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Music in the Early Twentieth Century


CHAPTER 2 Getting Rid of Glue
Richard Taruskin

fig. 2-4 Title page of Charles Baudelaire’s Richard Wagner et Tannhäuser à Paris (1861).

If, on the other hand, the word voiles in the title of Debussy’s piano prelude is taken to mean “veils,” connoting mystery and concealment, Debussy’s music can seem “literary”—concerned, that is, in its reluctance to draw explicit connections or maintain a strongly linear narrative thrust, with issues being raised in the literary domain by the poets and other “littérateurs” (literary hangers-on) who belonged to the “Symbolist” school. “Symbolism” was a somewhat older movement than “impressionism” in painting. It goes back to the work of the poet and critic Charles Baudelaire (1821–67), the first of the “decadents” and one of the obvious models for Des Esseintes, the hero of Huysmans’s À rebours, discussed in the previous chapter. Baudelaire claimed to derive his artistic ideas on the one hand from the music and writings of Richard Wagner, and on the other from the American poet and literary theorist Edgar Allan Poe (1809–49). He lived the role of decadent to the tragic hilt, dying penniless in drug-induced insanity.

All literary Symbolists agreed in tracing their movement to a specific poem of Baudelaire’s, the sonnet “Correspondances,” published in 1857 in a collection called Les fleurs du mal (“Flowers of evil,” sometimes translated “Poison blossoms”):

  • La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
  • Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles:
  • L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
  • Qui l’observent avec des regards familiers.
  • Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
  • Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité
  • Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
  • Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se
  • répondent.
  • Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants,
  • Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
  • —Et d’autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
  • Ayant l’expansion des choses infinies,
  • Comme l’ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l’enscens,
  • Qui chantent les transports de l’esprit et des sens.

[Nature is a temple where living pillars at times send out muddled words: There, man passes through forests of symbols that watch him with familiar looks. Like long echoes that blend from afar in a deep penumbral wholeness as vast as the night and the light, aromas, colors and sounds give answer. There are aromas, cool as baby flesh, sweet as oboes, green as the fields—and others, tainted, rich and thriving, having the power of infinite expansion, like amber, musk, balsam and incense—that sing of the transports of spirit and sense.]

The crucial ideas here are two: synesthesia, the equivalence and interchangeability of sense experiences (the whole poem being a sort of gloss on Baudelaire’s avowal that “my soul travels through scents the way the souls of others do through music”18); and the occult knowledge that synesthesia imparts. To see symbols in all things is to lend them a hidden meaning and (as the initial comparison of nature to a temple suggests) to approach the sensory as if it were the spiritual and vice versa. In part, Symbolism was a revival of what modern historians call the “premodern” or magical world view, an outlook that sought the hidden resemblances of all in all. As summarized by the French intellectual historian Michel Foucault, the premodern worldview and its ways of knowing

tell us how the world must fold in upon itself, duplicate itself, reflect itself, or form a chain with itself so that things can resemble one another. They tell us what the paths of similitude are and the directions they take; but not where it is, how one sees it, or by what mark it may be recognized. These buried similitudes must be indicated on the surface of things; there must be visible marks for the invisible analogies. There are no resemblances without signatures. The world of similarity can only be a world of signs19

—which is to say, of symbols. And hence the virtual obsession among symbolist artists with medieval or pseudo-medieval subjects and settings. They not only enabled but positively demanded the adoption of a magical worldview that regarded nature as a gateway to a superior reality.

Factoring Wagner (and what he had come to mean to his numberless enthusiasts) into the equation turned symbolism into a universal “musicalization” of experience, for the relationship between the sensory and the spiritual was strongest in music, where the presence of conceptual objects (concrete “things”) was less of an impediment to free association than in any other art, and where the experience of “objectless desire,” especially strong in Wagner, had accustomed artists to the idea that all objects of desire were interchangeable. An enthusiastic French Wagnerian, the mystical writer Edouard Schuré (1841–1929), in a typically slanted history of the “music drama” published in 1882, made the strongest case that music, by its very nature, was the art of symbolism par excellence:

If from the world of visible forms and ideas peculiar to poetry and the plastic arts we enter the world of sounds and harmony, our first impression is that of a man passing suddenly from the light into deepest darkness. In the former everything can be explained, follows logically and creates an image; in the latter everything seems to spring from unplumbed depths where darkness and mystery reign. In the one we find fixed outlines and the inflexible logic of immutable forms; in the other the flux and re-flux of a liquid element, perpetually in motion and metamorphosis, and containing an infinity of possible forms. In this impenetrable night-darkness into which music plunges us, we feel strongly the vibrations of life, but it is impossible for us to see or distinguish anything. But as the soul gradually becomes accustomed to this strange region, it begins to acquire a kind of second sight, rather like a somnambulist who, sinking deeper and deeper into his sleep, becomes submerged in his dream until real objects disappear from sight. But while the outer aspect of things is effaced, their inner content is revealed in a marvelous light.20

At its most extreme and musical, then, Symbolism promised knowledge through the senses of the spiritual, or a way via art of seeing past the appearances of the phenomenal world into the higher reality of the au-delà, the world “beyond” the senses. Art or literature that drew connections too explicitly—that said what it meant and meant what it said—only set limits on its power of evocation, thus frustrating its highest potential goal, that of occult revelation. “By describing what is [and only what is], the poet degrades himself and is reduced to the rank of schoolmaster,” wrote Baudelaire; “by telling us what is possible he remains faithful to his vocation.”21 Or as Stéphane Mallarmé (1842–98), the leading Symbolist poet of the next generation, once exclaimed when an editor complimented him on the lucidity of an essay he had just submitted, “Give it back! I need to put in more shadows.”

Now whereas drawing connections between Debussy and the impressionist painters was itself an exercise in impressionism, ringed with caveats (including the composer’s expressed discomfort with the idea), his connections with Symbolism are biographical facts of major import to the conception of many of his most significant works. The orchestral composition that won him his first réclame, for example, the Prélude à L’après-midi d’un faune (Prelude to “The Afternoon of a Faun”), first performed in 1894, was inspired by (and was in some sense an interpretation of) the most famous poem of Mallarmé. Even earlier, he had composed a major song cycle, Cinq poèmes de Baudelaire (1890), to words by the spiritual father of the Symbolist movement. As the epigraphs at the top of this chapter attest, moreover, Debussy had read his Baudelaire well, and was given to paraphrasing him when talking “esthetics.” His one completed opera, Pelléas et Mélisande, on which he worked from 1893 to 1902, was a practically verbatim setting (only slightly abridged) of what was widely taken to be the quintessential Symbolist drama, the work of Count Maurice Maeterlinck (1862–1949), a Belgian writer who after Mallarmé’s death was regarded as the movement’s leader. Two other operatic projects of Debussy’s—Le diable dans le beffroi (“The devil in the belfry”), on which he worked from 1902 to 1911, and La chute de la maison Usher (“The fall of the house of Usher”), on which he worked from 1908 to 1917—were based on works by Poe, Baudelaire’s acknowledged mentor. The list of symbolists whose work Debussy set, or on which he contemplated basing orchestral or dramatic projects, could be extended manyfold.

Pelléas et Mélisande is not only a Symbolist drama; it is a drama “about” Symbolism; and as Debussy was thrilled to realize, it is a drama about music, as Symbolists like Schuré understood it. Neither Pelléas nor Mélisande, the pair of “operatic lovers” in the title (recalling Tristan and Isolde), is the play’s central character. The central character is Golaud, Pelléas’s brother and Mélisande’s husband, the play’s tragic hero. Although left alive at the end of the drama while Pelléas and Mélisande have perished, it is Golaud who is crushed in consequence of a fatal flaw. That flaw is his inability to accept things as they are, in all their infinite mysteriousness and ambiguity, their inaccessibility to reason, their indifference to human designs.


fig. 2-5 Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4, in the original production (Paris, Opéra Comique, 1902), as printed in the periodical Le Théâtre.

Incapable of accepting reality as “the flux and re-flux of a liquid element, perpetually in motion and metamorphosis, and containing an infinity of possible forms,” to recall the words of Schuré, insisting rather on a realm of light and sharp outline in which “everything can be explained, follows logically and creates an image,” Golaud finds himself alienated from all the other characters, who have “acquired the second sight of a somnambulist who, sinking deeper and deeper into his sleep, becomes submerged in his dream,” of which the medium is music. Because of his philistine (“unmusical”) insistence that things mean one thing and one thing only, and because he tries to force the world into conformity with his limited vision, Golaud becomes a destroyer, and is destroyed.

