DEBUSSY AND THE ULTRA-MODERNISTS
Impressionism in Music--Claude Debussy, the pioneer of
the 'atmospheric' school; his career, his works and his
influence--Maurice Ravel, his life and work--Alfred Bruneau;
Gustave Charpentier--Paul Dukas--Miscellany; Albert Roussel and
Florent Schmitt.
The trend of ultra-modern French music has been so swift in its
development that the significant episodes crowd upon one another's
heels when they do not stride along side by side. Within a year or two
after the death of César Franck and Edouard Lalo, while Saint-Saëns was
in the full tide of his ceaseless productivity, while Massenet, then
famed as the composer of _Manon_, was shortly to meditate his _Thaïs_
and _La Navarraise_, while the irrepressible Chabrier was beginning
to pay the toll of his strenuous activity, while Fauré's songs had
already won recognition for their subtle mixtures of sensuousness and
mysticism, while d'Indy and Chausson were evolving their individuality
on the lines laid down by their revered master, there arose strikingly
new principles of musical expression, involving a new æsthetic
standpoint, an enlargement of harmonic resource, supplying a new and
vital idiom which is perhaps the most characteristically Gallic of
the ultra-modern movements centred in Paris. These principles have
crystallized into the impressionistic or 'atmospheric' school, whose
rise during the past fifteen or twenty years has been little short of
meteoric.
The subject of parallelism between the arts with a definite interacting
influence is a fertile one for discussion. While but little space can
be devoted here to enlargement upon this topic, it may be observed
that with the advance of culture the intervening time before one art
reacts upon another becomes shorter. If the Renaissance was relatively
slow in affecting music, the revolutionary outbreaks of 1830 and
1848 were more nearly synchronous, while in the case of realism and
impressionism, the resulting confluence of principles was nearly
simultaneous. Fortunately the basic methods of impressionism in
painting and poetry are so well understood that no definition of their
purposes is needful beyond a reminder that they aim to subordinate
detail in favor of the effect as a whole. In music impressionism is
obtained by procedures analogous if markedly dissimilar from those
employed in painting. The results are alike in that both arts have
gained enormously in scope of subject as well as in greater brilliancy,
elusive poetry and human significance in their treatment.
I
It is not too much to say that Claude Debussy may be considered as the
real originator of impressionism in music, although he did not begin
to compose in this manner. But Debussy's success has brought forth
a host of imitators in France, Russia, England, and even the United
States, while so essentially Teutonic a composer as Max Reger has
passed through a Debussian phase. Another composer who has contributed
to the development of impressionistic method is Maurice Ravel, and
he undoubtedly has derived much from Debussy. At the same time he
displays many original characteristics which have nothing in common
with Debussy, and hence he cannot be dismissed as a mere echo of the
older composer. Impressionism has become so essentially a part of
ultra-modern French musical evolution as to merit a clear exposition of
its claims and the achievements of its founders.
Claude-Achille Debussy was born at St. Germain-en-Laye, not far from
Paris, August 22, 1862. His father was ambitious to make a sailor of
his son, but a certain Mme. Mautet, whose son was a brother-in-law
of Paul Verlaine, herself a pupil of Chopin, was so impressed by the
boy's piano playing that she prepared him for entrance into the Paris
Conservatory. He obtained medals in solfeggio and piano playing, but
was less fortunate in the harmony class. In the class of Émile Durand
the study of harmony resolved itself into an effort to discover the
'author's harmony' for a given bass or soprano, hampered by rules
'as arbitrary as those of bridge.'[61] Debussy also entered Franck's
organ class at the Conservatory, but here also he was at odds with
the master, whose urgings 'modulate, modulate!' during the pupil's
improvizations seemed too often without point. In 1879 Debussy
journeyed to Russia with Mme. Metch, the wife of a Russian railway
constructor, in the capacity of domestic pianist. He made slight
acquaintance with Balakireff, Borodine, and Rimsky-Korsakoff, but never
came across Moussorgsky, who was destined later to exercise so marked
an influence upon his dramatic methods. The dominant expression which
he brought back from Russia was that of the fantastic gypsy music,
whose rhapsodic and improvisatory character addressed itself readily
to his fancy. At last Debussy entered the composition class of Ernest
Guiraud, and here his ability quickly asserted itself. After a mention
in counterpoint and fugue in 1882, he obtained a second _prix de Rome_
in 1885, and the first prize in the year following with the cantata
'The Prodigal Son,' entitling him to study in Rome at governmental
expense.
From Rome Debussy sent back to the Institute, as required, a portion
of a setting of Heine's lyrical drama _Almanzor_, a suite for women's
voices and orchestra, 'Spring,' recently published in a revision
for orchestra alone; a setting of Rossetti's 'The Blessed Damozel'
for voices and orchestra (finished after his return to Paris), and
a fantasy for piano and orchestra which has never been published or
performed.
On his return to Paris Debussy made the acquaintance of Moussorgsky's
_Boris Godounoff_ in the first edition, before the revisions and
alterations made by Rimsky-Korsakoff. This work was an immense
revelation of the possibilities of a simple yet poignant dramatic
style, and undoubtedly was fraught with suggestion to the future
composer of _Pelléas_. A visit to Bayreuth in 1889, where he heard
_Tristan_, _Parsifal_, and the _Meistersinger_, showed Wagner in a
new light to Debussy. But on repeating the trip in the following year
he returned disillusionized and henceforth Wagner ceased to exert any
influence whatever upon him. For some time at this period Debussy was
generously aided by the publisher Georges Hartmann, who had likewise
encouraged de Castillon and Massenet. During these years Debussy
composed many piano pieces and songs, among them the _Arabesques_
(1888), the _Ballade_, _Danse_, _Mazurka_, _Reverie_, _Nocturne_, and
the _Suite Bergamasque_, all dating from 1890. These piano pieces
exhibit Debussy as a frankly melodic composer of indubitable refinement
and imagination, in a vein not far removed from that of Massenet,
although possessing more distinction and poetic sentiment. Among the
songs the early _Nuit d'étoiles_ (1876), _Fleur des blés_ (1878), and
_Beau Soir_ (1878) are experimental, the last of the three being the
most interesting. The 'Three Melodies' (1880), containing the songs
_La Belle au bois dormant_, _Voici que le Printemps_, and _Paysage
sentimental_, the _Ariettes oubliées_ (1888, but revised later) show a
marked progress in concreteness of mood and harmonic subtlety. Three
songs (1890) on texts by Verlaine, _L'Échelonnement des haies_, _La Mer
est plus belle_, and _Le Son du Cor s'afflige_, and the _Cinq poëmes
de Baudelaire_ (1890), show a further evolution of lyric delineation.
If the latter are unequal (_Le Balcon_ and _Le jet d'eau_ are the
most vital) they at least demonstrate an æsthetic ferment toward the
later Debussy. _Mandoline_ (also 1890) is also a direct premonition
of a maturer style. In confirmation of this steady evolution one must
recall that side by side with the palpable influence of Massenet in
the cantata 'The Prodigal Son' (especially in the prelude) and in the
second movement of the suite 'Spring' there were likewise harmonic
individualities and expressive sentiments in the first movement of the
suite, and in the delicately pre-Raphaelitic 'Blessed Damozel' which
presage the developments to come.
However, the direct stimulus which guided Debussy in his search for
personal enfranchisement did not come from musical sources,[62] but
from association with poets, literary critics, and painters. From 1885
onwards,[63] the symbolist poets Gustave Kahn, Pierre Louys, Francis
Vielé-Griffin, Stuart Merrill, Paul Verlaine, Henri de Regnier, the
painter Whistler, and many others were in the habit of meeting at the
house of Stéphane Mallarmé, the symbolist poet, for discussion on a
variety of æsthetic topics. The _Salon de la Rose-Croix_, formed by
French painters as an outcome of pre-Raphaelite influence, grew out
of these meetings. Verlaine and Mallarmé had founded the 'Wagnerian
Review' as a medium for exposition of the essential unity of all the
arts. As a result of these critical inquiries and debates, Debussy was
struck with the possibility of attempting to transfer impressionistic
and symbolistic theories into the domain of music.
The first concrete instance of a deliberate embodiment of
impressionistic method is to be found in the exquisite 'Prelude to the
Afternoon of a Faun' (1882), founded on the poem by Mallarmé. Here
Debussy succeeded admirably in translating the vague symbolism of the
poem into music of languorous mood and ineffably delicate poetry. This
brief piece, novel and striking in both harmonic and expressive idiom,
marks a departure into a field of fertile consequence and far-reaching
import both intrinsically and historically.
It was in the summer of 1892, also, that Debussy quite by chance came
across Maeterlinck's play _Pelléas et Mélisande_. Both the intensely
human elements in the drama and its sensitive symbolism made a strong
appeal to Debussy's newly awakened æsthetic instincts and, after
obtaining permission to utilize the play as an opera text, he at once
set to work upon it. For ten years Debussy labored upon _Pelléas_ with
a patient striving to realize in music its humanitarian sentiment,
its creative poetry and its tragedy. During these years of gradual
distillation of thought he attained slowly but surely the inimitable
style of his maturity. But in the meantime he composed also in various
other fields.
Already the songs, _Fêtes galantes_ (1892), on Verlaine's poems showed
in their delicately impressionistic introspection that the 'Afternoon
of a Faun' was no casual experiment. Similarly, the _Proses Lyriques_
(1893), although unequal, exhibit clearly, especially in the songs _De
Rêve_ and _De Grève_, a formulation of the whole-tone idiom, which was
later to become a characteristic feature of Debussy's style. A string
quartet (also 1893) was, by virtue of its inevitable restriction, a
momentary abandonment of the impressionistic ideal, but within these
limitations Debussy achieved an astonishing individuality, charm
of mood, and clearcut workmanship, particularly in the thoughtful,
slow movement and the piquant scherzo. In 1898 he returned to the
impressionistic vein with three _Chansons de Bilitis_ from the
like-named volume of poems by Pierre Louys. The naïveté, humor, and
penetrating poetry of these lyrics were akin to the imaginative vein
of the _Fêtes galantes_.
In the following year Debussy gave a larger affirmation of his
impressionistic creed with the Nocturnes for orchestra entitled
'Clouds,' 'Festivals,' and 'Sirens' (the latter with a chorus of
women's voices). These pieces, although avowedly programmistic,
do not attempt realistic tone-painting, but aim rather to suggest
impressionistic moods growing out of their titles. The slow procession
of clouds, the dazzling intermingling of groups of revellers, the
elusive seduction of imaginary sirens are pictured with an atmospheric
verity that far transcends the possibilities of realistic standpoint.
Musically the Nocturnes are distinguished by their intrinsic potency
of expression, their basic formal coherence and logic of development,
their concreteness of mood, and their picturesqueness of detail. The
use of a chorus of women's voices, vocalizing without text, a feature
already employed in 'Spring,' was not original to Debussy, for Berlioz
had already employed it in his highly dramatic but little known Funeral
March for the last scene of 'Hamlet' (1848). But Debussy's highly
coloristic and ingenious application of the medium greatly enhances the
pervasive poetry of this Nocturne, and transforms it into a virtual
novelty. Not the least interesting harmonic consideration of this piece
is the use, with some definite system, of the whole-tone scale, which
Debussy later exploited so remarkably, and of which up to this time
only transient suggestions had appeared.
During his long contemplative absorption in _Pelléas_ Debussy had not
entirely neglected composition for the piano. A _Marche écossaise_
'on a popular theme' ('The Earl of Ross's March') for four hands
(1891, orchestrated in 1908) is piquant and vivacious without being
particularly characteristic. A 'Little Suite' for the same combination
(1894), if somewhat slight musically, is pleasing for its clarity
and simple directness. In 1901, however, Debussy showed a far more
definite originality, both pianistically and harmonically, in a set of
three pieces entitled _Pour le Piano_, with the subtitles 'Prelude,'
'Sarabande' and 'Toccata.' If the prelude suggests something of the
style of Bach, if the Sarabande is to a certain extent a modernization
of the gravity of Rameau, and the toccata bears a resemblance in its
fiery impulsiveness to Domenico Scarlatti, these pieces are none the
less positively characteristic of Debussy in their fundamentals. The
frank use of the whole-tone scale in the prelude, the harmonic boldness
of the sarabande with its sequences of sevenths, and the ingenious
piano figures in the toccata are the external evidences of a basically
individual conception. If these pieces do not display the impressionism
that is indigenous to the later Debussy, they represent a transition
stage of far from negligible interest.
With the performances in 1902 of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ at the Opéra
Comique Debussy attained an immediate and definite renown. There was
abundance of opposition, disparagement, and ill-natured criticism,
but the work was too obviously significant to be downed by it. To
begin with it was epoch-making in the annals of French dramatic art
in that it marked a complete enfranchisement from the influence of
Wagner. Debussy had been censured for saying that melody in the voice
parts (that is, _formal_ melody) was 'anti-dramatic,' but his by no
means unmelodic recitative with its fastidious attention to finesse
of declamation justified the restriction of the melodic element to
the orchestra. If the dramatic style of _Pelléas_, in its economy of
musical emphasis, was directly modelled upon Moussorgsky's _Boris_,
the evolution of this idea in which the orchestra throughout, with
the exception of a few climaxes, maintained a transparent delicacy
of sonority, established a new conception of dramatic style as well
as new resources in sensibility of timbre. Harmonically, _Pelléas_
shows both a surprising unity (considering that it occupied Debussy
for ten years at a transitional phase of his career) and a remarkable
extension of devices scarcely more than hinted at in his earlier
works. It is difficult to formulate these innovations briefly, but
they may be grouped under three general headings. First, an æsthetic
abrogation of certain conventional harmonic procedures; the free use
of consecutive fifths and octaves, sequences of seventh chords (in
which Fauré definitely anticipated Debussy), and of ninths. In these
seemingly anarchistic over-rulings of tradition Debussy was guided by
a sure and hyper-sensitive instinct. Second, the employment of modal
harmonization, sometimes strict but more often free, with a singularly
felicitous dramatic connotation. Third, the development of a logical
manner founded on the whole-tone scale. Debussy cannot claim that he
originated the whole-tone scale, since it was used by Dargomijsky in
the third act of 'The Stone Guest' (1869), by various neo-Russians,
notably Rimsky-Korsakoff, by Chabrier, Fauré, and d'Indy (in the second
act of _Fervaal_); nevertheless he can be said to have made this
idiom his own by his flexible and discriminating manipulation of its
resources. Debussy does not employ the whole-tone scale as monotonously
as is often supposed. On the contrary, one of the marked features of
his harmonic style is its resourceful variety.
Debussy's use of motives constitutes the very antipodes of Wagner's
somewhat cumbrous symphonic development of them. If at first Debussy's
treatment seems too fluid and lacking in continuity, a closer study
of the score (especially in the orchestral version) will reveal not
only a flexible adaptation of motives to the dramatic situations,
but a logical and constructive development often with considerable
contrapuntal dexterity. Furthermore, a formal coherence is maintained
without the artifices of symphonic development.
But the import of _Pelléas_ does not consist merely in the historical
or technical value of its innovating features, although this is patent.
It resides primarily in the basic poignancy with which the music
illustrates and reinforces the touching drama by Maeterlinck, as well
as its intrinsic surpassing beauty and poetic thrall. It is because
Debussy has characterized the innocent, gentle Mélisande, the ardent
Pelléas, Golaud haggard with jealousy, the childlike carelessness of
Yniold during a questioning of such import to his father, with such
searching fidelity to the creations of the poet that we find music and
drama in accord to an extent seldom witnessed in the history of opera.
It is because Debussy has brought such freshness of musical invention
and profound aptness of interpretation in such scenes as the discovery
of Mélisande by Golaud, the questioning end of Act I, the animated
scene between Pelléas and Mélisande in Act II, their long love scene in
Act III, the dramatic duet at the end of Act IV, and the death scene
of Mélisande in Act V, that this opera occupies a unique position.
The characterization of the forest, of the subterranean vaults of the
château, of the remorse of Golaud after his deed of vengeance, and the
purifying majesty of death show Debussy as a poet and dramatist of
indisputable mastery. Indeed, it is not too much to say that _Pelléas
et Mélisande_ occupies a position in modern French music akin to that
of _Tristan und Isolde_ in German dramatic literature.
After _Pelléas_, Debussy turned again to the impressionistic style
in piano pieces and orchestral works of progressive evolution. With
the 'Engravings' for piano (1903) containing 'Pagodas,' 'Evening in
Grenada,' 'Gardens in the Rain,' he continued the impressionistic
method of 'The Afternoon of a Faun' with an amplified harmonic and
expressive idiom. 'Pagodas,' founded on the Cambodian scale, and
the Spanish suggestions in 'Evening in Grenada' are characteristic
instances of the French taste for exoticism; 'Gardens in the Rain'
is founded upon an old French folk-song which Debussy used later in
the orchestral _Image, Rondes de Printemps_. All three are markedly
individual, and display the poetic insight of Debussy tempered by
discretion. 'Masks' and 'The Joyous Isle' (both 1904) contain alike
fantastic exuberance and an increasingly personal pianistic and
harmonic style. The latter in particular contains a homogeneity of
thematic development supposedly incompatible with an impressionistic
method. Two sets of _Images_ (1905 and 1907) make still greater
demands upon the impressionistic capacity of the listener, sometimes
at the expense of concrete musical inventiveness, but those entitled
'Reflections in the Water' and 'Goldfishes' offer no diminution of
imaginative vitality. 'The Children's Corner' (1908), a collection
of miniatures, are sketches of poetic appeal, though relatively
slight. The final number, 'Golliwog's Cakewalk,' is a fascinating
French version of ragtime style. Mr. André Caplet has orchestrated
these pieces with sensitive taste. Two series of 'Preludes' (1911 and
1913) exhibit both the virtues and defects of Debussy's piano music.
In some the piano is scarcely equal to the impressionistic demands
made upon it, others touch the high-water mark of Debussy's versatile
invention. In the first set, 'Veils,' 'The Wind in the Plain,' 'The
Enveloped Cathedral' are felicitously impressionistic; the 'Sounds and
Perfumes Turn in the Evening Air,' 'The Girl with Flaxen Hair' are
lyrically atmospheric, while in 'Minstrels' is to be found another
inimitably humorous transcription of ragtime idiom. In the second set,
_La Puerta del Vino_ is an imaginatively exotic Habañera; _La terrasse
des audiences des clair de lune_ is of rarefied emotional atmosphere;
'The Fairies are Exquisite Dancers' and _Ondine_ are brilliant bits
of delicate fancy; 'General Lavine--Eccentric' is another witty
adaptation of rag-time in the Debussian manner. 'Fireworks,' a
brilliantly impressionistic study ending with a distant refrain of
the _Marseillaise_ in a key other than that of the bass, approaches
realism, a final climax, before the above-mentioned refrain, consisting
of a double glissando on the black and white keys simultaneously.
'Fireworks' is also notable for a cadenza which is not in Debussy's
harmonic style, and which closely resembles cadenzas characteristic of
Maurice Ravel. But, with the historic precedent of Haydn in his old
age learning of Mozart in orchestral procedure, one must not deny the
same privilege to Debussy. This detail is not without its piquant side,
because Ravel has been unjustly reproached for too many 'obligations'
to Debussy.
In the meantime Debussy has published several sets of songs entitled
to mention. A second collection of _Fêtes galantes_ (1904) shows a
slight falling off in spontaneity, but _Le Faune_ is imaginative and
felicitously inventive, and in the _Colloque sentimental_ an ingenious
quotation is made from an accompaniment figure of _En Sourdine_ in the
first collection, justifiable not only on account of the sentiments
of the text in the second song, but for the reminiscent alteration
of the original harmonies. A charming song, _Le Jardin_ (presumably
1905), from a collection of settings by various French composers of
poems by Paul Gravollet, having a delightful running accompaniment
over a measured declamation of the text, must be regarded as one of
Debussy's best. With some departure from his usual choice of texts,
Debussy has successfully set three _Ballades_ (1910) by François
Villon, reproducing with uncommon picturesqueness the archaic flavor of
the poem. The same year witnessed the publication of _Le Promenoir des
amants_ on poems by Tristan Lhermitte, whose delicate poetic style is
more characteristic of his established individuality. Of the 'Three
Poems by Mallarmé' (1913) one must admit an exquisite but somewhat
tenuous musical sentiment, not entirely free from the 'polyharmonic'
influence now current in Paris.
