Paul Collaer

A
HISTORY
OF MODERN MUSIC
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC
 Paul Collaer

A
HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY Sdlly AbßlßS

The World Publishing Company - Cleveland and New York

With deep gratitude, the translator thanks
Rosalie Rebollo Sborgi and Tommye Murphy,
whose scholarship and skill gave her
invaluable technical and moral support. S, A.

published byThe World Publishing Company

2231 West noth Street, Cleveland 2, Ohio

PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA BY

Nelson, Foster ir Scott Ltd.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-5809

FIRST EDITION
Translated from the second edition of the French text,
La Musique Moderne, Copyright © 1955 by Elsevier, Brussels.

Copyright © 1961 by The World Publishing Company.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form without written permission from the publisher,
except for brief passages included in a review appearing in
a newspaper or magazine.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. WP1OÖ1
CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION //

1. CHRONOLOGY I7

2. ARNOLD SCHOENBERG, ANTON WEBERN, ALBAN

BERG _

3. IGOR STRAVINSKY n5
4. MUSIC IN FRANCE AFTER DEBUSSY 156
5. ERIK SATIE AND THE SIX 20z

6. MILHAUD, HONEGGER, AURIC, POULENC: AFTER

THE SIX 230

7. FRENCH MUSIC AFTER THE SIX 275

8. MUSIC IN SOVIET RUSSIA 284

9. GERMAN MUSIC AFTER RICHARD STRAUSS 308
10. NATIONALEM AND ECLECTICISM 338

CONCLUSION 389
Appendix: MODERN MUSIC AND LYRIC THEATER 401

INDEX 4°7
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC
 INTRODUCTION

it might seem presumptuous to write a history of modern music

at a time when that period, far from being finished, gives no
sign of nearing its end. Without the necessary perspective it is
difficult, indeed, to make a definitive judgment on the composers
and their works, Contemporary as they are, when the ideas they
propose and the problems they raise are the object of our daily
attention. Because we take part in discussions the composers
begin, our tastes and inclinations are focused on the presenta-
tion, execution, and interpretation of the music in question.
Therefore, our activity is necessarily colored by partisan feelings.
I want immediately to warn the reader, as I have done in
other works, that I am neither a musicologist nor a music critic.
I have served the cause of modern music as a musician who in-
terprets modern works, or has them interpreted, while they are
often still in manuscript and no tradition has been established
for their interpretation. The musician who undertakes this task
has a responsibility. He is used to studying scores entrusted to
him, and judges their meaning and value before presenting them
to the public.
Trained by the discipline of his work to acknowledge in his
material only the musical realities, the sonorous values that
compose it, and often guided in his work by the composers them-
selves, he is very close to the source of the music, and has the
advantage of knowing it before it is deformed by false traditions
or surrounded by legends which often are the cause of persistent
misunderstandings.
If I have elected to write the history of modern music it is
because I am convinced, after more than forty years in its Serv­
ice, that the Contemporary period is one of the richest and most
beautifui of musical history, and what is more important, that
ii
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

the music of our time participates substantially in the life of

today. It is a reflection of the aspirations of modern life and the
necessities imposed on it. If only on these grounds, it should be
presented as a contribution to the general history of our time.
By “modern music“ we mean the music written after Debussy
and Ravel in France; after Strauss, Reger, and Mahler in Ger-
many and Austria; after the Five and Scriabin in Russia; after
verismo in Italy. In short, modern music begins around 1910.
Still, it is impossible to place a strict boundary between this and
the previous period, for although the evolution has sometimes
spurted ahead, it has proceeded smoothly for the most part. A
new form sometimes has its roots far back in earlier times.
Earlier periods formed great conceptual wholes, and carry the
names impressionist, romantic, classic, and baroque. Modern mu­
sic differs in that it has no one single trend launched in a given
direction. Rather, it is the meeting ground of numerous and di­
vergent trends. Far from showing a unified front, the Contem­
porary period is distinguishable from earlier periods by its great
diversity—I would say by a sort of multipolarity, a term which
applies equally to general Contemporary history. Instead of
drawing up a synthesis of the music we are examining, we will
therefore have to follow each of the different trends or diverse
patterns which have led to the creation of important works and
had lasting influence on and brought new and valid elements
to music.
Music is a language. But a language is formed and transformed
by the weight of interior forces—the conception of life, the nature
of feeling and intelligence, and the need for communication.
It would be wrong to treat the history of music in terms of
pure philology, because in order to understand the structure of a
language we must first of all know to what concepts it corre-
sponds. And yet, despite the diversity of its concepts, Contem­
porary music contributes to the end, or at least the end of the
exclusive reign, of the principle of tonality. The reign of classic
tonal harmony, as well as the dominion of the bar-measure Sys­
tem over rhythm, is finished.
Johann Sebastian Bach, who has been called the Louis xiv
of tonality, followed his inclination to simplify and purify music
by making the final break from antique and ecclesiastic modes
Introduction
which insured the unity and solidarity of the musical system until
his time. Turning aside from the diversity of modes and differ-
ences of expression that their use created, he elevated the ut
mode 1 (our modern C major scale) and its parallel minor to a
position of absolute dominance. Musical architecture gained
thereby, but expression lost. The absolute dominance of the
ut mode was to music what the rule of the three unities was to
classical tragedy.
This exclusive rule did not last long. Bach’s sons, especially
Karl Philipp Emanuel, broke with their father’s views. Impelled
by the need for strong and flexible expression, Karl Philipp
Emanuel Bach opened the romantic period by introducing
chromaticism, which consists of multiplying the transpositions of
the ut mode and passing from one tone to another while still
maintaining the principle of tonality. In this way different colors
are created whose succession evokes expression, especially at the
moment of modulation in the passage from one tone to another.
In some of his works, for example Abschied von meinem Silber-
mannischen Klaviere, he clusters modulations closely together,
giving the impression that the principle of tonality is tottering.
All of romanticism and impressionism (which is in a way its
ultimate phase) developed on the basis of that chromaticism
which, from Schumann via Liszt and Wagner to Richard Strauss,
moved more and more freely. With their more frequent use and
increasing complexity, dissonances ended by not being resolved
at all in Debussy’s and RaveFs music. The strength of the prin­
ciple of tonality progressively ebbed in the face of the growing
need and desire to express individualism with more refined
nuances.
Still, whatever freedom was gained, until the rise of French
impressionism musical language continued to revolve around the
tonic, its dominant and subdominant. Relationships became more
and more subtle; the language, more and more concise, came to
I. The ut mode is formed by the succession of the diatonic degrees on
the fundamental ut. It is characterized by two like tetrachords, that is, the
succession of a whole tone plus a half-tone. By placing that same Order of
intervals on the fundamental re, mi, etc., we retain the same mode, but
transposed into different keys. Thus we say: the key of D, of E, of F and not
the tonality of D, E, or F. Classic tonality is the principle of exclusive use
of the ut mode.
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

be understood by a limited audience—it could serve as a vehicle

only for people of highly individual and rarefied sensitivity.
It was not until after Debussy and Ravel that Contemporary
music broke definitively with the principle of tonality as it had
been previously understood. No matter what specific current it
followed, this new attitude was a logical result of the prevailing
outlook at the beginning of the twentieth Century. The fact that
there are numerous and divergent currents is not surprising,
considering the present chaotic state of human society.
On the one hand, artists went to individualistic extremes. On
the other, excessive industrialization and Standardization in
economic areas resulted in a tendency toward social leveling
that produced a contradiction between the condition of artistic
sensitivity and the general social condition. The many different
directions taken by Contemporary art reflect the attitude of
creative men toward this new social condition. Some disappear
into ivory towers and thus retire from all contact with audiences
which can no longer understand them. Others abandon their
individuality, feeling more at home in the new state of society.
A third group submits to official government Orders imposed in
some countries with the aim of narrowing the gap between
creators and the people, whom they are supposed to serve.
We must also consider the impact created by the introduction
of such mechanical means of reproduction as the phonograph,
radio, and sound film. The development of these methods of
communication has enormously changed the relationship be­
tween audience and music. Modern society has little rapport with
its great artists; fine musicians are as neglected today as they
were lionized in times past.
Alban Berg spoke apt words regarding this Contemporary
disaffection. When asked by a newsman what he thought of Bach
and Handel, he answered: “Lucky that Handel and Bach were
born in 1685 and not two h und red years later! Today the na-
tionality of one would have been questioned as surely as the
music of the other would have been blacklisted as Bolshevik.” 2
2. “Ein Glück, dass Händel und Bach im Jahre 16S5 geboren wurden
und nicht zweihundert Jahre später! Denn sonst wäre die Bodenständigkeit
des einen ebenso bezweifelt worden, wie man die Musik des anderen für
kulturbolschewistisch befunden hätte” 23; Eine Wiener Musikzeitschrift,
March, 1935.
 Introduction
If the present state of music gives an impression of decadence,
it is due only to the public’s difficulty in distinguishing the
various trends. Actually the apparent chaos is teeming with life.
If we examine modern music at close ränge, we are instantly
aware of its healthy vitality. It is unimportant that some lines
of development lead to an impasse because others provide prac-
ticable means. And it would seem that the style of our time will
be born of the interaction of these diverse propositions.
To make our examination of this music easier and more ac-
cessible, we will begin by describing the concept to which each
development corresponds. Then we will see how that particular
concept has penetrated musical language. And finally, we will
present the composers and their principal works—but not all the
composers nor all the works. We will examine only new music.
In 1933 Arnold Schoen berg gave a lecture at the Kulturbund
in Vienna entitled “Neue und veraltete Musik, oder Stil und
Gedanke” (“New and Outmoded Music, or Style and Idea”),
in which he said: “Only that music which gives expression to a
thought for the first time can be called new music, music
which will preserve its feeling of newness. Music which does not
fulfill that condition is obsolete from birth and cannot expect to
get recognition.” 3 We will adopt this postulate, for within the
limited framework of Contemporary music it has already proven
itself to be true.
Since the twelfth Century all composers of genius in Europe
have written new music, be they Perotin, Roland de Lassus,
Monteverdi, Schütz, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, Wag­
ner, or Debussy. It is because of their unique character, their
eternal newness, that their works continue to touch us, while the
works of their imitators, who through repetition weaken the mes-
sage already delivered, leave us indifferent and are forgotten.
The history of modern music is the story of the works of those
composers who have expressed personal ideas and, in order to
give them life, have created a language of their own.
3. “Als neu und immer neu bleibend wird jene Musik erkannt, die einen
Gedanken erstmalig zum Ausdrucke bringt. Musik, die diese Voraussetzung
nicht erfüllt, ist schon veraltet zur Welt gekommen und kann keinen Anspruch
auf Beachtung erheben”
 1

CHRONOLOGY

the diversity of paths followed by composers does not imply

that these paths are independent of each other. The influence of
one group of composers can sometimes be found in other groups
where it would least be expected. Several works have been of
such importance that they have affected all subsequent compo-
sition.
Certain facts and events have played a prime role in orienting
the groups of composers they have touched. Thanks to their
opportune timing and the persuasiveness of their demonstrations,
theatrical performances and concerts have played an important
part in promulgating new music, while musical reviews specially
conceived to serve Contemporary art have broadened contacts and
engendered greater mutual understanding.
It is therefore important to draw up a table of twentieth-
century musical activity before studying its most noteworthy
works. Though 1910 is the starting point, it is preceded by a short
chronological list of works composed earlier that are reference
points for the movement of ideas which have governed music
since that date. For each year the table lists significant events in
modern musical life as well as the most outstanding works
composed or published. Only the composers whose works have
matured during the last twenty-five years, who have brought to
music a new sensitivity, a personal vision, and who have forged
for their own use a language appropriate to their expression are
listed in this table. It would be useless to point out attempts or
experiments which were totally sterile. Reference is made only
to those noteworthy works which mark a stage in the composer’s
own development or bear witness to the general evolution of
ideas.
It is impossible to classify composers by nationality. As a matter
z7
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

of fact, in the period we are discussing the phenomenon of

modern music seems to detach itself from nationalism and be-
come European and American. Neither can we speak of schools.
There no longer exist groups comparable to the German post-
romanticists or French impressionists. There are a few dominant
personalities who shape certain currents of thinking. Others
group around them, drawn to them through a natural affinity.
And finally, there are some composers who create a musical world
which cannot serve as a basis for anyone eise. Even if one can
speak of a Schoenbergkreis or a group around Erik Satie, the
same cannot be said about Stravinsky, Milhaud, or Bartök. Only
the surface of their thought can be imitated by other composers.
Webern and Berg have been able to use the idiom created by
Schoenberg, for example, without limiting in the least the matur-
ing of their respective personalities. This is so because these
composers share the same basic concept and a common viewpoint
on the content and role of music. Satie’s general principles and
philosophy have nurtured works very different from his own in
substance. The resonant world of Stravinsky, in its true objec-
tivity, is independent of any specific expressive need. Its super­
ficial aspect can be imitated, but it cannot serve as a rallying
point for a group united by a particular kind of spiritual kinship.

CHRONOLOGY

1887
Emmanuel chabrier: Le Roi Malgre Lui.
ERIK satie: Sarabandes.

1888
erik satie: Gymnopedies.

1894
claude debussy: Prelude ä l’Apres-midi d’un Faune.
 Chronology
19

1897
paul dukas: The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

1899
ARNOLD schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht.

1902
CLAUDE debussy: Pelleas et M61isande.

19°3
erik satie: Three Pieces in the Form of a Pear.

1904
leos janäcek: Jenufa (1903).
*

!9°5
Manuel de falla: La Vida Breve.

1906
bela bartök: Ten Hungarian Folksongs.
paul dukas: Ariane et Barbe-Bleue.
Charles kcechlin: Trois Po&mes du Livre de la Jungle.
arnold schoenberg: Chamber Symphony, Op. 9.

1907
Publication of Ferruccio Busoni’s Entwurf einer neuen
Aesthetik der Tonkunst.
maurice ravel: L’Heure Espagnole.

1908
bela bartok: String Quartet No. 1.
Gustav mahler: Das Lied von der Erde.
arnold schoenberg: String Quartet No. 2.
igor stravinsky: Fireworks, Op. 4.
anton Webern: Passacaglia.
* The date in parentheses after the name of a work is the year a work was
completed but not produced. Throughout the rest of the book, the date given
for a work will refer either to its composition or its publication or produc-
tion, whichever in the author’s opinion is more significant.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

»909
First season of Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe in Paris.
arnold schoenberg: Three Pieces for Piano, Op. 11.
Five Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 16.
Erwartung.
richard strauss: Elektra.

1910
ernest bloch: Macbeth.
ferruccio busoni: Fantasia Contrappuntistica.
claude debussy: Le Promenoir des Deux Amants.
Trois Ballades de Frangois Villon.
Twelve Piano Preludes (First Book).
Gabriel faure: La Chanson d’Eve.
Gustav mahler: Eighth Symphony.
giacomo puccini: La Fanciulla del West.
Alexander scriabin: Prometheus, Op. 60.
igor stravinsky: The Firebird.

1911
Death of Gustav Mahler.
Publication of Arnold Schoenberg"s Harmonielehre.
Irving Berlin: Alexanders Ragtime Band.
claude debussy: Le Martyre de Saint S^bastien.
enrique granados: Goyescas.
Gustav mahler: Das Lied von der Erde (completion).
maurice ravel: Valses Nobles et Sentimentales.
erik satie: En Habit de Cheval.
florent schmitt: Tragedie de Salome, Op. 50.
arnold schoenberg: Gurrelieder (1900).
Herzgewächse, Op. 20.
richard strauss: Der Rosenkavalier.
igor stravinsky: Petrushka.
Le Roi des Etoiles.

1912
claude debussy: Jeux.
paul dukas: La Peri.
Chronology 21

nikolai miaskovsky: Second Symphony.

darius milhaud: First String Quartet.
maurice ravel: Daphnis et Chloe.
albert roussel: Evocations.
Sonatina for Piano.
erik satie: Veritables Preludes Flasques.
Richard strauss: Ariadne auf Naxos.
karol szymanowski: Sonata No. 2 for Piano.

19
3
*
claude debussy: Po£mes de Mallarme.
maurice delage: Quatre Poemes Hindous.
Gabriel faure: Penelope.
ildebrando pizzetti: La Nave by Montemezzi.
La Pisanella.
maurice ravel: Trois Poemes de Stephane Mallarmö.
albert roussel: The Spider’s Feast.
Arnold schoenberg: Die glückliche Hand.
Alexander scriabin: Sonata No. 10 for Piano.
igor stravinsky: Le Sacre du Printemps.
Poesies de la Lyrique Japonaise.
anton Webern: Six Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 10 (1909).

Beginning of World War L

Georges auric: Interludes.
alfredo casella: Notte di Maggio.
WILLIAM CHRISTOPHER HANDY: St. Louis Blues.
Charles ives: Three Places in New England.
darius milhaud: Agamemnon.
Quatre Poemes de Leo Latil.
Sonata for Two Violins and Piano.
Gabriel pierne: Cydalise and the Satyr.
serge prokofiev: Scythian Suite, Op. 20.
The Ugy Duckling.
henri rabaud: Marouf, the Cobbler of Cairo.
maurice ravel: Trio in A.
max reger: Requiem.
A IIIS1ORY OF MODERN MUSIC

JEAN JULES AMABLE ROGER-DUCASSE: OrphcUS.

erik satie: Sports et Divertissements.
arnold schoenberg: Pierrot Lunaire.
Richard strauss: The Legend of Joseph.
igor stravinsky: The Nightingale.
ralph vaughan Williams: London Symphony.

*9
*5
Death of Alexander Scriabin.
First issue of the review The Chesterton in London.
Rise of jazz in America.
ferruccio busoni: Indianisches Tagebuch.
claude debussy: Twelvc Piano Etudes.
Sonata for Cello and Piano.
Sonata No. 2 for Flute, Viola, and Harp.
Manuel de falla: El Amor Brujo.
Nikolai miaskovsky: Third Symphony.
darius milhaud: La Brebis Egarde.
Les Chodphorcs.
Second String Quartet.
ildebrando pizzetti: Fedra.
max reger: Variations on a Thcme of Mozart.
richard strauss: Alpine Symphony.

1916
Death of Max Reger.
ernest bloch: Schelomo.
ferruccio busoni: Arlecchino.
Manuel de falla: Nights in the Gardens of Spain.
Gustav holst: The Planets.
Charles ives: Fourth Symphony.
leos janäcek: Diary of One Who Vanished.
Charles kglCiilin: Sonatinas.
Paysages et Marines.
gian francesco malipiero: Poemi Asolani.
darius milhaud: Pocmes Juifs.
KAROL szymanowski: Third Symphony.
Chronology 23

Russian Revolution,
Founding of the Societä Nationale di Musica in Rome,
ferruccio busoni: Turandot.
alfredo casella: Pagine di Guerra.
arthur honegger: First String Quartet.
Le Chant de Nigamon.
hans pfitzner: Palestrina.
FRANCIS poulenc: Rapsodie Negre.
serge prokofiev: Visions Fugitives.
Sonata No. 3 for Piano.
Classical Symphony.
Seven, They Are Seven.
maurice ravel: Le Tombeau de Couperin.
Ottorino respighi: The Fountains of Rome.
erik satie: Parade.
franz schreker: Kammersymphonie.

i9l8
Death of Claude Debussy,
End of World War I.
First issue of Musikblätter des Anbruch in Vienna.
Publication of Jean Cocteau’s Le Coq et l’Arlequin.
Georges auric: Huit Poemes de Jean Cocteau.
Gabriel faure: Le Jardin Clos.
arthur honegger: Le Dit des Jeux du Monde.
gian francesco malipiero: Impressioni dal Vero.
Nikolai miaskovsky: Fourth Symphony.
Fifth Symphony.
darius milhaud: L’Homme et Son D^sir.
Fourth String Quartet.
francis poulenc: Mouvements Perpetuels.
giacomo puccini: Gianni Schicchi.
franz schreker: Die Gezeichneten.
igor stravinsky: L’Histoire du Soldat.
Ragtime for Eleven Instruments.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

i9J9
georges auric: Adieu, New York.
manuel de falla: The Three-Cornered Hat.
darius milhaud: Le Boeuf sur le Toit.
Protee.
Machines Agricoles.
Les Soirees de Petrograd.
federico mompou: Cants Magics, for Piano.
francis poulenc: Le Bestiaire.
Cocardes.
serge prokofiev: Love for Three Oranges.
erik satie: Nocturnes.
Socrate.
florent schmitt: Sonate Libre pour Violon et Piano, Op. 68.
Richard strauss: Die Frau ohne Schatten.
georges martin Witkowski: Le Poeme de la Maison (1914).

1920
First issue of the Revue Musicale in Paris.
Activity of the Six in Paris.
Founding of the Jean Wiener Concerts.
paul hindemith: Sonata in Eb for Violin, Op. 11, No. 1.
Arthur honegger: Sonata for Viola and Piano.
Pastorale d’fite.
vincent d’indy: La Legende de Saint Christophe.
leos janäcek: The Excursion of Mr. Broucek (1917).
gian Francesco malipiero: Rispetti e Strambotti, for String
Quartet.
Sette Canzoni
(first opera of cycle L’Orfeide).
darius milhaud: Five Etudes for Piano and Orchestra.
serge prokofiev: The Buffoon (1915).
maurice ravel: La Valse.
alexis roland-manuel: Isabelle and Pantalon.
franz schreker: Der Schatzgräber (1916).
igor stravinsky: Concertino for String Quartet.
Pulcinella.
Symphonies for Wind Instruments.
Chronology *5

1921
Founding of the Donaueschinger Kammermusikfeste, later called
the Baden-Baden Festivals.
franco alfano: Sakuntala.
Gabriel faure: Second Quintet for Piano and Strings.
alois häba: First String Quartet in the Quarter-Tone System.
PAUL HINDEMITH: Mörder, Hoffnung der Frauen.
arthur honegger: Horace Victorieux.
Le Roi David.
leos janäcek: Katya Kabanova.
ernst krenek: First String Quartet.
GIAN FRANCESCO MALIPIERO: Orfeo
(second opera of cycle L’Orfeide).
darius milhaud: Saudades do Brasil.
serge prokofiev: Concerto No. 1 for Violin and Orchestra
(1913)-
Concerto No. 3 for Piano.
albert roussel: Pour une Fete de Printemps (1920).
the six: Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel.

1922
Death of Felipe Pedrell.
First issue of Melos, Zeitschrift für Musik in Mainz.
Publication of Ferruccio Busoni’s Von der Einheit der Musik.
Founding of the International Society of Contemporary Music.
Founding of Pro Arte Concerts in Brussels.
Rise of Fascism in Italy.
bela bartök: Sonata No. 1 for Violin and Piano.
Gabriel faure: L’Horizon Chimerique.
paul hindemith: Die Junge Magd.
Kleine Kammermusik, Op. 24, No. 1.
Quartet, Op. 22.
Sancta Susanna.
gian francesco malipiero: La Morte delle Maschere
(third opera of cycle L’Orfeide).
darius milhaud: Les Eumenides.
Sixth String Quartet.
ildebrando pizzetti: Debora e Jaele (1921).
A IllSTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

maurice ravel: Sonata for Violin and Cello.

henri sauguet: Fran^aises, for Piano.
igor stravinsky: Mavra.
karol szymanowski: Etudes for Piano.
Hagith.
anton Webern: Sechs geistliche Lieder.

*923
Founding of La Prora (Corporazione delle Nuove Musiche) in
Rome,
Founding of the League of Composers in New York.
bela bartök: Sonata No. 2 for Violin and Piano.
manuel de falla: Master Peters Puppet Show (1922).
Gabriel faure: Trio, Op. 120.
paul hindemith: Das Marienleben.
Sonatas for Solo Viola, Solo Cello.
ARTHUR HONEGGER: Pacific 231.
zoltän kodäly: Psalmus Hungaricus, Op. 13.
ernst krenek: Third String Quartet.
Die Zwingburg (1922).
gian Francesco malipiero: Tre Commedie Goldoniane.
Stagioni Italiche.
Nikolai miaskovsky: Sixth and Seventh Symphonies.
darius milhaud: La Creation du Monde.
ildebrando pizzetti: Requiem.
viTTORio rieti: L'Arca di Noe.
albert roussel: Padmavati (1914-1918).
arnold schoenberg: Five Pieces for Piano, Op. 23.
Suite, Op. 25, for Piano.
igor stravinsky: Octet for Wind Instruments.
edgar varese: Hyperprism.

!924
Death of Ferruccio Busoni, Gabriel Faure, Giacomo Puccini,
First issue of Modern Music, publication of the League of
Composers.
First concert of Symphonie jazz given by Paul Whiteman in New
York.
georges auric: Les Fächeux.
Chronology 27
bela bartök: Village Scenes.
ferruccio busoni: Doctor Faust (completed in 1925 by Philipp
Jarnach).
andre caplet: Le Miroir de Jesus.
alfredo casella: La Giara.
Gabriel faure: String Quartet.
george gershwin: Rhapsody in Blue.
paul hindemith: String Quartet, Op. 32.
Die Serenaden.
jacques ibert: Escales.
leos janacek: The Alert Fox (1923).
ernst krenek: Concertino for Flute, Harpsichord, Violin, and
Strings.
darius milhaud: Salade.
Les Malheurs d’Orph£e.
douglas moore: Pageant of P. T. Barnum.
francis poulenc: Les Biches.
giacomo puccini: Turandot (completed in 1926 by Alfano).
Ottorino respighi: The Pines of Rome.
erik satie: Mercure.
Reläche.
henri sauguet: Le Plumet du Colonel.
arnold schoenberg: Quintet for Wind Instruments.
Serenade, Op. 24.
franz schreker: Irrelohe.
igor stravinsky: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra.
Sonata for Piano.

1925
Death of Erik Satie.
georges auric: Les Matelots.
bela bartok: The Miraculous Mandarin Suite (1919).
alban berg: Concerto for Violin, Piano, and Thirteen Wind
Instruments.
Wozzeck (1922).
alfredo casella: Partita.
louis gruenberg: The Daniel Jazz (1924).
PAUL hindemith: Kammermusik, Nos. 3 and 4.
Concert for Orchestra.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

arthur honegger: Concertino for Piano and Orchestra.

Judith.
Charles kgechlin: La Coursc de Printcmps.
darius milhaud: Esther de Carpentras.
Seventh String Quartet.
serge prokofiev: Le Pas d’Acier.
maurice ravel: L’Enfant et les Sortileges.
vittorio rieti: Barabau.
albert roussel: Serenade.
anton Webern: Drei Lieder, Op. 18.

1926
lord berners: The Triumph of Neptune.
alfredo casella: Concerto Romano.
hanns eisler: Tagebuch.
manuel de falla: Concerto for Harpsichord and Five
Instruments.
louis gruenberg: The Creation.
paul hindemith: Cardillac.
Konzert für Blasorchester.
jacques ibert: Angälique.
leos janäcek: Sinfonietta.
lev knipper: Episodes of the Revolution.
zoltan kodäly: Hary Jänos.
Nikolai miaskovsky: Ninth Symphony.
darius milhaud: Le Pauvre Matelot.
serge prokofiev: The Fläming Angel, Op. 37.
maurice ravel: Chansons Madccasses.
vittorio rieti: Concerto for Piano.
albert roussel: Suite in F, Op. 33.
Dmitri shostakovich: First Symphony.
karol szymanowski: Harnasie.
King Roger.
William walton: Fa^adc (1923).
Portsmouth Point Overture.

1927
Increased production of sound film,
alban berg: Lyrische Suite.
Chronology 29
alfredo casella: Serenade.
Carlos chävez: Sinfonfa de Baile, H. P.
reinhold gliere: The Red Poppy.
paul Hindemith: Five Pieces for String Orchestra, Op. 44, No. 4.
Hin und Zurück.
ARTHUR HONEGGER: Antigone.
ernst krenek: Triumph der Empfindsamkeit.
Jonny Spielt Auf.
bohuslav martinü: String Quintet.
Tumult.
darius milhaud: Trois Operas-Minute.
henri sauguet: La Chatte.
arnold schoenberg: Third String Quartet.
Richard strauss: Die Aegyptische Helena.
igor stravinsky: Oedipus Rex.
heitor villa-lobos: Chorös 8.

1928
Death of LeoS Janäcek.
Publication of Charles Kcechlin’s Traite de l'Harmonie.
bela bartök: Fourth String Quartet.
hanns eisler: Zeitungsausschnitte.
paul hindemith: Frau Musica.
ARTHUR HONEGGER: Rugby.
leos janäcek: Glagolitic Mass.
bohuslav martinü: First Symphony.
darius milhaud: Christophe Colomb.
Alexander mossolov: Iron Foundry.
serge prokofiev: The Gambier (1916).
maurice ravel: Bolero.
arnold schoenberg: Variations for Orchestra, Op. 31.
igor stravinsky: Apollon Musagetes.
Virgil thomson: Four Saints in Three Acts.
anton Webern: Symphony, Op. 21.

1929
Death of Sergei Diaghilev.
Publication of Egon Wellesz’s Die Neue Instrumentation.
bela bartök: Twenty Hungarian Folk Songs.
A II1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

paul hindemith: Neues vom Tage.

Lehrstück.
lev knipper: Vent du Nord.
ernst krenek: Leben des Orest.
constant lambert: The Rio Grande.
igor markevich: Concerto for Piano.
francis poulenc: Concert Champetre.
Aubade.
vittorio rieti: Symphony.
arnold schoenberg: Von Heute auf Morgen.
igor stravinsky: Capriccio for Piano and Orchestra.
kurt weill: Threepenny Opera.
Lindberghflug.

i93°
george antheil: Transatlantic.
paul hindemith: Concerto for Viola and Orchestra, Op. 48.
leos janacek: The House of the Dead (1927).
olivier messiaen: Les Offrandes Oubliees.
darius milhaud: Maximilien.
serge prokofiev: On the Banks of the Borysthene.
albert roussel: Third Symphony in G Minor, Op. 42.
Bacchus et Ariane.
henri sauguet: La Contrebasse.
dmitri shostakovich: Golden Age (1928).
The Nose.
William grant still: Afro-American Symphony.
igor stravinsky: Symphony of Psalms.
karol szymanowski: Stabat Mater (1928).
heitor villa-lobos: Bachianas Brasileiras.
William walton: Concerto for Viola.
anton Webern: Quartet for Violin, Clarinet, Saxophone, and
Piano.
kurt weill: Mahagonny.

Death of Vincent d’Indy.

alois häba: Die Mutter.
Chronology
paul hindemith: Concerto for Piano, Brass, and Two Harps.
Das Unaufhörliche.
Concert Music for Strings and Brass.
arthur honegger: Cris du Monde.
Symphony in Three Movements.
igor markevich: Rebus.
darius milhaud: Alissa (1913).
MAURICE ravel: Concerto for the Left Hand.
Concerto for Piano.
arnold schoenberg: Suite for Seven Instruments.
igor stravinsky: Violin Concerto.
William walton: Belshazzar’s Feast.

*93
*
First issue of 23: Eine Wiener Musikzeitschrift in Vienna.
Official Statements in Soviet Rnssia on the meaning of music.
conrad beck: Innominata Symphony.
alfredo casella: La Donna Serpente.
La Favola d’Orfeo.
Theodore ward chandler: Eight Epitaphs.
ivan dzerzhinsky: Poem of the Dnieper.
paul hindemith: Philharmonie Concerto.
Plöner Musiktag.
aram khachaturian: Trio for Clarinet, Violin, and Piano.
zoltän kodäly: Spinnstube.
Charles kcechlin: Five Chorales in Medieval Modes.
ernst kAenek: Gesänge des späten Jahres.
igor markevich: The Flight of Icarus.
bohuslav martinü: Spaliäek.
darius milhaud: Mort d’un Tyran.
Eighth String Quartet.
francis poulenc: Le Bal Masqu^.
henri sauguet: La Voyante.
arnold schoenberg: Moses und Aron.
igor stravinsky: Duo Concertant for Violin and Piano.

1933
Rise of Nazism in Germany.
BELA bartok: Concerto No. 2 for Piano and Orchestra.
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Carlos chävez: Sinfonia de Antigona.

paul hindemith: Second String Trio.
Arthur honegger: Symphonie Movement No. 3.
aram khachaturian: Dance Suite.
lev knipper: Far East Symphony.
ernst krenek: Karl V.
gian Francesco malipiero: Seven Inventions for Orchestra.
darius milhaud: First Piano Concerto.
Gabriel pierne: Giration.
serge prokofiev: Chant Symphonique.
Hermann reutter: Der grosse Kalender.
Dmitri shostakovich: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra.
Richard strauss: Arabella (1929).

*934
Death of Frederick Delius, Edward Elgar, and Gustav Holst.
bela bartök: Cantata Profana (1930).
alban berg: Lulu (suite).
Carlos chävez: Llamadas, Proletarian Symphony.
jean fran^aix: Concertino for Piano and Orchestra.
paul hindemith: Mathis der Maler.
aram khachaturian: First Symphony.
gian francesco malipiero: La Favola del Figlio Cambiato.
igor markevich: Psalm (1933).
darius milhaud: Concertino de Printemps.
Pan et Syrinx.
serge prokofiev: Lieutenant Kije Suite, Op. 60.
Nuits d’ßgypte.
albert roussel: Sinfonietta for String Orchestra.
vissarion shebalin: Second String Quartet.
Tliird Symphony (Lenin).
Dmitri shostakovich: Lady Macbeth of Mzensk.
igor stravinsky: Persephone.

J935
Death of Alban Berg and Paul Dukas.
First issue of Die Musik im Dritten Reich.
First issue of the Boletin Latino-Americano de Müsica in
Montevideo.
Chronology
bela bartok: Fifth String Quartet.
alban berg: Concerto for Violin and Orchestra.
WILLY BURKHARD: The Vision of Isaiah.
ivan dzerzhinsky: Quiet Flows the Don.
werner egk: Die Zaubergeige.
George gershwin: Porgy and Bess.
karl amadeus hartmann: Miserae.
paul hindemith: Der Schwanendreher.
andre jolivet: Mana.
igor markevich: Paradise Lost.
bohuslav martinü: Second Concerto for Piano.
olivier messiaen: La Nativite du Seigneur.
darius milhaud: Ninth String Quartet.
La Sagesse.
serge prokofiev: Concerto No. 2 for Violin.
albert roussel: Aeneas.
Fourth Symphony in A Major.
arnold schoenberg: Suite for String Orchestra.
karol szymanowski: Fourth Symphony.
Vladimir vogel: The Fall of Wagadu.
anton Webern: Concerto for Nine Instruments (1934).

*936
Founding of the Maggio Fiorentino in Florence,
Publication of Ernst Krenek’s Über Neue Musik.
AURIC, HONEGGER, 1BERT, KCECHLIN, MILHAUD, ROUSSEL
(joint work): Quatorze Juillet.
benjamin britten: Our Hunting Fathers.
Carlos chävez: Sinfonia India.
paul hindemith: Three Sonatas for Piano.
darius milhaud: Suite Provenzale.
carl orff: Carmina Burana.
GOFFREDO PETRASSE Salmo IX.
francis poulenc: Les Soirees de Nazelles.
Seven Songs for A Cappella Chorus.
serge prokofiev: Russian Overture.
Peter and the Wolf.
Hermann reutter: Doktor Johannes Faust.
arnold schoenberg: Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 36.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

dmitri shostakovich: Fourth Symphony.

karol szymanowski: Concerto No. 2 for Violin.

1937
Death of George Gershwin, Maurice Ravel, Albert Roussel, and
Karol Szymanowski.
Publication of Carlos Chavez’s Toward a New Music.
Publication of Paul Hindemith’s Unterweisung in Tonsatz (The
Craft of Musical Composition), Vol. I.
bela bartok: Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta (1936).
alban berg: Lulu (opera).
cesar bresgen: Maienkonzert.
garlos chävez: Concerto for Four Horns (1930).
aaron copland: El Salon Mexico.
werner egk: Natur, Liebe und Tod.
jean fran^aix: Le Diable Boiteux.
arthur honegger: Second String Quartet.
Third String Quartet.
aram khachaturian: Concerto for Piano.
Charles kcechlin: Septet for Wind Instruments.
bohuslav martinü: Concertino for Piano and Orchestra.
Nikolai miaskovsky: Seventeenth Symphony.
darius milhaud: Cantata for Peace.
Cantata of the Two Cities.
Nuptial Cantata.
francis poulenc: Mass A Cappella.
Tel Jour, Telle Nuit.
Secheresses.
othmar schoeck: Massimilia Doni.
dmitri shostakovich: Fifth Symphony.
igor stravinsky: Jeu de Cartes.
anton Webern: Variations for Piano.

>938
German Annexation of Austria.
Invasion of Czechoslovakia.
georges auric: Overture.
samuel barber: Essay for Orchestra.
werner egk: Peer Gynt.
Chronology
PAUL HINDEMITH: St. Francis.
ARTHUR HONEGGER: Jeanne d’Arc au Bücher.
dmitri kabalevsky: Colas Breugnon.
Charles kcechlin: Symphonie d’Hymnes.
bohuslav martinü: Tre Ricercari.
darius milhaud: Medee.
francis poulenc: Nocturnes.
SERGE prokofiev: Songs of Our Country.
silvestre revueltas: Sensemaya.
HENRI sauguet: Les Ombres du Jardin.
RICHARD STRAUSS: Friedenstag.
Daphne.
igor stravinsky: Dumbarton Oaks Concerto.
ANTON WEBERN: Das Augenlicht (1935).

*939
Beginning of World War II.
Emigration to the United States of numerous eminent European
composers.
conrad beck: Cantata for Chamber Orchestra based on Sonnets
by Louise Lab£.
benjamin britten: Les Illuminations.
raymond chevreuille: First Symphony.
aaron copland: Billy the Kid.
luigi dallapiccola: Tre Laudi (1937).
hugo distler: Mörike Chorliederbuch, Op. 19.
Tibor harsänyi: Christmas Cantata.
darius milhaud: First Symphony.
Carl orff: Der Mond.
serge prokofiev: Alexander Nevsky.
Ode to Stalin.
Semyon Kotko.
Sonatas Nos. 6, 7, and 8 for Piano (begun).
Hermann reutter: Chorphantasie.
henri sauguet: La Chartreuse de Parme (1936).
arnold schoenberg: Fourth String Quartet (1936).
yuri shaporin: Field of Kullikova.
dmitri shostakovich: Sixth Symphony.
anton Webern: First Cantata.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

1940
Death of Silvestre Revueltas.
Carlos chävez: Preludes for Piano (1937).
aaron copland: Quiet City.
luigi dallapiccola: Volo di Notte (1938).
Werner egk: Johann von Zarissa.
karl amadeus Hartmann: Sinfonia Tragica.
paul hindemith: The Four Temperaments.
aram khachaturian : Concerto for Violin.
Charles kcechlin: Les Bandar-Log.
bohuslav martinü: Double Concerto for Two String Orchestras,
Pianos and Timpani (1938).
Nikolai miaskovsky: Twenty-first Symphony.
darius milhaud: Tenth String Quartet.
silvestre revueltas: El Renacuajo Paseador (1933).
arnold schoenberg: Chamber Symphony No. 2, Op. 38.
Richard strauss: Die Liebe der Danae.
igor stravinsky: Symphony in C.
Michael tippett: A Child of Our Time.
anton Webern: Variations for Orchestra.

1941
Publication of Olivier Messiaen’s Technique de Mon Langage
Musical.
benjamin britten: Sinfonia da Requiem.
willy burkhard: Des Jahr.
ivan dzerzhinsky: The Storm.
PAUL hindemith: Symphony in Eb.
igor markevich: Lorenzo il Magnifico.
olivier messiaen: Quatuor pour la Fin du Temps.
goffredo petrassi: Coro di Morti.
WILLIAM SCHUMAN: Third Symphony.
Richard strauss: Capriccio.

1942
Publication of Igor Stravinsky’s Poetique Musicale (Poetics of
Music) in the United States.
Chronology 57
aaron copland: Rodeo.
werner egk: Columbus.
Arthur honegger: Symphony for Strings.
bohuslav Martinü: First Symphony (1918) (revision).
olivier messiaen: Visions de L’Amen.
DARIUS milhaud: Eleventh String Quartet.
carl orff: Die Kluge.
serge prokofiev: War and Peace.
Second String Quartet.
Hermann reutter: Odysseus.
vittorio rieti: Concerto du Loup.
henri sauguet: La Gageure Imprevue.
Dmitri shostakovich: Seventh Symphony.

*943
jean absil: Chants du Mort.
benjamin brititen: Serenade.
raymond chevreuille: Evasions.
luigi dallapiccola: Sex Carmina Alcaei.
lukas foss: The Prairie.
paul hindemith: Second Symphony.
ernst krenek: Cantata for Wartime.
bohuslav martinü: Second Symphony.
darius milhaud: Bolivar.
carl orff: Catulli Carmina.
vissarion shebalin: Fifth String Quartet.
Dmitri shostakovich: Eighth Symphony.
igor stravinsky: Ode.

1944
samuel barber: Capricom Concerto.
bela bartök: Concerto for Orchestra (1943).
raymond chevreuille: Symphonie des Souvenirs.
aaron copland: Appalachian Spring.
paul hindemith: Herodiade.
Ludus Tonalis.
lev knipper: Maku, suite based on Iranian themes.
Charles kcechlin: Le Docteur Fabricius.
olivier messiaen: Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant Jesus.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

serge prokofiev: Fifth Symphony.

vittorio rieti: Sinfonia Tripartita.
henri sauguet: Les Penitents en Maillots Roses.
arnold schoenberg: Concerto for Piano (1942).
Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte.
igor stravinsky: Ballet Scenes.

1945
Death of Bela Bartök and Anton Webern.
End of World War II.
Important developments in ethnomusicology.
benjamin britten: The Holy Sonnets of John Donne.
Peter Grimes.
john cage: Book of Music for Two Altered Pianos.
Manuel de falla: L’Atlantida.
karl amadeus hartmann: Des Simplicius Simplicissimus Jugend
(1935)-
jean-louis martinet: Orphee.
bohuslav martinü: Fourth Symphony.
olivier messiaen: Trois Petites Liturgies de la Presence Divine.
francis poulenc: Figure Humaine.
Dmitri shostakovich: Ninth Symphony.
Vladimir vogel: Thyl Claes.

1946
Death of Manuel de Falla.
benjamin britten: The Rape of Lucrecia.
john cage: Three Dances for Prepared Piano.
luigi dallapiccola: Canti di Prigionia (1940).
paul hindemith: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.
ernst krenek: Symphonie Elegy.
frank Martin: Petite Symphonie Concertante.
bohuslav martinü: Fifth Symphony.
darius milhaud: Thirteenth String Quartet.
Third Symphony.
serge prokofiev: Sixth Symphony.
Richard strauss: Metamorphoses.
igor stravinsky: Symphony in Three Movements.
Chronology 39

*947
samuel barber: Medea, Op. 23.
luigi dallapiccola: Marsyas.
lukas foss:The Song of Songs.
arthur honegger: Deliciae Brasiliensis Symphony.
andre jolivet: Concerto for Ondes Martenot.
maurice le roux: Deux Mimes.
gian francesco malipiero: Fifth and Sixth Symphonies.
FRANK MARTIN: GolgOtha.
jean-louis martinet: Trilogie des Promethees.
darius milhaud: Fourth Symphony.
francis poulenc: Les Mamelles de Tiresias.
guido TURCHi:Tnvettive.

1948
luigi dallapiccola: II Prigioniero.
bruno maderna: Tre Liriche Graeche.
Concerto for Two Pianos and Instruments.
frank Martin: Le Vin Herbe (1938).
olivier messiaen: Five Rechants.
marcel mihalovici: Phedre.
mario peragallo: La Collina.
henri sauguet: Second String Quartet.
Symphonie Expiatoire.
Visions Infernales.
pierre schaeffer: £tude aux Chemins de Fer.
mätyas seiber: Ulysses.
igor stravinsky: Mass.
Orpheus.

1949
Death of Richard Strauss,
heink badings: Fifth Symphony.
benjamin britten: Spring Symphony.
raymond chevreuille: Concerto for Horn.
karel goeyvaerts: Tre Lieder per Sonare a Venti Sei.
kurt hessenberg: Trio for Strings.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

darius milhaud: Service Sacre pour le Samedi.

Octuor.
goffredo petrasse II Cordovano.
arnold schoenberg: A Survivor from Warsaw.

1950
werner egk: French Suite after Rameau (1949).
hans werner henze: Concert for Piano and Orchestra.
GIAN-CARLO MENOTTE The Consul.
darius milhaud: Barba Garibo.
Eighteenth String Quartet.
Concertinos d’Ete et d’Automne.
juan Carlos paz: Dedalus 1950.
serge prokofiev: Seventh Symphony.

1951
Death of Charles Kcechlin and Arnold Schoenberg.
henri dutilleux: Symphony.
paul hindemith: Symphonie der Harmonie der Welt.
Arthur honegger: Fifth Symphony (Di Tre Re).
giselher klebe: Symphony for Forty-two Strings.
maurice le Roux: Trois Visages.
goffredo petrassi: Noche Oscura.
Concerto No. 2 for Orchestra.
igor stravinsky: Cantata on Anonymous Elizabethan Songs.
The Rake’s Progress.

1952
pierre boulez:Oubli Signal Lapide.
Le Visage Nuptial.
raymond chevreuille: Concerto No. 2 for Piano.
werner egk: Allegria.
karl amadeus hartmann: Symphonie Concertante.
bruno maderna: Musica in Due Dimensioni.
gian-carlo MENOTTi: Amahl and the Night Visitors.
darius milhaud: David.
luigi nono: Epitafio de Federico Garcia Lorca.
Chronology
41
Karlheinz Stockhausen: Kreuzspiel.
Kontrapunkte.
BERND ALOIS Zimmermann: Concerto for Violin.

*953
Death of Serge Prokofiev.
Founding of the Concerts du Domaine Musical in Paris.
elliott carter: Quintet.
hans werner henze: Boulevard Solitude.
olivier messiaen: Livre d’Orgue (1951).
darius milhaud: Fifth Symphony.
goffredo petrassi: Recr^ation Concertante.
adnan saygun: Kerem.
igor stravinsky: Septet.
david van de woestijne: La Belle Cordiere.
yannis xenakis: Anastenaria, for Chorus and Orchestra.

*954
Death of Charles Ives.
benjamin britten: The Turn of the Screw.
andre jolivet: Symphony.
rolf Liebermann: Concerto for Jazz Band and Orchestra.
olivier messiaen: Four Rhythmic Etudes.
mario peragallo: Concerto for Violin.
henri sauguet: Les Caprices de Marianne.
arnold schoenberg: Moses und Aron (1932).
dmitri shostakovich: Tenth Symphony.
Karlheinz stockhausen: Four Pieces for Piano.
igor stravinsky: In Memori am Dylan Thomas.

*955
Death of Arthur Honegger.
boris blacher: Concerto for Viola and Orchestra.
pierre boulez: Le Marteau sans Maitre.
frank martin: Etudes for String Orchestra.
luigi nono: Incontri.
pierre schaeffer: Symphonie pour un Homme Seul.
yannis xenakis: Metastasis.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

1956
pierre henry: Le Voile d’Orph^e.
hans werner henze: König Hirsch.
darius milhaud: Quintet No. 4.
francis poulenc: Dialogues des Carmelites.
Karlheinz Stockhausen: Gesang der Jünglinge.
igor stravinsky: Canticum Sacrum ad Honorem Sancti Marei
Nominis.
ralph vaughan Williams: Eighth Symphony.

1957
Founding of Incontri Musicali in Milan.
werner egk: Der Revisor.
igor stravinsky: Agon.

GENERAL SURVEY

Several important facts come to light from this chronological list-

ing. Musicians and composers were very active during the first
half of the twentieth Century. The number of composers who,
for various reasons, have come to the attention of the interna­
tional public is considerable. Their work has been rieh and
generally of remarkable technical quality. But more time is
needed before we can give most of the music a fresh critical ex-
amination, unaffected by novelty or aesthetic school.
Composers of talent no longer come exclusively from coun-
tries with a long, uninterrupted musical tradition, like Germany,
Austria, France, Italy, Russia, Spam, as they did in the nine-
teenth Century. It is true that almost all the leading figures of
twentieth-century music were born in these countries, but im­
portant musical activity is developing in other lands—Holland,
Switzerland, Belgium, England, the United States, Brazil, Mexico,
Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and still others—either because
old traditions have been revived or because musical life has re-
cently been introduced.
Drawing up a list of Contemporary composers in the Order of
their dates of birth reveals four distinct generations: the oldest
prepared music's new mode of being, the second brought it to
Chronology
fruition, the third exploited its resources without new creation,
while the fourth generation, whose work did not begin to be-
come public until after World War II, has presented entirely
new ideas.

DATES OF BIRTH OF COMPOSERS DISCUSSED

1824 Anton Bruckner Max Reger

1839 Modest Mussorgsky Jean Jules Amable
1841 Emmanuel Chabrier Roger-Ducasse
An ton Dvofräk 1874 Gustav Holst
Felipe Pedrell Charles Ives
1844 Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov Arnold Schoenberg
1845 Gabriel Faure 187 5 Reinhold Gli&re
1851 Vincent d’Indy Maurice Ravel
1854 LeoS Janäcek 1876 Franco Alfano
1857 Edward Elgar Manuel de Falla
1858 Giacomo Puccini 1877 Ernö Dohnänyi
1860 Isaac Albeniz 1878 Franz Schreker
Gustav Mahler 1879 Frank Bridge
1862 Claude Debussy Andre Caplet
1863 Frederick Delius Maurice Delage
Gabriel Pierne John Ireland
1864 Richard Strauss Nikolai Medtner
1865 Paul Dukas Ottorino Respighi
Jean Sibelius 1880 Ernest Bloch
1866 Ferruccio Busoni Ildebrando Pizzetti
Erik Satie 1881 B^laBartok
1867 Enrique Granados Georges Enesco
Charles Koechlin Nikolai Miaskovsky
Georges Martin Heitor Villa-Lobos
Witkowski 1882 Zoltän Kodäly
1868 Granville Bantock Gian Francesco Malipiero
1869 Hans Pfitzner Joseph Marx
Albert Roussel Igor Stravinsky
1870 Florent Schmitt 1883 Arnold Bax
1872 Alexander Scriabin Lord Berners
Ralph Vaughan Williams Alfredo Casella
1873 William Christopher Josef Hauer
Handy Alexander Krein
Henri Rabaud Karol Szymanowski
Sergei Rachmaninoff Anton Webern
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

1884 Louis Gruenberg George Gershwin

1885 Alban Berg Roy Harris
Edgar Varese Tibor Harsänyi
Egon Wellesz Lev Knipper
1886 Oscar Esplä Marcel Mihalovici
Daniel Ruyneman Vittorio Rieti
Othmar Schoeck 1899 Georges Auric
1888 Irving Berlin Carlos Chavez
Louis Durey Francis Poulenc
1889 Yuri Shaporin Silvestre Revueltas
1890 Jacques Ibert 1900 George Antheil
Alexander Jemnitz Henri Barraud
Frank Martin Willy Burkhard
Bohuslav Martinü Aaron Copland
1891 Arthur Bliss Rodolfo Halffter
Läszlö Lajtha Ernst Kfenek
Serge Prokofiev Alexander Mossolov
Alexis Roland-Manuel Hermann Reutter
Paul Whiteman Kurt Weill
1892 Giorgio Federico Ghedini 1901 Conrad Beck
Arthur Honegger Raymond Chevreuille
Darius Milhaud Werner Egk
Germaine Tailleferre Marcel Poot
1893 Jean Absil Henri Sauguet
Eugene Goossens 1902 Theodore Ward
Alois Häba Chandler
Federico Mompou Vissarion Shebalin
Douglas Moore William Walton
1894 Willem Pijper 1903 Boris Blacher
Walter Piston Aram Khachaturian
Bernard Wagenaar 1904 Luigi Dallapiccola
1895 Jakov Gotovac Dmitri Kabalevsky
Paul Hindemith Goffredo Petrassi
Carl Orff Nikos Skajkotas
Karol Rathaus 1905 Ernesto Halffter
William Grant Still Karl Amadeus Hartmann
1896 Roger Sessions Andre Jolivet
Virgil Thomson Constant Lambert
Vladimir Vogel Alan Rawsthorne
1897 Juan Carlos Paz Mätyäs Seiber
Alexandre Tansman Michael Tippett
1898 Lili Boulanger 1906 Dmitri Shostakovich
Hanns Eisler 1907 Heink Badings
Chronology
75
Wolfgang Fortner Benjamin Britten
Camargo Guärnieri Werner Meyer-Eppler
Roman Palester 1914 Jean-Louis Martinet
Adnan Saygun 1916 Henri Dutilleux
1908 Elliott Carter Guido Turchi
Hugo Distler 1918 Bernd Alois
Kurt Hessenberg Zimmermann
Olivier Messiaen 1919 Michel Ciry
1909 Ivan Dzerzhinsky 1920 Bruno Maderna
1910 Samuel Barber 1922 Lukas Foss
Rolf Liebermann 1923 Karel Goeyvaerts
Mario Peragallo Maurice Le Roux
William Schuman Sergei Nigg
1911 Gian-Carlo Menotti 1925 Giselher Klebe
1912 John Cage 1926 Pierre Boulez
Jean Frangaix Hans Werner Henze
Igor Markevich Luigi Nono
1913 Cesar Bresgen 1928 Karlheinz Stockhausen

The first generation was born between 1862 and 1873, and
kindled a movement in France which, with its direct ramifica-
tions, has been named impressionism. This first group includes
Erik Satie, Claude Debussy, Paul Dukas, Charles Koechlin,
Gabriel Pierne, Albert Roussel, and Florent Schmitt. We will
not concern ourselves here with impressionism. Nonetheless it is
important to realize that the root of the most recent French
movement can be traced to the composers of that period; there is
no rupture between this generation and those that follow it.
In Germany the composers of this period—Richard Strauss,
Hans Pfitzner, Max Reger—started a movement which marked
the end of nineteenth-century romanticism. Reger, however, in-
sured the continuation of the polyphonic spirit which still pre-
dominates in German music.
The second generation, born between 1874 and 1895, wit-
nessed the spread of this movement throughout Europe. In Ger-
man-speaking countries, Franz Schreker, Josef Hauer, Arnold
Schoenberg, Alban Berg, and Anton Webern sought to enlarge
the scope of their music with hyperchromaticism or atonality.
Ferruccio Busoni experimented with new or ancient modes, other
than major and minor. Paul Hindemith worked to discover the
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

classic harmony of natural bases. Alois Häba, among others,

explored the use of quarter-tones. A mass of experimental com-
positions of purely momentary intcrest saw the light of day
alongside many less adventurous works. Atonality became the
instrument of expressionist art.
In Russia Igor Stravinsky created a singulär concept of tonal-
ity, breaking the too-narrow frame of major and minor keys but
preserving the basis of harmonic refcrence provided by a tonic
key. He freed rhythm from the shackles imposed on it by two
centuries of bar-measure. The more traditional Serge Prokofiev
brought his distinctive personality to bear on relaxing the con­
cept of tonality.
In France, where academic and scholastic rules were less im-
posing than in Germany, and where the preceding generation
had paved the way for harmonic liberation, it was less a question
of revolution than of a natural evolution. Maurice Ravel, Mau­
rice Delage, and Andre Caplet developed chords of elevenths and
thirteenths without resolutions, creating a sort of postimpres-
sionism based on great refinement of harmonic perception. But
for Arthur Honegger and Darius Milhaud, this evolution did not
fill their needs. Honegger sought a compromise between the in-
clinations of Schoenberg and Stravinsky while retaining nine-
teenth-century Symphonie forms. Milhaud, more radical and
more imaginative, created a very new language from polytonality
—but a language which follows nonethelcss from a harmonic
trend already initiated by Ravel and Kcechlin. Honegger and
Milhaud introduccd a contrapuntal way of thinking into French
music which had not been part of its character since Lully.
Spain was developing its national art along with Manuel de
Falla as its protagonist. Italy began to break with verismo, the
deteriorated state of opcratic music. Franco Alfano, Ottorino
Rcspighi, and Alfredo Casella appeared on the scene as eclectic
musicians; and Ildcbrando Pizzctti, Gian Francesco Malipiero,
and Giorgio Federico Ghedini worked for greater musical purity.
In Hungary, Bela Bartok and Zoltän Kodäly sought the elements
for a new language in folk music. A national rcnaissance grew in
Poland with Karol Szymanowski, in England with Gustav Holst,
in Romania with Georges Enesco, and in Bohcmia with Bohuslav
Martinü. However, thcsc national movements were not like simi-
Chronology
47
lar movements in the nineteenth Century. This was by no means
purely folklore art, but rather a search for a style based on the
melodic and rhythmic structure of folk song.
The most significant artists of our time belong to this second
generation. Their perceptions and art correspond to a social
revolution without precedent in breadth and depth.
Following this generation, which had enlarged and revitalized
musical thought and language, came a third, born between 1899
and 1912, which moved with ease in the framework built by the
innovators. Greater liberty had been acquired, and they could
meet their needs by the variety of expressions available to them.
This new condition in music contrasted strikingly with the tradi-
tional pattem: in any prior period, only one single type of
language was used for the most diverse expressive aims. Relativist
ideas had now replaced dogmatic conceptions.
This third generation, including such musicians as Georges
Auric, Francis Poulenc, Ernst Kfenek, Henri Sauguet, and
Dmitri Shostakovich, worked out the balance between the differ­
ent trends of the preceding generation. While it brought nothing
new from the point of view of technique, and did not enrich
the language or enlarge the horizon, the third generation prof-
ited by the inheritance from its elders. It did include some orig­
inal artists, whose main concern seemed to be to establish a new
classicism in the midst of the new freedom. This was true of
Georges Auric, Francis Poulenc, Henri Sauguet, Jean Frangaix,
Carl Orff, Raymond Chevreuille, Luigi Dallapiccola, Goffredo
Petrassi, and even Olivier Messiaen.
Several Englishmen—Benjamin Britten, Michael Tippett, and
William Walton—belong to this group. Creative activity in Amer­
ica progressed with Aaron Copland, Walter Piston, Roger Ses-
sions, and Samuel Barber. Spain outgrew the folklore phase of
its evolution, and Mexico gained full stature with Carlos Chavez
and Silvestre Revueltas. Moreover, we should take into account
the hidden activity in Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia where
adherence to a state aesthetic was practically required.
The fourth generation of musicians were born after 1912, and
have insistently sought entirely new modes of expression. Their
restlessness corresponds to the incoherence of the postwar
world, since 1945. Some have built a more or less rigorous, and
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

sometimes even academic, dodecaphonism based on the experi-

ments of Schoenberg and Webern. Bruno Maderna, Luigi Nono,
Mario Peragallo, and Pierre Boulez followed this current, each
in his own way, while the liberated German composers thought
along lines of extending Hindemith’s System of construction.
What is new, however, is the search for expressions and means
which differ from everything thought and developed before, like
Pierre Schaeffer’s experiments in concrete music and Meyer-Ep-
pler’s electronic music. Musicians like Karlheinz Stockhausen
and Karel Goeyvaerts are at this moment the most representative
composers of a period which is still in its analytic phase.

The Classification of composers into four generations is not

precise. Some older artists have produced “newer” works than
some of the younger men. Considering only the evolution of lan-
guage, Charles Koechlin is obviously more advanced than Henri
Sauguet and Shostakovich is less modern than Stravinsky. For
another thing, musicians from all four generations have com­
posed simultaneously; some have produced mature works while
others are still in a trial period. And there is no proof that the
older generation always influences the younger—the reverse can
be true. Furthermore, there are contacts and spiritual exchanges
between artists of different ages which combine to create a spirit
of the times that is independent of the spirit of a given genera­
tion or of an individual personality. For example, in 1920 Albert
Roussel’s Pour une Fete de Printemps, Stravinsky’s Symphonies
for Wind Instruments, Milhaud’s Studies for Piano and Orches­
tra, and Georges Auric’s Les Joues en Feu were composed. Aside
from the differences in expression of the composers’ own person-
alities as well as their respective ages, these works are related by
certain common characteristics of the time.
Having made a Classification of composers by age and having
given a short description of the character of each generation, we
must next extract from the chronological listing Information
about the characteristics of the period. Let us try to describe the
times in perspective.
Chronology
49

ig°9-io
In Paris, the first season of Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe makes
a deep impression. A new dramatic technique is revealed which
calls for close coordination of music, choreography, and painting.
The impression is created that the plastic, architectural, and lyric
aspects of the musical performance are more concemed with cur­
rent problems than are the dramatic and\philosophic concept of
musical drama. In Germany, Elektra, by Richard Strauss, en-
larges the horizon of musical tragedy (Greek tragedy with its
universal thought and human sensitivity). Compact action.
Vienna witnesses the first works of expressionism in music:
Schoenberg’s Erwartung and Five Pieces for Orchestra. New
Orchestration, opposing Wagner’s and Strauss’s massive orchestra
with treatment by groups of soloists.

1910- 11
Orchestral color as the dominant element; fauve music (by
analogy with painting). Stravinsky’s Firebird, Florent Schmitt's
Tragedie de Salome. Beginning of Debussy’s last period; end of
impressionism. Trend toward more sustained sentiment, clearer
and more unified form. Trend toward economy and concentra-
tion of methods of expression in Gabriel Faur£.

1911- 12
The techniques of impressionism reconciled with the concern for
construction. Postimpression as in Roussel’s Evocations. Decline
of fauve music: Daphnis et Chloe, Petrushka. Faure’s austerity
attracts Satie, as demonstrated in En Habit de Cheval. In Russia,
the movement begun with Scriabin continues in Miaskovsky. In
Vienna, Schoenberg takes relativism into consideration in appre-
ciation of harmonies.

1912- 13
Final major work of impressionism: Debussy’s Jeux. Post-
impressionism: Dukas, Roussel. Symphonie constructions with
rhythmic base (influence of ballet). Satie adds to the concentra-
tion of expressive techniques certain harmonic short cuts: super-
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

imposition of remote keys, an in Veritables Preludes Flasques.

In Schoenberg’s work the accent on expression becomes more
important than rhythm, and motif more important than melody.
Strict application of atonality: Pierrot Lunaire. Use of solo in-
struments by the orchestra: Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire,
Strausses Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme.

1913- 14
Echo in France of Schoenberg’s innovations in compositions by
Ravel, Delage, Stravinsky. Le Sacre du Print emps, central work
in the European musical crisis—peak of fauve music as well as a
return to elementary forms of music. The polar note instead of
classical tonality. Return to richness and liberty of rhythm.
Darius Milhaud begins Orestie, a work of musical theater more
lyric than dramatic, with the text subordinated to the principle
of lyric drama. Visionary music of Schoenberg, who also breaks
with lyric drama: Die glückliche Hand, Italian music develops
rapidly and shares the concerns of European music (Casella).

1914- 15
Postimpressionism turns toward a more constructive ideal, a new
classicism (which is not an academic imitation of liistoric classical
models): Ravel, Auric. Diatonism and melody reaffirmed: Mil­
haud, Prokofiev. Busoni composes by creating new modes and
using exotic keys.

1915- 16
Milhaud brings polytonal counterpoint and harmony into focus.
Pizzetti reacts against verismo with Fedra, Busoni produces his
theatrical ideal: Arlecchino.

1917-18
The desire for conciseness has led Satie and Schoenberg to
say only the essential: Sports et Divertissements; Sechs Kleine
Klavierstücke. Limiting himself to the elementary action of the
music, Satie composes “background music”: Parade. Influence of
cubism and carnival music. End of Stravinsky’s “Russian” period.
For him as well, condensation of expressive means becomes most
important; Noces, Renard. In general, rhythmic and harmonic
Chronology
gains are directed toward compact forms. Melody predominates;
music denuded of literary intentions. Pure music in the theater.

1918-19
Jazz takes shape in America and makes an immediate and pro-
found impression with its free rhythm and its Orchestration.
Jean Cocteau, the spokesman of young French musicians, sums
up current activity in his Le Coq et l’Arlequin. Break with
impressionism, creation of a style of music described as trenchant.
Close rapport among musicians, poets, and painters: Auric,
Poulenc; Stravinsky’s Histoire du Soldat. Development of the
use of orchestras of solo instruments. In the sonata, French
music tends to reduce or suppress the Durchführung (Koechlin,
Milhaud) and to create new balances in form. Ballet makes its
influence feit in French opera: Padmävati, by Roussel.

igig-20
German operas by Strauss and Schreker reflect recent increase of
freedom in harmony. Fauve music makes its last appearances
with Schmitt, Ravel, Bartök. In France, musicians detach them-
selves from jazz after assimilating its essence; Auric, Stravinsky.
The question of movies begins to be noticed by composers;
Milhaud’s Le Boeuf sur le Toit. Orientation toward a new classi-
cism (Satie, Stravinsky) by suppression of individual expression.

21
1920-
Postimpressionism, such as in Roussel’s Pour une Fete de Prin-
temps, is influenced by experimentation in polytonality. The Six
form. Polytonal radicalism of Milhaud, Auric, while Satie
creates a perfect example o£ a new classicism with Socrate. Igor
Stravinsky is mostly concerned with instrumental specificity and
the search for a form divorced from any scholastic spirit. Honeg­
ger and Hindemith work on modernizing the sonata. Malipiero
takes interest in the sources of Italian music. Every detail in the
reconstruction of musical language is examined and treated
separately. After semi-intuitive discoveries, attempts are made to
organize these discoveries with a view to returning to form.
A H1STORY OF MODERN iMUSIC

22
1921-
In Germany, the annual festival of Donaueschingen is established
to give voice to proposed solutions for current problems. In
France, Faure Supports classicism. Honegger presents his most
radical work, Horace Victorieux, and also his most eclectic,
Le Roi David. Stravinsky simplifies his language and begins to
lean toward Tchaikovsky and the ninetcenth-century Italians
with Mavra. Prokofiev shows increascd balance: Third Piano
Concerto. Having started with nationalistic music, Bartok pro-
gresses toward universalism. In Italy, the new form of opera,
divorced from verismo, wins recognition: Alfano, Pizzetti, Mali-
piero. In general, individualistic music with its development
based 011 the unfolding of a psychological drama has disappeared;
it has been replaced by “objective” music.

1922- 23
In Germany, Pfitzner carries on in the romantic tradition.
Hindemith leaves it entirely and returns to an objective basis:
sachliche Musik. In Vienna, the Schoenbergian movement moves
toward an even more intransigent radicalism. In Paris, Mil-
haud’s Les Eumenides marks the end of polytonal radicalism.
Music is following a distinct trend to incorporate polytonality in
normal harmonic language; Ravel, Milhaud. Recognition of
predominantly consonant music; Sauguct. In Poland, Szymanow-
ski reachcs the peak of his development. In Spain, De Falla
marks the end of postimpressionism.

1923- 24
Hindemith counters the radical atonality of Schoenberg, Klenek
with a system based on old German contrapuntal techniques
modernized by an extension of harmonic principles; Marienleben.
His orientation toward a new classicism becomes more marked.
Stravinsky also moves toward a new classicism: Octuor. Auric’s
and Poulenc’s classicism is basically a revival of seventeenth- and
eighteenth-century French sense of proportion, revitalized by
Stravinsky’s influencc. Honegger experiments with dynamic con-
struction: Pacific 231. Milhaud’s talent becomes more and more
diflicult to classify with any given movement or current. He
Chronology
participates in the general trend toward classicism in the sim-
plicity and suppleness of his language. On the other hand, his
temperament is romantic in some lights. Manuel de Falla intro-
duces recently won freedom into Spanish music. Young English
composers begin to feel the impact of the new French spirit;
Walton.

1924- 25
In France and Germany, there is a general return to form and a
classical conception. End of trenchant-style music like that of
Satie. New Stravinsky works provoke discussion of a return to
Bach. Schoenberg maintains his atonal radicalism. The influence
of jazz on American music develops.

1925- 26
Schoenberg examines the problem of form. For his atonal Ian-
guage, he invents a System of development with the twelve-tone
row: Suite, Op. 25. Alban Berg uses Schoenbergian principles,
but less radically. Trends in Soviet art begin to appear through
Prokofiev, Shostakovich.

1926- 27
De Falla moves in the direction of a Spanish classicism with
Concerto for Harpsichord.

1927- 28
Specific subjects are broached: that of populär musical education
by Hindemith and that of chamber opera by Hindemith, Mil­
haud, Weill.

1928- 29
Important works illustrate various trends. Period of maturity for
Contemporary music. Berg’s Wozzeck becomes the best example
of expressionist opera.

1929- 30
Schoenberg shows himself less radical with Von Heute auf
Morgen.
A 1IISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

193O-31
Development of choral music and modern oratorio by Stravinsky,
Bartok, Szymanowski, Hindemith, Honegger. Adaptation of
modern music to sound film. Performance of an opera in quarter-
tones, Die Mutter, by Häba. Igor Markevich composes Rebus.

1932-33
Soviet declarations on the meaning of music. This art form is
directed toward populär tastes by the state. First real blow to
freedom of artistic thought.

1935- 36
Dramatic and secular oratorios contain the best of Contemporary
lyric expression. Among them are works by Vogel, Honegger,
Milhaud, Markevich. Active work in chamber and concert music.
First publication of Nazi music in Germany: Werner Egk.
Schoenberg and Hindemith leave Germany.

1936- 37
Pure music, solely or predominantly concemed with construc-
tion, such as Webern’s Variations, Stravinsky’s Jeu de Cartes,
Bartok’s Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta, Sauguet’s La
Chartreuse de Parme proves that traditional, consonant music
can produce great modern compositions. In Germany, the music
allowed for public consumption shows a spiritual and technical
decline. Carl Orff, however, proposes an interesting solution in
the spirit of music conceived for the people with Carmina
Burana.

1937- 38
Hindemith publishes a work on modern harmony: Unterweisung
im Tonsatz (The Craft of Musical Composition), Vol. I. His
System of harmony is applicable to all principles—modal, tonal,
or atonal. Dallapiccola adapts Schoenberg’s theories to the Italian
temperament. Poulenc’s and Milhaud’s lyricism flower with can-
tatas and collections of melodies.
Chronology
55
1938-
40
The present Status of modern music is extended. Trend toward
simplification in Hindemith. Emigration to America of numbers
of European composers: Schoenberg, Hindemith, Bartök, Mil­
haud, Stravinsky, Rieti, Martinü. Schoenberg regains his true
romantic temperament. He abandons the strict application of
the twelve-tone System and begins to use a harmonic language
resembling Alban Berg’s, in which tonality is always easily per-
ceived although present only in a latent state.

1940-45
Tendency to purify and simplify the language, corresponding to
a desire for serenity: Hindemith, Bartök, Stravinsky, Milhaud.
Birth of the Interest in authentic folk music. From 1945 on,
recording of folk songs in their authentic form becomes very
important. Growing interest of the European public in ethno-
musicology.

1946-53
All the leaders in music, including Schoenberg, feel the need
for stronger affirmation of the tonal foundation. However, many
young composers are in Opposition and rally to dodecaphonism.
Others, taking notice of the technical advances of recording and
electronics, seek in them the basis for a completely new language
and expression.

TO s u M U P : The history of modern music developed

in two phases:
The first, from 1909 to 1923, is the period of harmonic and
rhythmic discovery, the period of spiritual and technical libera-
tion. These battles are won by 1923, and a new period begins
in which the problem of form takes the spotlight, while the free-
dom acquired in the first phase is prudently exercised.
One can claim that no schools really exist. But there are lead­
ers in music—Schoenberg, Hindemith, Satie, Koechlin—who
guide and attract other composers, and work out certain solu-
tions without imposing them on their disciples or supporters.
They define a general trend, both spiritual and technical; and
the newly invented technique is preferred to academic tech-
A IUSTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

niques. The present diversity in techniques corresponds to the

diversity in spiritual states. There is no universal technique.
Thus, Schoenberg’s influence has given rise to an expression-
ist trend, atonal language, and a System of development accord-
ing to the twelve-tone series. An antiromantic and antiexpres-
sionist current, directed toward German classicism, has formed
around Hindemith. Satie’s influence appears in the French move-
ment to simplify music, to do away with over-refinement, and to
seek simple forms and conciseness of expression. The influence
exerted by Kcechlin in the contrapuntal-harmonic domain—less
well known by the general public but no less important—puts
polytonality on a firm footing and supports the idea that lan­
guage must be related to content.
Aside from these European currents, national movements have
started which intend to free national music from its folklore
aspects in Order to Europeanize it. Such is the case in Italy,
Hungary, Spain, and certain areas of Russia.
However, other nations are in a less advanced state of evolu-
tion and are still in the process of developing folk music. This
is true of certain American and Balkan countries and the Re-
publics of Soviet Russia.
Apart from these trends, some musicians of exceptional talent
have appeared who, like leaders, follow only their own law, but
whose art is so individual and independent that they alone know
how to utilize it. Stravinsky and Milhaud are such composers.
Their successors can at least imitate only certain external quali-
ties of their art.
Despite this diversity and the sometimes contradictory aspects
of Contemporary music, there is a general movement, as much
at the heart of influential trends as in isolated personalities. It
consists of a complete break with postromanticism and post-
impressionism, and a search for a language divorced from the
harmonic and orchestral traditions of the nineteenth Century.
This experimentation provoked an aura of increasing tension
in music from 1909 until 1923, a tension maintained until 1928.
By that time there had arisen a widespread desire for tranquillity
and balance in expression, glimpsed in the early attempts, from
1923 on, to establish a new classicism.
Düring this entire period, all genres of music have been under
Chronology
continuous cultivation: opera, ballet, oratorio, and secular can-
tata, Symphonie music, chamber music, and art song. Relatively
little religious music has been produced, although it has enjoyed
something of a revival since about 1930.
The Symphonie poem, psychological and dramatic in essence,
has been abandoned. Music is no longer a confession, a psycho­
logical drama, as it was in the time of the romantic movement,
nor is it the echo of individual reactions to contact with the
outside world, as in the time of the impressionist movement, ex-
cept for Schoenberg’s and Alban Berg’s expressionism. Gener-
ally, music has either detached itself from the individual to be-
come more largely human, or it has become objective—a pure
play of forms.
New genres have been created: movie music, Choreographie
music, chamber music with solo instruments, music for the people.
Let us conclude this general review with an opinion from
Luigi Dallapiccola:
The movement of music is not and has never been in a period of con-
fusion. Or eise it always has been. If, in the midst of the most disparate
current trends, we stop to look at a few specific works—Alois Häba’s
Klageweib er quartett (from the opera Die Mutter), Malipiero’s Torneo
Notturno, B£la Bartök’s Ftfth Quartet, Anton Webern’s Das Augenlicht,
Milhaud’s Christophe Colomb, to eite only a few—and if we note in
each of these the clarity of the idea, the proportion between intention
and realization, the intimate poetry, we are convinced that today as
in the past a few great musicians have been able to express the world
which surrounds them through their personality, with accents we do not
forget, once we have lieard them. If one day we can speak of a general
trend instead of diverse trends, that day will mark the end of art.4

Since 1940 Contemporary music has evolved into a third phase.

This is partly the result of the extension of musical knowledge
to very old periods and distant lands—Messiaen’s orientalism in
Petites Liturgies, for example. It is also the result of the develop-
ment of electronic methods for producing sound, which has
stimulated a search for new forms required by the creation of
new sounds—the sounds of indeterminate percussion in the mu­
sic of John Cage, musique concrete, and electronic music.
4. Revue Internationale de Musique, I/4, 1938.
 2

ARNOLD SCHOENBERG, ANTON WEBERN,

ALBAN BERG

around 1920, when German musicians realized that music had

resolutely stepped out along new roads, the composer and mu-
sicologist Egon Wellesz wrote:
When the art of the madrigal reached its apex around 1600, a trend
toward a monodic form began which put an end to the dominance of
choral music. A period of primitive homophony followed the mid-
eighteenth Century, when contrapuntal music reached its apex. Today
an analogous phenomenon is occurring: the nineteenth Century created
a harmonic System and developed it to an unbelievable level, at the
expense of other factors in composition. But when chromaticism was in
full swing (and a decomposition of forms had thereby resulted), the new
generation announced its intention to build.
It is difficult to discuss things that are still growing and refuse to be
assigned to one category or another. We do not even know where they
will lead us or what their final aim is. One thing is certain: after the
upheavals of recent years, more definite paths are being laid out.
Absence of feeling for form is responsible for the chaotic development
of music during the last several generations, and that absence is a
heritage from romanticism and the currents it gave birth to. It is
characteristic that the second romantic period created a dominant form:
the symphonic poem, which is based not upon a musical architecture but
on literary construction. Composers scattered their talents, and wan-
dered off trying to imitate the sounds of nature with an orchestra, to
portray objects that cannot by their very nature be translated into
music. Augmenting the strength of the orchestra, considered until then
as the best means to express a rise of emotions, came to be a necessity
and lost its effectiveness as it became an overworked device.
However the romantic work is envisaged, the point was always to
outdo, to try to amplify what had gone before. A marvelous excitement
pervaded that period: men believed themselves like unto gods, and a
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 59
moment of doubt brought complete collapse. It was the destiny of the
artist, who had to live in a world deprived of gods, to isolate himself
from this world and to create. His philosophy was to flee the world and
be resigned. He was thus a stranger even to what was best in his own
time. There were only a few artists, who went unnoticed, to commend
the Union of the artist and the world in the heart of which he lived.
There are now increasing signs that the anarchy of recent years will
be followed by a period of synthesis. We cannot say that a new form
is already developing, for example, to replace the symphony. The essen­
tial contribution of the new spirit, however, is not the invention of a
new form, but rather the desire to restore the close rapport between
form and content.5
According to the testimony of Central European composers
themselves, German romanticism, which gave us so many mas-
terpieces, carried the germ of its own destruction. There is no
doubt that the progressive surrender of form was fatal. Johann
Sebastian Bach had perfected the fugue, the form so excellently
suited to the tonal system; and Karl Philipp Emanuel Bach struck
the first blow at the omnipotence of the tonal principle. He mul-
tiplied modulations, made them follow each other at brief time
intervals, modulated into remote keys, and abandoned strict form
for the sake of expression. We need only leaf through certain
pages of the Freie Phantasien und Rondos für Kenner und Lieb­
haber, or a piece like Abschied von meinem Silbermannischen
Klaviere to recognize this.
The form—the strict governing principle of all the parts of a
work, the outline determining the relation of the notes to a
fundamental of reference—the form, an end in itself, moved in
a framework whose homogeneity, unity, logic, Geschlossenheit,
as the Germans say, disappeared little by little. The concentra-
tion of the idea that all strict forms presuppose gave way to
dispersion and disintegration of musical energy. Romanticism
looked willingly to literature to buttress the unity and logical
development of the musical work, whence came the Symphonie
poem and lyric drama. Wagner, subordinating music to words,
gave the coup de gräce to the spirit of form. Constant modula-
tion was needed to maintain the listener’s attention, create dy-
namism—a perceptible increase of musical force—and expose and
5. “Das Problem der Form,” in Von neuer Musik, 1924.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

accent the drama it was supposed to evoke; thus the principle of

tonality foundered and chromaticism, of which Richard Wagner
is the last exponent, rose to its apex.
Classical harmony based on the diatonic scale, that is on the
seven-tone scale, major or minor, had achieved the most com-
plete freedom. Modulations to remote keys had trained listeners
to perceive more and more complex relationships, wdiich al-
lowed for an increase of passing tones, appoggiaturas, and sus-
pensions—in brief, the simultaneous sound of diatonic tones and
tones “outside the harmony,” as they were still called. French
impressionism did away with the resolution of dissonances. Ul-
timately the point came when all twelve notes of the chromatic
scale were heard in chords. Even if these chords were left un-
resolved, they were related to a dominant note in context; an
art of allusion, of reading-between-the-notes, was born with the
first measures of Tristan und Isolde and finally arrived at a very
complex and subtle level with Maurice Ravel, as, for example,
at the end of Surgi de la Croupe et du Bond [Example z]. *
This tonal uncertainty made possible several interpretations of
a single chord. But the note of reference was still present, and the
tensions created were extremely delicate and provocative.
Only one Step remained to be taken: to detach the twelve
notes from all bases of reference, make them independent of the
principle of tonality, and suppress the difference between notes
proper to the harmony and those that are foreign to it. Consid-
ering the twelve tones as equal in value would project us into
a new sonorous realm with no further relationship to the tonal
world which succeeded the modal world of antiquity and the
Middle Ages and served as the basis for musical language from
the sixteenth Century on.
Arnold Schoenberg was to take this decisive Step. He ap-
proached it progressively by force of circumstance and pressures,
logically completing a curve that started with Karl Philipp
Emanuel Bach and was extended by Mozart, Schubert, Wagner,
Strauss, and Mahler. The role of Strauss and Mahler in this de-
velopment is perhaps not very clear. Here is what Maurice Ravel
says about it:
* The musical examples will be found following page 405.
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 61
I am very much in sympathy with Schoenberg and his followers; they
are equally romantic and severe. Romantic because they want to break
the old tablets;6 severe because they impose new laws on themselves
and mistrust that detestable sincerity which is the mother of loquacious
and imperfect works.
It is curious and sad that there are almost impenetrable barriers
between their tendencies and those of our musicians. Even where there
would seem to be kinship, it is more likely due to the common in­
fluence of Richard Strauss. . . . Mahler—ardent, talented, and awkward—
whom they love, they esteem as an unpolished genius—a little like
Berlioz. They detest Strauss (who returns the compliment), but they
owe a great deal, if not to Strauss the artist, at least to Strauss the
technician.
The bold approach in contrapuntal composition is as old as the organ
or violin. The false decorative note, too, dates from the old masters
(Scarlatti, for instance). But Strauss was the first to superimpose har-
monically incompatible lines. There is a chord in Salomö [Example 2]
which strongly resists any analysis of cadence whatever—or is at best
definable as the simultaneous use of different modal articulations. This
is indeed one of the roots of Schoenberg’s so-called atonal System.7

Mahler’s role is, properly speaking, indefinable. Contemporary

Viennese musicians, at least those grouped around Schoenberg,
seemed to consider Mahler the ultimate heir of the Beethoven-
Schubert-Bruckner tradition. Beethoven was not content with
considering the symphony as a mental trick. With him it became
a metaphysical expression or a profession of faith. Mendelssohn,
Schumann, and Brahms are thought to have pursued Symphonie
musical idiom with more or less virtuosity, while Bruckner and
Mahler followed in the footsteps of Beethoven and Schubert.
Mahler seems to be considered the last exponent of an ex-
haus ted art form, although he was venerated by the younger
generation because of his desire for spiritual purity and form
after a chaotic period.
On the other hand, certain melodies from Des Knaben Wun­
derhorn and the Kindertotenlieder were written on a purely
musical, and not literary, foundation, and the last work of the
master, Das Lied von der Erde, incorporates aspects of the new
musical language. Mahler’s Orchestration, as well, sometimes
6. Note that the Ravel examples cited above are essentially tonal.
fj. Revue Internationale de Musique, XII/113.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

forecast new concepts. Although he used enormous orchestral

and vocal masses (liis Eighth Symphony is called the “Symphony
of a Thousand”) he professed that Orchestration should serve
only to expose an idea clearly, and should not aim at creating
color. This principle is strictly applied in the Kindertoten­
lieder, in many Symphonie passages (in the Fourth, for example),
and in Das Lied von der Erde, in which he uses only one part
of the orchestra to convey his thought.
It would therefore seem to be as much the example of Mah­
lerts artistic conscience as his work itself which influenced
Schoenberg in his first efforts, and above all his determination
to pursue his own course and perfect the development of his
own genius—a concern that might seem slight to a Frenchman
but which created a serious problem for the Viennese artist,
working without privacy in the middle of a city wliere music has
an immensely important place but where the musical spirit is
particularly narrow and conservative.
In defining Mahler’s influence on Viennese musicians, the as-
pect of local atmosphere is so subjective that it is difficult to get
across to a foreigner.
There is a certain affinity between Mahler and the younger
generation, either because it carried out similar experiments
using difFerent means, for example, the Ländler scenes in certain
of Mahler’s symphonies and in Alban Berg’s Wozzeck; or be­
cause similar means are used to express different things, as
Mahler’s developments are based on the development and Varia­
tion of motifs. Schoenberg is the direct heir of that technique,
which Mahler specifically applied in the Sixtli Symphony and
in Das Lied von der Erde.

arnold schoenberg was born on September 13, 1874, in

Vienna. He studied briefly under Alexander von Zemlinsky, but
was mainly self-taught. In 1899 he composed a sextet for strings,
Verklärte Nacht, Op. 4. In 1900 he wrote an enormous secular
oratorio, the Gurrelieder—“a paroxysm of every romantic exuber-
ance,” Erwin Stein called it—using a gigantic orchestra contain-
ing eight flutes, seven clarinets, ten horns, and seven trombones.
In 1902 he composed a symphonic poem, Pelleas und Melisande,
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 63
Op. 5. With it Schoenberg’s postromantic period ended. The
String Quartet No. 1, composed in 1907, inaugurated a period of
musical objectivity (die neue Sachlichkeit'), during which his in-
terest in form began to dominate the empirical aspect of earlier
works. This tendency was accentuated in the Kammersymphonie,
Op. g (1906), and especially in the String Quartet No. 2, Op.
10 (1908).
Schoenberg modified his use of polyphony during this period.
Erwin Stein, who was one of his disciples, wTrote on the subject:
Multiple parts on a single harmonic foundation, such as we find in
Tristan and in Richard Strauss’s work, and the perfect polymelody in
Schoenberg works like Gurrelieder and Pelleas, serve to intensify ex-
pression. After Pelleas, these lines become independent, and are further
and further removed from the common foundation in subsequent com-
positions. Melody is made more and more “pure” and “nonharmonic,”
in Opposition to melody with either latent but distinct harmony, or
harmony formed by successive intervals. Polyphony becomes a sheaf of
real and independent voices that are more intended to intensify expres-
sion than to obey a principle of economy—the concentrated exposition
of the musical discourse.8
With reservations on the use of the term “pure melody/’ we
should remember that henceforth Schoenberg did not use the
word “melody” in its traditional sense. Consequently, his melody
will no longer have characteristic properties; it will possibly ac-
quire new ones. We will return to the question later.
The Quartet, Op. 10, is in F< minor. However, no definite
tonality can be heard in the last movements of the work. This is
the advent of the music called atonal, a term which itself must
be used with reservations. Note that Schoenberg and his disciples
find it even “offensively improper.” To this new, third period be­
long the collection of songs, Das Buch der hängenden Gärten,
Op. 15, on poems by Stefan George; Three Piano Pieces, Op. 11;
Five Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 16; two dramatic works, Erwar­
tung, Op. 17 (1909), and Die glückliche Hand, Op. 18 (1913);
and Pierrot Lunaire, Op. 21, a suite, in Sprechengesang (“speech-
song”), based on poems by Albert Giraud, with an accompani-
ment of a group of solo instruments.
All trace of romanticism has disappeared in these works. Some
8. Ibid.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Viennese musicians find them impressionistic. We find them

much more expressionistic in character. Impressionism is the
musical expression produced by impressions of the outside world.
Expressionism, following on romanticism, is an expression of
the I, of the individual, but is both more concentrated and more
extremist than romanticism.
When he had freed himself from the confines of tonal har-
mony, Schoenberg held in his hands the elements of a new lan­
guage that now needed to be organized. Thus he entered a fourth
period, a “form-finding” one, and built the “system of the
twelve-tone series” (Zwölftonreihe) in order to create a new form
for the new language.
From this period come the Five Pieces for Piano, Op. 23
(1923); the Serenade for Several Instruments, Op. 24 (1924); the
Suite for Strings, Clarinets and Piano, Op. 29; and the Third
Quartet, Op. 30. These are the works most often discussed and
recognized as the most difficult to understand, so essentially dif­
ferent are they from what the ear is accustomed to. For here not
only is there a new technique, but a new conception of music
as well, a new meaning attached to all the elements of its lan­
guage. Schoenberg is like a mathematician who has passed from
Euclidean to non-Euclidean geometry. A solitary art has been
bom for which, according to certain fanatic devotees of Schoen­
berg, no audience is needed—it is sufficient unto itself. It is an
art that provoked endless polemics, and above all in Vienna,
where a new periodical, 23, appeared in its defense, expounding
the essentials of Schoenbergian aesthetics.
Later works, such as the Variations for Orchestra, Op. 31
(1928); the opera Von Heilte auf Morgen (1929); Musique pour
une Scene Filmee; and a cappella choruses, come in the formal-
istic period that some have called “classical.”* But these works
are generally less uncompromising. They show an attempt to
reconcile new discoveries with the habitual meaning of music.
They seem to draw closer to the public.

Let us see now what Schoenberg’s System of composition—

since there is a System—consists of, and how he arrived at it.
By his background and his Situation in the Viennese world of
music, the composer of Pierrot Lunaire was a hermit. Yet, his
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 65
methods and teaching are followed with passion by very inde­
pendent and inquisitive minds. In Probleme des Kunstunter­
richtes, he wrote:
What sense is there in teaching how to resolve situations encountered
every day? The Student learns to use methods he would do well never
to learn if he wants to be an artist. But what is more important cannot
be given to him: the courage and strength to perceive things in such
a way that everything he examines becomes an exceptional case.9
This attitude he demands of a musician can obviously be
adopted only by really creative minds. It is not for the ordinary
musician, for whom the problem of music is limited to acquiring
sufficient technical skill to get along. “Belief in technique as a
sole support should be combated,” he says. “Rather should we
encourage any sign of an inclination toward true sincerity.”
The outline of his conception of music and of the application
he envisages already appear in his Harmonielehre (Treatise on
Harmony) written in 1911, the essentials of which follow.

Schoenberg’s Harmonielehre is not a handbook, but it does

set forth a system of composition. A true theory of the phe-
nomenon of music must start from the listener who receives the
impression of sound. In his Farbenlehre, Schopenhauer says
that colors are physiological phenomena: “They are states of
modifications carried to the eye.” The same is true for the rela-
tionships that tie sound to ear. As an art, music consists in the
association of sound, ear, and emotion. Thus music cannot be
based solely on the purely physical phenomenon of sound.
Schoenberg was not interested in the physical theory of sounds
and harmonies; he concentrated on applying certain artistic
methods.
The concept of consonance-dissonance is false because it sets
these two notions in Opposition to each other. Between the two
there are only degrees of habituating the ear and consciousness
to the perception of more or less remote harmonic sounds.
Schoenberg attempts to explain chords and their relationships
9. “Was hat es also für Sinn, die Bewältigung alltäglicher Fälle zu lehren?
Der Schüler lernt etwas anwenden, was er nicht anwenden dürfte, wenn er
Künstler sein will. Aber das Wichtigste kann man ihm nicht geben: den Mut
und die Kraft, sich so zu den Dingen zu stellen, dass alles, was er ansieht,
durch die Art, wie er sie ansieht, zum aussergewöhnlichen Fall wird“
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

by beginning with the notes of the diatonic major scale. But he

can explain the perfect minor chord only by reference to the
rather feeble principle of imitation. He finds that it would be
simpler to take the twelve half-tones of the chromatic scale as a
basis for melody as well as for harmony.
He stresses the fact that composition can only be taught sat-
isfactorily if instruction is limited to a sort of musical craftsman-
ship, without regard for a “natural System” or any aesthetic Sys­
tem whatever. Such instruction must recognize that the notions
of consonance and dissonance are relative, and that from one
to the other there is a gradual transition, not a fundamental Op­
position; that the three laws for the treatment of dissonances—
to make them descend toward a consonance, to make them as-
cend, or to leave them in place—are superseded by a fourth law:
to let them escape; that the theory of sounds that belong outside
of the harmonic framework is false, and is only a System.
The twelve-tone System includes the following considerations:
1] The material for all types of musical composition consists of
a series of twelve tones. (The notion of alteration must there-
fore be obliterated, and the twelve tones given different names
to show their independence.)
2] Ecclesiastic modes, major and minor modes, exotic modes,
and various chromatic modes have been constructed using
this material. In the final analysis, one arrives at a single
chromatic mode.
3] For reasons of style and in the interests of form, the partic-
ular characteristics of each scale have been clearly elaborated
and developed to their final consequences—hence the laws
of tonality for major and minor keys.
4] The principle of tonality can be enlarged: *
a. By imitating the treatment assigned to them, the different
modes come to resemble each other more closely.
b. What is similar is considered as related and is eventually
treated in the same way (e.g., different chords built on the
same fundamental).
5] The reduction of ecclesiastic modes into major and minor
keys and the development of these twenty-four keys among
themselves is accomplished as follows:
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 67

Horizontally
a. Relationship based on the resemblance of the chords
divides ecclesiastic modes into major and minor species.
b. Reciprocal imitation of cadences lets the single major
species absorb all the characteristics of major ecclesiastic
modes. The same holds true for minor modes.
c. A great many of the three-note chords in ecclesiastic modes,
made up of the same sounds, are related to a limited num-
ber of keys. As a result, the chords that remain are attached
to two of these keys (the diatonic major and minor).
d. The relationship of chords as stated in a. above, and
e. the joint possession of a fundamental causes notes that
are one, three, and four degrees removed in the cycle of
fifths to draw together.
f. The most remote tones (second, fifth, and sixth degrees of
the cycle of fifths) are likewise brought closer by the reduc-
tion of the number of boundaries between modes and the
simplification of their characteristics; by the multiple sig-
nificance of chords and parts of scales; by chords dimin-
ished to three notes and chords of corresponding sevenths
(an open imitation of the perfect natural chord) and their
imitation in other degrees.
Vertically
The vertical construction relieves the horizontal construc-
tion of chords of four and five notes. A seventh chord, using
four notes of the scale, adds one-third to the tonal charac-
terization; a ninth chord adds two-thirds.
6] Movement of the twelve major tones and the twelve minor
tones toward twelve chromatic tones. The transition is made
in Wagner's music.
7] Establishment of the one polytonal chromatic scale.
Up to the fifth point, the Harmonielehre examines the evolu-
tion of musical language as presented from this angle. It goes no
further; what follows cannot yet be synthesized. Only application
and experiment in composition will clarify the Situation. Modern
music, which uses chords of six and more notes, seems to have
reached a stage comparable to the first period of polyphonic
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

music: these chords need no justification other than the direction

of their parts. The horizontal, melodic principle predominates.

Here in summary is what the Harmonielehre teaches us.

After its publication, Schoenberg brought his atonality—which
we would prefer to call his absolute chromaticism—into focus.
In Komposition mit zwölf nur aufeinander bezogenen Tonen he
suggests ways of applying his twelve-tone series. Examining some
of his works will give us an idea of his discoveries.
Before leaving the Harmonielehre, we should note that the
author refuses to accept the word atonal. All music, he says,
is in a given tone, whether it is referred to a single tonic or
whether the successions of chords are justified by more compli-
cated relationships or references.
He also emphasizes the fact that the use of chords of six or
more notes requires a very extensive type of composition and
sufficient Instrumentation to soften the effect of dissonances
by making them sound as they really are: concurrences of dis-
tant harmonies. He cites an example drawn from his monodrama
Erwartung [Example 3].
Schoenberg
* s tonality, nevertheless, is not exactly like Bach’s.
Schoenberg avoids the perfect chord, precisely because using it
would require using the whole procession of satellites bound to
it, which would mean reverting to Bach’s form of tonality.
From another point of view, Schoenberg considers the chords
formed by passing notes as independent. He calls them “vaga-
bond” chords.
The misunderstanding that has arisen on the subject of tonality
is due to the fact that the term is used to designate two quite
different things. Classical tonality is a principle; all the chords
in a given piece of music tend toward the perfect chord on a
given fundamental by cadential progression. When Schoenberg
says that his music is tonal, he means that each chord has its own
fundamental, independent of the context. Each chord is in a
certain key. But according to Schoenberg, four successive chords,
for example, will be in four different keys. The speed at which
one key passes to another and the complexity of each chord do
not leave the ear enough time to take in the different keys and
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 69
their relationships. Since there is no continuity in establishing a
given key, apparent atonality results.
Schoenberg’s music is thus tonal and atonal at the same time,
depending on the light in which it is examined.
Stoessl’s ideas on the subject are worth noting. Atonality is com-
parable to prose, and tonality to poetry. Poetry and tonality are
founded on unification through a particular rhythm, particular
sounds of reference which directly attract the ear. Prose is created
by writing and can do without these mnemonic devices, and links
ideas in relation to the mind. The same holds true for atonality.

