The Thirty Years' War (1900–1930)
Authors: Evans Edwin 
Published: January 2007

For the second time in a generation the whole world about us is torn by strife, and we are seeing more of its history unfolding itself before our eyes than any of our forefathers. At the risk of bathos let us congratulate ourselves on the fact that the world of music is at peace—or at least as near to complete peace as it is ever likely to be. It has not long been so. This generation of musicians has seen a whole chapter, and an agitated one, of musical history unfold itself and I, for one, am disposed to congratulate myself on having lived through such stirring times—for if we have had strife, at least our quarrels have involved no bloodshed, nor added to the sum of human misery. The evolution of our musical language has encountered many such periods of acute stress. Some years ago two of us, a German scholar named Lorenz and myself discovered independently of each other, a certain periodicity in the recurrence of these crises. It may have been quite fortuitous, but the data made it appear plausible. The only difference between us was that Lorenz adopted three centuries for his unit whereas I preferred half that time, 150 years. The obvious nodal point was the year 1600, the year of Peri's Eurydice, the earliest surviving opera, which was followed two years later by the appearance of the Nuove Musiche. In choosing the shorter unit I was probably actuated by thinking of the death of Bach in 1750, a date which can stand approximately for the passing from baroque to rococo in German music. His sons were champions of the style galant in which were to be laid the foundations of nineteenth century music. But the choice of unit is immaterial. Either brings us to 1900 as the period when another climacteric was to be expected if there were any real basis for our speculations. I do not think there can now be any doubt that a time of crisis did begin about that time. It was not only due, but necessary to the well-being of music, for the style which had prevailed in the nineteenth century was in full decadence, and in need of new ideas and resources. I once said of Debussy that if he had not appeared when he did it would have been necessary to invent him. Even earlier than that there is a letter of Mussorgsky lamenting that, whereas in company with painters and other artists he could follow their conversation, musicians talked a professional jargon which none but themselves could follow. He deduced that music was still in its childhood, concerned with spelling. The truth was that one set of conventions was hardening, and ripe for disruption. Inflections, appoggiaturas, progressions and cadences had become so familiar, that, like journalistic clichés, they had almost ceased to convey the meaning with which they had come into existence. Worse still, the whole apparatus of musical technique had become so standardised that anyone of average intelligence could master it, and this enabled many to produce music whom Providence in its wisdom had clearly never intended to be composers. Music of that type was becoming a sore trial to critics, for it could, and often did, approach technical perfection. There was nothing to be said against it except that it had no raison d'être. Whatever may be the ultimate valuation of Debussy's works—if any valuation can be ultimate—the fact will remain that he upset the complacency of that world. In doing so I believe that he was quite conscious of what it needed. Ernest Guiraud, who taught him, said that in his long experience as a professor of harmony, he had sometimes had model pupils who always, or nearly always, brought him exercises carried out in the manner foreseen by the text-books. He had had a multitude of others who did this more or less rarely. But Debussy was the first pupil he had ever had who never, even by accident, brought him the answer which the text-book postulated as correct. This could not have been either ignorance or mischievousness, but simply that, young as he was, Debussy was conscious of the threadbareness of some of the answers expected of him. In a letter to me he confessed that his musical ideal was the shepherd's pipe, the sound of which dissolves into the landscape. So far as we can analyse his processes he seems to have deserted the architectural or rhetorical principles which underlay so much of musical procedure in favour of the selectiveness of painters. If he needed a certain harmonic colour he did not work up to it or away from it; he simply took it from his palette and applied it where needed, as painters do. Then arose that almost laughable saying of the die-hards that of course such composition is easy. You just do what you like. Certainly Debussy and others after him have enjoyed greater liberty than their predecessors; but to call that enjoyment easy is an absurdity. Surely in any given situation, it is far easier to follow accepted precedents than to create your own. It was mainly in that form that were heard the first rumblings of the war that was soon to break out. What brought matters to a head was the production of Pelléas et Mélisande. Both at the public dress rehearsal and at the first performance there were scenes which were reflected in subsequent reports. It was not merely an expression of disapproval; it amounted to downright hostility. In one sense it was a compliment to the composer, for mediocrity is quite incapable of arousing such violent opposition. But I am flogging a dead horse. All that is now ancient history. I like the honesty of Henri Gauthier-Villars, otherwise Willy, who wrote in the Echo de Paris a criticism that contained much of the prevailing disparagement, and then pulled himself up with a postscript: “I am wrong. I am behaving just like those who revolted against the luminosity of the impressionists. Forget what I have said,” and he let the whole thing, postscript included, stand as written. I also like the pseudo-casuistry of a certain very eminent French musician of an older school who said to me: “The first time I heard Pelléas I did not like it at all. It was not music as I understood the word. But I was not satisfied and to resolve my doubts I heard it again. I then came away with the impression that, all the same, it was a masterpiece, dans un art qui ne serait pas la musique.” The subtlety of that French conditional mood defies translation. A few years later Diaghileff took Rimsky-Korsakoff, when in Paris, to hear Pelléas. They left the theatre in silence. Presently Rimsky remarked impressively: “My friend, you must not take me to hear such music. I am afraid I might grow to like it.” These memories are paradoxical gleams from the mêlée. They were rare. The majority were either bitterly against or enthusiastically in favour, but the latter were a minority. Happily for music they were fighters. The war had started.