Among Debussy's vocal works, especial stress should be laid on the
spontaneous and spirited settings for unaccompanied mixed chorus of the
_Trois Chansons_ of Charles d'Orléans (1908). Here Debussy has caught
the spirit of these fifteenth-century poems most aptly, and yet has
not departed essentially from his own individuality. It is incredible
that these choruses are not better known, and that they are not in the
repertory of more choral societies.
In the meantime it is not to be supposed that Debussy had relinquished
orchestral composition since his success with _Pelléas et Mélisande_.
In 1904 he wrote two dances, _Danse profane_ and _Danse sacrée_,
for the newly invented chromatic harp with accompaniment of string
orchestra. These pieces are pleasingly archaic in character and yet
not unduly so, illustrating an unusual capacity in Debussy's inventive
imagination. 'The Sea,' three symphonic sketches for orchestra
(1903-1905), produced in 1905, cannot be considered entirely successful
in spite of many remarkable qualities. Here Debussy has attempted a
subject which has proved disillusionizing for many composers, and
one which is perhaps beyond the scope of his imagination. There are
picturesque and beautiful episodes in the first movement, particularly
the last pages, but the effect of the movement as a whole is
disjointed. The second movement, _Jeux des Vagues_, is thoroughly
charming in its fanciful delineation of its title, and possesses
more continuity of development. The third movement, again, is less
satisfactory, although the climax is stirringly triumphant. In 1909
Debussy published three _Images_ for orchestra: _Gigues_ (not published
until 1913, although announced with the others), _Ibéria_, and _Rondes
de Printemps_. _Gigues_ is a slight if charming piece, with vivacious
rhythms and no little originality of orchestral effect; _Rondes de
Printemps_ is a fantastic and sensitive impressionistic sketch, founded
upon the same folk-song which Debussy employed in 'Gardens in the Rain'
from the 'Engravings,' here treated with the contrapuntal resources of
imitation and augmentation. If an episode in the middle of the piece is
less vital both in invention and treatment, the effect of the whole is
full of poetry, especially at the climax where the strings divided have
a sequence of inverted chords of the eleventh descending diatonically
with magical effect. But the most significant by far of these _Images_
is _Ibéria_ (the ancient name for Spain), in which Debussy has given
free play to his exotic imagination and his faculty for impressionistic
treatment. Like Chabrier's _España_, Debussy's _Ibéria_ is still Spain
seen through a Frenchman's eyes, but with an enormous temperamental
difference in vision. In the first section, 'Through the Streets and
Byways,' Debussy has never shown more fantastic brilliance and vivid,
almost garish, interplay of color. In the second portion, 'The Perfumes
of Night,' he has never exceeded its poignant atmosphere of surcharged
sensibility. A theme for divided violas and violoncellos recalls the
emotional heights of _Pelléas_. The last movement, 'Morning on a Fête
Day,' shows an impressionism intensified almost to realism. As a whole
_Ibéria_ is perhaps the most satisfying example of Debussy's mature
method, in which we find an undiminished vitality of imagination
combined with irreproachable workmanship. Debussy's orchestral style,
while difficult to adjust satisfactorily, is full of delicate and
brilliant coloristic effects side by side.
In 1911 Debussy wrote incidental music for Gabriel d'Annunzio's drama
'The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian.' It is a thankless task to appraise
dramatic music apart from its intended adjuncts, especially when it
is somewhat fragmentary in character. There is an abundant use of
the quasi-archaic idiom (already employed in the first of the Dances
for harp and strings), which found its justification in the mystical
character of the drama. Also there seems a little straining of
impressionistic resources in harmony, and not a little effective choral
writing. An orchestra of unusual constituence gave opportunity for
effects of a striking character. But the fact remains that the music
loses much of its appeal apart from the conditions for which it was
written.
Of late Debussy has taken to the ballet, influenced no doubt by the
example of his contemporaries and the magnificent opportunities for
performance offered by the annual visits of Diaghilev's Russian Ballet.
Florent Schmitt was one of the first of ultra-modern Frenchmen to try
this form with his lurid and masterly _Tragédie de Salomé_ (1907); then
followed Paul Dukas with _La Péri_ (1910), Maurice Ravel with 'Daphnis
and Chloë' (1911), and other works to be mentioned later.
In 1912 Debussy published _Jeux_, ballet in one act on a scenario by
Nijinsky, and _Khamma_, of the same dimensions, by W. L. Courtney
and Maud Allan. Finally, in 1913, he composed the miniature
ballet-pantomime _La Boîte aux joujoux_, by André Heller. In these
works he has shown a natural theatrical and scenic instinct which is
extraordinary, a sensitive adaptation of music to dramatic situations,
and a surprising versatility in spite of his previous vindications
of this quality. The plot of _Jeux_ is slight and fantastically
unreal and improbable, but it has afforded a basis for impalpable
music of great subtlety and distinction, in which the appeal to
Debussy's imagination was obvious. _Khamma_, admirably contrived from
the dramatic point of view for the logical introduction of dancing,
exhibits a breadth of conception and a heroic quality which is rare in
Debussy. Unfortunately, incidents have prevented this ballet from being
performed (as far as may be ascertained), but this assuredly has not
been on account of the inadequacy of the music. _La Boîte aux joujoux_
differs totally from the two preceding in being, as its title-page
asserts, a ballet for children. It is not an unalloyed surprise from
the pen of the composer of the 'Children's Corner,' but it combines
genuine poetry, humor, mock-realism, and a judicious miniature medium
that is entirely original. If musically at least _La Boîte aux joujoux_
presupposes a very sophisticated child, that does not prevent it from
making an instant appeal to mature listeners.
For many years it has been announced that Debussy has been at work on
operas taken from Poe's stories 'The Devil in the Belfry' and 'The Fall
of the House of Usher.' There have also been rumors that he was at
work on a version of the story of Tristan. It is a foregone conclusion
that these works will not appear until their scrupulous composer is
satisfied with every detail.
Like other modern French musicians Debussy has a ready pen and
exceedingly interesting critical opinions. He has served as critic for
the _Revue blanche_ and for _Gil Blas_, and many articles on a wide
range of subjects have appeared in these periodicals. His conversations
with M. Croche[64] have served as an amiable disguise for the
expression of his personal views on music.
When we come to survey as a whole the personality and achievement of
Debussy we discover that he has been influenced by a fair number of
composers, but that their effect has been for the most part superficial
and transitory. Such was the contributory share of Chopin and Grieg;
Moussorgsky is prominently influential alike for his dramatic style and
his fidelity to nature; other Neo-Russians have by their orchestral
idiom helped to cultivate his sense of timbre; Fauré and Chabrier
both guided him harmonically; Massenet with his sure craftsmanship had
more than a casual admiration from Debussy; even the fantastic figure
of Erik Satie, an exaggerated symbolistic musician of grotesque ideas
but inefficient technique, helped him to avoid the banal path. But the
mainstay of Debussy's reputation is simply that of his concrete musical
gifts, his inventiveness, his ability to characterize, and pervading
æsthetic instinct. It is not by virtue of his determination to be
impressionistic in music, nor by the extension of the possibilities of
the whole-tone scale, or free modal harmonization, nor by his original
pianistic style, despite the intrinsic and historic significance
of these, that he has come to be the leading representative of
ultra-modern French composers of the revolutionary type, in opposition
to the reactionary if modernistic d'Indy. It is because a certain
creative field, which others had approached tentatively, has been made
to yield a scope of subject, a variety of utterance and an æsthetic
import hitherto totally unsuspected. While the impressionistic (or
symbolistic) style has in Debussy's hand become a flexible, fanciful,
fantastic or poignantly human idiom, its real weight can be appreciated
only by neglecting the harmonic novelty or the stylistic medium
and concentrating on the direct utterance of the music itself. It
is through this basic eloquence of musical speech that Debussy is
significant. It is for this reason that, with Strauss, he must be
regarded as the chief creative figure of his generation. To realize the
simple, almost primitive, attitude of Debussy toward his art it may
be illuminating to quote from an article from his pen in response to
inquiries 'On the present state of French music,' put by Paul Landormy
in the _Revue bleue_ (1904), translated by Philip Hale.[65]
'French music is clearness, elegance, simple and natural declamation;
French music wishes, first of all, to give pleasure. Couperin,
Rameau--these are true Frenchmen.' Debussy has always admired Rameau,
witness his _Hommage à Rameau_ in the first set of the _Images_ for
piano and his obvious predilection for the eighteenth-century qualities
of lucidity and transparent outline of much of his music. It must not
be forgotten that Debussy has joined Saint-Saëns, d'Indy, and Dukas in
the revision of Rameau's works for the complete edition. Later in the
same article we find Debussy reiterating the view expressed above as to
the function of music with an insistence that is both Latin and even
Pagan in the best sense. 'Music should be cleared of all scientific
apparatus. Music should seek humbly _to give pleasure_; great beauty is
possible between these limits. Extreme complexity is the contrary of
art. Beauty should be perceptible; it should impose itself on us, or
insinuate itself, without any effort on our part to grasp it. Look at
Leonardo da Vinci, Mozart! These are great artists.'
To sum up, Debussy has brought the impressionistic and symbolistic
style into music; he has evolved a supple harmonic idiom devoid
of monotony, not chiefly characterized by the whole-tone scale as
many believe, but comprising a simple style, a taking archaism, an
application of modal style, and an extension of the uses of ninths
and other chords. He has developed an incredibly simple and yet
effective dramatic style, which makes 'Pelléas and Mélisande' one of
the significant works of the century. He has extended the nuances and
the figures of piano style, and has increased the subdivision of the
orchestra into delicate, almost opalescent, timbres. But more than
all, he has given to music a new type of poetry, a rarefied humanity,
and new revelations of the imagination. It is too soon to judge of the
durability of his work, but his historical position is secure--a
lineal descendant of French eighteenth-century great musicians with the
vision and the creative daring of the twentieth.
[Illustration: Claude Debussy]
_After a photo from life_
If the widespread imitation of Debussy may be taken as an indication,
no further proof of the vitality of his creative innovations is
needed. Richard Strauss has not disdained to use the whole-tone scale
in _Salome_ (the entrance of Herod), Reger has followed suit in the
'Romantic Suite'; Puccini has drawn upon the same idiom in 'The Girl of
the Golden West'; Cyril Scott in England and Charles Martin Loeffler
in the United States have gone to the same source, despite their
indisputably individual attainments. In Paris itself the followers of
Debussy are rife, and his influence is as contagious as that of Wagner
thirty years ago. A figure long misjudged as a mere echo of Debussy,
who after an interval of fifteen years has shown that he steadily
followed his own path in spite of some manifest obligations to the
founder of impressionism in music is Maurice Ravel. Since he is easily
second in importance among the members of the 'atmospheric' group, he
deserves, therefore, to be considered immediately after Debussy.
II
Joseph-Maurice Ravel was born March 7, 1875, in the town of Ciboure,
in the department of the Basses-Pyrénées in the extreme southwest of
France, close to the Spanish border. From early childhood, however,
he lived in Paris. At the age of twelve his predisposition toward
music asserted itself by his delight in the major seventh chord, which
he employed with such insight later.[66] He was accordingly given
lessons in piano-playing and composition. His earliest works were some
variations on a chorale by Schumann, and the first movement of a
sonata. In 1889 he entered the Paris Conservatory, where he studied the
piano with de Bériot, harmony with Pessard, counterpoint and fugue with
Gedalge, and composition with Fauré. Despite his application he did not
meet with the success his efforts deserved. In 1901, however, he was
awarded the second _prix de Rome_ for his cantata _Myrrha_, and it is
said that some of the jury favored him as a choice for the first prize.
In the two following years he was unsuccessful, and in 1904 he did not
attempt to compete. In 1905 he offered himself as candidate, but was
refused permission. This exclusion, when he had already attracted much
attention as a composer, which may have been partly due to his audacity
in 'writing down' ironically to the reactionary jury of 1901, aroused
protests of so violent a nature as to start an inquiry into conditions
at the Conservatory, with the result that Théodore Dubois was forced to
resign as director and Gabriel Fauré was appointed in his place. Since
then Ravel has devoted himself entirely to composition and the record
of his life is to be found most persuasively in his work. Ravel has
served several times on the committee of the _Société Nationale_, and
he is a charter member of the _Société Musicale Indépendante_.
Before proceeding to a consideration of Ravel's music, it may be well
to enumerate the various influences he has undergone. The first was
Chabrier, whose _Trois Valses romantiques_ for two pianos aroused his
admiration when scarcely more than a boy. Then, as in the case of
Debussy, the fantastic personality and curious music of Erik Satie
appealed to his imagination. Some of Fauré's harmonic procedures and
some of his mannerisms, such as the abuse of sequence, have left their
traces in the pupil. Some of Debussy's harmonic innovations have
obviously affected Ravel, just as he has accepted his impressionism,
but a careful study of the latter's works will show a definite line
of cleavage in both particulars, beginning at an early stage of his
career. The exoticism of the Neo-Russians and their sense of orchestral
timbre have undoubtedly exercised a powerful charm over Ravel.
After some unpublished songs, and a _Sérénade grotesque_ for piano
composed in 1894, Ravel published his first music in 1895, a _Menuet
antique_ for piano, which Roland Manuel describes as 'a curious work
in which are voluntarily opposed, so it seems, scholastic contrapuntal
artifices and the most charming radicalism (_hardiesses_).' Ravel's
next work was two pieces for two pianos entitled _Les Sites
Auriculaires_, one a _Habañera_ (1895), showing an astonishing harmonic
independence for so young a composer, which was utilized later in the
'Spanish Rhapsody' for orchestra, the other _Entre Cloches_ (1896),
which is said to have been incorporated in _La Vallée des Cloches_,
included in the piano pieces entitled _Miroirs_ in 1896 also. Ravel
composed the first of his published songs, _Sainte_, on a poem by
Mallarmé, for which the music is charmingly archaic, somewhat in
Fauré's manner, but not devoid of independence. In 1898 followed
the 'Two Epigrams' for voice and piano, on texts by Clément Marot
(fifteenth century), in which Ravel again appropriately employed
an archaic idiom curiously intermingled with ninth chords. In this
same year Ravel composed his first orchestral work, the overture
_Shéhérazade_ (performed by the National Society in the following
year), which has never been published. Two piano pieces, a _Pavane
pour une infante défunte_ (1899), whose poignantly elegiac mood shows
its composer in a new light as regards sensibility, and brilliant
_tour de force_, _Jeux d'eau_ (1901), full of harmonic novelty and
strikingly original pianistic style, are both significant advances. It
was the bold personality of the latter piece that served to expose and
accentuate the ironic caricature of a sentimental style to be found
in _Myrrha_ which prejudiced a reactionary jury against him. A string
quartet (1902-03) at once made a profound impression on account of the
relative youth of its composer, for its command of a difficult medium,
its polish and symmetry of form, its poetry and depth of sentiment. If
the last two movements are inferior in substance and inspiration, the
scherzo is piquant and novel, while the first movement, particularly
in its poetic close, stands in the front rank of modern French
chamber music literature. If the theme of the first movement by its
harmonization in a sequence of seventh chords suggests Fauré, there
is no denying the personality of the work as a whole. Three songs for
voice and orchestra, _Shéhérazade_ (1903), on poems by Tristan Klingsor
(pseudonym for Tristan Leclère), are unequal, but the first, _Asie_,
reflects the varied exoticism of its text with sympathetic charm.
Five pieces for piano entitled _Miroirs_ (1905) present Ravel's
individuality in a clear light as regards his impressionistic
method. Without the maturity of a later collection of piano pieces,
they reflect, as their title indicates, various aspects of nature
with the illusion demanded by impressionistic method, and at the
same time exhibit profundity of insight and delineative poetry. The
foundation of Ravel's thematic treatment, unusual pianistic idiom,
his personal harmonic flavor, and his personal sentiment are all to
be found therein. In these pieces no trace is to be found of external
influence; the composer speaks in his own voice. _Oiseaux tristes_,
a melancholy landscape with some realistic touches; _Une barque sur
l'Océan_, broadly impressionistic sketch of large dimensions; _Alborada
del Graciosa_, exhibiting that Spanish exoticism which has often
tempted Ravel; and _La Vallé des Cloches_, of sombre yet highly poetic
atmosphere, are the most striking. A sonatina for piano of the same
year pleases by the polish of its form, its successful correlation
of detail and the individuality of its contents. A humorous song,
'The Toy's Christmas' (also 1905), later provided with orchestral
accompaniment, is an ingenious and vivacious trifle.
In 1906 Ravel reasserted his gifts as a delicate realist with the songs
entitled 'Natural Histories,' on texts by Jules Renard. With a musical
imagery that is at once ironic and replete with sensitive observation,
Ravel depicts the peacock, the cricket, the swan, and other birds. An
Introduction and Allegro (1906) for harp with accompaniment of string
quartet, flute and clarinet is chiefly remarkable for the grateful
virtuosity with which the harp is treated. In 1907 Ravel showed at
once technical mastery of the orchestra and a skillful reproduction of
Spanish atmosphere with a 'Spanish Rhapsody,' which is both brilliant
and poetic. This work must be considered with Chabrier's _España_
and Debussy's _Ibéria_ as one of the graphic pictures of exoticism
in French musical literature. To this same year belongs 'The Spanish
Hour,' text by Franc Nohain entitled a 'musical comedy' (but not in our
sense), in which Ravel attempted to revive the manner of the _opera
buffa_. The comedy contains inherent improbabilities and the text is
often far from inspiring, but Ravel has written ingenious, humorous and
poetic music which far exceeds the book in value. This opera presents
a running commentary in the orchestra on a few motives, leaving the
voices to declaim with freedom, while the brilliant and picturesque
orchestration adds greatly to vivacity and charm of the music.
In 1908 Ravel composed a set of four-hand pieces, 'Mother Goose,' of
ingenuity, humor, and poetic insight. These pieces have since been
orchestrated with incomparable finesse and knowledge of instrumental
resource, forming an orchestral suite, and, with the addition of a
prelude and various interludes, they have also been transformed into
a ballet. In 1908, also, Ravel composed three poems for the piano,
_Gaspard de la Nuit_, on prose fragments by Aloysius Bertrand, which
in technical style and contents mark the acme of his achievement in
literature for the piano. _Ondine_ and _Scarbo_, the first and third
of these pieces, illustrate their 'programs' with an illuminating
poetry that is both brilliant and profound in insight. The second,
_Le Gibbet_, with a persistent pedal note in the right hand over
extraordinarily ingenious harmonies, possesses a genuinely sinister and
tragic depth.
These poems contrast sharply with Debussy's _Images_ of the same year.
The latter are more obviously impressionistic, but Ravel has disposed
his uncanny technical equipment with such expressive mastery and
such interpretative vitality as to fear no comparison with the older
composer. If by contrast the _Valse nobles et sentimentales_ (1910)
for piano are agreeable _jeux d'esprit_, they none the less possess
qualities that win our admiration. Frank boldness of style, fantastic
irony, and sentimental poetry go hand in hand, united by a grateful
piano idiom. The epilogue in particular, with its reminiscences of
various waltzes, gives a formal continuity which relieves the set as a
whole from any charge of disjointedness.
Ravel's masterpiece is his 'choreographic symphony' _Daphnis et Chloé_
(1906-11), first performed by Diaghilev's Russian Ballet in 1912. In
this work Ravel disproves emphatically the possible charge that he is a
composer of miniatures, for from the formal aspects it shows continuity
and coördination of development in the symphonic manipulation of its
motives. Dramatically it is in remarkable accord with the atmosphere,
the action and the development of the scenario by the famous
ballet-master and author of plots Michel Fokine. The music not only
possesses interpretative vitality on a far larger scale than Ravel has
ever shown before, but, aside from its astonishing brilliancy and
its coloristic poetry, it has a contrapuntal vigor of invention and
treatment which are absolutely convincing. From the harmonic standpoint
Ravel has attained a new freedom and an elastic suppleness of idiom
that is bewildering. His treatment of a large orchestra, augmented by
the use of a mixed chorus behind the scenes, is vitally brilliant and
marvellously poetic even in the light of his previous achievements.
All in all, _Daphnis et Chloé_ is one of the most significant dramatic
works of recent years, and can worthily be placed side by side with
Debussy's _Pelléas et Mélisande_ and Dukas' _Ariane et Barbe-bleue_ for
its intrinsic merits and historical attributes.
For some years Ravel has been engaged upon a setting of Hauptmann's
_Versunkene Glocke_. It is also announced that he is at work upon a
trio, a concerto for piano on Basque themes, and an oratorio, _Saint
François d'Assise_. With his recent successes in mind, these projected
works engage a lively expectation.
