[Some Reflections on the Parisian Years of Vytautas Bacevičius]
Perhaps it would not be an overstatement to say that for Vytautas Bacevičius Paris became the main point of departure in terms of his creative work. First of all this was due to the fact that Bacevičius came to Paris as a 22 year-old graduate in composition and piano to spend here his first, the most serious and, eventually, the only traineeship period. We could rightly add that it was also his last traineeship, after which he might be considered an accomplished composer. During his short stay in Paris, which lasted a little more than three years with interruptions (1927–30), Bacevičius gained much experience in terms of his general outlook and encounters with various prevalent styles and ideas. The artistic atmosphere of interwar Paris left its unmistakable mark on Bacevičius’s style both as a composer and pianist. As a testimony to this, some opinions have been voiced during his later tour in Latvia that after Bacevičius’s studies in Paris his interpretation started betraying the influence of French impressionists and, consequently, he was characterised as a “representative of the French aesthetic.” “He arrived with the Parisian culture,”the critics wrote, “as an aristocrat of creative spirit”[1](author’s emphasis – V.G.). Similar descriptions followed the first performances of Bacevičius’s works of the time, for instance, his First Piano Concerto,in which Jonas Bendorius emphasised “the influence of the French music after WWI.”[2]
On the other hand, despite a rather cosmopolitan atmosphere that surrounded Bacevičius during his years of studies in Poland, it was his stay in Paris that shaped his true understanding of what is modern in music and what is truly avant-garde. This provided him with confidence in his abilities and ideas, which he, as an “ultramodern composer,” had difficulties to defend in rather conservative Lithuania that was still searching for its musical identity. The gap between the musical atmosphere of Paris and that of Lithuania at the time may be illustrated by the fact that after returning to teach at the Kaunas Music School in 1930, Bacevičius was completely misunderstood. According to Ona Narbutienė, “Romanticism was totally alien to the composer; therefore his music seemed unacceptable to the majority of listeners. They missed the coherent musical flow and the wrought out melody that guides a certain musical thought.”[3] Thus, Narbutienė concludes, Bacevičius was not only criticised but also ridiculed. The situation improved only after the like-minded fellow composers had returned from abroad (after Jeronimas Kačinskas had finished his studies with Alois Hába in Prague and Vladas Jakubėnas had returned from Germany) and the group of composers thinking in modern categories could form.
It is nonetheless undeniable that in Bacevičius the Lithuanian music soon found the direction of radical avant-gardism. His presence created a conflict (we must remember that many composers of the time still worked at arranging folk songs) that could have had a positive effect on the whole creative atmosphere and further development of Lithuanian music. It could have also produced something novel in Lithuanian music, if not the Soviet occupation in 1940.
Why did Interwar Paris Become the Centre of Attraction?
The fact that interwar Paris became the centre of attraction for many Eastern and Central European composers is completely natural since the position, in which the countries like Lithuania, Poland, Russia, Romania and Bulgaria found themselves in the aftermath of WWI, was rather complicated. First of all, there were very few outstanding personalities and composers in these countries. Whereas in Paris of the time one could meet Maurice Ravel, Claude Debussy, Albert Roussel, Florent Schmitt, Darius Milhaud, Francis Poulenc, Jacques Ibert, the composers of the Groupe des Six (Group of Six), Igor Stravinsky, and others. Their modernism was doubtless very attractive and seductive. The abundance of personalities in Paris determined the formation of different groupings and aesthetic trends. Thus, there existed a wide array of choices. Furthermore, the general cosmopolitan atmosphere, nourished by many influences including the American jazz and dance music, was also very attractive to many young newcomers. Contemporary Paris was still enveloped in the post-WWI euphoria that not only encouraged the boldest experiments but also created a lifestyle characterised by the ease and the seeming nonchalance.
On the other hand, the state apparatus and cultural institutions in Paris remained almost untouched by WWI. This was in a complete opposition to the countries of Eastern and Central Europe. In Lithuania that had recently declared its independence, this apparatus and cultural institutions were in the process of formation, and artists and intellectuals were only beginning to return to the country after their studies abroad.
Meanwhile in Paris, there was a plenty of music associations and societies, including eight huge associations devoted exclusively to symphonic music that supervised a number of big concert halls and the newly opened Pleyelhall (1927), among them. Most associations aimed to stimulate and disseminate the latest developments in music. For instance, the “Triton”chamber music society (1932) that attracted many emigrants (members of the Ecole de Parishad strong connections with this society and Tibor Harsanyi was among its founders) sought not only to guarantee masterly public performances but also to radio-broadcast its concerts throughout Europe.[4] Therefore, the radio, by way of exchange, initiated the series of concerts programmed according to different nationalities – for instance, “Italian music concerts,” “Polish music concerts,” “French music concerts,” etc. Yet it was concerts comprised of the most recent and newest music that were the most typical product of the interwar period, with its overwhelming thirst for novelties. Such concerts were oftentimes inspired by conductors who had possibilities to compile independent concert programmes – for example, Serge Koussevitzky, Vladimir Golschmann, Pierre Monteux, Gabriel Pierné and Walter Straram. Consequently, at the time there were tens of excellent concerts in Paris, which would take place every day and still attract large audiences. This should be emphasised, because it was the public that guaranteed perfect functioning of the concert system despite some complaints found in contemporary sources about a part of concert public lost due to the improving life standards, the growing interest in sports and cinema and the new technical achievements: for instance, on weekends some people would rather go out of town by car (perhaps for this reason, the conductor Walter Straram organised his concerts on Thursdays), or would rather listen to the radio for the rest of the week.[5] Indeed, if we were to compare concert seasons 1927–28 and 1929–30, we would discover that the general number of concerts decreased from 1543 to 1517.[6] The number of piano recitals also decreased: there were 261 concerts held during the first season of Bacevičius’s stay in Paris, while during the second one there were only 223 concerts. While the number of symphonic music concerts, on the contrary, increased from 469 to 537.
