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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75908 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+Music and Bad Manners
+
+
+
+
+  _By THE SAME AUTHOR_
+
+
+  MUSIC AFTER THE GREAT WAR
+
+
+
+
+  Music
+  and Bad Manners
+
+  _Carl Van Vechten_
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  New York Alfred A. Knopf
+  MCMXVI
+
+
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
+  ALFRED A. KNOPF
+
+  _All rights reserved_
+
+
+  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+
+_To my Father_
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+
+                                        PAGE
+
+  MUSIC AND BAD MANNERS                   11
+
+  MUSIC FOR THE MOVIES                    43
+
+  SPAIN AND MUSIC                         57
+
+  SHALL WE REALIZE WAGNER’S IDEALS?      135
+
+  THE BRIDGE BURNERS                     169
+
+  A NEW PRINCIPLE IN MUSIC               217
+
+  LEO ORNSTEIN                           229
+
+
+
+
+Music and Bad Manners
+
+
+
+
+Music and Bad Manners
+
+
+Singers, musicians of all kinds, are notoriously bad mannered. The
+storms of the Titan, Beethoven, the petty malevolences of Richard
+Wagner, the weak sulkiness of Chopin (“Chopin in displeasure was
+appalling,” writes George Sand, “and as with me he always controlled
+himself it was as if he might die of suffocation”) have all been
+recalled in their proper places in biographies and in fiction; but
+no attempt has been made heretofore, so far as I am aware, to lump
+similar anecdotes together under the somewhat castigating title I
+have chosen to head this article. Nor is it alone the performer who
+gives exhibitions of bad manners. (As a matter of fact, once an
+artist reaches the platform he is on his mettle, at his best. At home
+he--or she--may be ruthless in his passionate display of floods of
+“temperament.” I have seen a soprano throw a pork roast on the floor
+at dinner, the day before a performance of Wagner’s “consecrational
+festival play,” with the shrill explanation, “Pork before _Parsifal_!”
+On the street he may shatter the clouds with his lightnings--as,
+indeed, Beethoven is said to have done--but on the stage he becomes,
+as a rule, a superhuman being, an interpreter, a mere virtuoso. Of
+course, there are exceptions.) Audiences, as well, may be relied upon
+to behave badly on occasion. An auditor is not necessarily at his best
+in the concert hall. He may have had a bad dinner, or quarrelled with
+his wife before arriving. At any rate he has paid his money and it
+might be expected that he would make some demonstration of disapproval
+when he was displeased. The extraordinary thing is that he does not
+do so oftener. On the whole it must be admitted that audiences remain
+unduly calm at concerts, that they are unreasonably polite, indeed, to
+offensively inadequate or downright bad interpretations. I have sat
+through performances, for example, of the Russian Symphony Society in
+New York when I wondered how my fellow-sufferers could display such
+fortitude and patience. When _Prince Igor_ was first performed at the
+Metropolitan Opera House the ballet, danced in defiance of all laws of
+common sense or beauty, almost compelled me to throw the first stone.
+The parable saved me. Still one doesn’t need to be without sin to sling
+pebbles in an opera house. And it is a pleasure to remember that there
+have been occasions when audiences did speak up!
+
+In those immeasurably sad pages in which Henry Fothergill Chorley
+describes the last London appearance of Giuditta Pasta, recalling
+Pauline Viardot’s beautiful remark (she, like Rachel, was hearing the
+great dramatic soprano for the first time), “It is like the _Cenacolo_
+of Da Vinci at Milan--a wreck of a picture, but the picture is the
+greatest picture in the world!” this great chronicler of the glories
+of the opera stage recalls the attitude of the French actress: “There
+were artists present, who had then, for the first time, to derive some
+impression of a renowned artist--perhaps, with the natural feeling that
+her reputation had been exaggerated.--Among these was Rachel--whose
+bitter ridicule of the entire sad show made itself heard throughout the
+whole theatre, and drew attention to the place where she sat--one might
+even say, sarcastically enjoying the scene.”
+
+Chorley’s description of an incident in the career of the dynamic Mme.
+Mara, a favourite in Berlin from 1771 to 1780, makes far pleasanter
+reading: “On leave of absence being denied to her when she wished
+to recruit her strength by a visit to the Bohemian _baden_, the
+songstress took the resolution of neglecting her professional duties,
+in the hope of being allowed to depart as worthless. The Czarovitch,
+Paul the First of Russia, happened about that time to pay a visit to
+Berlin; and she was announced to appear in one of the grand parts. She
+pretended illness. The King sent her word, in the morning of the day,
+that she was to get well and sing her best. She became, of course,
+worse--could not leave her bed. Two hours before the opera began, a
+carriage, escorted by eight soldiers, was at her door, and the captain
+of the company forced his way into her chamber, declaring that their
+orders were to bring her to the theatre, dead or alive. ‘You cannot;
+you see I am in bed.’ ‘That is of little consequence,’ said the
+obdurate machine; ‘we will take you, bed and all.’ There was nothing
+for it but to get up and go to the theatre; dress, and resolve to sing
+without the slightest taste or skill. And this Mara did. She kept her
+resolution for the whole of the first act, till a thought suddenly
+seized her that she might be punishing herself in giving the Grand-Duke
+of Russia a bad opinion of her powers. A _bravura_ came; and she burst
+forth with all her brilliancy, in particular distinguishing herself by
+a miraculous shake, which she sustained, and swelled, and diminished,
+with such wonderful art as to call down more applause than ever.” This
+was the same Mara who walked out of the orchestra at a performance of
+_The Messiah_ at Oxford rather than stand during the singing of the
+_Hallelujah Chorus_.
+
+In that curious series of anecdotes which Berlioz collected under
+the title, “Les Grotesques de la Musique,” I discovered an account
+of a performance of a _Miserere_ of Mercadante at the church of San
+Pietro in Naples, in the presence of a cardinal and his suite. The
+cardinal several times expressed his pleasure, and the congregation at
+two points, the _Redde Mihi_ and the _Benigne fac, Domine_, broke in
+with applause and insisted upon repetitions! Berlioz also describes
+a rehearsal of Grétry’s _La Rosière de Salency_ at the Odéon, when
+that theatre was devoted to opera. The members of the orchestra were
+overcome with a sense of the ridiculous nature of the music they were
+performing and made strange sounds the while they played. The _chef
+d’orchestre_ attempted to keep his face straight, and Berlioz thought
+he was scandalized by the scene. A little later, however, he found
+himself laughing harder than anybody else. The memory of this occasion
+gave him the inspiration some time later of arranging a concert of
+works of this order (in which, he assured himself, the music of the
+masters abounded), without forewarning the public of his purpose.
+He prepared the programme, including therein this same overture of
+Grétry’s, then a celebrated English air _Arm, Ye Brave_, a “sonata
+_diabolique_” for the violin, the quartet from a French opera in which
+this passage occurred:
+
+    “J’aime assez les Hollandaises,
+    Les Persanes, les Anglaises,
+    Mais je préfère des Françaises
+    L’esprit, la grâce et la gaîté,”
+
+an instrumental march, the finale of the first act of an opera, a fugue
+on _Kyrie Eleison_ from a Requiem Mass in which the music suggested
+anything but the words, variations for the bassoon on the melody of
+_Au Clair de la Lune_, and a symphony. Unfortunately for the trial
+of the experiment the rehearsal was never concluded. The executants
+got no further than the third number before they became positively
+hysterical. The public performance was never given, but Berlioz assures
+us that the average symphony concert audience would have taken the
+programme seriously and asked for more! It may be considered certain
+that in his choice of pieces Berlioz was making game of some of his
+contemporaries....
+
+In all the literature on the subject of music there are no more
+delightful volumes to be met with than those of J. B. Weckerlin, called
+“Musiciana,” “Nouveau Musiciana,” and “Dernier Musiciana.” These books
+are made up of anecdotes, personal and otherwise. From Bourdelot’s
+“Histoire de la Musique” Weckerlin culled the following: “An equerry
+of Madame la Dauphine asked two of the court musicians to his home at
+Versailles for dinner one evening. They sang standing opposite the
+mantelpiece, over which hung a great mirror which was broken in six
+pieces by the force of tone; all the porcelain on the buffet resounded
+and shook.” Weckerlin also recalls a caprice of Louis XI, who one day
+commanded the Abbé de Baigne, who had already invented many musical
+instruments, to devise a harmony out of pigs. The Abbé asked for some
+money, which was grudgingly given, and constructed a pavilion covered
+with velvet, under which he placed a number of pigs. Before this
+pavilion he arranged a white table with a keyboard constructed in such
+a fashion that the displacing of a key stuck a pig with a needle. The
+sounds evoked were out of the ordinary, and it is recorded that the
+king was highly diverted and asked for more. Auber’s enthusiasm for his
+own music, usually concealed under an indifferent air, occasionally
+expressed itself in strange fashion. Mme. Damoreau recounted to
+Weckerlin how, when the composer completed an air in the middle of the
+night, even at three or four o’clock in the morning, he rushed to her
+apartment. Dragging a pianoforte to her bed, he insisted on playing the
+new song over and over to her, while she sang it, meanwhile making the
+changes suggested by this extraordinary performance.
+
+More modern instances come to mind. Maria Gay is not above nose-blowing
+and expectoration in her interpretation of Carmen, physical acts in the
+public performance of which no Spanish cigarette girl would probably
+be caught ashamed. Yet it may be doubted if they suit the music of
+Bizet, or the Meilhac and Halévy version of Merimée’s creation.... A
+story has been related to me--I do not vouch for the truth of it--that
+during a certain performance of _Carmen_ at the Opéra-Comique in Paris
+a new singer, at some stage in the proceedings, launched that dreadful
+French word which Georges Feydeau so ingenuously allowed his heroine to
+project into the second act of _La Dame de chez Maxim_, with a result
+even more startling than that which attended Bernard Shaw’s excursion
+into the realms of the expletive in his play, _Pygmalion_. It is
+further related of this performance of _Carmen_, which is said to have
+sadly disturbed the “traditions,” that in the excitement incident to
+her début the lady positively refused to allow Don José to kill her.
+Round and round the stage she ran while the perspiring tenor tried in
+vain to catch her. At length, the music of the score being concluded,
+the curtain fell on a Carmen still alive; the _salle_ was in an uproar.
+
+I find I cannot include Chaliapine’s Basilio in my list of bad mannered
+stage performances, although his trumpetings into his handkerchief
+disturbed many of New York’s professional writers. _Il Barbiere_ is
+a farcical piece, and the music of Rossini hints at the Rabelaisian
+humours of the dirty Spanish priest. In any event, it was the finest
+interpretation of the rôle that I have ever seen or heard and, with
+the splendid ensemble (Mme. Sembrich was the Rosina, Mr. Bonci, the
+count, and Mr. Campanari, the Figaro), the comedy went with such joyous
+abandon (the first act finale to the accompaniment of roars of laughter
+from the stalls) that I am inclined to believe the performance could
+not be bettered in this generation.
+
+The late Algernon St. John Brenon used to relate a history about Emma
+Eames and a recalcitrant tenor. The opera was _Lohengrin_, I believe,
+and the question at issue was the position of a certain couch. Mme.
+Eames wished it placed here; the tenor there. As always happens
+in arguments concerning a Wagnerian music-drama, at some point the
+Bayreuth tradition was invoked, although I have forgotten whether that
+tradition favoured the soprano or her opponent in this instance. In
+any case, at the rehearsal the tenor seemed to have won the battle.
+When at the performance he found the couch in the exact spot which
+had been designated by the lady his indignation was all the greater
+on this account. With as much regard for the action of the drama as
+was consistent with so violent a gesture he gave the couch a violent
+shove with his projected toe, with the intention of pushing it into his
+chosen locality. He retired with a howl, nursing a wounded member. The
+couch had been nailed to the floor!
+
+It is related that Marie Delna was discovered washing dishes at an inn
+in a small town near Paris. Her benefactors took her to the capital
+and placed her in the Conservatoire. She always retained a certain
+peasant obstinacy, and it is said that during the course of her
+instruction when she was corrected she frequently replied, “Je m’en
+vais.” Against this phrase argument was unavailing and Mme. Delna, as
+a result, acquired a habit of having her own way. Her Orphée was (and
+still is, I should think) one of the notable achievements of our epoch.
+It must have equalled Pauline Viardot’s performance dramatically,
+and transcended it vocally. After singing the part several hundred
+times she naturally acquired certain habits and mannerisms, tricks
+both of action and of voice. Still, it is said that when she came to
+the Metropolitan Opera House she offered, at a rehearsal, to defer
+to Mr. Toscanini’s ideas. He, the rumour goes, gave his approval to
+her interpretation on this occasion. Not so at the performance. Those
+who have heard it can never forget the majesty and beauty of this
+characterization, as noble a piece of stage work as we have seen or
+heard in our day. At her début in the part in New York Mme. Delna was
+superb, vocally and dramatically. In the celebrated air, _Che faro
+senza Euridice_, the singer followed the tradition, doubly established
+by the example of Mme. Viardot in the great revival of the mid-century,
+of singing the different stanzas of the air in different _tempi_. In
+her slowest _adagio_ the conductor became impatient. He beat his stick
+briskly across his desk and whipped up the orchestra. There was soon
+a hiatus of two bars between singer and musicians. It was a terrible
+moment, but the singer won the victory. She _turned her back on the
+conductor_ and continued to sing in her own time. The organ tones
+rolled out and presently the audience became aware of a junction
+between the two great forces. Mr. Toscanini was vanquished, but he
+never forgave her.
+
+During the opera season of 1915-16, opera-goers were treated to a
+diverting exhibition. Mme. Geraldine Farrar, just returned from a fling
+at three five-reel cinema dramas, elected to instil a bit of moving
+picture realism into _Carmen_. Fresh with the memory of her prolonged
+and brutal scuffle in the factory scene as it was depicted on the
+screen, Mme. Farrar attempted something like it in the opera, the first
+act of which was enlivened with sundry blows and kicks. More serious
+still were her alleged assaults on the tenor (Mr. Caruso) in the third
+act which, it is said, resulted in his clutching her like a struggling
+eel, to prevent her interference with his next note. There was even
+a suggestion of disagreement in the curtain calls which ensued. All
+these incidents of an enlivening evening were duly and impressively
+chronicled in the daily press.
+
+There is, of course, Vladimir de Pachmann. Everybody who has attended
+his recitals has come under the spell of his beautiful tone and has
+been annoyed by his bad manners. For, curiously enough, the two
+qualities have become inseparable with him, especially in recent
+years. Once in Chicago I saw the strange little pianist sit down
+in front of his instrument, rise again, gesticulate, and leave the
+stage. Returning with a stage-hand he pointed to his stool; it was
+not satisfactory. A chair was brought in, tried, and found wanting;
+more gesticulation--this time wilder. At length, after considerable
+discussion between Mr. de Pachmann and the stage-hand, all in view
+of the audience, it was decided that nothing would do but that some
+one must fetch the artist’s own piano bench from his hotel, which,
+fortunately, adjoined the concert hall. This was accomplished in the
+course of time. In the interval the pianist did not leave the platform.
+He sat at the back on the chair which had been offered him as a
+substitute for the offending stool and entertained his audience with a
+spectacular series of grimaces.
+
+On another occasion this singular genius arrested his fingers in the
+course of a performance of one of Chopin’s études. His ears were
+enraptured, it would seem, by his own rendition of a certain run; over
+and over again he played it, now faster, now more slowly; at times
+almost slowly enough to give the student in the front row a glimpse
+of the magic fingering. With a sudden change of manner he announced,
+“This is the way Godowsky would play this scale”: great velocity but a
+dry tone. Then, “And now Pachmann again!” The magic fingers stroked the
+keys.
+
+Even as an auditor de Pachmann sometimes exploits his eccentricities.
+Josef Hofmann once told me the following story: De Pachmann was sitting
+in the third row at a concert Rubinstein gave in his prime. De Pachmann
+burst into hilarious laughter, rocking to and fro. Rubinstein was
+playing beautifully and de Pachmann’s neighbour, annoyed, demanded why
+he was laughing. De Pachmann could scarcely speak as he pointed to the
+pianist on the stage and replied, “He used the fourth finger instead of
+the third in that run. Isn’t it funny?”
+
+I cannot take Vladimir de Pachmann to task for these amusing bad
+manners! But they annoy the _bourgeois_. We should most of us be glad
+to have Oscar Wilde brilliant at our dinner parties, even though he
+ate peas with his knife; and Napoleon’s generalship would have been
+as effective if he had been an omnivorous reader of the works of
+Laura Jean Libbey. But one must not dwell too long on de Pachmann.
+One might be tempted to devote an entire essay to the relation of his
+eccentricities.
+
+Another pianist, also a composer, claims attention: Alberto Savinio.
+You may find a photolithograph of Savinio’s autograph manuscript of
+_Bellovées Fatales, No. 12_, in that curious periodical entitled “291,”
+the number for April, 1915. There is a programme, which reads as
+follows:
+
+
+LA PASSION DES ROTULES
+
+  La Femme: Ah! Il m’a touché de sa jambe de caoutchouc! Ma-ma! Ma-ma!
+
+  L’Homme: Tutto s’ha di rosa, Maria, per te....
+
+  La Femme: Ma-ma! Ma-ma!
+
+There are indications as to how the composer wishes his music to be
+played, sometimes _glissando_ and sometimes “_avec des poings_.” The
+rapid and tortuous passages between the black and white keys would
+test the contortionistic qualities of any one’s fingers. Savinio,
+it is said, at his appearances in Paris, actually played until his
+fingers _bled_. When he had concluded, indeed, the ends of his fingers
+were crushed and bruised and the keyboard was red with blood. Albert
+Gleizes, quoted by Walter Conrad Arensberg, is my authority for this
+bizarre history of music and bad manners. I have not seen (or heard)
+Savinio perform. But when I told this tale to Leo Ornstein he assured
+me that he frequently had had a similar experience.
+
+Romain Rolland in “Jean-Christophe” relates an incident which is
+especially interesting because it has a foundation in fact. Something
+of the sort happened to Hugo Wolf when an orchestra performed his
+_Penthesilea_ overture for the first time. It is a curious example of
+bad manners in which both the performers and the audience join.
+
+“At last it came to Christophe’s symphony.” (I am quoting from Gilbert
+Cannan’s translation.) “He saw from the way the orchestra and the
+people in the hall were looking at his box that they were aware of his
+presence. He hid himself. He waited with the catch at his heart which
+every musician feels at the moment when the conductor’s wand is raised
+and the waters of the music gather in silence before bursting their
+dam. He had never yet heard his work played. How would the creatures of
+his dreams live? How would their voices sound? He felt their roaring
+within him; and he leaned over the abyss of sounds waiting fearfully
+for what should come forth.
+
+“What did come forth was a nameless thing, a shapeless hotchpotch.
+Instead of the bold columns which were to support the front of the
+building the chords came crumbling down like a building in ruins; there
+was nothing to be seen but the dust of mortar. For a moment Christophe
+was not quite sure whether they were really playing his work. He cast
+back for the train, the rhythm of his thoughts; he could not recognize
+it; it went on babbling and hiccoughing like a drunken man clinging
+close to the wall, and he was overcome with shame, as though he himself
+had been seen in that condition. It was to no avail to think that he
+had not written such stuff; when an idiotic interpreter destroys a
+man’s thoughts he has always a moment of doubt when he asks himself
+in consternation if he is himself responsible for it. The audience
+never asks such a question; the audience believes in the interpreter,
+in the singers, in the orchestra whom they are accustomed to hear, as
+they believe in their newspaper; they cannot make a mistake; if they
+say absurd things, it is the absurdity of the author. This audience
+was the less inclined to doubt because it liked to believe. Christophe
+tried to persuade himself that the _Kapellmeister_ was aware of the
+hash and would stop the orchestra and begin again. The instruments were
+not playing together. The horn had missed his beat and had come in a
+bar too late; he went on for a few minutes and then stopped quietly
+to clean his instrument. Certain passages for the oboe had absolutely
+disappeared. It was impossible for the most skilled ear to pick up
+the thread of the musical idea, or even to imagine there was one.
+Fantastic instrumentations, humoristic sallies became grotesque through
+the coarseness of the execution. It was lamentably stupid, the work of
+an idiot, of a joker who knew nothing of music. Christophe tore his
+hair. He tried to interrupt, but the friend who was with him held him
+back, assuring him that the _Herr Kapellmeister_ must surely see the
+faults of the execution and would put everything right--that Christophe
+must not show himself and that if he made any remark it would have a
+very bad effect. He made Christophe sit at the very back of the box.
+Christophe obeyed, but he beat his head with his fists; and every fresh
+monstrosity drew from him a groan of indignation and misery.
+
+“‘The wretches! The wretches!...’
+
+“He groaned and squeezed his hands tight to keep from crying out.
+
+“Now mingled with the wrong notes there came up to him the muttering
+of the audience, who were beginning to be restless. At first it was
+only a tremor; but soon Christophe was left without a doubt; they were
+laughing. The musicians of the orchestra had given the signal; some
+of them did not conceal their hilarity. The audience, certain then
+that the music was laughable, rocked with laughter. This merriment
+became general; it increased at the return of a very rhythmical motif
+with the double-basses accentuated in a burlesque fashion. Only the
+_Kapellmeister_ went on through the uproar imperturbably beating time.
+
+“At last they reached the end (the best things come to an end). It was
+the turn of the audience. They exploded with delight, an explosion
+which lasted for several minutes. Some hissed; others applauded
+ironically; the wittiest of all shouted ‘Encore!’ A bass voice coming
+from a stage box began to imitate the grotesque motif. Other jokers
+followed suit and imitated it also. Some one shouted ‘Author!’ It was
+long since these witty folk had been so highly entertained.
+
+“When the tumult was calmed down a little the _Kapellmeister_, standing
+quite impassive with his face turned towards the audience, though he
+was pretending not to see it (the audience was still supposed to be
+non-existent), made a sign to the audience that he was about to speak.
+There was a cry of ‘Ssh,’ and silence. He waited a moment longer; then
+(his voice was curt, cold, and cutting):
+
+“‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I should certainly not have let _that_ be
+played through to the end if I had not wished to make an example of
+the gentleman who has dared to write offensively of the great Brahms.’
+
+“That was all; jumping down from his stand he went out amid cheers from
+the delighted audience. They tried to recall him; the applause went on
+for a few minutes longer. But he did not return. The orchestra went
+away. The audience decided to go too. The concert was over.
+
+“It had been a good day.”
+
+Von Bülow once stopped his orchestra at a public performance to
+remonstrate with a lady with a fan in the front row of seats. “Madame,”
+he said gravely, “I must beg you to cease fanning yourself in
+three-four time while I am conducting in four-four time!”
+
+Here are a few personal recollections of bad mannered audiences. A
+performance of _The Magic Flute_ in Chicago comes to mind. Fritzi
+Scheff, the Papagena, and Giuseppe Campanari, the Papageno, had
+concluded their duet in the last act amidst a storm of applause, in
+face of which the conductor sped on to the entrance of the Queen of the
+Night. Mme. Sembrich entered and sang a part of her recitative unheard.
+One could see, however, that her jaws opened and closed with the
+mechanism incidental to tone-production. After a few bars she retired
+defeated and the bad mannered audience continued to shout and applaud
+until that unspeakable bit of nonsense which runs “Pa-pa-pa,” etc., was
+repeated. Mme. Sembrich appeared no more that day.
+
+Another stormy audience I encountered at a concert of the Colonne
+Orchestra in Paris. Those who sit in the gallery at these concerts at
+the Chatelet Theatre are notoriously opinionated. There the battles of
+Richard Strauss and Debussy have been fought. The gallery crowd always
+comes early because seats in the top of the house are unreserved. They
+cost a franc or two; I forget exactly how much, but I have often sat
+there. To pass the time until the concert begins, and also to show
+their indifference to musical literature and the opinions of others,
+the galleryites fashion a curious form of spill, with one end in a
+point and the other feathered like an arrow, out of the pages of the
+annotated programmes. These are then sent sailing, in most instances
+with infinite dexterity and incredible velocity, over the heads of the
+arriving audience. The objective point is the very centre of the back
+cloth on the stage, a spot somewhat above the kettle-drum. A successful
+shot always brings forth a round of applause. But this is (or was) an
+episode incident to any Colonne concert. I am describing an occasion.
+
+The concert took place during the season of poor Colonne’s final
+illness (now he lies buried in that curiously remote avenue of
+Père-Lachaise where repose the ashes of Oscar Wilde). Gabriel Pierné,
+his successor, had already assumed the bâton, and he conducted the
+concert in question. Anton Van Rooy was the soloist and he had chosen
+to sing two very familiar (and very popular in Paris) Wagner excerpts,
+Wotan’s Farewell from _Die Walküre_, and the air which celebrates the
+evening star from _Tannhäuser_. (In this connection I might state that
+in this same winter--1908-9--_Das Rheingold_ was given _in concert
+form_--it had not yet been performed at the Opéra--on two consecutive
+Sundays at the Lamoureux Concerts in the Salle Gaveau to _standing room
+only_.) The concert proceeded in orderly fashion until Mr. Van Rooy
+appeared; then the uproar began. The gallery hooted, and screamed,
+and yelled. All the terrible noises which only a Paris crowd can
+invent were hurled from the dark recesses of that gallery. The din was
+appalling, terrifying. Mr. Van Rooy nervously fingered a sheet of music
+he held in his hands. Undoubtedly visions of the first performance of
+_Tannhäuser_ at the Paris Opéra passed through his mind. He may also
+have considered the possibility of escaping to the Gare du Nord, with
+the chance of catching a train for Germany before the mob could tear
+him into bits. Mr. Pierné, who knew his Paris, faced the crowd, while
+the audience below peered up and shuddered, with something of the
+fright of the aristocrats during the first days of the Revolution. Then
+he held up his hand and, in time, the modest gesture provoked a modicum
+of silence. In that silence some one shrieked out the explanation:
+“_Tannhäuser_ avant _Walküre_.” That was all. The gallery was not
+satisfied with the order of the programme. The readjustment was quickly
+made, the parts distributed to the orchestra, and Mr. Van Rooy sang
+Wolfram’s air before Wotan’s. It may be said that never could he have
+hoped for a more complete ovation, a more flattering reception than
+that which the Parisian audience accorded him when he had finished. The
+applause was veritably deafening.
+
+I have related elsewhere at some length my experiences at the first
+Paris performance of Igor Strawinsky’s ballet, _The Sacrifice to the
+Spring_, an appeal to primitive emotion through a nerve-shattering use
+of rhythm, staged in ultra-modern style by Waslav Nijinsky. Chords
+and legs seemed disjointed. Flying arms synchronized marvellously
+with screaming clarinets. But this first audience would not permit the
+composer to be heard. Cat-calls and hisses succeeded the playing of
+the first few bars, and then ensued a battery of screams, countered
+by a foil of applause. We warred over art (some of us thought it was
+and some thought it wasn’t). The opposition was bettered at times;
+at any rate it was a more thrilling battle than Strauss conceived
+between the Hero and his enemies in _Heldenleben_ and the celebrated
+scenes from _Die Meistersinger_ and _The Rape of the Lock_ could not
+stand the comparison. Some forty of the protestants were forced out
+of the theatre but that did not quell the disturbance. The lights in
+the auditorium were fully turned on but the noise continued and I
+remember Mlle. Piltz executing her strange dance of religious hysteria
+on a stage dimmed by the blazing light in the auditorium, seemingly to
+the accompaniment of the disjointed ravings of a mob of angry men and
+women. Little by little, at subsequent performances of the work the
+audiences became more mannerly, and when it was given in concert in
+Paris the following year it was received with applause.
+
+Some of my readers may remember the demonstration directed (supposedly)
+against American singers when the Metropolitan Opera Company invaded
+Paris some years ago for a spring season. The opening opera was _Aïda_,
+and all went well until the first scene of the second act, in which
+the reclining Amneris chants her thoughts while her slaves dance. Here
+the audience began to give signs of disapproval, which presently broke
+out into open hissing, and finally into a real hullabaloo. Mme. Homer,
+nothing daunted, continued to sing. She afterwards told me that she
+had never sung with such force and intensity. And in a few moments she
+broke the spell, and calmed the riot.
+
+Arthur Nikisch once noted that players of the bassoon were more
+sensitive than the other members of his orchestra; he found them
+subject to quick fits of temper, and intolerant of criticism. He
+attributed this to the delicate mechanism of the instrument which
+required the nicest apportionment of breath. Clarinet players, he
+discovered, were less sensitive. One could joke with them in reason;
+while horn players were as tractable as Newfoundland dogs!--A case of a
+sensitive pianist comes to mind, brought to bay by as rude an audience
+as I can recall. Mr. Paderewski was playing Beethoven’s C sharp minor
+sonata at one of these morning musicales arranged at the smart hotels
+so that the very rich may see more intimately the well-known artists of
+the concert and opera stage, when some women started to go out. In his
+following number, Couperin’s _La Bandoline_, the interruption became
+intolerable and he stopped playing. “Those who do not wish to hear me
+will kindly leave the room immediately,” he said, “and those who wish
+to remain will kindly take their seats.” The outflow continued, while
+those who remained seated began to hiss. “I am astonished to find
+people in New York leaving while an artist is playing,” the pianist
+added. Then some one started to applaud; the applause deepened, and
+finally Mr. Paderewski consented to play again and took his place on
+the bench before his instrument.
+
+The incident was the result of the pianist’s well-known aversion to
+appearing in conjunction with other artists. He had finally agreed to
+do so on this occasion provided he would be allowed to play after the
+others had concluded their performances. There had been many recalls
+for the singer and violinist who preceded him and it was well after
+one o’clock (the concert had begun at eleven) before he walked on
+the platform. Now one o’clock is a very late hour at a fashionable
+morning musicale. Some of those present were doubtless hungry; others,
+perhaps, had trains to catch; while there must have been a goodly
+number who had heard all the music they wanted to hear that morning.
+There was a very pretty ending to the incident. Once he had begun, Mr.
+Paderewski played for an hour and twenty minutes, and the faithful
+ones, who had remained seated, applauded so much when he finally rose
+from the bench, even after he had added several numbers to the printed
+programme, that the echoes of the clapping hands accompanied him to his
+motor.
+
+I have reserved for the last a description of a concert given at the
+Dal Verme Theatre in Milan by the Italian Futurists. The account is
+culled from the “Corriere della Sera” of that city, and the translation
+is that which appeared in “International Music and Drama”:
+
+“At the Dal Verme a Futurist concert of ‘intonarumori’ was to be held
+last night, but instead of this there was an uproarious din intoned
+both by the public and the Futurists which ended in a free-for-all
+fight.
+
+“In a speech which was listened to with sufficient attention,
+Marinetti, the poet, announced that this was to be the first public
+trial of a new device invented by Luigi Russelo, a Futurist painter.
+This instrument is called the ‘noise-maker’ and its purpose is to
+render a new kind of music. Modern life vibrates with all sorts of
+noises; music therefore must render this sensation. This, in brief, is
+the idea. In order to develop it Russelo had invented several types of
+noise-makers, each of which renders a different sound.
+
+“After Marinetti’s speech the curtain went up and the new orchestra
+appeared in all its glory amidst the bellowings of the public. The
+famous ‘noise-intonators’ proved to be made out of a sort of bass-drum
+with an immense trumpet attached to it, the latter looking very much
+like a gramaphone horn. Behind the instrument sat the players, whose
+only function was to turn the crank rhythmically in order to create the
+harmonic noise. They looked, while performing this agreeable task, like
+a squad of knife-grinders. But it was impossible to hear the music. The
+public was unconditionally intolerant. We only caught here and there a
+faint buzz and growl. Then everything was drowned in the billowing seas
+of howls, jeers, hisses, and cat-calls. What they were hissing at, it
+being impossible to hear the music, was not quite clear. They hissed
+just for the fun of it. It was a case of art for art’s sake. Painter
+Russelo, however, continued undisturbed to direct his mighty battery
+of musical howitzers and his professors kept on grinding their pieces
+with a beautiful serenity of mind, all the while the tumult increasing
+to redoubtable proportions. The consequence was that those who went
+to the Dal Verme for the purpose of listening to Futurist music had
+to give up all hopes and resign themselves to hear the bedlam of the
+public.
+
+“In vain did Marinetti attempt to speak, begging them to be quiet for
+a while and assuring them that they would be allowed a whole carnival
+of howls at the end of the concert--the public wanted to hiss and there
+was no way to check it. But Russelo kept right on. He conducted with
+imperturbable solemnity the three pieces we were supposed to hear: _The
+Awakening of a Great City_, _A Dinner on a Kursaal Terrace_, and _A
+Meet of Automobiles and Aeroplanes_. Nobody heard anything, but Russelo
+rendered everything conscientiously. The only thing we were able to
+find out about Futurist music is that the noise of the orchestra is by
+no means too loud, or at least not louder than impromptu choruses.
+
+“But the worst was reserved for the middle of the third piece. The
+exchange of hot words and very old-fashioned courtesies had now become
+ultra-vivacious and was being punctuated with several projectiles and
+an occasional blow. At this point, Marinetti, Boccioni, Carra, and
+other Futurists jumped into the pit and began to distribute all sorts
+of blows to the infuriated spectators. The new Futurist style enables
+us to synthesize the scene. Blows. Carbineers. Inspectors. Cushions and
+chairs flying about. Howls. Public standing on chairs. Concert goes
+on. More howls, shrieks, curses, and thunderous insults. Futurists are
+led back to stage by gendarmes. Public slowly passes out. Marinetti
+and followers pass out before public. Again howls, invectives,
+guffaws, and fist blows. Piazza Cardusio. More blows. Galleria. Ditto.
+Futurists enter Savini’s café while pugilistic matches go merrily on.
+Mob attempts to storm stronghold. Iron gates close. Futurists are shut
+in, in good condition, save few torn hats. Mob slowly calms down and
+disperses. The end.”
+
+
+_New York, May, 1916._
+
+
+
+
+  Music for the Movies
+
+  “_O Tempora! O Movies!_”
+
+                     W. B. Chase.
+
+
+
+
+Music for the Movies
+
+
+Despite the fact that it would seem that the moving picture drama had
+opened up new worlds to the modern musician, no important composer,
+so far as I am aware, has as yet turned his attention to the writing
+of music for the films. If the cinema drama is in its infancy, as
+some would have us believe, then we may be sure that the time is not
+far distant when moving picture scores will take their places on the
+musicians’ book-shelves alongside those of operas, symphonies, masses,
+and string quartets. In the meantime, entirely ignorant of the truth
+(or oblivious to it, or merely helpless, as the case may be) that
+writing music for moving pictures is a new art, which demands a new
+point of view, the directors of the picture theatres are struggling
+with the situation as best they may. Under the circumstances it is
+remarkable, on the whole, how swiftly and how well the demand for music
+with the silent drama has been met. Certainly the music is usually on
+a level with (or of a better quality than) the type of entertainment
+offered. But the directors have not definitely tackled the problem;
+they still continue to try to force old wine into new bottles,
+arranging and re-arranging melody and harmony which was contrived for
+quite other occasions and purposes. Even when scores have been written
+for pictures the result has not shown any imaginative advance over the
+arranged score. It is strange, but it has occurred to no one that the
+moving picture demands a _new_ kind of music.
+
+The composers, I should imagine, are only waiting to be asked to write
+it. Certainly none of them has ever shown any hesitancy about composing
+incidental music for the spoken drama. Mendelssohn wrote strains for
+_A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ which seemed pledged to immortality until
+Granville Barker ignored them; the Wedding March is still in favour
+in Kankakee and Keokuk. Beethoven illustrated Goethe’s _Egmont_; Sir
+Arthur Sullivan penned a score for _The Tempest_; Schubert was inspired
+to put down some of his most ravishing notes for a stupid play called
+_Rosamunde_; Grieg’s _Peer Gynt_ music is more often performed than
+the play. More recent instances of incidental music for dramas are
+Saint-Saëns’s score for Brieux’s _La Foi_, Mascagni’s for _The Eternal
+City_, and Richard Strauss’s for _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_. Is it
+necessary to continue the list? I have only, after all, put down a few
+of the obvious examples (passing by the thousands upon thousands of
+scores devised by lesser composers for lesser plays) that would spring
+at once to any musician’s mind. Of course it has usually been the
+poetic drama (do we ever hear Shakespeare or Rostand without it?) which
+has seemed to call for incidental music but it has accompanied (with
+more or less disastrous consequences, to be sure) the unfolding of many
+a “drawing-room” play; especially during the eighties.
+
+When the first moving picture was exposed on the screen it seems to
+have occurred to its projector at once that some kind of music must
+accompany its unreeling. The silence evidently appalled him. A moving
+picture is not unlike a ballet in that it depends entirely upon action
+(it differs from a ballet in that the action is not necessarily
+rhythmic)--and whoever heard of a ballet performed without music? Sound
+certainly has its value in creating an atmosphere and in emphasizing
+the “thrill” of the moving picture, especially when the sound is
+selected and co-ordinated. It may also divert the attention. On the
+whole, more photographed plays follow the general lines of _Lady
+Windemere’s Fan_ or _Peg o’ My Heart_ than of poetic dramas such as
+_Cymbeline_ or _La Samaritaine_. The problem here, however, is not
+the same as in the spoken drama. For in motion pictures a poetic
+play sheds its poetry and becomes, like its neighbour, a skeleton of
+action. There is no conceivable distinction in the “movies” (beyond
+one created by preference, or taste, or the quality of the performance
+and the photography) between Dante’s _Inferno_ and a picture in which
+the beloved Charles Chaplin looms large. The directors of the moving
+picture companies have tried to meet this problem; that they have not
+wholly succeeded so far is not entirely their fault.
+
+It is no easy matter, for example, in a theatre in which the films are
+changed daily (this is the general rule even in the larger houses), for
+the musicians (or musician) to arrange a satisfactory accompaniment
+for 5,000 feet of action which includes everything from an earthquake
+in Cuba to a dinner in Park Lane, and it is scarcely possible, even if
+the distributors be so inclined (as they frequently are nowadays) to
+furnish a music score which will answer the purposes of the different
+sized bands, ranging from a full orchestra to an upright piano, _solo_.
+As for the pictures without pre-arranged scores, the orchestra leaders
+and pianists must do the best they can with them.
+
+In some houses there is an attitude of total disrespect paid towards
+the picture by the _chef d’orchestre_. He arranges his musical
+programme as if he were giving a concert, not at all with a view to
+effectively accompanying the picture. In a theatre on Second Avenue
+in New York, for example, I have heard an orchestra play the whole
+of Beethoven’s First Symphony as an accompaniment to Irene Fenwick’s
+performance of _The Woman Next Door_. As the symphony came to an
+end before the picture it was supplemented by a Waldteufel waltz,
+_Les Patineurs_. The result, in this instance, was not altogether
+incongruous or even particularly displeasing, and it occurred to me
+that if one had to listen to music while the third act of _Hedda
+Gabler_ were being enacted one would prefer to hear something like
+Boccherini’s celebrated minuet or a light Mozart dance rather than
+anything ostensibly contrived to fit the situation. In the latter
+instance the result would be sure to be unbearable bathos.
+
+On the other hand there are certain players for pictures who remind one
+by their methods of the anxiety of Richard Strauss to describe every
+peacock and bean mentioned in any of his opera-books. If a garden is
+exposed on the screen one hears _The Flowers That Bloom in the Spring_;
+a love scene is the signal for _Un Peu d’Amour_; a cross or any
+religious episode suggests _The Rosary_ to these ingenuous musicians;
+Japan brings a touch of _Madame Butterfly_; a proposal of marriage,
+_O Promise Me_; and a farewell, Tosti’s _Good-bye!_ This expedient of
+appealing through the intellect to the emotions, it may be admitted,
+has the stamp of approval of no less a composer than Richard Wagner.
+
+Lacking the authority of real moving picture music (which a new
+composer must rise to invent) the safest way (not necessarily the
+_best_ way) is the middle course--one method for this, another for
+that. One of the difficulties is to arrange a music score for a theatre
+with a large orchestra, where the leader must plan his score--or have
+it planned for him--for an entire picture before his orchestra can
+play a note. Music cues must be definite: twenty bars of _Alexander’s
+Ragtime Band_, seventeen of _The Ride of the Valkyries_, ten of _Vissi
+d’Arte_, etc. An ingenious young man has discovered a way by which
+music and action may be exactly synchronized. I feel the impulse to
+quote extensively from the somewhat vivid report of his achievement,
+published in one of the motion picture weekly journals: “Here was a
+man-sized job--how to measure the action of the picture to the musical
+score, so that they would both come out equal at every part of the
+picture, and would be so exact that any orchestra might take the score
+and follow the movement of the play with absolute correctness. It was
+a question primarily of mathematics, but even so it was some time
+before a system of computation was devised before the undertaking was
+gotten down to a certainty. As an illustration, on the opening night of
+one of the most notable photoplay productions now before the public,
+the orchestra, notwithstanding a three weeks’ rehearsal, found at the
+conclusion of the picture that it was a page and a half behind the
+play’s action in the musical setting.” Then we learn that Frank Stadler
+of New York “provided the remedy for this condition of affairs.” It
+is impossible to resist the temptation to quote further from this
+extremely racy account. “He remembered that Beethoven had overcome
+the difficulty of proper timing for his sonatas by a mechanical
+arrangement known as the metronome, invented by a friend of his. This
+is an arrangement with a little bell attached which may be set for the
+movement of the music and used as an exact guide to the right measure,
+the bell giving warning at the expiration of each period so that the
+leader knows whether he is in time or not.” Mr. Stadler then began the
+measurement of a film with a metronome, a stenographer, and a watch.
+He found that the film ran ten feet to every eight seconds and he set
+the metronome for eight second periods accordingly. “The stenographer
+made a note of the action of the picture each time the bell rang, with
+the result that when the entire picture had been run Mr. Stadler had a
+complete record of the production. All that was necessary then was to
+select from the classics and the popular melodies the music which would
+give a suitable atmosphere and a harmonious accompaniment to the theme
+of the play, so synchronizing the music with the eight second periods
+that every bar of it fitted the spirit of the many score of scenes of
+the production.”
+
+The single man orchestra, the player of the upright piano, need not
+make so many preparatory gestures. He may with impunity, if he be of
+an inventive turn of mind, or if his memory be good, improvise his
+score as the picture unreels itself for the first time before what
+may very well be his astonished vision; and, after that, he may vary
+his accompaniment, as the shows of the day progress, improving it
+here or there, or not, as the case may be, keeping generally as near
+to his original performance as possible. Of course he puts a good
+deal of reliance on rum-ti-tum shivery passages (known to orchestra
+leaders as “_agits_”--an abbreviation of _agitato_; a page or two
+of them is distributed to every member of a moving picture band) to
+accompany moments of excitement. This music you will remember if you
+have ever attended a performance of a Lincoln J. Carter melodrama in
+which a train was wrecked, or a hero rescued from the teeth of a saw,
+or a heroine pursued by bloodhounds. (Those were the good old days!)
+Recently I heard a pianist in a moving picture house on Fourteenth
+Street in New York eke out a half-hour with similar poundings on two
+or three well used chords (well used even in the time of Hadyn). The
+scenes represented the whole of a two-act opera, and the ambitious
+pianist was trying to give his audience the effect of singers
+(principals and chorus) and orchestra with his three chords. (Shades of
+Arnold Schoenberg!)
+
+A certain periodical devoted to the interests of the moving picture
+trade, conducts a department as first aid to the musical conductors
+and pianists who figure at these shows. In a recent number the editor
+of this department gives it as his solemn opinion that musicians who
+read fiction are the best equipped for picture playing. Then, with an
+almost tragic parenthesis, he continues, “Reading fiction is the last
+diversion that the average musician will follow. He feels that all
+the necessary romance is to be found in his music.” Facts are dead,
+says this editor in substance, but fiction is living and should make
+you weep. When you cry, all that remains for you to do is to think of
+a tune which will synchronize with the cause of your tears; this will
+serve you later when a similar scene occurs in a film drama.
+
+There is one tune which any capable moving picture pianist has found
+will synchronize with any Keystone picture (for the benefit of the
+uninitiated I may state that in the Keystone farces some one gets
+kicked or knocked down or spat upon several times in almost every
+scene). I do not know what the tune is, but wherever Keystone pictures
+are shown, in Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Grand Rapids, Michigan; Chicago, and
+even New York, I have heard it. When a character falls into the water
+(and at least ten of them invariably do) the pianist may vary the tune
+by sitting on the piano or by upsetting a chair. In one theatre I have
+known him to cause glass to be shattered behind the screen at a moment
+when the picture exposed a similar scene. How Marinetti would like that!
+
+However, the day of this sort of thing is rapidly approaching its
+close, I venture to say. Some of the firms are already issuing arranged
+music scores for their productions (one may note in passing the score
+which accompanied Geraldine Farrar’s screen performance of _Carmen_,
+largely selected from the music of Bizet’s opera, and Victor Herbert’s
+original score for _The Fall of a Nation_, a score which does not take
+full advantage of the new technique of the cinema drama). It will
+not be long before an enterprising director engages an enterprising
+musician to compose music for a picture. For the same reason that
+d’Annunzio, very early in the career of the moving picture, wrote a
+scenario for a film, I should not be surprised to learn that Richard
+Strauss was under contract to construct an accompaniment to a screened
+drama. It will be very loud music and it will require an orchestra of
+143 men to interpret it and probably the composer himself will conduct
+the first performance, and, later, excerpts will be given by the Boston
+Symphony Orchestra and the critics will say, in spite of Philip Hale’s
+diverting programme notes, that this music should never be played
+except in conjunction with the picture for which it was written.
+Mascagni is another composer who should find an excellent field for his
+talent in writing tone-poems for pictures, although he would contrive
+nothing more daring than a well-arranged series of illustrative
+melodies.
+
+But put Igor Strawinsky, or some other modern genius, to work on this
+problem and see what happens! The musician of the future should revel
+in the opportunity the moving picture gives him to create a new form.
+This form differs from that of the incidental music for a play in that
+the flow of tone may be continuous and because one never needs to
+soften the accompaniment so that the voices may be heard; it differs
+from the music for a ballet in that the scene shifts constantly,
+and consequently the time signatures and the mood and the key must
+be as constantly shifting. The swift flash from scene to scene, the
+“cut-back,” the necessary rapidity of the action, all are adapted to
+inspire the futurist composer to brilliant effort; a tinkle of this and
+a smash of that, without “working-out” or development; illustration,
+comment, piquant or serious, that’s what the new film music should
+be. The ultimate moving picture score will be something more than
+sentimental accompaniment.
+
+
+_New York, November 10, 1915._
+
+
+
+
+  Spain and Music
+
+  “_Il faut méditerraniser la musique._”
+
+                                       Nietzsche.
+
+
+
+
+Spain and Music
+
+
+It has seemed to me at times that Oscar Hammerstein was gifted with
+almost prophetic vision. He it was who imagined the glory of Times
+(erstwhile Longacre) Square. Theatre after theatre he fashioned in what
+was then a barren district--and presently the crowds and the hotels
+came. He foresaw that French opera, given in the French manner, would
+be successful again in New York, and he upset the calculations of all
+the wiseacres by making money even with _Pelléas et Mélisande_, that
+esoteric collaboration of Belgian and French art, which in the latter
+part of the season of 1907-8 attained a record of seven performances
+at the Manhattan Opera House, all to audiences as vast and as devoted
+as those which attend the sacred festivals of _Parsifal_ at Bayreuth.
+And he had announced for presentation during the season of 1908-9
+(and again the following season) a Spanish opera called _Dolores_.
+If he had carried out his intention (why it was abandoned I have
+never learned; the scenery and costumes were ready) he would have had
+another honour thrust upon him, that of having been beforehand in the
+production of modern Spanish opera in New York, an honour which, in
+the circumstances, must go to Mr. Gatti-Casazza. (Strictly speaking,
+_Goyescas_ was not the first Spanish opera to be given in New York,
+although it was the first to be produced at the Metropolitan Opera
+House. _Il Guarany_, by Antonio Carlos Gomez, a Portuguese born in
+Brazil, was performed by the “Milan Grand Opera Company” during a three
+weeks’ season at the Star Theatre in the fall of 1884. An air from
+this opera is still in the répertoire of many sopranos. To go still
+farther back, two of Manuel Garcia’s operas, sung of course in Italian,
+_l’Amante Astuto_ and _La Figlia dell’Aria_, were performed at the Park
+Theatre in 1825 with Maria Garcia--later to become the celebrated Mme.
+Malibran--in the principal rôles. More recently an itinerant Italian
+opéra-bouffe company, which gravitated from the Park Theatre--not the
+same edifice that harboured Garcia’s company!--to various playhouses
+on the Bowery, included three zarzuelas in its répertoire. One of
+these, the popular _La Gran Via_, was announced for performance,
+but my records are dumb on the subject and I am not certain that
+it was actually given. There are probably other instances.) Mr.
+Hammerstein had previously produced two operas _about_ Spain when he
+opened his first Manhattan Opera House on the site now occupied by
+Macy’s Department Store with Moszkowski’s _Boabdil_, quickly followed
+by Beethoven’s _Fidelio_. The malagueña from _Boabdil_ is still a
+favourite _morceau_ with restaurant orchestras, and I believe I have
+heard the entire ballet suite performed by the Chicago Orchestra under
+the direction of Theodore Thomas. New York’s real occupation by the
+Spaniards, however, occurred after the close of Mr. Hammerstein’s
+brilliant seasons, although the earlier vogue of Carmencita, whose
+celebrated portrait by Sargent in the Luxembourg Gallery in Paris will
+long preserve her fame, the interest in the highly-coloured paintings
+by Sorolla and Zuloaga, many of which are still on exhibition in
+private and public galleries in New York, the success here achieved, in
+varying degrees, by such singing artists as Emilio de Gogorza, Andrea
+de Segurola, and Lucrezia Bori, the performances of the piano works of
+Albeniz, Turina, and Granados by such pianists as Ernest Schelling,
+George Copeland, and Leo Ornstein, and the amazing Spanish dances of
+Anna Pavlowa (who in attempting them was but following in the footsteps
+of her great predecessors of the nineteenth century, Fanny Elssler and
+Taglioni), all fanned the flames.
+
+The winter of 1915-16 beheld the Spanish blaze. Enrique Granados,
+one of the most distinguished of contemporary Spanish pianists and
+composers, a man who took a keen interest in the survival, and
+artistic use, of national forms, came to this country to assist at the
+production of his opera _Goyescas_, sung in Spanish at the Metropolitan
+Opera House for the first time anywhere, and was also heard several
+times here in his interpretative capacity as a pianist; Pablo Casals,
+the Spanish ’cellist, gave frequent exhibitions of his finished art,
+as did Miguel Llobet, the guitar virtuoso; La Argentina (Señora Paz
+of South America) exposed her ideas, somewhat classicized, of Spanish
+dances; a Spanish soprano, Maria Barrientos, made her North American
+début and justified, in some measure, the extravagant reports which
+had been spread broadcast about her singing; and finally the decree
+of Paris (still valid in spite of Paul Poiret’s reported absence
+in the trenches) led all our womenfolk into the wearing of Spanish
+garments, the hip-hoops of the Velasquez period, the lace flounces
+of Goya’s Duchess of Alba, and the mantillas, the combs, and the
+_accroche-coeurs_ of Spain, Spain, Spain.... In addition one must
+mention Mme. Farrar’s brilliant success, deserved in some degree,
+as Carmen, both in Bizet’s opera and in a moving picture drama;
+Miss Theda Bara’s film appearance in the same part, made with more
+atmospheric suggestion than Mme. Farrar’s, even if less effective as
+an interpretation of the moods of the Spanish cigarette girl; Mr.
+Charles Chaplin’s eccentric burlesque of the same play; the continued
+presence in New York of Andrea de Segurola as an opera and concert
+singer; Maria Gay, who gave some performances in _Carmen_ and other
+operas; and Lucrezia Bori, although she was unable to sing during the
+entire season owing to the unfortunate result of an operation on her
+vocal cords; in Chicago, Miss Supervia appeared at the opera and Mme.
+Koutznezoff, the Russian, danced Spanish dances; and at the New York
+Winter Garden Isabel Rodriguez appeared in Spanish dances which quite
+transcended the surroundings and made that stage as atmospheric, for
+the few brief moments in which it was occupied by her really entrancing
+beauty, as a _maison de danse_ in Seville. The tango, too, in somewhat
+modified form, continued to interest “ballroom dancers,” danced to
+music provided in many instances by Señor Valverde, an indefatigable
+producer of popular tunes, some of which have a certain value as music
+owing to their close allegiance to the folk-dances and songs of Spain.
+In the art-world there was a noticeable revival of interest in Goya and
+El Greco.
+
+But if Mr. Gatti-Casazza, with the best intentions in the world,
+should desire to take advantage of any of this _réclame_ by producing
+a series of Spanish operas at the Metropolitan Opera House--say four
+or five more--he would find himself in difficulty. Where are they?
+Several of the operas of Isaac Albeniz have been performed in London,
+and in Brussels at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, but would they be liked
+here? There is Felipe Pedrell’s monumental work, the trilogy, _Los
+Pireneos_, called by Edouard Lopez-Chavarri “the most important work
+for the theatre written in Spain”; and there is the aforementioned
+_Dolores_. For the rest, one would have to search about among the
+zarzuelas; and would the Metropolitan Opera House be a suitable place
+for the production of this form of opera? It is doubtful, indeed, if
+the zarzuela could take root in any theatre in New York.
+
+The truth is that in Spain Italian and German operas are much more
+popular than Spanish, the zarzuela always excepted; and at Señor
+Arbós’s series of concerts at the Royal Opera in Madrid one hears
+more Bach and Beethoven than Albeniz and Pedrell. There is a growing
+interest in music in Spain and there are indications that some day
+her composers may again take an important place with the musicians
+of other nationalities, a place they proudly held in the sixteenth
+and seventeenth centuries. However, no longer ago than 1894, we
+find Louis Lombard writing in his “Observations of a Musician” that
+harmony was not taught at the Conservatory of Malaga, and that at
+the closing exercises of the Conservatory of Barcelona he had heard
+a four-hand arrangement of the _Tannhäuser_ march performed on ten
+pianos by forty hands! Havelock Ellis (“The Soul of Spain,” 1909)
+affirms that a concert in Spain sets the audience to chattering. They
+have a savage love of noise, the Spanish, he says, which incites them
+to conversation. Albert Lavignac, in “Music and Musicians” (William
+Marchant’s translation), says, “We have left in the shade the Spanish
+school, which to say truth does not exist.” But if one reads what
+Lavignac has to say about Moussorgsky, one is likely to give little
+credence to such extravagant generalities as the one just quoted.
+The Moussorgsky paragraph is a gem, and I am only too glad to insert
+it here for the sake of those who have not seen it: “A charming and
+fruitful melodist, who makes up for a lack of skill in harmonization
+by a daring, which is sometimes of doubtful taste; has produced songs,
+piano music in small amount, and an opera, _Boris Godunow_.” In the
+report of the proceedings of the thirty-fourth session of the London
+Musical Association (1907-8) Dr. Thomas Lea Southgate is quoted as
+complaining to Sir George Grove because under “Schools of Composition”
+in the old edition of Grove’s Dictionary the Spanish School was
+dismissed in twenty lines. Sir George, he says, replied, “Well, I gave
+it to Rockstro because nobody knows anything about Spanish music.”--The
+bibliography of modern Spanish music is indeed indescribably meagre,
+although a good deal has been written in and out of Spain about the
+early religious composers of the Iberian peninsula.
+
+These matters will be discussed in due course. In the meantime it
+has afforded me some amusement to put together a list (which may be
+of interest to both the casual reader and the student of music) of
+compositions suggested by Spain to composers of other nationalities.
+(This list is by no means complete. I have not attempted to include
+in it works which are not more or less familiar to the public of the
+present day; without boundaries it could easily be extended into a
+small volume.) The répertoire of the concert room and the opera house
+is streaked through and through with Spanish atmosphere and, on the
+whole, I should say, the best Spanish music has not been written by
+Spaniards, although most of it, like the best music written in Spain,
+is based primarily on the rhythm of folk-tunes, dances and songs. Of
+orchestral pieces I think I must put at the head of the list Chabrier’s
+rhapsody, _España_, as colourful and rhythmic a combination of tone as
+the auditor of a symphony concert is often bidden to hear. It depends
+for its melody and rhythm on two Spanish dances, the jota, fast and
+fiery, and the malagueña, slow and sensuous. These are true Spanish
+tunes; Chabrier, according to report, invented only the rude theme
+given to the trombones. The piece was originally written for piano, and
+after Chabrier’s death was transformed (with other music by the same
+composer) into a ballet, _España_, performed at the Paris Opera, 1911.
+Waldteufel based one of his most popular waltzes on the theme of this
+rhapsody. Chabrier’s _Habanera_ for the pianoforte (1885) was his last
+musical reminiscence of his journey to Spain. It is French composers
+generally who have achieved better effects with Spanish atmosphere
+than men of other nations, and next to Chabrier’s music I should put
+Debussy’s _Iberia_, the second of his _Images_ (1910). It contains
+three movements designated respectively as “In the streets and roads,”
+“The perfumes of the night,” and “The morning of a fête-day.” It is
+indeed rather the smell and the look of Spain than the rhythm that this
+music gives us, entirely impressionistic that it is, but rhythm is not
+lacking, and such characteristic instruments as castanets, tambourines,
+and xylophones are required by the score. “Perfumes of the night” comes
+as near to suggesting odours to the nostrils as any music can--and not
+all of them are pleasant odours. There is Rimsky-Korsakow’s _Capriccio
+Espagnole_, with its _alborado_ or lusty morning serenade, its long
+series of cadenzas (as cleverly written as those of _Scheherazade_ to
+display the virtuosity of individual players in the orchestra; it is
+noteworthy that this work is dedicated to the sixty-seven musicians
+of the band at the Imperial Opera House of Petrograd and all of their
+names are mentioned on the score) to suggest the vacillating music of
+a gipsy encampment, and finally the wild fandango of the Asturias with
+which the work comes to a brilliant conclusion. Engelbert Humperdinck
+taught the theory of music in the Conservatory of Barcelona for two
+years (1885-6), and one of the results was his _Maurische Rhapsodie_ in
+three parts (1898-9), still occasionally performed by our orchestras.
+Lalo wrote his _Symphonie Espagnole_ for violin and orchestra for the
+great Spanish virtuoso, Pablo de Sarasate, but all our violinists
+delight to perform it (although usually shorn of a movement or two).
+Glinka wrote a _Jota Aragonese_ and _A Night in Madrid_; he gave a
+Spanish theme to Balakirew which the latter utilized in his _Overture
+on a theme of a Spanish March_. Liszt wrote a _Spanish Rhapsody_ for
+pianoforte (arranged as a concert piece for piano and orchestra by
+Busoni) in which he used the jota of Aragon as a theme for variations.
+Rubinstein’s _Toreador and Andalusian_ and Moszkowski’s _Spanish
+Dances_ (for four hands) are known to all amateur pianists as Hugo
+Wolf’s _Spanisches Liederbuch_ and Robert Schumann’s _Spanisches
+Liederspiel_, set to F. Giebel’s translations of popular Spanish
+ballads, are known to all singers. I have heard a song of Saint-Saëns,
+_Guitares et Mandolines_, charmingly sung by Greta Torpadie, in which
+the instruments of the title, under the subtle fingers of that masterly
+accompanist, Coenraad V. Bos, were cleverly imitated. And Debussy’s
+_Mandoline_ and Delibes’s _Les Filles de Cadiz_ (which in this country
+belongs both to Emma Calvé and Olive Fremstad) spring instantly to
+mind. Ravel’s _Rapsodie Espagnole_ is as Spanish as music could be.
+The Boston Symphony men have played it during the season just past.
+Ravel based the habanera section of his _Rapsodie_ on one of his piano
+pieces. But Richard Strauss’s two tone-poems on Spanish subjects, _Don
+Juan_ and _Don Quixote_, have not a note of Spanish colouring, so far
+as I can remember, from beginning to end. Svendsen’s symphonic poem,
+_Zorahayda_, based on a passage in Washington Irving’s “Alhambra,”
+is Spanish in theme and may be added to this list together with
+Waldteufel’s _Estudiantina_ waltzes.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Four modern operas stand out as Spanish in subject and atmosphere. I
+would put at the top of the list Zandonai’s _Conchita_; the Italian
+composer has caught on his musical palette and transferred to his tonal
+canvas a deal of the lazy restless colour of the Iberian peninsula
+in this little master-work. The feeling of the streets and patios is
+admirably caught. My friend, Pitts Sanborn, said of it, after its
+solitary performance at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York by
+the Chicago Opera Company, “There is musical atmosphere of a rare
+and penetrating kind; there is colour used with the discretion of a
+master; there are intoxicating rhythms, and above the orchestra the
+voices are heard in a truthful musical speech.... Ever since _Carmen_
+it has been so easy to write Spanish music and achieve supremely
+the banal. Here there is as little of the Spanish of convention as
+in Debussy’s _Iberia_, but there is Spain.” This opera, based on
+Pierre Louys’s sadic novel, “La Femme et le Pantin,” owed some of its
+extraordinary impression of vitality to the vivid performance given of
+the title-rôle by Tarquinia Tarquini. Raoul Laparra, born in Bordeaux,
+but who has travelled much in Spain, has written two Spanish operas,
+_La Habanera_ and _La Jota_, both named after popular Spanish dances
+and both produced at the Opéra-Comique in Paris. I have heard _La
+Habanera_ there and found the composer’s use of the dance as a pivot of
+a tragedy very convincing. Nor shall I forget the first act-close, in
+which a young man, seated on a wall facing the window of a house where
+a most bloody murder has been committed, sings a wild Spanish ditty,
+accompanying himself on the guitar, crossing and recrossing his legs in
+complete abandonment to the rhythm, while in the house rises the wild
+treble cry of a frightened child. I have not heard _La Jota_, nor have
+I seen the score. I do not find Emile Vuillermoz enthusiastic in his
+review (“S. I. M.,” May 15, 1911): “Une danse transforme le premier
+acte en un kaléidoscope frénétique et le combat dans l’église doit
+donner, au second, dans l’intention de l’auteur ‘une sensation à pic,
+un peu comme celle d’un puits où grouillerait la besogne monstreuse
+de larves humaines.’ A vrai dire ces deux tableaux de cinématographe
+papillotant, corsés de cris, de hurlements et d’un nombre incalculable
+de coups de feu constituent pour le spectateur une épreuve physiquement
+douloureuse, une hallucination confuse et inquiétante, un cauchemar
+assourdissant qui le conduisent irrésistiblement à l’hébétude et à
+la migraine. Dans tout cet enfer que devient la musique?” Perhaps
+opera-goers in general are not looking for thrills of this order; the
+fact remains that _La Jota_ has had a modest career when compared with
+_La Habanera_, which has even been performed in Boston. _Carmen_ is
+essentially a French opera; the leading emotions of the characters
+are expressed in an idiom as French as that of Gounod; yet the dances
+and entr’actes are Spanish in colour. The story of Carmen’s entrance
+song is worth retelling in Mr. Philip Hale’s words (“Boston Symphony
+Orchestra Programme Notes”; 1914-15, P. 287): “Mme. Galli-Marié
+disliked her entrance air, which was in 6-8 time with a chorus. She
+wished something more audacious, a song in which she could bring into
+play the whole battery of her _perversités artistiques_, to borrow
+Charles Pigot’s phrase: ‘caressing tones and smiles, voluptuous
+inflections, killing glances, disturbing gestures.’ During the
+rehearsals Bizet made a dozen versions. The singer was satisfied
+only with the thirteenth, the now familiar Habanera, based on an old
+Spanish tune that had been used by Sebastian Yradier. This brought
+Bizet into trouble, for Yradier’s publisher, Heugel, demanded that the
+indebtedness should be acknowledged in Bizet’s score. Yradier made no
+complaint, but to avoid a lawsuit or a scandal, Bizet gave consent, and
+on the first page of the Habanera in the French edition of _Carmen_
+this line is engraved: ‘Imitated from a Spanish song, the property of
+the publishers of _Le Ménestrel_.’”
