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Updated: June 26, 2025
Across the grassy lake, Across the lake to the shadow of the willows It is accompanied by an image, as by Debussy's "Réflets dans l'eau." The swan that is Reflects Upon the solitary water breast to breast With the duplicity: "The other one!" And breast to breast it is confused. O visionary wedding! O stateliness of the procession! It is accompanied by the image of itself Alone.
"He is a master of paint." "Quite possibly. Henry James was a master of ink, but only by prayer and fasting can we hope to grasp his message. Both afford examples of very strange and experienced spirits trammelled by the limitations of imperfect humanity. Their dreams cannot be expressed in terms within the present human compass. Debussy's extraordinary music may be explained in the same way.
They played Tschaikowsky first, the tender and passionate "Melodie"; then a lilting measure from Debussy's "Faun," followed by a solemnly lovely Brahms arrangement devised by the virtuoso himself. At the dying-out of the applause, the violinist addressed himself to the nook where Io was no more than a vague, faërie figure to his eyes, misty through interlaced bloom and leafage.
Nothing is truer. The Société Nationale is indeed a guest-chamber, where for the past thirty years a guest-chamber art and guest-chamber opinions have been formed; and from it some of the profoundest and most poetic French music has been derived, such as Franck's and Debussy's chamber-music. But its atmosphere is becoming daily more rarefied. That is a danger.
"There's something in the comparison," Mr. Spatt admitted thoughtfully. "Why not like good Bach?" Musa asked, glaring in a very strange manner at Mr. Ziegler. "Bosh!" ejaculated Mr. Ziegler with a most notable imperturbability. "Only Bach himself could com-pose good Bach." Musa's breathing could be heard across the drawing-room. "Eh bien!" said Musa. "Now I will play for you Debussy's Toccata.
"I will play Debussy's Toccata for violin solo," Musa announced tersely. He had blushed; his great eyes were sparkling. And he began to play. And as soon as he had played a few bars, Audrey gave a start, fortunately not a physical start, and she blushed also. Musa sternly winked at her.
The matter is important only as contributing to the history of Debussy's work, and would scarcely reward detailed examination or discussion. One would have said, in advance of the event, that Debussy, of all composers, living or dead, was best fitted to write music for Maeterlinck's beautiful and perturbing play.
It was no relief to her to perceive that these two were listening to Debussy's Toccata for solo violin with the trained and appreciative attention of people who had heard it often before in the various capitals of Europe, who knew it by heart, and who knew at just what passages to raise the head, to give a nod of recognition or a gesture of ecstasy.
People rose, rushed for the exits in near-panic. Women screamed. He stopped the orchestra, turned to the audience, held up his hand and shouted: "Come back! Sit down! Sit down all of you! Everything is all right!" The customers meekly resumed their seats. Mr. Koussevitzky swung 'round and continued playing Debussy's brooding, sensuous dreampiece as if nothing had happened.
The music is like the stripping of some perfect flower, petal upon petal. There are moments when it is all that lies between two people, and is the fullness of their knowledge. It is the perfect sign of an experience. And so, since Debussy's art could have no second climax, it was in the order of things that the works succeeding upon his masterpiece should be relatively less important.
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