Debussy’s Resonance 9781787442528, 1787442527

Table of contents :
Introduction / Franocois de Maedicis and Steven Huebner--
Part Ond. Historiographical and Editorial Issues: 1. Debussy fifty years later : has the barrel run dry? / Richard Langham Smith
2. The Euvres compla?etes de Claude Debussy thirty years on / Roy Howat
3. The Kunkelmann manuscripts : new sources for early Ma?elodies by Claude Debussy / Denis Herlin
4. "Paysage sentimental" : "si doux, si triste, si dormant..." / David Grayson --
Part Two. Style and Genre: 5 The "song triptych" : reflections on a Debussyan genre / David J. Code
6. Composing after Wagner : the music of Bruneau and Debussy, 1890-1902 / François de Ma?edicis
7. Between Massenet and Wagner / Steven Huebner
8. Debussy's concept of orchestration / Robert Orledge
9. Oriental and Iberian resonances in early Debussy songs / Marie Rolf --
Part Three. History and Hermeneutics: 10. Debussy and Japanese prints / MIchel Duchesneau
11. "Les sons...tournent" : Debussy, the waltz and embodied hermeneutics / August Sheehy
12. Secrets and lies, or the truth about Pella?eas / Katherine Bergeron
13. Vertige! : Debussy, Mallarma?e, and the edge of language / Julian Johnson --
Part Four. Theoretical Issues: 14. Follow the leader : Debussy's contrapuntal games / Matthew Brown
15 Debussy's absolute pitch : motivic harmony and choice of keys / Mark DeVoto
16. Debussy's GA?/A♭ complex : the adventures of a pitch-class from the Suite bergamasque to the Douze a?etudes / $r Boyd Pomeroy
17. The games of Jeux / Mark McFarland --
Part Five. Performance and Reception: 18. Debussy and late-romantic performing practices : the piano rolls of 1912 / Jocelyn Ho
19. Marius-François Gaillard's Debussy : controversies and pianistic legacy / Caroline Rae
20. Fashioning early Debussy in interwar France / Barbara L. Kelly.

Citation preview

Debussy’s Resonance

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Eastman Studies in Music Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor Eastman School of Music Additional Titles of Interest “Claude Debussy as I Knew Him” and Other Writings of Arthur Hartmann Edited by Samuel Hsu, Sidney Grolnic, and Mark A. Peters The Dawn of Music Semiology: Essays in Honor of Jean-Jacques Nattiez Edited by Jonathan Dunsby and Jonathan Goldman Debussy’s Letters to Inghelbrecht: The Story of a Musical Friendship Edited by Margaret G. Cobb Translations by Richard Miller Exploration in Schenkerian Analysis Edited by David Beach and Su Yin Mak Formal Functions in Perspective: Essays on Musical Form from Haydn to Adorno Edited by Steven Vande Moortele, Julie Pedneault-Deslauriers, and Nathan John Martin French Music, Culture, and National Identity Edited by Barbara L. Kelly The French Symphony at the Fin de Siècle: Style, Culture, and the Symphonic Tradition Andrew Deruchie In Search of New Scales: Prince Edmond de Polignac, Octatonic Explorer Sylvia Kahan Unmasking Ravel: New Perspectives on the Music Edited by Peter Kaminsky Variations on the Canon: Essays on Music from Bach to Boulez in Honor of Charles Rosen on His Eightieth Birthday Edited by Robert Curry, David Gable, and Robert L. Marshall A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music series may be found on the University of Rochester Press website, www.urpress.com

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Debussy’s Resonance

Edited by François de Médicis and Steven Huebner

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The University of Rochester Press gratefully acknowledges generous support from the American Musicological Society and the Observatoire interdisciplinaire de création et de recherche en musique (OICRM). Copyright © 2018 by the Editors and Contributors All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2018 University of Rochester Press 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.urpress.com and Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-525-0 ISSN: 1071-9989 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Médicis, François de, 1964– editor. | Huebner, Steven, editor. Title: Debussy’s resonance / edited by François de Médicis and Steven Huebner. Other titles: Eastman studies in music ; v. 150. Description: Rochester : University of Rochester Press, 2018. | Series: Eastman studies in music ; vol. 150 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018046980 | ISBN 9781580465250 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Debussy, Claude, 1862–1918—Criticism and interpretation. Classification: LCC ML410.D28 D394 2018 | DDC 780.92—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018046980 This publication is printed on acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America.

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Contents List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

List of Abbreviations

xiii

Introduction François de Médicis and Steven Huebner

1

Part One: Historiographical and Editorial Issues 1

Debussy Fifty Years Later: Has the Barrel Run Dry? Richard Langham Smith

19

2

The Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy Thirty Years On Roy Howat

38

3

The Kunkelmann Manuscripts: New Sources for Early Mélodies by Claude Debussy Denis Herlin

4

“Paysage sentimental”: “Si doux, si triste, si dormant . . .” David Grayson

57

105

Part Two: Style and Genre 5

The “Song Triptych”: Reflections on a Debussyan Genre David J. Code

6

Composing after Wagner: The Music of Bruneau and Debussy, 1890–1902 François de Médicis

7

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Between Massenet and Wagner Steven Huebner

127

175

225

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8

Debussy’s Concept of Orchestration Robert Orledge

254

9

Oriental and Iberian Resonances in Early Debussy Songs Marie Rolf

272

contents

Part Three: History and Hermeneutics 10 Debussy and Japanese Prints Michel Duchesneau 11 “Les sons . . . tournent”: Debussy, the Waltz, and Embodied Hermeneutics August Sheehy

301

326

12 Secrets and Lies, or the Truth About Pelléas Katherine Bergeron

353

13 Vertige!: Debussy, Mallarmé, and the Edge of Language Julian Johnson

366

Part Four: Theoretical Issues 14 Follow the Leader: Debussy’s Contrapuntal Games Matthew Brown

395

15 Debussy’s Absolute Pitch: Motivic Harmony and Choice of Keys Mark DeVoto

419

16 Debussy’s G♯/A♭ Complex: The Adventures of a Pitch-Class from the Suite bergamasque to the Douze études Boyd Pomeroy 17 The Games of Jeux Mark McFarland

435

476

Part Five: Performance and Reception 18 Debussy and Late-Romantic Performing Practices: The Piano Rolls of 1912 Jocelyn Ho

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contents 19 Marius-François Gaillard’s Debussy: Controversies and Pianistic Legacy Caroline Rae

❧

vii

562

20 Fashioning Early Debussy in Interwar France Barbara L. Kelly

581

List of Contributors

603

Index

607

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Illustrations Figure 3.1. L’archet, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), title page with inscription.

61

Figure 3.2. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), m. 17.

65

Figure 3.3. Nuit d’étoiles, title page of the 1882 edition with the dedication to Madame Moreau-Sainti.

66

Figure 3.4. Program of the concert of May 12, 1882.

67

Figure 3.5. L’union littéraire des poètes et des prosateurs, 9e année, no 27 (May 5, 1878).

69

Figure 3.6. Fête galante, title page of the autograph manuscript.

75

Figure 3.7. Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, transcription of the poetic text by Debussy, sketchbook “croquis musicaux.”

80

Figure 5.1. Utagawa Kuniyoshi, The Wrath of Igagoe.

130

Figure 5.2. Paul Sérusier, “Triptych of Pont-Aven,” otherwise known as La cueillette des pommes.

131

Figure 9.1. Debussy and Stravinsky.

274

Figure 9.2. Arkel.

276

Figure 9.3. “Poissons d’or.”

277

Figure 10.1. A canvas by Jouy, after Jean Pillement.

305

Figure 10.2. Hiroshige, Une pagode dans un parc (A pagoda in a park).

306

Figure 10.3. Hokusai, “The Kitchen.”

316

Figure 10.4. Hiroshige, “Minakuchi Station.”

318

Figure 11.1. Waltz step schema.

335

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illustrations

Figure 11.2. Larger turn of the waltz.

336

Figure 11.3. Schema of upper partials revealed by turning toward a sound source.

339

Figure 11.4. The waltz steps as distorted in m. 1 of Debussy, prelude no. 4.

342

Figure 11.5. Phonemic analysis of “Harmonie du soir,” line 1.

345

Figure 11.6. Visualization of rhyme and repetition in “Harmonie du soir.”

346

Figure 18.1. Tempo Representation of “La cathédrale engloutie.”

553

Figures 20.1a and b. Debussy, autograph letter to M. Vasnier.

584

Figure 20.2. Table of contents for La revue musicale special issue “La Jeunesse de Claude Debussy.”

589

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Acknowledgments This collection of essays has its origins in a bilingual conference called L’héritage de Claude Debussy: du rêve pour les générations futures/Claude Debussy’s Legacy: Du Rêve for Future Generations, organized by François de Médicis and the Observatoire interdisciplinaire de création et de recherche en musique and held at the Université de Montréal, February 29 to March 3, 2012. We wish to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for its financial support for this event. While the conference was conceived to mark the 150th anniversary of Debussy’s birth, the resulting book appears in print shortly before the 100th anniversary of the composer’s death. To the director of Observatoire, Michel Duchesneau, goes our enthusiastic gratitude for both supporting a large conference consisting of 43 papers and encouraging the development of some of the strongest presentations of this group into the twenty complementary chapters of this volume. Kym White and Peter Bloom skilfully translated French contributions by Denis Herlin, François de Médicis, and Michel Duchesneau into English. The logistics of a book with twenty contributors are formidable, and in the early stages Ariane Couture, Caroline Marcoux-Gendron, and Catherine Schwartz provided valuable assistance in helping to get this collection off the ground. Later Kiersten van Vliet and Adalyat Issiyeva joined the project to help out with music examples. We are grateful to Hubert Bolduc-Cloutier for his careful work on the index. An especially warm word of thanks must go to Kristin Franseen, who assumed major responsibilities in preparing the final manuscript for publication.

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Abbreviations General Abbreviations fol.:

folio

MS:

manuscript

OS:

orchestral score

r:

recto

v:

verso

VS:

vocal score

Bibliographical Abbreviations C:

Claude Debussy. Correspondance (1872–1918). Edited by François Lesure and Denis Herlin, annotated by Lesure, Herlin, and Georges Liébert. Paris: Gallimard, 2005.

DL:

Claude Debussy. Debussy Letters. Edited by François Lesure and translated by Roger Nichols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.

DM:

Claude Debussy. Debussy on Music. Edited and translated by Richard Langham Smith. New York: Knopf, 1977; repr. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988.

LCAT:

François Lesure. Catalogue de l’œuvre de Claude Debussy. Publications du Centre de Documentation Claude Debussy. 3 volumes. Geneva: Minkoff, 1977.

MC:

Claude Debussy. Monsieur Croche et autres écrits. Edited by François Lesure. Paris: Gallimard, 1971; rev. ed. 1987.

OC:

Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy. Paris: Durand, 1985–2006.

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xiv

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OICRM:

abbreviations Observatoire interdisciplinaire de création et de recherche en musique.

Libraries, Archives, and Collections B-KBR:

Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels.

F-Pn:

Bibliothèque Nationale (Département de la Musique), Paris.

S-AMF:

Archivo Manuel de Falla, Granada.

US-BRBL: Beinecke Rare Book Library. Yale University, New Haven. US-NYpm: The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. US-Wc:

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Introduction François de Médicis and Steven Huebner

As the figure of Claude Debussy (1862–1918) relentlessly recedes into the past and we arrive at the centennial of his death, an ever abundant harvest of documents surrounding his life and work continues to bear fruit: the moment seems ripe, almost ideal, to dedicate a new research volume to him. Beyond the occasion of the anniversary, the composer maintains a preeminent status in accounts of musical modernity at the fin de siècle and early twentieth century—and without his music having lost any of its freshness. Debussy is still a major presence in the performing canon. Among the pioneers of modernism, his music has always attracted the largest number of listeners. But what about the current state of research? In his valuable Claude Debussy: A Guide to Research, published in 1990, James Briscoe was able to identify and describe 910 secondary sources. Work on the critical edition had just begun a few years before and publication of the complete letters, the Correspondance (1872–1918) by François Lesure and Denis Herlin, was still many years off.1 There had nonetheless been considerable research activity since 1945: in his contribution to our essay collection relating to the historiography of Debussy research Richard Langham Smith offers much insight into Debussy scholarship in the post-World War II era, including (on the Anglo-American side of things) the key role played by Edward Lockspeiser. Now a perusal of RILM under the subject heading “Debussy” from the year of Briscoe’s volume to the present shows no fewer than 2,271 entries, a staggering increase of activity that shows no signs of abating. This is more than double the number produced in the entire century before, and it makes for a persuasive statistic to encourage the production of a second edition of Briscoe’s volume. Readers with a penchant for figures will savor the RILM yield in the period 1990–2015 for other composers: Beethoven (6,675), Wagner (7,870), Schoenberg (4,171), Stravinsky (2,629), Bartók (2,215). With all the activity related to Debussy, Richard Langham Smith asks in the title of his essay for the present volume “Has the barrel run dry?” We might also reflect upon how the current state of

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Debussy’s research should be judged. Are we still puzzling, searching, and trying to make sense of a music that remains out of reach, out of firm grasp? Is this intense activity spinning wildly out of control, with no clear sense of direction? Or is this industriousness the final bouquet of a splendid firework display, as we run out of fuel and approach exhaustion? How does all of this research resonate with us, and with Debussy’s music? These questions seem at the very least to call for a brief survey of historiographical context before our introduction to the shape of this book. We can affirm immediately that the broad range of methodologies that have been developed—ranging from hermeneutics and performance studies to reception history and pitch-centered analytic approaches—bodes well, and shows encouraging vitality. More nuanced understanding of Debussy’s art has resulted from a variety of factors, and among the most important of these is that new primary sources continue to emerge—letters, autograph scores, documents from the archives of people in Debussy’s circle. For Debussy’s contemporaries, the composer’s creative reputation and artistic image rested essentially on the works performed in public and published during his lifetime, from Nuit d’étoiles (1880) to the Violin Sonata (1917). But soon after his death, the publication of inédits started complementing and altering the picture. The May 1926 special Debussy issue of La revue musicale included a music supplement that contained the scores of Pierrot (1882), “Clair de lune” (first version, 1882), “Pantomime” (1883), and Apparition (1884). Marius-François Gaillard (1900–1973) arranged and edited a series of Conservatoire works for the French editor Choudens, such as Le triomphe de Bacchus of 1882 (Choudens, 1928) and two Prix de Rome compositions.2 Together with Louis Laloy, Gaillard also completed the late Ode à la France (Choudens, 1928). Gaillard was not only an editor of unknown, unpublished works by Debussy; he also championed the composer’s music as a performer, both as a conductor and a pianist. The various facets of these promotional activities, as well as their political ramifications, are discussed in Caroline Rae’s contribution to this volume. Several publishing houses and institutions (such as Elkan-Vogel, Schott, Henle, and the New York Public Library) issued other works after the composer’s death. Musicologist and composer Arthur Hoérée (1897–1986) was a particularly dedicated and active editor of unknown early works. In 1969 he reissued (with Jobert) the four songs from the 1926 issue of La revue musicale; in 1983, he published (with Salabert) a series of six Chansons (from the thirteen songs of the Recueil Vasnier, or Vasnier Songbook, the only ones that had not yet appeared in print);3 and in 1978 (with T. Presser) the set of so-called Images oubliées for piano written in 1894. He also provided the preface to James Briscoe’s 1984 Jobert edition of the Sept poèmes de Banville.4

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3

Since the Œuvres complètes released its first volume in 1985, it has also contributed much new material. So far seventeen volumes of the thirty-six that are projected have been published, roughly half of the total. In the 2002 volume of music for piano four hands edited by Noël Lee, there were no fewer than five inédits: Andante cantabile (1881), the overture for Diane (1881), Le triomphe de Bacchus (1882) in its original version for piano four hands, an Intermezzo (1882) in the composer’s reduction for piano four hands, and a Divertissement (1884). The Première suite d’orchestre (1883), which was thought to be lost, was discovered as recently as in 2007, and a version for piano four hands was published in 2008. The various volumes have also given access to little-known works from later periods: the unfinished opera Rodrigue et Chimène (1893) was published in 2003; fragments from Le roi Lear (1904), Le diable dans le beffroi (1911), and La chute de la maison Usher (1917) in 2006; two songs from Nuits blanches (1898) in 2000; Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon (1917) for piano in 2004. In addition to all of this, the Œuvres complètes promise to provide an additional trove of new materials for study: sketches for the unfinished works Trois scènes au crépuscule (1893); Le palais du silence, later called No-ja-li (1914); and La saulaie (1900). It will also include scores for completed or partially completed works: the study cantata Daniel (1882), the orchestral version of the Première suite d’orchestre (1883), the Prix de Rome cantata Le gladiateur (1883), the lyric scene Diane au bois (1885), Printemps, L. 37 (1884), the “Berceuse” (1899) for solo voice (without accompaniment). We might also look forward to the day when works sleeping in private collections will resurface: “Barcarolle” (1885), a song on a poem by a Edouard Guinand or a fragment from Axel, drama in four parts (ca.1890), after the play by Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. Of course, important monographs and essays have dealt substantially with source studies in the past,5 and we might also point to the important contribution made by the Cahiers Debussy in this respect. The emergence of all this new music continues to bring challenging editorial issues to the fore, issues that call for traditional paleographic and philological skills in the assimilation of these inédits into the biographical and musical source record. Several of the essays in this volume make reference to these problems, chief among these the contribution by Roy Howat, a noted collaborator on the Œuvres complètes, and Denis Herlin, co-chief editor. Students of Debussy’s work have also heeded recent appeals for greater attention in music scholarship to the irreproducible moment of live performance set against the fixed image of the score. Attention has been paid to the legacy of musicians who performed for Debussy: pianists such as Ricardo Viñes, Marcel Ciampi, George Copeland, Maurice Dumesnil, Marguerite Long, Elie Robert Schmitz; singers such as Mary Garden, Maggie Teyte, Claire Croiza; conductors such as Désiré-Émile Inghelbrecht, Pierre Monteux or Gustave

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Doret.6 The issue of performing Debussy’s music is addressed in several monographs, articles in the most recent books of essays devoted to the composer, and in the collection edited by James Briscoe, Debussy in Performance.7 The gramophone recordings of the composer and even his piano rolls have yielded fine insights into performing practices (Howat in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith) and inform Jocelyn Ho’s contribution to this volume. Moving beyond edition-making and performance, our knowledge of French musical culture of Debussy’s time has become immeasurably richer over the last twenty-five years, a contextual net that includes studies of the impact of Wagner8 and Russian composers,9 the influence of the 1889 World Fair,10 and the life, works, and interactions of such French contemporaries as Alfred Bruneau, Emmanuel Chabrier, Jules Massenet, Gabriel Fauré, Ernest Chausson, Paul Dukas, Albéric Magnard, Érik Satie, and Vincent d’Indy. This net also includes institutions and organizations such as the Paris Conservatoire de musique, the Société nationale de musique, various concert societies, the Académie nationale de musique, the Opéra-Comique, the Théâtre de La Monnaie in Brussels and the press, with its abundant newspapers, magazines, and colorful journalists and contributors. With reference to the latter, the study of the reception of Debussy’s works, or more generally of the French music of his times, has deep roots.11 In recent years scholars have benefited from the increasing accessibility of the French musical press online through Gallica, a resource of the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Reception studies of Debussy’s music in France have lately flourished in the hands of Barbara L. Kelly and Marianne Wheeldon.12 Other studies have addressed the reception of Debussy outside France (in England, the United States, Italy, and Poland).13 Analytical tools developed within the major trends of music theory have also found applications to Debussy’s music. Initially, the composer’s idiosyncratic style did not seem to fit very well with Schenkerian or set theory. A more liberal interpretation of Schenker’s ideas allowed Adele Katz and Felix Salzer to propose linear analyses of Debussy works,14 and their pioneering research paved the way for more recent studies, including those by Matthew Brown and Boyd Pomeroy.15 In the field of set theory, Allen Forte’s Structure of Atonal Music discussed major twentieth-century composers, such as musicians from the second Viennese school as well as Bartók, Stravinsky, Scriabin . . . but not Debussy. This situation was soon addressed, and Richard Parks wrote an entire book on the French composer in which he analysed the works written from 1889 to 1918, identifying salient sets of various cardinality and relating them through Allen Forte’s genus theory.16 Other methodologies have been used to understand Debussy’s manipulation of pitch collections and cells—for example, study of various individual scales such as pentatonic, whole-tone, and (following the rapid development of Russian music studies) octatonic collections17 and their interaction.18 On another theoretical front, in their Generative Theory of Tonal

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Music (1983) Fred Lerdahl and Ray Jackendoff had concentrated their attention on tonal music from the common-practice period, but in Lerdahl’s 2001 sequel, Tonal Pitch Space, these ideas were extended into the realm of chromatic spaces, which allowed him to discuss Debussy’s “La terrasse des audiences au clair de lune” and, briefly, the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. Edward T. Cone’s theory of blocks, stratification, and interlock, developed first in a ground-breaking article focusing on Stravinsky’s Symphonies for wind instruments, has been adapted to apply to Debussy.19 David Lewin, for his part, has shown potential application of transformational theory to the piano Prélude “Feux d’artifice.”20 This rapidly sketched historiography of Debussy studies will serve as a backcloth to chapters in this book. A number of them (Herlin, Grayson, Huebner, Rolf, and Kelly) focus on the period of Debussy’s studies in composition and his experiences with the Prix de Rome; quite naturally some of this work has benefited from greater knowledge of the French musical context at the fin de siècle just mentioned, as well as work on the Paris Conservatoire and the Prix de Rome more specifically.21 This period remains of enduring interest because it revolves around the very birth of modernism in French music—not a mere change of style, but a paradigm shift on the level both of syntax and of claims regarding the nature of musical expression. No single decisive moment marks this birth, but Debussy’s own contribution taken as a whole was anything if not decisive. His early songs from the period 1879–85 were important to the incubation of his musical revolution, debussysme as it came to be known, and Denis Herlin reminds us that half of Debussy’s total output in the genre stems from this period. The recent emergence of previously unknown songs such as Les elfes (1881) and Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau (1881) has helped to fill out the picture of Debussy’s stylistic development. Herlin’s contribution to this volume provides an overview of Debussy’s early activity in song through an examination of manuscripts of these pieces once owned by the musician Henry Kunkelmann, with whom, as it now emerges from Herlin’s research, Debussy was closely associated for a short time. In a provocative moment in his early career (at least from today’s perspective) Debussy completed the dedication of his song L’archet (1881) to “my good friend Henry Kunkelmann” with the nostalgic continuation “souvenirs de nos recherches” (remembering our research), the last word certainly raising a modernist flag. After all, one would not imagine the same expression to have flowed from the pen of Bach or Schubert. Questions about what Debussy derived from Massenet, Wagner, and Russian composers also raise more fundamental ones relating to how Debussy asserted his independence: was his challenge to conventional tonal syntax something that he carried within himself from a young age, almost like an elemental force, or an attitude that developed as he matured in his composition studies

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and became exposed to contemporary repertory, especially music from Russia? Both Huebner and Kelly deal with this problem, the latter showing how it played out in posthumous debates in the interwar period about the composer’s youthful orientation, involving Léon Vallas, Robert Godet, and Henry Prunières. A subtext in these debates revolved around the issue of who had authority to speak for the composer and what putatively immature youthful matter should be suppressed (if any at all) in order to protect his reputation. The paucity of the documentary record has fuelled these controversies. Letters are few and the testimony of his contemporaries thin. For example, the Correspondance (1872–1918) contains a mere ninety-three documents up to and including 1891, compared with 2,983 entries from 1891 to Debussy’s death in 1918. David Grayson provides a careful reading of the primary sources around a single early song, “Paysage sentimental” (1883), that illustrate the kinds of challenges, including source lacunae, that face both the music editor and the biographer of Debussy’s youth. Debussy was not averse to revisiting a few of his early pieces later in life, and he often revised them at that time. In the case of “Paysage sentimental” he actually hid the fact that he effected changes in 1903 by labeling the song as having been written in 1880, thereby ostensibly seeking to give the impression of greater sophistication at a young age. The early songs also contain examples of Debussy’s incipient engagement with exotic style traits, a phenomenon described by Marie Rolf in her study of the little-known Rondel chinois and Séguidille, both published for the first time recently (Rondel chinois first appeared in the appendix of Mark DeVoto’s 2004 book; Séguidille was edited by Rolf in 2014). Musical exoticism has certainly made for a rich field of critical inquiry in the last two decades. These early Debussy examples illustrate what Ralph Locke has called “overt exoticism,” that is, the evocation of faraway places through a system of musical signs grafted on to normative Western tonal textures and syntax. As he matured, Debussy conspicuously drew upon exotic style traits to effect fundamental changes in his approach to texture and syntax, what Locke has called “submerged exoticism” (when a piece does not overtly deal with exotic subject matter) and “transcultural exoticism” (when it does).22 The modernist/exoticist conflation remains a cornerstone of Debussy’s art, but Rolf’s study is a salutary reminder that the younger composer practiced a more conventional kind of exoticism as well. Two further chapters in this volume explore Debussy’s contact with Japanese visual art from novel perspectives. Scholars have long speculated on the source for Debussy’s originality. So radical was his break with musical tradition that several writers have sought to explain it from outside the music domain, be it painting, literature, or even early film.23 But even if we are not ready to acknowledge a single source, it is well worth considering the possibility that other forms of artistic expression might have given strong impulse to his development. David Code’s topic is the song triptych in Debussy’s oeuvre, and, in

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accounting for how three songs can “fit” together, he suggests that we look less for outright narratives than for painterly devices related to contrasts of color and tone, devices for which Japanese triptychs that circulated in Debussy’s day, he argues, provided a compelling model. Michel Duchesneau explores littleknown encounters between Debussy and Japanese art, in particular underlining the importance of the Parisian international exhibition held in 1900. As much as the 1889 international exhibit has attracted a lot of scholarly attention (see the aforementioned studies by Mueller, Revol, Fauser, Howat), the 1900 event is frequently overlooked.24 Duchesneau identifies homologies between Debussy’s music and aesthetic principles in Japanese painting, an approach very much aligned with Locke’s “submerged exoticism.” Analogies between Debussy’s music and the visual arts, in particular Impressionist painting, have been developed since his lifetime, and attention has also been paid to the composer’s more individual tastes in art and his interaction with contemporary artists (the Spanish painter Francisco de Goya; French artists Edgar Degas, Camille Claudel, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Gustave Moreau; Hokusai and Japanese art; English artists Joseph Mallord, William Turner, James Abbott McNeill Whistler; pre-Raphaelites such as Edward Burne-Jones and Dante Gabriel Rossetti; and less known figures such as Belgian painter and sculptor Henry de Groux or the Norwegian painter Frits Thaulow). Notable scholarly contributions to this topic include those of Edward Lockspeiser, Stefan Jarocinski, Richard Langham Smith, François Lesure, Jean-Michel Nectoux, Leon Botstein, and Paul Roberts.25 The answer to the venerable, if perhaps not always productive, question in Debussy studies as to whether his aesthetic is aligned more with Impressionism or Symbolism will affect the weight accorded visual analogues, because the literary component predominates in the latter and is nonexistent in the former.26 The tendency in recent years has been to align the composer more with Symbolism, not only because of his literary tastes and the circles that he frequented, but also because the Symbolist project rhymes with postmodern concerns about the complexities and limitations of language.27 In this spirit, in his chapter on Debussy’s Mallarmé settings Julian Johnson explores how one might speak or compose about the idea of nothing. His method seeks not to point out the mimetic qualities of Debussy’s music, but rather to show how it produces an affective state of vertige or disorientation through the gaps it creates with the words of a song. Duchesneau touches briefly upon a similar idea when he evokes the gesture of discontinuity in the artful brushstrokes of Asian art. The perspective of Katherine Bergeron’s chapter on Pelléas closely aligns with Johnson’s study in its attention to a truth located in what she suggests is a concealed space between voice and instrument—a truth obfuscated by odd juxtapositions in the orchestra that resonate with the failure of dialogue on the stage. This is a new take on the issue of truth in Debussy’s opera, a general idea previously discussed by various authors.28

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Symbolist criticism, almost by definition, speaks to the imagery of disembodiment: vertige as a state of mind. August Sheehy is also interested in effects produced by Debussy’s music, but in his study of the prelude “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir” he locates these effects in the listener’s body, unlike Johnson. And, also unlike Johnson’s study, mimesis plays an important role here; the spinning movements of the waltz informing the gestures of disorientation with which the prelude concludes, and by analogy, even the Baudelaire poem “Harmonie du soir,” to which the prelude refers. Sheehy’s appeal to the gestural surface of the music brings us close to the live moment of performance. Two essays in this volume approach that moment from different angles. Jocelyn Ho writes of Debussy’s own romantic performing practices in renditions of his own work on piano roll, for example his use of rubato and unwritten dislocations between the hands. Read against Roy Howat’s chapter on editing Debussy’s music we are reminded of the special challenges presented in editing the music of one who left his own recordings of it. Caroline Rae, for her part, investigates the little explored recorded legacy of the pianist Marius-François Gaillard, who in the late 1920s made the largest set of Debussy recordings by any pianist to that time—and overall with closer adherence to the score than in the piano roll performances of Debussy himself. To gesture we might add color as an attractive parameter for the study of Debussy’s music inasmuch as it plays well to the once popular tag of the Impressionist composer. Orchestration remains an understudied style parameter for much nineteenth- and twentieth-century music, partly because it does not operate according to systematic syntactic frameworks. In his contribution Robert Orledge brings hands-on experience gained from realizing some of Debussy’s incomplete work, such as La chute de la maison Usher, to a glimpse at his trademark orchestral practices as well as a review of the advice about orchestration that Debussy offered to others. The special charm of Debussy’s music long seemed to find a corollary in the elusive quality of its organization. For example, its pitch organization seems hybrid, still based on pitch centers but often fleetingly articulated, combining various pitch collections (whole-tone, octatonic, the so-called church modes) but following no apparent systematic principle. This was surely a factor in the relative lack of attention that Debussy once received from music theorists; the far greater amount of research accorded Schoenberg compared to Debussy in the period 1990–2015 (from the figures we cited above) may well be related to the more sustained theoretical attention given to the former. As we have noted, the situation is changing. Matthew Brown’s chapter on counterpoint in Debussy, which focuses on ingenious manipulations of the nursery rhymes “Nous n’irons plus au bois” and “Do, do, l’enfant do” in selected compositions, runs against the coloristic grain of a quintessential harmonicist and colorist, and it rehabilitates the melodist, the admirer of the “divine arabesque.” Since Carolyn Abbate pointed to Debussy’s special notations for the

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key of F-sharp in his sketches for Pelléas et Mélisande, Richard Langham Smith has shed light on the expressive symbolism of the polar opposites, F♯ and C.29 Two studies in our volume investigate both Debussy’s rationale for choosing keys and the particular musical strategies he associated with them. Mark DeVoto goes beyond the traditional confines of the tonalities of light and darkness, C and F♯, to discuss Debussy’s preference for other tonalities, for example E major, and his reticence to use certain ones, for example E-flat major. Instead of functional tonal syntax, pitch emphasis within the context of different kinds of pitch collections—modal, octatonic, and others—often serves to define key in Debussy’s music. In particular, DeVoto highlights the collection that consists of the bifocal partnership of a major key with its relative minor, a tonal strategy frequently heard in Russian works as well as in pieces by Fauré and Ravel. Boyd Pomeroy, for his part, focuses on Debussy’s fondness for long G♯ or A♭ pedal points combined with a complex of harmonic and contrapuntal habits throughout works of most of his output (1890–1917). Pomeroy shows that, regardless of type of piece and its overall tonal plan, Debussy’s various uses of this pitch reference point have enough common syntactical elements to allow for the creation of a typology of his practice with it. Three chapters in this book address Debussy’s ambiguous and complex musical exchanges and musical affinities with various fellow composers at various stages in his career, with Massenet around 1884–87, Alfred Bruneau in 1893–95, and Stravinsky in 1913, all the while maintaining his quest for modernity and a personal voice. As we have observed, already in 1881–82 Debussy referred to his musical “research” in correspondence with Wagnerian enthusiast Kunkelmann. This could mean exploring new pitch collections or daring formal procedures in his songs, and we are wise to remember that Debussy was not the only French composer with an avant-garde syntactical orientation at the fin de siècle. Debussy’s occasional glowing public words about Massenet, a colleague who was much more preoccupied with public expectations than he was, might also be construed as paradoxical, but, as Huebner points out in his contribution, one should not underestimate the degree to which Massenet was considered a progressive composer, at least in the 1880s, as well as how aesthetic values attributed to him could serve Debussy’s own program. In his chapter, François de Médicis draws attention to the work of Alfred Bruneau as an important stimulus to Debussy’s creative imagination around 1893–95. The connection has doubtless been overlooked in some measure because Bruneau falls into the lineage of artistic realism as espoused by Zola, whereas Debussy’s aesthetic can be much more readily understood in light of Symbolism or Impressionism. Yet here all parameters of creation need not march in lockstep: artistic influence is not immune to paradox. And Bruneau’s lesson in artistic integrity, originality, and syntactical renewal would have been appealing to Debussy.

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Instead of the usual flow of musical influence from Debussy to Stravinsky, Mark McFarland explores techniques that Debussy may have picked up from his Russian colleague. McFarland revisits research threads developed in the 1980s and 1990s by Jann Pasler and Richard Taruskin. Jann Pasler’s 1981 dissertation concentrated on Stravinsky and Debussy’s collaborations with the Ballets Russes in order to investigate how the new aesthetics of these works stemmed in part from their collaborative and interdisciplinary dimension (plot, choreography, settings) and how a fair amount of consultation and mutual influence between the two composers occurred. She published articles extracted from her dissertation—one on Debussy in 1981, another on Stravinsky in 1986—but the Debussy publication left out the collaborative dimension discussed in the dissertation.30 Taruskin’s work on Stravinsky ballets from the Russian Period has emphasized the collective dimension, but has not addressed Stravinsky’s interactions with Debussy very much.31 McFarland’s previous research also explores the exchanges and affinities between Debussy and Stravinsky.32 His study for this volume is less concerned with pitch center or key as unifying devices as with the operation of harmonic language to referential ends in the ballet Jeux following practices observed in the Stravinsky ballets—he calls the practice Leitharmony (a term also used by Richard Taruskin, translated from the Russian “leyt-garmoniya,” borrowed from a 1905 essay by Rimsky-Korsakov on Snegurochka).33 McFarland also shows how Debussy effects movement towards climaxes at the local level by achieving chromatic saturation of his textures, a feature that reaches back to earlier works, but that he compares to Stravinsky’s accumulation procedures in Le sacre du printemps.34 We have observed how the various contributions to this volume find their roots in a long tradition of Debussy scholarship. But beyond this extension, what is probably most revealing is a kind of convergence. The beginnings of Debussy research look spotty, pointillistic. Various currents coexisted independently and produced a very disjointed picture of the composer’s style, reception, and cultural affinities. Scholars fought using contradictory approaches and theories. Today there reigns a greater sense of compatibility. Far from suggesting that the barrel is running dry, an abundance of research and the complementarity of observations from various methodologies might be a sign that Debussy’s scholarship is reaching maturity. Despite the maturity that complementarity suggests, we might still ask whether all the new research remains a futile attempt to grasp at meaning impossible to formalize? With characteristic eloquence, the composer energetically upheld the mystery of artistic work. He once placed into the mouth of Monsieur Croche the following trenchant observation: “Men easily forget that, as children, they were not allowed to break open the bellies of puppets . . . (a crime of lèse-majesté, after all): yet they continue to stick their aesthetic noses where they have no place. Although they don’t destroy puppets anymore,

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they explain, disassemble, and coldly kill mystery; it’s easier that way, for then one can discuss.” Let us take this warning to heart, without it obstructing our requirement for rigor and our quest for scholarly elucidation. The wealth of Debussy’s œuvre resides not only in its multiplicity of meanings but also in its sheer power to fascinate. In this spirit the authors included in the project seek not only to understand the works as transmitters of culture, but also to open novel perspectives on them while concurrently celebrating the ineffable fascination that Debussy’s art continues to exert, sustaining its magical “resonance” for generations to come.

Notes 1.

2.

3.

4. 5.

6.

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In 1985 the first volume of the OC to be published contained the two books of Préludes pour piano, edited by Roy Howat and Claude Helffer. See also Claude Debussy, Correspondance 1872–1918, ed. François Lesure and Denis Herlin (Paris: Gallimard, 2005). Le printemps L. 37 (later called Salut printemps, for “choeur pour voix de femmes et orchestra” (1882) (Paris: Choudens, 1928, for voice and piano; 1958, for voice and orchestra); Invocation for “voix d’hommes et orchestre” (1883; version for voices and orchestra published in 1957). The six songs are “Coquetterie posthume” (1883), “Chanson espagnole” (1883), “Romance” (“Silence ineffable de l’heure”) (1883), “Musique” (1883), “La romance d’Ariel” (1884) and “Regret” (1884). These include Rêverie (1880), Souhait (1881), Les roses (1882), Sérénade (1882), Fête galante (1882), Il dort encore (1882) and Le lilas (1882). See for instance Robert Orledge, Debussy and the Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); David Grayson, The Genesis of Debussy’s “Pelléas et Mélisande” (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983); Matthew Brown, Debussy’s Ibéria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). Major collection of essays devoted to Debussy often include articles on source studies, such as Denis Herlin’s article on the Nocturne “Sirènes” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 51–77, or Marie Rolf, “Debussy, Gautier, and ‘Les Papillons,’” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 99–116. Marguerite Long, Au piano avec Claude Debussy (Paris: René Juilliard, 1960); E. Robert Schmitz, The Piano Music of Claude Debussy (New York: Duell, Sloan, & Pearce, 1950; New York: Dover, 1966); Roger Nichols, Debussy Remembered (London: Faber & Faber, 1992); Alfred Cortot, La musique française de piano (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1948); Cortot, Cours d’interprétation (Paris: Librairie musicale R. Legouix, 1934); Charles Timbrell, French Pianism: An Historical Perspective: Including Interviews with Contemporary Performers, forward by Gaby Casadesus (White Plains, NY: Pro/Am Music Resources; London: Kahn & Averill, 1992); Roy Howat, The Art of French Piano Music: Debussy, Ravel,

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7.

8.

9.

10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

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Fauré, Chabrier (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009). See also Howat, “Debussy’s Piano Music: Sources and Performance,” in Langham Smith, Debussy Studies, 78–107; Roy Howat, “Debussy and Welte,” The Pianola Journal 7 (1994): 3–18; David Grayson, “Debussy’s Ideal Pelléas and the Limits of Authorial Intent,” in Rethinking Debussy, ed. Elliott Antokoletz and Marianne Wheeldon (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 96–122. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999. See also several articles from the recent Regards sur Debussy, ed. Myriam Chimènes and Alexandra Laederich (Paris: Fayard, 2013): Élizabeth Giuliani, “Debussy et le disque’”; David Grayson, “Les Premiers enregistrements de Pelléas et Mélisande”; Roy Howat, “Les Enregistrements historiques des mélodies de Debussy. Des sources pour l’interprétation”; Mylène Dubiau-Feuillerac, “‘De la poésie avant toute chose’: L’interprétation des Ariettes oubliées et de la Chanson de Mélisande par Claude Debussy et Mary Garden.” For Debussy and Wagner see Robin Holloway, Debussy and Wagner (London: Eulenburg Books, 1979); Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the Composition of Pelléas,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 117–41; Grayson, The Genesis of Debussy’s “Pelléas et Mélisande” (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1986). Léon Vallas, Debussy et son temps (Paris: Albin Michel, 1958); Roy Howat, “Russian Imprints in Debussy’s Piano Music,” in Antokoletz and Wheeldon, Rethinking Debussy, 31–51. Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005). Vallas, Debussy et son temps; Johannes Trillig, Untersuchungen zur Rezeption C. Debussys in der zeitgenössischen Musikkritik (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1983); Jann Pasler, “Pelléas and Power,” 19th-Century Music 10, no. 3 (Spring, 1987): 243– 64; Christian Goubault, La critique musicale dans la presse française de 1870 à 1914 (Geneva: Slatkine, 1984). See Barbara L. Kelly, “Debussy and the Making of a Musicien français,” in French Music, Culture, and National Identity, 1870–1939, ed. Kelly (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2008), 58–76, and Music and Ultra-Modernism in France, A Fragile Consensus, 1913–1939 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2013), or Marianne Wheeldon, “Tombeau de Claude Debussy: The Early Reception of the Late Works,” in Antokoletz and Wheeldon, Rethinking Debussy, 259–76. See Roger Nichols, “The Reception of Debussy’s Music in Britain up to 1914,” in Langham Smith, Debussy Studies, 139–53; James Briscoe, “Debussy in Daleville: Toward Early Modernist Hearing in the United States,” in Antokoletz and Wheeldon, Rethinking Debussy, 225–58; Michel Rapoport, “Debussy et les Proms,” Justine Comtois, “La generazione dell’ottanta et la musique de Debussy: perceptions et réception,” and Sylvia Kahan, “Bent scales and stained glass attitudes: la réception critique de la musique de Debussy aux États-Unis (1884– 1918),” in Chimènes and Laederich, Regards sur Debussy. Adele Katz, Challenge to Musical Tradition: A New Concept of Tonality (London: Putman, 1947). Felix Salzer, Structural Hearing: Tonal Coherence in Music (New York: Boni, 1952).

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15. Matthew Brown, “Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Music Theory Spectrum 15, no. 2 (1993): 127–43, and Debussy’s “Ibéria”: Studies in Musical Genesis and Structure (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Boyd Pomeroy, “Tales of Two Tonics: Directional Tonality in Debussy’s Orchestral Music,” Music Theory Spectrum 26, no. 1 (2004): 87–118. 16. Richard Parks, The Music of Claude Debussy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). 17. Allen Forte, “Debussy and the Octatonic,” Music Analysis 10, nos. 1–2 (1991): 125–69; before turning to Webern, “An Octatonic Essay by Webern: No. 1 of the ‘Six Bagatelles for String Quartet,’ Op. 9,” Music Theory Spectrum 16, no. 2 (Autumn, 1994): 171–95. 18. See for instance Jean-Louis Leleu, “Structures d’intervalles et organisation formelle chez Debussy: Une lecture de ‘Sirènes,’” in Claude Debussy, jeux de formes, ed. Maxime Joos (Paris: Éditions Rue d’Ulm, 2004), 189–219; Dmitri Tymoczko, “Scale Networks and Debussy,” Journal of Music Theory 48, no. 2 (2004): 219–94; Elliott Antokoletz, Musical Symbolism in the Operas of Debussy and Bartók (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 19. Edward T. Cone, “Stravinsky: The Progress of a Method,” Perspectives of New Music 1, no. 1 (Autumn, 1962): 18–26; Mark McFarland, “Debussy: The Origins of a Method,” Journal of Music Theory 48, no. 2 (2004): 295–324. 20. David Lewin, “A Transformational Basis for Form and Prolongation in Debussy’s ‘Feux d’artifice,’” in Musical Form and Transformation: Four Analytic Essays (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1993), 97–159. 21. John Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style” (PhD diss., Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester, 2002); “Debussy’s First ‘Masterpiece,’ Le Gladiateur,” Cahiers Debussy 23 (1999): 3–34; “Debussy’s Rome Cantatas” and “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” in Jane Fulcher, Debussy and His World (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), 9–98 and 299–361; and “Achille at the Conservatoire 1872–1884,” Cahiers Debussy 19 (1995): 3–35; also Alexandre Dratwicki, “Les ‘Envois de Rome’ des compositeurs pensionnaires de la Villa Médicis (1804–1914),” Revue de musicologie 91, no. 1 (2005): 99–193; Dratwicki and Julia Liu, ed., Le concours du prix de Rome de musique: 1803–1968 (Lyon: Symétrie, 2011). 22. Favorite pieces for discussion of exoticism include the Fantaisie for piano and orchestra and the first Estampe, “Pagodes.” See for example: Richard Mueller, “Javanese Influence on Debussy’s Fantaisie and Beyond,”19th-Century Music 10, no. 2 (1986): 157–86; Roy Howat, “Debussy and the Orient,” in Recovering the Orient: Artists, Scholars, Appropriations, ed. Andrew Gerstle and Anthony Milner (Chur: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1994), 45–81; and Patrick Revol, Influences de la musique indonésienne sur la musique française du XXème siècle (Paris and Montréal: L’Harmattan, 2000). 23. See Leon Botstein, “Beyond the Illusions of Realism: Painting and Debussy’s Break with Tradition,” in Fulcher, Debussy and His World, 141–79. For a sample of studies discussing the influence of Symbolist literature see Marie Rolf, “Debussy’s Settings of Verlaine’s ‘En sourdine,’” in Perspectives on Music, ed. Dave Oliphant and Thomas Zigal (Austin: Humanities Research Center, The

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24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

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University of Texas at Austin, 1985), 231–32, and “Symbolism as Compositional Agent in act 4, scene 4 of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande,” in Berlioz and Debussy: Sources, Contexts and Legacies: Essays in Honour of François Lesure, ed. Barbara L. Kelly and Kerry Murphy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 117–48; Rebecca Leydon, “Debussy’s Late Style and the Devices of the Early Silent Cinema,” Music Theory Spectrum 23, no. 2 (2001): 217–41. Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair; Revol, Influences de la musique indonésienne; Mueller, “Javanese Influence on Debussy’s Fantaisie and Beyond”; Howat, “Debussy and the Orient.” Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, vol. 1: 1862–1902, 5th ed. (London: Dent, 1980); Stefan Jarocinski, Debussy: Impressionnisme et symbolisme (Paris: Seuil, 1970); François Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique (Paris: Klicksieck, 1994); Paul Roberts, Images: The Piano Music of Claude Debussy (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1996); Jean-Michel Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or: Debussy, la musique et les arts (Paris: Fayard, 2005), and “Portrait of the Artist as Roderick Usher,” in Langham Smith, Debussy Studies; Guy Cogeval, Jean-Michel Nectoux, and Xavier Rey, Debussy: la musique et les arts (Paris: Skira Flammarion, 2012). See Émile Vuillermoz, Claude Debussy (Paris: Flammarion, 1957); Ronald Byrnside, “Musical Impressionism: The Early History of the Term,” Musical Quarterly 66, no. 4 (1980): 522–37; Jarocinski, Debussy: Impressionnisme et symbolisme; Botstein, “Beyond the Illusions of Realism: Painting and Debussy’s Break with Tradition,” in Fulcher, Debussy and His World, 141–79. Numerous works on the Mallarmean concept of the Arabesque, including the recent Gurminder Kaur Bhogal, Details of Consequence: Ornament, Music, and Art in Paris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Rolf, “Debussy’s Settings of Verlaine’s ‘En sourdine’”; Rolf, “Symbolism as Compositional Agent”; Jann Pasler, “Correspondances et synesthésie: Debussy lecteur critique des Cinq poèmes de Baudelaire,” in Bruxelles, convergence des arts (1880–1914), ed. Malou Haine and Denis Laoureux (Paris: Vrin, 2013), 89–104. Jann Pasler, “Mélisande’s Charm and the Truth of her Music,” in Antokoletz and Wheeldon, Rethinking Debussy, 55–75; Jane Fulcher, “Speaking the Truth to Power: The Dialogic Element in Debussy’s Wartime Compositions,” in Fulcher, Debussy and His World, 203–32. Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the Composition of Pelléas,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 117–41; Richard Langham Smith, “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” in Claude Debussy, “Pélleas et Mélisande,” ed. Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 107–39. See Jann Pasler, “Debussy, Stravinsky, and the Ballets Russes: The Emergence of a New Musical Logic” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1981), “Music and Spectacle in Petrushka and The Rite of Spring,” in Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist, ed. Pasler (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 53–81, and “Debussy, Jeux: Playing with Time and Form,” 19th-Century Music 6, no. 1 (1982): 60–75.

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31. See Richard Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through Mavra, 2 vols. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996). 32. Mark McFarland, “Debussy: The Origins of a Method,” Journal of Music Theory 48, no. 2 (2004): 295–324, and “Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into their Musical Relationship,” Cahiers Debussy 24 (2000): 79–112. 33. See Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions, vol. I, 598. 34. For chromatic saturation occurring in Debussy’s earlier works see Mark McFarland, “Transpositional Combination and Aggregate Formation in Debussy,”Music Theory Spectrum 27, no. 2 (2005): 187–220.

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Part One

Historiographical and Editorial Issues

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Chapter One

Debussy Fifty Years Later Has the Barrel Run Dry? Richard Langham Smith

Perhaps a useful focus for the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Debussy’s birth should be on what has happened since its centenary in 1962, a few years before my own interest in the composer developed, alongside that of several British colleagues. Any serious young student at that time, searching for materials, would find a complex web of patchy information with as many lacunae as there were concrete sources. In the 1960s Debussy scholarship was frankly in its infancy: there were few robust analytical approaches to his music, no critical editions, and precious few commentaries of much worth. The scattered publications of the composer’s correspondence and his collected writings were incomplete and, although the early biographies contained some important information here and there, they were opinionated, biased, and debatable, and there was little literature that tied the music to any context. Fresh on the library shelves was the new two-volume tome by Edward Lockspeiser, who, incidentally, became my supervisor and friend. This was Debussy: His Life and Mind, complementing his single volume Debussy written in the 1930s and many times reedited. The two-tome work was meant to coincide with the centenary but was running a little late.1 Essentially it contained little commentary on the music itself, though Lockspeiser was forced to write an appendix addressing it in more detail, a task he took on reluctantly and which—many will agree—he was not very good at. More concentration on the music per se was coming into fashion, and journalistic commentary, laden as it was with value judgments, was beginning to be yesterday’s news. There can

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be no doubt that Lockspeiser appended commentary on the music with some trepidation because he believed that approaching music through its techniques was simply not the way to a composer’s heart—not that he wasn’t skilled at marshalling notes on manuscript paper; indeed, he bequeathed a substantial mountain of compositions from the time when he studied both composition and conducting at the Royal College of Music in London. His strength in the Life and Mind volumes was to explore context, especially of the neighboring arts, rather than to expose “kitchen secrets.” He was dissatisfied with the binary opposition that had plagued Debussy throughout the middle years of the twentieth century: “Was Debussy an Impressionist, or was he a Symbolist?” On the one hand Lockspeiser realized the importance of viewing Debussy through the neighboring arts, while on the other understanding that such an approach was much more complex than any umbrella “-isms.” How he would have appreciated the Debussy exhibition of 2012, a revelation of the complexities of Debussy’s associations with his contemporary artists and littérateurs that rode a coach and four through the simplifications of the Impressionism/Symbolism nonsense! He carried this interdisciplinary approach forward in his last book, Music and Painting, which explored the links between the two arts further than previous writers, but still stopping short of detailed technical comparisons. Regarding Debussy, the recent work of Gurminder Bhogal has taken this even one step further by pushing forward technical comparisons of this sort in her study—mainly of Ravel but also of Debussy—Details of Consequence: obligatory reading for anyone wanting to confront the visual with the aural arts.2 The other important dimension of Lockspeiser’s activities taken up by subsequent scholars was that he was tireless in his pursuit of manuscript sources, both musical and literary, done—prior to the internet—through countless letters to auction houses and individuals of whom he had somehow become aware. Perhaps what we might take from his approach, and reapply today, is the assertion that many issues and different disciplines are essentially involved in a review of Claude Debussy’s changing and developing profile in the years that have passed since his birth in 1862. Perhaps even more important have been the past fifty, since the plethora of work that surrounded his centenary in 1962 has produced a weight of scholarship far in excess of that from the earlier part of the twentieth century. During these years we can identify the seeds of different, more modern, approaches that are continuing to develop. These include the discovery of previously unknown pieces and the reconstruction of others; more rigorous biography; the unveiling of many new sources of documentation; the application of several contrasting analytical methods and reflection on performance practices; and Debussy’s profound influence on later twentieth-century music.3 All of this is dwarfed by the most interesting and central subject: developments in the performance of the music itself.

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debussy fifty years later

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Aspects to be considered are too numerous to list comprehensively and no doubt readers of this text will think of further approaches. What is certain is that a review of academic writings is only a small part of the wider perspective on how Debussy’s music continues to affect our world. Without broadening the frame of reference itself, more and more questions have to be posed, both musical and extramusical, about the performance of his music, including most urgently about the developing interpretations of his opera Pelléas. How have performances of his music moved on? Have they become closer to, or further away from, the composer’s intentions or developed into new spheres? Perhaps the answer is both. And anyway, do the composer’s intentions matter? Probably not: interpretation cannot remain static or antiquarian. Should we side with the highly developed ideas of performers such as Glenn Gould and argue that historical performance doesn’t matter in the least? On the other hand, those who lament the lost traditions of “old” ways of playing, and crave to hear historical instruments played by artists who have somehow remastered the techniques prevalent at the turn of the century, can certainly celebrate an advance in recent recordings which have reassembled orchestral forces such as Debussy would have been familiar with, and played on pianos—both the French ones of his youth and the German instruments he favored in his later years—streets away from the ubiquitous nine-foot ebonized Steinways of today. It was disappointing to hear an unsatisfactorily hybrid concert at the time of the Paris Debussy Colloque in 2012 performed by the excellent group Les Siècles under the baton of their founder François-Xavier Roth, including Alain Planès playing the Debussy Fantasie on a period Erard. Many were looking forward to a revelation of the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune on period instruments, and in particular to the sonorities of the French wind instruments of the turn of the century, especially in the second section, seemingly representing the reedy landscape so reminiscent of the pictures of Henri (le Douanier) Rousseau. In the event, apart from the rather clapped-out piano, modern instruments were used. Only later in that year was a recording of L’après-midi on instruments of the time released, performed by Jos van Immerseel’s Anima Eterna Brugge, where we get some idea of how the prominent use of the wind section in that second section really sounded, evocative of the reedy wetlands from whose bullrushes the Faune has fashioned his flute.4 The recording confirms what we already knew, that far more important than the instruments are their players: we can imagine, in particular, other flute players making very different sounds on similar instruments (the booklet desists from the common habit of an exact listing of the provenance of every historic instrument or its maker, but a Louis Lot flute might be an obvious choice).5 The unnamed interpreter of the Faune’s flute plays in a very pure way, without any vibrato and perhaps rather unseductively, very

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unlike the playing of the first interpreter of the piece, Georges Barrère, whose tone—judging from admittedly later extant recordings—is founded on a slight vibrato and is generally rather brighter. So far there are no rivals to Barrère, and one may wish for more historically informed recordings to place alongside this first cut. In the same year, Alexei Lubimov recorded what is to my mind a groundbreaking account of the Debussy Préludes: the first book on a Bechstein piano of 1925 and the second on a Steinway of 1913. “This was not,” he writes in a short note in the CD booklet, “on the basis of history or some fabricated notion of authenticity.” The author of the main note, Jürg Stenzl, points out how the German instruments of this period had “characteristic timbral contrasts between registers [whereas] modern pianos, in contrast, cultivate balance of timbre, greater volume and maximum precision of attack.” These “timbral contrasts” were the qualities Lubimov missed in the modern grand piano, “even the very best.” To my mind his approach is totally convincing and he confesses to “hearing Debussy in a different timbral guise, cloaked in the early 20th-century colors that [he] would find on unique, specially selected instruments.” Playing on the 1913 Steinway, a preferred instrument of Paderewski maintained in exemplary fashion by the Polish embassy in Brussels, he finds it “divinely soft in pianissimo” and his revelatory recording bears this out.6 Whatever one might think of his playing, his approach to reviewing the performance of Debussy’s central repertoire has been a major step forward: not an antiquarian point of view (where some have recorded Debussy on French pianos which are way past their sell-by date and which Debussy might not have liked in the first place), but one which coincided with his thoughts later in life. But who cares what he thought? This is a case of the basic credo of Historical Performance at its best—“Back to the future.” Lubimov has also isolated a central dichotomy that many have observed in the field of Debussy performance: a disparity between what we see in the carefully marked texts of his scores and his own ideas of interpretation documented not only in his correspondence and the memoirs of his pupils but also in the piano rolls he cut where he sometimes seems to drive a coach and four through his own texts. Thanks to the efforts of Roy Howat, whose expertise at editing has stretched far beyond the boundaries of his own definitive editions of Debussy’s piano music, we have a commented text drawn from his experience with Debussy’s manuscripts and the way that evidence from recordings might (or must) be incorporated into up-to-date editions.7 The same year John Eliot Gardiner performed Pelléas in a Prom, unhindered by the “concept” production that he had accompanied at the OpéraComique in 2010. Its hardly staged presentation gave listeners an opportunity to savor the sonorities of his period-instrument Orchestre romantique et révolutionnaire. For the first time in England we heard Debussy’s opera performed

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on instruments of Debussy’s time: a revelation and not at all muted. Quite the reverse. The brass were somehow more cavernous in the sea cave and souterrains, and angrier in the scenes where Golaud’s blood rises. Debussy’s wind writing seemed even more subtle on these instruments, whose players drew from them a décor orchestral less homogenized than the sonorities of modernday wind sections. Here the bassoon, clarinet, English horn and oboe blended perfectly yet somehow retained more noticeably their individual characters. The flutes were never assertive: particularly delicious in that key scene that ends act 1, where (for the first time) Pelléas announces that he “might leave tomorrow” and Mélisande (with the ubiquitous exclamation, question mark and diuresis) asks why. “À deux,” the flutes end the act with their evaporating phrases. The way Gardiner dealt with the gut strings was different, for example, from Roger Norrington’s approach, which always vehemently eschews all vibrato. Whatever one’s overall view, these were new advances in Debussy interpretation and began to introduce increased variety in realizations of the composer’s sound ideals. A survey of the contribution the Debussy Œuvres complètes has made—and will continue to make—to our understanding of the composer, and to unveiling some of his unpublished music, is obviously the overarching major achievement of the past fifty years. To what extent have newly unveiled works—even if they are seldom performed—changed our view of the composer? The Œuvres complètes has already published several performable stage works and presented us with clean editions, at last, of some of his instrumental music. Pieces reconstructed from Debussy’s incomplete manuscripts have necessarily been to some extent speculative even if they have not attempted reconstruction. Most important in this respect is the reconstitution of pieces from his earlier period— some of the early songs (especially his setting of Leconte de Lisle’s La fille aux cheveux de lin, for example), his opera Rodrigue et Chimène, the Scène lyrique, Diane au bois, and the unfinished dramatizations of Poe, especially La chute de la maison Usher—all of these have problems whose proposed solutions necessarily become the responsibility of the editor but which other interpreters may want to resolve in entirely different ways. The Œuvres complètes ideal seems to have been to steer a path between signalling to interpreters where there are doubts and alternative readings, yet making a score that is ultimately playable as it is. The most important of these problems lie in Debussy’s revisions, some of which are illegible and difficult to fathom; the separation of different layers of the compositional process; and the composer’s laxity with accidentals and key signatures in his brouillons and particelles, a problem met in all the aforementioned examples, and one which in many cases offers several perfectly viable—yet totally different—solutions. In the case of Usher and Rodrigue there are missing passages—either lost or never composed—to be written to fulfill the Œuvres complètes ideal of playability.

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So much for its presentation of previously unknown works. Alongside this is the way in which the Œuvres complètes sheds new light on those pieces that have found a secure place in the musical canon. Perhaps above all in this respect, it has given us authoritative editions of the major orchestral works, the piano works, and Pelléas. Most eagerly anticipated is the massive task of an edition of his mélodies, currently in the experienced hands of Denis Herlin and Marie Rolf. Having struggled with the countless accidentals and key signatures omitted from the surviving score of Debussy’s “other” opera Rodrigue et Chimène and evolved a few clear principles, but not watertight procedures, it was interesting to see very similar—and no less complex—problems occur in the early setting of Leconte de Lisle’s La fille aux cheveux de lin, whose key changes could be interpreted in several ways, and of which we have no critical printed edition.8 In fact, performers have beat musicologists to the mark in their revelation of the early songs, digging out pieces from manuscripts and the back of theses, and recording them, even if the definitive edition will correct a few details here and there. To my mind Natalie Dessay’s recording of them under a title which has both authenticity and commercial appeal—“Clair de lune”—conceals an aural document of considerable worth, in particular for its rendering of the extraordinarily prophetic song “Flots, palmes et sables,” with its exotic sonority of piano and harp accompaniment and synthetic (or, it might be said, “fake oriental”) modal arabesques and prophetic harmonic chemistry.9 The revelation of much of this unknown repertoire has added two very important elements to our understanding of the composer: first, a side that has nothing to do with either Impressionism or Symbolism; second, an increased insight into many of the unpublished pieces where we clearly see the genesis of ideas that were to evolve in Debussy’s output later on. The already mentioned “Flots, palmes, sables” is a case in point: pairs of chords suspended only vaguely in tonality, wordless vocalises unfolding in ever varying arabesques. It was a privilege to participate in an extraordinary event made possible by advances in technology: a video conference exchange with state-of-the-art audio quality at both ends between the Royal College of Music in London and the Eastman School of Music in Rochester where students from both ends sang unpublished Debussy pieces to each other. These included the Séguidille, a mélodie written for Mme Vasnier and Chanson des brises, an early little cantata whose virtuosic high soprano part indicates that it too was composed for her, accompanied by piano duet and a chorus of three girls, presumably other members of the class of Mme Moreau-Sainti where Debussy was accompanist. It is the sole Debussy setting of a poem by Louis Bouilhet, perfectly suited to what François Lesure amusingly referred to as the “aviary” (for rather special songbirds: “une volière”): the class of aspirant singers by which the testerone infused Debussy found himself surrounded.10

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Réveillez-vous, arbres des bois! Tressaillez toutes à la fois, Fôrets profondes! Et, loin des rayons embrasés, À la fraicheur de nos baisers Livres vos ondes!

This world premiere emerged as a delightful occasional piece: slight, charming, but not one of the most prophetic pieces of these early years. But the whole event, as a kind of prelude to the forthcoming edition of the early songs, once again reinforced our view that the seeds of so many sides of Debussy’s preoccupations lie in this early period of production during the composer’s early twenties, and that this period of gestation needs to be related to his later work. Not all the pieces revealed by the Œuvres complètes have been juvenilia: Images oubliées for piano were made known some while before the Œuvres complètes edition came out, as well as the piece Debussy wrote for his coalman, seemingly his last: no. 150 in the Catalogue de l’oeuvre as it stands, Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon. Musicology itself has also benefited from changes in the recording industry and advances in technology. We now have access to alternative remasterings of early recordings of Debussy’s music, teaching us a great deal and certainly providing material for musicological reflection and for performers to consider. There is, for example, that wonderful recording by Mary Garden, who created Mélisande, where she sings her soliloquy from the tower with Debussy at the piano, not to mention a cutting of “L’ombre des arbres” where she comes in on a wrong note and Debussy thumps out the right note on the piano for her. Then there are Claire Croiza and Maggie Teyte, whom we can value not only for their voices, but for their diction and, most important, the infinite variety of their expressive vocabulary of getting from note to note; their shaping, dynamics and subtlety of portamento—almost a lost art, but beginning once again to be the preoccupation of musicologists, and it is to be hoped once again will bleed down to performers. The hooking up of player pianos to recording devices has also proliferated, so we can more easily access Debussy’s piano roll recordings in several improved versions.11 The Urtext editions of Debussy’s scores may tell us one thing, but his own recordings sometimes tell us quite another. On the one hand, we have ample evidence of his insistence on following the score but, on the other, this must be seen in the context of a period when scores were freely interpreted, and pianistic dislocation and arpeggiation were ubiquitous expressive tools. Debussy’s own cutting of a roll of his own La plus que lente is particularly revealing in his use of these devices coupled with much rubato. There is more to be done with respect to this conflict of evidence.

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Recent reissues of the performances of the conductor Piero Coppola have also been illuminating, especially with regard to the tempo of the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, which has consistently slowed down over the years. Coppola’s faune has a spring in his step as he pursues his nymphs, and is fleeter with his flute than many soggy subsequent performances. Including Coppola’s 1927 recordings of extracts from Pelléas, Désormière’s celebrated 1941 recording of Debussy’s complete opera has received a second remastering with a very different result from the EMI CD issue of 1988, aiming at a clearer sound by applying less noise reduction. Also revealing are extracts by Georges Truc, including Claire Croiza as Geneviève (1928) as well as extracts from two other performances from around the same time.12 In another important similar dimension we may ask whether new studies related to the literary texts central to Debussy’s œuvre have reshaped our view of his early works in particular. Théodore de Banville, the poet with whom Debussy was particularly preoccupied in his early twenties, is a case in point. Recent Banville research has been fairly prolific and has not only revealed this poet as one of the most perceptive music critics of the 1860–70s, but has also penetrated far more deeply than before into his poetry and plays, in which there were themes that touched Debussy deeply in his early years, couched though they were in a romanticized Hellenism and on occasion alluding to the Fêtes galantes of Watteau, in this way overlapping with Verlaine, of whose poems he also wrote perceptive reviews.13 This is the case with his text to Debussy’s longest unpublished completed piece, Diane au bois, which the composer called a “Scène lyrique” (often misunderstood as a “cantata”), dating from the time of his liaison with Mme Vasnier and dealing with the themes of irresistible erotic attraction, the breaking of vows, and eventual submission. Despite literature on the subject by Lockspeiser and Eileen Souffrin, there is much more to be said about the composer’s attraction to this underestimated poet, too often sheltered under the umbrella term “Parnassian” and dismissed as a precursor of Mallarmé. In light of more recent research—both on the figures themselves and what is revealed in the newly unveiled correspondence—we know a lot more about such figures as the painter Henry Lerolle, who was in Debussy’s close circle in the 1890s. His hauntingly musical paintings were revealed in Nectoux’s 2012 exhibition, together with perceptive interpretations of them. Vuillard’s musical paintings, dug out of private collections, were also revealing, while Lerolle’s somehow straddled the post-Impressionist interiors of Vuillard and touched upon several aspects of Symbolism: of looking through open doors, listening to music from a distance in empty rooms. A new dimension was also added to the paintings and illustrations of Maurice Denis, whose dreamlike images of young women (including the Lerolle sisters) tied in not only with Debussy’s literary interests in the 1890s—he illustrated the vocal score of La damoiselle élue—but also with Pelléas.

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Work on Pierre Louÿs has illuminated his extremely close relationship with Debussy in several ways: their uniquely close friendship in their thirties, confessing to each other their various sexual exploits (on Louÿs’s side sometimes bordering on obscenity); their interest in the music of Debussy’s contemporaries, often peppered with disparaging jibes; and their projected stage works, some of which never came to fruition. While these were documented in the early edition of the Debussy–Louÿs exchange of letters, they are better set in the chronological context in Herlin’s Correspondance, while Louÿs’s exploits in Seville—corrupting young girls and with constant reference to the exploits of Carmen—have been set in perspective by Jean-Paul Goujon.14 Verlaine scholarship has also advanced, in Debussy’s case with particular reference to the context of the Fêtes galantes and their basis in specific images of Watteau.15 Studies of composers involved in Debussy’s life have also been prolific, with earlier studies superseded, for example, by new research on Chausson, Satie, and Stravinsky. Overarching advances in literary studies, however, have been made in work on the figure who to my mind dominates our understanding of Debussy and who was responsible for his supreme masterpiece: Maurice Maeterlinck. A marked reawakening of interest in Maeterlinck’s plays in the past twenty years has resulted in some revivals of Pelléas the play in France (and even in English) that have convinced me that the often repeated litany about how Debussy’s opera put the play on the map is totally unjustified.16 Seeing it as a play is an education in what Debussy underlined and what, for various reasons, he omitted: on the one hand, one could hardly begin an opera with a crowd of charladies with mops and buckets washing the stairs; on the other, it is surprising that he did not take a cue from the choral speaking that Maeterlinck gave to the servants in the last act. Relevant also to Maeterlinck studies have been many articles in the Annales de la fondation Maeterlinck and also the important publication of his copious Carnets de travail.17 Pelléas will be returned to later in a postscript on advances—or the reverse—in post-1970 productions. To our knowledge of what earlier biographers referred to as Debussy’s “creative mind” must be added deeper research into the impetuses behind the texts of his abandoned projects, the revival of some of which has also added to the performed repertoire on the margins of the Debussy canon. Among these one can count the various reconstructions of the Poe operas, the “creative musicology” of Robert Orledge, and my own attempt at filling in the missing pages and countless wanting accidentals of Debussy’s other opera, Rodrigue et Chimène, which in a very non-Debussyian orchestration made it to the stage in Lyon in the 1990s.18 Although a necessarily biased view, this seems to me a work of considerable interest because it contains some very fine and engaging music, not to mention its role in honing Debussy’s skills for the composition of Pelléas.19

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A survey of recent academic literature on Debussy has already been expertly and exhaustively undertaken by Jann Pasler and it is to her publication in Notes that any serious student of Debussy should turn for the most detailed, though of necessity uncritical, retrospective literature review.20 Few readers will be aware of every source Pasler has so assiduously trawled. She is necessarily hasty in her listing of the major landmarks and it is perhaps useful to append to it a few lineages underpinning the various perspectives from which the composer and his work have been viewed. Apart from the two studies of Debussy written during his lifetime,21 the cumulative lineage of serious biography was inaugurated by Vallas and flowers again in the two major biographies that appeared almost concurrently in 1962 and that were both to some extent dependent on his early work: the already mentioned Debussy: His Life and Mind by Lockspeiser and La passion de Claude Debussy by Marcel Dietschy.22 The two authors corresponded frequently in an atmosphere of mutual respect, although about certain details they kept their powder dry prior to publication and came out with different views in the interpretation of the same material; that is the nature of biography. Both were books of their time: interpretative, written in a journalistic style, and aimed at a readership that included the educated layman. Opening up an interdisciplinary approach more robustly than in any previous work, their insights were invaluable, giving sources for further probing and uncovering a wealth of material. These were complemented—not displaced—by the later biographies of François Lesure, who was in the privileged position of having his ear to the ground for new material as conservateur-en-chef of the music department at the Bibliothèque nationale de France. His books (as did Lockspeiser’s chronological study) trickled out first as a volume on the early years and subsequently as a complete biography, supplemented by countless articles sweeping out forgotten corners.23 Also invaluable in the Fayard edition is its worklist, so far the latest we have, painstakingly updated by Denis Herlin. Lesure’s biographical approach may be contrasted with that of both Lockspeiser and Dietschy in that he includes less interpretation and is more willing to let the facts speak for themselves: in the end the reader must be more of a partner in their interpretation—an advance rather than the reverse. All these are more “lives” than “lives and works.” Addressing the music itself was not their purpose, and this was the reason for the obsolescence of mere biography in the climate of anglophone musicology in the 1970s and beyond. But even from the earliest years there had been those who addressed Debussy’s musical techniques. Interesting to note in Jann Pasler’s overview was Archibald Davison’s very early analytical thesis of 1908, which seems to have been the first to make some attempt at finding a language to describe Debussy’s musical processes. In terms of music analysis, a comprehensive and chronological

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study of the methods of explaining Debussy’s music would be welcome and has not, to my knowledge, been attempted. A full list is given in Abravanel’s invaluable and well organized bibliography,24 continually updated in the bibliographies of the Cahiers Debussy. Apart from various “leitmotive guides” to Pelléas, among notable analytical landmarks were Eimert’s celebrated 1959 article on Jeux in Der Reihe, the analyses presented by various scholars in the CNRS collection Debussy et l’évolution de la musique au XXe siècle of 1965, Jean Barraqué’s Debussy of 1962, Richard S. Parks’s bifurcated study of Debussy, which applied the theories of that old Francophobe Heinrich Schenker to early Debussy and the methods of Allen Forte to his later works.25 Notable also is Mark DeVoto’s Debussy and the Veil of Tonality.26 To these must be added the semiotic analyses of Jean-Jacques Nattiez and his followers, and Roy Howat’s Debussy in Proportion.27 As far as Debussy’s correspondence is concerned, it is hardly necessary to signal the enormous contribution of Denis Herlin, who, together with Lesure, was the main compiler of the invaluable and biblical edition of the composer’s letters, which still continue to emerge.28 One memoir of Lockspeiser in some despair can be appended, of the occasion when he had leafed through, but had no time to copy, the correspondence between Debussy and the literary figure and Rossetti translator Gabriel Mourey before it was dispersed after an auction. It is still uncertain whether all of this has reemerged. “Foundations,” in the sense of institutions set up to foster all aspects of the work of a particular artistic figure, have themselves played a crucial role in the past fifty years. While a visit to the magnificently catalogued collection of Maeterlinck materials in the Stadsarchief in Gent gives a broader insight into the aesthetic of the “Belgian Shakespeare” to whose work Debussy was so magnetically drawn during the 1890s, Debussyistes have, since 1972, had their own institution, the Centre de documentation Claude Debussy. From humble beginnings this grew into an invaluable archive, now in Paris. Here we must pay tribute to a third figure, recently deceased, who, along with Lockspeiser and Lesure, contributed vastly to the animation of all kinds of work on Debussy: Margaret Cobb, who in 1972 accepted the invitation of François Lesure to become the first director of the Centre, then housed in the town of Debussy’s birth, St. Germain-en-Laye.29 For anglophone and francophone Debussyistes alike, the Centre Debussy became a focus: we met each other, we could see in photocopy unpublished pieces that Mrs Cobb avidly chased up, pestering those with manuscripts to give a copy to the center. “Notre mère à tous,” someone appropriately called her (after a phrase in a letter of Debussy). Without her persuasive diplomatic skills Debussy scholarship would not be where it is today, but it would be a mistake to regard her only as an animatrice of the work of others. Her publication of the correspondence with Inghelbrecht, her twice-published The Poetic Debussy, and her translation of Dietschy’s biography were in themselves

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important contributions to musicology, as was her revelation of the correspondence with Gustave Popelin at the time of his affair with Mme Vasnier, which reveals much about his years at the Villa Médicis. Her initiative in the founding of the Centre Debussy sowed the seeds of an institution that played an enormous role in bringing together performance, musicology, and above all people, not to mention inaugurating a “foundation” review. The first issues of the Cahiers Debussy were hardly pamphlets: who could have predicted that the annual publication would gradually grow into an esteemed academic journal? And who would have thought, in those early days, that the Centre would develop into an institution that publishes luxurious facsimiles, such as the recently published copy of the songbook Debussy set to paper for his early inspiratrice? In those early days there were many obstacles to be overcome for those wanting to explore the unpublished repertoire of Debussy’s music, and, in particular, extant materials from his unfinished projects that Lockspeiser believed to be one of the keys to understanding the impetuses behind his whole compositional output. Most important among these hindrances was the (nonetheless understandable) attitude of the composer’s heirs to protect the public from what they considered to be his early and imperfect works, and also the completion of his unfinished works, in case, somehow, their revelation would tarnish his reputation. This protectionism—supported by French law, and now by European law—was perfectly justified from the point of view of Debussy’s héritiers and the owners of his manuscripts, but it continued to mask our understanding of Debussy’s artistic formation for many years. Now that this mist has largely dissipated, a closer perspective on the composer—and a wider one on French music in general—has emerged, pursued by some recent scholars researching how the life and works of Debussy were constructed in the inter- and post-war years before his centenary. The question is not exactly historiography, nor is it only about the ways in which biographies are written, but more about the manipulation of a biographical construct and the way in which the work of an important artist is exploited by a nation. Nourished by reception history and encapsulating the way in which the media present a composer to the outside world—all those endless record covers adorned with Monet poppyfields or pretty Renoir girls—is a varnish which from one point of view is of interest in itself, but on the other gives a biased and oversimplified view that totally ignores many aspects of Debussy’s imagination. This view has been corrected by many of the above-mentioned approaches to both the composer and his music: academic writings, performances, and exhibitions. Perhaps the protectionism of his early works had something to do with that question of the “ghost of old Klingsor,” as Debussy put it. Were those in control of his droit moral somehow afraid that they would uncover works “tainted” with

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the poison of Wagnerism? Certainly this accusation was blown up out of all proportion. Those wonderful songs, the Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire, came in for constant criticism because they were seen as coming too close to the Wagnerian frontier, if not overstepping it. Increasingly, since 1962 this view has become a curious and outdated yardstick by which to evaluate Debussy’s music. And the Wagnerism of which many composers were accused was not really defined, except as a venom which French critics thought they could sniff without trying to do so. Thankfully this is no longer the case, and we have much more robust studies of what Wagnerism was, and what it was perceived to be.30 The Debussy Exhibition held at the Musée de l’Orangerie in Paris under the auspices of the Musée d’Orsay must be mentioned as a major event of the hundred and fiftieth anniversary celebrations. Although there are many names on the list of contributors, it was essentially curated by Jean-Michel Nectoux.31 As already mentioned, this striking exhibition revealed many links with the visual arts outside the perimeters of any of the movements customarily connected with Debussy. Its catalogue reproduces work by artists who were in some way part of Debussy’s circle and renders those “-isms” customarily associated with him at best over-simplified and at worst redundant. Experiencing this exhibition and rereading its catalogue may have revealed to the people attending more about Debussy than many academic articles. One invaluable resource collected as an adjunct to the papers presented in the 2012 Pelléas conference was a compilation of over 250 dense pages of a Dossier de presse of the major reviews of Debussy’s opera together with a useful personalia of the contributing critics and articles dealing with these.32 In itself it would provide excellent material for a study of the axes of criticism prevalent at the time, both of Debussy’s music and of several wider contexts. But what about our times? Certainly since the 1970s there has been a sea change in the ways in which Pelléas has been interpreted on the stage and a bifurcation of opinions on the reception of operatic productions in general, broadly divided into those who favor “historical” over “conceptual” productions, though there is much in between. It remains to be seen how performances of Pelléas will change on the back of musicology, now that David Grayson’s new edition has been published in the Œuvres complètes.33 Not as much in the pit as onstage, it might be suggested. Other disciplines often ignored in musicological literature become relevant in such discussions,: those of theatrical production, scenography, stagecraft, character interpretation and mise-en-scène, not to mention the reduced resources available to opera houses. The falsity of the argument that Pelléas the play is inferior to Debussy’s opera has been suggested by tireless work by Maeterlinck enthusiasts, many of them Belgian, who have reminded us of the power of this extraordinary writer and resulted in several productions of the play itself since 1962. An important, but difficult to research, question is to uncover the play as Debussy saw

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it performed by Lugné-Poe’s company and understand what attracted him to it. Seeing Pelléas performed as a play, with the first scene, which Debussy eradicated, and with the choral speaking at the end, gives us a mirror through which Debussy’s opera emerges illuminatingly refracted, particularly in the way Debussy paces his setting, underlining points which when spoken seem commonplace, yet having a telling resonance. But then the commonplace, we should remind ourselves, was a principal ingredient of the playwright’s aesthetic, summed up in his essay “Le tragique quotidien.”34 A production given at the Théâtre Gérard Philippe in Saint-Denis in 2004–5 appeared to have done its homework on how the play was first given by LugnéPoe’s troupe, who first produced it in Belgium and toured it to London and Paris, where Debussy saw it. What he saw and why he was drawn to it are central questions. From reviews we can discern that the declamation was monotonic and monotonous, distanced from realistic speech. The set was dark and vague, and the last act, with the servants speaking in chorus, was extraordinarily powerful. Unfortunately, despite extensive searching, there are no visual records of Lugné-Poe’s production, though there is an extensive iconography of other productions by his company, and there are rich reports, mostly from London, of what his production of the play looked like there and also much iconography by Symbolist scenographers who were associated with LugnéPoe’s enterprises.35 While this brings us into the realm of production history it also reminds us of changes in musical interpretation. Pierre Boulez must be cited for his radical reinterpretation of the score, not so much on the back of musicology, but on his own rereading of the operatic text. The success of the opera had for many years been constructed on the central cameo of Mélisande leaning out of the tower with Pelléas drowning in her hair, the most perfect love affair ever. Boulez and his Czech producer and designer Vaclav Kaslik and Josef Svoboda respectively for the first time brought out the dark side of the piece: Golaud torturing Yniold, grabbing Mélisande by her hair, screaming at her in the last act to find out whether she was “guilty.” Boulez stirred up the orchestra and created a spectacle where conflicts were intensified. His second Pelléas, a co-production with Welsh National Opera directed by Peter Stein, was also a landmark, especially in the detailed contrivance of every moment where the characters interacted. It also retained a turn-of-the-century feel. Contrary to another view put forward by Guy Cogeval and Stéphane Guégan in their musings on the performance of the opera—that we have abandoned the “esthétique vaguement préraphaélito-médiévale qui prévalait au début du XXe siècle”—it managed to project the drama grippingly, within a frame clearly inspired by this very Maeterlinckian aesthetic that Cogeval dismisses. To my mind, the Maeterlinckian barrel has not run dry, indeed it is only beginning to be tapped. Nor was the pseudo Mediaeval setting really prevalent in the late

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nineteenth century, but it was certainly Maeterlinck’s in his plays up to the turn of the century when he turned in a different direction. Its removal of the story to an unspecific distant place was a deliberate act: to make this “Allemonde” universal, as the dual-language coinage of the name of his kingdom suggests. Modern “concept”—or, one might say, “interventionist”—productions prefer to start from scratch, interpreting what is really a very boring story. Directors more used to plays than operas interpret the “storyline” and develop the characters without much attention to the music, nor in Maeterlinck’s case, to the important threefold hierarchy of the landscape: the souterrains below, the middleground of the castle and the forest, and the tower above. Vitez’s production did this nicely in a 1990s Vienna/Covent Garden run, though Symbolism, quietly stated in this féerique, is not the fashion among modern-day directors. A repeated tendency that certainly takes its cue from the text itself has been to concentrate on “drawing-room” settings with a claustrophobically stifling family, in modern parlance a dysfunctional one: “There are places,” remarks Geneviève, “where you never see the sun.” Some may feel more than uncomfortable in the opera house when there is a total mismatch between music and staging in the re-situations of time and place in interventionist productions. Strong though it was, Graham Vick’s Glyndebourne Pelléas was one of these: we never have the sea, or the sea cave, or the smell of freshly watered roses when we emerge from the souterrains. Elsewhere, psychotherapeutic theories have been used as a framework in which to interpret Maeterlinck’s play, regarding Mélisande as a manipulative femme-fatale who is caught in a repetitious cycle of abuse, rather than a Pre-Raphaelite princesse-lointaine. For many, problems with these reinterpretations come when a link between original meaning or topos is destroyed. If Debussy’s music was clearly allied to an original action— for example, looking out on the changing lights on the sea—and all we see is a family around a dinner table, an essential link between music and landscape— an important aspect of Debussy’s artistry—has been broken. Problems also recur with a trend started off by Boulez, who considered Arkël merely a “white-haired Pelléas” rather than a weighty sage. Recent productions have gone further, some might say sensationally, and turned him into a “white-haired pederast,” groping Mélisande in a scene previously played as empathetic and tender—which is how Debussy’s music sounds—, emphasizing the claustrophobic enclave of the disturbed family and ratcheting up the idea of Mélisande as a victim of abuse by adding Arkël to the list of abusers. Historicist viewpoints are often summarily dismissed by proponents of productions that have no regard for the aesthetics of authors and composers, less still for the music, though sometimes a diametrical opposition of stage and pit can make wonderful theatre. It is a mark of Debussy’s operatic masterpiece that it will continue to spawn new interpretations. Perhaps it is one of the important tasks of musicologists to maintain reminders that the rootstocks of

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operas are of considerable potential, and can in themselves provide the basis for fertile new interpretations. Maeterlinck the horticulturalist will have been well aware that the grafting of plants onto untried rootstocks can be a formula for weakening the species. Can it be suggested, in conclusion, that there are plenty more barrels to be opened, and to assert definitively that we do not forget to replenish them?

Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6. 7.

8.

9.

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Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy, Master Musicians (London: J. M. Dent and Sons, 1936), and Debussy: His Life and Mind (London: Cassell, 1962 and 1965; repr. Cambridge University Press, 1978). Edward Lockspeiser, Music and Painting: A Study in Comparative Ideas from Turner to Schoenberg (London: Cassell, 1973). Gurminder Kaur Bhogal, Details of Consequence: Ornament, Music and Art in Paris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). Lockspeiser’s book was rather rushed out, and there were plans to include further chapters, including one on the Pre-Raphaelites. These subjects were first explored in a published symposium Debussy et L’évolution de la musique au XXe siècle (Paris: CNRS, 1965) which, as with most academic publications of its era, totally ignored more popular musics that demonstrated an influence of Debussy. Matthew Brown, in his Debussy Redux (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), has redressed this imbalance by looking at the composer’s influence on such genres as film music and dance music, and the continual reemergence of the ubiquitous Clair de lune in many guises until the end of the twentieth century. Claude Debussy, La mer; Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune; Images, Anima Eterna Brugge, conducted by Jos van Immerseel (Zig-Zag Territoires ZZT313, 2012), compact disc. On flutes, flute players, and the changing sound ideals, see the excellent thesis of Abigail Dolan, “Landmarks in Flute Performance Style in 78rpm Recordings 1900–1950” (PhD diss., King’s College, University of London, 2009). Barrère’s recordings are admittedly of a later period and very different repertoire. Debussy: Preludes and Transcriptions, performed by Alexei Lubimov and Alexei Zuev (ECM New Series, 476 4735, 2012), compact disc. Roy Howat: The Art of French Piano Music (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), particularly sections 16 and 21 (“Editions and what they can’t quite tell us” and “The composer as pianist”). Nigel Foster, ed., Three Songs for Madame Vasnier (London: London Song Festival Publications, 2013) is a viable interpretation but does not explain how decisions about the accidentals have been reached, in particular with regard to some penciled accidentals on the manuscript. Clair de lune, Natalie Dessay and Philippe Cassard (Virgin Classics 730768 2, 2012), compact disc. Also Debussy: Mélodies, Anne-Marie Rodde and Noël Lee (Etcetera KTC 1026, 1985), compact disc; Mélodies de jeunesse, Donna Brown

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10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

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and Stéphane Lemelin (ATMA ACD2 2209, 2000), compact disc; Early Songs, Gillian Keith and Simon Lepper (Deux-Elles, DXL 1052, 2003), compact disc. None of these contain La fille aux cheveux de lin, or several other unpublished songs. “Déjà très attiré par les femmes, Achille se trouvait soudain dans une volière et quelque peu grisé.” Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique, suivi du catalogue de l’œuvre (Paris: Fayard, 2003), 50. The best to date is volume 1 of the Caswell Collection, Claude Debussy: The Composer as Pianist: All his Known Recordings (Pierian 0001, 2000), compact disc. See Jocelyn Ho, “Debussy and Late-Romantic Performing Practices: The Piano Rolls of 1912,” chapter 18 in this volume. The EMI recording is in their Reférences series, CHS7 60138 2; the more recent remastering is on Andante, ISBN 1-931893-12-8, 2002. See in particular the two volumes Théodore de Banville, Critique littéraire, artistique et musicale choisie, ed. Peter S. Hambly and Peter J. Edwards (Paris: Champion, 2003), and David Evans, Théodore de Banville: Constructing Poetic Value in Nineteenth-Century France (London: Legenda, 2014). See Louÿs’s letters of 1895–96 to Debussy and Jean-Paul Goujon, Pierre Louÿs y Andaluci (Sevilla: Alfar, 1984). Louÿs, whose sexual proclivity was vehement and his tastes imaginative to say the least, lists the young girls he bedded in a letter to Debussy of 1895, imagining himself in the Candilejo where, in Mérimée’s Carmen, its eponymous heroine met her lovers. One such was called Concha, which Herlin interprets as a pun on the French slang for the female part: “con” and “chat.” It has another double meaning, as a concha is a seashell, another homonym. This reveals a rather special masculine relationship between Debussy and Louÿs in which their current mistresses (whom both were rather fond of photographing in the nude) featured prominently. This seems to have been the only friendship of this kind in Debussy’s life. Certainly no other letters of this nature exist in his correspondence. See my chapter “Historical Interplay in the Arts 1870–1900: Le cas Debussy,” in Historical Interplay in French Music and Culture, 1860–1960, ed. Deborah Mawer (Farnham: Ashgate, 2017). Guy Cogeval and Stéphane Guégan’s excellent discussion of Pelléas, “Le chefd’œuvre de Debussy, aux risques de la scène,” in the catalogue of the 2012 Paris exhibition reiterates this misguided view. Guégan’s view is that “En 1902, donc, la pièce devient un opera, plutôt supérieur à son livret, il faut bien le reconnaître.” Debussy: la musique et les arts, ed. Guy Cogeval and Jean-Michel Nectoux (Paris: Skira Flammarion, 2012), 109. Maurice Maeterlinck, Carnets de travail, ed. and annotated by Fabrice van de Kerckhove, 2 vols. (Brussels: Labor, 2002). See also the exhaustive bibliography in Arnaud Rykner, Maurice Maeterlinck (Paris and Rome: Memini, 1998). Compact disc recordings of both these works now exist. Debussy, Rodrigue et Chimène, reconstruction by Richard Langham Smith, orchestration by Edison Denisov, choir and orchestra of the Opéra de Lyon, conducted by Kent Nagano (Erato 4509-98508-2, 1995), and The Edgar Allan Poe Operas: La chute de la maison Usher; Le diable dans le beffroi, realized by Robert Orledge with the Göttinger

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19.

20. 21. 22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35.

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Symphonie Orchester conducted by Christoph-Mathias Mueller (Panclassics PC 10342, 2016). I have attempted to deal with this in an article “D’un opera à l’autre: de Rodrigue à Pelléas,” in “Pelléas et Mélisande” cent ans après: etudes et documents, ed. Christophe Branger, Sylvie Douche, and Denis Herlin (Lyon: Symétrie, 2012), 17–40. Jann Pasler: “Debussy the Man, His Music, and His Legacy: an Overview of Current Research,” Notes 69, no. 2 (December 2012): 197–216. Daniel Chennevière, Claude Debussy et son œuvre (Paris: Durand, 1913), and Louis Laloy, Debussy (Paris: Les bibliophiles fantaisistes Dorbon Ainé, 1909). This was the view of Lockspeiser himself, who was critical of Vallas’s evaluation of Debussy’s works but highly respectful of Dietschy, who was writing his own biography (published by Baconnière in Neuchâtel) concurrently with Lockspeiser’s two-volume Debussy: His Life and Mind, aimed at the Debussy birth centenary in 1962. In fact several twentieth-century authors on Debussy published either reeditions of their own works or newly written books, reconsidered in the light of recently unveiled evidence: something of a minefield for subsequent scholars. Among these were Laloy (1909, 1944), Vallas (1932, 1958), René Peter (1931, 1952), Lockspeiser (1936, 1962–5), and Lesure (1992, 2003). Claude Abravanel: Claude Debussy: A Bibliography, Detroit Studies in Music Bibliography 29 (Detroit: Information Coordinators, Inc., 1974). Richard S. Parks, The Music of Claude Debussy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). The articles are referenced in Abravanel, op. cit. Mark DeVoto, Debussy and the Veil of Tonality: Essays on His Music (New York: Pendragon, 2004). Nattiez’s first theoretical book, Fondements d’une sémiologie de la musique (Paris: Union générale d’éditions, 1975), containing material on Debussy, was followed by many articles and prefaces to studies by writers building upon his methods. Roy Howat, Debussy in Proportion: A Musical Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). Claude Debussy, C. See Marie Rolf’s obituaries in the Lyrica Society’s newsletter, Lyrica 32 (Fall 2010): 8–9, and “In Memoriam Margaret Gallatin Cobb (September 16, 1907– March 24, 2010),” Cahiers Debussy 34 (2010): 163–65. For example see Steven Huebner, French Opera at the Fin de Siècle: Wagnerism, Nationalism, and Style (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). See note 16. “Dossier de presse,” in Pelléas et Mélisande cent ans après, 331–569. See also his article “L’édition scientifique de Pelléas et Mélisande,” in ibid., 77–88. Published in his collection of essays Le trésor des humbles (Paris: Mercure de France, 1896), and reprinted many times in an English edition, The Treasure of the Humble (London: George Allen, 1897). My own chapters on the London performances, in the Cambridge Opera Guide to Pelléas, concentrated on the wrong London performance, of limited

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relevance to what Debussy saw, though I hold by its stress on the importance of Pre-Raphaelite literature and design to Maeterlinck’s conception. The disappointingly scant evidence on the Lugné-Poe production is discussed in my chapter “‘Aimer ainsi’: Rekindling the Lamp in Pelléas,” in Rethinking Debussy, ed. Elliott Antokoletz and Marianne Wheeldon (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 76–95.

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Chapter Two

The Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy Thirty Years On Roy Howat

When the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy were set in train in 1982, we could hardly have foreseen how extensively the project would affect the lives of the main participants or our understanding of the composer—even if our perceptions in 1982 of Debussy’s printed scores and manuscripts had played a major part in motivating the enterprise. In an existing chapter and article I have already recounted the project’s early history and some of the initial decisions concerning editorial philosophy and method.1 Thirty-six years after inception, it seems appropriate to consider how the edition is interacting with the musical world, and how these interactions may influence volumes still to come. (In 2018 the edition is over halfway to completion, twenty-one volumes issued out of a total of thirty-seven, with the piano music entirely covered—a state of affairs that bears witness to the complexity of the editorial task.) Has the edition motivated perceptible shifts in performing and editorial practice? If so, are they desirable ones, and on what grounds do we decide that? Three categories of answers can be offered. An immediate answer comes from repertoire the edition has made available (or available in reliable texts), much of it now recorded more than once from the new edition. It was a thorough surprise, but a happy coincidence, that Debussy’s hitherto unknown and apparently last piano piece, Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon of early 1917, surfaced at auction late in 2001, just in time for publication in 2002 in volume four of the piano works, and as a separate Durand offprint. (I say “apparently last piano piece” because we will never really know: that label had previously been attached to the Élégie of December 1915, whose rediscovery in the 1970s had usurped it in turn from the Douze études.) Volumes 2 and 4

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of the piano works also present several other mature pieces unavailable until the late 1970s: the three Images of 1894 (one of them an early version of the “Sarabande” of Pour le piano), the Morceau de concours of 1904 (first printed in the magazine Musica in a January 1905 spot-the-composer competition), and the aforementioned Élégie, now furnished with some vital accidentals hitherto missing.2 Besides these, the Œuvres complètes have made available for the first time a panoply of thoroughly concert-worthy early piano duets (most of them overtly orchestral in character), as well as some early orchestral pieces, the incomplete opera Rodrigue et Chimène, a few early songs (three of which surfaced just in 2011), and a reliable transcription of all the known material for Debussy’s unfinished operatic double bill on Edgar Allan Poe’s The Devil in the Belfry and The Fall of the House of Usher. Perhaps most radically, from his critical edition of that material Robert Orledge—now wearing his composer’s hat—devised creative completions of the Poe double bill that have already seen some major productions (along with similar creative completions of several other of Debussy’s incompletely sketched projects). We can now thus hear considerable portions (at least) of four operas by Debussy, rather than just the single completed opera that represented him through most of the twentieth century. Orledge’s completions, like the Denisov orchestration of Rodrigue et Chimène, lie outside the formal ambit of the Œuvres complètes but mark important offshoots from it. As it is, Debussy did publish one fragment of Le diable dans le beffroi, its ragtime-like overture, in the form of the 1904 piano Morceau de concours mentioned above. What of the Debussy repertoire long known? As a second group of answers to the questions posed above, several familiar pieces have emerged in new contextual light. We now have two full movements of the 1880 Symphonie for piano duet (only one movement had hitherto been available, since 1933). Research by Marie Rolf has established that the Marche écossaise—which Debussy left in piano duet and orchestral versions—was neither based on the Earl of Ross March (as its first edition stated) nor commissioned by a Scotsman who spoke no French—a colorful legend bizarrely spawned by Debussy’s friend Robert Godet in 1926 and recycled in nearly all Debussy biographies since.3 On the solo piano front, research for series 1, volume 1, of the Œuvres complètes revealed an implicit link across three pieces published individually in 1891 as nos. 1–3 of Pièces pour piano, bearing the neatly cadencing titles “Tarentelle styrienne,” “Ballade slave,” and “Valse romantique.” The middle one was thus evidently intended in a Slavic rather than a Chopinesque vein; that, along with their shared context, was obscured when they were republished separately in 1902, the first two retitled respectively “Danse” and “Ballade.” Restoring their original grouping and numbering (while accepting the revised titles) yields Debussy’s first significant piano triptych, starting with the longest solo piece in

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his output (“Danse”) and offering a substantial and viable group for concert programming. Debussy’s even earlier “Mazurka” and “Rêverie” also emerge as a putative pair, our perception of the “Rêverie” significantly freshened by the restoration of its original alla breve time signature (which editions since the early 1900s had corrupted to a musically leaden common time indication). More exhilarating again was a related discovery affecting series 1, volume 3. A few documentary sources over the years had claimed—rather oddly— that L’isle joyeuse (1903–4) was intended for the Suite bergamasque—long known as a set of four pieces dating from around 1890, though published only in 1905. Documentary study made sense of this by revealing Debussy’s plan in 1903–4 for an entirely different Suite bergamasque, in three movements, envisaged as starting with “Masques” and ending with “L’île” [sic] “joyeuse.” The full history of this can be read elsewhere, along with what may have dispersed the intended triptych.4 The main mystery remaining was the identity of the central piece. The most plausible answer comes from a piece completed in January 1904 (exactly at the right time) and published a month later as D’un cahier d’esquisses in a musical supplement to the magazine Paris illustré, before being passed to the Brussels publisher Schott. Musically the piece fits in place perfectly, its quiet D-flat ending leading effortlessly into L’isle joyeuse, and its melodic material shared with L’isle joyeuse (ex. 2.1)—notably the figure that dominates its cadenza and closing measures, and then returns as a triumphant ostinato in the coda of L’isle joyeuse.5 But how can its title “D’un cahier d’esquisses” be squared with such a context? Might it have been intended as an ephemeral title, for the magazine publication? In that context it could be read as signifying “work in progress,” to flag a larger collection that was imminent. (To have avoided naming the latter outright would be typical of Debussy, as is the title’s implication of a connection to La mer, on which he was then working and which would appear in 1905 with the subtitle Trois esquisses symphoniques.) An immediate analogy to this reading of the title can be found in James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, originally published in episodes—in Paris, too—under the provisional title Work in Progress. Besides that, Debussy was not then in the habit of writing single pieces, even for passing occasions. (As we saw earlier, the Morceau de concours he supplied to another magazine, a year later, came from a larger existing project.) Explanation is therefore needed of why he wrote D’un cahier d’esquisses at just the time that he also needed a central piece for the new intended triptych; each of those two queries perfectly answers the other. The third and broadest ensemble of answers to the questions raised above concerns early decisions by the Œuvres complètes editorial board to venture beyond standard critical editing procedures, both typographically and in terms of how we might use sources. We will return later to typographical issues. Our engagement with sources produced a quietly dramatic result on the first

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Example 2.1a. Transition from D’un cahier d’esquisses to L’isle joyeuse. Edited by Roy Howat; © 2000 by Editions Durand–Paris, France, © Editions Costallat.

