ERIK SATIE AND THE MUSIC OF IRONY

By RUDHYAR D. CHENNEVI]RE
A T a time like the present, when the most contradictory
artistic tendencies are confounded in an appalling chaos,
in which it is difficultto determinethe great subterranean
current out of which the future will gush forth, there is a certain
interest in detaching a curious musical figure, that of Erik Satie;
and of seeking to penetrate, from a historical as well as a purely
musical standpoint, the meaning and value of the few works-
mainly piano compositions-which he has written. I say "works,"
though the word is a lofty one to use for the strange, short pieces
which Satie-I am considering only the Satie antedating the
Parade, his recent ballet, with which I am not acquainted-
offers us. And the expression "musical works" would seem to
be even less applicable,since Satie, who from the historic point of
view holds an eminent place in the evolution of the languageof
music, is at bottom as little a musician as it is possible to be.
Some have called Satie an "ironist." And, in truth, the term
may be said to apply to him. Yet has irony any musical value?
Is not the phrase "the music of irony" absolutely meaningless?
It is this fact which I would like to demonstrate here, and thus
disengage the notably representative value, in a historical sense,
of Erik Satie, who, after having served as the precursorof the
Debussyian musical renovation-at least from a formal point of
view-has become a "musicalironist," and as such the represent-
ative in music of an intellectualism and individualism beyond
measure, which has given us the art of these recent years, com-
plex, sterile, as opposed to the profound and essential worth of
true Art, whose values are synthetic and mystic, "synanthropic"
values, I might say, based on the communion of humanity.
Erik Satie-as we have been informed in a well-considered
article by Jules 1corcheville (S.I.M., 1911), whose noble and un-
troubled death on the field of battle was a great misfortune for
international art-was born in Honfleur, May 17, 1866. His
mother was of Scotch descent. He is said to have developed a
great fondness for the liturgic chant at an early age, and would
listen to it with delight for hours at a time. He studied with but
scant success at the Paris Conservatory. And what must have
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been the spirit controlling this worthy institution at the time, if

we are to judge by what it is to-day! Satie stayed there several
years, but the instruction given him seems to have affected him
as little as the proverbial water did the duck's back. It cannot
be said of him, as has been said, not without justice, of certain
others, that his works show he had made up his mind to act in
direct opposition to the Conservatory rules, which is only an-
other way of following them. As soon as Satie begins to write
(Ogives, 1886-Sarabandes, 1887-Gymnopedies, Gnossiennes, 1890),
he revels in full liberty, one might even say in full anarchy, in
entire originality; and we shall see that all else may be denied
him, save and excepted the originality aforementioned.
These initial compositions are slow and solemn successions
of seventh and ninth harmonies, indefinitely linked, occasionally
yielding place to a processional of majestically perfect chords.
Of plan of construction there is not a trace. There seems to be
no reason why these chords might not continue for hours. One
senses that their originator has dallied voluptuously with these
sonorities, very lovely, unknown at the time and relegated to the
index of forbidden dissonances. One feels that for hours at a
stretch he has caressed the ivory keys, sounding them softly, then,
little by little, with greater force; gloriously, then again more
gently, allowing them to die away in ecstasy or satiety (in the latter.
alas, only too often, from the listener's standpoint). One feels
that the composer's sense of hearing, his nerves, vibrate sen-
suously, lulled by these infinite undulations of sound.
The Satie of these compositions seems to be a cerebral sen-
sualist. And it is this, rather than the direct influence of plain
chant, which has led him to string long rosaries of solemn chords;
it is this which has drawn him toward the vague mysticism which
with him, as with nearly all those of his own period, was essentially
superficial: the neurotic mysticism of a voluptuous woman,
transmuting unsatisfied sensuality into cerebral reveries. It was
at the time when neo-mysticism and symbolism gushed forth from
the solemn fount of Parsifal. The influence of the English Pre-
Raphaelites had penetrated the youthful artists of France. The
Sar Peladan was seeing visions, deciphering the hermetic arcanas
of the Chaldean magi. The souls of the cathedrals were being
discovered. It was the epoch of long stations in minster naves
impregnated with the glow of stained-glass windows of symbolic
design. And its artists were too feeble to create a new mysticism,
to lend a divine meaning to life, to think and to adore Eternity
in them-to do that which offers itself as the arduous and splendid
 Erik Satie and the Music of Irony 471