In the context of such cultural wealth, there were little apparent obstacles for young foreign composers to organise their recitals or to coax some conductor into performance of their large-scale musical works. This was witnessed by Hungarian Tibor Harsanyi, a future representative of the Paris school, who described a curious event shortly after his arrival in Paris in 1923: “as I was walking the streets of Paris, my eyes became fixed on a concert bill that read ‘Concerts Colonne…’ and the names of Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt listed below, as well as the name of a conductor – Gabriel Pierné. I rushed back home, picked up one of my scores and brought it to the secretariat of the so-called Concerts Colonne. After a few weeks, I received Pierné’s letter, informing me that he is going to perform my Dancein one of his concerts. This was my first work performed in Paris. That’s how Paris adopted me, in a certain sense ...”[7] But in most cases, chances were little that new works would receive second performances. The orchestra musicians also grew increasingly hostile to new music that consumed a lot of their energy.
Bacevičius, likewise, did not go to any serious trouble in organising his recitals: as we can see from the surviving programme notes, in quite a short time, from December 1928 to June 1929 (i. e. in seven months), he managed to give altogether four performances in different Parisian halls. This was an outstanding achievement, especially if we take into account the fact that in the meantime he was finishing his First Piano Concertoand even returned to Kaunas to conduct the overture of his new opera Vaidilutė (The Priestess). Later on he would slow down: in 1930 and 1931, he would give only two recitals. Bacevičius fared worse with the production of his opera The Priestessin Paris. In 1932, he wrote of his failure: “Mr. Ricou [the then director of the Opéra Comique]was interested very much in my opera but could not put it on stage for political reasons, since, as it is known, the issue of Vilnius was one of the most important in the opera.”[8] Doubtless, it was an important reason, because during the interwar period the French, unfortunately, supported Poles in all their political issues related to Lithuania. Yet the more important reason for not staging the opera was the fact that at the time the Opéra Comiqueexperienced a profound financial and artistic crisis. The theatre was blamed for the backward-looking repertoire policy and the lack of new themes, the inability of musicians to get rid of the Wagnerian influence, while everybody in the musical world of the time was involved in fervent discussions concerning the issues of atonal music. The cultural practice itself was in the process of change; and thus there was a widening gap between the public demand (or public taste) and supply that composers had to offer.[9] Georges Ricou and Louis Masson, who had taken over the management of the Opéra Comiquein 1925, hoped that their decision to include some previously successful works into the current repertoire will help to pull the theatre out of crisis. But they were not very successful. Georges Ricou resigned in 1931 and Louis Masson was replaced by a new director, Pierre-Barthélémy Ghensi, in 1932. Given the circumstances, the theatre would not venture into staging the opera by an unknown foreign composer based on a politically alarming plot.
It was not only due to the lack of competent teachers in their native countries but also due to specific financial conditions that many Eastern and Central European artists (painters and composers in particular) were forced to move to Paris. Lithuania, like many other countries of the region (for instance, the Czech Republic), had the system of state scholarships for studies and traineeships in Paris. The Art Council of Lithuania, which allotted scholarships for artists’ studies abroad, was founded in 1926. After spending a year in Paris on his own means, Bacevičius received the Lithuanian state scholarship for a study year 1928–29. Bohuslav Martinů, another representative of the Paris school, has left for Paris for similar reasons: he was disappointed with his studies at the Prague Conservatory and was granted the scholarship from the Czech government to study abroad in 1923 (let us remind ourselves that it was not until then that Hába founded his composition class at the Prague Conservatory).