In conclusion, it must be acknowledged that Ravel cannot, like Debussy,
claim to be a pioneer. He was fortunate in being enabled to profit
by the swift development of new idioms, to absorb the exuberance of
Chabrier, the suave mysticism of Fauré, the illuminating impressionism
of Debussy, and the scintillant exoticism of the Neo-Russians. But,
while he owes no more to his predecessors than Debussy, he has had the
advantage of having matured his style at an age which was relatively
in advance of Debussy. It must be recognized that as a whole Ravel's
music lies nearer the surface of the human heart than Debussy's. It
is not usual to find that depth of poetry or of human sentiment which
distinguishes so considerable a portion of Debussy's music. Ravel, on
the other hand, is more expansive in his scope; he captivates us with
his humor, his irony, his dappling brilliancy, and with an almost
metallic grasp in execution of a pre-conceived plan. His harmonic
transformations exert a literal fascination, though their technical
facility obscures their purpose, but underneath there is seldom an
inner deficiency of sentiment. If his impressionism is tinged with
quasi-realistic effects, there is no lack of genuine homogeneity
of style. In fact, his skillful blending of the two tendencies is
one of the chief features of his originality. In such works as the
_Pavane_, the first movement of the String Quartet, in _Asie_ from
_Shéhérazade_, in _La Vallée des Cloches_, in _Ondine_ and _Le Gibbet_,
and in many episodes of _Daphnis et Chloé_ Ravel offers a convincingly
human sentiment which only emphasizes his essential versatility of
expression. For in his characteristic vein of ironic brilliance and
fantastic subtlety he carries all before him.
III
If the work of Bruneau and Charpentier does not follow in historic or
chronological sequence that of Debussy and Ravel, their juxtaposition
is defensible since the former in common with the latter have received
their individual stimulus from sources extraneous to music. In the case
of Bruneau the vitalizing motive is the literary realism of Émile Zola;
in that of Charpentier the direct inspiration comes from socialism or
at least a socialistic outlook.
Louis-Charles-Bonaventure-Alfred Bruneau was born in Paris, on March
1, 1857. His father played the violin, his mother was a painter, thus
an æsthetic environment favored his artistic development. Alfred
Bruneau entered the Paris Conservatory at the age of sixteen; three
years later he was awarded the first prize for violoncello playing. He
studied harmony for three years in Savard's class, became a pupil of
Massenet and was the first to win the second _prix de Rome_ in 1881
with a cantata _Geneviève_. For some years previously Bruneau had been
a member of Pasdeloup's orchestra, and in 1884 an _Overture héroïque_
(1885) was played by this organization. Other orchestral works--_La
Belle au bois dormant_ (1884) and _Penthesilée_ (a symphonic poem with
chorus, 1888)--belong to this period.
Despite some fifty songs, choruses, a Requiem, and some pieces for
various wind instruments and piano, Bruneau is essentially a dramatic
composer, and it is chiefly as such that he deserves consideration. His
first dramatic work, _Kérim_, the text by Millet and Lavedan (1886),
is an unpretentious opera of eminently lyric vein, in which a facile
orientalism plays a prominent part. It displays the technical fluidity
which might be expected of a pupil of Massenet, and possesses a slight,
though palpable, individuality. A ballet, _Les Bacchantes_ (1887),
not published until 1912 and recently performed, is in the old style
of detached pieces without continuous music. Here Bruneau has been
successful in dramatic characterization, but the music is again largely
a reflection of Massenet.
It was not until 1891 that Bruneau gave evidence of his characteristic
style and individual dramatic method which he has since pursued
steadily. French musicians had awakened to the permanent significance
of Wagner's dramatic principles, and it is not surprising, therefore,
to find that Bruneau accepted these in slight degree. His Wagnerian
obligations are virtually limited to an attempt to unite music and text
as intimately as possible, to employ leading-motives as symbols of
persons or ideas, and to avoid formal melody in the voice parts except
at essentially lyric moments. His development of motives, while to a
certain extent symphonic, is in fact markedly different from that of
Wagner, and his recitatives depart from the traditional accompanied
recitatives in that they employ as nearly as possible the inflections
of natural speech over single chords.
The kernel of Bruneau's dramatic method lies in his ardent championing
of realism as a guiding principle in general, and his admiration for
Émile Zola as a man and as a literary artist in particular. With
the exception of _Kérim_ all his operas have been on subjects taken
from Zola's works, or on texts by Zola himself. With the ideals of
realism in mind, Bruneau has avoided legendary subjects, although
many of his works are symbolic, and he has preferred to treat dramas
of everyday life, animated by the passions of ordinary mortals. As
Debussy reflected the impressionism or symbolism of poets, painters,
and dramatists in his music, so Bruneau's operas are a counterpart of
the realistic movement. In place, therefore, of the stilted, unreal
action which disfigures even the finest conceptions of Wagner, Bruneau
has sought to replace it with a lifelike, tense, and rapid simulation
of life itself. His realism has even led to the discarding in his later
operas of verse for prose from obvious realistic considerations. In
spite of some Teutonic sources, Bruneau is eminently Gallic in his
musical and dramatic standpoint, and, while certain formulas of his
teacher, Massenet, persist for a time, in the main he is rigorously
independent. For a time Bruneau was considered revolutionary in his
harmonic standpoint, but musically at least he cannot be called
iconoclastic, or even progressive. The strength of his achievement lies
entirely in his qualities as a dramatist pure and simple.
The first work which embodied Bruneau's realistic attitude was _Le
Rêve_ (1891), text by Gallet after Zola's novel. The essence of the
work dramatically lies in the mystical temperament of the heroine,
Angélique, who loves the son of a priest (born before his father, a
widower, entered the priesthood) despite the opposition of his father.
When she is apparently dying the priest restores her by a miracle and
consents to the marriage, only to have the bride fall lifeless as she
leaves the church. While Bruneau's musical treatment of Angélique's
mystical hallucinations is in a sentimental manner that recalls
Massenet, the opera as a whole shows dramatic power of an independent
character. Bruneau's second opera in his new style, _L'Attaque du
Moulin_ (1893), the dramatization by Gallet of a story by Zola in _Les
Soirées de Médan_, dealing with an episode of the Franco-Prussian war,
is far more vital both in drama and music. The mill, the source of life
to the miller, Merlier, and his daughter Françoise, is attacked by the
enemy. Dominique, a foreigner, who is betrothed to Françoise, is found
with powder marks on his hands and is condemned to be shot. The enemy
retreat, leaving a sentinel at the mill. The sentinel is assassinated
and Merlier is to be shot for the deed. Although Dominique confesses
that he did the deed, Merlier dies in his stead so that his daughter
may be happy. Bruneau has been equally happy in delineating the peace
which reigns at the mill before the arrival of the enemy and the
celebration of Françoise's betrothal, and in depicting the brutalities
of war and the unselfish death of Merlier. _L'Attaque du Moulin_ is a
work of solid inspiration, clarity of style and vivid dramatic force.
The Institute of France awarded the Monbinne prize to its composer.
_Messidor_ (1897), text by Zola himself, deals with the struggle
between capital and labor and the love of the poor Guillaume for
the capitalist's daughter Hélène. The capitalist is ruined, saner
economic conditions are brought about and the lovers are united.
For a drama which is both sociological and symbolistic Bruneau
has written music of broadly humanitarian character and a vitally
descriptive vigor. His musical style is firmer and his conceptions
are realized with less crudeness than in previous works. _L'Ouragan_
(1901), whose action turns upon a devastating hurricane in a fishing
village, and also the tempestuous passions of its inhabitants, has a
primitive quality characteristic of both author and composer. There
is conscious symbolism in this work also in the distinction of types
found in the three feminine characters. Of this opera Debussy wrote:
'He (Bruneau) has, among all musicians, a fine contempt for formulas,
he walks across his harmonies without troubling himself as to their
grammatical sonorous virtue; he perceives melodic associations that
some would qualify too quickly as "monstrous" when they are simply
unaccustomed.'[67]
_L'Enfant roi_ (1905), _Naïs Micoulin_ (1907), and _La Faute de l'Abbé
Mouret_ (1907) display qualities similar to Bruneau's other operas, in
which close adjustment to the drama and consistent musical treatment
are the notable features. _Naïs Micoulin_, text by Bruneau himself
after Zola's novel, is particularly admirable for its clarity of style,
its absence of mannerism, and its vital depiction of two types of
jealousy and the faithful devotion of the hunchback, Toine.
Beyond his activity as a dramatic composer, especial mention should
be made of Bruneau's work as a critic. He has contributed to many
magazines, and he has acted as musical critic for the _Gil Blas_,
_Le Figaro_, and _Le Matin_. He has collected three volumes of
able criticism, _Musiques d'hier et de demain_ (1900), _La Musique
Française_ (1901), containing much valuable historical material, and
_Musiques de Russie et Musiciens de France_ (1903). In these volumes he
has shown himself a vigorous and broad critic of catholicity of taste
and striking discrimination.
To sum up the dramatic work of Bruneau as a whole, he must be
considered as representing a sincere phase of French evolution at
a critical time. While it is questionable whether realism can be a
permanently successful basis for opera, a form in which æsthetic
compromise and illusion are inherent, there is no denying the
courageous independence of his position and the plausible defense
of his methods which his operas constitute. It must be confessed,
however, that Bruneau's dramatic instinct takes precedence over his
concrete musical gifts and the former carries off many scenes and
episodes in which the latter lags behind. In short, Bruneau's gift
for the stage is unquestionable, and his dramatic innovations must
remain identified with French progress in this medium. His most obvious
defect lies in the inequality of his musical inspiration. If his
melodic sense is frank and spontaneous as in the prelude to Act I of
_L'Attaque du Moulin_, the broad theme after the curtain rises in Act
I of _Messidor_, the introduction and 'Sowing Song' in Act II of the
same opera, the 'Song of the Earth' in _Naïs Micoulin_, the contour
of Bruneau's melodies is, on the other hand, too often awkward and
devoid of distinction. Likewise his thematic manipulation is lacking
in flexibility or striking development, especially in the too obvious
employment of the devices of 'augmentation' and 'diminution' (see
_L'Ouragan_, prelude to Act I). Yet the allegorical Ballet of Gold
in Act III of _Messidor_ and the Introduction to Act IV of the same
work show that Bruneau has sensibility toward symphonic qualities.
Bruneau's harmonic idiom is rather monotonous and devoid of that subtle
recognition of style that we find in the impressionistic school. On
the other side, its wholesome vigor has the sincerity which is the
hall-mark of realism. As a harmonist Bruneau is not advanced.
Despite the flaws that one can find in Bruneau the musician, they are
perhaps after all the defects of his virtues. At a time of wavering and
uncertainty, Bruneau showed uncompromising sincerity, stuck to his
guns, defied opinion with a resolution and a reckless adherence to his
æsthetic standpoint worthy of a friend of Zola. If his works have not
the involuntary persuasion that we find in other ultra-modern French
operas, one must acknowledge a preëminent dramatic gift, possessing
in its presentation of sociological and humanistic problems vitality,
high purpose and moments of indubitable inspiration. If Bruneau's
musical defects hamper to a certain extent his wider recognition, his
fearless independence, his utter contempt for imitation of others, and
the remarkable dramatic affinity between his conceptions and those of
Zola's are too striking not to be considered an interesting episode in
French dramatic evolution.
While Bruneau's operas, apart from a few performances in London,
Germany, and New York, have received attention chiefly in France,
Gustave Charpentier, despite his relatively small productivity, has won
a universal recognition.
Gustave Charpentier was born in the town of Dieuze in Lorraine, June
25, 1860. After the Franco-Prussian war his parents came to live in
Tourcoing, not far from Lille. As a boy Charpentier showed natural
aptitude for the violin, clarinet, and solfeggio, although he was
obliged to work in a factory to support himself. His employer became so
struck with his musical ability that he sent him to the Conservatory
at Lille, where he obtained numerous prizes. As a result of this the
municipality of Tourcoing granted him an annual pension of twelve
hundred francs to study at the Paris Conservatory. In 1881 he began his
work there as a pupil of Massart, the violinist. He was not successful
in competition and, moreover, was obliged to leave to fulfill his
military service. Returning to the Conservatory, he took up the study
of harmony and later entered Massenet's class in composition. He was
unsuccessful in a fugue competition, but in 1887 he received the first
_prix de Rome_ for his cantata _Dido_, which showed distinct dramatic
gift and a concise and logical continuity of musical development.
From Rome he sent back as the required proofs of his industry an
orchestral suite 'Impressions of Italy,' permeated with Italian
atmosphere and folk-song, a symphony-drama, 'The Life of a Poet,' for
solos, chorus and orchestra, which may be regarded as a precursor of
his later dramatic work, and the first act of 'Louise.' This last was,
however, not presented to the Institute, as that institution considered
that 'The Life of a Poet' might count for two works.[68]
On returning to Paris Charpentier went to live in Montmartre, the
Bohemian and artistic quarter, and entered passionately into the
life about him. It presented the inspiration and material which
he wished to embody in musical conceptions. He absorbed both the
socialism of the quarter and its Bohemian disparagement of artistic
and moral convention. Thus he witnessed the aspiration of artists,
their enthusiasm for a life of freedom, together with its inevitable
degradation. He studied its types avidly, and reproduced them with a
verisimilitude that has made them well nigh immortal. During these
years he composed many of the _Poèmes chantés_ (published as a whole in
1894), the songs, _Les Fleurs du mal_ (1895), on poems by Baudelaire;
the _Impressions fausses_, on poems by Verlaine, including _La Veillée
rouge_ (1894); symbolic variations for baritone and male chorus
with orchestra; and _La Ronde des Compagnons_ (1895), for the same
combination. In 1896 his _Sérénade à Watteau_ (the poem by Verlaine)
for voices and orchestra was performed in the Luxembourg gardens. In
1898 a cantata, _Le Couronnement de la muse_, depicting an established
Montmartre custom, later incorporated in 'Louise,' was given in the
square of the Hôtel de Ville. As a whole, these vocal works, with the
exception of the cantata, are of interest merely as showing the early
style of the composer and for their premonitions of his later idiom.
Charpentier is not a born song-writer and his settings of Baudelaire's
_Le Jet d'eau_, _La Mort des amantes_ and _L'Invitation au voyage_, of
Verlaine's _Chevaux de bois_ and _Sérénade à Watteau_ have been easily
surpassed by Debussy and Duparc. The most attractive are a setting of
Mauclair's _La Chanson du chemin_ for solo voice, women's chorus and
orchestra, and the _Impressions fausses_ by Verlaine, in which his
dramatic and socialistic bent is more plausible.
In the meantime Charpentier had been working steadily at his 'musical
novel' _Louise_, both text and music by himself, which he had begun
at Rome. This work, perhaps the most characteristic of his style, was
performed for the first time at the Opéra-comique, February 3, 1900.
It was an instant and prolonged success, and its composer was not only
famous but prosperous financially. Since the recognition of 'Louise'
Charpentier has suffered from irregular health. The production of
'Julien' (1896-1904) at Paris, June 4, 1913, announced as a sequel to
'Louise,' has added little to his reputation. It is founded largely
on the music of 'The Life of a Poet,' with added episodes which
contrast incongruously with the idiom of the earlier work. It has been
announced that Charpentier has finished a 'popular epic' entitled a
Triptych. This, it is said, will contain three two-act operas with the
sub-titles, _L'Amour au faubourg_, _Commédiante_, and _Tragédiante_.
In 1900 Charpentier founded the _Conservatoire populaire de Mimi
Pinson_ (the generic slang title for the shop-girl) for encouraging
the musical education of working girls. But, despite its worthy
sociological purpose, this institution has failed. Charpentier has
occasionally written critical articles, among them sympathetic reviews
of Bruneau's _L'Attaque du Moulin_ and _L'Ouragan_.
In considering the music and personality of Charpentier it must be
recognized at the outset that he is far removed in emotional and
intellectual makeup from other prominent figures in modern French
music. A child of the people, absorbing socialistic tendencies from his
boyhood, he is a musician of the instinctive type, averse to analysis
or pre-conceived theory. As Bruneau drew his inspiration from the creed
of realism and the works of Zola, so Charpentier is dominated by his
ardent socialistic bent. His music attempts to embody his impressions
of life from a democratic standpoint, in which realism and symbolism
are sometimes felicitously and sometimes jarringly mingled.
In his musical idiom Charpentier stands close to Massenet, with that
involuntary absorption of his teacher's principles which actuates
most of the pupils of that facile but marvellously grounded composer.
Charpentier is far more sincere, however, in his relations to his
art, in that he has not courted popularity or lowered his artistic
standard for the sake of success. Despite his obligations to Massenet,
Charpentier has a vigorously independent idiom in which Bohemianism and
a poetic humanity are the chief ingredients. This asserts itself even
if the ultimate source of his style is obvious. He is also indebted
to his master for the transparent yet coloristic treatment of the
orchestra, in which sonority is obtained without waste or effort. If at
times it is evident that Charpentier has not listened to Wagner without
profit, the main current of his orchestral procedures, like his basic
musical qualities, is preëminently Gallic.
In the early suite, 'Impressions of Italy' (1890), Charpentier has
depicted in a pleasing and picturesque style various aspects of nature,
the serenades of young men on leaving the inns at midnight, with
responses of mandolins and guitars; the balanced and stately walk of
peasant maidens carrying water from the spring; the brisk trot of mules
with jingling harnesses and their driver's songs; the wide stretches
of country seen from the heights near the 'Desert of Sorrento,' the
cries of birds and the distant sounds of convent bells; and for finale
a realistic description of a fête night at Naples with the tarantella,
folk-songs, bands drowning each other out and general and uproarious
gayety. While the musical substance of this suite is undeniably light,
Charpentier has mingled Italian melodies, descriptions of nature and
a poetic undercurrent with an unusual atmospheric charm and glamour
that outweigh concretely musical consideration. His instinctive and
coloristic manipulation of orchestral timbres heightens greatly the
programmistic illusion.
Though the 'Life of a Poet' (1889-91), scenario and text by
Charpentier, is crude and immature, it possesses indubitable dramatic
vitality notwithstanding. It tells the tragedy of a young and aspiring
poet who would conquer the world of expression, confident in his
ability. Gradually he is assailed by doubt, loses his faith and
ultimately recognizes that he cannot coördinate the vast problems
confronting him into unity. Seeking oblivion in drunkenness, he
acknowledges his defeat and the drama of his life is over.
In this work Charpentier has placed symbolism and realism side by side
in a way that is disconcerting. After an orchestral prelude entitled
'Enthusiasm,' at once rough, forceful and incoherent, a mysterious
chorus with the title 'Preparation' has dramatic power and human
sentiment. The second and third scenes, respectively described as
'Incantation' and 'In the Land of Dreams,' are still occupied with the
symbolic appeal of the poet to inspiration. Throughout this act the
music is effective dramatically, although often not far removed from
tawdry. In the second act, 'Doubt,' there is a luminous charm in the
chorus sung by the 'voices of night,' an appropriate interpretation of
the poet's harassing uncertainty in the second scene, and an extremely
poetic orchestral passage descriptive of his meditations, which ends
the act. In the first tableau of the third act, entitled 'Impotence,'
an orchestral introduction of some length, again crudely dramatic,
depicts graphically the losing struggle of the poet for his artistic
soul. The chorus, 'voices of malediction,' curse a divinity which
permits the ruin of the artist's dreams. To this, the poet, sombre
and fantastic, adds his last plaint of despair and his curse. In the
second 'picture' the poet is at a fête in Montmartre. The orchestra
paints vividly the riot of cheap bands and the reckless jollity.
The chorus echoes the curse of the preceding act and dies away in
mysterious murmurs. A dance orchestra (in the wings) plays a vulgar
polka, a noisy military band chimes in while passing. To these a melody
is dexterously added in the orchestra. A reminiscence of a chorus in
the first act is ingeniously contrived with the polka and orchestral
melody as accompaniment. The poet, now drunk, apostrophizes a wretched
girl of the streets, who replies with mocking laughter. The orchestra
suggests the æsthetic disintegration of the poet, the chorus recalls
the aspirations of his earlier life and finally the poet voices his
defeat.
'The Life of a Poet' is interesting because it presents in a
somewhat primitive state the essential characteristics of the mature
Charpentier, namely, a palpable dramatic gift, the faculty of poetic
and humanizing illumination and differentiation of scenes. In the scene
at Montmartre he has not only furnished a precursor of the Bohemian
realism in 'Louise,' but he has displayed considerable contrapuntal
facility. If the 'Life of a Poet' has the clearly discernible defects
of youth, it has also its vitality and a spontaneous conviction which
was prophetic of the future.
