EWEN (1937) .TwentiethcenturyComposers

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TWENTIETH CENTURY COMPOSERS
Books by Mr. Ezven
THE UNFINISHED SYMPHONY
FROM BACH TO STRAVINSKY
WINE, WOMEN AND WALTZ
THE MAN WITH THE BATON
COMPOSERS OF TODAY
HEBREW MUSIC
COMPOSERS OF YESTERDAY
TWENTIETH CENTURY COMPOSERS
.
IGOR STRAVINSKY
wentie entmy
(Composers
BY
DAVID EWEN
AUTHOR OF
"The Man with the Baton’’
ILLUSTRATED
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY

PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK
Copyright, 1937
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced in any form except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review to
be printed in a magazine or newspaper.
Printed in the United States of America

For
ISAAC GOLDBERG
to commemorate ten years
of friendship
PREFACE
"A yjTODERN music might very aptly be likened to a

kaleidoscope. A kaleidoscope consists of many vari¬
colored and symmetrical patterns, each supposedly inde¬
pendent of the other. Flip the kaleidoscope—and these
many patterns and hues resolve themselves into one unified
design.
So, too, modern music. At first glance it appears to be a
baffling composition of many conflicting styles, each com¬
pletely independent of the other: the atonality of Schon-
berg, the neo-classicism of Stravinsky and Hindemith, the
post-impressionism of Loeffler and Delius, the romanticism
of Elgar, the nationalism of de Falla, Bela Bartok and
Vaughan-Williams, the jazz of George Gershwin. And
yet, these diverse expressions are merely segments of a
kaleidoscopic whole : the attempt on the part of present-day
composers to give musical expression to the many facets of
the pre-war and post-war world of the twentieth century.
At best, the various trends and movements of modern
music, if viewed with the microscopic eye of the theoreti¬
cian, is an abstruse subject, the dissection and analysis of
which belong to the text-book. How modern composers
have taken harmonic and contrapuntal laws and revised
them is a fascinating subject—but only for students who are
thoroughly intimate with musical theory. To the musical
layman, not the technical analysis of the style of modern
composers is of interest but its aesthetic implications; not the
exact structure of Schonberg’s twelve-tone system or the
names of the unrelated keys employed by Bartok interests
vii
Vlll PREFACE
the average music-lover but rather the artistic aim of these
methods and the success with which this aim is achieved.
Modern music is, after all, a palpitantly living subject.
It is the artistic interpretation of the human experiences
that have affected human existence during the past forty
years. It is this living subject—not the technical one—that
intrigues the musical layman. And it is with this subject
that this book is concerned.
The present book has been designed particularly for
the intelligent layman whose curiosity in modern music has
been aroused by the numerous performances of modern
works over the radio and in the concert-hall. It is, there¬
fore, not the purpose of the author in the pages that follow
to trace analytically the transformation of musical structure
and technique in modern times. There exist any number of
excellent treatises which have accomplished this with far
greater clarity, erudition and grace than this author can
ever hope to achieve. However, there exist few works
which attempt to guide the musical layman—and light his
way—through the treacherous alleys and dark corners of
modern music.
The author hopes to give the layman a more intimate
understanding of modern music from the point of view most
easily assimilated and understood: that of the personalities
themselves who have given shape and direction to this music.
Thus the emphasis in this book is on biographical and per¬
sonal material: the biographical material enabling the
reader to understand the background and circumstances
which have inspired the music, and the personal material
giving the reader an intimate introduction to those per¬
sonalities that gave voice to this music. The personal in¬
formation was drawn from direct contact and conversations
with many of these composers. Critical appraisal, however,
is not sacrificed. The book discusses seventeen composers—
not the seventeen greatest of our time, but seventeen whose
work represents most accurately a cross-section of modern
PREFACE IX
music. In any case, it is a noble representation of com¬

posers, and one of which any generation may justifiably be
proud. In non-technical verbiage the author has attempted
to explain to the reader the nature of each composer’s style,
to interpret the principal works of each composer and to
evaluate his musical significance.
Some of the material included in this book

appeared originally in prominent magazines.
This material has, to be sure, been radically
revised and amplified for the purposes of this
book. However, for permission to repro¬
duce it here the author is grateful to the
editors of American Music Lover, Chester-
ian (London), Coronet, Esquire, Menorah
Journal, Monthly Musical Record (Lon¬
don), Musical Record and Musical Quar¬
terly.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Igor Stravinsky.. . . 3
II. Richard Strauss.33
III. Sir Edward Elgar.59
IV. Jan Sibelius.79
V. Maurice Ravel.99
VI. Serge Prokofieff.117
VII. Manuel de Falla.131
VIII. Charles Martin Loeffler.149
IX. Bela Bartok.161
X. Ernest Bloch.173
XI. Frederick Delius.187
XII. Paul Hindemith.203
XIII. Arnold Schonberg.215
XIV. Francesco Malipiero.231
XV. Roy Harris.247
XVI. Ralph Vaughan Williams.259
XVII. George Gershwin.271
XVIII. Bibliography of Modern Composers . . 285
Index.299
IGOR STRAVINSKY
I
IGOR STRAVINSKY
1.
O N MAY 29, 1913, a volcanic eruption rocked musical

Paris.
The eruption was caused by the first performance of the
<Sucre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring) at the Theatre
des Champs Elysees, an offering of the Diaghilev Ballet
Russe, headed by Nijinsky. However, it was not Diag-
hilev’s original choreographic conception that caused the
tremors among the audience, or even the exotic theme of
the ballet itself, heightened by the bizarre settings and cos¬
tume designs of Nicholas Roerich. Rather, it was the musi¬
cal score, drenched with strange colors and defiantly new
sounds, a score sublimely indifferent to tradition and herit¬
age, fearlessly pronouncing a fresh vocabulary and what
then appeared to be a strangely distorted one. The music
was the work of the young Igor Stravinsky, who had al¬
ready made his mark with two other ballets also presented
by the Diaghilev troupe.
The music had not progressed beyond several minutes,
under Pierre Monteux’s baton, when a growling began to be
heard in the audience. The music seemed to lack alto¬
gether that logic and coherence which is ordinarily expected
of a creative work. There was no recognizable melody,
only distorted lines of sound which zigzagged aimlessly, so it
seemed, through a score complicated by a labyrinth of
rhythm and sporadic outbursts of cacophony. As the sounds
became more confused, restless movement was heard in the
seats, some snickers from the audience, some smothered
guffaws. Before long, the air of the theatre became charged
with electric excitation, and the sparks of dissension ignited
3
4 TWENTIETH CENTURY COMPOSERS
the passion of the listeners. “A certain part of the audi¬
ence,” writes Carl van Vechten, who was a member of that
historic assemblage, “was thrilled by what it considered to
be a blasphemous attempt to destroy music as an art and,
swept away with wrath, began, very soon after the rise of
the curtain, to make cat-calls and to offer audible suggestions
as to how the performance should proceed. The orchestra
played unheard except occasionally, when a slight lull oc¬
curred. The young man seated behind me in a box stood up
during the course of the ballet to enable him to see more
clearly. The intense excitement under which he was labor¬
ing betrayed itself when he began to beat rhythmically on
the top of my head with fists. My emotion was so great
that I did not feel the blows for some time.” 1
While the music was in progress, a lady stretched into the
box neighboring hers and slapped the face of a man who
was hissing; her escort arose, cards were exchanged, and a
duel took place the following morning.2 Saint-Saens vici¬
ously denounced the composer; Andre Capu, the critic, bel¬
lowed that it was all a colossal bluff, while at the same time
Maurice Ravel was crying “genius” at his inattentive
neighbors. The Austrian Ambassador laughed loudly in
derision; Florent Schmitt, the composer, attacked him for
his laughter. The Princesse de Pourtales left her box ex¬
claiming: “I am sixty years old, but this is the first time that
anyone has dared to make a fool of me!” Another proud
society lady rose majestically in her seat, contracted her
capacious bosom and spat in the face of one of the demon¬
strators. In the wings, Stravinsky was clinging to Nijinsky’s
collar in an attempt to prevent the dancer from rushing
upon the stage and expressing openly his contempt of the
audience. And throughout it all, Claude Debussy, pale and
trembling, was pleading to the audience to remain quiet and
listen patiently to the music.
1 Music After the Great War, by Carl van Vechten.
2 As reported by Romola Nijinsky in her biography, Nijinsky.
IGOR STRAVINSKY 5
2.
At the time of the Sacre “scandal,” Igor Stravinsky was

thirty-one years old, a brusque, ungainly young man, slight
of build, whose somewhat awkward and self-conscious man¬
nerisms had not as yet been polished by Parisian refinement.
His upper lip was still clean-shaven, his face, in conse¬
quence, seeming longer and leaner than it has in more recent
years. A pince-nez, perched at a sharp angle on the bridge
of his nose, gave him a professorial appearance.
His reputation had been imposing even before the riot
of the Sacre brought him world-wide notoriety. His name
had already been linked with the rising futurist movement:
in Rome, the redoubtable Marinetti had carried a banner
in the streets proclaiming: “Down with Wagner; long live
Stravinsky 1” To a meagre handful of younger art-lovers,
chafing under the bondage of formalism and tradition, the
name of Stravinsky had already become a shibboleth. The
Sacre, therefore, had established more firmly what Pet¬
rushka had first created two years before this—namely,
Stravinsky’s reputation as the enfant terrible in the music
of his time.
The Sacre du Printemps, with its attendant riot, brought
to a climax an artistic career that had been meteoric.
Igor Stravinsky was born in Oranienbaum, a suburb of
St. Petersburg, on St. Igor’s Day, June 5, 1882. At the
time of Stravinsky’s birth, Glinka, the father of Russian
music, had been dead twenty-five years; his influence, how¬
ever, had already produced the school of national music
known as the “Russian Five.” By 1882, the “Russian
Five” were at the height of their creative growth (except
Moussorgsky, who had died the year before). They had
already formed, moulded, and developed a musical speech
that Stravinsky was soon to inherit. Borodin was forty-
eight; behind him was the composition of the Symphony in
B-minor, the String Quartet in A and the remarkable tone-
poem, In the Steppes of Central Asia. Balakireff, aged
forty-six, had already produced his Tamara and Russ.
Moussorgsky’s Boris Godounoff produced successfully eight
years before, was still some two decades from acceptance as
a Russian epic. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakoff was the only
one of the “Five” whose future still stretched before him;
and Rimsky-Korsakoff, then in his thirty-ninth year, had
already created the Antar Symphony and Sniegouroutchka.
Stravinsky, therefore, was born at a time when musical
activity was richly productive in Russia.
Igor Stravinsky’s father, Feodor, was a well-known
singer of the Maryinsky Theatre, who—as though to
establish a more direct link between Igor and the traditions
of the “Russian Five”—had been cast as the drunken monk
in the first performance of Boris Godounoff.3 Feodor
Stravinsky, despite his artistic calling, was a practical, level¬
headed man. Long before Igor’s birth he had decided that
any child of his would be strongly discouraged from adopt¬
ing art as a profession; for Igor, therefore, he had selected
law. Feodor Stravinsky, moreover, possessed a strong
streak of stubbornness together with his level head. In his
early academic studies, Igor was very nearly hopeless (the
schoolmaster at one time despatched a note to Feodor
Stravinsky prophesying that Igor would never amount to
anything!) while in his piano study he revealed an alert
intelligence; but not even these facts could persuade the
father to change the plans he had conceived. Clinging to
them tenaciously, he saw Igor through preparatory school
and finally into the University of St. Petersburg.
From his earliest years, Stravinsky showed unusual re¬
sponsiveness to music. He received his first vivid musical
impressions as a mere child, from performances of Glinka’s
A Life for the Tsar and Russian and Ludmilla, and of
Tchaikovsky’s Symphonie Pathetique; these impressions
were so vivid that Stravinsky never forgot them. He was
3 Rimsky-Korsakoff refers to him frequently in My Musical Life.
IGOR STRAVINSKY 7
a frequent visitor at the home of his uncle where perform¬

ances of German works took place regularly. He likewise
attended public concerts—particularly those of the Imperial
Music Society, directed by Napravnik, and of the Russian
Symphony Orchestra (which, in 1885, had been founded
by Belaiev) .4
His music study, however, was spasmodic. As a child of
nine he began to have piano lessons. Then, hearing one day
a piano recital of Josef Hofmann, he was inspired to study
the instrument with greater assiduity and industry. In a
few years, he succeeded in attaining a supple technique.
During his University days, he received the permission
of his father to begin the study of harmony under a private
tutor. ,Dull exercises and implacable rules were of small
attraction to him; in a short while, he discontinued the
study. In his eighteenth year, he began to thumb a text on
counterpoint, finding therein so much fascination that he
assumed the study of the subject by himself. He achieved
a remarkable knowledge of its technique, particularly in
view of the fact that he studied it without the help of a
teacher.
When Stravinsky was twenty years old, he left with his
family for Bad Wildungen, Germany, for a prolonged holi¬
day. While there, he heard that Rimsky-Korsakoff was in
Heidelberg. A great admirer of the composer and teacher,
Stravinsky left immediately for Heidelberg to consult
Rimsky-Korsakoff about his own career. He performed
for the master a few abortive piano pieces which he had
recently composed. To Rimsky-Korsakoff, these pieces
represented the self-conscious stammerings of an immature
musical mind; however, behind them Rimsky-Korsakoff
perceived an original message and the rudiments of an in¬
dividual speech. He therefore urged Stravinsky to con¬
tinue his musical activity, dissuaded him from entering the
4 The same Belaiev who was soon to become the influential publisher
of modern Russian music.
St. Petersburg Conservatory, whose rigid curriculum, he
feared, might be unbearable to so headstrong a personality,
and advised the young composer to submit to him whatever
he produced.
Rimsky-Korsakoff’s praise—couched though it was in a
cautious and none too enthusiastic vocabulary—convinced
Stravinsky, at last, that he could become a serious musician.
He did not, as yet, abandon law. Instead, in his spare
hours, he hurled himself with youthful zest into the artistic
life of St. Petersburg. He read avidly the art-journal,
The World of Art, edited by an apostle of modernism,
Diaghilev. Frequently, he visited the exhibition of paint¬
ings which this very same Diaghilev arranged in St.
Petersburg. And he became an enthusiastic member of a
progressive musical society which regularly performed the
chamber-works of such modern French composers as De¬
bussy, Cesar Franck, Paul Dukas, Chabrier and Gabriel
Faure.
Towards the close of 1903, Stravinsky had completed
his first unified composition, a piano sonata. For a fort¬
night, he lived with Rimsky-Korsakoff, while the master
carefully and patiently dissected the work and mercilessly
disclosed its technical weaknesses. Rimsky-Korsakoff found
that the composition, though the work of an undeveloped
musician, possessed a strength of fibre and an intensity of
speech not frequently discovered in a first-born work. He
therefore no longer had any hesitancy in advising Stravin¬
sky to take the final step—exchange the profession of law
for that of music.
In 1906, Stravinsky was married to his cousin, a girl of
unusual intelligence who was strongly instrumental in
swaying him from a legal career to that of music. Early
in 1905, upon completing his course at the University, he
had definitely changed the direction of his life. Brushing
aside the legal profession permanently, he began a two-year
period of intensive study of instrumentation under Rimsky-
IGOR STRAVINSKY 9
Korsakoff. And under the guidance of the master, he was

converted from a raw student into a self-confident musician.
The first fruits of his studies with Rimsky-Korsakoff
were the Symphony in E-flat, dedicated to his teacher, and
a suite for voice and orchestra after three poems of Push¬
kin, entitled Fanne et Bergere, both composed between
1906 and 1907. In these works, the future rebel had not
yet begun to flaunt his defiance in the face of tradition.
This was music strongly influenced by the idiom established
by the “Russian Five,” couched in orthodox forms. One
critic found the Symphony a “straightforward work which
is chiefly notable for its docile acquiescence in convention¬
ality to a degree that almost contradicts the report of his
chafing under academic restraint.” The Symphony and the
Fanne et Bergere were first performed privately by the
court orchestra in 1907. Shortly after this, the Belaiev
concerts of the Russian Symphony Orchestra had the dis¬
tinction of giving the first public performance of a work by
Stravinsky when it introduced Faune et Bergere.
Stravinsky next set to work upon a Scherzo fantastique,
for orchestra—inspired by Maurice Maeterlinck’s Life of
the Bee—and upon the first act of an opera, Le Rossignol,
based on the famous fairy-tale of Andersen. Rimsky-
Korsakoff saw the sketches of both compositions, approved
of them highly, and for the first time enthusiastically
prophesied a brilliant career for the young composer. In
1908, Stravinsky abandoned the composition of his opera
to write the Feu d!artifice (Fireworks), music prepared in
honor of the forthcoming marriage of Rimsky-Korsakoff’s
daughter, Sonia. He despatched the manuscript to the
master as a surprise offering for the wedding. The master,
however, never saw the work. The package was returned
to Stravinsky unopened, “on account of the death of the
addressee.”
The death of Rimsky-Korsakoff was a hard blow to
Stravinsky, who had lost a great teacher and a great
friend. In expression of his profound sentiments, and as a

gesture of farewell, Stravinsky composed a Chant funebre.6
The winter of 1908 was a turning point in the career of
Igor Stravinsky. At that time the Siloti concerts in St.
Petersburg presented the Scherzo fantastique and the Feu
d’artifice. In the audience was Diaghilev, increasingly
famous sponsor of modern art and organizer of a new Rus¬
sian ballet which was to be introduced to Paris the
following year. Diaghilev, who possessed an uncanny
sensitiveness to the presence of hitherto undetected genius,
recognized that greatness lurked in the hidden corners of
these works. Immature they were, to be sure; but Diag¬
hilev had too penetrating a vision not to perceive behind
their immaturity the growing stature of a striking indi¬
viduality, particularly in the brilliantly orchestrated Feu
d’artifice, of which Fokine, the ballet-master, once said that
it always made him see vividly flames searing the skies.
Diaghilev, therefore, approached Stravinsky after the con¬
cert, asked him if he would be interested in enlisting his
talent in the Diaghilev ballet, and—as a first assignment—
commissioned Stravinsky to orchestrate two Chopin pieces
to be used in the ballet, Chopiniana.6 Thus began a re¬
lationship which, continuing for two decades, was to have
an enormous effect not only upon Stravinsky’s artistic
evolution but upon the development of modern music as
well.
At the time of this first meeting with Stravinsky, Diag¬
hilev was thirty-six years old, his reputation—after many
tribulations—solidly established at last both in Russia and
in Paris. In his youth he had revealed an alert and supple
intelligence keenly sensitive to beauty in whatever form or
medium it was expressed. He turned first to music, aspir¬
ing to become a composer, but—after a heart-breaking
5 The Chant funebre, together with many other Stravinsky papers,
disappeared during the Revolution in Russia.
6 Later renamed Les Sylphides.
IGOR STRAVINSKY 11
interview with Rimsky-Korsakoff—was convinced that

musical creation was not his forte. From music he turned
to art and journalism. He founded and edited a pro¬
gressive magazine, The World of Art, which publicized
European art-movements among the Russian intelligentzia;
and he inaugurated annual art exhibitions in which he in¬
troduced Russian art lovers for the first time to some of
the most characteristic products of the various schools of
modern European art.
Finally, after an extended period in which his principal
goal was the education of Russia in European art trends
(a period whose importance to Russia’s artistic develop¬
ment should not be underestimated), Diaghilev suddenly
was imbued with a far more intoxicating mission. He had
recently rediscovered Russian art, and found therein artis¬
tic values and concepts which he felt were unique and
incomparable. He, therefore, appointed himself as the
prophet to introduce and interpret this art to the rest of
Europe.
In 1906, Diaghilev held an imposing exhibition of mod¬
ern Russian painting in Paris. The tremendous success of
this venture gave Diaghilev the strength to expand his
program and redouble his activity. In 1907, he arranged
a series of historical concerts of Russian music in Paris,
consisting of the foremost examples of Russian symphonic
and operatic art. Glazunov, Rachmaninoff and Rimsky-
Korsakoff personally conducted programs of their own
works. Josef Hofmann played the piano concertos of
Scriabin and Liapounov, while Rachmaninoff performed his
own Second Concerto. Scenes from Borodin’s Prince Igor
and Moussorgsky’s Boris Godounoff were featured, with
Feodor Chaliapin making his first appearances in Paris.
But Diaghilev had only begun. In 1908, he brought to
Paris the complete Moussorgsky opera, Boris Godounoff,
with Feodor Chaliapin in the principal role—the scenery,
costumes and choreography personally supervised by
Diaghilev. This was the first indication Diaghilev had
given of his instinctive knowledge of the theatre and of his
genius for organization. Boris Godounoff was a decided
success.
From opera to ballet was but a short step for Diaghilev.
A casual conversation at a cafe, in which Diaghilev boasted
of the unique distinction of Russian dancing, inspired him
to bring its finest examples to Paris. In 1909, therefore,
the Diaghilev Ballet Russe came into being in Paris. Fo-
kine was ballet-master; the principal dancers included
Karsavina, Anna Pavlova and Nijinsky. And from the
very first the guiding genius was Diaghilev.
Diaghilev was no mere dabbler in the arts. In his own
way he was as much a creator as those eminent collabo¬
rators wdiom he gathered under his wing for the Ballet
Russe. A dilettante in the finest meaning of the word, he
was, as his biographer wrote of him, “a master painter who
never painted, a master musician who never wrote or
played, a master dancer who never danced or devised the
steps of a ballet.” 7 An artistic instinct that seemed in¬
fallible, an impeccable taste, an insight of penetrating
sharpness—these things combined to make him that or¬
ganizing genius that could blend the innumerable parts of
a ballet into a completely unified artistic whole. And like
all true geniuses, Diaghilev had the power to electrify and
inspire all those with whom he came into contact: members
of his ballet frequently confessed that when Diaghilev was
not witnessing a performance the quality of the dancing de¬
teriorated noticeably.
It was this dynamic and revitalizing personality, this
cultured and eclectic mind, broad enough to encompass all
of the arts, who crossed Stravinsky’s path in 1908.
How important an influence Diaghilev was in Stravin¬
sky’s evolution has been the subject for many copious
7 Diaghileff: His Artistic and Private Life, by Arnold L. Haskell (in
collaboration with Walter Nouvel).
IGOR STRAVINSKY 13
paragraphs. Certainly it is ridiculous to assume that had

there been no Diaghilev there would have been no Stravin¬
sky—an assertion which many of Diaghilev’s devotees
have strongly and frequently reiterated. There are suf¬
ficient foreshadowings of the later Stravinsky in the
Scherzo fantastique and Feu d’artifice—particularly in the
nervous energy of the rhythms, the electrically charged in¬
strumentation, and above all in the first signs of impatience
and dissatisfaction with existing musical conventions—to
convince us that Stravinsky would have made his mark with¬
out Diaghilev. However, it would be just as naive to
disregard Diaghilev’s influence entirely. An immature
genius does not almost over-night evolve into an integrated
artist with a fully developed, highly personal vocabulary,
without the influence of a powerful external stimulus. The
only convincing explanation of why Stravinsky reached full
maturity so rapidly, why two such works as Feu d’artifice
and L’Oiseau de feu (The Fire-Bird) were separated by
only two years, is—Diaghilev.
3.
Chopiniana—with the two Stravinsky orchestrations

commissioned by Diaghilev—was featured in the inaugural
season of the Ballet Russe at the Paris Opera. The or¬
chestration pleased Diaghilev considerably,—so much so
that, several months later, in planning another season for
his Ballet Russe he decided to yield to one of his character¬
istic extravagant gestures by placing his most important
musical commission in the hands of this young and in¬
experienced composer—even though the foremost of Rus¬
sian composers were eager to serve him.
Diaghilev had been revolving in his mind a plan to
translate the famous legend of the Fire-Bird into a ballet.
It is for this ballet that Stravinsky was commissioned to
compose an original score.
During late winter of 1909 and early spring of 1910,

Stravinsky worked industriously upon his first major as¬
signment—the ballet-master Fokine, who fashioned the
scenario of the Fire-Bird, almost indefatigably at his side.
“They worked very closely together, phrase by phrase.
Stravinsky brought him a beautiful cantilena on the en¬
trance of the Tsarevitch into the garden of the girls with
the golden apples. But Fokine disapproved. ‘No, nol’
he said. ‘You bring him in like a tenor. Break the phrase
where he merely shows his head on his first intrusion.
Then make the curious swish of the garden’s magic horse’s
return, and then, when he shows his hand again, bring in the
full swing of the melody.’ ” 8
Stravinsky’s score was finally completed in May of 1910.
One month later, on June 25th, it was given its premiere
at the Paris Opera by the Ballet Russe. The principal
dancers included Fokine, Mme. Fokina, and Karsavina;
the settings were designed by Bakst and Golovine; and the
conductor was Gabriel Pierne.
The scenario of Fokine follows closely the traditional
Russian legend, and serves admirably as the program for
the concert suite, L’Oiseau de feu, which is usually per¬
formed in the symphony hall. Ivan Tsarevitch, roaming
aimlessly one night, stumbles across the Fire-Bird and
captures it as it is in the act of plucking golden fruit from
a silver tree. As a reward for its release, the Fire-Bird
presents Ivan with one of its glowing feathers, which he
accepts. Suddenly, the thick darkness of the night dis¬
sipates. A castle comes clearly into view, from whose por¬
tals emerge thirteen maidens of surpassing beauty. Little
realizing that they are being observed, they play with the
silver tree and its golden fruit. Emerging from hiding,
Ivan receives from one of the maidens a golden fruit as
gift, and they dance out of sight. The night passes into
dawn. Suddenly, Ivan realizes that the castle is the home
8 Lincoln Kirstein in his biography, Fokine.
IGOR STRAVINSKY 15
of the dreaded Kastchei who captures wayfaring travelers

and subjects them to his spell. Determined to conquer this
monster, Ivan enters the castle, which is guarded by terri¬
fying monsters. Kastchei attempts to bewitch Ivan; but
his power is impotent before the magic feather that Ivan
holds in his hand. Then the Fire-Bird comes to view, re¬
veals to Ivan a casket and informs him that Kastchei’s fate
is concealed therein. Ivan opens the casket, and withdraws
an egg which he smashes to the ground. Death emerges
from the smashed egg-shell and obsesses the body of
Kastchei. As Kastchei perishes, the castle suddenly dis¬
appears, and the maidens are freed from their bondage.
As a reward, Ivan receives in marriage the hand of the
most beautiful of the captive maidens.
L’Oiseau de feu was an instantaneous success, the most
substantial triumph of the 1910 season of the Ballet Russe.
Diaghilev was thrilled by Stravinsky’s score, and knew
instantly that he had made no mistake in recruiting the
young composer as his principal music collaborator.
Some of the critics were puzzled by several of the more
unorthodox pages of Stravinsky’s music, but for the most
part they found it full of power and beauty. A handful of
French musicians knew that with the L’Oiseau a formidable
musical creator had emerged. One of these was Claude
Debussy who, immediately after the first performance,
rushed backstage, embraced Stravinsky, and poured out
his effusive congratulations before the embarrassed young
composer.
L’Oiseau de feu was Stravinsky’s first significant thrust
towards individuality and greatness. His first creative
period—the period of apprenticeship which produced the
iSymphony, the Scherzo fantastique and Feu d’artifice—
was now definitely over. He was at last well started in
formulating his own idiom; he had begun to show those
personal mannerisms which were to become the revealing
fingerprints on all the works of his second period.
In these works of the middle phase of Stravinsky’s ar¬

tistic development—ranging from L’Oiseau to Les Noces
(The Wedding)—Stravinsky is essentially the Russian, his
musical speech heavy with a Russian accent. His second
period stemmed from the soil of the “Russian Five,” from
Moussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff particularly; L’Oiseau
de feu, as a matter of fact, is a recognizable godson of
Rimsky-Korsakoff’s influence. Russian folk-music obsesses
Stravinsky in the works of this time. While he borrows
directly from folk-music only rarely, his melodic and har¬
monic material have an unmistakable Russian character.
They are full of the spirit and color of Russian folk-song.
In comparison with Le Sacre du Printemps and Les
Noces, L’Oiseau de feu may appear conservative, indeed.
But, in 1910, it stung and pinched musical ears, unaccus¬
tomed to such brazen audacities. True, Stravinsky per¬
mitted himself the luxury of tender, delicate, often
poignantly beautiful melody—as in the Dance of the
Princesses and the Berceuse—which belongs more to the
equipment of the “Russian Five” than to that of a rebel
composer. Yet, at other moments, an already striking im¬
patience with old norms asserts itself. In the Dance of the
King Kastchei there is already a rhythmic barbarism which,
in its nervous energy and agitation, sweeps convention to
the winds. The brusque leaps and starts of Stravinsky’s
later melodic line frequently pierce through the prevailingly
smoother texture of L’Oiseau. And it has that character¬
istic Stravinsky orchestration, as luminous as flame.
The success of L’Oiseau de feu definitely established the
Ballet Russe as an annual feature of the Paris theatrical
season. In planning the 1911 season, therefore, Diag-
hilev inevitably looked upon Stravinsky to furnish him with
a new score. There had already been some conversation
between Stravinsky and Diaghilev about a ballet theme
which was later to reach realization in Le Sacre du Prin¬
temps. Stravinsky, however, was mentally and physically
IGOR STRAVINSKY 17
too exhausted by the strain of composing L’Oiseau to un¬
dertake another arduous assignment. Instead, he sought
relaxation by composing a work in a lighter vein, a sort of
Konzertstiick for piano and orchestra.
The one great obstacle facing Stravinsky, in the sketch¬
ing of this work, was the selection of an appropriate
programmatic title. “Konzertstiick” was, after all, too
effete a name for a work of such malicious irony as Stravin¬
sky was etching; and Stravinsky felt that, unless he
succeeded in finding a suitably descriptive designation for
his work, its progress would be greatly retarded. For
hours at a stretch he walked along the edge of the Lake
of Geneva, whistling to himself snatches of his new music
as he exhausted his imagination and experience for a title.
When it finally came to him, it literally burst upon his
consciousness when he least expected it. But it was pre¬
cisely the theme for which, instinctively, he had been
groping. He would call his new work Petrushka after the
pathetic sawdust puppet, well known to the Russian fair.
The progress of Petrushka was temporarily interrupted
in the spring of 1911 when Stravinsky suffered a severe
illness, the result of nicotine poisoning. For a period, it
was seriously thought that he was on the border of death.
But in the end recovery brought him an altogether new
zest for composition, and returning to the manuscript of
Petrushka he felt the pen fly under his fingertips.
In the summer of 1911, Diaghilev visited Stravinsky at
his home in Clarens, Switzerland, for the purpose of hear¬
ing portions of Le Sacre, which he believed Stravinsky to
be composing at the time. At first very much surprised to
hear that not Le Sacre but a substitute was awaiting him,
Diaghilev nevertheless listened patiently to Stravinsky’s
exposition of the Petrushka subject, and to those portions
which Stravinsky had already committed to paper. Pe¬
trushka instantly exhilarated and excited Diaghilev. He
recognized in the subject a ballet cut to the pattern of the
Ballet Russe requirements; as he listened to sections of the

music he envisioned in his mind’s eye Nijinsky as Pe¬
trushka, capering to the pungent rhythmic patterns and the
wittily satirical phrases of Stravinsky’s music.
Stravinsky completed Petrushka: Scenes burlesques en 4
tableaux in Rome in May, 1911. On June 13, the Ballet
Russe introduced it at the Chatelet, in Paris. Karsavina
and Nijinsky were the principal dancers; the scenery was
painted by Benois; Fokine was the ballet-master, and Pierre
Monteux the conductor.
The scenario of Petrushka had been prepared by Alex¬
andre Benois. “This ballet depicts the life of the lower
classes in Russia with all its dissoluteness, barbarity,
tragedy and misery. Petrushka is a sort of Polichinello, a
poor hero always suffering from the cruelty of the police
and every kind of wrong and unjust persecution. This
represents symbolically the whole tragedy in the existence
of the Russian people, a suffering from despotism and in¬
justice. The scene is laid in the midst of the Russian
carnival, and the streets are lined with booths, in one of
which Petrushka plays a kind of humorous role. He is
killed, but he appears again as a ghost on the roof of the
booth to frighten his enemy, his old employer, an allusion
to the despotic rule in Russia.” 9
Petrushka definitely established Stravinsky’s fame. Once
again, his unusual effects—now grown more startlingly
original and bizarre—caused the raising of eyebrows. But
many music critics could not deny Stravinsky’s seductively
fresh approach, the rich Slavic flavor of his musical
material and, most important of all, his ability to give
music an expressiveness which few, if any, of his contem¬
poraries could equal. To the public at large, Stravinsky
represented much more an intriguing but ephemeral
novelty than a permanent influence; his music appeared
9 This excerpt is quoted by Philip Hale in his admirable program
notes on Petrushka. The source of this quotation, however is not given.
IGOR STRAVINSKY 19
more original than important. But a handful of musicians

and art-lovers already accepted him as a prophet of the
future.
Following Petrushka, Stravinsky began work upon Le
Sacre du Printemps. Plans for Le Sacre had been con¬
ceived two years earlier, as Stravinsky himself informs us.
“One day, when I was finishing the last pages of L’Oiseau
de feu in St. Petersburg, I had a fleeting vision which came
to me as a complete surprise, my mind at the moment being
full of other things. I saw in imagination a solemn pagan
rite: sage elders, seated in a circle, watched a young girl
dance herself to death. They were sacrificing her to propiti¬
ate the god of spring. Such was the theme of the Sacre du
Printemps. I must confess that this vision made a deep
impression upon me and I at once described it to my friend,
Nicholas Roerich, he being a painter who had specialized
in pagan subjects. He welcomed my inspiration with en¬
thusiasm, and became my collaborator in this creation. In
Paris, I told Diaghilev about it, and he was at once carried
away by the idea, though its realization was delayed. . . 10
The completion of Le Sacre was momentarily inter¬
rupted in the summer of 1912 when Stravinsky left with
Diaghilev for Bayreuth to witness a performance of Wag¬
ner’s Parsifal. Parsifal sickened Stravinsky both as a
theatrical spectacle and as a musical score. His utter dis¬
taste for Wagner’s music has remained something of an
obsession with him throughout his career.
Le Sacre du Printemps, performed at the Theatre des
Champs Elysees on May 29, 1913, definitely established
Stravinsky as a world figure in music—a man who from
that day became one of the most publicized and contro¬
versial personalities of our generation. However, though
Le Sacre had been subject for derision and laughter, Stra¬
vinsky was convinced that he had produced an important
work; he insisted that he was right and his critics wrong.
10 iStravinsky: An Autobiography.
And, slowly and inevitably, Stravinsky’s faith in himself

and in his work was to receive eloquent justification. On
July 11, 1913, Pierre Monteux introduced the ballet to
London; while there was some hissing, there was infinitely
more applause. On April 5, 1914, Pierre Monteux con¬
ducted the music of the ballet at a symphonic concert at
the Casino de Paris; the enthusiasm was stirring. Since
that time, Le Sacre du Printemps has been accepted by the
world of music as the crowning work of Stravinsky’s career,
and one of the indisputable monuments of twentieth century
music.11
Two more important works, with roots deeply embedded
in Russian tradition, succeeded Le Sacre. In 1914, Stra¬
vinsky completed his opera Le Chant du rossignol (The
Song of the Nightingale), the first act of which he had
planned and sketched in Russia in 1909. S. Mitoussov
fashioned the libretto after the Andersen fairy-tale. The
opera was performed for the first time at the Paris Opera
in May of 1914, with only moderate success. During the
War, Stravinsky converted the opera into a ballet, omitting
much material from the first act. This ballet—with scenery
by Matisse and choreography by Massine—was presented
by the Ballet Russe in Paris on February 2, 1920. The
orchestral suite drawn from the ballet has become familiar
on orchestra programs.
Stravinsky’s orchestral suite follows the narrative of the
fairy-tale closely. The Emperor of China, hearing tales
of the beautiful singing of a brown nightingale, invites it to
his court. The bird sings so beautifully that the hearts of
all the courtiers are softened and the eyes of the Emperor
are filled with tears. But suddenly an envoy arrives bear¬
ing a mechanical nightingale which delights the entire court
with its ingenious albeit stilted song. Heart-broken, the
brown bird flies out of the palace and disappears. Enraged,
11 As Cecil Gray wrote in 1929, Le Sacre is “one of the most conspicuous
landmarks in the artistic life of our period.’’
IGOR STRAVINSKY 21
the Emperor permanently banishes the nightingale from

his empire. Shortly after this, the Emperor is at the
threshold of death, and the physicians have given up all
hope. One morning, the brown nightingale flies through
the window and sings at the Emperor’s bed so beautifully
that she softens the heart of Death, who leaves the royal
bedside. The courtiers return, expecting to find their Em¬
peror dead, only to see him glowing with health and con¬
tentment.
The last of Stravinsky’s important Russian works,
bringing the second period to termination, was Les Noces,
“scenes choreographiques Russes.” Les Noces was com¬
posed during one of the most trying periods of Stravin¬
sky’s life. He began the first sketches in London in 1914,
when the War suddenly forced him to flee with his family
to Switzerland. There followed several years of great
financial distress, heightened when the Russian revolution¬
ists confiscated his last possessions. Troubles never com¬
ing single-handed, Stravinsky was also suffering excruciating
pain as a result of intercostal neuralgia which made
breathing difficult and which even brought on partial
paralysis of the legs. At the same time, his spirits were
depressed by the death of a younger brother and a nurse
whom he had accepted as a foster-mother. In the midst
of such confusion and bitterness—further heightened not
a little by the inconvenience of being forced to compose a
great part of his work in a cold Swiss attic, cluttered with
empty Suchard chocolate boxes—Stravinsky created his
tonal picture of a peasant wedding in Russia.
Les Noces, which was completed in 1917, did not re¬
ceive its final instrumentation until 1923. On June 13,
1923, the Ballet Russe introduced it at the Paris Opera to
thunderous acclaim. It was esteemed as one of the great¬
est artistic triumphs of the Ballet Russe and one of
Stravinsky’s most vitally dynamic scores.
Stravinsky’s middle creative period had spanned seven
years, in which five major works were produced. It is

the opinion of more than one authority that it is in this
period that Stravinsky fashioned his greatest music, music
in which the abortive revolutions of the “Russian Five”
were brought to their ultimate and inevitable destination.
In these five works, harmonic language had been immeasur¬
ably enriched, contrapuntal writing had been stretched to
its utmost flexibility, forms had become elastically supple,
orchestration had been illuminated with electric brilliance,
rhythm had been treated with a new and dynamic fresh¬
ness. In these works, Stravinsky created an impression of
irresistible energy. This music gives the listener the im¬
pression that it was created at white heat. The music
sweeps relentlessly along like a typhoon. Stravinsky’s
works from L’Oisean de feu through Les Noces are the
irrepressible outbursts of creative genius.
4.
In 1919, Stravinsky took up his residence in Garches,

in the environs of Paris, and from this time on his perma¬
nent home was France. At the same time, Stravinsky ap¬
plied for French citizenship.
But in his music, he had already changed his national¬
ity. Beginning with Renard—a “burlesque from Russian
folk-tales” for four male voices and chamber orchestra,
composed in 1917—a mystifying metamorphosis came over
Stravinsky’s style and idiom. Stravinsky had suddenly dis¬
carded the style of his magnificent second period as though
it were a removable cloak, and assumed an altogether new
and foreign one. Russian tradition and culture no longer
dominated his thinking; from the composition of music that
clearly showed its Slavic origins he turned to the creation
of works whose polished surfaces reflected the elegance of
French art. Most important of all, he had ceased being
the defiant rebel, the fearless pioneer. Renouncing his
IGOR STRAVINSKY 23
former vitriolic style, he began to compose music with a
simplified and lucid texture, in forms polished and refined.
A cool counterpoint replaced his former tangled rhythms;
his orchestration had now been peeled of several layers of
color; the former nervous excitation now yielded to an
aloof placidity. Stravinsky was composing “in the style of
Handel and Scarlatti.”
Renard launched Stravinsky upon his third period as a
creator, a period even more radically different from the
one that preceded it than the second had been from the
first. With two burlesques—L’Histoire du soldat, for
chamber orchestra, “a story to be read, played and danced”
(introduced at Lausanne on September 28, 1918) and Pul-
cinella, a ballet based upon melodic material of Pergolesi
(first performed by the Ballet Russe at the Paris Opera
on May 15, 1920)—and with the Concerto for Piano and
Orchestra, composed in 1923-1924 and introduced in the
latter year in Paris by Serge Koussevitzky with the com¬
poser at the piano, the new style reached crystallization.
Stravinsky’s music was now completely objective, un¬
emotional, restrained; it was, in short, “pure” music. “I
loathe orchestral effects as means of embellishment,”
Stravinsky said, a few years later, in an interview. “I have
long since renounced the futilities of brio. I dislike
cajoling the public; it inconveniences me. . . . The crowd
expects the artist to tear out his entrails and exhibit them.
That is what is held to be the noblest expression of art, and
called personality, individuality, temperament, and so on.”
Certainly, Stravinsky had no further intention of indulging
in emotional exhibitionism; the music of his new period was
as impersonal as a slab of marble.
In 1925, Stravinsky crossed the ocean for the first time.
The leading orchestras of America—including the New
York Philharmonic Orchestra—were placed in his hands;
in a series of guest concerts, Stravinsky conducted programs
devoted to his own music. The regal reception which
America gave him showed clearly that, although Stravin¬
sky had changed his aesthetic philosophy and reversed his
style completely, he was still, in the eyes of the music pub¬
lic of America, the most picturesque and glamorous figure
among the composers of our time.
In 1927, Stravinsky composed his first major work in
the new idiom, an opera-oratorio based upon Sophocles’
CEdipus Rex. In planning the work, Stravinsky felt
strongly that the text, to suit best the quality of his music,
must be in a classical tongue. Ancient Greek he discarded
as a language that was too dead. He therefore selected
Latin. Thus the text, which was written by Jean Cocteau,
was translated into Latin by Jean Danielou. In this form it
was first performed by the Ballet Russe in Paris at the
Theatre Sarah Bernhardt on May 30, 1927.
One year later, upon a commission from Mrs. Elizabeth
Sprague Coolidge, the eminent American patron of music,
Stravinsky composed another classical work—this time for
chamber orchestra, Apollon Musagete. Apollon was the
first work of Stravinsky to be given its world premiere in
Ajnerica (it was performed at the concerts of the Library
of Congress in Washington, D. C., in May of 1928). It
was also the last work of Stravinsky featured by the Ballet
Russe. In 1929, Diaghilev died in Venice. And with
Diaghilev gone, Stravinsky’s last link with the Ballet
Russe was permanently severed.
After Apollon came two more outstanding works. In
1930, Stravinsky composed the Symplionie des Psaumes
(The Symphony of Psalms), for chorus and orchestra, in¬
scribed to “the great glory of God” and dedicated to the
Boston Symphony Orchestra, which had commissioned the
work to celebrate the organization’s fiftieth anniversary.
The Symplionie, however, was not given its first perform¬
ance by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Through a mis¬
handling of the dates, it was first performed by the
Brussels Philharmonic Society on December 13, 1930, six
IGOR STRAVINSKY 25
days before Koussevitzky introduced it in Boston. The
text of the Symphonie is from the Vulgate. In 1933-1934,
Stravinsky produced a “melodrama,” Persephone, for
chorus, orchestra, tenor and speaking voice, composed to a
text of Andre Gide. Commissioned by Ida Rubinstein, it
was introduced by her in Paris in April, 1934.
More recently, Stravinsky has composed a choreographic
drama—Jeu de cartes en trois donnes (The Card Party)
—dealing with the game of poker. Composed expressly
for the American Ballet, this work was first introduced
by that organization at the Metropolitan Opera House,
on April 27, 1937. The action of the ballet portrays a
game of cards by several choreographic and pantomimic
devices. The stage is set like a great club-room, but the
action, representing the card game, takes place on an
elevated, smaller stage. The face cards and the joker
are represented by solo dancers, costumed to the sub¬
ject. This was the first time when a Stravinsky ballet
had had its world premiere in America. It was conducted
by himself. Two earlier ballets shared the program—
Apollon Musagete and La Baiser de la Fee.
There has been as much acrimonious disagreement about
the importance of Stravinsky’s neo-classical idiom as there
was, in 1913, about the artistic importance of Le Sacre.
Today, as well as in 1913, Stravinsky is a subject for de¬
bate. On the one hand, there are many musicians who fer¬
vently believe that Stravinsky’s third period is the ultimate,
inevitable fulfillment of a lifelong artistic evolution. These
musicians feel strongly that Stravinsky has produced music
of transcendent quality; music finally denuded of overstuffed
costumes and meretricious jewelry, purged of hysterics and
emotional exhibitionism; music whose highest aesthetic value
lies in its purity, objective beauty and restraint.
But just so strongly does the opposing camp believe that
in this third period the genius of Stravinsky has entered
upon senescence. These critics feel that the great weakness
of Stravinsky’s latest works rests in the consummate suc¬

cess with which the composer has achieved the ideal he has
set for himself: to reduce the body of music to a mere ugly
skeleton. Even in the most pretentious of his later works,
they feel, there are stretches of tonal aridity, as well as a
style that is effete and without character, devoid of any
vital message.
However, though Stravinsky’s music may be subject for
violent difference of opinion, there can be no question that,
for more than three decades, he has held a magisterial
position over the composers of our time, exerting a cataclys¬
mic influence upon the development of music. Just as in
1913, his cacophonies and his fresh rhythmic conceptions
led the way to revolt and opened an altogether new avenue
for musical expression (an avenue through which composers
everywhere have followed his lead), so five years later his
purity of writing pointed the way to a neo-classicism which
many younger and older composers were to adopt just as
readily. His outlook, his artistic aim, his style may undergo
complete reversal, but such is the force and strength of his
personality that he sways with him half of the music-world.
Whether one accepts the music of his later period or rejects
it, one cannot deny that as an influence in modern music
Stravinsky remains unique.
5.
Igor Stravinsky is small and thin; his chest appears

hollow. His face, long and lean, has an expression of inde¬
finable sadness. His eyes have a particularly piercing
intensity which not even heavy lenses can obscure. An
aquiline nose descends sharply from a majestic brow, and
overlooks lips of uncompromising firmness. Upon his upper
lip the hair grows thin and sparse as though he had only
just begun to raise a moustache. He gives the impression
of excessive fragileness. However, he is not half so sus-
IGOR STRAVINSKY 27
ceptible to illness as his puny body suggests or as he himself
frankly believes. An inveterate hypochondriac, his frequent
pains and indispositions are often more imaginary than
actual.
When this author last visited Stravinsky, the composer
was living in a spacious apartment in the Faubourg St.
Honore district of Paris, a few moments from the Champs
Elysees. The family consists of four children: the two boys
are Feodor, a capable painter, and Sviatoslav, a competent
pianist (who, together with his father, gave the world
premiere of the Concerto for two pianos in Paris in October
of 1935) ; the two girls are Milena, who paints icons for
churches, and Milka, who is still very young.
Stravinsky impresses friends and those with whom he
comes into direct contact as a man of herculean energy. He
is no longer a young man, and he has had a vigorous life.
Yet his schedule would tax the endurance of one many years
younger. His conductorial assignments force him to span
virtually half a globe during a season. Yet he returns from
each rigorous concert schedule and fatiguing succession of
boats and trains as fresh as when he started—fresh enough,
certainly, to hurl himself with his customary zest into
producing a new composition, studying of new scores, in¬
creasing his musical equipment, perhaps even writing critical
essays, or a book of memoirs.
Seated at his side, one instantly feels the enormous vitality
of the man. He pours as much energy and zest into a
casual conversation as he does into any of his endeavors—
vigorously criticizing composers and their music, acridly
condemning fads and fashions, electrically alive at every
moment. As he talks, he diverts some of this endless energy
into smoking cigarettes, stroking his moustache, and making
staccato gestures of the wrists to punctuate his remarks.
Occasionally, he shifts nervously in his chair, or paces the
room. He seems incapable of being still a moment. He
literally exhausts his listeners.
Stravinsky is enormously fond of conversation, and will

discuss any musical subject with animation. Unless he is
very familiar with his visitor, Stravinsky maintains a dis¬
creet but frigid silence where his own music is concerned.
Not that Stravinsky is modest 1 As a matter of fact, he is
quite convinced of the ultimate importance of his work, and
has no hesitation in telling you about it; at one time he went
so far as to say (refusing, however, to be specific) that
there have been only three people in the world who have
really understood his music—thereby placing his life work
in the esoteric class of Whitehead’s symbolic logic and
Einstein’s theory of relativity. His reluctance to discuss his
own work springs from life-long experience, which has
taught him that the majority of those who come to him with
idolatrous words on their lips reveal, when they flower into
more elaborate conversation, an appalling ignorance of
what he has tried to accomplish. If, however, Stravinsky
feels that you possess an intelligent understanding of his
scores, not only will he talk at length about his aims and
ideals, but he will also have no hesitancy in telling you that
his style has undergone a subtle and inevitable evolution,
that his present neo-classical period is his most important
phase and that the music world is not as yet sufficiently
equipped to recognize the inherent greatness of his best
works, among which he numbers CEdipus Rex, the Sym-
phonie des Psaumes and Persephone.
A musical conversation with Stravinsky is an invigorating
experience if for no other reason than the unorthodoxy of
his opinions. He esteems Donizetti and Bellini higher than
he does Beethoven, Schubert, or Brahms. About Bellini he
once said that the music world is still too immature to appre¬
ciate the real genius that created Norma and La Sonnam-
hula. Wagner he detests instinctively and intellectually.
His favorite composers include Mozart and Tchaikovsky.
Among the moderns, he holds the highest esteem for Pro-
IGOR STRAVINSKY 29
kofieff, Hindemith and de Falla. None of the younger

talents has made an impression upon him.
Stravinsky’s world, however, does not consist entirely
and completely of music. His intellectual horizon is suffi¬
ciently broad to include a keen appreciation of art and
literature. Except for art, religion plays the most important
role in his life. He is devoutly pious. In a corner of his
study there hangs a painted icon over a lighted candle; in
front of this Stravinsky prays each morning. He also
attends the Russian Church in Paris regularly. By nature
he is a mystic, believing firmly in his intuition and instincts
and the power of heaven-sent inspiration. He is also
morbidly superstitious.
There is nothing of the ascetic in Stravinsky. He is
extraordinarily fond of good food and fine wines. Every¬
thing about him attests to his love for system and order.
He dresses with the utmost neatness, his dress including
spats, discreet jewelry, and a walking-stick. His daily life
in Paris is systematically routinized to include not only his
musical activities and his many appointments, but also his
religious functions and even his regular gymnastic exercises
before an open window. His desk is as neatly in shape after
he has worked there for several hours as when he ap¬
proaches it. A manuscript of his is the last word in precise
and fastidious clarity; his calligraphy resembles fine print.
He detests theories concocted to explain his music. “A
nose is not manufactured; a nose just is. Thus, too, my
art,” he once remarked to an interviewer. “For me, as a
creative musician, composition is a daily function that I feel
impelled to discharge,” he wrote in his autobiography. “I
compose because I am made for that and cannot do other¬
wise.”
RICHARD STRAUSS
II
RICHARD STRAUSS
1.
“^TpHIRTY years ago I was regarded a rebel,” Richard
Strauss once said about himself. “I have lived long
enough to find myself a classic.”
Other modern composers have had the satisfaction of
seeing earlier bitterly attacked works assume, with the pas¬
sage of time, unquestioned importance in the eyes of the
music world. But Strauss is perhaps alone among modern
composers in finding himself not only widely performed and
enthusiastically accepted, but even stamped as a classical
master—he who, only yesterday, was branded an outcast
in music. In his own lifetime, Strauss has procured for
himself a permanent and undebated niche in musical history.
This triumph, for all the gratification it brings to a com¬
poser, is not without a certain element of tragedy where
Richard Strauss is concerned. Paradoxically enough, this,
the greatest victory a composer can claim, has been for
Strauss something of defeat as well. If Strauss has lived
long enough to see himself become a classic, he has also
lived long enough to know that artistically he has been dead
a long time. If he has lived long enough to see his early
symphonic-poems and operas assume prodigious importance
in the eyes of his own age, he has also lived to discover that,
despite his productivity, he has never equalled the quality
of his early works, that, as a matter of fact, his immortality
must rest implicitly with the productions of his youth.
The career of every significant artist has been marked
by a slow and subtle evolution in which the growth, develop¬
ment and final maturity of the artist is reached in a series
33
of successive stages. In the career of Richard Strauss,
however, we have not an evolution but a slow and pro¬
longed deterioration. If Arabella, The Egyptian Helen
and Tageszeiten—Strauss’ more recent works—had been
composed during the early period of his artistic career, and
if Till Eulenspiegel and Salome had been the very latest
fruits of his industry, that would have been a normal and
healthy growth. As it is, Richard Strauss’ musical develop¬
ment is upside down. He is greatest in his earliest and
feeblest in his latest works. At the age of thirty, Strauss
was the most individual, most strongly gifted and genuinely
inspired composer of his time; he stood alone; his music,
bursting from him in full-statured maturity like Minerva
from the brain of Jupiter, was the utterance of undisputed
genius. Today, Richard Strauss is still famous as a com¬
poser of those very works, and the undisturbed creative
activity of forty years has added nothing to his stature. His
later productions consist of music of effective technical skill;
but gone are the heart, the imagination, the poetry, the
dynamic force and inspiration of his early masterpieces.
His later works represent an appalling decline.
Disintegration is always a pathetic spectacle. Richard
Strauss, the greatest musical figure of his time, is, therefore,
likewise the most tragic.
2.
Richard Strauss, the only son and elder of two children
of Franz Strauss, famous horn player, and Josephine
Pschorr Strauss, the daughter of the prosperous Bavarian
brewer, was born in Munich on June 11, 1864.
Franz Strauss, who was employed as solo horn player in
the court orchestra, was an eminent artist on his instrument.
Von Biilow once referred to him as the “Joachim of the
horn.” The career of Franz Strauss assumes particular
interest, in connection with that of his son, in that he was
RICHARD STRAUSS 35
the leader in Munich of all cabals and intrigues against

Richard Wagner. Franz Strauss hated Wagner’s music
with a lusty passion, expressing that hate unmistakably and
unequivocally. Once, in the midst of a rehearsal under
Wagner himself, Franz Strauss impudently rose from his
seat and walked out of the orchestra-pit because he would
not perform such music. On another occasion—when
Strauss had played a Wagnerian horn passage with par¬
ticularly beautiful tone and phrasing—Wagner openly sug¬
gested that a performer who could play in such a fashion
could not possibly hate the music he was performing; to
which Franz Strauss acidly and vehemently answered that
his performance had absolutely nothing to do with his
opinion of the music. Franz Strauss, it might be added,
lived long enough to see his son Richard become one of
the most devoted disciples of the Wagnerian music-drama.
Wagner would have been the first to appreciate the irony
of this situation.
Richard was a precocious child. At the age of four he
began the study of the piano under the guidance of his
mother, his progress rapidly attracting the admiration of
his father. His sixth year found him attempting composi¬
tion. He produced a rollicking polka, Der Schneiderpolka,
and an art-song inspired by the song the children were sing¬
ing round the Christmas tree. When he was sent to ele¬
mentary school in Munich, his mother would wrap his books
with music note-paper of which there was always an abun¬
dant supply in the Strauss household. It was soon discov¬
ered that, in class, little Richard was deaf to the instruction
of his teachers; he was often busy filling his bookcovers with
melodies and abortive compositions.
The father knew definitely that his son had an extraor¬
dinary musical instinct and formidable native talent. He
knew also that his son was destined for greater achieve¬
ments than those which lie in the hands of a virtuoso. To
prepare him adequately for whatever future was destined,
Franz Strauss gave his son a comprehensive education.