We can find a similar financial motivation in the thoughts of already quoted Tibor Harsanyi: “This was in 1923. I faced an important problem: Where should I go and in what country should I start my musical career? Where to go in order to find an atmosphere and environment necessary for my musical and artistic development? The economic and social situation of contemporary Hungary was too bad for a young musician to dream of establishing himself. I did not want to go back to Holland, the atmosphere of which, although I earned enough as a pianist working odd jobs there, was not opportune for my debut as a young composer. Germany at that time went through the period of large-scale inflation. Thus, it was rather risky to find oneself penniless there.”[10]
The third reason for such large-scale migration of artists may be related to the idea that many Eastern and Central European countries perceived the postwar period as a completely new epoch, a tabula rasa,from which one should start to construct one’s own musical identity. In order to accomplish that, it was necessary, first of all, to know what was happening in the main European centres of culture. This led to reflections and discussions in musical circles (which also found their way in the Lithuanian press) about the ways to arrive at a compromise between radical modernism found in the West and national insularity. This apprehension of conflict was characteristic of whole postwar Eastern and Central Europe and even beyond this region. For instance, in Mexico, the Left that had taken over the government advocated “national art created on the basis of universalism” (such politics encouraged Heitor Villa-Lobos’s music). In contrast to Latin America where mixtures of different styles, including the urban ones, have become something of a standard, the Europeans searched for certain cultural purity that could only be achieved through the use of folk music. Thus, folklore became one of the main formative elements constituting national idioms of the European countries. For instance, in England, the interest in rural folklore (Gustav Holst) came along with the rebirth of interest in Renaissance music that was some kind of response to an excessive influence of German Romanticism. In the Czech Republic, which also had a strong tradition of Romanticism (primarily, in the names of Antonín Dvořák and Bedřich Smetana), Hába and Leoš Janáček emerged as a counterforce representing modernism. In Hungary, both Béla Bartók and Zoltán Kodály looked for their inspiration in the rural music, but only the former managed to transgress the boundaries of nationality and create genuinely modern music. In Russia, Sergei Prokofiev and Stravinsky, who worked in Paris at the time, opposed the representatives of the nationalistic St Petersburg School led by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. Perhaps only contemporary Poland was considerably more cosmopolitan. Of course, there was Karol Szymanowski who became fascinated with the folk music; but the youngest Polish composers soon went on to study in Paris and adopted Parisian neo-classicism very quickly.
To summarise the circumstances discussed above, we may conclude that interwar modernism, for which many young composers were searching abroad, not only conflicted with strengthening nationalism but also enabled the emergence of more or less successful intermediary styles. According to French musicologist Manfred Kelkel, the foreign composers absorbed modernism in Paris and created their own kind of “imaginary folklore.”[11] However, as Harsanyi remarked, “while preserving the musical character of their native countries, they created art that could have been created only in Paris.”[12] The rapid spread of this tendency was strongly criticised by such advocates of universal modernism as Theodor Adorno and Arnold Schoenberg. In such combination of national styles and main European tendencies, Schoenberg saw “the falsification of originality of any national music, without any contribution to the European musical trends.”[13]
The Paris School
It is not easy, truly speaking, to summarise Bacevičius’s years in Paris. His early letters are still unpublished and reminiscences of his contemporaries are rather fragmentary. It is therefore difficult to imagine the real atmosphere that surrounded him in Paris at that time. Some fundamental studies have been published, which discuss the leading composers who have been active in interwar Paris (they were numerous and all of the international stature); the conductors who advocated new music feverishly; the concert life that was particularly active; and the main aesthetic tendencies of the time. Jean Cocteau showed much insight, in describing the level of competition at the time: “In Paris, everyone aspires to be an actor; nobody wants to remain a spectator. While all hustle on the stage, the hall remains empty.”[14] But the abundance of cultural events in contemporary Paris overshadowed the artistic stratum comprised of such newcomers as Bacevičius, i. e. young artists who lacked both money and connections to be noticed by the major French periodicals. Despite this fact, this stratum was an inseparable part of the general musical atmosphere in Paris of the time. If we read through the reviews of contemporary concerts, we can find a great number of unknown names described as splendid pianists, interesting composers, promising musicians, who arrived from various countries. Bacevičius also had a similar ‘profile page’ published in Les Artistes d’aujourd’hui (Contemporary Artists) in 1928 – the year when he arrived in Paris. It contained a comprehensive description of his yet short career, and even his picture. Hence, when we speak of Bacevičius’s Parisian years, we must understand, first of all, the real context that surrounded Bacevičius during this period.
The years Bacevičius spent in Paris (1927–30) coincided with the high-day of the so-called Paris School. The following questions therefore seem natural: What connections Bacevičius had with this school? How did this affect his music? Can we ascribe Bacevičius to the Paris School?
There is actually no strict definition describing the so-called Paris School which was an obvious product of the internationalisation of interwar Paris. There is no agreement either about the number of composers who belonged to this school or about some common stylistic characteristics and chronological framework. There exists only one document presenting this school – the manuscript by Harsanyi entitled “L’Ecole de Paris et son Histoire” (The Paris School and Its History), written in 1945 and based on a radio programme.
