Books › Musical Courier 1928-12-13: Vol 97 Iss 24, 1928 › scan 10
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Musical Courier 1928-12-13: Vol 97 Iss 24, 1928
108 lines. Read by computer on 29 September 2026. Printed page 11. See the scan on archive.org.
1December 13, 1928
3MUSICAL COURIER
5INSPIRATION AND CRAFTSMANSHIP
6(A Review)
7By César Saerchinger
9A New York Hermione belonging to one of our Modern Little Groups once asked a composer whether his music was Motion, Color or Perfume. A well-known critic, interviewing Arnold Schönberg, asked that dreaded revolutionary whether he considered his Serenade for Seven Instruments harmony, counterpoint, or what. The reply in each case was "Music."
11Well, that reply evidently won't do; and people will go on dissecting music into its component parts, according to various systems or conceptions of intellectual chemistry. Nietzsche's distinction of the Apollonian and Dyonysian elements, the popular differentiation between thought and emotion, inspiration and calculation, and so on ad infinitum, are all expressions—or a higher plane—of Hermione's gushing curiosity. The latest of the aesthetic chemists is Eric Blom, who in a delightful essay called The Limitations of Music,* tries to draw the fine line sharply between what he calls Invention and Artistry.
13It is obvious that every musical work—every work of art, in fact—must consist of these two elements; it is also obvious that they are present in variable proportions, even in what we recognize as a masterpiece. Mr. Blom sets up, for the sake of argument of course (for such things should not be taken too seriously) an arbitrary table of proportions for three of the greatest masters, thus:
15<table>
16 <tr>
17 <th></th>
18 <th>Bach</th>
19 <th>Mozart</th>
20 <th>Beethoven</th>
21 </tr>
22 <tr>
23 <th>Invention</th>
24 <td>3</td>
25 <td>4</td>
26 <td>6</td>
27 </tr>
28 <tr>
29 <th>Artistry</th>
30 <td>5</td>
31 <td>6</td>
32 <td>4</td>
33 </tr>
34 <tr>
35 <th></th>
36 <th>10</th>
37 <th>10</th>
38 <th>10</th>
39 </tr>
40</table>
42The figure 10 means perfection, thus perfection does not, according to Mr. Blom, depend on the preponderance either of invention (i.e. inspiration) or artistry (i.e. intellect). It would be obviously incorrect to call Bach the greatest of the three because one found in him, a perfect balance between the two.
44As a matter of fact one might easily disagree with these rough analyses. Some might ascribe to Mozart a greater amount of invention than to Beethoven, and to Beethoven the greater artistry. Beethoven would still be, to my mind, the greater composer. For there is a difference not merely in the quantity of the inspiration but also in the quality. And while Mozart's invention was perhaps of the more accommodating kind, which easily fitted into the classic mould, Beethoven's was of the obstreperous, volcanic sort which it required the greater craftsmanship to tame. This suggests the idea that the profounder—the more human rather than specifically musical and therefore the greater—the idea, the greater also the craftsmanship required to fashion it and communicate it. It is precisely in the moulding of his thoughts that the titanic power of Beethoven comes to the fore. It is this power, and the incident originality in creating a new style, that proclaim the greater artistry, and not the power of a Mozart to mould his thoughts into the more "perfect" classic forms—or, as Mr. Blom would have us believe, the composer's recognition of the "limitations" of his art. Certainly a lesser genius might take "the necessity of confining himself to certain limits" to heart. But while in life even the greatest man must submit to the laws of nature, it is the supreme artist himself who creates the laws of art.
46ARTISTIC SUPERMEN
48We cannot sit in judgment upon these supermen, as to whether they have employed inspiration or artistry, simply because we ourselves do not know in most cases where inspiration ends and artistry begins. The line is too indefinitely drawn—even between, say, a melody (as it came to the artist from the depths of the Unconscious) and the continuation of that melody by conscious constructive thought. There is something between the two mental processes, something that might be called inspired workmanship, in which the two activities of creating and fashioning are mysteriously fused. In a lesser genius the dividing line is more easily drawn; one need only compare the "developments" of Brahms, in his less inspired moments, with those of Beethoven to recognize the difference.
50Again take the case of Schubert, whom Mr. Blom does not mention and in whom the two ingredients presumably do not make up the required 10. To my mind they do, though it would take a brave man to apportion the percentages. Schubert's craftsmanship is of the kind that refused to recognize "certain limitations." But he is therefore the less great? His inspiration, like Beethoven's, was of a calibre which would not tolerate the limitations of classic forms; and just as Beethoven magnified these forms to hold his greater and deeper thoughts, so Schubert created new and strange moulds to hold his turbulent inspiration. Is he the lesser artist for that? Is Rembrandt a lesser artist than Raphael? The question is idle because no answer can be given. Certainly the perfection of beauty reached by the one induces a spiritual elevation which is akin to that produced by the power and poignancy of the other. We are affected similarly by beauty of form and power of expression. It is the artist's genius alone that can dictate the manner of conveyance.
