Satie, Ravel, Poulenc, Vol. 3

Erik Satie

In this excerpt from Manuel Rosenthal’s three-part musical memoir, he concludes his recollections and thoughts about Erik Satie, his unique life, and his often prickly relationship with his peers. (Previous entry here.)

I. Satie, cont’d

Satie would often walk at night from Paris to his little room in Arceuil, a distance of about fifteen miles. The tram stopped at midnight and he couldn’t afford a taxi. Nobody ever set foot in that room until after his death, when it was discovered how meagerly he lived. Though he wore the same clothes and shoes, year after year, he always appeared tidy and clean. Darius Milhaud told me that when he opened the closet door thousands of old paper collars came tumbling out, and dozens of black umbrellas still in their wrappings.

Satie realized early that the life of a creative person meant a life of poverty, and he adapted without fuss. Toward the end of his life, Mme Edmond de Polignac commissioned him to write Socrate, which he called a “drame sympathetique.” In the same year she commissioned Stravinsky to write a work. Stravinsky complained that the amount paid was not nearly enough; Satie complained that it was far too much. Actually, she paid the same price.

I never met Satie. I could have, but I was very young and too shy. I saw him often, though. The first time was when he was introducing four very young composers, L’Ecole d’Arceuil, to the public at the College de France. Satie came on the platform dressed like a civil servant, a functionnaire. He wore a black suit with a watch-chain on the waistcoat, a stiff collar, black tie, and monocle. Very correct looking, like someone from the ministry. He was reserved and aloof in addressing the audience, though in fact he was introducing them to revolutionary kind of music. These composers were young and ready to burn everything. Satie was approaching the situation in a very solemn way. At the end he thanked the audience formally, “Madames et Messieurs, j’ai l’honneur de vous…” and departed. He looked absolutely conventional, not eccentric or mad in the least.

Of Parade Satie said, “I like this genre, slightly pompous and feignedly naive.” That modest opinion must not be taken at face value. Satie knew exactly the full worth of his music, but he was not conceited. He had a modest way of speaking of his work: “C’est la musique d’ameublement”—that’s all. Satie saw the artist as no different from anybody else. For him the composer was merely an artisan. None of us used the word genius the way people do today; one merely said someone “had talent.” Stravinsky always said to me that “composer” was a wonderful word because it meant “to organize”: “I am organizing music,” he would say, “I am a composer.” Even “artist” was hardly an appropriate word, let alone “genius.”

Debussy and Satie

Both Ravel and Poulenc said that Satie had a strong influence on their music—on their thinking, even. This is the importance of Satie: not only his music, which stands like a monument in its singularity, but the way he thought about the future of French music—particularly his revolt against Wagner. In late 19th-century France the influence of Wagner was terrific—you cannot imagine! From Wagner’s death in 1883 until the turn of the century there were more than three hundred French-language magazines devoted to him. All you need to do is read Baudelaire or Mallarmé on the subject: this man was a god, even more so than he was considered in Germany. So when by chance Satie met Debussy in a café in Montmartre, and asked what he was composing, Debussy said, “I’m composing a Wagnerie.” What could only be called a Wagnerie. And Satie replied, “I think you are wrong. Wagner is a marvelous composer, a discoverer of new forms and ideas in music. He is fantastic, but he has nothing to do with us. A French composer should avoid Wagner; he is too typically German.” Satie continued, “The orchestra should not grimace because a singer comes on stage, nor should the scenery go into a convulsion. What have to do is create a background, a musical landscape in which the singers can speak and move. No rhymed couplets, no lietmotives, but a certain atmosphere, as in a painting by Puvis de Chavannes.”

Needless to say Debussy was impressed. He said to Satie, “How should we proceed?” Satie replied, “Well, I don’t know about you, but as for me, I am going to write to Maeterlinck for permission to set Pelleas et Melisande.” Now Debussy was well known as a kleptomaniac; when he came to call you hid your valuable possessions. And he carried this practice into his music, constantly purloining ideas and formulas. So when Debussy went home, he immediately wrote to Maeterlinck, and got the permission. Anyway he knew that Satie was lazy, and knew he would never get around to setting Pelleas et Melisande. But it is thanks to Satie that we have Debussy’s Pelleas, which embodies a very different way of writing music after Wagner.

The paintings of Puvis de Chavannes were an important model for Satie; their unemotional attitude appealed to him. All of Puvis’ figures are static, gestureless, especially the women, who resemble statues. That’s what Satie was seeking in music, something more static. Also, he was the opposite of Brahms or Wagner, composers who put all their feelings on the table. Satie is discreet; he doesn’t show much, you have to guess and intuit—but if you listen you will hear something wonderful.

Satie felt when you went to a place to listen to music, the music should be part of the surroundings. This is what he called musique d’ameublement: music as furniture. For a joke, he once wrote some music to be played during an exhibition of furniture. This music was also meant to be repeated, something not unlike today’s musique répétitive. Nowadays, we have many composers who follow that principle.

Next: Studies with Ravel.