After four years of elementary school, Richard was sent to
the Gymnasium where he remained until 1882. Music was,
to be sure, followed industriously. The study of the piano
and the violin was pursued with intensity under August
Tombo and Benno Walter respectively. Likewise for five
years young Strauss was given a comprehensive schooling
in harmony, counterpoint and instrumentation by Kapell¬
meister F. W. Meyer.
The name of Richard Strauss soon asserted itself promi¬
nently in Munich’s musical life. While he was still in the
Gymnasium, a chorus for Sophocles’ Elektra and a Festival
Chorus were performed at a student concert of the Gym¬
nasium. Shortly after this—Strauss had just seen his
sixteenth birthday—a well-known singer, Frau Meysenheim,
introduced into her program three songs of Strauss. One
year later, Strauss made his creative industry felt even more
strongly. On March 16, 1881, his violin teacher, Benno
Walter, introduced the young composer’s String Quartet in
A. Two weeks later, the great Wagnerian conductor, Her¬
mann Levi, performed Strauss’ Symphony in D-minor.
Thus, still in his apprenticeship, Strauss tasted the sweet¬
ness of success.
His youth, of course, had made him flexible to his
father’s peculiar penchants and prejudices. Hence, at first,
Richard Strauss was a vehement anti-Wagnerite. Tristan
und Isolde, when he first heard it, represented to him the
incoherent jargon of a maniac. Hence, too, Strauss was
powerfully influenced by the music of Johannes Brahms.
Most of his early works show many of the characteristics
of Brahms—the allegiance to classicism, the epical stature
of form, the sensuous sweeps of melody, the elegiac tender¬
ness of the meditative moments. Johannes Brahms was
familiar with the music of young Strauss and was heartily
pleased by the high flattery of imitation. After the per¬
formance of Strauss’ first symphony, Brahms approached
RICHARD STRAUSS 37
the young composer, patted him paternally on the shoulder,
and exclaimed: “This is quite pretty music, young man !”
Between 1882 and 1883, Strauss continued his academic
studies at the University of Munich. This was an eventful
period, because at this time Strauss discovered Wagner for
the first time. He attended performances of Tristan and
Walkiire when, to his amazement, the labyrinth of Wag¬
ner’s music extricated itself and Strauss perceived the
inevitable logic and truth of Wagner’s art. He had
already been deeply impressed by studying Wagner’s scores;
he now emerged a perfect Wagnerite. Eight years later,
the conversion became complete when Strauss attended the
Bayreuth festival to pay homage at the Wagnerian shrine.
Upon leaving the Munich University in 1883, Strauss
came to Berlin for a short visit where the court orchestra,
under Raedecke, presented his Overture in C-minor. While
in Berlin, his publisher, Eugen Spitzweg—convinced of his
enormous promise—sent a set of Strauss’ piano pieces to
Hans von Biilow, the great conductor of Meiningen. “I
thoroughly dislike them,” was von Billow’s opinion, “they
are unripe.” But that there was something in Strauss that
impressed von Biilow strongly became apparent when,
shortly afterwards, the conductor introduced the Serenade
for Thirteen Wind Instruments in Meiningen, at the same
time expressing his faith in the young composer in no uncer¬
tain vocabulary. Strauss was urged by von Biilow to com¬
pose other works for him, and in the year that followed he
produced a Concerto for Horn and Orchestra and a Suite
(also for thirteen Wind Instruments). The last-named
work, Strauss himself conducted, and, as though to express
his full faith in the young musician more emphatically, von
Biilow compelled Strauss to direct the work without the
benefit of a single rehearsal.
On October 1, 1885, von Biilow appointed Strauss as his
assistant with the Meiningen orchestra at a salary of $360 a
year—launching Strauss upon a career as conductor which
was eventually to become almost as preeminent as his crea¬
tive life. The following year was one of intense activity
for Strauss. He appeared frequently at the Meiningen con¬
certs in the roles of conductor and concert pianist; in Novem¬
ber, 1885, as a matter of fact, von Biilow passed on the
baton of the orchestra completely to Strauss. This activity,
however, did not interfere with his creative work. He
composed two new large works—a Symphony in F-minor
(which was given its world’s premiere in America by Theo¬
dore Thomas on December 13, 1884) and a Piano Quartet
which won a prize offered by the Berlin Tonkunstlerverein
offered for outstanding new chamber music.
It was at this time that Strauss met and became a close
friend of Alexander Ritter, who was probably the greatest
single influence in his career. What Diaghilev was later to
be for Stravinsky, Ritter was now for Strauss. Both com¬
posers owe their sudden evolution to independent musical
writing and full freedom of expression and individuality of
style, to the outside influence of a strong, dominating and
integrated personality. Ritter, a violinist in the court
orchestra in Munich, husband of the niece of Richard Wag¬
ner, was not only an excellent musician, but a man of pro¬
found intellect, a student of philosophy. In endless
conversations on art, in extensive theorizing about the
aesthetic mission of music, Ritter unfolded new horizons for
Strauss, pointed out to him altogether new directions. “His
influence was in the nature of a storm wind,” Strauss later
confessed. “He urged me on to the development of the
poetic, the expressive in music as exemplified in the works
of Liszt, Berlioz and Wagner.” Through Ritter’s advice,
Strauss was urged to abandon the constraining classicism of
Brahms—in which his fiery spirit was smothered—and to
adopt the more plastic form of Liszt’s tone-poems. Richard
Wagner had recently died; Ritter urged Strauss to carry the
Wagnerian torch, to desert the creation of “pure” sym¬
phonic music and to turn to pungent dramatic expression.
RICHARD STRAUSS
RICHARD STRAUSS 39
Even more important, Ritter inspired in Strauss independ¬
ent thinking, and gave him the moral courage to put down
upon paper those original conceptions which Strauss had
confided to him in moments of intimate conversation. As a
result of Ritter’s friendship, Strauss’ music changed its
character and personality almost overnight.
Early in 1886, Strauss traveled to Italy for a brief holi¬
day. Upon his return he composed the first work to
disclose a revolutionary metamorphosis in his style, Aus
Italien, the first music in which Strauss permitted his flair
for dramatic writing to assert itself. Aus Italien, in
Strauss’ own description, is “the connecting link between the
old and the new.” It cannot be said that von Biilow was
able to follow the swift pace of his protege. “Does my age
make me so reactionary?” wrote von Biilow after seeing the
score of Aus Italien. “I find that the clever composer has
gone to the extreme limits of tonal possibilities (in the
realm of beauty) and, in fact, has even gone beyond those
limits without real necessity.”
On August 1, 1886, Strauss was appointed third Kapell¬
meister of the Munich Opera under Levi and Fischer. The
following March, he conducted Aus Italien for the first time.
The audience, first apathetic to Strauss’ new style, soon
expressed its disapproval unequivocally. When the fourth
movement of the work was being performed—in which, to
express the abandon of Neapolitan life, Strauss for the first
time unleashed his cacophony—hissing and catcalls were
heard throughout the auditorium. Upon the conclusion of
the performance, father Franz Strauss, who was in the
audience, rushed backstage to give his son words of con¬
solation. To his amazement he found Richard sitting on
the edge of a table, his feet dangling cheerfully. The fiasco
had evidently made no impression upon him; Strauss was
now too sure of himself, and too sure of his direction.
3.
Between 1889 and 1894, Strauss officiated as court con¬

ductor in Weimar. Of greater importance is the fact that
in that time he stepped into his full stride as a composer.
He had already written an energetic violin sonata and
several songs of great poignancy; he now began the com¬
position of the first of those tone-poems which brought him
world fame. In the fall of 1889, Hans von Biilow per¬
formed Don Juan at a concert of the Weimar Court
Orchestra. Don Juan was not, strictly speaking, the first
of Strauss’ tone-poems—Macbeth having been composed a
year earlier. But it was the first large work he wrote which
is part of the modern concert-repertory.
Don Juan, for which Strauss never supplied any specific
program material, was modeled after a poem of Nicolaus
Lenau. “My Don Juan” explained the poet, “is no hot-
blooded man eternally pursuing women. It is the longing in
him to find a women who is to him incarnate womanhood,
and to enjoy, in the one, all the women on earth, whom he
cannot possess as individuals. Because he does not find
her, although he reels from one to another, at last Disgust
seizes hold of him, and this Disgust is the Devil that
fetches him.” This might very aptly serve as the brief
for Strauss’ music.
Don Juan was the harbinger of what was soon to follow.
After Don Juan came the deluge—of masterpieces.
Death and Transfiguration was completed in 1889, and
was introduced by Strauss himself in Eisenach on June 21,
1890. Strauss’ friend, Alexander Ritter, wrote the poem
which serves as the program for Strauss’ music. “In the
little room, dimly lighted by only a candle end, lies the sick
man on his bed. But just now he has wrestled despairingly
with Death. Now he has sunk exhausted in sleep. . . . But
Death does not long grant sleep and dreams to his victim.
Cruelly he shakes him awake, and the fight begins afresh.
RICHARD STRAUSS 41
Will to live and power of Death! What frightful wres¬

tling! Neither bears off the victory, and all is silent once
more! Sunk back tired of battle, sleepless, as in fever-
frenzy the sick man now sees his life pass before his inner
eye. . . . First the morning red of childhood. . . . Then
the youth’s saucier play—exerting and trying his strength—
till he ripens to the man’s fight, and now burns with hot lust
after the higher prizes of life. The one high purpose that
has led him through life was to shape all he saw trans¬
figured into a still more transfigured form. Cold and sneer¬
ing, the world set barrier upon barrier in the way of his
achievement. . . . And so he pushes forward, so he climbs,
desists not from his sacred purpose. What he has ever
sought with his heart’s deepest yearning, he still seeks in his
death sweat. . . . Then clangs the last stroke of Death’s
iron hammer, breaks the earthly body in twain, covers the
eye with the night of death. But from the heavenly spaces
sounds mightily to greet him what he yearningly sought for
here: deliverance from the world, transfiguration of the
word.” 1
Death and Transfiguration was followed, five years later,
by Till Eulens pie gel’s Merry Pranks, After the Old-
Fashioned Roguish Manner—first performed in Frankfurt,
in September, 1895. Till Eulenspiegel was based upon a
celebrated legend about a practical jokester who went
through life, whistling nonchalantly, as he perpetrated one
successful prank after another—some harmless, some ex¬
cessively vulgar, some malicious. “It is impossible for me
to furnish a programme to Eulenspiegel,” Strauss wrote to
Dr. Franz Wiillner, who conducted the second performance
of the work (in Cologne). “Were I to put into words
what I had in mind in composing the difficult parts, they
would often sound queer, and might even give offense. Let
me leave it, therefore, to my hearers to crack the hard nut
which the Rogue has handed them. By the way of helping
1 Translated by William Foster Apthorp.
them to a better understanding, it seems sufficient to point
out the two ‘Eulenspiegel’ motives, which, in the most mani¬
fold disguises, moods, and situations, pervade the whole up
to the catastrophe, when, after he has been condemned to
death, Till is strung up a gibbet. For the rest, let them
guess at the musical joke which a Rogue has offered them.”
Incidentally, although Strauss mercilessly destroys Till
at the gallows in his tone-poem, the legend was more merci¬
ful : the story originally had it that Till, by his sharp brain,
escaped the doom to which his mischief had brought him.
Following in the footsteps of Till Eulenspiegel came Thus
Spake Zarathustra, “freely after Friedrich Nietzsche,”
completed on August 24, 1896, and performed on Novem¬
ber 27 of that year at Frankfort-on-the-Main by the com¬
poser. “I did not intend to write philosophical music or
portray Nietzsche’s great work musically. I meant to
convey by means of music an idea of the development of the
human race from its origin, through the various phases of
evolution, religious as well as scientific, up to Nietzsche’s
idea of the Superman.” And, in an interview, Strauss
added that he desired in Zarathustra, “to embody the con¬
flict between man’s nature as it is and man’s metaphysical
attempts to lay hold of his nature with his intelligence—
leading finally to the conquest of life by the release of
laughter.”
Two more great tone-poems were to emerge from
Strauss’ adventures with his new musical style. Don
Quixote, Fantastic Variations on a Theme of a Knightly
Character—built upon incidents from Cervantes’ immortal
novel—was composed in 1897, completed December 29,
1897, and was introduced on March 18, 1898, at the
Giirzenich concerts of Cologne, under the baton of Franz
Wiillner. Approximately one year later, on March 3,
1899, the Museumgesellschaft of Frankfort-on-the-Main
introduced Strauss’ autobiographical tone-poem, Ein Hel-
denleben (in the section describing the hero’s soul, Strauss
RICHARD STRAUSS 43
Utilized thematic material from his principal works to date,

thereby summing up his own spiritual development)—a
depiction of the struggles of a hero with his many enemies.
These tone-poems, stunning as they did the musical in¬
telligence of the late nineteenth century, made Strauss the
storm-center of the music world. A few there were who
proclaimed Strauss a prophetic voice in music, but these
were sadly outnumbered by those who esteemed him a char¬
latan and his music charivari. To the majority, the subtle
form of Strauss’ tone-poems appeared episodic, rambling,
incoherent, because the transition from one subject to the
next was not so clearly defined as it was in Liszt, for
example, and because Strauss introduced innumerable minor
motives to describe the program he was following. More¬
over, the dramatic intensity of Strauss’ dissonances appeared
to be only so much unbearable noise. Till Eulenspiegel, in
the opinion of one writer, was “a vast and coruscating
jumble of instrumental cackles about things unfit to be men¬
tioned.” Claude Debussy referred to a Strauss work as a
piece “resembling ‘An Hour of Music in an Asylum.’ ”
Strauss’ gargantuan orchestra, which included such singular
instruments as a “wind machine” and a “watchman’s rattle,”
inspired malicious satire. Strauss’ dramatic realism in trans¬
ferring his programmatic material into music—he even
attempted to translate into tone the bleating of sheep, the
galloping of horses, the posture of Till holding his nose, the
babbling of wives in the market-place—was subject for ro¬
bust hilarity. Strauss’ egotism in identifying himself as the
hero of his Heldenleben created bitter resentment.
Dissension and debate, resentment and hilarity, criticism
and praise, all extravagant, combined to spread the name of
Richard Strauss from one end of the music world to the
other. Curiosity about his works inevitably brought per¬
formances in every important music center. By the dawn
of the twentieth century, Richard Strauss was the most
dominant figure in the world of contemporary music. There
were those who detested him and who savagely attacked

his works; but to be unfamiliar with them or to ignore
them was impossible.
Time has elevated these tone-poems to that high position
in musical literature they deserve. They are not without
their faults, and frequently—with the exception only of Till
Eulenspiegel—Strauss introduces material of banal quality.
Yet who can deny today that they are works of genius?
Here is a technical skill that seems almost innate, a prodi¬
gious mastery of the orchestra, an ability to cull from it
qualities and effects it had never before produced. Here
was an uncanny ability to etch character through the supple
use of rhythm, an incredible talent at etching atmosphere
and background in a few bars, an almost infallible touch in
portraying every subtle shade of emotion. Here, finally,
was a burst of sensuous melody which pours in never-ending
abundance, as intoxicating as champagne, as luxuriously
splendid as the sun that pours through the opening pages of
Zarathustra’s invocation. Within these tone-poems one
meets with immortal phrases, imperishable lines, stretches
of deathless tone which inspire and electrify with every
hearing. The nervous quivering of the violins in Till Enlen-
speigel at the close of the work (bringing the recapitulation
of the opening theme to a culminating point and heralding
the approach of the concluding explosion) sounds a pathos
more heartbreaking than the extravagant tragedies of
Tchaikovsky’s glissandos—and this in a work that sparkles
and glistens with malicious irony! Zarathustra’s invoca¬
tion to the sun bursts upon us with a magnificence that stuns
and stupefies. Don Juan is full of the hot and restless blood
of youth. Has musical literature many effects so electrify¬
ing as the energy that sweeps through the first four measures
of this work like a hurricane? The opening of Death and
Transfiguration paints with the first few bars an atmosphere
of despair and frustration that permeate the entire work.
Where else—with the exception of Tristan—can one dupli-
RICHARD STRAUSS 45
cate the magnificent passion and ecstasy of the Heldenleben
love music? And so on and on through the tone-
poems. . . .
4.
We have traveled so swiftly in our biographical narrative

that it is necessary to retrace our steps briefly.
In the spring of 1891, Strauss suffered congestion of the
lungs which, aggravated by a general nervous breakdown
brought on by overwork, became so acute that the doctors
despaired of his life. At one moment, Strauss—certain
that he was dying—expressed the sentiment that it was
difficult to die without having once conducted Tristan. For¬
tunately, the illness was gradually relieved. In the spring
of 1892, Strauss took a long voyage to the warmer climate
of Greece, Egypt and Sicily as a rest cure. In Cairo, as a
relief from the monotony of travel, Strauss began work
upon his first opera, built upon an original libretto. The
first act was completed in Luxor, the second in Sicily, the
third in Marquartstein, Upper Bavaria. On May 12, 1894,
Strauss himself conducted the first performance of his opera
Guntram in Weimar. Being modeled too closely upon the
Wagnerian music-drama, Guntram was a dismal failure, and
was given only one performance when produced again in
Munich, November 16, 1895.
One of the two featured singers in the cast of Guntram
in the Weimar production was Pauline de Ahna, daughter
of a military officer, and a singer of great talent. Strauss
had met her three years previously at Feldafing, a Bavarian
summer resort, and from that time on their friendship grew.
The friendship between Richard Strauss and Pauline de
Ahna was prolonged; but their courtship was brief. They
were married on September 10, 1894.
She made him a remarkable wife. A shrewd administra¬
tor, practical, clear-headed and supremely efficient, she
managed Strauss’ affairs with a capable hand and a keen

intelligence. She arranged his social program, advised him
on all his business affairs, planned his day methodically.
She regulated his life with military precision. He soon
learned to depend implicitly upon her judgment, and he
permitted his life to be governed by it. Frequently, when
Strauss dallied too long in his garden or over a book, his
wife would call out to him: “Now, Richard, you had better
return to your composition!”—much in the manner of a
mother reminding her recalcitrant son that it was time for
the piano exercises. The extent to which Strauss was domi¬
nated by his wife is revealed by an amusing anecdote. The
Strausses were attending a social function at the Kaiser Bar
in Vienna, when a young lady begged Richard Strauss for
a dance. “I would love to,” he answered, his face becoming
red as he directed furtive glances at his wife. “But I really
don’t believe she would permit me.”
In 1898, Richard Strauss was one of the founders of—
and one of the most vigorous protagonists for—the Genos-
senschaft Deutscher Tondichter. Strauss had for a long time
been bitterly opposed to the system then existing whereby
orchestras could perform the work of living composers with¬
out the payment of any royalty. As a remedy, Strauss
founded the Genossenschaft which, uniting the German com¬
posers into a strong and unified body, demanded that the
performance of every modern work be remunerated by the
orchestra performing it.
For this, a mountain of abuse and invective descended
upon Strauss. Orchestras objected violently to increasing
their already formidable expenditure; publishers and young
composers raised the cry that the orchestras would not per¬
form new and unknown music of lesser composers if a
payment was necessary—thereby plunging the neglected
composer into still greater obscurity. Strauss was accused
of being mercenary, of attempting to convert art into a busi¬
ness. However, neither abuse nor criticism could drive
RICHARD STRAUSS 47
Strauss from the field of battle. Perhaps it is true that he

was guided by personal considerations—Strauss, from the
very first, was intensely materialistic; but it is absurd to
deny that he was likewise motivated by the knowledge that
with his victory composers throughout the world would
profit enormously.
The battle was a bitter one, but it was Strauss and his
Genossenschaft who emerged victorious. Today, princi¬
pally because of their efforts—no modern work is performed
anywhere by a symphony orchestra without the payment of
a specific royalty to the composer.
Beginning with the turn of the century, Strauss divided
his enormous energy equally between two major activities—
conducting and composition. In both of these he prospered.
After traveling across the face of Europe as a guest of the
foremost orchestras, achieving an enormous reputation as
interpreter not only of his own works but of the classical
composers as well, he was appointed conductor of the Berlin
Philharmonic. For a few years he officiated as a conductor
of the Berlin Royal Opera. Then, royal favor being with
him, he was elevated in 1898 to the position of general
director, which he retained for twelve years.
As a composer, Strauss deserted the form of the sym¬
phonic-poem—which he strongly felt that he had exhausted
—and turned more intensively to the song and the opera.
With the exception of the Symphonia Domestica—which
Strauss introduced during a visit to America on March 21,
1904—Strauss comparatively neglected orchestral music.
On November 21, 1901, Strauss’ second opera, Feuersnot
—a satire on Munich—was introduced at the Dresden
Opera. Like Guntram, Feuersnot failed because Strauss
was fumbling in a new medium. But on December 9, 1905,
Strauss definitely assumed the same significance as an
operatic composer that, a few years back, he had assumed
as a creator of symphonic-poems. On that date, the Dres-
den Opera presented his Salome, based upon the famous
play of Oscar Wilde.
In Salome, Strauss finally succeeded in pouring into oper¬
atic mould that sensuous melody, that rich harmonization,
that subtlety of musical characterization, that spontaneous
passion and emotion which appear so abundantly in his best
tone-poems. He had definitely found his sphere as an
operatic composer.
Salome made Strauss once again the center of storms and
abuse. In England, the censors forebade the production of
the opera on grounds of immorality. In America, after the
first performance, such a tempest of protest arose over the
“licentious” theme of the opera that it was hurriedly
removed from the repertoire. Strauss was vilified and slan¬
dered by self-righteous Puritans. Fortunately, Germany
and Austria adopted a saner and healthier attitude, and
with frequent performances it became apparent that Salome
was neither carnal nor demoralizing. When, in 1934, the
Metropolitan Opera House revived Salome, for the first
time since the “scandal” of twenty years back, more than
one critic expressed amazement that so innocuous a subject
could have aroused such a tempest of moral indignation
(but this was largely because the horrors had been toned
down).
Elektra, which followed Salome by four years, in¬
augurated the collaboration of Richard Strauss and the
distinguished Austrian poet and dramatist, Hugo von
Hofmannsthal. Hugo von Hofmannsthal was, in more
respects than one, the ideal librettist. He was not only a
master of his dramatic craft but, a musician in his own
right, he could fashon poetical plays that could lend them¬
selves to musical treatment; he was also capable of—as he
did not hesitate in doing—giving the composer advice upon
his musical composition. Strauss and von Hofmannsthal did
not meet frequently. Each worked in his own villa but,
through a prolific exchange of correspondence (which was
RICHARD STRAUSS 49
edited by Strauss’ son and published in 1928), they suc¬

ceeded in working hand in hand, each over his own assign¬
ment, each giving advice and criticism to the other. Strauss
(in his less contrary moments) frequently referred to von
Hofmannsthal as his “alter ego,” and more than once ex¬
pressed the sentiment that their collaboration had been
ordained by fate. “You are a born librettist,” Strauss
wrote to him, “which is, in my opinion, the greatest compli¬
ment, for I consider it far more difficult to write a good
operatic text than a fine drama.” 2
The collaboration of Richard Strauss and Hugo von
Hofmannsthal persisted for almost twenty-five years and
resulted in the following operas: Elektra (1909); Der
Rosenkavalier (1911), Ariadne auf Naxos (1912), the
ballet Josephs Legende (1914), The Woman Without a
Shadow (1919) and The Egyptian Helen (1928).
Of these operas, which range in quality from the sublime
to the ridiculous, the most personal and uniformly inspired
is Der Rosenkavalier, which, one might say without exag¬
gerated enthusiasm, is one of the great contributions of the
twentieth century to the operatic stage. Strauss had for
some time been eager to compose a comic-opera in which
the rich ironic vein of his musical style might be given free
play. He was thinking of something in the nature of
Johann Strauss’ Der Fledermaus, a work which he adored.
He aspired to produce an opera that would be playful,
satiric, pungently ironic, broadly farcical and, at other mo¬
ments, tender and passionate. He conveyed his wishes to
his collaborator, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, and asked for
a suitable book. “I shall try,” wrote the poet in reply, “to
put myself in sympathy with the requirements, possibilities,
and stylistic canons of comic opera. ... If I succeed, as I
confidently hope to do, the result will be something which,
in its blending of the grotesque with the lyrical, will to a
2 Correspondence between Richard Strauss and Hugo ■von Hofmannsthal,

edited by Franz Strauss.
certain extent correspond with your artistic individuality—
something which will be strong enough to keep its place in
the reportory for years, perhaps for decades.”
The libretto which von Hofmannsthal prepared far sur¬
passed the expectation of the composer both for its comic
and dramatic possibilities; and it inspired Strauss to write
his most consistently inspired score. In 1911, the Dresden
Opera introduced Der Rosenkavalier, with Carl Perron as
Baron Ochs. It was a triumph from the very first.
Der Rosenkavalier is, probably, the highest peak in
Strauss’ operatic art. No libretto and music in operatic
history suit each other so well as Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s
drama does Strauss’ often sprightly, often profound music.
Strauss has never excelled the spontaneity of this music. It
is well-shaded; it has subtle contrasts; it has the warmth and
the pulse of the human heart-beat. It is alive and bright¬
faced from the very first bar to the last. The character of
Baron Ochs, one of the most vitally alive in all of opera, is
etched in unforgettable strokes of broad satire not only in
the libretto but in the music as well. Strauss caught the
gusto and exuberance of the play with enviable felicitousness
in his music. But this opera was not merely a subtle play of
comedy and satire. At other moments, Strauss was swept
to an intensity of expression which produced music of incom¬
parable depth. It is very doubtful if even Strauss himself
ever equalled the magnificent emotional intensity of the
Marschallin music of the first act.
After Der Rosenkavalier came the dusk of the god. It
almost seemed that with one final magnificent speech, a
genius had completely exhausted himself. The decline of
Strauss as a creative artist began in 1911 and continued
permanently. In the opera, Strauss produced The Woman
Without a Shadow, Intermezzo, The Egyptian Helen, Ara¬
bella where one could find hardly more than a supreme
technique and the ingenious resources of a trained intellect.
But here a heart has ceased to feel deeply, to respond sensi-
RICHARD STRAUSS 51
tively to beauty, to express itself in uncontrollable bursts

of inspiration. In these works one no longer feels the fresh¬
ness and charm which were always attributes of Strauss’
style. The melodies are stilted, following obvious patterns;
the harmonies, though ingeniously contrived, are dull to the
ear. The waltzes of the Intermezzo, for example, are
pathetically derivative from those of another, and fresher,
Strauss. And, in The Egyptian Helen, does one actually
perceive Richard Strauss copying fragments of a melodic
line from Rimsky-Korsakoff ?
Orchestrally, the fate of Richard Strauss was equally
pathetic. The last tone-poem, Ein Heldenlehen, was com¬
posed in 1899, Symphonia Domestica, with its petty musical
setting of domestic bickerings marked the turning point;
despite its occasional inspired flight of dramatic effect and
melody, Symphonia Domestica clearly showed us the begin¬
ning of the decline of Strauss as a symphonic composer.
The fat and vulgar Military Marches came in 1907, the
Festliches Praeludium in 1913, the Alpensinfonie in 1915,
Schlagohers in 1924 and Tageszeiten in 1928. Gone, com¬
pletely, are the former electric energy, the former magnifi¬
cent outbursts of passion, the former tenderness and
sensitivity. Instead, we have a theoretician playing with
harmonic rules, a technician who becomes unspeakably
boring.
Even the song composer had exhausted himself. The
ability to produce exquisite cameos of emotion had eluded
his touch. One had merely to compare the charming and
ingenious Nichts and Allerseelen (1882), and the pro¬
foundly moving Traum durch die Dammerung, Morgen and
Standchen with such obviously manufactured morsels as
Gefunden (1906) and the sterile expanses of the Tages¬
zeiten,, for men’s chorus and orchestra, to realize that the
technique may still be present, but the inspiration is dead.
It was, therefore, somewhat sorrowfully that Ernest New¬
man wrote in 1934, on the occasion of the seventieth birth-
day of Richard Strauss, that “Strauss was a genius.” The

tense is accurate. Strauss was a genius more than twenty-
five years ago. Today, he is hardly more than an ex¬
perienced craftsman.
5.
Despite the decline, Richard Strauss remained the darling

of the music-world, particularly of the German and Austrian
music lovers, each of whom claimed him as their own. As
long as the tone-poems were featured on symphony pro¬
grams, and Salome, Elektra and Der Rosenkavalier were
permanent fixtures in the operatic repertoire, just so long
did a music world feel grateful to the creator of such master¬
pieces. Thus Vienna gave him a gift of the magnificent
grounds cut from the park of the Imperial Belvedere Palace
if he consented to remain in that city for four months a
year. Thus, too, when Strauss visited America again in
1921 he was given a royal reception. Pilgrimages were
made by musicians throughout the world to his villa in
Garmisch-Partenkirchen to pay homage to a master. And
whenever Strauss conducted (Strauss served as conductor at
the Vienna State Opera from 1919 to 1924, and since that
time has been a guest conductor in Munich, Berlin, Vienna
and Bayreuth), an audience would rise to its feet in respect
to a great musical figure.
When, in 1933, the Nazi government assumed power in
Germany and instituted an artistic creed which revolted the
integrity of every artist—a creed which banished every artist
of Jewish race, which viciously denounced any music con¬
structed from an original matrix, and which elevated to the
highest artistic standards Nazi musicians of negligible back¬
ground and equipment as well as music pompously chauvin¬
istic—an entire world waited to see what would be the
attitude of Germany’s greatest musician. Of all musicians
in Germany, Strauss was in the strongest position to express
RICHARD STRAUSS 53
his contempt of such a ruthless artistic policy as that which
was adopted by the Nazi government. His world prestige
protected him. He would have been welcomed with open
arms by any country in the world, where he could easily
have maintained his sovereign position in music, if he chose
to rebel against the Nazi program.
To the amazement of the music world, Strauss first
tacitly, then openly, supported the Nazi artistic creed. He
expressed the opinion that a government had the right to
dictate a country’s artistic policy, and that it was the duty
of every citizen to follow such a policy without question or
vacillation. Thus, when the foremost Jewish musicians of
Germany were banished, reducing Germany to a state of
musical poverty it had not known for more than two cen¬
turies, Strauss remained silent. When it was forbidden to
perform the “pernicious” music of such Jewish composers as
Mendelssohn and Mahler, Strauss—who had previously
loved Mendelssohn, and exerted herculean effort to bring
recognition to the music of Mahler—quietly renounced these
composers. And when aesthetic standards had changed to
elevate to importance music of vulgarity, bombast and affec¬
tation, Strauss enthusiastically welcomed the change. On
November 15, 1933, in gratitude for and acknowledgment
of his position on Nazi music, the Kulturkammer appointed
Richard Strauss president of the Third Reich Music
Chamber.
It was not long before Strauss learned that it was not so
easy to goose-step to the Nazi creed. In 1934, the Kultur¬
kammer, eager to erase every memory of Mendelssohn,
urged Strauss to compose new music to Shakespeare’s A
Midsummer Night’s Dream, on the pattern of the Men¬
delssohn music, which might displace it permanently.
Strauss, who could blind himself to sacrilege perpetrated
by others, could not bring himself to commit it himself. He
refused, and the Kulturkammer expressed its displeaure.
In 1935, a much greater rupture arose between Strauss and
5+ TWENTIETH CENTURY COMPOSERS
the Nazi government. Strauss had asked Stefan Zweig, the

celebrated Austrian writer—a Jew—to prepare a libretto
for an opera. Zweig wrote a play, The Silent JVoman,
which Strauss set to music and which was produced at the
Dresden Opera on June 24, 1935. On June 11, 1935, the
Kulturkammer openly expressed indignation that Strauss
should ally himself with a Jew, asking at the same time for
Strauss’ resignation as president of the Third Reich Music
Chamber. A conciliation between Strauss and the Kultur¬
kammer was attempted; but the Kulturkammer refused to
renege on its anti-Jewish policy which demanded rigid pun¬
ishment for all its violators. On July 13, 1935, therefore,
Richard Strauss resigned his position, and secluded himself
in his villa in Garmisch-Partenkirchen away from the lime¬
light. He had already lost considerable caste in the eyes
of half a music world because of his position in Nazi music.
It was bitter for him to realize that he had now likewise
lost caste in the eyes of his own country.
6.
Richard Strauss is tall and lean and, though his shoulders

stoop slightly, his build is athletic. He appears much
younger than his years. His step is brisk; when you shake
his hand you feel a firm, strong clasp. His face, to be sure,
is heavily lined, but it possesses almost the freshness of a
man thirty years younger. It is a mobile face, with subtly
varying expressions; and it is a curious blend of strength
and weakness. Strength—in the high, majestic forehead,
giving his head an appearance of exaggerated size. Weak¬
ness—in the soft, dreamy, philosophic eyes, and in the
effeminacy of jaw and chin. A short, gray moustache
abruptly separates his firm and uncompromising lip from a
small upturned nose.
He is a pleasant companion, usually very spirited and
in good humor, wfith an enormous capacity for enjoying life.
RICHARD STRAUSS 55
He is enormously fond of beer, delights in playing cards—
particularly Skat—and indulges enthusiastically in many
games of sport. The society of good friends affords him
particular enjoyment. His conversation is fluent and bril¬
liant (he speaks with a marked Bavarian accent), gener¬
ously sprinkled with bright witticisms. At a dinner given in
his honor, a speaker generously referred to Strauss as the
“Buddha of modern music.” “If I am the Buddha of
modern music,” whispered Strauss to his neighbor, “then
this fellow is its Pesthl” This anecdote is characteristic of
his tongue’s glibness.
His intelligence is unusually expansive, embracing many
fields: politics and science, literature and music, the arts
and history. A good philosophic background gives unity
to these many interests. A particularly important influ¬
ence in his thinking has been Nietzsche; Strauss believes
implicitly in the Superman and, at different periods, has
identified the Superman with the Kaiser and with Hitler.
He is also irremediably chauvinistic, has been so for more
than fifty years. During the early part of the World War,
he was one of the first German intellectuals to sign a mani¬
festo expressing withering contempt for France. His union
with the Nazis can probably be best explained by his great
allegiance to his country. Germany, right or wrong has al¬
ways been his political creed.
In all of his business dealings Strauss has been known to
be shrewd, capable of driving a hard bargain, relentless
whenever he knew he had the upper hand. He has always
had an unhealthy lust for money, pursued it with unswerv¬
ing devotion. In his youth, his explanation for his love of
money was partly convincing. “A composer must be
financially independent to do his best work. I am trying to
make myself financially independent for life.” But as his
wealth increased by leaps and bounds without bringing with
it relaxation from its pursuit, Strauss’ one-time explanation
no longer rang true. Many amusing anecdotes are told to
illustrate Strauss’ amazing avidity where money is con¬
cerned. At one time, shortly after a performance of his
Josephs Legende by the Diaghilev Ballet in Paris,
Strauss—who was already a wealthy man—invited the
foremost musicians, writers and artists in Paris to a feast
at Larue’s. The feast was the last word in sumptuous¬
ness and good taste. There was only one flaw: At the end
of the feast, each visitor received his own check for the
meal he had just eaten 1
In music, Strauss’ greatest admiration is not Wagner
but Mozart, whose structure and instrumentation have ex¬
erted a powerful influence upon his own musical writing.
Frequently, when young musicians come to him begging to
be accepted as pupils—in their hands scores full of un¬
orthodox harmonies and rebellious counterpoint—Strauss
firmly tells them to spend two years in studying the scores
of Mozart and then to return to him for lessons.
Concerning his method of composition, he has left
copious notes. “I compose everywhere . . . walking or
driving, eating or drinking, at home or abroad, in noisy
hotels, in my garden, in railway carriages. My sketch book
never leaves me, and as soon as a motive strikes me I jot
it down. One of the most important melodies for my . . .
opera [Rosenkavalier\, struck me while I was playing a
Bavarian card game. . . . But before I improvise even the
smallest sketch for an opera, I allow the texts to permeate
my thoughts and mature in me for at least six months so
that the situation and characters may be thoroughly as¬
similated. Then only do I let musical thoughts enter my
mind. The sub-sketches then become sketches. They are
copied out, worked out, arranged for the piano and re¬
arranged as often as four times. This is the hard part of
the work. The score I write in my study, straightway,
without troubling, working at it twelve hours a day.”
SIR EDWARD ELGAR
Ill
SIR EDWARD ELGAR
1.
W HEN, in 1904, Edward Elgar was knighted by King
Edward VII for his services to English music,
there were some critics who referred to him as the great¬
est English composer since Henry Purcell. Praise that
brushed aside two centuries of musical development seemed,
at first glance, absurdly extravagant. Yet a glance at
English musical history discloses why Elgar’s stature
should have loomed so formidably, even in 1904. Thomas
Arne, Thomas Attwood, Michael Balfe, John Field, John
Stainer, Charles Villiers Stanford, C. Hubert Parry, Stern-
dale Bennett, Arthur Sullivan—respectable musicians all,
but hardly creative giants. In such company, Elgar’s
stature inevitably assumed exaggerated height. English
composers after Purcell had, at their best, produced music
of some charm, considerable technical adroitness and oc¬
casional fluency of self-expression. Elgar, however, seemed
to be the first since Purcell to free himself completely from
the tight-lipped restraint of Anglo-Saxon temperament, to
rise above academic formalism to achieve a musical ex¬
pression which other countries, warmer in blood, might
hear with pleasure and admiration. He freed English
music from the constraining provincialism which had kept
it in bondage for two centuries, thereby making it possible
to stand beside the music of other countries. When, in
1928, an English gentleman, Leo Francis Howard Schuster
by name, bequeathed to Elgar an inheritance of $35,000
because he “saved my country from the reproach of having
produced no composer worthy to rank with the great
59
masters,” he was to a great extent expressing the sentiment
felt by all England twenty-four years back when the distinc¬
tion of knighthood was conferred upon Elgar.
However one may esteem Elgar today—whether one
succumbs to the enchantment of his romanticism or becomes
impatient with his failure to produce an unmistakably in¬
dividual speech, whether one praises the high plane of
beauty on which he poised his greatest works or accuses
him for his failure to influence the direction of modern
music—one cannot deny that, for all his shortcomings, he
brought prestige to English music in the eyes of England
and the rest of the world. He arrived at a time when,
creatively at least, musical England was almost barren.
He composed his major works at a period when it was
strongly believed that an Englishman could never produce
music of first importance. Elgar himself had said at the
dawn of his career: “England is not a musical nation, and
never will be. As soon as the country is musical it will
cease to be English. England has not produced any music
used at funerals. And nobody thinks he is properly mar¬
ried unless Mendelssohn’s wedding march is played.”
Paradoxically enough, it was Elgar’s life work that was
later to contradict at least a part of this statement.
2.
The birthplace of Sir Edward William Elgar was Wor¬
cester, where on June 2, 1857, he was born to a family al¬
ready well burdened with offspring. The father of the
family, W. H. Elgar, was organist at the Roman Catho¬
lic Church of St. George in Worcester. The income of
organist being insufficient to supply the many demands of
a prolific family. Mr. Elgar soon opened a music-shop in
partnership with his brother. Whatever was required in
Worcester of a musical nature, the music-shop of the Elgar
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 61
brothers could supply. W. H. Elgar also played the violin

in local orchestras.
Edward Elgar early disclosed an unusually keen mind
and an extraordinary sensitivity to art. From his mother,
Ann Greening Elgar, he acquired a profound love for
literature. While still a boy, Elgar would withdraw from
the well-cluttered stable-loft of the Elgar menage the dusty
volumes of Sir Philip Sydney’s Arcadia, Shakespeare’s
tragedies and Drayton’s Polyolbion which he perused
avidly. His artistic temperament disclosed itself in other
directions as well. He is said to have been moved strongly
by mediaeval carvings in the Worcester Cathedral. And he
had a healthy appetite for music. He could spend tireless
hours at the feet of his father in the organ-loft at the
Cathedral, where the latter performed the organ master¬
pieces of Johann Sebastian Bach. He could pore in-
defatigably over the musical scores he found at home; a
piano arrangement of Beethoven’s First Symphony excited
and thrilled him when he was still very young. He could
also find amusement in memorizing the rules and writing
out the exercises in text-books on harmony, counterpoint
and thorough bass.
His early schooling took place at a “ladies’ school”
whither Edward was sent as a child. There he received his
first lessons on the piano, and also violin lessons, which he
preferred even more. Subsequently, further instruction in
academic studies was pursued at the Littleton House.
Then—Edward was sent to London in his 16th year to
enter the legal profession. For three years, he pursued the
study of law in a solicitor’s office. Then nostalgia for
Worcester and its richly musical atmosphere proved too
strong for him. He asked for, and received, the permission
of his father to return home, help in the shop, and devote
himself to such musical activity as he could find in the
vicinity of Worcester.
Elgar literally plunged himself into every musical occu-
pation or diversion that presented itself upon his return
home. His father’s shop being a haven for musical ap¬
paratus of all kind, he began the study of every instrument
within reach. The organ, piano and violin—with which he
was already acquainted—he studied with greater assiduity
than before. Theory and thorough-bass books were still
studied indefatigably during the dark hours of night. Was
there a commission in the Elgar shop for the composition
of an original tune, Elgar wrote it; was there an order for a
small orchestra to perform at a special occasion, Edward
was among the instrumentalists. He eagerly substituted for
his father at the Cathedral organ when the old man felt need
of recess. He joined an amateur wind quintet as a bassoon
player. Every orchestra that assembled within several miles
of his home had him for a member. At one time, the sudden
absence of the concertmaster of one of these amateur or¬
chestras, brought Elgar to the first desk, where he fulfilled
his duties so efficiently that for the next few years he re¬
tained this position. He also gave solo performances
on the violin at any and every provocation, soon achieving
a formidable local reputation. He even became bell¬
ringer in the parish of Worcester every evening at curfew
because he loved the sound of tolling bells. From this
occupation, however, he was soon dismissed—when the
entire town objected vehemently because the bell-ringer, in
his absorption with the musical sounds, had prolonged
curfew time each evening by some fifteen minutes.
At this time, his great aspiration was to become a vir¬
tuoso, a concert violinist. To bring this dream to realiza¬
tion he withdrew from his numerous activities in Worcester,
returned to London in 1879 and became a pupil of Adolf
Pollitzer, an admirable violin teacher about whom Elgar
spoke highly in later life. Elgar began his violin study with
his customary industry and thoroughness. When, at the
second lesson, Pollitzer asked Elgar which exercise in the
book he had studied for the lesson, Elgar answered with
SIR EDWARD ELGAR
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 63
surprise: “Why all of them, of course 1”—and, to the

amazement of his teacher, he began to perform the entire
book of exercises from memory. At the same time, Elgar
was an eager attendant at all the principal concerts in
London, particularly those conducted by August Manns at
the Crystal Palace.
The fascination of a virtuoso career soon began to pall
for Elgar. After five lessons he decided definitely that his
musical destiny rested elsewhere. Precisely where, he did
not as yet know definitely—even though he pursued com¬
position with some zest. He strongly suspected that it
would be the organ.
Upon his return to Worcester, he was appointed pianist
and conductor of the Worcester Glee Club, and bandmaster
of the Worcester County Lunatic Asylum. These positions
not only gave Elgar his initiation with the baton but they
also released a veritable creative flood. For these two or¬
ganizations, Elgar composed a copious supply of music in
every vein—light and serious, religious, military and dance,
instrumental and choral. Original quadrilles for the
Worcester County Lunatic Asylum brought him one dollar
and twenty-five cents a set. Minstrel songs were reim¬
bursed with thirty-six cents a piece. No creative task ap¬
peared too menial for the young musician, nor any too
ambitious.
In 1882, Elgar took a short holiday in Germany, visit¬
ing Leipzig (where, years back, his dreams had centered)
to come into greater intimacy with the music of Robert
Schumann whom he admired greatly. Three years after
this, Elgar assumed the position of organist at the St.
George Cathedral.
In 1889, Elgar was married to Caroline Alice Roberts,
the daughter of a military officer. A girl of literary talent
as well as of rich and well-rounded cultural background,
Alice’s influence upon Elgar was overwhelming, as he him¬
self frequently confessed. She was not a musician, if by
the term we designate someone with a formal academic

training and a strict technical equipment. But if we are to
include among musicians those who, in spite of their lack
of formal training, possess a profound love for the art, an
instinctive feeling for the correct phrase and the proper
line, and an infallible critical sense which cannot tolerate
the trite or the stilted, then Alice was a musician among the
elect. Throughout his life, Elgar leaned heavily upon her
critical judgment. He played for her each of his works in
the various stages of their growth, and depended implicity
upon her opinion. He confessed more than once his
amazement at her keen critical perception. “I play phrases
and tunes to her,” Elgar confessed in later life, “because
she always likes to see what progress I have been making.
Well, she nods her head and says nothing, or just ‘Oh,
Edward!’—but I know whether she approves or not, and
I always feel that there is something wrong with it if she
doesn’t. ... A few nights before ... I played some of
the music I had written that day, and she nodded her head
appreciatively, except over one passage, at which she sat
up, rather grimly I thought. However I went to bed leav¬
ing it as it was; but I got up as soon as it was light and
went down to look over what I had written. I found it as
I had left it, except that there was a little piece of paper,
pinned over the offending bars on which was written, ‘All
of it is beautiful and just right, except this ending. Don’t
you think, dear Edward, that this end is just a little . . . ?’
Well, I scrapped the end. Not a word was ever said about
it; but I rewrote it; and as I heard no more I knew that it
was approved.” 1
The influence of Caroline Elgar made itself strongly felt
from the first. It was not mere accident that, shortly after
his marriage, Elgar suddenly decided to give up the playing
of the organ, to settle permanently in London where
musical life was more active, and to begin serious compo-
1 Elgar As 1 Knew Him, by William H. Reed.
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 65
sition in larger and more ambitious forms. To earn his
living, he gave music lessons. But the major part of his
time belonged to concerts and creative work. Inspired by
the enthusiasm and faith of his wife, Elgar began to work
upon large canvases, which until now he had avoided, giv¬
ing his talent full scope for expression for the first time.
Elgar soon decided that the disturbances of a large city
were little conducive to concentration and creation. In
1891, he transferred his permanent home from London to
Malvern. It was shortly after this that his first serious
endeavors received performance. In 1893, the choral
Black Knight was performed in Worcester. Three years
later, the Worcester Festival of the Three Choirs featured
Elgar’s oratorio, Lux Christi. In 1897, a Te Deum and
Benedictus were included in the Hereford Festival. Dig¬
nified compositions all, the work of a scholarly hand, im¬
peccable taste and fertile imagination, but works which
promised much more than they fulfilled.
Then, suddenly, the first of Elgar’s great works uprooted
musical England from its comfortable obscurity.
Early in 1899, Elgar completed a major orchestral
work, a set of variations on an original theme, which he
called Enigma. A London agent of Hans Richter caught
a glimpse of this score and was sufficiently impressed to
send it to the great conductor in Vienna. For a long time
previous to this, Richter—because of his many engage¬
ments in England—had been eagerly searching for a tal¬
ented orchestral work by an English composer which he
might feature on his programs. Richter did not know
Elgar, had never even heard of him. This set of variations
on an original theme, however, impressed Richter im¬
mediately as the first modern English music in his knowl¬
edge which avoided pedantry and technical display, which
was warmly emotional and tender, and possessed a strength
of beauty all its own. Richter, therefore, decided to ex¬
ploit the work fully. Through Richter’s baton, not only
the Enigma Variations, but Edward Elgar as well, became

known throughout England.2 On February 7, 1901, the
Enigma Variations was performed for the first time out of
England, at a concert of the Stadtische Musikverein in
Diisseldorf, with Julius Buths conducting.
These variations—each of which is prefixed in the score
by a set of initials—were designed by Elgar as tonal por¬
traits of his personal friends. The first variation, a highly
eloquent and poetical movement, is a portrait of Elgar’s
wife; the last variation is a self-portrait. “It is true,” as
Elgar confessed in an interview, “that I have sketched, for
their amusement and mine, the idiosyncrasies of fourteen of
my friends, not necessarily musicians; but this is a personal
matter and need not have been mentioned publicly.” The
reason why Elgar referred to this work as Enigma was,
however, for a long time enshrouded in mystery. “The
Enigma ” Elgar insisted, “I shall not explain—its ‘dark
saying’ must be left unguessed.”
Actually the “Enigma” is a hidden theme which—Elgar
said—though never played, could accompany every vari¬
ation. It may be said to be present as a “silent accompani¬
ment.” The prominent New York critic, H. E. Krehbiel
put forward the theory that this silent theme is the motto
melody of Wagner’s Parsifal.
If the orchestral variations, the Enigma, brought the
limelight of recognition upon Elgar, his next work made
him a national, even an international, figure. In 1900,
The Dream of Gerontius was performed in Birmingham.
A choral composition, based upon a poem of Cardinal New¬
man, consisting of a series of lyric and dramatic episodes
portraying the doctrine of purgatory as taught by the
Catholic Church, The Dream was so suffused with mysti-
2 Strictly speaking, the Enigma Variations as introduced by Hans Rich¬

ter is not the same as that which is performed today. After the first
performance, Elgar revised some sections of the work, and added a
coda. In this new form, it was first introduced at the Worcester Festival
with Elgar conducting.
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 67
cism and poetry, contained choral writing of such beauty,
and orchestration of such effectiveness that (although the
performance was a failure) some English music critics
rubbed their ears with incredulity. Bernard Shaw con¬
fessed that he had always regarded English composers with
suspicion, but that when he heard The Dream he was con¬
vinced that the first great English composer had definitely
arrived. In December of 1901, The Dream was per¬
formed in Dusseldorf, Germany, where its success even ex¬
ceeded that which it enjoyed in England. Several months
later, it was repeated at the Lower Rhine Festival in what
was probably the first occasion upon which a modern
English composer was cheered in a foreign country.
Richard Strauss, who was in the audience, made a public
address at a banquet in Elgar’s honor in which he referred
to the work as a masterpiece. This praise—bringing with
it the approval of one who was probably the most famous
living composer—established Elgar’s reputation through¬
out the world of music.
In 1901, Elgar composed his set of six chauvinistic mili¬
tary marches, entitled Pomp and Circumstance, which
endeared him to the Crown. The first of these, the one in
D-major, has become world-famous; it is this march which
is referred to when Pomp and Circumstance is mentioned.
When Edward VII first heard it, he exclaimed: “That
tune will go round the world.” It was a prophetic remark.
Pomp and Circumstance has since become a second national
anthem for England. It is as well known, probably—and
is as strongly associated with Great Britain—as God Save
the King.3
When, in 1902, Edward Elgar was selected to compose
the Ode for the coronation of Edward VII, he was officially
3 It will be recalled that in the monumental motion-picture about England,

Noel Coward’s Cavalcade, it was Pomp and Circumstance that was utilized
as a sort of leit-motif, linking the various scenes.
being recognized by the Crown as the greatest living

English composer.
In 1903, the Birmingham Festival featured a new Elgar
oratorio, The Apostles, which added to his fame. Elgar
had intended to construct a gargantuan trilogy of ora¬
torios, of which The Apostles was to be the first, which
would describe the founding of Christianity. Three years
later, he was to compose a second part of the trilogy: The
Kingdom. But the venture eventually lost its appeal for
Elgar, and he never composed the concluding work.
The year of 1904 definitely established Elgar as a world
figure in music. It was the year of his knighthood, but of
even greater significance was it that at that time there took
place a monumental three day festival of his music at
Covent Garden, London. The Dream of Gerontius, The
Apostles were among the important works featured, as well
as a new orchestral composition, In the South, inspired by a
recent visit to the Italian Riviera. And it was found by
more than one critic that the quality of the music that was
performed was sufficiently remarkable to place its composer
in the front rank of English musical creators of all time.
3.
During the next ten years Elgar solidified his magis¬

terial position in English music with the composition of a
series of remarkable works. The Introduction and Allegro,
for strings—in which Elgar brought to modern usage the
concert-grosso form of old—came in 1905. The First
Symphony in A-flat was so sensational when introduced by
Hans Richter in Manchester in December, 1908, that it was
given no less than a hundred performances during the next
year. In 1910, Elgar produced his Concerto for Violin and
Orchestra, dedicated to Fritz Kreisler, and introduced by
him at Queen’s Hall on November 10, of that year—the
first violin concerto by an English composer to earn a
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 69
permanent place in the virtuoso’s repertory. The Second

Symphony followed the Concerto by one year, partly in¬
spired by Shelley’s Invocation, and dedicated to the memory
of His Majesty, Edward VII. With Falstaff, for orchestra
(1913) this long line of distinguished music comes to an
end.
The World War aroused Elgar’s patriotic ardor. In
August of 1914, he became a special constable in the
Hampstead Division. The following February he re¬
signed from this position, but soon afterwards joined the
Hampstead Volunteer Reserve. At the same time, he en¬
listed his music under the English flag as well. Patriotism
rang loud and clear in his works of this period. He set
several war poems to music, including Emil Cammaerts’
Carillon—which depicted the horrible tragedy of the Ger¬
man invasion of Belgium—Laurence Binyon’s The Spirit
of England, and a relatively mawkish work, Le Drapeau
helge. He composed a symphonic prelude, Polonia, to
help raise funds for relief in Poland, and he created the
stirring if pompously chauvinistic scores to two war themes,
Fringes of the Fleet (a set of songs) and A Voice in the
Desert.
Following the War, Elgar turned to more poetical
moods for his composition, creating a sonata for violin
and piano, a string quartet, a piano quintet, and a violon¬
cello concerto, all touched with the soft and tender senti¬
ment, the sad brooding, and, at other moments, the virile
strength which had long before this become the identifying
traits of Elgar’s works.
The major tragedy in Edward Elgar’s life brought this
productivity to an abrupt termination. On April 7, 1920,
Lady Alice Elgar died. The funeral took place at St.
Wulsten’s Church in Little Malvern, where a performance
of the slow movement of Elgar’s string quartet was the
only eulogy.
After the funeral, Elgar made a mental resolve that he
would never again compose a bar of music. His greatest
incentive for creation had passed away with his wife. El¬
gar’s friends had always known what Lady Alice had
meant to him, realized that her death had been a terrible
blow to the composer. But this was their first recognition
of the dominant role she had played in his creative life.
They were to recognize this even more strongly as the
years passed. Whatever enthusiasm, whatever zest, what-
every industry Elgar had once had for musical creation
seemed to have died on the day they buried Lady Alice.
Frequently, his closest associates attempted to rekindle in
him his creative spark. They reminded him that he had
left his trilogy of oratorios unfinished, that The Apostles
and The Kingdom demanded a concluding work. They
spoke indefatigably of Sir Edward’s one-time great am¬
bition to produce an opera on Ben Jonson’s play, The Devil
Is An Ass, from which Sir Barry Jackson had already pre¬
pared a suitable libretto. They begged for a third sym¬
phony. But to all of these entreaties Elgar turned a deaf
ear. Endlessly he repeated that he had put aside his pen
forever. When, in 1924, Elgar was appointed Master of
the King’s Musick, it was hoped that this might be the
necessary impetus to drive the composer back to his music.
But this, as everything else, failed.
Elgar’s patriotism, finally, succeeded in accomplishing
that which the entreaties of friends and associates had
failed to do. In 1929, King George V was stricken by a
serious illness, so serious that for a period the entire King¬
dom figuratively held its breath. As a hymn of prayer for
the recovery of His Majesty, Sir Edward Elgar composed a
Christmas carol—his first composition in more than nine
years.
From that time, he slowly returned to creative work.
The major composition preoccupying him was the third
symphony. After the long idleness, composition came
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 71
slowly to Elgar. The progress of the new symphony de¬

veloped at a snail’s pace.
Meanwhile, in 1931, Elgar received from King George
V the highest honor that the Crown could offer a com¬
poser—baronetcy. He had already, in previous years, been
awarded the Grand Cross of the Victorian Order and ap¬
pointed Knight Commander of the Victorian Order.
After two years of intensive work, Elgar had succeeded
in producing profuse sketches for his new symphony. It
now required only one concentrated period of work to bring
the composition to final completion. In 1934, however,
work on the symphony was permanently interrupted when
Elgar’s last illness brought him to bed. He had been suf¬
fering severely from sciatica. His physicians advised an
operation which might relieve his pain—an operation
which, at best, was only a temporary measure and of no
value as an ultimate cure. After the operation, Sir Ed¬
ward Elgar fought gallantly to regain his health. But he
was a doomed man. His health degenerated markedly
from week to week; he was soon a helpless invalid.
Three weeks before his death, Elgar assisted in record¬
ing one of his works, the march from Caractacus. A music-
stand was ingeniously built upon his bed to enable Elgar to
see the score from a propped-up position. Telephonic wires
connected him to the Abbey Road Studios where the
London Symphony Orchestra, under the direction of Law¬
rence Collingwood, rehearsed the work. By telephone, Sir
Edward Elgar communicated his every wish as though he
were in the very recording room itself.
Shortly before his death, Elgar extracted from his most
intimate friends the promise that they would see to it that
no one meddled with his sketches of the third symphony,
that it remained permanently in fragments. This was his
last request. On February 23, 1934, Sir Edward Elgar
died at his home in Marl Bank.
4.
George Bernard Shaw once pithily described Sir Edward