The universality of appeal to be found in 'Louise' (finished in 1900,
although begun at Rome), a 'musical novel' in four acts, text by the
composer, lies chiefly in its simple dramatic poignancy. The story
is that of an innocent girl trusting the instincts of her heart in
returning the affection of the irresponsible Bohemian poet who lives
nearby; her elopement with the poet, her enthralling happiness and
brief triumph as 'Muse of Montmartre' shattered by the false report
of her father's serious illness; her return to the parental dwelling,
her impatient chafing at restraint, her intolerable longing to return
to her lover and the facile Bohemian life; her father's anger and
her brutal dismissal into the night by him, followed by his curse on
Paris. All is basically human and typical of life under all conditions
and places. But 'Louise' contains other elements which make alike
for retentive charm and for critical admiration. In the first place,
it is pervaded by an insinuating glorification of Paris as a city of
freedom and provocative attraction, a perpetual Bohemian paradise.
Next, by the nature of the plot it affords an opportunity for the
librettist to voice a socialistic assertion of the individual's right
to personal liberty, somewhat sententiously uttered, and a condemnation
of restraint symbolized by parental egotism. 'Louise' also contains a
plausible and graphic portrayal of artist life in Montmartre, including
the time-honored ceremony of crowning its 'Muse,' by which Charpentier
has immortalized types doomed to disappear before the commercialization
of the quarter for the foreign visitor. In addition Charpentier may
claim distinction for his services as a folk-lorist by introducing the
street cries of various vendors to increase 'local color,' recalling
the ingenious choruses by Jannequin (of the sixteenth century), such as
_Les Cris de Paris_ and _Le Chant des Oiseaux_. Thus in time it may be
recognized that he has fulfilled an ethnographic purpose of some import.
As the dramatic attraction of 'Louise' resides in its simplicity,
so also its musical value resides in its continuous spontaneity,
its limpidity of style, devoid of all pretentious scholasticism, in
which, however, there is plenty of technical skill and unostentatious
mastery of material. Charpentier's dramatic and musical idiom follows
the conception of Massenet, in which the constituent elements are
balanced, without superfluous insistence upon either. He employs formal
lyricism, except when the situation demands it, uses a flowing and
melodic declamation which gives free play to the annunciation of the
text. He employs motives freely, not in the Wagnerian fashion, however,
but in their flexible manipulation succeeds in giving the needful
touches of detailed characterization. If his orchestral sonority verges
occasionally upon coarseness, as a whole it enhances and colors the
dramatic emotions with remarkable skill and poetic fancy.
But, aside from the question of dramatic method, it is the freshness
of invention, the skill in characterization, and the ebullient musical
imaginativeness of 'Louise' which makes it so unusual among operas.
It is more accurate and illusive in its picture of Bohemianism
than Puccini's _La Bohème_, and possesses far more human depth and
emotional sincerity throughout. In this respect also it is far above
the generality of Massenet's operas, and may be compared, despite
their essential difference in musical individuality, to the operas of
Bruneau. Charpentier is more of a poet, and his musical invention is
far readier. While it may be needless to particularize the domestic
scenes in the first act; the prelude to the second act, 'The City
Awakens,' with the scene before the dawn in which the rag-pickers,
the coal-gleaners, and other characters of the night-world discuss
of life as they have found it; the second scene in the same act, the
dressmaker's workshop, with an orchestral part for the sewing machine,
in which the sewers converse idly and try to account for Louise's
moodiness, the whole first tableau of the third act, in which Julien
and Louise sing of the lure of Paris; Louise's scene with her father in
the fourth act, all these are concrete examples of the interpretative
power of Charpentier the dramatist and composer.
It is difficult to be enthusiastic over Julien. If the hero justifies
the opposition of Louise's parents (for the story of 'The Life of a
Poet' forms its dramatic basis), the introduction of many allegorical
or symbolic episodes not only mars the continuity of the drama, but
their musical style offends by its difference from that of the music
of 'The Life of a Poet,' upon which Charpentier has drawn so freely
for the later opera. While in many instances Charpentier has shown
ingenuity in adapting his earlier music, the total result of his labors
has not only been disappointing but disillusionizing in the extreme.
As a whole, Charpentier, the poet of 'Impressions of Italy,' the
crude but forceful dramatist of the 'Poet's Life,' the mature artist
of 'Louise,' has accomplished certain unique aspects of realism with
a symbolic or sociological undercurrent. Limited as he is to 'the
quarter,' he has been also universal, and his sincere and picturesque
vision has something of permanence. As a pupil of Massenet he does
not belong to the vanguard, but his plausible synthesis of seemingly
contradictory elements has left a permanent impress in the annals of
modern French music.
IV
While categorical classification is not always essential in criticism,
it is somewhat discommoding to acknowledge that a composer cannot
conveniently be placed under one logical and comprehensive heading.
While assimilation of qualities peculiar to two opposing groups can
be unified to a considerable extent, the work of such an artist is
inevitably lacking in complete homogeneity. Such a figure is Dukas,
who, nevertheless, must be considered a force of considerable vitality
in present-day French music.
Paul Dukas was born in Paris, October 1, 1865. Toward his fourteenth
year his musical gifts asserted themselves. In 1881, after some
preliminary study, he entered the Paris Conservatory, where he was a
pupil of Mathias (piano), Dubois (harmony), and Guiraud (composition).
In 1888 he was awarded the second _prix de Rome_ for his cantata
_Valleda_. Since he was passed over entirely in the competition
of the following year, he left the Conservatory and fulfilled his
military service. At this period he had composed three overtures, of
which the last, _Polyeucte_, alone has been published and performed.
In his _Cours de Composition_,[69] d'Indy discloses that Dukas was
ill-satisfied with the instruction he received at the Conservatory,
and that he subsequently made a profound study of the classics and
evolved his own technical idiom. Dukas, however, shows the effect of
two schools, that of Franck in much of his instrumental music, and a
sympathy with that of Debussy in the dramatic field. To acknowledge
this does not mean to tax him with lack of individuality, but merely to
recognize the confluence of opposing viewpoints.
The overture _Polyeucte_ (1891) shows surprising command for so young
a man of the technique of composition and orchestration, although
unnecessarily elaborate in the former particular. It has the classic
dignity of Corneille and at the same time is sincerely dramatic. The
Symphony in C (1895-96) shows considerable progress in many respects:
clearer part writing, unpretentious yet logical construction, no
apparent ambition other than to write sincerely within the limits of
normal symphonic style. There is also marked advance in clarity and
brilliance in the orchestral style. In 1897 Dukas made a pronounced
hit with his fantastic and imaginative Scherzo, _L'Apprenti sorcier_,
after Goethe's ballad, first performed at a concert of the National
Society. This work is one of the landmarks of modern French music for
its elastic fluency of style, the descriptive imagery of its music,
and, above all, its personal note, in which the orchestra was treated
with dazzling mastery.
A Sonata for piano (1899-1900) forsakes the vein of programmistic
_tour de force_ entirely and exhibits a dignified, almost classic,
style whose workmanship is admirable throughout. The theme of the
first movement is distinguished, the second less interesting until
it appears in the recapitulation with deft canonic imitation. The
slow movement is somewhat cold and lacking in inner sentiment; the
scherzo is individual, and the finale solid. Similarly the 'Variations,
Interlude and Finale,' on a theme by Rameau, for piano (1902), is not
only composed with similar preoccupation for thorough workmanship,
but its spirit, save for some ever-present harmonic boldness, seems
to have proceeded from the epoch of the theme. As a matter of fact,
these variations show a post-Beethovenian ingenuity, and genuine skill
in perceiving the gracious theme of Rameau in different and engaging
lights that make this work conspicuous among piano literature in modern
French music. But this music is strongly suggestive of d'Indy and the
Schola. A Villanelle for horn and piano (1906) is a charming piece
which achieves individuality despite the limitations of the horn.
But when Dukas' music for Maeterlinck's _Ariane et Barbe Bleue_ (1907)
was performed May 10, 1907, after he had begun and rejected 'Horn and
Riemenhild' (1892) and 'The Tree of Science' (1899), a greater surprise
was in store than upon the occasion when _L'Apprenti Sorcier_ was
played for the first time.
Instead of the shrinking figure of the fairy-tale, Ariane is a
representative of the feminist movement, if not almost a militant
suffragette, who flatly disobeys Bluebeard, opens all the forbidden
doors to deck herself with jewels, releases her captive sisters, helps
them to free Bluebeard when the infuriated peasants have attacked
and bound him, and then returns to her home, leaving her infatuated
sisters who have too little imagination to make a decision. Dukas has
treated this story in a style that at once admits a coherent and almost
symphonic development of motives, and employs a harmonic idiom that
profits by all that Debussy has done to extend the whole-tone scale.
Dukas does not employ this scale as Debussy has done, but it is obvious
that he never would have gone so far if it had not been for his pioneer
contemporary. Instead of the translucent orchestra of _Pelléas_,
Dukas has employed one that is appropriately far more robust, but
which he has nevertheless used with discretion and reserve. He has
taken advantage of the discovery of the jewels in the first act to
employ coloristic resources lavishly. Despite the complex obligations
in the matter of style, Dukas has produced music of a spontaneously
decorative and dramatic type, which makes this opera significant among
the works of recent years. While _Ariane_ is unequal, the first scene,
excellently worked-out ensemble, the close of the first act, the
introduction and first scene of the second, and the close of the work
cannot be effaced from the records of modern French opera.
In 1910, Dukas had another success with his _poëme dansant, La Péri_,
on a scenario of his own, which has been exquisitely interpreted by
Mlle. Trouhanova, to whom it is dedicated. Here is a work of the ballet
type, which unites felicitously a sense of structure with a gift for
atmospheric interpretation. In this respect, _La Péri_ is one of the
most satisfactory of Dukas' works, and one in which his encyclopedic
knowledge and his imaginative gifts are best displayed.
In addition to his gifts as a composer, Dukas is an editor and critic
of distinction. He has retouched some concertos for violin and clavecin
by Couperin; he has revised _Les Indes galantes_, _La Princesse de
Navarre_ and _Zephyre_ by Rameau for the complete edition of that
master's works. He made a four-hand arrangement of Saint-Saëns' _Samson
et Dalila_, and together with that distinguished composer finished and
orchestrated _Fredegonde_, an opera left incomplete by Guiraud at his
death. In addition, Dukas' articles for the _Revue Hebdomadaire_ and
the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_ display erudition and the clairvoyant
judgment of the born critic.
Thus, although attaching himself to no one group exclusively, Dukas
has, by his capacity for architectural treatment of instrumental forms
and his atmospheric gift in dramatic characterization, attained a
position of dignity and individual expression.
V
It is not within the province of this chapter to be all-inclusive, but
merely to recognize the achievement of the more notable figures. In
consequence a brief mention of some composers of lesser stature, and a
slight enlargement upon two of the more distinguished, will suffice to
account for present-day activity. There are, however, two precursors
of modern French music, who from the circumstances of their lives and
talent have not reached the fruition which they might have deserved.
The first of these, Ernest Fanelli, for thirty years lived the life
of an obscure and impoverished musician, playing the triangle in a
small orchestra, accompanying at cafés, laboring as a copyist. By mere
chance, Gabriel Pierné discovered in 1912 an orchestral work, the first
part _Thebes_, a symphonic poem founded on Théophile Gautier's _Roman
de la Mome_, composed 1883-87. The music was found to have anticipated
many harmonic effects of a later idiom including a fairly developed
whole-tone system. Other works like the _Impressions Pastorales_
(1890), some _Humoresques_ and a quintet for strings entitled _L'Ane_
show their composer to have poetic and descriptive gifts, whose late
revelation is not without pathos. Fanelli can exert no historical
influence, but he remains an isolated and belated phenomenon whose
temporary vogue is doubtless likely soon to suffer eclipse.
Erik Satie, whose name has been mentioned in connection with Maurice
Ravel, and who doubtless was not unsympathetic to Debussy since he
orchestrated two of his _Gymnopédies_, was born in 1866 and studied
for a time at the Paris Conservatory. But an examination of his music
would prognosticate his distaste for that academic institution. He
was influenced by the pre-Raphaelites, and by the _Salon de la Rose
Croix_ and by the mystical movement in literature generally. His music,
chiefly for piano, wavers between an elevated and symbolic mysticism
and an ironic and over-strained impressionism. Regarded for years as an
eccentric _poseur_ with some admixture of the charlatan, it must now
be recognized that he had glimmerings of a modern harmonic idiom and
subjective expression in some of its aspects before the generality of
modern Parisian musicians. But these qualities were hampered in their
development by the ultra-fantastic character of his ideas, and an
incapacity for a coherent development of them. He abhors the tyranny of
the barline, and many of his pieces have no rhythmical indication from
one end to the other, beyond the relative value of the notes. He is
also loath to employ cadences, a prophetic glimpse of the future.
Among his earlier works, the _Sarabandes_ (1887), _Gymnopédies_ (1888),
incidental music for a drama by Sar Peladan, _Le Fils des Étoiles_
(1891), _Sonneries de la Rose Croix_ (1892), _Uspud_, a 'Christian
ballet' with one character (1892), _Pièces froides_ (1897) and
_Morceaux en forme de poire_ (1903), by their titles alone indicate
the character of their musical substance. The _Gymnopédies_ and
the _Sonneries de la Rose Croix_ are interesting for their absence
of the commonplace and for suggestions of a poetic vein. The later
works dating from 1912 and 1913 have fantastic titles which awake the
curiosity only to disappoint it by the contents of the music. _Aperçus
désagréable_, _Descriptions automatiques_, _Chapitres tournés en tous
sens_ seem deliberately contrived to affront the unwary, and cannot lay
claim to any influence beyond their perverse humor, and occassional
ironic caricature as in _Celle qui parle trop_, _Danse maigre_ and
_Españana_.
Among the many contributors toward the upbuilding of modern French
music one must recall the names of Gabriel Pierné for his piano
concerto, a symphonic poem for chorus and orchestra, _L'An mil_, the
operas _Vendée_, _La Fille de Tabarin_ (1900), the choral works _La
Croisade des Enfants_ (1903) and _Les Enfants de Bethlehem_ (1907);
Deodat de Sévérac for his piano suites _Le Chant de la Terre_ (1900)
and _En Languedoc_ (1904), the operas _Cœur du Moulin_ (1909) and
_Heliogabale_ (1910); Gustave Samazeuilh for his string quartet, a
sonata for violin and piano, the orchestral pieces _Étude Symphonique
d'après 'la Nef'_ and _Le Sommeil de Canope_; Isaac Albéniz, although
of Spanish birth associated with French composers;[70] Roger-Ducasse
for orchestral works, a 'mimodrame' Orphée, Louis Aubert for a Fantasie
for piano and orchestra, songs, a _Suite brêve_ for orchestra and the
opera _La Forêt bleue_. In addition the names of Chevillard, Busser,
Ladmirault, Henri Rabaud, André Messager,[71] Labey, Casella, and
others might be added. A figure of some solitary distinction is Alberic
Magnard (died 1914), whose operas _Yolande_, _Guercœur_ and _Bérénice_,
three symphonies and other orchestral works, chamber music, piano
pieces and songs, show him to be a serious musician who disdained
popularity. Associated with the Schola he partook of d'Indy's artistic
stimulus without losing his own individuality.
* * * * *
Two composers whose achievements are the strongest of the younger
generation are Albert Roussel and Florent Schmitt. The former, born
in 1869, entered the navy, and even visited Cochin-China. In 1898 he
entered the Schola, where he studied with d'Indy for nine years. Since
1902 he has taught counterpoint at the Schola. His principal works
are the piano pieces _Rustiques_ (1904-6), a _Suite_ (1909), a Trio
(1902), a _Divertissement_ for wind instruments (1906), a Sonata for
piano and violin (1907-08), the orchestral works 'A Prelude,' after
Tolstoy's novel 'Resurrection' (1903), _Le poëme de la Forêt_, a
symphony (1904-6) and three symphonic sketches, 'Evolutions' (1910-11),
the last with chorus, a ballet-pantomine, _Le Festin de l'Araignée_
(1913). Of these the best known are the orchestral works and the
ballet. If the symphony suggests many traits of d'Indy, there is in it
no lack of individual ideas and treatment. The 'Evolutions' seem far
more personal, and in both style and contents convince that Roussel is
a genuine creative force. The ballet, 'The Festival of the Spider,'
is an ingenious dramatic conception in which the characters are the
spider, flies, beetles and worms. The music in its delicate subtlety
is ingeniously adapted to the action, and in addition is picturesquely
orchestrated with a minimum of resource. Roussel has undergone a long
and severe apprenticeship and his later achievements have proved its
efficacy.
Florent Schmitt, born 1870, is of Lorraine origin. After some
preliminary study, he entered the Paris Conservatory in 1889. Dubois
and Lavignac were his first teachers; subsequently he joined the
classes of Massenet and Gabriel Fauré. Leaving the Conservatory to
undergo his military service, he obtained a second _prix de Rome_
in 1897. In 1900 he was awarded the first prize with the cantata
_Semiramis_. After his prescribed stay at the Villa Medicis in Rome,
Schmitt travelled to Germany, Austria and Hungary and even Turkey.
Schmitt has been a prolific composer and space will not permit a
consideration of all his works. Those upon which his rising reputation
rests are a _Quintette_ for piano and strings (1905-08), the 47th Psalm
for solo, chorus, orchestra and organ (1904) and two symphonic poems,
_Le Palais hanté_ after Poe, and _La Tragédie de Salomé_ (1907), in its
original form danced as a _drame muet_ by Loie Fuller. In addition are
many piano pieces for two and four hands, and for two pianos, songs and
choruses.
In Florent Schmitt's music is to be found alike the solid contrapuntal
workmanship of the Conservatory and the atmospheric procedures
of Debussy. These are combined with a striking homogeneity and a
dominating force that make Schmitt perhaps the most promising figure
among French younger musicians of to-day. If this praise must be
qualified, it must be acknowledged that he is overfluent, and that the
triviality of many of his ideas is only saved by his extraordinary
skill in treating them. In this respect his resourcefulness is
surprising and well-nigh infallible. The massive architectural quality
of the quintet, the barbaric splendor of the 47th Psalm,[72] and
the passionate and sinister mood of _La Tragédie de Salomé_ make
these works significant of the future even in the face of previous
achievements by his older contemporaries.
If this survey of modern French composers seem oversanguine in its
assertions, even the most conservative critic must admit that their
work within the last thirty years has possessed a singularly unified
continuity. Striving deliberately to attain racial independence, the
various composers have attained their end with a unity of achievement
which is not surpassed in modern times. Whether following the counsel
of the naturalized Franck, or heeding the iconoclastic tendencies of
Chabrier, Fauré and Debussy, and the realistic aspirations of Bruneau
and Charpentier, the impressions of Ravel with its added graphic
touches of realism, French music has had a distinctive style, a
personal explanation of mood and a racial individuality such as it has
not shown since the days of Rameau. The question as to its durability
may be raised, as has been done in many epochs and countries, but its
position in the immediate past, and in certain aspects of the present,
leaves no doubt as to its conviction and its import.
E. B. H.
FOOTNOTES:
[61] Louis Laloy Monograph on Debussy, Paris, Dorbon ainé, 1909, p. 12.
[62] Laloy: _op. cit._ p. 52.
[63] Ibid., pp. 20-21, 24-26.
[64] Quarter-note.
[65] Boston Symphony Orchestra Program-book Dec. 21st, 1904.
[66] Roland Manuel: _Maurice Ravel et son œuvre_ (1904), pp. 8 _et seq._
[67] Quoted by Octave Séré from _La Revue Blanche_, May 15, 1901.
[68] Octave Séré: _Musiciens français d'aujourd'hui_, p. 101.
[69] _Cours de Composition, Deuxième Livre, Première Partie_, p. 331.
[70] See pp. 405f.
[71] Messager, b. 1853, is most widely known for a number of charming
operettas, continuing the traditions of Offenbach and Lecoq, of which
_Véronique_ (1898), also produced in America, is probably the best.
His most worthy contemporary in this department is Robert Planquette
(1850-1903), whose _Les Cloches de Corneville_ ('Chimes of Normandy')
is perennially popular.
[72] The 46th in the French Bible.
CHAPTER XI
THE OPERATIC SEQUEL TO VERDI
The Musical traditions of Modern Italy--Verdi's heirs: Boïto,
Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Puccini, Wolf-Ferrari, Franchetti,
Giordano, Orefice, Mancinelli--New paths; Montemezzi, Zandonai,
and de Sabbata.