Here is a brief synopsis of the action, the paragraphs corresponding roughly to Debussy’s five acts:

Out hunting, Golaud, the grandson of Arkel, king of Allemonde (a French/German pun meaning “all the world”) comes upon a beautiful young woman weeping by a well. She is lost, having fled a place she will not name. Noticing her gold crown glittering in the well, Golaud makes as if to retrieve it, but she restrains him, saying she would rather die than have it back. She gives her name as Mélisande. She agrees to go with him. They marry against Arkel’s wishes, but Arkel bows to the hand of fate and gives his blessing.

Pelléas, Golaud’s younger brother, befriends Mélisande. Seeking relief from summer’s heat one day, they stray into a shady garden containing a well. He admires her long hair, which has fallen into the well. He asks her how she met Golaud. In answer, Mélisande takes her wedding ring off her finger to show him, but, playfully tossing it in the air, loses it in the well. That night she begins to sob and asks Golaud to take her away from the castle where they live. He notices the ring missing. He questions her. She lies about its whereabouts, saying she left it in a cave. He orders her to go immediately with Pelléas to the cave and retrieve it. While in the cave, she and Pelléas are startled by the sight of a starving family.

Pelléas finds Mélisande sitting in a tower window, combing the hair he so admires and singing. He asks her to lean out so that he can see it. She leans out too far; the hair falls all over the enraptured Pelléas. Golaud discovers them. For reasons unexplained, Golaud leads Pelléas to an abandoned, stinking well in the castle basement. Emerging into the sunlight, Pelléas seeks and finds Mélisande. They sit quietly in the shade. Golaud discovers them again and orders Pelléas to leave his wife alone. Golaud questions Yniold, his son by a former wife, about Pelléas and Mélisande. Yniold’s childish answers exasperate him. He squeezes the boy’s arm, causing him to cry out in pain. Then he has Yniold spy on the suspected pair. His renewed heated questioning frightens the boy.

Pelléas, having been told by his father (a character who never appears) that he looks like one marked for death, makes ready to leave the castle. He asks Mélisande to meet him one last time by the well where she lost her wedding ring. Golaud enters, is furious, insists (against Arkel’s entreaties) that Mélisande’s eyes conceal her guilt. He seizes her by the hair and throws her down. Taking his sword he leaves. Mélisande laments to Arkel that she has lost her husband’s love. Pelléas and Mélisande keep their rendezvous. They confess their love to one another. Golaud bursts in and kills Pelléas with his sword. Mélisande flees with Golaud in pursuit.

Mélisande (who, we only now find out, has recently given birth) has been only superficially wounded by Golaud’s sword. She is undergoing what the doctor foresees will be an uneventful recovery in her bedchamber. Golaud, filled with remorse, asks her forgiveness, but also asks to know the truth. She tells him that she and Pelléas were innocent, but he does not believe her and presses her further. She sinks back in exhaustion. To revive her spirits, Arkel shows her infant daughter. Servants appear. Golaud demands to know why. He is desperate to interrogate Mélisande some more, but Arkel bars the way. Mélisande dies. Golaud sobs. Arkel orders him out of the room for breaking the silence.

The superficial (or maybe not so superficial) parallels between this plot and that of Tristan und Isolde are hard to miss: lovers in spite of themselves, Pelléas and Mélisande die (the former directly, the latter indirectly) of wounds inflicted by the heroine’s rightful husband. Both Wagner’s opera and Debussy’s could be viewed as mythic or mystical variants of the prosaic (or at least bourgeois) “eternal triangle” motif—variants that subvert the middle-class moral that usually animates the plot: that if forced to choose, one must sacrifice the gratification of one’s desires to the greater good of the social order.

But where Wagner had attempted to muzzle morality, or shout it down with a grand and elemental, self-justifying passion, the voice of morality simply speaks a foreign language in Maeterlinck’s play and Debussy’s opera. Golaud wants definite and rational answers, but nobody understands his questions. Nor can anyone connect Golaud’s actions with their consequences: Arkel’s last words to Golaud, ordering him out of Mélisande’s death chamber, are not peremptory but loving: “Don’t stay here Golaud. She needs silence now. Come away, come away. It’s terrible, but it wasn’t your doing. She was such a quiet little creature …” Loving words, and yet mocking all the same. The playwright mocks Golaud’s questions with enigmas of his own in the form of recurring motifs, for which we spectators are at a loss to provide explanations. Why wells, dark holes in the ground, in three scenes? Why the crown, glinting in the shadows? Why the ring, which disappears from view? Do they tell us where Mélisande came from after all? Do they tell us why she married Golaud? Or do they simply mock the questions, ours as well as Golaud’s? The only answer that “works” within the confines of the drama seems to be that they are symbols, windows on the au-delà. They cannot be understood, except as portents of a destiny we cannot shape. Go with the flow, they warn; the need to know is death. We can live if we only don’t connect—or rather, if we connect with everything, not just with what we think will satisfy our needs.