Elgar as a “typical English country gentleman.” Like
many English country gentlemen, Elgar was tall, erect and
well-built, with well-proportioned features. His carriage
possessed imperial dignity, his mannerisms were always
well-poised and graceful. Characteristic of English country
gentlemen, he was restrained, aloof, distant in the pres¬
ence of strangers or mere acquaintances. He was almost
suspicious of people he did not know well. Those who met
him for the first time, often complained of his frigidity and
found it difficult to believe that he was essentially warm and
tender, generous to a fault, sympathetic to people in all
walks of life. His fine sense of humor—he had an es¬
pecially quick tongue for puns—his warm disposition, were
known only to those who became his friends.
Elgar, moreover, had the English countryman’s intense
love of the outdoors. The greatest part of his life Elgar
spent in the country. Dressed in the charming informality
of rough outdoor clothing, he frequently indulged in long
walking tours and bicycling. He had an extraordinary
affection for flowers, woods, brooks, country paths. Chop¬
ping wood and clearing away brushwood delighted him as
though it were a game. He also found pleasure in fishing;
although it is said that he rarely caught anything, and
when he did he always threw the fish back into the water.
Perhaps the outstanding trait of his personality was his
keen and eclectic mind. He seemed to be interested in
everything, know everything. His fund of information was
the source of endless wonder and awe among his friends.
His knowledge of science, architecture, woodcraft, for ex¬
ample, was more than a layman’s. He was a chemist by
avocation, had a chemical laboratory in which he spent
many tireless hours of experimentation. His prodigious
memory enabled him to retain tenaciously whatever he read,
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 73
heard or saw: thus he was well versed in law (which he

had studied in his youth), knew history with the thorough¬
ness of a scholar, was formidably acquainted with litera¬
ture. He is said to have known the great English poets
—particularly Shakespeare—remarkably well. He was,
therefore, at ease in any and every circle, was often the
most fluent conversationalist in whatever group he joined.
There was something charmingly boyish about him until
the end of his life. A part of him, at least—a part known
only to his closest friends—never passed beyond adoles¬
cence. He had, for example, a robust enthusiasm for games
of all kind. Cribbage excited him. When cross-word puz¬
zles first came to popularity, he was one of the most pas¬
sionate victims of the fad. He liked billiards, played it
with the utmost of concentration—mathematically comput¬
ing each and every shot and strategically planning his
position not only for the next shot but for the one after
that as well. He had a schoolboy’s taste for mischief,
pranks, little tricks perpetrated upon unsuspecting friends.
He even, at certain times, found singular delight in playing
(and winning at) “Beaver”: the game in which, while
strolling the street, one shouts the word “Beaver” each
time one sees a man with a beard, a black beard earning
for the first caller of “Beaver” one point, a red beard,
three.
His musical taste was as eclectic as his intellectual inter¬
ests. Generally speaking, he liked everything in music that
was good, though he preferred the Romantic School and
cared little for the Elizabethan composers. He adored
Schumann, loved Bach and Purcell, and numbered Handel,
Berlioz, Stravinsky, Mendelssohn, Rossini, Meyerbeer,
Puccini, Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart, Liszt and Richard
Strauss among his favorite composers. He even mani¬
fested a keen interest in jazz. At one time he sent an
urgent telegram to Bernard Shaw urging him to buy the
phonograph record of Oh Mo’ nah!, a fox-trot, the rhythm

of which had thrilled him.
As a composer, he had no favorite method of working.
He conceived music at all times, while walking, during
play, in the middle of the night, or during conversation
with his friends. He was always scribbling ideas on scraps
of paper. These he guarded carefully, referred to them
periodically, and developed them into his major works. He
worked easily and swiftly. Creation seemed to come as
naturally to him as breathing or speaking. Frequently, he
wrote his music as effortlessly as other people write letters.
Where his own music was concerned he was charmingly
modest. He liked what he composed, felt that some of it
was of importance; but he never lost his perspective. It is
for this reason that, when confronted with the profuse
praise of a mawkish admirer, he could frequently become
stingingly acid. He knew his own strength and his own
weakness. In a career studded with honor, adulation and
glory he succeeded—with singular consistency—in keeping
his head.
5.
Of the composers of our time, Edward Elgar will

probably age the most quickly. Already his music is be¬
ginning to wear thin. What charmed us most upon first
and second hearing, becomes somewhat boring with in¬
timacy. For all their fine qualities, the Concerto for Violin
and Orchestra, the Engima Variations and the Dream of
Gerontius appear more and more old-fashioned each time
we hear them. Their day, for all its brilliance, will be
brief.
It is, of course, irrefutable that, at his best, Elgar had
many admirable qualities as a composer. There was in him
a sensitive feeling for mysticism and poetry which led him,
particularly in his oratorios, to open sluices of melody and
fluid counterpoint. His musical writing could be crystal-
SIR EDWARD ELGAR 75
line, pure and clean. It always bore the stamp of good

taste and breeding. He was not afraid of emotional dis¬
play, filling his music with an intensity of feeling that, at
first, moves the hearer profoundly. Moreover, he had an
infallible sense for orchestration, an instinct for building
dramatic sequences, and could voice pageantry and glamour
with a magnificently rich tonal speech.
However, Elgar is not an immortal because he had every
virtue except that of originality. He failed to produce an
idiom distinctly his own. Much of his speech is derived
from Schumann, some of it from Wagner. He borrowed
liberally; there are always betraying fingerprints on his
music. Even his greatest works lack a strong spine of
their own. Truth to tell, Elgar was too little the experi¬
menter, too little the adventurer, too little the pioneer. He
was never interested in exploring new avenues of expres¬
sion. In consequence, his music cannot quite free itself
from the faint aroma of stagnancy.
His language was sometimes one of beauty, of which the
sixth variation, marked Andantino, of the Engima Vari¬
ations is an eloquent example. But if this beauty palls upon
us with intimacy it is only because it fails to have a truly
personal or individual character. His musical thinking
often takes ingenious turns; it was, for example, a charm¬
ing device in the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra to
permit the solo violin to play the concluding bars of the
orchestral introduction to the first movement, or to write
an accompanied cadenza for the third movement. But this
ingenuity is too often merely superficial trickery, lacking
artistic genuineness. The charm of his harmonic and con¬
trapuntal writing, the brilliancy of his orchestration, and
the warm heart-beat of his best melodies even today inspire
respect and admiration when we listen to the Second Sym¬
phony, the Enigma Variations, the Violin Concerto or the
best oratorios. But these, after all, are unsatisfying sub¬
stitutes for profundity and originality.
JAN SIBELIUS
IV
JAN SIBELIUS
1.
J AN SIBELIUS represents to Finland something more
than merely its greatest composer. In Finland, Sibelius
is a national hero, an “uncrowned king” as the Finns fre¬
quently refer to him, Finland’s most significant and elo¬
quent “ambassador of good will,” to the rest of the
civilized world. Sibelius has done more to bring prestige
to his country, to explain and interpret it to the outside
world than any other man living or dead, and for this his
countrymen honor him as a national hero. To the children,
the name of Sibelius has a magic aura of glamour as
though its owner brandished a sword instead of a creative
pen, as though its owner were some world-famous athlete
like Nurmi instead of a composer of great symphonies.
The older people frequently toast him in the taverns of
Finland, just as they would a political figure who held the
fate of their country in his hands.
To such nationwide adulation and respect, Sibelius re¬
sponds with that charming modesty which is frequently a
characteristic trait of the truly great. He does not mini¬
mize the value of his music, but neither the extravagant
praise nor the glory which he has received has succeeded in
stripping him of frequent doubts whether his music is
worthy of all the rhapsodic evaluations it has received.
Two anecdotes, quoted in a recent magazine article, neatly
illustrate his sincere modesty. At one time he visited a
museum of primitive tools with a friend. “The man who
invented the harrow,” commented the friend playfully, “is
far greater than the man who invented Sibelius’ sym-
79
phonies.” “That’s perfectly true,” Sibelius answered
simply and forcefully. At another time, a violinist of no
particular renown visited him and expressed his profound
admiration for the master’s music. When the violinist
left, Sibelius exclaimed excitedly: “I do think that he was
really interested in my music!”
For a national figure, Sibelius is surprisingly aloof from
all ceremony. He lives far from the madding crowd in a
picturesque village called Jarvenpaa, surrounded by the
bleak austerity of Scandinavian forests, thirty miles north
of Helsingfors. Trains do not generally stop at Jarvenpaa,
which is too insignificant a spot for a permanent place upon
the timetable. But one has merely to inform the conductor
of any northbound express train that a visit to Sibelius is
contemplated when the train will make Jarvenpaa a halt¬
ing station. From here it is only a short distance on a dirt
road to Villa Ainola, Sibelius’ log-house. Of modern com¬
posers, Sibelius is among the most inaccessible. However,
a discreet and carefully worded note will frequently be
more efficacious than elaborate and important letters of
introduction in eliciting from the composer an invitation to
spend a few hours with him and his wife (his five daughters,
all of whom are married, no longer live with him) at their
home.
In shaking his powerful hand and in looking at his mas¬
sive frame which literally towers over the visitor it becomes
difficult to remember that this is a sensitive creative artist.
No man ever looked less his part. In build, Sibelius is
more the athlete; now that he is entirely bald he gives the
appearance of a professional wrestler. He is almost six
feet of strength and muscle. His frame is enormous, but
each of his features is in harmony with the other. His head
has a majestic dignity and power, with his deep-set eyes
burning intensely under a high and impressive forehead,
and his square jaw, firm lips and assertive chin give a strong
suggestion of latent power.
JAN SIBELIUS 81
Photographs give him an almost stark austerity which

has tempted more than one writer to describe him as pos¬
sessing the dark and sombre melancholy of a Scandinavian
forest-scene. There is, however, no veil of gloom envelop¬
ing Sibelius. Those who have met him know that he is
jovial, gregarious, full of healthy spirits, capable of a fleet
witticism; his disposition is as ruddy as his health. He is
hardly an ascetic. He is a connoisseur of good foods, en¬
joys liquor and insists upon smoking only the most ex¬
pensive cigars. Conversation with friends is probably his
favorite pastime; he is a voluble and enthusiastic talker on
many subjects.
Formerly a prolific traveler, Sibelius today rarely leaves
his villa, except for an occasional visit to Helsingfors to
attend some important performance of his music. These
periodic thirty-mile trips to Helsingfors require more ef¬
fort of him today than did his transcontinental voyages
when he was a few years younger. He detests the festiv¬
ities that always await him in the Finnish capital, and al¬
ways looks forward impatiently to the moment when he
can return home. Truth to tell, life for him is singularly
complete at Jarvenpaa. He is surrounded by the natural
beauty of the Finnish countryside which always exhilarates
and inspires him. By nature a mystic, he feels himself in
direct communion with the great infinite in Jarvenpaa. At
his home, too, he has his many books (he reads biography
and history extensively, as well as Latin and Greek masters
in the original), valuable paintings, and scores of musical
masterpieces all of which satisfy him spiritually as com¬
pletely as his liquors, good food and excellent cigars ap¬
pease his appetite. He likes solitude, but is by no means a
recluse. He can frequently be found in the village tavern,
surrounded by the natives of Jarvenpaa, indulging heartily
in both the schnapps and the loud-voiced conversation.
He dislikes to discuss his own music; when asked to do
so he stammers and stumbles like an embarrassed school-
boy. He is particularly reticent when talking about a

composition in progress. But when the conversation turns
to the works of other composers he becomes singularly
loquacious, expressing his likes and dislikes forcefully and
unequivocally. His musical tastes are eclectic, ranging
from the polyphonic music of Victoria and Palestrina to
the waltzes of Johann Strauss, embracing such composers
as Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms and Verdi. He finds
little sympathy with the Wagnerian music-drama, and in¬
terests himself only casually with modern musical tend¬
encies.
He still expends enormous energy in composition. Writ¬
ing music does not come easily to him, even though he has
produced more than one hundred and fifty works. He gen¬
erally works at night, two tall candles at his elbow lighting
the paper in front of him. Frequently, the fruits of many
hours will consist of no more than a page or two. He has
a severe conscience which will never permit him to con¬
sider a work completed unless he is satisfied with it
thoroughly. Each of his symphonies has taken him several
years to perfect. He celebrated his fiftieth birthday with
the Fifth Symphony and did not complete his Seventh Sym¬
phony until his sixtieth birthday. Thus, too, although he
had been working on his Eighth Symphony for some six
years, he remained deaf to the pleas of an entire music
world that begged him to complete it in time to help cele¬
brate his seventieth birthday, and refused to permit the
score to leave his hands because he was not entirely satisfied
with it.
2.
Jan Julius Christian Sibelius was born in a small town in
the interior of Finland, Tavastehus, on December 8, 1865,
the son of a regimental doctor. The atmosphere in the
Sibelius home was one of serenity and culture, which young
Sibelius imbibed freely. He was a sensitive boy, responding
JAN SIBELIUS 83
to beauty in every form as magnetically as a leaf is at¬

tracted to the sun. The love of Nature and music were his
two predominating passions as a child—and both were
strongly encouraged by his intelligent parents. Books, par¬
ticularly poetry, likewise assumed an important position
among his interests.
In his fifth year, Jan began to derive pleasure and amuse¬
ment from exploring consonant harmonies on the family
piano. Four years later he began to study the piano seri¬
ously, it being noted from the very first that he expended
much more diligence on his improvisations than on his
finger exercises. By his tenth birthday, he was already the
proud composer of a piece of music, entitled Drops of
Water, a duet for violin and violoncello consisting entirely
of pizzicati.
In his eleventh year, Sibelius entered the Finnish Model
Lyceum for his first intensive academic education. He was
well-liked by his fellow pupils because of his warm, lovable
and witty disposition. He indulged freely in all childish
games of which he was always the leader and participated in
every cultural activity offered by the school—principally
acting and the conducting of a small boys’ orchestra. He
was, however, not a distinguished pupil. Moody and intro¬
spective from earliest childhood, he permitted his mind to
stray into distant pastures while he was still in class. “Jan
found it difficult to sit still during lessons and listen to
things that did not interest him,” we learn from a fellow
student. “He sat, buried in thought, and would be quite
absent minded, when questioned suddenly. On such oc¬
casions our beloved head master, Gabriel Geitlin, would
look at him reproachfully and say with a deep sigh:
‘Good gracious, again Sibelius is in another world!’ ”
Music began to absorb his interest once again when, in
his fifteenth year, he became a student of the violin of Gus¬
tav Levander, a conductor of a military band. The violin
fascinated Sibelius as the piano had never succeeded in
doing. He studied industriously, spurred on by the driving
force of an ambition to become a celebrated virtuoso. Dur¬
ing hours free from a school or violin lessons he would
wander into the woods skirting Tavastehus, violin in hand
and, like some modern Orpheus, serenade the trees and
flowers with original tunes that burst from him spontane¬
ously. The joy of such creation determined Sibelius to
study composition more seriously. He hungrily devoured
such theoretical books on harmony and counterpoint as he
could find in the school library. These books gave his
growing imagination the necessary equipment: while still
in early adolescence he composed a trio and a piano quartet.
In 1885, having graduated from the Lyceum, Sibelius
was sent to the University of Helsingfors to begin the
study of law. His gifts as a musician had been praised
and appreciated by his mother and grandmother, but both
of them felt that the musical profession offered a sorry
future. They contemplated a government post for Jan,
for which a legal preparation was essential. Law, how¬
ever, held but small appeal for Sibelius. He deliberately
negected its study, entered the Musical Academy of Hel¬
singfors for a more thorough training in violin and com¬
position, and devoted those hours prescribed for legal
study to the pursuit of musical pastimes. After one year,
Sibelius’ family recognized the futility of keeping the boy
from music. They permitted him to give up law completely
and turn to the study of the art he loved. Sibelius could
now immerse himself deeply and completely in his favorite
study. Under the guidance of such sympathetic and
uniquely appreciative teachers as Martin Wegelius and
Ferruccio Busoni (who though still very young was already
a piano teacher at the academy) Sibelius made broad
strides towards maturity.
Adolf Paul, Swedish-German novelist and playwright,
who was a fellow pupil of Sibelius at the Musical Academy,
wrote of young Sibelius as follows: “He did not seem to
JAN SIBELIUS 85
dwell on this earth. His was a delicate, impressionable
nature, with a sensitive imagination which found outlet in
music at the slightest incitement. His thoughts always
strayed, his head was always in the clouds, and he con¬
tinually expressed such original and bizarre ideas that his
friend and most faithful protagonist, Kajanus, said point¬
edly that in his normal mood he was ‘like the rest of us
when drunk.’ ”
Completing his course of study at the Musical Academy,
Sibelius was enabled by a scholarship (followed later by a
government grant) to go to Berlin in 1889 to continue
his music study. The Berlin period was of inestimable im¬
portance to Sibelius’ musical growth. His lessons from
Albert Becker gave him a rigorous classical training which
solidified his technique and gave him a consummate knowl¬
edge of form. Moreover, the active concert life of Berlin
enabled him to hear a great quantity of music formerly
unknown to him. Symphonic music particularly—for
which he now manifested an unusual interest for the first
time. It is of interest to note that in Berlin Sibelius heard
a symphony called Aino (inspired by the Finnish national
epic, Kalevala), the work of a compatriot, Robert Kajanus,
who at the time was also in Berlin. This performance was
of double importance to Sibelius: it turned his thoughts to
Finnish national music as a basis for his composition and
it brought him into direct contact with the composer who
was to become his life-long friend and, as a conductor, the
staunchest advocate of his music.
After a short holiday in Finland—where, in 1890, he be¬
came betrothed to Aino Jarnefelt, the charming daughter
of a general—Sibelius came to Vienna to put the final
touches on his musical education. He came heavily
equipped with letters of introduction. He contacted
Brahms, but when the meeting was finally consummated it
proved to be very uninspiring; it cannot be said that Brahms
recognized in Sibelius genius in the raw. Other musicians,
however, were more useful to Sibelius in their advice and

encouragement—Hans Richter, for example, and Karl
Goldmark.
After bringing his music study to a close in Vienna under
Karl Goldmark and Robert Fuchs, Sibelius produced an
orchestral overture (which was performed the year of its
composition in Helsingfors) and an octet, in both of which
a music student revealed that he was slowly evolving into
an artist.
In the summer of 1891 Sibelius was back in his native
country. His student days were over. The tools of com¬
position were now at his command. In his composition he
was still the immature voice uncertain and hesitant in his
speech. His style, for want of personalization, still aped
the romanticism of the German composers of his day. In¬
dividuality, a definite artistic direction, a strongly motivated
message—these were sadly lacking in his music.
But—now that his apprentice years were over—these
were not slow in arriving.
3.
At the time of Sibelius’ return to Finland, a fever of

patriotism—inspired by the Russian suppression of Finnish
laws and privileges—attacked the country in a relentless
wave. It was impossible for Sibelius not to feel it keenly
and to react to it. He eagerly joined several groups which
had been founded for the purpose of fostering chauvinistic
ideals, and passionately joined in their discussions. This
intense national feeling influenced his creative work vitally.
He began to feel strongly that it was his duty and privilege
to express his profound love for his country in his compo¬
sition.
His first important work after his return home was a
symphonic poem in five movements for large orchestra,
chorus and soloists, Kullervo, a work glowing with revo-
'ide World Photos
JAN SIBELIUS
JAN SIBELIUS 87
lutionary ardor and suffused with nationalistic spirit. Per¬

formed for the first time under the baton of the composer
in Helsingfors on April 28, 1892, Kullervo received a
phenomenal ovation. It is, probably, exaggerated enthusi¬
asm to believe that the heroic strength of Sibelius’ music
overpowered the audience in spite of the comparative un¬
familiarity of Sibelius’ style of composition; undoubtedly,
it would be much more accurate to say that the extraordi¬
nary success of Kullervo was caused by the fact that the
music translated into tone what the audience was, at the
time, feeling so strongly.
In any case, Kullervo brought nationwide fame to its
composer, and there were already some critics to esteem
him the most important musical voice in Finland. His
position as a composer established, Sibelius was able to
marry his beloved, Aino Jarnefelt, on June 10, 1892. Their
honeymoon was spent in Karelia, a section of Finland
which Sibelius was later to immortalize in one of his or¬
chestral works.
After the honeymoon, Sibelius made Helsingfors his
home, engaging upon an active professional life as a
musician. He became a professor of theory at the Musical
Academy, a violinist of the Academy String Quartet and
an instructor of theory at the orchestral school of the Phil¬
harmonic Society. His pedagogical duties were time-absorb¬
ing, leaving little opportunity for creative work. But
Sibelius, the composer, was not altogether idle. Shortly
after the emphatic success of Kullervo, Sibelius produced
two more works for orchestra which increased his impor¬
tance as a national composer. En Saga was composed in
1892, followed one year later by the Karelia Suite.
Commenting upon the origin of En Saga, Sibelius has
said: “Robert Kajanus once pointed out to me how desir¬
able it was to have a piece by me in the regular repertory
of the orchestra, written for the general public and not mak¬
ing too great demands on their powers of concentration and
comprehension. This would be an advantage both for the
orchestra and for my popularity as a composer, Kajanus
said. I was not at all disinclined to write a piece in a more
popular style. When I got to work, I found that some
notes I had made in Vienna were suitable for adaptation.
In this way, En Saga appeared.” Sibelius, despite his inten¬
tion, had not produced a work of a popular vein. Its themes
were fashioned upon designs too unorthodox, and the con¬
struction of the work was too subtly skilful, for the com¬
position ever to achieve Promenade-concert appeal. It was,
however, music of Finnish temperament and character,
and as such made a powerful impression at its first perform¬
ances.
The Karelia Suite was commissioned by the Viborg Stu¬
dent Society which desired music for a series of historical
tableaux to be performed at a special concert held to pro¬
duce funds for national education in Eastern Finland. The
assignment pleased Sibelius considerably, for it enabled him
to give expression to a different facet of Finnish tempera¬
ment than he had done until now. The inhabitants of
Karelia (southeastern province of Finland) were more
amiable, livelier and more robustly exuberant a folk than
their compatriots of Helsingfors. Sibelius could, therefore,
produce music in a lighter vein, more buoyantly free-hearted
than the more sombre pages of En Saga and Kullervo.
In 1894, Sibelius produced the most famous of his
nationalistic works, Finlandia. This orchestral tone-poem
is not, as was for a long time believed by the rest of Europe,
an orchestral synthesis of authentic folk-melodies. Sibelius’
themes are entirely his own, but they express the character
and personality of Finland so admirably that they seem to
possess indigenous qualities. Finlandia expresses the im¬
pressions of an exile’s return to his native land with such
flaming vividness and moving eloquence that it literally
transported Finnish audiences into intoxicated ardor. As a
matter of fact, Finlandia inspired such chauvinistic pride
JAN SIBELIUS 89
that, after a while, Russia banned its performances. In
1904, Sibelius was able to conduct Finlandia at a symphony-
concert in Riga only by changing the title to Impromptu!
With the performance of one more major work, the
Lemminkai-nen Suite, in 1896 (one of the movements of
which has become famous in symphony concerts everywhere
as The Swan of Tuonela) Sibelius’ position as the leading
composer of Finland became so definitely accepted that, in
1897, the Senate voted Sibelius an annual grant, the first
Finnish composer to be thus honored. The importance of
this grant can be judged by the fact that it enabled Sibelius
to surrender many of his pedagogical duties and devote him¬
self more earnestly to creation. The products of this lei¬
sure soon became apparent, proving eloquently that rarely
has a government grant served its purpose so handsomely.
In 1898, Sibelius produced his incidental music to King
Christian II, a play by Adolf Paul. One year later, the
greatest symphonist of our day made his official appearance
when the First Symphony was performed under the direc¬
tion of the composer in Helsingfors. It was a first sym¬
phony only in that the remarkable economy and compression
of his later orchestral works, and his extraordinarily effec¬
tive architectonic construction are suggested rather than
achieved. But for a first symphony it was an unusually
cohesive composition, maturely conceived and developed
with a hand that was sure of itself, a highly personal expres¬
sion.
During the next fifteen years, Sibelius pursued a less
sedentary existence, traveling frequently„put of Finland to
the leading countries of Europe. The first of these exten¬
sive voyages took place in 1900. In Berlin, he was wel¬
comed with open arms by such celebrated musicians as Felix
Weingartner, the conductor, and Richard Strauss, and was
informed that his music would be represented at the forth¬
coming musical festival of the Allgemeiner Deutscher Mu-
sikverein held at Heidelberg—a rare honor for a non-
German composer. From Germany, Sibelius went on to

Italy, settling in Rapallo, where—in a room overlooking a
beautiful garden of camellias, roses, almond trees, mag¬
nolias, cypresses and palms—he composed the Second Sym¬
phony. The symphony brought to completion, Sibelius ar¬
rived at Heidelberg to conduct his Swan of Tuonela and
The Return of Lemminkai-nen for the Allgemeiner Deut-
scher Musikverein. “My position as a foreigner among a
crowd of German composers with big names and influence
was no easy one,” Sibelius recorded. However, the Sibelius
triumph was decisive and unmistakable. “The audience was
moved by the poetic beauty of both the legends and readily
became enthusiastic,” commented Adolf Paul who was pres¬
ent. “Sibelius was recalled several times by tumultuous
applause and was complimented coram publico and behind
the scenes by a great number of celebrities. . . . Hermann
Wolff at once fixed a date for a Sibelius concert in Berlin.
In short, people’s eyes were opened to the fact that this new
man was indeed a great figure and that the name of Sibelius
was one of the few round which the greatest hopes of the
music of the future would center.”
In 1901, a serious ailment afflicted Sibelius—a disease of
the ears which threatened deafness. The terror of per¬
petual silence brought on a mental depression which envel¬
oped Sibelius so completely that, for several years, he was
able to see the sunshine of hope only at far-distant intervals.
During this period of trial, Sibelius composed two famous
works, the False Triste—which gives us, perhaps, a par¬
ticularly illuminating insight into his mental state at the
time—and the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, both of
which were written in 1903. One of the few sources of
pleasure that Sibelius experienced during this dismal period
was the realization of a life-long dream: A new home was
built for him in Jarvenpaa, the Villa Ainola, in a setting of
peace and rustic simplicity most conducive to creative work.
In 1905, Sibelius’ aural ailment was completely cured.
JAN SIBELIUS 91
His spirits became revitalized with his health. He was now

to have the additional pleasure of seeing his music acquire
international prestige. In Berlin, his Second Symphony—
conducted by him personally at the Busoni concerts—was
received with unprecedented enthusiasm for a modern for¬
eign work. This was followed shortly afterwards by a
successful performance of the Violin Concerto. In Liver¬
pool and Birmingham, Granville Bantock conducted two of
Sibelius’ works, while in Manchester Hans Richter pre¬
sented the first two symphonies. In Milan, a young con¬
ductor—Arturo Toscanini, by name—introduced the Swan
of Tuonela to Italian music audiences. In Paris, perform¬
ances of Sibelius’ music became a frequent event, particu¬
larly by Chevillard at the Lamoureux concerts. And, in
1908, Sibelius conducted his Third Symphony in London at
the concerts of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.
The spring of 1908 found Sibelius once again immersed
in depression. A malignant growth in the throat was
feared to be a cancer. One operation, which took place in
Helsingfors, failed completely to relieve Sibelius of his tor¬
turing pains. Sibelius left for Berlin to place himself in the
hands of specialists. Thirteen operations followed, all
equally painful, until the cause of Sibelius’ pain—a tumour
—was removed.
Following this experience, Sibelius composed two impor¬
tant works, a string-quartet which he called Voces intimae,
and the epical Fourth Symphony.
At the invitation of a wealthy patron, Carl Stoeckel,
Sibelius was brought to America in 1914 to participate in
the Norfolk Festival of Music. The pomp and ceremony
with which Sibelius was welcomed into the new world be¬
wildered Sibelius, who could not believe that his art was so'
well known here. The press sang his praises in elaborately
rhapsodic columns. Yale University honored him with a
degree. This tribute to a great composer became even more
effusive during the concert in which Sibelius conducted an
entire program of his works. As he entered, an audience of

two thousand music lovers rose to its feet in honor of a
master. “During the last fifteen years I have felt three
times that I was confronted with a world genius,” wrote
the New York music critic, Henry E. Krehbiel, in discussing
this concert. “When Richard Strauss, first with the New
York Philharmonic and later with the Boston Symphony
Orchestra, performed his own compositions; when Arturo
Toscanini in 1910 in the Boston Opera House directed an
unforgettable performance of Tristan und Isolde; and lastly
when by the courtesy of Mr. Carl Stoeckel I had the privi¬
lege of hearing Jan Sibelius from Finland direct nine of his
old and new compositions on June 4, 1914.”
The reception Sibelius received in this country moved
him so deeply that he promised he would return to the coun¬
try the following year to conduct more of his works with
leading symphony orchestras. He was never able to keep
that promise. While Sibelius was crossing the Atlantic
on his journey homewards, the news electrified the world
that the Archduke Francis Ferdinand had been assassinated
in Sarajevo.
4.
The World War was a blow to Sibelius on many vulner¬

able spots. His sensitivity as an artist rebelled against a
world suddenly plunging into madness. His intense need
for tranquillity and repose could find little satisfaction in an
age that dripped with blood. Moreover, he suffered mate¬
rially almost as keenly as spiritually. The bulk of his in¬
come—which consisted of royalties from performances of
his music in the rest of Europe, and from the publication of
his works in Germany—was curtly intercepted, leaving him
in a critical financial condition.
After the outbreak of the Russian Revolution, Sibelius’
situation became even more trying. Shortly following the
JAN SIBELIUS 93
declaration of Finland’s independence of Russia’s domina¬

tion, civil war broke out between the so-called “Red Guard”
revolutionists and the “White Guard.” Wholesale killing
(of which Sibelius’ own brother, a physician, was almost a
victim), hooliganism, plunder spread throughout Finland.
Suspense and uncertainty made the air tense. The authori¬
ties forebade Sibelius to leave his villa; but even there the
composer was not altogether safe. Upon two different oc¬
casions, the Red Guards descended upon his home, subjected
it to an intense search and threw the entire household into
an uproar. Sibelius was seriously afraid of his life. Only
when Germany sent troops across the border did the con¬
fusion in Finland resolve itself into harmony.
From such chaos, music provided the only possible es¬
cape. We have descriptions of Sibelius playing quietly upon
the piano to soothe his startled children when the Red
Guards stormed into his house. We also have verbal por¬
traits of the composer, with disaster at his very door, plung¬
ing into the production of great music. During these difficult
months, Sibelius created a great number of works.
With the War over, Sibelius set out upon extensive con¬
cert tours throughout Europe, which brought him to Nor¬
way, Sweden, England and Italy. Wherever he came he
was greeted with ceremonious adulation. On the occasion of
his sixtieth birthday, Sibelius conducted the first perform¬
ance of his Seventh Symphony in Helsingfors.
In December of 1935, the entire world of music sponta¬
neously rose to its feet to honor one of its great creative
masters on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. The
celebration was world-wide. In Finland, it was in the form
of a national holiday, followed by a cycle of symphony per¬
formances that included Sibelius’ most representative works.
In Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin, Rome, Helsingfors, New
York, Boston, Philadelphia there were programs devoted to
Sibelius’ music—eloquent testimony of the formidable stat-
ure of the composer, of his regal position among living

composers.
But the most moving tribute of all, perhaps, came from
America. At that time, the New York Philharmonic Sym¬
phony Society held a poll among radio listeners throughout
the entire country for favorite symphonic music to be fea¬
tured on an all-request program. When the votes were
collected and counted, it was discovered that the name of
Jan Sibelius headed the list of all living composers. He
would not have been human if he had not been sensitively
touched by this spontaneously affectionate response and sin¬
cere admiration of an entire country towards his life work.
5.
Obviously, the outstanding trait of Sibelius’ music is its

intense nationalism. His works—both such obviously na¬
tional expressions as Finlandia, Kalevala or Karelia, and
the more absolute creations as the symphonies—stem from
autochthonous sources. One would be at a loss to enumerate
those technical features in Sibelius’ musical writing which
are essentially Finnish. Sibelius never borrows directly
from folk material, nor even closely apes melodic and
rhythmic patterns of his country’s folk-songs. And yet his
works assume an unmistakable Scandinavian physiognomy.
They have the gray, melancholy landscape of a Scandinavian
countryside; they are drenched with the brooding elegiac
tenderness and cold beauty of a Norse saga. Sibelius’
melody has the broad expanse of the North country; like
the North country, his melody is only gently touched by a
soft sun. His harmonic colors are subdued by Northern re¬
straint. At moments, his music possesses the strength and
heroism of the Scandinavian heroes of the sagas; at other
moments, a quiet introspection. Sibelius’ music comes not
only from a Finnish heart, but from the heart of Finland as
well.
JAN SIBELIUS 95
Except for its nationalism, the music of Sibelius is not

easy to characterize. It falls into too many conflicting cate¬
gories. It is guided by a strong classicism, and yet who can
deny its frequent warm flush of romanticism? It is, at dif¬
ferent times, strongly personal and individual, as in the
later symphonies, and effetely characterless as in his march
from the Karelia Suite. It sounds the vibrant note of
tragedy, as in the plangent Andante of the Second Sym¬
phony or the restrained lament of the Largo of the Fourth
Symphony. Yet the tread of futility and pessimism does
not stride through the pages of Sibelius’ music as it does,
for example, in the later symphonies of Tchaikovsky.
While Sibelius’ works are suffused with a soft melancholy as
gray and bleak as a winter sky in Scandinavia, his music at
times bursts into a soft ripple of laughter, like the chuckle
of a bright-faced child—the Third Symphony, for example,
and portions of the Karelia Suite.
The one persistent note that Sibelius sounds in his greater
works, particularly in the symphonies from the fourth to
the seventh, is that of grandeur; he achieves majestic images
which are uniquely his own. His music often rises to a
plane of sublimity—the closing of the Fourth Symphony is
an apt illustration—which appears to be other-worldly.
Like some religious ritual, the best pages of Sibelius’ later
symphonies gives the listener the feeling of being spiritually
purged.
Sibelius composes his works as though he were living in
the nineteenth and not the twentieth century. He writes in
an idiom as though Stravinsky, Schonberg or Ravel had
never lived. Certain qualities of instrumentation, certain
harmonic colors he has derived from the experiments of
modern composers. But except for these negligible quali¬
ties, his music—even so late a work as the Seventh Sym¬
phony—is untouched by modern influence. Experimentation
as such finds little favor with Sibelius. He is not for strik¬
ing ground in radically new directions. He continues musi-
cal development from the point where Brahms left off,

along the path of romanticism—a romanticism, to be sure,
slightly cooled by Northern temperament. The symphonic
form of Brahms is supple enough for his purposes; the long
accepted conventions of harmony and melody are adequate
for him. If he has succeeded in proving nothing else, he
has convinced us that no form of music is ever outmoded
for the composer who has sufficient imagination and talent
to pour into it new ideas and sentiments.
And he has forcefully proved that originality as a com¬
poser need not consist in smashing traditions and construct¬
ing an entirely new vocabulary. Sibelius has evolved as
personal and individual a speech as though he had twisted
musical forms into distorted shapes and sizes. There is no
mistaking the authorship of his windswept melodies, fresh,
healthy, strong. There is no mistaking the hand that con¬
structed the subtly built cathedrals of his symphonies, idea
by idea, theme by theme, into a gargantuan and inextricable
structure of sound. There is no mistaking the heart that
felt and expressed the moving beauty and sadness of the
slow movements. Sibelius’ symphonies—for it is here that
Sibelius expressed himself most successfully—are not only
the proud utterances of a great nation. They are more
especially the high-minded expression of a great man.
MAURICE RAVEL
V
MAURICE RAVEL
1.
T HE French-Basque town of Ciboure slopes gently from
St.-Jean-de-Luz to which it is connected by a narrow
bridge. Only a stone’s throw separates it from the border
of Spain. Being virtually a border town, Ciboure is a rich
pattern of two temperaments: Spanish color blends freely
with French refinement. Together with the poignant
nursery songs of French heritage; the children of Ciboure
are raised to the sinuous throb of Spanish folk-melodies.
Together with the studied elegance of French dances, they
hurl their bodies into the simian restlessness of a fandango,
which their parents had seen and brought back with them
from across the border.
It was in this miniature half-French, half-Spanish town
that Maurice Ravel was born. His mother was a native
Basque who spent several years of her youth in Spain.
There she met her future husband, who was of Swiss origin.
After marriage, they settled across the border in France
where, on March 7, 1875, Maurice Joseph was born. Span¬
ish culture was Maurice Ravel’s spiritual wet-nurse. He
was frequently lulled to sleep to Spanish songs which his
mother had learned to love in her youth.
Although Maurice Ravel was still a child when he was
plucked from Ciboure and transplanted in Paris, he never
lost the imprint which his border town birthplace had in¬
delibly stamped upon his intellect. Across his musical life-
work there stretches a border line which splits his creative
efforts into two distinct categories, just as it divided the
Pyrenees into France and Spain. On the one side of the
99
border lies his French music steeped in French tradition,

the Daphnis et Chloe, the Concerto for Piano and Orches¬
tra, La False; on the other lies his Spanish music, the Rhap-
sodie espagnole, the Alhorada del Gracioso, L’Heure es-
pagnole, etc. Ravel’s entire artistic career has been marked
by a continual transmigration across the French-Spanish
border.
In his twelfth year, Maurice Ravel was brought by his
parents to Paris where his study of music was launched.
Truth to tell, Ravel was not unusually precocious, but his
father—a devoted musical amateur—insisted that his son
be trained in the art. Ravel’s first teacher was Henri Ghis,
something of a composer in his own right, who taught the
boy the elements of piano playing. Charles Rene was soon
afterwards enlisted to impart into Ravel the rules of har¬
mony. Then, in 1889, Ravel was admitted into the Paris
Conservatory. He entered the preparatory piano class of
Anthiome, won the first prize for piano playing, and then
passed on into the class of Charles de Beriot, where his fel¬
low pupil was Ricardo Vines, later to become a virtuoso
pianist famous for his performances of Ravel’s music.
At the time that Ravel was a student at the Conservatory,
revolt against tradition in music was in the air in Paris. A
group of fearless composers was already pronouncing an
individual speech. In Montmartre, Erik Satie had already
put to paper the brazen audacities of his Sarabandes, Ogives
and Gymnopedies; in Italy, a Prix de Rome winner, Claude
Debussy, had fashioned the fragile outlines of his La
Damoiselle Elue. Cesar Franck had already composed the
Quartet in D-major, Gabriel Faure his Requiem, Chausson
was writing his Concerto for Piano, Violin and String
Quartet.
The spirit of rebellion made the musical atmosphere of
Paris pungent. It was impossible for Ravel—himself a hot
head—not to sense it and react to it keenly. And so, he
frequently startled his professor in harmony—the eminent
MAURICE RAVEL 101
Emile Pessard—by bringing him exercises in which, from
time to time, he sublimely disregarded the rules that had
just been inculcated into him—rules which, the young
student felt, prevented him from achieving those effects for
which he groped instinctively. And in the classroom, while
awaiting the arrival of the professor, he would inspire
snickers of astonishment among his fellow pupils by playing
for them a morsel of Erik Satie or one of the Pieces pit-
toresques of Chabrier which had strongly struck his fancy
with the originality of their thought and the freedom of
their treatment.
What was probably the turning point in Ravel’s period
as a student took place in 1897 when he entered the com¬
position class of Gabriel Faure. While Ravel had been a
brilliant pupil under Emile Pessard and Andre Gedalge
(Andre Gedalge later put to paper the opinion that Ravel
was the most brilliant student of counterpoint he ever had),
his teachers were too often at a loss to understand and to
cope with his restlessness and impatience with academic
principles. It was not until Ravel came to Faure’s class
that he found a teacher of sympathy and understanding, a
teacher who could encourage independent thinking and
direct it into the proper channels, a teacher who knew that
a free spirit like Ravel must be permitted full freedom of
self-expression and allowed to evolve in his own unique
manner. Faure strongly encouraged Ravel’s enthusiasm
for modern music, and brought him into direct contact with
the best modern scores of France and Russia. Thus, under
Faure, Ravel began his first intensive attempts at composi¬
tion, utilizing his personal idiom unrestrainedly. His first
piano pieces, composed at this time, already disclosed the
distinct idiosyncrasies of his later style.
On May 27, 1899, Ravel introduced his first pretentious
work to the public, the overture, Sheherazade, at the con¬
certs of the Societe Nationale. It was received contemptu¬
ously by a public that felt that it had made too conscious
and affected an effort at being original. Ravel had
attempted to speak in a more elastic harmonic language
than was prescribed in the text-books, and he refused to be
throttled by a too rigid form. To the critics, this repre¬
sented nothing more than a defiant gesture of youth; they,
therefore, casually dismissed the work and its composer.
This first disappointment did not discourage the young
composer. In 1901, he made a gesture for the much-
desired Prix de Rome with a cantata Myrrha, which curi¬
ously foreshadowed Ravel’s later gift at penning music
crisp with irony. Myrrha received the second prize—
shabby consolation for a young composer who dreamt of
Rome and a creative life at the Villa Medici I For the next
two years, Ravel continued to enter the Prix de Rome com¬
petitions, but with even less success than his initial attempt.
In 1905—still undismayed!—he once again presented him¬
self as a candidate. This time, the officials of the Con¬
servatory, impatient with Ravel’s failure to produce music
more in line with their teachings, refused to give him even
the opportunity of applying for the award. They attached
to Ravel the label of “revolutionary” and perfunctorily dis¬
missed him from the competition.
The directors of the Conservatory, however, had not
reckoned with Ravel’s bulging reputation as a composer.
By this time Ravel had composed a series of unusual works
which brought him, together with a certain degree of
notoriety, considerable attention and admiration. In 1902,
the pianist Ricardo Vines introduced into his programs two
notable pianistic pieces by Ravel, the Jeux d’eau and the
Pavane pour une infante defunte. Two years later, the
elusive beauty of the Quartet in F-major had made a marked
impression upon the Parisian music public. There were a
number of musicians in Paris, amazed that works of such
full-grown maturity should have sprung from a composer
of comparative inexperience and youth—were shocked that
Ravel should be denied an opportunity of applying for a
MAURICE RAVEL
MAURICE RAVEL 103
prize that he deserved only too well. There followed a

veritable scandal. Newspapers joined prominent critics in
viciously denouncing the reactionary leadership of the Con¬
servatory. The storm grew in intensity until Theodore
Dubois was compelled to resign as director of the institu¬
tion, his post passing on to the more liberal and tolerant
hands of Gabriel Faure.
But the storm clouds that had settled over Ravel’s head
were not completely dissipated with the revolution over the
Conservatory “scandal.” In 1907, they once again burst
into thunder and lightning. The occasion was the first
performance of a new Ravel work for voice and piano, the
Histones naturelles. Inspired by the Impressionism of
Claude Debussy, the Histones naturelles appeared to more
than one critic an effete imitation of the style of Pelleas et
Melisande. There then followed vicious denunciations of
Ravel in which it was maintained that Ravel achieved his
meteoric reputation through the elementary process of copy¬
ing a fashionable composer’s mannerisms. Pierre Lalo, the
well-known critic, went so far as to accuse Ravel of shame¬
less plagiarism.
A handful of critics, headed by the ever astute M. D.
Calvocoressi, were however much more penetrating. De¬
nouncing these calumnies, they pointed to features in Ravel’s
works to prove that small analogy existed between Debussy
and Ravel, that those technical features which assert and
reassert themselves in Debussy’s work (principally the use
of the whole-tone scale) almost never make their presence
felt in the music of Ravel, that, moreover, Ravel’s music
was in temper and spirit directly antithetical to that of
Debussy.
It was true that Ravel had been strongly influenced by
Debussy whom he admired more considerably than any
other contemporary composer. This admiration tempted
him to compose a Mirons for piano, just as Debussy had
composed an Images for the same instrument, to produce
Un Barque sur Vocean just as Debussy had created La Mer,

to match Debussy’s Iberia with the Rhapsodie espagnole.
The similarity in the subject of compositions is, to be sure,
striking; but this strong similarity ceases when the quality
of the music itself is subject to comparison. Ravel is more
virile; in Ravel there is a greater variety of color, a richer
depth and a greater intensity of expression.
Ravel’s music, as a matter of fact, has shown less deriva¬
tive influences than the music of most modern composers.
Except for the lucidity of his form and the clarity of his
structure, which he derived to a great degree from such
early French masters as Couperin, and certain spiritual
affinities with Debussy, Ravel’s music is his own. His early
music, even the earliest, reveals that individual strength,
that firmness and poise, that intuitive feeling for form, that
taste in development of subject matter that characterize
the later works. As a matter of fact, Ravel’s early teacher,
Charles Rene, once remarked that even in the creative exer¬
cises which Ravel submitted as a boy, there were discernible
fingerprints of the later mature composer 1 Certainly there
is no mistaking the hand that shaped the Quartet in F-major,
the Pavane pour une infante defunte and the Jeux d’eau.
The touch may, at infrequent intervals, be the touch of
Debussy, but the hand is unmistakably that of Ravel.
From the bitter brawl of 1907, Ravel emerged fully vic¬
torious when, during the next three years, he produced a
series of remarkable works in which he more firmly estab¬
lished his own personality. In March, 1908, the Colonne
concerts in Paris introduced the Rhapsodie espagnole which,
in its sharpness and strong-muscled masculinity, was a far
cry from Debussy’s Iberia. Rhapsodie espagnole, echoing
the Spanish impressions which Ravel had received as a child
and never forgot, was vividly appealing to French music-
lovers. Shortly after this, Ricardo Vines received the
enthusiastic cheers of an audience for the first performance
of Gaspard de la Nuit. On April 20, 1910, the fragilely
MAURICE RAVEL 105
constructed and charmingly unpretentious Mother Goose
Suite for four hands 1—written, as Ravel noted in the score
“for the pleasure of children”—was introduced at Salle
Gaveau by Christine Verger, aged six, and Germaine Du-
ramy, ten years old, to generous acclaim. And on May 19,
1911, the Opera Comique presented Ravel’s sparkling one-
act opera, L’Heure espagnole. With this work Ravel had
vindicated himself.
It is true that it was the publicity of the storms of 1905
and 1907 that had swept Ravel’s name to prominence. But
it was the works of 1908 to 1910 that solidified that fame
and made it permanent.
2.
In 1910, Serge Diaghilev of the Ballet Russe—scenting

greatness in a composer who could produce the Quartet in
F-major and the Rhapsodie espagnole—commissioned Ravel
to prepare a ballet on the theme of Daphnis and Chloe for
the following season. During the entire year of 1910 Ravel
worked assiduously on his new score. “I remember,” wrote
Walter Nouvel, “that the composer lived near Fontaine¬
bleau, in a small cottage. The floods were very heavy that
year and, as we sat down to listen to what was ready of
Daphnis, I noticed that the floorboards were curved by the
waters pushing up underneath.” 2
When Diaghilev first heard the complete score of Daphnis
on the piano he was excessively disappointed in it, and for a
while seriously considered dropping the project from his
plans. As the publisher, Durand, has noted: “In the Spring
of 1912, with everything ready to put the work into re¬
hearsal at the Chatelet, they announced in my offlce the
arrival of Monsieur Diaghilev . . . Monsieur Diaghilev
1 Later orchestrated by Ravel, and better known in this version.
2 Diaghileff: His Artistic and Private Life, by Arnold L. Haskell (in
Collaboration with Walter Nouvel).
immediately led me to understand that the work did not

afford him complete satisfaction, and that he hesitated to
follow out the project. I employed my dialectic ability to
bring back to Diaghilev his former enthusiasm for the plan.
. . . Finally, after having reflected considerably, Diaghilev
said simply: ‘I will present Daphnis/ ” 3
Before it reached performance, Daphnis et Chloe con¬
fronted other obstacles than the first lack of enthusiasm in
Diaghilev. Questions about the choreography brought
about a rupture between Diaghilev and Fokine, the ballet-
master, a rupture which became definite at the end of the
season. There followed several delays and postponements;
for a while the fate of Daphnis hung on a mere hair.
Finally, Daphnis was magnificently performed at the
Chatelet on June 8, 1912. Nijinsky was Daphnis, and
Karsavina was Chloe. The scenery and costumes were
designed by Leon Bakst. Pierre Monteux conducted. This,
however, was not Paris’ initiation to Ravel’s masterpiece.
A concert suite drawn from the music of Daphnis had been
presented one year before this—on April 2, 1911—at a
Chatelet concert by Gabriel Pierne.
The score contains the following summary of the action:
“Daphnis lies stretched before the grotto of the nymphs.
. . . Herdsmen enter, seeking Daphnis and Chloe. They
find Daphnis and awaken him. In anguish, he looks for
Chloe. She at last appears, encircled by shepherdesses.
The two rush into each other’s arms. Daphnis observes
Chloe’s crown. His dream was a prophetic vision: the
intervention of Pan is manifest. The old shepherd Lammon
explains that Pan saved Chloe, in remembrance of the
nymph Syrinx, whom the god loved.
“Daphnis and Chloe mime the story of Pan and Syrinx.
Chloe impersonates the young nymph wandering over the
3 For this initial lack of enthusiasm for an unquestioned masterpiece,
Diaghilev can, to a great extent, be pardoned, because he heard the work in
a piano arrangement; and Daphnis—robbed of its gorgeous orchestral garb
—loses much of its brilliance.
MAURICE RAVEL 107
meadow. Daphnis as Pan appears and declares his love

for her. The nymph repulses him; the god becomes more
insistent. She disappears among the reeds. In desperation,
he plucks some stalks, fashions a flute, and on it plays a
melancholy tune. Chloe comes out and imitates the accents
of the flute by her dance.
“The dance grows more and more animated. In mad
whirlings, Chloe falls into the arms of Daphnis. Before
the altar of the nymphs he swears on two sheep his fidelity.
Young girls enter; they are dressed as Bacchantes and
shake their tambourines. Daphnis and Chloe embrace
tenderly. A group of young men come on the stage. Joyous
tumult. A general dance.”
Daphnis et Chloe—partially because of the superb pres¬
entation of the Ballet Russe, but more especially because
the great score, now being heard a second time, could be
fully understood—was greeted with unquestioned warmth
and enthusiasm. The audience rose to cheer. However,
the music-critics were divided into two conflicting forces.
Emile Vuillermoz spoke of the “irresistible force” of the
dances, “the spontaneity of the harmonic language,” the
“freshness of the ideas” and the “exceptional colors of the
orchestration,” while Gaston Carraud was of the opinion
that the rhythmic element disclosed an extreme feebleness;
Robert Brussel was of the opinion that Daphnis was “the
most accomplished, the most poetic enterprise that Serge
Diaghilev has given us,” but Pierre Lalo denied that
Daphnis was ballet-music of first quality. In striking con¬
trast is this divergence of opinion to the unanimity with
which Daphnis et Chloe is today considered not only as
Ravel’s masterpiece but as one of the half-dozen epochal
works of music in our time!
Daphnis et Chloe is most familiar to music lovers in the
form of two concert suites which have been drawn from the
score of the ballet and presented in symphony concerts
throughout the world of music. The first suite consists of
a Nocturne, Interlude and Danse Guerriere ; the second suite
includes the Daybreak, Pantomime and the Danse Generale.
3.
The outbreak of the World War interrupted Ravel’s
creative work. Fired by patriotism, Ravel enlisted in the
army and was assigned as motorist to the ambulance corps.
One of the first works to inflame his enthusiasm upon
his return from the battlefront was completing a series of
six piano pieces (begun in 1914)—dedicated to those of
his friends who had fallen in the war—entitled Le Tombeau
de Couperin. Later, Ravel orchestrated four of these six
pieces—the Prelude, Forlane, Menuet and Rigaudon—and
in this form it achieved its great prominence, being first
performed in 1920.
Shortly after the War, Ravel bought a beautiful villa,
the Belvedere, in Montfort l’Amaury, situated in the Ile-de-
France section of France. Soon after settling there, Ravel
began to work intensively upon a composition whose theme
had been obsessing him for almost fifteen years, a musical
expression of the “apotheosis of the waltz.” ha False was
first performed by Camille Chevillard near the close of
1919 at the Lamoureaux concerts with overwhelming suc¬
cess, a success it has retained tenaciously to this day.
Ravel’s next important work did not come until 1925. It
was a ballet, L’Enfant et les Sortileges, to a scenario of
Colette, commissioned by Raoul Gunsbourg for the theatre
at Monte Carlo. The work was introduced at Monte Carlo
on March 29, 1925, under the baton of Vittorio de Sabata
with such an enthusiastic response that, on February 1,
1926, it was performed in Paris at the Opera Comique
under the direction of Albert Wolff.
In 1928, Ida Rubinstein, the dancer, commissioned Ravel
to compose a work expressly for her. Bolero—dedicated to
Ida Rubinstein—took the music world by storm. Built
MAURICE RAVEL 109
upon a single theme (which, truth to tell, was not in strict
bolero rhythm),4 repeated again and again, each time in a
different instrumental dress, to an ever-increasing crescendo
until, finally, the principal melody emerged into a mag¬
nificently stirring climax, Bolero literally swept the audi¬
ences off their feet. When Ida Rubinstein introduced the
work in Paris in November of 1928, she had the Parisian
music public at her feet. In New York, each time Stokow¬
ski, Toscanini or Koussevitzky performed the work (which
was introduced by Arturo Toscanini in New York on No¬
vember 14, 1929) they were greeted with intoxicated
cheering.
Ravel’s Bolero became in America a fashion and a fad.
It was performed endlessly in movie-houses, concert-halls,
on the radio. Six different recordings of the work appeared
almost simultaneously. It was arranged for jazz-band, for
two pianos, for solo piano, for various combinations of solo
instruments. It was introduced into a popular musical revue
on Broadway. Hollywood bought the title for a motion-
picture. For one year at least America throbbed to bolero
rhythm. Never before in musical history was there another
example of a serious musical work, from the pen of one of
the great living composers, achieving overnight the for¬
midable and contagious popularity of a best-seller novel or
a popular-song success.
During 1930 and 1931, Ravel devoted himself to the
composition of a work which he felt was his fullest
expression as a creative artist—a concerto for piano and
orchestra. He worked, at times, ten to twelve hours con¬
secutively a day, attempting to achieve the greatest economy
of expression and the leanest.of possible forms. The Con¬
certo was completed in January, 1932, and was introduced
in Paris by Marguerite Long. While not the most consist-
4 As a matter of fact, the Spanish conductor, Enrique Fernandez Arbos,
was for a long time afraid to introduce Bolero in Spain because he feared
that Spanish audiences, recognizing that the work was not in the strictest
sense a bolero, might deem it a fraud.
ently inspired of Ravel’s music, the Concerto possesses a
pungent effectiveness and inexhaustible vitality as well as a
remarkable concentration of expression.
Following the composition of the Concerto, Maurice
Ravel suffered physical collapse brought on by the strain of
overwork. For the past two years, Ravel has been under
the vigilant eye of physicians and nurses, both at his own
home and at a private sanitarium. Composition has, of
course, been impossible. Only the most intimate friends
have had access to him. It is believed that with rest and
quiet, his health will be restored sufficiently to enable him
to continue his creative work where it had been interrupted.
4.
Most of Ravel’s greatest works divide themselves into

two categories.5 The first of these is his humorous music.
Here the influence of Mozart can to a great extent be
traced. Like Mozart, Ravel has attempted to make tones
speak flippantly, often facetiously, often with irony and
malice. Many of Ravel’s compositions are primarily the
works of a wit. Myrrha is a pungent ironical gem that
laughs with each bar. Histones naturelles is one of the
high points of his humorous music. The accompaniment
is subtle and deft; the harmony exotic; the melodies full of
the twist and curve that give them a strange and haunting
ironic color. The rhythms frequently play coyly and face¬
tiously. The music sparkles with bright-faced humor. But,
perhaps, the most outstanding of his humorous works is
that delicious opera, L’Heure espagnole, in which a mis¬
chievous book is wedded to an equally impudent musical
score. All of the different shades of humor (ranging from
broad burlesque and clowning to the most sophisticated
wit), all the naivete and impertinence of the comedy are
5 There are of course, important works like the Quartet and the Trio
which belong to neither one of these two categories.
MAURICE RAVEL 111
reproduced, with a hand exquisitely poised, in this delicately

tinted music. In more respects than one is L’Heure espag-
nole one of the most Mozartean of Ravel’s creations.
The second category into which Ravel’s greatest works
divide themselves is his music for the dance. In this cate¬
gory come those works which have found the most popular
appeal among audiences everywhere. The music to
Daphnis et Chloe deserves first consideration. It proved
to be the very culmination of Ravel’s creations up to the
time of its composition; nor has he ever since equalled the
sheer burst of genius of this music. This is his most pas¬
sionately sincere expression—an expression which must
have burst from him in one outpouring of inspiration. This
is his largest canvas, and upon it he spread the brilliance of
color which dazzles and stupefies each time we come into
contact with it. Daphnis et Chloe must inevitably rank with
Stravinsky’s Le Sucre du Printemps as the outstanding music
of our day produced in France. A work fashioned with the
utmost technical dexterity, a work which is volcanic in its
energy, a work which now is exquisitely tender and poig¬
nant and now erupts into tonal ecstasy, a work whose many
varying moods are painted subtly with a brush of many
colors—this work is quite unparalleled in our time for sheer
spontaneity of inspiration.
In his subsequent works for the dance—La False and
Bolero—Maurice Ravel proved himself to be more the
showman than the genius. Much of the fascination of these
works—a fascination which has made them world-famous
almost with the first hearing—is due to the fact that Ravel
is a supreme technician who can create music of overpower¬
ing force and effectiveness even with trite material. It does
not require much acumen to discover considerable super¬
ficiality in both of these works. And yet who will deny their
appeal? La False is a study in the development of a theme
—a theme which grows and twists and evolves and finally
erupts into a colossal and breath-taking climax. Bolero is a
study in instrumentation. From a hand less cunning and

less consummate than Ravel’s both these works would have
proved to be intolerably banal. Ravel—omnipotent as he
is with his musical tools—is able to make the music force¬
fully effective. Both La False and Bolero are decidedly the
triumphs of a master technician. The man of genius speaks,
rather, in Daphnis et Chloe, in L’Heure espagnole and in
the Quartet in F-major.
5.
Maurice Ravel’s villa is situated atop a long, sloping hill.