Every change in System involves a loss of certain properties

and the acquisition of new ones. Modal diversity was abandoned
in favor of major-minor duality at the expense of melodic rich-
ness, but with benefit to harmonic potential. If in its turn major-
minor duality is abandoned, we may lose certain harmonic effects,
especially the powerful effect of harmonic tension and re-
lease, but the scale of twelve independent tones contributes other
possibilities.
Harmonically, this mutation enriches music. For dissonant
chords can now develop with no reserve whatsoever. They have
risen from slavery to masterhood. Classical harmony, that of
Rameau, included only a few dozen admissible chords. Atonality
utilizes more than two thousand. Added to that number is the
diversity of inversions and groupings of parts within sonorous
space. (This is much spoken of as a second dimension after time,
from the influence of physics. Actually, the term sonorous space
is improper. What is meant is the distance between the lowest and
highes t vibrations in sound frequencies.) This variety in the
distribution of chords is of prime importance in Schoenberg’s
language. Increasing the number of possible chords is no assur-
ance that the music will be enriched. In fact, the greater the
number of notes contained in each chord, the less the chords
will differ in degree of tension. Many of these greatly exaggerated
chords will be so similar that they will show only negligible
differences of importance. Variety of distribution within sonorous
space compensates for the diminution of differentiation in the
chords.
A form for this new musical material had not yet beeil estab-
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

lished when Schoenberg was writing his Harmonielehre, Accord-

ing to him, that order will probably not be found in the vertical,
harmonic idiom, but in the horizontal, linear, melodic line. We
should note in passing that in this same way dissonances took
their proper place within classical tonal language: i.e., through
the progression of parts. The dissolution of tonality actually un-
balanced all the constructive principles of musical composition,
for tonality dominated them all, including rhythm, dynamics,
and timbre; and so much the more did it determine melody,
thematic execution, and the development of motifs. Harmony
regained its position of primacy, with rhythm second in im-
portance. The melody, says Erwin Stein, was a sort of fagade for
the music, a beautiful fagade organically woven into the whole
structure. To enrich harmony, melody and rhythm were rele-
gated to the background for purposes of maintaining clarity and
allowing the ear and brain to perceive complex harmonic treat­
ment. Increasing harmonic instability diminished architectonic
possibilities; counterpoint was needed to fill the breach.
The new technique is still too young to accommodate large
forms, which explains the predominance of short pieces like the
songs in Das Buch der hängenden Gärten, Pierrot Lunaire, and
the Six Short Pieces for Piano (these last do not exceed a dozen
measures each). Such short pieces allow remarkable concentra-
tion of musical thought. (Satie’s piano works, for similar reasons,
have this same brevity and concentration, although they differ in
style and development.) At this point, harmony and melody no
longer exist as architectural ends for Schoenberg; they are purely
means of expression. Brevity allows their meaning to be caught,
even without repetition. These pieces nonetheless do contain a
formal element: unity of idea. And polyphony, more so than
harmony, makes the listener grasp the function of the dis­
sonances; this can be seen in Example 4,
It is easy to distinguish the contrapuntal essence of atonality,
and what makes this counterpoint different from tonal counter­
point. “ ‘Tonal’ counterpoint,” writes Frederick Goldbeck, ‘‘is the
art of lines in a cluster, whereby at any place, point contra point,
harmonic division can be made. So-called atonal counterpoint
is the art of interbuttressed lines, each innervated by latent
cadences and modulations within the weave of the musical
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 7z
texture; its logic is justified, not point contra point, but line
contra line.” Cohesion in form is achieved abovc all by the
development of the motif. The rhythmic motif is less important
than the melodic; the melody is no longer engendercd by melodic
variations of the rhythmic motif, but by rhythmic variations of
melodic motifs. Harmonie freedom requires the melody to pro-
tect its own expression. Faithfulness to relationships between
intervals has always been requisite for the existence of contra-
puntal forms.
At this point Schoenberg turned his attention to the question
of form. These considcrations prodded him to work from a
foundation on the twelve-tonc row. The twelve tones, mutually
related but not related to a fundamental tone, produce uni-
formity and equality of value and treatment. If all consonances
are avoided in order to do away with a preponderant note, for
the same reason a specific note is not allowcd to recur several
times in a series. Repetition and symmetry are similarly avoided
in rhythm. Avoiding repetition and symmetry in rhythm is prac-
tically equivalent to doing away with rhythm, just as changing
tonality with each chord is equivalent to doing away with
tonality. In the twelve-tone series as it was conceived in the
beginning, then, we can recognizc only very limited constructive
properties.
To work out new constructive principles with the twelve-tone
row, the series needed to be diversified and have certain limits
imposed on it. A specific fundamental note can be replaced by
an inalterablc succession of the twelve tones; the series thus
established becomes the regulating pattern for construction. Ex­
ample 5 shows several complete twelve-tone series.
The series will thus be analogous to melodic motifs, but will
differ from them in that each note should be considered only in
its relationship to the note preceding it and that which follows
it. Such an arrangement gives the chromatic scale the specific
quality it lacked—a disposition to form.
In building a series of less than twelve notes, it is even possi-
ble to introduce notes into the development which do not belong
to the series, just as, in the classical style, notes outside the har-
mony were introduced. The importance and significance of the
notes can then be assessed in relation to the series which, in
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

turn, assumes the function formerly filled by the tonic [Exarn-

ples 6a and 6b]. Requirements of form explain the grouping
of these alien notes as countermotifs (or, in common parlance,
counterweights). Transposition of the restricted series opens up
further possibilities of injecting alien tones.
What is essential, therefore, is to compose a fundamental musi-
cal entity, which Schoenberg calls the Grundgestalt. In this way
repetitions become organic, as in the fugue. The Grundgestalt is
consequently essential to the whole structure of the piece. It is
determined by the Order of succession of the intervals, but the
rhythm remains free. This rhythmic liberty is necessary since the
melodic Order is invariable. And since rhythm is at least as im­
portant as melody in determining the character of the music—
“melody” is used here to designate only relationships of intervals
(Schoenberg’s school uses the term in this sense)—freedom of
rhythm creates great potential for Variation. Rhythm is there­
fore no longer the backbone of music; it has only the value of
a factor in the development. Since it is no longer a support,
another mainstay must be substituted: the expressive accent,
with its psychological, extramusical basis.
In Schoenberg’s concept the Grundgestalt differs from tradi-
tional melody in that it can be heard from the first to the last
note as well as from the last to the first, or in the inversion of
these two schemes, since only the relationships of intervals count.
“Looking at a hat from underneath and from the side perhaps
changes its immediate appearance, but it is nonetheless the same
hat.” This saying indicates great similarity between Schoenberg’s
thinking and cubism as conceived by Pablo Picasso. For Picasso,
the real object is the Grundgestalt. He does not paint an object
from a single perspective but exhibits all its faces, seizes its
structural elements, and produces a composition in which the
first aspect of the object, which has served as point of departure,
is often no longer discernible. Schoenberg also accepts a certain
number of treatments which the Grundgestalt can undergo with-
out modifying its properties. The four usual methods are shown
in Example y.
Subordinated to these four treatments are methods of varying
the fundamental idea: changing intervals while respecting
rhythm; changing rhythm while respecting intervals; eliding one
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 73
or several notes; and interpolating one or several notes [£x-
ample £].
It is always preferable to use the complete series of twelve
tones in composing a piece of music, if not in a single motif,
at least in several consecutive or simultaneous and complemen-
tary motifs [Example 9].
This arrangement gives the series a particular articulation,
due to the specific position of each note. To repeat, the function
of each note, which formerly was harmonic, has now become
contrapuntal. Chords only rise from the melody, while in homo-
phonic style the melody rises from the harmony.
Nonetheless—and this is new—the notes chosen can be intro-
duced simultaneously as well as successively. The chords thus
produced are still of melodic origin. It is a fundamental prin­
ciple of Schoenberg’s polyphonic style that the musical thought
appears not only when it is stated horizontally, or articulated
rhythmically in time, but also when it is expressed instantane-
ously, vertically, in sonorous space.
There is a resemblance here to tonal language. This is partic-
ularly striking in the canon and stretto forms, in which parallel
and simultaneous Interpretation is audible. In this way, by a
melodic detour, the chords become elements of construction but
still avoid their former, i.e., harmonic, meaning [Example zo].
It would be a mistake to think that any series whatever can be
used; the four methods of treatment must produce valid forms
by superimposition. In the same way, not all melodies are suita-
ble for use as the theme of a fugue. Some latitude still exists in
the course of the composition in putting notes into other octaves
and, naturally, augmenting or diminishing them and treating
them in acrostic form, that is, for each note to be a possible
point of departure for the exposition of a series [Example zz].
The notes of the series can also be distributed among a number
of voices, provided that they retain their order when heard, to
underline the fact that the series does not necessarily have
thematic significance. An exposition of the series can be inter-
woven with another exposition by altemating the notes of the
two [cf. Example p].
In a word, the Grundgestalt is omnipresent; it is a building
material. It is unnecessary and sometimes impossible to recog-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

nize it in all its combinations on hearing, just as contemplating

a catheclral does not reveal to the eye the plan that has served
as the blueprint. Nevertheless, its role is sensed in the feeling
of cohesion it evokes. Its mission is to create unity, no more and
no less.
When strictly applied, all the notes used figure in the Grund­
gestalt, and if alien notes are introduced they appear in the role
of secondary motifs. This is the case of the notes B and A in the
Variations of the Serenade, Op. 24 [cf. Example 5]. In loose
application, besides the combinations already described, varia-
tions and a progression of voices are used which have less con-
nection with the Grundgestalt.

Schoenberg’s exposition of his art of composition is, we real-

ize, perfectly logical. His art is serious, exacting, generally strict,
and is not intended to confound the uninitiate, an accusation
too often read in published critiques of the period we are ex-
amining and one which cannot seriously be directed at any of
the composers discussed in this book. Atonality and the twelve-
tone System bring music into a new phase, just as did the ars
nova in the fourteenth Century.
The Schoenbergian System can be criticized for the specious-
ness of certain arguments, notably that the transformation of
modal into tonal music is attributable to imitation. Certain
postulates, such as those on the efficacy of the twelve-tone series,
and Schoenberg’s denial of certain physical and psychological
facts concerning the tonic-dominant relationship, are also ques-
tionable.
But after all, it is not a composer’s explanations that count,
but the result he has achieved in music in putting his own prin-
ciples—invented for his own use—to work. We cail find fault with
the principle of superimposition of thirds in Rameau’s harmonic
System, but this System produced Hippolyte et Aricie. And we
can refute parts of Stravinsky’s earlier point of view, but it
has given us Noces.
Schoenberg has written many beautiful compositions, and the
fertility of his System is apparent in the constructive influence it
has had on the work of many other composers—Ravel, Roussel,
Stravinsky, and Milhaud, to name only some of the celebrated
 Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 75
musicians who are not his disciples and who do not adhere to his
aesthetic; and on others who follow him strictly—Berg, Webern,
and KFenek, for examplc, or members of the younger schools.

The sextet Verklärte Nacht, Op. 4, and Gurrelieder, a great

lyric poem written under the direct influcncc of Tristan und
Isolde and Mahler’s music, are both romantic works; neither
contributes anything new or remarkable. However, the Kammer­
symphonie, Op. 9, for fifteen solo Instruments, reflects Schoen-
berg’s temperament and has real beauty. In character it is half-
way between romanticism and expressionism. The chromatic
features are still those of Tristan \Example 12}.
But already chromaticism has ceased to be the guiding force
of the composition. The work is based on a theme in successive
fourths stated at the opening by the horns, the first indication of
the movement to emancipate harmony. The tendency to accord
the same importance to vertical Statement as to horizontal ex-
position [Exarnple ry] is already apparent. The work also shows
a tendency to include very large intervals in the melody [Ex-
ample 16].
This characteristic of Schoenberg’s music is explained by the
need to establish strong tensions. On the one hand, great ten-
sion is a quality of all expressionist music, which seeks to achieve
an intensity, an extravagance of expression which disfigures nor­
mal, peaceful lines, or, psychologically speaking, “balanced”
lines. The balanced, tranquil state, the static state, are foreign
to expressionism. Continuous movement and unremitting dy-
namism, on the othcr hand, are essential characteristics.
This melodic style obtrudes more and more upon Schoen­
berg’s art, to the point that the tonal base of the harmonic ten­
sions disappears. For the chromatic series in themselves are
almost devoid of tension and do not offer a wide scope of expres­
sion. Large intervals thus partially compensate for this lessening
of tension caused by abandoning tonality.
The Kammersymphonie marks an important date in the his-
tory of music because of its Orchestration. After the massive ef-
fects of the great Wagnerian orchestra and those of Strauss and
Mahler, this music displays the clarity and ludicity required for
communicating polyphonic thought. The best technique to
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

achieve this communication consists in using solo instruments

with different timbres which bring out the concurrent lines of
melody clearly. The Kammersymphonie is the first experiment
with this technique. It still often gives the effect of harmony, but
in many passages the voices are effectively differentiated. The
instruments are the flute, oboe, English horn, small clarinet in
D, clarinet, bass clarinet, bassoon, contrabassoon, two horns,
solo string quartet, and double-bass. The Orchestration still
shows a propensity toward the old method of grouping. The
differentiation of timbres is more radical in later works as well
as in innumerable chamber-orchestra compositions by Ravel,
Stravinsky, Webern, Milhaud, Hindemith, and others who have
feit Schoenberg’s influence.
The flaw in the Kammersymphonie is that it is too long. Its
content does not require such extensive development. Let us
not lose sight of the fact that at the time it was composed the
main concern of musicians was to cast off habits inherited from
post-romantic composers who delightecl in long elaboration.
The Quartet No. 2, Op. 10, launches the composer’s defin­
itive work. We will point out only that the quartet’s structure
shows absolute mastery, and draws specific attention to the per-
ceptible progress in condensation of musical material. The pas-
sionate lyricism of the first of the two opening movements
(which are still tonal) is kept in proper bounds with irreproach-
able taste. The main theme is presented without any introduc-
tion from the beginning of the first measure. [Example zj]. The
second theme introduces one of the melodies of Pierrot Lunaire
[Example z</]. A rhythmic second section is developed on a
Condensed treatment of the motifs. The third and fourth move­
ments, in which the quartet is joined by a soprano voice singing
two poems by Stefan George, forecast Schoenberg’s future tech­
nique of composition. Litanie, the third movement, is built
on the two themes of the first section, the first stated by the viola
and the second by the second violin and the cello. This second
melodic idea is characteristic of Schoenberg’s feeling at that
time; it begins with a descent by disjunct degrees, and after a
reascent, terminates on the lull of a descent by conjunct de­
grees. These two motifs are complementary and furnish all the
material for the melodic and harmonic construction of the com-
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 77
position. Note in passing the acrostic formed by the two violins
[Example 27] and further on [Example z<?] the chord formed by
the second violin, viola, and cello, as well as the tremolo of the
violins, superimposing the second motif on the first, stated by
the cello.
The Quartet, Op. 10, is one of the richest, most passionate and
tender works in Contemporary music.

The new period that Schoenberg next entered is called im-

pressionist by some and expressionist by others. To this period
belong Three Pieces for Piano, Op. 11; Melodies, Op. 12 and 14;
Das Buch der hängenden Gärten, Op. 15; Five Pieces for Or­
chestra, Op. 16; two dramatic works, Erwartung, Op. 17, and
Die glückliche Hand, Op. 18; Six Short Pieces for Piano, Op. 19;
Herzgewächse, Op. 20; Lied for Soprano and Three Instruments;
Pierrot Lunaire, Op. 21; and Orchesterlieder, Op. 22. These im­
portant works were produced between 1909 and 1914, a period
marked by a particular and refined taste.
The music is somewhat impressionistic, but not according to
the concepts of French impressionism. Whetlier in painting,
poetry, or music, French impressionism consists of the penetra-
tion of the outside world; the subtle play of nuances is captured
through abstraction from the particular. The artist Stands face
to face with nature without thinking of himself; he receives
everything from it, lets himself be impressed by it without after-
thought, and abandons himself to the joy of contemplation.
Thus it is in Monet’s cathedrals or water lilies, or in Debussy’s
Iberia or La Mer. The German impressionist also opens himself
to nature, but he chooses only those harmonies that suit his
psychic state of the moment.
In Das Buch der hängenden Gärten, Stefan George writes:
Das schöne beet betracht ich mir im harren,
Es ist umzäunt mit purpurn-schwarzen dorne
Drin ragen kelche mit geflecktem sporne
Und sammtgeflederte geneigte farren
Und flochenbüschel wassergrün und rund
Und in der mitte glocken weiss und mild
Von einem ödem ist ihr feuchter mund
Wie süsse frucht vom himmlischen gefild.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

French impressionism is generally objective; German impres-

sionism is always profoundly subjective. Listening to the Rap-
sodie Espagnole, we hear a sonorous atmosphere, and do not
think of Ravel; listening to the Three Piano Pieces or Das Buch
der hängenden Gärten, the atmosphere created envelops Schoen-
berg’s soul alone. Such is the balance between the impression
and expression of the soul of the individual undergoing the
experience that the listener is suspended between impressionism
and expressionism. From the moment impression is subordinated
to intensity and insistence on individual expression, the art form
will be expressionist. Pure impressionism is a French phenom-
enon; pure expressionism, a German—or rather, Austrian.
The Three Pieces for Piano, Op. 11, approach the String Quar­
tet, Op. 10, in Order of beauty. As in the works which will fol-
low it, up to Pierrot Lunaire, the intensity, logic, and develop­
ment of the psychic action are not those of a conscious, wakeful
mind, but of a mind in a dream state with its subtle association
of images and rapid transition from the most exquisite beatitude
to the most violent agony and terror.
The first piece seems to be formed of caresses, murmurings,
and a desire that is excited and resolved in a vaguely troubled
sleep. The second unfolds in a long crescendo and gradual de­
crescendo, in an atmosphere of somber uneasiness. The third
oscillates between terror, the most powerful outburst of sound
acting sometimes like an electric shock, and the most profound
silence.
Interpretation of the polyphonic expression of these pieces
requires a piano that will differentiate the almost imperceptible
nuances. It demands of the Interpreter a very legato rendition,
even in the leaps he must make between the largest intervals;
absolute independence of timbre, color, and dynamics among
the superimposed lines; and finally, scrupulous attention to all
interpretative markings.
The piano scoring of these pieces has deeply enriched the in-
strument’s potential for expression. Note, in the first piece, the
effects of the soft-pedal and the harmonics, where the keys must
be depressed without hitting the strings, to make sound with
harmonic resonance alone [Example zp]. In the second piece,
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 79
the leaps of two octaves and more in the theme must be played
without hiatus [Example 20].
Impressionism predominates in Das Buch der hängenden
Gärten and Five Pieces for Orchestra. The atmosphere Stefan
George creates in the former is comparable to that of Maeter-
linck’s Hothouses—'& rarefied and exotic climate that is very
oriental—and a love is portrayed which itself is more imaginary
than real. Schoenberg took fifteen poems from this collection
and set them in a suite for voice and piano which gives a feeling
of restraint and fine balance and which contains no excesses.
Great leaps between intervals are rare, and the singing voice
usually advances by conjunct degrees. The chromatic effects are
exceptionally delicate and move in an environment of latent
tonality [Example 2i\. Schoenberg proves that leaps of sevenths
can express sweetness and do not only, as has been said too often,
convey violence [Example 22]. Das Buch contains exquisite
atonal phrases, such as the one in Example 23, which impressed
Stravinsky to such an extent that he used it as the basis for the
third act of his Le Rossignol.
It would be good to see this admirable collection included in
the repertoire of singers, as it would be to hear the pieces of
Op. 11 played more often. But unfortunately Interpreters are
little interested in modern works if they are difficult and demand
some effort on their part and on the part of the audience.

Just as the Three Pieces for Piano, Op. 11, mark a milestone
in the history of the piano, Five Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 16, are
of outstanding importance in the evolution of the orchestra. The
great orchestra as Wagner, Strauss, and Mahler knew it is no
longer used for massive effects, but for great diversity of colors
by division of parts and frequent use of groups of solo instru-
ments, giving it the clarity of a chamber orchestra and the
means of continuously renewing combinations of sound. This
arrangement became common in the Viennese school and in
those foreign works that have feit its influence—Stravinsky’s
Rossignol, among others.
The third piece, Der wechselnde Akkord (The Changing
Chord), is totally impressionist. Written in very short motifs, it
is composed of chordal agglomerations differentiated by timbre,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

which give it a unique pointillist effect and demonstrate an in-

credible refinement of ear. It can be said that this piece goes
beyond Debussy’s Jeux and marks the most extreme point
reached by impressionist art.
The last piece is entitled Das Obbligato Recitativ. A dominant
voice (Hauptstimme) runs throughout, which is henceforth in-
dicated by the letter H, as the secondary voice (Nebenstimme) is
designated by an N in the orchestral score. In execution, not an
accent, but particular eloquence must always be attributed to
this principal voice. The voice is not confined to a single instru-
ment. As its curve progresses, its expression is underlined by
continually changing timbres, which create a rainbow effect and
suggestive power that have not been achieved with other
methods.
More than ever before, the music is conceived orchestrally.
The dosage of intensities and timbres is administered so mi-
nutely that scores which seem complex in the extreme on reading,
sound clear when played. All that seemed problematic on read­
ing disappears as if by magic. This is why reducing scores by
Schoenberg and Alban Berg to piano transcription is impossible.
Such transcriptions are only useful as guides for interpretation,
and are admittedly incapable of giving even an approximate
idea of the real character of the work.
Schoenberg adds a note in the score of the third piece:
It is not the business of the conductor to bring out the lines in this
piece which he thinks should dominate, or to try to modify certain
complexes which do not seem balanced to him. Where a voice must
stand out, it is instrumentalized accordingly, and its sonority should not
be muflled. On the contrary, care should be taken that each instrument
play precisely the indicated shading, exactly (subjectively) as it cor-
responds to its proper instrument, and not (objectively) with a view to
subordinating it to the sonority of the ensemble.
The spirit of the new music gave birth to extreme precision
in orchestral scoring. Stravinsky himself came out with this bit
of whimsy: “My music must be executed like a notary’s certifi-
cate.”
In Erwartung, Op. 17, and Die glückliche Hand, Op. 18, the
orchestral technique introduced in the fifth of the orchestral
pieces is fully developed. The richness of timbre accorded to
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 81
the principal voice is not for the sake of color; it tends to com-
press expression further, to determine and characterize it at
every turn. Spoken language does the same thing. The timbre
of a voice, varying ceaselessly according to the expression given
it, makes conversation live.
The transition from impressionism to expressionism is distinct.
The methods developed in the impressionist stage were pre-
served and put to work for individual expression.
Of Schoenberg’s two expressionist dramas, the first, Erwar­
tung, is a monodrama based on a text by Marie Pappenheim.
There is no dramatic action. The subject is a woman who dis-
covers the corpse of the beloved she was waiting for. But the
drama takes place as in a nightmare; the event is unreal and
permeated with all the quiet and all the terrors of the night. The
work is simply a development in time of a psychic state evoked
in a single moment by an unforeseen catastrophe, as rapid and
brutal as a lightning bolt.
Die glückliche Hand is the counterpart of Erwartung. In this
drama the destiny of a life in its entire span is Condensed into a
few decisive and supreme moments. There is no realism here
either, and we are again transported into that dream-state which
reflects the almost visionary state Schoenberg lived in for the
whole period from 1910 to 1914, when he was closely associated
with the painter Oskar Kokoschka. The aura of catastrophe in
his two dramas evokes the contemporaneous Sacre du Printemps;
the social unrest and individual uneasiness which preceded the
outbreak of the First World War find expression in these works.
Die glückliche Hand places a man on the scene. Behind him
is a mythological monster holding him under his paw. A chorus
sings its pity for the victim, or rather murmurs it mysteriously
in half chant, half speech. The man aspires to terrestrial happi-
ness, although he knows that the aim of his life is celestial
bliss. A woman is the figure of earthly happiness. She abandons
the man, who is the symbol of spiritual power, for a stranger,
who seems to be an incarnation of the power of money. Aban-
doned a second time, the man stops to think, and understands
that if he masters his own destiny he will be the woman’s mas­
ter, not bodily but spiritually. This scene is followed by a
struggle to conquer gold. The man is once more the victor. But
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

since his dream pursues a new vision of the woman, he again

falls under the beast’s power. And the chorus murmurs: “Must
you again suffer what you have so often endured? Do you not
know the meaning of sacrifice? Are you insatiable?”
The music is even more unreal than that of Erwartung, and
is lit with almost heavenly colors. The listener finds himself
thinking that the sound of the orchestra has no material basis
left.
Die glückliche Hand achieves, even more completely than Er­
wartung, the ideal of dramatic expression: all motion is con-
fined to the spirit. Because it is so difficult to perform, it is
rarely staged. Written in Prague in 1924 and performed a little
later in Vienna, it was a decided success in 1928 at Breslau, in
Duisburg in 1929, and in New York in 1930.
Pierrot Lunaire, Op. 21, written in 1914, has done the most to
spread Schoenberg’s name. This chamber-music work profits
from the addition of a sung-spoken voice to the instrumental
music, and from being set to poetry by Albert Giraud, trans-
lated into German by Otto Erich Hartleben. Schoenberg’s ex­
pression is visionary still, but the fantastic has given way to the
tragic and horrible and to a humor which is sinister and light in
turn, and whose meaning reveals the composer’s outlook. The
poems should rather be spoken than sung. Their declamation
must adhere strictly to the rhythm of the music, and the voice
must begin on the notes indicated but take care not to hold them
as they are held in a song. On the contrary, it must abandon
the note as soon as it hits it and take the undetermined timbre
of a spoken voice. There can be no question of sung declama­
tion; what must be created is a nonrealistic language halfway
between song and speech.
This voice is combined with a chamber orchestra comprising
flute (and piccolo), clarinet (and bass clarinet), violin (also
viola), cello, and piano. The chamber orchestra, which Richard
Strauss was the first to use in Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme and
which Schoenberg perfected in the Kammersymphonie, is, in
the opinion of Strauss himself, ideal for the composition of lyric
and dramatic works. In a 1929 article, the composer of Elektra
wrote: “The orchestra of the future is the chamber orchestra.
With the sharp, crystalline definition it gives the dramatic action,
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 83
it is the only means capable of clearly achieving the composer’s
intentions when a setting for a sung voice is needed.” This opin-
ion is possibly too absolute, but the striking point is that a Com­
poser who utilized the largest orchestral masses arrived at the
same conclusion as younger composers. Remember, by the way,
that Mahler too used a chamber orchestra in his Kindertoten­
lieder.
Pierrot Lunaire captures the spirit of the chamber orchestra
very successfully. Its motifs are conceived according to the spe-
cific character of each instrument. Instrumental Imagination
guides the music, as in Stravinsky’s work.
A single exarnple drawn from Pierrot Lunaire will explain the
nature of the chamber orchestra [Exarnple 24]. In it the piano is
treated as a staccato, not a melodic, instrument. Stravinsky and
even Busoni, the great Interpreter of Chopin and Liszt, follow
this tendency. The piano is not in fact a proper instrument for
translating polyphonic music; it lacks the means to mark differ­
ent lines strikingly. This explains why piano composition has
progressed very little in modern German art, while it continues
to be prominent in France, where a harmonic tendency prevails.
We will say no more about the condensation of musical ma­
terial; we have already given an exarnple of the conciseness of
style Schoenberg displayed in composition after writing this
score, which was his last expressionist work.
The atmosphere of Pierrot Lunaire is one of biting, lashing,
mocking irony, and, as in Erwartung and Die glückliche Hand,
mysterious nocturnal clarity. Schoenberg’s expressionist music
is a music of the night. His expressionist period ends with this
perfect work; a new series of compositions are to rise from a
concern with form.
We can follow this new spiritual Orientation in the Five Piano
Pieces, Op. 23. Here the theory of the twelve-tone series is put
into practice for the first time. We have already sufficiently dis-
cussed the new form to dispense with detailed analysis of this
important composition. The first piece is a creation in three
voices. Three themes, stated simultaneously, are submitted to
rhythmic Variation from the beginning of the first measure, con-
stantly producing new groupings of notes, new chords. The sec­
ond piece, built on two themes, contains a final stretto which is
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

built on an inversion of the first theme. In these two pieces, the

Grundgestalt plays a thematic role. It dominates melodically
and imposes its character on the expression.
From the third piece on, the concern with form relegates all
other considerations to the background. The Grundgestalt be-
comes organic, like the theme in a strict fugal form. Trans­
position, cancrizans, inversion, rhythmic Variation, canon—all
possible combinations are put into Operation.
The fourth piece is formed of three Gestalten, each with six
tones. Finally, the fifth, a waltz, uses a complete series of twelve
tones, recalled continuously in the same order and direction,
without transpositions. It too has no thematic meaning, for the
notes are dispersed among different voices. Rhythmic repetitions
occur more often than in all preceding works, and guarantee
clear articulation.
Henceforth Schoenberg’s new principles of form are debata-
ble. There are grounds for wondering if it is necessary to build
complete series of twelve tones which act so despotically. Does
form demand such radical asceticism and self-denial? Does mu­
sic not need greater freedom of action? And must this freedom
won by modern music, a victory Schoenberg helped win, once
more be curtailed, and much more strictly than by older dis-
ciplines?
These objections have not been overlooked, and we are in-
clined to second them. But Schoenberg did not seem to be dis-
turbed by these reservations concerning his works of the for-
malist period. He seemed to be seeking the limits of the world
he discovered, and evaluating the constructive power it pos-
sesses, with no intention of expressing anything at all. His mu­
sic is absolute and entirely objective, and cannot as yet be
pronounced upon definitively.
The fugue is the apex of tonal art, the ideal form for carrying
the constructive force of the tonal form to its extreme. An atonal
fugue is not feasible; it would be only an imitation, stripped of
deep meaning, of a tonal fugue. It therefore seems stränge that
Schoenberg, who did not write fugues, tried to apply his prin­
ciples of form to obsolete forms (minuet, gavotte, gigue, etc.)
which are produced by the tonal System and contradictory by
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 85
the nature of their composition to the spirit of the twelve-tone
series.
This is nonetheless what Schoenberg did in his Suite, Op. 25,
and his Serenade, Op. 24. The Suite is arid. The Serenade, on
the contrary, Overflows with very real and communicable life.
The Quintet for Wind Instruments, Op. 26, and the Third
String Quartet are undeniably perfect compositions. But like
the Suite for Piano and Sextet they have such an ascetic quality
that they seem no longer to communicate with listeners. In all
these works analytic reading brings a certain pleasure, but it is
a pleasure not revived when they are heard. The Schoenberg
school speaks of the Third String Quartet as a great masterpiece,
and explains this admiration by the fact that this quartet alone
sums up “all that can be done” in the spirit and framework of
atonal music and the twelve-tone series. It would seem then that
form has become an end in itself and is no longer considered a
means.
This is not the first time that such a thing has occurred in the
history of music. The Renaissance had Willaert, and, at the
end of the Baroque period, Johann Sebastian Bach wrote the
Musical Offering. This work, and Willaert’s Ricercari, were long
considered to be solely theoretic works. Only in the last few
years has it been understood that contemplation of pure forms
in music, form stripped of all emotional elements, can also give
great joy. An abstract joy, of course; but there are abstract
works in literature and painting which are not thrust aside be-
cause of their abstraction, although they can only be appreciated
by a limited elite. Such is the case for the art of Willaert, Fres-
cobaldi, and for The Art of the Fugue. A similar destiny may
be in störe for the works of Schoenberg we have just discussed.
We still have one reservation to state, because it seems ob-
jective. For the reasons we have explained, Schoenberg never
worked with consonant chords. As a result, he deprived his
music of points of repose. One consequence of his System is
perpetual and necessary dynamism; such a state is perfectly
admissible in expressionist aesthetic, which is based on unal-
leviated tension. The artist’s taste has moreover limited the
duration of these tensions; Erwartung and Die glückliche Hand
are no more than about twenty minutes long. But a formalist
A II1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

art, or at least an art based more on form than on expression,

requires an Opposition of the static and the dynamic, repose and
movement. The question can well be asked whether Schoen­
berg’s art, by its very nature, lends itself well to such a concep-
tion. The doubt is valid, although a rebuttal to this objection is
still possible: that until the present, music was considered as
moving in two dimensions—the scalc of wave-lengths (improp-
erly called sonorous space) and time; Schoenberg’s search for
form tends to contribute a third dimension to music which re-
moves it from the action of musical gravity, from the “weight”
of chords.
Schoenberg’s later works, those since Op. 29, give the impres-
sion of greater freedom and fantasy although he applied his prin-
ciples as strictly as ever. After the Third String Quartet, he gen-
erally used transpositions of the Grundgestalt in addition to all
the combinations heretofore described. This practice enriched
his music with new and multiple colors. Under a melodic line,
transposed notes of the Grundgestalt can now be heard simul-
taneously, in chords. Schoenberg’s art acquired a good deal of
suppleness from this procedure. And so gracefully are the notes
in the series divided among different voices that the themes are
even more varied. More air now circulated in his works; the
music was made more transparent, clearer, and at the moment
of hearing, the fabric of the series passes unperceived. “The
question of the twelve tones is my own affair,’’ the composer said,
suggesting by this that the audience has no business with it,
does not need to notice it or above all to try to follow its path
in listening.
At the same time, the orchestra, already so enriched, has
gained a sparkling, translucent lightness. These methods seem
to have provided the composer of the Suite, Op. 26, with what
he was lacking to give life to his form. Later works are obviously
more expressive than those of the transition period. The Var-
iations for Orchestra, Op. 31, are splendid, and very rieh in or­
chestral invention. A complete series of twelve tones is used
here both constructively and thematically. The theme, stated
very clearly by the cellos, is treated soberly throughout the var-
iations—the composer does not yield to the temptation to aban-
don himself to orchestral virtuosity, nor does he incorporate
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 87
color as an accessory. The color of the orchestra stays closely
related to the meaning of the theme at all times, and the Or­
chestration aims only at clearness of musical diction—hence its
gracefulness. The Variations, Op. 31, are a complete and perfect
expression of Schoenberg’s aesthetic and technical ideal—a per­
sonal entelechy. Finally, the gay opera (heitere Oper) Von Heute
auf Morgen, Op. 32, was an enormous and almost uncontested
success from the moment of its first performance in Frankfurt
in 1930. Still without concessions, without relaxing his system
of organizing material, Schoenberg creates by purely musical
means a climate that varies according to the personalities of his
characters and the dramatic Situation, moving in the dream
which—this time—is a happy one, full of crystalline resonance.
After 1935^Schoenberg lived in California, where he died in
1951. His last period shows an inclination toward greater af-
firmation of tonality, which is translated into repetition of the
same note in the theme and insistence on certain chords and
successions which allow the ear to grasp the tonality easily. This
tendency became sharply defined in his Violin Concerto, Op. 36,
written in 1939, and is even more evident in the Ode to Napo­
leon Bonaparte, Op. 41, composed in 1944 for string quartet,
piano, and soloist, as well as in the Piano Concerto.

Schoenberg’s art is magisterial. Although it passed through a

rather rigid period, which is understandable in the case of a
phenomenon so radically new, his last works show that it can
be modified and widely applied.
The work of Webern and Berg has proved from the beginning
that the potentialities of dodecaphonism can be realized by art­
ists other than Schoenberg; and the influence he has exercised
on younger composers like Dallapiccola and Vogel, and on nu-
merous other European and American composers, gives ample
evidence that his principles can be assimilated by different
creative temperaments. Still, it would be shortsighted to con-
sider Schoenberg’s art as the only possible route open to the
new musical era. It can properly be considered as one aspect of
modern thought. Schoenberg himself held, after 1945, “that
there are still a good many things to be said in C major.” In
articles published in 1949 and 1952 in the Mexican review
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Nuestra Müsica, he again protested against the tendency to dog-

matize atonality and serial composition, affirming the right of
each composer to organize his language according to his own
desires and especially his right to make use of the perfect chord
if he sees fit.

anton webern was the artist who followed Schoenberg’s methods

most strictly. Born in Vienna on December 3, 1883, he was a
Student of Guido Adler in musicology and Schoenberg in com­
position. An unusually reserved man, he lived a retiring life at
Mödling, near Vienna, where Alban Berg and Schoenberg also
lived. It is not generally known that Anton Webern was a con-
ductor of great talent. Neither personal inclination nor his
ideas or character led him toward a genuine career. But he di-
rected the choirs and orchestra of the Arbeitersbund until the
Anschluss, and formed groups of exceptional value. He directed
works by Bach, Schumann, and the moderns with equal fire and
power of understanding. His concerts were not exhibitions of
conducting talent, but musical events; he carried on in the great
tradition of Gustav Mahler.
Anton Webern was an expressionist, as was Schoenberg. But
while his master’s temperament was composed of mystery and
revolt and Berg’s of resigned magnanimity, Webern’s was all
angelic gentleness. In that famous triad of composers, Webern
incarnates celestial happiness and the peaceful contemplation
of higher joys. Alban Berg told us one day that Webern made
him think of Flemish painters like Memling and Van der
Weyden in the freshness of his notations, the detail of his rendi-
tions, and his capacity for saying only the essential.
His art is “all made of little pointed ogival arches, spell-
binding and sadistic,” says Frederick Goldbeck. Ogival arches,
perhaps, but I see no trace of sadism in the man the Viennese
call “the master of the pianissimo.”
His work includes thirty-odd compositions, almost all con-
ceived in chamber-music form, several collections of Lieder ac-
companied by a few instruments, and some choral pieces.
Theodor Wiesengrund-Adorno says that one can mark out the
literary boundary Webern’s music touches on, and which dis-
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 89
appears the moment Webern begins to compose: expressionism,
in the most “striking” sense of the word, morally bordered by
Strindberg’s expiatory characters, lyrically absolved as in Trakl’s
verses.
Webern’s work of creation derives from a desire to commu-
nicate thoughts so tender and impressions so sweet that they
can only be expressed by sounds. This explains why his music
has an air of rejoicing about it. Webern also condenses his mu­
sical expression into a single moment, sometimes a single chord
or more often one or two successive notes, an Opposition of
timbres, a tension in intervals. His pieces are necessarily very
short, and are such a powerful condensation of thought that
they take on the character and qualities of Japanese haiku. The
perfection of his language is not an aesthetic concem but the
result of the most effective and compact use of language. In this
he concurs with the poets Karl Kraus and Paul Valery in their
ideas on language. And Schoenberg, in his preface to Webern’s
Six Batagelles for String Quartet, Op. 9, enlightens us: “Any
glance can be developed into a poem, any sigh into a novel. But
to express a whole novel in a single gesture, or happiness in a
single breath—such concentration is found only where the desire
to indulge oneself is absent in the same degree.”
The frequently laconic sound of Contemporary music is ex-
plained by the fact that repetition, pure and simple reiteration,
has become intolerable. Perhaps we have learned to understand
more quickly. Classical development, intended to comment on
and clarify an idea, has been replaced in modern art by other
harmonic, rhythmic, and orchestral means whose greater diver-
sity allows more rapid penetration and says a great deal in little
time. The brief spans of time are heavier with meaning and
more laden with musical material.
Webern develops these characteristics to the füllest degree.
The result is an art that was inaccessible to most of its Inter­
preters and audiences from the outset. Executing this music
requires a sort of divination, or at least an active faith, which
is rarely found. Perhaps more than even with Schoenberg, it is
important to grasp the spirit of counterpoint in this music.
French counterpoint [says Goldbeck], a counterpoint of themes (of
things set down), leaves from the tonic chord and then returns to it,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

although after many tonal, bitonal, or even polytonal adventures.

Viennese counterpoint, all in motifs (element of movement), abhors the
perfect chord which quiets lines. Its rests and holdings of notes are
prancing leaps. Hence the predilection of that school for tremolos,
glissandi, and sudden checks—for any effect that recalls movement,
even in immobility.
Of Webem’s eleven collections of art songs, several are based
on poems by Stefan George and Georg Trakl. Two of them are
religious songs. Webern had a partiality for mountain dialect
and Latin, and generally for basic, simple, and intense lan-
guages. All these songs must be interpreted in a spirit of con-
templative intimacy, by a voice able to embrace the greatest
intervals with no sign of strain and with great tenderness. Most
of them are accompanied by solo instruments chosen in such a
way as to surround the song with delicately vibrant resonance.
Well executed in the presence of a quiet audience, these songs
carry the listener into an unreal, supranatural world where he
feels untouched by any material contingency.
In the instrumental wrorks as well, the material is compressed
to a minimum. Following the Five Pieces, Op. 5, and the Six
Bagatelles, Op. 9, both for string quartet, the Trio for Strings,
Op. 20, marks the end of a period during which Webern concen-
trated his efforts on greater and greater simplification. He
achieves his ideal in the Symphony (for clarinet, bass clarinet,
two homs, harp, and solo string quartet), Op. 21, and in the
Quartet (for violin, clarinet, tenor Saxophone, and piano),
Op. 22.
This simplification does not aim at severity. It has nothing in
common with the asceticism of Schoenberg’s transition period.
Webern seeks—and successfully—to achieve a detachment from
matter. Chords and polyphony seem to have disappeared; they
are used so discreetly that only a single curve sou’nds, almost each
of whose notes is assigned to a different instrument to give it a
different expressive value. This curve is not itself thematic. All
meaning, in the usual sense, is absent. There remains a con-
stantly changing sonority. The Farbenmelodie transports us into
a jubilant, almost ecstatic state.
All of the first part of the symphony moves, so to speak, only
among the interior nuances of piano, Rarely does a slightly
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 91
louder note sound. All the notes are written without sforzando
and without accent, so that they emit their specific sonority but
not the material noise of attack. The exact duration of each
note must be scrupulously respected for the liaison of all these
successive and differently distributed notes. A good instance is
the beginning of the first movement of the Symphony [Example
25]-
The Variations for Piano, Op. 27, are even more bare, if
such is possible. The twelve-tone System is applied in it as in the
trio, quartet, and symphony. It is not directly audible, but its
effect on the unity of the material can be feit.
The second Variation is very unusual. Everything revolves
around the note A, which appears only in the first, ninth, thir-
teenth, and nineteenth measures. The other notes are so divided
that two successive notes are at a remove from the same interval,
one above and the other below. This makes for a canon in con-
trary motion, but what is most interesting is that the A thus
becomes a sort of symmetrical pattern, or the axis of a perfectly
formed crystal [Example 26].
We are touching here on a side of Webern’s artistry which is
the most difficult to explain. The physicist and the chemist know
the joy of watching a crystal grow through a microscope—its
formation, the lengthening of its edges, the extension of its faces,
by virtue of the constancy of its angles; the pleasure of seeing it
pierced by light which leaves the material invisible and reveals
only its edges by a difference of refraction. A marvelous spectacle,
which causes the purest emotion, an emotion completely detached
from any affectation—a splendor of number in movement.
Webern’s mature music transmits a joy of the same Order. To
feel it, the listener must be attuned to it as for Palestrina’s
Ricercari. Webern’s marvelous talent and the perfection of his
art can perhaps be most fully appreciated in Das Augenlicht,
a cantata for chorus and Orchestra.
The music of Schoenberg and Webern poses not only a tech­
nical problem. Theirs is not simply a new way of writing music,
but a new way of thinking as well. Their music has a new spir­
itual Orientation. In this respect, its position in Contemporary
evolution is exceptional. It moves in a world unknown to other
composers.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

alban berg, the third great composer of the Viennese triad, leads
us back into more familiär territory. Born in Vienna on February
7, 1885, Berg became Schoenberg’s Student; the disciple became
a friend, and the friendship was then extended to include Anton
Webern. The cohesion of this group, today famous, is due in
great part to that friendship, to the qualities of heart, and to the
faithfulness and unselfishness that distinguished the three artists.
Their devoted friendship was to them no less important than
their devotion to purity. It fumished for each of them a solid
pillar that helped them keep intact their faith in the ars nova
they created amid almost general hostility, until the day when
their worth became evident. Their literary tastes united them as
well, a taste for subtlety which put them at odds with all-
powerful academic groups. At the same time their yearning for
individual freedom incited them to exasperation with their social
environment, which threatened to exterminate or overwhelm the
individual, and tended to make man a machine, a robot, a
passive being subjugated to the state. Expressionism is in part
the outcome of that revolt against the mounting tide of col-
lectivism.
The character of Alban Berg, so fascinating and charming for
all who had the privilege of knowing him, is also a natural
product of that tragic time when flights of spirit and personal
intuition battled desperately with the indifference of the masses.
His destiny was to disappear in full maturity, after succeeding in
expressing man’s distress so fully and giving the last shout for
individualism, before transmitting all he had to pass on to us
and before achieving the peace of untroubled happiness. For
such was Berg’s ultimate aim.
One day we were listening together to Milhaud’s Fijth Cham­
ber Symphony (for ten wind instruments); delighted and over-
joyed, he said to me with that passionate gentleness and that
look of tenderness so typical of him: “How I would like to be
able to create music as happy as this!” He died in 1935, as he
was finishing his second opera.
Hc knew the world [wrotc Hektor Rottweiler] and he sidestepped it.
He was mclancholy and proud, dreamed of liappiness and sought pain;
fear, and the malice it hides behind, could be read in his eyes. His
temperament was gentle, but it had a stamp of stecl. Every tliought
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 93
that rose from one of these traits he considered from the angle of the
opposed trait. He was like a seer, with the seer’s slow-wakening look
and great eloquent gestures. After the triumph of the first performance
of Wozzeck, he had to be consoled all night long for the acclaim. That
such a work (conceived, like Wozzeck himself when he has a vision in
the field in response to his own nature, so removed from the real world)
had won public approval was incomprehensible to him, and seemed to
be an argument against the real worth of his opera. His whole attitude
would lead one to believe that material reality did not touch him,
even from a distance. He wanted many things, but hoped for none, so
alone was he. And he who has no hope has nothing to lose and even
less to fear; yet the world belongs to him who possesses the profound
knowledge of despair. If there is any truth in the attempted comparison
so often drawn between Wagner and Berg, we will find the key in the
Wotan of Götterdämmerung. He, too, rejected worldly desires. He read
the world’s negativeness in the despair of his fantasy; he turned it
around and mastered it in the fullness and essence of Viennese pessi-
mism. ... So, as in the Chinese saying, the greatest gentleness triumphs
through the greatest hardship. . . . He lived between sleep and death.
. . . He resembled Oscar Wilde, and knew it. . . . He was not an
ascetic artist; to the contrary, he cultivated that sensuality of ear which
was to produce the admirable orchestral sonority in his last works. But
he considered his sensitivity and sensuality only as further materials for
building his works. Confronted with these works he withdrew from his
own person as easily as he did from the rest of the world. He swept out
this image of his own soul by dint of composing; he had good reason
to be particularly attached to Proust, who was for him the ultimate
literary revelation.
He treated his own person with the prudence and indifference of the
musical instrument he was for himself. This clarifies a mysterious
paradox in Berg’s life: he was totally egocentric, and yet entirely de-
tached from himself. He spoke willingly of his works, but without a
shadow of vanity. “It is only when I compose, ’ he said, that I believe
myself to be Beethoven; but not after having composed.”

Berg wrote music for the poetry he carried in himself. His art
is not just a development based on a certain technical facility
and virtuosity in composition, as in Hindemith s case. His literary
sense is always perceptible in his works. It is apparent in his
choice of texts for his Lieder and in the mastery he displays in
adapting the texts of his operas. He was intuitive, but forced
himself to follow a pitiless discipline-a result of meeting Schoen-
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

berg. In consequence, the number of his works is restricted. He

produced slowly, except his last completed composition, the
Violin Concerto, which he composed in six weeks. Never did he
accept the easiest solution; he sought the exact solution, the most
difficult to achieve. As well and clearly as did Proust, he recog-
nized his indebtedness to Baudelaire. For him the secret of form
was heavier than the secret of death, and the concert aria Der
Wein, composed on three poems from the Fleurs du Mal, is not
only a prologue to his unßnished opera Lulu but also the most
striking evidence of an elective affinity.
Perhaps these reflections will dehne what the nineteenth Cen­
tury meant to Berg. If he adopted its qualities, he modified their
function. He did not liquidate this inheritance, but fitted it to
his inner feelings.
The texts of his two operas belong to that period—but he
illuminates and salvages them. In this he is like Karl Kraus. Berg
composed upon Büchner’s work (Wozzeck) as Kraus quoted
Claudius and Göcking, and the perspicacity with which Kraus
defended Wedekind’s Pandora’s Box gave birth to music in the
character of Lulu. The nineteenth Century survives in Berg be-
cause it is Condensed into a style. Wedekind made the remark
that kitsch was today’s gothic or baroque. Taken seriously, it
deßnes a good part of Berg’s constructive principle. It is brought
out in the Variations for the Casti-Piani scene in Lulu, which
Berg considered particularly successful. Nothing is more false
than to think of these variations as a parody; Berg detested
parody.10
Berg’s penchant for transforming an exterior aspect by in-
tegrating it with his own concepts, a penchant that deßnes his
affinity with the nineteenth Century, could only be exercised in
terms of exaggeration: he magnified extreme traits, which de-
stroyed the bourgeois propriety of that century’s aesthetic. The
erotic motive principle that animates Tristan exceeds the limits
of individual psychology; it is amplified to the point of chaos.
This threat of chaos inherent in Berg’s personality is frightening,
and has been from the start. The greatest scandal of the Schoen­
berg group was provoked by one of Berg’s art songs set to a poem
10. Regarding the Hussar’s refrain in Mavra, Stravinsky said to us: “Faking
is awful. But when it’s done deliberately and well, it can be beautiful.”
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 95
by Altenberg. There is chaos in the Lied, “Der Blaue Reiter,” in
the second part of the quartet. Only once has this chaos bürst
out in full force—in the march from the Three Pieces for
Orchestra.
When he showed me the score [says Rottweiler], I thought: It sounds
as if Schoenberg’s Orchestral Pieces and Mahler’s Ninth Symphony were
being played together, and I will never forget the enormous joy on
Berg’s face when he heard my opinion, which would have offended any
civilized ear. “Yes,” he said vehemently, “there had to come a day when
we could hear how a chord of eight tones really sounds in the brasses,”
as if he were convinced that no audience would survive such a concert.
The quality in some of Berg’s work described here as “chaotic”
deserves our attention for a moment. This chaos, produced by
combining seemingly irreconcilable musical elements, is also a
powerful motive force. It had already been feit and forecast by
the futurists. For comparison’s sake, let us quote a passage from
F. T. Marinetti’s passage on futurist aesthetics, published in
Noi futuristi: Teorie Essenziali e Chiarificazioni (Milan, 1917):
By imagination without bonds I mean absolute freedom from images
or analogies. Until the present writers have abandoned themselves to
the immediate analogy. For instance, they ränge an animal with a man
or another animal, which results in an almost photographic reproduc-
tion of the original. I compare a fox terrier with boiling water. I want
a larger and larger scale of analogies, deeper and more concrete rela-
tionships, even when they are very disparate. An analogy is nothing
more than the profound love that links seemingly distant, diverse, or
hostile things. Only by using very broad analogies can polychromatic,
polyphonic, and polymorphous orchestral style translate the life of
matter.
This somewhat verbose Statement contains truths that Berg’s
“chaos” or the Sacre du Printemps demonstrated.
To quote Rottweiler again:
If Berg’s technique of composition is the off spring of Schoenberg’s
KammerSymphonie, he nonetheless preferred—and passionately pre-
ferred—Erwartung and Die glückliche Hand. A certain lack of form in
music did not displease him; he only regretted that in this case the
music did not dare be more resolutely bare and chaotic. We find this
blind force again in the Street scene from Wozzeck, in the rondo of the
Double Concerto, and in many passages in Lulu. For he did not cast
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

this chaotic substancc in a mold; he took it by surprise. For Berg, to

form was always to combine, to superimpose things disparate or irrecon-
cilable. He proceeded no differently in the finale of his Double Con­
certo, where he counterpoints the two first movements. From this point
on, all Berg’s methods of construction are ruses for trapping amorphous
material. By crabwise repeats he tricks time as he tricks sonorous space
with his contrapuntal constructions. Berg is unwilling to relinquish
anything in his music. He wants to unite expression with construction,
the shocks of chaotic language with the rapture of sonority, autobio-
graphic confessions with an objective architecture. His thirst for happi-
ness, desperate and overwhelming, is transformed into a mysterious
need for security; he wants his music to be so sure that it can stand its
ground against all the criteria one could use to measure it.
He may have dreamed of a work which could simultaneously satisfy
his friends and the most narrow-minded Beckmessers. Such a deception,
and so extreme a deception, is in itself chaotic and mythological. So
did Polyphemus close in his cave. Fortunately, Berg did not achieve that
security. Until he died he remained equally attached to the demands
of the nineteenth Century and to the requirements of the new art,
Polyphemus and Ulysses at the same time.

Of all Contemporary composers Berg is perhaps the only one

whose personal life explains and justifies his works. This is why
we have borrowed so lengthily from the penetrating study by
Hektor Rottweiler, which deserves credit not only for painting
an excellent likeness of the composer of Wozzeck, but for showing
us at close ränge the intercommunication between the twentieth-
century musician and nineteenth-century music. This communi-
cation is close and frequent; we will continue to analyze it in
discussing Stravinsky. What Wagner is for Berg, Tchaikovsky
and Rossini are for the composer of Jeu de Cartes.
Friedrich Sieburg once wrote that the French do not have a
feeling for nature, but that what they mean by nature is a garden
laid on the French design. Such a Statement would surprise a
French reader; nor is it exactly true that the French are devoid of a
sense of nature. But a German who thinks he has this sense has
only a partial idea, too. For the Frenchman, nature is a paradise,
he sees great trees gracefully leaved; he pictures the perfect sym­
metry of a flower or fruit; he imagines mountains with lovely
slopes and ice caps, and takes for granted the functional balance
between plant and animal life. He sees all that because his native
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg
earth shows it to him; his culture has sprung from the harmo-
nious environment that makes the Mediterranean basin an
enchanting and peaceful place where life unfolds with ease.
Germanic culture, founded on an ungiving soil, sees such
harmony as only an exceptional state of affairs. For a man of
that culture all is combat, struggle to the death for the right to
live; he envisions the horror of a virgin forest and the tangled
reach for light of overabundant Vegetation; he thinks of can-
nibals and the defensive instinct of man mistrusting man. For a
Teuton, nature is ruled by bestiality; for a Latin, it is super-
intended and controlled by man.
Neither of these divergent viewpoints can be dismissed. Both
correspond to reality, and both express partial, but comple-
mentary, aspects. French and Flemish painters portrayed the
delights of a temperate nature; Dürer sketched danses macabres,
Hieronymus Bosch painted nightmare visions, Lucas Cranach
deformed the human body. France is the home of the Chevaliers
de la Table Ronde; Germany, the Nibelungen.
Contemporary German expressionism naturally presents itself
in turn as an analysis, then as a synthesis, of a corrosive, destruc-
tive spirit, and puts all the horrors of that spirit on display. Its
only conception of joy is an enormous need for tenderness
and goodness, and it seeks refuge in slumber and dreaming.
Kokoschka’s and Grosz’s art express this state of mind. In drama,
expressionism is the child of Strindberg, of his bitter pessimism
and misogyny. Everything good, noble, and beautiful is stifled
by the crushing forces of the destructive instinct. These views
had already been aired in a famous drama in Germany, Georg
Büchner’s Wozzeck, and were carried to the extreme in Frank
Wedekind’s tragedies. At its highest pitch, expressionist art offers
a vision of a shattered, pulverized world that ends in destruction
and returns to nothingness. This is the chaos Alban Berg ex-
presses in his music.
This conception might offend French taste. But it is equally
understandable that the temperate expression of the French, re-
flecting tranquillity and happiness, seems futile to those whose
souls are ravaged by violence. Both outlooks can lead to beauty,
but of different types. European art and thought owe their rich-
ness to this diversity.
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Alban Berg wrote only about fifteen works, but they are almost
all of exceptional value. Like Paul Dukas he devoted the utmost
care to the smallest detail, and gave much thought to his over-all
plan. Again like Dukas, he thought that “One should know a
great deal and make music with what one does not know/'
The works of his first period are still completely tonal and
clearly show the chromaticism of Tristan. These are the Piano
Sonata, Op. 1 (1909); Four Melodies, Op. 2; String Quartet, Op.
3 (1910), and Sieben frühe Lieder, written in 1907 but not
orchestrated and published until much later (in 1928). Then, in
a very brief transition period during which he assimilated
Schoenberg’s language, Berg produced Three Pieces for Clarinet
and Piano, Op. 5, in 1913, and in 1914 Three Orchestral Pieces,
Op. 6.
Having reached the height of his powers, Berg proceeded to
compose a series of masterful works: the opera Wozzeck, Op. 7
(1917-1922); the Chamber Concerto for Piano, Violin, and
Thirteen Wind Instruments (1925); the Lyric Suite for String
Quartet (1927); a concert aria, Der Wein (192g); a second opera,
Lulu (which appeared in 1937); and very shortly before his
death, a Concerto for Violin and Orchestra (1935).
Without pausing over the first works, except to indicate the
intimate quality of the Sieben frühe Lieder, delicate love songs
set to poems by various authors, and the sometimes provocative
character of Three Orchestral Pieces (prelude, dance, march),
we will go on to examine the score of Wozzeck, an opera in three
acts and fifteen scenes based on Georg Büchner’s drama. Büchner
wrote the play around 1835. It was strikingly ahead of its time,
if we remember that Strindberg did not begin to write his plays
until 1887 (The Father).
Wozzeck is a soldier, poor and weak. The world around him
pushes him to the limit of his endurance: first he is driven to
despair by a girl, Marie, who bears him a child but who is her-
self weak and lets herseif be seduced by the first drum major
who happens by; and then by his captain, who heckles and picks
on him relentlessly. To earn a little more money for Marie, since
his pay is ridiculously small, Wozzeck puts himself at the service
of a doctor who is interested in following the evolution of his
state of mind, as he goads him little by little to madness. The
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 99
miserable Wozzeck struggles against these snares, wavering be­
tween Submission and impotent rage. He finally kills Marie and
drowns himself in a marsh.
A resum£ of the action can give no real idea of the interest
or the value of the play. Dramatic tension is produced by the
atmosphere in which the plot develops and by the power of con-
densation of the action. Like Debussy’s Pelleas et Melisande,
Wozzeck contains scenes where what is not said is more im­
portant than what the words convey, as for example the scene
where Wozzeck and his friend Andres are in the fields cutting
reeds, and Wozzeck sees in the setting sun a portent of the
twilight of the world; the scene with the soldiers, harassed and
brutalized, asleep on their beds of planks while Wozzeck sits
awake and weeps; the scenes on the edge of the marsh, in the
evening mist; the unconcern of the orphan when the other chil-
dren bring the news of his mother’s death. This is poignant and
violent, and sheers away from naturalism to take on a semi-
mystical atmosphere. Wozzeck and Marie alone are human. The
doctor, the captain, and the drum major are only puppets. The
tale is perfect for setting to music, and especially Berg’s music.
This combination was bound to produce a masterpiece.
Its musical beauty cannot be explained in words. At best, we
can only point out how the listener should be disposed to be
receptive to that beauty. The marsh, the scene where the drama
unfolds, impregnates the whole score with the ferment of its
putrid waters. Everything is Stagnation and boundless despair.
The dialogue of most of the characters is a display of cynical
brutality, contrasting with the prolonged sob, resigned and
impotent, of Wozzeck and Marie. The beauty of the score comes
from the force and perfection with which atmosphere is invoked.
This is the type of beauty found in Dostoevsky’s novels, not a
Racine-like beauty. The quality of the score is high from begin-
ning to end. There are outstanding moments, of course: in the
first act, Wozzeck’s discomfort when he is afraid of the silence
of the country and tries to read omens in the sky and earth; the
military march and the lullaby sung by Marie; in the second act,
the extraordinary tapestry of dances, songs, and cries of distress,
the cabaret scene that makes us think of certain scenes in
Gorky’s The Lower Depths; then the soldiers’ sleep; and finally,
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

almost the entire last act, Marie reading the Bible, the terrible
scene when Wozzeck drowns himself in the marsh after the mur-
der, and the pitiful conclusion of the children’s indifference.
Noteworthy as well are all the interludes which, as in Pelleas et
Melisande, tie the scenes together and sustain the atmosphere by
condensing the material of the scene just ended.
Begun in 1917, the score of Wozzeck was finished in 1922.
The twenty-six scenes of Büchner’s drama are Condensed into
fifteen. Berg retained only the essential, and his music creates
an atmosphere that is lacking in the spoken drama.
Büchner’s work, thanks to Berg’s conception of it, has become
larger and more human, and has gained in persuasive force.
The score was written with scrupulous care, following the dis-
cipline of the Schoenberg school. Berg denied having tried to
revive old-style opera. And in fact there is nothing in this work
that replaces or modifies its theatrical aspects. What makes it
very strong dramatically is the männer in which Berg organized
his music to give the stage work qualities it needed. He avoided
dividing the audience’s attention between action and music.
To achieve unity, he made the music itself the action, and did
not allow motifs and themes to be dictated by the entrance of
the characters or by any element foreign to the natural musical
flow. Dynamics, color, timbre, rhythm, and melodies are all
arranged as in a symphony, the music follows its own laws alone,
and the movement of the dramatic action corresponds to the
movement of the music. On the one hand Berg takes the Wag-
nerian principle of Symphonie development in the drama as his
point of departure; on the other, he adopts an attitude opposed
to Wagner’s. Wagner subordinated music to drama; Berg sub-
ordinates drama to music, to such a degree that even stage di-
rection is involved in the music. The gestures of the actors are
directed with the exact timing the music requires: when Woz­
zeck stamps his foot in impotent rage, it is at precisely the mo-
ment when a certain chord or accent is sounded which had been
heralded and prepared measures before and which had therefore
become musically inevitable. That chord and that accent do not
interrupt the music because the action calls for them.
Wagner had translated the Symphonie development section
into the dramatic domain. Berg goes further and uses the com-
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg IOI

plete sonata form. The leading motif, the Wagnerian leit-

motiv, which comments on the ideas of the text and introduces
the characters, is replaced by another principle: the leading
theme, whose function is Symphonie only, as are the themes of
fugues or of a cycle of variations.
The motif, a group of several notes, has no particular expres­
sion. The theme, a more important formal element, carries an
expression that it imposes on the whole development dependent
on it. With its organizing power, assuring the unity of the mu­
sical matter, it also assures the expressive unity of the musical
drama. It imparts the same unity to the melody, harmony, and
rhythm.
Paul Dukas, in Ariane et Barbe-Bleue, also makes use of a
uniting theme. JETe built his drama as Symphonie movements.
Berg extends the application of this method: the score of Woz­
zeck includes a passacaglia (twenty-one variations), fugues, a
chorale, and variations. Yet the architecture stays hidden from
the audience, whose attention must not be drawn to the out-
lines, the skeleton of the work. The only thing it should see
is the fate of the soldier Wozzeck.
At the same time that he uses the large forms, Berg calls on
all the resources of Schoenbergian counterpoint. He applies
them to his passacaglia, variations, and chorale. He establishes
a sort of ideal proportion, a golden mean between Wagner and
Schoenberg.
We shall not go into detail on the contrapuntal composition
of Wozzeck or Berg’s other works. What we have said about it in
speaking of Schoenberg will suffice to guide the reader in these
scores. Let us pass direetly to what is distinctive about Wozzeck.
Wozzeck, the character, is statically conceived. There is no de­
velopment of a personality or the action. From the beginning of
the drama, Wozzeck is in the last throes of despair. There can
thus be no progress, and the music remains in the state it was
in at the opening. As we have already said, the music is dom-
inated by Stagnation, which is attained by numerous passages
where the harmony is static, due either to a sort of balancing of
the chords [Example 27] or to a succession of chords with the
same, or almost the same, degree of tension [Example 28]. These
two examples also show that Berg did not adopt Schoenberg’s
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

integrally contrapuntal method. The style is often harmonic,

with the use of unresolved appoggiaturas in the tradition of
Debussy and Ravel. The tonal center is audible: the first ex-
cerpt is composed of unresolved triple appoggiaturas in the
perfect chord of G major; in the same fashion, the second begins
and ends in C major. Another way of broaching harmonic im-
mobility is shown in the famous passage when the marsh mist
is rising and enveloping Wozzeck: a chromatic succession of
identical chords on each Step of the twelve-tone scale [Exarnple
Moreover, there is general use of the frictions caused by
minor seconds, which establishes tonal uncertainty [Exarnple
30], as do the tritones and fourth-chords [Exarnple 3z]. Com-
plexes of sound are always so written as to be clearly under-
standable by their own specific sound. Complicated chords are
often introduced by an arpeggio, by the successive entry of the
notes [Exarnple 32]; the harmony is also very often caused by
the meeting of voices, and contrapuntal language occurs as fre-
quently as harmonic.
Willy Reich notes correctly that the unity of the work is
based in part on what he calls “the exchange of dimensions.”
The melodic line, the chord, and the rhythm continually inter-
change roles: chord becomes rhythm, rhythm jells into chord,
the rhythmic motif becomes melodic, and the melody is distilled
into a rhythm; melody congeals into chord, and chord is re-
solved into melody. These are transformations we have met in
studying Schoenberg’s technique.
The Orchestration is unusual. Three Orchestral Pieces had al­
ready revealed the assignment of long solo melodies to the horns,
trumpets, and trombones, and scarcity of chords set down all at
once—and these not grouping the voices which introduce one
instrument after another into the chord, thus modifying the
timbre as the chord is built up. This caused exträordinary acti-
vation and intensification of orchestral color which was to find
its highest development in Lulu.
In Wozzeck, the complete orchestra is utilized chiefly in par­
tial groupings constantly rearranged. Solo String instruments are
often used in combination with solo winds. A military band, a
cabaret ensemble (two violins, clarinet, accordion, guitar, and
bombardon), and a chamber orchestra (the same instruments as
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg ^3
in Schoenberg’s Kammersymphonie) are isolated from the main
orchestra but also combine with it. Example 33 shows the com-
bination of the cabaret group with the orchestra and illustrates
that reconciliation of the irreconcilable which expresses chaos,
here made possible through orchestral differentiation. Example
34 shows another dramatic effect of exceptional power: a dizzy-
ing cadence by the main orchestra on which the chamber or­
chestra imposes a rapid abatement.
The slides of chromatic chords during the marsh scene, treated
with the same rieh orchestral inventiveness and the same care
to make everything plain with the clarity of the sound, create
an indescribably impressive moment.
We cannot finish this appraisal without citing the famous ex­
ample of the unison that ends the second scene in Act 3: all
the instruments, one after the other, begin in ppp and guide the
shading toward fff— a crescendo in nuance and timbre which
sounds like the trumpets of Judgment Day.

Wozzeck was a triumphant success. On February 9, 1930, the

Prussian Academy of Art elected Alban Berg an associate mem-
ber. On that day twenty German-language theaters and the
Vienna State Opera played Wozzeck. The work has now been
produced all over the world, and has entered the repertory of
many opera Companies.
Since the days of Wagner, opera has become what was called
not long ago an exceptional work. It is quite true that repertory
opera, daily opera, belongs to the nineteenth Century. This
genre, aimed at the general public, has today been replaced by
the movies. But almost all the great Composers are still drawn
to the theater. Their works are not the kind to be included in
populär repertories, due sometimes only to difficulty of staging.
These are works that are the focus of the great annual festivals
like Salzburg and Florence, festivals that have grown in number
since 1945.

Berg’s last works display a more definite melodic and har-

monic conception. Without becoming melodic in the proper
sense of the word, they are composed with more and more well-
defined themes. To understand this evolution, it is essential to
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

remember the distinctions among motif, theme, and melody.

A motif is very short, and has its own characteristics, but alone it
lacks expression. It is simply a formative element. A theme is more
important and has a specific expression. It too can well be used
in construction, because it is not so fixed that it cannot undergo
broad transformations of rhythm and intervals. Melody is a
being unto itself. With no aid from contrapuntal lines or sup-
porting harmonies, melody is endowed not only with its own
expression but also with complete meaning, achieved through
its rhythmic structure and the stress produced by the succession
of notes, in a given order, whose tension is measured in relation
to a fundamental. Melody is a polarized being that will not tol-
erate inversions, cancrizans, or rhythmic modifications without
changing the meaning it carries. It is a creation of the modal
or tonal System. Berg stopped at the theme, the art of which
dwells in contrapuntal construction.
The work immediately following Wozzeck is the Concerto for
Violin, Piano and Thirteen Wind Instruments, which is dedi-
cated to Arnold Schoenberg on his fiftieth birthday (1924). The
three key elements on which its construction rests are anagrams
of the names of the Schoenbergian triad (Schoenberg, Webern,
and Berg), which show the common characteristic of the tritone
as their dominant interval [Example 35]. The first movement is
a tema scherzoso con variazioni for piano and wind Instru­
ments. In the movement, the theme takes form in successive
strides as if the composer’s imagination were pushing it each
Step a little closer to full bloom, a trait also found in Lulu and
in the Concerto for Violin [Example 36]. The second movement
is a deeply pathetic adagio, tender and voluptuous, played by
the violin and the winds without the piano. The center of its
main theme is formed of the motifs of themes A, B, and C with
the tritone interval [Example 37]. It unfolds gently until, after
120 measures, it attains a culminating point, and is then re-
peated as a whole in varied cancrizans. This System of develop­
ment might seem arbitrary at first sight; and it would be in
tonal music, but not in music conceived in the System of twelve
tones related only to each other with no relationship to a fun­
damental. The crabwise movement of this adagio is as expres-
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 105
sive as its recto direction and produces calm to the same degree
that stress has been built up. The adagio is the loveliest move­
ment in the work. The flow of tenderness which it is intended to
evoke can be considered an homage to Webern, and the varia-
tions as a song in honor of Schoenberg. A splendid cadence for
piano and violin, a fireworks of all of the work’s themes, leads
into the final rondo ritmico, a diabolic fantasy in which Berg
counterpoints the elements of the variations and adagio move-
ments in every possible way.
A repetition of the whole piece is hinted at, but it is super-
fluous. Better that it pass unnoticed (and the composer agrees)
and the attention focus directly on the magnificent coda, within
which all formal elements draw together progressively, boil down
to the essentjal, form a dizzying stretto, and end with a pedal
chord in the piano on a four-note motif sounded from the be-
ginning of the introductory cadence, a final explosion leaving
all the elements exhausted, to fall into abrupt silence [Example
38].
Lyricism reaches fruition in this chamber concerto, as in the
Lyrische Suite, written in 1926. Like the concerto, the Suite is
based on a latent program: a portrait of the composer, the sensi­
tive and bizarre musician. Six movements unfold. Their titles
describe their moods: allegretto gioviale, andante amoroso, al­
legro misterioso (containing a trio estatico), adagio appassionnato,
presto delirando (with a tenebroso passage), and at the end,
largo desolato. It is a beautiful masterpiece and one of the favor-
ites of quartet musicians. The initial allegretto takes the form
of an undeveloped sonata. “The joining of the parts,’* says Er­
win Stein in the preface of the score, “is just a little loose; the
internal and reciprocal affinity of the movements is only vaguely
marked, despite all the skill applied to thematic relations and
other relations of form.” The alternation of the three rapid
movements with the slow movements creates a dynamic grada-
tion: allegretto—allegro—presto. The three slow movements pro-
duce an expressive gradation: andante—adagio—largo. A number
of the movements are built on the twelve-tone system, and the
six movements are joined by the reappearance in each of one of
the themes of the preceding movement. Der Wein (1929), a con-
cert aria based on three poems of Baudelaire, returns to less
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

hidden expression, and reveals a feeling that prepares for the

atmosphere of the second opera.

Frank Wedekind, the author of the tragedies Erdgeist (The

Earth Spirit) (1895) and Die Büchse der Pandora (Pandora’s
Box), was born in Hanover in 1864. He traveled widely as a lec-
turer, actor, producer, and editor; he died in 1918. Wedekind
was an implacable naturalist: “He threw himself on life,” wrote
Camille Poupeye,
. . . and forced it to give up its secret to him. And what he read in the
deepest folds of the. human soul were the carnivorous instinct, a
tenacious will to live, and, beneath everything, those passions called
bestial and unnatural, all the more hidden since they had been the
object of the holy horror of genteel hypocrites. Wedekind said that he
was studying and revealing to us the unleashed animal in man, the
perpetually lustful beast tormented by its monstrous appetites and
taking vagabond copulation as its natural right and irresistible need.
It is hardly surprising that the writings of the cruel German dramatist
were banned by a conventional (in appearance, at least) self-respecting
society. Nor is it so astonishing that, after this society had crumbled, the
democratic forces which provoked the collapse proclaimed Wedekind a
precursor and prophet. . . . The avant-garde of German letters saw
Wedekind as a master, and thought that what should above all be
learned from this pitilessly questioning and cynical dramatist was the
marvelously flexible and trenchant instrument with which he endowed
poets and which constituted one of the most striking characteristics of
expressionist theater: that expressive, hammering, articulate, and
vibrantly dynamic style.
And here is how Poupeye sums up the two-play tragedy of
Lulu:
In the prologue an animal trainer invites the public to follow the acts
of the show. While most of the acts feature only domestic or tamed
animals, he shows wild beasts and saves as the chief attraction of the
show a terrible serpent, a marvelous beast created to drag man into sin,
ensnare him, seduce, corrupt, poison, and murder him without arous-
ing the slightest suspicion. . . . And Lulu, sweet and rosy, dressed as
Pierrot, is carried onto the scene by a potbellied valet. In The Earth
Spirit, Lulu, a little flower-girl of doubtful origin who at the age of
twelve walked barefoot among the tables at the Alhambra Cafö and
whose first protector, Schön, the editor of a large newspaper, had edu-
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 107
cated her and given her in marriage to an elderly doctor friend, appears
before us in the fullness of her beauty and good fortune.
Lulu is a Circe by instinct, ambition, and above all whim. She causes
the death of her first husband, who has a stroke when he finds her in
the arms of Schwartz, her portrait painter. Poor Schwartz is horrified,
and implores heaven for the strength and freedom of spirit “to be just a
little happy. For her, only for her.” As for Lulu, she doubtless feels a
pang at the sight of the corpse, but the thought that follows immedi-
ately is that she is now rieh. The painter, married now to Lulu and at
the height of his talent, worries constantly that his happiness will
crumble. But Lulu becomes an Eve and feels ridiculous at being only
a wife to her husband. She is so restless that Schön, whom she has tried
to tempt but who is on the defensive because of his forthcoming mar­
riage, asks her if she is not worried about feeling the whip again.
“Maybe I am!” she answers. When Schwartz learns of his wife’s past, he
goes mad and cuts his throat. The blood falls on Schön’s hand; Lulu
wipes it off with her perfumed handkerchief and teils him that not a
spot will remain. And when Schön calls her a monster she answers with
a diabolic smile: “You will marry me anyhow.” Schön, drawn into the
trap his young proteg£ has lured him toward from the outset, will be
the third victim. Lulu is now dancing in a ballet written by Schön’s
son. Alva, who is secretly in love with Lulu, has been chiding his father
for some time for not having formalized his relationship with his Charge
by marriage after the death of his first wife. Lulu is sought after by
Prince Escerny who is enchanted by the physical and spiritual grace of
her every movement; but Lulu will know no peace until she has forced
Schön to break off his betrothal and capitulate totally to her charms.
But hardly is she mistress of the household before she opens Schön’s
doors to a horde of parasites, one of whom is an old beggar who Claims,
rightly or wrongly, to be her father and who lusts after her. In this
milieu we meet the young Student Hugenberg, who is madly taken
with the fiery Lulu, and Countess Geschwitz, a stränge lesbian who is
also in love with the sinful young woman. Alva, who is more and more
bewitched, gives in to the brazen temptress, and when he finally teils
her he has loved her always she replies, tenderly stroking his hair: “I
poisoned your mother.”
Schön finally discovers the perfidy of this angel of destruction. Dis-
gusted with being dragged through the mud and ridiculed by this
peculiar group, he decides to do away with the worthless creature; but
she seizes on a moment of distraction caused by a call for help by the
Student hidden under the table and strikes down the only man she says
she has ever loved. Then she throws herseif, terrified, at Alva’s feet and
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

begs him not to let her fall into the hands of the police: “I am still
young,” she cries, “I will be faithful to you all my life. I will be yours,
only yours.”
In Pandora’s Box Lulu disintegrates before our eyes. She escapes from
prison, where she has been sentenced for a ten-year term, with the help
of the ever-faithful Countess Geschwitz. This stränge friend has taken
advantage of a Cholera epidemic and succeeded in passing her as a
corpse under the noses of the guards. Everything is ready for her escape
to Paris with the acrobat Rodrigo, who has agreed to marry her.
Rodrigo knows how to break in animals as well—“I've ordered a whip
inade of hippopotamus hide, two inches thick,” he says. “Female flesh
doesn’t care whether you make love to it or beat it. All it needs is a
little distraction and it will stay firm and healthy.”
Hugenberg, the Student, who has escaped from the penitentiary,
reads in the paper that Schön’s murderer has died in prison and pro-
claims that her loss has destroyed all his interest in life. Alva, who is
still entranced by her, after long hesitation crosses the border with the
fugitive. The couple are next seen in Paris, still fairly prosperous; but
disaster is imminent. The pretty Countess Adelaide d’Oubra (alias
Lulu) entertains an ambiguous crowd, and a doubtful marquis, Casti-
Piani, who carries on a white slave trade, threatens to inform on her
unless she agrees to enhance a house of prostitution in Cairo with her
charms. Rodrigo, the rejected suitor, is no less hot in pursuit of the
beauty and hardly less pressing in his blackmail than the disreputable
Marquis. But his story will end tragically as well, for Lulu gives him
over to her drunken father, who eures him forever of his taste for in-
forming by entrusting him to the discreet waters of the Seine. Lulu
escapes Casti-Piani’s men disguised as a groom and turns up next in
London, fallen to the lowest form of prostitution. A foul garret now
shelters her activities as a decayed prostitute under the jealous eye of
Alva, whom she has infected and exhausted, and the tender eye of her
poor foster father who badgers her constantly for alcohol and love.
When they are literally collapsing from hunger and cold, Lulu goes to
wait in the street under the driving rain to Iure rieh, clients; but she
has too much character left to play the comnion streetwalker and can-
not bring herseif even to roh them properly. So, one after another, she
brings on a sort of missionary, vowed to silence, who gives her money;
a Negro prince, who kills Alva with a single stroke of his weighted
stick; a Swiss Student of philosophy, whose caressing glance she prefers
to his small fee, but who takes flight 011 seeing the corpse; and finally
Jack the Ripper, who is intrigued by her mouth, steals her money, and
then mutilates her vilely. Nothing, not even the blackest scenes from
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 109
Gorky’s The Lower Depths, equals the degradation pictured by Wede­
kind in the last act of this horrifying drama.

We have given this extensive resumc to show the atmosphere

of exprcssionism at its apex. The crudeness of the drama is
shocking, but it is diflicult to take it seriously with its extremism
and number of deaths. Tragedy here approaches caricature, as
in George Grosz’s drawings. Yet this double tragedy (Wedekind
later Condensed them into a single play) has extraordinary move­
ment and incontestable dramatic power, moments of real beauty,
and rieh and subtle treatment of the polymorphous character
of Lulu.
This character is decidedly what attracted Alban Berg. He
alone was capablc of composing a unified score and relegating to
the background the mass of facts, events, and personages who
clutter up the play. The music has the singulär virtue of sim-
plifying the play. Slower in developing and communicating
ideas than are words, it leaves everything in shadow which is
secondary in the play and expresses only the essential. Berg
chose the leading scenes from Wedekind’s drama and composed
an opera in three acts around them. He places Alva on a plane
with Lulu, balancing Lulu’s seductivcness and irresponsibility
with Alva’s desire and fervor. Other personages are not sacri-
ficed to Alva; the text has not been changed. But the music
Berg created for the two protagonists is so suggestive and ef-
fective that it impregnates parts of the score where it seems to be
absent. There is no one theme for Lulu or Alva; there is an
ensemble of several themes, rhythms, and harmonies to charac-
terize the two roles. The remarkablc thing is that the music
does not share the exaggeration of the text; it is not naturalistic
and does not emphasize the intentional grossness and the often
disgusting tone of the dialogue. Berg’s expressionism is not car-
ried to the extreme of ugliness, and as we have already pointed
out, the composer has in a way salvaged the text and immersed
it in his own sensitivity. He looked on the drama from above.
He wrote Lulu as Baudelaire wrote Les Fleurs du Mal—his opera
vibrates with evil passions, but their transformation in the spirit
and beauty of the music makes it an inspiring work. Some time
before composing Lulu, Berg had workcd on poems from Baude-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

laire’s Le Vin, adhering strictly to the twelve-tone System with the

aim of avoiding their disorder of passions and imposing a for-
malized beauty on them. To write Lulu as he wanted to write
it, this was the only solution possible.
The style of this work and the style of Wozzeck are quite dif­
ferent. Instead of a leading theme Berg uses such a number of
themes that they are almost perfect melodies, as we can judge
from those fragments on which the music for Lulu and Alva
is based: Example 39 arouses a feeling of restrained eroticism;
the heroine’s irresistible seductiveness is evoked in Example 40.
The stagnant atmosphere of Wozzeck is in no way recalled. The
friction of minor seconds has disappeared; on the contrary,
everything points to continual movement. Harmony varies
widely, from resolutions on the perfect chord to pure atonality,
with the result that stresses draw on a large scale of intensity.
Corresponding to a declared melodic curve are certain harmonies
which themselves are dominant—a complex formed by dimin-
ished ninths and elevenths, and appoggiaturas not resolved by
the dominant seventh, fleeting harmonies usually introduced by
very plastic contrapuntal movements [Example 41}. The last
chord of this example, with its A and Db in the upper register
of the piano or vibraphone, plays an important part in the
score: it is repeated each time Lulu calls on all her resources in a
difficult Situation. Certain particularly brutal passages by the
piano, combined with the brasses, form agglomerations of sound
like those shown in Example 42, The explosive peroration at the
end of the second act [Example 43} is written in one of several
main rhythmic schemes. The vocal music is very melodic. It
has hardly any of the large leaps between intervals common in
Schoenberg’s and Webern’s music and is often written in suc-
cessive notes. In the dialogue, melody begun by one voice is
taken up by the other with no interruption in the continuity
of the music. The orchestra seems to incorporate the melodic
flow [Example 44]. The unusual vocal sonority that marked
each singing role in Wozzeck has entirely disappeared. In Lulu,
the music comes in one swoop—the characters lose their indi-
viduality in a torrent of music that reveals the drama as a whole
rather than in episodic detail. In addition, contrary to the
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg
muffled treatment required by the atmosphere in Wozzeck, the
music in Lullt radiates color and the twelve-tone chords are
luminous. The orchestra, moreover, is remarkably rieh and
powerful; the glow of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chlod seems pale by
comparison. Of all existing music, the Symphonie suite Berg
drew from Lulu is the work that has most enriched the orches­
tral palette. The gratifying, unremitting play of color brings
the audience to recognize the seductive power of this monstrous
woman.
We shall not go into a discussion of the symphonic construc-
tion of Lulu; its principle is the same as that in Wozzeck, but
more generalized. The details of technique in Lulu insure clar-
ity, transparency, and openness, and give the audience an im-
pression of stylistic simplification. But actually Lulu is no less
complex than Wozzeck.
Among the most beautiful passages of the work are the Lied
in the second act which Lulu sings with disarming sincerity;
the long duet sung by Lulu and Alva, also in the second act;
and Alva’s hymn to Lulu’s beauty. There are also three mag-
nificent interludes. The first, preceding the third scene in
Act i, is filled with loving tenderness. The interlude entitled
Ostinato, which plays during the second-act film showing a
condensation of several scenes from the play, seems to be a dis-
ordered tumult, but is in fact carefully organized. In Act in the
interlude between the two scenes, variations on a music-hall
song composed by Wedekind himself, is played to evoke Lulu’s
progressive decline. The most beautiful music of the whole opera
is the poignantly painful adagio in the last scene.
There is one theatrical fault in Lulu: there is too much text,
the dialogue is too crowded. The thousand and one little details
that are recited animate the naturalistic play but are incompre-
hensible in the opera. Since the music cannot follow this swarm
of events, and its development and unity are therefore not influ-
enced by them, there are certain moments of duality that divide
the audienee’s attention disconcertingly.
Berg never heard his last opera. But he at least had the joy of
hearing the Symphony of Lulu, a concert extract, which contains
the musical substance of the work.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

When he had finished Lulu, Berg was asked to write a violin

concerto. He was about to refuse when he learned of the death
of a young girl whom he was very fond of. The pain of loss
gave him lyric incentive for a new work, which he wrote as a
sort of instrumental requiem. It was to be his last composition.
The concerto is dedicatecl “In Memory of an Angel.” The music
begins on the four open notes of the violin, which are repeated
by the clarinets and harp. This iclea is then developed in ar-
peggios, a scheme which the author must have liked, to judge
by its importance in the double concerto, in Lulu, and in the
fundamental element of the Concerto for Violin. This last com­
position is in two sections. The first begins with an andante,
which is followed by an allegretto. In the second, an allegro
concludes with an adagio. The work moves along a grade of
expression, as does the Lyrische Suite. The serene initial andante
leads into the tender liveliness of the allegretto. This scherzando,
in 6-8 time, has a peaceful grace with no hint of agitation. The
feeling it transmits makes the listener think of certain allegrettos
in Mahler’s works, especially in the Fourth Symphony. The al­
legretto passes imperceptibly into a moderate waltz movement,
which in turn and with equal gentleness—it could be said with
love—introduces an Austrian Ländler treated with pastoral
freshness and simplicity. The movement dies away, like a sigh
of regret, to conclude on a nostalgic minor seventh chord. This
same chord marks the beginning of the impassioned, fiery al­
legro rubato, which is developed as a cadence whose rhythm
seems inspired by the Ländler. But after its climax this vitality
fades, seeming to obey the call of the violin, which slows the
movement by announcing the melody of the final chorale. The
concluding chorale is written around the verse: “Es ist genug!
so nimm, Herr, meinen Geist. . . . Mein Jesus kommt: Es ist
genug! Herr, wenn es dir gefällt, so spanne mich doch aus. Nun
gute Nacht, o Welt! Ich fahr ins Himmelshaus. . . . Ich fahre
sicher hin mit Frieden. Mein grosser Jammer bleibt darnieder.”
The chorale inspires an indescribable emotion. The violin states
the melody, which is taken up by four clarinets in the harmoni-
zation Bach uses in the cantata O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort. The
music simplifies. The violin lays aside its solo role to join—or
draw to itself—the violin section of the orchestra in a final and
Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Alban Berg 113
fervent commentary on the chorale. Distantly a last good-by
sounds to the homeland, an echo of the Ländler; a last arpeggio
wings upward and is dissolved on the heights; and then, the
final adieu of the four open notes of the violin. Alban Berg
leaves us; he sings his own requiem. Suddenly everything seems
to be resolved. Pain, tension, desire, despair, everything which
was his personality has gone. In the lucidity of the last days of
his life, everything clarified and simplified.
What remains for us is this marvelous concerto, one of those
works that dominate their period and are both its finest Orna­
ment and justification.

Schoenberg, Webern, and Berg form a homogeneous group.

They created-works that fall under the sign of expressionism, but
which nonetheless did not reach the extreme of German pic-
torial expressionism. Their artistic aim is movement without
pause or conclusion. Their language, born of the chromaticism
of Tristan und Isolde, evolved toward a hyperchromaticism often
called atonality. Actually, it always retains a discernible tonal
effect, either because the tonalities change from chord to chord,
or because one tone, while remaining latent, temporarily dom-
inates. The word atonal is justified by what is heard in the first
case, but not in the second. A given order of expression de-
termines the language. Rhythm has lost some of its structural
importance; the music is like a river, a flowing stream marked
out with accents of expression. The twelve-tone system, which
emerged from atonality to fulfill requirements of form, wards
off anarchy and compensates for the loss of the tonal center of
gravity as well as for the loss of articulated rhythm. When it is
strictly applied, it leads to the most rigorous sort of formalism.
Aside from such a severe style, it provides new and highly im­
portant means of constructing and developing which are ap­
plicable in disciplines other than atonal. The orchestra is still
treated as a single instrument, a machine for generating timbres,
used to create a sort of sonorous flow with a continuity which
has a magic, spellbinding power.
Technically speaking, the movement Schoenberg began is the
newest of all the movements that have developed in modern mu-
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

sic. But from the point of view of expression and meaning, it is

less up to date, since it is related to a conception of life that
belongs to the end of the nineteenth Century. Exception should
be made for some of Webern’s and Schoenberg’s compositions
which the writers kept free from any element of emotion and
wrote with absolute adherence to form, analogous to Bach’s
Art of the Fugue or Frescobaldi’s Ricercari.
The language created is a fixed system, and the works com­
posed in it are equally fixed. The concept of atonality, which
gave birth to works of merit, found itself in difFiculty when
faced with the problem of form. Since that day it has marked
time. To continue bearing fruit it had to be less radically used.
Alban Berg followed this line of thought and reintroduced a
more durable and consequently a more constructive sense of
traditional tonality into that absolute chromaticism which is,
after all, atonality. Schoenberg, as well, chose this solution for
works composed after 1938.
The history of atonality and serial composition does not end
with the disappearance of its exponents. Dodecaphonism, to
which the world of music paid relatively little heed before 1940,
was adopted by numbers of European and South American mu­
sicians after 1945. The younger generation in a chaotic world,
confused and shocked by the horror of the Second World War,
needed to express its anguish and create some Order in its music.
Schoenberg’s musical techniques seemed to offer it the only way
to voice its despair. They feit that the somber fatalism and vio­
lent revolt expressed in The Survivor of Warsaw and Wozzeck
were inextricably linked with dodecaphonism. The result has
been a considerable number of compositions none of which
reveal creative temperament, and all of which invariably give
the impression of being students’ exercises. Imagination is so
lacking in these works, as much on reading as on hearing, that
it is not hard to guess what will happen in the measures fol­
lowing those being heard. Dodecaphonism has become academic.
There are, nonetheless, exceptions to this banal and impossible
Situation—the interpretation of dodecaphonism by the Italians,
lieaded by Dallapiccola, and a few French musicians, the most
significant of whom is Pierre Boulez.
 3

IGOR STRAVINSKY

no other Contemporary work has caused the uproar that

Le Sacre du Printemps did in 1913. While Schoenberg worked in
silence and communicated his efforts and discoveries only to a
small circle of devotees and interested parties, The Firebird and
Petrushka revealed to the general public the existence of an
extraordinarily powerful musician. The immense success of the
Ballet Russe had helped spread the name of Stravinsky. The
Firebird was an apotheosis, the final star-burst of the marvelous
fireworks shot off by the impressionists and the Russian school
of the Five; Petrushka had worked the magic of its pulsing life
and the singulär effect of its populär traits. Le Sacre du Prin­
temps was like a sudden explosion which, without warning,
crumbled the whole architecture of music as it had been con-
ceived up to that time. General constemation followed the first
performance of that Choreographie symphony, and some time
had to pass before the world understood that something had
changed—that after Le Sacre music was to lose its traditional
mode of being, and that not only impressionism but all nine-
teenth-century music was involved.
So violent and unexpected was the shock that for many years
Stravinsky was known to the public and to most musicians only
as “the composer of Le Sacre du Printemps” His whole work
was listened to and judged in relation to this composition, which
is indeed a work of genius; but it is also true that it does not
represent Stravinsky’s complete personality, and that by itself it
cannot explain the tenor of its author’s art.
Schoenberg built a System. His construction took shape and
then proceeded to perfect itself from one work to the next.
Whatever its newness, whatever difficulties the listener had in
accustoming himself to it, he could at least grasp immediately
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

the sense of Schoenberg’s revolution and understand his position

in the face of the musical problem. Not so with Stravinsky. The
world sought in vain to understand his development; no work
resembled the work preceding it or following it. Stravinsky him-
self was sparing in his explanations, and what he did consent to
say was so different from what musicians generally say about
their art that his clarifications were often badly misinterpreted.
Not until 1929 did some writers take the risk of attempting a
detailed commentary on his work: Boris de Schlcczer, Andre
Schaeffner, Herbert Fleischer, and the present author wrote mon-
ographs between 1929 and 1931 on Stravinsky’s work, and to
these can be added the very elaborate Souvenirs sur Igor Stra­
winsky, by C. F. Ramuz. The perspective was still too narrow;
each of these writers grasped but a part of the truth. Only to-
day, nearly fifty years after the creation of Le Sacre du Printemps,
does it seem possible to form an idea of the creative tempera-
ment of the composer and the significance of his works.

