himself away and he hopes he looks reasonably blase to those who have spotted him. He has heard the work in rehearsal and has discussed several points with the conductor: he hopes the old boy has understood what he wants, but that oboe part needs bringing out more clearly — and why must he take this passage so fast? Perhaps our composer is conscious of certain miscalculations on his own part, but it is too late to do anything about that now; we spent a lot of time at rehearsal weeding out mistakes in the parts — not all the copyist's fault either! There's that blasted horn player cracking on his high E flat again! And so the time goes by: he is on pins and needles until it ends — alternately elated and plunged into misery — but finally it is over. The audience applauds with more or less warmth, and the volume increases as the conductor motions him to rise. Perhaps even some of the orchestra are clapping: this is a genuine compliment — to his music, to his personality — who can tell? In the front row of the balcony are Mr. and Mrs. XYZ She has been a member of the Women's Committee for years and may be its next Chairman; she is also a member of the Leg-Up Association for Canadian composers and the composer of this evening is one of her proteges. Privately she wishes that Benny would write something just a little more tuneful: of course she

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agrees with him that we must be up-to-date, but still he would make it easier for himself if he weren't quite so uncompromising! In time, she says to herself, I'll catch up. Although she is still a few laps behind when the piece ends, she applauds vigorously, nudging her husband till he wakes up and does the same. He, poor man, has had a heavy day at the office and would gladly have relaxed in an arm-chair in front of the television set but wifely persuasions have prevailed. He is a loyal mate and a conscientious supporter of Canadian culture but he doesn't really like what he calls "this modern stuff," although in the course of much concert-going and gramophone listening he has come to know many of the classics and is glad that Beethoven's Seventh is to follow. Although there are usually some XYZ's in our audience whose presence is due to a mixture of snobbery and genuine devotion to music, the majority are more nearly single-minded. Snobbery has its uses but is rarely a prevailing motive, whatever the Philistine may think. Were it not so, our larger musical organizations would soon wither for lack of workers. Monetary contributions may or may not represent a real sacrifice; the sacrifice may not be very great when contributions are exempt from income tax in the higher brackets. But to those laymen and women who give freely of their time and effort on behalf of music we musicians owe an incalculable debt. I would not give much for the chances of an orchestra whose business affairs were left to the musicians. In the course of my life I have been gratified to observe the increased proportion of men in Canadian audiences; I believe we have outgrown that singular tradition of our immediate past that relegated cultivation of the fine arts to the distaff side. Nowadays I have no doubt that there are husbands who drag unwilling wives to concerts and there are certainly great numbers who nourish their musical souls by means of recordings. It may be mere co-incidence but male attendance at concerts has certainly grown since it has become less customary to wear formal dress for concerts; climbing into evening clothes is, for the average man, a bit of a chore, whereas the ladies, bless them, love to dress up and we are grateful to them for looking so ornamental. However, I imagine that less formal dress is only a minor factor in accounting for this particular change in our audiences. Much more important is the more

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understanding approach to the instruction of children — particularly boys — in many of our schools. No doubt the good effects of an early education in music (or in any other subject) will in many cases wear off in years of maturity, but a good deal of it sticks. I have seen plenty of evidence of this in the more intelligent comments made and questions asked by young people. Good radio — and even some television — broadcasts have also borne much fruit and should help to swell our audiences as the children grow up. Participation in school bands, orchestras and choirs has greatly increased with regard to both quantity and quality and undoubtedly the most ardent music lover is likely to be one that has at some time tried, with more or less success, to make music for himself — probably in a group. I need hardly say, however, that in so participating he must make constant use of his ears as well as his fingers or his voice. The Competition Festival, which has so strong a hold in hundreds of Canadian communities, is primarily valuable as contributing to amateur rather than professional music making and thus in building audiences. Most of those concerned with the promotion of such festivals recognize this and discourage mere pot-hunting. I wish the same were true of most parents, for in this connection excessive parental pride can have disastrous effects. I say nothing about teachers: their judgements are, of course, always impartial. Here and there a competition may unearth a genuinely outstanding talent which might otherwise have remained unknown but even the talented may join their less gifted competitors in taking to heart the words of Walford Davies that appear on most festival programmes: "The object of competitors in a festival should not be the winning of a trophy but that they pace one another on the road to excellence." Probably every adjudicator preaches on this text and hopes his words will be taken to heart. It doesn't always happen. On one occasion I found myself in a railway car surrounded by members of a school choir to whom I had delivered my usual little homily before announcing the marks. In the seat in front of me was a small, red-headed, snub-nosed boy. Catching sight of me he nudged a little girl who, judging by appearances, was probably his sister. Jerking a thumb in my direction, he said: "That's the guy that put us second!"