From its terrace can be seen a panoramic view of the Ile-
de-France countryside extending for miles until it fades into
the haze of the distant horizon. One of the windows of
Ravel’s villa looks out upon the historic church of the town.
Le Belvedere is permeated with a spirit of repose and con¬
templation which Ravel has always considered indispensable
for his composition.
Ravel’s studio is, by far, the most interesting room in
the house. Not only books, music, pictures and a grand
piano, but innumerable trinkets, bibelots, objets d’art,
antique furniture clutter the place to give it an atmosphere
uniquely its own. One’s first impression upon entering it is
its resemblance to an overcrowded museum-room.
In this strange studio of curiosities, Ravel harmonizes
picturesquely. He is usually dressed unconventionally: an
affection for waistcoats of garish color and for startlingly
colored ensembles of socks and handkerchiefs motivates his
costume. Spats, and an ivory cigarette holder quivering at
the end of his lips, complete the picture.
When he enters or leaves the room, his body moves with
lightning and impulsive swiftness; when seated, his ges¬
tures are frequent and nervously agitated. He is short and
slim, his build is slight, his cheeks have an emaciated hol¬
lowness. His eyes, electrically alive and restless, are the
MAURICE RAVEL 113
most attractive feature of his appearance. His thin lips
curl in a Mephistophelean irony.
His intellectual range is not wide. The only language he
speaks besides French is Basque, which he learned as a
child. Poetry appeals to him strongly, but he is singularly
disinterested in politics, science or history. His tastes fre¬
quently approach the simple: He adores dance music, visits
night-clubs frequently to hear it, and at one time attempted
to incorporate “blues” music and jazz into his own creative
work. In 1928 when Ravel visited America, this writer
asked him what impressed him most in this country. Ravel’s
answer was characteristic of him: Negro dance-music which
he had heard in a Harlem night club, and the tap-dancers
he had seen in one of the leading cinema houses.
A keen sense of fun is one of the predominant traits of
his character. Frequently he indulges in the playful
pastimes of a schoolboy. A writer-friend of Ravel, Charles
Alvar-Harding, has noted that Ravel often convulses his
friends with an explosive trick called the “seasick China¬
man,” performed with a napkin and an orange. At one
time, Mr. Alvar-Harding joined Ravel in a “water war”
in which, dressed in raincoats, they threw heavy water
sponges at each other. Once being caught at this pastime,
Ravel explained to the intruder that they were merely
enacting his composition, Jeux d’eau.
There remains to speak of Ravel’s inherent modesty.
Publicity he avoids as though it were a plague, and public
appearances are a trial and an abomination to him. He
likewise shrinks from all public recognition: upon two
occasions he was offered the Legion of Honor which he
twice refused. He derives greatest satisfaction from the
complete seclusion and tranquillity which he finds at his
home.
SERGE PROKOFIEFF
VI
SERGE PROKOFIEFF
1.
I F—AS in the descriptive phrase of the poet—music is the
“heavenly maid,” then one is strongly tempted to say
that with Serge Prokofieff she has lost her virginity. In
Prokofieff’s works the musical art emerges from the temple
and enters the market-place. Music, to Prokofieff, is not
hallowed ground to which one must approach with genu¬
flections and with sublime utterances on the lips. There is
neither reverence nor humility in his compositions. Music,
in Prokofieff’s works, abandoned its halo of spirituality and
assumed a rakish pose. Irony, sardonic mockery, insolence
and irreverence form the well-known “Prokofieff manner”
of composition, which during the past two decades has so
often been imitated by lesser composers.
True, irony and wit are no strangers to musical expres¬
sion in general, and certainly not to modern music in par¬
ticular. But with Prokofieff, satire and wit have achieved
their most felicitous and needle-pointed expression. Even
more than Erik Satie or the members of the French “Six,”
Prokofieff has given voice to an impudence that is as infec¬
tious as it is disconcerting. He uses dissonance not to
unleash tempests of sound, overwhelming the listener with
a thunder of sonority, but sparingly, to inject acidity into
his thought. His frugal polytonality is as sharp as a razor-
blade. His melodies—characterized by a tripping, mock¬
ing figure for reeds which he employs frequently—seem to
give tonal expression to the gesture of nose-thumbing.
In a recent interview, Prokofieff lamented the fact that
critics insisted upon labeling him a satirist without realizing
117
that his works have other and greater qualities. However,

despite this protestation, it is as satire that his music must
stand or fall. Sublimity or pure poetry are not to be found
in Prokofieff. He seems ill-at-ease in his slow movements,
as though incapable of concentrated thought; and he has
never fully succeeded in producing a sustainedly beautiful
page of music. It is almost as if he is incapable of taking
himself seriously for too long a time. Even in a work like
the Classical Symphony—which is a serious attempt to
reproduce a Mozart symphony from a modern point-of-
view—there gleams the unmistakable twinkle of a mis¬
chievous smile. Even in so deeply felt and intricately con¬
ceived a work as the First Violin Concerto, Prokofieff is not
beyond striking a sardonic note—the third movement
(Moderato). Sentiment is rare with him; emotion as well.
He is, therefore, most himself when he strikes a mali¬
cious posture. Then he possesses an extraordinary gift at
carving themes of an intensity and pungency that slash
through his music like sharpened knives. His dynamics
become brilliantly shaded and contrasted. The outlines of
his forms are healthy and broad-chested. His rhythms leap
nimbly with athletic muscles. His music sparkles and corus¬
cates—avoiding banal subjects, oversentimentality, and
platitudinous ideas. Whatever may be the fault of his
music—and its severest shortcoming is that it never inspires
the listener or moves him profoundly—it cannot be said
that his music ever lacks originality, vitality or youth.
2.
Serge Prokofieff is in the vanguard of radical modern
composers in his bold avoidance of consonant harmonies
and in his preference for melodies that assume angular,
often distorted, lines. What is particularly interesting to
note is the fact that he did not arrive at revolt through
subtle stages of evolution, as so many other modern com-
SERGE PROKOFIEFF
SERGE PROKOFIEFF 119
posers did, but was literally born to it. From his earliest
years, his music smashed every accepted law of the harmony
text-book—and at a time when rebellion was not the
fashion. His restless temperament and his strong individu¬
ality compelled him to avoid scrupulously those paths which
other composers before his time had traversed.
Serge Prokofieff was born on April 23, 1891, in the South
of Russia, on the Sontzovka estate in the government of
Ekaterinoslav. His earliest years were, therefore, spent on
the steppes of Ukrania. There his mother, an excellent
pianist, first introduced him to music by playing for him
from the works of Beethoven and Chopin. His intelligent
response to music and his abnormal interest in it tempted
his mother to begin teaching him the piano at an early age.
He began composition equally early. When he was five
years old he heard his parents and their friends discuss, at
the tea table, a famine which at that time was devastating
India. This conversation inspired Prokofieff to compose a
Galop Hindou for piano, which depicts programatically the
young composer galloping on horseback to bring food to
the sufferers. This piece, though written in the key of
F-major, brazenly dispenses with the note of B-flat. It may
be that Prokofieff had not as yet learned his F-major scale.
Or, as is equally probable, young though he was, he was
already thumbing his nose at musical tradition!
When he was seven years old, his father took him for
a short visit to Moscow where he attended performances
of two operas, Faust and Prince Igor. How these operas
moved him can best be judged by the fact that upon his
return home he composed an opera of his own, The Giant,
after an original libretto. The Giant was performed by his
cousins at the estate of an uncle. ‘When your operas are
given at the Theatre Imperial,” the uncle told the boy
laughingly, “do not forget that your first presentation took
place in my house.”
Three years later, Prokofieff—manuscripts in hand—was
taken to Taneiev, the celebrated teacher and composer.
The composer looked through the bundle of original pieces,
finding in some of them talent. “You have to develop a
more interesting harmony,” was Taneiev’s principal criti¬
cism. “Too much of your music employs the tonic, domi¬
nant and subdominant.”
An interesting harmony! ... It is amusing to mention
that eleven years after this Prokofieff had a second interview
with Taneiev, bringing with him another bundle of original
compositions. This time, Taneiev was horrified by Prok-
ofieff’s dissonant harmonies and audacious tonal experi¬
ments. “I have merely followed your advice, master,”
Prokofieff said, unable to restrain a smile. “When I was a
child you told me to develop a more interesting harmony
—which I proceeded to do without delay.”
Meanwhile, upon the advice of Taneiev, Prokofieff
became a pupil of Gliere. The study of composition un¬
loosed in Prokofieff an oceanic surge of musical productivity.
During his first few months with Gliere he composed a
symphony, two small operas and two sonatas for piano. In
these works, we are informed by Prokofieff, there was an
instinctive dissatisfaction with the existing rules of music.
He was guided principally by a driving force to express
himself individually and with originality. Time and again,
he destroyed a work impatiently because—though it con¬
tained good music—it sounded like the work of some other
composer. And his greatest satisfaction was achieved when
he had put to paper a thought or a motif which he knew
was entirely his own.
Gliere brought his talented pupil to the notice of Glazu¬
nov who, in turn, urged the boy to enter the Conservatory
of St. Petersburg for an intensive musical training. At the
age of thirteen, therefore, Prokofieff was enrolled in the
Conservatory, where he was to remain for ten years. There
his masters—including Rimsky-Korsakoff, Liadov and
Tcherepnine—were at a loss to understand his temperament
and aspirations. However, neither the dissatisfaction of his
teachers nor their bitter criticisms could swerve Prokofieff
from his direction. A certain amount of inspiration and
encouragement he drew from the musical scores of Scriabin
and Max Reger. With these works as beacons lighting his
path, Prokofieff composed a symphony, two operas, six
sonatas and about a hundred piano pieces. The symphony
was performed at a concert of the Conservatory but,
because it defied all the teachings of the Conservatory, was
badly received. Glazunov, the director (who had gener¬
ously arranged the performance) was greatly disappointed.
But Prokofieff—hearing his imaginative conceptions trans¬
lated into sound—was convinced in the truth and impor¬
tance of his direction.
While he was still a student at the Conservatory,
Prokofieff’s penchant for modernism found stout support in
a society devoted to contemporary music, functioning in St.
Petersburg. It was at these concerts that Prokofieff’s music
first received the appreciation it deserved—particularly the
first two piano concertos, in which the “Prokofieff manner”
is first clearly and unmistakably recognizable. At this time,
too, an adventurous publisher, Jurgenson, accepted several
of Prokofieff’s works for publication.
In 1914, Prokofieff brought his studies at the Conserva¬
tory to a close—receiving three diplomas (in composition,
piano and conducting) as well as the Rubinstein prize for
piano-playing. Shortly after his graduation, he took a holi¬
day trip to London where he was introduced to that cele¬
brated impresario of the ballet, Serge de Diaghilev. Once
again Diaghilev recognized genius in the raw; he, therefore,
commissioned Prokofieff to prepare a ballet for the Ballet
Russe.
Exhilarated by an assignment which Prokofieff felt would
bring him widespread fame throughout Europe, he returned
to Russia to fulfill his contract for Diaghilev. Shortly after
his return, the World War, like a bolt of lightning, struck
Russia and set it aflame.
3.
Fortunately, because Prokofieff was the only son of a
widowed mother, he was exempt from assuming military
duty. The War, therefore, did not interrupt his creative
life. With Europe involved in systematic butchery,
Prokofieff found escape in his studio, in the composition of
a series of strikingly revolutionary works that were soon to
startle the music-world.
The first composition to engage him at this time was a
ballet for Diaghilev on the subject of prehistoric nomads
who roamed the steppes of Ukrania. The ballet was com¬
pleted at the close of 1914, but Diaghilev—who liked the
music—felt that the subject was unsuitable for the dance.
Prokofieff therefore, revised his score into a purely orches¬
tral work. In this form, the Scythian Suite was introduced
at the Maryinsky Theatre on January 29, 1916, under the
baton of the composer. This novel and eccentric music
puzzled the audience. Glazunov fled from the concert hall
in horror, cupping the palms of his hands over his ears to
deafen them to Prokofieff’s blaring dissonances. One of
the violinists of the orchestra (on this or some similar
occasion) was overheard by Prokofieff to say to a friend:
“My wife is sick and I’ve got to buy some medicine. Other¬
wise I wouldn’t play this crazy music 1”
If this reception made any impression upon the composer
it was certainly not one of discouragement. During the
next two years, Prokofieff knew one of his most productive
periods. In 1915, he composed the ballet Chout—which
delighted Diaghilev but which was not performed at the
time because the War suspended the activities of the Ballet
Russe—and in 1916 an opera, The Gambler, after an auto¬
biographical novel by Dostoyevsky. In 1917—in the midst
of the revolution—he completed his First Violin Concerto,
the Classical Symphony, two piano sonatas, and the incanta¬
tion for choir and orchestra, Sept, Us sont sept.
In October of 1917, the second revolution—which put
the communist government in power—hurled Russia into
momentary confusion. The supply of food was low, the
rouble was collapsing, prices soared, suffering and starva¬
tion were widespread. Prokofieff decided, therefore, to
come to America. His funds were, of course, low, and a
passport was not easy to procure. But both of these ob¬
stacles he surmounted in a brief period. Supplied with a
generous advance from his publisher, Serge Koussevitzky—
the famous conductor, who had shortly before this time
established a house in Paris devoted to the publication of
Russian music—Prokofieff approached government officials
for permission to leave the country. “You are a revolu¬
tionary in art just as we are revolutionaries in politics,”
they told him. “We need you here with us. But if you
really wish to go, we will not compel you to remain.”
After crossing Siberia—a twenty-six day journey made
perilous by the civil war—Prokofieff came to Japan where
he gave three concerts to polite but not particularly under¬
standing audiences. Then, by way of Honolulu and San
Francisco, Prokofieff arrived in New York in August of
1918.
At the time of Prokofieff’s arrival in America, the Ameri¬
can music-public had not as yet acquired tolerance towards
modern expression in music. In view of this fact, the cordial
welcome Prokofieff received everywhere is extraordinary.
It is true that his music—when he featured it at his own
piano recitals, and when the Russian Symphony Orchestra
gave the world premiere of the Classical Symphony—puz¬
zled America and encouraged many acrid opinions. But
Prokofieff, himself, was treated respectfully. He received
many important engagements and commissions—the most
important of which was from the Chicago Opera House for
a new operatic work to be featured in 1921.
Early in 1921, Prokofieff completed his circuit of the
globe by crossing the Atlantic Ocean in order to confer with
Diaghilev in Paris about a projected performance of the
ballet Chout. After the score had undergone slight revision,
Chout was introduced by the Ballet Russe at the Theatre de
la Gaiete on May 17, 1921. The whimsical story, derived
from a folk-tale of the Archangel region—depicting the
mad exploits of a buffoon—found marvelous expression
in the whimsical and highly spiced musical score by Prok¬
ofieff. Chout was a partial success in Paris. When, how¬
ever, it was introduced in London, it was attacked severely
by the critics.
Prokofieff was back in America towards the close of 1921
to attend the first performance of two of his important
works recently completed. Early in December, he was the
soloist in the premiere of his Third Piano Concerto—one of
his most important creations—at the concerts of the Chicago
Symphony Orchestra. Later that month, the Chicago
Opera House gave the world’s first performance of his
opera, The Love for Three Oranges.
The text of the opera was drawn from a “fiaba” of Carlo
Gozzi, who wrote the play and produced it in Vienna in
1761 to poke fun at two other Venetian authors who at the
time were monopolizing the stage—Chiari and Goldoni.
For this charming piece, Prokofieff produced what is prob¬
ably his wittiest score. He has rarely been more audacious
in the concoction of sparkling theatrical effects in his music
nor in conceiving melodies of an impudent flippancy. Un¬
fortunately, this musical style was far too advanced for
Chicago of 1921. The opera was, therefore, received with
hostility both by the critics and the audience. In more
recent years, several of the orchestral excerpts from this
opera have achieved world prominence on symphony pro¬
grams everywhere—principally the Scherzo and the March.
4.
After the premiere of his opera in Chicago, Prokofieff

returned to Europe and later established his permanent
home in Paris. From this time on, his life has been fever¬
ishly active. He has roamed the globe freely in concert-
tours of his own music that have brought him to the
principal music-centers of the world. At the same time, his
creative pen has been indefatigably active. Writing has
always come easily to him; and the production of musical
works has always been, with him, abundant.
In 1924, Prokofieff composed his second symphony, sub¬
sequently producing two more works in the same form: the
third, in 1928 (with thematic material drawn from an early
opera), and the fourth in 1930 in honor of the fiftieth
anniversary of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. In these
works he has achieved his greatest terseness and effective¬
ness in orchestral writing. He likewise completed two new
piano concertos (the last of which was given, in October of
1932, a magnificent world-premiere by the Berlin Philhar¬
monic Orchestra, Wilhelm Furtwangler conducting), as
well as recomposing the Second Piano Concerto, the score
of which had been lost during the Revolution in Russia, only
sketches of the piano part surviving.
His most ambitious works, however, were for the ballet.
In June of 1927, Diaghilev introduced Le Pas d’Acier (The
Age of Steel) at the performances of the Ballet Russe. In
this work, Prokofieff attempted a tribute to Soviet Russia,
dedicating the work to the social values of factories and to
the dignity of labor. In a strident score, constructed of
muscle and sinew, Prokofieff spoke of the bolt “more beauti¬
ful than the rose,” and the machine more awe-inspiring than
Nature. Two other significant ballets followed in the foot¬
steps of Le Pas d’Acier: Le Fils prodigue (The Prodigal
Son) introduced by the Diaghilev ballet in 1929, and Sur le
Borysthene, commissioned by the Paris Opera and produced

by it in December of 1932.
During this time—it should be recorded—appreciation
of Prokofieff’s works became commensurate with their fame.
His startling musical style had inevitably courted the atten¬
tion of the music-public. It had, therefore, never been
difficult for him to procure a hearing for his works. How¬
ever, it had been nothing more substantial than curiosity
that drew audiences to performances of Prokofieff’s music
—not appreciative understanding. A decade ago, however,
Prokofieff’s full significance as a creative artist became uni¬
versally accepted. Triumphant tours—particularly to
Soviet Russia and the United States—brought him tributes
that were as sincere as they were enthusiastic. Performances
of his major works in the principal music-centers of the
world—particularly those of his opera The Love for Three
Oranges—were extraordinarily successful.
Recently, Prokofieff has transferred his permanent home
from Paris to the Soviet Union, where he has assumed an
important pedagogical post.
Serge Prokofieff is of medium height and solid in build.
His face is spherical, its features markedly Slavic—par¬
ticularly in the thick lips and the broad, flat nostrils. It is
an extraordinarily youthful face, with considerable warmth
and softness to it. His hair, which is blond, has lately
begun to thin. His brow is high, and his eyes extremely
sensitive.
In conversation, he talks volubly with considerable heat
and enthusiasm, irrespective of his topic. Strongly opinion¬
ated, he frequently transforms arguments into a monologue.
A pungent sense of humor endows sparkle to whatever he is
saying; he has an instinctive bent for the ironical.
In his art, his life’s mission is to attain a simplicity such
as Stravinsky had in mind when, one day, he confided to
Prokofieff that he hoped at one time to compose music which
would consist of no more than two melodies. “I want a
simpler and more melodic style for music,” Prokofieff has
said in interviews, “a simpler, less complicated emotional
state, and dissonance again relegated to its proper place as
one element of music, contingent principally upon the meet¬
ing of melodic lines.”
His musical preferences are, more or less, catholic. His
preference for the music of Mozart, frequently assumes
sheer adoration; he has confessed that Mozart has prob¬
ably had the greatest influence upon his own art. Among
modern composers, Prokofieff esteems Stravinsky highest,
and has no hesitation in saying that, in his own opinion, he
himself occupies a place next to Stravinsky.
MANUEL DE FALLA
VII
MANUEL DE FALLA
1.
PYQRING the past six or more decades, the foremost
composers of Spain have been motivated by one pre¬
dominating ideal: to interpret their country musically for
the rest of the world. The music of the modern Spanish
school, therefore, is touched with the faint incense of the
Orient, speaking of a land of Moorish ancestry, of mag¬
nificent cobalt skies, of sun-baked patios and moonlit ter¬
races, of gypsy dances and songs, of baroque architecture
and mosaic tiles. It mirrors the temperament of a languor¬
ous, warm-hearted people.
The nationalistic music of modern Spanish composers,
however, is far different from the so-called Spanish music
which the rest of Europe has for a long time exhibited as
the authentic product. For years, non-Spanish composers in
Europe—such as Moritz Moszkowski, Georges Bizet, Cha-
brier or Rimsky-Korsakoff—have taken some of the more
superficial attributes of Spanish music and have constructed
from them musical works which have been faithfully ac¬
cepted as authentic Spanish music. This “pseudo-Spanish
music” has exploited some of the more obvious Spanish
rhythms, such as those of the malaguena, habanera and the
bolero, simulated the tortuous melodic line of the Spanish
folk-song, exaggerated its sentimentality and aped its color¬
ful, lambent harmonizations. The externals of Spanish
folk-music were caught felicitously enough; but, as true
Spaniards have lamented, the heart, soul and spirit of Spain
were absent. As one Spanish composer, Enrique Granados,
wrote: “The musical interpretation of Spain is not to be
131
found in tawdry boleros and habaneras, in Carmen, in any¬

thing accompanied by tambourines and castanets. The mu¬
sic of my nation is far more complex, more poetic and more
subtle.”
True Spanish music—such as is found in the works of the
more important modern Spanish composers—is as different
from the concoctions in that name of non-Spanish composers
as Spain itself is from any other European nation. The
melodies of Spanish folk-music rarely consist of the mawk¬
ishly sentimental whinings conceived by some imitators.
The emotion of true Spanish music is much more restrained,
its form is more elusive, almost Oriental in its design. Span¬
ish music abounds in subtle modulations, supple changes
from one mood to another, from one atmosphere to an¬
other. Its rhythms are often complicated, failing to fall in
the neat stereotyped patterns conceived by Frenchmen or
Germans writing in the Spanish idiom. Its atmospheric
charm is as delicate as a faint touch of Oriental perfume,
whose emotional appeal is hidden deeply within the texture
of the music, whose construction is frequently so complex
that it requires the searching ear of the musical analyst for
dissection. It is, in short, music not half so popular in ap¬
peal as that which the rest of Europe has fashioned, but
much more subtle and original.
The first composer to point the way for the Spanish musi¬
cal creators of our time was Felipe Pedrell (1841-1922),
who is often referred to as the “father of modern Spanish
music.” Pedrell’s importance in the field of musical re¬
search far exceeds his significance as a composer. What I
have heard of Pedrell’s music has convinced me that his
mediocrity would long ago have engulfed him in obscurity
were it not for the fact that his pioneer work exerted such a
powerful historic significance. As a composer, he is stilted,
unimaginative, and self-conscious; his music is pieced to¬
gether as deliberately and as uninspiredly as a carpenter
might piece together blocks of wood. However, he was the
MANUEL DE FALLA 133
first composer in Spain to realize the wealth of ideas and
richness of spirit latent in the Spanish folk-song, and to
understand that great Spanish music must derive its char¬
acter and quality from indigenous models. Through his
blundering compositions, which utilized folk material ex¬
tensively, through his valuable publications of Spanish folk¬
songs, through his indefatigable journalistic work and
through his pedagogical influence he brought the importance
of Spanish folk-music to the attention of his fellow-
composers. His researches into the music of Spain’s past
were significant enough in unearthing many gems from the
bowels of obscurity; but their greatest importance must rest
in the fact that they succeeded in convincing Spanish com¬
posers of the existence of a remarkable storehouse of native
material from which they could draw their inspiration.
The first important composers to be influenced by Pe-
drell’s zealous missionary work were Isaac Albeniz (1860-
1909), Tomas Breton (1850-1923) and Enrique Granados
(1867-1916). Albeniz stemmed from Catalonia; he drew
upon the characteristics of many parts of Spain, notably the
hot-blooded songs and dances of Andalusia. His famous
“Iberia” consists of twelve “Scenes” from different corners
of Spain. Breton, a Castillian composer, has given expres¬
sion to the national idiom in his “Zarzuelas,” or one-act
operas. Enrique Granados, perhaps the most gifted of this
trio of composers, produced at least one work which, though
drenched with Spanish color and tradition, exerted a potent
fascination to which the rest of the world responded sensi¬
tively—the opera Goyescas.
The foremost artistic figure in the modern Spanish school
of composers is unquestionably Manuel de Falla. In him,
all of the tendencies of Spanish music of the past fifty years
are crystallized, unified, reach their surest artistic expres¬
sion. The music of Falla sums up the aspirations of every
pioneer Spanish composer that preceded him; and it brings
them to their most successful artistic realization.
Manuel de Falla’s music is more important artistically
than that of his predecessors because, for one thing, he
achieved a remarkable wedlock of form and content in all
of his works. His technique he derived from the French,
from whom he learned dexterity in development of musical
ideas, taste in instrumentation and variety in harmonic writ¬
ing. This technique, which became in his hand a supple in¬
strument, he applied to the Spanish message, succeeding in
voicing effects and qualities which were far beyond the grasp
of his immediate predecessors. Moreover, Falla’s music is
much more imaginative than even the best works of Grana¬
dos and Albeniz, because unlike these composers Falla
hardly ever directly borrowed folk-songs for his music. The
style, the spirit, certain technical features of Spanish folk-
music he attempted to reproduce in his own works. But the
invention of thematic material was predominantly his own.
As a result there is a greater variety of material and much
more individual personality in de Falla’s music. Too fre¬
quently, the music of Granados and Albeniz is what Falla
himself has called “caricature.” Falla’s music, on the other
hand, always rings true, always seems to penetrate to the
very source and heart of Spanish life.
2.
Cadiz, the famous southern port of Andalusia, two hours’
distance across the Gulf from North Africa, was the city of
Manuel de Falla’s birth, on November 23, 1876. He was
a descendant of a Spanish family that could trace its an¬
cestry for several centuries: his father was of Valencian
stock, while his mother’s ancestors were Catalonian. The
Falla home in Cadiz was known by the neighbors to be a
setting of culture, in which music played an important role.
The mother, an extraordinarily good musician, gave Manuel
his first piano lessons even before he had learned to read or
write. His progress was so rapid that professional instruc-
Vide World Photos
MANUEL DE FALLA 135
tors were soon engaged to give him an intensive musical

education: Mile. Elois Galluzo became his teacher in piano¬
playing, and Alejandra Odero and Enrique Broca his in¬
structors in harmony and theory. While still a child, Falla
made a public appearance in Cadiz, together with his
mother, in a performance of a four-hand piano arrangement
of Haydn’s Seven Words from t\he Cross.
One of the most vivid impressions that Falla received as
a child came in 1886 when his parents took him for a short
visit to Seville to witness a festival. The picturesque reli¬
gious pageant which he saw moved the child so strongly that
he could not withhold his tears. For many years after that,
this scene remained in his mind a symbol of the grandeur of
Spain; it nursed and fed his national spirit.
It was not until after adolescence that Falla heard his
first orchestral concert, in Cadiz, in a program that included
Grieg and Beethoven. Falla frequently commented that his
musical life began officially when he heard his first sym¬
phony orchestra. It was probably his first complete realiza¬
tion of the true vastness and scope of the musical art which,
until now, he had associated only with pieces for the piano
and the voice. As he listened to the ebullient lyrical spirit
of Grieg and the tempestuous strength of Beethoven, Falla
knew that music must remain his sphere of activity.
His parents, therefore, sent him to Madrid to enter the
Conservatory of Music. There he came under the influence
of two great teachers: Felipe Pedrell, the great pioneer in
Spanish music, and Jose Trago, the celebrated Spanish
pianist. Both of these teachers recognized in Falla a native
talent, fine musical sensibilities and a valuable artistic tem¬
perament. They felt strongly that if this nervous, high-
strung, hypersensitive and flamingly idealistic boy directed
his energy and enthusiasm through the proper channels
without dissipating them he would develop into an extraor¬
dinary musican. Jose Trago hoped to make of Falla a great
virtuoso; he was convinced that Falla was destined for a
pianistic career particularly when the student won first prize
and then an additional special award in piano playing. But
of the two teachers Felipe Pedrell was the stronger influ¬
ence. It was because of Pedrell that, even in his youth,
Falla was convinced that he would become a composer
rather than a concert artist.
When Falla was a student at the Conservatory, Felipe
Pedrell was about fifty years old, his most valuable re¬
searches in Spanish church-music and folk-music still stretch¬
ing before him. However, Pedrell’s entire life had already
been guided and directed by the glowing ideal to bring Span¬
ish music a worthy place in the artistic sun, to direct the
energy and genius of Spanish composers to the production
of a music whose sources were unmistakably indigenous.
He was disgusted with the sham Spanish music which non-
Spanish composers had created throughout Europe as ex¬
amples of Spanish folk-music and which all of Europe
smugly accepted as the genuine article. He, therefore,
dreamed of the time when Spanish composers by their com¬
bined efforts and cooperative endeavor would teach the rest
of the world the true nature of the Spanish musical folk-art.
As the significant cornerstone in the erection of such a Span¬
ish musical edifice, Pedrell had already composed an opera
(Los Pirineos), written his trenchant pamphlet, Por nuestra
musica, in which he firmly maintained that national music
must rest upon the foundations of the folk-song, and had
unearthed many remarkable examples of authentic Spanish
folk-songs from the distant past.
Pedrell imbued his pupil, Falla, with his own passionate
ideals for Spanish music. He poured into the boy’s alert
ears those arguments which, years back, had convinced him
to consecrate his own life to one artistic mission. He intro¬
duced Falla to the fabulous wealth of Spanish folk-songs
and proved to him how different this music was, in form and
spirit, from the cliches which were masquerading through¬
out the rest of Europe as authentic Spanish art. He argued
MANUEL DE FALLA 137
that it was the duty of every Spanish composer to derive the
character and personality of his art from the folk-music of
so colorful a people. Again and again he told Falla that no
greater ideal can inspire the Spanish composer than to inter¬
pret the glamour, mystery and charm of his own country.
And Falla—reminded, perhaps, of the religious pageant he
had seen in Seville several years before this—was convinced
of the truth and wisdom of Pedrell’s artistic mission.
The influence of Pedrell upon Falla was, as de Falla him¬
self has confessed,1 cataclysmic. The remarkable unity of
purpose in Falla’s career, the straight line of his direction,
the extraordinary devotion to one artistic ideal are all the
direct results of Pedrell’s teachings. When Felipe Pedrell
died in 1922 he knew well that his own music was destined
for obscurity. But he also knew that his preachings had not
been in vain. Native music of Spain had by this time ac¬
quired artistic significance and dignity in the eyes of the
world, due principally to the efforts of such composers as
Breton, Albeniz, Granados and Falla who had put his
theories into successful practise.
When Falla completed his course of study at the Con¬
servatory, his eyes were directed towards that center of
modern musical activity in Europe at the time—Paris. In
Paris he hoped to complete his studies and reach final artis¬
tic development. To procure the necessary funds for the
voyage, Falla composed several light musical scores for the
Spanish theatres. Unfortunately, this temporary conces¬
sion to necessity—the only such concession that Falla was
ever to make—was fruitless. Spanish theatres at the time
were inhospitable to unknown composers. Falla, therefore,
immediately abandoned hack-work and turned to more seri¬
ous artistic endeavors. He worked intensively at his piano¬
playing, performing in chamber groups and in concerts, and
1 “It is to the lessons of Pedrell,” Falla has said publicly, “and to the
powerful stimulation exercised on me by his works that I owe my artistic
life.”
even succeeding, in 1905, in winning the Ortis y Cusso prize

for piano-playing. He likewise devoted himself industri¬
ously to composition, in which he hoped to embody the
principles of his master, Pedrell. He was planning a work
Spanish to the core, based upon models of Spanish folk-
music.
For a subject, he selected a libretto of a friend, Carlos
Fernandez Shaw, entitled La Vida Breve—a very poor
libretto, as a matter of fact, whose theme bordered danger¬
ously upon the hackneyed (it bore a striking resemblance,
for example, to the book of Mascagni’s opera Cavalleria
Rusticana). But it appealed strongly to Falla because of
its strong Spanish color and because of the opportunities it
offered him for the composition of authentic Spanish music.
In 1905, Falla brought La Vida Breve to completion.
Although it was refused for performance by over-cautious
managers, it brought Falla his first sensation of recognition
by achieving the first prize in a competition for a national
opera conducted by the Real Academia de Bellas Artes.
Falla’s declining health, in 1907, compelled him to take
a cure at the waters of Vichy, France. Once having crossed
the border into France, Falla could not resist the temptation
of paying a visit to Paris, even though his purse would be
sadly taxed thereby. He bought a seven-day round trip
ticket, planning his budget so that he might spend five days
in the French capital. He remained, however, for seven
years.
At that time, Paris was quivering with unusual musical
activity. Such composers as Claude Debussy, Paul Dukas
and Maurice Ravel were in the limelight. Gabriel Faure
was at the height of his creative power; the name of Erik
Satie was the object for debate and dissension. It was im¬
possible for a young and sensitive composer, arriving from
a country of comparative musical aridity, not to be thrilled
by what he saw, heard and experienced in this feverishly ac¬
tive musical metropolis. He met Debussy personally, was
MANUEL DE FALLA 139
given a rousing welcome by Paul Dukas who always had a
warm greeting and an outstretched hand of friendship for
the unknown and struggling composer. Such younger com¬
posers as Florent Schmitt, Albert Roussel and Maurice
Ravel generously accepted him in their circle. In such a
musical environment—charged as it was with the electricity
of important performances, productions of works in new
idioms, discussions, arguments—Manuel de Falla felt that
he was in his element.
The Paris adventure was fraught with hardship brought
on by a poverty that was so intense that even the immediate
necessities of life were frequently unprocurable. There
were periods when Falla was on the verge of starvation,
days when he feared that he would freeze to death.
An amusing episode which took place at this time almost
brought Falla permanent relief from this stifling poverty.
His friend, Ricardo Vines, the pianist, pitying the young
musician’s plight, brought him one day the address of a
prosperous French family searching for a piano teacher for
the daughter. The remuneration was excessively generous,
adequate to provide Falla with all his needs. Falla de¬
cided to make contact with the family without delay. Since
the home of his prospective pupil was not distant from his
own laundry, Falla decided to save an additional trip by
taking with him a bundle of his soiled shirts which he might
leave at the blanchisseuse. Unfortunately, the laundry was
closed for the lunch hour, compelling Falla to make his visit
to his prospective pupil with his soiled bundle under his arm.
Timidly he rang the doorbell, stiflingly self-conscious of his
large and unpleasant-looking bundle. When the servant
opened the door, she mistook Falla for a tradesman and
viciously upbraided him for using the front entrance instead
of the rear door assigned to tradesmen. Humiliated and
flushed with embarrassment, Falla sheepishly made his way
to the rear entrance. There the mistress of the house
awaited him, likewise with a stinging rebuke on her lips for
his impudence in using the front door. Rather than make a

long and ridiculous explanation, Falla stammered his
apology and fled—back into the more welcome arms of
poverty.
Creatively, the years that Falla spent in Paris were
almost barren. His only productions were a setting of
three poems by Theophile Gautier and four morsels for the
piano entitled Pieces espagnoles. But though Falla was
creatively idle, these years were by no means wasted. He
was busily gathering impressions. He was absorbed in the
study of the music of his French friends, acquiring their re¬
markable sense of form and instrumentation. Falla has
frequently maintained that his personal contact and con¬
versations with Debussy were the greatest single influence in
his artistic life, with the exception of Felipe Pedrell. Above
all else, he was achieving intellectual maturity.
On April 1, 1913, Falla’s early opera, La Vida Breve,
was performed for the first time at the Casino Municipal in
Nice with such success that in January of the following year
the Opera Comique of Paris introduced it into its repertoire.
Nostalgia for his native country brought Falla’s sojourn
in Paris to a termination in 1914. He felt that such musical
education as he could acquire in Paris was now his; and the
feeling lingered with him that to do important creative work
in a Spanish idiom it was necessary for him to return to his
own country, imbibe its atmosphere and be intimately in
contact with its spirit and culture.
Thus, evading the outbreak of the World War in France
by several months, Falla returned to Spain in 1914. A few
months later, La Vida Breve was performed for the first
time in Spain, receiving thunderous acclaim. To Spanish
audiences, not too accustomed to witnessing familiar Span¬
ish themes in their opera-house, La Vida Breve struck a
responsive chord. Particularly Falla’s music—the coryban-
tic dances, the sinuous monologues that resembled Andalu¬
sian folk-songs, the hot-blooded melodies. Overnight,
MANUEL DE FALLA 141
therefore, Falla became a famous composer in his own
country.
For the next few years, Falla traveled extensively
throughout Andalusia, expressly to derive a closer glimpse
of Spanish life, finally settling in Gran_ada. At the same
time he began an ambitious program of creation in the
Spanish vein. In 1915, he completed El Amor Brujo (Love,
the Sorcerer), a ballet, with voice and orchestra, based upon
a libretto by Gregorio Martinez Sierra which, in turn, was
derived from an Andalusian gypsy folk-tale. The legend
speaks of Candela, a beautiful gypsy, who—after the death
of her husband—falls in love with Carmelo, a bronze-faced,
broad shouldered youth. The ghost of Candela’s dead hus¬
band haunts her until, shrewdly, Carmelo persuades Lucia,
a seductively attractive gypsy, to flirt with the ghost. Even
in death, the husband of Candela cannot resist a pair of
beautiful eyes. The ghost becomes a slave to Lucia’s en¬
chantment—and Candela is given the peace to pursue her
love-affair with Carmelo.
The first performance of El Amor Brujo took place in
Madrid at the Teatro del Lara on April 15, 1915, with only
moderate success. A suite for orchestra and voice, drawn
from the ballet, was first featured at the concerts of the
Sociedad Nacional de Musica under the direction of En¬
rique Fernandez Arbos. The suite has since become famous
on symphony programs throughout the world of music.
El Amor Brujo was followed by another important
Spanish work, Nights in the Gardens of Spain, for piano
and orchestra. Completed in 1916, it was first performed
in that year under Arbos’ direction. While Falla attached
no specific program to his orchestral work, the subtitles of
the three movements suggest the Spanish pictures that Falla
wished to evoke in his music. The first movement is en¬
titled “In the Gardens of the Generalife”; the second, “A
Dance Heard in the Distance”; the third, “In the Gardens
of the Sierra de Cordoba.”
With these two works, Falla became recognized as the
foremost musical spokesman of his country. In 1919, there¬
fore, Serge Diaghilev—contemplating the introduction into
the programs of the Ballet Russe of an authentic Spanish
number that would synthesize the Spanish arts—commis¬
sioned Falla to produce the musical score for a scenario
fashioned by Martinez Sierra from the lustily witty novel
of Don Antonio Pedro de Alarcon, The Three Cornered
Hat. The protagonists of The Three Cornered Hat con¬
stitute the triangle of a miller, his beautiful wife and a
lascivious governor. The governor effects the miller’s ar¬
rest so that he may better be able to make advances to the
beautiful wife. The wife playfully teases the governor with
a dance, eluding his outstretched embrace with sinuous con¬
tortions of the body until the governor, savagely pursuing
her, topples over a bridge into a stream. The governor re¬
moves his clothes and, while waiting for them to dry, slips
into the miller’s bed. Suddenly the miller returns and finds
the governor in his bed. To avenge himself, the miller
hurriedly exchanges his own clothing for that of the gov¬
ernor, scratches a note on the wall to the effect that the
governor’s wife is quite as beautiful and as desirable as his
own and, jauntily whistling a roguish tune, exits from the
scene.2
The tremendous enthusiasm that greeted The Three
Cornered Hat—when it was first performed by the Ballet
Russe, under the baton of Ernest Ansermet, at the Alham¬
bra Theatre in London on July 23, 1919—marked probably
the most formidable victory of Spanish terpsichorean art in
the rest of Europe. For The Three Cornered Hat—much
to Diaghilev’s credit—was Spanish to its very roots. The
book and music were, of course, native Spanish products, as
were the dances, modeled closely after the native gypsy
dances of Granada and Seville. And the exotic settings and
2 This same subject served as the theme for Hugo Wolf’s only opera,
Oer Corregidor.
MANUEL DE FALLA 143
costumes were the imaginative conceptions of Pablo Picasso,

Spain’s foremost painter.
A pathetic story is connected with Diaghilev’s production
of Falla’s The Three Cornered Hat. Diaghilev—while
attending a festival of gypsy dancing in Seville for the pur¬
pose of gathering impressions for his forthcoming Spanish
production—was attracted to the dancing of one young boy
whose subtle gyrations of the body and eloquent thrusts of
the hand seemed to speak eloquently of the gypsy tempera¬
ment of the Andalusian. Diaghilev contracted the boy to
train the principal dancers of the Ballet Russe—Massine
and Karsavina, particularly—in Spanish dance routines.
The boy was something of a half-wit; thoughts and speech
came to him slowly. However, he was the very incarnation
of the dance. He who, at all other times, was so hopelessly
inarticulate, suddenly became transfigured in dance, his
body the expression of music and poetry at once. The boy,
therefore, was of immeasurable importance in training
members of the Ballet Russe in authentic Spanish dances.
As the day of the performance of The Three Cornered Hat
approached, the slow and stolid mind of the boy became
seized with the delusion that it was he who was to be the
center of all the dancing activity in the production and who
was to perform the central role in the ballet. When Diaghi¬
lev told him firmly and explicitly that he was not to appear
publicly, that he had been engaged only to train the dancers,
the boy became sullen and morose. From that moment on he
moved as though in a daze, oblivious to his surroundings.
The night of the premiere of The Three Cornered Hat ar¬
rived, and the ballet was a stirring success. On that same
night they found the boy dancing madly upon a dark altar
of a deserted church in London. The following morning
the boy was incarcerated in an insane asylum.
Three years after the creation of The Three Cornered
Hat, Falla composed a charming score for a puppet-show,
El Retahlo de Maese Pedro—based upon scenes from Cer-
vantes’ Don Quixote—which was introduced in the Paris

salon of Princesse de Polignac in June of 1923. There fol¬
lowed a work of far different character, perhaps the purest
music that Falla created and one of his few works not writ¬
ten to express Spain. It was the Concerto for Harpsichord,
Flute, Oboe, Clarinet, Violin and Violoncello, dedicated to
that great performer on the harpsichord, Mme. Wanda
Landowska, and introduced by her at a festival of Falla’s
music conducted by Pablo Casals in Barcelona in November
of 1926. Mme. Landowska has explained the origin of this
unusual work. “Four years ago, I spent several days with
my friend Falla in Granada and at that very moment he
was working at his Retablo, a part of which he devoted to
the harpsichord. I had my harpsichord with me (being, of
course, on a concert tour through Spain) and I was able to
play for him a great deal and to speak about the various
possibilities of the instrument. He became more and more
interested, and after a few days’ conversation between us he
grew so enthusiastic that he resolved to write a concerto for
harpsichord. He took three years to compose the work,
which was finished in September of 1926. But when one
becomes acquainted with the music, one understands that
the master carried with him a long time such a deep work
that needed to come to life little by little.”
Since the Concerto, Falla has been laboring upon a com¬
position which is perhaps his most ambitious canvas to date
—La Atlantida for solo voices, chorus and orchestra, based
upon a great Catalonian poem of Jacinto Verdaguer.
3.
Manuel de Falla lives the year round in Granada, atop a

hill that removes him from the city itself and which is
crowned by the ancient Alhambra, only a few minutes from
his door. Near his home, too, are the mountainous caves
of the Andalusian gypsies—reverberating with the click of
MANUEL DE FALLA 145
castanets and dancing heels and ringing with the nasal, high-
pitched singing of gypsy songs. Falla, therefore, has at his
very elbow the tradition and spirit of Spain. Its beauty,
too—for from his window he can see the snow-capped peaks
of the Sierra Nevadas and the Vegas.
Falla is small of build; his body is so frail that he gives
the impression of excessive timidity. His bullet-shaped
head consists of a broad forehead, an arched nose, a weak
chin and a complexion of bronze. By far the most expres¬
sive part of his face is his eyes, dreamy and melancholy
which, in their suggestion of mysticism, remind one of the
introspective eyes of an El Greco painting.
A recluse by temperament, Falla rarely leaves Granada
where his life has become systematically routinized. He
rises early each morning, takes a prolonged walk, and at¬
tends Mass at the Church San Cecilio. Falla then devotes
himself to several consecutive hours of intensive composi¬
tion. A siesta follows the noon-day meal, after which
friends and neighbors are entertained at his home. Some
more work follows later in the evening and, at an early
hour, Falla retires for the night.
The Andalusians who live near him know him as a man
of the utmost simplicity and humility. They refer to him
as “master” and they know that he is a great man because
rarely does a foreigner climb the tortuous road atop the
hill without inquiring for the Alhambra and the home of
Manuel de Falla. However, though they venerate him,
they freely accept him as one of their own. When in their
company, he is capable of speaking their vocabulary; his
unpretentiousness and simplicity have made it possible for
them to accept him as one of them despite his world prestige.
CHARLES MARTIN LOEFFLER
VIII
1.
T HE death of Charles Martin Loeffler in the spring of

1935 removed from the American scene one of the
most significant musical creators to have emerged there
during the past fifty years. It is difficult to speak of Loeffler
as an American composer, because in temperament he was
far removed from the American spirit, and his musical style
—in its purity and delicacy—suggests nothing that is in¬
trinsically American. Truth to tell, Loeffler was never par¬
ticularly interested in creating an American style of com¬
position. Throughout his long and fertile career, during
which he came into contact with various American influ¬
ences, he rarely permitted them to touch his personal speech.
He loathed fashions and fads in composition, and he suc¬
ceeded in remaining aloof from all stylish tendencies. In
his music, as in his life, he preferred monastic seclusion.
For twenty-five years he ensconced himself in a small town
in Massachusetts, where he rarely came into contact with
society. In his art, he retired to an even remoter and less
accessible ivory tower of escape. He never sought the lime¬
light, nor did he ever court attention. He refused to be¬
come sensational or obviously individual. One of the most
passionately sincere and artistically inviolate of contempo¬
rary American composers, he embodied the highest ideals
of his art. And his entire creative life was guided by one
mission alone: he sought to translate upon paper those feel¬
ings and sensations which he experienced so keenly. No one
who has heard his best work will attempt to deny that he
has done this with unique and matchless felicity.
149
2.
Charles Martin Tornov Loeffler was born in Miihlhausen
in Alsace on January 30, 1861. His father—a specialist in
chemistry, agriculture and horse-breeding—was fond of
music; his mother’s artistic preference was poetry.
While he was still a child, Charles Martin Loeffler was
brought to a small country town in the province of Kiev,
Smjela, whither his father had come to work for the gov¬
ernment. Loeffler’s earliest impressions in music, therefore,
were received from Russian folk and church music, the
plangent pathos of whose melodies and whose lusciously
rich harmonic colors made so forceful an appeal to him
that, as long as he lived, he never forgot them. In later
life, as a composer, he revealed the strong influence these
early musical experiences had exerted upon him with such
works as V eillees de VUkraine and Memories of My Child¬
hood, in both of which he embodied folk-music.
On his eighth birthday, Charles Loeffler received from
his father the gift of a violin. He responded to the instru¬
ment with more than the mere curiosity of a child, and was
soon able to draw fragments of melody from the strings.
Before long, a competent instructor was sought, and found
in the person of a German musician from the Imperial Or¬
chestra in St. Petersburg who spent his summers in Smjela.
Before long, the Loeffler family once again changed its
home, settling this time in Debreczin, Hungary, where
father Loeffler received a pedagogical post in the Royal
Agricultural Academy. In Hungary, young Loeffler was
subjected to a new musical influence, as strong as that which
he had encountered in Russia—namely, the folk-music of
Hungarian gypsies which he literally absorbed and which,
for a few years, was the only satisfaction his growing musi¬
cal appetite received.
Loeffler was fifteen years old when he decided definitely
that he would become a professional musician. He had by
e World Photos