51

(Très lent)

3   3 G   /0 =  55 555 55 55 55 555 BB ::     55 5 155 55 55 !BB ::   /0 I I  5 5 3 5     5 5    /0 5

5



I 5

A

B: BB ::

': ' ' ::

?

4

B:

G B:

B:

' ' ::

B:

B:

':

': ':

': ':

Quasi una cadenza

                     p

   



Example 2.1b. Coda of L’isle joyeuse (mm. 220ff.), left-hand ostinato from D’un cahier d’esquisses. Edited by Roy Howat; © 2000 by Editions Durand–Paris, France, © Editions Costallat.
 

      
  






      

             
   

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two pages of music in the first volume to reach print (the piano Préludes, in 1986), in the form of four hitherto unpublished chords in measures 8–9 of “Danseuses de Delphes,” as well as an octave displacement of a chord in measure 25. The four chords (or dyads), which example 2.2 shows in parentheses, are unambiguously present on Debussy’s 1912 recording of the piece on a Welte reproducing roll.6 They so evidently fill gaps in the musical texture— continuing the two-hand pattern from measure 7 and even more closely matching the texture at measures 16–17—that the Œuvres complètes took the initiative of importing them directly into the musical text, accepting them as corrections of lacunæ in the piece’s notated sources. The arguable risk of doing so was later justified when another source of precisely those readings emerged—filed away and forgotten in the Durand archives, of all places—identifying them as corrections Debussy had conveyed to his pianist friend Ricardo Viñes.7 To our knowledge, the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy is the first critical edition to have used composer recordings in such a manner, as an active source. The inherent risks that recordings raise, along with our ways of addressing them, are discussed elsewhere;8 in the case just outlined, our decision to incorporate the four dyads in the main reading tallied with our primary aim of combining optimal musical sense with clarity of presentation, flagging any debatable readings and explaining them in the critical commentary. That decision had further implications. Source study had already shown other similar omissions in Debussy’s manuscripts, usually caught and corrected by him at proof. That context gave us the confidence to take analogous action in the prelude “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest,” proposing (in bracketed small notes) editorial left-hand chords in two passages (mm. 20 and 41) where the texture showed suspiciously similar gaps, but without a piano roll or analogous source to resolve the query. Debussy’s piano rolls reveal numerous other variants of musical interest, in places where the established reading remains viable; in such cases the Œuvres complètes present both readings using ossia staves. Example 2.3 shows a striking case that affects our enharmonic reading of one particular note on the keyboard (E♭♭ if read as a passing note as in the main reading, D♮ as a note of harmonic arrival on the piano roll reading). The latter reading of D♮ has structural interest as a leading note, sounding a dominant to the arrival of E-flat minor at measure 9; the variant’s twofold occurrence, along with its musical logic, suggests it was deliberate rather than just a passing fluff. Examples 2.2 and 2.3 represent, or typify, the two primary layers of readings adopted from Debussy’s recordings. As described elsewhere,9 less useful variants account for two more critically determined layers: variants that suggest momentary vagaries (musically viable but of no discernible musical advantage) are relegated to the list of readings, while obvious fluffs are tacitly ignored, to avoid swamping the commentary with musically useless forensic trivia.

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Example 2.2. “Danseuses de Delphes” (Préludes, 1er livre), mm. 7–9, showing (in parentheses) four dyads first published in the Œuvres complètes. © by Editions Durand–Paris, France.

           7                    /0                     5  A  5  A  5  A                         /0                 (Lent et grave q = 44)

       5  A          

 /044 B  

Example 2.3. “Le vent dans la plaine,” mm. 5–6, with ossia showing a repeated variant from Debussy’s 1912 Welte roll recording. © by Editions Durand–Paris, France. (Animé)

    /0                                                

5

     /0





 

 R: 

  

 



  



   

 



 

 

  

 



 



  

One more prelude, “La cathédrale engloutie,” underwent radical structural and interpretative reappraisal on the basis of Debussy’s piano roll recording, which shows the half notes across measures 7–12 and 22–83 played at the same sounding tempo as the quarter notes through the remainder of the piece. First documented in print in 1968 by the pianist Charles Burkhart, this metrical equivalence was known to some pianists who had known Debussy or heard him play “La cathédrale engloutie.”10 Often described as tempo changes, these metrical equivalences in fact have the opposite effect, assuring a continuous sounding triple meter through the piece, albeit notated sometimes in half notes and sometimes in quarter notes. Crucially, this solves notorious interpretative problems by allowing a logical opening tempo to be maintained throughout the piece.11 The Œuvres complètes convey this with 𝅗𝅥 = 𝅘𝅥 indications or vice versa at the relevant transition points. As a delicate editorial nuance, these indications appear in editorial square brackets in the Œuvres complètes main musical text

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(following the piece’s written or printed sources), but are repeated without brackets on the adjacent ossia staves, which represent Debussy’s piano roll and include some interesting textural variants in the same measures. A related sense of editorial pioneering involved aspects of Debussy’s manuscript notation that visually convey important elements of voice-leading, balance, articulation, dynamic shaping, and even structure, but which have long been distorted or obscured by conventions of music engraving. The most arresting of these is an entire measure near the opening of the prelude “Les collines d’Anacapri,” lost from the first edition and first restored in a 1985 Wiener Urtext edition. The issue can be grasped visually from the Dover manuscript facsimile volume of the 1er livre.12 Debussy had written openended reverberation ties from measure 6 over the bar line into the otherwise empty following measure of pedal reverberation; but Durand’s engraver in 1910 followed a standard printing procedure by ending the ties instead at the bar line (making extra space before the bar line to accommodate them): the tied-over measure, now left empty, was evidently deemed superfluous and omitted. (Its manuscript position at the end of a system also left it more easily misread as empty space, despite the bar line Debussy marked after it.) Once restored, that tied-over measure creates larger-scale rhythmic and hypermetric logic that lets the entire opening section be played in time, straight off the page, making sense without need for interpretative “massage”: Debussy’s indicated contrasts of tempo emerge mostly by themselves within a regular underlying half-measure pulse. Six measures later the Œuvres complètes edition again makes sense of the pianistic texture by restoring Debussy’s written sfz at measure 13 (ex. 2.4); the first edition had misprinted it as p, causing pianists decades of puzzlement. The Œuvres complètes also restore Debussy’s carefully-notated voice leading in places where engraving convention had hitherto obscured this by inverting his note stems (notably in “Mouvement” and “Poissons d’or”), along with his exact placing and polyphonic voicing of dynamics (notably in “Jardins sous la pluie,” L’isle joyeuse, “Des pas sur la neige,” and “La sérénade interrompue”).13 Less immediately visible than the missing measure in “Les collines d’Anacapri,” these details nonetheless impinge audibly on performance. Among them the case of “Des pas sur la neige” stands out here because of the reappraisal it prompts of the piece’s expressive nature and structure. Example 2.5 reproduces Debussy’s autograph placing of hairpin dynamics above the system in two of the piece’s key passages. The first edition followed standard engraving convention in relocating these hairpins to mid-system, narrowing their aperture to fit in the restricted space. This altered the expression in two significant ways, visually diluting the intended effect (the reduced aperture) while spreading the crescendo homogeneously across the texture.

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Example 2.4. “Les collines d’Anacapri,” mm. 11–13 (as numbered in the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy). © by Editions Durand–Paris, France. Vif

8M $ !I M 3 3 5 55 5 5 5 5 I 55 5M E EE E
  5 5 5 5 5 5 5 3 5 G E /
= 0 = 

11

f

5 55 I

EEEE
=  = E /
  0 B B I

!I 55 5 3 3 = 5

5 M

=

4

sfz 55 55 dim. molto, leggierissimo 5 533= 3 55555 355555555555 !  p

5 G5 5I

f

Example 2.5a. “Des pas sur la neige,” mm. 4–7, dynamics placed as in the autograph and Œuvres complètes. © by Editions Durand–Paris, France. 4

(Triste et lent q = 44)

&b œ

{

œ

/p 0

˙

nœ

œ Œ

Œ

œ œ œ œœ œ œ ˙ S n œ˙˙ ˙˙ ˙

m.d.

& b ˙œ œ œ œ ˙œ œ œ œ /pp 0 -

?

. . , œ œ œ œœœ œ. œ 3 . œj œ˙ œ œ œ œ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ‰‰ Œ Ó n ˙˙ ˙˙ œœ J Œ

œ Œ

Example 2.5b. “Des pas sur la neige,” mm. 21–25, dynamics placed as in the autograph and Œuvres complètes. © by Editions Durand–Paris, France. En animant surtout dans l’expression 21

G 4

pM 5

/pp0 5 5 5 5   !BB B

expressif et tendre

5

4

B5 5 5 5 B  BB

5

5 5 5 5 5 4 m.g. 5 5 5 5B 5 5 5  5BB B  BB B B 5

sempre pp 23

5 5 5 G  5 5

I 5 5

5 5 5 5 ! 5B 5 5 5 B    BB B !B B

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Retenu D 5 = 5 5 5 = 5 5 5 B 5 55 !B5 5 5 5 ! BB5 5 5 5 5 B 4 ? B !B 5

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By contrast, Debussy’s autograph placing, its hairpins open wider, suggests a quietly dramatic dialogue between a plangent top cantabile voice (with its repeated pleading crescendos) and the impassively pianissimo ostinato texture underneath, as confirmed by Debussy’s sempre pp under measure 22. The narrative will be immediately familiar to anyone who knows Debussy’s song “Colloque sentimentale” of 1904, the last of his settings of Verlaine’s Fêtes galantes, featuring a macabre dialogue in Verlaine’s poem between two ghost lovers in a frozen park, one still impassioned, the other coldly indifferent.14 In the early planning stages of the Œuvres complètes, careful committee appraisal was needed for these editorial initiatives, given Debussy’s acceptance of the first editions, which he had proofread carefully. One of the things that most strongly supported our reconsideration was a plea by Debussy, in a letter to Jacques Durand of October 1907, for Durand’s engraver to respect the exact positioning of dynamics.15 This led to our dual approach (for Debussy’s piano music) to the editorial norm of according priority to a composer’s Fassung letzter Hand: we duly accepted the last print from Debussy’s lifetime as representing his final intended musical readings, but with equivalent status accorded to his final manuscript copies (or proof annotations) for relevant graphical issues.

Whither Now Critical Editions? By comparison with the initiatives adopted by the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy, other recent editorial stances range widely. Several projects from other publishers since 1990 note or incorporate specific readings from composers’ recordings, including the London Peters Edition of Ravel’s piano music (ed. Roger Nichols, 1991–), the present writer’s series of Fauré piano music for London Peters (1994–), and reportedly a Rachmaninov critical edition involving Russian Music Publishing with Bärenreiter and Boosey.16 A few editions have been based entirely on composer recordings, no other source being available: a recent example involves the five recorded piano Improvisations of 1929 by Elgar, though the procedure goes back to the 1950s, as evidenced by published transcriptions of performances by Errol Gardner.17 Closer to home, a 2007 Bärenreiter edition of Debussy’s Children’s Corner makes just four specific mentions of Debussy’s Welte roll as a source.18 A 2012 Bärenreiter edition of Debussy’s Préludes, 1er Livre (BA 10821, ed. Thomas Kabisch) goes slightly further by listing, though just in its critical notes, a selection of Debussy’s Welte roll variants, without specifying criteria for inclusion there. The chordal octave transposition at measure 25 of “Danseuses de Delphes” is left unmentioned, but the four dyads featured in example 2.2 above are noted, as are the related textural gaps at measures 20 and 41 of “Ce

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qu’a vu” (without any matching initiative on the musical page). The left-hand variant shown above in example 2.3 is noted, but the last note of each beat 4 misidentified as D♭ (matching the main reading). “Des pas sur la neige” adopts the autograph placing of dynamics in measures 22–24 but not in measures 4–5 (cf. ex. 2.5 above). The only Welte roll data flagged on the musical page (in a footnote) are those of tempo and meter in “La cathédrale engloutie.” Henle edition reprints have also signalled that issue since the 1990s, albeit more laconically and without specifying the source of the information (possibly the Œuvres complètes). This raises a further issue rarely broached in print: the natural precaution of checking extant critical editions when preparing one’s own. While a critical edition is not normally a source per se (unless it conveys data from sources otherwise inaccessible), such cross-checking is a primary way of guarding against elementary pitfalls or oversights. Among editions that appear to have bypassed such correlation are Bärenreiter editions of Debussy’s Pour le piano (2007, ed. Regina Back) and piano Images (2010, ed. Douglas WoodfullHarris).19 Major uncommented differences there from the Œuvres complètes include Bärenreiter’s retention, throughout the Prélude of Pour le piano, of the first edition’s misprinting of the right-hand glissandi (each glissando shown as starting late in the measure after a tie from the half note on the second beat, except in measure 118 where no half note figures)—with no mention of the autograph’s significantly different rhythmic reading (each glissando starting immediately from beat 2, as in all sources at measure 118). The difference is a major one, for any delay in launching the glissandi makes these measures effectively impossible to play in time, contradicting Debussy’s specific instruction to play them “in time, with no rubato of any kind,” the glissandi reportedly likened by him to “D’Artagnan drawing his sword.”20 Two more unmentioned differences that impinge on structure are Bärenreiter’s retention of an erroneous first-edition bar line near the end of the same Prélude in Pour le piano (in m. 152), plus a tacitly added bar line that divides the “quasi cadenza” measure 23 of “Reflets dans l’eau.”21 The latter intervention—shared with Peters and Henle editions, though only the Henle commentary owns up to it—has particularly serious repercussions in “Reflets dans l’eau,” as it skews the bar counts that reveal and define the piece’s meticulous formal proportioning, as shown in a well-known analysis of the piece (by me) that has been widely available in print since 1983.22 Nor does the Bärenreiter commentary explain the square brackets it places around three important accidentals in “Reflets dans l’eau” (mm. 57 and 78), accidentals present in a revised Durand reprint of 1910 that the Bärenreiter commentary leaves unmentioned, but which served as the principal source for the Œuvres complètes (as documented in print there since 1991). The Bärenreiter commentary instead cites as its main source the first edition of

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1905, though its readings instead follow an unmentioned amended reprint of 1906 (again fully documented in the Œuvres complètes). As regards typographical convention, the recent Bärenreiter Debussy volumes show occasional initiatives (as noted above relative to example 2.5) mixed with some imposition of convention even stricter than in the original editions. This sometimes results in comical misadventure, not least the startling instruction glissando molto that the Bärenreiter edition offers pianists at measure 118 of the Prélude in Pour le piano. This is an inadvertent conflation of two entirely separate indications, written by Debussy at different levels, the molto originally placed against the crescendo hairpin (to signify molto cresc.). A perennial query arises here about what we might deem a proper level or threshold for editorial intervention in a critical edition. As an ethical principle, some publishers refuse to intervene editorially in any musical reading that can’t be defined as “faulty” in terms of orthodox syntax or notation— even if performers may intuit that something seems amiss either to the ears or under the hand. In such cases the grammatical letter is being taken (usually tacitly) as the logical basis, rather than the sound that results. While such a stance is motivated by an understandable wish for objectivity, such a goal in reality tends to be chimerical. As James Grier has repeatedly observed, subjectivity is unavoidably endemic to critical editing, from general decisions of procedure to smaller notational adjustments that are often part of a publisher’s house style: such basic decisions, and their in-house imposition, are often less visible to users of an edition than appropriately flagged editorial interventions.23 The issue is particularly laid bare if musically debatable or suspect source readings are left unaddressed alongside syntactically based interventions like the added bar lines just discussed or, more generally, the sort of typographical standardizations that tacitly pervade most editions, whether or not labelled “Urtext.” If this in turn prompts the question of exactly what constitutes an error in a score—or even “obvious errors,” as some critical or semi-critical editions put it without further elaboration—the broader question inevitably follows of how “critical” our appraisal should be, of not just the musical sources we’re editing but also the editing processes we’re bringing to bear on them. This equally involves the degree to which our edition is designed to address performers, most of whom expect to be informed and advised by those of us with the requisite expertise regarding source and repertoire. Anyone who has copied out music knows how easy it is to miss or miscopy a note, accidental, or part of a chord, or even to skip a measure (not least in passages with repeated measures). Anyone who has studied manuscripts has seen composers do the same (Poulenc, for example, once admitted to having written pp when he meant ff).24 A suspected case of a missing measure— uncommented in any other edition—is flagged in the Œuvres complètes, with the

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suggestion that measure 31 of the prélude “Les tierces alternées” needs to be played twice; the suspected omission of the bar’s necessary repetition coincides with a manuscript page break where the composer’s eye could most easily have leapt a bar as he copied (a situation also well known in Schubert scholarship). Source study reveals innumerable cases where a composer has spotted and rectified such errors at proof, or in post-publication reprints; any editor familiar with these examples is in a strong position to intuit and handle any apparent cases that may have eluded the composer’s eye.25 A “Pontius Pilate” approach of leaving doubtful cases unmediated will merely frustrate or perplex performers, who are likely to intuit a problem and wish more expert advice.26 As a performer-editor, it appears to me basic, and central, to the editor’s remit to decide what a performer most needs to see on the musical page, for the clearest possible perception of the music’s logic and line as perceived by the specialist editor. So if something like a note, dynamic or articulation (or rhythm, or bar line) seems in some way dubious, or a metronome indication improbably scrambled or laboured, I assume that alert performers will sense the same and want at least a suggested solution to consider, flagged as necessary. In the double-edged phrase of baroque-classical specialist and editor Neal Zaslaw, “As editors we have the right to do whatever we see fit, provided we explain ourselves.”27 (One thing I do not see fit to do is to impose conformity of detail across parallel passages, as many major critical editions have done since the 1960s, often tacitly.28) A primary aim in the Œuvres complètes was thus to ensure continuous musical sense from the page, leaving no perceived problem without at least a suggested remedy, based on our editorial and interpretative experience, while maintaining viable flexibility of interpretation as presented by the sources. A related issue is the long established practice of having a scholar (often a nonperforming one) establish a scholarly musical text, which an eminent performer then annotates independently with the likes of fingering, hand redistribution brackets, or even pedalling. (Among extant Debussy critical editions, the only ones to eschew editorial fingering are the Œuvres complètes and the London Peters edition.) We may immediately query the compatibility of such additions with the Urtext concept, given the audible ways in which fingering (never mind pedalling) can impinge on articulation and voicing, particularly if they flout performance scholarship or habits traceable to the composer. A pleasingly tactile case for consideration here can be sensed at measures 16 and 26 of Debussy’s prélude “Minstrels,” where four critical editions propose the various fingerings shown in example 2.6a. None of them, though, suggests what could be argued as the most idiomatic and practical option, a thumb on the accented note (as shown lowest in example 2.6a), a usage thoroughly in keeping with Debussy’s known habits. Nor does any critical edition propose the “drumstick” thumbs that the piece surely invites at measure 9 (ex. 2.6b),

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again in line with Debussy’s known habits and the piece’s intrinsic humour. (Bärenreiter alone suggests thumb here just for right hand.) Such data, not directly documented by the composer but in keeping with the composer’s known usages or implicit to the idiom, can aptly figure in an edition’s preface, without polluting the musical text itself. The usage of having an “Urtext” marked up by a performer normally leaves the two roles quarantined from each other (the editor restricted to dealing with sources, the performer to supplying performing suggestions), sometimes in passages where the commissioned performer’s practical expertise might have fed usefully into critical text readings. One or two performers who have fingered critical editions have told me of occasionally making fruitless attempts to intervene in what they perceived as an editorial issue needing attention. Whatever we make of those issues, the range of corrections, revisions, and reappraisals to be found in the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy for the piano Préludes alone can account for many differences between recent performances and recordings and those from prior decades, by dint of not just the enhanced data now at the performer’s disposal, but also the confidence engendered in performance by texts reliable enough not to need intermittent massage. These trends are audible in recordings from the late 1980s and 1990s by pianists such as Philippe Cassard, Alain Planès, Jean-François Antonioli, and Paul Roberts, who not only had the new edition available but also were in contact with the editorial team. (Alain Planès was directly involved as relecteur and proofreader for some volumes.) Before that, the trend was anticipated in recordings from the 1970s and early ’80s by Noël Lee (one of the Œuvres complètes editors) and Paul Jacobs, who was able to obtain a list of corrections via the Centre de Documentation Claude Debussy. More recent complete recordings explicitly based on the Œuvres complètes, and influenced in varying ways by its ethos, include those by Bennett Lerner, François Chaplin, Jean-Efflam Bavouzet, Jean-Louis Haguenauer, and Craig Sheppard. A major perceptual watershed here has involved a growing sense that Debussy’s unusually detailed indications—his scores can read almost like ordnance survey maps of the music—are there not to constrain us but to guide us to extracting optimal expressive intensity and focus at every moment, while allowing a healthily wide margin as to exactly how we read them. If this seems far removed from norms of some decades ago, when Debussy’s notation was regarded more as optional toppings to consider or ignore at one’s whim—and when the unreliability of available texts left closer adherence to the page hazard-strewn—it accords well with Debussy’s documented wishes that performers pay close attention to all the detail on his scores and play his music in time.29 A pivotal reflection is that some iconic performers of the past, such as Walter Gieseking (great pianist that he was), are now less held up as examples

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Example 2.6a. “Minstrels,” mm. 16 and 26 with variant editorial fingerings for right hand. © by Editions Durand–Paris, France. Leipzig Peters: Wiener Urtext: Henle: Bärenreiter: Howat suggestion:



  

  



  (Modéré)  / 0         f           / 0  

16

Leipzig Peters: Wiener Urtext: Henle: Bärenreiter: Howat suggestion:

        

             f          

26

Example 2.6b. “Minstrels,” m. 9 with fingering suggestion by present writer. © by Editions Durand–Paris, France. 9





                  4  (très détaché) 

Mouv t (un peu plus allant)



p

   

4

(or “the” example) to follow or emulate. While any pianist can keep learning from such mastery, performers are now working from an enhanced store of musical and historical data that I think correctly prompts different responses, notably in terms of closer attention to detail and less homogenized washes of sound. Related resources now widely available include the audio recordings Debussy made with Mary Garden in 1904 (of three of the Ariettes oubliées and the Tower Song from Pelléas et Mélisande, all available on various CD transfers as well as via internet links such as YouTube); these recordings, if we listen attentively, reveal astonishingly how close to the page Debussy could play while sounding almost improvisatory. On a personal note, I would add that the chance to record all Debussy’s solo piano music on CD (between 1994 and 2002) allowed not just test-driving the new edition (literally putting it through its paces) but also bringing to bear in performance all the preparation that went into it, including years of

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manuscript study. The performances were equally marked by study with two unforgettable pianists and teachers, Jacques Février and Vlado Perlemuter, both famous as sticklers for respecting and intelligently decoding the composer’s notation, and both of whom passed to their students corrections and related information garnered over the years from colleagues who had known Debussy. A few such readings, suitably flagged, found places in the musical text or the commentaries of the Œuvres complètes: examples include some judicious breathing or articulation points attributable to Debussy in the Sarabande of Pour le piano and the Images “Hommage à Rameau” and “Poissons d’or,” plus some fingering reportedly from Debussy that crucially enables smooth negotiation of the acrobatic right-hand figurations in the Toccata of Pour le piano. If the main focus in this chapter has been on piano music, it reflects that this (Debussy’s own instrument) was the genre that most immediately challenged us with unconventional sources and notational issues, for the most part less apparent in his orchestral, chamber, vocal, and stage music. The influence of the Œuvres complètes on vocal interpretation will take more time to emerge, his songs having only recently started to appear here in print—though a considerable impact has already been made by four early songs discovered in 2011 and issued in an advance offprint.30 The large body of Debussy’s early songs, many of them hitherto unavailable, promises a major impact on the repertoire, particularly for high voice. Augmenting those complete newcomers will be informative editions of around two dozen early songs first published at various times since Debussy’s death, whose existing editions (from between 1924 and the 1990s) have had mixed success in addressing the complex editing issues—mostly involving accidentals—required to make sense of them in print (Debussy having left many of their piano parts notated for his own use in years when he had no publisher at hand). In addition, various songs published during Debussy’s life are appearing alongside earlier versions which, if less finished or sophisticated, often reveal creative or compositional processes in ways that can encourage performers to let the various versions aptly inform one another. Recent orchestral performances prompt related comments, particularly with works where the Œuvres complètes have resolved notorious old problems page after page, notably in the Nocturnes and La mer, along with Pelléas et Mélisande. La mer in particular has been showcased in performances conducted (inter alia) by Pierre Boulez (one of the edition’s founding editors), Mark Elder, Yan Pascal Tortelier, and John Eliot Gardiner (notably in a 1989 Royal Festival Hall concert including a talk by the editor of La mer, Marie Rolf, all broadcast on BBC radio). These performances, all with their own distinct character, corroborate Boulez’s long quest to “burn off the mists” in Debussy performing traditions, notably through his performances of Pelléas et Mélisande. In that respect the new edition can be seen as retrospectively supporting his

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intuitive approach, but most importantly advancing it further with precise new data. These recent trends relate aptly to distinguished recordings directed by colleagues of Debussy such as Inghelbrecht, Toscanini, Ansermet, or Monteux, who themselves often made a point of working from the best source material available to them, including scores annotated with the composer’s corrections and revisions. These in turn are now informing the Œuvres complètes. Performance and editing practice are still digesting the editorial adventures and advances that have defined (and continue to define) the ethos and essence of the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy. It will be entirely appropriate if the project continues to open creative windows in the same ways that Debussy’s music itself has done over the last century and more.

Notes

1.

2.

3.

4.

5. 6.

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All music examples taken from the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy by kind permission of Hal Leonard MGB S.r.l., Italy (for Editions Durand). Roy Howat, “Afterword: the Origins of the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy,” in Berlioz and Debussy: Sources, Contexts and Legacies: Essays in Honour of François Lesure, ed. Barbara L. Kelly and Kerry Murphy (Farnham: Ashgate, 2007), 181– 92; and “The New Debussy Edition: Approaches and Techniques,” Studies in Music (Australia) 19 (1985): 94–113. The Images of 1894 were first issued in 1977 by Theodore Presser Co., edited by Arthur Hoéree and the present writer, as Images (oubliées), a title adopted by the publisher to avoid confusion with the two long-published sets of piano Images. In 1980 Theodore Presser Co. also published a performable transcription (by the present writer) of a quite different version of the Étude “Pour les arpèges composés,” along with a facsimile of the complete manuscript. Series 1, vol. 6, of the Œuvres complètes (Douze études, ed. Claude Helffer) reproduces this manuscript in an appendix, without transcription. Robert Godet, “En marge de la marge,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue, “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” May 1, 1926): 66–67. Among biographers Roger Nichols alone corrects the legend, in The Life of Debussy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 63. For a full account see Marie Rolf, “General Meredith Read and Claude Debussy’s Marche écossaise,” Musical Quarterly 95, nos. 2–3 (Summer–Fall 2012): 252–98. See the foreword to series 1, vol. 3, of the OC, as well as Roy Howat, “En route for L’isle joyeuse: the Restoration of a Triptych,” Cahiers Debussy 19 (1995): 37–52, and The Art of French Piano Music: Debussy, Ravel, Fauré, Chabrier (London & New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 200–2. Further music examples are included in Howat, “En route for L’isle joyeuse.” For detailed discussion and references concerning the fourteen pieces Debussy recorded on Welte rolls, including their dating, see Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 315–19, 336–7, and 376.

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7.

Annotated score of the Préludes 1er Livre sent to Éditions Durand in the 1970s by the Lisbon-based pianist Campos Coelho, with a marginal note against the relevant annotations to measures 8–9 and 25, “Indiqué par Debussy à mon Maître Ricardo son ami.” (My thanks to David Grayson for locating this and bringing it to my attention.) Viñes premièred most of Debussy’s Préludes, though not “Danseuses de Delphes.” See for example Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 242. Although one or two extant critical editions had mentioned composer recordings, none had yet extracted any musical detail or proposed an editorial rationale for using them. See notes 6 and 8 above. Charles Burkhart, “Debussy Plays ‘La Cathédrale engloutie’ and solves Metrical Mystery,” Piano Quarterly 65 (Autumn 1968): 14–16; see also references and data pertinent to reproducing pianos in Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 212, 316–19, 365, and 378, and to other analogous unmarked metrical equivalences in the repertoire. For more detail and discussion see Roy Howat, “Debussy’s Piano Music: Sources and Performance,” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 104–5, and Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 212, 318–19, and 365. Claude Debussy: Preludes Book 1, the Autograph Score [facsimile], Introduction by Roy Howat (New York: Dover, 1987). For more details see Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, chap. 16 (esp. 232– 33 and 240). This connection can be added to, and supports, other poetic-literary connotations read into this prelude by Nicholas Routley, in “Des pas sur la neige: Debussy in Bilitis’s Footsteps,” Musicology Australia 16 (1993): 19–27. “Voulez-vous être assez aimable pour adjurer votre graveur de respecter la mise en place des nuances—cela a une importance extrême et pianistique” (quoted in series 1, vol. 3, of the OC, 12). Cost doubtless prevented subtle relocation of dynamics at proof except in the most egregious cases; the First Book of Préludes was also proofed and sent through the press exceptionally quickly, between early February and early April 1910. “Sergei Rachmaninoff: Practical Urtext Editions (Based on Critical Editions),” Boosey & Hawkes website, www.boosey.com/teaching/series/Sergei-Rachmani noff-Practical-Urtext-Editions-based-on-Critical-Edition/10197 (accessed December 6, 2015). The Elgar Improvisations, transcribed by Iain Farrington, are published by Novello (London: 2006); the Gardner ones are published as Erroll Garner Piano Solos Book Two (New York: Criterion Music Corp, 1957; information kindly supplied by David Owen Norris). As a rule (albeit rarely observed), any reference to a recording from piano rolls should cite, as the OC do, any specific roll exemplar and instrument used for playback (or, if that is not known, the specific sound recording made from one), since each roll copy, instrument and playback inevitably produce different results that can radically affect dynamics, articulation and even tempo. See Howat as cited in notes 6 and 8 above.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

17.

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18. Bärenreiter edition BA8767, ed. Regina Back: the publisher’s online description mentions “drawing on [. . .] Debussy’s own piano roll recording of the work for difficult editorial decisions” (https://www.baerenreiter.com/en/ search/product/?artNo=BA8767, accessed November 11, 2015). 19. The front cover of these editions demurely labels them “The authoritative performing edition.” 20. Reported by Maurice Dumesnil, quoted in Roger Nichols, Debussy Remembered (London: Faber, 1992), 161. 21. The autograph of the Prélude shows a heavy deletion across both staves in that measure at the end of a system, the end of the measure then rewritten on the next system: the deletion and system break were evidently misconstrued by the first edition’s engraver as a bar line, leaving insufficient rhythmic value for a viable measure on either side. In the case of “Reflets dans l’eau,” Debussy’s autograph contains the extended “quasi cadenza” measure 23 on a single system (see Collection de fac-similés de manuscrits de Claude Debussy: Images, Première série, Paris: Centre de documentation Claude Debussy, 2008); normal print size obliges editions to split the measure over two systems. While an argument could be made for a bar line after its fourth beamed group (as Henle, Peters and Bärenreiter do, leaving the measure slightly short relative to the preceding ones), the ensuing textural undulations that prolong the pattern are musically and structurally unviable as a distinct measure (counted pedantically, in a manner inappropriate to performance, they would total five and a half beamed eighth-note groups); the fact remains that Debussy notated it all clearly as one measure on one system. However one regards that, to add a bar line there impinges so strongly on interpretation and structure as to warrant flagging in any reputable edition. 22. See Roy Howat, Debussy in Proportion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 23–29, and The Art of French Piano Music, 51–60. 23. For the most detailed and cogent discussion of this issue, along with an ample bibliography of literature on editing, see James Grier, The Critical Editing of Music: History, Method, and Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), xiii and passim. Further discussion more specific to the present book’s repertoire can be found in Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 231–32, and “Inside Rather Than under the Composer’s Skin: Another Tilt at Being Authentic,” in Perspectives on the Performance of French Music, ed. Scott McCarrey and Lesley A. Wright (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), 16–17 and passim. 24. See Carl B. Schmidt, The Music of Francis Poulenc (1899–1963): A Catalogue (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 428. 25. For two Debussy cases firmly on record, see the OC commentaries concerning a long-missing essential natural at measures 9 and similar of L’isle joyeuse, and a misleading indication Le double plus lent in the closing measures of Pour le piano. 26. See also James Grier’s definitions of editorial “dereliction of duty” in The Critical Editing of Music, 180. 27. Personal email correspondence, original date now lost, mid-1990s.

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28. A telling example in the Neue Mozart Ausgabe, unflagged on the musical page, can be found at measure 289 in the first movement of the Concerto in C, K. 467 (Neue Mozart Ausgabe, series V, vol. 6, 122), where Mozart’s bass G at beat 3 is amended to A to conform with the earlier measure 16, overlooking the later passage’s different tonal goal (via G minor at m. 293). 29. See Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, chapter 17 in particular, for a summary of comments and advice along these lines from performing colleagues of Debussy, including Jane Bathori, Maurice Dumesnil, Marguerite Long, Paul Loyonnet, and Pierre Monteux. 30. Claude Debussy, Quatre nouvelles mélodies (1882) pour voix et piano, ed. Denis Herlin (L’archet, Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, “Romance” (Non, les baisers d’amour), Les elfes), Paris: Éditions Durand, 2012 (D. & F. 16013); all four will figure with full commentary in series 2, vol. 1 of the OC. A compact disc recording of them has already appeared, performed by Natalie Dessaye and Philippe Cassard.

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Chapter Three

The Kunkelmann Manuscripts New Sources for Early Mélodies by Claude Debussy Denis Herlin

In the highly imaginative issue of La revue musicale of May 1926 dedicated to “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy” we find not only an article by Charles Koechlin entitled “Some Early Mélodies by Claude Debussy,” but also a musical supplement with four (at the time) unpublished mélodies selected by Henry Prunières from the manuscripts Debussy dedicated to Madame Vasnier: Pantomime, Clair de lune, Pierrot, and Apparition.1 Their publication marked the first time that works were made available from the period during which the composer was still calling himself Achille, as he did as a boy, and not yet “Claude.” Koechlin began his article by revealing that he had always been fond of the “youthful works of the great composers.” “[T]hey exhibit ideas that are fresh,” he continued, “and tender, naïve, and charming—qualities that the master [Debussy] was not always able to recapture in his later works.”2 A well-known critic of the day, Constantin Photiadès (1883–1949), commented on Prunières’s discovery in an article for the Revue de Paris: Some small ineptitudes here and there take away from the four charming mélodies that we read last May in the issue of La revue musicale devoted to Debussy’s youth, because these modest songs, on texts by Banville and

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Verlaine, do obviously reveal the hand of the student-composer. But they also exhibit an astonishing refinement and a remarkable ability to encapsulate the very essence of the poetry, down to the slightest prolongation of a word, or a syllable. [. . .] These album leaves clearly foreshadow the mastery to follow. Such is the interest of these revelations and of all of those that are still to come—because we have by no means reached the end of our surprises. Sooner or later someone will discover the sylphlike music that Debussy wrote for The elves, by Leconte de Lisle, or perhaps the elegant, ornamental mélodie [Fête galante] that later became the minuet of the Petite suite for piano four-hands.3

Here we learn that Photiadès was aware, already in 1926, of two Debussy manuscripts, most notably including that of Les elfes, whose very existence was completely unknown to modern Debussy scholars until recently, when they turned up in a private collection along with eight more song manuscripts from the pen of the master whom we now affectionately refer to as Claude de France.4 The appearance of these nine autographs, written in 1881 and 1882, represents the single most important addition to our knowledge of Debussy sources since the unearthing of the Première suite d’orchestre in 2007.5 Four of the nine new manuscripts contain mélodies that were previously unknown in complete versions: L’archet, the sole setting we have by Debussy of a poem by Charles Cros; Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau and the “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”), both of which are settings of poems by Maurice Bouchor; and, finally, Les elfes, which is based on one of the Poèmes barbares by Leconte de Lisle, and which, along with Séguidille (from late 1882), is one of the longest mélodies that Debussy ever composed.6 Sketches for two of these four songs were, however, known to specialists, as were fragments of two others. These are all preserved in a sketchbook to which I shall return below.7 As for the five other new autograph manuscripts: these offer us new sources for texts otherwise known in single versions. In question are Rondel chinois, Fête galante, Pierrot, Les roses, and Le zéphyr (heretofore known as Rêverie), all but the first being settings of poems from Les cariatides by Théodore de Banville.8 Let me note, finally, that joined to this group of nine new manuscripts are six others, in the hand of a copyist, with six of the songs mentioned above— L’archet, Fête galante, “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”) Le zéphyr, Pierrot, and Les roses—and one other, the Chanson des brises, a setting for solo voice and women’s choir of a poem by Louis Bouilhet. These copies contain corrections and additions in Debussy’s hand, something that is of particular importance in the case of the Chanson des brises, for which the autograph has never been found.9 These sixteen manuscripts listed in appendix 3.1, the autographs and the copies, belonged to Henry Kunkelmann. They complete a corpus of Debussy’s

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early mélodies that is really quite imposing, but that is too often neglected, for if the mélodies of Debussy’s maturity are very well known indeed, notably the Ariettes and the Chansons de Bilitis, those that he composed between 1879 and 1885, when he was a student at the Conservatoire, are not at all familiar. And yet these same mélodies, largely unpublished during the composer’s lifetime, constitute approximately one half of his total song repertory—approximately fifty, that is, of the one hundred or so songs that he composed. This mere statistic speaks to the preponderant role played by the setting of poetic texts to music in the artistic development of the young Achille Debussy.

Henry Kunkelmann, Composer and Collector Unlike the numerous autographs of his youthful mélodies that he dedicated and gave to Marie Vasnier, who inspired them,10 all nine new autographs carry a dedication to Henry Kunkelmann (1855–1922), whose name, until this recent discovery, has never appeared among those of Debussy’s close associates. We do not know precisely when Debussy made Kunkelmann’s acquaintance, but it is highly likely that the two young men became friends during their years at the Conservatoire. Although his name does not appear in Constant Pierre’s encyclopedic volume on the Conservatoire,11 Kunkelmann was clearly a student in the eighteen-eighties in both the harmony class of Théodore Dubois12 and the composition class of César Franck.13 He was born in Reims on July 4, 1855, into a family that hailed from the Grand Duchy of Baden. Like other German entrepreneurial families from that region, including the more famous Bollingers and Roedereres, the Kunkelmanns made a great deal of money cultivating and selling champagne. Henry’s parents, Théodore Kunkelmann (1811–81) and Marie Dietz (1827–1915), cousins of the Pipers and the Heidsiecks, owned a magnificent townhouse in Reims, at no. 1, rue Piper, which was demolished only in 1968. Of the three Kunkelmann children, the oldest, Ferdinand (1851– 1930), took over the family business on the death of his father, while the youngest, Lucie (1863–1948), was married in January 1888 to Count Maximilien de Cafarelli.14 The middle child, Henry, devoted himself to music. Already a passionate Wagnerian, he made a first pilgrimage to Bayreuth in 1876, for the initial performance of the Ring, and he returned to the Wagnerian mecca on four subsequent occasions, in 1886, in 1888 (when Debussy, too, attended the festival), in 1892, and in 1896.15 He had become close to Vincent d’Indy, who in 1906 dedicated his symphonic poem Un jour d’été à la montagne (op. 61) to Kunkelmann; and he published with Tellier several compositions under the pseudonym of Henry Kerval,16 notably an Ave Maria for mezzo-soprano or baritone, with either organ or piano, in 1885 and, in 1886, a Valse in D-flat Major for piano, dedicated to his “cher maître, Théodore Dubois.”17 In 1889 he

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published an Andante, for violin and piano, dedicated to Jean Gounod, Charles Gounod’s son.18 Kunkelmann soon became the “great white hope” for the publisher Richault, as the critic Henry Gauthier-Villars, known as Willy, amusingly put it, but his publications were few and far between.19 A Wedding March for organ appeared in 1891, written specifically for the marriage of his sister as she became Countess Cafarelli, and two mélodies appeared in 1893.20 The last evidence we have of Kunkelmann’s musical career comes from a review by that same Willy: At the Odéon, which is these days offering very serious competition to the Opéra, we very much enjoyed the elegant stage music by which Monsieur Henry Kerval enhanced Moreto’s play San Gil de Portugal (ingeniously translated into French by Monsieur Gassier). [. . .] The young baritone Coste offered us a delightful Serenade, and Mademoiselle Laparcerie was warmly applauded for her recitation of the satanic verses composed by Kerval, whose “Marche au Calvaire” also resonated, not without a certain grandeur, in harmonies reminiscent of those of Parsifal.21

According to Willy, Kunkelmann’s “supercilious appearance,” with “eyes sparkling beneath his Mephistophelean eyebrows,”22 was a fixture on the musical landscape of that decade, from 1889 to 1898, which the writer so richly sketched for us in so many caustic remarks peppered with wordplay and puns. Identified as an amateur collector by Le ménestrel,23 and as a collector of autographs by the Annuaire de la curiosité et des beaux-arts,24 Kunkelmann looked after Debussy’s manuscripts very carefully and at his death bequeathed them, along with his entire music library, to his lifelong friend, the organist and composer Gabriel Saint-René Taillandier (1861–1931), who had also been a student of César Franck.25 Those manuscripts are today preserved in a private collection.

An Artistic Friendship What I have discovered about Kunkelmann suggests that he and Debussy did not usually frequent the same artistic and social circles, and that in all probability their relationship was short-lived. Indeed, the manuscripts that Kunkelmann possessed date uniquely from 1881 and 1882; there is no trace of Kunkelmann in Debussy’s subsequent correspondence. The only proof we have of the ephemeral friendship that developed between the nineteen-yearold musician and the twenty-seven-year-old apprentice composer are the markings on these manuscripts. Four of them carry the rather neutral dedication of “à Henry” (to Henry), but a fifth, Pierrot, is slightly more evocative: “à mon bon ami Kunkelmann” (to my good friend Kunkelmann). And a sixth, Rondel

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Figure 3.1. L’archet, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), title page with inscription. Paris, private collection.

chinois, is even more explicit: “au plus sympathique de ceux que j’appelle mes amis” (to the most likeable of all of those whom I call my friends). Finally, on the title page of L’archet, one of the four unpublished songs, we find, next to the dedication of “à son meilleur ami Henry Kunkelman” (to his best friend Henry Kunkelman), a most intriguing addition: “souvenirs de nos recherches” (recollections of our research; see fig. 3.1). To what, one wonders, does Debussy’s comment refer? In fact we know, from a manuscript in Kunkelmann’s hand (see fig. 3.2) that is preserved with those of Debussy, that their “research” was of a compositional sort. This manuscript is nothing other than a copy of Debussy’s setting of Les roses, a poem by Théodore de Banville. The document, which carries on the first page the siglum “AD” (Achille Debussy) is all the more significant because it gives us the song in an intermediate stage that stands between the version in the manuscript that Debussy gave to Madame Vasnier and the version in the manuscript that he gave to Kunkelmann himself. The passage at measures 13–18, among others, proves that Kunkelmann copied the music from a text nearly identical to that of the Vasnier manuscript. The vocal line at measure 18 (“On sent brûler”; see ex. 3.1a) is similar to that of the Vasnier manuscript, while in the version Debussy gave to his friend that vocal line is transformed into two B♭s followed by two D♭s (see ex. 3.1b). At measures 13–14, the situation is somewhat different: the last two quarter notes of the vocal line (m. 14), two E♯s in the Vasnier manuscript (see ex. 3.2a), become E♯–D♯ in the Kunkelmann copy (see ex. 3.2b). This progression is retained in the version Debussy gave to Kunkelmann (see ex. 3.2c).

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Example 3.1a. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Vasnier) and manuscript in Kunkelmann’s hand, m. 18.


  
  
 


 


  




      

   









  

Example 3.1b. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), m. 18.


  
  
 





   




      

   









  

Example 3.2a. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 13–14.


     
  
   
 






 

 

     



  

  
  
                        

    

 












                       





Example 3.2b. Les roses, manuscript in Kunkelmann’s hand, mm. 13–14.


      
  
   
 




 

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Example 3.2c. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 13–14.


      
 
   
 




 



  

  
          
               

    


    




        







                       

    

The piano writing at measures 13–14 is likewise somewhat different in the three manuscripts, while the harmony remains the same. The disposition of the sixteenth notes in the right hand progresses from the C♯ (on the first and second beats) to B♯ (on the third and fourth beats) of the Vasnier manuscript (see ex. 3.2a), to the A♯ to A♮ of the Kunkelmann copy (see ex. 3.2b), and to the F♯ to E♯ of the manuscript offered to Kunkelmann (see ex. 3.2c). These changes allowed for the playing of full chords in the left hand on the second and third beats, where in the Vasnier manuscript there were only single notes. Nevertheless, the chords apparently suggested by Kunkelmann, as per his copy, were redistributed by Debussy when he gave his own manuscript to his friend. Finally, we observe the transformation of measure 17, which in the Vasnier manuscript is in 44 (see ex. 3.3a), and which in the Kunkelmann copy is in 42 (see ex. 3.3c). This leads to an alteration of the harmony in that copy, which we may see in example 3.3b. Were we to attend in this kind of detail to other passages in this mélodie, we would understand with even greater clarity what Debussy meant when he mentioned “nos recherches” in the dedication of L’archet. The friendship between Kunkelmann and Debussy, though brief, was by no means superficial: it resulted in a cordial and meaningful exchange of ideas between two composers in search of their mature compositional voices. The question remains as to the raison d’être of the copies of the six songs—L’archet, Fête galante, “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”), Le zéphyr, Pierrot, and Les roses—that Kunkelmann made, and that Debussy then revised, for several of these do carry corrections and additions in Debussy’s hand.26 Presumably, the copies were made with the intention of sending them to a publisher. In June 1882 Debussy received from Bulla, of the Société Artistique d’Éditions d’Estampes et de Musique, the sum of fifty francs for the printing of Nuit d’étoiles—his first published work.27 He would obviously have hoped for further income from further publications. Oddly enough, Kunkelmann possessed two copies of that Bulla edition: the first, with an inscription that reads “à Henry. Beaucoup de notes et beaucoup

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Example 3.3a. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), m. 17.

   
                   
 

         









Example 3.3b. Les roses, manuscript in Kunkelmann’s hand, m. 17.

  
   













   

   

Example 3.3c. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), m. 17 (third system, measure 4).


  
   




  
 

             
   
       

d’amitié. Ach. Debussy” (to Henry: a lot of notes and a lot of friendship, from Achille Debussy), and the second with an inscription to the original dedicatee of the song: “à Madame Moreau-Sainti. Souvenir bien affectueux de l’auteur. Ach. Debussy” (to Madame Moreau-Sainti, with the affectionate regards of the author, Achille Debussy; see fig. 3.3). Now, we know that Debussy met Marie Vasnier at one of Victorine Moreau-Sainti’s classes, where he served as accompanist. That Kunkelmann had two copies of this song suggests that he, too, knew the history of its publication and that he, too, had a friendly relationship with Madame Moreau-Sainti. It is likely that, after making copies of six of Debussy’s songs, he intended to show them to Madame Moreau-Sainti, and thus to help his young friend take a step forward in his career.

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Figure 3.2. Les roses, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), m. 17 (third system, measure 4). Paris, private collection.

A Brief Chronology Before looking individually at some of the songs under discussion, I should like to sketch the chronology of their composition. Unfortunately, none of the Kunkelmann manuscripts bears the slightest trace of a date. Only the forms of Debussy’s various signatures, therefore, can offer assistance in dating, as they may be compared with those on the list compiled and published by Yves LadoBordowski in the 1990 issue of the Cahiers Debussy—a list that ought now to be brought up to date in light of more recently discovered sources.28 Using as a first point of comparison the Vasnier manuscript of Fête galante—which does carry a date, curiously indicated as “Musique Louis. IXV. [sic] avec formules. de. 1882” (Music of Louis XIV [one presumes] with expressions from 1882)—the signatures on the Kunkelmann autographs seem to be, as shown in appendix 3.2, remarkably similar to one another, with the sole exception of that of Rondel chinois. In fact, the two manuscripts of Rondel chinois carry signatures that are similar to others that date, according to Lado-Bordowski, from the first half of 1881. The rest would seem to come from the first half of 1882, the last of them no doubt being that of Les elfes, where the form of the

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Figure 3.3. Nuit d’étoiles, title page of the 1882 edition with the dedication to Madame Moreau-Sainti. Paris, private collection.

letter A, more rounded than elsewhere, resembles the A in the signatures on “En sourdine” and on “Mandoline,” which date, respectively, from September 16 and November 25, 1882.29 A further element would confirm this dating, because on May 12, 1882, Debussy accompanied Marie Vasnier in Fête galante and Les roses at a concert given in Paris in the salons of the Flaxland publishing house (see fig. 3.4).30 Let me add, finally, that Le zéphyr raises a different question of dating because the second manuscript of the song (preserved in the collection of the music department of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Ms. 23498), with the title of Rêverie, carries no signature at all.

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Figure 3.4. Program of the concert of May 12, 1882.

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Dated by François Lesure to 1880,31 this mélodie may well have been composed somewhat later, perhaps with the others, in the first half of 1882.

From Vasnier to Kunkelmann: Three Case Studies Beyond presenting us with four unpublished songs, five of the nine new Debussy autographs preserved by Kunkelmann32 give us versions of mélodies that we knew heretofore from only the manuscripts the composer gave to Marie Vasnier.33 With the exception of Le zéphyr, the new autographs differ from Vasnier versions in small ways that it is not practical to describe in detail in this space. (The kinds of differences to which we refer are similar to those mentioned above in the case of Les roses.) Nonetheless, three of them—Rondel chinois, Fête galante, and Pierrot—do require further comment. Indeed, thanks to the Kunkelmann autograph of Rondel chinois,34 we learn, finally, the identity of the author of this rather dubious sonnet. The wordsmith to whom we owe these immortal verses is none other than Marius Dillard. Born in the Département du Gard in 1860, he pursued his career in Rouen, according to the best available biographical dictionary;35 he authored numerous critical articles on literature, art, and music; he directed the journal Rouen-Artiste; and he prepared two volumes of poetry, Rondels and Angoisses, which were apparently never published. It seems that his poetry was published, however, in such magazines as the Revue des poètes et des auteurs dramatiques, the Trouvère, and the Union littéraire, which have, alas, not come down to us with all issues intact. Perusing them, I was nonetheless pleased to find the poem, Rondel chinois, for which the young Dillard was awarded a prize in April 1878—that prize being publication in the Union littéraire des poètes et des prosateurs, in this case in the issue of May 5, 1878 (see fig. 3.5). If this puts an end to a part of the mystery surrounding this song, it still leaves us in the dark as to why Debussy would have set to music these particular lines, which are dedicated to the celebrated poet and novelist Judith Mendès, née Gautier, who published en 1867 Le livre de Jade, a translation in prose poem style of Chinese poems. It is possible, though we have no certain knowledge, that Dillard, even though living in Rouen, was a member of the intellectual and artistic circle around the Vasnier family. Be this as it may, Marguerite Vasnier, Marie Vasnier’s daughter, remembered in 1926 that Debussy “accompanied her [mother] when she sang in high-society concerts where, on one occasion, he had her sing a Rondel chinois that was as yet not published.”36 Three examples in particular will have to stand for the kinds of changes that Debussy made between the first and second settings of Rondel chinois.37 First, from the opening measures, the introductory vocalises are notated more leisurely in the Vasnier manuscript than they are in the Kunkelmann

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Figure 3.5. L’union littéraire des poètes et des prosateurs, 9e année, no 27 (May 5, 1878), pp. 129–30. Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal.

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Figure 3.5.—(concluded)

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manuscript, while the piano parts present only very slight differences (see exx. 3.4a and 3.4b). Second, in measures 11–14, in the left hand of the piano part, the half-note alternation of fifths (A to E) and octaves (A to A) in the Vasnier manuscript (ex. 3.5a) has, in the Kunkelmann manuscript, become eighthnote octaves without the fifths (ex. 3.5b). Also, the chords, notated in the bass clef, are shortened to eighth notes in measures 12 and 14. Third, although the end of the song, where the vocal part consists solely of vocalises, is almost identical in both manuscripts, Debussy did cross out some closing chords in the Vasnier manuscript, and—no doubt at the request of the singer—added in pencil one final vocalise to serve as an ornamental conclusion—evidence, perhaps, of Madame Vasnier’s tendency to improvise in performance (see ex. 3.6a). This addition does not appear in the Kunkelmann manuscript (see ex. 3.6b). These kinds of changes, taken together, confirm the impression that the Vasnier manuscript, despite its apparently last-minute addition of a cadenza, was compiled before the Kunkelmann manuscript was prepared. In similar fashion, Fête galante in the Kunkelmann manuscript differs only slightly from the song as it is preserved in the Vasnier manuscript. Measures 12, 16, 38, and 47 correspond to the ends of the poetic lines: the half notes of the Vasnier manuscript (and the dotted half note at m. 47) are, in the Kunkelmann manuscript, systematically shortened to quarter notes followed by rests. Similar modifications are to be observed in the note lengths of the piano part. And at measure 27 of the Vasnier manuscript, the sixteenth-note figure in the piano, on the downbeat, creates a small rhythmic dissonance with the upbeat–downbeat sixteenth notes of the vocal part (ex. 3.7a), whereas in the Kunkelmann manuscript, the piano is aligned with the voice from the upbeat to measure 27 (ex. 3.7b). As in Rondel chinois, the final measures of the piano part are also different in the two versions. The motive in thirds with two sixteenth notes followed by an eighth note of the Vasnier manuscript is altered in the Kunkelmann manuscript to a motive in thirds made up of four sixteenth notes. The octave shift in the left hand at measure 44 of the Vasnier manuscript is absent at this point in the Kunkelmann manuscript. And the very last measures of the two versions are notably different (see exx. 3.8a and b). Finally, the Vasnier version carries the tempo marking of “Tempo di Minuetto,” while the Kunkelmann version is marked merely “Moderato.” There is more to the story of Fête galante, for this is one of the rare early mélodies that Debussy copied out later, at some point between December 1889 and December 1890, as we learn from the signature found on the title page of the manuscript that is preserved in the collections of the Fondation Royaumont today (see fig. 3.6).38 Indeed, this signature closely resembles those we see in letters written during precisely that year-long period.39 The date “1882” on the Royaumont manuscript applies therefore to the year of the composition and not to the year of the recopying. A comparison of this autograph

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Example 3.4a. Rondel chinois, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 1–3.


 
  

     
  

    


   

 






 

























Example 3.4b. Rondel chinois, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 1–3.



    

    

        


   

 

 


 








 







Example 3.5a. Rondel chinois, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 11–14.




           
  

     
 







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Example 3.5b. Rondel chinois, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 11–14.




               
  

 



      
   




               







  

 



 



 

 

   

   




 

  

 



 



Example 3.6a. Rondel chinois, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), final measures.


 
 













 







  



 



 









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Example 3.7a. Fête galante, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 26–28.




      

  
        


   


  
 




  


    
  








Example 3.7b. Fête galante, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 26–28.


 


 

    






 




  




   

      




  

  

   

     





  

  


  






   



    



Example 3.8a. Fête galante, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 42–47.



          
   




            

           

  


     

             

 






Example 3.8b. Fête galante, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 42–47.

  
                               

                         
 

                              





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Figure 3.6. Fête galante, title page of the autograph manuscript (ca. 1889–90). Royaumont, bibliothèque musicale François-Lang.

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with the two others that are known shows that the Royaumont version is closer to the Vasnier than to the Kunkelmann version—which means that Debussy must have kept for himself a copy of the song as he had offered it to Madame Vasnier: indeed, he went so far as to copy the original dedication, even though his liaison with Madame Vasnier had come to an end in January 1886. Of the “research” he carried out with Kunkelmann there is, here, absolutely no trace. He does, however, add dynamics, articulations, and the indication that the tempo marking of the Vasnier manuscript, “Tempo di Minuetto,” should be “Andantino” and not “Moderato,” as found in the Kunkelmann manuscript. Why would Debussy copy in 1889 or 1890 a mélodie that he had composed eight or nine years earlier? The publication of the Petite suite in June 1889 surely offers a possible explanation, since Debussy reused the first twenty-two measures of Fête galante in the “Menuet” of this piece, adapting it now for piano four hands, as Constantin Photiadès mentioned in the article cited at the top of this study. The recopying of the song must have been undertaken in order to preserve the original version of something that Debussy had now transformed and published. This further suggests that in 1889 and 1890 Debussy still had in his library many autograph copies of the songs he had composed in the years from 1880 to 1885, many of which he would eventually destroy.40 Were it not for the copies that he gave to Madame Vasnier and to Henry Kunkelmann, then, a good deal of Debussy’s early song production would simply have disappeared. The text of Pierrot offers even more surprises. If the vocal part is essentially identical in the Vasnier and Kunkelmann manuscripts, the piano part in the latter has been considerably revised. From the beginning in the Vasnier manuscript we find off-beat sixteenth notes on C in the left hand in measures 1 and 4 (ex. 3.9a). In the manuscript dedicated to his “good friend” Kunkelmann, however, the left hand at those places is idle, rendering the music rather more tame, though a G in the bass here, not present in the Vasnier manuscript, does add harmonic complication (ex. 3.9b). The passage at measures 27–30 also differs from one version to the next: the syncopations in the piano part of the Kunkelmann manuscript, which would underline the poem’s phrase “En vain l’agace” (teases him in vain), are simply absent from the Vasnier manuscript (see exx. 3.10a–b, where the missing C♯ in the Vasnier piano part is merely carelessness on the part of the composer, who indicates the C♯ only once, in the voice line, at the beginning of m. 27). The Kunkelmann manuscript, in this case, is more cautious about sharps and flats. Indeed, here we find, in the passage from measure 35 to measure 50, a change of key signature from one sharp to four sharps that is absent from the Vasnier manuscript, where Debussy sets down the accidentals, not always carefully, as they occur. Space does not allow a detailing of the many further differences in the piano writing of the two versions.

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Example 3.9a. Pierrot, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 1–4.

     
       
 







         

 

          




     

  

 

Example 3.9b. Pierrot, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 1–4.



 





 
       




  






       

        

      



Example 3.10a. Pierrot, autograph manuscript (Vasnier), mm. 27–30.



  
 





  


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Example 3.10b. Pierrot, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 27–30.



   

   




 





              
       




 

       

   









 
                

 



   




               

  



Leaving the Parnassiens The four newly discovered mélodies are conspicuous in suggesting their composer’s defection from the aesthetics of Théodore de Banville. That Debussy should interest himself in the work of Leconte de Lisle (1818–94), however, is not surprising. Although he certainly preferred the poetry of Banville, in 1881 he had already set to music three excerpts—Jane, La fille aux cheveux de lin, and Églogue—from Leconte de Lisle’s Poèmes antiques, published in Paris by Lemerre in 1874. Still, this also represents the first time that he turned to Leconte de Lisle’s collection entitled Poèmes barbares. The poem he selected, Les elfes, was at the time already highly popular. As noted by Edgard Pich, this Nordic folk song well expresses the sadness of love: “the black horse of the fiancé [. . .], the dark night of his galloping, the evil spirits that haunt the forest, the magical and wicked divinity of the moon—all of these elements foreshadow the tragic ending of the ballad.”41 As for L’archet, the poem by Charles Cros (1842–88) excerpted from Le coffret de santal—the only poem by Cros that Debussy ever set42—it bears a certain similarity to Les elfes, featuring as it does a woman with long, blond hair who falls tragically in love with a knight. Here, too, we find an element of the fantastique that is reminiscent of The Tales of Hoffmann, where in the tale Debussy would have known as Conseiller Krespel (and which in English is known as The Cremona Violin) we find a beloved woman’s “strangely musical voice” transformed into a violin bow that is made from the tresses of her own long hair.43 It is also unexpected to find in Debussy’s song composition of this period two mélodies based on the Poèmes de l’amour et de la mer of Maurice Bouchor (1855–1929). Here, again, a poet appears for the first and last time in the music of the youthful composer. We know from the colorful recollections of his friend Robert Godet that Debussy had made Bouchor’s acquaintance at some point prior to 1889. The two men saw each other on only rare occasions

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but “their encounters were always smiling,” as Godet confided to Georges Jean-Aubry, “and they got along well in their particular way, which meant by fencing, but by doing so very courteously, by using buttoned foils, by one not overly upsetting the sensibilities of the other.”44 Whether Debussy had actually met Bouchor in 1881 or 1882, however, we simply do not know. Bouchor had been a good friend of Ernest Chausson since at least 1873.45 As in the poems of Leconte de Lisle and Cros, the main theme in Bouchor’s work is love. But in this case it is not so much tragic love as it is melancholy love, love tinged with irony, as found in the poems of Jules Laforgue that Debussy would very much admire. This may be observed in a line such as “Non les baisers d’amour n’éveillent point les morts” (No, loving embraces can never awaken the dead), from “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”), and also in a line such as “On ne fait point l’amour dans le lit froid des morts!”(One ought not make love in the frigid bed of the dead!). Is it conceivable that Debussy was led to this kind of poetry, so different from Banville’s, by his friend Kunkelmann? Whatever the case, these four songs mark an important turning point for Debussy, who would as of September 1882 interest himself in the poetry of Verlaine.

From a Sketchbook The new mélodies stand out by their presence in a notebook of musical sketches, or “croquis musicaux,” as Debussy called them, which is preserved in the music department of the Bibliothèque nationale de France under the call number Ms. 20 632 (1). In the notebook, the music of L’archet is carefully set down in black ink, but in reverse, as it were, with the poetic text carefully written out beneath the vocal line, from page 71 back to page 66. Also to be found in the notebook is a first, incomplete sketch of L’archet (without the poetic text), again written in reverse, from page 75 to page 72. As for Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, it too, like L’archet, has its poetic text carefully written out, in black ink, on pages 32 and 33, but the finished song is preceded by a first musical sketch, in black pencil, without text, set down on pages 40–42. For Le matelot, Debussy even took the trouble (as he did not do for L’archet) to recopy Bouchor’s poem, which we find on page 39 of the notebook (see fig. 3.7). He followed a different compositional process for the “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”). On pages 34 to 38 he very carefully set down the voice part, in black ink, along with the poetic text. But he notated only certain measures of the piano part, measures 7–8, 11–12, 15–19, 23, 29–31, and 42–43. Others, namely measures 1–6, 9–10, and 13, are set down in a kind of shorthand, while still others are left blank. On page 29 of the notebook we find six measures notated in ink, an octave higher and without the piano part, and different from the line as it is found on page 34 (see exx. 3.11a–b). There is also

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Figure 3.7. Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, transcription of the poetic text by Debussy, sketchbook “croquis musicaux,” Ms. 20632 (1), p. 39. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique.

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Example 3.11a. “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”), sketchbook “croquis musicaux,” p. 29.





 


    







 

 

   

 

  

 

 

 

 

            

       

    

 

           

      





  

 






 



 



 



Example 3.11b. “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”), sketchbook “croquis musicaux,” p. 34.






   

    









   

            

          

  

             

 

      





  

 






 

 

 



a second sketch, in black pencil and black ink, on pages 49–50 and 52–54, with a vocal part that begins like the one on page 29.46 Finally, of Les elfes, there remain only some very fragmentary and discontinuous sketches, set down in black ink, and in reverse. Although this sketchbook is of little assistance in refining the chronology of the composition of these four songs, it demonstrates nonetheless that they were conceived at approximately the same time. It is also worth mentioning that these are the only pages of the sketchbook that François Lesure was able at least partly to identify. In looking at them more closely, I was further able to identify the first several measures of Pierrot, which correspond to the version preserved in the Kunkelmann manuscript, and some more important sketches as well, for the chanson des brises and for the first and second movements of Le triomphe de Bacchus, the work inspired by a poem by Théodore de Banville that no doubt dates from early 1882, as well as for the ballet movement of the Première suite d’orchestre, which I mentioned at the outset.47

Poetic Experimentation Although he was a passionate reader of poetry, the young Debussy was not always as careful with his poetic texts as he might have been, as we see with

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special clarity in the case of L’archet. Of the thirteen tercets in the poem by Charles Cros, separated into six sections by printers’ flowers in the text, Debussy set only six: tercets numbers 1 to 3 and numbers 5 to 7.48 In the first tercet, in both the sketchbook and the Kunkelmann manuscript, the composer wrote: “Elle avait de beaux cheveux, longs / Comme une moisson d’août, si longs / Qui lui tombaient jusqu’aux talons.” The repetition of the word “longs” here would make sense only if the following phrase were: “qu’ils lui tombaient jusqu’aux talons” ([hair] so long that it fell all the way to her heels). But rather than following Cros’s text, Debussy inadvertently substituted the relative pronoun qui (“Qui lui tombaient”) for the conjunction que (“qu’ils lui tombaient”), a syntactical error that leads, in literal translation, to a rendering such as: “She had lovely hair, long / like the harvest season of August, so long / which fell all the way to her heels.” Similarly, in the second line of the third tercet, Debussy crossed out an error in the second sketch and set down in its place the version that corresponds to Cros’s original text: “Quand il traversait mont ou val” (when he traversed hill or dale). But in the Kunkelmann manuscript he changed the imperfect tense, “il traversait” (he crossed), to the present participle, “en traversant” (while crossing). Finally, in two places, he added a poetic foot to Cros’s octosyllabic verses, thereby unwittingly transforming a regular line of eight syllables into an irregular one of nine. Here, for example, Cros’s original eight-syllable line, “L’amour la prit si fort au cœur” (Love so strongly assailed her heart), is turned into an irregular line of nine syllables by Debussy’s addition of the word “mais” (but) to the beginning of the line. Again in eight syllables, Cros wrote: “Elle mourut. Suivant ses vœux,” which Debussy changed to ten: “Elle mourut. Il fit selon ses vœux.” He did so by replacing the present participle “suivant” (following her wishes) into a simple past construction, “Il fit selon ses vœux” (he followed her wishes).49 These apparently careless errors suggest that Debussy no longer had before him the text of Cros’s Coffret de santal; they lead me to believe that he was working, not quite accurately, from memory. My belief is reinforced by the fact that in the three other poems he introduced almost no changes at all. In Bouchor’s Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, whose text Debussy scrupulously copied into his sketchbook, as I have mentioned, there is nonetheless one small but significant change, both in the revised second sketch in the “croquis musicaux” and in the Kunkelmann manuscript: Debussy transformed the word “brune,” in “On entend un chant sur l’eau / Dans la brune” (We hear singing, on the water, through the twilight) into the word “brume,” that is, “mist,” or “fog.” In other words Debussy seemed to be unaware of the archaic sense of the word “brune,” which means “crépuscule,” or “twilight,” as in the French title of the last opera of the Ring: “le crépuscule des dieux”!

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Example 3.12a. Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, sketchbook “croquis musicaux,” p. 33, m. 7.

 



 







 





   




          










 

  
 
    


  

 




 

 







 



 








   
 
  

  




 





Example 3.12b. Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), m. 8.


   
  



 



 








    
  
     





   

    






  









   

 








 







    
 

  




  




By contrast, the word “entr’ouvre” (to open partway) that we find in the second revised sketch of the same song is transformed in the Kunkelmann manuscript into the word “éclaire” (to illuminate) in the line “La lune éclaire le flot qui sanglote” (the moon illuminates the waters, which are weeping; see exx. 3.12a and b). Perhaps Debussy found the sound of the letter r in “entr’ouvre” too guttural. At this word, in that second sketch, the piano part alternates between a minor seventh chord on E and a diminished seventh chord on E♯, and is also marked to be played one octave higher. But in the Kunkelmann manuscript, despite the presence of the word “éclaire,” this octave shift is nowhere indicated. Leconte de Lisle’s Les elfes is celebrated for its refrain, about “joyful elves, crowned with thyme and marjoram, dancing in the fields,” which returns after each sestet. In the original poem, this is a distinctive rhyming couplet, “Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, / Les elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine.” Debussy removed some thirteen lines of this poem and an iteration of the refrain, thus breaking down the regular alternation of couplets and sestets (see appendix 3.3).

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Musical Experimentation In terms of their musical texts, L’archet and Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau offer small but significant differences between the corrected versions in the sketchbook and the versions in the Kunkelmann manuscripts. In measures 14–16 of L’archet, for example, Debussy sets down no flat sign before the note D in either the vocal part or the piano part (see ex. 3.13a). But not only are the chords differently voiced in the corresponding measures of the Kunkelmann manuscript (ex. 3.13b), but the note D♭ is very carefully indicated. Furthermore, on the third beat of measure 15 Debussy introduces a low E♮ in the Kunkelmann manuscript, which creates a dominant ninth chord in the presence of the D♭ above and the C in the bass. It seems as though Debussy tried at first to write these measures with D♮, something that would underline the sense of the text at this point—“elle avait une voix étrange” (she had a strange voice)—and then decided to use a more conventional harmony. Let us remember that this manuscript is marked “recollections of our research”: the change from D♮ to D♭ could be a small example of something that occurred at Kunkelmann’s urging. The ending of L’archet also brings a nice surprise. In the sketchbook, this mélodie comes to an abrupt end at “elle mourut,” with no trace of a conclusion (see ex. 3.14a). Entirely missing is the last line of Cros’s tercet, which gives force to the whole: “Elle mourut. Suivant ses vœux, / Il fit L’archet de ses cheveux” (She died. Following her wishes, he made a bow from her hair). Nevertheless, this line is included in the Kunkelmann manuscript, with the text slightly altered by Debussy, let us recall, to “Elle mourut. Il fit selon ses vœux. / Il fit L’archet de ses cheveux.” We hear a dark pedal on the note C at the bottom of the keyboard, while a series of descending triads in the first and second inversions casts new light on each measure, especially measure 49, with the chromatic motion in the bass and, above, a chord with a diminished fifth (see ex. 3.14b). In Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, the shortest song that Debussy ever wrote, there are also noteworthy differences between the corrected version preserved in the sketchbook and the version set down in the Kunkelmann manuscript. In the sketchbook the vocal part of Le matelot is set down in the bass clef and is obviously intended for the male voice. In the Kunkelmann manuscript the vocal part is written in the treble clef, but the tessitura ranges from A below middle C up to E at the top of the treble staff, rendering the song more suitable for the baritone voice than for the soprano—and making it the only song from Debussy’s youth composed for this low register. In addition, in both sketchbook versions, Le matelot has no introductory measure for the piano, and the ending is shortened by one measure. Finally, the key signature of the corrected sketchbook version has five sharps, whereas that of the

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Example 3.13a. L’archet, sketchbook “croquis musicaux,” p. 70, mm. 14–17.


    
       
 
 
  
 

   
  
   




    

   






     

        



  

    

  

  

  








      
 
  

Example 3.13b. L’archet, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 14–17.


        
    





   



  
 

    
 

 




  

          








       

 

  

    

     








        

Example 3.14a. L’archet, sketchbook, “croquis musicaux,” pp. 66–67, mm. 43–45.




 
       

    
   
 
         
   



   

         

  
  





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Example 3.14b. L’archet, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 43–50.


      

  
        
    
     

    


   


  




  

  



          

   





   

        

    

   



 
  









 

 

 



   







 





 

 




 


 


  










  
 

 









  

Kunkelmann manuscript has six. (The unusual key of F-sharp major, I might note, had already been explored by Debussy in Les papillons of 1881.) Thus, in the sketchbook’s Le matelot, the note E♮ on the word “chant” in both the voice and the piano parts becomes, in the Kunkelmann manuscript, E♯. As John Clevenger has remarked, Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau is on the whole one of Debussy’s most unusual pieces in its use of pentatonicism, its surprising change of color on the descending arpeggios of measures 8 and 9, and its open fifth sonorities in the chords of measures 6–7, 10–11, and 13–14.50

Les elfes I must set aside the “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”) in order to comment more fully on Les elfes, which at 175 measures is one of Debussy’s longest songs. The wide two-octave tessitura extends from the D above middle C up to D two octaves higher. It was presumably written for Madame Vasnier, but seems curiously not to have been among the mélodies he actually offered to her. As in

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Rondel chinois and Pierrot, Les elfes, too, includes passages of untexted vocalise, in measures 84–89, for example, as well as in measures 157–58. Although he cut a substantial number of lines from the poem, as we have seen, here Debussy, as in Nuit d’étoiles, did in fact maintain the essential form of Leconte de Lisle’s poem, with the rhymed couplet serving as the refrain. That refrain—“Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, / Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine” (lines I have translated above)—occurs some four times. On each occurrence, the music for “Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine” is varied, while the music for “Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine,” a chromatic descent, is hardly varied at all. The couplet, first set down in measures 23–34, occurs again in measures 55–66. On its third occurrence, in measures 86–97, the words “Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine” are replaced by a vocalise, whereas the words “Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine” are sung. The fourth presentation of the couplet, in measures 159–70, is followed by a five-and-a-half-measure coda that brings the song to a close. This mélodie is unusual for Debussy in that it opens with a fully developed twenty-two-measure introduction which presents a particular motive that recurs repeatedly throughout the piece, and gives rise to a number of chromatic gestures (see ex. 3.15). Debussy’s writing closely follows the poetic text. It is martial when we hear of the knight with his “éperon qui brille en la nuit brune” (his spurs that sparkle in the foggy night) in measures 43–46, and it is ethereal, in measures 67–70, with arpeggiated chords characteristic of the future composer of Pelléas, when the Elves surround the knight with “un esssaim léger,” when they “swarm gently around him”). Debussy restores the drama of the dialogue by including a passage at a notably slower tempo (mm. 100–10) and a passage in stile recitativo (mm. 135–42). Finally, the ride of the black knight (mm. 112–17) is not without similarity to Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” (see ex. 3.16). Debussy may well have learned of the Wagner work from his friend Kunkelmann, who was already an unapologetic Wagnerian. Evidence of this comes in the 1882 sketchbook we have been talking about, where we find “Tristan et Iseult” set down on one of the endpapers, the title of the Wagner opera that would of course have a very long-lasting impact on the composer.51 In his desire to paint the epic breathlessness of this tragic horseback ride, which is reminiscent of the young Franz Schubert’s famous setting of Goethe’s The Erl-King, Debussy deploys a highly varied compositional palette that at once closely follows the rhythms of the text and creates almost orchestral sonorities. Despite certain infelicities in the prosody, the composer demonstrates here the capacity to compose a work of substantial dimension that requires considerable virtuosity from both the singer and the pianist. Furthermore, as Marianne Wheeldon has quite rightly remarked,52 Les elfes—by dint of its length, the important role played by the piano (which

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Example 3.15. Les elfes, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 1–4.






 








                  




          




Example 3.16. Les elfes, autograph manuscript (Kunkelmann), mm. 112–16.




 




 



 





 




 
   
             





    

 

 




 




 

  

 



 
             

 



  

 






 

 



 

 



              



 


      




           
                                      






provides an ample introduction and solo interventions along the way), and moments of dialogue among the protagonists—properly belongs to the genre of the scène dramatique that Frits Noske described with reference to certain songs from the 1860s and ’70s (Le galop, 1868; Au pays où se fait la guerre, 1869; La vague et la cloche, 1871; and Le manoir de Rosemonde, 1879) by Henri Duparc.53

❧ ❧ ❧ What is the larger impact of the discovery of these manuscripts, which demonstrate the preponderance of the role played by setting texts to music in the artistic development of the composer? First and foremost, in the case of the

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mélodies that were already known, the Kunkelmann manuscripts of two them— Les roses and Pierrot—give us versions quite different from those preserved in the Vasnier manuscripts. As a whole, they provide evidence of Debussy’s careful working and reworking of the piano parts, of his essentially experimental nature, of his desire constantly to refine the accompaniment of the vocal lines. We knew, from the several versions of a good number of the later songs on poems by Verlaine, that the more mature Debussy had a tendency to experiment, revise, and refine. We now learn that these tendencies were part and parcel of Debussy’s compositional methodology from the beginning, that they were inherent in the musical personality of composer when he was still Achille and not yet Claude. These manuscripts furthermore demonstrate that setting poetry to music was for Debussy not solely a way of manifesting his love for Madame Vasnier— though I do not wish for a moment to minimize the determinative role that that love played. Still, apart from Les elfes, a song well suited to the high and agile voice of Madame Vasnier, the three others, especially Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, seem clearly to have been conceived for voices other than hers. In point of fact, scholars have far too often viewed the songs that Debussy wrote during this period uniquely and almost blindly through the lens of the admittedly passionate love that he felt for his older and more experienced inamorata, whose mother, I might add, had been a teacher of music. The manuscripts dedicated to Henry Kunkelmann reveal that for the youthful musician the creation of mélodies was in and of itself an essential station on the road to his becoming a composer, a magnificent road that eventually led to Pelléas et Mélisande and Chansons de Bilitis.

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Appendix 3.1. Titles of the Kunkelmann manuscripts (in alphabetical order) and concordances with other sources Fête galante (L. 31/[23])

Kunkelmann manuscripts, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music, with 12 staves per page: “à Henry / Fete Galante / Poesie de Th. de Banville. Musique Ach. Debussy.” — Ms. by a professional copyist with no corrections in Debussy’s hand. 2 folios of music, with 12 staves per page. Further manuscript sources — Autograph Ms., not found. Previously in the collections of L. Koch, G. Morssen, then Eric Van Lauwe. 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “À Madame Vasnier / Fete Galante / Poesie. de th. de. Banville. Musique Louis. IXV. [sic] avec formules. de. 1882. Ach. Debussy.” — Autograph Ms., Asnières-sur-Oise, Fondation Royaumont. Formerly in the collection of Henry Fatio, then François Lang. 2 folios of music, with 26 staves per page: “a Madame Vasnier. / Fete galante / Th. de Banville. / Cl. A. Debussy. / 1882.”

L’archet (L. 22/[46])

Kunkelmann manuscripts, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “L’archet. / Paroles de Ch. Cros. / Musique. Ach. Debussy / A mon meilleur ami. Henry Kunkelmann. / Souvenir de nos. recherches.” — Ms. by a professional copyist with corrections in Debussy’s hand. 4 folios of music, 12 staves per page. Further manuscript source — 2 autograph sketches at the end of a working sketchbook and written in reverse, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 20 632 (1), pp. 71–66 (first calligraphic copy); pp. 75–72 (sketch). Reproduced in facsimile in Yves Lado-Bordowski, “L’archet. Un ‘croquis musical’ de Debussy [1881],” Cahiers Debussy 16 (1992), pp. 6–11. These facsimiles are accompanied by a transcription of the mélodie from the sketch (pp. 18–21). (continued)

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Appendix 3.1.—(continued) Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau Kunkelmann manuscript, Paris, private collection. (L. 24/[47]) — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music, 12 staves per page: “A mon bon ami Kunkelmann (1) / Le matelot qui tombe a l’eau. / poesie M. Bouchor. Musique. Ach. Debussy / (1). Cette dédicace. est la bonne.” Further manuscript sources — 2 autograph sketches in a working sketchbook, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 20 632 (1), pp. 32–33 (first calligraphic copy); pp. 40–42 (sketch); p. 39 (poetic text only). A transcription appears in John R. Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style” (PhD dissertation, University of Rochester, 2002), pp. 951–54. Le zéphyz (Rêverie) (L. 3/[8])

Kunkelmann manuscripts, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “a Henry. / Le zéphyr / poésie Th. de Banville / musique / Ach. Debussy.” — Ms. by a professional copyist with no corrections in the hand of Debussy. 2 folios of music, with 12 staves per page. Further manuscript source — Autograph Ms., Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 23498. Formerly in the collection of Walter Straram, then Denise Jobert-Georges. 2 folios of music, with 16 staves per page: “Réverie / Musique – de – On n’a jamais su. Poésie de – Th. de Banville.”

Les elfes (L. 25)

Kunkelmann manuscript, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 6 folios of music, 12 staves per page: “a Henry. / Les Elfes / Poesie de Leconte de Lisle. Musique Ach. Debussy.” Further manuscript source — Fragmentary autograph sketches in a working sketchbook, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 20 632 (1), p. 65 (mm. 39–46), pp. 51 and 53 (mm. 98–106), pp. 48–45 (mm. 113–48). (continued)

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Appendix 3.1.—(continued) Les roses (L. 28/[13])

Kunkelmann manuscripts, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “ – a Henry – / Les roses. / poesie Th. de Banville / Musique / Ach. Debussy.” — Ms. in Kunkelmann’s hand, 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “AD.” The vocal part is set down in ink; the piano part in black pencil. — Ms. by a professional copyist with several corrections in Debussy’s hand, 4 folios of music, 12 staves per page. Further manuscript source — Autograph Ms., Stockholm, Stiftelsen Musikkulturens Främjande (Rudolf Nydahl collection). 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “a Madame Vasnier / Les roses. / poésie Th. de. Banville. Musique Ach. Debussy.”

Pierrot (L. 30/[15])

Kunkelmann manuscripts, Paris, private collection . — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music with 12 staves per page: “A mon bon ami Henry Kunkelmann / la dedicace véritable / n’est pas celle-ci / Pierrot. / poésie de Th. de Banville. Musique de Ach. Debussy.” — Ms. by a professional copyist with several corrections in Debussy’s hand. 2 folios of music, 12 staves per page. Further manuscript source — Autograph Ms., Washington, The Library of Congress, ML96.D346. Formerly in the collection of Henry Prunières. 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “a Madame Vasnier / Pierrot. / Poésie. Th. de Banville. / Musique sur l’air de [au clair de la lune] / Ach. Debussy.”

“Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”) (L. 23/[48])

Kunkelmann manuscripts, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 12 staves per page: “Romance / a Henry. / toute mon amitié et la / romance par dessus le marché. / poesie Maurice Bouchor. Musique Ach. Debussy.” — Ms. by a professional copyist with several corrections in Debussy’s hand. 2 folios of music, 12 staves per page. Further manuscript source — 2 autograph sketches in a working sketchbook, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 20 632 (1), pp. 34–38 (second sketch), pp. 29, 49–50, 52–54 (first sketch). (continued)

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Appendix 3.1.—(concluded) Rondel chinois (L. 11/ [17])

Kunkelmann manuscript, Paris, private collection. — Autograph Ms., 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 9 staves per page: “Rondel chinois – / Paroles de Marius Dillard. / Musique de / Ach Debussy / Au plus sympathique / de ceux que / j’appelle mes amis / Ach. Debussy.” Further manuscript source — Autograph Ms., Washington, The Library of Congress, ML96.D346. Formerly in the collection of Henry Prunières. 2 folios of music in oblong format, with 16 staves per page: “a Madame Vanier / la seule qui peut chanter et / faire oublier tout ce que cette musique à d’inchantable et de / chinois / Rondel chinois. / Musique Chinoise (d’après des manuscrits du temps) / par Ach. Debussy.”

Chanson des brises Kunkelmann manuscript, Paris, private collection. Solo et chœur pour voix — Ms. by a professional copyist with Debussy’s de femmes. (L. 32/[35]) signature and numerous corrections and annotations in Debussy’s hand, with a part for piano four hands. 21 folios of music, 12 staves per page. Further manuscript source — Fragmentary sketches in a working sketchbook, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 20 632 (1), pp. 26–27. — Autograph sketches, Stanford University, Memorial Library of Music, 4 pages — Autograph Ms. of a separate voice part, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Ms. 24360. 4 folios of music, 16 staves per page: “— à Madame Vasnier— / Chanson des Brises. / Chœur pour voix de femmes avec solo. / — Solo—.” Note: The Chanson des brises, because of its form, is not considered a mélodie: it is mentioned here at the end.

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Appendix 3.2: Comparative table of the signature of Claude Debussy Kunkelmann manuscripts

Vasnier manuscripts

1. Rondel chinois

2. Fête galante

3. Les roses

4. Pierrot

5. Le zéphyz (Rêverie)

(no signature; no dedication to Madame Vasnier)

(continued)

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Appendix 3.1.—(concluded) Kunkelmann manuscripts 6. L’archet

7. Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau

8. Romance (“Non les baisers d’amour”)

9. Chanson des brises

10. Les elfes

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Appendix 3.3: Les elfes (by Charles-Marie-René Leconte de Lisle) Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine. Du sentier des bois aux daims familier, Sur un noir cheval, sort un chevalier. Son éperon d’or brille en la nuit brune; Et, quand il traverse un rayon de lune, On voit resplendir, d’un reflet changeant, Sur sa chevelure un casque d’argent.

Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine.

Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine.

Et sous l’éperon le noir cheval part. Il court, il bondit et va sans retard; Mais le chevalier frissonne et se penche; Il voit sur la route une forme blanche Qui marche sans bruit et lui tend les bras: — Elfe, esprit, démon, ne m’arrête pas! —

Ils l’entourent d’un essaim léger Qui dans l’air muet semble voltiger. — Hardi chevalier, par la nuit sereine, Où vas-tu si tard? dit la jeune Reine. De mauvais esprits hantent les forêts; Viens danser plutôt sur les gazons frais. — Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine. — Non! ma fiancée aux yeux clairs et doux M’attend, et demain nous serons époux. Laissez-moi passer, Elfes des prairies, Qui foulez en rond les mousses fleuries; Ne m’attardez pas loin de mon amour, Car voici déjà les lueurs du jour. —

— Reste, chevalier. Je te donnerai L’opale magique et l’anneau doré, Et ce qui vaut mieux que gloire et fortune, Ma robe filée au clair de la lune. — Non! dit-il. — Va donc! — Et de son doigt blanc Elle touche au cœur le guerrier tremblant. Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine.

Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine. Ne m’arrête pas, fantôme odieux! Je vais épouser ma belle aux doux yeux. — Ô mon cher époux, la tombe éternelle Sera notre lit de noce, dit-elle. Je suis morte! — Et lui, la voyant ainsi, D’angoisse et d’amour tombe mort aussi. Couronnés de thym et de marjolaine, Les Elfes joyeux dansent sur la plaine.

Note: The lines in italics were removed by Debussy

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Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

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This chapter is dedicated to Philippe Cassard. See Charles Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies inédites de Claude Debussy,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue, “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” May 1, 1926): 116–17. “Cet esprit de recherche historique, j’imagine, incita M. Prunières à publier en ce jour les meilleures pages inédites de Claude Debussy; et je suis heureux qu’il m’ait confié d’écrire toute ce que me suggère la lecture de ces ‘ariettes oubliées.’” (I believe that it is his interest in historical research that leads M. Prunières to publish today the most valuable pages from Claude Debussy’s unpublished works, and I am grateful to him for asking me to set down my own thoughts on these particular “ariettes oubliées.”) “J’aime beaucoup les œuvres de jeunesse des maîtres . . . [. . .] Elles témoignent d’une fraîcheur d’idées, d’une tendresse, naïves et charmantes, que plus tard le maître n’a pas toujours retrouvées.” See Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes melodies,” 115. “Des inexpériences analogues déparent, çà et là, quatre mélodies charmantes qu’on a lues en mai dernier dans le numéro consacré par La revue musicale à ‘la jeunesse de Debussy.’ Ces petits airs d’après Banville et Verlaine décèlent assurément la main de l’écolier, mais aussi quels raffinements, quelle prodigieuse adresse à saisir l’essence poétique d’un vers jusqu’en ces prolongements les plus subtils! [. . .] Ces feuillets d’album annoncent bien des pages définitives. Tel est l’intérêt de ces révélations et de toutes celles qui le suivront. Car nous ne sommes pas encore au bout de nos surprises. Un jour ou l’autre, on découvrira la musique aérienne que Debussy écrivit pour Les elfes de Leconte de Lisle, ou bien cette mélodie élégante et ornée [Fête galante] qui devint plus tard le menuet de la Petite Suite à quatre mains.” See Constantin Photiadès, “Gloires de jadis et de naguère,” La revue de Paris 30, no. 6 (December 1926): 685–86. The “Menuet” of the Petite Suite does indeed lead us to Fête galante, one of the songs that appears among the Kunkelmann manuscripts. In an undated letter to Edith de Gasparin, apparently written in 1942, Photiadès asks to see these manuscripts again: “Quand il m’avait si aimablement reçu, à St Rémy, votre regretté ami St René Taillandier m’avait montré quelques manuscrits de Debussy, essais de jeunesse qu’il tenait du musicien lui-même. Ces manuscrits sont-ils toujours en possession de sa famille? Si oui, je serais très heureux de pouvoir en donner les titres exacts et la date (presque toujours inscrites par Debussy à la fin de ses ouvrages), en nommant, s’ils le désirent, les possesseurs actuels. Je me rappelle très nettement qu’il y avait là une mélodie sur Les elfes de Leconte de Lisle et une autre mélodie qui est devenue plus tard le menuet de la Petite Suite à quatre mains. Le reste, à seize ans de distance, s’est un peu estompé dans mon souvenir. Bien entendu, si ces manuscrits se trouvaient à Paris, chez Mme St René Taillandier et qu’elle voulût bien m’autoriser à les relire, à l’occasion de mon étude pour la Revue de Paris, je lui en aurais beaucoup de reconnaissance. Mais, à défaut de cette nouvelle lecture, il me suffirait d’obtenir la désignation exacte de ces pièces, avec leur date, si elle était mentionnée par Debussy.” (When he very kindly invited me

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to his home, in Saint-Rémy, your dearly departed friend Saint-René Taillandier showed me several Debussy manuscripts, sketches from his youth, which he had received from the composer himself. Are these manuscripts still in the possession of the family? If so, I should particularly like to be able to give their precise titles and the dates, which Debussy almost always set down at the ends of his works, and to give the names of their current owners. I recall very clearly that among them was a setting of Les elfes de Leconte de Lisle and another that later became the “Menuet” of the Petite Suite for piano four hands. As for the others, at sixteen years’ distance, they are a little vague in my memory. However, even if I cannot see them again, I would be pleased simply to have the exact titles of the pieces, with their dates, if Debussy gives them.) This letter is preserved in a private collection, in Paris. I have been unable to find Photiadès’s article for the Revue de Paris. 5. See Jean-Christophe Branger, “Une œuvre de jeunesse inédite de Debussy: la Première Suite d’orchestre,” Cahiers Debussy 32 (2008): 5–26. This work, edited by Noël Lee and Edmond Lemaître, appeared from Durand, in Paris, in 2008. The first performance of the orchestral version was given in Paris, at the Cité de la Musique, on February 2, 2012, with the Orchestre “Les Siècles” under the direction of François-Xavier Roth. 6. Séguidille, a setting of a poem by Théophile Gautier (L. 44/[14]), comprises 218 measures. In this article I give L. numbers in accordance with the catalogue found in François Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique suivie du catalogue de l’œuvre (Paris: Fayard, 2003). 7. The carefully corrected copies of L’archet and Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau and the fragmentary sketches for “Romance” (“Non les baisers d’amour”) and Les elfes are preserved in a notebook with the call number Ms. 20 632 (1) in the F-Pn. They were partially identified by François Lesure in the second edition of his works catalogue, Claude Debussy: L’archet (L. 22/[46]), 479; [Les baisers d’amour] = “Romance” (L. 23/[48]), 479; [Chanson triste] = Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau (L. 24/[47]), 480; Les elfes (L. 25), 480. For a detailed description of L’archet and Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau, see Debussy, Quatre nouvelles mélodies (1882), ed. Denis Herlin (Paris: Durand, 2012), 24–25, and appendix 3.1. 8. Debussy used the edition of Les cariatides published by Charpentier in 1879. In fact a certain number of variants in Banville’s text are to be found solely in this edition. See Théodore de Banville, Œuvres poétiques complètes, ed. Peter S. Hambly, vol. 1: Les cariatides (Paris: Champion, 2000). 9. See Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique, 483: the Chanson des brises = L. 32/(35). This copy now becomes the authoritative source for the work, for which we possess only a separate voice part that was, according to Lesure, sold by N. Rauch, in Geneva, in 1957, and that is today preserved in the collections of the F-Pn, Ms. 24360. Four pages of sketches are preserved in the Memorial Library of Music, Stanford University. 10. To date, we know of twenty-nine mélodies written for Madame Vasnier: 1: Caprice (L. 6/[5], late 1880); 2: Les baisers (L. 9, early 1881); 3: Rondel chinois (L. 11/[17], early 1881); 4: Tragédie (L. 12/[18]; early 1881); 5: Jane (L. 13/ [19], early 1881); 6: La fille aux cheveux de lin (L. 15/[33], early 1881); 7: Les

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papillons (L. 21, late 1881); 8: “Fantoches” (L. 26/[21], January 1882); 9: Les roses (L. 28/[13], early 1882); 10: Sérénade (L. 29/[34], early 1882); 11: Pierrot (L. 30/[15], early 1882); 12: Fête galante (L. 31/[23], early 1882); 13: Chanson des brises (L. 32/[35], early 1882); 14: Flots, palmes et sables (L. 38/[25], June 1882); 15: Ode bachique (L. 41/[37], summer 1882); 16: “En sourdine” (L. 42/[28], September 1882); 17: “Mandoline” (L. 43/[29], November 1882); 18: Séguidille (L. 44/[14], late 1882); 19: “Clair de lune” (L. 45/[32], late 1882); 20: “Pantomime” (L. 47/[31], early 1883); 21: “Chanson espagnole” (L. 49/[42], early 1883); 22: “Coquetterie posthume” (L. 50/[39], March 1883); 23: “Romance” (L. 53/[43], September 1883); 24: “Musique” (L. 54/ [44], September 1883); 25: “Paysage sentimental” (L. 55/[45], November 1883); 26: “Romance” (L. 56/[52], January 1884); 27: Apparition (L. 57/[53], February 1884); 28: “Romance d’Ariel” (L. 58/[54], February 1884); 29: “Regret” (L. 59/[55], February 1884). 11. See Constant Pierre, Le Conservatoire national de musique et de déclamation (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1900). 12. Kunkelmann was in Dubois’s class at the same time as Fernand de La Tombelle, as he reported to his friend the composer and organist Gabriel Saint-René Taillandier in a letter dated Tuesday, [June] 14, [1921]: “Le même jour, il [Fernand de La Tombelle] m’a dit que, de nous tous (sans doute la classe Th. Dubois de notre temps), c’était toi le plus foncièrement musicien. Et je crois qu’il a raison.” (On the same day, he [Fernand de La Tombelle] told me that, of all of us (in Théodore Dubois’s class at the time, it was you who were the most natural musician. And I think he was right.) In the same letter Kunkelmann evokes the memory of a former classmate, Henri Kaiser (1861–1921): “Kaiser notre ancien camarade du Conservatoire (classe Durand, je crois) est mort au printemps dernier—il était professeur de solfège au Conserv[atoire] depuis très longtemps. Je le rencontrais parfois; il demeurait dans le quartier.” (Kaiser, our old friend from the Conservatoire [in Durand’s class, I think], died last spring. For a long time he had been professor of solfège at the Conservatoire. I used to run into him; he lived in the neighborhood.) This letter is preserved in Paris in a private collection. Fernand de La Tombelle was indeed among Théodore Dubois’s students from 1877 to 1880. See Jean-Christophe Branger, “Fernand de La Tombelle (1854–1928): un savant et un gentilhomme de la musique,” Revue de musicologie 97, no. 2 (2011): 361–407. 13. See Joël-Marie Fauquet, César Franck (Paris: Fayard, 1999), 962. Another proof of the link between Kunkelmann and Franck comes from a dedication inscribed on the latter’s Les cloches du soir (Paris: Bruneau, 1889)—“Souvenir sympathique / à mon ami Kunkelmann / César Franck”—found on a copy preserved in Paris in a private collection. When Vincent d’Indy published his monograph César Franck (Paris: Félix Alcan, 1906), he sent a copy to Kunkelmann (preserved in the same private collection) with the inscription “à Henri Kunkelmann / en souvenir d’un vieux camarade ‘en Franck’” (a souvenir from a former colleague in the circle around Franck). In the monograph d’Indy mentions Kunkelmann in his chapter on “La famille artistique,” 235.