In fact, two definitions of the term ‘Paris School’ may be distinguished: ‘narrow’ and ‘broad.’[15] In the narrow sense, it is a group of several composers formed around 1925 (the first of them, Alexandre Tansman and Marcel Mihalovici, arrived in Paris in 1919). The number of composers ranged from 5 to 10 and included Swiss Konrad Beck, Hungarian Tibor Harsanyi, Czech Bohuslav Martinů, Romanian Marcel Mihalovici (considered the unofficial leader of this group), Polish Alexandre Tansman and Russian Alexander Tcherepnin. Some authors also add Austrian Hormis Spitzmüller, Italian Vittorio Rieti, Spanish Federico Mompou and Romanian Philip Lazar.[16]All of them were foreigners who did not have any common doctrine and who were fascinated by the French aesthetics. Perhaps the only thing uniting them was that they would meet every day at the Café du Dômein Montparnasse. Of course, the title of the group, “The Paris School,” was not original: it is some kind of analogue of the painters’ group established at the turn of the 20th century, which included Amedeo Modigliani, Marc Chagall and Chaïm Soutine (who was, as we may know, a native of Lithuania).
Almost all members of the Paris School used their opportunity to study either at the National Conservatory (Conservatoire national) like Tcherepnin, or at the Schola Cantorumlike Mihalovici, or with Nadia Boulanger as Conrad Beck. Martinů, Tansman and Harsanyi took private lessons from Albert Roussel who had previously worked at the Schola Cantorumbut did not occupy any official position there after the war. It seems that the choice of both the National Conservatory of Paris and the Schola Cantorum was deliberate, since all sources mention these two institutions as the main study centres for the foreign composers. The Paris Conservatory was indeed a productive institution that ‘bred’ new composers. It was not guided by any general doctrine; however, even earlier, this institution had raised some great composers, such as Claude Debussy, Camille Saint-Saëns and Vincent d’Indy. The Schola Cantorumwas considered a much more dogmatic but no less influential educational institution. On the other hand, the young composers who sought an advice about their craft (or, rather, an acquaintance with certain aesthetic trend) more than aspired to obtain a diploma from a prestigious school gathered around particular personalities: the main groupings concentrated around Maurice Ravel, Florent Schmitt, Charles Koechlin, Albert Roussel, Paul Dukas and Nadia Boulanger. Camille Saint-Saëns, a master of eclecticism, did not make any impact on the members of the Paris School; whereas Debussy, who had never been a professor of composition, had an immense impact on the young composers.
Speaking in the ‘broad sense,’ according to the mentioned distinction by André Coeuroy, it is considered that the Paris School united all foreign composers who arrived in Paris during the interwar period (largely from Eastern and Central Europe, although there were many composers from South America, Canada, Spain, etc.) and who were influenced, in one way or another, by the French musical aesthetic. The exact number of those composers is not known and it is doubtful if it will be ever known. Some authors speak of thousands, but perhaps these numbers are exaggerated.
As we can see, the ‘official’ paths of Bacevičius and the Paris School did not intersect: for his studies he chose the Russian Conservatory and did not belong officially to any group clustered around the most famous composers. It is unclear whyBacevičius chose to study at the Russian Conservatory. Perhaps because of the language, although the memories of his contemporaries allow us to conclude that he was quite fluent in French (this cannot be said, for instance, about Tibor Harsanyi, as it turned out from the only recorded radio programme). It might be so that Bacevičius’s choice was determined by the fact that the Russian art was at its apex in Paris at the time (let us remember Diaghilev and Stravinsky’s activities), or simply by a pragmatic possibility to pass equivalency exams and get diplomas quickly, which he could not expect to obtain either from the National Conservatory, or from the Schola Cantorum. Now we can only guess. Doubtless, if Bacevičius had managed to establish closer contacts with major musical personalities in Paris, it would have been easier for him to find his place in America to which almost the whole Paris School and most of the famous conductors emigrated during WWII.
Stylistic Trends in the Paris School
In terms of style, there are some obvious similarities between the tendencies characteristic of Bacevičius and the Paris School. It is hard to tell whether it was a direct influence or merely a reflection of the then prevalent trends in Paris. First of all, they were united by a complete dissent from Schoenberg. That Bacevičius was also critical about him is known to us only from his letters of the American period. Secondly, Bacevičius and the other composers of the Paris School shared similar interest in the folklore, which, as we have already mentioned, was a natural tendency provoked by the cultural situation in many countries at that time. Incidentally, the Parisian art of the turn of the 20th century exhibited similar influences. In 1918, Jean Cocteau wrote: “for more than ten years Chardin, Ingres, Manet, and Cézanne have dominated the European art; and foreigners now come to us to add their ethnic talents to our school.”[17] The most obvious example of Bacevičius’s ‘folklorism’ is his First Piano Concerto on the “Lithuanian themes,” finished in 1929. As a matter of interest, it was an instant success in Lithuania and, according to Ona Narbutienė, “was taken to represent Lithuanian music abroad on many occasions.”[18] Bacevičius’s opera, The Priestess,must also be seen as some kind of tribute to nationalism. Its primary idea arose in Kaunas, but it was not finished until his years in Paris where many composers showed an interest in national and historical themes and their adaptation to large-scale stage works. Despite the appearance of national elements in Bacevičius’s works of the Paris period, we would argue that he had much in common with Manuel de Falla who arrived in Paris not to reveal his own Spanishness but rather to get rid of it.
