Chapter One
A PRODIGY'S
NEW ENGLAND
UPBRINGING
PRODIGIES ARE AT ONCE A JOY and a trial to parents. Watching them leap overbarriers, telescope the learning process, and work with the intenseconcentration that is the mark of the gifted makes parents both proud andgrateful for their children's gifts. However, these very gifts may make parentsfeel diminished in size, in authority, in competence. Even if gifted childrendo nothing but follow their bent and never challenge their parents' authority,their amazing displays of genius give them authority and power. If parentstreat them as if they were normal, never admitting to anyone that theirchildren are special, the children know better. If the child's musicalperceptions are of great depth and intensity, prompting urgent and imperiousdemands for satisfaction, then the parents worry that the child may beabnormal, untamable, even monstrous. If the parents' religious beliefs placethe children's salvation ahead of earthly gratifications, the problemsintensify. If, in addition, the child is a female and born into a traditionthat denies women freedom to develop their talents to the full, then theproblems multiply--for both parent and child. Clara Imogene Cheney may have hadall these thoughts and feelings when she realized that her child was a musicalprodigy. The realization came early.
Amy Marcy Cheney was born between noon and 1 p.m. on 5 September1867 in West Henniker, New Hampshire, just nine Months after her parentswere married. At that time the family included Amy; her father, Charles AbbottCheney, age twenty-three; her mother, Clara Imogene (Marcy) Cheney,twenty-one; her widowed maternal grandmother, Amy Eliza Marcy, age forty-seven;and her paternal grandfather, Moses Cheney, forty-five. Amy's maternalaunt, Emma Francis (Marcy) Clement, age twenty-five, who married six monthsbefore Amy was born, was a frequent visitor with her husband, Lyman HinkleyClement, age twenty-seven, probably remaining for an extended period.
The land on which their house at 102 Western Avenue still stands now liesfallow; however, in the late nineteenth century it was a working farm. The farmdid not, however, provide the family's main support. Across from their homeruns the Contoocook River, and if you follow the river two miles to the west,you come to the former site of Moses and Charles Cheney's paper mill. Fatherand son were the third and fourth generations of Cheneys who milled paper.
The two-story white clapboard house where the Cheney family lived mayhave lacked the second story at the time Amy was born. Even with the lateraddition of an entire floor this is a modest farm-house. There is no frontporch. Rather, two or three steps lead from the outside directly into the frontroom, one of several small rooms and a kitchen. Upstairs are three or foursmall bedrooms. Behind and connected to the house are a workshop and barns.
The house, despite its modesty, contained a piano, a weighty emblem ofmiddle-class status. But in the Cheney household it was more than a symbol.Amy's mother was a talented pianist and singer, and her grandmother Marcywas a high soprano who sang in the church choir as well as at home. Thanksto these women, and to visits by Amy's Aunt Franc, there was constant musicmaking at home.
Amy, a fair-haired child with large blue-violet eyes, was small for her age.She became a participant in music making even before she could speak: by thetime she was one year old, she hummed forty tunes accurately and always inthe key that she first heard them. Her mother, aware of the remarkable talentthis evinced, made a list of the tunes, which has not survived, although threeare named in Cheney's biography of her daughter: "Old Dog Tray," "SweetFace in the Window," and Amy's favorite hymn, "The moon shines full at Hiscommand / And all the stars obey."
Amy soon proved strong-willed and demanding, especially of music. Thetoddler insisted on a constant diet of songs, which at times had to be suppliedin relays: as her mother's voice tired, her grandmother would take over, orthere would be tears. Any change from Amy's first hearing of the songwould upset her; after she learned to speak, she would order them to "'sing itclean.'"
Not only did the one-year-old child control how music was sung but shealso determined what was sung. When Amy's mother or maternal grandmotherrocked her to sleep, "if we sang a song that she didn't want to hear,"Mrs. Cheney wrote, "she would show such anger that we would gladly make achange." Such willfulness poses a serious threat to parental authority.
The child's sensitivity was not only musical but global. From infancy,sounds that suggested a lack of control--loud laughter, for example--movedher to tears, even painful sobs. Indeed, when company came, "her lip wouldquiver at the first signs of mirth," and she had to be carried out of the room.Rain hitting the windows also moved her to tears, as if the sight of nature"crying" was threatening; she demanded that her mother wipe away nature'stears as she did her own. Thunder was especially disturbing to Amy, a reactionthat persisted throughout her life.