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14. I should like to thank Jean-Yves Sureau for generously providing me with this information concerning the Kunkelmann family. 15. See Albert Lavignac, Le voyage artistique à Bayreuth, 2nd ed. (Paris: Delagrave, 1898), 549, 553, 555, 564, 574. Kunkelmann’s Wagnerianism was not unknown to Willy, who noted, on November 24, 1889: “M. Henry Kunkelmann m’a fait observer, avec des yeux flambant de malice derrière son lorgnon, que le (et non la) Trauermarsch n’était plus intitulé: La mort de Siegfried, depuis ma dernière lettre. J’ai rougi modestement.” (M. Henry Kunkelmann mentioned to me, with those mischievous eyes of his flickering behind his pince-nez, that Le [and not La] trauermarsch—the Funeral March—was no longer titled “The Death of Siegfried,” as I indicated in my last letter. I reddened with embarrassment!) See Willy [Henry Gauthier-Villars], Lettre de l’Ouvreuse, voyage autour de la musique (Paris: Léon Vanier, 1890), 26–27. This further comment of Charles Gounod’s probably dates from the summer of 1886: “Cette hostilité [à Wagner] ne l’empêchait pas, évidemment de comprendre l’enchantement du Vendredi Saint; à un élève de Franck, Henry Kunkelmann, qui lui annonçait son départ pour Bayreuth, il répondait à mi-voix, avec un mélancolique sourire: ‘Faites tous mes compliments à Parsifal.’” (This hostility [towards Wagner] did not in the least prevent [Gounod] from understanding the enchantments of the Good Friday music. To a student of Franck’s, Henry Kunkelmann, who told him that he was leaving for Bayreuth, Gounod replied quietly, with a mournful smile, “Please present my compliments to Parsifal.”) See L’art moderne 31, no. 37 (September 10, 1911): 294. 16. Willy, in his chronicle of February 12, 1893, writes: “je constate, à la sortie, la présence du ténébreux Henry Kerval (Kunkelmann pour ces dames) [. . .].” (I noticed, at the exit, the shadowy presence of Henry Kerval [known to the ladies as Kunkelmann] [. . .].) See “L’Ouvreuse du Cirque d’Été” [Henry Gauthier-Villars, called Willy], in Rythmes et rire (Paris: Bibliothèque de la Plume, 1894), 78. 17. Willy was familiar with this work by Kunkelmann, as we know from an aside of his in a review of a performance on November 22, 1889, of Vincent d’Indy’s Wallenstein: “le caustique Henry Kerval (Kunkelmann), compositeur de valses pour la maison (d’édition) Tellier” (the cynical Henry Kerval [Kunkelmann], the composer of waltzes for the publishing house of Tellier). See Willy, Lettre de l’Ouvreuse, voyage autour de la musique, 59. 18. Ave Maria for mezzo-soprano or baritone with accompaniment for organ or piano (Paris: Henri Tellier, [1885]), plate no. H.T. 740; Valse in D flat for piano (Paris: Henri Tellier, [1886]), plate no. H.T. 777); Andante for violin and piano (Paris: Henri Tellier, [1889]), plate no. H.T. 977. 19. See “L’Ouvreuse du Cirque d’Été,” in Rythmes et rires (Paris: Bibliothèque de La Plume, 1894), 99. 20. Les plus belles fleurs, mélodie for baritone or mezzo-soprano with accompaniment for piano, poem by Jules Lemaitre (Paris: Richault & Cie, [1893]), plate no. 19499 R.; En Avril, mélodie for baritone or mezzo-soprano with accompaniment for piano, poem by Armand Silvestre (mélodie dedicated to his sister)

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21.

22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

27.

28. 29.

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(Paris: Richault & Cie, [1893]), plate no. 19500 R.); Marche nuptiale for organ (Paris: Richault, [1891]), plate no. 19369 R. “À l’Odéon qui, décidément, fait à l’Opéra une concurrence des plus sérieuses on a beaucoup goûté l’élégante musique de scène dont M. Henry Kerval vient d’enjoliver le San Gil de Portugal (ingénieusement adapté par M. Gassier) [. . .] le jeune Coste barytonne fort agréablement une Sérénade, et Mlle Laparcerie fait applaudir des strophes sataniques composées par Kerval de qui certaine ‘Marche au Calvaire’ se déroule, non sans grandeur, sur des harmonies qui se souviennent de Parsifal.” See Willy, “L’Ouvreuse du Cirque d’Été,” in Accords perdus (Paris: H. Simonis Empis, 1898), 175. One of the pieces composed by Kunkelmann was published by Fromont: the “Sérénade,” sung in the mystery play San Gil de Portugal by Augustín Moretto, performed at the Théâtre de l’Odéon, with French words by Alfred Gassier and music by “Henry Kerval” (Paris: Eugène Fromont, 1897), no plate no. See Willy, La mouche des croches (Paris: Librairie Fischbacher, 1896), 55 (“sourcilleuse”) and 183 (“aux yeux étincelants sous de méphistophéliques sourcils”). Le ménestrel (September 30, 1888): 317. Annuaire de la curiosité et des beaux-arts (Paris, 1911): 305. Kunkelmann’s brother Ferdinand is likewise listed here in the category of “objets d’art, tableaux, livres.” An obituary for Henry Kunkelmann appeared in Le Figaro of July 7, 1922: “The death of M. Henry Kunkelmann, of Reims, brother of M. F.-T. Kunklemann and of the Countess Cafarelli, has been announced in Paris.” In a letter of July 18, 1922, addressed to Gabriel Saint-René Taillandier, Catherine BidoireKunkelmann, Henry’s older brother’s wife, set down her brother-in-law’s last wishes: “My husband has made a number of visits to the apartment now in mourning in the boulevard de Courcelles, and has put aside, in accordance with the wishes of his dearly departed brother, all the music that is to be given to you. They have begun to pack it up and should soon be sending it to you bit by bit.” (This letter is preserved in a private collection.) After 1900, Henry Kunkelmann did indeed live in an apartment at 60, boulevard de Courcelles. Unfortunately, I discovered the existence of these copies only after publishing my edition of the Quatre nouvelles mélodies. It is important to note, for example, that in measure 24 of the vocal part of L’archet Debussy added a sharp before the C on the fourth beat—an accidental that is not found in the autograph manuscript. The contract with the date of June 6, 1882, ceding the song to the publishers, is reproduced in Maurice Boucher, Claude Debussy (Essai pour la connaissance du devenir) (Paris: Les Éditions Rieder, 1930), plate v. The signature that figures on the two copies of Nuit d’étoiles, like that on the contract, is quite similar to those found on the mélodies numbered 2 to 9 in appendix 3.2. The publication of Nuit d’étoiles was clearly contemporary with the signing of the contract and may thus be dated to June 1882. See Yves Lado-Bordowski, “La chronologie des œuvres de jeunesse de Claude Debussy (1879–1884),” Cahiers Debussy 14 (1990): 3–22. See ibid., 15.

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30. This program is reproduced in La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue): 18, and in Maurice Boucher, Claude Debussy, plate 7. 31. See Lesure, Claude Debussy, 472. Lesure’s notice does not explain his dating of the song. 32. We do not consider here the Chanson des brises, which would require a separate study of its own. 33. With the single exception of Fête galante, for which there does exist a second source. 34. This mélodie, edited by Mark DeVoto on the basis of the Vasnier manuscript, appears in appendix 2 of DeVoto’s Debussy and the Veil of Tonality: Essays on His Music (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2004), 205–8. 35. Dictionnaire biographique comprenant la liste et les biographies des notabilités du département de la Seine-Inférieure (Paris: Henri Jouve, 1892). 36. Marguerite Vasnier, “Debussy à dix-huit ans,” La revue musicale 7 no. 7: 17. 37. The Kunkelmann manuscript of this song includes one supplementary measure after m. 32, with a prolongation of the vocalise on G♯. In contrast, the Vasnier manuscript includes one supplementary measure at the end. The two autographs thus comprise the same number of measures: 46. 38. The case of Flots, palmes et sables, dated June 2, 1882 (L. 38/[34]), is not the same, because in 1887–88 Debussy, in this instance only, added a part for harp. The other important exceptions are the mélodies he composed on poems by Verlaine. 39. See C, 2214. 40. The question of the manuscripts preserved by Debussy is still difficult to resolve. For example, the manuscript of Papillons, which carries a long dedication to Madame Vasnier, was apparently given to Arturo Toscanini by Debussy’s second wife, Emma. This means that Debussy had kept a copy of that song in his personal archives. See Marie Rolf, “Claude Debussy’s ‘Les papillons,’” in Claude Debussy, Les papillons for voice and piano, 1st ed., text by Théophile Gautier (New York: The New York Public Library, 2004), 11. 41. Edgard Pich, Leconte de Lisle et sa création poétique, Poèmes antiques et Poèmes barbares, 1852–1874 (Lyon: Imprimerie Chirat, 1975), 208. 42. The poem was published in September 1869 in the journal La parodie, with music by Ernest Cabaner. It was dedicated to “Richard Wagner, musicien allemand.” Cros’s text was also set by Gabriel Fabre and Henri Busser. 43. Debussy did not set the second half of the poem, in which the knight is transformed into a poor man playing a Cremonese violin which, by dint of its sonorities, resuscitated “the departed one and her songs.” 44. Claude Debussy, introduction to Lettres à deux amis. Soixante-dix-huit lettres inédites à Robert Godet et G. Jean-Aubry (Paris: Librairie José Corti, 1942), 9–10. 45. Chausson set some eighteen poems by Bouchor, of which nine were selected from the Poëmes de l’amour et de la mer. We also note that in July 1882 Pierre de Bréville made a setting of Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau under the title of “Chanson triste,” practically at the same time as Debussy. 46. One wonders if there might be a connection here to the “Romance” that Debussy submitted for an examination on January 31, 1881, even if Bouchor’s

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47.

48. 49.

50. 51.

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rather unconventional poem would not seem to support such a hypothesis. See John R. Clevenger, “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 339. The works are found in the sketchbook as follows: Pierrot, 11; Première suite, “Ballet,” 16–23; Chanson des brises, 26–27; Le triomphe de Bacchus, first movement, 56–57; Le triomphe de Bacchus, second movement, 58–62. The orchestration of the “Ballet” was submitted for the examination held in February 1884. Ambroise Thomas considered it “toujours étrange,” which could mean that he always found Debussy’s work to be “strange”; Léo Delibes found it “étrange” as well as “original”; Théodore Dubois found it to be of a “strange color” but “well orchestrated.” See Clevenger, “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” 341. The complete poem by Charles Cros may be found in Yves Lado-Bordowski, “L’archet, un ‘croquis musical’ de Debussy,” Cahiers Debussy 16 (1992): 3–4. In my critical edition of the Quatre nouvelles mélodies, I followed Cros’s text, in particular for the first tercet—except in the two last instances, where the addition of a poetic foot made it impossible to follow the original text. The textual variants are minutely described on pages 25–26. See John R. Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style” (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 2002), 950–57. On the endpaper we see: “Volume—Pessard / Partition—Flaxland / Zephyr— Bussy / Tristan et Iseut [sic].” That Debussy set down here the title of Le zéphyr would suggest that this song dates from 1881–82. The mention of Flaxland is equally interesting, because it was in the salons of this very publisher that, on May 12, 1882, Debussy accompanied Marie Vasnier. On that occasion his name was printed as “de Bussy,” as found here on the endpaper. Finally, Debussy led Paul Vidal to believe that the Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie, a small collection of songs by Émile Pessard, was actually one of his, Debussy’s, compositions: “[Debussy] me fit cette farce d’apprendre par cœur un recueil de Pessard et il me chantait comme étant de lui Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie. Je ne découvris que plus tard ce subterfuge. [. . .] le père de Debussy, qui aimait beaucoup la musique et qui avait un goût naturel, me priait de déchiffrer après dîner et c’est là que je découvris un beau soir que les Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie n’étaient pas de Debussy mais bien de Pessard.” (Debussy mischievously led me to learn by heart some songs by Pessard, Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie, while pretending that they were compositions of his own. Only later did I discover this mystification! [. . .] Debussy’s father, who liked music very much and who had for it a natural appreciation, asked me, one fine evening after dinner, to read some music; it was then that I discovered that Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie were not by Debussy but rather by Pessard!) See Paul Vidal, La revue musicale 7, no. 7: 13. The Chanson d’un fou, one of the songs in Pessard’s Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie (Paris: Leduc, 1873), 10–15), was attributed to Debussy in a publication of 1932.

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52. In her thoughtful response to my paper “Four Newly Discovered Mélodies (1882) by Claude Debussy” given at the Debussy session of the meetings of the American Musicological Society in New Orleans on November 2, 2012. 53. See Frits Noske, La mélodie française de Berlioz à Duparc, essai de critique historique (Paris/Amsterdam: Presses universitaires de France/North-Holland Publishing Company, 1956), 256.

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Chapter Four

“Paysage sentimental” “Si doux, si triste, si dormant . . .” David Grayson

“Paysage sentimental” may not be among Debussy’s more popular songs, but it played a meaningful role at the start of his career, and its vicissitudes during the twenty-year period following its composition were closely intertwined with his personal and professional life. The song is dated November 1883 in its sole surviving autograph manuscript, which is contained in the so-called Recueil Vasnier, the small volume of thirteen chansons that the young composer presented to Mme Vasnier, his muse and lover, in January 1885, at the time of his departure for the Villa Médici in Rome.1 The Recueil Vasnier is unusual in several respects. It was clearly conceived as a presentation manuscript, representing Debussy’s evident intent to provide his muse with an organized collection of fair copies of a selection from among the songs that he had composed for her and that they had performed together. Yet some of the songs bear signs of revision, sometimes significant, and some are unfinished in various ways. Moreover, they do not constitute a single, coherent collection but rather were arranged in three sections, the second of which was left incomplete. The first section is a set of five Verlaine settings entitled “Fêtes galantes.” This set has its own title page (on fol. 1r), listing and numbering the five songs: “Pantomime,” “En sourdine,” Mandoline, “Clair de lune,” and “Fantoches.”2 The individual songs are undated, but from other evidence, including dates inscribed in different manuscript copies, we can infer that they were composed over about a year, between January 1882 and early 1883. They do not seem to be arranged in chronological order, but rather in a sequence designed for

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performance. Their consecutive performance is further suggested by the fact that Debussy copied the five songs sequentially, without individual title pages, on both rectos and versos from folio 1v through folio 11r, thus ending one folio short of filling the first of the manuscript’s four gatherings, each of which originally consisted of six nested bifolios. On folio 12r, the last folio of the first gathering, Debussy provided a title page for the sixth song in the Recueil, “Coquetterie posthume,” based on a poem by Théophile Gautier. The song itself begins on the verso of the same folio and continues into the second gathering. The title page bears the date March 31, 1883, indicating that its composition postdates the five Verlaine songs that precede it. Given its separate title page, we might expect “Coquetterie posthume” to be the beginning of a miscellany, a collection of songs rather than another set, though perhaps organized around some principle, whether the choice of poet (in this case, Gautier) or a poetic theme. Debussy’s modus operandi in this manuscript is clear, though: for each song (or set, in the case of “Fêtes galantes”), he consistently used a recto for the title page and began the music on the verso of the same leaf. This observation is important for understanding what occurs next, for here we encounter a significant incongruity in the manuscript. “Coquetterie posthume” ends on folio 15r, folio 15v is blank (as expected), the original folio 16 has been removed, and the next nine pages (four folios and the recto of a fifth) are blank. Traces of ink on the first of these blank pages (the current fol. 16r), transferred by contact with the still wet ink from music on the detached page, indicate that Debussy had begun to copy a song on the verso of the missing folio, presumably having used its recto as a title page (or having reserved it for that purpose). Marie Rolf and Roy Howat have identified the aborted song on this removed page as Séguidille, also dedicated to Mme Vasnier, and, like “Coquetterie posthume,” a setting of a Gautier poem. We can only conjecture as to Debussy’s motivation for removing it, but it was probably not owing to a copying error. Had that been the case, he could have begun it anew on the folio immediately following. Either he had a change of heart over its inclusion in this collection, or he had a spontaneous urge to revise it substantially. Indeed, in comparison with the only extant manuscript of the song, the ink traces in the Recueil Vasnier reveal significant differences in the piano opening.3 The larger point, though, is that Debussy reserved a number of blank pages to be filled with songs, and he seems to have calculated precisely how many he would need, because the next item in the collection, “Chanson Espagnole, Duo pour deux voix égales,” based on a poem by Alfred de Musset, begins toward the end of the same gathering, on folio 20v, and continues into the third gathering. “Chanson espagnole” is an anomaly in several respects, not only because it lacks a title page, but also because it is a duet and the accompaniment is absent in the last four pages. Actually, the piano part is not really “missing,”

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since the music on these pages, measures 70–104, repeats that of measures 26–60, though with a different sung text. Since the Recueil would have been in the hands of the singers, the vocal melodies and text were essential, but the accompaniment was not. A possible explanation for both the blank pages and the missing title page for “Chanson espagnole” is that Debussy planned this duet to be the culmination of a group of songs sharing a collective title page and organized around some theme, such as Spanish songs, beginning with “Séguidille.” Or perhaps he intended to provide a title page for “Chanson espagnole” on folio 20r and use the preceding blank pages for other duets or for other Gautier settings: “Les papillons,” for example, in addition to a revised “Séguidille.” There were any number of other songs dedicated to Mme Vasnier that he could also have inserted here, but he may have had an ulterior motive in offering her a manuscript with blank pages in the middle, and that was to provide a pretext to return to it—and to her—in order to fill them in. The third and final section of the Recueil consists of six songs based on poems drawn from Paul Bourget’s Les aveux, a volume published in 1882: “Romance” (Silence ineffable), “Musique,” “Paysage sentimental,” “Romance. Musique pour éventail (Voici que le printemps),” “La romance d’Ariel,” and “Regret.” Five of the six are dated, between September 1883 and February 1884, indicating an order that is purely chronological rather than an arrangement for sequential performance, as was the case with the Verlaine set that opened the volume. Also supporting the impression that the Bourget songs constitute a collection rather than an integral set is that, unlike the five Verlaine settings at the start of the volume, which shared a collective title page, the Bourget songs follow the manner of presentation established by “Coquetterie posthume,” with a separate recto title page for each song and the song itself beginning on the verso. Although Debussy left the last six folios blank, he evidently did not plan to add any more songs. Rather, he intended that “Regret” should be the last in the collection, even though it was composed in February 1884, almost a full year before his departure for Rome. Thus, when he needed a half-page collette for a revision in “La romance d’Ariel,” the penultimate song (also dated February 1884), he took it, not from the back of the volume, but from the folio following the blank page that faces the end of “Regret,” thus creating a material barrier to the addition of further songs.4 Soon enough, Debussy was occupied with the Prix de Rome competition, which took place in May–June, and his winning cantata, L’enfant prodigue, provided his ticket to Rome. Symbolically, he signaled his “regret” over his anticipated separation from Mme Vasnier, not only by choosing this as his concluding song, but also by refusing to fill in the final measures of its accompaniment. As was the case with “Chanson espagnole,” the concluding measures represent a return of earlier material, but here the repeat is not exact and the sketched differences are ambiguous in places. In his dedication of the volume Debussy wrote, “To Madame Vasnier. These

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songs that have lived only through her and would lose their charming grace were they nevermore to issue from her melodious fairy mouth. The author is eternally grateful. CD.”5 If, through the gift of this volume, Debussy imagined that Mme Vasnier would always sing his songs, by leaving the ending incomplete, enigmatic, and indecipherable he might have been seeking to guarantee that his presence, too, would be necessary for their performance. The suggestion that Debussy might have been too rushed to finish copying the song is unconvincing, as it would have taken him less than five minutes to complete the final few measures of the accompaniment—had he truly wanted to do so. But clearly, he didn’t. The Recueil Vasnier may have been a parting gift to his lover and muse, but he also took deliberate measures to ensure that it could not be construed as signaling the end of their relationship. In 1982, nearly a century after the manuscript’s presentation, Salabert published Arthur Hoérée’s edition of selections from the Recueil Vasnier, assigning it a copyright date of 1980. The five-song Verlaine set was omitted: “Pantomime,” first published in 1926 in a supplement to La Revue musicale, has been available from Jobert since 1969 in Quatre chansons de jeunesse, also edited by Hoérée; a revised version of “Mandoline” was published by Durand in 1890; and “En sourdine,” “Fantoches,” and “Clair de lune” were issued in 1903 by Fromont (later Jobert) as Fêtes galantes (1er recueil), the first and third in different versions, the second significantly revised. Of the eight songs included in the Salabert edition, six were unpublished, while two, “Paysage sentimental” and “Romance. Musique pour éventail (Voici que le printemps),” had been issued previously, but in substantially different versions. Debussy thought highly of “Paysage sentimental,” the tenth song in the Recueil Vasnier, and with it, he enjoyed some success in Rome among the residents and guests at the Villa Médici. In June 1885 he chose its incipit to accompany his name when he signed the Japanese scroll painting (kakemono) on which Count Giuseppe Napoleone Primoli preserved the autographs of his musical guests. These included, among others, Delibes, D’Indy, Dubois, Fauré, Gounod, Ibert, Leoncavallo, Liszt, Mascagni, Massenet, Pierné, Puccini, Rabaud, Ravel, Reyer, Saint-Saëns, Strauss, Thomas, Verdi, Vidal, and Widor.6 In contrast to Debussy, who represented himself with a modest song, Massenet, whose signature is adjacent, quoted an aria from Le Cid.7 Debussy had promised to give a copy of “Paysage sentimental” to Mme Hébert, the wife of the director of the Villa Médici—perhaps she had even requested it—but she complained in her journal that when he left, in March 1887, he hadn’t given it to her, nor had he settled his debts.8 The incident reminds us that while the Vasnier copy of this early version of “Paysage sentimental” is the only one known to us, Debussy obviously kept a copy for himself, and the same is probably true of the other Vasnier songs that survive only through this manuscript collection.

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Debussy broke off his relationship with Mme Vasnier in 1887, shortly after his return to Paris, but when he published a version of “Mandoline” in the September 1, 1890, issue of the Revue illustrée, where it was decorated with illustrated borders by Adolphe Willette, he retained the dedication to her. The following month he left his parents’ apartment to move in temporarily with his friend Étienne Dupin. It is hardly surprising that a twenty-eight-year-old man would seek to live independently from his parents, but Debussy may specifically have wanted some privacy and greater freedom to pursue a romantic interest. If that was his motive, it did not end as planned, and he was back in his parents’ apartment by February 12, 1891. On that date he wrote to his friend Robert Godet to describe a traumatic breakup with an unidentified woman (thought by some to have been Camille Claudel), one that had driven him to contemplate suicide: I wasn’t expecting that business we talked about to end so miserably and cheaply, with tales being told and unmentionable things said. I found a bizarre transposition taking place: precisely as her lips pronounced those unforgiving words, echoes of her once-loving voice resounded within me. This battle between the wrong notes (not accidental, alas!) and what I heard inside me was so overwhelming, I hardly understood what was going on. Since then understanding has forced itself upon me. I’ve left a large part of myself hanging on those thorns and it’ll be a long time before I get back to my pursuit of art the great healer! (An ironic phrase, if you like, when art offers every kind of suffering there is—and we all know what happens to people who are healed by it.)9

By this point in his life, romantic thoughts of Mme Vasnier were clearly a thing of the distant past, as Debussy found himself tormented by a different and far less pleasant voice. Nonetheless, “her” songs were still very much with him, though when he finally published “Paysage sentimental,” in the April 15, 1891, issue of the Revue illustrée, the song carried a dedication, not to her, but to another woman, Mademoiselle Jeanne Andrée.10 Substantially revised, the song was also transposed down to F from F-sharp, a key that seems to have suited Mme Vasnier’s voice or at least was one that he associated with her. The song was thus triply removed from its original dedicatee: revised, transposed, and reassigned—given a new life. Art the great healer, indeed! The Revue illustrée, at this point at least, included printed music as a very occasional, rather than a regular, feature, and typically the music was linked to an event or to some other features in the journal. Debussy’s setting of Verlaine’s Mandoline, for example, appeared in conjunction with an appreciation of the poet by Maurice Barrès and the reproduction of Verlaine’s poem “Absente.” Similarly, a twenty-measure fragment from Massenet’s Le mage, drawn from the opera’s ballet “La consécration religieuse,” appeared in the

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April 1, 1891, issue to accompany Alfred Bruneau’s review of the opera’s première at the Paris Opéra, along with a plot summary by Jean Richepin and an illustration of act 5 by Georges Rochegrosse. The “Danse des prêtresses de Dagon” from Saint-Saëns’s Samson et Dalila appeared together with a portrait of the composer in the November 15, 1890, issue following the opera’s first performance at the Paris Opéra, on October 31. And Paul Vidal’s “Marche du roi nègre” from his incidental music for Maurice Bouchor’s Noël, ou le mystère de la nativité constituted a Christmas offering for the December 15, 1890, issue; this mystère en vers for marionettes had recently (November 25) had its première at the Petit Théâtre. Other opportunities were ignored, however, as no music accompanied a cover story on Édouard Lalo (September 15, 1890) or an article on Georges Bizet (November 15, 1890). In contrast to these, no self-evident circumstances or context appear to have motivated the publication of “Paysage sentimental.” April was even the wrong time of year for the song’s text, which speaks of the “winter sky.” Certainly the decision to print “Paysage sentimental” may have been stimulated by a positive response to “Mandoline.” As mentioned above, this song had appeared in the September 1, 1890, issue, and on the twenty-fourth of that month Debussy sold it for one hundred francs to Durand et Schoenewerk, who published it on November 14, with a cover design that incorporated the decorative border that Willette had originally created for the song’s fourth and final page in the Revue illustrée.11 Also working in the composer’s favor was an indirect personal connection to the journal’s editor, Ludovic Baschet, and its director, René Baschet, who were the father and brother respectively of the painter Marcel Baschet, winner of the 1883 Prix de Rome and Debussy’s fellow resident at the Villa Médici, to whom we owe the best known portrait of the young composer (painted in 1885, now in the Musée d’Orsay).12 Marcel Baschet probably heard Debussy perform “Paysage sentimental” and Mandoline, among other works, at the Villa Médici, and it may well have been he who recommended the composer, and perhaps even these specific songs, to the “family” journal. As was the case with Mandoline, the printing of “Paysage sentimental” in the Revue illustré also led to its independent publication, though not nearly as quickly. About four months later, on August 30, 1891, Debussy sold six compositions to the music publisher Hamelle for 150 francs: Rêverie and Mazurka for piano plus four songs: three based on the poetry of Verlaine and one unspecified song on a poem by Bourget.13 Had Debussy forgotten that five months earlier, on March 14, he had already sold Rêverie and Mazurka to Choudens for one hundred francs, or was he trying to pull a fast one?14 The double sale led to a contractual dispute that was not settled until 1907,15 but prior to its resolution Hamelle published the Trois mélodies based on poems by Verlaine in 1901 and Mazurka in 1903. Nothing immediately became of whichever Bourget song Hamelle purchased, but it may well have been “Paysage sentimental.”16

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Although there are other candidates, it would presumably not have been one of the three other Bourget settings that Debussy sold prior to this date and saw published in 1891: “Beau soir” by Vve Girod (copyright May 21, 1891) and Deux Romances, sold to Durand et Schoenewerk on June 17, 1891, for 150 francs and published in December (“L’âme évaporée,” copyright December 21, 1891; and “Les cloches,” copyright December 7, 1891).17 Debussy’s dedication of the Revue illustrée version of “Paysage sentimental” to the soprano Jeanne Andrée constitutes a further mystery, assuming of course that the choice was the composer’s rather than the journal’s.18 She is unlikely to have been a romantic interest, and since she sang operetta she is equally unlikely to have been a professional contact, even though she was much admired in her chosen repertory. Between 1882 and 1885 she established an enviable reputation singing operetta in Paris, primarily at the FoliesDramatiques. Subsequently, around the time of her marriage (1886), she shifted her activities to provincial theaters. In a surprising career move, she later began to appear in opera, but this was after receiving the dedication of “Paysage sentimental.” A brief overview of her career will flesh out the details. Jeanne Andrée was only eighteen when a report in Le Figaro of July 9, 1880, praised her substitute performance of music from Charles Lecocq’s La marjolaine for an upcoming performance at the Théâtre du Casino in Dieppe: “Taking the place of Mlle [Jane] Hading in La Marjolaine is a very talented young performer; though only eighteen years old, Mlle Jeanne Andrée already has the qualities of a consummate artist: she speaks well, sings well; she will certainly receive a warm welcome from the discerning audience of the Casino.”19 In 1882 she joined the troupe of the Théâtre des Folies-Dramatiques in Paris: on June 5 she replaced an indisposed colleague in the role of Bettina in Edmond Audran’s La mascotte (a role she had sung the previous season in Marseille), and it may have been on the strength of this substitution that she was invited to join the Folies-Dramatiques.20 She made her official company debut on September 16 as Clairette in Charles Lecocq’s La fille de Madame Angot.21 The Annales du théâtre et de la musique still described her as “une presque débutante” when she created the role of Inès in the Folies-Dramatiques première of Lecocq’s La princesse des Canaries on February 9, 1883, and praised her lavishly, identifying her contributions as among the highlights of the performance and concluding: “Mlle Jeanne Andrée will look back on the première of La princesse des Canaries, as the moment when the Parisian public, enchanted by her delightful acting ability and her lovely, pleasant-sounding voice, embraced her straightaway for the first time.”22 Raoul de la Guette, writing in Le petit journal, showered her with similar praise when she created the role of Djelma in the première of Amédée Godard’s L’amour qui passe, which opened on July 6 but ran for only seven performances: “she has a lovely voice that she knows how to use to her

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advantage, an intelligent and friendly face, in short, everything that is needed to become the darling of the public.”23 Her string of successes continued on November 8, when she created the role of Fanchon in André Messager’s François les bas bleus, still at the Folies-Dramatiques; the Annales du théâtre et de la musique observed: “Mlle Jeanne Andrée [. . .] performed with great skill and sang with infinite taste.”24 Success continued the following season, when she won “justly deserved bravos” for her creation of the role of Angèle in the première of Gaston Serpette’s Le château de Tire-Larigot on October 30, 1884, at the Théâtre des Nouveautés.25 A certain reserve, however, entered into the journal’s appraisal of her performance in the première of Louis Varney’s Les petits mousquetaires on March 5, 1885, at the Folies-Dramatiques: “Very correct—perhaps too much so—is Mlle Jeanne Andrée, who makes a cute and pudgy Mme Bonacieux, endowed with a youthful, fresh, and strong voice that the public does not seem to appreciate sufficiently.”26 In June 1885 it was announced that she was not renewing her contract with the Folies-Dramatiques, and from then on she was less of a presence in Paris, although she was certainly not forgotten.27 A possible explanation for her decision may be inferred from an announcement in January 1886 that she was engaged to a young officer who demanded, as a condition of marriage, that she give up her career.28 Perhaps this is why the engagement was broken off. During part of the winter season she sang in Lyon and had great success there, notably in Lecocq’s Le petit duc,29 and in June 1886 she moved to Boulogne-sur-Mer to marry a trader, Armel Debuchy, who was evidently supportive of her career.30 She joined the newly created Bouffes-Bordelais in Bordeaux and performed in Messager’s La fauvette du temple, which opened the season on September 18,31 and in Audran’s La mascotte the following month.32 In March 1887 she gave birth to a daughter33 and in June announced that she would spend the summer season (“saison des bains”) at Sables d’Olonne, on the Atlantic coast, where she would perform some of her repertory works and give the local première of Varney’s recent L’amour mouillé.34 Her career took an unexpected turn when she announced, in November 1893, that she was forsaking operetta to devote herself to opera: she was engaged by the Théâtre du Capitole in Toulouse after having had success in Faust, Carmen, and Mireille.35 In the end, the vicissitudes of Mlle Andrée’s career, however diverting, fail to shed light on “Paysage sentimental,” and our interest in the song’s 1891 feuilleton publication rests primarily in the revisions that it exhibits. Their date is difficult to determine. Among the changes was an alteration in the poem’s last line, a revision that Bourget had introduced in the second edition of Les aveux, which bears the same publication date as the first edition, 1882, but could have been printed at any point between 1882 and 1887.36 A third version of the poem, containing this change and a few others, appeared in 1887, in a volume of the poet’s collected works, Poésies 1876–1882 (Paris:

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Lemerre). This same date, 1887, is given as the song’s date of composition in the catalogue of Debussy’s complete works that Louis Laloy appended to his Claude Debussy (1909), a catalogue that had been assembled by Georges JeanAubry in consultation with the composer for a concert given in Le Havre on April 22, 1908.37 It would be tempting to suggest that the publication of the 1887 Bourget volume, which Debussy would surely have acquired, stimulated him to revisit his setting of “Paysage sentimental,” but such speculation is undercut by the fact that he ignored some of the other textual changes found in this version and incorporated only the one that had already figured in the second edition of Les aveux. Moreover, the accuracy of the catalogue is suspect since the same date of composition, 1887, is also assigned to the other two songs that were later published with “Paysage sentimental” under the title Trois mélodies: “La Belle au bois dormant” and “Voici que le printemps.” The manuscript of the former song indicates that it was composed three years later, in July 1890, whereas the earlier version of the latter was dated January 1884 in the Recueil Vasnier. It took some time for the Trois mélodies to be published. On October 29, 1892, Debussy paid Paul Bourget fifty francs for the right to publish “Paysage sentimental” and “Voici que le printemps,” and on December 19 he obtained the rights to “La Belle au bois dormant” from Vincent Hyspa, free of charge.38 On September 21, 1893, he sold the three songs to Paul Dupont, his father’s employer and the music publisher who had issued his Nocturne for piano the previous year.39 Dupont proceeded in good faith with the publication of the songs: the plate number of “La Belle au bois dormant” (P.D. 1675) is consistent with music that Dupont issued in early 1894, though the song appears not to have been printed at this time.40 Years passed, however, before Dupont took up the two Bourget songs: their much higher plate numbers (P.D. 3250 and 3251 respectively for “Voici que le printemps” and “Paysage sentimental”) suggest that they were not engraved until 1902. Dupont’s renewed interest in the songs was probably sparked by the première of Pelléas, in the spring of 1902, and he must have hoped to capitalize on the opera’s well-publicized success. The three songs were published separately but under the collective title Trois mélodies de Claude Debussy and with the same cover, displaying an illustration, perhaps intended to depict Sleeping Beauty awakening, by Georges Dola, an artist chiefly known for his operetta posters.41 “Paysage sentimentale” bears no dedication here, Mlle Jeanne Andrée having vanished as mysteriously as she first appeared. The copyright deposit of the three songs was on January 10, 1903, and the copyright entries report initial print runs of 200 copies each. By the time the songs were published, the firm was called Société nouvelle d’éditions musicales (ancienne maison Paul Dupont), and when they were reprinted, in 1907, Société d’éditions musicales (ancienne maison Paul Dupont). The company was acquired around 1918 by La sirène, which around 1927 went by the

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name La sirène musicale and was acquired in 1936 by Max Eschig. In 1929 La sirène musicale authorized J. Hamelle to publish the three songs (from the original plate images) in Six mélodies, together with “Les angelus,” “La mer est plus belle,” and Dans le jardin, which Hamelle had originally issued in 1893, 1901, and 1905, respectively. This chronology, though complicated, is necessary to sort out the various printings of the songs—and to understand their subsequent fate. Essentially, we have two different versions of “Voici que le printemps” and three of “Paysage sentimental”: the manuscript version of November 1883, the feuilleton of April 1891, and the January 1903 publication, which is a revision of the feuilleton version. In the absence of other evidence, we cannot know whether the revisions contained in the final version were made by September 1893, when Debussy sold the songs to Dupont and presumably delivered the manuscripts (or in the case of “Paysage sentimental,” perhaps corrected and annotated printed pages removed from a copy of the Revue illustrée), or if he took advantage of their delayed publication to retouch the scores at some later date. Strangely (and inaccurately), both “Voici que le printemps” and “Paysage sentimental” bear a composition date of 1880 in the published score. As I have commented elsewhere, defining a “version” of a musical work can be problematic, as there is no clear-cut rule that defines the degree of difference necessary to distinguish one version of a work from another.42 With respect to the Vasnier manuscript version of “Paysage sentimental,” it must first be asserted that it is not a personal, private draft, but a finished work of art that was delivered to its intended audience, the dedicatee. To be sure, there are many details that an editor would need to sort out or fix, but that is true of most compositions. One would hardly know this, though, from Hoérée’s edition for Salabert, since it offers only a brief note from the editor (p. ii) in lieu of a critical apparatus, and since the scores themselves divulge no evidence of the considerable editorial intervention. One measure (m. 104), for example, has a host of rhythmic problems, and another (m. 106) is incompletely notated, though possible realizations of both are easy to imagine. (In the editor’s note, Hoérée mentions the latter, but not the former.) Some revisions belong to the original draft and seem to have arisen spontaneously as Debussy was copying out the score. This is evident when comparing parallel measures in successive phrases (mm. 65–66 and 71–72): having already modified and rewritten the first pair of measures, he was able to incorporate these modifications when he wrote out the parallel passage and thus did not need to correct them retroactively. On the other hand, parallel revisions of the voice part (mm. 40–42 and 136–38) appear to have been an afterthought. Notwithstanding, from an editorial perspective, we may consider this a single version with a few variant readings. This Vasnier version differs substantially from the editions of 1891 and 1903, most obviously in length: the former has 162 measures and the latter

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two, 150, as a result of cutting eight measures from the coda and replacing the interlude between the second and third strophes with something four measures shorter. Both revisions removed repetitions of the song’s opening theme, which Debussy apparently came to feel he had used two times too many. Despite these differences (and others to be discussed below), according to copyright law they are all the same song, as Max Eschig persuasively argued when it challenged Salabert’s right to publish the Vasnier versions of the two Bourget songs whose copyright it owned. In the unsold stock of the Salabert edition, stickers were affixed to the “purloined” songs, asserting Eschig’s ownership and providing a copyright date of 1907, the date of the songs’ reissue rather than their original publication. (Initially the sticker was attached to the “wrong” song titled “Romance,” but this error was subsequently corrected.) In 1984 the Salabert volume was revised and reissued, with a 1983 copyright date but without the two songs that belonged to Eschig. Also omitted were eight pages with drawings by Melle S. Cayla illustrating the song texts, which were reproduced in versions that did not always correspond to those the composer had set. A comparative analysis of the three versions of “Paysage sentimental” is beyond the scope of this article, but a few examples will demonstrate that Debussy’s revisions were consistent with his stylistic evolution during the two decades that the versions span. One is that in revising the song, Debussy omitted repetitions of text. Bourget’s poem features anadiplosis, textual links between the stanzas whereby a prominent word or phrase in the last line of one stanza also opens the first line of the next. In the Vasnier setting Debussy dramatized the textual link between the second and third stanzas (the echoed words are “la mort”) by having the singer anticipate, during the interlude that connects the stanzas, the textual phrase that opens the third stanza: “La mort de tout.” In the 1891 and 1903 versions, he eliminated this textual anticipation. These piano interludes also differ. In the Vasnier version the interlude brings back the music of the prelude to the first stanza, though now in D instead of the original F-sharp; this thematic return forecasts the reprise of the vocal melody of the first stanza to set the text of the third, in the original key (F-sharp) but with a different accompaniment. In the later versions, the two stanzas are bound together musically by a new figuration pattern in the piano that is introduced in the last line of the second stanza, continues through the linking interlude, and accompanies the first line of the third stanza. The structural juncture is thus bridged and blurred rather than highlighted. Debussy also eliminated textual repetitions within the stanzas. The line “Par cette après-midi de baisers sous les branches” was originally composed to climax on “baisers,” and after an eighth rest, the words “de baisers” were repeated for the continuation of the vocal melody. For the 1891 revision Debussy made

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the melody continuous, eliminating the eighth rest and the textual repetition, but in so doing he made the setting of “baisers” rather awkward. For the 1903 revision he offered a better solution by beginning the vocal melody two measures later and making “après-midi” the melodic climax. “De baisers” is thereby restored to the second of its original positions. (See ex. 4.1; Debussy applied the same revisions to the parallel section of the third stanza.) Debussy also made progressive improvements to the prosody of “au profond sentiment” while essentially retaining the original melodic shape—first by shortening the first note and moving it to the second, weak beat; and then by stretching out the phrase and making the delivery more speech-like, declaimed in duple rhythms against the underlying triple meter (see ex. 4.2). And finally, in revising the vocal melody for the last line of the central stanza, “Et dans cette langueur de la mort de l’année,” Debussy essentially retained the rhythm of his original melody but had the singer recite it on a single pitch, except for the words “de la mort,” which are melodically set in relief. Both the 1891 and 1903 versions exhibit this change (see ex. 4.3). The revisions of “Paysage sentimental” thus display some of the features of Debussy’s more mature text settings and musical style: textual non-repetition, sensitive prosody, speech-like vocal rhythms, recitational vocal melody, and blurred structural boundaries. But by falsely labeling the Bourget songs in the 1903 edition as having been composed in 1880, when he would have been eighteen years old, Debussy sought not only to conceal his updating, but also to enhance his biography by portraying himself as having achieved a greater level of maturity at a younger age. This early date is impossible, of course, since the Bourget poems were not published until 1882.43 Debussy may also have hoped that his backdating would sway, constrain, or preempt criticism, notwithstanding the measures he had taken to improve and “modernize” the style of the songs. But if that was his intent, the tactic backfired, at least in the opinion of one prominent critic, Georges Servières, who made their relative immaturity in comparison with Pelléas, the point of departure for his review of the Trois mélodies in Le guide musical of May 10, 1903: La Société nouvelle d’Editions musicales [. . .] has just published three mélodies by M. Claude Debussy, at least two of which, “Romance” and Paysage sentimental, date back to 1880. Even though the music is not without attractiveness, one hardly finds in it any trace of the profound originality of expression and harmonic refinement that today distinguish [the music of] the composer of Pelléas. All in all, they are efforts to which Debussy himself should attach only a relative importance. La belle au bois dormant is already more entertainingly fashioned and has a more poetic coloring.44

Thus, a song that had been a source of pride and had even brought him some recognition in the 1880s and 1890s had become, by 1903, a liability.

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Example 4.1. “Paysage sentimental,” mm. 41–55, (top stave) Recueil Vasnier (1883), (middle stave) Revue illustrée (1891), (lowest stave) Dupont (1903).


  
    











 


 



 



  


 












      



  



 


        

  












      





     






  












 



 

  








  













 













 

  








      



    




  















    

     

  






      

















Example 4.2. “Paysage sentimental,” mm. 30–33, (top stave) Recueil Vasnier (1883), (middle stave) Revue illustrée (1891), (lowest stave) Dupont (1903).


  
    









 




 
















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Example 4.3. “Paysage sentimental,” mm. 89–96. (top stave) Recueil Vasnier (1883), (bottom stave) Revue illustrée (1891), and Dupont (1903).



  



  


        


     

        


     



  


    






 





  










 

  




  
  





 



Appendix 4.1. “Paysage sentimental” chronology 1880

(Incorrect) date of composition of “Paysage sentimental”, as printed in the first edition of the third version of the song (Paris: Société nouvelle d’éditions musicales [ancienne maison Paul Dupont], [1903]).

1882

Publication of the poem “Paysage sentimental” in Paul Bourget, Les Aveux (Paris: Lemerre). A revised, second version of the poem appears in the second edition of this volume, also dated 1882.

November 1883

Date of composition of “Paysage sentimental” (first version), according to the manuscript titled Chansons, known as the Recueil Vasnier.

January 1885

Debussy presents the Recueil Vasnier to Mme Vasnier prior to his departure for Rome.

June 1885

Debussy writes the incipit of the first version of “Paysage sentimental” on the kakemono of Count Primoli in Rome.

March 2, 1887

Debussy leaves the Villa Médici without giving a promised copy of “Paysage sentimental” to Mme Hebert.

1887

Publication of Paul Bourget’s Poésies 1876–1882 (Paris: Lemerre), including further revisions of the poem (third version). (continued)

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Appendix 4.1.—(concluded) 1887

(Incorrect) date of composition of “Paysage sentimental” according to the catalogue of Debussy’s works assembled by Georges Jean-Aubry in consultation with the composer, included in the program for a concert given in Le Havre on April 22, 1908, and subsequently published in Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles fantaisistes Dorbon Ainé, 1909).

April 15, 1891

Publication of “Paysage sentimental” (second version) in Revue illustrée with a dedication to Mlle Jeanne Andrée.

August 30, 1891

Debussy sells the rights to an unnamed Bourget song to Éditions Hamelle.

October 28, 1892

Paul Bourget gives Debussy permission to publish “Paysage sentimental” and “Voici que le printemps” for a payment of 50 francs.

September 21, 1893

Debussy sells the rights to “Paysage sentimental,” “Voici que le printemps,” and “La Belle au bois dormant” to Paul Dupont.

January 10, 1903

Copyright deposit, separately, of “Paysage sentimental” (third version), “Romance” (“Voici que le printemps”), and La belle au bois dormant, published by Société nouvelle d’éditions musicales (ancienne maison Paul Dupont) under the collective title Trois mélodies de Claude Debussy.

1929

J. Hamelle publishes “Paysage sentimental” (third version), “Voici que le printemps,” and “La Belle au bois dormant” in Six mélodies.

1982

Publication of “Paysage sentimental” (first version) in Claude Debussy, Chansons “D’après le manuscript inédit, conservé à la Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris,” edited by Arthur Hoérée (Paris: Salabert, 1980). “Paysage sentimental” was removed from a second edition of this volume, published in 1984 with a copyright date of 1983.

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Appendix 4.2. Gathering structure of the Recueil Vasnier

(continued)

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Appendix 4.2.—(concluded)

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Notes

1.

2. 3.

4.

5.

6.

7. 8. 9.

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This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Margaret G. Cobb, whose article, “The Several Versions of ‘Trois Mélodies de Claude Debussy,’” Cahiers Debussy 10 (1986): 24–27, drew attention to the multiple versions of “Paysage sentimental.” This manuscript, F-Pn Ms. Gr-Res 17716 (1–9), which Debussy entitled “Chansons,” has been published in facsimile: Claude Debussy, Chansons: Recueil de mélodies dédiées à Marie-Blanche Vasnier, Collection de fac-similés de manuscrits de Claude Debussy (Paris: Centre de documentation Claude Debussy, 2011). See appendix 4.1 for a chronology relevant to the composition and publication of “Paysage sentimental.” See appendix 4.2 for a diagram of the gathering structure of the Recueil Vasnier. Debussy, Séguidille pour voix et piano, ed. Marie Rolf (Paris: Durand, 2014). For the incipit of Séguidille, the manuscript of which is in the Collection of Mrs. Daniel Drachmann (formerly, the Piatigorsky Collection), see also James Robert Briscoe, “The Compositions of Claude Debussy’s Formative Years (1879–1887)” (PhD diss., The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1979), 426. Margaret G. Cobb speculated that “Les Baisers,” Debussy’s setting of a Banville poem, may be the last song that he composed prior to his departure for Rome. Its dedication is: “To Madame Vasnier. Maybe the last song that I will write. The author Ach. Debussy.” Cobb, “Claude Debussy to Claudius and Gustave Popelin: Nine Unpublished Letters,” 19th-Century Music 13 (1989): 41. “À Madame Vasnier. Ces chansons qui n’ont jamais vécu que par elle, et qui perdront leur grâce charmeresse si jamais plus elles ne passent par sa bouche de fée mélodieuse. L’auteur éternellement reconnaissant. CD.” The translation is from Margaret G. Cobb, The Poetic Debussy: A Collection of His Song Texts and Selected Letters, rev. ed. (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1994), xvii. The kakemono is reproduced in Jean-Michel Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or: Debussy, la musique et les arts (Paris: Fayard, 2005), 17. See also the catalogue of the exhibition held at the Museo Napoleonico, Rome, April–June 1983; Frammenti di un salotto: G. Primoli, i suoi kakemono e altro [1983] (Venice: Marsilio, 1983), 77. L’Infante’s aria, “Plus de tourments et plus de peine.” François Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique, suivi du catalogue de l’oeuvre (Paris: Fayard, 2003), 88. “D’ailleurs, je suis encore très désemparé; la fin tristement inattendue de cette histoire dont je vous avais parlé; fin banale, avec des anecdotes, des mots qu’il n’aurait jamais fallu dire, — je remarquais cette bizarre transposition: c’est qu’au moment, où tombaient de ces lèvres, ces mots si durs, j’entendais en moi, ce qu’elles m’avait dit de si uniquement adorable! et les notes fausses, (réelles, hélas!) venant heurter, celles qui chantaient en moi, me déchiraient sans que je puisse, presque comprendre: il a pourtant bien fallu comprendre, depuis, et, j’ai laissé beaucoup de moi, accroché à ces ronces, et serai

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“paysage sentimental”

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

17. 18.

19.

20. 21. 22.

23.

24. 25. 26.

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longtemps à me remettre à la culture personnelle, de l’art qui guérit tout! (ce qui est une jolie ironie, celui-ci contenant toutes les souffrances, puis on les connaît, ceux qu’il a guéris).” C, 95. The English translation is from DL, 32. Revue illustrée 11 (April 15, 1891): 342–45. C, 89–90. An adaptation of Baschet’s oil portrait of Debussy appeared on the twenty-franc note that was in circulation between 1981 and February 18, 2002. A sketch for this portrait is in the Musée de la musique, Cité de la Musique, Paris. See Guy Cogeval et al., Debussy: la musique et les arts [Exhibition, Paris, Musée de l’Orangerie, February 22 – June 11, 2012, Tokyo, Bridgestone Museum of Art, July 14 – October 14, 2012] (Paris: Skira Flammarion, 2012), 110, 185, and 197. C, 101–2. Ibid., 99–100. Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique, 507. For a discussion of the complicated publication history of Rêverie and Mazurka, see Roy Howat’s “Foreword” to Debussy, Oeuvres pour piano: Danse bohémienne, etc., OC, series I, vol. 1 (Paris: Durand, 2000), xix–xxii. Hamelle’s 1929 anthology of Debussy songs, Six mélodies, included two Bourget settings: “Paysage sentimental” and “Voici que le printemps.” This publication is briefly discussed below. C, 101. There were three women using the name Jeanne Andrée on the Parisian stage around this time: the operetta singer presumed to be the song’s dedicatee, who was generally referred to in the press as Mlle Jeanne Andrée, and two actresses, mother and daughter, the former known as Mme Jeanne Andrée. A notice in Le matin on July 27, 1887, sympathized with the singer’s legitimate concern that she not be confused with a certain troubled actress whose name she shared. “C’est une jeune artiste de beaucoup de talent, qui prend la place de Mlle Hading dans la Marjolaine; malgré ses dix-huit ans, Mlle Jeanne Andrée a déjà les qualités d’une artiste consommé: elle dit bien, chante bien; elle recevra certainement bon accueil du fin public du Casino.” Le Figaro, July 9, 1880: 2. Le Figaro, June 6 and August 25, 1882. Le Figaro, September 9, 16, and 18, 1882. “Mlle Jeanne Andrée se souviendra de la première de la Princesse des Canaries, où, ravi de son aimable talent de comédienne et de sa jolie voix agréablement timbrée, le public parisien l’a tout de suite adopté du premier coup.” Annales du théâtre et de la musique (1883): 248. “elle a une jolie voix dont elle sait se servir, une figure intelligente et sympathique, en un mot tout se qu’il faut pour devenir l’enfant gâté du public.” Le petit journal 2 (July 22, 1883): 887. “Mlle Jeanne Andrée [. . .] jouait avec beaucoup d’adresse et chantait avec infiniment de goût.” Annales du théâtre et de la musique (1883): 252. “bravos justement mérités,” Annales du théâtre et de la musique (1884): 281. “Très correcte—trop peut-être—est Mlle Jeanne Andrée, qui fait une gentilette et grassouillette Mme Bonacieux, douée d’une voix jeune, fraîche et solide

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27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44.

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que le public ne nous semble pas apprécier suffisamment.” Annales du théâtre et de la musique (1885): 478. Le Figaro, June 21, 1885. Le Figaro, January 26, 1886. Le Figaro, May 28, 1886. Le Figaro, June 13, 1886. Le Figaro, September 9, 1886. Le Figaro, October 12, 1886. Le Figaro, March 10, 1887. Le Figaro, June 6, 1887. Le Figaro, November 15, 1893. From “Qui pâlissait” to “Que nous vîmes”: from comparing “that solitary soul” to “the spring that palely flows there below in the pale valley” to comparing it to “the spring that we see.” See Cobb, The Poetic Debussy, 66–67. As a result of a copy-editing error, the third stanza of the poem is missing from the revised edition of The Poetic Debussy, cited above. Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles fantaisistes Dorbon Ainé, 1909), 103. Léon Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps, 2nd ed. (Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 1958), 41. The Nocturne also appeared in the August 1892 issue of Le Figaro musical. Anik Devriès and François Lesure, Dictionnaire des éditeurs de musique français, volume II: de 1820 à 1914 (Geneva: Éditions Minkoff, 1988), 150. Georges Dola was the pseudonym of Edmond Vernier (1872–1950). “L’édition scientifique de Pelléas et Mélisande,” in “Pelléas et Mélisande” cent ans après: études et documents, ed. Christophe Branger, Sylvie Douche and Denis Herlin (Paris: Symétrie, 2012), 75. In the catalogue of works in Laloy’s Claude Debussy, “Mandoline” is also erroneously assigned to 1880. “La Société nouvelle d’éditions musicales, rue des Capucines, 24, vient de publier trois mélodies de M. Claude Debussy dont deux au moins “Romance” et Paysage sentimental remontent à 1880. Bien que la musique n’en soit pas sans agrément, on n’y trouve guère de trace de la profonde originalité d’expression et du raffinement harmonique qui distinguent aujourd’hui l’auteur de Pelléas. Ce sont là en somme des essais auxquels M. Debussy lui-même ne doit attacher qu’une importance relative. La Belle au bois dormant est déjà d’une facture plus amusante et d’un coloris poétique.” Le guide musical 49 (May 10, 1903): 430.

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Part Two

Style and Genre

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Chapter Five

The “Song Triptych” Reflections on a Debussyan Genre David J. Code À quoi bon, vraiment, accorder la voix de Bilitis soit en majeur, soit en mineur puisqu’elle a la voix la plus persuasive du monde?—Tu me diras, “Pourquoi as-tu fait la musique?” Ça, vieux loup, c’est autre chose [. . .] C’est pour autres décors. —Debussy, letter to Pierre Louÿs

As is well known, Debussy significantly changed his approach to song composition around the years 1890–91. While he had been writing mélodies more or less continuously since his earliest student days, up to this point he had tended to set texts either singly or in various different groupings—for example, the six Ariettes, paysages belges et aquarelles of 1888 (later revised as Ariettes oubliées, 1903), and the Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire of 1887–89. From around 1890 he was to conceive and present the vast majority of his mélodies in groups of three, often titled as such—as in one of the first, Trois mélodies de Paul Verlaine (composed 1891, published 1901), and the last, Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé (1913). By some measures, the total number of eight “song triptychs” that emerged across this span of more than two decades renders this genre (or subgenre) the one for which Debussy wrote most often.1 It is thus surprising how little analytical attention it has so far received in the literature. With a few significant exceptions, scholars have tended to treat Debussy’s songs individually, in isolation from their composed and published companions. From such studies we have gained, by now, a rich and varied perspective on the approaches to text setting

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and vocal writing that characterized Debussy’s distinct contribution to the history of French art song.2 But a closer investigation of his evolving approach to the tripartite collection of mélodies—for which he almost always brought together, into new succession, three texts by the same poet—can bring into view further questions of potentially wide implication for our understanding, on one hand, of the famously problematic genre of the “song cycle” and, on the other, of Debussy’s own creative development across these two crucial creative decades. There was of course plenty of precedent for composing sets of three songs. Schubert and Schumann each wrote a few; a more proximate and relevant instance is possibly Gabriel Fauré’s very first song cycle (and his only triptych), the 1878 Poèmes d’un jour, op. 21. Bringing together three previously freestanding poems by Charles Grandmougin to create what Graham Johnson has described as an “implied narrative chronology” through three stages of a romantic dalliance, this little set may well have served Debussy as a distant model for at least some of his triptychs.3 But the musical relationship between Fauré’s early settings of lightweight verse—characteristic, for Johnson, of “the sentimentality found in popular magazines of the time”—and Debussy’s mature treatments of much more distinguished poetry seems tenuous at best; the possibility that he may have heard the première of the Poèmes d’un jour at the Société nationale back in 1881 sheds little light on the striking formal turn in his song writing a full decade later. Further thought on this possible musical precursor aside, I am more interested in testing whether a glance to the wider, inter-artistic concerns long recognized as fundamental to Debussy’s compositional development might inform fresh hearing and understanding of the “triptych” form that was to become his signature contribution to the history of the song cycle. For a start, it is at least somewhat suggestive—in light of these interdisciplinary concerns—to find that the very years that gave rise to Debussy’s first threepart cycles on the poetry of Verlaine also saw a widespread revival, throughout the post-Impressionist milieu, of the traditional painterly triptych structure of three interrelated panels. A particularly prominent and celebrated example can be seen in the great mural commissioned in 1886 for the amphitheater of La Sorbonne from Pierre Puvis de Chavannes (an older artist whose influence on avant-garde painters carried all the way up to Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso) and inaugurated on August 5, 1889, by Président Sadi Carnot “with pomp and circumstance amidst city, state and university dignitaries and emissaries from foreign universities.”4 This massive mural, articulated as three grand panels of the fields of learning—“eloquence” and “poetry” in the center; “philosophy” and “history” at left; “science” in its various forms at the right— received specific mention in one of the most influential art-critical interventions of that moment. In his 1890 essay “Définition du néo-traditionnisme” the young Maurice Denis, critical spokesman for the so-called “Nabis” (a group of post-Impressionist painters who took their name from a Hebrew term for

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“prophets”), singled out Puvis as a key inspiration for a new “Symbolist” art that could move beyond both sterile academic realism and plein-air Impressionist illusionism to recover what he called the “decorative” values of the Medieval “primitives.”5 Through Denis’s polemics for Puvis, in other words, we can situate the fin-de-siècle triptych revival against a lineage extending all the way back to the altarpieces of Giotto and Fra Angelico (two names prominent in his account), with their characteristic structure of a central panel flanked by two subsidiary ones. “Neo-traditionalism,” however, was only one strand of Denis’s attempts to negotiate a path beyond Impressionism, with a critical view to both the distant past and the most up-to-date modernist lessons of Paul Cézanne, Paul Gauguin, and Vincent Van Gogh. And if many more critics than Denis alone recognized the years around 1890 as the apogee of Puvis’s “decorative” influence, many of the same commentators also noted, at the same time, the zenith of what was if anything an even more powerful fin-de-siècle aesthetic fascination. Indeed, exactly in 1891, the widespread artistic interest in fine and decorative art from Japan was hailed by another prominent critic, Roger Marx, as “an all-powerful influence” whose impact on contemporary French painters could only be compared to that of “antique art on the age of the Renaissance.”6 Marx’s account appeared in a publication that was itself one of the clearest manifestations of the “all-powerful influence” he was indicating. The lavishly illustrated journal Le Japon artistique, published from 1888–91 by Siegfried Bing, longtime proprietor of Parisian “oriental” boutiques, featured critical surveys of all things Japanese by leading experts in fine and decorative arts alike. From April 25 to May 22, 1890, furthermore, Bing curated what one art historian has described as a “huge retrospective” of the Japanese prints he had been collecting and dealing for decades, in a grand “Exposition de la gravure japonaise” (Exhibition of Japanese Engraving) at L’École des Beaux-Arts on the Quai Malaquais.7 Debussy’s japoniste leanings are of course well known, and are often illustrated with reference to either the Hokusai print he chose for the cover of La mer or the lacquer panel of goldfish that inspired his last Image for piano, “Poissons d’or.”8 But if the general aesthetic interest he shared with countless contemporaries has been amply documented, no one has yet taken much notice of the fact that the Japanese prints on view both in Bing’s shops and in that “huge retrospective” of 1890 presented another, extraordinarily rich alternative model for tripartite visual form.9 Literally thousands of three-part prints had been produced across the key century from Utamaro (ca. 1753–1806—seen by many as the “classic” model)10 through later generations—for example, Hiroshige (1797–1858), Kuniyoshi (1798–1861), and Kunichika (1835–1900)—who became ever more inventive with the formal interplay between the three individual images and the unified whole created by their tripartite ensemble (for one example of this spatial play, see figure 5.1).

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Figure 5.1. Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797–1861), The Wrath of Igagoe. Triptych. Color woodcut, undated. 36 x 24 cm per sheet. Photo: akg-images. Used with permission.

It is abundantly clear that beyond all specifics of “Japanese” colorism and perspective, this alternative approach to triptych form also fed directly into the passionately japoniste post-Impressionist milieu, profoundly influencing several of the Nabis (among others) at least as much as Denis’s “traditionalist” leanings. Indeed, even before Denis published his 1890 essay, his close colleague Pierre Bonnard had produced in 1889, as two of his earliest known works, the large, tripartite screens Ducks, Heron and Pheasants and Marabout and Four Frogs, which not only clearly exemplify in their form and domestic function the direct impact of japonisme on the fin-de-siècle enthusiasm for “decorative” arts, but also come close to straight pastiche of certain later ukiyo-e prints in their starkly schematic color scheme (notably the bright red background) and their creation of a decorative whole from conjoined panels with quite distinct foliage motives.11 But arguably even more interesting as an exemplar of the hybrid possibilities of three-part form is the triptych La cueillette des pommes by another Nabi, Paul Sérusier. Illustrated in figure 5.2, this work (insecurely dated, but likely ca. 1891) shows how the flattened perspective and brilliant colors of the Japanese (as filtered through the more proximate models of Gauguin and Van Gogh) could be synthesized with a triptych structure reminiscent of Medieval or Renaissance altarpieces—all to trace a summary narrative progression, from left to right, through a woman’s life from childhood through fertile maturity to old age.12 How might these tiny glimpses of an extremely wide and varied artistic field inform an understanding of Debussy’s song triptychs? There is no guidance to be found in the very few letters he wrote during these years—and it would be foolish, at any rate, to try to isolate any single, direct stylistic influence from this tangle of post-Impressionist obsessions.13 One amusing encapsulation of the

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Figure 5.2. Paul Sérusier (1864–1927), “Triptych of Pont-Aven,” otherwise known as La cueillette des pommes, ca. 1891–93. Oil on wood, 73 x 133cm. Photo: akg-images / Joseph Martin. Used with permission.

interrelated strands that fed contemporary aspirations for this new, “Symbolist” and “decorative” painting can be found in a little paragraph Gauguin wrote to his fellow painter Émile Bernard from Arles, where he was working in 1888 alongside Van Gogh: “It’s funny, here Vincent sees Daumier-type work to do, but I, on the contrary, see another type: colored Puvis mixed with Japan. The women here have their elegant coiffures, their Greek beauty. Their shawls forming folds like the primitives are, I find, Greek processions.”14 It is hard to imagine a more efficient summary—the great caricaturist Daumier, the decorative Puvis, Japan, the Greeks, the “primitives”—of the aesthetic crosscurrents of an era. But while the question of direct stylistic affinity must always remain hopelessly entangled within this wealth of interrelated possibilities, the sheer formal variety on view across all these contemporaneous visual triptychs can still serve as a suggestive heuristic to inspire fresh thought about the kinds and degrees of unity on offer across Debussy’s varied instances of his distinctive tripartite version of “song cycle.” At one point in the introduction to her recent book The Song Cycle (surprisingly, the first English language monograph on the genre), Laura Tunbridge succinctly sums up the difficulties of her chosen subject by asking: “Is the song cycle really a genre?”15 Glancing to the seemingly irresolvable questions of unity and continuity that have led even Schumann scholars to throw up their hands in exasperation, she later suggests that the published debates about Dichterliebe (the most contested case) might best be understood to emerge from

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differing prior investments in the “premise of organicism.”16 Tunbridge’s salutary metacritical perspective on this “premise” can serve to unearth a slightly ironic aspect behind the present discussion, given the way the same premise has operated largely unchallenged, so far, within the most accepted understanding of Debussy’s song cycles. In a 1988 article, for example, Susan Youens asserted that “Debussy’s cycles are not as musically unified as those of Schubert [. . .], Schumann [. . .], or Mahler—there are not the tonal, melodic, or rhythmic links of the German lieder cycles. There are textual links, even if very general.”17 As the two exceptions to this “very general” textual unity, Youens notes that in the Chansons de Bilitis of 1899 and the second Fêtes galantes triptych of 1904, the texts fall into clear narrative successions, for all that the song-by-song logic—the “story”—across each complete triptych remains somewhat shrouded in “suggestion and implication.” It is characteristic of the narrow, Teutonic conception of musical “unity” that has long prevailed within the theoretical tradition, I think, that Youens does not let her fine sensitivity to “suggestive” textual logic qualify the strongly normative, tonal-harmonic and pitch-motivic organicism behind this insistence that even a triptych of relatively coherent textual succession like the Fêtes galantes II is, simply, “not musically unified.”18 Clearly, the literature that treats the songs individually sidesteps such questions entirely. And while the two sets Youens highlights for an exceptional (if implicit) textual unity have received most critical consideration as complete triptychs, the question of their unity has rarely been pursued in specifically musical terms. A 1994 article on the Chansons de Bilitis by Stephen Rumph, for example, offers fine accounts of musical detail song by song, but traces a unitary progression that remains essentially textual in nature, rooted in questions of subjectivity in language, and the evolution of a quasi-dramatic vocal interaction across the three texts.19 More recently, in a 2008 account of the same triptych, William Gibbons notes some relatively slight melodic links between the first and last songs, but gives no detailed consideration to the musical unity of the whole.20 On the other hand, as far as Youens’s other exception is concerned, while every previous commentator has noted the allegorical “farewell to romanticism” voiced across Debussy’s three chosen poems for his Fêtes galantes II, considerations of its musical unity have become blurred through emphasis on a more distant relationship between this set and the much earlier one of the same title—to be precise, on the recurrence of a “nightingale” piano motive from “En sourdine,” the first song of the first Fêtes galantes triptych (1891–92), in “Colloque sentimental,” the last of the second (1904).21 Critical focus on this linking gesture between two triptychs conceived more than a decade apart has only deflected inquiry from the degree of musical unity potentially on offer within each Fêtes galantes set on its own, and thus about the ways the two sets might encapsulate, through their distinct triptych forms, Debussy’s evolution

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across that crucial decade of work on Pelléas, the faun Prélude, the orchestral Nocturnes, and much else. Further embracing the cross-disciplinary spirit so often celebrated in this most poetically sophisticated of composers, my attempt to open the formal intricacies of these triptychs in terms other than those based on a narrowly conventional “premise of organicism” has found fruitful orientation in the 2007 book On Form by literary scholar Angela Leighton. Tracing the distinguished history of the idea of artistic “form” from Samuel Coleridge through Walter Pater to Roland Barthes, and then on to more recent literary critics, Leighton borrows from T. W. Adorno at one point when suggesting that “it might be possible to catch at the notion of form, not in a philosophical nutshell, once and for all, but only along the way, in the part-gamble, part-guesswork which each singular, differently formed work inspires.”22 In fact, returning to the wider aesthetic context opened above, and borrowing a term from Susan Wolfson (one of Leighton’s recent interlocutors) I find that the “gamble” and “guesswork” that revivifies the “formal charges” gathered into Debussy’s various song triptychs might well be conceptualized anew through metaphorical comparison with the analysis of a series of interrelated paintings.23 From the broadest perspective, we might approach such a set of pieces not with a view to excavating some unitary Grundgestalt or Urlinie, but with an opportunistic ear for the deployment, in broad shapes and shades, of hues from an available audible palette. Listening more closely, we might seek not only the most strongly related themes, but also the most suggestive interplay of distinct lines and gestures, as deployed in various patterns across a variegated sonorous canvas. At one point in her survey of twentieth-century critics of form, Leighton paraphrases from the 1939 book Vie des formes by art historian Henri Focillon: “Form consists of all the metamorphic interactions the artwork initiates, including ones that are ‘matters of imagination and memory, of sensibility and intellect.’ Far from being cut off from purpose and affect, authorial or readerly interests, form brings them all energetically into play.”24 It is this open sense of form as a play of “imagination,” “sensibility,” and “interests” that I find a useful supplement to familiar, systematically theoretical—that is, narrowly “formalist”—approaches to multi-part structure. In order to adumbrate some of these informing “interests,” I will trace some of the many modes of musical unity on offer across Debussy’s song cycles, by attending as much to his deployment (song by song) of textural, affective and mimetic devices as to the usual more narrowly technical (i.e., scalar, harmonic, motivic) ones.25 In service of a preliminary test of the potential for fresh insight in this kind of analytical “gamble,” I here offer an overview of the whole series of song triptychs, considered as both textual and musical forms, and located (at least provisionally) somewhere on a spectrum that opens between, at one pole, the conventional,

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organicist analytical approaches to these works and, at the other, the visual context I have opened above. To spell out the polarity in its starkest form: as scholars from Youens to Gibbons have noted in various ways, a song triptych can distill implicit linear narrative down to the Aristotelian bedrock of “beginning,” “middle,” and “end.”26 But the triptych structure native to the visual arts, which conventionally presents a principal central panel flanked by two subsidiary ones, usually also demands recursive scanning, back and forth, to glean aggregate symbolic and allegorical implications. Needless to say (see again Sérusier’s Cueillette des pommes, with its combined linear/narrative and framed/recursive implications), the two options are not mutually exclusive. But the polarity can, I think, serve as a useful starting heuristic. In this heuristic spirit I offer, in table 5.1, a list of all the Debussy song triptychs in historical order, keyed to a rough diagnosis of each “Textual Structure” as either “narrative” or “painterly” or some hybrid of the two, and—after a summary list of keys as preliminary orientation—an outline of “Musical Structure” in similar terms. In the discussion that follows, I will be able to give only a quick précis of most cases, but will linger on one or two, occasionally finding cause to invoke yet more ways of interpreting a formal succession in three stages. With a glance backwards across the whole array, it will be possible to consider some broadly evolving dynamics of “purpose and affect” (after Leighton and Focillon again)—and indeed some precise moments at which certain formal dynamics signal most acutely a particular, pressing set of authorial “interests.” Ultimately, it will also be possible to propose how this survey of Debussy’s most distinctive genre might suggest new refinements to the usual stories about his place (or at least his sense of his place) in music history.

The First Two Verlaine Triptychs The long series of song triptychs begins with two instances composed around the same time, one of which proves exceptional in several ways. For his Trois mélodies de Paul Verlaine, written in 1891 but not published until ten years later, Debussy chose his three texts from Verlaine’s most recent collection Sagesse (1889) rather than the earlier Fêtes galantes anthology (1869) that would give rise to his two better-known triptychs on Verlaine’s poetry. Also notable is the fact that this set, as published, boasts two dedications: the first song to Ernest Chausson, the second and third to Robert Godet.27 Perhaps this variety of dedicatees suggests in itself some degree of looseness in unitary conception. A further point of distinction can be gleaned from Youens’s brief remarks about the Trois mélodies. No doubt she is partly right to claim that this triptych is exceptional within the whole series for its setting of “nature poetry, devoid

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1891–92 [pub. 1903] 2. telegraphic description of commedia characters [antithesis]

3. “your soul” now populated 3. “Clair de lune” by maskers [synthesis] (Moonlight) [note reordering: was 1, 3, 2 in autograph]

2. “Fantôches” (Marionettes) [orig. 1882; revised]

1. intimate address between despairing lovers. [thesis]

g♯m [to Dorian]

A (m/M)

B/g♯

c♯m [to M]

3. “L’échelonnement des haies” (The serried rows of hedges) Fêtes galantes, 1. En sourdine (Muted) série I Verlaine

fm [to M]

2. “Le son du cor” (The - no clear linear progression; sound of the horn) “painterly” shape in recurrent “sea” imagery; also day-nightday

(continued)

- progression from ambivalent key of 1 to resolution of 3;

- “painterly” very clear in tempo/mood: rêveusement lent; - allegretto scherzando – très modéré

- note shared presence of “Mélisande/ sea” motif in 1 and 3; evolution from chromatic to diatonic

- “painterly” in tempi: animé – lent – assez vif; also some hint in keys (esp. E to c♯, but becomes C♯)

em [to M]

Three poems without human Trois mélodies 1. “La mer est plus belle” (The sea is more presence: personifications de Paul of landscape (the sea, the beautiful) Verlaine evening forest, the seaside meadows)

1891 [pub. 1901]

Textual structure

Musical structure

Contents

Keys

Title

Date

Table 5.1. Historical, textual, and musical overview of Debussy’s song triptychs.

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1904 [comp. and pub.]

2.”Le faune” (The Faun)

? “on G” to G + F aug.

- root progression relatively strong: F-G-A, with much ambiguity of key - F-aug “tonic” in 1 becomes bitonal shading in 2; 3 begins on F, clarifies to a minor

? “on F” to F - oblique narrative, but relatively clear: a retrospection aug. on innocence; a doom-laden present moment of intimacy; a much later melancholy aftermath

Fêtes galantes, 1. “Les ingénus” (The série II innocents) Verlaine

- all “lent,” note: triple-duplequadruple succession

- calibrated progression in intervallic palette; sequential isolation of distinctive scales, treated in a markedly systematic manner

- E♯ as “T chord” appoggiatura becomes externalized modal coloration

Musical structure

- very strong cyclic implication in final “dominant” of opening key(s)

G♭ m/M

B/g♯ [to B]

Keys

f♯m [to M, added 6th]

- “painterly” in settings: pastoral/mythic; unspecific; death of pastoral/mythic

- relatively clear narrative: from innocence to passion to disillusionment; note also spring to winter

- from twilight to two songs of night

- note the “painterly” shape of two songs of address, one of impersonal description

Textual structure

3. “Le tombeau des naïades” (The tomb of the Naiads)

2. “La chevelure” (The hair)

Trois 1. “La flûte de Pan” chansons de (Pan’s flute) Bilitis - Louÿs

1897–98 [pub. 1899]

Contents

Title

Date

Table 5.1.—(continued)

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Title

Trois chansons de France - one Lhermite; two C. d’Orléans

Le promenoir des deux amants Lhermite

Date

1904 [comp. and pub.]

1910 [and 1904]

from F/a to a

Keys

2. “Crois mon conseil, chère Climène” (Take my advice …)

1. “La grotte” [see (2) above]

B/g♯ [to pent]

- an excerpted narrative, g♯ [Dorian] selected from a larger poem; overall progression rendered more oblique and inconclusive by Debussy’s excisions

(continued)

- relatively clear relationship (1)–(2), though undercut by initial lurch to C major - subsequently more oblique, to do with registral affinities, etc.

- (3) relatively settled d minor; nb “antique” modal refrain

d minor

3. Rondel (“Pour ce que plaisance” / Because pleasure)

- key elusive in (1) despite much pure diatonicism (B implied but never affirmed, end C♯)

Musical structure

g♯ [Dorian] - (2) revisits the g♯/B ambiguity, and the dorian E♯

- no clear narrative shape; dim B? to C♯ progression from light to dark - “painterly” shape is clearer: the two rondels frame the central poem; the theme of weather recurs

Textual structure

2. “La grotte” (The grotto)

1. Rondel (“Le temps” / The weather)

3. “Colloque sentimental” (Sentimental conversation)

Contents

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Keys

Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé

? to em

3. “Éventail” (Fan)

A♭[pent]

gm [to M]

- three poems of address; characteristically oblique in all cases

2. “Placet futile” (futile petition)

1. “Soupir” (Sigh)

c♯m [to E]

3. “Bde des femmes de Paris” (… of the women of Paris)

- the most elusive structure of all

(3) vaudevillian banter

(2) “antique” modal simplicity;

(1) madrigalesque expression;

- little clear coherence; set of stylistic poses:

Musical structure

Prior to 1890, Debussy wrote ca. 30 songs, in various groupings (e.g. Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire, 1887–89). One set of three (Trois mélodies, pub. 1902) would later gather diverse earlier settings of Hyspa and Bourget.

Notes: In this table major and minor are represented by upper and lower case.

1913

a/C [to C]

2. “Bde feit à la requeste de sa mère” ( … at the request of his mother)

D♭

Trois ballades 1. “Bde de Villon à - three highly distinct f♯m [to M] de François s’amye” ( …to his lady) characters and dramatic poses; Villon no hint of narrative - general theme of “woman,” from three distinct perspectives

Textual structure

1910

Contents 3. “Je tremble en voyant ton visage” (I tremble when I see …)

Title

Date

Table 5.1.—(concluded)

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of [. . .] human presence.”28 But we need to qualify this claim with a view to the way in which two of Debussy’s three chosen poems exemplify a typically Verlainian personification of landscape. The first song, “La mer est plus belle,” describes the sea as a “nourrice fidèle” (faithful nurse) and quotes its address to the poetic persona: “Vous sans espérance, / Mourez sans souffrance!” (you who are without hope, May you die without suffering!) Then, in the second song, “Le son du cor,” personification shifts to a horn call “grieving in the woods” with the sadness of an “orphan,” and “weeping” with the “soul of a wolf” (Le son du cor s’afflige vers les bois / D’une douleur on veut croire orpheline [. . .] L’âme du loup pleure dans cette voix). Finally, the perspective in the third song, “L’échelonnement des haies,” opens out to offer a more objective view of colts and ewes gamboling on seaside meadows. As I indicate in my summary of “Textual Structure,” in this case there is no clear linear progression through the new ordering of Verlaine’s texts—nos. 15, 9 and 13, respectively, in Sagesse—though it is possible to trace a gross affective transition from the ambiguous, consolatory but death-shadowed opening, through the central, archetypically late-romantic tones of melancholy, and out to a breezy and energetic brightness. On the other hand, it is easy to discern a broadly “painterly” structure: two poems that refer to the sea in the daytime frame a central, dusky vision (and audition) of a forest at sunset. A glance at the broadest determinants of musical structure finds that the suspicion of formal looseness raised by the triptych’s double dedication is at least partly borne out. It is particularly difficult to trace precise musical links from the central, tonally ambiguous song, “Le son du cor,” outward into its two framing companions. But even so, the sequence of tempi and expression markings (Animé— Lent et dolent—Assez vif et gaiement), and to some extent the keys (two sharp keys framing a flat key), reinforce the textual suggestions of “painterly” form. At the same time, some hints of a linear “force” running through this tripartite form are actually accessible to traditional methods of organicist analysis. As I note in example 5.1, the first song gives repeated emphasis to two variants of a four-note, coiling chromatic motive. It first appears throughout measures 13–16, where voice and piano together repeatedly trace a semitone and minor third figure (i.e., [0, 1, 4]) at two transpositions (see ex. 5.1a). A first, similarly chromatic variant of the same motive, recast as semitone and major third (i.e., [0, 1, 5]) then appears in the piano alone, high atop the texture of measures 19–20 and 23–24 (ex. 5.1b). Eventually, in the last measures of the song, the same four-note shape finds its diatonic version, as a whole tone and minor third (i.e., [0, 2, 5])—one of the most prominent intervallic “cells” for Debussy, prescient of the co-called “Mélisande” motive in Pelléas et Mélisande and of a form-defining motive in La mer (ex. 5.1c). Ultimately, this local diatonic emergence bears fruit across the whole set of three songs. When, after the meandering melancholy of “Le son du cor,” the quicker tempo resumes

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Example 5.1a. “La mer est plus belle,” mm. 13–16, showing [0, 1, 4] motive in both voice and piano, at two different transpositions.        







 









 







 























 



 











  





 

















 








 











 









  



 



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Example 5.1b. “La mer est plus belle,” mm. 19–24, showing [0, 1, 5] motive in the accompaniment, at two octave levels and with two different harmonizations.   




    


   




















 




  








   





                              
               








    


 



 

 

  



 

 

 



 

 

  



 




    










 



 

 










                       




  




 

 

 

 

 

 















    












     






       

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Example 5.1c. “La mer est plus belle,” mm. 35–40, showing the final emergence and reiterations of the diatonic [0, 2, 5] motive.



  






 

















 


 








































 

 






























 
















  





 


























 








 

 






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for the last song, the culminating diatonic variant of the motive from “La mer est plus belle” also reappears prominently, again in voice and piano together, as the first sung phrase of “L’échelonnement des haies” (ex. 5.1d). Temporally distant as this fleeting reminiscence may be in a successive hearing, the distinctive vocal-instrumental doubling, along with the close rhythmic-metrical congruence of the first and last instances (compare exx. 5.1a and 5.1d), renders them a subtle unifying hook between the triptych’s outer “panels”—and at the same time, a succinct marker of the affective trajectory through the whole. Even in this quick overview of this exceptional early triptych, we can already see some of the possible interplay between “narrative” and “painterly” types, and glimpse some of the detail that we might “catch at”—to echo Adorno—in pursuit of an understanding of the compositional investment behind the tripartite form. A more acute, self-consciously music-historical sense of purpose and unity emerges, I suggest, in the contemporaneous triptych Fêtes galantes I—also composed in 1891 and published some years later—on three songs selected from Verlaine’s earlier collection. Perhaps the greater compositional sophistication of this second triptych arises from a deeper familiarity with the texts, for Debussy had set all three some years before within the thirteen songs he composed for the so-called Recueil Vasnier (1882). When he returned to the poems and brought them together in triptych form, he wrote completely new settings for the first and last, “En sourdine” and “Clair de lune,” and placed these new songs as a framing pair around a very lightly revised version of his previous setting of “Fantôches.”29 In a thorough account of the sources for the different versions of “En sourdine,” Marie Rolf has singled out the later version for the 1891 triptych as the mélodie in which Debussy first attained a fully adequate response to Verlaine’s “Symbolist” subtleties.30 We might now consider whether the progression through the whole triptych (poems nos. 21, 11, and 1 in Verlaine’s first edition; previously the second, fifth, and fourth songs for Mme Vasnier) shows a similarly new level of formal sophistication. As I note in my textual summary, the triptych begins with an intimate address between lovers. After the first lines of “En sourdine” delicately set the scene—“Calme dans le demi-jour / Que les branches hautes font” (Calm in the half-light / That the high branches make)—the speaker passionately implores his companion: Pénétrons bien notre amour De ce silence profond Fondons nos âmes, nos cœurs Et nos sens extasiés . . . [Let us penetrate our love / with this profound silence / Let us melt together our souls, our hearts / and our senses in ecstasy]

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The tutoiement in the next verse—“Ferme tes yeux à demi” (half close your eyes)—underlines the sense of romantic intimacy that ultimately opens out, in the last line, to include the song of a nightingale, “voix de notre désespoir” (voice of our despair). After the dusky love song of “En sourdine,” “Fantôches” (Marionettes)—in its new triptych context—brings an abrupt shift of tone. Rattling, sibilant tercets of octosyllables deliver terse descriptions of commedia dell’arte antics: Scaramouche et Pulcinella Qu’un mauvais dessein rassembla Gesticulent, noirs sous la lune. Cependant l’excellent docteur Example 5.1d. “L’échelonnement des haies,” mm. 1–6, showing the [0, 2, 5] motive in both voice and piano, with the first vocal entry. (Compare 5.1a.)



   


  




   



  





   

  

 





 

 

 

 

  

 

 

   





   

 






 

   

   




  

 

 





 

 

   

   

 

 

     

     

  




  







    








 

 




 



 



    









  






 

  










  














  

  

  




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Bolonais cueille avec lenteur Des simples parmi l’herbe brune. [Scaramouche and Pulcinella / Whom some evil scheme brought together / Gesticulate, black shapes beneath the moon. // Meanwhile, the fine doctor / From Bologna slowly gathers / Simples among the dark grass.]

Then, a glimpse of the doctor’s daughter, amorously seeking her “beau pirate espagnol” (handsome Spanish pirate), sets up a closing textual echo of “En sourdine.” The nightingale reappears in the last lines of “Fantôches,” now no soft “voice of despair” but rather shrieking at head-piercing volume (à tue-tête). With Debussy’s third chosen poem, “Clair de lune,” the tone of the triptych again shifts abruptly. Personal address returns, but now it is voiced as “vous” instead of “tu.” All sense of souls ecstatically “melting together” has been lost, displaced by another distancing reference to the commedia dell’arte: “Votre âme est un paysage choisi / Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques” (Your soul is a choice landscape / which is charmed by wandering maskers and bergamaskers).31 The song expands on this one metaphor, opening out from those few opening words of address into a last stanza of personified scenery: Au calme clair de lune triste et beau Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres. [In the calm moonlight, sad and beautiful / Which makes the birds dream in the trees / And the fountains sob with ecstasy, / The tall slender fountains among the statues.]

Perhaps that glimpse of birds dreaming in the trees faintly ties this last poem to the nightingale image of the previous two. But a yet more interesting structural relationship across these three texts concerns broad linguistic dynamics rather than specific imagistic detail. In the simplest overview, “painterly” outlines seem quite clear in this new textual order: two poems of personal address frame one of objective description. But at the same time, we encounter here a three-stage progression markedly richer than any straightforwardly linear narrative. An initial idealized vision of intimate union, “melting souls,” first finds the starkly antithetical contrast of an objective, ironic staging of clichéd stage characters. (The transformation of the nightingale’s song, from a participant in the intimacy of “our despair” to the shrill voice of objectivity, perfectly fits the broader contrast.) Finally, when the closing encounter in “Clair de lune” confronts the deceptive

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“bergamasques” glimpsed within the very soul of the addressee, the result can best be described as a kind of interrogative synthesis, which returns to the outward form of personal address only to bring into question its potential to attain intimate contact—with a “soul,” or with any “second person” at all. (In a felicitous detail, note how the “ecstasy” of the first poem also migrates from the personal—“our senses”—to the impersonal fountain.) Both a successive, narrative reading and a synchronic overview of the synthetic form are necessary if the aggregate is to be recognized, say, as a confrontation with the limits of romantic love and indeed of intimate personal and poetic communication. An overview of the musical structure of the Fêtes galantes I triptych profits from this sense of sophisticated hybridity at the level of textual form. In the simplest summary, the basic structure of keys and tempi seems clearly “painterly” in outline: five sharps—no sharps—five sharps; Rêveusement lent—Allegretto scherzando—Très modéré. But there is also a (distinctly Debussyan) progressive aspect to the tonal proceedings. Overall, the first song poises ambiguously between modal B major and G-sharp minor. Both possibilities receive at least some reinforcement through the first paragraph (compare measure 6 with measure 16) and the song ends, with a typically Debussyan ambivalence, on a B-major “added sixth” chord (i.e., at the same time, an inversion of the G♯ minor seventh chord). After the central stepwise shift to A minor for “Fantôches,” the final song offers a clearer resolution: “Clair de lune” both begins and ends with strong modal cadences to an unclouded G♯ minor. Taking a closer look, it is possible to isolate some detail that infuses this broadest musical progression with subtler local expressive charges. As Rumph notes within the wider contextual ventures of his article on the Chansons de Bilitis, “En sourdine” starts with Debussy’s “most literal” statement of the “Tristan chord,” identical in pitch and spacing to Wagner’s famous original.32 Looking to example 5.2a, we can see that the chord as initially presented, with the E♯ as a quasi-appoggiatura that “resolves” to F♯, remains a translated vestige of the chromatic voice leading that had made it the nineteenth century’s most famous musical icon of desire—in other words, an apt musical cipher for this poem’s early image of “melting souls.” Passing over the second song— whose precise musical relation to the tripartite progression is, as with the second of the Trois mélodies, the trickiest to discern—we find that at the very end of “Clair de lune” (and of the triptych) the E♯ recurs, atop what is effectively the same chord that had previously launched “En sourdine” (ex. 5.2b). But now this pitch has been further retranslated, to become a pure modal coloration—a hovering Dorian sixth whose decoration of the fifth degree, retaining no vestigial Wagnerian yearning, serves instead as an apt sonorous marker for the dissipation of tender personal address into cool marmoreal visions. In this case, while any reduction to pitch sets would recognize the link between first and final chords, it is only with thought for their different expressive shadings

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Example 5.2a. “En sourdine,” mm. 1–4, showing the Tristan chord in its initial voicing, and the arabesque that anticipates the reference to the nightingale. 1

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Example 5.2b. “Clair de lune,” mm. 29–32, showing the return of the “quasiTristan chord,” now re-voiced with the E♯ as modal coloration.
 


 


     









































       





 
 



     





   






 



 









  




   





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within Debussy’s modal-chromatic syntax that the finest sense of his reading of the textual form—itself now best described as a quasi-Hegelian (or quasiFichtean) “thesis-antithesis-synthesis” progression—can emerge.

A Pivotal Case After completing his first two triptychs, Debussy wrote the four Proses lyriques on his own texts in 1892–93—his last collection of anything other than three songs. His next contribution to the triptych subgenre emerged only some years later, during the long wait for a staging of Pelléas. The textual source of this last fin-de-siècle triptych, the Chansons de Bilitis (1897–98), was somewhat more complicated than that of the two earlier Verlaine sets. The Bilitis triptych also originates in a much larger collection—in this case, a book of prose poems Debussy’s closest friend Pierre Louÿs had published as translations of a newly discovered ancient Greek poetess. (In truth, of course, he had written them himself.) To be more precise: for this triptych, the first of Youens’s two exceptionally clear “narrative” cases, the composer brought together two poems from Louÿs’s original 1894 edition—whose frank exotic-erotic sensuality had earned it continent-wide success—with a new poem, “La chevelure,” written for an expanded second edition of 1898. From previous accounts we have, by now, a thorough understanding of the historical background that might seem to render the Trois chansons de Bilitis a classic instance of fin-de-siècle erotic exoticism—with all the familiar implications that trope brings in tow.33 In short, the initial dedication of Louÿs’s book identified one of its muses as the famed Algerian prostitute, Meryem bent-Ali, whom he had visited (on André Gide’s recommendation) in the oasis town of Biskra; he also took inspiration from his Algerian mistress Zohra bent-Brahim, whose sexual vivacity he reported with relish in letters to Debussy, and whose visits with the composer in Louÿs’s Paris apartment were memorialized in several famous photographs.34 Borrowing from Umberto Eco’s thoughts on different orders of readerly understanding, Gibbons argues persuasively that knowledgeable contemporaries would have heard Debussy’s triptych as a distillation of Louÿs’s entire book, and thus an efficient encapsulation of those original erotic-exotic impulses.35 But Rumph, proposing that the questions about incipient “drama” running through these three songs (and into the 1904 Fêtes galantes) recall Debussy’s struggles in the same years to “realize” Pelléas, exemplifies the more suggestive possibility that a composer of song cycles may appropriate poetic texts for creative ends partly distinct from those of their literary source. Accepting that possibility and pushing it further, I suggest that fresh attention to the musical environment in which Bilitis’s quasi-dramatic “dialogues” unfold—that is, to the accompanimental textures that proceed

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both in interdependence with and in independence from the voice—can further deepen the sense of this triptych’s relevance to the post-Wagnerian struggles that, beyond his recently completed opera, also informed Debussy’s previous musico-poetic work, the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894).36 The set begins with a poem that reopens the antique landscape previously home to Mallarmé’s lustful faun, and reintroduces the same iconic pastoral instrument. In Debussy’s first chosen Louÿs poem, “La flûte de Pan,” the pubescent Bilitis establishes a springtime setting by invoking the god “Hyacinthie” (whose name passed to one of the first spring flowers) and proceeds to tell of her lessons on the “syrinx” (panpipes) while sitting on the knees of an unnamed “him.” The intimate musical exchange—“nos chansons veulent se répondre” (our songs try to answer each other)—ultimately leads to a more physical and sensuous intimacy when their mouths briefly meet on the flute. The singing of “green frogs” at evening interrupts the idyll; the last line deepens the hints of erotic innuendo with Bilitis’s casual observation that “my mother will never believe I stayed out so long in search of my lost sash” (ma mère ne croira jamais que je suis restée si longtemps à chercher ma ceinture perdue). In the second of Debussy’s chosen chansons, “La chevelure,” the discursive situation becomes more complicated. Bilitis initially speaks only three of her own words—“Il m’a dit” (He told me)—before quoting, through fully three prose stanzas, “his” account of a dream in which the two of them were so passionately entangled in her hair that it had seemed (to him) as though “I became you or you entered into me like my dream” (je devenais toi-même ou que tu entrais en moi comme mon songe).37 Returning to her own direct utterance for the last stanza, Bilitis responds to this fantasy of self-annihilating erotic immersion in tones of exquisite ambiguity: “il me regarda d’un regard si tendre, que je baissai les yeux avec un frisson” (he looked at me with a gaze so tender, that I lowered my eyes with a shudder). Even in view of the textual origins described above, it is worth noting that Debussy’s initial selection brings together two poems that were to appear at much greater separation, as chansons 20 and 31 respectively, in the second edition of Louÿs’s book. In that context, the separation marks a palpable progress towards sexual maturity that becomes much more abrupt in Debussy’s close juxtaposition. His third chosen chanson, “Le tombeau des naïades,” actually follows directly from “La chevelure” in the 1898 edition. But this poem, another “dialogue,” changes in tone just as abruptly, from passion to frozen disillusionment. When heard in isolation from the book, this marked affective shift could also be taken to imply significant temporal distance. Bilitis now tells of walking through snowy woods, her mouth blooming with icicles and her sandals heavy with muddy snow. When asked by “him” where she is going, she claims to be following “the tracks of the satyr” (la trace du satyre). But he flatly informs

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her that the satyrs have died, along with the nymphs, from the cold winter. Suggesting that they stay by the tomb, in the quizzical final image of the triptych he breaks the ice on a spring “where the naïads once laughed” (où jadis riaient les naïades), and looks through a shard at the sky. The basic narrative progression through the three selections from Louÿs’s book is hard to miss: a naïve Bilitis, still in thrall to her mother, experiments with eroticism; a sexual partner’s dream of maximal, immersive intimacy tips over into disturbing excess; a melancholy aftermath records the loss of mythic ideals. But here again, other structural implications are also in view. In imagery and setting, the first and last songs are most closely related in their shared invocations of pastoral-mythic landscapes: one in spring, with flowers and frogs, one in the snowy forest of winter. By contrast, the central panel, steamy and oneiric, is unspecific in setting. Noting this fact, Gibbons aptly terms “La chevelure” the “fulcrum” of the form in his 2008 analysis, which fits the “painterly” triptych structure I read as a means to bring formal “charge” to a primary compositional investment.38 Perhaps Debussy conjures naiveté in a springtime landscape, and expresses disillusionment in the same landscape frozen, primarily in order to frame a question about the expressive means now (or still?) available to capture, or match, that extreme moment of sensuous immersion. Finally, it is again possible to glimpse a somewhat subtler operation, here, of the dialectical process more obviously apparent in the progression of the commedia imagery through the Fêtes galantes I triptych. The language of Bilitis’s first chanson, “La flûte de Pan,” presents a strikingly plain, objective reportage of worldly sense data, which emphasizes seen color (white wax, green frogs) and heard sound. Even the song’s most intimate moment is a meeting of bodily surfaces (the lips) on another surface (the flute). By contrast (antithesis), “La chevelure” is wholly in thrall to subjective interiority. The words of this poem report, in Bilitis’s voice, his telling of a dream, and then activate—in her recollection of his subsequent action—the romantic trope of looking into a lover’s soul. (When she lowers her eyes, denying access to her inner life, she gently claims significant power.) Finally, the third chanson returns to visible worldly imagery—for example, when describing the tracks in the snow as “holes in a white cloak”—but ends with an image that holds the relationship between sensed surfaces and imagined depths in suspended interrogation. “He” looks at a frozen surface, a shard of ice, but also through it, into the emptiness of a pale sky. At its broadest level of musical (tonal) structure, the Bilitis triptych offers the strongest key progression so far. In its opening gestures, “La flûte de Pan,” like “En sourdine,” again exemplifies Debussy’s favorite B/G♯ modal ambiguity. But this time the song closes on an unclouded B-major triad. The two settings that follow, “La chevelure” and “Le tombeau des naïades,” are both set on enharmonic versions of the dominant of B (G-flat and F-sharp major

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respectively). But the two cases are tellingly different. “La chevelure” closes on a pure G-flat major triad, which emerges with an unforgettable chill from the prior, predominantly minor-mode inflections. But “Le tombeau des naïades” ends the triptych with a richer chord that locally deepens the “open-ended” implications of the song-by-song tonal (i.e., tonic–dominant) progression. The last chord is an F-sharp “added sixth” (i.e., also a D-sharp minor seventh), which can serve as the dominant of either one of the initial modal “tonics” of “La flûte de Pan” (B major or G-sharp minor)—a harmonic detail in keeping with the endlessly “cyclic” seasonal implications (spring—[summer/ autumn]—winter) partly apparent in Debussy’s chosen texts. A closer look at musical detail finds that this triptych most richly rewards an analytical “gamble” informed by the metaphor of painterly description. For one thing, the three songs display a studied progression in what I will call a primary intervallic hue. “La flûte de Pan” begins with twelve measures in which almost every chord is a simple major triad—most of them in root position. (Example 5.3a shows the first six measures. The only exceptions are the major seventh chords that accompany the mimetic “flute” arabesque in measures 1, 4, and 12; a couple of inverted triads appear in measure 7.) While this strikingly euphonious soundscape later gives way to richer, more characteristically Debussyan sonorities (see especially measures 13–16, not shown in the example), the extensive initial restriction to the most “naïve” of consonances still poses a marked contrast to the overall sonorous hue of the second song. In “La chevelure,” almost every beat, measure by measure from start to finish, features a struck major second—a first, soft level of dissonance that gathers a rich array of minor, dominant, and half-diminished seventh chords around it as it tinges the whole soundscape (see the continuous excerpt in example 5.3c). Finally, the first several phrases of the third song present a variety of soundscapes, from the clotted chromatic saturation of the opening measures through the plainer triadic sonorities associated with the first appearance of the unnamed “him” in measures 9–10. But eventually, “Le tombeau des naïades” completes the incremental, three-stage intensification in the prevailing level of dissonance with the introduction of a harshly accented, clashing semitone motive. This motive, whose insistent repetitions first appear in measure 11 (and which recur in measures 15 and 17 of example 5.3d), accumulates intensity as it rises through the texture, ultimately coming to saturate the last page almost as densely as the naïve root-position triads had colored the first long paragraph of “La flûte de Pan.” This sense of a clear (if partial and flexible) logic in the succession of intervallic hues finds support in several other dimensions. For example, all three songs feature a linear—I would even say gestural—presentation of three different scales, whose successive order of appearance is clearly related to the gradual intensification in dissonant shading. “La flûte de Pan,” the most obvious case,

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Example 5.3a. “La flûte de Pan,” mm. 1–6, showing the palette of root-position triads, and the “antique” heptatonic mode in its plainest gestural statement.
   

    





 








     





     




    
   



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Example 5.3b. “La flûte de Pan,” mm. 17–26, showing the “black key” field for the intimate contact of mouths on flute, and the modulation (via the [0, 2, 5] ostinato) to the opposite “white key” field for distant hearing of frogs.





