'

German lnfiuence on French Music

G E R M A N influence never had any ill effect on anyone except those
people easily impressed, or, to put it another way, on those who take
the word "influence" to mean "imitation."
Besides, it is always difficult to be precise about influences, whether
it is of Goethe's second Faust or of Bach's B Minor Mass. These works
will remain monuments of beauty, unique and incapable of repetition .
Their "influence" is like that of the sea or the sky, universal rather
than especially German.
Closer to our own time, is not Wagner perhaps an example of the
subjugator? However, musicians should be grateful to him for having
left us an admirable treatise on the uselessness of set forms-that is,
Parsifal . . . a masterly contradiction of all that is in the Ring.
Wagner, if one may be permitted a little of the grandiloquence
that suits the man, was a beautiful sunset that has been mistaken for
a sunrise. There will always be periods of imitation and influence, but
one can never foresee how long they will last, still less their nationality;
truth moves at the same speed as the laws of evolution.
These periods are necessary for those who like to follow easy, welltrodden paths. But they allow others to go further into realms where
they will suffer for having found Beauty. So everything is for the best.
It is not a question of money-something unfortunately inseparable
from art.

Pe/leas and Gil Blas: Claudine and Monsieur Croche

The Orientation of Music

(Re ply to a question posed by Charles f oly in the first issue
of Musica : "Is it possible to predict what the music of to morrow
will be? The paths which have already been well-trodden now
seem to be deserted. Where do we go from here?")

Q U E s T I o N s of this sort are usually answered by very reputable

people who know scarcely anything about music, who thus can approach the subject with great detachment. But their opinions are of no
importance, and, happily, nothing is explained.
The best thing one could wish for French musit would be to see
the study of harmony abolished as it is practiced in the conservatories.
It is the most ridiculous way of arranging notes. Furthermore, it has
the severe disadvantage of standardizing composition to such a degree
that every composer, except for a few, harmonizes in the same way.
We can be sure that old Bach, the essence of all music, scorned harmonic formulae. He preferred the free play of sonorities whose curves,
whether flowing in parallel or contrary motion, would result in an
undreamed of flowering, so that even the least of his countless manuscripts bears an indelible stamp of beauty.1
That was the age of the '::W.Onderful arabesque," when music was
subject to laws of beauty insc~bed in the movements of Nature herself. Rather will our time b~::femembered as the era of the "age of
veneer" -although here I am sJ?eaking generally and not forgetting the
isolated genius of certain of m~colleagues.
Contemporary dramatic music, however, embraces everything from

85

Wagnerian metaphysics to the trivialities of the Italians- not a particularly French orientation. Perhaps in the end we will see the light and
achieve conciseness of expression and form (the fundamental qualities of French genius). Will we rediscover that abundant fantasy
of which music alone is capable? It seems to have been f/,gotten under
the pretext of research, which at first sight makes it seem_ as if the days
of music are numbered.
Art is the most beautiful deception of all! And although people try
to incorporate the everyday events of life in it,' we tpust hope that it
will remain a deception lest it become a utilitarian thing, sad as a
factory. 2 Ordinary people, as well as the elite, come to music to seek
oblivion: is that not also a form of deception? The Mona Lisa's smile
probably never existed in real life, yet her charm is eternal. Let us not
disillusion anyone by bringing too much reality into the dream. . . .
Let us content ourselves with more consoling ways: such music can
contain an everlasting expression of beauty.
. I hope this letter does not arrive too late to be of use. At least it
gives me an opportunity to wish you every success in your enterprise.

<!..~NOTES
1

In 1880 Debussy had enrolled in Ernest Guiraud's composition class

at the Conservatoire. A close friend of Bizet, Guiraud was a traditional
teacher but reasonably open-minded and likable; Debussy kept in contact
with him until well on into the nineties, finding in him a sympathetic if
not uncritical listener to his own revolutionary ideas of harmony and the
approach to composition. In a remarkable account, in the form of a
dialogue between Debussy and Guiraud, Maurice Emmanuel records how
the young Debussy, seated at the piano, would expound his ideas in front
of Guirand' s class, shaking the foundations of Conservatoire harmony
with his deliberate series of parallel fifths and unresolved dissonances.
To Guiraud's accusations of "theoretical absurdity," Debussy's reply was
that "there is no theory .. .. Pleasure is the law." But when Guiraud reminded Debussy that he had himself been at the Conservatoire for ten
years, Debussy agreed "that he can feel free because he has been through
the mill and that he doesn't write in the fugal style because he knows it."