CHARLES MARTIN LOEFFLER 151
this time acquired by himself a flexible technique on the

violin, and he was determined to continue the study of the
instrument with greater assiduity. The opportunities for
intensive study offered by a small Hungarian town being
impoverished, Loeffler decided to go to Berlin. There he
became a violin pupil of Eduard Rappoldi—as a prepara¬
tory course for the violin class of Joseph Joachim—and a
student of harmony of Friedrich Kiel. The Berlin course
of study was not altogether satisfying to Loeffler and, be¬
fore long, he left Berlin for Paris where he studied the vio¬
lin under Massart and composition from Ernest Guiraud.
For a full year, Loeffler earned his living by playing in
the violin section of Pasdeloup’s orchestra in Paris, and in
the private orchestra of Baron Paul von Derwies in Nice
and Lugano where he was associated with Cesar Thomson,
famous French violinist. Then, in 1881—equipped with
letters of introduction from Joseph Joachim to Leopold
Damrosch and Theodore Thomas—Loeffler crossed the At¬
lantic and settled permanently in the country, of whose com¬
posers he was soon destined to become the recognized dean.
The season of 1881-1882 Loeffler spent in New York
City, playing in all of Leopold Damrosch’s orchestral and
choral concerts. In 1882, his name came to the notice of
Henry Lee Higginson—eminent Boston patron of music—
who at the moment was devoting inexhaustible industry in
developing the newly-founded Boston Symphony Orchestra.
Higginson, who was eagerly scanning the musical horizon
for important talent to import into Boston, was impressed
by Loeffler’s gifts and immediately engaged him for the
orchestra. From 1885 to 1903 he shared the first desk with
Franz Kneisel. Five years later, Loeffler’s status as an
American was officially established when he received his
citizenship.
It was not long before Loeffler emerged as an important
creative force in American music. In 1891, Loeffler’s first
orchestral work, Les Veillees de 1’Ukraine, inspired by
Gogol, was introduced at the concerts of the Boston Sym¬
phony Orchestra with considerable success. Les Veillees de
VUkraine, Loeffler’s nostalgic reminiscences of his boyhood
contact with Russian folk-music, was only faintly suggestive
of Loeffler’s later impressionistic style; but its sure-handed
construction, its maturity of conception and its moving emo¬
tional quality brought enthusiastic response from the audi¬
ence. Les Veillees de l’Ukraine was followed six years later
by La Mort de Tintagiles, inspired by Maurice Maeter¬
linck’s drama of that name composed in the summer of 1897
and first performed at the concerts of the Boston Symphony
Orchestra on January 8, 1898, La Mort definitely increased
Loeffler’s artistic stature. Meanwhile, Franz Kneisel had
founded his world-famous string-quartet which introduced
Loeffler’s String-Sextet at one of its concerts in 1893.
In 1901, Loeffler produced the first characteristic works
of his artistic maturity: a Poem, for orchestra, inspired by
an aubade of Paul Verlaine to his bride, entitled La Bonne
chanson and a Symphonic Fantasy, after Rollinat, entitled
La Villanelle du Diahle. Both works were first introduced
by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in 1902. Several years
later, Loeffler revised and reorchestrated the former, and
in this new form it was first performed by Pierre Monteux
in Boston in 1918.
Loeffler, having now found his creative pace, was not
slow in creating his first accepted masterpiece. In 1901, he
completed a chamber composition, A Pagan Poem, inspired
by two love songs of Damon and Alphesiboeus in the eighth
eclogue of Virgil. Four years after this, the work was re¬
modeled by Loeffler and scored for full orchestra. In this
new version, A Pagan Poem was introduced by the Boston
Symphony Orchestra in 1907. It asserted itself immedi¬
ately as a classic in modern American music; since 1907 it
has enjoyed a prominent place on symphony programs every¬
where as one of the rich specimens of American musical
expression.
A Pagan Poem definitely established Loeffler as a com¬
poser of the first importance. In 1903, therefore, he re¬
signed from his violin post with the Boston Symphony
Orchestra to devote himself entirely to creative work.
Later, he bought a farm in Medfield, Massachusetts—
fifteen miles from Boston—which for the remainder of his
life was to be his home. From this time on, he lived in
monastic retirement—his life consecrated to musical com¬
position as though it were a religious ritual—and guarded
his seclusion so jealously that biographical material about
Loeffler’s later life becomes impoverished, consisting of
hardly more than a record of works composed and per¬
formed. He avoided the glare of public attention so fas¬
tidiously that—though his position as the foremost living
American composer was conceded without question or de¬
bate—until the end of his life little was known about him
personally. For thirty years, he was as far removed from
the world of frenetic activity as though he were on a differ¬
ent planet. The most important interruption in this life of
retirement took place on December 8, 1910 when Loeffler
was married to Elise Burnett Fay. Elise proved to be
uniquely sympathetic and understanding of her husband’s
temperament, and fastidiously preserved the life of sim¬
plicity and seclusion in which the composer was happiest.
In the works which Loeffler produced during the thirty
years of his retirement from activity as a violinist, he main¬
tained a high level of beauty, poetry and artistic genuineness
from which he rarely swerved. His works were not many
in number because his conscience was severe and he labored
slowly; but whatever emerged from his workshop was
stamped with distinction and integrity of high artistry. The
most significant of these works—those whose permanency
seems most assured—are the Hora Mystica, for men’s
chorus and orchestra, composed in 1916, the famous Memo¬
ries of My Childhood, created in 1924, and the Evocation,
the last of the Loeffler masterpieces. His most famous

work is the Pagan Poem.
Memories of My Childhood received the $1,000 first
prize in a competition sponsored by the Chicago North
Shore Music Festival, where it was first performed on May
29, 1924. The printed score of this celebrated work con¬
tains the following preface by Loeffler which gives us an
insight into the program of the music: “Many years ago,
the composer spent more than three years of his boyhood in
a Russian small town Smjela (government of Kiev). He
now seeks to express by the following music what still lives
in his heart and memory of those happy days. He recalls
in the various strains of his music Russian peasant songs,
the Yourod’s Litany prayer, ‘the happiest of days,’ fairy
tales and dance songs. The closing movement of the sym¬
phonic poem commemorates the death of Vasinka, an el¬
derly peasant Bayan, or story-teller, singer, maker of
willow pipes upon which he played tunes of weird intervals
and the companion and friend of the boy who now, later in
life, notes down what he hopes these pages will tell.”
In 1931, United States celebrated the seventieth birthday
of Charles Martin Loeffler with adulatory articles in the
press and festival concerts in Boston, Cleveland and New
York. To commemorate the event—and to inaugurate at
the same time the official opening of its new concert-hall—
the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra commissioned Loeffler
to prepare a special work for that organization. The work,
Evocation—for chorus and orchestra—was Loeffler’s elo¬
quent reply. It is one of the most moving pieces of music
that Loeffler produced, has all that rich blend of poetry,
mysticism and elegiac calm of his best compositions. Old
age, obviously, never could set into Loeffler’s creative life.
Loeffler’s chief diversion, during the last years of his life,
was to train a boys’ church choir, in his home town, in the
singing of Gregorain chants. Carl Engel, that eminent
musicologist, met Loeffler one year before the composer’s
death, and has given us a vivid paragraph describing the
great musician in his old age.1 “He bore the marks of
physical suffering. But his razor-blade mind still showed
occasionally its flashing edge. His mood was genial,
reminiscent. The good things of the table still appealed to
him. His wonderful eyes would still twinkle as he unraveled
some favorite story, not less amusing for being not
altogether new. His precarious cardiac condition did not
prevent him from asking the waiter to bring me particularly
rich cigars. He acknowledged eagerly how charmed he had
been with the person of Arnold Schonberg. His thoughts
roamed the length of contemporary music. On hearing the
hotel musicians play a certain composition, he made a face
and confessed that for him the appeal of Karl Maria von
Weber had long ago ceased. From one thing to another
the talk swayed along its circuitous course, not as fast as
formerly, but just as absorbing.”
Charles Martin Loeffler died as he had lived, gently and
peacefully, at his farm in Medfield, Massachusetts, on May
19, 1935. His death was mourned by an entire world of
music, for it had lost one of its more precious spirits.
3.
Charles Martin Loeffler frequently referred to himself,

not as a composer or as a musician, but as “the farmer of
Medfield.” This self-designation gives an eloquent insight
into the man’s utter simplicity and lack of affectation. There
was nothing about him to suggest his artistic calling; few
composers of any age have been so devoid of postures, self-
advertisement or little idiosyncrasies and peculiar manner¬
isms as Loeffler. He loved the country intensely, everything
about it. He enjoyed watching the crops grow, and he was
a great fancier of horses.
In appearance, he suggested the scholar. He was tall,
1 Musical Quarterly, October, 1935.
well-built and erect, even in old age. He exuded an air of
professorial dignity. His head was almost like an inverted
triangle extending from his broad bald scalp and converging
into a short pointed beard. His nose was aquiline, descend¬
ing from a high brow; his face was long and lean.
His musical preferences were orthodox. He worshipped
the music of Bach, and seemed to derive greatest artistic
satisfaction from the contrapuntal works of the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries. He had also the greatest
admiration for Beethoven. Among moderns Faure and
Debussy were perhaps his favorites.
He was equally interested in many branches of art, deriv¬
ing pleasure from painting and sculpture and being
particularly intimately acquainted with literature. The
American scene, in all of its facets, was an endless source
of interest to him. He admired the poetry of Edgar Allan
Poe, the novels of Mark Twain and the humor of Will
Rogers. He even confessed deriving pleasure from good
jazz, which he believed to be a true musical expression of
American temperament—and held the highest respect for
George Gershwin and Duke Ellington.
4.
The artistic creation of true genius is not a spasmodic

change from one style to another. It is, rather, an inevit¬
able and logical growth which develops from the most
elementary roots and blooms, finally, into full flower. In the
lifework of true genius one can perceive his individual style
and his identifying fingerprints, however embryonic, even
in his earliest works. The Beethoven of the first period is
most assuredly not the Beethoven of the Missa Solemnis—
and yet we already hear, in embryo, the distinctive speech of
Beethoven in the pain and despair of the slow movement of
the Opus 10, no. 3 Piano Sonata and in the Adagio preced¬
ing the fourth movement of the String Quartet Opus 18,
no. 6. The sparkling C-major Symphony that Mozart
wrote at the age of eight, and the ebullient Adelaide Con¬
certo created at the age of ten are, emphatically, not of the
stature of the Jupiter; yet who can deny their unmistakable
Mozartean traits? The Wagner of Rienzi already dis¬
closed the traces of a style which he was to develop with
such passion and force of genius in the Ring. True genius,
I feel strongly, is not chameleon; it does not discard styles
and mannerisms as though they were pieces of garment.
The later work of every great composer must be an unmis¬
takable outgrowth of all his earlier fumblings.
This is eloquently true of Charles Martin Loeffler. Even
in the earlier pages of his compositions—the Poem, for
orchestra, and the more mature A Pagan Poem—there is
that placidity of style, that fine ability to etch tone colors
of the greatest delicacy and the most elusive suggestiveness,
that other-worldliness of beauty which is half sensual and
half ethereal, which bring the great works of his later period
to such high levels of artistic greatness. In these early
works—as we listen to them today—the hand that shaped
this music is plainly the hand of Loeffler, even though we
may realize that it has not as yet learned the cunning and
subtlety which come only with long experience.
Loeffler was essentially the disciple of Impressionism—
one of the few distinguished devotees in America of the
Debussy period. The expression of beauty in a fluid out¬
flow was the high ideal to which he clung tenaciously
throughout his entire life; and he sought to express this
beauty with a sensitive delicacy of sounds and colors and
sensations. But it would be a fatal mistake to consider
Loeffler merely as an imitator of the composer of Pelleas.
As a matter of fact, Loeffler continued where Debussy left
off, and brought the art of musical Impressionism to its
inevitable—perhaps final—destination. Loeffler’s music,
fragile though it is, is not merely perfume in sound; it is
not merely a sensuous experience of a very emotional poet.
Exquisitely refined and rarefied though it is, this music has
a very definite muscle and sinew, a perceptible spine, a
solidity and depth. The beauty of the Hora Mystica, the
unforgettable poignancy of the Evocationt the nebulous
mystery and serenity of Canticum Fratris Solis} for example,
can never become cloying in the same fashion that so much
of Debussy’s music does after frequent hearings. It is
never over-sensualized. Always is a perfect balance main¬
tained, always a fine play of contrast and shadow. Thus,
though the music might never have existed had Claude
Debussy never composed his series of immortal tone-pic¬
tures, it very definitely possesses a quality uniquely its own,
in which the personality of the composer is clearly recog¬
nizable.
A born instinct for orchestration, a feeling for form and
design which seem to have been intuitive with him from his
earliest years as a composer, and a technical grasp which
is consummate have always made it possible for Loeffler to
achieve the most felicitous mould in which to couch his feel¬
ings. Each of his later works has a perfection of style and
form that make them a perpetual joy to listen to and study.
His music is very much like a precious gem that has found a
setting of equal perfection. In Loeffler’s music content and
form borrow qualities from each other in an inextricable
wedlock of beauty.
Mr. Lawrence Gilman once wrote of Loeffler’s Evocation
that this “music, radiant, serene, Hellenic, spoke with irre¬
sistible effect the thought of a mind which has never for¬
gotten that the ultimate ritual of the spirit is the worship
of that loveliness which is outside of time.” I know of no
more fitting epitaph to carve upon the tombstone of
America’s foremost composer.
BELA BARTOK
IX
BELA BARTOK
1.
YVTHEN Bela Bartok was twenty-four years old (his
* * formal music study had by this time come to a close)
he spent a few days at the country home of a friend in the
interior of Hungary. While there, he accidentally over¬
heard one of the servants singing to himself a tune so exotic
in character and content that he questioned its source. The
servant explained that he had acquired the melody from his
mother who, in turn, had heard it as a child-in-arms from
her parents. Upon further questioning, the servant dis¬
closed the fact that there existed a prolific number of similar
melodies—all Magyar in origin—which were sung in the
smaller towns of Hungary, bequeathed as a heritage from
one generation to the next.
This was Bartok’s first realization that there existed a
storehouse of Hungarian folk-music far different from the
weeping sentimentality and meretricious decorations of
those melodies publicized by Brahms and Liszt as authentic
Hungarian folk-music—and a folk-music which was a much
truer expression of the Hungarian people. Those senti¬
mental songs that had been recorded by Brahms in his
dances and Liszt in his rhapsodies—and which were
identified by the rest of the world as indigenously Hungarian
—were not Hungarian in origin, as Bartok knew well.
They had been imported into Hungary by itinerant gypsy
caravans who, in turn, had created this music from an indis¬
criminate melange of influences acquired from the many
countries they visited. As Bartok studied the songs hummed
to him by the servant, he realized that it was here—and
161
not in mawkish gypsy airs—that rested the musical tradition
of his country.
His curiosity aroused in this little-known music of his
own country, Bartok decided to travel extensively through¬
out the land to collect folk-song data. He visited the more
remote corners of Hungary, small hill towns and secluded
villages nestling in the valley. There he lived with the
peasants, sometimes worked with them in the fields, fre¬
quently drank liquor with them—and, at all times, made
copious notes about the songs he heard them sing.
During this trip, he stumbled across a fellow-musician,
Zoltan Kodaly. Kodaly, who was later to occupy a position
next to Bartok as an outstanding Hungarian composer,1 was
a member of the faculty of the Royal Hungarian Academy
where Bartok was soon to teach the piano. They were not
a little surprised to meet each other in so far-flung a district
of Hungary. Their surprise, however, expanded to amaze¬
ment when they learned that they were on a similar mission:
for Kodaly, too, had learned of the existence of a native
Hungarian folk-music and was in search of it.
Bartok and Kodaly decided to join forces. Thus, to¬
gether, they roamed over prairies, hills and in villages,
copying on paper the songs they heard peasants sing.
For the next ten years, Bartok—frequently aided by his
friend, Zoltan Kodaly—consecrated himself to the herculean
task of unearthing Hungarian folk-music from its neglect
and obscurity and bringing it to the notice of the music-
world. During the next decade, Bartok wandered from the
Carpathian mountains to the Adriatic, from western Slo¬
vakia to the Black Sea—always equipped with notebook and
a recording apparatus—making profuse notes. In that
time, he collected more than 5,000 folk-melodies which had
been the property of the Hungarian peasant for generations
but which, strange to say, were almost completely unknown
1 Some of Kodaly’s music has become world-famous, particularly Hary
Janos, Psalmus Hungaricus and Dances of Marosszek.
BELA BARTOK 163
in the large cities of Hungary, not to mention the rest of
the world. Several thousand of these folk-melodies were
published, under the editorship of both Bartok and Kodaly.
These excavations had an effect analogous to Pedrell’s
explorations in Spanish folk-music; they revealed to the
world that Hungarian folk-music possessed an individuality
which the gypsy song, known to the rest of the world, could
not even faintly suggest. Hungarians are not, by tempera¬
ment, a mawkishly sentimental race. They are made of
sterner stuff—made hard and callous by suffering and labor.
To a great extent they are a reticent folk.
True Hungarian folk-music is not so tinklingly melodi¬
ous, so emotionally uninhibited, so pleasingly seductive to
the ear as gypsy airs. It is much severer in structure, with
hard surfaces of sound. Authentic Hungarian folk-songs
are constructed from modal scales (and, like all modal
music, have a subtle and elusive charm which is not always
perceptible on first hearing), and highly intricate rhythmic
patterns. They are frequently drenched with sombre grays,
far different from the vivid purples of gypsy music.
As with Manuel de Falla of Spain, and Ralph Vaughan-
Williams of England, Bela Bartok’s devoted researches in
folk-music influenced his musical writing. But this influence
has been much more elusive and less strongly accentuated in
Bartok’s works than in those of the other two composers.
At first hearing, Bartok’s principal works do not flaunt their
national influence. His music is strongly modern, some¬
times atonal in harmony, avoiding the more obvious pat¬
terns of melody and employing a highly individual harmonic
language. With the exception of his children’s pieces—
Pro Deti, for example, or A Gyermekeknek—Bartok never
uses folk-songs directly. Even the more recognizable tech¬
nical qualities of the Hungarian folk-song are not discern¬
ible in his music at first glance.
It is only after an intimate familiarity with Bartok’s music
that its affinity with Hungarian folk-music becomes appar-
ent. Like the folk-song, his melodies are often derived
from the modal scales. Like the folk-song, Bartok’s rhythms
are complex, with edges as pointed as the blade of a saw.
Like the folk-song, there is often a shadow of sombre
despair hovering over his music. Bartok is too much the
individualist ever to be an imitator. But he has permitted
the spirit of the Hungarian folk-song to touch his own music
ever so lightly and to spread over it a spell, as though it
were a faint perfume.
2.
Bela Bartok was born in Nagyszentmiklos, Hungary
(now Jugoslavia), on March 25, 1881. His father, the
director of an agricultural school, died when Bela was eight
years old. The burden of supporting the family fell upon
the shoulders of the mother who, assuming the profession
of school-teaching, was forced to travel frequently from one
section of Hungary to another, teaching in its various
schools. Thus, as a mere child, Bartok was given an
intimate glimpse at different corners of Hungary, and per¬
mitted to acquire a knowledge of the many-patterned
customs of his country people.
Despite this nomadic life, the education of young Bela
was not neglected. Revealing unusual musical aptitude, he
was launched in the study of the piano at the age of six. At
nine he was already creative, producing a group of small
pieces for the piano. One year later, he made his first
public appearance as pianist.
When Bela reached his twelfth year, his mother acquired
a post in Pressburg, at the time the most advanced musical
city in Hungary. There, she placed the boy under com¬
petent musical teachers: Laszlo Erkel was engaged to teach
him the piano, and Ernst von Dohnanyi2—four years Bar-
2 Later world-famous as concert-pianist, conductor and composer.
BELA BARTOK 165
tok’s senior—became his friend and adviser. Under their
guidance, Bartok’s musical progress was fleet.
In 1899, upon the advice of Dohnanyi, Bartok entered
the Royal Hungarian Academy of Music where he was
enrolled as a piano student of Stephan Thoman and as a
pupil of composition of Koessler. He remained in the
academy for four years, earning recognition as one of the
most brilliant pupils both in piano and composition that the
Conservatory produced.
Following his graduation from the Academy, Bartok
knew desperate poverty. He did some concert work as
pianist, made some musical arrangements and engaged in
some teaching. But his earnings from all three endeavors
were so meagre that they were hardly sufficient to supply
him with threadbare necessities. Poverty and suffering did
not smother his contagious enthusiasm and his enormous
zest. Even though hunger and cold were frequent com¬
panions, he absorbed himself with intensive music study and
composition. A scholarship, won in 1905, helped him for a
time. But not until 1907, when Bartok was engaged as
teacher of the piano at the Royal Academy was he guar¬
anteed comfort and recess from physical duress.
During these student days, Bartok was subjected to
several important musical influences. The first of these
was Brahms, whose romanticism Bartok frequently at¬
tempted to ape in his first works. Then he heard a per¬
formance of Richard Strauss’ Thus Spake Zarathustra,
which profoundly affected him. He felt now that in Strauss’
pungent and dramatic writing, musical expression had
achieved its apotheosis. For several years, Strauss was his
idol; many of Strauss’ most personal mannerisms—prin¬
cipally his predilection for chromatic writing—asserted
themselves in Bartok’s music. Finally, Bartok found Liszt:
Liszt who at first had repelled him because of his pseudo-
Hungarian effects but whose great significance he now
realized.
Bartok’s earliest works—such as the rhapsody for piano
and orchestra, and the first suite for orchestra, both com¬
posed during his student days—were, therefore, obviously
derivative. In fumbling for his own vocabulary, Bartok
freely borrowed that of those composers who had impressed
him most. But—for all its imitative strains—there was
already perceptible the shadow of Bartok’s later person¬
ality, particularly in his disposition for riotous rhythms, and
in his almost barbaric savagery of speech which, every once
in a while, forced an emergence from the prison bars of
his classical form.
3.
It was in 1905 that Bartok was first attracted to Hun¬

garian folk-music. Between 1905 and 1914 he divided his
time among his intensive travels throughout Hungary in
search of native musical material, his teaching assignments
at the Royal Academy (after 1907) and, most important
of all, his creative work.
Bartok’s struggle for recognition as a composer has been
a bitter one; and not even today can we say that he has
achieved full victory. His purely personal style has brought
him life-long antagonism and misunderstanding. His music,
compounded of asperity and desiccated emotions, was bitterly
condemned. Such an early work as Kossuth, a symphonic-
poem, composed in 1903, found an enthusiastic audience
because, strongly imitative of Richard Strauss and drenched
with nationalistic ardor, it was easily comprehensible to the
musical intelligence of early twentieth century Hungary.
But as Bartok’s personality evolved and became integrated,
and as he achieved his own individual speech, the music-
public turned sharply from him and was not diffident in
openly showing its hostility. In the Two Portraits for
orchestra and the Bagatelles for piano, Bartok emerged
with his peculiar counterpoint, with a melody that was
BELA BARTOK
BELA BARTOK 167
severely outlined, and with emancipated rhythms. With the
First String Quartet he definitely blazed his own trail. After
that, each performance of a new work by Bartok was
received in Hungary with antagonism and intolerance which
frequently crushed its composer’s spirit and broke his heart.
During the War, Bartok—who had resigned from his
pedagogical position in 1912—lived in complete seclusion,
occupying himself with his creative activity. His industry
remained unaffected by the trying conditions brought on by
the War and the physical suffering to which his country was
subjected. It was at this time that he received one of the
few successful ovations that had been accorded to him
during his career. In 1917, a ballet, The Woodcut Prince,
was performed in Budapest to what was probably the first
welcome sound of applause and cheering that Bartok had
heard as a composer in more than a decade.
Subsequently, Bartok’s fame grew slowly but inevitably.
An opera, Bluebeard’s Castle, was found in 1918 to be a
remarkable fusion of drama in music; its composer, there¬
fore, received a handsome measure of praise from the
critics. So has the pantomime, The Wonderful Mandarin,
because of the dramatically conceived musical score, in spite
of the hostility of certain audiences. Finally, three addi¬
tional string-quartets—in which Bartok has achieved his
most compressed and incisive writing—a Dance Suite, for
orchestra, composed in 1923 in honor of the fiftieth anni¬
versary of the union of Buda and Pesth, a Rhapsody, for
violin and orchestra, dedicated to Joseph Szigeti (which has
likewise been arranged by the composer for violoncello and
orchestra, in honor of Pablo Casals) and a concerto for
piano and orchestra (one of the most pulsating and dynamic
pieces of music of our time) earned for Bartok the desig¬
nation of Hungary’s greatest living composer.
Yet, even though his imperial position over Hungarian
composers is generally conceded, it would be absurdly
extravagant to say that Bartok has ever achieved that
world-wide fame that he deserves. The reception his music
has received since the War is impressive only in contrast to
the hostility that preceded it. For one of the most uniquely
endowed and imaginative composers of today, and one of
the most alive and vital forces in twentieth century music,
Bartok has never been accorded a fame commensurate to
his genius and significance.
Critics and musicians have, it is true, recognized Bartok
as one of the undisputed glories of contemporary music.
But the public remains surprisingly indifferent to his art.
In his concert-tours (in 1922, Bartok visited England, and
in 1927-1928 he traveled extensively throughout America)
he has been received respectfully enough. But composers
who are undoubtedly his inferiors have been accorded by
audiences an enthusiasm more feverish and a welcome more
spontaneously boisterous than those which greeted Bartok.
Moreover—and what is much more important—per¬
formances of Bartok’s works are startlingly few and far
between not only in America but in European countries out¬
side of Hungary as well.
Bela Bartok lives in a residential section of Budapest.
Under his window is the incessant turmoil of the city; the
sound of moving tramways, heavy automobile traffic and
hurrying crowds frequently inject a jarring note to the
atmosphere of serenity with which his home is permeated.
His apartment reflects his own great national pride. It is so
cluttered with objects of Hungarian interest—strips of
peasant embroidery, bodices, national costumes, native
pottery and furniture—that it might very aptly serve as
something of a national museum.
Despite the fact that he has made his home in a central
part of the city, Bela Bartok is almost a recluse in his love
of solitude. His many years of life in Hungarian villages
and plains have probably made him unsuited for the social
salon. Public receptions or social functions he avoids like
the plague; in a company of admirers, he moves uneasily.
BELA BARTOK 169
Essentially, he is a man of great humility and unosten¬

tation, of a simplicity that is devoid of any pretense or affec¬
tation, of a softness and gentleness that are almost kittenish.
After speaking to him, it becomes impossible to conceive of
his using a vitriolic phrase or a harsh sentence; equally, it is
impossible to conceive of him harboring either envy or
malice. Thus, cynicism or irony play no part in his speech;
rather a warmth of feeling and excessive generosity.
He is small and slight, built lithely, his movements supple
and graceful. At first glance he appears to be a man who
has grown prematurely old. Some of his features are ex¬
traordinarily youthful. On the other hand, his hair is gray,
and his face is deeply lined. His life has not been easy,
and the futility, despair, disillusionment and hardship which
he confronted seem to speak eloquently from his ineffably
sad eyes. Likewise, his spirits are touched with a bitter¬
ness of which he cannot rid himself successfully.
ERNEST BLOCH
X
ERNEST BLOCH
1.
SOMETHING of the ecstasy of the Hebraic prophet has

^ moulded the artistic career of Ernest Bloch. No Bibli¬
cal Jeremiah consecrated himself to the pronouncement of
prophetic truths with more passionate idealism and self-
abnegation than Ernest Bloch to the composition of music.
To Bloch, the creation of music in general—and Hebrew
music in particular—has been a sacrosanct mission. It has
been recorded that as a child Bloch wrote upon a slip of
paper a vow that he would devote his life to music. This
slip of paper he placed under a mound of rocks over which
he burned a ritual fire. Bloch’s career, thus launched,
assumed in his eyes the aspect of religious consecration.
And a consecration it has remained to the present day.
Few composers of any day have been so unswervingly
true to themselves and to the artistic principles they adopted
in early manhood than Bloch. Like the ancient Hebraic
prophet, he has always been sublimely sure of himself,
always intoxicated with the self-assurance that the truth
rested with him, fully convinced of the significance of his
artistic mission. To Bloch, as to the Biblical prophet, love
for and faith in humanity were essential parts of his Weltan¬
schauung. Bloch’s music, therefore, has been a conscious
attempt to uplift man, to reveal to him new conceptions of
beauty and truth.
The Hebrew prophet comes to mind in any personal
contact with Bloch. Even now that he has removed that
Messianic black beard that for several years had given him
a patriarchal appearance, he seems to have stepped out of
173
the pages of the Old Testament. His face, in its strength
and serenity (strength in the broad cheek bones and promi¬
nent chin; serenity in the spiritual quality of his intensely
expressive eyes) might well have been that of a prophet of
old. There is in Bloch a savage sincerity, an integrity that
cannot recognize concessions, an immaculate honesty, and
an idealism that reach the stars, qualities which might have
been found in an Isaiah or Jeremiah. This savage sincerity
has always made him speak his mind openly on every ques¬
tion, and has consequently made him many enemies. Bloch
recognizes neither tact nor expediency; only honesty and
frankness. Therefore, he is almost brutally critical of
shams and postures in music. He has again and again de¬
nounced composers who, as a pose, ruthlessly break laws
and shatter tradition. Bloch has a piquant sense of humor,
but the humor is essentially Hebraic in its satiric acidity.
When, therefore, he is denunciatory in his criticism, his
tongue can annihilate an opponent with one devastating
remark.
Another quality of the Biblical prophet is a dominant
trait of Bloch’s character—his deep-rooted mysticism.
Bloch is not a religious man in the formal and accepted
sense of the term; nor is he so racially chauvinistic as his
Hebraic music might suggest. His religion is, rather, a
world religion, and his God a spiritual Being for all men.
It is the spiritual and poetical qualities of religion that
appeal so sensitively to him.
It is these personal qualities of the Biblical prophet in
Bloch that have compelled him, in several decades of artis¬
tic self-expression, to cling tenaciously to those ideals and
standards he adopted in his youth. And it is these qualities
that bring to all of his music a nobility of conception, a
profundity of expression, almost an other-worldliness which
are Bloch’s most distinguishing traits as a composer.
ERNEST BLOCH
ERNEST BLOCH 175
2.
Ernest Bloch, the son of a Swiss clock merchant, was
born in Geneva on July 24, 1880. From his parents he
inherited neither his religious consciousness nor his musical
talent. His father and mother were bourgeois shopkeepers
in whose lives both religion and music played a negligible
part.
His parents aspired to make of their son a self-respect¬
ing business man. The resolve to become a musician, how¬
ever, was so strongly entrenched in Ernest Bloch even in
childhood that he was soon able to override successfully
the opposition of his parents. In his fourteenth year,
therefore, Bloch began the study of composition under
Jacques Dalcroze and the violin under L. Rey in Geneva.
The first taste of music so intoxicated him that he turned
instinctively to musical creation, producing within two years
an Oriental Symphony and an Andante for string-quartet.
In his seventeenth year, Bloch left Geneva for Brussels
for a more intensive musical training. He studied the violin
with EugeneYsaye and composition with F. Rasse. After
a few years of such study, Bloch went to Germany where,
as he himself has recorded, “my master was Ivan Knorr, at
Frankfort-on-the-Main. He was a profoundly great peda¬
gogue. He taught me to teach myself. For it is only what
you unturn through your own efforts, what you discover
after grim and long pondering that really benefits you. I
had studied harmony and mastered it to the satisfaction of
my teachers before going to Frankfort. However, I insisted
on Knorr’s going over the ground with me, and within a few
months I conquered it for myself. . . . After that I went
to Munich and studied with Thuille. I composed my first
symphony in Munich and then went to Paris.”
The First Symphony—it was in the key of C-sharp minor
—was completed in 1902. Bloch’s inability to gain a hear¬
ing for the work either in Paris or Germany—coupled with
the news of the growing financial duress of his family—
brought him back to Geneva in 1904 where he became book¬
keeper, salesman and traveling merchant for his father’s
shop. “I will write music as I feel I must,” he said at
the time, “and if it is good it will be heard; otherwise it
will not. Meanwhile I will be a merchant.” But business
—though it required prodigious energy and time—did not
absorb all of Bloch’s interests. Several hours each week he
lectured at the University of Geneva on metaphysics. In
1909, he became a conductor of subscription concerts in
Lausanne and Neuchatel. And, during the night (Bloch
never required more than a few hours of sleep) he belonged
to his first and greatest love—composition.
During these hours of night, Bloch composed a series of
works which brought his musical idiom to high develop¬
ment: Po'emes d’automne, for voice and orchestra, Hiver-
Printemps, two symphonic sketches, and made elaborate
plans and outlines for an opera, Macbeth, on a libretto by
Edmond Fleg. In these early works, the style which is
today recognizable as Bloch’s is already manifest in embryo.
That barbaric ferocity and passion, savage in their intensity,
fill this early music with an enormous energy and vitality;
the fully developed melodic lines and the free use of the
rhythmic elements are already clearly apparent. More¬
over, certain Hebraic qualities—use of Oriental intervals
and vivid harmonic colors—rear their heads. And already
one can discern in this music the high idealism and nobility
of a great heart which speak so unmistakably in Bloch’s
later works.
In 1909, Bloch completed his opera Macbeth which, with
many misgivings—almost on a gamble—he despatched to the
management of the Paris Opera Comique. To his bewilder¬
ment the opera was accepted for performance. On Novem¬
ber 30, 1910, it was given its premiere, arousing consider¬
able discussion and conflicting opinions. Certain critics, like
Arthur Pougin, denounced it vigorously. Others, however,
ERNEST BLOCH 177
found in it a new and important voice. Pierre Lalo spoke
of the opera as “one of the most profoundly interesting
works which has been given on the operatic stage in these
last years; a work in which the singularly powerful nature
of a dramatic composer reveals itself—a work to which
the extraordinarily direct expression of feelings and of
moods, the vibrant and quivering musical speech, the
mysterious intensity of color, the atmosphere of darkness
and terror, in which the characters are enveloped, give a
gripping force.”
One of the critics in Paris who believed in Bloch was
Romain Rolland, celebrated author of Jean Christophe.
This was the result of perusing the manuscript score of the
C-sharp minor Symphony. To express his great faith in
Bloch’s genius in no uncertain vocabulary, Rolland made the
trip from Paris to Geneva to meet and talk to the young
composer. Rolland has described the astonishment at find¬
ing Bloch sitting behind a high desk, in the store of his
father, working patiently over the business accounts. Bit¬
terly, Rolland expressed his indignation to Bloch that a
composer of such promise should devote his time to busi¬
ness. It may have been that Rolland’s words fell upon
receptive ears, or else that the praise which Macbeth en¬
couraged from certain quarters gave Bloch the assurance he
needed. At any rate Bloch was now convinced that he was
through with business. Henceforth, he was to devote him¬
self completely to music.
Long after this—in 1915—there took place a complete
performance of Bloch’s Symphony in C-sharp minor—in
Geneva under the baton of the composer, with Romain
Rolland—now watching keenly the work of his discovery—
in the audience. The letter that Rolland wrote to Bloch
after the performance must have caused the heart of the
neglected composer to throb with ecstasy. “Your sym¬
phony is one of the most important works of the modern
school. I don’t know any work in which a richer, more
vigorous, more passionate temperament makes itself felt.

It is wonderful to think that it is an early workl If I had
known of you at the time, I should have said to you: Do
not trouble about criticism or praise, or opinions from
others. Don’t let yourself be turned aside or led astray
from yourself by anything whatsoever, either influence,
advice, doubts or anything else. Continue expressing your¬
self in the same way, freely and fully; I will answer for your
becoming one of the masters of our time. From the very
first bars to the end of the music one feels at home in it.
It has a life of its own; it is not a composition coming
from the brain before it was felt!”
In 1911, Bloch’s position as a conductor came to an end
when, after a series of cabals, one of his pupils succeeded
in superseding him. Much to Bloch’s credit, he expressed
neither bitterness nor rage in relinquishing the baton.
Instead, he applied himself more conscientiously to his
creative work. In 1915, he coupled his creative work with
a series of lectures on composition and aesthetics at the
Geneva Conservatory of Music.
It was at this time that Bloch’s style underwent a definite
evolution, that he became imbued with the ideal to create
a Hebrew music that would give expression to his race.
Truth to tell, the development of Bloch’s music from the
first period of the Symphony in C-sharp minor to the
Hebraic period was not quite so sudden as so many critics
have been tempted to suspect. The careful ear can dis¬
cern many qualities in Bloch’s early works that are Hebraic.
One need but note the elegiac sadness in portions of this
symphony and the almost Chassidic mysticism of the fugue
of the last movement, the religious fervor of the Poemes
d’automne, the Oriental flavor of Bloch’s harmonizations
and the Semitic intervals in his melodic line to realize that
Bloch evidently felt the Hebrew spirit keenly from the very
first and attempted to transfer it into his music. However,
it was not until a little more than ten years after the Sym-
ERNEST BLOCH 179
phony in C-sharp minor that Bloch openly acknowledged
himself to be a Jewish composer. “Racial consciousness is
absolutely necessary in music even though nationalism is
not,” he announced as his aesthetic creed. “I am a Jew.
I aspire to write Jewish music not for the sake of self-
advertisement, but because it is the only way in which I
can produce music of vitality—if I can do such a thing at
all.” At another time, in explaining his Jewish music,
Bloch wrote: “It is not my purpose or my desire to attempt
a ‘reconstruction’ of Jewish music, or to base my work on
melodies more or less authentic. I am not an archeologist.
I hold that it is of first importance to write good, genuine
music—my own music. It is the Jewish soul that interests
me, the complex, glowing, agitated soul that I feel vibrat¬
ing throughout the Bible . . . the freshness and the naivete
of the Patriarchs, the violence of the prophetic Books; the
Jew’s savage love of justice; the despair of the Ecclesiastes;
the sorrow and the immensity of the Book of Job; the
sensuality of the Song of Songs. All this is in us, all this is
in me, and it is the better part of me. It is all this that I
endeavor to hear in myself, and to translate in my music;
the sacred emotion of the race that slumbers far down in
our soul.”
With such works as the Two Psalms (137 and 114), for
soprano and orchestra, Trois Poemes Juifs, for orchestra
(composed in the memory of his father) and Psalm 22, for
baritone and orchestra, Bloch definitely rediscovered his
race and associated himself with it. By the close of the
year of 1916, Bloch was to travel even deeper into the
Hebraic world he had recently begun to explore with the
completion of such works as Schelomo, for violoncello and
orchestra, a portrait in tone of a great Biblical Jew, and
Israel Symphony, a proud and exultant affirmation of his
race.
It is this Hebrew period that has produced many of
Bloch’s most famous works. While I, personally, do not
accept all of these works with the unqualified enthusiasm

that some other critics do, there can be no denying that, at
its best, this music speaks with a sublime vocabulary. Bloch’s
music, at its best, has a profound depth, an enormous vision,
an inspiring eloquence and a contagious enthusiasm. Its
tremendous vitality is irresistible; and we seem, in this music,
to catch a new glimpse at the soul of beauty. However, it
is my personal feeling that both the Israel Symphony and
Schelomo (always with the exception of sporadic superb
passages) are too self-conscious. Certain elements of
Hebrew music—the Oriental color, the ritual trumpets, the
augmented-second intervals in the melody—have been
superimposed on the music and are not integral and in¬
evitable parts of it. Both of these works fail to convince
as Hebrew documents. They are at their best when the
Hebrew message is less strongly emphasized. It is almost
as though, freed from the constraining necessity of compos¬
ing music essentially Hebrew in technique, Bloch could
give his inspiration free reign, and it was able to soar and
expand.
3.
Early in 1916, Ernest Bloch came to America as con¬
ductor of the Maud Allan troupe that had been booked for
an extensive tour of the country. The sudden bankruptcy
of this venture left Bloch stranded in a foreign country
without friends or resources. For a few months, Bloch
experienced starvation. Then, a few prominent musicians,
discovering his plight, combined their efforts to snatch him
from his undeserved obscurity. There followed a series of
important performances of Bloch’s music that definitely
established his reputation and placed him among the most
significant creative figures in America. In December of
1916, the Flonzaley Quartet performed the String Quartet
in B-minor with great success. Several months later, Dr.
Karl Muck invited Bloch as a guest conductor of the Boston
ERNEST BLOCH 181
Symphony Orchestra to direct his Trois Pohnes Juifs.
Artur Bodanzky, in New York, devoted an entire program
of the Society of Friends of Music to Bloch’s works, and
one year later Bloch personally directed another program
of his music with the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. In
1919, the award of the Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge prize
of $1,000 for the Suite for Viola and Orchestra brought
several performances to this work. These performances
finally succeeded in bringing Bloch that international fame
as a composer that Rolland had prophesied a few years
before this.
In 1920, Bloch was appointed director of the Cleveland
Institute of Music. Though he was never happy either as
an administrator or as a teacher—principally because too
frequently his high ideals were in direct conflict with expedi¬
ency and practicality—he held this post for five years. In
this position, he composed several extraordinary works,
including the Baal-Shem Suite, for violin and piano (1923),
the Quartet Pieces (1924), the Concerto Grosso, for string
orchestra and piano (1924-1925) and, what is probably
the greatest music of Bloch’s career, the Quintet, for piano
and strings (1924). It is interesting to mention that the
Concerto Grosso was composed by Bloch partly with an eye
to some of his pupils whose compositions were needlessly
elaborate, to show what could be done with simpler means.
In 1925, Bloch resigned his directorial post with the
Cleveland Institute, having been antagonized by its more
political aspects. A pedagogical position brought him at
this time to San Francisco. There, in 1927, he composed
his symphony America, which won the $3,000 award offered
by the magazine Musical America for an outstanding
American musical work for large orchestra. The sym¬
phony America (submitted, as prescribed by the rules, under
a pen-name) was the unanimous selection of the judges, and
it was performed simultaneously by the leading symphony
orchestras in America, including the New York Philhar-
monic, and the Boston, Philadelphia and Chicago symphony
orchestras. Following America, Bloch produced a work as
a tribute to his native country, Helvetia.
In the works ranging from the Concerto Grosso to Hel¬
vetia Block seemed to have digressed from his Hebraic path.
The discerning critic will realize, however, that the digres¬
sion is not quite so marked as might first be suspected.
The Piano Quintet, the Concerto Grosso, the America
Symphony and Helvetia may not be, in body, Hebrew com¬
positions; but who can doubt that they are the creations of a
Jew? It has been well pointed out by Dr. Isaac Goldberg
that the Indians of the America Symphony dance with Chas-
sidic feet. Bloch may have permanently deserted Hebrew
music, but Hebrew music has refused to part with him. As
a matter of fact, the Piano Quintet is, in my opinion, the
most successful of his attempts to give expression to his
race. It is a profoundly religious document. Its religion
does not consist in artificial exteriors, but rather in the
religion of philosophers. Through its pungent harmonies
Spinoza trumpets his intellectual love of God; the medita¬
tive mysticism of Chassidic folk-lore seems to speak in the
cool counterpoint. The religion of the Quintet purifies and
exalts; it shows us more clearly than any other of Bloch’s
music the true soul of the Hebrew religion.
In America and in Helvetia, Bloch pays tribute to his two
countries. If both these works are disappointing, it is only
because the composer does not seem to feel his country’s
spirit so intimately as he does that of his race. There are
unquestionably moments of power and majesty in America,
pages of heroic grandeur and strongly felt emotions. But
America and Helvetia lack conviction. In America the
anthem that Bloch fashioned for the close is not a culminat¬
ing paean of praise that one had the right to expect; it is
a trite and effete melody such as might have been penned
by a schoolboy.
However, with his more recent works—the Sacred Service
ERNEST BLOCH 183
and A Voice in the Wilderness, for violoncello and orchestra
—Bloch has returned to his original path. He has rightly
realized that the Jew in him is too strong to be discarded,
and that, if he is to compose music of ability and strength,
he must write in the Hebrew idiom.
4.
A generous endowment by one of San Francisco’s art

patrons enabled Bloch to give up the teaching of music, in
1931, and to devote himself completely to creative work.
He left America, for a far-flung corner of Switzerland—
Ticino, Roveredo, near Italy—to compose a work which he
had been planning for several years. It was to be a work
which, he felt, might very well become his crowning achieve¬
ment—a musical Sacred Service for the Sabbath morning
prayers of the Jewish synagogue. However, in construct¬
ing the work, Bloch intended it to become something
infinitely more than a ritual service for his race; he hoped
to create a monumental song of Faith for all humanity.
“Though intensely Jewish in roots”—I am quoting Bloch
himself—“the message seems to me above all a gift of
Israel to the whole mankind. It symbolizes for me, far
more than a Jewish service, but, in its great simplicity and
variety, it embodies a philosophy acceptable to all men.”
A singularly descriptive letter from the hand of Bloch’s
daughter, Suzanne, describes the conditions under which
Bloch produced his ritual work. “In this beautiful spot of
Switzerland, he found the quiet and peace needed for the
creation of such a work. The village of Roveredo is as
primitive a place as could be imagined. A few stone houses
grouped together, a cobblestone path passing under dim
arches, form the main street. The only other ‘musician’
living nearby is the village half-wit who, as twilight falls,
sits in his loggia playing an accordion, making the most
fantastic sounds. . . . On some beautiful evenings in
Roveredo, Bloch liked to walk slowly up the hill to the next
town, Bidognio. About eight o’clock it is very still in front
of the old church. All the peasants are inside; one hears
the priest’s voice—then suddenly a Gregorian chant breaks
forth in rough, drawling, almost goat-like voices, dragging
over each syllable. In this semi-religious and profane
atmosphere, with the lake of Lugano at his feet, the moun¬
tains rolling to Italy, lying before him, Bloch wrote his
latest work.”
The Sacred Service was composed at a time of great
moral crisis, from which it possibly derives its especial
vision and significance.
When the Sacred Service was completed, Bloch returned
to America, after an absence of three years, to direct the
first performance of the work at a concert of the Schola
Cantorum in New York on April 11, 1934.
The Sacred Service is one of Bloch’s most deeply felt
works, in which “the sacred emotion of the race that slum¬
bers far down in our soul” has been given eloquent expres¬
sion. It is a work which has tenderness and passion, power
and humility. It has visions of unearthly beauty which
imposes upon the spirit of the listener an angelic serenity
that uplifts and ennobles him.
There are passages in this work which an honest critic
cannot accept: passages such as the closing orchestral pas¬
sage to Part One, and the Yimloch chorus which closes
the second part—empty bombast and hollow pomp. But
acknowledging these defects and lamenting them, the Sacred
Service is a work of importance. Listen to the awe and
grandeur of the Shema, followed immediately by the heart¬
breaking poignancy of the Veohavto; listen to the superb
majesty of the Tzur Yisroel; listen to the terrifying mystery
of the Kodosh—listen to these passages and you will hear a
music springing from inspiration, a music born out of pain
and stress and ascending towards a new world.
FREDERICK DELIUS
XI
FREDERICK DELIUS
1.
I N THE winter of 1929, Frederick Delius—then in his
sixty-seventh year, totally paralyzed and blind—was
brought in his invalid’s chair from his home in France to
London to witness the outstanding triumph of his artistic
career. After more than thirty years of production of
fragile masterpieces which are almost without equal in the
musical expression of our time, he received for the first time
that recognition of his own country that he had so eminently
deserved—and that should have been his twenty years
before.
From his chair, placed prominently in front of the mez¬
zanine, Delius heard a monumental festival, spanning no
less than six concerts, devoted to his principal works. He
received, too, the adulatory attention of a music-public
whose tribute was intensified by the realization that its ges¬
ture of recognition—so long belated—had not come too
late. Crowds swarmed the doorway of the concert-hall to
await the composer after each performance, and fought for
an opportunity to catch a glimpse of him; and, as Delius
was carried from the Queen’s Hall, with almost regal dig¬
nity, he was cheered as though he were some political
dignitary.
His friends reported to him his victory on every possible
front. Phonograph records of his music outsold in London
those of any other modern composer. Over the radio, an
evening of his music was broadcast to the four corners of
England. The newspapers prominently displayed his photo¬
graph and life-story as they might that of a new cinema
187
star; the critics were effusive in their panegyrics. From the

University of Oxford he received an honorary degree. In
short, a musical prophet was, at last, being appreciated in
his own country.
Thus, magnificently, was the last chapter written to the
life-story of a neglected composer who had never received
the attention that his music warranted. It was written none
too soon. Five years later, Delius was dead; but he died
knowing that his music had finally won its place in the world
of modern art.
2.
Frederick Delius was born in Bradford, England, on
January 29, 1862,1 into a large family that included ten
girls and two boys. His father, a prosperous wool mer¬
chant, raised his children with an autocratic hand. From
earliest childhood Frederick was in terror of him.
Delius was, as his sister recently disclosed in a remark¬
ably informative biography,2 a healthy, normal, athletic boy,
his intellectual development sufficiently normal to permit
him to devour greedily the English equivalent of “dime
novels.” Adventure stories fed his imagination until he
began to identify himself with the picaresque characters of
the novels. At one time he ran away from home “to seek
his fortune,” and was discovered, fifteen miles away, tired,
dusty and hungry. Upon another occasion, he was inspired
with the ideal of becoming a circus performer; he rehearsed
equestrian feats upon his horse until he was thrown from
the saddle and so seriously hurt that for an extended period
he was confined to bed.
In one respect, he was far different from his young
friends—in his unusual love and adaptability for music. As
1 Delius himself believed that he was born in 1863, which is the year that
is given in all existing reference books. Shortly after Delius’ death it was
discovered that not 1863 but 1862 was the date of his birth.
2 Delius: Memoires of My Brother, by Clare Delius.
FREDERICK DELIUS 189
a mere child, he played the piano by ear, frequently delight¬

ing his family circle with his imaginative improvisations.
He was taught the violin on which his progress aroused the
speechless admiration of his teachers. Delius, however,
was not permitted to take the study of music too seriously.
His father had every expectation of making him a business
man, perhaps a junior partner in his rapidly expanding wool
establishment.
After completing some elementary schooling, Delius was
sent to Germany in his nineteenth year to study the wool
business more intensively as a preparation for entering the
paternal firm. There he heard performances of Wagner’s
Die Meistersinger and Karl Goldmark’s Queen of Sheba
which stirred him so tempestuously that he was for the first
time fired with the ambition of becoming a composer. Busi¬
ness he hated with an instinctive detestation, so that before
long he began, as an escape from wool, to harbor dreams of
a musical career more and more persistently. Soon—some¬
what timidly—he wrote to his father asking permission to
give up business for music. Then, in a stormy session, he
was reminded that he was not to question the career that
had been chosen for him. Always terrified by the thunder
of his father’s anger, Delius docilely acquiesced to his
father’s wish. In 1882, he was sent to Manchester where
his uncle had a large business.
Two years of the wool business convinced Delius em¬
phatically that this was not the career for him. Moreover,
his early passion for adventure—which had by no means
deserted him—was making him squirm with restlessness.
He was eager to try unfamiliar paths in brave, new worlds,
not to remain a prisoner in a Manchester office. One day,
therefore, he definitely announced to his somewhat be¬
wildered father that, if he must become a business man, he
wished to abandon wool and to turn his hand to planting
oranges in Florida. Why Florida, and why the planting of
oranges? Delius had always been attracted to the glamour
of America since his boyhood days; the instinctive need to

escape from people and to find himself through solitude
convinced him that he would be happiest in the warm and
languorous climate of a small and distant Florida town.
He had also read that Florida was a state devoted to
orange plantations. He decided, therefore, that he would
work at the soil.
In March of 1884, Delius left for Florida to superintend
the orange plantation, Solano, which his father had pur¬
chased for him. Solano was a distant point on the St. John’s
River, a three days’ trip from the nearest large city—Jack¬
sonville. In its primitive desolation it seemed an eternity
away. Delius was the only white person there. He was as
far removed from the European civilization of the late
nineteenth century as though he had penetrated the heart of
Africa. He was surrounded by bronze skins, Negro spirit¬
uals, the plangent whine of the banjo, and the almost sensual
languor of Negro life. And he succumbed to their spell.
The orange plantation, as a business, soon wearied him, and
he left its management to an overseer. Instead he spent his
days in reading, and in quiet contemplation. He would
spend his time in a canoe on the St. John’s River, accom¬
panied by Negro friends who played and sang their folk-
music. In the evenings—the mellowness of which was as
soothing as ointment—he would walk in the woods, per¬
mitting the peace and serenity of his world, and the benedic¬
tion of a star sprinkled sky, to cast their magic over him.
Eventually, this life, to be fully complete, required an ave¬
nue of artistic expression. Fortunately, he had brought
with him his violin, and upon this he worked assiduously.
Progress in the study of the violin aroused Delius’ dor¬
mant musical appetite. He decided, soon, to make the three
days’ journey to Jacksonville for the purpose of buying a
piano and arranging for its shipment to Solano. While he
was trying out various instruments in the music-house, a
stranger approached him—attracted to the imaginative
FREDERICK DELIUS
chords and the unusual melodic passages that Delius evoked

from the various pianos in his aimless improvisations. This
stranger was Thomas F. Ward, organist in Jacksonville.
That moment marked the beginning of a devoted friend¬
ship, the influence of which upon Delius’ musical develop¬
ment was profound. Each became attracted to the other’s
musical sensitivity. Delius prevailed upon Ward to return
to Solano with him. The idea of a vacation appealed
strongly to Ward; so did Solano. For six months Ward
remained Delius’ guest, paying for his board by teaching
the avid young musician lessons in harmony and counter¬
point. These lessons brought Delius straight into the arms
of creation. At this time he conceived his first ambitious
work, his musical impressions of America entitled Appala¬
chia, for chorus and orchestra.
After six months, Delius became convinced that his future
rested with music, and with music alone. He deluged his
father with letters pleading for permission to pursue music
study intensively, but the old man turned a deaf ear.
Finally, Delius decided to abandon his plantation and to
make his own way with music. He came to Jacksonville
where he sang in the choir of a Jewish synagogue. Then,
equipped with glowing letters of introduction from the
Chief Rabbi of Jacksonville, he went to Danville, Virginia
—only one dollar left in his pocket—and eventually became
a music teacher at the Old Roanoke Female School. Eight
months later, he was a professional organist in New York.
About this time his father suddenly relented; within a few
months he was completing his musical studies in Leipzig, on
an allowance. This had for some time been a cherished
dream. He was enrolled in the Conservatory as a pupil of
Sitt, Jadassohn and Reinecke.
In the summer of 1887, Delius took a walking trip
through Norway, where he made friendships leading even¬
tually to a meeting with the famous Scandinavian composer,
Edvard Grieg, when the latter came for a visit to Leipzig
the following winter. Grieg was convinced of Delius’ gifts
—particularly after an impromptu performance in Leipzig
of an early Delius composition, Florida. When, therefore,
Grieg came to England that same year, he contacted Delius’
father and urged him not to hinder any longer an artistic
career that was so rich with promise. Grieg’s reputation
won the day. Although Father Delius provided only a
scanty allowance for his son, he promised faithfully that he
would henceforth raise no further obstacles in his son’s
artistic path.
From Leipzig, Delius went to Paris where a kindly uncle,
sympathetic to his aspirations, relieved him of all monetary
problems by giving him a generous income. The years that
followed were devoted not only to the study of music but
more especially to the gathering of artistic impressions and
to assimilating them. He was introduced to such important
artistic figures as Gaugin, the painter, and Strindberg, the
dramatist, in whose circle he moved freely. He also de¬
voted himself to some composition. In 1892, his first pub¬
lished work—a Legende, for violin and orchestra—was
released in Paris. This was followed by a Fantasy Over¬
ture, Over the Hills and Far Away, and a Concerto for
Piano and Orchestra.
During this period in Paris, Delius first met Jelka Rosen,
a girl of enormous talent and cultural background who was
equally adept in poetry, music and painting. Jelka Rosen
recognized Delius’ creative gifts and was magnetically at¬
tracted to the appeal of his strong personality. She, there¬
fore, invited him one day to lunch at the home of her
mother, who lived in a suburb of Paris, Grez-sur-Loing.
Before long, Delius became a frequent household guest of
the Rosens.
Delius, at first, was not strongly drawn to Jelka; as a
matter of fact, though he delighted in speaking with her
about art, he did not seem to take much notice of her
feminine charm or personal appeal. And there was good
reason. For, during his American stay, twelve years before
this, Delius had formed an extraordinary attachment for a
young Negress, whom he was unable to remove from his
thoughts. She obsessed his thoughts so completely that he
was unable to create a strong bond with any other woman.
Finally—with sudden impetuousness—Delius decided that
he would sweep discretion to the winds; he arranged for a
return voyage to America so that he might claim his beloved
Negress as his bride. For this purpose—and for this pur¬
pose alone—he crossed the Atlantic a second time, in the
summer of 1897. He remained only a brief period. His
search completely fruitless, Delius returned to France.3
Upon his return to France, Delius went straight to the
home of Jelka Rosen in Grez-sur-Loing, and settled himself
and his baggage there permanently. Soon afterwards, Jelka
and Delius were married. This marriage, which seems to
have had so haphazard an origin, proved to be preeminently
successful. Jelka was an extraordinary wife, patient, soli¬
citous, encouraging, understanding and unselfishly devoted
until the very last day of her husband’s life. For his part,
Delius worshipped her—and could never speak of her to
his friends without revealing his profound love for her and
his prodigious admiration for her talents.
Shortly after the marriage, Delius left with his wife for
Norway, brought there by a commission to prepare inci¬
dental music for a political play by Gunnar Heiberg, Folke-
raadet. This commission was almost accompanied by a
fatal tragedy. In his score, Delius utilized the Norwegian
national anthem in a satirical vein, a fact which so infuri¬
ated the Norwegians that they denounced Delius’ music
vituperatively. At one performance, a patriotic spectator
3 This extraordinary incident in Delius’ life—which has been discreetly

omitted from all existing biographies and biographical sketches on the com¬
poser—was disclosed by a life-long friend of Delius, the eminent American
musician Percy Grainger, in a singularly informative series of articles on
the composer.
became so enraged that he fired several revolver shots at

the composer, which, fortunately, missed their target.
In 1899, Delius’ mother-in-law bought him a gift of a
secluded country home in Grez-sur-Loing, Delius’ retreat
for the remainder of his life. Situated as it was in a small
French town, a few steps from the village church, and sur¬
rounded by spacious and well cultivated grounds which pro¬
tected him from the outside world, this villa provided Delius
with that feeling of solitude and peace which he always
sought and needed, and with that spirit of tranquillity in
which he could work most fruitfully.
3.
During the next decade and a half, Delius created his

series of masterpieces upon which must rest most firmly his
significance as a composer. Following the completion of
such pioneer attempts as the opera Koanga—a work with
Florida as its background and Negroes as its principal char¬
acters—and the orchestral pieces, Paris and A Life’s Dance,
Delius achieved his personal idiom in its purest and most
crystallized form. In 1901, he completed the opera A Vil¬
lage Romeo and Juliet, based upon a tale of Gottfried
Keller. Within the next two years, two significant choral
works were added to his productions, Sea Drift, inspired by
the poem of Walt Whitman, and A Mass for Life. There
followed a string of immortal poems for orchestra, Brigg
Fair (1907)—based upon a famous English melody—and
In a Summer Garden (1908), Summer Night on the River
(1911-1912), and On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring
(1911-1912), all three musical translations of country
scenes at or near Grez-sur-Loing.
This music, at its best, is pictorial painting in tone pro¬
duced by a poetical temperament—music highly sensitivized,
suffused with a tranquillity and repose which seem far re¬
moved from our time. Refinement of speech and delicacy
of tone, restraint of emotion and fragility of construction
are their outstanding qualities. It is a baffling task to place
a label on Delius’ music. It is too eclectic, moulded by as
many influences as have touched Delius in his wanderings.
His style is sometimes touched with Negro blues, and some¬
times affected by Scandinavian austerity. Often German
romanticism and French impressionism moulded his idiom
at one and the same time. These many influences, Delius
has blended into a speech that is so completely his own that
his personality—that of a dreamer, poet and philosopher—
escapes from every page he has written.
There is an elusive quality to Delius’ music, an almost
amorphous quality which makes it difficult to grasp on first
hearing. Delius’ music appears, at first, like a perfume—a
fleeting sensory experience without body, shape or substance,
leaving behind it a blurred but pleasing memory. It is only
upon intimate acquaintance that the subtle outlines of
Delius’ form become clearly perceptible, and that the re¬
markable construction of his works is disclosed in the fluid
flow of the music. And it is only upon frequent hearing that
the individual beauty of his message begins to exert a necro¬
mantic spell over the listener.
It is for this reason that Delius’ recognition as a com¬
poser came slowly—much more slowly than it has come to
any other outstanding modern composer. When on May
30, 1899, Delius personally arranged an entire concert of his
own works at the St. James’ Hall in London, his music had
only a partial success. During the years that followed, per¬
formances of Delius’ works were sporadic in England, and
were received with hardly more than casual politeness.
Germany was more appreciative of Delius’ work, and it
was in Germany—and not in England—that the first per¬
formances of Delius’ outstanding works took place. Ap¬
palachia was featured at the Lower Rhine Music Festival in
1905, followed one year later by a performance of Sea
Drift at the Tonkiintslerfest in Essen. In 1904, Fritz Cas-
sirer conducted the opera Koanga at the City Theatre in