+
+There are other operas the scenes of which are laid in Spain. Some of
+them make an attempt at Spanish colouring, more do not. Massenet wrote
+no less than five operas on Spanish subjects, _Le Cid_, _Cherubin_,
+_Don César de Bazan_, _La Navarraise_ and _Don Quichotte_ (Cervantes’s
+novel has frequently lured the composers of lyric dramas with its
+story; Clément et Larousse give a long list of _Don Quixote_ operas,
+but they do not include one by Manuel Garcia, which is mentioned in
+John Towers’s compilation, “Dictionary-Catalogue of Operas.” However,
+not a single one of these lyric dramas has held its place on the
+stage). The Spanish dances in _Le Cid_ are frequently performed,
+although the opera is not. The most famous of the set is called simply
+_Aragonaise_; it is not a jota. _Pleurez, mes yeux_, the principal air
+of the piece, can scarcely be called Spanish. There is a delightful
+suggestion of the jota in _La Navarraise_. In _Don Quichotte_ la belle
+Dulcinée sings one of her airs to her own guitar strummings, and much
+was made of the fact, before the original production at Monte Carlo,
+of Mme. Lucy Arbell’s lessons on that instrument. Mary Garden, who
+had learned to dance for _Salome_, took no guitar lessons for _Don
+Quichotte_. But is not the guitar an anachronism in this opera? In a
+pamphlet by Señor Cecilio de Roda, issued during the celebration of
+the tercentenary of the publication of Cervantes’s romance, taking
+as its subject the musical references in the work, I find, “The harp
+was the aristocratic instrument most favoured by women and it would
+appear to be regarded in _Don Quixote_ as the feminine instrument
+par excellence.” Was the guitar as we know it in existence at that
+epoch? I think the _vihuela_ was the guitar of the period.... Maurice
+Ravel wrote a Spanish opera, _L’heure Espagnole_ (one act, performed
+at the Paris Opéra-Comique, 1911). Octave Séré (“Musiciens français
+d’Aujourd’hui”) says of it: “Les principaux traits de son caractère
+et l’influence du sol natal s’y combinent étrangement. De l’alliance
+de la mer et du Pays Basque (Ravel was born in the Basses-Pyrénées,
+near the sea) est née une musique à la fois fluide et nerveusement
+rythmée, mobile, chatoyante, amie du pittoresque et dont le trait
+net et précis est plus incisif que profond.” Hugo Wolf’s opera _Der
+Corregidor_ is founded on the novel, “Il Sombrero de tres Picos,” of
+the Spanish writer, Pedro de Alarcon (1833-91). His unfinished opera
+_Manuel Venegas_ also has a Spanish subject, suggested by Alarcon’s
+“El Nino de la Bola.” Other Spanish operas are Beethoven’s _Fidelio_,
+Balfe’s _The Rose of Castille_, Verdi’s _Ernani_ and _Il Trovatore_,
+Rossini’s _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_, Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_ and _Le
+Nozze di Figaro_, Weber’s _Preciosa_ (really a play with incidental
+music), Dargomijsky’s _The Stone Guest_ (Pushkin’s version of the Don
+Juan story. This opera, by the way, was one of the many retouched and
+completed by Rimsky-Korsakow), Reznicek’s _Donna Diana_--and Wagner’s
+_Parsifal_! The American composer John Knowles Paine’s opera _Azara_,
+dealing with a Moorish subject, has, I think, never been performed.
+
+
+II
+
+The early religious composers of Spain deserve a niche all to
+themselves, be it ever so tiny, as in the present instance. There is,
+to be sure, some doubt as to whether their inspiration was entirely
+peninsular, or whether some of it was wafted from Flanders, and the
+rest gleaned in Rome, for in their service to the church most of them
+migrated to Italy and did their best work there. It is not the purpose
+of the present chronicler to devote much space to these early men,
+or to discuss in detail their music. There are no books in English
+devoted to a study of Spanish music, and few in any language, but
+what few exist take good care to relate at considerable length (some
+of them with frequent musical quotation) the state of music in Spain
+in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, the golden
+period. To the reader who may wish to pursue this phase of our subject
+I offer a small bibliography. There is first of all A. Soubies’s two
+volumes, “Histoire de la Musique d’Espagne,” published in 1889. The
+second volume takes us through the eighteenth century. The religious
+and early secular composers are catalogued in these volumes, but there
+is little attempt at detail, and he is a happy composer who is awarded
+an entire page. Soubies does not find occasion to pause for more than a
+paragraph on most of his subjects. Occasionally, however, he lightens
+the plodding progress of the reader, as when he quotes Father Bermudo’s
+“Declaracion de Instrumentos” (1548; the 1555 edition is in the Library
+of Congress at Washington): “There are three kinds of instruments in
+music. The first are called natural; these are men, of whom the song
+is called _musical harmony_. Others are artificial and are played
+by the touch--such as the harp, the _vihuela_ (the ancient guitar,
+which resembles the lute), and others like them; the music of these
+is called _artificial_ or rhythmic. The third species is pneumatique
+and includes instruments such as the flute, the douçaine (a species of
+oboe), and the organ.” There may be some to dispute this ingenious and
+highly original classification. The best known, and perhaps the most
+useful (because it is easily accessible) history of Spanish music is
+that written by Mariano Soriano Fuertes, in four volumes: “Historia
+de la Música Española desde la venida de los Fenicios hasta el año de
+1850”; published in Barcelona and Madrid in 1855. There is further the
+“Diccionario Tecnico, Historico, y Biografico de la Música,” by Jose
+Parada y Barreto (Madrid, 1867). This, of course, is a general work on
+music, but Spain gets her full due. For example, a page and a half is
+devoted to Beethoven, and nine pages to Eslava. It is to this latter
+composer to whom we must turn for the most complete and important
+work on Spanish church music: “Lira Sacro-Hispana” (Madrid, 1869),
+in ten volumes, with voluminous extracts from the composers’ works.
+This collection of Spanish church music from the sixteenth century
+through the eighteenth, with biographical notices of the composers is
+out of print and rare (there is a copy in the Congressional Library
+at Washington). As a complement to it I may mention Felipe Pedrell’s
+“Hispaniae Schola Música Sacra,” begun in 1894, which has already
+reached the proportions of Eslava’s work. Pedrell, who was the master
+of Enrique Granados, has also issued a fine edition of the music of
+Victoria.
+
+The Spanish composers had their full share in the process of
+crystallizing music into forms of permanent beauty during the
+sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Rockstro asserts that during the
+early part of the sixteenth century nearly all the best composers for
+the great Roman choirs were Spaniards. But their greatest achievement
+was the foundation of the school of which Palestrina was the crown. On
+the music of their own country their influence is less perceptible. I
+think the name of Cristofero Morales (1512-53) is the first important
+name in the history of Spanish music. He preceded Palestrina in Rome
+and some of his masses and motets are still sung in the Papal chapel
+there (and in other Roman Catholic edifices and by choral societies).
+Francesco Guerrero (1528-99; these dates are approximate) was a pupil
+of Morales. He wrote settings of the Passion choruses according to
+St. Matthew and St. John and numerous masses and motets. Tomas Luis
+de Victoria is, of course, the greatest figure in Spanish music, and
+next to Palestrina (with whom he worked contemporaneously) the greatest
+figure in sixteenth century music. Soubies writes: “One might say that
+on his musical palette he has entirely at his disposition, in some
+sort, the glowing colour of Zurbaran, the realistic and transparent
+tones of Velasquez, the ideal shades of Juan de Juarez and Murillo. His
+mysticism is that of Santa Theresa and San Juan de la Cruz.” The music
+of Victoria is still very much alive and may be heard even in New York,
+occasionally, through the medium of the Musical Art Society. Whether
+it is performed in churches in America or not I do not know; the Roman
+choirs still sing it....
+
+The list might be extended indefinitely ... but the great names I
+have given. There are Cabezon, whom Pedrell calls the “Spanish Bach,”
+Navarro, Caseda, Comes, Ribera, Castillo, Lobo, Duron, Romero, Juarez.
+On the whole I think these composers had more influence on Rome--the
+Spanish nature is more reverent than the Italian--than on Spain. The
+modern Spanish composers have learned more from the folk-song and dance
+than they have from the church composers. However, there are voices
+which dissent from this opinion. G. Tebaldini (“Rivista Musicale,” Vol.
+IV, Pp. 267 and 494) says that Pedrell in his studies learned much
+which he turned to account in the choral writing of his operas. And
+Felipe Pedrell himself asserts that there is an unbroken chain between
+the religious composers of the sixteenth century and the theatrical
+composers of the seventeenth. We may follow him thus far without
+believing that the theatrical composers of the seventeenth century had
+too great an influence on the secular composers of the present day.
+
+
+III
+
+All the world dances in Spain, at least it would seem so, in reading
+over the books of the Marco Polos who have made voyages of discovery
+on the Iberian peninsula. Guitars seem to be as common there as
+pea-shooters in New England, and strumming seems to set the feet
+a-tapping and voices a-singing, what, they care not. (Havelock Ellis
+says: “It is not always agreeable to the Spaniard to find that dancing
+is regarded by the foreigner as a peculiar and important Spanish
+institution. Even Valera, with his wide culture, could not escape
+this feeling; in a review of a book about Spain by an American author
+entitled ‘The Land of the Castanet’--a book which he recognized as full
+of appreciation for Spain--Valera resented the title. It is, he says,
+as though a book about the United States should be called ‘The Land of
+Bacon.’”) Oriental colour is streaked through and through the melodies
+and harmonies, many of which betray their Arabian origin; others are
+_flamenco_, or gipsy. The dances, almost invariably accompanied by
+song, are generally in 3-4 time or its variants such as 6-8 or 3-8;
+the tango, of course, is in 2-4. But the dancers evolve the most
+elaborate inter-rhythms out of these simple measures, creating thereby
+a complexity of effect which defies any comprehensible notation on
+paper. As it is on this _fioriture_, if I may be permitted to use the
+word in this connection, of the dancer that the sophisticated composer
+bases some of his most natural and national effects, I shall linger on
+the subject. La Argentina has re-arranged many of the Spanish dances
+for purposes of the concert stage, but in her translation she has
+retained in a large measure this interesting complication of rhythm,
+marking the irregularity of the beat, now with a singularly complicated
+detonation of heel-tapping, now with a sudden bend of a knee, now with
+the subtle quiver of an eyelash, now with a shower of castanet sparks
+(an instrument which requires a hard tutelage for its complete mastery;
+Richard Ford tells us that even the children in the streets of Spain
+rap shells together, to become self-taught artists in the use of it).
+Chabrier, in his visit to Spain with his wife in 1882, attempted to
+note down some of these rhythmic variations achieved by the dancers
+while the musicians strummed their guitars, and he was partially
+successful. But all in all he only succeeded in giving in a single
+measure each variation; he did not attempt to weave them into the
+intricate pattern which the Spanish women contrive to make of them.
+
+There is a singular similarity to be observed between this heel-tapping
+and the complicated drum-tapping of the African negroes of certain
+tribes. In his book “Afro-American Folksongs” H. E. Krehbiel thus
+describes the musical accompaniment of the dances in the Dahoman
+Village at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago: “These dances
+were accompanied by choral song and the rhythmical and harmonious
+beating of drums and bells, the song being in unison. The harmony was
+a tonic major triad broken up rhythmically in a most intricate and
+amazingly ingenious manner. The instruments were tuned with excellent
+justness. The fundamental tone came from a drum made of a hollowed log
+about three feet long with a single head, played by one who seemed
+to be the leader of the band, though there was no giving of signals.
+This drum was beaten with the palms of the hands. A variety of smaller
+drums, some with one, some with two heads, were beaten variously with
+sticks and fingers. The bells, four in number, were of iron and were
+held mouth upward and struck with sticks. The players showed the most
+remarkable rhythmical sense and skill that ever came under my notice.
+Berlioz in his supremest effort with his army of drummers produced
+nothing to compare in artistic interest with the harmonious drumming
+of these savages. The fundamental effect was a combination of double
+and triple time, the former kept by the singers, the latter by the
+drummers, but it is impossible to convey the idea of the wealth of
+detail achieved by the drummers by means of exchange of the rhythms,
+syncopation of both simultaneously, and dynamic devices. Only by
+making a score of the music could this have been done. I attempted to
+make such a score by enlisting the help of the late John C. Filmore,
+experienced in Indian music, but we were thwarted by the players
+who, evidently divining our purpose when we took out our notebooks,
+mischievously changed their manner of playing as soon as we touched
+pencil to paper.”
+
+The resemblance between negro and Spanish music is very noticeable. Mr.
+Krehbiel says that in South America Spanish melody has been imposed
+on negro rhythm. In the dances of the people of Spain, as Chabrier
+points out, the melody is often practically nil; the effect is rhythmic
+(an effect which is emphasized by the obvious harmonic and melodic
+limitations of the guitar, which invariably accompanies all singers
+and dancers). If there were a melody or if the guitarists played well
+(which they usually do not) one could not distinguish its contours
+what with the cries of Olè! and the heel-beats of the performers.
+Spanish melodies, indeed, are often scraps of tunes, like the African
+negro melodies. The habanera is a true African dance, taken to Spain
+by way of Cuba, as Albert Friedenthal points out in his book, “Musik,
+Tanz, und Dichtung bei den Kreolen Amerikas.” Whoever was responsible,
+Arab, negro, or Moor (Havelock Ellis says that the dances of Spain
+are closely allied with the ancient dances of Greece and Egypt), the
+Spanish dances betray their oriental origin in their complexity of
+rhythm (a complexity not at all obvious on the printed page, as so
+much of it depends on dancer, guitarist, singer, and even public!),
+and the _fioriture_ which decorate their melody when melody occurs.
+While Spanish religious music is perhaps not distinctively Spanish, the
+dances invariably display marked national characteristics; it is on
+these, then (some in greater, some in less degree), that the composers
+in and out of Spain have built their most atmospheric inspirations,
+their best pictures of popular life in the Iberian peninsula. A good
+deal of the interest of this music is due to the important part the
+guitar plays in its construction; the modulations are often contrary
+to all rules of harmony and (yet, some would say) the music seems
+to be effervescent with variety and fire. Of the guitarists Richard
+Ford (“Gatherings from Spain”) says: “The performers seldom are very
+scientific musicians; they content themselves with striking the
+chords, sweeping the whole hand over the strings, or flourishing,
+and tapping the board with the thumb, at which they are very expert.
+Occasionally in the towns there is some one who has attained more
+power over this ungrateful instrument; but the attempt is a failure.
+The guitar responds coldly to Italian words and elaborate melody,
+which never come home to Spanish ears or hearts.” (An exception must
+be made in the case of Miguel Llobet. I first heard him play at Pitts
+Sanborn’s concert at the Punch and Judy Theatre (April 17, 1916) for
+the benefit of Hospital 28 in Bourges, France, and he made a deep
+impression on me. In one of his numbers, the _Spanish Fantasy_ of
+Tárrega, he astounded and thrilled me. He seemed at all times to exceed
+the capacity of his instrument, obtaining a variety of colour which
+was truly amazing. In this particular number he not only plucked the
+keyboard but the fingerboard as well, in intricate and rapid _tempo_;
+seemingly two different kinds of instruments were playing. But at all
+times he variated his tone; sometimes he made the instrument sound
+almost as though it had been played by wind and not plucked. Especially
+did I note a suggestion of the bagpipe. A true artist. None of the
+music, the fantasy mentioned, a serenade of Albeniz, and a Menuet of
+Tor, was particularly interesting, although the Fantasia contained
+some fascinating references to folk-dance tunes. There is nothing
+sensational about Llobet, a quiet prim sort of man; he sits quietly in
+his chair and makes music. It might be a harp or a ’cello--no striving
+for personal effect.)
+
+The Spanish dances are infinite in number and for centuries back
+they seem to form part and parcel of Spanish life. Discussion as to
+how they are danced is a feature of the descriptions. No two authors
+agree, it would seem; to a mere annotator the fact is evident that
+they are danced differently on different occasions. It is obvious that
+they are danced differently in different provinces. The Spaniards, as
+Richard Ford points out, are not too willing to give information to
+strangers, frequently because they themselves lack the knowledge. Their
+statements are often misleading, sometimes intentionally so. They
+do not understand the historical temperament. Until recently many of
+the art treasures and archives of the peninsula were but poorly kept.
+Those who lived in the shadow of the Alhambra admired only its shade.
+It may be imagined that there has been even less interest displayed in
+recording the folk-dances. “Dancing in Spain is now a matter which few
+know anything about,” writes Havelock Ellis, “because every one takes
+it for granted that he knows all about it; and any question on the
+subject receives a very ready answer which is usually of questionable
+correctness.” Of the music of the dances we have many records, and that
+they are generally in 3-4 time or its variants we may be certain. As
+to whether they are danced by two women, a woman and a man, or a woman
+alone, the authorities do not always agree. The confusion is added to
+by the oracular attitude of the scribes. It seems quite certain to me
+that this procedure varies. That the animated picture almost invariably
+possesses great fascination there are only too many witnesses to prove.
+I myself can testify to the marvel of some of them, set to be sure in
+strange frames, the Feria in Paris, for example; but even without the
+surroundings, which Spanish dances demand, the diablerie, the shivering
+intensity of these fleshly women, always wound tight with such
+shawls as only the mistresses of kings might wear in other countries,
+have drawn taut the _real thrill_. It is dancing which enlists the
+co-operation not only of the feet and legs, but of the arms and, in
+fact, the entire body.
+
+The smart world in Spain to-day dances much as the smart world does
+anywhere else, although it does not, I am told, hold a brief for our
+tango, which Mr. Krehbiel suggests is a corruption of the original
+African habanera. But in older days many of the dances, such as the
+pavana, the sarabande, and the gallarda, were danced at the court and
+were in favour with the nobility. (Although presumably of Italian
+origin, the pavana and gallarda were more popular in Spain than in
+Rome. Fuertes says that the sarabande was invented in the middle of
+the sixteenth century by a dancer called Zarabanda who was a native of
+either Seville or Guayaquil.) The pavana, an ancient dance of grave and
+stately measure, was much in vogue in the sixteenth and seventeenth
+centuries. An explanation of its name is that the figures executed
+by the dancers bore a resemblance to the semi-circular wheel-like
+spreading of the tail of a peacock. The gallarda (French, gaillard) was
+usually danced as a relief to the pavana (and indeed often follows it
+in the dance-suites of the classical composers in which these forms all
+figure). The jacara, or more properly xacara, of the sixteenth century,
+was danced in accompaniment to a romantic, swashbuckling ditty. The
+Spanish folias were a set of dances danced to a simple tune treated
+in a variety of styles with very free accompaniment of castanets
+and bursts of song. Corelli in Rome in 1700 published twenty-four
+variations in this form, which have been played in our day by Fritz
+Kreisler and other violinists.
+
+The names of the modern Spanish dances are often confused in the
+descriptions offered by observing travellers, for the reasons already
+noted. Hundreds of these descriptions exist, and it is difficult to
+choose the most telling of them. Gertrude Stein, who has spent the last
+two years in Spain, has noted the rhythm of several of these dances
+by the mingling of her original use of words with the ingratiating
+medium of _vers libre_. She has succeeded, I think, better than some
+musicians in suggesting the intricacies of the rhythm. I should like to
+transcribe one of these attempts here, but that I have not the right to
+do as I have only seen them in manuscript; they have not yet appeared
+in print. These pieces are in a sense the thing itself--I shall have
+to fall back on descriptions of the thing. The tirana, a dance common
+to the province of Andalusia, is accompanied by song. It has a decided
+rhythm, affording opportunities for grace and gesture, the women toying
+with their aprons, the men flourishing hats and handkerchiefs. The
+polo, or olè, is now a gipsy dance. Mr. Ellis asserts that it is a
+corruption of the sarabande! He goes on to say, “The so-called gipsy
+dances of Spain are Spanish dances which the Spaniards are tending to
+relinquish but which the gipsies have taken up with energy and skill.”
+(This theory might be warmly contested.) The bolero, a comparatively
+modern dance, came to Spain through Italy. Mr. Philip Hale points out
+the fact that the bolero and the cachucha (which, by the way, one
+seldom hears of nowadays) were the popular Spanish dances when Mesdames
+Faviani and Dolores Tesrai, and their followers, Mlle. Noblet and Fanny
+Elssler, visited Paris. Fanny Elssler indeed is most frequently seen
+pictured in Spanish costume, and the cachucha was danced by her as
+often, I fancy, as Mme. Pavlowa dances _Le Cygne_ of Saint-Saëns. Anna
+de Camargo, who acquired great fame as a dancer in France in the early
+eighteenth century, was born in Brussels but was of Spanish descent.
+She relied, however, on the Italian classic style for her success
+rather than on national Spanish dances. The seguidilla is a gipsy
+dance which has the same rhythm as the bolero but is more animated and
+stirring. Examples of these dances, and of the jota, fandango, and
+the sevillana, are to be met with in the compositions listed in the
+first section of this article, in the appendices of Soriano Fuertes’s
+“History of Spanish Music,” in Grove’s Dictionary, in the numbers of
+“S. I. M.” in which the letters of Emmanuel Chabrier occur, and in
+collections made by P. Lacome, published in Paris.
+
+The jota is another dance in 3-4 time. Every province in Spain has its
+own jota, but the most famous variations are those of Aragon, Valencia,
+and Navarre. It is accompanied by the guitar, the _bandarria_ (similar
+to the guitar), small drum, castanets, and triangle. Mr. Hale says
+that its origin in the twelfth century is attributed to a Moor named
+Alben Jot who fled from Valencia to Aragon. “The jota,” he continues,
+“is danced not only at merrymakings but at certain religious festivals
+and even in watching the dead. One called the ‘Natividad del Señor’
+(nativity of our Lord) is danced on Christmas eve in Aragon, and is
+accompanied by songs, and jotas are sung and danced at the crossroads,
+invoking the favour of the Virgin, when the festival of Our Lady del
+Pilar is celebrated at Saragossa.”
+
+Havelock Ellis’s description of the jota is worth reproducing:
+“The Aragonaise jota, the most important and typical dance outside
+Andalusia, is danced by a man and a woman, and is a kind of combat
+between them; most of the time they are facing each other, both using
+castanets and advancing and retreating in an apparently aggressive
+manner, the arms alternately slightly raised and lowered, and the legs,
+with a seeming attempt to trip the partner, kicking out alternately
+somewhat sidewise, as the body is rapidly supported first on one side
+and then on the other. It is a monotonous dance, with immense rapidity
+and vivacity in its monotony, but it has not the deliberate grace and
+fascination, the happy audacities of Andalusian dancing. There is,
+indeed, no faintest suggestion of voluptuousness in it, but it may
+rather be said, in the words of a modern poet, Salvador Rueda, to have
+in it ‘the sound of helmets and plumes and lances and banners, the
+roaring of cannon, the neighing of horses, the shock of swords.’”
+
+Chabrier, in his astounding and amusing letters from Spain, gives us
+vivid pictures and interesting information. This one, written to his
+friend, Edouard Moullé, from Granada, November 4, 1882, appeared in “S.
+I. M.” April 15, 1911 (I have omitted the musical illustrations, which,
+however, possess great value for the student): “In a month I must leave
+adorable Spain ... and say good-bye to the Spaniards,--because, I say
+this only to you, they are very nice, the little girls! I have not seen
+a really ugly woman since I have been in Andalusia: I do not speak of
+the feet, they are so small that I have never seen them; the hands are
+tiny and well-kept and the arms of an exquisite contour; I speak only
+of what one can see, but they show a good deal; add the arabesques, the
+side-curls, and other ingenuities of the coiffure, the inevitable fan,
+the flower and the comb in the hair, placed well behind, the shawl of
+Chinese crêpe, with long fringe and embroidered in flowers, knotted
+around the figure, the arm bare, and the eye protected by eyelashes
+which are long enough to curl; the skin of dull white or orange colour,
+according to the race, all this smiling, gesticulating, dancing,
+drinking, and careless to the last degree....
+
+“That is the Andalusian.
+
+“Every evening we go with Alice to the café-concerts where the
+malagueñas, the Soledas, the Sapateados, and the Peteneras are sung;
+then the dances, absolutely Arab, to speak truth; if you could see
+them wriggle, unjoint their hips, contortion, I believe you would not
+try to get away!... At Malaga the dancing became so intense that I
+was compelled to take my wife away; it wasn’t even amusing any more.
+I can’t write about it, but I remember it and I will describe it to
+you.--I have no need to tell you that I have noted down many things;
+the tango, a kind of dance in which the women imitate the pitching of
+a ship (_le tangage du navire_) is the only dance in 2 time; all the
+others, all, are in 3-4 (Seville) or in 3-8 (Malaga and Cadiz);--in
+the North it is different, there is some music in 5-8, very curious.
+The 2-4 of the tango is always like the habanera; this is the picture:
+one or two women dance, two silly men play it doesn’t matter what on
+their guitars, and five or six women howl, with excruciating voices
+and in triplet figures impossible to note down because they change
+the air--every instant a new scrap of tune. They howl a series of
+figurations with syllables, words, rising voices, clapping hands which
+strike the six quavers, emphasizing the third and the sixth, cries of
+Anda! Anda! La Salud! eso es la Maraquita! gracia, nationidad! Baila,
+la chiquilla! Anda! Anda! Consuelo! Olè, la Lola, olè la Carmen! que
+gracia! que elegancia! all that to excite the young dancer. It is
+vertiginous--it is unspeakable!
+
+“The Sevillana is another thing: it is in 3-4 time (and with
+castanets).... All this becomes extraordinarily alluring with two
+curls, a pair of castanets and a guitar. It is impossible to write down
+the malagueña. It is a melopœia, however, which has a form and which
+always ends on the dominant, to which the guitar furnishes 3-8 time,
+and the spectator (when there is one) seated beside the guitarist,
+holds a cane between his legs and beats the syncopated rhythm; the
+dancers themselves instinctively syncopate the measures in a thousand
+ways, striking with their heels an unbelievable number of rhythms....
+It is all rhythm and dance: the airs scraped out by the guitarist
+have no value; besides, they cannot be heard on account of the cries
+of Anda! la chiquilla! que gracia! que elegancia! Anda! Olè! Olè! la
+chiquirritita! and the more the cries the more the dancer laughs with
+her mouth wide open, and turns her hips, and is mad with her body....”
+
+As it is on these dances that composers invariably base their Spanish
+music (not alone Albeniz, Chapí, Bretón, and Granados, but Chabrier,
+Ravel, Laparra, and Bizet, as well) we may linger somewhat longer on
+their delights. The following compelling description is from Richard
+Ford’s highly readable “Gatherings from Spain”: “The dance which is
+closely analogous to the _Ghowasee_ of the Egyptians, and the _Nautch_
+of the Hindoos, is called the _Olè_ by Spaniards, the _Romalis_ by
+their gipsies; the soul and essence of it consists in the expression of
+a certain sentiment, one not indeed of a very sentimental or correct
+character. The ladies, who seem to have no bones, resolve the problem
+of perpetual motion, their feet having comparatively a sinecure, as the
+whole person performs a pantomime, and trembles like an aspen leaf; the
+flexible form and Terpsichore figure of a young Andalusian girl--be she
+gipsy or not--is said, by the learned, to have been designed by nature
+as the fit frame for her voluptuous imagination.
+
+“Be that as it may, the scholar and classical commentator will every
+moment quote Martial, etc., when he beholds the unchanged balancing of
+hands, raised as if to catch showers of roses, the tapping of the feet,
+and the serpentine quivering movements. A contagious excitement seizes
+the spectators, who, like Orientals, beat time with their hands in
+measured cadence, and at every pause applaud with cries and clappings.
+The damsels, thus encouraged, continue in violent action until nature
+is all but exhausted; then aniseed brandy, wine, and _alpisteras_ are
+handed about, and the fête, carried on to early dawn, often concludes
+in broken heads, which here are called ‘gipsy’s fare.’ These dances
+appear, to a stranger from the chilly north, to be more marked by
+energy than by grace, nor have the legs less to do than the body, hips,
+and arms. The sight of this unchanged pastime of antiquity, which
+excites the Spaniard to frenzy, rather disgusts an English spectator,
+possibly from some national malorganization, for, as Molière says,
+‘l’Angleterre a produit des grands hommes dans les sciences et les
+beaux arts, mais pas un grand danseur--allez lire l’histoire.’” (A fact
+as true in our day as it was in Molière’s.)
+
+On certain days the sevillana is danced before the high altar of
+the cathedral at Seville. The Reverend Henry Cart de Lafontaine
+(“Proceedings of the Musical Association”; London, thirty-third
+session, 1906-7) gives the following account of it, quoting a “French
+author”: “While Louis XIII was reigning over France, the Pope heard
+much talk of the Spanish dance called the ‘Sevillana.’ He wished to
+satisfy himself, by actual eye-witness, as to the character of this
+dance, and expressed his wish to a bishop of the diocese of Seville,
+who every year visited Rome. Evil tongues make the bishop responsible
+for the primary suggestion of the idea. Be that as it may, the bishop,
+on his return to Seville, had twelve youths well instructed in all
+the intricate measures of this Andalusian dance. He had to choose
+youths, for how could he present maidens to the horrified glance of
+the Holy Father? When his little troop was thoroughly schooled and
+perfected, he took the party to Rome, and the audience was arranged.
+The ‘Sevillana’ was danced in one of the rooms of the Vatican. The Pope
+warmly complimented the young executants, who were dressed in beautiful
+silk costumes of the period. The bishop humbly asked for permission to
+perform this dance at certain fêtes in the cathedral church at Seville,
+and further pleaded for a restriction of this privilege to that church
+alone. The Pope, hoist by his own petard, did not like to refuse, but
+granted the privilege with this restriction, that it should only last
+so long as the costumes of the dancers were wearable. Needless to say,
+these costumes are, therefore, objects of constant repair, but they are
+supposed to retain their identity even to this day. And this is the
+reason why the twelve boys who dance the ‘Sevillana’ before the high
+altar in the cathedral on certain feast days are dressed in the costume
+belonging to the reign of Louis XIII.”
+
+This is a very pretty story, but it is not uncontradicted.... Has any
+statement been made about Spanish dancing or music which has been
+allowed to go uncontradicted? Look upon that picture and upon this: “As
+far as it is possible to ascertain from records,” says Rhoda G. Edwards
+in the “Musical Standard,” “this dance would seem always to have been
+in use in Seville cathedral; when the town was taken from the Moors in
+the thirteenth century it was undoubtedly an established custom and in
+1428 we find the six boys recognized as an integral part of the chapter
+by Pope Eugenius IV. The dance is known as the (_sic_) ‘Los Scises,’
+or dance of the six boys who, with four others, dance it before the
+high altar at Benediction on the three evenings before Lent and in
+the octaves of Corpus Christi and La Purissima (the conception of Our
+Lady). The dress of the boys is most picturesque, page costumes of the
+time of Philip III being worn, blue for La Purissima and red satin
+doublets slashed with blue for the other occasion; white hats with blue
+and white feathers are also worn whilst dancing. The dance is usually
+of twenty-five minutes’ duration and in form seems quite unique, not
+resembling any of the other Spanish dance-forms, or in fact those of
+any other country. The boys accompany the symphony on castanets and
+sing a hymn in two parts whilst dancing.”
+
+From another author we learn that religious dancing is to be seen
+elsewhere in Spain than at Seville cathedral. At one time, it is said
+to have been common. The pilgrims to the shrine of the Virgin at
+Montserrat were wont to dance, and dancing took place in the churches
+of Valencia, Toledo, and Jurez. Religious dancing continued to be
+common, especially in Catalonia up to the seventeenth century. An
+account of the dance in the Seville cathedral may be found in “Los
+Españoles Pintados por si Mismos” (pages 287-91).
+
+This very incomplete and rambling record of Spanish dancing should
+include some mention of the fandango. The origin of the word is
+obscure, but the dance is obviously one of the gayest and wildest of
+the Spanish dances. Like the malagueña it is in 3-8 time, but it is
+quite different in spirit from that sensuous form of terpsichorean
+enjoyment. La Argentina informs me that “fandango” in Spanish suggests
+very much what “bachanale” does in English or French. It is a very old
+dance, and may be a survival of a Moorish dance, as Desrat suggests.
+Mr. Philip Hale found the following account of it somewhere:
+
+“Like an electric shock, the notes of the fandango animate all hearts.
+Men and women, young and old, acknowledge the power of this air over
+the ears and soul of every Spaniard. The young men spring to their
+places, rattling castanets, or imitating their sound by snapping their
+fingers. The girls are remarkable for the willowy languor and lightness
+of their movements, the voluptuousness of their attitudes--beating the
+exactest time with tapping heels. Partners tease and entreat and pursue
+each other by turns. Suddenly the music stops, and each dancer shows
+his skill by remaining absolutely motionless, bounding again in the
+full life of the fandango as the orchestra strikes up. The sound of the
+guitar, the violin, the rapid tic-tac of heels (_taconeos_), the crack
+of fingers and castanets, the supple swaying of the dancers, fill the
+spectators with ecstasy.
+
+“The music whirls along in a rapid triple time. Spangles glitter; the
+sharp clank of ivory and ebony castanets beats out the cadence of
+strange, throbbing, deafening notes--assonances unknown to music,
+but curiously characteristic, effective, and intoxicating. Amidst the
+rustle of silks, smiles gleam over white teeth, dark eyes sparkle and
+droop, and flash up again in flame. All is flutter and glitter, grace
+and animation--quivering, sonorous, passionate, seductive. _Olè! Olè!_
+Faces beam and burn. _Olè! Olè!_
+
+“The bolero intoxicates, the fandango inflames.”
+
+It can be well understood that the study of Spanish dancing and its
+music must be carried on in Spain. Mr. Ellis tells us why: “Another
+characteristic of Spanish dancing, and especially of the most typical
+kind called flamenco, lies in its accompaniments, and particularly
+in the fact that under proper conditions all the spectators are
+themselves performers.... Thus it is that at the end of a dance an
+absolute silence often falls, with no sound of applause: the relation
+of performers and public has ceased to exist.... The finest Spanish
+dancing is at once killed or degraded by the presence of an indifferent
+or unsympathetic public, and that is probably why it cannot be
+transplanted, but remains local.”
+
+At the end of a dance an absolute silence often falls.... I am again
+in an underground café in Amsterdam. It is the eve of the Queen’s
+birthday, and the Dutch are celebrating. The low, smoke-wreathed room
+is crowded with students, soldiers, and women. Now a weazened female
+takes her place at the piano, on a slightly raised platform at one side
+of the room. She begins to play. The dancing begins. It is not woman
+with man; the dancing is informal. Some dance together, and some dance
+alone; some sing the melody of the tune, others shriek, but all make
+a noise. Faster and faster and louder and louder the music is pounded
+out, and the dancing becomes wilder and wilder. A tray of glasses is
+kicked from the upturned palm of a sweaty waiter. Waiter, broken glass,
+dancer, all lie, a laughing heap, on the floor. A soldier and a woman
+stand in opposite corners, facing the corners; then without turning,
+they back towards the middle of the room at a furious pace; the
+collision is appalling. Hand in hand the mad dancers encircle the room,
+throwing confetti, beer, anything. A heavy stein crushes two teeth--the
+wound bleeds--but the dancer does not stop. Noise and action and colour
+all become synonymous. There is no escape from the force. I am dragged
+into the circle. Suddenly the music stops. All the dancers stop. The
+soldier no longer looks at the woman by his side; not a word is spoken.
+People lumber towards chairs. The woman looks for a glass of water
+to assuage the pain of her bleeding mouth. I think Jaques-Dalcroze is
+right when he seeks to unite spectator and actor, drama and public.
+
+
+IV
+
+In the preceding section I may have too strongly insisted upon the
+relation of the folk-song to the dance. It is true that the two are
+seldom separated in performance (although not all songs are danced;
+for example, the _cañas_ and _playeras_ of Andalusia). However, most
+of the folk-songs of Spain are intended to be danced; they are built
+on dance rhythms and they bear the names of dances. Thus the jota is
+always danced to the same music, although the variations are great at
+different times and in different provinces. It is, of course, when
+the folk-songs are danced that they make their best effect, in the
+polyrhythm achieved by the opposing rhythms of guitar-player, dancer,
+and singer. When there is no dancer the defect is sometimes overcome by
+some one tapping a stick on the ground in imitation of resounding heels.
+
+Blind beggars have a habit of singing the songs, in certain provinces,
+with a wealth of florid ornament, such ornament as is always
+associated with oriental airs in performance, and this ornament still
+plays a considerable rôle when the vocalist becomes an integral part
+of the accompaniment for a dancer. Chabrier gives several examples of
+it in one of his letters. In the circumstances it can readily be seen
+that Spanish folk-songs written down are pretty bare recollections of
+the real thing, and when sung by singers who have no knowledge of the
+traditional manner of performing them they are likely to sound fairly
+banal. The same thing might be said of the negro folk-songs of America,
+or the folk-songs of Russia or Hungary, but with much less truth, for
+the folk-songs of these countries usually possess a melodic interest
+which is seldom inherent in the folk-songs of Spain. To make their
+effect they must be performed by Spaniards, as nearly as possible after
+the manner of the people. Indeed, their spirit and their polyrhythmic
+effects are much more essential to their proper interpretation than
+their melody, as many witnesses have pointed out.
+
+Spanish music, indeed, much of it, is actually unpleasant to Western
+ears; it lacks the sad monotony and the wailing intensity of true
+oriental music; much of it is loud and blaring, like the hot sunglare
+of the Iberian peninsula. However, many a Western or Northern European
+has found pleasure in listening by the hour to the strains, which often
+sound as if they were improvised, sung by some beggar or mountaineer.
+
+The collections of these songs are not in any sense complete and few of
+them attempt more than a collocation of the songs of one locality or
+people. Deductions have been drawn. For example it is noted that the
+Basque songs are irregular in melody and rhythm and are further marked
+by unusual tempos, 5-8, or 7-4. In Aragon and Navarre the popular song
+(and dance) is the jota; in Galicia, the seguidilla; the Catalonian
+songs resemble the folk-tunes of Southern France. The Andalusian songs,
+like the dances of that province, are the most beautiful of all, often
+truly oriental in their rhythm and floridity. In Spain the gipsy has
+become an integral part of the popular life, and it is difficult at
+times to determine what is _flamenco_ and what is Spanish. However,
+collections (few to be sure) have been attempted of gipsy songs.
+
+Elsewhere in this rambling article I have touched on the _villancicos_
+and the early song-writers. To do justice to these subjects would
+require a good deal more space and a different intention. Those who
+are interested in them may pursue these matters in Pedrell’s various
+works. The most available collection of Spanish folk-tunes is that
+issued by P. Lacome and J. Puig y Alsubide (Paris, 1872). There are
+several collections of Basque songs; Demofilo’s “Coleccion de Cantos
+Flamencos” (Seville, 1881), Cecilio Ocon’s collection of Andalusian
+folk-songs, and F. Rodriguez Marin’s “Cantos Populares Españoles”
+(Seville, 1882-3) may also be mentioned.
+
+
+V
+
+After the bullfight the most popular form of amusement in Spain is
+the zarzuela, the only distinctive art-form which Spanish music has
+evolved, but there has been no progress; the form has not changed,
+except perhaps to degenerate, since its invention in the early
+seventeenth century. Soriano Fuertes and other writers have devoted
+pages to grieving because Spanish composers have not taken occasion to
+make something grander and more important out of the zarzuela. The fact
+remains that they have not, although, small and great alike, they have
+all taken a hand at writing these entertainments. But as they found
+the zarzuela, so they have left it. It must be conceded that the form
+is quite distinct from that of opera and should not be confused with
+it. And the Spaniards are probably right when they assert that the
+zarzuela is the mother of the French opéra-bouffe. At least it must be
+admitted that Offenbach and Lecocq and their precursors owe something
+of the germ of their inspiration to the Spanish form. To-day the melody
+chests of the zarzuela markets are plundered to find tunes for French
+_revues_, and such popular airs as _La Paraguaya_ and _Y ... Como le
+Vá?_ were originally danced and sung in Spanish theatres. The composer
+of these airs, J. Valverde _fils_, indeed found the French market so
+good that he migrated to Paris, and for some time has been writing
+_musique mélangée ... une moitié de chaque nation_. So _La Rose de
+Grenade_, composed for Paris, might have been written for Spain, with
+slight melodic alterations and tauromachian allusions in the book.
+
+The zarzuela is usually a one act piece (although sometimes it is
+permitted to run into two or more acts) in which the music is freely
+interrupted by spoken dialogue, and that in turn gives way to national
+dances. Very often the entire score is danced as well as sung. The
+subject is usually comic and often topical, although it may be serious,
+poetic, or even tragic. The actors often introduce dialogue of
+their own, “gagging” freely; sometimes they engage in long impromptu
+conversations with members of the audience. They also embroider on the
+music after the fashion of the great singers of the old Italian opera
+(Dr. de Lafontaine asserts that Spanish audiences, even in cabarets,
+demand embroidery of this sort). The music is spirited and lively,
+and in the dances, Andalusian, _flamenco_, or Sevillan, as the case
+may be, it attains its best results. H. V. Hamilton, in his essay on
+the subject in Grove’s Dictionary, says, “The music is ... apt to be
+vague in form when the national dance and folk-song forms are avoided.
+The orchestration is a little blatant.” It will be seen that this
+description suits Granados’s _Goyescas_ (the opera), which is on its
+safest ground during the dances and becomes excessively vague at other
+times; but _Goyescas_ is not a zarzuela, because there is no spoken
+dialogue. Otherwise it bears the earmarks. A zarzuela stands somewhere
+between a French _revue_ and opéra-comique. It is usually, however,
+more informal in tone than the latter and often decidedly more serious
+than the former. All the musicians in Spain since the form was invented
+(excepting, of course, certain exclusively religious composers), and
+most of the poets and playwrights, have contributed numerous examples.
+Thus Calderon wrote the first zarzuela, and Lope de Vega contributed
+words to entertainments much in the same order. In our day Spain’s
+leading dramatist, Echegaray (died 1916), has written one of the most
+popular zarzuelas, _Gigantes y Cabezudos_ (the music by Caballero).
+The subject is the fiesta of Santa Maria del Pilar. It has had many a
+long run and is often revived. Another very popular zarzuela, which
+was almost, if not quite, heard in New York, is _La Gran Via_ (by
+Valverde, _père_), which has been performed in London in extended
+form. The principal theatres for the zarzuela in Madrid are (or were
+until recently) that of the Calle de Jovellanos, called the Teatro de
+Zarzuela, and the Apolo. Usually four separate zarzuelas are performed
+in one evening before as many audiences.
+
+_La Gran Via_, which in some respects may be considered a typical
+zarzuela, consists of a string of dance tunes, with no more
+homogeneity than their national significance would suggest. There is
+an introduction and polka, a waltz, a tango, a jota, a mazurka, a
+schottische, another waltz, and a two-step (_paso-doble_). The tunes
+have little distinction; nor can the orchestration be considered
+brilliant. There is a great deal of noise and variety of rhythm, and
+when presented correctly the effect must be precisely that of one of
+the dance-halls described by Chabrier. The zarzuela, to be enjoyed,
+in fact, must be seen in Spain. Like Spanish dancing it requires a
+special audience to bring out its best points. There must be a certain
+electricity, at least an element of sympathy, to carry the thing
+through successfully. Examination of the scores of zarzuelas (many
+of them have been printed and some of them are to be seen in our
+libraries) will convince any one that Mr. Ellis is speaking mildly
+when he says that the Spaniards love noise. However, the combination
+of this noise with beautiful women, dancing, elaborate rhythm, and a
+shouting audience, seems to almost equal the café-concert dancing and
+the tauromachian spectacles in Spanish popular affection. (Of course,
+as I have suggested, there are zarzuelas more serious melodically and
+dramatically; but as _La Gran Via_ is frequently mentioned by writers
+as one of the most popular examples, it may be selected as typical of
+the larger number of these entertainments.)
+
+H. V. Hamilton says that the first performance of a zarzuela took
+place in 1628 (Pedrell gives the date as October 29, 1629), during
+the reign of Felipe IV, in the Palace of the Zarzuela (so-called
+because it was surrounded by _zarzas_, brambles). It was called _El
+Jardin de Falerina_; the text was by the great Calderon and the music
+by Juan Risco, chapelmaster of the cathedral at Cordova, according to
+Mr. Hamilton, who doubtless follows Soriano Fuertes on this detail.
+Soubies, following the more modern studies of Pedrell, gives Jose Peyró
+the credit. Pedrell, in his richly documented work, “Teatro Lírico
+Española anterior al siglo XIX,” attributes the music of this zarzuela
+to Peyró and gives an example of it. The first Spanish opera dates from
+the same period, Lope de Vega’s _La Selva sin Amor_ (1629). As a matter
+of fact, many of the plays of Calderon and Lope de Vega were performed
+with music to heighten the effect of the declamation, and musical
+curtain-raisers and interludes were performed before and in the midst
+of all of them. Lana, Palomares, Benavente and Hidalgo were among the
+musicians who contributed music to the theatre of this period. Hidalgo
+wrote the music for Calderon’s zarzuela, _Ni Amor se Libre de Amor_. To
+the same group belong Miguel Ferrer, Juan de Navas, Sebastien de Navas,
+and Jéronimo de la Torre. (Examples of the music of these men may be
+found in the aforementioned “Teatro Lírico.”) Until 1659 zarzuelas
+were written by the best poets and composers and frequently performed
+on royal birthdays, at royal marriages, and on many other occasions;
+but after that date the art fell into a decline and seems to have
+been in eclipse during the whole of the eighteenth century. According
+to Soriano Fuertes the beginning of the reign of Felipe V marked the
+introduction of Italian opera into Spain (more popular than Spanish
+opera there to this day) and the decadence of nationalism (whole pages
+of Fuertes read very much like the plaints of modern English composers
+about the neglect of national composers in their country). In 1829
+there was a revival of interest in Spanish music and a conservatory was
+founded in Madrid. (For a discussion of this later period the reader
+is referred to “La Opera Española en el Siglo XIX,” by Antonio Peña y
+Goñi, 1881.) This interest has been fostered by Fuertes and Pedrell,
+and the younger composers to-day are taking some account of it. There
+is hope, indeed, that Spanish music may again take its place in the
+world of art.
+
+Of course, the zarzuela did not spring into being out of nowhere and
+nothing, and the true origins are not entirely obscure. It is generally
+agreed that a priest, Juan del Encina (born at Salamanca, 1468),
+was the true founder of the secular theatre in Spain. His dramatic
+compositions are in the nature of eclogues based on Virgilian models.
+In all of these there is singing and in one a dance. Isabel la Católica
+in the fifteenth century always had at her command a troop of musicians
+and poets who comforted and consoled her in her chapel with motets
+and _plegarias_ (French, _prière_), and in the royal apartments with
+_canciones_ and _villancicos_. (_Canciones_ are songs inclining towards
+the ballad-form. _Villancicos_ are songs in the old Spanish measure;
+they receive their name from their rustic character, as supposedly they
+were first composed by the _villanos_ or peasants for the nativity and
+other festivals of the church.) “It is necessary to search for the true
+origins of the Spanish musical spectacle,” states Soubies, “in the
+_villancicos_ and _cantacillos_ which alternated with the dialogue in
+the works of Juan del Encina and Lucas Fernandez, without forgetting
+the _ensaladas_, the _jacaras_, etc., which served as intermezzi and
+curtain-raisers.” These were sung before the curtain, before the
+drama was performed (and during the intervals, with jokes added) by
+women in court dress, and later created a form of their own (besides
+contributing to the creation of the zarzuela), the _tonadilla_, which,
+accompanied by a guitar or violin and interspersed with dances, was
+very popular for a number of years. H. V. Hamilton is probably on
+sound ground when he says, “That the first zarzuela was written with
+an express desire for expansion and development is, however, not so
+certain as that it was the result of a wish to inaugurate the new house
+of entertainment with something entirely original and novel.”
+
+
+VI
+
+We have Richard Ford’s testimony that Spain was not very musical in his
+day. The Reverend Henry Cart de Lafontaine says that the contemporary
+musical services in the churches are not to be considered seriously
+from an artistic point of view. Emmanuel Chabrier was impressed with
+the fact that the music for dancing was almost entirely rhythmic in its
+effect, strummed rudely on the guitar, the spectators meanwhile making
+such a din that it was practically impossible to distinguish a melody,
+had there been one. And all observers point at the Italian opera, which
+is still the favourite opera in Spain (in Barcelona at the Liceo three
+weeks of opera in Catalon is given after the regular season in Italian;
+in Madrid at the Teatro Real the Spanish season is scattered through
+the Italian), and at Señor Arbós’s concerts (the same Señor Arbós who
+was once concert master of the Boston Symphony Orchestra), at which
+Brandenburg concertos and Beethoven symphonies are more frequently
+performed than works by Albeniz. Still there are, and have always been
+during the course of the last century, Spanish composers, some of whom
+have made a little noise in the outer world, although a good many have
+been content to spend their artistic energy on the manufacture of
+zarzuelas--in other words, to make a good deal of noise in Spain. In
+most modern instances, however, there has been a revival of interest
+in the national forms, and folk-song and folk-dance have contributed
+their important share to the composers’ work. No one man has done more
+to encourage this interest in nationalism than Felipe Pedrell, who may
+be said to have begun in Spain the work which the “Five” accomplished
+in Russia. Pedrell says in his “Handbook” (Barcelona, 1891; Heinrich
+and Co.; French translation by Bertal; Paris, Fischbacher): “The
+popular song, the voice of the people, the pure primitive inspiration
+of the anonymous singer, passes through the alembic of contemporary art
+and one obtains thereby its quintessence; the composer assimilates
+it and then reveals it in the most delicate form that music alone is
+capable of rendering form in its technical aspect, this thanks to the
+extraordinary development of the technique of our art in this epoch.
+The folk-song lends the accent, the background, and modern art lends
+all that it possesses, its conventional symbolism and the richness of
+form which is its patrimony. The frame is enlarged in such a fashion
+that the _lied_ makes a corresponding development; could it be said
+then that the national lyric drama is the same _lied_ expanded? Is
+not the national lyric drama the product of the force of absorption
+and creative power? Do we not see in it faithfully reflected not only
+the artistic idiosyncrasy of each composer, but all the artistic
+manifestations of the people?” There is always the search for new
+composers in Spain and always the hope that a man may come who will
+be acclaimed by the world. As a consequence, the younger composers
+in Spain often receive more adulation than is their due. It must be
+remembered that the most successful Spanish music is not serious, the
+Spanish are more themselves in the lighter vein.
+
+I hesitate for a moment on the name of Martin y Solar, born at
+Valencia; died at St. Petersburg, 1806; called “The Italian” by the
+Spaniards on account of his musical style, and “lo Spagnuolo” by the
+Italians. Da Ponte wrote several opera-books for him, _l’Arbore di
+Diana_, _la Cosa Rara_, and _La Capricciosa Corretta_ (a version of
+_The Taming of the Shrew_) among others. It is to be seen that he is
+without importance if considered as a composer distinctively Spanish
+and I have made this slight reference to him solely to recount how
+Mozart quoted an air from one of his operas in the supper scene of
+_Don Giovanni_. At the time Martin y Solar was better liked in Vienna
+than Mozart himself and the air in question was as well-known as say
+Musetta’s waltz is known to us.
+
+Juan Chrysostomo Arriaga, born in Bilbao 1808; died 1828 (these dates
+are given in Grove: 1806-1826), is another matter. He might have become
+better known had he lived longer. As it is, some of his music has been
+performed in London and Paris, and perhaps in America, although I have
+no record of it. He studied in Paris at the Conservatoire, under Fétis
+for harmony, and Baillot for violin. Before he went to Paris even, as
+a child, with no knowledge of the rules of harmony, he had written
+an opera! Cherubini declared his fugue for eight voices on the words
+in the Credo, “Et Vitam Venturi” a veritable chef d’œuvre, at least
+there is a legend to this effect. In 1824 he wrote three quartets, an
+overture, a symphony, a mass, and some French cantatas and romances.
+Garcia considered his opera _Los Esclavas Felices_ so good that he
+attempted, unsuccessfully, to secure for it a Paris hearing. It has
+been performed in Bilbao, which city, I think, celebrated the centenary
+of the composer’s birth.
+
+Manuel Garcia is better known to us as a singer, an impresario, and a
+father, than as a composer! Still he wrote a good deal of music (so
+did Mme. Malibran; for a list of the diva’s compositions I must refer
+the reader to Arthur Pougin’s biography). Fétis enumerates seventeen
+Spanish, nineteen Italian, and seven French operas by Garcia. He had
+works produced in Madrid, at the Opéra in Paris (_La mort du Tasse_
+and _Florestan_), at the Italiens in Paris (_Fazzoletto_), at the
+Opéra-Comique in Paris (_Deux Contrats_), and at many other theatres.
+However, when all is said and done, Manuel Garcia’s reputation
+still rests on his singing and his daughters. His compositions are
+forgotten; nor was his music, much of it, probably, truly Spanish.
+(However, I have heard a polo [serenade] from an opera called _El
+Poeta Calculista_, which is so Spanish in accent and harmony--and so
+beautiful--that it has found a place in a collection of folk-tunes!)
+
+Miguel Hilarion Eslava (born in Burlada, October 21, 1807, died at
+Madrid, July 23, 1878) is chiefly famous for his compilation, the
+“Lira Sacra-Hispana,” mentioned heretofore. He also composed over 140
+pieces of church music, masses, motets, songs, etc., after he had been
+appointed chapelmaster of Queen Isabella in 1844, and several operas,
+including _Il Solitario_, _La Tregua di Ptolemaide_, and _Pedro el
+Cruél_. He also wrote several books of theory and composition: “Método
+de Solfeo” (1846) and “Escuela de Armonía y Composición” in three parts
+(harmony, composition, and melody). He edited (1855-6) the “Gaceta
+Músical de Madrid.”
+
+There is the celebrated virtuoso, Pablo de Sarasate, who wrote music,
+but his memory is perhaps better preserved in Whistler’s diabolical
+portrait than in his own compositions.
+
+Felipe Pedrell (born February 19, 1841) is also perhaps more important
+as a writer on musical subjects and for his influence on the younger
+school of composers (he teaches in the conservatory of Barcelona, and
+his attitude towards nationalism has already been discussed), than he
+is as a composer. Still, Edouard Lopez-Chavarri does not hesitate to
+pronounce his trilogy _Los Pireneos_ (Barcelona, 1902; the prologue
+was performed in Venice in 1897) the most important work for the
+theatre written in Spain. His first opera, _El Último Abencerrajo_, was
+produced in Barcelona in 1874. Some of his other works are _Quasimodo_,
+1875; _El Tasso a Ferrara_, _Cleopatra_, _Mazeppa_ (Madrid, 1881),
+_Celestine_ (1904), and _La Matinada_ (1905). J. A. Fuller-Maitland
+says that the influence of Wagner is traceable in all his stage work.
+(Wagner is adored in Spain; _Parsifal_ was given eighteen times in one
+month at the Liceo in Barcelona.) If this be true, his case will be
+found to bear other resemblances to that of the Russian “Five,” who
+found it difficult to exorcise all foreign influences in their pursuit
+of nationalism.
+
+He was made a member of the Spanish Academy in 1894 and shortly
+thereafter became Professor of Musical History and Æsthetics at the
+Royal Conservatory at Madrid. Besides his “Hispaniae Schola Musica
+Sacra” he has written a number of other books, and translated Richter’s
+treatise on Harmony into Spanish. He has made several excursions into
+the history of folk-lore and the principal results are contained in
+“Músicos Anónimos” and “Por nuestra Música.” Other works are “Teatro
+Lírico Español anterior al siglo XIX,” “Lírica Nacionalizada,” “De
+Música Religiosa,” “Músiquerias y mas Músiquesias.” One of his books,
+“Músicos Contemporáneos y de Otros Tempos” (in the library of the
+Hispanic Society of New York) is very catholic in its range of subject.
+It includes essays on the _Don Quixote_ of Strauss, the _Boris Godunow_
+of Moussorgsky, Smetana, Manuel Garcia, Edward Elgar, Jaques-Dalcroze,
+Bruckner, Mahler, Albeniz, Palestrina, Busoni, and the tenth symphony
+of Beethoven!
+
+In John Towers’s extraordinary compilation, “Dictionary-Catalogue of
+Operas,” it is stated that Manuel Fernandez Caballero (born in 1835)
+wrote sixty-two operas, and the names of them are given. He was a
+pupil of Fuertes (harmony) and Eslava (composition) at the Madrid
+Conservatory and later became very popular as a writer of zarzuelas. I
+have already mentioned his _Gigantes y Cabezudos_ for which Echegaray
+furnished the libretto. Among his other works in this form are _Los
+Dineros del Sacristan_, _Los Africanistas_ (Barcelona, 1894), _El Cabo
+Primero_ (Barcelona, 1895), and _La Rueda de la Fortuna_ (Madrid, 1896).
+
+At a concert given in the New York Hippodrome, April 3, 1911, Mme.
+Tetrazzini sang a Spanish song, which was referred to the next day
+by the reviewers of the “New York Times” and the “New York Globe.”
+To say truth the soprano made a great effect with the song, although
+it was written for a low voice. It was _Carceleras_, from Ruperto
+Chapí’s zarzuela _Hija del Zebedeo_. Chapí was one of the most prolific
+and popular composers of Spain during the last century. He produced
+countless zarzuelas and nine children. He was born at Villena March
+27, 1851, and he died March 25, 1909, a few months earlier than his
+compatriot Isaac Albeniz. He was admitted to the conservatory of Madrid
+in 1867 as a pupil of piano and harmony. In 1869 he obtained the first
+prize for harmony and he continued to obtain prizes until in 1874 he
+was sent to Rome by the Academy of Fine Arts. He remained for some
+time in Italy and Paris. In 1875 the Teatro Real of Madrid played his
+_La Hija de Jefté_ sent from Rome. The following is an incomplete
+list of his operas and zarzuelas: _Via Libra_, _Los Gendarmes_, _El
+Rey que Rabio_ (3 acts), _La Verbena de la Paloma_, _El Reclamo_, _La
+Tempestad_, _La Bruja_, _La Leyenda del Monje_, _Las Campanados_,
+_La Czarina_, _El Milagro de la Virgen_, _Roger de Flor_ (3 acts),
+_Las Naves de Cortes, Circe_ (3 acts), _A qui Base Farsa un Hombre_,
+_Juan Francisco_ (3 acts, 1905; rewritten and presented in 1908 as
+_Entre Rocas_), _Los Madrileños_ (1908), _La Dama Roja_ (1 act, 1908),
+_Hesperia_ (1908), _Las Calderas de Pedro Bolero_ (1909) and _Margarita
+la Tornera_, presented just before his death without success.
+
+His other works include an oratorio, _Los Angeles_, a symphonic poem,
+_Escenas de Capa y Espada_, a symphony in D, _Moorish Fantasy_ for
+orchestra, a serenade for orchestra, a trio for piano, violin and
+’cello, songs, etc. Chapí was president of the Society of Authors and
+Composers, and when he died the King and Queen of Spain sent a telegram
+of condolence to his widow. There is a copy of his zarzuela, _Blasones
+y Talegas_ in the New York Public Library.
+
+I have already spoken of _Dolores_. It is one of a long series of
+operas and zarzuelas written by Tomás Bretón y Hernandez (born at
+Salamanca, December 29, 1850). First produced at Madrid, in 1895, it
+has been sung with success in such distant capitals as Buenos Ayres and
+Prague. I have been assured by a Spanish woman of impeccable taste that
+_Dolores_ is charming, delightful in its fluent melody and its striking
+rhythms, thoroughly Spanish in style, but certain to find favour in
+America, if it were produced here. Our own Eleanora de Cisneros at
+a Press Club Benefit in Barcelona appeared in Bretón’s zarzuela _La
+Verbena de la Paloma_. Another of Bretón’s famous zarzuelas is _Los
+Amantes de Ternel_ (Madrid, 1889). His works for the theatre further
+include _Tabaré_, for which he wrote both words and music (Madrid,
+1913); _Don Gil_ (Barcelona, 1914); _Garin_ (Barcelona, 1891); _Raquel_
+(Madrid, 1900); _Guzman el Bueno_ (Madrid, 1876); _El Certamen de
+Cremona_ (Madrid, 1906); _El Campanere de Begoña_ (Madrid, 1878); _El
+Barberillo en Orán_; _Corona contra Corona_ (Madrid, 1879); _Les Amores
+de un Príncipe_ (Madrid, 1881); _El Clavel Rojo_ (1899); _Covadonga_
+(1901); and _El Domingo de Ramos_, words by Echegaray (Madrid, 1894).
+His works for orchestra include: _En la Alhambra_, _Los Galeotes_, and
+_Escenas Andaluzas_, a suite. He has written three string quartets,
+a piano trio, a piano quintet, and an oratorio in two parts, _El
+Apocalipsis_.
+
+Bretón is largely self-taught, and there is a legend that he devoured
+by himself Eslava’s “School of Composition.” He further wrote the music
+and conducted for a circus for a period of years. In the late seventies
+he conducted an orchestra, founding a new society, the Union Artistico
+Musical, which is said to have been the beginning of the modern
+movement in Spain. It may throw some light on Spanish musical taste at
+this period to mention the fact that the performance of Saint-Saëns’s
+_Danse macabre_ almost created a riot. Later Bretón travelled. He
+appeared as conductor in London, Prague, and Buenos Ayres, among other
+cities outside of Spain, and when Dr. Karl Muck left Prague for Berlin,
+he was invited to succeed him in the Bohemian capital. In the contest
+held by the periodical “Blanco y Negro” in 1913 to decide who was the
+most popular writer, poet, painter, musician, sculptor, and toreador in
+Spain, Bretón as musician got the most votes.... He is at present the
+head of the Royal Conservatory in Madrid.
+
+No Spanish composer (ancient or modern) is better known outside of
+Spain than Isaac Albeniz (born May 29, 1861, at Comprodon; died at
+Cambo, in the Pyrenees, May 25, 1909). His fame rests almost entirely
+on twelve piano pieces (in four books) entitled collectively _Iberia_,
+with which all concert-goers are familiar. They have been performed
+here by Ernest Schelling, Leo Ornstein, and George Copeland, among
+other virtuosi.... I think one or two of these pieces must be in the
+répertoire of every modern pianist. Albeniz did not imbibe his musical
+culture in Spain and to the day of his death he was more friendly with
+the modern French group of composers than with those of his native
+land. In his music he sees Spain with French eyes. He studied at
+Paris with Marmontel; at Brussels with Louis Brassin; and at Weimar
+with Liszt (he is mentioned in the long list of pupils in Huneker’s
+biography of Liszt, but there is no further account of him in that
+book); he studied composition with Jadassohn, Joseph Dupont, and F.
+Kufferath. His symphonic poem, _Catalonia_, has been performed in Paris
+by the Colonne Orchestra. I have no record of any American performance.
+For a time he devoted himself to the piano. He was a virtuoso and he
+has even played in London, but later in life he gave up this career for
+composition. He wrote several operas and zarzuelas, among them a light
+opera, _The Magic Opal_ (produced in London, 1893), _Enrico Clifford_
+(Barcelona, 1894; later heard in London), _Pepita Jiminez_ (Barcelona,
+1895; afterwards given at the Théâtre de la Monnaie in Brussels),
+and _San Anton de la Florida_ (produced in Brussels as _l’Ermitage
+Fleurie_). He left unfinished at his death another opera destined for
+production in Brussels at the Monnaie, _Merlin l’Enchanteur_. None
+of his operas, with the exception of _Pepita Jiminez_, which has been
+performed, I am told, in all Spanish countries, achieved any particular
+success, and it is _Iberia_ and a few other piano pieces which will
+serve to keep his memory green.
