I mentioned the moment when mensural notation was adopted. Long before then, the antique Greek keys had to go, to be replaced by another tonal system. The so-called church modes were based upon this new tone system. According to the latest research, the change took place so that all chromatics and enharmonicism was abandoned and a new diatonic system was formed according to the initial tones of the principal scales.
All the tonal systems mentioned up to now lacked [the concept of] tonics and dominants upon which our present tonal system rests, as we know. However, this tonal concept was already dormant in the old-German folksongs.
Here I see the reason why Germans have played such a great part in the realm of music, particularly during the last two centuries, when all created music has been based on this national tonal system.
To prove this I want to point to a few things in the history of music that also clearly show the enormous influence of folk music upon the art of music.
The first independent purely musical forms to develop that were not dependent on the text—the so-called sequences—had their origin in folksong. Actually, they form a bridge between folksong and the Roman church melodies. To mention an example, compare the Gregorian melody Et in terra pax with our chorale Allena Gud (God alone) whose origin, as you know, is a sequence by Notker Balbulus.7—The popular element in the sequences became more and more prevalent, though the church tonal system was retained, and thus the melody arose. Due to its popularity the song pushed aside more and more of the old-German folksongs. Their tonal system, if one may call it that, was scorned by music scholars and lived its life in the so-called modus lascivus—the banal, popular8 key. That it did not totally disappear, we have only to thank the wandering folk musicians.
Despite their confidence, the learned contrapuntalists did suffer from a bad conscience. They noticed where freshness and originality dwelled. They silenced their bad conscience by taking these despised folk melodies as cantus firmus, i.e. the leading voice, in their works. Yet they never theless reworked them beforehand in accordance with the principles of church music and the rules of counterpoint. Here especially the original rhythm of the folksongs suffered. This method was retained during the entire Netherlandish period—[and] indeed a lot later.
Besides a bad conscience, the learned gentlemen were also bothered by many other signs of the times. In Italy a few naïve artistic souls, though good at counterpoint, had tossed all unnecessary ballast overboard and simply sang ardent popular tunes from the bottom of their heart. The villanelle was born—a musical piece that most resembles what we imagine as a rather homophonic piece of music. [Scholars hastened to adopt this new element.] For the learned, its popularity [was] increased in an alarming way. They hastened to adapt this new element that had shown itself to be so vigorous—handled the villanelle more artistically—and called it the madrigal. However, a few composers—like Petrucci—took the middle road, and in the resulting frottola the purely artistic achieves, in company with the naïvely popular, a great triumph.
As we know, the first operas were born in Italy. Nobody can reasonably deny that they are national—sprung forth from the popular temperament,9 from folk tunes.
English music was, during its glory days, much influenced by British folk music. Even the first operas had their origins there.
Throughout the Middle Ages, the Germans were downhearted. In their rooms they wrote counterpoint respectably and good-naturedly, but secretly, during free moments, out of doors, they thoroughly enjoyed folk music.
A few honest German composers were too simple-minded to reject the thought that their music was false. Especially as, with the development of harmony, the concepts of tonic and dominant—those secretly dear friends of the German composer—raised their heads more and more.—In Germany a fight also began over the old church keys. This battle raged for two hundred years until Johann Sebastian Bach, with his iron hand, rendered tonality victorious. Bach, the greatest composer who ever lived, surely knew that when he had won this great battle the victory was not his but, essentially, a victory for German folk music.
Among the consequences of the German folk tune’s slavery under a foreign power one may mention that a few of what one may call folk tunes—those not created by artistic means[—]originated in rhythms (in the sense that the Romance and Slavic peoples have them) that do not exist among the Germans.10 This is already proven inter alia by the fact that Germany has mostly borrowed its dance rhythms and dance forms so that, to mention one example, most dance rhythms in the antique suite as cultivated by Bach, such as the Bourrée, Courante, Siciliana, Sarabande, Passacaglia, etc., are borrowed.