I
For those to whom music is an entertainment rather than an art, the
idea that Italy is the 'land of music' will always exist. Almost an
axiom has this popular notion become among such persons. And there
is, indeed, little purpose in discouraging the belief. For what is to
be gained by destroying an illusion which, in actual working, does no
harm? Italy's musical development and that, for example, of Germany,
are diametrically opposed to each other. Yet they both stand to-day
for something particular and peculiar to their own natures. Man in
his evolution has subconsciously wrought certain changes, certain
innovations; he has been guided in doing so not so much by his desires
as by his national characteristics.
Taking this into consideration there is nothing that cannot be
understood in Italy's musical line from Palestrina to Montemezzi.
Perhaps the road has been travelled with fewer halts with a view to an
ideal than has that of other nations, but it has been in accordance
with those things which not only shape a nation's fate but also
its art. The Italian race, descended as it is from the Roman, had
traditions. The ideals of that group of men known as the Florentine
monodists were high. It was their purpose to add such music to the
spoken word as would intensify its meaning and make its effect upon
an audience more pronounced. In short, as far back as 1600, when these
men flourished, the ambition of Richard Wagner and the music drama, or,
if you prefer, the Greek tragedy of Sophokles and Æschylus, was known
by Italian musicians who in their composing tried to establish a union
between text and music such as the master of Bayreuth only accomplished
late in the nineteenth century. With the beginnings of oratorio and
opera--they differed little at first--the idea that personal success
for the performer was necessary crept in. Had it not, Richard Wagner
would not have been obliged to revolutionize the form of production
given on the lyric stage. Händel, a German by birth and an Englishman
by adoption, wrote florid Italian opera after 1700; he sacrificed the
significance of the word to the effectiveness of his vocal writing and
produced some things thereby which we of to-day can look upon only as
ludicrous. The musical world knows how opera was composed in Italy in
the latter part of the eighteenth and the early part of the nineteenth
century. The librettist was not a poet, but a poetaster; a composer
of eminence would call upon him to supply words for an aria already
composed and especially adapted to the voice of some great and popular
singer. The result naturally was an art-form which was neither sincere
nor of real value, except from the standpoint of the singer.
The early Verdi followed the form which was known to him by attending
the performances of opera given in his youth in Italy. But he saw
the error of his ways and his masterpieces, _Aida_, _Otello_ and
_Falstaff_, more than atone for his early operas, which have little
merit other than their facile melodic flow. Was it not to be expected
that after him would come men who would emulate the manner of his
last works? Was it unnatural to believe that Italy would interest
itself in a more faithful setting of words to music? And the direct
followers of the composer of _Otello_ gave forth something that called
the world's attention to their works. That it maintained Italian opera
at a plane equal to the three final works of Verdi cannot be said. It
was a passing phase and opened the way for the men who are now raising
Italian operatic composition to the highest point in its history. As
such it served its purpose.
When Giuseppe Verdi died in 1901 there had already been inaugurated the
Realist movement in Italian opera. Italy's 'grand old man' had seen
Pietro Mascagni achieve world renown with his _Cavalleria Rusticana_
and Ruggiero Leoncavallo follow him with the popular _I Pagliacci_.
What he thought of the 'Veritists' we are not favored with knowing. It
would seem safe to say that he could not have been deeply impressed by
them; for the soul which gave musical expression to the emotions of
the dying lovers Radames and Aïda, to the grief-stricken Otello after
his murder of the lovely Desdemona, could have had little sympathy
with the productions of men who fairly grovelled in the dust and
covered themselves with mire in their attempts to picture the primitive
feelings of Sicilian peasantry.
One man who is still alive and whose best work has a place in the
_répertoire_ of more than one opera house was a valued friend of Verdi.
Arrigo Boïto[73] is his name. It was he who prepared for Verdi the
_libretti_ of _Otello_ and _Falstaff_ and produced a highly creditable
score himself in his _Mefistofele_. Time was when this modern Italian's
version of the Faust story was looked upon by _cognoscenti_ as music of
modern trend. In 1895 R. A. Streatfeild, the English critic, spoke of
it as 'music of the head, rather than of the heart.' Hear it to-day
and you will wonder how he made such a statement, for we have gone far
since _Mefistofele_ and to us it sounds pretty much like 'old Italian
opera' in the accepted sense. But in its day it had potency. Boïto is,
however, a finer _littérateur_ than he is a musician. Since his success
with _Mefistofele_ he has not given us anything else. He has, to be
sure, been working for many years on a _Nero_ opera, the second act of
which--there are to be five--is now completed. But a few years ago he
donned the senatorial toga and matters of state have so occupied his
attention that he is permitted now to turn his thoughts to music only
at intervals. Further, he is already a man well along in years and
the impulse to create is no longer strong. Those who know Boïto have
reported that he will not complete _Nero_ and that it will go down as a
fragment.
Alberto Franchetti, born in 1860 in Turin, has composed _Asrael_,
_Cristoforo Colombo_ and _Germania_, three long, unimportant works,
tried and found wanting. It was Luigi Torchi, the distinguished Italian
critic, who, in discussing _Asrael_ called it 'the most fantastic,
metaphysical humbug that was ever seen on the stage.' (Torchi wrote
this before Charpentier compelled himself to complete his 'Louise'!)
Franchetti's leaning is toward the historical opera _à la Meyerbeer_,
his method is Wagnerian. Originality he has none.
Our Realists are before us: Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Giordano, Puccini
and Wolf-Ferrari. We have purposely omitted the names of men like
Smareglia, Cilea, Tasca and Spinelli. Their music has long since
been relegated to oblivion even in their own land. Little of it ever
got beyond the Italian boundary. Spinelli's _A Basso Porto_ reached
New York in 1900 and was thus described by Mr. W. J. Henderson,
music critic of the New York _Sun_: 'The story is so repulsive, the
personages so repellent, the motives so atrocious and the whole
atmosphere of the thing so foul with the smell of the scums and stews
of life, that one is glad to escape to the outer air.... As to the
music, ... there is not a measure of it which proclaims inspiration.
There is not an idea which carries with it conviction.' Mr. Henderson
does not even condemn our American operas so ruthlessly! From all of
which the nature of Spinelli's opera may be understood.
We in America have for a number of years looked upon Giacomo Puccini
as the greatest of living Italian opera composers. His devotees call
him the greatest living creator of operatic music. Already his position
is becoming insecure, for younger, more inspired and more learned men
are appearing on the horizon of Italy's music. The Italians have never
held Puccini in the same esteem as have Americans. Despite his many
failures Pietro Mascagni has been the pride of Italian musicians and
music-lovers. They will grant you that his _L'Amico Fritz_, _Guglielmo
Ratcliff_ and _Iris_ have failed somewhat ignominiously. They will
admit that the story of _Iris_ is one of the most revolting subjects
ever chosen for treatment upon the stage. Yet you will have difficulty
in proving to the contrary when they challenge you to find them a more
powerful piece of orchestral writing by an Italian up to 1910 than the
'Hymn to the Sun' from that opera. We know of nothing in modern Italian
music so moving as this marvellously conceived prelude, a piece of
imaginative writing of the first rank.
Mascagni[74] found himself famous after his _Cavalleria_. The youthful
vigor of that music, crude and immature, gripped his countrymen and
the inhabitants of other lands and made them believe that a new voice
had appeared whose musical message was to be noteworthy. Here was a
composer who had the training, who possessed definite musical ideas,
who understood the stage--by far the most important thing for a
composer of opera--but who has failed to add one iota to his reputation
though he has worked laboriously since the early nineties to do so.
His _Ysabeau_, which we were promised a few years ago, has achieved
perhaps more success in his native land than any of his operas since
_Cavalleria_; some call it a masterpiece, others decry its style as
being unnatural to its composer. A hearing in America would do much to
clarify the situation. Unfortunately Mascagni is a man who has disputes
with publishers, who disappoints impresarios who desire to produce his
works and whose domestic relations rise to turbulent climaxes from
time to time. This has played a large part in his failure to receive
hearings. And it is indeed lamentable to think that his chances for
success have been spoiled by such matters.
His musical style is realistic, but it is never extreme. It was
_Cavalleria_ and the success gained by it that gave men like Tasca and
Spinelli the idea that they, by carrying _verismo_ further, would be
received as composers of note. Mascagni has melodic fluency, he writes
well for the voice and his management of the orchestra in _Iris_ is
proof positive that he has learned how to avoid that ill-balance of
instrumental departments which occurs constantly in _Cavalleria_.
A smaller spirit is Leoncavallo (b. 1858). _I Pagliacci_, to be sure,
remains one of the most popular operas of the day. But that is no proof
of greatness. It must be granted that in it he touched a responsive
chord; that his music has warmth and emotional force. But what is there
in this little tragedy that lifts one up? What is there of thematic
distinction? Signor Leoncavallo, like Mascagni, has pursued the muse
and written a dozen or two operas since the world approved of his _I
Pagliacci_. He has written _Chatterton_, _I Medici_, _Maia_, a _La
Bohème_ after Murger, _I Zingari_ more recently, and he is now writing
an opera called _Ave Maria_. They represent _in toto_ a vast amount of
work, but little of achievement. Those who have heard his recent operas
agree unanimously that they lack the spark which _Pagliacci_ possesses,
that they are honest works by a man who has little to say and who tries
to say that little in an imposing manner.
Perhaps the place of Giacomo Puccini will be determined alone by
time. He is one of those creators to whom success in overwhelming
measure comes, to whom the praise of the masses is granted during his
life-time. Signor Puccini has seen his operas made part and parcel of
virtually every operatic institution, large and small, that pretends to
have a respectably varied repertory. He has witnessed triumphs, he has
the satisfaction of knowing that such a singer as Enrico Caruso in one
of his operas can fill the vast auditorium of New York's Metropolitan
Opera House. His work, now almost completed, if we are to believe
those reports which are divulged as authentic, is the achievement of a
successful composer. His early operas _Edgar_ and _Le Villi_ are not in
the reckoning. Let us pass them by. But he has given us a _La Bohème_,
_Manon Lescaut_, _Madama Butterfly_ and _La Fanciulla del West_. All
of them have been accepted, though there may be some dispute as to the
place of the last named. Puccini is now fifty-seven years old. He was
born in 1858 at Lucca. He has enjoyed worldly possessions as the result
of having written music; he is the idol of the public. Has he won the
respect of discerning musicians? Has his music been accorded a place
alongside that of the great living masters, such as Richard Strauss,
Jean Sibelius and Claude Debussy?
Such a problem presents itself in the case of this popular composer
for the stage. We would not deny Puccini a claim to respect; he
deserves that, if for no other reason than for his having achieved
international approval. But when one comes to a wholly serious
investigation one fears that he will not be among the elect of his
time. And there is this to be considered in arriving at an evaluation
of his achievement. He has written music in every case to stories
that the world has taken to its heart, witness _Manon_, _La Bohème_,
_Butterfly_, _Tosca_ and 'The Girl.' It mattered little to him whether
they were dramas or novels. He waited until the public had judged and
then set himself to putting them into operatic form. Such a procedure
is, of course, any composer's right. And it shows keen insight of,
however, a very obvious kind. If the story of one's opera is already
popular and admired by the world, half the battle for approval is
already won. The big men were often less wise. Weber wrote music to
stories that were not only unknown, but that had no especial appeal;
and he wrote his inspired music to _libretti_ that were shamefully
constructed and amateurishly written.
[Illustration: Modern Italian Composers:]
Giacomo Puccini Riccardo Zandonai
Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari Pietro Mascagni
Men of the first rank, who are artists in everything they do, do not
choose their subjects in the way Puccini has. For Wagner the writing
of a _Tristan und Isolde_ was life--it was as necessary that he work
on that particular drama as that he breathe. And to deal with the
'Parsifal' legend when he did was likewise inevitable. Call 'Parsifal'
art or twaddle--it matters little which--you must admit that it
reflects the master in his almost senile period, interested in just
such an absurd conglomeration as Kundry, Amfortas, Klingsor and its
other dramatic materials compose. The greatest composers of opera have
written because they had to express certain things and because they
found a drama which dealt with it. Puccini has been led by what the
world approved.
Puccini has been fortunate, indeed. His _La Bohème_ is artistically
his best work. In it there is a finer sense of balance and proportion
than in anything that he has done. He has done what few Italians are
able to do, namely, he has interpreted the French spirit. This little
opera--whose libretto, effective as it is, is in no wise an adequate
reduction of Murger's great novel--is replete with comic and tragic
moments that amuse and thrill by turns. The fun-making of the jolly
Bohemians, Rodolphe, Marcel, Schaunard and Colline, is capitally
pictured in music that is as care-free as the souls of the inhabitants
of the _Quartier Latin_. And the death of little Mimi makes a musical
scene that has potency to-day,--yes, even though Puccini has since
learned to handle his orchestral apparatus with a firmer grip and a
mightier sweep.
_La Fanciulla del West_, which had its world-première in America in
1911, is Puccini's biggest, if not his best, production. We care not
a farthing whether his music be typical of California in 1849--we do
wish that the carpers who claim that it is not, would enlighten us by
telling just what kind of music _is_ typical of it--nor does it matter
whether one hear echoes of his earlier operas in it. It suffices that
in it he has written with a sweep and a command of his forces such
as he exhibits nowhere else and that he has written gorgeously in
more than one scene in the work. We have heard that there is not as
much melody in it as in his other operas. But, as a matter of fact,
Puccini's melodies in 'The Girl' are quite as good as those in his
other operas. What is more, they have a pungency which he has attained
nowhere else.
But we fear that it is music of our time and that only. We cannot
bring ourselves to believe that audiences of 1975 will find in Puccini
anything that will interest them. Works that depend, to a large extent,
on the appearance of a certain singer in the cast--and Puccini's operas
do--will scarcely exert a hold on the public of a day when those
singers shall have passed from this world. Antonio Scotti has made
Scarpia in _Tosca_ so vital a histrionic figure, Mr. Caruso sings
Cavaradossi so beautifully that only the most _blasé_ opera-goer fails
to get real enjoyment from their personations. And so it is to a large
degree with his other operas. Puccini bids fair to become another
Meyerbeer when fifty years shall have rolled away. He has enjoyed the
same shouts of approval from a public no more discerning than was that
of Paris of the early nineteenth century; he has been called the most
popular operatic composer of his day. Meyerbeer was, too. Yet to-day
we can only find him tiresome and boring; we can but wonder how any
public listened to his banalities, his deadly fustian, his woeful lack
of inspiration, and express approval. Already the music of the future
is dawning on our horizon. Those of us who have given it attention
know that it is a very different thing from what music has been in the
past. What we know of it now may only be a shadow of what is to come.
Will it, when it does come and has been accepted, allow a place to the
long-drawn phrases of Giacomo Puccini?
II
Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari, born (1876) of a German mother and an Italian
father, presents a problem to us. He is a man whose gifts have not
at all times been applied to that which was his ideal, but rather to
the immediately necessary. If one looks at him in this light--and it
is feasible to do so--one can readily understand some of his artistic
indiscretions. The mob knows him as the composer of _I Gioielli della
Madonna_ ('Jewels of the Madonna,' 1908), his only essay in operatic
realism of the objectionable type. The art-lover hails him as the
fine spirit that conceived the little operas _Il Segreto di Suzanna_,
_Le Donne Curiose_, _L'Amore Medico_, the oratorio _La Vita Nuova_,
some charming though not important songs and several beautiful pieces
of chamber music, among them two sonatas for violin and piano and a
quintet for piano and strings.
Wolf-Ferrari is neither Italian nor German; he is a mixture and so it
is possible to conceive his thinking music in two ways.[75] By no means
is this desirable, but when it exists, what force can alter it? We
feel that the 'Jewels of the Madonna'--which those for whom music is
an entertainment rather than an art admire so much--is simply a 'bad
dream' of its composer's. Before one knows his instrumental music one
thinks it was the real Wolf-Ferrari and that the _finesse_ of his other
operas was a pose. There are many things which caused the 'Jewels' to
be written; persons who know the composer and who were in Munich when
it was being written say that the chief one was the need of financial
aid. Seeing the shekels pouring into the baskets of composers who did
this kind of thing regularly, Wolf-Ferrari 'tried his hand,' thinking
that it would be lucrative. That part of the adventure has not been
denied him. But it has done him immeasurable harm in the opinions
of many who were looking to him for greater things. Its chances are
limited--it cannot be sung in Italy on account of its misrepresentation
of Neapolitan life--and the Metropolitan Opera House has refused to
place it in the _répertoire_.
What Wolf-Ferrari will do no one can say. His next production may be in
his dainty and at all times charming manner. It may quite as readily be
a lurid and vulgar thing in the coarse musical style of 'The Jewels.'
One can only hope that the widely expressed regrets of _cognoscenti_
on the appearance of this unsavory and uninspired work will have their
effect on the composer and that he will give us more in his _rococo_
style, which if not original is at any rate delightful and unique in
the music of to-day.
Times change and music develops. There is, in fact, no branch of art
in which metamorphoses are so quickly accomplished. Not a decade ago
Luigi Torchi wrote that Umberto Giordano (b. 1867) was an ultra-modern
composer! This from a man whose knowledge and fairness must be viewed
with respect. Giordano an ultra-modern! One hesitates to answer such
a fatuous assertion. Were it not generally known that what is new in
music to-day is _rococo_ to-morrow the case might be a serious one.
Umberto Giordano is inconsequential in the evaluating of Italian
music-drama. His achievements are the operas _Regina Diaz_, _Mala
Vita_, _Andrea Chénier_, _Fedora_, _Siberia_ and _Mme. Sans-Gêne_.
For the opera-goer of to-day the list has little meaning. _Regina
Diaz_, an early work, occupies a place in that limbo of the past
where Puccini's _Le Villi_ has long been slumbering. _Mala Vita_ was
a failure, _Andrea Chénier_ and _Fedora_ mild successes. 'Siberia'
had meritorious features, notably the Russian folk-songs which were
employed _verbatim_; had Signor Giordano been a musician who had the
power to develop them symphonically and thus make them part and parcel
of his score his opera might have taken a place in the repertory of
the world's opera-houses. _Fedora_, based on that wretched example
of Sardoodledom, was quickly consigned to oblivion and now his
long-awaited _Madame Sans-Gêne_--which he has been thinking about since
the time he went to Giuseppe Verdi and asked him whether it would be
possible to write an opera in which Napoleon had to sing--has failed
to establish him an iota more firmly in the estimation of musicians
and lovers of music-drama. Many years have been required for the
composition of _Sans-Gêne_; Giordano, once looked to as one of the
'younger Italians,' is no longer to be placed in that category. He is
nearly fifty and he writes slowly. From him little is to be expected.
He remains one of those lesser composers, whose name was brought
into prominence by his _Andrea Chénier_ at a time when the interest
in Italy's then younger men had been aroused through the unequivocal
success of _Cavalleria_ and _I Pagliacci_.
Giacomo Orefice and Luigi Mancinelli are two men whose activities as
composers have resulted in several operas that have had hearings.
Orefice has done the operas _Mariska_, _Consuelo_, _Il Gladiatore_,
_Chopin_, _Cecilia_, _Mose_, and _Il Pane Altri_. His _Chopin_ seems
to have aroused the most comment; in it he pictured incidents in
the life of the great Polish piano composer and in doing so he has
employed Chopin's music, setting some of the nocturnes as solos for the
voice, etc. He is, however, more of a musical scholar than a composer.
Mancinelli, who has divided his time between conducting and composing,
has done a 'Hero and Leander,' which had a respectable success when
first heard. His other operas are _Isora di Provenza_ and _Paolo e
Francesca_. He has also done two oratorios, _Isaia_ and _San Agnese_.
His musical speech is frankly that of a post-Wagnerian.
III
Fortunately for the Italian music-drama there are two young men living
to-day who have achieved art-works which seem to be the creation of
individual thought. Riccardo Zandonai and Italo Montemezzi must carry
the banner of their land in the music-drama. The world has not taken
them into that much cherished household-word condition, but one does
note their attracting attention among musicians. And this is the first
step.
Montemezzi is one of those composers who was absolutely unknown outside
of his own country until _L'Amore dei tre re_ was heard in New York in
1914. With little heralding the Metropolitan Opera House produced his
work; there were rumors of certain influences being responsible for its
being done. Many shook their heads at its chances of being accepted
by the public. The final rehearsals were not completed when it was
recognized by a few gentlemen of the press that here was a new composer
who, though he had nothing wholly original to say, was a man who could
speak his lines with distinction. The _première_ came and the little
opera was acclaimed. It was at once seen that Signor Montemezzi was
a man who harked back to the poetic drama as a basis for his musical
structure, that he had no patience with the veritists in opera. He had,
as it were, a finer soul, a loftier spiritual outlook than the rank
and file of his countrymen who had tried to win in the field of opera
within the last fifteen years.
