Stravinsky and His World

by Levitz, Tamara

  The overall impression is that it is an intriguing counterfeit of a musical joke. It’s unlikely, however, that this was what Stravinsky intended. In any event, the joke is boring and goes on far too long. The plot, moreover, is too trivial and negligible; it cannot carry the scene and, under the weight of the opulent theatrical and musical finery, it crumbles to dust.

  The performance of the exceedingly challenging vocal parts was excellent (Mss. Slobodskaya, Sadoven, Rozovskaya, Mr. Belina-Skupevsky) and individual episodes—the intriguing duet, for example—made a very pleasing impression. But the orchestra plays too stodgily, insufficiently crisply with respect to rhythm and with altogether excessive expressivity, intolerable even for Stravinsky. Here, just as in Renard,44 nuances are reduced to a minimum or, more precisely, they are not tailored to the tastes and moods of the performers but are dictated entirely by the instrumentation itself, by the spacing and the combination of orchestral timbres.

  The costumes by Mr. Survage are charming, but his scenery in no way conjures up the image of behind-the-scenes Petersburg at the turn of the century.

  —Translated from the Russian by Laurel E. Fay

  L’Eclair (Paris), 5 June 1922

  Igor Stravinsky’s Mavra at the Opéra

  Roland-Manuel

  Mr. Igor Stravinsky is an uncompromising magician who loathes repeating his spells.45 A tremendous evolution separates Petrushka from The Firebird, and The Rite of Spring from Petrushka. For fifteen years, a cohort of intrepid admirers has followed the Russian musician’s giant strides, the defections of exhausted followers largely offset by the support of hotheaded neophytes trying valiantly but in vain to outstrip their tireless trainer while the better part of the public, remaining silent, is obliged to make extraordinary adjustments just not to lose sight of the front of the pack or the steel-muscled athlete stubbornly setting the pace. But here’s the surprise: Mavra makes it obvious that the race is no longer following the same course. Stravinsky makes a dazzling about-face, leaving his henchmen bogged down in the marshes of “atonality” and “polytonality” while he takes his aesthetic in an unexpected direction. Suddenly the music lovers, who struggled to follow him from a distance with their opera glasses, are offended by the brutal reappearance of this horrifying man who once took Musorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov as starting points, and today falls without warning into the arms of Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka.

  It must be said: the enormous distance separating The Firebird from Renard is not in any way comparable to the unsettling abyss separating Renard from the short lyric fantasy just performed at the Opéra.

  Mavra is a kind of bourgeois comedy that Mr. Boris Kochno took from an unfinished Pushkin short story. A handsome hussar disguises himself as a servant girl in order to be close to the young girl who loves him and with whom he is in love. The young girl’s mother comes home at an inopportune moment and catches her new maid in the middle of shaving. Curtain. This good-natured plot has been carved up into arias, duets, and ensembles, and Stravinsky has treated them in a vocal style curiously reminiscent of A Life for the Tsar and the early works of the admirable Glinka, so clearly tinged with Italianisms. To be honest, this predilection for Italy is not new in the work of the author of Pulcinella, but it was not so manifestly obvious before. The startling thing: this very particular vocal style finds no echo in the orchestra. What Stravinsky accomplishes is not just the independence of the statue from its supporting pedestal, but also the absolute heterogeneity of the two. While the voices on stage seem to sing Mr. Kochno’s text “in Italian,” the orchestra, with its splendidly mechanical sonorities, speaks Russian with a slight American accent due to the use of a special instrumentation that sacrifices strings in favor of woodwinds and brass, and peculiarly, trombones and tubas. The same attention to detail that not long ago controlled The Nightingale’s fragile orchestral mechanism presides over the use of these weighty timbres in Mavra. Never has Mr. Stravinsky’s orchestral factory articulated each sound with more effective precision; never have his marvelous machines yielded a superior dynamic output.