Speaking of direct influences, Bacevičius acknowledged that it was Debussy, Prokofiev and Scriabin who made the strongest impact on him in Paris. The influence of Debussy is conspicuous in Bacevičius’s impressionistic Poème No. 4; while Prokofiev (we would also add Honegger and Satie) might well have been the influence behind that specific machinelike sound of his Poème électrique. The fascination with jazz, foxtrot and other kinds of American popular music, which was characteristic of the Parisian lifestyle at the time, has found its way in the stylistic idioms of the composers of the Paris School and is likewise reflected in the cabaret atmosphere of Bacevičius’s ballet Tourbillon de la Vie. Speaking further of influences, we should also mention another French composer – Edgard Varèse. He might have been among Bacevičius’s direct influences – not only in terms of formal concept of a musical works, but also in terms of universal ideas – notwithstanding the fact that Varèse left for the United States in December 1915. To confirm or to deny a claim that Bacevičius had an opportunity to acquaint himself with Varèse’s ideas and works during his time in Paris, one should probably consult the French press of the interwar period.
Neoclassicism, with its characteristic returns to the old forms, was among the favourite idioms practiced by the representatives of the Paris School; but it was not until the American years that it has as found its way into Bacevičius’s music. He himself described this as a way of compromise; so perhaps it should not be regarded as one of his Parisian influences.
On the other hand, to continue our argument about the possible influences of the Paris School on Bacevičius, we should not disregard the fact that the stylistic trends formed and employed by the Groupe des Sixdid not differ much from those adopted by the composers of the Paris School: they shared similar fascination with the old forms, simplicity and jazz. To quote the expert scholar of this period, Manfred Kelkel, “only their passports differed.”[19]
Successes and Disappointments
If we accept the mentioned dual treatment of the Paris School,then Bacevičius could fit in a ‘broad definition.’ In other words, we could number him among many ‘anonymous composers’ of various nationalities who had spent more or less time in Paris. He was an anonymous composer, because his name remained unknown to the general public (except several reviews of his concerts, which drown in the bustle of similar weekly reviews); it is not even mentioned in a very comprehensive book by René Dumesnil, entitled La Musique en France entre les deux guerres, 1919–1939 (isversti i anglu : lietuviskai skamba taip : Muzika tarpukario Prancuzijoje, 1919-1939), which does not fail to mention, for instance, the disciple of Nikolai Tcherepnin[20]at the St Petersburg Conservatory of 1911 – Nikolai Obouhov.[21]For the sake of interest, we could compare how both composers fared in Paris. Like Bacevičius, Obouhov was influenced by Scriabin’s mysticism, but in a more radical way. Arriving in Paris in 1919, he encountered immense financial difficulties and was saved from his grave situation by Ravel (in fact, Ravel played an important role in the biographies of many newcomers) to whom he was introduced by one of his friends. Only thanks to Ravel, Obouhov found generous benefactors and was introduced to a quite narrow circle of the Revue Musicale, probably the most influential French music magazine of the time, specialising in identifying influences, making broad generalisations and searching for new tendencies and new personalities (Bacevičius, apparently, did not belong to this circle). As a result of that, Revue Musicalepublished two articles about his works written by renowned musicologists, Boris de Schloezer and Marcel Orban (in 1921 and 1925); and in 1926, Serge Koussevitzky conducted his symphonic work An Introduction to the Book of the Living. Yet it remained his only performed orchestral work. In José Navas’s words, “because of the financial difficulties, the concerts of Obouhov’s music were comprised only of his piano works.”[22] His situation improved only when he married Marie Antoinette, a rich former wife of Prince de Broglie, who started to take care of his concerts and provided all connections necessary. In spite of that, time has erased Obouhov’s name and music from our memories: in the history of music he is remembered only as a composer who suggested ways to simplify musical notation and who created a rather mystical “sound cross.”
