Edward MacDowell: A Study — Key Ideas to Explore
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Edward had his first piano lessons, when he was about eight years old, from a friend of the family, Mr. Juan Buitrago, a native of Bogota, Colombia, and an accomplished musician. Mr. Buitrago was greatly interested in the boy, and had asked to be permitted to teach him his notes. Their piano practice at this time was subject to frequent interruptions; for when strict supervision was not exercised over his work, Edward was prone to indulge at the keyboard a fondness for composition which had developed concurrently with, and somewhat at the expense of, his proficiency in piano technique. He was not a prodigy, nor was he in the least precocious, though his gifts were as evident as they were various. He was not fond of drudgery at the keyboard, and he lacked the miraculous aptness at acquirement which belongs to the true prodigy. He was unusual chiefly by reason of the versatility of his gifts. His juvenile exercises in composition were varied by an apt use of the pencil and the sketching board. He liked to cover his music books and his exercises with drawings that showed both the observing eye and the naturally skilful hand of the born artist. Nor did music and drawing form a sufficient outlet for his impulse toward expression. He scribbled a good deal in prose and verse, and was fond of devising fairy tales, which were written not without a hint of the imaginative faculty which seems always to have been his possession.
He continued his lessons with Mr. Buitrago for several years, when he was taken to a professional piano teacher, Paul Desvernine, with whom he studied until he was fifteen. He received, too, at this time, occasional supplementary lessons from the brilliant Venezuelan, Teresa Carreño. When he was in his fifteenth year it was determined that he should go abroad for a course in piano and theory at the Paris Conservatory, and in April, 1876, accompanied by his mother, he left America for France. He passed the competitive examination for admission to the Conservatory, and began the Autumn term as a pupil of Marmontel in piano and of Savard in theory and composition--having for a fellow pupil, by the way, that most remarkable of contemporary music-makers, Claude Debussy, whom MacDowell described as having been, even then, a youth of erratic and non-conformist tendencies.
MacDowell's experiences at the Conservatory were not unmixed with perplexities and embarrassment. His knowledge of French was far from secure, and he had considerable difficulty in following Savard's lectures. It was decided, therefore, that he should have a course of tuition in the language. A teacher was engaged, and Edward began a resolute attack upon the linguistic _chevaux de frise_ which had proved so troublesome an impediment--a move which brought him, unexpectedly enough, to an important crisis in his affairs.
On one occasion it happened that, during these lessons in French, he was varying the monotony of a study hour by drawing, under cover of his lesson-book, a portrait of his teacher, whose most striking physical characteristic was a nose of extravagant bulk. He was detected just as he was completing the sketch, and was asked, much to his confusion, to exhibit the result. It appears to have been a remarkable piece of work as well as an excellent likeness, for the subject of it was eager to know whether or not MacDowell had studied drawing, and, if not, how he acquired his proficiency. Moreover, he insisted on keeping the sketch. Not long after, he called upon Mrs. MacDowell and told her, to her astonishment, that he had shown the sketch to a certain very eminent painter--an instructor at the École de Beaux Arts--and that the painter had been so much impressed by the talent which it evidenced that he begged to propose to Mrs. MacDowell that she submit her son to him for a three-years' course of free instruction under his personal supervision, offering also to be responsible for his support during that time. The issue was a momentous one, and Mrs. MacDowell, in much perplexity of mind as to the wisest settlement of her son's future, laid the matter before Marmontel, who, fearful of losing one of his aptest pupils, urgently advised her against diverting her son from a musical career. The decision was finally left to MacDowell, and it was agreed that he should continue his studies at the Conservatory. Although it seems not unlikely that, with his natural facility as a painter and draughtsman and his uncommon faculties of vision and imagination, he would have achieved distinction as a painter, it may be questioned whether in that case music would not have lost appreciably more than art would have gained.
Lawrence Gilman opens his 1908 study of Edward MacDowell by declaring that the composer presents 'the noteworthy spectacle of a radical without extravagance.' This phrase sets the tone for a work that is as much a critical manifesto as a biography. Gilman, a music critic and author of several books on modern music, positions MacDowell as a musician who, though aligned with the 'dominant artistic movement of his day,' remains detached from its excesses. The preface reveals that this volume supersedes an earlier monograph from 1905, with the biographical portion 'almost wholly new' and the musical chapters revised. Gilman acknowledges the assistance of MacDowell's widow and various friends, and notes that MacDowell wrote 'surprisingly few letters.'
A Radical Without Extravagance
Gilman's central claim is that MacDowell is a 'radical without extravagance,' a musician who embraces the interpretive mission of music without succumbing to the 'unleavened literalism of Richard Strauss.' He argues that MacDowell conceives music's prime mission as interpretive, insisting it 'shall concern itself with essences and impressions, not at all with transcriptions.' This places MacDowell in a middle ground between the 'undaunted literalism' of Strauss and the 'sentimental posturings' of Schumann. Gilman also distances MacDowell from the 'prismatic subtleties of the younger French school,' suggesting that his musical speech has little in common with 'the representative voices of modernity.'
The Poet's Vision in Music
Gilman repeatedly frames MacDowell as a poet who happens to use musical speech. He writes that MacDowell 'looked out upon the visible world and inward upon the world of the emotions through the transforming eyes of the poet.' This poetic orientation is tied to a kind of realism: not the realism of transcription, but a 'transmutation of life into visible or audible form' that implicates Beethoven, Wagner, and Debussy as well as Strauss. Gilman asserts that MacDowell's music, like Wagner's Faust overture or Debussy's L'Après-midi d'un Faune, does not disclose its full beauty to a listener ignorant of its 'poetic basis.' The appeal is 'conditioned upon' this knowledge.
Critical Method and Self-Awareness
Gilman is unusually candid about the provisional nature of his judgments. In the preface he acknowledges that 'posterity has an inconvenient habit of reversing the judgments delivered upon creative artists by their contemporaries.' He admits that to 'trim deftly one's convictions' in hope of future validation is as dangerous as avowing precise beliefs without equivocation. This self-awareness extends to his method: he bases his study on a previous monograph, but expands and revises it. The excerpts show Gilman weaving together biographical detail, critical analysis, and quotations from friends and pupils, while relying on a relatively small body of MacDowell's correspondence.
Readers should approach this study as a document of its time—a critical portrait written by a contemporary who admired MacDowell's work and sought to define his place in music history. Gilman's prose is dense with aesthetic argument, and his comparisons to Strauss, Schumann, and Debussy are meant to illuminate MacDowell's distinctiveness. The excerpts offer a focused view of Gilman's thesis; the full text likely expands on MacDowell's individual works, which are listed in the table of contents but not excerpted here.
There’s something gentle about Gilman’s MacDowell, that "radical without extravagance" who resisted the noise around him. It reminds me of an old, worn copy of Chopin : The Story of the Boy Who Made Beautiful Melodies — Key Ideas to Explore, where the music felt more like a private whisper than a statement. Both composers seem to ask for quiet listening, not applause.
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