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Page 11
[G: f' g' c'' d'' f'']
We know how singers slur from one tone to another. It is a
fault that caused the fathers of harmony to prohibit what
are called hidden fifths in vocal music. The jump from G to
C in the above scale fragment would be slurred, for we must
remember that the intoning of clear individual sounds was
still a novelty to the savage. Now the distance from G to
C is too small to admit two tones such as the savage knew;
consequently, for the sake of uniformity, he would try to
put but one tone between, singing a mixture of A and B[flat],
which sound in time fell definitely to A, leaving the mystery
of the half-tone unsolved. This addition of the third would
thus fall in with the law of harmonics again. First we have the
keynote; next in importance comes the fifth; and last of all
the third. Thus again is the absence of the major seventh in
our primitive scale perfectly logical; we may search in vain
in our list of harmonics for the tone which forms that interval.
Now that we have traced the influence of passionate utterance
on music, it still remains for us to consider the influence
of something very different. The dance played an important
r�le in the shaping of the art of music; for to it music owes
periodicity, form, the shaping of phrases into measures,
even its rests. And in this music is not the only debtor,
for poetry owes its very "feet" to the dance.
Now the dance was, and is, an irresponsible thing. It had no
_raison d'�tre_ except purely physical enjoyment. This rhythmic
swaying of the body and light tapping of the feet have always
had a mysterious attraction and fascination for mankind,
and music and poetry were caught in its swaying measures
early in the dawn of art. When a man walks, he takes either
long steps or short steps, he walks fast or slow. But when
he takes one long step and one short one, when one step is
slow and the other fast, he no longer walks, he dances. Thus
we may say with reasonable certainty that triple time arose
directly from the dance, for triple time is simply one strong,
long beat followed by a short, light one, viz.: [2 4] or
[- '], the "trochee" in our poetry. [4 2] [' -], Iambic.
The spondee [2 2] or [- -], which is the rhythm of prose,
we already possessed; for when we walk it is in spondees,
namely, in groups of two equal steps. Now imagine dancing
to spondees! At first the steps will be equal, but the body
rests on the first beat; little by little the second beat,
being thus relegated to a position of relative unimportance,
becomes shorter and shorter, and we rest longer on the first
beat. The result is the trochaic rhythm. We can see that this
result is inevitable, even if only the question of physical
fatigue is considered. And, to carry on our theory, this very
question of fatigue still further develops rhythm. The strong
beat always coming on one foot, and the light beat on the other,
would soon tire the dancer; therefore some way must be found
to make the strong beat alternate from one foot to the other.
The simplest, and in fact almost the only way to do this,
is to insert an additional short beat before the light beat.
This gives us [- ' -] or [4. 8 4], the dactyl in poetry.
We have, moreover, here discovered the beginning of form, and
have begun to group our musical tones in measures and phrases;
for our second dactyl is slightly different from the first,
because the right foot begins the first and the left foot the
second. We have two measures [(4. 8 4 | 4. 8 4)]
[(- ' - | - ' -)]
and one phrase, for after the second measure the right foot
will again have the beat and will begin another phrase of two
measures.
Carry this theory still further, and we shall make new
discoveries. If we dance in the open air, unless we would dance
over the horizon, we must turn somewhere; and if we have but a
small space in which to dance, the turns must come sooner and
oftener. Even if we danced in a circle we should need to reverse
the motion occasionally, in order to avoid giddiness; and this
would measure off our phrases into periods and sections.
Thus we see music dividing into two classes, one purely
emotional, the other sensuous; the one arising from the language
of heroes, the other from the swaying of the body and the patter
of feet. To both of these elements, if we may call them so,
metre and melody brought their power; to declamation, metre
brought its potent vitality; to the dance, melody added its soft
charm and lulling rhyme. The intellectual in music, namely,
rhythm and declamation, thus joined forces, as did the purely
sensuous elements, melody and metre (dance). At the first glance
it would seem as if the dance with its rhythms contradicted the
theory of rhythm as being one of the two vital factors in music;
but when we consider the fact that dance-rhythms are merely
regular pulsations (once commenced they pulsate regularly to
the end, without break or change), and when we consider that
just this unbroken regularity is the very antithesis of what
we mean by rhythm, the purely sensuous nature of the dance is
manifest. Strauss was the first to recognize this defect in
the waltz, and he remedied it, so far as it lay within human
skill, by a marvellous use of counter-rhythms, thus infusing
into the dance a simulation of intellectuality.
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