There was nothing revolutionary about Sebastian Bach with his two hundred and fifty cantatas, which were performed as fast as they were written and which were constantly in demand for important occasions.  Handel managed the theater where his operas were produced and his oratorios were sung, and they would have indubitably failed, if he had gone against the accustomed taste of his audiences.  Haydn wrote to supply the music for Prince Esterhazy’s chapel; Mozart was forced to write constantly, and Rossini worked for an intolerant public which would not have allowed one of his operas to be played, if the overture did not contain the great crescendo for which he has been so reproached.  These were none of them revolutionists, yet they were great musicians.

Another criticism is made against Massenet.  He was superficial, they say, and lacked depth.  Depth, as we know, is very much the fashion.

It is true that Massenet was not profound, but that is of little consequence.  Just as there are many mansions in our Father’s house, so there are many in Apollo’s.  Art is vast.  The artist has a perfect right to descend to the nethermost depths and to enter into the inner secrets of the soul, but this right is not a duty.

The artists of Ancient Greece, with all their marvellous works, were not profound.  Their marble goddesses were beautiful, and beauty was sufficient.

Our old-time sculptors—­Clodion and Coysevox—­were not profound; nor were Fragonard, La Tour, nor Marivaux, yet they brought honor to the French school.

All have their value and all are necessary.  The rose with its fresh color and its perfume, is, in its way, as precious as the sturdy oak.  Art has a place for artists of all kinds, and no one should flatter himself that he is the only one who is capable of covering the entire field of art.

Some, even in treating a familiar subject, have as much dignity as a Roman emperor on his golden throne, but Massenet did not belong to this type.  He had charm, attraction and a passionateness that was feverish rather than deep.  His melody was wavering and uncertain, oftentimes more a recitative than melody properly so called, and it was entirely his own.  It lacks structure and style.  Yet how can one resist when he hears Manon at the feet of Des Grieux in the sacristy of Saint-Sulpice, or help being stirred to the depths by such outpourings of love?  One cannot reflect or analyze when moved in this way.

After emotional art comes decadent art.  But that is of little consequence.  Decadence in art is often far from being artistic deterioration.

Massenet’s music has one great attraction for me and one that is rare in these days—­it is gay.  And gaiety is frowned upon in modern music.  They criticise Haydn and Mozart for their gaiety, and turn away their faces in shame before the exuberant joyousness with which the Ninth Symphony comes to its triumphal close.  Long live gloom.  Hurrah for boredom!  So say our young people.  They may live to regret, too late, the lost hours which they might have spent in gaiety.