We have placed this study immediately after the one devoted

to Schoenberg for two reasons. The first is chronological: in the
history of modern music Schoenberg was the first to strike out,
around 1910, toward a real reform. In 1911, Stravinsky broke
with the immediate past in composing Petrushka. The two Com­
posers thus set out simultaneously. The second reason is, if I
may use the expression, dialectical: since Schoenberg’s art is
viewed as a thesis, it is suitable to designate Stravinsky’s as an
antithesis. Stravinsky is in Opposition to Schoenberg in the con-
ception of his ideas as well as in their execution.
The two composers are the two polcs between which all the
music of our time gravitates. Whatever the differences and de-
tails that separate or ally other Contemporary composers, what­
ever their greatness and sometimes their genius, they will all
have an affinity for either the composer of Pierrot Lunaire or of
Oedipus Rex—Schoenberg representing, in the words of Arthur
Louric, the “neo-Gothic” movement and Stravinsky the “neo-
classic,” the former concerned with expression as a point of
departure, the latter with form. These two opposed directions,
which can be found throughout the history of art, have been
called in an earlier work (Signification de la Musique) “expres-
Igor Stravinsky IZj
sionism” and “formalism,” the term expressionism extending to
all periods, but formalism meaning not a type of academism
but the art in all ages whose point of departure is form.

igor stravinsky was born at Oranienbaum June 18, 1882.11

His father held the position of vocal soloist to the emperor in the
Russian court. From the age of nine on, Stravinsky displayed
remarkable talent as a pianist. This fact persuaded his father
to send him for regulär lessons to a Student of Anton Rubin-
stein’s. The composer spent his youth partly in Oranienbaum and
partly in St. Petersburg. A number of years passed uneventfully.
The young Student then entered the University of St. Petersburg,
where he studied law and received his doctorate.
Still undecided about his artistic vocation, Stravinsky set out
on a trip and visited the principal countries of Europe. In 1902
he met Rimsky-Korsakov in Heidelberg and developed a warm
admiration for him.
This acquaintance decided Stravinsky on a musical career.
He began by giving himself a solid intellectual foundation.
He read extensively, visited museums, and attended as many
concerts as possible. When he went back to Russia he showed his
first attempts at composition to Rimsky-Korsakov, who agreed
to oversee his musical studies. His first works were Sonata for
Piano (1903); a suite of songs based on Pushkin’s texts, Le
Faune et la Bergere (1905); some melodies; Scherzo Fantastique
based on Maeterlinck’s The Life of the Bee (1908), and a Pas­
torale for voice and piano. It was also in 1908 that he wrote
Fireworks, for the marriage of Maximilian Steinberg and
Rimsky-Korsakov’s daughter, the work which was to attract the
attention of the musical world. He then wrote Four Etudes for
Piano and began composing a lyric tale, The Nightingale, based
on Andersen’s story (1909).
While he was working on the first act of this composition,
something occurred which decisively changed his life and career.
At St. Petersburg, an organized group of highly cultured painters
and writers fired by the ambition to forge ahead were Publish­
ing a review called Mir Iskusstvo (World of Art). Their leader was
11. That is, June 5 on the Russian calendar.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

a young man who was not a writer or a painter or a musician, but

who understood the life of art perfectly. He was gifted with
exceptional insight, and dreamcd of producing splendid spec-
tacles with dancing and painting, harmoniously balanced. This
young man was Sergei Diaghilev, and he had from the start rec-
ognized Stravinsky’s remarkable talent. Diaghilev had decided to
organize a great exposition of Russian art in Paris. Theatrical
art in Russia was, and still is, of high quality. The theater was
the spiritual center around which the best resources were
grouped, and it was the object of the most detailed attention.
Diaghilev decided to go to Paris with an operatic and ballet
troupe to perform Boris Godunov and ballets by the best Rus­
sian composers. He formed a magnificent troupe of performers
which included Chaliapin, Nijinsky, Pavlova, and Fokine. And
he urged Stravinsky to compose a ballet, which was to be The
Firebird. In 1909 dancers, singers, Choreographers, painters, and
musicians left for Paris. The Russian Festival of Chätelet was
a complete and triumphal success. The scintillating art of the
Russians captivated Paris and Western Europe with its colorful
music and the almost musical harmony of its decors exhibited
at the time when impressionism was on the wane and the fauves
were coming to the fore.
From that moment until Diaghilev’s death in 1929, the annual
festival of the Ballet Russe was the crown jewel of every season,
as much in London as in Paris. Diaghilev’s intelligence and
sensitivity, constantly on the alert, led him to sense where to
find new creative forces and related talents, and in what direc-
tion lay their evolution. He knew how to choose and associate
the choreographer, painter, and musician best suited to under-
stand each other. His ballets created the tone and were the
tangible result of the artistic climate. And not only of Russian
art; from 1911 on, Diaghilev called on Western artists like De­
bussy, Ravel, Schmitt, Satie, Auric, Poulenc, Milhaud, Picasso,
Braque, and Derain. The Russian ballet, outside of Russia, had
rapidly become European.
The Firebird, first performed in 1910, found an enthusiastic
reception. The ballet was not only of indisputable musical
value, but also corresponded perfectly with the idea the Western
world held of Russian music. Scheherazade and the Polovtzian
Igor Stravinsky
dances in Prince Igor had brought with them the fascination of
their orientalism, and Western audiences willingly imagined that
the Russian soul was impregnated with a voluptuous reflection
of the Asiatic.
In 1912 Stravinsky was working on a Konzertstück in which
the piano had the principal role:
In composing this music [wrote Stravinsky in his Chronicle], I had
the clear image in my head of a puppet suddenly set free who, with his
cascades of diabolic arpeggios, exhausts the patience of the orchestra
which in turn responds with menacing fanfares. A terrific uproar fol-
lows which ends at its climax with the plaintive and painful collapse of
the puppet. When I had finished the piece I walked along the banks of
the Löman [Lake Geneva] for hours trying to find the title that would
express in a single word the essence of my music and, consequently, the
form of my personage. One day I started with joy—“Petrushka! the eter-
nal and unhappy liero of all fairs of all countries!”
Diaghilev persuaded Stravinsky to develop his idea into a
Choreographie score. Thus, the Konzertstück became the famous
ballet that brought its composer a fresh triumph, a work of
stränge newness and hitherto unknown audacity.
In the meantime, Stravinsky was composing a work whose
theme he had come upon some time before. “When I was fin-
ishing the last pages of The Firebird in St. Petersburg, I had a
sudden, absolutely unexpected vision . . . of the spectacle of a
great pagan religious rite: old sages, seated in a circle and watch-
ing the death-dance of a young girl whom they were sacrificing
to render homage to the god of spring. This was the theme of
Le Sacre du Printemps.”
At this point, public feeling about his music began to go sour.
The themes Stravinsky’s imagination created for Le Sacre du
Printemps were strong and brutal, even for those times. It
generated a score of extreme tension, mercilessly pounded by
an implacable, frightening rhythm and shored up with gigantic
harmonic pillars which seemed to bear no resemblance to the
harmonic language in use. Again, the conception of the work
required a choreography which broke with traditions of plastic
grace and charm. Something of the wild character of this music,
which violated the expectations and tastes of the public, had
been surmised from the long and frequent rehearsals.
A HIS TO RY OF MODERN MUSIC

The first performance, which took place at the Theätre des

Champs-Elysees on May 15, 1913, unleashed a scandal of such
magnitude that not a note of music was heard, so to speak. Two
parties formed; friends and enemies of this new art form shouted
their wrath, challenged and hurled insults at each other. Cat­
calls and sarcasm from the Opposition drew the fury of the
defenders. This was the loudest uproar a work of art had caused
since Victor Hugo’s Hemani. Le Sacre du Printemps pulverized
and scattered to the four winds all the ideas digested and pas-
sively followed in music, and abruptly established a new way of
thinking. Some months later the work was played at a concert,
after which it was more objectively judged. It was quickly un-
derstood that here was a true work of art and a new orientation.
Hardly had the waters calmed when, in 1914, the Ballet Russe
presented a third important work by Stravinsky: The Nightin­
gale, a lyric work based on Andersen’s tale. It pleased the most
perspicacious musicians, but left the majority of the public in
a wholly understandable state of perplexity. Where was that
terrible violence it had begun to accept, that primitive and
elementary side to the music that it now expected? This Night­
ingale sang with a refined, delicate voice, and its unknown
language was different from that of Le Sacre du Printemps. De-
cidedly, these successive works of Stravinsky were not alike. His
personality was confusing. One thing at least seemed certain:
Stravinsky was a revolutionary.
Düring the First World War the composer lived in Switzer­
land, where he made two close friends, the writer C. F. Ramuz
and the conductor Ernest Ansermet. It was there that he com-
posed Noces, Renard, Pribautki, L’Histoire du Soldat and Four
Russian Songs, most of which were not publicly performed until
after the war. Still at Morges, he wrote Three Pieces for Solo
Clarinet and two “ragtimes” in 1918.
In the meantime, the Ballet Russe had been performing in
Italy and, from contact with Italian musicians, Diaghilev had
created two ballets in an unusual style which were destined to
exercise a profound influence on Western music: Les Femmes de
Bonne Humeur, based on a suite of sonatas by Scarlatti and
handsomely orchestrated by Tommasini, and La Boutique Fan-
tasque, based on instrumental pieces by Rossini and strikingly
Igor Stravinsky 121
orchestrated by Respighi. Stravinsky had traveled from Rome,
where he had met Pablo Picasso. Diaghilev had discovered un-
published pieces and sketches by Pergolesi, and Stravinsky, in-
terpreting and rewriting them in his own style, had composed
the ballet with chorus, Pulcinella. This new work was first per-
formed publicly in Paris in 1920 with d£cor by Picasso and
choreography by Massine. This performance, in quite a new
spirit, had considerable success but gave rise to endless con-
troversy: the savage Stravinsky, the composer of Le Sacre du
Printemps and Nightingale, seemed to have become unrecogniza-
ble, to be heading toward classicism, to be treating the estimable
music of Pergolesi without due respect. In 1920, the Concertino
for String Quartet and the Symphonies for Wind Instruments,
dedicated to the memory of Debussy, showed a new modification
in the course <5f his evolution, a reversion to that complete lib-
erty which had won grudging acceptance with Le Sacre. In 1922
Mavra, a comic opera based on a tale by Pushkin, appeared, re-
vealing the influence of Tchaikovsky alongside an Italian in­
fluence.
Mavra perplexed a great number of listeners, as did the Octet
for Wind Instruments (1923) and the Concerto for Piano and
Orchestra (1924). What was the significance of this style—this
meeting ground for Bach and a certain nineteenth-century qual-
ity in which Rossini and Liszt were brought together? The in-
tentions of the composer were, to say the least, enigmatic. Hence-
forth, and until the performance of his most recent works,
critics have not ceased to be confounded. Hardly had they as-
similated one work than the next one threw them into further
confusion. And so, from piece to piece, Le Sacre du Printemps
was defended against Mavra, Mavra against the Baiser de la Fee,
the Baiser de la Fee against Jeu de Cartes.
After the Concerto for Piano, among the works composed with
regularity through the years are the oratorio Oedipus Rex
(1927); the ballet Apollon Musagetes, and the allegoric ballet
Le Baiser de la Fee (1928); Capriccio for Piano and Orchestra
(1929)> the Symphony of Psalms (1930); Persephone, a drama
based on a text by Andre Gide (1934); the Concerto for Two
Solo Pianos (1935); and the ballet Jeu de Cartes (1937)- *93^
Stravinsky began his American life. Settling in the United States,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

hc wrote the Dumbarton Oaks Concerto in Eb for Chamber Or­

chestra. Since that date, his most significant works are the Sym­
phony in Three Movements (1946); Orpheus and a Mass (1948);
the opera The Rake’s Progress (1951); and Canticum Sacrum ad
Honorem Sancti Marei Nominis (1956).
Public and critical indecision about most of Stravinsky’s new
compositions, and the time it has taken for their significance to
be understood and their value appreciatcd, show the climate
in which has developed, with admirable sureness, the work of
a man we feel justified in considering the greatest Contemporary
composer.
What generally allows the public to follow the production of
a Contemporary composer is that his works form a sort of suite,
one after the other, and follow a continuous curve that traces a
progressive evolution; each work announces, previews, and ex-
plains the following work. Such an evolution molds Schoenberg’s
production and facilitates an cxchange of views on his work,
despite his unusual concept and language.
But this is not true of Stravinsky. None of his works intro-
duces the next one or prefigures it. Le Sacre du Printemps served
no more as a point of departure than did Oedipus Rex. Each
of his works Stands alone and is governed by its own principles.
Each incorporatcs a specific method (but does not utilize all the
methods), the method being choscn in rclation to the particular
aim envisaged. “I live neither in the past nor in the future; I
am in the present,” writes Stravinsky. The dominant trait in his
character is precisely that extraordinary conccntration of his
faculty of choice, critical sense, and inventiveness as a convergent
cluster of powers focusing on a given point. A musical work is
not to him a means of expressing his sentiments, or better, of
expressing the I. The work is a thing to make, a certain ma­
terial to govern, to which an appropriate form must be given.
He Stands before the material like a goldsmith facing the metal
he must make into an Ornament, like an architect confronting
the space he must organizc, holding in mind the materials which
are put at his disposal. He works according to Goethc’s reflection
that architecture is petrified music, and says himself that his
task is to organize time.
That objective and modest attitude in the face of the musical
Igor Stravinsky I2$
problem is the same as the Renaissance artist’s, whether Dona-
tello or Roland de Lassus; or of musicians like Schütz, Bach, and
Mozart. It is onoosed to the basic expressionist attitude of ex-
ternalizing an interior climate, which Stravinsky mistrusts to the
point of writing: “Music is in essence incapable of expressing
whatever you will: a feeling, an attitude, a psychological state, a
phenomenon of nature.“ What must be understood by this is
that, according to him, music presents only relationships in
height between sounds, creating melodic and harmonic tensions;
relationships in duration, measured by meters; and relationships
in volume, regulated by Instrumentation, and that nothing ex-
cept these qualities, which it really possesses, should be at-
tributed to music.
What he -pro Claims in this much contested Statement is the
realistic point of view of a man who poses and superimposes
sounds one after another. But of course, for Stravinsky as for
most creative minds, the thought follows on certain perceptions,
impressions produced by the outside world. And his words do
not prejudice the attitude of the listener who, hearing the music
and letting it act on him, discovers an expressive sense by as-
sociations of ideas and images. Stravinsky’s dictum defines the
area of his own concern, on which he concentrates the whole of
his attention.
“Stravinsky is the most methodical man in the world,“ writes
Roland-Manuel, “and the least systematic. Involved in the work
to be done but not in the work done, nothing ties him to his
successes. He deduces no System from them, for he never re-
traces his Steps. This explains why none of his works resembles
its neighbor, while he remains identified with himself, and it is
generally imagined that he changes skins when what he does is
to change tasks.“ Such a man should not be expected to create
an invariable language to be used to solve all the problems that
arise. He would not seek a single means of expression, but his
personality would pierce through each work, and at every point
in that work, in a discourse whose structure is a function of the
object to be created. Roland-Manuel says further: “To construct
his work with what M. Paul Valery ingeniously calls the debris
of the future, to profit from everything, be enslaved by nothing,
agree firmly to accept the good where he finds it and not give
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

in to the temptation to seek out the bad where he feels it—that

realistic poetics defines the attitude of our musician and his ob­
stinate course.” This sort of artist will not make his task depend
upon prior inspiration—he has expressed his opinion on this
point clearly. Inspiration comes in working, says Stravinsky, as
appetite comes in eating. But he knows that the creative process
presupposes intuition of an unknown, possessed before it is dis-
covered, which is to be elucidated and defined only by tech-
nique. The role of technique is specifically to impose an order
upon the debris of the future, a real order without trickery or
malice—splendor ordinis, splendor veri.
Stravinsky has his own Interpretation of form. His primary
concern is to arrange the time and be sure that something hap­
pens at each moment. While music like Wagner’s annihilates
time (Parsifal and the second act of Tristan), Stravinsky’s gives
a feeling of its flow because of the singulär role played by the
rhythm as pulsation, as the measure of time, and because the
musical interest is continually renewed.
The notion of time is essential for a true understanding of
Stravinsky’s work. This requires some explanation, which Pierre
Suvchinsky gives us:
The Sensation of time is doubtless a quality accessible to all. Every-
body knows that time passes in various ways, that the weight and in-
tensity of the temporal process are always different and variable, and
that man is even able to recognize himself simultaneously in totally
different types of time currents. Expectation, anguish, pain, suffering,
fright, contemplation and voluptuousncss are above all categories of
different times during which human life moves forward. Now, all this
variety in types and modifications of psychological time would be in-
comprehensible if, at the basis of this whole complexity of experience,
there were not the primary Sensation—often subconspous—of the real
time, of ontological time.
The peculiarity of the musical notion of time consists precisely in the
fact that it is born and flows on either outside or in the same time as
categories of psychological time, meaning that the musical experience
can be considered as one of the purest forms of the ontological sense
of time.
The art of music, which offers one of the most complete experiences
of ontological time possible, is not limited only to reflecting that notion.
It is indeed rare for psychological reflexes not to dominate the creative
Igor Stravinsky 125
process; one could even say that their absence from the creative domain
marks the presence of a special talent very rarely encountered in its
pure state.
The experience of time, and thus the quality of the element of time
in the work of different composers, is always distinct, but their model
par excellence—ontologically or psychologically—can always be defined
and, consequently, can lend itself to a typological Classification.
There is in music a specific relationship, a type of counterpoint,
between the flow of time, its own duration, and the material and tech-
nical means with whose aid that music has been expressed and scored.
Either the musical material adequately fills the course of time, which so
to speak conducts the music and determines its temporal form, or eise
it abandons this course of time, bridging or enlarging it, or convulsively
transforming its normal course. In the first case, the music can be called
Chronometrie, .and in the second, chrono-ametric.
This discussion by Pierre Suvchinsky12 leads us to place
Bach (at least in his instrumental music) and Stravinsky in the
Chronometrie category, and clearly demonstrates their profound
relationship. What draws Stravinsky and Bach together is not
works like the Concerto for Piano, which do show an occasional
exterior resemblance, but compositions which do not on the
surface justify such a comparison, like the Symphonies for Wind
Instruments, the Octet, or Jeu de Cartes. Stravinsky’s claim to
living in the present is made much clearer by the comparison.
His presence is manifested at every point in his work; his cre­
ative influence is disclosed in each moment during the flow of
ontological time, and is always in harmony with it. Each musical
moment thus acquires exceptional value because of its high
potential; and his work, as a result, has incomparable power.
This concern with the musical moment explains the determining
quality of transitions and conclusions (we will retum to this
later) which also create the impression of being inevitably and
necessarily what they are. It explains as well the particular value
of silences in Stravinsky’s music.
Such an art form is above all contrapuntal—a distinct move-
ment of lines. The architecture of time is conceived in terms of
the volume and weight of sound.
The idea we are forming in retrospect about Stravinsky’s art,
and which we think corresponds to the governing principles he
12. '‘La Notion du Temps et de la Musique” Revue Musicale, XX/191.
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

followed, still will not guide us through his early works. Such
a work method is shaped slowly; this is understandable, since
Stravinsky had to rediscover it after more than a Century of
psychologically based music, before the time of Karl Philipp
Emanuel Bach. It took courage to resist the attraction of im­
pressionism and turn away from Debussy, that populär genius
for whom Stravinsky maintained a deep and affectionate admira-
tion.
Convinced that musical values needed revision, Stravinsky
shared his renunciation of established values with Erik Satie,
whose Parade and Socrates he liked. Alfred Cortot describes that
moment in history when the change of concept took place. We
quote again, as it is interesting to group together the opinions on
the life of music of several craftsmen:
It is an inclination natural to Stravinsky’s genius, to conceive music
first in the form of movement and volume. This is what caught Rimsky-
Korsakov’s attention when he looked over Stravinsky’s early efforts. The
vitality of his solidly buttressed melodies, the vigor of his counterpoint
which sometimes seems to draw its bold elan from primitive descant,
the splendor of Orchestration that seems to our amazement to question
the basic value of all timbres—none of these is as influential as that early
conception whose effect on the trends in Contemporary music is by no
means weakening. One almost immediate consequence of his influence
was a counterattack (I speak here of French thought at the beginning
of the Century) on the vague formulas of that decadent symbolism
which the art of sound, negligent of its vitality if not of its nerve-
stimulation, was adopting too readily for safety. It stopped a group of
young composers short on the uncertain path of literary innuendoes
and suggestive allusions. The deliberate accents of the implacable
rhythm that he matched to the Strong modalities of an uncomplicated
melody stood in Opposition to fainthearted, cautious musical poetics.
For evasion, whatever its nature, has no place in Stravinsky’s artistic
methods. With this position, and maintaining proper proportions—
replacing intentions with accomplishments—he espoused the aesthetic
convictions of Satie. He emphasized the importance of their role, more-
over, asserting that their example had opportunely contradicted the
“loosencss of decaying impressionism” by using “firm, clean” musical
language “stripped of all ornamental imagery.”
Thus, around 1910, Stravinsky was living in an atmosphere
influenced on the one hand by Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, Liapu-
Igor Stravinsky I2?
nov, and Mussorgsky, and on the other by Debussy and Ravel.
He had already composed the Etudes, Fireworks, and Firebird.
With two giant Steps he broke loose from that atmosphere. The
first was the composition of Petrushka, in which he returned to
a strongly stated diatonism, wrote passages in a counterpoint in­
dependent of academic rules, and laid the basis for an organic,
directive rhythm. The second Step was Le Sacre du Printemps,
which destroyed all the accumulated theories of a Century of
romanticism and reached back beyond classicism, beyond the
Middle Ages, to the primitive state of music. From the ruins he
took the residue, the essentials, the elements of music—all
that was most simple and most irreducible. He listened for di-
rect, physiological sensations and measured the real degree of
their effect: hence, the complete and ideal freedom of rhythmic
pulsation and superimposition of melodies in the Prelude, and
the superimposition of different rhythms in Danse de la Terre.
Reason and will alone cannot explain such an abrupt about-
face from the height of refinement and subtlety, to humility in
the presence of musical material. Intuition played a large part.
C. F. Ramuz, who wrote the text of L’Histoire du Soldat and the
French adaptation of Noces and Renard, gives us a picture of
Stravinsky as he knew him in the canton of Vaud in 1915:
What I saw in you was a taste and sense of life and a love of every-
thing living; and everything living was, potentially or actually, music to
you. Your nourishment was mine. I am not quite sure why (for the
analogy is not obvious), but I recalled that phrase of Nietzsche’s: “I
love the man who wants to create beyond his abilities and dies in the
attempt.” The man I loved in you (and whom I still love in you) is
the one who, on the contrary, creates beneath his abilities and does not
die. I mean (approximately) the man who first draws his convictions
from beneath himself, makes sure of their soundness, and only then
climbs up on them, if he can. To say it another way, a man must be a
materialist (you were), then become spiritual, if he wants to or if he can
(and I think that you could have), but not be idealistic in any way at
any time. “The most mediocre German artists,” to use Nietzsche’s words
again, “show genius in their faces, but have hands like everyone else’s.”
And I do not mean to say that you have a face like everyone else’s, but
I like to forget your features and look elsewhere in you to find that
mysterious creative power so often confused with thought-wrongly so,
for it can be anywhere (that power, or those clues), in the walk, the size,
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

the cut of the shoulders, the way a man holds himself, a way of moving,
a way of resting. You are not very big, Stravinsky; you do not look very
strong, at least from a distance. But you are very strong, secretly, be­
cause you will to be and need to be. You were soon going to begin
forty-five minutes of the “Muller System” every morning. I looked hard
at you on that terrace in Crochettaz and you were already what you still
are for me, I mean that rarest of beings, a man, in the füllest sense of
the word; not a social type, nor the simple product of a System of edu-
cation, nor an “artist,” nor a specialist or specialized in whatever you
will. Quite the oppositc of a specialist or specialized, you are a man, and a
complete man, that is, a man cultured and primitive at the same time,
one who is sensitive to complexities but to essentials as well, able to do
the most complicated mental equations and simultaneously react
directly and spontaneously—as it should be, because a man must be
both savage and civilized. He cannot be only primitive, but must be
also primitive.

As soon as Stravinsky had discovered the real, basic value of

rhythms, intervals, and the timbres of instruments—that is, their
real effect on hearing, nerves, and understanding, his only
thought was to conceive music whose guiding principle in con-
struction would be economy. He wanted to purify the language
and throw out deadwood, like pruning a tree, cutting away
dead or weakened branches and preserving only the wood with
sap flowing through it, thus making the most effective use of
his elements of construction. This attitude explains Pulcinella
and Oedipus Rex as well as L’Histoirc du Soldat and Noces.
Stravinsky likes to set himself, or be set, before a certain num-
ber of facts which dehne the boundaries of his ßeld of activity,
determine its meaning, and set the conditions for its form. Ar­
thur Honegger teils a story that illustrates this spiritual dispo-
sition:
A personal expcriencc gave me an idea of how completely Stravinsky
saw everything from a craftsman’s angle. I had met him at the Salle
Gavcau—King David had been commissioned at that time—and I told
him about the trouble I was having balancing a chorus of a hundred
singers and an orchestra of seventeen musicians, the group imposed on
me. “It’s simple,” he said, “think as if you had wanted that disposition
and compose for a hundred voices and seventeen musicians.”
This might seem oversimplified, but his reply gave me an excellent
lesson in composition: to acccpt the thing given not as a thing imposed,
Igor Stravinsky I2^
but as a personal starting point and an inner necessity; hence, to begin
with the sonorous material and to know what music and what technical
combinations can be extracted from it. This point of view is often
evident in Stravinsky’s work, especially in pieces like the Octet for Wind
Instruments and the Concertino for String Quartet. These works are
not composed for a group of wind or string instruments; perfect music
wells from the groups themselves. Many of the works of composers of
this period are so indistinct, instrumentally speaking, that they can be
played by interchangeable groups.

Here is what Stravinsky himself has to say: “What delighted me

most when I was composing Piano Rag Music . . . was that differ­
ent rhythmic episodes were dictated to me by my fingers. My
hands took such pleasure in the piece that I set to work on it.
Fingers should not be despised; they are sources of inspiration,
and, in contact with sonorous material, often awaken subcon-
scious ideas in you which would perhaps not otherwise be
aroused.” This objective and rationalist attitudeis, in Opposition
to the emotional basis of romanticism, the mark of all classicism,
and under the sign of classicism—in depth—stand all of Stravin­
sky’s works after Le Sacre du Printemps. The Schoenbergkreis,
instead, Claims to believe that these works come under the sign
of a type of academism which was a throwback to Bach, Handel,
and Lully. This group, to which the notion of classicism was for-
eign and unknown, can be criticized for its somewhat disdainful
and light treatment of the Traditiönchen of French composers,
which is actually a permanent architectural principle supporting
on its solid foundation a good many methods and transient or re-
nascent ideas which are no more—and sometimes less—academic
than the Zwölftonreihe. Dodecaphonism is a technique of con-
struction, but classicism is a spiritual attitude which has guided
the art of Racine, Mallarme, and Valery; Poussin and Cezanne;
Lully, Bach, and Stravinsky. Classical thinking produces the
perfect adaptation of form to matter.
Can we legitimately speak of principles and French art in con-
nection with Stravinsky? The ans wer to that question will clarify
the position of the composer of Apollon Musagetes. The fact that
Stravinsky’s outlook is generally held to be French in nature
is explained by his having settled in France in 1920, after having
spent the nine previous years in French-speaking Switzerland.
A IIISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

His natural inclination toward classicism could develop com-

fortably in a country where classicism is an accepted System.
Stravinsky was no stranger in France.
Also, a Russian composer was thought of as an artist who
derived from the Five, and who, like Rimsky-Korsakov, Borodin,
and Balakirev, took inspiration mainly from oriental folklore.
These modal or chromatic songs and melodies gave specifically
Russian music an exotic, chatoyant quality. Scheherazade, In
the Steppes of Central Asia, and Islamey made listeners forget
that Russians are Europeans, and that their culture has been
opened to the trends which vitalize Western thought. Boris de
Schloezer describes the European aspect of Russian art:
The case of Stravinsky seems to be incomprehensible. The composer
of the Symphonies for Wind Instruments appears to have shucked off
all vestiges of national character only in the eyes of those (but they
make up the great majority) who hold to the old saying, “Scratch a
Russian and you’ll find a Tartar,“ and who think that Russian art is
necessarily violent, wildly colorful and nostalgic. But anyone who
knows that wonderful period of Russian history—its golden age—which
encompassed the reign of Alexander I and the first years of Nicholas Fs
rule can readily trace Stravinsky’s lineal descent. That age gave us
Glinka, the first of the Russian composers, and Pushkin, the greatest
Russian poet, whom Dostoevsky, in a famous discourse, proclaimed as
the very incarnation of Russian genius. Pushkin, like Glinka, owes a
good deal to his Western teachers. He was bred on foreign literature,
especially English and French, and greatly influenced by Andre Chenier
and Byron. I mention only Glinka and Pushkin, although I could name
many others whose works are imbucd with the taste, measure and bal-
ance which are the sign of the classical mind and which the West has a
tendency to Claim as its exclusive possession.

Glinka’s operas do integrate Russian folklore with the Italian

operatic style derived from Mozart. Tchaikovsky is Russian, but
reflects German and Italian traditions. This interpenetration of
a number of styles, melting down and amalgamating in the
crucible of a powerful personality, is nothing new in Russian
art; nor is there anything odd in Stravinsky’s dedicating his
comic opera Mavra, with its balanced Russian, gypsy and Ital­
ian components, to the memory of Pushkin, Glinka and Tchai-
Igor Stravinsky
Stravinsky’s Orientation toward a synthesis of Eastern and
Western styles began with the composition of Pulcinella and
Mavra. The direction of this Orientation is corroborated by this
important excerpt from Stravinsky’s Chronicles of My Life:
[In 1921,] during that same stay in London, Diaghilev and I thought
up another project that struck deep in my heart. What brought it to
light was our infinite admiration and common love for the great poet
Pushkin, who is, sadly enough, no more than a name to foreigners, but
whose genius, in its diversity and universality, not only was particularly
appealing and precious to us but marked out an entire program for us.
In temperament, mentality and ideology, Pushkin represented the most
perfect example of that extraordinary heritage which begins with Peter
the Great—that happy alliance between what is specifically Russian and
the spiritual jiches of the Western world.
Diaghilev was incontestably an offspring of that lineage. His whole
life-work confirmed the authenticity of his inheritance. I myself had
always feit the germ of that same outlook, a germ that asked only to be
developed, and I cultivated it henceforth most attentively.
There is a difference in this and the thinking of the Five, who did
not take long to become academic and concentrate in the Belyaev group
dominated by Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov. The difference did not
lie in the fact that the one outlook claimed to be cosmopolitan while
the other one was purely nationalistic. Nationalist traits are as impor­
tant in Pushkin’s work as in Glinka’s and Tchaikovsky’s. But these
qualities flowed spontaneously from the very heart of Glinka and
Tchaikovsky, while for the others, the nationalist tendency was a doc-
trinaire aesthetic which they were intent on imposing. This national-
ethnographic aesthetic they insisted on cultivating is essentially not very
far removed from the spirit of all those movies dealing with the old
Russia of tsars and noblemen. What can be seen in these composers, as
in modern Spanish folklorists, painters as well as musicians, is precisely
that naive but dangerous whim that brings them to rework an art in-
stinctively created by the genius of the people. This is a rather sterile
pastime, and an evil that afflicts a good many talented artists. Nonethe-
less, a Western influence came to bear on both of the two groups I am
speaking of, although the origins were different. Tchaikovsky, as well as
Dargomyzhski and others less well known, used folk melodies but did
not hesitate to Gallicize or Italianize them as did Glinka. As for the
nationalists, they also Europeanized their music, but took inspiration
from quite different models—Wagner, Liszt, Berlioz, that is, from the
descriptive and romantic spirit and from program music. Of course, a
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Tchaikovsky coukl not escape Germanic influence. But if he echoed

Schumann, and to the same extent as Gounod, for example, it did not
prevent him from rcmaining Russian nor Gounod from remaining
French. Both profited from the purely musical discoveries of the great
German, eminently musical himself, and borrowed his phraseology and
the peculiarities of his language without adopting his ideology.
The project I spoke of above ended in my composing the Opera
Mavra, based on a subject drawn from Pushkin’s verse-tale, The Little
House of Kolomna. This choice, in which I joined Diaghilev, confirmed
my attitude toward the two currents of Russian thought I have just
differentiated. On the musical plane, Pushkin’s poem led me Straight
to Glinka and Tchaikovsky, and I put myself solidly in their camp.
I crystallized my tastes and preferences accordingly, and my Opposition
to the contrary aesthetic, as I took up the good tradition established by
these masters. This explains why I dedicated my work to the memory of
Pushkin, Glinka, and Tchaikovsky.
It would be shortsighted to think that these Italian, German,
or French aspects of Russian art are limited to an external in­
fluence. The impact went deep. Bach is frequently referred to
in connection with the Concerto for Piano, and correctly so if
only the principle of composition is considered. But when we
listen attentively to each note, the movement of the parts and
the harmonies, we must acknowledge that the music carries the
imprint of a personality other than Bach’s—Stravinsky’s presence
is feit throughout [Example 45]. Certain bathers or ballerinas
in Picasso’s work, also, were suggested by the work of some other
painter; but in those paintings, the curves, proportions, and sur-
face distribution—each detail and the whole composition as
well—reveal Picasso’s genius.
Stravinsky and Picasso have a good deal in common, more-
over. They take what they need wherever they find it, con-
sidering that the art of their predecessors has become every-
one’s property, and they then use it as a basis for launching their
own creation. Such was the procedure of Renaissance painters
and musicians, Purcell, Bach, and Handel. The polymorphic
quality of their art is a direct result of the economy and choice
of their means, and is related to the point on the horizon they
focused on. The so-called returns to Pergolesi, Bach, Handel,
or Weber are not evidence of abdication or retrogression, but
rather indicate the points of departure of a new art. Ingres or
Igor Stravinsky
Negro art has the same function in Picasso’s work. And just as
the painter did not evolve through his pink or blue period to
integral cubism or a more recent phase but changed his pic-
torial concepts, so the composer did not evolve through the Fire-
bird to Le Sacre du Prmtemps and Oedipus Rex, but changed
his musical concepts.
They share a love of simple things and treat them with the
same respect—a populär song or a banal theme has the same
value for Stravinsky as the wires that Picasso, bending them in
natural curves, uses in his works, or the bottles and boxes he
transforms into good painting.

Stravinsky’s technique cannot be properly discussed, since, far

from being; systematic, it varies in relation to the character of
the work being created. We can at most indicate certain aspects
of his language. Let us begin with rhythm.
Romanticism has impaired our sense of rhythm. Building on
a literary or dramatic base engendered specifically arhythmic
music. A leading theme or a leitmotiv with a well-defined
rhythmic structure, which occasionally intervenes, does not in­
gram the rhythm into the whole surrounding musical fabric, en-
gulfed in a sort of orchestral stream almost devoid of articula-
tion. On the other hand, we have seen that rhythm in the atonal
System has the value of a figure which is subjected to modifica-
tions that distort it as soon as it appears. Perception of a rhythm
presupposes its continuity, symmetrical repetition, or modifica-
tion only within recognizable limits, just as tonality can exist
only if it continues long enough to be heard.
Stravinsky restored rhythm to its original meaning. Heart-
beats and breathing are the first meters of life. With their nat­
ural tempo, they are at the root of music. On this metric canvas,
the periodic motion of work and dancing gave rise to musical
rhythms. The body’s vital pulsation in the complete regularity
of heartbeat and breathing is used organically in musical con­
struction, and sets the Standard of measure that makes the flow
of time perceptible. After the disorder created by romanticism,
Stravinsky reinstated that primary function attributed to rhythm
by Schütz, Bach, and Mozart, and made it the thread of his
musical weave.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

It has been said that the primary feature of Stravinsky’s art is

rhythm. This aspect does make a more immediate and striking
impression than others. But the harmonic, contrapuntal, and
melodic features are of no less importance in Stravinsky’s work.
It might be useful here to review the factors relating to
rhythm, since the secondary position it occupied in nineteenth-
century music has caused some confusion. Briefly, the metrical
element governs what derives from the difference between ac-
cented and unaccented notes, independent of the specific time
value of the notes. The rhythmic element, properly speaking,
refers to differences in time value (long and short notes), inde­
pendent of the accentuation. The measure marks the distance
which separates downbeats from each other. Finally, tempo in-
sures uniformity in the speed at which ontological time flows.
After the eighteenth Century, but especially in the nineteenth,
a piece of music was habitually composed of successive identical
measures; the accent feil on the first beat of each measure and co-
incided with the long note. As a result, the potential of rhythm
was markedly limited and its different qualities confused. Acceler-
andos, ritardandos, and rubatos were accumulated so that tempos
followed in irrational succession with no common measure. These
abuses may have been resorted to as a check on the weakening of
rhythm. Re-established in its organic function of corresponding
with our vital pulses, rhythm has once again become an ir­
resistible force.
The passage Augures Printaniers in Le Sacre du Printemps,
our Example 46, shows the constant repetition of the same
rhythmic value in march tempo (J=112), a relentless beat serving
as a springboard for a meter which does not coincide with the
measure. Four different meters can be heard in the 2-4 time as a
result of the placing of the accents. In the passage Jeu du Rapt
of the same score [Example 47], meter and measure do coincide.
The accents fall on the first eighth-note of the measure in 4-8
time and the measure in 5-8 time; the first, fourth, and seventh
eighth-notes in the 9-8 time; and the first and fourth eighth-
notes in the 6-8 time. Stravinsky’s development of rhythm
is perceptible here. Just as in harmony there are retards and ad-
vances or delays of accents, elisions, appoggiaturas, there are, in
Stravinsky’s rhythm, contractions and expansions to support the
Igor Stravinsky
development of melodic motifs. The usual rhythm in Jeu du
Rapt is in 9-8 time. In the measures cited above the accents o£
the motif change place, converting 9-8 time first into 4-8 time +
5-8 time, and then into 5-8 time 4-8 time. The rhythm in the
fourth measure is Condensed simultaneously with the motif into
measures in 6-8 time. Two measures after number 43, after a
dynamic augmentation, there is a rhythmic climax based on a
complex of 7-8 time 3_4 time, and the theme is therefore
played in 13-8 time. This diminishes into 6-8 time 2-4 time,
or 10-8 time, and is finally resolved into a regulär 9-8 time. The
rhythmic and thematic developments reinforce each other. In
such a complex, the common measure is one, or here, an eighth-
note, the smallest unit of the composition.
The Danse Sacrale which ends Le Sacre du Printemps should
be fully examined as an example of Stravinsky’s rhythmic de­
velopment. A reading of the score will show that the first part
of the Danse is built on the rhythm of Example 48, and then
progresses by a process of condensation and enlargement anal-
ogous to the diminution and augmentation of the theme. At
number 149, after a magnificent expansion, a fast rhythm based
on the one simple unit sets in [Example 50]. The seeming
irregularity in succession results from the silences, all of which
equal the simple unit one, as do the sound portions. Negative
measures—moments of silence—occur alongside positive meas­
ures, and acquire the same dynamic value, so that the performer
who is familiär with the music marks these measures when his
momentum meets no resistance with his whole body, as in a
dive. It is the physiological elfect that gives this passage such a
painful throbbing quality—like the earth in labor.
After number 186 the first rhythm picks up again, this time
without negative measures. Sounds follow on each other with
the unalterable regularity common to machinery and the or-
ganisms of living beings.
The rhythm in the final Danse acts like a piston moving a
heavy shaft that continues to turn by its own inertia.
Stravinsky often superimposes two different rhythms. By anal-
ogy with polyphony, such a superimposition is called polyrhythm.
In the first scene of Petrushka, the fair, the binary rhythm of
the song Elle Avait une Jambe en Bois is played by flutes and
A I11STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

clarinets, while small bells and celesta play another song in

ternary rhythm. The Valse in Jeu de Cartes is treated in the
same way. Along with this proper polyrhythm, Stravinsky often
uses another method of superimposition where rhythm is not
really modified but the meter is variable within the measure. Ex-
amples 49a and 49b, drawn from Noces, illusträte this rhythmic
polymorphism. The rhythm is based on the one simple common
unit, an eighth-note. The first and last of the six measures are
marked by a regulär eighth-note beat like the steady throb of a
motor, which we have already feit in the ending of Le Sacre du
Printemps. The second and fourth measures seem to lift the
listener on a ground swell. He is overcome with a sort of dizzi-
ness, loses his footing, and is carried on the crest of a wave. The
sixth measure gives him back his balance. What has happened?
From the second to the fourth measures, we have the duration
of twenty-two eighth-notes in all, on each staff. The diffused line
throughout the two lower staves is regulär. Those of the upper
staves include five and seven eighth-notes respectively, and are
repeated twice. The accent falls on odd eighth-notes, that is, the
fifth and seventh of the regulär line in the first rendition. In the
second, contrary to all expectations, the accent is placed on the
even eighth-notes (sixteenth and eighteenth) of the bass line.
The tide has reversed and thwarts the usual flow of the rhythm,
which does not return to normal until the sixth measure. If that
period of four measures is considered, as it should be, as an in­
dissoluble whole, the explanation of the work becomes plain.
Similar distortions in the relationship between meter and
rhythm appear in the march from L’Histoire du Soldat and the
overture to Mavra, among others. Stravinsky once said, “I race
with my meter. My greatest joy is to feel myself master of my
race. I run like a well-oiled machine.”
The preceding examples sliow that the bar in this music is
both an obstacle and a support. It affords resistance which the
music then overcomes. Measures are rarely missing in Stravinsky’s
music. They are absent only in certain passages of a cadential
nature, for exarnple, in Piano Rag Music, in one of the Four
Russian Songs, and in the Capriccio, The cadences are metric,
and the rubato is excluded.
The independence of the metric and rhythmic Systems pro-
Igor Stravinsky
vides wonderful motive power. It catches the listener off guard,
because it contradicts his inner, bodily rhythm, and rushes him
headlong into movement. It is not surprising to see that contra-
diction disappear in works like Oedipus Rex and the Symphony
of Psalms, in which Stravinsky set out to create a static atmos-
phere. Certain compositions are organized on a succession of
varied meters within the melody with the polyphony submitted
to that Order. This is especially noticeable in the Octet and the
Dumbarton Oaks Concerto [Example 5z].
Note as well the effect produced by successions of chords with­
out accents, set down quietly and all the more clearly, in that
they are separated by an obligatory breath. Movement seems to
freeze or congeal, so to speak. The rhythm of the coda at the end
of the Octet is braked by this device [Example 52].
Time plays a very important part in metric music, and, based
on the speed of the value that serves as the common measure of
the diversified rhythm System, this speed becomes uniform. The
whole score of Noces is conditioned by the eighth-note whose
uniform speed is 80 per minute. The music reaches a velocity
that remains constant to the end. The mass put in motion cannot
stop itself. This is so true that it is literally and physically im-
possible to cause an interruption between the parts—the con-
tinuity must proceed without pause.

Harmony and counterpoint are closely related. An examina-

tion of Stravinsky’s work as a whole clearly shows that his system
is contrapuntal. The composer has often spoken of how little he
was interested in the study of harmony when he was young. Pre-
cepts of harmony were an obstacle for him, and he preferred to
solve problems of this order in his own way. As we know,
Schoenberg had already pointed out the shortcomings of the
academic harmonic system, for all its freedom, relative to the
present state of musical language. Stravinsky, on the contrary,
stresses the joy he took in studying counterpoint, which stimu-
lates ideas one on top of another, favoring creativity. In the
majority of his works, the harmony comes from the encounter
of voices.
Stravinsky’s early works have a chromatic basis, not like
Wagner’s chromaticism but rather like Scriabin’s, Debussy’s, and
A HI STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Dukas’s. This is true of the Scherzo Fantastique, Fireworks,

Firebird, and the first act of The Nightingale. In Three Japanese
Lyrics the melody is occasionally atonal in the männer of Schoen­
berg.
The composer began his training in the atmosphere of chro-
matic oriental melodies of the Rimsky-Korsakov school. Russian
folk melodies, on the other hand, are diatonic, and we know
how important a role they play in Stravinsky’s works after
Petrushka.
The complex chords found in his scores are always conceivable
in the framework of a given note, but they can be interpreted
in many ways. Stravinsky’s harmony is, moreover, essentially
ambiguous. Like his themes and rhythms, it has considerable
motive power. Le Sacre du Printemps contains one chord that
directs the score and can be heard throughout the work in one
form or another, and that gives the piece its harmonic basis. It
opens the Augures Printaniers. This is the chord that Struck
Stravinsky’s imagination at the outset and set in motion the
creation of the score [Example 46}. The chord can be thought
of as the superimposition of a perfect Fb major chord and the
dominant seventh chord of Ab; or Fb major and Eb major (with
inferior appoggiatura of the tonic); or finally, as the chord of Eb
major with the appoggiatura Db in the upper part of the chord
and, in the lower part, the three superior appoggiaturas Cb, Ab,
and Fb. That basic chord, which Andre Schaeffner in his excellent
book traced throughout the score of Le Sacre, can therefore be
explained (in the etymological sense of the word) in different
ways within different episodes.
Similarly, in Petrushka, the chord based on C major plus FS
major dominates the whole score. This is not a case of poly-
tonality, which consists in an independent evolution of a num­
ber of melodic lines in different keys, as in Milhaud’s music.
Polytonality is contrapuntal. The proper term for this harmonic
superimposition might be the one used by Emile Vuillermoz,
polyharmony, meaning that the chord forms a whole, a unit, but
that its sense is not polarized but multiple.
True bitonality occurs only rarely and is always resolved on
the preponderant note. Petrushka offers numerous examples.
On the harmonic plane also, the same chord may contain major
Igor Stravinsky
and minor thirds, and although only one tonal chord exists, the
two modes are involved [Example 53]. Superimpositions of tonic
and dominant chords also frequently occur, the effect being to
compound the functions of tonic and dominant into a single
note. Not onl] are these methods widely applied by Stravinsky
in his works, but they have become Standard practice in almost
all Contemporary tonal music.
Attribution of multiple functions to one chord or one note
has more value in counterpoint than in harmony. The note on
which different voices meet is thrown into sharp relief by the
importance given it at the moment of meeting, and it is often
the only contact point between melodic lines which could other-
wise be totally divorced. Stravinsky calls it the “polar note.” It is
not necessarily the tonic. The Serenade for Piano is in A—not
A major or A minor, and not even the key of A. But the whole
musical body converges on and revolves around that note, which
is necessary at every moment of the music, despite its frequent
change of meaning [Example 54]. Note also that in Le Sacre du
Printemps or The Nightingale, certain apparently inexplicable
chords become meaningful in their Instrumentation, and seem
to melt into a single timbre or become more understandable in
the orchestra by the fact that certain notes acquire preponderant
sonorous weight [Example 55].
Stravinsky’s harmony is no more systematic than his rhythm.
It is strictly dependent on themes, counterpoint, rhythm, and
Orchestration. All these elements are subordinated to the abso­
lute attitude taken at the outset by the composer, and are de-
termined by his vision of the music to be made. Stravinsky’s art
is above all realistic. Analysis, dissociating what is not made to
be dissociated, can therefore only give the listener or reader of
the score a few Supports or signposts, and show him that each of
Stravinsky’s works is a being ruled by its own laws.
There are no two works by Stravinsky which are conceived
for the same orchestra; and this is logical. In the nineteenth
Century music which had been created for piano was often
orchestrated. Music was given instrumental clothing. The orches­
tra acquired a splendor so magnetic and spellbinding in its
particular charm that the musical material itself was often lost
from view or relegated to a secondary plane. Mahler had reacted
A HI STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

against the concept of the orchestra being focused on for itself

alone, and used Orchestration simply as a nieans of presen ting
his idea clearly.
Stravinsky invents according to each instrument. The musical
phrase is a direct product of the natural and specific dispositions
of the instruments in die orchestra. The concept of orchestral
continuum, or orchestra pedal, is still strong in Firebird, but is
not feit in subsequent works. Of course, the enormous orchestra
in Le Sacre du Printemps contributes certain massive effects and
mixtures of sounds to die magic feeling of the whole work. But
there are nunierous passages of music that seem to be shaped
direetly by the instrument—the opening, for example. written for
solo wind instruments [Example $S]; the Cercles Mysterieux des
Adolcscents, which could not sound as it does if it had been con-
ceived widi another orchestral grouping in mind; or the prelude
to the second part, built on the interplay of various homogeneous
groups. This technique is also applied in The Nightingale.
In iVoccn, a percussion orchestra (four pianos used in a batterv
as percussion instruments) is set in Opposition to the wind
element, represented by human voices. L'Histoire du Soldat re-
duces the orchestra to the essential so that each group covers the
entire reacli of its sound scale: a clarinet and a bassoon, a cornet
and a trombone, a violin and a double bass, and percussion. The
“little concert“ in this work combines the legato of the clarinet,
staccato of the cornet, and the double strings of the bowed In­
struments [Examplc 5P]. Apollon Alusagetes is a string sextet.
Each new idea, therefore. or each architectural plan, requires
different orchestral arrangement.
Andre Schaffner makes the point that Stravinsky composes by
sections, that the work unfolds like a fan. and that the various
episodes take off from a conimon point to which he returns each
time, giving an inipression of unity. This im pression is rein-
forced by the fact that the most concerted attention is given to
transitions or junctures. The end of one section sometimes intro-
duces the beginning of the next from some distance, as in
In the Symphony of Psalms, the transition from the second to
the third parts, by a mysterious affinity and by the chord progres-
sions, seems like an obligatorv passage which will not allow the
two sections to be separated. Tlie transitions in Le Baiser de la
Igor Stravinsky z z
I'ee are probably the most carefully wrought in all of Stravinsky’s
compositions. Each part thrusts its roots as far as thirty measures
back into the preceding part.
Conclusions as well are always particularly beautiful. They are
a sort of resume, a condensation of the work, calling up its
essence. First, the dramatic finale of Petrushka, remarkable for
its expression of melancholy, is based on recalls of themes rc-
quired by the dramatic action. Notice the end of the Octet, the
Symphony of Psalms, the Symphonies for Wind Instruments,
whose music seems to solidify in a suite of chords, petrify and
become a sort of majestic colonnade. Listen to the ending of
Apollon Musagetes; and, in another sense, the coda of the final
fugue in the Concerto for Two Pianos, whose energy is so con-
centrated that it reaches the explosive force of Le Sacre du
Printernps.
Stravinsky’s themes are not important in their primary role
of themes, but in the infinite number of combinations they are
worked into. They are therefore generally very simple, but have
a definite structural character.
With the exception of a few passages, the Firebird grows from
a single cell [Example 6o], and fluctuates around the major and
minor thirds. The Jeu de Cartes is a really astonishing phantas-
magoria on the three tones of the perfect chord.
A further word on the subject of vocal music. Stravinsky
chooses his texts for their sonorous and rhythmic value. In Noces
and Renard, as well as Oedipus Rex, the song is syllabic. As a
result, articulation is clean and clear without the voice over-
riding the orchestra. The voices themselves are treated as integral
parts of the orchestra, which is what gives Noces and Symphony
of Psalms their cohesion.

Vitruvius’s definition of symmetry, a much deeper definition

than simple visual or auditory repetition and imitation, can
be applied to Stravinsky’s art. It is “the existence of a com-
mon measure between various parts, between the parts and the
whole, and between the sum and its formal elements.”

It is not within the scope of this book to discuss all of

Stravinsky’s works and their purpose. Almost all the music born
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

of his genius is important and beautiful. We can only outline

the character of some of the particularly significant compositions.
Firebird is a score whose bright colors wonderfully illustrate
a fairy tale that might have come from A Thousand and One
Nights. Its sensual, oriental melodies link with diatonic melodies
of the Russian occidental type. The brilliant Orchestration is
reminiscent of Rimsky-Korsakov’s best works.
Petrushka takes place at the St. Petersburg fair. It is the tale
of three marionettes, Petrushka (the Russian Pierrot), the Bal­
lerina, and the Moor, who are brought to life by a charlatan.
The scenes of the play form the two central panels of a sym­
phony. The outer wings are a sort of synthesis of the fair which
repeat, with the insistence of a rondo’s refrain, something like
the music of an enormous accordion. Petrushka does not soothe
the listener with a soft halo of sound or charm him with a play
of lulling resonance. It is written in forthright, sharp language
that gives the music the “close-woven“ quality described by Andre
Schaeffner, who also speaks of “the mastery asserted in the fear-
less ubiquity of the polyphony and the unexpected abbreviations
of rhythm or Instrumentation; the willful but generous and
concise character.“ Schaeffner also quotes the opinion of Alain-
Fournier, who calls the work “inescapable and precise like a
dream.“ Jacques Riviere, in 1911, spoke of Petrushka in these
words: “Stravinsky’s audacity appears in his simplifications. He
unhesitatingly uses a thousand delightful improprieties. He sup-
presses, he clarifies; and his touch is never anything but sure and
brief. He takes a trumpet, and the beauty of it is that he takes
only the trumpet. His innuendoes are powerful and his strength
consists in what he learns to do without.“ These opinions from
writers show that Stravinsky’s art does not speak only to musi­
cians. Stravinsky and Picasso are perhaps the twö artists in the
Contemporary world who have awakened the greatest interest
among all types of creative workers. For in approaching the most
elemental materials of their art, and using them to build on a
surface cleared of all inherited tradition, they allow the closest
view of the phenomenon of creation. Basically there is often a
special, distinct vision which conditions the least details of the
work it inspires.
Igor Stravinsky m
The germ of Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring)
was a daydream. Stravinsky had imagined a young girl dancing
before an audience of men so incredibly old that they seemed
petrified. The Vision crystallized into a chord and a theme which
formed the basis of the score. It was only later that the symbolism
of the vision came clear—the Opposition of that young, soft life
to the mineral hardness of the old men, the bud breaking
through the wood in springtime, growing and rejuvenating the
old tree trunk. “Springtime, the Saint“ should be the translation
of the title. Stravinsky decided to incorporate the young girl’s
dance into a sort of ancient ritual. He approached the paintex
Nicholas Roerich, an authority on prehistoric Russia, and to-
gether they drew up the plan for the scenario of Tableaux de la
Russie Paienne, the first part of which contains Les Augures
Printaniers, the Jeu du Rapt, the Cites Rivales, Cortege du Sage,
and the Danse de la Terre. The second part is called Le Sacrifice.
The young girl is sacrificed to the earth so that Spring will re-
turn. The idea of sacrifice was what determined the definitive
title, Le Sacre du Printemps. Düring the second part the young
girl is immobile, surrounded by a mystic circle of adolescents.
Then come the Glorification de l’Elue, Evocation des Ancetres,
Action Rituelle des Ancetres, and finally the Danse Sacrale de
l’Elue. Now surrounded by an attentive and motionless circle,
she does the dance of death, offered as a holocaust to the forces
of life.
Le Sacre du Printemps unquestionably ranks among the most
overpowering works of music the world has ever heard. “The
organ is of the earth,“ said Louis Laloy, “but a musician is at the
keyboard.“ And Jean Cocteau called it “Georgics of prehistory.“
Diaghilev never tired of saying that Le Sacre du Printemps
was the Ninth Symphony of the twentieth Century. It is certainly
the most significant work of this Century to date. It has re-estab-
lished the natural and physiological values of the elements of
music. Everything written since Le Sacre du Printemps has a
mode of being and an attitude which would be impossible if
Le Sacre had not been written. Others of Stravinsky’s works may
be as beautiful, or even more perfect, but none have been so
laden with consequences. Listening to Le Sacre du Printemps
negates all thought of aesthetic or technique. This is the work
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

of a visionary and a genius, precipitous music of incomparable

evocative power.
L’Histoire du Soldat was born from the desire to produce a
small spectacle in poetry and music, a stage piece that could be
mounted easily and well, even in villages. The outline of the
story is borrowed from Russian folklore. Here is what Stravinsky
says about it:
The subject of our play was furnished by the Russian tales in the
famous Afanasiev collection, which at that time [1918] I was very much
taken with. I showed them to Ramuz, who is very sensitive to the Rus­
sian muse, and he immediately responded to my enthusiasm. For the
theatrical purpose we had in mind, our attention was especially drawn
to the cycle of legends about the adventures of an army deserter and
the devil who infallibly succeeds in capturing his soul with his devices.
. . . Even though the atmosphere of these tales is specifically Russian
in character, the situations they describe, the feelings they express,
and the morals they draw are so human and general that they bear a
relationship to all nations. It was precisely the essentially human side
that tempted Ramuz and me in this tragic story of the soldier who falls
mortal prey to the devil.
When he had chosen the seven concert Instruments he would
write his score for, Stravinsky decided to make the ensemble a
visual part of the play.
If the movements [of the musicians] are solely the result of the re-
quirements of the music and do not tend to distract the audience as
extraneous flourishes, why not follow visually the motions which help
your auditory perception, like the arms of the kettle-drummer, the
Violinist, or trombone-player? Frankly, the people who claim to enjoy
rnusic fully only when their eyes are closed hear no better than with
their eyes open, but the absence of visual distractions makes it possible
for them to give themselves over to reveries under the lulling influence
of the sound, and this they love better than the music itself. These are
the ideas which prompted me to put my little orchestra for L’Histoire
du Soldat in clear sight on one side of the stage, with the other side
occupied by a little stand for the reciter. This arrangement defined the
hinging of the three essential elements in the piece which, in close
liaison, should form a whole. In the center, the scene and actors, flanked
by the music on one side and the reciter on the other. In our way of
thinking these three elements alternately passed the Word to each other
and combined into an ensemble.
Igor Stravinsky
US
About the Symphonies for Wind Instruments (dedicated to
Debussy), the composer says that “they contain none of those
elements which the usual listener reacts to infallibly or is ac-
customed to hearing. It is useless to listen for a passionate elan
or the dynamic explosion. This is an austere ceremony which
develops through short litanies between different families of
homogeneous instruments.” The Symphonies evoke a touching,
even poignant, feeling. They deserve to be considered as one o£
Stravinsky’s most important works.
In this very rieh and diversified body of work, with its sonori-
ties so often renewed, Noces is the most striking score. It is suf-
fused with joy from the first note to the last. Its music launches
voices, pianos, and percussion instruments in a song of jubilation.
Neither the Orchestration nor the choice of melodies, only some
of which are true folk songs, creates an atmosphere of folk festi-
val. The rejoicing is an expression of pure happiness, and the
joy sometimes sounds liturgical. Although it was composed with
the stage in mind, this admirable cantata does very well without
theatrical trappings.
For the opera-oratorio Oedipus Rex, Stravinsky asked Jean
Cocteau for a text, and had Father Jean Danielou translate it
into Latin. He hoped to create a sense of tragedy bv suppressing
all action, keeping only the essential of the drama. He explains
the choice of Latin thus:
By chance I found Jörgensen’s book on St. Francis of Assisi, a book
I had heard a good deal about. While reading it I was struck by a
passage that confirmed a deeply rooted conviction of mine. We know
that the usual language of the saint was Italian. But on solemn occa-
sions, like times of praycr, he used French (Proven^al?—his mother was
Proven^al). I have always thought that for things approaching the
sublime a special language imposes itself, and not the language of
everyday use. This is why I looked for the language most appropriate
to the projected work and, finally, decided on Latin. My choice afforded
an added advantage—I was having to do with material which was not
dead but petrified, which had become monumental and immunized
against trifling. . . . What a joy to compose the music around a fixed,
almost ritualistic language, a high-toned language, and one that imposes
itself. One no longer feels dominated by the phrase or the word in its
proper meaning. They have settled into an unchangeable mold that
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

guarantees proper expressive value, and they require no further com-

mentary. The text then becomes a purely phonetic matter for the com­
poser. He can break it down as he wishes and direct all his attention
to the primitive structural element, that is, the syllable. Wasn’t this
the way the disciplined old masters treated texts? This was the Church’s
attitude toward music for centuries, and its means of preventing senti-
mentality and, consequently, individualism from pouring in.

These words show us how carefully Stravinsky weighs his judg-

ments and elements before he begins composing his works. At
each new beginning, everything is questioned anew. He Starts
from nothing and focuses the converging rays of his ideas.
Only once, I think, did Stravinsky make a mistake. In Le
Baiser de la Fee, he is in a subordinate position to Tchaikovsky,
whom he takes as his point of departure. We have seen that
Stravinsky’s short, simple themes, because of their often neutral
nature, can be adapted to whatever combinations the composer
forms them into. Tchaikovsky’s melodies are true melodies. They
contain their own harmony and are possessed of a complete
meaning which nothing can modify. Stravinsky can underline
them with magnificent counterpoints, create the most beautiful
and perfect transitions, and the listener in spite of everything
will still have the impression that he is hearing a work by
Tchaikovsky. Stravinsky’s personality is inoperative. Le Baiser
de la Fee is quite the opposite of Pulcinella, in which Stravinsky
has absorbed Pergolesi.
Apollon Musagetes, Stravinsky’s gentlest, tenderest, and most
intimate work, has a very interesting history.
When, in my admiration for the lineal beauty of classical dancing,
I thought of doing a ballet in the same genre [says the composer], I
thought in terms of what is called "white ballet,” which to my eyes
represents the essence of that art in all its purity. I foünd a marvelous
freshness in it, due to the absence of polychrome embellishment or
excess. These qualities prompted me to compose music with the same
characteristics. Diatonic composition seemed to me to be the most ap-
propriate means to this end, and the sobriety of its style decided my
views on the instrumental group I would use. First I discarded the usual
orchestra because of the heterogeneity of its construction—entire groups
of strings, woods, brasses, and percussion instruments. I also discarded
harmonic ensembles (woods and brasses) whose sonorous effects have
Igor Stravinsky
really been exploited too often nowadays, and I chose strings. Orches­
tral use of these instruments has long suffered from a very unfortunate
deviation. As often as they have been made to sustain dynamic effects,
so often has their role been reduced to that of simple colorists. I confess
I have myself done them this wrong.

The primordial role of bowed instruments, determined by their

country of origin, Italy, consisting primarily in cultivating song
and melody, has been abandoned, and with good reason. With
these instruments, Stravinsky has created the supreme harmony
of Symphony of Psalms and the lucid pleasure of the Jeu de
Cartes.

Stravinsky went to live in California in 1938. There, free of

irritations and removed from the polemics that have occupied
too much of the European musical scene since 1945, he has been
able to concentrate on his work in an atmosphere of peace. He
has written some of his most perfect pieces in America: Orpheus,
the Mass, and The Rake’s Progress. Despite the clarity of his
intentions and of his art, each new work still excites a con-
troversy which ends, however, as soon as the world audience
adopts the works.
If at one time Stravinsky restricted his work of assimilation
and re-creation to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century styles, his
fiele! of activity has continually expanded in his most recent
works. The Flemish Renaissance suggested elements of style to
him for the Mass and Cantata on Anonymous Elizabethan Songs.
He has amalgamated these elements with a melismatic song that
appeared as early as Oedipus Rex, the source of which lies in
Balkan and Caucasian folk music.
The opera The Rake’s Progress, very rieh musically, lyrically,
and dramatically, is possibly the work which, of all his composi-
tions, best exemplifies Stravinsky’s personality. For this reason
we will examine it closely.
To be understood, the norms prevalent in the eighteenth Cen­
tury must be renounced. In order to know the nature and purpose
of the art of music and appreciate the value of its active ele­
ments, the phenomenon of music must be studied as a whole—
from the mutterings of Australian aborigines to the abstractions
of our youngest Contemporary musicians. Unless the Student
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

is aware of measure and of the melodic succession of intervals

of sound, or of the Organization of time, and unless he realizes
that the choice of intervals and rhythmic articulation constitute
the cssentials of music as do lincs, angles, surfaces, and colors in
painting, he will nevcr see further than the surface of music; he
will never be ablc to penetrate the interior of its being. On the
other hand, music, like other manifestations of man’s powers, can
be thought to have nothing mysterious in its evolution. The crea-
tor works according to pre-existent models. These models, which
he will modify and use as the basis of innovation, are chosen or
imposed in relation to his own tempcrament and the trends of
his time. If he is an artist, the creator mixes his models together,
grinds them down and assimilates them—that is, he re-forms them
into his own likeness and stamps them with his own genius.
This is a recognized process in the plastic arts, as Henry
Focillon and Andre Malraux have amply dcmonstrated. El Greco
is the heir of Tintoretto. It is neithcr the subject matter nor the
composition of their canvases which distinguishes one from the
other, but rather the economy of proportions, lines, surfaces, and
ränge of colors which give each painter his own unique expres-
sion. Thirty years ago you could see Watteau’s Embarquement
pour Cythere, as repainted by Cezanne, hanging on a wall at the
Jas de Bouffan. The subject and general plan had not been
modified. But each Cezanne brush-strokc made the canvas an
incontestablc Cezanne painting. No one will dispute the power
of Georges Rouault’s personality, and the world cites the sources
of his art like titles of nobility: early Egyptian paintings, mosaics
from Ravenna, the stained-glass windows of Chartres.
But if a composer rcturns to sources which can stimulate his
imagination, he is criticized— The Rake’s Progress is put down
as a simple pastiche of Mozart. Of course, it is easy to recognize
certain Mozartian touches in the development of the music, but
why was a similar accusation not made concerning Noces, which
on the contrary was agreed to be authentic Stravinsky? The
reason is that in this case the models were taken from Russian
folk art, which is practically unknown in Western Europe. The
same folk sources are fundamental to Le Sacre du Printemps,
Igor Stravinsky 149
which explains precisely why the Russians attached little im-
portance to this work and Petrushka when they were composed.
Their judgment was dominated by the surface resemblance of
the compositions to sources they knew well. But the extemal ap-
pearance and the inner being of a work must not be confused.
The act of artistic creation consists principally in carrying
pre-existing language, not ideas, to a higher potential and greater
power of action while correlating it to exigcncies of the moment.
From the resulting metamorphosis come the conceptions of the
composer and of his era. Bach seized upon some of Vivaldi’s
concertos and Marccllo’s toccatas, and even some of Purcell’s
melodies, and transformed them from the inside—sometimes
modifying the exterior appearance only slightly. So did Mozart
handle the Italianism of the generation that preceded him. And
so does Stravinsky transfigure his models. In the case of The
Rake’s Progress, it is easy to see the refcrences to Mozart, Rossini,
and Schubert as sources, but other contrapuntal models are not
recognized because, by a stroke of fortune, they are much less
well known by music lovers. Have audiences listened so poorly as
not to notice the importance of polyphony in The Rake’s
Progress or to think of sources like Guillaume de Machaut,
Dufay, Okeghem, and for that matter all of the forms of poly­
phony from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries? Unquestion-
ably, Slav epic songs are basic to Tom Rakewell’s ballads in
the third act.
Decidedly, listeners pay little attention to melody types, to
those curves vibrating with truth and life because of the particu-
lar place reserved for the half-note, because of a tetrachordal rela­
tionship interfering with the function of the fifth, or an unex-
pected cadence—all resulting in an ending other than the classic
major.
In details like these the spirit of the music is revealed and
the talent of the creative genius can be appreciatcd. The same
is true of the smallest details in accentuation and mctric struc-
ture. Whoever uses the word detail is not speaking of accessory;
he grasps the essential, the center and the heart of music.
Let us look at two chords [Example 56]. According to the
eighteenth- and nineteenth-century concepts, they would be con-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

ceived as a seventh and one of its inversions. Present-day thinking

2
would call the first a 4 chord of DS. It is dissonant. The second
6
is a major seventh chord in E. It defines the key of E major with
more precision and force than does the perfect chord. It is con-
sonant in relation to the preceding chord. The linking of the
two chords is a cadence whose expression and meaning are
totally different from the classic cadence [Example 57].
Stravinsky is the modern world’s greatest artisan of that nat­
ural, non-dogmatic harmony based on physical and physiological
realities (see Hindemith’s The Craft of Musical Composition
and Koechlin’s Tratte de VHarmonie'). To measure his impor-
tance, simply compare a recitative cadence from The Rake’s
Progress (piano and vocal score, page 2 [Example 6z]) with what
Mozart or Rossini might have written [Example 62}. The reader
can feel the increase of power and drive that Stravinsky gives the
beginning of the air following the recitative in carrying over
the resolution on the perfect chord, which normally ends the
recitative.
Following our examples of transfiguration on the harmonic
plane, Example 63 shows a polyphonic transformation. This is
a piece of a ballad by Guillaume de Machaut that we place in
contrast with a ritornelle from The Rake’s Progress (piano and
vocal score, page 60 [Example 6/]).
People often seem to think that the works Stravinsky wrote
after The Rake’s Progress differ in essence from those that went
before. There does not seem to be sufficient reason for drawing
a line here delineating two different conceptions. If we look at
the chronology of the composer’s production after 1950, we see
the following list: Cantata (1951-1952); Septet and Three Songs
of Shakespeare (1953)
* Dirge-Canons and Song in Memoriam
Dylan Thomas (1954); Canticum Sacrum ad Honorem Sancti
Marei Nominis (1955); Agon (1957); Threni (1958); and Elegy
for Raoul Dufy, Movements for Piano and Orchestra, and Epi­
taphium für den Prinzen Max Egon zu Fürstenberg (1959).
This listing exceeds the general historic period covered in this
book by four years. This exception is justified because Stravin­
sky’s art is characteristic of the first part of the Century, and
Igor Stravinsky
because the works written after 1950 do not break with those
written before but are a continuation of them, and perhaps their
fulfillment. The period 1951-1960, by general opinion, falls
under the sign of Webern and Schoenberg because the principles
of serial composition were adopted during that period. This does
not alter the fact that it also falls under the sign of Bach and
Gesualdo—Stravinsky wrote instrumentalizations of several of
the works of these two masters.
If the principle of serial composition specifically evokes the
thought of Webern, Stravinsky nonetheless adopts it only insofar
as it is compatible with the tonal conception of music. If he
orchestrates Bach’s Choral-Variationen über ein Weihnachtslied,
it is because he wants to immerse himself in the contrapuntal
rigor he needs to pursue his path and achieve the aim he has set
for himself, namely, the perfect integration of the musical com­
position. If he borrows from the madrigalist in his Monumen-
tum pro Gesualdo di Venosa (1960), he does so. in Order to meas­
ure how far chromaticism and tonality are compatible and to
evaluate the degree of freedom he confers.
The amalgam of tonality-modality, of chromaticism and serial
composition conceived as an extension of the musical techniques
of the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century polyphonists, defines the
style of the works of the decade 1950-1960.
In the Cantata, written after The Rake’s Progress, Stravinsky’s
concern with uniting the rhythms and sonorities of the English
language takes a purely lyrical form. The piece is built on an
alternation of a Lyke-Wake Dirge for voices and instruments
in the key of D (the Phrygian modality of the Middle Ages),
concluding in D major, with ricercari for solo voice and instru­
ments. Like Willaert’s and Frescobaldi’s, these ricercari are
canonical compositions offering extremely rieh combinations of
the subject in its four positions. The second riccrcare is very
developed and includes points of repose after each canon in the
form of a ritornelle. Stripped of all dramatic intent, this long
meditation is compensated by a duo for solo soprano and tenor.
Its dynamism as much as the profane subject itself introduces
the element of asymmetry into the Symmetrie structure that gives
it movement.
The Septet marks a further step toward integration of the
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

sonorous material, drawn entirely from the theme of the first

movement. This theme, which is diatonic, utilizes the entire
scale, and is clearly written in A major. Its exposition and its
combinations with its own augmentation introduce a fugato
whose subject is established by the first six notes of the theme.
The second movement, a passacaglia, is developed on a theme
whose first five notes are a transposition of the first five notes of
the theme of the first movement. It is treated in canons as a
series not of twelve but of sixteen notes, only eight of which
are different. The piece oscillates around two polar notes, E and
A (the relationship of the fifth, the backbone of tonality). The
final gigue is a succession of four fugues whose subject is the
theme of the passacaglia. The composition is serial, but the series
includes repetitions of notes resulting in more frequent use of
certain intervals which then become predominant.
The delicately and sensitively lyric Songs of Shakespeare are
similar in character to the Septet.
In Memoriam Dylan Thomas comprises a song for tenor solo
and string quartet framed in the Dirge-Canons for four trom-
bones and string quartet. The two groups are treated as two
antiphonic instrumental choruses. The entire composition is
strictly based on a series of five notes which are defined only in
intervals of half-notes and a minor third. The axis of the whole
work is the note E, which in the cadences appears sometimes as
the third degree of C major and sometimes as the tonic of E
major. The In Memoriam exliibits, as fully as does the Cantata,
the composer’s dual concern with form (unity of sonorous ma­
terial, logic of the deduction) and with architecture (statement
and proportion of various pieces, based on the symmetry of the
whole and the asymmetry of certain details).
In the Canticle of Saint Mark, there is a sense of symbolism
in addition to compositional concerns. Symbolism, a normal de-
velopment in cultural groups which express thought by analogy,
rules the arts in Asia and ruled them in Europe until the
end of the Middle Ages. Was it his conception of the Byzantine
character of Saint Mark in Venice which induced the composer
to incorporate this element of symbolism, or did he include it
from a feeling of greater general sympathy which is leading his
thought closer and closer to that of the great fourteenth-century
Igor Stravinsky
creators? Whatever the inspiration, the third or middle of the five
parts that constitute the Canticle is the most important, just as
the third cupola is the most imposing of the five that crown the
Basilica of Saint Mark in the shape of a cross.
Architecturally, the first and fifth parts are balanced by their
sonorous weight, and are registered by tonal basses. The second
and fourth parts are built on a series of twelve notes which give
no tonal indication except in the cadences. The third part, Ad
Tres Virtutes Hortationem, is itself subdivided into three sections
—Caritas, Spes, and Fides. The twelve-tone series demands the
use of diatonic intervals, while the vertical sections of polyphony
accent the fifths, fourths, and thirds, which, because of the fre-
quency and the central position they occupy in the structure,
form a sort of keystone that gives the music the solidity of a
key tonal signature in a subtle but effective way. In this central
portion the series acts as an instrumental cantus firmus support-
ing the polyphonic play of the voices.
The splendor of the Canticle makes it Stravinsky’s masterwork
of the years 1950-1960. Though the second part of the com­
position is reminiscent of Webern, the whole refers unmistaka-
bly, but in a modern fashion, to the musical thought of the end
of the ars nova period, to that transition into the fifteenth Cen­
tury marked by Ciconia’s elegant forcefulness and the rüde vigor
of Venetian compositions like Antonius Romanus’s motet Stirps
Mocenigo-Ducalis Sedes. This Canticle brings to full flower Stra­
vinsky’s concept of creating lavish music in austerity—the ex­
tremes touch in his interior life.
While the ballet Agon profits from the greater Integration
provided by serial composition, Stravinsky once again takes the
opportunity to give free rein to his multifaceted imagination.
But after this interlude he returns to the task of Stripping his
music, of weeding out everything that might be corrupting or
superfluous.
Like the Canticle, the text of Threni, Id Est Lamentationes
Jeremiae Prophetae is in Latin, taken from the Vulgate. The
Threni differs from the Canticum in its spirit and consequently
in arrangement.
Unlike the Canticum, the Lamentations is not a concert piece;
it creates the feeling of a liturgical Service. Basically a choral
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

work, it is accompanied by an orchestra which is sparingly

used in small, varied groups. More than in the Canticle,
the polyphony here is concerned with the combination of the
melodic lines on the serial foundation, apparently without dis-
turbing the harmonic incidents. Given these conditions, for the
sake of maintaining the tonal quality, the instrumental support
takes the form of a double bourdon (tonic and fifth), the chorus
periodically adopts a simple cadential function, and the series
itself is submitted at times to modifications in the order of the
notes. The Threni must be listened to in meditation “with the
inner ear,” that is, with the spirit and in meditation.
We might well ask why Stravinsky, having adopted serial com­
position, continues to abide by tonality. The answer is that he
has always been convinced of the absolute necessity of this prin­
ciple, considering it to be the backbone of all music. Though
we might acknowledge the complete success of Webern’s atonal
works, we must not forget that his works were very short, never
lasting more than a few minutes. This brevity allows the listener
to grasp the piece as a whole, despite the absence of reference
points. But the Canticum and the Threni are longer, lasting
thirty to thirty-five minutes. As a result, the indications of tonal­
ity become indispensable to the perception of the Statement and
to the perspectives of the musical structure. Schoenberg himself
claimed the right to refer to the perfect chord whenever he feit
that it was needed.
In brief, Stravinsky’s latest compositions make us think of
Machaut, Ciconia, Schütz, Gesualdo, Bach, and Webern. More-
over, in these recent works the composer has preserved, above
all, his total personality. These works constitute a whole, and
one can freely say that through its Integration into the whole,
the potential of serial composition has become enlarged and its
true significance has been found.
If we complete the list of the works we have been discussing
with the last to appear at this writing, Movements for Piano
and Orchestra, Elegy for Raoul Dufy, Epitaphium für den
Prinzen Max Egon zu Fürstenberg, and Monumentum, we ar-
rive at the conclusion that the works of the 1950-1960 period
crown all the efforts and research of the first half of the Century.
Igor Stravinsky Z55
And these works may well represent for our time what Bach’s
Musikalisches Opfer was for the mid-eighteenth Century.
Of all Contemporary composers, Stravinsky, faithful always to
the nature of music, has probably contributed the most that is
really new. His personality as a composer is certainly the most
sharply defined and the most amply developed of our time. After
all is said and done, it is only the music he has composed that
counts.
 4

MUSIC IN FRANCE AFTER DEBUSSY

while schoenberg and Stravinsky both followed the plans they

laid out, to reconstruct music from its elcments, French music
pursued an evolutiön whose point of departure would be useless
to look for. Music in France seems to have evolved w'ith no great
conflicts or profound shocks, but with steady progression.
There is a French music, though not in the same sense as a Rus-
sian, Scandinavian, or Spanish music that people speak of to desig-
nate a heterogeneous union of works whose only common ground
is their use of songs drawn from the folklore of the country. This
Classification unquestionably satisfied the nationalist preoccupa-
tions of the time, but artistically it was arbitrary, and related
only to an external or even circumstantial aspect of music.
France is the archetype of the nation. Despite the diversity of
its population and its climate, a nation is united by a common
outlook and way of life—by long-helcl conceptions of the world,
society, and the individual that are so widely acceptcd they are
never questioned. Discussions and differenccs of opinion con-
cern only männer, shadcs of Interpretation, and details of that
deep-scated and permanent understanding.
Just as a French nation cxists, so is there a French art. Bencath
the apparent diversity of innumerablc personalitics, certain con-
stant characteristics manifest themsclves which the French are
the last to notice because these traits are so inherently their own
and so intcgrally a part of the French tradition.
The Contemporary Austrian composer Ernst Krenek defines
the characteristics of French music by comparing them to the
German conccption of music. KFenek wrote a brief but very
interesting article entitled “Französisches und Deutsches Musik­
empfinden” in which he gives a very good explanation of why
the music of Gabriel Faure is not widely played in Teutonic
Music in France After Debussy
countries, and why Brahms arouses only reluctant interest in the
French listener. He explains why the German adjective musikal­
isch does not have the same meaning as the French musical.
In the life of the Frenchman, take the average Frenchman, the inter-
ests and mental attitudes of artistic origin or order are always present,
even when they are unconscious. The German’s relationship to art is
more interior, more wesenhaft, but he establishes this relationship
consciously, and breaks it just as consciously. The Frenchman’s attitude
toward art is the same as his attitude toward his whole life: he is a
connoisseur in the strict sense of the word. The sum total of technical
knowledge an average Frenchman possesses when he talks about paint-
ing, for example—knowledge taken for granted and totally lacking in
snobbery—is astonishing. What he spontaneously offers you in the
course of a conversation on a musical work or its performance almost
always bears on its perfection or its artistic level—that is, on its work-
manship. His interest in its sentiment or the concept of life it interprets
is only incidental. This attitude is part of the eminently realistic sense
of the race, which is less impressed with an elemental reaction than
with the question of knowing “how that is done.” The Frenchman is
a positivist by nature, and therefore art is for him less an emanation
of divine forces communicated mysteriously through the intercession of
a member of the elect than an object a man fashions with his own
hands under the control of his own intelligence. And that intelligence
is itself considered as the capacity for inventing interesting means of
production much more than any sort of reservoir of psychic forces. The
Frenchman will never forsake this way of thinking, and in this sense his
understanding of art is ever present and alert. This disposition has
always and rightly been admired as “taste.”
The German has other needs. He wants his concept of life to be
touched, or moved, or shaken. He wants to be transformed in some
way by the work of art. The German cannot bear to think of himself
as a perfected, complete being, and consequently requires all his im-
pressions to sustain him or put him in motion. Whatever does not
attract him, in the kinetic sense of the word, “says nothing to him,”
and this is the worst reproach he can level at a work of art. He would
like to see the world continually moving toward progress. All this is
foreign to the Frenchman, who has a static conception of life. He is not
interested in knowing what a thing will become, and the thing does
not interest him while it is in a state of becoming. The thing interests
him only when it is perfected or a reality. To eite just one example
of this, the French mistrust anything young, and respect whatever is
old and definitively fixed. (The form of friendly address used even
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

among young men is mon vieux [old man].) Conversely, the German
puts all his hope in youth. It is of little importance to him that youth
matures slowly, because whatever is done or completed seems empty
to him and is no longer useful for that movement, that road to
progress. “Mastery” has been a pejorative word in Germany for a long
time. It is related to a static state, which is to the German synonymous
with lifeless rigidity. The only thing expected of a master is his death.
This is why Germany is so rieh in artistic hopes that do not materialize,
while for the Frenchman mastery is a state which must be attained as
quickly as possible and is to be sustained as long as possible.
The complex the Germans find so interesting in music is
meaningless to the French, and is in good part intolerable or
even ridiculous to them. French music is essentially static, trans­
parent, well organized on a solidly formed groundwork con-
structed entirely according to plan, in such a way that its struc-
ture can be perceived direetly on hearing. Inner life is not
wanting, but it is externalized in an entirely different way than in
German music, not as a disturbing force but as a stable, fixed
quality. It would be absurd to say, as it is often said, that French
music has no soul. The only difference is that the Frenchman
prefers to express a psychic state, while the German prefers
movements of the soul induced by the combined action of con-
trary force. The somewhat schematic quality of this comparison
should not obscure the truth it contains.
The fixedness of French thought and its constancy throughout
history is, moreover, a fact that needs no further demonstration.
Regarding music and the arts in general, the basic tendency
of the French was early recognized. Sainte-Beuve clarifies its
meaning in his Lundis:
Charming and light Spirits who have been the grace and honor of the
land of France from time immemorial; who began your life and pursuit
of joy in the iron age, on emerging from savage liorrors; who passed
by the walls of cloisters and were sometimes gathered inside them;
who were the happy soul of bourgeois evenings, and the refined enter-
tainment of chäteaux; who often flourished in the shadow of thrones;
who lightened the boredom of ceremonies, gave style to victories, and
learned to smile again quickly on die heels of defeat; who have ap-
peared under many forms—playful, mocking, elegant, or tender, always
graceful, and who have never failed to be born again at the moment
you were said to have disappeared! Age is becoming hard on us; all
Music in France After Debussy 159
leisure has fled; there is a desperation even in our pleasures that makes
them seem like work; peace itself is no truce, so busy is it being useful;
even on tranquil days, regrets and cares fill many a soul. Now is the
time to awake, or never; now is the time to surprise the world again
and infuse it with joy; you have always known the way, forever new:
never abandon the land of France, charming and light Spirits.
Whereas the Frenchman knows what he means by light, the
foreigner misunderstands and confuses it with frivolity. Every-
thing can be said with lightness, even the most somber thoughts.
Lightness is the quality opposed to clutter and redundancy,
avoiding repetition and insistence and demanding simplicity and
clarity. The qualities that Montaigne perceives in poetry, which
are also the qualities of French music, are directly related to a
lightness he jjnderstood thus: “From my earliest years, poetry
has had the power to pierce me and transport me. But that
quick response natural to me has been variously stimulated
by a variety of forms, not so much higher and lower (for they
were always the highest of each kind) as different in color.
First of all, a gay and ingenious fluidity; then an acute, height-
ened subtlety; and finally a ripe, steady force.“ (Essays, 1, 38.)
And to call as witness one of the greatest composers France
has ever had, here is an excerpt from a letter written by Claude
Debussy to Paul Landormy in 1904: “The primary aim of French
music is to give pleasure. Couperin, Rameau—there are real
Frenchmen! That animal Gluck spoiled everything. Wasn’t he
boring, and pedantic, and overstuffed! . . . The musical genius
of France is something like a dream in the senses. . . . Music
must be freed of all scientific apparatus. Music must seek hum-
bly to give pleasure; great beauty is perhaps possible within
these limits.“ But Debussy does not say to whom music should
give pleasure. He obviously implies the most exacting, subtle,
and intelligent audience. Even when it adopts populär ways,
French art is aristocratic. When it addresses the people it raises
them to its level, refusing to lower its Standards.
Returning to Montaigne, his definition of art is logical on
every point. First, the fluidity of French music is due to a me-
lodic gift without equal in other peoples. From the beginning of
its existence, that is, around a.d. 800, to the present, French
music has invariably been based on the invention and use of
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

perfect melodies, melodies that are complete in themselves rhyth-

mically, harmonically, and structurally. These melodies evolve
in a temperate climate, without turbulence or paroxysm; they
proceed by intervals of slight or moderate tension, avoiding wide
leaps and consequently painful or frenetic strain. A fifteenth-
century melody by Guillaume Dufay and one by Faure in the
twentieth Century are equally supple, balanced, simple, and un-
adorned, and have the same clean, concise expression, so that
the course of the melody is always smooth and swift, like clear,
pure water. The theme or motif of three or four notes is simply
material to be used in a more or less developed musical struc-
ture. But it has no life of its own, just as a brick is actually only
the primary material of a house. The generative theme in Bach s
fugues and the leading motif in Wagnerian dramas are little
suited to the French temperament, for the French temperament
begins with the individual or the particular. The melody must
be well defined and specific from the outset. There is nothing
cerebral or speculative in an art resting on such foundations;
with the melody emphasizing the individualistic from the begin-
ning, abstaining from immoderate formal development, main-
taining the course of the music by using only elements with
human meaning, it plunges us into a living, clear, and rapidly
flowing river. And gaiety: we must not confuse gaiety with a
superficial, fleeting enjoyment, momentary and unthinking.
This is a profound and permanent gaiety. Listen to it in Guil­
laume de Machaut’s Mass, in Claude Le Jeune’s vocal fantasies,
Lully’s tragedies, Faust, Carmen, and I would even say in Faure’s
Requiem. Here is a deep-rooted optimism and confidence in the
future and the forces of life, a confidence that history has never
betrayed. It is an act of faith which keeps thought from de-
scending to weakncss or discouragement and the spirit from
capitulating under the weight of despair, even in tragedy.
This is the source of the sense of grandeur in the conception
of tragedy—grandeur, and not sadness. We need only recall
Berlioz’s Trojans at Carthage, and the Oresteia as Milhaud
interpreted it, or closer to us, the admirable Medee. Gaiety
understood thus, as a deep interior joy, comes from contemplat-
ing a rieh and beautiful land and the happy collaboration be­
tween men and a generous nature. Numbers of musical works
Music in France After Debussy
stand in liberal evidence of such gaiety—Clement Janequin’s
The Battle of Marignan, Chabrier’s Joyeuse Marche, and Francis
Poulenc’s Chansons Gaillardes,
Is this to say that a French composer is less capable than
others of expressing pain? Not at all. But he expresses it in a
very special way. Far from giving in to dejection, he takes a firm
footing on his heritage of optimism, on that great, abiding joie
de vivre, in order to react the moment he feels a blow. And his
pain, instead of being passive and resigned, is instantly trans-
formed into energy and response. French funeral marches re-
semble the spirit of Rude’s “Marseillaise.” Gaiety is not always
opposed to and then ultimately merged with pain. More often,
tenderness checks its momentum and turns it into humor. This
amalgam gives rise to works like L’Enfant et les Sortileges by
Ravel, in which the feeling of gaiety predominates. If on the con-
trary the dominant element is tenderness, this complex produces a
work like Henri Sauguet’s La Chartreuse de Parme. Or again,
the composer will contemplate his gift of glowing happiness in
an atmosphere of perfect serenity, as does Gabriel Faure.
This fluidity is ingenious in its perpetual effusion and resilb
ence and in its ever alert curiosity, attributable again to
individualism. Once the expressive power of an original theme
is determined, it is useless and superfluous to repeat it even once.
It would be hard to find in a non-French composer such fabu-
lous diversity as we see in the innumerable pieces divided into
twenty-seven ordres for harpsichord by Couperin, or such marked
differences as those that distinguish Milhaud’s many dramas.
To take the two most similar modern French composers, Poulenc
and Sauguet, the content of the works of one has nothing in
common with the expression of the other. The reason for this is
that a good French composer never creates according to formula.
The work of meditation is very long, and the composer does not
begin to write the work he has perhaps been thinking about for
years until the day he has discovered or invented the specific
and unique melodies suitable for what he will express only once.
Montaigne’s second phrase teils us that he loves acute, height-
ened subtlety. Here we touch on the very essence of French art.
Subtlety implies a particular type of relationship between man
and the outside world. All the objects surrounding us partici-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

pate in our lives. All witness and act in the human drama. Re-
member how Marcel Proust, stumbling over a stone, saw a whole
long-forgotten period of his life take form again, because that
period was linked to a similar incident, to a similar stumble
over the same stone. A traveler far from his country who receives
a trunk containing his own clothes he has not seen for years is
enveloped by the odor of his home when he opens the trunk,
and in a flash he again sees every rock, blade of grass, detail of
the faces of his parents, he hears once more a word they have
said at a moment long since past. Everything is interdependent;
we depend on the smallest grain of sand. But that grain will not
have the same significance tomorrow as it had yesterday. Other
people will see it or another light will shine on it, or the weather
will be different. The specific and momentary whole that existed
yesterday will never recur. Claudel defines co-birth in his Art
Poetique: “We are born at every instant, together with other
objects. At that moment we form with them a complex all of
whose members are interdependent and none of which is wortli
more than another. How far this is from the conception that
puts man at the center of the world and tends to make him
superman!”
In French music, man is considered a function of his associa-
tion with other beings, feeling their infinite and multiple radia-
tions, and sending his own out to them. His place in the universe
is modest, of course, but it is supremcly beautiful, for it is illu-
minated by the flux of universal sympatliy. In Debussy’s Pelleas
et Melisande, the mystery of the forest and the mystery of the
human soul merge. Ravel’s L’Enfant et les Sortileges sounds
the poetry of familiär things, the subtle communication between
a child and the features of his room. In Milhaud’s and Claudel’s
Christophe Colomb, the navigator’s soul reflects all the seas of
the globe. And there is nothing more subtle than that marvelous
medieval music of Leon in and Perotin who, in Paris, around
1180, composed with the finesse and evocative power of Debussy.
The Frenchman lias never abandoned the earth. He is not an
artificial being; he is and remains a peasant. His rapport with
nature has never been broken. With only a few words or gestures
he brings nature to mind. An allusion, a light touch of color,
a chord, or a barely visible curve are enough to awaken a way
Music in France After Debussy
of feeling. Subtlety is acute in such works as Debussy’s Prelude
ä l Apres-midi d* un Faune, Poulenc’s Bestiaire, Roussel’s The
Spiders Feast, Faure’s Bonne Chanson, qy Kcechlin’s Course de
Printemps, Verlaine says:
Car nous voulons la Nuance encor,
Pas la Couleur, rien que la Nuance!
And further on,
Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure
Eparse au vent crispe du matin
Qui va pleurant la menthe et le thym . . .
Et tout le reste est litt&rature.
Montaigne speaks finally of a “ripe, steady force.”
And French music, so often criticized as frivolous, is strong.
The secret of its strength lies in the precept of St. Thomas
Aquinas, that art results from perfect correspondence between
form and matter. All matter is molded by a form determined
by the matter itself. A master form may well be convenient for
manufacturing, but it would be inconceivable for creation. The
French composer has never written repetitiously, except perhaps
at the end of the eighteenth Century, the weakest period in the
history of French music. He writes only when he has something
specific to say to us, when he has a message to transmit. Fixed
patterns, therefore, are not in very good repute. The French are
not composers of symphonies, like Haydn or Mozart. They may
write one or two, but then they pass on to another exercise. In
school we are taught that, aside from strictly fixed forms with
contours and proportions defined without regard for content
and material, there are free forms. And we are immediately—
and wrongly—inclined to think of a sort of anarchy. The form
in French music is not free, but it does change from one work
to the next. It cannot take on a scholastic cast. And French music
would not tolerate a Beckmesser.
Power of persuasion springs from the perfect adaptation of
form to content. The works of Couperin, Satie, and Poulenc
are models of an eminently effectual art, beneath their surface
slendemess and despite their conspicuous conciseness. This is
what we call force and not an impressive display of apparatus.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

This conception of force has been handed down to us by the

oldest Mediterranean civilizations, particularly the Greek, which
developed it to such a high degree of perfection. The present-
day French have received it as a direct legacy in an unbroken
iine of inheritance. That is why this force is characteristically
so sure, natural, and mature. And it is constant. For St. Thomas’s
precept is such a simple and obvious truth to the mind of the
French artist that it would not occur to him to turn away from
it.
French music, like other French arts, is created on a human
scale. It expresses and idealizes what is noblest in men—sim-
plicity, clarity of judgment, warmth of feeling for other beings.
French art is timeless. It does not consider the accidental, but
only the constants of the human condition. And as a result,
through its diversity, it escapes categorization. It is neither
mechanistic nor experimental. It is always a rose, a nightingale,
the sea, springtime, love.
Charles d’Orleans is a Contemporary of Verlaine, Perotin of
Debussy, Couperin of Satie, Rameau of Sauguet, Machaut or
Berlioz of Milhaud. And Faure’s last works reflect the clean
line^bf the Parthenon. There is no modern music in France.
There is simply French music.
Since French art is a rational art, its technique is conceived
in relation to its content. Technique is continuously changing,
adapted by each author to his personal needs and the exigencies
of his time. No trace of dogmatism can be found in it. A limit-
ing system like Schoenberg’s could not exist in France. Paul
Dukas expresses the attitude of French musicians in these words:
“One should know a great deal and make music with what one
does not know.”
French music, as we have pointed out, is primarily melodic,
in the complete and real meaning of the word. It is this sense
of melody, including in its definition the harmonic functions of
its notes, that has protected music from the excesses of chro-
maticism. French harmony is still conceived according to the
principle of tonality, which it has progressively enriched with
chords of live, six, seven, or more notes. But even the most com-
plicated dissonances are composed as appoggiaturas, suspensions,
and passing tones; and when the relation of the dissonance to
Music in France After Debussy
the perfect chord becomes too uncertain or distant, an effort is
made to reaffirm the diatonic and make it stand out more clearly
through polytonality.
We explain this evolution in the following way. Impression­
ism in music is summed up in Debussy. Other composers took
delight in contemplating nature and, for our enjoyment, ably
translated the immediate and multiple impressions they drew
from contact with the outside world—Albert Roussel’s Rustiques,
Kcechlin’s Pay sages et Marines, and the early works of Ravel,
Roland-Manuel, and Maurice Delage. They describe nothing,
teil no tale, and do not expose or impose the interior I. They
transmit that exquisite and peaceful joy, that delicate sensu-
ality which comes from the communion a happy man has with
nature when he sees it as moving and fleeting beauty. Andre
Gide in Les Nourritures Terrestres says, “and put all your hap-
piness in the moment.” But Debussy’s attitude toward impres­
sionism was the purest and least distracted by other concerns.
Nuages and La Mer compare with the admirable passages
in which Proust describes his ever-fresh impressions of the sea
at Balbec. Along with Ravel's Noctuelles and Vallee des Cloches,
Debussy’s Prelude ä VApres-midi d’un Faune, Soiree dans Gre-
nade, and Jardins sous la Pluie are impressionist masterpieces.
Just as Monet, päinting his cathedrals and water lilies, trans­
lated the play of light on stones and water, ignoring the object
and keeping only its reflection and letting its lines and contours
disappear in the harmony of finely shaded colors, so the com­
poser had a predilection for the play of harmonies, the light
of music. He cultivated harmonic thinking, conceiving music
vertically, and let a melody appear from time to time beneath
the Vibration of the chords. That play of melody in harmonic
surroundings, as for example the song “Nous n’irons plus au
Bois” in the Jardins sous la Pluie, is a delight to hear.
Harmonies became more and more subtle, or more and more
rare. They separated further and further from the perfect chord
and resolved on it at infrequent intervals. The harmonic world
was enriched and enlarged by the introduction and acceptance
of exceptional resolutions, consecutive ninths and elevenths, se-
quences of fourths and fifths, unprepared dissonances, foreign
pedal notes, and unresolved appoggiaturas. This harmonic
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

evolntion—from about 1880 to 1910-led from consecutive ninths

in Chabrier’s Le Roi Malgre Lui [Exarnple 65] to the double
and triple appoggiaturas in Daphnts et Chloe [Exarnple 66].
Tact, balance, and infallible taste governed all these liberties.
But when mediocre composers tried to exercise that harmonic
freedom, the language became empty and senseless under their
pens. Such second-rate and third-rate works were universally
tabbed Debussyism— an incorrect label, for in no way did it
reflect the genius of Debussy, who had a horror of superficial
imitations. He himself was the first anti-Debussyite.
Debussy himself was not immune to the temptation to over-
use harmonic language. Images pour Piano contains the selec-
tions Reflets dans l’Eau, Cloches ä travers le Feuillage, and
Poissons d’Or, in which the lack of melody deprives the har­
monic play of support. The music is wasted in a search for
resonances and colors, and settles in a sonorous dust lacking
any form or cohesion. Debussy well understood that these pieces
marked the end of impressionism. In subsequent works he stated
the melody more clearly and concentrated on the problem of
form. The composers of the postimpressionist phase then in
progress wanted to reinforce the structural solidity that the
composition was in danger of losing without sacrificing any of
the new freedom in harmony. It goes without saving that there
must be freedom of form to correspond with freedom of har-
mony. The sonata type, the “sonata form” D’Indy liked so well,
was abandoned because it was too academic and cluttered with
lengthy development sections to suit French thinking. French
composers therefore rightly addressed themselves to the creation
of free forms. For in France, where the sense of form and bal­
ance is innate, creating forms beyond ordinary canons is more
in character than composing within the framework of a scheine
foreign to the work in mind.
The postimpressionist period includes Debussy’s Preludes and
Piano Etudes along with his Three Sonatas for Various Instru­
ments, Le Marty re de St. Sebastien, and En Blanc et Noir;
Ravel’s works, except for some early impressionist pieces; and
the work of Roussel, Kocclilin, and Schmitt. The composers
Roland-Manuel, Jacques Ibert, Claude Delvincourt, and Mau­
rice Delage also belong to the movement. For Debussy, the
Music in France After Debussy
period began in 1908 with the composition of Trois Chansons
de Charles d Orleans, for a mixed a cappella chorus. The songs
are written in a style rather resembling Claude Le Jeune’s. The
composer is more concerned with the harmonic line than the
contrapuntal. The songs have fairly ample melodic lines with
little tonal characterization, and lend themselves to marvelous
chromatic treatment skillfully handled so as not to upset the
tonal scheme. Debussy also composed two collections of art
songs: Le Promenoir des Deux Amants, set to pocms by Tristan
L Hermite, and Trois Ballades de Frangois Villon. The choice
of poems is indicative of the composer’s inclinations—subtlety in
expression setting man in his modest place surrounded by sym-
pathetic nature; conciseness and elegance of form. The melodies
are quite distinct in design, and their tonality is often replaced
by modal treatment. A deliberately modular style gives Prome­
noir des Deux Amants a particularly flexible character; the
music has clarity and depth. The Trois Ballades de Frangois
Villon have a periodic structure—carried over from the form of
the poems—which is unique in Debussy’s work. A modal flavor,
even more distinct than in the first collection, gives the work
an archaic sound.
Modern French composers have adopted Gregorian modes,
appreciating their particular expressiveness resulting from the
placement of half-tones in the scale. The multiplicity of modes
enriches the potential for expression and allows the composer
to escape major-minor limitations without sacrificing the tonal
foundation. Tonality thus becomes a specific case of the larger
principle of modality. Faure, Ravel, Kcechlin, Satie, Milhaud,
and Poulenc have made the most natural and generous use of
the modes.
Gigues Tristes and Iberia from Images pour Orchestre still bear
traces of impressionism. They appear as conflicts of multiple
ideas and overwhelming Orchestration and are as sensuously dis-
turbing as tne wonderful central piece Les Parfums de la Nuit
from Iberia. The third Image, Rondes de Printemps, with its
dancelike movement, belongs to the new period. The idea is
developed more evenly, the structure is symmetrical, and the
Orchestration, using homogeneous groups of instruments, is less
dispersed, so that the form and architecture of the Rondes are
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

clearly audible. The Rondes de Printemps is much less often

performed than the populär Iberia because of the difficult or­
chestral requirements. It deserves to be better known; the piece
has wonderful grace and freshness.
Debussy’s Preludes for Piano are today as highly esteemed and
as widely known as the Preludes of Chopin. The twenty-four
pieces are almost all in ABA form. Although some are splendid,
it is unfortunate that Debussy restricted himself to that type
of symmetry. His temperament was better suited to creating
completely free forms, as demonstrated by his twelve great Etudes
for Piano. It is hard.to know what to admire most in that mag-
nificent monument of piano literature—the abundance of in-
vention, solidity of form, or perfection of pianistic thought.
No hint of impressionism remains. The music is a continuous,
uninterrupted flow, as in the fiery pieces for two pianos, the suite
En Blanc et Noir.
Debussy’s last works are three sonatas, Sonata No. i in D for
Cello and Piano, Sonata No. 2 for Flute, Viola and Harp, and
Sonata No. 3 in G for Violin and Piano. Each sonata is com-
prised of three movements, but the plan of the movemcnts is
no longer related to nineteenth-century sonata form. While
Schoenberg goes so far as to suppress the exposition of themes
and attaches importance only to the Durchführung, Debussy,
who hates developments, suppresses them and concentrates on
expositions, which introduce themes directly, completely formed
and expressed. The central movement keeps nothing of the
scherzo except its humorous and capricious intent, and is based
on strong contrast between two ideas. The great lines of the
finale recall the rondo. This is the structural Schema of the
Sonata No. 3 for Violin and Piano and Sonata No. 1 for Cello
and Piano. Sonata No. 2 for Flute, Viola, and JHarp is more
rhapsodic, and is, moreover, not so well achieved.
Le Martyre de St. Sebastien, one of Debussy’s most important
works, was composed in 1911 and was still impressionistic. The
atmosphere of the Ballet Russe nonetheless gave the work a
particularly plastic quality—broad patterns, each with its own
color; large themes; and great chromatic melodies. Only the final
chorus is diatonic, and it is perhaps a little too brief in compari-
son with the magnificence of other sections of that admirable
Music in France After Debussy 169
score, which is said to be to Pelleas what Parsifal is to Tristan.
In 1913 Debussy gave Jeux to the Ballet Russe. This dance-
poem, tremulous as the leaves at night in the park where the
action takes place, is the final word of music before 1914, the
last expression of that carefree happiness, that gentle life crown-
ing a Century of prosperity and social progress. The orchestra for
Jeux is larger than any Debussy had ever used before. It consists
of four sets of woods and brasses, and great breadth in the parts
for strings (the first violins extend to a division into six parts,
the second violins into four, the violas and cellos into three).
Just as Le Sacre du Printemps announced the destruction of one
of the most refined of all periods, Jeux bid it a tender good-by.
Musical impressionism had never before achieved such a high
degree of pulsing life and vibrancy.
Claude Debussy, “musicien fran^ais,” was one of the most
radiant geniuses of the art of sound. The listener may prefer the
purely impressionist period of his work, the period of Prelude ä
l’ Apres-midi d’un Faune, Pelleas et Melisande, the Nocturnes,
Estampes, and La Mer. And Debussy may well have said what
was most essential in this period, and moved with greatest ease
in this absolute freedom. The fact that his postimpressionist
compositions are more set in form, more precise in thought, and
slightly drier does not prevent them from being beautiful, too.
A preference for one or the other period of the work of Debussy
cannot be based on a value judgment, but only on the personal
question of which männer best corresponds to one’s own feelings.