Elberfeld, with Clarence Whitehill singing the principal
role. A Village Romeo and Juliet was introduced in Berlin
in 1907. These performances were greeted courteously
enough by the German music public; in some cases with en¬
thusiasm. “I never dreamt that anybody except myself
was writing such good music,” commented Richard Strauss
on first hearing a work by Delius.
A handful of disciples in England—principally among
them Sir Thomas Beecham, the conductor, whose herculean
efforts on behalf of Delius during more than two decades
was most responsible for the composer’s eventual recogni¬
tion—patiently worked for him, spread propaganda on his
behalf, performed his music upon every possible occasion
and tried to impress its beauty upon the consciousness of an
indifferent public. The battle was a long one, but—as his
disciples knew—victory was inevitable. With the beginning
of 1920—when Delius’ opera A Village Romeo and Juliet
was successfully revived at Covent Garden under Sir
Thomas Beecham’s guidance—the English music public be¬
gan to react favorably to Delius’ music. During the years
that followed, Delius’ works were given more and more
frequent performances until 1929 when a magnificent six
day festival devoted to Delius’ outstanding works pro¬
claimed the fact that England had, at last, accepted Fred¬
erick Delius as one of its greatest composers of all time.
4.
When the thunder of German cannon shattered the peace

and tranquillity of Grez-sur-Loing, Delius—burying his
most valuable belongings in his cellar—escaped with his
wife from France, taking with them only one possession, a
painting of Gaugin. They came to London where, during
the years of the War, they were the household guests of
influential musicians. During these tempestuous years—
years that crushed Delius’ spirit—he wrote, among other
works, a Requiem, dedicated to all the young artists who
had fallen in battle.
When the War ended, Delius returned to his home in
Grez-sur-Loing. He was beginning to disclose alarming
symptoms, in the form of a stifling weariness of flesh and
spirit. That these were harbingers of physical disintegra¬
tion soon became appallingly evident. In 1922, paralysis
set in; by 1925, Delius was blind as well.
What this tragedy meant to Delius only those who knew
him well can guess. He who loved travel and freedom of
movement was now enslaved to an invalid’s chair. He who
adored Nature with an almost religious adoration was now
blind to its beauty. And he who could live so fully and
completely—who could derive such an intense delight from
every phase of life, sensual as well as spiritual, physical as
well as mental—was now robbed of all the major pleasures
of living.
However, it cannot be said that Delius was incapable of
heroism. He bore his cross—crushing though it was at
times—with a sweetness of spirit that amazed those with
whom he came into contact. He could never reconcile him¬
self to his tragic fate. Yet he was rarely heard to complain,
and his suffering was always done in silence. At times, he
was even capable of a witticism or an ironic thrust. His
spirit, at least to the outside world, seemed unruffled and
serene. When he was brought downstairs each day at noon,
there would be that ineffably poignant smile on his thin lips
as he whispered: “Well, here we are.”
During the afternoons, he would sit in the garden which
he loved so intensely, sometimes in the company of intimate
friends. Illness and proximity to death did not succeed in
making him any more the Christian than he had been in his
younger years. He had frequently felt that culture, art and
the mind had been routed by Christianty, and he frequently
repeated this belief in his last years. Yet, though his phi-
losophy did not tread in the formal route of religion, there
was something indescribably spiritual about him, which
moved and inspired those who met him. His fine face—
with its majestic Roman profile—was touched with an other¬
worldliness, accentuated by the pallid, hollow cheeks and
the stark, unseeing eyes, denying the life of indulgence that
he had led.
In discussions on aesthetics, religion, art or philosophy,
he always expressed himself fearlessly and individually.
Particularly in music were his opinions unorthodox and
courageous. He detested Brahms, disliked Haydn and
Beethoven, and was bored by Debussy and Richard Strauss.
Mozart, he thought, was one of the most naive composers
of all times. At one time, he told a friend that no one who
liked Mozart could possibly be a good musician! He ad¬
mired Bach, Chopin, Wagner and Grieg—spasmodically.
But truth to tell—and Delius sometimes confessed it—he
really enjoyed nobody’s music but his own. One of the great¬
est pleasures he acquired during the last years of his life was
to listen endlessly to phonograph recordings of his own
works.
During these years of sickness, Delius did not abandon
composition, even though creative work demanded on his
part such gargantuan effort that, after an hour, he became
limp with fatigue. Fortunately, in his composition he had
the cooperation of a young musician, Eric Fenby, who
wished to be of some service to a composer whom he ven¬
erated so highly. Guided by his blind master, Fenby
brought many of Delius’ early works into final shape. And
with Fenby, as amanuensis, Delius dictated his last works,
note by note. It was thus that Delius’ last work, an Idyll
for soprano, baritone and orchestra, was brought to com¬
pletion in 1933.
Frederick Delius died at his home in Grez-sur-Loing,
June 10, 1934. One of his last requests was that he be
buried near a church, somewhere “where the winds are
warm and the sun friendly.” One year after his death, his
wish was fulfilled. His body was transported from France
to the warm sun of southern England—Limpsfield. A con¬
cert of his works took place at the church under the direc¬
tion of Sir Thomas Beecham. To the elegiac strains of the
Summer Night on the River and On Hearing the First
Cuckoo in Spring, Delius was buried in the church grave¬
yard, under a tree a thousand years old. His grave was
lighted by two hurricane lamps, and was lined with laurel
leaves.
PAUL HINDEMITH
XII
PAUL HINDEMITH
1.
S HORTLY after the Nazis assumed control of Germany,
they promulgated their musical creed to the world as a
part of their nationalistic program. “Only that music,” it
was announced officially, “which expresses the highest ideals
of the German people and which is untainted by foreign in¬
fluences, will be encouraged.” Under the flying banner of
this aesthetic creed there followed a wholesale Sauberung—
“cleansing”—of German music. All musicians who—either
because they were Jews or else because they were not in full
sympathy with the new government—were not full-blooded
Germans in the eyes of the Nazis were peremptorily ex¬
pelled from the country. There followed a veritable hegira
of great German musicians out of their fatherland—con¬
ductors, composers, virtuosi, musicologists, teachers—per¬
haps the greatest exile of genius that civilization has seen.
Then, having purged Germany of “non-German” musicians,
this Sauberung next took place with the music itself which
was then being performed in Germany. Performances of
works by composers of Jewish origin were strictly verboten.
Finally, it was made clear that music of an experimental
nature was not to be encouraged; for radicalism in music—
according to Dr. Richard Eichenauer, in one of the unoffi¬
cial publications of the Nazi party1—is essentially the off¬
spring of distorted Jewish minds.
It was during this purification of German music that Paul
Hindemith was decreed an unwholesome and undesirable
influence in German music. Paul Hindemith was not a Jew,
1 Musik und Rasse, by Richard Eichenauer.
203
and his music—in its essence and spirit—was German. Yet,

to the Nazi officials—who by this time had converted their
aesthetic precept into a religious dogma—Hindemith was a
pernicious influence in German music, an influence of which
it was essential to be completely purged.
The “Hindemith-affair”—reverberations of which were
heard around the world—was precipitated by the premiere
of an orchestral suite (entitled Symphony) drawn from
the opera Mathis der Maler, performed in Berlin in the
spring of 1934 under the direction of Wilhelm Furtwangler.
Shortly after this performance, which had been widely pub¬
licized in the German press, the Kulturkammer issued the
opinion that Hindemith did not measure up to the fastidi¬
ous requirements of a true Aryan composer and that, there¬
fore, it could not look with favor upon performances of his
music.
The case against Paul Hindemith, clearly outlined by the
Kulturkammer, was as follows: (1) Though an Aryan him¬
self, Hindemith was tainted because his wife was Jewish;
(2) Hindemith was the violist of the Amar Quartet which
included two Jewish representatives; (3) Hindemith had at
one time made phonograph recordings with such Jewish
artists as Emanuel Feuermann, violoncellist, and Simon
Goldberg, violinist; (4) the subject of many of Hindemith’s
works, particularly his operas, was objectionable to Nazi
philosophy, examples of pernicious Kultur Bolshevismus.
Following closely in the heels of this official verdict, came
vicious attacks on Hindemith’s music from many quarters
in Germany. Die Musik—a musical journal which, in previ¬
ous years—had lauded Hindemith’s music with extravagant
adjectives—now devastatingly denounced Hindemith’s work
as “unbearable to the Third Reich.” Richard Strauss in¬
sisted that a ban be placed on all of Hindemith’s music.
Many prominent musical organizations in Germany openly
boycotted Hindemith. There were, however, some dissent¬
ing voices. Professor Gustav Hartmann, head of the Third
PAUL HINDEMITH 205
Reich Music Association, protected Hindemith’s Aryanism

and upheld Hindemith as an artist. And Wilhelm Furt¬
wangler, in his now famous defense of Hindemith, answered
point by point the damning accusations of the Kulturkam-
mer.2 Hindemith, ran his argument, could not justifiably be
blamed for associations, marital and artistic, which took
place long before the Nazi government came into power.
As for Hindemith’s music, Furtwangler pointed out that it
was quite true that the choice of some of his operatic libret¬
tos had been unfortunate and that some of his early chamber
works were antagonistic to Nazi principles. But these,
after all, were the indiscretions of youth, the growing pains
of an artist, so to speak. Since his maturity, Hindemith
had produced music as high-mindedly German as the classics
of Bach, Beethoven and Schubert. “It is a crime,” con¬
cluded Furtwangler in his passionate plea, “to attempt to
defame and drive him from Germany, since none of the
younger generation has done more than he for the recogni¬
tion of German music throughout the world. In an age
that offers so few productive musicians, Germany cannot
afford to abandon Hindemith.”
Furtwangler’s arguments fell on deaf ears. For his stub¬
born stand on this issue, Furtwangler was severely taken to
task by the Kulturkammer and, for a time, resigned all his
conducting posts. At the same time, the Kulturkammer
officially banned all the works of Hindemith from the con¬
cert programs throughout Germany.
Even to a world well hardened to the follies of the Nazi
regime, the banishment of Hindemith’s music came as an
electric shock. For years, the name of Paul Hindemith has
dominated modern music. His works had been performed
in every musical center in the world, and there were few
2 It is not necessary, here, to explain the motives that impelled Furt¬
wangler to protect Hindemith—motives more selfish than idealistic. These
have been clearly and forcefully revealed by Mr. Herbert F. Peyser, foreign
musical correspondent of the New York Times.
who did not agree that this composer was one of the most
genuinely significant forces in modern musical expression.
In Germany, only Richard Strauss enjoyed a greater fame
and artistic significance than Hindemith. Moreover, it was
obvious that Hindemith was a growing figure. With each
work he was showing a greater enrichment of style and a
fuller development of his personality. He was promising
much more for the future than he had already fulfilled in
the past. It was, therefore, difficult to believe that the
Kulturkammer could be so myopic as deliberately to set its
face against a creative spirit that was so vital and dynamic.
2.
Paul Hindemith was born on November 16, 1895, in
Hanau, Germany. His love for music became apparent at
such a tender age that he began the study of the violin and
the viola even before he could read or write. He was,
therefore, literally born with “music in his bones,” as one
critic pointed out; “he sucked it with his mother’s milk.”
Hindemith’s parents objected violently to his musical pre¬
occupations. Rather than renounce music, Paul Hindemith
ran away from home. For an extended period, beginning
with his eleventh year, he earned his livelihood—which, at
best, was threadbare—by playing in cafes, dance bands and
movie-houses. However, he did not neglect his own musical
development. In the Hoch Conservatory of Frankfurt,
where Hindemith was a pupil of Arnold Mendelssohn and
Bernhard Sekles, he received a comprehensive training not
only on the viola and the violin but also in harmony, coun¬
terpoint and composition. He was a brilliant pupil and
captured many school prizes. It was while he was still a
pupil at the Hoch Conservatory that Hindemith began com¬
position seriously.
In 1915, Hindemith joined the orchestra of the Frank¬
furt Opera House as concertmaster. He remained there
PAUL HINDEMITH
PAUL HINDEMITH 207
until 1923, rising to the post of conductor. Meanwhile, his

importance as a musician had branched out generously into
several significant directions. He founded and became the
violist of the Amar String Quartet—a powerful force for
the dissemination of propaganda for modern chamber music
throughout Germany. He had likewise attracted note as a
composer. In 1921, 1922 and 1923 his early chamber mu¬
sic was featured prominently at the Donauschingen Festival
in Baden-Baden—so prominently that his music was soon
the feature attraction of the festival. In 1922, his Second
String Quartet (Opus 16) was successfully performed in
Salzburg, followed one year later by a triumphant per¬
formance of the Clarinet Quintet (Opus 30).
Hindemith’s musical style was not completely personal¬
ized until 1925, with a Kammermusik—a concerto for
piano and twelve solo instruments—introduced at the Fes¬
tival of Modern Music in Venice. In this work, Hindemith
revealed forcefully a tendency which had been asserting it¬
self spasmodically in his previous works—a tendency which
extended as far back as Bach. In his previous works—par¬
ticularly in the sonatas for violoncello and piano, and viola
and piano (Opus 26) and in his magnificent song-cycle Das
Marienleben, based on poems of Rainer Maria Rilke—
Hindemith disclosed a strong predilection for polyphonic
writing; in the Marienleben, frequently, the melodic line of
the solo voice moves completely independent of the piano
accompaniment. However, counterpoint became fully in¬
tegrated into Hindemith’s style with the Kammermusik of
1925. From this time on, Hindemith’s music was to be a
combination of Bach’s polyphonic principles with the har¬
monic, rhythmic and melodic innovations of twentieth cen¬
tury music. He was, with rare felicitousness, to infuse the
modern spirit into old forms. His music, for all its lean¬
ings on seventeenth century counterpoint, is crisp in idiom,
often stingingly acid, strong-fibered in architecture, muscle
and sinew rather than heart and nerves. Yet it derives
from Bach Its sense of perpetual movement, the lucid clarity

of Its construction, and the inextricable unity which binds it
into a coherent whole. It was this strange marriage of
modern musical devices with Bach polyphony that tempted
more than one critic to refer to these works of Hindemith
as “Brandenburg concertos upside down.”
In 1926, Hindemith’s name assumed especial significance
in the world of modern music when his meisterwerk, the
opera Cardillac, was introduced at the Dresden Opera un¬
der the baton of Fritz Busch. This was not Hindemith’s
first adventure into operatic form. In 1921-2, he had pro¬
duced a series of three one-act operas whose rawness and
immaturity have relegated them to an obscurity they prob¬
ably deserve. The year after that, a play with incidental
music, Tuttifantchen, was given a first-performance in
Darmstadt—an opera which proved to be so inept a union
of drama and music that, shortly after the first perform¬
ance, a quip was circulated throughout Germany which
quoted the composer as saying: “Never again, as long as I
live, will I compose an opera of which I haven’t read the
text!”
Cardillac was, however, Hindemith’s first mature and
full-grown composition in operatic form. The opera was
based upon E. T. A. Hoffmann’s novel, Das Fraulein von
Scuderi. The scene of Cardillac is seventeenth century
Paris where Cardillac, a goldsmith of singular ingenuity in
fashioning things of a delicate beauty, plies his trade. It is
soon discovered that a curse pursues all those who buy Car-
dillac’s works of art. An officer, who is in love with Car-
dillac’s daughter, determines to solve the mystery of the
curse and learns that Cardillac is a diabolical murderer who
injects into his moulds a lethal poison.
In Cardillac, Hindemith did not blaze new trails for the
music-drama as Alban Berg did, for example, in Wozzeck.
Cardillac is an opera in traditional form, a combination of
arias, duets, recitatives, etc. Its great strength lies in its
PAUL HINDEMITH 209
architectonic construction, the design of which is as taut as

a violin string. One critic astutely remarked that in Cardil¬
lac Hindemith applied the form of some of his concertos:
the first act resembles an exposition, the second act a de¬
velopment, and the third act something of a recapitulation.
In style, the opera has the compactness of writing, the terse¬
ness of expression, the lucidity of structure and the moving
beauty of polyphony which mark the best pages of Hinde¬
mith’s chamber works. There are few moments in modern
opera so deeply stirring as the final scene of the opera.
Cardillac definitely placed Hindemith at the head of the
younger German composers, “the most full blooded talent,”
as Hugo Riemann referred to him. His creative significance
brought him, in 1927, a professorship in composition at the
Berlin Normal School as well as a membership to the Ger¬
man Academy—an amazing distinction for a composer who
had only recently seen his thirty-second birthday.
Cardillac was followed by a still more sensational opera
which, for a time, enjoyed an overwhelming vogue among
German music-lovers. It was Neues vom Tage, produced
in Berlin in June, 1929, when it received an electric response
from the audiences. Built about a libretto which was a
swiftly moving and acid comment on modern life, written
with the raciness and gusto of a tabloid news-column, Neues
vom Tage delighted a jazz-mad era. The opera, for all the
sparkle and vitality of its score is, however, the most transi¬
tory of Hindemith’s works; its greatest appeal lay in its
timeliness. The story is a complicated one in which an un¬
happily mated couple—who suddenly find that their domes¬
tic quarrels and pursuit of a divorce have brought them into
the public eye through the glaring publicity of the tabloids
—are the central characters. In the face of such fame and
glory, they desire to be reconciled, but their public won’t let
them. They are finally offered a magnificent theatrical con¬
tract. This trite libretto, too absurd and complicated to be
effective either as satire or as humor, received a musical
treatment that too often lacked dramatic genuineness. Tab¬
loid realism is certainly unsuitable for the composition of
inspired music. Hindemith’s earnest attempt to treat the
plot flippantly in his music was, for the most part, futile.
His hand was too heavy for such absurdities; his music too
severe.
It was the inartistic theme of Neues vom Tage, as well
as such works as the Kammermusik no. 5, a concerto for
viola and orchestra (whose last movement appeared to be a
satire on a German military march), and such Gebrauchs-
musik as his manufactured pieces for pianola, radio, talking
screen and even ether-wave instrument, that aroused the
displeasure of the Kulturkammer of the Nazi government.
At about this time Hindemith visited Paris and London.
On January 22, 1936, he was scheduled to introduce his
latest work, Der Schwanendreher, a concerto for viola and
small orchestra, at a concert at Queen’s Hall under the
auspices of B.B.C. The death of King George V cancelled
the prospective concert. It was decided to substitute on
that date a special studio concert in memory of the King,
with Hindemith playing some appropriate music on his
viola. For three days, Hindemith searched musical litera¬
ture for some appropriate work for viola and orchestra, but
could And nothing. He decided, therefore, (since the con¬
cert was only two days off) to compose an original work for
the occasion. That morning he set to work upon Funeral
Music, a composition for viola and string orchestra. Late
that afternoon the work was completed. The following
day it was rehearsed. And the evening after that it was
given its first performance on a nationwide broadcast.
“Such a feat,” remarked the English critic, Walter Leigh,
“can rarely have been accomplished since Handel’s day in
the sphere of serious music. Only a composer with a com¬
plete mastery of technique and an exceptionally fertile in¬
vention could perform it successfully. It is the more
remarkable because the work bears no trace of speed, other
PAUL HINDEMITH 211
than its simplicity; and this very simplicity is one of its great
merits.”
In the spring of 1937, at an invitation of the Elizabeth
Sprague Coolidge Foundation, Paul Hindemith came to the
United States for the first time. He was forty-one years
old now, but—in the almost boyish expression of his round
face and the ingenuous quality of his eyes—he appeared
much younger, so much younger that it seemed difficult to
believe that for more than a decade already he has been a
dominant figure in the world of modern music. The regal
reception that Hindemith was accorded not only by the out¬
standing musical organizations of this country but by the
music public as well was an eloquent tribute to a great musi¬
cal figure—and an eloquent answer to the country, across
the ocean, that had ejected him because he was an “unwhole¬
some influence.”
ARNOLD SCHONBERG
XIII
ARNOLD SCHONBERG
1.
TJOR the past thirty years, Arnold Schonberg has been
■*- one of the most original and dynamic forces of modern
music. There may be arguments about the inherent great¬
ness of Schonberg’s music, but there can never be a doubt
about his far-reaching significance, as a personality, for the
music of our generation. As a teacher, he has inspired a
group of disciples whose work is leaving a definite impress
upon contemporary musical expression; a musician who
has guided and directly influenced a composer like Alban
Berg, creator of Wozzeck, cannot be hastily dismissed. As
a theorist, Schonberg has produced what is probably the
most coherent and penetrating analysis of modern musical
technique, the Harmonielehre. As a composer, he has
created music which may or may not have the deathlessness
of great art, but whose individuality and strength, sureness
of purpose and fearlessness have unmistakably affected the
character and style of modern music.
It was Arnold Schonberg—and not Igor Stravinsky—
who was the first in the advance-guard of modern com¬
posers. L’Oiseau de feu was composed in 1910, Pe¬
trushka in 1911 and Le Sucre du Printemps in 1913. But
as early as 1903, Schonberg had sketched and composed the
greater part of the Gurre-Lieder which contained in embryo
some of the revolutionary qualities of his later style. Even
in 1913 (when the Gurre-Lieder made its belated ap¬
pearance) this was considered music of an unparalleled
nature. “It is more advanced than any contemporary
German music,” wrote the astute Ernest Newman in that
215
year, “and yet it was written three years before the Sym-
phonia Domestica and six years before Salome. It is quite
evident that Schonberg’s style is quite native to him. It
could not have developed out of Strauss, say, for there is
simply nothing in Strauss out of which Schonberg’s rich har¬
monic language could have evolved.”
Schonberg’s original style has inspired many vicious at¬
tacks during two decades, and for a generous variety of
reasons. But none is more ridiculous than that which ac¬
cuses Schonberg of insincerity in the creation of his
music. There are those who believe that Schonberg ex¬
pressly adopted a distorted speech for the purpose of at¬
tracting comment, publicity and the limelight. In view of
the fact that Schonberg has known a lifetime of devastating
antagonism that would have smothered a spirit less strong
than his (and in view of the fact that to compose music in
an orthodox, romantic vein would have been for him the
path of least resistance—the shortest route to fame and
recognition had he desired them) it is absurd to question
Schonberg’s integrity. As a matter of fact, only an artist
sublimely convinced of the truth of the message and im¬
maculately honest could have followed his undeviating
direction in the face of the laughter and ridicule of virtually
an entire music-world during a period that spanned more
than twenty years.
Schonberg’s musical style, consisting of the most startling
harmonic combinations (drawn from a unique system which
he himself evolved—the “twelve-tone system”), the most
unexpected progressions and the most bewildering com¬
bination of tonalities, is based upon the almost religious
belief, more instinctive than intellectual, that music must
consist not only of beautiful sounds but of ugliness as well.
Schonberg’s world, therefore, is frequently a fantastic one,
full of “horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy.”
Schonberg’s music, however, is not the product of
theories and rationalizations. It is music which he feels
ARNOLD SCHONBERG 217
with intensity, and to which he must give expression

whether he wishes to or not. As he once said to me with
the utmost sincerity and simplicity: “Theories are no good
to a composer. If a composer doesn’t write from the heart,
he simply can’t produce good music. I have never had
theory in my life in composing my works. I get a musical
idea for a composition, I try to develop it into a certain
logical and beautiful conception, and I try to clothe it into
a type of music that exudes from me naturally and in¬
evitably. I don’t consciously create a tonal or polytonal
or polyplanal music. I write what I feel in my heart—and
what finally comes on paper is what first coursed through
every fibre of my body. It is for this reason that I cannot
tell anyone what the style of my next composition will be.
For its style will be whatever I feel when I develop and
elaborate my plans.”
Revolution for revolution’s sake does not interest Schon-
berg. More than once has he sharply reprimanded his
students for bringing in exercises which he knew were
written atonally only to cater to him. Schonberg has fre¬
quently urged his pupils to create romantic music in the
traditional style, if that is the music that is the natural
expression of the student. Good music, Schonberg repeats
endlessly to his pupils, comes naturally and spontaneously
from the composer. Schonberg has written in an unusual
style because that is the music he has felt. When he thinks
differently—and there are signs that he is beginning to do
so—he will not hesitate to change the character and per¬
sonality of his music completely.
2.
Arnold Schonberg was born in Vienna on September 13,
1874. His father, a Jewish merchant, died when Arnold
was sixteen years old, leaving the boy in a precarious
financial condition. By this time, Schonberg had already
acquired a good musical training and a strong taste for the

art. He had begun the study of the violin in the Real-
schule in his eighth year. A few years later, he began to
teach himself the elements of violoncello playing. Before
long, he attempted composition—creating several trios
and a string quartet for a group of schoolmates with whom
he was, at the time, playing chamber music regularly.
Shortly after his father’s death, Arnold Schonberg
showed one of his chamber works to an American who was
so impressed by this music that he arranged a meeting be¬
tween the young composer and a well-known theorist and
composer in Vienna, Alexander von Zemlinsky. To Zem-
linsky, Schonberg brought an entire bundle of original
works. There was latent such an original force in this im¬
mature outpouring of sound that Zemlinsky decided to take
Schonberg under his wing. From that time on, Zemlinsky
was not only Schonberg’s teacher, but his friend and coun¬
sellor as well. To assist him financially, Zemlinsky engaged
Schdnberg as violoncellist in the Polyhymnia orchestra, of
which he was at the time the conductor.
From then on, Schonberg moved in a strictly musical
environment, discussing music, breathing music and think¬
ing music. He frequently visited the Cafe Landtmann,
opposite the Burgtheatre, where he discussed with his
musical friends the latest assthetic theories. Wagnerism
was the topic-of-the-day in advanced musical circles in
Vienna, and from his friends Schonberg acquired a profound
veneration for Wagner in general and Tristan in particular.
Under such Wagnerian influence, Schonberg composed a
string-quartet in 1897. This was Schonberg’s first com¬
position to receive public performance, introduced the same
year by the Wiener Tonkiintsler Verein. The following
year, the string-quartet was given performance once again,
this time by the Pfitzner Quartet. Upon both occasions it
was well received because—cast in traditional mould—it
was warmly romantic and buoyantly youthful, full of emo¬
tional appeal.
Following the string-quartet, Schonberg produced a
series of songs which were featured at a concert by Pro¬
fessor Gartner, with Zemlinsky serving as the accompanist.
Slightly more original in treatment—particularly in the
polyphonic accompaniments—these songs created a mild
disturbance among the puzzled audience. Thus, for the
first time, Schonberg experienced the resentment of the
music-public. “From that time on,” Schonberg himself has
said, “the scandal has never ceased.”
The most important work of Schonberg’s formative
period came in 1899—the Verklarte Nacht, originally a
sextet, but later scored by Schonberg for string-orchestra,
the form in which it is best known. Verklarte Nacht, in¬
spired by a poem of Richard Dehmel—speaks of the
transfiguration of the world in the eyes of a lover, brought
about by his self-abnegation in forgiving his sweetheart for
her sin. In this work, strongly influenced by the Wagnerian
idiom, there is lucid, fluent contrapuntal writing in which
the exquisite mood of a sensuous night is caught in gossa¬
mer, delicate tone-colors. The mood of suspense and
drama, with which the very night seems pregnant, is
painted with suppleness. Its background is a scintillating
scenic painting. Verklarte Nacht remains Schonberg’s
most beautiful work.
During this period, Schonberg earned his living by con¬
ducting several groups of men’s choruses in the suburbs of
Vienna. One spring evening, Schonberg was celebrating
with one of his choral groups in a wine tavern. A whim
of the moment, inspired the group to make a nocturnal ex¬
cursion to a nearby mountain. The walk through the
woods, on a night of unusual beauty and tranquillity—cul¬
minating before the scene of the dawn rising from the
trees—inspired Schonberg with a portion of a new musical
work, the Gurre-Lieder. The Gurre-Lieder, however, con-
ceived along monumental lines of design, was a task re¬
quiring several years for completion.
In 1901, Arnold Schdnberg was married to the sister
of his teacher, inspirer and friend, Zemlinsky. Shortly
after the marriage, Schonberg came to Berlin to assume
the position of conductor of the Wolzogen Buntes Theatre,
a smart cabaret for the sophisticated. At this time, he
composed a short poem for orchestra, Pelleas and Meli-
sande, which was later to be performed in Germany and
Holland under his own baton.
The Gurre-Lieder, however, was Schonberg’s major cre¬
ative problem of the time. By 1901, he had sketched the
entire work and written down a great part of it. A
portion of the manuscript, Schonberg showed to Richard
Strauss, who was so strongly moved by the original
character of the music that he procured for Schonberg the
Liszt stipend, and a position as a teacher of composition at
the Stern Conservatory.
In July of 1903, Schonberg was back in Vienna, living in
the same house with Zemlinsky, and devoting himself to
the teaching of harmony and counterpoint. At this time,
Schonberg gathered about him a clique of students who
were to become his disciples and band into a school of
modern composition which glorified Schonberg’s style of
creation and accepted as its truth his aesthetic principles.
To these pupils—including Alban Berg, Erwin Stein, Anton
Webern, Heinrich Jalowetz and Egon Wellesz—Schon¬
berg was more than a mere instructor in harmony. He in¬
fluenced their thinking, their philosophy of life, their cosmic
viewpoint. As one of his students, Anton Webern, once
remarked: “Schonberg instructs his pupils in every branch
of humanity. He is their master, in the highest sense of the
word. He develops their personality to the point of self-
expression.”
At this time, too, Schonberg met and became a friend of
Gustav Mahler, the great conductor and composer. Mah-
ler, in his contacts with Schonberg, electrified and inspired

the younger musician. What Mahler meant to Schon¬
berg—not only as a composer, but as an example of
idealism, integrity and moral fortitude—might be guessed
by the dedication of the Harmonielelire, which appeared
eight years later. “This book is dedicated to Gustav
Mahler. It was hoped that the dedication might give him
a small measure of pleasure while he was still living. . . .
Gustav Mahler has had to forego far greater joys than that
which this dedication might have given him. This martyr,
this saint had to leave the earth before he had brought his
work to such a point of perfection that he could bequeath
it to his friends in all tranquillity. I should have contented
myself with offering him this satisfaction. But now that he
is dead, it is my wish that my book may bring me this es¬
teem, that none may gainsay me when I say: ‘Truly, he
was a great man!’ ”
The influence that Gustav Mahler exerted on behalf of
Schonberg resulted in the performance of several of Schon-
berg’s works. The Rose String Quartet featured the
Verklarte Nacht, the Quartet in D-minor and, the latest
of Schonberg’s music up to the time, the Kammersymphonie.
These works were too startling in idiom to be accepted
complacently by the audiences. Whistling, hissing, bang¬
ing of seats marked these performances. Catcalls mingled
with laughter of derision until, at certain moments, it was
impossible to hear the music. At a later performance of a
Schonberg work (the Quartet in F-sharp minor, also fea¬
tured by the Rose String Quartet) there was pandemonium.
This heartbreaking reception did not discourage Schon¬
berg, nor tempt him to question his direction. On the
contrary, he went forward with greater boldness and self-
assurance. The Kammersymphonie—which Lawrence Gil¬
man has picturesquely described as a “two-faced mirror”
which, in facing backwards, reflected Schonberg’s one-time
romanticism, but, in facing forwards, reflected Schon-
berg’s experimentalism—was the first definite warning of
the direction in which Schonberg’s style was heading. In
it he permanently discarded his former pellucid contra¬
puntal writing, substituting for it a melodic line as sharp
and as decisive as a lash of a whip, and a harmonic lan¬
guage, pungent and electric. There followed a series of
works, produced between 1909 and 1912, in which Schon¬
berg’s revolutionary style reached final development: the
Five Pieces for Orchestra, the Six Pieces for the Piano, the
song-cycle, Pierrot Lunaire, and two works for the stage,
Erwartung and Die Gliickliche Hand.
Vienna being too hostile to his art, Schonberg decided
upon a change of scene. He came to Berlin in 1911, ac¬
cepting the posts of instructor of composition at the
Akademie fur Kunst and lecturer on aesthetics at the Stern
Conservatory. It was in Berlin that Schdnberg finally
brought the Gurre-Lieder to completion—after thirteen
years. The plan of the Gurre-Lieder was so gargantuan,
requiring such an oversized orchestra that—in scoring it—
Schonberg was forced to order special printed music-paper
utilizing twice the usual number of staves.
The Gurre-Lieder was first performed in Vienna on
February 23, 1913, by the Philharmonic Choir conducted
by Franz Schreker. The performance was—mirabile
dictu 1—an enormous success. The cordial and sympathetic
reception that this work received was not difficult to ex¬
plain. True, even in 1913, the Gurre-Lieder was in many
respects ahead of its time. There are harmonic com¬
binations in the Gurre-Lieder which are the definite ex¬
pressions of a fully liberated composer; there are tonal
arrangements which—created as they were in 1903—her¬
alded the approach of the later Schonberg. However, in
comparison with the fully emancipated style of the Five
Pieces for Orchestra and the Pierrot Lunaire, the Gurre-
Lieder seemed more Wagner than Schonberg—intensely
melodic, richly harmonic and frequently emotional, despite
Joseph Muller Collection
ARNOLD SCHONBERG
its occasional lapse into experimentation. After the
parched expression of Schonberg’s later works, the Gurre-
Lieder appeared to the Viennese music-public uniquely
pleasing and refreshing.
3.
That Schonberg’s victory as a composer was by no means
established with the success of the Gurre-Lieder was con¬
vincingly proved only one month later. On March 31,
1913, Schonberg arranged a concert of modern Austrian
music, under the sponsorship of the Academic Society for
Literature and Music in Vienna—a program including his
own Kammersymphonie, a chamber work by Anton
Webern, orchestral songs by Zemlinsky and Alban Berg, and
the Kindertotenlieder by Gustav Mahler. Once again,
noise, hissing, pronounced jeers disturbed the performance.
At length, Schonberg made a request, through the Super¬
intendent of the Academic Society, that at least the songs of
Mahler be received in the “fitting quiet and respect due to
the composer.” This was the spark necessary to ignite
dynamite. Fist fights ensued in the audience; finally a riot.
The reverberations of this concert were later felt in the
law-courts of Berlin, where one of the audience had brought
suit against another for assault. At that time, a witness
explained that he had laughed himself sick during the con¬
cert because the music was funny, and he always laughed at
funny things. Another witness—a prominent physician—
testified that the music performed had been so nerve-rack¬
ing that many who had been present at the concert were
already disclosing signs of neurosis attacks!
The War brought Schonberg’s creative production to an
end. From December, 1915, to September, 1916, and from
July to October of 1917 he was engaged in military serv¬
ice. During these tragic years, musical composition was,
of course, impossible.
When the War ended, Schonberg returned to his native
city, Vienna, establishing his home in Modling. He re¬
established contact with his most important pupils, and
once again was their personal guide and inspirer. One of
Schonberg’s most important achievements was the creation
of the Verein fur Musikalische Privatauifiihrungen, which
for many years was responsible for first performances of
the outstanding new music of young composers. One of the
interesting features of these concerts of new music was the
performance of works without the program revealing who
their composers were, so that audience and critics might
not be prejudiced for or against the work before hearing it.
The “scandals” attending performances of Schonberg’s
music had by no means relented—even though Schonberg
had, by this time, achieved a world-wide reputation, and
even though post-War Europe had accustomed its ears to
musical audacities. In 1922, a performance of the Five
Pieces for Orchestra in Paris was smothered by the
stamping of feet. Six years later, Wilhelm Furtwangler
introduced a new Schonberg work with the Berlin Phil¬
harmonic—the Variations, for orchestra—to the accom¬
paniment of audible denunciations of the audience. And
when this very same work was performed for the first
time in America shortly afterwards, by Leopold Stokowski
and the Philadelphia Orchestra, the usually placid and
docile American music-public expressed its heated indig¬
nation in no uncertain response.
In the face of this life-long antagonism for Schonberg’s
music, the question of its artistic importance rises in¬
evitably.
In his music, Schonberg has been fascinated by ugly
sounds, barbaric cries and yawps. Brutal vigor is here
made boldly manifest. Here, as James Gibbons Huneker
wrote many years ago, we have the “very ecstasy of the
hideous—for pain can be, at once, exquisite and horrible.”
In this music, Schonberg is often the cerebral mathematician
of music. Overdressed orchestrations have begun to repel
him; sentimentality and emotion have grown cloying. He
strove to denude music of all superficiality, of all extra¬
neous material, of all unnecessary appendages of sound,
and present his message succinctly and lucidly. And into
this task Schonberg hurled himself with the devotion of a
prophet. The music that followed the Gurre-Lieder is,
for the most part, barren, parched, withered of all emotion.
Brevity is the soul of its wit. Furthermore, his orches¬
tration is threadbare; it consists only of those instruments
which are absolutely essential to the message. Schonberg
felt that he must pierce to the very heart of his music; he
must write strictly to the point, without any circumlocutions;
he felt that he must reveal his message in its baldest guise.
And that is precisely what he accomplished in all of his
later works.
Unmistakably, Schonberg’s revolution has opened a
limitless field for music. Music has acquired more plas¬
ticity, its boundaries have been extended indefinitely. New
poignant effects, new qualities of tone, new meanings seem
to have been added. These are some of the fruits of the
revolt; the weeds are just as numerous. With Schonberg,
music has become naked and ugly. It has become as in¬
tellectual as a syllogism or a mathematical formula. Schon¬
berg’s music, therefore, may be important in that it has
opened new vistas for musical expression; it is never, how¬
ever, great music in itself. It lacks emotion, depth, and,
above everything else, human experience. We derive a
certain kinaesthetic pleasure from the sting and bite of his
harmonies and atonality. We are at times intoxicated by
his masculine vigor, his healthy vitality, and his unique
originality. But his music never inspires us nor carries us
into other spheres, as all immortal music does. And it is
only momentarily impressive; its influence deserts us as soon
as we stop listening to it. It never haunts us or becomes a
part of us.
I am, therefore, confident that Schonberg’s music will

eventually go the way of all flesh. But his importance as
a musical personality should make musical history. His
name will live longer than his music.
4.
In 1934, Austria celebrated the sixtieth birthday of Ar¬

nold Schonberg. A volume of adulatory essays was the
gesture of honor extended by his many disciples to their
beloved master.1 Moreover, several of Schonberg’s works
were performed, and—in respect to his world prestige—
were received with courteous appreciation.
This reception came at a time when Schonberg’s career
had reached a completely new phase. For one thing, he
had permanently changed his home. The rise of Fascism
in Europe generally, and in Germany in particular, was a
severe blow to him. As an escape, he expatriated himself,
crossed the Atlantic in the winter of 1933, and settled in
America. For six months, he was on the faculty of the
Malkin School of Music in Boston and New York. One
year later, an appointment as professor of music to the
University of Southern California, brought him to the
western coast where he established his home.
During the first few years in America, Schonberg has
brought to completion several new works—a Concerto for
String Quartet and Orchestra, based upon a Handel con¬
certo grosso, a concerto for violoncello and orchestra, a
suite for string orchestra, a chamber symphony and an
opera on a Biblical subject, Moses and Aaron—which sug¬
gest that Schonberg’s musical style has undergone a radical
departure. Grating atonality is no longer his natural ex¬
pression. Instead, he is producing music more in the style
of the neo-classicism of Stravinsky’s latest period—refine-
1 Arnold Schonberg zum 60 Geburtstag (essays by Anton Webern, Jalo-
wetz, Broch, etc.).
meat instead of babarity, classical forms replacing complete
emancipation. For this change, Schonberg has olfered only
one explanation: “I always write music the way I feel it.
My ideas recently required a different idiom, that is all.
I did not consciously change my style. Some time in the
future, other musical ideas of mine will be best expressed
in the idiom of Pierrot Lunaire. If so, I will write it that
way.” 2
It is difficult to bear in mind, in meeting Schonberg, that
he has been one of the most advanced rebels of present-day
music. Short of stature, and slight of build, he gives the
impression of excessive timidity. And excessive gentleness.
His face possesses an expression that combines ingenuous¬
ness and sensitiveness. It is a face full of warmth and
kindness; the lines are refined; the eyes are affectionate;
the lips, soft. Everything about him is suggestive of soft¬
ness. His voice has almost the quality of a flute. His
hand, when you shake it, is limp. His temper is generally
equable. Rarely has a man’s personality and his art been
so strikingly at polar points!
During the first few moments with Schonberg, one finds
little about him impressive. He is a small man, highly
strung and nervous, with little dignity or solemnity. It is
only after a prolonged conversation with him that his true
stature becomes apparent. His sincerity, idealism and
faith in his art are reflected in everything he says; his
enormous intellectual range as well. His mind is clear
and analytical. His ideas are expressed succinctly and
clearly; he soon discloses the fact that he detests confused
thinking and is impatient with aimless verbiage. More¬
over, he has a cultural background that extends far beyond
the realm of music. He is not only a great musician and
a profound theorist, but he is also a poet, metaphysician
and mathematician. He even paints—well enough to have
given several exhibitions of his canvases in Berlin and
2 In an interview with the author.
Vienna which have encouraged the enthusiastic comments

of the critics.
His conversation reveals knowledge of many things, and
a profound knowledge of some. However, it should not
be assumed that he is either pompously pedantic or affected.
He is too much a man of utter simplicity to make a meretri¬
cious display of his learning. He is just as likely to talk
to you about a recent game of tennis or ping-pong (in both
of which he indulges enthusiastically) or to tell you about
his favorite hobby, bookbinding, as he is to discuss
aesthetic theories or indulge in abstruse subjects.
He has one pronounced musical preference—Johann
Sebastian Bach, a few of whose organ works he has ar¬
ranged for the modern symphony orchestra. He has
never—tactfully enough !—expressed publicly his opinions
on modern composers, although it is known that some of
them are devastatingly iconoclastic. Where his own music
is concerned, there is very little attempt on his part at false
modesty. He believes implicitly in his importance as a
creator. However, he rarely attends a performance of his
own works—conditioned, no doubt, by the hostile reception
his works received over a period of many years. As a re¬
sult, there are still many of his works which he has never
heard at a public concert.
FRANCESCO MALIPIERO
XIV
FRANCESCO MALIPIERO
1.
TN THE little Italian hill-town of Asolo, two hours’ dis-
tance by automobile from Venice, Francesco Malipiero
has his permanent home. Asolo is a curiously appropriate
setting for a composer like Malipiero whose artistic roots
reach back several centuries. It is several centuries old,
revealing its age in every corner and cobblestone. The
center of the town is almost of thumbnail size. Here are
an old hunching inn, seeming to stoop under the weight
of its own age, and a church whose face is marred and
scratched by the winds and rains of four centuries. In the
distance looms a historic ruin. The various homes of the
Asolo inhabitants—probably no more than a handful in
number—are sprinkled at formidable distances from each
other along tortuous roads that twist and wind like veins
from out the public square.
My first impression upon arriving in Asolo was that any
composer selecting so secluded a niche for his home must
by temperament be a recluse. Yet this is far from the
truth. Malipiero is not a misanthrope who must seek soli¬
tary confinement. As a matter of fact, he is uniquely warm¬
hearted and gregarious, and the society of pupils and
friends means much to him. One of his greatest delights
comes on Sundays when his home becomes alive with visi¬
tors; pleasant social palaver over teacups finds him an en¬
thusiastic participant in the musical discussions that take
place in his study. The solitude of Asolo, however, is in¬
dispensable to an artist who wishes to work as industriously
as Malipiero does. Once each week he goes to Venice to
231
enjoy the society of friends, crowds and metropolitan life;

occasionally, he interrupts the routine of his work days to
make special trips to European capitals. But except for
these intermissions, he works continuously and richly—and
because distractions in Asolo are few and far between.
The Malipiero villa is surrounded by an impregnable
wall—very much as a monastery might be—and it stands in
bleak isolation from the rest of the town. It is in many
respects a home of incomparable tone, whose spirit and
atmosphere bespeak the warm, genial and witty personality
of its owner.
Over the doorway of the villa is inscribed the following
quotation from the Latin: “To the obscene all things are
obscene.” I learned from Malipiero that some time back
he had composed an opera to a text by D’Annunzio which
was removed from the stage because of its immoral theme.
This made Malipiero an object for suspicion and disdain
among his townspeople. Attack is always the best defense,
as Malipiero realized. Before his townspeople could ex¬
press their indignation in so many consecutive thoughts,
Malipiero placed the quotation above his doorway. “After
that,” Malipiero said with a broad grin on his face, “my
townspeople were a little ashamed to condemn me.”
I had not been more than a few minutes in Asolo when
I was given further examples of Malipiero’s unorthodoxy.
Upon ringing his doorbell, the bell rang sharply and pro-
longedly as though the button of the bell had slipped and
established a permanent contact. Nor did the bell stop
ringing until the maid opened the door for me. Malipiero
chuckled warmly when he saw my embarrassment in the
face of this prolonged and obstreperous ringing. “I assure
you that the fault is not yours,” he explained hurriedly.
“I had the bell constructed that way purposely so that if
anyone rings it continues to sound until the maid opens the
door. I’ll tell you why. Frequently, a timid admirer comes
to visit me—making the unpleasant trip from Venice ex-
FRANCESCO MALIPIERO 233
pressly for that purpose. If the maid delays in answering

him, he becomes so terrified while waiting that he runs
away. The loud ringing of the doorbell, on the other
hand, so startles him that he remains rooted to the ground
until the maid opens the door for him.”
Inside the villa, the first disconcerting thing to strike the
eye is a prominent sign on the wall: “Do not trust your
host. You can never be quite sure who he really is.” And
then, before you have had the opportunity to recover from
the shock of this warning, you stumble grotesquely on a
false step which has been painted on the foot of the stair¬
way with such skill that it is truly deceptive. Asked for
the reason for this false step, Malipiero answered (and it
was impossible not to detect the malicious sparkle in his
eyes) : “Sometimes people come to visit me who are half-
sleepy and arrive at my studio with deadened intellects.
If so, by stumbling over that false step they suddenly be¬
come fully awakened and can come into my studio clear¬
headed and alert.”
The above remarks and incidents gave me a clue to
Malipiero’s innocently malicious sense of humor. I was
soon to learn that combined with this love of wit was a
generosity, an affectionate nature, a tender heart and a
softness that is almost effeminate—qualities which make
Malipiero one of the most lovable men I have ever met.
His qualities as a human-being are suggested, to a great
degree, by his appearance. He is not a handsome man,
but he has a regal bearing, and an expressive and sensitive
face. The slopes of his cheeks are soft, and his eyes are
the gentlest I have ever seen. His voice is, as one might
expect, thin and pleasant; his gestures, which are frequent,
invariably express affection. He exudes a charm that
spreads an atmosphere of warm pleasantness about him,
making those near him feel close to him even after a cursory
acquaintance. He is a born host, gracious, well-poised and
solicitous.
When he took me by the arm and conducted me about

his garden, he stopped at a favorite flower to stroke it
affectionately as though it were human. He stepped for
a moment into the barn to introduce me to his goat, pat¬
ting it with infinite tenderness and speaking to it as though
it could understand him. When he accidentally stumbled
across his dog in the garden, he tipped his hat (in all seri¬
ousness!) and apologized.
An anecdote about Malipiero is particularly illuminating
in illustrating his love for living things. It occurred to
him that it might be wise to raise chickens and have them
fresh from his own garden for his Sunday dinner. Mali¬
piero bought a dozen or more chickens, built a coop and
began to raise them himself. In a few days, however, he
became so warmly attached to the chickens that not only
did he firmly refuse to slaughter any one of them for his
Sunday dinner but when one of them fell seriously ill he
frantically called a physician from Venice to care for it.
It has been said that, ever since Malipiero acquired his
coop of chickens, fowl on his Sunday dinner-table has been
noticeably infrequent!
In everything he says or does are his nobility of character
and generosity of heart apparent. We were, for example,
discussing the younger Italian composers. Where he could
praise, his enthusiasm was lavish. Where, however, hon¬
esty demanded blame, he discreetly refused to voice his
opinion. Harsh words were a definite effort for him.
Likewise he is altogether incapable of envy. Time and
again, in our talks, he figuratively bared his head in respect
to some imposing achievement of a modern composer. He
admires Stravinsky profoundly; Ravel and Prokofieff, too.
His enthusiasm for his fellow-musicians is always genuine
and sincere. There is the case of his relationship with Tos¬
canini, for example. Since 1918—the result of a petty and
a disagreeable quarrel between Toscanini and Malipiero—
the maestro has stubbornly refused to conduct a work by
the composer. Many another composer would, with justi¬
fication, feel considerable resentment towards Toscanini.
But Malipiero worships Toscanini’s art, considers him the
greatest interpretative artist of our age and has no hesita¬
tion in expressing this opinion. As a matter of fact, when¬
ever Malipiero is in the north of Italy he always pays a
cordial visit to Toscanini’s villa in Lake Maggiore to in¬
quire after the health of the conductor and to exchange
conversation.
The relationship between Malipiero and his pupils is
likewise characteristic of a teacher who is also a great
human-being. Malipiero is not only their teacher but
father and friend as well. He nurses them with the fastidi¬
ous watch of a hen guarding her brood. Shortly after my
visit to Asolo, I had an appointment with Malipiero at the
Liceo Benedetto Marcello in Venice (where he has a special
class in composition once each week). Leaving the Liceo,
Malipiero was surrounded by his pupils, one of whom he
held by the arm, while affectionately embracing another.
Between teacher and pupil there was warmth of feeling
and affection which was very apparent as they strolled
down the streets of Venice, talking at the top of their voices,
laughing unrestrainedly at frequent intervals. Passing a
cafe, Malipiero herded his pupils into it and urged them
to drink milk with him.
At another time, I met Malipiero in Venice when he
begged me to wait for him a half-hour because, at that
moment, he was terribly occupied. “You see,” he ex¬
plained, “one of my pupils is leaving for Brussels to study
conducting. I am buying his train ticket for him, getting
his traveler checks and arranging everything so that his
trip might be made easier.” Incidentally, at that very mo¬
ment, Malipiero was even holding packages belonging to
his pupil!
The most important musical influence upon Malipiero
has, of course, been early Italian music. He has made ex-
tensive and valuable research into old Italian music, and
has edited the works of such Italian masters as Monteverdi,
Cavalli, Cavaliere, Scarlatti, Galuppi, Jomelli, Marcello
and Tartini. These Italian masters, who are Malipiero’s
favorite composers, have nurtured his spirit and have most
strongly affected his artistic direction and musical style.
Malipiero likewise possesses an enormous knowledge of
painting and a fabulous acquaintanceship with Italian
poetry. Frequently, the cadences and strophes of old
Italian lyrics definitely give shape to the contours of his
melodic line.
2.
The music of Malipiero can best be understood when his
great preoccupation with old Italian music, poetry and
painting is recalled. He is not an Italian composer if by
the term we bear in mind only the singableness of Puccini,
Verdi and Rossini. He is more dramatic than lyrical. He
is also, frequently, more contrapuntal than homophonic—
his contrapuntal writing deriving its personality from the
Gregorian chant.
Essentially, Malipiero’s Italianism is much subtler and
truer than that of Puccini or Rossini. It is the pure classi¬
cal spirit of the Renaissance, drenched with the colors,
movement and spiritual intensity of Renaissance art. His
music is, like all Italian music, permeated with lyricism; but
it is a lyricism that has its own quality and flavor. Mal¬
ipiero prefers a crisp melodic line of a swiftly moving pace
which derives its dramatic character from the recitatives of
Cavalli and Cavaliere. On the other hand, he prefers a
recitative made more flexible by the freer use of melody.
Thus there is frequently very slight difference between his
recitatives and his melodies.
Malipiero’s music is essentially a dramatic expression—
even when he abandons the opera for symphonic and cham-
ber music. Frequently, it has the gleam of a mischievous
wit and irony strongly reminiscent of the Italian opera-
bouffe of a previous century. Occasionally, it assumes a
philosophic pensiveness, a contemplative and introspective
serenity. I am inclined to think that Malipiero’s music is
at its best and most imaginative when it avoids nervousness
and agitation, wit and malice, and assumes the spiritual
tranquillity of the Renaissance paintings. This classical
Renaissance tranquillity and spirituality, which Malipiero
has couched in forms of musical writing that are essentially
modern in technique is, I believe, his most personal speech,
and the one by which he can most clearly be identified.
3.
Gian Francesco Malipiero is descended from an old