Her remarkable memory and accurate singing startled friends and neighborsas well as her family. In 1869, thousands of choristers in New Englandwere practicing to take part in Patrick Gilmore's "Grandest MusicalDemonstration that the world has ever witnessed," a giant National Peace Jubileeheld in Boston to celebrate the end of the Civil War. The high point would bethe triumphant entrance of President Grant to the singing of "See, theConquering Hero Comes" by a chorus of ten thousand, accompanied by bandsand orchestras and introduced by an artillery salute. The conductor was Boston'sCarl Zerrahn, who would be an important person in Amy's early musicalcareer.
Among those practicing for the performance was the local photographerW. G. C. Kimball of Concord. As he prepared to take the two-year-old's picture,she suddenly burst out at the top of her voice with "See, the Conquering HeroComes." Kimball, who was amazed at the clarity and accuracy of her rendition,said, "That is more wonderful than anything we shall see at the Jubilee." Thephoto suggests that he caught her in the act of singing, for her mouth is openand her expression is one of fierce intensity. The pose would have requiredremarkable control on her part, since subjects at that time had to remain stillfor an entire minute.
Her concentration on music was extraordinary for so young a child: ClaraCheney's piano playing was the joy of Amy's life, and when her motheraccompanied a local violinist, Amy would listen for hours without moving. Allthese signs of a musical gift gave both equal portions of pleasure and concern,the latter prompting a strong reaction: from the moment Amy reached up totry to touch the piano keys, her mother made it clear that the piano was out ofbounds for the toddler.
The child, who wanted nothing as much as she wanted to play the piano,did not accept the restriction placidly. Rather she begged, coaxed, and tried toclimb on the piano stool or on her mother's lap at the piano. But nothingmoved her mother to change. Amy could hear music, and nothing and no onecould stop her from thinking music. She could order others to sing, sing herselfto sleep, and find the apt song for any event, including the stray catscratching at the window or the moon shining through it. But she could not touchthe piano keys. Resourceful and determined yet accepting, the child foundanother outlet for her musicality: she sang original melodies to Mother Gooserhymes while playing an imaginary keyboard.
On occasion, even Clara Cheney was startled. Before Amy was two, whenher mother rocked her to sleep, she exhibited a new skill, that of improvising"a perfectly correct alto to any soprano" that her mother might sing. Thereis something threatening, even uncanny about the little child cradled in herarms taking charge of music making in this way. Clara Cheney, who identifiedthis feat as a display of compositional ability, responded to it not byrelenting the ban on piano playing but rather by reinforcing it, explainingthat she was afraid that too early access would cause the child to tire ofmusic. She followed what the popular essayist Gerald Stanley Lee called the"top bureau-drawer principle," of placing the desired object just out of reach.Children must learn discipline early, and the best way to teach it is towithhold whatever the child wants most. Besides, Cheney did not want Amy tobecome a prodigy, with all that that implied, and was not about to allowbehavior that would induce others to treat her daughter as one.
Her decision seems both harsh and inflexible by present-day standards.Why, for example, did not her curiosity lead her to allow the child toexperiment at the instrument, merely to find out what she could do? But no,Clara Cheney held firm, animated perhaps by more profound motives than the onesshe expressed.
Charles and Clara Cheney were determined that their daughter grow up asmuch as possible as a normal child. Part of the standard education ofmiddle-class girls was to teach them to be modest, not to take undue pride intheir accomplishments, and certainly not to be boastful or arrogant. Amy soonlearned that her prodigious talent was a gift of God, an idea that preservedher modesty while suggesting the magnitude of the gift.
Her parent's decision undoubtedly had deeper roots than even the issue ofproper female modesty. If Clara Cheney needed other reasons for keeping herchild from the piano, her religion may have provided them. Amy's parentsboth came from colonial stock. Charles Abbott Cheney (1844-1895) was theson of Freewill Baptists, a liberal sect that, unlike other Baptists, did notbelieve that infants were born depraved. A genial and easygoing man, he seems tohave had less direct influence on his daughter than his wife, especially duringthe many years when he traveled as a salesman of imported paper stock, beginningin 1870.