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However, common though such reactions are, I still believe that festivals have their value and I mention them here chiefly as potential audience builders. Canada's most obvious musical need is for larger and more intelligent audiences. One organization that makes the satisfaction of this need a primary purpose is Les Jeunesses Musicales du Canada. J.M.C., as it is popularly known, has spread from its Canadian birthplace in the Province of Quebec to eight of our ten provinces and, being one unit in a wide international organization, is itself only one of twenty or more divisions in as many countries. The six hundred or more concerts J.M.C. gives yearly throughout Canada are always supplied with commentaries on the music and the enthusiasm displayed by most of the young people who attend them is heartwarming. A Toronto centre was formed last year; attendances at the concerts were meagre, largely because too little time was allowed for their promotion, but those concerned hope for much better results next season. Tomorrow my wife and I leave for the J.M.C. summer camp at Mont Orford, where I know we shall find a fine assembly of young people devoting themselves to the study of music in almost all its forms. I am happy to say, too, that our National Youth Orchestra will visit the camp next month and give a concert in the charming — though, for this purpose, rather small — concert hall. The accent placed on youth by so many organizations of today augurs well for our musical future. I might mention the Banff School of Fine Arts, where students labour throughout the Summer in ideal surroundings, or the CAMMAC Camp north of Montreal, where emphasis is laid on amateur music making. On the concert platform new talents of the highest calibre appear year after year and some of these young artists will doubtless go on to win international fame as so many have already done. Yet, having been afforded such admirable training as our Royal Conservatory, the Quebec Conservatoire National and a few other well equipped schools offer, will they be forced to leave Canada in order to realize their potentialities in public performance? Our paying musical public is still grossly inadequate; until this fault is rectified and until we learn to recognize an outstanding artist when we produce one, we shall continue to suffer such losses. I am only too aware

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that we sustain similar losses in such fields as medicine, science and education. Canada will attain true nationhood only when we make full use of our human resources. I shall never forget the impact of the first Shakespearean Festival at Stratford. No doubt a large number in the audience came to hear Alec Guinness (who gave an outstanding performance) — and they certainly heard Shakespeare. But it was the excellence of the company as a whole that astounded many Canadians who ought to have had more faith in their compatriots. Subsequent events have proved that Stratford need not be an isolated instance. But many of us will have to revise our thinking if such events are to become general throughout the country. The performing artist must have talent, training and direction — yes, but he must also have abundant platform routine. Once again I voice the cry for bigger and better audiences. I was interested in hearing that, at the opening of the Vancouver Festival this year, Berlioz's Damnation of Faust was to be given twice. I was hopeful that the Vancouver public would twice fill the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. Alas! the box office figures for the two performances were $621 and $1,025 respectively. Let me add however that public response to several other events has been much more encouraging than in recent past years. In any case we Torontonians are hardly in a position to cast the first stone. How many comparatively unfamiliar works of this nature will attract large numbers to Massey Hall? Audiences, of course, play favourites in their choice of music as well as of performers. But here too, they might well be more catholic in their tastes. Not that an opera like Andrea Chenier is ever likely to draw such a crowd as does Carmen; not that we are likely to hear Mozart's C minor piano concerto as often as we do Tchaikovsky's B-flat minor. These preferences — or similar ones — will always endure and have often little to do with the quality of the respective works. But the audience has a great deal to do with the choice of programme and might well demand a more varied fare than we are usually offered. If our listeners insist on the "old warhorses," they will get them; concert managers would not be doing their duty if they failed to keep a finger on the box-office pulse. Fortunately the long-playing record has already done much to stimulate an interest in what was previously unfamiliar.