   







  



     
     






   













    
                                             










 
    




















    



   







       



 






 

 





                



 


 


                                                             











   

   



  










     




 



 





     
 


   
     



 



  





          






      







     

  









 















 




    

 

   
    





 







 


  





 

  



 

 



 





 



 





 



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begins with a characteristic Debussyan arabesque that is exceptional among its many more flexible relatives—as in the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune and Nuages, to name only two—for its directionally and rhythmically uninflected tracing of the seven notes of an “antique” heptatonic mode, as if to capture the physical-material immediacy of a sweep of panpipes across the lips (see again ex. 5.3a).39 Glancing ahead to “La chevelure,” we find a similarly uninflected linear scale, now woven into the texture at a pivotal point in the form. In this case the modern whole-tone scale unfolds through a complete octave in the voice, crossing a rising tenth on the same scale in the middle voice of the accompaniment (see ex. 5.3c, mm. 9–11). When the two scales “turn the corner” at measure 12, a tetrachordal pivot (C–D–E–F♯) serves to redirect the reversed crossing (rising voice, falling piano) onto one of the diatonic modes previously featured in the first song (here identifiable as either C Lydian or E Aeolian), which now delivers the song’s first climax, on “la bouche sur la bouche” (mouth to mouth). Finally, soon after adding its new, maximally dissonant semitone motive, “Le tombeau des naïades” completes this incremental progression of scalar gestures as well, when unfurling the starkest linear octatonic scale in all of Debussy’s music, stated as “eight notes” (i.e., without octave) in the middle voice of measure 20 (ex. 5.3d)—much like the baldly “heptatonic” presentation of the “antique” mode in “La flûte de Pan.” In a further continuation of the precedent established by the previous two songs, the next two measures of “Le tombeau des naïades” then slip back onto the whole-tone scale once native to “La chevelure”—here given a starkly “hexatonic” presentation that pivots to a tetrachord whose “minor” character also happens to fit the newest “octatonic” environment (D–E–F–G, last beat of measure 21).

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Example 5.3c. “La chevelure,” mm. 9–20, showing the linear whole-tone scale (crossing in voice and piano); the tetrachordal pivot to diatonic modality; the circle of fifths; and the climactic “Tristan chord” just prior to the da capo.                

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Example 5.3d. “Le tombeau des naïades,” mm. 15–32, showing the new accented semitone motive, the linear octatonic scale followed by the whole-tone scale and “tetrachordal pivot,” and the interval cycles of minor and major thirds.


 
 




     



                    

      


 

   
 



  

      
                                                




 


 

 

 

 

 














      

 

 

 

     


               




 
 


 


 

 

 

 

 


               

 
     
 

                                                      








    



 





 

 

 

 




   

 



     

 

 

   

 

 

 

 






    
    
     

 

                                    
  






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Intricately conceived as the play with scales and tetrachords might seem, I imagine it may still be possible to read the whole, studied sequence of intervallic hues and scalar gestures as a set of relatively unsurprising compositional decisions. Debussy features euphony and modality in his setting of a “naïve” poem; a more up-to-date blend of soft dissonance and late-Romantic scalar extravagances for mature sexual passion; and a harsher, more esoteric distillation from the most recent “experiments in musical chemistry” (to borrow his own words from another context) to project the disillusionment that might follow.40 There is nothing exceptional, in themselves, about the various “pitch class set genera” indicated in the examples—all of which have featured in Debussy’s songs at least since the Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire.41 But I would argue that the calibrated, three-stage selection of scalar and intervallic devices to set this particular succession of texts conveys a more “energetic” play with “authorial interests” (to recall Leighton and Focillon once again) than can be captured in purely technical, categorical terms. Perhaps the argument can be further supported with a few selective glances at the harmony. A summary overview of the harmonic design of the whole triptych would find, predictably, a predominance of the third-related progressions that often replaced traditional fifth-based harmony in Debussy’s mature compositional language.42 But a sense of that general canvas or background can help us recognize a subtler purpose behind the most distinctive harmonic gestures in each song. For example, only in “La flûte de Pan” do we find a blatant and extensive instance of the “black key” and “white key” polarity Richard Langham Smith once traced through Pelléas under the heading “tonalities of darkness and light” (see ex. 5.3b, which also highlights the [0, 2, 5] ostinati that link the two fields).43 In this context, presented as an accompaniment for a gradated transition from the intimate sensuality of lips on flute to the distant hearing of evening frogs, the polarity seems a subtle outgrowth of the initial “naïve” mimesis of pipes across lips—as though Debussy poignantly tests the degree to which the poem’s worldly spaces and sensations can be summoned through the very material, physical, and tactile properties of his own modern instrument. Only in the second song, by contrast, do we find a pointed recourse to the archetypal “tonal” circle of fifths. Unfurled through four dominants, this striking span of “traditional” harmonic syntax starts from the first climax and ends just before the rise to the second begins (see ex. 5.3c, mm. 12–14).44 When this next, more extreme climax ultimately delivers a fortissimo “Tristan chord” for the arch-Wagnerian line “you entered into me like my dream” (mm. 18–19), we can sense again a play with notional musical powers that resonates richly with the textual imagery (recall countless wagnériste paeans,

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from Baudelaire’s 1861 Tannhäuser essay onwards, to the penetrative intimacy of Wagner’s music). Finally, a similar match of compositional technique to poetic implications appears again at a few points in “Le tombeau des naïades.” Harmonically, this is the only song to feature several boldly undecorated interval cycles of minor and major thirds. In this case (as so often in Debussy’s letters) there may be a sly hint about compositional purpose to be gleaned from a note he wrote to Louÿs in December 1897: “The third Chanson de Bilitis is adorned with all the music for which I am beholden to my well-organized nature.”45 In “Le tombeau,” this most modern, “well-organized” approach to harmony first underpins the octatonic and whole-tone scales (see again ex. 5.3d, mm. 20–22); later, the minor-third cycle returns (m. 27) for the nakedly schematic parallel progression that sets up the quizzical closing image of a gaze through ice. In short, rather than merely distilling an exotic-erotic story already present in Louÿs’s book, and beyond exploring the implications of subjective and dramatic utterance through vocal interactions alone, I suggest that Debussy appropriated these three particular Louÿs chansons to serve a more thoroughgoing interrogation of the musical powers he had at his disposal at this pivotal phase of his career. Projected as much through the pianistic “environment” as through the “most persuasive voice” of Bilitis (as he put it), the triptych frames and confronts different possibilities for musical expression within a notional three-stage history.46 First, “La flûte de Pan” encapsulates an “antique” past of music, still materially and mimetically married to worldly surfaces and spaces—as in the fin-de-siècle trope Debussy himself endorsed in 1901 when claiming (as Monsieur Croche) to love best “those few notes from the flute of an Egyptian shepherd, he collaborates with the landscape and hears harmonies unknown to our treatises.”47 But the placement of this song before its two companions arguably renders it a knowing interrogation of such “pretheoretical” naïveté. And one way to highlight its antithetical relation to “La chevelure” within this triptych might be to appropriate a passing remark from the two-volume Histoire et théorie de la musique de l’antiquité (1875) by eminent music historian and theorist François-Auguste Gevaert: “According to the ideas generally accepted today, the antique spirit is essentially objective; within the modern spirit, on the contrary, it is the subjective and sentimental tendencies that dominate.”48 Here again, the extravagantly orchestrated “Tristan chord” that emerges as the climactic icon of “subjective and sentimental” modern harmonic powers in “La chevelure” also recalls Debussy’s own words—in this case, the classic wagnériste response to the first act of Tristan back in 1887: “It is decidedly the most beautiful thing I know, from the point of view of the depth of the emotion, it embraces you like a caress, makes you suffer, in short: one passes through the same sensations as Tristan, and all that without doing

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violence to one’s mind or heart.” A decade later, Louÿs’s projection of a similarly extravagant, self-annihilating intimacy through a lover’s fantasy, as “revoiced” by Bilitis herself, offered Debussy an ideal opportunity to register, in music, something much more searchingly ambivalent than that easy youthful dismissal of Wagner’s expressive “violence.”49 It is not so easy to find a similarly clear authorial statement to pose alongside the ultra-modern musical experiments that culminate the three-stage progression in “Le tombeau des naïades.” But perhaps the best critical reference point for his final “games” with musical powers in the Louÿs triptych is the same one I once proposed for the similar esoteric play with chords and modes and timbres in his Mallarmé Prélude. Indeed, through its placement after “La chevelure” as much as its imagery of futile searching, “Le tombeau des naïades” arguably offers an even more blatant response than the 1894 tone poem to the creative struggles Debussy later recalled when looking back, after the Pelléas première, on the ’90s: “[Wagner] had put the full stop to the music of his time much in the way that Hugo summed up all previous poetry. It was thus necessary to seek ways of being après Wagner and not d’après Wagner.”50 In Louÿs’s mysterious final image, supplemented by his own “well-organized” chord progressions, Debussy found an opportunity to reframe a question much like the one once projected through the crepuscular timbres of the Prélude—the question, that is, about what might remain for modern musical powers after the death of naïve antique mimesis and romantic affective excess alike.

Final Elaborations With this reading of Bilitis, I have extended backwards the kind of allegorical, self-consciously music-historical reading that has so far been widely applied only to Debussy’s next triptych, the second set he wrote on poems from Verlaine’s Fêtes galantes. In this case, the first song, “Les ingénus,” sets a poem of wry retrospection on youthful flirting; the second, “Le faune,” a present-tense vision of a terra-cotta faun regarding lovers’ interactions with cynical certainty about their “suite mauvaise” (bad outcome); the last, “Colloque sentimental,” a dramatic scene between ghostly former lovers wandering in a wintry park as they dimly (and in one case reluctantly) recall long lost passions. Rumph, Youens and Bergeron all read the last chapter of this oblique tripartite narrative as an allegorical farewell to romanticism on the threshold of bleaker modernism. Yet while there is no question about the last nostalgic framing of Wagnerian passion in the middle section of “Colloque sentimental”—which again features the “Tristan chord,” at the line “Les beaux jours de bonheur indicible” (those beautiful days of unspeakable happiness, mm. 34–37)—a closer look at

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the musical progression through the whole triptych finds some possible refinements to this most obvious interpretation. For one thing, it is easy to see why Debussy’s contemporary Charles Koechlin was inclined to wonder, in one of the earliest accounts, whether the first two songs, “Les ingénus” and “Le faune,” had been composed “considerably later” than all the other Fêtes galantes.51 The radically modern musical syntax of these songs is one reason why my summary of keys in table 5.1 must inevitably be shaded with ambiguity. As shown in example 5.4a, “Les ingénus” begins with a meandering tune in the piano whose scalar basis Bergeron aptly deems a “deliberately artificial mode,” and which, like the voice when it enters, is oriented around the pitches of the F augmented triad.52 Ultimately, after a last arrival on D♭ in the voice, the same triad emerges as the song’s final “tonic” (ex. 5.4b). The second song, “Le faune,” begins with a distinctly more modern (octatonic and chromatic) “flute” arabesque than that naïvely heptatonic mimesis of “La flûte de Pan.” It then settles onto a chordal tune whose harmonic combination with the drum-like G–D pedal tone “skirts bitonality,” as Koechlin puts it—no doubt with a view to the continuing orientation of the main phrases around the F augmented triad (ex. 5.4c).53 This song closes on a final “tonic” of even more complex dissonance than that of “Les ingénus”: the augmented fifth F–C♯ over the perfect fifth G–D (ex. 5.4d). Finally, “Colloque sentimental” is usually assigned simply to A minor, the key first suggested (somewhat ambiguously) by the vocal line. But in truth the only strong harmonic arrivals in the first fifteen measures are on F major, and the clarification to a modal/diatonic A minor emerges only much later, after an impassioned middle section in which the sound of the diminished seventh is particularly prominent. The ending of the song, with vestigial diminished sevenths, is shown in example 5.4f. In summary, this set begins by pushing even further into the realm of modernist syntax previously interrogated in “Le tombeau des naïades,” and offers a nostalgic framing of romanticism that ultimately gives way to what might best be described as a simpler modal clarity. (See the harmonic summary in ex. 5.4g.) The possibility that this formal dynamic suggests something other than a straightforward progression towards a predetermined, ever more dissonant and bleak modernist musical language becomes clearer if we glance again at table 5.1. Even as he was completing these last Verlaine songs, Debussy was also embarking on his settings of Charles d’Orléans and Tristan l’Hermite in the Trois chansons de France (1904)—the first of the three song triptychs he would eventually write on older poetry, all of which give new prominence to “antique” modality. Leaving more detailed consideration of these later, self-consciously antiquarian triptychs for another time, I hope that I have given a preliminary sense of the

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Example 5.4a. “Les ingénus,” mm. 1–8, showing the orientation of all material, vocal and accompanimental, around the F augmented triad.


 
     




















 



                 
             






    






 







 









   
















 







 



 















 


 


























 








 













  















Example 5.4b. “Les ingénus,” mm. 48–53, showing the final melodic and harmonic affirmations of the F augmented “tonic.”     




 





 



  





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Example 5.4c. “Le faune,” mm. 4–12, showing the “bitonal” inflections of the main chordal tune in the accompaniment.







   













  


  
 




  

  













      

 


  










  







     

   

   

   









                       







  

  










  

 





  





























                   

  

 

    



  

             

Example 5.4d. “Le faune,” mm. 36–39, showing the final dissonant (bitonal) “tonic.”

  













 















 









 




                        


 

 








     

Example 5.4e. “Colloque sentimental,” mm. 1–6, showing the initial whole-tone material “resolving” to F major, and the hints of A minor in the vocal melody.





       


 











     






    

   







     

 























 



  

  


 

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Example 5.4f. “Colloque sentimental,” mm. 53–58, showing the final resolution to A minor after vestigial recollections of the middle section’s diminished sevenths.





  







 



 


   






     



 


 
   






  

     

   









  

 



 

   

 







 

  



   





   





 















  






 



    

Example 5.4g. Harmonic summary of “Les ingénus,” “Le faune,” and “Colloque sentimental.”




  

  

  

 

   
  

   




  

potential for a quasi-painterly “gamble” and “guesswork”—attuned as much to loose kinships of gesture and calibrated shadings of harmonic hue as to conventional motives and keys—to provide richer, more flexible understanding than any analysis rooted in narrowly organicist premises alone of the various kinds and degrees of musical-poetic unity on offer across all these triptychs. It is only by “catching at” multi-part form in this way that it is possible to recognize the progression from Fêtes galantes I through the Trois chansons de Bilitis to Fêtes galantes II as a rich, three-stage interrogation of the expressive possibilities in Debussy’s own musical languages during the most crucial years of his negotiation with the Wagnerian heritage. The clearest and most freighted sign of that interrogation is undoubtedly the “Tristan chord,” as transmuted from poignantly vestigial tonal emblem to cool modal artifact in Fêtes galantes I, then held up to question again—its former powers recovered but interrogatively “othered”—at the fulcrum of the Trois chansons de Bilitis, and finally relegated to deeply ambivalent nostalgia in the framed (and rejected) reminiscences of “Colloque sentimental.” But if the fate of this harmonic detail seems just about enough to attach the whole, multi-song sequence to Debussy’s struggles après Wagner, if we step back, in conclusion, for a slightly more embracing overview

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of the whole sequence shown in table 5.1 we might also find reason to consider whether the evolving formal dynamics of the Debussyan song triptych form itself reflects a similar, over-arching evolution in composed historical self-consciousness. Consider how poignantly those famous words just quoted from Debussy’s article “Pourquoi j’ai écrit Pelléas”—“il fallait chercher après Wagner” (It was necessary to seek [music] après Wagner)—encapsulate an obligation this particular generation of composers experienced with unprecedented, radically oppressive, force. I am thinking here of Richard Taruskin’s extravagant claim, in the third volume of his Oxford History of Western Music, that the most influential figure in nineteenth-century music history was Franz Brendel, who appropriated to music the Hegelian progressive “laws” that Wagner adopted to serve his own self-glorification, and which later proved so widely influential on the ideology of the musical avant-garde.54 Wagner’s writings, of course, quickly found their way into French music-historical discourse. The rapid dissemination of the progressive “laws” he claimed to embody was soon vividly illustrated, for example, in the paeans to music’s eternal “progrès en avant” (forward progress) that appear in the closing pages of Henri Lavoix’s patently Wagnerian 1884 Histoire de la musique.55 Perhaps, then, there is something more than coincidence in the fact that the three Debussy triptychs most overtly marked by Wagnerian harmonic detail were also those most intensive in their articulation of continuous, progressive—that is, narrative and even dialectical—structure. Extrapolating further from such a conceit, we might well wonder whether the markedly looser musical progressions discernible in all of the triptychs Debussy completed after 1904—and reflected in my provisional language about “Musical Structure” for all later instances in table 5.1—themselves exemplify a retreat from, or rejection of, any creative obligation to a music history understood as an ineluctable “progrès en avant.” In truth, there is more than mere conceit in a suggestion that the progression or succession, in gross outline, through these last triptychs takes on a newly complex, even contradictory music-historical aspect. It has proven easy, for example, simply to label the 1910 Trois ballades de François Villon as an instance of pre-war nationalist reaction, as if a glance to that ideological context tells us all we need to know about this work’s place in music history.56 But maybe we should think more carefully about the fact that the composer of the madrigalesque intensities and vaudevillian humor of these cod-“Renaissance” settings could also, just three years later, push to an extreme of modernist refinement in his next (and last) song triptych. Marianne Wheeldon has convincingly analyzed “Soupir,” the first of Debussy’s Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé, as a proto-Boulezian “open form.”57 Conceivably, if the two Fêtes galantes sets and the Bilitis Chansons can now be seen together as the grand “triptych of triptychs” through which Debussy (with some consistency of investment) confronted his post-Wagnerian historicist obligations, fresh study

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of his later ventures in the genre—in which a Debussy “post-Villon” rubs shoulders with a Debussy “pre-Boulez”—likely still holds much untapped potential to unsettle the progressivist historiographical assumptions within which his music has so often been ensnared. Finally, however, I imagine that the attempt, in this essay, to restore Debussy’s songs to their original tripartite presentation could itself carry an implicit whiff of music-critical obligation—and maybe even an underhanded endorsement of the strong “work concept” that has always been close companion to the “premise of organicism.” One last glance to the visual context I selectively exemplified in my figures 1 and 2 can help delimit my claims more judiciously. Given the wit and imagination with which the Japanese ukiyo-e printmakers explored the three-part form, it may be surprising to find so few complete triptychs amidst all the reproductions in Bing’s journal Le Japon artistique. But such a cavalier approach to original context seems to have been the rule, not the exception, with japoniste dealers. To mention only one other notable instance: within Van Gogh’s extensive ukiyo-e collection we do find a few complete triptychs, and he must surely have savored their endlessly inventive devices of unity and continuity.58 But he also owned many pairs of images (both adjacent and not), and even more individual ones, which had all fallen away from their original triptych companions. This haphazard diffusion of once-unified imagery can serve as a useful spur to embrace the broadest sense of the “open” approach to Debussy’s songs that serves, in Wheeldon’s analysis of “Soupir,” as much as an invitation to the reader as a property of the song itself. That is, to program Debussy’s song triptychs as triptychs—even as a “triptych of triptychs,” for those special central cases—may offer a chance to re-experience, aurally and imaginatively, the historical pressures that once informed their creation. But to let the songs float free, like the separate pages from the ukiyo-e triptychs in Bing’s and Van Gogh’s and many other fin-de-siècle collections—to program (say) a Villon ballade alongside a Fête galante, a Mallarmé poème, a Verlaine mélodie and a Bilitis chanson—might ironically offer an even better way to respond, belatedly, to Debussy’s desperate struggles with music “après Wagner” all through the 1890s. We might thus fortuitously recover, for the whole song oeuvre, some of the unruly openness of aesthetic possibility that at least some critics were able to celebrate in that febrile “Symbolist” painterly environment, before the polemicists for fauvism or cubism (or whatever else) came to enforce their own cherished versions of art-historical obligation. It is with that possibility in mind that I will end with one particularly vibrant vision of such openness, as offered by the Belgian poet and art critic Émile Verhaeren in 1891—coincidentally, the very year Debussy first started gathering his songs into triptych form:

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In sum, that which stays in the memory after a lengthy visit to the Salon indépendant is, amidst the recent arrivals and the seekers of surprises, a multivalent curiosity about widely disparate fields of art. There is no longer a school, at most there are a few groups, who are constantly breaking up. All these tendencies make me think of those dynamic and kaleidoscopic geometric designs, which mirror each other at one instant, come together at another, first conjoin only to separate and fly apart soon after, but nonetheless all keep turning together within the sae circle, that of new art.59

Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

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I am treating the texted triptychs as a partly distinct subgenre within Debussy’s predilection for sets of three, which of course also gave rise to numerous untexted examples, from the Estampes and Images for piano through La mer to the last sonatas. Although we could expand the texted subgenre slightly to include the choral Trois chansons de Charles d’Orléans of 1909, I will discuss only the triptychs for voice and piano. Important recent contributions are to be found in Katherine Bergeron, Voice Lessons: French Mélodie in the Belle Époque (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), e.g., 149–56 and 163–70, and also in her earlier articles “Mélisande’s Hair, or, the Trouble in Allemonde: A Postmodern Allegory at the OpéraComique,” in Siren Songs: Representations of Gender and Sexuality in Opera, ed. Mary Ann Smart (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 160–85, and “The Echo, The Cry, The Death of Lovers,” 19th-Century Music 18, no. 2 (1994): 136–51. Notable others include Carolyn Abbate, “Debussy’s Phantom Sounds,” in her In Search of Opera (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 145– 84; Raymond Monelle, “A Semantic Approach to Debussy’s Songs,” The Music Review 51, no. 3 (August 1990): 193–207; Marie Rolf, “Semantic and Structural Issues in Debussy’s Mallarmé Songs,” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 179–200; Marianne Wheeldon, “Debussy’s Soupir: An Experiment in Permutational Analysis,” Perspectives of New Music 38, no. 2 (Summer 2000): 134–60. See also the early survey of much of the oeuvre, song by song, in Arthur Wenk, Claude Debussy and the Poets (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1976). See the discussion of the Poèmes d’un jour in Graham Johnson, Gabriel Fauré: The Songs and Their Poets (London and Farnham, Surrey: The Guildhall School of Music and Drama and Ashgate, 2009), 114–20. Johnson suggests an inspiration for this set (commercial as much as aesthetic) in the highly successful “Poème” cycles of Massenet. Quoted from the discussion of the mural, as reproduced along with several composition studies, in Aimée Brown Price, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes (Amsterdam: Van Gogh Museum, 1994), 199–209.

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5.

Maurice Denis, “Définition du néo-traditionnisme,” in his Théories: 1890–1910: du symbolisme et de Gauguin vers un nouvel ordre classique (Paris: Rouart & Watelin, 1920), 1–13. For the reference to Puvis see p. 9, for the “primitifs” see pp. 2–3. 6. See Roger Marx, “On the Role and Influence of the Arts of the Far East and of Japan,” Le Japon artistique 6, no. 36 (1891): 459–66 (466). Many of Marx’s hyperbolic turns on the “freedom” of the Japanese artists read like direct echoes of Debussy’s more famous pronouncements, as in the well-known 1889 conversation with Guiraud. (Bing’s journal appeared more or less simultaneously in English and French, I will draw selectively from both versions). 7. See the exhibition catalogue L’art nouveau: la maison Bing, ed. Gabriel P. Weisberg, Edwin Becker, and Évelyne Possémé (Amsterdam: Van Gogh Museum, 2004). I quote from Weisberg, “A Family Affair: from Hamburg to Paris and Beyond,” 9–31, at 25. 8. On Debussy’s japonisme see also Michel Duchesneau, “Debussy and Japanese Prints,” chapter 10 in the current volume. 9. Debussy’s japonisme has been noted with varying degrees of detail throughout the literature, from Lockspeiser and Barraqué through Roberts and Nectoux. On the question of tripartite prints, it is worth noting that Bing largely reproduced only single images in Le Japon artistique (the only “triple plate,” by Toyokuni, appears in vol. 4), and his contributors rarely even mention their origin in sets of three. But see for example Thédore Duret’s passing remark in his article “La Gravure Japonais,” Le Japon artistique 2 (May 1889): 80: “Cette gravure ne forme qu’une fraction de la composition totale qui se compose de 3 feuilles, dont chacune mesure le double de notre reproduction. Ces sortes de feuilles ne sont point empruntées à des livres elles appartiennent à la catégorie des estampes qui se publiaient séparément, et que les japonais désignent sous le nom de Itshi maï yé (images par une pièce).” Might the phrase “images par une pièce” be suggestive background to Debussy’s sets of three piano Images, the first from 1894? 10. For a typical lionization of Utamaro, see, e.g., Gustave Geffroy, “Japanese Landscape Painters—(conclusion),” Le Japon artistique 6, no. 33 (February 1891): 419–27 (425). In the introduction to his catalogue of prints by one brilliantly inventive later artist of printed triptychs, B. W. Robinson explains that the form arose in part for precise historical reasons: “the size of paper sheets available for print-making was strictly regulated by law, with the result that if an artist wished to publish a large composition he necessarily had recourse to the diptych or triptych.” See his Kuniyoshi: The Warrior Prints (Oxford: Phaidon, 1982), 9–10. 11. See the color reproduction of both screens in Gloria Groom, Beyond the Easel: Decorative Painting by Bonnard, Vuillard, Denis and Roussel, 1890–1930 (Chicago: The Art Institute of Chicago, 2001), 58–60. As Groom notes, the obvious pastiche in these early works renders them “the least personal”—that is, the “most obviously ‘borrowed’”—of Bonnard’s decorative responses to Japanese painting. He was later to produce several more personal variants, for example, in the tripartite screens Ensemble champêtre (1894) and Méditerranée (1911). 12. See the color reproduction in Claire Frèches-Thory and Ursula Perucchi-Petri, eds., Die Nabis: Propheten der Moderne (Munich: Prestel-Verlag and Kunsthaus

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13.

14. 15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23.

24. 25.

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Zurich, 1993), 256. In her brief critical commentary (pp. 255–56), Carol Boyle-Turner suggests some allegorical implications of the narrative progression, notably including the Biblical “tree of knowledge.” For a useful attempt to navigate the perennial questions raised by Debussy’s possible ties to particular visual styles see Leon Botstein, “Beyond the Illusions of Realism: Painting and Debussy’s Break with Tradition,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 141–79. Paul Gauguin, The Writings of A Savage, ed. Daniel Guérin and trans. Eleanor Levieux. (New York: Paragon House, 1990), 26. Laura Tunbridge, The Song Cycle, Cambridge Introductions to Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 1. Ibid., 14. Key recent contributions to the debate include Beate Perrey, Schumann’s Dichterliebe and Early Romantic Poetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002) and Berthold Hoeckner, “Paths through Dichterliebe,” 19th-Century Music 30 (2006): 65–80. Susan Youens, “To Tell a Tale: Symbolist Narrative in Debussy’s Fêtes galantes II,” Nineteenth-Century French Studies 16, 1–2 (1987–88): 180–91 (181). Ibid., 188. Stephen Rumph, “Debussy’s Trois chansons de Bilitis: Song, Opera, and the Death of the Subject,” The Journal of Musicology 12, no. 4 (Autumn 1994): 464–90. William Gibbons, “Debussy as Storyteller: Narrative Expansion in the Trois chansons de Bilitis,” Current Musicology 85 (Spring 2008): 7–28. For another account of the same set, again largely textual (prosodic) in focus, see Susan Youens, “Music, Verse, and ‘Prose Poetry’: Debussy’s Trois chansons de Bilitis,” Journal of Musicological Research 7, no. 1 (1986): 69–94. See, e.g., Rumph, “Debussy’s Trois chansons de Bilitis,” 484–86. Tunbridge fastens on this link between two separate triptychs when discussing Debussy’s contribution to the genre in The Song Cycle, 99–102. Angela Leighton, On Form: Poetry, Aestheticism, and the Legacy of a Word (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 28–29. I take the idea of a formal “charge” from Susan Wolfson, as in her book Formal Charges: The Shaping of Poetry in British Romanticism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997). See also Modern Language Quarterly 61, no. 1 (March 2000), a special issue Wolfson edited under the rubric “Reading for Form.” Leighton, On Form, 17. The reference is to Henri Focillon, Vie des formes (Paris: Felix Alcan, 1939). A useful point of reference here is Rose Rosengard Subotnik’s essay “Toward a Deconstruction of Structural Listening: A Critique of Schoenberg, Adorno, and Stravinsky,” in her Deconstructive Variations: Music and Reason in Western Society (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 148–76. This essay inspired an edited collection including one contribution about a Debussy song that is suggestive, among other things, for its frank admission of a kind of “failure” in the attempt to account for musical form as a “real time” experience. See Elisabeth Le Guin, “One Bar in Eight: Debussy and the Death of Description,” in Beyond Structural Listening? Postmodern Modes of Hearing, ed.

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26.

27.

28. 29.

30.

31. 32. 33.

34.

35. 36.

37.

38. 39.

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Andrew Dell’Antonio (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2004), 233–51. For Gibbons, the reference is more precisely to the “cardinal points” of a narrative, as discussed by Roland Barthes in his “Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narratives,” in Image, Music, Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 79–124. Debussy mentioned the songs to Godet in a letter of January 30, 1892. See C, 103. I am indebted, throughout, to the translations and editorial commentary in Margaret Cobb, ed., Richard Millar, trans., The Poetic Debussy: A Collection of his Song Texts and Letters, 2nd ed. (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1994), and James Briscoe, ed., Songs of Claude Debussy (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard, 1993). Youens, “To Tell a Tale,” 181. As noted in table 5.1, the autograph manuscript presents the three songs in a different order. But this fact is open to various interpretations: perhaps Debussy gave priority to the work on two wholly new compositions, saving the lighter revisions of “Fantôches” for later. Marie Rolf, “Debussy’s Settings of Verlaine’s ‘En sourdine,’” in Perspectives on Music: Essays on Collections at the Humanities Research Center, ed. Dave Oliphant and Thomas Zigal (Austin, TX: Humanities Research Center, University of Texas, 1985), 205–33, see esp. 232. It is the term “bergamasque,” of course, that explicitly evokes the commedia, conventionally thought to have originated in Bergamo. Rumph, “Debussy’s Trois chansons de Bilitis,” 489. Further useful discussion of the background to this triptych, along with reflections on the incidental music Debussy later wrote for a recitation with staged tableaux vivants of further selections from Louÿs’s book, is to be found in David Grayson, “Bilitis and Tanagra: Afternoons with Nude Women,” in Fulcher, Debussy and His World, 117– 40. The ideological resonance is clear enough to earn the Bilitis triptych a brief mention, along with a reproduction of one of the Zohra photographs, in Ralph Locke’s Musical Exoticism: Images and Reflections (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 219. Locke does not elaborate on any “exoticism” in the triptych’s music. Gibbons, “Debussy as Storyteller,” passim. See my “Hearing Debussy Reading Mallarmé: Music après Wagner in the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 54, no. 3 (Fall 2001): 493–554. Debussy slightly changed Bilitis’s first words, from “Il me dit.” Youens deems this an “improvement” that heightens the tension between “what is remembered and/or dreamed and the present.” “Music, Verse, and ‘Prose Poetry,’” 86. Gibbons, “Debussy as Storyteller,” 19. Indeed we might say that the modal placement of the arabesque approximates that physical-material immediacy as closely as possible on the keyboard. Recall Chopin’s suggestion that the best scale for pianists to begin with is not C major, but B major. Debussy’s modal alteration (the E♯) does not change the material

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the “song triptych”

40.

41.

42.

43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51.

52. 53. 54.

55.

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basis for this suggestion: the way the B scale brings the fingers of the hands “naturally” into contact with the groupings of two and three black keys. The reference to “mes dernières expériences sur la chimie musicale,” which refers to Debussy’s incomplete Rossetti setting La saulaie, appears in a letter to Eugène Ysaÿe of October 13, 1896. C, 326. I refer here to Richard Parks, The Music of Claude Debussy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). For an exemplary attempt to conjoin Parks’s systematic approach to Debussy’s “referential pitch set genera” with the similarly systematic linguistics of Greimas, see Monelle, “A Semantic Approach” (which traces diatonic, whole-tone, and octatonic devices through the Baudelaire song “Le jet d’eau.”) For a thorough account of the development of this syntactical proclivity see Avo Somer, “Chromatic Third-Relations and Tonal Structure in the Songs of Debussy,” Music Theory Spectrum 17, no. 2 (Autumn 1995): 215–41. See Richard Langham Smith, “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” in Claude Debussy: “Pelléas et Mélisande,” ed. Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith, Cambridge Opera Handbooks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 107–39. It is tempting to make something of the textual reference to “roots” at this exceptional passage of traditional root-directed harmony. C, 377. See my epigraph, and note 1 above. C, 330–32. MC, 52. Fr. Aug. Gevaert, Histoire et théorie de la musique de L’antiquité, vol. 1 (Ghent: Annoot-Braeckmann, 1875), 25–26. Perhaps Debussy’s chansons thus became, in part, a sly contribution to the heated disagreements he was having with Louÿs in these very years about the status of Wagner. We only have Louÿs’s side of the fiercest argument: see his long letter of October 29, 1896 in C, 330–32. “Pourquoi j’ai écrit Pelléas,” in MC, 62–64 (63). Referring to all six Fêtes galantes, Koechlin suggests that “les ingénus et Le faune sont probablement assez postérieurs aux autres.” “La mélodie,” in Ladislas Rohozinski, ed., Cinquante ans de musique française de 1874 à 1925, vol. 2 (Paris: Librairie de France, 1925), 34. Bergeron, Voice Lessons, 256. “Le faune [. . .] côtoie la bitonalité” [emphasis original]. Koechlin, “La mélodie,” 34. Richard Taruskin, The Oxford History of Western Music, rev. ed., vol. 3 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 411–16. Taruskin actually introduces Brendel in somewhat more circumscribed terms: “there was no more important figure in the world of German music at midcentury” (411). But his discussion of “Historicism” concerns Brendel’s much wider impact—indeed his “lasting influence even among musicians who have never heard of him” (415). H. Lavoix fils, Histoire de la musique, new ed. (Paris: Alcide Picard & Kaan, n.d. [orig. 1884]), 365. I take the date of Lavoix’s first edition from the article on Lavoix (by the editor) in Joël-Marie Fauquet, ed., Dictionnaire de la musique en France au xixème siècle (Paris: Fayard, 2003), 670–71. Fouquet identifies Lavoix

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56.

57. 58.

59.

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as an amateur “musicographe” rather than a professional “musicologue”—but that fact itself speaks to the widespread absorption of the Wagnerian model. See for example Jane Fulcher, French Cultural Politics and Music: From the Dreyfus Affair to the First World War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), esp. 169–93. Wheeldon, “Debussy’s Soupir.” See for example the selection from “Ukiyoe collected by the Van Gogh brothers,” reproduced in the exhibition catalogue Vincent Van Gogh and Japan (Kyoto: TV Asahi, 1992), 194–232. Émile Verhaeren, “Le salon des artistes indépendants,” in his Écrits sur l’art (1881–1892), ed. Paul Aron (Brussels: Éditions Labor, 1997), 416–18 (418). [Originally in La nation, March 22, 1891].

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Chapter Six

Composing after Wagner The Music of Bruneau and Debussy, 1890–1902 François de Médicis

The operas of Alfred Bruneau (1857–1934) created a sensation in French musical circles during the 1890s. According to the critics, Le rêve (1891) and L’attaque du moulin (1893) offered the first truly French alternative to Wagnerian music drama. During the same period Claude Debussy began asserting his signature style in his first great works, such as Prélude à l’aprèsmidi d’un faune (1894), Nocturnes for orchestra (1899), and Pelléas et Mélisande (although the opera premièred in 1902, the short score for a substantial portion of the work was written between 1893 and 1895).1 In this essay I compare the works of Bruneau and Debussy during this decisive decade, paying particular attention to their musical language and poetic associations: the tonal symbolism of F-sharp major and C major in the operas; the conjuring up of dream worlds through whole-tone scales; rhythmic organization (abrupt contrasts combined with the use of liquidation and motivic elimination); and the use of offstage voices to create a sense of distance and stereophonic effects. Richard Langham Smith and Jean-Christophe Branger have both sensitively explored the parallels between Bruneau and Debussy.2 As they concentrated primarily on the connections between Le rêve and Pelléas et Mélisande, I seek to broaden the discussion: first, by examining a larger group of works, and second, by situating them more precisely within the context of composition in contemporary French music circles. I do not want to minimize the aesthetic differences that

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distinguish Debussy from Bruneau, or to reduce the former to a slavish imitator of the latter. Still, for a young composer in the 1890s seeking to escape the temptations of Wagnerism, Bruneau’s operas would have stood out on account of their success and originality; we should not dismiss a priori the possibility that Debussy was inspired by these works. On a historiographical level, several studies have endeavored to contextualize Debussy’s music in relation to composers and repertories that have since become canonic, such as Richard Wagner (1813–83) and Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971), and the music of Java and other Far Eastern cultures presented at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair.3 This approach—which I call “retrospective”—is certainly appropriate and has significantly broadened our knowledge of the subject. And yet the potential contribution of a more “prospective” approach should not be underestimated; this perspective considers the artistic values and the musicians on the scene at the time Debussy was composing—even those that may have since been forgotten. Although the prospective approach may be less common, it is far from new in Debussy studies and has been applied successfully, for example, in research exploring Debussy’s relationship with the music of Vincent d’Indy.4 The parallel between the music of Debussy and Bruneau that I wish to draw here is a kind of case study in the prospective approach. The utter silence on Bruneau in most recent music history books is quite surprising given his reputation and the enthusiastic reception of his music in Europe in the 1890s.5 With the première of Le rêve in 1891, the composer’s career took off in French musical circles, rapidly garnering an international impact and the admiration of such discerning musicians as Gustav Mahler (1860–1911) and Richard Strauss (1864–1949).6 Before comparing their music, I will first briefly discuss the evolution of their careers in the 1890s and their connections to each other in order to get a better sense of Debussy’s interest in Bruneau’s music. Despite the few tangible reports of the personal contact that they must have had, we can reasonably assume that they knew each other fairly early on. Bruneau was barely five years older than Debussy and they began their instrumental studies at the Paris Conservatoire a year apart: Debussy in piano in 1872, Bruneau in cello in 1873. They must have crossed paths at the institution over the following decade until they completed their studies: Bruneau in 1881 after he was awarded the Premier deuxième grand prix de Rome (the first winner of the second prize) for his cantata Geneviève, and Debussy in 1884 after his cantata L’enfant prodigue won the Premier grand prix. Debussy used “tu” in his correspondence with Bruneau, a mark of familiarity that he adopted only rarely and reserved for his most intimate acquaintances or friends from his youth.7 Richard Langham Smith has noted Debussy’s visits in 1882 to the home of his patrons, the Vasnier family, and the close proximity of the Vasnier’s residence in Ville-d’Avray to Bruneau’s family home.8 But given

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that Debussy went to see Marie-Blanche Vasnier, his passion and muse and the mistress of the house, he was probably not very keen to leave her to visit his other acquaintances in the neighborhood. Still, the two composers’ circle of friends overlapped, notably with Paul Vidal and Xavier Leroux; both were students of Massenet (like Bruneau) and spent time with Debussy during his time in Rome (1885–87). When Debussy returned from Rome, the two composers might have crossed paths at the Société nationale de musique (SNM), as they were both members and had their music performed at the concerts.9 They could have met at various concert halls, especially for the premières of new works that they both closely followed in their capacity as music critics or sometimes just as listeners. They collaborated at the same time with the same librettist, Catulle Mendès: Bruneau wrote Dix lieds de France (op. 21) in 1891 and Six chansons à danser (op. 23) in 1894, while Debussy composed three acts of his opera Rodrigue et Chimène between 1890 and 1893. And when Debussy performed excerpts of Wagner on piano along with Raoul Pugno for Mendès’s talks on Das Rheingold, it was Bruneau who reported on the event in Gil Blas (May 8, 1893). Throughout their professional lives, the two musicians worked as music critics while pursuing their careers as composers. Bruneau, who took up the pen in 1889, was diligent and enthusiastic, and he contributed to many publications: he wrote for the Revue indépendante from 1889 to 1890, the Revue illustrée in 1891, Gil Blas from 1892 to 1895 (where, with a little help from Zola, he managed to take over Victor Wilder’s position), Le Figaro from 1895 to 1901, and so forth.10 Debussy worked less regularly as a music critic; however, he contributed to Gil Blas (like Bruneau) in 1902 after writing for La revue blanche, and later wrote for La revue S.I.M. (1912–14). In one of his first articles in 1889 Bruneau proclaimed his artistic profession as a realist musician in quite original terms: “music in the open air,” in reference to the Impressionists’ new practice of abandoning their studios and painting under open skies.11 In 1901 Debussy also devoted one of his first articles to music in the open air, an essay that is very tempting to consider as a reaction to Bruneau’s declaration: the younger composer expressed his artistic credo instead in Symbolist terms (even placing a truncated citation of Baudelaire as the epigraph to his text).12 Bruneau and Debussy intimately absorbed Wagner’s music during the formative years of their musical development and, like other composers of their generation, were confronted with the problem of Wagner’s legacy. In the 1890s, a small group of avant-garde French composers—Vincent d’Indy, Ernest Chausson, Albéric Magnard in Yolande—sought to produce an art imbued with Wagnerian style and aesthetics;13 others, while still acknowledging Wagner’s tremendous artistic success, advocated an artistic renaissance through radically new pathways, separate from those taken by the great German composer. In

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1902 Debussy summarized the dilemma as composing d’après or après Wagner14 (which I quote in this chapter’s title).15 Bruneau’s journalistic writings in the 1890s confronted the issues surrounding composition head-on, specifically the question of Wagnerism; this emerges clearly in his reaction to Vincent d’Indy’s stylistic evolution. During the 1880s Bruneau’s growing admiration of d’Indy’s music culminated in his response to the overture trilogy Wallenstein, op. 12 (1881; premièred as a cycle at the Concert Lamoureux on February 26, 1888), which he considered the composer’s crowning achievement and ne plus ultra of the avant-garde. Nevertheless, as Wagner’s music gained wider recognition in France and with d’Indy’s increasing penchant for Wagnerism in Le chant de la cloche, op. 18 (1883), and Fervaal, op. 40 (1895), the journalist expressed his reservations in increasingly forceful and severe terms. Thus in March 1889 Bruneau’s report on the Wallenstein trilogy in the Revue indépendante betrayed unabashed enthusiasm: In listening to Wallenstein, I experienced strong and unforgettable emotion. This work could be placed next to Beethoven’s most beautiful overtures, as it is, so to speak, their heir. Its bold and resolutely modern appearance is a reflection of a lengthy contemplation of older [works]. The new school, no longer an object of derision, has yet to produce anything more progressive than this. Yet it is as classical as the Coriolan and Leonore overtures. And it’s classical through its very novelty.16

At the first complete reprise of Le chant de la cloche at the Concert Lamoureux in 1893, the journalist damned the work with faint praise, revealing obvious reservations: At present, no one is better equipped than Mr. d’Indy to “seize the stage” and I imagine that the success of the reprise of Le chant de la cloche will win over even the most skeptical opposition. I do not, however, consider Le chant de la cloche as Mr. d’Indy’s most original or most personal work. It is of pure Wagnerian essence and the devotion to the author of Les maîtres chanteurs is revealed as much through the structure of the libretto as in the construction of certain musical phrases. Nonetheless, I must admit that I admire its intensity of expression, the quality of its conception, its boldness of form, and I agree that it demonstrates, with regard to the composer who wrote it, an incontestable artistic temperament combined with prodigious technical skill.17

With Fervaal, Bruneau stripped d’Indy of his position as leader of the avantgarde that he had first conferred upon the composer during the period of Wallenstein. He henceforth ranked d’Indy permanently among the conservatives, that circle of composers who, by giving in to the pernicious influence of Wagnerism, hindered the growth of healthy and dynamic composition.

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Innovator—I do not know if Mr. d’Indy will ever be one. He is not one yet. The day is coming when Wagnerian music and works—here I mean imitators of Wagner—will no longer be possible because of their prevalence and the very success of their models [. . .]. Yes, too late in any case, because the success owed years and years ago, in all fairness, to the magisterial greatness of the creation, now blocks the way to innovation and, what is even more regrettable, is the dangerous mirage that disturbs hard-working souls and leads them astray.18

Bruneau’s portrait of the dangers of Wagnerism to composition was clearly apparent in his commentary on Vincent d’Indy, the most talented and celebrated composer of the trend he so condemned. But his criticisms were not solely directed toward the author of Fervaal; Bruneau’s writings did not spare any display of Wagnerian influence on French composition (as his 1895 review of Augustin Savard’s Symphony clearly demonstrates).19 The aesthetic principles that guided Bruneau’s music criticism in the 1890s, and that Debussy clearly expressed in his apology for Pelléas written in 1902, seem to reflect the overarching preoccupations of the musical press of the period. It is striking, at the very least, to observe the extent to which these preoccupations influenced a good portion of the reception of Bruneau’s music at this time. Approval of Le rêve was far from unanimous in 1891, with a stark split between denigrators and zealots. Arthur Pougin, Léon Kerst, Auguste Vitu, and Charles Darcours were particularly vicious. Despite their misgivings, a few journalists like Émile Pessard and Victorin Joncières remarked that Bruneau’s opera had some merit.20 But a significant number of critics were not shocked by the work’s audaciousness, instead revealing enthusiastic admiration for the author and celebrating the advent of a veritable musical revolution (see, for example, reviews by Henry Bauër, Armand Gouzien, Georges Launay, Victor Wilder, Alfred Ernst, and Henri de la Pommeraye).21 Henri Des Houx highlighted the boldness of the “unexpected harmonies, complicated effects, unusual rhythms, new tonalities [. . .].” He added, “[. . .] Mr. Bruneau wove his score just as Angélique of Le rêve embroidered her gold and silk; with an expert and inventive hand, he brought complexity and variety to the plot, and he produced a work of such novelty that first disconcerts, then takes hold of and attaches, and finally captivates and seizes the listener to the depths of his/her being.”22 Armand Gouzien underlined both the work’s radical novelty and its powerful expression: “What we know for certain is that the score of Le rêve marks a new step towards a new art on the Opéra-Comique’s stage, that many pages are handled with absolutely accurate feeling for the situation, with profound respect for the text, and with a truly impressive sense of inspiration.”23 Henry Bauër went a step further: “Mr. Alfred Bruneau’s drame lyrique is a turning point, not only in musical progress but also in the development of contemporary thought

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[. . .].”24 In a society review of the work for La liberté, Théodore Avonde cited the words of an “old Conservatoire professor” to show the extent to which Le rêve seemed to distance itself from Wagner and even surpass the German composer in its audacity: “Bruneau has sent Wagner to join Boïeldieu.”25 Aesthetic tendencies aside, there are two reasons why such an influential work would have aroused the curiosity of a young composer like Debussy. First, it provided a fine lesson in independent composition. Bruneau rejected proven recipes for success in Le rêve, and he steered cleared of the path of blatant seduction taken by his teacher, Jules Massenet. Moreover, at a time when avant-garde composers were powerfully attracted to Wagnerism, he resisted the approach taken by Vincent d’Indy in Le chant de la cloche or Emmanuel Chabrier in Gwendoline. In short, Bruneau revealed the possibility of creating an independent, avant-garde work that broke with convention without surrendering to Wagnerism. Moreover, the critical reception of Le rêve’s première might also have fascinated the young composer. The work’s critical success proved that artistic independence was not systematically disparaged, but that it could encounter a remarkably broad consensus. Bauër was so enthusiastic that he organized a banquet in honor of Le rêve’s creators with his newspaper Écho de Paris.26 Debussy’s evaluations of music—coeval as well as music of the past—were often quite stern, and he was fairly reserved about his contemporaries in his writings. What is more, he vehemently disapproved of certain aspects of naturalistic art. Since he began writing criticism only in 1901, the interest he showed in the works Bruneau produced in the 1890s was retrospective. Despite certain aesthetic differences, Debussy nevertheless expressed admiration for Penthésilée as well as some passages “of such tenderness” in Le rêve.27 Beyond the parallel paths trod by Bruneau and Debussy in the French musical milieu of the 1890s, their connections with the spirit of the times and their flourishing careers, a comparison of their works reveals those connections that are specifically musical, thus providing further insight into their quest for independence in the post-Wagnerian milieu.

The Key of F-sharp Major and Tonal Symbolism In 1989 a seminal article by Richard Langham Smith revealed the symbolic importance of the key area of F-sharp major in Pelléas et Mélisande, and the counterweight provided by C major. Other scholars have since observed the same tonal symbolism in other pieces by Debussy.28 These keys play an equally important role in Bruneau’s Le rêve. In the opera, Angélique is fascinated by La légende dorée (The Golden Legend) and she identifies with the fate of the virgin saints in her reading. She wishes to marry a prince and to

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have a virginal death like the saints who speak to her in her waking dreams. At the end of the opera, the young embroideress dies of excessive happiness; at that moment, Bruneau introduced a specific leitmotive, the “Blissful Death,” in the key of F-sharp major (see ex. 6.1). The leitmotive and the symbolic key, however, can operate independently. In example 6.1, when Angélique pronounces her final words, a modulation to F-sharp occurs (the arrival is signaled by a key signature change) to present the transfiguration theme; by contrast, in the overture the “Blissful Death” theme is presented in E major (beginning in m. 13). Later in example 6.1, F-sharp major is maintained through the “Yearning for Paradise” leitmotive: revealingly, the theme and the symbolic key are abandoned simultaneously with Angélique’s death. There is a crescendo at the end of the excerpt and, when the young girl dies at the arrival of the forte (as indicated in the stage directions), the music changes meter and leaves the key of F-sharp.29 Nevertheless, it soon returns and the opera ends in this key.30 The “miracle” symbolism of F-sharp major is sustained throughout the opera: the bishop sings, on the dominant pedal of F-sharp major, of the miracle performed by his ancestor, Jean Cinq d’Hautecoeur, who cured the plague-stricken with the touch of his lips (p. 21/5/3).31 The theme is taken up again in the same key when his son, Félicien, later recalls the miracles of the bishop’s ancestors (p. 172/3/2). Situating the two composers’ works within a larger context allows us to assess the pertinence of the comparison between Bruneau and Debussy regarding key symbolism. Hugh Macdonald has already established the growing predilection among nineteenth-century composers (including several French musicians) for the key of F-sharp or G-flat major.32 By restricting the context solely to French large-scale vocal genres between 1877 and 1903, we can see that the key became a favorite symbol of love and ecstasy (see table 6.1, which lists twenty-nine works including several by Bruneau and Debussy). Table 6.1 includes the names of several leading or well-known composers from different schools and with diverse aesthetic tendencies: SaintSaëns, Reyer, Chabrier, Massenet, d’Indy, Chausson, and Godard. There are also young, lesser-known musicians with equally varied aesthetic tendencies, whether they studied with Massenet (Lucien Hillemacher, Pierné, and Leroux), or with Reber, d’Indy, or Delibes (Hüe, Magnard, and Erlanger, respectively). The works listed in table 6.1, which include operas as well as similar genres like the dramatic symphony with voice and the cantata, all associate the key of F-sharp/G-flat major with an intense romantic or ecstatic experience. In Benjamin Godard’s Jocelyn (1888), for example, the theme symbolizing benediction or the ordination to priesthood is systematically associated with the key of F-sharp major.33 But although the symbolic association is remarkably consistent in these works, the keys are treated in widely different ways. The use of F-sharp major is sometimes reserved for a pivotal number (the wedding

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Table 6.1. French large-scale vocal genres that use key of F-sharp/G-flat major to symbolize love or ecstasy (1877–1903) Composer Jules Massenet

Title of work Le roi de Lahore (1877) Le cid (1885) Esclarmonde (1889) Werther (1892) 

Lucien Hillemacher

Fingal (1880)

Benjamin Godard

Les Guelfes (1882) Pedro de Zalamea (1884) Jocelyn (1888)

Ernest Reyer

Sigurd (1884)

Gabriel Pierné

Les elfes (1884)

Georges Hüe

Rubezahl (1885)

Claude Debussy

Diane au bois (1885) Rodrigue et Chimène (1893) Pelléas et Mélisande (1902)

Emmanuel Chabrier

Gwendoline (1886)

Vincent d’Indy

Le chant de la cloche (1886) Fervaal op. 40 (1889–93)

Alfred Bruneau

Kérim (1887) Le rêve (1891) L’attaque du moulin (1893)

Camille Erlanger

Velléda (1888) Saint Julien l’Hospitalier (1894)

Camille Saint-Saëns

Ascanio (1890) Les barbares (1901)

Albéric Magnard

Yolande (1892)

Paul et Lucien Hillemacher

Le drac (1896) Orsola (1902)

Xavier Leroux

Astarté (1901)

Ernest Chausson

Le roi Arthus (1903)

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Example 6.1. Bruneau, Le rêve, act 4, tableau 8, Choudens, n.d. [1892], plate A.C. 8428, p. 205/3/2.


    

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song in Chabrier’s Gwendoline, Scindia’s aria where he confesses his love for Sita in Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore); at other times, the key is integrated within a more complex system of key symbolism (as in d’Indy’s Fervaal, which likely influenced his student Magnard in writing his opera Yolande).34 The symbolism of F-sharp major as the key of love, then, cannot be used in isolation to connect Bruneau and Debussy, especially considering that Debussy utilized this key symbolism before he had even heard Le rêve (notably in Diane au bois and Rodrigue et Chimène, as indicated in table 6.1, above). Nevertheless, the connection between Pelléas and Le rêve can be justified if we consider the convergence of three factors in further detail: first, F-sharp major symbolizes both love and mysticism in both works; second, the key is used in opposition to C major (or the piano’s white keys); and, third, the writing demonstrates great sophistication and nuance in the range and strength of its establishment of the symbolic tonality. Not only is F-sharp major clearly established and confirmed

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by cadential gestures, but it is also suggested through superficial tonal coloring when the symbolized idea is only fleetingly evoked. Bruneau used the mode of E with strong Phrygian coloring, rather than C major, to contrast with F-sharp major: like C major, Phrygian E provides maximum contrast with F-sharp major, the symbol of love and transcendence. The scale is associated with the torment weighing down the bishop Jean d’Hautecoeur and those within his circle, as he intends to remain obstinately faithful to the promise he made to his wife on her deathbed. This promise—to make his son enter the priesthood—leads him to oppose the union of Félicien and Angélique. In examples 6.2a and 6.2b, the Theme of the Weighty Past that haunts Jean d’Hautecoeur (le thème du Passé écrasant qui hante Jean d’Hautecoeur) is presented in E with two different harmonizations, the first one consonant and muted (pianissimo), the second dissonant and ruptured.35 In the first instance, Hubert and Hubertine, Angélique’s adoptive parents, are frightened: they had promised to deliver an embroidery to Jean d’Hautecoeur sometime before the feast of Corpus Christi, but the young girl seems to have been lagging behind in her work. At the bishop’s arrival, Hubert awkwardly apologizes for his humble home (“quel honneur pour mon humble logis” [what an honor for my humble home]” he says), and for the delay in completing the order (“Je tremble . . . Tout n’est pas terminé, Monseigneur!” [I tremble . . . It is not finished, Sire!]). Despite the theme’s muted and gentle character, it becomes immediately associated with the intimidation wielded by a man of the cloth over Angélique’s parents. The melody of the leitmotive in the orchestra keeps almost exclusively to the piano’s white keys. The nonchordal C♯ only briefly ornaments B in the first measure, and the melody ends with an F♯ to produce a half cadence in measures 9–10. The melody is supported by double neighbor motion in the bass line, E to F♮ and E to D♯ (indicated under the stave in example 6.2a). The D♯ that concludes the passage in measures 9–10 is harmonized with a conventional dominant chord, V6, to create a cadential effect; otherwise, the insistent upper nonchord tone F♮ (in mm. 3 and 5–6) is harmonized with ♮VII6 and V34, with a lowered seventh (D♮) that underscores the characteristic Phrygian color. The same material is taken up later with a rather more audacious harmonization (ex. 6.2b). In Jean d’Hautecoeur’s grand soliloquy at the beginning of act 2, the Theme of the Weighty Past is clearly situated within a context of intimidation, but this time in a scene of anguish. Seeking to extinguish the young couple’s budding love, the bishop confirms his resolution to commit his son to the priesthood as he meets with Angélique’s parents and imposes his will. The theme’s melody is recalled literally, without transposition (the B♯ in m. 1 is the enharmonic equivalent of C♮ in the corresponding measure in example 6.2a). But the bass line is disrupted: the ornamental E is replaced

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Example 6.2a. Bruneau, Le rêve (1891). Act 1, tableau 1, scene 4, Choudens, n.d. [1892], plate A.C. 8428, p. 16/4/1.   




 




    











    


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by a C♯ pedal and, rather than a harmonization with strong Phrygian coloring, F-sharp minor is now emphasized through dominant triads with neighboring six-four chords. Consequently, there is significant tension between the melody and the accompaniment, which some have described as an instance of polytonality.36 Torn between the polarities of E in the melody (and the scale of natural notes) and the F♯ in the bass line and harmonization, the tonal tension corresponds to the division between Jean d’Hautecoeur’s inflexible resolution and his obstinate opposition to Félicien’s love on the one hand, and Angélique’s yearning for sanctity on the other.37

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The key of F-sharp/G-flat is used sometimes in passing, without becoming firmly established, to create more allusive symbolic references. In example 6.3 the tonal allusion helps to highlight a thrilling theatrical effect: the audience first hears the account of a vision, and then sees the dream materialize before their eyes. At this point in the opera, Angélique has not yet been introduced to the bishop’s son. The young stained glass artist is restoring the windows of the church located behind the embroiderers’ home, and the two youths catch a glimpse of one another through the bay window. The young girl dreams of a marriage blessed by the heavens, and she tells her mother: “Oui, déjà plusieurs fois, un fantôme est venu [. . .] / Une ombre, là, debout dans la nuit claire / Et tandis que chantaient en mon âme mes voix, Me regardant [. . .]” (Yes, several times already, a ghost has come [. . .] / A shadow, there, standing in the clear night / And as my voices sang in my soul, It watched me [. . .].) The young man appears at the window during her narration, thus making his first entrance on stage, and he turns his gaze toward the young girl.38 A theme in E-flat major accompanies Angélique’s story; small touches of G-flat major (the enharmonic equivalent to F-sharp major; the passage is marked by a box in the example) occur as Angélique alludes to Félicien’s gaze. The tonic sixfour chords in G-flat on the final syllables of “fantôme” and “venu” suggest a cadence in G-flat major, but the music veers back to E-flat, leaving the allusion to the key of love and ecstasy without cadential confirmation (just like the love that, for the moment, exists only in Angélique’s imagination). Once Félicien actually appears at the window and turns his gaze toward Angélique, and just as she narrates the same action, the composer noisily draws the listener’s attention to a conflation of imaginary and scenic realms. The theme of Desire reappears in the orchestra with a dissonant harmonization, played enthusiastically, animato and forte.39 In Pelléas et Mélisande Debussy also established the key of love to varying degrees, from brief suggestions to cadential confirmation, as demonstrated by the excerpt shown in example 6.4.40 The annotations provided below the staves indicate the different nuances of assertion and dissipation of F-sharp major. The excerpt clearly begins in the key’s tonic (signaled by the key signature change and confirmed by the root position tonic chord), but the sharps are quickly changed to naturals, paving the way for the arrival of a C major triad in measure 136. By this point almost all the notes of C major have been introduced, except one. The lingering F♯ is finally neutralized along with the rest of the sharps with the appearance of F♮ at the end of the following measure. An F♯ chord abruptly returns in measure 138 and a plagal cadence two measures later confirms the key. But the key is abandoned as abruptly as it was established: the key signature changes and a whole-tone scale appears in measure 142. Each of these fluctuations is strictly coordinated with the dialogue between the protagonists. The profound significance of the scene exceeds the

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Example 6.3. Bruneau, Le rêve (1891), act 1, tableau 1, scene 5, Choudens, n.d. [1892], plate A.C. 8428, p. 44/4/2.  !"!"#$!%





  

  

   





   





  



 











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strict content of the words exchanged, gesturing to Golaud’s unintentional intimidation of Mélisande on the one hand, and the vague perception of the absolute that she inspires in him on the other. In the opera, Mélisande embodies an intermediary figure who reaches toward transcendence and the absolute; the attraction between her and Pelléas, therefore, leads them not only to fall in love with one another, but also to be united in the absolute and to share suprasensory experiences. Golaud is a more hot-tempered, obtuse character, and when he meets Mélisande in the first scene, he becomes vaguely aroused by these qualities that nevertheless evade him (as the suggestions of F-sharp major reveal) and that he is incapable of understanding.41 Forgetting her distress for the first time and emerging from her post-traumatic isolation, Mélisande notices the man next to her and begins to observe him.42 The F-sharp signifies the fascination the young woman holds for Golaud (m. 132). The accidentals are then cancelled and the music heads toward C major, as Mélisande’s statements about the hunter cool somewhat (she notices the age gap between them and his gray hair, and his insistent gaze begins to worry her; see mm. 133–37). F-sharp major is abruptly reinstated (m. 138) when Golaud expresses his fascination for Mélisande’s eyes, which seem to close only for sleep at night, but otherwise remain wide open, as if they were trying to quench an insatiable thirst for the light of day and the absolute.43 Immediately following this intimate revelation of her nature, F-sharp is abandoned and replaced by a whole-tone scale in measure 142, indicating Mélisande’s anxiety about Golaud’s probing gaze.

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Example 6.4. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 1, scene 1, mm. 132–43. 
  

 








 
 







         

 



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Whole-Tone Scale The use of the whole-tone scale is another feature of Bruneau’s and Debussy’s works in the 1890s. Like heroic style in Beethoven, the leitmotive in Wagner, or the twelve-tone series in Schoenberg, the whole-tone scale in Debussy’s music is a well-worn subject that seems to have been thoroughly exhausted. I would like to discuss it from another perspective, however, focusing on less familiar aspects: the emergence and development of this type of scale in his music, which provides a useful context to approach issues of connection with other composers during this period.

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Debussy’s use of whole-tone scales in the 1890s was far more deliberate and developed than that of other composers in this period, evolving into a compositional style that would later generate famous works like “Les cloches à travers les feuilles” (1907) and the prelude “Voiles” (1910).44 Indeed, these years marked a turning point in his approach to composition: the whole-tone passages not only became longer and more sophisticated, but Debussy also used the procedure more consistently in works of all genres (mélodie, chamber music, orchestral music, operas), as demonstrated by La marche écossaise (1890), the Fantaisie for piano and orchestra (1890), Rodrigue et Chimène (1890– 93), Proses lyriques (1893), the String Quartet (1893), and Pelléas et Mélisande (1902)—particularly the famous castle vaults scene, in act 3, scene 2. What is more, in Debussy’s works after 1890, the whole-tone scale is no longer justified with an underpinning of triadic writing, but rather used as an “end in itself.” His previous works fairly regularly used subgroups of the whole-tone scale (augmented fifth chords, or seventh chords with an altered fifth), and the scale would then emerge through melodic elaboration of these three- or four-note chords. For example, the excerpt of “Le balcon” in example 6.5 features passages that use the same whole-tone scale every two measures (the scale beginning with C; see the third and fourth beats in mm. 64, 66, and 68). The scale is presented complete only once (in m. 68); but, just as in other passages, it is generated through the elaboration of a triad, and the supplementary notes can be rationalized as ornamental. Each time, the triad resolves by step or by common tone (in this case, there is a different resolution with each presentation of the whole-tone scale). Thus, the complete whole-tone scale in m. 68 is generated by the seventh chord, B♭–D–F–A♭, in third inversion, with a raised fifth (F♯). The notes C and E complete the scale in the vocal line, and can be explained as passing notes.45 The emancipation of the whole-tone scale in Debussy’s works after 1890 is accompanied by a broader and more refined exploration of its expressive character (an ethos that suggests terror, dreaming, effects of perspective, Golaud’s disorientation in the Allemonde forest, and so forth). In the first song of Proses lyriques, dreaming is closely associated with the whole-tone scale, which is presented at the very outset in measures 1–5 (see ex. 6.6). Used as a refrain, the material is presented two more times, in measures 47–52 and 65–66; although the whole-tone material in measures 1–5 is interrupted by conventional major and minor chords, the second presentation in measures 47–52 integrates the whole-tone scale completely, without any interruptions. With each recurrence of the refrain material involving the whole-tone scale, the text features descriptive and contemplative passages, which seem to evade material contingencies of present-time reality: the whole-tone scale opens an imaginary space (see table 6.2). And after each occurrence, the whole-tone scale in the refrain dissolves and is replaced by a diatonic scalar passage; the text shifts from a

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Example 6.5. “Le balcon” (Cinq poèmes de Baudelaire, no. 1), mm. 64–69.











   



     




         

 

    




  




 
 




  

 




 

  





 

 

  

   

 









  

 











  

        

  



     




  

                      

           






 



 

     

descriptive to a narrative mode, marking the disenchanted return to prosaic reality and the present moment. The flight or propulsion into an imaginary space is especially pronounced in the initial refrain, at measure 4: the word “Songent” (dream)—synonym for “rêver”—marks the culminating point in the vocal line, approached by an ascending passage that begins with the low C♯ in measure 3. Echoes of the passage occur in diminution in the right hand of the piano accompaniment in measures 4–5, with ascending arpeggiated sixteenth notes. They are followed by eighth-note descending sigh figures that imitate the shape of “Songent” (see the bracketed figures in example 6.6), first in the same register, then a second time in the upper octave, where they seem to fade away.46 Bruneau did not use the whole-tone scale as extensively as Debussy. Keeping only to the 1890s, the scale does not appear in Penthésilée, L’attaque du moulin, or Messidor (1897). However, Le rêve (1891) makes good use of its symbolic

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Example 6.6. “De rêve” (Proses lyriques, no. 1), mm. 1–7.

  

  



 

 

 



 



                             
  

 

   

   

  

                




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Table 6.2. The division of text and narrative style according to the scalar passages in “De rêve” Whole-tone scale (dreamlike, contemplative)

Diatonic scale (disenchantment of the present moment)

mm. 1–5 : “La nuit a des douceurs de femme / Et les vieux arbres, sous la lune d’or, Songent!” [The night has the softness of a woman / And the old trees, under the golden moon, Dream!]

mm. 6–etc.: “A Celle qui vient de passer, la tête emperlée, Maintenant navrée, à jamais navrée,/Ils n’ont pas su lui faire signe…]” [To Her who just passed by, her head covered in pearls, Now brokenhearted, forever brokenhearted / They were unable to beckon to her…]

mm. 47–52 : “Les vieux arbres sous la lune d’or pleurent leurs belles feuilles d’or!” [The old trees under the golden moon weep their beautiful gilded leaves!]

mm. 53–etc. : “Nul ne leur dédiera plus la fierté des casques d’or / Maintenant ternis, à jamais ternis. […]” [No one will ever again dedicate their proud golden helmets / Now tarnished, forever tarnished]

mm. 65–66 : “La nuit a des douceurs de mm. 67–etc.: “Des mains semblent femme” [The night has the softness of frôler les âmes, […]” [Hands seem to a woman] graze the souls]

potential and treats it with much sensitivity; the rarity of the more elaborate examples only intensifies their effectiveness. In example 6.7, passages using the whole-tone scale (marked by boxes in the example) alternate with diatonic writing. The invitation to dream and the beginning of the whole-tone scale sections are triggered each time by a melodic gesture in the voice, always accompanied by the same text (somewhat like “Songent” in Debussy): an ascending third movement with the expression of an unfulfilled wish, “je voudrais . . .” (I would like) in measures 4, 16, 17, and 22. The gesture anticipates the initial motive of the theme of desire (which occurs at m. 18), as the music finally abandons the whole-tone scale and Angélique completes her thought by proclaiming: “Je voudrais [. . .] être reine!” (I would like [. . .] to be a queen!), “Je voudrais / Épouser un prince au riant visage” (I would like / To marry a prince with a smiling face). When it occurs elsewhere in the opera, the whole-tone scale is always associated with Angélique’s dream or a character’s dreamlike state. In act 1, tableau 2, scene 3, Félicien declares his love for Angélique, and then speaks to her at length. Because she remains silent for some time, the young man fears she might be angry. The moment when Angélique, untroubled, finally begins to speak, a whole-tone scale appears: “Ne craignez rien! L’heure est déjà lointaine / Où je savais que vous deviez venir. (Don’t worry about anything!

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Example 6.7. Bruneau, Le rêve, act 1, tableau 1, scene 5, Choudens, n.d. [1892], plate A.C. 8428, p. 35/3/1.  !  

 

             


           

   

  

   

     

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The time has already long passed / When I knew you were going to come.) Accompanied by the whole-tone scale, her confident disclosure of foreknowledge is obviously connected to her dream. In the Corpus Christi scene (act 2, tableau 3, in the transition from scene 2 to 3), the whole-tone scale accompanies Hubert and Hubertine’s reverie, as they realize that Angélique’s dream is materializing. The moment of calm reflection is cleverly highlighted through the contrasting pomp of the religious feast and Angélique’s excitement. Once the young woman tells her adoptive parents that she and Félicien are in love and that the stained-glass artist will surprise them by taking part in the procession (bringing her closer to the realization of her dream, so she believes), the bells begin to ring. As Angélique joyfully springs into action—“Les cloches! Vite, il faut que je m’habille! La procession va passer!” (The bells! Quick, I must get dressed! The procession is going to pass!)—and, according to the stage directions, “Elle envoie du bout des doigts un baiser à Hubert et à Hubertine puis disparaît vivement” (She blows a kiss to Hubert and Hubertine, then quickly disappears), the old couple become lost in tender reverie. Their calm meditation is accompanied by the whole-tone scale and the ringing bells (the passage begins on p. 88/3/5).47 The scale dissolves as Hubert and Hubertine emerge from their dream, and they celebrate the young couple’s love in a duet with their voices united at the octave: “Dieu semble les avoir destinés l’un à l’autre [. . .]” (It seems they are destined for each other by God). The comparison of Bruneau’s and Debussy’s musical language raises broader questions: is their sudden use of whole-tone scales in the 1890s simply coincidental, the result of direct influence, or could they both have been reacting to a shared impetus?48 As a sign of the times, even Jules Massenet tried his hand at incorporating whole-tone scales in an opera produced in the most prestigious sanctuary of high art: Le mage, given at Opéra Garnier in 1891.49 Bruneau and Debussy were not the first composers to use the whole-tone scale. At the end of his life, Franz Liszt (1811–86) used it in his experimental works, such as Unstern! Sinistre, disastro (1881), but these pieces were not well known at the time.50 Liszt and Wagner utilized mainly the augmented triad, rather than a complete whole-tone scale: examples include the slow introduction to the first movement of the Faust Symphonie (1857), the Ride of the Valkyries in Die Walküre (1870) and the end of Götterdämmerung (1876), with a chromatic sequence of augmented chords, in which the outer voices move in contrary motion. In Russia, however, there was an older and bolder tradition of whole-tone scales. Timid uses of the whole-tone scale first occurred in the works of Mikhaïl Glinka (1804–57) and Alexandre Dargomyjski (1813–69); beginning in the 1870s, more developed passages appeared in the music of Nikolaï Rimsky-Korsakov (1844–1908), in his The Maid of Pskov (Pskovityanka, 1872), and Alexander Borodin (1833–87), in the Finale of Mlada (1872).51

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Consider, for example, the excerpt of The Maid of Pskov (Pskovityanka) in example 6.8, a very chromatic passage that greatly obscures the tonal center. In this case the whole-tone scale is not used as transition material (either introductory or connecting), but rather as a theme in its own right. In the harmonic reduction provided in example 6.8b we can observe three details: first, chord changes occur initially at every half note, and then at every quarter note; second, each chord is a subgroup of a whole-tone scale (see the lower staves numbered 1 and 2); and, finally, the bass line and melody trace a chromatic path in contrary motion. The chords alternate subgroups taken from two transpositions of the whole-tone scale, one beginning on C (or rather D, if we wish to indicate polarity here), and another on C♯. The two transpositions are distributed on two separate staves, stave 2 and stave 1, respectively. In the first system, stave 2 presents two augmented triads (D–F♯–B♭ and C–E–G♯), which produce a complete whole-tone scale when combined, while in stave 1 an altered seventh chord presented in two different inversions functions as a chromatic passing chord. In the second system, however, stave 1 alternates two different chords and thus also produces a complete whole-tone collection. Debussy first encountered Russian music in 1880 when Nadezhda von Meck hired him as a pianist. He brought back scores, including songs by Borodin and an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov (likely The Maid of Pskov) from his trips to Russia and various vacation spots. Russian music was already being performed in Belgium and in Paris in the 1870s and 1880s, notably at the 1878 World’s Fair and concerts of the SNM.52 The concert of Russian music that RimskyKorsakov conducted at the 1889 World’s Fair in Paris, however, might be considered a turning point, awakening French composers’ genuine interest in this music. The works presented at the concert left a memorable impression; they might have motivated French composers to become acquainted with (or, in Debussy’s case, to reexamine) this music and to delve deeper into the secrets of its musical language. With the increasing infatuation with Wagner, perhaps the time was ripe for young French composers to seek out a salutary alternative. Bruneau wrote reviews of the concerts and became such a strong advocate for the Mighty Handful and Glazunov that he was eventually commissioned by the Ministère des Beaux-Arts to inspect the state of music in St. Petersburg in 1901–2.53 While Bruneau warned French composers of Wagner’s influence, he considered the Russians as the “natural allies” of his compatriots:54 “Ah! the great artists, the valiant gateways to eternity! How we have extolled them, we the young seekers and sincere believers, who also fought in our country for the same notions of musical independence and artistic respect. [. . .] [Through our applause] we would like to recognize a fellowship of ideas in this music, a common passion toward the same ideal.”55 Bruneau’s and Debussy’s shared interest in Russian music in the 1890s and the influence it had on their music is another important convergence and could become an extensive study in

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Example 6.8a. Rimsky-Korsakov, The Maid of Pskov (Pskovityanka), act 4, Belwin Mills (1982), p. 243/2/2.
 






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itself. The critical reception of Pelléas et Mélisande emphasized (with some exaggeration) the influence of Boris Godunov on Debussy’s opera, and the Russian influence on Debussy’s music in the 1890s has been discussed in some depth in a number of musicological studies.56 Musicologists have generally paid less attention to Debussy’s contemporary; the Russian influence on Bruneau’s output in the 1890s has therefore not yet been explored. Bruneau’s knowledge of Russian music can be demonstrated through the striking similarity of Jean d’Hautecoeur’s aria in Le rêve (1891) and Marina and Dmitry’s duet in Boris Godunov (exx. 6.9a and 6.9b). Both excerpts use the key of E-flat major, a moderate tempo, compound 9 meter (12 8 for Mussorgsky, 8 for Bruneau), and begin with a very similar initial idea. In both cases, the first phrase (an antecedent) ends with a cadence that leaves the seventh suspended in the melody, followed by another phrase that begins with the initial idea in transposition (the material is transposed up a second in Boris, and up a fifth in Le rêve). The dramatic context also reveals certain similarities, as coercion and submission intermingle in the two passages: in the first, Marina, after having mocked the false Dmitry, changes her mind and asks for his forgiveness; in the second, Jean d’Hautecoeur preaches resignation and obedience to his son.

Characteristics of Rhythmic Organization A prominent characteristic of rhythmic organization that has been associated specifically with Debussy can also be found in Bruneau’s music. Debussy at times created pronounced rhythmic contrasts that feature long durations interrupted by quicker values. For example, in act 1, scene 3, of Pelléas et Mélisande (ex. 6.10a), the orchestral music flows calmly, with dotted whole notes in the upper voices and dotted quarter note motion in the bass. Suddenly, in the last measure, a fragment of Golaud’s motive creates an abrupt lurch in the music. Interpreted figuratively, the long values illustrate the deceptive calm of the night, while the quicker rhythms indicate the underlying menace of the storm that eventually erupts during the night. At yet another level of signification, the passage alludes to the general atmosphere of harmony with Mélisande’s peaceful arrival in Allemonde, as she is kindly welcomed by Geneviève and Pelléas who are oblivious to the menace of Golaud’s fiery temper, already fatefully inscribed. Messiaen much admired Debussy’s rhythmic writing and considered him to be “one of the greatest rhythmic technicians of all time”:57 Debussy’s use of rhythm is very difficult to characterize precisely because of the genius of his extreme rhythmic liberty. [. . .] For me, the first stage of Debussyan rhythm is the free contrast between very long and very short

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Example 6.9a. Moussorgsky, Boris Godunov, act 3, Marina and Dmitry’s duet, p. 204/4/1.     


 

 



                

 


           


     

    



              




     

       
           




   

    

   

              

  

        

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values, explicable (as with everything in Debussy) as images drawn from Nature—this Nature that he so often contemplated, with the love and voluptuousness that we know so well! A shock in the calm—desire in the subconscious—the pebble in the water—that which sparkles suddenly in the night.58

At another point, Debussy presented Golaud’s violent and impulsive motive and then subjected it to subtle rhythmic development: shifts in rhythm reflect the concomitant shift in the dialogue (ex. 6.10b).59 Here, the analysis combines motivic considerations with rhythmic study. Golaud’s rhythmic melodic motive initially fills a full measure, and then is reduced by fragmentation to a half measure; the material is progressively subjected to liquidation and rhythmic augmentation—all that remains in the end are the two final attacks of the initial motive, an ascending major second from B to C♯ (m. 150).60 These notes are immediately reinterpreted as the first two in Mélisande’s motive in measure 151. The motivic and rhythmic organization closely follows the dramatic situation. At the beginning of the passage, the violent motive accompanies Golaud’s tale of how he became lost in the forest while hunting the wild boar; as he forgets his misfortune and focuses his attention on the young woman, Mélisande’s motive is heard. Abruptly changing his tone, he says: “Vous avez l’air très jeune. Quel âge avez-vous?” (You seem very young. How old are you?) An earlier work by Bruneau, L’attaque du moulin (1893), contains similar disjunct rhythmic effects and motivic development. In example 6.11a abrupt interruptions of the orchestral statement of the leitmotive contrast with calm vocal declamation and slow harmonic rhythm. The leitmotive, similar to Golaud’s from example 6.10a, contains short rhythmic values, dotted rhythms, and a melody constructed of a neighboring figure. In example 6.11b, the leitmotive is developed through fragmentation and liquidation, creating a transition between two sections. Following the motivic development, a new motive, the bugle call, appears, much like the appearance of Mélisande’s theme after the motivic development in example 6.10b.

Offstage Voices L’attaque du moulin and Pelléas et Mélisande similarly use offstage voices and humming choruses or choral vocalization using only vowels (see exx. 6.12 and 6.13). In Bruneau’s opera, three watchmen call out “Oh!” to assure all is well; one of the watchmen is on stage, while the other two are backstage.61 In Pelléas, an offstage male chorus recreates the sailors’ calls as a ship passes. Certainly, this was a popular technique in opera and not the exclusive prerogative of the two composers.62 And yet these two works share distinctive characteristics. Although the harmony is not the same, both excerpts use the same melodic

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Example 6.10a. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 1, scene 3, mm. 421–24.









 

          

  

    





      



     



 











       






        

 







      







 

 





   




 


  

 




 



 

      

 













   


  

        












   

   



 



    

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Example 6.11a. Bruneau, L’attaque du moulin, act 1, scene 2, Choudens. n.d. (1893). Plate A.C. 9000, p. 11/1/1.
     

  






    
            

               

             


     

    
 






 





 





 
  

  

      

 

  



   



    





 





  

    









  





 
                       





  

   

         



            

                   

  

















 
                     



 





        

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motive (marked “x” in the examples). Moreover, the two works deftly produce a sense of distance and make use of stereophonic effects by calling attention to different spaces: in the excerpt from Bruneau’s opera, one call comes from the riverside, another from the stage, and a third from the countryside (see the stage directions). In the passage from Pelléas, as the ship sails away, the sailors’ offstage singing comes as though from “far away,” and then “even farther away.”63

Conclusion In the early 1890s, as a fringe group of the musical avant-garde felt the urge to forge an alternative path to that of Wagnerism, Alfred Bruneau became a leading figure. During this same period, Debussy sought his own path and, as he progressed through trial and error, his compositional projects were subjected to abrupt and unforeseen changes. After having worked for more than two years on Rodrigue et Chimène, he suddenly abandoned the opera and launched

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himself into the composition of Pelléas et Mélisande. Certainly, the composer was not entirely pleased with Catulle Mendès’s libretto, which constrained his creative impulse. What caused Debussy to make such a sudden change, to redirect his energy so close to the end, with three acts of Rodrigue already written (his longest work to date)? The influential performance of Maurice Maeterlinck’s play Pelléas et Mélisande and the discovery of a text that reflected his dramatic ideal certainly affected the composer, but these events may not have been the only triggers. Debussy had already been deeply moved by Maeterlinck’s first play, La princesse Maleine, in 1890. He considered setting it to music, but remained committed to Rodrigue, as if the time was not exactly right for such an undertaking.64 Perhaps Bruneau’s flourishing career influenced Debussy. The critical success that his older colleague obtained in operatic circles with music that forged new paths, without compromise, and a libretto that broke from contemporary conventions, offered a courageous lesson in artistic independence. And when it came time to produce Pelléas et Mélisande, it was the Opéra-Comique that accepted the production, the same stage that had presented Bruneau’s controversial Le rêve and L’attaque du moulin. This chapter has sought to demonstrate how Bruneau’s audacious works sometimes seemed to anticipate Debussy’s music in various ways: in the sophisticated use of tonal symbolism of F-sharp major and C major (or the modes using the piano’s white keys) in the operatic works, whole-tone scales, rhythmic development and contrast, and offstage voices to create a sense of distance and stereophonic effects. Such parallels do not, however, minimize the aesthetic differences between Debussy and Bruneau, nor do they suggest that the former simply imitated his older colleague. How, then, might we view these similarities? A sign of emulation from the younger composer, or evidence of shared reactions to the spirit of the times? I will let the reader decide. Nevertheless, in conclusion, I would like to highlight Debussy’s interest in unique individuals and insist on the respect he showed for independent spirits. This was the case with Vincent d’Indy in 1885, when he won the Prix de la ville de Paris. The young Debussy wrote to his patron, Henri Vasnier: There is a feeling in Père Franck’s joy regarding d’Indy, as you might suspect, and that is to have defeated the Prix de Rome winners, he always dreamed of having a composition class; thus he was really happy to see his teaching vanquish, in some way, that of the Conservatoire. This does not reduce in any way the musical value of d’Indy, whom I consider a very talented lad.65

And this was also the case with Alfred Bruneau, whom Debussy described in the following terms several years later, in 1901: “He has, above all other musicians, a strong contempt for formulas; he strides through harmonies without ever worrying about their grammatical sound virtue; he discerns melodic associations that some people too quickly call ‘monstrous’ when they are simply

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‘unusual.’”66 If one did not know the name of the author, one might say these lines were written about Debussy himself!

Notes

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

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I would like to thank Steven Huebner, Jean-Christophe Branger, and Mark DeVoto for kindly sharing their comments and suggestions with me during our discussions as I was writing the chapter. I would also like to thank Kimberly White for the English translation and Adalyat Issiyeva for her assistance with Russian. On the chronology of the composition of Pelléas et Mélisande see David Grayson, The Genesis of Debussy’s “Pelléas et Mélisande” (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983). See Richard Langham Smith, “Quelques aspects du langage musical d’Alfred Bruneau,” in Le naturalisme sur la scène lyrique, ed. Jean-Christophe Branger and Alban Ramaut (Saint-Étienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Étienne, 2004), 81–93; and Jean-Christophe Branger, “Le rêve d’Alfred Bruneau: un opéra pré-debussyste?” in “Pelléas et Mélisande” cent ans après: études et documents, ed. Jean-Christophe Branger, Sylvie Douche, and Denis Herlin (Paris: Symétrie, 2012), 177–94. On Wagner, see Robin Holloway, Debussy and Wagner (London: Eulenburg Books, 1979); Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the Composition of Pelléas,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 117–41, and “Die ewige Rückkehr von Tristan,” in Von Wagner zum Wagnérisme: Musik, Literatur, Kunst, Politik, ed. Annegret Fauser and Manuela Schwartz, Transfer: Die deutsch-französische Kulturbibliothek, vol. 12 (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitäts-Verlag, 1999), 293– 313; Theo Hirsbrunner, “Wagner und Debussy,” in Von Richard Wagner bis Pierre Boulez: Essays (Anif, Austria: Muller-Speiser, 1997), 35–57. On Stravinsky, see Mark McFarland, “Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into their Musical Relationship,” Cahiers Debussy 24 (2000): 79–112; McFarland, “Debussy: The Origins of a Method,” Journal of Music Theory 48, no. 2 (2004): 295–324. On exotic music at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair, see Richard Mueller, “Javanese Influence on Debussy’s Fantaisie and Beyond,” 19th-Century Music 10, no. 2 (1986): 157–86; Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005). See Teresa Davidian, “Debussy, d’Indy and the Société Nationale,” Journal of Musicological Research 11, no. 4 (1991): 285–301; Giselher Schubert, “Form als Gattung und Prozess. D’Indys Symphonie cévenole im zeitgenössischen kompositorischen Kontext,” in Pluralismus wider Willen? Stilistische Tendenzen in der Musik Vincent d’Indys, ed. Manuela Schwartz and Stefan Keym (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 2002), 97–113; Marianne Wheeldon, “Debussy and La Sonate Cyclique,” The Journal of Musicology 22, no. 4 (2005): 644–79. While a few recent books on French music have discussed Bruneau’s music (such as those written by Steven Huebner and Vincent Giroud), his name is not

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even mentioned in the general twentieth-century music history books written by Glenn Watkins, Robert Morgan, Jean-Jacques Nattiez, and Richard Taruskin. See Steven Huebner, French Opera at the Fin de Siècle: Wagnerism, Nationalism, and Style (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 395–425; Vincent Giroud, French Opera: A Short History (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2010), 229–31; Glenn Watkins, Soundings: Music in the Twentieth Century (New York: Schirmer, 1988); Robert Morgan, Twentieth-Century Music: A History of Musical Style in Modern Europe and America (New York: Norton, 1991); Jean-Jacques Nattiez (ed.), Enciclopedia della musica, vol. 1: Il Novecento (Turin: Einaudi, 2001); Richard Taruskin, The Oxford History of Western Music, vol. 4: The Early Twentieth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 6. Gustav Mahler conducted the performance of Le rêve in Hamburg in 1892 and expressed his admiration of the work in an enthusiastic letter to Bruneau. Richard Strauss also discovered Bruneau’s music in the 1890s. After having heard his music in Paris in 1897, Strauss became interested in L’ouragan; however, the performance that he had planned in Berlin could not take place because he was unable to acquire a German translation of the libretto. On Bruneau’s relationship with Mahler see Jean-Christophe Branger, Alfred Bruneau: Un compositeur au cœur de la bataille naturaliste; Lettres à Étienne Destranges Paris-Nantes, 1891–1915 (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2003), 16. On his relationship with Strauss see Branger, “Une relation amicale et musicale méconnue: Richard Strauss et Alfred Bruneau,” Etudes germaniques 1 (2002): 63–79. 7. In the first letter from Debussy and Bruneau’s correspondence, dated October 17, 1895, Debussy thanked Bruneau for his article on Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. See C. Debussy used the familiar “tu” with friends like Pierre Louÿs and René Peter and with acquaintances from his youth, such as Gabriel Pierné and Gustave Charpentier. Otherwise, he used the more formal “vous” to address even those people with whom he was very close, like Robert Godet and PaulJean Toulet. 8. Lesure cited by Langham Smith in “Quelques aspects,” 92. 9. Bruneau became a member of the SNM on November 6, 1881, and Debussy, on January 8, 1888, the day after the Société’s concert that included Bruneau’s Adagietto. Music by the two composers appeared on programs in 1888 and 1889, including Debussy’s Ariettes oubliées (February 2, 1889) and Bruneau’s Penthésilée (April 6, 1889). Debussy spoke highly of the latter work in an article published in 1903, on the occasion of the work’s reprise at the Concert Lamoureux. On the concerts of the SNM see the programs in the appendix of Michel Duchesneau, L’avant-garde musicale et ses sociétés à Paris de 1871 à 1939 (Sprimont: Mardaga, 1997); for Debussy’s impressions of Penthésilée see MC, 133–34. 10. On Zola’s assistance in this affair see Alfred Bruneau, À l’ombre d’un grand cœur: Souvenirs d’une collaboration (Paris: Charpentier, 1932), 47–48. 11. Alfred Bruneau, “Musique,” La revue indépendante 13, no. 36 (October 1889), 144. My thanks go to Jean-Christophe Branger for drawing my attention to this article.

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12. Claude Debussy, La revue blanche, June 1, 1901; reprinted in MC, 46–47. See my article, “La musique en plein air et l’idéal esthétique de Claude Debussy,” in Écrits de compositeurs: une autorité en questions (19e et 20e siècles), ed. Michel Duchesneau, Valérie Dufour, and Marie-Hélène Benoit-Otis (Paris: Vrin, 2013), 165–85. 13. Carraud described the Wagnerism of Magnard’s first opera in the following terms: “Only Yolande unfolds in a kind of languidness or outward inaction, in this abstraction of time so particular to Wagner, in its profusion of narration and display. Magnard is as enthusiastically Wagnerian in his first opera as he was cyclical in his first symphony.” See Gaston Carraud, La vie, l’œuvre et la mort d’Albéric Magnard (1865–1914) (Paris: Rouart Lerolle, 1921), 233–34. 14. In a note written in April 1902 regarding Pelléas et Mélisande, Debussy asserted: “One must search after Wagner and not according to Wagner.” This note was published in Comœdia on October 17, 1920, and reprinted in MC, 62–63. 15. Such a clear-cut point of view is obviously simplistic. It is not a simple question of categorizing a composer’s style as Wagnerian or not, as a work will always display some degree of influence, more or less pronounced. What is more, it is not easy to compare the manifestations of Wagnerian influence, as it does not generally operate according to the same criteria for each composer. But despite its reductive character, this perspective can be useful for comparing extreme cases, particularly given that writings in the 1890s have revealed how powerfully it shaped the attitudes and judgments of composers and cultural actors in musical life. 16. Bruneau, La revue indépendante, March 1889. 17. Gil Blas, January 10, 1893. 18. Review in Figaro, May 11, 1898, on the occasion of the French première of Fervaal at the Opéra-Comique in 1898. Bruneau was even more combative here than he was in the review from the opera’s world premiere in Brussels in 1897, when he denounced its “essence that was more backwards than it was audacious” (Figaro, March 23, 1897). 19. In his column on January 29, 1895, in Gil Blas, Bruneau admired the integrity that Savard demonstrated in the neglected genre of the symphony. However, he lamented the obvious Wagnerian influence on the work, and encouraged Savard to seek a more independent assertion of his personality. 20. Arthur Pougin, Le Ménestrel, June 21, 1891; Auguste Vitu, Le Figaro, June 19, 1891; Léon Kerst, Petit journal, June 20, 1891; Emile Pessard, L’événement, June 20, 1891; Victorin Joncières, La liberté, June 20, 1891. 21. Henry Bauër in Écho de Paris, June 20 and June 27, 1891; Armand Gouzien, Le rappel, June 19, 1891; Georges Launay, Le Voltaire, June 20, 1891; Victor Wilder, Gil Blas, June 20, 1891; Paul Ginisty, Le petit Parisien, June 20, 1891; Dom Blasius, L’intransigeant, June 20, 1891; Alfred Ernst, Le siècle, June 19, 1891; Henri de la Pommeraye, Paris, June 20, 1891. 22. Henri Des Houx, “Le ‘rêve.’ Première représentation de l’Opéra-Comique,” Le matin, June 19, 1891. 23. Rappel, June 19, 1891. 24. Écho de Paris, June 20, 1891.

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25. Chrysale (pseudonym of Théodore Avonde), La liberté, June 20, 1891. 26. On the banquet for Le rêve that hosted one hundred guests see Fernand Xau, Écho de Paris, June 27, 1891, and Julien Torchet, L’événement, November 30, 1893. 27. MC, 133. 28. On the symbolism of F♯ in Pelléas et Mélisande, see Richard Langham Smith, “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” in Claude Debussy, “Pélleas et Mélisande,” ed. Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 107–39; as well as Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the Composition of Pelléas,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 117–41. Marie Rolf has observed Debussy’s predilection for the key of F-sharp major in the works from his youth that were written for Marie Vasnier. See her “Debussy’s Rites of Spring,” in Rethinking Debussy, ed. Elliott Antokoletz and Marianne Wheeldon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 16 and 27n18. 29. The opera’s denouement, as it had originally been conceived by the authors and written in the score, did not correspond with the revised version presented at the Opéra-Comique in 1891. Rather, it was changed to accommodate the audience’s taste: in the revised version, Angélique does not die, and the opera ends happily with her marriage to Félicien. 30. The Yearning for Paradise theme is built on a motive developed through increasingly wide intervals (the ascending interval initially delineates a fifth, then a sixth, and so forth). This motion nicely illustrates the image of the sky opening that Angélique describes and, more generally, captures her desire for transcendence and paradise, at the moment where she frees herself of earthly attachments and turns her eyes to the otherworldly. In his study of Le rêve, Destranges provides different names for the two leitmotives of example 6.1: he refers to them, respectively, as “thème de la Mort” (the Death Theme) and the “Renoncement au bonheur entrevu” (Renunciation of Fleeting Happiness). See Etienne Destranges (pseudonym of Louis Augustin Étienne Rouillé), Le rêve d’Alfred Bruneau: Étude thématique et analytique de la partition, avec un portrait (Paris: Librairie Fischbacher, 1896), 12–13. 31. For Bruneau’s operas, references to the score are indicated by three numbers separated by a forward slash, which indicate, respectively, the page, the system, and the measure. For example, p. 21/5/3 corresponds to the third measure of the fifth system on page 21. 32. MacDonald notably mentions the works of Giacomo Meyerbeer, Hector Berlioz, Jules Massenet, and Debussy. See his “[9/8 Meter and G-Flat Major Key Signature],” 19th-Century Music 11, no. 3 (1988): 221–37. 33. See the piano-vocal score published by Choudens, n.d. [1887], Plate A.C. 7045. The theme occurs three times in F-sharp major: first, when the bishop orders Jocelyn to join the priesthood (p. 141/1/1); then, when the bishop blesses Jocelyn before being executed (p. 152/1/1); and, finally, when the bishop asks Jocelyn to bless him in return (p. 183/3/2). Elsewhere, tonicization of the G-flat major chord is used separately from the sacrament theme: for example, when Jocelyn forgives Laurence and declares his love in the prelude to their love duet (p. 122/3/1).

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34. In his Cours de composition musicale, d’Indy analyzed Fervaal in detail, revealing the elaborate conception of key symbolism in the work, particularly with regard to the number of symbolic tonalities and the sophistication of their roles and connections. In the prologue, F-sharp major is associated with Fervaal’s love for Guilhen. See Cours de composition musicale, Troisième livre, transcribed by Guy de Lioncourt from his class notes (Paris: Durand, 1950), 206. D’Indy also spoke of the warmth of sharp keys and the shifts in meaning with movement toward flats or sharps (see his discussion of Wagner’s Tannhäuser, 147–48, a notion he also applied to instrumental music). In Magnard’s Yolande, Gaston Carraud suggests that the two keys presented in the overture, F-sharp major (heavenly bliss) and D minor (human suffering) guide the key symbolism. The character of the other keys (natural or sharp keys) is defined with respect to these principal keys. See Carraud, La vie, l’œuvre et la mort d’Albéric Magnard, 246. 35. Destranges divides the leitmotive theme into three segments, each with a different meaning: he interprets them successively as “Passé de l’évêque” (the Bishop’s Past), the “Souvenir de la femme aimée” (Memory of the Beloved), and “la Douleur” (Sorrow). See his Le rêve d’Alfred Bruneau, 19. 36. Koechlin cited this passage as an early example of polytonality in France in three different texts. First, in two articles published in the Encyclopédie edited by Lavignac and la Laurencie: “Les tendances de la musique moderne française,” in Encyclopédie de la musique et dictionnaire du conservatoire, tome 2, vol. 1 (Paris: Delagrave, 1925), 117, and “Évolution de l’harmonie. Période contemporaine depuis Bizet et César Franck jusqu’à nos jours,” in ibid, 719. See also Koechlin’s Traité de l’harmonie en trois volumes, vol. 2 (Paris: Max Eschig, 1928), 255. Jean-Christophe Branger has compared the bitonality of this passage by Bruneau with another bitonal passage in Strauss’s Salomé. See his “Une relation amicale et musicale méconnue,” 72–73. 37. Later on, the Theme of the Weighty Past attains a form of redemption. After the austere version in E Phrygian and another tortuous version that superposed E Phrygian and F-sharp minor, the theme is presented in E major (p. 174/1/2). This thematic transfiguration accompanies Félicien’s emotional plea as he tries to placate his father by appealing to his humanity and his love for his deceased mother. 38. According to the stage directions, “Pendant ce qui précède, Félicien apparaît, se penchant, regardant à travers la baie vitrée du fond.” (During the preceding action, Felicien appears, leaning down and looking through the bay window at the back.) 39. Somewhat similarly to example 6.2b, the dissonant version of the Theme of Desire deforms the previous consonant version by transposing the melody while maintaining a portion of the accompaniment unchanged. Indeed, from the outset of the opera, the Theme of Desire had been presented in an almost immutable form, with a pleasant harmonization in E-flat and without any discord between the melody and the accompaniment (see pp. 6/4/1, 36/4/3, and 39/1/2—the second instance is illustrated below in example 6.7, m. 18). In the dissonant version from p. 46/1/1 the tension results from the

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40.

41.

42.

43.

44.

45.

46.

47.

