ヴォーン・ウィリアムズ「National Music」(1934)第2章(2/2)音楽の起源についての仮説





音楽の起源についての仮説 (2/2)



I cannot see why it should not be equally natural to presuppose an aptitude for singing in the natural man as an aptitude for speaking; indeed, singing of a primitive kind may be supposed to come before speaking, just as emotion is something more primitive than thought, and the indeterminate howls which travellers tell us savages make to accompany dances or ceremonies in which they are emotionally excited may be supposed to be the beginnings of music. However, the difference between real music and mere sound depends on the fact of definitely sustained notes with definite relations to each other. Some people hold that this definition of sounds can only have arisen after the invention of the pipe or some other primitive musical instrument; but I shall be able to give you personal evidence to the contrary. I have no doubt myself that song is the beginning of music and that purely instrumental music is a later development. Song, then, I believe, is nothing less than speech charged with emotion. The German words sagen and singen were in early times interchangeable and to this day a country singer will speak of "telling" you a song, not of singing it. Indeed the folk-singer (of course I am speaking of England only, the only place of which I have personal knowledge), the English folk-singer, seems unable to dissociate words and tune: if he has forgotten the words of a song he is very seldom able to hum you the tune and if you in your turn were to sing the words he knew to a different tune he would be satisfied that you knew the song, and I believe the same is true of dance tunes. A country musician, so Cecil Sharp relates, took it for granted that when his hearers had got the tune of a dance they would be able to perform the dance as well. 




The personal evidence I will give you is as follows. I was once listening to an open air preacher. He started his sermon in a speaking voice, but as he grew more excited the sounds gradually became defined, first one definite note, then two, and finally a little group of five notes. 




The notes being a, b, a, g, a, with an occasional drop down to e.  

[Illustration: musical notation] 






It seemed that I had witnessed the change from speech to song in actual process. The increased emotional excitement had produced two results, definition and the desire for a decorative pattern. Perhaps I went too far in calling this song, perhaps I should call it the raw material of song. I will now give you examples of actual folk-songs built on this very group of three notes.  



(1) "Down in yon forest" (1st phrase)  

[Illustration: musical notation]  

譜例1 「Down in yon forest」(最初のフレーズ) 





(2) "Bushes and Briars" (1st phrase)  

[Illustration: musical notation] 

譜例2 「Bushes and Briars」(最初のフレーズ) 





These are what we call the stock phrases of folk-song which play an important part in folk-music just as the stock verbal phrase plays an important part in ballad poetry. There is a good practical reason for these stock phrases. Any of you who are writers, whether you are writing a magazine article or a symphony, know that the great difficulty is how to start, and the stock phrase solved this difficulty with the ballad makerso nine out of ten ballads start with some common phrase such as "As I walked out" or "It is of a" or "Come all you" and so on. In the same way we find a common opening to many folk-tunes, and this opening would naturally be a variant of some musical formula which comes naturally to the human voice. Now let us examine this little phrase again. Can not we suppose that our reciter in still greater moments of excitement will feel inclined to add to and embellish his little group of notes? Embellishment, we all know, is a natural consequence of heightened emotion, and it is a good criterion of the more ornamental phrases in a composer's work to make up our minds whether they are the result of an emotional impulse or whether they are meaningless ornament. Take, for example, the cadenza-like passages in the slow movement of Brahms' Clarinet Quintet and compare them with the flourishes, say, in a Vieuxtemps Concerto, or take the melismata charged with feeling of which Bach was so fond and compare them with the meaningless coloratura of his contemporary Italian opera composers. 

これがいわゆる、民謡の「フレーズのネタ」である。民謡の世界では重要な役割を持っている。これは、物語詩(バラード)を書くのに「言葉のネタ」が重要な役割を果たすのと同じだ。この「フレーズのネタ」には、ちゃんと実用的な目的がある。本書をお読みの方の中で、書くことを生業とされている方、雑誌の記事にせよ、交響曲にせよ、その出だしに何を書くかが、非常に大変だ。「フレーズのネタ」があれば、物語詩(バラード)を書く方にとっては、この「非常に大変」を解決できる。物語詩(バラード)というものは、9割が、何かしら常套句から始まってる。例えば「As I walked out」(我、歩み出ぬとするに当り)「It is of a」(この物語は)「Come all you」(さあさ皆さん、寄っといで)等々。同じ様に、多くの民謡の出だしを見てみると、人間が声を出して話す際に自然と最初に口をつくような形を、音楽形式に変化させたものが、自然と用いられているとが多い。そこで、この短いフレーズを検証してみよう。今の時代の歌い手は、大いに興に乗ってくると、「◯つの音のグループ」に装飾のパターンを施したいという気持ちが、湧いてくる傾向にあると言えるだろうか?皆さん御存知の通り、装飾音形とは、感情の高まりの結果として自ずと生まれてくるものだ。そして、作品の善し悪しを図る良いものさしをご紹介しよう。ある作曲家の作品に、沢山装飾音形が出てきたら、次のどちらかを判断するのだ。これは「感情の刺激受けてのもの」か、はたまた、「意味のない付け足し」か。例えばブラームスの「クラリネット四重奏曲」の、緩徐楽章に出てくるカデンツァのパッセージを見てみよう。これと比べるのは、ブリュッセル音楽院長の作曲家アンリ・ヴュータンが書いた「バイオリン協奏曲」の装飾楽句だ。それとも、バッハが好んで感情が高まると思われる際に使ったメリスマ(1音節に多数の音符を当てる装飾的声楽様式)と、彼と同じ時代のイタリアのオペラ作曲家達が使った無意味なコロラトゥーラ(主に高音域の装飾的声楽様式)とを比べてみてもよいだろう。 