task of the generation to-day wakening to its duty. These ar-

tists, weary of the "grand gesture" of romanticism, saddened by
national defeat, incapable of understanding the meaning and
grandeur of a civilization of the future, heralded by the noise
and tumult of machinery, took refuge in the Past, in the mysticism
of the Middle Ages. They allowed themselves to be lulled to
rest by the religion of their childhood, by all that it offered them
in the shape of atmospheric distance and revery, seeking to find
the true well-spring of this faith shrouded in the mists of passing
centuries, in order to drink forgetfulness of self, and of their in-
curable nostalgia, and to lose themselves voluptuously in the
oblivion of its waters. Wagner, no doubt, had pointed out this
road to them, one swallowed up in the ecstasy of Parsifal, and the
sombre pessimism and despair of the Trilogy. Yet Parsifal
passes beyond Christianity; it is the product, not of an unbalanced
nervous system, but of creative thought whose agony is prompted
by mysticism. Parsifal is an expression of the supreme desire
for a Future which is the hope of our dreams. Wagner was born
too soon to see this future, too soon to actually "think" it; vet
toward it his whole work reaches out with desperate magnifi-
cence.
It was those destined to realize "beyond Wagner" whom
Wagner himself would have given so much to reach. They are
sure to come, and that ere long ....
The generation of French symbolists ranged itself under the
agis of Bayreuth. Peladan wrote his Le Fils des Etoiles, a Chal-
dean Wagneresque, for which Erik Satie composed preludes (one
of them given at the great Metachorie performance in the Metro-
politan Opera House, April 4, 1917, under the title Hymne an
Soleil). And to this period also belong Sonneries de la Rose-
Croix (1892); Upsud, Christian ballet for one character (1892);
Danses Gothiques (1893); Prelude de la porte heroique du ciel
(1894); La Messe des Pauvres (1895); and the Hymne au Drapeau,
for Peladan's Le Prince de Byzance.
Here the monotonous alignment characteristic of the first
works is somewhat broken. Satie continued to write outside the
pale of tonality and rhythm: and this "atonality" is the great
new thing of value which he gave music. These tonal combina-
tions, most daring for that period, not only recall Debussy, but
on occasion Stravinsky (as for instance the chords at the begin-
ning of the second prelude to Le Fils des Etoiles). Side by side
with them we find the greatest commonplaces and finally, to
make incoherence still more confused, appear those improbable
472 The Musical Quarterly