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transposition of the melody up a fifth combined with an accompaniment that maintains the original notes of the initial chord (D–F–A♭–C). I have borrowed the name for the Theme of Desire from Destranges, Le rêve d’Alfred Bruneau, 16. Richard Langham Smith has discussed a shorter excerpt of this example in his study “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” 115–16. I have partly applied his interpretation to a longer passage, supplemented by ideas that I developed in my essay “Golaud selon Maeterlinck: le ‘sadisme’ shakespearien et l’inquiétude emersonienne,” in Bruxelles, convergence des arts (1880–1914), ed. Malou Haine and Denis Laoureux (Paris: Vrin, 2013), 285–96. On the features of Mélisande’s post-traumatic behavior see Juana Canabal Antokoletz’s chapter in Elliott Antokoletz, Musical Symbolism in the Operas of Debussy and Bartok (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 30–54. Eyes, the gaze, and blindness comprise one of the important literary themes in the opera. See, for example, Fabrice van de Kerckhove, “Les yeux de Mélisande. Échos de Schopenhauer et d’Emerson dans Pelléas et Mélisande,” Textyles, 24 (2004), published online July 18, 2012, http://textyles.revues. org/713; see also my chapter, “Golaud selon Maeterlinck: le ‘sadisme’ shakespearien et l’inquiétude emersonienne.” On the symbolism of light in the work see Langham Smith, “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” 107–39; see also my chapter, “Golaud selon Maeterlinck,” 285–96. According to Arthur Wenk, “Le balcon” (1888) was one of the first examples (at least of his mélodies); however, we can find traces as early as 1881 in the overture Diane au bois. Richard Mueller states that Debussy began using the whole-tone scale in a more developed and consistent fashion beginning with his Fantaisie pour piano et orchestre (1890), following his discovery of Javanese music at the 1889 World’s Fair. See Arthur Wenk, Claude Debussy and the Poets (Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1976), 79; and Mueller, “Javanese Influence,” 159–61. The same chord from m. 68 is also given in m. 66. In the third and fourth beats of m. 64, there is an almost complete presentation of the whole-tone scale (missing only B♭/A♯): however, the collection of notes can be interpreted as an augmented triad (C–E–G♯), with two passing notes in the piano (F♯ and D). This melody portrays a “dream” filled with nostalgia. The impulse is revealed in the final verse: “Mon âme c’est du rêve ancien qui t’étreint.” (My soul is an ancient dream that embraces you.) Nostalgia for a period when women received the respect they deserved, and “les chevaliers” (the knights) on “le chemin du Grâal” (the path to the holy Grail) dedicated to them “la fierté des casques d’or” (the proud golden helmets). The couple’s contemplative behavior is described in the stage directions: “Après la sortie d’Angélique, silence d’un instant seulement rompu par la lente et grave sonnerie des cloches, et un vague murmure de la foule du côté de la Cathédrale. Hubert et Hubertine se regardent dans une sorte de rêverie émue.” (After Angélique’s exit, there is a moment of silence broken only by

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49.

50. 51.

52.

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the slow, low ringing of the bells, and a vague murmur in the crowd on the side of the Cathedral. Hubert and Hubertine look at each other in a kind of poignant reverie.) Then, in the introduction to their duet, another stage direction indicates: “puis ils se rapprochent, leurs mains s’étreignent doucement” (they then move closer together, and they gently grasp each other hands). I have discovered even earlier examples of whole-tone scales in Vincent d’Indy’s music. La mort de Wallenstein, op. 12 (1881), presents a chromatic sequence of augmented chords in mm. 196–307, whose outer voices move in contrary motion (like the passage from Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Maid of Pskov cited below in example 8). In the Symphonie sur un chant montagnard français, op. 25 (Symphonie Cévenole, 1886), a whole-tone passage occurs after a climax and creates a transition between two sections, in a kind of fade-out. It is similar to a passage at the end of Götterdämmerung (act 3, scene 3, mm. 1460–63); however, whereas Wagner’s writing was based on a sequence of augmented triads, d’Indy used a wider variety of chords. This example also resembles a passage in “Le dialogue du vent et de la mer,” the third movement of Debussy’s La mer, beginning with the climax at rehearsal number 51 (mm. 118–32). Like Debussy and Bruneau, d’Indy also became interested in Russian music, which Liszt introduced to him as early as 1873 in Weimar and which he would later encounter at the SNM beginning in 1888. Indeed, Le mage (1891) contains a passage with alternating subgroups of two whole-tone scales, accompanied by contrary chromatic motion in the bass and in the voice (see p. 19/1/4, Hartmann n.d. [1891], Plaque G.H. 2121). Serge Gut discusses Lizst’s use of whole-tone scales in chapter 7 of his book Franz Liszt: Les éléments du langage musical (Paris: Zurfluh, 2008), 64–73. In their respective works, Mary Woodside discusses whole-tone scales in Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila and Richard Taruskin examines symmetrical scales (including whole-tone scales) in Russian music from Glinka to Stravinsky. I would exclude some of Taruskin’s examples of whole-tone scales, which occur in only one part (such as the bass line with a progression of conventional chords governed by a symmetrical division of the octave into equal parts). See Mary Woodside, “Leitmotiv in Russia: Glinka’s Use of the Whole-Tone Scale,” 19th-Century Music 14, no. 1 (1990): 67–74; Richard Taruskin, “Chernomor to Kashchei: Harmonic Sorcery; Or, Stravinsky’s ‘Angle,’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 38, no. 1 (1985): 72–142. See also Gut, Franz Liszt: Les éléments du langage musical, 73–78, and Marina Frolova-Walker, Russian Music and Nationalism: From Glinka to Stalin (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 184–86. On Debussy’s connections with Russian music, and the presence and circulation of this repertoire in Paris, see André Schaeffner, “Debussy et ses rapports avec la musique russe,” in Un siècle de musique russe: 1830–1930, ed. Pierre Souvtchinsky (Arles: Actes Sud, 2004 [1953]), 95–138; reprint in Schaeffner, Variations sur la musique (Paris: Fayard, 1998), 255–303; Malou Haine, “Paris à l’heure musicale russe: Le rôle des expositions universelles de 1867 à 1900,” Musique. Images. Instruments 13 (2012): 14–28; and Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005).

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53. Bruneau’s report is included in his Musiques de Russie et musiciens de France (Paris: Charpentier-Fasquelle, 1903). 54. I have borrowed the expression “alliés naturels” (natural allies) from one of Bruneau’s articles that reviewed the Russian music presented at the Concert Colonne (Gil Blas, October 17, 1893). 55. Revue indépendante, August 1889, 206. 56. In particular, the concurrent performances of Mussorgsky’s and Debussy’s operas in Paris in 1908 elicited exaggerated comments on the influence of Boris Godunov on Pelléas. See, for example, Jean Marnold’s article in Mercure de France (June 16, 1908), 731–32. To date, Schaeffner’s article (cited above) provides the most detailed and balanced account regarding Mussorgsky’s influence on Debussy’s opera. 57. Messiaen, Musique et couleur: Nouveau entretiens avec Claude Samuel (Paris: Belfond, 1986), 74. I examine Messaien’s conception of Debussy’s rhythmic organization in closer detail in my article “Olivier Messiaen et le Pelléas et Mélisande de Claude Debussy: La musique ‘de couleurs et de temps rythmés,’” in Olivier Messiaen und die “französische Tradition,” ed. Stefan Keym and Peter Jost (Cologne: Dohr, 2013), 83–106. 58. Messiaen, Traité de rythme, de couleur et d’ornithologie, vol. 6 (Paris: Leduc, 2001), 3. 59. Messiaen also showed interest in the rhythmic organization of this particular passage. See Traité de rythme, tome 6, 62. I discuss this in “Olivier Messiaen et le Pelléas et Mélisande,” 97–106. 60. Fragmentation refers to the reduction of the length of the basic groupings, while liquidation describes a process of standardization and omission of characteristic features. The latter occurs typically at the end of a section. The term “fragmentation” is a translation of the notion of “Abspaltung,” first coined by Erwin Ratz and then translated into English by William Caplin. For Schönberg, “reduction” and “condensation” designate different, but related, phenomena; he was the first to define the term “liquidation.” See William Caplin, Funktionale Komponenten im achttaktigen Satz, in Musiktheorie 1 (1986): 239–60, and Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998); Erwin Ratz, Einführung in die musikalische Formenlehre, 3rd ed., rev. and augmented (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1973); Arnold Schoenberg, Fundamentals of Musical Composition (London: Faber, 1967); French translation by Dennis Collins (Paris, Jean-Claude Lattès, 1987). 61. At the end of 1891 and the beginning of 1892 Zola worked on the libretto of L’attaque du moulin (in collaboration with Louis Gallet) concurrently with his work on La débâcle, a story about the fictitious Rougon-Macquart family that takes place during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. The novel describes a military stereophonic effect somewhat similar to that in the opera, except using bugle calls: “Des minutes encore se passèrent, et vers la gauche, du côté de la deuxième brigade, un clairon sonna l’appel. Plus près, un autre répondit. Puis, ce fut un troisième, très loin. De proche en proche, tous sonnaient à la fois, lorsque Gaude, le clairon de la compagnie, se décida, à toute volée des

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63.

64.

65. 66.

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notes sonores.” (Minutes slipped by and, over to the left by the second brigade, a bugle called. Soon after, another answered. Then, there was a third. Gradually, they called out together, when Gaude, the bugler in the company, decided to play the notes with full force.) See Émile Zola, Les Rougon-Macquart: Histoire naturelle et sociale d’une famille sous le Second Empire, vol. 5: L’argent. La débâcle. Le docteur Pascal (Paris: Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1967), 407. To cite only a few examples drawn from French works from 1880 to 1890 (opera, ballet, works with solo voice and choir): La korrigane (1880) by CharlesMarie Widor; Lalo’s Namouna (1882); Reyer’s Sigurd (1884); Rubezahl (1885) by Georges Hüe; La vie du poète (1888) by Gustave Charpentier; Camille Erlanger’s Saint-Julien L’Hospitalier (1894) and Kermaria (1897); Le drac (1896) by Paul and Lucien Hillemacher; and d’Indy’s Fervaal (1897). Prior to L’attaque du moulin, Alfred Bruneau used the technique in Kérim (1887) and Le rêve (1891). In his symphonic works, Debussy used choral vocalizations in the symphonic suite Printemps (1887) and in Sirènes, the third Nocturne for orchestra (written after he had composed most of Pelléas et Mélisande, although it was premièred before the opera, in 1901). In Rodrigue et Chimène, Debussy had created a stereophonic effect for the arrival of the men of Gormaz. See act 1, scene 3, mm. 397–400, 413–16, and so forth. The call motive was borrowed from another of Debussy’s works, symphonic suite Printemps (see especially the transition at the beginning of the second movement). On Debussy’s project for an opera based on La princesse Maleine see François Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique: suivie du catalogue de l’œuvre (Paris: Fayard, 2003), 123. Letter from Debussy to Henri Vasnier, late June 1885 in Rome. See C, 32–33. MC, 42.

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Chapter Seven

Between Massenet and Wagner Steven Huebner

“Do not have me say poison,” pleaded Charles Koechlin in 1926 as he reflected upon the influence of Massenet on the young Debussy.1 Massenet: the charmer, the composer attentive to his market. Debussy: the bold revolutionary who struggled to attain aesthetic autonomy. Even though these epithets are reductive, and have even become stereotypes, they are difficult to disentangle from any consideration of the relationship of these two figures. That relationship has to negotiate the large chasm that separates them in the usual way of tracing the history of music, a narrative where Debussy assumes the role of a colossal figure who had a major impact on the destiny of Western music, whereas Massenet has a negligible part to play. Koechlin strongly implies that many musicians in the 1920s thought that Massenet had the effect of poison on the young Claude-Achille. It is worth positioning Koechlin’s remark in its original context: “Debussy took a long time to shake off the influence (do not have me say poison) of Massenet. It can happen that a lot of time elapses before an artist discovers himself.” In underlining the slow artistic development of Debussy, Koechlin implicitly touches upon a major issue in debates about his stylistic evolution, debates that have affected the way that critics have positioned Massenet in relation to his younger colleague. According to Maurice Emmanuel, Debussy discovered his own voice quite quickly. In anecdotes first published in a special edition of La revue musicale devoted to Debussy’s youth—anecdotes that would become widely disseminated—Emmanuel tells of how Debussy entertained his fellow students at the Conservatoire with “a plethora of chords [. . .], a rippling of weird arpeggios, a gargling of trills with three simultaneous pitches [and]

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series of unanalyzable harmonic progressions.”2 Emmanuel took up the same theme in a monograph about Pelléas et Mélisande dating from the same period. Responding to the “cascades of chords” applauded by Debussy’s classmates, Émile Durand, the harmony teacher, snapped the piano cover shut on the fingers of his student and scolded him: “you would be better served by practicing harmonic progressions.”3 In short, Emmanuel tells of the coexistence of two Debussys at the Conservatoire: one, Claude-Achille, who followed the compositional regime of the school, and the other, the “authentic Debussy,” whose mature stylistic and syntactical orientation was already to a certain extent in place. It was a period of growth along two tracks, a cohabitation that frequently led Debussy to hide his real artistic temperament from his teachers and from relatively conservative audiences.4 But are Emmanuel’s souvenirs inaccurate or exaggerated? So asks Paul Landormy in a response to the testimony of his colleague that was published in the Revue Pleyel in 1927. He wonders how one could “imagine an artist equipped from earliest youth with such new technical approaches and such original aesthetic ideas who at the same time continued to write more or less in the style of Massenet.”5 Landormy draws attention to Koechlin’s point of view as he had developed it in the article on Debussy’s early songs from which the opening quotation of this essay derives. There Koechlin accentuates the composer’s long period of artistic growth; he argues that Debussy adhered to relatively traditional musical language before his departure to Rome in 1884 and that greater stylistic liberties were grafted on to this gradually. There have, therefore, been two poles in our understanding of the artistic development of Debussy—with what really occurred doubtless mobile and located somewhere in between.6 As an example of this mobility, we might observe that, despite their difference of perspective, Emmanuel and Landormy agree in their recognition that the spread between composition and improvisation, especially of the kind that challenges syntactical norms, can be substantial. Landormy seems to accept the testimony of Emmanuel, but also notes that contact with other progressive composers was decisive in the development of Debussy’s style, and that without this reinforcement coming from colleagues who had “dared” before him, his improvisations would have given an impression of having emerged from a “half-conscious” state.7 Emmanuel, for his part, ends by suggesting that although Debussy acted in a fully deliberate and revolutionary fashion at the keyboard, he integrated these ideas into his compositions only gradually “as he became aware of liberties employed by other musicians.”8 Which composers, what liberties? Parameters remain vague in these accounts. It remains nonetheless probable that the accumulation of stylistic traits associated with composers such as Massenet, Grieg, Wagner, or the Russians did not occur against the grain of the syntactical boldness of Debussy

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the improviser, but rather in dialogue with it. Moreover, memoirs recalling the daring improvisations of Debussy do not contain information about parameters like phrase structure and the formal groundplan of numbers. The image of a Debussy who held back against his will to satisfy reactionary juries seems somewhat simplistic. And there was still plenty to learn by remaining within traditional methods, even within Durand’s famous “progressions” that Debussy, according to the recollections of the composer Paul Vidal, was able to realize in “ingenious ways,”9 an observation that bears witness to the possibility that syntactical reform could emerge from within the system. Even Emmanuel leans in this direction when he claims (exaggeratedly) that “there is not one chord or combination of voices in Pelléas that cannot be explained by classical harmony or the practices of traditional counterpoint.”10 Emmanuel wrote these words in light of music of the late 1920s, an eloquent indicator that judgments regarding the degree to which a style is rooted in the past can be colored heavily by immediate context. To continue with reflections on the case of Massenet raised by Landormy, it is certainly understandable that in retrospect Massenet would have appeared conservative compared to Debussy. This perspective was perpetuated even by a researcher as observant as John Clevenger who, in his dissertation on Debussy’s training, maintains that even before his victory in the Prix de Rome Debussy did not care for Massenet’s style “weighed down in tradition.”11 But in the context of the early 1880s, when Debussy was preparing for the competition, Massenet expressed himself in a style generally judged as original and personal, producing a current of freshness that the critical consensus of the period did not hold to be “mired in stale harmonic and phraseological conventions.”12 In Clevenger’s more negative way of describing Massenet, his outmoded language was dissonant with his use of leitmotive (a more “progressive” technique) in Hérodiade and Manon, an incompatibility that supposedly rubbed against the aesthetic sensibilities of Debussy. Yet in this period several composers, including Saint-Saëns and Reyer, pursued an attractive and legitimate track that favoured the coexistence of the musical set piece and a web of leitmotives.13 When Debussy began his studies at the Conservatoire, Massenet was the composition teacher most in demand at that institution. How might one, then, understand his enrollment in Guiraud’s class, a choice that appears odd, considering that Massenet’s style was by and large more original, innovative, and remarkable than that of Guiraud in the early 1880s?14 Although the reasons for Debussy’s choice are not entirely clear (and perhaps never will be), the explanation advanced by Emmanuel seems congruent with the hypothesis of a bifurcated Claude-Achille/Debussy. Debussy “was frightened” by the discipline required by Massenet “whom he knew to be rigorous.” To be sure, Guiraud was a “charming man, at once a sensitive artist and a discriminating judge,” but he also exhibited an “incurable laziness” that prevented him from promoting

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himself adequately as a composer and, especially, “suggested the prospect of unlimited freedom to his students.”15 Emmanuel does not explicitly say so, but one might suppose that Guiraud’s professional temperament accorded well with the inclinations of the “authentic Debussy,” though admittedly Guiraud’s supposed open-mindedness (be it the product of conviction or a laissez-faire attitude) was not completely incompatible with the other side of the debate about the emergence of Debussy’s genius. François Lesure argued that the encouragement of Antoine Marmontel, Debussy’s piano teacher and close friend of Guiraud, played a part in directing the young composer to Guiraud, whom he describes as endowed with “a liberal spirit.” Moreover, practical factors might have been even more instrumental: Debussy went back to his studies after the end of his contract with Mme von Meck in late 1880, and the administration of the Conservatory was anxious to fill Guiraud’s class, which was poorly populated because he had started to teach only on December 1.16 Having not registered in Massenet’s class, Debussy did not benefit from the master’s vigorous support in the politicized environment of the Prix de Rome. This much is suggested by letters about Debussy that Paul Vidal, himself a student of Massenet, penned to the singer Henriette Fuchs in 1884 during the competition, as well as after his young colleague had won the first prize. Worrying that the subject of L’enfant prodigue did not suit Debussy’s temperament, Vidal added that his adversary Xavier Leroux (who would go on to win the following year) “hardly has what it takes to set a subject like that, but he has Massenet behind him.”17 After Debussy’s win, Vidal was disappointed by the behaviour of his friend in his private life and worried: “Massenet will only reluctantly forgive the support I extended [to Debussy] if he forgives me at all! I will be seen to have needlessly betrayed the interests of the flag.”18 We also know that, thanks to Vidal, Debussy had been put into contact with Charles Gounod in the context of work for a choral society called La Concordia. Gounod voted in his favour at the 1884 concours.19 In light of these well-defined jurisdictions and of Debussy’s exclusion from the immediate circle around Massenet, the Massenetic features of the cantata L’enfant prodigue (which will be touched upon below) as well as Koechlin’s attestation of Massenet’s substantial influence on Debussy take on a slightly ironic flavour. Aside from the documentation of style features deriving either from the syntax of contemporaries or independently ob ovo, the psychological stance of any composer towards his predecessors should be factored into any critical assessment of influence. This of course touches upon contrasting theoretical models applied not only in literary studies in the last fifty years but also to a certain extent in musicology. On the one hand T. S. Eliot posited links of beneficence and generosity that produced a harmonious community across time. As a corollary, he critiqued the general approach that praises the part of any work that least resembles its predecessors and favoured instead those features where

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ancestors assert their immortality. For Harold Bloom, on the other hand, the past is a source of anxiety and the scenario of creation an Oedipal drama, involving the symbolic murder of the father. Poems are psychic battlefields where newcomers confront tradition in order to repress it, the debris of the struggle scattered in misreadings of precursors, that is, in purposeful hijacking of some of their elements to other purposes.20 Generous gift or struggle? In situating Debussy (or any other composer) in the context of his predecessors, it would seem best to reflect upon the relative weight of each side of the binary just outlined instead of presuming a sharp contrast. Although unquantifiable, there are good reasons to affirm that the relationship of Debussy to Wagner in the decade of the 1880s, and especially his relationship to Tristan und Isolde, was colored by anxiety, by a psychic struggle. But why draw attention to Wagner when our focus so far has been on the influence of Massenet? The aim is to propose a working hypothesis that the relationship of Debussy to Massenet would have been much less colored by anxiety than his relationship to the maître de Bayreuth. After all, the challenge that Debussy set for himself—a challenge given witness not only by his writings but also by his mélodies on texts by Baudelaire, by Diane au bois, by Rodrigue et Chimène, by Pelléas—was how to write après, and not d’après, Wagner.21 It would not be persuasive to argue that a more fundamental challenge to him was how to write après, and not d’après, Massenet. In view of his general artistic orientation, Debussy’s quest for originality and greater syntactical freedom faced a more redoubtable precursor in Wagner than in Massenet (which is not, of course, to say that Massenet was an antediluvian composer—far from it). If one adheres to Maurice Emmanuel’s testimony of a bifurcated Claude-Achille/authentic Debussy, Massenet could not have been as threatening as Wagner because the bar of novelty in harmonic language, phrase structure and architecture set by the Wagner of Tristan and Parsifal, the bar over which the “authentic Debussy” sought to leap, was much higher than that set by Massenet. For its part, the gradualist, single-track theory of Debussy’s development opens greater possibility of anxiety about Massenet—this might have been Koechlin’s view—but it too should recognize the depth of Wagner’s impact. “I feel obligated to invent new forms. Wagner can be useful here” Debussy wrote to Henri Vasnier from Rome with reference to his project Diane au bois, adding: “I will follow him only in the way that the scenes succeed each other, and then I want to assure that the vocal profile remains lyrical without becoming absorbed by the orchestra.”22 Not very anxious sounding perhaps, but such comments need to be seen in the light of statements about the aesthetic impact of Wagner’s music, particularly Tristan: “It is certainly the most beautiful thing that I know, and in terms of emotional depth it seizes you like a warm embrace, and makes you suffer” he wrote to Ernest Hébert after hearing the first act.23 According to

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Raymond Bonheur, “the score never left him, and filled him with agitation that only the passing years succeeded in attenuating.”24 And according to Emmanuel, “Tristan had a veritably bewitching effect on Debussy.”25 Similar documentation of Debussy’s attitude towards Massenet during the 1880s is not extant. According to Emmanuel’s notes of Debussy’s conversations with Guiraud, Debussy once admitted that Massenet’s overture to Phèdre was the only work of the older composer he liked—a tiny morsel in his already considerable output to that time and surely an idiosyncratic choice, though Debussy did opine that it was “the work of a real musician.”26 Unless new letters emerge, the first appearance of Massenet’s name in his correspondence occurred in 1893 in a letter to André Poniatowski where he lambastes Werther as a degradation of Goethe written only with the goal of profit in mind.27 This is the voice of Debussy the bohemian who privileged authenticity of expression. Later in life, however, he would develop a more positive disposition towards his older colleague, at least in public—a change of orientation with which Wagner has something to do. Eight years after his Werther remark, in an oft-cited article about Massenet titled “D’Ève à Grisélidis,” Debussy trod a well-travelled path in describing the art of his colleague as essentially feminine: The harmonies resemble arms, the melodies napes of the neck; one gives special attention to the foreheads of women in order to learn at any cost what goes on inside [. . .] Philosophers and upstanding people affirm that nothing happens there, but this does not necessarily erase the contrary opinion, the example of M. Massenet proves it (at least melodically) [. . .] At one time so much success resulted in the phenomenon that it became good form to copy the melodic idiosyncrasies of M. Massenet, but then, suddenly, those who quietly stole from him began to treat him harshly.28

We might ask whether Debussy thought of himself as once having belonged to the group who copied Massenet’s “melodic idiosyncracies” and whether in this article he was trying to distance himself from those who spoke “harshly” about him. Whatever the answer, we can surmise with some confidence that at the moment Debussy wrote these words he had overcome his anxiety about Wagnerian influence. In this context, he used Massenet in order to establish an anti-Wagnerian, nationalist position: People reproached him for liking M. Mascagni too much and for not adoring Wagner enough. This reproach is as incorrect as it is inadmissible. M. Massenet heroically continued to seek out the approbation of his usual female admirers: I have to confess that I do not understand why it is better to please old cosmopolitan Wagnerian women more than young perfumed ones, even if they do not play the piano very well. Once and for all, he was right.29

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between massenet and wagner

❧

231

In this way of thinking, Massenet emerges as kind of hero, that is, not as the “poison” intimated by Koechlin but as a legitimate counterweight to Wagnerian influence. Debussy continues by praising works “built with a light touch that did not exclude artistic exploration; it was simply about being more delicate, that’s all.” Better the feminine subtlety of a Massenet than the excessive noise without nuance of a Wagner whose music had the effect of a continuous sonic wall. This approach was taken up, said Debussy, by certain unidentified French “neo-Wagnerians.”30 Here, Debussy does not tar Massenet with the brush of “profit” and speaks instead of genuine “artistic exploration” (recherches d’art), endeavours undertaken with the goal of producing the sort of pleasure that emanates from charm. Debussy seems to have held fast to this assessment. As the first sentence of his obituary for Massenet written in 1912 he observed: “Massenet was the most genuinely liked of all contemporary musicians,” and continued by noting that it was “the sort of glory produced by a charm that will be secretly envied by more than one of those formidable purists whose hearts warm only to the somewhat tedious respect shown to them by their closed artistic circles.”31 In effect, Debussy develops here a kind of discourse counter to one colored by masculine imagery that might have accentuated notions of progress, research, and the modern. He tries to rectify the habitual way of celebrating the artist: the highest level of achievement, he suggests in his obituary for Massenet, comes from the individualist who struggles only with his own conscience; the appeal to a larger public (like Massenet) or to a small circle (like the neo-Wagnerians) was secondary to this. Debussy, however, strongly gives the impression that, from the point of view of artistic integrity, the most honest among the two last orientations was the first—another way enhancing Massenet’s image at the expense of those composers situated in a more direct line of filiation from Wagner.

❧ ❧ ❧ On the subject of Massenet’s “melodic idiosyncrasies,” it is worth recalling words that François Lesure penned almost twenty years ago: The list of Debussy’s youthful works in which the influence of Massenet has been discerned is long [. . .] But instead of producing demonstrations by technical analysis, most commentators have dealt in general impressions without precise reasoning. This is so much the case today that the moment observers are confronted with a flowing melodic style, expressive and a little languorous, the evocation to Massenet is almost automatic and very often abusive.32

Although space does not allow for a detailed description of Massenet’s melodic style here, we can respond briefly to Lesure’s desideratum.33 Having assimilated

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the prosodic approach developed by Gounod and others that deploys a fluid alternation between metrical and agogic accents, Massenet favoured relatively rapid displacements of register in syllabic eighth notes, often stretching beyond an octave in the space of two measures and often even within one. In the cabalette “Pourquoi troubler ainsi ma vie” of the Sita-Scindia duet in the first act of Le roi de Lahore, the rapid ascent takes the form of a big upbeat at the beginning, a characteristic strategy of the composer. The same passage features a vertiginous descent (with syllabic setting) to the final cadence, another marker of Massenet’s style. Manon’s famous “Je suis encor tout étourdie” unfurls a rapid ascent in eighth notes cast in compound meter (often used by Massenet in slow tempo) spiced with nonharmonic tones on strong beats. Turning to another style trait, the beginning of Salomé’s “Il est doux” in the first act of Hérodiade is a fine example of what one might call symbiotic texture. Here, as Gounod had often done, Massenet writes an independent instrumental line to bridge over rests in the vocal part. In a duet such as the one that follows between Salomé and Jean (“Ce que je veux”), like Gounod once again, Massenet luxuriates in a slow parlante where the voices declaim against a lyrical melody played by the orchestra. The influence of Massenet on Debussy seems most strongly felt in L’enfant prodigue, the winning cantata for the Prix de Rome. Lia’s aria “Azaël! Azaël!” is even strongly reminiscent of the principal motive of Hérode’s aria “Vision fugitive” (see examples 7.1a–b). These two pieces have other features in common: in both, the beginning occurs above a pedal point (dominant in Massenet, tonic in Debussy) and an added sixth chord sounds on the first beat, though Debussy’s in the minor mode is more piquant.34 The general texture of the Debussy “flows” with the same smooth and supple relationship between voice and orchestra that appears after the third measure in the Hérodiade example: the instrumental counterpoint fills the “empty” spaces in the vocal part to produce a symbiotic texture. Both passages end with a reprise of the sharply-profiled motive of the beginning and a vertiginous vocal descent to the final cadence. Azaël’s aria that follows closely upon this music (“O temps à jamais effacé”; example 7.2) has a certain Massenetic flavour in its slow unfolding in 89 and its spanning of the interval of an eleventh in the voice at the final cadence (not shown in the example). Soon, within the same piece, Azaël declaims above a lyrical melody in the orchestra in a brief slow parlante (“Voici le banc de pierre”). At the beginning of the subsequent duo for Lia and Azaël, the heroine’s line manifests a symbiotic relationship to the orchestra (example 7.3a); later in the same piece, the beginning of the a2 ensemble occurs over a pedal (example 7.3b). Did Debussy suppress his progressive tendencies in order to increase his chances of winning the prize? To judge by the music for the scène lyrique Diane au bois and some of the mélodies from the period, including Apparition, which

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Example 7.1a. L’enfant prodigue (Paris, Durand & Fils, 1908), p. 6.

p >œ . r œ J #œ Œ

Andante non troppo

# #LIA3 & 4

67

A - za - ël !

# 3 & # 4 œœ p ? ## 3 ˙ . 4 ˙. ˙. 72

&

##

œ œ œ

˙˙ ˙

# & # ? ##

De Medicis.indd 233

œ n œœ

F œ. œ J Rœ Œ

Œ

‰ ˙˙ œ œ ˙ ˙˙

œœ

˙˙

F œ. œ œ JR Œ

En mon cœur ma- ter -

Œ

n # ˙˙ ..

œœœ Œ

˙. ˙. ˙.

œ ‰ J Jœ n Jœ œj œj

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œœ .. œ œœœ œ œœ .. œ œœœ œ n œœœ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ œœ ˙˙˙ œ f

nel Ton i - mage est res - tée.

##

Pour - quoi mʼas- tu quit - té - e ?

˙˙ . .

? # # œ˙ œ œ œ ˙. . ˙. ˙. &

A - za - ël !

œ œ œ ˙

j j n œ œj j œ œ œ

‰ Jœ œ œ œj œj œ œj ‰ Œ J J

# œ . œ # œœ œœ ˙˙ ˙œ œ œ œ ˙˙ œ #œ ˙

# & # n ˙˙ .. œ

78

>œ . œ J Rœ Œ

˙ ˙

A - za - ël !

& œœœ

˙˙ #˙

œœ œ

A - za - ël !

˙˙ #˙

œœœ œ

Pour - quoi mʼas-tu quit-

? n œœœ œ nœ

Œ

nœ p Œ

Œ

F 44 œ œj n œ œ œ œj r œr œj r œr œ J J œ Très calme, mais sans lenteur

˙

œ

œ

Œ Œ

∑

Œ Œ œ . ˙˙œ. . œ œ 4 œœœ œœ œm. g. œ n œ œœ œœœ œœœ œœ œ œ 4 œ œœ œœœ n œœœ œœ œ œ œœ œœœ œœ # ˙ œ ˙˙œ ... œ œ œ œ p π con sordina ˙˙ . . # ˙ ˙ 44 ggg ˙ Œ ˙ g ˙ ˙ ggg ˙ ˙˙ . ˙ ˙ . té

-

e ?...

Ce - pen - dant

les soirs é - taient doux, dans la

œ œœ œ

œ œœ œœœ œœ œ

11/28/2018 4:33:35 PM

Example 7.1b. J. Massenet, Hérodiade, act 2 (Paris, Hartmann, [1884?]), p. 89. Andante

pavec le plus grand charme et très soutenu œ œsans retenir œ œ ˙. œ œœ œ œ J J ? b b 9 œ œR œ ˙ . J J J R J bbb 8 R R Vi - si - on,

fu

b 9 & b b b b 8 gg œœ . œ œ ˙˙ ... ˙ gg gg p π gg g ˙˙ .. ? b b 9 ggg œœ .. b b b 8 ˙. œ. ? bb b œ . bb

176

prend

bb & b b b g ˙œ .. gg gg gg g ? b b b gggg ˙ . b b gg œ .

S œ œ J

œ œ œ œ J J J

tou - te ma vi - e...

Ah !...

e

An - ge mys - té - ri - eux qui

˙˙ .. ˙.

œ.

ô mon es - poir !

œœ .. œ.

Cʼest toi !

que je veux voir

p dolce œ œ œ ˙. RR

œ œ œ œ. RR

Vi - si - on,

˙˙ .. ˙.

? bb b bb

˙.

f œ >œ >œ > J J J œJ >œ >œJ J Qui prends tou - te

ma

>œ >œ n >œ >œ colla voce bb b b œ œ n œ œ b >œ >œ J œ œ œœ œœ œœ & b > > ∫œ > > b œ >œ >œ > œ bb ?‰ ‰ & b b b œœ .. œ.

ci

U

œ.

-

˙.

Cʼest

œœ gg œœœ .. œ œ œ˙˙ .œ œ œ gg œ . . gg gg gg gg œ . ˙ . gg œ . ˙ . gg ˙ . œ. g

œ.

-

-

mon

a -

cresc.

bb & b b b b b œ˙ .œ œ œ œ œ b œ . gg œœœ .. œ œ ˙ .. œ œ œ . gg œ . ˙ J œ œ gg Œ gg p gg . œ . ggg œ . ˙ . ? b b b b œœ . œ b b . ˙. ggg œ˙ .. ˙ . œ . g

183

Ô

j œ œ œ n œ nn œœ œ . œ œ n œ œ

œ‰ œ J J

Vi - si - on,

Più mosso

œ.

˙.

œ œ œ œ nœ nœ œ œ œ J J J J J

œ œ ˙. R R

dolce

179

œ œ œ œœ .. œ œ J

ggg œ˙ .. gg ggg ggg ˙ . gg œ . g

œ œ œ œ œœ .. œ œœ . œ œ œ˙ .. n œ œ œ J ˙ J œ œ œœ .. più f œ. œœ .. ˙. œœ .. ˙. ˙.

? b b b b œ ‰ œ Jœ Jœ œ . bb J

De Medicis.indd 234

-

œœ .. œœœ ... œœ .. œ. œ.

gg œœ . œ œ ˙˙˙ ... gg gg p π gg gg œ . gg œ . ˙˙ .. ˙.

179

mour !

- gi - tive et tou - jours pour - sui - vi

œœ œ ‰ œ œJ œJ J J œ J

œ

HÉRODE

œ.

toi !

> œœ œ n œ œœœ œ œ n œ œ

œœ .. œ œ œ œ œœ .. œ œ œ

molto animato

œ. œ. œ.

f

& ˙˙ .

˙ ..

a Tempo appassionato

-

œ. e!

œ

‰ Œ.

suivez

˙ .œ . b œ . ˙. ˙. ˙.

U

S

œœ ..

œ. œ. œ.

u

œ. f œœ .. S

˙.

j œ œœ ˙.

œ œ J

‰ ‰

11/28/2018 4:34:27 PM

Example 7.2. L’enfant prodigue, p. 22. 1° Tempo AZAËL

p ### 9 œ . œ j j j j œ œ . œ ‰ œ œ & 8 J J œ œ œ œJ

244

œœ ... œ 98 œ . œœœ ... œ. p ˙˙ .. 98 ˙. œ .. œ

œœ ... œœ . œ . œœœ .. œœœ ... . œ. p ˙˙ .. ˙. œ .. œ

Ô temps à ja - mais ef - fa - cé

&

###

? ###

œœœ .. œ ..

œ œ œ . œ œj œ . œ ‰ Œ . œ J

Où comme eux jʼa - vais

lʼâ me

œ œœ .. œœ œ œ œ. œ 2

œœ .. œœœ ...

œœ ..

œ. ˙˙ . .

pure ;

œ. œ. œ.

2

˙˙ . .

œœ . .

œ

œ œ 3 j J J œJ œ

Example 7.3a. L’enfant prodigue, p. 29. soulevant sa tête #### 3 Œ Œ Œ ‰ œJ Jœ œj œr œr r r œ & # 4 œ œ œ

363

LIA

Andantino

cor ?...

avec beaucoup de tendresse

œ #### 3 & # 4 Œ Œ œ p # ## 3 j & # # 4 œj œ œ œ < < <
œ >œ > > > > ‰ J œ œJ œ œ J

Fiévreux

b 3 & b bbbb 4 Œ

13

Cʼé - tait le

p

3

œœœ

Œ

œ

˙.

b j j j r & b b b b b œj n œ n œ œ . œ ‰ œ

17

3

˙. b b b b n œœœ œœœ b & b J

œœœ

j bb & b b b b œœ˙ . œœ

œœ

œ bb j j j & b b b b œ œ œ Jœ Jœ J

ai

j bb & b b b b b œœœœ œœœœ ? bb b b bb

De Medicis.indd 247

b ˙˙ .. ˙˙ ..

-

p n˙ -

tes

ton

mant à

˙

Œ

-

pre - mier bai - ser.

œ

me mar - ty - ri - ser

nœ œ n œœœ œœœ œœ œœœ œœœ œœ œ œ

j œœ

20

ment du par-fum de tris

œœœ J

de

œ œ œ J J J

n œ œ œ œJ Jœ œJ J J J

3

Ma son - ge - ri - e

œ.

√ 3 3 œ œ b œ 3 œœ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œœ œ b œœœ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ n œ˙˙ œ b œœ nœœ œ ˙ 3 3 ‰ œj œ œ œœ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ n ˙œ & œ œ œœ œ œ œ b œ bœ 3

jour bé - ni

b b 3 œœ œ œ œœœ œ œœ œ œ & b b b b 4 œœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœœ œœ ? b b b b 43 ggg œœœ b b ggg œ g œ

œ

j œ˙ œ

Œ j œ œ

p

¯3 ¯ ¯ ¯3 ¯ ‰ œj œj œj œj œj

sʼen - iv - rait sa - vam -

j œœœ

3 j œœ n œ n œ œœœ œœœ

œ

nœ

œ

f >œ n >œ > > œ j > >> j œ J ‰ ‰ J J J n œJ œ n œJ n Jœ n Jœ œ n œj œj ˙ > > >>

se

Que mê-me sans re - gret et sans dé - boi-re

j j j œœœ œœœ n n œœœ œœœ œœœ œœœ œ œ n œ œ œ nœ

j œœ œœ nœ œ

n˙. n ˙.

˙. ˙.

œœ œ

j j œœ œœ œœ œ œ nœ ˙. ˙.

œœ œ

?

lais

œ -

se

j œœ n œj œ œ œj œ n œœ œœ œœ œœ > ˙ œ n˙.

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spelled with the same pitches or with different pitch classes but the same disposition of the voices, or perhaps the initial chromatic rise at pitch: A♭–A♮– B♭–B♮ (a minor third).43 The second strategy relates to Wagner’s opera in a more allusive way, for example the chromatic rise through a minor third with other pitches than the initial iconic melodic set, or the Tristan chord voiced in a different way than at the beginning of the prelude of Wagner’s opera. In view of the thin line between conscious citation of Tristan and more generalized chromatic syntax of the period, a semantic reference to Wagner’s opera, say the association of love with death in the new work, might be decisive in assessing whether a quotation or allusion appears present. Measures 7–8 of Apparition contain a chromatic rise executed by the thumb of the left hand. This succession includes the consecutive pitches A♭–A♮–B♭. These are the same notes as at the beginning of Tristan (without rising to the B♮, however). Viewed from a slightly different perspective the chromatic rise may be said to span a minor third (G–A♭–A♮–B♭). In order to encourage scepticism, the devil’s advocate would surely point out the ubiquity of chromatic ascents in the repertory as well as the fact that this last-named melodic configuration actually begins on F in measure 7. That said, Debussy takes up the same passage almost verbatim in two other places in his early work—both in situations of forbidden love: during the love duet for Rodrigue and Chimène in Rodrigue et Chimène and in the love scene between Pelléas and Mélisande at the beginning of the second act of Pelléas (example 7.8a–b). This multiple resonance between a chromatic rise extending across a major third (and including A♭–A♮–B♭) and forbidden love (in the case of Pelléas, adulterous love) strongly suggests an intended reference. In Apparition, the culmination of this opening section with a Tristan chord in closed position (m. 12) and with a chromatic slide down to the minor seventh above the bass seems referential as well. The search for musical citations of Tristan in Debussy’s work has yielded a fruitful harvest, extending from “Spleen,” “En sourdine,” “La mort des amants,” and the string quartet to multiple times in Pelléas and La mer. In short, Wagner and Massenet rub shoulders in Apparition. This pairing operates somewhat differently than in Diane au bois, because the latter deals in the juxtaposition of style traits of both composers, with Apparition hovering between actual allusion and conscious citation of Wagner, whereas the reference to Massenet remains purely stylistic. He who terrifies—following one way of understanding Debussy’s creative psychology—gets juxtaposed to one who, according to Koechlin, charms and generously frames. According to Koechlin, as we have seen, the use of Massenet’s style in Apparition would have been perceived as “poison” by some. But to take into account the other side of the coin, less fixated on progress in music, charm plays a valid role as a discourse counter to Tristanesque citation, a counter-discourse that Debussy himself would use in his critical

De Medicis.indd 248

11/28/2018 4:48:22 PM

Example 7.8a. Pelléas et Mélisande (Paris, E. Fromont, 1902), act 2, pp. 51–52.

## & # # 46

Doux et calme

j j j j j j nœ œ bœ œ nœ œ bœ

Œ Œ

35

On en - ten - drait dor - mir lʼeau...

Œ n n œœ Œ Œ n œ n œœ #### 6 & 4 n n w˙ .. n œ nœ b œ b w. m. g. π b n n ˙˙˙ ? #### 6 n w . 4 nw. b w. &

####

&

####

37

vous as - seoir

? ####

De Medicis.indd 249

œœ

œ n œœ

n b n ˙ww... π nw. b n ww ..

n n œœ

au

n œ n œœ

m. g.

Œ bœ

b n n ˙˙˙

œœ & nœ

Œ

-

œ n œœ

?

bre ?

Œ

bœ

nw. nw. Œ

bœ

nœ

j Œ Œ ‰ n œj œj œ

Vou - lez - vous

n nn œ˙˙˙.. # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n œ œ

bœ

bord du bas - sin de mar

Œ n œ nœ

nœ

& nœ

3 j n œj n œj b œ n Jœ n œJ n œJ œJ œj œ nœ J

Œ

Ó

& #œ

œ #œ ?

n nn ˙˙˙ ..

j j j 3j j œ nœ œ œ œ œ

Il y a un til - leul

jj œ œœ

où

le so

˙. ˙. n n œ˙ .œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙œ .œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ?

n˙ ˙˙

n n œœ

˙ ˙˙

œœ

11/28/2018 4:48:27 PM

Example 7.8b. Rodrigue et Chimène (Paris, Durand, 2003), act 1, p. 21.

3 &b 4 ‰

224

œœ

3 &b 4

˙˙ .. ˙ .. ˙˙ .

& b 43

j œ

j œ

CHIMÈNE

œ œœ

La

6

œ

œœ œ

œ J

j œj œ - le au tant que no - tre a - mour est œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ J

6

œ J

6

bœ

œ

j œ

6

nœ

˙˙ .. ˙. ˙. ˙.

j œ

bœ

6

∑

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

& b n n œ˙˙˙ ... ? b ˙˙ .. n˙. n˙.

De Medicis.indd 250

œœ œ

œ J bel œœ

Œ

doux.

&b

œ

œ˙ ˙˙

226

œœ

œ œœ

est

6

œ ? b 43 œœ ˙. ˙. &b ˙

œœ

nuit

œ J

6

œ

6

œ

6

œ n ˙˙˙ ...

n ˙˙˙ ... ˙. ˙.

6

nœ

6

œ

6

11/28/2018 4:49:31 PM

between massenet and wagner

❧

251

writing several years later. Let us also remember the biographical resonances of this mélodie. For Debussy, Mme Vasnier represented forbidden love, adultery—just as represented on the stage in Tristan and Pelléas. The citation of Tristan in Apparition is juxtaposed with “harmonies [that] resemble arms, the melodies napes of the neck”: two ways of communicating sensuality, even eroticism, in the gift offered the lover.

Notes 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

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Charles Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies inédites de Claude Debussy,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue, “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” May 1, 1926): 138. For another discussion of Koechlin’s remark, see Barbara L. Kelly, “Fashioning Early Debussy in Interwar France,” chapter 20 in this volume. Maurice Emmanuel, “Les ambitions de Claude-Achille,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7: 45. Emmanuel, “Pelléas et Mélisande” de Debussy: Études et analyse (Paris: Éditions Mellottée, 1926), 17. See also 102–4. Emmanuel, “Les ambitions de Claude-Achille,” 47. Paul Landormy, “Debussy inconnu,” Revue Pleyel 41 (1927): 157. For a masterful study of Debussy’s musical language in youth, including his school exercises, see John Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style” (PhD diss., Eastman School of Music, 2002). See also James Briscoe, “The Compositions of Debussy’s Formative Years (1879–1887)” (PhD diss., University of North Carolina, 1979), and “Debussy’s Earliest Songs,” College Music Symposium 24 (1984): 81–95. In this volume, see Denis Herlin, “The Kunkelmann Manuscripts: New Sources for Early Mélodies by Claude Debussy” (chapter 3), Marie Rolf, “Oriental and Iberian Resonances in Early Debussy Songs” (chapter 9), and David Grayson, “‘Paysage sentimental’: ‘Si doux, si triste, si dormant . . .’” (chapter 4). Landormy, “Debussy inconnu,” 158. Maurice Emmanuel, “Debussy inconnu,” Revue Pleyel 43 (1927): 225. Paul Vidal, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7: 108. Emmanuel, “Debussy inconnu,” 224. Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style,” 1109. Ibid., 1109. For a development of his point of view see my French Opera at the Fin de Siècle: Wagnerism, Nationalism, and Style (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). On Massenet’s teaching see Jean-Christophe Branger, “Jules Massenet et le prix de Rome: ‘Commencer par prendre le chemin que les autres on tracé,’” in Le concours du prix de Rome de musique (1803–1968), ed. Julia Lu and Alexandre Dratwicki (Lyon: Symétrie, 2011), 135–36. Emmanuel, “Pelléas et Mélisande,” 20–21. François Lesure, Claude Debussy: biographie critique (Paris: Fayard 2003), 47–48.

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17. Paul Vidal, letter to Henriette Fuchs, May 30, 1884, cited in François Lesure, “Debussy de 1883 à 1885 d’après la correspondence de Paul Vidal à Henriette Fuchs,” Revue de musicologie 48 (1962): 99. 18. Letter to Henriette Fuchs, July 12, 1884, in ibid., 100. 19. Vidal, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” 111; Lesure, Claude Debussy, 63. 20. T. S. Eliot, “Tradition and Individual Talent,” in The Wasteland and Other Poems (Toronto: Broadview Press, 2011), 84–92; Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), and A Map of Misreading (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975). A well-known work that applies these examples to music is Joseph N. Straus, Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Tradition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 1–20. 21. See “Pourquoi j’ai écrit Pelléas,” MC, 62–64. 22. Debussy, letter to Henri Vasnier, October 19 [1885], C, 43. 23. Debussy, letter to Ernest Hébert, March 17, 1887, C, 62. 24. Raymond Bonheur, “Souvenirs et impressions d’un compagnon de jeunesse,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7: 7. 25. Emmanuel, “Pelléas et Mélisande,” 31. 26. See Sylvie Douche, “Transcription littérale du carnet de notes de Maurice Emmanuel au sujet des échanges Debussy–Guiraud (1889–1890),” in “Pelléas et Mélisande” cent ans après: études et documents (Lyons: Symétrie, 2012), 286. 27. Debussy, letter to André Poniatowski, February 1893, C, 115. 28. Debussy, “D’Ève à Grisélidis,” MC, 60. 29. Ibid. One of these old cosmopolitan wagnériennes could have been Judith Gautier, with her apartment on the rue Washington filled with Buddhas: many years before she had contributed to Wagner’s initiation to the mysticism of the Orient. 30. Ibid., 61. 31. Debussy, “Massenet n’est plus . . .” MC, 208. 32. François Lesure, “Massenet, Debussy et la compétition des Cid,” in Massenet en son temps, ed. Gérard Condé (Saint-Étienne: Association du Festival Massenet et l’Esplanade Saint-Étienne Opéra, 1999), 59. 33. For some insight into Massenet’s influence on Debussy see Gottfried Marschall, “Signes avant-coureurs des techniques impressionnistes dans la musique de Jules Massenet,” Revue international de musique française 2 (1981): 61–72. 34. According to Clevenger, the cantata that Debussy wrote for the concours of 1883, Le gladiateur, is somewhat more modern than L’enfant prodigue, but also betrays stylistic traits from Massenet. For an in-depth study of these cantatas see his article “Debussy’s Rome Cantatas” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 9–98. 35. See my “Évolution du style de la cantata de Debussy à Ravel,” in Le concours du prix de Rome, ed. Julia Lu and Alexandre Dratwicki, 347–75. 36. For a complete study of this project see Denis Herlin, “Une nouvelle jeunesse pour L’enfant prodigue,” in ibid., 607–37.

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37. I am grateful to François de Médicis for sharing with me his transcription of the manuscript of Diane au bois preserved at the US-NYpm (Mary Flager Cary Music Collection). Excerpts from this transcription appear as examples below. 38. For more information on Diane au bois see James Briscoe, “‘To Invent New Forms’: Debussy’s ‘Diane au bois,’” The Musical Quarterly 74 (1990): 131–69. See also Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style,” 1185–1268. 39. Debussy, letter to Henri Vasnier, [June 4, 1885], C, 29. 40. Charles Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” Revue musicale 7 (1926): 135. 41. For a fine discussion of Apparition see Marie Rolf, “Semantic and Structural Issues in Debussy’s Mallarmé Songs,” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 179–200. See also Julian Johnson, “Vertige!: Debussy, Mallarmé, and the Edge of Language,” chapter 13 in this volume. 42. Charles Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 139. On the notion of charm in the music of Debussy see Jann Pasler, “Mélisande’s Charm and the Truth of Her Music,” in Rethinking Debussy, ed. Elliott Antokoletz and Marianne Wheeldon (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 142–66. 43. For a study of different ways of referring to Tristan see my “Tristan’s Traces,” in Richard Wagner: Tristan und Isolde, ed. Arthur Groos (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 142–66.

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Chapter Eight

Debussy’s Concept of Orchestration Robert Orledge How Was Orchestration Taught in Paris around the Turn of the Twentieth Century? From the perpsective of today’s music curricula, perhaps the most surprising aspect of Paris Conservatoire teaching in the late nineteenth century is that there were no classes in orchestration. Aspiring composers like Charles Koechlin, Gustave Charpentier and Florent Schmitt learned to write Prix de Rome cantatas in Massenet’s composition class, as Debussy had done under Ernest Guiraud in the 1880s, with the ultimate goal being operatic success. Such advice as was given tended to be aesthetic rather than technical, and few escaped the prevailing influence of Massenet in their formative years. Of course, there were orchestration treatises by Berlioz and Rimsky-Korsakov, and latterly Widor’s Technique de l’orchestre moderne (1904), which Ravel is supposed to have kept by his bedside. But despite exceptions like André Gedalge, who gave technical advice in counterpoint and orchestration to Koechlin and Ravel, it was not until Vincent d’Indy became director of the Schola Cantorum in 1900 that orchestration began to be systematically taught. Nevertheless, his teaching focused merely on producing competent orchestrators, ones who could simply make their way adequately in a professional world. We can tell this from the notes Satie took at the Schola in December 1909,1 where he was advised that, whereas the oboe and bassoon worked well in octaves, the oboe and horn did not. D’Indy filled poor Satie’s mind with the harmonic series restrictions of natural horns, leading him to despise the instrument, and he told him that three trumpets signified “the end of the world,” even though he habitually used three trumpets in C himself, as did Debussy. So, it is perhaps

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not surprising that Satie emerged as an orchestrator who seems to have been paranoid about any form of orchestral doubling. It also perhaps helps to explain why the sink-or-swim methods of the Paris Conservatoire produced the best orchestrators, who despite their absence of specific training and classes, somehow emerged from their august institution fully-fledged, imaginative and resourceful from the outset. So how did aspiring composers learn their craft? The answer has to be from studying scores, from orchestrating (or arranging) the music of others, from frequent attendance at concerts and rehearsals, from consulting performers, and most likely also from experimentation. If Ravel and Stravinsky are generally acknowledged to be more brilliant, even more confident, orchestrators than Debussy, one explanation lies in the kind of music they composed initially at the piano: Ravel’s was usually more incisive and acidulous, Stravinsky’s more rhythmically dynamic, while Debussy was generally the most reserved of the three, renowned for his subtle, evocative textures and fleeting arabesques. There is no real evidence that French composers departed from the Conservatoire tradition of having compositions assessed from piano performance with orchestration coming as the final stage in the creative sequence (unlike a composer such as, say, Shostakovich, who was to write straight into the full score). The concept of pure music that was eventually scored persisted under Fauré’s otherwise more enlightened directorship after 1905, though he did introduce extra and compulsory ensemble classes in vocal, orchestral, and chamber music. In his pupil Koechlin’s case, composition involved five stages: preliminary sketches, a complete melodic line or “chant,” a harmonic and/ or contrapuntal realization of this, a pre-orchestral draft, then the final score. And there is no evidence that he imagined particular instruments in the first three stages of this process, whereas I strongly believe that this was the case with the initial piano drafts by Debussy, Ravel and Stravinsky.

Orchestral Effects in Debussy’s Piano Music Thus, to all extents and purposes, it would seem that Debussy’s concept of orchestration developed from his colorful piano music, with its sensitive and personal “harmonic chemistry,” immaculate voice leading, rhythmic subtlety, and acute concern for texture and chordal spacing. Indeed, this last aspect actually proves more challenging than the choice of harmonic progressions in trying to recreate the Debussy sound (a process which will receive more comment later on). His piano pieces beg to be orchestrated, though André Caplet was the only composer Debussy officially authorized to do so with the Children’s Corner suite in 1909–10. His trust in Caplet was such that he also allowed him to orchestrate two of his Ariettes oubliées (“C’est l’extase” and “Green”) in 1912. But overall, Debussy preferred his pieces to remain in their original forms; if

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we imagine that his orchestral conceptions were more complex or sophisticated, we have only to look at preludes like “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’Ouest” or “Feux d’artifice.” As Roy Howat has perceptively shown in his latest book, The Art of French Piano Music, signs of the orchestra appear frequently in Debussy’s piano music, from the pianistically disguised string tremolos at the start of “Poissons d’or,” over which Debussy told Maurice Dumesnil that he heard “two clarinets,”2 to the pianistically impossible portamenti clearly indicated in measures 35–36 of “La Puerta del Vino,” or the string bowing marks in measures 12–13 of “Les collines d’Anacapri.” As Howat says, the start of “Des pas sur la neige” “makes sense only if read as a quasi-orchestral short score,” with the precise and unpianistic hairpin markings on the trudging footsteps motive played on an instrument like the English horn.3 Indeed, it is possible to argue that all his piano music has an orchestral quality, but that Debussy left it as piano music because it sold many more copies in this format during his lifetime than was the case with orchestral scores (even miniature ones). Nevertheless, when in Rome in 1915, Debussy promised to orchestrate L’isle joyeuse for Bernardino Molinari, an Italian conductor whom he much admired. Yet, either he never really intended to do this or he simply never got around to it. When Molinari produced his own orchestration after Debussy’s death, based “on his indications,”4 and supposedly with Debussy’s permission, Durand refused to publish it until 1923. Apparently, Debussy envisaged a clarinet in the opening cadenza, rather than the flute that one might have expected, and was clearly thinking orchestrally. It should also be remembered that Debussy told the organist Désiré Walter in 1914 that L’isle joyeuse contains “a little of L’embarquement pour Cythère with less melancholy than in the Watteau [painting of 1717]: one can meet the masked dancers of the Italian comedy, young women singing and dancing; all of it finishing in the glory of sunset.”5 On a smaller scale, this brings to mind Debussy’s almost cinematographic practice of following his scenarios line by line as he wrote down ideas for what became Khamma, Jeux and, after my completion, No-ja-li. He seems to have had little respect for unimaginative or overblown orchestration. Thus he preferred Mahler to Brahms, given a choice, and Louis Laloy recalled that Debussy regretted “that Schumann had put the ideas best suited to the orchestra into his works for piano, and that the instrumentation of his symphonies was dull and heavy. ‘You’d think,’ he said, ‘that he orchestrated in his cellar.’”6

The Development of Debussy’s Orchestra and His Use of Effects In general terms, Debussy’s orchestral palette expanded from double woodwind plus piccolo in early works like Le printemps (1882), through treble woodwind (but without bass clarinet) in Pelléas et Mélisande, to quadruple woodwind

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in Khamma and Jeux (here with sarrusophone rather than contrabassoon). There are almost always four horns, three trumpets (moving from F to C in the orchestral Images), three trombones, tuba, timpani, two harps, and more percussion instruments than one might expect. The glockenspiel first appears in Pelléas, the celesta in Ibéria, and the piano in Khamma. To balance all these other instruments in the theater or concert hall, a string complement of 14/12/10/8/6 is ideally necessary, as these are invariably divided, often in up to fourteen intricate parts. As one might expect, the forces vary slightly with each work, and the percussion is sparingly used. As in Mozart, piano and forte dominate, though Debussy’s fortes are sonorous rather than loud. The overall range is from an audible pianissimo (with diminuendo) to fortissimo (with crescendo): mezzo-forte sometimes appears, but the useful dynamic mezzo-piano is conspicuous by its absence, even in the long crescendos emerging from the subterranean depths that Debussy was so fond of. The same is true of his piano music, as is his fondness for a series of swift crescendos from piano on his way to a forte climax. But although Debussy was, for the period, unusually parsimonious with his dynamics—to the extent that there is only a single one (pp) throughout the entire sketches and drafts for La chute de la maison Usher—he did make forward-looking use of terraced dynamics to balance the sounds in his purely orchestral works. A good example occurs at figure 25 of Rondes de printemps,7 with the timpani marked pp, the horns, harp, and strings p, and the two unison bassoons mf. From the opening of L’après-midi d’un faune (Boulez’s “awakening of modern music”) onwards, Debussy’s most memorable sonorities occur in his quietest passages, where time stands still in the absence of a tonally functional bass line.8 It is also worth noting here how much he owed to the Russian “changing background” technique (both harmonic and textural) employed by Glinka and “The Five,” as in the Marche écossaise or Gigues. He also owed much to shortish themes that subtly transform themselves as part of an evolving movement, often with decorative arabesques, but which remain instantly identifiable, as in his imaginative and psychologically apt transformations of the motives for Golaud and Mélisande in Pelléas. He also created his langourous magic in L’après-midi without trumpets, trombones, or timpani, so proportionately reduced orchestras are always a possibility. Such knowledge is essential in the completion and orchestration of unfinished works, as is Debussy’s preference for mixed textures, his avoidance of anything resembling a showy unaccompanied cadenza, or any form of systematic Austro-German motivic development, and his acute awareness of the power of the emotionally charged orchestral silence, as in measure 6 of L’après-midi d’un faune. Moving on to Debussy’s trademarks, one can cite his fondness for complete triads in the outer woodwind (hence the three flutes and three bassoons which began his process of orchestral expansion at the turn of the century),

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though his textures are balanced as a whole, rather than each instrumental group being harmonically self-sufficient. The English horn and bass clarinet complete the abovementioned triads, even if he favored the former for its expressive solo potential and its ability to combine with what must have been his favorite instrument, the chromatic horn. Bass clarinets and contrabassoons were employed more for their sinister undertones, though they spoke less precisely and were of little use in faster music. Debussy placed more trust in low fourth horn pedals than most of his contemporaries, and he loved acciaccaturas and appoggiaturas, even if he did not go in much for string harmonics, and especially those on the double bass, which Ravel favored. Above all, it was his blending abilities that made him such a distinctive orchestrator, and in the kaleidoscopic textures of Pelléas he even manages to make the oboe (not the low flute) sound like a distant muted trumpet (OS, p. 7, fig. 6), and to make the horns merge perfectly with the flutes (OS, p. 47, mm. 1–2), as well as with the double basses (OS, p. 112, mm. 1–2).

Debussy’s Orchestral Advice to Manuel de Falla Debussy was just as secretive about his orchestration as he was about his harmony and his hybrid forms. But during 1910–11 he did give some revealing advice to Manuel de Falla, which the younger composer duly noted down as follows: The orchestra. After passages using full or almost full orchestra, you must pay attention to what follows. Thus, for example, after a tutti or a near tutti it would be ridiculous to write chords played by the clarinets or flutes. You must take account of the fact that the vibrations of the tutti decay gradually rather than immediately, and if you use a weak sound here it would sound very feeble and produce a ridiculous effect.9

Debussy usually did follow his climaxes with a distinctive held high note to allow the climax to dissipate before moving on, as on OS, p. 32 of Gigues, where an ff crescendo is followed by a suspended pause measure on two piccolos and a solo violin harmonic, reinforced by cymbals. An exception occurs in Jeux. After four bars of a rare “violent” climax at figure 74, Debussy restarts quietly and immediately with chords on three clarinets and two bassoons, supported only by string pizzicati and a quiet tap on the tambourine. Even more valuable is Debussy’s next piece of advice to Falla: You must always use the instruments in such a way that the effect they produce in performance is exactly what is needed. One should never use them to fill up holes or to realize a sonority or a mixture approximately. The almost right

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[‘L’à peu près’] should never exist for the composer. He should express what he feels in the most exact and unrestricted way that he can. [. . .] He should do all that he can to make his expression sincere, but as the ideas which occupy his imagination [during creation] are so numerous, it is impossible that he can isolate one from another. Thus, one should revise what one has written soon afterwards, in the cold light of day, and as if one is reading something foreign to oneself, as far as possible, of course.10

Unlike Ravel and Koechlin, Debussy went on tinkering with his scores after subsequent performances, and the revisions in the Royaumont score of Jeux show him improving the woodwind continuity and making his Mussorgskian thematic thread clearer.11 He must have attached great importance to this almost cinematographic “poème dansé,” perhaps because it was the only theatre work besides Pelléas that he orchestrated entirely by himself. He even spent nearly a month in 1913 making a rare “préparation orchestrale” for Jeux,12 but which still has no dynamic, expression or tempo markings. Here, the string and horn parts seem to have been completed first, and the woodwind (especially the oboes, flutes and piccolos) added later. The important percussion parts are present only at the beginning and the end, and the cellos and basses mostly share the same stave, in the classical manner. The large orchestra seems to have grown in the process of orchestration, for the three trombones and tuba appear for the first time on an added stave at measure 413 (OS, p. 69), followed by the atypical sarrusophone at measure 474 (OS, p. 80). Once the instruments have been introduced, however, Debussy remembers them until the end. As regards individual instruments, Debussy advised Falla that: The harp is not a rescue instrument and cannot serve either to increase the sonority. It is an instrument for adding color, but nothing else. The middle and lower registers are the most useful. One should employ the penetrating [top] register only for very special ends, to produce a very clear effect whose expression demands this register. Otherwise, the top register is useless or detrimental. The harp makes very little sound [. . .] Badly used it can produce a wretched effect. Its sonority is instantaneous in the orchestra. Misused it can be ridiculous. It only serves [. . .] to produce a special color in combination with other timbres. Of course, the woodwind are not recommended to serve as a bass line to the harp.13 Timpani. The tremolo produced by two timpani cannot be soft, for the player has to exert himself to produce it. For a pp tremolo one must use only a single timp.14 Important note on the subject of 3 trombones. A pp sonority may be successfully employed only with notes produced with the slide kept short, that is to say when the performer does not have to force the emission of the sound.15

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Again, Debussy did not always follow his own advice to the letter, as we can see from the upper register harp parts in the midst of a large forte orchestra including four unmuted trumpets and two trilling piccolos and oboes in Jeux (OS, p. 41). Or on OS, p. 88, where, besides being doubled by four horns, Debussy realized only in the later Royaumont revision that he had to remove the second of the three harp chords in measures 1 and 3, as they would be impossible to play because the F♮ string couldn’t be retuned to F♯ without a break. Equally, one could cite the pp tremolo on two timpani at figure 2 of La mer (OS, p. 4), or the three supposedly quiet high chromatic trombone chords on p. 87 of Jeux. So we might also observe that Debussy was not always the thoroughly professional orchestrator that one might like to imagine. Some conductors have ventured to make tacit alterations to ensure an effective performance of the outer movements of La mer, the seminal work in which Debussy began to move the main thematic interest from the strings to the wind. And we know from Koechlin that he had problems with the “terribly mysterious” prelude he composed for Khamma. “‘Nothing is as difficult,’ he told me, ‘as to maintain, in the most sombre nuances, this sort of orchestral transparency, and to avoid the always unnecessary heaviness of opaque sounds.’”16 And despite Debussy’s ingenious solution with the low contrabassoon theme given added definition by a piano, this subterranean opening is still a difficult one for any conductor to bring off successfully.

Debussy’s Use of Collaborators The extent to which Debussy brought in collaborators for his theatre works from 1911 onwards gives me both encouragement and justification for my brand of “creative musicology.” Even more than Chopin, Debussy disliked the meticulous task of writing out final versions. So we find Koechlin completing Khamma, and Caplet completing La boîte à joujoux after Debussy had abandoned them with only ten and eight fully scored pages respectively. Caplet had begun the process by contributing substantial parts of acts 2 to 4 of Le martyre de SaintSébastien when Debussy was producing his score for Ida Rubinstein against the clock in 1911. The case of Khamma is particularly fascinating because Debussy simply left Koechlin to continue the scoring in the same style as his opening, and made only a few changes in the interests of simplicity and clarity afterwards (see ex. 8.1).17 Later, on March 26, 1914, he even asked Koechlin “to write a ballet for him that he would sign” when hard-pressed to complete No-ja-li (or Le palais du silence) to fulfill his lucrative contract with André Charlot for the Alhambra Theatre in London.18 Koechlin thought that this was going too far, and in the end Printemps (1887) was sent instead, as orchestrated by Henri Busser in 1912.

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Example 8.1a. Khamma, scene 2, climax of the second dance (Koechlin’s original, MS 15470), mm. 282–83.




 


 


   








   















  










   








   






  



















Example 8.1b. Khamma, Debussy’s corrected version, mm. 282–83.




 

 

 





 





    

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Example 8.1c. Khamma, piano reduction, mm. 282–83 (p. 21, mm. 7–8).




   

    
             


  
      








Even more interesting are the additions Debussy made to the material found in the piano reduction of Khamma as he orchestrated scene 1, which show how much Stravinsky’s Petrushka had impressed him. As he told Stravinsky on April 13, 1912, “I don’t know many things of greater worth than what you call ‘le Tour de Passe-Passe’ [OS, pp. 35–38]: there is a kind of sonorous magic within it, a mysterious transformation of mechanical souls which become human by a sorcery which is, until now, uniquely your invention. Finally, there is an orchestral infallibility that I have encountered only in Parsifal.”19 Examples 8.2a and 8.2b illustrate one of Debussy’s many reactions to Petrushka, here both rhythmically and motivically. Stravinsky’s plaintive bassoon answer to the famous bitonal theme on clarinets finds its way into Debussy’s piano reduction, but curiously not into the orchestral score (at exactly the point where Koechlin took over in measure 79). Perhaps Debussy thought the reference was too obvious, and asked Koechlin to remove it. It is most unlikely that Koechlin simply missed it out. Then examples 8.3a and 8.3b show how the passage Debussy most admired in Petrushka led him to add a comparable figure, also for celesta, earlier on in his score, which persisted until the end of this section, to the point where Koechlin took over. Naturally, Koechlin used only material found in the 1912 piano reduction.

Debussy and Wagner The question of Debussy’s love–hate relationship with Wagner emerges again in the orchestra “without feet” that Debussy sought for Jeux. An example of this might be the mysterious opening (up to the entry of the cellos and basses at figure 1), and its return at the end (Fig. 81), though the descending wholetone chords are pure Debussy. His multiple references to the Tristan chord and other Wagnerisms in his first opera Rodrigue et Chimène (1890–93) may be

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Example 8.2a. Stravinsky, Petrushka, tableau 2, mm. 9–13 (OS, p. 58, figs. 95–96).
    






 


 




  















 


 

 








 


 






    



  

Example 8.2b. Khamma, piano reduction, mm. 79–80.





   


      

   

 
    








   

    








  

  


       

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Example 8.3a. Khamma, piano reduction, mm. 66–67 (p. 6, mm. 13–14).


 



       
           





Example 8.3b. Stravinsky, Petrushka, tableau 1, “The Magic Trick,” m. 29 (OS, p. 37).






 




 



  
  






less subtle than the allusions to Kundry and her flower maidens elsewhere in Jeux,20 but even more importantly, Debussy looked to Parsifal for “that orchestral color that seems to be illuminated from behind.”21 Nevertheless, in between these stage creations Debussy was far more disparaging about Wagner’s orchestration, in terms of instrumental timbres and their multiple doublings (as opposed to blended textures between orchestral groups of instruments). As he told Victor Segalen in 1908: In Pelléas the sixth violin is as necessary as the first. I try to use each timbre in its pure state: like Mozart for example [. . .] People have learnt to mix timbres too much; to cast them in relief through obscurity or the sheer weight of numbers, without allowing their true characteristics to show through. Wagner departs very far from this ideal; he doubles up most of his instruments two by two or three by three. But the worst of all is [Richard] Strauss who has cast all discretion to the winds. He doubles the trombone with the flute: the flute gets lost and the trombone assumes a strange voice [. . .] It’s an orchestral cocktail.22

Later in the same conversation, Debussy described his ideal orchestral layout: “The strings should not make a barrier in front of, but a circle around the other instruments. Scatter the woodwind. Mix the bassoons with the cellos; the clarinets and oboes with the violins, so that their intervention is something other than a mayday distress call.”23 This would be difficult for any conductor to adjust to, of course, but it shows how forward-looking Debussy’s concept of

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the modern orchestra was, and how much he thought about its possibilities and limitations.

Debussy’s Concept of Orchestral Success Debussy the perfectionist was never complacent about his orchestrations, and only rarely expressed satisfaction with them. One such occasion came with his “realistic” orchestral Images, and he was especially happy with the way that “Les parfums de la nuit” led into “Le matin d’un jour de fête” in Ibéria (OS, pp. 78–88). During Gabriel Pierné’s further rehearsals after the 1910 première, he told Caplet that “It feels as if it was improvised [. . .] Everything is there in the awakening and rising of people and things [. . .] I see very clearly a merchant selling watermelons and street urchins whistling.”24 So, again, it was putting the seemingly spontaneous down on paper in all its intricate detail that Debussy found such a challenge. He enthused to his publisher Jacques Durand about the “trumpet calls [in Khamma] which savour of revolt and fire and send a shiver down your back”25 as he composed them, but he never expressed disappointment about not hearing the finished score during his lifetime, even if he defended his score vigorously against Maud Allan’s unreasonable demands that it should be twice as long and for an orchestra of half the size!26

What We Can Tell about Debussy’s Orchestral Intentions My theory, supported by the above letter and other cited evidence, is that Debussy conceived his orchestral music in instrumental terms from the outset to a far greater extent than the manuscripts appear to show. When he occasionally did note orchestral indications for the start of a passage, they were invariably detailed and mixed, as though it was a combination that he might forget later on. In the remainder of the score, the orchestration would be more obvious to him. This is supported by the absence of fundamental details in the “préparation orchestrale” for Jeux discussed above, and the way that he played complete versions of piano pieces like the Estampes to Ricardo Viñes before they were notated. They were already complete in his head, and writing out the manuscript was again the greater problem. Often the ranges of a passage or the nature of the idea will suggest its orchestration very clearly, as it must have done to Debussy when he made his piano drafts. Thus example 8.4 from act 2, tableau 1 of Rodrigue et Chimène says divided strings without double basses (because C2 is the lowest note), probably reinforced with his favorite clarinets. Example 8.5 from Rodrigue act 1, scene 5 suggests brass with solo trumpet and woodwind above, followed by detached chords for divided lower

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Example 8.4. Rodrigue et Chimène, act 2, tableau 1 (Durand, vocal score, 2003), p. 137, mm. 385–86.
 





   







  



  

    





   


















  
                                        







  
 






 





 









 



 



 







 



 



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strings, including double basses. In contrast, one can see why Debussy has indicated the complex combination he envisaged for example 8.6 in Rodrigue act 2. And even more so for the widely-spaced chord that characterizes the La chute de la maison Usher (The House of Usher) in scene 2 of his final opera (see ex. 8.7), even if, curiously, measure 189 marks its fourth appearance in the opera. Perhaps by the time Debussy reached this point he had realized exactly how it should be scored. My own efforts in completing and orchestrating unfinished Debussy pieces takes the approved work by Caplet, Koechlin, and Busser a stage further, and into perhaps more questionable artistic territory, though I seldom have to invent anything new, and then usually it will be in the form of linking

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material between sections. The only real difference, obviously, is that Debussy did not ask me to do it. Nevertheless, it helps to know that Debussy’s technique of repeated two-measure cells, of which Ravel disapproved,27 rarely involved changes in orchestral color, and that Debussy placed great importance on continuity between sections, often subtly preparing new sections beforehand, as in “Jeux de vagues” from La mer. This continuity between sections also extends across whole works in a similar way to Mozart’s proportional tempo relationships between operatic numbers. With Debussy these sections are also often proportional to each other in duration, and defined by the nature of the recurring material, whether or not a metronome mark is given. Again, Debussy was building in a unifying system that also controlled the dramatic pace across a whole edifice, as in Rodrigue et Chimène or La chute de la maison Usher. But, like his piano pedal markings and fingerings, he lazily left his interpreters to discover this for themselves, as in the Études. My work has also been greatly aided by studying Debussy’s music and style in detail since the 1970s, and by editing the volume of his separate orchestrations in the Durand Œuvres complètes (Série V, vol. 11, 2018). This reveals that Debussy only once orchestrated the works of another composer—two of his friend Satie’s Gymnopédies in 1896—and that when it came to his first complete scoring for voice and orchestra in a non-operatic context in Le jet d’eau (1907), Caplet’s later and more restrained revision proved the more practical (see Série V, vol. 12, forthcoming, for Caplet’s and Busser’s orchestrations that were approved by Debussy). The first volume also offers a completed orchestration of the second of the Proses lyriques (“De grève”), which Debussy started around October 1896. An annotated vocal score of “De soir” (recently discovered by Denis Herlin) shows that he composed an extended ending for this song, which reveals his awareness that the orchestral version needed longer to die away effectively than the version with piano (see appendix c in vol. 11). But his 1915 revisions to the orchestrations of the Trois ballades de François Villon show him refining and clarifying, as was the case with Jeux, rather than expanding. Once Debussy got his proportions right after La mer, he wisely left them alone. But, apart possibly from the Berceuse héroïque, there is no sign of Debussy the “musicien français’” in his orchestration, just as La chute de la maison Usher essentially remains rooted in the chromatic style of Jeux and the vocal techniques of Pelléas. Judging whether a page looks right as one realizes the orchestration from Debussy’s sketches or piano reductions is never an easy matter, because the intricacy of his pp textures often makes them look as dense as, if not denser than his louder and more extrovert passages (try comparing pp. 68 and 69, or pp. 94 and 95 of Jeux). Thus his concept of orchestration depended on finding what was absolutely right to him for the mood of each particular work. Although he was always alert to new possibilities, and his works were considered

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Example 8.6. Rodrigue et Chimène, act 2, tableau 1, vocal score, p. 131, mm. 299–300.
  







 





  

 



 

 



  

  





      




 


     

 







  











  

 



 

   





   



 





     





 

 





  

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extremely difficult to perform, if not impossible, when they first appeared, this did not extend to stretching instrumental limits deliberately, as might be said of Ravel. Debussy’s contribution to modernity lies rather in his harmonies, his new, hybrid formal concepts, and his polyrhythmic textures than in his choice of instruments. Indeed, only the prominent use of the oboe d’amore in Gigues might be considered unusual. Whatever forces Debussy used, like Berlioz, he hardly ever used them all at once, and the temptation to settle for the “almost right,” or to fill in gaps in the harmonic textures to make a page look more respectable, or the scoring safer, should be totally resisted by anyone who orchestrates his music—as should adding measures to already completed and proportioned pieces. On the other hand, if one wishes to follow Debussy in his quest for absolute perfection, it is perfectly permissible to make later adjustments from a position of greater experience or a subsequent performance, provided that this does not stem from an inadequate interpretation, for Debussy’s concept of orchestration remained a living thing as long as he himself remained alive, which was sadly not long enough for him to complete more than a minority of his many imaginative projects. I have simply (and happily) done my best to make sure that material of a high quality does not remain silent forever, gathering dust on a library shelf.

Notes 1.

2. 3.

4. 5.

6.

7.

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See F-Pn, MS 9651, with its safe orchestral ranges and all sorts of doubling restrictions in woodwind and brass, as in the examples cited in Orledge, Satie the Composer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990; repr. 2008), 115–16. Cited in Roger Nichols, Debussy Remembered (London: Faber, 1992), 160. Howat, The Art of French Piano Music (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), 217. The whole of this section on “Debussy’s Orchestra at the Piano” (216–24) is highly recommended. Cited in C, 1934n5 (“sur ses indications”). “C’est un peu aussi L’embarquement pour Cythère avec moins de mélancolie que dans Watteau: on y rencontre, des masques de la comédie italienne, des jeunes femmes chantant et dansant; tout se terminant dans la gloire du soleil couchant.” Debussy, C, 1835. Cited from Deborah Priest, Louis Laloy (1874–1944) on Debussy, Ravel and Stravinsky (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 49. I am grateful to Roy Howat for reminding me of this reference and for other helpful advice in the preparation of this article. Durand miniature OS, 49, last bar. All such references are to these scores, and all examples are reproduced with the kind permission of Durand et Cie (now Universal Music Publishing).

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270 8. 9.

10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

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A parallel and equally economical instance can be found at the opening “fountain” scene of act 2 of Pelléas et Mélisande, OS, 70–71. From an undated document in the Falla archives in Granada (S-AMF 9001-36), cited in Yvan Nommick, “La présence de Debussy dans la vie et l’oeuvre de Manuel de Falla. Essai d’interprétation,” Cahiers Debussy 30 (2006): 37. “Après les passages où l’on utilise tout ou presque tout l’orchestre, il faut faire attention à ce qui vient. Ainsi, par exemple, après un tutti ou presque tutti il serait ridicule de mettre des accords joués par les clarinettes et les flutes. Il faut tenir compte du fait que les vibrations du tutti ne s’éteignent pas tout de suite, mais peu à peu, et si l’on met après une sonorité faible, celle-ci serait très pauvre et produirait un effet ridicule.” Ibid. “Il faut toujours utiliser les instruments de telle sorte que l’effet qu’ils produisent à l’audition soit le nécessaire, ni plus ni moins. On ne doit jamais les utiliser pour remplacer des vides ou pour réaliser à peu près une sonorité ou une mixture. L’à peu près ne doit jamais exister pour le compositeur. Il doit exprimer ce qu’il sent de la façon la plus juste et absolue qu’il puisse . . . Il faut alors tout ce que l’on peut pour que l’expression soit sincère, mais comme les details dont l’imagination doit s’occuper à ce moment sont si nombreux, il est impossible qu’elle puisse les isoler les uns des autres. Ainsi, il faut reviser ce que l’on écrit peu de temps après, à froid, et comme si on lisait quelque chose d’étranger à soi, dans la mesure du possible, bien entendu.” For instance, he makes the oboes and English horn play continuously between figures 46 and 47, and adds them to the melody line more extensively between figures 68 and 69. This was probably the last orchestral work Debussy did, ca. 1915. Pencil MS (31 fols) in the US-NYpm, New York (Robert Owen Lehman deposit), dated “28.3.13 midi” and “24.4.13. 6h. . .” at the end. Nommick, “La présence de Debussy,” 36. “La harpe n’est pas un instrument de secours et ne peut servir non plus à augmenter la sonorité. C’est un instrument pour donner de la couleur; mais rien de plus. / Le médium et le grave sont des registres les plus utiles. On ne doit employer l’aigu que dans un but très spécial, pour produire un effet qui soit très clair et dont l’expression impose ce registre. Autrement, le registre aigu est inutile ou préjudiciable. / La harpe sonne très peu . . . Mal utilisée elle peut produire un effet de pauvreté. Sa sonorité est d’un instant dans l’orchestre. Mal utilisée elle peut être bien ridicule. Elle ne sert . . . qu’à produire une couleur spéciale en l’unissant à d’autres timbres. Bien entendu, les bois ne sont pas indiqués pour servir de fond à la harpe.” Ibid., 37. “Timbales. Le tremolo produit par deux timbales ne peut être doux, car l’instrumentiste doit s’efforcer pour le produire. Pour un tremolo pp il ne faut utiliser qu’une seule timbale.” Ibid., 38. This “recommendation” dates from October 10, 1911. “La sonorité pp peut s’employer avec succès uniquement avec les notes qui se jouent avec la coulisse courte, c’est-à-dire quand l’exécutant ne doit pas forcer l’émission du son.” Charles Koechlin, Debussy (Paris: Henri Laurens, 1927), 78n1. “Il me disait: ‘Rien n’est aussi difficile que de garder, dans les nuances les plus sombres, cette sorte de transparence de l’orchestre, et d’éviter la lourdeur toujours inutile des tons opaques . . .’”

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17. See F-Pn MS 15470, and especially pp. 48 (exx. 8.1a–b), 49, 67, and 72. 18. Madeleine Li-Koechlin, ed., Étude sur Charles Koechlin par lui-même [1939, rev. 1947] in La Revue musicale 340–41 (1981): 65. 19. C, 1503. “Je ne connais pas beaucoup des choses qui vaillent ce que vous appelez: ‘le Tour de Passe-Passe’ . . . il y a là-dedans une sorte de magie sonore, de transformation mystérieuse d’âmes mécaniques qui deviennent humaines par un sortilège, dont jusqu’ici, vous me paraissez l’inventeur unique. Enfin, il y a des sûretés orchestrales que je n’ai rencontrées que dans Parsifal.” 20. See Robin Holloway, Debussy and Wagner (London: Eulenburg, 1979), 167–79. 21. Letter to Caplet of August 25, 1912, in C, 1540. (“Je pense à cette couleur orchestrale qui semble éclairée par-derrière”). Unfortunately, Debussy never gave a specific example of this. 22. Cited from Annie Joly-Segalen and André Schaeffner, eds., Segalen et Debussy (Monaco: Éditions du Rocher, 1961), 107. Conversation of December 17, 1908. “Dans Pelléas, le sixième violon est aussi nécessaire que le premier. Je m’efforce d’employer chaque timbre à l’état de pureté: comme Mozart par exemple . . . On a trop appris à mélanger les timbres; à les faire ressortir par des ombres ou des masses, sans les faire jouer avec leurs valeurs mêmes— Wagner y est allé très loin. Il lie par exemple 2 à 2 ou 3 à 3 la plupart de ses instruments. Le comble du genre, c’est Strauss, qui a tout foutu par terre. Il joint le trombone avec la flute. La flute se perd et le trombone prend une voix étrange . . . C’est un orchestre-cocktail.” 23. Ibid., 108. “Les cordes devraient faire, non pas barrière, mais cercle autour des autres. Disperser les bois. Mélanger les bassons aux violoncelles, les clarinettes et hautbois aux violons; pour que leur intervention soit autre chose que la chute d’un paquet.” 24. Letter of February 26, 1910, in C, 1253. “Ça n’a pas l’air d’être écrit . . . Et toute la montée, l’éveil des gens et des choses . . . il y a un marchand de pastèques et des gamins qui sifflent, que je vois très nettement.” Pierné conducted the Concerts Colonne première on February 20, 1910, but there was a further, and presumably superior, performance at the Concerts Durand in the Salle Gaveau on March 2nd. 25. Letter of February 1, 1912, in C, 1491. “ses sonneries de trompettes qui sentent l’émeute, l’incendie, et vous donnent froid dans le dos.” 26. See Orledge, Debussy and the Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980; repr. 2009). See chapter 5 for a full discussion of Khamma and its problems. 27. See Roger Nichols, Ravel (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2011), 79, 353. Ravel called this “le style bègue” (the stuttering style), even if he sometimes used it himself, as Nichols points out, as in the opening of the Prélude to Le tombeau de Couperin.

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Chapter Nine

Oriental and Iberian Resonances in Early Debussy Songs Marie Rolf

Throughout his life Claude Debussy was attracted by exoticism, which essentially engages the notion of a fascinating, Other world that is tantalizingly different from one’s native culture. Some of Debussy’s best-loved compositions—works like “Pagodes,” from his Estampes for piano, and “Ibéria,” from the orchestral Images—conjure up faraway landscapes, from the Orient to Spain. As a cosmopolitan and relatively well-traveled Parisian, he was exposed to the traditions, sights, and sounds of other cultures; while his introduction to such influences may have come through a Western lens, later in life he actively sought and was inspired by indigenous ethnic sources. In addition, many of Debussy’s closest friends opened his eyes vicariously to the art and aesthetic values of other civilizations.1 And, as Edward Said has reminded us, Paris was “the capital of the Orientalist world” by the turn of the century, when Debussy was in his prime.2 The goal of this study is to investigate some of Debussy’s musical responses to these various influences and—perhaps even more important—to illustrate their seminal role in the process of his own compositional growth. To that end, I will highlight two songs in particular—the Rondel chinois and Séguidille—exotic treasures that were never published during Debussy’s lifetime.3 The Rondel chinois became publicly available only in 2013, in a private edition by Nigel Foster for the London Song Festival,4 and Séguidille was released in August 2014 by Durand, Debussy’s own publisher, in a score edited by the present author.5

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Debussy composed both of these songs while still a student at the Conservatoire. Although he had not yet directly experienced Eastern musics, he could not have escaped the craze in Paris at that time for art of the Orient. Following the opening of trade channels between the East and West in the mid-nineteenth century, the European market was flooded with articles such as prints, ceramics, furniture, ivories, silks, and bronze works from China and Japan. Art dealers such as Siegfried Bing6—a German who moved to France in 1854, where he promoted Japanese art and played a seminal role in the promulgation of the Art Nouveau style—began to import oriental objects in the 1870s.7 Others such as Enrico Cernuschi—an Italian patriot who fled after the 1848 Revolution and relocated to Paris, where he would become a wealthy banker—also collected oriental art on a massive scale. Disheartened by the Paris Commune of 1871, Cernuschi decided to escape the turmoil in his adopted city, and traveled around the world from 1871 to 1873, purchasing approximately 5,000 artworks, many of them Chinese bronzes. Upon returning to Paris, he displayed them at the Palace of Industry, reflecting the modish attraction to East Asian styles in the world of French art and design.8 Artists in Europe embraced exotic elements from the East, celebrating its linear qualities and lavish colors in their canvases. For example, as early as 1875 Claude Monet memorialized his wife in kimono dress,9 and in 1886–87 Vincent van Gogh portrayed Le Père Tanguy three times, the third of which most unabashedly reflects a taste for oriental objects.10 That same year, van Gogh made close copies of two prints by the great Japanese ukiyo-e artist Hiroshige (1797–1858): the Flowering Plum Tree and The Bridge in the Rain.11 Contemporary musicians and writers in France and elsewhere were not immune to this pervasive influence of exoticism. In the decade between 1875, when Bizet’s Carmen was premièred in Paris, and 1885, when Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado opened in London, French stage works abounded with exotic subjects, ranging from Delibes’s Lakmé (1883) and Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore (1877)—both set in India—to the latter’s Le Cid (1885), set in Spain. The Goncourt brothers were actively chronicling Parisian art and society, including the rage for oriental arts and crafts; they avidly followed Cernuschi and began themselves to collect Japanese prints and Chinese porcelain, displaying these objects in their home amidst their eighteenth-century French treasures, and often commenting on the resonances between the arts of the East and West. Later, in the 1890s, Edmond de Goncourt published on the works of Hokusai and Utamaro, whom he called the “Watteau of Japan.”12 Debussy, who was coming of age in this exotically saturated milieu, was naturally swept up in the current. He too venerated the work of Hokusai and Utamaro, as shown in a famous photograph of the composer with his guest Igor Stravinsky (fig. 9.1), taken in his study decades later (in June 1910). On the wall behind the composers hangs Hokusai’s Great Wave off Kanagawa,

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Figure 9.1. Debussy and Stravinsky (June 1910).

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which, at Debussy’s request, was adapted for the cover of the first edition of his orchestral masterpiece La mer, and beneath it is Utamaro’s Portrait of Wakatsuru as she reads a letter, conjuring up for us, and presumably for the composer, the second scene in act 1 of Pelléas et Mélisande, where Geneviève reads Golaud’s letter aloud to the blind King Arkel. Ever present on Debussy’s desk was his beloved wooden toad from Japan (fig. 9.2), a fetish that the composer named “Arkel” and that brought him good luck on his travels, and on the wall hung a nineteenth-century lacquerwork of goldfish, encrusted with mother-of-pearl (fig. 9.3): these Poissons d’or would inspire one of his Images for piano in 1907. Even as a young student, when he could ill afford the expense of such objets d’art, Debussy had coveted curios and was known to have lavished time and money to acquire them.13 It is thus no surprise that he would become attracted to the sensual Rondel chinois (appendix 9.1), a poem which paints a Chinese tableau, set on a lake bordered with azaleas, waterlilies, and bamboo; on the water floats a mahogany junk boat in which a lady sleeps, veiled in a swath of crepe up to her neck, while a mandarin observes her with his owl-like eyes from his lacy veranda in the distance. The author of this captivating landscape was unknown until a few years ago, when a second manuscript of the work surfaced in which Debussy identified the poet as Marius Dillard.14 A critic of literature, art, and music, Dillard eventually became the director of a magazine titled Rouen-Artiste. While still in his teens, he had won a poetry contest with his Rondel chinois, and, as a result, it was published in the May 5, 1878, issue of the Union littéraire des poètes et des prosateurs.15 Debussy, two years younger than Dillard, chose to set the Rondel chinois as a song for Mme Marie Vasnier, a coloratura soprano whom he accompanied as a young student and who would inspire no fewer than twenty-nine of his early mélodies. Young Achille (his given name) was besotted by the married older woman, and she in turn must have been flattered by his attention; before long, they became deeply involved. The flowery dedications to Mme Vasnier that Achille penned on many of his manuscripts bear witness to the intimacy of their relationship. The manuscript of the Rondel chinois is no exception. It reads: “to Madame Vanier [sic], the only person who can sing and make one forget everything that is unsingable and perplexing in this music.”16 Following the title of the song, the composer continued with tongue in cheek, identifying the work as “Musique chinoise (d’après des manuscrits du temps).”17 It is clear even from this title page that his composition was a calculated attempt to render the allure of the unconventional, or exotic, in sound. Although the autograph manuscript is not dated, we can infer a date of 1881 for three reasons. First, young Achille misspelled Marie’s last name as “Vanier” instead of “Vasnier.”18 It was only by January 1882 that he began to spell Marie’s name correctly in his manuscripts. Second, Madame Vasnier’s

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Figure 9.2. Arkel.

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Figure 9.3. “Poissons d’or.”

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daughter Marguerite reported that he accompanied Marie in a recital which included the Rondel chinois when he was eighteen years old (i.e., August 1880– August 1881), which would conceivably corroborate a date of 1881.19 Third, Debussy’s signature on both the Kunkelmann and the Vasnier manuscripts is quite similar, and matches his signature from other sources dating from the first half of 1881.20 Dillard’s Rondel chinois is a classic rondel form in that it consists of thirteen octosyllabic lines—two quatrains followed by a quintil—with a two-line refrain that opens the first quatrain and closes the second. Only the first line of the refrain returns after the final quintil.21 The challenge for the poet is to produce seven compelling rhymes for the “A” lines and six rhymes for the “B” lines.22 Ideally, the poet will also “illuminate a new aspect of the original idea each time,”23 rather than repeating the refrain for its own sake. In the Rondel chinois Dillard continually shifts the focus of his images, not unlike a videographer. The first strophe progresses from a description of the general landscape to home in on the slight motion of the boat; but in the second strophe, Dillard reverses the orientation, training his lens first on the detail of the sleeping Chinese woman and then executing a literary “focus pull,” situating her within the wide-angle landscape of the lake. In the following quintil, he transfers our attention from the crepe dress of the lady in the boat on the water to the lacy veranda of the mandarin on the shore who is watching with owl-like eyes [. . .] the Chinese woman who is passing [. . .] on the lake bordered with azaleas. Dillard’s constantly shifting juxtapositions of images thus creates a sense of fluidity and panoramic vision, in spite of the repeated refrains. Just as Dillard continually varies the context in his refrains, so does Debussy avoid the repetition of musical material for each of the rondel’s refrains. Instead, he responds to the poem’s three large divisions by casting his song in a ternary form—ABA (ex. 9.1). Both of the A sections convey the pastoral scene in the tonic key of A minor, while the B material centers on the relative major and features a new motive and increased rhythmic motion in the piano. Debussy echoes Dillard’s octosyllabic lines in his choice of a duple meter and in a regular two- and four-measure phrase structure. The song opens with a captivating vocalise, characterized by stylized melodic arabesques that are metrically organized but nonetheless have an improvisatory feel. While in a practical sense these melismas would show off Madame Vasnier’s high and agile voice, the passage was also clearly designed to evoke an Eastern sensibility. In addition, vocalises serve a structural function in the Rondel chinois, introducing the first A section, transitioning to the reprise, and closing the song. Within the A sections, the languid duple pulse—emphasized by the piano’s hollow drone bass (open fifths) on the downbeats, contrasting with the dissonances (F♯ and D♯: ♯6^ and ♯4^ scale degrees) on the second part of each measure—simulates a steady ebb and flow of water. Against this placid backdrop

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Example 9.1. Musical and poetic form in Rondel chinois.
 

  





        












  











 



  









 

Debussy lavishes ornamental interest in the vocal line, suggesting a mysterious Other. The melody is replete with pentatonic inflections—a pitch organization characteristic of East Asian music—that are overlaid on an equally exotic, modal, quasi-Dorian canvas. Similar to Van Gogh’s replication of Hiroshige’s Bridge in the Rain, Debussy was deliberately emulating what he knew of Chinese musical conventions in his setting of the Rondel chinois. Our knowledge of his precise musical models is scant, but presumably he would have been copying Western imitations of Eastern music at this time in his life, because his first serious exposure to indigenous music of the East would not occur until later, in 1889, at the Paris World’s Fair.24 And just as Van Gogh would absorb elements of Japanese ukiyoe into his own artworks, so would Debussy harness some of the musical ideas that he had developed in imitation of Eastern musics and incorporate them into his own distinctly French works. A clear illustration of this assimilation is found in his song titled Fête galante, based on a poem by Théodore de Banville (appendix 9.2) and composed in 1882, just one year after the Rondel chinois. There is no hint of orientalism in Banville’s poem; rather, it evokes the very French genre of the fête galante, depicting elegantly dressed men and women, often in a park-like setting, engaged in amorous play à la Watteau.25 In Debussy’s Fête galante song, which the composer himself described as “music from the time of Louis XIV, with formulae from 1882,”26 he reappropriated melodic embellishments from the Rondel chinois. Already in the opening gesture (ex. 9.2), he composed a melody with the same characteristic turns, outlining the open fifth and emphasizing ♭3^ and ♭6^ scale degrees, the primary difference being that the Fête galante tune was cast in triple meter instead of the duple meter of the Rondel chinois. The next phrase in both songs moves up to a high a5 and exhibits the same Dorian-inflected F♯ within the melisma. (The spacing in the notation of this example has been adjusted to align similar gestures, and brackets show similar pitch material.)

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Example 9.2. Shared pitch material and gestures in the openings of Debussy’s Rondel chinois and his Fête galante.




          





       




 


                
   
  

Further resonances between the two songs appear in Debussy’s approach to the final cadence (ex. 9.3), ending with an extended vocalise that ascends stepwise to the high a5. Possessed with perfect pitch, the composer would surely have been conscious of these direct melodic connections. Likewise, his tonal plan, though more complex in the later Fête galante song, shows a similar opening move, from the tonic of A minor to C, and even-numbered phrases (ex. 9.4). Because he was no longer attempting to evoke the Orient, Debussy limited his use of pentatonicism and a drone bass in the Fête galante, yet he retained the modal inflections, vocalises, and melismatic pitch material that he had explored in the Rondel chinois, even at the same pitch level (as shown in exx. 9.2 and 9.3). In an even more pronounced act of self-borrowing, Debussy eventually refashioned the material from his Fête galante song into the “Menuet” movement of his Petite suite for piano, four hands.27 Its first twenty-two measures are virtually identical to those of the song, but rather than following Verlaine’s poetic structure,28 Debussy continued with a full-fledged “trio” that balances the opening and concluding “menuet” in terms of its length. Thus, he eventually assimilated the distinctive pitch elements and melodic treatment that emanated from his engagement with an oriental subject into his own, uniquely French compositional vocabulary. Example 9.3. Shared pitch material and gestures in the approach to the final cadence of Debussy’s Rondel chinois and his Fête galante.




  


 





 


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Example 9.4. Musical and poetic form in Fête galante.
 