In passing I want to mention that Slavic music is gaining more and more ground in Germany, which over the last few decades has looked down in a rather superior fashion at all that is fremdartiges—of foreign origin. The reason for this must surely be that the Slavic peoples have a sense of rhythm that the Germans [for the above-mentioned reasons lack], in my opinion.
If we cast a look back at the musical masters after Bach, we have first and foremost Gluck, who would surely never have had this streak of truth that we admire in his music, unless in his youth—which he spent in Bohemia—he had been thoroughly saturated by folk music. Then we have Haydn, whose entire originality lies in his love of popular music. In Schubert, gypsy music has exerted a great influence. Also Liszt. There has hardly been a more national composer than Weber. Then there’s Wagner, whose life’s work reminds us so much of Gluck; Chopin, Glinka, and many others—important ones—all more or less influenced by their country’s folk tunes.
I mentioned Wagner and Liszt. Their music has given rise to, among other things, a new understanding of tonality. Most of the so-called New German composers have trodden the same path. As indicative of this new concept of a key, I might mention for instance that the tonic in C major tends predominantly to both A-flat major and E major. The seed of this exists already in Beethoven. French folk music is much influenced by the old Latin hymns, which for example held a [totally] tight grip on the troubadour songs. They say that the national trait in French folk music has disappeared. Whatever the case, it is certainly not a coincidence that among the most brilliant and surely most original composers of the French—Bizet—has composed his best works—figuratively speaking—in Spanish.
If I am asked how folksongs may have influenced a composer—especially in a time when art music and folk music did not have much in common, I would answer as follows:
The reason lies in the style of the folksong.—If one calls a piece of music stylish when it says all that it wants to convey—which is a creative original idea above all but also a unified harmonic development of it—then the folksong in all its simplicity and modesty has a style so pure that one seldom finds it in art music.
One speaks of a personal style and a national style in music. The personal style would then be—to express myself briefly—the stamp a composer puts on his work; and the national style would consist of the stamp a people puts on its composers. The important role folk music plays in this latter case teaches us a striking lesson in music history. We thus see what a wide personality-molding influence folk music exerts.
The above statement [clearly] demonstrates, on the one hand, how important folk music’s tonal system is when it concerns a nation’s contribution to musical development and, on the other, what a precious legacy a people has in its folksongs.
The Finnish folk tune is often characterized as being of a melancholy—somber—character, monotonous, and lacking freshness. If we ponder the matter more closely, we find that the reason for the monotony lies not in the folk tonality but rather that its harmony is understood in a one-sided way—that is, always according to the same pattern.
As we know, harmonization is the method by which you give a melody the harmonious basis that [consciously or unconsciously] has been its foundation since it emerged. Anyone who has occupied himself with composing at least a bit knows that melody and harmony arise simul
taneously. Hence, actual harmonization can happen only when a composer handles melodies he has not created himself. If these melodies originated in a far distant time—a time when perhaps no conception of harmony existed—harmonization assumes a quite different character. In that case the composer must clarify for himself the basic mood of the folksong and then allow harmonies to pour out accordingly—to create, so to speak, the milieu in which one imagines the [melody] folksong to have arisen. Only one who has fully immersed himself in the folk tune can instinctively hit upon the right thing. An odd example is Glinka. Permeated with his homeland’s folk music, he instinctively found its correct basic harmonies. For the entire latter half of his life he tried to set down rules for his harmonizing—but without success.
Our oldest type of Finnish folksong presents a tonal system that lacks both tonic and dominant, as we understand them, as well as a final tone as in the old Greek keys, but contains just five notes—D E F G A—joined by two further tones, B and C, when the melody assumes an intensified character. The tuning method for our five-string kantele supports this view.