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I suppose that most people look on music as entertainment. Webster defines the word as "enjoyment, amusement and hospitality." No one would question that music should be enjoyable; it may also be amusing, but I particularly like the idea of an audience enjoying hospitality: the hospitality of both composer and performer. The aim of the hospitable host is usually to make his guests feel at home. Yet perhaps we don't want to feel quite at home: when we go visiting, we look for something familiar enough to be comfortable yet different enough to include a spice of excitement. We like to foregather with the "friends we have and their adoption tried" but if we refuse to meet strangers we may be shutting ourselves out from delightful experiences and perhaps missing the opportunity of making new and equally desirable friends. After all, our most intimate friends were at one time strangers. Listening to great composers, reading great authors, viewing great paintings — all these may be regarded simply as the cultivation of great friendships. It is not always easy to cultivate great friendships. At first these distinguished people seem too awe-inspiring and, indeed, they may become still more so as we get to know them better. But don't forget that the hospitality is mutual; like love, it is a "two-way" thing. The composer genuinely wants to talk to us and to feel our response. This response may seem retrospective in the case of composers long dead, but there is a Communion of Saints in the artistic as in the religious world into which we are invited, however unworthy we many feel ourselves to be. In many ways I dislike the term "music appreciation," especially when it denotes merely technical analysis of sonatas, fugues and the like. Technical analysis is, of course, necessary for the music student and, up to a point, desirable for any listener. But the layman can grasp essential outlines without bothering himself about details. Anyone can examine the outlines of a skeleton and appreciate its general functions in the live human body without extensive study of anatomy. Such elementary knowledge is useful, for the skeleton determines the shape of the living being. Elementary musical analysis is helpful provided you remember that it is a skeleton that you are studying. It can give you a keener

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insight into the beauty of the whole creature when clothed with flesh and blood and endowed with life. But however useful, such knowledge is not necessary: you can enjoy any piece of music without making it the subject of anatomical dissection. Its shape, though more than incidental, is secondary to its content, and particularly to the soul that inhabits it. You must come to know it by offering the composer your hospitality and accepting his. No teacher can enable you to do this with a piece of music any more than he can tell you what qualities to look for in your friends. Someone else may call your attention to this or that peculiarity which you might otherwise have overlooked but in the long run you must cultivate your friends for yourself. In order to learn to play the flute you must play the flute; in order to learn to listen to music you must listen to music. The man or woman who has come to realize this is the ideal member of the musician's audience. He is not uncritical: no one dare be uncritical of the thing he loves. He loves his musical friends while alert to their faults — indeed even some of the faults may have an endearing quality. In any case he must take them as they are, be they performers or composers. And he can take them as they are only when he knows what they are and does not decide too hastily that they are not worth knowing. We shall certainly not enlarge our musical horizon if we adopt the attitude of Charles Lamb who on one occasion was invited to "come and meet Mr. Soand-so." "I don't want to meet him," said Lamb, "I don't like him." "But," said his friend, "you don't know him." "That is why I don't like him," said Lamb. This brings me to my final point — the attitude of the audience to the unfamiliar, and particularly to the contemporary composer. Apart from the avant-garde (usually a small minority) most of us instinctively distrust the unfamiliar. Yet, as Gertrude Stein said in one of her more lucid moments, "The contemporary is the thing you can't get away from." Good or bad, it is always with us; intrigued or repelled, we must continue to meet it. Consider how often people begin by disliking a piece of modern architecture but come to admire it in time. The architect is at both an advantage and a disadvantage as compared with the musician. Once he erects a building it is there to stay. If it is a monstrosity (as

