Popular scientific lectures. Ernst MachЧитать онлайн книгу.
arise in the same way. The rhythmical shocks of two sounding bodies, of unequal pitch, sometimes coincide, sometimes interfere, whereby they alternately augment and enfeeble each other's effects. Hence the shock-like, unpleasant swelling of the tone.
Now that we have made ourselves acquainted with overtones and beats, we may proceed to the answer of our main question, Why do certain relations of pitch produce pleasant sounds, consonances, others unpleasant sounds, dissonances? It will be readily seen that all the unpleasant effects of simultaneous sound-combinations are the result of beats produced by those combinations. Beats are the only sin, the sole evil of music. Consonance is the coalescence of sounds without appreciable beats.
To make this perfectly clear to you I have constructed the model which you see in Fig. 12. It represents a claviatur. At its top a movable strip of wood aa with the marks 1, 2 … 6 is placed. By setting this strip in any position, for example, in that where the mark 1 is over the note c of the claviatur, the marks 2, 3 … 6, as you see, stand over the overtones of c. The same happens when the strip is placed in any other position. A second, exactly similar strip, bb, possesses the same properties. Thus, together, the two strips, in any two positions, point out by their marks all the tones brought into play upon the simultaneous sounding of the notes indicated by the marks 1.
The two strips, placed over the same fundamental note, show that also all the overtones of those notes coincide. The first note is simply intensified by the other. The single overtones of a sound lie too far apart to permit appreciable beats. The second sound supplies nothing new, consequently, also, no new beats. Unison is the most perfect consonance.
Moving one of the two strips along the other is equivalent to a departure from unison. All the overtones of the one sound now fall alongside those of the other; beats are at once produced; the combination of the tones becomes unpleasant: we obtain a dissonance. If we move the strip further and further along, we shall find that as a general rule the overtones always fall alongside each other, that is, always produce beats and dissonances. Only in a few quite definite positions do the overtones partially coincide. Such positions, therefore, signify higher degrees of euphony—they point out the consonant intervals.
These consonant intervals can be readily found experimentally by cutting Fig. 12 out of paper and moving bb lengthwise along aa. The most perfect consonances are the octave and the twelfth, since in these two cases the overtones of the one sound coincide absolutely with those of the other. In the octave, for example, 1b falls on 2a, 2b on 4a, 3b on 6a. Consonances, therefore, are simultaneous sound-combinations not accompanied by disagreeable beats. This, by the way, is, expressed in English, what Euclid said in Greek.
Only such sounds are consonant as possess in common some portion of their partial tones. Plainly we must recognise between such sounds, also when struck one after another, a certain affinity. For the second sound, by virtue of the common overtones, will produce partly the same sensation as the first. The octave is the most striking exemplification of this. When we reach the octave in the ascent of the scale we actually fancy we hear the fundamental tone repeated. The foundations of harmony, therefore, are the foundations of melody.
Consonance is the coalescence of sounds without appreciable beats! This principle is competent to introduce wonderful order and logic into the doctrines of the fundamental bass. The compendiums of the theory of harmony which (Heaven be witness!) have stood hitherto little behind the cook-books in subtlety of logic, are rendered extraordinarily clear and simple. And what is more, all that the great masters, such as Palestrina, Mozart, Beethoven, unconsciously got right, and of which heretofore no text-book could render just account, receives from the preceding principle its perfect verification.
But the beauty of the theory is, that it bears upon its face the stamp of truth. It is no phantom of the brain. Every musician can hear for himself the beats which the overtones of his musical sounds produce. Every musician can satisfy himself that for any given case the number and the harshness of the beats can be calculated beforehand, and that they occur in exactly the measure that theory determines.
This is the answer which Helmholtz gave to the question of Pythagoras, so far as it can be explained with the means now at my command. A long period of time lies between the raising and the solving of this question. More than once were eminent inquirers nearer to the answer than they dreamed of.
The inquirer seeks the truth. I do not know if the truth seeks the inquirer. But were that so, then the history of science would vividly remind us of that classical rendezvous, so often immortalised by painters and poets. A high garden wall. At the right a youth, at the left a maiden. The youth sighs, the maiden sighs! Both wait. Neither dreams how near the other is.
I like this simile. Truth suffers herself to be courted, but she has evidently no desire to be won. She flirts at times disgracefully. Above all, she is determined to be merited, and has naught but contempt for the man who will win her too quickly. And if, forsooth, one breaks his head in his efforts of conquest, what matter is it, another will come, and truth is always young. At times, indeed, it really seems as if she were well disposed towards her admirer, but that admitted—never! Only when Truth is in exceptionally good spirits does she bestow upon her wooer a glance of encouragement. For, thinks Truth, if I do not do something, in the end the fellow will not seek me at all.
This one fragment of truth, then, we have, and it shall never escape us. But when I reflect what it has cost in labor and in the lives of thinking men, how it painfully groped its way through centuries, a half-matured thought, before it became complete; when I reflect that it is the toil of more than two thousand years that speaks out of this unobtrusive model of mine, then, without dissimulation, I almost repent me of the jest I have made.
And think of how much we still lack! When, several thousand years hence, boots, top-hats, hoops, pianos, and bass-viols are dug out of the earth, out of the newest alluvium as fossils of the nineteenth century; when the scientists of that time shall pursue their studies both upon these wonderful structures and upon our modern Broadways, as we to-day make studies of the implements of the stone age and of the prehistoric lake-dwellings—then, too, perhaps, people will be unable to comprehend how we could come so near to many great truths without grasping them. And thus it is for all time the unsolved dissonance, for all time the troublesome seventh, that everywhere resounds in our ears; we feel, perhaps, that it will find its solution, but we shall never live to see the day of the pure triple accord, nor shall our remotest descendants.
Ladies, if it is the sweet purpose of your life to sow confusion, it is the purpose of mine to be clear; and so I must confess to you a slight transgression that I have been guilty of. On one point I have told you an untruth. But you will pardon me this falsehood, if in full repentance I make it good. The model represented in Fig. 12 does not tell the whole truth, for it is based upon the so-called "even temperament" system of tuning. The overtones, however, of musical sounds are not tempered, but purely tuned. By means of this slight inexactness the model is made considerably simpler. In this form it is fully adequate for ordinary purposes, and no one who makes use of it in his studies need be in fear of appreciable error.
If you should demand of me, however, the full truth, I could give you that only by the help of a mathematical formula. I should have to take the chalk into my hands and—think of it!—reckon in your presence. This you might take amiss. Nor shall it happen. I have resolved to do no more reckoning for to-day. I shall reckon now only upon your forbearance, and this you will surely not gainsay me when you reflect that I have made only a limited use of my privilege to weary you. I could have taken up much more of your time, and may, therefore, justly close with Lessing's epigram:
"If thou hast found in all these pages naught that's worth the thanks,
At least have gratitude for what I've spared thee."
THE VELOCITY OF LIGHT.