Italo Montemezzi was born in 1876. His works, all operatic, are:
_Giovanni Gallurese_, produced in Turin at the Victor Emmanuel Theatre
on January 28, 1905, _Hellera_, at Turin at the Regio Theatre on March
17, 1909, and _L'Amore dei tre re_, in Milan at La Scala in the winter
of 1913. It is rather strange to note in this composer a total freedom
from the long-drawn phrase made so popular by Mr. Puccini. Montemezzi
seems to abhor it; and it is to his credit that he can work without
it. His earlier operas were less refined, but to-day it is always
possible to recognize his restraint in working up his climaxes and his
mastery in the highly imaginative orchestral score which he sets down.
Nothing that modern orchestration includes is unknown to him, but he
is sparing in his use of the instruments: he avoids monotonous stopped
brass effects--which modern composers dote on to the distress of their
listeners--he speaks a poetic utterance like a man in whom there is
that spark that bids him contribute to the art-work of mankind.
But with all his talent he does not possess genius. The man in Italy
who has that is Riccardo Zandonai, whose place is at the head of
the leaders in his country's music. Signor Zandonai is in truth
young. He is but thirty-two to-day (1915), and he has already done an
unquestionably important work. When you know the music of this man you
will realize that Italy's place in the music of the future is to be a
glorious one. For his followers will be path-breakers like himself.
Already one has appeared on the horizon. Of him we shall speak later.
To Dickens and his 'Cricket on the Hearth,' which the Latins call _Il
Grillo del Focolare_, Zandonai first gave his attention. This opera was
first given at the Politeama Chiarella in Turin on November 28, 1908,
followed by his _Conchita_ at the Dal Verme in Milan on November 13,
1912. We pause here to speak of this opera, which though received with
an ovation at its every premier performance, barring New York, does not
seem to have held its place in the _répertoire_. The libretto, which is
after Pierre Louys's _La Femme et le Pantin_, is not one that interests
the public. _Conchita_ was given, as we said, in Milan, then in London
at Covent Garden, then in San Francisco by a visiting company which
came over to give a season of opera; Cleofonte Campanini produced it in
Chicago and Philadelphia and then brought it to New York for one of the
guest performances in February, 1913. No further performances in New
York were planned. To pass judgment on it from that performance--which
is what actually happened in the case of the newspaper reviewers--was
idle. Only Tarquinia Tarquini, the young Italian mezzo-soprano, for
whom the composer wrote the rôle, was adequate. The tenor who sang
was already losing his best qualities, and the other parts were only
moderately well done. The chorus was fair and the orchestra likewise.
Mr. Campanini labored to put spirit into the performance, but it seemed
that the score was a little too subtle for his rather obvious powers of
comprehension.
One New York critic agreed with the present writer that in spite of the
performance _Conchita_ was the most interesting novelty that had been
brought out since _Pelléas_. Since then everything that this composer
has done has been watched with the greatest interest. _Conchita_ was
accused of lacking melody, of being 'patchy,' of being overscored
in spots. None of these things are true when one knows the work. A
week's study of the score reveals among the most gorgeous moments
that modern Italy has given us, moments which cannot fail to impress
any fair-minded person with their composer's genius. Zandonai is an
ultra-modern and he writes without making any concessions to his
forces. _Conchita_ may not be a work that fifty years hence will know,
but it is far too good an achievement to be allowed to lie on the shelf
in these days of semi-sterility in operatic composition.
To Zandonai's list of operas we must add _Melenis_, which first saw
the light at the Dal Verme in Milan on November 13, 1912. It was not
successful. Then did Zandonai set himself his greatest task, for he
began _Francesca da Rimini_, using as his libretto a reduction of
d'Annunzio's superb drama, the work of Tito Ricordi, the noted Italian
publisher. It was done at the Scala in Milan in the spring of 1914
and was a triumph. The following summer brought it to Covent Garden,
London, where its success was again instantaneous. The Boston Opera
Company had planned to give it in the winter of 1913-1914, but the
illness of Lina Cavalieri postponed it. Then Mr. Gatti-Casazza was
rumored to have taken it for the Metropolitan Opera in New York for the
season of 1914-1915, but it has not been forthcoming.
Of _Francesca_ we can only speak through an acquaintance with
the published score. We have not sat in the audience and gotten
that perspective which is, perhaps, necessary in estimating a new
music-drama's worth. But the impressions thus gained may be recorded
here at any rate. A magnificent drama, containing everything that the
musician who would accomplish the wedding of the two arts requires, Mr.
Zandonai must have gotten much inspiration in working on it. And the
results are plainly there. The full, Italian rich melodic flow, which
in _Conchita_ was not always present, the apt sense of illustrating the
dramatic moment in tone, the masterly command of modern harmony and a
vital pulsing surge are in this music. If Mr. Zandonai ever surpasses
the love-scene of Paolo and Francesca he will go down in history as a
giant. If he does not he will already at the age of thirty-two have
made a distinguished place for himself. Personally we know nothing
in modern French, German or Russian music-drama that compares with
this, unless it be the great moments in Richard Strauss's _Salomé_ and
_Elektra_. As for the orchestral score of _Francesca_, we have heard
Mr. Zandonai's orchestra, know how he employs his instruments and are
certain that in the time between _Conchita_ and this work he has, if
anything, progressed. That wonderful sweep which he had at his command
in the earlier opera must be present again in this newer one. Should it
not be we still feel sure that the work will win on the merits of its
distinguished thematic material.
Rumor has it that Zandonai is now engaged on setting Rostand's _La
princesse lointaine_. Some day he may do _Cyrano_, too, since his
publishers acquired all the Rostand dramas two years ago for operatic
use. And we may rightly expect important things from him, for he is a
musician of the first rank, Italy's genius of to-day. That he is not
only a composer for the stage will be explained in the next chapter
when we shall treat of his noteworthy art-songs and his orchestral
works.
The follower of Zandonai who has been mentioned though not named, is
the boy Vittore de Sabbata. We have learned that he has completed an
opera which has made his publishers skeptical as to what he will do
in the future. It is said to be so modern in its mode of expression,
so difficult to produce, that it has not been definitely decided
whether or not it will be undertaken. The score of his Suite for
orchestra, written at eighteen, has made us marvel at his ingenuity
and his pregnant musical ideas. What he will do is not to be gauged
by any rule. He may prove to be a prodigy whose light will have been
extinguished long before he is thirty. His health is reported to be
very poor and so he may be taken from us before he achieves anything
definite. At any rate his name deserves recording, for he may be one of
those men who will figure prominently in bearing onward the legion of
the Italian music-drama of the future.
Vittorio Gnecchi, born in 1876, has done two operas, _Cassandra_ and
_Virtù d'Amore_. _Cassandra_ was first produced in 1905 at the Teatro
Communale in Bologna and has since been heard at Ferrara in 1908, in
Vienna at the Volksoper in 1911 and in Philadelphia in 1914. Gnecchi's
instrumentation has been much praised, likened in fact to that of
Richard Strauss. On its American production several critics found
in the scoring of _Cassandra_ much that recalled that of Strauss's
_Elektra_. When they were reminded of the date of production and
composition of _Cassandra_, Gnecchi was soon vindicated from the charge
of having copied the Munich composer's orchestral writing.
Worthy of record are Giuseppe Bezzi (b. 1874) with his _Quo Vadis_,
Renzo Bianchi (b. 1887) with his _Fausta_, Renato Brogi (b. 1873) with
_Oblio_ and _La Prima Notte_, Alessandro Bustini (b. 1876) with _Maria
Dulcis_, Arturo Cadore (b. 1877) with _Il Natale_, Ezio Camussi (b.
1883) with _La Du Barry_, Agostino Cantu (b. 1878) with _Il Poeta_,
Leopoldo Cassone (b. 1878) with _Al Mulino_ and _Velda_, Roberto
Catolla (b. 1871) with _La Campana di Groninga_, Giuseppe Cicognani
(b. 1870) with _Il Figlio Del Mare_, Domenico Cortopassi (b. 1875)
with _Santa Poesia_, Alfredo Cuscina (b. 1881) with _Radda_, Ferruccio
Cusinati (b. 1873) with _Medora_ and _Tradita_, and Franco Leoni with
_Ib e la Piccola Cristina_, _L'Oracolo_, _Raggio di luna_, _Rip Van
Winkle_ and _Tzigana_.
A. W. K.
FOOTNOTES:
[73] B. Padua, Feb. 24, 1842, pupil of the Milan Conservatory, but
cosmopolitan in his influences, having visited Paris, Germany (where he
was interested in Wagner) and Poland, his mother's home. Two cantatas,
_'The Fourth of June'_ (1860) and _Le sorelle d'Italia_ (1862), were
his first published efforts.
[74] B. Livorno, Dec. 7, 1863, pupil of Ponchielli and Saladino in
Milan Conservatory.
[75] Born in Venice Jan. 12, 1876, he studied with Rheinberger in
Munich in 1893-95, though in the main he is self-taught.
CHAPTER XII
THE RENAISSANCE OF INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC IN ITALY
Martucci and Sgambati--The symphonic composers: Zandonai, de
Sabbata, Alfano, Marinuzzi, Sinigaglia, Mancinelli, Floridia;
the piano and violin composers: Franco da Venezia, Paolo
Frontini, Mario Tarenghi; Rosario Scalero, Leone Sinigaglia;
composers for the organ--The song writers: art songs;
ballads--Modern Spanish composers.
One is tempted to halt in the midst of an investigation of Italy's
instrumental music to note the unusual progress which this nation of
opera-lovers has made in arriving at a point where absolute music has
a place in its æsthetic life. And only because Italy, from Boccherini
to Sgambati, ignored the development of music apart from that of the
stage is it necessary to express wonderment at this worthy advance. A
country that could produce a Palestrina, a Frescobaldi and a Corelli,
in the days when the art of music was still in its youth, found that it
was chiefly interested in the wedding--or attempted wedding--of words
and music. There were, to be sure, at all times men who wrote what
they thought symphonies of merit, men for the most part who had little
to say. Some of them were unable to work with the opera-form as it
existed. Their music was, however, the kind that never gets beyond the
borders of its own country, if it succeeds in passing the city in which
it is first heard. The opera-composers were much too busy getting ready
an aria for Signorina Batti or Signor Lodi to study the symphonic form.
So Italy went its merry way, without symphony, without chamber music,
without the art-song, in fact without everything that belongs to the
nobler kind, from the days of Boccherini, of the much venerated Luigi
Cherubini to the appearance in 1843 of the late Giovanni Sgambati.
That period covered, then, from 1770, when Boccherini flourished, till
1850. The reasons for the exclusive interest in opera must be sought in
the conditions obtaining in Rome, Milan, Florence, Genoa, Naples and
other leading cities. Opera-composers wrote music that the orchestras
could manage with little or no trouble; symphonic music, naturally
more difficult of execution, was, to begin with, beyond the ability of
most of these orchestras. In fact it is only recently that the Italian
orchestras have been brought to a real point of efficiency. So Italy
went on, still holding high its head as a musical nation--in its own
estimation, of course. To make a name as a musician one had to compose
a successful opera. A fine string quartet meant nothing to the public,
for it was a public that did not know what chamber-music was. There
were, to be sure, occasional performances, but they were sporadic, and
they had no significance for the people. After all it is not strange
that this occurred. Other nations have experienced similar stages in
their development in other arts. Italy went through it in music. To-day
she has found herself and she is rapidly doing everything in her power
to atone for her shortcomings during those many years when _opera_, in
the opinion of her people, was synonymous with _music_.
I
Giovanni Sgambati was born in 1843. About the year 1866 he began
to make his influence felt and his compositions appeared from the
publishers, who, it may be of interest to note, were advised by Wagner
to exploit his music. The friendship of Franz Liszt and Sgambati was
a very beautiful one; Liszt, in his really noble and generous way,
championed the young Italian, saw in him a desire to do something
in which Italians of even that day were not especially absorbed.
Sgambati did not show Liszt an opera in the Rossinian manner when
the master arrived in Rome in 1861. With serious purpose he brought
him a symphony. And Liszt, intelligent musical spirit that he was,
looked at it and recognized that here was an Italian who knew what
the symphonic form meant, who knew his orchestra, who could write
with some distinction. If one does not expect the impossible of a
pioneer there is always something to be found in his activity that
deserves our aid and sympathy. So Liszt encouraged the young man.
Sgambati labored arduously; he accomplished a great deal. In his list
of works there are symphonies, two of them, there are chamber works
for strings with piano, there is a piano concerto, shorter pieces for
the piano, some for violin, many songs, a 'Requiem' and other pieces
in various forms. Sgambati as an innovator is nothing; Sgambati as an
Italian symphonic pioneer is important. There was work to be done and
he did it with a zeal that speaks volumes for his artistic sense. We
of to-day might find his symphonies tiresome, we might consider them
too consciously Brahmsian without the real Brahms spark, to hold our
attention. But their meaning for those men who are producing vital
things in Italy to-day is undeniable. Sgambati not only gave the world
his compositions; he saw to it that for the first time the symphonic
works of the great German masters were produced in his country. And he
was among the earliest of the Italians to champion the music of Richard
Wagner. Such a man, a musician with the breadth to appreciate Wagner
in the days when Wagner was hissed and ridiculed, must in truth have
possessed the soul of an artist.
With him worked a colleague, Giuseppe Martucci. Like him, he was a
pianist of note as well as a composer. Martucci came a little later
than Sgambati; he was born in 1856, and he is still living to-day
(1915). For him, too, there was in music something beyond an opera
that filled the theatre from floor to gallery and gave some adored
singer the opportunity to disport himself in the unmusical cadenzas
and other pyrotechnical passages which composers all around him were
manufacturing so assiduously. In placing an estimate on the achievement
of Martucci it is not impossible to consider him quite as important
a figure as Sgambati. His music, too, has traits that are typically
Italian, though based on German models. His two symphonies, his piano
concerto in B-flat minor are admirable compositions, none of them
heaven-storming in originality, all of them eminently praiseworthy for
the solidity of their texture, for the beauty of their design and for
the unflinching adherence to high ideals which they embody.
It was hardly to be expected that the two men who set the example for
their countrymen in symphonic composition would be geniuses of the
first rank. Had they been they would doubtless have worked along other
lines. Italian symphonic composition was to be placed on a secure
basis not by path-breakers, but by path-makers. This they were. And
they were notable examples of what good such men can work. Italy is
rapidly making felt her individuality in the contemporary musical world
by the strides in original composition which she is taking. To those
two pioneers, Giovanni Sgambati and Giuseppe Martucci, must go the
credit for having pointed the way to absolute music by Italians, for
having toiled so that the men who came after them might take what they
had done and build on it individual structures. And also that their
followers might have a public that would listen to them.
Nowhere in the world to-day is there more activity in musical
composition than among the young Italians. The world at large seems
to know less about them than it does, for example, about the modern
French or Russians. This is perhaps largely the fault of the Italian
publishers, who do not seem to spread their publications about in other
lands as do their colleagues. Yet the sincere and eager investigator
cannot go far before he finds a vast amount of engaging new Italian
music.
II
In the field of the symphonic orchestra we meet with Leone Sinigaglia,
Riccardo Zandonai, Vittore de Sabbata, Gino Marinuzzi, Franco Alfano,
Luigi Mancinelli. In the previous chapter we have dwelt on the music
of Zandonai's operas. He is, however, one of those big men who have
been moved to do absolute music as well; and he has done several fine
things for the concert-hall. Like him, the young de Sabbata, of whom
we have spoken, and the older Mancinelli, who is better known as a
conductor than as a creative musician, have also contributed to the
symphonic literature. The others, barring Alfano, who has done some
four unsuccessful operas, are composers of absolute music alone.
Zandonai, Italy's greatest figure, has a symphonic poem, _Vere Novo_,
which must be seriously considered. Though it is really an orchestral
piece, the composer has called in the aid of a baritone solo voice
in an Ode to Spring, the poem being by the distinguished Gabriele
d'Annunzio. In it we find a wonderful command of orchestral effects,
an intimate knowledge of the nature of the various instruments and a
masterly attention to detail. The strings are subdivided into many
parts--and not in vain--and the whole work is unquestionably important.
There is also a delightful _Serenata Mediovale_ for orchestra with
an important part for a solo violoncello, a composition which has
distinction and geniality at the same time. It had a performance in New
York at an all-Italian concert several years ago, but since then it has
been unjustly allowed to languish.
Franco Alfano, born in 1876, has done a Symphony in E and a 'Romantic
Suite,' two compositions that have done much to make his name
respected. For those who do not believe that a real symphony has
come out of Italy of the twentieth century an examination of this
score may well be advised. It will convince even the most skeptical.
Alfano's instrumentation is always good and he knows how to develop
his material. Picturesque is the suite consisting of _Notte Adriatica_
(Night on the Adriatic), _Echi dell' Appennino_ (Echoes of the
Apennines), _Al chiostro abbandonato_ (To an Abandoned Cloister) and
_Natale campane_ (Christmas Bells). These four movements are frankly
programmatic. They are not profound, but they are engaging, and they
should be made known wherever good orchestras exist. When we think of
some of the unsatisfactory French orchestral novelties, German works of
no especial distinction that have been produced recently, it would seem
the duty of conductors to seek out these Italian scores and present
them to the public.
In Leone Sinigaglia, a native of Turin--he was born in 1868--Italy has
a composer who has done for the folk-music of his province, if not
his country, something akin to what such nationalists as Dvořák and
Grieg accomplished. _Piemonte_ is the title of a suite, his opus 36,
and _Danze Piemontese_ are two dances built on Piedmontese themes.
These melodies of the people, indigenous material that has always
proved a boon to gifted composers, have been treated by Sinigaglia
with rare skill. He has clothed them in an orchestral garb which sets
off their virtues most favorably and their popular nature should play
an interesting part in gaining for them the approval of concert
audiences. His 'Rustic Dance' from the suite _Piemonte_ is thrilling,
while in the same suite occurs _In Montibus Sanctis_, in which there
is an invocation to the Virgin, serene and aloof in its inflections.
The Piedmontese dances are brilliant, racy compositions, a master's
development of tunes born of the soil. In bright and gay spirit, too,
is his overture _Le Baruffe Chiozzotte_ after a Goldoni comedy. This
glistening little overture has already been played in America and never
fails to arouse the good spirits of all who hear it.
Sicily comes in for musical picturing in the work of Gino Marinuzzi,
born in 1882, a composer whose name is little known. The average
musician is not aware of his existence. Yet this modest musician has
produced a symphonic poem _Sicania_ and a _Suite Siciliana_. What
Sinigaglia does with the folk-melodies of his native Piedmont Marinuzzi
accomplishes by employing Sicilian tunes. And they are very beautiful,
too. After all, the results obtained in working on the folk-music of
any people depend on the skill of the artist who is welding them into
an art-work. Composers enough have tried to make symphonic works of
the crude tunes of our Indian aborigines, but few, with the exception
of Edward MacDowell in his 'Indian Suite,' have accomplished works
of art by their labors. It is, then, a matter of treatment; and both
Sinigaglia and Marinuzzi are well equipped to express in tone their
conception of folk-songs in artistic treatment, as their orchestral
works prove conclusively.
The boy de Sabbata was born in Trieste in 1892. Saladino and Orefice
were his masters at the conservatory in Milan and they taught him
well. His orchestral technique matches that of Zandonai already and
it is almost impossible to imagine what he will arrive at in the
future. His Suite in four movements, _Risveglio mattutino_ (A Morning
Awakening), _Tra fronda e fronda_ ('Mid Leafy Branches), an _Idilio_
and _Meriggio_ (Midday), is one of the most amazing orchestral scores
we have ever seen. It was written at the age of twenty. De Sabbata is
not a Korngold in his musical speech; he is a modern to be sure, but
he has none of the qualities which have won for the young Viennese
composer such heated discussion. His harmonies are new, yet they do not
seem to have been put down with any desire to be different. There is a
very distinct personality in this music, and in the third movement of
his suite (_Idilio_) there is some of the warmest writing that has come
to our notice in a long time. This young man has imagination, strong
fantasy and a keen appreciation of color. At twenty he can say more
than most composers at forty. And because he says it in his own way one
cannot help thinking that the future will be very bright for him. The
only hindrance is his ill health, which is already causing those who
are interested in him much concern.