Many have emphasised certain freedom from strict hierarchical order within the artistic circles of Paris at the time: everybody, regardless his/her age and nationality, had equal chances to work one’s way up. But on the other hand, if we study more thoroughly the biographies of each newcomer, we discover that certain connections were often very helpful in opening the doors to success that would be otherwise unachievable. In this regard, Tansman had more luck than Bacevičius. Gérald Hugon, for instance, presented the following description of Tansman’s first steps in Paris (we retell his abridged description here): Tansman had a friend, a Polish architect called Stanislaw Landau, who introduced him to Georges Mouveaux, a stage designer at the Paris Opera. The latter held a dinner at his home to introduce the young composer to Ravel. In turn, Ravel introduced Tansman to his publishers, Demets and Max Eschig (who would later publish his scores), and performers. Ravel also took Tansman to meet Roland-Manuel who held the so-called Mondays of Roland-Manuel. Through him Tansman got acquainted with Darius Milhaud, Arthur Honegger, Albert Roussel, Florent Schmitt and Jacques Ibert. Furthermore, Ravel handed him a letter of recommendation to the conductor Vladimir Golschmann who organised the famous “Golschmann concerts” and who soon agreed to perform Tansman’s works. Apart from that, Georges Mouveaux’s relative took Tansman to Madame Paul Clemenceau’s salon in which he met Albert Einstein, Hugo von Hofmannsthal and Stefan Zweig. Ravel also introduced Tansman to the above-mentioned circle of the Revue Musicalewhich helped him get to know Bartók, Hindemith, Alfredo Casella and Gian Francesco Malipiero. As an aftermath of these connections, from 1920 to 1921 he published four critical articles in Revue Musicale about Polish composers Mieczysław Karłowicz, Karol Szymanowski, conductor Zdzisław Birnbaum and the young Polish school of composers.[23]
Meanwhile, Bacevičiaus experienced only one lucky strike: his three piano recitals were reviewed in the press by Joseph Baruzi. The first review (there were three of them altogether, to our knowledge) was rather eloquent. It revealed not only a contingency by which this critic found himself in this concert, but also Bacevičius’s yet imperfect piano skills and his modesty, or perhaps some distrust in his own music and his timidity to play both of his works scheduled in the programme. For this reason we present this short review in its entirety, with no editing:
If I chose Vytautas Bacevičius’s concert[24] among many other possible concerts, it was because its unassuming poster attracted my attention. There was no dithyrambic announcement and no advertising overflown with epithets. Why shouldn’t I admit that I was also intrigued, a little childishly, by the sound of his name and surname, clear and dignified, so characteristic of the Lithuanian language which, as it is said, has changed the least of all European languages since the olden times and which is much closer to Sanskrit and Indo-Arian origins?
I wasn’t disappointed. It doesn’t mean that we can regard Bacevičius as a pianist who had completely mastered his technique: most of his interpretations of Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt were marked by some kind of stiffness and weakness. Nevertheless, he played sixPreludes by Debussy and two Poemsby Scriabin (Masqueand Etrangeté) with much exaltation and, in some places, energy; besides, he introduced a very expressive piece Katarinkaby J.Gruodis. However, what I seem to recognise in him as a pianist is a really talented composer. HisPrelude, Op. 3emerged as a work of firm and candid (resolute) inspiration with a sold and spacious structure. Why didn’t Mr. Bacevičius, too timid to accept a very favourable reception of the pages of his music performed a moment before, play his newest work in the programme, Poème No.4,Op. 10?I must have been not the only one who regretted his decision deeply.[25]
The last two lines of this review are quite surprising, especially if we remind ourselves of Bacevičius’s trust in his powers noted by many contemporaries. In fact, we can find a similar ambiguity in one of Bacevičius’s letters to his sister Grażyna from America of 1958: “Some say that I am too docile, that I don’t fight for myself and my position (after many years of struggle).” Perhaps Bacevičius simply would not dare to play one of his most impressionistic works in a concert where he also performed the Preludes by Debussy?
As far as we can judge from the contemporaries’ memoirs, Bacevičius’s life in Paris was not all roses. He was also disappointed by the weak attendance of his concerts. To quote Stasė Žemaitienė’s letter about his concert held on 4 May 1929: “He gave a concert at a large hall; there were some serious French listeners but very few; and there was a small group of Lithuanians.”[26]Antanas Gudaitis, a Lithuanian painter who lived in Paris at the time, recollected that “there were not many people at these concerts: music connoisseurs would occupy the first rows, with opened scores, and follow the performance. I remember that once Bacevičius was very anxious. What did he play? Perhaps it was Chopin... He made a mistake. Can you imagine how those music connoisseurs were stirred; they exchanged the glances! Later Bacevičius told us: ‘Oh, I was so scared’.”[27]
What were the responses from professionals is only known from two sources: from Petras Klimas, a Lithuanian minister and diplomat in Paris at the time, and from the third review by the same critic Baruzi, which witnessed Bacevičius’s progress as a pianist. Klimas wrote: “Recently I consulted some musical connoisseurs who considered Mr. Bacevičius’s works serious enough, although still imperfect; they expect that his talent has all chances to produce really original works.”[28]According to Baruzi, “since his recital five moths ago, Bacevičius as a pianist has made a remarkable progress. It can be noticed, above all, in his significantly more intimate manner to interpret Chopin. This manner helped him free Ravel’s Sonatinafrom any mannerism and express the essence of the Spanish works, such as Abeniz’s El Polo, Granada’s El Fandango de Candiland Manuel de Falla’s Danse de la Frayeur.”[29] Moreover, if we compare the programmes of his first and third recitals, we come to notice that Bacevičius’s taste as a pianist and composer has become much more subtle: instead of the classical repertory by Bach and Beethoven, with which he had started his first recital in Paris, now he introduced his Spanish contemporaries influenced by the Parisian atmosphere.
We could argue, of course, that Bacevičius was not as successful in Paris as, for example, Tansman. One of the reasons – that was, in fact, decisive for his unsuccessfulness – was that he was too young and had too few scores, particularly of symphonic music. He had in store just a few piano pieces, which he performed and popularised himself because he aspired a career as a pianist as well. On the other hand, none of his scores was published in Paris. We must also remember that Bacevičius did not have a goal to establish himself in Paris; he would periodically return to Lithuania where he also popularised his works. Perhaps he was realistic about his financial situation, or he simply wanted to gain more knowledge and ideas in Paris.