annotations which, thenceforth, more and more frequently com-

panion Satie's music.
It is vain to look for a trace of meaning in them. Among
Peladan's mystic symbols they have an aspect of paltrinesswhich
puts speculation to flight. Whom or what is he ridiculing? Is
it Peladan? Is it mysticism?
In truth it seems as though Satie has already commencedto
ridiculehimself, and that his pretendedreligiosityis no more than
a farce by which he allows himself to be snared. What is his
motive? Might it not be mere impotence?
It is easy, in fact, when our thoughts are confrontedwith the
great mysteries, when they are anguishedand terrorizedby their
tragic meaning, it is easy to turn aside and make light of them-
a jest accounts for everything. It holds a suggestion for superi-
ority, of decided elegance. Yet, in most cases, it is no more than
a fagade, a masque which has nothing to conceal, the fear of a
vain impotence reluctant to admit defeat, and which prefers the
raillerythat is no morethan a subterfugeto the chancesof combat.
The decadents and other neo-mystics have acknowledged
that life has beaten them; that they are powerless. And they
have adornedtheir psychic adynamy with beautiful dreams, with
fair vices and elegancies. Erik Satie has sought salvation in
ridicule. And from the pseudo-mystic he seemed to be at the
beginningof his life, he soon became a mere mystifier. The com-
positions he now writes are labeled with the most fantastic titles.
We have Piecesfroides(1897); Morceauxenformede poires(1903);
V&ritables preludesflasques, pour un chien (1912). In 1913 he
composed Les Pantins dansent,played in his own orchestration
at the Metachoriefestival in Paris, in December; his Descriptions
automatiques,Croquis et agaceries d'un gros bonhommeen bois,
Chapitrestourn6sen tous sens, followed by numerouspieces of the
same kind. More and more the "literary"program-strange, to
say the least-which appearedin the compositions of the earlier
Satie, ostentates itself between their measures. At times it
extends without interruptionthroughout the piece.
One might be inclined to think that the composerhad meant
to write a musical recitation. Not at all: in one of his last com-
positions Satie even specifies that his prose should not be read
while it is played.
Are these annotations, then, merely intended to enlighten
the intelligence of the pianist? Should this music, perhaps, be
read, not heard? Is it meant to appeal to the individual alone,
and not, as in the case of all music, to the many? Does it address
 Erik Satie and the Music of Irony 473
itself to a single mentality, and not to the sum total of intelligence?
Does this music represent no more than a strictly individual pose,
a clown's griihace before life's eternal verities? May this music,
in short, be called music? Has ridicule any right to the name?
These numerous interrogation marks which Satie's com-
positions call forth lead us far beyond the mere personality of
their author. The question takes on a wider scope and touches
on the values of music itself. And first of all it compels us to
exactly define the meaning and nature of irony.
Irony is essentially, and even in a unique manner, an intel-
lectual fact (I use the term intelligence in its strict sense). And
in a manner it stands for the bankruptcy of the intellect which,
unable to pass beyond its own limitations and thrust back on
nothingness, scoffs at its own and every other effort, and ridi-
cules life, whose veritable and mystic essence it has been unable
to penetrate. Irony is, in truth, the vitality of impotence. It
is also, if one wishes, the triumph of pride over death, in the sense
that the individual, refusing to perish, denies death as well as
life, exalting himself in negation. For Irony is negation.
And since it is purely intellectual, it is, owing to this very
fact, rigorously individualistic, for it is the intelligence which has
shaped the idea of the individual. It is a negative and contemp-
tuous attitude on the part of the individual toward life; a pose, be
it brutal-as when it takes the form of sarcasm-be it elegant-
when in the shape of delicate irony pure and simple-yet always,
speaking in strictly human terms, unnatural and artificial.
For those to whom the individual is a godhead; those who
regard existence as a defiance to nature, who are perpetually cry-
ing "No!" to Destiny, and who flatter themselves with the vain
and arrogant illusion that they control her; for those who hold
that the intellect is supreme, the enemy of instinct, disdainfully
qualified as an animal trait; for those who drape themselves in
their human, their purely human intellectuality, and as far as
possible ignore that which lies beyond it, who renounce and mock
it; for them irony is fitting, they may laugh their fill, and pride
themselves in truth on the pride which is their idol, in that they
are the only beings who may laugh, and glory in the very fact that
they laugh at their own cosmic revolt.
Thus it is that every epoch, every agglomeration of beings
where individualism dominates or exalts itself, where the individual
stands for the ultimate expression of values, is also a focus of
irony. There scoffers and caricaturists may be found in number.
And it leads to incessant disparagement, to the jocose verbosity
474 The Musical Quarterly

which, seemingly inoffensive, saps all sustained effort, every

great quest, devours and poisons all healthy vitality of striving
out of which destiny is so largely evolved; from which spring
those ardent cosmic forces, the torrents of energy whose synthesis
hides the souls of races; where the future is born.
Paris thus came to be a centre for this sterile individualism,
this mundane irony. Too many talents, too many intellects were
drawn together by the irradiation of thought proceeding from this
unique and monstrous city. And the many brains thus assembled,
owing to the lack of a normal, cosmic development brought about
by keeping in contact with the soil, in touch with the soul of their
race, have denied each other in common, mutually devoured each
other, in an enervating atmosphere of mockery and envy, glorify-
ing their fanatic individualism, superexalted to the point of a mad
search for originality at any price. Of this typically Parisian
spirit, mocking, facetious, fond of mystification, destructive and
in most cases incapable of production, beyond compare when it
comes to disaggregating and dissolving all force, all power, with
a smile, Erik Satie is the very incarnation.
He is a typical product of the beginning of this century, of
this exhausted civilization which jeers in order not to look death
in the face. And he is the buffoon, who cracks his punning jokes
in increasing number, pushing them to extravagance, in order to
make the neurotic beings who march past him laugh despite them-
selves, these luxurious adventurers who flock to shake off their
thoughts in contemplation of his poverty.
But nature had gifted Satie with the musician's sense of hear-
ing. And thus the latter carries over raillery into music, and
writes "the music of irony," the name so aptly applied to it by
Valentine de Saint-Point. In so doing he denatures music abso-
lutely, and this artistic contradiction is plainly shown by the fact
that he has recourse to the aid of the written word to express his
raillery with precision, thus creating a hybrid ensemble which no
longer deserves the title of music.
Satie, an extreme individualist, writes for a few detached
individuals, not for humanity at large, to him an object of derision.
Only the pianist-or the cultured musician-is able to appreciate
his irony to the full; since they only are able to read and hear at
the same time. And this musical impossibility is, nevertheless,
quite capable of explanation; since irony, being an absolutely
intellectual product, voices an appeal to the reader. Yet it can-
not be termed music; since music is not intellectual in its
essence.
 Erik Satie and the Music of Irony 475

