SOMETHING ABOUT SONATAS.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

It was once my good fortune to stay in an Italian country house, where among many treasures there were some old music-books.

These books were in manuscript, and they had been written in the fourteenth or the fifteenth century. They seemed to have existed as long as the old house. They were kept in a little black ebony cabinet in a long room full of soft old colors.

There was a grand piano in the room, for the young ladies of the house played beautifully, and there was an organ for the use of the master of the house. The old music-books seemed suited to the room and to the organ.

I did not play any of the music. It would have been very difficult indeed to have done so, as the notation was not like ours, but it suggested many grave sweeping chords. Taking the chord of G major, for instance, I tried to see just how much the writer of this old music knew about it. Not a great deal; yet the Gregorian chant had been established, and in this music were various ideas which we have since developed.

Now the most interesting part of it all to me was certain queer little marks in the music. Here and there was a tiny f, which, as you know, meant what we now write as forte. There was a little t, or bt, meaning teneatur, or ben tenuto; a little c, meaning celeriter, or con moto, and so on.

I think the beginning of any art is interesting. All sorts of little shadowy suggestions of things that we have now in perfection seemed to me to lurk in those faded pages. As I put the books back in the ebony cabinet, and sat down by the wood fire, while B—— was drumming on the piano, I thought a great deal of the earnest, hopeful, patient old monk who had written it. And now, taking these little marks for my text, I want to tell you something about musical terms and signs.

Before you try to understand any great work like a symphony or sonata, you ought to thoroughly acquaint yourself with its very first principles. A great deal of hidden meaning lies in these simple little signs and terms.

That little f in the old music meant, as I say, forte, that is, loud, strong, as you know by its connection with the piano. The Italians called it fragor, and when you see it Fp, or fp, it means a quick, loud sound, suddenly subsiding into a piano or soft sound. Try the chord of A flat; it is a beautiful one, and you can best practice on it the fp.

The old teneatur, or tenuto, means that the note or chord should be sustained or held on to. I think this is best practiced at first in duets, for as you play you will see the effect of the tenuto on the notes your companion is playing, without having to worry yourself over holding the note properly, and playing with the other hand at the same time.

Con moto means with celerity or rapidity. Any gavotte music practices this.

These are only a few signs, but I have explained them just to show you how very necessary they can be both to practice and performance, and I think it well for all beginners in music to study certain bits just for the purpose of learning how to interpret such signs quickly at sight. An interesting half-hour's practice might be expended any day, I think, in this direction. I once knew a very ardent little student who always gave twenty minutes a day to what she called "rules." They were the study of sight reading, the learning of signs and reading music accordingly, the formation of chords, and the practice of making harmonic changes. I think it was a very useful part of her practicing. She often looks back to it now, thankful that she then accustomed herself to thinking in her music.

Now, as I suppose you know, besides these dynamic signs, there are many terms used to indicate both the time and the character of the music to be played. You see them on every piece of music. Many of these are necessarily parts of long works like symphonies and sonatas; but of them, when so used, I hope I may tell you at some other time. I speak of them now in their general significance. Take the constantly used allegro. It always looks to me just what it means—brightness and gayety. Literally, it means cheerful. Now, as a matter of time, when you see allegro, you may know that you ought to play it between andante time and presto time.

Sometimes composers have simply called a piece an "allegro," just as Milton called his famous poem "L'Allegro." You will find it often modified by some other word, like allegro assai or con brio, meaning a quick allegro; and if you go to a large concert, and have some knowledge of the music to be played, you may be surprised to find that the orchestra will take the allegro rather more slowly than you would if you were playing at home. But this is a sort of unwritten rule which governs performers in a large hall. To me the word written beside my music as I turn the page seems to mean some fair and smiling country, peace and plenty, joyful content, the gay look of youth, and the sweetness of a gentle life. Try to play some allegro movement, thinking of these happy things, and see if your fingers do not move more readily.

The term andante used only to be employed in its most literal sense, which means going, and they then put other words with it, but now it is only used to mean going slowly. Beethoven has written many pieces just known as andantes. The word is constantly used to express a slow and solemn movement, but adagio means something even more stately and pathetic. Presto means a quick, sudden movement; it comes in often as a change from a richer, fuller sound. Scherzo, a term you will constantly see, literally means a jest, but it is employed to designate a humorous or lively movement.

These are, as you must know, only a few of the many terms employed in music, but I have given you their significations chiefly because they have to do with the arrangement of the sonata and the symphony.

Some day I shall hope to tell you a great deal about famous sonatas and symphonies, and concertos also, but here I can only give you some of the rules which have to be employed in their composition. All this, I am sure, ought to be very thoroughly understood by any one who plays a sonata or wishes to fully enjoy listening to one.

Originally the sonata consisted of slow, solemn movements when it was for church music, and of one or two only when it was for secular music, but the form in which we have it now is called the modern sonata, and must consist of four movements.

First comes an allegro. This has two of what are called themes, or subjects, one in the tonic or key-note, the other in what is called the dominant. This is the fifth note above the key-note. For example, should the first theme of an allegro be written in C, the second would have to be in G. It is called dominant, because the key of any passage can not be accurately known unless it has this note for root. Should the first theme of the sonata be written in the minor key, then the second would have to be in the relative major.

The second movement of the sonata is the andante. This has usually one theme or subject, and it is in a key which relates in some way to the tonic or leading key. I give you these rules simply, but they are worth remembering as first steps to much deeper study.

The third movement is a minuet or scherzo (this was introduced by Beethoven). The fourth movement is again an allegro, or presto, or rondo. Here we go back to the original key, but there is only one theme, and this is often gone over and over in various ways. Now, then, with these rules to govern them, musicians are allowed certain licenses, so that occasionally you will find a sonata written not quite in this form. Schubert, a wonderful composer, often disregarded rules in his sonatas, and occasionally Beethoven did the same. To Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven we owe the sonata as we have it now, and for beginners I should recommend Haydn and Mozart as the simplest reading and best music to begin upon.

A symphony, properly speaking, is an elaborate work like the sonata, divided into movements, but arranged chiefly with a view to orchestration. Any number of instruments may be used, and solos for different instruments are introduced. Sometimes voices are added, as in the famous Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. This is often called the Choral Symphony. The first writer of genuine symphonies was Boccherini, and Haydn brought them nearer to the form in which we have them. Mozart did a little more, and Beethoven perfected them.

Boccherini's music is often very dull, yet someway I like to think of him, and to hear his symphonies. He must have been a very interesting man to know. He was kindly, good-humored, and generous, and in the last century he played divinely on the 'cello. Often he was very poor; he led a wandering life, and wrote some delicious bits of music to pay for his dinner. In those days musical opportunities were rare, and yet good musicians often lived and died unappreciated. We of to-day owe poor, gentle Boccherini a great deal. I well remember a dull day in London, when at the house of a famous artist I heard some of his music rehearsed by the greatest musicians in the world. They were preparing for a concert, and asked a few friends to hear this impromptu practice. I thought how glad poor Boccherini (who died in 1805, fairly tired of his cruel life) would have been to hear such musicians render his work. Somehow it seemed to shut out all the fog and cheerlessness of the square below the window in which I sat.