Not surprisingly, Debussy saw in all of this an ideal medium for his music—or rather, perhaps, saw his music as an ideal medium for all of this. But how, exactly, did his music provide that medium, that “liquid element” in which the somnambulistic action of the drama could unfold? Recognizing the affinities between Pelléas and Tristan, but also recognizing the wide gulf that separated the two operas both as drama and as “philosophy,” the Polish musicologist Stefan Jarocinski described Debussy’s achievement as one of “de-Wagnerizing” opera by “removing the Teutonic pathos and ‘will to power.’”22 On the basis of our previous analyses of Debussy’s musical technique we might be tempted to take this observation a step further, and at the same time pinpoint the relationship between Debussy’s musical technique and his philosophical or dramaturgical conceptions, by suggesting more concretely that Debussy de-Wagnerized his opera by removing (or “liquidating”) the half steps—not every half step, of course, just those that expressed pathos or a “will to power,” which is to say the cadential leading tones.

Debussy found the task of composing Pelléas exhausting. In fact (just as his hero-worshipped Musorgsky had done in Boris Godunov) he wrote the opera twice and never finished another. The first draft took him exactly two years, from August 1893 to August 1895. The apparent aimlessness of the action—or rather, the extreme passivity of all the characters save Golaud—was at first a powerful attraction. “Despite its dream-like atmosphere,” he wrote of Maeterlinck’s play, “it contains far more humanity than those so-called ‘real-life documents’” of verismo,23 the naturalistic melodramas of contemporary Italians like Mascagni and Puccini. In particular, it was bathed in “an evocative language whose sensitivity could be extended into music and into the orchestral ambience.” This much was almost a direct paraphrase of Schuré.

But realizing it musically was another story. Debussy’s letters, especially those written in 1894, are full of anguish and raillery against what he saw as the limits that his training had placed on his fantasy. “I’ve spent days trying to capture that ‘nothing’ that Mélisande is made of,” he wrote to one friend.24 To another he wondered whether there was anything left for a composer to do anymore but recycle clichés: “Impossible to count how often since Gluck people have died to the chord of the [Neapolitan] sixth, and now, from [Massenet’s] Manon to Isolde, they do it to the diminished seventh! And as for that idiotic thing called a perfect triad, it’s only habit, like going to a cafe!”25 As for old Arkel, he “comes from beyond the grave and has that objective prophetic gentleness of those who are soon to die—all of which has to be expressed with do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do!!! What a profession!”26

Finally, he confided to Ernest Chausson, his closest musical friend after Satie, “I was premature in crying ‘success’ over Pelléas et Mélisande. After a sleepless night (the bringer of truth) I had to admit it wouldn’t do at all. It was like the duet by M. So–and–so, or nobody in particular, and worst of all the ghost of old Klingsor, alias R. Wagner, kept appearing in the corner of a bar. So I’ve torn the whole thing up.”27 The scene to which Debussy was referring was the climactic one, the fourth scene of the fourth act, in which Pelléas and Mélisande exchange nocturnal confessions of love in a garden, and Golaud, intruding on them, kills his rival.

This was, of course, the scene that most closely paralleled the plot of Tristan und Isolde (act II), and therefore aroused the strongest anxieties in a composer who had declared that it was “time to be post-Wagner (après Wagner) rather than merely in the footsteps of Wagner (d’après Wagner).”28 In view of its dramatic importance and its heavy emotional charge, it is not surprising to learn that this scene was both the first music in Debussy’s opera to be sketched, in the summer of 1893, and the last to be completed, in January 1900. In all, it went through three complete rewrites.

