Mwic in edticatiotr
result in works worthy of the name, all music-lovers are, on occasion,
agreed that certain musical works are not merely undistinguished, but
vulgar or coarse and therefore devoid of any educational, improving
or enlightening value.
This brings us face to face with a peculiarity of our nature and more
especially of our musical memory. We cannot control our memory.
It receives and records a jumble of good and bad. A silly, trivial melody
of absolutely no real worth may etch itself into our memory and obsess
us. In the Chronigtle des Pasqaier, I have depicted a musician who is, in
my eyes, a very angel of music, a being who has received every possible
gift, every possible grace. CCcile Pasquier admits one day to her brother
Laurent, her affectionate confidant: ‘I have lived all my life on Bach
and Mozart, Handel and Couperin; but for two days past I have been
tormented by a wretched street song. It must mean that I am no longer
pure. We only get what we deserve.’
Poor Ckcile blames herself, but she is wrong. We cannot shut our
ears at will when base and barbarous music sounds close at hand. I
consider, however, that the teacher should do all he can to protect his
pupils from such poisoned meats. It will be very difficult for him to do
so in this age in which we are compelled to live. And this brings me to
a few remarks on the question of mechanized music.
On the strength of several writings on civilization, in which I frankly
revealed my uneasiness at the vogue-I might almost say the dictator-
ship-of mechanized music, I have been regarded as an opponent of
broadcasting, and even of recordings. How wrongly! Admittedly, I
originated the expression ‘tinned music’, and I have no desire to with-
draw it. But the problem is quite simple. Recorded music and broad-
cast music presuppose scientific inventions of which mankind has
certainly some reason to be proud. But the technique and the apparatus
used are not primarily concerned in the case. When recorded music is
good and beautiful, I like it and gladly use the gramophone. Unfor-
tunately, mechanized music, the music spread abroad by mechanical
means, is too often inane when it is not actually disgusting. It is usually
poured out by high-powered instruments capable of annihilating both
distance and obstacles. I well remember a ship on which I once spent
a fortnight. Music was laid on everywhere, even on the bridge. The
tasteless, revolting flow poured out even through the raging of the
storm. In not one of the public rooms was the traveller allowed to
meditate in silence. I was strongly tempted to shatter the whole
wretched, offensive apparatus.