Gabriel faure’s opera Penelope appeared in 1913, along with

Le Sacre du Printemps and Jeux. Almost the entire work of the
highly original Gabriel Faure consists of song cycles and piano
pieces. In his youth he had written the graceful and appealing
Sonata for Piano and Violin, two beautiful Quart ets for Piano
and Strings, preludes, waltzes, nocturnes, barcaroles, impromptus
for piano, and numerous songs. His art might seem easy and
superficial because Faure had an unequaled gift for melodic
invention. His melodies are decisive in all his compositions, and
he did not bother to develop them through exceptional har­
monies or studied counterpoint. Most of his songs and piano
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

pieces are accompanied monodies for which he created a soft,

brilliant flowering of pianistic embellishment. All this might
seem to justify a reputation for frivolity and worldliness, but in
fact his art has considerably more significance. The melodies
have shapes of rare perfection, and the harmonies, simple as
they are, were chosen with surprising discretion and aptitude.
Under its seeming simplicity his art is governed by an impeccable
taste that avoided afFectation as much as it did banality.
After Penelope, Faure’s art changed, not in its essential char­
acter, but in that it increased in weight, and thus grew in power.
Debussy, in the same period, feit it necessary to establish a more
substantial form. Faurä had no need to worry about such prob-
lems. Balance was the very foundation of his art, and its form
had always been simple and fitting. He was to develop in the
direction of greater concentration of means. His harmony, with­
out becoming complex, increased in tension. He called on
counterpoint to replace in his developments the appeal of
pianistic embellishments. He progressively stripped down his art
and gave up brilliant trappings, to attain the perfect cleanliness
of the purest architecture in his last works, as in the Second
Quintet for Piano and Strings and in the String Quartet, Faure’s
last period includes Penelope (1913); the Sonata No. 2 for Violin
and Piano; two Sonatas for Cello and Piano; Le Jardin Clos
(1915-1918), songs set to poems by Charles van Lerberghe;
L’Horizon Chimerique (1922), set to poems by Jean de La Ville de
Mirmont; Mirages, set to poems by the Baroness de Brimont;
the Second Quintet for Piano and Strings; a Trio for Piano,
Violin, and Cello; and the String Quartet (1924).
The harmony in his work is distinguished by innovations in
chord successions, and not by the chords themselves. Faure
creates extreme tension with chords of sevenths which are simple
but eloquent in their sequential progression; and moments of
resolution are very graceful and supple [Example 67]. The same
impression of originality is feit in the sequences found in his
contrapuntal writing, for instance, the exchange of notes between
parts [Example 68] in harmonies produced by imitation like the
ending of the first act of Penelope, where there also occurs one of
those harmonic modulations which is an omission that greatly
contributes to the concentration of language [Example 69]. The
Music in France After Debussy 171
more Faure advances in his work, the more he adheres to means
of condensing the harmonic route, and gives only the points of
departure and arrival, passing the intermediary stages in silence
[Example 70]. His use of counterpoint also increases harmonic
freedom [Example 7z]. But his harmony is always kept within
the liraits of tonality. Frequent modal figures and passing modu-
lations give flexibility to the tonal structure. The very diverse
and subtle modulations are possibly what constitute the essence
of Faure’s expression in his last works [Example 72].
From the point of view of architecture, we should point out
that in the sonatas, trios, and quintet of his late period, Faure
deliberately develops his sonata movement on a single idea,
doing away with the classic two themes or subjects. This pecu-
liarity is due to the insistence on condensation that guides his
harmony as well, and to his denial of color, which makes him
avoid contrasts.
Starting with a more traditionalist conception than Debussy’s,
Faure came closer in his later work to the new music than did
Debussy—the architectural direction of his composition, his
spirit of reduction, the conciseness of his harmonic language,
the importance he gives counterpoint, and in the clarity of his
melodic lines. His evolution, which began with gracious affability,
ended in a serene grandeur like the grandeur that comes with
knowledge. No drama or movement remains. The Second Quin­
tet and the String Quartet attain the immobility of perfection.

Faure was born in 1845. His students—Charles Koechlin, born

in 1867, Florent Schmitt in 1870, Roger-Ducasse in 1873, Maurice
Ravel in 1875, and Andre Caplet in 1879-were to be the prin-
cipal composers of the postimpressionist period, along with
Albert Roussel, D’Indy’s pupil, born in 1869.

maurice ravel composed some sixty works. We shall not discuss

the first half of his work, written between 1893 and 1910, which
includes the Pavane pour une Infante Defunte, Jeux d’Eau, the
Quartet in F, Scheherazade, Miroirs, Histoires Naturelles, the
Rapsodie Espagnole, UHeure Espagnole, Ma Mere l’Oye, and
Gaspard de la Nuit—works that today are famous and even
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

populär, but that are part of an artistic production that precedes

the period we are interested in. Until around 1910 Ravel’s music
was erroneously thought to be following the same lines as
Debussy’s. The error is understandable. Ravel, like Debussy,
sought out new harmonies, and an impressionist aesthetic under-
lay many works of that period.
The Valses Nobles et Sentimentales, composed in 1911, put
Ravel on a path that separated him from Debussy. The Sonatina
for Piano (1905) and Ma Mere l’Oye (1908) showed an inclina-
tion toward simplicity and clarity of form. The Valses, which
cannot really be called simple, had nonetheless already discarded
the brilliant arabesques that make the charm of Jeux d’Eau,
Miroirs, and Gaspard de la Nuit. Melodie lines in the Valses
are traced distinetly and without tonal ambiguity. Ravel believed
it as necessary as Debussy did to confirm tonality through the
melody, in order to avoid the danger music was exposed to by
the harmonic embellishment for which they themselves were
primarily responsible. Ravel’s Student Roland-Manuel correctly
asserts that the Valses are the sum total of Ravel’s harmonic ex-
perience. Fürther, Roland-Manuel clearly indicates what dis-
tinguishes Ravel from Debussy from the point of view of har *
mony. Debussy’s harmony rests on the major ninth chord, while
Ravel shows a marked preference for seventh and ninth chords
of the second dass [Example 73] derived from the modes on D
and E. Ravel’s melodic thought is also modal by nature, and
these two modes are precisely the ones he takes up most often.
The mode on E, the Dorian of antiquity, is also that of
Andalusian chant [Example 75]. C major is just one key among
others for Ravel, and Roland-Manuel could not find in Ravel’s
work a single example of the classic minor key. Ravel took acciac-
caturas and single, double, triple, and unresolved appoggiaturas
to an extreme. He was particularly interested in the superior
unresolved appoggiatura of the diminished seventh [Example
76]. These dissonances, however, are always used in a way that
does not threaten the tonal scheme. In Le Gibet from Gaspard
de la Nuit, he introduces a pedal-note to confirm the tonal
thread when harmonic complexity might lead to ambiguity. The
Valses Nobles et Sentimentales sound with sharp, naked dis­
sonances, incisive and clear and without need of support. The
Music in France After Debussy
well-known augmented fifth, considered typical of impressionist
music, was given free rein by Debussy and determined the use
of whole-tone scales in his work. In Ravel’s work its ambiguity
disappears, for it is always a part of the natural eleventh chord.
As a matter of fact, the whole-tone scale is never found in Ravel’s
music, and his language owes nothing to Debussy’s. The two
composers are independent of each other. But both owe a great
deal to Chabrier and especially to Erik Satie, who will be dis-
cussed later.
Regarding the orchestra, as well, the composer of Daphnis
diverges from the composer of Pelleas, Here is what Roland-
Manuel has to say about this:
[Debussy’s] Verlainian orchestra is arranged so that
. . . la nuance seul flance
Le reve au reve et la flute au cor.
Curious to hear how it would sound to connect or juxtapose sonori
ties that did not seem to go together, [Ravel,] with his Baudelairian
orchestra, seems to imply that nuance generates expression rather than
intensity, the latter depending only on the timbre, amplification, and
number of instruments. This is obviously why Ravel, contrary to
Debussy, requires more virtuosity from the performers than he does
initiative from the conductor. Nuances in Ravel’s work usually accord
with the normal sound intensity of an instrument for a given tessitura.
It is useless to force them. The musical lines, in retum, take to extreme
registers (Ravel likes his oboes and bassoons in high registers, and his
clarinets low). This sometimes calls for perilous—if indispensable—
acrobatics.

Daphnis et Chloe, begun in 1909 and finished in 1912, is a

ballet-symphony commissioned by Diaghilev for the Ballet Russe.
It is an enormous fresco, painted in large brush-strokes. Choruses
without words combine with the orchestra (except for one inter-
lude when they sing a cappella). The work is not very homo­
gen eous. The best pages have been collected in two concert
suites, and are admirable for their iridescent Orchestration. The
Lever du Jour is also Ravel’s wärmest composition. On the
whole, Daphnis et Chloe is guilty of a somewhat academic de­
velopment, which, fortunately for our pleasure, is compensated
for by brilliant sonority.
Ravel may sometimes be guilty of academicism. Yet, it is an
A IUSTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

academicism artfully enhanced by a virtuosity that makes people

say that Ravel is to Debussy what Rimsky-Korsakov is to Mus-
sorgsky. But what marvelous inventive freedom there is in works
like Ma Mere l’Oye, admirably orchestrated in 1912, and the
wonderful Trois Poemes de Stephane Mallarme, composed in
1913. These songs, accompanied by a small chamber orchestra,
are perhaps Ravel’s most beautiful works.
Stravinsky at Clärens had composed Three Japanese Lyrics for
voice and solo instruments. They were inspired by Schoenberg’s
Pierrot Lunaire, which pointed the way for music to escape the
enormous workings of a full orchestra. Ravel visited near
Clärens for two months to write a revision of Mussorgsky’s
Khovantchina at Diaghilev’s request. Stravinsky played him his
Three Japanese Lyrics. The two friends, united by musical in-
terests which were closely related until the composition of The
Nightingale, talked about Schoenberg, for whom Ravel never
ceased to profess deep admiration. After the visit Ravel com­
posed his Trois Poemes de Stephane Mallarme, and his first
Student, Maurice Delage, conceived his delightful Quatre
Poemes Hindous in the same vein.
With the Trois Poemes, Ravel unclutters the tools of sonority.
Harmony is reduced to essentials. Melody becomes fuller and
fuller, and the music takes on the transparency and purity
Mallarme’s poetry requires. Ravel understood Schoenberg’s les-
son, but does not follow the composer of Pierrot Lunaire on the
path of atonality. His French temperament deters him from de-
stroying the melody and he cannot give up the charm and har-
monious accord of sounds governed by a tonic of reference.
To the diminution of harmony corresponds a growing concern
with counterpoint. This is a sign of the times, and Ravel, from
1920 on, follows an evolution similar to Faure’s and Stravin­
sky’s. These three composers, each in his own way, incline to-
ward a new classicism whose distinguishing features are its
economy of means, the predominance of contrapuntal language,
and an objective attitude toward the musical material. Ravel
was to go the furthest in this direction, with his Sonata for Violin
and Cello (1920-22) and the Chansons Madecasses (1925-26). Al-
though Ravel, through Daphnis et Chloe, moved from Sensation
Music in France After Debussy 175
to a voluptuous intoxication with the beauty of sound, his
character changed radically after 1920. He had always mistrusted
emotion, fearful of the dramatic extreme to which it might lead
him, and therefore he deliberately hid it behind a bantering,
ironic air. His expression was reserved and distant, with glimpses
of a delicate tenderness beneath his seeming detachment. Now,
from 1920 on, he shows himself in an entirely different light.
His reserve sometimes takes the form of excessive soberness, but
since he can only tolerate it for a limited time, he bursts out in
harsh, violent exclamations that give his music a totally un-
expected tragic feeling. Between these extremes, the evidence of
a tortured soul, calm returns and the tenderness so long con-
strained is sometimes freed and released in exquisite feeling.
La Valse, a poem-ballet for orchestra (1919-20), was commis-
sioned by Diaghilev, who never used it. No one knows why the
piece was abandoned. Musically speaking, the rejection is un-
explainable. As was the case with most modern -ballets, the work
was a concert triumph. “I conceived the work,” says the com-
poser in a biographical sketch, “as a sort of apotheosis of the
Viennese waltz, mixed in my mind with an impression of fan-
tastic and fatal swirling. The waltz is danced in an imperial
court around 1855.”
In two great Crescendos, the work unrolls a chain of waltzes
that echo Schubert and, even more, Johann Strauss. From the
beginning, the trembling of the orchestra in the low registers.
and the sounds of the bass clarinet create a raw, turbulent at­
mosphere which sustains the dizzying, menacing whirlwind of
the waltz. “The second crescendo,” writes Roland-Manuel,
“shorter and much more vehement, gathers these multiformed
melodies and their rhythms together, breaks them against each
other, and opposes them or blends them together with violence.
This is a brutal and skillful development which does not really
begin until the stretto and combines with it to recall at the end
the principal D major tonality. La Valse is not, as has been
thought, a picture of post-1918 Vienna, but an interior drama,
the struggle of a composer’s soul between its two opposite poles
—restraint and exuberance. The struggle ends in an explosion.
The Sonata for Violin and Cello, a tense, hard, unrelenting
piece, has this same exasperated lyricism. The virtuosity of the
A lllSTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

two solo instruments sometimes creates the illusion that the

piece is being played by a string quartet.
Amelette Ronsardelette is a work of utter simplicity. The
music is stripped bare and only the spirit remains—a melody,
a design on the piano composed of parallel fifths. For the first
time, and fleetingly, Ravel frees himself and confesses an emo-
tion. The feeling of tenderness it emits is to be fully expressed in
L’Enfant et les Sortileges.
Ravel had a predilection for the supernatural as expressed in
fairy tales and in automatons. Their inner mystery entreated and
invited him to quit the everyday world around him. He pre-
ferred fantastic imaginary creations to the unimaginative reality
of everyday life. The souls of things, animals, and goblins be-
guiled him, and we get a clue to the secret of his own soul when
we listen to the clock music in L’Heure Espagnol, to Grillon,
Martin-Pecheur, and Scarbo.
Ravel loved children and his own personality retained certain
childlike characteristics. He teils us this in L’Enfant et les Sorti­
leges, a two-part lyric fantasy he composed on Colette’s text. The
idea of the piece is charming. A spoiled child who is bored
vents his rage by attacking all the objects he finds in his room
—the teapot, the curtains, the armchair. He stamps his feet,
breaks and tears things up until he finally goes to sleep. And then
the souls of all the inanimate objects he has betrayed speak to
him and reproach him for his cruelty. He sees his garden at
night. All the animals he has teased surround him and threaten
to hurt him. But when the child falls and hurts himself, and
cries bitterly, the animals take pity on him and recognize his
basic kindness.
The quality of the score is at times uneven. There are pages
in which the composer lets loose his penchant¥ for everything
comic, and there are others which sound like a Broadway musi­
cal. The verve of Ravel’s orchestra serves him well, even though
the orchestra is always kept in the background. There is a naive
gaiety in these successive “numbers”—the fox-trot of the teapot
and china cup; the arithmetic song; and the famous duet of the
cats, which Honegger calls the most remarkable piece of the
score. Naturally, Ravel doesn’t simply imitate the meowing of
cats; he uses the sound as inspiration for a melodic line. The
Music in France After Debussy j??
second part, which takes place in the garden, provides a strong
contrast to the first. Everything in it is delightfully poetic, and
the end of the piece, when the chorus sings of the child's in­
herent goodness, is moving. You would say that Ravel had laid
out everything he loved, and could not resist the temptation to
show us, just once, the very depths of his particularly delicate
feelings.
The Chansons Madecasses were composed in 1926 on poems
by Parny, for voice, flute, cello, and piano. The composer says:
You must never be afraid to imitate. I myself followed Schoenberg’s
footsteps to write my Poemes de Mallarme and especially the Chansons
Madecasses, which, like Pierrot Lunaire, have a very strict counterpoint
underlying the atmosphere. If [the Chansons] are not totally Schoen-
bergian, it’s because in music I am not so afraid of the element of
charm which he avoided to a point of asceticism, even martyrdom.
Possibly just because he is Viennese, in reaction against the musical
sensuality of his surroundings, which moreover does impregnate his
early works.
Actually whenever Ravel has borrowed the technique of an-
other composer the resulting composition bears no trace of that
other work. The Chansons Madecasses are no more like Schoen­
berg than the andante of the Piano Concerto is like the adagietto
of Mozart's Quintet with Clarinet, which was in fact its point
of departure. All he has in common with Schoenberg is the
independence of his parts. But again, in Ravel this development
of parts is carried out without destroying the principle of tonal­
ity. The sensual Chansons Madecasses, along with the Concerto
in D for the Left Hand, are the most beautiful music composed
by Ravel since the Poemes de Mallarme.
The sweeping success of Bolero (1928) surprised everyone, and
especially the composer. Ravel had no desire to compose when
he accepted Ida Rubinstein’s commission for a ballet although
he did want to write orchestrations. He wrote a short bolero,
which actually has no musical interest. Then he came upon the
idea of repeating the piece a great number of times without even
modifying its harmony or even modulating, but instead varying
the Orchestration in such a way as to increase the volume of
sound little by little until it reaches a climax at the end of the
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

piece. He brought to bear all the ingenuity and orchestral vir-

tuosity he possessed. The effect is peculiar. The listener finds
himself hearing music whose content he cannot approve of, but
whose obstinate repetitions nonetheless force him to follow it.
The single modulation preceding the coda is still irresistible
after a hundred hearings. Ravel, probably unconsciously, has
engaged the wheels of musical sorcery.
Of the two piano concertos written in 1931, the Concerto in
G Major for two hands is brilliant but only slightly interesting
except for the adagio assai, which develops in an atmosphere of
radiant serenity. But the Concerto in D for the Left Hand is
really remarkable with its compact form, its firmness of language
and its feeling of tragedy, anguish, and revolt. The music is dark,
rumbling, shaken with brutal and tearing beats, while its jazz
syncopation creates astonishing effects.

Debussy was distinctly a pre-World War I musician, as was

Faure. The late works of these two composers of genius gave
their successors no path to follow, but they did participate in the
beginning of a general evolution in French music. The move­
ment was characterized by a return to more marked melodic
line, a style which gave more importance to counterpoint, more
concise form, and more Condensed language.
The second period of Ravel’s work falls in the category of
current developments. Of all French composers, it is undoubt-
edly the composer of Valses Nobles et Sentimentales who ex-
ploited harmonic discoveries to the greatest extent. With Charles
Koechlin and Darius Milhaud, he feit the importance of contra-
puntal language in the new music, and in some passages achieved
a baren ess the equal of which can only be found in Satie. Lastly,
he sliared with Stravinsky and most of the more recent com­
posers that objective, rational attitude with regard to musical
material which leads to a new classicism. But these traits are
not always present in the second half of Ravel’s work. They
altemate with earlier concerns with color, virtuosity, and the
picturesque, which sometimes prevents his last works from hav­
ing the homogeneity found in Satie’s and Stravinsky’s music.
This duality should not be surprising in a composer who arrived
at maturity in 1910 and who, from then on, was divided be-
Music in France After Debussy 179
tween the ideas of the turn of the Century and those of the new
era in which he lived and which he understood.
The question of polytonality in Ravel’s music has been much
discussed. It arises, actually, after the introduction of ninth,
eleventh, and thirteenth chords in his harmony [Example 74].
The listener may be tempted to hear perfect tonic, dominant,
and subdominant chords in a thirteenth chord; this would be a
case of harmonic polytonality. Such an Interpretation hardly
seems valid. As a matter of fact, one of the three perfect chords
which can be found in a thirteenth chord will always predomi-
nate by its position and sonorous weight, and will make a single
tonic predominant to the ear. In the example given, the chord
is distinctly in F.
Aside from this fact, it is remarkable that Ravel’s most com­
plex harmonies, which are always explicable in context, can be
analyzed in appoggiaturas and passing tones that relate the
chord to a single, well-defined tonality. If the existence of har­
monic polytonality is contestable, especially in Ravel’s music,
his last works quite definitely furnish numerous instances of
contrapuntal bitonality. Bitonality occurs whenever two superim-
posed lines follow different keys, even if the coincidences and
vertical sections and their harmonic support create chords be-
longing to a single key. Examples of this can be found in the
Sonata for Violin and Piano and Chansons Madecasses. The bi­
tonality is limited, moreover, to the superimposition of neighbor-
ing tones which are quickly resolved into a single note.

florent schmitt was five years Ravel’s senior. He was born

in Blamont, in Lorraine, in 1870. France has many faces, and
you could almost say that each of her provinces has produced a
composer to represent its character. Debussy sings of the sweet-
ness of Ile-de-France; Ravel has the rather dry clarity of the
southern mountaineer; Roussel represents the energetic exuber-
ance of Flanders; and who could be more Proven^al than Mil­
haud, more Tourainesque than Poulenc, or more Parisian than
Auric?
Schmitt of Lorraine is positive, and his vision in his works is
large. He has no fear of intensity and cares nothing for the meta-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

physics of the neighboring Germans. He loves the sting of battle

and he has a boldness that does not hesitate before any obstacle.
Perhaps his imagination lacks some of the inventiveness of other
French composers of the same generation. On the other hand, the
will to produce and to act on a grand scale is one of Schmitt’s
outstanding qualities. This characteristic was to influence Honeg­
ger, despite the great difference in sensibilities and concepts of
form of the two composers.
Actually, Schmitt was largely a pre-1910 composer. His three
principal works, those on which his reputation is based, are: the
Psalm 48 for Solo Soprano, Chorus, Organ, and Orchestra, Op.
38 (1904); Tragedie de Salome, drama without words for sym­
phony orchestra, Op. 50 (1907-1911); and the Quintet for Piano
and String Instruments, Op. 51 (1901-1908). Psalm 48 is a work
of such undeniable force and spiritual elevation that it should
be ranked among the masterpieces of Contemporary music.
Tragedie de Salome, with its heavy, voluptuous, oppressive at-
mosphere, continues to be one of the modern works most appre-
ciated by concert societies. The Quintet, a soaring work of
monumental proportions, is warm and poignant, but asks too
much of the piano and strings, which are sometimes inadequate
for the sonorous intensity demanded by the music. The form,
as well, is outsized. Excessive development spoils somewhat an
otherwise spontaneous, generous, and lofty art.
Florent Schmitt’s compositions since 1918 include a number
of important works: Sonate Libre pour Violon et Piano, Op. 68
(1918-1919); Orchestration for Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleo­
patra, Op. 69 (1919-1920); two lovely ballets, Le Petit Elfe
Ferme-L’CEil, Op. 73 (1912-1923), and Ariane la Sans-Egale
(1937); Symphonie Concertante pour Piano et Orchestre; and
two chamber music works, the short, graceful Sonate pour Flute,
Clarinette et Clavecin, and Suite en Rocaille pour Divers Instru­
ments.

Charles kcechlin was born of Alsatian parents in Paris in

1867, and studied at the Ecole Polytechnique from 1887 to 1889.
He then went to the Paris Conservatory where he studied under
Massenet, Gedalge, and then Faure. Koechlin was an exception-
Music in France After Debussy 181
ally intelligent and extremely cultivated man whose scope of
interest included all fields of human endeavor, no matter how
diverse. Above everything eise, he was profoundly rational, this
quality stemming in part from his scientific training. Along with
firm discipline Koechlin developed a natural modesty which lent
grace to his refusal of all compromise. Experimenters such as he
are endowed with absolute purity of mind and complete de-
tachment. These outstanding qualities of mind and will ad-
mirably assisted his delicate but powerful temperament and his
essentially musical nature. But these same qualities are also
responsible for the fact that Koechlin’s enormous body of work,
as remarkable and original as it is, is little known and often
misunderstood. He made few attempts to have his works per-
formed, and was more willing to discuss his important theoreti-
cal writings than his compositions. He was a clear-sighted and
enthusiastic defender of everything young and bold, provided
it led to beauty; he devoted more effort to promoting the works
of young composers than to spreading his own work. His most
important compositions are still unpublished at present, and as
a result his work is underestimated and has not been accorded
the place of honor it deserves.
Koechlin is a master, not only as a composer but also as a
teacher. His teachings and his art testify to a great respect for
tradition, but only when its precepts rest on a real and valid
foundation. Tradition in music generally refers to the customs
and requirements since the time of Bach, whereas Koechlin was
conversant with much older musical techniques—those of the
Middle Ages and the Renaissance. He understood that these
techniques, though lost from view during the periods of classi-
cism and romanticism, are by no means outmoded. In fact, they
correspond to any time when language is expanding and hori-
zons extending.
Tradition according to Koechlin means the spirit and tech­
niques of the complete history of music from the time of Gre-
gorian chant, and the application of that complete tradition to
modern composition.
The freedom of Koechlin’s art is based precisely on that
breadth of vision which formed his thinking on the language
of music. Koechlin was not bound to any formal system or any
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

limiting concept of music. He did not concern himself with

whether objectivity or subjectivity was the better route. He fol-
lowed both. His music was born spontaneously as a manifesta-
tion of living forces. Modality, tonality, polytonality, and atonal­
ity were not different languages to him but aspects or different
branches of a single language which were to his mind functions
of different expressive needs. He accepted any imaginable chord
and the most daring counterpoint as long as they could be
justified by “musicality.” He applied this attitude, which was
natural to him and guided him in his own compositions, to the
analysis of works of all composers and also to his teaching. His
didactic writings are universally known: La Theorie de la Mu-
sique, Ltude sur l’ficriture de la Fugue d’Ecole, Ltude sur les
Notes de Passage (1922), Precis des Regles du Contrepoint (1927),
Traite de VHarmonie (1928), and lastly Traite de VOrchestration
(J944)-
Kcechlin was able to retain all means of expression, no
matter how old or new, without corrupting his language because
as a true man of science he always sought the physical and or-
ganic causes of the phenomenon of music. Those fundamental
causes do not belong to a time, a climate, or a System, but rely on
the inherent qualities of sound as a physical phenomenon and
the nature of the human ear which perceives the sound. The
means used by the language of sound have relative, not abso­
lute, value, and cannot therefore be niolded by intangible dog-
mas. Especially for Koechlin, whose point of departure was the
desire for expression, the choice of means is conditioned by the
character of the expression. He was astonished, for example,
and rightly so, that today people do not understand that, along
with a composer like Schoenberg for whom atonality is a neces-
sity, one can also appreciate someone like Henri Sauguet, whose
language is not only tonal but almost entirely consonant.
Atonality, and dissonant language in general, do not mean prog-
ress at the expense of consonant expression. Consonant language
preserves all its qualities and power if it is utilized by a com­
poser to whom it comes naturally. Further, the same composer
may in turn be atonal and tonal, dissonant and consonant,
harmonic, contrapuntal, and monodic without being guilty of
Music in France After Debussy 183
eclecticism. Everything depends on perfect correspondence be-
tween the means and the end.
A specific example of this principle of relativity in music is
that in the realm of harmony the degree of dissonance is deter-
mined not only by the notes used in the chord. It will be related
to many other factors, such as the position of the chord, Instru­
mentation, nuance, and context. The notion of consonance is
relative in the same way.
The breadth of Koechlin’s proposals derives from Andre
Gedalge’s teaching. Instruction based on musicality, invention,
spontaneity, and consideration of the choice of technical means
in relation to the idea of the music runs no risk of turning
academic. On the contrary, it favors the development of per-
sonalitv. Almost all Contemporary French composers of merit
were formed under the tutelege of Gedalge and Koechlin.
Gedalge taught Ravel, Koechlin, Milhaud, and Honegger, while
Koechlin in turn guided the studies of Poulenc and Sauguet.
Koechlin’s mature compositions reflect a very marked per-
sonality. His counterpoint, unequaled in suppleness, gives the
impression of being totally free while it still follows the rules
of that technique in their most rigorous requirements. His many
fugues are remarkably varied and ingenious. The most com­
plex ones are so clear and even the most unusual arrangement
is so apparent and natural that the compositions appear simple.
One must read his Fugue en Fa pour Orchestre or the finale of
his Premiere Symphonie to understand just how far the poly-
phonic cloth can be compressed and still retain the feeling of
spontaneity that safeguards it against sounding academic or
pedantic.
Koechlin’s harmony utilizes every conceivable tone combina-
tion, from the perfect chord to the chord of twelve tones, with
a unique sense of arrangement and a way of spacing and gradu-
ating tensions to avoid shock, abruptness, or harshness [Exam­
ple 77]. Koechlin is equally successful in passing from tonal
melody to modal chant. Actually, by using different modes in-
herited from Gregorian music and French folk music, he avoids
“the tyranny of the major“ attacked by Maurice Emmanuel, and
progresses from simple tonality to polytonality. Koechlin was the
first to realize this potential transition in counterpoint and har-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

mony, and pointed the way for Darius Milhaud. Polytonality

is not opposed to the principle of tonality, as has been incor-
rectly asserted. On the contrary, it is a result of this principle,
and its utilization confirms the presence of a dominant and
governing key. In Order to create polytonality, each superimposed
key must be established clearly. All the keys resolve sooner or
later into the main key. The two leading threads of the poly­
tonality, in Kcechlin’s and Milhaud’s meaning, are always dis-
tinctly audible, as is evident in Exarnple 78, drawn from Kcech­
lin’s Heures Persanes, in which D major and G major are super­
imposed on a pedal-note in E major.
The superimposition of chords in different keys requires that
they be clearly separated in sonorous space because interweaving
them would make a different harmony.
Besides harmonic polytonality, contrapuntal polytonality su-
perimposes melodies in different keys. Here, too, care must be
exercised that the voices meet in agreeable harmony. Koechlin
cites Exarnple 80 in his Traite de l’Harmonie and points out
that “the melody for the right hand is not written with just any
random relationship to the chromaticism of the left hand. Some-
times this chromaticism is expressed in passing notes, and some-
times it is related to the melody by the perception of certain
chords thus created. In such unions the ear does not forget to
hear vertically and would easily notice harmonic flatness, even
momentary or formed by the movement of flexible and logical
counterpoints.” The author also sometimes conceives passages
which in his opinion are atonal [Exarnple <9z]. If this selection
were submitted to Schoenberg, he would certainly call it tonal.
Actually, a definite key can be discovered in each eighth-note.
The exarnple shows that for Koechlin tonality depends on a
given key’s being sustained for a certain time, änd atonality is
the state created by “an instantaneous tonality, as it were, which
would change with a somewhat disconcerting speed.”
The fact that Koechlin accepts different states of the language
(modal, tonal, polytonal, and atonal) as unified—the choice of
which is determined by the expression—is confirmed in the fol-
lowing paragraph from his Traite de VHarmonie, in which he
comments on the exarnple of atonality we have just given:
Music in France After Debussy 185
Could that Impression of painful uncertainty and extreme remote-
ness be achieved with less dissonant combinations? Possibly. But the
composer of this Quintet WlS forced to use them without intending to
write anything other than neighboring tones and equally without
wanting to write the same thing. I have spoken warmly of tonal clarity
too often for the reader not to trust me when I now say: I know that
at certain times it is useful to depart from the tonality or, at least, to
affirm it so fleetingly and vaguely that it seems not to have been done.
To evoke such feelings and express such passages, these new means are
valuable. And by contrast, they prove the existence of the tonality, for
if there were no tonality there would be no need to leave it to express
musical ideas opposed to the impression of clarity created by tonal
music (even Gregorian).
We are far from Schoenbergian, systematic, structural atonal-
ity. We are also far from the pure play of music which is Stra­
vinsky’s idea. We have here an art mainly concerned with ex­
pression, with different aspects of the language as a function of
expression. In a way, Charles Koechlin is to French music what
Alban Berg is to the music of central Europe.
Koechlin’s ample work is not consistent in quality. But if
there is some music of little weight, if the composer sometimes
wanders into overly dense polyphonic brush, he has created
other works of imposing and undeniable value. “Koechlin has
the wisdom of the old trees that surround him,” Emile Vuiller-
moz said. And this knowledge of the world is indeed reflected
in his works. Koechlin seems always to look on the world from
above. Its little accidents and moments of humor are not dis-
tinguishable from the vantage point he has chosen from which
to contemplate the splendor of creation. He sees only its gran­
deur and beauty. His art includes neither tragedy nor comedy.
It is a eulogy of life, a pantheistic hymn to nature. All his music
is lyrical, by turns tender, thoughtful, contemplative, or wild,
radiating like the midday sun.
No one can teil us better about the mystery of night, the
mystery of those heavens where myriad stars trace their orbits,
than can Koechlin himself. He transports us into an immense
and silent world. And no one has surpassed him in singing of
apple trees in bloom or the freshness of youth.
Four collections of chamber music, mostly early compositions,
deserve our attention. On the delightful Sonatines pour Piano
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

(there are thirteen, written between 1918 and 1926), Emile

Vuillermoz wrote: “Koechlin has no hesitation, no doubt on
what style to maintain. He has no interest in making a show of
dignity and none of the coyness of an intellectual. His thought
and expression are marvelously candid, a miracle of total re-
juvenation worked by tenderness and memory. No work could
more accurately paint that peculiar figure of the austere and
affectionate scientist, the anchorite with the rough beard and
tender eyes, the severe philosopher with the soft and well-
modulated voice/’ We should also note Pay sages et Marines
and Heures Persanes, pour Piano (both works orchestrated);
three String Quartets; the Quintette avec Piano; numerous
Sonatas for String and Wind Instruments, especially those for
cello, clarinet, flute or oboe; and the Septet for Wind Instruments
C937)-
Beginning in 1899, Koechlin worked on a large work for
choruses, orchestra, and organ, L’Abbaye, a work evoking monas-
tic life whose Christian inspiration contrasts with La Foret
Paienne, a ballet which is a kind of pantheistic invocation. La
Divine Vespree, Chant Funebre ä la Memoire des Jeunes Femmes
Defuntes, two Symphonies, and Nuit de Walpurgis Classique
should not be overlooked.
Almost all these works have been performed with marked and
even outstanding success, but it is true that they appear too
seldom in the repertories of concert groups. This neglect can be
attributed only to the composers unbelievable modesty and to
the fact that his orchestral works have not been published, ex-
cept for Cinq Chorals dans des Modes du Moy en Äge and the
Fugue en Fa pour Orchestre,
Among his most beautiful and important orchestral composi-
tions is a cycle of works based on Kipling’s Jungle Book. Their
scope is very large and includes five separate compositions: La
Loi de la Jungle, an orchestral monody acting as a prelude; La
Meditation de Purim Baghät, a static, contemplative piece;
Les Bandar-Log, a scherzo of the liveliest swarm of monkeys
imaginable; Trois Poemes for solo voices, choruses, and orchestra
—Berceuse Phoque, Chant de Nuit, and Chant de Kala-Nag,
which should be counted among the most beautiful songs with
orchestra ever written; and La Course de Printemps, a prodigious
Music in France After Debussy jS?

fresco of animals racing feverishly through the jungle alternat-

ing with the impression of the weight of nocturnal skies. It is a
poem of amazing musical imagination, daring, and mastery. This
enormous symphony is one of the best works of Contemporary
art, and La Course de Printemps must be considered among the
most admirable pieces of music composed in the twentieth Cen­
tury.
The beautiful Symphonie d’Hymnes (hymns to the sun, the
day, night, youth, and life) was composed in 1938. The last of
the hymns, sung by a chorus, moves a little slowly. But the
other four are superb. The Symphonie d’Hymnes, like the Sep-
tuor d’Instruments ä Vent, is composed of pieces written at
different times. Neither hearing nor reading the score gives any
evidence of this, for not a single page of Koechlin is dated. His
thought is timeless.
Koechlin knew the secret of perpetual youth. In his late
seventies he was still classed among the most advanced and
inventive of modern artists. Movies interested him. He deplored
their “agitation, the abrupt and often useless movements, comic
grossness, melodramatic tragedy, and also certain suspect and
shallow devices for duping the public, not to speak of the in­
ferior quality of the screenplay and, more than that, of the
music in films. But nevertheless the movies as they are some­
times give us snatches of beauty, not only in the frequently
beautiful photography, but in the acting, some of which recon-
ciles us with that art which, in most films, could stand improve-
ment along many other lines.”
With these sentiments Koechlin wrote the Seven Stars’ Sym­
phony (1933) in homage to Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks,
Emil Jannings, Marlene Dietrich, Clara Bow, Lilian Harvey,
and Greta Garbo. And in 1934 he wrote a suite for piano, flute,
and woman’s voice, the Album de Lilian, dedicated to Lilian
Harvey.
“In this work, according to Koechlin himself,” says Jeanne
Herscher-Clement, “the music makes no concessions, either in
its presentation or its thought. It is faithful to the image of
Lilian—light, lively, and elegant. This is a graceful resolution
of the delicate problem presented by movie music, or rather,
what the music should be.”
A IlISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

There is much more that could be said about Koechlin’s art—

the love of beauty reflected in everything he did (his books on
Faure and Debussy stand as evidence), his restless sensitivity to
cosmic forces—but we must limit ourselves to the essential. We
would hope that from now on musicians will pay more atten-
tion to Charles Koechlin’s work. There is no doubt that this
eminent composer deserves to be ranked among the best com­
posers of our time.

The gifted composer andre caplet died very young. He was a

member of a group of musicians, led by Gabriel Faure, who
founded the Societe Musicale Independante (S.M.I.) in 1911,
in Opposition to the too-conservative Societe Nationale. The
original Committee members were Florent Schmitt, Charles
Koechlin, Roger-Ducasse, Maurice Ravel, Louis Aubert, Emile
Vuillermoz, and Caplet. These are the same musicians who were
prominent during the postimpressionist period. Logically, only
Albert Roussel (taught by D’Indy and the Schola Cantorum)
and Erik Satie are absent. But Satie’s time had not yet come,
although in 1911, at Ravel’s instigation, the S.M.I. had given
an important festival of Satie’s works.
Andre Caplet, a Norman who was born in Le Havre in 1879,
gained public attention at a very young age as a conductor.
After winning the Prix de Rome in 1901, he directed numerous
concerts and, in 1912, conducted the first performance of De-
bussy’s Martyre de St, Sebastien. Seriously afllicted with gas
poisoning in World War I, he died of its effects in 1925. During
the intervening years he almost completely abandoned his bril­
liant career as conductor in order to devote all his efforts to
composing. Caplet was a warm admirer of Debussy, and could
not free himself entirely from the influence of his chosen master.
However, his point of departure was not based on Debussy’s
early impressionist period, but rather on that grander style
introduced by Le Martyre,
Caplet dreamed of writing religious music which would be
modern. His best works are the Prieres (1917) for solo voice and
piano, and Le Miroir de Jesus (1924), for which Henri Gheon’s
beautiful poem helped create an atmosphere of intimate, clear,
Music in France After Debussy 2Sy
and fervent devotion. This work, his last, is written for soprano,
women’s chorus, string orchestra, and harps. The over-all effect
is full and luminous, and the vocal parts have a rare fluency.
His melodic line is ample and expressive, and in that part of
Le Miroir known as Mysteres Douloureux it attains exceptional
tension with its leaps between large intervals and harmony that
seems to tend toward atonality. In this moving part the intensity
of expression approaches the caliber of the adagio in Alban
Berg’s Lulu. Outstanding among Caplet’s secular compositions
are Adieu en Barque and Foret. His only significant instru­
mental work is a sort of concerto for cello and orchestra entitled
Epiphanie.

maurice delage was also born in 187g, in Paris. He was not

quite twenty years old when he began to take an interest in
music. Delage was instinctively musical; he never studied music.
Ravel, who was only four years his senior, recognized Delage’s
delicate and profoundly intuitive musical talent, and worked
with him and gave him advice. Delage had a marvelous under-
standing of music. He discussed music at length and meditated
about it and then invented magnificent melodies which he wrote
for the piano with infallible taste. In his remarkable piano com­
positions, he was guided by an exceptional ear and memory,
which were backed by a very sharp critical faculty and an innate
sense of balance. Unfortunately he had almost insurmountable
difficulty writing down what he played, which explains why so
few of his works have been published. Nonetheless he succeeded
in writing the Quatre Poemes Hindous, for soprano and ten
instruments, in 1913, which excited Debussy’s enthusiasm. The
piece had great success, and today still preserves its freshness
and beauty. The Quatre Poemes Hindous were written after
Stravinsky’s Three Japanese Lyrics and Ravel’s Trois Poemes de
Stephane Mallarme. These three splendid collections reflect the
best influence of Pierrot Lunaire on French music in their
time.
In a few pages Delage gives us a synthesis of a musical India
which owes nothing to the picturesque and everything to the
purest lyricism. The melody, embroidered on the chromatic
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

scale, seems to unfold in the smallest intervals possible due to the

succession of half-tones by conjunct degrees, thus recalling the
subtlety of microtones in Hindu music.
This small masterpiece was followed by several less significant
compositions. Sept Hai-Kai, for voices and several instruments,
published by Delage in 1924, is a piece of exquisite quality and
captivating distinction of spirit.
Paul Landormy says, ‘‘Delage is both an inspired man who is
never lacking in ideas, and a man whose cruelly critical mind
destroys drafts of work in progress so rapidly that the work never
gets completed.”
Delage was the cause of the formation of the S.M.I. Ravel had
presented one of Delage’s works to the reading committee of the
Societ£ Nationale in 1910. D’Indy refused it, criticizing a note
written for the horn, saying that the instrument could not sound
it. That was the last straw, and the Independents severed their
connections with D’Indy and the coterie of the Schola Cantorum.
Admittedly, D’Indy’s dogmatism fitted ill with the French tem-
perament, which found a more favorable climate at the Con-
servatory with Gedalge and Faure.

Given this dogmatism, which was only too real, we might well
wonder how the Schola Cantorum could produce artists like
albert roussel and Deodat de Severac. Sdverac, who died in
1921, has had no influence on Contemporary music. At the most,
his animation and taste for the countryside can be likened to
similar characteristics in Milhaud. Albert Roussel, on the con-
trary, did not reach maturity as a composer until after 1918.
From childhood he had passionately loved the sea and music.
He entered the ßcole Navale and began a career in the navy
which he left in 1894 at the age of twenty-five to devote himself
exclusively to composing. But all his life he retained impressions
of the sea, whose enchantment he had known. “There is nothing
lovelier than the gentle, slow roll of a ship heeling slightly under
the wind,” he wrote, recalling a long cruise aboard a frigate.
“There is nothing more delightful than to breathe the fresh
salty air of the ocean while one is stretched out on the main
deck under the magnificence of a full-blown sail.”
Music in France After Debussy zpz
Roussel is not an Impressionist. He never wrote a symphony
on the sea. But all his music is permeated with its rhythms. One
day in 1915, while he was in the army (he had enlisted for the
duration of the war), he wrote to his wife: ‘"The sea, the sea! . . .
There is nothing in the world more beautiful, is there; and we
will go there to live out our days. And when we fall asleep we will
hear its etemal murmur in the distance. I am sorry I left at
home those admirable verses by Verhaeren which moved you so
much. To say the same thing in music, succeed in suggesting the
emotion, the Sensation of power and infinity, of charm, anger,
gentleness, everything that the sea is saying, that must be the
greatest joy in the world an artist can receive from his art. . .
It was not by chance that Roussel found a model in Verhaeren.
He feit strongly attached to the Flemish country, having been
born in French Flanders. Like the Flemish people he had the
gift of lively colors, controlled strength, constructive tempera-
ment, independent assurance, the need of space, and a desire to
be more than individual.
Since we are talking about humanism, let me digress a mo­
ment. The evolution which has led from romanticism to the
present state of music does not consist solely of a modification
in language, which, whatever might be said, is but a tributary
of a particular way of life, a particular conception of the world
prior to all the niceties of artistic production. Romanticism put
the individual in the center of the world, and the passions of the
individual were reflected in a conception of nature which took
whatever form that suited his psychologiqal state. Nature stood
as evidence of the individual’s drama (as in Harold in Italy or
Symphonie Fantastique). Impressionism also places the individ­
ual in the center of nature, but conceives of its force as centripetal
rather than centrifugal. Nature is supreme, and the individual,
perceiving the sensations he receives from it, becomes in turn
the witness (Nuages, Prelude ä l’Apres-midi d’un Faune, La
Mer).
For the postimpressionists, and particularly Koechlin and
Roussel, the individual cedes his place to mankind. The founda-
tion of thought proceeds from individualism to humanism, as
in Kcechlin’s Symphonie d’Hymnes and Roussel’s Second Sym­
phony in B\>. This is the point at which artistic thinking
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

returned to the classic humanist attitude. Later, nature in

turn will be replaced by humanity, with man at the heart of
humanity and music of the conscience with works like Socrate,
Orestie, and Antigone.
Returning to Roussel, his thoughts were not bound up with
the sea alone. The young midshipman had taken trips to India
and to the Far East. Hindu thought and art had made a
profound impression on the composer. In 1909 Roussel returned
to India and Indochina to increase his knowledge of the Orient,
whose cultures were to help free his artistic personality. After
1910 he dissociated himself from the influence of both the Schola
Cantorum and Debussy, and a little later joined the Inde­
pendents on the committee of the S.M.I.
Roussel’s first works marked him as an individualistic artist.
The Sonatine pour Piano, Op. 16 (1913), confirmed the authen-
ticity and strength of his personality. The piece is imbued from
the first to the last note with a well-defined rhythm that is at once
supple and vigorous. The incisive vivacity of the Scherzo gives
way to the profound gravity of the slow movement. Its singulär
harmony based on chords of fourths, as far removed from
banality as from excessive subtlety, forms this healthy, strong,
and pure music [Example 82].
The Sonatine is, moreover, one of the best piano works in
Contemporary music. It is the last of a ravishing series which in-
cludes Divertissement pour Instruments ä Vent et Piano, Op. 6;
Premiere Symphonie (Poeme de la Foret), Op. 7; and Deux
Poemes Chinois, Op. 12, which contains the well-known Ode ä
un Jeune Gentilhomme.
The work preceding the Sonatine, Evocations for Orchestra,
Solo Voices, and Chorus, Op. 15, was enthusiastically received
on its first performance in 1912. It has been said that Evocations
still shows an imprcssionist tendency and depends on the pic-
turesque. Actually, this admirablc triptych, inspired by the trip
to India, is a very pure symphony. Impressions of India, far
from being expresscd in fleeting, momentary glimpses, are syn-
thesized and stripped of accidental qualities. The first move­
ment, disquieting and menacing, was thus inspired by the
contemplation of the grottoes of Ellera: Les Dieux dans l’Ombre
des Cavernes. A vision of Jaipur is carried in a luminous scherzo,
 Music in France After Debussy
La Ville Rose. Lastly, Benares and the Ganges suggest the vast
finale, Aux Bords du Fleuve Sacre, teeming with life, rising like
a hymn to the sun and life, with voices and orchestra in perfect
accord. Roussel has conceived India in his own way, and that
conception is expressed in a language which is his own and owes
nothing to Hindu music. There is no trace of local color. He has
spiritually transposed the whole of the impressions he gathered.
Aux Bords du Fleuve Sacre seems at first to be composed of a
suite of fragments. Actually, these sections are musically linked.
The end envisaged is not a development but a progression, a
movement advancing like a procession of people climbing to
meet the sun.
Evocations is a humanist, not an impressionist work, simple
in architecture but sumptuous in its generous proportions and
warm and brilliant in coloring. It has preserved the beauty it
has been lauded for since its creation in 1912.
The exquisite SpideVs Feast was written in 1913. The ballet
was commissioned by Jacques Rouche, then director of the
Theätre des Arts, who had also just asked Ravel for Ma Mere
l’Oye. The arrangement by Gilbert des Voisins is lovely. Arthur
Hoer£e gives a resume of it in a book dedicated to Roussel:
In the männer of Fabre and Maeterlinck, Gilbert des Voisins presents
us with a true little entomological drama in the form of a fantasy. The
action centers around a spider web spun in the corner of a garden.
Dame spider lies in wait for her prey while düng beetles and ants
attend to their absorbing labors. It’s herculean work to lift a rose
petal! So the heavy music assures us. The butterfly comes along,
dancing, carefree, and gets caught in the trap of the spider web. He
thrashes about to the strident accents of the oboes and dies on a note
of quiet lament. An apple falls with a crash and interrupts the
ferocious dance of the spider in her savage joy. When all is calm
again, two little fruit worms dig into the apple, despite the vigilance
of two mantises, who scold each other for their plunder. Taking advan-
tage of their argument, the spider captures them in her web and makes
ready to begin her banquet. The two worms, gorged, come out of the
apple groveling pitifully. But here comes a squad of düng beetles to
the rescue. They free one of the mantises, who, choppers aloft, rushes
on the spider and beats her to death.
The score is wonderfully light. It abounds with exquisite
melodic gems, based on a harmony of successions of chords that
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

transmit a sense of quivering. The sound of the small orchestra

is like the rustling of insect wings. There is something metallic
and crystalline about it that gives the music a unique quality
of precision and transparency. The ballet seems to be enclosed
by the prelude and conclusion in the lovely, mysterious atmos-
phere of a garden, that silent world in which a marvelous and
secret life unfolds.
Roussel gives us the best of himself in the music of this grace-
ful masterpiece—the love of life that fills him with tendemess
for living things, the capacity to enjoy the happiness of being
alive, a happiness that nothing can disturb. Roussel creates an
aura of perfect joy—peaceful and intimate—which, like all perfec-
tion, has a shadow of melancholy.
After the decisive success of The Spiders Feast, Jacques
Rouche, the newly appointed manager of the Paris Opera, com-
missioned Roussel to write another score. The composer chose
to treat the legend of Padmävati, which he had heard during
his stay in India when he was visiting the ruins of Chittoor. He
asked his friend Louis Laloy to write a libretto on the subject.
Opera in France in 1914—outside common productions—was no
longer concerned with literary development, and was concen-
trating on dramatic construction based only on the music itself.
Vincent d’Indy had presented Feruaal in 1897 an(^ L’Ütranger
in 1903, both musical plots inspired by Wagnerian formulae for
lyric drama. But L'F.tranger reflected a retum to a more melodic
form of opera. Debussy’s Pelleas et Melisande (1902) and Dukas’s
Ariane et Barbe-Bleue (1906) definitively broke with lyric drama.
In Opposition to the Wagnerian lyric theater, Pelleas established
the ideal of the theater of atmosphere, and Ariane laid the foun-
dation for Symphonie drama. Ravel’s L’Heure Espagnole, com­
posed in 1907, infused new life into comic opera. From another
source, the productions of the Ballet Russe after 1909 had shown
that the plasticity of clioreography went hand in glove with
structural requirements in music, and Petrushka, Le Sacre du
Printemps, and Daphnis et Chloe had shown what dramatic in-
tensity ballet could achieve. Melodic drama and dramatic ballet
could combine in ballet-opera. This is the form Laloy and
Roussel chose by mutual agreement for Padmävati. The stage of
the Paris Opera could accommodate the large chorus, ballet
Music in France After Debussy
Company, orchestra, and sumptuous decor required. The work
gave expression to the sentiment for a semi-plastic dramatic
beauty toward which French music was then moving.
The story takes place in the thirteenth Century. Ratan-Sen is
the ruler of the rieh city of Chittoor. His beautiful and virtuous
wife, consecrated to the lotus flower, called Padma, is named
Padmävati. The government of Chittoor is just and good. A
Brahman, expelled from the city, turns traitor and goes to the
Mongol chief Alaouddin, who lays siege to the city and captures
it by trickery, after demanding in vain that Padmävati be given
over to him. The second act takes place in the Temple of Siva,
where Ratan-Sen and Padmävati have taken refuge. In Order to
save the city, the king asks his wife to give herseif up to Alaoud­
din. But this would be criminal, and Padmävati, preferring
death, stabs her husband and then herseif mounts the pyre. This
double sacrifice to fidelity and the gods takes place in an im-
posing funeral ceremony invoking the gods of evil. Alaouddin
appears before the burning pyre to find nothing.
The action itself is slight. The opera is more a spectacle than
a drama. The music is very beautiful, especially in the large
ensembles. The music of the second act is particularly anguished.
Roussel interprets the “sacred horror” of Shivaism and makes it
live for us. The dance of the six goddesses is darkly splendid.
The finale above all is remarkable. Arthur Ho^ree describes it:
“All the strength of the orchestra and the choral body is massed
in a great, irresistible progression, which is cut into by mount-
ing war cries. Deeply moving ritual lamentations then rise from
a double chorus mixed with the voices of the priests. With the
skillfully graduated polyphony, the timbres are arranged in tiers,
rhythms are ordered, and the heart-rending lament ends in a
dizzying melee of sound of rare power. This is the work of a
master/’
The music fills the listener with unrestrained joy. But the
ballet-opera formula is not very satisfactory. The long dance
passages obscure the drama, and when the voices of the singers
are introduced again after the dances there is an inevitable hiatus
—the audience is suddenly transported into another musical
world. Despite this reservation concerning the form, Padmävati
is one of the best scores ever played in French theater. The
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

frequency with which the Opera stages it attests to the public

favor it continues to enjoy.
Because of World War I, Padmävati could not be performed
until 1923, but the work did not then seem dated. Since his
brilliant Evocations, Roussel had taken a significant Step for­
ward. From the point of view of spirit, Padmävati was indicative
of a trend toward austerity. Technically, the language became
more specialized with the use of altered scales and Hindu modes.
This oriented the music toward a more contrapuntal form, and
the harmony, often sharp or jarring, was created by the en-
counters of the voices. In 1914 this style of music was ahead of
its time and therefore kept Padmävati from seeming outmoded
at its performance nine years later.
After 1916 Roussel worried about the change in thinking
brought about by the war. He wrote: “All that [he was thinking
of Padmävati} will now be ‘prewar,’ that is, separated from us
by a wall, a real wall. . . . We will have to begin living again
with a new concept of life, which does not mean that everything
done before the war will be forgotten, but that everything done
after it must be done differently.” In 1919 he composed two
melodies: Sarabande and Le Bachelier de Salamanque. Bachelier
resembles the Sonatina and the Ode ä un Jeune Gentilhomme.
Sarabande demonstrates a style of development in the slow move­
ment to be used in such future works as the Suite in F, Sonata for
Violin, Third Symphony, and Fourth Symphony, These are
monothematic compositions, in which the melody is led toward
a climax in intensity of expression and then brought back
gradually to the tranquillity of the opening. The short Symphonie
poem Pour une Fete de Printemps, Op. 22, composed in 1920,
marks a decisive change in Roussel’s methods. The ideas are ex-
pressed with a vivacity and conciseness which are entirely new,
and the slightly acid harmony and sonorousness of the orchestra
underscore this liveliness and rhythmic clarity. The opening
chord invites controversy. Roussel arrives at complex combina-
tions that some attribute to polytonality and others explain as
the interplay of appoggiaturas [Example 7p].
In 1921 the Second Symphony in B\>, Op. 23, appeared,
marking the end of Roussel’s evolution. He had thrown off the
last vestiges of the influence of impressionism, discarded poetic
Music in France After Debussy zp7
or dramatic incidentals, and grasped the essence of the problem
of music structure as it was then being stated to the youngest
composers. As he said himself in a note in the Concert Guide of
October 12, 1928: “I resolved to enlarge the harmonic content of
my style, and tried to approach the ideal of music intended and
conceived for itself. My Symphony in B\>, I must admit, was not
warmly received. The public and the critics were unhappy about
its harshness. I know full well that it was a rather hermetic
work and consequently rather unusually hard to understand.
At the time when it was first performed, it could pass as an
excessive composition.”
The composer draws strong contrasts and modifies tempos con-
tinuously in the interests of dynamic development. Its content
is progressively molded and defined so that its full significance
is not revealed until the conclusion. Without owing anything to
Stravinsky, the intention of the music bears analogy with the
Symphonies for Wind Instruments, although the result and
proportions are entirely different. Opinions of the work still
vary. Some extoll it as one of the great monuments of Con­
temporary music. Others admit its spirit of experiment, but think
it failed to achieve its aims. Only further performances of the
symphony—which is too rarely played—will end the perplexity
in which it leaves the musical world.
The Second Symphony relieved Roussel of the need to ex­
periment further. He had reached that state in which creation
poses no more problems, because the creator has solved all the
mysteries of the material and controls it from that moment on,
to the point where he can do with it exactly what he wants, as
he wants. From the Second Symphony until his last work
(Op. 58, written in 1937), the composer was a classicist. Whether
the work is large or small, the structure is transparent, the form
rational, and the content devoid of individualism. Four purely
Symphonie works were created during this period of maturity:
Suite in F, Op. 33 (1926); Third Symphony in G Major, Op. 42
(1930); Sinfonietta for String Orchestra, Op. 52 (1934); and
Fourth Symphony in A Major, Op. 53 (1935)- These four perfect
works have a number of points in common. The rhythm is sim­
ple, deliberately binary, powerful and uncompromising, leading
the composition with masterful constancy. The precise, impe-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

rious allegros transmit the joy of their motion. Siow, sober move-
ments based on long, tensely curved melodies mount in a great
orchestral crescendo and subside in a proportionate diminuendo.
And the scherzos are as typical in their impertinent lightness as
are similar pieces by Berlioz and Mendelssohn.
There is nothing superfluous in these admirable symphonies,
no padding or muddying, and no detail left in shadow. They
give the impression of marvelously controlled power used at full
force without draining its potential. Natural exuberance which
knows how to fall back for renewed attack never overflows into
grandiloquence. They reflect perfect balance of sensibility and
intelligence, interior ardor, and a touch of sportiveness, the
result of fine moral and corporeal health. Poetry and mathe-
matics, Roussel’s two disciplines, unite and complement each
other. Necessarily, not all of the composer’s works could be so
successful. Some, like the Concerto for Piano, Op. 36; Concertino
for Cello, Op. 57; and the String Quartet, Op. 45, have certain
flaws in balance, and the ideas are sometimes a little restricted.
On the other hand, the two ballets, Bacchus et Ariane, Op. 43
(1930), and Aeneas, Op. 54 (1935), are of the same caliber as the
four symphonies. The libretto of Aeneas, a ballet with choruses,
was written by Joseph Weterings. Bacchus et Ariane, with libretto
by Abel Hermant, perhaps marks the apex of Roussel’s work.
To close our discussion of Roussel, I would like to draw
attention to La Naissance de la Lyre, Op. 24 (1924), based on a
lyric tale by Theodore Reinach drawn from Sophocles, which
contains some beautiful passages. Psalm So for tenor solo, chorus
and orchestra, Op. 37 (1928), has a fine arrangement, but cannot
compare in brilliance or persuasiveness with Schmitt’s Psalm 48
or the excellent choral compositions of Honegger and Milhaud.
Le Testament de Tante Caroline is a charming operetta com­
posed in 1933 on a book by Nino. In chamber music, noteworthy
are the elegant Joueurs de Flute for flute and piano, Op. 27
(1924); Sonata No. 2 for Piano and Violin, Op. 28 (1924), com­
posed in the style of the third and fourth symphonies; a delight-
ful Serenade for Flute, Harp, Violin, Viola, and Cello, Op. 30
(1925); and Trio for Flute, Viola, and Cello, Op. 40 (1929), which
is as lovely as the Serenade. Roussel also wrote numerous excel­
lent art songs.
Music in France After Debussy I99
Albert Roussel’s style is based on a number of technical de­
tails. The melody is generally long, sinuous, and rather am-
biguous from a tonal point of view, and digresses into chromatics
and modulations. As with Faure, Ravel, and Koechlin, the
melody is often modal. It might be said that the postimpres-
sionist period (a meaningless term used for lack of a better) is
the period in which modality was rediscovered as a way to
harmonic liberation. Roussel utilized not only the modes of the
Middle Ages. When he was traveling in the Orient he lent an
attentive ear to Hindu modes, and realized that they could
enrich Western music, apart from any concem with the exotic.
Our Western modes are all built on a scale including five whole-
tones and two half-tones. Oriental modes multiply the half-tones,
and consequently imply intervals of augmented seconds. For the
referent keys, Roussel considered the polar notes of each tetra-
chord as points of rest or centers of attraction, and the inter-
mediary notes as points of tension or elements of movement. In
harmony, Roussel went as far as major chords of elevenths and
thirteenths. Thus the opening chord of La Fete de Printemps,
which is often interpreted as being polytonal, is only the last
inversion of a major eleventh chord with a minor ninth.
Roussel’s rhythms owe their suppleness to the effective arrange-
ment of composed measures, which occur frequently, and in-
volve the Intervention of brief and incisive rhythmic accents
[Exarnple <9j]. We have pointed out that in his later works con-
tinuous rhythms govem entire movements, as in Bach, and are
thus a primary unifying factor.

We could not end our review of this postimpressionist period,

so full of outstanding personalities and rieh in numbers of
masterworks, without citing some fine works by talented com­
posers that reveal undeniable imaginativeness and good tech-
nique.
Such are Orphee (1913), a pantomime by Roger-Ducasse (1873-
1954), a pupil of Faur^’s, a work of lofty inspiration; his amusing
comic-opera Cantegril (1931); and an important Symphonie
poem, Au Jardin de Marguerite. Roger-Ducasse’s music is ele­
gant, polished, precise, and sometimes very personal in these
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

works, but in others he could not seem to throw off the

academicism that stilles his very real gifts.
No one can say what capricious fate guided Henri Rabaud
to write Marouf, the Cobbler of Cairo, the only twentieth-century
comic-opera which has gained the popularity of Faust, Carmen,
and Manon. Suddenly, in 1914, in the middle of a career of dull,
uninteresting compositions appeared this light, fresh, full-bodied
score, picturesque and colorful, in which dream and reality mix
as in A Thousand and One Nights.
The young and prodigiously gifted Lili Boulanger, who won
the Prix de Rome in 1913 at the age of nineteen and died in
1918 after devoting herseif generously to the war effort, composed
Three Psalms (1916), monumental works ardent in spirit, solemn,
and sometimes violent in inspiration.
 5

ERIK SATIE AND THE SIX

since about 1880 France had been enjoying uncommon peace,

stability, and prosperity. Rich and undisturbed, she basked in
unconcerned and carefree happiness that nothing could trouble.
The Frenchman’s innate love of balance, beauty in itself, and
purity in artistic expression harmonized perfectly with the atmos­
phere of eüphoria he was living in. The art of that period is
permeated with a serene outlook on a life which provided pros­
perity and contentment. The art of Verlaine and Mallarme,
Renoir, Monet, and Seurat, Chabrier, Debussy, Dukas, Faure
and Koechlin, and the early works of Ravel and Roussel reflect
those happy times. For them nature is a domain where all is
good, gracious, and beautiful, and where contemplative life
flows along, paradisiacal, in the current of the days and nights.
Their art gives much importance to elegance and charm, for
these are the marks of radiant sensitivity joyfully responding to
all the signs of spring.
Their contemporaries Rimbaud, Cezanne, and Gauguin were
not to find favor until an atmosphere of greater tension re-
minded Frenchmen of harder and more painful realities.
And then impressionism “shot off its last firecracker.” The
fauves began to speak their more turbulent and anguished
language, and the thunderclap of Le Sacre du Printemps re-
sounded. The world realized that a new era had begun in which
moral values, and consequently artistic values, were undergoing
a change.
It was at this moment that a young composer whom we have
frequently mentioned began to attract attention. He was Erik
Satie. In 1917 Satie's Parade was first performed. The work was
a ballet based on a text by Jean Cocteau with decor by Pablo
Picasso. It took the public by storm, and focused attention on a
201
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

composer whose significance had heretofore been appreciated

only by Debussy and Ravel.
Years had passed without anyone’s paying heed to Satie or real-
izing the influence his personality and works exerted on Debussy
and Ravel. Only after the appearance of Parade were any
questions raised, retrospectively, about this stränge man and his
puzzling work. The misunderstanding surrounding his music
and the jibes thrown by self-appointed eulogists of impression­
ism did not prevent musicians from gradually seeing the light
and acknowledging Satie’s importance in the history of Contem­
porary music.
In accordance with the course of events, therefore, we turn
to Satie as we reach the point when the world of music recognized
his existence.

alfred erikit leslie-satie was born at Honfleur, May 17, 1866,

of a Norman father and a Scotch mother. He who was later to
say, “I came into the world very young in a very old time,”
revealed an unusual personality from his early childhood. At the
age of ten, he already had the rather veiled but piercing glance,
the mouth with slightly turned down corners, the face hungry
for knowledge of life and the somewhat distrustful expression
he was to keep all his life. Candor and malice can be read in
his features along with acute sensitivity which for his self-protec-
tion he later hid behind a mask of irony. It was a pose he was
the first to suffer from, but unhappy the man who did not
recognize the depth of hidden tenderness in his music, for the
injury would unleash a torrent of abuse from him in language
as scathing and vitriolic as it was imaginative, and which stung
friends and foes alike. Mystical and ironic; fanciful, but severely
austere in expressing this fantasy; supremely daring and clear-
sighted, but so vulnerable that he took refuge in a secluded life;
of rare goodness, equaled only by his diabolic spitefulness;
brilliant, but wary of showing it—this was the composer of
Parade and Socrate.
Satie left Honfleur when he was twelve, and moved to Paris
with his family. He began to work with Guilmant. At the
Conservatory he worked briefly under Descombes and Lavignac,
Erik Satie and the Six 2Oj
and next spent an equally short time in Taudou’s harmony
classes. Düring his piano studies, the elderly Mathias encouraged
him to compose. Then suddenly in 1887, the unexpected fruit
of disorganized study came to life with three Sarabandes for
Piano, "I would like to emphasize,” says Roland-Manuel, “that
the Sarabandes are a turning-point in the evolution of our music.
Here are three short pieces—composed in an unprecedented
harmonic technique springing from an entirely new aesthetic—
which create a unique atmosphere, a magic in sound which is
absolutely original. Claude Debussy was well aware of it. Four-
teen years later he composed a Sarabande that pays distinct
homage to Satie through charming effects of an influence delib-
erately sought after, and a relationship deliberately established.”
There has been much discussion, and rightly so, of Satie’s pre-
Debussy role. However, it would be a mistake to consider him
simply a precursor. We have only to examine the works Satie
wrote between 1887 and 1897 to see that . the composer of
Socrate did not merely foreshadow the harmonic System and
sensibilities of the creator of Pelleas. In the Sarabandes the
composer links ninth chords by way of fifths, freely, without
preparation and without resolution [Example 84}.
But little notice has been taken, it seems, of other germs of
Contemporary feeling contained in this music. In the thirteenth
measure of the third Sarabande (less well known but no less
unusual than the second), a melody is born whose notes form
the basis of an arpeggio accompaniment which seems to emanate
from the melody itself. Schoenberg and Stravinsky were to
develop this same concern for the unity of the musical material.
The flexibility of his melodic line as well as the nature of his
harmony foreshadow the mature Faure [Example <95].
In 1887 Satie was a frequent companion of Rodolphe Salis,
Alphonse Allais (who also came from Honfleur), Georges Auriol,
Maurice Donnay, Jouy, Riviere, and Tinchart. He took a job as
second pianist at the Chat Noir. In his spare time, he helped in
the production of Chabrier’s Roi Malgre Lui, at the Opera-
Comique, and enthusiastically endorsed that liberating work.
In 1888 he brought out the admirable Gymnopedies. The
sustained iambic rhythm, and the seventh chords gliding along
this persuasive rhythm in a very special way, underlie a melody
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

whose perfect curve is unique (that is, resembles no other). These

three pieces were to excite Debussy, who orchestrated two of
them, as well as Ravel, whose La Belle et La Bete in Ma Mere
L’Oye is simply a fourth gymnopedie [Example 86],
The Sarabandes, Gymnopedies, and generally speaking Satie’s
compositions prior to 1900 are priestly or religious in character.
There was a streak of mysticism in Satie’s makeup; but it is an
exaggeration to point to this, as Alfred Cortot does, as the ex-
planation for his composing in threes, the mystic number. Why
then three Sarabandes, three Gymnopedies, and three Gnossi-
ennes, the three works of the series patterned on the same model,
and strangely similar? Why that series of three in each of his
collections of piano pieces written between 1911 and 1915? We
asked Satie one day, and he answered that there was no mystery
about it: “I invent an absolutely new form. The piece I write
seems good to me. But might that not just be luck? If I compose
a second and a third piece along the same lines but with differ­
ent melodic ideas, and if these pieces are still good, then the
form I have invented is good in itself.” His words throw light
on the thinking of a composer who did not aim at brilliance or
power or dazzling effects, but who sought perfection for his
own joy. Debussy understood this Gothic-architect outlook per-
fectly. In a copy of Poemes de Baudelaire, he wrote the dedica-
tion: “For Erik Satie, a fine medieval musician who has wan-
dered into this Century, to the joy of his devoted Claude De­
bussy.” In 1890 Satie presented the Trois Gnossiennes, in which
Gregorian and exotic modes graphically illustrate the underly-
ing perfect chords. (The exotic music heard at the Exposition of
1889 made a strong impression on the young composers at that
time—Debussy, Ravel, Koechlin and Roussel—and in part caused
the return to modality.) Satie’s mystic inclinations found satis-
faction in the Rosicrucian Order which Josephin Peladan in-
volved him in around 1890. He wrote the Sonneries pour la
Rose-Croix for brasses and harps and three preludes for Le Fils
des Etoiles, Sar Pcladan’s Chaldean Wagnerism. In these pieces
the six-note chords, constructed in fourths, prefigure a harmony
which will later be heard in Schoenberg and Milhaud [Exam­
ple 87].
Thus, in four years’ time (1887-1891), Satie explored by him-
Erik Satie and the Six 2o$
seif a harmonic ground which would normally rcquire a quartcr
of a Century to investigate thoroughly.
Satie soon broke with the Rosicrucians, for the atmosphere was
too dogmatic and tiresome for a man who so loved freedom and
fantasy. The mystical tendency still predominates in the Danses
Gothiques pour Piano (1893); the Prelude ä la Porte Hero'ique
du Ciel, based on the esoteric drama by Jules Bois (1894) and
orchestrated in 1912 by Roland-Manuel; the Mass for the Poor,
for organ (1895); and even in the Pieces Froides, for piano
(J^97)^ despite their titles—Pieces ä Faire Fuire and Danses de
Travers— that suggest the humor still to come. All of Satie’s works
up to this time were exclusively harmonic in style. They gained
their composer limited recognition in circles influenced by De­
bussy and Ravel; but they saw in Satie only a brilliant precursor.
His importance would be slight if the works themselves lacked
inspiration or form. But this is not the case: Sarabandes, Gymno-
pedies, Gnossiennes, Pieces Froides, the first prelude of Fils des
Etoiles, and the Prelude ä la Porte Hero'ique du Ciel are much
more than just interesting documents. They are works of rare
beauty and reveal an emotion that is all the more powerful be­
cause it is expressed with the restraint and lucidity that mark
a great artist.
Satie met Debussy in 1891 in the Aubcrgc du Clou, a place
both men frequented. Long after, the Master of Arcueil wrote:
“When I saw him for the first time I was drawn to him and
wanted to live uninterruptedly in his presence. I had the good
fortune to satisfy that wish for thirty years.” Theirs was a mar­
velous friendship which suffered no blemish until shortly before
Debussy’s death, when a painful misunderstanding arose.
Debussy himself never disguised the vital influence that Satie
had had on him. He repeated to Jean Cocteau Satie’s remark
which had decided him on the aesthetic of Pelleas: “The or­
chestra should not grimace when someone comes on the scene.
Look. Do the trees in the dccor grimace? A musical decor, a
musical climate should be created in which the charactcrs move
and speak. No Couplets, no leitmotivs—instead, it needs some of
the Puvis de Chavannes atmosphere.”
Satie’s works of the harmonic period should be performed and
listened to in exaetly this spirit. The same holds true of his
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC
masterpiece Socrate, in which, near the end of his life, he
achieves that ideal of decorative, atmospheric music, opposed to
the realism which he held in horror.
Why, as late as 1895, had Satie himself not developed an art
based on the constructive principles he conceived so well? Ob-
viously, no one understood him. Symbolism had unsettled po-
etry’s dominion, and budding impressionism in music had begun
to obscure precisely what Satie wanted to see clearly. He wanted
force, and design as pure as Ingres’s, when all the evidence
pointed to a trend in the diametrically opposite direction. Satie
must have known that he could not present his views fully at
that point. Having discovered a harmonic language that others
would use and abuse, he said no more. We are sure that the
reason for this silence was the incompatibility of his inclinations
and those of the times, and his conviction that he lacked the
proper foundation. He held on to his feeling about atmosphere.
But harmony alone was incapable of giving him that clean, con-
tinuous line he was seeking. This note, found in the margin of
one of his notebooks, says it: “If I am loath to say right out what
I think in a whisper, it is only because my voice is not strong
enough.”
In 1898 Satie withdrew, left Paris, and installed himself in an
unattractive township in the suburbs, Arcueil. “In this spot,”
he said, “you can feel the mysterious presence of Notre-Dame
Bassesse.” He remained there until his death in 1925.
Very discouraged, leading a miserable existence, Satie shuttled
back and fortli between Arcueil and Montmartre, always clothed
in gray velvet (his friends called him “the velvet gentleman”).
Debussy alone stood by him and urged him to write. In 1899,
he composed a delightful, lively suite of gigues, Jack in the Box
(orchestrated by Milhaud in 1925). The harmonic conception of
the pieces is echoed in Ravel’s Le Tombeau de Couperin.
Then, unexpectedly, there appeared the famous Three Pieces
irr the Form of a Pear (for Piano with Four Hands) with a Sort of
a Beginning, a Continuation of the Same, and One More, Fol-
lozued by a Repetition. (That is the complete title of the work.)
We know the origin of the title. Debussy had advised his friend
to take pains with his form. Satie left, and several weeks later he
presented Debussy with his pieces in the form of—a pear. For
Erik Satie and the Six 20^
Satie knew that form (and not construction) was a completely
neglected notion at the time, and that its spirit had to be redis-
covered by starting from scratch.
The Three Pieces in the Form of a Pear strikes a very new
note with its resolute movement, its rhythmic breadth, and
through the use in some passages of rather coarse music in
reaction to the excessive elaborateness of the impressionists. The
only thing humorous about the work is its title. It shows a de­
velopment toward counterpoint—Satie was on the scent of what
he lacked.
This composition, moreover, is one of the composer’s most
perfect, most beautiful, and most powerful works. Satie had at
last set out on the right road. Apropos of Pelleas, he wrote to
his brother: “Nothing further to do along those lines; I must
look for something eise, or I am lost.” And in 1905 Satie went
back to school, at the age of thirty-nine. He enrolled at the
Schola Cantorum and studied counterpoint under Albert Rous­
sel for three years. He applied himself to his work conscien-
tiously. Debussy was crushed, fearful that his friend would lose
his delightful intuitive sense. Nor could Roussel understand
what had decided Satie to take his courses. “Satie had a call-
ing,” said Roussel. “His works already in print proved to me
that he had nothing to learn. I could not see how he could
benefit from theoretic and scholastic studies. Nonetheless, he
kept at it. He was a tractable and assiduous Student. He handed
in his exercises punctually, well written and set off with nota-
tions in red ink. He was extraordinarily talented!”
Satie acquired a high degree of skill in counterpoint. But his
object was not to produce a fine display or to busy himself with
clever constructions. He used counterpoint to imbue his melo­
dies with greater clarity than harmony could provide. He wanted
to express only the essential and to condense his music to the
utmost, so that the progression of parts would make the unusual
harmonic columns more obvious and necessary. His language
was to become more elliptical without losing its clarity. The
first fruits of his studies were two suites for piano duet: Apercus
Desagreables (1908) and En Habit de Cheval (1911). The first is
composed of a pastorale, chorale, and a fugue in which the com-
poser waggishly introduces the response before the subject. At
A HISTORY Ob MODERN MUSIC

the entry of the subject he notes: “Smile.” The second composi­

tion includes two chorales, Fugue litanique and Fugue de papier,
The riding apparel is the shafts of a cart to which he is har-
nessed and which hamper his movement. But the humor in the
title does not hold true for the music. The very compact chorales
progress by striking harmonic short-cuts that give them strength
marked with distinction, and reveal a new way of thinking.
Satie had good reason to note “with breadth of vision” at the
beginning of the chorale in Apercus Desagreables. The Fugue
litanique develops a Gregorian theme, and the Fugue de papier
is exquisitely graceful.
The Veritables Preludes Flasques (pour un chieri) was written
in 1912. These are the true preludes because a first manuscript
of the Preludes Flasques was refused by the editor. They are
flabby only to mock Debussy’s followers. The element of sur-
prise is that the music is muscular and powerful. Finally, the
dedication to a dog: the title is like a bone thrown to a dog
to distract its attention. The titles and subtitles are there to
amuse those who understand nothing of the music. Severe repri-
mande is a short toccata; Seul ä la maison, a creation for two
voices, in which the ambiguous character of the melody [Exam­
ple 90] is just the result of the progression of the other voice;
On joue is a sort of bourree.
After the Preludes, between 1913 and 1915, a whole series of
compositions for piano appeared with amusing music as well as
titles: Descriptions Automatiques; Embryons Desseches; Croquis
et Agaceries d’un Gros Bonhomme en Bois; Chapitres Tournes en
Tons Sens; Vieux Sequins, Vieilles Cuirasses; Heures Seculaires et
Instantanees; Trois Valses Distinguees d’un Precieux Degoute;
Sports et Divertissements; and Avant-dernieres Pensees.
People have long tended to be amused by the titles and the
notations accompanying the music, and to treat the music itself
with some disdain, failing to see that this is an absolutely new
genre. Satie had invented comedy-music.
Do not confuse comedy-music with gay music. There had been
comic situations in opera, and there had been comic songs.
These were written with gay music, and the comic tone was
primarily due to the text. By itself, the music could not convey
a sense of comedy. We need only refer to Chabrier’s Le Roi
Erik Satie and the Six 209
Malgre Lui, Ballade des Gros Dindons, and Villanelle des Petits
Cochons, and to Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg
and to Strauss’s Rosenkavalier for examples of fresh, sprightly,
gay music written to underline a comic text. In Dukas’s The
Sorcerefs Apprentice and Ravel’s L’Heure Espagnole the feel­
ing of comedy sometimes rises from the music itself, but almost
uniquely from the instrumentation—the contrabassoon in The
SorcerePs Apprentice is famous for that reason.
Satie sets about making us laugh by using the piano alone.
He presents brief sketches in which he generally uses a populär
song or a hint of a well-known operatic melody to give them
an expression or meaning they do not have. Similarly, Charlie
Chaplin’s gestures always end on a note of surprise which evokes
laughter. But Chaplin’s gift of poetry elevates his art to such
a degree that we no longer think of his clownishness. He inspires
dreams and thought. In the same way, Satie’s little pieces drop
the comic touch into an atmosphere of delicacy, balance, and
charm which endows them with incontestable poetic value. The
nocturne Sur une Lanterne (from Descriptions Automatiques) is
limpid, mysterious, and smooth. The first notes of a hack tune
are written into it, as though whistled by a happy-go-lucky fel-
low taking a solitary, lingering stroll. It is subtle comedy, not
intended to arouse guffaws, but rather to bring out a smile. Les
Embryons Desseches are an open parody, with the untiring
repetition of the perfect chord. The mockery is aimed at all the
dry fustiness of academicism. And yet, what a beautiful move­
ment is the Embryon d’Holoturie!
Each sketch has very specific characteristics which are so dis-
tinctive and formalized that they draw and hold attention and
remain deep in the memory. They are set off with texts which
are sometimes downright foolish. Why are they there, then, when
they have absolutely nothing to do with the music? For com-
edy’s sake. It is obvious that Satie wrote for his own pleasure,
and not for the good of readers or audiences. If his little manu-
scripts, such as they are, please them, so much the better.
Above all, however, the music and text should not be con-
fused. Satie gave the following instructions to his Interpreters:
“To whom it may concern: I forbid you to read program notes
aloud while the music is being played. Any breach xof this re-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

quest will incur my righteous indignation. No exceptions will

be allowed.”
Here is one of these clownish notes, evoking the melancholy of
the virgin forest:
VENOMOUS OBSTACLES
This vast region of the world is inhabited by one man: a Negro. . . .
He is bored to death with laughing. . . . Millenarian trees cast a
shadow showing 9:17 a.m. The toads call each other by name. To think
better, the Negro holds his cerebellum in his right hand, his fingers
spread. From a distance he looks like a distinguished physiologist. Four
anonymous serpents charm him, hanging from the tails of his uniform,
which is disheveled from trouble and solitude.
On the edge of the river, an old mangrove tree is slowly washing its
roots, fouled with filth. . . . It is not the time for love’s sweet sur­
render.
Other notations directly concern Interpretation, humorous
also, but very exact to anyone who knows how to read them.
The pianist’s every move is considered: “in the head”; “from
the corner of the eyes and remembered in advance”; “a little
bloodily”; “without reddening a finger”; “ignore your own pres­
ence”—many directions for touch, movement, sonorousness, and
spirit.
Even the serious-minded Charles Koechlin writes:
And why not think of these notations as necessary, especially in very
short pieces in which the idea passes without restraint from one image
to another? Why not allow this type of presentation? In itself, it is
not at all illogical. This is something the bourgeois do not seem to
understand—an artist acts, not in a pose or according to type, but for
himself and because that is his pleasure. The bright red notations in
the first edition of Le Fils des Ltoiles and the careful writing with
ornamented capitals written for the sake of harmony picture Satie to
us as the last descendent of the good monks who copied their manu-
scripts with love. That shows character in these days when modern
man subordinates everything to what is useful and (to do what eise with
it, dear Lord?) time-saving.
Parody, or nonsense, is only one aspect of Satie’s comedy-
music—there are others. In Trois Valses Distinguees d’un Pre-
cieux Degoüte, the intentionally brisk short-cut in the music
calls up an amusing image of the artificially ardent or too-tender
Erik Satie and the Six 211
waltzes our grandmothers adored. In the Avant-dernieres Pen-
sees, dedicated to Debussy, Dukas, and Roussel, sinuous lines
caper around ostinati-pedal notes, then separate from them
mischievously only to return and separate again. It makes the
listener think of a kitten playing with a ball of wool.
But Satie displays a higher order of humor in Sports et Diver­
tissements and in his melodies. Koechlin again captures the es-
sence:
I here is no more illogicality. On the contrary, exact and scrupulous
images (greatly Condensed, moreover, restrained and striking) of the
states of soul, landscapes, and actions give birth to the comic. It is an
unencumbered comedy, faithful to the text which it describes with the
precision of a painter of Japanese prints. I recall Chrysaline’s astonish-
ment in the face of Daph£neo’s bewildering answer, but above all
I think of the inimitable Sports et Divertissements, which deserves a
special place in Satie’s work. The uneasiness of the imprudent char­
acter who risks the “watcr-chute,” the sticky blue-green octopus play­
ing with a crab, and so many other passages in this suite of rapid
pieces are to me netsukes of the best period. A few brief touches,
nothing more is needed. Extra-condensed art—why not? To develop is
not an end in itself, but a means, and is not suitable for all composi­
tions. A small Japanese ivory is worth more, isn’t it, than so many
official statues that turn our public squares into cemeteries?

Alfred Cortot finds that Sports et Divertissements are real

haikus in music, and best correspond “to the instantaneous
nature of his singulär genius. There is no better testimony to
the descriptive power of all Satie’s music—nor any which, in
relation to the text, better justifies his ambition of the moment,
as it traces for him the Ümit which it never should have ex-
ceeded.”
The text and the music have the same exquisite and incisive
quality, and are strangely extended into the ensuing silence.
Balangoire is a good example.
Satie’s songs are as original as his piano pieces. They also are
humorous, but are shadowed with a hint of melancholy or
resignation. The melodies of Trois Poemes d’Amour, set to
ironic poems, are permeated with sweetness and sadness, in-
spired, as Leon Guichard points out, by the Gregorian sequence
Victimae paschali laudes and sustained on harmony of springlike
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

freshness. There is nothing in all of music which is so tenderly

disillusioned. La Statue de Bronze, Dapheneo, and Le Chape-
lier combine luminous poetry with avenging verve. The Ludions,
set to poems by L. P. Fargue, teils of the love of humble things,
of the refuge of those who are hurt by human society and of
the disdain of grandiloquence. They communicate the intimate
pleasure of true modesty. The music is intended to pass un-
noticed. But it is too ingenious, too inventive, not to be noted.
After 1888 all Satie’s creative activity was darkened with a
shadow he did not try to dispel. His attentiveness had helped
him to avoid both the transitory quality which, among Debussy’s
heirs, had led to the dispersion of music in a sort of inconsistent
sonorous vapor, and excessive construction, which led to aca-
demic formalism. At heart, he had retumed to the classic spirit
which gave life to Couperin’s work, the spirit of balance, vivac-
ity, fitness, and simplicity which is the soul of all great French
classics. It is not important that the works are short because
nearly all of the harpsichord pieces we admire are that. As for
the drollery of the titles, gaiety is an old Gallic virtue. The
Fastes de la Grande Menestrandise, Les Culbutes ou les x I . . .,
and Les Calotins et les Calotines did not serve to mask other-
wise negligible music in Couperin’s work. “There are works
whose whole import is in depth—their opening is unimportant,”
says Jean Cocteau. “Satie’s smallest work is small like a keyhole.
Everything changes if you bring your eye close.”
World War I hastened the evolution of ideas in music. The
spirit of carefree well-being was replaced by a concern for basic
necessities. The enjoyment of luxury gave place to basic mini-
mum needs. The arts, reflecting social problems, adopted the
way of economy. The need for reality, security, and certainty
assigned to the arts the aim of painting the permanent charac-
teristics of an object, and no longer the changing atmosphere
surrounding it. Satie’s hour had come.
At Ravel’s instigation, the S.M.I. had already devoted two
now historic concerts to Satie’s work in 1911. But it was Dia­
ghilev who put Satie in the limelight. In 1915, Jean Cocteau,
enthusiastic about the Three Pieces in the Form of a Pear,
sounded Satie out on a project for a ballet which was to revolu-
tionize Choreographie art. It was Parade,
Erik Satie and the Six 2I^
French artists were infused with a new spirit that attracted
them to certain guiding ideas: to express the enduring nature
of things, as completely as possible; to reject useless ornamenta-
tion and formal development; to flee the premeditated sublime
and choose the familiär, everyday world; to use a minimum of
means, but with full consciousness of the value of materials; to
avoid vagueness and reinstate the firm design; to stop using
the work of art as a personal battleground, but to consider it
objectively as having its own existence and detach it from the
individual who has given it life.
In painting, this new spirit appeared in the canvases of Pablo
Picasso and Georges Braque, and was called cubism. In litera-
ture, Guillaume Apollinaire and Jean Cocteau expressed it in
their poetry. Satie feil in step with the movement naturally, and
we must give credit to Cocteau’s perceptiveness. In choosing
Satie to compose the music for his ballet, and Picasso to create
the decor and costumes, Cocteau made Parade _ a turning point
not only in music, but in theater as well.
As for Diaghilev, we need to rectify the opinion, too often
voiced, that the most significant years of the Ballet Russe were
the first, from 1909 to 1914. The Ballet brought the sumptuous-
ness of the Russian scene to the West, and reintroduced classic
choreography and dance in France, which had lost these arts
after the days of Petipa. Whatever the importance of Le Sacre
du Printemps to music, Nijinsky’s choreography for the ballet
came at a bad time. It was premature, for it was based on tradi-
tional Slavic ritual dances, and could not have been understood
by the public prior to 1952. We agree with Boris de Schlcezer
that the outstanding and most influential period of Diaghilev’s
Ballet was 1917-1925. This was the period of growth when
Diaghilev surrounded himself with painters like Picasso, Braque,
and Marie Lauren ein; composers like Satie, Stravinsky, Auric,
and Poulenc; Cocteau, the genius of theater; and choreogra-
phers like Leonide Massine and Bronislava Nijinska, gifted with
the understanding and imagination to collaborate fruitfully with
the artists and composers. The art of ballet was rejuvenated and
a new form of musical spectacle created.
Cocteau called Parade a realist ballet, “meaning by that: truer
than the true, and counting only, to make my meaning clear,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

on the distance existing for the spectator between a ballet and

this ballet, the realistic word and the unreal aspect of the spec-
tacle.” This is Cocteau’s summary:
The ddcor represents houses in Paris on a Sunday. Road show. Three
music-hall numbers serve as a Parade. Chinese magician. Acrobats.
Young American girl. Three managers are organizing the publicity.
They inform each other in their terrible language that the crowd thinks
the parade is the whole show, and they try coarsely to make them
understand. No one enters. At the end of the parade, the exhausted
managers collapse one on top of the other. The Chinese magician, the
acrobats and the young girl come out of the empty theater. Seeing the
supreme effort and the collapse of the managers, they in turn try to
explain that the show is inside.
In agreeing to paint for the theater, Picasso compromised him­
self with the purists of Montparnasse. But Picasso was not a man
to “let himself get hooked.” He thought there was a way not to
paint for the theater, but to do theater painting. Braque, Derain,
Dufy, Marie Laurencin, Matisse, Fernand Leger and a good
many others were to follow his exarnple and contribute their
share to the new art of theatrical decor. Picasso left with Cocteau
to join the Ballet in Rome, where it was then preparing Les
Femmes de Bonne Humeur, based on Scarlatti sonatas, and, a
little later, Pulcinella. Düring that time, Satie was composing
in Paris. ‘Tittle by little,” Cocteau writes, “a score was born
in which it seemed that Satie had discovered an unknown di-
mension—you seem to hear the parade and the show inside
simultaneously.” Satie had agreed to write the score as a musical
foundation for a symphony of suggestive sounds—sirens, type-
writers, airplanes, dynamos. He was still concerned with making
the music unobtrusive. The noises were to create an impression
of ineffectual bustling, but they were not used. This did not
diminish the impact of the spectacle—in fact, the score gained
by the omission. The choreography discarded traditional steps
and poses, and was patterned on movements drawn from real
life.
Here is what Cocteau says, speaking of the directions he gave
Satie:
These directions had nothing humorous about them. On the contrary,
they insisted on the extension of the characters beyond the given scene,
Erik Satie and the Six 215
where the Chinese magician was capable of torturing missionaries,
the young girl of going down with the Titanic, the acrobat of con-
sorting with angels. When Picasso showed us his sketches, we under-
stood the importance of setting the three chromos off with non-human,
superhuman, more seriously transformed characters who would actually
become the false reality of the scene to the point of reducing real
dancers to the dimension of puppets. So I conceived the managers as a
savage, uncouth, vulgär, and noisy lot, who by their stränge looks and
behavior nullify their own efforts and—which they did—incite the crowd
to react with hatred, ridicule, and shrugs.
It was decided to have the managers stamp their feet silently,
which made them look particularly vicious.
Our boys looked like the insects whose brutal habits the film deplores.
Their dance was an organized accident of false Steps extended and
alternating with the discipline of a fugue. The awkwardness of moving
around in those trappings,13 far from inhibiting the Choreograph er,
required him to break with old formulas and seek inspiration not in
what moves but in what is moved among, and in what stirred accord­
ing to the rhythm of our march.
There wras also a parade horse, made of cardboard and cloth
and animated by two dancers inside it who stamped their feet
in coordination writh the managers. This is the only comic touch
in the ballet, and it whipped the public into a frenzy.
There remain the characters in the parade:
Contrary to what the public thinks, these characters are closer to the
cubist school than are our managers. The managers are part of the
d6cor. They are Picasso portraits which move, and their very structure
requires a particular type of choreography. For the four characters,
we took a sequence of real gestures and transformed them into dance
without losing their realist impact in the same way that modern paint-
ing takes inspiration from real objects and transforms them into pure
painting without losing sight of the power of their dimensions, texture,
colors, and shadows. For reality alone, even heavily disguised, has the
power to excite. The Chinese magician draws an egg from his braid,
eats it, digests it, and finds it at the toe of his sandal. He breathes fire,
burns himself, hops around to put out the sparks, etc. The young
girl comes on stage, rides a bicycle, imitates Charlie Chaplin, chases
a thief with a revolver, boxes, dances to ragtime, falls asleep, is ship-
wrecked, rolls in the grass on an April morning, takes a picture, etc.
13. Picasso’s costumes.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

The acrobats [are] simple-minded, agile, and poor. We have tried to

clothe them in that certain melancholy feeling of the circus, the Sunday
evening, the last drum-roll, that moment when the children put on
their coats and cast a longing final look at the ring.

Satie composed a smooth score, large but simple in design,

which suggests a music hall elevated to a higher plane. The
three numbers, with the ragtime piece in the middle, are en-
closed in a double frame—an interior scene, consisting of the
music for the managers before the first and after the third num-
ber, and an exterior scene (Prelude au Rideau Rouge), consist­
ing at the beginning of the score of the exposition of a fugue,
and at the end, of the conclusion of the fugue. The music is
undramatic and entirely decorative, and its singulär metronomic
import insures metric unity. It unfolds smoothly and steadily,
and yet is powerfully tragic. The rumble and shuffle of the
crowd are not evoked. Satie has retained only the characteristic
inflections of traveling-show music, the abrupt outbursts of the
brasses, the muffled punctuation of the tuba, the piercing timbre
of the clarinet in the high registers, and that certain way of
expanding the nuance at the ends of phrases. He has eliminated
all vulgarity. The waltz of the acrobats is particularly character­
istic. Parade is not music-hall music, rather it sketches its por-
trait.
Through one of those mysteries properly attributed to genius,
a sense of seriousness in the music conveys the underlying human
drama.
The Orchestration breaks all the rules. There is nothing bril-
liant in the music, nothing overpowering, no striving for color.
There is something weary about it in its carnival-like crudity;
the orchestra has no punch, but it evokes deep feeling in the
audience.
Parade is a eulogy of poverty, and it is a true masterpiece.
Cocteau says, “No sorcery, no repetition, no ambiguous ca-
resses, no fever, no miasma. Satie never muddies the waters. He
speaks the poetry of childhood with the touch of a master.”
Koechlin finds the best quality of Parade “in that sense of meas-
ure which the composer of Socrate never loses. It is hard to say
just how, but his transpositions of folk art are never vulgär, and
Erik Satie and the Six *J
2I
even his brutality (when he finds it necessary to be brutal) is
held in remarkable control.” And Stravinsky says: “Parade re-
confirmed my belief in Satie’s worth and the importance of his
role in French music in countering the uncertainty of decaying
impressionism with firm, clear language stripped of the em-
bellishment of imagery.” The Soldier’s Tale, Mavra, and Apollon
Musagetes would never have seen the light of day if Parade had
not preceded them.
The first performance on May 18, 1917, at the Chätelet, cre­
ated a terrible hubbub. The public and the critics understood
nothing of the choreography, the decor, or the music. Provoked
by an aggressive manifesto written by Guillaume Apollinaire,
they roared their protest, thinking they were being mocked.
Cocteau, Picasso, and Satie were called “Boches.” The scandal
became serious, for Paris was in a state of siege. Satie was over-
joyed. He had his revenge. After thirty years of anonymity, he
had taken the lead of a movement in music and had become the
standard-bearer of youth.
The publicity surrounding Parade was really unbelievable.
The press went so far as to accuse the authors of introducing
German ideas into wartime France. Passions erupted. Satie sent
insulting postcards to one of the more stupid critics, and was
dragged to court and sentenced to eight days in prison for slan-
der and libel. Officials did not hesitate to make political capital
of the incident. For a short time, Parade was considered an
act of high treason. Cocteau defended Satie with tongue and fist.
This was the memorable beginning of new French music.
As with Le Sacre du Printemps, a concert performance of Parade,
under the baton of Felix Delgrange, drew ecstatic praise of the
score.
Debussy, very ill, bitter and defiant, was displeased at the
movement forming around Parade, which placed his old friend
in the center of public attention. Satie was hurt at not having
received a word of approval from the man he was most eager
to hear from. He wrote Debussy an offended letter. “Debussy re­
ceived it in bed,” Louis Laloy teils us, “to which he was con-
fined for the several weeks preceding his death. His trembling
hands crumpled the sheet and the paper, which was suddenly
torn to pieces. ‘Pardon,’ he murmured, like a child about to be
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

scolded, with tears in his eyes. . . . By mutual fault, this was the
unhappy end of their friendship.”

