The New York Sun, Saturday, April 26, 1930.

Music and Musicians

by W. J, Henderson

The production of Schoenberg's "Die Gluecklich Hand" and Stravinsky's "Le Sacre du

Printemps" on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House on Tuesday evening was without

question the musical and terpsichorean "event of the season." The work of the Russian was

revealed for the first time as a ballet and the gruesome conception of the Teuton cast its blight

on minds to which it had happily been a stranger. There was hope in the heart of the reviewer

when he went to the performance. He left the theater in sorrow and disappointment. Vast

quantities of ink have been wasted in explanations and exaltations of the "Drama Mit Musik,"

by Schoenberg. There is still reason for some commentary, but fleeting and futile as all

critical descriptions must be, none can be more swiftly moved toward oblivion than will this

lamentable misuse of the materials of musical art.

This is not an opera in the commonly accepted definition of the word. But art cannot stand

still and whatever experiment may be made in the search for new highways into the future

should be seriously considered. Mr. Stokowski has made a special plea that it be so received.

Such a plea should not be necessary. No matter what any of us have thought about the music

of Schoenberg in the past, we owed it to this new work to give it at least one hearing.

One of the most thrilling experiences the professional writer about musical activities can have

is to go with expectation of boredom to a concert or opera to hear a new work by a composer

who has never given him pleasure and discovering that he has walked into the presence of

an inspiration. This does not happen to one very often, but so much the greater reason for not

avoiding an opportunity. Distrust is aroused when there is so much explaining beforehand. Up

on the Grand Concourse there is a little white house, preserved in memory of a man who once

lived in it. People cherish his memory because he created imperishable works of art. His name

was Edgar Allan Poe, and one of the things he said in his critical essays was this:

"Every work of art should contain within itself all that is requisite for its own

comprehension."

It makes one sad to think how few of the musical compositions of this time can stand

unabashed before this doctrine. The modernists have done more explaining of themselves and

their ideas than Wagner did. Possibly in the course of time we shall realize, like Wagner, they

were right and that when the human race catches up with them, they wilt never have to be

explained any more.

"The Silver Snarling Trumpets."

Meanwhile, all we have to do is to ask ourselves if Schoenberg's music justifies itself by its

association with the action so expertly performed on Tuesday night. It must be conceded that

the synchronization of colored lights which formed part of the composer's scheme was

missing, but we are not unfamiliar with the symphony of colors and most of us are still in the

dark as to the effects which it is supposed to have upon us. Doubtless we are insensitive as

to so subtle an art. But since it did not appear in the production, which apparently lost nothing

by its absence, we may content ourselves with a confrontation of the music.

First let us accept the fact that Schoenberg's drama is one of darkness, despair and death. The

hero is a simulacrum of a man who, failing to win a woman, goes morally and physically to

pieces. The woman is one of the "rag and a bone and a hank of hair" tribe. She sells her

soul and her body for luxury. The buyer kicks her out of his path when he is through with her.

It is not a new story, but it has frequently been told less brutally than Schoenberg tells it. He

made it as ugly as he could, not in the picture, but in the sound.

The music is the last word in merciless ingenuity. There is not an instant of apparent

spontaneity in the score. All is laid out with a micrometer and shaped with a graver's tools.

We have no quarrel with Schoenberg because he has dealt with sordid tragedy. That is as old

as the stage and has awakened the visions of many artists. But it cannot well be demonstrated

that art has ever profited by becoming ignoble. In the Vatican there is a piece of sculpture

which has evoked endless comment. The Laocoon has been censured for morbidity because it

contains no suggestion of ethical tragedy, no fault, no sin. But the artist is no longer asked to

be a moralist. Art has insisted on its right to deal with ugly subjects—but not by ugly means

of expression.