Satie, wishing to express irony, has been unable to satisfy

himself by employing purely musical means. In vain he has
pushed the intellectualization of his music to its limits; it did not
suffice. He found it necessary to add a textual complement, to
use words, since these alone are exact, and alone able to conform
to the individualistic scheme.
In this way he has called into being an inchoate form for the
sole use of a few musician "readers."
The fact is a good illustration of whither Satie's music tends,
even though its contiguous prose were left out of account (which
would be an unpardonable wrong, seeing that both evidently
form a whole). The trend of Satie's music is toward intellectual-
ism, exactness in narration and description; it tends toward lan-
guage, used in its most strictly individual form, for purposes of
raillery.
A savage intellectualism; a particularism carried to the ex-
treme, in which irony and farce are mingled; an entire absence
of all that is beyond a strictly human comprehension; and, in
consequence, positive artificiality-such are Erik Satie's charac-
teristics, in particular during the past twenty years, since he
matured. And all this is the exact opposite of music and of art.
For art has neither meaning nor value, unless as a synthetic
expression of life as a whole! Now, our intellect, our individuality,
is but one of the elements of life as a whole, and not the most
important, an element which in no case may insist on a predomi-
nant place for itself. It is an element which is even less able to
serve as a substitute for the whole, unless it be under penalty of
becoming a monstrosity of radical unbalance, impossible to legiti-
mate or admit; since the universe at all its points tends ever to-
ward balance as regards scope and duration, nothing possessing
value save in the degree that it approximates equilibrium.
For centuries man has been a vital monstrosity. Exalting
his intellect, conceived as the supreme value of a mechanical
universe-that of Descartes and Newton, a universe of cadavers
and automats-glorifying his individuality, priding himself on a
freedom which actually and in fact cannot exist in the individual-
istic domain, modern man, the man of science, represents a con-
tinual defiance of life, which his impotence, vanity and ignorance
bid him deride.
Music, more than any other art, owing to its very nature,
evades the individualistic scheme and the scope of its limitations.
Music, an art of permanency, the direct expression of vital develop-
ment in its essential continuity, has laid upon it the positive duty
476 The Musical Quarterly
of rising above intellectualism, and above the individual, and in par-
ticular above the personality of the composer, whosoever he may be.
Beyond question the intellect has its part in music, as in every
other art. The introduction of the intellectual element is necessary
to the completeness of music; yet this element, an element of
balance, may in no wise arrogate to itself a preponderating posi-
tion, especially since, as in the case of the real Satie of the last
phase, the resultant offspring is a bastard, and from the stand-
point of art, nonsense. Since irony is strictly an intellectual
individualist factor, any such thing as the "music of irony" must,
to be consistent, be considered nonsense. There can no more be
such a thing as "ironic music" than there can fail to be rational,
that is to say genuine music, which has an absolute and enduring
value.
Erik Satie's pieces have an individual and an intellectual
value; they have no really musical value. Yet one thing is be-
yond question, and that is Satie's extreme originality. Yet may
this be said to have a vital artistic value? Evidently not. In
Art-as in Life itself, where results alone are valid, and effort is
negligible-the work alone counts; the artist does not. And his
work is not truly inspired unless it expresses the immortal soul of
man. Now this soul does not change through the ages; judg-
ments, individualities only are modified in accord with new means
of expression and action. So that the work of genius is never
original, since at bottom that which is new in it-its forms-is
that which is least important. A work that is all originality is
fatally superficial: it is the mere expression of individual peculi-
arity, often consciously insisted upon, on the part of impotence.
Satie's work represents originality only, like the major part
of the artistic tentatives of this terminal epoch of our civilization.