+
+Juan Bautista Pujol (1836-1898) gained considerable reputation in Spain
+as a pianist and as a teacher of and composer for that instrument. He
+also wrote a method for piano students entitled “Nuevo Mecanismo del
+Piano.” His further claim to attention is due to the fact that he was
+one of the teachers of Granados.
+
+The names of Pahissa (both as conductor and composer; one of his
+symphonic works is called _The Combat_), Garcia Robles, represented by
+an _Epitalame_, and Gibert, with two _Marines_, occur on the programmes
+of the two concerts devoted in the main to Spanish music, at the second
+of which (Barcelona, 1910; conductor Franz Beidler) Granados’s _Dante_
+was performed.
+
+E. Fernandez Arbós (born in Madrid, December 25, 1863) is better
+known as a conductor and violinist than as composer. Still, he has
+written music, especially for his own instrument. He was a pupil of
+both Vieuxtemps and Joachim; and he has travelled much, teaching at
+the Hamburg Conservatory, and acting as concertmaster for the Boston
+Symphony and the Glasgow Orchestras. He has been a professor at the
+Madrid conservatory for some time, giving orchestral and chamber
+music concerts, both there and in London. He has written at least one
+light opera, presumably a zarzuela, _El Centro de la Tierra_ (Madrid;
+December 22, 1895); three trios for piano and strings, songs, and an
+orchestral suite.
+
+I have already referred to the Valverdes, father and son. The father,
+in collaboration with Federico Chueca, wrote _La Gran Via_. Many
+another popular zarzuela is signed by him. The son has lived so long in
+France that much of his music is cast in the style of the French music
+hall; too it is in a popular vein. Still in his best tangos he strikes
+a Spanish folk-note not to be despised. He wrote the music for the
+play, _La Maison de Danse_, produced, with Polaire, at the Vaudeville
+in Paris, and two of his operettas, _La Rose de Grenade_ and _l’Amour
+en Espagne_, have been performed in Paris, not without success, I am
+told by La Argentina, who danced in them. Other modern composers who
+have been mentioned to me are Manuel de Falla, Joaquin Turina (George
+Copeland has played his _A los Toros_), Usandihaga (who died in 1915),
+the composer of _Los Golondrinos_, Oscar Erpla, Conrado del Campo, and
+Enrique Morera.
+
+Enrique Granados was perhaps the first of the important Spanish
+composers to visit North America. His place in the list of modern
+Iberian musicians is indubitably a high one; though it must not be
+taken for granted that _all_ the best music of Spain crosses the
+Pyrenees (for reasons already noted it is evident that some Spanish
+music can never be heard to advantage outside of Spain), and it is
+by no means to be taken for granted that Granados was a greater
+musician than several who dwell in Barcelona and Madrid without
+making excursions into the outer world. In his own country I am told
+Granados was admired chiefly as a pianist, and his performances on
+that instrument in New York stamped him as an original interpretative
+artist, one capable of extracting the last tonal meaning out of his own
+compositions for the pianoforte, which are his best work.
+
+Shortly after his arrival in New York he stated to several reporters
+that America knew nothing about Spanish music, and that Bizet’s
+_Carmen_ was not in any sense Spanish. I hold no brief for _Carmen_
+being Spanish but it is effective, and that _Goyescas_ as an opera is
+not. In the first place, its muddy and blatant orchestration would
+detract from its power to please (this opinion might conceivably be
+altered were the opera given under Spanish conditions in Spain).
+The manuscript score of _Goyescas_ now reposes in the Museum of the
+Hispanic Society, in that interesting quarter of New York where the
+apartment houses bear the names of Goya and Velasquez, and it is
+interesting to note that it is a _piano_ score. What has become of the
+orchestral partition and who was responsible for it I do not know. It
+is certain, however, that the miniature charm of the _Goyescas_ becomes
+more obvious in the piano version, performed by Ernest Schelling or
+the composer himself, than in the opera house. The growth of the work
+is interesting. Fragments of it took shape in the composer’s brain
+and on paper seventeen years ago, the result of the study of Goya’s
+paintings in the Prado. These fragments were moulded into a suite in
+1909 and again into an opera in 1914 (or before then). F. Periquet,
+the librettist, was asked to fit words to the score, a task which he
+accomplished with difficulty. Spanish is not an easy tongue to sing.
+To Mme. Barrientos this accounts for the comparatively small number of
+Spanish operas. _Goyescas_, like many a zarzuela, lags when the dance
+rhythms cease. I find little joy myself in listening to “La Maja y
+el Ruiseñor”; in fact, the entire last scene sounds banal to my ears.
+In the four volumes of Spanish dances which Granados wrote for piano
+(published by the Sociedad Anónima Casa Dotesio in Barcelona) I console
+myself for my lack of interest in _Goyescas_. These lovely dances
+combine in their artistic form all the elements of the folk-dances as
+I have described them. They bespeak a careful study and an intimate
+knowledge of the originals. And any pianist, amateur or professional,
+will take joy in playing them.
+
+Enrique Granados y Campina was born July 27, 1867, at Lerida,
+Catalonia. (He died March 24, 1916; a passenger on the _Sussex_,
+torpedoed in the English Channel.) From 1884 to 1887 he studied
+piano under Pujol and composition under Felipe Pedrell at the Madrid
+Conservatory. That the latter was his master presupposed on his part
+a valuable knowledge of the treasures of Spain’s past and that, I
+think, we may safely allow him. There is, I am told, an interesting
+combination of classicism and folk-lore in his work. At any rate,
+Granados was a faithful disciple of Pedrell. In 1898 his zarzuela
+_Maria del Carmen_ was produced in Madrid and has since been heard in
+Valencia, Barcelona, and other Spanish cities. Five years later some
+fragments of another opera, _Foletto_, were produced at Barcelona.
+His third opera, _Liliana_, was produced at Barcelona in 1911. He
+wrote numerous songs to texts by the poet, Apeles Mestres; Galician
+songs, two symphonic poems, _La Nit del Mort_ and _Dante_ (performed
+by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for the first time in America at the
+concerts of November 5 and 6, 1915); a piano trio, string quartet, and
+various books of piano music (_Danzas Españolas_, _Valses Poéticos_,
+_Bocetos_, _etc._).
+
+
+_New York, March 20, 1916._
+
+
+
+
+Shall We Realize Wagner’s Ideals?
+
+
+
+
+Shall We Realize Wagner’s Ideals?
+
+
+Historians of operatic phenomena have observed that fashions in music
+change; the popular Donizetti and Bellini of one century are suffered
+to exist during the next only for the sake of the opportunity they
+afford to some brilliant songstress. New tastes arise, new styles
+in music. Dukas’s generally unrelished (and occasionally highly
+appreciated) _Ariane et Barbe-Bleue_ may not be powerful enough
+to establish a place for itself in the répertoire, but its direct
+influence on composers and its indirect influence on auditors make this
+lyric drama highly important as an indication of the future of opera as
+a fine art. Moussorgsky’s _Boris Godunow_, first given in this country
+some forty years after its production in Russia, is another matter.
+That score contains a real thrill in itself, a thrill which, once felt,
+makes it difficult to feel the intensity of a Wagner drama again:
+because Wagner is becoming just a little bit old-fashioned. _Lohengrin_
+and _Tannhäuser_ are becoming a trifle shop-worn. They do not glitter
+with the glory of a _Don Giovanni_ or the invincible splendour of an
+_Armide_. There are parts of _Die Walküre_ which are growing old. Now
+Wagner, in many ways the greatest figure as opera composer which the
+world has yet produced, could hold his place in the singing theatres
+for many decades to come if some proper effort were made to do justice
+to his dramas, the justice which in a large measure has been done to
+his music. This effort at present is not being made.
+
+In the Metropolitan Opera House season of 1895-6, when Jean de Reszke
+first sang Tristan in German, the opportunity seemed to be opened for
+further breaks with what a Munich critic once dubbed “Die Bayreuther
+Tradition oder Der missverstandene Wagner.” For up to that time, in
+spite of some isolated examples, it had come to be considered, in
+utter misunderstanding of Wagner’s own wishes and doctrines, as a
+part of the technique of performing a Wagner music-drama to shriek,
+howl, or bark the tones, rather than to sing them. There had been, I
+have said, isolated examples of German singers, and artists of other
+nationalities singing in German, who had _sung_ their phrases in these
+lyric plays, but the appearance in the Wagner rôles, in German, of a
+tenor whose previous appearances had been made largely in works in
+French and Italian which demanded the use of what is called _bel canto_
+(it means only _good singing_) brought about a controversy which even
+yet is raging in some parts of the world. Should Wagner be sung, in the
+manner of Jean de Reszke, or shouted in the traditional manner? Was it
+possible to sing the music and make the effect the Master expected? In
+answer it may be said that never in their history have _Siegfried_,
+_Tristan und Isolde_, and _Lohengrin_ met with such success as when
+Jean de Reszke and his famous associates appeared in them, and it may
+also be said that since that time there has been a consistent effort on
+the part of the management of the Metropolitan Opera House (and other
+theatres as well) to provide artists for these dramas who could sing
+them, and sing them as Italian operas are sung, an effort to which
+opera directors have been spurred by a growing insistence on the part
+of the public.
+
+It was the first break with the Bayreuth bugbear, tradition, and it
+might have been hoped that this tradition would be stifled in other
+directions, with this successful precedent in mind; but such has not
+been the case. As a result of this failure to follow up a beneficial
+lead, in spite of orchestral performances which bring out the manifold
+beauties of the scores and in spite of single impersonations of high
+rank by eminent artists, we are beginning to see the Wagner dramas
+falling into decline, long before the appointed time, because their
+treatment has been held in the hands of Cosima Wagner, who--with the
+best of intentions, of course--not only insists (at Bayreuth she is
+mistress, and her influence on singers, conductors, stage directors and
+scene painters throughout the world is very great) on the carrying out
+of Wagner’s theories, as she understands them, and even when they are
+only worthy of being ignored, but who also (whether rightly or wrongly)
+is credited with a few traditions of her own. Wagner indeed invented
+a new form of drama, but he did not have the time or means at his
+disposal to develop an adequate technique for its performance.
+
+We are all familiar with the Bayreuth version of Wotan in _Die Walküre_
+which makes of that tragic father-figure a boisterous, silly old
+scold (so good an artist as Carl Braun, whose Hagen portrait is a
+masterpiece, has followed this tradition literally); we all know too
+well the waking Brünnhilde who salutes the sun in the last act of
+_Siegfried_ with gestures seemingly derived from the exercises of a
+Swedish _turnverein_, following the harp arpeggios as best she may;
+we remember how Wotan, seizing the sword from the dead Fasolt’s hand,
+brandishes it to the tune of the sword _motiv_, indicating the coming
+of the hero, Siegfried, as the gods walk over the rainbow bridge to
+Walhalla at the end of _Das Rheingold_; we smile over the tame horse
+which some chorus man, looking the while like a truck driver who is
+not good to animals, holds for Brünnhilde while she sings her final
+lament in _Götterdämmerung_; we laugh aloud when he assists her to lead
+the unfiery steed, who walks as leisurely as a well-fed horse would
+towards oats, into the burning pyre; we can still see the picture of
+the three Rhine maidens, bobbing up and down jerkily behind a bit of
+gauze, reminiscent of visions of mermaids at the Eden Musée; we all
+have seen Tristan and Isolde, drunk with the love potion, swimming
+(there is no other word to describe this effect) towards each other;
+and no perfect Wagnerite can have forgotten the gods and the giants
+standing about in the fourth scene of _Das Rheingold_ for all the world
+as if they were the protagonists of a fantastic minstrel show. (At a
+performance of _Parsifal_ in Chicago Vernon Stiles discovered while he
+was on the stage that his suspenders, which held his tights in place,
+had snapped. For a time he pressed his hands against his groin; this
+method proving ineffectual, he finished the scene with his hands behind
+his back, pressed firmly against his waist-line. As he left the stage,
+at the conclusion of the act, breathing a sigh of relief, he met
+Loomis Taylor, the stage director. “Did you think my new gesture was
+due to nervousness?” he asked. “No,” answered Taylor, “I thought it was
+Bayreuth tradition!”)
+
+These are a few of the Bayreuth precepts which are followed. There
+are others. There are indeed many others. We all know the tendency
+of conductors who have been tried at Bayreuth, or who have come
+under the influence of Cosima Wagner, to drag out the _tempi_ to an
+exasperating degree. I have heard performances of _Lohengrin_ which
+were dragged by the conductor some thirty minutes beyond the ordinary
+time. (Again the Master is held responsible for this tradition, but
+though all composers like to have their own music last in performance
+as long as possible, the tradition, perhaps, is just as authentic as
+the story that Richard Strauss, when conducting _Tristan und Isolde_
+at the Prinz-Regenten-Theatre in Munich, saved twenty minutes on the
+ordinary time it takes to perform the work in order to return as soon
+as possible to an interrupted game of Skat.)
+
+But it is not tradition alone that is killing the Wagner dramas. In
+many instances and in most singing theatres silly traditions are aided
+in their work of destruction by another factor in hasty production.
+I am referring to the frequent liberties which have been taken with
+the intentions of the author. For, when expediency is concerned, no
+account is taken of tradition, and, curiously enough, expediency
+breaks with those traditions which can least stand being tampered
+with. The changes, in other words, have not been made for the sake of
+improvement, but through carelessness, or to save time or money, or
+for some other cognate reason. An example of this sort of thing is the
+custom of giving the _Ring_ dramas as a cycle in a period extending
+over four weeks, one drama a week. It is also customary at the
+Metropolitan Opera House in New York to entrust the rôle of Brünnhilde,
+or of Siegfried, to a different interpreter in each drama, so that the
+Brünnhilde who wakes in _Siegfried_ is not at all the Brünnhilde who
+goes to sleep in _Die Walküre_. Then, although Brünnhilde exploits a
+horse in _Götterdämmerung_, she possesses none in _Die Walküre_; none
+of the other valkyries has a horse; Fricka’s goats have been taken
+away from her, and she walks to the mountain-top holding her skirts
+from under her feet for all the world as a lady of fashion might
+as she ascended from a garden into a ballroom. At the Metropolitan
+Opera House, and at other theatres where I have seen the dramas, the
+decorations of the scenes of Brünnhilde’s falling asleep and of her
+awakening are quite different.
+
+Naturally, ingenious explanations have been devised to fit these cases.
+For instance, one is told that animals are _never_ at home on the
+stage. This explanation suffices perhaps for the animals which do not
+appear, but how about those which do? The vague phrase, “the exigencies
+of the répertoire,” is mentioned as the reason for the extension of
+the cycle over several weeks, that and the further excuse that the
+system permits people from nearby towns to make weekly visits to the
+metropolis. Of course, Wagner intended that each of the _Ring_ dramas
+should follow its predecessor on succeeding days in a festival week. If
+the _Ring_ were so given in New York every season with due preparation,
+careful staging, and the best obtainable cast, the occasions would
+draw audiences from all over America, as the festivals at Bayreuth and
+Munich do indeed draw audiences from all over the world. Ingenuous
+is the word which best describes the explanation for the change in
+Brünnhildes; one is told that the out-of-town subscribers to the series
+prefer to hear as many singers as possible. They wish to “compare”
+Brünnhildes, so to speak. Perhaps the real reason for divergence
+from common sense is the difficulty the director of the opera house
+would have with certain sopranos if one were allowed the full set of
+performances. As for the change in the setting of Brünnhilde’s rock it
+is pure expediency, nothing else. In _Die Walküre_, in which, between
+acts, there is plenty of time to change the scenery, a heavy built
+promontory of rocks is required for the valkyrie brood to stand on. In
+_Siegfried_ and _Götterdämmerung_, where the scenery must be shifted in
+short order, this particular setting is utilized only for duets. The
+heavier elements of the setting are no longer needed, and are dispensed
+with.
+
+The mechanical devices demanded by Wagner are generally complied
+with in a stupidly clumsy manner. The first scene of _Das Rheingold_
+is usually managed with some effect now, although the swimming of
+the Rhine maidens, who are dressed in absurd long floating green
+nightgowns, is carried through very badly and seemingly without an
+idea that such things have been done a thousand times better in other
+theatres; the changes of scene in _Das Rheingold_ are accomplished in
+such a manner that one fears the escaping steam is damaging the gauze
+curtains; the worm and the toad are silly contrivances; the effect of
+the rainbow is never properly conveyed; the ride of the valkyries is
+frankly evaded by most stage managers; the bird in _Siegfried_ flies
+like a sickly crow; the final scene in _Götterdämmerung_ would bring a
+laugh from a Bowery audience: some flat scenery flaps over, a number
+of chorus ladies fall on their knees, there is much bulging about of a
+canvas sea, and a few red lights appear in the sky; the transformation
+scenes in _Parsifal_ are carried out with as little fidelity to
+symbolism, or truth, or beauty; and the throwing of the lance in
+_Parsifal_ is always seemingly a wire trick rather than a magical one.
+
+The scenery for the Wagner dramas, in all the theatres where I have
+seen and heard them, has been built (and a great deal of it in
+recent years from new designs) with a seemingly absolute ignorance
+or determined evasion of the fact that there are artists who are now
+working in the theatre. In making this statement I can speak personally
+of performances I have seen at the Metropolitan Opera House, New
+York; the Auditorium, Chicago; Covent Garden Theatre, London; La
+Scala, Milan; the Opéra, Paris; and the Prinz-Regenten-Theatre in
+Munich. Are there theatres where the Wagner dramas are better given?
+I do not think so. Compare the scenery of _Götterdämmerung_ at the
+Metropolitan Opera House with that of _Boris Godunow_, and you will
+see how little care is being taken of Wagner’s ideals. In the one case
+the flimsiest sort of badly painted and badly lighted canvas, mingled
+indiscriminately with plastic objects, boughs, branches, etc., placed
+next to painted boughs and branches, an effect calculated to throw the
+falsity of the whole scene into relief; in the other case, an example
+of a scene-painter’s art wrought to give the highest effect to the
+drama it decorates. Take the decoration of the hall of the Gibichs
+in which long scenes are enacted in both the first and last acts
+of _Götterdämmerung_. The Gibichs are a savage, warlike, sinister,
+primitive race. Now it is not necessary that the setting in itself be
+strong, but it must suggest strength to the spectator. There is no
+need to bring stone blocks or wood blocks on the stage; the artist
+may work in black velvet if he wishes (it was of this material that
+Professor Roller contrived a dungeon cell in _Fidelio_ which seemed to
+be built of stone ten feet thick). It will be admitted, I think, by any
+one who has seen the setting in question that it is wholly inadequate
+to express the meaning of the drama. The scenes could be sung with a
+certain effect in a Christian Science temple, but no one will deny,
+I should say, that the effect of the music may be greatly heightened
+by proper attention to the stage decoration and the movement of
+the characters in relation to the lighting and decoration. (I have
+used the Metropolitan Opera House, in this instance, as a convenient
+illustration; but the scenery there is no worse, on the whole, than it
+is in many of the other theatres named.)
+
+The secret at the bottom of the whole matter is that the directors of
+the singing theatres wish to save themselves trouble. They will spend
+neither money nor energy in righting this wrong. It is easier to trust
+to tradition on the one hand and expediency on the other than it would
+be to engage an expert (one not concerned with what had been done,
+but one concerned with what to do) to produce the works. _Carmen_ was
+losing its popularity in this country when Emma Calvé, who had broken
+all the rules made for the part by Galli-Marié, enchanted opera-goers
+with her fantastic conception of the gipsy girl. Bizet’s work had
+dropped out of the répertoire again when Mme. Bressler-Gianoli arrived
+and carried it triumphantly through nearly a score of performances
+during the first season of Oscar Hammerstein’s Manhattan Opera House.
+Geraldine Farrar and Toscanini resuscitated the Spanish jade a third
+time. An Olive Fremstad or a Lilli Lehmann or a Milka Ternina can
+perform a like office for _Götterdämmerung_ or _Tristan und Isolde_;
+but it is to a new producer, an Adolphe Appia or a Gordon Craig, that
+the theatre director must look for the final salvation of Wagner,
+through the complete realization of his own ideals. It must be obvious
+to any one that the more completely the meaning of his plays is exposed
+by the decoration, the lighting and the action, the greater the effect.
+
+Adolphe Appia wrote a book called “Die Musik und die Inscenierung,”
+which was published in German in 1899. (An earlier work, “La
+mise-en-scène du drame Wagnerien,” appeared in Paris in 1893.) Since
+then his career has been strangely obscure for one whose effect on
+artists working at stage decoration has been greater than that of any
+other single man. In the second edition of his book, “On the Art of the
+Theatre,” Gordon Craig, in a footnote, speaks thus of Appia: “Appia,
+_the foremost stage decorator of Europe_ (the italics are mine) is not
+dead. I was told that he was no more with us, so, in the first edition
+of this book, I included him among the shades. I first saw three
+examples of his work in 1908, and I wrote a friend asking, ‘Where is
+Appia and how can we meet?’ My friend replied, ‘Poor Appia died some
+years ago.’ This winter (1912) I saw some of Appia’s designs in a
+portfolio belonging to Prince Wolkonsky. They were divine; and I was
+told that the designer was still living.”
+
+Loomis Taylor, who, during the season of 1914-15, staged the Wagner
+operas at the Metropolitan Opera House (and it was not his fault that
+the staging was not improved; there is no stage director now working
+who has more belief in and knowledge of the artists of the theatre than
+Loomis Taylor) has written me, in response to a query, the following
+regarding Appia: “Adolphe Appia, I think, is a French-Swiss; he is a
+young man. The title of the book which made him famous, in its German
+translation, is ‘Die Musik und die Inscenierung.’ It was translated
+from the French by Princess Cantacuzène.... Five years ago I was told
+by Mrs. Houston Stewart Chamberlain that Appia was slowly but surely
+starving to death in some picturesque surroundings in Switzerland. I
+then tried to get various people in Germany interested in him, also
+proposing him to Hagemann as scenic artist for Mannheim. Two years
+later, before his starving process had reached its conclusion, I heard
+of him as collaborator with Jaques-Dalcroze at his temple of rhythm
+on the banks of the Elbe, outside of Dresden, where, I think, up to
+the outbreak of the war, Appia was doing very good work, but what has
+become of him since I do not know.
+
+“His book is very valuable; his suggestions go beyond the possibilities
+of the average Hof theatre, while in Bayreuth they have a similar
+effect to a drop of water upon a stone, sun-burned by the rays of
+Cosima’s traditions. By being one of the first--if not _the_ first--to
+put in writing the inconsistency of using painted perspective scenery
+and painted shadows with human beings on the stage, Appia became the
+fighter for plastic scenery. His sketch of the _Walküren_ rock is the
+most beautiful scenic conception of Act III, _Die Walküre_, I know of
+or could imagine. To my knowledge no theatre has ever produced anything
+in conformity with Appia’s sketches.”
+
+In a letter to me Hiram Kelly Moderwell, whose book, “The Theatre of
+To-day,” is the best exposition yet published of the aims and results
+of the artists who are working in the theatre, writes as follows in
+regard to Appia: “Appia is now with Dalcroze at Hellerau and I believe
+has designed and perhaps produced all the things that have been done
+there in the last year or two. Previous to that I am almost certain he
+had done no actual stage work. Nobody else would give him free rein.
+But, as you know, he thought everything out carefully as though he
+were doing the actual practical stage work.... By this time he has hit
+his ‘third manner.’ It’s all cubes and parallelograms. It sounds like
+hell on paper but Maurice Browne told me it is very fine stuff. Browne
+says it is as much greater than Craig as Craig is greater than anybody
+else. All the recent Hellerau plays are in this third manner. They are
+lighted by Salzmann, indirect and diffused lighting, but not in the
+Fortuny style. I imagine the Hellerau stuff is rather too precious to
+go on the ordinary stage.”
+
+Mr. Moderwell’s description of Appia’s book is so completely
+illuminating that I feel I cannot do better than to quote the entire
+passage from “The Theatre of To-day”: “Before his (Gordon Craig’s)
+influence was felt, however, Adolphe Appia, probably the most powerful
+theorist of the new movement, had written his remarkable book, ‘Die
+Musik und die Inscenierung.’ In this, as an artist, he attempted to
+deduce from the content of the Wagner music dramas the proper stage
+settings for them. His conclusions anticipated much of the best work of
+recent years and his theories have been put into practice in more or
+less modified form on a great many stages--not so much (if at all) for
+the Wagner dramas themselves, which are under a rigid tradition (the
+‘what the Master wished’ myth), but for operas and the more lyric plays
+where the producer has artistic ability and a free hand in applying it.
+
+“Appia started with the principle that the setting should make the
+actor the all-important fact on the stage. He saw the realistic
+impossibility of the realistic setting, and destructively analyzed the
+current modes of lighting and perspective effects. But, unlike the
+members of the more conventional modern school, he insisted that the
+stage is a three-dimension space and must be handled so as to make its
+depth living. He felt a contradiction between the living actor and the
+dead setting. He wished to bind them into one whole--the drama. How was
+this to be done?
+
+“Appia’s answer to this question is his chief claim to
+greatness--genius almost. His answer was--‘By means of the lighting.’
+He saw the deadliness of the contemporary methods of lighting, and
+previsaged with a sort of inspiration the possibilities of new methods
+which have since become common. This was at a time when he had at
+his disposal none of the modern lighting systems. His foreseeing of
+modern practice by means of rigid Teutonic logic in the service of the
+artist’s intuition makes him one of the two or three foremost theorists
+of the modern movement.
+
+“The lighting, for Appia, is the spiritual core, the soul of the
+drama. The whole action should be contained in it, somewhat as we feel
+the physical body of a friend to be contained in his personality.
+Appia’s second great principle is closely connected with this. While
+the setting is obviously inanimate, the actor must in every way be
+emphasized and made living. And this can be accomplished, he says,
+only by a wise use of lighting, since it is the lights and shadows
+on a human body which reveal to our eyes the fact that the body is
+‘plastic’--that is, a flexible body of three dimensions. Appia would
+make the setting suggest only the atmosphere, not the reality of the
+thing it stands for, and would soften and beautify it with the lights.
+The actor he would throw constantly into prominence while keeping him
+always a part of the scene. All the elements and all the action of the
+drama he would bind together by the lights and shadows.
+
+“With the most minute care each detail of lighting, each position
+of each character, in Appia’s productions is studied out so that
+the dramatic meaning shall always be evident. Hence any setting of
+his contains vastly more thought than is visible at a glance. It is
+designed to serve for every exigency of the scene--so that a character
+here shall be in full light at a certain point, while talking directly
+to a character who must be quite in the dark, or that the light shall
+just touch the fringe of one character’s robe as she dies, or that the
+action shall all take place unimpeded, and so on. At the same time,
+needless to say, Appia’s stage pictures are of the highest artistic
+beauty.”[1]
+
+In Appia’s design for the third act of _Die Walküre_, so
+enthusiastically praised by Loomis Taylor, the rock of the valkyries
+juts like a huge promontory of black across the front of the scene,
+silhouetted against a clouded sky. So all the figures of the valkyries
+stand high on the rock and are entirely silhouetted, while Sieglinde
+below in front of the rock in the blackness, is hidden from the rage
+of the approaching Wotan. Any one who has seen this scene as it is
+ordinarily staged, without any reference to beauty or reason, will
+appreciate even this meagre description of an artist’s intention,
+which has not yet been carried out in any theatre with which I have
+acquaintance.
+
+Appia’s design for the first scene of _Parsifal_ discloses a group
+of boughless, straight-stemmed pines, towering to heaven like the
+cathedral group at Vallombrosa. Overhead the dense foliage hides the
+forest paths from the sun. Light comes in through the centre at the
+back, where there is a vista of plains across to the mountains, on
+which one may imagine the castle of the Grail. He places a dynamic and
+dramatic value on light which it is highly important to understand in
+estimating his work. For example, his lighting of the second act of
+_Tristan und Isolde_ culminates in a _pitch-dark_ stage during the
+singing of the love-duet. This artist has designed the scenery for all
+the _Ring_ and has indicated throughout what the lighting and action
+shall be.
+
+I do not know that Gordon Craig has turned his attention to any
+particular Wagner drama, although he has made suggestions for several
+of them, but he could, if he would, devise a mode of stage decoration
+which would make the plays and their action as appealing in their
+beauty as the music and the singing often now are. In his book, “On the
+Art of the Theatre,” he has been explicit in his descriptions of his
+designs for _Macbeth_, and the rugged strength and symbolism of his
+settings and ideas for that tragedy proclaim perhaps his best right to
+be a leader in the reformation of the Wagner dramas, although, even
+then, it must be confessed that Craig is derived in many instances from
+Appia, whom Craig himself hails as the foremost stage decorator of
+Europe to-day.
+
+Read Gordon Craig on _Macbeth_ and you will get an idea of how an
+artist would go to work on _Tristan und Isolde_ or _Götterdämmerung_.
+“I see two things, I see a lofty and steep rock, and I see the moist
+cloud which envelops the head of this rock. That is to say, a place
+for fierce and warlike men to inhabit, a place for phantoms to nest
+in. Ultimately this moisture will destroy the rock; ultimately these
+spirits will destroy the men. Now then, you are quick in your question
+as to what actually to create for the eye. I answer as swiftly--place
+there a rock! Let it mount high. Swiftly I tell you, convey the idea of
+a mist which hangs at the head of this rock. Now, have I departed at
+all for one-eighth of an inch from the vision which I saw in the mind’s
+eye?
+
+“But you ask me what form this rock shall take and what colour? What
+are the lines which are the lofty lines, and which are to be seen in
+any lofty cliff? Go to them, glance but a moment at them; now quickly
+set them down on your paper; _the lines and their direction_, never
+mind the cliff. Do not be afraid to let them go high; they cannot go
+high enough; and remember that on a sheet of paper which is but two
+inches square you can make a line which seems to tower miles in the
+air, and you can do the same on your stage, for it is all a matter of
+proportion and has nothing to do with actuality.
+
+“You ask about the colours? What are the colours which Shakespeare has
+indicated for us? Do not first look at Nature, but look at the play
+of the poet. Two, one for the rock, the man; one for the mist, the
+spirit. Now, quickly, take and accept this statement from me. Touch
+not a single other colour, but only these two colours through your
+whole progress of designing your scenes and your costumes, yet forget
+not that each colour contains many variations. If you are timid for a
+moment and mistrust yourself or what I tell, when the scene is finished
+you will not see with your eye the effect you have seen with your
+mind’s eye when looking at the picture which Shakespeare has indicated.”
+
+The producers of the Wagner music dramas do not seem to have heard
+of Adolphe Appia. Gordon Craig is a myth to them. Reinhardt does not
+exist. Have they ever seen the name of Stanislawsky? Do they know
+where his theatre is? Would they consider it sensible to spend three
+years in mounting _Hamlet_? Is the name of Fokine known to them? of
+Bakst? N. Roerich, Nathalie Gontcharova, Alexandre Benois, Theodore
+Federowsky?... One could go on naming the artists of the theatre.
+(Recently there have been evidences of an art movement in the theatre
+in America. Joseph Urban, first in Boston with the Boston Opera
+Company, and later in New York with various theatrical enterprises,
+may be mentioned as an important figure in this movement. His settings
+for _Monna Vanna_ were particularly beautiful and he really seems to
+have revolutionized the staging of _revues_ and similar light musical
+pieces. Robert Jones has done some very good work. I think he was
+responsible for the imaginative staging [in Gordon Craig’s manner, to
+be sure] of the inner scenes in the Shakespeare mask, _Caliban_. But I
+would give the Washington Square Players credit for the most successful
+experiments which have been made in New York. In every instance they
+have attempted to suit the staging to the mood of the drama, and have
+usually succeeded admirably, at slight expense. They have developed
+a good deal of previously untried talent in this direction. Lee
+Simonson, in particular, has achieved distinctive results. I have
+seldom seen better work of its kind on the stage than his settings
+for _The Magical City_, _Pierre Patelin_, and _The Seagull_. At the
+Metropolitan Opera House no account seems to be taken of this art
+movement, although during the season of 1915-16 in _The Taming of the
+Shrew_ an attempt was made to emulate the very worst that has been done
+in modern Germany.)
+
+For several years the Russian Ballet, under the direction of Serge
+de Diaghilew, has been presenting operas and ballets in the European
+capitals, notably in London and Paris for long seasons each summer
+(the Ballet has been seen in America since this article was written).
+A number of artists and a number of stage directors have been working
+together in staging these works, which, as a whole, may be conceded
+to be the most completely satisfying productions which have been made
+on the stage during the progress of this new movement in the theatre.
+One or two of the German productions, or Gordon Craig’s _Hamlet_
+in Stanislawsky’s theatre, may have surpassed them in the sterner
+qualities of beauty, the serious truth of their art, but none has
+surpassed them in brilliancy, in barbaric splendour, or in their almost
+complete solution of the problems of mingling people with painted
+scenery. The Russians have solved these problems by a skilful (and
+passionately liberal) use of colour and light. The painted surfaces
+are mostly flat, to be sure, and crudely painted, but the tones of
+the canvas are so divinely contrived to mingle with the tones of the
+costumes that the effect of an animated picture is arrived at with
+seemingly very little pother. This method of staging is not, in most
+instances, it must be admitted, adapted to the requirements of the
+Wagner dramas. Bakst, I imagine, would find it difficult to cramp
+his talents in the field of Wagnerism, though he should turn out a
+very pretty edition of _Das Rheingold_. Roerich, on the other hand,
+who designed the scenery and costumes for _Prince Igor_ as it was
+presented in Paris and London in the summer of 1914, would find no
+difficulty in staging _Götterdämmerung_. The problem is the same: to
+convey an impression of barbarism and strength. One scene I remember in
+Borodine’s opera in which an open window, exposing only a clear stretch
+of sky--the rectangular opening occupied half of the wall at the back
+of the room--was made to act the drama. A few red lights skilfully
+played on the curtain representing the sky made it seem as if in truth
+a city were burning and I thought how a similar simple contrivance
+might make a more imaginative final scene for _Götterdämmerung_.
+
+It is, however, in their handling of mechanical problems that the
+Russians could assist the new producer of the Wagner dramas to his
+greatest advantage. In Rimsky-Korsakow’s opera, _The Golden Cock_,
+for instance, the bird of the title has several appearances to make.
+Now there was no attempt made, in the Russians’ stage version of this
+work, to have this bird jiggle along a supposedly invisible wire, in
+reality quite visible, flapping his artificial wings and wiggling his
+insecure feet, as in the usual productions of _Siegfried_. Instead the
+bird was built solid like a bronze cock for a drawing-room table; he
+did not flap his wings; his feet were motionless; when the action of
+the drama demanded his presence he was let down on a wire; there was
+no pretence of a lack of machinery. The effect, however, was vastly
+more imaginative and diverting than that in _Siegfried_, because it was
+more simple. In like manner King Dodon, in the same opera, mounted a
+wooden horse on wheels to go to the wars, and the animals he captured
+were also made of wood, studded with brilliant beads. In Richard
+Strauss’s ballet, _The Legend of Joseph_, the figure of the guardian
+angel was not let down on a wire from the flies as he might have been
+in a Drury Lane pantomime; the naïve nature of the work was preserved
+by his nonchalant entrance across the _loggia_ and down a flight of
+steps, exactly the entrance of all the human characters of the ballet.
+I do not mean to suggest that these particular expedients would fit
+into the Wagner dramas so well as they do into works of a widely
+different nature. They should, however, indicate to stage directors the
+possibility of finding a method to suit the case in each instance. And
+I do assert, without hope or fear of contradiction, that Brünnhilde
+with a wooden horse would challenge less laughter than she does with
+the sorry nags which are put at her disposal and which Siegfried later
+takes down the river with him. It is only down the river that one
+can sell such horses. As for the bird, there are bird trainers whose
+business it is to teach pigeons to fly from pillar to post in the music
+halls; their services might be contracted for to make that passage
+in _Siegfried_ a little less distracting. The difficulties connected
+with this particular mechanical episode (and a hundred others) might
+be avoided by a different lighting of the scene. If the tree-tops of
+the forest were submerged in the deepest shadows, as well they might
+be, the flight of the bird on a wire might be accomplished with some
+sort of illusion. But why should one see the bird at all? One hears it
+constantly as it warbles advice to the hero.
+
+The new Wagner producer must possess many qualities if he wishes to
+place these works on a plane where they may continue to challenge the
+admiration of the world. Wagner himself was more concerned with his
+ideals than he was with their practical solution. Besides, it must be
+admitted that taste in stage art and improvements in stage mechanism
+have made great strides in the last decade. The plaster wall, for
+instance, which has replaced in many foreign theatres the flapping,
+swaying, wrinkled, painted canvas sky cyclorama (still in use at the
+Metropolitan Opera House; a vast sum was paid for it a few years ago)
+is a new invention and one which, when appropriately lighted, perfectly
+counterfeits the appearance of the sky in its different moods. (So
+far as I know the only theatre in New York with this apparatus is
+the Neighborhood Playhouse on Grand Street.) In Houston Stewart
+Chamberlain’s “Richard Wagner,” published in 1897, I find the following:
+
+“Wagner foresaw that in the new drama the whole principle of the stage
+scenery must undergo a complete alteration but did not particularize in
+detail. The _Meister_ says that ‘music resolves the rigid immovable
+groundwork of the scenery into a liquid, yielding, ethereal surface,
+capable of receiving impressions’; but to prevent a painful conflict
+between what is seen and what is heard, the stage picture, too, must
+be relieved from the curse of rigidity which now rests upon it. The
+only way of doing this is by managing the light in a manner which
+its importance deserves, that its office may no longer be confined
+to illuminating painted walls.... I am convinced that the next great
+advance in the drama will be of this nature, in the art of the eye,
+and not in music.” (The passage quoted further refers to Appia’s first
+book, published in French. Chamberlain was a close friend of Appia and
+“Die Musik und die Inscenierung” is dedicated to him.)
+
+It must also be understood that Wagner in some instances, when the
+right medium of his expression was clear to him, made concessions to
+what he considered the unintelligence of the public. Wotan’s waving of
+the sword is a case in point. The _motiv_ without the object he did
+not think would carry out the effect he intended to convey, although
+the absurdity of Wotan’s founding his new humanity on the power of the
+degenerate giants must have been apparent to him. Sometimes the Master
+changed his mind. Paris would have none of _Tannhäuser_ without a
+ballet and so Wagner rewrote the first act and now the Paris version
+of the opera is the accepted one. In any case it must be apparent that
+what Wagner wanted was a fusion of the arts, and a completely artistic
+one. So that if any one can think of a better way of presenting his
+dramas than one based on the very halting staging which he himself
+devised (with the limited means at his command) as perhaps the best
+possible to exploit his ideals, that person should be hailed as
+Wagner’s friend. It must be seen, at any current presentation of his
+dramas, that his way, or Cosima’s, is not the best way. The single
+performances which have made the deepest impression on the public have
+deviated the farthest from tradition. Olive Fremstad’s Isolde was far
+from traditional. Her very costume of deep green was a flaunt in the
+face of Wagner’s conventionally white robed heroine. In the first
+act, after taking the love potion, she did not indulge in any of the
+swimming movements usually employed by sopranos to pass the time away
+until the occasion came to sing again. She stood as a woman dazed,
+passing her hands futilely before her eyes, and it was to be noted
+that in some instances her action had its supplement in the action of
+the tenor who was singing with her, although, in other instances, he
+would continue to swim in the most highly approved Bayreuth fashion.
+But Olive Fremstad, artist that she was, could not completely divorce
+herself from tradition; in some cases she held to it against her
+judgment. The stage directions for the second act of _Parsifal_, for
+example, require Kundry to lie on her couch, tempting the hero, for
+a very long time. Great as Fremstad’s Kundry was, it might have been
+improved if she had allowed herself to move more freely along the
+lines that her artistic conscience dictated. Her Elsa was a beautiful
+example of the moulding of the traditional playing of a rôle into a
+picturesque, imaginative figure, a feat similar to that which Mary
+Garden accomplished in her delineation of Marguerite in _Faust_. Mme.
+Fremstad always sang Brünnhilde in _Götterdämmerung_ throughout with
+the fire of genius. This was surely some wild creature, a figure of
+Greek tragedy, a Norse Elektra. The superb effect she wrought, at her
+first performance in the rôle, with the scene of the spear, was never
+tarnished in subsequent performances. The thrill was always there.
+
+In face of acting and singing like that one can afford to ignore
+Wagner’s theory about the wedding of the arts. A Fremstad or a Lehmann
+can carry a Wagner drama to a triumphant conclusion with few, if
+any, accessories, but great singing artists are rare; nor does a
+performance of this kind meet the requirements of the Wagner ideal, in
+which the picture, the word, and the tone shall all be a part of the
+drama (_Wort-Tondrama_). Wagner invented a new form of stage art but
+only in a small measure did he succeed in perfecting a method for its
+successful presentation. The artist-producer must arise to repair this
+deficiency, to become the dominating force in future performances, to
+see that the scenes are painted in accordance with the principles of
+beauty and dramatic fitness, to see that they are lighted to express
+the secrets of the drama, as Appia says they should be, to see that
+the action is sympathetic with the decoration, and that the decoration
+never encumbers the action, that the lighting assists both. There never
+has been a production of the _Ring_ which has in any sense realized its
+true possibilities, the ideal of Wagner.
+
+
+_June 24, 1915._
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] For a further discussion of Appia’s work and its probable influence
+on Gordon Craig, see an article “Adolphe Appia and Gordon Craig” in my
+book “Music After the Great War.”
+
+
+
+
+  The Bridge Burners
+
+  “_Zieh’hin! ich kann dich nicht halten!_”
+
+                                Der Wanderer.
+
+
+
+
+The Bridge Burners
+
+
+I
+
+It is from the enemy that one learns. Richelieu and other great men
+have found it folly to listen to the advice of friends when rancour,
+hatred, and jealousy inspired much more helpful suggestions. And it
+occurred to me recently that the friends of modern music were doing
+nothing by way of describing it. They are content to like it. I must
+confess that I have been one of these. I have heard first performances
+of works by Richard Strauss and Claude Debussy on occasions when
+the programme notes gave one cause for dread. At these times I have
+often been pleasurably excited and I have never lacked for at least a
+measured form of enjoyment except when I found those gods growing a bit
+old. The English critics were right when they labelled _The Legend of
+Joseph_ Handelian. The latest recital of Leo Ornstein’s which I heard
+made me realize that even the extreme modern music evidently protrudes
+no great perplexities into my ears. They accept it all, a good deal of
+it with avidity, some with the real tribute of astonishment which goes
+only to genius.
+
+On the whole, I think, I should have found it impossible to write
+this article which, with a new light shining on my paper, is dancing
+from under my darting typewriter keys, if I had not stumbled by
+good luck into the camp of the enemy. For I find misunderstanding,
+lack of sympathy, and enmity towards the new music to a certain
+degree inspirational. These qualities, projected, have crystallized
+impressions in my mind, which might, under other circumstances, have
+remained vague and, in a sense, I think I may make bold to say, they
+have made it possible for me to synthesize to a greater degree than has
+hitherto been attempted, the various stimuli and progressive gestures
+of modern music. I can more clearly say now _why_ I like it. (If I were
+to tell others how to like it I should be forced to resort to a single
+sentence: “Open your ears”.)
+
+A good deal of this new insight has come to me through assiduous
+perusal of Mr. Richard Aldrich’s comment on musical doings in the
+columns of the “New York Times.” Mr. Aldrich, like many another,
+has been bewildered and annoyed by a good deal of the modern music
+played (Heaven knows that there is little enough modern music played
+in New York. Up to date [April 16, 1916] there has been nothing of
+Arnold Schoenberg performed this season later than his _Pelléas
+und Mélisande_ and his _Kammersymphonie_; of Strawinsky--aside
+from the three slight pieces for string quartet--nothing later than
+_Petrouchka_. Such new works as John Alden Carpenter’s _Adventures in
+a Perambulator_ and Enrique Granados’s _Goyescas_--as an opera--do not
+seriously overtax the critical ear) but he has done more than some
+others by way of expressing the causes of this bewilderment and this
+annoyance. Some critics neglect the subject altogether but Mr. Aldrich
+at least attempts to be explanatory. My first excerpt from his writings
+is clipped from an article in the “New York Times” of December 5, 1915,
+devoted to the string quartet music of Strawinsky, performed by the
+Flonzaleys at Æolian Hall in New York on the evening of November 30:
+
+“So far as this particular type of ‘futurist’ music is concerned it
+seems to be conditioned on an accompaniment of something else to
+explain it from beginning to end.”
+
+Is this a reproach? The context would seem to indicate that it is.
+If so it seems a late date in which to hurl anathema at programme
+music. One would have fancied that that battle had already been fought
+and won by Ernest Newman, Frederick Niecks, and Lawrence Gilman, to
+name a few of the gladiators for the cause. Why Mr. Aldrich, having
+swallowed whole, so to speak, the tendency of music during a century
+of its development, should suddenly balk at music which requires
+explanation I cannot imagine. However, this would seem to be the point
+he makes in face of the fact that at least two-thirds of a symphony
+society’s programme is made up of programme music. Berlioz said in the
+preface to his _Symphonie Fantastique_, “The plan of an instrumental
+drama, being without words, requires to be explained beforehand. The
+programme (which is indispensable to the perfect comprehension of the
+dramatic plan of the work) ought therefor to be considered in the
+light of the spoken text of an opera, serving to ... indicate the
+character and expression.” Ernest Newman built up an elaborate theory
+on these two sentences, a theory fully expounded in an article called
+“Programme Music” published in “Music Studies” (1905), and touched
+on elsewhere in his work (at some length, of course, in his “Richard
+Strauss.”) He brings out the facts. Representation of natural sounds,
+emotions, and even objects--or attempts at it--in early music were not
+rare. He cites the justly famous _Bible Sonatas_ of Kuhnau, Rameau’s
+_Sighs_ and _Tender Plants_, Dittersdorf’s twelve programme symphonies
+illustrating Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_, and John Sebastian Bach’s
+_Capriccio on the Departure of my Dearly Beloved Brother_. Beethoven
+wrote a _Pastoral Symphony_ in which he attempted to imitate the sound
+of a brook and the call of a cuckoo. There is also a storm in this
+symphony. The fact that Beethoven denied any intention of portraying
+anything but “pure emotion” in this symphony is evasion and humbug as
+Newman very clearly points out. From what do these emotions arise?
+The answer is, From the contemplation of country scenes. The auditor
+without a programme will not find the symphony so enjoyable as the
+one who _knows_ what awakened the emotions in the composer. Beethoven
+wrote a “battle” symphony too, a particularly bad one, I believe (I
+have never seen it announced for performance). It is true, however,
+that most of the composers of the “great” period were content to number
+their symphonies and to call their piano pieces impromptus, sonatas,
+valses, and nocturnes. Nous avons changé tout cela. Schumann was one
+of the first of the composers of the nineteenth century to write music
+with titles. In the _Carneval_, for example, each piece is explained
+by its title. And explanations, or shadows of explanations (Cathedral,
+Rhenish, Spring, etc.), hover about the four symphonies. Berlioz,
+of course, carried the principle of programme music to a degree that
+was considered absurd in his own time. He wrote symphonies like the
+_Romeo and Juliet_ and the _Fantastique_ which had to be “explained
+from beginning to end.” Liszt invented the symphonic poem and composed
+pieces which are only to be listened to after one has read the poem or
+seen the picture which they describe. Richard Strauss rounded out the
+form and put the most elaborate naturalistic details into such works as
+_Don Quixote_ and _Till Eulenspiegel_. Understanding of this music and
+complete enjoyment of it rely in a large measure on the “explanation.”
+The _Symphonia Domestica_ and _Heldenleben_ are extreme examples of
+this sort of thing. What does Wagner’s whole system depend on but
+“explanation”? How does one know that a certain sequence of notes
+represents a sword? Because the composer tells us so. How does one
+discover that another sequence of notes represents Alberich’s curse?
+Through the same channel. Bernard Shaw says in _The Perfect Wagnerite_:
+“To be able to follow the music of _The Ring_, all that is necessary
+is to become familiar enough with the brief musical phrases out of
+which it is built to recognize them and attach a certain definite
+significance to them, exactly as any ordinary Englishman recognizes
+and attaches a definite significance to the opening bars of _God Save
+the Queen_.” Modern music is full of this sort of thing. It leans more
+and more heavily on titles, on mimed drama, on “explanation.” Think of
+almost all the music of Debussy, for example, _La Mer_, _l’Après-midi
+d’un Faune_, _Iberia_, nearly all the piano music; Rimsky-Korsakow’s
+_Scheherazade_, _Antar_, and _Sadko_ (the symphonic suite, not the
+opera); Vincent d’Indy’s _Istar_; Borodine’s _Thamar_; Dukas’s
+_l’Apprenti Sorcier_; Franck’s _Le Chasseur Maudit_ and _Les Eolides_;
+Saint-Saëns’s _Phaëton_, _La Jeunesse d’Hercule_, and _Le Rouet
+d’Omphale_; Busoni’s music for _Turandot_: the list is endless and it
+is futile to continue it.
+
+But, Mr. Aldrich would object, in most of these instances the music
+stands by itself and it is possible to enjoy it without reference to
+the titles. I contend that this is just as true of Strawinsky’s three
+pieces for string quartet (of course one never will be sure because
+Daniel Gregory Mason explained these pieces before they were played).
+However Mr. Newman has already exploded a good many bombs about this
+particular point and he has shown the fallacy of the theory. Mr.
+Newman concedes that a work such as Tschaikowsky’s overture _Romeo
+and Juliet_, would undoubtedly “give intense pleasure to any one who
+listened to it as a piece of music, pure and simple. But I deny,”
+he continues, “that this hearer would receive as much pleasure from
+the work as I do. He might think the passage for muted strings, for
+example, extremely beautiful, but he would not get from it such
+delight as I, who not only feel all the _musical_ loveliness of the
+melody and the harmonies and the tone colour, but see the lovers on
+the balcony and breathe the very atmosphere of Shakespeare’s scene.
+I am richer than my fellow by two or three emotions of this kind. My
+nature is stirred on two or three sides instead of only one. I would
+go further and say that not only does the auditor I have supposed
+get less pleasure from the work than I, but he really does not hear
+Tschaikowsky’s work at all. If the musician writes music to a play
+and invents phrases to symbolize the characters and to picture the
+events of the play, we are simply not listening to _his_ work at all
+if we listen to it in ignorance of his poetical scheme. We may hear
+the music but it is not the music he meant us to hear.” And Mr. Newman
+goes on to berate Strauss for not providing programmes for some of his
+tone-poems (programmes, however, which have always been provided by
+somebody in authority at the eleventh hour). Niecks thinks that nearly
+all music has an implied programme: “My opinion is that whenever the
+composer ceases to write purely formal music he passes from the domain
+of absolute music into that of programme music.” (“Programme Music in
+the Last Four Centuries.”) But Niecks does not hold that explanation is
+always necessary, even if there is a programme.
+
+Under the circumstances it seems a bit thick to jump on Strawinsky for
+writing music which has to be explained. Such pieces as _Fireworks_
+or the _Scherzo Fantastique_ need no more extended explanation than
+the titles give them. His three pieces for string quartet were listed
+without programme at the Flonzaley concert and might have been played
+that way, I think, without causing the heavens to fall. But Strawinsky
+had told some one that their general title was _Grotesques_ and that
+he had composed each of them with a programme in mind, which was
+divulged. When the music was played, in the circumstances, what he
+was driving at was as plain as A. B. C. There was no further demand
+made on the auditor than that he prepare himself, as Schumann asked
+auditors to prepare themselves to listen to the _Carneval_, by thinking
+of the titles. In Strawinsky’s opera, _The Nightingale_, the text
+of the opera serves as the programme. There are no representative
+themes; there is no “working-out.” You are not required to remember
+_leit-motive_ in order to familiarize your emotions with the proper
+capers to cut at particular moments when these _motive_ are repeated.
+You are asked simply to follow the course of the lyric drama with open
+ears, open mind, and open heart. Albert Gleizes, the post-impressionist
+painter, once told me that he considered the title an essential part
+of a picture. “It is a _point de départ_,” he said. “In painting a
+picture I always have some idea or object in mind in the beginning. In
+my completed picture I may have wandered far away from this. Now the
+title gives the spectator the advantage of starting where I started.”
+A title to a musical composition gives an auditor a similar advantage.
+No doubt Strawinsky’s _Fireworks_ would make a nice blaze without the
+name but the title gives us a picture to begin with, just as Wagner
+gives us scenery and text and action (to say nothing of a handbook of
+representative themes) to explain the music of _Die Walküre_....
+
+An important point has been overlooked by those who have watched
+painting and music develop during the past century: while painting
+has become less and less an attempt to represent nature, music has
+more and more attempted concrete representation. There has seemed, at
+times, to be an interchange in progress in the values of the arts.
+(“He [Cézanne] is the first of the great painters to treat colour
+deliberately as music; he tests all its harmonic resources,” Romain
+Rolland.) Observers of matters æsthetic have frequently told us that
+both of these arts were breaking with their old principles and going
+on to something new but, it would seem, they have failed to grasp the
+significance of the change. Music, as it drops its classic outline
+and form, the _cliché_ of the studio and the academy, becomes more
+and more like nature, because natural sounds are not co-ordinated
+into symphonies with working-out sections and codas, first and second
+subjects, etc., while in painting, in some of its later manifestations,
+the resemblance to things seen has entirely disappeared. This fact, at
+least one phase of it, was realized in concrete form by the futurists
+in Italy who asserted that polyphony, fugue, etc., were contraptions of
+a bygone age when the stage-coach was in vogue. Machinery has changed
+the world. We are living in a dynasty of dynamics. A certain number
+of futurists even give concerts of noise machines in which a definite
+attempt is made to imitate the sounds of automobiles, aeroplanes, etc.
+At a concert given at the Dal Verme in Milan, for example, the pieces
+were called _The Awakening of a Great City_, _A Dinner on the Kursaal
+Terrace_ (doubtless with an imitation of the guests eating soup), and
+_A Meet of Automobiles and Aeroplanes_.
+
+Picasso and Picabia have made us acquainted with a form of art which
+in its vague realization of representative values becomes almost as
+abstract an art as music was in the time of Beethoven, while such
+musicians as Strauss, Debussy, and Strawinsky, have gradually widened
+the boundaries which have confined music, and have made it at times
+something very concrete. Debussy’s _La Mer_, for example, is a much
+more definite picture (in leaning over the rail of the gallery of the
+Salle Gaveau in Paris during a performance of this piece I actually
+became sea-sick!) than Marcel Duchamp’s painting of the _Nu Descendant
+l’Escalier_. So Strawinsky’s three pieces for string quartet represent
+certain things in nature (the first a group of peasants playing strange
+instruments on the steppes; the second sounds in a Cathedral heard by
+a drowsy worshipper, the responses of the priest, chanted out of key,
+the shrill antiphonal choruses; and the third a juggling Pierrot with
+a soul-pain) much more definitely than Picasso’s latest _Nature Morte
+dans un Jardin_.
+
+“Now the law which has dominated painting for more than a century is
+a more and more comprehensive assimilation of musical idiom. Even
+Delacroix spoke of ‘the mysterious effects of line and colour which,
+alas, only a few adepts feel--like interwoven themes in music ...’
+and Baudelaire, in another connection, wrote, ‘Harmony, melody, and
+counterpoint are to be found in colour.’ Ingres also remarked to his
+disciples, ‘If I could make you all musicians you would be better
+painters.’ Renoir, who journeyed to Sicily to paint Wagner’s portrait
+and to translate _Tannhäuser_, is a musical enthusiast and his work
+is music. Maurice Denis tells us that his pals at Julian’s Academy,
+those who were to found synthesism with him, never tired of discussing
+Lamoureux’s concerts, where they were enthusiastic habitués. Gaugin
+announced that ‘painting is a musical phase.’ He speaks continually of
+the music of a picture; when he wants to analyze his work he divides
+it into the literary element, to which he attaches less importance,
+and the musical element which he schemes first. Cézanne, whom Gaugin
+compared to César Franck, said, ‘not model, but modulate.’ Metzinger
+invokes the right of cubist painters to express all emotions as music
+does, and one of the æstheticians of the new school writes: ‘The goal
+of painting is perhaps a music of nature, visual music to which
+traditional painting would have somewhat the status that sacred or
+dramatic music has compared to concert music.’
+
+“This, then, is the revolution in the art of line and colour which has
+become aware of its intrinsic power, independent of any subject. In
+truth, even among the Venetians, as has been well said, the subject
+was ‘only the background upon which the painter relied to develop his
+harmonies,’ but the mentality of spectators clings to this background
+as to the libretto of an opera. At present, an end to librettos: Pure
+music: those who wish to comprehend it must first of all master its
+idiom, for ‘Colour is learned as music is.’” (Romain Rolland: “The
+Unbroken Chain,” Lee Simonson’s translation.)
+
+So far, in spite of the protestations of horror made by the
+academicians, the pedants, and the Philistines, which would lead one
+to suppose a state of complete chaos, there has not been a complete
+abandonment of co-ordination, of selection, or of intention, in either
+art. In fact, it seems to me, that the qualities of intention and
+selection are more powerful adjuncts of the artist than they have
+been for many generations. In painting colour and form are cunningly
+contrived to give us an idea, if not a photograph, and in music
+natural (as well as unnatural) sounds are still arranged, perhaps to a
+more extreme extent than ever before.
+
+
+II
+
+I wonder if all the suggestion music gives us is associative. Sometimes
+I think so. Was it Berlioz who remarked that the slightest quickening
+of _tempo_ would transform the celebrated air in _Orphée_ from “_J’ai
+perdu mon Euridice_” to “_J’ai trouvé mon Euridice_”? Rossini found an
+overture which he had formerly used for a tragedy quite suitable for
+_Il Barbiere di Siviglia_, and the interchangeable values which Handel
+gave to secular and sacred tunes are familiar to all music students.
+Are minor keys really sad? Are major keys always suggestive of joy? We
+know that this is not true although one will be more sure of a ready
+response of tears from a Western audience by resorting to a minor key.
+In our music wedding marches are usually in the major and funeral
+marches usually in the minor modes. But almost all Eastern music is in
+a minor key, love songs and even cradle songs. Recall, or play over on
+your piano, the Smyrnan lullaby (made familiar by Mme. Sembrich) which
+occurs in the collection of Grecian and oriental melodies edited by
+L. A. Bourgault-Ducoudray.... Even the composers who do not call their
+pieces by name and who scorn the use of a programme, depend for some of
+their most powerful effects on emotion created by association ... and
+a new composer, be he indefatigable enough, can rouse new associations
+in us.... Why if three or four composers would meet together and decide
+that the use of a certain group of notes stood for the town pump, in
+time it would be quite easy for other composers to use this phrase in
+that connection _with no explanation whatever_.
+
+
+III
+
+“It is a mistake of much popular criticism,” says Walter Pater, in the
+first two sentences of his essay on “The School of Giorgione,” “to
+regard poetry, music, and painting--all the various products of art--as
+but translations into different languages of one and the same fixed
+quantity of imaginative thought, supplemented by certain technical
+qualities of colour, in painting; of sound, in music; of rhythmical
+words, in poetry. In this way, the sensuous element in art, and with
+it almost everything in art that is essentially artistic, is made a
+matter of indifference; and a clear apprehension of the opposite
+principle--that the sensuous material of each art brings with it a
+special phase or quality of beauty, untranslatable into the forms of
+any other, an order of impressions distinct in kind--is the beginning
+of all true æsthetic criticism.”
+
+Strawinsky, in a sense, is quite done with programme music; at least
+he says that this is so. “La musique est trop bête pour exprimer autre
+chose que la musique” is his pregnant phrase, which I cannot quote
+often enough. And in an interview with Stanley Wise, which appeared
+in the columns of the “New York Tribune” he further says, “Programme
+music ... has been obviously discontinued as being distinctly an
+uncouth form which already has had its day; but music, nevertheless,
+still drags out its life in accordance with these false notions and
+conceptions. Without absolutely defying the programme, musicians still
+draw upon sources foreign to their art.... The true inwardness of
+music being purely acoustic, the art so expresses itself without being
+concerned with feelings alien to its nature.... Music in the theatre
+is still held in bondage to other elements. Wagner, in particular, is
+responsible for this servitude in which music labours to-day.”
+
+The greater part of Igor Strawinsky’s music, up to date, is written
+to a programme, but these remarks of the composer should not be
+incomprehensible on that account. Somewhat later than the performance
+of the three pieces for string quartet, _The Firebird_ and _Petrouchka_
+were performed in New York and were hailed by the critics, _en masse_,
+as most delightful works. But the music depends for its success, they
+said, on the stage action to explain it. I fancy this is true of many
+operas which were written for the stage. _Siegfried_, as a whole, would
+be pretty tiresome in concert form and so would _La Fille du Regiment_.
+And read what Henry Fothergill Chorley has to say about the works of
+Gluck (“Modern German Music”): “The most experienced and imaginative of
+readers will derive from the closest perusal of the scores of Gluck’s
+operas, feeble and distant impressions of their power and beauty.
+The delicious charm of Mozart’s melody--the expressive nobility of
+Handel’s ideas--may in some measure be comprehended by the student at
+the pianoforte and the eye may assure the reader how masterly is the
+symmetry of the vocal score with one,--how rich and complete is the
+management of the instrumental score, with the other master. But this
+is in no respect the case with _Alceste_, the two _Iphigénies_ and
+_Armide_--it may be added, with almost any opera written according to
+the canons of French taste. That which appears thin, bald, severe,
+when it is merely perused, is filled up, brightens, enchants, excites,
+and satisfies, when it is heard with action,--to a degree only to be
+believed upon experience. Out of the theatre, three-fourths of Gluck’s
+individual merit is lost. He wrote for the stage.” That all this is
+true any one who, like me, has taken the trouble to study the scores of
+the Gluck operas, which are infrequently performed, may have discovered
+for himself. I have never heard _Alceste_ and that lyric drama, as a
+result, has never sprung to me from the printed page as do the notes of
+_Orphée_, _Armide_, and _Iphigénie en Tauride_. I am convinced of the
+depth of expression contained in its pages; I am certain of its noble
+power, but only because I have had a similar experience with other
+Gluck music dramas, with which I have later become acquainted in the
+theatre.
+
+This theory in regard to _Petrouchka_ and _The Firebird_ may be easily
+contradicted, however. One listener told me that she got the complete
+picture of the Russian fair by closing her eyes; it was all in the
+music. The action, as a matter of fact, she added, annoyed her. It is
+quite certain that the music of either of these works is delightful
+when played on the piano; an average roomful of people who like to
+listen to music will be charmed with it. _The Sacrifice to the Spring_
+was hissed intolerantly when it was performed as a ballet in Paris
+but, later (April 5, 1914), when Pierre Monteux gave an orchestral
+performance of the work at a concert it was applauded as violently.
+
+Strawinsky has, it is true, worked away from _representation_ (in the
+sense of copying nature or, like Wagner, relying on literary formulas
+for his effects) in his music, but he has written very little that does
+not depend on a programme, either expressed or implied. All songs of
+course are “explained” by their lyrics. The _Scherzo Fantastique_ and
+_Fireworks_ are programme music in the lighter sense, and naturally
+the music of his ballets and his opera depends for its meaning on the
+stage action. What Strawinsky means to do, I think--certainly what
+he has done--is to avoid going outside his subject or requiring his
+listener to do so. To understand the music of his opera you need never
+have heard a real nightingale sing, for the bird does not sing at all
+like a nightingale, a fact which was not understood by the critics
+when the work was first produced, and in _The Sacrifice to the Spring_
+you will find no attempt made to ape natural sounds, although there
+was ample opportunity for doing so.... Another modern worker in tone,
+Leo Ornstein, in the accompaniment to his cradle song (it is the same
+_wiegenlied_ set by Richard Strauss, by the way) tries to give his
+hearers the mother’s overtones, her thoughts about the child’s future,
+etc.; the music, instead of attempting to express the exact meaning of
+the poem, expresses _more_ than the poem.