Parade was the embodiment of the sentiments of some young

composers who shied away from affectation, an overly aristocratic
tone or a contemplative attitude, and who wanted active music
which would be simple and direct without forfeiting any of its
nobility. The poet Blaise Cendrars, who was then writing La
Fin du Monde, conceived the idea of assembling these artists in
a group. In June, 1917, a first concert was given, featuring works
by Satie, Georges Auric, Louis Durey, and Arthur Honegger.
After the concert Satie proposed the founding of a group ex-
clusively composed of musicians. It became known as the Nou-
veaux Jeunes. Germaine Tailleferre joined Durey, Auric, and
Honegger, and Honegger introduced his friend Darius Mil­
haud, who with Paul Claudel was on a diplomatic mission in
Brazil. Jeanne Bathori, a remarkable singer and the first Inter­
preter of Ravel’s Histoires Naturelles, was devoted to the cause
of the Nouveaux Jeunes and organized the group’s concerts at
the Th£ätre du Vieux-Colombier. Jean Cocteau became a mem-
ber, and crystallized the aspirations of his friends in his book
Le Coq et VArle quin—Notes Autour de la Musique, published
in 1918.
Cocteau was a poet who combined intensity with purity, a
perceptive and original man of the theater, alert to all the signs
of the times. He had written a stränge book, Le Potomak, which
treated the malaise of the transition period before World War I
with great imagery and highly personal poetics. Le Coq et
VArle quin, published in the form of a tract, is a manifesto of
ideas concerning the state of music which he had gathered in
conversations with Satie, Stravinsky, and Auric. On these
grounds, the tract is a valuable document. Like all manifestos,
being one-sided, it is not exempt from exaggeration. Revolu-
tionary action consists precisely in taking a side or adhering to a
given position, not verbally but tlirough actions. And because
this was an artistic revolution, the side taken was all the clearer
since the spirit, much more than technique, was involved.
Also, the war had produced a discipline of speed, effectiveness,
and brevity, which explains the pace of this small book. The
Erik Satie and the Six 2ip
cock of the title symbolizes the authenticity of an art based
solely on Gallic sources and traditions, while the harlequin
represents the confusion of an art which includes pedal-notes
(we will say, constants), basically belonging to other peoples
(German and Russian) which, when introduced into French art,
only distort and weaken its character. The book attacks Wagner-
ism most violently, and strongly warns against the Russian in-
fluence exercised by Le Sacre du Printemps. However, it is a
fair-minded warning because in no way does it detract from the
unreserved admiration Cocteau, Satie, and future members of
the Six had for Stravinsky’s work.
Le Coq et l’Arlequin also contains pertinent comments on
the public, the theater, and the life of music in general.
Let us quote a few of the sparkling aphorisms strewn through
the book. “Art is science made flesh.” That is, we want an
art based on the knowledge of means of action and their effects.
“Tact in daring is knowing just how much too far one may go.”
In the course of a progressive evolution, when “one does not
skip Steps,“ today’s artists always go too far for yesterday’s, that
is, they go farther than yesterday’s. And in the unknown regions
an artist explores, the only control the imagination should ad-
mit is that of taste—an eminently French position. “Look out!
Be on your guard, for music alone among the arts can envelop
you. Musicians must rid music of tangles, deceits and sleight-of-
hand tricks, and force it to stay as close as possible to the
audience.” Pelleas, Le Sacre du Printemps, and Tristan are spell-
binding works. They enclose the listener in a world of sensa-
tions in which the individual feels captivated, drawn in, and
becomes passive. He submits to the music, and the music will
not let him go. The art should be clear and open, and should
leave the listener lucid and conscious. It should be an objective
art, detached from the individual.
Clarity, economy of means, and perfect effectiveness are qual-
ities the young generation found in the music hall. It was
thought that in their “music-hall aesthetics” Cocteau and the Six
were extolling music-hall music, but this is a misunderstanding
of their point of view. What they admired was the absolute
economy of each gesture of the acrobat, the tight-rope walker,
and the magician. In the music hall there is no gesture or pose
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

extraneous to the construction of the “act.” There is no un-

necessary fantasy or superfluous Ornament; music-hall art is
objective, polished and pure. The music hall was therefore pro-
posed as a model because of the purity and perfection of its
work. It also offers an example of an art form which is based
on coarse features, a summary and sometimes schematic expres­
sion contrary to the subtleties of symbolism and impressionism.
Satie and the Six were attracted by that aspect. It furnished
them with the means to free themselves from the voluptuous
charm which permeated Debussy’s and Ravel’s music and which
hampered them at a time when they needed to affirm their own
personality. The circus, populär Parisian songs, and clowns were
the Order of the day. Parade had painted the portrait of the
music hall. L’Histoire du Soldat was inspired by stage art. Pou-
lenc wrote Cocardes, and Milhaud Le Bceuf sur le Toit. Jazz
came to Paris. Here is the first contact, as reported in Le Coq et
VArle quin:
What swept impressionist music asidc was, for one thing, a ccrtain
American dance that I saw at the Casino de Paris. Here is what it was
like. The American band played an accompaniment on banjos and
big nickel pipes. To the right of the little band, and beneath a gilded
pergola, stood a bartender dressed in evening clothes and loaded
down with bells, rods, boards, and motorcyclc horns. He made noise
by mixing the instruments together in Cocktails, sometimes adding a
dash of cymbals, Standing up, strutting, and smiling to the heavcns.
Mr. Pilser, in tails, thin, and made up with rouge, and Miss Gaby
Deslys, a great ventriloquisfs doll with a porcclain face, corn-colorcd
hair, and ostrich-feather dress, danccd to that hurricane of rhythm and
drums a sort of domesticated catastrophe which left them drunk and
blinking under a battery of six floodlights. The audience gave them a
Standing ovation, torn loosc from its rcscrvc by that extraordinary spec-
taclc—which is to Offcnbach’s foolishness what a tank might be to
a horse-drawn carriagc, vintagc 1870.

A healthy reaction to the sublime, the sort of music that is

listened to while holding one’s head. “Enough clouds, vapors,
aquariums, water-sprites, and perfumes of the night; we want
a music of the earth, an everyday music.” What was needed was
trenchant music, to clear away the confusion. “In the midst of
the exoticism and disrupted tastes in France, the cafe concert
Erik Satie and the Six 221
had remained fairly intact in spite of Anglo-American influ-
ences. It represented a certain tradition which, for all its dis-
sipation, is nonetheless a part of the race. Here, certainly, a
young musician could pick up the thread lost in the German-
Slav labyrinth.” A feeling for coarseness marked the crisis.
“We can hope soon to hear an orchestra without the soft touch
of the strings—a rieh choir of woods, brasses, and drums.” The
pursuit of reality was set over against confessions of the soul
and the enchantment of sensations. “The artist who has a feel-
ing for reality must never be afraid of being lyrical. The objec-
tive world preserves its power in his work, whatever metamor-
phoses his lyricism subjects it to/’
This aesthetic of reaction also satisfied the need for gaiety
and unbridled and violent joy to which poets and musicians
gave expression at the victorious end of a long and painful war.
It was to bear fruit until Satie’s death in 1925. But it was not
the only aesthetic of the time. Honegger, for his part, never
subscribed to it. Auric wrote only one ragtime piece, and then
entitled it Adieu, New York; and in Poulenc’s and Milhaud’s
work the music-hall phase is represented by only a very few
works, contemporaneous with many others which were totally
different in style.
Still, the importance of this kind of music should not be mini-
mized. It contributed a great deal to the simplification of lan­
guage, and the clarity of presentation of ideas.
Satie himself was thinking about Socrate, which he composed
in 1919, at the time when the music-hall aesthetic was at the
peak of its influence. Socrate is a symphonic drama in three
parts for female voice and chamber orchestra, and is based on
sections of Plato’s dialogues in Victor Cousin’s translation. The
three parts are Le Banquet, Aux Bords de Vllissus, and Mort de
Socrate. The composition is a masterpiece and one of the most
important works of Contemporary music. The serenity and sus-
tained emotion Satie expresses have no equal in either classic
or modern music.
A symphonic drama is the opposite of a dramatic symphony.
The drama, rather than impregnating the symphony and sub-
ordinating it to the dynamism of the play, is expressed accord-
ing to laws of purely symphonic musical structure. No other
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

work of music can help the listener to understand Socrate. But

certain decorative paintings bear an indirect artistic relation­
ship. Satie greatly admired Puvis de Chavannes, and his first
works—Gymnopedies, Sarabandes, and Gnossiennes—reflect the
painter’s spirit. The language in Socrate is contrapuntal, and
differs from that of Gymnopedies. But the spirit is the same.
Mural painting (like Fra Angelico’s and Puvis de Chavannes’s)
promotes a feeling of calm, serenity, and peace, even if the sub-
ject treated is full of movement. This quality is peculiar to
murals, and coincides with the aims of the decorative arts. It is
achieved by observing certain principles.
a] Absence of marked color contrasts.
Think of the cloister of St. Mark’s in Florence and the frescoes
at the Sorbonne. The colors are delicately balanced in value,
or blend with each other in gradations which erase contrasts.
This rule applies not only to isolated panels but to groups of
panels. In the same way, sonorous contrasts in Socrate are
avoided, and the three pieces are of the same intensity. Har­
monies and timbres all have the same degree of tension. Today
we are eager for marked contrasts and sharp, well-defined har­
monies. And they do have their beauty. But the absence of con­
trasts and brightness is beautiful in its own right.

b] Schematic arrangement.
Consider Le Bois Sacre, Vision Antique, and Inspiration Chre-
tienne, well-known works by Puvis de Chavannes. Parallel lines,
almost equidistant, are deliberately repeated throughout. More-
over, a motif repeated in its unchanging form often alternates
with another motif repeated in like männer. This is the prin-
ciple of repetition, or alternation and interposition of repeti-
tions constituting the background of the subject. The Japanese
have made remarkable use of the principle, as have painters like
Uccello and Botticelli. Botticelli’s work influenced Satie in the
bases he selected for the instrumental music for Socrate. The
lines and motifs that accompany or support the song are cells
of one or two measures, repeated a certain number of times.
This scheme alternates with several others, each based on a
different but rarely contrasting cell, contrasts being reserved for
Erik Satie and the Six
climaxes of greatest tension. The same principle of repetition
gives rise to the use of a constant measure and an unalteringly
moderate tempo for each piece.

c] Arrangement of the subject against the background.

A decorative panel includes a certain number of human fig-
ures, such as those in Fra Angelico’s great Assumption, Botti-
celli’s Spring, and Puvis de Chavannes’s Repos and Bois Sacre.
All the figures are of the same physical type. Yet they are not
monotonous, because the poses, lines, and curves of each body
are finished, perfect, and different. In Opposition to the back­
ground of the picture, there is no repetition here. Each figure
has the same amount of space, but as the focus of a play of new
lines it becomes something finished in itself. The peaceful round
of gestures and movements, unified by a constant intensity and
rhythm which avoids dramatic impact, is arranged on the calm,
smooth background.
Satie’s songs correspond to the human figures in decorative
painting. The terms melody, melopoeia, and recitative are in­
applicable here, for Satie’s song, although perfectly shaped, has
neither the complete meaning of a melody nor the accentuation
of a recitative. His song is divided into sections with similar
durations, amplitudes, and intensities, each section defining a
complete shape differing from its neighbor and corresponding
to the expression of the moment. Also, all syllables have the
same value, since their duration is standardized. Diphthongs
which are too rapid are divided. In this way each cell of the
song preserves the same value in time, as the harmonious curves
of human figures of uniform proportions are arranged in equiva-
lent portions of space [Example ££].
If we contemplate the fusion of these various elements, we
touch on the secret of the emotion we experience on seeing or
hearing decorative work. We are reminded of what in physics
is called the interference of a number of series of vibrations.
A single Vibration forms which is slower and larger than each
of the interfering vibrations. From this comes that feeling of
gentle, serene, and warm gravity we have when we hear such
music.
The first performance of Socrate took place in 1920 at the
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Soci^te Nationale. Such was the confusion in the minds of lis-

teners that Satie was thought to be making fun of the world.
Satie wrote us: “My music was rather badly received, and I am
not surprised; but I was surprised to hear the audience laugh
at the text of Plato. Yes. Strange, isn’t it? They would almost
seem to be saying that Socrates is a personage of my own in-
vention . . . and that in Paris!”

Darius Milhaud had returned from Brazil, and a young pupil

of Ricardo Vines, Francis Poulenc, whose Rapsodie Negre had
just been performed with great success, joined the new group
of composers. Henri Collet, analyzing the growing trend in the
magazine Comcedia, entitled his article, “The Russian Five, the
French Six, and Mr. Erik Satie.” Thereafter Louis Durey, Ger­
maine Tailleferre, Georges Auric, Arthur Honegger, Darius
Milhaud, and Francis Poulenc were spoken of as the Six, and
it was not long before a group aesthetic was attributed to them
which actually did not exist. It was thought that the Six were a
happy band of friends who aspired to no greater heights than
music-hall art and devoted their talents to comedy and buf-
foonery. To dispel contempt, the group published the four issues
of the magazine Le Coq in 1920, printed on handbill paper and
set in handbill type. The magazine set forth the points of view
of each group member and those of Satie, Cocteau, and Ray­
mond Radiguet in an amusing and combative style. One of the
issues contains a declaration by Satie, who was antagonized by
the very idea of a Satie school. “Satieism could not exist,” he
says. “I would be hostile to it. There should be no slavery in
art. With each new work I have always made an effort to throw
off imitators of my style or material. This is the only way an
artist can avoid becoming the leader of a school, that is, a
pawn” Poulenc explained the current need for coarse music:
“Vulgär melody is good in that it is original. I like Romeo,
Faust, Manon, and even Mayol’s songs. Refinement almost al­
ways obliterates the folk accent in your ‘modern music/ When
refinement and that folk accent combine in a nation (as in
Russia), that nation has found its music.”
At the same time, Milhaud went so far as to defend Ambroise
Thomas. But Le Coq was less on the march against refinement—
Erik Satie and the Six 225
a danger already past—than against its antidote, which in tum
was becoming detrimental. "All the young men of one genera­
tion were poisoned by Oscar Wilde, as if by a Catherine de
Medicis, with books, perfume, and gloves. Those were days of
English dilettantism. Today dilettantism is American. The light
bulb is the new orchid. The cult of the nut and bolt has replaced
the cult of the jewel. We must be wary of it.”
Cocteau and Radiguet suggested the founding of an "anti­
modern league” devoted to "a return to poetry, the disappear-
ance of skyscrapers, and the reappearance of the rose." All the
musicians agreed with the idea except Honegger, who had a
passion for locomotives and claimed to have discovered a new
source of lyricism in the play of their wheels and connecting rods.
The spiritual revolution was ended. The new path, freed of
excessive refinement and the exotic, is described by Georges
Auric:
Why should we be criticized for the circus, the music hall, the Mont­
martre fair? Our remedy made us realize more completely how serious
the sickness had been. We had to create this coarse and loud commo-
tion. Too bad if it was a little brutal in breaking the deep spell of
Debussyism and discarding the attractive elegance of Mr. Ravel, which
had bogged down tragically and in which the genius of the guilty was
no longer in question. It was enough that we were awakened in time
to discover the enormity of the danger. Ravel used a “wind machine“
in Daphnis et Chloe. It is not surprising that we came one day to
prefer a “wind-breaking machine.“ The jazz band astonishes us. To
create such a counterpoint of noises and rhythms and shouts around
a few dance tunes in such easy, ordinary music is indeed astonishing.
The “sublime“ has no degrees. There were so many evenings when
I chose to listen to the banjo and Saxophone at the Casino de Paris in
preference even to Chevillard’s orchestra. Hindustan and Indianola
brought tears to my eyes.
Debussy, I know, reached the sublime in his throbbing chords. I find
the sublime on every page and in every measure of Stravinsky’s ballets.
How could we forget Le Sacre du Printemps, that extraordinary tumult
—an entire orchestra dominated by the genius of a man who for us
was his whole race that day.
But today—and this so well expresses the weariness of the times—
we have had to reinvent “nationalism.“ I want to think as I under-
stand, now that I know where I stand. Jazz woke us up. Let us plug
our ears to hear it no more.
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Honegger did not repudiate modern mechanism. Milhaud kept

himself open to the influence of certain types of American music,
saturated as he was, on his return from Brazil, with the luxuri-
ance of the virgin forest. But while Louis Durey left Paris and
retired from the new musical movement, Poulenc and Auric
turned to the Paris streets for inspiration. Poulenc’s Cocardes,
set to poems by Cocteau, describes the melancholy of the suburbs
in music written for tenor voice accompanied by a violin, cornet,
trombone, and bass drum—the little orchestra of street-singers.
Auric composed a series of Huit Poemes de Jean Cocteau for
voice and piano, which graphically re-create the atmosphere of
Paris. We can now understand what Auric meant when he said
that the little orchestra of Cocardes was as entrancing to him as
a page of Rameau.
The last act of the Six as a group was the production of a
play by Jean Cocteau with music by the five composers—Durey
had left for Provence. The play was Les Maries de la Tour
Eiffel. In Parade, Cocteau created a plastic expression based on
ordinary gestures, not on classic dance positions. In Le Boeuf sur
le Toit he used masks and combined agitated music and slow
gesticulatiQ.ns to create the atmosphere of a performance by
slee^walkers. In Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel, focusing his ideas
about the theater, he created “theater poetry” as a counter-
balance to “poetry in the theater/’ “In the theater,“ says Ray­
mond Radiguet, “even the greatest poets have always made the
mistake of ornamenting their text with poetic images which only
curtail the interest of the action. Here, imagery is an integral
part, not of the language, but of the play itself.“
Modern elements—the Eiffel Tower, phonographs, cyclists—are
so manipulated that they are stripped of their modernism and
emerge suffused in the poetry of childhood memories and be-
come more real than reality. Ir£ne Lagut and Jean-Victor Hugo
designed a decor, costumes, and masks which harmonized per-
fectly with Cocteau’s text. The music composed by the Six was
trenchant in style, savage, and Parisian to its core. Auric created
a crackling overture, Poulenc the hilarious Discours du General,
Tailleferre a wonderful Quadrille, Milhaud the bantering
Marche Nuptiale, and Honegger a joyful Marche Funebre.
Satie and Honegger soon drifted apart because of irreconcilable
Erik Satie and the Six 227
differences of opinion. A little later Satie, whom age and illness
had made more sensitive than ever, had a falling out with Auric
and Poulenc for reasons unrelated to music. This difficult period
is illustrated by numerous magazine articles in which Satie ex-
pressed his vengeful streak with biting vigor and furious humor.
He handled a pen with amusing malice. He even wrote a short
one-act comedy, Le Piege de Meduse, festooned with little pieces
of music for a very small orchestra that are models of pithiness
and effective Instrumentation.
After Socrate Satie composed five Piano Nocturnes, wonder-
fully pure pieces echoing the serenity of his Symphonie drama.
In 1924 two important works appeared, Mercure and Reläche.
Mercure is a suite of flexible poses in which Picasso treats
mythology in terms of stage art. He created scenery and costumes
which are some of the best work he has ever done for the theater.
Satie outdoes himself. This is not the music hall or a transforma-
tion or poetic rendering of the traveling show. He probes much
deeper, and takes inspiration from the very technique of the
stage. Never in all his works has his rhythm been so powerful,
never has his music been so free or so persuasive. The Orchestra­
tion has that very special and unmitigated rawness which pierces
the clamor of the crowd, and is yet tempered with the muffled
punctuations of the tuba. There is no hint of vulgarity. Quite to
the contrary, Mercure is like a challenge. This art for the people
is seized by a strong hand which, trembling with rage, lifts it
to a level of incontestable nobility. Let there be no mistake.
Mercure, far from being humorous, is endowed rather with
sacred fury, and some of its passages sound with the measured
violence of the voice of doom. They alternate with pits of silence
that echo with serene tenderness. Satie has never been in such
close communion with Picasso as in this beautiful score.
Reläche, the final work of the Master of Arcueil, intensifies
the sense of vengeance feit in Mercure. Satie, whose last words
were, “Ah . . . the bastards!” chose a Collection of the most vulgär
populär songs and threw it at the public like a slap in the
face. The score was built around an idea of Francis Picabia’s;
it follows no apparent logic, and is interspersed with film clips.
The main value of the work lies in its remarkable Orchestra­
tion. For Rene Clair’s pantomime film, which was shown be-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

tween the two acts of the ballet, Satie composed beautifully

appropriate music. The music had to be continuous. His com­
position is background music, with a number of decorative
rhythmic cells repeated, but this time not used as support for
singers or melodies. The characters are shining film figures, and
the decorative music they move to is called background because
it performs the same function as does a wallpaper frieze in a
room. It is unobtrusive, but its absence would be noticed. It is
music which does not have to be listened to, but which clothes
the silence. This film music, which is not found at concerts, was
a great success. The idea could well be examined and developed.

It was fashionable to consider Satie an amusing mischief-maker

and to pay heed to nothing outside his writing. Indeed, his
letters and reviews deserve to be collected in a volume of articles
and letters. But Satie was much more than simply a humorist
and precursor.
Although his luck was sometimes bad, although he was forced
to maintain silence for a good many years because he was in-
capable of producing what he glimpsed, there is no denying that
he was a creator of genius. His piano pieces form a rieh collec­
tion which can be ranked after Couperin’s Ordres and Rameau’s
Suites. Parade, Mereure, and Socrate are powerful works planned
and orchestrated with assurance and a unique and inimitable
style.
Satie’s place in the history of Contemporary music, in all
justice, is among the greats. His work is touched with a certain
mystery—the mystery of a great purity hidden behind an illusion
of mockery, with an implication of tacit complicity between the
composer and whoever is able to receive his message. Marcel
Proust achieved comparable communication. A passage in
Guermantes Way reads:
Who knows, perhaps as she was proffering her candies, the Goddess
was saying in that ironic tone of voice (for I saw her smile): “Would
you like some candy?” What did it matter to me? I would have found
her deliberate dryness deliglitfully refined, Merimee- or Meilhac-like
those words addressed by a goddess to a demigod who knew what
were the sublime thoughts they were both doubtless summarizing for
the moment when they would go back to living their real lives, and
Erik Satie and the Six 22p
who, playing along, replied with the same mysterious slyness: “Yes, thank
you, a cherry.” And I would have listened as avidly to that dialogue as
to a scene from Mari de la Debutante, in which the absence of poetry
and great thoughts, such familiär things for me and things I suppose
Meilhac would have been able to infuse in it with perfect ease, seemed
to me in her alone elegant, conventionally elegant, and thereforc so
much the more mysterious and instructive.
 6

MILHAUD, HONEGGER, AURIC, POULENC:

AFTER THE SIX

the activity of the Six as a group was limited and transitory.

A violent reaction against preciousness resulted in a degree of
impertinence, a farcical aspect, and trenchant music. The con-
sequences of that attitude were important. Musicians lcarned to
approach composition with confidence, without that excess of
scruples that paralyzed the drive of composers like Duparc,
Dukas, and Delage. Composing became an everyday affair, a
metier, as Charles Koechlin proved. The word mutier, used by
the composers themselves to dehne the productive work by which
they intended to make their living, scandalized those who
thought of artistic creation as a luxury activity, an exceptional
work undertaken only when inspiration Struck. Around 1920
Stravinsky, Honegger, and Milhaud had to defend their point of
view repeatedly. Stravinsky said, “Inspiration comes with work­
ing as appetite comes with eating.” Honegger also asserted that
composing was a legitimate profession. To wait for inspiration
before taking up a pen means to an artist to waste time in sterile
dreaming. It is invalid to assume that the fecundity of the young
composers was the result of this attitude. Rather, their produc-
tion was made possible because they were gifted with very great
musical abilities. Composing or creating music has been as
natural and indispensable to them as breathing, and the abun-
dance of work produced, for which they were criticizcd at the
outset, was as necessary to them as it was for Lully, Haydn,
Mozart, Beethoven, Handel, and Bach.
The quality of such an abundant production, of course, could
not be uniform. There are poor, indifferent, and good com-
positions. Posterity will retain only those of enduring worth and
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 2ji
will forget mediocre works. It is shortsighted to think of the
great classic composers as perfect beings who wrote only master-
pieces. A casual glance at their complete works reveals that
Haydn, Mozart, and Handel composed many insignificant pieces.
And even in Bach’s cantatas, there are pages which have dis-
appeared into oblivion, and are neglected for good reason. The
modern composers must be approached with the same attitude.
We should not reproach them for having written uninteresting
works. We should consider only the fine scores which, fortunately,
are fairly numerous.

darius milhaud. To speak of Milhaud, Honegger, and Poulenc,

we must forget the Six. In their work, which has developed over
a period of close to forty years, the spirit of the Six died an
early death. Milhaud’s personality matured after 1913, and
Honegger’s after 1915. But since their names had become famous
as a result of the activities of the Six, public opinion erred for
a time, holding that those activities manifested an aesthetic
common to the members of the group. The individual personali-
ties of the composers were not distinguished at first, and the idea
took hold that humor, mockery, and Satire were to be the aim
of any work their imaginations brought forth. At the dress re-
hearsal of Honegger’s Antigone, someone asked us if it would be
funny. At a performance of Milhaud’s Homme et Son Desir, a
spectator confessed to us that he did not find the work “as funny
as all that.” He was referring to the männer in which the
audience laughed at Socrate. How true it is that those who
really listen to music without preconceived or extramusical
ideas are a small minority.
Today Honegger, Milhaud, and Poulenc are not only famous
but populär. Their music is welcomed and played almost
everywhere. Honegger was given recognition as a serious com­
poser after 1920, but not so Milhaud. The enormous success of Le
Bceuf sur le Toit established him in the eyes of the academic
world as a gifted composer, but one who was too facile and too
eager for the immediate effect, amusing himself by deliberately
sounding a false note. He baffled public opinion by the number
of trends his art seemed to follow, but this multipolarity was
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

only an appearance, not real. The public found his venturesome

language hard to grasp, and hesitated to acknowledge his lyricism
at a time when the focus was on construction and objectivity
exclusively.
This hesitancy and misunderstanding did not extend beyond
Paris. Foreigners adopted Milhaud, and only later did Parisians
bow to the evidence. Milhaud had become the greatest of Con­
temporary French composers, and on the international level he
was in the first rank.

It would be useless to try to compare Milhaud with other

Contemporary composers. Some found his temperament com-
parable to Mozart’s, others spoke of him as a second Berlioz.
Such a contradiction shows how difficult it is to classify the
composer of Christophe Colomb. None of the modern char-
acteristics seem to apply to his work. There is no question about
objectivity. His music is subjective. Romantic? Possibly—but with
a sense of balance that is properly classical. Expressionist? Some­
times—but not in the pessimistic sense of the word as it is applied
to the Viennese composers. There is no trace of a system of his
own, and yet his language is so personal that a single measure
of his music can be identified with no possibility of error.
Milhaud, born in Aix-en-Provence in 1892, is Proven^al. He is
the most Mediterranean of all French composers. Everything
related to the Latin sea, everything found between Constanti-
nople and Cadiz and between Rio de Janeiro and the Antilles is
present and fully expressed in Milhaud’s music. He is far re-
moved from the problems which central European artists seek
to solve, far from that pursuit of a form which seems so hard to
find. Milhaud has an innate sense of form and plastic beauty,
but he does not make them his aim.
His ever alert sensitivity reacts to all the impressions he re-
ceives. Yet it is not impressions he transmits to us, but the deep,
total expression of the world as he sees and feels it. He absorbs
Sensation completely, and it catalyzes the reaction of his whole
personality, which sings as if it were endowed with all the knowl­
edge and wisdom distilled and decanted by the ancient peoples
of the South. Milhaud’s lyricism is like that of Homer and the
Bible. It is of the same order as is found in Jean Giono’s Serpent
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 233
d’fitoiles, Naissance de l’Odyssde, or Colline, or in Francis
Jammes’s Georgiques Chretiennes, and in Paul Claudel’s Cinq
Grandes Ödes.
Can we still reasonably speak of subjective art in connection
with such poetry? The subjectivity is in any case very broad.
These poets and this composer do sing with all their hearts, but
their hearts are so representative of an ensemble of things and
events, and the fruit of such an old civilization, that the air is
not that of an individual but the song of wisdom, knowledge,
and perception. Such lyricism is the source of true grandeur and
real powers. It feeds on age-old realities which are timeless and
constant.
Attributing Milhaud’s extreme sensitivity and lyric power to
his Jewish origin explains nothing. Claudel, Giono, and Jammes
are not Jewish, and their poetry engendered Milhaud’s. Nor are
Milhaud’s qualities as an artist specifically Jewish in character.
We must remember that the Jews came into Provence with the
settlers of Marseilles.
Rather than try to overparticularize, we will simply point out
that there is an intimate lyric relationship between Milhaud’s
best music and the Song of Songs, the Psalms, Greek epic
tragedies and poetry, and the poems frorh the Serpent d’fitoiles.
The lasting influence of Greek culture—or Mediterranean-
oriental culture—in Provengal civilization is visible enough for
the relationship between the works mentioned above to be con-
sidered quite natural.
Milhaud is open to Stimuli from all directions. He is receptive
to the whole ränge of emotions, and expresses tenderness, joy,
pain, tragedy, or reverence with equal felicity. Skepticism and
cynicism alone are repellent to him. Sustained by a prodigious
capacity for work (at the age of sixty he had composed more
than three hundred works), Milhaud has experimented with
every genre—chamber music, songs, cantatas, ballets, operas,
concertos, and symphonies.
Milhaud cannot be said to have undergone an evolution. From
his earliest works, and through the inevitable influences exerted
on him at the outset, his personality has continued to assert
itself and his outlook has not varied. His language, as intriguing
and personal as it is, has never been more than a tool of
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

expression. And the nature of his expression is so specific that

variations in language do not appreciably modify the essence of
his music. A scene from the Brebis Egaree, written in 1910 in
language deriving from Debussy’s, strongly resembles any scene
from Medee, written in 1938 in language free from all influence.
The interior life of Milhaud’s works is so sharply defined that
youthful works like Alissa carry weight later, despite harmonic
devices that recall La Damoiselle Elue. Inversely, the bold style
that was so startling at first was no longer noticed after a few
years, so apparent is its necessity to the expression which gave
rise to it.
For Milhaud, the whole world is music. There is no subjcct,
Situation, state of soul or object he does not translate into
sonorous discourse. The essence of that discourse is melody. In
his creative act, the invention of the melody is the crucial,
decisive point, and once the melody is discovered, the composi-
tion itself flows spontaneously from his gifted nature.
When he approaches a subject, Milhaud contemplates it for
a long time. He roves, opens himself to the outside world and
lets the atmosphere work on his senses until he grasps the
melodic pattern that most completely expresses his vision, which
is always original and personal but is based on wide human
experience. Düring this long period of gestation, the architecture
of the music is sketched and filled in, and the work scems to
be almost entirely composed when he begins to write it. He
puts it down on paper with surprising speed and assurance,
and the finished work has remarkable unity.
Le Pauvre Matelot, a lament in three acts, was thus in forma-
tion for nearly two years and took only fifteen days to write.
Critics, ignorant of this creative process, long accused Milhaud
of composing too quickly and sloppily, and of being too easily
satisfied—an unjust accusation, influenced by his exceptional
speed in writing, and justifiable only in the case of defective
works. What comes from the pen of this composer is either
wholly magnificent or wholly negligible. There is never a middle
ground.

Schoenberg’s revolution destroyed tonal structure. It was a

negative revolution, at the end of which new foundations were
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 235
needed to fashion a new mode of being in music. The conserva-
tive revolutions of French composers, at least Milhaud’s, Honeg­
ger s, and Poulenc’s, do not eradicate the principle of tonality
and do not require music to be other than what it has been
since the Renaissance. Their upheavals are individual. Each
works with experimental language formed by others, and selects
those elements that suit his own strong personality and allow
him to express himself freely.
Milhaud’s language is essentially tonal, and even radically
diatonic. Considering the melodic nature of his music, this is
logical. As we have said before, melody is an organism complete
in itself, whose significance is a function of the relationships of
notes to a tonic. Milhaud willingly repeats the precept of his
teacher Andre Gedalge, who required his students above all eise
to write melodies without accompaniment.
Milhaud’s melodies are strongly characterized, both in shape
and in rhythm. They are perfectly organized units, often some-
what populär in development, but always intensely individual-
istic. They attest to the composer’s breadth of vision [Examples
89 and <?/].
It goes without saying that the melodic material is not neces-
sarily composed only of perfect melodies. Suiting the require-
ments of action or development, his songs often take on the
appearance of melodic themes, which can be divided into
different motifs. The well-defined melodic base attracts counter­
point. This is the method of development natural to Milhaud’s
thinking.
Born at a time when the complex chords of Debussy and
Ravel were linked with tonal feeling by the ever-slackening line
of unresolved double and triple appoggiaturas, Milhaud brought
about a simplification. Chords of ninths, elevenths, and thir-
teenths can in fact be related to a given key, but can as easily
be interpreted as being formed of simple chords belonging to
different keys. A chord like the one in Exarnple 93 can be
considered as unitonal, whether it is resolved or not, but each
of the three perfect chords which compose it can also become
independent and confirm the simultaneous occurrence of two or
three perceptibly different keys [Exarnple <?y]. The result
is harmonic bitonality or polytonality. For instance, we find
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

chordal agglomerations like those in Example 92 in which the

two simultaneous keys are noticeably independent. Generally,
these bitonal chords evolve into a cadence which makes them
converge into a single key, and the temporary dissociation of
keys only makes the domination of a preponderant key more
striking. In bitonality or polytonality one key always dominates
—the one that is the most intensely sonorous by its position. This
property gives rise to pseudo-modulation, an effect which
enriches the harmony [Example ^5].
These two chords built of the same six notes, superimposing
G and Bb major in both cases, have different significance. The
first is dominated by Bb, and the second by C. The result is that
there seems to be a modulation, although the tonal components
have not been changed.
Besides these polytonal harmonies, there are chords which,
through their movement, seem to indicate a bitonal sense.
Actually, this is not so. They are like the unresolved appoggia-
turas of ninths [Example 96] or the rows of fourths which leave
some doubt for a time about their ultimate tonal position, so
that when this position is stated it will achieve even stronger
expression in proportion to the length of time it has been
delayed [Example ^7].
However, polytonality is best justified in polyphony, in that
it can state and follow two or more different and independent
ideas which are presented simultaneously. The excerpt in
Example 98 is clearly contrapuntal. On a pedal-note outside of
the key, a melodic line is established in C major. The clarity
of the key is accentuated by a sequence of chords of sixths.
(The harmonies Milhaud superimposed in polytonality are al­
ways very simple, as is required for the chords to be perceived
simultaneously.)
Creating polytonality requires great skill and active auditory
imagination. In composing for piano, Milhaud did not venture
beyond bitonality. When he wants to go farther, to superimpose
a greater number of melodic lines, he utilizes an ensemble of
solo instruments whose differing timbres sustain the clarity and
transparency of his structure. Example 100, a passage from the
Third Chamber Symphony, is wonderfully sonorous, and super-
imposes no less than five different keys. The ear hears the devel-
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six
opment of the six melodies perfectly, and is not tempted to
re-examine them in vertical analysis. The counterpoint is no
longer harmonic in the least, and the voices are kept independ­
ent without breaking the key of each melody.
This particular style of writing is necessary to his expression.
Milhaud told us one day: “When I am in the country on a
beautiful, calm night like this, I get the feeling that all points
on the horizon, of the stars, and in the earth’s core send me
rays, silent signs. That feeling of the cosmos teeming with life
around you, and the feeling that you are in the midst of it, is
intoxicating. I have always tried to express these multiple lines
of force, these multiple rays that permeate you in the heart of
the nocturnal silence.”
Polytonal language does not exclude unitonality. Often, and
always according to the expression desired, polytonality is
resolved on a single key. In other places, the composer leaves
polytonality aside and holds himself to one key. Polytonality
and unitonality are not partitioned off. The same relationships
exist between them as between dissonance and consonance.
Passing from one to the other engenders tension and release.
Polytonality introduces harmonic developments into the field
of counterpoint, and thus increases the ränge of expression and
power of a language which has not been disordered, but whose
limits have been extended. The finale of Eumenides is an
example of admirable use of polytonality. The scene is the
march of the people toward the temple of Athena to celebrate
the advent of the new law. The song of the enormous crowd,
expressing long-awaited release from the heavy bürden of the
law of blood, resounds in the streets. The long processional is
sung by the chorus and Athena, with an orchestral background
of six actual voices whose structure resembles an ostinato and
pedal-note by the use of short motifs that pass from voice to
voice and undergo a certain number of modulations. Four major
keys are superimposed at the beginning of this swelling, surging
march: Db, E, G, and Bb. Tension mounts. Soon there are six
superimposed keys, the motifs being heard in Db, Eb, E, Ab, A,
and B. After a time, these are reduced to five: Db, Eb, Ab, A, and
B. In progressive release, the music passes into four keys: Db, Eb,
A, and B. Then into three: Db, Bb, and B, which clarify by
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

resolution into two keys: CS (Db) and B. These are resolved at

the end of the single key of C major, in a sheer bürst of light.
Never has ut major known such imposing and inevitable
triumph, and never has it had to overcome such strong and
prolonged resistance to gain freedom. It shines out, at the end
of the processional, with almost unbearable brilliance.

No law or system can indicate which keys can be superimposed.

The compatibility of different keys depends on a number of
factors: their Separation in sonorous space, the timbre and
intensity of the instruments they are assigned to, the character
of the melodic line, and the expression desired-. In its current
state, musical language has no absolutely incompatible elements.
Taste and musical sense guide the composer. General laws no
longer exist. There are only special cases.
Rarely does Milhaud make use of other than major or minor
keys. But these he combines in his polyphony to create a sort
of intermediary state, a major-minor duality, an element of
uncertainty which nonetheless holds fast to tonality.
In creating structures (improperly called forms), Milhaud is
extremely inventive, and shows a preference for the fugue and
the sonata. He uses the sonata structure in symphonies, string
quartets, dozens of sonatas for various instruments, and con-
certos (for piano, violin, cello, violin and flute, and twTo pianos).
To describe Milhaud’s sonatas would require a volume of com-
mentary, because no two follow the same pattern. They are as
varied as Beethoven’s, and for the same reasons. Although he
always respects the general pattern of the classic sonata, his
construction depends on and is secondary to how he wants to
express himself. Usually the slow movement is the focal point
of the work. Milhaud is the only Contemporary composer who
expresses himself most fully in an adagio. That peculiarity
almost seems like an anachronism in a time when rhythmic
dynamism and the most brilliant virtuosity are the dominant
concerns. Ease and freedom in invention of forms are the mark
of creative genius. The eighteen quartets Milhaud has composed
make up a wonderfully varied series. They contain short, con-
cise movements in which development is barred, and others
which on the contrary are fully developed. Some are polyphonic,
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 239
like the fifth; others, like the seventh, are written as almost
unaccompanied monodies. Their mood is alternately ardent,
tender, pastoral, sad, or grave. No one in Contemporary times,
except Bela Bartök, has composed string quartets so well planned
and written as Milhaud. The fabric of his quartets is rieh and
transparent. They are luminously sonorous and totally absorb-
ing. The instruments never rely on the effects of sonorities:
harmonies, and playing direetly on the bridge or on the frets,
are rarely used. The music of these quartets is natural and
spontaneous, reminiscent of the delightful lightness of Haydn’s
quartets or of the intensity of Mozart’s, whereas Bartök’s are
more like Beethoven’s in temperament.
What cannot be described in words is the great honesty of
Milhaud’s music. Except for a few unimportant works, he makes
no concessions to passing fashions. What was new in the
language might have attracted an audienee’s special attention and
distracted it from the contents of the music twenty-five years ago.
Today the Situation is reversed. Audiences accustomed to lan­
guage peculiarities and recognizing that they are dictated by
the artist’s sensitivity are discovering timeless art, great in its
simplicity and lasting significance, and truly original.
Milhaud’s vocal and dramatic music still surpasses his purely
instrumental works in importance. He is above all a lyric
composer: he has written more than a hundred and fifty songs,
four series of vocal quartets, a dozen cantatas, fifteen operas,
and ballets, as well as theater and film music.

Since 1910, lyric composition has been somewhat discredited.

People have been exclusively concerned with form and construc-
tion. The supreme compliment an artist can be paid is to be
called intelligent. Intelligence seems to be the primary requisite
for the validity of any work, and no one realizes that there
should be a corresponding lyricism. Without preliminary emo-
tions, intelligence could not exist. In the final analysis, intel­
ligence could act abstraetly; but to allow the emotions which
have given it life to function would in no way dectract from its
luster or its lucidity.
Throughout periods of trouble and chaos, this thirst for
intelligence to restore order is understandable and legitimate.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

But the fever of the thirsty makes them see intelligence in too
simple a light. Wanting it pure, and finding it hard to see in a
complex of ideas and emotions, they require that intelligence
operate on an elementary level so that an immediate appear-
ance of order is given, which will satisfy them.
This urgent call to intelligence has led to a temporary taste
for pure formalism. And we must be careful. Although cubist
canvases and Picasso’s compositions live and continue to attract
us, all the intelligence of Albert Gleizes did not prevent him
from painting pictures which have long since been forgotten.
Picasso’s work is beautiful, not because he is intelligent, but
because his intelligence communicates emotion to us. He trans-
mits his perception of matter to us. When he fixes a shred of
cloth, a scrap of paper, and a dried rose on a board, it is as
though he is speaking to us. We feel the warmth of an interior
life and hear the beating of a heart.
Pure intelligence in a work of art, separated from its function
of transmitting emotion called up by the external world, leads
to the dangerous route of analysis. If an artist studies himself,
taking himself as the subject of his observations, he puts himself
on the path of egocentricity and eccentricity. The content of the
work, which should be first in importance, gives way to a
männer which is ultimately damaging. Certain passages by
Cocteau, Poulenc, and even Stravinsky are tainted with this
extremism.
The exercise of pure intelligence in art, or adherence to
intellectual values, makes the artist lose contact with real life.
The interior void which results is masked by good taste. When
an artist cuts himself off from the warm sources of life, he
narrows his horizon. An intelligent artist may paint a lovely
landscape whose balanced lines attract our eye. But a landscape
by a great painter will be involved in a human action more
complex than the description or the architectural scheme. “In
Goya’s pictures,” says Eugenio d’Ors, “the background is as
important as the figure. The cosmic element takes on an impor­
tance formerly reserved for anthropomorphism (as in Rem-
brandt’s work), and is suggestive of the infinite.”
This is the complexity of lyric artists. All the components of
a composition, each selected by an act of the intelligence, are
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 241
unified by a superior form of intelligence, that of the heart.
Only then do we receive that sense of the infinite, and only then
will it evoke that Vibration, that particular sympathy which up-
lifts us. This is the power of true lyricism. Why should we dis-
trust it? There is no danger of confusing it with sentimentality.

The foundation of lyricism is subjective, and subjectivity was

thought for a time to be dangerous. Too individualistic an art
was feared, because extreme individualism had previously led
to anarchy. But individualism is not an inevitable consequence
of subjectivity. Romantic individualism, like Schumann’s, does
not correspond to the current general trend. To make oneself
the center of the world and reveal one’s personal joys and sor-
rows is not the aim of spokesmen in a time when every vital
concern involves the whole of humanity, and when a social
revolution is taking place which is changing every life. Personal
drama offers too limited a horizon in the face of tragedy that
straddles entire continents. The individualism of a Debussy, that
passive pleasure consisting of egoistic enjoyment of the echoes
aroused in us by the spectacle of nature, belongs to a carefree
time.
But the individualism of an artist like Beethoven is of a
different Order. Its aim is to merge with the emotions of all
men, to be at one with the human race, not to consider oneself
as an exceptional and isolated being, to sing of human emotions
in the most universal sense, to be part of the sensitivity common
to all, and to avoid eccentricity. Milhaud’s lyricism resembles
Beethoven’s, as Stravinsky’s art, in its second männer, is like
Bach’s. What we say here, of course, does not constitute a value
judgment.

Milhaud’s vocal works are of very different types. There are

real melodies among them, for instance, Trois Poemes de Lucile
de Chateaubriand (1913), some of the Quatre Poemes de Leo
Latil (1914) such as La Tourterelle, and the Petits Airs de
Stephane Mallarme. But these are exceptions. His scheme often
extends beyond the scope of a melody, and is not expressible
with strophic periodicity. It tends toward the continuity of a
dramatic progression. His vocal works are deeply psychological,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

in the same way as Claudio Monteverdi’s Lettera amorosa in

genere rappresentativo. His point, in fact, is to represent states
of emotion, and not to sing of himself. It is Milhaud’s nature to
portray states of soul, and not psychological movement. This
trait is noticeable in his quartets and songs as well as in his
dramas, and molds the character of his music to express duration,
not the moment, and states rather than actions.
In Existence Humaine et Transcendance, Jean Wahl writes:
“The human soul knows many countries as its own. This idea
of regions through which the soul, the Z, passes, is expressed by
Blake. It is the theory of states. The I is not real; it is the states
through which it passes that are real.”
To this series of lyric or dramatic fragments (since they must
be given a name, to distinguish them from the melody-type)
belong, among others, Le Rossignol, a splendid composition
based on a beautiful text by Leo Latil; D’un Cahier d’Eugenie de
Guerin, and Alissa, composed on sections of Andre Gide’s Strait
Is the Gate. Alissa’s long lament, in which she confesses a love
hidden too long, found its perfect composer. Milhaud clothed
it in infinitely sweet melodies, beautiful in their almost monastic
simplicity and austerity. This poignant monologue, an early
work, is one of the author’s best works.
Sometimes Milhaud offers us short syntheses, portraits which
condense a character or type into a few measures. Such are the
Chansons Bas (Mallarme) and Soirees de Petrograd (Rene
Chalupt).
Milhaud discovered in Paul Claudel’s poetry the expression of
his highest aspirations, treating states of consciousness behind
drama. In his Etudes, he writes:
In 1908, the poems of Francis Jammes led me out of the mist of
Symbolist poetry and made me look at a whole new world which was
as easy to grasp as simply opening the eyes. Poetry finally had returned
to everyday life, the goodness of the countryside, the charm of humble
beings and familiär objects. What a sudden splash of cold water on
my face! I found myself on the threshold of a living, healthy art,
disposed to receive the influence of that force which shakes the human
heart, twists it, uplifts it, calms it, and transports it like an element of
nature whose uncontrollable violence, harshness, poetry and gentle-
ness you feel in turn—the art of Paul Claudel. Jammes gave me the
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 243
Connaissance de l’Est. I was immediately tempted to put to music
some of those poems which are individual concentrated dramas, noble
and powerful in form, and sustained by the interior rhythm of prose
that grips you like a vise.
Claudel’s poetic art is based on the primordial iamb, and its
rhythm is measured by respiration, the respiration that divides
discourse into successive waves of unequal duration, following
interior rhythm and pulse. His poetry rises above individual
sensibilities and is generalized to the point of becoming the song
of the human mind. In the power of his imagination, the rela­
tionship he defines between the human and the divine, and his
faculty for depicting states of consciousness, Milhaud is in perfect
accord with Claudel. Collaboration between the two artists was
particularly successful in the production of dramatic works.
Two works aroused public mirth in their time, Catalogue de
Fleurs and Machines Agricoles, for voice and instruments. They
were thought of as a bet or a joke, because Milhaud had taken
his texts from farm catalogues. But the explanation of these two
marvelous works is simple. The man who receives the spring
catalogue from his seed störe glances through it and makes his
choice. The short descriptions create in his mind the image of
the garden he is preparing to work in. He dreams of beautiful
summer days, new greenery, and the bright, fresh colors splashed
on it. This hope, this rebirth—Catalogue de Fleurs is a ray of
sunshine through sparkling white clouds, the first sign of spring.
In the same way, Machines Agricoles is to be sung and played
with thoughts of the magnificence of golden wheat on rolling
plains, in the Strong July sun. The big metallic insects which are
the reaper, the binder, or the tedder are meaningful only in this
setting. Giving the title Rustiques to this suite would be enough
to make the world understand what the music means.
There is a series of eight songs that deserve particular mention
for their expression of religious feeling, a rare thing in modern
music. The Poemes Juifs are famous. They express the most
hidden corner of Milhaud’s soul, and constitute a confession of
faith in the strictest sense of the words. Despite the difficult
times, here is confidence, hope, and faith that a better life will
come at the proper time to recompense the just and the coura-
geous. Milhaud’s religiosity, free of pride and complexities, is
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

simplicity itself. Human solidarity impregnates the songs, which

are infused with the character of folk art. The Liturgies
Contadines and Prieres Journalieres are the contrary of the
trend that represents a peril to modern music: intellectualism.
This cycle of religious songs is crowned with the superb Service
Sacre pour le Samedi, for cantor, chorus, and organ or orchestra.
Written in 1947, it defines to perfection the aesthetic position
of the composer—faithfulness to the tonal principle, simplicity,
social solidarity, and optimism.
After the song cycles, we should mention Milhaud’s cantatas,
works permeated with liveliness, freshness, and youth. Of special
interest are the Cantate de la Paix, the Cantate de VEnfant et
de la Mere, the Cantate Nuptiale, and Pan et Syrinx,

Milhaud expresses himself most fully in his dramatic works.

Between 1910 and 1915 he composed La Brebis Egaree on the
play by Francis Jammes. Between 1913 and 1922, he conceived
and wrote the music for the Orestie, Paul Claudel’s adaptation
of the Aeschylus trilogy, and for the satiric play Protee by
Claudel, who also wrote the text for the ballet-poem L’Homme
et Son Desir. Then in 1923 and 1924 came a series of ballets:
La Creation du Monde, on a theme by Blaise Cendrars; Salade;
and Le Train Bleu, a ballet-operetta by Jean Cocteau. The opera
Les Malheurs d’Orphee, with libretto by Armand Lunel, was
composed in 1924; and the comic opera Esther de Carpentras,
the libretto also by Lunel, in 1925. Cocteau wrote the libretto
for the tragedy Le Pauvre Matelot (1926); and Henri Hoppenot
wrote librettos for the three one-minute operas: L’Enlevement
d’Europe, L’ Abandon d’Ariane, and La Delivrance de Thesee
(1927). Christophe Colomb was written in 1928 in collaboration
with Claudel. In 1930 a play by the Czech-born Viennese, Franz
Werfel, in translation by Lunel, was set to music. The resulting
opera was Maximilien. Again with Claudel, Milhaud composed
a sort of scenic oratorio in 1935, La Sagesse. He then returned
to Greek tragedy in 1938 with Medee, with a libretto by
Madeleine Milhaud. In 1943 Bolivar appeared. David, an opera
based on the play by Jules Supervielle, was written with Armand
Lunel in 1952.
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 245
Short works, grand opera, tragic and satiric drama, ballets
are all connected, despite their diversity, by a single dramatic
concept. Divertissements are the exceptions-SaZad^ Le Train
Bleu, and Les Songes.

We do not have the space even to describe in resumd the

theatrical works whose titles are mentioned above, almost all
of which are extremely important. The most perfect is possibly
Les Malheurs d’Orphee, and the most imposing are the Orestie
and Christophe Colomb. We are limited to an analysis of the
characteristics of Milhaud’s dramatic technique, without going
into detail of his works.

All the objects around us participate in our lives. All witness

and act in the human drama. Marcel Proust, stumbling over a
stone, saw a long-forgotten period of his life take form again,
events which were linked to a similar incident, to a similar
slip of his foot. His dependence on that stone to tilt the rim of
his memory was as real as a man’s dependence on food as a source
of energy, but with a qualitative difference: the stone would have
another meaning to any other eye, or even to Proust’s had a single
component of the experience been missing.
The chair Pierre sits on in La Brebis figaree is not the same
as the father’s chair in Le Pauvre Matelot. The sea in which
Proteus and his seals frolic has nothing in common with the
sea of Christopher Columbus’s bitter strife, unless it is the sea’s
eternity and omnipresence. The farm machines are part of the
broad serenity of Beauce, while they torment Paul’s mind in La
Brebis Egaree as a gadfly stings a horse.
Milhaud’s art has no subjects or motifs, but only sums or in-
divisible wholes. Whether the chair is straw or leather is of no
importance, for it does not exist as an object. It takes on exist-
ence only with the flux of forces that link it with other things
and with the emotion of the moment.
The chair, a cup, flowers, people, in the process of that won-
derful first scene in La Brebis JEgaree, are co-bom with us.14
We become conscious of them. The poet and musicians thus
fashion an art of consciousness, lifted above the art of sensibility.
14. See Paul Claudel’s Tratte de la Co-naissance du Monde et de Soi-meme.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

For sensibility here is only the source of the emotion conveyed

to us by a vast synthesis.
The reader will pardon us for borrowing from Claudel’s Art
Poetique and speaking of Jammes while discussing Milhaud’s
music. For what applies to one applies to the others. 1 here is
such close correspondence between the music and the poetry
that on hearing La Brebis Lgaree we cannot distinguish the
poet’s role from the composer’s. And it would be impossible to
separate the poetry and the music of Christophe Colomb.
Milhaud’s art is expressionist, but not in the central European
meaning of the word. His expressionism focuses on the univer-
sality of life, distinct from the individual, who is considered as
a contingent being in this world.
Whatever the subject, except in the divertissements, the sub-
stance is unique. It consists of a representation of the world in
which all creatures are treated as equal and interdependent
beings, situated in a single complex in the center of which oc-
curs the only true drama: the drama of man fighting against
all the forces that imprison him. The events occurring and the
words spoken only lead the drama toward a climax ordained by
an inner necessity, the fatum, the ananke of early times. The
accomplishment of destiny, which is unmoving in relation to
the flowing waters of life, is presided over by all the forces of
the universe: the stars, fire, water, and wind, the forest and the
animals, familiär and unknown objects. All these are oriented
toward the purpose of the drama, toward man struggling in his
difficulties, and are never used as a pretext for suggesting the
picturesque or decorative. These forces are not additions, but are
simultaneously actors and witnesses of the drama. Man feels
them, approaches and observes them, and projects on them the
fire of the inner life that shines from him in all directions. The
cosmic preoccupation at the core of each drama reveals the
general idea and unity of Milhaud’s dramatic lyricism.

Milhaud first treats man’s earliest age: the slow gestation

period, the larva, the chrysalis that can hardly move in the night,
crawling, bearing the memory of his origins, trying to find his
place and meaning, moving toward a goal he does not con­
sciously know. Destiny wraps him in its web before he has even
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 247
seen light. This is L'Homme et Son Desir, Then he is being
born along with the plants and animals, deep in the mystery
of the forest, and receiving his mate. This is the moment when
life, hardly awakened from its primordial immobility, begins to
move, the moment when the tadpole, with a last shake, wriggles
free of the egg and moves off in the fresh flowing water. This
is springtime, the dawn of the Creation du Monde,
In the course of life, man catches hold of the web around him.
The threads strain under the prisoner’s struggle, but do not give
way or unravel. Man and woman, made to complement each
other, move to join each other. Their paths cross, but their
destiny is that they will not unite. Absence, void, interior
wounds make a heavily sculptured mask for man—the lament of
Le Pauvre Matelot whispers the tale, and Les Malheurs d’Orphee
cry it out.
Man has had a revelation of his destiny. The unattainable
goal has made him conscious of the role assigned to him, from
which he cannot withdraw. Sometimes he tries to upset the im-
posed Order, hoping to attain the fulfillment he aspires to. But
the only relative peace he will find, as La Brebis Egaree shows,
is in restoring the order he has disrupted. If he continues to
revolt, he will end in the tragedy which is Medee’s, But he will
be greater if he follows the purpose he recognizes as his own.
Shaken by a tempest of errors, he struggles to maintain his
course, ties himself to his mast in Order not to succumb to
temptation. Through misery, failure, and crime, he does not lose
sight of the goal to which his mind points. There he will be
able to lay down his bürden and be redeemed because he is
saved by the Spirit.
Different facets of this greatest of dramas are treated in Maxi­
milien, the Orestie, Christophe Colomb, Bolivar, and David,
Finally La Sagesse, wrisdom, dominating humanity, will force
man to follow its precepts for better or worse.
This is the order of Milhaud’s tragedies. Satire displaces
drama. It is farcical and poetic in Protee, biting in Le Boeuf sur
le Toit, its relentless dance written for emphasis into a Charlie
Chaplin movie. In the Operas-Minute the satire is sly, and joy-
ful but sober in Esther de Carpentras, in which two worlds
and two peoples cross each other’s paths without uniting.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Milhaud preferred opera to lyric drama as his form. Lyric

drama concentrates interest on the harmony of sounds and the
text is treated as a sort of continual recitative, the musical value
of which is generally less than that of the orchestral fabric.
Opera is bound to the beauty of the vocal line, an articulated
structure including airs, ensembles, and choruses of purely mu­
sical architecture. While lyric drama subordinates the music to
the text, opera maintains the primacy of the music. Poetry may
have been undervalued in nineteenth-century opera, and libret-
tos rudimentary with verse of little real worth, but the music
was suited to the song. Do not forget that traditional opera
mainly served as a decorative spectacle, whose function was to
display the virtuosity of the vocal soloists, and was not intended
to go very far in the realm of expression. Although certain
passages in Faust, La Traviata, Rigoletto, and Aida attained to
great beauty of expression, operas generally had a rather super­
ficial, albeit rieh and captivating, charm. Their main aim was
to entertain.
The import of Milhaud’s operas, as we have seen, is quite
different. He has selected plays of high poetic value for his
librettos, and treated them with the love and respect poetry
deserves. Just as a fine poem by Verlaine or Mallarme loses
nothing when set to a melody composed by Faure or Debussy,
so the poetry or prose of Jammes or Claudel finds appropriate
musical expression in Milhaud’s songs, which accord beautifully
with the rhythm, sonorousness, and meaning of the text without
inhibiting the composer’s freedom of style. The orchestra as
well is not limited to being a sustaining element or foundation
of the song, but is intensely expressive, without, however, mo-
nopolizing the audienee’s attention. Milhaud’s opera is actually
as far removed front lyric drama as it is from nineteenth-century
opera. It is direetly descended from Berlioz’s Trojans, and has a
quality of balance and assurance in production, moreover, which
Berlioz’s work sometimes lacks.
The three-act opera Les Malheurs d’Orphee (1924) took many
years of work before reaching fruition. In 1921 the composer
wrote:
I am pursued by the idea of creating an Orpheus. This is such a mag-
nificent subject. But I want to make it a human thing. Since nothing
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 249
really works out in life, Orpheus must not find Eurydice. He must seek
her without success, despite his lyric heart, and he must be made to
understand that he must live with his animals like a good fellow and
that he will find her only when he dies. ... I would like a series of
scenes in which greatness comes from the gravity of the dramatic
action and from the purity of sound of the music. The choruses would
all be replaced by a vocal quartet and the orchestra by a maximum
of six or seven instruments.

How very much of a reality the old myths are for the Medi-
terranean races! There is no question of a theatrical Orpheus.
He is not a hero; he is a “good guy” who lives very close to us.
None of the pomp of mythological theater, no cynical Inter­
pretation of an old subject—we are far from all that.
By early 1924 the idea had ripened. When the music had
been written, Milhaud drew up the scenic plans and gave the
task of writing the text to his friend Armand Lunel. Lunel pro-
vided him with a perfect play.
Orpheus is the village bone-setter. His house, solitary and
hidden, is at the edge of the village near the fields, beyond the
shops of the wheelwright, the blacksmith, and the basketmaker.
The artisans are shocked to see Orpheus waste his talents on
wild animals. “You carry herb tea to the wolves and balm to the
wild boars. One day they will tear you to pieces, Orpheus!“
But Orpheus says good-by to the animals. He is waiting for “a
bee he expects to come here on the chosen day.” This bee, this
woman, is a foreigner: “He would take a wife from outside our
country? Horrors!” The woman, Eurydice, has come through
here, “at this place, the most beautiful of four sisters, in a cov-
ered wagon. . . . Idiocy, to join that race of sneaks and scoun-
drels!”
Thus, he transgresses the law of the village, and she the law
of the gypsies. Without the texfs telling us, we understand that
we are in the Camargue, feeling the sting of sun and salt. We
know that Eurydice is a gypsy, and when she runs panting on
the stage, she has escaped from a gypsy van coming back from
Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Eurydice is being pursued by her peo-
ple. The chorus of artisans counsels the lovers to flee to the
woods and join the beasts, who will defend them. “And tomor-
row, we will reply to those filthy thieves who will demand
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Eurydice by showing them the bone-setter’s home, silent and

shut.”
Next we find the lovers in the shepherd’s hüt. The wolf, wild
boar, fox, and bear mourn, for Eurydice is dying and Orpheus
cannot save her. They speak the last words they will exchange,
drinking in and breathing this short, heart-breaking, and so
sweet conversation. Eurydice makes her farewells. She kneels
and speaks to the animals as if she were a little girl. She en-
treats them to take care of Orpheus. And the animals, like good
children, promise to do so. At the sight of this terrible scene,
Orpheus cannot hold back his tears. He weeps, in a short, sad
lament, while Eurydice dies in peace. The animals, crying a
hoarse funeral chorus, carry off her body.
Orpheus, back at his village, sits, “his head in his hands before
his large counter, between his pharmacopoeia and his scale,”
alone in the world with his pain. This evening his visitors will
not be the animals. Eurydice’s three sisters arrive in their stead.
“What fury, what tenderness” in their voices. They hurl accusa-
tions at Orpheus, and demand retribution. He welcomes their
frenzy, for they speak to him of his dead beloved, and he hopes
only that they will kill him. They advance, armed with scissors,
a gag and a whip, and fall on him. He öfters no resistance, and
dies, his arms extended toward his vision.
The three acts are each barely a quarter-hour long. The com-
poser has included only what is strictly necessary, and has elimi-
nated all elaboration. He aimed for quality in each detail and
condensation rather than quantity and length. The quality of
the music is such that it takes on the aspect of an offering, a
prayer, a ritual act that brings consolation and repose to an
overburdened soul.
Maurice Ravel considered Les Malheurs d’Orphee the most
beautiful work to appear since Pelleas. The opera is undoubt-
edly a masterpiece of purity of form and power of expression.

The Orestie is Milhaud’s most unusual work. He seems to

have understood perfectly the Greek concept of tragedy that
unites the human with the divine, simplicity of idea with rich-
ness of imagery, and the realities of Mediterranean life with
supernatural law. This twentieth-century Phocian found him-
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 251
seif at home in the ritual action of Greek tragedy; his song is
neither anachronistic nor out of place. In his Etudes, Milhaud
speaks of the Orestie in these words:
The language of Aeschylus in certain choruses and some dialogues
suddenly takes on such marked meter and lyricism that the musical
Support seems to be born spontaneously. Claudel, starting with this
viewpoint, arranges for a sudden interlude of music, which he has
asked me to write. I wanted to avoid the ordinary “scene music,” a
form of expression I detest. There is nothing more fake than the
intrusion of a musical phrase while the actors continue with their un-
interrupted delivery of the text of the work. The words and melody
move in two totally incompatible realms. To emphasize that excess of
lyricism it was necessary to pass from speech to song. In Agamemnon,
Clytemnestra does not sing until after she has committed her crime, at
the moment when she comes from the palace brandishing her bloody
hatchet. This is the very violent scene in which Clytemnestra hurls her-
self at the chorus of old people, and at the end of which a fanfare
proclaims Aegisthus king. This storm past, the play resumes its normal
course. The music is silenced and the actors take up the dialogue until
the end of the play. ... In 1915 I wrote the Choephores on the same
principles as the music in Agamemnon, but throughout the play there
are a number of sung scenes: Vociferation Funebre on the entry of the
Choephori; Electra’s Libation; and the Incantation of the chorus, with
Electra and Orestes Standing over Agamemnon’s tomb. Then two
savage, cannibalistic scenes gave us one of our most complex problems.
The lyric element was not musical. How were we to translate that
hurricane and keep it in Order? At this point I thought of having the
dialogue spoken in measures, set to rhythm and conducted as if it were
sung. I wrote spoken choruses on a background of an orchestra com­
posed only of percussion instruments.
And for the conclusion, after Clytemnestra’s murder, the music re-
turns in its own right with the powerful Hymne ä la Justice, which was
written for choruses and orchestra. . . .
In 1916, Claudel sent me a translation of the Eumenides he had just
finished in Rome, and I made it into a threc-act opera. Everything is
sung. I know no more beautiful subject to work with. After horrors and
crimes, after the first two somber and savage acts, comes the vote by the
people of Athens, the acquittal of Orestes and the great scene of the
appeasement of the Eumenides, and the growth of light and joy. Triple
chorus of Athena, the pacified Eumenides, and the people of Athens.
This Mediterranean people, this people so like the crowd that packs the
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

port of Piraeus, fishmongers, vegetable sellers, merchants, adventurers,

idlers, with all that immense Latin sky over their heads.
The score was begun in Rio de Janeiro in 1917^ an^ act
finished in Martinique in 1918. The second act was written in Paris in
1922, the third in Aix-en-Provence in 1923. The Orchestration for the
whole work was done in 1924. Therefore, I worked on the Orestie for
twelve years.

The subject of the Orestie is the drama of divine law and the
human destiny it ordains, and of a theomachy, one of those
great mutations in the collective consciousness.
Personal drama is not in question here, nor human misery.
The aim of the tragedy is to express a sum: knowledge. The
musical language is entirely depersonalized, in the sense that it
no longer bears the mark of an individual’s experience. In the
Orestie, the moral landscape itself, the relationship between
man and the objects around him, disappears. The music is de-
tached from all contingencies, as in a Mass, and consequently
is often static in character. In no other score, except the
Eumenides, is there such wide use of polytonality, and with good
reason. The interplay or interference of all those lines, those
different keys, gives the impression of total participation, of a
powerful sheaf of forces that dominates and directs human
action. The Orestie transmits a feeling of severe grandeur and
enormous dimensions, something superhuman that ends by
being resolved in the blinding light of the processional of the
Eumenides. The trilogy Orestie is a prodigious work which,
except for its second section, the Choephores, is almost unknown.

Christophe Colomb is now considered the culmination of

Milhaud’s work. When the Unter den Linden,Opera was re-
hearsing its memorable production of this work, under the
direction of Erich Kleiber, Paul Claudel discussed the drama
in the journal Anbruch published in Vienna. We can do no
better than to give a resume of his article.
The poet did not intend to recount the details of the discov-
ery of America. He made himself an Interpreter of the world of
ideas, questions, and feelings that four centuries of history have
planted in the heart of the spectator. He conceived the idea of
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 253
inviting the great Columbus, who had united the inhabited
world, to speak in the name of all humanity. A great book is
read to the people, who marvel at the prodigious adventure;
they take the pro and con, applaud or accuse, or demand clarifi-
cation of the navigator’s acts.
And actually there are a reader and a chorus which listen to
him. But each time the narrative approaches an action, the
words stop and the action itself unfolds under our eyes, under
the eyes of the chorus which takes part in it, and under the eyes
of Columbus himself seated with the chorus. The chorus is not
the same as in the dramas of antiquity, but rather resembles the
choirs established in churches as intermediary between the
celebrant and the people. A voice, an assistant charged with
interpreting the thought of the authors, was needed between
the anonymous mass of people and the drama.
Columbus dies in a tavern in Valladolid. At that moment, as
he reviews his life, he becomes two people: he is the witness and
the judge of his own acts.
The colombe, the dove, the symbol of the Holy Spirit, appears.
It flies across the sea and leaves its message at Genoa in the
hands of a dreaming child. There is the seaman in the Azores,
where he gets word of flotsam from the beyond. Then, there is
the hero in the clutches of creditors, courtiers, and skeptics;
the captain, overcoming the mutiny; an hour of agony. Con-
ceit and meanness of small minds. Then again there is the
man who discovers the world, bound to the mast of his own
ship, whipped by the wrath of men, prey to the fury of the
elements. He suffers bitterly from the ingratitude shown him
by the whole world, except for one woman: Isabella the Cath-
olic. Death is close, and a dove brings a twig of peace as in the
days of the flood.
All this does not happen in a void. Every voice, every word,
and every gesture have an echo, a response, and demand and
evoke immediately proclamation far and wide. The chorus plays
the part of the press, from one end of the world to the other.
It creates the same stir that the press creates whenever an im­
portant event takes place.
This intentional diversity brought out by the poet in the text
is reflected by the music in the mixture, or rather the alterna-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

tion, of narrative, rhythmic speech, and music and in the extraor-

dinary changes in the atmosphere of the work.
The opera revitalized lyric theater in form and spirit. It is a
combination of opera, oratorio, and film. Film was used to fur-
nish not a landscape but a spiritual decor. It shows us the dove
and the cross.
Drama has no limits. For man, it is a painful experience
which goads him toward knowledge. The individual, society,
and religion play their part in this tragedy of the conscious
mind as they do in the Orestie. But while water, fire, Vegetation,
and the earth have disappeared in the Orestie and are plowed
under and absorbed in the depths of consciousness, the material
world is present from the beginning in Christophe Colomb. The
facts are there, under our noses, brought to the stand as part of
the evidence. Time itself is perceptible in the apparent chrono-
logical disorder. This material presence of facts and this irregu-
larity in the flow of time, which is not disturbed in the Orestie,
require a special style of composition to be expressed. Here
Milhaud is again the architect of great, monumental structures.
The Orestie, however, is a pyramid built block on block. Its
lyricism develops, growing in intensity, and the insight into the
conscious mind is steadily broadened until the end. Christophe
Colomb is constructed differently. Starting from a central point,
we are led successively in different directions in the drama. There
is therefore no need for progressive increase in lyric intensity.
The lyricism varies according to the scene shown, each scene
being a dramatic moment determined by the interaction of
characters and material objects. The sea, then, one of the domi­
nant factors in the play, will in turn be that of Protee and that
of Le Pauvre Matelot. All these single dramas, as different as
they are, are integrated with the over-all scheme and form a
whole.
Such unity in diversity results from the fact that only rarely
does the music deploy all its resources at once. It is held ready
at all times to aim at anotlier point on the horizon. It constantly
returns to the perfect chord to economize its forces. Each scene
sets out again from a consonant point, develops its particular
expression from that point, and is resolved in simple tonality.
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 255
In each scene the music sets out from new bases in a new
direction.
Polytonal development, and utilization of the maximum ca-
pacities for sonority in the orchestra, from the highest to the
lowest registers, are reserved for the dominant scenes: Isabella’s
and Santiago’s scene, the churning of the sea, the typhoon, and
finally Isabella’s funeral.
Even in the final Alleluia, Milhaud abstrains from polytonal-
ity. Actually, the music does not mark the end of the drama.
Rather, it is the expression of the judgment which we make on
Columbus’s life.
This splendid work should be considered as one of the most
representative, not only of its composer but of the first half of
the twentietfi Century. Like Berlioz, Milhaud was recognized
and welcomed abroad before his own country accorded him the
place of honor due him. While around 1920 performances of his
works provoked such tumult in Paris that the police once had
to empty the concert hall where his Etudes pour Piano et
Orchestre were being played, by 1936 Frenchmen recognized
Milhaud as the Mediterranean luminary who has helped to
maintain Contemporary music on a high level and who has en-
riched it with a personal gift of great value. Today it is clear
that Milhaud is carrying on in the tradition of Berlioz and Bizet.

Arthur honegger. The friendship of Milhaud and Honegger

dates not from the time of the Six, but from several years earlier,
when they were both students in Gedalge’s classes. The inde-
pendence of temperament and boldness of thought, and the ideal
of greatness common to them both drew them together, and
intense mutual admiration kept them close during their brilliant
careers.
Arthur Honegger was born in Le Havre in 1892. His family
came from Zurich, but Honegger has spent all his adult life in
France. Trained at the Paris Conservatory under Gedalge and
Widor, he took Vincent d’Indy’s course on conducting, along
with Milhaud. His first works were composed around 1916.
Honegger belonged to the Nouveaux Jeunes and the Six. But
he was not interested in the music-hall movement, and the joy-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

ful frolics of his friends gave him no pleasure. Moreover, his

temperament clashed with Satie’s. After contributing to the pro­
duction of Les Maries de la Tour Eißel, he left this milieu, but
continued on the best of terms with his friends.
Of the young composers in 1920, Honegger was the only one
whose work was mainly Symphonie. He devoted himself pri-
marily to compositions for full symphony orchestra, and admired
Richard Strauss and Florent Schmitt for their ability to express
themselves in large orchestral compositions.
An important piece of stage music, written for Le Dit des
Jeux du Monde, a play by Paul Meral, had drawn attention to
this fiery, rhythmic new talent. A good deal of notice was also
paid to Le Chant de Nigamon, a Symphonie poem composed in
1917. In 1920 he composed the great symphony Horace Vic-
torieux, originally intended to be a ballet, which fulfilled the
hopes of the composer and those who had confidence in him.
The indescribable beauty of the violent, even brutal, work won
it favor. But the dramatic psalm, King David, written on a text
by Rene Morax, was the work that captivated the public at
large and brought Honegger popularity as well as academic
acclaim.
His sudden rise to fame is easy to explain. The public was
irritated by new composers whose works it did not understand.
It could not follow Stravinsky, Satie, Milhaud, or Schoenberg,
all of whom infused music with a new spirit of their own.
Honegger said nothing new; he carried on the familiär tradi­
tion of Wagner, Strauss, and Florent Schmitt. His thinking was
not original. Only the sonority of his music was new, and his
innovations were solely of a harmonic order. The public is most
olfended when required to examine things in a new light. It is
less disturbed if a picture is presented which is not stränge, even
if it is dressed in new colors.
Also, King David, which was to be performed in the Theätre
Populaire du Jorat in Mözieres in the Juras, was composed of
twenty-eight short pieces, mostly choruses, which had to be very
simple in order to be sung by amateurs. The score is very varie-
gated. Side by side with charming, light passages are sections
that make the listener think of Handel and Schmitt. The work
delighted the public, which had feit out of contact with con-
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 257
temporary music since the appearance of Le Sacre du Printemps.
Here, finally, was a modern musician it could understand. In a
perfectly natural reaction, there was a great deal of excite-
ment over King David, which led enthusiasts, in all good faith,
to put it at the head of the list of Contemporary compositions.
This created a misunderstanding which Honegger himself was
to suffer from later on. The admirers of King David were
disappointed that the composcr did not adhere to the style of
this work, and were hesitant to accept his more significant com­
positions. Antigone, his most beautiful score, written between
1924 and 1927, was first performed at the Theätre Royal de la
Monnaie in Brussels in 1927, but was not heard at the Paris
Opera until 1942.
There was a fortunate side to the misunderstanding, however.
While other young composers were still thought of as practical
jokers, or their worth was underestimated, Honegger was con-
sidered a serious composer and a real musician. This created
surroundings for him to work in which, if not always percep-
tive, were warmly receptive. Honegger was the only outstand-
ing contemporary composer besides Paul Hindemith to enjoy
this benefit.

Honegger’s talent is characterized by his great ability to de-

velop schemes. These are generally short. Unlike Milhaud,
Poulenc, or Prokofiev, Honegger has no innate talent for me­
lodic invention, nor does he have their ability to shape musical
lines. With the exception of his composition based on six poems
from Apollinaire’s Alcools (1916), his melodies for voice and
piano are not very interesting. In chamber music, the composer
brought his efforts to bear on modernizing the structure of the
various movements within the sonata form. The adagio of his
First String Quartet (1917) is built on the scheme
aBCDECDBa.

The first movement of the Sonata for Viola and Piano, which
is Honegger’s best chamber music composition, is peculiarly
structured. Willy Tappolet analyzes it this way: "The andante
and vivace alternate three times in the main movement, form-
ing a skillful mixture of sonata form and Lied form in five parts.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

If the Lied form is designated by A C A, the thematic part of the

sonata by B, and the recapitulation by 9, the scheme will be
ABCffA.
“The inversion of the letter B is not arbitrary. Despite the rule
that the recapitulation of themes should occur in the order
they do in the exposition, Honegger thinks otherwise, and in-
verts them for the re-exposition, beginning with the second
theme. If we call the first theme A and the second B, the re­
capitulation of the exposition A B will be B A.”
Such arrangements are indeed interesting, but Schoenberg’s
new developments in form, and those in Bartok’s last quartets,
show much more imagination and suggest more original and
more intriguing structural possibilities.
The second and third quartets (1937) are noteworthy for
their soundness, and in their time were lauded for the inter­
esting devices they contain: double canons, canons played at
three different speeds, and so forth. But at various points these
quartets, like the composer’s sonatas, suffer from weakness in
the melodic line and lack of spontaneity and imagination.
Honegger needs a large orchestra to be completely at ease.
Symphonie development suits his thinking best. Because he could
not call on great, well-defined melodies to animate his music,
Honegger sought to give it life with rhythmic and orchestral
dynamism. He has a predilection for musical transcription of
the sounds of struggle, racing, and combat, and in the expression
of these actions he sometimes writes with real beauty.
In his Mouvements Symphoniques, the rhythm does not have
the complexity it has in Stravinsky’s works. It is much more
simple, and sounds in a regulär pulsation which has the charac­
ter of an ostinato. This is particularly apparent in scores like
Pacific 231, Rugby, and Skating Rink. All three compositions
are descriptive in character, as is his overture for La Tempete.
Many of these works, which were noted on their appearance for
a modernistic outlook (they included locomotives, football,
etc.), have today lost their attraction. The innovations in or­
chestral coloring are no longer interesting, and the music has
been recognized as superficial.
One very fine score which has survived is Horace Victorieux.
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 25p
in which all of Honeggers qualities as a composer can be found.
His gifts as a builder are fully operative. Horace is the most
compact work he has ever written. Its style is homogeneous and
entirely personal, which is rare for Honegger. Also, the themes
created are entirely sufficient for their task.
The symphony describes the battle between the Horatii and
the Curiatii, Camilla’s curse, and the murder of Camilla. Tap-
polet says:
There are no euphemisms to soften the brutality and barbarousness of
the subject. The world of antiquity rises in the titanic battles, a world
stripped of romantic sentimentality and the idealism of academic paint-
ings with their soldiers in showy costumes. You think rather of Hodler’s
warriors in their primitive realism. The merciless fight between the two
trios of athletes carries the listener from a subjective to an objective
plane, into timelessness. This Symphonie poem gives birth to an epic,
the epic of action, of man acting, the glorification of the athleticism of
our generation.

Horace Victorieux surpasses all of Honegger’s Symphonie works

in its expressive power and the homogeneity of its structure.
Two other works deserve notice: the graceful Pastorale, whose
delicacy has survived in all its freshness, and an equally lovely
Concertino for Piano and Orchestra.
In 1930 Honegger composed the Symphonie en Trois Mouve­
ments, in which he deliberately departed from classic and ro­
mantic symphony form. Moderate and concise, this concert music
conveys a feeling of pure joy. The three movements have no
connecting element, and each was written in a different style.
The first is very chromatic and almost atonal, while the third
is clearly diatonic. In 1943 his Symphonie pour Orchestre ä
Cordes appeared. The first movement is very successful. It is
written in sustained polyphony with abundant feeling. The
second does not come off so well. The composer has written it
with the inflexible rhythmic pattern which makes some of his
works monotonous and tiring.
Among Honegger’s lyric works, which are more or less related
to the oratorio, King David has been the most populär. Judith
surpasses it in musical quality, and the battle scene is Honegger
at his best. Amphion and Semiramis were set to poetry by Paul
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Valery, and the Danse des Morts and Jeanne d'Arc au Bücher
to poems by Paul Claudel. There are two beautiful passages in
Jeanne d'Arc: the song Trimaso, and the conclusion of the work,
which show Honegger tender and poetic. Less populär than
Jeanne d'Arc, Antigone is the composer’s masterpiece, his most
important and decisive work.
Milhaud adapted Aeschylus’s Oresteia in collaboration with
Paul Claudel, who did not abridge the trilogy. The poet re-
spected its proportions and dimensions and preserved intact
the prolific lyric development which is as important in Greek
tragedy as are dramatic episodes. To compose the opera Antig­
one, Honegger used an adaptation by Jean Cocteau. In the
preface to Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel, Cocteau says: “I want
to substitute a theater poetry for poetry in the theater. Poetry
in the theater is delicate lace, impossible to see from a distance.
Theater poetry is coarse lace, a lace of rope, a ship on the sea.”
Cocteau Condensed the Sophocles play. He compressed the
lyricism of the choruses in Order to preserve the high potency
the play might lose in a literal translation. The dramatic factor,
therefore, comes to the fore. In that concise and highly charged
language characteristic of his talent, the poet says: “This is like
trying to photograph Greece from a plane. You discover an en-
tirely new aspect of it. This is how I wanted to translate An­
tigone. From a bird’s-eye view some great points of beauty dis-
appear, others rise. Unexpected perspectives, blocks, shadows,
angles, and reliefs take form. My experiment is perhaps one
means of making old masterpieces live. Out of habit, we look at
them inattentively, but because I have flown over a famous text,
everyone thinks he is hearing it for the first time.”
Performed at the Thcätre de FAtelier by Charles Dullin and
his troupe, the adaptation was accompanied by several passages
of music written by Honegger for harp and oboe. The day after
the premiere, Raymond Radiguet wrote: “What a magnificent
exercise in style, in the highest sense of the words, is that trans­
lation by Cocteaul We all know the chapter in Secret Profes­
sionei on style. I love to see an author’s works silence debate
on his convictions, which by themselves are debatable. In An­
tigone, Cocteau hits the bull’s-eye at every turn without sacrific-
ing either nobility or procedure to speed.”
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 26i
The light from the Greek classic comes to us refracted by the
prism of a living personality close to us. We are all familiär with
the subject of Antigone, the drama of sibling love. Outside its
very special and preordained dramatic meaning, the tragedy is
broader in scope. The hymn to Bacchus it contains reminds us
of its ritual origin and purpose. It taught great moral laws to the
Greek people.
Since the Milhaud-Claudel Orestie trilogy and the Honegger-
Cocteau Antigone are outstanding works in Contemporary music,
it would help our understanding of them to reread the admira-
ble words by Charles Peguy, whose comprehension of Greek
tragedy is profound:
The man sjipplicated is a happy man. He is therefore, for the
Greeks, a man to pity. In this dialogue of suppliant and supplicated,
the supplicated can speak only in the name of his happiness, at the
most in the namc of happiness in general. This is not much. This is
nothing. This is less than nothing. This is even contrary to any benefit.
Happiness understood in this sense, like the success of the event, the
slightly insolent and almost insulting success, is for the Greeks an
infallible sign that a man is marked for Fate—by Fate. . . . The sup­
pliant is a representative. He is no longer just himself. He is even no
longer himself at all. He doesn’t exist. It is no longer a question of
himself. And for this reason the other must beware. Stripped of every­
thing by that very same event which has caused the dangerous happi­
ness of the supplicated, a man without goods, he no longer exists as
himself. And from that moment on he will be formidable. He is a
representative. . . .
This is why, in the supplications of antiquity, the suppliant holds
the upper hand in the dialogue and in the Situation. . . . He knows
with a knowledge that the other will never possess. Unless he also
passes through the same great and unavoidable trial.
By the same initiation.
. . . Tragedy is an immense Operation of reversal in which he who
was the suppliant at the beginning is no longer at the end, and he who
was the supplicated, by the ministry of his great misfortune and destiny,
is little by little, openly and officially, promoted to the rank and dignity
of the suppliant. Antigone, little royal princess, little girl, the dauphine,
little future woman of the gynaeceum. And after the catastrophe,
Antigone, the eternal Antigone, Antigone who accompanicd Oedipus,
Antigone who buried Polynices.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

And Creon, insolent in his happiness, criminal, supplicated at

the beginning of the play, becomes the suppliant. Misfortune
sanctifies him.

Milhaud composed the Orestie on Claudel’s translation of

Aeschylus between 1913 and 1924. In 1919, Satie wrote Socrate,
based on the text by Plato. Stravinsky wrote music for Sopho-
cles’s Oedipus Rex, as adapted by Cocteau, between 1926 and
1927. Honegger worked on Antigone from 1924 to 1927. Four
of the most renowned Contemporary composers and two great
French poets made an offering of the best of their talents to the
genius of the Greeks.
The purity of their art is due to, and is a function of, their
artistic integrity. By virtue of this fact, Honegger’s most perfect
creations are Horace Victorieux and Antigone. The composer is
completely himself in these scores. He is true to himself from
the first note to the last. He makes no concessions.
Since Honegger is essentially a dramatist by temperament,
dynamic expression is particularly suited to his needs. Listening
to his music, we get the impression that his sonorous inventions
will materialize under our eyes and become living beings. His
inspiration seems to take shape under the impetus of sight. He
feels what exists around him, and transforms it into musical
terms. Think of the march of the Philistines in King David, the
wonderful battle and the moving murder scene in Judith, and
the whole of Pacific 231. These are works by a composer born
to write dramatic music.
His language matches his inner life. Choppy, roughly scanned
themes are buttressed with chords of fourths and fifths, super­
imposed in all their coarseness, weaving an inflexible, strident
polyphony unmitigated by any softening note. .And yet, in this
explosive mass of sound, this stormy, crushing atmosphere, there
is always a ray of light. A long, seemingly frail melody infused
with tenderness draws us by a charm it owes, not to its character,
but to its contrast with the harsh and sometimes brutal context.
It is the drop of water on the lips of the thirsty, the balm on
the wound. Here Honegger gives us the secret of his heart. Here
he is true, complete, and human; and this is why he is a great
composer.
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 263
In the preface to the score of Antigone, he says:
These have been my aims in writing the music for Antigone:
1] To envelop the drama in compact Symphonie structure without
encumbering its movement.
2] To replace the recitative with a melodic vocal style that does
not consist in holding the high notes (which always makes the
words incomprehensible) or in purely instrumental lines; but,
on the contrary, to write a melodic line created by the plasticity
of the words themselves, in order to indicate contours and
sharpen relief.
3] To find appropriate accentuation, primarily in the opening
consonants, in Opposition to conventional prosody which uses
anacrusis; and in general, to do the honest work of an honest
worker.
The narrative is begun almost immediately. There is hardly
time for the music to be introduced to the voices. It reaches full
stature in the Symphonie drama developed parallel to the stage
drama.
The elements of the symphony are the great themes supporting
the personages Antigone [Exarnple pp] and Ismene [Exarnple
101] ; the theme of the memory of the two brothers [Exarnple
102] ; and a rhythmic motif serving as a base for the bitter Creon
[Exarnple zoj], for the cowardly and hesitant guard in Charge
of Antigone, and for the jeering people, savage music that ranges
over the great themes of the suppliants.
These elements are not leitmotivs in the Wagnerian sense.
Rather, they constitute an autonomous musical world, and do
not condition every word and gesture. Commentary is larger
and more independent here than in the work of a Wagnerian
like Richard Strauss. The music really is a symphony, a con-
tinuous flow which does not hesitate at every obstacle in the
text. Each scene is a movement of the symphony built on two
or three themes.
All this expresses the drama properly speaking. The spirit of
the ancient tragedy is present in the score as well, and the form
of the tragedy is what ultimately determines the architecture of
the music.
To all the themes we mentioned and others of the same kind,
two elements are added which seem at first sight to be acci-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

dental. The first appears the moment the curtain lifts. It is

composed of a cell in 3-4 time in which two melodic lines pro-
ceed in contrary motion [Example 104}. This contrary motion
intensifies steadily to the point where it dominates the third act,
the exodus of the tragedy [Example 705]. It intervenes indis-
criminately in the actions of all the characters, and represents
as much Creon’s tyranny as it does anguish, misfortune, or death.
It is the drama itself; it is Fate.
The second element appears suddenly at the first entrance of
the chorus, that famous chorus in which Sophocles teils us that
man is the cause of his own unhappiness, and that all tragedy
pre-exists in him. The musical commentary here is summed up
in a simple descending major third, with very pronounced
rhythm, whose persistence and tense development attack the
listener like a swarm of wasps [Example zo6].
The themes for Creon, Eteocles, and Polynices are in substance
elaborations of the cell which expresses man. This cell also
reappears at the end of the tragedy, when Creon, the suppli-
cated, will be promoted to the rank of suppliant [Example 107].
Everything disappears into the symphony, everything passes
away, except this: man in the grip of the fate he has created;
Creon falling into the trap he himself has set. In this, much
more than in Antigone’s fate, lies the meaning of the tragedy.
Antigone is moving and pitiable. But Creon becomes lamenta­
ble and worthy of compassion. This the composer expresses beau-
tifully. He realizes all the expressive means he has created.
If the recitation advances rapidly, the symphony moves like a
tempest. The first chorus (the Parodos of antiquity), rendered
by the man who ends the prologue, is incorporated into the
drama and even becomes its human aspect. The last chorus,
separating the Episodes from the Exodus, is the hymn to
Bacchus, the ritual aspect of the tragedy. These two choruses,
pivot-points of the structure, are sung in interludes while the
scene is plunged into darkness. The central part, the Episodes,
contains three plaintive choruses (the Kommol). Here, the com­
poser becomes subjective. Lyricism is substituted for drama.
Listen closely to these choruses. Honegger withdraws into them
to weep for Antigone. The orchestra disappears. The symphony
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 265
is quiet, allowing a melody haloed with goodness and com-
miseration to flower for a moment.
Düring recent years, Honegger’s temperament has become
gloomy. He seems no longer to believe in the necessity for music
and to have been disappointed by the reservations of the public
concerning his art. He wrote about his disappointment in the
book Je Suis Compositeur, which appeared in 1951. Such pessi-
mism is stränge, coming from a modern composer who has en-
joyed great populär success almost without Opposition. His
discouragement finds expression in works like the Symphonie
Liturgique and the Fifth Symphony (di tre re), which reflect
the psychological state of Europe at the end of World War II.

Georges auric and francis poulenc. If two such different

Personalities as Milhaud and Honegger can be compared, it is
due to their mutual liking for large construction and their talent
for singing of tragic and epic emotions. The temperaments of
Francis Poulenc and Georges Auric, their friends from the group
of the Six, made these two artists take another path. The works
of both composers have the lightness that comes from the ex­
pression of joy and happiness, or the vivacity due to a taste for
good-natured mockery, which breaks easily into satire directed
at falseness and absurdity.
This levity for which they are noted, and which characterizes
the younger composers Henri Sauguet and Jean Frangaix, is by
no means a sign of superficiality. There is a tendency to think
that only painful and bitter emotions are noble and beautiful
and great. A light-hearted concept of life can be just as beau­
tiful. The depth of an art is not determined by the feeling used
as its point of departure, but depends on the degree of per-
ception and intensity with which the primary sentiment and the
basic idea, whatever they are, are expressed. Mozart’s charm is
no less profound than Beethoven’s pain.
Poulenc’s affability and Auric’s bantering should not lead us
to place them on a secondary level. Many of their compositions
which put us in gay spirits are equal in quality to many somber
works.
Auric and Poulenc are both Parisians. They both have the
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

quick mind and acute sensitivity which make them react imme-
diately to the faintest impulses from without. They verbalize
easily and have trained themselves to give an opinion or judg-
ment on things without wasting much time in seeking a basis
for the opinion or a motivation for the judgment. Their atti­
tude is dictated by the moment, and their art does not take the
future into account.
These ready qualities of vivacitv and perceptiveness, supported
by an innate sense of proportion and the talent for apt, rapid,
trenchant expression, which is the charm of the Parisian tem-
perament, are to be found in the works of these two composers.