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many of our buildings are) it remains as a monument to his bad taste and judgement; if it is as beautiful as he thinks it is, it will probably come to be admired in the course of time. At all events, it stands every chance of being judged fairly. But a piece of music exists in time, not space and, whether or not it is preserved in recordings, every performance makes additional inroads on our crowded schedules. It is partly for this reason that changes of style have in times past taken longer to win favour in music than in the other arts. Many of the idioms and techniques that bewilder present-day audiences were evolved more than half a century ago; no music of the present day sounds much more strange to the average ear than, let us say, Schoenberg's Erwartung, written five years before the First World War. There can be little doubt that most people look to music as a refuge from the hurly-burly of everyday life and resent being sharply reminded that they live in the twentieth century. One cannot blame them, for ours are certainly not happy times. It is also hard to decide to what extent contemporary music possesses those eternal values that we find in the best music of the past. I wonder how many of you listen, as I do when time allows, to the CBC broadcast "Hermit's Choice" heard currently on Sunday afternoons. Each week a guest — usually a well-known personality — is asked to name four books and four recordings which he would select if he were marooned for life on a desert island; he is asked also to give reasons for his choice. It seems to me highly significant that most of the musical choices fell on Mozart, Bach and Beethoven, although a surprising number apparently found Tchaikovsky permanently satisfying. I have missed some of these broadcasts but, among those I have heard and apart from one guest whose tastes were all for jazz, only one selected a twentiethcentury work. This was Strauss' Elektra, which few of us now would regard as contemporary. I would hope that, if the choice were widened, some contemporary — and even some Canadian — works would find their way into this circle but no such work seems to be regarded as sufficiently nourishing for a severely restricted diet. There is no particular virtue or vice in modern music as such. Good and bad music has been written at all times and the present is no exception. Some of the music of even the greatest composers

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might well be relegated to oblivion; much of it indeed was so for years and its resuscitation by gramophone companies has not always served to enhance the composer's reputation. After intensive study of certain modern scores, I have come to the conclusion that they were as ugly and puerile as they seemed at first; with others, familiarity has bred admiration. But at least let us not be prejudiced because so much contemporary music is written in a new idiom. We can get over some of its initial difficulties in advance. If the twelve-tone system, for instance, is a stumblingblock, we can to some extent familiarize ourselves with it by listening to recordings of long-accepted works in that idiom. By doing this we are likely to find that the language loses some measure of its strangeness and we are better able to judge whether the new work is a masterpiece or mere musical doodling. In short, let us be prepared to extend hospitality to the new composer; we may find our hospitality ill repaid but at least we have not closed our doors to him. We may conclude that he is "over our heads" — a polite way of saying that we don't like him — or we may come to enjoy an new and enduring friendship. It may not be our fault if dislike persists. He may not be over our heads but under our feet. For us in Canada the pros and cons of contemporary music are particularly important, for nearly all Canadian composers of note are our contemporaries and most of them write in a modern idiom. We are still in the comparatively early stages of developing our own culture; perhaps we are a bit too self-conscious in our efforts but it is important that we have become aware of the need of doing so. The late Pope Pius XII was quoted as saying: "A society in which respect for culture declines is bound to lose every other good as well." For us in Canada it is a matter of public duty to cherish what we have and foster the development of what we need. It was encouraging to find our Government at last taking cognizance of this in the creation, in 1957, of the Canada Council. Similar bodies of provincial or municipal scope, especially in Quebec, are now playing a part in nourishing the arts. In the musical field especially we must give every reasonable encouragement to our younger composers. If their style sometimes seems affected, we may well recall the aphorism of Logan Pearsall Smith: "Don't laugh at a young man for his