Pietro Floridia, born in 1860, an Italian musician who lives in
New York, has written a symphony in D minor, creditable from the
standpoint of the student but uninteresting for the public. It
has had a performance in New York, where it was cordially, if not
enthusiastically, received. Mr. Floridia has also done the operas
_Carlotta Clepier_, _La Colonia Libera_, _Maruzza_ and _Paoletta_.
Of Luigi Mancinelli's orchestral compositions the Suite _Scene
Veneziane_ has been performed in London. They are interesting examples
of an Italian whose idiom is post-Wagnerian in the broadest sense.
And Alberto Franchetti, better known for his operas, has composed a
symphony which Theodore Thomas played shortly after it was composed.
Like his other productions it lacks physiognomy totally.
It may not be amiss to digress here to say a word about Signor
Marinetti and his Futurist fellows. Their place is not an especially
important one in Italy's musical scheme. Their presence does, however,
make them come in for consideration. What Signor Marinetti and
his colleagues would have music become none of us will be so rash
as to endorse. Thus far he has given performances of works of his
own invention, using instruments which make hideous and inartistic
noises to express his ideas. He calls them 'gurglers,' 'snorters' and
'growlers.' We are not conservative in our taste; we cannot afford to
be, for we have with us the very interesting Arnold Schönberg, who
is a Futurist in tendencies, though not of the Marinetti type, and
Leo Ornstein, whose music is the _dernier cri_ in our development.
Ornstein's music seems to have no relation with musical art of the
past; he is an impressionist and writes as he feels. He refuses
explanations of his music, further than his stating that he is
oblivious to all that has gone before in musical composition, and
writes what his emotions tell him to, quite as he hears it before ever
a note is set to paper. He employs the piano, stringed instruments, the
voice, the orchestra, as the case may be. He is therefore obviously not
of Signor Marinetti's tribe. There might be some interest in hearing
one of the latter's bombardments, but it cannot have any æsthetic
value. It must fail as one of those wayward retrogressions which all
arts have experienced at some time in their history. From Marinetti we
need fear nothing. He will be forgotten long before the next decade
rolls round, when his aggressive experiment in what he calls music will
have been heartily exploded as the attempt on the part of an iconoclast
to fuse a passing madness with a lofty art.
III
Italian piano composers are few; only one of them touches the
high-water mark. Franco da Venezia is his name and he has put to
his credit a _Konzertstück_ for piano and orchestra and some very
unusual shorter pieces for pianoforte solo. The former is regarded as
a splendid work. Of the _morceaux_ we cannot say too much. Da Venezia
is a man of strong physiognomy. He makes no compromises to win his
public, he writes no _salon_ music. Look at his 'Caravan and Prayer in
the Desert' and you will know what he can do with the keyboard of the
piano! Then turn the pages of a short poem for the piano, _L'Isle des
morts_, in which there is more real feeling than in the volumes of many
a fashionable modern Frenchman. Fire has been struck here; nor has it
been lighted to express some happy little thought that might please
amateur pianists. In this music a tone-poet speaks and his message is
worth listening to. Paolo Frontini is another man who has written much
for the piano. Not important music is his like that of da Venezia, but
he has done some very agreeable pieces, musicianly in execution and
certainly worthy of acquaintance. Mario Tarenghi, Muzio Agostini and a
half dozen others, whose names would scarcely be worth recording, have
contributed small shares. Modern Italy's piano composer is Signor da
Venezia. It is to him that we must look for the Italian piano music of
the day.
Corelli, Vivaldi, Vitali, Veracini and a host of others held the high
standard of their country in violin music in the days of the classic
foundations. We have not forgotten Corelli's _La Follia_, the sonatas
of these other men, nor the superb chaconne of Vitali. These men were
violinists and their répertoire was acquired and increased by their own
compositions. Until Nicolo Paganini appeared in 1782 the Italian violin
literature was scarcely enlarged. And Paganini's music had value only
as _violin music_, whereas theirs had and _has_ a place to-day both
as music and as music for the violin. Now again an Italian violinist
has come forward, the musician who has established a string quartet
in Rome, where he gives his concerts every year for a discriminating
public. Rosario Scalero has in a sense atoned for the woeful lack of
violin composition in his country. Scalero is not perhaps as original
a composer as we would like to have him; he has followed German models
and has studied seriously. But his sonata in D minor for violin and
piano is one of the best modern sonatas we have, and we must be
grateful that it has come to us from a land that has done little since
the seventeenth century in producing chamber music for the violin.
This sonata leans a little on Brahms, but there is in it at the same
time something of that Italian feeling which one recognizes so easily
in music, whether it be for the violin, piano, orchestra or what not.
Scalero has also put forth revisions of some of the classical sonatas
by the old Italian masters, revisions that show his erudition and
artistic judgment.
Some short compositions and a 'Piedmontese Rhapsody' by Sinigaglia
constitute that very interesting musician's contribution to violin
music. They are all of them idiomatically conceived and effective
in performance. The Rhapsody is made up of folk-songs of Piedmont,
quite as are the orchestral dances which have been discussed. It is
an exceptionally felicitous piece to perform, and with orchestral
accompaniment it should soon replace such hackneyed music as
Saint-Saëns's _Rondo Capriccioso_. Beyond the efforts of these two men
nothing of value is being written for the violin by the modern Italians.
Before turning to the discussion of the art-song we must speak of that
curious musical personality, Don Lorenzo Perosi, born in 1872, who is
the representative of oratorio in his land to-day. Also the Italian
organ composers. Perosi began his career by startling all who knew him
with his pretentious works in which he has employed Biblical narratives
as the subject for long oratorios. His 'Resurrection of Lazarus' when
first produced in Venice fixed the attention of the world upon him.
It was said that a new Palestrina had been found. All kinds of honors
were paid him. A street in his native Tortona was named after him. His
services as conductor at presentations of his oratorios were sought. We
cannot do better than to quote the remarks of Luigi Torchi, who seems
to have examined his productions very carefully. He says: 'After all,
why this hurrah about Perosi? He, whose recreation in times past was
to compose cathedral church hymns after the pattern of the Protestant
chorales, writes at present his vulgarly vaunted oratorios. This little
abbé, born with theatrical, operatic talent, and not being permitted
as a priest to write operas, in fault of religious feeling gives vent
by way of compensation to the fullness of his romantic and sentimental
exultations. And look at the form of his compositions: a frequency
of tedious recitatives with words that follow literally the text of
the Bible; little melodies, properly beginnings without endings,
without any severe dignity of line, alternate with more or less long
instrumental pieces of lyrical character; a couple of modern church
anthems, in a work drawn from the New Testament; plain-song harmonized
tragically, and some attempts at operatic realism, ecclesiastical
harmonies and realistic operatic style.... He follows the lead of
Wagner, and makes use of the _leit-motif_; soon after he delights in
turning his back on him, and offers a badly made fugue on a subject
that smells of too classic times. He has a fondness for instrumental
phrases of much color, but his purely orchestral numbers are puerile,
and betray no knowledge of modern orchestration. He has learned to
compose pieces without ideas, fugues without developments, and, that
he might not be too badly off, orchestral intermezzos, written and
orchestrated with the knowledge of a schoolboy. Perosi has undertaken
the task of illustrating the life of our Saviour in twelve oratorios.
If he should keep his word, he should be pardoned.'
Thus this abbé-composer is disposed of. Marco Enrico Bossi, born in
1861 in Brescia, has written two oratorios, 'Paradise Lost' and 'Joan
of Arc,' fine, sincere works along lines that add little to what has
been done in the field before his time. He is at least dignified and
knows his craft and so, unlike Perosi, cannot be charged with being a
_poseur_. He is the foremost living organ composer that Italy owns. And
it is in this department of activity that he is at his best. Some will
think that he should have been mentioned with the orchestral composers.
But his orchestral works are of the Sgambati-Martucci kind, and, since
he is one of the younger men, it would be hardly proper to discuss
academic essays along with the work of those men who are blazing paths.
His chamber music, including a fine trio 'In Memoriam,' is creditable
but undistinguished. It is only in his organ music that an individual
note is found.
Cesare Galeotti, Oreste Ravanello, Polibio Fumagalli, Filippo Capocci,
these are names of men who have written in recent years and are writing
(some of them) organ music to-day. Capocci has done several sonatas of
a pleasing type, as has Fumagalli, while the other two have confined
themselves to working in the smaller forms, often with much success.
Two native Italians who have made their homes in America must be
mentioned here. They are Pietro Alessandro Yon and Giuseppe Ferrata.
Mr. Yon is a young man of unquestioned talent. He was born in Settimo
in 1886 and occupies the post of organist of the Church of St. Francis
Xavier, New York, devoting a good portion of his time, however, to
composition. Just as it is the duty of organists of Anglican churches
to turn out an occasional _Te Deum_ or _Jubilate_, so must the Catholic
church organist produce a Mass every now and then. Mr. Yon is one of
those who when he comes forward with a Mass gives us a musical work
of distinction, not a _pièce d'occasion_. He has written a number of
them, but particularly fine is his recent Mass in A. Here the true
ecclesiastical spirit of the Roman church is to be found; and what
a mastery of polyphony does this young Italian exhibit! His organ
compositions are also praiseworthy, a charming 'Christmas in Sicily'
and a 'Prelude-Pastorale' (_Dies est laetitiæ_) being characteristic
examples.
Giuseppe Ferrata (b. 1866) lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, where he
teaches and composes. His list of works is a long one, including a
_Messe solennelle_ for solo voices, chorus or mixed voices and organ
or orchestra, a Mass in G minor for male voices and organ, numerous
songs, piano pieces, and a dozen or more violin compositions in small
forms. He should be praised especially for a very fine string quartet
in G major and a group of sterling organ compositions. Mr. Ferrata's
path to success has not been made easier by his living in America; it
has, in a sense, taken him away from Italy and her ways and, though
it has doubtless given him a freer viewpoint, he has had to struggle
for a hearing. His compositions are only now being recognized and
given performances. He has something to say, has a fine compositional
technique, and he is disposed to add to his style the innovations of
modern harmonic thought.
IV
Doubtless ninety-nine out of every hundred musicians and music-lovers
still believe that Italy has no art-song, that her composers are still
devoting their energies to turning out those delectable _morceaux_
in ballad-style which Italian opera singers have sung in the past,
and still do, to an extent, when they are called upon to take part
in a concert. For these persons, whose number is a large one, it
will be surprising information that Italy is working very seriously
in the field of the art-song. And the man who has achieved the most
conspicuous place in this department is that young genius, Riccardo
Zandonai, already spoken of as a music-dramatist and as a symphonic
composer. Whereas some of the songs which can be placed in this class
by contemporary Italians still contain germs of the popular Italian
song style, Zandonai's songs are indubitably on the high plane which is
uninfluenced by popular tendencies.
Mr. Zandonai has doubtless done a great many more songs than we in
America have been made familiar with. He has perhaps also written many
more than he has published, the case with most composers. Several
years ago there appeared three songs, first a setting of Verlaine's
_Il pleure dans mon cœur_, then _Coucher de soleil à Kérazur_ and
third _Soror dolorosa_ to one of Catulle Mendès' finest impassioned
outbursts. The effect of these songs on musicians who, at the time,
had heard no music of Zandonai was tremendous. In every measure was
written plainly the utterance of a big personality, who commanded
modern harmonies with indisputable mastery. Whether his setting of
the lovely Verlaine poem matches or surpasses the widely known one of
Debussy is of little consequence. It is not at all like it; Zandonai
doubtless was unfamiliar with the Debussy version when he wrote the
song and his _Il pleure_ has an atmosphere all its own. The Orientalism
of _Coucher de soleil à Kérazur_ is unique--it gives the impression of
a twilight conceived through an entirely new lens. But it is in the
_Soror dolorosa_ that the composer has written what would seem to be
one of his masterpieces. Every drop of the emotional force that Mendès
has called out in his glorious stanzas, every bit of the color, of
the warmth of the poem is reflected stunningly in this music. It is a
wedding of voice and piano, achieved only by the greatest masters in
their most notable songs.
Then there appeared another set of songs, this time five in number.
_Visione invernale_, _I due tarli_, _Ultima rosa_ (this one to a
Foggozzaro poem), _Serenata_ and _L'Assiuolo_ are the titles. You
cannot prefer one of these songs to the other if you really get their
meaning; only the last one might be said to be not so distinctive. The
wonderful dirge of _Visione Invernale_, the thrilling melodic beauty
of _Ultima rosa_ and the lighter _Serenata_ and the tragic narrative
of _I due tarli_ ('The Two Worms') grip as do few things in modern
music. If Mr. Zandonai has written difficult songs, that is, from the
singer's standpoint, it was not unexpected. No composer who really had
a message ever wrote to a singer's taste. And Mr. Zandonai never makes
concessions.
Guido Bianchini, Enrico Morpurgo, Alfredo Brüggemann, Mario
Barbieri--names assuredly strange to many a music-lover--are all men
who have contributed significantly to song literature. Morpurgo's _Una
speranza_ is typical of him at his best; Bianchini has real modern
tendencies. Francesco Santoliquido is known to us through two songs,
_Tristezza crepuscolare_ and _Alba di luna sul bosco_. _Tristezza
crepuscolare_ is the better of the two, a magnificent conception, a
song that is thrilling in every inflection. There is a strong Puccini
tinge in Santoliquido's music, made fine, however, by more restraint
than the composer of _Tosca_ knows how to exert. Unusually well managed
are the accompaniments, which are rather graphic. Mr. Santoliquido
knows how to achieve a climax within a few pages as do few of his
contemporaries.
Apart from all these men stands Vittorio Gui, a young composer and
conductor, whose career has been furthered by Arturo Toscanini. Signor
Gui is an 'ultra' in the best sense of the word. His songs, which have
not been exploited in America at all, are enigmatic. In fact his choice
of poems makes them so. He has taken Chinese poems and translated them
into Italian, poems that contain that world of Confucian philosophy
which is still but little known. There are problems in ultra-modern
harmony here which many will not be willing to solve, but which a few
have already given serious attention to and from which they have gotten
much joy. There is distinction in these songs; a desire to experiment,
perhaps, but still the feeling for new paths, new moods, and, above
all, a new idiom. The attainment of that may not be so easily
accomplished, but Gui is one of the men who are going prominently in
that direction.
A word about the ballad composers, Paolo Tosti, P. Mario Costa, Luigi
Denza, and Enrico de Leva. Whereas their position in serious music
is not one of importance, their appeal to millions entitles them
to mention. Tosti is doubtless the ablest of them. His innumerable
_melodie_--the characterization of his songs as such is typical
of what Italians thought a song must be before they attempted the
art-song--have a melodic fascination. Who has not heard his 'Good-bye'
and his _L'ultime canzone_, two songs which have won a popularity truly
universal in scope! And when 'Good-bye,' hackneyed as it is, is sung by
a Melba it contains an emotional thrill, theatrical as its appeal may
be, insecure as its structure is from the standpoint of the art-song.
It would be idle to enumerate Tosti's writings. His songs go into the
hundreds. De Leva, Denza, and Costa are of the same creative blood;
they believe in pure melodies, none of them distinguished, set to
very indifferent Italian texts--not poems--and one and all gorgeously
effective for the singer. What these men have produced has developed in
Italian singers that failing, namely, the dwelling on all high notes,
which is so objectionable. But it has also brought joy to so many
Italians whose sole musical interest was singing, and their place in
the development of Italy's music cannot be overlooked. When a hundred
years have rolled around perhaps the name of Tosti will be remembered.
But it is exceedingly doubtful whether there will be Italians producing
a similar kind of music; for by that time Italy's music-lovers will
have repudiated this type of banal melodic song, which makes only an
emotional appeal and into whose make-up the intellectual has never been
allowed to enter.
* * * * *
Italy's right to a place among musical nations of the day cannot be
denied. Not only in the producing of worthy music-dramas, of orchestral
works, of chamber music, but also in the noble art-song is she active.
A change has come over her. Perhaps her musicians are being better
trained. Yet the St. Cecilia Academy in Rome, the conservatories in
Milan, Naples, Genoa, and Bologna have always equipped their students
well. It may not be this so much as it is the imbuing of those who
choose lives in art with the responsibility of their calling. Further,
it is the advance which musical art has made all over the world.
The young Italian composer of to-day has behind him Wagner and his
glorious achievement, Strauss and his superb essays in the operatic and
orchestral fields, the Frenchmen and their innovations. What did he
have fifty years ago? Was it not to the old-style Italian opera that he
looked with a burning to achieve a work of this type and win popular
success? And one point that affects all modern composition is quite
as valid in Italy as it is anywhere: Composers, in fact, musicians in
general, are being better educated; they are feeling the correlation of
the arts; they have studied the literatures of many nations, they know
the paintings of many masters. In this lie the wonderful possibilities
of the future! And modern musical art has its pathway, one quite as
open and as free as that of any of its brothers, in which it must
accomplish its task. Italy will not be behind in the future as she has
been in the past. For she has a Zandonai, a Montemezzi, a Gui to lead
her on.
A. W. K.
V
Since the late Renaissance Spain has been generally regarded as
backward in music. And until recently the reputation was deserved. But
within the last two decades musicians have become aware that there is a
vigorous and extremely talented school of native and patriotic Spanish
composers, working sincerely and effectively. As always happens in
such cases, we find on closer examination that the revival of musical
creativeness is not a recent thing, but has been going on definitely
for half a century or more. But every indigenous musical school must go
through a period of internal development, and the modern Spanish school
has been no exception. It is even probable that this school has by no
means begun to approach maturity. Though it assiduously cultivates
national materials and even issues national manifestoes, its idiom is
borrowed in the main from France, and it is to Paris that the promising
young composers still look for tuition and inspiration. The national
material as used by the modern Spanish composers has no more been
infused into the spirit and technique of their product than the Russian
folk-songs were infused into the Russian music of Glinka's time. Modern
Spanish music seems to be in a preparatory stage. It has two main lines
of activity--the opera and the genre piece for piano. In the former
class Spanish composers have produced little that has carried beyond
the borders, though their industry is indefatigable. But in piano music
they have enriched modern concert literature with many a piece of
sparkling vitality and able workmanship.
Among the precursors of the recent renaissance the name of Baltasar
Saldoni (1807-1891) is most eminent. He was born in Barcelona, and
received his education in the monastery of Monserrat. Throughout
the greater part of his life he was distinguished as an organist,
teacher and scholar as well as a composer. His important works were
a symphony, _O mia patria_; a 'Hymn to the god of Art'; some operas
and operettas, and a quantity of church and organ music written in a
severe contrapuntal style. Miguel Eslava (1807-1878) also deserves
mention both as composer and scholar. But greater than either is
Felippe Pedrell (born 1841 and still living), who with Isaac Albéniz
(born 1860) may be called the founder of modern Spanish music. Both
were ardent nationalists; both were thorough and industrious scholars;
and both wrote with distinction in large forms as well as small. Though
Pedrell, the student, was particularly eminent in the department of
Spanish ecclesiastical music, Pedrell the composer essayed chiefly
those forms which ordinarily bring the maximum of worldly success.
His early operas--_El último Abencerage_ (1874), _Quasimodo_ (1875),
and 'Cleopatra' (1878)--were produced in Spain at a time when the
native public would hardly lend an ear to anything except Italian
operas of the old school and its beloved _Zarzuelas_, or operettas.
His orchestral works are large in design and admirably executed. They
include a _Chanson Latine_, the _March à Mistral_, the _Chant de
la Montague_ (a suite of orchestral 'pictures'), and the symphonic
poems--'Tasso at Ferrara' and 'Mazeppa.' In addition to many songs
and small piano pieces, Pedrell wrote considerable choral music, in
particular the noble 'Gloria Mass.' But his greatest work, and the one
which has chiefly won him the respect of musicians in outside lands,
is his operatic trilogy, 'The Pyrenees,' designed as a sort of hymn
of praise to his native land. The whole work was produced in 1902
in Barcelona, where the composer has worked indefatigably, causing
the city to attain a peculiar musical importance somewhat parallel to
that which Weimar attained in Germany under the régime of Liszt. The
three parts of 'The Pyrenees' are denominated, respectively, _Patrie_,
_Amor_, and _Fides_, three words forming an old and illustrious Spanish
armorial inscription. In the prologue a bard chants the sorrows of
Spain. The first part of the work is the story of a nation sunk into a
despair and then liberated. The liberator is symbolized in the hero,
the Comte de Foix, while the legendary spirit of the mountains is
personified in a juglara, Raig de Lluna. Especially fine is the second
act of _Patrie_, where the sombre chant of the monks mingles with the
fanfare of the soldiers, the music of a passing funeral cortège, and
the melancholy song of the jongluera.