+
+And Mr. Ornstein once said to me, “What I try to do in composing
+is to get underneath, to express the feeling underneath--not to be
+photographic. I do not think it is art to reproduce a steam whistle but
+it is art to give the feeling that the steam whistle gives us. That
+can never be done by exact reproduction.... I should not like a steam
+whistle introduced into the concert room” (I had shamelessly suggested
+it) “... but great, smashing chords....”
+
+Yet Mr. Ornstein in his _Impressions of the Thames_ is as near
+actual representation as Whistler or Monet ... certainly a musical
+impressionist.
+
+Is anything true? I hope not. At dinner the other evening a lady
+attempted to prove to me that there were standards by which beauty
+could be judged and rules by which it could be constructed. She was
+unsuccessful.
+
+
+IV
+
+It has occurred to me that Mr. Aldrich meant that he wanted the
+juxtaposition of notes explained from beginning to end. Inspiration
+is not always conscious ... one feels in the end whether such a
+collocation is inevitable or not ... I wonder if Beethoven could have
+explained one of his last quartets or piano sonatas. I doubt it. Of
+course, on the other hand, Wagner explained and explained and explained.
+
+
+V
+
+I am afraid that this quality alone, the fact that the music needs
+explanation, is not the rock on which Mr. Aldrich splits, so to speak.
+He writes somewhere else in this same article: “All he asks of his
+listeners is to forget all they know about string quartet music.” Now
+this is really too much. That is exactly what Strawinsky does, and
+why shouldn’t he? Has not every great composer done as much? To quote
+Ernest Newman again (this time from his book “Richard Strauss”), “All
+the music of the giants of the past expresses no more than a fragment
+of what music can and some day will express. With each new generation
+it must discover and reveal some new secret of the universe and of
+man’s heart; and as the thing uttered varies, the way of uttering it
+must vary also. There is only one rational definition of good ‘form’
+in music--that which expresses most succinctly and most perfectly the
+state of soul in which the idea originated; and as moods and ideas
+change, so must forms.” “The true creator strives, in reality, after
+_perfection_ only,” writes Busoni, in “A New Æsthetic of Music,” “and
+through bringing this into harmony with _his own_ individuality, a new
+law arises without premeditation.” The very greatness of Beethoven is
+due to the fact that he made a perfect wedding of form and idea. His
+forms (in which he broke with tradition in several important points)
+were evolved out of his ideas. Now the very writers who give Beethoven
+the credit for having accomplished this successful revolution and who
+write enthusiastically of Gluck’s “reform of the opera,” object to any
+contemporary instances of this spirit (Maurice Ravel “corrects” with
+great care, I am told, the exercises of his pupils. “He who breaks
+rules must first know them,” he says. And I have no disposition to
+quarrel with this sort of reverence although I think it is sometimes
+carried too far. However the critic attempts to “correct” the finished
+pupil’s work, from the work of the past--a sad and impossible task).
+Why in the name of goodness should not Strawinsky, or any other modern
+composer, for that matter, be allowed to make us forget everything
+we know about string quartets, if he is able? Some of us would be
+grateful for the sensation. Leo Ornstein in a recent article said,
+“The very first step which the composer must be given the privilege of
+insisting upon is that his listeners should approach his work with no
+preconceived notions of any kind; they must learn to allow absolute
+and full freedom to their imaginations as it is only under such
+circumstances that any new work can be understood and appreciated at
+first. All preconceived theories must be abolished, and the new work
+approached through no formulas.” And in the same article Mr. Ornstein
+relates how, after he had played his _Wild Men’s Dance_ to Leschetizky
+that worthy pedagogue murmured, amazed, “How in the world did you
+get all those notes on paper!” That, unfortunately, concludes Mr.
+Ornstein, is the attitude of the average listener to modern music. A
+similar instance is related in the case of Strawinsky. He played some
+measures of his ballet, _The Firebird_, on the piano to his master,
+Rimsky-Korsakow, until the composer of _Scheherazade_ interposed, “Stop
+playing that horrid thing; otherwise I might begin to enjoy it.” And
+even the usually open-minded James Huneker says in his essay on Arnold
+Schoenberg (“Ivory, Apes, and Peacocks”), “If such music-making is ever
+to become accepted, then I long for Death the Releaser. More shocking
+still would be the suspicion that in time I might be persuaded to like
+this music, to embrace, after abhorring it.” These phrases of Huneker’s
+remind me of a personal incident. My father has subscribed for the
+“Atlantic Monthly” since the first issue and one of the earliest
+memories of my childhood is connected with the inevitable copy which
+always lay on the library table. On one occasion, contemplating it, I
+burst into tears; nor could I be comforted. My explanation, between
+sobs, was, “Some day I’ll grow up and like a magazine without pictures!
+I can’t bear to think of it!” Well, there is many a man who weeps
+because some day he may grow up to like music without melody! Music
+_has_ changed; of that there can be no doubt. Don’t go to a concert
+and expect to hear what you might have heard fifty years ago; don’t
+expect _anything_ and don’t hate yourself if you happen to like what
+you hear. Mr. George Moore’s evidence on this point of receptiveness
+is enlightening (Mr. George Moore who spoke to me once of the “vulgar
+noises made by the Russian Ballet”): “In _Petrouchka_ the orchestra all
+began playing in different keys and when it came out into one key I was
+quite dazed. I don’t know whether it is music but I rather liked it!”
+
+Still another point is raised by Mr. Aldrich. I quote from the “New
+York Times” of December 8, 1915; the reference is to the second string
+quartet of David Stanley Smith, played by the Kneisel Quartet (the
+italics are mine): “Mr. Smith does not hesitate at drastic dissonance
+_when it results from the leading of his part writing_.” There at last
+we have the real nigger in the woodpile. The relation between keys is
+so remote, the tonalities are so inexplicable in a modern Strawinsky
+or Schoenberg work that the brain, prepared with a list of scales,
+refuses to take in the natural impression that the ear receives.
+This sort of criticism reminds me of a line which is quoted from
+some London journal by William Wallace in “The Threshold of Music,”
+“The whole work is singularly lacking in contrapuntal interest and
+depends solely for such effect as it achieves upon certain emotional
+impressions of harmony and colour.” And, nearer home, I culled the
+following from the “New York Sun” of December 12, 1915 (Mr. W. J.
+Henderson’s column), “This is what is the matter with the futurists
+or post-impressionists in music. They are tone colourists and that is
+all.” (Amusingly enough Mr. Henderson begins his remarks by praising
+Joseph Pennell for writing an article in which the post-impressionist
+painters were given a drubbing; this article is treated with contumely
+and scorn by the art critic of the “Sun” on the page opposite that on
+which Mr. Henderson’s article appears.) In all these cases you find men
+complaining because a composer has done exactly what he started out to
+do. F. Balilla Pratella in one of his futurist manifestos discusses
+this point (the translation is my own), “The fugue, a composition
+based on counterpoint par excellence, is full of (such) artifices even
+when it achieves its artistic balance in the works of the great German
+Sebastian Bach. Soul, intellectuality, and instinct are here fused in a
+given form, in a given manifestation of art, an art of its own times,
+historical and strictly connected with the life, faith, and culture of
+that particular period. Why then should we be compelled or asked to
+live it over again at the distance of several centuries?” And later,
+“We proclaim as an essential principle of our futurist revolution
+that counterpoint and fugue, stupidly considered as one of the most
+important branches of musical learning, are in our eyes only the ruins
+of the old science of polyphony which extends from the Flemish school
+to Bach. We replace them by harmonic polyphony, logical fusion of
+counterpoint and harmony, which allows musicians to escape the needless
+difficulty of dividing their efforts in two opposing cultures, one
+dead and the other contemporary, and entirely irreconcilable, because
+they are the fruits of two different sensibilities.” To quote Busoni;
+again: “How important, indeed, are ‘Third,’ ‘Fifth,’ and ‘Octave’!
+How strictly we divide ‘consonances’ from ‘dissonances’--_in a sphere
+where no dissonances can possibly exist_!” When Bernard Shaw published
+“The Perfect Wagnerite” he wrote for a public which still considered
+Wagner a little in advance of the contemporary in music. What did he
+say? “My second encouragement is addressed to modest citizens who may
+suppose themselves to be disqualified from enjoying _The Ring_ by their
+technical ignorance of music. They may dismiss all such misgivings
+speedily and confidently. If the sound of music has any power to move
+them they will find that Wagner exacts nothing further. There is
+not a single bar of ‘classical music’ in _The Ring_--not a note in
+it that has any other point than the single direct point of giving
+musical expression to the drama. In classical music there are, as the
+analytical programmes tell us, first subjects and second subjects,
+free fantasias, recapitulations, and codas; there are fugues, with
+counter-subjects, strettos, and pedal points; there are passacaglias on
+ground basses, canons and hypodiapente, and other ingenuities, which
+have, after all, stood or fallen by their prettiness as much as the
+simplest folk-tune. Wagner is never driving at anything of this sort
+any more than Shakespeare in his plays is driving at such ingenuities
+of verse-making as sonnets, triolets, and the like. And this is why he
+is so easy for the natural musician who has had no academic teaching.
+The professors, when Wagner’s music is played to them, exclaim at
+once, ‘What is this? Is it aria, or recitative? Is there no cabeletta
+to it--not even a full close? Why was that discord not prepared; and
+why does he not resolve it correctly? How dare he indulge in those
+scandalous and illicit transitions into a key that has not one note in
+common with the key he has just left? Listen to those false relations.
+What does he want with six drums and eight horns when Mozart worked
+miracles with two of each? The man is no musician.’ The layman neither
+knows nor cares about any of these things. It is the adept musician
+of the old school who has everything to unlearn; and I leave him,
+unpitied, to his fate.” All Wagner asked his contemporaries to do, in
+fact, was to forget all they knew about opera!
+
+
+VI
+
+This piling up of Shaw on Huneker, these dips into Newman and Niecks,
+are beginning to be formidable, but one never knows what turn of the
+road may lead the traveller to his promised land and it is better to
+draw the map clearly even if there be a confusion of choices. And so,
+just here, I beg leave to make a tiny digression, to point out that
+the new music is not so terrible as all this explanation may have
+made it seem to be. Granville Bantock talks learnedly of “horizontal
+counterpoint” but his music is perfectly comprehensible. Schoenberg
+writes of “passing notes,” says there is no such thing as consonance
+and dissonance, and “I have not been able to discover any principles
+of harmony. Sincerity, self-expression, is all that the artist needs,
+and he should say only what he must say” but Mr. Huneker points out
+that he has founded an order out of his chaos, “that his madness is
+very methodical. For one thing he abuses the interval of the fourth and
+he enjoys juggling with the chord of the ninth. Vagabond harmonies,
+in which the remotest keys lovingly hold hands do not prevent the
+sensation of a central tonality somewhere--in the cellar, on the
+roof, in the gutter, up in the sky.” Percy Grainger says he dreams of
+“beatless” music without rhythm--at least academically speaking--but
+he certainly does not write it. F. Balilla Pratella writes pages
+condemning dance rhythms and still more pages elaborating a new theory
+for marking time (which, I admit, is absolutely incomprehensible to me)
+and publishes them as a preface to his _Musica Futurista_ (Bologna,
+1912), a composition for orchestra, which is written, in spite of the
+theories, and the fantastic time signatures, in the most engaging
+dance rhythms. Nor does his disregard for fugue go so far as to make
+him unfriendly to scale; the whole-tone scale prevails in this work.
+His dislike for polyphony seems more sincere; there is a great deal of
+homophonous effect. Leo Ornstein has admitted to me that his “system”
+would be fully understood in a decade or two. As for Strawinsky
+... how the public joyfully and rapturously takes to its heart his
+dissonances, and even asks for more!
+
+
+VII
+
+Vincent d’Indy, reported by Marcel Duchamp, said recently that the
+philosophy of music is twenty years behind that of the other arts.
+
+
+VIII
+
+The fact that Schoenberg has written a handbook of theory, explaining,
+after a fashion, his method of composition has misled some people.
+“Schoenberg is a learned musician,” writes Mr. Aldrich (“New York
+Times,” December 5, 1915), “and his music is built up by processes
+derived from methods handed down to the present by the learned of
+the past, however widely the results may depart from those hitherto
+accepted.... There results what he chooses to consider ‘harmony,’ the
+outcome of a deliberate system, about which he theorizes and _has
+written a book_” (the italics again are mine). Against this train of
+reasoning (further on in the same article it becomes evident that Mr.
+Aldrich is annoyed with Strawinsky because he has not done likewise)
+it is pleasant to place the following paragraph from Chorley’s “Modern
+German Music”: “Mozart, it will be recollected, totally and (for him)
+seriously, declined to criticize himself and confess his habits of
+composition. Many men have produced great works of art who have never
+cultivated æsthetic conversation: nay, more, who have shrunk with a
+secretly entertained dislike from those indefatigable persons whose
+fancy it is ‘to peep and botanize’ in every corner of faëry land. It
+cannot be said that the analytical spirit of the circle of Weimar, when
+Goethe was its master-spirit did any great things for Music.” Do not
+misunderstand Strawinsky’s silence (which has only been relative, after
+all). It is sometimes as well to compose as to theorize. Some of the
+great composers have let us see into their workshops (not that they
+have all consistently followed out their own theories) and others have
+not. In one pregnant paragraph Strawinsky has expressed himself (he is
+speaking of _The Nightingale_): “I want to suggest neither situations
+nor emotions, but simply to manifest, to express them. I think there is
+in what are called ‘impressionist’ methods” (“Mr. Strawinsky, on the
+other hand, is a musical impressionist from the start”: R. A. again) “a
+certain amount of hypocrisy, or at least a tendency towards vagueness
+and ambiguity. That I shun above all things, and that, perhaps, is the
+reason why my methods differ as much from those of the impressionists
+as they differ from academic conventional methods. Though I often find
+it extremely hard to do so, I always aim at straightforward expression
+in its simplest form. I have no use for ‘working-out’ in dramatic or
+lyric music. The one essential thing is to feel and to convey one’s
+feelings.”
+
+This idea of natural expression becomes associated in any great
+composer’s mind with another idea, the horror of the _cliché_. Each new
+giant desires to express himself without resorting to the thousand and
+one formulas which have been more or less in use since the “golden age”
+of music (whenever that was). Natural expression implies to a certain
+extent the abandonment of the _cliché_, for, under this principle,
+if a rule or a habit is weighed and found wanting it is immediately
+discarded.
+
+“Routine (_cliché_) is highly esteemed and frequently required; in
+musical ‘officialdom’ it is a _sine qua non_,” writes Busoni. “That
+routine in music should exist at all, and furthermore that it can
+be nominated as a condition in the musician’s bond, is another
+proof of the narrow confines of our musical art. Routine signifies
+the acquisition of a modicum of experience and art craft, and their
+application to all cases which may occur; hence, there must be an
+astounding number of analogous cases. Now I like to imagine a species
+of art-praxis wherein each case should be a new one, an exception.”
+Even so early a composer (using early in a loose sense) as Schumann
+found it unnecessary, at times, to close a piece with the tonic;
+and many other composers have disregarded the rule since, leaving
+the ear hanging in the air, so to speak. Is there any more reason
+why all pieces should end on the tonic than that all books should
+end happily or all pictures be painted in black and white? In music
+which Mozart wrote at the age of four there are chords of the second
+(and they occur in music before Mozart). In books of the period
+you can read of the horror with which ears at the beginning of the
+nineteenth century received consecutive fifths. Some of the modern
+French composers have disposed of the _cliché_ of a symphony in four
+movements. Chausson, Franck, and Dukas have written symphonies in
+three parts. What composer (even the most academic) ever followed the
+letter of a precept if he found a better way of expressing himself?
+Moussorgsky avoided _cliché_ as he would have avoided the plague. He
+took all the short cuts possible. There are no preambles and addendas,
+or other doddering concessions to scientific art in his music dramas
+and his songs. He gives the words their natural accent and the voice
+its natural inflections. Death is not always rewarded with blows on
+the big drum. The composer sometimes expresses the end, quite simply,
+in silence. In all the arts the horror of _cliché_ asserts itself
+so violently indeed that we find Robert Ross (“Masks and Phases”)
+assailing Walter Pater for such a fall from grace as the use of the
+phrase, “rebellious masses of black hair.” Of course some small souls
+are so busy defying _cliché_, with no adequate reason for doing so,
+that they make themselves ridiculous. And as an example of this
+preoccupation I may tell an anecdote related to me by George Moore.
+“For a time,” he said, “Augusta Holmès was interested in an opera she
+was composing, _La Montagne Noire_, to the exclusion of all other
+subjects in conversation. She talked about it constantly and always
+brought one point forward: all the characters were to sing with their
+backs to the audience. That was her novel idea. She did not seem to
+realize that, in itself, the innovation would not serve to make her
+opera interesting.” Strawinsky’s horror of _cliché_ is by no means
+abnormal. He does not break rules merely for the pleasure of shocking
+the pedants. In each instance he has developed, quite naturally and
+inevitably, the form out of his material. In _Petrouchka_, a ballet
+with a Russian country fair as its background, he has harped on the
+folk-dance tunes, the hurdy-gurdy manner, and, as befits this work,
+there is no great break with tradition, except in the orchestration.
+_The Firebird_, too, in spite of its fantasy and brilliance, is
+perfectly understandable in terms of the chromatic scale. In _The
+Sacrifice to the Spring_, on the other hand, unhampered by the chains
+which a “story-ballet” (the fable of these “pictures of pagan Russia”
+is entirely negligible) inevitably imply, he has awakened primitive
+emotions by the use of barbaric rhythm, without any special regard for
+melody or harmony, using the words in their academic senses. There
+is no attempt made to begin or end with major thirds. Strawinsky was
+perhaps the first composer to see that melody is of no importance in a
+ballet. _Fireworks_ is impressionistic but it is no more so (although
+the result is arrived at by a wholly dissimilar method) than _La Mer_
+of Debussy. But it is in his opera, _The Nightingale_, or his very
+short pieces for string quartet, or his Japanese songs for voice and
+small orchestra that the beast shows his fangs, so to speak. It is
+in these pieces and in _The Sacrifice to the Spring_ that Strawinsky
+has accomplished a process of elision, leaving out some of those
+stupidities which have bored us at every concert of academic music
+which we have attended. (You must realize how much your mind wanders
+at a symphony concert. It is impossible to concentrate one’s complete
+attention on the performance of a long work except at those times when
+some new phrase or some new turn in the working-out of a theme strikes
+the ear. There is so much of the music that is familiar, because it has
+occurred in so much music before. If you hear tum-ti-tum you may be
+certain it will be followed by ti-ti-ti and a good part of this sort
+of thing falls on deaf ears.... There are those, I am forced to admit,
+who can only concentrate on that which is perfectly familiar to them.)
+As a matter of fact he gives our ears credit (by this time!) for the
+ability to skip a few of the connecting links. Now this sort of elision
+in painting has come to be the slogan of a school. Cézanne painted a
+woman as he saw her; he made no attempt to explain her; that pleasure
+he left for the spectator of his picture. He did not draw a fashion
+plate. The successors of Cézanne (some of them) have gone much farther.
+They draw us a few bones and expect us to reconstruct the woman, body
+and soul, after the fashion of a professor of anatomy reconstructing an
+ichthyosaurus. Strawinsky and some other modern musicians have gone as
+far; they have left out the tum-ti-tums and twilly-wigs which connect
+the pregnant phrases in their music.... This does not signify that they
+do not _think_ them, sometimes, but it is not necessary for any one
+with a receptive ear (not an _expectant_ ear, unless it be an ear which
+expects to hear something pleasant!) to do so. In fact this kind of an
+auditor appreciates these short cuts of composers, gives thanks to God
+for them. Surprise is one of the keenest emotions that music has in its
+power to give us (even Hadyn and Weber discovered that!). It is only
+the pedants and the critics, who, after all, do not sit through all the
+long symphonies, who are annoyed by these attempts at concentration and
+condensation. (I say the pedants but I must include the Philistines.
+It is really _cliché_ which makes certain music “popular.” The public
+as a whole really prefers music based on _cliché_, with a melody in
+which the end is foreordained almost from the first bar. Of course in
+time public taste is changed.... The transition is slow ... but the
+composer who follows public taste instead of leading it soon drops out
+of hearing. The _cliché_ of to-day is not the _cliché_ of day before
+yesterday. According to Philip Hale, Napoleon, then first consul [1800]
+said to Luigi Cherubini, “I am very fond of Paisiello’s music; it is
+gentle, peaceful. You have great talent, but your accompaniments are
+too loud.” Cherubini replied, “Citizen Consul, I have conformed to the
+taste of the French.” Napoleon persisted, “Your music is too loud;
+let us talk of Paisiello’s which lulls me gently.” “I understand,”
+answered Cherubini, “you prefer music that does not prevent you from
+dreaming of affairs of state.”) Strawinsky, working gradually, not
+with the intention to astonish but with no fear of doing so, dropping
+superfluities, and all _cliché_ of the studio whatsoever, arrives
+at a perfectly natural form of expression in his lyric drama, _The
+Nightingale_, in which there is no working-out or development of
+themes; the music is intended to comment upon, to fill with a bigger
+meaning, the action as it proceeds, without resorting to tricks which
+require mental effort on the part of the auditor. The composer does not
+wish to burden him with any more mental effort than the mere listening
+to the piece requires and he strikes to the soul with the poignancy of
+his expression. (The foregoing may easily be misunderstood. It does not
+mean necessarily that there is no polyphony, that there are no parts
+leading hither and thither in the music of Strawinsky. It does not
+mean that dissonance has become an end in itself with this composer.
+It simply means that he has let his inspiration take the form natural
+to it and has not tried to cramp his inspiration into proscribed
+forms. There should be no more difficulty in understanding him than in
+understanding Beethoven once one arrives at listening with unbiased
+ears. The trouble is that too many of us have made up our minds not
+to listen to anything which does not conform with our own precious
+opinions.)
+
+At the risk of being misunderstood by some and for the sake of making
+myself clearer to others I hazard a frivolous figure. Say that
+Wagner’s formula for composition be represented by some expression;
+I will choose the simple proverb, “Make hay while the sun shines.”
+Humperdinck is content to change a single detail of this formula. He
+says, musically speaking, “Make _wheat_ while the sun shines.” Richard
+Strauss makes a more complete inversion. His paraphrase would suggest
+something like this, “Make brass while the band brays.” Strawinsky,
+wearied of the whole business (as was Debussy before him; genius does
+not paraphrase) uses only two words of the formula ... say “make” and
+“sun.” Later even these are negligible, as each new composer makes his
+own laws and his own formulas. The infinity of it! In time the work of
+Strawinsky will establish a _cliché_ to be scorned by a new generation
+(scorned in the sense that it will not be imitated, except by inferior
+men).
+
+That his music is vibrant and beautiful we may be sure and it has
+happened that all of it has been appreciated by a very worth-while
+public. He has done what Benedetto Croce in his valuable work,
+“Æsthetic,” demands of the artist. He has expressed himself ... for
+beauty is expression. “Artists,” says this writer, “while making a
+verbal pretence of agreeing, or yielding a feigned obedience to them,
+have always disregarded (these) _laws of styles_. Every true work of
+art has violated some established class and upset the ideas of the
+critics who have been obliged to enlarge the number of classes, until
+finally even this enlargement has proved too narrow, owing to the
+appearance of new works of art, which are naturally followed by new
+scandals, new upsettings, and--new enlargements.”
+
+“It must not be forgotten,” says Egon Wellesz (“Schoenberg and Beyond”
+in “The Musical Quarterly,” Otto Kinkeldey’s translation), “that in art
+there are no ‘eternal laws’ and rules. Each period of history has its
+own art, and the art of each period has its own rules. There are times
+of which one might say that every work which was not in accord with the
+rules was bad or amateurish. These are the times in which fixed forms
+exist, to which all artists hold fast, merely varying the content.
+Then there are periods when artists break through and shatter the old
+forms. The greatness of their thoughts can no longer be confined within
+the old limits. (Think of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and the Symphonie
+Fantastique of Berlioz.) There arises a category of art works whose
+power and beauty can be _felt_ only and not _understood_. For this
+reason an audience that knows nothing of rules will enthuse over works
+of this kind much sooner than the average musician who looks for the
+rules and their observance.”
+
+Remember that Hanslick called _Tristan und Isolde_ “an abomination of
+sense and language” and Chorley wrote “I have never been so blanked,
+pained, wearied, _insulted_ even (the word is not too strong), by a
+work of pretension as by ... _Tannhäuser_....” “Fortunately,” I quote
+Benedetto Croce again, “no arduous remarks are necessary to convince
+ourself that pictures, poetry, and every work of art, produce no
+effects save on souls prepared to receive them.”
+
+The clock continues to make its hands go round, so fast indeed that
+it becomes increasingly difficult to keep track of its course. For
+example, just before his death, John F. Runciman in “Another Ode to
+Discord” (“The New Music Review,” April, 1916) seemed to present an
+entirely new front. Here is a sample passage, “We have grown used to
+dissonances and our ears no longer require the momentary rest afforded
+by frequent concords; if a discord neither demands preparation nor
+resolution, and if it sounds beautiful and is expressive, there is
+no reason on earth why a piece of music should not consist wholly
+of a series of discords.... From Monteverde to Scriabine the line
+is unbroken, each successive generation growing bolder in attacking
+dissonances and still bolder in the manner of quitting them. I heard
+a gentleman give a recital of his own pianoforte works not long ago.
+They seemed to consist entirely of minor seconds--B and C struck
+together--and the effect to my mind was excruciatingly abominable.
+But that is how Bach’s music, Beethoven’s, Wagner’s, struck their
+contemporaries; and heaven knows what we shall get accustomed to in
+time. One thing is certain--that the most daring modern spirit is only
+following in the steps of the mightiest masters....”
+
+We may be on the verge of a still greater revolution in art than any
+through which we have yet passed; new banners may be unfurled, and new
+strongholds captured. I admit that the idea gives me pleasure. Try to
+admit as much to yourself. Go hear the new music; listen to it and see
+if you can’t enjoy it. Perhaps you can’t. At any rate you will find in
+time that you won’t listen to second-rate imitations of the giant works
+of the past any longer. Your ears will make progress in spite of you
+and I shouldn’t wonder at all if five years more would make Schoenberg
+and Strawinsky and Ornstein a trifle old-fashioned.... The Austrian
+already has a little of the academy dust upon him.
+
+
+_New York, April 16, 1916._
+
+
+
+
+A New Principle in Music
+
+
+
+
+A New Principle in Music
+
+
+Although Igor Strawinsky plainly proclaimed himself a genius in _The
+Firebird_ (1909-10), it was in _Petrouchka_ (1910-11) that he began the
+experiment which established a new principle in music. In these “scènes
+burlesques” he discovered the advantages of a new use of the modern
+orchestra, completely upsetting the old academic ideas about “balance
+of tone,” and proving to his own satisfaction the value of “pure tone,”
+in the same sense that the painter speaks of pure colour. And in this
+work he broke away from the standards not only of Richard Strauss, the
+Wagner follower, but also of such innovators as Modeste Moussorgsky and
+Claude Debussy.
+
+Strauss, following Wagner’s theory of the _leit-motiv_, rounded out
+the form of the tone-poem, carried the principle of representation in
+music a few steps farther than his master, gave new colours to old
+instruments, and broadened the scope of the modern orchestra so that
+it might include new ones (in one of his symphonies Gustav Mahler
+was content with 150 men!). Moussorgsky (although his work preceded
+that of Strauss, the general knowledge of it is modern), working
+along entirely different lines, strove for truthful utterance and
+achieved a mode of expression which usually seems inevitable. Debussy
+endowed music with novel tints derived from the extensive, and almost
+exclusive, use of what is called the whole-tone scale, and instead of
+forcing his orchestra to make more noise he constantly repressed it (in
+all of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ there is but one climax of sound and in
+_l’Après-midi d’un Faune_ and his other orchestral works he is equally
+continent in the use of dynamics).
+
+Igor Strawinsky has not been deaf to the blandishments of these
+composers. He has used the _leit-motiv_ (sparingly) in both _The
+Firebird_ and _Petrouchka_. He abandoned it in _The Sacrifice to
+the Spring_ (1913) and in _The Nightingale_ (1914). His powers of
+representation are as great as those of Strauss; it is only necessary
+to recall the music of the bird in _The Firebird_, his orchestral
+piece, _Fireworks_, which received warm praise from a manufacturer of
+pyrotechnics, and the street organ music in _Petrouchka_. Later he
+conceived the mission of music to be something different. “La musique
+est trop bête,” he said once ironically, “pour exprimer autre chose que
+la musique.” In such an extraordinary work as _The Nightingale_ we find
+him making little or no attempt at representation. The bird does not
+sing like the little brown warbler; instead Strawinsky has endeavoured
+to write music which would give the _feeling_ of the bird’s song and
+the effect it made on the people in his lyric drama to the auditors
+in the stalls of the opera house. As for Strauss’s use of orchestral
+colour the German is the merest tyro when compared to the Russian.
+There is some use of the whole-tone scale in _The Firebird_, and
+elsewhere in Strawinsky, but it is not a predominant use of it. In this
+“conte dansé” he also suggests the _Pelléas et Mélisande_ of Debussy
+in his continent use of sound and the mystery and esotericism of his
+effect. Strawinsky is more of an expert than Moussorgsky; he handles
+his medium more freely (has any one ever handled it better?) but he
+still preaches the older Russian doctrine of truth of expression, a
+doctrine which implies the curt dismissal of all idea of padding.
+
+But all these composers and their contemporaries, and the composers
+who came before them, have one quality in common; they all use the
+orchestra of their time, or a bigger one. Strauss, to be sure,
+introduces a number of new instruments, but he still utilizes a vast
+number of violins and violas massed against the other instruments,
+diminishing in number according to the volume of sound each makes. He
+divides his strings continually, of course; they do not all play alike
+as the violins, say, in _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_, but they often all
+play at once.
+
+Strawinsky experimented at first with the full orchestra and he even
+utilized it in such late works as _Petrouchka_ and _The Nightingale_.
+However, in his search for “pure tone” he used it in a new way. In
+_Petrouchka_, for example, infrequently you will hear more than _one
+of each instrument at a time_ and frequently two, or at most three,
+instruments playing simultaneously will be sufficient to give his idea
+form. The entire second scene of this mimed drama, is written for solo
+piano, occasionally combined with a single other instrument. At other
+times in the action the bassoon or the cornet, even the triangle has
+the stage. And when he wishes to achieve his most complete effects he
+is careful not to use more than seven or eight instruments, and _only
+one of each_.
+
+He experimented still further with this principle in his Japanese
+songs, for voice and small orchestra (1912). The words are by Akahito,
+Mazatsumi, and Tsaraiuki. I have not heard these songs with orchestral
+accompaniment (the piano transcription was made by the composer
+himself) but I may take the judgment of those who have. I am told that
+they are of an indescribable beauty, and instinct with a new colour,
+a colour particularly adapted to the oriental naïveté of the lyrics.
+The orchestra, to accompany a soprano, consists of two flutes (one
+a little flute), two clarinets (the second a bass clarinet), piano
+(an instrument which Strawinsky almost invariably includes in his
+orchestration), two violins, viola and ’cello. This form of chamber
+music, of course, is not rare. Chausson’s violin concerto, with chamber
+orchestra, and Schoenberg’s _Pierrot Lunaire_ instantly come to mind,
+but Strawinsky did not stop with chamber music. He applied his new
+principle to the larger forms.
+
+In his newest work, _The Village Weddings_, which I believe Serge
+de Diaghilew hopes to produce, his principle has found its ultimate
+expression, I am told by his friend, Ernest Ansermet, conductor of the
+Russian Ballet in America and to whom Strawinsky dedicated his three
+pieces for string quartet. The last note is dry on the score of this
+work, and it is therefore quite possible to talk about it although no
+part of it has yet been performed publicly. According to Mr. Ansermet
+there is required an orchestra of forty-five men, each a virtuoso, _no
+two of whom play the same instrument_ (to be sure there are two violins
+but one invariably plays pizzicato, the other invariably bows). There
+are novelties in the band but all the conventional instruments are
+there including, you may be sure, a piano and an infinite variety
+of woodwinds, which always play significant rôles in Strawinsky’s
+orchestration. And Mr. Ansermet says that in this work Strawinsky
+has achieved effects such as have only been dreamed of by composers
+hitherto.... I can well believe him.
+
+He has made another innovation, following, in this case, an idea
+of Diaghilew’s. When that impresario determined on a production of
+Rimsky-Korsakow’s opera, _The Golden Cock_, during the summer of
+1914 he conceived a performance with two casts, one choregraphic
+and the other vocal. Thus Mme. Dobrovolska sang the coloratura rôle
+of the Queen of Shemakhan while Mme. Karsavina danced the part most
+brilliantly on her toes; M. Petrov sang the rôle of King Dodon,
+which was enacted by Adolf Bolm, etc. In order to accomplish this
+feat Mr. Diaghilew was obliged to make the singers a part of the
+decoration. Nathalie Gontcharova, who has been called in to assist
+in the production of _The Village Weddings_, devised as part of her
+stage setting two tiers of seats, one on either side of the stage,
+extending into the flies after the fashion of similar benches used
+at the performance of an oratorio. The singers (principals and chorus
+together) clad in magenta gowns and caps, all precisely similar, sat
+on these seats during the performance and, after a few seconds, they
+became quite automatically a part of the decoration. The action took
+place in the centre of the stage and the dancers not only mimed their
+rôles but also opened and closed their mouths as if they were singing.
+The effect was thoroughly diverting and more than one serious person
+was heard to declare that the future of opera had been solved, although
+Mme. Rimsky-Korsakow, as she had on a similar occasion when the Russian
+Ballet had produced Fokine’s version of _Scheherazade_, protested.
+
+Rimsky-Korsakow wrote his opera to be sung in the ordinary fashion,
+and, in so far as this matters, it was perhaps a desecration to perform
+it in any other manner. However, quite beyond the fact that very large
+audiences were hugely delighted with _The Golden Cock_ in its new form,
+these performances served to fire Strawinsky with the inspiration for
+his new work. He intends _The Village Weddings_ to be given precisely
+in this manner. It is an opera, the rôles of which are to be sung by
+artists who sit still while the figures of the ballet will enact them.
+The words, I am told, are entirely derived from Russian folk stories
+and ballads, pieced together by the composer himself, and the action is
+to be like that of a marionette show in which the characters are worked
+by strings from above. It may also be stated on the same authority that
+the music, while embracing new tone colours and dramatic effects, is as
+tuneful as any yet set on paper by this extraordinary young man; the
+songs have a true folk flavour. The whole, it is probable, will make
+as enchanting a stage entertainment as any which this composer has yet
+contrived.
+
+It is not only folk-tunes but popular songs as well that fascinate Igor
+Strawinsky. Ernest Ansermet collected literally hundreds of examples
+of American ragtime songs and dances to take back to the composer,
+and he pointed out to me how Strawinsky had used similar specimens
+in the past. For example, the barrel organ solo in the first scene
+of _Petrouchka_ is a popular French song of several seasons ago, _La
+Jambe de Bois_ (a song now forbidden in Paris); the final wedding music
+in _The Firebird_ is an _adagio_ version of a popular Russian song,
+with indecent words. He sees beauty in these popular tunes, too much
+beauty to be allowed to go to waste. In the same spirit he has taken
+the melodies of two Lanner waltzes for the dance between the Ballerina
+and the Moor in the third scene of _Petrouchka_. It would not surprise
+me at all to discover _Hello Frisco_ bobbing up in one of his future
+works. After all turn about is fair play; the popular composers have
+dug gold mines out of the classics.
+
+Consistent, certainly, is Strawinsky’s delight in clowns and music
+halls--the burlesque and the eccentric. He has written a ballet for
+four clowns, and Ansermet showed me one day an arrangement for four
+hands of three pieces, for small orchestra, in _style music hall_,
+dated 1914. We gave what we smilingly referred to as the “first
+American audition” on the grand pianoforte in his hotel room. I
+played the base, not a matter of any particular difficulty in the
+first number, a polka, because the first bar was repeated to the
+end. This polka, I found very amusing and we played it over several
+times. The valse, which followed, reminded me of the Lanner number
+in _Petrouchka_. The suite closed with a march, dedicated to Alfred
+Casella.... The pieces would delight any audience, from that of the
+Palace Theatre, to that of the concerts of the Symphony Society of New
+York.
+
+
+_New York, February 6, 1916._
+
+
+
+
+Leo Ornstein
+
+  “_the only true blue, genuine Futurist composer alive._”
+
+                                         James Huneker.
+
+
+
+
+Leo Ornstein
+
+
+The amazing Leo Ornstein!... I should have written the amazing Leo
+Ornsteins for “there are many of them and each one of them is one.”
+Ornstein himself has a symbol for this diversity; some of his music he
+signs “Vannin.” He has told me that the signature is automatic: when
+Vannin writes he signs; when Ornstein writes _he_ signs. But it is
+not alone in composing that there are many Ornsteins; there are many
+pianists as well. One Ornstein paints his tones with a fine soft brush;
+the other smears on his colours with a trowel. In his sentimental
+treatment of triviality he has scarcely a competitor on the serious
+concert stage (unless it be Fanny Bloomfield-Zeisler). Is this the
+Caliban, one asks, who conceived and who executes _The Wild Men’s
+Dance_? The softer Ornstein is less original than his comrade, more
+imitative.... I have been told that Jews are always imitative in art,
+that there are no great Jewish composers. Wagner? Well, Wagner was half
+a Jew, perhaps. Certainly there is imitation in Ornstein, but so was
+there in the young Beethoven, the young Debussy....
+
+Recently I went to hear Ornstein play under a misconception. I thought
+that he, with an announced violinist, was going to perform his
+anarchistic sonata for violin and piano, opus 31. They did perform
+one of his sonatas but it was an earlier opus, 26, I think. At times,
+while I listened it seemed to me that nothing so beautiful had been
+done in this form since César Franck’s sonata. The first movement had
+a rhapsodic character that was absolutely successful in establishing a
+mood. The music soared; it did not seem confined at all. It achieved
+perfectly the effect of improvisation. The second part was even finer,
+and the scherzo and finale only less good. But this was no new idiom. I
+looked again and again at my programme; again and again at the man on
+the piano stool. Was this not Harold Bauer playing Ravel?... One theme
+struck me as astonishingly like Johnson’s air in the last act of _The
+Girl of the Golden West_. There was a good use made of the whole-tone
+scale and its attendant harmonies, which sounded strangely in our ears
+a few seasons past, and a ravishing series of figurations and runs made
+one remember that Debussy had described falling water in a similar
+fashion.
+
+This over the pianist became less himself--so far as I had become
+acquainted with him to this time--than ever. He played a banal
+barcarole of Rubinstein’s; to be sure he almost made it sound like an
+interesting composition; he played a scherzino of his own that any one
+from Schütt to Moszkowski might have signed; he played something of
+Grieg’s which may have pleased Mr. Finck and two or three ladies in the
+audience but which certainly left me cold; and he concluded this group
+with a performance of Liszt’s arrangement of the waltz from Gounod’s
+_Faust_. Thereupon there was so much applause that he came back and
+played his scherzino again. His répertoire in this _genre_ was probably
+too limited to admit of his adding a fresh number.... At this point I
+arose and left the hall, more in wonder than in indignation.
+
+Was this the musician who had been reviled and hissed? Was this the
+pianist and composer whom Huneker had dubbed the only real futurist in
+modern music? It was not the Ornstein I myself had heard a few weeks
+previously striking the keyboards with his fists in the vociferous
+measures of _The Wild Men’s Dance_; it was not the colour painter of
+the two _Impressions of Notre Dame_; it was not the Ornstein who in
+a dark corner of Pogliani’s glowed with glee over the possibility of
+dividing and redividing the existing scale into eighth, sixteenth, and
+twenty-fourth tones.... This was another Ornstein and in searching my
+memory I discovered him to be the oldest Ornstein of all. I remembered
+five years back when I was assistant to the musical critic of the “New
+York Times” and had been sent to hear a boy prodigy play on a Sunday
+evening at the New Amsterdam Theatre. Concerts by serious artists at
+that period seldom took place outside of recognized concert halls, nor
+did they occur on Sunday nights. But there was something about this
+concert that impressed itself upon me and I wrote more than the usual
+perfunctory notice on this occasion. Here is my account of what I think
+must have been Leo Ornstein’s first public appearance (March 5, 1911),
+dug from an old scrap book:
+
+“The New Amsterdam Theatre is a strange place for a recital of
+pianoforte music, but one was held there last evening, when Leo
+Ornstein, the latest wunderkind to claim metropolitan attention,
+appeared before a very large audience to contribute his interpretation
+of a programme which would have tested any fully grown-up talent.
+
+“It began with Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, included Beethoven’s
+_Sonata Appassionata_, six Chopin numbers, and finally Rubinstein’s
+D minor concerto, in which young Ornstein was assisted by the Volpe
+Symphony Orchestra. To say that this boy has great talent would be to
+mention the obvious, but to say that as yet he is ripe for such matters
+as he undertook last night would be stretching the truth. It should be
+stated, however, that his command of tone colour is already great and
+that his technique is usually adequate for the demands which the music
+made, although in some passages in the final movement of the Beethoven
+sonata his strength seemed to desert him.”
+
+I never even heard of Leo Ornstein again after this concert at the New
+Amsterdam (his exploits in Europe escaped my eyes and ears) until he
+gave the famous series of concerts at the Bandbox Theatre in January
+and February of 1915, a series of concerts which really startled
+musical New York and even aroused orchestral conductors, in some
+measure, out of their lethargic method of programme-making. So far
+as he was able Ornstein constructed his programmes entirely from the
+“music of the future,” and patrons of piano recitals were astonished
+to discover that a pianist could give four concerts without playing
+any music by Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, Brahms, Liszt, or
+Schubert.... Since these occasions Ornstein has been considered the
+high apostle of the new art in America, as the post-futurist composer,
+and as a pianist of great technical powers and a luscious tone
+quality (it does not seem strange that these attributes are somewhat
+exaggerated in so young a man).
+
+Nearly a year later (December 15, 1915, to be exact) Ornstein
+gave another concert at the Cort Theatre in New York. Here are my
+impressions of that occasion, noted down shortly after:
+
+“Leo Ornstein, a few years ago a poor Russian Jew music student, is
+rapidly by way of becoming an institution. His concerts are largely
+attended and he is even taken seriously by the press, especially in
+England.
+
+“He slouched on the stage, stooping, in his usual listless manner, his
+long arms hanging limp at his sides like those of a gorilla. His head
+is beautiful, crowned with an overflowing crop of black hair, soulful
+eyes, a fine mask. There are pauses without expression but sometimes,
+notably when he plays _The Wild Men’s Dance_, his face lights up with a
+sort of sardonic appreciation. He has discarded his sack cloth coat for
+a velvet jacket of similar cut.
+
+“He began with two lovely impressionistic things by Vannin (Sanborn
+says that this is ‘programme for Ornstein’), _The Waltzers_ and
+_Night_. A long sonata by Cyril Scott (almost entirely in the
+whole-tone scale, sounding consequently like Debussy out of Bach,
+for there was a fugue and a smell of the academy) followed. Ravel’s
+_Oiseaux Tristes_ twittered their sorrows prettily in the treble, and a
+sonatina by the same composer seemed negligible. Albeniz’s _Almeria_, a
+section of the twelve-parted _Iberia_, was a Spanish picture of worth.
+Ornstein followed with his own pieces, _Improvisata_, a vivid bit of
+colour and rhythm, and _Impressions of the Thames_, in which an attempt
+was made to picture the heavy smoking barges, the labours on the river,
+the shrill sirens of the tugs. The limited (is it, I wonder?) medium
+of the piano made all this sound rather Chinese. But some got the
+picture. A few laughed. _The Wild Men’s Dance_ convulsed certain parts
+of the audience. It always does (but this may well be hysteria); others
+were struck with wonder by its thrill. Certainly a powerful massing of
+notes, creating wild effects in tone, and a compelling rhythm. In the
+_Fairy Pictures_ of Korngold, which closed the programme, Ornstein was
+not at his best; nor, for that matter, was Korngold. They were written
+when the composer was a very young boy and they are not particularly
+original, spontaneous, or beautiful. The difficulties exist for the
+player rather than for the hearer.... Ornstein did not bring out their
+humour. Humour, as yet, is not an attribute of his playing. He has
+always imparted to the piano a beautiful tone; his touch is almost as
+fine as Pachmann’s. But his powers are ripening in every direction.
+Formerly he dwelt too long on nuances, fussed too much with details.
+His style is becoming broader. His technique has always been ample.
+There is no doubt but that he will become a power in the music world.”
+
+Some time later I met Leo Ornstein and we talked over a table. He is
+fluid in conversation and while he talks he clasps and unclasps his
+hands.... He referred to his début at the New Amsterdam. “My ambition
+then was to play the concertos of Rubinstein and Tschaikowsky ... and
+I satisfied it. Soon after that concert I went abroad.... Suddenly the
+new thing came to me, and I began to write and play in the style which
+has since become identified with my name. It was music that I felt and
+I realized that I had become myself at last, although at first, to be
+frank, it horrified me as much as it has since horrified others. Mind
+you, when I took the leap I had never seen any music by Schoenberg
+or Strawinsky. I was unaware that there was such a generality as
+‘futurism.’
+
+“I spent some time in Norway and Vienna, where I met Leschetitzky”
+(this incident is referred to elsewhere in this volume) “and then I
+went down to Paris. I was very poor.... I met Harold Bauer and one day
+I went to play for him. We had a furious argument all day. He couldn’t
+understand my music. But he asked me to come again the next day,
+and I did. This time Walter Morse Rummel was there and he suggested
+that Calvocoressi would be interested in me. So he gave me a note to
+Calvocoressi.
+
+“Calvocoressi is a Greek but he speaks all languages. He read my
+note of introduction and asked me if I spoke French or English. We
+spoke a little Russian together. Then he asked me to play. While I
+played his eyes snapped and he uttered several sudden ejaculations.
+‘Play that again,’ he said, when I had concluded one piece. Later
+on he asked some of his friends to hear me.... At the time he was
+giving a series of lectures on modern musicians, Strauss, Debussy,
+Dukas, Ravel, Schoenberg, and Strawinsky, and he included _me_ in the
+list! I illustrated two of his lectures and after I had concluded
+my performance of the music of other composers he asked me to play
+something of my own, which I did....” Ornstein looked amusingly
+rueful. “The auditors were not actually rude. How could they be when
+I followed Calvocoressi? But they giggled a little. Later on in London
+they did more than giggle.
+
+“I went to London because my means were getting low. I had almost no
+money at all, as a matter of fact.... In London I found Calvocoressi’s
+influence of great value (he had already written an article about me)
+and some people at Oxford had heard me in Paris. These friends helped;
+besides I played the Steinway piano and the Steinways finally gave me a
+concert in Steinway Hall. At my first concert (this was in the spring
+of 1914) I played music by other composers. At my second concert,
+devoted to my own compositions, I might have played anything. I
+couldn’t hear the piano myself. The crowd whistled and howled and even
+threw handy missiles on the stage ... but that concert made me famous,”
+Ornstein wound up with a smile.
+
+He is a hard-working youth, serious, it would seem, to the heart. His
+published music is numbered into the thirties and his répertoire is
+extensive. He spends a great deal of time working hard on the music of
+a bygone age, although he finds it no stimulation for this one, but to
+be taken seriously as a pianist he is obliged to prove to melomaniacs
+that he has the equipment to play the classic composers. Of all the
+compositions that he learns, however, he complains of his own as the
+most difficult to memorize; a glance at _The Wild Men’s Dance_ or more
+particularly at a page of his second sonata for violin and piano will
+convince any one of the truth of this assertion. The chords will prove
+strangers to many a well-trained eye. I wonder if so uncannily gifted
+a sight reader as Walter Damrosch, who can play an orchestral score on
+the piano at sight, could read this music?
+
+Of his principles of composition the boy says only that he writes what
+he feels. He has no regard for the rules, although he has studied them
+enough to break them thoroughly. He thinks there is an underlying basis
+of theory for his method of composition, which may be formulated later.
+It is not his purpose to formulate it. He is sincere in his art.
+
+Once he said to me, “I hate cleverness. I don’t want to be clever. I
+hate to be called clever. I am not clever. I don’t like clever people.
+Art that is merely clever is not art at all.”
+
+With Busoni and Schoenberg he believes that there are no discords, only
+chords and chords ... and that there are many combinations of notes,
+“millions of them” which have not yet been devised.
+
+“When I feel that the existing enharmonic scale is limiting me I shall
+write in quarter tones. In time I think the ear can be trained to
+grasp eighth tones. Instruments only exist to perform music and new
+instruments will be created to meet the new need. It can be met now on
+the violin or in the voice. The piano, of course, is responsible for
+the rigidity of the present scale.”
+
+Ornstein never rewrites. If his inspiration does not come the first
+time it never comes. He does not try to improve a failure. His method
+is to write as much as he can spontaneously on one day, and to pick the
+composition up where he left off on the next.
+
+His opinions of other modern composers are interesting: he considers
+Ravel greater than Debussy, and speaks with enthusiasm about _Daphnis
+et Chloë_. He has played music by Satie in private but does not find
+it “stimulating or interesting.” ... Schoenberg ... “the last of the
+academics ... all brain, no spirit. His music is mathematical. He does
+not feel it. Korngold’s pieces are pretty but he has done nothing
+important. Scriabine was a great theorist who never achieved his goal.
+He helped others on. But Strawinsky is the most stimulating and
+interesting of all the modern composers. He feels what he writes.”
+
+Most of Ornstein’s music is inspired by things about him, some of it by
+abstract ideas. His social conscience is awake. He wanted to call _The
+Wild Men’s Dance_, _Liberty_ (“I attempted to write music which would
+dance itself, which did not require a dancer”), but finally decided
+on the more symbolic title. “I am known as a musical anarch now,” he
+explained to me, “I could not name a piece of music _Liberty_--at least
+not _that_ piece--without associating myself in the public mind with a
+certain social propaganda.” Just the same he means the propaganda. In
+the _Dwarf Suite_ he gives us a picture of the lives of the struggling
+Russian Jews. These dwarfs are symbols.... He is fond of abstract
+titles. He often plays his _Three Moods_. “In Boston they did not like
+my _Three Moods_. They found my _Anger_ too unrestrained; it was vulgar
+to express oneself so freely.... But there is such a thing as anger.
+Why should it not find artistic expression? Besides it is a very good
+contrast to _Peace_ and _Joy_ which enclose it.” The _Impressions of
+the Thames_ I have already referred to. With the two _Impressions of
+Notre Dame_ it stands as his successful experiment with impressionism.
+The _Notre Dame_ pictures include gargoyles and, of course, bells....
+I have not heard the violin and piano sonata, opus 31. Nor can I play
+it. Nor can I derive any very adequate idea of how it sounds from a
+perusal of the score. Strange music this.... Some time ago some one
+sent Ornstein the eight songs of Richard Strauss, Opus 49. The words
+of three of these songs (_Wiegenliedchen_, _In Goldener Fülle_, and
+_Waldseligkeit_) struck him and he made settings for them. Compare
+them with Strauss and you will find the Bavarian’s music scented with
+lavender. “In the _Wiegenliedchen_ Strauss gives you a picture of
+the woman rocking the cradle for his accompaniment. I have tried to
+go further, tried to express the feelings in the woman’s mind, her
+hopes for the child when it is grown, her fears. I have tried to get
+_underneath_.” But the _Berceuse_ in Ornstein’s _Nine Miniatures_ is
+as simple an expression as the lover of Ethelbert Nevin’s style could
+wish. Not all of Ornstein’s music is careless of tradition. He was
+influenced in the beginning by many people. His _Russian Suite_ is very
+pretty. Most of it is like Tschaikowsky. These suites will prove (if
+any one wants it proved) that Ornstein can write conventional melody.
+
+Ornstein has also written a composition for orchestra entitled _The
+Faun_, which Henry Wood had in mind for performance before the war.
+It has not yet been played and I humbly suggest it to our resident
+conductors, together with Albeniz’s _Catalonia_, Schoenberg’s _Five
+Pieces_, and Strawinsky’s _Sacrifice to the Spring_.
+
+Leo Ornstein was born in 1895 at Krementchug, near Odessa. He is
+consequently in his twenty-first year. He is already a remarkable
+pianist, one of the very few who may be expected to achieve a position
+in the front rank. His compositions have astonished the musical world.
+Some of them have even pleased people. Whatever their ultimate value
+they have certainly made it a deal easier for concert-goers to listen
+to what are called “discords” with equanimity. His music is a modern
+expression, untraditional, and full of a strange seething emotion; no
+calculation here. And like the best painting and literature of the
+epoch it vibrates with the unrest of the period which produced the
+great war.
+
+
+_June 14, 1916._
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
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+Transcriber’s Note
+
+New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
+public domain.
+
+Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Hyphenation
+was standardized.
+
+Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following
+changes:
+
+  Page 44: “Greig’s _Peer Gynt_”         “Grieg’s _Peer Gynt_”
+  Page 73: “_l’Heure Espagnole_”         “_L’heure Espagnole_”
+  Page 77: “colour of Zurburan”          “colour of Zurbaran”
+  Page 77: “Juan de Juares”              “Juan de Juarez”
+  Page 84: “_Fantasy_ of Farrega”        “_Fantasy_ of Tárrega”
+  Page 136: “oder Der misverstandene”    “oder Der missverstandene”
+  Page 178: “is a _pointe de depart_”    “is a _point de départ_”
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75908 ***
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+<div class="chapter">
+<h1>Music and Bad Manners</h1>
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+
+
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<p class="ph2">
+<i>By THE SAME AUTHOR</i><br>
+</p>
+<p class="ph3">
+MUSIC AFTER THE GREAT WAR<br>
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<p class="ph2">
+Music<br>
+and Bad Manners<br>
+<br>
+<i>Carl Van Vechten</i><br>
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="i_logo" style="width: 12.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="logo - Dog running">
+</figure>
+<p class="ph3">
+New York Alfred A. Knopf<br>
+MCMXVI<br>
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+
+<div class="chapter">
+<p class="ph3">
+COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY<br>
+ALFRED A. KNOPF</p>
+<p class="ph4">
+<i>All rights reserved</i><br>
+<br>
+<br>
+PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA<br>
+</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p class="ph2"><i>To my Father</i></p></div>
+
+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="Contents">Contents</h2></div>
+
+
+
+
+<table class="autotable">
+<tr>
+<td></td>
+<td class="tdr">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Music and Bad Manners</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Music for the Movies</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Spain and Music</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Shall We Realize Wagner’s Ideals?</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Bridge Burners</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A New Principle in Music</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Leo Ornstein</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="Music_and_Bad_Manners">Music and Bad Manners</h2></div>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<p class="ph2">Music and Bad Manners</p></div>
+
+
+<p>Singers, musicians of all kinds, are notoriously
+bad mannered. The storms of the
+Titan, Beethoven, the petty malevolences of
+Richard Wagner, the weak sulkiness of Chopin
+(“Chopin in displeasure was appalling,” writes
+George Sand, “and as with me he always controlled
+himself it was as if he might die of suffocation”)
+have all been recalled in their proper
+places in biographies and in fiction; but no attempt
+has been made heretofore, so far as I am aware, to
+lump similar anecdotes together under the somewhat
+castigating title I have chosen to head
+this article. Nor is it alone the performer who
+gives exhibitions of bad manners. (As a matter
+of fact, once an artist reaches the platform he is
+on his mettle, at his best. At home he—or she—may
+be ruthless in his passionate display of
+floods of “temperament.” I have seen a soprano
+throw a pork roast on the floor at dinner, the day
+before a performance of Wagner’s “consecrational
+festival play,” with the shrill explanation,
+“Pork before <i>Parsifal</i>!” On the street he may
+shatter the clouds with his lightnings—as, indeed,
+Beethoven is said to have done—but on the stage
+he becomes, as a rule, a superhuman being, an interpreter,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>a mere virtuoso. Of course, there are
+exceptions.) Audiences, as well, may be relied
+upon to behave badly on occasion. An auditor is
+not necessarily at his best in the concert hall. He
+may have had a bad dinner, or quarrelled with his
+wife before arriving. At any rate he has paid
+his money and it might be expected that he would
+make some demonstration of disapproval when he
+was displeased. The extraordinary thing is that
+he does not do so oftener. On the whole it must
+be admitted that audiences remain unduly calm at
+concerts, that they are unreasonably polite, indeed,
+to offensively inadequate or downright bad
+interpretations. I have sat through performances,
+for example, of the Russian Symphony Society
+in New York when I wondered how my fellow-sufferers
+could display such fortitude and
+patience. When <i>Prince Igor</i> was first performed
+at the Metropolitan Opera House the ballet,
+danced in defiance of all laws of common sense or
+beauty, almost compelled me to throw the first
+stone. The parable saved me. Still one doesn’t
+need to be without sin to sling pebbles in an opera
+house. And it is a pleasure to remember that
+there have been occasions when audiences did
+speak up!</p>
+
+<p>In those immeasurably sad pages in which
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>Henry Fothergill Chorley describes the last London
+appearance of Giuditta Pasta, recalling Pauline
+Viardot’s beautiful remark (she, like Rachel,
+was hearing the great dramatic soprano for the
+first time), “It is like the <i>Cenacolo</i> of Da Vinci at
+Milan—a wreck of a picture, but the picture is
+the greatest picture in the world!” this great
+chronicler of the glories of the opera stage recalls
+the attitude of the French actress: “There were
+artists present, who had then, for the first time,
+to derive some impression of a renowned artist—perhaps,
+with the natural feeling that her reputation
+had been exaggerated.—Among these was
+Rachel—whose bitter ridicule of the entire sad
+show made itself heard throughout the whole theatre,
+and drew attention to the place where she sat—one
+might even say, sarcastically enjoying the
+scene.”</p>
+
+<p>Chorley’s description of an incident in the
+career of the dynamic Mme. Mara, a favourite
+in Berlin from 1771 to 1780, makes far
+pleasanter reading: “On leave of absence being
+denied to her when she wished to recruit her
+strength by a visit to the Bohemian <i>baden</i>, the
+songstress took the resolution of neglecting her
+professional duties, in the hope of being allowed
+to depart as worthless. The Czarovitch, Paul the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>First of Russia, happened about that time to pay
+a visit to Berlin; and she was announced to appear
+in one of the grand parts. She pretended illness.
+The King sent her word, in the morning of the
+day, that she was to get well and sing her best.
+She became, of course, worse—could not leave
+her bed. Two hours before the opera began, a
+carriage, escorted by eight soldiers, was at her
+door, and the captain of the company forced his
+way into her chamber, declaring that their orders
+were to bring her to the theatre, dead or alive.
+‘You cannot; you see I am in bed.’ ‘That is of
+little consequence,’ said the obdurate machine;
+‘we will take you, bed and all.’ There was nothing
+for it but to get up and go to the theatre;
+dress, and resolve to sing without the slightest
+taste or skill. And this Mara did. She kept her
+resolution for the whole of the first act, till a
+thought suddenly seized her that she might be
+punishing herself in giving the Grand-Duke of
+Russia a bad opinion of her powers. A <i>bravura</i>
+came; and she burst forth with all her brilliancy, in
+particular distinguishing herself by a miraculous
+shake, which she sustained, and swelled, and diminished,
+with such wonderful art as to call down
+more applause than ever.” This was the same
+Mara who walked out of the orchestra at a performance
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>of <i>The Messiah</i> at Oxford rather than
+stand during the singing of the <i>Hallelujah Chorus</i>.</p>
+
+<p>In that curious series of anecdotes which Berlioz
+collected under the title, “Les Grotesques de
+la Musique,” I discovered an account of a performance
+of a <i>Miserere</i> of Mercadante at the
+church of San Pietro in Naples, in the presence of
+a cardinal and his suite. The cardinal several
+times expressed his pleasure, and the congregation
+at two points, the <i>Redde Mihi</i> and the <i>Benigne fac,
+Domine</i>, broke in with applause and insisted upon
+repetitions! Berlioz also describes a rehearsal of
+Grétry’s <i>La Rosière de Salency</i> at the Odéon, when
+that theatre was devoted to opera. The members
+of the orchestra were overcome with a sense of
+the ridiculous nature of the music they were performing
+and made strange sounds the while they
+played. The <i>chef d’orchestre</i> attempted to keep
+his face straight, and Berlioz thought he was scandalized
+by the scene. A little later, however, he
+found himself laughing harder than anybody else.
+The memory of this occasion gave him the inspiration
+some time later of arranging a concert
+of works of this order (in which, he assured himself,
+the music of the masters abounded), without
+forewarning the public of his purpose. He prepared
+the programme, including therein this same
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>overture of Grétry’s, then a celebrated English
+air <i>Arm, Ye Brave</i>, a “sonata <i>diabolique</i>” for the
+violin, the quartet from a French opera in which
+this passage occurred:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“J’aime assez les Hollandaises,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Les Persanes, les Anglaises,</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">Mais je préfère des Françaises</div>
+<div class="verse indent0">L’esprit, la grâce et la gaîté,”</div></div>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>an instrumental march, the finale of the first act
+of an opera, a fugue on <i>Kyrie Eleison</i> from a
+Requiem Mass in which the music suggested anything
+but the words, variations for the bassoon on
+the melody of <i>Au Clair de la Lune</i>, and a symphony.
+Unfortunately for the trial of the experiment
+the rehearsal was never concluded. The
+executants got no further than the third number
+before they became positively hysterical. The
+public performance was never given, but Berlioz
+assures us that the average symphony concert audience
+would have taken the programme seriously
+and asked for more! It may be considered certain
+that in his choice of pieces Berlioz was making
+game of some of his contemporaries....</p>
+
+<p>In all the literature on the subject of music
+there are no more delightful volumes to be met
+with than those of J. B. Weckerlin, called “Musiciana,”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>“Nouveau Musiciana,” and “Dernier
+Musiciana.” These books are made up of anecdotes,
+personal and otherwise. From Bourdelot’s
+“Histoire de la Musique” Weckerlin culled the
+following: “An equerry of Madame la Dauphine
+asked two of the court musicians to his home at
+Versailles for dinner one evening. They sang
+standing opposite the mantelpiece, over which
+hung a great mirror which was broken in six
+pieces by the force of tone; all the porcelain on the
+buffet resounded and shook.” Weckerlin also recalls
+a caprice of Louis XI, who one day commanded
+the Abbé de Baigne, who had already invented
+many musical instruments, to devise a
+harmony out of pigs. The Abbé asked for some
+money, which was grudgingly given, and constructed
+a pavilion covered with velvet, under
+which he placed a number of pigs. Before this
+pavilion he arranged a white table with a keyboard
+constructed in such a fashion that the displacing
+of a key stuck a pig with a needle. The sounds
+evoked were out of the ordinary, and it is recorded
+that the king was highly diverted and asked for
+more. Auber’s enthusiasm for his own music, usually
+concealed under an indifferent air, occasionally
+expressed itself in strange fashion. Mme.
+Damoreau recounted to Weckerlin how, when the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>composer completed an air in the middle of the
+night, even at three or four o’clock in the morning,
+he rushed to her apartment. Dragging a pianoforte
+to her bed, he insisted on playing the new
+song over and over to her, while she sang it, meanwhile
+making the changes suggested by this extraordinary
+performance.</p>
+
+<p>More modern instances come to mind. Maria
+Gay is not above nose-blowing and expectoration
+in her interpretation of Carmen, physical acts in
+the public performance of which no Spanish cigarette
+girl would probably be caught ashamed.