Clara Imogene Marcy (1845-1911) was a Congregationalist, that is, aCalvinist, although probably a moderate one. Calvinists believed that childrenwere born depraved, that to save their souls they must be taught piety early,and that earthly life was but a preparation for heaven. Horace Bushnell'sinfluential book, Christian Nurture, appeared between 1847 and 1863,the years when Clara Cheney was growing up. He was important as a reformer,rejecting the harsher aspects of Calvinist training, particularly that ofbreaking a child's will. Instead, he recommended genial warmth and love, "agood life, the repose of faith, the confidence of righteous expectation [ofsalvation, and] the sacred and cheerful liberty of the spirit." It is likelythat Clara Cheney followed Bushnell's teachings.
But he also believed in discipline. Infants, Bushnell asserted, have "blindwill," perhaps their strongest characteristic, and one that must be curbed. "Isthis infant child to fill the universe with his complete and totalself-assertion, owning no superior, or is he to learn the self-submission ofallegiance, obedience, duty to God?" It is easy to see how the mother of such ademanding child might worry that Amy would turn into a monster ofself-assertion. How comforting then to know that someone of the ReverendBushnell's authority had a cure for such willfulness: between the ages of tenmonths and three years, gently, lovingly train the child to submit to theparent's will, advice Clara Cheney apparently followed. The recommended meanswas the consistent control of what the child wanted most--food, for example--orin Amy's case, the piano.
Indulgence of any kind corrupts, according to Bushnell. "A child can bepampered in feeding, so as to become, in a sense, all body; so that, when hecomes into choice and responsible action, he is already a confirmed sensualist."Similarly, with the powerful and sensual medium of music, the childmust first learn to do without; later, limited experiences could be safelyoffered because the child has learned that even such a privilege may be takenaway for cause. For the first four years of Amy's life, Clara Cheney taught herdaughter submission by withholding the piano, and later by controlled relaxationof the ban: "I was to be as carefully kept from music as later I would behelped to it."
Clara Cheney's second response to these feats was a long-term decision thatAmy "was to be a musician, not a prodigy." Since the child already was aprodigy, it could only mean that she would not be allowed to act nor, indeed,to live like one. Gender considerations also entered in. Because she was female,she must learn early that her adult life would be centered on home, husband,and children, not music. Careers for women outside the home were hardly theaccepted practice in the years immediately following the Civil War. With fewexceptions, a professional artist-musician class, in which the performingtraditions were handed down from parent to child, did not yet exist in theUnited States. Middle- and upper-class women gifted in music were turned fromany thought of such a life plan because of the stigma attached to those whoappeared as performers on the public stage. The attendant social degradation wasnot something that a middle-class family like the Cheneys desired for adaughter. A musical girl could perform as a private person; but child prodigieswere often the victims of exploitation and notoriety. For the next sixteenyears, this decision of Clara's (and probably Charles's as well) circumscribedAmy's musical life.
In 1869, the year that Amy turned two, the paper mill burned down.Thereafter, her grandfather devoted himself to farming; the following year,her father found a position with a Boston firm as a paper stock salesman. Hiswife and child soon followed him, moving in 1871 to Chelsea, a suburb ofBoston. Thereafter, they may have moved with some frequency, but their earliestknown address was 36 Marlborough Street, probably rented quarters.
At age four, Amy finally got to the keyboard. This happened despite hermother and through the intervention of Aunt Franc, who was visiting from hernew home in San Francisco. Beach described the signal event, her first vividmemory of her beloved aunt:
At last, I was allowed to touch the piano. My mother was still opposed, but I can remember my aunt coming to the house, and putting me at the piano. I played at once the melodies I had been collecting, playing in my head, adding full harmonies to the simple, treble melodies. Then my aunt played a new air for me, and I reached up and picked out a harmonized bass accompaniment, as I had heard my mother do.