'

Pe/leas and Gil Blas: Claudine and Monsieur Croche

Parsifal and the Socihe des Grandes Auditions de France

I NE v ER have any luck! . . . The one time when I would like to
have spoken to you of Wagner, the Societe des Grandes Auditions de
France didn't do me the honor of an invitation to hear their pei:formance of Parsifal, which has just taken place at the Nouveau-Theatre,
under the direction of M. Alfred Cortot. Of all French conductors,
M. Cortot is the one who has learned most from the pantomime customary among German conductors . . . . He has Nikisch's lock of
hair (although he is in fact Hungarian), and we find this most attractive because it waves passionately at the least nuance in the
music. See how it falls, sad and weary, at any hint of tenderness! So
much so that it prevents any communication between M. Cortot and
the orchestra. Then, at the warlike passages, it proudly stands on end
again, and just at this moment M. Cortot bears down on the orchestra
and threatens them with his menacing baton. Just like the banderilleros tantalizing the bull! (The musicians in the orchestra take all this
with the coolness of Greenlanders : they have seen it all many times before. ) Like Weingartner, he leans affectionately over the first violins,
whispering sweet nothings to them, and then wheels around toward
the trombones, urging them on with a gesture that seems to say,
"Come on, men! Put some spirit into it! Try to be even more trombone-like than usual! " Then the trombones quietly and dutifully extend their slides to the limit.
It is right to add that M. Cortot is a perfect musician. And he
understands Wagner down to the last detail. He is young, and he has

165

an open-minded love of music: good enough reasons why we shouldn't

be too hard on him for using gestures that are more decorative than
they are useful.
But to come back to the Societe des Grandes Auditions de France:
did they intend to punish me for my Wagnerian iconoclasm by not
inviting me to Parsifal? Did they think I would carry out some subversive activity . . . a bomb perhaps? I' 11 never know, but I'd willingly believe that this type of private hearing was especially designed
for those whose titles or standing in society authorize them to come
along to these little parties with an attitude of complete indifference
to what is being played. The certain fame of the name written on the
program means there need not be any lighting to read by, so they can
listen carefully to the latest scandal, or watch the delicious movements
of the ladies' necks, without ever listening to the music. But I hope
the Societe des Grandes Auditions de France will watch out! They
will turn Wagner's music into salon pieces, inhabiting the last salons
left for conversation. All in all, it's rather annoying, this side of the
Wagnerian art that requires the faithful to make costly pilgrimages,
and carry out mysterious practices. I know that "Art-Religion" was
one of Wagner's favorite ideas, and that he was right-this method
being the best for capturing the public and for holding their attention. But it has gone rather wrong when it becomes a Luxury-Religion
that excludes those with more goodwill than cash. The Societe des
Grandes Auditions, in continuing its exclusivist policies, seems to me
to be heading for an art that is merely fashionable. A detestable idea!
Wagner, when he was in a good mood, used to assert that his music
would never be understood except in France.1 Did he mean by that
performances just for aristocrats? I think not. (King Ludwig II of
Bavaria used to annoy him with questions about the finer points of
etiquette, and in any case Wagner's proud spirit was too astute not to
realize that true glory can come only from the masses and not from a
gilded segment. )
One must therefore conclude that these performances, although
their confessed aim is the propagation of Wagnerism, will serve only
to alienate public sympathy- a cunning way to send it out of favor.
I wouldn't say that they'll speed up its complete disappearance, for