+Yet it may be doubted if they suit the music of
+Bizet, or the Meilhac and Halévy version of Merimée’s
+creation.... A story has been related to
+me—I do not vouch for the truth of it—that
+during a certain performance of <i>Carmen</i> at the
+Opéra-Comique in Paris a new singer, at some
+stage in the proceedings, launched that dreadful
+French word which Georges Feydeau so ingenuously
+allowed his heroine to project into the second
+act of <i>La Dame de chez Maxim</i>, with a result
+even more startling than that which attended Bernard
+Shaw’s excursion into the realms of the expletive
+in his play, <i>Pygmalion</i>. It is further
+related of this performance of <i>Carmen</i>, which is
+said to have sadly disturbed the “traditions,” that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>in the excitement incident to her début the lady
+positively refused to allow Don José to kill her.
+Round and round the stage she ran while the perspiring
+tenor tried in vain to catch her. At
+length, the music of the score being concluded, the
+curtain fell on a Carmen still alive; the <i>salle</i> was
+in an uproar.</p>
+
+<p>I find I cannot include Chaliapine’s Basilio in my
+list of bad mannered stage performances, although
+his trumpetings into his handkerchief disturbed
+many of New York’s professional writers. <i>Il
+Barbiere</i> is a farcical piece, and the music of Rossini
+hints at the Rabelaisian humours of the dirty
+Spanish priest. In any event, it was the finest
+interpretation of the rôle that I have ever seen
+or heard and, with the splendid ensemble (Mme.
+Sembrich was the Rosina, Mr. Bonci, the count,
+and Mr. Campanari, the Figaro), the comedy went
+with such joyous abandon (the first act finale to
+the accompaniment of roars of laughter from the
+stalls) that I am inclined to believe the performance
+could not be bettered in this generation.</p>
+
+<p>The late Algernon St. John Brenon used to relate
+a history about Emma Eames and a recalcitrant
+tenor. The opera was <i>Lohengrin</i>, I believe,
+and the question at issue was the position of
+a certain couch. Mme. Eames wished it placed
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>here; the tenor there. As always happens in arguments
+concerning a Wagnerian music-drama, at
+some point the Bayreuth tradition was invoked,
+although I have forgotten whether that tradition
+favoured the soprano or her opponent in this instance.
+In any case, at the rehearsal the tenor
+seemed to have won the battle. When at the performance
+he found the couch in the exact spot
+which had been designated by the lady his indignation
+was all the greater on this account. With
+as much regard for the action of the drama as
+was consistent with so violent a gesture he gave
+the couch a violent shove with his projected toe,
+with the intention of pushing it into his chosen
+locality. He retired with a howl, nursing a
+wounded member. The couch had been nailed to
+the floor!</p>
+
+<p>It is related that Marie Delna was discovered
+washing dishes at an inn in a small town near
+Paris. Her benefactors took her to the capital
+and placed her in the Conservatoire. She always
+retained a certain peasant obstinacy, and it is said
+that during the course of her instruction when she
+was corrected she frequently replied, “Je m’en
+vais.” Against this phrase argument was unavailing
+and Mme. Delna, as a result, acquired a
+habit of having her own way. Her Orphée was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>(and still is, I should think) one of the notable
+achievements of our epoch. It must have equalled
+Pauline Viardot’s performance dramatically, and
+transcended it vocally. After singing the part
+several hundred times she naturally acquired certain
+habits and mannerisms, tricks both of action
+and of voice. Still, it is said that when she came
+to the Metropolitan Opera House she offered, at a
+rehearsal, to defer to Mr. Toscanini’s ideas. He,
+the rumour goes, gave his approval to her interpretation
+on this occasion. Not so at the performance.
+Those who have heard it can never
+forget the majesty and beauty of this characterization,
+as noble a piece of stage work as we have
+seen or heard in our day. At her début in the
+part in New York Mme. Delna was superb, vocally
+and dramatically. In the celebrated air, <i>Che
+faro senza Euridice</i>, the singer followed the tradition,
+doubly established by the example of Mme.
+Viardot in the great revival of the mid-century,
+of singing the different stanzas of the air in different
+<i>tempi</i>. In her slowest <i>adagio</i> the conductor
+became impatient. He beat his stick briskly
+across his desk and whipped up the orchestra.
+There was soon a hiatus of two bars between
+singer and musicians. It was a terrible moment,
+but the singer won the victory. She <i>turned her
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>back on the conductor</i> and continued to sing in her
+own time. The organ tones rolled out and presently
+the audience became aware of a junction
+between the two great forces. Mr. Toscanini was
+vanquished, but he never forgave her.</p>
+
+<p>During the opera season of 1915-16, opera-goers
+were treated to a diverting exhibition.
+Mme. Geraldine Farrar, just returned from a
+fling at three five-reel cinema dramas, elected to
+instil a bit of moving picture realism into <i>Carmen</i>.
+Fresh with the memory of her prolonged and brutal
+scuffle in the factory scene as it was depicted
+on the screen, Mme. Farrar attempted something
+like it in the opera, the first act of which was enlivened
+with sundry blows and kicks. More serious
+still were her alleged assaults on the tenor
+(Mr. Caruso) in the third act which, it is said,
+resulted in his clutching her like a struggling eel,
+to prevent her interference with his next note.
+There was even a suggestion of disagreement in
+the curtain calls which ensued. All these incidents
+of an enlivening evening were duly and impressively
+chronicled in the daily press.</p>
+
+<p>There is, of course, Vladimir de Pachmann.
+Everybody who has attended his recitals has come
+under the spell of his beautiful tone and has been
+annoyed by his bad manners. For, curiously
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>enough, the two qualities have become inseparable
+with him, especially in recent years. Once in Chicago
+I saw the strange little pianist sit down in
+front of his instrument, rise again, gesticulate,
+and leave the stage. Returning with a stage-hand
+he pointed to his stool; it was not satisfactory.
+A chair was brought in, tried, and found wanting;
+more gesticulation—this time wilder. At length,
+after considerable discussion between Mr. de Pachmann
+and the stage-hand, all in view of the audience,
+it was decided that nothing would do but
+that some one must fetch the artist’s own piano
+bench from his hotel, which, fortunately, adjoined
+the concert hall. This was accomplished in the
+course of time. In the interval the pianist did not
+leave the platform. He sat at the back on the
+chair which had been offered him as a substitute
+for the offending stool and entertained his audience
+with a spectacular series of grimaces.</p>
+
+<p>On another occasion this singular genius arrested
+his fingers in the course of a performance of
+one of Chopin’s études. His ears were enraptured,
+it would seem, by his own rendition of a certain
+run; over and over again he played it, now faster,
+now more slowly; at times almost slowly enough to
+give the student in the front row a glimpse of the
+magic fingering. With a sudden change of manner
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>he announced, “This is the way Godowsky
+would play this scale”: great velocity but a dry
+tone. Then, “And now Pachmann again!”
+The magic fingers stroked the keys.</p>
+
+<p>Even as an auditor de Pachmann sometimes exploits
+his eccentricities. Josef Hofmann once
+told me the following story: De Pachmann was
+sitting in the third row at a concert Rubinstein
+gave in his prime. De Pachmann burst into hilarious
+laughter, rocking to and fro. Rubinstein
+was playing beautifully and de Pachmann’s neighbour,
+annoyed, demanded why he was laughing.
+De Pachmann could scarcely speak as he pointed
+to the pianist on the stage and replied, “He used
+the fourth finger instead of the third in that run.
+Isn’t it funny?”</p>
+
+<p>I cannot take Vladimir de Pachmann to task for
+these amusing bad manners! But they annoy the
+<i>bourgeois</i>. We should most of us be glad to have
+Oscar Wilde brilliant at our dinner parties, even
+though he ate peas with his knife; and Napoleon’s
+generalship would have been as effective if he had
+been an omnivorous reader of the works of Laura
+Jean Libbey. But one must not dwell too long
+on de Pachmann. One might be tempted to devote
+an entire essay to the relation of his eccentricities.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p>
+<p>Another pianist, also a composer, claims attention:
+Alberto Savinio. You may find a photolithograph
+of Savinio’s autograph manuscript of
+<i>Bellovées Fatales, No. 12</i>, in that curious periodical
+entitled “291,” the number for April, 1915.
+There is a programme, which reads as follows:</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">LA PASSION DES ROTULES</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>La Femme: Ah! Il m’a touché de sa jambe
+de caoutchouc! Ma-ma! Ma-ma!</p>
+
+<p>L’Homme: Tutto s’ha di rosa, Maria,
+per te....</p>
+
+<p>La Femme: Ma-ma! Ma-ma!</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>There are indications as to how the composer
+wishes his music to be played, sometimes <i>glissando</i>
+and sometimes “<i>avec des poings</i>.” The rapid and
+tortuous passages between the black and white
+keys would test the contortionistic qualities of any
+one’s fingers. Savinio, it is said, at his appearances
+in Paris, actually played until his fingers
+<i>bled</i>. When he had concluded, indeed, the ends of
+his fingers were crushed and bruised and the keyboard
+was red with blood. Albert Gleizes, quoted
+by Walter Conrad Arensberg, is my authority for
+this bizarre history of music and bad manners.
+I have not seen (or heard) Savinio perform. But
+when I told this tale to Leo Ornstein he assured me
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>that he frequently had had a similar experience.</p>
+
+<p>Romain Rolland in “Jean-Christophe” relates
+an incident which is especially interesting because
+it has a foundation in fact. Something of the
+sort happened to Hugo Wolf when an orchestra
+performed his <i>Penthesilea</i> overture for the first
+time. It is a curious example of bad manners in
+which both the performers and the audience join.</p>
+
+<p>“At last it came to Christophe’s symphony.”
+(I am quoting from Gilbert Cannan’s translation.)
+“He saw from the way the orchestra and
+the people in the hall were looking at his box that
+they were aware of his presence. He hid himself.
+He waited with the catch at his heart which every
+musician feels at the moment when the conductor’s
+wand is raised and the waters of the music gather
+in silence before bursting their dam. He had
+never yet heard his work played. How would the
+creatures of his dreams live? How would their
+voices sound? He felt their roaring within him;
+and he leaned over the abyss of sounds waiting
+fearfully for what should come forth.</p>
+
+<p>“What did come forth was a nameless thing, a
+shapeless hotchpotch. Instead of the bold columns
+which were to support the front of the building
+the chords came crumbling down like a building
+in ruins; there was nothing to be seen but the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>dust of mortar. For a moment Christophe was
+not quite sure whether they were really playing his
+work. He cast back for the train, the rhythm of
+his thoughts; he could not recognize it; it went
+on babbling and hiccoughing like a drunken man
+clinging close to the wall, and he was overcome
+with shame, as though he himself had been seen in
+that condition. It was to no avail to think that
+he had not written such stuff; when an idiotic interpreter
+destroys a man’s thoughts he has always
+a moment of doubt when he asks himself in consternation
+if he is himself responsible for it. The
+audience never asks such a question; the audience
+believes in the interpreter, in the singers, in the
+orchestra whom they are accustomed to hear, as
+they believe in their newspaper; they cannot make
+a mistake; if they say absurd things, it is the absurdity
+of the author. This audience was the less
+inclined to doubt because it liked to believe.
+Christophe tried to persuade himself that the <i>Kapellmeister</i>
+was aware of the hash and would stop
+the orchestra and begin again. The instruments
+were not playing together. The horn had missed
+his beat and had come in a bar too late; he went on
+for a few minutes and then stopped quietly to
+clean his instrument. Certain passages for the
+oboe had absolutely disappeared. It was impossible
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>for the most skilled ear to pick up the thread
+of the musical idea, or even to imagine there was
+one. Fantastic instrumentations, humoristic sallies
+became grotesque through the coarseness of
+the execution. It was lamentably stupid, the work
+of an idiot, of a joker who knew nothing of music.
+Christophe tore his hair. He tried to interrupt,
+but the friend who was with him held him back,
+assuring him that the <i>Herr Kapellmeister</i> must
+surely see the faults of the execution and would
+put everything right—that Christophe must not
+show himself and that if he made any remark it
+would have a very bad effect. He made Christophe
+sit at the very back of the box. Christophe
+obeyed, but he beat his head with his fists; and
+every fresh monstrosity drew from him a groan of
+indignation and misery.</p>
+
+<p>“‘The wretches! The wretches!...’</p>
+
+<p>“He groaned and squeezed his hands tight to
+keep from crying out.</p>
+
+<p>“Now mingled with the wrong notes there came
+up to him the muttering of the audience, who were
+beginning to be restless. At first it was only a
+tremor; but soon Christophe was left without a
+doubt; they were laughing. The musicians of the
+orchestra had given the signal; some of them did
+not conceal their hilarity. The audience, certain
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>then that the music was laughable, rocked with
+laughter. This merriment became general; it increased
+at the return of a very rhythmical motif
+with the double-basses accentuated in a burlesque
+fashion. Only the <i>Kapellmeister</i> went on through
+the uproar imperturbably beating time.</p>
+
+<p>“At last they reached the end (the best things
+come to an end). It was the turn of the audience.
+They exploded with delight, an explosion which
+lasted for several minutes. Some hissed; others
+applauded ironically; the wittiest of all shouted
+‘Encore!’ A bass voice coming from a stage box
+began to imitate the grotesque motif. Other jokers
+followed suit and imitated it also. Some one
+shouted ‘Author!’ It was long since these witty
+folk had been so highly entertained.</p>
+
+<p>“When the tumult was calmed down a little the
+<i>Kapellmeister</i>, standing quite impassive with his
+face turned towards the audience, though he was
+pretending not to see it (the audience was still
+supposed to be non-existent), made a sign to the
+audience that he was about to speak. There was
+a cry of ‘Ssh,’ and silence. He waited a moment
+longer; then (his voice was curt, cold, and cutting):</p>
+
+<p>“‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I should certainly not
+have let <i>that</i> be played through to the end if I had
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>not wished to make an example of the gentleman
+who has dared to write offensively of the great
+Brahms.’</p>
+
+<p>“That was all; jumping down from his stand he
+went out amid cheers from the delighted audience.
+They tried to recall him; the applause went on for
+a few minutes longer. But he did not return.
+The orchestra went away. The audience decided
+to go too. The concert was over.</p>
+
+<p>“It had been a good day.”</p>
+
+<p>Von Bülow once stopped his orchestra at a public
+performance to remonstrate with a lady with a
+fan in the front row of seats. “Madame,” he
+said gravely, “I must beg you to cease fanning
+yourself in three-four time while I am conducting
+in four-four time!”</p>
+
+<p>Here are a few personal recollections of bad
+mannered audiences. A performance of <i>The
+Magic Flute</i> in Chicago comes to mind. Fritzi
+Scheff, the Papagena, and Giuseppe Campanari,
+the Papageno, had concluded their duet in the last
+act amidst a storm of applause, in face of which
+the conductor sped on to the entrance of the Queen
+of the Night. Mme. Sembrich entered and sang a
+part of her recitative unheard. One could see,
+however, that her jaws opened and closed with the
+mechanism incidental to tone-production. After
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>a few bars she retired defeated and the bad mannered
+audience continued to shout and applaud until
+that unspeakable bit of nonsense which runs
+“Pa-pa-pa,” etc., was repeated. Mme. Sembrich
+appeared no more that day.</p>
+
+<p>Another stormy audience I encountered at a
+concert of the Colonne Orchestra in Paris. Those
+who sit in the gallery at these concerts at the Chatelet
+Theatre are notoriously opinionated. There
+the battles of Richard Strauss and Debussy have
+been fought. The gallery crowd always comes
+early because seats in the top of the house are unreserved.
+They cost a franc or two; I forget exactly
+how much, but I have often sat there. To
+pass the time until the concert begins, and also to
+show their indifference to musical literature and
+the opinions of others, the galleryites fashion a
+curious form of spill, with one end in a point and
+the other feathered like an arrow, out of the pages
+of the annotated programmes. These are then
+sent sailing, in most instances with infinite dexterity
+and incredible velocity, over the heads of the
+arriving audience. The objective point is the
+very centre of the back cloth on the stage, a spot
+somewhat above the kettle-drum. A successful
+shot always brings forth a round of applause.
+But this is (or was) an episode incident to any
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>Colonne concert. I am describing an occasion.</p>
+
+<p>The concert took place during the season of
+poor Colonne’s final illness (now he lies buried in
+that curiously remote avenue of Père-Lachaise
+where repose the ashes of Oscar Wilde). Gabriel
+Pierné, his successor, had already assumed the bâton,
+and he conducted the concert in question.
+Anton Van Rooy was the soloist and he had chosen
+to sing two very familiar (and very popular in
+Paris) Wagner excerpts, Wotan’s Farewell from
+<i>Die Walküre</i>, and the air which celebrates the evening
+star from <i>Tannhäuser</i>. (In this connection
+I might state that in this same winter—1908-9—<i>Das
+Rheingold</i> was given <i>in concert form</i>—it
+had not yet been performed at the Opéra—on
+two consecutive Sundays at the Lamoureux Concerts
+in the Salle Gaveau to <i>standing room
+only</i>.) The concert proceeded in orderly fashion
+until Mr. Van Rooy appeared; then the uproar began.
+The gallery hooted, and screamed, and
+yelled. All the terrible noises which only a Paris
+crowd can invent were hurled from the dark recesses
+of that gallery. The din was appalling,
+terrifying. Mr. Van Rooy nervously fingered a
+sheet of music he held in his hands. Undoubtedly
+visions of the first performance of <i>Tannhäuser</i> at
+the Paris Opéra passed through his mind. He
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>may also have considered the possibility of escaping
+to the Gare du Nord, with the chance of catching
+a train for Germany before the mob could tear
+him into bits. Mr. Pierné, who knew his Paris,
+faced the crowd, while the audience below peered
+up and shuddered, with something of the fright of
+the aristocrats during the first days of the Revolution.
+Then he held up his hand and, in time,
+the modest gesture provoked a modicum of silence.
+In that silence some one shrieked out the explanation:
+“<i>Tannhäuser</i> avant <i>Walküre</i>.” That was
+all. The gallery was not satisfied with the order
+of the programme. The readjustment was
+quickly made, the parts distributed to the orchestra,
+and Mr. Van Rooy sang Wolfram’s air before
+Wotan’s. It may be said that never could he
+have hoped for a more complete ovation, a more
+flattering reception than that which the Parisian
+audience accorded him when he had finished. The
+applause was veritably deafening.</p>
+
+<p>I have related elsewhere at some length my experiences
+at the first Paris performance of Igor
+Strawinsky’s ballet, <i>The Sacrifice to the Spring</i>,
+an appeal to primitive emotion through a nerve-shattering
+use of rhythm, staged in ultra-modern
+style by Waslav Nijinsky. Chords and legs
+seemed disjointed. Flying arms synchronized
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>marvellously with screaming clarinets. But this
+first audience would not permit the composer to
+be heard. Cat-calls and hisses succeeded the
+playing of the first few bars, and then ensued a
+battery of screams, countered by a foil of applause.
+We warred over art (some of us thought
+it was and some thought it wasn’t). The opposition
+was bettered at times; at any rate it was a
+more thrilling battle than Strauss conceived between
+the Hero and his enemies in <i>Heldenleben</i>
+and the celebrated scenes from <i>Die Meistersinger</i>
+and <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> could not stand the
+comparison. Some forty of the protestants were
+forced out of the theatre but that did not quell
+the disturbance. The lights in the auditorium
+were fully turned on but the noise continued and
+I remember Mlle. Piltz executing her strange dance
+of religious hysteria on a stage dimmed by the
+blazing light in the auditorium, seemingly to the
+accompaniment of the disjointed ravings of a
+mob of angry men and women. Little by little, at
+subsequent performances of the work the audiences
+became more mannerly, and when it was given
+in concert in Paris the following year it was received
+with applause.</p>
+
+<p>Some of my readers may remember the demonstration
+directed (supposedly) against American
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>singers when the Metropolitan Opera Company invaded
+Paris some years ago for a spring season.
+The opening opera was <i>Aïda</i>, and all went well until
+the first scene of the second act, in which the
+reclining Amneris chants her thoughts while her
+slaves dance. Here the audience began to give
+signs of disapproval, which presently broke out
+into open hissing, and finally into a real hullabaloo.
+Mme. Homer, nothing daunted, continued
+to sing. She afterwards told me that she had
+never sung with such force and intensity. And in
+a few moments she broke the spell, and calmed the
+riot.</p>
+
+<p>Arthur Nikisch once noted that players of the
+bassoon were more sensitive than the other members
+of his orchestra; he found them subject to
+quick fits of temper, and intolerant of criticism.
+He attributed this to the delicate mechanism of
+the instrument which required the nicest apportionment
+of breath. Clarinet players, he discovered,
+were less sensitive. One could joke with
+them in reason; while horn players were as tractable
+as Newfoundland dogs!—A case of a sensitive
+pianist comes to mind, brought to bay by as
+rude an audience as I can recall. Mr. Paderewski
+was playing Beethoven’s C sharp minor sonata at
+one of these morning musicales arranged at the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>smart hotels so that the very rich may see more intimately
+the well-known artists of the concert and
+opera stage, when some women started to go out.
+In his following number, Couperin’s <i>La Bandoline</i>,
+the interruption became intolerable and he stopped
+playing. “Those who do not wish to hear me will
+kindly leave the room immediately,” he said, “and
+those who wish to remain will kindly take their
+seats.” The outflow continued, while those who
+remained seated began to hiss. “I am astonished
+to find people in New York leaving while an artist
+is playing,” the pianist added. Then some one
+started to applaud; the applause deepened, and
+finally Mr. Paderewski consented to play again
+and took his place on the bench before his instrument.</p>
+
+<p>The incident was the result of the pianist’s well-known
+aversion to appearing in conjunction with
+other artists. He had finally agreed to do so on
+this occasion provided he would be allowed to play
+after the others had concluded their performances.
+There had been many recalls for the singer and
+violinist who preceded him and it was well after
+one o’clock (the concert had begun at eleven) before
+he walked on the platform. Now one o’clock
+is a very late hour at a fashionable morning musicale.
+Some of those present were doubtless hungry;
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>others, perhaps, had trains to catch; while
+there must have been a goodly number who had
+heard all the music they wanted to hear that
+morning. There was a very pretty ending to the
+incident. Once he had begun, Mr. Paderewski
+played for an hour and twenty minutes, and the
+faithful ones, who had remained seated, applauded
+so much when he finally rose from the bench, even
+after he had added several numbers to the printed
+programme, that the echoes of the clapping hands
+accompanied him to his motor.</p>
+
+<p>I have reserved for the last a description of a
+concert given at the Dal Verme Theatre in Milan
+by the Italian Futurists. The account is culled
+from the “Corriere della Sera” of that city, and
+the translation is that which appeared in “International
+Music and Drama”:</p>
+
+<p>“At the Dal Verme a Futurist concert of ‘intonarumori’
+was to be held last night, but instead
+of this there was an uproarious din intoned both
+by the public and the Futurists which ended in a
+free-for-all fight.</p>
+
+<p>“In a speech which was listened to with sufficient
+attention, Marinetti, the poet, announced
+that this was to be the first public trial of a new
+device invented by Luigi Russelo, a Futurist
+painter. This instrument is called the ‘noise-maker’
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>and its purpose is to render a new kind of
+music. Modern life vibrates with all sorts of
+noises; music therefore must render this sensation.
+This, in brief, is the idea. In order to develop it
+Russelo had invented several types of noise-makers,
+each of which renders a different sound.</p>
+
+<p>“After Marinetti’s speech the curtain went up
+and the new orchestra appeared in all its glory
+amidst the bellowings of the public. The famous
+‘noise-intonators’ proved to be made out of a
+sort of bass-drum with an immense trumpet attached
+to it, the latter looking very much like a
+gramaphone horn. Behind the instrument sat the
+players, whose only function was to turn the crank
+rhythmically in order to create the harmonic
+noise. They looked, while performing this agreeable
+task, like a squad of knife-grinders. But it
+was impossible to hear the music. The public
+was unconditionally intolerant. We only caught
+here and there a faint buzz and growl. Then
+everything was drowned in the billowing seas of
+howls, jeers, hisses, and cat-calls. What they
+were hissing at, it being impossible to hear the
+music, was not quite clear. They hissed just for
+the fun of it. It was a case of art for art’s sake.
+Painter Russelo, however, continued undisturbed
+to direct his mighty battery of musical howitzers
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>and his professors kept on grinding their pieces
+with a beautiful serenity of mind, all the while
+the tumult increasing to redoubtable proportions.
+The consequence was that those who went to the
+Dal Verme for the purpose of listening to Futurist
+music had to give up all hopes and resign themselves
+to hear the bedlam of the public.</p>
+
+<p>“In vain did Marinetti attempt to speak, begging
+them to be quiet for a while and assuring
+them that they would be allowed a whole carnival
+of howls at the end of the concert—the public
+wanted to hiss and there was no way to check it.
+But Russelo kept right on. He conducted with
+imperturbable solemnity the three pieces we were
+supposed to hear: <i>The Awakening of a Great
+City</i>, <i>A Dinner on a Kursaal Terrace</i>, and <i>A Meet
+of Automobiles and Aeroplanes</i>. Nobody heard
+anything, but Russelo rendered everything conscientiously.
+The only thing we were able to find
+out about Futurist music is that the noise of the
+orchestra is by no means too loud, or at least not
+louder than impromptu choruses.</p>
+
+<p>“But the worst was reserved for the middle of
+the third piece. The exchange of hot words and
+very old-fashioned courtesies had now become
+ultra-vivacious and was being punctuated with
+several projectiles and an occasional blow. At
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>this point, Marinetti, Boccioni, Carra, and other
+Futurists jumped into the pit and began to distribute
+all sorts of blows to the infuriated spectators.
+The new Futurist style enables us to
+synthesize the scene. Blows. Carbineers. Inspectors.
+Cushions and chairs flying about.
+Howls. Public standing on chairs. Concert
+goes on. More howls, shrieks, curses, and thunderous
+insults. Futurists are led back to stage
+by gendarmes. Public slowly passes out. Marinetti
+and followers pass out before public.
+Again howls, invectives, guffaws, and fist blows.
+Piazza Cardusio. More blows. Galleria. Ditto.
+Futurists enter Savini’s café while pugilistic
+matches go merrily on. Mob attempts to storm
+stronghold. Iron gates close. Futurists are
+shut in, in good condition, save few torn hats.
+Mob slowly calms down and disperses. The end.”</p>
+
+
+<p><i>New York, May, 1916.</i></p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Music_for_the_Movies">Music for the Movies</h2>
+<p class="ph3">“<i>O Tempora! O Movies!</i>”<br>
+</p>
+<p class="author">
+W. B. Chase.<br>
+</p>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[Pg 43]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<p class="ph2">Music for the Movies</p></div>
+
+
+<p>Despite the fact that it would seem that
+the moving picture drama had opened up
+new worlds to the modern musician, no important
+composer, so far as I am aware, has as
+yet turned his attention to the writing of music
+for the films. If the cinema drama is in its infancy,
+as some would have us believe, then we may
+be sure that the time is not far distant when moving
+picture scores will take their places on the
+musicians’ book-shelves alongside those of operas,
+symphonies, masses, and string quartets. In the
+meantime, entirely ignorant of the truth (or oblivious
+to it, or merely helpless, as the case may be)
+that writing music for moving pictures is a new
+art, which demands a new point of view, the directors
+of the picture theatres are struggling with
+the situation as best they may. Under the circumstances
+it is remarkable, on the whole, how
+swiftly and how well the demand for music with
+the silent drama has been met. Certainly the
+music is usually on a level with (or of a better
+quality than) the type of entertainment offered.
+But the directors have not definitely tackled the
+problem; they still continue to try to force old wine
+into new bottles, arranging and re-arranging melody
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>and harmony which was contrived for quite
+other occasions and purposes. Even when scores
+have been written for pictures the result has not
+shown any imaginative advance over the arranged
+score. It is strange, but it has occurred to no one
+that the moving picture demands a <i>new</i> kind of
+music.</p>
+
+<p>The composers, I should imagine, are only waiting
+to be asked to write it. Certainly none of
+them has ever shown any hesitancy about composing
+incidental music for the spoken drama. Mendelssohn
+wrote strains for <i>A Midsummer Night’s
+Dream</i> which seemed pledged to immortality until
+Granville Barker ignored them; the Wedding
+March is still in favour in Kankakee and Keokuk.
+Beethoven illustrated Goethe’s <i>Egmont</i>; Sir Arthur
+Sullivan penned a score for <i>The Tempest</i>;
+Schubert was inspired to put down some of his
+most ravishing notes for a stupid play called <i>Rosamunde</i>;
+Grieg’s <i>Peer Gynt</i> music is more often
+performed than the play. More recent instances
+of incidental music for dramas are Saint-Saëns’s
+score for Brieux’s <i>La Foi</i>, Mascagni’s for <i>The
+Eternal City</i>, and Richard Strauss’s for <i>Le Bourgeois
+Gentilhomme</i>. Is it necessary to continue
+the list? I have only, after all, put down a few
+of the obvious examples (passing by the thousands
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>upon thousands of scores devised by lesser composers
+for lesser plays) that would spring at once to
+any musician’s mind. Of course it has usually
+been the poetic drama (do we ever hear Shakespeare
+or Rostand without it?) which has seemed
+to call for incidental music but it has accompanied
+(with more or less disastrous consequences, to be
+sure) the unfolding of many a “drawing-room”
+play; especially during the eighties.</p>
+
+<p>When the first moving picture was exposed on
+the screen it seems to have occurred to its projector
+at once that some kind of music must accompany
+its unreeling. The silence evidently appalled
+him. A moving picture is not unlike a ballet
+in that it depends entirely upon action (it differs
+from a ballet in that the action is not necessarily
+rhythmic)—and whoever heard of a ballet
+performed without music? Sound certainly has
+its value in creating an atmosphere and in emphasizing
+the “thrill” of the moving picture, especially
+when the sound is selected and co-ordinated.
+It may also divert the attention. On the whole,
+more photographed plays follow the general lines
+of <i>Lady Windemere’s Fan</i> or <i>Peg o’ My Heart</i>
+than of poetic dramas such as <i>Cymbeline</i> or <i>La
+Samaritaine</i>. The problem here, however, is not
+the same as in the spoken drama. For in motion
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>pictures a poetic play sheds its poetry and becomes,
+like its neighbour, a skeleton of action.
+There is no conceivable distinction in the “movies”
+(beyond one created by preference, or taste,
+or the quality of the performance and the photography)
+between Dante’s <i>Inferno</i> and a picture in
+which the beloved Charles Chaplin looms large.
+The directors of the moving picture companies
+have tried to meet this problem; that they have
+not wholly succeeded so far is not entirely their
+fault.</p>
+
+<p>It is no easy matter, for example, in a theatre
+in which the films are changed daily (this is the
+general rule even in the larger houses), for the musicians
+(or musician) to arrange a satisfactory
+accompaniment for 5,000 feet of action which
+includes everything from an earthquake in Cuba
+to a dinner in Park Lane, and it is scarcely possible,
+even if the distributors be so inclined (as they
+frequently are nowadays) to furnish a music score
+which will answer the purposes of the different
+sized bands, ranging from a full orchestra to an
+upright piano, <i>solo</i>. As for the pictures without
+pre-arranged scores, the orchestra leaders and pianists
+must do the best they can with them.</p>
+
+<p>In some houses there is an attitude of total disrespect
+paid towards the picture by the <i>chef d’orchestre</i>.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>He arranges his musical programme as
+if he were giving a concert, not at all with a view
+to effectively accompanying the picture. In a
+theatre on Second Avenue in New York, for example,
+I have heard an orchestra play the whole of
+Beethoven’s First Symphony as an accompaniment
+to Irene Fenwick’s performance of <i>The Woman
+Next Door</i>. As the symphony came to an end before
+the picture it was supplemented by a Waldteufel
+waltz, <i>Les Patineurs</i>. The result, in this
+instance, was not altogether incongruous or even
+particularly displeasing, and it occurred to me
+that if one had to listen to music while the third
+act of <i>Hedda Gabler</i> were being enacted one would
+prefer to hear something like Boccherini’s celebrated
+minuet or a light Mozart dance rather than
+anything ostensibly contrived to fit the situation.
+In the latter instance the result would be sure to
+be unbearable bathos.</p>
+
+<p>On the other hand there are certain players for
+pictures who remind one by their methods of the
+anxiety of Richard Strauss to describe every peacock
+and bean mentioned in any of his opera-books.
+If a garden is exposed on the screen one
+hears <i>The Flowers That Bloom in the Spring</i>; a
+love scene is the signal for <i>Un Peu d’Amour</i>; a
+cross or any religious episode suggests <i>The Rosary</i>
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>to these ingenuous musicians; Japan brings a
+touch of <i>Madame Butterfly</i>; a proposal of marriage,
+<i>O Promise Me</i>; and a farewell, Tosti’s <i>Good-bye!</i>
+This expedient of appealing through the intellect
+to the emotions, it may be admitted, has
+the stamp of approval of no less a composer than
+Richard Wagner.</p>
+
+<p>Lacking the authority of real moving picture
+music (which a new composer must rise to invent)
+the safest way (not necessarily the <i>best</i> way) is
+the middle course—one method for this, another
+for that. One of the difficulties is to arrange a
+music score for a theatre with a large orchestra,
+where the leader must plan his score—or have it
+planned for him—for an entire picture before his
+orchestra can play a note. Music cues must be
+definite: twenty bars of <i>Alexander’s Ragtime Band</i>,
+seventeen of <i>The Ride of the Valkyries</i>, ten of <i>Vissi
+d’Arte</i>, etc. An ingenious young man has discovered
+a way by which music and action may be exactly
+synchronized. I feel the impulse to quote extensively
+from the somewhat vivid report of his
+achievement, published in one of the motion picture
+weekly journals: “Here was a man-sized job—how
+to measure the action of the picture to the
+musical score, so that they would both come out
+equal at every part of the picture, and would be
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>so exact that any orchestra might take the score
+and follow the movement of the play with absolute
+correctness. It was a question primarily of
+mathematics, but even so it was some time before
+a system of computation was devised before the
+undertaking was gotten down to a certainty. As
+an illustration, on the opening night of one of the
+most notable photoplay productions now before
+the public, the orchestra, notwithstanding a three
+weeks’ rehearsal, found at the conclusion of the
+picture that it was a page and a half behind the
+play’s action in the musical setting.” Then we
+learn that Frank Stadler of New York “provided
+the remedy for this condition of affairs.” It is
+impossible to resist the temptation to quote further
+from this extremely racy account. “He remembered
+that Beethoven had overcome the difficulty
+of proper timing for his sonatas by a mechanical
+arrangement known as the metronome,
+invented by a friend of his. This is an arrangement
+with a little bell attached which may be set
+for the movement of the music and used as an
+exact guide to the right measure, the bell giving
+warning at the expiration of each period so that
+the leader knows whether he is in time or not.”
+Mr. Stadler then began the measurement of a film
+with a metronome, a stenographer, and a watch.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>He found that the film ran ten feet to every eight
+seconds and he set the metronome for eight second
+periods accordingly. “The stenographer made a
+note of the action of the picture each time the
+bell rang, with the result that when the entire picture
+had been run Mr. Stadler had a complete record
+of the production. All that was necessary
+then was to select from the classics and the popular
+melodies the music which would give a suitable
+atmosphere and a harmonious accompaniment to
+the theme of the play, so synchronizing the music
+with the eight second periods that every bar of it
+fitted the spirit of the many score of scenes of the
+production.”</p>
+
+<p>The single man orchestra, the player of the upright
+piano, need not make so many preparatory
+gestures. He may with impunity, if he be of an
+inventive turn of mind, or if his memory be good,
+improvise his score as the picture unreels itself
+for the first time before what may very well be
+his astonished vision; and, after that, he may vary
+his accompaniment, as the shows of the day progress,
+improving it here or there, or not, as the
+case may be, keeping generally as near to his original
+performance as possible. Of course he puts
+a good deal of reliance on rum-ti-tum shivery passages
+(known to orchestra leaders as “<i>agits</i>”—an
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>abbreviation of <i>agitato</i>; a page or two of them
+is distributed to every member of a moving picture
+band) to accompany moments of excitement.
+This music you will remember if you have ever
+attended a performance of a Lincoln J. Carter
+melodrama in which a train was wrecked, or a hero
+rescued from the teeth of a saw, or a heroine pursued
+by bloodhounds. (Those were the good old
+days!) Recently I heard a pianist in a moving
+picture house on Fourteenth Street in New York
+eke out a half-hour with similar poundings on two
+or three well used chords (well used even in the
+time of Hadyn). The scenes represented the
+whole of a two-act opera, and the ambitious pianist
+was trying to give his audience the effect of
+singers (principals and chorus) and orchestra
+with his three chords. (Shades of Arnold Schoenberg!)</p>
+
+<p>A certain periodical devoted to the interests of
+the moving picture trade, conducts a department
+as first aid to the musical conductors and pianists
+who figure at these shows. In a recent number
+the editor of this department gives it as his solemn
+opinion that musicians who read fiction are the
+best equipped for picture playing. Then, with
+an almost tragic parenthesis, he continues,
+“Reading fiction is the last diversion that the average
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>musician will follow. He feels that all the
+necessary romance is to be found in his music.”
+Facts are dead, says this editor in substance, but
+fiction is living and should make you weep. When
+you cry, all that remains for you to do is to think
+of a tune which will synchronize with the cause of
+your tears; this will serve you later when a similar
+scene occurs in a film drama.</p>
+
+<p>There is one tune which any capable moving
+picture pianist has found will synchronize with
+any Keystone picture (for the benefit of the uninitiated
+I may state that in the Keystone farces
+some one gets kicked or knocked down or spat
+upon several times in almost every scene). I do
+not know what the tune is, but wherever Keystone
+pictures are shown, in Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Grand
+Rapids, Michigan; Chicago, and even New York,
+I have heard it. When a character falls into the
+water (and at least ten of them invariably do)
+the pianist may vary the tune by sitting on the
+piano or by upsetting a chair. In one theatre I
+have known him to cause glass to be shattered behind
+the screen at a moment when the picture
+exposed a similar scene. How Marinetti would
+like that!</p>
+
+<p>However, the day of this sort of thing is rapidly
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>approaching its close, I venture to say. Some
+of the firms are already issuing arranged music
+scores for their productions (one may note in
+passing the score which accompanied Geraldine
+Farrar’s screen performance of <i>Carmen</i>, largely
+selected from the music of Bizet’s opera, and Victor
+Herbert’s original score for <i>The Fall of a Nation</i>,
+a score which does not take full advantage
+of the new technique of the cinema drama). It
+will not be long before an enterprising director
+engages an enterprising musician to compose music
+for a picture. For the same reason that d’Annunzio,
+very early in the career of the moving
+picture, wrote a scenario for a film, I should not
+be surprised to learn that Richard Strauss was
+under contract to construct an accompaniment to
+a screened drama. It will be very loud music and
+it will require an orchestra of 143 men to interpret
+it and probably the composer himself will conduct
+the first performance, and, later, excerpts will be
+given by the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the
+critics will say, in spite of Philip Hale’s diverting
+programme notes, that this music should never be
+played except in conjunction with the picture for
+which it was written. Mascagni is another composer
+who should find an excellent field for his talent
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>in writing tone-poems for pictures, although
+he would contrive nothing more daring than a well-arranged
+series of illustrative melodies.</p>
+
+<p>But put Igor Strawinsky, or some other modern
+genius, to work on this problem and see what happens!
+The musician of the future should revel in
+the opportunity the moving picture gives him to
+create a new form. This form differs from that
+of the incidental music for a play in that the flow
+of tone may be continuous and because one never
+needs to soften the accompaniment so that the
+voices may be heard; it differs from the music for
+a ballet in that the scene shifts constantly, and
+consequently the time signatures and the mood
+and the key must be as constantly shifting. The
+swift flash from scene to scene, the “cut-back,”
+the necessary rapidity of the action, all are
+adapted to inspire the futurist composer to
+brilliant effort; a tinkle of this and a smash of
+that, without “working-out” or development;
+illustration, comment, piquant or serious, that’s
+what the new film music should be. The ultimate
+moving picture score will be something more than
+sentimental accompaniment.</p>
+
+
+<p><i>New York, November 10, 1915.</i></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Spain_and_Music">Spain and Music</h2>
+<p class="ph3">
+“<i>Il faut méditerraniser la musique.</i>”</p>
+<p class="author">
+Nietzsche.<br>
+</p>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[Pg 57]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<p class="ph2">Spain and Music</p></div>
+
+
+<p>It has seemed to me at times that Oscar Hammerstein
+was gifted with almost prophetic
+vision. He it was who imagined the glory of
+Times (erstwhile Longacre) Square. Theatre
+after theatre he fashioned in what was then a
+barren district—and presently the crowds and
+the hotels came. He foresaw that French opera,
+given in the French manner, would be successful
+again in New York, and he upset the calculations
+of all the wiseacres by making money even with
+<i>Pelléas et Mélisande</i>, that esoteric collaboration
+of Belgian and French art, which in the latter
+part of the season of 1907-8 attained a record
+of seven performances at the Manhattan Opera
+House, all to audiences as vast and as devoted as
+those which attend the sacred festivals of <i>Parsifal</i>
+at Bayreuth. And he had announced for presentation
+during the season of 1908-9 (and again
+the following season) a Spanish opera called
+<i>Dolores</i>. If he had carried out his intention (why
+it was abandoned I have never learned; the scenery
+and costumes were ready) he would have had
+another honour thrust upon him, that of having
+been beforehand in the production of modern
+Spanish opera in New York, an honour which, in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>the circumstances, must go to Mr. Gatti-Casazza.
+(Strictly speaking, <i>Goyescas</i> was not the first
+Spanish opera to be given in New York, although
+it was the first to be produced at the Metropolitan
+Opera House. <i>Il Guarany</i>, by Antonio Carlos
+Gomez, a Portuguese born in Brazil, was performed
+by the “Milan Grand Opera Company”
+during a three weeks’ season at the Star Theatre
+in the fall of 1884. An air from this opera is
+still in the répertoire of many sopranos. To go
+still farther back, two of Manuel Garcia’s operas,
+sung of course in Italian, <i>l’Amante Astuto</i> and
+<i>La Figlia dell’Aria</i>, were performed at the Park
+Theatre in 1825 with Maria Garcia—later to
+become the celebrated Mme. Malibran—in the
+principal rôles. More recently an itinerant Italian
+opéra-bouffe company, which gravitated from
+the Park Theatre—not the same edifice that
+harboured Garcia’s company!—to various playhouses
+on the Bowery, included three zarzuelas
+in its répertoire. One of these, the popular <i>La
+Gran Via</i>, was announced for performance, but
+my records are dumb on the subject and I am not
+certain that it was actually given. There are
+probably other instances.) Mr. Hammerstein
+had previously produced two operas <i>about</i> Spain
+when he opened his first Manhattan Opera House
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>on the site now occupied by Macy’s Department
+Store with Moszkowski’s <i>Boabdil</i>, quickly followed
+by Beethoven’s <i>Fidelio</i>. The malagueña
+from <i>Boabdil</i> is still a favourite <i>morceau</i> with
+restaurant orchestras, and I believe I have heard
+the entire ballet suite performed by the Chicago
+Orchestra under the direction of Theodore
+Thomas. New York’s real occupation by the
+Spaniards, however, occurred after the close of
+Mr. Hammerstein’s brilliant seasons, although
+the earlier vogue of Carmencita, whose celebrated
+portrait by Sargent in the Luxembourg Gallery
+in Paris will long preserve her fame, the interest
+in the highly-coloured paintings by Sorolla and
+Zuloaga, many of which are still on exhibition in
+private and public galleries in New York, the success
+here achieved, in varying degrees, by such
+singing artists as Emilio de Gogorza, Andrea de
+Segurola, and Lucrezia Bori, the performances of
+the piano works of Albeniz, Turina, and Granados
+by such pianists as Ernest Schelling, George
+Copeland, and Leo Ornstein, and the amazing
+Spanish dances of Anna Pavlowa (who in attempting
+them was but following in the footsteps
+of her great predecessors of the nineteenth century,
+Fanny Elssler and Taglioni), all fanned the
+flames.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span></p>
+<p>The winter of 1915-16 beheld the Spanish
+blaze. Enrique Granados, one of the most distinguished
+of contemporary Spanish pianists and
+composers, a man who took a keen interest in the
+survival, and artistic use, of national forms, came
+to this country to assist at the production of his
+opera <i>Goyescas</i>, sung in Spanish at the Metropolitan
+Opera House for the first time anywhere,
+and was also heard several times here in his interpretative
+capacity as a pianist; Pablo Casals, the
+Spanish ’cellist, gave frequent exhibitions of his
+finished art, as did Miguel Llobet, the guitar virtuoso;
+La Argentina (Señora Paz of South
+America) exposed her ideas, somewhat classicized,
+of Spanish dances; a Spanish soprano, Maria
+Barrientos, made her North American début and
+justified, in some measure, the extravagant reports
+which had been spread broadcast about her
+singing; and finally the decree of Paris (still valid
+in spite of Paul Poiret’s reported absence in the
+trenches) led all our womenfolk into the wearing
+of Spanish garments, the hip-hoops of the Velasquez
+period, the lace flounces of Goya’s Duchess
+of Alba, and the mantillas, the combs, and the
+<i>accroche-coeurs</i> of Spain, Spain, Spain.... In
+addition one must mention Mme. Farrar’s brilliant
+success, deserved in some degree, as Carmen, both
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>in Bizet’s opera and in a moving picture drama;
+Miss Theda Bara’s film appearance in the same
+part, made with more atmospheric suggestion
+than Mme. Farrar’s, even if less effective as an
+interpretation of the moods of the Spanish cigarette
+girl; Mr. Charles Chaplin’s eccentric burlesque
+of the same play; the continued presence
+in New York of Andrea de Segurola as an opera
+and concert singer; Maria Gay, who gave some
+performances in <i>Carmen</i> and other operas; and
+Lucrezia Bori, although she was unable to sing
+during the entire season owing to the unfortunate
+result of an operation on her vocal cords; in Chicago,
+Miss Supervia appeared at the opera and
+Mme. Koutznezoff, the Russian, danced Spanish
+dances; and at the New York Winter Garden Isabel
+Rodriguez appeared in Spanish dances which
+quite transcended the surroundings and made that
+stage as atmospheric, for the few brief moments in
+which it was occupied by her really entrancing
+beauty, as a <i>maison de danse</i> in Seville. The
+tango, too, in somewhat modified form, continued
+to interest “ballroom dancers,” danced to music
+provided in many instances by Señor Valverde, an
+indefatigable producer of popular tunes, some of
+which have a certain value as music owing to their
+close allegiance to the folk-dances and songs of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>Spain. In the art-world there was a noticeable
+revival of interest in Goya and El Greco.</p>
+
+<p>But if Mr. Gatti-Casazza, with the best intentions
+in the world, should desire to take advantage
+of any of this <i>réclame</i> by producing a series of
+Spanish operas at the Metropolitan Opera House—say
+four or five more—he would find himself
+in difficulty. Where are they? Several of the
+operas of Isaac Albeniz have been performed in
+London, and in Brussels at the Théâtre de la Monnaie,
+but would they be liked here? There is
+Felipe Pedrell’s monumental work, the trilogy,
+<i>Los Pireneos</i>, called by Edouard Lopez-Chavarri
+“the most important work for the theatre written
+in Spain”; and there is the aforementioned <i>Dolores</i>.
+For the rest, one would have to search
+about among the zarzuelas; and would the Metropolitan
+Opera House be a suitable place for the
+production of this form of opera? It is doubtful,
+indeed, if the zarzuela could take root in any
+theatre in New York.</p>
+
+<p>The truth is that in Spain Italian and German
+operas are much more popular than Spanish,
+the zarzuela always excepted; and at Señor
+Arbós’s series of concerts at the Royal Opera in
+Madrid one hears more Bach and Beethoven than
+Albeniz and Pedrell. There is a growing interest
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>in music in Spain and there are indications that
+some day her composers may again take an important
+place with the musicians of other nationalities,
+a place they proudly held in the
+sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. However,
+no longer ago than 1894, we find Louis Lombard
+writing in his “Observations of a Musician” that
+harmony was not taught at the Conservatory of
+Malaga, and that at the closing exercises of the
+Conservatory of Barcelona he had heard a four-hand
+arrangement of the <i>Tannhäuser</i> march performed
+on ten pianos by forty hands! Havelock
+Ellis (“The Soul of Spain,” 1909) affirms that
+a concert in Spain sets the audience to chattering.
+They have a savage love of noise, the Spanish,
+he says, which incites them to conversation.
+Albert Lavignac, in “Music and Musicians”
+(William Marchant’s translation), says, “We
+have left in the shade the Spanish school, which
+to say truth does not exist.” But if one reads
+what Lavignac has to say about Moussorgsky,
+one is likely to give little credence to such extravagant
+generalities as the one just quoted.
+The Moussorgsky paragraph is a gem, and I am
+only too glad to insert it here for the sake of
+those who have not seen it: “A charming and
+fruitful melodist, who makes up for a lack of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>skill in harmonization by a daring, which is sometimes
+of doubtful taste; has produced songs,
+piano music in small amount, and an opera, <i>Boris
+Godunow</i>.” In the report of the proceedings of
+the thirty-fourth session of the London Musical
+Association (1907-8) Dr. Thomas Lea Southgate
+is quoted as complaining to Sir George Grove
+because under “Schools of Composition” in the
+old edition of Grove’s Dictionary the Spanish
+School was dismissed in twenty lines. Sir George,
+he says, replied, “Well, I gave it to Rockstro
+because nobody knows anything about Spanish
+music.”—The bibliography of modern Spanish
+music is indeed indescribably meagre, although a
+good deal has been written in and out of Spain
+about the early religious composers of the Iberian
+peninsula.</p>
+
+<p>These matters will be discussed in due course.
+In the meantime it has afforded me some amusement
+to put together a list (which may be of
+interest to both the casual reader and the student
+of music) of compositions suggested by Spain
+to composers of other nationalities. (This list is
+by no means complete. I have not attempted
+to include in it works which are not more or
+less familiar to the public of the present day;
+without boundaries it could easily be extended into
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>a small volume.) The répertoire of the concert
+room and the opera house is streaked through and
+through with Spanish atmosphere and, on the
+whole, I should say, the best Spanish music has
+not been written by Spaniards, although most of
+it, like the best music written in Spain, is based
+primarily on the rhythm of folk-tunes, dances and
+songs. Of orchestral pieces I think I must put
+at the head of the list Chabrier’s rhapsody,
+<i>España</i>, as colourful and rhythmic a combination
+of tone as the auditor of a symphony concert is
+often bidden to hear. It depends for its melody
+and rhythm on two Spanish dances, the jota, fast
+and fiery, and the malagueña, slow and sensuous.
+These are true Spanish tunes; Chabrier, according
+to report, invented only the rude theme given
+to the trombones. The piece was originally written
+for piano, and after Chabrier’s death was
+transformed (with other music by the same composer)
+into a ballet, <i>España</i>, performed at the
+Paris Opera, 1911. Waldteufel based one of his
+most popular waltzes on the theme of this rhapsody.
+Chabrier’s <i>Habanera</i> for the pianoforte
+(1885) was his last musical reminiscence of his
+journey to Spain. It is French composers
+generally who have achieved better effects with
+Spanish atmosphere than men of other nations,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>and next to Chabrier’s music I should put Debussy’s
+<i>Iberia</i>, the second of his <i>Images</i> (1910).
+It contains three movements designated respectively
+as “In the streets and roads,” “The perfumes
+of the night,” and “The morning of a
+fête-day.” It is indeed rather the smell and the
+look of Spain than the rhythm that this music
+gives us, entirely impressionistic that it is, but
+rhythm is not lacking, and such characteristic
+instruments as castanets, tambourines, and xylophones
+are required by the score. “Perfumes of
+the night” comes as near to suggesting odours
+to the nostrils as any music can—and not all of
+them are pleasant odours. There is Rimsky-Korsakow’s
+<i>Capriccio Espagnole</i>, with its <i>alborado</i>
+or lusty morning serenade, its long series of
+cadenzas (as cleverly written as those of <i>Scheherazade</i>
+to display the virtuosity of individual
+players in the orchestra; it is noteworthy that
+this work is dedicated to the sixty-seven musicians
+of the band at the Imperial Opera House of
+Petrograd and all of their names are mentioned
+on the score) to suggest the vacillating music of
+a gipsy encampment, and finally the wild fandango
+of the Asturias with which the work comes
+to a brilliant conclusion. Engelbert Humperdinck
+taught the theory of music in the Conservatory
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>of Barcelona for two years (1885-6), and
+one of the results was his <i>Maurische Rhapsodie</i>
+in three parts (1898-9), still occasionally performed
+by our orchestras. Lalo wrote his <i>Symphonie
+Espagnole</i> for violin and orchestra for the
+great Spanish virtuoso, Pablo de Sarasate, but
+all our violinists delight to perform it (although
+usually shorn of a movement or two). Glinka
+wrote a <i>Jota Aragonese</i> and <i>A Night in Madrid</i>;
+he gave a Spanish theme to Balakirew which the
+latter utilized in his <i>Overture on a theme of a
+Spanish March</i>. Liszt wrote a <i>Spanish Rhapsody</i>
+for pianoforte (arranged as a concert piece
+for piano and orchestra by Busoni) in which he
+used the jota of Aragon as a theme for variations.
+Rubinstein’s <i>Toreador and Andalusian</i>
+and Moszkowski’s <i>Spanish Dances</i> (for four
+hands) are known to all amateur pianists as
+Hugo Wolf’s <i>Spanisches Liederbuch</i> and Robert
+Schumann’s <i>Spanisches Liederspiel</i>, set to F.
+Giebel’s translations of popular Spanish ballads,
+are known to all singers. I have heard a song
+of Saint-Saëns, <i>Guitares et Mandolines</i>, charmingly
+sung by Greta Torpadie, in which the instruments
+of the title, under the subtle fingers of that
+masterly accompanist, Coenraad V. Bos, were
+cleverly imitated. And Debussy’s <i>Mandoline</i> and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>Delibes’s <i>Les Filles de Cadiz</i> (which in this country
+belongs both to Emma Calvé and Olive Fremstad)
+spring instantly to mind. Ravel’s <i>Rapsodie
+Espagnole</i> is as Spanish as music could be.
+The Boston Symphony men have played it during
+the season just past. Ravel based the habanera
+section of his <i>Rapsodie</i> on one of his piano pieces.
+But Richard Strauss’s two tone-poems on Spanish
+subjects, <i>Don Juan</i> and <i>Don Quixote</i>, have not a
+note of Spanish colouring, so far as I can remember,
+from beginning to end. Svendsen’s symphonic
+poem, <i>Zorahayda</i>, based on a passage in
+Washington Irving’s “Alhambra,” is Spanish in
+theme and may be added to this list together with
+Waldteufel’s <i>Estudiantina</i> waltzes.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Four modern operas stand out as Spanish in
+subject and atmosphere. I would put at the top
+of the list Zandonai’s <i>Conchita</i>; the Italian composer
+has caught on his musical palette and transferred
+to his tonal canvas a deal of the lazy restless
+colour of the Iberian peninsula in this little
+master-work. The feeling of the streets and patios
+is admirably caught. My friend, Pitts Sanborn,
+said of it, after its solitary performance at
+the Metropolitan Opera House in New York by
+the Chicago Opera Company, “There is musical
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>atmosphere of a rare and penetrating kind; there
+is colour used with the discretion of a master;
+there are intoxicating rhythms, and above the orchestra
+the voices are heard in a truthful musical
+speech.... Ever since <i>Carmen</i> it has been so
+easy to write Spanish music and achieve supremely
+the banal. Here there is as little of the Spanish
+of convention as in Debussy’s <i>Iberia</i>, but there is
+Spain.” This opera, based on Pierre Louys’s
+sadic novel, “La Femme et le Pantin,” owed some
+of its extraordinary impression of vitality to the
+vivid performance given of the title-rôle by Tarquinia
+Tarquini. Raoul Laparra, born in Bordeaux,
+but who has travelled much in Spain, has
+written two Spanish operas, <i>La Habanera</i> and <i>La
+Jota</i>, both named after popular Spanish dances
+and both produced at the Opéra-Comique in
+Paris. I have heard <i>La Habanera</i> there and
+found the composer’s use of the dance as a pivot
+of a tragedy very convincing. Nor shall I forget
+the first act-close, in which a young man, seated
+on a wall facing the window of a house where a
+most bloody murder has been committed, sings a
+wild Spanish ditty, accompanying himself on the
+guitar, crossing and recrossing his legs in complete
+abandonment to the rhythm, while in the
+house rises the wild treble cry of a frightened
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>child. I have not heard <i>La Jota</i>, nor have I seen
+the score. I do not find Emile Vuillermoz enthusiastic
+in his review (“S. I. M.,” May 15, 1911):
+“Une danse transforme le premier acte en un
+kaléidoscope frénétique et le combat dans l’église
+doit donner, au second, dans l’intention de l’auteur
+‘une sensation à pic, un peu comme celle d’un
+puits où grouillerait la besogne monstreuse de
+larves humaines.’ A vrai dire ces deux tableaux de
+cinématographe papillotant, corsés de cris, de
+hurlements et d’un nombre incalculable de coups de
+feu constituent pour le spectateur une épreuve physiquement
+douloureuse, une hallucination confuse
+et inquiétante, un cauchemar assourdissant qui le
+conduisent irrésistiblement à l’hébétude et à la
+migraine. Dans tout cet enfer que devient la
+musique?” Perhaps opera-goers in general are
+not looking for thrills of this order; the fact remains
+that <i>La Jota</i> has had a modest career when
+compared with <i>La Habanera</i>, which has even been
+performed in Boston. <i>Carmen</i> is essentially a
+French opera; the leading emotions of the characters
+are expressed in an idiom as French as that
+of Gounod; yet the dances and entr’actes are
+Spanish in colour. The story of Carmen’s entrance
+song is worth retelling in Mr. Philip Hale’s
+words (“Boston Symphony Orchestra Programme
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>Notes”; 1914-15, P. 287): “Mme. Galli-Marié
+disliked her entrance air, which was in 6-8 time
+with a chorus. She wished something more audacious,
+a song in which she could bring into play
+the whole battery of her <i>perversités artistiques</i>,
+to borrow Charles Pigot’s phrase: ‘caressing
+tones and smiles, voluptuous inflections, killing
+glances, disturbing gestures.’ During the rehearsals
+Bizet made a dozen versions. The singer
+was satisfied only with the thirteenth, the now familiar
+Habanera, based on an old Spanish tune
+that had been used by Sebastian Yradier. This
+brought Bizet into trouble, for Yradier’s publisher,
+Heugel, demanded that the indebtedness
+should be acknowledged in Bizet’s score. Yradier
+made no complaint, but to avoid a lawsuit or a
+scandal, Bizet gave consent, and on the first page
+of the Habanera in the French edition of <i>Carmen</i>
+this line is engraved: ‘Imitated from a Spanish
+song, the property of the publishers of <i>Le Ménestrel</i>.’”</p>
+
+<p>There are other operas the scenes of which are
+laid in Spain. Some of them make an attempt
+at Spanish colouring, more do not. Massenet
+wrote no less than five operas on Spanish subjects,
+<i>Le Cid</i>, <i>Cherubin</i>, <i>Don César de Bazan</i>, <i>La Navarraise</i>
+and <i>Don Quichotte</i> (Cervantes’s novel has
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>frequently lured the composers of lyric dramas
+with its story; Clément et Larousse give a long
+list of <i>Don Quixote</i> operas, but they do not include
+one by Manuel Garcia, which is mentioned in John
+Towers’s compilation, “Dictionary-Catalogue of
+Operas.” However, not a single one of these lyric
+dramas has held its place on the stage). The
+Spanish dances in <i>Le Cid</i> are frequently performed,
+although the opera is not. The most famous of
+the set is called simply <i>Aragonaise</i>; it is not a jota.
+<i>Pleurez, mes yeux</i>, the principal air of the piece,
+can scarcely be called Spanish. There is a delightful
+suggestion of the jota in <i>La Navarraise</i>.
+In <i>Don Quichotte</i> la belle Dulcinée sings one of her
+airs to her own guitar strummings, and much was
+made of the fact, before the original production at
+Monte Carlo, of Mme. Lucy Arbell’s lessons on
+that instrument. Mary Garden, who had learned
+to dance for <i>Salome</i>, took no guitar lessons for
+<i>Don Quichotte</i>. But is not the guitar an anachronism
+in this opera? In a pamphlet by Señor
+Cecilio de Roda, issued during the celebration of
+the tercentenary of the publication of Cervantes’s
+romance, taking as its subject the musical references
+in the work, I find, “The harp was the aristocratic
+instrument most favoured by women and
+it would appear to be regarded in <i>Don Quixote</i> as
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>the feminine instrument par excellence.” Was
+the guitar as we know it in existence at that
+epoch? I think the <i>vihuela</i> was the guitar of the
+period.... Maurice Ravel wrote a Spanish opera,
+<i>L’heure Espagnole</i> (one act, performed at
+the Paris Opéra-Comique, 1911). Octave Séré
+(“Musiciens français d’Aujourd’hui”) says of it:
+“Les principaux traits de son caractère et l’influence
+du sol natal s’y combinent étrangement. De
+l’alliance de la mer et du Pays Basque (Ravel was
+born in the Basses-Pyrénées, near the sea) est née
+une musique à la fois fluide et nerveusement rythmée,
+mobile, chatoyante, amie du pittoresque et
+dont le trait net et précis est plus incisif que profond.”
+Hugo Wolf’s opera <i>Der Corregidor</i> is
+founded on the novel, “Il Sombrero de tres Picos,”
+of the Spanish writer, Pedro de Alarcon (1833-91).
+His unfinished opera <i>Manuel Venegas</i> also
+has a Spanish subject, suggested by Alarcon’s “El
+Nino de la Bola.” Other Spanish operas are Beethoven’s
+<i>Fidelio</i>, Balfe’s <i>The Rose of Castille</i>, Verdi’s
+<i>Ernani</i> and <i>Il Trovatore</i>, Rossini’s <i>Il Barbiere
+di Siviglia</i>, Mozart’s <i>Don Giovanni</i> and <i>Le Nozze
+di Figaro</i>, Weber’s <i>Preciosa</i> (really a play with incidental
+music), Dargomijsky’s <i>The Stone Guest</i>
+(Pushkin’s version of the Don Juan story. This
+opera, by the way, was one of the many retouched
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>and completed by Rimsky-Korsakow), Reznicek’s
+<i>Donna Diana</i>—and Wagner’s <i>Parsifal</i>! The
+American composer John Knowles Paine’s opera
+<i>Azara</i>, dealing with a Moorish subject, has, I
+think, never been performed.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">II</p>
+
+<p>The early religious composers of Spain deserve
+a niche all to themselves, be it ever so tiny, as in
+the present instance. There is, to be sure, some
+doubt as to whether their inspiration was entirely
+peninsular, or whether some of it was wafted from
+Flanders, and the rest gleaned in Rome, for in
+their service to the church most of them migrated
+to Italy and did their best work there. It is not
+the purpose of the present chronicler to devote
+much space to these early men, or to discuss in detail
+their music. There are no books in English
+devoted to a study of Spanish music, and few in
+any language, but what few exist take good care
+to relate at considerable length (some of them with
+frequent musical quotation) the state of music in
+Spain in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth
+centuries, the golden period. To the reader who
+may wish to pursue this phase of our subject I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>offer a small bibliography. There is first of all
+A. Soubies’s two volumes, “Histoire de la Musique
+d’Espagne,” published in 1889. The second
+volume takes us through the eighteenth century.