  





            

















 

Of course, the East was not the only foreign source of exotic influence for Debussy or other artists of his time. Keenly aware of his environment, he could not fail to have been influenced—as were Bizet, Chabrier, and later Ravel29—by the well-established attraction of French cultural figures to all things Spanish.30 Debussy was too young to have experienced the Spanish Gallery established at the Louvre from 1838 to 1848 by pillagers such as Marshal Soult, who lived in Spain during the Napoleonic occupation of 1808–14 and brought back many treasures to Paris. But a recently discovered letter suggests that Debussy may have viewed some of the Velázquez paintings at the Prado in Madrid prior to his residency at the Villa Médici as a winner of the Prix de Rome.31 And he surely would have been exposed to Spanish folk songs and dancing performed in the cafés and on the streets of Paris. Among his very first compositions was the song Madrid, based on a poem drawn from Alfred de Musset’s Contes d’Espagne et d’Italie,32 in which the poet portrays a seductive Andalusian temptress, not unlike Carmen in Bizet’s opera. Debussy presumably attended a performance of Carmen in Vienna in November 1882 with his patroness Madame Nadezhda von Meck,33 who two years earlier was said to have treated him to a bullfight in San Sebastián (in northern Spain) while he was staying with her family in Arcachon (in southwestern France). As Tchaikovsky’s devoted patroness, Madame von Meck was eager to introduce the young Debussy to the Russian composer’s music, and she asked him to transcribe, among other things, the “Danse espagnole” from Swan Lake (act 3) for piano four hands. Back in Paris at the Conservatoire, it is highly likely that Debussy would have come to know Carmen well through his composition teacher, Ernest Guiraud,34 who realized the recitatives for Bizet’s opera after the latter’s death in 1875, and compiled twelve numbers from it into two orchestral suites in 1882 (two years after Debussy had begun to study with him) and in 1887. Other possible Spanish influences may have come from faculty and students at the Conservatoire; for instance, his harmony teacher, Émile Durand, had already set Théophile Gautier’s Séguidille35 in 1874, which may have prompted Debussy to try his own hand at it.

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We know of only one complete manuscript source for Debussy’s Séguidille. Although it is not dated, we can surmise—based on the paper type, the layout of the manuscript, and other chirographic evidence—that it was completed sometime after the end of March 1883, the year following his composition of Fête galante. Debussy’s signature on the last page of the Séguidille score is similar to his signature for Invocation,36 from May 1883, as well as that on the flyleaf of the Recueil Vasnier,37 a collection of thirteen songs, which Debussy finished by February 1884 and which he presented to Marie Vasnier sometime before leaving for Rome.38 An intriguing clue in our quest to ascribe a date of composition to Séguidille comes from a phantom page in the Recueil Vasnier. This folio, following the sixth song in the collection—“Coquetterie posthume,” also based on a Gautier text and dated “31 Mars.83.”—was mysteriously excised from the volume. Nevertheless, ink blots bled from the removed page onto the remaining page, and if the image of the blot marks is reversed, reading from right to left, the outlines of the figuration of the accompaniment as well as the descending arabesque-like triplets of the vocal line of Séguidille are clearly exposed.39 Including the folio that was excised, eleven consecutive pages were left blank in the Recueil Vasnier,40 approximately the number needed for a title page and the planned notation of the entire song of Séguidille. Clearly, Debussy was already working on Séguidille during the first half of 1883. The female character in Gautier’s poem differs conspicuously from the elegant Chinese lady in Dillard’s Rondel chinois. Having spent a great deal of time in Spain, Gautier was seeking to portray a Manola, a characteristically bohemian and flirtatious woman of strong temperament and in flamboyant dress.41 The Manola in Séguidille wears a tight skirt and a huge comb in her chignon. Her gestures are bold and carefree, with no thought for the morrow, and she sings and dances to the sound of castanets, dallying with the toreadors while smoking a cigarette (appendix 9.3). The structure of Gautier’s poem follows the general outline of a traditional poetic seguidilla, which consists of a four-line copla, or quatrain, followed by a three-line estribillo, or tercet, which serves as a refrain. Copla:

Estrebillo:

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7-syllable line

a

5-syllable line (features assonance)

b

7-syllable line

a

5-syllable line (features assonance)

b

5-syllable line (features assonance)

c

7-syllable line

d

5-syllable line (features assonance)

c

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In classic seguidillas, each copla alternates lines of seven and five syllables, with a rhyme scheme of abab, and each estribillo reverses the pattern, with lines of five, seven, and five syllables and a rhyme scheme of cdc. Furthermore, all of the five-syllable lines (2 and 4, and 5 and 7) typically feature assonance.42 While these details vary somewhat in Gautier’s Séguidille, the basic structure remains, and he concludes with the estribillo refrain that celebrates the lively Manola. Debussy’s musical form parallels Gautier’s poetic structure (ex. 9.5). His extended forty-six-measure introduction, featuring the Manola’s vocalise, is followed by strophe 1 (copla) in A minor with its virtuosic refrain (estribillo) in tonic major. Strophe 2 is cast in the relative major of C, and a coloratura cadenza leads to the return of A for strophe 3, which ends with the musical equivalent of a bien parado—an abrupt conclusion in which the seguidilla dancers freeze in their final position—on a high c♯6 in tonic major. This formal and tonal plan, as well as the prominent vocalises, were all hallmarks of the Rondel chinois from two years earlier. But just as Debussy captured the flavor of Eastern musics in his Rondel chinois, so did he openly adopt Spanish musical formulae in Séguidille. In fact, many of the musical clichés in his song closely resemble conventions found in the most popular Spanish spectacle of the day, Bizet’s Carmen. I have discussed these features more fully elsewhere,43 so will merely summarize them here. One of the most obvious is the abrupt and dramatic ending of Debussy’s Séguidille, similar to the bien parado of Carmen’s sultry “Séguedille” from act 1 of the opera (exx. 9.6a and 9.6b). Indeed, Debussy adopted numerous other Spanish formulae from Bizet’s “Séguedille,” as well as the “Habanera,” the “Chanson bohème,” and the entr’acte linking acts 3 and 4 of Carmen.44

Example 9.5. Musical and poetic form of “Séguidille.” 0HDVXUH QXPEHU



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Example 9.6a. End of Debussy’s “Séguidille.”


                               





   
   




 

 
 

     

 





 

   

 

 

Example 9.6b. Bizet, Carmen, end of “Séguedille.”






 



  

        








 














            



 
 















  





 

  



         





      

Both works feature a quick triple meter,45 slow harmonic rhythm, and chro^ Above this foundation, Bizet’s matic inflections (especially on ♭6^ and ♭2). languid descending lines, in Carmen’s “Habanera” as well as in a syncopated variant in the entr’acte (exx. 9.7a and 9.7b), are reflected in the opening vocalise of Debussy’s song (ex. 9.7c). Furthermore, Bizet is fond of overlapping his melodies above two-measure ostinato units in the accompaniment (see the bracketed units in ex. 9.7b). Debussy emulates this notion of non-synchronous phrase structure already in his vocal introduction with a five-measure phrase that overlaps the four-measure pattern established in the piano (see the bracketed units in example 9.7c).

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Example 9.7a. Bizet, Carmen, opening of “Habanera.”



  
 


 












  





   
 



 
















 




 

   


   

    





  

 












     


    

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Example 9.7b. Bizet, Carmen, “Entr’acte” between acts 3 and 4.
 

    
  

   


        
              











           



                

    

  

                                        




             

                                      

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Example 9.7c. Opening of Debussy’s “Séguidille.”










    







     





  







           

    

    













  

 









 





     

       



           

        

  

             




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Both Bizet’s and Debussy’s scores are replete with improvisatory and virtuosic qualities, including trills, scalar runs, octave leaps, and teasing triplet figuration. For example, Carmen’s triplet-inflected melody with its spectacular octave leaps (exx. 9.8a and 9.8b) becomes even more death-defying in Debussy’s score (ex. 9.8c).46 Finally, both scores feature a descending tetrachord, sometimes called a “Spanish” or “Andalusian” tetrachord. In Carmen, it appears in the introduction to the “Chanson bohème” at the beginning of act 2 and it reaches its peak moment in the fff climax (mm. 111–15) of the entr’acte that links acts 3 and 4. Debussy’s song opens with a descending tetrachord—E–D–C–B—but ^ a Phrygian inflection then continues to B♭, which ultimately functions as ♭2, that is characteristically “Spanish,” in A minor (ex. 9.7c). Debussy’s sequel to Séguidille was a “Chanson espagnole” that he substituted in the Recueil Vasnier for his temporarily aborted Séguidille. Ultimately, he emptied his Spanish bag of tricks in the “Chanson espagnole,” a virtuosic duet intended for Marie Vasnier to sing with her teacher Madame Moreau-Sainti. Based on a text by Alfred de Musset (appendix 9.4), whose Madrid Debussy had set as a rather unimaginative strophic song several years earlier, the “Chanson espagnole” had been popularized by Delibes and others, under the title of Les Example 9.8a. Triplet figuration in Bizet’s “Séguedille.”






   






  




 




 






 

     

     

 

 

 














 

        

              

Example 9.8b. Octave leaps in Bizet’s “Séguedille.”



 












   




 

  

   



 



 

  








 
            

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Example 9.8c. Triplets, octave leaps, and trills in Debussy’s “Séguidille.”






      



    
  






        


  
        



   

     

     

   

                     



 




  

     

   



 

     



     

filles de Cadix. It would become Debussy’s third song about a bullfight, narrated this time from the perspective of the toreador who is flirting with the girls near the bullring. In the “Chanson espagnole,” Debussy pulls together the bolero rhythm that he had used in Madrid (and that Bizet had exploited in his entr’acte) with the other Spanish conventions already discussed: triple meter, a slow harmonic rhythm, chromatic and modal inflections, especially on the ♭6^ and ♭2^ scale degrees, virtuosic octave leaps, runs, and trills in the voice, triplet-inflected descending melodic motives, and a descending “Andalusian” tetrachord in the bass. Perhaps most memorably, he highlights the dual sopranos’ elaborate vocalises at the beginning of the song and in the refrains following each of the two strophes, not unlike his treatment of the solo soprano in Séguidille. Here, too, he finishes with an abrupt bien parado. As he matured, Debussy continued to expand and refine his Spanish musical vocabulary, especially as he intersected artistically with composers such as Isaac Albéniz, Manuel de Falla, and Enrique Granados, as well as the pianist Ricardo Viñes, who would première the Andalusian-inspired “Soirée dans

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Grenade” from the Estampes in 1904 as well as “La sérénade interrompue” from the first book of Préludes in 1911. Debussy’s later, full assimilation of Spanish elements into his own modernist compositional vocabulary is evident in works such as “Ibéria” (from the orchestral Images) and “La puerta del vino” (from the second book of Préludes). These compositions reflect his continued exposure to and exploration of indigenous Spanish folk songs, as they were disseminated in anthologies published by individuals such as Felipe Pedrell.47 And, of course, he absorbed many other orientalist sights and sounds through the Paris World Fairs. During his formative years as a composer in the early 1880s, Debussy’s initial attraction to foreign values and artistic expressions may have triggered his attempts to compose transculturally—that is, to imitate and adopt the stylistic and formal conventions of other cultures.48 But ultimately he absorbed and generalized these “exotic” elements within his own musical vocabulary, fully integrating them as he developed his unique compositional voice.49

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Appendix 9.1. Text of Rondel chinois (Marius Dillard) Sur le lac bordé d’azalée

On the lake bordered with azaleas,

De nénuphar et de bambou

Waterlilies, and bamboo,

Passe une jonque d’acajou

Passes a mahogany junk,

À la pointe d’or éffilée.

With a golden, tapered bow.

Une chinoise dort voilée

A Chinese lady sleeps, veiled

D’un flot de crèpe jusqu’au cou.

In a swath of crepe up to her neck.

Sur le lac bordé d’azalée

On the lake bordered with azaleas,

De nénuphar et de bambou.

Waterlilies, and bamboo.

Sous sa véranda dentelée

On his lacy veranda

Un mandarin se tient debout

A mandarin stands

Fixant de ses yeux de hibou

Watching with his owl-like eyes

La dame qui passe isolée

The lady passing alone

Sur le lac bordé d’azalée.

On the lake bordered with azaleas.

Appendix 9.2. Text of Fête galante (Théodore de Banville) Voilà Silvandre et Lycas et Myrtil,

Behold Silvandre and Lycas and Myrtil,

Car c’est ce soir fête chez Cydalise,

For tonight there’s a celebration at the home of Cydalise,

Partout dans l’air court un parfum subtil;

A subtle perfume fills the air;

Dans le grand parc où tout s’idéalise

In the vast park, where all is perfection,

Avec la rose Aminthe rivalise.

Aminta rivals the rose.

Philis, Églé, qui suivent leurs amants,

Phyllis and Eglia, who pursue their lovers,

Cherchent l’ombrage en milles endroits charmants;

Seek the shadow in a thousand charming places;

Dans le soleil qui s’irrite et qui joue,

In the maddening, playful sunlight,

Luttant d’orgueil avec les diamants,

Proudly emulating diamonds,

Sur le chemin le Paon blanc fait la roue.

The white peacock spreads its tail on their path.

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Appendix 9.3. Text of Séguidille (Théophile Gautier) Un jupon serré sur les hanches,

Skirt drawn tight across the hips,

Un peigne énorme sur son chignon,

Enormous comb in her chignon,

Jambe nerveuse et pied mignon,

Nervous leg and charming foot,

Œil de feu, teint pale et dents blanches; Fiery eye, pale skin, and white teeth; Alza! olà

Alza! O la,

Voilà

Behold

La véritable Manola.

The real Manola.

Gestes hardis, libre parole,

Bold gestures, free speech,

Sel et piment à pleine main,

Handfuls of salt and pimento,

Oubli parfait du lendemain,

Perfect forgetfulness of the morrow,

Amour fantasque et grâce folle.

Erratic love and mad grace.

[Alza! olà

[Alza! O la,

Voilà

Behold

La véritable Manola.]

The real Manola.]

Chanter, danser aux [son des] castagnettes,

Singing, dancing to the [sound of] castanets,

Et, dans les courses de taureaux,

And, at the bullfights,

Juger les coups des toreros,

Judging the feats of the toreadors,

Tout en fumant des cigarettes.

While smoking cigarettes.

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Alza! olà

Alza! O la,

Voilà

Behold

La véritable Manola.

The real Manola.

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Appendix 9.4. Text of “Chanson espagnole” (Alfred de Musset, first two strophes set by Debussy)

Nous venions de voir le taureau,

We just saw the bull,

Trois garçons, trois fillettes,

Three boys, three girls;

Sur la pelouse il faisait beau,

It was a lovely day on the lawn,

Et nous dansions un boléro

And we danced a bolero

Au son des castagnettes:

To the sound of castanets:

Dites moi, voisin,

Tell me, neighbor,

Si j’ai bonne mine,

If I look well,

Et si ma basquine

And if my bustier

Va bien ce matin,

Looks good this morning,

Vous me trouvez la taille fine?

Do you find my waist slim?

Les filles de Cadix aiment assez cela.

The girls of Cadix really like that.

Et nous dansions un boléro,

And we were dancing a bolero,

Un soir, c’était dimanche,

One Sunday evening;

Vers nous s’en vint un hidalgo,

We were approached by a hidalgo,

Couru d’or, la plume au chapeau,

Made of gold, feather in his cap,

Et le poing sur la hanche:

And fist on his hip:

Si tu veux de moi,

If you want me,

Brune au doux sourire,

Brunette with a sweet smile,

Tu n’as qu’a le dire,

You only have to say it,

Cet or est à toi. —Passez votre chemin, beau sire,

And this gold is yours. —On your way, handsome sire,

Les filles de Cadix n’entendent pas The girls of Cadix don’t listen to that cela! sort of thing!

Notes

1.

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I am grateful to Ralph P. Locke for his editorial suggestions and enthusiastic encouragement to develop this article from its initial presentation as a lecture at the Library of Congress, as part of their “France à la bibliothèque” series, on November 16, 2015. Among them were Edmond Bailly, whose bookshop, the Librairie de l’art indépendant, was a hotbed for orientalism and esotericism; Pierre Louÿs and Paul-Jean Toulet, whose extravagant travels ranged from Egypt and Algeria to Tonkin (in what is today Vietnam); and Louis Laloy and Victor Segalen,

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2. 3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

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whose work took them to the Far East. See Michel Duchesneau, “Debussy and Japanese Prints,” chapter 10 in this volume. Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1979), 51. An autograph manuscript of the Rondel chinois, purchased from Henry Prunières by Carl Engel in 1930, and a microfilm of the only known manuscript of Séguidille, held in a private collection, are both housed in the Music Division of the Library of Congress. Given that the present study was initially prepared for an event at the Library of Congress, these two works are featured. An additional autograph manuscript of the Rondel chinois, dedicated to Henry Kunkelmann, “Au plus sympathique de ceux que j’appelle mes amis,” exists in a private collection in Paris. Debussy may have encountered Kunkelmann, a devotee of César Franck, in one of his organ classes “sometime in 1880–1881,” according to Denis Herlin (see his Foreword in Claude Debussy, Quatre nouvelles mélodies [Paris: Durand, 2012], i and iii). Portions of the Rondel chinois are transcribed by John Robert Clevenger in “The Origins of Debussy’s Style” (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 2002), 1034 and 1071. See also the transcription by Mark DeVoto in his Debussy and the Veil of Tonality: Essays on His Music (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2004), 205–8. See also Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style,” 957–71, for a partial transcription and discussion of Séguidille. Bing used only his first initial of “S.” in France, presumably to downplay his German origins. From 1888 until 1891, Bing published a monthly journal called Le Japon artistique, and by 1895 he had opened a shop called “La maison de l’Art Nouveau” in the ninth arrondissement at 22, rue de Provence. His pavilion at the 1900 World’s Fair in Paris was a popular attraction. Today one can view his fabulous art collection at his former home, now the Musée Cernuschi, in the Parc Monceau. Mme Monet en costume japonais is preserved at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and may be viewed on their website at http://www.mfa.org/collections/object/la-japonaise-camille-monet-in-japanese-costume-33556 (accessed January 28, 2018). This canvas is housed at the Musée Rodin in Paris and may be viewed on the museum’s website at http://www.musee-rodin.fr/en/collections/paintings/ pere-tanguy (accessed January 28, 2018). Both of these works are now at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam and may be viewed on the museum’s website, https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/ search/collection (accessed April 10, 2018). Michel Duchesneau further explores the enthusiasm of Parisian collectors for Japanese art in “Debussy and Japanese Prints.” In his Claude Debussy: Biographie critique (Paris: Fayard, 2003), 423, François Lesure mentions Paul Vidal’s criticism of his classmate’s acquisition of such bibelots and his blatant disregard of his family’s privation. See Denis Herlin, “The Kunkelmann Manuscripts: New Sources for Early Mélodies by Claude Debussy,” chapter 3 in this volume.

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15. Ibid. 16. The original French is “la seule qui peut chanter et faire oublier tout ce que cette musique a d’inchantable et de chinois.” In French, the phrase “pour moi, c’est du chinois” is the equivalent of “It’s Greek to me” in English, so in this dedication the composer is cleverly punning on the adjective chinois. 17. “Chinese music (based on manuscripts of the period).” 18. The “s” in Vasnier is silent, and thus it is a homonym with Vanier, which was also the name of a Parisian publisher whose publications Debussy read; see the composer’s letters to Émile Baron, a Parisian bookseller and stationer, from fall 1886 through February 1887 in C, 50–56 and 58–60. 19. Marguerite Vasnier, “Debussy à dix-huit ans,” La revue musicale, numéro spécial: La jeunesse de Claude Debussy (May 1, 1926): 17 (113). While unfortunately no program of that event has been preserved, a printed program does exist for a recital in which Marie and Achille performed two of his other songs— Fête galante and Les roses—on May 12, 1882 (see Herlin, “The Kunklemann Manuscripts,” 67, for a facsimile). By then he surely had discovered how to spell her name correctly, since it was printed as Vasnier on the program! 20. See p. 16 in particular of Yves A. Lado-Bordowsky, “La chronologie des œuvres de jeunesse de Claude Debussy (1879–1884),” Cahiers Debussy, nouvelle série 14 (1990): 3–22. A study of the chirography of the two autograph manuscripts of the Rondel chinois suggests that they were likely notated in close proximity to each other. Denis Herlin posits that the Vasnier was set down first (see Herlin, “The Kunkelmann Manuscripts”); however, Debussy’s improved prosody and notation of enharmonic passages in the Vasnier manuscript suggests that it may have succeeded the Kunkelmann source. 21. However, some rondels consist of fourteen lines, resulting from the inclusion of the complete two-line refrain after the final quintil. 22. By limiting his rhyme scheme to rimes pauvres, where only the final vowels rhyme, and rimes suffisantes, where the final two phonemes rhyme, Dillard created a very simple, regular, and calm feeling in his verse. 23. David Hunter, Understanding French Verse (London: Oxford University Press, 2005), 46. 24. For a detailed discussion of the exotic influences at the 1889 World’s Fair, see Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005), 139–278. 25. Debussy would soon turn to Verlaine’s collection of Fêtes galantes, setting to music eight of the twenty-two poems, but in a sense he apprenticed in the genre by first setting Banville’s poem. 26. Debussy’s original wording is “Musique Louis IXV [sic] avec formules de 1882.” 27. See James R. Briscoe, “Debussy d’après Debussy: The Further Resonance of Two Early Mélodies,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 110–16. 28. In his song setting Debussy treated Verlaine’s couplet in lines 6–7 as a transition, eliding to a return of the A section for the final three lines of the poem (see ex. 9.4). 29. Bizet’s Carmen, premièred in 1875, did not take hold with Parisian audiences until its revival in 1883; by 1889 it had been performed four hundred times.

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30. 31.

32.

33.

34.

35.

36. 37. 38.

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Chabrier’s travel to Spain in 1882 was followed by his orchestral España, which enjoyed immediate and tremendous popularity when it was premièred in Paris in 1883. And, of course, much of Ravel’s œuvre would reflect his close identification with Spain, from his first published work, the Sites auriculaires for two pianos (whose first movement, composed in 1895, was a Habanera) to his orchestral Rapsodie espagnole (1907–8), his opera L’heure espagnole (1907), and the famous Boléro (1928), among other works. Fauser, Musical Encounters, 263, claims that “for the French, Spain was the most exotic of European cultures, and especially Southern Spain.” I am grateful to my colleague Denis Herlin for sharing a letter (from Ernest LeGrand to Charles Koechlin, written on January 15, 1928) that mentions the joy Debussy felt after having viewed canvases by Velázquez and Raphael at the Prado. Debussy also set Musset’s “Ballade à la lune,” from the same Spanish collection. Unknown today, Paul Vidal mentions it in “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue, “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” May 1, 1926): 12–13 (108–9). Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique, 59. During the fall of 1880, Debussy played Bizet’s L’Arlesienne suite for piano four hands at Madame von Meck’s (Lesure, 47), and we know that her beloved Tchaikovsky, whose work she compelled Debussy to learn, was quite taken with Bizet’s opera. The Russian composer apparently saw the original production of Carmen at the Opéra-Comique on January 19, 1876 (see Susan McClary, Georges Bizet: Carmen [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992], 116), and he later wrote that “Carmen is a masterpiece in every sense of the word [. . .] one of those rare creations which expresses the efforts of a whole musical epoch” (see Herbert Weinstock, Tchaikovsky [London, Cassel, 1946], 115) and “I can’t think of anything that I’ve really fallen for in recent years except Carmen and Delibes’s ballet [Sylvia]” (see “To my best friend”: Correspondence between Tchaikovsky and Nadezhda von Meck, 1876–1878, ed. Edward Garden and Nigel Gotteri, trans. Galina von Meck [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993], 88). Guiraud had taught at the Paris Conservatoire since 1876 but became titular professor of composition in December 1880, when Debussy began to study with him. Titled Alza! (Séguidille), Émile Durand’s setting was published by Durand, Schœnewerk & Cie in 1874. This straightforward song comprises three identical strophes in D major. I am grateful to François Le Roux for sending a copy of this work to me from the Centre International de la Mélodie Française in Tours. See further discussion of Durand’s Alza! in Clevenger, “The Origins of Debussy’s Style,” 883–87. Lado-Bordowsky, “Chronologie,” 19. A facsimile of the Recueil Vasnier was published by the Centre de documentation Claude Debussy in Paris in 2011. As winner of the Prix de Rome, Debussy departed Paris for Rome on January 28, 1885.

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39. Curiously, the musical notation of these blot marks does not match the opening of the Séguidille song as we know it. However, one particular passage, involving a descending line with triplets on the third beat of each measure, does match a sketch for Séguidille that appeared on the last leaf of the known complete manuscript. 40. In chapter 4 of the present volume, David Grayson speculates that Debussy left these eleven pages blank because he wanted an excuse to return to the manuscript, and to its dedicatee Marie Vasnier, and to complete it sometime in the future. 41. In his book Voyage en Espagne (rev. ed., Paris: Charpentier, 1845), 104, Gautier wrote of his exhaustive search for a “pure-blooded manola” while in Spain, and we might imagine her as similar to the earthy depiction of Francisco de Goya’s “Una manola” (1823), or perhaps more like the seductive dancer in John Singer Sargent’s “El Jaleo” (1882). In fact, Gautier called Goya “le peintre espagnol par excellence”; cited in Hervé Lacombe, “L’Espagne à Paris au milieu du XIXe siècle (1847–1857),” Revue de musicologie 88, no. 2 (2002): 413. 42. Encyclopaedia Britannica Online, s.v. “Sequidilla,” http://www.britannica.com/ art/seguidilla (accessed January 12, 2018). 43. Marie Rolf, “Trills, Tra-Las, and Manolas: Debussy’s Séguidille,” paper presented at the national meeting of the American Musicological Society, the Society for Music Theory, and the Society for Ethnomusicology, New Orleans, November 2, 2012. 44. On Bizet’s primary source for Carmen’s habanera—“El arreglito” by Sebastián Iradier—see pp. 353–60 of Ralph P. Locke, “Spanish Local Color in Bizet’s Carmen: Unexplored Borrowings and Transformations,” in Stage Music and Cultural Transfer: Paris 1830 to 1914, ed. Annegret Fauser and Mark Everist (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 316–60, as well as Hervé Lacombe and Christine Rodriguez, La habanera de Carmen: Naissance d’un tube (Paris: Fayard, 2014), 69–77. On the origins of Bizet’s entr’acte—a song by Manuel Garcia titled “Cuerpo bueno, alma divina”—see Locke, 319–50, as well as Lacombe and Rodriguez, 68–69. 45. Bizet’s entr’acte is in 43, as opposed to the 83 meter of his Séguidille. The seguidillas that Bizet would have known from the collection Échos d’Espagne, edited by P. Lacome and J. Puig y Alsubide (Paris: Durand, 1870), are all notated in 43, so Bizet’s use of a 83 meter implies some minor artistic license. It is notable that Debussy also cast his song in 83. 46. In his manuscript, on a separate page following the notation of the song, Debussy sketched the passage that features the descending, triplet-inflected melody as well as the octave swoops. 47. Maurice Emmanuel reported that Debussy once “showed me a publication which he was carrying about in his pocket: it was Pedrell’s collection of Spanish folk-songs. By a silent gesture he expressed the inspiration he had derived from them.” This quotation is cited in Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 260. Lockspeiser speculated that the volume Debussy was carrying was probably Pedrell’s La canço popular catalana (Barcelona: La Neotipia, 1906).

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48. Ralph P. Locke, Musical Exoticism: Images and Reflections (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 228. 49. Fauser, Musical Encounters, 205, writes that “for Debussy, these exotic spectacles [at the 1889 World’s Fair] contained elements that clearly offered a way out of the impasse created by the Wagnerian dilemma, and he appropriated those components that might help him to write new French music, whether for the piano or for the stage.” The present study demonstrates that Debussy’s appropriation of exotic elements began years earlier and within the genre of mélodies.

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Part Three

History and Hermeneutics

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Chapter Ten

Debussy and Japanese Prints Michel Duchesneau

The influence of Asian art on Debussy has stimulated much discussion and the issue has been explored in several studies.1 Much ink has been spilled about the composer’s encounters with Javanese music and the gamelan at the 1889 World’s Fair, as well as the music at the Annamite theater. Like JeanMichel Nectoux, I feel that it is important to contextualize the significance of the influence of non-European music on Debussy’s oeuvre,2 while casting doubt on the position taken by Robert Godet, who, in declaring the composer’s skill as entirely independent from any influence, wrote in 1926: “admiration for things Japanese did not in any way affect the substance of his music.”3 Admittedly, although Debussy used certain timbral, harmonic, and rhythmic effects that evoke an Asian sound world, he carefully avoided wholesale integration of these, which would have created a somewhat artificial kind of musical authenticity. Like many of his contemporaries, Debussy was particularly interested in japonisme, which swept across Europe from the mid-nineteenth century and culminated around 1900. Debussy scholars have consequently highlighted this engagement. Roy Howat, for example, has established a connection between Debussy’s apparent preoccupation with formal proportions in La mer and the balance of visual elements in Hokusai’s famous print.4 My objective here is twofold. First, I wish to call attention to the complex constellation of knowledge about Japanese and Chinese art with which Debussy engaged through an analysis of his relationships with acquaintances, along with information culled from biographical documents. Second, I would like to explore artistic homologies between the composer and Japanese painters in greater depth by drawing on certain technical elements of Chinese drawings and Japanese prints. Debussy’s attraction to japonisme was far from unique; nevertheless, the originality and

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singularity of borrowings from Far Eastern art that characterize many of his works have had an important impact. Therefore, I will seek to delve more deeply into Debussy’s engagement with japonisme and, in doing so, offer new perspectives on the many musicians who were profoundly influenced by Asian art during this period. I begin with the conclusion of Jean-Michel Nectoux’s chapter on the relationship between Debussy and Asian art, fittingly titled, “Connaissance de L’Est” (Knowledge of the East), a clear reference to Paul Claudel’s book. Nectoux writes: The musician does not surround himself with objects of Asian art as a result of an appetite for exoticism, prevalent among many of his contemporaries; rather, it is out of concern—indeed, the need—to live in their atmosphere, to participate in the profound dream where they actually breathe, and to recapture for himself, and for his composition, the spirit that inspired them [the art objects]. As a plausible hypothesis, we might imagine that, in these numerous objects passionately chosen and arranged with care, Debussy loved the bold refinement of contrasting tones, the simplicity of form, and especially the attractive beauty of the material: glazed stoneware, fine porcelain, lacquered wood, smooth freshness of bronze, in the infinite variety of their peculiar appearances that inventive artisans knew how to cultivate so magnificently. More generally, we can observe, within these highly civilized forms, the intuition of an art that plays marvelously with rules so as better to avoid them, a know-how that places all true creation far above norms and welcomes with humility and dexterity the divine interventions of happenstance: drips of varnish, irregularities in the glaze, vagaries in the gilding of leaves, grains of bronze in a shifting burnish. In these objects, the musician discovers a repertoire of forms of infinite variety in the execution—virtuosic and light, discreet in its effects, elliptic to the point of irony, without a shadow of ostentation: in sum, poetic par excellence.5

There are two elements from this enlightening comment to keep in mind. The first concerns inspiration: certainly, Debussy often found stimulation in these Japanese- and Chinese-inspired objects. Through his intimate knowledge of them—their form, color, and expression, but also the spirit that informed them—he discovered remarkable concordances with his own artistic proclivities.6 Like many artists of the period, Debussy adopted an approach that transcended mere technique and where inspiration was not linked to the representation of simple or banal reality.7 Instead, his work reflected first and foremost a perception and keen awareness of the world of imagination and dreaming, combined with a certain plasticity that one finds in Japanese prints and Chinese drawings. Although Debussy did not specifically locate the mechanisms of synesthesia in these prints and drawings, the

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interiority that epitomizes Symbolism is also reflected in them, as well as in the maxim of the eleventh-century Chinese poet and calligraphist Su Shi (Su Tung-Po, 1037–1101): “before painting bamboo, the bamboo must first grow within you. With the paintbrush in hand and a focused gaze, the image then appears before you.”8 The second element is the concept of a repertoire of colors, forms, and effects. Whereas the attachment to color and synesthesia came from Symbolism, the interest in form and effects can obviously be connected to the prevalence of Impressionism, given the preoccupation of this movement with japonisme. The colors, subjects, and treatment of Japanese prints enthralled and captivated Western artists. And yet, given the extensive influence of Japanese and Chinese visual art, we must look beyond the “surface.” We might try to discover what these artists—and, in particular, Debussy—intuitively felt and perceived beyond that first impression, which was certainly very powerful. I suggest that it is possible to detect the modus operandi of craft within Japanese prints—and within Chinese painting that preceded it and formed its founding principles— and that Debussy intuitively identified and absorbed this orientation.

Debussy’s Japonisme The influence of Japanese art on Westerners became palpable from the midnineteenth century and especially after the 1862 World’s Fair in London.9 In France, the 1878 World’s Fair marked a turning point in artists’ interest in Japanese art.10 Louis Gonse11 organized a monumental exhibition of more than three thousand works at the Galerie Georges Petit in 1883 and published L’art japonais.12 Another art collector and seller, Siegfried Bing, published a magnificently illustrated journal, Le Japon artistique, between 1888 and 1891. Meanwhile, several painters—Degas, Monet, Van Gogh, and Lautrec, to cite but a few—drew on Japanese prints for inspiration in their own works. Many were collectors: Monet owned an exceptional collection of almost two hundred prints; Édouard Vuillard, Maurice Denis, Pierre Bonnard, Ernest Chausson, Raymond Koechlin, Théodore Duret, and Gustave Geffroy also had sizable collections. Asian sitting rooms became a popular feature in homes (think of Ravel’s Chinese salon and Mallarmé’s Japanese parlor).13 Within such an environment, Debussy could not escape taking notice of Japanese and Chinese artefacts, especially considering that many of his friends and acquaintances were enamored of Asian art.14 Nectoux suggests that Debussy attended some of the exhibitions of Asian objects during the final two decades of the nineteenth century (a claim that is corroborated by the composer’s correspondence). He even discovered that Debussy received a private invitation to admire the Bing collection that was on sale at the Galerie Durand-Ruel in May 1906.15

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Debussy, a “great tea enthusiast,”16 also visited specialized boutiques17 selling Far Eastern products, such as La porte chinoise (owned by Bouillette and located at 36 rue Vivienne) and L’empire chinois (owned by Decelle and located at 53–55 rue Vivienne).18 A letter from Debussy to Jacques Durand in 1910 sheds some light on his attraction to Asian objects and works of art. He wrote: “Another very personal thing is the Chinese exhibition at the Pavillon Marsan that I just saw [. . .] it cannot be described nor expressed, but I have never, or rarely, seen one attain such refined beauty.”19 The exhibition in question was organized by the Musée des arts décoratifs and devoted to the “goût chinois en Europe au dix-huitième siècle” (Chinese taste in Europe in the eighteenth century).20 The exhibited pieces all originated in Europe: furniture, tapestries, bronzes, earthenware, and porcelain with decorative motifs inspired by Chinese and Japanese art. In the “ancient Chinese art objects” section, there was a celadon vase that belonged to Jacques-Émile Blanche, the dedicatee of Estampes.21 Debussy’s comment suggests another perspective on his relationship to Asian art. The composer certainly loved japoneries and chinoiseries; he appreciated Japanese drawing and could even grasp some of the subtleties, with the help of Camille Claudel (I will discuss this further in the third section of this essay). Nevertheless, we must keep in mind that what he admired, above all, were eighteenth-century engravings by Watteau, Boucher, and Pillement,22 tapestries made by the Beauvais tapestry manufacturer, tender porcelains by Chantilly and by Saxe, and earthenware of Nevers and Rouen covered with orientalizing motifs (see fig. 10.1). The eighteenth-century filter in his appreciation of Asian art is crucial and should be taken into account when exploring the connections between all artists of this period and Far Eastern art. Thus, Pagodes could have resulted from the impression left by, for instance, “polychrome wallpaper panels, featuring Chinese musicians, farmers, or hunters in front of pagodas or under trees,”23 just as well as a print like Hiroshige’s Une pagode dans un parc (from the Edo Meisho series, 1861; fig. 10.2). The difference is significant: on the one hand, it involves the reconstruction of a world imagined according to Western artistic standards and, on the other, the reflection of a work from a very different artistic tradition—even if, in Hiroshige’s print, the unique perspective is borrowed from seventeenth-century Dutch painting, as Japanese artists were subjected to European influence through regular contact with Dutch merchants.

An Instinctive Need for Art The influence of Asian art on Debussy’s music was fed by an orientalism inherited from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, which encompassed China (particularly striking in the eighteenth century) and Japan (as the new focal

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Figure 10.1. A canvas by Jouy, ca. 1785, after Jean Pillement.

point for artists), and was influenced by a new industry arising out of the infatuation for the decorative arts.24 But what did Debussy really know about the music of these remote places? Musicologist Florence Leyssieux has nicely summed up the way in which Debussy approached such music: his comments “concerning Javanese and Vietnamese music are the product of thoughtful and analytic listening that grasps the structure and organization of the music. It is a very professional appreciation, the same that he would also apply when approaching the work of one of his contemporaries in order to understand its compositional and aesthetic parameters.”25 Should we therefore limit ourselves only to such reports of his “auditory” discovery of the music of the Dutch East Indies at the 1889 World’s Fair or of the Indian music performed during Inayat Khan and the musicians’ visit to the composer’s home in 1913?26 What about the writings, like those by Robert Godet, a close friend at the time, that

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Figure 10.2. Hiroshige, Une pagode dans un parc (A pagoda in a park), Edo Meisho series, 1861.

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mention the limited interest Debussy showed in acquiring knowledge about these oriental music traditions? Ultimately, this should all be reexamined from a new perspective. Regarding documents on Asian music that Godet once tried to give to Debussy, he wrote: We had the opportunity to provide the composer with a substantial number of documents collected in different locations in Asia and the Sunda Islands,27 and we did so out of a sincere concern to guide [. . .] his recollections or his fantasy. We felt some pride because these beautiful documents were rare, even though we had no part in the impressive scholarship that went into compiling them. Well! The ingrate did not even seek the tiniest acoustic point of reference. He examined them with a suspicious eye, like Nijinski regarded the music of Jeux, “these erudite monuments where the character, if by chance it were accurate, would indeed kill the spirit.” Apologizing for having to suppress a yawn due to their “comatose” influence (would he have said the same about modern experiments with quarter tones?) and, firmly brushing them aside [. . .] he soon went back to attend to the duty of his dream.28

Godet’s report contains an element of truth. Nevertheless, the chronology of events requires some revision. According to Godet, he provided the composer with these documents during the “three or four years between the 1889 World’s Fair and the publication of ‘Pagodes.’”29 And yet, “Pagodes,” from the three-movement work Estampes, was published in 1903—almost fifteen years after the 1889 World’s Fair. The most plausible explanation would be that the Fair in question was actually that of 1900, when the composer had the opportunity to hear the gamelan once again.30 As for these particular documents, we unfortunately do not know anything precise about them. But Godet did publish an article on Java in La revue de Paris following a trip to the Dutch East Indies in 1890;31 there he provided a sufficient number of details about the gamelan and the method of its performance to prove himself a connoisseur. According to Gertrudes Johannes Resink,32 Godet supplied Debussy with a considerable amount of information on the gamelan, particularly on the use of evocative titles, drawing on the work of Isaäc Groneman (1832–1912), a Dutch doctor living in Yogyakarta (in the center of Java) since 1858. Groneman had written a richly documented book on the gamelan, De gamĕlan te Jogjåkărtå, in 1890. Had Godet been referring to this book when he mentioned “these beautiful documents [. . .] [and their] impressive scholarship”? Perhaps. But although Debussy may not have examined Godet’s documents attentively, he certainly had read the articles by Julien Tiersot, whom he referred to as the “bard.”33 The articles in question appeared in Le ménestrel during the 1889 World’s Fair,34 with two specifically devoted to the gamelan for which Tiersot provided music analysis and examples. He was also likely acquainted with Benedictus’s

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collection, Les musiques bizarres à l’exposition,35 which included transcriptions of gamelan music as well as music for the Annamite theater.36 Godet’s chronological error thus allows us to imagine other possibilities regarding Debussy’s knowledge of Far Eastern musical practices. Tiersot published a new series of articles in Le ménestrel during the 1900 World’s Fair. Titled “Ethnographie musicale” (Musical ethnography), these included some discussion of Japanese dance and theater.37 In addition to his own transcriptions, Tiersot cited various works and collections that seem to have been in circulation in musical circles for a few years. Among these documents was a report by Charles Leroux, a music director in the French army who participated in a mission as part of the reorganization and modernization of the Japanese army. The report appears to have remained in manuscript form; the author only ever published the Airs japonais et chinois in piano transcription, in 1888. But there is another document that holds a central place in Tiersot’s study: a collection of music for voice and koto published in Japan in 1888 and intended as an instructional material for the instrument.38 In an article devoted to Japanese dance, Tiersot presented a music example of one of the pieces from the songbook (no. 14, “Yuki no Ashita”), built on the pentatonic scale In and the tuning of the koto in hira-joshi (see exx. 10.1 and 10.2).39 In a further article devoted to the theater, he provided the reader with another music example (ex. 10.3) that highlighted a construction using repeated and subtly varied motives, characterized by harmonic dissonances and harmony filled with open fourths and major and minor seconds. Could this have been the collection included in the rare documents that Godet said he showed to Debussy? Wouldn’t Tiersot’s articles have particularly caught Debussy’s attention? Annegret Fauser has remarked on how Debussy’s clearly ironic comparison of the Annamite theater to Wagnerian drama might be attributed to the aural memories that haunted him during his own concurrent opera project (Pelléas et Mélisande).40 It is therefore worth considering what music he heard in 1900, and what he might have retained of the “bard’s” writings about a performance of Japanese theater: “We hear the instruments playing throughout almost the entire performance—but what discretion! The sole shamisen, played by a single musician backstage, forms the core of the orchestra. Sometimes, a small drum adds its clear rhythms to the silvery sounds of the string instrument; otherwise, there is only a simple timbre. A gong rings at intervals during poignant scenes.”41 There is a striking similarity between this passage by Tiersot and a passage in Debussy’s article, “Du goût,” on the music of the Annamite theater that he had heard in 1889: the “small, enraged clarinet drives the emotion; a tam-tam coordinates the terror [. . .] and that’s all! No special theater, no hidden orchestra.”42 Although Debussy seems to have been recalling the Annamite theater and not Japanese theater, it is not impossible that he mixed them up. The presence of the “enraged clarinet,”

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Example 10.1. “Yuki no Ashita,” piece for voice and koto, transcribed by Julien Tiersot (Le Ménestrel 66, no. 46, November 18, 1900), p. 365.


  








  




  

 























 














   


























  



 

 
















  

  





 









 





 

     





















     

    

 



       

  



























 








  









  








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Example 10.1.—(concluded) 

    




 























 



 





  







 





 






  





 





















    

which was actually a kèn (Vietnamese oboe), certainly comes from his memories of 1889 (there was no oboe in the instrumental ensemble in Otojirô Kawakami’s troupe that performed kabuki theater in the 1900 World’s Fair43); the tam-tam, however, could actually refer to the drums that were so prominent in Kabuki theater as well as that of the Annamite theater. Another acquaintance might also have strengthened Debussy’s awareness of Far Eastern music: Louis Laloy, who published La musique chinoise in 1903 in the series “Les musiciens célèbres.”44 Musicologist, music critic, and sinologist, Laloy wrote a book that was quite remarkable for its time, examining issues of aesthetics, composition (systems, harmony), instrumentation, and genre. He was very close to Debussy at the turn of the century and would have shared his passion for China with the composer. Debussy seems to have regarded Laloy highly, as “one of those men with whom [. . .] you can swap something other than gossip or insults!”45 Deborah Priest has provided Magnus Synnestvedt’s account of a talk given by the music critic as an example of the kind of conversation that Debussy and Laloy might have had.46 Paraphrasing Laloy, Synnestvedt wrote: By virtue of his language, a “powerful machine to explore time,” he led us through a survey of 5,000 years of Far Eastern music in one hour; and the evocation was so intense that today it still seems impossible to give a neutral account. Allow me then to recall here the exquisite visions that were aroused in our minds. I only hope that, for those who could not hear the talk, they might find an echo here that is perhaps personal, but also passionate [. . .]

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Example 10.2. Tuning of the koto. Excerpt from Collection of Japanese Koto Music (Tokyo: Tokyo Academy of Music, 1888).   


























































Example 10.3. Piece for koto, transcribed by Julien Tiersot (Le Ménestrel 66, no. 52, December 30, 1900), p. 411.


 

  
 



 





 


 

 

   
    

 

 


 

 



 

 




 




And now a song rises up, very softly, very slowly, with an elusive modality and a gentle rhythm. We are in Japan, in a teahouse. With the flickering light of the paper lanterns, a geisha, barefoot, dances on a mat, surrounded by kneeling mousmés who sing while strumming shamisens. The image is far different from the one we got from China. There, the orchestra was loud, even noisy, the musical expression harsh and wild; here, everything is soft, modest, and simple, but the delicacy of the nuances and the subtlety of the expression are infinite. Every sentiment and the most elusive nuance are underscored with a melodic passage that is delicate, but also supple and intense. If we can associate Chinese and Wagnerian musicality with one another, declared Loù-Hî-Lâ-Loù-A, our knowledgeable necromant, we might make an analogy between Japanese musicality and that of Debussy.47

I would argue that, although the 1889 World’s Fair did indeed stimulate Debussy’s imagination over the long term, we should also not neglect his musical experiences during the 1900 World’s Fair. It seems unlikely that the musician, whose works were to be performed during that event,48 would not have taken the time to go hear performances by the Kawakami troupe at the Kabuki theater. Taken together, his sensory and visual experiences during his visits

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to the specialized galleries, his exchanges with his friends who shared their knowledge of Asian art, and his appreciation for Far Eastern art objects show that Debussy’s interest in japonsime went far beyond a mere superficial interest in a passing fashion.

The Difficulty of Reading Although Louis Laloy seemed to suggest compatibility between Japanese and Debussy’s musical traits, the extent of the French composer’s knowledge of Japanese music is unclear. There is no doubt, however, that he and his contemporaries were passionate about the art of Japanese painters.49 Utamaro, Hiroshige, and Hokusai were the most emblematic artists for the prints that flooded the Western art market at the end of the nineteenth century. The relationship of European artists to these prints was complex, but it is at least clear that these works had a significant impact. Monet, for instance, had an extensive collection; much of Van Gogh’s work is steeped with Japanese influence; and Henry Rivière’s Les trente-six vues de la Tour Eiffel was a reference to Hokusai’s Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji. The prints caused a stir through their explosion of colors, their use of decorative motifs and subjects drawn from everyday life,50 and their representation of nature at once wild and stylized. They also demonstrated a unique approach to perspective, which in certain cases reduced the drawings to two dimensions even though in fact there was a two-point perspective combining depth with verticality (this is called long or deep distance). Musicians were also captivated by the extraordinary technique developed by Japanese artists. Their aesthetic assessments varied. For some, the technique seemed devoid of emotion. Such was the case with Ernest Chausson, who could not escape the pull of Japanese visual art but whose interest remained restricted to that of a curious collector. He thus wrote in his journal in 1892 [Tuesday, February 16]: Dined at Lerolle’s home, with the Fontaines and Devillez [Belgian sculptor and art critic]. Devillez is more inspired by Japanese art than ever. It is probably an admirable art but, up until now, I’ve felt only admiration and not emotion. It seems that overly pronounced exoticism prevents it from penetrating into my soul. The Japanese art that has touched me the most is perhaps the wooden statue that the Louvre just purchased [the Portrait of Tokiyori]. For all its lack of emotion, what delicate taste, what a precious and refined art! It is absolutely exquisite. Devillez says I must see the Japanese primitive works, and then I would change my mind. Why is it that the Japanese seem more remote from us than the Assyrians or the Egyptians?51

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Chausson was highly sensitive and his remarks here are particularly valuable, as they reveal a deliberate affective detachment from the technical and aesthetic characteristics of Japanese prints. Within his collection of approximately fifty prints, Chausson owned a series of works by Harunobu, Hokusai, and Hiroshige. The core of his collection included works by Utamaro and prints by Ukiyo-e (images of a floating world) that were permeated mostly by the characters of Kabuki theater, the world of the geisha, and the pleasures of Edo. These works were created for diverse purposes: souvenirs for tourists visiting Edo and the red lantern district (among other places) or calendars. The popular character of these art works did not escape Chausson, who was more impressed by their exceptional technical finesse than by an expressive content that did not “speak” to him. Chausson was unable to grasp a “soul” that was too remote from the somewhat “precious” spirit that guided his own works. Beyond their feelings of wonder and cultural disorientation, most artists did not really appreciate these works; those living at the end of the nineteenth century were simply too far removed aesthetically from Japanese culture, which remained, at the end of the day, very little understood. And yet this distance enabled other artists intuitively to identify elements consonant with their notion of truly modern art, even though they also did not grasp all the details, especially the technique, in the Japanese art works. The subject raises many thorny questions. The influence of Japanese art on Debussy has generally been reduced to the use of The Great Wave inspired by Hokusai for the cover illustration of La mer, along with the famous photograph that shows The Great Wave with another print by Utamaro, and to what Debussy discovered and said about Javanese and Vietnamese music at the 1889 World’s Fair. I have, however, proposed another hypothesis: as a result of attending the 1900 World’s Fair, Debussy developed a particular interest in Japanese music guided by Tiersot’s writings. Debussy owned Chinese and Japanese prints and art objects and was in a position to identify in just a few phrases of the music he heard at the 1889 and 1900 World’s Fairs those elements that would most likely have an impact on the development of Western modern music. His keen sense of observation and sharp ear permitted him to make such evaluations, and they also allow me, by extension, to draw some further connections. In addition to his visit to the Annamite theater previously mentioned, we might consider what he wrote to his friend Pierre Louÿs in 1895: “My poor friend! Remember the Javanese music which contained all the nuances, even those that we could not identify, where the tonic and the dominant were but futile ghosts at the hands of naughty young children.” Debussy’s eyes and ears were impeccably acute, which allowed him quickly to grasp unfamiliar musical and visual elements. Chinese theater, Balinese music, and Sufi music inspired him to search for new combinations of timbres and new rhythmic and harmonic formulas. Chinese and Japanese visual art opened new doors for him, certainly regarding

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color, but also with regard to structural concepts based on the dynamics of space, among other things (I will take up this subject in the final section).52 Japanese prints did not simply offer Debussy a selection of new effects: they offered the notion of emptiness as a “dynamic and active” element.53 In reference to the fundamental importance of emptiness in Chinese art, the art historian François Cheng brings up the subject of music: “Emptiness can be translated by certain syncopated rhythms, but above all by silence. This is not a mechanically calculated measure; breaking the continuous development, it creates a space that allows the sounds to break forth and achieve a kind of resonance beyond resonance.”54 What did Debussy see in the works of Hokusai, Utamaro, and Hiroshige? Godet’s report on Debussy and Camille Claudel helps to gauge not only his interest, but also his level of understanding of Japanese prints and drawings. Debussy seems to have explored the composition of the works of the Japanese masters with the assistance of Camille Claudel. The two certainly spent time together, but their relationship is somewhat mysterious, especially as Robert Godet’s accounts are the only ones we have. According to Jean-Michel Nectoux, Debussy and Claudel became acquainted as early as 1888–89 and went to the World’s Fair together, likely accompanied by others, to hear and see Javanese artists. This date corresponds to the period when Debussy met Godet through Jules de Brayer and Maurice Bouchor. Lesure instead proposes a later date, 1891, and suggests that Camille Claudel had given Debussy the plaster cast of La valse, which seemed to captivate him,55 as early as 1892 (the project was started in 1889).56 Nothing is known with certainty about their relationship. There is another hypothesis. Debussy might actually have met Camille Claudel at Godet’s home just prior to the 1889 World’s Fair; however, given that Claudel did not like music and Debussy did not appreciate Rodin, it would have taken them some time to warm up to each other. Or Debussy might instead have visited the artist sometime between 1893 and 1895. La valse was initially exhibited in 1893, and then again in February 1894 at the Libre Esthétique in Brussels, the same time as the performance of La damoiselle élue and the Quartet. At that moment, the two artists occupied a unique space in their respective artistic fields. As Nectoux has pointed out, Debussy and Claudel shared many affinities because they both wanted to distance themselves from academicism and sought to be independent, even marginal. The art of Japanese prints thus represented an excellent common ground for them, an art predominantly concerned with technical mastery and a refined style that sought extensive expressive liberty and negotiated the span between conspicuous banality and pure sensuality. As such, Godet’s description of their encounter with the mangas is particularly revealing: “[They shared] a constant attention to the examples of Japanese virtuosity that came into their hands and admired, in the frequent absence of intelligible human values

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without translation, the miracle of the arrangement or the paradoxes of perspective. Hokusai’s Manga was their little exotic Bible of Amiens.”57 Godet’s account provides us with a valuable reference to Hokusai’s Manga, collections that were remarkable for their unique attributes: images of fantastic dreams, erotic pictures, images of the everyday, macabre or scatological, with farces and grimaces. But there were also many illustrations of landscapes. These prints obviously pushed against the boundaries of artistic expression. Debussy must have been fascinated by the extraordinary refinement of technique employed for ordinary subjects, from the most “dreadful” to the most sensual. Like the Symbolists and particularly the Impressionists, he regarded Japanese prints as a kind of art that, while drawing heavily on the everyday, possessed a powerfully expressive plurality—narrative, symbolic, and subjective—that relinquished nothing to austere academicism. Godet’s allusion to John Ruskin’s The Bible of Amiens likely provided a key to Debussy’s understanding.58 In this book the well-known British art critic explored the statuary of the Amiens cathedral by describing its architectural style, the details and the nuances, in prose filled with personal and historic commentary. The association made by Godet is clear: the notion of a catalogue of figures just as the manga is a catalogue of forms, figures, faces, and postures for the painter. But the key element of the rapprochement can be found in Marcel Proust’s foreword to his translation of Ruskin’s book: In chatting with someone once, we can discern his/her unique traits. But only through the repetition in different circumstances, can we recognize these traits as distinctive features and essentials. This variation of circumstances that allows the determination, through a kind of experimentation, of the permanent traits of style, is—for a writer, a musician, or a painter—in the works’ variety. In a second book, in another painting, we find the peculiarities that, on first glance, we might have thought were particular to the subject at hand rather than to the writer or the painter.59

For both Hokusai’s manga (see fig. 10.3) and Camille Claudel’s work, the expressive force of the nude and the movement of the nude body mattered more than its realism. This artistic intersection was, for Debussy, particularly revealing in its communication of human expression through often subtle variations of bearing. The principle of variation, transferred to artistic practice and suggested here by Proust, can be applied particularly well to Debussy’s works, where motivic writing uses the principle of duplication of multiple variants.60

Landscape (Jokei) Even when portraying scenes of everyday life, the Japanese painter almost always chose “open-air” scenery or, in a subtler fashion, “opened” or “disassembled” a

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house to create an “exterior” setting. The Hiroshige print that Debussy gave to his friend René Peter was an example of this strategy. Part of the series Fifty-Three Stations of the Tôkaidô (published by Sanoya Kihei, 1840–42) titled “Minakuchi Station,” a small print (16 cm x 22 cm), depicted the buildings of the station, with passersby strolling in front (fig. 10.4). The shops open onto the street, revealing their interior. The central building is obviously an okyia (geisha house). We see a geisha and a staircase to the second floor where two small figures gaze out the windows at the passersby below. Only the trees that surround the houses and the gray sky suggest the presence of nature. And yet, this everyday scene, like many other prints, reveals the utmost importance of nature and the place of human beings within it. The predominant place given over to nature in Japanese prints derives inherently from Chinese origins. In Chinese painting, water and the mountain, closely associated with yin (water—earth) and yang (sky—mountain), symbolize the elements of the universe and, by extension, mankind. Such considerations were certainly far removed from Debussy’s relationship to Asian art. Yet even without knowing the intimate connection between art and nature for the Chinese and Japanese, he might have discovered in this art important reflections

Figure 10.3. Hokusai, “The Kitchen,” Manga, vol. 12, ca. 1849.

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of his own ideas on music, as he wrote in 1903 with regard to music in the “open air”:61 “I can imagine [. . .] the possibility of music specially designed for the ‘open air,’ flowing in broad lines, with daring vocal and instrumental effects that would resound and soar to the treetops in the light of the open air.”62 This concept informs scores like “Jardins sous la pluie,” “Pagodes,” and some of the preludes such as “Des pas sur la neige” and, obviously, La mer. But open-air music does not simply mean music inspired by nature. As François de Médicis has remarked, the act of anchoring a landscape’s beauty in time and space also elevates music above the other arts.63 Debussy reproached Impressionist painting for depicting “only one of the aspects [of the universe’s beauty], only one of its moments”; such criticism was perhaps not applicable to Japanese prints, which captured multiple “aspects” of a place—often a scene within a sequence that implied the passage of time. According to Godet, Debussy was particularly fond of “Minakuchi Station.” By studying this work closely, we might get a sense of that “pulsation” of life that Debussy sought to evoke in music (see fig. 10.4).64

Brushstroke (Kaku) The brushstroke is an essential feature of Chinese and Japanese art. Only after lengthy study of handling the brush could a young painter aspire to create a work. It is nothing short of the life breath of an artwork and Cheng writes that “by its fullness and slenderness, its concentration and dilution, its thrust and immobility, the brushstroke is at once form and shade, volume and rhythm, requiring density founded on an economy of means, and totality that embraces mankind’s own desires.”65 The “brushstroke,” which can be roughly associated with a melodic and/or rhythmic gesture in music, became a fundamental element in Western modern art. The expressive power of a work can reside solely within the brushstroke, as demonstrated by abstract art. This is what Matisse seemed to suggest: In a drawing, even one composed of a single line, we can create an infinite number of nuances for each part within it [. . .] It is not possible to separate drawing and color [. . .] A drawing is a painting made with reduced means. With a pen and ink on a white surface, we can create volume by making certain contrasts; in changing the quality of paper, we can create supple surfaces, clear surfaces, and even hard surfaces without adding shadow or light.66

Brushstrokes fill the first measures of “Pagodes,” sustained by the pedal whose resonance becomes the “fullness” that connects the black keys, like black ink.67 In Chinese drawing and Japanese prints, the brushstroke also embodies a kind of spontaneity that arises less from a desire for expression than from a will to material realization. Debussy must have admired this feature of the print, which seemed to spring forth naturally, even though it was the consequence of

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Figure 10.4. Hiroshige, “Minakuchi Station,” The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tôkaidô, ca. 1842.

exceptional mastery, as the artist imbued the brushstroke with precise meaning according to its nature (full or slender). The brushstroke’s intensity and force in the prints confirm the absence of sentimentalism and anything that might be deemed superfluous. Starting from a catalogue of formulas and objects (which Debussy came to know through the mangas), the brushstroke stylizes impressions and ideas—but without cliché. The brushstroke’s simplicity matches the print’s dimensions, as the print’s small size inevitably concentrates its expressive means. Debussy must have noticed this characteristic, considering what he wrote to Émile Vuillermoz about La berceuse: “You are absolutely right, as the Berceuse that interests you is precisely the dimension of a print. [. . .] But a print is not a fresco, which in any case is not my intention. And, what is more, do we really need another 375 pages to express our feelings?”68

Empty Space (Kokuu) François Cheng explains that, from the Chinese perspective, emptiness introduces “discontinuity and reversibility in a given system that enables the elements composing the system to transcend rigid opposition and unidirectional

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development. At the same time, emptiness offers human beings the possibility of approaching the universe at the level of totality.”69 In his analysis of Debussy’s oeuvre, Maxime Joos highlights the ambiguity between composition and perception with regard to the work’s unity or, more precisely, its discontinuity: “Debussy’s work appears discontinuous, because the components of the material are not ruled by consistent structural principles.”70 This ambiguity between composition and perception might be usefully compared with the brushstroke in Asian painting. The “rhythmic breath” of the brushstroke in Chinese painting is attached to the quality of the space—or the spaces—that infiltrate it.71 Cheng explains: “the artist must cultivate the art of not revealing everything, in order to keep the breath alive and the mystery intact. This is conveyed by the interruption of the strokes [. . .] and by the partial or total omission of figures in the landscape.”72 The interruption of graphic strokes can be correlated to the interruption of melodic passages in Debussy. What Joos identifies as the consequence of a succession of differentiated events is, essentially, Debussy’s principle of discontinuity.73

Perspective (En’kin’hau) Returning to Hokusai’s work that so inspired Debussy, we should note that the title varied substantially—The Great Wave off Kanagawa, Mount Fuji Seen From the Sea Off the Coast of Kanagawa, View Offshore from Kanagawa Beneath the Wave, The Wave. There is another print that used the latter name, and a title that particularly interests me. It can be found in Edmond de Goncourt’s book on Hokusai, published in 1896: L’intérieur du flot en face de Kanagawa (à Tokaïdô) (The Interior of a Wave in Front of Kanagawa [in Tokaïdo]): [Drawing] board that was supposed to have been called The Wave. It is much like that almost deified drawing, [created] by a painter gripped by religious terror of a formidable sea that surrounded his country: a drawing that shows [the wave’s] angry ascent to the sky, the deep azure of the curl’s transparent interior, the tearing of its crest that scatters in a shower of droplets in the form of an animal’s claws.74

The title is important, as it draws our attention to what is, effectively, the work’s cornerstone: the emptiness between the waves, the emptiness between the wave and the mountain, the emptiness that separates—but also unites—the views. Emptiness is an element of discontinuity in the image, but also one of unity, as the sea and the mountain merge within the representative and imaginative space. This detail, which warrants further exploration, would likely have caught Debussy’s attention. At the very least, it would have encouraged him to discover different sources of inspiration within the work, not only the force and

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movement of the wave, but also emptiness, and not only in the hollow (as when we speak of the hollow of the wave), but also in what is not seen—like the elements of coherence and structure that take shape only in the act of reception. This chapter is predicated on hypotheses that encourage further examination. Perhaps Debussy never even tried to understand the art of Japanese prints. Drawn to the imaginative representation of the strange world of Japan through these striking works that came from so far away, it is possible that he did not make all the connections that I have tried to establish.75 Nevertheless, Debussy’s genius ensured that his works carry all of these possibilities within them. They belong, in a remarkable way, as much to the Western art world as they do to the Eastern art world, as much to Toulouse Lautrec’s milieu as to that of the painters in the Nanga school,76 from Monet’s garden to that of Hokusai.

Notes 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

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Jean-Michel Nectoux has written one of the more developed studies on the subject in his chapter titled “Connaissance de l’Est,” from his book that examines the relationship between Debussy and the visual arts, Harmonie en bleu et or: Debussy, la musique et les arts (Paris: Fayard, 2005), 184–207. I will refer often to this source in the first section of my chapter. Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 206. Robert Godet, “En marge de la marge,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue, “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” May 1, 1926): 55. Roy Howat, Debussy in Proportion: A Musical Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), esp. 178–81. Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 207. Despite Godet’s reservations about the influence of Japanese art on Debussy, he did not hesitate to state that “there is no question of underestimating the value of the pleasures that he owes to a work of Hokusai, for example. When they were introduced through trade, one could say that, from one side of the century and of the world, the old wise man, crazy for drawings, exerted his power on the eye of the young wise man, passionate for music. In requiring the painstaking effort of this organ, he enhanced the structure, stimulating the iris, pulling back the eyelid; and from this splendid gaze, naturally so penetrating, he darkened the black magnetized arrows even further. These were the physical indications of the mental discipline that Debussy practiced, giving his ear the morning off, by order of his visual senses, and which was not without effect on his ideas.” Godet, “En marge de la marge,” 55. Consider, for example, what Debussy wrote to his friend René Peter about the boulevard theater: “the genre of theater that I detest the most.” Letter from Claude Debussy to Renée Peter, October 24, 1898, in C, 427. François Cheng, Vide et plein: Le langage pictural chinois (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1991), 77.

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debussy and japanese prints 9.

10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

21.

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In 1854 the Japanese and Americans signed the Convention of Kanagawa, which forced Japan to open its doors to international trade. However, commercial exchanges between Japan and the West only really began in 1868, coinciding with the Meiji period and the end of the shoguns. The Japanese pavilion had an important influence on artists’ imagination. Brought over from Japan in pieces, the pavilion was erected in the center of the Palais d’exposition in the Champ de Mars. It provoked much commentary in the contemporary press, particularly regarding the aesthetic qualities of Japanese architecture. The exhibition catalogue unfortunately does not provide a very detailed list of the Japanese and Chinese works displayed at the Galerie des Beaux-Arts; however, the list does attest to the importance accorded the Asian art works. See Exposition universelle internationale de 1878, à Paris: Catalogue officiel, vol. 1, group I: “Œuvres d’art, classes 1 à 5” (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1878), 245–47. Critic and art historian Louis Gonse (1846–1921) was editor-in-chief at La gazette des beaux-arts from 1875 to 1893, and a member of the Conseil supérieur des beaux-arts from 1891 to 1921. Louis Gonse, L’art japonais, 2 vols. (Paris: Maison Quantin, 1883). Far Eastern art objects and art works were also very prevalent in domestic spaces. Besides the famous photograph of Debussy and Stravinsky with two Japanese prints hanging on the wall, we might consider Édouard Manet’s 1868 painting (Portrait d’Émile Zola), which depicts Émile Zola at his desk, with a Japanese (or Chinese) screen on the left side and, hanging side by side on the wall, a print by Sharaku, a reproduction of Manet’s Olympe, and an engraving by Velázquez. Throughout the chapter I will allude to Debussy’s friends. The variegated group included Ernest Chausson, Robert Godet, Camille Claudel, René Peter, Mallarmé, Maurice Denis (who illustrated the score of La damoiselle élue), Leopold Stevens (the son of Alfred Stevens, a Belgian painter who was quite influenced by Japanese artists), and Edmond Bailly (Henri-Edmond Limé, a publisher who owned a small “library of independent art” where he sold “prints, books, and music).” Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 191. Nectoux found out about this private invitation from Debussy’s reference to this visit in his letter to Paul-Jean Toulet (C, 944). Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 190. Ibid. According to the recollections of René Peters, Debussy visited the café-restaurant called the “Pavillon Chinois”; in fact, it had been the Chinese pavilion during the 1878 World’s Fair, and was then moved to the Porte Dauphine in 1880. On the pavilion during the World’s Fair see Hubert Demory, Auteuil et Passy: De l’annexion à la Grande Guerre (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2009), 65. Letter from Claude Debussy to Jacques Durand, July 8, 1910, in C, 1300. Émile Lévy, ed., Le goût chinois en Europe au XVIIIe siècle. Catalogue. Meubles, tapisseries, bronzes, faïences, porcelaines, peintures et dessins, juin–octobre 1910 (Paris: Librairie centrale des Beaux-Arts, 1910). Ibid., 155.

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22. The French painter Jean-Baptiste Pillement (1728–1808), created many works inspired by Chinese drawings. 23. Lévy, Le goût chinois, 151. 24. The title of this section refers to an expression Debussy used in an article published in La revue S.I.M. (February 15, 1913). He wrote: “At the Annamite theater they perform a kind of operatic embryo, influenced by the Chinese, where we can recognize the formula of the Ring; only there are no Gods and even fewer pieces of scenery. [. . .] A small, enraged clarinet drives the emotion; a tam-tam coordinates the terror . . . and that’s all! No special theater, no hidden orchestra. Nothing but an instinctive need for art, which has found ingenious means of satisfying itself; not a trace of bad taste!” Claude Debussy, “Du goût,” MC, 229–30. 25. Florence Leyssieux, “La France et les musiques non occidentales entre 1880 et 1930: la position des compositeurs et celle des musicologues,” Essay written for a musicology seminar organized by the research group on music in France in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Fall 2012, Faculty of Music at Université de Montréal/OICRM. Leyssieux uses the expression Vietnamese music, recognizing that L’Annam was a central region in French Indochina that is now situated in Vietnam. 26. See, for example, Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 198. 27. The Sunda Islands are a group of islands in the Indonesian archipelago which comprise the islands of Sumatra and Java. 28. Godet, “En marge de la marge,” 59. 29. Ibid., 58. 30. This is what Gertrudes Johannes Resink implies in his article “Les gendings, l’eau et le ‘musicien français,’” Archipel 25 (1983): 26. (This article is a translation of G. J. Resink, “Debussy en de musiek van de Mangkunegaran,” Bijdragen Kon Instituut 125 (Leiden, 1969). 31. Robert Godet, “Âme javanaise,” Revue de Paris 1, no. 11 (1890): 193–224. 32. Resink, “Les gendings,” 25–29. 33. In a letter from Debussy to Ernest Chausson, October 23, 1893, C, 168. 34. Julien Tiersot (1857–1936), musicologist and librarian at the Conservatoire from 1883, carried out research on popular song (la chanson populaire). He published a series of articles in Le ménestrel on music at the 1889 World’s Fair, titled “Promenades musicales à l’exposition,” which were later published collectively in the volume Musiques pittoresques: Promenades musicales à l’exposition (Paris: Fischbacher, 1889). 35. Louis Benedictus, Les musiques bizarres à l’exposition (Paris: Hartmann, 1889). The hypothesis is further supported by the fact that the collection was published by Hartmann, a publisher and Debussy’s benefactor. See Edward Lockspeiser, Claude Debussy: His Life and Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978) followed by L’analyse de l’œuvre by Harry Halbreich (Paris: Fayard, 1980), 149. 36. In his book Influence de la musique indonésienne sur la musique française du XXe siècle, Patrick Revol suggests that Debussy likely had access to Benedictus’s transcriptions; the author concludes that Debussy must have found these “attempts

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37.

38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

49.

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absurd,” just like Tiersot’s musical examples (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000), 83. Annegret Fauser’s evaluation of Benedictus’s arrangements offers a more nuanced perspective: “While Benedictus was able to create for the piano a not unsophisticated acoustic representation of the gamelan in his Danse javanaise—capturing some of the ensemble’s sonic qualities and musical developments for Western ears—he seems much less at ease with the rendering of Vietnamese music [. . .].” Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005), 194). Fauser also reminds us that Richard Mueller (“Javanese Influence on Debussy’s ‘Fantaisie’ and Beyond,” 19th-Century Music 10, no. 2 (1986): 157–86) established a correspondence between the transcription of the “danse javanaise” and the opening of the mélodie “Clair de lune” (1891), which uses a poem by Verlaine. Fauser, Musical Encounters, 200. Julien Tiersot, “Ethnographie musicale. Notes prises à l’Exposition universelle de 1900. Les danses japonaises,”Le ménestrel 66, no. 42 (October 21, 1900); no. 46 (November 18, 1900); “Ethnographie musicale. Notes prises à l’Exposition universelle de 1900. Les danses japonaises,” Le ménestrel 66, no. 47 (November 25, 1900); no. 48 (December 2, 1900); no. 50 (December 22, 1900); no. 52 (December 29, 1900). Collection of Japanese Koto Music (Tokyo: Tokyo Academy of Music, 1888). Julien Tiersot, “Ethnographie musicale. Notes prises à l’Exposition Universelle de 1900: II Les danses japonaises (suite),” Le ménestrel 66, no. 46 (November 18, 1900): 365. See Fauser, Musical Encounters, 202–5. Julien Tiersot, “Ethnographie musicale. Notes prises à l’Exposition Universelle de 1900: III Le théâtre japonais,” Le ménestrel 66, no 50 (December 22, 1900): 395. Debussy, MC, 228–29. The traditional instrumental ensemble of the Kabuki theater includes a shamisen, ko-tsuzumi and o-tsuzumi drums, a takebue bamboo flute, and several percussion instruments backstage, including drums and gongs. Louis Laloy, La musique chinoise, “Les musiciens célèbres” series (Paris: Henri Laurens, 1903). Letter from Debussy to Jacques Durand, July 15, 1910, in C, 1303. Deborah Priest, Debussy, Ravel et Stravinsky: Textes de Louis Laloy (1874–1944) (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007), 28–29. Magnus Synnestvedt, “Musique d’Extrême-Orient. Conférence de Louis Laloy au Cercle du Luxembourg,” Mercure musical (February 15, 1906): 171. See, among others, the letter from Debussy to Georges Hartman, April 10, 1900, in C, 553–54. The Quatuor, La damoiselle élue, and Les chansons de Bilitis were performed at the World’s Fair. I would like to thank Denis Herlin for bringing this important detail to my attention. Nectoux notes that Debussy was an enthusiastic reader of the Goncourts’ writings; he has also convincingly argued that the composer would probably have read Edmond Goncourt’s books on Utamaro and Hokusai (Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 190).

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50. Paul Roberts states that Hokusai’s and Hiroshige’s prints created a synthesis of popular arts and landscape painting, which stemmed from Japan’s mature tradition of idealized landscape painting. This synthesis had a determining influence on painters, but it also affected musicians. Debussy, for example, was especially struck by Japanese painters’ ability to express movement and the organization of space without employing realism. Paul Roberts, Images: The Piano Music of Claude Debussy (Portland: Amadeus Press, 1996), 48. 51. Ernest Chausson, Écrits inédits, selection and presentation by Jean Gallois and Isabelle Bretaudeau (Paris: Édition du Rocher, 1999), 294. 52. With regards to music, Annegret Fauser states: “Debussy’s exoticism differs from that of other composers of his generation in that his appropriation of non-Western music left traces on a structural level as well as on a surface one.” Fauser, Musical Encounters, 205. 53. I have borrowed this expression from François Cheng, Vide et plein, 45. 54. Cheng, Vide et plein, 46. 55. Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 173. 56. Lesure, Claude Debussy, 122. 57. Godet, Lettres à deux amis, 43–44. 58. Godet was likely referring to Marcel Proust’s translation of Ruskin’s book (Paris: Mercure de France, 1904). 59. Marcel Proust, “Avant-propos,” in Ruskin, La Bible d’Amiens, 9. 60. On duplication see Sylveline Bourion, Le style de Claude Debussy: Duplication, répétition et dualité dans les stratégies de composition (Paris: Vrin, 2011). 61. On Debussy and “open-air” music see François de Médicis, “La musique en plein air et l’idéal esthétique de Claude Debussy,” in Écrits de compositeurs: Une autorité en questions, ed. Michel Duchesneau, Valérie Dufour, and Marie-Hélène Benois-Otis (Paris: Vrin, 2013), 165–85. 62. Claude Debussy, Gil Blas, January 19, 1903, in MC, 76. Lockspeiser draws our attention to the fact that artists during the period were particularly interested in this phenomenon of “open air” in connection with Japanese prints; he cites what the painter Gauguin wrote to Émile Bernard: “Look at the Japanese who draw so well, and you will see life in the open air, in the sunshine, without shadows” (Lockspeiser, Debussy, 285). Nectoux cites Pissaro who wrote to his son: “Hiroshige is a marvelous impressionist. Monet, Rodin, and I are enthusiasts. I am glad to have made my snow and flood effects; these Japanese artists have confirmed our commitment to visual [effects].” Nectoux, Harmonie en bleu et or, 190. 63. De Médicis, “La musique en plein air et l’idéal esthétique de Claude Debussy,” 175. 64. Debussy wrote: “Musicians alone have the privilege of capturing all the poetry of night and day, the earth and sky, to reconstitute the atmosphere and give rhythm to the immense pulsation.” Debussy, “Concert Colonne, Société des nouveaux concerts,” Revue musicale SIM, November 1, 1913, in MC, 246. 65. Cheng, Vide et plein, 75. 66. Henri Matisse, Écrits et propos sur l’art (Paris: Hermann éditeurs, 1991), 200. 67. For a different approach to creating a parallel between the brushstroke and French music at the beginning of the twentieth century see Jessica E. Stankis,

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68. 69. 70.

71. 72. 73. 74.

75.

76.

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“Maurice Ravel’s ‘Color Counterpoint’ through the Perspective of Japonisme,” Music Theory Online 21, no. 1 (March 2015). Letter from Debussy to Émile Vuillermoz, January 25, 1916, in C, 1969. Cheng, Vide et plein, 45–46. Maxime Joos, “Debussy ou le paradoxe de la discontinuité,” in Claude Debussy jeux de formes, ed. Maxime Joos (Paris: Éditions rue d’Ulm/Presses de l’École normale supérieure, 2004), 222. Cheng, Vide et plein, 78. Ibid., 85. Joos, “Debussy ou le paradoxe de la discontinuité,” 226. Edmond de Goncourt, Hokusai: L’art japonais au XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Flammarion/Fasquelle, 1922), 135. A portion of the study on Hokusai appeared in La revue de Paris in 1895. The first edition of the book was published in 1896. Debussy never went to Asia; as such, it is not surprising that he wrote the following to André Messager: “I’ve also written three piano pieces; I particularly like the titles, which are “Pagodes,” “La soirée dans Grenade,” “Jardins sous la pluie.”—When you don’t have the means to pay for travel, you must make up for it with imagination.” Letter from Debussy to André Messager, September 7, 1903, in C, 778. A school of painting of Chinese origin, which contributed to the revitalization of landscape painting in Japan in the eighteenth century. The school is characterized by a high level of stylization, associated with artists referred to as “scholars” and with the bunjin-ga (painting of the scholars).

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Chapter Eleven

“Les sons . . . tournent” Debussy, the Waltz, and Embodied Hermeneutics August Sheehy Introduction Claude Debussy’s prelude no. 4, book 1, often referred to by the epigraph “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir” (hereafter, “Les sons”), is shown in example 11.1. The opening measures exhibit generic markers of the waltz, nineteenth-century Europe’s most popular dance.1 The low A on the downbeat followed by chords in the middle register of the piano on beats two and three realize the conventional waltz accompaniment. The arch contour and rhythm of the melody, too, are signatures of the genre. All three features can be found in numerous waltzes from the first half of the nineteenth century, such as Schubert’s Valse noble no. 6 and the first theme of Chopin’s Grande valse brillante, op. 18, shown in examples 11.2 and 11.3. Still, “Les sons” can hardly be considered a waltz in a generic sense. Unlike Chopin’s op. 18, which also begins in a state of metrical ambiguity but soon falls into recognizable patterns, “Les sons” fails to establish and maintain the triple meter essential to the waltz. Indeed, the meter becomes more obscure over the course of the opening eight measures. Other factors mitigating conscious perception of the waltz include tempos that push and pull irregularly, phrases of irregular lengths, interruption of textures by caesurae, and harmonic structures at odds with the tonal norms that reinforce the phrasing and form of nineteenth-century waltzes.

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Example 11.1. Prélude No. 4 (“Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir”). 
  
    

 





 

    

 



 

    

 

  

  




    



   








     
             










 

 

    



               



 





     



          

        

 

   


        















 

   

     







          


            

  

  

 

 




 

 







      

        

 

 



   

    




  



    



  

  

    

   

             
                     



                   
      



  








 



   





    

  

  

  

     

 

    

  



 

       

  



 

 

 

          









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Example 11.1.—(continued)   


  

        






      

     



    




      







 





 




 











 



    

 

        

          





  

   



 

    






   

   

  
   




       

   

 

         

                 


 

     

     

   








    

    



  

 



 

 

 



    

     


 

                



 



   

  



     

 

  

  

  

 

     

     

  





     



  




      

  




      



  

       

  



      





 

 

 

  

      




  









 

             

 

 

 





   






    

 



      

 

 




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Example 11.1.—(concluded)



 

 

  
  






  

        



      

 




      
   

 

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Example 11.2. Schubert, Valse noble, no. 6, mm. 1–16.


 
        
 
    




                                 

         

       

  

  

  







                                                                        










Example 11.3. Chopin, Grand valse brillante, op. 18, mm. 5–12.

 
   

  
    
     








        











 





 

The tension between features of “Les sons” that derive recognizably from the waltz and features that resist assimilation to the dance’s generic norms has informed recent interpretations of the prelude.2 In order to reconcile these apparently divergent musical elements, such interpretations employ a hermeneutic strategy that posits “Les sons” as a kind of phenomenological transcript of another listener’s experience. This other listener remembers, imagines, or perhaps distractedly attends to a waltz, hearing it as something other than what it actually is. In turn, we hear only what presents itself to this listener’s consciousness, e.g., a “faded, half-grasped memory,” or an “interpenetration of perception and remembrance.”3 Baudelaire’s poem “Harmonie du soir,” from which Debussy drew the piece’s epigraph, is then enlisted as support for the general mnemonic conceit and the particulars of each interpretation. Just as we as readers are privy to the poet’s “tender heart, that loathes the great black void” and thus “recovers every trace of the luminous past,” so in Debussy’s prelude do we overhear a listener nostalgically recalling a “melancholy waltz.” The imperfections of such recovery are manifested in “Les sons” as non-waltz sounds. As Matthew Brown suggests, the transformations of the waltz topic “reflect the poet’s insights about the [im]permanence and volatility of human memory.”4

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Without denying the intuitive appeal of mnemonic interpretations of “Les sons,” the present essay focuses on the listener’s body as the site of experience. Rather than imaginatively projecting the music onto another listener in another time, I draw on the premise of embodied music cognition to argue that the waltz engages the human cognitive capacity to analogize sounds in terms of motion and vice versa. From this perspective, the waltz in “Les sons” is not a symbol of the past or a mnemonic trigger. Instead, attention is directed to an event that unfolds in the present and draws on our experience as embodied beings in the world to make sense of the audible surface of the music. Attending to the music in this way does not depend on knowledge of Baudelaire, the composer’s biography, or the aesthetics of Debussysme. To borrow Carolyn Abbate’s well-known distinction, the embodied approach addresses “Les sons” as a drastic, rather than gnostic, experience—at least as a starting point.5 The interpretation of “Les sons” developed in this essay has four parts. In the first, I consider in further detail the hermeneutics of memory developed in recent interpretations. This discussion brings into focus the advantages of considering listeners’ bodies in musical experience. A brief discussion of embodied music cognition leads to a proposal that the waltz topic in “Les sons” be considered in terms of dance movements. The second section develops the idea that waltz music invokes the body and draws on genre-typical waltzes by Schubert and Chopin in order to establish an analytical framework for an embodied analysis of “Les sons.” Returning to “Les sons” in the third section, I argue that Debussy did more than allude to the waltz; he developed compositional techniques already evident in the genre that analogize the phenomenological effects of movement. The focus on effects, I argue, obscures the dance origins of the genre even as it preserves one of the waltz’s essential features, thereby revealing a tension within the waltz itself. The resolution of this tension requires the mediation of language and concepts, suggesting that embodiment, too, is a form of hermeneutic inquiry. In the final section, I argue that the embodied understanding entails a reconfiguration of our understanding of the connection between Debussy’s prelude no. 4 and Baudelaire’s “Harmonie du soir.” Neither poem nor prelude derives its meaning from the other; instead, the two use different media to engage with the (once widespread) experience of dancing the waltz and interrogate the body’s relation to aesthetic thought.

Mnemonic Lacunae and Bodily Presence Hearing Debussy’s prelude no. 4 as someone else’s “faded, half-grasped memory” supposes that, in a crucial sense, “Les sons” really is a waltz. It encourages the listener to imagine the “real” past behind the phenomenal surface of the

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Example 11.4. Recomposed version of “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir,” mm. 1–6.

  

   
      
   




    

          

music by implicitly appealing to the common experience of forgetting, remembering, and even misremembering. Example 11.4 presents a phrase that could be understood as the model from which measures 1–6 in the actual piece derive. While this recomposition does not produce a completely normative nineteenth-century waltz, it features tonic harmonies alternating with nontonic harmonies, discrete two-measure gestures, and one harmony per measure; it would certainly be possible to dance to it. With this recomposed version or something like it in mind, one can hear the opening phrase of the prelude as an eight-measure phrase in 43 that simply misses some beats and chromatically inflects would-be diatonic melody and harmonies. In principle, one could imagine some such normative version for the whole piece and then catalog the ways the actual prelude deviates from it. The intuitive appeal and heuristic value of interpreting “Les sons” as a memory notwithstanding, the mnemonic conceit provides no positive principle by which to account for specific compositional choices. Even if it were possible to establish an “original” waltz of which “Les sons” is someone else’s experience, the understanding of discrepancies between the two would still be based on “forgetting”—that is to say, on differences conceptualized in terms of corruption, or lack. But of course there is no original or definitive way to establish one. The lacunae of memory turn out to be lacunae in the hermeneutics of memory. This interpretive strategy thereby exemplifies Abbate’s general critique of hermeneutics—namely, its failure to attend to the experience of presently sounding musical phenomena. This problem is compounded when the memory itself is supposed to have occurred in the past, for, as Abbate eloquently wrote in an earlier critique of musical narrative, listening “traps the listener in present experience and the beat of passing time, from which he cannot escape. Mimetic genres perform the story, in the present tense. They cannot disarm the story, or comfort us, by insisting upon its pastness.”6 Incidentally, Debussy might have agreed: according to the pianist Marguerite Long, he said in the context of “Les sons” that “it is only the pleasures of the moment that matter.”7

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One could plausibly argue that “pleasures of the moment” are embodied rather than epistemic. They are coincident with the experience that elicits them, whereas knowledge, almost by definition, precedes and outlasts the experience to which it applies. The waltz at the heart of “Les sons,” though, provides a more straightforward reason to invoke the body as an explanatory frame. After all, before it could index the past or function as a symbol of anything, generically speaking the waltz was a series of choreographed bodily motions. Abbate’s assertion that listening involves mimetic performance—a process enacted within the body of the listener—proves particularly apt in this case. The general argument that music perception and understanding are inextricably linked to the body is supported by recent research in embodied music cognition. According to Rolf Inge Godøy, “The basic idea is that whatever we perceive or think is correlated with mental simulations of body movement, both those of other people and our own prospective movements.”8 Crucially, this process is not a matter of directed attention nor a matter of specific experience; one need not be told that “Les sons” is based on a waltz topic nor to have danced the waltz to understand the motions implied by the music. Marc Leman stresses the point explicitly when he writes, “What is important in this framework [embodied cognition] is the idea that music is performed and perceived through gestures whose deployment can be directly felt and understood through the body, without the need for verbal description.”9 Within this paradigm of cognition, experiencing and understanding music amount to much the same thing. The process may be described, but the description is not understood to feed back into perception. Again, Debussy may have agreed. As he said in conversation with Ernest Guiraud, “There is no theory. You merely have to listen.”10 To take Debussy’s absolute prohibition on theory literally would of course preclude an embodied theory of music as well. I will argue in the following sections that “Les sons” actually poses a challenge to theories of embodied music cognition as articulated by scholars such as Godøy and Leman. Nevertheless, the idea that sounds are correlated with bodily movements in a way that precedes any re-cognition certainly has heuristic value. In fact, the potential of embodiment to elucidate Debussy’s music has been suggested by Debussy scholars eager to find alternatives to the theoretical bifurcation of music into tonal and post-tonal practices.11 Mark DeVoto, for instance, has claimed that “the Debussy sound” is primarily a matter of “color, texture, [and] gesture.”12 Steven Rings’s essay on prelude no. 6, book 1, “Des pas sur la neige,” offers a nuanced analysis explicitly attentive to the bodily movements suggested by the music.13 In “Music’s Inner Dance,” Richard Parks focuses on the idea of “gesture,” beginning with the observation that “music moves—and we with it— in complex and ever changing ways.14 In an observation directly relevant to the present essay, David Code writes that the Préludes’ “elliptical ‘after-titles’ [. . .] can be read as invitations to reflect about the choreographic—tactile and

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gestural—experience summoned when Debussy’s modern scalar languages are deployed with evocative intent across the familiar field of the piano keyboard.”15 Before turning to “Les sons,” the next section explores the choreographic experience of waltzes by two of Debussy’s predecessors, Schubert and Chopin. I ask not how bodies move with music, for the steps of the waltz are well known, but rather how music moves with bodies.

The Sounds of Waltzing The nineteenth-century German dictionary compiled by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm defines the word walzen as “to turn (oneself)” (sich drehen).16 The word “waltz” itself thus indicates precisely what dancers do. As A. B. Marx, one of the first music theorists to write about the waltz as a musical genre, observes in an oft-cited passage, “The waltz has two movements: first each pair of dancers turns itself in a circle around its own center; second the pair progresses with these continuous turns in a greater circumference until it reaches its starting place and the circle is closed. Each small turn is executed in two sets of three steps and is, as it were, the motive of the dance.” Figure 11.1 schematically illustrates the basic steps of the waltz that result in the “smaller circle” of the dancers. Figure 11.2 inscribes that movement into the larger circle, with each number corresponding to a single measure of music. What is essential for Marx is that the music “bring into prominence the basic motif of movement. Each unit of two measures must correspond to the dance motif, marking the first step firmly, and also the swinging turn of the dance.”17 The large circle is more flexible in terms of how many smaller returns bring the dancers back to their original position on the dance floor, but typical waltzes feature eightmeasure phrases. Thus a circle like the one in figure 11.2 would be completed with a repetition of this phrase, or, as is often the case in Chopin, a longer sixteen-measure antecedent–consequent period. Franz Schubert’s Valse noble no. 6, op. 77, shown in example 11.2, can help flesh out the analogical relation between musical gestures and the choreography to which they correspond. At the most elemental level the pulse of the music analogizes the pace of the steps themselves. Just as the pattern of steps repeats periodically, so does the musical combination of timbre and register, creating the waltz’s conventional “oom-pah-pah” pattern. While any instantiation of triple meter could, in principle, function as an accompaniment to the waltz, the low note on beat one that initiates each three-beat cycle corresponds to the initial push from a balanced, neutral position (marked “0” in figure 11.1). Just as the lower, weightier note is thrust into a higher register of the two dyads, so does the momentum of the dancers’ first step carry through steps two and three, returning to the initial position.

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5 6

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Figure 11.1. Waltz step schema.

While meter corresponds to the periodicity of the steps, the rhythm of the melody in Schubert’s Valse noble no. 6 analogizes the sense of acceleration felt through the feet, legs, and turning of the body on beat two. Just as a dancer’s leg must move twice as fast to cover the physical distance in order to land the second step in the correct place (see fig. 11.1), so must the music “move faster” to fit two notes into the second beat.18 The increased energy required to complete this motion is analogized as well by the arch contour of the melody.19 The basic motive of Schubert’s waltz thus captures the essential dynamic of the repeated steps on a measure-by-measure basis. Of course, the steps do not repeat exactly in each measure. The right and left foot alternate roles in the first and second measures of each two-measure turn (and return). The movement from C major to the F-major triad and back analogizes a sense of departure and return, capturing the reversal of the dancers’ feet and bodies.20 One could carry the analogy further and invoke the musical construct of inversion,

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9

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Figure 11.2. Larger turn of the waltz.

noting that C- and F-major triads “revolve” around C in diatonic space. Just as the return to C major “resets” the texture, and begins a similar gesture anew, so the dancer’s body returns to its initial, balanced posture in order to repeat the series of steps. The specific observations about the way melodic gestures, harmony, rhythm, and meter in Schubert’s waltz may be generalizable. As Robert Hatten has observed, “If meter and tonality each afford analogies to gravitation, or more broadly vectoral space, together they enhance an experience of embodied motion, in that they provide the listener with dynamics and constraints comparable to those the body experiences within a natural environment, including its orientation as up or down.”21 The phenomenal sense of harmonic function with the dynamic timespan offers a robust analog for proprioception—the sense of place and movement within an environment, as well as the relation of the parts of the body to one another. As

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Richmond Browne has argued, diatonic space is particularly well suited to such “position finding.”22 It stands to reason that disruptions of tonal orientation disrupt the sense of orientation in space; ultimately, I will argue that this emerges as an essential feature of the waltz genre. First, however, I would like to consider both the ways in which music may provide sonic analogs for dynamic perceptions in other sensory modalities and the ways in which these can reinforce both the sense of location and motion within an environment.23 Knowledge of one’s body within an environment draws not only on proprioception, but also on visual and auditory perceptions. In both modalities, turning has a distinct profile linked to its periodicity. If one turns on a spot, the same objects periodically disappear and reappear in the field of vision. At its most schematic, this may involve only two discrete perceptions, a pattern easily analogized by sound. The harmony in measures 1–3 in Schubert’s Valse noble no. 6, understood in this way, would be integrated with proprioceptive analogy that recognizes the body has returned to a position. That the visual and proprioceptive analogies overlap and agree is ordinary; indeed, such convergence and redundancy leads to more robust and stable perception in natural environments as we navigate the physical world. There is, however, a better example of the visual-sonic analogy revealed in the linear analysis shown in example 11.5. The periodic rotation between E and F in measures 1–7, first in the upper voice, then in the middle voice, then again in the upper voice does not, on its own, reveal anything about the tonal space (which analogizes physical space). It is, rather, as if, while dancing, one noticed a picture on one wall and then, as one turned, a different picture on the opposite wall before returning to the first image. What, then, of aural perception? As with vision, of course, turning the body affects audition in a periodic manner. The key difference is that a sound source never leaves the “field of audition.” If one’s back is turned to an orchestra sustaining a single note C, turning toward it will increase perception of its loudness. It will not do so evenly across the spectrum of frequencies, however; because of the way in which folds of the outer ear collect sound, one hears more upper partials the more directly the sound source is faced. As I begin to turn away, these partials will be gradually attenuated. The process of hearing through the turn appears schematically in figure 11.3. The motive of Schubert’s Valse noble no. 6 presents a stylized version of this dynamic process. The upper partials of the bass C sound on beat 2, still more on beat 2.5. To imagine that the melodic dip down to G on beat three is the attenuation of upper partials as the turn continues is tempting, but inaccurate, as the full turn of the dance lasts for two measures. Instead, one may focus on the continuing rise of the bass through the overtones of a low C and the rise of the top voices to A and F in the second measure.24

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Example 11.5. Linear analysis of Schubert, Valse noble, no. 6.





































         
             
           



















     




Just as our senses work together seamlessly to help us understand our bodies’ relations to themselves and to their environment, so are the sonic analogies in Schubert’s Valse Noble no. 6 seamlessly integrated in music. They may be teased apart in the process of analysis, but no single element conveys the whole, which is stabilized through the coordination of perceptions, including their redundancies. But the whole itself turns out to be somewhat malleable. This is obviously the case in music. Nothing decrees that rhythms, harmonies, melodic contour, or textures must remain stable throughout a piece and, in practice, they do not, even in Schubert’s short Valse noble no. 6. Recalling Hatten’s observation that meter and harmony define the environment in which sonic analogies to motion and position unfold, C♯ in measure 9 destabilizes the diatonic environment. Shortly thereafter, the E–F–E pattern (analogizing the visual experience of turning) is rhythmically distended; F returns to E not in measure 11, but in measure 12. I suggest that such disruptions to tonal and metrical space are not analogs to the movements of the dance, but rather to the phenomenal effects produced by repeatedly turning in circles—namely, dizziness and disorientation. As dancing master Henri Cellarius warned in 1840, “The effect of rotary motion, even after stopping, is sometimes so great” as to “risk [. . .] losing [. . .] equilibrium.” Donald Walker, another nineteenth-century commenter, wrote, “Vertigo is one of the great inconveniences of the waltz; and the character of the dance, its rapid turnings [. . .] and the too quick and too long continued succession of lively and agreeable emotions [. . .] produce sometimes [. . .] syncopes, spasms, and other accidents.”25 The waltzes of Chopin, which Debussy knew intimately, are a veritable catalog of such effects. A brief look at two examples will help prepare the analysis of “Les sons” that follows in the next section. The opening measures of Chopin’s Waltz in D-flat Major, op. 64, no. 1 (“Minute Waltz”) shown in example 11.6, begin in a state of metrical disarray and tonal uncertainty. When the standard accompaniment pattern enters in measure 5 the melody’s arch gestures do not fall into metrical or tonal alignment. Instead, they continue to circle around

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Figure 11.3. Schema of upper partials revealed by turning toward a sound source.

A♭ in a 2+2+2 hemiola. The centripetal energy builds up as a sonic analog to the proprioception of the turning body. It gives way in measure 8, flinging the melody upward and forming part of an arch that immediately begins to descend, gets stuck after two measures, shoots back upward, begins its fall again, and finally lapses awkwardly back into another hemiola. One could hardly ask for a clearer musical analog of “syncopes, spasms, and accidents” unfolding against the regularity of the dance steps. Chopin’s Grande valse brillante in A minor, op. 34, no. 2, shown in example 11.7 provides more sonic analogs for proprioceptive disorientation. The opening, more or less conventional sixteen-measure antecedent–consequent period begins with a tenor melody turning between E and F, each note elaborated with its own internal musical turn. The measures shown in example 11.7 begin to register the dramatic effects of circling. A rest between the neighbor note B and its resolution in measure 18 creates a lurching syncope, which is repeated in measure 20. In the following measure, the bass C♯ moves the music away from the stability of A minor; the melody responds with a quickening triplet that turns into an elaborated version of the motive from measure 17. A sense of abandon and sheer momentum carries the music forward into polyrhythmic desynchronization, ultimately extending the entire period to twenty measures (not shown). The sense of vertigo—palpable in good performances—is manifested not only in the sounding rhythms but also visually in Chopin’s notation. Although the eighth-note septuplets in measures 24 and 25 look the same, the first sounds over two beats and the second over three beats. In addition to the slow tempo of this waltz, the low register of its opening melodic material, the rhythmic profile of its first theme, and its pervasive chromaticism, perhaps this sense of vertigo contributed to Chopin’s characterization of this waltz as a “valse mélancolique.”26 Whether Debussy made the connection between the “valse mélancolique” in Baudelaire’s “Harmonie du soir,” Chopin’s op. 34, no. 2, and his own prelude no. 4 is not known. That Chopin’s music inspired Debussy, however, is

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Example 11.6. Chopin, Waltz in D-flat, op. 64 (“Minute Waltz”), mm. 1–12.






                                 
       
     




                                                           






Example 11.7. Chopin, Grande valse brillante, op. 34, no. 2, mm. 17–28.