Increased emotional excitement leads to increase of ornament so that our original phrase might eventually grow perhaps into this;  



[Illustration: musical notation] 




which is as a matter of fact an actual phrase out of a known folk-song. Here we have what we can call a complete musical phrase. 




The business of the ballad singer is to fit his music to the pattern of a rhymed verse, usually a four-line stanza with some simple scheme of rhyme; so our melodic phrase has somehow to be developed to cover the whole ground. I assume for the sake of simplicity a single invention and will not discuss here the possibility of communal invention. If the singer is pleased with his initial little bit of melody he will feel inclined to repeat it. Repetition is one of the fundamentals of artistic intelligibility. Hubert Parry in his chapter on primitive music gives examples of savage music which consists of nothing else but a simple melodic phrase repeated over and over again. But supposing our ballad singer finds that the verse he has to recite is like the dream of Bottom the weaver in 8's and 6's. The music which he has adapted to the first line will not suit the second so something new will have to grow out of the old to fit the shortened number of syllables. This gives us a new fundamental of musical structure, that of contrast. When he gets to the third line he finds 8 syllables again and to his great delight he finds he can use his first music that had pleased him so once more. Here we have a very primitive example of the formula A.B.A. which in an infinite variety of forms may be said to govern the whole of musical structure, whether we look for it in a simple ballad, in the Ninth Symphony, or in the Prelude to "Tristan." Let us analyse an actual example, "Searching for Lambs," incidentally one of the most beautiful of the English folk-songs. 




The words of the first stanza, which after all will largely determine the form of the music, are as follows:  




"As I went out one May morning  

One May morning betime  

I met a maid from home had strayed  

Just as the sun did shine." 







The tune starts off with the elaborate form of our stock phrase (A). Then comes a short line; so a new phrase has to grow out of the oldrepetition in fact a 3rd higher with a major 3rd this time and an indeterminate ending, for we must not have any feeling of finality yet (B). 




Now for the third line. You might expect a mere repetition of the first. But the third line of the words is not an exact metrical repetition of the first and moreover has a mid-rhyme. So some variety in the music is suggested. We start off with a repetition of line 2 which flows in a free sequence (suggesting by its parallelism the mid-rhyme (C). 




Now for the last line. Here we obviously need some allusion to the beginning to clench the whole. So the sequential phrase is merely carried on, and behold, we have our initial phrase once more complete, growing naturally out of the sequential phrase and, to complete all, 3 notes of Coda added to make up the line (D). 




What a wealth of unconscious art in so simple a tune! All the principles of great art are here exemplified: unity, variety, symmetry, development, continuity.  



"Searching for Lambs"  

[Illustration: musical notation] 

(Printed by permission of Miss Karpeles and Messrs. Novello.) 








I will give you one more example of the growth of a tune from the same root idea. This time the 3rd is major and the embellishing notes are consequently differently placed. 




I need not analyse this tune in detail, but the same principles apply. The song is "The Water is Wide."  



"The Water is Wide"  

[Illustration: musical notation] 

(Printed by permission of Miss Karpeles and Messrs. Novello.)  





ヴォーン・ウィリアムズ「National Music」(1934」第2章(1/2)音楽の起源についての仮説




D. Mus.  









In considering the national aspects of music we ought to think of what causes our inspiration and also to whom it is to be addressed, that is to say, how far should the origins of music be national, how far should the meaning of music be national? 




And perhaps before we go on to this we ought to diverge a little bit and try and find out why it is we want music at all in our lives. 




What is the origin of that impulse to self-expression by means of sound? We could possibly trace back painting, poetry and architecture to an utilitarian basis. I am not saying that this is so, but the argument can be put forward. Now the great glory of music to my mind is that it is absolutely useless. The painter is bound by the same medium whether he is painting a great landscape or whether he is touching up the weather-stains on his front gate. Language is the medium both of "Paradise Lost" and of an auctioneer's catalogue. But music subserves no utilitarian purpose; it is the vehicle of emotional expression and nothing else. 