+The religious and early secular composers are
+catalogued in these volumes, but there is little attempt
+at detail, and he is a happy composer who
+is awarded an entire page. Soubies does not find
+occasion to pause for more than a paragraph on
+most of his subjects. Occasionally, however, he
+lightens the plodding progress of the reader, as
+when he quotes Father Bermudo’s “Declaracion
+de Instrumentos” (1548; the 1555 edition is in
+the Library of Congress at Washington):
+“There are three kinds of instruments in music.
+The first are called natural; these are men, of
+whom the song is called <i>musical harmony</i>. Others
+are artificial and are played by the touch—such
+as the harp, the <i>vihuela</i> (the ancient guitar, which
+resembles the lute), and others like them; the
+music of these is called <i>artificial</i> or rhythmic. The
+third species is pneumatique and includes instruments
+such as the flute, the douçaine (a species of
+oboe), and the organ.” There may be some to
+dispute this ingenious and highly original classification.
+The best known, and perhaps the most
+useful (because it is easily accessible) history of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>Spanish music is that written by Mariano Soriano
+Fuertes, in four volumes: “Historia de la Música
+Española desde la venida de los Fenicios hasta el
+año de 1850”; published in Barcelona and Madrid
+in 1855. There is further the “Diccionario Tecnico,
+Historico, y Biografico de la Música,” by
+Jose Parada y Barreto (Madrid, 1867). This,
+of course, is a general work on music, but Spain
+gets her full due. For example, a page and a half
+is devoted to Beethoven, and nine pages to Eslava.
+It is to this latter composer to whom we must turn
+for the most complete and important work on
+Spanish church music: “Lira Sacro-Hispana”
+(Madrid, 1869), in ten volumes, with voluminous
+extracts from the composers’ works. This collection
+of Spanish church music from the sixteenth
+century through the eighteenth, with biographical
+notices of the composers is out of print and rare
+(there is a copy in the Congressional Library at
+Washington). As a complement to it I may mention
+Felipe Pedrell’s “Hispaniae Schola Música
+Sacra,” begun in 1894, which has already reached
+the proportions of Eslava’s work. Pedrell, who
+was the master of Enrique Granados, has also issued
+a fine edition of the music of Victoria.</p>
+
+<p>The Spanish composers had their full share in
+the process of crystallizing music into forms of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>permanent beauty during the sixteenth and seventeenth
+centuries. Rockstro asserts that during
+the early part of the sixteenth century nearly all
+the best composers for the great Roman choirs
+were Spaniards. But their greatest achievement
+was the foundation of the school of which Palestrina
+was the crown. On the music of their own
+country their influence is less perceptible. I think
+the name of Cristofero Morales (1512-53) is the
+first important name in the history of Spanish
+music. He preceded Palestrina in Rome and
+some of his masses and motets are still sung in the
+Papal chapel there (and in other Roman Catholic
+edifices and by choral societies). Francesco
+Guerrero (1528-99; these dates are approximate)
+was a pupil of Morales. He wrote settings of the
+Passion choruses according to St. Matthew and
+St. John and numerous masses and motets.
+Tomas Luis de Victoria is, of course, the greatest
+figure in Spanish music, and next to Palestrina
+(with whom he worked contemporaneously) the
+greatest figure in sixteenth century music. Soubies
+writes: “One might say that on his musical
+palette he has entirely at his disposition, in some
+sort, the glowing colour of Zurbaran, the realistic
+and transparent tones of Velasquez, the ideal
+shades of Juan de Juarez and Murillo. His mysticism
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>is that of Santa Theresa and San Juan de
+la Cruz.” The music of Victoria is still very
+much alive and may be heard even in New York,
+occasionally, through the medium of the Musical
+Art Society. Whether it is performed in churches
+in America or not I do not know; the Roman choirs
+still sing it....</p>
+
+<p>The list might be extended indefinitely ... but
+the great names I have given. There are Cabezon,
+whom Pedrell calls the “Spanish Bach,” Navarro,
+Caseda, Comes, Ribera, Castillo, Lobo, Duron,
+Romero, Juarez. On the whole I think these
+composers had more influence on Rome—the
+Spanish nature is more reverent than the Italian—than
+on Spain. The modern Spanish composers
+have learned more from the folk-song and
+dance than they have from the church composers.
+However, there are voices which dissent from this
+opinion. G. Tebaldini (“Rivista Musicale,” Vol.
+IV, Pp. 267 and 494) says that Pedrell in his
+studies learned much which he turned to account in
+the choral writing of his operas. And Felipe Pedrell
+himself asserts that there is an unbroken chain
+between the religious composers of the sixteenth
+century and the theatrical composers of the seventeenth.
+We may follow him thus far without
+believing that the theatrical composers of the seventeenth
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>century had too great an influence on the
+secular composers of the present day.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">III</p>
+
+<p>All the world dances in Spain, at least it would
+seem so, in reading over the books of the Marco
+Polos who have made voyages of discovery on the
+Iberian peninsula. Guitars seem to be as common
+there as pea-shooters in New England, and strumming
+seems to set the feet a-tapping and voices
+a-singing, what, they care not. (Havelock Ellis
+says: “It is not always agreeable to the Spaniard
+to find that dancing is regarded by the foreigner
+as a peculiar and important Spanish institution.
+Even Valera, with his wide culture, could
+not escape this feeling; in a review of a book about
+Spain by an American author entitled ‘The Land
+of the Castanet’—a book which he recognized as
+full of appreciation for Spain—Valera resented
+the title. It is, he says, as though a book about
+the United States should be called ‘The Land of
+Bacon.’”) Oriental colour is streaked through
+and through the melodies and harmonies, many of
+which betray their Arabian origin; others are
+<i>flamenco</i>, or gipsy. The dances, almost invariably
+accompanied by song, are generally in 3-4
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>time or its variants such as 6-8 or 3-8; the tango,
+of course, is in 2-4. But the dancers evolve the
+most elaborate inter-rhythms out of these simple
+measures, creating thereby a complexity of effect
+which defies any comprehensible notation on paper.
+As it is on this <i>fioriture</i>, if I may be permitted
+to use the word in this connection, of the
+dancer that the sophisticated composer bases some
+of his most natural and national effects, I shall
+linger on the subject. La Argentina has re-arranged
+many of the Spanish dances for purposes
+of the concert stage, but in her translation she has
+retained in a large measure this interesting complication
+of rhythm, marking the irregularity of
+the beat, now with a singularly complicated detonation
+of heel-tapping, now with a sudden bend
+of a knee, now with the subtle quiver of an eyelash,
+now with a shower of castanet sparks (an instrument
+which requires a hard tutelage for its
+complete mastery; Richard Ford tells us that even
+the children in the streets of Spain rap shells together,
+to become self-taught artists in the use of
+it). Chabrier, in his visit to Spain with his wife
+in 1882, attempted to note down some of these
+rhythmic variations achieved by the dancers while
+the musicians strummed their guitars, and he was
+partially successful. But all in all he only succeeded
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>in giving in a single measure each variation;
+he did not attempt to weave them into the
+intricate pattern which the Spanish women contrive
+to make of them.</p>
+
+<p>There is a singular similarity to be observed between
+this heel-tapping and the complicated drum-tapping
+of the African negroes of certain tribes.
+In his book “Afro-American Folksongs” H. E.
+Krehbiel thus describes the musical accompaniment
+of the dances in the Dahoman Village at
+the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago:
+“These dances were accompanied by choral song
+and the rhythmical and harmonious beating of
+drums and bells, the song being in unison. The
+harmony was a tonic major triad broken up
+rhythmically in a most intricate and amazingly ingenious
+manner. The instruments were tuned
+with excellent justness. The fundamental tone
+came from a drum made of a hollowed log about
+three feet long with a single head, played by one
+who seemed to be the leader of the band, though
+there was no giving of signals. This drum was
+beaten with the palms of the hands. A variety of
+smaller drums, some with one, some with two
+heads, were beaten variously with sticks and fingers.
+The bells, four in number, were of iron and
+were held mouth upward and struck with sticks.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>The players showed the most remarkable rhythmical
+sense and skill that ever came under my notice.
+Berlioz in his supremest effort with his
+army of drummers produced nothing to compare
+in artistic interest with the harmonious drumming
+of these savages. The fundamental effect was a
+combination of double and triple time, the former
+kept by the singers, the latter by the drummers,
+but it is impossible to convey the idea of the
+wealth of detail achieved by the drummers by
+means of exchange of the rhythms, syncopation of
+both simultaneously, and dynamic devices. Only
+by making a score of the music could this have
+been done. I attempted to make such a score by
+enlisting the help of the late John C. Filmore, experienced
+in Indian music, but we were thwarted
+by the players who, evidently divining our purpose
+when we took out our notebooks, mischievously
+changed their manner of playing as soon as we
+touched pencil to paper.”</p>
+
+<p>The resemblance between negro and Spanish
+music is very noticeable. Mr. Krehbiel says that
+in South America Spanish melody has been imposed
+on negro rhythm. In the dances of the people
+of Spain, as Chabrier points out, the melody
+is often practically nil; the effect is rhythmic (an
+effect which is emphasized by the obvious harmonic
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>and melodic limitations of the guitar, which invariably
+accompanies all singers and dancers).
+If there were a melody or if the guitarists played
+well (which they usually do not) one could not
+distinguish its contours what with the cries of Olè!
+and the heel-beats of the performers. Spanish
+melodies, indeed, are often scraps of tunes, like
+the African negro melodies. The habanera is a
+true African dance, taken to Spain by way of
+Cuba, as Albert Friedenthal points out in his book,
+“Musik, Tanz, und Dichtung bei den Kreolen
+Amerikas.” Whoever was responsible, Arab, negro,
+or Moor (Havelock Ellis says that the dances
+of Spain are closely allied with the ancient dances
+of Greece and Egypt), the Spanish dances betray
+their oriental origin in their complexity of rhythm
+(a complexity not at all obvious on the printed
+page, as so much of it depends on dancer, guitarist,
+singer, and even public!), and the <i>fioriture</i>
+which decorate their melody when melody occurs.
+While Spanish religious music is perhaps not distinctively
+Spanish, the dances invariably display
+marked national characteristics; it is on these,
+then (some in greater, some in less degree), that
+the composers in and out of Spain have built their
+most atmospheric inspirations, their best pictures
+of popular life in the Iberian peninsula. A good
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>deal of the interest of this music is due to the important
+part the guitar plays in its construction;
+the modulations are often contrary to all rules of
+harmony and (yet, some would say) the music
+seems to be effervescent with variety and fire. Of
+the guitarists Richard Ford (“Gatherings from
+Spain”) says: “The performers seldom are
+very scientific musicians; they content themselves
+with striking the chords, sweeping the whole hand
+over the strings, or flourishing, and tapping the
+board with the thumb, at which they are very expert.
+Occasionally in the towns there is some
+one who has attained more power over this ungrateful
+instrument; but the attempt is a failure.
+The guitar responds coldly to Italian words and
+elaborate melody, which never come home to Spanish
+ears or hearts.” (An exception must be made
+in the case of Miguel Llobet. I first heard him
+play at Pitts Sanborn’s concert at the Punch and
+Judy Theatre (April 17, 1916) for the benefit of
+Hospital 28 in Bourges, France, and he made a
+deep impression on me. In one of his numbers,
+the <i>Spanish Fantasy</i> of Tárrega, he astounded
+and thrilled me. He seemed at all times to exceed
+the capacity of his instrument, obtaining a variety
+of colour which was truly amazing. In this particular
+number he not only plucked the keyboard
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>but the fingerboard as well, in intricate and rapid
+<i>tempo</i>; seemingly two different kinds of instruments
+were playing. But at all times he variated
+his tone; sometimes he made the instrument sound
+almost as though it had been played by wind and
+not plucked. Especially did I note a suggestion
+of the bagpipe. A true artist. None of the music,
+the fantasy mentioned, a serenade of Albeniz,
+and a Menuet of Tor, was particularly interesting,
+although the Fantasia contained some fascinating
+references to folk-dance tunes. There is
+nothing sensational about Llobet, a quiet prim
+sort of man; he sits quietly in his chair and makes
+music. It might be a harp or a ’cello—no striving
+for personal effect.)</p>
+
+<p>The Spanish dances are infinite in number and
+for centuries back they seem to form part and
+parcel of Spanish life. Discussion as to how they
+are danced is a feature of the descriptions. No
+two authors agree, it would seem; to a mere annotator
+the fact is evident that they are danced
+differently on different occasions. It is obvious
+that they are danced differently in different provinces.
+The Spaniards, as Richard Ford points
+out, are not too willing to give information to
+strangers, frequently because they themselves lack
+the knowledge. Their statements are often misleading,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>sometimes intentionally so. They do not
+understand the historical temperament. Until recently
+many of the art treasures and archives of
+the peninsula were but poorly kept. Those who
+lived in the shadow of the Alhambra admired only
+its shade. It may be imagined that there has been
+even less interest displayed in recording the folk-dances.
+“Dancing in Spain is now a matter
+which few know anything about,” writes Havelock
+Ellis, “because every one takes it for granted
+that he knows all about it; and any question on
+the subject receives a very ready answer which is
+usually of questionable correctness.” Of the music
+of the dances we have many records, and that
+they are generally in 3-4 time or its variants we
+may be certain. As to whether they are danced
+by two women, a woman and a man, or a woman
+alone, the authorities do not always agree. The
+confusion is added to by the oracular attitude of
+the scribes. It seems quite certain to me that this
+procedure varies. That the animated picture almost
+invariably possesses great fascination there
+are only too many witnesses to prove. I myself
+can testify to the marvel of some of them, set to
+be sure in strange frames, the Feria in Paris, for
+example; but even without the surroundings, which
+Spanish dances demand, the diablerie, the shivering
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>intensity of these fleshly women, always wound
+tight with such shawls as only the mistresses of
+kings might wear in other countries, have drawn
+taut the <i>real thrill</i>. It is dancing which enlists the
+co-operation not only of the feet and legs, but of
+the arms and, in fact, the entire body.</p>
+
+<p>The smart world in Spain to-day dances much
+as the smart world does anywhere else, although it
+does not, I am told, hold a brief for our tango,
+which Mr. Krehbiel suggests is a corruption of the
+original African habanera. But in older days
+many of the dances, such as the pavana, the sarabande,
+and the gallarda, were danced at the court
+and were in favour with the nobility. (Although
+presumably of Italian origin, the pavana and gallarda
+were more popular in Spain than in Rome.
+Fuertes says that the sarabande was invented in
+the middle of the sixteenth century by a dancer
+called Zarabanda who was a native of either Seville
+or Guayaquil.) The pavana, an ancient dance of
+grave and stately measure, was much in vogue in
+the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. An explanation
+of its name is that the figures executed
+by the dancers bore a resemblance to the semi-circular
+wheel-like spreading of the tail of a peacock.
+The gallarda (French, gaillard) was usually
+danced as a relief to the pavana (and indeed
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>often follows it in the dance-suites of the classical
+composers in which these forms all figure). The
+jacara, or more properly xacara, of the sixteenth
+century, was danced in accompaniment to a romantic,
+swashbuckling ditty. The Spanish folias
+were a set of dances danced to a simple tune treated
+in a variety of styles with very free accompaniment
+of castanets and bursts of song. Corelli in
+Rome in 1700 published twenty-four variations in
+this form, which have been played in our day by
+Fritz Kreisler and other violinists.</p>
+
+<p>The names of the modern Spanish dances are
+often confused in the descriptions offered by observing
+travellers, for the reasons already noted.
+Hundreds of these descriptions exist, and it is difficult
+to choose the most telling of them. Gertrude
+Stein, who has spent the last two years in Spain,
+has noted the rhythm of several of these dances by
+the mingling of her original use of words with the
+ingratiating medium of <i>vers libre</i>. She has succeeded,
+I think, better than some musicians in suggesting
+the intricacies of the rhythm. I should
+like to transcribe one of these attempts here, but
+that I have not the right to do as I have only seen
+them in manuscript; they have not yet appeared in
+print. These pieces are in a sense the thing itself—I
+shall have to fall back on descriptions of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>the thing. The tirana, a dance common to the
+province of Andalusia, is accompanied by song.
+It has a decided rhythm, affording opportunities
+for grace and gesture, the women toying with their
+aprons, the men flourishing hats and handkerchiefs.
+The polo, or olè, is now a gipsy dance.
+Mr. Ellis asserts that it is a corruption of the
+sarabande! He goes on to say, “The so-called
+gipsy dances of Spain are Spanish dances which
+the Spaniards are tending to relinquish but which
+the gipsies have taken up with energy and skill.”
+(This theory might be warmly contested.) The
+bolero, a comparatively modern dance, came to
+Spain through Italy. Mr. Philip Hale points out
+the fact that the bolero and the cachucha (which,
+by the way, one seldom hears of nowadays) were
+the popular Spanish dances when Mesdames Faviani
+and Dolores Tesrai, and their followers, Mlle.
+Noblet and Fanny Elssler, visited Paris. Fanny
+Elssler indeed is most frequently seen pictured in
+Spanish costume, and the cachucha was danced by
+her as often, I fancy, as Mme. Pavlowa dances <i>Le
+Cygne</i> of Saint-Saëns. Anna de Camargo, who
+acquired great fame as a dancer in France in the
+early eighteenth century, was born in Brussels but
+was of Spanish descent. She relied, however, on
+the Italian classic style for her success rather than
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>on national Spanish dances. The seguidilla is a
+gipsy dance which has the same rhythm as the
+bolero but is more animated and stirring. Examples
+of these dances, and of the jota, fandango,
+and the sevillana, are to be met with in the compositions
+listed in the first section of this article, in
+the appendices of Soriano Fuertes’s “History of
+Spanish Music,” in Grove’s Dictionary, in the
+numbers of “S. I. M.” in which the letters of Emmanuel
+Chabrier occur, and in collections made by
+P. Lacome, published in Paris.</p>
+
+<p>The jota is another dance in 3-4 time. Every
+province in Spain has its own jota, but the most
+famous variations are those of Aragon, Valencia,
+and Navarre. It is accompanied by the guitar,
+the <i>bandarria</i> (similar to the guitar), small drum,
+castanets, and triangle. Mr. Hale says that its
+origin in the twelfth century is attributed to a
+Moor named Alben Jot who fled from Valencia to
+Aragon. “The jota,” he continues, “is danced
+not only at merrymakings but at certain religious
+festivals and even in watching the dead. One
+called the ‘Natividad del Señor’ (nativity of our
+Lord) is danced on Christmas eve in Aragon, and
+is accompanied by songs, and jotas are sung and
+danced at the crossroads, invoking the favour of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>the Virgin, when the festival of Our Lady del Pilar
+is celebrated at Saragossa.”</p>
+
+<p>Havelock Ellis’s description of the jota is worth
+reproducing: “The Aragonaise jota, the most
+important and typical dance outside Andalusia, is
+danced by a man and a woman, and is a kind of
+combat between them; most of the time they are
+facing each other, both using castanets and advancing
+and retreating in an apparently aggressive
+manner, the arms alternately slightly raised
+and lowered, and the legs, with a seeming attempt
+to trip the partner, kicking out alternately somewhat
+sidewise, as the body is rapidly supported
+first on one side and then on the other. It is a
+monotonous dance, with immense rapidity and vivacity
+in its monotony, but it has not the deliberate
+grace and fascination, the happy audacities
+of Andalusian dancing. There is, indeed, no
+faintest suggestion of voluptuousness in it, but it
+may rather be said, in the words of a modern poet,
+Salvador Rueda, to have in it ‘the sound of helmets
+and plumes and lances and banners, the roaring
+of cannon, the neighing of horses, the shock of
+swords.’”</p>
+
+<p>Chabrier, in his astounding and amusing letters
+from Spain, gives us vivid pictures and interesting
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>information. This one, written to his friend,
+Edouard Moullé, from Granada, November 4,
+1882, appeared in “S. I. M.” April 15, 1911 (I
+have omitted the musical illustrations, which, however,
+possess great value for the student): “In a
+month I must leave adorable Spain ... and say
+good-bye to the Spaniards,—because, I say this
+only to you, they are very nice, the little girls! I
+have not seen a really ugly woman since I have
+been in Andalusia: I do not speak of the feet, they
+are so small that I have never seen them; the hands
+are tiny and well-kept and the arms of an exquisite
+contour; I speak only of what one can see,
+but they show a good deal; add the arabesques, the
+side-curls, and other ingenuities of the coiffure,
+the inevitable fan, the flower and the comb in the
+hair, placed well behind, the shawl of Chinese
+crêpe, with long fringe and embroidered in flowers,
+knotted around the figure, the arm bare, and the
+eye protected by eyelashes which are long enough
+to curl; the skin of dull white or orange colour,
+according to the race, all this smiling, gesticulating,
+dancing, drinking, and careless to the last degree....</p>
+
+<p>“That is the Andalusian.</p>
+
+<p>“Every evening we go with Alice to the café-concerts
+where the malagueñas, the Soledas, the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>Sapateados, and the Peteneras are sung; then the
+dances, absolutely Arab, to speak truth; if you
+could see them wriggle, unjoint their hips, contortion,
+I believe you would not try to get away!...
+At Malaga the dancing became so intense that I
+was compelled to take my wife away; it wasn’t even
+amusing any more. I can’t write about it, but I
+remember it and I will describe it to you.—I have
+no need to tell you that I have noted down many
+things; the tango, a kind of dance in which the
+women imitate the pitching of a ship (<i>le tangage
+du navire</i>) is the only dance in 2 time; all the others,
+all, are in 3-4 (Seville) or in 3-8 (Malaga and
+Cadiz);—in the North it is different, there is
+some music in 5-8, very curious. The 2-4 of the
+tango is always like the habanera; this is the picture:
+one or two women dance, two silly men play
+it doesn’t matter what on their guitars, and five
+or six women howl, with excruciating voices and in
+triplet figures impossible to note down because
+they change the air—every instant a new scrap
+of tune. They howl a series of figurations with
+syllables, words, rising voices, clapping hands
+which strike the six quavers, emphasizing the third
+and the sixth, cries of Anda! Anda! La Salud!
+eso es la Maraquita! gracia, nationidad! Baila,
+la chiquilla! Anda! Anda! Consuelo! Olè, la
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>Lola, olè la Carmen! que gracia! que elegancia! all
+that to excite the young dancer. It is vertiginous—it
+is unspeakable!</p>
+
+<p>“The Sevillana is another thing: it is in 3-4
+time (and with castanets).... All this becomes
+extraordinarily alluring with two curls, a pair of
+castanets and a guitar. It is impossible to write
+down the malagueña. It is a melopœia, however,
+which has a form and which always ends on the
+dominant, to which the guitar furnishes 3-8 time,
+and the spectator (when there is one) seated beside
+the guitarist, holds a cane between his legs
+and beats the syncopated rhythm; the dancers
+themselves instinctively syncopate the measures in
+a thousand ways, striking with their heels an unbelievable
+number of rhythms.... It is all
+rhythm and dance: the airs scraped out by the
+guitarist have no value; besides, they cannot be
+heard on account of the cries of Anda! la chiquilla!
+que gracia! que elegancia! Anda! Olè!
+Olè! la chiquirritita! and the more the cries the
+more the dancer laughs with her mouth wide open,
+and turns her hips, and is mad with her
+body....”</p>
+
+<p>As it is on these dances that composers invariably
+base their Spanish music (not alone Albeniz,
+Chapí, Bretón, and Granados, but Chabrier,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>Ravel, Laparra, and Bizet, as well) we may linger
+somewhat longer on their delights. The following
+compelling description is from Richard Ford’s
+highly readable “Gatherings from Spain”:
+“The dance which is closely analogous to the
+<i>Ghowasee</i> of the Egyptians, and the <i>Nautch</i> of
+the Hindoos, is called the <i>Olè</i> by Spaniards, the
+<i>Romalis</i> by their gipsies; the soul and essence of
+it consists in the expression of a certain sentiment,
+one not indeed of a very sentimental or correct
+character. The ladies, who seem to have no
+bones, resolve the problem of perpetual motion,
+their feet having comparatively a sinecure, as the
+whole person performs a pantomime, and trembles
+like an aspen leaf; the flexible form and Terpsichore
+figure of a young Andalusian girl—be
+she gipsy or not—is said, by the learned, to
+have been designed by nature as the fit frame for
+her voluptuous imagination.</p>
+
+<p>“Be that as it may, the scholar and classical
+commentator will every moment quote Martial,
+etc., when he beholds the unchanged balancing of
+hands, raised as if to catch showers of roses, the
+tapping of the feet, and the serpentine quivering
+movements. A contagious excitement seizes the
+spectators, who, like Orientals, beat time with
+their hands in measured cadence, and at every
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>pause applaud with cries and clappings. The
+damsels, thus encouraged, continue in violent
+action until nature is all but exhausted; then
+aniseed brandy, wine, and <i>alpisteras</i> are handed
+about, and the fête, carried on to early dawn,
+often concludes in broken heads, which here are
+called ‘gipsy’s fare.’ These dances appear, to a
+stranger from the chilly north, to be more marked
+by energy than by grace, nor have the legs less
+to do than the body, hips, and arms. The sight
+of this unchanged pastime of antiquity, which excites
+the Spaniard to frenzy, rather disgusts an
+English spectator, possibly from some national
+malorganization, for, as Molière says, ‘l’Angleterre
+a produit des grands hommes dans les
+sciences et les beaux arts, mais pas un grand
+danseur—allez lire l’histoire.’” (A fact as true
+in our day as it was in Molière’s.)</p>
+
+<p>On certain days the sevillana is danced before
+the high altar of the cathedral at Seville. The
+Reverend Henry Cart de Lafontaine (“Proceedings
+of the Musical Association”; London, thirty-third
+session, 1906-7) gives the following account
+of it, quoting a “French author”: “While
+Louis XIII was reigning over France, the Pope
+heard much talk of the Spanish dance called the
+‘Sevillana.’ He wished to satisfy himself, by actual
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>eye-witness, as to the character of this dance,
+and expressed his wish to a bishop of the diocese of
+Seville, who every year visited Rome. Evil
+tongues make the bishop responsible for the primary
+suggestion of the idea. Be that as it may,
+the bishop, on his return to Seville, had twelve
+youths well instructed in all the intricate measures
+of this Andalusian dance. He had to choose
+youths, for how could he present maidens to the
+horrified glance of the Holy Father? When his
+little troop was thoroughly schooled and perfected,
+he took the party to Rome, and the audience
+was arranged. The ‘Sevillana’ was danced
+in one of the rooms of the Vatican. The Pope
+warmly complimented the young executants, who
+were dressed in beautiful silk costumes of the
+period. The bishop humbly asked for permission
+to perform this dance at certain fêtes in the
+cathedral church at Seville, and further pleaded
+for a restriction of this privilege to that church
+alone. The Pope, hoist by his own petard, did
+not like to refuse, but granted the privilege with
+this restriction, that it should only last so long as
+the costumes of the dancers were wearable. Needless
+to say, these costumes are, therefore, objects
+of constant repair, but they are supposed to
+retain their identity even to this day. And this
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>is the reason why the twelve boys who dance the
+‘Sevillana’ before the high altar in the cathedral
+on certain feast days are dressed in the costume
+belonging to the reign of Louis XIII.”</p>
+
+<p>This is a very pretty story, but it is not uncontradicted....
+Has any statement been made
+about Spanish dancing or music which has been
+allowed to go uncontradicted? Look upon that
+picture and upon this: “As far as it is possible
+to ascertain from records,” says Rhoda G. Edwards
+in the “Musical Standard,” “this dance
+would seem always to have been in use in Seville
+cathedral; when the town was taken from the
+Moors in the thirteenth century it was undoubtedly
+an established custom and in 1428 we find the six
+boys recognized as an integral part of the chapter
+by Pope Eugenius IV. The dance is known as
+the (<i>sic</i>) ‘Los Scises,’ or dance of the six boys
+who, with four others, dance it before the high
+altar at Benediction on the three evenings before
+Lent and in the octaves of Corpus Christi and La
+Purissima (the conception of Our Lady). The
+dress of the boys is most picturesque, page costumes
+of the time of Philip III being worn, blue
+for La Purissima and red satin doublets slashed
+with blue for the other occasion; white hats with
+blue and white feathers are also worn whilst
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>dancing. The dance is usually of twenty-five
+minutes’ duration and in form seems quite unique,
+not resembling any of the other Spanish dance-forms,
+or in fact those of any other country.
+The boys accompany the symphony on castanets
+and sing a hymn in two parts whilst dancing.”</p>
+
+<p>From another author we learn that religious
+dancing is to be seen elsewhere in Spain than at
+Seville cathedral. At one time, it is said to have
+been common. The pilgrims to the shrine of the
+Virgin at Montserrat were wont to dance, and
+dancing took place in the churches of Valencia,
+Toledo, and Jurez. Religious dancing continued
+to be common, especially in Catalonia up to the
+seventeenth century. An account of the dance
+in the Seville cathedral may be found in “Los
+Españoles Pintados por si Mismos” (pages
+287-91).</p>
+
+<p>This very incomplete and rambling record of
+Spanish dancing should include some mention of
+the fandango. The origin of the word is obscure,
+but the dance is obviously one of the gayest
+and wildest of the Spanish dances. Like the
+malagueña it is in 3-8 time, but it is quite different
+in spirit from that sensuous form of terpsichorean
+enjoyment. La Argentina informs me
+that “fandango” in Spanish suggests very much
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>what “bachanale” does in English or French.
+It is a very old dance, and may be a survival of
+a Moorish dance, as Desrat suggests. Mr. Philip
+Hale found the following account of it somewhere:</p>
+
+<p>“Like an electric shock, the notes of the
+fandango animate all hearts. Men and women,
+young and old, acknowledge the power of this air
+over the ears and soul of every Spaniard. The
+young men spring to their places, rattling castanets,
+or imitating their sound by snapping their
+fingers. The girls are remarkable for the willowy
+languor and lightness of their movements,
+the voluptuousness of their attitudes—beating
+the exactest time with tapping heels. Partners
+tease and entreat and pursue each other by turns.
+Suddenly the music stops, and each dancer shows
+his skill by remaining absolutely motionless,
+bounding again in the full life of the fandango as
+the orchestra strikes up. The sound of the guitar,
+the violin, the rapid tic-tac of heels
+(<i>taconeos</i>), the crack of fingers and castanets,
+the supple swaying of the dancers, fill the spectators
+with ecstasy.</p>
+
+<p>“The music whirls along in a rapid triple time.
+Spangles glitter; the sharp clank of ivory and
+ebony castanets beats out the cadence of strange,
+throbbing, deafening notes—assonances unknown
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>to music, but curiously characteristic,
+effective, and intoxicating. Amidst the rustle of
+silks, smiles gleam over white teeth, dark eyes
+sparkle and droop, and flash up again in flame.
+All is flutter and glitter, grace and animation—quivering,
+sonorous, passionate, seductive. <i>Olè!
+Olè!</i> Faces beam and burn. <i>Olè! Olè!</i></p>
+
+<p>“The bolero intoxicates, the fandango inflames.”</p>
+
+<p>It can be well understood that the study of
+Spanish dancing and its music must be carried on
+in Spain. Mr. Ellis tells us why: “Another
+characteristic of Spanish dancing, and especially
+of the most typical kind called flamenco, lies in its
+accompaniments, and particularly in the fact that
+under proper conditions all the spectators are
+themselves performers.... Thus it is that at
+the end of a dance an absolute silence often falls,
+with no sound of applause: the relation of performers
+and public has ceased to exist.... The
+finest Spanish dancing is at once killed or degraded
+by the presence of an indifferent or unsympathetic
+public, and that is probably why it cannot be
+transplanted, but remains local.”</p>
+
+<p>At the end of a dance an absolute silence often
+falls.... I am again in an underground café
+in Amsterdam. It is the eve of the Queen’s birthday,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>and the Dutch are celebrating. The low,
+smoke-wreathed room is crowded with students,
+soldiers, and women. Now a weazened female
+takes her place at the piano, on a slightly raised
+platform at one side of the room. She begins to
+play. The dancing begins. It is not woman with
+man; the dancing is informal. Some dance together,
+and some dance alone; some sing the
+melody of the tune, others shriek, but all make a
+noise. Faster and faster and louder and louder
+the music is pounded out, and the dancing becomes
+wilder and wilder. A tray of glasses is kicked
+from the upturned palm of a sweaty waiter.
+Waiter, broken glass, dancer, all lie, a laughing
+heap, on the floor. A soldier and a woman stand
+in opposite corners, facing the corners; then without
+turning, they back towards the middle of the
+room at a furious pace; the collision is appalling.
+Hand in hand the mad dancers encircle the room,
+throwing confetti, beer, anything. A heavy stein
+crushes two teeth—the wound bleeds—but the
+dancer does not stop. Noise and action and
+colour all become synonymous. There is no
+escape from the force. I am dragged into the
+circle. Suddenly the music stops. All the
+dancers stop. The soldier no longer looks at the
+woman by his side; not a word is spoken. People
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>lumber towards chairs. The woman looks for a
+glass of water to assuage the pain of her bleeding
+mouth. I think Jaques-Dalcroze is right when
+he seeks to unite spectator and actor, drama and
+public.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">IV</p>
+
+<p>In the preceding section I may have too
+strongly insisted upon the relation of the folk-song
+to the dance. It is true that the two are
+seldom separated in performance (although not
+all songs are danced; for example, the <i>cañas</i> and
+<i>playeras</i> of Andalusia). However, most of the
+folk-songs of Spain are intended to be danced;
+they are built on dance rhythms and they bear
+the names of dances. Thus the jota is always
+danced to the same music, although the variations
+are great at different times and in different
+provinces. It is, of course, when the folk-songs
+are danced that they make their best effect, in the
+polyrhythm achieved by the opposing rhythms of
+guitar-player, dancer, and singer. When there is
+no dancer the defect is sometimes overcome by
+some one tapping a stick on the ground in imitation
+of resounding heels.</p>
+
+<p>Blind beggars have a habit of singing the songs,
+in certain provinces, with a wealth of florid ornament,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>such ornament as is always associated with
+oriental airs in performance, and this ornament
+still plays a considerable rôle when the vocalist
+becomes an integral part of the accompaniment
+for a dancer. Chabrier gives several examples of
+it in one of his letters. In the circumstances it
+can readily be seen that Spanish folk-songs written
+down are pretty bare recollections of the real
+thing, and when sung by singers who have no
+knowledge of the traditional manner of performing
+them they are likely to sound fairly banal.
+The same thing might be said of the negro folk-songs
+of America, or the folk-songs of Russia or
+Hungary, but with much less truth, for the folk-songs
+of these countries usually possess a melodic
+interest which is seldom inherent in the folk-songs
+of Spain. To make their effect they must be
+performed by Spaniards, as nearly as possible
+after the manner of the people. Indeed, their
+spirit and their polyrhythmic effects are much
+more essential to their proper interpretation than
+their melody, as many witnesses have pointed out.</p>
+
+<p>Spanish music, indeed, much of it, is actually
+unpleasant to Western ears; it lacks the sad
+monotony and the wailing intensity of true oriental
+music; much of it is loud and blaring, like the
+hot sunglare of the Iberian peninsula. However,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>many a Western or Northern European has found
+pleasure in listening by the hour to the strains,
+which often sound as if they were improvised, sung
+by some beggar or mountaineer.</p>
+
+<p>The collections of these songs are not in any
+sense complete and few of them attempt more than
+a collocation of the songs of one locality or people.
+Deductions have been drawn. For example it is
+noted that the Basque songs are irregular in
+melody and rhythm and are further marked by
+unusual tempos, 5-8, or 7-4. In Aragon and
+Navarre the popular song (and dance) is the
+jota; in Galicia, the seguidilla; the Catalonian
+songs resemble the folk-tunes of Southern France.
+The Andalusian songs, like the dances of that
+province, are the most beautiful of all, often truly
+oriental in their rhythm and floridity. In Spain
+the gipsy has become an integral part of the
+popular life, and it is difficult at times to determine
+what is <i>flamenco</i> and what is Spanish. However,
+collections (few to be sure) have been attempted
+of gipsy songs.</p>
+
+<p>Elsewhere in this rambling article I have
+touched on the <i>villancicos</i> and the early song-writers.
+To do justice to these subjects would
+require a good deal more space and a different
+intention. Those who are interested in them may
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>pursue these matters in Pedrell’s various works.
+The most available collection of Spanish folk-tunes
+is that issued by P. Lacome and J. Puig y
+Alsubide (Paris, 1872). There are several collections
+of Basque songs; Demofilo’s “Coleccion
+de Cantos Flamencos” (Seville, 1881), Cecilio
+Ocon’s collection of Andalusian folk-songs, and
+F. Rodriguez Marin’s “Cantos Populares Españoles”
+(Seville, 1882-3) may also be mentioned.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">V</p>
+
+<p>After the bullfight the most popular form of
+amusement in Spain is the zarzuela, the only
+distinctive art-form which Spanish music has
+evolved, but there has been no progress; the form
+has not changed, except perhaps to degenerate,
+since its invention in the early seventeenth century.
+Soriano Fuertes and other writers have
+devoted pages to grieving because Spanish composers
+have not taken occasion to make something
+grander and more important out of the zarzuela.
+The fact remains that they have not, although,
+small and great alike, they have all taken a hand
+at writing these entertainments. But as they
+found the zarzuela, so they have left it. It must
+be conceded that the form is quite distinct from
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>that of opera and should not be confused with it.
+And the Spaniards are probably right when they
+assert that the zarzuela is the mother of the
+French opéra-bouffe. At least it must be admitted
+that Offenbach and Lecocq and their precursors
+owe something of the germ of their inspiration
+to the Spanish form. To-day the melody
+chests of the zarzuela markets are plundered
+to find tunes for French <i>revues</i>, and such popular
+airs as <i>La Paraguaya</i> and <i>Y ... Como le Vá?</i>
+were originally danced and sung in Spanish theatres.
+The composer of these airs, J. Valverde
+<i>fils</i>, indeed found the French market so good that
+he migrated to Paris, and for some time has been
+writing <i>musique mélangée ... une moitié de
+chaque nation</i>. So <i>La Rose de Grenade</i>, composed
+for Paris, might have been written for
+Spain, with slight melodic alterations and tauromachian
+allusions in the book.</p>
+
+<p>The zarzuela is usually a one act piece
+(although sometimes it is permitted to run into
+two or more acts) in which the music is freely
+interrupted by spoken dialogue, and that in turn
+gives way to national dances. Very often the
+entire score is danced as well as sung. The subject
+is usually comic and often topical, although
+it may be serious, poetic, or even tragic. The
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>actors often introduce dialogue of their own,
+“gagging” freely; sometimes they engage in long
+impromptu conversations with members of the
+audience. They also embroider on the music after
+the fashion of the great singers of the old Italian
+opera (Dr. de Lafontaine asserts that Spanish
+audiences, even in cabarets, demand embroidery
+of this sort). The music is spirited and lively,
+and in the dances, Andalusian, <i>flamenco</i>, or Sevillan,
+as the case may be, it attains its best results.
+H. V. Hamilton, in his essay on the subject
+in Grove’s Dictionary, says, “The music is
+... apt to be vague in form when the national
+dance and folk-song forms are avoided. The
+orchestration is a little blatant.” It will be seen
+that this description suits Granados’s <i>Goyescas</i>
+(the opera), which is on its safest ground during
+the dances and becomes excessively vague at other
+times; but <i>Goyescas</i> is not a zarzuela, because
+there is no spoken dialogue. Otherwise it bears
+the earmarks. A zarzuela stands somewhere between
+a French <i>revue</i> and opéra-comique. It is
+usually, however, more informal in tone than the
+latter and often decidedly more serious than the
+former. All the musicians in Spain since the form
+was invented (excepting, of course, certain exclusively
+religious composers), and most of the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>poets and playwrights, have contributed numerous
+examples. Thus Calderon wrote the first zarzuela,
+and Lope de Vega contributed words to entertainments
+much in the same order. In our day
+Spain’s leading dramatist, Echegaray (died 1916),
+has written one of the most popular zarzuelas,
+<i>Gigantes y Cabezudos</i> (the music by Caballero).
+The subject is the fiesta of Santa Maria del Pilar.
+It has had many a long run and is often revived.
+Another very popular zarzuela, which was almost,
+if not quite, heard in New York, is <i>La Gran Via</i>
+(by Valverde, <i>père</i>), which has been performed in
+London in extended form. The principal theatres
+for the zarzuela in Madrid are (or were until recently)
+that of the Calle de Jovellanos, called the
+Teatro de Zarzuela, and the Apolo. Usually
+four separate zarzuelas are performed in one evening
+before as many audiences.</p>
+
+<p><i>La Gran Via</i>, which in some respects may be
+considered a typical zarzuela, consists of a string
+of dance tunes, with no more homogeneity than
+their national significance would suggest. There
+is an introduction and polka, a waltz, a tango, a
+jota, a mazurka, a schottische, another waltz, and
+a two-step (<i>paso-doble</i>). The tunes have little
+distinction; nor can the orchestration be considered
+brilliant. There is a great deal of noise and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>variety of rhythm, and when presented correctly
+the effect must be precisely that of one of the
+dance-halls described by Chabrier. The zarzuela,
+to be enjoyed, in fact, must be seen in Spain.
+Like Spanish dancing it requires a special audience
+to bring out its best points. There must be
+a certain electricity, at least an element of sympathy,
+to carry the thing through successfully.
+Examination of the scores of zarzuelas (many of
+them have been printed and some of them are to
+be seen in our libraries) will convince any one that
+Mr. Ellis is speaking mildly when he says that
+the Spaniards love noise. However, the combination
+of this noise with beautiful women, dancing,
+elaborate rhythm, and a shouting audience, seems
+to almost equal the café-concert dancing and the
+tauromachian spectacles in Spanish popular affection.
+(Of course, as I have suggested, there
+are zarzuelas more serious melodically and dramatically;
+but as <i>La Gran Via</i> is frequently mentioned
+by writers as one of the most popular
+examples, it may be selected as typical of the
+larger number of these entertainments.)</p>
+
+<p>H. V. Hamilton says that the first performance
+of a zarzuela took place in 1628 (Pedrell gives
+the date as October 29, 1629), during the reign
+of Felipe IV, in the Palace of the Zarzuela (so-called<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>
+because it was surrounded by <i>zarzas</i>,
+brambles). It was called <i>El Jardin de Falerina</i>;
+the text was by the great Calderon and the music
+by Juan Risco, chapelmaster of the cathedral at
+Cordova, according to Mr. Hamilton, who doubtless
+follows Soriano Fuertes on this detail.
+Soubies, following the more modern studies of
+Pedrell, gives Jose Peyró the credit. Pedrell, in
+his richly documented work, “Teatro Lírico Española
+anterior al siglo XIX,” attributes the
+music of this zarzuela to Peyró and gives an example
+of it. The first Spanish opera dates from
+the same period, Lope de Vega’s <i>La Selva sin
+Amor</i> (1629). As a matter of fact, many of the
+plays of Calderon and Lope de Vega were performed
+with music to heighten the effect of the
+declamation, and musical curtain-raisers and
+interludes were performed before and in the midst
+of all of them. Lana, Palomares, Benavente and
+Hidalgo were among the musicians who contributed
+music to the theatre of this period. Hidalgo
+wrote the music for Calderon’s zarzuela,
+<i>Ni Amor se Libre de Amor</i>. To the same group
+belong Miguel Ferrer, Juan de Navas, Sebastien
+de Navas, and Jéronimo de la Torre. (Examples
+of the music of these men may be found in the
+aforementioned “Teatro Lírico.”) Until 1659
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>zarzuelas were written by the best poets and composers
+and frequently performed on royal birthdays,
+at royal marriages, and on many other
+occasions; but after that date the art fell into a
+decline and seems to have been in eclipse during
+the whole of the eighteenth century. According
+to Soriano Fuertes the beginning of the reign of
+Felipe V marked the introduction of Italian opera
+into Spain (more popular than Spanish opera
+there to this day) and the decadence of nationalism
+(whole pages of Fuertes read very much like
+the plaints of modern English composers about
+the neglect of national composers in their country).
+In 1829 there was a revival of interest in
+Spanish music and a conservatory was founded
+in Madrid. (For a discussion of this later period
+the reader is referred to “La Opera Española en
+el Siglo XIX,” by Antonio Peña y Goñi, 1881.)
+This interest has been fostered by Fuertes and
+Pedrell, and the younger composers to-day are
+taking some account of it. There is hope, indeed,
+that Spanish music may again take its place in
+the world of art.</p>
+
+<p>Of course, the zarzuela did not spring into being
+out of nowhere and nothing, and the true origins
+are not entirely obscure. It is generally agreed
+that a priest, Juan del Encina (born at Salamanca,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>1468), was the true founder of the secular
+theatre in Spain. His dramatic compositions are
+in the nature of eclogues based on Virgilian
+models. In all of these there is singing and in
+one a dance. Isabel la Católica in the fifteenth
+century always had at her command a troop of
+musicians and poets who comforted and consoled
+her in her chapel with motets and <i>plegarias</i>
+(French, <i>prière</i>), and in the royal apartments
+with <i>canciones</i> and <i>villancicos</i>. (<i>Canciones</i> are
+songs inclining towards the ballad-form. <i>Villancicos</i>
+are songs in the old Spanish measure; they
+receive their name from their rustic character, as
+supposedly they were first composed by the
+<i>villanos</i> or peasants for the nativity and other
+festivals of the church.) “It is necessary to
+search for the true origins of the Spanish musical
+spectacle,” states Soubies, “in the <i>villancicos</i> and
+<i>cantacillos</i> which alternated with the dialogue in
+the works of Juan del Encina and Lucas Fernandez,
+without forgetting the <i>ensaladas</i>, the <i>jacaras</i>,
+etc., which served as intermezzi and curtain-raisers.”
+These were sung before the curtain, before
+the drama was performed (and during the
+intervals, with jokes added) by women in court
+dress, and later created a form of their own (besides
+contributing to the creation of the zarzuela),
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>the <i>tonadilla</i>, which, accompanied by a
+guitar or violin and interspersed with dances, was
+very popular for a number of years. H. V. Hamilton
+is probably on sound ground when he says,
+“That the first zarzuela was written with an express
+desire for expansion and development is,
+however, not so certain as that it was the result
+of a wish to inaugurate the new house of entertainment
+with something entirely original and
+novel.”</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">VI</p>
+
+<p>We have Richard Ford’s testimony that Spain
+was not very musical in his day. The Reverend
+Henry Cart de Lafontaine says that the contemporary
+musical services in the churches are not
+to be considered seriously from an artistic point
+of view. Emmanuel Chabrier was impressed with
+the fact that the music for dancing was almost
+entirely rhythmic in its effect, strummed rudely
+on the guitar, the spectators meanwhile making
+such a din that it was practically impossible to
+distinguish a melody, had there been one. And
+all observers point at the Italian opera, which is
+still the favourite opera in Spain (in Barcelona at
+the Liceo three weeks of opera in Catalon is given
+after the regular season in Italian; in Madrid
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>at the Teatro Real the Spanish season is scattered
+through the Italian), and at Señor Arbós’s concerts
+(the same Señor Arbós who was once concert
+master of the Boston Symphony Orchestra), at
+which Brandenburg concertos and Beethoven symphonies
+are more frequently performed than works
+by Albeniz. Still there are, and have always
+been during the course of the last century, Spanish
+composers, some of whom have made a little
+noise in the outer world, although a good many
+have been content to spend their artistic energy
+on the manufacture of zarzuelas—in other
+words, to make a good deal of noise in Spain. In
+most modern instances, however, there has been
+a revival of interest in the national forms, and
+folk-song and folk-dance have contributed their
+important share to the composers’ work. No one
+man has done more to encourage this interest in
+nationalism than Felipe Pedrell, who may be said
+to have begun in Spain the work which the “Five”
+accomplished in Russia. Pedrell says in his
+“Handbook” (Barcelona, 1891; Heinrich and
+Co.; French translation by Bertal; Paris, Fischbacher):
+“The popular song, the voice of the
+people, the pure primitive inspiration of the
+anonymous singer, passes through the alembic of
+contemporary art and one obtains thereby its
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>quintessence; the composer assimilates it and then
+reveals it in the most delicate form that music
+alone is capable of rendering form in its technical
+aspect, this thanks to the extraordinary development
+of the technique of our art in this epoch.
+The folk-song lends the accent, the background,
+and modern art lends all that it possesses, its conventional
+symbolism and the richness of form
+which is its patrimony. The frame is enlarged
+in such a fashion that the <i>lied</i> makes a corresponding
+development; could it be said then that the
+national lyric drama is the same <i>lied</i> expanded?
+Is not the national lyric drama the product of the
+force of absorption and creative power? Do we
+not see in it faithfully reflected not only the artistic
+idiosyncrasy of each composer, but all the
+artistic manifestations of the people?” There
+is always the search for new composers in Spain
+and always the hope that a man may come who
+will be acclaimed by the world. As a consequence,
+the younger composers in Spain often receive
+more adulation than is their due. It must be remembered
+that the most successful Spanish music
+is not serious, the Spanish are more themselves
+in the lighter vein.</p>
+
+<p>I hesitate for a moment on the name of Martin
+y Solar, born at Valencia; died at St. Petersburg,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>1806; called “The Italian” by the Spaniards on
+account of his musical style, and “lo Spagnuolo”
+by the Italians. Da Ponte wrote several opera-books
+for him, <i>l’Arbore di Diana</i>, <i>la Cosa Rara</i>,
+and <i>La Capricciosa Corretta</i> (a version of <i>The
+Taming of the Shrew</i>) among others. It is to
+be seen that he is without importance if considered
+as a composer distinctively Spanish and I have
+made this slight reference to him solely to recount
+how Mozart quoted an air from one of his operas
+in the supper scene of <i>Don Giovanni</i>. At the time
+Martin y Solar was better liked in Vienna than
+Mozart himself and the air in question was as
+well-known as say Musetta’s waltz is known to us.</p>
+
+<p>Juan Chrysostomo Arriaga, born in Bilbao
+1808; died 1828 (these dates are given in Grove:
+1806-1826), is another matter. He might have
+become better known had he lived longer. As it
+is, some of his music has been performed in London
+and Paris, and perhaps in America, although I
+have no record of it. He studied in Paris at the
+Conservatoire, under Fétis for harmony, and
+Baillot for violin. Before he went to Paris even,
+as a child, with no knowledge of the rules of harmony,
+he had written an opera! Cherubini declared
+his fugue for eight voices on the words in
+the Credo, “Et Vitam Venturi” a veritable chef
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>d’œuvre, at least there is a legend to this effect.
+In 1824 he wrote three quartets, an overture, a
+symphony, a mass, and some French cantatas and
+romances. Garcia considered his opera <i>Los
+Esclavas Felices</i> so good that he attempted, unsuccessfully,
+to secure for it a Paris hearing. It
+has been performed in Bilbao, which city, I think,
+celebrated the centenary of the composer’s birth.</p>
+
+<p>Manuel Garcia is better known to us as a
+singer, an impresario, and a father, than as a
+composer! Still he wrote a good deal of music
+(so did Mme. Malibran; for a list of the diva’s
+compositions I must refer the reader to Arthur
+Pougin’s biography). Fétis enumerates seventeen
+Spanish, nineteen Italian, and seven French
+operas by Garcia. He had works produced in
+Madrid, at the Opéra in Paris (<i>La mort du Tasse</i>
+and <i>Florestan</i>), at the Italiens in Paris (<i>Fazzoletto</i>),
+at the Opéra-Comique in Paris (<i>Deux
+Contrats</i>), and at many other theatres. However,
+when all is said and done, Manuel Garcia’s
+reputation still rests on his singing and his daughters.
+His compositions are forgotten; nor was
+his music, much of it, probably, truly Spanish.
+(However, I have heard a polo [serenade] from
+an opera called <i>El Poeta Calculista</i>, which is so
+Spanish in accent and harmony—and so beautiful—that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>it has found a place in a collection
+of folk-tunes!)</p>
+
+<p>Miguel Hilarion Eslava (born in Burlada, October
+21, 1807, died at Madrid, July 23, 1878)
+is chiefly famous for his compilation, the “Lira
+Sacra-Hispana,” mentioned heretofore. He also
+composed over 140 pieces of church music, masses,
+motets, songs, etc., after he had been appointed
+chapelmaster of Queen Isabella in 1844, and several
+operas, including <i>Il Solitario</i>, <i>La Tregua di
+Ptolemaide</i>, and <i>Pedro el Cruél</i>. He also wrote
+several books of theory and composition: “Método
+de Solfeo” (1846) and “Escuela de
+Armonía y Composición” in three parts (harmony,
+composition, and melody). He edited
+(1855-6) the “Gaceta Músical de Madrid.”</p>
+
+<p>There is the celebrated virtuoso, Pablo de Sarasate,
+who wrote music, but his memory is perhaps
+better preserved in Whistler’s diabolical portrait
+than in his own compositions.</p>
+
+<p>Felipe Pedrell (born February 19, 1841) is
+also perhaps more important as a writer on musical
+subjects and for his influence on the younger
+school of composers (he teaches in the conservatory
+of Barcelona, and his attitude towards
+nationalism has already been discussed), than he
+is as a composer. Still, Edouard Lopez-Chavarri
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>does not hesitate to pronounce his trilogy <i>Los
+Pireneos</i> (Barcelona, 1902; the prologue was performed
+in Venice in 1897) the most important
+work for the theatre written in Spain. His first
+opera, <i>El Último Abencerrajo</i>, was produced in
+Barcelona in 1874. Some of his other works are
+<i>Quasimodo</i>, 1875; <i>El Tasso a Ferrara</i>, <i>Cleopatra</i>,
+<i>Mazeppa</i> (Madrid, 1881), <i>Celestine</i> (1904), and
+<i>La Matinada</i> (1905). J. A. Fuller-Maitland
+says that the influence of Wagner is traceable in
+all his stage work. (Wagner is adored in Spain;
+<i>Parsifal</i> was given eighteen times in one month at
+the Liceo in Barcelona.) If this be true, his case
+will be found to bear other resemblances to that
+of the Russian “Five,” who found it difficult to
+exorcise all foreign influences in their pursuit of
+nationalism.</p>
+
+<p>He was made a member of the Spanish Academy
+in 1894 and shortly thereafter became Professor
+of Musical History and Æsthetics at the Royal
+Conservatory at Madrid. Besides his “Hispaniae
+Schola Musica Sacra” he has written a
+number of other books, and translated Richter’s
+treatise on Harmony into Spanish. He has made
+several excursions into the history of folk-lore
+and the principal results are contained in “Músicos
+Anónimos” and “Por nuestra Música.”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>Other works are “Teatro Lírico Español anterior
+al siglo XIX,” “Lírica Nacionalizada,” “De
+Música Religiosa,” “Músiquerias y mas Músiquesias.”
+One of his books, “Músicos Contemporáneos
+y de Otros Tempos” (in the library of
+the Hispanic Society of New York) is very catholic
+in its range of subject. It includes essays on
+the <i>Don Quixote</i> of Strauss, the <i>Boris Godunow</i>
+of Moussorgsky, Smetana, Manuel Garcia, Edward
+Elgar, Jaques-Dalcroze, Bruckner, Mahler,
+Albeniz, Palestrina, Busoni, and the tenth symphony
+of Beethoven!</p>
+
+<p>In John Towers’s extraordinary compilation,
+“Dictionary-Catalogue of Operas,” it is stated
+that Manuel Fernandez Caballero (born in 1835)
+wrote sixty-two operas, and the names of them
+are given. He was a pupil of Fuertes (harmony)
+and Eslava (composition) at the Madrid Conservatory
+and later became very popular as a
+writer of zarzuelas. I have already mentioned his
+<i>Gigantes y Cabezudos</i> for which Echegaray furnished
+the libretto. Among his other works in
+this form are <i>Los Dineros del Sacristan</i>, <i>Los
+Africanistas</i> (Barcelona, 1894), <i>El Cabo Primero</i>
+(Barcelona, 1895), and <i>La Rueda de la Fortuna</i>
+(Madrid, 1896).</p>
+
+<p>At a concert given in the New York Hippodrome,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>April 3, 1911, Mme. Tetrazzini sang a
+Spanish song, which was referred to the next day
+by the reviewers of the “New York Times” and
+the “New York Globe.” To say truth the soprano
+made a great effect with the song, although
+it was written for a low voice. It was <i>Carceleras</i>,
+from Ruperto Chapí’s zarzuela <i>Hija del
+Zebedeo</i>. Chapí was one of the most prolific and
+popular composers of Spain during the last century.
+He produced countless zarzuelas and nine
+children. He was born at Villena March 27,
+1851, and he died March 25, 1909, a few months
+earlier than his compatriot Isaac Albeniz. He
+was admitted to the conservatory of Madrid in
+1867 as a pupil of piano and harmony. In 1869
+he obtained the first prize for harmony and he continued
+to obtain prizes until in 1874 he was sent
+to Rome by the Academy of Fine Arts. He remained
+for some time in Italy and Paris. In
+1875 the Teatro Real of Madrid played his <i>La
+Hija de Jefté</i> sent from Rome. The following is
+an incomplete list of his operas and zarzuelas:
+<i>Via Libra</i>, <i>Los Gendarmes</i>, <i>El Rey que Rabio</i> (3
+acts), <i>La Verbena de la Paloma</i>, <i>El Reclamo</i>, <i>La
+Tempestad</i>, <i>La Bruja</i>, <i>La Leyenda del Monje</i>, <i>Las
+Campanados</i>, <i>La Czarina</i>, <i>El Milagro de la Virgen</i>,
+<i>Roger de Flor</i> (3 acts), <i>Las Naves de Cortes,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>Circe</i> (3 acts), <i>A qui Base Farsa un Hombre</i>,
+<i>Juan Francisco</i> (3 acts, 1905; rewritten and presented
+in 1908 as <i>Entre Rocas</i>), <i>Los Madrileños</i>
+(1908), <i>La Dama Roja</i> (1 act, 1908), <i>Hesperia</i>
+(1908), <i>Las Calderas de Pedro Bolero</i> (1909)
+and <i>Margarita la Tornera</i>, presented just before
+his death without success.</p>
+
+<p>His other works include an oratorio, <i>Los
+Angeles</i>, a symphonic poem, <i>Escenas de Capa y
+Espada</i>, a symphony in D, <i>Moorish Fantasy</i> for
+orchestra, a serenade for orchestra, a trio for
+piano, violin and ’cello, songs, etc. Chapí was
+president of the Society of Authors and Composers,
+and when he died the King and Queen of
+Spain sent a telegram of condolence to his widow.
+There is a copy of his zarzuela, <i>Blasones y Talegas</i>
+in the New York Public Library.</p>
+
+<p>I have already spoken of <i>Dolores</i>. It is one of
+a long series of operas and zarzuelas written by
+Tomás Bretón y Hernandez (born at Salamanca,
+December 29, 1850). First produced at Madrid,
+in 1895, it has been sung with success in such distant
+capitals as Buenos Ayres and Prague. I
+have been assured by a Spanish woman of impeccable
+taste that <i>Dolores</i> is charming, delightful
+in its fluent melody and its striking rhythms, thoroughly
+Spanish in style, but certain to find favour
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>in America, if it were produced here. Our own
+Eleanora de Cisneros at a Press Club Benefit in
+Barcelona appeared in Bretón’s zarzuela <i>La Verbena
+de la Paloma</i>. Another of Bretón’s famous
+zarzuelas is <i>Los Amantes de Ternel</i> (Madrid,
+1889). His works for the theatre further include
+<i>Tabaré</i>, for which he wrote both words and music
+(Madrid, 1913); <i>Don Gil</i> (Barcelona, 1914);
+<i>Garin</i> (Barcelona, 1891); <i>Raquel</i> (Madrid,
+1900); <i>Guzman el Bueno</i> (Madrid, 1876); <i>El
+Certamen de Cremona</i> (Madrid, 1906); <i>El Campanere
+de Begoña</i> (Madrid, 1878); <i>El Barberillo
+en Orán</i>; <i>Corona contra Corona</i> (Madrid, 1879);
+<i>Les Amores de un Príncipe</i> (Madrid, 1881); <i>El
+Clavel Rojo</i> (1899); <i>Covadonga</i> (1901); and <i>El
+Domingo de Ramos</i>, words by Echegaray (Madrid,
+1894). His works for orchestra include:
+<i>En la Alhambra</i>, <i>Los Galeotes</i>, and <i>Escenas Andaluzas</i>,
+a suite. He has written three string
+quartets, a piano trio, a piano quintet, and an
+oratorio in two parts, <i>El Apocalipsis</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Bretón is largely self-taught, and there is a
+legend that he devoured by himself Eslava’s
+“School of Composition.” He further wrote the
+music and conducted for a circus for a period of
+years. In the late seventies he conducted an
+orchestra, founding a new society, the Union
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>Artistico Musical, which is said to have been the
+beginning of the modern movement in Spain. It
+may throw some light on Spanish musical taste
+at this period to mention the fact that the performance
+of Saint-Saëns’s <i>Danse macabre</i> almost
+created a riot. Later Bretón travelled. He appeared
+as conductor in London, Prague, and
+Buenos Ayres, among other cities outside of
+Spain, and when Dr. Karl Muck left Prague for
+Berlin, he was invited to succeed him in the Bohemian
+capital. In the contest held by the periodical
+“Blanco y Negro” in 1913 to decide who
+was the most popular writer, poet, painter, musician,
+sculptor, and toreador in Spain, Bretón as
+musician got the most votes.... He is at present
+the head of the Royal Conservatory in Madrid.</p>
+
+<p>No Spanish composer (ancient or modern) is
+better known outside of Spain than Isaac Albeniz
+(born May 29, 1861, at Comprodon; died at
+Cambo, in the Pyrenees, May 25, 1909). His
+fame rests almost entirely on twelve piano pieces
+(in four books) entitled collectively <i>Iberia</i>, with
+which all concert-goers are familiar. They have
+been performed here by Ernest Schelling, Leo Ornstein,
+and George Copeland, among other virtuosi....
+I think one or two of these pieces must be
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>in the répertoire of every modern pianist.
+Albeniz did not imbibe his musical culture in Spain
+and to the day of his death he was more friendly
+with the modern French group of composers than
+with those of his native land. In his music he
+sees Spain with French eyes. He studied at Paris
+with Marmontel; at Brussels with Louis Brassin;
+and at Weimar with Liszt (he is mentioned in the
+long list of pupils in Huneker’s biography of
+Liszt, but there is no further account of him in
+that book); he studied composition with Jadassohn,
+Joseph Dupont, and F. Kufferath. His
+symphonic poem, <i>Catalonia</i>, has been performed
+in Paris by the Colonne Orchestra. I have no
+record of any American performance. For a
+time he devoted himself to the piano. He was a
+virtuoso and he has even played in London, but
+later in life he gave up this career for composition.
+He wrote several operas and zarzuelas,
+among them a light opera, <i>The Magic Opal</i> (produced
+in London, 1893), <i>Enrico Clifford</i> (Barcelona,
+1894; later heard in London), <i>Pepita
+Jiminez</i> (Barcelona, 1895; afterwards given at
+the Théâtre de la Monnaie in Brussels), and <i>San
+Anton de la Florida</i> (produced in Brussels as
+<i>l’Ermitage Fleurie</i>). He left unfinished at his
+death another opera destined for production in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>Brussels at the Monnaie, <i>Merlin l’Enchanteur</i>.
+None of his operas, with the exception of <i>Pepita
+Jiminez</i>, which has been performed, I am told, in
+all Spanish countries, achieved any particular
+success, and it is <i>Iberia</i> and a few other piano
+pieces which will serve to keep his memory green.</p>
+
+<p>Juan Bautista Pujol (1836-1898) gained considerable
+reputation in Spain as a pianist and as
+a teacher of and composer for that instrument.