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affectations: he is only busy trying on one face after another to find his own." These words, incidentally, may be applied not only to individual composers but to Canadian music as a whole. We have not yet evolved any recognizably Canadian style, nor is it by any means sure that we shall do so. In point of fact, the general tendency in music nowadays is toward internationalism, although in some countries such as Brazil national traits are as strong in music as in politics. The inner urge to write must be exceedingly strong in our younger Canadian composers, for certainly the external inducements, except in the "popular" field, are meagre enough. Barring those who write background music for films and radio plays (especially for the National Film Board and the CBC — both of them pubic services) few can hope for any substantial financial return. Many of those who have succeeded in the realm of light popular music have left our shores for more lucrative fields and not a few others would like to do so. Very few of our more serious writers enjoy the benefits, financial or otherwise, of frequent p e r f o r m a n c e , although the last few years have witnessed considerable improvement. The CBC has stood staunchly by Canadians and its International Service has recorded a large number of their works for distribution abroad — though not, unfortunately, in Canada.7 These transcriptions, as well as live studio broadcasts of Canadian works, are heard from time to time on our networks and not infrequently draw a certain amount of abuse on the Corporation. Here is part of a letter that appeared in the Toronto Globe and Mail a few years ago: I have been listening to the CBC's International Transcription Service series, "Canadian Music." I consider it unfortunate that foreign countries should be given this impression of Canada: whatever these compositions are, they are certainly not music in the accepted meaning of the word. I suggest to these composers that they invent a new 7

In 1966 the CBC initiated a series of "broadcast recordings" that were intended for radio broadcasting in Canada. A series of commercial issues began in 1980.

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word for the new branch of art which they are trying to put across, instead of making 'music' a word of no meaning. While I wish these composers success in their efforts to create a new branch of art, I am very doubtful if it will live. This correspondent (a woman, by the way) would be surprised to hear that the reaction in Western European musical circles to Canadian works is very often disappointment that the productions of a young and vigorous country should be so unenterprising. Certainly our composers are rarely, if ever, condemned for being "ultra-modern." While modern music is almost as poor "box-office" in Europe as it is here, a vast number of European music lovers have long been accustomed to modern idioms and can be selective in their acceptance or rejection of what we send them. In other works, they have reached the stage which I have postulated as desirable in the Canadian musical public. Admitting all this, I still feel a good deal of sympathy for the listener whose hospitality is not, in his view, returned by the composer. The latter can scarcely have it both ways. If he deliberately speaks a language comprehensible only to himself (and I sometimes wonder if it always is) he cannot reasonably complain if he finds his audience unresponsive. Perhaps he looks to posterity to justify him: perhaps posterity will. Perhaps he consoles himself by reflecting on the many instances of abuse being heaped on now accepted composers by their contemporaries. I am not by any means sure that this attitude is justified. A good deal of the adverse criticism of Beethoven, Wagner and others came, not from laymen, but from pedantic critics and rival composers. Few of the great composers suffered from lack of recognition in their life-time, although, as in the case of Bach, their full stature may not have been realized until much later. Probably Schubert was more neglected during his lifetime than any composer of comparable importance, but this was due to external circumstances rather than to any obscurity in his music. Mozart died poor and was buried in a pauper's grave, yet tunes from Figaro and Don Giovanni had for years been whistled in the streets. On the other hand a really radical innovator like Franz Liszt had no need to worry about attacks; his engaging personality, brilliant

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pianism and international repute enabled him to regard his critics with composure and even indifference. Berlioz would in any age have been regarded as a figure of controversy — as indeed he is today in some quarters — but he was a recognized figure in the musical world of his time. Richard Strauss, whose early works were often attacked as being cacophonous and disagreeable, was for at least the last fifty years of his life acclaimed throughout the world as one of the truly great: indeed he lived to see his works regarded in some circles as out-dated. Although many a notable composer has had a stiff uphill fight, I cannot think of any before Schoenberg whose music long remained incomprehensible to the general run of audiences. In most by-gone ages, indeed, contemporary music was the staple article of diet and that of the past was neglected. The moral of all this would seem to be that we need more, not less, contemporary music on our programmes but it would be difficult to persuade a concert manager or more than a few conductors and virtuosi that audiences as a whole would find this acceptable. Evidently something has gone wrong with the relationship of composer and audience and, as I have said, the blame does not lie exclusively with the audience. It is not likely that any sincere composer would be wilfully unintelligible. Nor, for that matter, would any poet, though he might often seem to be so. No one would accuse Robert Browning of affectation, yet when his Sordello first appeared it certainly bewildered his readers. You may remember Tennyson's comment, "I have read Sordello carefully," he said, "and have been able to understand only two lines — the first and the last — and neither of them is true." The first line is: "Who will shall hear Sordello's story told," and the last, "Who would has heard Sordello's story told." Of one of his poems — I forget which — Browning himself said: "When that was written only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant: now only God knows."8 Browning's style is of course highly individual and we love him 8