           
             
                 
                  











                         




 

       

 



        





 



      

historically certain.27 In addition to dedicating his Études to him, Debussy edited the waltzes as part of a complete Chopin edition for Durand published in 1915. In the next section, I analyze Debussy’s prelude no. 4—his own “valse mélancolique”—in order to show how he too took advantage of sonic analogs to convey something about the physical experience of waltzing.

“Les sons . . . tournent” That Debussy’s prelude no. 4 analogizes the turning motion of the waltz seems to have been intuited by some listeners. Siglind Bruhn’s suggestion, for example, that the prelude “paints, as it were, the synaesthetic experience Baudelaire

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captures so well in a different medium” is ultimately a prescriptive metaphor.28 As we have seen, however, the idea of cross-modal analogy is rooted in perceptual experience. The French pianist Élie Robert Schmitz came closer to recognizing the sense of physically turning imparted by “Les sons” when he commented that the prelude “is not based on an atonal conception even if its sum total of tones covers the twelve-tone gamut. It is rather in a rapidly evolving (or revolving) diatonic palette that one seeks the secret of such richness.”29 We are now in a position to detect the sonic analogies more clearly. “Les sons” features the same melodic contour, rhythm, and accompaniment heard in Schubert’s waltz. The A-major triadic space opened up in the first two beats of “Les sons” more precisely analogizes the phenomenon of turning toward a sound source, revealing higher partials of the bass A over the first two beats. As observed earlier, the opening measure can be heard as a shift from tonic to dominant harmony and back, analogizing both a visual impression of a turn and the reversal of the pattern of steps through which that turn is realized. As we know, however, “Les sons” is more complicated. Debussy begins in media res, already dizzy, as if a dancer has been spinning for some time already. It is as if the music cuts in to the dance, cinematically.30 The pianist is aware of the notated 43 signature, as perhaps a dancer—even a dizzy one—would be, but the rhythm does not cooperate. This rhythmic-metric confusion affects the harmony on the third beat, which sounds neither tonic nor dominant, diverging from the A-major key signature fleetingly realized by the opening sonority. B♭ indicates a kind of slippage in the vectoral space presupposed by A major, or, one could say, a disorientation with regard to the tendency to continue the tonic (harmony and pitch) implied on beats one and two. When it “misses” the mark, sounding B♭ and D rather than A and C♯, the harmony sounds not as an altered tonic, but rather as an altered dominant.31 The accent of the harmonic change creates a sense of downbeat and, by analogy, a new sense of physical location. In terms of the waltz, it is as if the third step in figure 11.2 becomes the first step of the next repetition, resulting in a pattern of steps shown in figure 11.4. Further chromatic slippage occurs in measure 3. Rather than moving toward dominant preparation (as in m. 5 of example 11.4), the music lands again on B♭, now harmonized as a dominant seventh. As if to try to correct course back to the diatonic space of A major, the harmony is transposed upward on beat two, but, like a dizzy body trying to correct its imbalance, the music overcompensates. D is dragged up to D♯, further disfiguring the sense of the space it tries to stabilize. At the same time the bass—the neutral, balanced point of departure for each cycle of steps—begins to fall behind, sounding the pedal A every four beats starting in measure 3. Once again, almost as if by accident, the melodic line in measures 3–4 creates the characteristic arch shape. This music, however confusedly, does continue to turn.

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5 6

0 0

1

2 3/4?

Figure 11.4. The waltz steps as distorted in m. 1 of Debussy, prelude no. 4.

The persistent return of B♭ rather than B and G rather than G♯ through measure 8 suggests a more permanent disorientation. Going further than Schubert’s and Chopin’s tonicization of non-tonic scale steps, Debussy seems to transform the shape of the space itself, subtly analogizing the loss of stable perceptual axes by which one might navigate the physical area of the dance floor. Left and right; forward and back; up and down; familiar coordinates slowly become unmoored and seem to float in a non-Euclidean space. By measure 5, the tonal space of A major has been replaced by an almost octatonic topography (F, G, A♭, B♭, [B], D♭, D, E).32 Fragments of the major tonal space appear in this collection, preserving elements of vectoral space, but pitch symmetries within the space undermine the global directedness of diatonic spaces. The gesture in measure 6, then, mimes the vestibular effects of vertigo, in which one’s body seems almost to float upward, even as the sensation itself slips away when one tries to isolate it. The music finally settles securely in triple meter in measures 9–12, while the melody sounds the most direct expression of the waltz topic in the prelude.33 Yet this stability is belied by the pitches. With the exception of F♯, which passes chromatically between E♯ and G, the musical motion now unfolds entirely within a highly symmetrical whole-tone space.34 The lack of position-finding half steps further undermines any sense of directedness. Only the bass pedal

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indicates that the passage is still “in A.” The music in measure 13 again sounds within an octatonic space (a subset of Forte’s collection 2: A, B, [C], [D] D♯, F, [F♯], G♯); this space itself slips by half step in measure 14 (collection 3: E, [F♯], G, A, A♯, [C], C♯, D♯), and then back again in measure 15.35 The perceptual dynamics of turning, in other words, are realized in measures 1–15 not only as gestures within a tonal space, but as increasing deformations of the space itself. In these spaces, melodies and harmonies lose their ability to shape musical gestures in tonally directed ways. This loss of directedness continues in measures 14–16. Once again the music drifts upward, becoming unmoored from A as a tonal center and 43 as a meter. The pedal disappears, as does any impression of the waltz. The entire texture is whittled down to a bare turning between C♯ and D♯ within a broader rotation from one register to another, imitating not the waltz now, but its unadorned effects. The sounding of octatonic harmonies (collection 1) underneath C♯– D♯ in measure 18 does little to recover directedness, and the music grinds to a halt in measures 22 and 23. We hear a sense of motion within stasis, an analogy to the vertiginous sense of standing still while the room spins. But where can the music go from here? The process of losing one’s bearings can only go so far in the world of the even-tempered, twelve-tone, chromatic space. The music in measure 24 performs as a completely disoriented dancer might. It stops to get its bearings and starts over. To be clear, the return of the opening music in measure 24 is not the expected return set up by a tonal process that analogizes the completion of the larger circle of the waltz. It is rather the attempt to begin anew. Once again, the attempt to stabilize the waltz falters, this time more rapidly. The falling fourths motive in measure 26 moves to the bass in measure 27, and through an enharmonic twist, the half step “slip” that affected localized events and gestures is realized on a larger formal level. Everything slides down a half step into A-flat. From this point forward, attempts to reestablish reliable tonal and metrical spaces are short-lived. Fragments of melody stabilize the relationship between gestures and the space in which they unfold only fleetingly. The sequence in measure 29 clings to the fourth motive, even as an inexorable, densely chromatic slide downward brings the music nearly to a standstill. The strongest tonal gesture in the prelude follows in measure 30: a half cadence, articulated through a rhythmically distorted version of the waltz motive supported by an upward striving chromaticism. The music tries to reestablish vectoral space; or, what amounts to the same thing, the music affords momentarily the possibility of reorienting the listener’s sense of body in the harmonic environment. But it is in vain. The music trips and tumbles downward, and the listener with it; the descending arpeggios in measures 31, 33, and 37 analogize this physical gesture perfectly, including the dotted sixteenth and thirty-second note trip into the acceleration of the falling body. Each repetition

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of the opening motive sounds like nothing so much as an attempt to get up and begin again. In measures 34–36, tonally disconnected triads fail to secure a stable tonal space; the music seems to stumble about before falling, almost as if by accident, back into A. One last feeble, metrically displaced attempt at the waltz is interrupted by sonorities in measure 38 whose rotations around the pitch axis F are elegantly reflected in Debussy’s notation of harmonies around the eighth-note beam. In measure 40 the music swoons, falls over itself, comes to a stop and does not get up to dance again. Instead, fragments of the waltz melody appear in a largely octatonic haze.36 One last attempt to stabilize the musical space in measure 49 through a repetition of the earlier half cadence— now gesturing toward A rather than A♭—goes nowhere, and the prelude ends with horn calls that extend the sense of space into the distance.37 There is, of course, something after the music: “(. . . Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir.) / (Ch. Baudelaire).” According to the thesis that music is automatically understood in terms of bodily movement, Debussy’s epigraph would function as a post hoc metaphorical description of the preceding music. Both the embodied thesis and Debussy’s dismissal of music theory argue that description does not fundamentally change the experience or understanding of the sounds. But there is another way to read the epigraph. Baudelaire’s name reveals nothing about the prelude. It functions purely as a citation inviting the listener to go back and reread “Harmonie du soir,” to which the music now functions as a literal prelude. The final section of this essay necessarily returns to the question of language.

Debussy, Baudelaire, and Embodied Hermeneutics Baudelaire’s “Harmonie du soir,” given in appendix 11.1, begins by announcing its own immanent performance. “Voici venir les temps . . .” says the narrator, promising that something will happen in an imminent “now.” But “now” in fact turns out to be multiple “times,” as sounds almost immediately begin to turn back on themselves as the fricative “v” in “venir,” echoes the opening “voici.”38 This turning back is expanded and repeated in the two six-syllable hemistichs of the alexandrine, as illustrated in figure 11.5: the [i] of “voici” and “tige,” encircle the assonance [ɑ̃] of “temps” and “vibrant,” which themselves revolve around the circular “où.” The second line then encircles them both, as the final syllable [wa] in “encensoir” echoes the opening “voici.” The third line presents the first end rhyme with the word “soir” and semantically returns the reader to the scents of flowers in line 2. It thus enacts the very thing it describes—literal sounds and perfumes denoted by the words’ semantic meaning turn back on one another. There could be no better image for all these layers of turning back—semantic, phonetic, temporal—than the “valse

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[i] [R] [ã] Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige

Figure 11.5. Phonemic analysis of “Harmonie du soir,” line 1.

mélancolique et langoureux vertige!” of line 4, whose own rhyme returns once again to the unfolding “now” begun in line 1. The poetic turns in “Harmonie du soir” are not limited to the form of the quatrain. They continue to expand as literal repetitions of lines intensify the sense of circling. Figure 11.6 visualizes formal relations within the poem as a multidimensional circle. The looping network of rhymes and repetitions becomes ever denser with each new line. In addition to the rimes embrassés (envelope rhyme) in each quatrain (indicated by circles), the second and fourth lines of each stanza repeat as the first and second line of the next (indicated by dotted lines); formally, the latter makes the poem a modified pantoum, a poetic form imported to Europe from Malay in the early nineteenth century.39 The interaction of these two forms results in dizzying sonic and semantic resonances, and while one must be wary of over-interpreting conventions, form and content complement one another to an unusual degree in “Harmonie du soir.” As one literary critic noted in 1959, “the series of repeated lines, aided by the use of repeated rhymes, not only enhances the musicality of ‘Harmonie,’ but seems an organic necessity in a poem which tries to convey the impression of repetition, of a circular

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4 1

3 2 6 7

5 8 12 9

11 10

14

15

13

16

= A rhyme = B rhyme Figure 11.6. Visualization of rhyme and repetition in “Harmonie du soir.”

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movement, of tournent and valse, of the return of the evening with its sounds and smells, and, above all, of the return of the past.”40 More recently, French scholar Suzanne Braswell has written that “the allusion to the waltz [in ‘Harmonie du soir’] announces the undulating effects instantiated by the movement of the verses and the rhythmic patterns they trace across the fixed space constituted by the four stanzas of the poem.”41 For Braswell, the poem’s form suggests “a pair of dancers moving in unison with other pairs of dancers, crossing paths in rhythmic formation, as if on the space of a ballroom floor.”42 It turns out, as Baudelaire recognized, that language is embodied as well. Braswell points to Baudelaire’s interest in the “part of the brain that controls equilibrium and muscle coordination,” and argues that he was driven artistically by the potential of embodied movement to spur thought and new poetic forms. To the extent that he was able to succeed—as in, I would argue, “Harmonie du soir”—language also became a challenge to the body. Any oneto-one correspondence between physical movements and ideas, sensations, or meanings fails to do justice to the complexities involved. The truth hides, it seems, in the novelty and complexity of dynamic relations. The recognition of aesthetic affinity rather than mere topical reference, I would speculate, prompted Debussy to choose “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir” as an epigraph for his fourth prelude for piano. Crucially, the comparison across media such as poetry and music requires a means of addressing both. Our bodies and our capacity for analogical reasoning may play this role, as I have suggested.43 But to explain the relations, a metalinguistic approach incorporating the objects of both domains appears to be the only viable option. In the end, then, embodied analysis comes quite close to “looking like” traditional analysis—whether of music or poetry. But that is because analysis has been an embodied activity all along, as a survey of discourse about music will readily confirm.44 Thus, just as explaining embodiment requires language, so does the use of language return us to the fact of embodiment. This circularity does not invalidate the thesis that musical understanding is embodied, but it does make it impossible to secure a purely empirical basis from which the truth of musical understanding might be deduced. Instead, embodiment becomes hermeneutic, in Hans-Georg Gadamer’s sense: it is “concerned to understand the universe of understanding [music] better than seems possible under the modern scientific notion of cognition.”45 In using the waltz to illustrate that neither perception nor thought is immutable, Baudelaire and Debussy confirm Gadamer’s observation that, “the experience of art is the most insistent admonition to scientific consciousness to acknowledge its own limits.”46 If “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir” “might in fact have been chosen as a generic description of the entire series [of Préludes],” as Edward Lockspeiser suggested, perhaps this is because turning is the

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hermeneutic gesture par excellence. It is not by accident that hermeneutics takes the form of a circle.47 “To understand the universe of understanding” is to turn back to where one began, but with a new perspective, new information, and, ultimately, a new understanding. If such an approach is particularly illuminating in the case of Debussy’s music that may be because it describes a compositional strategy on full display in the Préludes: short melodies, sonorities, and rhythms are returned to, explored from different perspectives, and manipulated to bring out different phenomenological potentialities. But I would argue that Debussy also frequently returned to bodies (whether human, or dolls, or water) as a source of inspiration. Embodied hermeneutics establishes a discursive mode and set of conditions that help to understand and articulate the connections between musical materials that do not fit into the procrustean bed of tonal unity nor the abstract freedom of endlessly manipulable pitch sets. To Roberts’s claim that, “To appreciate ‘Les sons’ is to hold the key to a central aspect of Debussy’s genius,” we might simply add that a key is a useless object until it turns.48 Appendix 11.1. Charles Baudelaire, “Harmonie du soir,” Les fleurs du mal (1857) 1 2 3 4

Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir; Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir; Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

5 6 7 8

Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir; Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige; Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige! Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.

9 10 11 12

Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige, Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir! Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir; Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.

13 14 15 16

Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir, Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige! Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige . . . Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir.

Notes 1.

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Paul Roberts, Images: The Piano Music of Claude Debussy (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1996), 76–78. On the popularity and history of the waltz in

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2.

3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

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nineteenth-century Europe see Sevin H. Yaraman, Revolving Embrace: The Waltz as Sex, Steps, and Sound (Hillsdale: Pendragon Press, 2002), and Eric McKee, Decorum of the Minuet, Delirium of the Waltz: A Study of Dance-Music Relations in 3/4 Time (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012). Roberts, Images, 71–85; Matthew Brown, Debussy Redux: The Impact of His Music on Popular Culture (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), 80–98; Alexandra Kieffer, “The Debussyist Ear: Listening, Representation, and French Musical Modernism,” 19th-Century Music 39, no. 1 (2015): 56–79. Roberts, Images, 76; Kieffer, “The Debussyist Ear,” 75. Brown, Debussy Redux, 91. Carolyn Abbate, “Music: Drastic or Gnostic?,” Critical Inquiry 30, no. 3 (2004): 505–36. The idea of embodied analysis has appeared more prominently in repertoire for which tonal paradigms provide little to no guidance. See, for example, George Fisher and Judy Lochhead, “Analyzing from the Body,” Theory and Practice 27 (2002): 37–67; Mariusz Kozak, “Listeners’ Bodies in Music Analysis: Gestures, Motor Intentionality, and Models,” Music Theory Online 21, no. 3 (2015), http://www.mtosmt.org/issues/mto.15.21.3/mto.15.21.3.kozak.html. Carolyn Abbate, “What the Sorcerer Said,” 19th-Century Music 12, no. 3 (April 1989): 228. Marguerite Long, At the Piano with Debussy (London: Dent, 1972), 63. Rolf Inge Godøy, “Images of Sonic Objects,” Organised Sound 15, no. 1 (2010): 55. Marc Leman, “Music, Gesture, and the Formation of Embodied Meaning,” in Musical Gestures: Sound, Movement, and Meaning, ed. Rolf Inge Godøy and Marc Leman (New York: Routledge, 2010), 127. Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 206–7. See also Julie McQuinn, “Exploring the Erotic in Debussy’s Music,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, ed. Simon Trezise (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 139–58. The desire to find new analytic methods has not been limited to embodied approaches. See, for example, Annie K. Yih, “Analysing Debussy: Tonality, Motivic Sets and the Referential Pitch-Class Specific Collection,” Music Analysis 19, no. 2 (2000): 203–29. Mark DeVoto, “The Debussy Sound: Colour, Texture, Gesture,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, 201–18. Rings also connects Debussy’s music to questions raised by the topics of time and memory. Steven Rings, “Mystères Limpides: Time and Transformation in Debussy’s Des pas sur la neige,” 19th-Century Music 32, no. 2 (2008): 178–208. Richard S. Parks, “Music’s Inner Dance: Form, Pacing, and Complexity in Debussy’s Music,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, 219–53. David J. Code, Claude Debussy (London: Reaktion Books, 2010), 137–38. Deutsches Wörterbuch, s.v. “Walzen,” by Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm, n.d., available online at http://woerterbuchnetz.de/DWB/?sigle=DWB&m ode=Vernetzung&lemid=GW05278, accessed March 27, 2018; Wye Jamison Allanbrook, Rhythmic Gesture in Mozart: Le Nozze di Figaro and Don Giovanni (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 65; McKee, Decorum of the Minuet, Delirium of the Waltz, 262n2.

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17. Adolf Bernhard Marx, Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition: praktischtheoretisch, vol. 2 (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1838), 55; Allanbrook, Rhythmic Gesture in Mozart, 64–65; Yaraman, Revolving Embrace, 17–21; Lawrence M. Zbikowski, “Dance Topoi, Sonic Analogues and Musical Grammar: Communicating with Music in the Eighteenth Century,” in Communication in Eighteenth-Century Music, ed. Danuta Mirka and V. Kofi Agawu (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 286–88; McKee, Decorum of the Minuet, Delirium of the Waltz, 148. 18. Zbikowski notes that the tightness of gestural fit between dance and music varies and may be considered as existing along a continuum. Zbikowski, “Dance Topoi, Sonic Analogues and Musical Grammar,” 291. The position of the pair of eighth notes in the waltz step is a good example of such looseness; they are often transposed to the first or third beat. 19. The arch shape of melodies is nearly as characteristic of the waltz genre as the oom-pah-pah accompaniment. McKee, Decorum of the Minuet, Delirium of the Waltz, 149. Arnie Cox explains the impression of increasing energy as an analogy with subvocalization in “The Mimetic Hypothesis and Embodied Musical Meaning,” Musicae Scientiae 5, no. 2 (2001): 195–212. 20. The actual turns of the dance may not be precisely tied to the turns of the music. Zbikowski notes that the relation between dance movements and musical accompaniment lies on a continuum. This is true for each measure, but the harmonic change analogizes the reversal of the pattern with respect to the right and left foot. 21. Robert S. Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 117. 22. Richmond Browne, “Tonal Implications of the Diatonic Set,” In Theory Only 5 (1981): 3–21. 23. I borrow the notion of “sonic analog for dynamic processes” from Zbikowski, “Dance Topoi, Sonic Analogues and Musical Grammar,” and Zbikowski’s work has been published as Foundations of Musical Grammar (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017). 24. The analogy here is imperfect in acoustic terms; F does not appear in the series of harmonic partials above C. Nevertheless, musical perceptions need not conform precisely to physical reality to function analogically. 25. Quoted in Elizabeth Aldrich, From the Ballroom to Hell: Grace and Folly in Nineteenth-Century Dance (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1991), 154– 55, and Eric McKee, Decorum of the Minuet, Delirium of the Waltz, 161. The elided parts of these quotations attribute the experiences to women dancers only. While women’s experience of waltzing differed from men’s, I suspect these quotations reflect strongly gendered discourse as much as differing physiological effects on dancers’ bodies. 26. Wilhelm von Lenz, The Great Piano Virtuosos of Our Time from Personal Acquaintance: Liszt, Chopin, Tausig, Henselt, trans. Madeleine R. Baker (New York: Schirmer, 1899), 53n8. 27. Roy Howat, “Chopin’s Influence on the Fin de Siècle and Beyond,” in The Cambridge Companion to Chopin, ed. Jim Samson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 255.

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28. Siglind Bruhn, Images and Ideas in Modern French Piano Music: The Extra-Musical Subtext in Piano Works by Ravel, Debussy, and Messiaen (Stuyvesant: Pendragon Press, 1997), 165. 29. E. Robert Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1950), 140. 30. On the relation of Debussy’s music to cinema more generally see Rebecca Leydon, “Debussy’s Late Style and the Devices of the Early Silent Cinema,” Music Theory Spectrum 23, no. 2 (Autumn 2001): 217–41. For a more critical view of the relation between Debussy and cinema, see Scott D. Paulin, “‘Cinematic’ Music: Analogies, Fallacies, and the Case of Debussy,” Music and the Moving Image 3, no. 1 (2010): 1–21. 31. Boyd Pomeroy, “Debussy’s Tonality,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, 172. 32. B in parentheses here indicates a sounding note that is not in the octatonic collection. 33. Roberts, Images, 76–77. 34. For a different reading of the role of F♯, cf. Pomeroy, “Debussy’s Tonality,” 174–77. 35. Pitches in square brackets are part of the octatonic collection, but are not sounded in the cited passage. 36. Allen Forte, “Debussy and the Octatonic,” Music Analysis 10, nos. 1/2 (1991): 125–69. 37. Whereas Kieffer interprets the horn calls as an incursion of reality within the diegesis of the piece, I would suggest that they are an incursion of artificiality—what Jankélévitch noted as Debussy’s humorous penchant for the “interrupted serenade.” Kieffer, “The Debussyist Ear, 70–75; Vladimir Jankélévitch, Music and the Ineffable, trans. Carolyn Abbate (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003), 18. 38. Françoise Meltzer, Seeing Double: Baudelaire’s Modernity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 204–5. See also Suzanne F. Braswell, “An Aesthetics of Movement: Baudelaire, Poetic Renewal, and the Invitation of Dance,” French Forum 31, no. 3 (2006): 35–36. 39. In a true pantoum the even lines of the last quatrain repeat the first and third of the opening quatrain, completing a loop in the poem as a whole. 40. Ignace Feuerlicht, “Baudelaire’s ‘Harmonie Du Soir,’” The French Review 33, no. 1 (October 1959): 19–20. 41. Braswell, “An Aesthetics of Movement,” 34. 42. Ibid., 35. 43. See Zbikowski, Foundations of Grammar of Music. 44. On the role of the body in shaping language see George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999), and Mark Johnson, The Meaning of the Body: Aesthetics of Human Understanding (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). 45. Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method, 2nd ed., Continuum Impacts (London: Continuum, 2004), xxiii.

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46. Ibid., xxii. 47. Ian Bent, ed., Music Analysis in the Nineteenth Century, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 4–8. 48. Paul Roberts, Images, 71.

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Chapter Twelve

Secrets and Lies, or the Truth about Pelléas Katherine Bergeron

Let us begin at the end: with the single scene that makes up act 5 of Pelléas et Mélisande. Of all the incongruities that trouble Debussy’s opera, those of the final act are somehow the most troubling. No other scene offers such a diverse assortment of characters, voices, points of view: Arkel, Golaud, le médecin, Mélisande. Peering into a bedroom of the castle, we watch the resident sage, his aggrieved grandson, and a doctor doling out prescriptions for a dying princess, alongside an unexplained newborn and several silent female attendants. What are they doing here? The unlikely figures crowd both the stage and the plot, vying for our attention and derailing the dénouement. The bourgeois melodrama has taken a dramatically wrong turn. In the previous act the cuckolded Golaud kills Pelléas right on cue, but the story refuses to stand in judgment. By the end of act 5 the domestic tragedy has become a ghost story. When death finally brings the action to a halt, it is no one’s fault, and yet the equivocal ending mocks as much as it moves us. The scene’s obstinate plea, “Il faut dire la vérité” (You must tell us the truth), goes unanswered. Right to the end, the play has held its tongue. The plea for truth belongs, of course, to Golaud, the opera’s most miserable character, but it might as well be our own. Judging from the controversial reception of the very first Pelléas, it seems that Debussy’s audiences had just as much trouble deciphering the opera’s meaning, and a century of performances has hardly made things easier.1 We still struggle to comprehend Mélisande’s veiled actions. Like Golaud, we wonder why she lies, and why she dies. Chalk it up to mystery, the guidebooks tell us, but that does not solve the problem. For Pierre Boulez, to call Pelléas a “mystery” is simply to skip all the

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hard work, to substitute (as he puts it) a “flat, soothing, modest, and moreover simpleminded image” for a real explanation.2 Debussy did not shrink from the drama’s contradictions. Why should we? Indeed, Debussy may have added to those contradictions when he made his well-known cuts to Maeterlinck’s original play. As if taking a cue from Mélisande, he left out a few key elements of the story, in effect concealing them from his operatic audience. I will return to these cuts at the end of my essay, but here I want to think about the act of cutting itself. Yes, shortening the play no doubt made the work more suitable for a sung staging, but the deliberate omissions also made the story itself more compelling. Or so Maeterlinck might have said. “A truth concealed,” he once wrote, is “precisely what we live for.”3 The remark evokes the near religious zeal of a whole generation of Symbolist poets, and, for this reason, raises intriguing questions for the drama of Pelléas, especially in Debussy’s elliptical retelling. For to hide a truth deliberately is of course just another way to tell a lie.4 But how does music hide the truth? That is the question I want to explore here. It’s hard to ignore the possibility of musical concealment in an opera that seems so interested in prevarication. In act 2, for example, when Mélisande has dropped her wedding ring into the well, she fears the consequences: “Qu’allons-nous dire à Golaud?” (What do we tell Golaud?) she asks. Pelléas answers: “la vérité . . . la vérité. . . .” Tell the truth, he says, yet the next scene finds her less than equal to the task. Later, in act 4, after Mélisande has told Pelléas that she loves him, he begs for confirmation. “Tu ne me trompes pas? Tu ne mens pas un peu. . .?” (You’re not lying just a bit?). Her response: “Non, je ne mens jamais; je ne mens qu’à ton frère” (I never lie; I only lie to your brother). This may sound like nonsense: in Carolyn Abbate’s words, the sentence has gone “ethically and logically awry.”5 But the doubling contains a clue that helps to explain a condition of speech throughout the whole play, one that grows only more pointed in act 5. The two-faced reply illustrates Maeterlinck’s view of what made tragedy “beautiful.” This was, once again, a hidden thing, “concealed,” he said, “in the words that are spoken alongside the strict and apparent truth.”6 I never lie; I only lie. The repetition belies the lie, so to speak, opening up a space where the truth can hide. The goal of tragedy was ultimately to make this space audible. For Maeterlinck, tragedy involved the counterpoint of two simultaneous dialogues, in which one would be able to hear above the ordinary dialogue of reason and sentiment, as he put it, “the more solemn and uninterrupted dialogue of the play’s intended meaning.”7 I am certainly not the first to point out that music was the ideal medium for the sort of polyphony Maeterlinck had in mind.8 Nor could a post-Wagnerian composer like Debussy have missed the obvious Wagnerism of Maeterlinck’s Symbolist vision, with its suggestion of a continuous, contrapuntal exchange between speech and its other, between the singing voice and a wordless

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orchestra. Debussy made ample use of this sort of Wagnerian allusion in Pelléas in those motives that sound against the vocal line of his opera, motives that come across as portents or signs of what may or may not be happening on stage. But he also evoked this simultaneity in another way, by means of a technique employed by Maeterlinck himself. By juxtaposing certain motives—placing them side-by-side—he created another impression of parallel discourses. I want to turn now to a few telling examples of this technique to consider how it serves to inform, at a very basic level, the peculiar incongruities—and even the failure of dialogue—that mark the final act of Pelléas.

There and Here Perhaps the most obvious example of this orchestral technique in Pelléas occurs even before the curtain rises, in the well-known opening measures of act 1. From its first groan, Debussy’s orchestra evokes an impression of dim antiquity, carving out a fragment of plainsong in stolid half notes. The figure suggests an immense murmur, or an ancient cosmic sigh, whose sheer weight draws it to the bottom of the orchestra. Then it vanishes. A different music takes its place, sounding high in the winds, its bass voice a tritone away. With its more articulate rhythm and brighter timbre, this melody sounds a sort of anxious trill: indecisive, edgy, almost dissonant. It is the motive that will soon be attached to Prince Golaud, reappearing just at the moment he announces, to an empty stage: “Je crois que je me suis perdu moi-même” (I think I am lost); see example 12.1. Here we have, then, counterpoint of a very different order: theatrical décor knocking against a human profile; the “forest theme” vs. “Golaud’s theme.” Call the figures what you like. It is the space between that counts. In fact, one might argue that the combined effect of Debussy’s opening measures reenacts, in an unusual way, the scene evoked in the first quatrain of Baudelaire’s sonnet “Correspondances.” There we also find an unsettling image of man, navigating a dim path through “forests of symbols,” as Baudelaire puts it, symbols that do not speak but “watch him with knowing looks.”9 Heard side-by-side, Debussy’s two musical images suggest a similar optical distance, and the same kind of silence. Imagining them as counterpoint helps to bring out the sense of this unwitting interaction, and unheard dissonance. Vast and remote, the first motive is somehow always there; it is simply inaudible to the second. If only that intrusive trill had some access to the space between, if only it could cock an ear across the separating bar line; then it might be able to find its way to the other side. But, as Debussy represents it, it can’t. Here is not there. To the ears of “Golaud,” the forest speaks an alien language. That, I will admit, is a lot to squeeze from a few measures of music. But what I am suggesting is that this troubling orchestral exchange—and the idea of

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Example 12.1. Pelléas et Mélisande, prelude to act 1, opening measures. Très modéré

Ì Ì

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“The forest” (there) Très modéré

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5

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“Golaud” (here)

Très modéré

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3 ¡¡ ¡¡ ¡¡ ¡¡

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Très modéré

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ÌÌ

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inaudibility it contains—acts as a kind of symbol for the whole opera, a musical trope for the tragedy that is about to ensue. Pelléas will proceed, right to its last act, under the sign of this malentendu. The result is a disquieting drama, cruel and without catharsis: a kind of modernist theater of the mis-heard. At least, that would be one way to summarize the plight of Golaud, a figure whose aural awareness only deteriorates over the course of the play. And, to return to my main point, it is also how we can begin to understand the strangely incongruous dialogues that crowd the opera’s final act. Let me now take a moment to sketch a few of the more telling incongruities—especially the excruciating exchange between Golaud and Mélisande that forms the centerpiece. Once again, it is the orchestra that will spell out the terms of this malentendu before a single word is spoken. As in the prelude to act 1, the opening measures of act 5 feature two musical figures, side by side, whose sheer difference describes something about the symbolic space in which the action will take place. Sounding first is a claustrophobic version of the motive that has been associated with Mélisande throughout the opera. The fresh pentatonicism of the Mélisande theme, recalling shepherd’s pipes and folk song, now hides under a shroud. The flattened scale degrees and muted timbre are useful in evoking the oppressive air of the infirmary that will soon appear behind the curtain. But the oppression disappears, unexpectedly, in a puff of wind. High flutes and clarinets—instruments of the wood—intrude with a distinct pastoral freshness, temporarily dispelling the gloom. The contrast works in much the same way, then, as that of the act 1 Prelude. We are offered two possible worlds, one “here,” the other “out there.” The difference is that, in this scene, both musical figures have to do with Mélisande. Or perhaps I should say, with two different ideas of “Mélisande.” If the former lies stretched before us, the latter is somewhere else again. She is in the room and not in the room at the same time (see ex. 12.2). It is significant that the Doctor utters his first pronouncement over that initial, compressed motive, speaking of her in the distant third person. “Ce n’est pas de cette petite blessure qu’elle peut mourir; un oiseau n’en serait pas mort” (She couldn’t die from that little wound; a bird wouldn’t die from it). But Arkel changes the subject. Observing Mélisande from some other, more reflective place, he notes how “slowly” she sleeps, “on dirait que son âme a froid pour toujours” (as if her soul had frozen), his imagination now supported by a frozen version of the second, pastoral, wind figure. Then, as if stirred by Arkel’s thoughts, Mélisande awakens moments later to the sound of the same music. Her first words: “Ouvrez la fenêtre” (Open the window); see example 12.3. Mélisande’s request could be understood in terms of the well-known references to light and darkness that fill Maeterlinck’s play.10 But, viewed as part of the poetics of tragedy we have been exploring, the request suggests another possibility. For the window also opens a space within the dialogue—a kind of

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Example 12.2. Pelléas et Mélisande, prelude to act 5, opening measures. Lent et triste

¡Ì ¡ DO¡Ì ¡

¡Ì ¡ O  ¡Ì ¡

E ¡ ¡ D ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ D ¡ ¡

¡ ¡ ¡ ¡

‹

E Q

‹

soutenu et doucement expressif

Q

“Mélisande” asleep (in the room)


 

          
 











 



                   

 



      

 



  












 








       

alternative route for a soul about to thaw and take wing. And this space will ultimately produce a very different music, leading, as Maeterlinck put it, to “the more solemn and uninterrupted dialogue” of the play’s deepest meanings.11 Debussy certainly understood the point. If the woodwind is our clue, then this bird is about to return to the forest. In fact, from the sound of it, she is more than halfway there. That Arkel enables this passage—by opening a window—is both significant and unsurprising. For he is halfway there himself. His music has always had a bit of the forest in it, redolent of plainsong and the same archaic modes we heard in the opera’s opening measures. As he says to Mélisande in act 4, he is an old man on “this side of death,” ready to “open the door onto a new era.” By act 5, Arkel’s prophecy may seem to have gone “disastrously wrong,” as one critic puts it,12 but it turns out to be right; we have simply misread the signs. The happy ending he foresees is not about the future but the past, not a progress but a return. The window is a corridor to that past—to a space so deep inside the language forest that only the old, or the nearly dead, can access it. The events of act 5 make clear that Mélisande and Arkel both have ready access. Indeed, later in the scene Debussy evokes their connection in an unusual way, as if literally depicting the “solemn and uninterrupted dialogue” that Maeterlinck himself had in mind. Riding the same wavelength, Arkel and Mélisande speak of the setting sun, and of her newborn child, over an orchestra that has all the freshness of Debussy’s faun and La mer.

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Example 12.3. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 5, the Doctor, Arkel, Mélisande.







 

 





      

   

 
   

 




                 



 

        

     

   

      

 

 

 

   

 

 



   

   

 

 





 

 

 

 

 

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M: Est-ce vous, grandpère? A: Oui, ma fille . . . que veux-tu que je fasse? M: Est-il vrai que l’hiver commence? A: Pourquoi demandes-tu cela? M: C’est qu’il fait froid et qu’il n’y a plus de feuilles . . . A: Tu as froid? Veux-tu qu’on ferme les fenêtres? M: Non . . . jusqu’à ce que le soleil soit au fond de la mer. Il descend lentement, alors, c’est l’hiver qui commence? A: Tu n’aimes pas l’hiver? M: Oh! non. J’ai peur du froid! J’ai peur des grands froids. A: Te sens-tu mieux? M: Oui, oui; je n’ai plus toutes ces inquiétudes A: Veux-tu voir ton enfant? M: Quel enfant? A: Ton enfant. Ta petite fille . . .

Is that you, grandfather? Yes, my daughter What would you like me to do? Is it true that winter’s here? Why do you ask? It’s because it is cold and there are no more leaves . . . Are you cold? Do you want the windows closed? No . . . not until the sun sets beneath the sea. It sets slowly, so, it is winter that’s starting? You don’t like winter? Oh no. I’m afraid of the cold! I’m afraid of freezing. Are you feeling better? Yes, yes, I don’t have all those worries Would you like to see your child? What child? Your child, your little girl . . .

This final symbolic exchange between Mélisande and Arkel is, in fact, the only passage of continuous conversation in the entire act—perhaps the entire opera. And while it is not much of a conversation, Debussy represents the connection through an unusual feature of the setting. Mélisande and Arkel are united in time through a lilting four-measure phrase structure, in which they declaim their lines as two halves of the same melodic/harmonic line. Now this kind of continuity stands in stark contrast to the conversation between Mélisande and Golaud just moments earlier. There we find the couple momentarily alone, the remorseful husband begging forgiveness in a piteously exposed phrase of unaccompanied recitative. Mélisande’s pardon comes easily, almost thoughtlessly, in cadences that reflect neither pain nor pity. Her modal response, in fact, sounds like an antique chanson: a song so remote it cannot speak to Golaud’s more modern guilt (see ex. 12.4). By now this sort of malentendu has become familiar territory, but Debussy draws its edges more sharply in this final dialogue between husband and wife. In a stunning confessional piece Golaud freely admits his wrongdoing, then begs for one last thing: the truth. “Il faut dire la vérité à quelqu’un qui va mourir!” (You must tell the truth to someone who is about to die!) The plea

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Example 12.4. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 5, Golaud’s pardon.
    










 




 

   










 

 







   



  

             



     

 

 

  

 

     







 

   

    



       





    





   





   




  
          




     

    







     

          





     

 





 





  













brings on a cross-examination: “As-tu aimé Pelléas?” “As-tu?. . .avez-vous été coupables?” (Did you love Pelléas? Did you? Were you both guilty?) Each of his questions stacks the deck. Each yields the same response. Mélisande’s denials are not defensive but dreamy, uncomprehending. Golaud counters by trying harder. He threatens “Ne mens plus ainsi, au moment de mourir!” (Don’t tell lies like that on your deathbed); he makes promises “Je te pardonne tout” (I’ll forgive whatever you tell me). In that incongruous way we sometimes talk to foreigners, he even raises his voice, as if his shouting might bridge the language gap. But hurling words does little good. When Golaud bellows his last and most desperate demand “Vite! Vite! La vérité! La vérité!” (Quickly! Quickly! The truth! The truth!), he gets back the most “foreign” reply of all. Mélisande answers like a docile schoolgirl, murmuring her first French lesson: La vérité . . . la vé-ri-té . . . On her lips, the truth that Golaud seeks is just a word (see ex. 12.5).

Vérité/Sonorité This answer no doubt stands as the starkest image of mishearing in the opera, a résumé of the miscommunications that have plagued Golaud from the very

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Example 12.5. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 5, end of Golaud’s cross-examination.
  











 







 

 





 
          



     



    

   



   







 







   

 






 







                  



      

 

 

 

 

 
     















    







 









          

     

 









                          








 

 



 

 











                  






 










 


  







           


   

   




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first scene. Once again, we are presented with a counterpoint of parallel objects; once again, they clash, like the two versions of Mélisande presented side-by-side at the beginning of act 5. This time, however, the two figures sound all too confusingly the same. Both have the ring of truth, but the setting makes it plain that, as verities, they are different. To recall Maeterlinck’s terms one last time: next to a “strict and apparent truth”—Golaud’s truth—there another lies, concealed. At last, we see this lie for what it is: la vérité . . . la vérité . . . The truth that Mélisande conceals is nothing but an echo. Indeed, it had been hiding all along, in those uncanny repetitions that fill the play, disrupting conversation’s natural course. I never lie; I only lie. It was this aspect of Maeterlinck’s technique that Kandinsky noted with special appreciation in his famous essay from 1912, on “the spiritual” dimension of art.13 By emptying words of apparent meaning, such repetitions brought forth another, more telling property: what Kandinsky called their “interior resonance.” But this was more or less the lesson taught by Baudelaire, as well, in the poem we have already mentioned. For if symbols seemed to impede man’s passage through the natural world, the forest nonetheless produced another effect. Baudelaire describes it in the second quatrain as a “long echo,” a “shadowy and deep unity vast as night, vast as light,” where “perfumes, colors and sounds answer each other.” It is this realm of shadow and sound that the articulate Golaud, always hunting for truth, clarity, and concrete signs, will never be able to grasp. Such an image thus helps to explain the failure of communication that informs the whole of Pelléas, not to mention the uniquely detached position of Mélisande within it. For, like an echo, she too always lies elsewhere—in that interior space between words, between motives, across the separating bar line. In this sense, the echo forms an object lesson for the entire play, whose hidden truths, heard rather than seen, move the intended meaning precisely to that “other” place far from the drama’s surface. Maeterlinck, in fact, took pains to represent that resonance at even higher levels of the play’s structure. And there is one more instance I want to point out as a way of bringing my argument to a close. I am thinking of those strange and troubling scenes that Maeterlinck conceived for the opening of both acts 1 and 5, scenes that Debussy eventually chose to cut. Each one featured a cluster of servant women. In Debussy’s reading they are forced, in a sense, to go underground, only to emerge in the drama’s final moments. In the first scene of Maeterlink’s original play, for example, the servants try in vain to wash the stone of the castle door, lamenting, like so many Lady Macbeths, “we will never get it clean.” And then in act 5, they reappear, gossiping about the strange events that have occurred in the morning: here they talk about how they had discovered Pelléas at the bottom of the well; and how Golaud and Mélisande lay collapsed at the castle’s door, which was

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covered in blood. The dramatic repetition now encourages us to read the play’s events backwards (was it blood the servants washed from the steps in the opening scene?).14 Or, to put it another way, the doubling turns everything that happens between acts 1 and 5 into an echo of that initial, unspoken deed. Mélisande’s flight at the end of the act 4 murder—when she tears her dress— now resonates with the fear she displays in the first act, when Golaud spies her in the forest—wearing the same torn dress—weeping by a stream. “Ne me touchez pas!” (Don’t touch me!) she cries. “Quelqu’un vous a-t-il fait du mal?” (Did someone hurt you?) he asks in return. Heard from the reverse perspective, the question seems not incongruous but chilling; for the answer seems all too clear. By eliminating the servants’ truth-telling, Debussy may have compromised the clarity of this reading, but he did not eliminate the eerie echo, the sense of a resonant space “between” the words, the scenes, the acts. Indeed, he heightened it. By its very nature as music, the opera turns the drama into very different sort of resonant space. As an evocative acoustic phenomenon, the orchestra produces a reverberation of a higher order, one more powerful than any Maeterlinck could have suggested in words. Which brings me to my final point. It was precisely the unique possibilities of orchestral drama that Debussy seems to have had in mind as he began imagining the opera’s last act in 1894. In a letter to his friend Henry Lerolle, he described a new idea for the death of Mélisande: he wanted to “put an orchestral group on the stage,” he said, to represent the “death of all resonance.”15 Debussy never carried out that plan, of course, but two details suggest its consequences. At the moment of Mélisande’s death, as the servants fall to their knees, he introduces the sound of a distant bell, outside the orchestra pit (the original score reads: une cloche sur le théâtre). This sound from elsewhere, a bit of detached orchestral resonance, summons our Echo—mythical daughter of Earth and Air—to her natural home, back in the shadowy forest. Her silent parting, which produces no drama, yields but one onstage effect. It takes the wind out of Golaud. Example 12.6 shows his own last utterance—a repeated grunt (“Oh! Oh!”)—scored as two diamond-shaped notes, a notation indicating a spoken, rather than sung, delivery.16 In effect, the singer is robbed of his most important weapon: his vocal resonance. If the “truth” of Pelléas et Mélisande lies always on that other side, not Example 12.6. Pelléas et Mélisande, Golaud’s last sound. Très retenu GOLAUD

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À

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oh!

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hunted down in spoken words but heard in hidden repercussions, then Debussy’s final gesture teaches a telling lesson. La vérité excites the air to ring, and leaves Golaud at last disarmed.

Notes 1.

2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

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Jann Pasler, “Pelléas and Power: The Reception of Debussy’s Opera,” in Music at the Turn of the Century: A 19th-Century Reader, ed. Joseph Kerman (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), 129–50. Pierre Boulez, “Miroirs pour Pelléas et Mélisande,” L’avant-scène opera 9 (1992): 96. Maurice Maeterlinck, “Novalis,” in Le Trésor des humbles (Paris: Société du Mercure de France, 1908), 156. As Rousseau put it in his Rêveries: “mentir, c’est cacher une vérité que l’on doit manifester” (to lie is to hide a truth that one should divulge). Rêveries, IVe promenade (Geneva: Grasset, 1782), 90. Carolyn Abbate, In Search of Opera (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 176. Maeterlinck, “Le tragique quotidien,” in Le Trésor des humbles, 173–74. Maeterlinck, Le trésor des humbles (Paris: Société du Mercure de France, 1908), 162. See especially Susan Youens, “An Unseen Player: Destiny in Pelléas et Mélisande,” in Reading Opera, ed. Roger Parker and Arthur Groos (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 60–91. Charles Baudelaire, “Correspondances,” in Les fleurs du mal (Paris: PouletMalassis et de Broise, 1857), 19. See especially Richard Langham Smith, “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” in Debussy: “Pelléas et Mélisande,” ed. Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 107–39. Maeterlinck, “Le tragique quotidien,” in Le Trésor des humbles, 162. See Youens, “An Unseen Player.” Wassily Kandinsky, Über das Geistige in der Kunst: Insbesondere in der Malerei (Munich: Piper, 1912). On this point see David Grayson, “Waiting for Golaud: The Concept of Time in Pelléas,” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 26–45. David Grayson, The Genesis of Debussy’s “Pelléas et Mélisande,” (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1986), 33. I owe thanks to Roger Moseley for inspiring me to think about these diamonds, and the last words of Mélisande.

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Chapter Thirteen

Vertige! Debussy, Mallarmé, and the Edge of Language Julian Johnson Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé In 1913, nearly twenty years after composing the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, Debussy returned to the poetry of Stéphane Mallarmé in search of song texts. All three of the poems he chose have something to do with the nothingness of thin air.1 Each suggests a rhythmic movement of the air: the breathing in and out of a sigh (Soupir), the waving back and forth of a fan (Éventail) and, in the middle of the triptych, the words of a lover who knows their futility even as he speaks (Placet futile). Not only do these poems evoke the movement of air, each draws attention to itself as an object made of air, a poetic conceit to which Debussy responds with music preoccupied with its own evanescence. These late settings of Mallarmé thus reflect upon an aesthetic principle that shapes Debussy’s music as a whole, offering, in exemplary and exquisite miniature, a musical counterpart to Mallarmé’s poetry, acts of saying that draw attention to the “nothing” of which they speak so eloquently (for the poems and their translations, see appendix 13.1). The first song of Debussy’s set is “Soupir.”2 Mallarmé’s poem consists of a single sentence, rising and falling like the inhalation and exhalation of breath that it suggests. It is shaped around a central axis, a transformative moment of reversal marked by the repetition of the phrase “vers l’Azur” which ends the first half of the poem (lines 1–5) and begins the second (lines 6–10). This key

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moment is reinforced by the punctuation (an exclamation point followed by a dash), which introduces a hiatus but, at the same time, carries one half of the poem into the next. The highpoint of the poem’s trajectory is thus marked by a momentary silence and suspension of motion.3 As Marie Rolf demonstrates in her detailed study of this song, the reflective symmetry of Mallarmé’s poetic arc is manifest at both a structural and semantic level.4 The rhythm and enjambment of the two halves, flowing toward and away from this central point of repetition, reinforces the poetic imagery itself, which hinges on the idea of rising and falling. The sense of the second half as a reflection of the first is further enhanced by the complex play of acoustic and semantic transformations, half-heard echoes of sounds and images: hence “automne jonché” (line 2) and “Octobre pâle et pur” (line 6); “un blanc jet d’eau” (line 5) and “l’eau morte” (line 8); “errant” (line 3) and “erre au vent” (line 9).5 The structure of the poem is thus quite literally its content: a rise upward that fails to achieve the object it moves toward (her face, the sky), before falling back into the cold water of the pool, with its autumn leaves and weak reflection of the sun. Ostensibly the blue of the unclouded sky, “l’azur” is one of the most densely loaded and recurrent images in Mallarmé’s poetry. In January 1864, a few months before the composition of Soupir, Mallarmé wrote a poem titled simply L’azur, whose topic is the impotence of the poet in the face of this ideal vision of elemental plenitude. How does Debussy’s music respond to this contour of a sigh? In the first instance, it follows Mallarmé’s mirror form, making a clear structural division at an intuitive halfway point (between mm. 17 and 18 of this 31-measure song). The opening finds a transformed echo in the ending (with the return of the piano’s introductory figure in m. 30), and the second half reflects the end of the first (with the start of the new vocal phrase in m. 18 echoing the end of the previous one in m. 17). A play with symmetrical relations also pervades Debussy’s construction of harmonic space. The pentatonic frame of the song is clear enough, elaborated by the piano before being drawn out in the first vocal entry. But the song hinges on the gentle dissonance between a scale based on E♭ and a counterpoised one centred on E♮. Thus, the vocal ascent from E♭ that sets the first two lines (mm.7–10) is followed by a descent from E♮ (see ex 13.1). Throughout the song, the E♮ space suggests an alternative to the E♭ space—proximate, sharing a border, yet quite different realms. Having been presented separately by the voice, the two spaces occur simultaneously in the piano (from m. 13)—note the repeated movement between a C major and an A-flat major triad in the left hand, over which the E♮ ostinato continues in the right hand. At the highpoint of the poem, the registral brightness of the right hand and the harmonic possibility of the E♮ suggest a move towards the bright azure, while still trailing a root in the A-flat tonic (see ex. 13.2).6

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chapter thirteen

Example 13.1. “Soupir,” mm. 1–12. Calme et expressif q=50

∑

p doux et soutenu

? b b 44 Ó bb

‰

œ

b 2 & b bb 4

10

44 ˙

Mon

Œ

â

3

44 44

, œ

œ

Et

œ ˙˙ œ J. ‰ b ˙˙ œ ‰ . .

∏∏∏∏∏∏

∏∏∏∏∏∏

œ

front où rève,

ô

˙ b n ˙˙˙˙

∏∏∏∏∏∏

pp

3

œ

∑

n œ # œ # œ œ n 3œ #œ vers

le

ciel

œ œ œ œœœ œ 3

œ

œ

cal - me

er - rant

Ó

3

più pp

3

∑

∑

p

˙ n ˙˙˙˙

Ó

w w ˙ Œ ™

œ œ œ

∑

∏∏∏∏∏∏

&

bbbb

œ

me vers ton

ta - ches de rous - seur,

˙˙ ˙˙ b b &b b

œ

œ

-

œ œ œ œJ J J J

b & b bb

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

p très soutenu

Œ

œ ? b b b 42 œ b œ œ

œ ˙ œœœ œ

œ

œ œœœ œ œ œ3

pp

3

3

œ3 œ œ œœœ œ 42

3

&

42

∑

3

w w Œ ˙™

œ œ œ 2 œœœ3œ 4

3 œ œ œ œj œj œj œj J J J

sœur, Un au - tom - ne jon - ché de

˙˙ ˙˙

&

œ ˙˙ œ ˙ J. b˙ œ ‰ ‰ . .

∏∏∏∏∏∏

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

3

3

b 2 & b bb 4 Œ

{

∑

p

pp

˙ n ˙˙˙˙

˙ b n ˙˙˙˙

3

∏∏∏∏∏∏

œ œœ ˙ ‰ œ œ

? b b 44 Ó bb

6

{

∑

∏∏∏∏∏∏

{

∑

∏∏∏∏∏∏

bb & b b 44

3 j j j 45 # œ œ n œJ œ # œj œj œj # -œ

44

nœ

de ton œil an - gé - li - que Mon - te,

∑

45 Ó ™

Œ

Œ

∑

45 Ó ™

Œ

Œ

44

3

?

44

The second half at first follows the descent of the poem, moving toward the definitively falling vocal phrase of “creuse un froid sillon” in measure 25 (see ex. 13.3). But here the sudden shift of harmonic space seems to contradict the poetic idea: the sideways step to the bright C-major space and its foregrounded E♮ links back to the aspiration of the first half. The final line begins ambivalently, rocking between ascent and descent, and between C major and a move flatwards. The voice resolves the ambiguity with a striking ascent for the final syllables (“long rayon”) to end on a sustained upper E♭, beneath which the piano recalls the opening. As the poem closes with images of emptiness, the music offers the richest aural image of the entire song, with the sonic fullness

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Example 13.2. “Soupir,” mm. 13–15. 13

pp

bb4 & b b 4 œj

j œ

com - me

3

j j j œ œ œ

j œ

j j œ œ

j œ

dans un jar - din

mé - lan - co

. . . . . . . 3. . n œ . .3 . œ bb4 nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & b b 4 b˙˙˙ n œ b˙˙˙ n œ 3

{

3

pp

? b b 44 ˙˙ bb Œ

˙˙ Œ

œ

bœ .

œ .

3 15

bb &b b ˙ - dè

{

bb &b b

n œœ n œœ

pp

œ ? bb b b .

nœ

-

œ

-

-

œ œ œ b ˙˙ ™™ n œJ ‰ ˙˙ ™™ .

-

li

-

j ‰ œ

que,

Œ

‰

j nœ Fi -

. . . . . . . 3. . n œ . 3. . œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ n ww˙ ™ n œ 3

ww Œ

3

bœ .

Œ

œ -

œ

le,

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

of the voice, freed from syllabic declamation and held in the piano’s pentatonic plenitude. “Éventail,” the third of Debussy’s Trois poèmes, is no less concerned with the symmetrical movement of air, here explored as the gentle beating of a fan. This is one of many poems Mallarmé wrote quite literally on a fan, all of them linked by the recurrent metaphor of the fan as a wing (aile) whose movement summons an evanescent presence.7 With each in-stroke the fan brings cool air towards its holder, and with each out-stroke it delicately pushes away the horizon, like an extension of the inhaling and exhaling of the sigh. The poet, like the faun in L’après-midi d’un faune, seeks “to perpetuate”8 this vertiginous moment of presence, as brief as the flick of a fan, or the fleeting smile it hides, and Debussy’s setting of the poem is similarly characterized as the flight of an instant. The opening piano figure (see ex. 13.4) acts as a musical corollary for both the flicking open of the fan (mm. 1–3 and 12–14) and its closing (mm. 47–49). The first vocal stanza is breathless, spoken rather than sung, and highly chromatic. Its rapid syllabic patter, marked by only occasional longer durations to emphasize certain words (“rêveuse,” “sache”) is only faintly melodic. Taken together, all these elements make for a vocal beginning that is elusive, insubstantial, and hard to grasp.

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Example 13.3. “Soupir,” mm. 23–31. 23

&

bbbb

au Mouv t

3 3 j j j j j j j j j j nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

sur l’eau morte où la fauve a - go - nie

{

n -˙ ? b b n b ˙˙ bb

Des

œ

feuil - les erre

vent

et

œ˙˙

nœ

n bn ˙-˙˙

b ˙˙˙

p

? bb b b

j œ

œ

au

&

nœ

œ

j œ

œ

3

œ

œ

j œ

œ

3

œ

bœ

œ

j œ

3

œ

œ

# nn œœœ. n œ & # n œœ .

pp subito

3 3 3 3 j œœ œ œj œ œj œ œ œj œ 4 n œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ 3

3

bbbb

cédez

3

3

Plus lent

Œ

nœ

44 Ó

Œ

Se

b b œœœ &b b ? bb b b

&

bbbb

# nn ˙œ˙ œ J. . 3

3

j œ œ œ œ j œ œJ œ

&

œj n œœ.

3

œœ œ.

œœj œ.

œJ œ . . ‰

œ

so - leil jau

bbbb

œ

œ

- lon,

{

# n œœ. 43 n œ

un froid sil -

pp murmurando

26

{

creuse

p 3

j j œ œ n œj

43 n œ ™

j j j j nœ œ œ œ œ

3

œœ œ.

ne 3 œœj œœ œ. œ.

Œ

&

j 3 œœœ œœœ . .

3 44 œjœ œœ n œ. œ.

j 3 œœœ œœœ . .

44 -œ # œ˙

j ‰ bœ œ b œ˙ œ ˙

pp

3

traî

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j 3 œœœ œœœ . . j œœ

‰

j œ

ner

le

j 3 45 n œœœ œœœ . .

j 3 œœœ œœœ . .

45 # œ˙œ

-j œœ

Très retenu

29

43 œ d’un

œ long

ra

j 3 œ. 3œ. j 3 43 n œœœ œœœ œœ œœ n œœœ œœœ . . J . .

43 b œœ œ.

œ

44 w

œ -

44 b œœ. œJ

3

œœ. œ

œœ œ

. . œ. œ. œ œ. ‰ œ ppp

3

œœ n œ.

Ó

44 ˙˙ n˙ Œ

?

œ

ww www

3

. . . 3. . œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ˙ 3

œœ œ.

Œ

‰

yon.

pp

bb & b b b ˙˙˙ ™™™ ˙ ™

-

45 œ ™

www ww w

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Example 13.4. “Éventail,” mm. 1–3. Scherzando q=76 (Délicat et léger)

& 42

{

∑ œ bœbœ b œ b œ œ

2 &4 & 42 Œ

∑

p legg.

bœ

.j b œœ b ‰ b b œœ J.

∑ œ œ

più p

bœ bœ bœ

‰

.j œ nœ b œœ J.

œ œ

œ œ

Œ

‰

.j b œœ b œœJ .

?

While the second stanza, by contrast, is grounded by a stronger sense of meter with alternating chords imitating the to-and-fro movement of the fan, the third is far more mercurial, beginning with a cry in the voice (“Vertige!” mm. 25–26) as solid ground falls away to reveal an aerial passage in which the rapid pianissimo figures of the accompaniment buzz and whirr like electrical static (mm. 27–35), the quivering of the air of which the singer tells (see ex. 13.5). The fifth and final stanza will round out the song with the flicking shut of the fan (mm. 47–49) but not before the fourth takes a harmonic detour occasioned by “le paradis farouche,” to which Debussy responds by suspending the harmony with a pentatonic hiatus, based first on F (mm. 40–41) and then E♭ (mm. 42–43), as the voice draws out the sensual rhyme on “bouche” (see ex. 13.6). Mallarmé’s distillation of the fullness of the moment in Éventail is matched by the evanescent quality of Debussy’s music—improvisatory, skittish, and often unmeasured. Both poem and song hinge on the central cry of “Vertige!”—a transformative axis which initiates the dizzying shudder of space “like a great kiss born for nobody.”9 Debussy’s musical vertigo draws upon a recurrent topic of his music—ungrounded, bassless, and flighty, it evokes the same ungraspable quality of movement found in the Prélude “Les fées sont d’exquises danseuses,” with which the song is broadly contemporary. The final song of the triptych, it quite literally vanishes into thin air in its final measures: the closing of the fan is the closing of the poem, and with it the world (“doux et lointain,” m. 50) it had momentarily opened. Apart from the Trois poèmes, composed in 1913, Debussy made only one other setting of Mallarmé’s poetry—Apparition, composed nearly thirty years earlier, in 1884, when his youthful song writing was shaped around the very different poetry of Paul Bourget and Théodore de Banville.10 Despite the gap of almost three decades, the parallels between his settings of Apparition and “Soupir” are nevertheless striking, such that the latter song might easily be heard as a late reflection upon the earlier. There are a number of material points of contact, but what binds these songs together most powerfully is their

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chapter thirteen

Example 13.5. “Éventail,” mm. 25–31. 25

Rapide

&

# -œ R

‰™

Œ

# -œ

Ver

{

#œ

& mf

3

& # œR .

#œ nœ R.

nœ

œ

nœ

3

œ R.

3

bœ

œ bœ R.

-

ti

-

#œ

bœ

Mouv t

j #œ -

œ

∑

ge!

dim. molto

#œ

‰

œ

œ

#œ

œ

pp sempre legg.

#œ œ œ

#œ

œ œ œ

3

#œ R.

œ R.

œ R.

#œ R.

#œ

#œ

œ

œ

le chant doucement en dehors 28

&

j œ

‰

voi

{

& &

30

j #œ

ci

que

fris

œ nœ nœ

j nœ -

œ

j œ

ne

L’es

j #œ -

pa

‹œ #œ #œ

-

-

j nœ ce

#œ nœ nœ #œ

nœ

nœ

Mouv t

#œ J

œ J

j œ

un

grand

bai

#œ #œ # œ œ œ œ œ #œ

-

j #œ

#œ

cédez un peu

&

3

son

#œ #œ nœ

bœ

œ

comme

&

-

j œ

#œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ

& # œj

{

-

j œ

3

-

#œ

-

ser

œ œ œ œ

œ

#œ # œ œ ?

œ

bœ

approach to the same theme: the appearance of the beloved. As its title suggests, Apparition has to do with making present, with embodying presence; “Soupir,” by contrast, acknowledges that what is longed for does not appear. The langorous scene depicted at the start of Apparition is not so different from that at the start of “Soupir,” as the gaze of the lover rises to meet that of the beloved, but where in the latter it falls back, like the listless fountains, Apparition delivers presence with epiphanic intensity. “It was the blest day of your first kiss!”11 is delivered by the voice cascading down from a high A♭, followed by a similarly operatic outpouring in the piano (see ex. 13.7). After the allusive and ambivalent harmonic movement of the start of the song this

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Example 13.6. “Éventail,” mm. 37–43.

œ

& Œ

Sens

{

&

. œ b œ ™™™ b œœ ™

& ‰ Œ 40

r j œ œ

&

Ain - si

più p

?

˙ ˙˙

∏∏∏∏∏

{

. & j ˙œ˙ œ

?

‰

œ R

-

. œj

œ œ‰

. œj

œ‰ œ

-

b œJ .

r r œ œ œR

qu’un rire

j Ϫ

r œ

r œ

tu

le

pa - ra - dis

n ## œœœ

&

en - se - ve

-

r r œ #œ fa

œ . œ

œ J

œ J

li

Se

cou

. œ

. œ ˙˙

˙

˙ ˙˙

. œ

˙

œ -

bœ . 3

œ . œ

-

ler

3

œ J

œ

rou

œ # œœ

œœ ™™ œ™

n ˙˙ b ˙œ

œ R

r œ

-

-

œ‰ œ

. œj

‰

. œ b œ ™™™ b œœ ™

œ J

du coin

che

. œj

œ œ‰

?

3

œ J

œ J

œ

de

ta

bou

. j ˙œ ˙ œ

. œ

. œ ˙˙

˙ b b ˙˙

˙

˙ ˙˙

∏∏∏∏∏

37

œ -

che

. œ

˙

moment of presence is marked by the first authentic perfect cadence, in G-flat major, underscored by a fulsome piano texture (m. 14). The passage that follows (from m. 25), moves from the declamatory tone of recollection to a fullness of voice almost overdetermined for a mélodie, underpinned with a sense of harmonic desire and direction that builds to an epiphanic moment—“when, with the sun in your hair, in the street, and in the evening, laughing, you appeared to me.”12 Debussy sets the phrase “Tu m’es en riant apparue” tumbling from a high A♭ but then departs from Mallarmé’s text by repeating the word “apparue,” taking the voice to a climactic high C and then letting it fall back in a melismatic cascade (see ex. 13.8). The appearance of presence is thus affirmed with maximal vocal intensity. Nothing, surely, could be further from the mournful fall of the fountain in “Soupir.” Or could it? It is well known that Debussy wrote this song for the singer Marie-Blanche Vasnier with whom he was at the time infatuated,13 and his demand in Apparition for the singer’s embodied jouissance was undoubtedly a way of choreographing through musical performance the fullness he craved beyond music. And “the fairy capped with light”14 was surely herself the dedicatee of the volume of thirteen songs he gave Madame Vasnier in 1885

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chapter thirteen

Example 13.7. Apparition, mm. 7–16. pp un peu retenu

(Andantino)

# # 93 & # # /8 4 0 n œ ™

7

‰ n œj n œj b œ n œ n œJ J J

doigts,

{

“ nœ œ œ # # # # 9 3 b œ n œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ b œ œ œ 4 8 & / 0 nœ œ œ (pp) nœ™ nœ™ b n n ˙˙˙ ™™™ ? # # # # 98 43 Œ ™ / 0 n˙™ œœ ™™ b ˙™

## & ## œ

10

j œ ‰

-o

{

dans le cal - me des

-

## j & # # n œœœ ™™ œ œ™ ? ####

2

les

j œœœ ™™ œ œ™

Ϊ

Ϊ

>œ >œ 2 > ‰ J J œJ C’é - tait le

œœœ œœ œœ

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

{

œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ bb & b b b b œœœ œ œ œœ œ œœœ œ ? bb b b bb

œœœ

j bœ ‰ ‰ -

ses,

‰ ‰ œj œj œj œj œj œj œj

b n œœ

œœ œœ n œ b œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ nœ œ œ ™ b œ nœ™ bœ ™ b n n ˙˙˙ ™™™ Œ™ ˙˙ ™™ œœ ™™ -œ. J n œJ

glis - sant

nœ J

sur

œ J

l’a - zur

ti - raient de mou - ran - tes vi-

© j œ œ n œœœ ™™™

j œœœ ™™ n œ œ™

# œœœœ œ œœ œ

Œ™ n ˙˙ ™™

Ϫ

™ n œœœ ™™ œœ ™™

j œ # œj des

bbb j œ ‰ ‰ bbb

˙™

co - rol

-

#œ œ nœ œ # œ œ œ n œ n œ œœ œ œ œœ bn œœ n œ œœ œœ n œœ œ œ œ nœ œ n œœ ™ œ™

2

bb & b b bb

fleurs va - po - reu

n -œ. J

De blancs san - glots

n ˙˙ ™™

13

-œ.

j j2 œ œ œ J

nœ nœ j J J nœ œ ™

œ

&

œœ # œœ

n bnn œœœœ n n œœœœ J

>œ 2 > >œ J œJ

jour bé - ni

œœ œœ Œ ˙™

j ‰ ‰ n b œœœœ œœœ ™™ œ nœ J

œ

Ϫ

de

ton

œ J

œ œ J J

?

les.

bbbbbb

∑ n ˙˙˙ ™™™

œœ œ

˙

pre - mier bai - ser.

‰ bbbbbb

43

Œ

© œœ œ b œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ 3 œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ b n œœœ œ n œ œœ œ œœ œ b œœ œ œ 4 œ ˙ œ œ œ n ˙ ˙ j œœ 3 ‰ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œœœ œ ˙ œ & œ 4 bœ œ “

before leaving for Rome, a book whose title page bore the dedication: “To Madame Vasnier. These songs which lived only through her, and which will lose their charming grace if ever they no longer pass through her melodious fairy mouth. The eternally grateful author. ACD.”15 One might draw an obvious conclusion: in Apparition, the twenty-two-year old composer, in love with the beautiful soprano he cannot have, writes a song which nevertheless conjures her bodily presence; three decades later, in “Soupir,” the fifty-oneyear-old (locked into a now unhappy marriage with another soprano) recalls wistfully a fullness of presence he no longer experiences. One could easily line up the songs against Debussy’s biography in that way. But a closer reading of

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Example 13.8. Apparition, mm. 29–41. 29

& œj

j œ

J’er - rais

{

œ

j œ

j œ

donc,

l’œil

ri

& œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ?

- li

j œ

vé

sur

le

pa - vé

3 œ b œj j œj œ œ b œJ œ J J J

Quand

œ

œ vieil

-

a - vec du

crescendo et toujours plus animé

Ϫ

œ bœ J J

˙

so - leil aux che - veux,

dans la

bœ J

rue

œ œJ J

et dans le

& œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ b œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ b b œœ b œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? Œ b ˙˙ ™™ 36

&

b ˙˙

Œ b ˙˙ ™™

˙

bœ

bœ J

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the music presents something far more contradictory and of much greater interest. Mallarmé composed these two poems within a few months of each other, suggesting a close kinship; that Debussy set them thirty years apart betokens less a sense of distance than a sense of return, an idea reinforced by the intriguing suggestion that, at the time he was working on the Trois poèmes, Debussy was also sketching a new setting of Apparition. The evidence is a notebook from 1913, now sadly lost, that contained sketches for both.16 It was not unusual for Debussy to return to a poetic text to make a second song setting—witness, for example, his two settings of Verlaine’s “En sourdine” and “Clair de lune” in 1882 and 1892.17 We might reasonably assume, however, that the gap between the two settings of Apparition would have been the greatest. That said, there is no simple trajectory here from lyrical fullness to declamatory sparseness, and neither biography (youthful effusion to middleage reserve) nor style history (romantic expression to modernist detachment) provides a wholly adequate account. Debussy’s early songs are no less concerned with an aesthetics of absence than the later works—witness the sense of quiet rapture in musical non-events evoked in “Romance” and “Regret” (written in 1884 to texts by Paul Bourget), and in En sourdine and “C’est l’extase” (Verlaine). From this point of view, Debussy’s settings of Apparition and Soupir, written thirty years apart, bookend a corpus of songs with a constantly recurring theme: the cultivation of emptiness as the flipside of an ecstatic plenitude.

Saying Nothing Preoccupied with thin air and cultivating the edges of silence, Debussy’s Mallarmé songs offer intriguing examples of the capacity of music “to say nothing.” In this, they are clearly part of a wider movement, explored so acutely by Katherine Bergeron as the “unsinging of the mélodie française,” in Fauré, Debussy, Ravel and Reynaldo Hahn, “a repertoire that appeared to have almost nothing to say,”18 a refined and articulate vocal art form that is, paradoxically, “presque sans voix.”19 In “La flûte de Pan,” the first of the Chansons de Bilitis, the young girl declaims simply, “we are so close that we have nothing to say to one another,” a statement that is emblematic, Bergeron suggests, of cultivating a fullness of presence by not speaking—or rather, speaking, but saying nothing.20 It is the paradox of saying nothing that I want to explore here—not the idea of nothing itself, nor that of silence, nor the unsayable, but rather a palpably audible and articulate musical saying, a sonorous voicing of nothing. It is of course an aesthetic that characterises Debussy’s work more generally, as was often noted disparagingly by his contemporaries. The French critic Edmond Stoullig, for example, wrote after a concert in March 1913, which included some of the second book of Préludes, that the first piece (“Bruyères”) “contains

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nothing at all; the second, ‘Feuilles mortes,’ not much more. . .”21 Adorno would later remark that, in Debussy’s music, “everything seems to be a prelude [. . .] the overture to musical fulfilment [. . .] which never arrives.”22 Debussy may not have welcomed the implication of such remarks, but we might understand them as the flipside of what he quite deliberately cultivated within his music, summed up in his comment about trying to portray Mélisande musically: “I have spent days in pursuit of the ‘nothing’ she is made of.”23 Understanding this “nothing” as something of high value in Debussy’s music, rather than in the pejorative way in which Edmond Stoullig doubtless intended it, has shaped a certain reception of Debussy’s music ever since the première of Pelléas et Mélisande in 1902. It has often been noted that in Maeterlinck’s play Debussy found his perfect libretto in a theatre of non-event whose drama emerges from the silences between characters and from the gaps within its language.24 But if Maeterlinck’s cultivation of silence seems like an odd strategy for a writer, it was of course not a call to cease writing or speaking. On the contrary, Maeterlinck’s point was that only through the framing activity of what is said does silence become audible;25 in his own words, “the words that we let fall have no meaning apart from the silence that wraps them round.”26 Characters speak in Maeterlinck’s plays, just as they sing in Debussy’s opera, but, as Patrick McGuinness puts it, “dialogue is valid predominantly in so far as it advertises the unspoken or unspeakable, alluding to the ever present, incoherent, unformulated, voiceless world beneath it.”27 Such a use of language, he continues, “implies both the absent (what language leaves out) and the omnipresent (what language is none the less always about) [. . .] The unspoken governs, shapes, and confers meaning on the language that tries to exclude it.”28 The same idea finds a wonderfully clear embodiment in the work of Auguste Rodin, a contemporary of Mallarmé, Debussy, and Maeterlinck. La cathédrale (1908) is one of his best known sculptures: a larger than lifesize study of two right hands, on the verge of touching at the very edge of the fingertips. But it is the space between the hands, the “nothing” that they bound, that is as much the content of the work as the hands themselves—the charged space framed by the cathedral-like Gothic arch that they form. La cathédrale makes palpable an art that frames an empty space and, in that sense, “says nothing.” Moreover, in its three-dimensional and solid presence, Rodin’s sculpture reminds us that such an aesthetic does not necessarily lead to a kind of art in opposition to its own materiality. On the contrary, it makes its own medium more vivid and particular, precisely because it draws attention to its edges. In Mallarmé, the edge of language is vertiginous: thrilling and terrifying at the same time, it induces a moment of shudder. In Éventail, the stanza beginning “Vertige!” divides the poem like a sharp edge between the first two stanzas and the last two, separating before and after with a single, freestanding exclamation. It signals a quivering of the space between things, between language

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and the infinity of the alingusitic world. Debussy, as we have seen, responds with an arresting cry in the vocal line, followed by the kind of rapid chromatic murmuring in the piano he so often associates with the ungraspable movement of wind or water.29 Of course, every song stages a certain vertige, because every song induces a gentle dislocation of the linguistic mind by opening up a non-identity between words and music, a dynamic space created by the crosscurrents of signification and sense, the denotative function of language and the sensuous aspect of sound. But Debussy’s Mallarmé songs foreground the idea in particularly acute ways, since both poet and composer explore the dizziness provoked by this moment of cognitive dissonance, a sense of precarious rapture at the cliff edge of language. Vladimir Jankélévitch discusses the idea as “le surgissement de l’instant,” a sudden foregrounding of the moment that leaps out of the temporal continuity of music. It can do so, he suggests, only by means of the gaps, the tears and fractures in the musical surface—which is to say that it needs silence in order to appear.30 Or, to borrow a resonant phrase from Merleau-Ponty, “the force of being is supported by the frailty of the nothingness which is its accomplice.”31 Writing about Mallarmé, Paul Valéry asked what it is that poems tell us: “They tell us, perhaps, that they have nothing to tell us; that, by the very means which usually tell us something, they are exercising a quite different function. They act on us like a chord of music.”32 The so-called musicalization of language at the heart of Symbolist poetry involved a radical repurposing of language, a disruption within literature of the function of everyday words in order to make them say something different by revealing their own edges, but the relation between a musicalized poetry and actual music was complex. Mallarmé resisted vigorously what he saw as a total capitulation of poetry to music. For him, the musicalization of poetry was an attempt to reclaim a neglected aspect of poetry itself, not a move towards the quite separate art of music. In his lecture “Music and Letters,” given in 1893, he set out his vision of the relationship between the two arts.33 Poetry, he wrote, is a setting free (“from a handful of dust or reality”) “the spirit which has nothing to do with anything except for the musicality of everything.”34 Poetry liberates the world from being reduced to a world of things by means of its dispersion volatile, a dissipation of the boundaries of things which everyday language creates but which poetic language dissolves, resulting in an absence of the signifieds implied by the signifiers. The principal mover of poetry is thus, in Mallarmé’s terms, a “nothing at all” but which is also everything.35 “Nothingness,” in Mallarmé’s construction, is thus a condition of “no-thing-ness,” not the constrictive division of the world into things, but rather the infinite richness of connections between things—what he calls the “musicality of everything.” The poet’s task lies in seeing and making connections “at the intersections of things” and poetry, the “arabesque that links them,” is characterized by “dizzying leaps.”36

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The dialogue of music and language is thus, for Mallarmé, something internal to poetry itself where it takes place between the sonic, sensuous, and “musical” aspects of words and the grammatical, semantic, and signifying aspects of language. For that reason, poetry has no need of the noisy art of music itself.37 But that begs a larger question about the relation between language and the real art of music, one that becomes pressing in the case of Debussy, whose song texts are drawn overwhelmingly from those poets who epitomized the musicalization of poetry: Baudelaire, Banville, Verlaine, Mallarmé. If such poetry already moves to the edge of language, what is the result of it being brought into contact with music as song? Moreover, what happens when these poems were set by a composer who, in parallel to the literary project of Symbolism, sought ways to set music against itself, to gently loosen its grammatical order the better to recapture its sensual aspect? Debussy’s Mallarmé songs thus give us cause to reapproach the relationship between words and music and to address a problem Elizabeth McCombie lamented some years ago, that “in both disciplines, writing about the meetings of text and music has largely been beset by a naïve mimetic model of the inter-art relationship.”38 On one level, this suggests a refreshing way to think about what happens in songs—not as music merely heightening the sense of the words, but rather as a dynamic relation in which the apparent postulation of meaning in one medium is continually refracted by the other in an infinite displacement of signification. Peter Dayan, in his discussion of the relation between Mallarmé’s poetry and Debussy’s music, sums it up thus: “Crudely put, from the poet’s point of view, art is not meaning, therefore it must be music. But music without meaning would be unarticulated; therefore it could not be written. What is needed is a dynamic that allows for the constant articulated vanishing of meaning. For that, both music and poetry are necessary, so that each can look toward the other and project thither that vanishing.”39 For Dayan, the critique of representation in both poetry and music underlines the fictive nature of art, and in Mallarmé and Debussy it is self-consciously so—witness Debussy’s famous “art is the most beautiful deception.”40 But art does not reveal itself as fiction as a kind of salutary moral. Rather, by opening up gaps within itself, art makes its own inadequacy a kind of springboard into what is not articulated. The “nothing” that is said is thus not the content, nor even the absence of content, but a threshold. The simple movement of the air in Éventail and of the fountain in Soupir, and the wasted breath of Placet futile are all, outwardly, versions of saying nothing.41 But the business of these poems, heard in the context of Debussy’s music, is precisely to frame such emptiness as the threshold of appearance (Apparition). Debussy may have later shied away from the epiphanic intensity of presence staged in his early Mallarmé setting, but he never lost interest in conjuring the presence, in the musical play of sound and silence, of “the fairy

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capped with light”—witness not just the evanescent figures of “Éventail” but all the fairy creatures of the piano Préludes, both aerial and aquatic, figures that Jankélévitch refers to as “Mélisandes of tulle, of muslin and mist.”42 Debussy’s musical interest lies here not only in “le pianissimo sonore” but also in “la matière vibrante”43—the afterlife of sounds as resonance, hence the importance of the performance direction “laissez vibrer” (a listening for presence in absence). And here lies an explanation as to why Debussy’s career was marked by such a huge corpus of unfinished and unrealized theatre projects,44 because his art is concerned equally with the urge to embody, to make appear, as with its failure—that is to say, with the displacement of the kind of material appearance that the theatre requires. The one opera he did complete is famously about staging “nothing,” whose climax is marked by silence, non-event, and the absence of fulfillment. His early work on Pelléas overlapped with the completion of the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, a project which, as David Code points out, had its genesis in several layers of failed theatrical versions,45 beginning in 1865 with a verse drama on the model of Théodore de Banville’s Diane au Bois, the very same that Debussy was trying to turn into an opera twenty years later—a project he eventually abandoned because, according to Arthur Wenk, he had yet to master a musical language that would match the “emptiness” of Banville’s poem.46

Laissez vibrer : The Resonant Gap If Mallarmé and Debussy both wrestled with the presentation of something characterized by its absence it is hardly surprising that the language of criticism has struggled to do justice to their respective arts. Debussy frequently warned of the dangers of talking about music, and his writings are full of swipes at the “idiocy” of those who try to do so.47 His contemporary Marcel Proust echoed a similar sentiment. In Le temps retrouvé, Proust scorned the musicologist, who, refusing sensuous immediacy in the name of erudite commentary, “spends his life going from one concert to the next, embittered and unsatisfied as his hair turns grey and he enters an unfruitful old age, the celibate bachelor of art.”48 For both Debussy and Proust, the very term “musicologist” must have sounded like a suspicious neologism. It was just as Debussy composed his setting of Apparition, in the mid-1880s, that Guido Adler was sketching out the foundational outline for the historical and systematic study of music.49 And it was just as Debussy turned to compose the Trois poèmes that, following the death of Ferdinand de Saussure the same year, his pupils collected his lecture notes for the posthumous publication of his Course in General Linguistics.50 The synchronicity is striking: just as music and poetry foregrounded the idea of the unsayable, musicology was founded on quite different models drawn from the empirical sciences.

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One might reasonably suggest that it could not be otherwise. After all, how can musicology (discourse about music) be built around the gap between music and language, sense and signification? And yet that is precisely the concern of Mallarmé’s poetry, and precisely what is amplified by the relation of music and words in Debussy’s setting of that poetry. The gap explored there is not a gap in the sense of a divide that cuts one off from the other, but a gap that is constitutive of the two modalities that it divides. It is surely one task of musicology to open up this vertiginous gap, to make it resonate within its own discursive language, rather than to use the latter to close it down. With that in mind, I turn back to Debussy’s Mallarmé songs. Earlier, I avoided discussing “Placet futile,” the middle song of the Trois poèmes. This also has to do with the movement of air (the wasted breath of the lover’s petition) but it works in a very different way to the two outer songs, through an ironic treatment of historically distanced stylistic materials.51 Nevertheless, it offers a fascinating reflection on the wider theme of the set. Mallarmé’s poem can be read not merely as the futile petition of the lover who speaks without hope of success, but also as a meditation on the petition of language to “la Musique” (the silent musicality of everything).52 Debussy’s song takes up this petition but reframed in the context of “la musique” (the sonorous kind). Mallarmé’s mute and untouchable “Princesse” is distanced by means of archaic imagery and a highly stylized poetic language, to which Debussy responds with an eighteenth-century menuet (“doux et gracieux”) whose harmonic language inclines to a pre-modern modality. “La Musique” / la Princesse keeps her silence—her gaze is “closed” for the petitioning poet (“sur moi je sais ton regard clos tombé”)—a self-containment reflected in passages of parallel chords that merely circle around themselves (as in mm. 4–5). The sonnet form has a built-in intensification in its second half, as the two fourline stanzas are followed by two three-line ones, each of which begins with the imperative “Nommez nous. . .,” but Debussy’s music increases the degree to which this occurs in the poem. Thus, in measures 20–23, the vocal part reaches the peak of its intensity and urgency, rising from a low D to a threefold repetition of a high G to F (see ex. 13.9). This is underpinned with a crescendo, and a slight acceleration in tempo, with the whole tercet delivered without a break to create an expression of desire, in and of language, to reach across the gap that separates it from its object. If that sounds very much like the figure of the faun, the reference is further underlined by what happens next. Debussy cuts off the urgency of the singing voice with a sudden ritardando and diminuendo (marked with an arresting double slash in the score) before returning, equally abruptly, to the calm of the opening material, now slipped a semitone into G-flat (m. 24), for the setting of the second tercet. Where the first tercet was given, breathlessly, in a mere four measures, Debussy takes an expansive ten measures (five of them at a slower tempo) for the second.

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Nommez nous. . .pour qu’Amour ailé d’un éventail M’y peigne flûte aux doigts endormant ce bercail Princesse, nommez nous berger de vos sourires. [Appoint us. . .so that Love winged with a fan / may paint me there, flute in my hand, lulling the lambs to sleep / Princess, appoint us shepherd of your smiles.]

The second line provokes two extraordinary measures, the like of which has not been heard in this song—a contained pentatonic space on G♭, built over an open fifth in the bass, complete with “flute” trills and ending with a rapid, evanescent upward gesture that literally disappears into silence. In Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune the flute is music, and here too it provides a sonic correlate of the poet’s dream of the intimacy with “La Princesse” for which he petitions. Momentarily, the wasted breath of his futile words becomes the fulfilled breath of the flute’s musical plenitude (signalled by the appearance of the pentatonic harmony here). By means of this threshold moment, the song reaches the final line of the poem. Once again Debussy’s music exceeds the cultivated absence of the words: the vocal line rises to a long upper E♮ (pp) for the middle syllable of the final word (“sourires”)—recalling the sustained E♭ with which the voice closes “Soupir”—and thus momentarily delivers an aural image of the presence for which the words petition. The piano, meanwhile, echoes the voice’s pentatonic ascent in a series of grace-note figures (pp, rapide et léger), anticipating the figure that begins the next song and underlining musically the poetic link between “Amour ailé d’un éventail” in the last tercet of Placet futile and the setting of Éventail which follows. The central song of Debussy’s triptych thus reflects, in an ironic and distanced manner, on the essential gap between words and music. We might hear both “Soupir” and “Éventail,” likewise, in terms of the gap rendered by a recurrent misalignment of words and music.53 Look again at “Soupir.” If you read the poem and then play the song, it is hard not to be struck by how the piano introduction completely changes the poem: where the words build a fragile arc line by line, the piano presents at once (as resonant sonority and pentatonic containment) the plenitude to which the poem aspires but will not reach. It anticipates the way Debussy sets “un long rayon” at the end of the poem, thus collapsing the song into a single sonority, whereas Mallarmé’s arch form reaches upward only to collapse, a gesture of failure that preserves the purity of its vision. A reader unsympathetic to Debussy’s music might conclude that it had somehow betrayed the poem by realizing what in the poem is necessarily only glimpsed. But perhaps that would be to misread and mishear what this song does—song, after all, is made precisely from the interference pattern between the absence conferred by the words and the presence conferred by the music.

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In “Soupir” that interference pattern arises from the careful misalignment of voice and piano. After the opening alternation of solo piano and unaccompanied voice, they join on the last word of a line, not the first (“soeur”); when they join up again, after the unaccompanied third line, the piano is delayed until after the first word of the fourth line (“Monte”). A sense of constantly oscillating between two things is heard in several ways—in Debussy’s hallmark figure of rocking between two parallel chords (as in mm. 9–10 and 13–17); in the juxtaposition of clear metrical patterning with free, unmeasured passages; in alternating between declamatory and melodic uses of the voice (for example, mm. 13–14 as compared to m. 15); and in the contrast between the apparent absence of harmonic direction with moments of fulsome tonal presence. A definitive misalignment is found at the centre of the song. It is not that Debussy is insensitive to Mallarmé’s syntax or poetic structure; indeed, a number of commentators have drawn attention to how Debussy’s setting makes clearer the complex structure of the poem.54 It is, rather, that the music seems to take a different direction from the poem. Thus, from m. 18, the music takes off with new energy, conferred by the clear tonal function of the harmony, the burgeoning texture of the piano writing and a slightly faster tempo. Not only does the music have a sense of direction and substance that has eluded it thus far, it thereby promises an arrival, a moment of appearance (and here, there are strong parallels with the setting of Apparition thirty years earlier). All well and good, except that this is the very moment in Mallarmé’s poem when ascent turns into descent and the aspiration toward presence falls away. It is a striking misalignment but not a misreading; it is, rather, a playing out of the divergent tendencies of music and words. The same idea is carried through to the closing section. This seems like it will end with the subdued murmuring passage in measures 23–24, but the low point of the poetic phrase (“creuse un froid sillon”) receives a musical response that takes it in a quite different direction. With the harmonic sidestep to the open fifth C/G, Debussy creates a space that is neither logically prepared by the measures before it nor suggested by the poetic text. Coupled with the melodic emphasis of the word “creuse,” the music thus momentarily delivers the appearance of something the poem images only as absence—a heterotopic space, outside of both the space of the poem, and, until this point, also of the music. The voice, as we noted earlier, ends by transforming the final syllable of “un long rayon” into the pure sonority of the held E♭. To end my discussion there, with Debussy’s resonant sonority, would be to side with the presence of music, which is not my point at all. It is precisely the gap, the misalignment that interests me here—a very concrete example of Derridean différance, understood not as a concept, but as an active practice of reading. I wrote earlier about the song being articulate of this gap

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precisely because of its articulated nature, its being a jointing of two separate parts. In Of Grammatology, Derrida has a subsection titled “The Hinge” (La brisure), a metaphor founded on the idea of doubleness, of both the break or gap between two things and their hinged articulation.55 The fan is similarly jointed and the French word “Éventail” no less amenable to a rich set of lexical resonances.56 Mallarmé’s other Éventail, the one “pour Madame Mallarmé” from 1890, closes with an image of the fan, perfectly poised between the hands of its holder: “Toujours tel il apparaisse / Entre tes mains sans paresse.” But appearance here is in the subjunctive—expressing the sense that it might take place. And since appearance in Mallarmé is only ever in the subjunctive, what are we to make of Debussy’s fulsome setting of Apparation? Listening to the song, one surely has the sense, momentarily, that the beloved really does appear? Derrida warns us that “the hinge [brisure] marks the impossibility that a sign, the unity of a signifier and a signified, be produced within the plenitude of a present and an absolute presence. That is why there is no full speech, however much one might wish to restore it.”57 But music, we want to retort, surely promises just this restoration—no less a writer than Proust, after all, powerfully affirms as much at key moments of his magnum opus.58 Debussy’s Mallarmé songs are perhaps emblematic of this defining contradiction that, on the one hand, art is mere appearance (a copy of the deceptive surface of things) and, on the other, promises to make something appear, to render present something hitherto absent. Of course, there was no light-capped fairy dropping stars from her hands, in the same way that there was no sigh nor any fountain, no “Princesse,” and the (non-existent) faun encountered no nymphs. But the “beautiful lie” nevertheless takes place: it appears, and makes present. The poem (by means of a use of language dissolved from its everyday function) and the music (by means of sounds which refuse any direct parallel to the words they carry) together afford an epiphanic encounter that could not otherwise have taken place. It does so, as song, in the articulated gap between the two.59 Every song is a hinge, the articulated joint of a double-door, a “double session” of two juxtaposed texts,60 a mise en abîme in which the nonidentical reflection of the words in the music, and the music in the words, sets up a dynamic process without end. Debussy’s settings of Mallarmé are not unique in this respect, but they foreground the idea in particularly acute ways, playing with the vertiginous groundlessness they reveal at the edges of poetic and musical language. In this, they challenge the discourses we bring to them. Contemporary with the foundational moments of musicology, these songs question the way in which the neologism formed of mousikē and logos closes the very gap it might reveal.

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Appendix 13.1. Song texts and translations Soupir Mon âme vers ton front où reve, ô calme soeur, Un automne jonché de taches de rousseur, Et vers le ciel errant de ton oeil angélique, Monte, comme dans un jardin mélancolique, Fidèle, un blanc jet d’eau soupire vers l’Azur! – Vers l’Azur attendri d’Octobre pâle et pur Que mire aux grands bassins sa langueur infinie: Et laisse, sur l’eau morte où la fauve agonie Des feuilles erre au vent et creuse un froid sillon, Se traîner le soleil jaune d’un long rayon.

Sigh My soul rises toward your brow where autumn teeming with russet tinges, my calm sister, lingers dreaming, toward the wandering sky of your angelic eyes where a fountain of white water faithfully sighs, as in some mournful garden, reaching toward the Blue! – toward October’s pitying Blue, pale and true, which mirrors in broad pools its endless lethargy and on dead water where a fulvid agony

Éventail O rêveuse, pour que je plonge Au pur délice sans chemin, Sache, par un subtil mensonge, Garder mon aile dans ta main.

Fan Dreamer, that I may plunge in sweet and pathless pleasure, understand how, by ingenious deceit, To keep my wing within your hand.

Une fraîcheur de crépuscule Te vient à chaque battement Dont le coup prisonnier recule L’horizon délicatement.

A coolness of the evening air is reaching you at every beat; its captive stroke with delicate care drives the horizon to retreat.

Vertige! voici que frissonne L’espace comme un grand baiser Qui, fou de naître pour personne, Ne peut jaillir ni s’apaiser

Dizziness! space is quivering, see! like one immense kiss which, insane at being born for nobody, can neither spurt up nor abstain.

Sens-tu le paradis farouche Ainsi qu’un rire enseveli Se couler du coin de ta bouche Au fond de l’unanime pli!

Feel how the untamed Eden slips like a buried smile of caprice down from the corner of your lips deep into the unanimous crease.

of leaves drifts windtossed and ploughs a chill furrow, may let the yellow sun trail in a long lingering ray.

(continued)

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Appendix 13.1.—(concluded) Le sceptre des rivages roses Stagnants sur les soirs d’or, ce l’est, Ce blanc vol fermé que tu poses Contre le feu d’un bracelet.

The sceptre of shores tinged with rose stagnant on golden waning days is this, a white flight which you close and set against a bracelet’s blaze.

Apparition La lune s’attristait. Des séraphins en pleurs Rêvant, L’archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleurs Vaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violes De blancs sanglots glissant sur l’azur des corolles – C’était le jour béni de ton premier baiser. Ma songerie aimant à me martyriser

Apparition The moon grew sad. Seraphim in tears, dreaming, bows poised, amid the stillness of the steaming blossoms, derived from moribund violas white sobs that slid across azure corollas – it was the blessed day of your first kiss.

S’enivrait savamment du parfum de tristesse Que même sans regret et sans déboire laisse La cueillaison d’un Rêve au coeur qui l’a cuelli. J’errais donc, l’oeil rivé sur le pavé vieilli Quand avec du soleil aux cheveux, dans la rue Et dans le soir, tu m’es en riant apparue Et j’ai cru voir la fée au chapeau de clarté Qui jadis sur mes beaux sommeils d’enfant gâté Passait, laissant toujours de ses mains mal fermées Neiger de blancs bouquets d’étoiles parfumées.

Daydreams that took delight tormenting me grew wisely drunk on scents of sorrow, free from pang or taste of anything amiss, left for the reaping heart by the reaped Reverie. My eyes stared down at the old pavement while I roamed, when, with hair sunlit, with a smile you appeared in the street and in the night; I thought I saw the fairy capped with light who through my spoiled-child’s sleep in former days used to pass, while her half-closed hands always dropped snows of scented stars in white bouquets.

Note: All translations of Mallarmé’s poetry used here are those by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore in Stéphane Mallarmé: Collected Poems and Other Verse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

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Notes 1.

Debussy’s Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé were composed at the same time as Ravel’s work of the same title, both composers presumably responding to the publication of Mallarmé’s Œuvres complètes in 1913. It is striking that, in selecting just three poems each, the two composers chose two in common (Soupir and Éventail). 2. In order to avoid confusion, I use italics to refer to Mallarmé’s poem (Soupir) and quotation marks to refer to Debussy’s song (“Soupir”). 3. I am by no means the first to point out many of the features of this song. See Arthur B. Wenk, Claude Debussy and the Poets (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 243–71. For an excellent comparative analysis of Debussy’s musical response to the syntactical and semantic qualities of Mallarmé’s Soupir and Apparition see Marie Rolf, “Semantic and Structural Issues in Debussy’s Mallarmé Songs,” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 179–200. Marianne Wheeldon analyses “Soupir” in relation to a Boulezian idea of permutational form in “Debussy’s ‘Soupir’: An Experiment in Permutational Analysis,” Perspectives of New Music 38, no. 2 (2000): 134–60. Elizabeth McCombie discusses Debussy’s settings of Soupir and Éventail in chapter 4 of Mallarmé and Debussy: Unheard Music, Unseen Text (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2003). 4. Rolf, “Semantic and Structural Issues,” 192–96. 5. Rolf traces out this rising and falling arch form in a diagram. See her figure 8.4 in “Semantic and Structural Issues,” 194. 6. Rolf reads a harmonic symmetry in the A♭ to E move in the first half of the song being mirrored by the symmetrical motion from A♭ to C in the second half of the piece. The resulting augmented triad (symmetrical in itself) also gives the pitches for the setting of “Fidèle” in m. 15. See Rolf, “Semantic and Structural Issues,” 198. 7. The poem set by Debussy dates from 1884 and was a gift from Mallarmé to his twenty-year-old daughter Geneviève. In the collected works the poem has the title Autre éventail to distinguish it from the poem dedicated to Mallarmé’s wife in 1890. The opening of the poem is a reference to Geneviève’s pet name, “La Rêveuse” (the dreamer). Debussy dedicated his Trois poèmes “to the memory of Stéphane Mallarmé and in most respectful homage to Madame E. Bonniot (née G. Mallarmé).” 8. “Ces nymphes, je les veux perpétuer” is the opening line of Mallarmé’s poem. 9. “voici que frissonne / L’espace comme un grand baiser.” 10. Mallarmé’s Apparition dates from 1863, the same period in which he wrote both Soupir and Placet futile, but it was not published until November 1883, in Paul Verlaine’s essay on Mallarmé published in the journal Lutèce (November 24–30, 1883): 2. This was only the second of Mallarmé’s poems to be published. 11. “C’était le jour béni de ton premier baiser!” 12. “Quand avec du soleil aux cheveux, dans la rue / Et dans le soir, tu m’es en riant apparue.”

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13. Margaret Cobb calls Blanche Vasnier the composer’s “first great love” and cites her as the inspiration for most of his early songs. See Margaret C. Cobb, The Poetic Debussy: A Collection of His Song Texts and Selected Letters (Boston: Northwestern University Press, 1982), xvii. See also David Grayson, “‘Paysage sentimental’: ‘Si doux, si triste, si dormant’” (chapter 4 of this volume). 14. “la fée au chapeau de clarté” 15. “À Madame Vasnier. Ces chansons qui n’ont jamais vécu que par elle, et qui perdront leur grace charmeresse, si jamais plus elles ne passent par sa bouche de fée mélodieuse. L’auteur éternellement reconnaissant. ACD.” See Cobb, The Poetic Debussy, xviii. The so-called “Vasnier songbook” does not include Apparition, despite it being written a year earlier, nor was it published during Debussy’s lifetime. See also Grayson, chapter 4 of this volume. 16. See Cobb, The Poetic Debussy, 75, and Rolf, “Semantic and Structural Issues,” 191. Debussy also quotes from the text of Apparition in two letters from this time. See Cobb, The Poetic Debussy, 220. 17. For a discussion of the latter see Roger Nichols, “Debussy’s Two Settings of ‘Clair de Lune,’” Music and Letters 48 (1967): 229–35. Also Julian Johnson, “Present Absence: Debussy, Song, and the Art of (Dis)Appearing,” 19th-Century Music 40, no. 3 (2017): 239–56. 18. Katherine Bergeron, Voice Lessons: French Mélodie in the Belle Epoque (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 181, viii., viii. 19. This is Debussy’s performance direction to the singer for the final line of “La flûte de Pan.” 20. Bergeron, Voice Lessons, 170. 21. Edmond Stoullig, writing in Le monde artiste. See Léon Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps (Paris, 1958), 393–94. 22. Theodor W. Adorno, Philosophy of Modern Music, trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Sheed and Ward, 1987), 188. 23. Letter to Ernest Chausson, end of January/beginning of February, 1894. See C, 189. 24. Much has been written about the “nothing” at the heart of both Maeterlinck’s play and Debussy’s opera, which I will not rehearse here but which nevertheless forms the background to my own argument. See, for example, Carolyn Abbate, “Debussy’s Phantom Sounds,” in In Seach of Opera (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 145–84, and Katherine Bergeron, “Mélisande’s Hair, or the Trouble in Allemonde: A Postmodern Allegory at the Opéra-Comique,” in Siren Songs: Representations of Gender and Sexuality in Opera, ed. Mary Anne Smart (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 160–85. 25. Maurice Maeterlinck, “Silence,” in The Treasure of the Humble, trans. Alfred Sutro (London, George Allen, 1897), 19. 26. Ibid. 27. Patrick M. McGuinness, Maurice Maeterlinck and the Making of Modern Theatre (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 157. 28. Ibid, 247. 29. In his discussion of Debussy’s instrumental music Vladimir Jankélévitch talks similarly of “l’ivresse du vertige” induced by the directionless nature of the

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30. 31. 32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51.