52It may be an idle speculation, but perhaps the answer to Mr. Blom's assertion of Mozart's greater craftsmanship is that, had Mozart been capable of the thoughts of Beethoven or Schubert he would have found his craftsmanship inadequate. He would either have had to "limit," or curb, his inspiration (and by that very limitation he would have become, not greater but less great), or to have adopted methods of craftsmanship which might appear less perfect because the struggle between thought and medium would leave its trace.
54Even Mr. Blom seems to recognize this, for to him it is "positively disgusting" to think that had Mozart lived longer he might have had ample time to turn into a romantic, and he sees signs of that in the Magic Flute. Now it is precisely the Magic Flute which, despite its lack of classic limitation, remains the most lovable of all of Mozart's works, however superior the artistry of the others may appear.
56But we suspect Mr. Blom knows all this. If he sticks to his theme through thick and thin it is because there are so many interesting variations to it. How the "limitations" imposed by art, by the material, by circumstances, may often inspire a composer rather than impede him, is an interesting argument for which he gives chapter and verse. And the thesis is such a convenient peg to hang opinions upon that, since the opinions are good one may well put up with the peg.
58FLAYING THE MODERNS
60Especially with regard to the moderns Mr. Blom's terse judgments are often very apt. His characterization of Peléas et Mélisande as "a case of acute anaemia in five attacks" is cruel but true. So is this about Ravel:
62"The music of Ravel is like a drawing-room furnished in the most exquisite taste, but so exclusive a personal taste that the healthy visitor who ranges from one environment to another and enjoys what he may find worth enjoying in each, can bear the scented closeness of it all but for a short while, much as he must admire its delicate and impeccable beauty."
64But when he expresses the opinion that Ravel may be "nothing more than the Mendelssohn of the 20th century" he is very hard on poor Mendelssohn, whose spirit will yet rise up and smite his traducers. Mendelssohn, after all, is a master, and if he had written nothing but Elijah he would still be immeasurably greater than Ravel and Debussy combined. Could either of them have written the Midsummer Night's Dream music, which he wrote at seventeen, at any age whatever? We must judge composers by their best works and not by their worst.
66On Mahler, too, there are some perspicacious sentences. "Mahler," he says "was a traditionalist by nature and a modernist by choice. His music has a curious warp to it that gives one an uncomfortable feeling, not that the composer was insincere, but that he often felt suddenly ashamed of his sincerity." Strauss, on the other hand, is "a fundamentally and sentimentally diatonic composer for whom dissonant harmonic combinations—or what is conventionally regarded as dissonant—have merely the interest that disease has for the physician, a thing to be reckoned with, but standing in need of remedy." Although vastly more daring things have been done since the days when Strauss was deemed the last thing in audacity, his suggestions of hideousness and vileness still strike one as excesses, as transgressions against what seems to him the norm of all that is good and beautiful in music. It is not because of their harshness, but because of their insincerity that they continue to leave the hearer unconvinced and fail to make themselves clear to him as a logical conclusion from sound aesthetic premises."
68I like Mr. Blom's description of Fauré as "a composer whose taste is greatly in excess of his mentality." And the characterization of Stravinsky, in Bernard Shaw's words, as "a professional man of genius" is more than apt. "More than half of Stravinsky's work affords a dire example of the futility of innovation for its own sake. Everlastingly experimenting, pottering, explaining intentions which ought to be perfectly clear, he has little time for real achievement. In the meantime other people do work. Men will come after him and simply take what he leaves—for it is all extremely interesting theoretically—and they will proceed with the conversion of it from an end in itself into means to an end worth pursuing. How deplorable it is that a man of so much talent should waste so much time theorising with the violence of a stump orator, while leaving others to carry out effectively most of the reforms he advocates."
70And one is glad to see Manuel de Falla put in his proper place by a comparison with Domenico Scarlatti. Lack of real craftsmanship—or what we have called inspired workmanship—characterize both musicians, but the empty repetitions of phrases, the real poverty of invention in de Falla are far more flagrant. El Amor brujo, says Mr. Blom, is "a veritable Noah's ark" in the way pairs of identical phrases crop up side by side.
72"Bars are duplicated, couples of bars are duplicated, groups of several bars are duplicated, longer sections are duplicated, duplications are duplicated, and it is no uncommon thing for a phrase to be stated twice over inside which a shorter one is itself stated twice over."
74FOLKSONG AND NATIONALISM
76The excuse that folksong material (which de Falla uses so amply) imposes certain restrictions is well answered by saying that "the composer must be the master of the substance he sets out to shape into art, whether it be of his own making or taken from popular sources; in other words while justified in being guided by the limitations of his own personality he must on no account allow himself to be cramped by those of an influence coming to him from without." As for folksong itself, in its natural state, it "does not belong to art, but to life. It is not an art form and it cannot therefore lay claim to style."
78Which leads us to the ever present question of "national" art—another favorite argument for "limitation from without." Says Mr. Blom:
80"Much of the fallacious reasoning about the value of folk music to the composer is due to the fact that the ardent upholders of it as an invaluable asset to a national school will not see that it can only be this so long as it remains the composer's servant. They are so fascinated by it that they would fain see it become his master. By 'topsy-turvy' argument, they assume therefore that Vaughan Williams, de Falla, Bartók or Sibelius are eminent composers because they are great musical patriots, whereas a vastly finer tribute would be paid them by the recognition that they would have been just as good artists if they had never come into touch with their countries' indigenous uncultivated music. They would have been different artists, that is all."