Born in 1899, Francis Poulenc had his first work performed

in 1918 during one of the concert series at the Theätre du
Vieux-Colombier. It was the Rapsodie Negre for instruments
and baritone voice. Ricardo Vines immediately noticed the spon-
taneity and individuality which were to develop rapidly.
Today, Poulenc has composed some twenty works for piano,
a dozen pieces of chamber music, two ballets, twenty-five collec-
tions of songs, an important series of choral works, a comic opera
based on Guillaume Apollinaire’s Les Mamelles de Tiresias, and
some religious music.
For Poulenc, there was no problem of form to solve and no
new language to discover. Gifted with an exceptionally rieh
melodic sense, Poulenc composes melodies as Monsieur Jourdain
writes prose—without thinking. But his melody is always origi­
nal, inventive, and particularly well conceived for voices. It is
natural and fresh. Except for the human voice, the composers
favorite instrument is the piano. Poulenc’s piano music is fluid
and sparkling like Chopin’s. His gifts are strengthened and
exalted by his scrupulous care in putting his music on paper.
His works have the unique charm and freedom of improvisation.
Great facility, and strength without ostentation; simple but
strikingly apt expression; a taste for cleanly drawn lines; intense
fervor that avoids emotional exaggeration—these are the artistic
qualities of the Ile-de-France. Poulenc’s first works, Mouve­
ments Perpetuels for piano (1918), the music for Apollinaire’s
Le Bestiaire (1919), and for Jean Cocteau’s Cocardes (1919), are
 Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 267
so solidly endowed with these qualities that they still retain their
flavor and impact after many years.
Nothing seems so delicate as the Mouvements Perpetuels,
which reposes peacefully on melodies that might have been
taken directly from populär music. It is delightfully fresh. Le
Bestiaire and Cocardes show how well Poulenc understood the
poets of his time and environment, just as he grasped the spirit
of the painters of the same generation and milieu. Poulenc has
never taken up the great problems of style, as have Satie, Schoen­
berg, or Stravinsky; nor has he concerned himself with universal
expression. His horizon is limited. He sings of the atmosphere
of Paris, and captures every feature, to the slightest nuance. But
he does not just give us fleeting impressions. He constructs a
synthesis. He has greatest success in giving us this spiritual por-
trait of Paris in his songs and vocal works.
Poulenc is inspired less by models in the world of music than
by those in the worlds of poetry and painting. Satie and Stravin­
sky were of great help to him, in the example of simplicity they
provided him with and in the value they gave the commonplace
as the point of departure for a work of art. But Poulenc found
the motivating principles of his music in Picasso and Braque,
not that his music is pictorial in the least, but because of a type
of interior correspondence. The poets Max Jacob, Guillaume
Apollinaire, and Paul filuard also fired his imagination. With
them, he moves in a ränge of emotions from childlike gaiety to
Rabelaisian fierceness: his moods vary from slight melancholy
to vengeful malice sometimes expressed as frantic and frighten-
ing hilarity in which buffoonery and tragedy are combined in
bitter lyricism. Thus the terrible laughter of Alfred Jarry or
Max Jacob can be heard in Le Bal Masque and some of the
Chansons Villageoises.
Jean Cocteau’s Cocardes gave Poulenc the occasion to evoke
the sadness of crowded suburbs, that Sabbath melancholy which
seeks relief in artificial gaiety, the melancholy read on the faces
of some of Picasso’s clowns. To this “poetry in handbill type“
Poulenc sets music for tenor voice and the anomalous ensemble
of a violin, cornet, trombone, bass drum, and triangle, that poor
little Orchestra that plays with street singers in the courtyards
of Paris apartment houses.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Of all the poets, Guillaume Apollinaire is most akin to Pou-

lenc. Born after the decline of impressionism, the composer of
Les Biches inclined toward the art of abridgment, correspond-
ing to simultaneous perceptions of the surrealists, to attain full
development in 1944-1945 in the spirit of revolt that inspired
Resistance poets like Aragon and Eluard. Apollinaire provides
the link that binds poetic symbolism to surrealism and, later,
to the poets of the Resistance. Jacques de Lacretelle explains:
The poetic renaissance in France during the years of the occupation
found support in the voice of Apollinaire, that voice which poses
enigmas but is always simple. And what was actually the cause of this
poetic renaissance? Possibly the constraint itself, that is, the need to
speak with hidden words, by intimate communication or by allusion;
and also the secret ardor that lived in oppressed souls, and the nostalgia
that haunted the exiled. All these states and all these feelings found
expression in Apollinaire’s song, whether the poem took us through
the streets of Paris or described a distant French field in autumn,
blooming with meadow saffron. His images used passwords that re-
called the odd and ingenious radio messages flung over our heads.
Young men, fleeing the enemy and taking cover behind false names,
discovered them easily or invented others just by looking at the stars in
the heavens. Apollinaire was a friend to the hidden. ... I want to
make what I think is an essential distinction between the inspiration
of the symbolists and that of the surrealists. The Symbolist poet hears;
the Surrealist poet sees. The Symbolist seeks an echo, and exposes him-
self to the influence of music; the Surrealist works with memories
which are almost always visual. This is so true that the Symbolist school
was closely related to the composers of its time (remember Dujardin
and the Wagnerian Review, and Mallarmd and the concerts) while
surrealism is entirely on the side of the painters. To understand it, you
must be familiär with Braque’s snapshots, Picasso’s superimposition of
planes and Dali’s prophetic dreams. These sources have very different
origins. And Apollinaire, straddling the two periods, draws on both.15
In his Bestiaire, Apollinaire compressed his poetic material
and incorporated it in a series of quatrains. Poulenc set six of
them to music. Just a few measures were enough for full and
balanced expression. With no apparent effort, he achieved the
level of the great French classics with his first attempt. La Carpe
is as beautiful as Couperin’s most graceful passages.
15. New Statesman and Nation (London), February 24, 1945.
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 269
He continued to compose for Apollinaire’s work with the
Quatre Poemes d’Apollinaire (1932), La Grenouillere (1938),
Dans le Jardin d’Amour, Allons Plus Vite, Banalites (1940), and,
lastly, the comic opera based on Les Mamelles de Tiresias (1940).
Poulenc’s buffoonery is based on recourse to vulgarity and
even triviality. But he achieves such elevation and ferocious
amplification that his creation is something electrifying and
enormous. The words race along at a frenzied pace, but are
always so controlled that every syllable is projected with vehe­
ment force and every accent falls exactly in place. Poulenc owes
this style of delivery to populär Parisian singers. He never at-
tempted to hide his admiration for artists like Maurice Cheval­
ier, and used their craft as a springboard as he expanded its
artistic potential. His greatest successes in this style, apart from
Les Mamelles de Tiresias, are those in which buffoonery is elevated
to true grandeur: Le Bal Masque, a cantata (secular, of course) for
baritone and chamber orchestra based on poems by Max Jacob,
a convulsive work whose clownishness is sometimes mournful
and vindictive in the style of certain sketches by Goya or
Daumier; the cutting Chansons Gaillardes, based on sixteenth-
century texts; and the disarmingly jovial Chansons Villageoises,
based on poems by Maurice Fombeure. These works are a unique
group in musical literature, as much in their significance as in
the perfection of their composition. They show incomparable
virtuosity in the intermingling of words and melodic line, very
flexible and forceful rhythm that owes nothing to structural
repetitions, and harmonic eloquence that transforms the most
trivial melodic allusions into sources of energy and power. In
this, Poulenc is the heir of Emmanuel Chabrier.
Poulenc’s collaboration with Paul £luard possibly surpasses
his work with Apollinaire’s poetry in importance.
Surrealist poets suppressed comparisons. Two images are no
longer linked by the preposition like, The images overlap and
fuse into a single impression. Such poetry, and above all that of
filuard, whose imagination is particularly rieh and alert to
nuances, suited the composer’s needs and gave him a foundation
for the development of a sober and pure lyricism. His collabo­
ration with filuard produced first the collection Cinq Poemes
(1935); Tel Jour, Telle Nuit (1937); Miroirs Brülants (1938);
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

then Figure Humaine (1945). In Tel Jour, Telle Nuit, Poulenc

reaches the apex of his talent and fully expresses his personality.
Andre Schaeffner does not exaggerate when he says that “Fran­
cis Poulenc adds to French music a little of what Schubert and
Mussorgsky added to theirs.” A composer so sensitive to the cli-
mate in which he lived was needed to become the voice of occu-
pied Paris, to sing of France forsaken.
In x943 Poulenc wrote Le Pont de Ce and Fetes Galantes on
two poems by Aragon, portraying the spirit of Paris during the
German occupation. But it was above all in a choral work that
this spirit was to find expression, the musical setting of the
poems published and distributed secretly under the title Figure
Humaine.
Poulenc’s choral works express his personality in the same
way as do his melodies. In 1937 he wrote the Mass in G Major,
for a cappella chorus, and in 1939 Quatre Motets pour un
Temps de Penitence appeared. Secheresses, for chorus and or­
chestra, based on poems by Edward James, was also published
in 1937. Then followed various a cappella choruses based on
Eluard’s poetry, and in 1945 Figure Humaine.
All these works are remarkable. Some were written for a sim­
ple chorus, others for a double chorus. The parts are always
divided, and the style is reminiscent of Claude Le Jeune; that is,
there is no real polyphony, but the harmony is written with a
dominant melodic voice and the syllabic character of the song
allows the text to be heard clearly because of careful prosody.
These choral works have a full and rieh sonority. Their play
of colors is due to Poulenc’s talent for superimposing major and
minor modes, a language peculiarity which came into wide use
after Stravinsky.
Figure Humaine, a work of considerable dimension, is writ­
ten for a double chorus, and contains divisions which sometimes
run to an ensemble of sixteen voices. The work expresses to
perfection the nostalgia of an oppressed people and their cry
for liberation. The tension of the last poem, Liberte, makes a
forceful impression. Conceived as a sort of litany, it becomes
more and more impatient as the measures progress.
Of the two ballets Poulenc wrote, the first, Les Biches, is the
better. lncorporating beautiful French songs, it was one of the
Milhaud, Honegger, Auric, Poulenc: After the Six 27z
greatest successes of Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe. Bronislava
Nijinska created its excellent choreography, and Marie Lauren-
cin’s blue and rose decor was wonderfully suited to the tender,
waggish, mischievous music.
Poulenc has sometimes been accused of playing the easy game
of pastiche. This is a somewhat superficial view of a trait rooted
deep in the composer’s nature. For many composers, the source
of inspiration is a visual impression, an odor, or a story. Poulenc
is often inspired by an impression already in musical form: a
harmony, an accent, the timbre of a voice, a fragment of melody.
As a result, the last measures of Stravinsky’s Apollon Musagetes
inspired and influenced Poulenc’s Aubade. Some of Maurice
Chevalier’s populär tunes stimulated the composition of Gars
qui s’en vont ä la fete in Chansons Villageoises. The spirit of
Chopin suddenly appears in Les Soirees de Nazelles. None of
these works are imitations, but reflect and comment on bygone
times which are loved and missed.
Poulenc, a true child of Paris, discovered the antidote to neu-
tralize sentimentality in sarcasm and banter. And this is the
spirit which, with the immoderation of Guillaume Apollinaire’s
text, provokes the enormous jest which is the comic opera Les
Mamelles de Tiresias.
In 1957 he completed the Dialogues des Carmelites, an opera
based on the play by Georges Bernanos. Produced by La Scala in
Milan in 1957, it is unquestionably his most important work.
It was performed that same year by the Paris Opera Company,
and later in San Francisco, and was enthusiastically acclaimed by
a wide and diverse audience. In the Dialogues des Carmelites the
composer has combined his great melodic abilities with his pro-
found but unostentatious religious sense.

In 1920 no one could speak of Poulenc without thinking of

Georges Auric. Also born in 1899, Auric began to compose in
1914. In that year he published Interludes, a remarkable Collec­
tion of songs set to poetry by Rene Chalupt, written with nerv-
ous wit, and revealing the composer’s penetrating intelligence.
Auric was Erik Satie’s favorite among the Six. Much was ex-
pected of him, especially after he published his Huit Pommes de
Jean Cocteau in 1918, which remains today his most remarkable
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

work. Paul Landormy says: “These pieces, as the composer him-

self intendecl, have an air of Paris about them, comedy without
bitterness, very distinctive melodic lines and the daring use,
where necessary, of language which could be criticized as vulgär
because it is so close to populär inspiration, but which is always
artistically motivated.”
This collection, whose subjects are Le Douanier Rousseau,
Marie Laurencin, Satie, barracks at dawn, and country fairs, is a
marvelous picture of artistic milieus in Paris of the time, written
with great wit and subtle irony.
At about the same time, Auric composed a score of incisive,
stinging music for Moliere’s Les Fdcheux. The biting Orchestra­
tion reveals the fretful side of Auric’s temperament. This very
fine score was expanded with a few other pieces of lesser quality
to serve as a ballet for Diaghilev. Auric’s best ballet is Les
Matelots, in which a feeling of agitation is sustained through-
out the score.
Several good compositions for the stage, among others one for
Marcel Achard’s Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre, and excellent
film pieces are equally noteworthy.
 7

FRENCH MUSIC AFTER THE SIX

while the talents of several members of the Six matured

under Erik Satie’s paternal eye, a younger generation paid
homage to the composer of Socrate by founding a new group—
the so-called Arcueil School. Henri Sauguet, Roger Desormiere,
Henri Cliquet-Pleyel, and Maxime Jacob were not really Satie’s
pupils and there was really no school. But they were inspired by
the Master of Arcueil’s example, by his honesty, his modesty,
the freedom of his music. Desormiere became an outstanding con-
ductor, putting his talent in the service of his contemporaries.
Jacob entered the priesthood. Sauguet alone found himself suf-
ficiently gifted to build a work meriting lasting attention.

henri sauguet, born in Bordeaux in 1901, arrived on the

scene after the period of rhythmic and harmonic discoveries.
He is not an innovator. His melodic invention moves in a tem-
perate climate. His acute sensitivity is warm and sometimes
profound, and he has no fear of impassioned outbursts which,
handled with a sense of measure and taste, elevate his best
compositions to true greatness. There is nothing spasmodic or
fitful in his expression of feeling, even in the most dramatic
moments. As with Poulenc, his instrumental compositions are
less forceful than his vocal works. Sauguet is a lyricist: he needs
a poetic text to guide his muse. His melodies unroll in long
curves, original and perfect in design, and carry almost all of the
expression. Simple harmony is all that they need for support.
Any emphasis or commentary would be superfluous. But simplic-
ity is diflicult to achieve. It is only beautiful—and this Satie
understood so well—if it is pure. It must be free of triteness.
Sauguet does not always avoid that triteness, which today
threatens all resolutely consonant music. Still, in the major
273
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

portion of his work, there is such delicacy in the ordering of his

thirds and sixths that the play of these intervals has never
seemed so smooth and sweet. A convincing example is the
conclusion of his ballet La Chatte (1927), which was one of
the most enduring successes of the Ballet Russe. Schoenberg was
right when he said that “there are still a good many things to be
said in C major/
*
Among song cycles, we must place beyond comparison the
Sonnets de Louise Labe, written in a well-sustained mood of
meditation; the Visions Infernales and Les Penitents en Maillots
Roses, two cycles set to poems of Max Jacob, and a cycle set to
Symbolist poetry.
Sauguet’s dramatic work includes two comic operas, Le Plumet
du Colonel (1924) and La Contrebasse (1930), based on Chekhov’s
work; a grand opera, La Chartreuse de Parme (1927-1936), based
on Stendhal’s novel, with libretto by Armand Lunel; a comic
opera based on Sedaine’s La Gageure Imprevue (1942); and Les
Caprices de Marianne (1951), based on the work by Müsset.
His talent is at its most brilliant in these works. His ironic zest
is not the same sort as Poulenc’s; in Sauguet, an indulgent smile
replaces the tart satire. The composers sympathies are with the
puppets in Le Plumet du Colonel, and he looks with affection,
as on the play-acting of children tenderly loved, on the gestures
of the characters in the droll tale told us in La Contrebasse.
These two comic operas, the second a perfect gern, are treated
as sketches of society as it existed in the latter half of the
nineteenth Century. We find in them, as in certain Poulenc
pieces, nostalgia for a charming and refined period whose peace-
ful happiness contrasts oddly with the present world’s harshness
and anguish.
La Chartreuse de Parme, in four acts and eleven scenes, is an
opera in the nineteenth-century sense of the word. Vocal art
reigns supreme and the orchestra takes second lionors. Actually,
a better choice of title would have been Fabrice et Clelia, for the
character of Sanseverina does not have the importance in this
work it has in Stendhal’s novel.
Sauguet’s opera opens on a rather playful note, and conse-
quently the scene of the conspirators at Milan’s La Scala is a
perfect touch. Here again is a poetical recall of that beloved
French Music After the Six 275
nineteenth Century, crowned with a splendid sextet whose
eloquence equals that of the quartet in Rigoletto. The opera
becomes increasingly serious and intense, and in places attains
unquestionable grandeur. Three long, poignant duets of Clelia
and Fabrice, masterfully developed, are incomparable. They are
so perfect that it would be impossible to find other fragments
of purely vocal operas—except the duet in the first act of Verdi’s
Otello—which have such nobility or sustained musical value.
Written in the middle of a period when artists were devoting
all their energy to “being different,“ and deliberate experimenta-
tion was apparent in the most outstanding works, La Chartreuse
de Parme brought nothing new. It fitted perfectly into long-
accepted conventions and was expressed in long-familiar lan­
guage. And yet everything it says, the entire content of this work,
is new. Scenes such as the ones in Fabrice’s cell, and the scene
of the sermon on light, combining spontaneity with beauty of
presen tation, are among the most moving. It is noteworthy that
La Chartreuse de Parme was the first grand opera to be composed
and produced after the reign of lyric drama. Other subsequent
works, especially the production of Benjamin Britten’s Peter
Grimes in 1945, would seem to indicate that a return to vocal
opera is a real possibility.
Sauguet’s exceptional dramatic gifts have been confirmed by
the complete success of his most recent vocal work, the irresist­
ible Gageure Imprevue, first performed at the Paris Opera-
Comique in 1944. The opera unseated whatever prejudices the
public still had against an art whose interior calm is so removed
from the major preoccupations of our times that it could seem
anachronistic and even incomprehensible to an observer caught
up in vital current problems. In 1946 Sauguet completed the
moving Symphonie Expiatoire, dedicated to the memory of inno-
cent war victims. It echoes the sincere accent of the most lyric
moments of La Chartreuse de Parme.

The talent of jean fran^aix (born on May 23, 1912, in Le

Mans) has evolved along lines parallel to Henri Sauguet’s. His
work has a more superficial character than that of Poulenc’s or
Sauguet’s. It lacks inner life, and owes its easy charm to great
dexterity in the handling of orchestral timbres. His most pro-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

found piece is a lively fantasy for two voices and small orchestra
based on Lesage’s Le Diable Boiteux.
A survey of French postimpressionist music would not be
complete without mention of some isolated works of high
quality: the very amusing comic operas Angelique, by Jacques
Ibert, and Isabelle et Pantalon, by Roland-Manuel; a lovely
Concerto pour Piano by Henri Barraud, and his Mystere des
Saints Innocents, based on texts by Peguy; and Jean Cartan’s
moving Pater.
We have now reached the end of an evolution which, begun
by Debussy, reaffirmed the primacy of melody and the solidity
of the principle of tonality. These two characteristics seem neces-
sary to the very existence of French music, which generally con-
notes clarity and transparency, and whose expressive domain is
the reflection of a generous and attractive nature, the gift of a
balanced and deeply happy people.
Most French composers are firmly opposed to all propositions
tending to displace the tonal System—and among the most
strongly opposed are Schoenberg’s. Recent Statements bear wit-
ness to the violence of that Opposition and to the conservative
attitude (not to be confused with a retrogressive position) of
French composers. Georges Auric wrote in Les Lettres Frangaises
of April 21, 1945: “In 1918, Darius Milhaud, Poulenc, Honegger,
Germaine Tailleferre, and I wrote a cordial message to the
author of Pierrot Lunaire: ‘Arnold Schoenberg, the young musi-
cians salute you!’ At that time, this was not without some
meaning. But in 1945, we can smell the odor of corpse given off
by an impostor art by which we are not duped.” In the same
Journal (May 5, 1945) Francis Poulenc writes from another
angle: “The Schoenberg question is pigeonholed. Let us once
and for all speak of it as in the past. Or otherwise, I am quite
ready to write about him, as much and wherever I can, using
Pere Ubu’s word to his wife—with or without the double r.” 16
These stinging ripostes gave answer to the very young French
musicians Rene Leibowitz and Sergei Nigg, already forgotten
moreover, who, perhaps following Olivier Messiaen’s example,
16. Pöre Ubu’s mot throughout Alfred Jarry’s series of plays is the rolling
merdre (with two r’s), which Ubu uses with gusto by itself or in word plays
like annerdre and mer decin (see Ubu Roi, Ubu Enchaint, Ubu sur la Butte).
French Music After the Six 277
were drawing away from the path laid down by Satie and the
Six, finding guideposts in Schoenberg’s theory that better served
their purposes. It is possible that personalities like Poulenc’s,
Auric’s, or Sauguet’s are more offended by Schoenberg’s painful,
brusque temperament and his spasmodic expressionism than by
his views 011 structure. Or they may not distinguish clearly
enough between Schoenberg’s temperament and his technical
innovations to discover what might be extracted from those
innovations for a different kind of expression. This last sup-
position seems close to the truth, since Poulenc gives homage
in the same article to the “striking beauty” of the works of
Alban Berg, who himself adapted Schoenberg’s views for his
own needs.
This interesting dispute, which is indicative of the thinking
of the post-liberation Paris music world,17 began in the move-
ment that sprang up on the appearance—or rather, the growth
in prominence—of Olivier Messiaen.

At a time when all the signs pointed to increased stability and

the birth of a general style (implying the danger of a new
academicism), everything was again called into question.18 olivier
messiaen, half-Flemish and half-Provengal, was born December
10, 1908, in Avignon. His expression is very remote from objec-
17. This dispute also includes the defense of Stravinsky’s recent works,
attacked as retrogressive by Messiaen’s students, an opinion also voiced by so
respected a master as Charles Koechlin. So is the defense of Darius Milhaud,
to whom Paris has never given the eminent position he deserves. Georges
Auric wrote: “We must take a unanimous position on a man like Darius
Milhaud’’ (Lettres Fran^aises, November 4, 1944).
18. Since 1936, a number of young Frenchmen have expressed dissatisfac-
tion with the neoclassical pursuit of balance. They have been disappointed
by the objectivity of Stravinsky’s recent works, and declare the need for
certain considerations of a spiritual order as preliminary to the conception
and execution of a work of art. Yves Baudrier (born in 1906), Daniel Lesur
(born in 1908), Andre Jolivet (born in 1905), and Olivier Messiaen (born in
1008) form a group called Jeune France. . . , .
For Baudrier, “the only justification for a creative artist is his selective
love which alone can create an aesthetic emotional climatc. Contemplating
sometimes violent but always harmonious beauty necessarily engenders the
most effcctive ethos and pathos. This means to what degree the artist thinks
that art, to achieve transcendence, has the duty to be human, to quit its
ivory towers and the sterile contemplation of its perfection.
Tolivet tries “to give back to music its original character of the early time
when it was the magical and ritual expression of human clans. Music must
be a sonorous manifestation in direct relation to the universal cosmic system.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

tivity, simplicity of style, or economy of means. Messiaen is a

mystic. Paul Landormy accurately describes him in these terms:
Olivier Messiaen is an innovator in his own way, but he is not a
revolutionary. He would not think of improvising a new musical teclr
nique without taking tradition into account. Much to the contrary,
he bases his innovations on intensive and meticulous study of the past.
He has explored all of ancient, classic and modern music. He has
devoted particular study to Gregorian chant and Hindu rhythm. He
was instructed on quarter-tones by Vyshnegradski, and on the ondes
Martenot by Martenot himself. He has listened with deep attention—
and, where possible, carefully noted down—the songs of birds. His
technique has been enriched by valuable discoveries in all these broad
and very different domains.
The moderns have taught him a great deal: Debussy and his Pelleas,
Jean and Noel Gallon and their theories on “the true harmony” borne
in the melody, Marcel Dupr£ and his taste for counterpoint, Maurice
Emmanuel and his lectures on the variations of musical language, Paul
Dukas, Stravinsky, Alban Berg, his friend Andre Jolivet, Mussorgsky,
and Rimsky-Korsakov (he named these influences off to me at random,
without trying to list them in Order). . . . A predilection for airy
sumptuousness in harmony, habitual inclusion of the organ19 and
frequent use of the prismatic Orchestration of Paul Dukas led him
toward “those swords of fire, those streams of blue-orange lava, those
starbursts, those spinning sounds and jumbled, spiraling rainbows” he
speaks of lovingly in the preface of his Quatuor pour la Fin du Temps.
But then these are only means. This is his purpose: Olivier Mes­
siaen is first and foremost a Catholic composer. All his works, religious
or not, carry the mark of the Christian faith. His only aim is to sing of
God and the mystery of Christ.

Messiaen gained renown after 1930 with his orchestral tone

poem Les Ofjrandes Oubliees, followed in 1935 by a great
polyptych for organ, La Nativite du Seigneur. In .1936 he com­
posed Poemes pour Mi, for soprano and orchestra, in which his
personality is more strongly expressed. The delivery of the
poems resembles Milhaud s style in Cinq Grandes Ödes and the
Orestie. The harmony is an extension of Dukas’s in La Peri, and
the complex rliythmic scheme is freed from the restrictions of
tempo and the bar-measure system. The melody tends to be
continuous and is built on modal or defective scales. Above and
19. Messiaen is the Organist at the ßglise de la Trinitd, Paris.
 French Music After the Six
beyond this, the music does not seem to be conceived as an
organic whole, an architecture, a division of time. All evidence
indicates an intention to destroy time, discard the idea of dura-
tion, and convey an impression that the music has neither begin-
ning nor end. The listener is oblivious of time, and is drawn
toward contemplation and religious ecstasy.
Let us say in passing that examples of abolition of the concept
of duration can be found in much of the religious music of the
Middle Ages and in the melodic development of Hindu ragas.
These practices are even more marked in the Quatuor pour
la Fm du Temps, for piano, violin, clarinet, and cello, which
Messiaen wrote in captivity in Germany in 1941, based on a
passage in the Apocalypse of St. John. A few measures from the
first movement, Liturgie de Cristal, will serve to show the inde-
pendence he acquired [Example zzo]: chords of seven notes,
agglomerations of small intervals; a sort of harmonic mist on
the piano, reflecting the influence of Scriabin’s synthetic chord;
melody with a fleeting tonality, or even an atonal character in
the clarinet; varying sonorities on the cello providing a persist­
ent pedal of timbres; bird-chirping on the violin. The many
semi-independent elements, occurring simultaneously, create a
Sensation of infinite space and constant Vibration, causing
continually shifting coloring, but without displacement, without
movement. Two sections, one for cello and piano, the other for
violin and piano, contain long melodies of inhuman slowness
(that is, slower than the slowest vital movements of our bodies)
that induce ecstasy. Listening to such music has the effect of
contemplating a stained-glass window, and Poulenc justly com-
pares Messiaen’s spirit and art with Georges Rouault’s. Messiaen
opens perspectives on a mysterious space, reaching into obscure
regions of the subconscious. His music is music from the soul,
which subjugates as it frees.
Messiaen himself defined his concepts in the treatise Technique
de Mon Langage Musical (1944), in which he says:
We are trying to create chatoyant music to give the auditory sense
voluptuous and delicate pleasure. At the same time, this music must be
able to express noble sentiments, and especially the noblest of all: the
religious sentiments exalted by the theology and verities of our Catholic
faith. This charm, simultaneously voluptuous and contemplative, re-
A II1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

sides especially in certain mathematical impossibilities in scales and

rhythm. Modes cannot be carried beyond a certain number of trans­
positions, because the same notes always recur; rhythms cannot retro-
gress, because then the same order of values recurs. These are two
absolute impossibilities.
We can immediately see the analogy of the two impossibilities and
how they complement each other, rhythm accomplishing on the hori­
zontal plane (retrogression) what the modes accomplish on the vertical
(transposition). After this first relationship, there is another between
the values added to the rhythm and the notes added to the chords.
Finally, we superimpose our rhythms (polyrhythm and rhythmic pedals)
as well as our modes (polymodality).

Not everything concerning rhythm in this technique is new.

Added values and polyrhythm have had wide application since
the appearance of Le Sacre du Printemps. Messiaen’s music is
distinctive rather in his particular application of these principles,
not to motifs and themes, but to whole melodies. The added
values increase or decrease the tensions and rhythmic waves,
according to whether they are shorter or longer than the primary
rhythmic values [Example zo&J.
This motor element is opposed by another, which tends to
neutralize it: isorhythm, or fixed rhythm [Example zop]. The
same in melody: the added notes constitute the factor of move­
ment, and the use of modes with limited transpositions lead to
immobility. Take, for example, the following mode, composed
of similar trichords (a half-tone followed by a whole tone—
Example in). The fourth transposition already leads back,
enharmonically, to the same notes as in the first form of the
mode. It is therefore impossible to transpose the mode more
than three times [Examples 112, 113, zz</].
Superimposing transpositions cannot, as we know, lead to poly­
tonality. We remain within the scope of several simultaneous
tonalities without their becoming formalized. Messiaen says
further:
Think of the man listening to our modal and rhythmic music. He
will not have time during the performance to verify non-transpositions
and non-retrogressions, and during that time these questions will no
longer interest him. He will want only to be engrossed. And this is
precisely what will happen. In spite of himself, he will be captivated
French Music After the Six 2 8i
by the stränge charm of the impossibles: a Sensation of tonal ubiquity
in the non-transposition and the unity of movement in the non-retro-
gression (with beginning and end interwoven because they are identical)
will lead him by stages to that sort of theological rainbow which musical
language, the theory and structure of which we are looking for, should
be.

It is not surprising that today, after a time of torment when

the soul of France was almost annihilated, young artists are
flocking enthusiastically around a composer who offers them a
means of escape, who shows them the existence of a spiritual
life apart from the temporal. It is not surprising that to this
young group, which seeks new reasons to live and hope and
finds in Messiaen’s music a language fulfilling its mystical
aspirations, the sharply defined art of Stravinsky seems to be too
narrow and his thought too concrete. Their eyes naturally turn
to Schoenberg once again in the hope of finding their freedom
in his teaching as did Messiaen.
There is no doubt that a new period of experimentation has
begun in French music. Here again is the simmer of ferment.
But this time the aim is not to enlarge the musical language.
The search is spiritual.
The Visions de l’Amen for two pianos (1942) had already
received universal acclaim. The Vingt Regards sur lfEnfant Jesus
(1944), a huge suite for piano lasting over two hours, threw such
a spell over its listeners that they lost all notion of time. The
magic power of the music pleased those who were disposed to
accept it, but irritated the rationalists.
In Les Lettres Frangaises of April 2, 1945, Roland-Manuel
wrote about Petites Liturgies:
Under the equally modest and intimidating title of Trois Petites
Liturgies de la Presence Divine, Messiaen offers us three mystical poems
for nine women’s voices in unison, celesta, piano, vibraphone, ondes
Martenot, maracas, gong, tam-tam, and String orchestra: Antienne de
la Conversation Interieure; Sequence du Verbe, Cantique Divin; Psalm-
odie de VUbiquite par Amour. The words are the composer’s. Why not
say it? This mystagogic literature, this Balinese orchestra, and the pro­
gram notes comprise a suspect mixture at first, calculated to antagonize
the best-willed listener. Music has been too hard put to rid itself of
the obscure nonsense of art-religion and the contrivance of the exotically
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

picturesque for us to wax enthusiastic over finding these elements re-

united in the work of a composer who has such a large and devoted
band of disciples.
This music, which I think is the clearest and most direct Olivier
Messiaen has ever composed, converts us instantly to his views because
it bears the irresistible mark of truthfulness. The surprising language
appears natural and necessary to us. From that moment on, it is un­
important to us that Messiaen borrows from the Balinese the System
and devices of an instrumentation which he makes his own and which
delivers us a message as personal as it is new and deeply moving. It
does not matter that in the final Psalmodie certain percussion eflects
recall the sonority and particular rhythm pattern of Stravinsky’s Noces.
The spirit that animates each of the two works is entirely different. But
the enchantment and power of the work are shown with the most
striking purity and clarity, I think, in the second part, Sequences du
Verbe, Cantique Divin. This is the most simple and marvelous song
of triumph.
Messiaen here reveals the secret of his power, the power that his taste
for the worst literature and mystagogic picturesqueness are incapable
of destroying. His secret is that of a born melodist who knows through
instinct and experience that rhythm and tonality are connected by
deep roots, that consonance is the basis of harmony. But an ear whose
acuteness has no equal—an acoustician’s ear—channels it into the art of
catching and fixing the caprice of partial sounds and orienting them
toward their poles of attraction. For despite appearances, Olivier
Messiaen is much more the master of harmony than the slave of
counterpoint.

Messiaen’s intriguing ideas, which he proves in the Petites

Liturgies, nonetheless seem hard to extend to further develop­
ment and application. The symphony Turangalila, which con-
tains moments of real beauty, gives the impression that the
composer’s expressive means are limited, and especially that he
is prisoner of the language he has created. It would be good
to see him break out of the framework that inhibits his freedom
of movement. In other respects, Messiaen’s influence on young
musicians is beneficial. He encourages them to seek out new
means of expression and constantly draws their attention to the
possibilities offered by forming scales using microtones, as is
the practice in Asiatic cultures. Messiaen is the only European
composer who thus far has emphasized the need to study Asiatic
French Music After the Six 283
and African music, the artistic meaning of which is obviously
conditioned by the melodic and rhythmic media chosen. Such
study is doubtless an excellent way to develop the imagination.
In this connection, we might point out Yvette Grimaud’s lovely
Chants d’Espace, in which quarter-tones are effectively used,
being introduced only in the melodic order and not in the
harmonic order, where they are not suitable. Two recent works,
Livre d’Orgue and Oiseaux Exotiques, have caused considerable
comment.
Andre Jolivet, originating from the same group as Messiaen,
is gifted with a warm and forceful temperament. One of his first
works, the Poemes Intimes, reveals his very real qualities. Drawn
by the purity, evocative strength and magic power of primitive
pure rhythms and sounds, and investigating the nature of Poly-
nesian chants, he conceived the remarkable piano Stüdes Mana,
Then, aligning himself with the efforts made by Edgar Varese
in the same direction, he composed the Concerto pour Piano et
Orchestre, whose too calculated violence set off an uproar at its
first performance at Strasbourg, with public opinion divided
into two contradictory and equally heated camps.
At the Paris Conservatory, the two theories professed by
Milhaud and Messiaen respectively have nurtured the most free
and diverse talents. Messiaen’s tendency toward seeming unreal-
ity is counterbalanced by Milhaud’s solid good sense. It is not
surprising that artists of all nationalities have attested to the
benefit of this education. The only limitation on the free
development of initiative is that imposed by the natural exigen-
cies of the sonant world. This atmosphere is responsible for the
fluency of composition and freedom of thought of such different
spirits as, for example, Louis Saguer, whose Musique d’Ete and
Musique d’Apres-Midi give promise of an interesting personality,
and Pierre Boulez, who has already put his manifest gifts to
remarkable use in his Polyphonies. Besides these reputedly pro­
gressive musicians, others, perhaps more traditional, are impor­
tant: Jean-Louis Martinet, whose Orphee and Trilogie des
Promethees have a sense of grandeur; Maurice Le Roux, for
the expressive subtlety and mobility forecast by his Deux Mimes.
One other composer who is developing well is Henri Dutilleux,
whose Symphony (1951) is an established success.
MUSIC IN SOVIET RUSSIA

after studying under Rimsky-Korsakov in St. Petersburg, and

immediately following the composition of the Firebird, Stravin­
sky left Russia for France, where he lived, except for occasional
periods in Switzerland, until he went to America in 1939.
As he became more and more convinced that sounds act
according to their own nature, or their sonorous weight, he
progressively cut away all descriptive or picturesque elements so
as to emerge with music that was absolute. His genius gave birth
to bodies of sound infused with their own life, independent of
any subject matter and expressing nothing, but reaching us in
the männer dictated by their essential character. Stravinsky’s
awareness of the reality of the phenomenon of sound led him
to nonacademic composition conditioned directly by the real
impression of sounds on the listener.
The final stage in the evolution of the St. Petersburg school
is Stravinsky’s Jeu des Cartes and a series of works he composed
in America after 1940, which fulfill the ideal of the pure play
of sound.
The Moscow school professed contrary ideas. The musicians
teaching and studying there espoused a subjective point of view.
What was most important to them was to express emotion
through music. They believed in the principle of a preconceived
plan for expression and in the psychological develöpment of the
musical work. The musical problem was subordinated to extra-
musical philosophic concerns.
The master who formed the Contemporary generation of ex-
ponents of the Moscow school was Sergei Ivanovich Taneev
(1856-1915). His most important students were Alexander
Scriabin (1872-1915), Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943), Nikolai
Medtner (1879-1951), Reinhold Gliere (1875-1956), and Serge
Music in Soviel Russia 285
Prokofiev (1891-1953). Prokofiev also studied under Rimsky-
Korsakov and Liadov in St. Petersburg, and Gliere in turn taught
Nikolai Miaskovsky (1881-1950).
In general, the production of the Moscow school did not
arouse the same interest in the West as did the brilliant works
by students of the St. Petersburg school. They were steeped in
a literary and philosophic atmosphere that did not attract
Western audiences, and the music did not stand up well under
transplantation. Taneev, Rachmaninoff, Medtner, and Gliere
were pictured in the West as latter-day romantics.
By far the most interesting member of that generation was
Alexander Scriabin. He was the most vital representative of the
trends of the Moscow school. He thought that music should be
used as a means to propagate theosophic ideas, and pictured it
incorporated in a new religion. He became entangled in meta-
physical considerations which were really rather heady. But he
was right in thinking that the magic power of. music is not an
illusion, and that this power belongs to the very nature of music.
This conviction stimulated him to intensive experimentation
in harmony, which in a way prefigured some of Schoenberg’s
discoveries.
Scriabin’s point of departure, like Schoenberg’s, is the harmony
in Tristan. He relies on the dominant ninth chord. In his Obses­
sion for movement and his desire to give the thought no rest,
he avoids using the perfect chord. With the role of primary
importance passing to the dominant, on which he builds dis­
sonant chords by superimposing thirds, his music always remains
tonal, but allows no resolution.
After the Sonata No. 5, Op. 52, the perfect chord disappears
entirely from Scriabin’s compositions. His last works (Sonata
No. 6 through Sonata No. 10) and his Preludes, Op. 74, engender
even greater tensions, the basis now enlarged to dominant
eleventh and finally the dominant thirteenth (Bb, D, F, Ab, C,
Eb, G), a chord of seven notes which completes the cycle of thirds
without destroying the tonal sense.
Scriabin gives varying degrees of tension to these chords by
changing their positions. Further, he insures the unity of the
composition by not limiting himself to vertical superimposition
of the notes of the chord chosen. He uses them, to the exclusion
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

the melodic design moves in the minor. This design recurs

repeatedly, and sets the scene, under the voices, betöre the action
has been specified. The second scene, with a superb arioso by
Peter Grimes and a round, a continuous canon in diabolical
rhythm, is perfect, as is the end of the last act in which Peter
Grimes’s ballad is sung with no orchestral support, while at
regulär intervals a tuba holds a long note to give the effect of a
foghorn. At such moments, the listener senses all the pull, all
the strength of Britten’s lyricism. We have the feeling that the
young composer will one day produce a masterpiece if he will
lay aside external action to seek expression in pure lyricism.
Because of his inclinations and independence, he Stands alone in
English music, and his is the most solidly developed talent.

Michael tippett is more traditional. But he follows the most

fruitful of traditions, that of Holst and Ralph Vaughan Wil­
liams. Tippett succeeded Holst as musical director at Morley
College, where he continues to teach and practice sixteenth-
century choral music. This music serves him as a model, or
rather, an example, for the outlines of his own works. His
oratorio A Child of Our Time (1945) has excellent qualities.
The subject is the drama of the youth of our time, the despair
of youth in the face of mechanical civilization and horrifying
rivalry between nations.
The originality of this oratorio lies in the Substitution of a
Negro spiritual for the Protestant chorale. The choice wras not
made in the interests of local color—the action takes place in
Europe. The composer considers the Negro spiritual as the song
of distress and hope of our time. The chorale was populär in
origin, and corresponded to a particular state of mind which no
longer exists today. The Negro spiritual is populär, as well, and
expresses the helplessness of our soul in a world crushed under
material concerns. Recently, another young composer, Alan
Rawsthorne, has drawn notice with a sprightly Concerto for
Piano.

The Italian and English movements, in their search for a

national tradition, show obvious cohesion. Several musicians of
other countries deserve to be mentioned.
A7alionalism and Eclecticism
Tibor Harsänyi (Hungarian), Marcel Mihalovici (Romanian),
Alexandre Tansman (Polish), and Bohuslav Martinü (Czech)
made up an amicable group between 1925 and 1939 under the
name of the Ecole de Paris. Martinü was the most interesting.
He was a prolific composer, and his writing is always serious in
quality. Martinü is the archetype of the modern composer who
uses a cosmopolitan language formed of the fusion of all the
Contemporary harmonic discoveries. Very adept and fluent, he is
also one of those musicians whose music one calls workmanlike.
But that is all we can say. Martinü is the Saint-Saens of Con­
temporary music.
Around 1920 the Catalan Federico Mompou published a
number of collections of piano pieces. His Cants Magics and
Suburbis have retained all their freshness. Oscar Esplä of Madrid
followed in the tradition of Albeniz and De Falla.
The Romanian Georges Enesco had considerable success with
his Oedipe, first performed at the Paris Opera.
In the Low Countries, Heink Badings has come under the
influence of Alban Berg, while Willem Pijper has been somewhat
swayed by all the great modern masters. Badings’s work has solid
qualities, as shown in his symphonies and interesting concertos,
as well as in some of his convincing dramatic works. Jean Absil of
Belgium was attracted by the virtuosity and arabesques of Ravel.
His Concerto pour Piano and Chants du Mort are good examples
of his fresh talent. Marcel Poot has written the pleasant and
successful Ouvertüre Joyeuse. Raymond Chevreuille is presently
the hope of Belgian music. His symphonies, concertos, and
quartets bear witness to deep and unpredictable emotions, and
he shows true mastery in expressing his ideas. Chevreuille is
more and better than a skillful musician; he has the gift of
poetry, and it is hard to understand why his work is so little
known outside of his native country. Evasions, a cantata for
soprano and orchestra, is full of mystery. It is one of his best
works. The Concerto pour Cor does not find its equal in any
other country, and his Symphonie des Souvenirs shows great
feeling. The new generation, notably Louis de Meester, David
van de Woestijne, Victor Legley, and Renier van der Velden,
is improving on the unfruitful romantic period, which, for
Belgium, was of little importance. Progress, in this case, has a
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

For the two classes of modern society, this means that it is to the
interest of the dominant bourgeoisie to maintain the existing political
and economic order. This is why its art depicts present conditions as
stable, just and unchangeable. It passes over the crisis—the bankruptcy
of capitalism—in silence, and describes the condition of the oppressed
dass in as rosy terms as possible, and the domination of the bourgeoisie
as optimistically as decency will allow. The art of the decadent modern
bourgeois dass is therefore false. It not only deludes its enemy, but it
leads the bourgeoisie itself into error.
The art of the revolutionary Proletariat, on the contrary, fully exposes
the evil consequences of the bourgeois System. It shows the forces
inherent in the old order that can contribute to the preparation of the
revolution. . . . This is why proletarian art must not be above the fray,
but must participate in it. It must be realistic.
Realism is not the best word to dehne the attitude of proletarian
art. Actually, this art is not intended to copy or photograph reality as
faithfully as possible. To the contrary, it must illustrate the active
principles of reality more clearly and more really than life itself does.
It must show the generality represented by each concrete fact, and ex-
plain it to those who are unable to untangle the complexity and
diversity of daily life. In this way, art must arm and inspire the lis-
tener, reader, and spectator for the socialist struggle. This is what the
creative method of a dialectical materialist must be.
How can these principles be effected in the realm of music? Can
music express ideas? Not only can it, but it does, and always has.
Through music, the proletariat presents the major aims of its strug­
gle: to bring about revolution in capitalist states, to build a socialist
state in the Soviet Union. For this reason, proletarian art, far from
wanting in freedom, is a pioneer in the struggle for complete liberty
in a society where there are no more dass differences.

That Soviet Russia has chosen a certain type of music for its
use and rejects others which it finds unsuitable is understand-
able and even normal. The Chinese and Greeks both subordi-
nated music to political purposes and made it serve to maintain
collective discipline. This has been the case in many societies in
the process of Organization, and the same is true for the estab-
lishment of ritual in all religions.
But in trying to rationalize the choice made, Russia has, in
the opinion of the West, confused an issue which is really simple
and clear. It would have been better to say: As a result of the
Music in Soviel Russia 289
suppression of dass distinctions, music must be created whose
meaning can be grasped immediately by the uncultured citizen,
and that music must be clear and positive in character. We will
avoid all music which is morbid, pessimistic, or too difficult to
understand.
The manifesto also defines the line to be followed. Included
as acceptable are:
1] The music called folk, insofar as it manifests solid support of
the exploited peasant dass, or reflects the movement to liberate
an oppressed nation.
2] Bourgeois music, if it dates from the revolutionary period of
the bourgeoisie when, as the third estate, it constituted the
majority of the people, represented the oppressed, supported
them^against the oppressors, and worked for the interests of
the whole of humanity. The two composers whom proletarian
musicians consider as their masters par excellence are Mussorg-
sky and Beethoven.

Such regimentation in music may well have been salutary for

Russia at a time when her workers were being delivered from
not only material but moral oppression. Let us not forget that
workers and peasants had been left in a state of almost total
ignorance. It is obviously unthinkable to expect such a people
to absorb all the aspects of a culture overnight. It took the West
three thousand years to establish that culture and give it flexi-
bility, so that by the twentieth Century members of society
achieved complete individual cultural freedom and responsibil-
ity and a state of awareness which would allow consideration of
the most diverse forms of thought as well as Submission of these
forms to a highly developed critical sense.
If we can admit that all areas of a society in formation must
submit to certain more or less imperious directives in order to
avoid chaos and anarchy, and if we keep ourselves from com-
paring the state of Russia’s new society to our Western demo-
cratic societies and trying to apply our norms and criteria to it,
we will come much closer to understanding the cultural efforts
that have been carried out in the Soviet Union.
What we must first realize is that under the old regime the
cultural life of that enormous country was concentrated in a
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

few large cities, principally St. Petersburg and Moscow, and the
population as a whole was neglected. One of the first Soviet
accomplishments was cultural decentralization. The reader of
all the reports on this subject is struck by the importance given
statistics—the number of instruments manufactured, the number
of music schools opened, the number of theaters operating, the
number of organizations devoted to stimulating interest in
music.
Truly, everything remained to be done, and everything had
to begin at zero. Today, there are concert societies, opera and
ballet troupes, conservatories in Azerbaijan, Armenia, and
Georgia, as well as in the Ukraine and White Russia. There is
musical activity at Baku and Tbilisi, as there is at Kiev, Lenin­
grad, and Moscow.
We must also take into account the differences between the
republics of the immense Soviet territory, each with its distinct
character. To engender music and stimulate musical creation,
what would be more natural than to use native folk song as a
base? A young composer from the shores of the Caspian Sea,
Sprung from the people, has not inherited the great European
tradition. His education and background are necessarily rooted
in elements of folklore, the authentic expression of the spirit of
his native land. This need was feit in the nineteenth Century in
countries like Bohemia, Hungary, and Spain, and is inescapable
in countries where European culture has not penetrated.
The Russians talk a great deal about new composers whose
talent affords them independence and respect in the cities where
they practice their art. Most of these composers are of little in­
terest to a Western audience. Their innumerable compositions
are generally orchestral fantasies, songs for voice and orchestra,
choruses, and sometimes operas, the main value of which lies
in the use of folk songs. But for the most part their music lacks
individuality and creative worth. Almost all these composers are
in the first phase of the development of music: the production
of folk material without the transformation a creative act as-
sures.
Anyone straying from the established order is called a formal-
ist. No exact meaning of this worrisome term can be found,
though some circles have tried to pin it down. L. Kullakovsky's
Music in Soviel Russia
investigation ended by attaching the word to a good number of
theoreticians. According to him, Riemann, Kurth, Javorski, and
Konus “show the same tendency to underestimate the expressive
nchness and ideological scope of music. All their idealistic the-
ories share the common trait of denying that music has a mes-
sage. Hanslick and Glebov, says the critic, are even more
blameworthy, because they claim that music acts only according
to the rhythms, intervals, and harmonies which produce greater
or lesser tensions in the nervous System. Consequently, if we are
to believe Kullakovsky, the accusation of formalism can be
directed at any composition which Claims to act by virtue only
of its notes, this being the ideal goal for us. Pure music, or ab­
solute music, is subject to his suspicion.
Although they sometimes seem to belong to the past, these
ideological discussions are always current because they are peri-
odically revived.
The transition from the old to the new regime was effected
by musicians like Glazunov, Steinberg, Ippolitov-Ivanov, Mias-
kovsky, and Gliere, all of whom, with the exception of Gliere,
were trained in the school of Rimsky-Korsakov. Serge Prokofiev
was in Russia at the time, but was not teaching. He soon left
his country to live an international life for many years. The
works by this first rank of Revolution composers are of limited
value, except for Miaskovsky’s. He composed grandiloquent sym-
phonies, and by 1941 was writing his twenty-first.
The music which should be remembered as characteristic of
that period includes Steinberg’s fourth symphony, Twrksib, and
Gliere’s ballet, The Red Poppy. The two composers were the
masters of a new generation, whose most significant representa-
tives are Dmitri Shostakovich and Yuri Shaporin, students of
Steinberg; Aram Khachaturian, Vissarion Shebalin, and Dmitri
Kabalevsky, students of Miaskovsky; Lev Knipper, and Ivan
Dzerzhinsky. These, along with the older Serge Prokofiev, illus-
trate what Russian music has been since 1920, granting that
Stravinsky has played no active part in the life of music in the
Soviet Union, and that his influence is nil.
There are two distinct periods in the work of these com­
posers. The first lasted until 1929, and coincided with Lenin's
New Economic Policy. Düring the time of the N.E.P., every
A HISTORY OI MODERN MUSIC

extreme of musical language was allowed. The point was to see

who could be the most modern, and there was nothing more
modern in Russia than industrialization and mechanization. The
symphony Turksib glorified the building of the Turkestan-
Siberia Railway. Mossolov’s Iron Foundry (1928) imitates whis-
tling steam and flowing molten metal. It is written with a
rhythmic ostinato technique reminiscent of Honegger’s Pacific
231, and has an Orchestra as overpowering as the one in Le
Sacre du Printemps. Prokofiev’s ballet Le Pas d’Acier (1925) was
produced by Diaghilev in Paris. Meituss based Dnieprostroi, a
new symphony on great public works, on imitative harmony.
Except for Le Pas d’Acier, these works are known only by name.
A few records still exist to preserve for posterity examples öf
that slightly childish admiration for the new toy—the machine.
This admiration, which had as a corollary a satiric and sarcastic
attitude toward the old regime, is manifested in some of Shosta-
kovich’s work, like the polka in the ballet The Golden Age.
In 1929 the first Five Year Plan was begun. All writers and
artists were invited to contribute to the success of the Plan. Art
was to be the incentive and reward for the worker, of whom, it
was said, enormous effort was required. Governmental control
of artistic production became more severe and persistent, and
the gospel of Soviet realism, the dogmas of which we discussed
at the beginning of this chapter, came out in 1932. There were
to be no more machines, no more sarcasm, and no more formal­
ism. Folk art and lyric symphony were to lead the program of
glorifying the Revolution which, due to World War II and in a
rush of national pride, was to broaden steadily into a glorifica-
tion of the whole of Russian history.

Prokofiev and Shostakovich are unquestionably the most

representative Soviet musicians in the eyes of foreigners.

serge prokofiev was born in 1891 in the Ekaterinoslav region.

He went to the St. Petersburg Conservatory where he worked
under the direction of Rimsky-Korsakov and Liadov. In Moscow
he worked with Taneev. In 1918 he left Russia and went to
America. From 1922 to 1935 he lived in Germany and France,
Music in Soviel Russia
and around 1935 returned to settle in Russia. Prokofiev pursucd
the double career of pianist and composer. His precise, elegant
technique with its inexorable rhythm, devoid of bombast, corre-
sponds closely with the character he reveals in his compositions.
Like many modern composers, Prokofiev was very prolific. Our
contemporaries do not wait for inspiration to begin writing.
They believe that the act of writing, composing regularly every
day, is a Stimulus for the imagination. Writing a great deal
makes for increased flcxibility in the act of writing and greater
ease of expression. Hindemith and Milhaud wrote any time and
anywhere—on a boat, on a train, or during a conversation around
their work table. Satie wrote on the corner of a cafe table. And
at the end of Chroniques de Ma Vie, Stravinsky says:
Just as an organ will atrophy if it is not engaged in continual ac-
tivity, a composer’s faculties will weaken and die when they are not
sustained by exercise and training. The layman thinks that one must
wait for inspiration to write. This is a mistake. I am far from denying
the value of inspiration; much to the contrary. It is a motor force
found in any human activity and is in no wise the monopoly of
artists. But that force is only called on when it is activated by an
effort, and that effort is work. As appetite comes with eating, it is just
as true that work brings inspiration if inspiration is not present at
first.
Prokofiev spent his first years composing mainly for the piano.
Among his best works are the Visions Fugitives, Op. 22, and
eight sonatas, several of which were revised and corrccted some
years after the first versions were published. Sonata No. 3, Op.
28, composed in 1917, had been written in its original form years
earlier; Sonata No. y, also composed in 1917, comes from a 1908
work. These sonatas d’apres de vieux cahiers show the constancy
of the composer’s temperament. Most composers say that they
are incapable of taking up an old work for correction because
their feelings, tastes, and ideas have changed. Not so for Pro­
kofiev. As he was at the beginning, so he has remained, and
that lack of evolution explains a remarkable fact. When he re-
tumed to the Soviet Union and bowed to the restrictions re-
quired by the party line, after living and working in America
and Western Europe, his art hardly reflected this great change
at all. A very slight unsteadiness due to adjustment was notice-
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

able for a short time, but he quickly regained his balance, and
his later works can be related to those of his youth with no
difficulty.
The real Prokofiev is easily recognized by certain very specific
characteristics which are found throughout the first and third
periods of his creative activity: the binary cut of his melodies,
with the simple rhythm (quarter- and eighth-notes) and a predi-
lection for abrupt modulation [Example Jif]. He was also par-
ticularly fond of plagal cadence, which is populär with a good
many other Russian composers. Prokofiev handled the cadence
(and its derivatives) with lively imagination, which allowed him
to vary its appearance continually.
His violent allegiance to tonality and diatonism is expressed
in a marked preference for the ninth major chord [Example
zz6], endowing his music with a biting quality, a sort of cold-
bloodedness in its movement which is the personal mark of the
composer. Prokofiev’s music, neither polytonal nor atonal, still
avoids the scholastic shackles of tonality. His harmony willingly
does without overly leading notes (notes which hold the dis-
course too long within a given key). The composer can therefore
make use of the rapid modulations toward all keys that so en-
rich his musical palette.
The best known of his piano works is the magnificent Con­
certo No, 3 for Piano, in which all the characteristics we have
just discussed are united. Prokofiev’s mastery of pianistic writing
in this work is unique in Contemporary history. It is a work of
great virtuosity and, at the same time, a veritable symphony, as
are all beautiful concertos. Tlie variations are magical, and the
carefully controlled ecstasy in the finale, a poem of swiftness, is
overpowering. If this concerto, among all similar modern works,
has become the most populär, it is due to its perfect achieve-
ment, of course, but also to the freshness and gaiety which are
comparable (the question of style apart) in charm only to Men-
delssohn’s Violin Concerto.
The indifference of pianists to Prokofiev’s eight sonatas is hard
to understand. They are almost all excellent. Their style and
thought are sometimes very reminiscent of Medtner’s sonatas,
but with more dash, imagination, and freedom. The melodic
ideas in them are clearly contrasted, and their development is
Music in Soviet Russia 2^5
based, for the most part, on rieh invention of piano ornamenta-
tion and figurations. Prokofiev shows no inclination toward
thematic development. His melody by itself is eloquent, often
elegant and sometimes intense, but without emotional exag-
geration.
Balance, simplicity, and natural grace constitute the art of
these sonatas. By avoiding both excessive formal work and slop-
piness, and by keeping the melody always in the foreground,
Prokofiev has given them a charm that is also found in a series
of later works like the Concerto No. 3 for Piano, the Concerto
No. 1 for Violin, and the delightful The Ugly Duckling, for
voice and piano, based on the tale by Andersen. Such youthful-
ness and good humor are very attractive. The listener is put in
direct contact with a lucid idea and a feeling of vigor and fresh-
ness. This "ease of communication is undoubtedly what put
Prokofiev in such a favorable position in the Soviet Union after
he began to participate in Russian musical life.
When Prokofiev put aside his confident attitude toward life
which made his expression happy and peaceful, he became sar-
castic, passing without transition into scathing irony. Works like
the ballet The Buffoon suffer from this state of mind, which is
translated into an accumulation of dissonances and a brittle
thematic quality, the caricatural import of which is not moti-
vated by musical exigencies. This “grotesque” genre, intentional
and rather artificial, was fashionable in Russia at the beginning
of the Revolution. But the satire and gaiety are much more
natural and spontaneous in operas such as Love for Three
Oranges, based on a comedy by Gozzi, the March of which
rapidly became very populär; and in The Gambier, based on
Dostoevsky’s story.
Love for Three Oranges contains delightful clownish inven-
tions. An important role is given the chorus of commentators,
who are, moreover, very active: the Tragedians, Comedians,
Lyricists, and Emptyheads. The laborious birth of the laugh that
will save the Prince from hypochondria makes some of the best
comedy in music. The magic scenes unfortunately are too dry
and lacking in life, which detracts somewhat from an otherwise
sprightly play.
The Gambier is one of Prokofiev’s most well-constructed and
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

interesting works. The libretto has little in common with Dos-

toevsky’s novelette, but this is unimportant. An opera is an
autonomous work. It exists in itself, and the libretto may as
well be an original creation by the composer as inspired by a
book. In the latter case, the opera need not carry the book over
in exact detail; it may take a different direction. The Gambier
was begun in 1915, later completely rewritten, and orchestrated
in 1928. This Opus 24 forms a group with the Scythian Suite,
Op. 20; The Buffoon, Op. 21; Visions Fugitives, Op. 22; and the
Concerto No, 3 for Piano, Op. 26. It was composed in the middle
of a particularly fine creative period. The outstanding quality
of The Gambier is that it is alive from beginning to end. To
be alive, a thing cannot mark time: it must grow. And this The
Buffoon does not do. In The Gambier, the growth of intensity
is remarkably well handled. In the first two acts, the elements
of melody, clearly defined, appear fleetingly. They are continu-
ously reiterated; hardly is one rhythmic or harmonic combina-
tion heard before another succeeds it. The flight of the music is
kept firmly in hand. A thousand delightful details attract our
ears, while our eyes follow the comings and goings of the many
characters who people the scene. In the third act, tension
mounts. Thematic elaborations are more sustained and focus our
attention on the impending drama. The fourth act is the cul-
minating point. All through its three scenes the music is sus­
tained on an elevated plane. Melodies soar on great wing strokes,
and the structure is splendid. The scene of the gambling room is
a masterpiece. The noise of the crowd, the gambler’s folly, and
the evident disorder of the dialogue that fuses and crisscrosses
are held in a strict form, a sort of deafening rondo whose vivac-
ity, now harsh and strident, can only be ended in the sad perora-
tion of a thought that began in an atmosphere of charming
gaiety. The opera Semyon Kotko is also succesSful, while War
and Peace sins by excessiveness; it is too long. The Fläming
Angel appears to be Prokofiev’s best opera.
Prokofiev also composed works of an epic character which
have great value, like the Scythian Suite (1914), and the cantata
Seven, They are Seven (1917), the action of which has considera-
ble power.
The massive Russian Overture of 1936, the music for the
 Music in Soviet Russia Ä Ä
movie Lieutenant Kije, and the choral cantata extracted from
the music for the movie Alexander Nevsky (193g) are written in
the same vein. These works, the last of which sometimes attains
gieat beauty, make use of folk song in a zealous spirit that makes
the listener tliink of Boris Godunov. Prokofiev is most faithful
to his own gift when he sings with Russian peasants and exalts
the soul of the people. His art then abounds with an enthusiasm
that infuses it with warm life.
Prokofiev’s return to his mother country did not prove dam-
äging to his work, and the restrictions brought to bear on artistic
expression in the Soviet Union do not seem in any wise to have
hampered the talent of a composer whose natural boundaries
coincided with those established in the society to which he
belonged. The composer’s Ftfth and Seventh Symphonies attest
to this fact.

dmitri shostakovich belongs to the new generation that came

of age after the Revolution of 1917. Born in 1906 in St. Peters­
burg, he hardly knew the old order. In a short autobiography
published in 1936, he states:
My penchant for music came to light in 1915, the year I began my
musical studies. In 1919, I enrolled at the Leningrad Conservatory,
where I finished in 1925. There I worked under the direction of L.
Nikolaiev (piano and theory of composition), Professor Nikolai Sokolov
(counterpoint and fugue), and Professor Maximilian Steinberg (har­
mony, fugue, Orchestration, and advanced composition). After I had
finished my studies at the Conservatory, I remained as a junior assistant
in the composition course taught by Professor Steinberg. I began to
compose while I was still studying at the Conservatory. My Symphony
(the first), for example, which has been performed by almost all the
symphony orchestras of the world, was my tliesis composition at the
Conservatory.
I soaked myself enthusiastically and uncritically in all the knowledge
and skills taught me. But once my studies were finished, I had to make
over a large part of the musical baggage I had acquired. I came to
understand that music is not only a combination of sounds disposed in
such and such an order, but is an art capable of expressing the most
diverse ideas or feelings in its particular way. I did not arrive at this
conviction painlessly. It is enough to say that, during all of 1926, I did
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

not write a single note. But from 1927 on> I never stopped composing.
Düring that period I wrote two operas: The Nose (based on Gogol)
and Lady Macbeth of Mzensk (based on Leskov’s book); three ballets,
The Golden Age and Button among them; three symphonies, two of
which were Ode to October and May ist Symphony; twenty-four piano
preludes; a Concerto for Piano and Orchestra; movie music, etc. . . .
In that interval of time, my technique took on form and substance.
Working constantly to master my art. I applied myself to creating my
own musical style, which I wanted to be simple and expressive.
I do not conceive of my future progress outside our socialist struc-
ture. And the aim I assign to my work is that it help build our
remarkable country in every respect. There is no greater joy for a
composer than to be conscious of contributing by his creation to the
scope of Soviet musical culture, which has been called upon to play a
role of prime importance in the reconstruction of the human spirit.

This profession of faith describes Shostakovich’s position.

While those around him speak of objectivism, of absolute music,
he has taken a resolute stand against that concept. He is as op«
posed to the Stravinsky of the Octet as to the Schoenberg of
Variations for Orchestra, He clings to viewpoints we are tempted
to call romantic. Our designation would be wrong, moreover,
for a good many earlier masters; for example, Monteverdi and
Schütz, who cannot be charged with romanticism, were equally
of the opinion that music is made to express emotions.
Music existing on its own behalf, or sounds determining emo­
tions; or again, the sonorous world on the one hand, expressive
content on the other: it would be useless to discuss, and more so
to take sides with, one or the other thesis. The most detailed
analyses always balk this side of a certain point, precisely that
point beyond which lie the secrets of the gestation and signifi-
cance of music. It is nonetheless certain that two types of music
do exist: the music whose beauty we admire, and in which we
are not tempted to look for anything other than splendor; and
the music that suggests an expressive text or an explanatory
note. Mozart is on one side, Beethoven on the other. Stravinsky’s
thinking is the same as Mozart’s. Shostakovich is allied with
Beethoven, by way of Gustav Mahler.
Actually, Stravinsky’s position in Russian music is excep-
tional (that is, Stravinsky ^ost-Pulcinella), Russian music almost
Music in Soviet Russia 299
always includes visual elements, or preconceived emotional mo-
tivation. The existence of visual sensitivity is as evident in Mus-
sorgsky’s Enfantines as in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and
the aim of expression guides the development of Tchaikovsky’s
symphonies as well as Scriabin’s sonatas.
Shostakovich was doing the most natural thing in the world,
in his Statement, in assigning to music the role of translating
the most diverse ideas and emotions. This conception is as nat­
ural in Russia as abstraction is in Western Europe. And when
he says that he wants his style to be simple and expressive, it
would be wrong to think that he meant to make a deliberate
change as a result of the criticism directed at Lady Macbeth of
Mzensk. The import of these critiques seems to have been some-
what misunderstood in the West. The performances of Lady
Macbeth took place during the transition from the N.E.P. period
to the period of the first Five Year Plan. At the beginning, Lady
Macbeth was an enormous success. It was not until some time
later that a campaign was launched against certain tendencies
particularly highlighted by this remarkable opera.
The attack on Lady Macbeth was directed against a whole
order of events and circumstances. It was the occasion and pre-
text for a revision of artistic thinking in the U.S.S.R. Because
of the importance of this case, before commenting on Shosta-
kovich’s music itself, it is worthwhile to cast an eye here on how
theatrical life developed after the Revolution.
The Russians dearly love the theater in any form: drama,
opera, or ballet. Under the tsars, the theater was the object of
particular attention. Russian producers and choreographers had
bolder, larger, and more advanced ideas than their confreres in
the West. They devoted the necessary time and care to produc-
ing polished spectacles. Elsewhere, we have seen that credit for
the renaissance in Contemporary ballet is due to Russian chore­
ographers like Fokine, Nijinska, Massine, and Baianchine, and
to the existence of an imperial dancing academy.
The Revolution, far from suppressing interest in the stage,
encouraged it. For the stage was a powerful vehicle for use as a
means to spread the new ideology.
Until around 1930, every liberty was allowed in the matter
of dramatic aesthetics. The life of the theater until that time
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

had no real importance outside the great metropolitan centers.

In the case of opera, the repertory did not as yet include any
new works. Operas by Glinka, Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov,
Borodin, and Mussorgsky were Standard. Carmen, La Boheme,
and Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg were often perform ed. But
in a good many works the texts were adapted to Soviet ideology.
The speech of Hans Sachs in the last scene of Die Meistersinger,
for example, was made to extol the relationship between art and
the workers. The libretto of Carmen, as well, was heavily re-
worked and adapted for propaganda purposes.
Every liberty was allowed, but composing new works was sacri-
ficed to experimentation in production. A dramatic work became
merely a pretext for scenic construction.
A number of new trends appeared in this connection. On the
one hand, realism as formulated by Stanislavski had operas and
operettas played as dramas and comedies, the singers directing
their movements, gestures, and expressions in a realistic way,
according to the text, without heeding the requirements of the
music. Opposed to Stanislavski was Tairov, who rejected nat-
uralism to concentrate the substance of the drama in a few
schematized gestures. He did away with the human aspect of
drama to bring out certain abstract formulas and an architec-
tural scenic construction. The result was a “liberated theater”
which caused a rift between drama and spectacle, and made the
spectacle the essence of the production. This concept was un-
fortunate at a time when efforts were being bent to impress the
masses with ideas exposed in the theater. Tairov’s experiments
put critics on the alert, and persuaded some that creative free-
dom should be curtailed.
A third trend was Meyerhold’s “biomechanism.” All the
mechanism of the theater—scene changes, placing and working
of lights—was made visible and actively participated in the play.
Architectural experimentation was carried to extremes, but all
the elements, actors and objects, moved and were directed in
reference to the human significance of the play.
The care exercised in production was equally great under
each of these three methods, whose originators were directors of
genius. Nonetheless, Meyerhold and especially Tairov can be
criticized for having relegated the content of the works they
Music in Soviet Russia 301
staged to the background. The instructive potential of the
theater, on which the Revolution had placed enormous impor­
tance, was neglected, and more and more pressure was applied
to bring scenic art closer to the requirements of populär educa-
tion.
During that period of complete liberty when a bold imagina­
tion was considered revolutionary (as in the West), the latest
works from Europe were well received. Klenek’s Johnny Strikes
Up and Alban Berg’s Wozzeck were performed. The latter work
made a strong impression in Russian artistic circles. The somber
pessimism of Viennese expressionism found an echo in the Rus­
sian soul, whose agonies Dostoevsky described with such genius.
It was under the impact of Wozzeck that Shostakovich composed
his extraordinary Lady Macbeth. It was an admirable work, to
which the whole world rendered homage. But critics thought
that, with Lady Macbeth, the trends in theater, which important
producers had already carried to alarming lengths, were taking
a turn they considered unhealthy and, in any event, incom-
patible with the effort to be required of the workers. To effect
the Five Year Plan, the mood of the laboring dass had to be
joyous and courageous. The artists were given the task of con-
tributing to the success of the Five Year Plan by watching over
the moral health of the worker.
Lady Macbeth, written between 1930 and 1932, was first pro-
duced in 1934 in Leningrad by Smolich and staged at Nemi-
rovich Dantshenko’s Little Theater in Moscow. The libretto
had been taken from a short story by Leskov. It teils the tale
of a woman whose lover kills her husband and who is deported
to Siberia with him. The lover neglects his mistress and leaves
her for another woman. The woman tries to push her rival
overboard during a river crossing. Both women drown.
Shostakovich had chosen this subject because of its rieh dra­
matic situations and its social significance. He considered it an
expos£ of the position of Russian women under the old regime,
and thought that this lamentable picture was especially suitable
to the new type of dramatic art. He strove to portray the drama
in simple and expressive language.
Lady Macbeth was the first notable opera written after the
Revolution. The composer distinguished his characters clearly
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

in order to create strong contrasts between personalities. He

found that sharpening his means of expression provided dra-
matic power, as Alban Berg had done in Wozzeck.
Everyone realized the exceptional value of the score. It was
not until 1936 that critics began to voice objections, and even
then not of its worth but of the trend it followed. In a series
of articles, Pravda asserted that Shostakovich would have to
Orient himself toward greater realism. This new regard for
realism grew in Opposition to dramatic concepts which had
prevailed until the writing of Lady Macbeth. The term meant
not a type of naturalism, but the need to situate the work of
art in current circumstances, in the realities of the current life
of the Russian people. The individual was no longer interesting.
Evoking conditions of a time past had no meaning for the people
of the present.
The attack on Lady Macbeth was not caused by a misunder-
standing on the part of the critics. It was not a violent and im­
pulsive reaction against music which wras not liked. It was a
reflective act in which the personal tastes of the judges were not
taken into account. The sole criterion was the greater interest
of the country under exceptional circumstances.
The result of this judgment was that the score was withdrawn
from circulation, and the course of that beautiful work was
interrupted. Thus, on the appearance of the first Soviet opera,
the lines which dramatic music would have to follow in the
future were laid down.
Western critics have said that after this misfortune Shosta-
kovich’s wings, if not broken, were at least somewhat clipped.
This is not the impression that a study of the composer’s works
gives. He himself has always insisted on the expressive and
human side he wants to give his music. Between'Lady Macbeth
and works like the Seventh Symphony or Eighth Symphony
there is no essential difference. There is only a difference of
attitude, and consequently accentuation of certain details in the
writing of the music. In the ballet The Golden Age and in Lady
Macbeth, there is still a good deal of banter in the air, bur-
lesquing old-regime characters and sentiments still fashionable
shortly after the Revolution. The spirit of caricature called for
a special orchestral arrangement that cannot be considered
Music in Soviet Russia
characteristic of the composer. Fürther, the dramatic Situation as.
Shostakovich saw it led to the expression of extreme emotions.
There is no evidence that this convulsive style was to be defini-
tivc—eaiTier works do not at all prepare the way for the opera.
And since there is a real relationship between the First Sym­
phony and the symphonies following Lady Macbeth, it seems
logical to conclude that the style in Lady Macbeth is rather the
exception in Shostakovich’s work, and that it was required by
the nature of the drama.
It is noteworthy that the polemic it provoked did not involve
the composer’s temperament. The dispute should not be inter-
preted as an attempt to level or standardize the art of music.
Egor Boelza remarks that “realism in art admits of a wide vari-
ety of forms of expression and styles, right as well as left, but it
must avoid taking root in false ground. Innovations in art must
be warranted by the introduction of a new element intrinsic
in the artistic creation, and must not serve simply to make a
purely formal invention predominate.” Perhaps if we relate this
thought to what we said on the subject of the Situation in
theater, and especially Tairov’s methods, we will have the key
to the fear of formalism so often expressed in Soviet Russia.
After writing Lady Macbeth, Op. 29, Shostakovich drew a
fresh, rejuvenating breath, and wrote the enchanting Concerto
for Piano, Trumpet, and Strings; the absolutely simple and un-
usually graceful String Quartet, Op. 49; and the Quintet, Op.
57. The absence of pretention in these works mirrors the tempera­
ment of their composer.
But Shostakovich’s most noteworthy compositions are a series
of symphonies, varying in quality but most important in their
dimension and spirit. The basis of these symphonies is original
melodic invention. The composer is gifted with exceptional
virtuosity in Orchestration, which he does not call on for the
sheer pleasure of impressive display, but to state the melody
clearly. Shostakovich is less guilty than Mahler of the fault of
drawing out a work excessively, and the character of his com­
positions is more pronounced and more independent of outside
influences than the Austrian composer’s.
The First Symphony, Op. 10 (1926), already shows incontesta-
ble mastery. Shostakovich composed it in his youth. The Second
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Symphony, Op. 14, celebrates the tenth anniversary of the Octo­

ber Revolution. The Third Symphony, Op. 20, is entitled May
ist. These are patriotic compositions, as was Berlioz’s Symphonie
Funebre in its time. In 1936 appeared the Fourth Symphony,
Op. 43, followed in 1937 by the Fifth, Op. 47. The central fig-
ure is man in the fullness of his sentient life. The finale brings
the resolution of tension and tragedy, which are dissolved in the
sunlight of hope and joy.
Characteristics appear in the Fifth Symphony that are more
sharply defined in the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies: very
important slow movements that are developed in a single stroke,
so to speak, under the pressure of an inner drive, and that, as
a result, successfully retain the listener’s attention despite
their length; a penchant for march movements in the allegros;
scherzos replaced by populär dance movements (as Mahler’s
scherzos often take the form of Ländler); and slow, unbroken
ascents toward climaxes of expression which seem all the more
exalted because they have been long in coming.
The Fifth Symphony is a culminating point for Shostakovich.
It shows great unity, remarkable continuity, and partial success
in adapting homogeneous sound structure to aims of expression.
The Sixth Symphony, Op. 54, was written in 1939. The drama
of man is forgotten. The music is a light-hearted invitation to
youth and joy.
Then came the War, the great trial over which the new Russia
was to triumph and which would justify in the eyes of the world
the hard life this great country had had the courage to impose
on itself for so many years. Shostakovich was in Leningrad. He
shared the fate of his fellow citizens, bore with them the siege
of the city, and rejoiced in the liberation and victory. From the
trial emerged the Seventh Symphony, Op. 60, written in the
teeth of the battle. It is a work of enormous proportions (it lasts
an hour and a quarter), in which a second choir of brasses is
added to the usual symphony orchestra. Two worlds meet in
this monumental composition: that of the most noble human
aspirations, love, joy, creative work; and that of destruction,
mechanized barbarity, and death. The first part of the symphony
includes a great march, occurring between two andantes, which
symbolizes the growing strength of the Russian army after the
Music in Soviet Russia 305
German attack. This march has been criticized as being modeled
on the development technique of Ravel’s Bolero, The criticism
seems sound at first sight. There is, in fact, a theme that insist-
ently recurs and undergoes a variety of orchestral presentations.
But there is no question here of virtuosity or color. The theme
is deliberately poor, stripped of all allure, and the development
is progressively enriched with counterpoint calling for the addi-
tion of more and more numerous masses, while the force of the
music remains interior. The scherzo is built on folk dance
themes and rhythms, without pomp or flourish. The character
of the music resides in its spirit of abnegation, in the concen-
tration of emotion. Each measure is lighted from within. The
slow movement best displays Shostakovich’s more recent stylistic
leanings. Melodies which are simple in appearance actually in-
troduce inflections and modulations at every turn marked with
the stamp of a distinctive personality. Contrapuntal lines, as
well, avoid conventional phrasing and academic superimpositions.
The music seems to give birth to an art which has been un-
ostentatiously freed of the commonplace.
The work ends with a moderate movement of increasing ex-
ultation, but not in a bürst of glory; rather, it leaves an im-
pression of heaviness and fatigue, like the feeling of having
thrown off a crushing weight—a more impressive and true con-
clusion than a spectacular song of triumph.
The Eighth Symphony (1943) is the most complete and accom-
plished composition its author has written to date. Like the
Seventh, it is a work of immense proportions. Its performance
lasts about sixty-five minutes. There is no subject, and yet the
meaning of the symphony is clear. It is not yet a portrayal of
joy, but after the tension of the Seventh Symphony, the music
affords release and meditation. It is certainly no coincidence
that the first theme of the opening movement begins with a
tempered reiteration of the march theme of the preceding sym­
phony. Calm returns, and after stress come withdrawal and
recollection. More than ever Shostakovich rejects exterior dis-
play and clings to inner life. The music is beyond pain, and
achieves a state of serenity. Never has Shostakovich’s art been
more firm and masterful than in the great initial adagio. The
whole movement, which lasts half an hour, is woven from two
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

melodic themes, without the development being overburdened

or academic at any point. A short march movement, an active
element, follows it. Some clarinet, bass clarinet, and piccolo
passages have little character, but are nonetheless interesting.
The work is enlivened with unusual color produced by the
use of the overshrill registers of the flutes and clarinets. How-
ever, the piercing quality of the very high registers, instead of
producing a coloristic effect, confers a certain degree of intensity
on the idea. The Orchestration of the symphony utilizes only the
most simple means. There are few divisions of the strings, and
the wind instruments are given long solo passages, always cleatly
placed in the foreground due to the prüdent scoring of the
background.
The Orchestration is frequently built on the techniques of
grouping and doubling, but all the dangers accompanying this
method are avoided. The tutti passages, despite the importance
of the orchestral body, are never weighty but retain their light­
ness as a result of judicious apportionment of intervals and
registers.
The pivot of the last movement is a splendid passacaglia, in
which the composer disdains exterior effect and infuses his music
with inner truth. As a coda to this new meditation, there is a
sweet, tender conclusion expressing increasing calm and the
slow return of hope.
The Eighth Symphony is very comforting. It proves that re-
gardless of watchwords, prohibitions, and more or less strict
directives, true originality can develop and find the freedom
necessary for expression. We must admit that after the Eighth
Symphony, the gay and carefree Ninth was not favorably re-
ceived by Russian authorities, because its tenor of entertainment
was considered too inconsequential in relation to the great social
problems Soviet Russia must face. The Tenth Symphony, which
is nearly as important as the Eighth, was well received.

Lady Macbeth of Mzensk was the first Soviet opera. After its
first performance, Russia began to develop her regional artistic
centers. If we examine the whole of musical production since 1930
(which we cannot do in detail, since as yet scores are not easily
obtained in the West), the most interesting works seem to be in
Music in Soviet Russia 307
the field of opera. There exist a good many symphonies, and
concertos as well; dozens of ödes to Stalin have been composed.
But the works are generally not remarkable. Even the best of
them, like Khachaturian’s concertos, lack real individuality.
If we abstract from the work of the two most important art­
ists, Prokofiev and Shostakovich, the most striking elements that
emerge are the utilization of folk songs, and the creation of
operas dealing with life in Soviet Russia and, more recently, with
glorious episodes from the whole history of Russia.
Among these operas there are a number which have acquired
some fame: Ivan Dzerzhinsky’s Quiet Flows the Don, and his
Storm, based on Ostrovski’s work; Dmitri Kabalevsky’s Colas
Breugnon, based on Romain Rolland’s Le Maitre de Clamecy;
Lev Knipper’s Vent du Nord; Alexander Krein’s Zagmuk; Pro-
kofiev’s last two operas, Semyon Kotko, Op. 81, and War and
Peace, Op. 91 (1941) based on Tolstoi’s novel; and Yuri Sha-
porin’s The Decembrists, with libretto by Aleksei Tolstoi. Pro-
kofiev’s Fläming Angel was played at the Venice Festival in
1955 and was unanimously acclaimed by musicians and the
general public.
Of all these works, one has been cited as a model opera. It is
Quiet Flows the Don, composed from 1930 to 1932, and widely
performed with great success. Dzerzhinsky’s opera, contempora-
neous with Lady Macbeth of Mzensk, has the advantage over
the latter of being based on a realistic libretto. The subject is
life during the Revolution. It has the added advantage of a
steady use of peasant folk songs.
 9

GERMAN MUSIC AFTER RICHARD STRAUSS

in A letter dated May 12, 1919» fr°m Zurich, Ferruccio Busoni

wrote:
I long lived in a world o£ music which was under the spiritual tyranny
of Beethoven and, for all practical purposes, Wagner. Other than these
two personalities, great in spirit and power, Chopin alone was still
tolerated. The rest (among them Brahms and Bruckner, who also
dreamed of writing a ninth symphony) were only composers who tagged
along in the footsteps of the two masters. Bach’s place in music was
comparable to the place that the Catholic Church has in society. As
for Mozart, he was really relegated to the background. Every time he
was mentioned in the same breath as the masters, he was considered a
child at whom one smiles without really understanding him. The whole
development of music in the nineteenth Century was distorted by this
error.
If we had been raised with Mozart’s music, and if we had understood
Berlioz better, we would be more advanced and our paths would be
surer. But we turned away from Mozart’s purity and neglected Berlioz’s
innumerable suggestions. Unwittingly, we moved out of the domain
of music little by little to enter that of philosophy. We lost the sense
of pure expression. We were saturated with great thoughts. We made ef-
forts to accept the bürden. We prolonged Wagner’s very difficult victory
beyond its time; hence our present backwardness. Everyone had been
raised on Liszt (in France, C£sar Franck and Saint-Saens; in Russia, all
the composers of renown and, last but not least, Richard Wagner)—
and then were free to go on and (which costs little) to make fun of his
weaknesses, point a finger at his warts and slight the nobility of his
features.
Now the point is not to discredit, but to create constant values. We
must erect a new classic art. All the experiments at the beginning of
the twentieth Century should be re-examined and incorporated into the
definitive style now being formed.
German Music After Richard Strauss 309
The age of instrumental virtuosity seems to me to be past. We
should admit this fact and deduce the necessary conclusions, that the
piano is an instrument to be used as an intermediary, and that the
violin is an orchestral instrument of the first Order. As for song, the
importance of words should be diminished and its true nature revived.
Opera should again become a scheme in which the text is only a
reason for the music. The whole must be concise and interesting, a very
free ensemble with many resting points. Let us open the windows. Let
us have no more worry-lines on the listener’s face, but a smile and tears
instead!

This great pianist, a famous interpreter of Bach, Chopin, and

Liszt, Italian by birth and German by training, had left Ger-
many at the outbreak of World War I and spent the last years
of his life in Switzerland. It was not generally known that he
had composed a great deal and that among his writings were
remarkable wTorks.
His blazing career as a piano virtuoso had obscured his ac-
tivity as a composer, as well as the ideas he professed, from the
eyes of the public. However, after 1913, his surprising Indian-
isches Tagebuch and some of his Elegies for Piano had attracted
the attention of some of the most advanced thinkers, and the
staging of his Arlecchino at the Zürich Opera House in 1917
earned Busoni his proper place. He introduced a radical reform
in German music, then still under the dominion of romanti-
cism. It was a spiritual reform followed by rejuvenation of Ian-
guage.
Busoni’s relationship to German music is analogous to Satie’s
to French music. Both were precursors. Both produced certain
types of new music, and both acted as an influence which will
continue to have salutary effects for some time.
In 1907 Busoni published the essay Entwurf einer neuen
Aesthetik der Tonkunst, In it he expounds his ideas on the
future of music and proposes methods to bring it new life.
Music in Germany was hampered by an exaggerated respect for
established tradition. Against these the Latin Busoni took up
the sword. He demands liberty of movement for music, believ-
ing that when music is freed of the forms imposed prior to its
creation, it will be absolute music. Originality is required, and
yet composers are forbidden to create new forms. Busoni then
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

shows that if we are loyal to Mozart, it is because of his human

grandeur and not because of his tonic-dominant system and its
elaborations. This is an obvious truism to Latins, but it was as
difficult to make Germanic peoples understand it in 1910 as in
1940. We must admit a fundamental difference between the
German concept of music and the concept natural to both Latins
and Russians. For the German, music is born of a formal design
around a theme, or a certain number of motifs. Music is pri-
marily a building whose construction poses problems. For the
Latin and the Russian, music is born of an expressive melody,
and although technique plays an important role because of its
obvious necessity to the materialization of the work, it none-
theless remains secondary. It is not used for the pleasure of set­
ting up numbers of combinations. For the Latin, who has an
innate sense of balance, the creation of a work of art is not a
problem to solve. Further, he does not devote himself to ex-
perimentation—experimental music has existed only in Germany.
Given these facts, it is logical that the German clings to methods
of development or patterns of manufacture, and that he finds
it hard to understand that the system of composition he has
learned is neither universal nor eternal.
Busoni Stands at the opposite pole, and maintains that a few
composers have glimpsed what absolute music could be, when
they were able to give up symmetrical relationships. Beethoven
did this in the introduction to the fugue of the Sonata fiir
Hammerklavier, Op. 106; Schumann in the transition to the last
movement of the Symphony in D Minor; Brahms in the intro­
duction to the finale of the First Symphony; Bach in his Organ
Fantasias (not in the fugues) or in certain recitatives in the
Passions.
Busoni urges the Germans to create music of the emotions,
and discard structural forms and schemes and program music
(ä la Wagner and Strauss). German musical theater suffered
from the artists’ misconception concerning the nature and poten­
tial of music. Music was used to establish scenic action, instead
of being limited to expressing psychological states.
“The creator,” Busoni says, “must not accept a traditional
law. He must consider his creative work as something excep-
 German Music After Richard Strauss
tional, to be opposed to everything that already exists. He must
invent a law to satisfy his own needs, and as soon as he has made
one perfect application of it, he must destroy it, in order not to
fall into repetition in the course of new works. To create is to
make something spring from nothing [Schaffen heisst: aus Nichts
erzeugen].”
With these words, Busoni was portraying all the great creators
of our time. But how can one create something new if he re-
spects stereotyped language? Busoni notes the exhaustion of the
harmonic-polyphonic System. He says that inventive efforts must
be bent on creating abstract sound and a technique which knows
no tonal limitations. He sanctions the multiplication of modes
by changing the intervals in our accepted scale. He is thinking
of the superimposition of several modes, or polymodality, and of
making these modes govern harmony as well as melody.
Some of Busoni’s ideas were to be taken up by Schoenberg,
and some by Hindemith. But his thinking was too Latin to be
fully understood in Germany, and there is no doubt that on the
whole the work of men like Stravinsky, Bartok, and Milhaud
corresponds more completely to Busoni’s ideal than does the
work of Hindemith and Schoenberg.
Satie had had the courage and strength to break with tradition
entirely and build a totally new work. In composing, Busoni
was not so radical as the composer of Parade. Aside from auda-
cious fragments in which he puts his views on polymodality into
practice, all his works contain passages which are still firmly
tied to the romantic traditions he wanted to throw off. As a
result, his compositions, which at moments open interesting per­
spectives, are hybrid in character. But rarely do we find a homo-
geneous piece written with assurance. Thus, the four pieces of
Indianisches Tagebuch, which appeared in 1915, would be very
convincing if they were not sometimes injured by banal con-
clusions. The Sonatinas for Piano, in which the composer
achieves complete freedom, are beautiful. Sonatina No. III ad
Usum Infantis is particularly captivating in its fresh simplicity.
Busoni’s ideal for the theater was Mozart’s opera. He wrote
two works under the inspiration of the commedia dell’ arte:
Arlecchino, for which he himself wrote the libretto, and Turan-
dot, based on the work by Carlo Gozzi (1917). Arlecchino is a
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

lively satire from which the composer excerpted the very fine
Rondo Arlecchinesco for orchestra.
This comedy contains excellent pages, but there are others in
which the character of the music is not sufficiently defined.
Turandot, on the contrary, is an exquisite and very homogene-
ous score. Nearly all of its episodes have a winning charm.
Doktor Faust, one of Busoni’s last works, was too ambitious for
the composer’s creative ability.

The new classicism which the composer of Turandot dreamed

of was not brought into being by him. We have also seen that
Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern, far from breaking with Wagner
and romanticism, were to continue in, and even develop be-
yond, the tradition of Tristan, It was left to Paul Hindemith
to make the definitive break with romanticism and establish the
bases for a nonindividualistic German art.
This is what the critic Heinrich Strobel says about Hinde­
mith:
He came from a family of Silesian artisans. He grew up away from
those bourgeois milieux which alone, at the beginning of the Century,
possessed a musical culture. He did not receive a bourgeois education,
and he was responsible for his own development through the unaided
drive of his essentially musical nature. Long before he entered the
Conservatory, he played in movie houses, operetta theaters, jazz groups,
and later in the symphony orchestra. He grew up playing the violin,
and was a virtuoso at the age of thirteen. At twenty he was the Kon­
zertmeister of the Frankfurt opera. His first childhood impressions were
received in circles where music was practiced as a profession. And
when he began to compose, he did it quite naturally with an eye to
practical execution. He wrote music destined for immediate use, for
friends, for himself, for small groups, for music festivals. Indeed, he
was surprisingly productive, and yet no work appeared which had not
been asked for or commissioned.
This method of working was opposed to that of romanticism. The
resulting music was composed for a given purpose, instead of being
a subjective confession. And this music “for use” (Gebrauchsmusik)
presupposes musical craftsmanship. The joy of expression involved the
joy of technical mastery. Henceforth only strict construction could be
allowed, determined by the elements or the materials used. And quite
German Music After Richard Strauss
naturally, Hindemith turned to the style that provides the richest
development of the potentialities of musical craftsmanship-polyphony.

paul hindemith’s fecundity is equaled at present only by

Darius Milhaud. By 194° he had written about a hundred works.
His production, like Milhaud’s, is torrential, and his intelligent
curiosity has led him to examine all genres. But while the
French composer’s gift is lyrical, the German’s interest lies in
the constructive element. And while Milhaud was individual-
istic from the outset, Hindemith found it more difficult to be so,
enmeshed as he was in the heavy tradition of the nineteenth
Century.
Wanting to break with the chromaticism of Wagner and
Strauss and rediscover pure music, Hindemith took as his re-
mote point of departure Brahms, with whom he is connected by
the intermediate link of Reger.
The period of liberation encompasses his first twenty-five
works (from about 1915 to 1923), most of which are heavy and
complex. Kleine Kammermusik, for wind instruments, Op. 24,
No. 2, was his first really personal composition. It was followed
in 1923 by Das Marienleben, a song-cycle based on poems by
Rainer Maria Rilke, which is one of his most beautiful works.
From 1924 on, Hindemith displayed full technical mastery. The
joy of craftsmanship inspired him to compose a series of brilliant
works, written with remarkable skill but rather often lacking in
interior life, a fact that does not seem to disturb the author.
This is the period of the Kammermusik, Op. 36, the opera
Cardillac, Op. 39, and music for mechanical instruments. In the
music of this period, intelligence predominated and the concept
of musical play triumphed, sometimes drawing the composer
into polyphonic excess. Logically, the attention Hindemith gave
to questions concerning the execution of music led him to write
exercises. He began to take an interest in amateurs, in musical
circles, in that German people who love music not only to listen
to but also to play and sing. Hindemith undertook an enormous
enterprise for populär culture. His Opuses 43, 44, and 45 (1926-
1928) are evidence of his concern. He wrote instrumental and
vocal music for amateurs. This work had important and for-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

tunate consequences, for it led him to more simple writing and

oriented him toward a more melodic and open art. His contact
with the people developed his sensitivity, and made him under-
stand that music is a play of forms only from one point of view,
and that it must also have an inner spirit.
Hindemith rounded out his artistic viewpoint, and began to
write his most significant works: the Concerto for Piano, Brass,
and Two Harps, Op. 49; the comic opera Neues vom Tage
(1929); the Lehrstück (1929); the Choruses for Men’s Voices
(1930); the Mathis der Maler (1934); Der Schwanendreher, for
viola and chamber orchestra (1935); and the ballet symphony St.
Francis (1938).
The first works are still offshoots of the chromaticism of
Tristan. Hindemith realized that if he went beyond Tristan and
discarded the dominant cadence, he would suppress the action
of the leading tone (Leitton) and would free the forces which
were polarized by the tonal principle. Two ways were open to
him: that of adopting atonality, a choice Hindemith did not
follow, or that of establishing a chain of chords not directed
by the attraction of a leading tone. The latter offered the possi-
bility of giving music a new harmonic meaning. With Marien-
leben, Hindemith set up a harmonic System based on the acous-
tic properties of complex chords (chords of five, six, seven, or
more sounds), and on the degree of tension a chord possesses,
not in relation to a tonic but in itself, and tending to create
progressive harmonic tensions and releases in the succession of
chords of greater and greater or less and less tension in them-
selves. Presently we will see what this harmonic System consists
of. It is already apparent that this harmony, freed from the
restriction of tonal relationships, allows the melody to develop
in the scale of twelve tones. In this harmony, the activating
principle is the gradation of internal tensions; likewise, Hinde­
mith gives the twelve-note melody motor force (which diatonic
melody has in the tonal relations of its elements) by infusing
it with rhythmic energy.
Two consequences derive from these two bases. The inner
tension of the chords varies according to the intensity given each
note. To achieve a specific tension, the intensity of each note
German Music After Richard Strauss 315
must be carefully measured. This explains Hindemith’s prefer­
ence for a chamber orchestra with solo instruments as opposed
to the massive effects of a grand orchestra. Stravinsky, Milhaud,
Bartök, and Schoenberg draw the same conclusion: the more
complex the harmony, the clearer it must be, and the sonorous
weight must be such that it is regulated automatically by instru­
mental arrangement. The second consequence is that in his need
for rhythmic energy in the melody, Hindemith was to turn
away from dramatic recitative, inherited from German lyric
drama, and turn toward rhythmic articulation of populär songs.
The rhythmic arrangement of the song, moreover, is similar to
that of the dances to which Stravinsky returns [Example -T-t?].
To insure clarity, further, and to justify the juxtaposition of
chords which are sometimes very remote on the tonal level,
vertical superimpositions of notes often appear as melodically re-
quired. To say it in another way, they are induced by the
counterpoint. Lastly, deciding that the ear can only clearly dis-
tinguish two or three melodic lines simultaneously, Hindemith,
like Bach, gives preference to counterpoint with two real parts
and to a canonic liaison of the two lines.
All the opacity of the massive effects of romantic music dis-
appears, and a transparency, a limpidity prevails that allows the
ear to grasp the inner relations of the chords immediately and
to hear their succession.
With Marienleben, Hindemith had thrown off all trace of
romantic influence. He began to write purely polyphonic music.
He wrote Marienleben in three voices. In the melody he dis-
carded chromaticism in order to Orient it, instead, toward a
modal diatonism. Marienleben shows the determining role of
intervals of seconds and fourths [Example zz£], by which tonal
determinations are avoided. Another marked trait of Hinde­
mith’s style appears in this composition: his melodic curves
are not pure melodies. They have a thematic function. Although
they are strongly defined, they gain full stature only through
polyphonic or harmonic commentary, and the discourse unfolds
through the work of motifs which constitute the themes. This
recalls baroque technique, modernized by the emancipation of
tonality [Example zzp].
Polyphony, thematicism, and the use of motifs—hereafter,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Hindemith mak.es usc of old forms: variations, passacaglias, bassi

ostinati.
If the worth of Marienleben lay only in its splendid style and
the unity of its conception and form, this cycle would be an
impressive work. But along with these exceptional qualities, it
is rcmarkable for great richness of invcntion, nobility of senti-
ment, and delicacy of taste. The music represents a peak not
only in Hindemith’s work but in all Contemporary art as well.
While many of the composer’s works are dynamic, this one is
contemplative, and shows concentration of thought and emotion
in a calm, recollected atmosphere the equal of which it would
be impossible to find. In 1948 he published a definitive Version
of Marienleben in which certain complications, which had
weighed down the polyphony or obscured its clarity, have been
eliminated.
After Marienleben, Hindemith spent some time working with
instrumental music, especially in the form of the concerto, with
or without solo instruments.
In his study devotcd to Hindemith, Heinrich Strobel ex­
presses some sound opinions concerning the concerto type as
the composer sees it. In substance, he says:
The concerto has become the type of composition through which
Hindemith best expresses his dual ideal of polyphony and dynamic
force. It is at the opposite extreme from the sonata. The latter is based
on the duality of two themes that provoke thematic conflicts and
consequently create tensions in the development of the music. The
concerto calls for unopposed allocation of the elements of the musical
play—no conflict, no tension. A single theme is needed to unify the
material. And if there are several themes, they are chosen from the
same schematic type, and have the same import. The nineteenth Century
erred, according to Hindemith, in degrading the concerto by reducing
it to an exercise in uncontrolled virtuosity, and by disfiguring it with
the introduction of Symphonie tensions.
Hindemith utilizes all the possibilities of solo playing for his con-
certos. But even where figuration is richest and most detailed, it is
always incorporated in the thematic organism and is always part of
the polyphonic play.

The conccrtos for piano and cello in the Kammermusik series,

Op. 36, must be considered as preparatory works. The violin
German Music After Richard Strauss
and viola concertos are more mature. In this series, all the instru­
ments of the orchestra are soloists, and the music is truly in
stilo concertante for all the parts. This conception is most beau-
tifully applied in the Concerto for Piano, Brass, and Two Harps,
Op. 49> and Der Schwanendreher, written in 1935.
The Concerto for Orchestra, Op. 38, does not follow suit. This
piece, as well as compositions like Concerto for Strings and Brass,
Op. 50, or the Philharmonie Concerto (Variations for Orehes­
tes), written in 1932, allow some groups to play in concert, thus
taking the role of the concertino in the old concerto grosso; but
the orchestra as a whole is limited to filling the needs of the
movement while avoiding Symphonie tension. This arrangement
of the orchestra and the spirit which it reflects suit the require-
ments of opera as Hindemith conceives it. His idea of musical
theater is like Busoni’s, in that it is opposed to Wagnerian
musical drama and the Subordination of musical construction
to the phrase-by-phrase development of the text. Music must
have an autonomous structure. Richard Strauss feit that need
in Der Rosenkavalier, and partially fulfilled it in Ariadne auf
Naxos. Busoni had been more radical, in a Mozartian sense, in
his Arlecchino. Nonetheless, although he was successful in that
light comedy, he failed in the task of expressing the dramatic
power of his Doktor Faust.
Hindemith’s first opera was Cardillac, a very lively play, whose
drama is actually rather superficial. He takes Handelian opera as
his model because of its solid architecture, and because each
scene is a musical body of homogeneous structure. His second
model is Verdi, who adds to this organic quality the feeling for
broadly conceived melody. The abduction scene in Rigoletto is
an example of dramatic action through the contrast of the sono­
rous material of successive scenes, each scene being treated, more-
over, as an autonomous and cohesive unit. We might also recall
the scene of the council chamber in Simone Boccanegra, and
certainly that conclusive demonstration which is Falstaff.
Hindemith now had at his command the orchestral strength
and substance of his concertos to approach opera music, and he
applied the principles of his compositional methods to Cardillac.
He was not completely successful. Actually, the music is too
dense for the theater. Polyphonic style, excellent for a concert,
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

is too rieh for an opera which lasts a whole evening. The listener
tires under the strain of so much spiritual tension.
The lesson did not go unheeded. Cardillac, written in 1926,
was followed in 1929 by Neues vom Tage, that marvelous Vaude­
ville which provided many an entertaining evening at the Kroll
Oper in Berlin. This great musical comedy, written on a libretto
by Marcellus Schiffer, full of fancy and unbelievable buffoonery,
amused the Germans enormously, and the memory of its success
is interwoven with the memory of those few peaceful years
Germany had before the advent of the Third Reich. This work
translates somewhat feverishly the desire for unfettered gaiety
and the need for carefree laughter of a people whose life rarely
provided time for entertainment. The performances of Neues
vom Tage marked a fleeting moment of respite for the intel-
lectual world of Berlin.
Hindemith’s score is perfect. The music relinquishes none of
its rights, but is exquisitely transparent. All excesses are avoided
with grace, and the voices stand out easily above a polyphony
that develops with a filmy lightness achieved without sacrificing
the solidity of the whole cloth. The music is an uninterrupted
flow, like clear running water. The fantasia is lively and varied,
but never overdone. It is channeled into such a precise ensemble
of forms that it can be reduced to a Schema. As an exarnple,
here is the musical outline of the first act:
scene 1: ABA form.
Interludes on A and B motifs.
scene 2: Scherzo; trio ending on a pedal.
Interlude on the trio.
scene 3: ABA form.
Interlude, divertissement on A of Scene 3.
scene 4: A B C D A: introduction, air, duo, air, re-exposition
of the introduction.
After this luminous fantasia, it remained for Hindemith to
adapt this free and supple language to a serious dramatic piece.
The result was Mathis der Maler (1934). The opera, for which
Hindemith himself wrote the text, was produced at the Zurich
Stadttheater, in 1938. The idea for the opera came to Hindemith
from Matthias Grünewald’s work, the Colmar altarpiece. It is
German Music After Richard Strauss 319
a musical commentary on both the famous triptych and the
drama of the relationship between the artist and the people
in the religious struggle which set Lutherans and Catholics in
opposite camps in the period of the Peasants’ War.
Hindemith’s artistic expression in this score attains radiant
beauty. Everything learned from previous works is utilized here.
Just as Christophe Colomb represents the sum of Milhaud’s
art, so Mathis der Maler contains the most precious stones that
Hindemith has mined, one by one.
Hindemith had now taken the final step. He had converted
the melodic themes of Marienleben into true melodies, which
made the curve of the lines more powerful and intensified the
inner life of his ideas. This last achievement was not effected in
a single stroke. It was the result of the extensive labor Hindemith
devoted to the relationship between the public and music. He
had gained true melodic feeling in writing Frau Musika and
Ein Reiter aus Kurpfaltz and in probing the real sources of
old German folk airs in the aim of re-educating the people. His
research, moreover, provided the inspiration for simple and
vigorous works like Lehrstück and Plöner Musiktag.
In rediscovering the spirit and secret of German Renaissance
and baroque art and adapting them to current trends, Hinde­
mith should be considered the most thoroughly and authentically
German artist of all. If there is a modern artist in harmony
with the genius of his people, it is indeed the composer of
Mathis der Maler. The whole of the opera is as yet little known.
But the symphony Hindemith drew from it includes many of
the most beautiful passages of that admirable score: the Concert
of the Angels and the Death of Mathis are unquestionably sum-
mits of Contemporary art.