And, too, there is perhaps no doubt that Bacevičius was not acquainted to important people. In one of a very few letters of this period, which he wrote from Palanga in 1928 (it is published in a new collection of essays on Bacevičius), he invited his sister Grażyna to come to study in Paris saying that “he [would] introduce her to the best musicians there.”[30] We can draw a conclusion, from the same letter, that it was important for him to receive conservatory diplomas in Paris, since he emphasised to his sister that she “could get, in a year or two, the diplomas of a pianist, violinist and composer.”[31]Hence, perhaps Bacevičius’s primary goal was to pass equivalency exams quickly and get the diplomas, the reputation of which he did not doubt.
Publicity Work of the Parisian Years
Speaking of the Bacevičius’s years in Paris, we should also mention his publications in the French press. There we can find one and the only article on Lithuanian music published twice, with some insignificant corrections, in the Revue internationale du théâtre et des beaux-arts(isversti i anglu) of15 March 1929, and in Le Ménestrelof 9 August 1929 (therefore, we can conclude that he was not introduced to the prestigious circle of the Revue Musicale). In his article, Bacevičius introduces contemporary Lithuanian musical culture in rather broad strokes, beginning with folk songs and hymns (using in French the Lithuanian versions of these words, daïnosand giesmés) and proceeding with the importance of choral singing in Lithuania, description of the Lithuanian folk dances and instruments, the Kaunas opera, also mentioning in particular musicologists Viktoras Žadeika and Juozas Žilevičius, and the classically and romantically minded composers of Naujalis’s generation (including Aleksandras Kačanauskas, Mikas Petrauskas, Juozas Žilevičius, Juozas Tallat-Kelpša and Stasys Šimkus [whom he described as “more modern minded”]). He also mentioned, in one sentence, Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis as the “father of Lithuanian impressionism.” Among the modern composers, he mentioned Juozas Gruodis and the Kaunas Conservatory led by him, Kazimieras Viktoras Banaitis “who wrote for piano only,” Vladas Jakubėnas and himself. He characterised himself as an “ultra-expressionist” and listed his written works: “a symphony, a symphonic poem, an overture to the opera ThePriestess, fugues for quartets, several songs and music for piano, including a sonata, poems, preludes, etc.” He concluded his text with beautiful and emotional quote about songs from Vydūnas. It was not perhaps accidental that he rounded off his article with songs, because he added a remark that on 1 September 1928, “La Revue de France published around 30 songs (in fact, 26 – V.G.) translated by our compatriot and French poet O. V. de Milosz.”
Not only this article but also another larger one devoted to Lithuanian music and published in 1928 in several issues of Le Courrier Musicaland written by the professor Arcadius Presse (in this article, the newest Lithuanian music ends with Čiurlionis) demonstrated that Lithuanian modern music was at its primary stages and that there was not much to write about. Hence, Bacevičius could not present it as Tansman presented, for instance, the young generation of Polish musicians. On the other hand, at the time Bacevičius was too young to have accumulated a bulk of work that could have become a subject for a separate article. Finally, his description of himself as “ultra-expressionist” without any explanation or argument confirms that neither an environment for modern music, nor corresponding terms had yet been formed in the Lithuanian culture at the time.
How Lithuanian music was represented abroad may well be demonstrated by a very eloquent fact: in January 1929, at the Richelieu Amphitheatre of the Sorbonne University the concert of Lithuanian music was held, where most works consisted of the vocal music and folk song harmonisations. Bacevičius, along with several Čiurlionis’s Preludesand Gruodis’s Katarinka, was the main representative of the Lithuanian modern instrumental music, with his Poème “Contemplation”, Poème No. 4, Sonata Op. 4and Prelude Op. 3. In fact, Joseph Baruzi, the reviewer of Bacevičius’s first recital, described this second concert that he had attended because of the familiar name of Bacevičius, briefly expressing his joy of hearing several new works by Bacevičiaus, and soon digressing through Čiurlionis to various exotic instruments, such as the kanklėsand the goat horn. He concluded his description by mentioning an overall pagan, pantheistic and occult atmosphere of the evening created by the verbal presentation of André Jullien-Dubreuil [32].
On the other hand, differently from the young Polish composers, who had an official association of young composers (since 1927) and flocked around Nadia Boulanger, Bacevičius was completely alone as a composer. As far as we can judge from the memoirs of his contemporaries, Lithuanian artists living in Paris, particularly painters, such as Adomas Galdikas and Gudaitis, supported him whole-heartedly and enthusiastically attended his concerts. However, Bacevičius did not have any like-minded fellow musicians. The Lithuanian community in Paris was not as strong as the Polish that had the established structures serving and helping artists. Nevertheless, it is possible to argue that the promotion of the Lithuanian culture would have produced some results: for instance, among the concert programs, we find Mrs. Balguerie performing a Lithuanian song along with a madrigal accompanied by M. J. Clergue in the context of the French chamber works (by Milhaud, Georges Auric, Roussel and Ravel) at the MajesticHall on 8 May 1929. There are more similar facts, of course.