82There are many more epigrammatic flashes that are worth quoting, such as the tagging of Lord Berners as the "chartered wag of British music," and of the French as the nation "which objects to nothing so much as to being bored, even if the boredom may be due to the attitude of the listener rather than to the nature of the work heard."
84There is, methinks, a bit of this French spirit in other nations as well, and I shall leave my fellow-Americans to ponder the remark with care.
86AN EXCUSE FOR GROWING OLD
87By Clarence Lucas
89We elderly critics are often told that our day is past, that our usefulness is done, that music has progressed beyond our understanding, that we should retire and give the youngsters a chance. I know the youngsters are right, because I was young once myself and I remember well how very much more I knew and understood at twenty than I am sure of now. This continual progress of the young towards ignorance and incapacity would be sad if we did not see still younger sages and philosophers arriving day by day to follow in the footsteps of the departing Zoiluses and decadent Solons.
91Why did I forsake the ambition of my extreme youth and end my career ignobly as a musician and a music critic? I began my life with the hope of owning the shop of the old woman near our school, who sold us gum-drops, cakes, and chocolates. The limitations imposed on me by the scarcity of pennies would not exist when I became the owner of the shop. But with the advancing years the passion of my youth declined. Like Jean Jacques Rousseau, I was remarkable only as a child. When I became a man I ceased to be extraordinary. He said so. He became a mere critic of the French government and helped mightily to bring about the Revolution. Rousseau started as a player of the flute and managed to compose a successful opera. Then, like Paderewski later, he meddled with politics, in a literary way, and did not, like Paderewski, return to his instrument of music. That is why he said he ceased to be extraordinary.
93See what time and experience did to that man Saul, for instance. On the way to Damascus he saw a great light which blinded him for three days and took away his appetite. His friends tied a rope to a basket and helped him over the wall of the city by night, and the fire-eating, slaughtering Saul became the eloquent and gentlemanly St. Paul.
95Many of us fiery and impetuous youthful critics change in the course of time, without necessarily seeing a great light or becoming eloquent and gentlemanly. And it consoles us in our dotage to reflect on the flight of Time, the assassin who shortens the existence of the youngest critic exactly as rapidly as he curtails our own.
97What boy is haunted with a memory of the past? What would it mean to him to find a few dry and faded rose leaves in a yellow letter at the bottom of a drawer? Nothing at all. The golden buttercup and fresh blown dandelion in the garden are far more beautiful to look upon. And some of the newest music has more snap and animation than many of the old songs and piano pieces have—old works which I associate with great artists who have long since joined the silent host in the "undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns."
99I am told that it is time for me to forget the music of Sarasate. The world, so it appears, has made great strides towards a much more worthy music. But I still hear in imagination the ineffably sweet and vibrant tones of Sarasate's Stradivarius. Let the performers of the newer music play like Sarasate if they wish to charm me. Perhaps they play much better than Sarasate ever played. After all these years I may have mixed two sentiments together and given Sarasate credit for more than he deserves. For I remember now that a pair of bright blue eyes set in a pretty face were very near me when I first heard the violin of Sarasate. His music is not merely redolent of Spain. It whispers half obliterated messages and reveals soft glances of cerulean eyes which took their last look at the world of the living more than twenty years ago.
101The memory of the past also preserves in perpetual springtime Grieg's violin and piano sonata in F. Why do the newer generations of musicians tell me it has faded from its autumn into the winter of neglect?
103To the young ear musical sounds must seem more wonderful than they seem to me. I recall how the mere tones of the various orchestral instruments enchanted me. But a long life as a conductor, composer, and music critic, has dispelled the magic of mere sound. Now I admire ideas, form, structure, purity of style, together with emotional warmth. And most of the standard works have associations for me. Why does the traveler find a strange interest in a folksong of his native land? Because he has associations with it. Associations make us hear our national anthem with a thrill, despite the triteness of the tune. And the musician of experience comes in time to have associations with nearly all the music he hears except the very newest. The young musician has no such associations. He hears all music as so much sound, even as a child appraises the value of all he eats by the taste of it and without a thought about its merits as nourishment.
105Another bond of union between the youthful food expert and the young musician is ignorance. Unbounded confidence in criticising is the concomitant of unlimited vacuity. The more a critic knows about the difficulty of the art, the less hard he will be on the little failings of the artist. But the acquisition of knowledge requires long years of study. We elderly critics consequently find ourselves in a terrible dilemma. How can we escape from it? If we remain for ever young, like the maiden on Keats' Grecian Urn, we must remain for ever ignorant. When we grow old we are told that our day is past, that our usefulness is done, that music has progressed beyond our understanding, that we should retire and give the youngsters a chance.
107Would that, when I am bent with age and blind, a modern Ponce de Leon might lead me to the fountain of perpetual youth, even as Antigone guided the faltering steps of the sightless Oedipus to Colonus.
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