  The light American accent I alluded to is made even more noticeable by the use of simple, sharp rhythms that are wildly enamored of syncopation. As for Mavra’s harmonic language, it is the sign of a disruptive reaction motivated and legitimated by the atonal or “polytonal” intemperance dominating music today. In Mavra, the harmony is tonal in a very precise way from the overture to the final scene. But it seems that Stravinsky moves one step back here only to take two steps forward: he reenters the domain of tonality as a free man. Without escaping the boundaries he assigns himself, Stravinsky contrives to juxtapose not just harmonies foreign to one another, but entire tonal functions that are hostile. At times, he makes one tonality mesh with another with an expert brusqueness. The game is daunting, despite its apparent simplicity; as played by Stravinsky, it never becomes arbitrary.

  Here then is a work that scrupulously realizes its author’s intentions. It remains to be seen if these intentions are still legitimate. I must say truthfully that I am not entirely persuaded. I do not dispute that the singing’s artificial Italianism, the divergence between Mavra’s vocal and instrumental styles, are deliberate; nevertheless they irritate me. Perhaps soon Mr. Stravinsky, the most infallible artist in the entire world, will force me to admit that my difficulty with the piece has vanished and that the faults were all mine; I will hasten to confess it publicly.

  Aside from the orchestral execution, which is occasionally shaky, the performance of Mavra is in all respects excellent. Mss. Slobodskaya, Sadoven and Rozovskaya, as well as Mr. Belina-Skupevsky, make a truly magnificent vocal quartet. Whatever one’s ideas about Cubism, Mr. Léopold Survage’s infinitely ingenious and appealing set—a masterpiece of smiling bonhomie—will not fail to charm.

  —Translated by Bridget Behrmann

  Comoedia (Paris), 5 June 1922

  At the Théâtre de l’ Opéra: Mavra

  Louis Laloy

  It is a little domestic drama.46 On the advice of her daughter, and after complaining to a neighbor, the old woman hires a chambermaid, but the advice was treacherous. The chambermaid is none other than a disguised hussar, who sings a duet with the young girl. Returning home unexpectedly, the old woman surprises him in the middle of shaving. She faints, and the neighbor rushes to her aid.

  Mr. Kochno has brought this ironic Pushkin story to the stage very skillfully. The irony is emphasized by Mr. Survage’s split-level, elevated set, whose simultanisme contrasts with the crinoline costumes; and above all, by Mr. Stravinsky’s music, which juxtaposes cavatinas with an inverted orchestra: woodwinds and brass multiplied at the expense of the violin and viola, each reduced to a single instrument, and of the cellos and double basses, charged exclusively with the continuo. An extraordinary orchestra that twitters, chirrups, gurgles, screeches, growls, hoots, sobs, guffaws; a fiery orchestra that leaps and rears—yet still contained and directed by a firm hand that turns it aside at will, pacifies it, flatters it, and makes it set off again only to stop it anew, the whole ensemble trembling from a barely perceptible pressure. Never has the musician demonstrated such mastery. Perhaps The Rite of Spring put heavier and more massive sounds into action; but here, the tour de force is achieved in an always unstable balance.47

  —Translated by Bridget Behrmann

  Feuilles libres (Paris), June–July 1922

  About Igor Stravinsky’s Mavra

  Francis Poulenc

  Obviously, the “musical left” is getting musty.48 This much is certain—Mavra confirmed the impression we received from Parade, that is, that though a “prewar music criticism” exists, none has yet developed that’s adequate for judging today’s music.

  It’s a shame, because Stravinsky’s latest works, like Satie’s, truly need understanding commentators if they are to be accepted by and explained to the public. At the time of The Rite, Vuillermoz’s opinion was law. It’s not the same today, Mr. Vuillermoz having proved on numerous occasions
in the last two years that he belongs to the past.

  Given that, what does it matter if he finds that Stravinsky “lacks melody”?49

  Much more serious to see is that younger music critics, with the exception of Mr. Roland-Manuel,50 no longer hear Stravinsky’s music. And so Mr. Maurice Bex declares in the 17 June Revue hebdomadaire that he finds in Mavra only a “torrent of syncopation,” “organized disorder,” and “sudden leaps that are as agreeable to the ear as the sight of a puppy playing is pleasing to the eye.”51

  It is regrettable that Mr. Bex heard the score so badly, since, on the contrary, it is remarkable for its splendid logic and precision.