Why then do we want music? Hubert Parry in his "Art of Music" writes, "It is the intensity of the pleasure or interest the artist feels in what is actually present to his imagination that drives him to utterance. The instinct of utterance makes it a necessity to find terms which will be understood by other beings." 




Let us try to find out what is the exact process of the invention and 

making of music. Music is only made when actual musical sounds are produced, and here I would emphasize very strongly that the black dots which we see printed on a piece of paper are not music; they are simply a rather clumsy device invented by composers; a series of conventional signs to show to those who are not within hearing distance how they may with the necessary means at their command reproduce the sounds imagined by the composer.  




A sheet of printed music is like a map where you see a series of conventional signs, by which the skilled map reader will know that the road he is on will go north or south, that at one moment he will go up a steep hill and that at another he will cross a river by a bridge. That this town has a church, and that that village has an inn. Or to use another simile, heard music has the same relation to the printed notes as a railway journey has to a time table. But the printed notes are no more music than the map is the country which it represents or the time table the journey which it indicates. 




We may imagine that in primitive times ― and indeed it still happens when someone sits down at the pianoforte and improvisesthe invention and production of sound may have been simultaneous, that there was no differentiation between the performer and the composer. But gradually specialization must have set in; those who invented music became separated from those who performed it, though of course till the invention of writing the man who invented a tune had to sing it or play it himself in order to communicate it to others. Those others, if they were incapable of inventing anything for themselves, but were desirous, as I believe everyone is, of artistic self-expression, would learn that tune and sing it and thus the differentiation between composer and performer came about. 




What is the whole process, starting with the initial invention of music and leading on to the final stage when the sounds imagined by the composer are actually heard on those instruments or voices for which he designed them? What should be the object which the performer has in view when he translates these imaginings into actual sound? And what should be the object of the composer when he invents music? 




We all, whether we are artists or not, experience moments when we want to get outside the limitations of ordinary life, when we see dimly a vision of something beyond. These moments affect us in different ways. Some people under their influence want to do a great or a kind or an heroic deed; some people want to go and kill something or fight somebody; some people go and play a game or just walk it off; but those whom we call artists find the desire to create beauty irresistible. For painters it takes the form of idealizing nature; for architects the beauty of solid form; for poets the magic of ordered words, and for composers the magic of ordered sound. Now it is not enough to feel these things; the artist wants to communicate them as well, to crystallize these vague imaginings into, as I have already said, ordered sound, clear and intelligible; and to do this he must make a synthesis between the thing to be expressed and the means of expression. Thus there has arisen the technical side of music. Musical instruments have been devised which will translate these ideas in the most sensitive manner possible; artists spend years discovering how to get the best results from these instruments and composers, of course, have to study how to translate their ideas into the terms of the means at their command. And first of all the composer has, as I have said, to devise a series of dots and dashes which will explain, it must be confessed, in a very inadequate manner, the pitch, the duration, the intensity, and to a certain extent the quality of the sounds he wishes the performer to produce. The composer starts with a vision and ends with a series of black dots. The performer's process is exactly the reverse; he starts with the black dots and from these has to work back to the composer's vision. First he must find out the sounds that these black dots represent and the quicker he can get over this process the sooner he will be able to get on to something more important. Therefore though a good sight reader is not necessarily a good musician, it is very useful for a musician to be a good sight reader. Then the performer has to learn how best to make these sounds. Here he is partly dependent, of course, on the instrument maker, but it is here that vocal and instrumental technique have their use. Then he must learn to view any series of these black dots both as a whole and in detail and to discover the relation of the parts to the whole, and it is under this heading that I would place such things as phrasing, sense of form and climaxwhat we generically call musicianship. When he has mastered these he is ready to start and reproduce the composer's vision. Then, and then only, is he in a position to find out whether there is any vision to reproduce. 




Thus we come round full circle: the origin of inspiration and its final fruition should be one and the same thing. 




How are we to find out whether music as a whole, and especially the music of our own country, has a national basis? Or perhaps we may go further still and ask ourselves whether there is any sanction for the art of music at all, and if so, how we are to discover it. I suppose that most of you to whom I am speaking are studying musicsome of you perhaps are teaching it and you find that at present your time is, quite rightly, largely occupied with the technical aspect of music, with the means rather than with the end. Do you not ask yourselves sometimes what is the end? Or perhaps I should put it better by saying, what is the beginning? You can hardly expect a gardener to be able to cultivate beautiful flowers in a soil which is so barren that no wild flowers will grow there. Must we not presuppose that there must be wild flowers of music before we occupy ourselves with our hydrangeas and Gloire de Dijon roses? Before the student undertakes the task of technical training he should satisfy himself that his art is something inborn in man. He should try and imagine whether the absolutely unsophisticated though naturally musical manone who has no learning and no contact with learning, one who cannot read or write and thus repeat anything stereotyped by others, one who is untravelled and therefore self-dependent for his inspiration, one in fact whose artistic utterance will be entirely spontaneous and unself-consciouswhether such a one would be able to invent any form of music, and if so whether it would be at all like the music which we admire. "Ought not I," he may say, "to expect it to illustrate in embryonic form those principles which I find in the music of the great masters? Unless I can imagine such a man surely this great art of music can be nothing but a house with no foundation, a sort of fool's paradise, a mirage which will disappear before the first touch of real life." 