166

'DEBUSSY

ON

o,Mus1c

I don't think it will ever die entirely. But it will inevitably decay;
time leaves its mark on the most beautiful of things. All the same,
wonderful ruins will remain, and our grandchildren will play in
their shadow, dreaming of the former grandeur of this man who, had
he been a little more human, would have been truly great.
In Parsifal, the final effort of a genius before whom we should
bow our heads, Wagner tried to be less rigidly authoritarian toward
the music, to let it breathe a little more freely. It doesn't have that
nervous breathlessness that pursues Tristan's morbid passion, nor the
enraged animal cries of an Isolde, nor the overblown commentary on
Wotan's inhumanity. Nothing in the music of Wagner is more serenely
beautiful than the Prelude to the Third Act of Parsifal, and the "Good
Friday Spell." But Wagner's real insight into humanity comes out in
the way he depicts several of the characters in this play: think of
Amfortas, the sad Knight of the Grail who moans like a shop girl
and whimpers like a baby. But really! When one is a king's son, a
Knight of the Grail, one would plunge a spear straight into one's own
body rather than parade around with a guilty wound singing melancholy cantilenas! And for three whole acts, too! As for Kundry, the
old rose of hell, she has been given much material for Wagnerian
literature to work on, but I must confess that I feel little affection
for this sentimental old dragon. The finest character in Parsifal is
Klingsor (former Knight of the Grail, shown to the door of the Holy
Place for his rather too individual views on chastity) . His hateful
malice is wonderful! He knows what men are really like, and weighs
up the strength of their vows to chastity on his dreadful scales. One
could easily argue that this cunning magician and old offender is not
only the one "human" character but also the only "moral" one in this
play, in which so many wrong-headed moralistic and religious ideas
are propounded-ideas of which the young Parsifal, the heroic but
foolish knight, is the messenger.
All in all, nobody is willing to sacrifice himself in this Christian
drama (sacrifice being one of the best of Christian doctrines) , and if
Parsifal recovers his magic spear, it is thanks to old Kundry, the only
person who is really sacrificed in the story. She is a victim twice
over-offered up both to the secret deviltries of Klingsor and to the

Pelleas and Gil Blas: Claudine and Monsieur Croche

holy world-weariness of the Knight of the Grail. The atmosphere is

certainly religious, but why are the children's voices used in such
strange progressions? (Just think for a moment of how much childlike freshness could have been captured if the spirit of Palestrina had
been used as a means of expression?)
All this applies only to Wagner the poet, and it has nothing to do
with the musical side of Parsifal, which is of the utmost beauty. There
we hear fine orchestral sonorities that are unique and quite unexpected.
It is one of the most beautiful edifices in sourid ever raised to the
eternal glory of music.
Despite the Societe des Grandes Auditions de France, I have been
able to speak about Parsifal at length, thanks to the memory I retain
of my journey to Bayreuth in 1889. Let us hope that the vividness of
my recollections compensates for my having missed this performance.
. . . 1889! A marvelous year! I was full of the Wagnerian madness!
Why am I no longer? Forgive me, but that is another story.

The Centenary of the Academie de France in Rome

So o N we are to commemorate the inauguration of the Prix de
Rome and the centenary of the Academie de France there. We are
assured of the support of their Majesties, the king and queen of Italy.
Trains are being organized at reduced prices to enable the holders of
the Prix de Rome and their families to congregate at this charming
celebration. I'd say that we are going to see a surge of former Prix de
Rome holders: nobody will recognize them anymore, and that will be
a great shame for everyone concerned! One hopes that some improvement will be noted as regards the customary Prix de Rome cuisine.
When I was there, we were gently being poisoned, and dyspepsia
should not be an obligatory part of an artist's aesthetic. This complaint
obviously is not the only one that could be made, but on su~h an
auspicious occasion as a centenary one would not dream of being irreverent.

Taste
IN these times, when we are so preoccupied with trying out various
different ways of educating people, we are gradually losing our sense
of the mysterious. The true meaning of the word "taste" is also
bound to be lost.
In the last century, having "taste" was merely a convenient way of
defending one's opinions. Today the word has come to mean much
more than that: it is now used in many different ways. It generally
signifies something that involves the kind of argument usually settled
with knuckle-dusters; one makes one's point, but in a way somewhat
lacking in elegance. The natural decline of a "taste" concerned with
nuance and delicacy has given way to this "bad taste, " in which colors
and forms fight each other. . . . But then perhaps these reflections
are rather too general, for here I am only supposed to be concerned
with music-a difficult enough task in itself.
Geniuses can evidently do without taste : take the case of Beethoven, for example. But on the other hand there was Mozart, to whose
genius was added a measure of the most delicate "good taste." And if
we look at the works of J. S. Bach-a benevolent God to whom all
musicians should offer a prayer before commencing work, to defend
themselves from mediocrity-on each new page of his innumerable
works we discover things we thought were born only yesterdayfrom delightful arabesques to an overflowing of religious feeling
greater than anything we have since discovered. And in his works we
will search in vain for anything the least lacking in "good taste."
Portia in The Merchant of Venice speaks of a music that everyone

