Of Araby the blest"
there drifted the doubtlessly very appetizing smell of Viennese cookery.
But there is music of Ernest Bloch that is a large, a poignant, an authentic expression of what is racial in the Jew. There is music of his that is authentic by virtue of qualities more fundamentally racial than the synagogical modes on which it bases itself, the Semitic pomp and color that inform it. There are moments when one hears in this music the harsh and haughty accents of the Hebrew tongue, sees the abrupt gestures of the Hebrew soul, feels the titanic burst of energy that created the race and carried it intact across lands and times, out of the eternal Egypt, through the eternal Red Sea. There are moments when this music makes one feel as though an element that had remained unchanged throughout three thousand years, an element that is in every Jew and by which every Jew must know himself and his descent, were caught up in it and fixed there. Bloch has composed settings for the Psalms that are the very impulse of the Davidic hymns incarnate in another medium; make it seem as though the genius that had once flowered at the court of the king had attained miraculous second blooming. The setting of the 114th Psalm is the very voice of the rejoicing over the passage of the Red Sea, the very lusty blowing on ox horns, the very hieratic dance. The voice of Jehovah, has it spoken to those who throughout the ages have called for it much differently than it speaks at the close of Bloch's 22nd Psalm?
And it is something like the voice of Job that speaks in the desolation of the third of the "Poèmes juives." Once again, the Ecclesiast utters his disillusion, his cruel disappointment, his sense of the utter vanity of existence in the soliloquy of the 'cello in the rhapsody "Schelomo." Once again, the tent of the tabernacle that Jehovah ordered Moses to erect in the wilderness, and hang with curtains and with veils, lifts itself in the introduction to the symphony "Israel." The great kingly limbs and beard and bosom of Abraham are, once again, in the first movement of the work; the dark, grave, soft-eyed women of the Old Testament, Rebecca, Rachel, Ruth, re-appear in the second, with its flowing voices.
Racial traits abound in this body of work. These ponderous forms, these sudden movements, these imperious, barbaric, ritual trumpet blasts, bring to mind all one knows of Semitic art, recall the crowned winged bulls of the Assyrians as well as Flaubert's Carthage, with its pyramided temples and cisterns and neighing horses in the acropolis. Bloch's themes oftentimes have the subtle, far-flung, monotonous line of the synagogic chants. Many of his melodic bits, although pure inventions, are indubitably hereditary. The mode of a race is, after all, but the intensified inflection of its speech. And Bloch's melodic line, with its strange intervals, its occasional quarter notes, approximates curiously to the inflections of the Hebrew tongue. Like so much of the Gregorian chant, which it oftentimes recalls, one can conceive this music as part of the Temple service in Jerusalem. And like the melodic line, so, too, the phrases assigned to the trumpets in the setting of the three Psalms and in the symphony "Israel." They, also, might once have resounded through the courts of Herod's temple. The unusual accents, the unusual intervals, give the instruments a timbre at once imperious, barbaric, ritual. And how different from the theatric Orientalism of so many of the Russians are the crude dissonances of Bloch, the terrible consecutive fourths and fifths, the impetuous rhythms, savage and frenetic in their emphasis. This music is shrill and tawny and bitter with the desert. Its flavor is indeed new to European music. Certainly, in the province of the string quartet, nothing quite like the salty and acrid, the fruity, drugging savor of Bloch's work, has ever before appeared.
And it was not until the Jewish note appeared in his work that Bloch spoke his proper language. The works that precede the "Trois Poèmes juives," the first of his compositions in which the racial gesture is consciously made, do not really represent the man as he is. No doubt, the brilliant and ironic scherzo of the C-sharp minor Symphony, whose verve and passion and vigor make the composer of "L'Apprenti sorcier" seem apprentice indeed, is already characteristic of the composer of the string quartet and the suite for viola and piano. But much of the symphony is derivative. One glimpses the influence of Liszt and Tchaikowsky and Strauss in it. So too with the opera "Macbeth," written a few years after the composition of the symphony, when the composer was twenty-four. Despite the effectiveness of the setting it gives the melodrama cleverly abstracted from Shakespeare's tragedy by Edmond Flegg, the score bears a still undecided signature. One feels that the composer has recently encountered the personalities of Moussorgsky and Debussy. No doubt, one begins to sense the proper personality of Bloch in the delicate coloring of the two little orchestral sketches "Hiver-Printemps," in the mournful English horn against the harp in "Hiver," in the chirruping hurdy-gurdy commencement of "Printemps." Unfortunately, the cantilena in the second number still points backward. But with the "Trois Poèmes juives," the original Bloch is at hand. These compositions were conceived at first as studies for "Jezabel," the opera Bloch intended composing directly after he had completed the scoring of "Macbeth" in 1904. To-day, "Jezabel" still exists only in the libretto of Flegg and in the series of sketches deposited in the composer's portfolio. The moment in which Bloch is to find it possible for him to realize the work has not yet arrived. Planned at first to follow directly upon "Macbeth," "Jezabel" promises fairly to become the goal of his first great creative period. But out of the conception of the opera itself, out of the desire of creating a work around this Old Testamentary figure, out of the train of emotion excited by the project, there have already flowed results of a first magnitude for Bloch and for modern music. For in the process of searching out a style befitting this biblical drama, and in the effort to master the idiom necessary to it, Bloch executed the compositions that have placed him so eminently in the company of the few modern masters. The three Psalms, "Schelomo," "Israel," portions of the quartet, have but trodden further in the direction marked out by the "Trois Poèmes juives." "Jezabel" has turned out to be one of those dreams that lead men on to the knowledge of themselves.
And yet, the "Jewish composer" that the man is so often said to be, he most surely is not. He is too much the man of his time, too much the universal genius, to be thus placed in a single category. His art succeeds to that of Moussorgsky and Debussy quite as much as does that of Strawinsky and Ravel; he rests quite as heavily on the great European traditions of music as he does on his own hereditary strain. Indeed, he is of the modern masters one of those the most conscious of the tradition of his art. He falls heir to Bach and to Haydn and to Beethoven quite as much as any living musician. Quite as much as that of any other his music is an image of the time. In the quartet, his magistral work, the Hebraic element is only one of several. The trio of the scherzo is like a section of some Polynesian forest, with its tropic warmth, its monstrous growths, its swampy earth, its chattering monkeys and birds of paradise. There is the beat of the age of steel in the finale. And the delicate Pastorale is redolent of the gentle fields of Europe, smells of the hay, gives again the nun-like close of day in temperate skies. It is only that as a Jew it was necessary for Ernest Bloch to say yea to his own heredity before his genius could appear. And to what a degree it has appeared, one can gauge from the intensity with which his age mirrors itself in the music he has already composed. His music is the modern man in his lately gotten sense of the tininess of the human elements in the race, the enormity of the animal past. For Ernest Bloch, the primeval forest with its thick spawning life, its ferocious beasts, its brutish phallic-worshiping humanity, is still here. Before him there still lie the hundreds and hundreds of thousands of years of development necessary to make a sapient creature of man. And he writes like one who has been plunged into a darkness and sadness and bitterness all the greater for the vision of the rainbow that has been given him, for the glimpse he has had of the "pays du soleil," the land of man lifting himself at last from the brute and becoming human. For he knows too well that only aeons after he is dead will the night finally pass.
And he is the modern insomuch as the fusion of East and West is illuminated by what he does. The coloration of his orchestra, the cries of his instruments, the line of his melody, the throbbing of his pulses, make us feel the great tide sweeping us on, the wave rolling over all the world. In his art, we feel the earth itself turning toward the light of the East.