In fact if we did not know from actual experience that there was such a thing as folk-song we should have to imagine it theoretically. 




But we do find the answer to this enquiry in real fact. The theoretical folk-singer has been discovered to be an actuality. We really do find these unlettered, unsophisticated and untravelled people who make music which is often beautiful in itself and has in it the germs of great art. 




Some people express surprise and even polite disbelief in the idea that people who have never seen a pianoforte or had any harmony lessons and do not even know what a dominant or consecutive 5th is should be able to invent beautiful music: they either shut their ears and declare that it is not really beautiful but "only sounds so," or they declare that these singers must have "heard it somewhere." Perhaps you know the story of the missionary who, hearing some savages chanting this rhythm  



{dotted quarter note, three eighth notes, quarter rest},  




which after all is a very primitive one and very likely to be found among unsophisticated people, expressed his delight in discovering, as he thought, that Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" had penetrated to even these benighted regions. Or to give an example which came under my own notice. A distinguished English musician could not be persuaded to believe that a countryman who could not even read could possibly sing "correctly" in the Dorian mode. He might as well have expressed surprise with M. Jourdain at being able to speak prose. 




The truth is, of course, that these scientific expressions are not arbitrary rules, but are explanations of phenomena. The modal system, for example, is simply a tabulation by scientists of the various methods in which it is natural for people to sing. Again, nobody invented sonata form; it is merely a theoretical explanation of the mould into which people's musical thoughts have naturally flowed. Therefore far from expressing surprise at a folk-song being beautiful we ought to be surprised if it were not so, for otherwise we might doubt the authenticity of our whole canon of musical beauty. 




Nevertheless the notion that folk-music is a degenerate version of what we call composed music dies hard, so perhaps I had better say a little more about it. If this were really so, if folk-song were only half-remembered relics of the composed music of past centuries, should we not be able to settle the matter by going to our museums and looking through the old printed music? We shall find there nothing remotely resembling the traditional song of our country except, of course, such things as the deliberate transcriptions of the popular melodies in the "Fitzwilliam Virginal Book." 


ヴォーン・ウィリアムズ「National Music」(1934)第1章(2/2)音楽に国や地域の性格は帯びるものか?




D. Mus.  







Hubert Parry in his book, "The Evolution of the Art of Music," has shown how music like everything else in the world is subject to the laws of evolution, that there is no difference in kind but only in degree between Beethoven and the humblest singer of a folk-song. The principles of artistic beauty, of the relationships of design and expression, are neither trade secrets nor esoteric mysteries revealed to the few; indeed if these principles are to have any meaning to us they must be founded on what is natural to the human being. Perfection of form is equally possible in the most primitive music and in the most elaborate. 




The principles which govern the composition of music are, we find, not arbitrary rules, nor as some people apparently think, barriers put up by mediocre practitioners to prevent the young genius from entering the academic grove; they are not the tricks of the trade or even the mysteries of the craft, they are founded on the very nature of human beings. Take, for example, the principle of repetition as a factor of design: either the cumulative effect of mere reiteration, such as we get in the Trio of the scherzo of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, or in a cruder form in Ravel's Bolero; or the constant repetition of a ground bass as in Bach's organ Passacaglia or the finale of Brahms's Fourth Symphony. Travellers tell us that the primitive savage as soon as he gets as far as inventing some little rhythmical or melodic pattern will repeat it endlessly. In all these cases we have illustrations of the fundamental principle of emphasis by repetition. 




After a time the savage will get tired of his little musical phrase and will invent another and often this new phrase will be at a new pitch so as to bring into play as many new notes as possible. Why? Because his throat muscles and his perceptive faculties are wearied by the constant repetition. 




Is not this exactly the principle of the second subject of the classical sonata, which is in a key which brings into play as many new sounds as possible? Then we have the principle of symmetry also found in primitive music when the singer, having got tired in turn with his new phrase, harks back to the old one. 




And so I could go on showing you how Beethoven is but a later stage in the development of those principles which actuated the primitive Teuton when he desired to make himself artistically intelligible.  




The greatest artist belongs inevitably to his country as much as the humblest singer in a remote village--they and all those who come between them are links in the same chain, manifestations on their different levels of the same desire for artistic expression, and, moreover, the same nature of artistic expression. 