+He also wrote a method for piano students entitled
+“Nuevo Mecanismo del Piano.” His further
+claim to attention is due to the fact that he
+was one of the teachers of Granados.</p>
+
+<p>The names of Pahissa (both as conductor and
+composer; one of his symphonic works is called
+<i>The Combat</i>), Garcia Robles, represented by an
+<i>Epitalame</i>, and Gibert, with two <i>Marines</i>, occur on
+the programmes of the two concerts devoted in
+the main to Spanish music, at the second of which
+(Barcelona, 1910; conductor Franz Beidler) Granados’s
+<i>Dante</i> was performed.</p>
+
+<p>E. Fernandez Arbós (born in Madrid, December
+25, 1863) is better known as a conductor and
+violinist than as composer. Still, he has written
+music, especially for his own instrument. He was
+a pupil of both Vieuxtemps and Joachim; and he
+has travelled much, teaching at the Hamburg
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>Conservatory, and acting as concertmaster for the
+Boston Symphony and the Glasgow Orchestras.
+He has been a professor at the Madrid conservatory
+for some time, giving orchestral and
+chamber music concerts, both there and in London.
+He has written at least one light opera, presumably
+a zarzuela, <i>El Centro de la Tierra</i> (Madrid;
+December 22, 1895); three trios for piano
+and strings, songs, and an orchestral suite.</p>
+
+<p>I have already referred to the Valverdes, father
+and son. The father, in collaboration with Federico
+Chueca, wrote <i>La Gran Via</i>. Many another
+popular zarzuela is signed by him. The son has
+lived so long in France that much of his music is
+cast in the style of the French music hall; too it
+is in a popular vein. Still in his best tangos he
+strikes a Spanish folk-note not to be despised.
+He wrote the music for the play, <i>La Maison de
+Danse</i>, produced, with Polaire, at the Vaudeville
+in Paris, and two of his operettas, <i>La Rose de
+Grenade</i> and <i>l’Amour en Espagne</i>, have been performed
+in Paris, not without success, I am told by
+La Argentina, who danced in them. Other modern
+composers who have been mentioned to me are
+Manuel de Falla, Joaquin Turina (George Copeland
+has played his <i>A los Toros</i>), Usandihaga
+(who died in 1915), the composer of <i>Los Golondrinos</i>,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>Oscar Erpla, Conrado del Campo, and Enrique
+Morera.</p>
+
+<p>Enrique Granados was perhaps the first of the
+important Spanish composers to visit North
+America. His place in the list of modern Iberian
+musicians is indubitably a high one; though it
+must not be taken for granted that <i>all</i> the best
+music of Spain crosses the Pyrenees (for reasons
+already noted it is evident that some Spanish
+music can never be heard to advantage outside of
+Spain), and it is by no means to be taken for
+granted that Granados was a greater musician
+than several who dwell in Barcelona and Madrid
+without making excursions into the outer world.
+In his own country I am told Granados was admired
+chiefly as a pianist, and his performances
+on that instrument in New York stamped him as
+an original interpretative artist, one capable of
+extracting the last tonal meaning out of his own
+compositions for the pianoforte, which are his
+best work.</p>
+
+<p>Shortly after his arrival in New York he stated
+to several reporters that America knew nothing
+about Spanish music, and that Bizet’s <i>Carmen</i> was
+not in any sense Spanish. I hold no brief for
+<i>Carmen</i> being Spanish but it is effective, and that
+<i>Goyescas</i> as an opera is not. In the first place,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>its muddy and blatant orchestration would detract
+from its power to please (this opinion might
+conceivably be altered were the opera given under
+Spanish conditions in Spain). The manuscript
+score of <i>Goyescas</i> now reposes in the Museum of
+the Hispanic Society, in that interesting quarter
+of New York where the apartment houses bear the
+names of Goya and Velasquez, and it is interesting
+to note that it is a <i>piano</i> score. What has
+become of the orchestral partition and who was
+responsible for it I do not know. It is certain,
+however, that the miniature charm of the <i>Goyescas</i>
+becomes more obvious in the piano version,
+performed by Ernest Schelling or the composer
+himself, than in the opera house. The growth of
+the work is interesting. Fragments of it took
+shape in the composer’s brain and on paper seventeen
+years ago, the result of the study of Goya’s
+paintings in the Prado. These fragments were
+moulded into a suite in 1909 and again into an
+opera in 1914 (or before then). F. Periquet, the
+librettist, was asked to fit words to the score, a
+task which he accomplished with difficulty. Spanish
+is not an easy tongue to sing. To Mme. Barrientos
+this accounts for the comparatively small
+number of Spanish operas. <i>Goyescas</i>, like many
+a zarzuela, lags when the dance rhythms cease. I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>find little joy myself in listening to “La Maja y el
+Ruiseñor”; in fact, the entire last scene sounds
+banal to my ears. In the four volumes of Spanish
+dances which Granados wrote for piano (published
+by the Sociedad Anónima Casa Dotesio in
+Barcelona) I console myself for my lack of interest
+in <i>Goyescas</i>. These lovely dances combine in
+their artistic form all the elements of the folk-dances
+as I have described them. They bespeak a
+careful study and an intimate knowledge of the
+originals. And any pianist, amateur or professional,
+will take joy in playing them.</p>
+
+<p>Enrique Granados y Campina was born July
+27, 1867, at Lerida, Catalonia. (He died March
+24, 1916; a passenger on the <i>Sussex</i>, torpedoed in
+the English Channel.) From 1884 to 1887 he
+studied piano under Pujol and composition under
+Felipe Pedrell at the Madrid Conservatory. That
+the latter was his master presupposed on his part
+a valuable knowledge of the treasures of Spain’s
+past and that, I think, we may safely allow him.
+There is, I am told, an interesting combination of
+classicism and folk-lore in his work. At any rate,
+Granados was a faithful disciple of Pedrell. In
+1898 his zarzuela <i>Maria del Carmen</i> was produced
+in Madrid and has since been heard in Valencia,
+Barcelona, and other Spanish cities. Five
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>years later some fragments of another opera, <i>Foletto</i>,
+were produced at Barcelona. His third opera,
+<i>Liliana</i>, was produced at Barcelona in 1911.
+He wrote numerous songs to texts by the poet,
+Apeles Mestres; Galician songs, two symphonic
+poems, <i>La Nit del Mort</i> and <i>Dante</i> (performed by
+the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for the first time
+in America at the concerts of November 5 and 6,
+1915); a piano trio, string quartet, and various
+books of piano music (<i>Danzas Españolas</i>, <i>Valses
+Poéticos</i>, <i>Bocetos</i>, <i>etc.</i>).</p>
+
+
+<p><i>New York, March 20, 1916.</i></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Shall_We_Realize_Wagners_Ideals">Shall We Realize Wagner’s Ideals?</h2></div>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[Pg 135]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Shall_We_Realize_Wagners">Shall We Realize Wagner’s
+Ideals?</h2></div>
+
+
+<p>Historians of operatic phenomena have
+observed that fashions in music change;
+the popular Donizetti and Bellini of one
+century are suffered to exist during the next only
+for the sake of the opportunity they afford to
+some brilliant songstress. New tastes arise, new
+styles in music. Dukas’s generally unrelished (and
+occasionally highly appreciated) <i>Ariane et Barbe-Bleue</i>
+may not be powerful enough to establish a
+place for itself in the répertoire, but its direct influence
+on composers and its indirect influence on
+auditors make this lyric drama highly important
+as an indication of the future of opera as a fine
+art. Moussorgsky’s <i>Boris Godunow</i>, first given in
+this country some forty years after its production
+in Russia, is another matter. That score contains
+a real thrill in itself, a thrill which, once felt,
+makes it difficult to feel the intensity of a Wagner
+drama again: because Wagner is becoming just a
+little bit old-fashioned. <i>Lohengrin</i> and <i>Tannhäuser</i>
+are becoming a trifle shop-worn. They do not
+glitter with the glory of a <i>Don Giovanni</i> or the
+invincible splendour of an <i>Armide</i>. There are
+parts of <i>Die Walküre</i> which are growing old.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>Now Wagner, in many ways the greatest figure as
+opera composer which the world has yet produced,
+could hold his place in the singing theatres for
+many decades to come if some proper effort were
+made to do justice to his dramas, the justice which
+in a large measure has been done to his music.
+This effort at present is not being made.</p>
+
+<p>In the Metropolitan Opera House season of
+1895-6, when Jean de Reszke first sang Tristan in
+German, the opportunity seemed to be opened for
+further breaks with what a Munich critic once
+dubbed “Die Bayreuther Tradition oder Der missverstandene
+Wagner.” For up to that time, in
+spite of some isolated examples, it had come to be
+considered, in utter misunderstanding of Wagner’s
+own wishes and doctrines, as a part of the technique
+of performing a Wagner music-drama to
+shriek, howl, or bark the tones, rather than to sing
+them. There had been, I have said, isolated examples
+of German singers, and artists of other
+nationalities singing in German, who had <i>sung</i>
+their phrases in these lyric plays, but the appearance
+in the Wagner rôles, in German, of a tenor
+whose previous appearances had been made largely
+in works in French and Italian which demanded
+the use of what is called <i>bel canto</i> (it means only
+<i>good singing</i>) brought about a controversy which
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>even yet is raging in some parts of the world.
+Should Wagner be sung, in the manner of Jean de
+Reszke, or shouted in the traditional manner?
+Was it possible to sing the music and make the
+effect the Master expected? In answer it may be
+said that never in their history have <i>Siegfried</i>,
+<i>Tristan und Isolde</i>, and <i>Lohengrin</i> met with such
+success as when Jean de Reszke and his famous associates
+appeared in them, and it may also be said
+that since that time there has been a consistent
+effort on the part of the management of the Metropolitan
+Opera House (and other theatres as
+well) to provide artists for these dramas who could
+sing them, and sing them as Italian operas are
+sung, an effort to which opera directors have been
+spurred by a growing insistence on the part of the
+public.</p>
+
+<p>It was the first break with the Bayreuth bugbear,
+tradition, and it might have been hoped that
+this tradition would be stifled in other directions,
+with this successful precedent in mind; but such
+has not been the case. As a result of this failure
+to follow up a beneficial lead, in spite of orchestral
+performances which bring out the manifold beauties
+of the scores and in spite of single impersonations
+of high rank by eminent artists, we are beginning
+to see the Wagner dramas falling into
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>decline, long before the appointed time, because
+their treatment has been held in the hands of Cosima
+Wagner, who—with the best of intentions,
+of course—not only insists (at Bayreuth she is
+mistress, and her influence on singers, conductors,
+stage directors and scene painters throughout the
+world is very great) on the carrying out of Wagner’s
+theories, as she understands them, and even
+when they are only worthy of being ignored, but
+who also (whether rightly or wrongly) is credited
+with a few traditions of her own. Wagner indeed
+invented a new form of drama, but he did not have
+the time or means at his disposal to develop an
+adequate technique for its performance.</p>
+
+<p>We are all familiar with the Bayreuth version
+of Wotan in <i>Die Walküre</i> which makes
+of that tragic father-figure a boisterous, silly
+old scold (so good an artist as Carl Braun,
+whose Hagen portrait is a masterpiece, has followed
+this tradition literally); we all know too well
+the waking Brünnhilde who salutes the sun in the
+last act of <i>Siegfried</i> with gestures seemingly derived
+from the exercises of a Swedish <i>turnverein</i>,
+following the harp arpeggios as best she may; we
+remember how Wotan, seizing the sword from the
+dead Fasolt’s hand, brandishes it to the tune of
+the sword <i>motiv</i>, indicating the coming of the hero,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>Siegfried, as the gods walk over the rainbow bridge
+to Walhalla at the end of <i>Das Rheingold</i>; we smile
+over the tame horse which some chorus man, looking
+the while like a truck driver who is not good to
+animals, holds for Brünnhilde while she sings her
+final lament in <i>Götterdämmerung</i>; we laugh aloud
+when he assists her to lead the unfiery steed, who
+walks as leisurely as a well-fed horse would towards
+oats, into the burning pyre; we can still see
+the picture of the three Rhine maidens, bobbing up
+and down jerkily behind a bit of gauze, reminiscent
+of visions of mermaids at the Eden Musée; we all
+have seen Tristan and Isolde, drunk with the love
+potion, swimming (there is no other word to describe
+this effect) towards each other; and no perfect
+Wagnerite can have forgotten the gods and
+the giants standing about in the fourth scene of
+<i>Das Rheingold</i> for all the world as if they were the
+protagonists of a fantastic minstrel show. (At
+a performance of <i>Parsifal</i> in Chicago Vernon
+Stiles discovered while he was on the stage that his
+suspenders, which held his tights in place, had
+snapped. For a time he pressed his hands against
+his groin; this method proving ineffectual, he finished
+the scene with his hands behind his back,
+pressed firmly against his waist-line. As he left
+the stage, at the conclusion of the act, breathing
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>a sigh of relief, he met Loomis Taylor, the stage
+director. “Did you think my new gesture was
+due to nervousness?” he asked. “No,” answered
+Taylor, “I thought it was Bayreuth tradition!”)</p>
+
+<p>These are a few of the Bayreuth precepts which
+are followed. There are others. There are indeed
+many others. We all know the tendency of
+conductors who have been tried at Bayreuth, or
+who have come under the influence of Cosima Wagner,
+to drag out the <i>tempi</i> to an exasperating degree.
+I have heard performances of <i>Lohengrin</i>
+which were dragged by the conductor some thirty
+minutes beyond the ordinary time. (Again the
+Master is held responsible for this tradition, but
+though all composers like to have their own music
+last in performance as long as possible, the tradition,
+perhaps, is just as authentic as the story
+that Richard Strauss, when conducting <i>Tristan
+und Isolde</i> at the Prinz-Regenten-Theatre in Munich,
+saved twenty minutes on the ordinary time it
+takes to perform the work in order to return as
+soon as possible to an interrupted game of Skat.)</p>
+
+<p>But it is not tradition alone that is killing the
+Wagner dramas. In many instances and in most
+singing theatres silly traditions are aided in their
+work of destruction by another factor in hasty
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>production. I am referring to the frequent liberties
+which have been taken with the intentions of
+the author. For, when expediency is concerned,
+no account is taken of tradition, and, curiously
+enough, expediency breaks with those traditions
+which can least stand being tampered with. The
+changes, in other words, have not been made for
+the sake of improvement, but through carelessness,
+or to save time or money, or for some other cognate
+reason. An example of this sort of thing is
+the custom of giving the <i>Ring</i> dramas as a cycle in
+a period extending over four weeks, one drama a
+week. It is also customary at the Metropolitan
+Opera House in New York to entrust the rôle of
+Brünnhilde, or of Siegfried, to a different interpreter
+in each drama, so that the Brünnhilde who
+wakes in <i>Siegfried</i> is not at all the Brünnhilde who
+goes to sleep in <i>Die Walküre</i>. Then, although
+Brünnhilde exploits a horse in <i>Götterdämmerung</i>,
+she possesses none in <i>Die Walküre</i>; none of the
+other valkyries has a horse; Fricka’s goats have
+been taken away from her, and she walks to the
+mountain-top holding her skirts from under her
+feet for all the world as a lady of fashion might as
+she ascended from a garden into a ballroom. At
+the Metropolitan Opera House, and at other theatres
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>where I have seen the dramas, the decorations
+of the scenes of Brünnhilde’s falling asleep and of
+her awakening are quite different.</p>
+
+<p>Naturally, ingenious explanations have been devised
+to fit these cases. For instance, one is told
+that animals are <i>never</i> at home on the stage.
+This explanation suffices perhaps for the animals
+which do not appear, but how about those which
+do? The vague phrase, “the exigencies of the
+répertoire,” is mentioned as the reason for the extension
+of the cycle over several weeks, that and
+the further excuse that the system permits people
+from nearby towns to make weekly visits to the
+metropolis. Of course, Wagner intended that
+each of the <i>Ring</i> dramas should follow its predecessor
+on succeeding days in a festival week. If
+the <i>Ring</i> were so given in New York every season
+with due preparation, careful staging, and the
+best obtainable cast, the occasions would draw audiences
+from all over America, as the festivals at
+Bayreuth and Munich do indeed draw audiences
+from all over the world. Ingenuous is the word
+which best describes the explanation for the
+change in Brünnhildes; one is told that the out-of-town
+subscribers to the series prefer to hear as
+many singers as possible. They wish to “compare”
+Brünnhildes, so to speak. Perhaps the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>real reason for divergence from common sense is
+the difficulty the director of the opera house would
+have with certain sopranos if one were allowed the
+full set of performances. As for the change in
+the setting of Brünnhilde’s rock it is pure expediency,
+nothing else. In <i>Die Walküre</i>, in which, between
+acts, there is plenty of time to change the
+scenery, a heavy built promontory of rocks is required
+for the valkyrie brood to stand on. In
+<i>Siegfried</i> and <i>Götterdämmerung</i>, where the scenery
+must be shifted in short order, this particular
+setting is utilized only for duets. The heavier elements
+of the setting are no longer needed, and are
+dispensed with.</p>
+
+<p>The mechanical devices demanded by Wagner
+are generally complied with in a stupidly clumsy
+manner. The first scene of <i>Das Rheingold</i> is usually
+managed with some effect now, although the
+swimming of the Rhine maidens, who are dressed
+in absurd long floating green nightgowns, is carried
+through very badly and seemingly without an
+idea that such things have been done a thousand
+times better in other theatres; the changes of scene
+in <i>Das Rheingold</i> are accomplished in such a manner
+that one fears the escaping steam is damaging
+the gauze curtains; the worm and the toad are silly
+contrivances; the effect of the rainbow is never
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>properly conveyed; the ride of the valkyries is
+frankly evaded by most stage managers; the bird
+in <i>Siegfried</i> flies like a sickly crow; the final
+scene in <i>Götterdämmerung</i> would bring a laugh
+from a Bowery audience: some flat scenery flaps
+over, a number of chorus ladies fall on their knees,
+there is much bulging about of a canvas sea, and a
+few red lights appear in the sky; the transformation
+scenes in <i>Parsifal</i> are carried out with as little
+fidelity to symbolism, or truth, or beauty; and
+the throwing of the lance in <i>Parsifal</i> is always
+seemingly a wire trick rather than a magical one.</p>
+
+<p>The scenery for the Wagner dramas, in all the
+theatres where I have seen and heard them, has
+been built (and a great deal of it in recent years
+from new designs) with a seemingly absolute ignorance
+or determined evasion of the fact that
+there are artists who are now working in the theatre.
+In making this statement I can speak personally
+of performances I have seen at the Metropolitan
+Opera House, New York; the Auditorium,
+Chicago; Covent Garden Theatre, London; La
+Scala, Milan; the Opéra, Paris; and the Prinz-Regenten-Theatre
+in Munich. Are there theatres
+where the Wagner dramas are better given? I do
+not think so. Compare the scenery of <i>Götterdämmerung</i>
+at the Metropolitan Opera House with
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>that of <i>Boris Godunow</i>, and you will see how little
+care is being taken of Wagner’s ideals. In the
+one case the flimsiest sort of badly painted and
+badly lighted canvas, mingled indiscriminately
+with plastic objects, boughs, branches, etc., placed
+next to painted boughs and branches, an effect
+calculated to throw the falsity of the whole scene
+into relief; in the other case, an example of a
+scene-painter’s art wrought to give the highest effect
+to the drama it decorates. Take the decoration
+of the hall of the Gibichs in which long scenes
+are enacted in both the first and last acts of <i>Götterdämmerung</i>.
+The Gibichs are a savage, warlike,
+sinister, primitive race. Now it is not necessary
+that the setting in itself be strong, but it
+must suggest strength to the spectator. There
+is no need to bring stone blocks or wood blocks on
+the stage; the artist may work in black velvet if
+he wishes (it was of this material that Professor
+Roller contrived a dungeon cell in <i>Fidelio</i> which
+seemed to be built of stone ten feet thick). It will
+be admitted, I think, by any one who has seen the
+setting in question that it is wholly inadequate to
+express the meaning of the drama. The scenes
+could be sung with a certain effect in a Christian
+Science temple, but no one will deny, I should say,
+that the effect of the music may be greatly heightened
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>by proper attention to the stage decoration
+and the movement of the characters in relation to
+the lighting and decoration. (I have used the
+Metropolitan Opera House, in this instance, as a
+convenient illustration; but the scenery there is
+no worse, on the whole, than it is in many of the
+other theatres named.)</p>
+
+<p>The secret at the bottom of the whole matter is
+that the directors of the singing theatres wish to
+save themselves trouble. They will spend neither
+money nor energy in righting this wrong. It is
+easier to trust to tradition on the one hand and expediency
+on the other than it would be to engage
+an expert (one not concerned with what had been
+done, but one concerned with what to do) to produce
+the works. <i>Carmen</i> was losing its popularity
+in this country when Emma Calvé, who had
+broken all the rules made for the part by Galli-Marié,
+enchanted opera-goers with her fantastic
+conception of the gipsy girl. Bizet’s work had
+dropped out of the répertoire again when Mme.
+Bressler-Gianoli arrived and carried it triumphantly
+through nearly a score of performances
+during the first season of Oscar Hammerstein’s
+Manhattan Opera House. Geraldine Farrar and
+Toscanini resuscitated the Spanish jade a third
+time. An Olive Fremstad or a Lilli Lehmann or a
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>Milka Ternina can perform a like office for <i>Götterdämmerung</i>
+or <i>Tristan und Isolde</i>; but it is to a
+new producer, an Adolphe Appia or a Gordon
+Craig, that the theatre director must look for the
+final salvation of Wagner, through the complete
+realization of his own ideals. It must be obvious
+to any one that the more completely the meaning
+of his plays is exposed by the decoration, the lighting
+and the action, the greater the effect.</p>
+
+<p>Adolphe Appia wrote a book called “Die Musik
+und die Inscenierung,” which was published in German
+in 1899. (An earlier work, “La mise-en-scène
+du drame Wagnerien,” appeared in Paris in
+1893.) Since then his career has been strangely
+obscure for one whose effect on artists working at
+stage decoration has been greater than that of any
+other single man. In the second edition of his
+book, “On the Art of the Theatre,” Gordon Craig,
+in a footnote, speaks thus of Appia: “Appia,
+<i>the foremost stage decorator of Europe</i> (the italics
+are mine) is not dead. I was told that he was
+no more with us, so, in the first edition of this
+book, I included him among the shades. I first
+saw three examples of his work in 1908, and I
+wrote a friend asking, ‘Where is Appia and how
+can we meet?’ My friend replied, ‘Poor Appia
+died some years ago.’ This winter (1912) I saw
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>some of Appia’s designs in a portfolio belonging
+to Prince Wolkonsky. They were divine; and I
+was told that the designer was still living.”</p>
+
+<p>Loomis Taylor, who, during the season of 1914-15,
+staged the Wagner operas at the Metropolitan
+Opera House (and it was not his fault that the
+staging was not improved; there is no stage director
+now working who has more belief in and
+knowledge of the artists of the theatre than Loomis
+Taylor) has written me, in response to a
+query, the following regarding Appia: “Adolphe
+Appia, I think, is a French-Swiss; he is a young
+man. The title of the book which made him famous,
+in its German translation, is ‘Die Musik
+und die Inscenierung.’ It was translated from the
+French by Princess Cantacuzène.... Five years
+ago I was told by Mrs. Houston Stewart Chamberlain
+that Appia was slowly but surely starving to
+death in some picturesque surroundings in Switzerland.
+I then tried to get various people in
+Germany interested in him, also proposing him to
+Hagemann as scenic artist for Mannheim. Two
+years later, before his starving process had
+reached its conclusion, I heard of him as collaborator
+with Jaques-Dalcroze at his temple of
+rhythm on the banks of the Elbe, outside of Dresden,
+where, I think, up to the outbreak of the war,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>Appia was doing very good work, but what has become
+of him since I do not know.</p>
+
+<p>“His book is very valuable; his suggestions go
+beyond the possibilities of the average Hof theatre,
+while in Bayreuth they have a similar effect to
+a drop of water upon a stone, sun-burned by the
+rays of Cosima’s traditions. By being one of the
+first—if not <i>the</i> first—to put in writing the inconsistency
+of using painted perspective scenery
+and painted shadows with human beings on the
+stage, Appia became the fighter for plastic scenery.
+His sketch of the <i>Walküren</i> rock is the most
+beautiful scenic conception of Act III, <i>Die Walküre</i>,
+I know of or could imagine. To my knowledge
+no theatre has ever produced anything in conformity
+with Appia’s sketches.”</p>
+
+<p>In a letter to me Hiram Kelly Moderwell, whose
+book, “The Theatre of To-day,” is the best exposition
+yet published of the aims and results of
+the artists who are working in the theatre, writes
+as follows in regard to Appia: “Appia is now
+with Dalcroze at Hellerau and I believe has designed
+and perhaps produced all the things that
+have been done there in the last year or two. Previous
+to that I am almost certain he had done no
+actual stage work. Nobody else would give him
+free rein. But, as you know, he thought everything
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>out carefully as though he were doing the
+actual practical stage work.... By this time he
+has hit his ‘third manner.’ It’s all cubes and
+parallelograms. It sounds like hell on paper but
+Maurice Browne told me it is very fine stuff.
+Browne says it is as much greater than Craig as
+Craig is greater than anybody else. All the recent
+Hellerau plays are in this third manner. They
+are lighted by Salzmann, indirect and diffused
+lighting, but not in the Fortuny style. I imagine
+the Hellerau stuff is rather too precious to go on
+the ordinary stage.”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Moderwell’s description of Appia’s book is
+so completely illuminating that I feel I cannot do
+better than to quote the entire passage from “The
+Theatre of To-day”: “Before his (Gordon
+Craig’s) influence was felt, however, Adolphe Appia,
+probably the most powerful theorist of the
+new movement, had written his remarkable book,
+‘Die Musik und die Inscenierung.’ In this, as an
+artist, he attempted to deduce from the content of
+the Wagner music dramas the proper stage settings
+for them. His conclusions anticipated much
+of the best work of recent years and his theories
+have been put into practice in more or less modified
+form on a great many stages—not so much
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>(if at all) for the Wagner dramas themselves,
+which are under a rigid tradition (the ‘what the
+Master wished’ myth), but for operas and the
+more lyric plays where the producer has artistic
+ability and a free hand in applying it.</p>
+
+<p>“Appia started with the principle that the setting
+should make the actor the all-important fact
+on the stage. He saw the realistic impossibility
+of the realistic setting, and destructively analyzed
+the current modes of lighting and perspective effects.
+But, unlike the members of the more conventional
+modern school, he insisted that the stage
+is a three-dimension space and must be handled so
+as to make its depth living. He felt a contradiction
+between the living actor and the dead setting.
+He wished to bind them into one whole—the
+drama. How was this to be done?</p>
+
+<p>“Appia’s answer to this question is his chief
+claim to greatness—genius almost. His answer
+was—‘By means of the lighting.’ He saw the
+deadliness of the contemporary methods of lighting,
+and previsaged with a sort of inspiration the
+possibilities of new methods which have since become
+common. This was at a time when he had at
+his disposal none of the modern lighting systems.
+His foreseeing of modern practice by means of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>rigid Teutonic logic in the service of the artist’s intuition
+makes him one of the two or three foremost
+theorists of the modern movement.</p>
+
+<p>“The lighting, for Appia, is the spiritual core,
+the soul of the drama. The whole action should be
+contained in it, somewhat as we feel the physical
+body of a friend to be contained in his personality.
+Appia’s second great principle is closely connected
+with this. While the setting is obviously inanimate,
+the actor must in every way be emphasized
+and made living. And this can be accomplished,
+he says, only by a wise use of lighting, since it is
+the lights and shadows on a human body which reveal
+to our eyes the fact that the body is ‘plastic’—that
+is, a flexible body of three dimensions.
+Appia would make the setting suggest only the atmosphere,
+not the reality of the thing it stands
+for, and would soften and beautify it with the
+lights. The actor he would throw constantly into
+prominence while keeping him always a part of the
+scene. All the elements and all the action of the
+drama he would bind together by the lights and
+shadows.</p>
+
+<p>“With the most minute care each detail of
+lighting, each position of each character, in Appia’s
+productions is studied out so that the dramatic
+meaning shall always be evident. Hence
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>any setting of his contains vastly more thought
+than is visible at a glance. It is designed to serve
+for every exigency of the scene—so that a character
+here shall be in full light at a certain point,
+while talking directly to a character who must be
+quite in the dark, or that the light shall just touch
+the fringe of one character’s robe as she dies, or
+that the action shall all take place unimpeded,
+and so on. At the same time, needless to say, Appia’s
+stage pictures are of the highest artistic
+beauty.”<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>
+
+<p>In Appia’s design for the third act of <i>Die Walküre</i>,
+so enthusiastically praised by Loomis Taylor,
+the rock of the valkyries juts like a huge
+promontory of black across the front of the scene,
+silhouetted against a clouded sky. So all the figures
+of the valkyries stand high on the rock and
+are entirely silhouetted, while Sieglinde below in
+front of the rock in the blackness, is hidden from
+the rage of the approaching Wotan. Any one
+who has seen this scene as it is ordinarily staged,
+without any reference to beauty or reason, will
+appreciate even this meagre description of an artist’s
+intention, which has not yet been carried
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>out in any theatre with which I have acquaintance.</p>
+
+<p>Appia’s design for the first scene of <i>Parsifal</i>
+discloses a group of boughless, straight-stemmed
+pines, towering to heaven like the cathedral group
+at Vallombrosa. Overhead the dense foliage hides
+the forest paths from the sun. Light comes in
+through the centre at the back, where there is a
+vista of plains across to the mountains, on which
+one may imagine the castle of the Grail. He
+places a dynamic and dramatic value on light
+which it is highly important to understand in estimating
+his work. For example, his lighting of the
+second act of <i>Tristan und Isolde</i> culminates in a
+<i>pitch-dark</i> stage during the singing of the love-duet.
+This artist has designed the scenery for all
+the <i>Ring</i> and has indicated throughout what the
+lighting and action shall be.</p>
+
+<p>I do not know that Gordon Craig has turned
+his attention to any particular Wagner drama, although
+he has made suggestions for several of
+them, but he could, if he would, devise a mode of
+stage decoration which would make the plays and
+their action as appealing in their beauty as the
+music and the singing often now are. In his book,
+“On the Art of the Theatre,” he has been explicit
+in his descriptions of his designs for <i>Macbeth</i>, and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>the rugged strength and symbolism of his settings
+and ideas for that tragedy proclaim perhaps his
+best right to be a leader in the reformation of the
+Wagner dramas, although, even then, it must be
+confessed that Craig is derived in many instances
+from Appia, whom Craig himself hails as the foremost
+stage decorator of Europe to-day.</p>
+
+<p>Read Gordon Craig on <i>Macbeth</i> and you will
+get an idea of how an artist would go to work on
+<i>Tristan und Isolde</i> or <i>Götterdämmerung</i>. “I see
+two things, I see a lofty and steep rock, and I see
+the moist cloud which envelops the head of this
+rock. That is to say, a place for fierce and warlike
+men to inhabit, a place for phantoms to nest
+in. Ultimately this moisture will destroy the rock;
+ultimately these spirits will destroy the men.
+Now then, you are quick in your question as to
+what actually to create for the eye. I answer as
+swiftly—place there a rock! Let it mount high.
+Swiftly I tell you, convey the idea of a mist which
+hangs at the head of this rock. Now, have I departed
+at all for one-eighth of an inch from the
+vision which I saw in the mind’s eye?</p>
+
+<p>“But you ask me what form this rock shall take
+and what colour? What are the lines which are
+the lofty lines, and which are to be seen in any
+lofty cliff? Go to them, glance but a moment at
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>them; now quickly set them down on your paper;
+<i>the lines and their direction</i>, never mind the cliff.
+Do not be afraid to let them go high; they cannot
+go high enough; and remember that on a sheet of
+paper which is but two inches square you can make
+a line which seems to tower miles in the air, and
+you can do the same on your stage, for it is all a
+matter of proportion and has nothing to do with
+actuality.</p>
+
+<p>“You ask about the colours? What are the
+colours which Shakespeare has indicated for us?
+Do not first look at Nature, but look at the play
+of the poet. Two, one for the rock, the man; one
+for the mist, the spirit. Now, quickly, take and
+accept this statement from me. Touch not a single
+other colour, but only these two colours
+through your whole progress of designing your
+scenes and your costumes, yet forget not that each
+colour contains many variations. If you are timid
+for a moment and mistrust yourself or what I tell,
+when the scene is finished you will not see with
+your eye the effect you have seen with your mind’s
+eye when looking at the picture which Shakespeare
+has indicated.”</p>
+
+<p>The producers of the Wagner music dramas do
+not seem to have heard of Adolphe Appia. Gordon
+Craig is a myth to them. Reinhardt does not
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>exist. Have they ever seen the name of Stanislawsky?
+Do they know where his theatre is? Would
+they consider it sensible to spend three years in
+mounting <i>Hamlet</i>? Is the name of Fokine known
+to them? of Bakst? N. Roerich, Nathalie Gontcharova,
+Alexandre Benois, Theodore Federowsky?...
+One could go on naming the artists of
+the theatre. (Recently there have been evidences
+of an art movement in the theatre in America.
+Joseph Urban, first in Boston with the Boston
+Opera Company, and later in New York with various
+theatrical enterprises, may be mentioned as an
+important figure in this movement. His settings
+for <i>Monna Vanna</i> were particularly beautiful and
+he really seems to have revolutionized the staging
+of <i>revues</i> and similar light musical pieces. Robert
+Jones has done some very good work. I think he
+was responsible for the imaginative staging [in
+Gordon Craig’s manner, to be sure] of the inner
+scenes in the Shakespeare mask, <i>Caliban</i>. But I
+would give the Washington Square Players credit
+for the most successful experiments which have
+been made in New York. In every instance they
+have attempted to suit the staging to the mood of
+the drama, and have usually succeeded admirably,
+at slight expense. They have developed a good
+deal of previously untried talent in this direction.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>Lee Simonson, in particular, has achieved distinctive
+results. I have seldom seen better work of
+its kind on the stage than his settings for <i>The
+Magical City</i>, <i>Pierre Patelin</i>, and <i>The Seagull</i>.
+At the Metropolitan Opera House no account
+seems to be taken of this art movement, although
+during the season of 1915-16 in <i>The Taming of
+the Shrew</i> an attempt was made to emulate the
+very worst that has been done in modern Germany.)</p>
+
+<p>For several years the Russian Ballet, under the
+direction of Serge de Diaghilew, has been presenting
+operas and ballets in the European capitals,
+notably in London and Paris for long seasons
+each summer (the Ballet has been seen in America
+since this article was written). A number of artists
+and a number of stage directors have been
+working together in staging these works, which,
+as a whole, may be conceded to be the most completely
+satisfying productions which have been
+made on the stage during the progress of this new
+movement in the theatre. One or two of the German
+productions, or Gordon Craig’s <i>Hamlet</i> in
+Stanislawsky’s theatre, may have surpassed them
+in the sterner qualities of beauty, the serious truth
+of their art, but none has surpassed them in brilliancy,
+in barbaric splendour, or in their almost
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>complete solution of the problems of mingling people
+with painted scenery. The Russians have
+solved these problems by a skilful (and passionately
+liberal) use of colour and light. The painted
+surfaces are mostly flat, to be sure, and crudely
+painted, but the tones of the canvas are so divinely
+contrived to mingle with the tones of the costumes
+that the effect of an animated picture is arrived
+at with seemingly very little pother. This method
+of staging is not, in most instances, it must be admitted,
+adapted to the requirements of the Wagner
+dramas. Bakst, I imagine, would find it difficult
+to cramp his talents in the field of Wagnerism,
+though he should turn out a very pretty edition
+of <i>Das Rheingold</i>. Roerich, on the other
+hand, who designed the scenery and costumes for
+<i>Prince Igor</i> as it was presented in Paris and London
+in the summer of 1914, would find no difficulty
+in staging <i>Götterdämmerung</i>. The problem is the
+same: to convey an impression of barbarism and
+strength. One scene I remember in Borodine’s
+opera in which an open window, exposing only a
+clear stretch of sky—the rectangular opening
+occupied half of the wall at the back of the room—was
+made to act the drama. A few red lights
+skilfully played on the curtain representing the
+sky made it seem as if in truth a city were burning
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>and I thought how a similar simple contrivance
+might make a more imaginative final scene for <i>Götterdämmerung</i>.</p>
+
+<p>It is, however, in their handling of mechanical
+problems that the Russians could assist the new
+producer of the Wagner dramas to his greatest
+advantage. In Rimsky-Korsakow’s opera, <i>The
+Golden Cock</i>, for instance, the bird of the title has
+several appearances to make. Now there was no
+attempt made, in the Russians’ stage version of
+this work, to have this bird jiggle along a supposedly
+invisible wire, in reality quite visible, flapping
+his artificial wings and wiggling his insecure
+feet, as in the usual productions of <i>Siegfried</i>. Instead
+the bird was built solid like a bronze cock for
+a drawing-room table; he did not flap his wings;
+his feet were motionless; when the action of the
+drama demanded his presence he was let down on a
+wire; there was no pretence of a lack of machinery.
+The effect, however, was vastly more imaginative
+and diverting than that in <i>Siegfried</i>, because it
+was more simple. In like manner King Dodon,
+in the same opera, mounted a wooden horse on
+wheels to go to the wars, and the animals he captured
+were also made of wood, studded with brilliant
+beads. In Richard Strauss’s ballet, <i>The
+Legend of Joseph</i>, the figure of the guardian angel
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>was not let down on a wire from the flies as he
+might have been in a Drury Lane pantomime; the
+naïve nature of the work was preserved by his
+nonchalant entrance across the <i>loggia</i> and down a
+flight of steps, exactly the entrance of all the human
+characters of the ballet. I do not mean to
+suggest that these particular expedients would fit
+into the Wagner dramas so well as they do into
+works of a widely different nature. They should,
+however, indicate to stage directors the possibility
+of finding a method to suit the case in each instance.
+And I do assert, without hope or fear of
+contradiction, that Brünnhilde with a wooden
+horse would challenge less laughter than she does
+with the sorry nags which are put at her disposal
+and which Siegfried later takes down the river
+with him. It is only down the river that one can
+sell such horses. As for the bird, there are bird
+trainers whose business it is to teach pigeons to
+fly from pillar to post in the music halls; their
+services might be contracted for to make that passage
+in <i>Siegfried</i> a little less distracting. The difficulties
+connected with this particular mechanical
+episode (and a hundred others) might be avoided
+by a different lighting of the scene. If the tree-tops
+of the forest were submerged in the deepest
+shadows, as well they might be, the flight of the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>bird on a wire might be accomplished with some
+sort of illusion. But why should one see the bird
+at all? One hears it constantly as it warbles advice
+to the hero.</p>
+
+<p>The new Wagner producer must possess many
+qualities if he wishes to place these works on a
+plane where they may continue to challenge the admiration
+of the world. Wagner himself was more
+concerned with his ideals than he was with their
+practical solution. Besides, it must be admitted
+that taste in stage art and improvements in stage
+mechanism have made great strides in the last
+decade. The plaster wall, for instance, which has
+replaced in many foreign theatres the flapping,
+swaying, wrinkled, painted canvas sky cyclorama
+(still in use at the Metropolitan Opera House; a
+vast sum was paid for it a few years ago) is a new
+invention and one which, when appropriately
+lighted, perfectly counterfeits the appearance of
+the sky in its different moods. (So far as I know
+the only theatre in New York with this apparatus
+is the Neighborhood Playhouse on Grand Street.)
+In Houston Stewart Chamberlain’s “Richard
+Wagner,” published in 1897, I find the following:</p>
+
+<p>“Wagner foresaw that in the new drama the
+whole principle of the stage scenery must undergo
+a complete alteration but did not particularize in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>detail. The <i>Meister</i> says that ‘music resolves the
+rigid immovable groundwork of the scenery into a
+liquid, yielding, ethereal surface, capable of receiving
+impressions’; but to prevent a painful
+conflict between what is seen and what is heard,
+the stage picture, too, must be relieved from the
+curse of rigidity which now rests upon it. The
+only way of doing this is by managing the light in
+a manner which its importance deserves, that its
+office may no longer be confined to illuminating
+painted walls.... I am convinced that the next
+great advance in the drama will be of this nature,
+in the art of the eye, and not in music.” (The
+passage quoted further refers to Appia’s first book,
+published in French. Chamberlain was a close
+friend of Appia and “Die Musik und die Inscenierung”
+is dedicated to him.)</p>
+
+<p>It must also be understood that Wagner in some
+instances, when the right medium of his expression
+was clear to him, made concessions to what he considered
+the unintelligence of the public. Wotan’s
+waving of the sword is a case in point. The <i>motiv</i>
+without the object he did not think would carry
+out the effect he intended to convey, although the
+absurdity of Wotan’s founding his new humanity
+on the power of the degenerate giants must have
+been apparent to him. Sometimes the Master
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>changed his mind. Paris would have none of
+<i>Tannhäuser</i> without a ballet and so Wagner rewrote
+the first act and now the Paris version of the
+opera is the accepted one. In any case it must
+be apparent that what Wagner wanted was a
+fusion of the arts, and a completely artistic one.
+So that if any one can think of a better way of
+presenting his dramas than one based on the very
+halting staging which he himself devised (with the
+limited means at his command) as perhaps the best
+possible to exploit his ideals, that person should be
+hailed as Wagner’s friend. It must be seen, at
+any current presentation of his dramas, that his
+way, or Cosima’s, is not the best way. The single
+performances which have made the deepest impression
+on the public have deviated the farthest from
+tradition. Olive Fremstad’s Isolde was far from
+traditional. Her very costume of deep green was
+a flaunt in the face of Wagner’s conventionally
+white robed heroine. In the first act, after taking
+the love potion, she did not indulge in any of the
+swimming movements usually employed by sopranos
+to pass the time away until the occasion
+came to sing again. She stood as a woman dazed,
+passing her hands futilely before her eyes, and it
+was to be noted that in some instances her action
+had its supplement in the action of the tenor who
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>was singing with her, although, in other instances,
+he would continue to swim in the most highly approved
+Bayreuth fashion. But Olive Fremstad,
+artist that she was, could not completely divorce
+herself from tradition; in some cases she held to it
+against her judgment. The stage directions for
+the second act of <i>Parsifal</i>, for example, require
+Kundry to lie on her couch, tempting the hero, for
+a very long time. Great as Fremstad’s Kundry
+was, it might have been improved if she had allowed
+herself to move more freely along the lines
+that her artistic conscience dictated. Her Elsa
+was a beautiful example of the moulding of the traditional
+playing of a rôle into a picturesque, imaginative
+figure, a feat similar to that which Mary
+Garden accomplished in her delineation of Marguerite
+in <i>Faust</i>. Mme. Fremstad always sang
+Brünnhilde in <i>Götterdämmerung</i> throughout with
+the fire of genius. This was surely some wild creature,
+a figure of Greek tragedy, a Norse Elektra.
+The superb effect she wrought, at her first performance
+in the rôle, with the scene of the spear,
+was never tarnished in subsequent performances.
+The thrill was always there.</p>
+
+<p>In face of acting and singing like that one can
+afford to ignore Wagner’s theory about the wedding
+of the arts. A Fremstad or a Lehmann can
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>carry a Wagner drama to a triumphant conclusion
+with few, if any, accessories, but great singing
+artists are rare; nor does a performance of this
+kind meet the requirements of the Wagner ideal,
+in which the picture, the word, and the tone shall
+all be a part of the drama (<i>Wort-Tondrama</i>).
+Wagner invented a new form of stage art but only
+in a small measure did he succeed in perfecting a
+method for its successful presentation. The
+artist-producer must arise to repair this deficiency,
+to become the dominating force in future performances,
+to see that the scenes are painted in accordance
+with the principles of beauty and dramatic
+fitness, to see that they are lighted to express
+the secrets of the drama, as Appia says they
+should be, to see that the action is sympathetic
+with the decoration, and that the decoration never
+encumbers the action, that the lighting assists
+both. There never has been a production of the
+<i>Ring</i> which has in any sense realized its true possibilities,
+the ideal of Wagner.</p>
+
+
+<p><i>June 24, 1915.</i></p>
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote">
+
+<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> For a further discussion of Appia’s work and its probable
+influence on Gordon Craig, see an article “Adolphe
+Appia and Gordon Craig” in my book “Music After the
+Great War.”</p>
+
+</div></div>
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Bridge_Burners">The Bridge Burners</h2>
+<p class="ph3">
+“<i>Zieh’hin! ich kann dich nicht halten!</i>”</p>
+<p class="author">
+Der Wanderer.<br>
+</p>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[Pg 169]</span></p>
+
+
+<p class="ph2">The Bridge Burners</p></div>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">I</p>
+
+<p>It is from the enemy that one learns. Richelieu
+and other great men have found it folly
+to listen to the advice of friends when rancour,
+hatred, and jealousy inspired much more helpful
+suggestions. And it occurred to me recently that
+the friends of modern music were doing nothing by
+way of describing it. They are content to like
+it. I must confess that I have been one of these.
+I have heard first performances of works by Richard
+Strauss and Claude Debussy on occasions when
+the programme notes gave one cause for dread.
+At these times I have often been pleasurably excited
+and I have never lacked for at least a measured
+form of enjoyment except when I found those
+gods growing a bit old. The English critics were
+right when they labelled <i>The Legend of Joseph</i>
+Handelian. The latest recital of Leo Ornstein’s
+which I heard made me realize that even the extreme
+modern music evidently protrudes no great
+perplexities into my ears. They accept it all, a
+good deal of it with avidity, some with the real
+tribute of astonishment which goes only to genius.</p>
+
+<p>On the whole, I think, I should have found it impossible
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>to write this article which, with a new
+light shining on my paper, is dancing from under
+my darting typewriter keys, if I had not stumbled
+by good luck into the camp of the enemy. For I
+find misunderstanding, lack of sympathy, and
+enmity towards the new music to a certain degree
+inspirational. These qualities, projected, have
+crystallized impressions in my mind, which might,
+under other circumstances, have remained vague
+and, in a sense, I think I may make bold to say,
+they have made it possible for me to synthesize to
+a greater degree than has hitherto been attempted,
+the various stimuli and progressive gestures of
+modern music. I can more clearly say now <i>why</i>
+I like it. (If I were to tell others how to like it I
+should be forced to resort to a single sentence:
+“Open your ears”.)</p>
+
+<p>A good deal of this new insight has come to me
+through assiduous perusal of Mr. Richard Aldrich’s
+comment on musical doings in the columns
+of the “New York Times.” Mr. Aldrich, like
+many another, has been bewildered and annoyed by
+a good deal of the modern music played (Heaven
+knows that there is little enough modern music
+played in New York. Up to date [April 16,
+1916] there has been nothing of Arnold Schoenberg
+performed this season later than his <i>Pelléas
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>und Mélisande</i> and his <i>Kammersymphonie</i>; of
+Strawinsky—aside from the three slight pieces
+for string quartet—nothing later than <i>Petrouchka</i>.
+Such new works as John Alden Carpenter’s
+<i>Adventures in a Perambulator</i> and Enrique
+Granados’s <i>Goyescas</i>—as an opera—do
+not seriously overtax the critical ear) but he has
+done more than some others by way of expressing
+the causes of this bewilderment and this annoyance.
+Some critics neglect the subject altogether
+but Mr. Aldrich at least attempts to be explanatory.
+My first excerpt from his writings is
+clipped from an article in the “New York Times”
+of December 5, 1915, devoted to the string quartet
+music of Strawinsky, performed by the Flonzaleys
+at Æolian Hall in New York on the evening
+of November 30:</p>
+
+<p>“So far as this particular type of ‘futurist’
+music is concerned it seems to be conditioned on an
+accompaniment of something else to explain it from
+beginning to end.”</p>
+
+<p>Is this a reproach? The context would seem
+to indicate that it is. If so it seems a late date
+in which to hurl anathema at programme music.
+One would have fancied that that battle had already
+been fought and won by Ernest Newman,
+Frederick Niecks, and Lawrence Gilman, to name
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>a few of the gladiators for the cause. Why Mr.
+Aldrich, having swallowed whole, so to speak, the
+tendency of music during a century of its development,
+should suddenly balk at music which requires
+explanation I cannot imagine. However,
+this would seem to be the point he makes in face
+of the fact that at least two-thirds of a symphony
+society’s programme is made up of programme music.
+Berlioz said in the preface to his <i>Symphonie
+Fantastique</i>, “The plan of an instrumental drama,
+being without words, requires to be explained beforehand.
+The programme (which is indispensable
+to the perfect comprehension of the dramatic
+plan of the work) ought therefor to be considered
+in the light of the spoken text of an opera, serving
+to ... indicate the character and expression.”
+Ernest Newman built up an elaborate theory on
+these two sentences, a theory fully expounded in
+an article called “Programme Music” published
+in “Music Studies” (1905), and touched on elsewhere
+in his work (at some length, of course, in
+his “Richard Strauss.”) He brings out the facts.
+Representation of natural sounds, emotions, and
+even objects—or attempts at it—in early music
+were not rare. He cites the justly famous <i>Bible
+Sonatas</i> of Kuhnau, Rameau’s <i>Sighs</i> and <i>Tender
+Plants</i>, Dittersdorf’s twelve programme symphonies
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>illustrating Ovid’s <i>Metamorphoses</i>, and
+John Sebastian Bach’s <i>Capriccio on the Departure
+of my Dearly Beloved Brother</i>. Beethoven wrote
+a <i>Pastoral Symphony</i> in which he attempted to
+imitate the sound of a brook and the call of a
+cuckoo. There is also a storm in this symphony.
+The fact that Beethoven denied any intention of
+portraying anything but “pure emotion” in this
+symphony is evasion and humbug as Newman very
+clearly points out. From what do these emotions
+arise? The answer is, From the contemplation of
+country scenes. The auditor without a programme
+will not find the symphony so enjoyable
+as the one who <i>knows</i> what awakened the emotions
+in the composer. Beethoven wrote a “battle”
+symphony too, a particularly bad one, I believe (I
+have never seen it announced for performance).
+It is true, however, that most of the composers of
+the “great” period were content to number their
+symphonies and to call their piano pieces impromptus,
+sonatas, valses, and nocturnes. Nous
+avons changé tout cela. Schumann was one of the
+first of the composers of the nineteenth century to
+write music with titles. In the <i>Carneval</i>, for example,
+each piece is explained by its title. And
+explanations, or shadows of explanations (Cathedral,
+Rhenish, Spring, etc.), hover about the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>four symphonies. Berlioz, of course, carried the
+principle of programme music to a degree that was
+considered absurd in his own time. He wrote symphonies
+like the <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> and the <i>Fantastique</i>
+which had to be “explained from beginning
+to end.” Liszt invented the symphonic poem
+and composed pieces which are only to be listened
+to after one has read the poem or seen the picture
+which they describe. Richard Strauss rounded
+out the form and put the most elaborate naturalistic
+details into such works as <i>Don Quixote</i> and
+<i>Till Eulenspiegel</i>. Understanding of this music
+and complete enjoyment of it rely in a large measure
+on the “explanation.” The <i>Symphonia Domestica</i>
+and <i>Heldenleben</i> are extreme examples of
+this sort of thing. What does Wagner’s whole
+system depend on but “explanation”? How does
+one know that a certain sequence of notes represents
+a sword? Because the composer tells us so.
+How does one discover that another sequence of
+notes represents Alberich’s curse? Through the
+same channel. Bernard Shaw says in <i>The Perfect
+Wagnerite</i>: “To be able to follow the music of
+<i>The Ring</i>, all that is necessary is to become familiar
+enough with the brief musical phrases out of
+which it is built to recognize them and attach a
+certain definite significance to them, exactly as any
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>ordinary Englishman recognizes and attaches a
+definite significance to the opening bars of <i>God
+Save the Queen</i>.” Modern music is full of this sort
+of thing. It leans more and more heavily on titles,
+on mimed drama, on “explanation.” Think of
+almost all the music of Debussy, for example, <i>La
+Mer</i>, <i>l’Après-midi d’un Faune</i>, <i>Iberia</i>, nearly all
+the piano music; Rimsky-Korsakow’s <i>Scheherazade</i>,
+<i>Antar</i>, and <i>Sadko</i> (the symphonic suite, not
+the opera); Vincent d’Indy’s <i>Istar</i>; Borodine’s
+<i>Thamar</i>; Dukas’s <i>l’Apprenti Sorcier</i>; Franck’s <i>Le
+Chasseur Maudit</i> and <i>Les Eolides</i>; Saint-Saëns’s
+<i>Phaëton</i>, <i>La Jeunesse d’Hercule</i>, and <i>Le Rouet
+d’Omphale</i>; Busoni’s music for <i>Turandot</i>: the list
+is endless and it is futile to continue it.</p>
+
+<p>But, Mr. Aldrich would object, in most of these
+instances the music stands by itself and it is possible
+to enjoy it without reference to the titles. I
+contend that this is just as true of Strawinsky’s
+three pieces for string quartet (of course one never
+will be sure because Daniel Gregory Mason explained
+these pieces before they were played).
+However Mr. Newman has already exploded a good
+many bombs about this particular point and he has
+shown the fallacy of the theory. Mr. Newman
+concedes that a work such as Tschaikowsky’s overture
+<i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, would undoubtedly “give
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>intense pleasure to any one who listened to it as a
+piece of music, pure and simple. But I deny,” he
+continues, “that this hearer would receive as much
+pleasure from the work as I do. He might think
+the passage for muted strings, for example, extremely
+beautiful, but he would not get from it
+such delight as I, who not only feel all the <i>musical</i>
+loveliness of the melody and the harmonies and the
+tone colour, but see the lovers on the balcony and
+breathe the very atmosphere of Shakespeare’s
+scene. I am richer than my fellow by two or three
+emotions of this kind. My nature is stirred on two
+or three sides instead of only one. I would go further
+and say that not only does the auditor I have
+supposed get less pleasure from the work than I,
+but he really does not hear Tschaikowsky’s work
+at all. If the musician writes music to a play and
+invents phrases to symbolize the characters and to
+picture the events of the play, we are simply not
+listening to <i>his</i> work at all if we listen to it in ignorance
+of his poetical scheme. We may hear the
+music but it is not the music he meant us to hear.”
+And Mr. Newman goes on to berate Strauss for
+not providing programmes for some of his tone-poems
+(programmes, however, which have always
+been provided by somebody in authority at the
+eleventh hour). Niecks thinks that nearly all
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>music has an implied programme: “My opinion
+is that whenever the composer ceases to write
+purely formal music he passes from the domain
+of absolute music into that of programme music.”
+(“Programme Music in the Last Four Centuries.”)
+But Niecks does not hold that explanation
+is always necessary, even if there is a programme.</p>
+
+<p>Under the circumstances it seems a bit thick to
+jump on Strawinsky for writing music which has
+to be explained. Such pieces as <i>Fireworks</i> or the
+<i>Scherzo Fantastique</i> need no more extended explanation
+than the titles give them. His three
+pieces for string quartet were listed without programme
+at the Flonzaley concert and might have
+been played that way, I think, without causing the
+heavens to fall. But Strawinsky had told some
+one that their general title was <i>Grotesques</i> and
+that he had composed each of them with a programme
+in mind, which was divulged. When the
+music was played, in the circumstances, what he
+was driving at was as plain as A. B. C. There
+was no further demand made on the auditor than
+that he prepare himself, as Schumann asked auditors
+to prepare themselves to listen to the <i>Carneval</i>,
+by thinking of the titles. In Strawinsky’s
+opera, <i>The Nightingale</i>, the text of the opera
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>serves as the programme. There are no representative
+themes; there is no “working-out.”
+You are not required to remember <i>leit-motive</i> in
+order to familiarize your emotions with the proper
+capers to cut at particular moments when these
+<i>motive</i> are repeated. You are asked simply to
+follow the course of the lyric drama with open ears,
+open mind, and open heart. Albert Gleizes, the
+post-impressionist painter, once told me that he
+considered the title an essential part of a picture.
+“It is a <i>point de départ</i>,” he said. “In painting
+a picture I always have some idea or object in
+mind in the beginning. In my completed picture
+I may have wandered far away from this. Now
+the title gives the spectator the advantage of starting
+where I started.” A title to a musical composition
+gives an auditor a similar advantage. No
+doubt Strawinsky’s <i>Fireworks</i> would make a nice
+blaze without the name but the title gives us a picture
+to begin with, just as Wagner gives us scenery
+and text and action (to say nothing of a handbook
+of representative themes) to explain the
+music of <i>Die Walküre</i>....</p>
+
+<p>An important point has been overlooked by those
+who have watched painting and music develop during
+the past century: while painting has become
+less and less an attempt to represent nature, music
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>has more and more attempted concrete representation.
+There has seemed, at times, to be an interchange
+in progress in the values of the arts.
+(“He [Cézanne] is the first of the great painters
+to treat colour deliberately as music; he tests all
+its harmonic resources,” Romain Rolland.) Observers
+of matters æsthetic have frequently told us
+that both of these arts were breaking with their
+old principles and going on to something new but,
+it would seem, they have failed to grasp the significance
+of the change. Music, as it drops its
+classic outline and form, the <i>cliché</i> of the studio
+and the academy, becomes more and more like
+nature, because natural sounds are not co-ordinated
+into symphonies with working-out sections and
+codas, first and second subjects, etc., while in
+painting, in some of its later manifestations, the resemblance
+to things seen has entirely disappeared.
+This fact, at least one phase of it, was realized in
+concrete form by the futurists in Italy who asserted
+that polyphony, fugue, etc., were contraptions
+of a bygone age when the stage-coach was in
+vogue. Machinery has changed the world. We
+are living in a dynasty of dynamics. A certain
+number of futurists even give concerts of noise
+machines in which a definite attempt is made to
+imitate the sounds of automobiles, aeroplanes, etc.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>At a concert given at the Dal Verme in Milan, for
+example, the pieces were called <i>The Awakening of
+a Great City</i>, <i>A Dinner on the Kursaal Terrace</i>
+(doubtless with an imitation of the guests eating
+soup), and <i>A Meet of Automobiles and Aeroplanes</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Picasso and Picabia have made us acquainted
+with a form of art which in its vague realization of
+representative values becomes almost as abstract
+an art as music was in the time of Beethoven, while
+such musicians as Strauss, Debussy, and Strawinsky,
+have gradually widened the boundaries
+which have confined music, and have made it at
+times something very concrete. Debussy’s <i>La
+Mer</i>, for example, is a much more definite picture
+(in leaning over the rail of the gallery of the
+Salle Gaveau in Paris during a performance of
+this piece I actually became sea-sick!) than Marcel
+Duchamp’s painting of the <i>Nu Descendant l’Escalier</i>.
+So Strawinsky’s three pieces for string
+quartet represent certain things in nature (the
+first a group of peasants playing strange instruments
+on the steppes; the second sounds in a Cathedral
+heard by a drowsy worshipper, the responses
+of the priest, chanted out of key, the shrill antiphonal
+choruses; and the third a juggling Pierrot
+with a soul-pain) much more definitely than Picasso’s
+latest <i>Nature Morte dans un Jardin</i>.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p>
+<p>“Now the law which has dominated painting for
+more than a century is a more and more comprehensive
+assimilation of musical idiom. Even Delacroix
+spoke of ‘the mysterious effects of line and
+colour which, alas, only a few adepts feel—like
+interwoven themes in music ...’ and Baudelaire,
+in another connection, wrote, ‘Harmony, melody,
+and counterpoint are to be found in colour.’ Ingres
+also remarked to his disciples, ‘If I could make
+you all musicians you would be better painters.’
+Renoir, who journeyed to Sicily to paint Wagner’s
+portrait and to translate <i>Tannhäuser</i>, is a musical
+enthusiast and his work is music. Maurice Denis
+tells us that his pals at Julian’s Academy, those
+who were to found synthesism with him, never
+tired of discussing Lamoureux’s concerts, where
+they were enthusiastic habitués. Gaugin announced
+that ‘painting is a musical phase.’ He
+speaks continually of the music of a picture; when
+he wants to analyze his work he divides it into the
+literary element, to which he attaches less importance,
+and the musical element which he schemes
+first. Cézanne, whom Gaugin compared to César
+Franck, said, ‘not model, but modulate.’ Metzinger
+invokes the right of cubist painters to express
+all emotions as music does, and one of the
+æstheticians of the new school writes: ‘The goal
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>of painting is perhaps a music of nature, visual
+music to which traditional painting would have
+somewhat the status that sacred or dramatic music
+has compared to concert music.’</p>
+
+<p>“This, then, is the revolution in the art of line
+and colour which has become aware of its intrinsic
+power, independent of any subject. In truth,
+even among the Venetians, as has been well said,
+the subject was ‘only the background upon which
+the painter relied to develop his harmonies,’ but
+the mentality of spectators clings to this background
+as to the libretto of an opera. At present,
+an end to librettos: Pure music: those who wish
+to comprehend it must first of all master its idiom,
+for ‘Colour is learned as music is.’” (Romain
+Rolland: “The Unbroken Chain,” Lee Simonson’s
+translation.)</p>
+
+<p>So far, in spite of the protestations of horror
+made by the academicians, the pedants, and the
+Philistines, which would lead one to suppose a state
+of complete chaos, there has not been a complete
+abandonment of co-ordination, of selection, or of
+intention, in either art. In fact, it seems to me,
+that the qualities of intention and selection are
+more powerful adjuncts of the artist than they
+have been for many generations. In painting
+colour and form are cunningly contrived to give
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>us an idea, if not a photograph, and in music natural
+(as well as unnatural) sounds are still arranged,
+perhaps to a more extreme extent than
+ever before.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">II</p>
+
+<p>I wonder if all the suggestion music gives us is
+associative. Sometimes I think so. Was it Berlioz
+who remarked that the slightest quickening of
+<i>tempo</i> would transform the celebrated air in <i>Orphée</i>
+from “<i>J’ai perdu mon Euridice</i>” to “<i>J’ai trouvé
+mon Euridice</i>”? Rossini found an overture
+which he had formerly used for a tragedy quite
+suitable for <i>Il Barbiere di Siviglia</i>, and the interchangeable
+values which Handel gave to secular
+and sacred tunes are familiar to all music students.
+Are minor keys really sad? Are major keys always
+suggestive of joy? We know that this is not
+true although one will be more sure of a ready response
+of tears from a Western audience by resorting
+to a minor key. In our music wedding
+marches are usually in the major and funeral
+marches usually in the minor modes. But almost
+all Eastern music is in a minor key, love songs and
+even cradle songs. Recall, or play over on your
+piano, the Smyrnan lullaby (made familiar by
+Mme. Sembrich) which occurs in the collection of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>Grecian and oriental melodies edited by L. A.
+Bourgault-Ducoudray.... Even the composers
+who do not call their pieces by name and who
+scorn the use of a programme, depend for some of
+their most powerful effects on emotion created by
+association ... and a new composer, be he indefatigable
+enough, can rouse new associations in
+us.... Why if three or four composers would
+meet together and decide that the use of a certain
+group of notes stood for the town pump, in time it
+would be quite easy for other composers to use this
+phrase in that connection <i>with no explanation
+whatever</i>.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">III</p>
+
+<p>“It is a mistake of much popular criticism,”
+says Walter Pater, in the first two sentences of
+his essay on “The School of Giorgione,” “to regard
+poetry, music, and painting—all the various
+products of art—as but translations into different
+languages of one and the same fixed quantity
+of imaginative thought, supplemented by certain
+technical qualities of colour, in painting; of sound,
+in music; of rhythmical words, in poetry. In this
+way, the sensuous element in art, and with it almost
+everything in art that is essentially artistic,
+is made a matter of indifference; and a clear apprehension
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>of the opposite principle—that the
+sensuous material of each art brings with it a
+special phase or quality of beauty, untranslatable
+into the forms of any other, an order of impressions
+distinct in kind—is the beginning of all true
+æsthetic criticism.”</p>
+
+<p>Strawinsky, in a sense, is quite done with programme
+music; at least he says that this is so.