  Another critic finds “the orchestration heavy and vulgar,” as if the use of a wind band was not a deliberate choice of the author.

  How sad to see a work of Mavra’s aesthetic importance left to the scalpels of the normaliens, musicographers interested only in Mr. So-and-So’s planar or polytonal “tics.”52

  “Among musicians there are pawns and poets,” said Satie. “The pawns impose their music on the public and the critics.”53 I did not need Mavra, my dear Stravinsky, to be convinced that you are a true poet. This marvelous work only adds to the immense admiration I have had for your work since that day in 1913 when, though then quite young, I was overwhelmed by The Rite of Spring.

  Ten years have passed and the public now cheers that work, once so vehemently hated. Even more, they beg Stravinsky for a new Rite—one even “more modern,” more polyphonic—failing to understand that a masterpiece marks the end of a line. But Stravinsky, like Picasso and all fine artists, detests mining a single vein. He changes form and technique with every work. Make no mistake about it: Mavra is the beginning of a new manner.

  Many people consider Mavra a parody of the style of Rossini and Verdi. Nothing could be more wrong. In music, there is an “opera form” just as there is a “sonata form” or “rondeau form.” Anybody is free to use these. All Stravinsky did was to renew the tradition of Glinka and Tchaikovsky as, one would hope, our musicians might follow the line of Gounod and Bizet.

  There is no doubt Glinka and Tchaikovsky are two great musicians.

  Why then reproach Stravinsky for having taken them as models?

  In the end, they attack Mavra’s harmony in order to reproach Stravinsky for his lack of originality. It’s amusing to note in this respect how musicians of the post-Debussy generation, intoxicated by “rare harmonies,” have become accustomed to considering any resolution of triads banal.

  We are in an age of leveling, when all chords appear to be on the same plane.54 Newness must then be sought in another domain.

  In Mavra, Stravinsky put all his effort into the system of modulation. Through the horizontal juxtaposition of distant pitches he has obtained a precise, pouncing, and eminently tonal music—a rare quality today. Not one critic has noticed this. You see how eardrums have hardened.

  Go on, sirs, red card holders, think before you place your bets; there is still time, otherwise we’ll be obliged to request for you two orchestra seats behind the members of the Jockey Club and L’Epatant.55

  —Translated by Bridget Behrmann and Tamara Levitz

  Lumière (Antwerp), 1 November 1922

  Mavra

  Paul Collaer

  The genius of Igor Stravinsky is recognized the world over.56

  When Firebird spread its sparkling wings for the first time a dozen years ago, it was immediately understood that a great musician had just made his debut.

  Then came Petrushka. In two years’ time, Stravinsky had made an enormous leap.

  For the first time since Romanticism reigned over European art, objectivist thought57 manifested itself in music. Stravinsky projected music beyond himself, outside his soul. This revolution was of the highest importance. The work asserted itself right away but was understood only a year later—as is always the case for an authentic masterpiece.

  1913. The Rite of Spring. Really, who is this man who has the remarkable power of changing so completely from one work to the next! After the poem of suffering that is Petrushka (barely ironic, despite appearances), here now is Earth’s song, the epic of raging elements, panic music.

  I have always had the impression that Stravinsky captured the unbearably tense atmosphere that electrified Europe, and was destined to culminate in the horrific carnage from which we are only now emerging.

  Still, the public understood nothing of the Rite. They shouted, whistled, cried, reacted with the violence particular to the Parisian public. (Let us note in passing that this reactive faculty is one of the main factors contributing to the constant vitality of French art.)

  1914. The Nightingale. A marvel of grace: poignant emotion in simplicity. But above all, the symptom of a great change. In place of richness and opulence came the spirit of condensation, the ascetic spirit, the notion of the essential.