Not satisfied with having written so many remarkable works

and having given so much of himself to populär musical culture,
Hindemith took the trouble to set down his views on music in
the two-volume work Unterweisung im Tonsatz (The Craft of
Musical Composition), published in 1937 and 1939. The essential
section of the book is an exposition of his concept of harmony.
His is probably the only explanation which today has a solid
scientific and objective basis, and it is applicable to almost all
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

music—that of the Middle Ages as well as Schoenberg’s, modal

music as well as tonal or the music called atonal.
Hindemith sets forth what in his opinion are the fundamental
characteristics of composition as they are determined by the
nature and Constitution of sounds. Consequently, they are uni-
versally valid because they are free of all considerations foreign
to the nature of sound and the physiological conditions of its
reception by the ear. This precise definition is, moreover, the
only one we need retain if we want to know what was meant by
neue Sachlichkeit in German music of the period 1920-1934.
The author’s point of departure is natural resonance. Natural
overtones through the sixth constitute the perfect chord, which
is in a state of physiological balance. Let us note in passing that
the ear is the only sensory organ which perceives quantitatively.
It measures precisely the relations of wave-lengths. The seventh
overtone (Bb, starting from C) is not included in this chord. The
placement of that note in our musical scale is higher than that
of the natural overtone. This explains why the dominant seventh
chord is not consonant.
To obtain a physically pure scale, the chromatic scale must
be built from the first six overtones alone. If this is done, only
one flaw will be found in that ultratempered scale—the FS and
Gb will still have a difference of one Vibration per second. There
is no need to make a study of divisions smaller than the half-
tone. The chromatic scale is natural because it only includes
natural overtones.
The harmonic system of the eighteenth and nineteenth cen-
turies derives from the use of the major scale and its relative
minor. The actual state of harmony today can no longer be
explained by this system. On the contrary, the adoption of the
chromatic scale is sufficient to explain all types of chordal
agglomerations.
Tones are always related to a fundamental, or root, and it is
impossible to conceive of sonorous aggregates which do not take
the degree of relationship of the sounds into consideration.
(Here Hindemith’s viewpoint is contrary to Schoenberg’s.) These
degrees of relationship are in the very order in which the series
of twelve tones rises from natural resonance. It would be helpful
to refer to the order in which they appear at the bottom of the
German Music After Richard Strauss 32i
table on page 64 of Unterweisung, the degrees of relationship
being more and more remote the farther the sounds are to the
right in this list which the author calls Series 1 [Example 220],
Aside from these degrees of relationship, there is another
phenomenon we should take into account—the combination tones
which occur spontaneously when two tones are sounded simulta-
neously. For example, if a fifth is played (C-G), the C does not,
according to natural resonance, produce the G immediately
above it. But the G does produce the C as a lower harmonic,
which doubles the C actually sounded. This C thus acquires a
sonorous weight physically superior to that of the G. It will
predominate, and will be the root of the fifth.
In the same way, it can be shown that in a fourth, the higher
note acquires-greater weight by doubling, and will be the root.
(These acoustic observations, by the way, explain the inverti-
bility of intervals.)
The octave has no dominant note, the resonance of one
doubling the other. Since the two notes are the same, there is
therefore no need to choose a root. Finally, the tritone has no
root because neither of the two tones is reinforced by natural
resonance. This gives rise to Series 2, as it is shown in Example
121. (The arrows indicate the notes which are reinforced, and
which are thus the roots.)
Let us also say that in each pair of intervals the first is more
sonorous, because it benefits from being doubled by the most
intense combination tone, the intensity being the function of
the remoteness from the natural overtone which doubles the
note actually sounded.
This explanation is scientifically exact for all pairs of intervals
except the combination minor third-major sixth, treated by
analogy.
The result is that of all chords the perfect major chord is
the most sonorous, because it is the most strongly doubled by
combination tones. We can see the importance of these observa­
tions. If a chord of more than four notes contains the notes of
a perfect chord, the latter will predominate physically and will
be more acutely perceived physiologically. As a result, it will
determine the tonality of the chord, the root to which it is
referred.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Tritones, with their combination tones, always give rise to

sevenths. This is why they have a dominant effect.
Examining Series 2 will not allow us to establish a natural
distinction between consonance and dissonance. We pass from
the octave, the perfect interval, to the major seventh, the least
satisfying interval to the ear, by way of a progressive series. The
notion of consonance and dissonance must thus be accepted as a
relative value; one interval will be more or less consonant or
dissonant than another. This is all we can say. As for the tritone,
it is neither dissonant nor consonant. It falls outside the series
of intervals by reason of its neutrality.
The facts established by Series 1 and 2 provide a basis for
propositions regarding a new harmonic system. The accepted
concept of harmony is too narrow because:
1] The principle of the superimposition of thirds is inadequate.
It does not furnish an explanation for chords composed of
other intervals. To speak of unresolved appoggiaturas does
not make sense; for an appoggiatura to exist, it must be
resolved, and if it is not resolved, the chords are consistent
in themselves.
2] The principle of the invertibility of chords is no longer
admissible, without speaking of more complex chords. Most
chords, and above all those which are not produced by super-
imposing thirds, are really not invertible.
3] In the old system, harmony could be enriched by the
alteration of diatonic intervals. Now, all chords based on
alterations can be found in all keys. The explanation
by alterations marks the end of diatonism, and is actually
already in the chromatic domain.
4] The significance of augmented or diminished chords is
ambiguous. These chords are defined only in relation to
those which precede or follow. If a justly tempered scale
were used, these chords would disappear, and only major and
minor chords would remain. All chords must be interpreted
as the ear perceives them, hence, independently of the artifices
of notation.
The bankruptcy of the old harmonic system thus had to be
remedied by formulating new propositions for the definition of
 German Music After Richard Strauss
chords: the superimposition of thirds should no longer be con-
sidered as the point of departure; the principle of the inverti-
bility of chords should be replaced by a broader principle; and
what until now has been the ambiguous significance of certain
chords should be done away with.
Hindemith made a concrete proposal: to create a hierarchy
of chords based on the value of intervals (as established by
Series 2) and measured by degrees of relationship to Series 1,
thus holding in mind that the more to the right in Series 1 a note
occurs, the more remote it is from its root, and that the most
determining intervals fall to the left in Series 2, and the least,
to the right.
Thus, to find the root of a chord, the chord must be broken
down into all the intervals it includes. The lower sound of the
most determining interval is the root, in the case of a fifth, a
third, or a seventh; if the most determining interval contained
in the chord is a fourth, sixth, or second, the upper note of that
interval is the root of the chord. And if the chord contains the
same interval repeated several times, the lowest, therefore the
one jnost doubled by lower overtones, becomes the most
determining.
Every chord has a fundamental note and is subsidiary to a
given key. The more or less exactly determined the key, the
more or less power it has. All chords with a single root are
therefore subject to a real hierarchy according to their own
value. We will not show the author’s elaboration of that hier­
archy in detail here, but will only say that it can be divided into
two large groups of chords: Group A, which contains no tritones;
and Group B, which does, the first group being more determined
than the second. Each group can be subdivided into three sec­
tions: 1] chords without seconds or sevenths; 2] chords with
seconds and sevenths; and 3] chords whose significance is unde-
termined, resulting from superimpositions of the same interval or
predominance of the tritone. In the six groups thus defined, the
determination decreases in the Order Ai, Bi, A2, B2, A3, B3.
This system has the advantage of including all chords without
exception. There are therefore no chords foreign to the key, no
appoggiaturas, and no suspensions. Hence, the art of chordal
agglomerations in a given key consists of making the chords
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

follow each other in a progressive augmentation or diminution

of sonorous power, which is evoked by the greater or lesser tonal
determination of each chord. This is the principle of harmon­
isches Gefälle, a difficult term to translate, “harmonic slope” or
“harmonic efficacy” being only approximate renderings.
To summarize: “While the values of the whole of sonorous
material (in the usual concept of harmony) are definable only
in relation to a pre-established tonal framework, and harmony
as a result has only relative values, we are building a system of
absolute values. Between maximal and minimal sonorous values
of intervals and chords, we recognize a great number of inter-
mediary degrees, each unit of which preserves the same value
under all circumstances.”20 Thus, the harmonisches Gefälle
differs from traditional harmonic progression because only the
absolute value of chords is taken into consideration, and not
the relative values the classic concept of tonality attributes to
them.
The harmonisches Gefälle takes into account the play of ten-
sions, but does not show the direction the harmonic progression
will take. The chord roots must be followed to find the direction
of that progression. (As we have seen, the root is not always
the lowest note of the chord; we are therefore not dealing with
the principle of the figured bass.)
Logically, the passage from one root to another should follow
the degrees of relationship to Series i. Hindemith calls this
progression by degrees Stufengang. Harmonisches Gefälle and
Stufengang therefore become the guiding principles of the
harmonic scheme of a composition. The decisions to be made in
this domain are guided by the melodic Order and by the two-
voice counterpoint, the übergeordnete Zweistimmigkeit, the pri-
mary basis for musical composition. A harmonic architecture
such as this can understandably be used for extensive elabora-
tions, thanks to the clarity of its articulations. The tonic issuing
from a composition, finally, is the Grundton, the most forceful
fundamental and the most often repeated.
The concept of tonality is singularly broadened in this way,
and it is clear that Hindemith’s tonal determinations make the
concepts of atonality and polytonality impossible.
20. Unterweisung im Tonsatz (Mainz: Schott, 1937), I, 129.
German Music After Richard Strauss 325
It is remarkable that if works so disparate as medieval compo-
sitions, music from the classic period, and Schoenberg’s works
are analyzed according to Hindemith’s method, modal, tonal,
and so-called atonal compositions are all subject to the rules set
forth by this method, which highlights the unity of musical
thought regardless of age and aesthetics.
Series 1 and 2, set forth by Hindemith as the basis of his
harmonic structures, are in substance instruments for measuring
tensions and weight. This brings us close to Stravinsky’s sonorous
weights and polar notes.
The new principle of tonality corresponds to facts which are
largely true in music. But it calls forth certain reservations.
It seems to us that the harmonisches Gefälle and Stufen gang
are laws generally observed in thematic music. In such music,
the themes do not exist independently. Polyphony and harmony
carry the energy of the composition. In this case, scrupulous
attention must be paid to harmonic development for it to be
logical, and for the music to be understandable.
But there is another type of music, a type which is favored by
modern Latin composers: melodic music, whose eloquence is
almost exclusively the property of the melody. Harmony is
subordinated to melody and is even often indefinite. This type
of music does not always follow Hindemith’s principles, and it
need not do so, for the sturdiness of its structure is insured by
the precision of the melodic curve.
Also, it is imprecise to say that polytonality cannot exist
because the vertical cut in the musical cloth can be referred to
a root. This may be true in harmonic polytonality, but certainly
not in contrapuntal polytonality. When two melodies in differ­
ent keys are superimposed, the ear can perceive the simultaneous
occurrence of these two keys perfectly, if they are well defined
and if the melodies are sufficiently diatonic.
As for atonality,21 because each aggregation can be referred
to a root by analysis, this is not sufficient reason to deny the
existence of atonality. The tonal base must still be perceptible
to the ear. This is not always possible, especially in the case of
21. In 1940 Hindemith wrote: “He who, in singing, above all with others
or in a quartet, has tasted the subtle charm of harmonies purer than those
allowed by the tempered scale will be convinced that atonal music,„music
which contradicts the principle of natural resonance, cannot exist.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

rapid succession of very complex tonal combinations, for the

ear will receive a clearly atonal auditory impression even if roots
can be determined when analyzed on paper or when the piece
is played slowly. Furthermore, good composers who write atonal
or polytonal music always observe the order of natural resonance.
Taken in its entirety, The Craft of Musical Composition con­
tains the most widely applicable propositions formulated in
many years. It clarifies the meaning and exact place of its
author’s music. The collection of twelve fugues and twelve piano
interludes published by Hindemith under the title Ludus
Tonalis in 1944 illustrated his conception of harmony. Each fugue
is in a specific key, but the notion of a major and minor has
disappeared. The keys of the fugues follow each other according
to the order of their relationship.22 A number of symphonies
and concertos mark Hindemith’s sojoum in America. They add
nothing to the glory of the composer, and are cast somewhat
academically. His best works since 1940 are The Four Tempera­
ments, an attractive suite for piano and string orchestra; a
beautiful Requiem based on a text by Walt Whitman; and the
symphony Harmonie der Welt.
Germany correctly recognized Paul Hindemith as its most
authentic composer, and the Nazi Reich’s repudiation of the
composer was absurd. But before we discuss that event, we
should tum our attention to other musicians who lived in Ger­
many between 1920 and 1934.
Before the National Socialist Party came into power, Germany
was a country in which theatrical activities had developed on a
large scale. The multiplicity of lyric theaters and their degree of
regional interdependence made it possible to stage new works—
which were more warmly welcomed the more experimental they
were—as much from the point of view of the play itself as from
the point of view of its production.
This intense theatrical life gave renown to a number of com­
posers whose success was rather widespread but ephemeral.
Among them are two whose talent is worthy of discussion.
22. On the subject of acoustics and the physiology of hearing, see G. Van
Esbrocck and Fr. Monfort, que jouer juste? (Brussels, 1946), and
Stevens and Davis, Hearing (New York, 1943).
German Music After Richard Strauss ^27

ernst krenek, the Austrian composer, produced his work in

Germany. An intelligent, cultivated, and sensitive artist, he was
interested in the Schoenbergian movement. He had great dra­
matic talent, and was perfectly schooled in musicianship. The
author of several operas, his general theme was the conflict of
two forces, the more tenacious of which would be victorious. His
first opera, Die Zwingburg, produced in 1923, drew wide notice.
It was followed by Orphee and Vie d’Oreste, in which mythology
is transposed into a modern world. But these transpositions have
something artificial and superficial about them which makes the
works rather unpalatable. The most considerable success Kfenek
had was that of his jazz-opera, Johnny Strikes Up, in which the
world of mechanism and jazz is set against the world of Viennese
sentimentality. Its success in Germany was enormous, but in
foreign countries it failed completely. Even in Germany, when
its novelty had faded, the work was forgotten, because people
soon realized its mediocrity. In 1933, Klenek produced Karl V,
a severe and not uninteresting work but one which used the
language of Alban Berg rather less than well. Nothing has
survived of Kfenek’s numerous orchestral works and chamber
music, except perhaps the agreeable Concertino for Flute,
Harpsichord, and Orchestra and a Collection of pretty songs,
Reisebuch aus den Oesterreichischen Alpen. These two works
show a tendency Kfenek should have pursued, namely, a con-
tinuation of the paths Schubert had followed. The memory of his
Johnny alone remains, an example of the hubbub that could
be made in Germany over a theatrical event which, although of
no interest in itself, might provoke endless controversy because
of its pseudo-modernist tendencies. In 1946, Krenek composed
the beautiful Symphonie Elegy in memory of Anton Webern.
This piece gives us hope that this curious and sometimes con-
tradictory talent will produce other interesting works.

The success of kurt weill, composer of The Threepenny Opera

and Mahagonny, had more meaningful causes.
There was enough material in Germany to satisfy enthusiasts
of serious music: they had Hindemith on the one hand and
Schoenberg on the other. But neither of these touched the masses
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

of the people. The German people are music-minded. In Ger-

many, Beethoven and Wagner are played in restaurants and
bars. The moderns had no contact with the people. Hindemith
was concerned about this state of affairs, and took a decisive Step.
He wrote music of quality which could be easily understood and
performed. In so doing, he reached, influenced, and was
responsible for the formation of numerous groups of amateurs.
But unfortunately, this Gebrauchsmusik was too lofty for the
general public. Kurt Weill, treating subjects less elevated than
Frau Musika, was able to attract large circles of listeners. He
wrote skillfully, but he wrote in a way that appealed to the most
uninformed tastes. His music is vulgär, but because of certain
details of composition, lively Orchestration and proper accentua-
tion, it elevates otherwise rather disagreeable musical material.
In choosing John Gay’s famous Beggafs Opera as the subject
for a modernized Version entitled The Threepenny Opera, the
librettist Bertolt Brecht (who also wrote die text for Hinde-
mith’s Lehrstück) sought to democratize the theater. Opera was
Stereotyped: the subjects treated in this art form were far removed
from the interests of the people. What was needed was a prole-
tarian theater. The magnificent Beggav’s Opera was excellent
material for an effort of this sort. This violent play, crude, bitter,
powerful and splendid, dealing with thieves and the underworld,
was very successfully produced at the Kroll Oper. Kurt Weill
wrote a series of fiery and nostalgic songs for the opera which
suited the atmosphere of the play to perfection and which gained
immediate popularity. The dramatic impact of the organ-player’s
lament, Mack the Knife, or the Kanonengesang cannot be denied.
But the music must be viewed in the framework of the perform-
ances for which it was intended. Taken alone, its poverty puts
it on a level with the liackneyed music of cafe concerts. Aside
from this reservation about the intrinsic value of the music in
The Threepenny Opera, the Staging of this epic play, its produc-
tion, and tlic suitableness of the music to the setting make the
work a stunning spectacle.
Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny by the same authors
(1930) was an interesting production, but it did not have the
power of The Threepenny Opera. The form adopted for it is
that of the chronicle, schematically illustrating the mores and
social drama of the twentieth Century. The music is not in the
German Music After Richard Strauss 329
vein of The Threepenny Opera. Nonetheless, Mahagonny was
taken very seriously, because at that time everything that had
to do with social questions caught the public’s ear in Germany.
Anything that sang of despair, anything bitter or disenchanted
gratified the taste of a people who at the limit of their strength
would soon submit passively to tyranny.
Things had reached the point where public opinion no longer
judged a work of art by estimating its real value. It was con-
cerned only with intention and trend, and sensitive only to what
stated—badly or well—its fatigue and disgust. In Johnny Strikes
Up and Weill’s music there was a sort of lethargy (not just a
likeness of lethargy) that partially explains certain reactions whose
effects would be feit with the advent of Nazi dictatorship.

The Moravian alois haba (born in 1893) also participated

in the musical life of Germany. His ideas and works drew
considerable public attention between 1920 and 1930. Häba
advocated a reasonable use of the quarter-tone and also thought
of the third and sixth of a tone as usable intervals. He claimed
that certain complex chords are clearer and more sonorous with
the use of these small intervals, which is justified in part since
natural harmonics, from the seventh on, no longer coincide with
the notes of the tempered scale. It is also true that quarter-tones
introduced into music for string instruments, as well as in vocal
music, produce delicate and often agreeable effects. Häba wrote
his first quartet in the system of quarter-tones in 1921. He not
only dreamed of achieving a harmony more truly in conformity
with natural resonance, but he went further. In Opposition to
the existence of a harmony based on degrees of relationship
between notes, he established the possibility of a harmony based
on the absence of relationship between notes, thus thinking in
terms of an absolutely new world of sound.
Unfortunately, his works themselves, although intelligently
constructed, did not contain sufficient—or, above all, sufficiently
specific—inner life to prove the need for this new world of sound.
But it would be incorrect to conclude that Häba’s ideas should
be passed over. Certain passages in his more recent compositions,
and notably his opera Die Mutter in 1931, unveil perspectives
which indicate that Häba’s theories might be fertile. Häba not
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

only introduces intervals smaller than the semitone (which is a

normal practice in oriental music), but has also set himself to
writing athematic music. The Dutch, he maintains, formed our
musical world. After Dunstable were Dufay, Okeghem, and Jos-
quin des Pres, who outlined and circumscribed our sonorous do-
main in creating polyphony based on imitation. From the stand-
point of form, after Josquin des Pres everything had been said and
done, and music from that time until and including Schoenberg
has been an outgrowth and development of the Dutch poly-
phonists—Schoenberg crowning the monumental edifice of our
Western art by achieving absolute mastery in working with the
twelve semitones. To go further, aside from mastering smaller
intervals, one would have to create music which no longer pro-
ceeded by imitation. An art form has been established in which
invention is reduced to the creation of a thematic cell. Develop­
ment is entirely arithmetical and technical. A type of music was
needed in which melodic invention would be sustained from the
first to the last note, and in which polyphony would be en-
gendered not by an idea and its imitation but by the superimpo-
sition of radically different ideas.
The problem is whether this creative flow is really possible
and, if so, whether a listener would be able to follow and grasp
the movement.
These are difficult questions, and these theories which in them-
selves are not lacking in logic or truth need to be organized and
illustrated in convincing works. To quote Häba:
Compared with the thematic method, which offers the composer
numerous technical devices (repetitions, transpositions, inversions, var-
iations) for economizing on invention, and which puts the elements
of construction to work and thus makes the composition of great musical
forms possible, the athematic method is the most difficult imaginable,
lacking as it is in all these auxiliary techniques. In using this method,
invention is needed as much as is music. Or, conversely, music appears
only where there is invention, and there is no technique of composition
except where there are musical ideas. On the contrary, in the thematic
method, creation plays a minimal role, while illustration of an idea
with technical devices is developed to the maximum. This has been the
state of music in Europe since the fourteenth Century. Anyone can test
this fundamental difference between these two methods. He need
German Music After Richard Strauss w
simply think up a single-measure motif and repeat or transpose it six
times; and then try to find six different single-measure motifs which
can be so arranged as to form a melodic whole. The first method is a
good deal easier than the second. In a polyphonic piece, the differences
are much more apparent.23

Until now, only certain passages of the opera Die Mutter give
any proof that Häba’s ideal is not an impossible dream and that
the perpetual exercise of invention, freed from the play of forms,
might be the point of departure for a deeply expressive art form.
The theory of making asymmetry and non-imitation predomi-
nate is, moreover, not new. It carries on in the line of Busoni’s
reflections on the absolute creative spirit.
For general interest, the orchestra ensemble for Die Mutter
includes a double string quartet, a double-bass, two clarinets in
quarter-tone, two trumpets in quarter-tone (equipped with a
fourth valve), two slide trombones, a piano in quarter-tone (two
keyboards, one of which is tuned a quarter-tone higher than the
other), a liarmonium in quarter-tone, two harps (one of which is
tuned a quarter-tone higher than the other), and percussion.

There was once a Piscator theater in Berlin, the Kroll Oper,

where Neues vom Tage, The Threepenny Opera, or Leo§ Janä-
Cek’s last opera were performed; there was a time when the Unter
den Linden Opera House produced Milhaud’s Christophe
Colomb, when Habä’s Die Mutter was staged in Munich, and
when all the theaters in Germany played Alban Berg’s Wozzeck,
23. “Im Vergleich mit dem thematischen Musikstil, der den Komponisten
viele technische Hilfsmittel (Wiederholung, Transposition, Umkehrung, Var­
iation) zur Schonung der Erfindungs-und Gestaltungskräfte bietet und das
Schaffen grosser Musikformen dadurch fordert, ist der unthematische Mu-
sikstil der denkbar unbequemste Stil, ohne alle technischen Förderungsmittel.
Es muss in diesem Stil soviel primäre Erfindung da sein, wieviel Musik man
haben will, oder umgekehrt, es ist nur soviel Musik da, wieviel primäre
Erfindung da ist: Und es ist nur soviel Kompositionstechnik da, wieviel
musikalische Gedanken da sind. Dagegen repräsentieren die musikalischen
Gedanken im thematischen Stil das Minimum und ihre technische Verwertung
das Maximum. Das Intellektuelle hat Oberhand über das Erfinderische. Es
ist in der europäischen Musik seit dem 14. Jahrhundert so. Diese grundsätz­
lichen Stilunterschiede kann jeder selbst erproben, wenn er z. B. ein eintak-
tiees Motiv erfindet und es sechsmal wiederholt, oder transponiert und.
dagegen dann versucht, sechs neue eintaktige Motive nacheinander so zu
erfinden, dass sie eine sechstaktige melodische Einheit .bM.e\D.ere™fn
Vorgang ist bedeutend leichter als der zweite unthematische. Im polyphonen
Satz sind die Unterschiede noch grösser." (Anbruch, XIII/4.)
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

In 1934, the intellectual life and the corresponding intense

musical vitality were swept away by National Socialist dictator-
ship. Overnight, modern art lost its freedom. Stravinsky, Hinde­
mith, Schoenberg, Milhaud, Berg, and Bartok were banished or
silenced, some because they were Jewish, others because their art
“did not suit the German people” and reflected a “kultur­
bolschewistisch” aesthetic.
Actually, the people did not take part in aesthetic quarrels.
The moralists and art theorists of the new Reich camouflaged
an offensive, led by a mass of mediocre musicians, against men of
value, with high-sounding objective phrases. Under the wing of
Nazism, mediocre artists campaigned to win stature and obtain
positions in conservatories, theaters, and concert societies. The
most purely German of the composers, Paul Hindemith, was
accused of Bolshevism and left Germany.
A torrent of absurdities was spouted by newspapers and the
radio. The tritest slogans and the most obvious errors were
broadcast with a voice of categoric authority that brooked no
retort under pain of a sojourn in a concentration camp. Without
describing in detail the campaign of false propaganda which was
to reach a climax during World War II, we will set down a
number of catchwords as they were hawked by one of the spokes-
men authorized by the Hitler regime. In an exposition on “The
Current Situation of German Music,“ Fritz Stege wrote in 1938:
The life of music in Germany today is diflicult to understand unless
it is considered from the viewpoint formed by combining and unifying
the three concepts people, State, art. For a State without its people
or a people without their art are as inconceivable as an art existing for
itself alone and unable to rise to expressing the thought of the people.
For is not the State, which incorporates the will of a people, their
emotions and interests, an organism whose harmonious composition
unites with the work of art? . . .

This State which incorporates the will of a people, by crema-

tion and vivisection, by extermination of all Opposition—this
state-work-of-art—we will not dignify with a discussion of its
empty phraseology. Instead, let us continue with this edifying
lecture:
German Music After Richard Strauss 333
An intellectual and spiritual reaction necessarily followed the postwar
period in the domain of art, for all exaggeration leads inevitably to an
aesthetic reaction. It would be entirely false to say that this reaction
was brought about by violence [!]; no, it was enough to open the eyes
of the people, it was enough to point out the errors that had enslaved
them. If Negro jazz is defended, if the enemies of the people compose
intellectual music devoid of soul and heart, without finding an audience
in Germany, these decisions are not arbitrary. . . . What would have
happened if the aesthetic evolution of German music had continued in
the direction of the postwar years? The people would have lost all
contact with art. They would have become spiritually rootless, the more
so as they found less and less satisfaction in a degenerate and intel­
lectual music better for reading than for listening. The abyss between
the people and art was becoming unbridgeable. The theaters and
concert halls \yould have remained empty, and the composers, who were
working in a direction opposed to the soul of the people, would have
ended with only themselves for an audience, provided, of course, that
they were still able to understand their own lucubrations. . . .

Finally, a little sincerity shines through:

Germany can take pride in the fact that she Stands among the most
musical nations. The number of harmonica and accordion players,
harmonica ensembles, groups of guitar players, amateurs and enthusiasts
of orchestral and especially choral music can be counted in the hun-
dreds of thousands.

This is true. In this the restrictions placed on musical activity

under the Nazi regime are exactly like those imposed in Soviet
Russia. And here we find the accordion as the symbol of
musical taste of the high priests presiding over the artistic
destiny of great peoples.
Obviously, to force music to stoop to the level of the accordion,
one must have “an Organization that guides the movement with
a sure hand.” This was the Reichsmusikkammer, to which all
musicians, including amateurs, belonged. This music council,
under the direction of Professor Doktor Peter Raabe, had the
cultural responsibility of “official music,” which was the only
music left, of course. Finally, let us turn admiring eyes on this
masterpiece of insidious perfidy:
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Let us not compare this council with a judicial authority which would
dictate to art with prohibitions and condemnations. It gives art free
rein, but supervises the way in which artistic production is handled.

We will pass over the horrors these honeyed words cover—they

are only too well known—and see the results.
After Hindemith’s departure, and after silence had been im-
posed on modern art, new composers sprang up to whom the
Reich gave complete freedom in execution, state publicity, and
public honors.

werner egk became in a way the official musician of the Third

Reich. In 1935 Die Zaubergeige appeared, an opera conceived
in exemplary bad taste. A series of Tyrolean airs and rosalias
lead music that caters to the lowest public desires—platitude and
vulgarity. Egk was not, however, totally lacking in talent. Natur,
Liebe und Tod (1937), a cantata for bass voice and solo Instru­
ments, has a true lyric value similar to that which characterizes
the music of the Frenchman Henri Sauguet. It can be said that
since 1944 Egk has found in freedom sincere and undeniable
qualities.
The opera Peer Gynt of 1938 is superior to Die Zaubergeige.
But the listener feels neither the dramatist’s nor the musician’s
touch. The opera is simply a good libretto with facile music
adapted to it. It is totally undemanding. Everything in this score
is superficial. The harmonic language is French, but heterogene-
ous, and ends in cadences of wearisome banality. Imagine a
compromise between Massenet and the music of a Bavarian
tavern, and you will have an idea of the atmosphere of Peer
Gynt.
In 1940, Egk wrote a ballet with choruses, Johann von Zarissa,
with which the Germans hoped to delight Parisians. The per-
formances at the Paris Opera were a failure because of the in-
difference of the public. Compared with previous scores, the
ballet had greatcr distinction. It was graced with a rhythmic
clarity that seemed French and prestos which (I shudder to say)
were thought to reflect Auric or Milhaud. But the melodic in-
ventions were indeed feeble, as was the harmony which, hesi-
tantly, followed Poulenc’s from afar.
German Music After Richard Strauss 335
Here, then, was the official German composer, completely de-
pendent on French music. This was what was called “being in
harmony with the soul of the German people.”
Other young composers, like Cesar Bresgen, turned their at-
tention to old German songs and treated them as did Hinde­
mith, but in a naive and rudimentary way. The master exiled,
the apprentice is welcomed.
Despite everything, there were musicians who, although not
officially proteges, were nonetheless not “cast out of the heart
of the country,” and who had more talent and taste than did
Werner Egk.

Hermann reutter attracted notice around 1933 with an ora­

torio for solo voices, choruses, children’s choruses, orchestra and
organ, Der grosse Kalender, The composer had thrown off all
the pretentiousness of romanticism. He was more interested in
melody than theme, and seemed to have rediscovered folk feel­
ing, in the best sense of the words. The oratorio has passages of
lovely freshness. Unfortunately, with the change of regime came
the pursuit of mediocrity. Reutter’s Doktor Johannes Faust,
written in 1936, had not even the honest simplicity of Der grosse
Kalender, and rivaled Werner Egk’s operas for honors in vul-
garity. The Odysseus of 1942 is more serious. But as with all
German music since 1934, it has absolutely no individual charac-
ter. Fear of individuality was so intense that composers did not
dare modulate, for passing from one key to another would lead
to chromaticism and personal expression. This was the extreme
to which the servile attitude of composers who had adopted the
Nazi regime had led. The true decadent music of the twentieth
Century is of their making.

The only interesting figure among young German musicians

who continued to work under the Nazi regime is carl orff. This
intelligent artist holds a place apart. He owes nothing to either
romanticism or Hindemith. In his three remarkable scenic
works, Carmina Burana (1936), Der Mond (1939), and Catulli
Carmina (1943), Orff utilizes the primary active forces of the
world of sound. He uses musical elements in their virgin state,
calling on their physiological and magical effect, and not allow-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

ing a preoccupation with construction to come between the

music and the receiving ear. Here is a language incorporating
persistent rhythms, pure sonorities, untiring repetitions, and
rhythmic psalmody. Orff works with pure melody, melody exist-
ing with its own life independently of harmonic support, and
consequently seeks diversity in his use of keys and choice of
scales. Like Stravinsky, he limits tonality to the attraction toward
a polar note.
Each of Carl Orff’s works was brought into being with special
regard for style in the choice of melodies. The ballet-opera
Carmina Burana is a tableau of the Middle Ages based on poems
discovered in the Abbey of Beuron. The rhythmic strength and
choral power of the score are incontestable. The work can be
criticized for the obvious influence of Stravinsky. Der Mond is
likewise a work for voices, a sort of small Welttheater with
charming text. The score reflects German folk and peasant art,
but it is less eloquent than Carmina Burana.
Orff’s most unusual work is Catulli Carmina, a ballet with
music based on love poems by Catullus, sung in Latin. The ex-
terior wings, where the chorus is supported by four pianos and
percussion as in Stravinsky’s Noces, frame a series of scenes sung
a cappella in modal style, sometimes in unison and sometimes
in a succession of perfect chords which fill the ear with con-
sonant sound in a steady but pulsing rhythm. From time to time
a dissonance is struck which, because it appears so suddenly and
unexpectedly, causes a moment of violent tension. In the pro-
gression of the bass voices, Milhaud’s influence is noticeable.
Catulli Carmina is in the trend toward contact with the people,
and is an exaggeratedly sensual work.
The musical politics of the Third Reich ended by distinctly
lowering the quality of works produced. This was foreseeable,
for art demands absolute freedom of movement. The Reich
authorized the publication of music of secondary importance,
whose origins can be found in Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Mil­
haud. All the ideas on which Nazi politics of music were based
proved unworkable.

It should be noted that during the Nazi dictatorship young

independent German composers probably worked in silence.
German Music After Richard Strauss yyj
One of them had already come into prominence: Karl Amadeus
Hartmann, whose symphony Miserae drew notice in 1935. This
composer was especially intent on writing of the sufferings of
the German soul under the oppression of the dictatorial will
that suppressed self-expression. Hartmann depicted this drama
in his remarkable chamber-opera, Des Simplicius Simplicissimus
Jugend (1935), a work which could not be performed until
1945. A severe and proud musician, he has composed six impor­
tant symphonies since the end of the war. They are somewhat
heavy but infused with a moving dramatic spirit.

Following in the tradition of Reger and Hindemith, and

showing Schoenberg’s influence to a greater or lesser degree, are
the young Germans Bernd Alois Zimmermann and Hans Wer­
ner Henze. Two works by Henze have drawn public notice:
Boulevard Solitude and König Hirsch.
Since 1948, the life of music in West Germany has taken on
new vigor, thanks to the energetic activities of radio stations,
which reserve an important part of their programing for current
international works.
 IO

NATIONALEM AND ECLECTICISM

we have reviewed the outstanding events in Contemporary mu­

sic in Germany, Austria, France, and Russia. We have tried to
throw light on the talent and work of some of the great compos­
ers. Generally speaking, these composers have followed traditions
and developed or restated techniques established through the
centuries. They have gone beyond individualism and particular-
ism. We can no longer say that Schoenberg’s music is German,
Stravinsky’s is Russian, or Milhaud’s is French. Their music is
the expression of various aspects of European thought. Na­
tionalist feeling has disappeared.
There are other eminent composers in whom the nationalist
outlook is still predominant. Some are citizens of countries in
which musical culture has long been under the influence of
neighboring cultures, while others come from countries where
musical culture is still in formation.
Thus the Czechs, wanting to throw off Germanic tutelage,
have given us, after Smetana and Dvoläk, a composer like Leos
Janäcek. The Hungarians, sandwiched between Germanic and
Slavic peoples, are creating their own culture as well, with Bela
Bartök and Zoltän Kodäly forging that country’s liberation.
Spain, long dominated by Italian traditions, became progres-
sively independent. Manuel de Falla is the successor of Felipe
Pedrell and Isaac Albeniz.
In the Americas, composers expressed the need to throw off
the traditions imported from Europe. Among them are William
Grant Still in the United States, Heitor Villa-Lobos in Brazil,
and Carlos Chavez in Mexico.
This movement toward independence is based on the study
and application of folklore and the observation of indigenous
music. This method was advocated in Europe in the nineteenth
Nationalism and Ecledicism
Century, and is still applied by composers in Russia today. But
there is a great difference in the way the nineteenth Century
regarded folklore and the way it is used by Contemporary com­
posers such as those we have just mentioned.
Düring the romantic period, folk songs were considered ele-
ments of local color. They were used as points of reference, but
were deprived of organic function. In Md Vlast, Smetana bends
populär songs to the rhythmic requirements of a music which,
in itself, is not unusual in character, and resembles in structure
numerous Symphonie poems composed in other countries.
Dvofäk’s New World Symphony, which draws on American folk
songs, is in no way specifically American.
The generations following the pioneers of national independ-
ence have a different concept of folk music. They attempt to
pick out what is authentic, what has remained pure. Their first
task is to organize the body of folklore of their country in order
to unveil the secrets of the specific sensitivity and expression of
their race. They then set out to study melodic and rhythmic
structures, accents and modes, and the peculiarities of a polyph-
ony which, although often rudimentary, has nonetheless a
marked character.
This absorption has often been confirmed by the composers
themselves. When he was organizing the cante jondo competi-
tion in Granada in 1922, Manuel de Falla wrote:
Our aim has been not only to stimulate a renaissance of these ad-
mirable songs, but to purify them musically and elevate them morally. ...
The song of the past, solemn and religious in nature, has degenerated
into that ridiculous flamencoism of today in which the essential ele-
ments, those that comprise its glory and justify its Claim to nobility,
have been adulterated and modernized. Sober vocal modulation—the
natural inflections of song developed by the division and subdivision
of the notes of the scale—has been transformed into an ornamental
and artificial motif, closer to the decadence of the bad period of Italian
art than to the primitive oriental songs, which ours can be compared
with only if they are pure. The Ümits of the reduced melodic inter-
vals in which these songs unfold have been ineptly extended. The
modal wealth of their ancient scales has been replaced by the tonal
poverty that comes from preponderant use of the two unique modern
scales, those scales which have monopolized European music for more
A H1STORY OF MODERN MUSIC

than two centuries. Lastly, the phrasing, in an ungraceful ineter, has

lost the rhythmic flexibility that was one of its most beautiful traits.

Again, Felipe Pedrell writes in his Cancionero Musical Espa-

nol: “The musical orientalism that persists in various Spanish
folk songs is deeply rooted in our nation because of the influence
of the ancient Byzantine civilization. This is reflected in the
formulae of the rites used by the Spanish church from the
conversion of our country to Christianity until the eleventh
Century, after which Roman liturgy properly speaking was intro-
duced.” The goal, then, was to rediscover ethnic characteristics in
their pure state as means of natural expression, and to restore
to music the richness and freedom that were lost as a result
of the restrictions imposed by classical art. The latter is an aim
common to all twentieth-century creative musicians, however
different they may be in other respects.
In Spain, Pedrell was the precursor of the nationalist move­
ment. Albeniz and De Falla were its most important agents. In
Central Europe, the Czech Leos Janäfek was the first to test
with exactness the scope of an extensive tapping of folk-art
sources. He also found in folk music the means of freeing him­
self from major-minor duality, of escaping from tonality to regain
modal and rhythmic suppleness. But the Hungarians Zoltän
Kodäly and Bela Bartok were the ones who refined the methods
of investigating folk song, and Bartok was to pursue these in-
vestigations to their ultimate conclusions. De Falla’s observations
on the cante jondo are echoed in comments by Bartok on Balkan
songs, Villa-Lobos on the songs of Brazilian Indians, and Chävez
on Mexican song. The aim is the same everywhere: to establish
characteristic expression, and to free musical language through
the use of an ethnically pure inheritance.

Of all the precursors, leos janäcek is the only one who was
composing during the period we are interested in (Janäcek died
in 1928). His first important work, the opera Jenufa, was com-
pleted in 1903. The opera was a great and durable success in
all the countries of Central Europe, but strangely enough, it is
almost completely unknown in Western Europe. The music is
both gracefully and vigorously animated. Melodies unroll rap-
Nationalism and Eclecticism 341
idly with continuous movement. The music flows like water,
avoids tonal certainty and leading notes which might determine
it, and repeatedly takes flight in modal changes, in sudden and
unprepared modulations. The progression of chords is perfectly
free, and recognizes only laws of natural resonance as valid
guides for directing interchordal relationships. There is just
enough counterpoint in the music to create movement. But
there is no elaboration at all. Janäcek captured what was most
valuable in folk song—its compactness, its spontaneity, its per-
petual flow. Katya Kabanova (1921), less well known than
Jenufa, has similar qualities. In 1923 Janääek finished The Alert
Fox, a very peculiar piece, part fairy tale, part comedy, which
abounds with rhythmic and orchestral gems, but whose too-
complicated-general plan destroys the unity of the music. In
1927 he wrote his last dramatic work, The House of the Dead,
based on Dostoevsky’s novel.
As he grew older, Janäcek became more and more original and
individualistic. The House of the Dead is more narrative than
dramatic in character. It is a powerful, brutal work. The or­
chestra concentrates- on the bass and high registers, leaving a
kind of void in the middle section, a device which sometimes
produces impressive effects. One of the works in which Janäöek
expresses himself the most fully is a great song-cycle, Diary of
One Who Vanished (1916), based on a poem by an unknown
author. It is the story of a young peasant who abandons all he
holds dear—his parents, his farm, his country—to follow a gypsy
who has captivated him. Written for tenor, three contraltos, and
piano, it is very rieh in invention, and transposes folk song to an
idealized plane.
We should also mention the lovely, childlike songs, Rikadla;
a remarkable series of choral works; and a fine quintet for wind
instruments. The music of these pieces is stränge and persuasive,
and totally free. Its simplicity is the result of the deliberate and
progressive discarding of inessentials. Equally personal and re-
mote from stereotypes, and owing nothing to outside influence,
is the Sinfonietta, for full orchestra (1926), which requires no
less than twelve trumpets. Each of the five movements of this
work is written with different Orchestration. The work is clear,
light, and joyful. It is impossible to describe this music. Its
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

thought and style carry us into an entirely new and different

world. It is luminous music, stränge without being hostile, and
as fresh as a story told by a child. A child’s words only suggest
the marvelous things he sees in his story. They are simple and
inadequate words, but the way the child says them teils us more
than if he were to state his thought more precisely. There is
something analogous in this exceptional Sinfonietta [Example
122].
Progressively, instinctively, and without design, Janäcek frees
himself from everything that could be learned. His Sinfonietta
evolves in an atmosphere freed of all influences, and his imagi-
nation moves in a zone which other musicians have not pene-
trated.
Janäcek’s last work is the very important Glagolitic Mass, for
mixed chorus, soloists, orchestra, and organ (1928). “Clearing
the slate,” says Daniel Muller, “of all known traditions about
masses, and reaching back beyond the classic period, the Renais­
sance, and the Middle Ages to early Slavonic liturgy, he has
written a mass which is a mass in name only, which we can
already see is pagan by the pure joy it expresses, and in which
an almost completely secular mood dominates throughout. . . .
He has dared to sing of a humanity which will have broken all
its chains, which will have become ideally free, to extol in
equally free music the dawn of a society transformed.” Begin-
ning with folk song as a source of new spirit, Janäcek goes be­
yond the nationalism in his last works and achieves complete
originality.

In Hungary, the transition from the romantic concept of na­

tionalism and the modern concept was brought about by Ernö
Dohnänyi, born in Pozsony in 1877. This composer sought the
secret of form in the works of Brahms. His construction, how-
ever, is somewhat unsure, and his works lack conciseness. Doh­
nänyi is more at ease in composing pieces in rhapsodic form,
like Ruralia Hungarica for violin and orchestra, one of his
most typical works. The structure comes from the very nature
of populär songs, which no longer seem like picturesque de-
scriptions. In addition, the violin composition is directly inspired
by traditional Hungarian technique and the sense of color for
 Nationalism and Eclecticism
343
which extemporaneous Hungarian virtuosos have a gift.

Around 1910, bela bartok (born in Nagyszentmiklos in 1881)

and zoltan kodäly (born in Kecskemet in 1882) undertook to
advance the evolution of Hungarian music in the direction in-
dicated by Dolinänyi. They took a more radical stand in order
to arrive at the very roots of folk inspiration.
Actually, what was known by the name Hungarian music
was for the most part the art of the gypsy. The gypsies had ab-
sorbed the authentic peasant music of Hungary and the Balkan
countries, had transformed it, and above all had degraded it by
standardizing the modes and destroying rhythmic accentuations.
The result was the famous so-called Hungarian key (A, B, C,
D#, E, F, G#, A), the melodic framework lacking up-beat, and
an unvaried tonality in binary rhythm alternating with imper-
fect cadences. Authentic peasant music had to be found beneath
this mutilation. This was a long work, and one of scientific
nature. Bartok and Kodäly therefore visited the peoples of the
Balkans—Hungarians, Slovaks, Bulgarians, Romanians, Ukrain-
ians—armed with good recording instruments. They took down
thousands of songs, which they classified in logical order. They
were ultimately able to discern the specific characteristics in the
music of each people and to isolate typical melodic patterns.
They came to understand the play of various modes and rhythms
and their expressive and architectural roles.
Having analyzed the complex of Balkan music into its distinct
elements, the two composers took these elements as the founda-
tion for the construction of a musical language entirely free of
foreign traits. The first attempt they made in the direction of a
thoroughly Hungarian art was to create harmony for folk melo-
dies in conformity with the spirit of the melodies, that is, in
drawing from the melodies the harmonic and rhythmic material
suitable to them. Two important collections grew from this
effort: Kodäly’s Zongora Musika and Bartok’s Ten Easy Pieces
for Piano (1908). The two collections can be considered as the
starting point of Hungarian music liberated from outside in-
fluences. Sustained and encouraged by Debussy’s example, the
young Hungarians were not afraid to break with the practices
and rules of traditional counterpoint and harmony and to take
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

their inspiration from indigenous folk usages. In Kodäly’s

Zongora Musika progressions which are parallel at the fourth
can be heard, while in Bartok there appears a harmony taken
from the modes in which the melody moves [Example 123]-
Thenceforth, the characteristic qualities of new Hungarian
music were established and the independence of its development
was assured. The personalities of the two composers would here-
after evolve according to the temperament of each.
Kodäly, inclined to sweetness, gentleness, and joy, was to write
music for Hungary comparable to the art which Debussy and
Ravel practiced in the framework of French music—a balanced,
sensuous, happy expression, avoiding drama to engage in the
play of light and shadow. His brilliant and captivating works,
orchestrated with cultivated taste, quickly became populär. Out­
standing are two dance suites, Galänta Dances and Marosszek
Dances, and a very important stage work (later developed into
an opera) on a play by Bela Paulini and Zsolt Harsänyi tracing
the adventures of Hary Jänos, Op. 15. This is a large score with
lovely songs, choruses of folk music, and orchestral passages en-
livened with joyful and delightful fantasy. In the same period,
Kodäly presented his beautiful Psalmus Hungaricus for orches­
tra, chorus, and tenor solo, Op. 13, a magnificent work which is
considered to be his masterpiece. The opera Szekler Spinnstube
followed later. It is a work more noted for its surge of folk
lyricism than for its dramatic qualities, which are not remark-
able.
A clearly defined message comes across in Kodäly’s three main
works, Hary Jänos, Psalmus Hungaricus, and Szekler Spinnstube.
Hary Jänos portrays the adventures of a poor, ridiculous brag-
gart whose lies are constantly exposed by reality. Nonetheless,
he is a hero in his own way. Hary Jänos is a poet. He invents
his exploits because this alfords him the means to escape the
mediocrity of his daily life. He, a common man, aspires to some-
thing noble and great. Unable to achieve his aspirations, he
dreams. Szekler Spinnstube describes the miserable existence of
the peasant and his desire for a fuller and broader life. In the
end, the walls of the room disappear, and the song of the peo­
ple rises in the heart of all nature.
Starting with either comedy or tragedy, Kodäly develops, am-
Nationalism and Eclecticism
plifies, enlarges the subject to the point where he moves into
the realm of luminous poetry, freed from material bonds.
Psalmus Hiingariciis, the song of anguish of a people who have
suffered terribly in the apocalyptic march of history across Eu­
rope, is as well a cry for grandeur, for the light of human truth
and beauty. As his point of departure, Kodäly chose the heart
of the Hungarian peasant, and has magnified it to universal
proportions.
Bela Bartök’s approach is different. Bartok also started with
the particular sensitivity of the folk idiom and ended by achiev-
ing universality, but he used individual expression as his means.
This is one reason why he is frequently compared with Bee­
thoven, a comparison which, moreover, is justified by the power
of some of his compositions.
From Bartök’s many works, we should single out his piano
compositions, harmonized folk tunes, and chamber and concert
works. Most of the songs and piano compositions are treated
with a technique adapted to the spirit of folk song.
Like his friend Kodäly, Bartok was guided by Debussy’s atti-
tudes in the field of harmony. Bartok, however, led by an ex-
pressionistic instinct which Kodäly did not have, sought out the
elements of language which were the most detached from the
hold of tonality, and a rhythmic method which would free his
music from the bar-measure System. This is why he was inter-
ested in Stravinsky, whose rieh metric System he adapted for his
own use. For the same reasons, he studied Schoenberg’s polyph-
ony closely. What attracted his interest was the contrapuntal
progression which is not concerned with harmony.
But Bartok adopted neither atonality nor the twelve-tone Sys­
tem. From Schoenberg he took the suppleness of thematic inver-
sions and reversals (the cancrizans technique) and the motif
work, adapting this technique to the use of modal scales. All
Bartök’s originality in technique originates in these specific
elements, which have been discussed previously and need not be
taken up again. It suffices to remark that although Bartok does
not follow Schoenberg’s twelve-tone technique, he nonetheless
achieves the liberal spirit of the twelve tones by using various
ancient modes simultaneously, either by superimposition in bi-
modality or by fusion or interpenetration of different modes.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

In this way, the twelve tones are always verified, but the clear
impression of the presence of modes prevents the disappearance
of the notion of tonality. Tonality is broadened, relationships
become more free, but the backbone of the tonal principle is
retained—the tonic-dominant relationship, including the caden-
tial function of the dominant. Here is another point, for those
who want to view Bartok’s work more closely. Before 1926, his
language was mostly homophonic, with interest centered on har­
mony. Later, it became more and more polyphonic. A sort of
analytic panorama of Bartok’s technique of composition can be
found in the important didactic work he wrote between 1926
and 1937, Mikrokosmos, which includes a hundred and fifty-
three piano pieces in six books. The pieces are written to be
increasingly difficult instrumentally, and are very useful in ac-
customing a young pianist to all the intricacies and techniques
of the composer’s writing and style. In this large work there
are some beautiful pieces, like Ostinato, Diary of a Fly, and Six
Dances on Bulgarian Rhythms.
Among his other piano works, the most noteworthy are the
Sonata (1926) which has a certain intensity, but whose three
movements are somewhat weakly connected; and the suite Out
of Doots, which contains a flaw often encountered in Bartok’s
work: abuse of the play of sonorities, which sometimes reduces
his music to a shower of sound, something he is even more guilty
of than the impressionists.
Foremost among the numerous collections of folk songs are
the Twenty Hungarian Folk Songs, written in 1929, for solo
voice and piano; and Village Scenes, written in 1924, for female
voices and chamber orchestra.
Of Bartok’s orchestral works, the pantomime The Miraculous
Mandarin Stands out. It is a dazzling piece, but its rhythm is
sometimes too close to Stravinsky for the work to be entirely
original. The best orchestral works are unquestionably the Con­
certo No. 2 for Piano and Orchestra and the Concerto for Violin
and Orchestra. The latter work especially, written in 1937-
1938, has the unity Bartok strived for over many years and
which he rarely achieved. The concerto is really a symphony in
which the violin is simply one of the necessary components.
The part of the violin is treated in the spirit of Hungarian
Nationalism and Ecleclicism
347
virtuosity, and at the same time Bartok avoids extraneous effects.
The orchestra, arranged with balance, leaves to the violin the re-
sponsibtlity of exposing the ideas, which are captivating and
illuminated with inner life. This moving concerto, with Berg’s
the most beautiful written since Beethoven and Brahms, crowns
Bartök’s achievements. It incorporates all the composer could
express in the field of chamber music-a field in which Bartok
reached the height of his genius. The brilliant Concerto for
Orchestra was written in 1943« Its qualities have won it well-
deserved international acclaim. The Cantata Profana (1930)
merits attention. It is one of his best compositions and partic-
ularly significant because the material treats of ancient myths:
subject matter, poetry, and music form a homogeneous entity.
Bartök’s chamber music consists of a monumental collection
of works which should be placed among the most splendid of
this Century. It includes two Sonatas for Violin and Piano (1921
and 1922); six String Quartets (1908, 1915-1917, 1927, 1928, 1934,
1939); Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta (1936); a Sonata
for Two Pianos and Percussion (1937); the suite Contrasts for
Piano, Violin, and Clarinet (1938); Sonata for Unaccompanied
Violin (1944); and 44 Duos for Two Violins.
All the piano works and harmonizations of folk songs would
seem to have been preparatory exercises for the composition of
chamber music. Only in the latter does Bartök trust himself to us
entirely and teil us what he has to disclose. For there is a dis-
closure. He reveals something of the human soul, as does Beetho­
ven in his sonatas and quartets.
Bartök’s expressionism, as shown in his quartets, has been
carefully studied by Denijs Dille. Among other things, this
commentator says:
The expressionist is usually a man of impulse or a thinker, often
possessing these two characteristics simultaneously. The Impressionist
is a sensitive dreamer. His sensitivity is passive and receptive. It records
sensations. The expressionist’s sensitivity is active. It organizes and
creates. The expressionist chooses as his subject a fact, a cause, a
Situation, an impression, and communicates the effect it has had on his
own soul. For him, everything is a psychological question in which the
will-factor is determinative—the will to express, the will to communicate.
While impressionism faithfully respects the Sensation and is concerned
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

with individual particularity, expressionism tends to re-create situ-

ations and insights according to the Order of intensity; it runs the
gamut between individualism and impersonalism, and moves between
the opposite poles of the fantastic and the catastrophic. Impressionism
remains faithful to sonorous beauty, the ideal of romanticism, and to
sensual enchantment. Expressionism uses sound brutally, and violates
it. Here again are the two opposed positions: extreme tension is as
often sought in a kind of explosion of the sonorous structure as in an
elliptical impoverishment and seemingly impassive linear construction.
From the fantastic to the catastrophic, from explosion to ellipsis—
I could not describe Bartdk’s feelings and technique better. Where the
individual element prevails, we find the disconcerted attitude of an
unconsolable soul and exasperated sensitivity. We stare into an abyss
of desolation, but we also find moments of serene contemplation, and
are stirred by the breath of idealism. How fully and with what self-
mastery this is expressed! There is so little—besides the nervous writing
—to show what is happening behind the notes. And it is this that some-
times creates a misconception about the breadth of his art. I believe I
have found the thinker intervening here who weighs and seeks the
balance of everything—a habit which I think is part of the character of the
peasant, who suffers in silence. There is no instance of grandiloquence
in Bartok’s music. In the period in which his expressionism seemed to
be sharpest, the expression of emotions did not become more grandilo-
quent. Much to the contrary, it seemed to be clothed in a lyricism that
threatened to become too abstract, too pure—this is the case in many
passages of his Sonata No. 2 for Piano and Violin. Too often has
this phenomenon been called an aberration, a mistake. Actually it
was only a logical consequence of the situations created by the com-
poser’s general line of development. Things problematical are so often
hidden from public view in a man whose life is so interior and to whom
expressionism is never pure enough in its manifestations.
From the moinent Bartök’s impersonal side appears, the atmosphere
of country dances emerges and makes the sonorous structure whirl
with a gaiety as naive as it is uninhibited. It would be a mistake to
look for a Freudian or psychoanalytic aspect in this art. The vital and
healthy peasant nature Bartök has retained is opposed to such an
interpretation. Moreover, even slight familiarity with his music is
enough to show how impossible such an attitude would be.

The String Quartet No. i, written in 1908, demonstrated both

the power of Bartok’s conceptions and the mastery of his writ­
ing. It would be useless to try to separate the form from the
Nationalism and Eclecticism 349
expressive content in the work; the one is a function of the
other, as in Beethoven. The music becomes more animated as
the three movements proceed—lento, allegretto, allegro vivace.
The first two parts are expressive, and the introductory lento
produces a good deal of tension. The allegretto marks a release
and a transition into the concluding allegro, which is pure mo-
tion. The last movement most clearly reflects Bartök’s personal­
ity in the period when he composed this work. The first two
movements still show some postromantic influences.
The String Quartet No. 2 was written between 1915 and 1917.
The composer’s personality shows a maturity it did not have
before the war. The harmony has become more free. The me­
lodic line is permeated with the spirit of folk songs. At this point
appears that alternation of true rhythm and complicated meter
which would long be a dominant trait of the composer’s ex­
pression, as well as the extreme variability of tempo which would
give the movement of his music a bizarre and capricious charac-
ter.
All these techniques were used to the füllest extent in the two
sonatas for violin. The general scheme of this second quartet
includes an expressive first part, the material of which is ex-
traordinarily Condensed, and which is dominated by strong ten-
sions that transmit a feeling of pain. The second part is an
absolute contrast to the first: it is totally unexpressive, and
serves only to unbridle rhythmic force. The third part reintro-
duces the expressive intention. Tensions are relaxed little by
little, and the work ends on a contemplative note.
After this powerful work, Bartök wrote his two sonatas for
violin and piano. The Sonata No. 1 (published in 1922) is in
three distinct parts. The first part is intensely expressionistic, and
is written with large leaps of intervals and violent rhythmic ac-
cents [Example 124]. The peaceful lyricism of the adagio brings
a release. The finale is rhythmic.
The Sonata No. 2 (appeared 1923) is one of Bartök’s most per­
fect and most characteristic works. Of the two movements, which
are played without a break, the first is treated as an introduction
to a rhapsodic sequence, due to the caprice of a totally irregulär
tempo [Example 127]. But the movement only resembles a
rhapsody; its structure is too well-ordered by the alternative
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

play of two ideas. Furthermore, it only appears introductory

because the piece has a complete meaning in itself. The second
movement is rhythmic, but not purely dynamic. It contains ex­
pressive ideas which, as they are introduced, create increasing
tensions that break into new rhythmic storms at their climaxes.
With these two sonatas, Bartok reaches his ultimate power as
an expressionist. With the Third Quartet (1927), his form be-
comes noticeably more solid. Actually, as with Beethoven, the
drama of Bartok’s music lies in the struggle between his desire
for freedom of expression and the necessity of fitting the ex­
pression into the framework of a form. As with Beethoven, and
contrary to what has happened to Stravinsky since 1920, there
in no “spirit of form” in Bartok. The expression always guides
the discourse, and the role of form (or rather, of structure) is re-
stricted to making the discourse coherent. In an understandable
reaction to the completely free development he achieved in the
first movement of his Sonata No, 2, Bartok devises a very com­
pact structure for his Third Quartet. The first, moderate move­
ment is followed by a rhythmic second movement. The third
movement is a recapitulation of the first. A coda drawn from the
second movement ends the work.
The Third Quartet is more contrapuntal than the two pre-
ceding it. Hereafter, counterpoint and the principle of Variation
(inherited from Beethoven and Brahms) govern the form, which
becomes clear and easily perceptible. It is built with such har-
monious proportions that the question of form will seem as im­
portant as the question of expression. The Fourth String Quartet
(1928) has the symmetrical architecture of the Third, but on a
large scale. It has five movements. The first and fifth movements
are composed on the same thematic material, the fourth is a
Variation of the second, while the third forms the central pivot
of the composition. Bartök achieves the supreme goal in this
work. The features of folk song are assimilated and put to use
in melodic ideas in which no trace of folk music remains. An
autonomous style is established: the fusion of the chosen expres­
sion, the carefully wrought form, and the folk-music source is
complete. These components are amalgamated in the crucible
of Bartök’s powerful imagination.
In 1934> Bartdk wrote his Fifth Quartet, the structure of which
 Nationalism and Eclecticism
resembles that of the Fourth. However, the composition shows a
simplification, a starkness that is more and more pronounced
in subsequent works. Without achieving calm and serenity, this
Fifth Quartet nonetheless does not display the degree of tension
found in parts of the Fourth.
Two years later, in 1936, Bartök composed Music for Strings,
Percussion and Celesta, which is his most finished, most power-
ful and moving work. It is conceived for a double string orches­
tra, piano, harp, drums, cymbals, kettledrum, and celesta. It is
hard to know what to admire most: the distinctiveness of the
form, the thematic richness, or the imaginative use of sonorities.
The most commonly used forms undergo a mutation here that
gives them new life. The opening movement is a sort of fugue
which, by entries made at the fifth, above or below, runs the
complete cycle of tones to return at the end to the original note.
This sonorous architecture is based on a chromatic phrase, ten-
der, subtle, and troubled in expression. It moves. with a complex
and supple rhythm that gives astonishing diversity of accent and
articulation to the superimposition of voices [Exarnple 725].
This expressive fugue is followed by a passage in sonata
form which has enormous rhythmic power and extraordinary
elasticity, and in which the music is passed from one group of
strings to the other in a play of sonorous contrasts which has no
musical equal. A third passage, in “bridge” form (A-B-C-B-A), is
very mysterious in expression. The finale reintroduces, before
the stretto which serves as its conclusion, the theme of the
introductory fugue in diatonic form in an enthralling abbrevia-
tion, which is resolved in the most moving way possible [£x-
ample 126].
Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, in its perfection,
in the fullness and nobility of its song, is a great masterwork,
one of the most outstanding compositions of the twentieth Cen­
tury. The splendid Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion, com­
posed in 1937, is also remarkable.
After the massive and poignant works of the years 1934-1937,
Bartök finally entered a period of beneficial repose. From this
new-found serenity came his last quartet, the Sixth, composed
in 1939, a work of moving simplicity. The benevolence and gra-
ciousness of this admirable man, the tendemess of his generous
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

and loving heart are expressed here as the last testament of a

composer who was one of the creative geniuses of our time.
The Cantata Profana for double chorus, soloists, and orches­
tra should also be included among Bartök’s most important
works. It is stränge and captivating music, very difficult to per-
form from a choral point of view. As yet, it has not been suffi-
ciently well produced for us to make a true estimate of its value.
The text for the Cantata is taken from the cycle of legends The
Enchanted Deer, widely known among the Hungarian people
and the peoples who have a close affmity to them, such as the
Finns. Bartok discovered the idea for his poem in a Romanian
version, the plot of which, as in the legend, is symbolic. It is
especially characteristic of peoples who live on the border be­
tween the occidental and oriental worlds, and have known from
the beginning of their history the pain of migration.
An old man had nine sons. He had taught them no manual work,
neither ploughing, nor horse breeding, nor animal husbandry. He
had taught them only how to hunt on the mountain.
The nine sons were hunting on the mountain. They followed the
trail of a large deer and crossed a bridge. Then, they lost their way
and were transformed into stags.
The old man worried when his sons did not return. He took his
gun, went to the mountain and discovered the bridge. But he only
found the trail of the herd of deer. Following the trail he overtook
the herd near a stream. He knelt down to take careful aim, and just
as he was about to pull the trigger, the largest stag, his oldest son,
said to him: “Dear Father, do not shoot at us, for if you do we will
impale you on our anders and will drag you from peak to peak and
will break your body against a boulder. We will reduce you to pulp.”
The father replied: “My dear sons, come back to the house, come to
your beloved mother who is waiting for you in the torchlight. She has
set the table for you, and has filled your cups. Your cups are filled with
wine, and her eyes are filled with tears.” But the oldest son replied:
“Dearest Father, go back home. We cannot follow you. For our anders
are too wide for us to pass through a door. We can move only on the
mountain. Our bodies can no longer wear clothes. They will only wear
green leaves. And our mouths can no longer drink from cups; only
streams will satisfy them.”
The legends of The Enchanted Deer are the song of peoples
■who, to escape bondage, emigrate to free countries. The choice
Nationalism and Eclecticism
353
of such a subject in 1938 was prophetic. The drama was soon to
take place. Bartok, who had analyzed the songs of his country
into their distinct elements in order to compose a genuine musi­
cal creation which would magnify the spirit of his land, had to
abandon his mother country when tyranny cast its shadow over
that land. In 1938, the Cantata Profana was the twilight song of
Europe. For this work, Bartok created the simplest, most naked
language, and with it he ended his long exploratory voyage in
the domain of the Hungarian folk song. He transfigured it, and
made of it the most universally human song. He reached this
ultimate point at the moment when everything collapsed, when
the life of Europe seemed to be irrevocably destroyed. The
Cantata Profana is thus a song of Separation, a song of farewell.
Contrary to its title, it is expressed in the form of an incantation,
its melodies impregnated with religious feeling.
Bartök admitted that he had a marked preference for the
Cantata Profana. It is indeed one of his most moving and perfect
works.
In America, where he went in 1938 and died in 1945 without
seeing his native land again, Bartok wrote the Third Piano
Concerto and Concerto for Orchestra, the latter a rather ex-
tended divertissement whose objectivity reminds the listener
of Stravinsky’s later works. His last work, Sonata for Unaccom-
panied Violin (1944), is so austere that one is reminded of similar
works by Bach. In his lifetime he re-established the place of
perfect melody in a music in which all the elements had under-
gone a complete reformation.

To extract the essential from folk songs to rediscover the true

soul of the people, and then to use the melodic curves and the
specific rhythmic and harmonic textures which have thus been
isolated (to speak in chemical terms) to build a national art
from within—such is the aim of the Contemporary musicians
who have feit the need to return to what is most fundamental
in the folk inspiration of their countries. Janäcek and Bartok
thought of their music in this light, and traveled farther and
farther from the picturesque art of the romantics.
Music in Spain evolved in exactly the same way. After the
glorious period of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries with
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Juan del Encina, Luis Milan, Cabezon, and Victoria, Spanish

music was dominated by Italian influences. Its specific character,
composed of an Opposition or capricious alternation of religious
gravity, spiritual austerity, and mysticism on the one hand and
the joyous spirit of the people on the other, had completely
disappeared and only reappeared in the eighteenth Century,
thanks to the Neapolitan Domenico Scarlatti. Scarlatti took
Spanish dances, and particularly the seguidillas, as the basis of
his artistic expression. His writing was inspired by the guitar,
with its brusque virtuosity and its practice of acciacatura, which
consists of sounding a given note of a chord and its appoggia-
tura simultaneously, providing the harmony with a very special
mordent. Following Scarlatti, the true essence of Spanish music
was again forgotten; in the nineteenth Century, Italian opera
almost monopolized the public interest. Toward the end of
the Century, Felipe Pedrell laid the foundation for a renais-
sance of national art, but his works (Pirineos and La Celestina)
were only imperfect attempts at realizing an ideal which, at
that time, still had to struggle against an overpowering foreign
and cosmopolitan tradition. Manuel de Falla, born at Cadiz in
1876, understood Pedrell’s intentions and became his pupil.
Roland-Manuel discussed Pedrell’s beneficial influence on De
Falla:
It was Pedrell who first showed the future composer of Master Peter"s
Puppet Show and Harpsichord Concerto the need to purify writing in
order to express only the essential. It was Pedrell who helped him at
the beginning to discover the uselessness of fixed forms, aside from
those “which a fatal, unconscious power created to suit the genius of
the race, its temperament and its mores” (Felipe Pedrell, Para Nuestra
Müsicd). Pedrell did not convert him to the religion of authentic folk
data—the disciple was to split from the master on this point—but he
did essentially cnlighten him on the meaning and spirit of the lasting
traditions of the national genius, against which individual whim could
never prevail, since there is nothing really original outside of the
original, in the apt words of Miguel de Unamuno. Such was and is
Pedrell’s lesson. It is the laborer’s lesson to his children. It would soon
allow Manuel de Falla to “till his field.”

MANUEL DE falla lived in Granada, and it was Andalusia that first

attracted him. From 1902 to 1905 he wrote La Vida Breve, a lyric
Nationalism and Eclecticism
drama in two acts, with passages in which passionate and very
personal music breaks through a lyricism still somewhat cosmo-
politan. This early, the composer has already endowed folk
music with affective nobility and very broad expressive poten­
tial, especially in the magnificent interlude that paints Granada
at sunset and in some of the songs in the second act in which
the cante jondo style is re-established in its original purity. In
1907, De Falla went to Paris, where he lived until 1914. He be-
came friendly with Claude Debussy, whose music attracted him.
As was the case with Albeniz, the discovery of Debussy’s lan­
guage was decisive. De Falla found in the freedom Debussy had
recently won for harmony the example of a rational artistic
attitude toward the material treated, the example of the in-
vented technique which breaks with academic traditions and yet
is capable of achieving unity and cohesion.
Spanish art won its liberty and self-knowledge through De­
bussy. And it was also through Debussy that Bartök and Kodaly
found their way to independence. If we think of the importance
of Debussy’s attitude in the formation of other foreign artists,
like Stravinsky, Schoenberg, and Alban Berg, we come to realize
that the music of no country would have reached its present
stage without the composer of Pelleas et Melisande. This score
is the real point of departure of all Contemporary art.
De Falla showed Debussy’s influence early. In 1916 the Nights
in the Gardens of Spain was finished. It is an intensely poetic
Symphonie impression for piano and orchestra in which all the
sorcery of subtle Orchestration is brought into play. In it we re-
discover that abandonment and nostalgia which are the charm of
Debussy and Chopin as well as a voluptuous tenderness for all of
nature. Debussy’s Iberia was not an impressionist sketch but a
synthesis. The Nights in the Gardens of Spain, also, is the crystal-
lization of an aggregation of images, expressing all at once every­
thing the composer feels and thinks about that Andalusian land
to which he is tied with all the fibers of his being. This work is a
love song, and ranks among the most beautiful ever written.
While he was composing Nights, De Falla brought out his fa-
mous Seven Populär Spanish Songs. The work is a favorite with
many audiences and serves as a model of what a re-created folk
song can be. The composer achieves a really extraordinary con-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

centration of thought. The songs are more true than true. Follow-
ing this collection appeared El Amor Brujo (1915), a ballet with
vocal part in which the ardor and rhythm of the gypsies are
exalted. The substance of folk art is extracted and concentrated.
The melodies are supported with chords and have no poly-
phonic commentary, with which they would be incompatible by
nature. Movement is stirred by whirlwind treatment, so to speak,
which keeps the music in one place and prevents its develop­
ment. But it communicates a spiral movement which at times
is dizzying, as in the Danse de la Frayeur and the Danse Rituelle
du Feu. Magical vertigo, whipped by crisp, abrupt Orchestra­
tion, contrasts with the voluptuous involvement of Nights in
the Gardens of Spain.
But gypsy sorcery is only one aspect of Andalusia. Peasant
life furnishes another feature, one which De Falla pinpoints in
his second ballet, The Three-Cornered Hat (1919). Concerning
this work, Roland-Manuel very appropriately quotes the words
of Don Quixote: “But what is it, dear Lord, when these poets
lower themselves to composing a type of poetry, so populär in
Candaya, and then called seguidillas? For this was the dance of
souls, shaking of bodies, bursts of laughter, and finally the
ravishing of all the senses.” (Part n, Chapter 38.) These few
words describe to perfection the scintillating score written on
the book by Pedro de Alarcon, in which the life of an Andalu-
sian miller and his wife is portrayed in gay and lively episodes.
The rhythm is wild, the melodies are written with fine wit, and
the dances are inspired by traditional folk dances—the farruca,
jota, fandango, and zapateado. The texture of the music is more
complex than in El Amor Brujo. Here are the same rapid and
fleeting contrapuntal lines that are found in literature for the
guitar. The orchestra as well recalls the guitar with its embel-
lishments and short imitations, and the transposition of the
rasgado technique, which makes the chords seem so agitated.
This last point is especially noticeable in the Miller’s Dance.
But there is something eise in The Three-Cornered Hat.
Having given expression to the Andalusian folk spirit, De Falla
began to seek a form of thought which would set him apart from
overspecialized nationalism. He thought of Scarlatti. As a re-
sult the entire score of The Three-Cornered Hat is endowed
 Nationalism and Eclecticism
. K U -^7
with that umty of Organization and internal rhythm found in
the sonatas of the great Domenico. To understand this evolu-
tion, it is enough to listen to the introduction to the second
scene, The Neighbors. The melody unfolds spiritedly in the
very fluid key of G (transposed into D), and the whole passage
has a lightness and grace of form drawn directly from the art
of the eighteenth Century, while it conserves its Iberian color
and modern accent. The elegant precision of Scarlatti can be
heard here [Example Z2<?].
The Three-Cornered Hat, first performed in Madrid in 1917
in an arrangement for small orchestra, was produced by Sergei
Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe in 1919 with marvelous decor by Pablo
Picasso and choreography by Leonide Massine.
A new period opens with the composition of Master Petefs
Puppet Show (1922), which is based on an episode from Chapters
25 and 26 of Part 11 of Cervantes’s Don Quixote.
Master Peter’s puppets present the adventures of Don
Gai’feros, who frees his wife Melisendra from captivity by the
Moors. A little boy, the spokesman, armed with a pointer, ex-
plains the spectacle to the audience which includes Don Quixote.
The story ends in the punishment of the Moor and the routing
of his troops. Don Quixote interrupts, taking the puppets for
real people, and slashes the little theater of Master Peter to
pieces with his sword.
De Falla feit himself drawn to Castile. His thought became
more austere. The point of departure for his inspiration was the
Romanesque music of the Middle Ages, the large style of the
vihuelists, like Luis Milän, and the simple and supple declama-
tion of liturgical music. The score has something rough and
bare about it. It discards the accidental and becomes interior.
Manuel de Falla’s Hispanic music has become European. The
quality of the score, moreover, is splendid; it is one of the most
beautiful Contemporary creations. The Castilian spirit finds total
expression in this succession of scenes. There are nobility, pride,
that passionate contemplation not found elsewhere; cutting
mockery, and that breadth of vision which characterizes men
who love life in all its manifestations, on the condition that it
carry the stamp of nobility. Possibly the most beautiful pas­
sage is the tender music we hear when Melisendra is on her
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

balcony. The Orchestration is delightful. The chamber orchestra

is led by two oboes and an English horn, instruments which,
along with the bassoon, mix very well with the harpsichord and
harp-lute which hold the place of honor. Several String instru­
ments supply the exact flexibility necessary, and their introduc­
tion is always written with an extremely fine touch. Two horns,
a trumpet, and the percussion section give the proper lift to the
ensemble.
After this admirable work, from 1923 to 1926 De Falla wrote
the Concerto for Harpsichord and Five Instruments (flute, oboe,
clarinet, violin, and cello). The simplification witnessed in the
Puppet Show did not end De Falla’s evolution. He traversed
the stage of austerity and began a period of asceticism, as so
many Spanish artists, notably Zurbarän, have done. The art of
this short instrumental composition is stark. Spiritual passion
has burned everything perishable; there is hardly a skeleton of
music left. One would say that the composer was no longer
even interested in the external, auditory effect. His eyes are
turned inward, toward the soul, toward the spirit. The first two
parts of the Concerto have something absolute about them, like
an echo, rhythms that arise from folk airs.
After 1927, De Falla worked on a great composition for solo
voices, choruses, and orchestra, La Atlantida, based on a poem
by Verdaguer. He died without being able to complete the
Orchestration, and the work has not yet been published.
Manuel de Falla was not so prolific as was Bela Bartok. But
each of his works marks a very distinct stage in an evolution
which is parallel to that of the great Hungarian composer. This
evolution is typical of our time. Nationalism is no longer the
goal: it is the point of departure for the creation of a language.
In the measure that the language becomes more characterized
and precise, it becomes universal. The same process is noticeable,
moreover, in Stravinsky.24
Young Spanish musicians, following in Manuel de Falla’s
footsteps, seem to want to head in the direction of an art which,
24. Oscar Esplä, a Contemporary of Manuel de Falla, shows rather the
same development that led to Master Peter's Puppet Show. The Veillee
(VArmes de Don Quichotte and the Sonate du Sud pour Piano et Orchestre
can be counted as some of the bcst music to come out of Spain.
Nationalism and Eclecticism
having gained autonomy, will free itself of nationalism. Joaquin
Rodrigo has composed an interesting Guitar Concerto in this
vein, taking inspiration from the style of the vihuelists. Sinfon-
ietta by Ernesto Haiff ter is characterized by its marked human-
istic tendency. It has brought the composer to the attention of
the general public. During the Civil War, the Republicans pro-
duced phonograph rccords of marching songs harmonized by
Pittaluga, Rodolfo Halffter, and others. This was the last word
from Spain. These harmonizations, as well as their Orchestra­
tion, were remarkablc. One could hear in them a style in which
the various European influences, cspccially De Falla’s and Stra­
vinsky’s, were mingled. Pittaluga went to live in Mexico, where
other Republican composers, like Rodolfo Halffter and Adolfo
Salazar, had been welcomed.
The place of nationalism in Contemporary art led Eugenio
d’Ors to draw the following conclusions:
We would have gained nothing in the attempt to make room for
foreign elements if their presence had been judged as merely the
result of multiple influences and their interplay. You are perhaps
familiär with a paper which I read in Seville on “The Humanities and
Comparative Literature.” The internationalist criterion was as strongly
opposed as nationalist prejudice. The intemationalists were described
as searching for extrinsic relationships between local artistic or spiritual
creations, and as accepting the hypothesis of essential diversity between
these creations. Thus, “comparative literature“ bogs down in explana-
tions of this order. It becomes involved in the mechanics of precedents,
influences, and reminiscences. The concept of “humanists,“ on the
contrary, is a living, synthesizing concept, which supposes the organic
unity of the object and talks not about “relationships“ but about
communion. In the same guise, on the political plane, what the synthesis
“empire“ means is rather different from a great League of Nations or
any “international“ organism whatever. Now, Victoria’s work belongs
specifically to the “musical humanities.“ What a marvelous moment,
what a point of destiny in the year 1583 that brought the Fleming
Roland de Lassus and the Spaniard Victoria together in Rome to study
under the Roman Palestrina! Our Avilan priest, an ardent Castilian
soul, learned from Roman classicism the strict geometric meaning of
form. This is why his songs accord so perfectly with the powerful,
clear line of our Escorial.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Among the artists of the generation following that of Stra­

vinsky, Bartok, and De Falla are a number who also, and for
the same reasons, adopt nationalist music as their point of de-
parture. The most noteworthy of them are the Latin Americans
Heitor Villa-Lobos of Brazil and Carlos Chavez and Silvestre
Revueltas of Mexico.
Latin America is wakening to its spiritual strength. Heirs to
Iberian humanistic traditions, its artists direct anxious atten­
tion to what remains of Indian civilizations, and take great in-
terest in the style of the Negroes imported by slavetraders. In
new climates, faced with forceful and opulent natural surround-
ings, the Latin spirit in the Americas was infused with fresh
vitality of a very particular nature, the development of which
we should follow closely. Poetry, painting, and music have taken
great forward steps in Latin America.
The most modern trends seem to attract artists to a radical
position regarding indigenous sources of inspiration. It is cer-
tainly true that musicians like Villa-Lobos and Chävez and a
painter like the Mexican Diego Rivera, wanting to express their
own particular personalities and create a distinctive style, have
formed their attitudes in the primitive image, which they were
able to do because of the constant contact they maintained with
the peoples of the plains and forests. It is equally true that re-
discovering the live sources of artistic sensitivity and expression
in a period of mechanization and industrialization must be a
powerful Stimulus for the creation of new forms.

The position and real value of heitor villa-lobos (born in

1881) have been properly appreciated by Henri Prunieres, and
we can do no better than to repeat parts of his study of the
Brazilian composer:
Villa-Lobos, after acquiring a solid foundation in music, spent four
years traveling all over Brazil. He gathered songs directly from the
Indians, some of which go far back into history, while others bear traces
of European influence. But all, in their variety of rhythms, their modes
and their melodic contours, are of great musical interest.
Villa-Lobos was not content simply to write down this precious ma­
terial. He re-created in himself the soul of a primitive from contact
Nationalism and Eclecticism
with nature and the natives. The works he designed using these
stylized elements can be compared with the paintings and sculptures
of a Gauguin in Tahiti.

It is useless to look for logical development here in the sense

of European music. Villa-Lobos’s work is a sort of sonorous
chaos, but a chaos which nonetheless takes shape under the
guidance of a very acute sense of balance and proportions. The
art of savages knows nothing of strict symmetry or linear per­
spective, but it has nonetheless created works of undeniable
beauty.
In the three Indian poems Canine-Ioune-Sobalet, Teira, and
Iära, percussion instruments serve mainly as accompaniment.
From time to time choruses raise their voices in brief and hard
song to mark the rhythm. In the magnificent Chords Pica Pad,
the wild vocalizations of the tenors flow above the unremitting
refrain of the basses, scanned on a dance rhythm, while the per­
cussion rages, augmented by a number of Indian instruments.
To concert audiences in Paris in 1927, the Chords—“a new
form of music composition which synthesizes the various mo-
dalities of Brazilian, Indian, and populär music”—were a revela-
tion. These pieces are built on a folk theme which disappears
and reappears more or less modified. The polyphony is entirely
original, and is inspired by the peculiar polyphony of Indian
timbres. Villa-Lobos handles combinations and superimpositions
of the most complicated rhythms easily. Native percussion in­
struments are very important in the battery section: gourds
to be shaken or scraped, all sorts of xylophones, xuchalhos,
caracachas, reco-recos, puitas, caxambus, maracas, and so on.
Chords 8, for Orchestra and Two Pianos, along with Nonetto,
Three Indian Songs and Chords 10, is indubitably the most
striking music we have lieard. From time to time, a mad storm
breaks out, the voices erupt in startling onomatopoeia, the bat­
tery section—a veritable orchestra of percussion instruments—
hammers the rhythm with Dionysiac fury, and the orchestra
outdoes itself in frenzied violence. The music is a cataclysm of
sound, a volcanic eruption, a cyclone.
One may well have a different conception of the art of music,
but one cannot remain indifferent to works of such power. One
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

would have to agree with Florent Schmitt that “a truly great

inspiration has passed by” [Example Z2p].
Villa-Lobos’s work abounds with the exuberance and lush
Vegetation of the virgin forest, of the Floresta, with a touch of
the languid grace of the Portuguese fados.

The work of the Mexican Carlos chavez (born in 1899) is more

austere. It took form on high arid plateaus, in the land of
volcanos.
Mexico, the revolutionary country, bold and daring, has seen
the mestizo, the Indian-Spanish half-breed, grow in importance
since Juarez. Long years of oppression did not lessen the vigor
of the Indians of that country, and the revolution begun in
1910 was fought to raise the social and economic level of the
Indian population.
Mexican artists strongly identified with the populär move­
ment, and the painting of Diego Rivera is a direct expression
of this concern. Carlos Chavez is an orchestra conductor, edu-
cator, and composer all in one. He directs the Philharmonie
Orchestra of Mexico, has undertaken a broad program of popu­
lär music education, and has devoted himself to putting means
of mechanical reproduction (recordings and radio) at the dis-
posal of this cultural campaign.
Chävez’s most interesting works were composed after 1926.
They contain no picturesque writing, nor anything which at-
tracts the ear at first blush. The structure of the melodies, com­
posed in Indian modes, strietly observes modal relationships.
The Ten Piano Preludes (1937) hold strietly to a two-voice
polyphony. The first seven preludes have no modulation. The
last three superimpose two different modes. The music is almost
skeletal in its bareness. Its powerful vitality does not come across
until it has been heard several times. In 1927, Chavez intro-
duced his Symphonie ballet, Sinfonta de Baile, H.P., which at-
tracted attention to this unusual talent. In 1934 and 1935
two important works brought him triumphant success, the can­
tata El Sol, and a proletarian symphony, Llamadas, for chorus
and orchestra.
The Sinfonia India (1935-1936) allows us to approach a defi-
nition of Chävez’s method of development. This method is based
Nationalism and Eclecticism
on two alternating ideas, one slow and the other lively. Chavez
does not utilize these melodic, modal ideas to construct a real
polyphony. He remains faithful to the spirit of folk song, which
is monodic, and whose essence is, in most cases, badly trans-
lated by harmonization. Chavez uses the device of repetition,
but constantly varies orchestral timbres, thus varying the ac-
centuation and position of the number of vertical, columnar
chords that support the melody. The coda of this symphony is
an insistent, pulsating movement, a unison in raucous accents
and harsh sonorities, punctuated with unremitting rumbling
from the percussion instruments.
The Sinfonia de Antigona (1933) rounds out the entire body
of woodwinds by calling on often neglected bass instruments of
each group:- the bass oboe and bass flute take their places beside
the bass clarinet. This arrangement insures great fullness in that
polyphony of timbres so dear to the composer and, moreover,
so characteristic of Indian music. In 1937, Chavez presented his
beautiful Concerto for Four Horns and Orchestra, and in 1940
a widely acclaimed Piano Concerto. Both pieces reflect the aus-
terity of high plateaus where the agave fields are swept by vol-
canic dust. All these works, rooted in the very nature of Indian
art, are free of local color. It is their internal rhythm, as in De
Falla’s Harpsichord Concerto, which makes them nationalistic.
Parallel to these humanistic works, Chavez has composed a
number of more obviously Indian works, which he wrote for a
particular group: the Mexican orchestra. This orchestra is com­
posed of several wind instruments, usually a small flute, an oboe,
a small clarinet, and a trumpet; plucked string instruments
(vihuelas, guitars, and harps); and a great variety of Mexican
percussion instruments, including various drums and marim-
bas, and a score of rattles—small, large, made of copper, terra
cotta, and so on.25
25. In general, Chävez’s thought moves in the atmosphere of pre-Spanish
America—its great pyramids, its temples and rituals, its arid, sun-baked earth.
He was the first, says Otto Mayer-Serra, “to recognize the symbiosis between
the contributions of Europe and the indigenous folk art.”
His Student Silvestre Revueltas (1899-1940) followed the line he laid down.
But Revueltas was more interested in the present. He did not seek out the
purity and austerity of the plateau Indians. Rather, he sang the pleasures
and sorrows of the people composed of the mestizos, Negritos, and Spamards
who swarm through the city streets. Chävez the architect was succeeded by
Revueltas the painter, who infused a flamboyant orchestra with the essence
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

In Europe and Latin America, the phenomenon of national­

ism in Contemporary music is characterized by the desire to
create a specific language which can subsequently be utilized
to express humanistic ideas. This concept of nationalism has
had brilliant results. The work of Bartök, De Falla, Stravinsky,
and to a lesser degree, Hindemith and Milhaud Stands in evi-
dence.

The United States has also exhibited a degree of nationalism

in music, but it has neither the importance nor the meaning it
carries in Europe and Latin America. Around 1910, Americans
began to take interest in the music of Louisiana Negroes. The
Negroes had preserved French and English eighteenth-century
songs, modified and adapted them to their own demands, sub-
mitting them to rhythmic distortions corresponding to their
fantasy and humor and their sense of dance and musical Im­
provisation. The Negroes had formed little orchestras composed
of an assortment of instruments—trombones, clarinets, saxo-
phones, fiddles, trumpets, pianos, guitars. They had imagina-
tively amalgamated these instruments into a cohesive ensemble,
the elements of which were interrelated by percussion devices of
differing timbres. The role of percussion instruments was not
limited to marking the rhythm, but grew to have an expressive
function. The Negroes had succeeded in creating a specific style,
a rag music, which made a strong impression on the American
music world.
In 1912, Irving Berlin composed Alexanders Ragtime Band,
while William Christopher Handy wrote St. Louis Blues in
1914. These two pieces oriented dance music in the direction of
the two types of jazz. By 1915, the vogue of jazz had spread
throughout the United States. But musicians did not yet con-
sider this folk art, or even Negro spirituals, as serious music. It
was in Paris that jazz caught the attention of composers, who
discovered all the instrumental and rhythmic resources that
this unusual technique put at the disposal of music. They val-
ued the crudeness and openness of this art as an antidote to the
of Mexican ardor. His talent had maturcd by 1936, when he wrote his most
signiücant works: Homenaje a Garcia Lorca for orchestra, and a delightful
children’s ballet, El Renacuajo Paseador. In 1938 he published a sumptuous
and exuberant Symphonie poem, Sensemaya.
Nationalism and Eclecticism 3&5
delicacy of the impressionists. In Le Coq et l’Arlequin, Jean
Cocteau relates his impressions of his first contact with rag mu­
sic in the passage quoted above (see p. 220).
Stravinsky wrote Piano Rag Music and Ragtime for Eleven
Instruments, After a trip to the United States, Milhaud com­
posed the Creation du Monde, The characteristics of jazz were
digested and incorporated into their own language.
Works such as these alerted American composers to the fact
that they had in their country the elements of a well-defined
folklore appropriate for use in serious music. Composers of
jazz music themselves went to work to enlarge the framework
in which Negro music had evolved, and in 1924 in New York,
the first symphonic concert of jazz took place, conceived and di-
rected by Paul Whiteman. The program included George Gersh-
win’s piano concerto, Rhapsody in Blue, a highly imaginative
work which reflected a sure hand, but which stopped at a com-
promise between the facile tunes of the music hall and the
stringent requirements of concert music. The same year Louis
Gruenberg wrote two interesting scores based on texts of Negro
sermons—music inspired by both jazz and Negro spiritual styl es.
These were The Daniel Jazz, Op. 21, and The Creation, Op. 24.
These two works, too little known, constitute one of the boldest
and most extreme attempts yet made in the United States to
invent an original style independent of European influence.
They are only attempts, however, for they progressed no fur-
ther than a stage which is still too close to folk music, the point
of departure.
Another attempt, more hesitant, was made by the Negro com­
poser William Grant Still, who in 1930 presented his Afro-
American Symphony, for symphony orchestra. In this work
Negro spiritual melodies are included in a style halfway be­
tween that of Dvoläk’s New World Symphony and that of Cesar
Franck’s Symphony,
If we add opera to these efforts, or rather Gershwin’s great
operetta Porgy and Bess (1935), we will have almost exhausted
the catalogue of music which has risen from the foundation of
Negro folk art. There is another sort of Americanism which is
seeking expression by abstracting from Negro influence. This
type of nationalism, less obvious, does not strike the ear on first
A IUSTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

hearing or first reading. It is not communicated through the

bright colors of spirituals or rag style. Composers like Charles
Ives (1874-1954), Aaron Copland (born in 1900), and George
Antheil (1900-1959) are not concerned with local color. They
want to express the spirit of the American Anglo-Saxon, as it
has developed within a commercial and industrial civilization.
“What is happening to the soul, what is happening to man in
this storm-filled life, surrounded by the incessant clatter of ma-
chines and motors, obsessed by the pulsing rhythm of the
scramble for money? What does he think, what does he want?”
These are the questions composers seem to be asking themselves.
As in American novels and movies, there is a nostalgic longing
for silence in their music, a need for tranquillity, a sometimes
painful attraction toward the open horizons of the countryside
—-a need to bathe, to be refreshed, to forget the city.

