Between him and Debussy there is the difference between the
apollonian and the dionysiac, between the smooth, level, contained,
perfect, and the darker, more turbulent, passionate, and instinctive.
For Ravel has been vouchsafed a high grace. He has been permitted to
remain, in all his manhood, the child that once we all were. In him the
powerful and spontaneous flow of emotion from out the depths of being
has never been dammed. He can still speak from the fullness of his
heart, cry his sorrows piercingly, produce himself completely. Gracious
and urbane as his music is, proper to the world of modern things and
modern adventures and modern people, there is still a gray, piercing
lyrical note in it that is almost primitive, and reflects the childlike
singleness and intensity of the animating spirit. The man who shaped not
only the deliberately infantine "Ma Mere l'Oye," but also things as
quiveringly simple and expressive and songful as "Oiseaux tristes," as
"Sainte," as "Le Gibet," or the "Sonatine," as the passacaglia of the
Trio or the vocal interlude in "Daphnis et Chloe," has a pureness of
feeling that we have lost. And it is this crying, passionate tone, this
directness of expression, this largeness of effort, even in tiny forms
and limited scope, that, more than his polyphonic style or any other of
the easily recognizable earmarks of his art, distinguishes his work from
Debussy's.
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