Schnitzler's admirer Sigmund Freud veered likewise from being a "proud Austrian" (letter, July 26, 1914) to a sombre realisation that "science is apparently dead, but humanity is really dead" (letter, November 25, 1914). In Paris, Claude Debussy struggled to make an opera out of the martyrdom of St Sebastian. "It is strange," he wrote in the last letter of his life, "that in 3,995 lines there should be such little substance. Just words, words . . . "
Everywhere, the Great War precipitated a cultural paralysis the like of which had not been known since medieval times. The causes of this precipitate ice age are elusive. Its consequences endure. A pattern of cultural response and expectation in wartime was set for the next world war and beyond—to Korea, Vietnam and Iraq.
The freeze was the more remarkable since it followed hard upon the breakthrough to Modernism. In the Parisian decade before the outbreak of war, Pablo Picasso had gone successively blue, pink and Cubist; Debussy had perfected a form of musical Impressionism; Guillaume Apollinaire invented Surrealism.
In St Petersburg, Sergei Diaghilev turned classical ballet into progressive art, harnessing the finest talents in music and design. His company scandalised Paris in May 1913 with Stravinsky's percussive Rite of Spring, announcing the birth of a rebarbative epoch in music, a shift of emphasis from melody to other elements. The search for solutions to a musical "crisis" furnished multiple solutions. Arnold Schoenberg legitimised atonality. Italian anarchists promoted a noisy Futurism. Béla Bartók and Zoltan Kodaly roamed remote parts of the Balkans with a recording machine, collecting organic fragments of folk heritage as fodder for new musical forms.
That all of this adventure and fertility should have been choked off in August 1914 is the clearest available indicator of just how traumatic the Great War was to the makers of the modern world. Some saw the war as a crushing defeat for the purpose of modern art. "If there had been more Cubism," wrote Apollinaire in 1915, "that is to say modern ideas, the war would not have taken place." Arnold Schoenberg, sent to the front at the age of 42, was assailed by a sergeant demanding to know if he was "that terrible Modernist composer". Schoenberg shrugged, and came clean. "Somebody had to be," he sighed, "and, since no one else wanted to, I took it upon myself." In stark contrast to Apollinaire's defeatism, Schoenberg believed that Modernism would emerge hardened and enhanced by the cataclysm.


















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