Of course, learned theoreticians might—in many cases though not always—express this tone sequence D E F G A [B] as an upper penta-chord resting on a similar lower one, with G as its point of departure. Hence we are dealing with a non-chordal series11 as the harmonic basis for melodies of this type. This tone sequence—D E F G A B C—has been harmonized in such a way that it has been explained as D minor with a modulation to the dominant’s minor key. Melodies harmonized in this way assume a somber choral-like coloring. Now it appears that they are actually mostly wedding songs—especially in Karelia, where they exist in quintuple rhythms; elsewhere in Finland folksongs of this type mostly have a quadruple rhythm and often a text of the most boisterous kind. (They are called sleigh-ride songs.)12 Vocal quartets and folk-like songs were later based on this type—given a text that corresponded to the harmony, so that the original bright, fresh and varied Finnish folk tune became sluggish and dull. I [nevertheless] want to say that I may not have the right view. On the contrary, I gladly admit that in many cases it is not true. One thing is certain: these typical Finnish tunes can be explained in a more varied way and, moreover, we have allowed ourselves to alter many a tune without sufficiently noting their peculiarities—or many a characteristic interval—when the so-called harmonization required.
As for our rune melodies, a totally wrong understanding has prevailed in my opinion. It has been assumed that these rune melodies are short verses of one or two strophes. In actuality they are comparable to what we call a theme with variations. The original strophe is hardly ever repeated in unaltered form. Anyone who has heard a rune singer has surely noticed that as the text becomes intensified, its changes become livelier. This is why it is so difficult to write down rune melodies correctly.
A rune singer always puts his own personal stamp on these variations (if I may).
When we compare Finnish folksongs to those of other countries—especially those of the Nordic countries that can be assumed to have influenced our folk music—we find that in recent times we have many in common with Sweden. Thus the ballad Velisurmaaja (The fratricide), which contains the melodies to several folk dances—such as the familiar lullaby “Little Carl Slept,” which actually originated in northern France—can be found throughout the North. Yet we find that our rune melodies and older folksongs may present great differences in [rhythm,] tonality, and form.
If one can believe researchers [in this field] who have studied Scandinavian, northern German, and Scottish folksongs during this century, the tonal system in all these countries’ folk music is rather similar. As mentioned earlier, the pentatonic system can be found in some Scottish and Norwegian folksongs—obviously the oldest ones; otherwise our major and minor prevails. Yet many folksongs follow church modes, especially in Sweden. There has been much talk about a Nordic scale similar to the old Aeolian one, i.e. transposed, notes D E F G A B C. The two last notes, however, are usually sung higher—probably because people are already to some extent influenced by our new tonal system.
It is odd that in northern Germany almost all folksongs are in a major key, while in the Scandinavian countries—above all in Sweden—most are in a minor key.
In none of these countries can be found a folk-tone system that displays the traits that characterize our rune melodies and [oldest] older folksongs’ tonal system. This Finnish folk tune system is unique—some future research will probably locate its roots.
Yet another pertinent peculiarity must be mentioned. As I noted above, the Finnish tonal system lacks the final note in the same sense as the church modes. Rune melodies end either on one tone or the other—a clear sign that there is no basic tone [tonality]. As for rhythm, Finnish folk music presents a multitude of the oddest, most compound rhythms—rhythms counted not only in two and three, but also in five, seven, thirteen, fifteen, etc. Few countries [in the world] present such a multitude of original rhythms as ours.
[On this topic] time does not permit a detailed discussion of this topic. [Therefore I will be brief.] I have only wished to point out a few of the peculiarities of Finnish folk tunes, because of their great importance for our future music.
Folk tunes as such do not have any direct importance for art music. Their great significance lies in their educational qualities. A composer immersed in his home country’s folk music must naturally get a different view of things, stress entirely new things, seek his gratification in art in quite different ways than others. Therein lies to a large extent his originality. In his works he must liberate himself from the local as much as possible—especially as far as the means of expression are concerned.
He will succeed in this to the extent that he has a distinguished personality.
A remarkable similarity exists between our age and the century before Bach. Then the church keys were in a state of dissolution. [We see clearly now that our modern tonality is shaky.]
[The church keys] 2 could not be retained because they were constructed, and hence lacked a firm foundation. They had to yield to a tonality based on an ancient folksong. 2 [Hence we see history testify . . .] We see clearly now that our modern tonality is shaky.13
But we must not tear down the old without being able to replace it with something new. It cannot be done by building [constructing] a [new] tonal system—it must be found living within the folk tune.