It is full of strange individual traits, it surpasses itself in exploiting
their particularisms, formulating a doctrine and an art upon their
physiological anomalies or, often the outcome of a craving for
novelty at any price, continually attempting to do the opposite of
that which is being done. In Erik Satie's pieces there is only-
Erik Satie: the really human element is missing. Let us once
more repeat that particularism is incompatible with art, and
especially so with music, the most impersonal, the most soul-in-
spired of the arts. Hence, Erik Satie's works do not truly belong
to Art in the veritable sense of the word; they do not belong to
the great Art of humanity.
Yet if we leave this field, and take the historic point of view,
if we study the evolution of the language of music, of form, of
 Erik Satie and the Music of Irony 477
expressional mediums; if from the human point of view we pass
to the musicological, then we cannot but recognize the important
part played by Erik Satie.
He has been, without any question, a precursor.
His Sarabandes anticipated those of Debussy by several
years, and beyond doubt Satie helped to liberate Debussy from
the old scholastic rules, and was able to act in his case as the small
separating cause so often needed to set great issues acting.
Yet, service in this way is valuable only from the individual-
istic point of view; in reality it has but little meaning. It is
time, in truth, that men begin to appreciate works themselves and
not what underlies them. It is time that the shocking impudence
of these posthumous biographical revelations anent great men
come to an end. There are no great men. There are only great
works! The great works are not the work of an individual. They
represent the expression of an immense synthesis of forces materi-
alized through the medium of an artist. Yet what matters the
medium, this cosmic transformer? The artist plays the part of
a phonograph. There are good phonographs and poor ones. Yet
does that fact really affect the absolute value of the music regis-
tered? Of what importance is the protagonist, if hundreds of
forces collaborate in his work? Of what importance is ever the
individual? And is it not decidedly vain to investigate the pater-
nity of a work or of an idea, when the work in itself is the only
thing that counts?
Finally, as between the Fils de l'Stoile and Pglleas et Melisande,
there is the difference between the expression of a strange indi-
viduality and the tragedy of undying humanity. And what
gives Debussy his value is not his harmonic processes; it is the
fact that he has a great conscient soul, the synthesis of multitudes
that are not conscient, a synthesis whose realization is a great
work which will live.
Satie has found numerous ways and means before him un-
known. Debussy has availed himself of some, Ravel of others.
They are beyond question those which are least interesting.
Satie, no doubt, draws from the fountainhead of many things,
but it is the source of all that there is in the way of extremest
originality, of singularity, of extravagance in French music of the
time being; of all that there is in it which is trifling, finical, artifi-
cial. Satie is a well-spring; but one whose waters are poison.
The Protagonist, in truth, does not amount to much beside the
Realizer-since all values must be measured according to the in-
tenseness of consciousness in eternity; and the germ is as nothing
478 The Musical Quarterly

beside the thought of humanity, that same germ which, neverthe-

less, contained its power. Yet-if to be the precursor of a formid-
able achievement is of undeniable worth, what may truly be said
of the initiator of trends which are unhealthy and unfruitful?
And that is what Erik Satie has always been; and what he
still is. Let us admit then that he may be of great interest to the
musicologist, the historian; let us concede him the eminent place
due him in the evolution of contemporary French music. Yet,
if we are to consider his works from the sole point of view justified
by Art, the point of view of the sum total of humanity that in
them is, not even of super-humanity-since Art, like Life, should
ever strive toward a more intense consciousness-we are forced
to state that these works of Satie have only an infinitely limited
value, musically almost null. For this will always be the case in
music which, disdaining man's inmost soul, denying life, is no
more than the particularist's expression of a narrow and distorted
individualism, based solely on intellect.
(Translated by Frederick H. Martens)