The very first piece she played on that occasion was a Strauss waltz that shehad learned by hearing her mother play it. "The difficulty for me was the tinysize of my hands which made it necessary to omit octaves and big chords, butI seemed to have an uncanny sense of knowing just which notes to leave out,so that the result sounded well." But there were times when the frustration ofnot being able to recreate the sounds she heard in her head made her fly intoa rage. Her mother described her reactions: "Tears of grief and anger, screamsof mingled sorrow and wrath would issue from the child's throat ... but thiswould soon pass away as she yielded to the soothing influence of the music."Otherwise, from that day on she played whatever she heard from others orwhatever music she imagined in her head.
In all but very large houses, the person at the piano keyboard controls theaural space. There is no escaping the sound. Suddenly, the piano belonged toAmy as much as to her mother. Clara Cheney responded to this stunningdemonstration by limiting the time her daughter could spend at the piano,thus still maintaining control over music in her home. Moreover, Clara Cheneywithheld music as punishment, the way other parents might withhold food ortreats. If Amy Cheney misbehaved, her mother refused her access to theinstrument. Or, since "music in the minor keys made her sad and disconsolate,"Clara Cheney would play something in the minor mode as punishment."When the little fingers were getting into mischief, this always had thedesired effect. No other punishment was needed than the playing of Gottschalk'sLast Hope [meditation religieuse]," op. 16 (ex. 1.1). Indeed, ClaraCheney had only to play what she termed the "theme" of LastHope--probably the highly chromatic and dissonant passage in theintroduction--and "the little hands would drop whatever had been grasped andtears would immediately flow." Here was a child of great aural sensitivity,whose very gift was turned into her greatest vulnerability.
Amy's intellectual development kept pace with her musical growth, for atthree she taught herself to read. Her first and favorite book, A Child'sDream of a Star, by Charles Dickens, was undoubtedly read many times. Thebook deals with death and the child's journey along the shining path to a star,that is, to heaven. The first to die in a family of four was the youngest, alittle girl. Morbid, yes, but not when considered from the point of view ofmid-nineteenth-century Protestant belief. A mother's duty was to teach heryoung children not only that God "look[s] upon sin ... with abhorrence," butalso promises salvation to the righteous. Mothers were told to "excite thegratitude of the child by speaking of the joys of heaven ... There is enoughin the promised joys of heaven to rouse a child's most animated feelings." Thiswas the message the Dickens tale delivered with clarity. There is no way ofknowing whether Amy identified with the little girl who died or whether her joyin the hope of heaven outweighed any terror at the threat of damnation. Bothparts of the lesson had to be learned, and their imagery would reverberatethroughout Beach's life and music.
She attended Sunday School at the Central Congregationalist Church inChelsea and fell in love with her teacher--the only teacher other than hermother that she would have during the next few years. At age five she tookto reading the Scriptures aloud, which she did with the clarity and emphasis ofan adult. Her remarkable memory was not only for music, for she was able torecite extended and difficult poems in Sunday School or at church meetings.
Amy was still four when she composed her first piano pieces while spendingthe summer with her grandfather in West Henniker. "[W]hen I reachedhome I told my mother that I had `made' three waltzes. She did not believe itat first, as there was no piano within miles of the farm. I explained that I hadwritten them in my head, and proved it by playing them on her piano." ClaraCheney's reaction to this new achievement was to restrain displays of her ownenthusiasm as well as that of others. As friends and relatives soon learnedabout Amy's precocious abilities at the piano and in composition, her motherwent to great lengths to keep Amy's accomplishments from turning her daughter'shead. She made no fuss over these waltzes, nor would she allow others todo so in the child's presence.
Amy named one piece "Snowflake Waltz," because she made it up duringthe hot days of summer; "Marlboro Waltz" was named after the street in Chelseawhere she lived; there were eventually two more, "Golden Robin Waltz"and "Mamma's Waltz." This last survives in a copy probably written out by hermother; it is a lengthy piece that shows a remarkable sense of form and keystructure, and includes some sophisticated harmonies (see chapter 4). All fourpieces were composed in her head and away from the piano, a practice shecontinued throughout her life.