I go so far as to contend that all these so-called interesting turns, modulations, etc. [are built on shaky ground] are only of passing value except when their seed is found within the folk music.
NOTES
1. Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, vol. 1, 1865–1905, trans. Robert Layton (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), 1:190–91.
2. The original Swedish text was published, with parallel Finnish translation, in the Finnish journal Musiikki 10/2 (1980): 86–105, together with a discussion by Ilkka Oramo, “Kansanmusiikin vaikutuksesta taidemusiikkiin: Sibeliuksen akateeminen koeluento vuodelta 1896” (Folk music’s influence on art music: Sibelius’s academic lecture, 1896), 106–22. It is this version that forms the basis for the current translation.
3. Glenda Dawn Goss, Sibelius: A Composer’s Life and the Awakening of Finland (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2009), 227–29.
4. Veijo Murtomäki, “Sibelius and Finnish-Karelian Folk Music,” Finnish Musical Quarterly 21/3 (2005): 32–36.
5. A traditional string instrument native to Finland, Estonia, and Karelia. As Murtomäki notes, Sibelius himself had appeared dressed as a kantele player at a Helsinki University masquerade in 1889. The instrument was widely promoted as the symbol for an idiosyncratic Finnish cultural identity in the latter half of the nineteenth century.
6. The pentatonic scale.
7. Notker (ca. 840–912) was a Benedictine monk at St. Gall in Switzerland, and an important musician and poet.
8. In Swedish: folkliga.
9. In Swedish: folklynnet.
10. Sibelius’s meanin
g is unclear in this sentence, but his contention appears to be that German folk music includes a number of tunes based on dance rhythms that originated outside German-speaking lands.
11. In Swedish: non Akord.
12. Sibelius uses the Finnish term rekiviisuja.
13. In the original draft, Sibelius repeats here word for word the same sentence with which he ended the preceding paragraph. The Arabic numeral 2 possibly refers to a music example (now lost); there is no number 1 indicated in the text.
Selection from Erik Furuhjelm’s
Jean Sibelius: A Survey of his Life and Music
TRANSLATED BY MARGARETA MARTIN
INTRODUCED BY DANIEL M. GRIMLEY
Erik Furuhjelm’s biography of Sibelius (Stockholm: Albert Bonniers Förlag, 1917) is a landmark volume in the composer’s reception and one of earliest substantial monographs on the composer’s life and work to be published in the North. A composer and teacher as well as a music critic, Furuhjelm (1883–1964) worked at the Helsinki Music Conservatory (later the Sibelius Academy) between 1907 and 1935, and, alongside musicologist and folklorist Otto Andersson, was one of the leading musical authorities in the Swedish-Finnish cultural movement in the first half of the twentieth century.
Furuhjelm’s book, as he explained in his preface, was initially intended to form part of the celebrations associated with Sibelius’s fiftieth birthday in 1915—an occasion the composer himself marked with the first version of his Fifth Symphony.1 Yet a series of delays meant the volume appeared two years later—on the verge of a critical moment in Finland’s emergence as an independent nation free from Russian political control. Finland provisionally declared independence in late 1917, following the Russian Revolution. Yet internal political splits between social democrats and Bolshevik factions within the new country, and also between Svecoman (Swedish-Finnish) and Fennoman (Finnish-Finnish) parties, swiftly led to conflict and a brief but brutal civil war in 1918. Sibelius’s sympathies throughout were with the eventually victorious “White” side—the group aligned broadly with the Swedish-speaking minority. Furuhjelm’s book can be read retrospectively as an attempt, in this rapidly darkening political climate, to anticipate and assuage such cultural-political divisions and use Sibelius as a tool for cultural and political unity rather than conflict. Hence Furuhjelm’s text, written in Swedish, gains an urgent political thrust, motivated both by the desire to celebrate Finland’s growing sense of cultural emancipation, and to establish Sibelius’s higher artistic significance. It seeks to appeal to an international audience, as well as to the opposed groups or constituencies within Finland, by praising the supposedly universal appeal of Sibelius’s music.
Jean Sibelius and His World Page 45