+“La musique est trop bête pour exprimer autre
+chose que la musique” is his pregnant phrase,
+which I cannot quote often enough. And in an
+interview with Stanley Wise, which appeared in
+the columns of the “New York Tribune” he further
+says, “Programme music ... has been obviously
+discontinued as being distinctly an
+uncouth form which already has had its day;
+but music, nevertheless, still drags out its life in
+accordance with these false notions and conceptions.
+Without absolutely defying the programme,
+musicians still draw upon sources foreign
+to their art.... The true inwardness of music
+being purely acoustic, the art so expresses itself
+without being concerned with feelings alien to its
+nature.... Music in the theatre is still held in
+bondage to other elements. Wagner, in particular,
+is responsible for this servitude in which music
+labours to-day.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p>
+<p>The greater part of Igor Strawinsky’s music,
+up to date, is written to a programme, but these
+remarks of the composer should not be incomprehensible
+on that account. Somewhat later than
+the performance of the three pieces for string
+quartet, <i>The Firebird</i> and <i>Petrouchka</i> were performed
+in New York and were hailed by the critics,
+<i>en masse</i>, as most delightful works. But the music
+depends for its success, they said, on the stage
+action to explain it. I fancy this is true of many
+operas which were written for the stage. <i>Siegfried</i>,
+as a whole, would be pretty tiresome in concert
+form and so would <i>La Fille du Regiment</i>.
+And read what Henry Fothergill Chorley has to
+say about the works of Gluck (“Modern German
+Music”): “The most experienced and imaginative
+of readers will derive from the closest perusal
+of the scores of Gluck’s operas, feeble and distant
+impressions of their power and beauty. The delicious
+charm of Mozart’s melody—the expressive
+nobility of Handel’s ideas—may in some measure
+be comprehended by the student at the pianoforte
+and the eye may assure the reader how masterly
+is the symmetry of the vocal score with one,—how
+rich and complete is the management of the instrumental
+score, with the other master. But this
+is in no respect the case with <i>Alceste</i>, the two
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span><i>Iphigénies</i> and <i>Armide</i>—it may be added, with
+almost any opera written according to the canons
+of French taste. That which appears thin, bald,
+severe, when it is merely perused, is filled up,
+brightens, enchants, excites, and satisfies, when it
+is heard with action,—to a degree only to be believed
+upon experience. Out of the theatre, three-fourths
+of Gluck’s individual merit is lost. He
+wrote for the stage.” That all this is true any
+one who, like me, has taken the trouble to study
+the scores of the Gluck operas, which are infrequently
+performed, may have discovered for himself.
+I have never heard <i>Alceste</i> and that lyric
+drama, as a result, has never sprung to me from
+the printed page as do the notes of <i>Orphée</i>, <i>Armide</i>,
+and <i>Iphigénie en Tauride</i>. I am convinced
+of the depth of expression contained in its pages;
+I am certain of its noble power, but only because
+I have had a similar experience with other Gluck
+music dramas, with which I have later become acquainted
+in the theatre.</p>
+
+<p>This theory in regard to <i>Petrouchka</i> and <i>The
+Firebird</i> may be easily contradicted, however.
+One listener told me that she got the complete picture
+of the Russian fair by closing her eyes; it was
+all in the music. The action, as a matter of fact,
+she added, annoyed her. It is quite certain that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>the music of either of these works is delightful
+when played on the piano; an average roomful of
+people who like to listen to music will be charmed
+with it. <i>The Sacrifice to the Spring</i> was hissed intolerantly
+when it was performed as a ballet in
+Paris but, later (April 5, 1914), when Pierre
+Monteux gave an orchestral performance of the
+work at a concert it was applauded as violently.</p>
+
+<p>Strawinsky has, it is true, worked away from
+<i>representation</i> (in the sense of copying nature or,
+like Wagner, relying on literary formulas for his
+effects) in his music, but he has written very little
+that does not depend on a programme, either expressed
+or implied. All songs of course are “explained”
+by their lyrics. The <i>Scherzo Fantastique</i>
+and <i>Fireworks</i> are programme music in the
+lighter sense, and naturally the music of his ballets
+and his opera depends for its meaning on the
+stage action. What Strawinsky means to do, I
+think—certainly what he has done—is to avoid
+going outside his subject or requiring his listener
+to do so. To understand the music of his opera
+you need never have heard a real nightingale sing,
+for the bird does not sing at all like a nightingale,
+a fact which was not understood by the critics
+when the work was first produced, and in <i>The
+Sacrifice to the Spring</i> you will find no attempt
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>made to ape natural sounds, although there was
+ample opportunity for doing so.... Another
+modern worker in tone, Leo Ornstein, in the accompaniment
+to his cradle song (it is the same
+<i>wiegenlied</i> set by Richard Strauss, by the way)
+tries to give his hearers the mother’s overtones,
+her thoughts about the child’s future, etc.; the
+music, instead of attempting to express the exact
+meaning of the poem, expresses <i>more</i> than the
+poem.</p>
+
+<p>And Mr. Ornstein once said to me, “What I
+try to do in composing is to get underneath, to express
+the feeling underneath—not to be photographic.
+I do not think it is art to reproduce a
+steam whistle but it is art to give the feeling that
+the steam whistle gives us. That can never be
+done by exact reproduction.... I should not
+like a steam whistle introduced into the concert
+room” (I had shamelessly suggested it) “...
+but great, smashing chords....”</p>
+
+<p>Yet Mr. Ornstein in his <i>Impressions of the
+Thames</i> is as near actual representation as Whistler
+or Monet ... certainly a musical impressionist.</p>
+
+<p>Is anything true? I hope not. At dinner the
+other evening a lady attempted to prove to me that
+there were standards by which beauty could be
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>judged and rules by which it could be constructed.
+She was unsuccessful.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">IV</p>
+
+<p>It has occurred to me that Mr. Aldrich meant
+that he wanted the juxtaposition of notes explained
+from beginning to end. Inspiration is not
+always conscious ... one feels in the end whether
+such a collocation is inevitable or not ... I wonder
+if Beethoven could have explained one of his
+last quartets or piano sonatas. I doubt it. Of
+course, on the other hand, Wagner explained and
+explained and explained.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">V</p>
+
+<p>I am afraid that this quality alone, the fact
+that the music needs explanation, is not the
+rock on which Mr. Aldrich splits, so to speak.
+He writes somewhere else in this same article:
+“All he asks of his listeners is to forget all they
+know about string quartet music.” Now this is
+really too much. That is exactly what Strawinsky
+does, and why shouldn’t he? Has not every
+great composer done as much? To quote Ernest
+Newman again (this time from his book “Richard
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>Strauss”), “All the music of the giants of the
+past expresses no more than a fragment of what
+music can and some day will express. With each
+new generation it must discover and reveal some
+new secret of the universe and of man’s heart; and
+as the thing uttered varies, the way of uttering it
+must vary also. There is only one rational definition
+of good ‘form’ in music—that which expresses
+most succinctly and most perfectly the
+state of soul in which the idea originated; and as
+moods and ideas change, so must forms.” “The
+true creator strives, in reality, after <i>perfection</i>
+only,” writes Busoni, in “A New Æsthetic of
+Music,” “and through bringing this into harmony
+with <i>his own</i> individuality, a new law arises without
+premeditation.” The very greatness of Beethoven
+is due to the fact that he made a perfect
+wedding of form and idea. His forms (in which
+he broke with tradition in several important
+points) were evolved out of his ideas. Now the
+very writers who give Beethoven the credit for having
+accomplished this successful revolution and
+who write enthusiastically of Gluck’s “reform of
+the opera,” object to any contemporary instances
+of this spirit (Maurice Ravel “corrects” with
+great care, I am told, the exercises of his pupils.
+“He who breaks rules must first know them,” he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>says. And I have no disposition to quarrel with
+this sort of reverence although I think it is sometimes
+carried too far. However the critic attempts
+to “correct” the finished pupil’s work,
+from the work of the past—a sad and impossible
+task). Why in the name of goodness should not
+Strawinsky, or any other modern composer, for
+that matter, be allowed to make us forget everything
+we know about string quartets, if he is able?
+Some of us would be grateful for the sensation.
+Leo Ornstein in a recent article said, “The very
+first step which the composer must be given the
+privilege of insisting upon is that his listeners
+should approach his work with no preconceived
+notions of any kind; they must learn to allow absolute
+and full freedom to their imaginations as it is
+only under such circumstances that any new work
+can be understood and appreciated at first. All
+preconceived theories must be abolished, and the
+new work approached through no formulas.”
+And in the same article Mr. Ornstein relates how,
+after he had played his <i>Wild Men’s Dance</i> to
+Leschetizky that worthy pedagogue murmured,
+amazed, “How in the world did you get all those
+notes on paper!” That, unfortunately, concludes
+Mr. Ornstein, is the attitude of the average
+listener to modern music. A similar instance is
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>related in the case of Strawinsky. He played
+some measures of his ballet, <i>The Firebird</i>, on the
+piano to his master, Rimsky-Korsakow, until the
+composer of <i>Scheherazade</i> interposed, “Stop
+playing that horrid thing; otherwise I might begin
+to enjoy it.” And even the usually open-minded
+James Huneker says in his essay on Arnold
+Schoenberg (“Ivory, Apes, and Peacocks”), “If
+such music-making is ever to become accepted,
+then I long for Death the Releaser. More shocking
+still would be the suspicion that in time I might
+be persuaded to like this music, to embrace, after
+abhorring it.” These phrases of Huneker’s remind
+me of a personal incident. My father has
+subscribed for the “Atlantic Monthly” since the
+first issue and one of the earliest memories of my
+childhood is connected with the inevitable copy
+which always lay on the library table. On one
+occasion, contemplating it, I burst into tears; nor
+could I be comforted. My explanation, between
+sobs, was, “Some day I’ll grow up and like a magazine
+without pictures! I can’t bear to think of
+it!” Well, there is many a man who weeps because
+some day he may grow up to like music without
+melody! Music <i>has</i> changed; of that there
+can be no doubt. Don’t go to a concert and expect
+to hear what you might have heard fifty years
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>ago; don’t expect <i>anything</i> and don’t hate yourself
+if you happen to like what you hear. Mr.
+George Moore’s evidence on this point of receptiveness
+is enlightening (Mr. George Moore who spoke
+to me once of the “vulgar noises made by the Russian
+Ballet”): “In <i>Petrouchka</i> the orchestra all
+began playing in different keys and when it came
+out into one key I was quite dazed. I don’t know
+whether it is music but I rather liked it!”</p>
+
+<p>Still another point is raised by Mr. Aldrich.
+I quote from the “New York Times” of December
+8, 1915; the reference is to the second string
+quartet of David Stanley Smith, played by the
+Kneisel Quartet (the italics are mine): “Mr.
+Smith does not hesitate at drastic dissonance <i>when
+it results from the leading of his part writing</i>.”
+There at last we have the real nigger in the woodpile.
+The relation between keys is so remote, the
+tonalities are so inexplicable in a modern Strawinsky
+or Schoenberg work that the brain, prepared
+with a list of scales, refuses to take in the
+natural impression that the ear receives. This sort
+of criticism reminds me of a line which is quoted
+from some London journal by William Wallace
+in “The Threshold of Music,” “The whole
+work is singularly lacking in contrapuntal interest
+and depends solely for such effect as it achieves
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>upon certain emotional impressions of harmony
+and colour.” And, nearer home, I culled the following
+from the “New York Sun” of December
+12, 1915 (Mr. W. J. Henderson’s column), “This
+is what is the matter with the futurists or post-impressionists
+in music. They are tone colourists
+and that is all.” (Amusingly enough Mr. Henderson
+begins his remarks by praising Joseph
+Pennell for writing an article in which the post-impressionist
+painters were given a drubbing; this
+article is treated with contumely and scorn by the
+art critic of the “Sun” on the page opposite that
+on which Mr. Henderson’s article appears.) In
+all these cases you find men complaining because
+a composer has done exactly what he started out
+to do. F. Balilla Pratella in one of his futurist
+manifestos discusses this point (the translation is
+my own), “The fugue, a composition based on
+counterpoint par excellence, is full of (such) artifices
+even when it achieves its artistic balance in
+the works of the great German Sebastian Bach.
+Soul, intellectuality, and instinct are here fused in
+a given form, in a given manifestation of art, an
+art of its own times, historical and strictly connected
+with the life, faith, and culture of that particular
+period. Why then should we be compelled
+or asked to live it over again at the distance of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>several centuries?” And later, “We proclaim as
+an essential principle of our futurist revolution
+that counterpoint and fugue, stupidly considered
+as one of the most important branches of musical
+learning, are in our eyes only the ruins of the
+old science of polyphony which extends from the
+Flemish school to Bach. We replace them by
+harmonic polyphony, logical fusion of counterpoint
+and harmony, which allows musicians to escape
+the needless difficulty of dividing their efforts
+in two opposing cultures, one dead and the other
+contemporary, and entirely irreconcilable, because
+they are the fruits of two different sensibilities.”
+To quote Busoni; again: “How important, indeed,
+are ‘Third,’ ‘Fifth,’ and ‘Octave’! How
+strictly we divide ‘consonances’ from ‘dissonances’—<i>in
+a sphere where no dissonances can
+possibly exist</i>!” When Bernard Shaw published
+“The Perfect Wagnerite” he wrote for a public
+which still considered Wagner a little in advance
+of the contemporary in music. What did he say?
+“My second encouragement is addressed to modest
+citizens who may suppose themselves to be disqualified
+from enjoying <i>The Ring</i> by their technical
+ignorance of music. They may dismiss all
+such misgivings speedily and confidently. If the
+sound of music has any power to move them they
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>will find that Wagner exacts nothing further.
+There is not a single bar of ‘classical music’ in
+<i>The Ring</i>—not a note in it that has any other
+point than the single direct point of giving musical
+expression to the drama. In classical music
+there are, as the analytical programmes tell us,
+first subjects and second subjects, free fantasias,
+recapitulations, and codas; there are fugues, with
+counter-subjects, strettos, and pedal points; there
+are passacaglias on ground basses, canons and
+hypodiapente, and other ingenuities, which have,
+after all, stood or fallen by their prettiness as
+much as the simplest folk-tune. Wagner is never
+driving at anything of this sort any more than
+Shakespeare in his plays is driving at such ingenuities
+of verse-making as sonnets, triolets, and the
+like. And this is why he is so easy for the natural
+musician who has had no academic teaching. The
+professors, when Wagner’s music is played to
+them, exclaim at once, ‘What is this? Is it aria,
+or recitative? Is there no cabeletta to it—not
+even a full close? Why was that discord not
+prepared; and why does he not resolve it correctly?
+How dare he indulge in those scandalous
+and illicit transitions into a key that has not one
+note in common with the key he has just left?
+Listen to those false relations. What does he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>want with six drums and eight horns when Mozart
+worked miracles with two of each? The man is
+no musician.’ The layman neither knows nor
+cares about any of these things. It is the adept
+musician of the old school who has everything to
+unlearn; and I leave him, unpitied, to his fate.”
+All Wagner asked his contemporaries to do, in
+fact, was to forget all they knew about opera!</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">VI</p>
+
+<p>This piling up of Shaw on Huneker, these dips
+into Newman and Niecks, are beginning to be formidable,
+but one never knows what turn of the
+road may lead the traveller to his promised land
+and it is better to draw the map clearly even if
+there be a confusion of choices. And so, just
+here, I beg leave to make a tiny digression, to
+point out that the new music is not so terrible as
+all this explanation may have made it seem to be.
+Granville Bantock talks learnedly of “horizontal
+counterpoint” but his music is perfectly comprehensible.
+Schoenberg writes of “passing notes,”
+says there is no such thing as consonance and dissonance,
+and “I have not been able to discover
+any principles of harmony. Sincerity, self-expression,
+is all that the artist needs, and he should
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>say only what he must say” but Mr. Huneker
+points out that he has founded an order out of
+his chaos, “that his madness is very methodical.
+For one thing he abuses the interval of the fourth
+and he enjoys juggling with the chord of the
+ninth. Vagabond harmonies, in which the remotest
+keys lovingly hold hands do not prevent the
+sensation of a central tonality somewhere—in
+the cellar, on the roof, in the gutter, up in the
+sky.” Percy Grainger says he dreams of “beatless”
+music without rhythm—at least academically
+speaking—but he certainly does not write
+it. F. Balilla Pratella writes pages condemning
+dance rhythms and still more pages elaborating
+a new theory for marking time (which, I admit,
+is absolutely incomprehensible to me) and publishes
+them as a preface to his <i>Musica Futurista</i>
+(Bologna, 1912), a composition for orchestra,
+which is written, in spite of the theories, and the
+fantastic time signatures, in the most engaging
+dance rhythms. Nor does his disregard for fugue
+go so far as to make him unfriendly to scale; the
+whole-tone scale prevails in this work. His dislike
+for polyphony seems more sincere; there is a
+great deal of homophonous effect. Leo Ornstein
+has admitted to me that his “system” would be
+fully understood in a decade or two. As for
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>Strawinsky ... how the public joyfully and rapturously
+takes to its heart his dissonances, and
+even asks for more!</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">VII</p>
+
+<p>Vincent d’Indy, reported by Marcel Duchamp,
+said recently that the philosophy of music is
+twenty years behind that of the other arts.</p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">VIII</p>
+
+<p>The fact that Schoenberg has written a handbook
+of theory, explaining, after a fashion,
+his method of composition has misled some
+people. “Schoenberg is a learned musician,”
+writes Mr. Aldrich (“New York Times,” December
+5, 1915), “and his music is built up by
+processes derived from methods handed down to
+the present by the learned of the past, however
+widely the results may depart from those hitherto
+accepted.... There results what he chooses to
+consider ‘harmony,’ the outcome of a deliberate
+system, about which he theorizes and <i>has written
+a book</i>” (the italics again are mine). Against
+this train of reasoning (further on in the same
+article it becomes evident that Mr. Aldrich is
+annoyed with Strawinsky because he has not done
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>likewise) it is pleasant to place the following
+paragraph from Chorley’s “Modern German Music”:
+“Mozart, it will be recollected, totally and
+(for him) seriously, declined to criticize himself
+and confess his habits of composition. Many
+men have produced great works of art who have
+never cultivated æsthetic conversation: nay, more,
+who have shrunk with a secretly entertained dislike
+from those indefatigable persons whose fancy
+it is ‘to peep and botanize’ in every corner of
+faëry land. It cannot be said that the analytical
+spirit of the circle of Weimar, when Goethe was
+its master-spirit did any great things for Music.”
+Do not misunderstand Strawinsky’s silence
+(which has only been relative, after all). It is
+sometimes as well to compose as to theorize.
+Some of the great composers have let us see into
+their workshops (not that they have all consistently
+followed out their own theories) and others
+have not. In one pregnant paragraph Strawinsky
+has expressed himself (he is speaking of <i>The
+Nightingale</i>): “I want to suggest neither situations
+nor emotions, but simply to manifest, to
+express them. I think there is in what are called
+‘impressionist’ methods” (“Mr. Strawinsky, on
+the other hand, is a musical impressionist from
+the start”: R. A. again) “a certain amount of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>hypocrisy, or at least a tendency towards vagueness
+and ambiguity. That I shun above all
+things, and that, perhaps, is the reason why my
+methods differ as much from those of the impressionists
+as they differ from academic conventional
+methods. Though I often find it extremely hard
+to do so, I always aim at straightforward expression
+in its simplest form. I have no use for
+‘working-out’ in dramatic or lyric music. The
+one essential thing is to feel and to convey one’s
+feelings.”</p>
+
+<p>This idea of natural expression becomes associated
+in any great composer’s mind with another
+idea, the horror of the <i>cliché</i>. Each new giant
+desires to express himself without resorting to the
+thousand and one formulas which have been more
+or less in use since the “golden age” of music
+(whenever that was). Natural expression implies
+to a certain extent the abandonment of the
+<i>cliché</i>, for, under this principle, if a rule or a
+habit is weighed and found wanting it is immediately
+discarded.</p>
+
+<p>“Routine (<i>cliché</i>) is highly esteemed and frequently
+required; in musical ‘officialdom’ it is a
+<i>sine qua non</i>,” writes Busoni. “That routine in
+music should exist at all, and furthermore that
+it can be nominated as a condition in the musician’s
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>bond, is another proof of the narrow confines
+of our musical art. Routine signifies the
+acquisition of a modicum of experience and art
+craft, and their application to all cases which may
+occur; hence, there must be an astounding number
+of analogous cases. Now I like to imagine a
+species of art-praxis wherein each case should be
+a new one, an exception.” Even so early a composer
+(using early in a loose sense) as Schumann
+found it unnecessary, at times, to close a piece
+with the tonic; and many other composers have
+disregarded the rule since, leaving the ear hanging
+in the air, so to speak. Is there any more
+reason why all pieces should end on the tonic
+than that all books should end happily or all
+pictures be painted in black and white? In music
+which Mozart wrote at the age of four there are
+chords of the second (and they occur in music before
+Mozart). In books of the period you can
+read of the horror with which ears at the beginning
+of the nineteenth century received consecutive
+fifths. Some of the modern French composers
+have disposed of the <i>cliché</i> of a symphony in
+four movements. Chausson, Franck, and Dukas
+have written symphonies in three parts. What
+composer (even the most academic) ever followed
+the letter of a precept if he found a better way
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>of expressing himself? Moussorgsky avoided
+<i>cliché</i> as he would have avoided the plague.
+He took all the short cuts possible. There
+are no preambles and addendas, or other doddering
+concessions to scientific art in his music
+dramas and his songs. He gives the words their
+natural accent and the voice its natural inflections.
+Death is not always rewarded with blows
+on the big drum. The composer sometimes expresses
+the end, quite simply, in silence. In all
+the arts the horror of <i>cliché</i> asserts itself so violently
+indeed that we find Robert Ross (“Masks
+and Phases”) assailing Walter Pater for such a
+fall from grace as the use of the phrase, “rebellious
+masses of black hair.” Of course some small
+souls are so busy defying <i>cliché</i>, with no adequate
+reason for doing so, that they make themselves
+ridiculous. And as an example of this
+preoccupation I may tell an anecdote related to
+me by George Moore. “For a time,” he said,
+“Augusta Holmès was interested in an opera she
+was composing, <i>La Montagne Noire</i>, to the exclusion
+of all other subjects in conversation. She
+talked about it constantly and always brought one
+point forward: all the characters were to sing
+with their backs to the audience. That was her
+novel idea. She did not seem to realize that, in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>itself, the innovation would not serve to make
+her opera interesting.” Strawinsky’s horror of
+<i>cliché</i> is by no means abnormal. He does not
+break rules merely for the pleasure of shocking
+the pedants. In each instance he has developed,
+quite naturally and inevitably, the form out of
+his material. In <i>Petrouchka</i>, a ballet with a Russian
+country fair as its background, he has harped
+on the folk-dance tunes, the hurdy-gurdy manner,
+and, as befits this work, there is no great break
+with tradition, except in the orchestration. <i>The
+Firebird</i>, too, in spite of its fantasy and brilliance,
+is perfectly understandable in terms of the chromatic
+scale. In <i>The Sacrifice to the Spring</i>, on
+the other hand, unhampered by the chains which
+a “story-ballet” (the fable of these “pictures
+of pagan Russia” is entirely negligible) inevitably
+imply, he has awakened primitive emotions by
+the use of barbaric rhythm, without any special
+regard for melody or harmony, using the words in
+their academic senses. There is no attempt made
+to begin or end with major thirds. Strawinsky
+was perhaps the first composer to see that melody
+is of no importance in a ballet. <i>Fireworks</i> is
+impressionistic but it is no more so (although the
+result is arrived at by a wholly dissimilar method)
+than <i>La Mer</i> of Debussy. But it is in his opera,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span><i>The Nightingale</i>, or his very short pieces for
+string quartet, or his Japanese songs for voice
+and small orchestra that the beast shows his
+fangs, so to speak. It is in these pieces and in
+<i>The Sacrifice to the Spring</i> that Strawinsky has
+accomplished a process of elision, leaving out some
+of those stupidities which have bored us at every
+concert of academic music which we have attended.
+(You must realize how much your mind wanders
+at a symphony concert. It is impossible to concentrate
+one’s complete attention on the performance
+of a long work except at those times when
+some new phrase or some new turn in the working-out
+of a theme strikes the ear. There is so
+much of the music that is familiar, because it has
+occurred in so much music before. If you hear
+tum-ti-tum you may be certain it will be followed
+by ti-ti-ti and a good part of this sort of thing
+falls on deaf ears.... There are those, I am
+forced to admit, who can only concentrate on
+that which is perfectly familiar to them.) As a
+matter of fact he gives our ears credit (by this
+time!) for the ability to skip a few of the connecting
+links. Now this sort of elision in painting
+has come to be the slogan of a school. Cézanne
+painted a woman as he saw her; he made
+no attempt to explain her; that pleasure he left
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>for the spectator of his picture. He did not draw
+a fashion plate. The successors of Cézanne (some
+of them) have gone much farther. They draw us
+a few bones and expect us to reconstruct the
+woman, body and soul, after the fashion of a professor
+of anatomy reconstructing an ichthyosaurus.
+Strawinsky and some other modern musicians
+have gone as far; they have left out the
+tum-ti-tums and twilly-wigs which connect the
+pregnant phrases in their music.... This does
+not signify that they do not <i>think</i> them, sometimes,
+but it is not necessary for any one with a
+receptive ear (not an <i>expectant</i> ear, unless it be
+an ear which expects to hear something pleasant!)
+to do so. In fact this kind of an auditor appreciates
+these short cuts of composers, gives
+thanks to God for them. Surprise is one of the
+keenest emotions that music has in its power to
+give us (even Hadyn and Weber discovered that!).
+It is only the pedants and the critics, who, after
+all, do not sit through all the long symphonies,
+who are annoyed by these attempts at concentration
+and condensation. (I say the pedants
+but I must include the Philistines. It is really
+<i>cliché</i> which makes certain music “popular.”
+The public as a whole really prefers music based
+on <i>cliché</i>, with a melody in which the end is foreordained
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>almost from the first bar. Of course in
+time public taste is changed.... The transition
+is slow ... but the composer who follows public
+taste instead of leading it soon drops out of hearing.
+The <i>cliché</i> of to-day is not the <i>cliché</i> of day
+before yesterday. According to Philip Hale,
+Napoleon, then first consul [1800] said to Luigi
+Cherubini, “I am very fond of Paisiello’s music;
+it is gentle, peaceful. You have great talent,
+but your accompaniments are too loud.” Cherubini
+replied, “Citizen Consul, I have conformed
+to the taste of the French.” Napoleon persisted,
+“Your music is too loud; let us talk of
+Paisiello’s which lulls me gently.” “I understand,”
+answered Cherubini, “you prefer music
+that does not prevent you from dreaming of
+affairs of state.”) Strawinsky, working gradually,
+not with the intention to astonish but with
+no fear of doing so, dropping superfluities, and
+all <i>cliché</i> of the studio whatsoever, arrives at a
+perfectly natural form of expression in his lyric
+drama, <i>The Nightingale</i>, in which there is no
+working-out or development of themes; the music
+is intended to comment upon, to fill with a bigger
+meaning, the action as it proceeds, without resorting
+to tricks which require mental effort on
+the part of the auditor. The composer does not
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>wish to burden him with any more mental effort
+than the mere listening to the piece requires and
+he strikes to the soul with the poignancy of his
+expression. (The foregoing may easily be misunderstood.
+It does not mean necessarily that there
+is no polyphony, that there are no parts leading
+hither and thither in the music of Strawinsky.
+It does not mean that dissonance has become an
+end in itself with this composer. It simply means
+that he has let his inspiration take the form natural
+to it and has not tried to cramp his inspiration
+into proscribed forms. There should be no
+more difficulty in understanding him than in understanding
+Beethoven once one arrives at listening
+with unbiased ears. The trouble is that too
+many of us have made up our minds not to listen
+to anything which does not conform with our
+own precious opinions.)</p>
+
+<p>At the risk of being misunderstood by some and
+for the sake of making myself clearer to others
+I hazard a frivolous figure. Say that Wagner’s
+formula for composition be represented by some
+expression; I will choose the simple proverb,
+“Make hay while the sun shines.” Humperdinck
+is content to change a single detail of this formula.
+He says, musically speaking, “Make
+<i>wheat</i> while the sun shines.” Richard Strauss
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>makes a more complete inversion. His paraphrase
+would suggest something like this, “Make
+brass while the band brays.” Strawinsky, wearied
+of the whole business (as was Debussy before
+him; genius does not paraphrase) uses only
+two words of the formula ... say “make” and
+“sun.” Later even these are negligible, as each
+new composer makes his own laws and his own
+formulas. The infinity of it! In time the work
+of Strawinsky will establish a <i>cliché</i> to be scorned
+by a new generation (scorned in the sense that it
+will not be imitated, except by inferior men).</p>
+
+<p>That his music is vibrant and beautiful we may
+be sure and it has happened that all of it has been
+appreciated by a very worth-while public. He
+has done what Benedetto Croce in his valuable
+work, “Æsthetic,” demands of the artist. He has
+expressed himself ... for beauty is expression.
+“Artists,” says this writer, “while making a verbal
+pretence of agreeing, or yielding a feigned obedience
+to them, have always disregarded (these)
+<i>laws of styles</i>. Every true work of art has violated
+some established class and upset the ideas
+of the critics who have been obliged to enlarge
+the number of classes, until finally even this enlargement
+has proved too narrow, owing to the
+appearance of new works of art, which are naturally
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>followed by new scandals, new upsettings,
+and—new enlargements.”</p>
+
+<p>“It must not be forgotten,” says Egon Wellesz
+(“Schoenberg and Beyond” in “The Musical
+Quarterly,” Otto Kinkeldey’s translation), “that
+in art there are no ‘eternal laws’ and rules. Each
+period of history has its own art, and the art of
+each period has its own rules. There are times
+of which one might say that every work which
+was not in accord with the rules was bad or amateurish.
+These are the times in which fixed forms
+exist, to which all artists hold fast, merely varying
+the content. Then there are periods when artists
+break through and shatter the old forms. The
+greatness of their thoughts can no longer be confined
+within the old limits. (Think of Beethoven’s
+Ninth Symphony and the Symphonie Fantastique
+of Berlioz.) There arises a category of art works
+whose power and beauty can be <i>felt</i> only and not
+<i>understood</i>. For this reason an audience that
+knows nothing of rules will enthuse over works of
+this kind much sooner than the average musician
+who looks for the rules and their observance.”</p>
+
+<p>Remember that Hanslick called <i>Tristan und
+Isolde</i> “an abomination of sense and language”
+and Chorley wrote “I have never been so blanked,
+pained, wearied, <i>insulted</i> even (the word is not too
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>strong), by a work of pretension as by ...
+<i>Tannhäuser</i>....” “Fortunately,” I quote Benedetto
+Croce again, “no arduous remarks are necessary
+to convince ourself that pictures, poetry, and
+every work of art, produce no effects save on souls
+prepared to receive them.”</p>
+
+<p>The clock continues to make its hands go round,
+so fast indeed that it becomes increasingly difficult
+to keep track of its course. For example, just
+before his death, John F. Runciman in “Another
+Ode to Discord” (“The New Music Review,”
+April, 1916) seemed to present an entirely new
+front. Here is a sample passage, “We have
+grown used to dissonances and our ears no longer
+require the momentary rest afforded by frequent
+concords; if a discord neither demands preparation
+nor resolution, and if it sounds beautiful and
+is expressive, there is no reason on earth why a
+piece of music should not consist wholly of a series
+of discords.... From Monteverde to Scriabine
+the line is unbroken, each successive generation
+growing bolder in attacking dissonances and still
+bolder in the manner of quitting them. I heard
+a gentleman give a recital of his own pianoforte
+works not long ago. They seemed to consist entirely
+of minor seconds—B and C struck together—and
+the effect to my mind was excruciatingly
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>abominable. But that is how Bach’s music, Beethoven’s,
+Wagner’s, struck their contemporaries;
+and heaven knows what we shall get accustomed to
+in time. One thing is certain—that the most
+daring modern spirit is only following in the steps
+of the mightiest masters....”</p>
+
+<p>We may be on the verge of a still greater revolution
+in art than any through which we have yet
+passed; new banners may be unfurled, and new
+strongholds captured. I admit that the idea gives
+me pleasure. Try to admit as much to yourself.
+Go hear the new music; listen to it and see if you
+can’t enjoy it. Perhaps you can’t. At any rate
+you will find in time that you won’t listen to second-rate
+imitations of the giant works of the past
+any longer. Your ears will make progress in spite
+of you and I shouldn’t wonder at all if five years
+more would make Schoenberg and Strawinsky and
+Ornstein a trifle old-fashioned.... The Austrian
+already has a little of the academy dust upon him.</p>
+
+
+<p><i>New York, April 16, 1916.</i></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span></p>
+<div class="chapter">
+
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_New_Principle_in_Music">A New Principle in Music</h2></div>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[Pg 217]</span></p>
+
+
+<p class="ph2">A New Principle in Music</p></div>
+
+
+<p>Although Igor Strawinsky plainly proclaimed
+himself a genius in <i>The Firebird</i>
+(1909-10), it was in <i>Petrouchka</i> (1910-11)
+that he began the experiment which established
+a new principle in music. In these “scènes
+burlesques” he discovered the advantages of a
+new use of the modern orchestra, completely upsetting
+the old academic ideas about “balance of
+tone,” and proving to his own satisfaction the
+value of “pure tone,” in the same sense that the
+painter speaks of pure colour. And in this work
+he broke away from the standards not only of
+Richard Strauss, the Wagner follower, but also
+of such innovators as Modeste Moussorgsky and
+Claude Debussy.</p>
+
+<p>Strauss, following Wagner’s theory of the <i>leit-motiv</i>,
+rounded out the form of the tone-poem,
+carried the principle of representation in music a
+few steps farther than his master, gave new
+colours to old instruments, and broadened the
+scope of the modern orchestra so that it might
+include new ones (in one of his symphonies Gustav
+Mahler was content with 150 men!). Moussorgsky
+(although his work preceded that of
+Strauss, the general knowledge of it is modern),
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>working along entirely different lines, strove for
+truthful utterance and achieved a mode of expression
+which usually seems inevitable. Debussy endowed
+music with novel tints derived from the extensive,
+and almost exclusive, use of what is called
+the whole-tone scale, and instead of forcing his
+orchestra to make more noise he constantly repressed
+it (in all of <i>Pelléas et Mélisande</i> there is
+but one climax of sound and in <i>l’Après-midi d’un
+Faune</i> and his other orchestral works he is equally
+continent in the use of dynamics).</p>
+
+<p>Igor Strawinsky has not been deaf to the blandishments
+of these composers. He has used the
+<i>leit-motiv</i> (sparingly) in both <i>The Firebird</i> and
+<i>Petrouchka</i>. He abandoned it in <i>The Sacrifice to
+the Spring</i> (1913) and in <i>The Nightingale</i> (1914).
+His powers of representation are as great as those
+of Strauss; it is only necessary to recall the music
+of the bird in <i>The Firebird</i>, his orchestral piece,
+<i>Fireworks</i>, which received warm praise from a
+manufacturer of pyrotechnics, and the street
+organ music in <i>Petrouchka</i>. Later he conceived
+the mission of music to be something different.
+“La musique est trop bête,” he said once ironically,
+“pour exprimer autre chose que la musique.”
+In such an extraordinary work as <i>The
+Nightingale</i> we find him making little or no attempt
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>at representation. The bird does not sing
+like the little brown warbler; instead Strawinsky
+has endeavoured to write music which would give
+the <i>feeling</i> of the bird’s song and the effect it made
+on the people in his lyric drama to the auditors
+in the stalls of the opera house. As for Strauss’s
+use of orchestral colour the German is the merest
+tyro when compared to the Russian. There is
+some use of the whole-tone scale in <i>The Firebird</i>,
+and elsewhere in Strawinsky, but it is not a predominant
+use of it. In this “conte dansé” he
+also suggests the <i>Pelléas et Mélisande</i> of Debussy
+in his continent use of sound and the mystery and
+esotericism of his effect. Strawinsky is more of
+an expert than Moussorgsky; he handles his medium
+more freely (has any one ever handled it
+better?) but he still preaches the older Russian
+doctrine of truth of expression, a doctrine which
+implies the curt dismissal of all idea of padding.</p>
+
+<p>But all these composers and their contemporaries,
+and the composers who came before them,
+have one quality in common; they all use the
+orchestra of their time, or a bigger one. Strauss,
+to be sure, introduces a number of new instruments,
+but he still utilizes a vast number of violins
+and violas massed against the other instruments,
+diminishing in number according to the volume of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>sound each makes. He divides his strings continually,
+of course; they do not all play alike as
+the violins, say, in <i>Il Barbiere di Siviglia</i>, but they
+often all play at once.</p>
+
+<p>Strawinsky experimented at first with the full
+orchestra and he even utilized it in such late works
+as <i>Petrouchka</i> and <i>The Nightingale</i>. However,
+in his search for “pure tone” he used it in a new
+way. In <i>Petrouchka</i>, for example, infrequently
+you will hear more than <i>one of each instrument
+at a time</i> and frequently two, or at most three,
+instruments playing simultaneously will be sufficient
+to give his idea form. The entire second
+scene of this mimed drama, is written for solo
+piano, occasionally combined with a single other
+instrument. At other times in the action the
+bassoon or the cornet, even the triangle has the
+stage. And when he wishes to achieve his most
+complete effects he is careful not to use more than
+seven or eight instruments, and <i>only one of each</i>.</p>
+
+<p>He experimented still further with this principle
+in his Japanese songs, for voice and small
+orchestra (1912). The words are by Akahito,
+Mazatsumi, and Tsaraiuki. I have not heard
+these songs with orchestral accompaniment (the
+piano transcription was made by the composer
+himself) but I may take the judgment of those
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>who have. I am told that they are of an indescribable
+beauty, and instinct with a new colour,
+a colour particularly adapted to the oriental
+naïveté of the lyrics. The orchestra, to accompany
+a soprano, consists of two flutes (one a little
+flute), two clarinets (the second a bass clarinet),
+piano (an instrument which Strawinsky almost
+invariably includes in his orchestration), two
+violins, viola and ’cello. This form of chamber
+music, of course, is not rare. Chausson’s violin
+concerto, with chamber orchestra, and Schoenberg’s
+<i>Pierrot Lunaire</i> instantly come to mind, but
+Strawinsky did not stop with chamber music. He
+applied his new principle to the larger forms.</p>
+
+<p>In his newest work, <i>The Village Weddings</i>, which
+I believe Serge de Diaghilew hopes to produce, his
+principle has found its ultimate expression, I am
+told by his friend, Ernest Ansermet, conductor
+of the Russian Ballet in America and to whom
+Strawinsky dedicated his three pieces for string
+quartet. The last note is dry on the score of
+this work, and it is therefore quite possible to talk
+about it although no part of it has yet been performed
+publicly. According to Mr. Ansermet
+there is required an orchestra of forty-five men,
+each a virtuoso, <i>no two of whom play the same
+instrument</i> (to be sure there are two violins but
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>one invariably plays pizzicato, the other invariably
+bows). There are novelties in the band but
+all the conventional instruments are there including,
+you may be sure, a piano and an infinite
+variety of woodwinds, which always play significant
+rôles in Strawinsky’s orchestration. And
+Mr. Ansermet says that in this work Strawinsky
+has achieved effects such as have only been dreamed
+of by composers hitherto.... I can well believe
+him.</p>
+
+<p>He has made another innovation, following, in
+this case, an idea of Diaghilew’s. When that impresario
+determined on a production of Rimsky-Korsakow’s
+opera, <i>The Golden Cock</i>, during the
+summer of 1914 he conceived a performance with
+two casts, one choregraphic and the other vocal.
+Thus Mme. Dobrovolska sang the coloratura
+rôle of the Queen of Shemakhan while Mme.
+Karsavina danced the part most brilliantly on her
+toes; M. Petrov sang the rôle of King Dodon,
+which was enacted by Adolf Bolm, etc. In order
+to accomplish this feat Mr. Diaghilew was obliged
+to make the singers a part of the decoration.
+Nathalie Gontcharova, who has been called in to
+assist in the production of <i>The Village Weddings</i>,
+devised as part of her stage setting two tiers of
+seats, one on either side of the stage, extending
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>into the flies after the fashion of similar benches
+used at the performance of an oratorio. The
+singers (principals and chorus together) clad in
+magenta gowns and caps, all precisely similar, sat
+on these seats during the performance and, after
+a few seconds, they became quite automatically a
+part of the decoration. The action took place in
+the centre of the stage and the dancers not only
+mimed their rôles but also opened and closed their
+mouths as if they were singing. The effect was
+thoroughly diverting and more than one serious
+person was heard to declare that the future of
+opera had been solved, although Mme. Rimsky-Korsakow,
+as she had on a similar occasion when
+the Russian Ballet had produced Fokine’s version
+of <i>Scheherazade</i>, protested.</p>
+
+<p>Rimsky-Korsakow wrote his opera to be sung
+in the ordinary fashion, and, in so far as this matters,
+it was perhaps a desecration to perform it
+in any other manner. However, quite beyond the
+fact that very large audiences were hugely delighted
+with <i>The Golden Cock</i> in its new form,
+these performances served to fire Strawinsky with
+the inspiration for his new work. He intends <i>The
+Village Weddings</i> to be given precisely in this
+manner. It is an opera, the rôles of which are
+to be sung by artists who sit still while the figures
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>of the ballet will enact them. The words, I am
+told, are entirely derived from Russian folk stories
+and ballads, pieced together by the composer himself,
+and the action is to be like that of a marionette
+show in which the characters are worked
+by strings from above. It may also be stated on
+the same authority that the music, while embracing
+new tone colours and dramatic effects, is as
+tuneful as any yet set on paper by this extraordinary
+young man; the songs have a true folk
+flavour. The whole, it is probable, will make as
+enchanting a stage entertainment as any which
+this composer has yet contrived.</p>
+
+<p>It is not only folk-tunes but popular songs as
+well that fascinate Igor Strawinsky. Ernest
+Ansermet collected literally hundreds of examples
+of American ragtime songs and dances to take
+back to the composer, and he pointed out to me
+how Strawinsky had used similar specimens in the
+past. For example, the barrel organ solo in the
+first scene of <i>Petrouchka</i> is a popular French song
+of several seasons ago, <i>La Jambe de Bois</i> (a
+song now forbidden in Paris); the final wedding
+music in <i>The Firebird</i> is an <i>adagio</i> version
+of a popular Russian song, with indecent words.
+He sees beauty in these popular tunes, too
+much beauty to be allowed to go to waste. In
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>the same spirit he has taken the melodies of two
+Lanner waltzes for the dance between the Ballerina
+and the Moor in the third scene of <i>Petrouchka</i>.
+It would not surprise me at all to discover <i>Hello
+Frisco</i> bobbing up in one of his future works.
+After all turn about is fair play; the popular composers
+have dug gold mines out of the classics.</p>
+
+<p>Consistent, certainly, is Strawinsky’s delight in
+clowns and music halls—the burlesque and the
+eccentric. He has written a ballet for four
+clowns, and Ansermet showed me one day an arrangement
+for four hands of three pieces, for small
+orchestra, in <i>style music hall</i>, dated 1914. We
+gave what we smilingly referred to as the “first
+American audition” on the grand pianoforte in
+his hotel room. I played the base, not a matter
+of any particular difficulty in the first number,
+a polka, because the first bar was repeated to the
+end. This polka, I found very amusing and we
+played it over several times. The valse, which
+followed, reminded me of the Lanner number in
+<i>Petrouchka</i>. The suite closed with a march, dedicated
+to Alfred Casella.... The pieces would delight
+any audience, from that of the Palace Theatre,
+to that of the concerts of the Symphony Society
+of New York.</p>
+
+
+<p><i>New York, February 6, 1916.</i></p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[Pg 226]</span></p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[Pg 227]</span></p>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Leo_Ornstein">Leo Ornstein</h2>
+
+<p class="ph3">
+“<i>the only true blue, genuine Futurist composer alive.</i>”</p>
+<p class="author">
+James Huneker.</p></div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[Pg 228]</span></p>
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[Pg 229]</span>
+
+
+<p class="ph2">Leo Ornstein</p></div>
+
+
+<p>The amazing Leo Ornstein!... I should
+have written the amazing Leo Ornsteins for
+“there are many of them and each one of
+them is one.” Ornstein himself has a symbol for
+this diversity; some of his music he signs “Vannin.”
+He has told me that the signature is automatic:
+when Vannin writes he signs; when Ornstein
+writes <i>he</i> signs. But it is not alone in composing
+that there are many Ornsteins; there are many
+pianists as well. One Ornstein paints his tones
+with a fine soft brush; the other smears on his
+colours with a trowel. In his sentimental treatment
+of triviality he has scarcely a competitor on
+the serious concert stage (unless it be Fanny
+Bloomfield-Zeisler). Is this the Caliban, one asks,
+who conceived and who executes <i>The Wild Men’s
+Dance</i>? The softer Ornstein is less original than
+his comrade, more imitative.... I have been told
+that Jews are always imitative in art, that there
+are no great Jewish composers. Wagner? Well,
+Wagner was half a Jew, perhaps. Certainly there
+is imitation in Ornstein, but so was there in the
+young Beethoven, the young Debussy....</p>
+
+<p>Recently I went to hear Ornstein play under a
+misconception. I thought that he, with an announced
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>violinist, was going to perform his anarchistic
+sonata for violin and piano, opus 31.
+They did perform one of his sonatas but it was
+an earlier opus, 26, I think. At times, while I
+listened it seemed to me that nothing so beautiful
+had been done in this form since César Franck’s
+sonata. The first movement had a rhapsodic
+character that was absolutely successful in establishing
+a mood. The music soared; it did not
+seem confined at all. It achieved perfectly the
+effect of improvisation. The second part was
+even finer, and the scherzo and finale only less good.
+But this was no new idiom. I looked again and
+again at my programme; again and again at the
+man on the piano stool. Was this not Harold
+Bauer playing Ravel?... One theme struck me
+as astonishingly like Johnson’s air in the last act
+of <i>The Girl of the Golden West</i>. There was a
+good use made of the whole-tone scale and its attendant
+harmonies, which sounded strangely in our
+ears a few seasons past, and a ravishing series of
+figurations and runs made one remember that Debussy
+had described falling water in a similar
+fashion.</p>
+
+<p>This over the pianist became less himself—so
+far as I had become acquainted with him to this
+time—than ever. He played a banal barcarole
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>of Rubinstein’s; to be sure he almost made it sound
+like an interesting composition; he played a
+scherzino of his own that any one from Schütt
+to Moszkowski might have signed; he played something
+of Grieg’s which may have pleased Mr. Finck
+and two or three ladies in the audience but which
+certainly left me cold; and he concluded this group
+with a performance of Liszt’s arrangement of the
+waltz from Gounod’s <i>Faust</i>. Thereupon there was
+so much applause that he came back and played
+his scherzino again. His répertoire in this <i>genre</i>
+was probably too limited to admit of his adding
+a fresh number.... At this point I arose and
+left the hall, more in wonder than in indignation.</p>
+
+<p>Was this the musician who had been reviled and
+hissed? Was this the pianist and composer whom
+Huneker had dubbed the only real futurist in modern
+music? It was not the Ornstein I myself had
+heard a few weeks previously striking the keyboards
+with his fists in the vociferous measures of
+<i>The Wild Men’s Dance</i>; it was not the colour
+painter of the two <i>Impressions of Notre Dame</i>;
+it was not the Ornstein who in a dark corner of
+Pogliani’s glowed with glee over the possibility of
+dividing and redividing the existing scale into
+eighth, sixteenth, and twenty-fourth tones....
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>This was another Ornstein and in searching my
+memory I discovered him to be the oldest Ornstein
+of all. I remembered five years back when I was
+assistant to the musical critic of the “New York
+Times” and had been sent to hear a boy prodigy
+play on a Sunday evening at the New Amsterdam
+Theatre. Concerts by serious artists at that
+period seldom took place outside of recognized
+concert halls, nor did they occur on Sunday nights.
+But there was something about this concert that
+impressed itself upon me and I wrote more than
+the usual perfunctory notice on this occasion.
+Here is my account of what I think must have been
+Leo Ornstein’s first public appearance (March 5,
+1911), dug from an old scrap book:</p>
+
+<p>“The New Amsterdam Theatre is a strange
+place for a recital of pianoforte music, but one was
+held there last evening, when Leo Ornstein, the
+latest wunderkind to claim metropolitan attention,
+appeared before a very large audience to contribute
+his interpretation of a programme which
+would have tested any fully grown-up talent.</p>
+
+<p>“It began with Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and
+Fugue, included Beethoven’s <i>Sonata Appassionata</i>,
+six Chopin numbers, and finally Rubinstein’s D
+minor concerto, in which young Ornstein was assisted
+by the Volpe Symphony Orchestra. To say
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>that this boy has great talent would be to mention
+the obvious, but to say that as yet he is ripe for
+such matters as he undertook last night would be
+stretching the truth. It should be stated, however,
+that his command of tone colour is already
+great and that his technique is usually adequate
+for the demands which the music made, although
+in some passages in the final movement of the
+Beethoven sonata his strength seemed to desert
+him.”</p>
+
+<p>I never even heard of Leo Ornstein again after
+this concert at the New Amsterdam (his exploits
+in Europe escaped my eyes and ears) until he gave
+the famous series of concerts at the Bandbox Theatre
+in January and February of 1915, a series
+of concerts which really startled musical New York
+and even aroused orchestral conductors, in some
+measure, out of their lethargic method of programme-making.
+So far as he was able Ornstein
+constructed his programmes entirely from the
+“music of the future,” and patrons of piano recitals
+were astonished to discover that a pianist
+could give four concerts without playing any music
+by Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, Brahms,
+Liszt, or Schubert.... Since these occasions
+Ornstein has been considered the high apostle of
+the new art in America, as the post-futurist composer,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>and as a pianist of great technical powers
+and a luscious tone quality (it does not seem
+strange that these attributes are somewhat exaggerated
+in so young a man).</p>
+
+<p>Nearly a year later (December 15, 1915, to be
+exact) Ornstein gave another concert at the Cort
+Theatre in New York. Here are my impressions
+of that occasion, noted down shortly after:</p>
+
+<p>“Leo Ornstein, a few years ago a poor Russian
+Jew music student, is rapidly by way of becoming
+an institution. His concerts are largely attended
+and he is even taken seriously by the press, especially
+in England.</p>
+
+<p>“He slouched on the stage, stooping, in his
+usual listless manner, his long arms hanging limp
+at his sides like those of a gorilla. His head is
+beautiful, crowned with an overflowing crop of
+black hair, soulful eyes, a fine mask. There are
+pauses without expression but sometimes, notably
+when he plays <i>The Wild Men’s Dance</i>, his face
+lights up with a sort of sardonic appreciation.
+He has discarded his sack cloth coat for a velvet
+jacket of similar cut.</p>
+
+<p>“He began with two lovely impressionistic
+things by Vannin (Sanborn says that this is ‘programme
+for Ornstein’), <i>The Waltzers</i> and <i>Night</i>.
+A long sonata by Cyril Scott (almost entirely in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>the whole-tone scale, sounding consequently like
+Debussy out of Bach, for there was a fugue and
+a smell of the academy) followed. Ravel’s
+<i>Oiseaux Tristes</i> twittered their sorrows prettily in
+the treble, and a sonatina by the same composer
+seemed negligible. Albeniz’s <i>Almeria</i>, a section
+of the twelve-parted <i>Iberia</i>, was a Spanish picture
+of worth. Ornstein followed with his own pieces,
+<i>Improvisata</i>, a vivid bit of colour and rhythm, and
+<i>Impressions of the Thames</i>, in which an attempt
+was made to picture the heavy smoking barges,
+the labours on the river, the shrill sirens of the
+tugs. The limited (is it, I wonder?) medium of
+the piano made all this sound rather Chinese.
+But some got the picture. A few laughed. <i>The
+Wild Men’s Dance</i> convulsed certain parts of the
+audience. It always does (but this may well be
+hysteria); others were struck with wonder by its
+thrill. Certainly a powerful massing of notes,
+creating wild effects in tone, and a compelling
+rhythm. In the <i>Fairy Pictures</i> of Korngold,
+which closed the programme, Ornstein was not at
+his best; nor, for that matter, was Korngold.
+They were written when the composer was a very
+young boy and they are not particularly original,
+spontaneous, or beautiful. The difficulties exist
+for the player rather than for the hearer....
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>Ornstein did not bring out their humour. Humour,
+as yet, is not an attribute of his playing.
+He has always imparted to the piano a beautiful
+tone; his touch is almost as fine as Pachmann’s.
+But his powers are ripening in every direction.
+Formerly he dwelt too long on nuances, fussed too
+much with details. His style is becoming broader.
+His technique has always been ample. There is
+no doubt but that he will become a power in the
+music world.”</p>
+
+<p>Some time later I met Leo Ornstein and we
+talked over a table. He is fluid in conversation
+and while he talks he clasps and unclasps his hands....
+He referred to his début at the New Amsterdam.
+“My ambition then was to play the concertos
+of Rubinstein and Tschaikowsky ... and
+I satisfied it. Soon after that concert I went
+abroad.... Suddenly the new thing came to me,
+and I began to write and play in the style which
+has since become identified with my name. It was
+music that I felt and I realized that I had become
+myself at last, although at first, to be frank, it
+horrified me as much as it has since horrified others.
+Mind you, when I took the leap I had never
+seen any music by Schoenberg or Strawinsky. I
+was unaware that there was such a generality as
+‘futurism.’</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p>
+<p>“I spent some time in Norway and Vienna,
+where I met Leschetitzky” (this incident is referred
+to elsewhere in this volume) “and then I
+went down to Paris. I was very poor.... I
+met Harold Bauer and one day I went to play for
+him. We had a furious argument all day. He
+couldn’t understand my music. But he asked me
+to come again the next day, and I did. This
+time Walter Morse Rummel was there and he suggested
+that Calvocoressi would be interested in me.
+So he gave me a note to Calvocoressi.</p>
+
+<p>“Calvocoressi is a Greek but he speaks all
+languages. He read my note of introduction and
+asked me if I spoke French or English. We spoke
+a little Russian together. Then he asked me to
+play. While I played his eyes snapped and he
+uttered several sudden ejaculations. ‘Play that
+again,’ he said, when I had concluded one piece.
+Later on he asked some of his friends to hear me....
+At the time he was giving a series of lectures
+on modern musicians, Strauss, Debussy, Dukas,
+Ravel, Schoenberg, and Strawinsky, and he included
+<i>me</i> in the list! I illustrated two of his lectures
+and after I had concluded my performance
+of the music of other composers he asked me to
+play something of my own, which I did....”
+Ornstein looked amusingly rueful. “The auditors
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>were not actually rude. How could they be
+when I followed Calvocoressi? But they giggled
+a little. Later on in London they did more than
+giggle.</p>
+
+<p>“I went to London because my means were getting
+low. I had almost no money at all, as a matter
+of fact.... In London I found Calvocoressi’s
+influence of great value (he had already written
+an article about me) and some people at Oxford
+had heard me in Paris. These friends helped; besides
+I played the Steinway piano and the Steinways
+finally gave me a concert in Steinway Hall.
+At my first concert (this was in the spring of
+1914) I played music by other composers. At
+my second concert, devoted to my own compositions,
+I might have played anything. I couldn’t
+hear the piano myself. The crowd whistled and
+howled and even threw handy missiles on the stage
+... but that concert made me famous,” Ornstein
+wound up with a smile.</p>
+
+<p>He is a hard-working youth, serious, it would
+seem, to the heart. His published music is numbered
+into the thirties and his répertoire is extensive.
+He spends a great deal of time working
+hard on the music of a bygone age, although he
+finds it no stimulation for this one, but to be taken
+seriously as a pianist he is obliged to prove to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>melomaniacs that he has the equipment to play
+the classic composers. Of all the compositions
+that he learns, however, he complains of his own
+as the most difficult to memorize; a glance at <i>The
+Wild Men’s Dance</i> or more particularly at a page
+of his second sonata for violin and piano will convince
+any one of the truth of this assertion. The
+chords will prove strangers to many a well-trained
+eye. I wonder if so uncannily gifted a sight
+reader as Walter Damrosch, who can play an
+orchestral score on the piano at sight, could read
+this music?</p>
+
+<p>Of his principles of composition the boy says
+only that he writes what he feels. He has no regard
+for the rules, although he has studied them
+enough to break them thoroughly. He thinks
+there is an underlying basis of theory for his
+method of composition, which may be formulated
+later. It is not his purpose to formulate it. He
+is sincere in his art.</p>
+
+<p>Once he said to me, “I hate cleverness. I don’t
+want to be clever. I hate to be called clever. I
+am not clever. I don’t like clever people. Art
+that is merely clever is not art at all.”</p>
+
+<p>With Busoni and Schoenberg he believes that
+there are no discords, only chords and chords ...
+and that there are many combinations of notes,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>“millions of them” which have not yet been devised.</p>
+
+<p>“When I feel that the existing enharmonic
+scale is limiting me I shall write in quarter
+tones. In time I think the ear can be trained to
+grasp eighth tones. Instruments only exist to
+perform music and new instruments will be created
+to meet the new need. It can be met now on the
+violin or in the voice. The piano, of course, is
+responsible for the rigidity of the present scale.”</p>
+
+<p>Ornstein never rewrites. If his inspiration does
+not come the first time it never comes. He does
+not try to improve a failure. His method is to
+write as much as he can spontaneously on one day,
+and to pick the composition up where he left off
+on the next.</p>
+
+<p>His opinions of other modern composers are
+interesting: he considers Ravel greater than Debussy,
+and speaks with enthusiasm about <i>Daphnis
+et Chloë</i>. He has played music by Satie in private
+but does not find it “stimulating or interesting.” ...
+Schoenberg ... “the last of the academics
+... all brain, no spirit. His music is
+mathematical. He does not feel it. Korngold’s
+pieces are pretty but he has done nothing important.
+Scriabine was a great theorist who
+never achieved his goal. He helped others on.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>But Strawinsky is the most stimulating and interesting
+of all the modern composers. He feels what
+he writes.”</p>
+
+<p>Most of Ornstein’s music is inspired by things
+about him, some of it by abstract ideas. His
+social conscience is awake. He wanted to call
+<i>The Wild Men’s Dance</i>, <i>Liberty</i> (“I attempted to
+write music which would dance itself, which did
+not require a dancer”), but finally decided on the
+more symbolic title. “I am known as a musical
+anarch now,” he explained to me, “I could not
+name a piece of music <i>Liberty</i>—at least not <i>that</i>
+piece—without associating myself in the public
+mind with a certain social propaganda.” Just
+the same he means the propaganda. In the <i>Dwarf
+Suite</i> he gives us a picture of the lives of the
+struggling Russian Jews. These dwarfs are symbols....
+He is fond of abstract titles. He often
+plays his <i>Three Moods</i>. “In Boston they did not
+like my <i>Three Moods</i>. They found my <i>Anger</i> too
+unrestrained; it was vulgar to express oneself so
+freely.... But there is such a thing as anger.
+Why should it not find artistic expression? Besides
+it is a very good contrast to <i>Peace</i> and <i>Joy</i>
+which enclose it.” The <i>Impressions of the Thames</i>
+I have already referred to. With the two <i>Impressions
+of Notre Dame</i> it stands as his successful
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>experiment with impressionism. The <i>Notre Dame</i>
+pictures include gargoyles and, of course, bells....
+I have not heard the violin and piano sonata,
+opus 31. Nor can I play it. Nor can I derive
+any very adequate idea of how it sounds from a perusal
+of the score. Strange music this.... Some
+time ago some one sent Ornstein the eight songs of
+Richard Strauss, Opus 49. The words of three
+of these songs (<i>Wiegenliedchen</i>, <i>In Goldener Fülle</i>,
+and <i>Waldseligkeit</i>) struck him and he made settings
+for them. Compare them with Strauss and
+you will find the Bavarian’s music scented with
+lavender. “In the <i>Wiegenliedchen</i> Strauss gives
+you a picture of the woman rocking the cradle for
+his accompaniment. I have tried to go further,
+tried to express the feelings in the woman’s mind,
+her hopes for the child when it is grown, her fears.
+I have tried to get <i>underneath</i>.” But the
+<i>Berceuse</i> in Ornstein’s <i>Nine Miniatures</i> is as simple
+an expression as the lover of Ethelbert Nevin’s
+style could wish. Not all of Ornstein’s music is
+careless of tradition. He was influenced in the
+beginning by many people. His <i>Russian Suite</i> is
+very pretty. Most of it is like Tschaikowsky.
+These suites will prove (if any one wants it
+proved) that Ornstein can write conventional
+melody.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span></p>
+<p>Ornstein has also written a composition for
+orchestra entitled <i>The Faun</i>, which Henry Wood
+had in mind for performance before the war. It
+has not yet been played and I humbly suggest it
+to our resident conductors, together with Albeniz’s
+<i>Catalonia</i>, Schoenberg’s <i>Five Pieces</i>, and Strawinsky’s
+<i>Sacrifice to the Spring</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Leo Ornstein was born in 1895 at Krementchug,
+near Odessa. He is consequently in his twenty-first
+year. He is already a remarkable pianist,
+one of the very few who may be expected to achieve
+a position in the front rank. His compositions
+have astonished the musical world. Some of them
+have even pleased people. Whatever their ultimate
+value they have certainly made it a deal
+easier for concert-goers to listen to what are called
+“discords” with equanimity. His music is a
+modern expression, untraditional, and full of a
+strange seething emotion; no calculation here.
+And like the best painting and literature of the
+epoch it vibrates with the unrest of the period
+which produced the great war.</p>
+
+
+<p><i>June 14, 1916.</i></p>
+
+
+<p class="ph3">THE END</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[Pg 244]</span></p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[Pg 245]</span></p>
+
+
+
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+  <img class="w100" src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="logo - Dog running">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p>“<span class="smcap">Borzoi</span>” stands for the best in literature
+in all its branches—drama and fiction,
+poetry and art. “<span class="smcap">Borzoi</span>” also stands for
+unusually pleasing book-making.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Borzoi</span> Books are good books and there
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+A few are briefly described on the next
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+A new and revised edition of this most important work.      $2.00</p>
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+A four-act play of unusual power and strength.       $1.00</p>
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+
+
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter">
+<div class="tnote">
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Note">Transcriber’s Note</h2>
+
+<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>
+<p>Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Hyphenation was 
+standardized.</p>
+
+<p>Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following changes:</p>
+
+
+<table class="autotable">
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_44">44</a>: “Greig’s <i>Peer Gynt</i>”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“Grieg’s <i>Peer Gynt</i>”</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_73">73</a>: “<i>l’Heure Espagnole</i>”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“<i>L’heure Espagnole</i>”</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_77">77</a>: “colour of Zurburan”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“colour of Zurbaran”</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_77">77</a>: “Juan de Juares”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“Juan de Juarez”</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_84">84</a>: “<i>Fantasy</i> of Farrega”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“<i>Fantasy</i> of Tárrega”</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_136">136</a>: “oder Der misverstandene”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“oder Der missverstandene”</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_178">178</a>: “is a <i>pointe de depart</i>”</td>
+<td class="tdl">“is a <i>point de départ</i>”</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75908 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+book #75908 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75908)