Evidence that the child had perfect pitch surfaced early, although herparents did not recognize it until later. She would ask for music by its color:"Play the pink or blue music," she would demand. Her mother erroneously thoughtthe child was referring to the colors on the cover page, but eventually shediscovered that Amy was referring to the key of each piece. Her colorassociations for the major modes were C, white; E, yellow; G, red; A, green;A[b flat], blue; D[b flat], violet; E[b flat], pink. She named only two minorkeys, F# and G#, both black. While the list is incomplete--she identified onlynine correspondences out of a possible twenty-four--the colors strongly suggestmood and will later help to explain some of Amy Beach's compositional practices.
By age five, Amy had an "allotted time each day for practice," limited by hermother. She taught herself to play various pieces by ear, including choralesfrom Mendelssohn's oratorio St. Paul. She also insisted on knowing whatmusical notation meant, and her mother told her only enough so that she soonfigured out the entire system and could sight-read. One of the pieces shelearned was the "Spirit Waltz" (wrongly attributed to Beethoven), which sheplayed during a visit with the children of friends. On her return, she told hermother that she was distressed to discover that the piano was a half tone lowerthan her mother's. In compensation, Amy had transposed the piece. "It soundedall wrong," she said, "I had to change it to a half tone higher to bring itright." Her memory of a musical work was so indelibly wedded to its key that itwas only acceptable when heard in the original key.
Later that year, parents and child found themselves once more atcross-purposes. Her father mentioned to her mother that the famous soprano andopera impresario Clara Louise Kellogg could identify any pitch she heard. WhenAmy piped up, "`Oh that's nothing. Anybody can do that. I can do that,'" herfather reprimanded her for being "`pert,'" aiming to teach her both mannersand humility. As the conversation continued and Amy was again scolded forinterrupting, her mother recalled the incident with the "Spirit Waltz." At thatpoint they decided to take the child seriously, tested her, and learned thatshe, too, had absolute pitch.
Of her parents' discovery, Amy Beach wrote that "It helped [my mother] topatience later, when her child appeared only pert." Patience? One needspatience to educate a slow child. But here was a child who soaked up everythingaround her, whose musical feats, on top of intellectual gifts, kept family andfriends amazed. But patience and consistency are needed also to train a child toaccept the values parents espouse and the limits they impose. For her part,Amy soon learned to cloak her self-assurance and pride in her achievements ina modest mien.
Such modesty was particularly important for a girl to learn. According tonineteenth-century practice, during a child's first few years, issues of gendersocialization were not a concern because all children were treated like girls.Both sexes wore long dresses that limited gross motor movement and weretaught to be pliant and submissive. By the age of five or six, however,differential treatment of boys and girls began when, during a ceremonial riteof passage, boys were "breeched," or put into trousers. For boys, the freedomand autonomy that were withheld since birth--like access to the piano--werenow offered in a limited and controlled manner along with their first masculineclothing. For girls, however, there was no ceremonial equivalent ofbreeching. Even limited freedom was withheld: their clothing continued torestrict their movements, they remained confined at home, were often given lessfood than their brothers in order to remain "slender and delicate," wereexpected to avoid vigorous physical activity advocated for boys, and wereeducated in domestic skills whether or not they also studied academic subjects.Most important, they were expected to remain pious, self-abnegating, humble,and modest.
Up to the age of five or six, girls and boys also were expected to have nowills of their own. Thereafter, although boys were still under parentaldiscipline, in practice they had greater latitude. Boys were not taught thesame kind of submissiveness as girls; the "stronger wills of male childrenwould in the end make them more manly men . . . [with] a taste for ruling whichis the germ of their future character." Amy Cheney, a passionate andstrong-willed child, demanded the more flexible treatment granted to boys.However, her very striving against limits may well have driven Clara Cheney togreater efforts to conform the child to standards for girls.
Yet Clara Cheney was far from being entirely repressive. As we have seen,during the earliest years she was often solicitous of her daughter's feelingsand intense reactions, trying to shield her from emotional trauma. She also didnot wish to overburden the child with information and instruction before shebelieved Amy was ready to receive it. Although she tried to keep Amy's talentsmore or less hidden, privately--in a biographical sketch of her daughter--sherevealed immense pride in her daughter's achievements while omitting anymention of their battles of wills.