Venetian family which, in an earlier age, included many
important dignitaries of state and later numbered some
prominent musicians. His grandfather was a well-known
composer of popular operas, a rival of Giuseppe Verdi.
His father was a distinguished pianist who subjected his
children to a rigorous musical training. As a result, not
only Francesco, but two other sons as well, became pro¬
fessional musicians.
Francesco Malipiero was born in Venice on March 18,
1882. He was born to a profoundly musical environment,
and began the study of the violin in his sixth year. It is
said that as a child he revealed greater enthusiasm for
painting, even expressing the wish at one time that he
aspired to become an artist rather than a musician. His
father, however, was insistent upon a musical career. Young
Francesco devoted himself to his music-study with an
assiduity that brought with it rapid progress.
When Malipiero was eleven years old, a family catas¬
trophe—which Malipiero has always been reluctant to
disclose—compelled the father to exile himself, his mother
and his oldest son, Francesco. For seven years, theirs was
a nomadic life, during which time the boy acquired a unique
attachment for his grandmother. During this time, both
father and son earned their living by playing in various
small orchestras. After a period in Germany, the Mali-
pieros came to Vienna where, in 1896, an affluent Polish
nobleman became so convinced of Francesco’s musical gifts
that he offered to finance his musical education. In this
way, Malipiero began his first systematic study in musical
theory at the Vienna Conservatory, principally under
Professor Stocker.
After a year in Vienna—a year fraught with discontent
and unhappiness brought on partially by poverty and
partially by the death of his beloved grandmother—Fran¬
cesco Malipiero returned to Venice, where he became a
pupil of Marco Enrico Bossi. A bond of friendship
developed between teacher and pupil. When, therefore,
Bossi was appointed director of the Liceo Musicale in
Bologna, Malipiero accompanied him. It was there that
Malipiero’s first orchestral work, Dai Sepolcri, was per¬
formed with considerable success.
In 1902, two important influences changed the course of
Malipiero’s artistic life. In that year, he heard Wagner’s
Die Meistersinger, and for the first time realized that there
existed an operatic world far different from that of the
Italian composers. Of even greater importance, however,
was Malipiero’s discovery in a library of a series of manu¬
scripts of musical works by old Italian composers. In this
music he found such a spiritual affinity that he plunged
deeper and deeper into its study. Eventually, he became
one of the foremost authorities on old Italian music.
Eventually, too, his own musical creation was subtly but
unmistakably shaped and formed by the style of the old
Italian masters.
In 1910, Malipiero married the daughter of a famous
Venetian painter. For the next three years, he lived in
FRANCESCO MALIPIERO
comparative retirement, absorbed with the study of old
Italian music and poetry. There was some composition too
—principally such orchestral works as Sinfonia degli Eroi
and Sinfonia del mare; but with all of these early works
Malipiero was stiflingly dissatisfied. Instinctively, he knew
that he was failing io achieve that happy fusion of the old
style and the new which he intuitively sought. He was
irritated by the stiltedness of his thoughts, by the lack of
fluidity of his musical expression. He arrived at the con¬
clusion that his technique was at fault—which, to be
remedied, required an intimate contact with the style of the
modern composers. The only modern music that Malipiero
knew at the time consisted of Debussy’s L’Apres midi d’un
faune (which he admired profoundly) and some of Strauss’
tone-poems. Sensing that there existed an important world
of music of which he was completely unfamiliar, and realiz¬
ing that familiarity with this music was indispensable if he
was to achieve full artistic development, Malipiero left
Venice for Paris in 1913.
In Paris, his fellow countryman, Alfredo Casella, opened
for him all musical doors. Malipiero mingled with such
composers as Debussy, Faure, Ravel and Stravinsky; he
heard their music and analytically studied their forms and
technique. He was in the celebrated audience that heard
the first performance of Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps
—a shattering experience for him because it disclosed how
expansive the world of modern musical expression could be.
This intimacy with modern music gave Malipiero a new
mastery of form, a greater plasticity of style, and more
technical adroitness—and it inspired him to indulge in a
new burst of creation.
One day, in Paris, Malipiero read an announcement in
the newspapers that a national competition was being con¬
ducted in Italy for original musical works. Without think¬
ing of possible consequences, Malipiero submitted five works
under five different names. To his confusion and embar-
rassment, he learned from the papers that four out of the
five awards were conferred upon his works. The discovery
in Italy that one and the same composer had, by utilizing
different names, confiscated the first four prizes aroused
such bitter resentment that the newspapers combined to
attack Malipiero. It was a difficult situation which required
much tactful explanation. Malipiero rushed to Rome to
explain that he had not attempted anything fradulent in
submitting five works. But his explanation hardly failed
to placate his opponents. When, therefore, one of his
prize-winning compositions, Arione, was performed at the
Augusteum on December 21, 1913, it was received with a
carefully planned hostility; hissing, stamping of feet,
raucous shouts disturbed the progress of the music. An
even more bitter reception awaited the performance of his
opera Canossa at the Costanzi Theatre in Rome on January
24, 1914—a reception so bitter that Malipiero begged the
authorities to remove the opera from the repertoire after
the first performance.
These unpleasant contacts with audiences hardened Mali¬
piero to public opinion. He returned to Venice where—in
the town of Asolo—he once again secluded himself from
people, composing fecundly, but making very little effort
to have his works performed. During this time Malipiero
composed what is frequently considered the first of his
masterpieces, the second series of the Impressioni dal Vero,
for orchestra, a set of sensitive tone impressions of Nature.
Then the first cannon of the World War disrupted Mali-
piero’s peaceful creative life.
These cannon completely shattered Malipiero’s peace of
mind and spirit. How strongly the War affected him can
best be judged by the fact that, for more than two years,
he—who could be so prolific—could not write a line of
music. The creation of art seemed to him a pusillanimous
gesture in a time when madness and wholesale butchery pre¬
vailed. The only escape from this horrible reality of blood-
shed, Malipiero found by burying himself in the scores of
old Italian music, whose tranquillity and repose were like
soothing balm to his blistering spirits. It was at this time
that he edited many works of Monteverdi, Galuppi, Tar-
tini and others, and resuscitated such significant examples of
early Italian dramatic music as Luigi Rossi’s Orfeo and
Cavaliere’s La Rappresentazione di anima e di corpo.
Finally, even such labors became impossible when the
War came to Malipiero’s very door. In October of 1917,
Asolo was invaded by the Second Army which was in flight
before the approaching enemy. With the threat of War
under his window, Malipiero and his wife decided to flee.
Taking with them only a few precious manuscripts, they
made what was at that time an arduous trip to Venice. It
took them two days, most of the journey being done on foot.
Everywhere, Malipiero saw the dead and the dying, pools
of blood, destruction and devastation. The sights turned
his stomach and wrenched his heart. When, finally, he
made the trip from Venice to Rome, his friends—terrified
by his ghastly appearance and by the incoherence of his
raving—seriously feared that he was losing his mind.
Returning to composition, at last, Malipiero inevitably
expressed his sentiments about War. He put to paper one
of the most neurotic conceptions in music, a ballet Pantea,
“the struggle of a soul hurling itself into the strife for
liberty only to find, after a thousand sufferings, Death and
Oblivion.” A year previously he had composed one of his
most moving pieces of orchestral music, the Pause del
Silenzio.
A personal rift between Toscanini and Malipiero has
kept Toscanini, despite his partiality for modern Italian
music, from conducting anything by Malipiero. There are
two or three versions for this quarrel, which need not be
detailed here. Eventually, friendship between the two was
renewed. But, though Malipiero was a frequent guest at
the home of the Toscaninis and even though Toscanini from
time to time has expressed enthusiasm for Malipiero’s

works, the maestro—with his characteristically sublime
stubbornness—has refused to perform any of Malipiero’s
music.
Following the War, Malipiero returned to his retreat in
Asolo. For the next decade and a half, his life was not par¬
ticularly eventful in dramatic incidents. But it was rich in
production of musical works and in their performances
throughout Europe. A series of important works placed
him at the head of living Italian composers and among the
most fruitful musical voices of our time. These works
included the operas L’Orfeide, Torneo Notturno and Tre
Commedie Goldoniane; the Sette Canzoni (a series of
exquisitely beautiful lyrics from the fourteenth, fifteenth
and sixteenth century which Malipiero set to music and
gave a scenic adaptation); the cantata, San Francesco
d’Assisi, for solo baritone, chorus and orchestra—one of
Malipiero’s most tender conceptions; the charming orches¬
tral suite of Cimarosa melodies, La Cimarosiana, and the
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra and Concerto for Piano
and Orchestra. In 1920, Malipiero achieved fame in the
United States when his best known chamber work, the
Rispetti e Stramhotti, for string-quartet, won the Elizabeth
Sprague Coolidge prize of $1,000 for the best chamber
work submitted in the annual competition.
In the midst of this prolific creation, Malipiero’s life was
one of serenity and seclusion, which not even the political
upheaval could disturb. Malipiero, who has never been
politically minded, became even less so with the rise of
Fascism in Italy. The Fascist government—as part of its
cultural program—accepted him as one of the great living
composers, giving him full freedom to pursue his creative
career without disturbance and giving frequent perform¬
ances to his works. The Sette Canzoni was magnificently
performed in Turin in 1926; the oratorio, La Cena, was
one of the outstanding musical events in Italy in 1933. And
in April of 1934, Malipiero’s Symphony, Like the Four
Seasons was featured prominently at the festival of modern
music in Florence.
Thus—removed from the political maelstrom by his
secluded life in Asolo—Malipiero’s life was one of intense
creative activity. Occasional interruptions from his work
came when, from time to time during these years, he
traveled to England, France, and Germany to attend im¬
portant performances of his works. But most of the time
in Asolo, composing, editing, writing and studying. During
this period, Malipiero married a second time—an English
woman of considerable cultural background, charm and
sweetness of personality.
Once—in March of 1934—Malipiero came into direct
conflict with the Fascist officials. At that time, his new
opera, La Favola del Figlio Cambiato—which had had a
successful first performance in Brunswick, Germany, the
previous January—was introduced in Italy. The opera,
based upon a play of Pirandello, received a stormy recep¬
tion. There were some to denounce it on moral grounds:
some of the characters in the play were prostitutes. The
Vatican and Fascist officials, however, made a more grievous
charge: they found in the theme a subtle satire against
royalty and Authority. At the first performance, there
was so much hostility on the part of the audience that
Malipiero was compelled to flee from the theatre to escape
physical maltreatment. The following day, it was publicly
announced that Mussolini banned the opera from all future
performances on “moral and political grounds.”
Malipiero’s reinstatement in the favor of the Fascist
officials, however, was not slow in coming. His ensuing
works—probably consciously planned to placate the in¬
furiated authorities—were an oratorio, La Passione, a
sequel to the successful La Cena, setting a sixteenth century
mystery play to music, and an opera, Julius Ccesar. Both
works succeeded in restoring their composer to the high
esteem of the government. Particularly Julius Ccesar,
which in its attempt to speak the grandeur and magnificence
that was Rome and in its favorable delineation of Caesar
as a Latin hero, struck a responsive chord with Mussolini.
Julius Ccesar, with the blessing of the government on its
brow, was introduced in Italy in 1936 with great success—a
success which it failed to duplicate when it was introduced
in America by the Schola Cantorum of New York, Hugh
Ross conducting, on January 13, 1937.
ROY HARRIS
ROY HARRIS
XV
ROY HARRIS
1.
/^"XVER the horizon of modern American music the name

of Roy Harris has soared like a meteor. In 1931, he
was virtually unknown even to many of those who keep
close watch of the musical skies. Yet within a few years his
became—without being guilty of overemphasis—the most
important name in contemporary American music. His
works have been performed by such outstanding American
symphony orchestras as the New York Philharmonic, the
Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, Portland, Washington,
Minneapolis and Los Angeles orchestras. On February 28,
1936, for example, almost within the same hour, both the
Boston Symphony and the Philadelphia Symphony orches¬
tras featured the premieres of Roy Harris’ works—the
former with the Second Symphony, and the latter with
the Farewell to Pioneers. Most of his major works are
recorded by the Columbia and Victor phonograph companies
(an amazing fact when one realizes that there are talented
composers not only in America but in Europe as well who
do not even boast of a single major work on phonograph
records!). Commissions from leading musical organiza¬
tions, as well as from the recording companies, to compose
new works to be featured by them, descend upon his head
like blessed manna. Finally, when in 1935 the New York
Philharmonic Symphony Society conducted a nation-wide
poll among its radio listeners for an all-request program,
the name of Roy Harris appeared first among the American
composers—just a few votes less than Cesar Franck.
The wonder of it is that Roy Harris’ music has none of
247
that contagious appeal which ignites the enthusiasm of a
wide music public with seductive melodic phrases or impres¬
sionable rhythms as, for example, Ravel’s Bolero or Gersh¬
win’s Rhapsody in Blue. It is highly intellectual music,
elaborately complicated, which requires a long intimacy to
be appreciated. Roy Harris’ melodies are not such as to
tempt you to whistle them after a first hearing; they are
intricately carved, and grow and expand through many bars
before they stop to catch breath. The subtlety of his design
is not visible immediately, and becomes apparent only after
careful analysis. Harris’ music consists of elaborately con¬
cocted harmonic schemes and often complex polytonal
counterpoint. His music is far more the product of an
analytical brain than a sensitive emotional heart. It is,
therefore, strange to find him the composer of the hour.
But the composer of the hour he has undoubtedly become.
He is not only the most frequently performed among
American composers, and the recipient of the most com¬
missions, but he is also esteemed the major creative talent
to have emerged in our country in many years. More than
one eminent critic has spoken of him as the most authen¬
tically American voice, the most thoroughly American ex¬
pression among modern composers. To quote Alfredo
Casella, for example: “In producing a composer such as this
young master, America has placed herself in the front
rank amongst those nations who are concerned with building
a music for the future.” He is, therefore, in the eyes of
many, the “white hope” of American music.
2.
His background is rich with American tradition. He was
born—appropriately enough !—on Lincoln’s birthday of
1898, in a log-cabin in Oklahoma, the son of stout-fibered
American pioneers. His parents, of Scotch-Irish descent,
had provided themselves, before Roy’s birth, with gun,
ROY HARRIS 249
ammunition, an ox-cart, some flour and sugar, and struck

for the open West in the last frontier land-rush. They
staked a claim in Oklahoma, built there a log-cabin and
fructified the soil.
Malaria drove these pioneers from Oklahoma to the San
Gabriel Valley in California where the Harrises built their
own farm. Here Roy spent his boyhood, adolescence and
early manhood. He saw the grainfields of Lucky Baldwin
sliced into farms which were soon to become the famous
orange groves of the San Gabriel Valley. He went through
grammar and high school, an apt pupil who revealed an
enormous interest in books and learning. He played the
piano, clarinet and organ but until his twenty-sixth year had
not studied composition.
In his eighteenth year, he started a farm of his own.
Farming alone could never completely satisfy so restless
an intellect as that of Roy Harris, and he coupled it with
the study of Greek philosophy. One year later, America
entered the World War. For a year, Harris served as a
private in the United States Army. That year of absence
from his farm lands seemed to have given him musical per¬
spective. He returned to Southern California determined
to devote himself to study. He transferred his home to
Hollywood Hills, entered the Southern Branch of the Uni¬
versity of California where he began the study of harmony,
and found diversion in Hindu theology. During the day
he drove a truck, distributing three hundred pounds of
butter and three hundred dozen eggs each day. The eve¬
nings belonged to school and his books.
What it was that definitely decided him to turn com¬
pletely to music he cannot explain today, except that he had
always been interested in the art. At any rate, after he had
acquired a passing acquaintance with harmony and theory,
he came to Arthur Farwell, well-known theorist and com¬
poser, and begged to become his pupil. Farwell was not
the teacher to take under his wing pupils who knew hardly
more than the musical alphabet and the elements of its
grammar. But something about Harris appealed to him
strongly and he accepted him. “I was convinced,” Arthur
Farwell later wrote,1 “that he would one day challenge the
world. Aside from his manifest talent, my grounds for this
belief lay in his mental vitality and breadth, in his insistence
upon the subjecting of every accepted musical dictum and
tradition, technical and spiritual, to a searching scrutiny,
and a determination to work out a new, vital, and creative
way in every musical sphere and relation.”
For two years, Harris studied energetically under Far-
well, and in that time a young man who formerly would
not have known how to put upon paper anything more com¬
plex than an inverted major triad found himself the com¬
poser of a suite for string-quartet and an Andante for
orchestra. The Andante, for all its artistic gropings, dis¬
closed a fine musical instinct for the mot juste. This work
was singled out from a mass of manuscripts submitted to
the New York Philharmonic, and was performed by that
orchestra under the direction of Willem van Hoogstraten
at the Lewisohn Stadium during the summer of 1926.
Through the generosity of private patronage, Harris was
enabled to leave for Paris soon after the performance of
his Andante, and to continue his studies in Paris under
Nadia Boulanger, that singularly inspiring teacher without
whose guidance, it seems, the education of younger modern
composers seems incomplete.
During Harris’ initial year in Paris, he composed his first
major work, a work of amazing maturity and roundness of
personality when one compares it with the Andante that
preceded it. It was the Concerto for Piano, Clarinet and
String-Quartet, introduced in Paris by the Roth String
Quartet, supplemented by Nadia Boulanger and M.
Cahuzac. French critics immediately singled out the work
from the entire program as the one with the most obvious
1 Musical Quarterly, January 1932.
ROY HARRIS 251
talent. “One work dominated the program,” wrote Bander-

lot. “It has warmth, life, a rhythm, an accent which denotes
a nature of the first order.” The artistic success of the
Concerto brought Harris the award of the Guggenheim
Fellowship.
In Paris, a misfortune struck Harris which, eventually,
proved to be a blessing in disguise. In 1929, he fractured
his spine and was confined to a hospital. When he had
partially recovered, he was forced to return to America
to undergo a major operation. For more than six months
he was confined to a hospital bed, and for diversion he com¬
posed a string-quartet. In composing this work, circum¬
stances compelled him for the first time in his life to
dispense with the help of a piano keyboard. Thus, he
finally succeeded in freeing himself from what he terms the
“tyranny of the piano.” It is his honest conviction that this
lesson, learned in an American hospital, put him at least ten
years ahead artistically. Liberated, at last, from the habit
of composing at a piano, Harris was enabled not only to
compose quicker and with greater lucidity, but even to
change the character of his music: formerly his music had
been for the most part harmonic, because his fingers
instinctively groped for chords at the piano; now it had
become more contrapuntal.
Whether Harris overemphasizes the importance of this
liberation from the piano is debatable; certainly there are
any number of excellent composers who work successfully
at the piano. At any rate, the unalterable fact remains that
although before 1929 Harris had produced only one work
of significance—the Concerto—he succeeded, after 1929, in
producing a consecutive series of outstanding musical works,
each clearly marked with the fingerprints of originality and
importance.
On February 12, 1928, the Lenox String Quartet—with
Harry Cumpson and Aaron Gorodner—introduced the
Concerto for Piano, Clarinet and String-Quartet in New
York. There were some kind words of praise, but its

genuine distinction was not as yet fully appreciated. On
June 14, 1933, the Concerto was broadcast over a national
hookup of the Columbia network. At that time, a deluge
of congratulatory letters poured into the studio, much to
the amazement of both composer and performers who
feared that the music might be too intricate for appreciation
by the masses. Encouraged by this response, Harry Cump-
son—the pianist who assisted at the performance—made,
on his own initiative, a scrapbook of the flattering letters.
With this, he forcefully convinced a director of the
Columbia Phonograph Company that a work receiving such
a spontaneous outburst of praise was well deserving of
recording. The work was recorded, and to the bewilder¬
ment of all the officers of the Columbia Phonograph Com¬
pany, the first recording of a serious modern American work
had a very large and profitable sale.
From that moment on, Roy Harris’ star soared. On
February 2, 1934, Serge Koussevitzky introduced Roy
Harris’ new symphony, the Symphony: 1933. Describing
the context of the symphony, Roy Harris wrote: “In the
first movement I have tried to capture the mood of adven¬
ture and physical exuberance; in the second, of the pathos
which seems to underly all human existence; in the third,
the mood of a positive will to power and action.”
The Boston Symphony performance of Harris’ symphony
proved to be important for Harris not only because of the
glowing praise it received from the critics, but more
especially because it tempted the Columbia Phonograph
Company to record this work as well, thereby bringing
forcefully to the attention of the competitive Victor Phono¬
graph Company that here was a composer well worth cul¬
tivating. Without delay, Victor not only recorded many of
the succeeding works of Harris—including the Vaviations
on a Theme, for string-quartet, and the Poem, for violin
ROY HARRIS 253
and piano—but it decided to go one step ahead of its com¬
petitor by commissioning Harris to compose a special sym¬
phonic work for recording purposes. The work—an
American overture, Johnny Comes Marching Home, based
upon a famous Civil War tune which Harris, as a boy,
frequently heard his father whistle while working on the
farmlands—proved to have phenomenal appeal on records,
in symphony-hall, and over the radio; and it was principally
this work (after its performance by Otto Klemperer and
the New York Philharmonic) that made Harris the first
most popular American composer in the 1935 Philharmonic
radio poll.
By this time, Harris was a vogue. Commissions poured
in from many directions, Koussevitzky wanted another sym¬
phony as soon as possible—and before long, the Second
Symphony was featured at the concerts of the Boston Sym¬
phony Orchestra. Mrs. Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge and
Mrs. W. W. Norton commissioned Harris to compose
chamber works—the results being the Trio and the Piano
Quintet (Passacaglia, Cadenza and Fugue). The League
of Composers asked for a choral work—the Song for Occu¬
pations, which has likewise been recorded. The West¬
minster Choir ordered still another choral work to include
on its concert programs—The Symphony for Voices. Jascha
Heifetz requested a violin concerto. The Columbia Broad¬
casting System ordered a special orchestral work specifically
for radio purposes.
Harris is, therefore, perhaps the only composer in
America who has the enviable consolation of knowing, even
before he puts pen on paper, that the new work he is con¬
templating will find eager hands among American con¬
ductors, musical groups, and phonograph companies, long
before the ink becomes dry on the paper.
3.
How well has Roy Harris deserved this striking success?

Among modern American composers, he is most
thoroughly American in his idiom. His music is natively
American not because he has borrowed some indigenous
American vocabulary for his speech. His works do not
employ the Indian idiom of Henry F. Gilbert, Charles T.
Grilles or Frederick Jacobi, the Negro idiom of Rubin
Goldmark, or the jazz idiom of George Gershwin. Roy
Harris’ music grows naturally out of European traditions,
influenced by Beethoven, by such contrapuntists as Josquin
des Pres and Palestrina. Yet Harris’ music could not have
been produced by a European; its accents have been sounded
by a distinctly American voice.
One American critic, whose name eludes me at the
moment, has written that Harris is as native an American
product as, for example, Carl Sandburg. His melodies are
obviously the speech of a Western temperament in its
angular line. Its vitality is an expression of American
health and youth. That admirable critic, H. T. Parker,
summed up the native qualities of Harris’ music when he
wrote that Harris is an American, “first in a pervading
directness, in a recurring and unaffected roughness of musi¬
cal speech. . . . He is also American in broad design, full
voice, a certain abruptness. . . . The rhythms are uneven,
unconventional, changeable, irregular. There is no mistak¬
ing their propulsive force. They seem to derive besides
from the West that bred Mr. Harris, in which he works
most eagerly—from its air, its life, its impulses, even its
gaits. His melody, in turn, partakes of this irregularity,
this unevenness. . . . Suffice it for the rest to say that in
this melody we hear an instinctive American quality to
which we respond as instinctively.” 2
Harris does not generally employ unusual harmonies or
2 Boston Evening Transcript. January 27, 1934.
ROY HARRIS 255
tonalities. The most salient feature of his style is the long

and elaborate melodic line which becomes, in turn, the germ
of a rich and fruitful development. In a conversation,
Harris once pointed out to me that Sibelius’ symphonies
were unsatisfactory to him as works of art because their
ideas were too episodic and were not given the opportunity
to expand and develop. This criticism—which I consider
neither important nor penetrating—gives us a valuable in¬
sight into Harris’ principles of composition. He believes
implicitly that a musical work should, as it did with Bee¬
thoven, be permitted to evolve and grow and ripen as
naturally as a plant. In Harris’ music, particularly in his
two symphonies, the developments are enormously complex,
and it requires a very intimate association with this music to
be able to distinguish subtle strands that are woven into the
fabric.
Roy Harris’ music is genuine, authentic, individual, pos¬
sessing no pretences or postures. Its enormous vitality and
freshness are unmistakable. It possesses none of the nerv¬
ousness and restlessness of the modern age; it is the healthy
offshoot of the mid-Western plains. American to the core,
this music is the high-minded utterance of a fine and inde¬
pendent spirit.
5.
And as the music, so the man.

Everything about Roy Harris speaks strongly his West-
ern-American origin. His appearance suggests the open
spaces rather than the crowded city. His sparing build is
angular and supple, his face—revealing strength in high
cheek-bones, and assertive chin—knows repose, his gray
eyes and his elastic skin are fresh. He has the simplicity
and unpretentiousness of one who has lived the greater part
of his life in a secluded farm-house with books. Essentially
reticent, he feels himself to be out-of-place in the New York
music salon. His gestures are almost awkward, and he
speaks with a perceptible drawl.
He is not the man to assume poses of dignity and
grandeur because his music has made him a famous man.
He has been known to meet journalists or distinguished
musicians in his study and, while talking to them, to take
off his jacket and vest and sprawl lazily across the couch.
Nor can he assume poses of modesty and humility either,
merely because it is demanded of a successful composer.
He is convinced of his direction, sublimely sure of himself,
and does not hesitate to tell this to the first person who asks
him.
His pastimes include tennis and chess, in both of which he
is more than passingly proficient. His intelligence being
alert and restless, he likewise finds enormous fascination in
reading—particularly in philosophy and the social sciences.
Politics—he inclines towards the left—interest him greatly.
Where music is concerned, he finds greatest satisfaction in
the works of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries—those of
Dufay, des Pres, Palestrina and Orlando di Lasso. Among
other famous composers, his greatest respect is for Bach
and Beethoven. After Beethoven, he feels, the art of
music degenerated. And this degeneracy, he believes, is
most apparent in the works of such composers as Berlioz,
Liszt, Wagner, Richard Strauss and Rimsky-Korsakoff.
RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS
XVI
1.
W ITH the death of Sir Edward Elgar, the first position
among living English composers passed, without
question or debate, to Ralph Vaughan Williams. Truth to
tell, Vaughan Williams fills the role of dean of English
music more gracefully than Sir Edward Elgar ever did.
Elgar was an English composer more by accident of birth
than by the quality of his musical speech. Vaughan Wil¬
liams’ music, on the other hand, is more essentially English,
more an expression of English character and temperament
and more firmly rooted in English tradition than the works
of Elgar. It shows less noticeably any foreign influence.
Much of it is, in content, Anglo-Saxon both in its expression
of a serene beauty and in its often tight-lipped restraint.
During the early years of his career, Vaughan Williams
borrowed his musical subjects directly from English folk-
music, a field in which he made monumental research. Sub¬
sequently, he abandoned the folk-song, utilizing for the
most part only material of his own invention. But the
influence of folk-music upon his art never completely deserted
him. Its structure and spirit became the bone and tissue of
his musical thinking. His melodic construction acquired
folk-song physiognomy. Thus, even his most original line
of music has the unmistakable flavor of the English folk-
tune. More than any other composer of recent memory,
therefore, Vaughan Williams has succeeded in producing an
authentic English musical art.
Vaughan Williams has never achieved the regal fame
that was Elgar’s for more than three decades. Yet I am
259
inclined to believe that as a composer Vaughan Williams

has been much more original and personal, and as an in¬
fluence upon his contemporaries much more potent. Like
Elgar, Vaughan Williams proved that the academic and
formal style of Parry and Stanford need not be the essen¬
tial qualities of an English composer. But he went one
step further than Elgar in demonstrating that English music
need not derive its materials from the Germans or the
French to acquire sensitivity of design and emotional beauty
of message. It is, therefore, not beyond the realm of pos¬
sibility that when a future historian evaluates English music
of the twentieth century he will point out that its renais¬
sance began not with Elgar but with Vaughan Williams.
He was born in Down Ampney, Gloucestershire, on
October 12, 1872. His father, a well-to-do clergyman with
independent means, aspired to give his son a comprehensive
education that would be unhampered by the necessity of
preparing for earning a livelihood. Therefore when
Vaughan Williams completed his schooldays at Charter-
house and a two years’ course at the Royal College of
Music, he entered Trinity College, Cambridge. He after¬
wards returned to the Royal College of Music, where his
instructors were C. Hubert Parry and Charles Villiers
Stanford.
In 1896, Vaughan Williams extended his studies by a
visit to Germany. His travel included periods of study at
the Berlin Akademie under Max Bruch. Finally, he came
to Bayreuth where he heard Wagner’s music for the first
time. Returning to England, he continued his studies as a
preparation for a creative career—taking advanced courses
in music at Cambridge until he received his doctorate in
1901. At the same time he held a few minor posts (impor¬
tant only in that they constituted his official apprenticeship)
as organist of the South Lambeth Church and as Univer¬
sity Extension lecturer on music in Oxford and London.
It was at this time—while still immersed in music-study
RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS 261
—that Vaughan Williams first interested himself in English

folk-music. A few examples of folk-songs from the Tudor
period came to his attention, in which he found such poig¬
nancy of artistic expression and such irresistible charm that
he decided to plunge deeply into the study of folk-music of
his country. He joined the Folk-Song Society (of which he
was soon to become one of the most active members) help¬
ing it to unearth from obscurity an entire library of un¬
familiar gems. Many of these he himself reconstructed
melodically, adding to them a piquantly modern harmoniza¬
tion or new lines of contrapuntal voices. In this rejuvenated
form, many of these songs, long neglected, took a new lease
upon life: principally such present-day favorites as The
Turtle Dove, Down in Yon Forest, We’ve Been Awhile\
A-Wandering, A Farmers Son, Ca’ the Yowes, The Dark
Eyed Sailor and It’s Of A Lawyer. During the past decade
or so, many of Vaughan Williams’ arrangements of English
folk-songs have been popularized throughout the world of
music by that incomparable group of a cappela voices—the
English Singers.
Inevitably, when he first turned to original composition
in larger forms, Vaughan Williams’ explorations in the folk-
music of his country left their indelible traces upon his in¬
tellect. In 1905, he composed the First Norfolk Rhapsody,
following it one year later by two additional Norfolk
rhapsodies. These three compositions in rhapsody form
were intended by their composer as a Norfolk Folk Sym¬
phony: the first of these was to be the Introduction and
First Movement; the second, the slow movement culminat¬
ing in a Scherzo; the third, the Finale. Borrowing liberally
from folk material native to King’s Lynn, Norfolk (includ¬
ing such well-known airs as The Captain’s Apprentice and
A Bold Young Sailor Courted Me), Vaughan Williams, in
these rhapsodies, dressed folk-tunes in an elaborate but
skilful orchestral garb. The latter two rhapsodies dis¬
pleased the composer who, feeling strongly that they failed
to achieve a satisfactory symphonic treatment of folk-music,

discouraged their performance. It is, therefore, only the
First Norfolk Rhapsody that has been performed by
orchestras in Europe and America.
The first work by Vaughan Williams to receive public
performance was Towards an Unknown Region, for chorus
and orchestra, enthusiastically received at the Leeds Festi¬
val of 1907. This work, too, dissatisfied the fastidious
composer. Sensing that his failures and self-disapproval
might be largely the result of a deficient technique, Vaughan
Williams momentarily deserted creative work, came to
Paris in 1908 and became a private pupil of Maurice Ravel.
It cannot be said that the relation between teacher and pupil
was altogether an idyllic one. Ravel and Vaughan Williams
were opposing spirits: the one was refined and sensitive; the
other strong, muscular, almost savage. They could, there¬
fore, never see eye to eye on a musical subject or its treat¬
ment. After eight months, Vaughan Williams left Ravel,
but these months of study had by no means been wasted.
He acquired from Ravel a finer and surer sense of form,
even though—fortunately!—his own personal mannerisms
in composition had remained untouched by Ravel’s entirely
opposite style.
The Paris excursion—or was it only the temporary recess
from composition?—radically altered Vaughan Williams’
self-assumed principles of compositions. He realized that
he had been too much the slave to the folk-song, thereby
stifling his imagination and creativeness. He decided,
therefore, to utilize folk material only sparingly in the
future—and only to inject a touch of flavor just as a cook
might sprinkle some condiments in a broth. This decision
reached, Vaughan Williams began composition anew. From
this time on, he produced works which spread his name and
reputation to two continents.
The first work in which his own personal idiom revealed
itself strongly was In the Fen Country, in which he freed
oseph Muller Collection

himself permanently from a slavish use of folk-music but

derived the quality and character of his own melodies from
folk-song formulas. In 1910, Vaughan Williams produced
a still more significant work in the famous Fantasia on a
Theme of Thomas Tallis,1 for double string-orchestra, fea¬
tured with considerable success at the Gloucester Cathedral
during the Three Choirs Festival of 1910, and since that
time performed so frequently in England and America that
it has become one of Vaughan Williams’ best-known works.
Following the Fantasia, Vaughan Williams rapidly re¬
vealed his growing independence and individuality as a
composer. The Sea Symphony, a choral setting of Walt
Whitman, and On Wenlock Edge, after A. E. Housman,
showed a greater freedom in the use of harmonic combina¬
tions and more plasticity. In the opera, Hugh the Drover,
his aptitude for depicting background in tone, as well as his
flair for dramatic musical writing, asserted themselves.
Finally, now in full stride as a composer, Vaughan Williams
completed in 1914 a work which was not only his most
distinguished creation up to that time but which was also
to place him definitely among the leading composers of
England—namely, A London Symphony.
Commenting upon A London Symphony, Vaughan Wil¬
liams has said: “The title . . . may suggest to some hearers
a descriptive piece, but this is not the intention of the com¬
poser. A better title would perhaps be Symphony by a
Londoner. That is to say, the life of London (including
possibly its sights and sounds) has suggested to the com¬
poser an attempt at musical expression; but it would be no
help to the hearer to describe these in words. The music
is intended to be self-impressive, but must stand or fall as
‘absolute music.’ Therefore, if listeners recognize sugges¬
tions of such things as the Westminster Chimes or the
1 Thomas Tallis (c. 1510-1585) was one of the most famous English
church composers during the Reformation.
Lavender’s Cry they are asked to consider these as acci¬
dents, not essentials of the music.”
A London Symphony is not only a characteristic example
of Vaughan Williams’ musical style up to the time, but
reveals it at its surest and best. That remarkable feeling
for form—an almost intuitive sense for structure which will
not permit the inclusion of any line or curve not integral
to the design of the whole—is here apparent; this symphony
is knit closely, developed with a hand that never falters in
its aim, and derives a great part of its effectiveness from the
compactness of its construction.
Here, too, is an ability to put to music the subtlest sug¬
gestions of atmosphere and background: the Thames at
dawn as it passes by a city touched with the peace and
mystery of sleep, or—in the second movement—a district
of London saturated with fog at dusk. Finally, in this work
—as in so many of Vaughan Williams’ other compositions
—there is a supremely deft use of popular music. To
Vaughan Williams, popular music is a supple and useful
means of injecting a faint touch of “local color” so to speak
—or the slightest suggestion of flavor—into a work. Used
with the utmost of discretion and with the most sparing
economy, it never debases the composition in which it
appears but rather, in turn, is raised by the composition to
a high artistic level. As Vaughan Williams himself once
said, in justification of the use of popular music in serious
artistic forms: “Have we not all about us forms of musical
expression which we can take and purify and raise to the
level of great art? For instance, the lilt of the chorus at
a music-hall joining in a popular song, the children dancing
to a barrel organ, the rousing fervor of a Salvation Army
hymn, St. Paul’s and a great choir singing in one of its
festivals, the Welshmen striking up one of their own hymns
whenever they win a goal at an international football
match, the cries of street peddlers, the factory girls singing
their sentimental songs. Have all these nothing to say to
us?” Certainly the appearance of that music-hall ditty
We’ll All Go Down to the Strand, in A London Symphony,
does not vulgarize the work but, on the other hand, is im¬
measurably useful in instilling atmospheric color.
A London Symphony was performed for the first time in
the spring of 1914 under the baton of Geoffry Toye, and
was well received by an audience appreciative of its origin¬
ality of treatment and imaginativeness of conception. In
1920, the British Music Society selected A London Sym¬
phony as the most significant native musical work produced
by an Englishman.
2.
Patriotism called Vaughan Williams from his studio to

the field of battle in 1914.
Despite the fact that he was already forty-two years old,
he enlisted in the Territorial Royal Army Military Corps,
serving as a stretcher-bearer and as a scrubber of floors first
in France and then in Macedonia. Keeping floors clean or
even carrying stretchers from the battlefield to the hospital
did not seem to Vaughan Williams a sufficiently active par¬
ticipation in the War. In 1917 he passed an examination
for an artillery commission. Throughout 1918, he served
as a lieutenant in France in the very midst of the fighting.
When he returned from the battle-front, Vaughan Wil¬
liams reverted to a musical life by joining the faculty of the
Royal College of Music and becoming conductor of the
Bach Choir. At the same time, he solidified his position as
the foremost English composer of his time—excepting, of
course, Sir Edward Elgar. In 1921, Vaughan Williams
composed the Pastoral Symphony which, shortly after its
first performance by Adrian Boult and the Royal Philhar¬
monic Society on January 26, 1922, became one of Vaughan
Williams’ most famous works. The Pastoral Symphony
once again proved the composer’s extraordinary gift in re-
producing tonally the most elusively haunting moods. In

1922, Vaughan Williams composed one of his most intimate
and personal works, a one-act opera-oratorio entitled
Shepherds of the Delectable Mountain; in 1926, he con¬
ceived his most ambitious work, the oratorio Sancta Civitas.
To those Londoners living near the Embankment,
Vaughan Williams was a familiar figure during these years.
With the most meticulous punctuality he passed the Em¬
bankment each day in the week and at precisely the same
time. He was easily recognizable. His huge frame of a
body moved with a certain angular stiffness, his magnificent
head lowered In contemplation. In his sublime indifference
to dress, his appearance strongly suggested the story-book
composer. His coat was frequently too large for him, and
more than once was it thrown completely out of shape by
the fact that one of the buttons was adjusted to the wrong
buttonhole. His trousers were baggy, hanging loosely at the
ankles. He wore an old bowler hat which should have been
discarded long before; in his hand he held a frayed carpet
bag containing his books and papers. As he walked—his
pace, slow and studied—he seemed completely self-
immersed.
His sturdy independence of spirit—which his friends
have identified as his most striking trait as a man—has
often brought him to pursue new courses in his composition.
Just as in 1909, he abandoned the folk-song as the basis for
his musical creation, so—in more recent works—he has
frequently adopted a style radically different from the tran¬
quillity, poetry and tonal painting of A London Symphony
and the Pastoral Symphony. When a new work by Vaughan
Williams is announced, it is impossible to prophesy what the
quality of its musical content will be. Vaughan Williams’
more recent works, therefore, have caused more than one
uplifted eyebrow of amazement, and no little antagonism.
The Symphony in F-minor, composed a few years ago, is
so unlike its preceding three works in the same form that it
might very easily have come from a different pen. Utilizing
polytonality, Vaughan Williams has here produced astrin¬
gent music with such hard surfaces that it is impossible to
identify in it any of the fingerprints of the composer who
fashioned the earlier romantic symphonies. On the other
hand, in his opera The Poisoned Kiss, on a libretto by
Evelyn Sharp, introduced in the spring of 1936, Vaughan
Williams wrote a musical score replete with lilting dance
tunes, patter-songs and formalistic set-pieces—a score at an
opposite polar point from the severely intellectual Sym¬
phony in F-minor. And, again different in treatment, is still
another recent work, the Pavane of the Sons of the Morn¬
ing, inspired by one of the numbers from “Job”—Blake’s
illustrations—which is one of the few reminders, among
Vaughan Williams’ present-day works of the style of the
Pastoral Symphony.
Does this spasmodic change of style denote confusion?
Does this fluctuation from one idiom to another point a
finger to Vaughan Williams’ lack of definite direction in his
recent creation? Perhaps. Perhaps, too, it denotes merely
a transition from one period in Vaughan Williams’ creative
life to another—which, when finally achieved, may attain
expression as fully personal and imaginative as the first
three symphonies.
GEORGE GERSHWIN
Underwood & Underwood
GEORGE GERSHWIN
XVII
GEORGE GERSHWIN
1.
W ALTER DAMROSCH once felicitously remarked
that George Gershwin made a lady of jazz.
Truth to tell, Gershwin found jazz in the gutter and
transported her into a Park Avenue drawing room. What¬
ever his musical shortcomings as a composer may be—and
they are many—Gershwin’s importance as a musical influ¬
ence cannot be overestimated. Before the Rhapsody in
Blue, jazz belonged in the musical slums. Largely through
Gershwin’s taste and ingenuity, his foresight in applying
jazz to larger symphonic forms and his ability to make it
speak a more poignant message, he has made it an impor¬
tant musical idiom—important enough for composers like
Maurice Ravel, Ernst Krenek, Kurt Weill, Igor Stravinsky,
and others to adopt.
Early in 1923, George Gershwin, a composer of ingeni¬
ous jazz-songs, met Paul Whiteman, the celebrated jazz-
band leader, and a friendship between the two was struck
at once. Paul Whiteman, a graduate from the orchestral
ranks of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra where he
had been a violoncellist, had some vague ideals about the
future of jazz—ideals with which George Gershwin, him¬
self a lover of serious music, could sympathize. More than
one evening did they spend discussing the future and the
possibilities of jazz. Gershwin sincerely felt that he could
compose a jazz music that would be symphonic in scope, and
Paul Whiteman felt that he and his band could perform
such a work with sympathetic understanding.
One day in 1924, Paul Whiteman decided to bring his
271
cherished dream into realization. He called his band to¬
gether for a series of long rehearsals; he commissioned his
friend Gershwin to create a long symphonic-jazz composi¬
tion. He engaged the iEolian Hall in New York, now
demolished, but at that time the home for serious concert
performances, and sent notices to the press that he was con¬
templating a concert devoted to all-American music.
The skeptics greeted this plan with laughter of derision,
many musicians found the venture a subject for ironic ridi¬
cule, friends of Paul Whiteman begged him to abandon a
futile and impossible adventure. But Paul Whiteman con¬
tinued rehearsing his band at the night-club, Palais Royale,
long after the dancing had stopped—until early hours of
morning. And George Gershwin continued working on a
long symphonic-jazz composition to be featured on the pro¬
gram.
Rehearsals continued in full swing every night in the
week. After four strenuous weeks, the entire program was
ready—with the exception of Gershwin’s composition.
Patiently, Whiteman waited for Gershwin to send in the
manuscript, but as the days flew by his patience dwindled
and he was rapidly yielding to a frenzy. Would that in¬
fernal work never be finished? Somewhere in the corner
of Whiteman’s heart there lurked the fear that, perhaps,
the work was beyond Gershwin’s capabilities, that, in short,
there would be no new symphonic-jazz work to feature at
his concert. Frantically, Whiteman kept Gershwin’s tele¬
phone ringing perpetually, kept Western Union messengers
blazing an indefatigable path to Gershwin’s home. But
always did he receive the same complacent answer. The
composition required more time and more revision.
A week before the concert . . . and still no sign of
Gershwin’s work. In despair, Whiteman himself invaded
Gershwin’s study and swore that he would not leave without
the composition in his hand. Regretfully, and with the
lingering feeling that it was not so good as it should be,
GEORGE GERSHWIN 273
Gershwin surrendered the music. Whiteman seized the
manuscript, taxied hurriedly to his office and, that very
night, held the first rehearsal of the work. By the time the
composition was performed half-way, Whiteman stopped
his vigorous conducting and was merely listening with open
mouth. Then when the saxophones poured out the seduc¬
tively lyrical slow-section, his baton fell from his hand and
he was practically quivering with excitement.
“Dammit,” he said breathlessly after that first rehearsal.
“And he thought he could improve it!”
Despite all the groans, snickers and dissuasions, Paul
Whiteman’s All-American Music Concert took place at
iEolian Hall to a capacity audience. Paul Whiteman has
confessed that when he saw people swarming into the hall
—among whom he recognized famous musicians, literary
people, music-critics—his first temptation was to escape
from the hall and take the first train out of town. Only his
strong faith in the new Gershwin work prevented him from
yielding to the mad urge. George Gershwin came late to
the concert because it took him all morning and a great part
of the afternoon to summon enough courage to watch a
dignified and incomparably brilliant audience listening to his
experimental composition. And when, finally, he arrived
at the concert hall he lingered for a few moments outside
of the doors of the parquet, pricking his ears in an attempt
to hear sounds of laughter, hissing or feet-stamping.
But the audience, which had been so skeptical before the
concert, did not laugh during Paul Whiteman’s concert. It
listened seriously to Whiteman’s intriguing program which
traced the development and evolution of popular music in
America.
Then, after intermission, came Gershwin’s Rhapsody in
Blue. And the rest—as the saying goes—is history.
2.
After that concert, Gershwin’s name was heralded ’round
the world. Elaborate eulogies appeared everywhere, sing¬
ing the praises of a young composer who was brave enough
to find for jazz an important place in music. He was called
a genius, America’s great musical hope. It was inevitable,
therefore, for interest to center upon the details of the
young composer’s life.
It was discovered that he was born in Brooklyn, New
York on September 26, 1898, and that his parents were not
in any way musical.
Gershwin’s father—on Broadway they later referred to
him as Papa Gershwin—was enough of a character in his
own right to deserve a few paragraphs. His life had been
an indefatigable pursuit after material success, during which
he turned from one business venture to another with the
eternal optimism that he had, at last, found prosperity.
Actually he did at last achieve some affluence, owning a
Turkish bath and a chain of restaurants.
This little man, with soft and expressive eyes, round
chubby cheeks, possessed a humor that was as ingenuous as
it was unconscious. His humor escaped from him as un¬
pretentiously as his breath, and most of the time he himself
did not realize that the simplicities he uttered in all sincerity
were full of the cream of the jest.
There are innumerable stories told about Papa Gershwin.
One of the best dates from the time when the Gershwin
family lived in a three-story brick house on 103rd Street,
near Riverside Drive. Whenever George would compose
his songs, late in the night, Papa Gershwin would sit on the
steps outside of his door, hold his breath and listen. If the
piano played without interruption, Papa Gershwin would
smile with satisfaction, knowing that all was right with
George’s inspiration and that his work was progressing
smoothly. But when the piano stopped for several terrible
GEORGE GERSHWIN 275
minutes of silence, Papa would undergo the most gruesome

of mental torture, knowing as he did that George was con¬
fronting creative obstacles. At one time, hearing the piano
stop for an unusually long period, Papa Gershwin could
tolerate the silence no longer. Sticking his chubby face
through a slight opening at George’s room, Papa hurriedly
whistled a snatch of a melody and asked: “Does that help
you, George?”
At another time, Papa Gershwin was driving on Fifth
Avenue when, passing a red light, he was stopped by a
policeman. “Don’t you know who I am?” Papa Gershwin
asked the policeman. “I am George Gershwin’s father I”
(Papa Gershwin’s Yiddish accent made “George” sound
like “Judge.”) The policeman scratched his head. “In
that case, I suppose I won’t give you a ticket. I guess I
can’t be bothering any judge’s father with a summons.”
The stories about Papa Gershwin are legion; there was
at one time talk of collecting them into an anthology. We
have, here, space only for two or three more. A few years
ago, Papa Gershwin was shown an original painting por¬
traying a woman, which George recently has acquired for
his art-collection. “It’s very nice, George, how much did
you pay for it?” George quietly told his father that the
price was $10,000. “Ten thousand dollars?” Papa Gersh¬
win exclaimed, accompanying his astonishment with a whis¬
tle. He inspected the woman on the painting with much
more scrupulous scrutiny. “Why, who is she?” Another
anecdote concerns Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity. At
a dinner table, George commented that the newspapers had
recently disclosed the fact that the Einstein theory com¬
prised only three printed pages. “Imagine papa,” George
said, trying to impress his father with the profundity of the
great scientist, “imagine working twenty years and produc¬
ing only three pages!” “It must have been very close print,”
Papa Gershwin explained. In the early days of the radio,
when the miracles of the crystal set were the topics of the
moment, Papa Gershwin was telling George about the won¬

ders of a neighbor’s set. “Why, they clearly hear Cleveland
and South America on that set!” Papa Gershwin said with
awe. “Surely not South America!” George answered in¬
credulously. Papa Gershwin snapped back: “Well, Cleve¬
land positively !”
When George Gershwin was still a child, his family trans¬
ferred its home from Brooklyn to the New York’s East Side,
off Grand Street. George’s childhood, therefore, was lit¬
erally spent in New York’s gutters—roller-skating and play¬
ing punch-ball. The only music in his life was the weekly
piano lesson, begun in his tenth year, which he took from a
gray-haired and half-deaf musician who charged him
twenty-five cents a lesson. It cannot be said that George
was either an apt or a diligent student, even though he dis¬
closed an unusual love for good music.
In his fourteenth year, George composed his first popular
song. His first taste at creation whetted his appetite, and
he knew from that moment that he had found his life’s am¬
bition. One day, while going to school with his friend, Max
Rosen—later famous as a concert-violinist—George con¬
fided to him that his dream was to become a professional
musician, perhaps even a composer. “Forget it, George,”
Max told him sadly, “you haven’t an ounce of musical talent
in you.”
In spite of this discouraging prophecy, George continued
music-study with greater industry than before. The study
of the piano he pursued with such assiduity that, in a short
time, he acquired a supple technique. At the same time, he
began the study of harmony under Rubin Goldmark. The
benefits of this theoretical instruction can best be summar¬
ized by an amusing anecdote. One day, young Gershwin
brought his master the first movement of a string-quartet
which he had composed a year before he had begun the
study of harmony under Goldmark. The master studied
the score carefully, and then announced: “Very good, in-
GEORGE GERSHWIN 277
deed! Shows amazing progress! One can already see that

you have learned a lot of harmony in your studies with me!”
When George reached his sixteenth year, he was engaged
as a pianist for the music publishing house of Remick. For
three years, George’s fingers poured out the jazz tunes of
the day. He absorbed jazz and breathed it. It was a
rigorous initiation into America’s popular music, but when
it was over George Gershwin was an official son of Tin-Pan
Alley. He had, by the end of his three-year period as
pianist in Remick’s, quite a few tunes of his own to his
credit—as well as a first musical-comedy, La La Lucille. In
his twentieth year, Gershwin was commissioned to prepare
the musical score for George White’s Scandals. In his
twenty-first year, he was the proud father of a smash-hit,
Swanee, sung to nation-wide popularity by A1 Jolson.
And then his career as a composer of ingeniously turned
jazz songs was fully launched.
3.
At the time of the composition of the Rhapsody in Blue

—the year 1923—George Gershwin was already known in
Tin-Pan Alley as one of the best men in the song business.
In the series of musical scores which he composed for the
annual George White Scandals, he proved that his was a
tasteful creative pen that could avoid the more dishearten¬
ing cliches of popular-song writing and which could, fre¬
quently, etch a melodic line of considerable originality and
poignancy.
The Rhapsody in Blue, however, made Gershwin the
most famous composer in America, and the most successful.
From public performances, sale of phonograph records,
sheet music, and what not, it brought its composer a small
fortune. When the screen acquired a voice, the entire score
was filmed for a mammoth musical-comedy production.
When the radio entered the nation’s parlor, the slow section
of the work became the identifying theme-song of Paul
Whiteman’s broadcasts.
But more important than the fame and wealth it brought
Gershwin is the fact that it definitely established jazz as a
dignified and serious medium for musical composition.
Gershwin had discovered a new road for music—and it was
a road which serious composers throughout the world were
to explore.
Following the composition of the Rhapsody in Blue,
Gershwin divided his time between the composition of musi¬
cal scores for Broadway productions (most of which enjoyed
extraordinary popularity and success) and the creation of
serious music in the jazz vein. In the happy description of
his biographer, Dr. Isaac Goldberg, he was something of a
“Colossus, with one foot planted in Carnegie Hall, and the
other in Tin-Pan Alley.” In the popular field, he produced
such well-known musical-comedies as Lady Be Good, Oh
Kay!, Girl-Crazy, Strike Up the Band!, and that Pulitzer
Prize satire Of Thee I Sing! In the field of serious music,
his compositions included a Concerto for Piano and Or¬
chestra, a symphonic poem An A7nerican in Paris, a Cuban
Overture, for orchestra, a set of jazz preludes for the piano,
and the opera Porgy and Bess.
In 1925, the Rhapsody in Blue was succeeded by the Con¬
certo for Piano and Orchestra introduced by the composer
at the concerts of the New York Symphony Orchestra,
Walter Damrosch conducting. The Concerto added sig¬
nificantly to Gershwin’s artistic stature. Its form was more
ambitious than the Rhapsody, and there was a greater sure¬
ness of technique and maturity of conception. In 1928, the
New York Philharmonic Symphony Society, with Walter
Damrosch conducting, gave the first performance of An
American in Paris—composed by Gershwin during a holi¬
day in Europe. And in the winter of 1935, the Theater
Guild of New York introduced—to the triumphant acclaim
of critics—what is undoubtedly Gershwin’s most important
GEORGE GERSHWIN 279
musical score up to the time, the opera, Porgy and Bess,
based upon the famous play Porgy by DuBose Heyward.
What is Gershwin’s artistic importance?
He instinctively feels and expresses himself in the song-
form. He thinks in terms of the eight-bar or twelve-bar
theme or the A-B-A song-form intuitively. His inspirations
flows freest in smaller patterns. It comes in fits and starts,
and then takes form in abbreviated shapes. Perhaps this
is the outstanding fault of his larger works. Gershwin can¬
not conceive a composition as a whole; he does not see
the beginning and the ending of a large work at one stroke.
Rather he thinks—and composes—in fragments. His
larger works are, therefore, hardly more than patches of
gorgeous music.
That this should have been the outstanding fault of the
Rhapsody in Blue was, to be sure, both explainable and for¬
givable in view of the fact that it was Gershwin’s first ven¬
ture into the field of larger compositions. But one would
expect that, with future works, he would acquire a surer and
firmer grasp. This, unfortunately, is not so. Both the
Concerto and An American in Paris are almost stodgy in
their construction. As with the Rhapsody one confronts, in
these works, endless padding of empty chords and vacuous
scales to bridge one idea with another; developments of an
almost schoolboyish ingenuousness—in which the original
themes, far from gaining in effectiveness from the added
decoration and enlargement, lose much of their original
spontaneity; a feeble attempt at variation in which a theme
is changed by an all-too obvious transformation of rhythm
or instrumentation.
The strength of this music—and there is strength!—lies
primarily in the statement of the main themes. No one, I
am sure, can deny that Gershwin, at his best, is endowed with
a lyrical inventiveness unmatched by any other contempo¬
rary American composer. He breathes forth fresh, ex¬
uberant, neatly turned melodies with an ease, facility and
variety that are bewildering. Therefore, in the melodic
themes of his larger works there is no end of ingenuity and
charm. The melodies ooze from his works fecundly. The
famous melody for saxophones and violoncelli in the Rhap¬
sody, the waltz-passage of the first movement of the Piano
Concerto and the opening and broad singing second melody
of the second movement of the Concerto, the “blues-song”
of An American in Paris, the second piano prelude—it is at
such moments as these that Gershwin shows an eloquence
that is individually his own.
His opera, Porgy and Bess, is likewise most impressive
because of its gorgeous melodies. This is Gershwin’s most
satisfying score because, here, Gershwin’s inspiration has
more than one string. He touches pathos with sensitivity
and beautiful restraint; he has voiced humor with a nimble
accent. But as an opera, Porgy has glaring shortcomings.
The dramatic effects in Gershwin’s score are almost naively
produced by percussions and the chromatics of strings.
Gershwin, moreover, is at a loss to paint atmospheric color
in his music. Finally, the form of the opera—from the
musical standpoint—is inchoate. It is a compilation of
melodies, some remarkably good, some stilted. But it is
never an integrated artistic conception.
4.
George Gershwin is tall and well-built, with the muscular

body of a young man to whom athletics and exercise are not
foreign. His face possesses a youthful expression in the
suppleness of the skin and softness of the cheeks. His nose
is aquiline, and his lips (almost invariably encircling a
cigar) are large and full. His hair is black and oily,
brushed backwards. He is invariably dressed in light tweed
clothing; occasionally he sports a cane. He has a brisk step
which bespeaks his vitality. He is really very athletic—
tennis, golf and an occasional game of basketball are his
GEORGE GERSHWIN 281
major sport interests. And, although he visits the doctor

regularly because he complains of stomach trouble (an ail¬
ment which, curiously enough, dates from his first taste of
wealth) he gives the appearance of health and robustness.
He never plays cards, except for an infrequent game of
hearts; and he detests gambling of any sort. He prefers
most to entertain his friends in his beautiful home, there
until early hours of dawn to play for them on the piano.
He likes to play the piano, requires very little urging or
encouragement to perform his latest morsels.
Gershwin’s home is an aesthetic thrill for the lover of
beautiful things. Although he lives alone (he is still Broad¬
way’s most eligible bachelor) he has a vast duplex apart¬
ment on East 72nd Street, equipped with gymnasium, art-
gallery and private study. Here his wants are catered to
by a valet, cook and secretary. Modernistically furnished,
it reveals in its simplicity of treatment the fine artistic
tastes of its owner. The walls are covered by paintings,
some of them of great value. Some are the creation of
George himself. For George’s most devoted hobby is paint¬
ing in which he is amazingly talented. Every morning in
the week is devoted to serious work with brushes, paints and
canvases; and there are critics who have said—particularly
after a recent public exhibition of Gershwin’s paintings—
that had George chosen he could have been as successful in
painting as in music.
For some mysterious reason, he prefers to compose late
at night. Undressing himself, he sits half-nude in front of
his piano, chewing nervously at a cigar, and working with
paper and pencil over his music. While composing, he
smokes profusely. Sometimes his ideas will come to him
copiously, and his pencil will fly in his hand; usually, com¬
position is for him an arduous task.
He has a very intimate knowledge of great music and a
profound love for it. His tastes are catholic and extraor-
dinarily good. His favorite composers are Mozart, De¬

bussy and Stravinsky.
Not the least touching trait of Gershwin is his devotion
to his mother. A soft-eyed, little woman with a round face
and warm heart, her entire life for the past twenty years
has revolved around George’s achievements and triumphs.
She attends all of her son’s principal public performances,
and is always a guest at the festivities that take place in
George’s apartment. “You know,” George once told a
group of friends, “my mother is the sort of woman about
whom song-composers write mammy-songs. Only—I mean
them I”
Mr. Gershwin died on July 11, 1937, while this book

was on the press.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF MODERN COMPOSERS
XVIII
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF MODERN COMPOSERS
I. IGOR STRAVINSKY
Armitage, Merle (editor). “Igor Stravinsky.” New York. G.