Carolyn Abbate has demonstrated the extent to which the revisions of the scene were a conscious effort to exorcise “the ghost of old Klingsor.”29 (Klingsor was the name Wagner gave to the evil sorcerer in the second act of his last opera, Parsifal, who is defeated by the pure young title character; by calling Wagner by that name in his letter to Chausson, Debussy was obviously casting both Wagner and himself as characters in what can only too easily remind us of an “Oedipal” drama, a drama of vicarious patricide.) One instance, somewhat trivial but revealing, was the removal of what could be heard as a Tristanesque phrase (Ex. 2-12) at the point where Mélisande, sensing Golaud’s approach, sings “Il y a quelqu’un derrière nous” (There is someone behind us). “Symbolically,” Abbate comments, “it was Wagner whom Debussy heard standing behind the composition of Pelléas,” and of course the old man had to go.


ex. 2-12 From the sketches to Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4

Elsewhere, however, despite Debussy’s apparent search–and–destroy maneuver, conspicuous references to the Tristan-chord were allowed to stay, especially at places where the word triste (sad), or even the performance direction tristement (sadly), appear (Ex. 2-13). At such places, where despite the fraught dramatic situation Debussy was seemingly unable to resist a fairly sophomoric pun, we seem to have a striking confirmation of Ortega’s diagnosis of the modern artist’s essentially ironic disposition, creating—at a distance, so to speak—an “artistic art” that insisted upon displaying its artifice, not so much in ostentation as in modesty (“to see to it that the work of art is nothing but a work of art, … a thing of no transcending consequence”).


ex. 2-13 Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Mélisande, “Si, si, je suis heureuse ….”

The most significant alterations in the scene, however, were the ones that attentuated (or “clouded”) the clarity of the tonal relationships. Unlike Wagner’s, Debussy’s Tristan-chords are not harmonically active; like the one in Ex. 2-13, which simply breaks off, they do not form part of any progression to a harmonic goal. Instead, they float free of any tether of voice leading, free of “glue,” and so does the scene as a whole. One is conscious of Debussy’s effort not to impose any abstractly “musical” shape on the scene. Modulations are always unpredictable (hence unpredicted), never telegraphed. The listener is rendered as passive as the characters, borne along by the ill-defined yet incessant harmonic flux, the flux of fate. Still and all, one can discern a tonal plan if one is looking hard enough for it. And while looking for it might not be the best way to approach the opera in the opera house, it is worth doing here, under “laboratory conditions,” just so as to appreciate the ways in which Debussy (recalling Mallarmé) “put in the shadows.”


ex. 2-14 Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4, mm. 81–87

Both tonally and dramaturgically, the scene can be broken down into three parts. The first culminates in the declaration of love (Ex. 2-14), surely the most resolutely unrhetorical such declaration in all of opera. The second, which begins with the scene’s first explicitly notated key signature (F♯ major), comprises its lyrical core: Pelléas’s part slows down to “aria tempo” (halves and quarters rather than quarters, eighths, and sixteenths) as he sings of his love; Mélisande, as ever, is erratic, matter-of-fact, “not all there,” and though she reciprocates Pelléas’s passion verbally, her music tends to break the mood. (Here Debussy acts as a sort of supreme stage director, controlling the singers’ enunciation of Maeterlinck’s lines to achieve the characteristically understated interpretation he desires, which may or may not have accorded with the playwright’s intent.) The swift third section culminates in the lovers’ desperate kiss in expectation of death, and Golaud’s attack. Here (Ex. 2-15) even somnambulistic Mélisande manages a fairly long, fairly high note. In this doggedly understated context it comes across as a veritable Liebestod!

The entire scene contains only a single strongly articulated authentic cadence, only one spot where a functional “V” and a functional “I” are placed in direct succession. As might be guessed, it leads into the “aria” in F♯ major (Ex. 2-16). But only in a context like this could such a cadence count as “strongly articulated.” The dominant is presented in second inversion, with the root C♯ a fleeting melodic presence rather than part of the actual “chord.” True, the C♯D♭ region has had some previous exposure—in one spot it seems to function as tonic, in another as dominant—which could be adduced as support for the cadence in Ex. 2-16. A truly determined analyst might even claim that the whole first part of the scene thus acts as a structural pickup to the second part (and might find further support, as Abbate suggests, in the sketches). But to make such a claim is to value an ounce of light over a pound of shadow. That does not accord very well with the Symbolist scale of values.


ex. 2-15 Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV scene 4, mm. 266–271


ex. 2-16 Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4, mm. 96–98

A similarly selective reading of the harmonic evidence might seek to connect Pelléas’s anxiously asserted and sustained dominant seventh on G at the beginning of Ex. 2-17 with his “very expressive” C major at the end of it, and cast it all as an elaborate preparation for the F-minor cadence at the end. This, too, may accord with Debussy’s initial harmonic plan. But to select only these circle-of-fifth moments for conceptual linkage is to ignore (for example) the lengthy pedal point on F♯ (recalling the scene’s tonal focal point) that leads up to the climactic kiss. (And here Debussy may have missed an apparition of “old Klingsor,” since the pedal point that prepares the cataclysmic climax of Tristan and Isolde’s lovemaking—thwarted in act II but triumphant in act III—was also an F♯.)