I am quite prepared for the objection that nationalism limits the scope of art, that what we want is the best, from wherever it comes. My objectors will probably quote Tennyson and tell me that "We needs must love the highest when we see it" and that we should educate the young to appreciate this mysterious "highest" from the beginning. Or perhaps they will tell me with Rossini that they know only two kinds of music, good and bad. So perhaps we had better digress here for a few moments and try to find out what good music is, and whether there is such a thing as absolute good music; or even if there is such an absolute good, whether it must not take different forms for different hearers. Myself, I doubt if there is this absolute standard of goodness. I think it will vary with the occasion on which it is performed, with the period at which it was composed and with the nationality of those that listen to it. Let us take examples of each of these--firstly, with regard to the occasion. The Venusberg music from Tannhäuser is good music when it comes at the right dramatic moment in the opera, but it is bad music when it is played on an organ in church. I am sorry to have to tell you that this is not an imaginary experience. A waltz of Johann Strauss is good music in its proper place as an accompaniment to dancing and festivity, but it would be bad music if it were interpolated in the middle of the St. Matthew Passion. And may we not even say that Bach's B minor Mass would be bad music if it were played in a restaurant as an accompaniment to eating and drinking? 




Secondly, does not the standard of goodness vary with time? What was good for the 15th Century is not necessarily good for the 20th. Surely each new generation requires something different to satisfy its different ideals. Of course there is some music that seems to defy the ravages of time and to speak a new message to each successive generation. But even the greatest music is not eternal. We can still appreciate Bach and Handel or even Palestrina, but Dufay and Dunstable have little more than an historical interest for us now. But they were great men in their day and perhaps the time will come when Bach, Handel, Beethoven, and Wagner will drop out and have no message left for us. Sometimes of course the clock goes round full circle and the 20th century comprehends what had ceased to have any meaning for the 19th. This is the case with the modern revival of Bach after nearly one hundred and fifty years of neglect, or the modern appreciation of Elizabethan madrigals. There may be many composers who have something genuine to say to us for a short time and for that short time their music may surely be classed as good. We all know that when an idiom is new we cannot detect the difference between the really original mind and the mere imitator. But when the idiom passes into the realm of everyday commonplace then and then only we can tell the true from the false. For example, any student at a music school can now reproduce the tricks of Debussy's style, and therefore it is now, and only now, that we can discover whether Debussy had something genuine to say or whether when the secret of his style becomes common property the message of which that style was the vehicle will disappear. 




Then there is the question of place. Is music that is good music for one country or one community necessarily good music for another? It is true that the great monuments of music, the Missa Papae Marcelli, or the St. Matthew Passion, or the Ninth Symphony, or Die Meistersinger, have a world wide appeal, but first they must appeal to the people, and in the circumstances where they were created. It is because Palestrina and Verdi are essentially Italian and because Bach, Beethoven and Wagner are essentially German that their message transcends their frontiers. And even so, the St. Matthew Passion, much as it is loved and admired in other countries, must mean much more to the German, who recognizes in it the consummation of all that he learnt from childhood in the great traditional chorales which are his special inheritance. Beethoven has an universal meaning, but to the German, who finds in it that same spirit exemplified in its more homely form in those Volkslieder which he learnt in his childhood, he must also have a specialized meaning. 




Every composer cannot expect to have a world-wide message, but he may reasonably expect to have a special message for his own people and many young composers make the mistake of imagining they can be universal without at first having been local. Is it not reasonable to suppose that those who share our life, our history, our customs, our climate, even our food, should have some secret to impart to us which the foreign composer, though he be perhaps more imaginative, more powerful, more technically equipped, is not able to give us? This is the secret of the national composer, the secret to which he only has the key, which no foreigner can share with him and which he alone is able to tell to his fellow countrymen. But is he prepared with his secret? Must he not limit himself to a certain extent so as to give his message its full force? For after all it is the millstream forcing its way through narrow channels which gathers strength to turn the water-wheel. As long as composers persist in serving up at second hand the externals of the music of other nations, they must not be surprised if audiences prefer the real Brahms, the real Wagner, the real Debussy, or the real Stravinsky to their pale reflections. 




What a composer has to do is to find out the real message he has to convey to the community and say it directly and without equivocation. I know there is a temptation each time a new star appears on the musical horizon to say, "What a fine fellow this is, let us try and do something like this at home," quite forgetting that the result will not sound at all the same when transplanted from its natural soil. It is all very well to catch at the prophet's robe, but the mantle of Elijah is apt, like all second-hand clothing, to prove the worst of misfits. How is the composer to find himself? How is he to stimulate his imagination in a way that will lead him to voicing himself and his fellows? I think that composers are much too fond of going to concerts--I am speaking now, of course, of the technically equipped composer. At the concert we hear the finished product. What the artist should be concerned with is the raw material. Have we not all about us forms of musical expression which we can take and purify and raise to the level of great art? Have we not all around us occasions crying out for music? Do not all our great pageants of human beings require music for their full expression? We must cultivate a sense of musical citizenship. Why should not the musician be the servant of the state and build national monuments like the painter, the writer, or the architect?  