When Amy was six, Clara Cheney finally agreed to teach her piano. She hadthree lessons a week and could only practice during the time her mother allottedto her. Beach later commented that "the piano was still, theoretically, in thetop bureau drawer." At the same time, her mother began her daughter's generaleducation, tutoring her at home rather than sending her to a school. Perhapsthis was an economy measure or sprang from a prevalent nineteenth-centurybelief that organized school activities were too regimented for "delicateand sensitive" girls, which frequently led mothers to tutor their daughters athome. An additional benefit of home tutoring was that the mother continued tohave total control of her child's experience, including that of shielding herfrom people who might make a fuss over her talents. From the child's point ofview, however, this was a claustrophobic way of living that deprived her ofcompanions of her own age. Later, Beach displayed a marked talent forfriendship and pleasure in social contact, as if to make up for thisunfulfilled early need.
Her progress in music was swift. Within a year after beginning lessons, shehad mastered the Boston Conservatory Method, which, although advertised"for beginners," required--especially in its closing pages--considerabletechnical facility and grasp of theory and harmony. Her mother proudly listedother pieces Amy was playing then, including works by Handel, Mozart,Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Beethoven.
When she was seven, Amy played her first pieces by Bach; she especiallyliked the fugues. Beethoven, however, was her favorite, and she only interruptedthe playing of his works when she was forced to leave the piano. Herhand size was still a problem, and occasionally--to her extreme and loudlyvoiced distress--she had to omit the lowest notes. With that exception,everything was played accurately and with feeling.
By now, Amy Cheney was ready and eager "to give serious recital programs."When the opportunity arose, it was her mother who bent onceagain, although Beach thought "the consent was unwilling." As with Amy'sfirst session at the piano, outside intervention plus the child's intensecampaign to perform may have caused Clara's change of heart. Nevertheless,Clara Cheney, simply stated that she gave her permission.
At one recital, a benefit for the Unitarian Church, the performers waitedtheir turn in the library, where Amy, who was to play a Chopin waltz and oneof her own waltzes as encore, immediately became engrossed in a book. Hermother reported:
When her number on the programme came and I went to take her to the conductor of the concert, she spoke very impatiently[:] "Wait, please[,] until I have finished my chapter." She put the book down very reluctantly with the command that "no one should lose her place." She didn't approve of the encore as it kept her from the book.
Yet it was Amy who had insisted on performing. Headstrong, impetuous,imperious--those characteristics in the child arouse the reader's sympathy forClara Cheney.
At a musicale in a private home in Boston, Amy repeated the Chopin waltzand also played Beethoven's easy sonata, op. 49, no. 1, and one of her ownwaltzes. That event resulted in what was probably her first review: TheFolio, a journal of the arts, reported that she "played with an accuracyand style which surprised every listener ... the young pianist is excitingmuch surprise by the precocity of her musical talent."
As a consequence of this recital, two or more concert managers, attractedby the combination of precocious talent and extreme youth, offered contracts.Indeed, Beach noted that she looked even younger than her seven years becauseshe was "small for her age, fair, and slight." She wrote, "it would havebeen merely play to enter upon the career of a travelling pianist, but my fatherand mother both agreed it would have been the worst possible thing for mementally and physically."
Clara Cheney then announced that there were to be no more recitals--evenat private or Sunday school events--and that in raising Amy, "due regard mustbe paid to a judicious expenditure of health and energy." Unquestionably, arecital tour would be a strain on a young child; indeed, it often is on adults.The outcome of that little recital, a press notice and offers from concertmanagers, was what Clara Cheney had hoped to avoid, along with the "corrupting"power of such a heady experience, one that would lead the child todream of a concert career. Nevertheless, years later Beach agreed with herparents' decision: "I shall always have the deepest gratitude for myinexperienced young parents that they did not allow me to be exploited bymanagers."
In early fall of 1875, they moved even closer to the hub when they settledin Roxbury at 63 Clifford Street. Now they were a short trolley ride fromBeacon Hill, the center of upper-class Boston, where Unitarians andTranscendentalists rejected harsh Calvinist practices and where women's publicactivism as abolitionists and feminists suggested new ways of raising children,especially girls. Even though public performance would remain just out of reach,Amy Cheney's world would expand in new and exciting ways.
Continues...
Excerpted from Amy Beach, Passionate Victorianby Adrienne F. Block Copyright © 2000 by Adrienne F. Block. Excerpted by permission.
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