Far more salient to the ear and to the interpreting mind are the elaborately liquidated leading tones that dissolve potential dominants wherever (as Mallarmé might have said) lucidity threatens, as where an infusion of functionally undifferentiated whole-tone harmonies neutralizes the key of Pelléas’s little aria (Ex. 2-18a). Another such intervention (Ex. 2-18b) turns the leading tone of F♯ into the innocuous third of a D-minor triad. At these points the tension that a German composer would have ratcheted up to the point of purposeful agony is allowed—fatalistically, it might seem—to wither.


ex. 2-17 Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4, mm. 176–201

Not surprisingly, then, harmonic effects like these rendered Pelléas virtually incomprehensible to Richard Strauss (“Richard II,” as he was often called), then regarded (as we learned in the previous chapter) as Germany’s harmonic innovator par excellence. At a performance of Debussy’s opera that he attended in 1907 (two years after Salome) as the guest of Romain Rolland (1866–1944), the famous French novelist who was also a prolific writer on music, Strauss turned to his host after the first act and said, “Is it like this all the way through?”30 On being assured that it was, he protested, “But there’s nothing in it. No music. It has nothing consecutive. No musical phrases, no development.” Spoken like Golaud himself, this. For Strauss, as for all the German maximalists, there could be neither intelligible continuity nor “development,” nor even meaningful emotional expression, without semitone connections, or at least powerful expectations based on such connections. Strauss’s perplexity was a tribute to Debussy’s success at getting rid of the Wagnerian glue, relinquishing the harmonic driver’s seat to “fate” rather than the foreordained goals (and the triumphalist esthetics) vouchsafed by the circle of fifths and its half-step surrogates. His quiescence, responsive in a way that German music had not yet become to a new psychological mood, proved far more subversive to traditional practice than Strauss’s hyperactivity.


ex. 2-18a Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4, mm. 133–135


ex. 2-18b Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act IV, scene 4, mm. 154–156


(18) Baudelaire, Petits poèmes en prose (1862); quoted in Baudelaire, Pages choisis (Classiques Larousse, 1934), p. 14n5.

(19) Michel Foucault, The Order of Things (New York: Vintage Books, 1973), pp. 25–26; quoted in Gary Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), p. 55.

(20) Edouard Schuré, Histoire du drame musical (Paris, 1882); quoted in Jarocinski, Debussy, p. 36.

(21) Baudelaire, Salon de 1859; quoted in Jarocinski, Debussy, p. 29.

(22) Jarocinski, Debussy, p. 130.

(23) Debussy on Music, p. 75.

(24) Debussy to Ernest Chausson; Letters, eds. François Lesure and Roger Nichols (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), p. 62.

(25) Debussy to Pierre Louÿs, 20 August 1894; Letters, ed. Lesure, p. 72.

(26) Debussy, Letters, ed. Lesure, p. 62.

(27) Debussy to Chausson, 2 October 1893; Letters, ed. Lesure, p. 54.

(28) Debussy on Music, p. 74.

(29) Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the Composition of Pelléas,” Nineteenth-Century Music V (1981–82): 117–40.

(30) Richard Strauss and Romain Rolland, Correspondance; Fragments de Journal (1951); quoted in Edward Lockspeiser, Claude Debussy: His Life and Mind, Vol. II: 1902–1918 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), p. 88.

Citation (MLA):
Richard Taruskin. "Chapter 2 Getting Rid of Glue." The Oxford History of Western Music. Oxford University Press. New York, USA. n.d. Web. 31 Mar. 2020. <https://www.oxfordwesternmusic.com/view/Volume4/actrade-9780195384840-div1-002005.xml>.
Citation (APA):
Taruskin, R. (n.d.). Chapter 2 Getting Rid of Glue. In Oxford University Press, Music in the Early Twentieth Century. New York, USA. Retrieved 31 Mar. 2020, from https://www.oxfordwesternmusic.com/view/Volume4/actrade-9780195384840-div1-002005.xml
Citation (Chicago):
Richard Taruskin. "Chapter 2 Getting Rid of Glue." In Music in the Early Twentieth Century, Oxford University Press. (New York, USA, n.d.). Retrieved 31 Mar. 2020, from https://www.oxfordwesternmusic.com/view/Volume4/actrade-9780195384840-div1-002005.xml