"Come muse, migrate from Greece and Ionia,  

Cross out please those immensely overpaid accounts,  

That matter of Troy and Achilles' wrath, and Æneas', Odysseus'  


Placard 'removed' and 'to let' on the rocks of your snowy Parnassus,  

Repeat at Jerusalem, place the notice high on Jaffa's gate and on Mount Moriah,  

The same on the walls of your German, French and Spanish castles, and Italian collections,  

For know a better, fresher, busier sphere,  

A wide, untried domain awaits, demands you." 










Art for art's sake has never flourished among the English-speaking 

nations. We are often called inartistic because our art is unconscious. Our drama and poetry have evolved by accident while we thought we were doing something else, and so it will be with our music. The composer must not shut himself up and think about art; he must live with his fellows and make his art an expression of the whole life of the community. If we seek for art we shall not find it. There are very few great composers, but there can be many sincere composers. There is nothing in the world worse than sham good music. There is no form of insincerity more subtle than that which is coupled with great earnestness of purpose and determination to do only the best and the highest, the unconscious insincerity which leads us to build up great designs which we cannot fill and to simulate emotions which we can only experience vicariously. But, you may say, are we to learn nothing from the great masters? Where are our models to come from? Of course we can learn everything from the great masters and one of the great things we can learn from them is their sureness of purpose. When we are sure of our purpose we can safely follow the advice of St. Paul "to prove all things and to hold to that which is good." But it is dangerous to go about "proving all things" until you have made up your mind what is good for you. 




First, then, see your direction clear and then by all means go to Paris, or Berlin, or Peking if you like and study and learn everything that will help you to carry out that purpose. 




We have in England today a certain number of composers who have achieved fame. In the older generation Elgar and Parry, among those of middle age Holst and Bax, and of the quite young Walton and Lambert. All these served their apprenticeship at home. There are several others who thought that their own country was not good enough for them and went off in the early stages to become little Germans or little Frenchmen. Their names I will not give to you because they are unknown even to their fellow countrymen. 




I am told that when grape vines were first cultivated in California the vineyard masters used to try the experiment of importing plants from France or Italy and setting them in their own soil. The result was that the grapes acquired a peculiar individual flavour, so strong was the influence of the soil in which they were planted. I think I need hardly draw the moral of this, namely, that if the roots of your art are firmly planted in your own soil and that soil has anything individual to give you, you may still gain the whole world and not lose your own souls. 


ヴォーン・ウィリアムズ「National Music」(1934) 第1章(1/2)音楽に国や地域の性格は帯びるものか?

“Variety leading to unity.” This should be our watchword. We all wish for unity, but we shall not achieve it by emasculated cosmopolitanism. When the union of nations is complete, we must be prepared to offer to the common fund, that which we alone can give, that which comes from our own customs, our own history, our own life, the traditional art of our own country. 











Whistler used to say that it was as ridiculous to talk about national art as national chemistry. In saying this he failed to see the difference between art and science. 




Science is the pure pursuit of knowledge and thus knows no boundaries. Art, and especially the art of music, uses knowledge as a means to the evocation of personal experience in terms which will be intelligible to and command the sympathy of others. These others must clearly be primarily those who by race, tradition, and cultural experience are the nearest to him; in fact those of his own nation, or other kind of homogeneous community. In the sister arts of painting and poetry this factor of nationality is more obvious, due in poetry to the Tower of Babel and in painting to the fact that the painter naturally tends to build his visual imagination on what he normally sees around him. But unfortunately for the art of music some misguided thinker, probably first cousin to the man who invented the unfortunate phrase "a good European," has described music as "the universal language." It is not even true that music has an universal vocabulary, but even if it were so it is the use of the vocabulary that counts and no one supposes that French and English are the same language because they happen to use twenty-five out of twenty-six of the letters of their alphabet in common. In the same way, in spite of the fact that they have a musical alphabet in common, nobody could mistake Wagner for Verdi or Debussy for Richard Strauss. And, similarly, in spite of wide divergencies of personal style, there is a common factor in the music say of Schumann and Weber. 




And this common factor is nationality. As Hubert Parry said in his inaugural address to the Folk Song Society of England, "True Style comes not from the individual but from the products of crowds of fellow-workers who sift and try and try again till they have found the thing that suits their native taste.... Style is ultimately national." 




I am speaking, for the moment, not of the appeal of a work of art, but of its origin. Some music may appeal only in its immediate surroundings; some may be national in its influence and some may transcend these bounds and be world-wide in its acceptance. But we may be quite sure that the composer who tries to be cosmopolitan from the outset will fail, not only with the world at large, but with his own people as well. Was anyone ever more local, or even parochial, than Shakespeare? Even when he follows the fashion and gives his characters Italian names they betray their origin at once by their language and their sentiments. 