True art cannot exist devoid of decorative quality. In the Schoenberg drama this quality is

confined to the stage action, which has genuine decorative value and makes a direct appeal to

aesthetic sensibility. The music is a marvelously woven texture in which the various strands

and principal patterns are handled with the skill of an intellectual master. But there is no

evidence that he respected the common belief of mankind that art is the creation, by persons

of special gift and adequate training, if beautiful works generated in their minds by emotions

experienced in the contemplation of the world and life. When Rubens painted the "Descent

from the Cross," he made an imaginative record of a stupendous event which he did not

witness, but which his reading of the sacred history shaped in his mind into a work of art. The

plan of the picture is perhaps unduly exposed, but of its purpose to surround the majesty of

Christ with awe and the supreme beauty of human grief there can be no doubt.

The Indifferent Public.

We are once more faced with the inquiry "To whom is art addressed?" If it is intended only

for persons specially prepared for its reception, it is devoid of that universality of authority

which has compelled the world to call Raphael and Angelo, Dante and Shakespeare, Bach and

Brahms geniuses. The advocates of the works of Schoenberg assert that they are of the stuff

which dreams are made of and that because they soar high into the ethereal regions of thought

they are ahead of their time. This may be true, but it is equally true that within the last fifteen

years they have made no appreciable progress toward overtaking their time. Schoenberg

remains the prophet of a cloistered faith. The world of music lovers wihich has found

comprehensible ideas in the art of Stravinsky and several others among the progressives is

still unable to grasp the music of Schoenberg.

If art cannot speak to the world, but must make itself the cult of a chosen few, gathered

together with strong resolution to be saced, it is a failure. The endeavor to attain a

confounding complexity, which to the seeker after aesthetic pleasure is a perplexity, must be

vain. We already have music developed in systems so complicated that half a dozen

periodicals are kept busy trying to explain the design of every new composition. No one has

to explain the temple of Pallas Athene on the Acropolis. Its devine beauty is self-evident. The

architect may dessect its plan and be humble, but the man with a sense of proportion,

symmetry and poetic rhythm will experience emotions without needing any one to tell him

how they were aroused.

Off With the Dance.

The Stravinsky ballet, presented in its entirety as a stage work not as a concert piece,

disappointed nearly all the professional reviewers of musical matters. Without doubt if we had

all made our first acquaintance with the score as part of a theatrical delineation we should

have begun with a different conception of the work and possibly have had to acquire our

admiration for the score as a separate entity. But it is safe to say that the writer's colleagues

thought of this just as quickly as he did while sitting through Tuesday evening's performance.

Discounting the influence of experiences dating back to Mr. Monteaux's production of the

music, we still believe that Stravinsky's creation has more convition as a tone poem than as

the illumination of a visible action.

It has been said by one trained critic of the dance that the execution of the ballet was heavy-

footed and disillusioning. The statement must be seriously considered; but the pagan

ceremonial could hardly be other than heavy. Mr. Massine's choreography was without doubt

as good as any other that could have been devised and it seemed to call for what the musicians

entitle an allegro pesante throughout. Martha Graham, who is regarded by the dance experts

as one of the most excellent exponents of the graphic style, was herself conscious of the

necessity of the pesante character.

It is true that Stravinksky's "Le Sacre du Printempts" does not keep its hold on the minds of

all of us. It has faded somewhat with the passage of the few years since its more savage

episodes made one sit up in wonder. The gentler pages are now the best. But one thing

interested this hearer on Tuesday evening, and that was the amount of "LOiseau de Feu" he

heard, especially when the men were thumping the stage with their rhythmic feet. Old Kaltei

was somewhere in the neighbourhood. And a little later there was the echo of "Petrouchka."

Why not? [?] The leopard does not change his spots nor the artist his fundamental methods of

expression.

The production of the works was a most valuable contribution to a dull season [?] of music.

We are indebted to the League of Composers, to the [?] of the Philadelphia Orchestra and to

Mr. Stokowsi. They [?] little first-class horror and something to think about. Much of the new

music this season has made hard sledding for the reviewer.