Charles ives, of all American composers, was the boldest. He is to

America what Schoenberg and Stravinsky are to Europe, but with
less impact. His talent was far from negligible, and if his work is
little known, it is because the youngest American composers
have shown themselves much more hesitant and less free.
Ives thought that music is a living being, and that what the
composer notes down is simply an embryo to be developed by
the imagination of the Interpreter. Music makes frequent de-
mands on the interpreter’s improvising skill, giving him a choice
between several possible renditions of chords or Orchestration.
By 1906, Ives had already made the rhythmic and orchestral ex-
periments which would be characteristic of Schoenberg and
Stravinsky. In 1906, in fact, he wroie the Set for a Theatre Or­
chestra which broke as radically with every known tradition as
Pierrot Lunaire or Le Sacre du Printernps did later. This free
music reveals a rare delicacy of ear. The expression is human,
nonindividual and semivisionary. At every turn, this art seems
to reunite the irreconcilable, to melt the most heterogeneous ele-
ments into a single scheme. The style is rieh, and the inspira-
tion, based on the sensitivity of the people much more than
on folk songs, is generous and large. In many ways, the unusual
and captivating style of Charles Ives makes one think of Walt
Whitman. His best works were composed between 1906 and
Nationalem and Eclecticism 367
19^, and it seems that after 1921 Charles Ives did not write at
all. Besides the Set for a Theatre Orchestra, the Third and
Fourth Symphonies (1907 and 1910-1912) and Three Places in
New England (1903-1914) are noteworthy, as are the pieces in
quarter-tones written before 1915. Ives’s unusual artistic outlook
should not be underestimated, because it tends to rectify the
abuse of the craft by calling more frequently on imagination.
This trend has appeared recently in Elliott Carter’s String Quar­
tet, in which the material developed by the two violins very
plainly expressed serenity, while the viola and cello counterpoint
this tranquil music with contrasting dramatic violence.

aaron copland and george antheil as well take inspiration

from Walt Whitman’s thought. Their expression is rather par-
ticularized, despite the eclecticism in language which is only too
common among American artists. Antheil is known for his opera
Transatlantic (1930), which describes the aspiration for tender-
ness and love of youth imprisoned between the high walls of
skyscrapers. His radical modernism, essentially rhythmic in na­
ture, is too systematic, probably as the result of an immediately
noticeable lack of imagination. In Aaron Copland, on the con­
trary, we are aware of the formation of a harmonious and peace-
ful style, well adapted to his tempered, and sometimes very dis-
tinctive, expression. His orchestral piece Quiet City is a mel-
ancholy, contemplative image of a great industrial city in the
evening when all movement has ceased. A trumpet and an Eng-
lish horn carry the dialogue simply but movingly, against the
almost immobile background of a string orchestra. Copland’s
spirit is filled with the vast horizons of the West. There is some-
thing childlike in the vivacity of expression and the nai’vetc of
his pleasure, in the odd combination of a touch of weariness
and a communicative graciousness. He draws the portrait of
prairie dwellers in firm, supple lines. Appalachian Spring and
Rodeo are delightful representative scores.
There has been some excitement about two operas of Gian-
Carlo Menotti, whose Consul was enthusiastically received by
theater audiences in a number of countries. As his work is a
modernized protraction of verismo, we need not linger over it.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

The period of explosive growth in Contemporary music has

come to a close. We have examined the liberation brought about
by the greatest composers of our time, and have seen how other
composers have created new styles by starting with folk music
as their source of inspiration.
There remains for us to discuss numerous artists who have
utilized the elements of modern expression without themselves
contributing anything new in the domain of sound. Many of
them have shown evidence of great talent, skill, virtuosity, spirit,
and feeling. These are eminent qualities which justify the in-
terest their labors have inspired. But their eclectic art does not
have the grandeur that only the creative force of genius can
confer, nor the persuasive power that emanates from a very
unusual personality. We will limit our discussion to a cursory
review of the works of these distinguished composers. Before
going on, however, we will examine more closely a few of these
eclectic composers whose ideas and art strike our attention.
Like every other approach, eclecticism can nurture the growth
of a strong personality. There was a time when eclecticism was
decried as the course taken by a man incapable of finding in
himself the fresh wellspring of a new language. But the ques-
tion rises as to whether it is always necessary to seek a new män­
ner of speaking. The necessity was imposed after the romantic
period. Stravinsky, Schoenberg, and others took it upon them­
selves to experiment. They dismantled the mechanism of the
old sonant apparatus and built new ones with the parts, each
according to his own blueprint. They also showed their contem-
poraries that the single parts were there for their use if they
wanted to build a new structure. When the period of analysis
and experimentation was ended, there naturally came a time to
think about creating a new style—not to throw distinct per­
sonal ities into relief, but to establish a common language which
would fit the spirit and exigencies of the present. This general
language, the formation of which the best trends have contrib-
uted to, is the concern of modern eclectics. Their problem is not
to take heterogeneous elements and juxtapose them in a lan­
guage lacking in unity (this is precisely the brand of eclecticism
which is reprehensible), but to meld them into homogeneous
speech.
Nationalism and Eclecticism 369

karol szymanowski (1883-1937) is one of the composers who

succeeded best in shaping their personalities by assimilating
the various influences to which they were subjected. Having feit
the influence of Richard Strauss from one quarter and that of
Scriabin from another at the outset of his career, and sensitive
to the specific qualities of Stravinsky, Schoenberg, and Ravel,
he was able to amalgamate these influences without rejecting
any, and developed his own features. Kolinski has these apt
words on the subject: “After Chopin, Karol Szymanowski is the
most representative composer of Poland, the musical genius of
which, like the god Janus, has two faces: one turned toward
Germany, the other looking toward Russia. Thus, Szymanowski’s
music, deeply rooted in Polish soil, associates the architectural
ideal of German music with the enchanting colors of Russian
music. Thought and dreamed in turn, it rarely lets itself be
swept into the free interplay of timbres and sonorities.”
Between the Hymn to the Night which is the Third Sym­
phony, Op. 27, and King Roger, that eulogy of the dance, there
is a void. The composer progressed steadily toward Latin clar-
ity of thought. Kolinski continues:
“The most recent works occur at the high point of these ef-
forts: the Fourth Symphony, and his ballet Harnasie (1935).
Their musical material is reduced to the essential in the Mazur­
kas, Op. 50. Compared to Chopin’s, Szymanowski’s Mazurkas
present about the same similarities as the still lifes poetized by
Chardin might have with those painted by Cezanne. As much as
Chopin’s mazurkas are little poems in music, Szymanowski’s are
pure music. Their form is that of the Lied, but enlarged under
the influence of the large form—Variation, sonata, fugue. The
traditional relationships between the tonic and the dominant
are disguised in chromatic apparel, full of invention and rieh
in color. On the orchestral side of the mazurkas, the sonorous
gamut of the piano becomes that of an invisible orchestra.
“Everything they contain of the meeting of East and West is
very instructive for better understanding a theater or symphonic
work of Szymanowski, especially in his last männer.
In the Myths for Violin and Piano, Op. 30, the composer’s
personality becomes more luminous and settles more and more
into its essential traits, which are clearly perceptible in the
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Ftudes, Op. 46, and subsequent works. A splendid series of

works follows, whose inner warmth is expressed intensely in a
very pure and denuded style: Berceuses, Op. 48; the Mazurkas,
Op. 50; the ballet Harnasie (1926); Stabat Mater, Op. 53 (1928);
Concerto No. 2 for Violin (1930); and the Fourth Symphony
0935)-

Another interesting eclectic composer is the Russian vladimir

vogel. Born in Moscow, he lived in Germany, where he was
one of Ferruccio Busoni’s favorite pupils. Leading a very retired
life in the Swiss mountains, Vogel published one of his works
from time to time. They are characterized by a careful and bare
style. Vogel prefers epic subjects, and he has invented a par­
ticular choral technique for the recitation of an epic. The
chorus intermittently sings and speaks in rhythm. The technique
is basically the one Milhaud used in Les Choephores. But Vogel
creates polyphony with the spoken chorus, and composes pieces
written for it according to the laws of music of fixed sounds.
For exarnple, in his spoken choruses, there are sarabands, pas-
sacaglias, and fugatos. The preciseness with which the spoken
choruses are written allows them to be integrated with orchestral
music in such a way as to form a harmonious whole.
Vogel’s two most remarkable works are The Fall of Wagadu
(1935) and Thyl Claes (1940-1945). “How Wagadu Fell by Pride”
is a story taken from the Dausi, the Book of Heroes, the Kabyle
epic collected by Leo Frobenius. The Dausi is devoted to the
grandeur and fall of Wagadu, who falls four times—by pride,
felony, greed, and discord. Wagadu is not only the name of a
region but, as the poet says, “Wagadu is not wood, nor stone,
nor earth; it is the force that moves the soul of heroes.”
Wagadu is also the story of those minstrels, sons of nobles,
who lead a life of adventure and chivalry. It is told how the
lute does not begin to sing until it has been sprinkled by the
blood of numerous warriors. Lyricism is thus born of human
experience.
Vogel wrote his score in 1930. It is almost totally choral, and
includes only a few solos. There is no orchestra. The chorus is
supported by five saxophones (from soprano to bass) which fill
the role of an organ, but an organ whose breath seems almost
Nationalism and Eclecticism
human. Vogel s inspiration is of uncommon diversity. It makes
us feel the bleeding wounds of the heroes, the growl of wild
animals in the brush, the great desolation of the plains, the
freshness of folk poetry, terror, ardor, wisdom—all irradiated
with the pitiless sunlight that dries up the earth and the heart.
This great music, too little known, merits a place among the
most beautiful works of our time.
The same epic spirit animates Thyl Claes, an important two-
part work for orchestra, spoken chorus, reciters, and solo soprano
composed around sections of Tyl Ulenspiegl by Charles de Coster.
This book, a masterpiece in Belgian literature, commemorates
the war of liberation of the Flemish people at the time of Spanish
rule over the Low Countries.
Vogel prefers to proceed by short motifs, which he weaves in
a clear polyphony and treats with variations in timbre, He
achieves very winning expressive effects by superimposing major
and minor modes.

igor markevich (born in 1912) also falls under the sign of

eclecticism. Actually, his choice of means is not as broad as
Szymanowski’s. His best works are based on a System of rhythm
which owes everything to Stravinsky, and on a conception of
polyphony which derives from Hindemith. No other influence
can be feit in this composer’s very irregulär works, but he some­
times exhibits a curious angle of vision, at least in three of his
compositions: The Flight of Icarus (1932), the Psalm (1933),
and Paradise Lost (1935).
Markevich’s theory is that until the present, music has been
used to translate feelings born of impressions transmitted by the
sensory Organs. His aim is to show a certain state of perception
the image of which none of the senses can transmit. He writes:
“Music is the art of re-creating the world in the realm of sound,
We see things from only one angle. But there are other aspects
which can only be perceived with the eyes of the spirit, and
these are the aspects which I think should be re-created in mu­
sic. Music proceeds inversely to painting to achieve the same
goal. Suppose an artist were to paint a bird. If he is sparked by
love of truth in his efforts, we, looking at that bird, should
have a feeling of the life that pulses through it, a sense of its
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

warmth, an impression that its wings can carry it. On the con-
trary, in music one can create the impression of the flight, of
the warm and very special throbbing of the little bird body, and
in this way communicate the feeling of life. If we consider,
therefore, that music can re-create things from within just as all
other forms of art do, and thus enrich the spirit by giving it a
feeling of life in its purest state—and here purity intervenes—
we can then give it the place it deserves. . . . The least that I
can say about my work is that it took me a long time to see the
most important possibilities of the art I serve. I tried to put
these views into effect for the first time in The Flight of Icarus”
This Flight of Icarus is a fascinating symphony. The orchestra
successively presents the Games of Icarus; Icarus and the Birds;
Meditation, Flight, and Fall of Icarus; and Death of Icarus. It
presents, but it does not describe. The music really acts in ac-
cordance with the ideas detailed by the author. Thus, to give
the impression of flight, certain instruments hold a long note
punctuated by a few isolated and accented notes emitted by
other instruments. This gives an impression of continuity, level-
ness, and speed which, to be sustained, needs only a few light
pulsations and only a small outlay of energy. While the held
notes sound in the middle register, the accented notes are scat-
tered in the high or low registers, which provides a measure of
the passage of time and a notion of the space through which
this suspended body glides. There is no trace of description, and
no trace of imitation of a visual impression. We find ourselves
immersed in the expression of a perception, knowledge, a music
of the spirit.
The death of Icarus is as beautiful as a Balinese gamelan.
There is nothing dramatic about the death. It is feit as a state
in which nothing moves any longer, and which lasts for infin-
ity. The feeling is translated by notes of equal time values,
which destroys dynamism, and by the melodic curves included in
a single tetrachord from which all harmonic functions are ab­
sent [Example rjo].
The work is unique of its kind, and makes an indelible im­
pression.
The Psalm is also a work of high quality, in which the eternity
Nationalism and Eclecticism 373
of the Lord is transmitted by a similar conception of time and a
sense of immobility which folds the music back on itself.
In 1935 Markevich published his most important work, Para­
dise Lost, based on Milton’s poem, for solo voices, chorus, and
orchestra. Markevich, writing about this oratorio, says that he
has put greater and greater distance between himself and the
myth of Adam and Eve to represent a human being in whom he
incarnates the whole of humanity.
As my work progressed, I left Milton farther and farther behind, and
when I had finished, I found a real wall between us. First, because we
are separated by centuries, centuries during which humanity has taken
a decisive Step toward intellectual freedom. Perhaps humanity has lost
some of the certitude of faith but it has gained faith in the concrete
world. This permits it to understand spiritual concepts in their pure
state and their inscription in material things much more clearly. This
takes on great importance in the question of the evolution of music.

This interesting commentary explains not only the music of

its author; it explains as well the impression of concentrated
strength, the impression of the musical being realized to the
füllest, that are reflected in certain passages of Stravinsky,
Schoenberg, or Webern. These qualities make such music ap-
pear not as a modern aspect of a way of being which has already
been expressed, but as a new state of musical consciousness, of
perception through music.
Markevich then details that perception he wants to express:
I must discuss a question with you which is often on my mind: the
question of Time, so important in the art of sounds. This question
came to me in two forms: first, its material aspect, if I may use the
term, which is that of the time that passes, from which I had to cut a
piece to breathe musical life into; and then, wanting to fix the mean­
ing of what would give life to this piece of time which is passing, and
perceive that truth I was speaking of above which remained to be
revealed, I penetrated a second dimension of Time. This is a sort of
eternal present, which is, as it were, perpendicular to the time passing.
In it innumerable forms of truth exist in their pure state, living forever
in relation to perishable things which themselves pass, eternally recom-
mencing, in which these truths are inscribed and are made perceptible
to us. The problem was to bring these two times together, and I came
to understand that here was one of the potentials of Music which is
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

peculiar to this art and makes it extraordinarily advanced. Since it

develops in the time that passes, it is therefore capable of leading us to
the light with its divine contents, a piece of that eternal present that
I called a second dimension of Time, of being, in other words, a truth
made sound,
Paradise Lost contains two parts. The first portrays the birth
of Man and the repercussions of that event in the world of the
Angels. The Evil One and the Angels, generators of the pas-
sions and ideas which will stir that life, engage in a dramatic,
violent spiritual debate around Man, in which all the characters
come face to face. As a result, various expressions are superim-
posed, creating a striking impression of simultaneity. The chorus
sings, speaks, shouts, and whispers in seeming disorder, enveloped
by an orchestra that moves in both the low and high registers
—the intermediary parts being left to the voices [Example 233].
The second part begins with an introduction, static in pace.
The variety of characters disappears, and the music, now coher-
ent, seems to be “inspired by the invisible gleam of a Paradise
refound” (A. de Graeff).
It is unnecessary to discuss in detail the composing tech­
niques of this score. Its elements can be found in what has been
said about Stravinsky’s writing. Markevich’s language is not
essentially personal; it is eclectic. The great originality of his
art is due to its spirit. Unfortunately, the most recent works of
this exceptionally gifted composer are not illuminated with that
spirituality which is the essential worth of The Flight of Icarus
and Paradise Lost, They merely exhibit great orchestral vir-
tuosity, and are ensconced in a position that lacks originality.
This retrogression is especially noticeable in the Symphony
with Voice (1943), based on poems by Lorenzo the Magnificent.

luigi dallapiccola, born in 1904 at Pisino in the province of

Pola, began life as an Austrian and became a naturalized
Italian citizen in 1918 when the province was attached to Italy.
Perhaps the fact of being born in such a contested borderland
explains certain traits of his character, notably his combative-
ness and his habit of taking a stand with the Opposition when
current ideas become lukewarm or too academic.
Dallapiccola has lived in Florence since 1922, and his first
 Nationalist and Eclecticism
compositions date from 1927. In 1934, he wrote the Diverti­
mento in Quattro Esercizi, for solo voice and instruments; in
1936, Music for Three Pianos; from 1933 to Sei Cori di
Michelangelo Buonarroti il Giovane; 1937
* Tre Laudi, for voice
and instruments, followed by the opera Volo di Notte, based
on Saint-Exupery’s Vol de Nuit; then in 1939-1940, Canti di
Prigionia, for chorus and instruments; and in 1943, Sex Carmina
Alcaei. Later there appeared II Prigioniero, a one-act opera; the
mystery play Job; and Canti di Liberazione (1955).
These are his most important works. Dallapiccola’s tempera­
ment is lyrical. Like Poulenc, Sauguet, Milhaud, or Britten, he
is at his best in vocal composition.
We might expect this Mediterranean, bred in Italian culture,
to be a melodist. But nothing is further from what is called
Italian music than his. He sought the secret of architecture in
Schoenberg and Webern, and studied Berg for possibilities of
developing lyricism in the framework of new forms.
How often has the opinion been expressed that Schoenberg’s
ideas lead to an impasse, that those who follow his method of
composition are reduced to imitation! Alban Berg alone proves
that Schoenberg’s technique adapts readily to the needs of a differ­
ent temperament. Dallapiccola’s works are evidence that atonal-
ity and Schoenberg’s System can be separated from Viennese
expressionism to accommodate the clarity of the Latin mental-
ity and enhance the expression of Mediterranean genius.
The twelve-tone System is used by Dallapiccola, sometimes in-
termittently (Volo di Notte) and sometimes strictly (Sex Carmina
Alcaei). In Orchestration, he inclines more and more to the use
of a few solo instruments, and in his orchestra, as in Webern’s, the
various notes of the twelve-tone series are played by different
instruments. The relationship is obvious. Dallapiccola belongs
to the Schoenbergkreis. But what is most important, his music
does not have the same sound at all as that of his models. It
plunges us into a completely different atmosphere, in which
there is nothing somber and no trace of expressionism. We are
transported into a luminous and sunlit world, a climate of
fervor, faith, and enthusiasm absolutely contrary to the depressing
sentiments of the Viennese.
It would be useless to try to explain by stylistic analysis how
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Dallapiccola achieves this transposition, this change of climate.

A single example is enough to demonstrate it. The series of
twelve tones in Dallapiccola’s works is usually arranged in such
a way that it can be subdivided into groups of consecutive notes
related by a clear tonal sense. Furthermore, the succession of
notes is made without the wide leaps which create the painful
tensions the Viennese need but which do not fit the harmony,
tranquillity, and serenity of expression proper to the Mediter-
ranean temperament. The first measures of Sex Carmina Alcaei
shown in Example 132 immediately define Dallapiccola’s style.
We find the consequente Durchführung of the twelve-tone se­
ries (recto tono in the voice part; motu contrario in canon for
the instruments and in augmentation for the piano and harp);
the tossing of the series from one instrument to another; inter­
vals which do not go beyond the sixth; and the subdivision of
the series into tonal groups.
Luigi Dallapiccola succeeded in uniting the architectural ele­
ment with gentleness of inspiration and elegance of Mediter-
ranean thought. He thus created an art both reflective and ex­
pressive corresponding to a specific psychic climate that is com-
parable in meaning and execution to the art of the Sienese
masters and Giotto.
What Markevich represents in the extension of Stravinsky’s
thought, Dallapiccola brings about in following the Schoenberg
school. Both should be cited as examples of what can be done
with an eclectic language vivified by a personal and independent
spiritual position.
They also bear witness to the fact that there are today no
more national schools. There are two or three main trends in
European music which are followed by composers of various
nationalities. This is one of the aspects of the current evolution
of European life. Local influences are making way for great
international currents rising from the increasing interpenetra-
tion of national cultures.

To end this review of modern music, there remains for us to

examine rapidly a few talented artists whose works are recom-
mended by qualities as numerous as they are varied, but whose
Nationalem and Eclecticisrn
Personalities are not so individual as those of the composers we
have been discussing.
In Italy, a Century of opera had obscured the most nourishing
sources of music. Composers concerned themselves only with
facility and superficial effects, and were content to use often
rudimentary craftsmanship to exhibit undeniable melodic
spontaneity and genuine, but rather elemental, sense of mu­
sical drama. Verdi’s whole life was a struggle to restore to opera
the dignity it had lost, a truer expression, and greater value.
Instrumental music had been neglected. A few precursors, like
Martucci and Sinigaglia, had led a campaign to revive enthusi-
asm for and programing of Symphonie music. But until around
1910, their efforts achieved no noticeable results. Busoni was
working in Germany, and his activities made no impression in
Italy. Also, for a Century Italian music had developed in isola-
tion, and composers were almost totally unaware of the evolu­
tion of the art in France, Germany, and Russia.
A new generation of artists, finding no teaching in Italy capa-
ble of raising the Standards of music, left to work in foreign
countries. Ottorino Respighi (1879-1936) studied with Max
Bruch and Rimsky-Korsakov; Alfredo Casella (1883-1947) went
to live in Paris, and Gian Francesco Malipiero (born in 1882)
to Germany. Ildebrando Pizzetti (born in 1880) was an exception.
He remained in Italy, where he had the good fortune to meet
an unusual master, Giovanni Tebaldini. Tebaldini had a clear
concept of Italian music of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and sev-
enteenth centuries, and advocated a serious study of this music
as the basis for a renaissance. In the absence of Busoni, the in-
fluence of Tebaldini's ideas was decisive in determining the
postromantic development of music. Respighi was a brilliant
orchestrator, but his style is a rather anomalous mixture
which shows the influence of Strauss, Rimsky-Korsakov, Stra­
vinsky, and Debussy. The Fountains of Rome (1917) is a good
example of his talent. Franco Alfano (1876-1954), whose opera
Sakuntala was very successful, displays just as superficial an
eclecticisrn. Alfano is less of a symphonist than Respighi. On the
other hand, he has a more interesting melodic gift. Although
we are justified in treating the style of these two composers
severely, it should nonetheless be pointed out that their talent
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

has produced some attractivc works. Other questions asidc, they

deserve credit for having been among the first to reintroduce
into Italian music the subtlety it had lost. Pizzetti has more
charm than Respighi and Alfano, is more inventive, and is
endowed with a purer and more homogencous style. His instru­
mental works are rathcr poor, but his vocal works are very in­
teresting. His first songs, especially I Pastori, reveal his partic-
ular qualities: luminous thought, elegant expression, supplc and
gracious vocal lines, and sensitivity that shows in his dclicate
handling of modes. Around 1917, he wrote the remarkable
choruses for Gabriele D’Annunzio’s La Nave, His two best
works are the operas Fedra and Debora e Jaele, uniting real dra­
matic power and a delicacy of taste which at that time was some-
thing new in Italian music.

The composers gian francesco malipiero and alfredo casella

figured in the most intensely combative period of Contemporary
Italian music. Malipiero, inspired by the madrigals and dramas
of Monteverdi, of which, by the way, he has published an ad-
mirable edition, succeedcd in steadily discarding the influences
which affected his formation. Gifted with a very subtlc imagina-
tion, and never lacking in ideas, he excels in the shorter forms.
He does not have a fecling for large structure. Each time Mali­
piero tries to expand and work on a large scale, he becomes
dull and tedious. But his short pieces are captivating. Among
them are suites for string quartets like Rispetti e Strambotti,
and collections of piano pieces, the best of which is Poemi Aso-
lani, His Stagioni Italiche for voice and piano soars in marvelous
flight, and is both intimatc and warm. Malipiero wrote a num­
ber of operas. Among the most succcssful are Sette Canzoni,
a suite of short, contrasting dramatic scenes, with a song as the
subject of each scene; and the lively Tre Commedie Goldonianc,
wondcrfully impertinent and sparkling. Among his symphonics,
there are some which are very attractivc, especially the third,
called Delle Campane, and the fifth, In Echo.
The chicf virtuc of Malipicro’s music lies in its melodic flow
and its ready spontancity and animation. The incisive vivacity of
his notations is charmingly Vcnetian. These are the qualities that
adorn many of his inimitable works, like Sette Allegrezze d’Amore,
Nationalism and Eclecticism
for voice and 24 instruments, based on a poem by Lorenzo de’
Medici.
Alfredo Casella’s art is basically intellectual. Casella enjoyed
a brilliant career as a pianist and orchestra conductor before
1914- He had composed an entertaining collection of piano
pieces Ä la Maniere de in which he amused himself with
ironic imitations of D’Indy, Strauss, Debussy, and other Con­
temporary masters. It has been said that all of Casella’s music
was written in the männer of someone or something. The accu-
sation, although exaggerated, is partly true. Casella had the
intelligence to understand that Italian music had an excellent
means at its disposal to get out of its rut: by reviving the spirit
of the masters of instrumental music—Vivaldi, Scarlatti, and
Clementi, among others. In these composers he found the clarity
and simplicity of construction, and the source of that rather
abrupt liveliness, which are properly Italian. He used these quali­
ties as points of departure, and brought them onto the Con­
temporary scene by transporting them into the modern world of
harmony.
Of all Italian composers, Casella had the most developed
sense of harmony. Acquired during his long stay in France, this
harmonic gift is perceptible in some of his pre-igi4 composi-
tions, notably Notte di Maggio. The crisis in Italian music took
place between 1914 and 1918, and was resolved in a unanimous
decision to re-establish direct contact with the periods anterior
to the nineteenth Century. Moreover, Les Femmes de Bonne
Hnmeur, a ballet of Scarlatti sonatas orchestrated by Vincenzo
Tommasini for Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe, appeared at that time.
This ballet was evidcnce of the Italian renaissance. It had con-
siderable influence on young French composers and on Stra­
vinsky. At this time, composers began to take a real interest in
conciseness and clarity of form, characteristics that later be­
came a permanent mark of Western European music, and de­
veloped a passing taste for brusqueness and impertinence.
Casella was one of the principal craftsmen of that Scarlattian
influence. After 1920, he produced a long series of works which
had no real depth but showed the composer’s rather unusual
spirit. He was sensitive to all the trends of the moment, nothing
seemed to escape his attention. He understood these influences
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

on his art, and looked upon the fact with irony. He handled
them and his own ironic attitude adroitly, in not very original
but always carefully constructed forms. All things considered,
the result is an art form lively in spirit and remarkably intel­
ligent, which gives pleasure but is soon forgotten.
Casella also furnishes us with the best Italian instrumental
music of the time, such as the ballet La Giara; the Concerto for
Orchestra; the Concerto Romano for Organ and Orchestra; and
the Serenade for Five Instruments. His best stage work is a
chamber opera, La Favola d’Orfeo, in which his attitude toward
the lyric theater is rather close to Milhaud’s.

Of the next generation, we should retain the name of Vittorio

Rieti (born in 1898), who spent most of his life in Paris, and
whose goals are the same in some respects as those of Poulenc
and Auric. His Orchestration is light and transparent, and his
ideas are elegant and fresh. His ballets reflect fine taste, especially
Noah’s Ark, in which the rise of the flood is impressively de-
scribed, and Barrabau, written with highly amusing Roman
humor. He also has to his credit a good Symphony, several
concertos, and a good chamber concerto, the Concerto du Loup.
Giorgio Federico Ghedini writes with clear and moderate expres­
sion. Among other interesting works is his lovely Concerto de
l’Albatro, based on a chapter from Melville’s Moby Dick.
Finally, passing on to the youngest generation, we find Luigi
Dallapiccola (born in 1904), whom we have already discussed,
and Goffredo Petrassi (born in 1904), composer of Salmo IX and
a Partita for orchestra which lean toward the Stravinsky of the
1930’s. More recently, Petrassi has succeeded in expressing him­
self more independently. Coro di Morti and Notte Oscura are
great dramatic madrigals for chorus and orchestra, admirably
planned and executed. Monteverdi’s lesson was not lost on
Petrassi. His opera, II Cordovano, overflows with tumultuous
but orderly life.
The youngest Italians have all been more or less influenced
by dodecaphonism. Looking to it as a means of disciplining the
melodic temperament with which they are so generously en-
dowed, it threatens to lead them to exaggerated expression. For
the Italians, serial composition is often the best antidote for
Nationalism and Eclecticism
verismo. Mario Peragallo, for example, after great success with
traditionally conceived operas, began to follow the Schoen-
bergian school, a healthy exercise which enabled him to write
beautiful works like the opera La Collina and the Concert for
Piano, among others. More recently he composed a very beauti­
ful Violin Concerto, and an enchanting chamber opera, La Gita
in Campagna. Guido Turchi also benefited from the teaching of
the Viennese masters, and is noted for a powerful choral compo­
sition, Invective. Bruno Maderna oscillated between Schoenberg
and Dallapiccola in his Tre Liriche Graeche. His Orchestral
Etudes for Kafka’s The Trial brings him nearer to independence.
He is followed by Luigi Nono, who shows undeniable talent in
a series of compositions forming the Epitaph for Garcia Lorca.

The renaissance of music in England is analogous to the

Italian renaissance. The two movements were contemporaneous,
sprang from similar causes, evolved in the same way, and achieved
comparable results.
In England, there was no period in which bad, melodramatic
taste had degraded music, as was the case in Italy. But after the
last masters of the eighteenth Century, like Arne, Boyce, and
Pepusch, a long silence ensued. In the nineteenth Century, there
is but one bright light: the collaboration between W. S. Gilbert
and Arthur Sullivan (1842-1900) for the composition of some
fifteen operas which sometimes have a distinctly populär flavor,
like the H.ALS. Pinafore, created in 1878. The popularity of these
operas has not been exhausted even today.
Yet the English people love music, and during the nineteenth
Century concert societies flourished. The same is true today, and
this enthusiasm was certainly in large part responsible for the
maintenance in England of a fairly high level of musical com­
position. But English taste is very conservative and cautious.
Boldness is considered folly, and even today Tchaikovsky and
Dvorak, along with Beethoven and Brahms, and with Sibelius,
are the favorites of the Anglo-Saxon public. This temperate
climate, too temperate for our taste, and this preference for a
gentle lyricism which does not involve the soul of the listener
too deeply explain the success of a postromantic musician like
Edward Elgar (1857-1934) whose works, although sincere, meet
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

with indifference in Continental Europe. There is nonetheless

profit to be had in listening to a score like the Symphonie study
Falstaff, which is probably the best of Elgar’s works, and which
portrays precisely the character of English music as it was before
the appearance of the most recent generation.
Gustav Holst (1874-1934), Granville Bantock (1868-1946), John
Ireland (born in 1879), Arnold Bax (1883-1953), Eugene Goos­
sens (born in 1893), and Frank Bridge (1879-1941) should be
considered as belonging to a period prior to Debussy, despite
the various influences the composer of Pelleas may have exercised
on these composers. The impressionist Frederick Delius (1863-
1934) would be excellent if his art were a little less sugary. Of
these composers, Holst is the most noteworthy, on the whole.
His Symphonie poems The Planets have a certain elan and are
not uninteresting. There is one great point to his credit. He
drew the attention of the younger generation to the English
madrigalists. Holst was the musical director of Morley College
in London, where the techniques of Byrd, Bull, Morley, Gibbons,
Dowland, Weelkes, and then Purcell were taught. The study of
old English vocal music proved salutary. The English language
distributes its accents in a very special way, and the quality of
its sound is therefore very different from that of Germanic or
Latin languages. Sixteenth-century madrigalists held these pecu-
liarities in mind and built their vocal style around them. Holst
pointed out this source of native style, and the new generation,
discarding the outdated romanticism which was in fashion, lent
an attentive ear to the teachings of the masters of the Eliza-
bethan period. William Walton (born in 1902), Benjamin Brit­
ten (born in 1913), and Michael Tippett (born in 1905) especially
devoted their attention to the originality of the old masters, as
did the dean of English music, Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-
1958).
Before these men, there were, however, some talented artists
who were the first to break with romanticism and join the
renaissance movement which vitalized Parisian musical life.
These were Arthur Bliss (born in 1891), Constant Lambert
(1905-1951), and Lord Berners (1883-1950).
Lord Berners, a cultured and witty man, was strongly attracted
by the humor of Satie and Stravinsky. Around 1920, he wrote
Nationalism and Eclecticism jgj
several very gay short works which had the virtue of reacting
against the overly conformist and ceremonial spirit of the
romantics. His ballet The Triumph of Neptune was well received
by Diaghilev.
Bliss could not resist extending his eclecticism to too diverse
sources, and his style has remained unindividual and composite.
The music he wrote for the movie Things to Come is, however,
well carried out, and his ballet Checkmate is an attractive score.
Constant Lambert is the most interesting of these three com­
posers. His ballets Pomona and Romeo and Juliet abound in
beautiful details.

Ralph vaughan Williams is to England what Koechlin is to

France. Like Koechlin, he watched several generations pass by
and held himself aloof from the movements they provoked until,
in his old age, he feit himself in harmony with twenty-year-olds.
And again like Koechlin, he wrote audacious and sometimes
reckless pieces, and other compositions in which he sought
serenity and balance. His production is bountiful and encom-
passes all genres. He is curious and ever alert, and concentrates
his attention on the use of modes, the liberation of harmony,
and a melodic style based on folk music. The personalities of
these two composers are remarkably alike.
A fine example of his simple and knowledgeable, natural and
cultivated style, of his reflective and sensitive art that sometimes
makes Vaughan Williams’ expression so captivating, is his
famous Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, for String
orchestra, which echoes the spirit of sixteenth-century motets.
His romance for violin and orchestra The Lark Ascending and
his overture The Wasps have become almost as populär as The
Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Hugh the Drover is one of the rare Eng-
lish operas which shows individuality. However, the core of
Vaughan Williams’s work is his symphonies and the ballet Job.
The First Symphony or Sea Symphony (1903-1910) is written
for solo voices, chorus, and orchestra, and is based on poems by
Walt Whitman. Like the two symphonies following it, it is
rather descriptive. The four movements do not express contrast-
ing feelings. Rather, they should be considered as four aspects
of a single region of feeling. This is the case, moreover, for
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Vaughan Williams’s other symphonies. The First was followed

by the London Symphony, a portrait of the great city. The Third
is the peaceful Pastoral Symphony. After these evocative works,
in 1935, appeared the Fourth Symphony, more introverted, and
written under the sign of revolt. After the first performance of
this work, the author is supposed to have said: “I had to get
it out of my system.” This violent outburst, as from one who
has reached the end of his patience, this sudden need to shout
after so much reserve, is characteristic of the English tempera-
ment. In William Walton’s Belshazzafs Feast, we also find one
of these brutal and surprising eruptions. A critic said of this
cantata: “It is Walton’s great bulge.”
The ballet Job is as powerful as the Fourth Symphony. This
again is an act of revolt, a protest against what so often prevents
the English soul from crossing boundaries, against that innate
sense of propriety which brakes the most powerful impulses.
The Fifth Symphony was written in 1940, and develops on a
ränge of gentle and serene emotions.

William walton’s music is bright and frank. Portsmouth Point

is a rapid and spirited overture. The Viola Concerto develops
passionate ideas, and a youthful work, Fagade, partakes of Satie’s
and Stravinsky’s humor. Walton has also composed good film
music, like the Spitfire—Prelude and Fugue for the movie The
First of the Few, and a score for Henry V.

benjamin britten, born in 1913, is at present the most original

of the English composers. Gifted with rare animation, he has
arrived on the scene at a time when all the foreign influences
have been assimilated and a common language of our time is
being formed. He is attempting to extract by elimination some-
thing more essential from this international language, which is
threatening to create a uniform style. He has brought nothing
new to it, but has chosen the sonorous elements which best suit
his particular sensitivity, and has thus achieved extreme preci-
sion in characterizing his expression. In short, his case is com-
parable to Henri Sauguet’s. A great admirer of poetry, Britten
takes the nature of the English language as his point of depar-
ture to find his rhythms, melodic anflections, and vocalizations
Nationalist and Eclecticism
[Example 73z]. Hence it is not surprising that, like Poulenc and
Sauguet, his talent is best applied in vocal works. Britten is
as prolific as Milhaud and Hindemith, which implies that
his work has not been uniform in quality. Among his first
works, the collection of songs On This Island was inspired
by the noble expression of Purcell and Handel. Our Hunting
Fathers, a suite for soprano and orchestra based on old texts,
has a very distinct flavor. Humor and grandeur are joined
in a complex emotion admirably expressed in musical form.
More recently, Britten has put some of the poems from Rimbaud’s
Illuminations to music. Several of these poems are very impres-
sive. We should also draw attention to the lovely Serenade for
Tenor, Horn, and String Orchestra.
In 2945 Peter Grimes was first performed. This opera, com­
posed of a prologue and three acts, is a great experiment. The
idea came from reading a poem by George Crabbe entitled The
Borough. Crabbe teils of the life of a little fishing village on
the east coast of England. All the characters represented, who
belong to different classes of society, gravitate around the central
figure of the fisherman Peter Grimes, an enigmatic boy, morbidly
sadistic, and sometimes brutal, who is pictured in his isolation
rather as a victim of the village petite bourgeoisie. All the action
is enveloped in a sort of obstinate theme—the sea is everywhere.
Britten wrote the libretto for his opera from this poem. He
wanted to give the opera a character of its own, through inner
feelings, without alluding to folklore. He was partially successful.
All the lyric passages have the particular character desired. On
the other hand, the style of the more specifically dramatic por-
tions is not completely free of conventionality. The relationship
between the voices and the orchestra is not too different from
that established by Verdi in Otello. Britten uses simple orches­
tral techniques to create the atmosphere and avoids burdening
the drama. He concentrates primary interest on the voices. The
orchestra thus is deliberately held to a ränge of rather neutral
colors. It depicts that gray luminosity of the North Sea very well.
Example 134 shows how exact are the notations for creating the
atmosphere in Peter Grimes. The gentle swell of the sea is
expressed in a succession of diatonic thirds and a descent to the
perfect chord of the major, which is fleeting, however, because
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

the melodic design moves in the minor. This design recurs

repeatedly, and sets the scene, under the voices, before the action
has been specified. The second scene, with a superb arioso by
Peter Grimes and a round, a continuous canon in diabolical
rhythm, is perfect, as is the end of the last act in which Peter
Grimes’s ballad is sung with no orchestral support, while at
regulär intervals a tuba holds a long note to give the effect of a
foghorn. At such moments, the listener senses all the pull, all
the strength of Britten’s lyricism. We have the feeling that the
young composer will one day produce a masterpiece if he will
lay aside external action to seek expression in pure lyricism.
Because of his inclinations and independence, he Stands alone in
English music, and his is the most solidly developed talent.

Michael tippett is more traditional. But he follows the most

fruitful of traditions, that of Holst and Ralph Vaughan Wil­
liams. Tippett succeeded Holst as musical director at Morley
College, where he continues to teach and practice sixteenth-
century choral music. This music serves him as a model, or
rather, an exarnple, for the outlines of his own works. His
oratorio A Child of Our Time (1945) has excellent qualities.
The subject is the drama of the youth of our time, the despair
of youth in the face of mechanical civilization and horrifying
rivalry between nations.
The originality of this oratorio lies in the Substitution of a
Negro spiritual for the Protestant chorale. The choice was not
made in the interests of local color—the action takes place in
Europe. The composer considers the Negro spiritual as the song
of distress and hope of our time. The chorale was populär in
origin, and corresponded to a particular state of mind which no
longer exists today. The Negro spiritual is populär, as well, and
expresses the lielplessness of our soul in a world crushed under
material concerns. Recently, another young composer, Alan
Rawsthorne, has drawn notice with a sprightly Concerto for
Piano.

The Italian and English movements, in their search for a

national tradition, show obvious cohesion. Several musicians of
other countries deserve to be mentioned.
Nationalism and Eclecticism
Tibor Harsänyi (Hungarian), Marcel Mihalovici (Romanian),
Alexandre Tansman (Polish), and Bohuslav Martinü (Czech)
made up an amicable group between 1925 and 1939 under the
name of the Ecole de Paris. Martinü was the most interesting.
He was a prolific composer, and his writing is always serious in
quality. Martinü is the archetype of the modern composer who
uses a cosmopolitan language formed of the fusion of all the
Contemporary harmonic discoveries. Very adept and fluent, he is
also one of those musicians whose music one calls workmanlike.
But that is all we can say. Martinü is the Saint-Saens of Con­
temporary music.
Around 1920 the Catalan Federico Mompou published a
number of collections of piano pieces. His Cants Magics and
Suburbis have retained all their freshness. Oscar Esplä of Madrid
followed in the tradition of Albeniz and De Falla.
The Romanian Georges Enesco had considerable success with
his Oedipe, first performed at the Paris Opera.
In the Low Countries, Heink Badings has come under the
influence of Alban Berg, while Willem Pijper has been somewhat
swayed by all the great modern masters. Badings’s work has solid
qualities, as shown in his symphonies and interesting concertos,
as well as in some of his convincing dramatic works. Jean Absil of
Belgium was attracted by the virtuosity and arabesques of Ravel.
His Concerto pour Piano and Chants du Mort are good examples
of his fresh talent. Marcel Poot has written the pleasant and
successful Ouvertüre Joyeuse, Raymond Chevreuille is presently
the hope of Belgian music. His symphonies, concertos, and
quartets bear witness to deep and unpredictable emotions, and
he shows true mastery in expressing his ideas. Chevreuille is
more and better than a skillful musician; he has the gift of
poetry, and it is hard to understand why his work is so little
known outside of his native country. Evasions, a cantata for
soprano and orchestra, is full of mystery. It is one of his best
works. The Concerto pour Cor does not find its equal in any
other country, and his Symphonie des Souvenirs shows great
feeling. The new generation, notably Louis de Meester, David
van de Woestijne, Victor Legley, and Renier van der Velden,
is improving on the unfruitful romantic period, which, for
Belgium, was of little importance. Progress, in this case, has a
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

special meaning. It refers to an affirmation of autonomy which

was completely unknown to preceding generations.
In Switzerland, it will suffice to single out Conrad Beck, whose
symphony Innominata caused some stir; Willy Burkhard, whose
outstanding work to date is the oratorio Das Gesicht Yesaias, and
who is having difficulty throwing off the influence of Hindemith;
Frank Martin, who set passages of Bediers Tristan to music
under the title The Drugged Wine; and Jean Binet, who has
composed some pretty and at times exquisite rustic songs.
The fact that since 1939 many celebrated European composers
—among them Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Milhaud, Hindemith,
Kfenek, Martinü, Tansman, and Rieti—have been living in the
United States has helped American musicians develop a feeling
for composing. We have already discussed the nationalist trends
ruling the country. But in the United States, besides Ives,
Copland, Antheil, and Gruenberg, there are a great number of
more eclectic composers who can be divided into rightist and
Ieftist, or progressive and conservative, groups.
Among the experimental Stands Edgar Varese, French-born,
who has attempted curious effects in instrumental polyphony.
His Octandre is intriguing. John Cage is presently experiment-
ing with percussionist music based on the use of very small
intervals of undetermined notes, hoping to achieve by this
method a more radical solution to the problem posed by the use
of quarter-tones. Among the conservatives we find Ernest Bloch
(who left his native Switzerland long ago), Douglas Moore,
Samuel Barber, and Roy Harris. William Schuman has the most
developed sense of grandeur; actually, his symphonic works are
a little too spectacular. But his choruses A Free Song, a Holiday
Song are particularly free and youthful. The works of Walter
Piston and Roger Sessions are equally noteworthy.

The artists whose names have been mentioned in this rapid

enumeration are all what we would call sound musicians. The
only criticism we can make of their works is their lack of effec-
tive ränge, of communicating power, and the absence of neces-
sity—qualities which are innate in composers of the first rank.
CONCLUSION

THE STUDY which has been the object of this book shows that
musical production was abundant between 1910 and 1955. This
production is notable for high quality in writing and a remark­
able broadening of musical language, which allow us to rank
this period among the greatest in the history of music.
When such works as Pierrot Lunaire, Le Sacre du Printemps,
Parade, and Les Choephores were being published one after the
other, the world naturally spoke of the rupture with the past,
revolutionary art, and anarchy. This is what was said of Debussy
in the days of Pelleas; of Wagner, when Tristan appeared; of
Beethoven when his last quartets were first heard.
Actually, all the great composers of our time did no more than
develop in their own way the potential of musical language,
assist in its emancipation, and work for liberation of its elements
in Order to use them as they wished and according to their own
designs.
There were moments when the evolution developed step by
Step, slowly and peacefully. There were other moments when it
proceeded by abrupt leaps and bounds. These were generally
periods when artistic problems were caught up in the tide of
great social upheavals; at such times the world sees phenomena
analogous to what in biology are called mutations. We are living
in such a time.
If we make an inventory of the Contemporary body of works,
and if we ask ourselves which, in the final analysis, is the best
part, we are struck by the fact that since 1930 a good many
symphonies have been composed. But we could count on our
fingers those of sufficient beauty and originality to pass on to
posterity. Ours does not seem to be a period of symphonies. Our
composers seem to feel more at ease in handling free forms, in
389
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

which the individual may most clearly express his particular

message. This fact perhaps explains the importance given to
Symphonie ballet.
The best and purest part of Contemporary instrumental music
is chamber music, and especially string quartets and music for or-
chestras of solo instruments.
But it would certainly seem that our period has expressed
itself most fully in vocal music. The art song and folk song have
been particularly cultivated, as have the oratorio and cantata.
And in the same breath that opera is pronounced dead, we are
given Erwartung, Wozzeck, The Nightingale, Mathis der Maler,
Christophe Colomb, La Chartreuse de Parme, Peter Grimes, and
The Rake’s Progress—in short, a whole series of meritorious and
noteworthy works which are obviously not of just passing inter-
est, but all of which reappear periodically in theaters or concert
halls.

Need we mention “mechanical music/’ that novelty of our

time? With the introduction of radio, some composers thought
that special music should be written for that medium. Experi-
ence has shown the uselessness of such an undertaking. Music
which is good to the ear is good through the microphone. Be-
sides, broadcasting and receiving equipment is gradually being
perfected, and a time will come when sound can be transmitted
with no distortion or deformation.
The problem of sound tracks for films is different. Here it is
a question of creating music which is heard without dominating
the spoken text, which sets the atmosphere discreetly and
quickly. Little by little, movie producers are coming to under­
stand that for films of quality it is worth their while to seek out
good composers. The art of movie music is still' in its infancy.
Movies, plionographs, and radios are only electrical means of
reproducing sound. There also exist electrical apparatus for
producing sound. These are of more direct interest to composers.
At present, the only instrument in wide use is the electrical
instrument called the ondes Martenot. At present, it can pro-
duce seventy-five different timbres. This instrument enriches the
orchestra, and a number of composers, notably Honegger, Mil-
Conclusion
391
haud, Messiaen, and Jolivet, have had success in combining its
timbres with those of other instruments.
It is surprising to realize that the great interest taken in spe­
cific timbres, a result of the increasing importance of solo or­
chestra instruments, has not spurred composers to use new in­
struments. The Eh clarinet has indeed come into common usage;
the flute in G can be found in some scores. But practically no
use has been made of the magnificent bass oboe, also called the
Heckelphone, which fills out the family of oboes in the lower
registers. And although the bass clarinet is today a permanent
addition to the Symphonie orchestra, the contrabass clarinet has
not yet made its appearance, except in Schoenberg’s Five Pieces
for Orchestra, It emits a clear and expressive timbre in very low
registers which could make a considerable contribution to the
body of sound.
Percussion has been appreciably enriched as a result of the
influence of jazz, oriental music, and South American music.
And now, we might ask, after this Contemporary period, after
Stravinsky and Schoenberg, what will happen? Where will music
go? It will go where it is led by the fantasy and imagination of
those who have great enough genius to bring their vision to
bear. This will be very interesting to see, as it always has been
when music has started on an adventure. For one of the most
precious qualities of art is its diversity; its evolution, as a human
manifestation, never comes to a halt.
At the immediate moment, as we conclude this study, which
in principle should be restricted to the period between the
World Wars, new research is in progress. This time, it is correct
to use the word research in the strict scientific sense. Systematic
labors are in question here, undertaken by common consent by
artists and engineers for the purpose of discovering new means
of expression in technical methods of sound recording.
The first experimental undertaking was that of John Cage,
which we have already mentioned. In 1946 he presented Three
Dances for Prepared Piano at Carnegie Hall. He “prepared” the
pianos so that they were detimbred, relieved of their capacity
to make measured intervals heard, and transformed into percus­
sion instruments with very varied effects. Cage addressed himself
to the problem of the architecture of form without falling back
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

on either tonality or thematic development. On close examina-

tion of the question of the architecture of time, he succeeded,
he claims, “in separating the concepts of musical anatomy from
their psychological Union with the expressive contents.” Lou
Harrison, in presenting the Three Dances, teils us:
At first sight, his principle of architecture is faintly reminiscent of the
medieval mysticism of numbers. ... In principle, his idea of form is
simple, so simple that it is difficult to grasp. It involves only the pris-
matic use of temporal Schemas. For example, let us imagine a composer
who begins with an idea discovered spontaneously and continues for
ten measures. These ten measures are articulated in smaller groups.
Let us suppose that this idea can be subdivided into three groups:
four plus three plus three measures. Let us now take the square of the
idea—ten times ten. This number of measures will be chosen as the
length of the piece. Each phrase will therefore include the small sub-
divisions four-three-three, but the whole piece will have the same
proportions, the first section of the hundred measures thus being worth
four times ten, the second, three times ten, and the last, three times ten.
In this way, each phrase and all the sections will be articulated in the
same way, according to the same proportions, which will be audible in
their augmented form as well as in their diminished form. ... In non­
tonal music, this method allows for delicate proportioning of the
structural balance and, at the same time, for freedom of the poetic spirit
which could not be had in applying classic means of development to the
use of new material, percussive in nature.

Listcning to Cage’s pieces, a pleasure in places, facilitates the

understanding of this explanatory text, which is less theoretic
then it appears at first glance. The plan here is still entirely
preconceived. The music exists without psychological impulse.
In other words, this is an art in which the role of the intellect
reduces the role of inner life and the subconscious to a mini-
mum, and in which mathematical precision replaces the capri-
cious meanderings of human methods.
The concert of Cage’s dances took place in 1946. Hardly two
years later, in 1948, Pierre Schaeffer was caught up in the same
sort of experimentation. He enlisted the Services of Radiodiffu­
sion Fran^aise to try to reserve grooves or parts of grooves on
records and, by repeating, retarding, or accelerating them and
mixing them with other parts of grooves, to create sounds with
Conclusion
393
an entirely new timbre and dynamism. By combining them, he
invented musique concrete, so named because it is engendered
by concrete musical objects—the grooves of records. Contrary to
the preconceived schematizing of a composition which is John
Cage’s method, the composition of musique concrete is done
empirically, by experimentation or successive trials. At present,
the results are not very satisfactory. Hearing pieces thus com­
posed almost invariably makes the listener think of the concerts
of noise as conceived by the futurists prior to 1914, and such
pieces do not possess the musical traits which can be recognized
in John Cage’s work.
Serge Moreux defines the qualities of musique concrete in
these words:
The material of musique concrete is sound in its original state as
nature furnishes it, machines establish it, and handling transforms it.
Between these particles and their multiplication, there are no other
affective or acoustical relationships besides those which govem the
scattercd and twinkling physical universe. The space filled by musique
concrete is the space commanded by the machine and its by-products,
that world of vibrations, colors, and volumes unknown to our musician’s
ear as yet imprisoned by mechanisms. It is astonishing that a man should
have wanted to use that world to build works of the spirit. Despite the
numerous imperfections of these first attempts, the works impress on us
their own logic, their psyche bordering on our own, their dialectic
of chance. There was a Middle Ages of stone; it was sculptured. There
is a Middle Ages of waves: they are being captured.
There is no reason to be alarmed at experiments like Cage’s
and Schaeffer’s. Our post-World War II period has been com­
pletely dominated by mechanical, chemical, and electrical forces.
Our culture is no longer agricultural: it is urban. It is no longer
based on literary notions, but falls under the sign of the physical
sciences. Whether we want it or not, our thinking is being in-
creasingly affected by the scientific disciplines, whose formative
faculty is progressively replacing that of the old discipline of
letters.
Let us turn to a commentator, Rene de Obaldia: "We must
nonetheless point out here the exceptional degree of pathos and
tragedy which these first attempts involve us in. And for good
reason. Here we stand before the reproduction of that mechani-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

cal universe which has become ours and which gains more power
over us daily. Undcniablc evidcncc. The drama of our times is
etched on this honeyless wax.”
But beyond the drama inherent in every intellectual revolu-
tion, we will again strike a balance. Gaston Bachelard says,
“Having formed reason in the image of the world as its first
effort, the scientific spirit of today is beginning to construct a
world in the image of reason. Scientific activity is achieving
rational wholes in the full meaning of the words.“
There is nothing wrong with the principle of musique con­
crete. It is an outgrowth of the new scientific spirit that in great
measure represents our age. Everything depends on what will
be done with this principle, on the real or illusory capacity of
its application to insure the continuity of the function of music
—to be the relationship between the phenomenon of sound and
the listener who perceives it.
In his book Ä la Recherche d’une Musique Concrete (Paris,
1952), Pierre Schaeffer insists on the fact that “the concrete ex-
periment in music consists of building sonorous objects, not
with the play of numbers and seconds of the metronome, but
with pieces of time torn from the cosmos [these pieces of time
being grooves of records]. What is torn from time is done none-
theless with time, in giving form to time.“ Two recent works of
musique concrete, Symphonie pour un Homme Seul by Pierre
Schaeffer and Le Voile cl’Orphee by Pierre Henry, seem to indi-
cate that the proper domain of this art is drama.
In addition to the experiments in musique concrete, research
in electronic music has been carried on since 1950 at the Studios
of the Nord-West Deutsche Rundfunk in Cologne by Werner
Meyer-Eppler, Herbert Eimert, and Fritz Enkel. This research
does not involve instruments like Trautwein’s mojiochord or the
wave instruments of Thcremin or Martenot. The aim of the
work undertaken in Cologne is to furnish composers with
sounds produced by electronic instruments. It is the composer’s
task to arrangc and coordinate these sounds harmoniously. Elec­
tronic music is not played by instrumentalists, it is not produced
before a microphone (except for radio transmission), and no
method of writing could actually be used to put it down in
notation. Contrary to musique concrete, which works with the
Conclusion 395
microphone, electronic music uses exclusively sounds of electro-
acoustical origin. The sound, produced by a generating appara-
tus, is placed on a magnetic tape. The composer creates his music
by simultaneously manipulating a number of tapes, each carry-
ing a given sound. A whole new world is disclosed. Herbert
Eimert observes:
The timbre of the sounds thus produced, which are rieh in harmonics,
can be modified due to electrica! filtering networks. Fundamentals,
upper partials, or whole bands of frequencies can be muffled or fully
sounded at will. In this way, the timbre of the sounds becomes an
element that can be shaped freely. By the same procedures, a noise made
by a noise-generator, spread throughout the ränge of audibility (white
sound), will be transformed into “colored” sounds. The approach can
be changed, witfiin large limits, with the help of a tape recorder
equipped with a constantly variable ränge of speeds. With an electronic
Controlling mechanism, the sonorous process can be rhythmically trans­
formed as desired, with no need for manual skill. In the same way,
resonances of very long duration can be created synthetically. To com-
pose a work, a musician would use an Installation of tape recorders
which would allow for simultaneous recording of a number of voices,
independently of each other. . . . The Vibration of the electrons produces
a quantity of sounds that is impossible to master, from the simplest
sound to the most fantastic formations. Selecting, arranging, and
working them into a composition, to show the superiority of the
Muses over technique, is the task of electronic music.

The first attempts at composing electronic music naturally

still sound like experimental research, since this was a totally
unknown domain until recently. This is true of pieces like Klang
in unbegrenztem Raum and Ostinato-Figuren und -Rythmen,
composed by Herbert Eimert and Robert Beyer. Young com­
posers of talent are now taking up the composition of electronic
music. Among them are Karlheinz Stockhausen, who has already
created some stir with works of very new spirit and imaginative
form, Kreuzspiel and Nr. I Kontrapunkte, and Karel Goeyvaerts,
trained in the schools of Messiaen and Milhaud, who has dis-
carded all other forms of composition to write only electronic
music.
Some worthy people have taken alarm at the trends Con­
temporary music is following—Stravinsky’s objectivity, atonality
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

and dodecaphonism, musique concrete, and electronic music.

Ernest Ansermet notes that Stravinsky introduced a new attitude
of the composer toward his music, according to which the com­
poser separates his own interior life from the musical object he
is creating. In 1948, Ansermet wrote:
Judging by their behavior, it is impossible to say whether composers
no longer know how to proceed, or whether they no longer know what
to do or how to do it. Creative action has lost its sense of necessity. So
they invent. They set up a working hypothesis for themselves, and every­
thing produced between the two World Wars is an immense aspiration
to music, a desperate search, by way of the unauthentic, for lost time.
The composer devotes himself less to a work to be done than to a new
way of doing it, a new technique, a new type of object, resulting in
that rapid succession of unprecedented, if not absurd, forms which
have so disconcerted the public and which no longer correspond to
aesthetic projects but to fads... .
When its incentive has disappeared, art can give its dicta no sub-
stantiality other than dogmatism and formalism. This is the Orienta­
tion of most aesthetic Systems today, and it is also the Orientation of the
two most striking creative movements of these times, that of Schoen­
berg and that of Stravinsky.

Such Statements, from an artist who has spent most of his

career defending Contemporary art, are not to be taken lightly.
They contain some truth. But we must add that, in our opinion,
the current state in the evolution of music is not voluntary, and
that, if there are fads, they always correspond to deep needs.
We have mentioned the stränge fact that although many sym­
phonies have been composed by Contemporary musicians, there
is not one of lasting significance. They are performed or heard
once, they are found to be interesting and well written, and
then they are forgotten. We must realize that the sonata and the
Symphonie spirit as they were understood a Century ago de-
cidedly belong in the past, and that it is useless to regret their
passing or prolong their existence in the midst of modern com­
positions. Neither one nor the other can serve any longer as the
framework for expressing modern sensibilities and conscience.
The sonata and the symphony were appropriate for a hundred
and fifty years. Used by us, they are not appropriate. They are a
travesty.
 Conclusion
397
The drama of our time lies in the fact that we have not yet
found a means of replacing them with other forms. It is too early
for a new classicism to take root. All classicism, to develop, needs
a calm, stable time. For forty years, the world has lived in eco-
nomic, political, and spiritual chaos. Numberless and contra-
dictory hypotheses are proposed daily in every domain. None
can predominate, for none represents a sufficiently large and
general body of facts. The positive or physical sciences alone
continue to develop in a coordinated and irrefutable way. It is
therefore not surprising that the physical sciences, more than
arts and letters, have taken the responsibility for forming mod­
ern culture. The concepts we form of life and the universe are
infinitely better expressed by the structure of the atom and re-
flections onjnatter and energy than by works of art.
The latter, as Ansermet correctly states, have lost their sense
of necessity, and have not at present succeeded in conceiving
forms suited to the greatest spiritual revolution since the in­
vention of writing.
In the process of an evolution which began in the thirteenth
Century and is now ending, music has progressively moved away
from its natural function. It has gradually become involved in
formalism, which has ended by submerging music at the moment
when it no longer expressed the human, but only the man who
was writing it. We say writing instead of composing because
without writing, without notation, exaggerated formalism would
have been impossible.
The immeasurable importance of the concern with form on
the one hand and anarchy on the other has muddled under-
standing of physical, biological, and psychological realities of
music because tonal functions have been denied and the natural
limits of auditory and cerebral perception have been forgotten.
The composer, whose work represents himself alone, has lost
all sense of responsibility. This is the state we are now in, due
to an excess of individualism and the incapacity of music to
keep up with the demand for new means of expression created
by great and rapid transformations of cultural bases.
Individualism is a consequence of the cultural state we are
now abandoning. Concerning the new forms which must be
found, we should give credit to the young composers. We have
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

no right at this moment to ignore the progress, such as it may

be, toward the discovery of new foundations for music and the
restoration of its natural function.
Young composers are eagerly taking up the marvelously rieh
and diverse sounds furnished by electronic music and new and
yet unknown techniques. They are fumbling, not yet knowing
how to use the new potentials and the new attitude suggested
by our times. They find themselves in exaetly the same Situation
as primitive people discovering for the first time that a cord
stretched by a bow vibrates and makes sounds, and that a gourd,
a hole in the ground, or a cavity in the cheek can modulate
sound.
Primitivism, of course. This did not prevent the musical bow
from being the basis of the development of music, nor did it
prevent the delight taken in the sounds it makes from leading
rapidly to the use of these sounds for signaling, identification,
and then magic and religion. The analogy between absolute
primitiveness and our modern version, if not carried to the ex­
treme, is so obvious that in itself it explains the passionate
interest many young people take in the native music of peoples
all over the world, in that music not written but recorded which
is functional and has so remained since its first utterance. The
study of its nature has now become part of our music education,
and will help us rediscover the function of communication,
temporarily lost, which new music must possess.
And yet we must not lose sight of the present cultural Situation.
Modern music that is truly representative of its time is not and
cannot be the same in different parts of the world. Even within a
single culturally homogeneous area, there will be different paths
because many complexes of ideas and expression can coexist. In
Western Europe, for exarnple, there are at present two distinct
cultural currents.26
One of these currents follows the values that have been the
basis of society for the last seven or eight thousand years: the
values of agricultural peoples, whose musicians and poets even
today sing of roses, nightingales, spring, and summer. Their con-
26. By culture we mean the behavior of the individual in a specific
society.
Conclusion
399
ception of time is patterned on the movement of the sun, and
their rhythms obey the pulsations of nature.
The other current, of recent origin, represents the urban and
industrial culture which is still in the process of forming. For
city people, who know nothing of the country except what they
read in books, whistles and automobile horns replace the murmur
of the woods and the water. A curve to them is an asphalt road;
their rhythms translate rows of mercury lamps and the flickering
of neon lights. Their sense of time does not reflect the passage of
the seasons but rather the speed of automobiles and airplanes.
Caught in a metallic frenzy, the industrialized man is under Con­
stant and intense pressure. Interior tranquillity and meditation
are forbidden to him. If this man is a musician, he will think like
Stockhausen or Boulez; it is natural for him to seek new means
of sonorous expression through electronics in order to represent
a cultural condition humanity has never before experienced.
Good-by, clarinet, good-by, violin; sing of roses and grassy trails.
Our life is a dance in the cement streets, the smell of gasoline,
and masses of people. We need other sounds to clothe our dreams.
Le Marteau sans Maitre is representative of this new culture.
In another direction, so are La Symphonie pour un Homme Seul
and Le Voile d’Orphee. In the one the electronic music (and re-
lated types) and the musique concrete in the others have arisen
from the same modern phenomenon, though their means of ex­
pression are different.
Let us therefore be sympathetic to the work of Stockhausen,
Boulez, and Nono, and to that of Pierre Schaeffer and Pierre
Henry. But let us avoid the common mistake of thinking that
theirs is the only path possible. There are still and there will
always be people who have nothing to do with city life and who
are not subjects of the industrial empire. We can even say that the
great majority of men are not touched by the painful tensions of
our machine age. Their daily reality is still composed of blossom-
ing apple trees and nocturnal calm. And they too have the right
to express themselves, and their music has nothing in common
with the works that teil of our new anxiety. Their calm is a bless-
ing, as we know from Boris Blacher’s lovely Zweites Konzert für
Klavier und Orchester, Op. 42, Werner Egk’s Sonata for Orches-
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

tra, and the delightful a cappella composition Mörike Chorlieder­

buch, Op. 19, by Hugo Distler, dead before his time. They de-
serve our gratitude for their fresh spontaneity and their purity of
soul.
 MUSICAL EXAMPLES

EXAMPLE 1
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EXAMPLE 2

EXAMPLE 3
EXAMPLE 4

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EXAMPLE 13
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EXAMPLE 43
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 APPENDIX

MODERN MUSIC AND LYRIC THEATER

during the Festival of Music in the Twentieth Century, which

took place in Rome in 1954, a seminar was held on opera, pres­
ent and future. On the basis of a study presented by Henri
Sauguet, a discussion developed between music critics, theater
directors, and composers of the most diverse inclinations. Par-
ticipating in this seminar, we introduced some ideas we had
already brought up at the Florence Congress of Music in 1937.
Contrary to the widely held opinion, it seems that opera is
not a form of musical thought belonging to the past with no
place in today’s culture. Many Contemporary composers write
operas, or want to write them. There are some very beautiful
twentieth-century lyric works whose musical worth has been
recognized. But they are better known through published scores,
concert performances, and recordings than through their infre­
quent stage performances.
There are many indications that composers and theatrical
directors are not adapting to the exigencies of our times. Mod­
ern opera poses an important problem that needs elucidating.
During the nineteenth Century, lyric theaters gave perform­
ances every evening. The works in the repertory were intended
only to entertain and to provide material for beautiful voices.
They did not inspire the spectators to profound reflection. The
opera or operetta gave them a more or less agreeable evening's
diversion. Text and music were conceived so that the general
public could understand and appreciate them; composers held
in mind the fact that the average cultural level of a population
was not very high.
The social role of the opera in the nineteenth Century was
taken over in the twentieth by the movies, which have the ad-
vantage of offering a more captivating visual aspect than opera.
401
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

Besidcs, music is not of primary importancc to the public at

large.
Since Wagner, lyric theater has tended to adopt forms bearing
deeper meaning. It expresses certain mental attitudes, certain
conceptions of life and the world. It requires sustained attention
from the listener and a capacity for understanding and rapid
adaptability which are found only in limited circles of highly
cultivated people. Because of its new significance, modern opera
has become an exceptional thing, a festival performance. It is
not suitable for daily fare, and cannot be incorporated into cur­
rent repertories, which are aimed at entertaining the masses.
The most noble works of the modern lyric theater, staged in the
largest cities, attract only the elite. They can only be performed
three or four times, and cannot be revived for a number of
years. Such is the case with the Ring der Nibelungen, Elektra,
Pelleas et Melisande, Penelope, Love for Three Oranges, Woz­
zeck, Christophe Colomb, Cardillac, La Chartreuse de Parme,
and Padmävati.
The expense incurred in presenting these grand operas is too
great in relation to the uncertainty of a reasonable return. Al­
most always, the director of a theater will present such a work
knowing that he will lose money. If he does decide to produce
the work, he does so out of artistic persuasion and because he
knows that it will bring his theater prestige.
Given the fact that in a single city the public is not large
enough to allow a sufficient number of performances to cover
expenses, and that from another point of view the success of a
fine modern work is no less real or deserved because it has had
a short run in a single city, the problem consists of finding a
1 arger audience by sending a worthwhile production, created in
a given theater, on tour to a number of cities. This problem can
be resolved if authors, composers, producers, and theater direc-
tors agree to follow certain basic rules.
Artists who want to address and be understood by the public
of different countries with different languages, different concepts
of life and cultural values, and varying tastes and customs, must
meet certain unavoidable requirements. We outline them below
in schematic summary as we think they should be distinguished:
Appendix: Modern Music and Lyric Theater 403
1] The subject must be of sufficiently broad human interest
to affect the most diverse groups. Wozzeck is a good subject, be­
cause it corresponds to an experience most people have had.
Lulu is too specialized, too individual. Les Malheurs d’Orphee,
Antigone, Elektra, Christophe Colomb, and Peter Grimes are
good subjects. Maximilien is not, because it includes too many
elements of local history.
2] Artists should avoid burdening the music with too much
textual material. The text, difficult enough to grasp in its coun-
try of origin, becomes practically incomprehensible in countries
where other languages are spoken. Excessive text is, moreover,
almost always the result of a poor choice of subject, and comes
from the need to give explanations. Narration does not suit
opera.
3] The plot should avoid complications, episodes, and diver-
sions. These belong in spoken theater. The development of the
music is too slow to keep pace with the complicated action. An
overly detailed plot is boring in lyric theater, because it in-
evitably causes the music to stagnate. Attention should be drawn
to well-centralized, simple action, and should at no time be dis-
tracted from the more broadly human plane. This condition is
indispensable for making the musical-dramatic intention clear.
4] For the same reasons, and as a consequence, the music
should avoid recitatives, above all the continuous recitative
which has replaced the melodic line, in a good many musically
interesting works. It is improper to Camouflage a continuous
recitative under the name of continuous melody in order to
satisfy this principle. The melody is a very specific musical form
with distinct limits in time and a characteristic structure. The
sinuousness of its line differs essentially from that of the recita­
tive, which is mortally tedious if it is prolonged because it be­
comes monotonous and lacks character in its e ivery.
melody must be restored to primacy. True melody moreove ,
can be engendered by dodecaphonic language as well as by dia
tonic language.
A HISTORY OF MODERN MUSIC

5] Since the opera must be able to travel and maintain its high
quality, a simple, solid decor should be created which will adapt
to any stage, even that of a concert hall. This planning of decor
should have as its counterpart a careful study of the perform-
ances of the actor-singers. The movies have taught us to be in­
tolerant of bad actors or stereotyped direction. The traveling
opera should take advantage of the chamber orchestra, which
would be confined to its normal role, the accompaniment of
song.
6] There does exist a possibility of creating a form of modern
opera, representative of our times and capable of interesting a
cultivated public in many areas. Suppose that at a given mo­
ment four or five theaters have the means of showing, each for
its own gain, a modern creation of quality, with a good expecta-
tion of retums. It would seem that they could come to an agree-
ment on exchanging these spectacles. Each city would therefore
have an opportunity to see and hear a series of four or five
modern works, which would be the subject of a special sub-
scription and would be launched with the publicity such an
effort merits.

In principle, the establishment of a project for an itinerant

lyric theater festival is not utopian. But there are difficulties to
surmount. First, the choice of works: it is obvious that success
can be anticipated only for an extremely limited selection, ex-
cluding any influence of friendship, national sentiment, or pri­
vate interests. Quality alone must be the sole criterion. There
can be 110 question of tolerating works which are mediocre or
purely experimental in character. And even with every precau-
tion taken as to the quality of the works chosen and their pro-
duction, there no less remains the fact that certain types of
expression and certain styles may be disqualified because they
would not be understood by foreign audiences. Even in the most
cultivated groups, not everyone has the flexibility to adapt
quickly and easily to aspects of thought foreign to the character
of his own culture.
There is as well the question of languages. Some countries
Appendix: Modern Music and Lyric Theater 405
and some audiences like works to be presented in their original
language, while others require translation into their own tongue.

The problems concerning the life of opera in the twentieth

Century are numerous. But the difficulties they present are not
insurmountable. The question is one that deserves attention and
discussion.
INDEX

Absil, Jean, 44, 387 Bantock, Granville, 43, 382

Achard, Marcel, 272 Barber, Samuel, 45, 388
Adler, Guido, 88 Barraud, Henri, 44, 276
Acschylus, 251, 260, 262 Bartok, Bela, 18, 43, 46, 51, 52, 54, 55,
Afanasiev, F. N., 144 57» 239, 258, 311, 315, 332, 338, 340,
Alarcön, Pedro de, 356 343’53» 355’ 358, 360, 364
Alain-Fournier, 142 Bathori, Jeannc, 218
Alton iz, Isaac, 43, 338, 340, 355, 387 Baudelaire, Charles, 94, 105, 109-10
Alexander I, 130 Baudrier, Yves, 277 n
Alfano, Franco, 43, 46, 52, 377-8 Bax, Arnold, 43, 382
Allais, Alphonse, 203 Beck, Conrad, 44, 388
Altenberg, Peter, 95 Bedier, Charles M. J., 388
Andersen, Hans Christian, 117, 120, Beethoven, Ludwig van, 15, 61, 230,
295 238’ 239, 241, 265, 289, 298, 308, 310,
Angelico, Fra, 222, 223 328, 345. 347, 349> 35«. 381, 389
Ansermet, Ernest, 120, 396, 397 Belyacv, Mitrofan Petrovich, 131
Antheil, George, 44, 366, 367, 388 o-Bcrg, Alban, 14, 18, 44, 45, 53, 55, 57,
Apollinaire, Guillaume, 213, 257, 266, 58, 62, 75, 80, 87, 88, (^2-106, (109-14,]
267-9, 271 185, 189, 277, 278, 301, 302, 312, 327,
Aquinas, St. Thomas, 163, 164 33!'2, 347’ 355» 375’ 387
Aragon, Louis, 267, 270 Berlin, Irving, 44, 364
Arne, Thomas A., 381 Berlioz, Hector, 61, 131, 160, 164, 198,
Aubert, Louis, 188 232, 248, 255, 304, 308
Auric, Georges, 44, 47, 48, 50, 51, 52, Bernanos, Georges, 271
118, 179, 213, 218, 221, 224-7, 23°> Berners, Lord, 43, 382-3
265-6, 271-2, 276-7, 334, 380 Beyer, Robert, 395
Auriol, Georges, 203 Binet, Jean, 388
Bizct, Georges, 255
Blacher, Boris, 44, 399
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 12, 13, 14, 15, Blake, William, 242
53, 59, 68, 85, 88, 112, 114, 121, 123, Bliss, Arthur, 44, 382-3
125, 129, 132, 133, 151, 154, 155, 181, Bloch, Ernest, 43, 388
199, 230-1, 241, 308, 309, 310, 315, Boelza, Egor, 303
353 Bois, Jules, 205
Bach, Karl Philipp Emanuel, 13, 59, Borodin, Alexander, 130, 300
60, 126 Bosch, Hieronymus, 97
Bachelard, Gaston, 393 Botticelli, Sandro, 222, 223
Badings, Henk, 44, 387 Boulanger, Lili, 44, 200
Balakirev, Mili Aleksecvich, 130 Boulez, Pierre, 45, 4S, 114, 283, 399
Baianchine, George, 299 Boyce, William, 381

4°7
Index
Brahms, Johannes, 61, 157, 308, 310, Claudius, Hermann, 94
313» 347» 35°» 381 Clementi, Muzio, 379
Braque, Georges, 118, 213, 214, 267, Cliquet-Pleyel, Henri, 273
268 Cocteau, Jean, 51, 143, 145, 201, 205,
Brecht, Bertolt, 328 212, 213-15, 216, 217, 218-20, 224-6,
Bresgen, Cesar, 45, 335 240, 244, 260, 261, 262, 266, 267, 365
Bridge, Frank, 43, 382 Colette, Gabrielle, 176
Brimont, Baroness de, 170 Collet, Henri, 224
Britten, Benjamin, 45, 47, 275, 375, Columbus, Christopher, 253, 255
382, 384-6 Copland, Aaron, 44, 47, 366, 367,
Bruch, Max, 377 388
Bruckner, Anton, 43, 61, 308 Cortot, Alfred, 126, 204, 211
Büchner, Georg, 94, 97, 98, 100 Coster, Charles de, 371
Bull, John, 382 Couperin, Francois, 159, 161, 163, 164,
Burkhard, Willy, 44, 388 212, 228, 268
Busoni, Ferruccio, 44, 45, 50, 83, 308- Cousin, Victor, 221
12, 317» 33G 370, 377 Crabbe, George, 385
Byrd, William, 382 Cranach, Lucas, 97
Byron, George Gordon, Lord, 130

Cabezön, Antonio de, 354 Dali, Salvador, 268

Cage, John, 45, 57, 388, 391-3 Dallapiccola, Luigi, 44, 47, 54, 57, 87,
Caplet, Andre, 43, 46, 171, 188-9 114» 374-6» 380, 381
Cartan, Jean, 276 Dantelou, Jean, 145
Carter, Elliott, 45, 367 D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 378
Casella, Alfredo, 43, 46, 50, 377, 378-80 Dargomyzhski, Aleksandr, 131
Catherine de Medicis, 225 Daumier, Honor£, 269
Catullus, 336 Debussy, Claude, 12, 13, 14, 15, 43, 45,
Cendrars, Blaise, 218, 244 49» 77» 6°» 99» 1O2» n®» 121» 126» 127,
Cervantes, Miguel de, 356, 357 !37» J45’ 156» *59» 162, 163, 164, 165-
C£zanne, Paul, 129, 148, 201, 369 9, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 178, 179,
Chabrier, Emmanuel, 43, 161, 166, 173, 188, 189, 192, 194, 201, 202, 203, 204,
201, 203, 208, 269 205, 206, 207, 208, 211, 212, 217-18,
Chaliapin, Feodor, 118 220, 225, 234, 235, 241, 248, 276, 278,
Chalupt, Ren6, 242, 272 343. 344. 345. 355. 377. 379" 382. 389
Chandler, Theodore Ward, 44 Delage, Maurice, 43, 46, 50, 165, 166,
Chaplin, Charlie, 187, 209, 215, 247 174, 189-90, 230
Chävez, Carlos, 44, 47, 338, 340, 360, Delgrange, F£lix, 217
362-3 Delius, Frederick, 43, 382
Chekhov, Anton, 274 Delvincourt, Claude, 166
Chönier, Andre, 130 Derain, Andrd, 118, 214
Chevalier, Maurice, 269, 271 Dcscombes, 202 *
Chevillard, Camille, 225 Däsormi£re, Roger, 273
Chevrcuillc, Raymond, 44, 47, 387 Des Prds, Josquin, 330
Chopin, Frdddric, 83, 168, 266, 271, Diaghilev, Sergei, 49, 118-19, 120-1,
308, 309, 355, 369 131, 132, 143, 173, 174, 175, 212, 213,
Ciconia, Johannes, 153, 154 271, 272, 292, 357, 379, 383
Ciry, Michel, 45 Dille, Denijs, 347
Clair, Renö, 227 Distler, Hugo, 45, 400
Claudel, Paul, 162, 218, 233, 242-3, Dohnänyi, Ernö, 43, 342-3
244, 245 n, 246, 248, 251, 252, 260, Donatello, 123
261, 262 Donnay, Maurice, 203
Index
4°9
Dostoevsky, Fedor, 99, 130, 295, 296, Gallon, Jean, 278
301, 34i Gallon, Noel, 278
Dowland, John, 382 Gauguin, Paul, 201, 361
Dufay, Guillaume, 149, 160, 330 Gay, John, 328
Dufy, Raoul, 214 Gedalge, Andre, 180, 183, 190, 235, 255
Dujardin, Edouard, 268 George, Stefan, 63, 76, 77, 79, 90
Dukas, Paul, 43, 45, 49, 98, 101, 138, Gershwin, George, 44, 365
164, 194, 201, 209, 211, 230, 278 Gesualdo, Carlo, 151, 154
Dullin, Charles, 260 Ghedini, Giorgio Federico, 44, 46, 380
Dunstable, John, 330 Gheon, Henri, 188
Duparc, Marie, 230 Gibbons, Orlando, 382
Dupr£, Marcel, 278 Gide, Andre, 121, 165, 242, 286-7
Dürer, Albrecht, 97 Gilbert, William S., 381
Durey, Louis, 44, 218, 224-6 Giono, Jean, 232-3
Dutilleux, Henri, 45, 283 Giotto, 376
Dvofäk, Anton(in), 43, 338, 339, 365, Giraud, Albert, 63, 82
381 Glazunov, Aleksandr, 131, 291
Dzerzhinsky, Ivan, 45, 291, 307 Glebov, Ivor (Boris Asafyev), 291
Gleizes, Albert, 240
Egk, Werner, 44, 54, 334-5, 399 Gli£re, Reinhold, 43, 284-5, 291
Eisler, Hanns, 44 Glinka, Mikhail, 130, 131-2, 300
Eimert, Herbert, 394, 395 Gluck, Christoph, 159
El Greco, 148 Göcking, 94
Elgar, Edward, 43, 381-2 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 122
Eluard, Paul, 267, 268, 269-70 Goeyvaerts, Karel, 45, 48, 395
Emmanuel, Maurice, 183 Gogol, Nikolai, 298
Encina, Juan del, 354 Goldbeck, Frederick, 70-1, 88, 89
Enesco, Georges, 43, 46, 387 Goossens, Eugene, 44, 382
Enkel, Fritz, 394 Gorky, Maxim, 99, 109
Esplä, Oscar, 44, 358 n, 387 Gotovac, Jakov, 44
Gounod, Charles, 132
Fabre, Jean Henri, 193 Goya, Francisco de, 240, 269
Falla, Manuel de, 43, 46, 52, 53, 338, Gozzi, Carlo, 295, 311
339. 340, 354’8. 359, 360, 363, 364, Graeff, A. de, 374
387 Granados, Enrique, 43
Fargue, Leon Paul, 212 Grimaud, Yvette, 283
Faurö, Gabriel, 43, 49, 52, 156, 160, Grosz, George, 97, 10g
161, 163, 164, 167, 169-71, 174, 178, Gruenberg, Louis, 44, 365, 388
180, 188, 190, 199, 200, 201, 248 Grünewald, Matthias, 318
Five, the (Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsa­ Guichard, Löon, 211
kov, Mussorgsky, Borodin, and C6- Guilmant, Felix, 202
sar Cui), 12, 115, 130, 131, 224 Guärnieri, Camargo, 45
Fleischer, Herbert, 116
Focillon, Henry, 148 Häba, Alois, 44, 46, 54, 57, 329-31, 367
Fokine, Michel, 118, 299 Halffter, Ernesto, 44, 359
Fombeure, Maurice, 269 Halffter, Rodolfo, 44, 359
Fortner, Wolfgang, 45 Handel, George Frederick, 14, 129,
Foss, Lukas, 45 132, 230-1, 256, 317, 385
Fran^aix, Jean, 45, 47, 265, 275-6 Handy, William Christopher, 43, 364
Franck, Cesar, 308, 365 Hanslick, Eduard, 293
Frescobaldi, Girolamo, 85, 115, 151 Harris, Roy, 44, 388
Frobenius, Leo, 370 Harrison, Lou, 392
Index
Harsänyi, Tibor, 44, 387 Kabalevsky, Dmitri, 44, 291, 307
Harsänyi, Zsolt, 344 Kafka, Franz, 381
Hartlcbcn, Otto Erich, 82 Khachaturian, Aram, 44, 291, 307
Hartmann, Karl Amadeus, 44, 337 Kipling, Rudyard, 186
Hauer, Josef, 43, 45 Klebe, Giselher, 45
Haydn, Franz Joseph, 163, 230-1, 239 Kleiber, Erich, 252
Henry, Pierre, 394, 399 Knippcr, Lev, 44, 291, 307
Henze, Hans Werner, 45, 337 Kodäly, Zoltän, 43, 46, 338, 340, 343-5,
Hcrmant, Abel, 198 355
Hcrschcr-Cläment, Jeanne, 187 Kcechlin, Charles, 43, 45, 46, 48, 51,
Hessenberg, Kurt, 45 55-6, 150, 163, 165, 166, 167, 171,
Hindemith, Paul, 44, 45, 48, 51, 52, 178, 180-8, 191, 199, 204, 210, 211,
53« 54« 55-6» 76« 94» 257, 293, 216, 230, 277 n, 383
311, 312-26, 327-8, 332, 334, 335, Konus, 293
336> 337» 364» 371« 385» 388 Kokoschka, Oskar, 81, 97
Hitler, Adolf, 332 Kolinski, Micrcyslaw, 369
Hocräe, Arthur, 193, 195 Kraus, Karl, 89, 94
Holst, Gustav, 43, 46, 382, 384 Krein, Alexander, 43, 307
Homer, 232 Krcnek, Emst, 44, 47, 52, 75, 156-7,
Honegger, Arthur, 44, 46, 51, 52, 54, 3°L 327> 388
128-9, 176, 180, 183, 198, 218, 221, Kullakovsky, L., 290-1
224-7, 230, 231, 235, 255-65, 276, Kurth, Emst, 291
292, 390
Hugo, Jean-Victor, 226 Lacretellc, Jacques de, 268
Hugo, Victor, 120 Lagut, Iräne, 226
Lajtha, Läszlö, 44
Ibert, Jacques, 44, 166, 277 Laloy, Louis, 143, 194, 217
Indy, Vincent d’, 43, 166, 172, 188, 190, Lambert, Constant, 44, 382-3
194» 255» 379 Landormy, Paul, 159, 190, 272, 278
Ingres, Dominique, 132, 206 Lassus, Roland de, 15, 123, 359
Ippolitov-Ivanov, Mikhail, 291 Latil, Leo, 242
Ireland, John, 43, 382 Laurencin, Marie, 213, 214, 271, 272
Isabella II (the Catholic), 253, 255 Lavignac, Albert, 202
Ives, Charles, 43, 366-7, 388 Läger, Fernand, 214
Legley, Victor, 387
Jacob, Max, 267, 269, 274 Leibowitz, Rene, 276
Jacob, Maxime, 273 Le Jeune, Claude, 160, 167, 270
James, Edward, 270 Lenin, Nikolai, 291
Jammcs, Francis, 233, 242, 244, 246, Läonin, 162
248 Lcrbcrghe, Charles van, 170
Janääck, LcoS, 43, 331, 338, 340-2, 353 Le Roux, Maurice, 45, 283
Janequin, Clömcnt, 161 Lesagc, Alain-Renä, 276
Jarry, Alfred, 267, 276 n Lcskov, Nikolai, 298
Javorski, 291 Lcsur, Daniel, 277 n
Jcmnitz, Alexander, 44 L’Hcrmite, Tristan, 167
Jeune France (Baudricr, Lcsur, Joli- Liadov, Anatoli, 126, 285, 292
vet, and Messiaen), 277 n Liapunov, Sergei, 126-7
John (the Evangelist), 279 Liebermann, Rolf, 45
Jolivct, Andrd, 44, 277 n, 278, 283, 391 Liszt, Franz, 13, 83, 121, 131, 308, 309
Jörgcnscn, Johannes, 145 Lorenzo de’ Medici (the Magnificent),
Jouy, 203 374» 379
Juarcz, Benito, 362 Louis XIV, 12
Index 4™
Lourid, Arthur, 116 221, 224-6, 23O, 231-9, 241-52, 254-5,
Lully, Jean Baptiste, 46, 129, 160, 230 256> 257, 260, 261, 262, 276, 277 n,
Lunel, Armand, 244, 249, 274 278, 283, 293, 311, 313, 315, 319, 331-
2, 334. 336, 338> 364> 365> 37°> 375*
Machaut, Guillaume de, 149, 150, 154, 38o, 385» 388, 390-1, 395
160, 164 Milhaud, Madeleine, 244
Maderna, Bruno, 45, 48, 381 Milton, John, 373
Maeterlinck, Maurice, 79, 117, 193 Moliere (Jean Baptiste Poquelin), 272
Mahler, Gustav, 12, 43, 60-2, 75, 79, Mompou, Federico, 44, 387
83» 88, 95, 112, 139-40, 298, 303, 304 Monet, Claude, 77, 165, 201
Malipiero, Gian Francesco, 43, 46, 51, Montaigne, Michel de, 159, 161, 163
52. 54> 57> 377- 378-9 Monteverdi, Claudio, 15, 242, 298, 378,
Mallarmd, Stephane, 129, 201, 242, 248, 380
268 Moore, Douglas, 44, 388
Malraux, Andrd, 148 Morax, Rend, 256
Marcello, Benedetto, 149 Moreux, Serge, 393
Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 95 Morley, Thomas, 382
Markevich, Igor, 45, 54, 371-4, 376 Mossolov, Alexander, 44, 292
Martenot, Maurice, 278, 394 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 15, 60,
Martin, Frank, 44, 388 123, 130, 133, 148, 149, 150, 163, 177,
Martinet, Jean Louis, 45, 283 230-1, 232, 239, 265, 298, 308, 311,
Martinü, Bohuslav, 44, 46, 55, 387, 388 312, 317
Martucci, Giuseppe, 377 Muller, Daniel, 342
Marx, Joseph, 43 Müsset, Alfred de, 274
Massenet, Jules, 180, 334 Mussorgsky, Modest, 43, 127, 174, 270,
Massine, Ldonide, 121, 213, 299, 357 278, 289, 299, 300
Mathias, Georges, 203
Matisse, Henri, 214 Nicholas I, 130
Mayer-Serra, Otto, 363 n Nietzsche, Friedrich, 127
Mayol, Fdlix, 224 Nigg, Sergei, 45, 276
Medtner, Nikolai, 43, 284-5, 294 Nijinsky, Waslaw, 118, 213
Meester, Louis de, 387 Nikolaiev, Leonid, 297
Meilhac, Henri, 228-9 Nino, 198
Meituss, 292 Nono, Luigi, 45, 48, 381, 399
Melville, Herman, 380 Nouveaux Jeunes (Auric, Durey, Ho­
Memling, Hans, 88 negger, Milhaud, Satie, and Taille-
Mendelssohn, Felix, 61, 198, 294 ferre), 218, 255
Menotti, Gian-Carlo, 45, 366
Mdral, Paul, 256 Obaldia, Rend de, 393
Merimee, Prosper, 228 Offenbach, Jacques, 220
Messiaen, Olivier, 45, 47, 57, 276, 277- Okeghem, Jean d\ 149, 330
83. 39 b 395 Orff, Carl, 44, 47, 54, 335-6
Meyer-Eppler, Werner, 45, 48, 394 Orleans, Charles d’, 164
Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 300 Ors, Eugenio d’, 240, 359
Miaskovsky, Nikolai, 43, 49, 285, 286, Ostrovski, Aleksandr, 307
291
Mihalovici, Marcel, 44, 387 Palester, Roman, 45
Milän, Luis, 354, 357 Palestrina, Giovanni, 91, 359
Milhaud, Darius, 18, 44, 46, 48, 50, 51, Pappenheim, Marie, 81
52’3> 54- 55> 56- 57> 74- 7<>, 9~> 118> Parny, Evariste-Ddsird de, 177
138, 160, 161, 162, 164, 167, 178, 179, Paulini, Bela, 344
183, 184, 190, 198, 204, 206, 218, 220, Pavlova, Anna, 118
Index
Paz, Juan Carlos, 44 Rathaus, Karol, 44
Pedrell, Felipe, 43, 338, 340, 354 Ravel, Maurice, 12, 13, 14, 43, 46, 50,
Pdguy, Charles, 261, 276 51, 52, 60-1, 74, 76, 78, 102, 111, 118,
Peladan, Josdphin, 204 127, 161, 162, 165, 166, 167, 171-9,
Pepusch, John, 381 183, 188, 189, 190, 193, 194, 199, 201,
Peragallo, Mario, 45, 48, 381 202, 204, 205, 206, 209, 212, 218, 220,
Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista, 121, 146 225, 235, 250, 305, 344, 369, 387
Perotin, 15, 162, 164 Rawsthorne, Alan, 44, 384
Peter the Great, 131, 213 Reger, Max, 12, 43, 45, 313, 337
Petipa, Marius, 213 Reich, Willy, 102
Petrassi, Goffredo, 44, 47, 380 Reinach, Theodore, 198
Pfitzner, Hans, 43, 45, 52 Rembrandt van Rijn, 240
Picabia, Francis, 227 Renoir, Pierre Auguste, 201
Picasso, Pablo, 72, 118, 121, 132, 142, Respighi, Ottorino, 43, 46, 121, 377-8
201, 213, 214, 215, 217, 227, 240, 267, Reutter, Hermann, 44, 335
268, 357 Revueltas, Silvestre, 44, 47, 360, 363 n
Piernd, Gabriel, 43, 45 Riemann, Hugo, 291
Pijper, Willem, 44, 387 Rieti, Vittorio, 44, 55, 380, 388
Piston, Walter, 44, 47, 388 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 313
Pittaluga, 359 Rimbaud, Arthur, 201, 385
Pizzetti, Ildebrando, 43, 46, 50, 52, Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 43, 117,
377-8 126, 130, 131, 138, 142, 174, 278, 284,
Plato, 221, 224, 262 285, 291, 292, 299, 300, 377
Poot, Marcel, 44, 387 Rivera, Diego, 360, 362
Poulenc, Francis, 44, 47, 51, 52, 54, Rividre, Jacques, 142
118, 161, 163, 167, 179, 183, 213, 220, Rodrigo, Joaquin, 359
221, 224-7, 23°» 23L 235, 240, 257, Roerich, Nicholas, 143
265-71, 273, 274, 276-7, 279, 334, 375, Roger-Ducasse, Jean Jules Amable, 43,
380, 385 171, 188, 199-200
Poupeye, Camille, 106 Roland-Manuel, Alexis, 44, 123, 165,
Poussin, Nicolas, 129 166, 172, 173, 175, 203, 205, 276, 281,
Pr6s, Josquin des, 330 354.356
Prokofiev, Serge, 44, 46, 50, 52, 53, 257, Rolland, Romain, 307
5,
284- 291, 292-7, 307 Roinanus, Antonius, 154
Proust, Marcel, 93, $4, 162, 165, 228, Rossini, Gioacchino Antonio, 96, 120,
244 121, 149, 150
Pruniöres, Henri, 360 Rottweiler, Hektor, 92, 95-6
Puccini, Giacomo, 43 Rouault, Georges, 149, 279
Purcell, Henry, 132, 149, 383, 385 Rouchö, Jacques, 193, 194
Pushkin, Alexander, 117, 121, 130, Rousseau, Henri (Le Douanier), 272
131-2 Roussel, Albert, 43, 45, 48, 49, 51, 74,
Puvis de Chavannes, Pierre, 2ok, 222, 163, 165, 166/171, 179, 188, 190-9,
223 201, 204, 207, 211
Rubinstein, Anton, 117
Raabe, Peter, 333 Rubinstein, Ida, 177
Rabaud, Henri, 43, 200 Rude, Francois, 161
Rachmaninoff, Sergei, 43, 284-5 Ruyneman, Daniel, 44
Racine, Jean Baptiste, 99, 129
Radiguet, Raymond, 224-6, 260 Saguer, Louis, 283
Rameau, Jean Philippe, 69, 74, 159, Saint-Exupöry, Antoine de, 375
164, 226, 228 Sainte-Beuve, Charles Augustin, 158
Ramuz, C. F., 116, 120, 127-8, 144 Saint-Saens, Camille, 308, 387
Index 415
Salazar, Adolfo, 35g Sibelius, Jean, 43, 381
Salis, Rodolphe, 203 Sieburg, Friedrich, g6
Satie, Erik, 18, 43, 45, 49, 50, 51, 53, Sinigaglia, Leone, 377
55-6, 70, 118, 126, 163, 164, 167, 173, Six, the (Auric, Durey, Honegger,
178, 188, 201-17, 218, 21g, 220, 221-4, Milhaud, Poulenc, and Tailleferre),
226-8, 256, 267, 272, 273, 277, 293, 51, 201, 2ig-20, 224-7, 230, 231, 255,
30g, 311, 382, 384 265,272,273,277
Sauguet, Henri, 44, 47, 48, 52, 54, 161, Skaikotas, Nikos, 44
164, 182, 183, 265, 273-5, 277, 334, Smetana, Bedrich, 338, 33g
375» 384, 385» 4<» Sokolov, Nikolai, 2g7
Saygun, Adnan, 45 Sophocles, 198, 260, 262, 264
Scarlatti, Domenico, 61, 120, 214, 354, Stanislavski, Constantin, 300
356-7.3-9 Stege, Fritz, 332
Schaeffer, Pierre, 48, 392-3, 394, 3gg Stein, Erwin, 62, 63, 70, 105
Schaeffner, Andrd, 116, 138, 140, 142, Steinberg, Maximilian, 117, 291, 297
270 Stendhal, 274
Schiffer, Marcellus, 318 Still, William Grant, 44, 338, 365
Schlcezer, Boris de, 116, 130, 213 Stockhausen, Karlheinz, 45, 48, 395,
Schmitt, Florent, 43, 45, 4g, 51, 118, 399
166, 171, 17g, 188, ig8, 256, 362 Strauss, Johann, 175
Schoeck, Othmar, 44 Strauss, Richard, 12-13, 43, 45, 49, 50,
Schoenberg, Arnold, 15, 18, 43, 45, 48, 51, 60-1, 63, 75, 79, 82-3, 209, 256,
49. 50, 52, 53, 54, 55-6, 57, 58, 60-1, 263, 308, 310, 313, 317, 369, 377, 379
62-88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93-4, 95, 98, 100, Stravinsky, Igor, 18, 43, 46, 48, 49, 50,
101-3, 1O4» i°5» no» 113 * 14» H5
*!6, 5L 52» 53» 54» 55» 5^» 74» 75» 79» 80,
122, 12g, 137, 138, 151, 154, 156, 164, 83» 94 n» 96’ 115 55» i56» 174» 178’
168, 174, 175, 182, 184, 185, 203, 204, 185, 189, 195, 203, 213, 217, 218, 219,
234, 256, 258, 267, 274, 276-7, 281, 225, 230, 240, 241, 256, 258, 262, 267,
285- 6, 298, 311, 312, 315, 320, 325, 270, 271, 277 n, 278, 281, 282, 284,
327> 330’ 332> 337' 336. 343, 355, 366, 291,293, 298,311,315, 325, 332, 336,
368, 369, 373, 375, 376, 381, 388, 391, 338.345.346,355.358.359.360.364.
396 365.366.368, 369,371,373, 374,376,
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 65 377, 379. 380, 382, 384, 388, 391, 395-6
Schreker, Franz, 43, 45, 51 Strindberg, August, 8g, 97, 98
Schubert, Franz, 60, 61, 14g, 175, 270, Strobel, Heinrich, 312, 315
327 Sullivan, Arthur, 381
Schuman, William, 45, 388 Supervielle, Jules, 244
Schumann, Robert, 13, 15, 61, 88, 241, Suvchinsky, Pierre, 124-5
310 Szymanowski, Karol, 43, 46, 52, 54,
Schütz, Heinrich, 15, 123, 133, 154, 2g8 369-70,371
Scriabin, Alexander, 12, 43, 4g, 137,
27g, 284-6, 299, 36g Tailleferre, Germaine, 44, 218, 224-6,
Sedaine, Michel-Jean, 274 276
Seiber, Mätyäs, 44 Tairov, Aleksandr, 300, 303
Sessions, Roger, 44, 47, 388 Taneev, Sergei Ivanovich, 284-5, 292
Seurat, Georges, 201 Tansman, Alexandre, 44, 387, 388
S£verac, Ddodat de, 190 Tappolet, Willy, 257, 259
Shakespeare, William, 180 Taudou, Antoine, 203
Shaporin, Yuri, 44, 2gi, 307 Tchaikovsky, Petr Ilich, 52, 96, 121,
Shebalin, Vissarion, 44, 2g 1 130, 131-2, 146, 299, 300, 381
Shostakovich, Dmitri, 44, 47, 48, 53, Tebaldini, Giovanni, 377
286- 7, 291, 292, 297-9, 301-7 Theremin, Leo, 394
Index
Thomas, Ambroisc, 224 Wagenaar, Bernard, 44
Thomson, Virgil, 44 Wagner, Richard, 13, 15, 49, 59, 60, 75,
Tinchart, 203 79, 93, 96, 103, 124, 131, 137, 160,
Tintoretto, 11, 148 194, 209, 219, 256, 263, 308, 310, 312,
Tippett, Michael, 44, 47, 382, 384 328, 389, 402
Tolstoi, Aleksei, 307 Wahl, Jean, 242
Tolstoi, Count Leo, 307 Walton, William, 44, 47, 53, 382, 384
Tonimasini, Vincenzo, 120, 379 Watteau, Antoine, 148
Trakl, Georg, 89, 90 Weber, Karl Maria von, 132
Trautwein, Friedrich, 394 Webern, Anton, 18, 43, 45, 48, 54, 57,
Turchi, Guido, 45, 381 58, 75, 76, 87, 88-91, 92, 104, 105, 109,
113-14, 151, 153, 154, 312, 327, 373,
Unamuno, Miguel de, 354 375
Wedekind, Frank, 94, 97, 106, 109, 111
Valery, Paul, 89, 123, 129, 260 Weelkes, Thomas, 382
Varöse, Edgar, 44, 283, 388 Weill, Kurt, 44, 53, 327-9
Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 43, 382-4 Weiss, Paul, 287
Veden, Renier van der, 387 Wellesz, Egon, 44, 58-9
Verdaguer, Mosen Jacinto, 358 Werfel, Franz, 244
Verdi, Giuseppe, 275, 317, 377, 385, Weterings, Joseph, 198
Verhaeren, Emile, 191 Weyden, Roger van der, 88
Verlaine, Paul, 163, 164, 201, 248 Whitcman, Paul, 44, 365
Victoria, Tomas Luis de, 354, 359 Whitman, Walt, 326, 366, 383
Villa-Lobos, Heitor, 43, 338, 340, 360-2 Widor, Charles Marie, 255
Ville de Mirmont, Jean de la, 170 Wiesengrund-Adorno, Theodor, 88
Villon, Francois, 167 Wilde, Oscar, 93, 225
Vines, Ricardo, 224, 266 Willaert, Adrian, 85, 151
Vitruvius, 141 Witkowski, Georges Martin, 43
Vivaldi, Antonio, 149, 379 Wocstijne, David van de, 387
Vogel, Vladimir, 44, 54, 87, 370
Voisins, Gilbert des, 193 Zemlinsky, Alexander von, 62
Vuillermoz, Emile, 138, 185, 186, 188 Zimmerman, Bernd Alois, 45, 337
Vyshnegradski, Ivan, 278 Zurbarän, Francisco de, 358
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Paul Collaer was born in Boom, Belgium, on June 8,

1891. Educated in Belgian schools and musical conserva-
tories, he took a doctorate in chemistry at the University
of Brussels. For many years his career as a teacher of
chemistry continued, with increasing activity in various
branches of music. Beginning in 1910 as a concert Pro­
moter he presented such musicians as Debussy, Ravel,
and Scriabin to the public. In 1921 M. Collaer initiated
the Concerts Pro Arte in Brussels and in 1937 he became
director of the Belgian radio. Since 1956 he has been
professor of the history of music at the Chapelle Musicale
de la Reine Elisabeth. M. Collaer, who is also an ethno-
musicologist, has published books on Stravinsky and
Milhaud, and a theoretical work, Signification de la
Musique.
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