Possibly you may think this an unfair example, because a poet has not the common vocabulary of the musician, so let me take another example.  




One of the three great composers of the world (personally I believe the greatest) was John Sebastian Bach. Here, you may say, is the universal musician if ever there was one; yet no one could be more local, in his origin, his life work, and his fame for nearly a hundred years after his death, than Bach. He was to outward appearance no more than one of a fraternity of town organists and "town pipers" whose business it was to provide the necessary music for the great occasions in church and city. He never left his native country, seldom even his own city of Leipzig. "World Movements" in art were then unheard of; moreover, it was the tradition of his own country which inspired him. True, he studied eagerly all the music of foreign composers that came his way in order to improve his craft. But is not the work of Bach built up on two great foundations, the organ music of his Teutonic predecessors and the popular hymn tunes of his own people? Who has heard nowadays of the cosmopolitan hero Marchand, except as being the man who ran away from the Court of Dresden to avoid comparison with the local organist Bach? 




In what I have up to now said I shall perhaps not have been clear unless I dispose at once of two fallacies. The first of these is that the artist invents for himself alone. No man lives or moves or could do so, even if he wanted to, for himself alone. The actual process of artistic invention, whether it be by voice, verse or brush, presupposes an audience; someone to hear, read or see. Of course the sincere artist cannot deliberately compose what he dislikes. But artistic inspiration is like Dryden's angel which must be brought down from heaven to earth. A work of art is like a theophany which takes different forms to different beholders. In other words, a composer wishes to make himself intelligible. This surely is the prime motive of the act of artistic invention and to be intelligible he must clothe his inspiration in such forms as the circumstances of time, place and subject dictate. 




This should come unself-consciously to the artist, but if he consciously tries to express himself in a way which is contrary to his surroundings, and therefore to his own nature, he is evidently being, though perhaps he does not know it, insincere. It is surely as bad to be self-consciously cosmopolitan as self-consciously national. 




The other fallacy is that the genius springs from nowhere, defies all rules, acknowledges no musical ancestry and is beholden to no tradition. The first thing we have to realize is that the great men of music close periods; they do not inaugurate them. The pioneer work, the finding of new paths, is left to the smaller men. We can trace the musical genealogy of Beethoven, starting right back from Philipp Emanuel Bach, through Haydn and Mozart, with even such smaller fry as Cimarosa and Cherubini to lay the foundations of the edifice. Is not the mighty river of Wagner but a confluence of the smaller streams, Weber, Marschner and Liszt? 




I would define genius as the right man in the right place at the right time. We know, of course, too many instances of the time being ripe and the place being vacant and no man to fill it. But we shall never know of the numbers of "mute and inglorious Miltons" who failed because the place and time were not ready for them. Was not Purcell a genius born before his time? Was not Sullivan a jewel in the wrong setting? 




I read the other day in a notice by a responsible music critic that "it  only takes one man to write a symphony." Surely this is an entire misconception. A great work of art can only be born under the right surroundings and in the right atmosphere. Bach himself, if I may again quote him as an example, was only able to produce his fugues, his Passions, his cantatas, because there had preceded him generations of smaller composers, specimens of the despised class of "local musicians" who had no other ambition than to provide worthily and with dignity the music required of them: craftsmen perhaps rather than conscious artists. Thus there spread among the quiet and unambitious people of northern Germany a habit, so to speak, of music, the desire to make it part of their daily life, and it was into this atmosphere that John Sebastian Bach was born. 




The ideal thing, of course, would be for the whole community to take to music as it takes to language from its youth up, naturally, without conscious thought or specialized training; so that, just as the necessity for expressing our material wants leads us when quite young to perfect our technique of speaking, so our spiritual wants should lead us to perfect our technique of emotional expression and above all that of music. But this is an age of specialization and delegation. We employ specialists to do more and more for us instead of doing it ourselves. We even get other people to play our games for us and look on shivering at a football match, instead of getting out of it for ourselves the healthy exercise and excitement which should surely be its only object.  




Specialization may be all very well in purely material things. For example, we cannot make good cigars in England and it is quite right therefore that we should leave the production of that luxury to others and occupy ourselves in making something which our circumstances and climate permit of. The most rabid Chauvinist has never suggested that Englishmen should be forced to smoke impossible cigars merely because they are made at home. We say quite rightly that those who want that luxury and can afford it must get it from abroad.  