Whereas Pedrell specialized in ancient Spanish church music, Albéniz
made a study of the folk-tunes of his people. And this with the
deliberate purpose of using them as a basis for a new Spanish school
of composition. With unfailing energy he carried out his life-program,
and, though he did not succeed in carrying the fame of his native
land into many foreign capitals (except for his superb piano pieces),
he gave energy to the awakening instincts of native composers, and
set a high standard for their work. He was in his early youth a
'boy-wonder' pianist, and as such studied under some of the most
famous masters in Europe, among them Marmontel in Paris, Reinecke in
Leipzig, and Liszt in Rome. As a composer he was largely self-taught.
His early piano work was undistinguished, but his technical ability
grew astonishingly with the course of the years. His opera, _Pepita
Jimenez_, is regarded as the most distinguished operatic achievement
of modern Spain. It is frankly a 'folk-opera' and makes lavish use of
the specific Spanish rhythms and tunes which the composer collected in
his years of research among the people. The score shows an easy mastery
of counterpoint, but the vocal parts are rather uninteresting, and
the work as a whole lacks the charm which one would expect. Albéniz's
other works for the stage are the operas _Enrico Clifford_ and 'King
Arthur,' and the operetta 'The Magic Opal' (produced in London in
1893). The oratorio _Christus_ also has a high place in the music of
modern Spain. But Albéniz's most successful works are his piano pieces.
These have been called 'the soul of modern Spain.' They seem to range
over the whole land, paying homage to a city or a valley, picturing a
street scene in festival time or some striking bit of native scenery.
Their melodies and rhythms are Spanish from beginning to end. But their
technique is that of modern France. Albéniz, and all his compatriots
in music, had their best lessons in Paris, and they could not fail to
reflect the powerful influence from the north. It is to their credit
(to Albéniz's in particular, since he chiefly insisted upon it) that
with a French technique and a set of æsthetic ideals unmistakably
French they still produced a music that was national and personal.
Albéniz's best works for the piano are his two suites, 'Iberia' and
'The Alhambra.' These have taken their place in modern concert programs
beside the works of Debussy and Ravel, and have given their composer
an international reputation as one of the leading 'impressionists' of
modern times.
The most eminent living Spanish composer in this style is Enrico
Granados (born 1867). Like Albéniz, he has worked in the larger
forms, and his works deserved at least this partial listing: the
operas--_María de la Alcarria_ (1893) and _Folletto_ (1898), the
symphonic poems, _La Nit del Mort_ and 'Dante'; the incidental music
to Mestres' fairy play, _Liliano_; a quartet and a piano trio, in
addition to many songs. But, again like Albéniz, it is in his piano
pieces that he has done his best work. These show all the modern
French characteristics--highly spiced harmony, free use of dissonances
of the second, clear but astonishingly intricate pianistic style,
free use of the whole tone scale and of exotic tonalities, and daring
characterization and realism. But its complexity is not so much that
of development as of ornamentation--which is a quality more peculiarly
Spanish. As with Albéniz's piano works, the composer pays tribute
to many a Spanish town and to many a Spanish custom, and loves to
introduce a local color at once authentic and suggestive. Granados'
most important groups of piano pieces are the _Goyescas_, the 'Songs of
Youth,' the _Danzas Españolas_, and the 'Poetic Waltzes.'
Hardly inferior to Granados in the writing of genre pieces for piano
is Joaquin Turina. This composer's most important piano work is the
suite _Sevilla_, a fascinating group of tone pictures drawn from the
daily life of the city. His writing is marked by great delicacy and
keen feeling for the finer vibrations of the modern piano. Among his
other works we should mention an opera, _Fea e con Gracia_ (1905), a
string quartet, and a _Scène andalouse_ for piano and violin (1913).
Other Spanish composers who have gained eminence in their native land
are K. Usandizaga, who is a pupil of d'Indy, and whose opera _Las
Coloudrinas_ was produced in Madrid in 1914; Vives, the composer of
the nationalistic opera _Tabare_ (1914); and Costa Nogueras, composer
of _Flor de almendro_ (1901), _Ines de Castro_ (1905) and _Valieri_
(1906). Gabriel Grovlez (born 1882) has written colorful piano music
in the new style, and Garcia Roble has made successful essays in the
larger forms. The great violinist Pablo Sarasate (1884-1908) is eminent
as a spirited composer for violin. Raoul Laparra, though he is of
Spanish parentage and has worked with Spanish materials, should rather
be treated among the composers of modern France.[76]
Among the distinguished composers of modern Portugal should be
mentioned Verreira d'Arneiro (born 1838), who has gained a wide
reputation with his 'Symphonic Cantata' and his opera, 'The Elixir
of Youth'; and Carlo Gomez (1839-1896), who was chiefly active as a
composer of operas in the Italian style for Italian theatres. The most
eminent Portuguese composer of recent times, however, is the admirable
pianist Jose Vianna da Motta (born 1868). A quartet and a symphony from
his pen have been played with success, but he is best known by his
piano pieces, notably the 'Portuguese Scenes' and the five 'Portuguese
Rhapsodies.'
H. K. M.
FOOTNOTES:
[76] See Volume IX, chapter XIV.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ENGLISH MUSICAL RENAISSANCE
Social considerations; analogy between English and American
conditions--The German influence and its results: Sterndale
Bennett and others; the first group of independents: Sullivan,
Mackenzie, Parry, Goring Thomas, Cowen, Stanford and Elgar--The
second group: Delius and Bantock; McCunn and German; Smyth,
Davies, Wallace and others, D. F. Tovey; musico-literary
workers, musical comedy writers--The third group: Vaughan
Williams, Coleridge Taylor and W. Y. Hurlstone; Holbrooke,
Grainger, Scott, etc.; Frank Bridge and others; organ music,
chamber music, songs.
I
The word _renaissance_ when applied to English musical conditions from
about 1870 onwards is convenient but slightly inaccurate. It gives us
an easy group-symbol for a large and unexpected outburst of activity;
but it does not either state or explain a fact. _Re-naissance_ means
'a being born again,' and that implies previous death. But the flame
of life had never quite died out in the country to whose first great
composer (Dunstable) the modern world owes the invention of musical art.
In its church and choral music especially there had always been a
flicker of life which at least once, in the reigns of Elizabeth and
the first James, had blazed up into an astounding vitality. However,
it was not to be expected that the nation could go on living at this
white heat. The flame burnt itself down, but not out; and the embers
of a national art that had once been great enough to light up the wide
spaces of the world smouldered through the eighteenth century and far
into the nineteenth.
The history of this ecclesiastical music might almost have been
predicted. Its postulates are merely the isolation and selfishness
of the English Church from the days of William and Mary to those of
the Oxford movement. But there are some other factors governing the
productions of 'secular' music; and these we must examine.
From about the time of Purcell's death onwards (1695) England was
engaged in eating up as much of the world as possible. And the result
was national indigestion. Already in Charles II's time there had been
alarming signs of an after-dinner torpidity which could find pleasure
only in the latest trickeries imported from France. The old healthy
delight in music as the recreation of freemen was disappearing; and the
Englishman, spending his long day in the conquest, the civilization,
and the administration of his great empire, found himself in the
evening too weary for anything but contemptuous applause.
Hence began the artistic invasion of England. The foreigner was quick
to see his opportunity in the preoccupations of the nation. Over the
sea he came in shoals, impelled partly by the very natural belief in
his own nation as the source of all _kultur_, and principally by his
interest in the pound sterling. And, once landed, there he remained.
His motto was that of the old Hanoverian countess: 'Ve kom for all your
goots.'
It is unnecessary in this place to detail either the methods or the
pernicious effects of this unnatural domination. Händel was a great,
good, and pure-minded man, but when he came to England in 1710 he came
to be a curse and an incubus brooding over the English spirit for
150 years. Music very nearly died there and, when the corpse showed
any signs of reviving, some foreign professor was always at hand to
stifle its faint cries, or, if that was not enough, to do a little
quiet blood-letting 'just to make sure.' Even in the third quarter of
the nineteenth century England maintained men like Karl Halle (later
Charles Hallé, and later still _Sir_ Charles Hallé) who were content to
accept position, affluence, and titles, giving in exchange bitter and
persistent opposition to the creative art of their adopted country.
This deplorable state of affairs continued more or less down to the
middle year of last century. About that time certain forces came into
play which have markedly changed the social and artistic conditions
of England. And only in this sense can we say that there has been
such a thing as a renaissance or rebirth of music. Looked at from
the twentieth-century end of the telescope the changes seem violent
and unbelievable; but, if we put the glass down and walk through the
country itself, we shall be forced to accept them as only a natural and
inevitable broadening of the landscape.
The main fact on which we wish to dwell here is that between the years
1870 and 1915 England has been able to assert her nationality in
music. And this is a matter of the deepest interest to all Americans
who love their country. The preponderance of blood here is Anglo-Saxon
and, though America has the advantages and disadvantages of a mixed
population, she has yet to learn the lesson already learned by some
other peoples, that only by the paths of nationalism can she scale the
heights of internationalism.
In more ways than one America's 1915 is England's 1870. The American
composer need not engrave this fact on his notepaper, but he may be
recommended by a sincere well-wisher to keep it in his heart. On both
the material and the spiritual sides it is true. Watch the orchestral
players on a Sunday night at the 'Metropolitan.' They are the sons of
the men who were playing in 1870 at Covent Garden. But since then the
Englishman has asserted his personality; and to-day there is scarcely
a foreigner in any first-class English orchestra. Again, read through
the synopses of novelties in any season's concert programs here. How
many are American? Almost none. A hundred million people owning half
a continent with vast waterways, prairies, and mountain ranges--yet
musically nearly inarticulate! There must be something wrong here.
Let us hasten to add that the brain-stuff of the American composer is
just as good as the brain-stuff of any other composer. More than that,
he alone of all his countrymen seems to be aware that the price of
victory is battle and death in battle.
No one can say that England has yet conquered the world in a musical
sense. Still her achievements are much greater than are generally
recognized on this side of the Atlantic. The art-works which represent
these achievements lie mostly on composers' shelves and in publishers'
cellars, kept there partly by their own strangeness and partly by the
timidity and self-effacement of their authors.
Already similar works are being produced in America; and it is
therefore hoped that a consideration of the musical conditions and
processes in England between 1870 and 1915 may be helpful to American
composers. One may add that at the earlier date the outside English
public was just as heavily ignorant and indifferent as the American
public is now. In the one case the leaven came, and in the other is
coming from within.
II
In a short sketch like the present it is not possible to discuss fully
the changed social conditions which brought about the English musical
renaissance. One must, however, mention two forces which, acting
somewhat blindly on the individual, yet produced great effects in
the mass. The first of these was the re-cognition that the man who
mattered was the man of the soil. From this re-cognition sprang the
whole folk-song movement--a movement whose depth and importance are
still very little understood in America. The second is the growth of
healthy liberal opinions and the partial reconsideration of the English
caste-system. On this change the example of democratic America has
undoubtedly had great influence. The result of this levelling upwards
and downwards can be seen in the fact that, whereas prior to 1870 the
English composer was generally a scallywag, now he is a gentleman.[77]
We have already said that England was never quite dead musically. To
the outsider she may have appeared so, but it was really only a 'deep
surgical anæsthesia.' And the analogy holds. She had been operated
on so often by her German specialists that, as she came out of her
sleep, she only very gradually began to ask herself whether, without
another operation, she might not be able to find health by dismissing
her doctors and changing her mode of life. Naturally it was a wrench
to her to send the doctors packing; and her weak system almost, but
not quite, refused her new diet of English bread and English water. In
other words, if we divide the men of the English musical renaissance
into three groups according to age, we shall find that the oldest
group--to whom belongs all the honor of the spade--were almost to a man
foreign-trained. Their main ideals were Joachim and Brahms, and their
chief quarrel with the second and third groups--their pupils, be it
said--was the quarrel between German technique and English.
To the most distinguished thinker of that school the correct way of
writing a song is still the German way. The rest-of-the-world way is
simply _wrong_. Race, feeling, national sentiment, all go for nothing.
In effect he says: 'You may draw your water from a spring in Kent,
in Maryland, or in Siberia; but it won't travel except in disused
Rhine-wine bottles.' The proposition only needs stating to be condemned.
This is, in small, the attitude of the oldest group. But we must
remember that most of them continually forget their treasonable
theories and prove their loyalty to national ideals in their practice.
It is not a complete loyalty, but it is one to which all respect
and honor are due. We must not judge it by the tree of which it was
itself the seed, but by the sickly undergrowth among which it managed
to strike root. And this shrivelled stuff is represented to us by
such names as E. J. Loder (1813-65), H. H. Pierson (1815-73), and W.
Sterndale Bennett (1816-75). The last-named composer in especial is
a striking instance of an able but weak personality overwhelmed by
circumstance. When he was a student among the Germans his docility to
their ideals won Schumann's approval. Returning to England, he found
himself, so to speak, hanging in the air like an orchid--without
roots. Naturally he withered away. And for many years England had the
spectacle of her chief musician dribbling out smooth Anglo-German
platitudes, while Germany herself was producing _Lohengrin_, _Tristan_,
and 'The Ring.' Only one work of his has weathered the storm of the
English musical revival--'The Naiads.' But, of course, neither he,
nor Loder, nor Pierson had any closer connection with the English
renaissance than the glow-worm has with the coming sun. All three of
these men were as clever as any living American or English composer.
They were all driven into indignant silence, sullen despair, or musical
madness by the anti-national conditions of their time.
Contrast their output with that of the seven musical children whom the
fairy-stork brought to the rebirth of English music. Their names and
natal years are: Arthur Seymour Sullivan (1842), Alexander Campbell
Mackenzie (1847), Charles Hubert Hastings Parry (1848), Arthur Goring
Thomas (1851), Frederic Hymen Cowen (1852), Charles Villiers Stanford
(1852), and Edward William Elgar (1857). These seven men then--all
German-trained except Elgar and Thomas--yet draw a large part of their
vitality from the soil on which they were bred. One only needs to
hear an Irish Rhapsody of Stanford, a big chorus of Parry, or a gay
little song of Sullivan to become aware of a 'new something' in art.
And, if the American reader be inclined to doubt this 'new something'
at a first hearing, he may be earnestly advised to ask himself this
question: 'What would be my first impressions of a symphonic poem by
Strauss if that were my first introduction to a German art-work?'
The fertility of all these composers is so amazing that any attempt
to catalogue their works would stifle the rest of this volume. Songs,
operas, symphonies, sonatas, variations, church music, and choral works
all pour forth in an endless stream. Under the one heading, 'works for
voice and orchestra,' Parry has 33 entries. Stanford's opus numbers
approach 150, and he begins with 7 operas, 7 symphonies, incidental
music to 5 plays, and 27 'orchestral and choral works.' Cowen has
written 4 operas, 4 oratorios, 6 symphonies, and 18 cantatas; and that
is only the beginning of his list. It is plainly impossible even to
hint at this enormous mass of material. We must content ourselves with
a rapid glance at the distinguishing features of each composer.
Sullivan, the man who endeared himself personally and musically to
a generation, needs no introduction. His work is practically summed
up in the words 'Savoy Opera.' And these words stand everywhere for
melodic charm and fancy, delicate humor, and exquisitely finished
workmanship. On the more æsthetic side we owe him a lasting debt 'for
his recognition of the fact that it was not only necessary to set his
text to music which was pleasing in itself, but to invent melodies in
such close alliance with the words that the two things became (to the
hearer) indistinguishable.' His long series of works beginning with
'Contrabandista,' 'Cox and Box,' and 'Trial by Jury' continued through
'Patience,' 'Pinafore,' 'The Mikado,' 'The Yeomen of the Guard,' 'The
Gondoliers,' and others, till his death interrupted the composition of
his last work, 'The Emerald Isle.' It must be added that both in his
simple concert songs and in his choral music Sullivan enjoyed a wide
popularity. This is now waning. Of his larger concert works 'The Golden
Legend' and the overture 'Di Ballo' possess the greatest vitality.
Mackenzie, who succeeded Macfarren (1813-87) as principal of the Royal
Academy of Music, is a man of forceful character. Like Sullivan,
he was trained in Germany and came back a brilliant contrapuntist
with wide, far-reaching musical intentions. Familiar with every
nook in the orchestra, he has produced a mass of concert and opera
music all characterized by great technical dexterity and a certain
continual color and warmth. More than once the present writer has
been surprised by some particularly modern stroke of his orchestral
expression and, after ascribing it to the influence of the most neo of
neo-continentals, has discovered that Mackenzie was doing it before its
supposed author was born. It is a common word in London that Stanford
and Mackenzie spend their evenings reading each other's full-scores,
both missing out the German parts. Of Mackenzie's works the best known
are the violin 'Benedictus' and 'Pibroch,' the orchestral ballad
_La Belle Dame sans Merci_, the cantatas 'The Story of Sayid,' 'The
Cottar's Saturday Night,' 'The Dream of Jubal,' and, finally, the
ever-popular overture 'Britannia.'
The English public connects Parry's name mainly with his colossal
choral writings and with his directorship of The Royal College of
Music. That, however, by no means exhausts the list of his activities.
In the realms of song, of symphonic and chamber music, he has shown
an astonishing fertility. His productions are marked throughout by a
boundless contrapuntal skill based very decidedly on the old order of
things. To his heroic mind forty-part writing is probably very much
what four-part writing is to the rest of mankind. A sort of hard-knit
sincerity and a lyrical grandeur pervade all his works. One feels
that, if Milton's father had had his son's genius, he would have been
a seventeenth-century Parry. Of humor he has none, but in its place a
constant cheerfulness characteristic of a certain very good type of
Englishman. His best-loved work is undoubtedly 'Blest Pair of Sirens.'
But after that we must mention 'The Glories of Our Blood and State,'
_L'Allegro ed il Pensieroso_, 'Lady Radnor's Suite,' the 'Symphonic
Variations in E minor,' and the beautiful series of 'English Lyrics.'
Goring Thomas was an Englishman who, with the help of great natural
talent and of long residence in France, almost performed the miracle
of successfully changing his nationality. Of course, he had to pay the
price; and it was heavy. After burning incense at the altar of French
ideals he came back to a country where grand opera was only an annual
importation symbolical of financial respectability. He might have done
Sullivan's work better than Sullivan. But the fates were inexorably
against him. He did not even get a knighthood. Imagine Saint-Saëns
caught young and studying Handelian counterpoint at the Royal Academy
of Music; or Stravinsky doing 'fifth grade harmony' at the Royal
College of Music with his eye on the organ-loft at York Minster or
the conductor's seat at the Gaiety as possible goals of his ambition.
Either instance will give the curious reader some idea of Thomas's
difficulties, social and psychological. One must add that he cannot be
denied great charm of manner and a strong selective gift both in his
melody and harmony. He had all the Frenchman's talent for recognizing
dramatic effect and securing it swiftly. His best-known works are
'Esmeralda,' 'Nadeshda,' and 'The Swan and the Skylark.'
Cowen is a West Indian Jew. His artistic activities, however, have
mainly centred round London and Glasgow. In the former place he has
conducted the 'Philharmonic,' and in the latter the Scottish Orchestra.
As a composer he has been both over-blamed and over-praised. His blood
undoubtedly gives him facility, adaptability, and a somewhat detached
viewpoint. These qualities, academically praised by the Anglo-Saxon,
yet excite in England a certain half-envious distrust when actually
exercised. For instance, the English musician does not care two raps
about the style of composition commonly called 'ye olde English'; but
he thinks it scarcely proper that Cowen should be able to write in
that style so well. Again, in his heart of hearts the professional man
probably thinks that King David's ultimate object in writing Psalm 130
was the afternoon service at Westminster Abbey; and here, too, Cowen's
pen causes some uneasiness. On the other side of the picture we have
had the composer figuring with the public for years as a miracle of
charm, grace, and delicate fancy. A fair view of Cowen would probably
show him as a composer somewhat isolated from his fellows, naturally
inclined to the lighter side of life, and perhaps more anxious for the
laurel than for the dust. His easy yet punctilious technique is shown
in a long list of popular works. Of these the most successful are his
two sets of 'Old English Dances,' the orchestral suite 'The Language
of Flowers,' the overture 'The Butterflies' Ball,' the 'Scandinavian,'
'Welsh,' and 'Idyllic' symphonies, and the choral works 'Ruth,' 'The
Rose Maiden,' 'The Sleeping Beauty,' and the 'Ode to the Passions.'