'DEBUSSY

ON

,J\dus1c

has within them: "The man that hath no music in himself . . . let no
such man be trusted." Those people who are only preoccupied with
the formula that will yield them the best results, without ever having
listened to the still small voice of music within themselves, would do
well to think on these words. And so would those who most ingeniously juggle around with bars, as if they were no more than pathetic
little squares of paper. That is the kind of music that smells of the
writing desk, or of carpet slippers. (I mean that in the special sense
used by mechanics who, when trying out a badly assembled machine,
say, 'That smells of oil. " ) We should distrust the writing of music: it
is an occupation for moles, and it ends up by reducing the vibrant
beauty of sound itself to a dreadful system where two and two make
four. Music has known for a long time what the mathematicians call
"the folly of numbers."
Above all, let us beware of systems that are designed as dilettante
traps.
There used to be-indeed, despite the troubles that civilization has
brought, there still are-some wonderful peoples who learn music as
easily as one learns to breathe. Their school consists of the eternal
rhythm of the sea, the wind in the leaves, and a thousand other tiny
noise~, which they listen to with great care, without ever having consulted any of those dubious treatises. Their traditions are preserved
only in ancient songs, sometimes involving dance, to which each individual adds his own contribution century by century. Thus Javanese
music obeys laws of counterpoint that make Palestrina seem like child's
play. And if one listens to it without being prejudiced by one's European ears, one will find a percussive charm that forces one to admit
that our own music is not much more than a barbarous kind of noise
more fit for a traveling circus.
The Indochinese have a kind of embryonic opera, influenced by the
Chinese, in which we can recognize the roots of the Ring. Only there
are rather more gods and rather less scenery! A frenetic little clarinet
is in charge of the emotional effects, a tam-tam invokes terror-and
that is all there is to it. No special theater is required, and no hidden
orchestra. All that is needed is an instinctive desire for the artistic, a
desire that is satisfied in the most ingenious ways and without the
slightest hints of "bad taste." And to say that none of those con-

The Final Years

cerned ever so much as dreamed of going to Munich to find their

formulae-what could they have been thinking of?
Was it not the professionals who spoiled the civilized countries?
And the accusation that the public likes only simple music (implying
bad music )-is that not somewhat misguided?
The truth is that real music is never "difficult." That is merely an
umbrella term that is used to hide the poverty of bad music. There is
only one kind cf music: music whose claim to existence is justified by
what it actually is, whether it is just another piece in waltz time (for
example, the music of the cafe-concert) or whether it takes the imposing form of the symphony. Why do we not admit that, of these two
cases, it is very often the waltz that is in better taste? The symphony
can often only be unraveled with great difficulty-a pompous web of
mediocrity.
Let us not persist in exalting this commonplace invention, as stupid
as it is famous: taste and color should be beyond mention. On the
other hand, let us discuss, rediscover our own taste; it is not as if we
have completely lost it, but we have stifled it beneath our northern
eiderdowns . That would be a step forward in the fight against the
barbarians, who have become much worse since they started parting
their hair in the center. . . .
We should constantly be reminding ourselves that the beauty of a
work of art is something that will always remain mysterious; that is
to say one can never find out exactly "how it is done." At all costs let
us preserve this element of magic peculiar to music. By its very nature
music is more likely to contain something of the magical than any
other art.
After the god Pan had put together the seven pipes of the syrinx,
he was at first only able to imitate the long, melancholy note of the
toad wailing in the moonlight. Later he was able to compete with the
singing of the birds, and it was probably at this time that the birds
increased their repertoire.
These are sacred enough origins, and music can be proud of them
and preserve a part of their mystery. In the name of all the gods, let
us not rid it of this heritage by trying to "explain" it. . . . Let it be
enhanced by delicately preserving our "good taste," the guardian of
all that is secret.