Now there are some people who apply this "cigar" theory to the arts and especially to music; to music especially, because music is not one of the "naturally protected" industries like the sister arts of painting and poetry. The "cigar" theory of music is then this--I am speaking of course of my own country England, but I believe it exists equally virulently in yours: that music is not an industry which flourishes naturally in our climate; that, therefore, those who want it and can afford it must hire it from abroad. This idea has been prevalent among us for generations. It began in England, I think, in the early 18th century when the political power got into the hands of the entirely uncultured landed gentry and the practice of art was considered unworthy of a gentleman, from which it followed that you had to hire a "damned foreigner" to do it for you if you wanted it, from which in its turn followed the corollary that the type of music which the foreigner brought with him was the only type worth having and that the very different type of music which was being made at home must necessarily be wrong. These ideas were fostered by the fact that we had a foreign court at St. James's who apparently did not share the English snobbery about home-made art and so brought the music made in their own homes to England with them. So, the official music, whether it took the form of Mr. Handel to compose an oratorio, or an oboe player in a regimental band, was imported from Germany. This snobbery is equally virulent to this day. The musician indeed is not despised, but it is equally felt that music cannot be something which is native to us and when imported from abroad it must of necessity be better.  




Let me take an analogy from architecture. When a stranger arrives in New York he finds imitations of Florentine palaces, replicas of Gothic cathedrals, suggestions of Greek temples, buildings put up before America began to realize that she had an artistic consciousness of her own.  




All these things the visitor dismisses without interest and turns to her railway stations, her offices and shops; buildings dictated by the necessity of the case, a truly national style of architecture evolved from national surroundings. Should it not be the same with music? 




As long as a country is content to take its music passively there can be no really artistic vitality in the nation. I can only speak from the experience of my own country. In England we are too apt to think of music in terms of the cosmopolitan celebrities of the Queen's Hall and Covent Garden Opera. These are, so to speak, the crest of the wave, but behind that crest must be the driving force which makes the body of the wave. It is below the surface that we must look for the power which occasionally throws up a Schnabel, a Sibelius, or a Toscanini. What makes me hope for the musical future of any country is not the distinguished names which appear on the front page of the newspapers, but the music that is going on at home, in the schools, and in the local choral societies. 




Can we expect garden flowers to grow in soil so barren that the wild flowers cannot exist there? Perhaps one day the supply of international artists will fail us and we shall turn in vain to our own country to supply their places. Will there be any source to supply it from? You remember the story of the nouveau riche who bought a plot of land and built a stately home on it, but he found that no amount of money could provide him straightaway with the spreading cedars and immemorial elms and velvet lawns which should be the accompaniment of such a home. Such things can only grow in a soil prepared by years of humble toil. 


【英日対訳・全編】アーロン・コープランド「What to Listen for in Music」(題意:音楽を聴く時はここを!)






























































【英日対訳・全編】ジョン・フィリップ・スーザ自叙伝「Marching Along」




















ヴォーン・ウィリアムズ「National Music」(1934)まえがき・目次

National Music 



Date of first publication: 1934 

Author: Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958) 








マリー・フレクスナー記念 人文科学講座 




講座番号 2 


These lectures were delivered at BRYN MAWR COLLEGE,  

OCTOBER and NOVEMBER 1932 on a fund established by  

BERNARD FLEXNER in honour of his sister  











D. Mus.  










Copyright, 1934, by  

Ralph Vaughan Williams  




著作権発効 1934年 







印刷国 アメリカ合衆国 







These lectures were delivered at Bryn Mawr College, Pennsylvania, under the Mary Flexner Lectureship in October and November 1932. 



I have kept the personal form of address to an audience, but have 

modified many of the sentences. I have omitted a little and added a 

little. I have also altered the order in some places and have divided the material into nine chapters instead of the original six lectures. 



The lectures when originally delivered had the great advantage of being illustrated by Mr. Horace Alwyne, F.R.M.C.M. (Pianoforte) and the Bryn Mawr students choir under the direction of Mr. Ernest Willoughby, A.R.C.M. I wish to express my thanks to Dr. H. C. Colles, Mr. A. H. Fox-Strangways, Mr. Walter Ford and others for advice and help. 



R. Vaughan Williams.  










I. Should Music Be National? 3  

第1章 音楽には国や地域の性格が帯びるものなのか? 3ページ 


II. Some Tentative Ideas on the Origins of Music 23  

第2章 音楽の起源についての仮説 23ページ 


III. The Folk-Song 39  

第3章 民謡 39ページ 


IV. The Evolution of the Folk-Song 53  

第4章 民謡の進化発展 53ページ 


V. The Evolution of the Folk-Song (Continued) 73  

第5章 民謡の進化発展続き) 73ページ 


VI. The History of Nationalism in Music 95  

第6章 音楽におけるナショナリズムの歴史 95ページ 


VII. Tradition 107  

第7章 伝統 107ページ 


VIII. Some Conclusions 113  

第8章 締めくくりに寄せて 113ページ 


IX. The Influence of Folk-Song on the Music of the Church 133  

第9章 教会音楽に与えた民謡の影響 133ページ