Schirmer. 1936.
Ansermet, Ernst. “Einfiihrung in das Schaffen Igor Stravinskis.”
Musikblatter des Anbruch. vol. 4, p. 169. Vienna, 1922.
-“L’CEuvre d’lgor Stravinsky.” La Revue Musicale. vol. 2,
p. 1. Paris, 1921.
Browne, Andrew J. “Aspects of Stravinsky’s Work.” Music and
Letters. Vol. 11, p. 360. London, 1930.
Calvocoressi, M. D. “A Russian Composer of Today.” Musical
Times, vol. 52, p. 511. London, 1911
Casella, Alfredo. Igor Stravinsky. Rome. A. F. Formiggini. 1926.
Chenneviere, Rudhyar D. “The Two Trends of Modern Music in
Stravinsky’s Works.” Musical Quarterly, vol. 5, p. 169. New
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Cocteau, Jean. “Stravinsky: La Derniere heure.” La Revue Musi¬
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Coeuroy, Andre. “Picasso et Stravinsky.” Modern Music, vol. 5,
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Collaer, Paul. “Stravinsky.” Brussels. Editions Equilibres. 1931.
Ewen, David. “Stravinsky: 1935.” American Spectator. March,
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Flanner, Janet. “Russian Firebird.” New Yorker. January 5,
1935.
Fleischer, Herbert. “Stravinsky.” Berlin. Russischer Musik Ver-
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Haskell, Arnold L. (in collaboration with Walter Nouvel). Diaghi-
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vol. 2, p. 933. Paris, 1929.
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Mitchell, Edward. “Stravinsky’s Theories.” Musical Times, vol.
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Montagu-Nathan, M. Contemporary Russian Composers. London.
C. Palmer and Hayward. 1917.
Nijinsky, Romola. Nijinsky. New York. Simon and Schuster.
1935.
Pannain, Guido. Modern Composers. New York. E. P. Dutton
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Petit, Raymond. “L’Influence de Stravinsky.” Cahiers de Belgique.
vol. 4, p. 321. Brussells, 1930.
Ramuz, Charles Ferdinand. Souvenirs sur Stravinsky. Paris. Galli-
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Rosenfeld, Paul. Discoveries of a Music Critic. New York. Har-
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-Musical Portraits. London. Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner,
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Sabaneyev, Leonid. “The Stravinsky Legends.” Musical Times.
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Schaeffner, Andre. Stravinsky. Paris. Rieder. 1931.
Schloezer, Boris de. “Stravinsky.” La Revue Musicale. vol. 5, p.
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Stravinsky, Igor. An Autobiography. New York. Simon and
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White, Eric Walter. Stravinsky’s Sacrifice to Apollo. London.
Hogarth Press. 1930.
Wise, C. Stanley. “Impressions of Igor Stravinsky.” Musical Quar¬
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Van Vechten, Carl. Music After the Great War. New York. Al¬
fred A. Knopf. 1919.
II. RICHARD STRAUSS
Armstrong, Thomas Henry. Strauss’ Tone-Poems. London. Ox¬

ford University Press. 1931.
Baughan, E. A. Music and Musicians. New York. John Lane.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY OF MODERN COMPOSERS 287
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III. SIR EDWARD ELGAR
Abraham, Gerald. “The Mentality of Elgar.” Scottish Musical

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Gray, Cecil. Survey of Contemporary Music. London. Oxford
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Hogarth, Basil. “Edward Elgar: The Noble Romantic.” English
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Hull, Robert H. “Sir Edward Elgar.” English Review, vol. 52,
p. 226. London, 1931.
Hussey, Walter. “Emotionalism in Music of Elgar.” Musical
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Maine, Basil. “Elgar: An Appraisement.” Nineteenth Century.
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Shaw, George Bernard. “Elgar.” Music and Letters, vol. 1, p. 6.
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Sheldon, A. J. “Edward Elgar.” London. The Musical Opinion.
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Shera, Frank Henry. Elgar’s Instrumental Works. London. Ox¬
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Streatfeild, R. A. Musicians anglais contemporains. Paris. Edi¬
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IV. JAN SIBELIUS
Downes, Olin. “With Sibelius in His Realm of Sagas.” New York

Times Magazine. September 20, 1936.
Ekman, Karl. Jan Sibelius. Helsingfors. Holger Schildts Forlag.
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Elliott, J. H. “Jan Sibelius: A Modern Enigma.” Chesterian.
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Flodin, Karl. “Jan Sibelius; Ein Finnlandischer Tondichter.”
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Gray, Cecil. Sibelius. London. Oxford University Press. 1931.
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Migot, Georges. “Jan Sibelius.” La Revue Musicale. vol. 3, p.
256. Paris, 1922.
Newmarch, Rosa. Jan Sibelius: Ein finnlandhischer Komponist.
Leipzig. Breitkopf und Hartel. 1906.
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vol. 19, p. 27. New York, 1920.
Niemann, Walter. Jan Sibelius. Leipzig. Breitkopf und Hartel.
1917.
Pratt, Harvey Rogers. “Hardy Finland Speaks Through Sibelius.”
New York Times Magazine. December 8, 1935.
Riemann, Walter. “Jean Sibelius und die finnische Musick.” Sig-

nale. vol. 62, p. 185. Leipzig, 1904.
Wortham, H. E. “Some Remarks on Sibelius.” Apollo, vol. 7, p.
91. London, 1928.
V. MAURICE RAVEL
Bernard, Robert. Les Tendances de la musique franqaise moderne.

Paris. Durand et fils. 1930.
Calvocoressi, M. D. “Maurice Ravel.” Musical Times, vol. 54,
p. 785. London, 1913.
Casella, Alfredo. “Ravel’s Harmony.” Musical Times, vol. 67, p.
124. London, 1926.
Coeuroy, Andre. La Musique franqaise moderne. Paris. Dela-
grave. 1922.
Cortot, Alfred. La Musique franqaise du piano. Paris. Editions
Rieder. 1930.
Ewen, David. “Maurice Ravel.” Musical Record, vol. 1, p. 238.
Philadelphia, 1933.
Goddard, Scott. “French Composers.” Musical Times, vol. 66,
p. 503. London, 1925.
-“Maurice Ravel: Some Notes On His Orchestral Method.”
Music and Letters, vol. 6, p. 291. London, 1925.
Gray, Cecil. A Survey of Contemporary Music. London. Oxford
Hammond, Richard. “Maurice Ravel.” Modern Music, vol. 5,
p. 20. New York, 1928.
Jean-Aubry, Georges. “Maurice Ravel.” Monthly Musical Rec¬
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-La Musique franqaise d’aujourd-hui. Paris. Perrin et Cie.
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Roland-Manuel. “Maurice Ravel.” La Revue musicale. vol. 2,
p. 1. Paris, 1921.
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-Maurice Ravel et son oeuvre dramatique. Paris. Les Edi¬
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Morris, R. O. “Maurice Ravel.” Music and Letters, vol. 2, p.
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& Co. 1933.
Pizzetti, Ildebrando. Musicisti contemporanei. Milan. Fratelli
Treves. 1914.
Poueigh, Jean. Musiciens frangais d’aujourd-hui. Paris. Mercure

de France. 1921.
Salazar, Adolfo. Musica y musicos de hoy. Madrid. Editorial
Mundo Latino. 1928.
Shera, Frank H. Debussy and Ravel. London. Oxford University
Press. 1925.
Stefan, Paul. “Ravel und Casella.” Der Merker. vol. 11, p. 467.
Vienna, 1920.
VI. SERGE PROKOFIEFF
Fraser, Andrew Alstair. Essays on Music. London. Oxford Uni¬

Jade, Ely. “Serge Prokofieff.” Pro-Musica. vol. 4, p. 14. New
York, 1925.
Montagu-Nathan, M. “Serge Prokofieff.” Musical Times, vol.
57, p. 465. London, 1916.
Sabaneyev, Leonid. “Russia’s Strong Man.” Modern Music, vol.
6, p. 3. New York, 1928.
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London, 1927.
Schloezer Boris de. “Serge Prokofieff.” La Revue musicale. vol.
3, p. 5. Paris, 1921.
VII. MANUEL DE FALLA
Altermann, Jean Pierre. “Manuel de Falla.” La Revue musicale.

vol. 2, p. 202. Paris, 1921.
Betrand, Paul. “Manuel de Falla.” Menestral. vol. 92, p. 233.
Paris, 1930.
Bosch, Carlos. Impresiones esteticas. Madrid. J. Pueyo. 1918.
Coeuroy, Andre. Panorama de la musique contemporaine. Paris.
Kra. 1928.
Fernandez, Nunez. Manuel de Lalla. Madrid. F. Fuentes. 1925.
Fraser, Andrew A. Essays on Music. London. Oxford University
Press. 1930.
Jean-Aubry, Georges. “Manuel de Falla.” Musical Times, vol.
58, p. 151. London, 1917.
-La Musique et les nations. Paris. Editions de la Sirene.
1922.
& Co. 1933.
Roland-Manuel. “Les debuts de Manuel de Falla.” Musique.

vol. 1, p. 488. Paris, 1928.
-Manuel de Falla. Paris. Editions Cahiers d’art. 1930.
Salazar, Adolfo. La musica contemporanea en Espaha. Madrid.
Ediciones la Nave. 1930.
Trend, John Brande. Manuel de Falla and Spanish Music. New
York. Alfred A. Knopf. 1929.
Turina, Joaquin. ‘‘Manuel de Falla.” Chesterian. vol. 7, p. 193.
London, 1920.
VIII. CHARLES MARTIN LOEFFLER
Engel, Carl. “Charles Martin Loeffler.” Chesterian. vol. 6, p.

168. London, 1920.
Ewen, David. “Charles Martin Loeffler: 1861-1935.” Chesterian.
vol. 16, p. 122. London, 1935.
Gilman, Lawrence. Nature in Music. New York. John Lane &
Co. 1914.
Hale, Philip. “Charles Martin Loeffler.” G. Schirmer. 1911.
IX. BELA BARTOK
Balogh, Erno. “Personal Glimpses of Bela Bartok.” Pro Musica.

vol. 7, p. 16. New York, 1928.
Browne, Arthur G. “Bela Bartok.” Music and Letters, vol. 12,
p. 35. London, 1931.
Calvocoressi, M. D. “Bela Bartok: An Introduction.” Monthly
Musical Record, vol. 52, p. 54. London, 1922.
Kra. 1930.
Leigh, Henry. “Bela Bartok.” Chesterian. vol. 22, p. 161. Lon¬
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Heseltine, Philip. “Modern Hungarian Composers.” Musical
Times, vol. 63, p. 164. London, 1922.
Jemnitz, Alexander. “Bela Bartok.” Anbruch. vol. 13, p. 77.
Berlin, 1931.
Katz, Erich. “Bela Bartok.” Musikblatter des Anbruch. vol. 9,
p. 416. Vienna, 1927.
Klein, Sigmund. “Bela Bartok: A Portrait.” Pro Musica. vol. 4,
p. 4. New York, 1925.
Kodaly, Zoltan. “Bela Bartok.” La Revue musicale. vol. 2, p. 205.

Paris, ^1921.
Leichentritt, Hugo. “On the Art of Bela Bartok.” Modern Music.
vol. 6, p. 3. New York, 1928.
Nuell, Edwin von der. Bela Bartok: Ein Beitrag zur Morphologie
der neuen Musik. Halle. Mitteldeutsche Verlags. 1930.
Westphal, Kurt. “Bela Bartok und die moderne ungarische Musik.”
Musik. vol. 20, p. 188. Stuttgart, 1927.
Whitaker, Frank. “A Visit to Bela Bartok.” Musical Times, vol.
67, p. 220. London, 1926.
X. ERNEST BLOCH
Downes, Olin. “Ernest Bloch: The Swiss Composer.” Musical

Observer, vol. 15, p. 11. New York, 1917.
Ewen, David. “Ernest Bloch.” Musical Record, vol. 1, p. 422.
Philadelphia, 1934.
-“Ernest Bloch.” Monthly Musical Record, vol. 64, p. 25.
London, 1934.
Gatti, Guido. “Ernest Bloch.” Musical Quarterly, vol. 7, p. 20.
New York, 1921.
Hartt, Julius. “Ernest Bloch.” La Revue musicale. vol. 4, p. 218.
Paris, 1923.
Klein, Herbert. “Ernest Bloch: Mensch und Musiker.” Zeitschrift
fur Musik. vol. 8, p. 298. Berlin, 1932.
Morgan, Edward William. “Ernest Bloch.” Scottish Musical
Magazine, vol. 11, p. 79. Edinburgh, 1930.
& Co. 1933.
Rosenfeld, Paul. “The Music of Ernest Bloch.” Seven Arts. vol.
1, p. 413. New York, 1916-1917.
Sessions, Roger. “Ernest Bloch.” Modern Music, vol. 5, p. 3.
New York, 1917.
Tibaldi, Chiesa Mary. Ernest Bloch. Turin. G. B. Paravia & Co.
1933.
XI. FREDERICK DELIUS
Abraham, Gerald. “Delius and his Literary Sources.” Music and

Letters, vol. 10, p. 182. London, 1929.
Berry, Leland J. “Frederick Delius.” Musical Standard, vol. 32,
p. 40. London, 1928.
Chislett, W. A. “A Neglected Composer: Delius.” Gramophone.

vol. 4, p. 450. London, 1927.
Chop, Max. “Frederick Delius: Sein Leben und Schaffen.” Neue
Musik Zeitung. vol. 31, p. 310. Stuttgart, 1910.
Delius, Clare. Memories of My Brother. London. I. Nicholson
& Watson, Ltd. 1935.
Douglas, Keith. “Frederick Delius.” Heaton Review, vol. 3, p.
53. Bradford, 1929.
Evans, Edwin. “Delius: A Personal Reaction.” Sackbut. vol. 10,
p. 118. London, 1929.
Foss, Hubert J. “Afterthoughts on Delius.” Musical Times, vol.
70, p. 1073. London, 1929.
Grainger, Percy. “The Genius of Frederick Delius.” Musical
Courier, vol. 71, p. 39. New York, 1915.
Heseltine, Philip. “Frederick Delius.” Musical Times, vol. 56,
p. 137. London, 1915.
-Frederick Delius. London. John Lane. 1923.
Hogarth, Basil. “Frederick Delius: A Critical Estimate.” English
Review, vol. 59, p. 154. London, 1934.
Hull, A. Eaglefield. “Delius and Norway.” Monthly Musical
Record, vol. 51, p. 196. London, 1921.
-Delius. London. L. and V. Woolf. 1928.
Marx, Joseph. “Frederick Delius.” Musik blatter des Anbruch.
vol. 1, p. 49. Vienna, 1919.
Pike, D. E. “The Future of Delius.” Chesterian. vol. 49, p. 37.
London, 1925.
XII. PAUL HINDEMITH
Bekker, Paul. Briefe an zeitgenossiche Musiker. Berlin. Max

Hesses. 1932.
Benninghoven, Erich. “Der Geist im Werke Hindemiths.” Musik.
vol. 21, p. 718. Stuttgart, 1929.
Kra. 1928.
Einstein, Alfred. “Paul Hindemith.” Modern Music, vol. 3, p.
21. New York, 1926.
Fraser, Andrew Alstair. Essays in Music. London. Oxford Uni¬
-“Paul Hindemith.” Music and Letters, vol. 10, p. 167.
London, 1929.
Machabey, A. “Esquisse de Paul Hindemith.” Menestral. vol.

193, p. 65. Paris, 1931.
-“Paul Hindemith: Musicien allemand.” La Revue musicale.
vol. 11, p. 193. Paris, 1930.
Pannain, Guido. Modern Composers. London. J. M. Dent &
Sons. 1932.
Reich, Willi. “Paul Hindemith.” Chesterian. vol. 11, p. 33.
London, 1929.
Seidl, Arthur. Neuzeitliche Tondichter und zeitgenossiche Ton-
kiinstler. Regensburg. G. Bosse. 1926.
Strobel, Heinrich. Paul Hindemith. Mayence. B. Schott. 1928.
XIII. ARNOLD SCHONBERG
Armitage, Merle (editor). “Arnold Schonberg.” New York. G.

Schirmer. 1937.
Arnold Schonberg. (Chapters by Alban Berg, Anton Webern, Egon
Wellesz, etc.) Miinchen. R. Piper. 1912.
Arnold Schonberg zum 60 Geburtstag. (Essays by Jalowetz,
Webern, Broch, etc.) Vienna. Universal Edition. 1934.
Bekker, Paul. Briefe an zeitgenossiche Musiker. Berlin. Max
Hesses. 1932.
Calvorcoressi, M. D. “Arnold Schonberg.” New Music Review.
vol. 12, p. 75. New York, 1913.
Coeuroy, Andre. “Concerning Arnold Schonberg.” Chesterian.
vol. 9, p. 141. London, 1928.
Erpf, Hermann. “Fur Arnold Schonberg.” Neue Musik Zeitung.
vol. 42, p. 37. Stuttgart-Leipzig, 1920.
Engel, Carl. “Schonberg, as Poet, Considers Man’s Destiny. Mu¬
sical America, vol. 34, p. 3. New York, 1921.
Felber, Erwin. “Arnold Schonberg.” Musik. vol. 23, p. 566.
Berlin, 1931.
Fleischmann, H. R. “Arnold Schonberg.” Neue Zeitschrift fur
Musik. vol. 87, p. 307. Leipzig, 1920.
Gray, Cecil. “Arnold Schonberg: A Critical Study.” Music and
-A Survey of Contemporary Music. London. Oxford Uni¬
Green, L. Dutton. “Arnold Schonberg.” Chesterian. vol. 6, p.
270. London, 1925.
Huneker, James Gibbons. Ivory Apes and Peacocks. New York.
Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1915.
Leichentritt, Hugo. “Schonberg and Atonality.” Modern Music.

vol. 5, p. 3. New York, 1928.
Machabey, A. “Schonberg.” Menestral. vol. 92, p. 81. Paris,
1930.
Sons. 1932.
Schonberg Heft. Musikblatter des Anbruch. vol. 6. Vienna, 1924.
Seidl, Arthur. Neuzeitliche Tondichter und zeitgenossiche Ton-
kiinstler. Regensburg. G. Bosse. 1926.
Specht, Richard. “Arnold Schonberg.” Der Merker. vol. 2, p. 697.
Vienna, 1911.
Stefan, Paul. “Schonberg’s Operas.” Modern Music, vol. 7, p. 24.
New York, 1929.
Stein, Erwin. “Arnold Schonberg.” La Revue musicale. vol. 12,
p. 201. Paris, 1931.
Weissmann, Adolf. Problems of Modern Music. New York. E.
P. Dutton & Co. 1925.
Wellesz, Egon. “Arnold Schonberg.” Leipzig. E. Tal. 1921.
XIV. FRANCESCO MALIPIERO
Gatti, Guido. Musicisti moderni d’ltalia. Bologna. F. Bongio-

vanni. 1925.
Jean-Aubry, Georges. “A Great Artist.” Musical Times, vol. 60,
p. 13. London, 1919.
Mitchell, Edward S. “Malipiero.” The Organist, vol. 28, p. 18.
London, 1920.
Prunieres, Henri. “Gian Francesco Malipiero.” Musical Quar¬
terly. vol. 6, p. 326. New York, 1920.
Redlich, H. F. “Francesco Malipiero: Dramaturge lyrique.” La
Revue Musicale. vol. 12, p. 300. Paris, 1931.
Saminsky, Lazare. Music of Our Day. New York. Thos. Y.
Crowell Company. 1932.
XV. ROY HARRIS
Ewen, David. Composers of Today. New York. H. W. Wilson

Co. 1934.
Farwell, Arthur. “Roy Harris.” Musical Quarterly, vol. 18, p.
18. New York, 1933.
Goldberg, Isaac. “Roy Harris.” Musical Record, vol. 1, p. 253.
New York, 1933.
Howard, John Tasker. Our American Music. New York. Thos.

Y. Crowell Company. 1931.
XVI. RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS
Colies, H. C. “The Music of Vaughan-Williams.” Chesterian.

vol. 21, p. 129. London, 1922.
Dickinson, Alan Edgar. An Introduction to the Music of Ralph
Vaughan-Williams. London. Oxford University Press. 1928.
Erlebach, Rupert. “Vaughan-Williams and His Three Symphonies.”
Monthly Musical Record, vol. 52, p. 127. London, 1922.
Evans, Edwin. “Ralph Vaughan-Williams.” Musical Times, vol.
61, p. 232. London, 1920.
Fox-Strangways, A. H. “Ralph Vaughan-Williams.” Music and
Howells, Herbert. “Vaughan-Williams’ Pastoral Symphony.” Mu¬
sic and Letters, vol. 3, p. 122. London, 1922.
Sons. 1932.
Rose, E. C. Vaughan-Williams: An Appreciation. Sackbut. vol.
6, p. 320. London, 1926.
XVII. GEORGE GERSHWIN
Ewen, David. Composers of Today. New York. H. W. Wilson

Co. 1934.
-George Gershwin. Gamut, vol. 2, p. 30. London, 1929.
Goldberg, Isaac. George Gershwin: A Study in American Music.
New York. Simon and Schuster. 1931.
-“George Gershwin and Jazz.” Theatre Guild Magazine.
vol. 7, p. 15. New York, 1930.
Osgood, Henry Osborne. So This Is Jazz! Boston. Little Brown
& Co. 1926.
Woollcott, Alexander. “George the Ingenuous.” Cosmopolitan
Magazine. New York, November 1933.
INDEX
INDEX
After the Old-fashioned Roguish Bartok, Bela, study of Hungarian

Manner, 41 folk-music, 161; musical expres¬
Age of Steel, The (Pas d’Acier, Le), sion, 163; early years, 164; impor¬
125 tant musical influences, 165; style:
Ahna, Pauline de, marriage to compositions, 166; attitude of pub¬
Strauss, 45 lic toward, 166, 168; home: per¬
Albeniz, Isaac, 133, 134, 137 sonality, 168
Alborada del Gracioso, 100 Becker, Albert, 85
All-American Music Concert, 273 Beecham, Sir Thomas, aids Delius,
Allan, Maud, troupe, 180 196
Allerseelen, 51 Benedictus (Elgar), 65
Alpensinfonie, 51 Berceuse (Stravinsky), 16
America Symphony, 181, 182 Beriot, Charles de, 100
American in Paris, An, 278, 279, 280 Bibliography, 285-97
Amor Brujo, El (Love, the Sorcerer), Black Knight, 65
141 Bloch, Ernest, Hebraic qualities, 173,
Andante (Bloch), 175 178, 182; personality, 173; early
Andante (Harris), 250 years: training, 175; style, 176,
Anthione, 100 178; career in America, 180; in¬
Apollon Musagete, 24, 25 ternational fame, 181; endowment:
Apostles, The, 68 devotes time to creative work, 183
Appalachia, 191, 195 Bloch, Suzanne, quoted, 183
Arabella, 34, 50 Bluebeard’s Castle, 167
Arbos, Enrique Fernandez, 109n Bodanzky, Artur, 181
Ariadne auf Naxos, 49 Bold Young Sailor Courted Me, A,
Arione, 240 261
Atlantida, La, 144 Bolero, 108-109, 111
A us Italien, 39 Bonne chanson, La, 152
Boris Godounoff, 6, 11
Baal-Shem Suite, 181 Bossi, Marco Enrico, 238
Bagatelles, 166 Boston Symphony Orchestra, 125, 151,
Baiser de la Fee, La, 25 152, 153, 180, 182, 247, 252, 253
Bakst, Leon, 106 Boulanger, Nadia, 250
Ballet Russe, origin, 12; dancers, 12, Brahms, Johannes, influence upon
Strauss, 36
143; established as feature of
Breton, Tomas, 133, 137
Paris season, 16; produces works
Brigg Fair, 194
by, Stravinsky, 13, 14, 18, 20, 21,
Bruck, Max, 260
23, 24; Ravel, 105, 107; Prokofieff, Brussel, Robert, 107
124, 125; Falla, 142 Biilow, Hans von, opinion of Strauss,
Banderlot, quoted, 251 37, 39; performs Don Juan, 40
Barque sur I’ocean, Un, 104 Busoni, Ferruccio, 84
301
302 INDEX
Canossa, 240 Concerto Grosso, (Bloch), 181, 182
Canticum Fratris Solis, 158 Conservatory, Paris, “scandal” over
Captain’s Apprentice, The, 261 Ravel, 102
Caractacus, 71 Coolidge, Elizabeth Sprague, com¬
Card Party, The (Jeu de cartes en missions works, of Stravinsky, 24;
trois donnes), 25 of Harris, 253 ; prize awards, to
Cardillac, 208 Bloch, 181; to Malipiero, 242
Carraud, Gaston, 107 Coolidge, Elizabeth Sprague, Founda¬
Casella, Alfredo, on Harris, 248 tion, invites Hindemith to Amer¬
Cena, La, 242 ica, 211
Chant du rossignol, Le (The Song of Cuban Overture, 278
the Nightingale), 20 Cumpson, Harry, 251, 252
Chant funebre, 10
Chausson, 100 Dai Sepolcri, 238
Chicago Symphony Orchestra, 182, Dalcroze, Jacques, 175
247 Damrosch, Walter, 271, 278
Chopiniana, 10, 13 Dance of the King Kastchei, 16
Chout, 122, 124 Dance of the Princesses, 16
Cimarosiana, La, 242 Dance Suite (Bartok), 167
Clarinet Quintet (Hindemith), 207 Daphnis et Chloe, 100, 105-107, 111,
Classical Symphony (Prokofieff), 118, 112; concert suites drawn from,
123 107
Columbia Broadcasting System, 252, Death and Transfiguration, 40, 44
253 Debussy, Claude, 100, 138, 140; ap¬
Columbia Phonograph Company, preciation of Stravinsky, 4, 15;
247, 252 opinion of a Strauss work, 43; in¬
Composers, royalties for, 46 fluence over Ravel, 103; compared
Concerto for Clarinet, Piano and with Loeffler, 157
String-Quartet (Harris), 250, 251 Delius, Clare, cited, 188
Concerto for Harpsichord, Flute, Delius, Frederick, belated triumph in
Oboe, Clarinet, Violin and Violon¬ England, 187, 196; physical dis¬
cello (Falla), 144 integration, 187, 197; early years,
Concerto for Horn and Orchestra 188; in America, 190; association
(Strauss), 37 with T. F. Ward: training, 191;
Concerto for Piano and Orchestra meets Jelka Rosen, 192; love for
(Delius), 192 Florida girl: marriage, 193; home:
Concerto for Piano and Orchestra masterpieces, 194; quality of mu¬
(Gershwin), 278, 279, 280 sic, 195; personality: tastes, 197;
Concerto for Piano and Orchestra death: burial, 198
(Malipiero), 242 Delius, Jelka Rosen (Mrs. Freder¬
Concerto for Piano and Orchestra ick), 192, 193
(Ravel), 100, 109 Diaghilev, Serge de, career, 10; per¬
Concerto for Piano and Orchestra sonality, 12; association with,
(Stravinsky), 23 Stravinsky, 10, 12, 15, 16, 17;
Concerto for String Quartet and Or¬ Ravel, 105; Fokine, 106; Proko¬
chestra (Schonberg), 226 fieff, 121, 122, 124, 125; Falla, 142;
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra experience with the dancing boy,
(Elgar), 68, 74, 75 143 ; see also Ballet Russe
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra Dohnanyi, Ernst von, 164, 165
(Malipiero), 242 Don Juan, 40, 44
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra Don Quixote, 42
(Sibelius), 90, 91 Drapeau beige, Le, 69
INDEX 303
Dream of Gerontius, The, 66, 68, 74 Farwell, Arthur, recognition of Har¬
Drops of Water, 83 ris, 249
Dubois, Theodore, 103 Fascist government, attitude toward
Dukas, Paul, 138, 139 Malipiero, 242
Duramy, Germaine, 105 Faume et Bergere, 9
Durand, quoted, 105 Faure, Gabriel, 100, 103, 138 ; influ¬
Edward VII, appreciation of Elgar, ence upon Ravel, 101
59, 67 Favola del Figlio Cambiato, La, 243
Egyptian Helen, The, 34, 49, 50 Fay, Elsie Burnett, marriage to
Elektra, 48, 49, 52 Loeffler, 153
Elgar, Ann Greening, 61 Fenby, Eric, 198
Elgar, Lady Caroline Alice Roberts Festliches Praeludium, 51
(Mrs. Edward William), mar¬ Feu d’artifice (Fireworks), 9, 10, 13
riage: influence, 63; death, 69 Feuersnot, 47
Elgar, Sir Edward William, services Fils prodigue, Le, (The Prodigal
to English music, 59; honored Son), 125
by kings, 59, 71; early life, 60; Finland, prestige of Sibelius in, 79,
training, 61; early compositions: 89
married life, 63 ; first works per¬ Finlandia (Impromptu!), 88, 89, 94
formed, 65; world fame, 66; series Fire-Bird, The, see Oiseau de feu, L’
of remarkable compositions, 68; Fireworks, see Feu d’artifice
patriotic music: crushed by death First Norfolk Rhapsody (Williams),
of wife, 69; last work: death, 71; 261, 262
personality: tastes, 72; evaluated, First String Quartet (Bartok), 167
74 First Symphony (Bloch), 175
Elgar, W. H., 60 First Symphony in A-flat (Elgar), 68
Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge Founda¬ First Violin Concerto (Prokofieff),
tion, invites Hindemith to Amer¬ 118, 123
ica, 211 “Five, Russian,” 5, 22
En Saga, 87 Five Pieces for Orchestra (Schon-
Enfant et les Sortileges, L’, 108 berg), 222, 224
Engel, Carl, on Loeffler, 154 Fleg, Edmond, 176
English music, 59, 260; folk-music, Florida, 192
259 ; arrangements by Williams, Fokine, aids production of Fire-Bird,
261 14; rupture with Diaghilev, 106
English Singers, 261 Folk-music, Russian, influence upon
Enigma Variations, 65, 66, 74, 75 Stravinsky, 16; Spanish, 13Iff.;
Erkel, Laszlo, 164 Hungarian, 161; collected by Bar¬
Erwartung, 222 tok and Kodaly, 162; English,
Evocation, 153, 154, 158 259ff.
Folkeraadet, 193
Falla, Manuel de, artistic expres¬ Franck, Cesar, 100, 247
sion, 133; ancestry, 134; training: Fringes of the Fleet, 69
influence of Felipe Pedrell, 135; in Fuchs, Robert, 86
Paris, 138; creation in the Spanish Funeral Music, 210
vein, 141; home, 144; personality, Furtwangler, Wilhelm, defends Hin¬
145 demith, 204
Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas
Tallis, 263 Galop Hindou, 119
Fantastic Variations on a Theme of Gambler, The, 122
a Knightly Character, 42 Gaspard de la Nuit, 104
Farewell to Pioneers, 247 Gebrauchsmusik, 210
304 INDEX
Gedalge, Andre, 101 Heifetz, Jascha, 253
Gefunden, 51 Heldenlehen, Ein, 42, 45, 51; criti¬
Genossenschaft Deutscher Tondich- cisms of, 43
ter, 46 Helvetia, 182
George V, 70, 71 Heure espagnole, L’, 100, 105, 110,
Germany, see Nazi government 112
Gershwin, George, use of jazz, 271, Heyward, Du Bose, 279
277, 278; friendship with White- Higginson, Henry Lee, 151
man, 271; writes Rhapsody in Hindemith, Paul, persecution by
Blue, 272; parents, 274-76, 282; Nazis, 203 ; world reputation, 205;
early life: training, 276; a leader early life, 206; style: compositions,
in Tin-Pan Alley song business, 207; in America: appearance, 211
277; popular productions: serious Histoire du soldat, L’, 23
music, 278; evaluated: lyrical in¬ Histoires naturelles, 103, 110
ventiveness, 279; personality: Hiver-Printemps, 176
tastes, 280; as painter, 281 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 208
Gershwin, Papa, 274-76 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von, collabora¬
Ghis, Henri, 100 tion with Strauss, 48
Giant, The, 119 Hoogstraten, Willem von, 250
Gilman, Lawrence, 221; quoted, 158 Hora Mystica, 153, 158
Girl-Crazy, 278 Hugh the Drover, 263
Gliere, 120 Huneker, James Gibbons, quoted,
Gliickliche Hand, Die, 222 224
Goldberg, Dr. Isaac, 182; quoted, Hungarian folk-music, 161-63
278
Goldmark, Karl, 86 “Iberia,” 133
Goldmark, Rubin, 276 Idyll (Delius), 198
Gorodner, Aaron, 251 Impressioni dal Vero, 240
Goyescas, 133 Impromptu! see Finlandia
Gozzi, Carlo, 124 In a Summer Garden, 194
Granados, Enrique, 133, 134, 137; In the Fen Country, 262
quoted, 131 In the South, 68
Grieg, Edvard H., recognition of Intermezzo (Strauss), 50
Delius, 191 Introduction and Allegro, 68
Guiraud, Ernest, 151 Israel Symphony, 179, 180
Guntram, 45 Italy, early music edited by Mali-
Gurre-Lieder, 215, 219, 220, 222-23 piero, 236, 241; Fascist attitude to¬
Gyermekeknek, A., 163 ward him, 242
Harmonielehre, 215, 221 Jadassohn, Salomon, 191

Harris, Roy, meteoric success, 247; Jarnefelt, Aino, 85, 87
recordings and commissions, 247, Jazz, Gershwin’s use of, 271 ff.;
252; background: early life, 248; Whiteman’s productions, 271-73,
training: compositions, 250; in 278 ; definitely established as a
hospital: learns to compose with¬ serious musical medium, 278
out piano: series of outstanding Jeu de cartes en trois donnes (The
works, 251; evaluated, 254; per¬ Card Party), 25
sonality, 255 Jeux d’eau, 102, 104
Hartmann, Gustav, 204 Jewish qualities of Ernest Bloch,
Hebraic qualities of Ernest Bloch, 173, 178, 182
173, 178, 182 Joachim, Joseph, 151
Heiberg, Gunnar, 193 Johnny Comes Marching Home, 253
INDEX 305
Jolson, Al, 277 Long, Marguerite, 109
Josephs Legende, 49, 56 Love, the Sorcerer (Amor Brujo, El),
Julius Caesar, 243 141
Love for Three Oranges, The, 124,
Kajanus, Robert, association with 126
Sibelius, S5, 87 Lux Christi, 65
Kalevala, 94
Kammermusik, 207, 210 Macbeth (Bloch), 176
Kammersymphonie, 221, 223 Macbeth (Strauss), 40
Karelia Suite, 87, 88, 94, 95 Mahler, Gustav, influence upon
Karsavina, dances, 12, 106, 143 Schonberg, 220; tributes to, 221,
Kiel, Friedrich, 151 223
Kindertotenlieder, 223 Malipiero, Gian Francesco, home:
King Christian II, 89 personality, 231, 242; generosity
Kingdom, The, 68 toward other musicians, 234; rela¬
Klemperer, Otto, 253 tions with Toscanini, 234, 241;
Kneisel, Franz, 151, 152 with his pupils, 235 ; influence of
Knorr, Ivan, 175 early Italian music and art upon,
Koanga, 194, 196 235, 238; musical expression, 236;
Kodaly, Zoltan, joins Bartok in study ancestry: early life, 237; mar¬
of Hungarian folk-music, 162 riages, 238, 243 ; intimacy with
Koessler, 165 modern music: effect upon style,
Kossuth, 166 239; wins four prizes; public re¬
Koussevitzky, Serge, 23, 252, 253 ; sentment: effect of war upon, 240;
publishing house, 123 important works: outstanding Ital¬
Krehbiel, Henry E., quoted, 92 ian composer of our time, 242
Kullervo, 86 Marienleben, Das, 207
Kulturkammer, Nazi, relations with Mass for Life, A, 194
Strauss, 53; with Hindemith, 204 Massart, 151
Mathis der Maler, 204
La La Lucille, 277 Memories of My Childhood, 150,
Lady Be Good, 278 153, 154
Lalo, Pierre, 107; quoted, 177 Military Marches, 51
Landowska, Wanda, quoted, 144 Miroirs (Ravel), 103
League of Composers, 253 Monteux, Pierre, 20, 106, 152
Legende, 192 Morgen, 51
Leigh, Walter, quoted, 210 Mart de Tintagiles, La, 152
Lemminkai-neu Suite, 89 Moses and Aaron, 226
Lenau, Nicolaus, on Don Juan, 40 Mother Goose Suite, 105
Lenox String Quartet, 251 Moussorgsky, Modest P., 6, 11, 16
Life’s Dance, A, 194 Muck, Karl, 180
Loeffler, Charles Martin Tornov, ar¬ Myrrha, 102, 110
tistic taste and mission, 149;
monastic retirement, 149, 153 ; Nazi government, relations with
early years, 150; training: goes to Strauss, 52, 55 ; musical creed:
America, 151; compositions, 151ff.; persecution of Hindemith, 203
marriage, 153; personality: tastes, Neues vom Tage, 209
155; evaluated: compared with New York Philharmonic Symphony
Debussy, 157 Society, 23, 181, 247, 250, 253, 278
Loeffler, Elsie Burnett Fay (Mrs. Newman, Ernest, quoted, 51, 215
Charles Martin), 153 Nichts, 51
London Symphony, A, 263-65 Nights in the Gardens of Spain, 141
306 INDEX
Nijinsky, 3, 4, 12, 106 Harris, 247, 252, 253; of Gersh¬
Noces, Les (The IVedding), 16, 21 win, 277
Norfolk rhapsodies, 261 Piano Quartet (Strauss), 38
Norton, Mrs. W. W., 253 Piano Quintet (Bloch), 181, 182
Nouvel, Walter, quoted, 105 Piano Quintet (Harris), 253
Pieces espagnoles, 140
CEdipus Rex, 28 Pierne, Gabriel, 106
Of Thee 1 Sing!, 278 Pierrot Lunaire, 222
Oh Kay!, 278 Poem (Harris), 252
Oiseau de feu, L’ (The Fire-Bird), Poem (Loeffler), 157
13, 16; ballet produced, 14; suc¬ Po'emes d'automne, 176, 178
cess of, 15, 16 Poisoned Kiss, The, 267
On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Pollitzer, Adolf, 62
Spring, 194, 199 Polonia, 69
On IVenlock Edge, 263 Pomp and Circumstance, 67
Orchestras, payment of royalties to Popular music, in serious artistic
composers, 46 forms, 264; Gershwin’s produc¬
Orfeide, L’ (Malipiero), 242 tions, 277
Orfeo (Rossi), 241 Porgy and Bess, 278, 279, 280
Oriental Symphony, 175 Pougin, Arthur, 176
Over the Hills and Far Away, 192 Pro Deti, 163
Overture in C-minor (Strauss), 37 Prodigal Son, The, see Fils prodigue,
Le
Pagan Poem, A, 152, 154, 157 Prokofieff, Serge, quality of his mu¬
Pantea, 241 sic, 117; early life: training, 119;
Paris, 194 early compositions, 120; works
Parker, H. T., on Harris, 254 produced by Diaghilev, 121, 122,
Parry, C. Hubert, 260 124, 125; later works, 122; circuit
Pas d’Acier, Le (The Age of Steel), of the globe: in America, 123;
125 failure of Chicago opera, 124;
Passione, La, 243 significance as creative artist ac¬
Pastoral Symphony, 265 cepted: personality: musical as¬
Paul, Adolf, on Sibelius, 84, 90 piration, 126
Pause del Silenzio, 241 Psalm 22, 179
Pavane of the Sons of the Morning, Pulcinella, 23
267
Pavane pour une infante defunte, Quartet in D-minor (Schonberg),
102, 104 221
Pavlova, Anna, 12 Quartet in F-major (Ravel), 102,
Pedrell, Felipe, contribution to Span¬ 104, 112
ish music, 132, 135 ; influence upon Quartet in F-sharp minor (Schon¬
Falla, 135 berg), 221

Quartet Pieces (Bloch), 181
Pelleas and Melisande (Schonberg),
Quintet (Bloch), 181, 182
220
Persephone, 25, 28
Radio popularity of Harris, 247, 252,
Pessard, Emile, 101 253
Petrushka, 17; produced, 18 Rappoldi, Eduard, 151
Peyser, Herbert F., 205n Rappresentazione di anima e di
Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra, corpo, La, 241
181, 182, 247 Rasse, F., 175
Phonograph recordings, works of Ravel, Maurice Joseph, 4, 138, 139;
INDEX 307
early French and Spanish influ¬ Saga, En, 87
ences, 99; musical training, 100; Salome, 34, 52; a storm center, 48
early compositions, 101; efforts to San Francesco d’Assisi, 242
win Prix de Rome, 102; the storm Sancta Civitas, 266
center of Paris: Debussy’s influ¬ Satie, Erik, 100, 138
ence, 103; evaluated, 104; ballets, Scandals, George White’s, 277
105, 108 ; greater compositions: Schelomo, 179, 180
physical collapse, 110; categories Scherzo fantastique (Stravinsky), 9,
of his music: humorous, 110; for 10, 13
the dance, 111; personality: tastes, Schlagobers, 51
112; compared with Williams, 262 Schmitt, Florent, 4
Reinecke, Carl, 191 Schneiderpolka, Der, 35
Renard, 22, 23 Schola Cantorum, 244
Rene, Charles, 100, 104 Schonberg, Arnold, far-reaching sig¬
Requiem (Delius), 197 nificance of his influence, 215, 220;
Retablo de Maese Pedro, El, 143 style, 216, 226; early years, 217;
Return of Lemminkai-nen, The, 90 work of formative period, 219;
Rey, L., 175 marriage: students, 220; influence
Rhapsodie espagnole, 100, 104 of Mahler, 220, 223 ; “scandals”
Rhapsody (Bartok), 167 attending performance of works,
Rhapsody in Blue, 271-71, 277, 280 221; success of Gurre-Lieder, 222;
Richter, Hans, performs Elgar’s antagonism for music of: its artis¬
works, 65, 68 tic importance, 224; in America,
Rilke, Rainer Maria, 207 226; personality: tastes, 227
Rimsky-Korsakoff, Nikolai, 6; in¬ Schuster, Leo F. H., 59
fluence upon Stravinsky, 8, 9, 16 Schwanendreher, Der, 210
Rispetti e Strambotti, 242 Scythian Suite, 122
Rite of Spring, The, see Sacre du Sea Drift, 194, 195
Printemps Sea Symphony, 263
Ritter, Alexander, influence upon Second Piano Concerto (Prokofieff),
Strauss, 38; poem by, 40 125
Roberts, Caroline Alice, see Elgar, Second String Quartet (Hindemith),
Lady Caroline Alice 207
Roerich, Nicholas, 3 Second Symphony (Elgar), 69, 75
Rolland, Romain, recognition of Second Symphony (Harris), 247, 253
Bloch, 177 Sept, ils sont sept, 123
Rosen, Jelka, friendship with Delius, Serenade for Thirteen Wind Instru¬
192; marriage, 193 ments, 37
Rosenkavalier, Der, 49, 52 Sette Canzoni, 242
Ross, Hugh, 244 Sharp, Evelyn, 267
Rossignol, Le, 9 Shaw, George Bernard, on Elgar,
Royalties for composers, 46 67, 72
Rubinstein, Ida, 108 Sheherazade, 101
“Russian Five,” 5, 22 Shepherds of the Delectable Moun¬
Russian Symphony Orchestra, 123 tain, 266
Sibelius, Aino Jarnefelt (Mrs. Jan),
Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of 85, 87
Spring), 111; first performance, 3, Sibelius, Jan Julius Christian, pres¬
19; writing of: theme, 19; the tige in Finland, 79, 89; personal¬
crowning work of Stravinsky’s ity: tastes, 79; musical tastes:
career, 20 method of composing, 82; sym¬
Sacred Service, 182, 183, 184 phonies, 82, 89ff.; early life, 82;
308 INDEX
training, 83; association with Ka- disagreement about, 4, 25; per¬
janus, 85, 87; betrothal, 85; in¬ sonality, 5, 26; early life, 5, 6;
tense national feeling, 86, 94; marriage: turns to musical career:
compositions, 86ff.; marriage: pro¬ early compositions, 8; influence of
fessional life, 87; prestige: honors, Rimsky-Korsakoff, 8, 9; relations
89ff.; in America, 91; during with Diaghilev, 10, 12, 15, 16, 17;
Revolution, 92; world-wide cele¬ first major assignment, 14; man¬
bration of birthday, 93; evaluated, nerisms: second period, 15; middle
94 phase, 16; fame established, 18;
Sierra, Gregorio Martinez, 141, as a world figure, 19; distaste for
142 Wagner’s music, 19, 28; other im¬
Silent IVoman, The, 54 portant compositions, 20; flees
Sinfonia dcgli Eroi, 239 Russia, 21; discards old style:
Sinfonia del mare, 239 third creative period, 22; in Amer¬
Sitt, 191 ica, 23; life in Paris: family, 27;
Six Pieces for the Piano (Schon- opinions about music, 28
berg), 222 Strike Up the Band!, 278
Song for Occupations, 253 String Quartet in A (Strauss), 36
Song of the Nightingale, The (Chant String Quartet in B-minor (Bloch),
du rossignol, Le), 20 180
Spanish music, nature of, 131, 136; String-Sextet (Loeffler), 152
composers, 132, 133 Suite (Strauss), 37
Spirit of England, The, 69 Suite for Viola and Orchestra
Standchen, 51 (Bloch), 181
Stanford, Charles Villiers, 260 Summer Night on the River, 194,
Stoeckel, Carl, 91, 92 199
Strauss, Franz, 34, 35, 39 Sur Le Borysthene, 126
Strauss, Josephine Pschorr, 34 Svcan of Tuonela, The, 89, 90, 91
Strauss, Richard, evaluated, 33, 44; Svsanee, 277
early compositions, 34ff., 51; early Symphonia Domestica (Strauss), 47,
life, 34; training, 35; musical ap¬ 51
preciations, 36, 37; as conductor, Symphonic des Psaumes (Stravin¬
37, 40, 47, 92; influence of H. von sky), 24, 28
Btilow, 37; of Ritter, 38; composi¬ Symphonies of Sybelius, 82, 89ff.
tion in new style, 39; in full stride Symphony (Hindemith), 204
as composer: tone-poems, 40; most Symphony, Like the Four Seasons
dominant figure in world of music, (Malipiero), 243
43; marriage, 45; wins battle to Symphony: 1933 (Harris), 252
secure royalties for composers, 46; Symphony for Voices, The (Harris),
turns to song and opera, 47; col¬ 253
laboration with Hugo von Hof¬ Symphony in C-sharp minor (Bloch),
mannsthal, 48; decline as creative 177, 178
artist, 50; darling of the music Symphony in D-minor (Strauss), 36
world, 52; relations with Nazi Symphony in E-flat (Stravinsky), 9
musical authorities, 52, 55, 204; Symphony in F-minor (Strauss), 38
personality, 54; lust for money, Symphony in F-minor (Williams),
55; method of composition, 56; ap¬ 266
preciation of Elgar, 67; quoted,
196 Tageszeiten, 34, 51
Stravinsky, Feodor, 6 Taneiev, advice to Prokofieff, 120
Stravinsky, Igor, Sacre du Prin- Te Deum (Elgar), 65
temps performed, 3, 19; critics’ Theater Guild of New York, 278
INDEX 309
Third Piano Concerto (Prokofieff), Foice in the Wilderness, A, 183
124 Vuillermoz, Emile, 107
Thoman, Stephan, 165
Three Cornered Hat, The, 142 Wagner Richard, music of, disliked,
Thus Spake Zarathustra, 42 19, 28, 35, 36; admired, 37, 218
Till EulenspiegeVs Merry Pranks, Ward, Thomas F., association with
34, 41-42, 44 Delius, 191
Tin-Pan Alley and Gershwin, 277 Wedding, The (Noces, Les), 16, 21
Tombeau de Couperin, Le, 108 Wegelius, Martin, 84
Torneo Notturno, 242 We’ll All Go Down to the Strand,
Toscanini, Arturo, 91, 92, 109; rela¬ 265
tions with Malipiero, 234, 241 Westminster Choir, 253
Towards an Unknown Region, 262 White, George, Scandals, 277
Trago, Jose, 135 Whiteman, Paul, friendship with
Traum durch die Ddmmerung, 51 Gershwin, 271; commissions sym¬
Tre Commedie Goldoniane, 242 phonic-jazz composition, 272; All-
Trio (Harris), 253 American Music Concert, 273;
Trois poemes juifs, 179, 181 broadcasts, 278
Tuttifantchen, 208 Williams, Ralph Vaughan, dean of
“Twelve-tone system,” 216 English music, 259; early life, 260;
Two Portraits, 166 interest in folk-music: its influ¬
Two Psalms, 179 ence upon his compositions, 261;
compared with Ravel: composi¬
False, La, 100, 108, 111 tions in own personal idiom, 262;
False Triste, 90 use of popular music, 264; in
Van Vechten, Carl, quoted, 4
World War: later compositions,
Fariations on a Theme, 252
265 ; personality: changes in style,
Feillees de I’Ukraine, Les, 150, 151
266
Verger, Christine, 105
Woman Without a Shadow, The, 49,
Ferklarte Nacht, 219, 221
50
Victor Phonograph Company, 247,
Wonderful Mandarin, The, 167
252
Fida Breve, La, 138, 140 Woodcut Prince, The, 167
Fillage Romeo and Juliet, A, 194,
196 Ysaye, Eugene, 175
Fillanelle du Diable, La, 152
Vines, Ricardo, 100; performs Ra¬ “Zarzuelas,” 133
vel’s music, 100, 102, 104 Zemlinsky, Alexander von, befriends
Faces intimae, 91 Schonberg, 218; sister of, marries
Foice in the Desert, A, 69 Schonberg, 220
V
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DUKE

"The Man with the Baton’’

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

Printed in the United States of America

"A yjTODERN music might very aptly be likened to a

music. In any case, it is a noble representation of com¬

Some of the material included in this book

O N MAY 29, 1913, a volcanic eruption rocked musical

At the time of the Sacre “scandal,” Igor Stravinsky was

a frequent visitor at the home of his uncle where perform¬

Korsakoff. And under the guidance of the master, he was

friend. In expression of his profound sentiments, and as a

interview with Rimsky-Korsakoff—was convinced that

paragraphs. Certainly it is ridiculous to assume that had

Chopiniana—with the two Stravinsky orchestrations

During late winter of 1909 and early spring of 1910,

of the dreaded Kastchei who captures wayfaring travelers

In these works of the middle phase of Stravinsky’s ar¬

Ballet Russe requirements; as he listened to sections of the

more original than important. But a handful of musicians

And, slowly and inevitably, Stravinsky’s faith in himself

the Emperor permanently banishes the nightingale from

years, in which five major works were produced. It is

In 1919, Stravinsky took up his residence in Garches,

of Stravinsky’s latest works rests in the consummate suc¬

Igor Stravinsky is small and thin; his chest appears

Stravinsky is enormously fond of conversation, and will

kofieff, Hindemith and de Falla. None of the younger

the leader in Munich of all cabals and intrigues against

Franz Strauss gave his son a comprehensive education.

Between 1889 and 1894, Strauss officiated as court con¬

Will to live and power of Death! What frightful wres¬

Utilized thematic material from his principal works to date,

were those who detested him and who savagely attacked

We have traveled so swiftly in our biographical narrative

managed Strauss’ affairs with a capable hand and a keen

Strauss from the field of battle. Perhaps it is true that he

edited by Strauss’ son and published in 1928), they suc¬

2 Correspondence between Richard Strauss and Hugo ■von Hofmannsthal,

tively to beauty, to express itself in uncontrollable bursts

day of Richard Strauss, that “Strauss was a genius.” The

Despite the decline, Richard Strauss remained the darling

the Nazi government. Strauss had asked Stefan Zweig, the

Richard Strauss is tall and lean and, though his shoulders

SIR EDWARD ELGAR

brothers could supply. W. H. Elgar also played the violin

surprise: “Why all of them, of course 1”—and, to the

the term we designate someone with a formal academic

the Enigma Variations, but Edward Elgar as well, became

2 Strictly speaking, the Enigma Variations as introduced by Hans Rich¬

3 It will be recalled that in the monumental motion-picture about England,

being recognized by the Crown as the greatest living

During the next ten years Elgar solidified his magis¬

permanent place in the virtuoso’s repertory. The Second