Instead of a Conclusion
Today we can only guess to what direction Bacevičius’s life would have turned if he had had better circumstances, more successful connections and perhaps better financial opportunities. Despite these speculations, Paris long remained for Bacevičius the most important city. In 1968, a few years before his death, he wrote to Vytautas Montvila: “I love Paris where I always felt best. I am a Parisian in ‘my body and soul.’ If I had money today, I would move to Paris immediately.”[33]
Perhaps we should regret more the fact that in the 1940s, at the time when Bacevičius moved to the United States, many American artists turned towards conservatism that was totally alien to the Lithuanian composer. This conservatism further obstructed a rather weak local experimental tradition that formed in the 1920s and 1930s in the work of Charles Ives, Henry Cowell and later John Cage, which Bacevičius could have joined. These tendencies gained momentum only with the arrival of new technologies that Bacevičius did not bother to master. But this is a topic for yet another discussion.
[1] Ona Narbutienė, “Gyvenimo kelias” (Path of Life), in Vytautas Bacevičius, vol. 1, ed. Ona Narbutienė, Vilnius: Petro Ofsetas, 2005, p. 79.
[2] Ibid., p. 80.
[3] Ona Narbutienė, Muzikinis Kaunas 1920–1940(Musical Kaunas in 1920–1940), Kaunas: Šviesa, 1992, p. 76.
[4] Quoted from Claude Rostand, L’œuvre de Pierre Octave Ferroud, Paris: Durand, no date, p. 10.
[5] See René Dumesnil, La musique en France entre les deux guerres, Genève-Paris-Montréal: Ed. du Milieu du Monde, 1946.
[6] These numbers are presented by René Dumesnil, op. cit.,p. 75.
[7] José Navas,L’Ecole de Paris, Mémoire de D.E.A., Université Paris-Sorbonne Paris IV, 1992, p. 14.
[8] Jolita Kiseliauskaitė, “Operos Vaidilutėlikimo pėdsakais” (Following the Path of the Opera Priestess), in Vytautas Bacevičius, vol. 1, p. 390.
[9] For more of this see Jean-Christoph Branger, “L’Opéra-Comique”, in Musique et musiciens à Paris dans les années trente (textes réunis et présentés par Danièle Pistone), Paris: Honoré Champion, 2000, pp. 135–149.
[10] José Navas, op. cit., p. 6 (quoted from Tibor Harsanyi, “Quelques souvenirs de ma vie de musicien”, 1946, inédit, p. 1).
[11] Manfred Kelkel, “L’Ecole de Paris: une fiction?”, in Alexandre Tansman, (sous la dir. de Pierre Guillot), Paris: P.U.S., 1997, p. 88.
[12] Tibor Harsanyi, L’Ecole de Paris à travers l’histoire, inédit, 1945, p. 2.
[13] Arnold Schoenberg, Le Style et l’Idée, Paris: Buchet-Chastel, 1977, p. 161.
[14] Jean Cocteau, Le Coq et l’Arlequin, Paris: Stock, 1979, p. 74.
[15] André Cœuroy suggests this distinction in Larousse de la musique(sous la dir. de Norbert Dufourq), vol. 2, Paris, 1957, p. 162.
[16] Manfred Kelkel, op. cit.,pp. 85–89.
[17] Manfred Kelkel,op. cit., pp. 65–66.
[18] Manfred Kelkel,op. cit., p. 79.
[19] Manfred Kelkel,op. cit., p. 88.
[20] Nikolai Tcherepnin was Bacevičius’s professor of composition at the Russian Conservatory in Paris.
[21] René Dumesnil, op. cit., p. 39.
[22] José Navas, Nicolas Obouhow: mythe et réalité, Mémoire de Maitrise, Université Paris-Sorbonne Paris IV, 1989, p. 15.
[23] Gérald Hugon, “Présentation du compositeur et de son œuvre”, in Alexandre Tansman, op.cit., pp. 15–27.
[24] Printed with the incorrect name, Vytantas Bacevicius.
[25] The review of this concert (held on 14 December 1928) was published in Le Ménestrel, no. 51, 21 December 1928, p. 545.
[26] Ona Narbutienė, op. cit., p. 78.
[27] Ibid., p. 74.
[28] Ibid., p. 73.
[29] J. Baruzi, « Récital Vytautas Bacevicius (4 mai) », in Le Ménestrel, n°19, 1929, p.213.
[30] Vytautas Bacevičius, letter to Grażyna Bacewicz, Palanga, 28 August 1928, in Vytautas Bacevičius, vol. 2., ed. and trans. Edmundas Gedgaudas, Vilnius: Petro Ofsetas, 2005, p. 18.
[31] Ibid.
[32] J. Baruzi, « Concert de Musique lithuanienne (22 janvier) », Le Ménestrel, n°6, 8 février 1929, p. 65-66.
[33] Ona Narbutienė, “Gyvenimo kelias” (Path of Life), op. cit., p. 63.