  On to 1922. A supposed decline of the Ballets Russes is generally lamented. Since, of course, one pretends to forget a bit that Serge de Diaghilew staged Satie’s Parade during the war, and that Derain58 and Picasso are involved in this work of the Ballets Russes. So everyone complains and then, back to back, Renard and Mavra. In Renard, we see the advent of objectivism, the perfect realization of condensation. The public has had time to get used to Petrushka, has followed post-Cubist painters, and now understands the significance of Renard well enough. Everyone is very proud to be “up to date.” Alas, eight days later, Mavra plunges the public back into uncertainty, and this time the critics and musicographers lose their heads. The most stunned of all must have been Stravinsky himself, reading the pile of idiocies and nonsense written about Mavra by reputedly intelligent people.

  Mavra was not understood because Stravinsky had changed again, and this time the turnaround was quicker and sharper than ever.

  Mavra is clear, lucid, and contains nothing disorienting.

  The little opéra-comique in question is intellectually contrary and opposed to the preceding works. Mavra is subjectively inspired. In it, the author is sentimental.

  Stravinsky looked back this time to Glinka, Dargomyzhsky, and Tchaikovsky, to the era of crinolines and romances. Do not think, though, that he amused himself by composing a pastiche, an “in the style of.” The musician completely recast the quaint and outmoded opéra-comique. He concentrated its spirit, and what is more, imposed upon it his powerful personality.

  The text itself is charming and offers a digest of the entire genre of sentimental opéra-comique.

  Written by Boris Kokhno after one of Pushkin’s short stories, the story is as follows:

  The action takes place in a Russian petit bourgeois interior. A young girl, Parrasia [sic],59 is at the window and sings a romance. Her beloved, a young hussar, appears in the facing window. A little duet begins between them, which leads to the promise of a meeting. The young girl’s mother arrives, still emotional after the recent death of her cook. Parassia goes out to find a replacement. While she is away, the mother and a neighbor indulge in their memories of and grief over the deceased. As they chatter, Parassia returns with a new cook, who gives the name “Mavra.” She answers their questions with modesty and kindness.

  During a quartet shared by these characters, the agreement is made: Mavra is hired. The mother and neighbor exit. Straightaway, Parassia falls into Mavra’s arms—the cook is none other than the hussar in disguise.

  Later, Parassia rejoins her mother to go to market. Mavra, left alone, dreams only of his happiness and sings of his triumphant love. Yet he becomes worried … about shaving. Suddenly the mother enters, sees Mavra shaving and understands that she has been tricked. She feels ill and calls for help; the neighbor runs in, invoking all the saints; Mavra flees as fast as his legs can carry him; and the young girl, stricken, calls desperately: “Vasily! Vasily!”

  And that’s all. But it’s exquisite. You can imagine what the potential of this would be with sets and costumes by Léopold Survage.

  So, here we are in tota
l conventionality. There’s nothing wrong with it. The conventionality is deliberate, and the authors know perfectly well that one good convention deserves another provided one isn’t fooled by them.

  1860. A sentimental time. And from the beginning, after an Italian overture sparkling with malice, Stravinsky offers us a romance. It is neither satire nor parody. It is a true romance, and it is, very simply, pretty.

  The dialogue follows in the same gracious and touching spirit. Until the sentimental climax. Logically, the victorious hussar should sing his happiness and love in a grand air60 throbbing with passion.

  But seriously, can you see a man of our era, given our contemporary mindset, give himself up to such a display, abandoning himself romantically to his “transports”? We feel emotion as deeply as the Romantics, but we no longer let it out. We let it show through irony; we even hide it with joking. It’s a form of modesty.61 And this is precisely how Stravinsky operates in Mavra. After letting the sentiment rise to the moment of the “grand air,” the hussar starts singing an excellent parody of all the Toscas and all the Pagliaccis. It’s under the mask of laughter that he proclaims his passion. And this is profoundly true, profoundly significant of our time. This brusque passage, from sentimentality to the irony that caps it, is one of the reasons the public was perplexed.