The remark is also attributed to Klopstock, as reported in Cesare Lombroso, The Man of Genius, Part I, chapter 2. London: Scott, 1891. The attribution to Browning is traditionally associated with Sordello.

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partly for the very angularities which were at one time a reproach to his name. As to his obscurities, we have run to earth the meaning of most of his references and delight in them as evidence of his abounding vitality. He was a restless experimenter in new forms and methods of expression, yet I doubt if he ever lost sight of what he wanted to say. Sometimes I wonder whether this is true of certain modern composers and authors. I am told that, when James Joyce published Finnegans Wake, he admitted — or perhaps boasted? — that it would take his readers a lifetime to find out what it meant. It is not surprising that most of us have other things to do. Anyone who finds modern poetry or prose elusive but wishes to track its meaning to earth is at least able to go over it as often as time permits. This is also true, as I have pointed out, of music, provided the work has been recorded and the records made accessible. But anything that has not has to stand its chance with the public on the strength of one or two performances and therefore labours under a serious disadvantage. We can do no greater service to our Canadian composers than encourage, and if necessary subsidize, the recording of their works. To do this is one of the aims of the Canadian Music Centre,9 financed chiefly by the Canada Council and the Composers Authors and Publishers Association of Canada (CAPAC), and located in the building that also houses the Music Division of the Toronto Public Library. An extensive library of scores, parts and all recordings made by the CBC's International Service has been collected and strenuous efforts are being made to acquaint performers with them and to ensure their use both at home and abroad. Within the past year a special fund established by CAPAC and the Canadian Association of Broadcasters has begun to subsidize records of Canadian works for commercial sale. BMI of Canada has also been helpful in subsidizing publication of works by their members. Given the chance of being more widely heard and more intensively studied, will our composers in the long run win public 9

The project was not realized until 1981 when the Canadian Music Centre began to issue recordings on the Centredisc label.

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favour? No one can tell. Certainly their art is not at present popular although they are admired in exclusive circles. There is a place in all the arts for what is "caviar to the general" and long may those who enjoy their caviar continue to do so. I like caviar myself but not as a staple article of diet. The chances are that the exclusive circle will widen. But if our composers want this to happen, they would do well not to repay the hospitality of their audience with a standoffish, take-it-or-leave-it attitude. One can ingratiate oneself with other people without becoming a Uriah Heep. Nor, once you are sure of what you have to say, need you avoid complexity. No music is more complex than Bach's Art of the Fugue, yet, apart from a few ingenious puzzles like the "mirror" fugues, most of its sections can arouse a genuinely emotional response from any intelligent listener. Don't forget, however (and here I speak to the composer), that this same Johann Sebastian wrote gavottes and minuets that almost any child can play and enjoy. I am glad to note that some of our young composers have taken to writing children's pieces: such a lesson in simplicity should help, not hinder them when they come to write symphonies and concertos. Early in this paper I remarked that the musician needs an audience. This applies to the composer as much as to the performer, though the performer is perhaps more immediately aware of the need. The relationship must be a matter of give and take: all take and no give on either side will end in divorce, as it often does in marriage. The audience must realize that music, like everything else, is bound to change its character in the course of time and that its potential resources are well-nigh inexhaustible. The composer must remember that while most of his great predecessors were ahead of their time, they were not so far ahead as to render it impossible for their audiences to catch up. If the audience does not catch up, it may be because the composer has wandered up a blind alley: there have been many blind alleys in musical history. Music lovers think of music as nourishment for the soul. If they ask the composer for bread, will he give them a stone?

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