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play of wind and waves on the surface of the sea. Jankélévitch, Debussy et le mystère de l’instant (Paris: Plon, 1976), 128. “la flame de l’instant ne peut jaillir qu’à travers les dechirures et fractures du discours: elle a donc besoin du silence pour apparaître.” Ibid., 250. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible, trans. Alphonso Lingis (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1968), 64. Paul Valéry, “Poetry and Abstract Thought,” in Paul Valéry: An Anthology, trans. Denise Folliot, ed. James R. Lawler (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1956), 136–65, 158. The lecture was given at Oxford University and repeated in Cambridge. For a translation by Rosemary Lloyd see Mallarmé in Prose, ed. Mary Ann Caws (New York: New Directions, 2001), 31–45. Ibid., 34 and 37–38. Ibid., 36 and 44. Ibid., 37 and 46–47. The poem Sainte is one of Mallarmé’s most explicit poems on the relation of words and music. Originally titled Sainte Cécile jouant sur l’aile d’un chérubin, the patron saint of music here becomes, in the resonant last line of the poem, “musicienne du silence.” McCombie, Mallarmé and Debussy, xiii. Peter Dayan, “Nature, Music, and Meaning in Debussy’s Writings,” 19th-Century Music 28, no. 3 (2005): 214–29 (228). Claude Debussy, “The Orientation of Music,” in DM, 85. “Placet futile,” I suggest, presents us with empty words because the petition of the lover, as he well knows and as the title underlines, will come to nothing. Jankélévitch, Debussy, 230. Ibid., 249 and 243. See Robert Orledge, Debussy and the Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). See David Code, “Hearing Debussy Reading Mallarmé: Music après Wagner in the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 54, no. 3 (2001): 493–554 (504). See Wenk, Claude Debussy and the Poets, 17–18. Carlo Caballero notes a similar attitude in Gabriel Fauré. See his Fauré and French Musical Aesthetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 219. Marcel Proust, Finding Time Again, trans. Ian Patterson (London: Penguin Classics, 2003), 201. Guido Adler, “Umfang, Methode und Ziel der Musikwissenschaft,” in Vierteljahrsschrift für Musikwissenschaft, 1885. The historical and systematic study he outlined here anticipates his book Methode der Musikgeschichte of 1919. Published 1916. Based on lecture notes 1907–11. Mallarmé described his poem as “a Louis XV style sonnet,” a knowing play with past styles and poetic language in the tradition of Verlaine’s Fêtes galantes (1869). Debussy’s treatment similarly deploys archaic musical elements to frame this song as a play with historical forms of language.

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52. As Derrida asserts in “The Double Session,” whenever “Mallarmé was pretending to describe ‘something,’ he was in addition describing the operation of writing.” Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 260. 53. McCombie, in her discussion of the Trois poèmes, underlines this quality of nonequivalence, insisting that poem and music have “fundamentally different frameworks of organization.” See McCombie, Mallarmé and Debussy, 176. 54. Wenk, for example, suggests that “Debussy’s setting of this poem may be regarded as an attempt to sort out the various phrases and clauses that complicate its grammatical structure.” See Claude Debussy and the Poets, 249. Rolf similarly shows how Debussy uses rhythm and vocal tessitura to separate out principal and dependent clauses of the poem. See “Semantic and Structural Issues,” 196. 55. Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravarty Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 65. 56. The reflexive verb “s’éventer” means to fan oneself, from “vent” (wind), but “Éventail” also contains within it the “aile” (wing) that becomes such a key image for Mallarmé. It is the same wing that one hears in the close phonic cousin of the fan: “Vantail,” the movable wing or leaf of a table, and one part of a pair of gates or doors. 57. Derrida, Of Grammatology, 69. 58. For a discussion of the role of music in Proust see Jean-Jacques Nattiez, Proust as Musician, trans. Derrick Puffet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 59. “Difference is articulation.” Derrida, Of Grammatology, 66. 60. In Derrida’s “The Double Session” the two juxtaposed texts are drawn from Plato and Mallarmé. See Dissemination, 187–316.

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Part Four

Theoretical Issues

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Chapter Fourteen

Follow the Leader Debussy’s Contrapuntal Games Matthew Brown

Debussy and counterpoint: the statement initially sounds preposterous. Debussy is normally remembered as the quintessential harmonist, who flaunted the conventional rules of voice leading. When quizzed by his teacher Ernest Guiraud in 1889 or 1890, he famously denied that there was any need to resolve French sixth chords or any reason to avoid parallel triads.1 According to him: “pleasure is the law.”2 And when he addressed the same issues later in his career, Debussy went so far as to denounce the conventional distinction between so-called perfect and imperfect chords: “Nothing is more mysterious than a perfect chord! Despite all theories, both old and new, we are still not sure, first why it is perfect, and second, why the other chords have to bear the stigma of being imperfect. Music ought therefore to free itself as quickly as possible from these little rituals with which the conservatories insist on encumbering it.”3 When Debussy denounced traditional rules of counterpoint, he challenged an area of music theory whose history dates back many centuries. Vast in scope, contrapuntal theory deals with the conditions under which voices can be stacked above or below one another. Traditional species counterpoint focuses on three main issues: how individual voices proceed from one note to the next (e.g., the predominance of steps over leaps); how stacked voices proceed in relation to one another (e.g., the role of oblique, contrary, similar, or parallel motion); and how far apart those voices should be stacked (e.g., the classification and treatment of consonances and dissonances). Learned counterpoint

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then considers the ways in which specific melodic lines can be transformed (e.g., transposition, inversion, retrograde, retrograde inversion, augmentation and diminution), restacked (e.g., invertible or double counterpoint at the octave, tenth, and twelfth), and staggered (e.g., strict canonic imitation, free fugal imitation, and stretto). Although contrapuntal theory was originally developed to explain modal polyphony from the Middle Ages and Renaissance, it was subsequently adapted to cover tonal works from the common-practice period, including the scholastic fugue. These adaptations were necessary because the individual voices now operated within the context of functional harmony.4 In styles where the textures are controlled harmonically rather than intervallically, the individual lines can contain more frequent and more extreme leaps; in so-called compound melodies such leaps are created by shifting from one chord tone to another or from one “latent voice” to another.5 The rules governing parallel perfect octaves and fifths must likewise be adapted. In Der freie Satz, for example, Heinrich Schenker showed how parallel perfect octaves and fifths arise in tonal contexts from doublings and figuration or from complex combinations of harmonic and nonharmonic tones.6 And so, too, must the rules concerning dissonance treatment. Whereas the number of possible dissonances is very small in traditional species counterpoint and confined to unaccented passing or neighbor tones and suspensions, it is considerably larger in tonal music and encompasses escape tones, accented passing or neighbor tones, and appoggiaturas. Unlike traditional species counterpoint, tonal music also allows simultaneous and successive dissonances.7 Debussy was, of course, well acquainted with basic contrapuntal theory from his studies at the Paris Conservatoire.8 It is clear from Théodore Dubois’s Notes et études d’harmonie (1889) and other text books of the period, that harmony classes relied heavily on traditional species counterpoint and figured bass.9 This training obviously came in handy when Debussy edited Rameau’s opera Les fêtes de Polymnie in 1908 and Bach’s accompanied sonatas for violin and cello in 1917.10 Debussy was likewise exposed to the principles of learned counterpoint: he composed at least ten scholastic fugues in his composition classes, including four for his Prix de Rome applications (1881–84).11 Debussy also performed several contrapuntal tours de force in examinations, such as Bach’s Toccata in G minor (BWV 915) and Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue in D minor (BWV 903), and the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, op. 111, and he even transcribed Schumann’s Six Etudes in the form of a canon for piano or pedal organ (op. 56) for two pianos in 1891.12 Debussy’s tendency to think about music in contrapuntal terms is also evident from his comments about the music of other composers. Consider, for a moment, his remarks about Palestrina from February 1893: “The shaping of [his] music is what strikes you, and the arabesques crossing each other to

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produce something which has never been repeated: harmony formed out of melodies!”13 Debussy described the music of J. S. Bach in much the same terms. Having complained that conservatories standardize the ways in which composers treat harmony, he insisted that the same could not be said of Bach: “he preferred the free play of sonorities whose curves, whether flowing in parallel or contrary motion, would result in an undreamed of flowering, so that even the least of his countless manuscripts bears an indelible stamp of beauty.”14 And Debussy claimed that individual harmonies should always be understood within their voice-leading context. To quote from his essay “Du précurseur” (1913): “one chord, even if it’s from a monumental piece of music, has no more importance in itself than one stone in a fine building. It’s where it is placed that counts, and the way it throws into relief the flowing curves of the melodic line.”15 In August 1915 he even directed Jacques Durand to a case of motivic augmentation from the second movement of En blanc et noir (mm. 145–46), noting that this procedure was “used by the old masters long before the ‘school’ fugue” was invented (see ex. 14.1a).16 Not surprisingly, perhaps, statements like these have already elicited responses from several writers. In an essay for Le mercure de France (December 1, 1908), Louis Laloy observed: “M. Claude Debussy, who is acknowledged as a master of pure harmonies and of indefinitely supple forms, does not scruple, when it suits him, to employ the strictest figured counterpoint such as imitation and canon.”17 Laloy even mentioned some specific examples given in examples 14.1b to d: a short canon from act 4, scene 3, of Pelléas et Mélisande (see ex. 14.1b) along with a couple of themes from the piano piece “Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut” (Images, book 2), one of which is supported by parallel chords (see ex. 14.1c) and the other by a countermelody (ex. 14.1d).18 Peter DeLone has likewise shown some of the subtle ways in which Debussy combined lines so as to create “a kind of unobtrusive, idiomatic counterpoint.”19 To illustrate his point, DeLone quotes some short passages from a wide range of Debussy’s mature piano works, such as “Reflets dans l’eau” and several piano preludes. More remarkably still, Adele Katz, Felix Salzer, and others have used Schenkerian methods to reveal additional contrapuntal relationships in Debussy’s music.20 It is well known, for example, that Schenker drew extensively on species counterpoint as described by Fux and figured bass theory as described by J. S. and C. P. E. Bach. And yet, he conceived of counterpoint in ways that were anything but conventional. On the one hand, he insisted that standard approaches to invertible counterpoint, canon, fugue, and other aspects of learned counterpoint were “fallacious” and should be understood not in terms of counterpoint but rather under the rubric of form.21 On the other hand, he treated motives more abstractly than his predecessors: among other things, he described linear progressions in motivic terms as “leaders”

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Example 14.1. Contrapuntal relations mentioned by Laloy and Debussy.

and “followers” and even claimed that motivic repetitions can be found hidden beneath the surface of a piece.22 Following his lead, Charles Burkhart and others have found examples of such “hidden repetitions” in Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune and Ibéria.23 This chapter builds on the work of Schenker, Katz, Salzer, Burkhart, and others by taking another look at the contrapuntal structure of four pieces by Debussy. The focus will be on the ways in which these works adapt techniques drawn from learned counterpoint. Given that counterpoint classes often begin by teaching students how to supply new lines to pre-existent melodies,

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it considers the ways in which Debussy added lines to one such melody, the famous nursery rhyme “Nous n’irons plus au bois.” The chapter examines his handling of the tune in the early song La belle au bois dormant, in the two piano pieces “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois’” and “Jardins sous la pluie,” and in the orchestral masterpiece “Rondes de printemps.” In so doing, it is possible to shed new light on Laloy’s observations about the significance of counterpoint in Debussy’s music, as well as on Debussy’s more general claims about the contrapuntal basis of harmony.

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Open any textbook on the “school” fugue, such as Théodore Dubois’s Traité de contrepoint et de fugue (1901) or André Gedalge’s Traité de la fugue (1904), and you will encounter sections on each aspect of learned counterpoint.24 Presupposing that the reader has already mastered the rules of traditional species counterpoint, such books describe the various ways in which particular melodic lines can be transformed (e.g., transposition, inversion, retrograde, retrograde inversion, augmentation, and diminution), restacked (e.g., invertible or double counterpoint at the octave, tenth, and twelfth), and staggered (e.g., canonic imitation, fugal imitation, and stretto). Students then learn how to use these techniques in prescribed ways to create an entire fugue. Since the contrapuntal implications of a given tune depend upon its internal structure, example 14.2 gives the opening segment of “Nous n’irons plus au bois,” the tune used by Debussy in the four pieces mentioned above. ^ ^ ^ 3–5– Example 14.2a shows that the segment consists of an arpeggiated triad 1– ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 8, a neighbor motion 5–6–5, and a stepwise descent 5–4–3–2–1. The gesture can be stacked in different ways. Example 14.2b presents it below a simple tonic pedal. Next, example 14.2c inverts the two voices at the octave, tenth, and twelfth above a tonic pedal. Example 14.2d then stacks those inverted lines on top of one another to produce a chain of parallel six-three sonorities above a tonic pedal. Finally, example 14.2e shows how the tune can be supported underneath by a rhythmic augmentation of itself. As might be expected from a tune that is often used as a round dance, “Nous n’irons plus au bois” can also be treated imitatively.25 Examples 14.2f–j illustrate some of the possible options. The follower enters one beat after the leader in example 14.2f; significantly, the leader and follower end with a string of descending parallel thirds A♭/C–G/B♭–F/A♭–E♭/G. The follower enters three beats after the leader in example 14.2g; the most interesting feature of this configuration is the irregular seventh F/E♭. And in example 14.2h, the follower enters four beats after the leader; since the two voices overlap for only one beat, this is the simplest option to take. Problems arise, however, when the follower enters two beats after the leader as shown in example 14.2i; this

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Example 14.2. Internal structure and contrapuntal implications of “Nous n’irons plus au bois.” 
  


  

 

 

 







     







     


  



 

  

 

  

 

 

  

             






  

 



     
  

 

  


  



          
   

           

        
          



 

   


            


  




 
    
  
 
  
    



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strategy creates parallel perfect fifths near the end of the imitation. Finally, example 14.2j gives an example of imitation by augmentation. Debussy was obviously well aware of the contrapuntal potential of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” and explored the techniques in each of the pieces mentioned above: La belle au bois dormant, “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois,’” “Jardins sous la pluie,” and “Rondes de printemps.” Take, for instance, La belle au bois dormant. Completed around 1890 and based on a ballad by Vincent Hyspa, the song tells the story of sleeping beauty.26 A knight is riding through a forest at night in search of her (verse 1). He has fought bravely in battle (verse 2) and traveled many miles (verse 3). He is eager to succeed and spurs his steed to gallop faster (verse 4). The knight finally wakes her by removing a ring from her finger (verse 5). As a constant reminder of the knight’s quest to wake the princess, each verse ends with a couplet that refers to “La belle au bois dormant” and the final verse is modeled on the first. When setting Hyspa’s text, Debussy paid close attention to its formal structure. This meant, for example, that he quotes the opening phrase of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” at the end of each verse.27 In verses 1–4 he presents the tune on D♭ (see ex. 14.3a) and also on B♭ in verses 1 and 2, C and B♭ in verse 3, and B♭ in verse 4. But at the end of verse 5 he adds rhythmic augmentations and diminutions on E♭ and A♭ (see exx. 14.3b–e). When it comes to harmonizing “Nous n’irons plus au bois,” Debussy actually employs several distinct strategies (see ex. 14.3). In verses 1–4 he harmonizes the tune in parallel thirds over a tonic pedal in the bass. This strategy is shown in example 14.4a. In this case, Debussy arrives on a first inversion D♭ triad at the start of measure 6. Having introduced the first three notes of the tune over a passing E♭ chord in the bass, he then completes the tune over a tonic pedal in D♭ in measures Example 14.3. Motivic transformations of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in La belle au bois dormant.














          
   






 



  

 
 





       

       




   


      
 







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Example 14.4. Stacking “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in La belle au bois dormant.

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7–8. In example 14.4b, however, Debussy takes a slightly different tack. To begin, he omits the implied three-note pickup. He then flips over the parallel thirds in the rest of the tune and embeds them in a string of parallel sixthree chords: the melody in measure 7 (A♭–D♭–A♭–B♭–A♭–G♭–F–E♭–D♭) becomes the bass of the parallel six-three chords in measure 10 (A♭–D–A♭– B♭]–A♭–G–F–E♭–D) and the lower third in measure 7 (F–B♭–F–G♭–F) becomes the melody in measure 10 (F–B♭–F–G–F–E♭–D♭–C–B♭).28 Instead of projecting the tonic D♭, the subtle changes in accidental allow Debussy to move emphatically to E-flat major, via a cadential progression I6–IV7–V79–I. In verse 5 Debussy adopts a variant of the first strategy: example 14.4c shows how he harmonizes the tune in parallel thirds, but transfers the E♭ pedal from the bass to the middle register. Furthermore, he projects a string of parallel sixths between the melody and the literal bass line starting on the last beat of m. 48: C/A♭–B♭/G–A♭/F–G/E♭–F/D♭–♭/C. This pattern creates a short canon with the preceding string of parallel thirds. Besides stacking statements of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” simultaneously, Debussy also staggers them imitatively (see ex. 14.5). In verses 1 and 2, the leader enters on D♭ and is imitated canonically four beats later with the follower on D♭ (see ex. 14.5a). Once the follower has run its course, Debussy adds another incomplete version of the motive on B♭, imitating it four beats later, again on B♭ to create a hidden canon (see ex. 14.5b). In verse 3, however, he includes a pair of imitations starting on C followed by a pair on B♭. These are shown in example 14.5c. And in verse 4 he uses only imitations on B♭ (see ex. 14.5d). Finally, Debussy rounds off verse 5 and the entire song with imitations of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in augmentation starting on E♭ and A♭ (ex. 14.5e). More remarkably still, Debussy presents “Nous n’irons plus au bois” at deeper levels of structure (see ex. 14.6). Example 14.6a gives one such hidden repetition in the structural upper line across verse 1 of La belle au bois dormant. Although this statement omits the first note of the tune, the upper voice ascends by step G–A♭–B♭ and leaps up to E♭, before descending back from B♭ through an implied A♭ to G, F, and E♭. Example 14.6b shows how Debussy reworks this pattern in verse 5. The reworking is interesting for two reasons. For one, it begins in E-flat minor rather than E-flat major and moves to C♭ or ♭VI. For another, the enlarged statement of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in the upper line allows Debussy to incorporate the two statements of the tune that start in the tenor register. The contrapuntal basis of this passage not only explains the nonfunctional character of the supporting harmonies, but it also anticipates the “plagal” motions found at the end of later pieces, such as “La fille aux cheveux de lin” (Préludes I) and “Bruyères” (Préludes II).29 Debussy surely had La belle au bois dormant in mind in 1894 when he planned a new set of piano works that was eventually to circulate as the Images

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Example 14.5. Imitating “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in La belle au bois dormant. 
  








 
                   





   

  

  

       



 

   

  
 
    

 






   

  

   



        


      

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Example 14.7. Motivic transformations of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois’” (Images oubliées).






 










 
 














   




 

  

 

  

 

  



 

  

 

  

 
















      

 





 

   





     

  



 

 







           











oubliées.30 The third piece, “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois,’” is a fluid rhapsody that juxtaposes statements of the work’s main theme with those of “Nous n’irons plus au bois.” For convenience, these two ideas are shown in examples 14.7a and 14.7b respectively. During the course of the piece, however, Debussy flattens out the rhythms of the nursery rhyme, just as he had done at the end of La belle au bois dormant (see ex. 14.7c). Having returned the theme to something like its original form in the reprise, he rounds off the entire piece with augmentations of the tune (see ex. 14.7d). Debussy is even more inventive in the ways in which he stacks “Nous n’irons plus au bois” (see ex. 14.8). Once again, he sometimes supports the tune with pedal tones and even with parallel first-inversion chords over the pedal (ex. 14.8a). Elsewhere, he replaces the single tonic pedal with an entire triad or major second: in example 14.8b the tune appears over a root-position triad on F♯ and in example 14.8c it appears over the second E♭/D♭. Significantly, Debussy inverts both of the textures at other points in the piece: he places the tune beneath an F♯ triad in measures 122ff. (see ex. 14.8d) and underneath the second E♭/D♭ in measures 10ff. (see ex. 14.8e). Example 14.8f gives a particularly beautiful harmonization in which the tune is colored by dominant harmony in the local key of B major.

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Example 14.8. Stacking “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois.’”





   

 














 



 




 

      

 

  
















 





  

                                                                                                                 
    







 






  




  










             








                          

                                              
                                        





         





                             


            

         



    

 




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Example 14.9. Main motives of “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois.’” 
    
    







 









 
 

  

    

   

   





    

   



   



   





 

     


   

 







 
 

  

    

 

    

 

    

 

    

 

 

 

Because Debussy did not arrange to have “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois’” published during his own lifetime, one might suppose that he was ultimately unsatisfied with the score. And yet the work certainly influenced several later piano pieces. For example, its opening theme and episodic structure anticipate those of the Prélude from Pour le piano (1901). As shown in examples 14.9a–b the initial theme of the Prélude articulates the first tonic A by means of a local bass motion through the lowered and raised leading tone G and G♯. This pattern clearly recalls a similar motion towards the tonic D via C and C♯ in the main theme of “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois.’” Similarly, the final section foreshadows that of “Mouvement” (Images I, 1904–5): both pieces end with whole-tone inflections. If anything, however, the connections between “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois’” and “Jardins sous la pluie” (Estampes, 1903) are even stronger: not only do the two works have very similar opening themes, the latter actually using a portion of the nursery rhyme “Do, do, l’enfant do,” but they also include “Nous n’irons plus au bois” as a subordinate theme. In fact, “Jardins sous la pluie” has the same toccata-like quality as its predecessor and uses “Nous n’irons plus au bois” to counterbalance the main theme (see ex. 14.10). Example 14.10a indicates that the main theme is another nursery rhyme, “Do, do, l’enfant do.”31 “Nous n’irons plus au bois” appears for the first time about halfway through the piece in the rhythmic configuration shown in example 14.10b. In the final section (m. 126ff.), the theme returns in various different forms: in its original form (mm. 133–36 and 140–43), in diminution (mm. 129–32), and in augmentation (mm. 151–54).

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Example 14.10. Main motives in “Jardins sous la pluie” (Estampes).  






 

























 





 

 





   

  



  



  

 

  

  





  







 

   
                         









Debussy’s fondness for harmonizing “Nous n’irons plus au bois” with pedal tones is also clear in “Jardins sous la pluie” (see ex. 14.11). In example 14.11a Debussy presents fragments of the tune starting on the dominant B over a sustained dominant sonority in second inversion. These fragments lead to an emphatic statement of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in the tonic E below pedal tones E, G♯, and C♯ in the upper register (see ex. 14.11b). And in the final measure of the piece, Debussy gives an augmentation of the tune, treating the first note C♯ as the fifth of the prevailing F-sharp harmony (see ex. 14.11c). The right hand includes the pedal tones A and B embedded within a one-measure ostinato. Example 14.11d gives an even more interesting presentation of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in measures 75 and 90: instead of harmonizing it with a simple pedal, this passage adds a stepwise chromatic descent in the bass, F♯–E♯–E–D♯–D–C♯–B♯–B. Having explored the contrapuntal connections between “Nous n’irons plus au bois” and “Do, do, l’enfant do” in “Jardins sous la pluie,” Debussy exploited them more extensively in “Rondes de printemps,” the first of his three Images for orchestra. Written at the height of his career, the orchestral Images present musical snapshots of three distinctive locales: Ibéria recreates the sometimes dazzling, sometimes sultry, landscape of Spain; “Gigues” captures the bleak melancholy of the Northumbrian countryside; and “Rondes de printemps” conveys the euphoria of rural May Day celebrations in France. In the each case, Debussy not only used preexistent material of one sort or another, but he also reused material that he had already quoted in earlier pieces.32 To highlight the ebullient mood of “Rondes de printemps,” Debussy prefaced his score with a couplet by the fifteenth-century Italian humanist Poliziano: “Long live May, welcome May, with its wild banner!” He apparently found this couplet in Pierre Gauthiez’s biography of Dante published in Paris in 1908.33

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Example 14.11. Motivic transformations of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in “Jardins sous la pluie.”



     

 















  





 













      





      












                                                        






















 

 









     

 

 

 

 

    
  
 
 

  

      
 

                                            










    
   
 
 

 




  

     










  




  









  

  





















                                               





     



















   









  






                                                

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As it happens, the compositional history of “Rondes de printemps” is protracted and dates back at least to July 8, 1903, when Debussy signed a contract with Durand to compose “douze pièces pour piano à 2 mains et à 2 pianos à 4 mains, ou orchestre.”34 Nevertheless, it is clear that Debussy decided very early on to combine “Nous n’irons plus au bois” with “Do, do, l’enfant do” and even sketched the two melodies together with the instruction that they should be varied and developed.35 He reveals the connections between these two gestures and the main theme at the very start of the movement (see ex. 14.12). Examples 14.12a–b show how the descending appoggiatura in measures 3–4 generates the descending motive G♭–F–E–E♭–D–D♭ in measure 5. Examples 14.12c–d then show how the ascending appoggiatura in measure 7 anticipates the final ascent of “Do, do, l’enfant do” in measures 9–10 and 11–12. And examples 14.12e–f show how the final ascent of “Do, do, l’enfant do” recurs in the diminutions of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in measures 12–13. Notice, too, how the latter ends chromatically G–G♭–F, just like the patterns in examples 14.12a–b, and how it includes the falling third D♭–B♭, like “Do, do, l’enfant do.” Once Debussy presents “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in diminution in the introduction, he recasts it in countless other guises later in the piece (see ex. 14.13). The basic version (ex. 14.13a) appears in measures 26ff.: it begins on E and, like the diminution from the introduction, ends with the chromatic descent G–F♯–F. Example 14.13b shows a purely diatonic version of the gesture transposed to C from measures 87ff. Next, example 14.13c gives an augmented version on E♭ that sets up the reprise in measure 118. Besides including the basic version of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in measures 123ff., the reprise also includes the tune in augmentation in measures 138 and 162 (see ex. 14.13d) and measure 148 (see ex. 14.13e). It ends with a diatonic version of the basic version starting in measure 168. As shown in examples 14.13g–h, Debussy marks the start of the coda with an augmentation of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in the tonic A at measure 171 and the end of the movement with fragments of the original tune. As in the other three movements, Debussy stacks “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in several significant ways. Given that “Rondes de printemps” is dominated by long pedal tones, it is hardly surprising that Debussy generally superimposed “Nous n’irons plus au bois” onto these pedals: this is precisely the case for the long pedals on the tonic A at the start of the main movement (m. 22) and reprise (m. 171), and on C in measures 67–95. And, like “Jardins sous la pluie,” Debussy also supported the tune with descending scales: examples 14.14a–b give examples. As regards stacking, example 14.14c shows how he superimposed “Nous n’irons plus au bois” over a motive in contrary motion and example 14.14d how he placed it under a fragment of “Do, do, l’enfant do” just before the reprise.

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Example 14.12. Motivic development in “Rondes de printemps” (Images séries 3 for orchestra).







 





  





  





 




 






           

 











  









   






 










 






   



 








   



  



       


 






Not unexpectedly perhaps, Debussy treats “Nous n’irons plus au bois” imitatively on a couple of occasions in “Rondes de printemps.” Three such passages are given in examples 14.15a–c: the first comes from the introduction (m. 12), the second from the middle of the opening section (m. 98), and the third from just before the reprise (m. 111). The passages are noteworthy for a couple of reasons. On the one hand, examples 14.15a–b recall the imitative passages in La belle au bois dormant given in example 14.5. These moments suggest that Debussy may even have had his old score open while he was working. On the other hand, by flattening out the rhythm and modifying the tune Debussy could add the follower three beats after the leader without creating parallel perfect fifths. “Rondes de printemps” also recalls La belle au bois dormant in its use of hidden repetitions, though it focuses less on the complete tune and more on

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Example 14.13. Motivic transformations of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in “Rondes de printemps.” 
  






























 















 

























  




















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Example 14.14. Imitating “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in “Rondes de printemps.”

nœ nœ b œ b œ & bœ nœ . .

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a.

b œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ nœ œ nœ nœ b œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œj bœ nœ bœ bœ nœ bœ nœ . . . . . .

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b.

## œ œ 2 œ & # nœ nœ œ œ 4 # œ œ bœ nœœ #œ nœ # œ n œ n œœ n œœ œ b œ b œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œj ‰ nœ nœ b œ & bœ œ bœ nœ œJ ‰ bœ

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c.

Œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ

“Do, do, l’enfant do” cf figure 12d-e bœ bœ 3 bœ bœ b œ b œ bœ œ œ bœ ™ œ b˙ & œ bœ bœ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ bœ œ œ œ bœ bw bœ bœ

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Example 14.15. Stepwise motives in “Rondes de printemps.”

              
            






        
    
          







             
   






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Example 14.16. Reminiscences of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in coda of “Rondes de printemps.” 







                                









            

                            















                   





         







 
                           



its final stepwise descent. We have already noted that this feature is something that the tune shares with the main theme given in example 14.12b and with the chromatic counterpoints found in examples 14.14a–c. It is also something that the tune shares with other motives, such as those in example 14.16. More remarkably still, similar linear progressions occur across much longer sections of the music. Although it is beyond the scope of this paper to provide a complete graphic analysis of the entire movement, stepwise descents can be found across larger sections of this movement, such as at measures 22–31, its reprise in measures 119–28, and measures 127–47. In a final display of contrapuntal acumen, Debussy subsequently recalls this descent in measure 210 of the coda: as shown in example 14.16f, he supported two fleeting reminiscences of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” on D♭ and C with stepwise descents A–G–F–E♭–D♭– C♭/B–A and A–G–F–E♭–C–B–A.

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This chapter has reinforced Laloy’s claim that Debussy employed “the strictest counterpoint” whenever it suited him and that he never forgot the lessons he learned in earnest with Guiraud. It has also shown how Debussy’s fascination with the contrapuntal implications of “Nous n’irons plus au bois” began early in his career and reached a peak in “Rondes de printemps.” Although the latter uses strategies that Debussy had already explored in La belle au bois dormant, “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois,’” and “Jardins sous la pluie,” it goes much further in integrating the tune with other gestures and with the contrapuntal structure of the entire piece. The result is surely one of the most elaborate contrapuntal games that Debussy ever played. While the image of Debussy as a counterpoint whiz may indeed seem counter-intuitive and completely at odds with his own personal statements, it is important to realize that the former were mainly directed at the ways in which particular contrapuntal techniques had become institutionalized, especially at the Paris Conservatoire. The fact is that Debussy objected to the idea that counterpoint instruction had become synonymous with the “school fugue,” and that it was often separated from the study of harmony. His conception of counterpoint was simply less stuffy and less constrained stylistically than that of his teachers. In many ways, it resembles the one endorsed by Heinrich Schenker. Indeed, Schenker also criticized traditional counterpoint instruction for focusing almost exclusively on fugue and for separating itself from harmony. As mentioned earlier, he claimed that canon, fugue, and double counterpoint should be understood as part of the theory of form. And in Der freie Satz he insisted that harmony is ultimately a byproduct of contrapuntal motion: “All the transient harmonies which appear in the course of a work have their source in the necessities of voice-leading.”36 This, of course, sounds a lot like Debussy’s comment about “harmony formed out of melodies.” As regards Debussy’s mistrust of the contrapuntal establishment, it is perhaps worth mentioning that André Gedalge quoted “Nous n’irons plus au bois” in the final part of his Third Symphony, a work that was premièred a few days after “Rondes de printemps” in the spring of 1910.37 Like Debussy, Gedalge was a student of Guiraud’s at the Paris Conservatoire and even won second prize in the Prix de Rome in 1886. Unlike Debussy, however, he wrote a famous fugue treatise dedicated to Guiraud and Massenet, and he taught fugue at the Paris Conservatoire from 1905 to 1926. Gedalge’s Third Symphony was apparently well received by audiences and Debussy reviewed one of its many performances for SIM magazine on March 1, 1914. Perhaps because the piece quotes “Nous n’irons plus au bois” and because it treats the tune in fairly conventional ways, Debussy’s response was tepid to say the least.38 Debussy may also have had Gedalge in mind when he denounced “school” fugues in his remarks to

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Durand about En blanc et noir. But the snub cannot hide the fact that the two men followed the same lead: as Debussy confessed to Guiraud: “I don’t write in the fugal style because I know it.”39

Notes 1.

Sylvie Douche, “Appendix I: ‘Transcription littérale du carnet de notes de Maurice Emmanuel au sujet de échanges Debussy-Guiraud (1889–1890),’” in “Pelléas et Mélisande” cent ans après: études et documents, ed. Christophe Branger, Sylvie Douche, and Denis Herlin (Lyon: Symétrie, 2012), 279–87; Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, vol. 1, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 204–8. 2. Douche, “Appendix I,” 284; Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, 207. 3. Debussy, “À propos de ‘Muguette.’—au Concert Lamoureux,” Gil Blas (March 23, 1903), in DM, 155. 4. For Schenker’s views about changes in contrapuntal theory see Matthew Brown, Explaining Tonality: Schenkerian Theory and Beyond (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005), 25–65. 5. Heinrich Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, vol. 2 (Stuttgart and Berlin: Cotta, 1910), part 1, chapter 2, §20, 135; Counterpoint, ed. and trans. John Rothgeb and Jürgen Thym (New York: Schirmer, 1987; rev. ed. Ann Arbor: Musicalia Press, 2001), part 1, chapter 2, §20, 95. 6. Regarding the latter, Schenker listed the following possibilities: “a principal note with an accented or unaccented passing tone or with a neighboring note; a passing tone with an anticipation, with an accented passing tone, or with a neighboring note; a neighboring note with another neighboring note, with the concluding turn of a trill, or with a suspension; the resolution of a suspension with a passing tone, with another suspension, and so forth.” Heinrich Schenker, Der freie Satz, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, vol. 3 (Vienna: Universal, 1935), §164, 98; Free Composition, ed. and trans. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1979), 59. 7. Traditionally simultaneous dissonances were allowed in combined species. 8. John Clevenger, “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane F. Fulcher (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 299– 361. See also Sylvie Douche, “La première étude monographique consacrée à Pelléas et Mélisande: Maurice Emmanuel en 1926,” in Branger, Douche, and Herlin, Pelléas et Mélisande cent ans après, 135–63. 9. Théodore Dubois, Notes et études d’harmonie pour servir de supplément au traité de H. Reber (Paris: Conservatoire de Paris, 1889); 87 Leçons d’harmonie, basses et chants (Paris: Heugel, n.d.); Traité de contrepoint et de fugue (Paris: Heugel, 1901); Petit manuel théoretique de l’harmonie (Paris: Heugel, 1918); Traité d’harmonie théorique et pratique (Paris: Heugel, 1921); Réalisations des basses et chants du traité d’harmonie par Théodore Dubois (Paris: Heugel, 1921). 10. Clevenger, “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” 348–49.

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11. Ibid., 355, 358, and 360n17. 12. Ibid., 318–19. Roy Howat has noted that Debussy also learned Liszt’s piano transcription of Bach’s A-minor organ prelude; see Roy Howat, “Foreword,” in Debussy: Images (1894–dédiées à Y. Lerolle), Pour le piano, Children’s Corner, OC, series I, vol. 2 (Paris: Durand, 1998), XX. 13. C, 116; DL, 42. 14. Debussy, “L’orientation musicale,” Musica (October 1902), repr. in DM, 84. 15. Debussy, “Du précurseur,” S.I.M. (March 15, 1913), repr. in DM, 284. 16. C, 1916; DL, 299. 17. Louis Laloy, “La musique de l’avenir,” Le mercure de France (December 1, 1908): 419–34; “The Music of the Future,” trans. Louise Liebich in Music Through Sources and Documents, ed. Ruth Halle Brown (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: PrenticeHall, 1979), 318. 18. Debussy sketched a version of figure 14.1d in the Images sketchbook, US-NYpm, Lehman deposit, 34. For details, see C, 153: Roy Howat, “Debussy et les musiques de l’Inde,” Cahiers Debussy 12–13 (1988–89): 146–48; Robert Orledge, Debussy and the Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); and Matthew Brown, Debussy’s Ibéria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 27. 19. Peter DeLone, “Claude Debussy: Contrapuntiste malgré lui,” College Music Symposium 7, no. 2 (1977): 48. 20. Adele Katz, Challenge to Musical Tradition (New York: Knopf, 1945); Felix Salzer, Structural Hearing: Tonal Coherence in Music (New York: Boni, 1952); Matthew Brown, Explaining Tonality, 171–208; Boyd Pomeroy, “Debussy’s Tonality: A Formal Perspective,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, ed. Simon Trezise (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 155–78, and “Tales of Two Tonics: Directional Tonality in Debussy’s Orchestral Music,” Music Theory Spectrum 26 (2004): 87–118; Matthew Brown and John Koslovsky, “History and Tonal Coherence in Debussy’s ‘La fille aux cheveux de lin’ and ‘Bruyères,’” Rivista di analisi e teoria musicale 18, no. 2 (2012): 35–54. 21. Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, 6–7; Counterpoint, 4–5 and Der freie Satz, §322, 228–29; Free Composition, 143–44. 22. Schenker discussed hidden repetitions in Der freie Satz, §§251–66, 250–74, and Free Composition, 93–107. 23. Charles Burkhart, “Schenker’s ‘Motivic Parallelisms,’” Journal of Music Theory 22, no. 2 (1978): 145–75, esp. 155–58; Matthew Brown, “Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à ‘L’après-midi d’un faune,” Music Theory Spectrum 15 (1993): 127–43, and Debussy’s Ibéria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 24. Théodore Dubois, Traité de contrepoint et de fugue (Paris: Heugel, 1901); André Gedalge, Traité de la fugue (Paris: Enoch, 1904). 25. For a transcription with illustrations by M. B. De Monvel and a piano accompaniment by Charles Widor see M. B. De Monvel, Vieilles chansons et rondes pour les petits enfants (Paris: Plon-Nourrit, ca. 1884), 25–27. 26. Margaret G. Cobb, The Poetic Debussy, rev. ed. (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1994), 124–25. 27. Mark DeVoto, Debussy and the Veil of Tonality: Essays on His Music (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2004), 32.

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28. I would like to thank François de Médicis for clarifying this and other details. 29. See Brown and Koslovsky, “History and Tonal Coherence.” 30. Although the set did not appear in print during Debussy’s lifetime, the second movement, “Souvenir du Louvre,” was published under the title “Sarabande” in the supplement of the Grand journal du lundi (February 17, 1896). The piece was then revised as the second movement of Pour le piano (1901). For details see Howat, “Critical Notes,” Debussy: Images (1894—dédiées à Y. Lerolle), Pour le piano, Children’s Corner, OC, series I, vol. 2 (Paris: Durand, 1998), 93. 31. Debussy also quoted “Do, do, l’enfant do” at the end of the prelude to La boîte à joujoux (1913) and “Jimbo’s Lullaby” in Children’s Corner; see Virginia Raad, “Musical Quotations in Claude Debussy,” The National Association of Teachers of Singing Bulletin 24 (February, 1968): 33, and DeVoto, Veil of Tonality, 31. 32. In fact, the second movement of Ibéria reworks material from several earlier habaneras, and “Gigues” quotes “The Keel Row,” a Northumbrian folksong that Debussy had already used in his early piano piece Ballade (1890–91); see Brown, Debussy’s Ibéria, 127ff., and Debussy Redux: The Impact of His Music on Popular Culture (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), 71; and DeVoto, Veil of Tonality, 31. 33. Pierre Gauthiez, Dante: essai sur la vie d’après l’oeuvre et les documents (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1908), 44. See Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, vol. 2, 30–31. 34. C, 748–49. Debussy actually considered replacing “Rondes de printemps” entirely: on May 16, 1905, he mentioned to Durand that his new Images for two pianos would be enitled “Gigues tristes,” “Ibéria,” and “Valse”; see C, 908. Léon Vallas claimed that “Valse” was actually the progenitor of La plus que lente (1910), whereas Jacques Durand suggested that it was simply “abandoned under that title”; see Léon Vallas, Debussy: His Life and Works, trans. Maire and Grace O’Brien (London: Oxford University Press, 1933; repr. New York: Dover, 1967), 164, and Jacques Durand, Lettres de Claude Debussy à son éditeur (Paris: Durand, 1927), 28. In September 1907 Debussy reverted to his original title “Rondes” in a letter to Durand; see C, 1030; DL, 184. Louise Liebich also referred to the movement as “Ronde” in 1907; see her Claude-Achille Debussy (London: John Lane, 1908), 63. For more details see Brown, Debussy’s Ibéria, 13–35. 35. See Debussy, Images sketchbook, 93; Brown, Debussy’s Ibéria, 62. 36. Schenker, Der freie Satz, §84, 64; Free Composition, 35. 37. See Paul Locard, “Les grands concerts,” Le courrier musical 13 (1910): 267. 38. Debussy, “Aux concerts Colonne,” SIM (March 1, 1914) repr. in DM, 316. See also Brian Hart, “The Symphony in Debussy’s World. A Context for His Views on the Genre and Early Interpretations of La mer,” in Fulcher, Debussy and His World, 198. 39. Douche, “Appendix I,” 284; Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, 207.

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Chapter Fifteen

Debussy’s Absolute Pitch Motivic Harmony and Choice of Keys Mark DeVoto

In tonal music, the formal importance of a particular key is often signaled by an indication in the title, e.g., Symphony no. 5 in C minor, op. 67. Beethoven’s Fifth is designated “in C minor” even though its second movement is in A-flat major and its finale in an empyrean C major. Primacy of a particular key is of course a structural consideration; but within the individual movement, whether the composer has said so or not, the priority of a single key is usually announced by tonal closure, by ending in the same key as the movement began. But typically there is another announcer as well: the key signature. In the first movement of Beethoven’s Third Symphony, the Sinfonia eroica, op. 55, nearly seven hundred measures long and lasting twenty minutes, the key signature never changes, though one may identify as many as twenty-seven actual modulations just between the first measure of the exposition and the beginning of the recapitulation; by contrast, merely as an exercise, one may compare Beethoven’s Prelude, op. 39, no. 2, seventy-six measures long, in which there are twenty-four changes of key signature, including twelve just between measures 51 and 62, but this is obviously a special case. In a work as large as an opera, tonal closure can be demonstrated in the abstract by the first and last tonalities heard in the opera, regardless of division into acts with intermissions in between. Mozart’s Magic Flute is one example, with an E-flat-major overture and finale of act 2, and the dreimalige Akkord in the middle (which in any case is a dominant, as it is in the overture), and everyone knows about the Masonic symbolism of three flats in this work. Similarly,

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Weber’s Freischütz and Verdi’s Falstaff are, so to speak, C-major operas, as was Beethoven’s Fidelio in its first Leonore version. Wagner’s Meistersinger certainly has C major as a symbolic unifying tonality with closure, but it also emblematizes the central role of the Master Singers, for C major is their key. Even the Ring of the Nibelungs can be said to have D-flat major as an overarching “Valhalla tonality,” if the first scene of Das Rheingold, beginning in E-flat major and freely modulating, is regarded as a prologue to everything that follows. The sleeping gods wake up in the second scene in D-flat major and perish in D-flat major seventeen hours later. There is no doubt that Debussy was fully familiar with the Anneau des Nibelungen, but it would be impertinent to suggest that the overflowing Rhine at the end of Le crépuscule des dieux inspired the principal key of Debussy’s mer orageuse.1 In the nineteenth century the inherited conventions of tonal closure and key signature began to be varied, at first in relatively uncomplicated ways, as in Schubert’s Impromptu, op. 90, no. 2, in E-flat major, ending in E-flat minor with the minor-mode scale degrees written as accidentals in a signature of three flats. Chopin’s Ballade no. 2, op. 38, nominally in F major, represents a more fundamental departure from the norm for closure, with middle section and conclusion in A minor. Chopin’s Scherzo no. 2, op. 31, is known to everyone as his B-flat-minor Scherzo, but the B-flat minor really applies to the muchrepeated opening motto, everything else being principally organized around D-flat major or C-sharp minor, and ending in D-flat major. (Heinrich Schenker actually referred to this work as Chopin’s Scherzo in D-flat major.) We know that Debussy, who was known to have included a key designation in the title of only one of his works (the First String Quartet in G Minor, op. 10), would never have considered himself bound by any such conventions as these. But we know just as well that he had a highly developed sense of tonal structure with its own rules and boundaries, and that this fact is central to his art. An important aspect of this sense was, I believe, innate: all the evidence from his music indicates that Debussy had an effortless and acute sense of absolute pitch. René Peter’s memoir confirms that Debussy correctly identified pitches played on the piano, though Debussy may have been only half serious when correcting himself, saying that not A♭ but G♯ was being played.2 This sense inevitably relates to Debussy’s manifest preference for certain keys, which are structural determinants in his larger-scale works. Debussy is hardly unique among composers in this regard, whether we think of Beethoven in C minor, Chopin in A-flat major and D-flat major, Franck in B major, Tchaikovsky and the Russian Five in D-flat major, or even Schoenberg and Mahler both in D minor. Various writers, but especially Richard Langham Smith, have pointed to the significance of particular keys, including “tonalities of darkness and light.”3 Although it is probably apocryphal, a long unofficial tradition holds that F-sharp major was the key scorned as “unplayable” by the Prix de Rome

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committee when Debussy sent Printemps to them in 1887. The same key has a variety of roles in Pelléas et Mélisande—at the beginning of the love duet in act 4 and perhaps even more tellingly in act 2, scene 1, in G-flat major, where Pelléas wraps Mélisande’s long hair around the willow branches. The amorous significance of this key had some precedents, for the love duet in act 1 of Rodrigue et Chimène is in F-sharp major, and this in turn was preceded by the final love duet in Diane au bois, in G-flat major. (When he wrote Diane au bois, Debussy had not yet been to Bayreuth to hear Tristan und Isolde, but he surely would have known, from studying the score, the G-flat-major love music in act 2, scene 2, following “Brangänes Ruf.”) Debussy’s deployment of key signatures tends to coincide with areas of relative tonal stability, but of course this is not always the case. “Relative tonal stability” in Debussy’s music may still include temporary modal inflections, chromatic departures, and whole-tone harmony, but the key signature always symbolizes a diatonic scale whose tonic is never in doubt. Debussy’s modal inflections are always indicated by accidentals, precisely because they are inflections. “Fêtes,” for example, begins with an obvious Dorian with the F-minor key signature of four flats, in which the sixth degree is indicated by D♮ L’isle joyeuse includes all twelve chromatic degrees, whole-tone harmony, and Lydian and Mixolydian inflections just on the first page of the score, but the A-major foundation of the tonality is firm and unmistakable. Even such a radical departure as “Nuages,” with its pervasive artificial scale B–C♯–D–E–F–G–A, and a tonic triad that is diminished, is unmistakably diatonically centered on B, and this centricity is proclaimed by the signature.4 This is also true of his choice of keys remote from C major, and of their associated key signatures, and in some cases there is definitely a difference whether six sharps or six flats are used to designate the same major key. Moreover, Debussy used the seven-sharp signature at least ten times—more than any previous composer—and it is significant that parts of “Jeux de vagues,” the second movement of La mer, are notated in C-sharp major whereas the first and third movements are decisively in D-flat. Debussy’s absolute pitch capability sheds light not only on his preference for certain keys but also on his regular use of untransposed harmonic entities for their emblematic or symbolic value. Certainly Debussy repeatedly professed skepticism, even derision, of symbolic values in music, particularly with respect to the Wagnerian leitmotive, but he decisively employed recurrent symbolic motives in his operas—motives that almost invariably are associated with specific characters, never with ideas or objects. His placement of these motives is strategic, as in Verdi’s later operas, and they are never “symphonically” developed as in Wagner. But Debussy typically favors an untransposed version of a recurrent motive, especially when it is associated with a particular harmony; in this regard, Debussy is also like Wagner.

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Debussy could not escape the Tristan sonority, which is widespread in his work, and in several works the Tristan chord unquestionably achieves emblematic value, directly suggesting Wagner, when it is considered as a collection of particular pitch classes.5 One unabashed instance is in the first-act sketch of Rodrigue et Chimène, at measure 137, where, with the same pitch classes and spacing as first heard in Wagner’s Prelude, it accompanies Chimène’s first vocal appearance in the opera (“Est-ce vous, mon âme?”). In Pelléas et Mélisande the appearance of absolute-pitch Tristan harmony is at once more intense and more subtle. The first approximate appearance is at measure 61 of act 1 (“Pourquoi pleurez-vous, ici”), in which the Tristan chord has the same pitch classes and vertical dispositions, except that the two lower voices are displaced an octave downward; Golaud, at this point, does not yet know that he will love Mélisande. Just four measures later (at m. 65, “Oh! Vous êtes belle”) the Tristan chord is cyclically transposed upward, exactly as at measure 6 of Wagner’s Prelude; the two harmonies have two factors in common (compare La damoiselle élue, mm. 278–82). But the most compelling example of absolute-pitch Tristan in the opera is in the interlude between scenes 1 and 2 of act 3, at measure 247, a moment of hushed but intense emotional significance where, for the first time, Mélisande’s and Pelléas’s leitmotives are contrapuntally combined, in bifocal F-sharp major and D-sharp minor (see ex. 15.1). It appears again at the end of the next scene, measure 395, in a six-flat signature (“Elle est très délicate. . .”), and yet again, six measures later. In measure 241 of act 2, scene 2, when Mélisande tells Golaud that her unhappiness is “quelque chose qui est plus fort que moi. . .” there is a chord of stacked fourths, a complex dominant in E-flat major, accompanying Pelléas’s motive (see ex. 15.2). This same harmony reappears untransposed with telling effect at measures 605–6 of act 4 scene 4, when Pelléas says “Sais-tu pourquoi je t’ai demandé de venir ce soir?,” and once more, in act 5, measure 181, when Mélisande tells Golaud that she did love Pelléas. (For those who want a more precise description of the harmony, it can be called a dominant thirteenth in second inversion, that is, with the fifth in the bass, and with the eleventh omitted; compare the beginning of Satie’s Prelude to Le fils des étoiles, composed a few years earlier, in 1891, and probably known to Debussy.) Still another example involving absolute-pitch values is in scene 2 of Pelléas et Mélisande, the letter scene that is so often pointed to for its spare texture, but which is also so striking for the simplicity and purity of its modal harmony in A minor. (A minor, using the Aeolian or natural minor scale, enjoys a primary structural significance in this scene, a significance that increases until the end of act 2 and even beyond.) From measures 239 to 258 there is only one distant dissonance, the whole-tone chord at measure 241, where Golaud describes Mélisande’s sobbing. By measure 257 the tonal center has drifted to the nearby D minor/F major, and abruptly at measure 261 a remote stable harmony

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Example 15.1. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 2, mm. 247–50. Modéré

# # # Oboe & # # # 46 ˙˙ . œ ˙ œ œ . œ œ Solo Vc. - œ- - œπ ? # # # # # 46 w˙ .. ˙. # ˙.

247

doux et expressif

w˙w...

w. ww ..

˙.

œw.. œ . œ . œ .

Horn

w. w. w.

œ. œ. œ. œ. œ ww.. œ . œ . œ . .

Flute

w. ww . .

appears, an accented gesture on a G-sharp-minor triad, where, for the first time in the opera, the sea is mentioned: “la tour qui regarde la mer.” The next time a well highlighted root-position G-sharp-minor harmony appears is in scene 3, at measure 420, with “cependant la mer est sombre.”6 G-sharp minor is also A-flat minor, and these two enharmonic keys constitute the most significant secondary tonality in all of La mer, particularly in the first movement. Much of the A-flat minor in this movement is based on the half-diminished seventh on F, namely F–A♭–C♭–E♭, and this, with the A♭ in the top voice, is of course the Tristan chord. At the same time, this same half-diminished seventh, placed above a D♭, is a D♭9, the dominant ninth of G-flat/F-sharp major. Whatever Debussy’s fondness for the particular sound of the Tristan pitches, one may well doubt that he had in mind any symbolic connection between La mer and Tristan und Isolde.7 In my book on Debussy I wrote about his use of bifocal tonality and its ancestry in Russian music;8 in works like Faune, bifocal tonality associates relative major and minor into a single super-key under one key signature.9 Large sections of Pelléas et Mélisande can be analyzed in this way, where the tonality, although flexible as to tonal center, is nevertheless stable and untinged by strong chromaticism. We may refer once more to the letter scene, which is framed in A natural minor, sometimes with a cadence in C major, and in which, because of its spare texture, any addition of a chromatic tone is sufficient to indicate a psychological departure. The B♭ at measure 241 (“Elle pleure tout à coup . . .”) is the first out-of-scale event in ten long measures, but it belongs to F major/D minor, keys that are closely related to C major/A minor. At measure 255 the first appearance of an F♯, as part of a dominant of G minor, points to the mention of Arkel, and his own entrance, “Je n’en dis rien,” at measure 270 on a D♯-minor triad, is at the polar opposite from A minor, linked by the F♯-added sixth that becomes a consonant factor of D-sharp minor. The subject of Debussy’s keys is a large one, so only a few will be discussed here. C major is a logical place to start, as though in a theory textbook, but Debussy uses C major relatively infrequently as a principal key. There are obvious reasons why “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum” and the etude “Pour les cinq

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Example 15.2. (a) Pelléas et Mélisande, act 2, m. 241; (b) Pelléas et Mélisande, act 4, mm. 605–6; (c) Pelléas et Mélisande, act 5, m. 181; (d) E. Satie, prelude to Le fils des étoiles, m. 1. Modéré très doux et très expressif

& 46 ˙˙˙ .. π Strs. ? 46 b w .. b ww .

241

a

Fl., Vn. I

œ

b œ˙˙ .. œ ˙.

œ

Plus modéré très expressif

& ˙œ π

Vn. I

b

˙ ? b˙. b ˙˙ ..

Vn., Vla., Horn

œ œ b œ œ b b ˙œ . b œ n œ

6 Vc. soli

Lent

doux et expressif

& ˙˙˙˙ ... Harp p . b ˙ ? b ˙˙w ..

181 Flute

c

œ œ b˙ b ˙. b b ˙˙ .. œ b œ ˙˙˙ ... b ˙˙˙ ...

˙œ .

œ

œ b œ b n ˙˙ n b ˙˙

œ

œ

Horn

œœ œœ b œœœ www & bb œœ b œœ b œ w œ w ? b œœ œœ œ w En blanc et immobile

1

d

j œœ œœ ‰

œœ J ‰

doigts” are in C major, and it represents the “white” key of celestial purity in La damoiselle élue, but there is nothing else to connect these works symbolically, nor with “Mouvement” or “Le jet d’eau.” Another key that Debussy uses relatively rarely is E-flat major, and the threeflat signature is even less frequent. Only a few of his works demonstrate E-flat major as a principal key, notably his earliest known song, Nuit d’étoiles, and La belle au bois dormant soon after, plus “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” much later. Other than in passing moments, E-flat major occurs in Debussy in specialized situations, especially as a key deployed for an unexpected, sudden gesture. As early as the seventh measure of the Fantaisie for piano and orchestra it appears as a

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tonal disruption, a sudden departure from the solidly asserted G major that began the work; the reverse progression concludes the movement, so it can be considered structural. One of Debussy’s most striking aural images is found in the sudden shift from F-sharp major to E-flat major at the boundary between the slow movement and the finale of this same Fantaisie, mm. 89–90, a progression that is exactly replicated with D-sharp major in measures 5–6 of part 2 of Printemps, and nearly twenty years later, the interrupting music at the end of “Les parfums de la nuit.”10 In each of these cases the progression highlights a textural disturbance in a gradual transition from slow movement to finale. These examples show E-flat major arriving by modulation through downward third. A comparable instance in the opposite direction is at measure 12 of “Le jet d’eau.” Baudelaire’s text has just concluded on a strong cadence in C major at the end of a ten-measure phrase: “Dans cette pose nonchalante / Où t’a surprise le plaisir,” when E-flat major suddenly appears as a pleasant surprise with the words “Dans la cour le jet d’eau qui jase . . ..” From E-flat major the departure to the dominant of C-sharp and then E major is no less sudden, arriving at a half cadence in C major once more to complete the eight-measure phrase (mm. 12–19); it offers a strong contrast of remote tonal relationships before gradually and deviously restoring C major in the rondo-like refrain that ends “Tombe comme une averse / De larges pleurs.” There are other examples of “sudden” E-flat major that one might point to for their value as psychological images. In the coda of L’isle joyeuse, following an ascent of whole-tone harmony, and just before the A major peroration that forms the climax, there is a sudden blaze of trumpet-like E-flat-major triads, like a herald. This is a tritone opposition to the A major that soon follows. But it is hard to find a good explanation for the particularly abrupt appearance of E-flat major in the Menuet of the Suite bergamasque, at measure 73, which follows a supertonic harmony in A major. After seventy-two measures with a neutral key signature of A minor, Debussy introduces a three-flat key signature at this very point, retaining it for just seven measures before changing to three sharps, another tritone opposition. That the tonal structure of the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune associates E major and C-sharp minor bifocally is well known.11 Thus it is all the more significant that the remote association of E-flat major plays a brief but significant psychological role in this work. This is at the point that represents the faun’s most strained effort at distant recollection: the only time in Faune where the main melody is stated without beginning on C♯ or E is at measure 86, and here it starts on E♭ and with the oboe, not the flute. The next statement of the main melody is with both the flute and the initial C♯ restored. The function of E major in Faune has been so well explored by others that I will mention here only an E-major aural image that originated in Printemps, beginning at measure 115 (see ex. 15.3). Note the specific connection of E major with the key of the minor sixth degree, C major.

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Example 15.3. (a) Printemps, mm. 115–18; (b) Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, mm. 107–8. Tempo moderato

œœ b n n œœœ n œœ # n œœ n n œœ b œ n œ œ n œ œ b œ n œ n b œœ b n œœ n # # œœ # œ n n n œœœ b œœ n œœ # œœ b n œœ # œ # œ n œ b œ # # # # 12 œ œ œ n œ œ n œ œœ # b œœ # n œœ n b œœ b n œœ n œœ # n œœ n n œœ b œ œ & 8 n œ # œ œ œ œœ n n œœ ∏ leggierissimo ? # # # # 12 8 w. w.

115

a

b n œœ n œœ # n œœ n n œœ b œ œ # œ. n œ. . ## & # # # œœ b n œœ n # œœ n œ n œ b œ ? n œ # œ œ n œ œœ n n œœ œœ # # œœ n # œœœ # # œœœ. # n n œœœ œœ & . n œ. œ n œ œ # b œœ # n œœ n b œœ π perdendo ? #### Œ. Œ. Œ. œ. œ.

116

Très lent et très retenu jusqu'à la fin

2 Horns sord., Vn. I sord. ## & # # 12 8 œœ .. œœ .. b n n œœœ n œœ b n œœ n n œœ .. œ. œ. œ b œ n œ. π # ? # # # 12 8 w.

107

b

Cb.

#˙. œœ .. œœ n # œœ b n n œœœ # n ww .. œ. bœ n œ #˙. w. Fl.

nnnn 9 8 ˙. p nnnn 9 ˙ . 8 ˙.

œ. œ. œ.

œœœ ˙. ˙.

œ. œ. œ. œ.

˙˙ .. ˙. ˙.

It is apparent that E major was one of Debussy’s favorite keys from his earliest days as a composer. For its history in his work, one might first consider the songs. Fourteen of Debussy’s early songs have the four-sharp signature, and some, like Beau soir, “Chevaux de bois,” five of the songs from the Vasnier period, and “C’est l’extase” begin and end with E-major harmony; Les angélus begins and ends with C-sharp-minor harmony; “Recueillement” and “L’échelonnement des haies” begin with C-sharp minor and end with C-sharp major, the latter in a tierce de Picardie. The four-sharp signature is the primary indication of formal closure, because all of these songs show the most varied plasticity of keys in between their beginnings and endings. These are all small forms, and we find the E–C-sharp polarity among the songs as late as “Colloque sentimental” as well. Debussy’s early and middle piano music is comparable, as in the Andante cantabile, the “Cortège” of the Petite suite, and a large part of Triomphe de Bacchus. The first of the Deux arabesques shows a pellucid E major with a developing layout that would have done credit to Chopin, and so does the Danse that was once titled Tarantelle styrienne. Several songs of the early 1890s demonstrate a more flexible bifocal tonality of E major and C-sharp minor. Les cloches of 1891, with its carillon ostinato

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of C♯–D♯–E melodically emphasizes C♯ throughout, but gives equal weight to the E-major triad in the latter half of the song, where C♯ appears as added sixth. On the other hand, Les angélus, with a similar ostinato and a C♯ downbeat, mostly avoids the E-major triad until quite near the end, though it cleverly dodges back to C-sharp minor in the last measures. A third song from 1891 with the four-sharp signature, Dans le jardin, blends the C-sharp-minor/E-major ambiguity throughout, even to the final chord, an E-major triad surmounted by C♯ in the upper voice as added sixth. Pour le piano is reckoned as middle-period Debussy, from about 1901, but the Sarabande comes as early as 1894 in its first version. Like Dans le jardin, just mentioned, the Sarabande blends E major and C-sharp minor with studied ambiguity; the first four measures are classically E major but end with a half cadence on G-sharp minor, the dominant degree of C-sharp, while the next four measures are melodically more directed toward C-sharp but find their half cadence in E. This is in part the consequence of the natural minor scale, but it also signals the tendency of the entire piece to prioritize half cadences at the expense of authentic cadences on different tonics. The Toccata, tonally a logical follower to the Sarabande, is clearly C-sharp minor at the beginning but without a classical dominant containing B♯ until the second page of the score. If the first eight measures are melodically C♯-centered, the next twelve are even more strongly E major. It is noteworthy in this piece that Debussy’s C-sharp minor is projected with the natural minor scale, and the major form of dominant harmony in C-sharp minor is de-emphasized, just as the classical dominant of E major is not de-emphasized. This is just one example of intermodal flexibility in the context of a large rondo form that is unquestionably structured around C-sharp minor/C-sharp major with the widest variety of developing tonality in between the formal mileposts, including some harmonies that even Debussy might have identified as experimental within his own style. The remainder of this essay chiefly focuses on the bifocal relationship of E major and C-sharp minor in Pelléas et Mélisande, which is probably the most important marker in the very broad and varied tonal structure of the opera as a whole. A good place to begin is with the centering pitch class E. In the first scene of act 1 there are observable E7 and E9 chords: at “vous êtes belle” at m. 66, “elle est tombée en pleurant” at measure 103, at “vous avez l’air très jeune” at measures 151–52, but these are classically out of context; they are momentary events, not crossroads. No strong tonal context of E major is established until the interlude after scene 1. E begins to appear as a tonal centre at measure 215, Un peu moins lent, then at measure 223, the dynamic climax on a root position triad in F-flat minor, which is strong for only an instant; the letter scene begins just a few measures later, first with E half-diminished at measure 228 and then with a sustained E, the single note at measure 229. This is the

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pitch, E above middle C, that Geneviève clings to as she reads Golaud’s letter. The “first letter” part of the scene is strongly in bifocal A minor – C major, and this bifocal key, with particular emphasis on the pitch class E, continues to predominate through Arkel’s first speech, until measure 296, at which point the signature changes to four sharps, with a strong dominant of E major alternating bifocally with C-sharp minor. Only at measure 303 does an unquestionably strong tonic sonority in E major assert itself, Lent et grave, at Arkel’s shrug of resignation: “Il n’arrive peut-être pas d’événements inutiles.” This is Debussy’s Scheherazade moment (compare the strong E major of the examples below), and the first time Arkel’s emblematic theme appears as an upper melody. (See example 15.4; it first appeared as a bass melody in m. 131; then as an interior melody in mm. 221–24.) Pelléas enters at measure 318, and the key signature changes from four sharps to three; the bass line descends stepwise from E to D to C♮ as Arkel asks “Qui est-ce qui entre là?” The descent in the bass is repeated, E–D–C♮, when Arkel continues “Est-ce-toi, Pelléas?,” but Arkel’s melody centers on E. As Pelléas speaks for the first time, we are back in A minor, the emblematic key, for the second letter, from Pelléas’s friend Marcellus. This begins at measure 338 with the stable A-minor triad, and a stable E in the vocal line, exactly as when Geneviève had begun her reading of Golaud’s letter at measure 232. If this prioritizes the pitch class E as a “letter” emblem, it also hints at the symbolism of E for Pelléas in the first scene of act 2. More “événements” of E follow quickly just before the end of the letter scene. The first is the prominent E above middle C at measures 354–55, which had first been heard as F♭ at measure 226 as the curtain rises on the scene, and was emphasized three times as an appoggiatura seventh above F: at measures 239–40, 249–50, and finally at the very end of the scene, measures 356–57 (see ex. 15.5). The next marker is another curtain-raiser, at measure 386, and once more the four-sharp signature appears, for just five measures, with palpable bifocal E major and C-sharp minor before C major suddenly appears at measure 391 with the change of tempo. At the next change of tempo, Animez un peu, measure 403, Debussy has four sharps again, but it is really F-sharp Dorian, for six measures. There is more E major at measure 416, again with four sharps, but it yields quickly to G-sharp minor (m. 420, “la mer est sombre”). All of the four-sharp markers in this third scene serve to highlight either Mélisande or the arrival of Pelléas, even though it is the six-sharp signature, F-sharp major, the eventual key of love, that brings the two of them together as he takes her by the arm at measure 471, concluding act 1. The bifocal partnership of C-sharp minor–E major in the first scene of act 2 of Pelléas et Mélisande thus comes as no surprise. It is not a struggle for predominance but more a tonal–modal sharing of resources. It is significant that act 2 was the last to be composed, in 1895, after the successful première of Faune, and we know that Debussy had spent at least a full year refining Faune before it was performed in December 1894.

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Example 15.4a. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 1, mm. 303–5. Lent et grave

? # # # # 44 Œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ3 œ J R J J J J J

303

ARKEL

## w & # # 44 ww˙ Vn., Vla. p ? # # # # 44Trb. ww w w

Il n’ar - ri - ve peut - ê - tre

Trp., Horns

œJ œ

œ J

très soutenu et très expressif

n˙ pas

n b nn ww˙˙

n b ww w w

œ œ œ œ J J J J

j 3j j nœ œ œ ˙

j œ n wœ œ œ # n www w w

d’é - Yp-ne - ments i - nu - ti

j œ œ œ œ

#˙ #˙

-

j œ ‰

les...

œ œ

Example 15.4b. Rimsky-Korsakov, Scheherazade, part 1, mm. 20–23. Allegro non troppo È ŸŸ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ # # # # 6 Strs., Cl., Bn. & 4 ˙. œ. n œ Œ Ó . ˙ œ n˙. œ œ. # œ ˙. . ˙ œ # œ . . p w. œ œ n w. nœ œ w ? # # # # 46 ww . œ œ œ œ . œ œ w. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ww . œ œ w .. œ #œ ww .. œ œw. œ .

20

One suspects that Faune was still well in his mind when he sketched out the first scene of act 2, beginning in four sharps. The E-major–C-sharp-minor dichotomy is constantly present in this scene, and the emphasis on one tonic or the other is constantly blurred by modal progressions, avoided dominants, and displacements from root position. This is plain enough when the sixteenth notes begin to flow, at measure 13, with the upper melody over C♯ or its dominant note G♯, while the bass remains on E for 8 measures, only to move to a C9 when Mélisande comments on the clarity of the water. A stronger rootposition E major, on E9, does not come until measure 27 (“On l’appelle encore ‘la fontaine des aveugles’”). Measures 40–43 are closely similar to measures 17–20, and this time they are followed by a stronger E major, with more rootposition harmony, when Mélisande leans over the well. From there the harmony becomes much more varied, touching on the dominant of E♭ and more strongly on modal harmony in C; with the arrival of the dominant of C at measure 54, Pelléas discovers Mélisande’s hair (“Oh! votre chevelure . . .”), and at a critical moment (m. 58, “Vos cheveux ont plongé dans l’eau”) the four-sharp key signature disappears.

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Example 15.5. Pelléas et Mélisande, act 1, m. 239.

4 & 4 w˙ w ? 44 w w

239

˙

The absence of key signature suggests a destabilization of key—many temporary shifts of tonal center follow as clouds begin to appear on the emotional horizon—but it also suggests the tentative psychological emergence of A minor/C major as a shared tonal–modal basis. The root-position C-major harmony of “Vos cheveux ont plongé dans l’eau” relates back to measure 21, “l’eau est claire,” but even more to act 1, measure 98, “Qu’est-ce qui brille ainsi au fond de l’eau?” But this is less important, I think, than the psychologically disturbing disappearance of the four sharps in the signature. This is where the trouble starts: Pelléas asks Mélisande about when she met Golaud, she fibs about it and changes the subject, and then she takes off her wedding ring and loses it. At “Il est tombé!” the twelve strokes of noon in the harp are on E (mm. 83–87), and most of the harmony that follows within the next twenty or so measures is easily heard in C major or close to it, with a neutral key signature. The scene closes with the sixteenth-note melody that opened it, but in C major, at measure 116. As Pelléas says “La vérité, la vérité . . .” the four-sharp key signature returns at measure 119 and remains for just three measures. It is surprising enough that no key signature is indicated again until measure 428, when Pelléas and Mélisande enter the grotto by the sea; it is just as surprising that the signature here is four sharps, lasting just seven measures, and thus, other than the neutral key signature, without sharps or flats, the only key signature found in all of act 2 is four sharps. One must not put too fine a point on this restrained and even structural use of key signatures at a critical point in the development of the opera. The spectrum of keys is constantly shifting throughout the opera as a whole as well as in those places where one cannot define a key signature. As Richard Langham Smith points out, there is also a tritone opposition between E-flat minor and A minor: this is especially prominent in act 2, scene 3, the cave scene, beginning with E-flat minor at measure 435 when the four-sharp signature disappears, and ending with the A Dorian in the last seven measures of the act (mm. 473–79). But in between we find G-flat major at the moment when moonlight illuminates the cave, and Debussy has shown us G-flat major or F-sharp major any number of times before in the opera, as well as in all five acts and often with special psychological prominence.

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Act 3 begins with a mysterious modal B major, with a key signature of one sharp. One would hardly suppose this to be a dominant preparation for E; it functions that way, but hardly sounds like it. Mélisande’s famous unaccompanied song follows, in E Dorian, which prioritizes E and C♯. From measures 51 to 117 the key signature is neutral, and the harmony free-ranging through unstable tonalities. At measure 118 (compare m. 109) the signature changes to four sharps for just twelve measures and then disappears; the increase in emotional tension of this passage is slight but palpable, and reaches a plateau when the G-flat-major signature appears at measure 163, Modéré, puis progressivement animé et passionné.12 The climax (m. 182, Toujours animé), when the doves fly out of the tower, is heralded by a sudden change of key signature from G-flat major to E major, which yields to C-sharp minor mixed with wholetone harmony. The four-sharp signature disappears at measure 201, and there is a sudden and scary downward shift from D-flat major to C major, just before Golaud arrives. All the rest of act 3 is directed away from the E-major/C-sharpminor dichotomy. There is a well prepared C-sharp major at measure 385 (six sharps), “Elles se sont refugiées du côté de l’ombre,” but this is preparatory to the G-flat major that concludes the scene, with its Tristan-chord moment (m. 401), as mentioned earlier. In the next scene, with Yniold, there are five measures of four sharps at the very beginning (m. 422). At measure 510 (“De quoi parlent-ils quand ils sont ensemble?”) the four-sharp signature returns for seven measures, but the harmony is more in the form of the dominant of F-sharp. Then at measure 531 E major is in root-position and becomes stronger: “Pelléas et petite mère parlent-ils jamais de moi quand je ne suis pas là?” After only eight meaures, the four-sharp key signature disappears and there is no key signature for the remainder of the act, 214 more measures. E and C♯ do not disappear, however. At measure 646, when Golaud lifts up Yniold above his shoulders, the subdued but terrifying headlong rush to the emotional climax begins, with C♯ and E together (the E is in repeated triplets in the divided viola). In a masterstroke of orchestral creepiness, the strings are muted. The final notes of act 3 are an octave E. Pitch class E is still in the ear at the beginning of act 4, but concealed as the dominant degree of A minor, and it is also Pelléas’s centering pitch when he describes how his father, recovered from illness, has told him to travel far away. This repeated E—“il faut voyager”—recalls Geneviève’s reading of Golaud’s letter in act 1, scene 2. This same pitch class persists, again concealed by different harmony, in the remainder of this short scene, as Pelléas and Mélisande plan to meet once more at the fountain. Then a full E-major harmony absorbs the solitary E in the next scene, in Arkel’s fatherly address to Mélisande, recalling the Scheherazade harmony of act 1 scene 2. Golaud’s rage against Mélisande later in this scene climaxes with E: “vous voyez—je ris déjà comme un enfant.”

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After Golaud’s rage subsides a moment later, E disappears entirely; the long B-flat-minor interlude that follows is its polar opposite. E as a distinctive pitch resurfaces in Yniold’s scene when he tries to move the heavy stone and when he hears the flock of sheep passing by. In this short episode, the regularly repeated E is part of modal harmony in C major/E minor, but it is a main component of Yniold’s vocal line—a centering pitch. Thus it is not really surprising, considering how frequently this particular E has been emphasized in the different sung parts, that it appears in the next scene at an emotional climax: “Pelléas!”—“Mélisande! Est-ce toi, Mélisande?” The dominant of E sounds just twice more in act 4, at measure 643, “Est-ce vrai ca que tu dis?,” and at measure 810, “Toutes les étoiles tombent.” In act 5 there is essentially no E major at all. Indeed, any appearance of stable tonality with strong root-position triads or seventh chords is rare in this final act of the opera. There is little or no arioso, and even a slightly stable key seldom lasts beyond a single phrase. Unadorned triads in a pristine harmonic environment occur mostly when Mélisande sings, or when Arkel sings to her. The vague F minor that begins act 5 is a pianissimo echo of the fortissimo last measures of act 4, but this F minor moves to greater stability and rising intensity in F-sharp minor, the most assertive tonality in the entire act, when Golaud confronts Mélisande, and this is wrought in dissonant harmony. There is an absolute-pitch irony here: the F-sharp minor with appoggiatura major ninth at “il faut qu’il sache la vérité!” (mm. 170, 183), reflecting the lack of resolution in Golaud’s mind about Mélisande’s claim to guiltnessness, is the same harmony, and with the same pitch classes, as at Pelléas’s “C’est que je te regarde” in act 4, measures 670–71. There is a fine irony, too, in the gradual reappearance of stable tonality only after Mélisande dies. C-sharp minor appears, beginning at measure 370, recapitulating music first heard just before act 1, scene 3, and it soon yields to C-sharp major via a minor plagal cadence. We recall that F-sharp major was the tonality of light and love, but F-sharp minor is its decay before rebirth, marking the change of key signature to seven sharps for the C-sharp-major orchestral postlude. This becomes what is tonally the strongest harmony in the entire act 5. Further study is needed fully to uncover the structural importance of A minor, which has only been hinted at here and which is often associated with the equally structural A/C-sharp. The motivic flowing sixteenths in bifocal C-sharp minor/E major at the beginning of act 2, for instance, reappear in A minor/C major over a C bass at measure 116, over an E bass at measure 304, and once more, over an A bass, at measures 376–77 before shifting to the dominant of E major. Alban Berg, twenty-three years younger than Debussy, was a profound admirer of the older composer’s music. They probably did not know each other personally, though that suggestion has been made.13 Berg certainly modeled the structure of alternating scenes and interludes in his opera Wozzeck on that

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of Pelléas et Mélisande and took pride in the fact. He was also proud of saying that his Wozzeck was circular in conception, and that the last chord of Wozzeck could easily join up again with the first. Dramatically, there is a comparable suggestion in Pelléas et Mélisande, to the effect that “it is now the turn of the poor little girl” who could grow up in another opera to be another Mélisande. In that case, Berg, looking at Debussy’s score, would naturally say that C♯is the leading-tone to D.

Notes 1.

2. 3.

4.

5.

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In memoriam Robert Wayne Bailey. D-flat major was a favored key from the early Nocturne for piano (1892) and the quite similar “Clair de lune” (from Suite bergamasque), probably written at about the same time, all the way to La puerta del Vino composed twenty years later, with the slow movement of the String Quartet in between (1893). René Peter, Claude Debussy (Paris: Gallimard, 1931). Richard Langham Smith, “Tonalities of Darkness and Light,” in Claude Debussy: “Pelléas et Mélisande,” ed. Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith, Cambridge Opera Handbooks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 107–39. The presence of a key signature is a proclamation of tonal allegiance to a scalar system that is either classically a major mode or a minor mode, depending on whether the tonic triad is major or minor. Debussy’s music, particularly in the works up to and including La mer, relies on this classical supposition even when the tonal center is momentarily suspended. As I discuss in my own book, Debussy and the Veil of Tonality: Essays on His Music (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2004), Debussy’s uses of inflected scale degrees associated with the church modes may be frequent and even pervasive, but they are almost always local to the immediate context and are part of the melody, not the supporting harmony. See Mark DeVoto, “The Strategic Half-diminished Seventh Chord and the Emblematic Tristan Chord: A Survey from Beethoven to Berg,” International Journal of Musicology 4 (1995): 139–53. There is a considerable literature on Debussy’s use of the Tristan chord. In addition to my own article, the following are of particular interest and relevance: Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the Composition of Pelléas,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 117–41, which especially examines Debussy’s different stages of sketches; David Code, “Hearing Debussy Reading Mallarmé: Music après Wagner in the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 54, no. 3 (2001): 493–554, a close correlation of the poem with the score; also by Code, “Debussy’s String Quartet in the Brussels Salon of ‘La Libre Esthétique,’” 19th-Century Music 30, no. 3 (2007): 257–87; Gregory Marion, “Crossing the Rubicon: Debussy and the Eternal Present of the Past,” Intersections 27, no. 2 (2007): 36–59; and François de Médicis, “Tristan dans La mer: Le crépuscule wagnérien noyé dans

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434

6.

7.

8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

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le zénith debussyste?,” Acta musicologica 79, no. 1 (2007): 195–251, a detailed and penetrating harmonic survey. I am obliged to add here that in my book (Veil of Tonality) I suggest that Debussy’s quotation of the opening gesture of Tristan und Isolde in the middle section of “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” might have been unintentional. This suggestion is now directly refuted by the recollection of the English pianist Harold Bauer (1873–1951), who gave the première performance of Children’s Corner in 1908: “After I played the last piece, ‘Golliwog’s Cake-walk,’ he remarked: ‘You [Debussy] don’t seem to object today to the manner in which I treat Wagner.’ I had not the slightest idea what he meant and asked him to explain. He then pointed out the pitiless caricature of the first measures of Tristan and Isolde that he had introduced in the middle of the ‘Cake-walk.’ It had completely escaped me.” Harold Bauer, Harold Bauer: His Book (New York: W. W. Norton, 1948), 141. The sea is mentioned between these markers, but at measure 405, where the harmony is an F-sharp major-triad, it is not the sea itself but “la clarté de la mer” that is emphasized—another illustration of F-sharp major as a “tonality of light.” Nevertheless, all these marine harmonies are related, especially in this scene and in act 3, scene 3. François de Médicis offers a compelling suggestion to the contrary: see his “Tristan dans La mer: Le crépuscule wagnérien noyé dans le zénith debussyste?,” Acta musicologica 79/1 (2007): 195–251. Mark DeVoto, “‘The Keel Row,’ Gigues, and Bifocal Tonality,” in Veil of Tonality, 126–43. See Mark DeVoto, “Memory and Tonality in Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Cahiers Debussy 37–38 (2013–14): 5–21. “Aural Images: Debussy’s Recycling,” in DeVoto, Veil of Tonality, chapter 2. See Matthew Brown, “Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Music Theory Spectrum 15, no. 2 (1993): 127–43; John Crotty, “Symbolist Influences in Debussy’s Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun,” In Theory Only 11 (1982): 17–30; and DeVoto, “Memory and Tonality.” In the full score this entire passage, measures 163–81 (beginning with rehearsal number 15), is written with a signature of five flats, the C♭ written in as an accidental. The piano-vocal score, second engraving (1907) with interludes incorporated, has the signature of six flats. Hans Heinz Stuckenschmidt, “Debussy or Berg? The Mystery of a Chord Progression,” Musical Quarterly 51 (1965): 453–59.

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Chapter Sixteen

Debussy’s G♯/A♭ Complex The Adventures of a Pitch Class from the Suite bergamasque to the Douze études Boyd Pomeroy A Pitch-Specific Association This paper explores a peculiar feature of Debussy’s musical vocabulary, running through his works from early to late, namely an evident attraction to a certain “complex” of harmonic and contrapuntal habits or routines in conjunction with bass pedal points on G♯/A♭. This pitch-specific association often seems to arise independently of a given piece’s larger tonal context, and furthermore, in connection with specific formal contexts and expressive content. These passages present an intriguing challenge to the analyst in their balance of, or tension between, the evocative resonance of pitch-specific associations and the competing demands of tonal-syntactical coherence in a given tonal-formal context. Although some interesting precedents for this kind of compositional thinking can be found in earlier tonal music of the commonpractice period, it is essentially a twentieth-century phenomenon, enabled by a post-common-practice approach to tonal form. From the perspective of compositional chronology, this “G♯/A♭ complex” might be thought of as a stream or thread running through many of Debussy’s works, from early maturity (the Suite bergamasque, ca. 1890) to new departures in late neoclassicism (the Violin Sonata, 1916–17)—though its most elaborate manifestation comes a little earlier, in the (1915) étude “Pour les sonorités opposées,” which it completely dominates, and within which it finds a final

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resolution of sorts. Although it seems to be mainly associated with his instrumental works, it also makes an occasional appearance in the vocal music.

Composers’ Tonal Habits The G♯/A♭ complex represents an intriguing nexus, or coming together of, certain aspects of musical expression with elements of formal design, in turn conjuring a very specific sound world of harmony, counterpoint, and schemas for elaboration, at a singular transposition level. Some relevant historical precedents for such compositional thinking might include: 1.

2.

3.

technical “tonal habits” with historical resonance in particular keys— e.g., the chromatically filled-in interval of a fourth, from its pitchspecific origins in Baroque musical figures and unequal keyboard temperament.1 tactile associations, especially pianistic ones—specific harmonic, melodic, or contrapuntal idioms associated with the idiomatic (whitekey/black-key) feel of playing in a particular key, an example of this being what William Rothstein has identified as a “B-major complex” in the music of Chopin.2 subjectively expressive or extramusical associations with specific pitches, harmonies, or keys: e.g., Brahms’s association of the key of C-sharp minor with the early romantic writer E. T. A. Hoffmann and his literary creation Kapellmeister Kreisler, with whom the young Brahms identified in his imagination,3 this in connection with his striking (and lifelong) penchant for prominent tonicizations of that key in his development sections (particularly the earlier stages of them) regardless of the movement’s overall tonal context.4 In its association of a specific chromatic tonicization with a particular formal context, this rather esoteric feature of Brahms’s practice in sonata form is notably analogous to Debussy’s G♯/A♭ complex.

Characteristics of the G♯/A♭ Complex Debussy’s music is rich in many kinds of allusions and reminiscences from one piece to another, some of which are of a pitch-specific nature, others not. The general phenomenon has been discussed by Mark DeVoto in terms of a penchant for compositional “recycling,” one category of which involves pitchspecific “aural images.”5 These include surface motivic and textural features as well as tonal plans at a deeper level, even extending to inter-movement

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relations.6 Although not among those discussed by DeVoto, the G♯/A♭ complex could well be considered a kind of “aural image” in this sense, albeit of a more abstract nature than most of his examples. But what exactly are the criteria for membership in the complex? Clearly, more than the mere appearance of this pitch as a bass pedal, which in itself would often be unremarkable (especially in pieces where its tonal function is tonic or dominant—even so, the complex can certainly function in these capacities if other conditions for it are met). First, the formal context is crucial. The complex is typically activated in one of two formal locations: 1) in the middle of a piece: the formal interior—e.g., the B section of a large ternary form, or perhaps an “inner” interior (b) within a larger “outer” one (B); conversely 2) late in a piece: the “late buildup,” within a piece’s formal reprise; or sometimes as the initiation of the coda (see table 16.1: “coda springboard”). Second, from the perspective of expression or musical meaning, the complex is typically associated with an expressive withdrawal or sense of escape to an inner world. This is very often manifest in a retreat to a dynamic of pp, either sustained or initiating a gradual crescendo. The latter strategy will typically implicate: an effect of “stirring things up,” a fomenting of activity; motion towards a climactic synthesis or drawing together of the piece’s (thematic/motivic) threads; or in expressive terms, a high-point or epiphany of sorts.

Harmonic/Contrapuntal Categories: The Three Complex Types The complex appears in three distinctive variants, distinguished by harmonic/ contrapuntal content and process. These categories are not mutually exclusive, however, and many examples combine different types in hybrid fashion (see table 16.1).

The Type 1 Complex Of the three basic types of the complex, the first (type 1, see ex. 16.1) is the most strongly directed and linear.7 It consists of a very flexible basic framework or schema comprising anything from one to four (harmonic/contrapuntal) stages, each of which is subject to various kinds of elaboration or diminution. The nucleus of the type 1 complex is an E-major harmony in first inversion, which can stand in for the larger complex type as a whole, and indeed serves as a minimal condition for its suggestion (ex. 16.1a).

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72–121

186–92 18–50

a

A a

“Masques” 1903–04

L’Isle joyeuse 1903–04 “Colloque sentimental” 1904

57–96

a

116–70

Pour le Piano: “Prélude” 1901

Suite bergamasque: F-sharp “Passepied” 1889–90, rev. ca. 1903 “Fêtes” A 1897–99

Measures. 76–101

coda springboard interior dialogue within poem

first episode in rondo-like form

B section (all)

B section (all)

Formal location B section (interior)

Table 16.1. Debussy’s G♯/A♭ complex, 1890–1917.

whole-tone only

seventh chord (⊘7; ○7; V56, 34, 24) kaleidoscope

Remarks A♭(7)–G♯(36) complex; lift to B-flat

unique A♭–G♯; (rel. 1, 2) Type 1 ingredients (V9s/V13s; 24 chords), but unsystematic; diatonic systems (rc’s E/C♯/D♯); kaleidoscopic aspect 3 g♯ 35

unique (rel. 3)

2

Type 1, 3

global: (enharmonic) 2/unique seventh-chord (⊘7; ○7; V7, 56) (rel. 1) kaleidoscope; V of ♯III (D♭=C♯); local approach & exit “dissonant” °7s; F♭ 36; interior through whole-tone “tonic” resolution (D-flat) segment

tonicized VII

global: tonicized ^ (enharmonic) ♯7; (locally) upper fifth of ♯III ♯7^ in A minor; approach from III (C) as “arrested tetrachord” ♯7^ in a; approach as ♭III/F (= VI/a)

Tonal context tonicized VII

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Jeux 1912–13 En blanc et noir (ii) 1915

“Gigues” 1909–12

121 ff.; 164–83

535 ff. 47–97

A F

44–71

f–A-flat

C

“La cathédrale engloutie” 1909–10

134–45

E

A

171–214

D-flat

“Rondes de printemps” 1905–09

“De l’aube à midi sur la mer” 1903–05 “Jeux de vagues” 1903–05

Measures. 122–31

B section (interior build-up)

B section (Type 1 components distributed / stratified throughout) late buildup

B section (all)

coda springboard

late buildup

Formal location coda springboard

tonicized VII; supporting ♯4^ in structural uppervoice descent in A ♭VI–♯V (chromatic displacement of V); approach from I (C) as “arrested tetrachord” G-sharp vs. A: largescale bass pedals as rival dominants

tonic triad arpeggiated; expansion of III

Tonal context prolonged cadential V

unique (rel. 1?) unique

1, 3

1

3

1, 2, 3

Type 1

(continued)

clouded bass (inner-voice migration of pedal); non-triadic ostinatos; diatonic systems (rc’s A♭/E♭)

directed chromatic progression

5–6–7; clouded bass

5–6–7; diatonic systems (rc’s E/B)

Remarks V13; A♭(7)–G♯(36) complex; whole-tone ext.; tonic resolution via plagal IV 5–6–7; diatonic systems (rc’s A/E/B/F♯/ C♯); seventh-chord kaleidoscope; lift to B-flat A♭–g♯ 35

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57–68

84–97

d

g

c-sharp

Measures.

initiate B section

B section (interior)

Formal location

1

1

g: ♮VI (E)

Type 1

global: tritone from tonic d

Tonal context prolonged♮V in c-sharp

Notes: In this table major and minor keys are represented by upper and lower case.

“Pour les sonorités opposées” 1915 Cello Sonata (iii) 1915 Violin Sonata (i) 1916–17

Table 16.1.—(concluded)

E 36 (only)

Remarks E 36; V13; 5–6–7 (chromatic); lift to B-flat; V– IV (N)–V A-flat (7)–G-sharp (36) complex (2 chords only, reversible)

debussy’s g♯ /a♭ complex

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Example 16.1. Type 1 linear schemas.








 









     






 








       














                            



 





Violin Sonata in G Minor (i) We begin our survey of examples from the end, so to speak, with the first movement of the Violin Sonata in G Minor, chronologically the last appearance of the G♯/A♭ complex in Debussy’s music (see ex. 16.2). Formally, the E-major 6 3 initiates the movement’s contrasting middle section, suddenly transporting us to a mysterious, rarefied world. The chromatic juxtaposition works on two levels: in the context of the movement’s overall tonic of G minor, E major functions as an altered form of the harmony on raised VI; technically speaking, it derives from a process of “double mixture.”8 On the surface, however, it has very much the effect of a non sequitur vis-à-vis the preceding local dominant preparation, which relates rather to the key of VII, F major—see the dominant ninth of that key, expansively unfolded from measure 76. (Alternatively, seasoned ears attuned to creative enharmonic opportunism might hear the V9 of F as a tertially extended form of an enharmonic augmented sixth chord in E (B♭ = A♯), with elliptical resolution directly to its implied tonic, rather than conventionally through its implicated dominant, B.9) There is a remarkable power of suggestion in this late example, the essence of the complex distilled in just one harmony. In its full form, however, the type 1 complex consists of at least two harmonies. The full form is minimally activated by the addition of a seventh chord: G♯(A♭)7, added to the E-major 36(ex. 16.1b). In the context of this simple two-chord alternation, the progression is reversible as to their order.

Cello Sonata in D Minor (iii) Another movement from the late sonatas illustrates type 1: the finale of the Cello Sonata in D Minor (exx. 16.3 and 16.4).10 The complex occupies the center of the movement—specifically, the small middle section (b) within the larger one (B). Expression here takes an inward turn, in a suddenly slower tempo (Lento) and dynamic extreme of pp (see ex. 16.3). The complex

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Example 16.2. Type 1: E-major 36 only: Violin Sonata in G Minor, first movement, mm. 68–90. Allegro vivo

b & b 43 Œ

68

Œ #œ piu pp

? b 3 Œ # # n ˙˙˙˙ b 4 piu pp ? b 3 b 4 ˙. ˙.

76

&

bb

˙

œ p

. ? b n œœœœ n b ˙˙˙˙ b p ? b b ˙. ˙.

V $3 ==

(√) #### ˙ .

#˙.

. # # n œœœœ ˙˙˙˙

&

π

#˙.

˙. ˙.

˙. ˙.

˙.

Type 1 (E^3 ) ˙.

˙.

˙.

˙. ˙.

˙. ˙. œ

n ˙˙. Œ n n ˙˙ π

Œ

Œ

œ

˙

˙. ˙.

˙. ˙.




g: I (7¥ œ

˙

œ ˙

œ. œ.

œ ˙

œ

n ˙˙˙ œœœ n œœœ ˙˙˙ ˙ œ œ ˙

˙. ˙.
























. œ ˙. œ n ˙˙ œ ˙. n b œœœ b ˙˙˙ b œœœ n ˙˙˙ n œœœ ˙˙ & Œ ˙. ˙.

˙

œœ n ˙˙. œœ n ˙˙. # # œœ ˙˙ # # œœ ˙˙

˙. ˙.

Meno mosso (Tempo rubato)

84

#˙.

n ˙˙˙ œœœ ˙ œ ˙. ˙.

√ ˙.

˙.

dolcissimo

˙˙

˙ . ˙˙

∑

œœn ˙˙

n œœ˙ . ˙˙

2 (4 )

n œœ ˙˙˙ œœ ˙ ˙.

sur la touche

‰ œ . œ. œ p

# nn## #

n# ## œœœ ˙˙˙ n #

œ ˙ n# # ˙. n ##

œ. œ. œ. œ.

(7 / Y VII

œ. œ. œ. œ.

## œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ & # # œœ œœ œ œœ œ œœ œ π œ lusingando œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? #### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ œœ . œ . œ . œ œœ . œ . œ . œ œœ . œ . œ. œ œ. œ. œ. œ. Meno mosso (Tempo rubato)

Y VI ^y

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debussy’s g♯ /a♭ complex

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represents a tonal extreme too, as the point of furthest remove from the tonic D. Harmonically, the complex’s “tonic” A♭ is accessed through its own tonicizing IV–V–I progression (see ex. 16.4a, mm. 49–57), which itself arises out of the preceding local key of C major (= VII, m. 45): D♭ pivots as tonicized Neapolitan in C and subdominant in A-flat. Debussy’s regaining of the tonic D provides an instructive illustration of the characteristically elliptical relationship to classical tonal syntax in his late style: the bass arpeggiates downwards from the complex’s “tonic” A-flat (= G-sharp), through E to C♯, which at middleground level resolves traditionally as leading tone in D (see ex. 16.4a, approach to the Aʹ formal reprise). But any audible sense of leading-tone to tonic resolution is greatly attenuated, first through the bass C♯’s harmonization, by a root-position minor triad (m. 69) that substitutes for the dominant (A) in first inversion (compare example 16.4a with its middleground “normalization” in example 16.4b), and second by the presence of an intervening B-flat7 harmony, which interpolates a completely independent surface resolution involving the augmented sixth B♭/G♯ (see ex. 16.4a, mm. 81ff.; in the music, the augmented sixth is enharmonically notated as the minor seventh B♭/A♭). Regarding the complex’s harmonic format, note that here its E 36 stage (mm. 63–64) unusually takes the form of another seventh chord (literally a ninth chord, but in any case going beyond the first inversion triad as the norm for this stage of the type 1 complex). Even so, the type 1 status of the whole, in its formal context and expressive quality, is unmistakable. The type 1 complex’s most characteristic format is produced by the addition of a further element, making a three-stage schema: a 5–6–7 intervallic progression over the G♯/A♭ bass (now directional, non-reversible; see ex. 16.1c). Stage 1 (the “5” above the bass) is typically represented by a G-sharp-minor triad, with E 36 now taking the role of an (upper voice) passing chord between the root-position G-sharp triad and the dominant seventh chord.

“La cathédrale engloutie” In “La cathédrale engloutie” (exx. 16.5 and 16.6), the complex occupies a much larger formal expanse: the entire middle (B) section, between the two statements (ff and pp) of the “organ theme” (the A and Aʹ sections according to a ternary reading of the form, on which more below). Expressively, the turn inward now foments a troubled, agitated buildup before subsiding to the theme’s dreamlike pianissimo recollection. Stage 1 of the type 1 schema (the G-sharp-minor triad) is embellished by a 46 at the beginning of the B section, delaying the arrival of G♯ 35 until measure 51 (ex. 16.5; note that I regard the initiating 46 as part of stage 1), where it gives way immediately to stage 2 (E 36, m. 51, second beat). Stage 3 (G♯7)’s upper-voice F♯ (the “7” of the schema) is gained at measure 55, but the

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Example 16.3. Type 1: Two-stage reversible schema: Cello Sonata in D Minor, third movement, mm. 53–71. B 2 4

53

˙-

F

œ-

b œ-

œ

3

&

bœ œ œ.

bœ. f

bœ J

B

n œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ b b œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ b œ œ ≈ œ œ œ ≈ b œb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ≈ œ ≈ ≈ œ œ œ ≈ bœ œ œ œ œ ≈ œ & 42 ≈ 3 3 F 3 3 f œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ bœ œ œ nœ œ œ œ 2 ? ?œ b œ œ n n œ œ œ n bœ bœ œ b & 4 nœ & œ bœ bœ nœ nœ œ nœ 9

Type 1: AZ & ==

Lento. Molto rubato con morbidezza

B b b b b b œ- œ n œ # 3œ œ œ-

57

œ œ œ3 œ

nœ

œ

˙ π

œ-

œ

π Lento. Molto rubato bb b b œœ nœ & b œœ œ œ b bb œœœ œ œ n œœ n #n œœœ n #n œœœ n œœ n œœ π 3 3 ? bb œ œ bbb œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Aœ Aœ Aœ Aœ œ dolcissimo ma sostenuto

molto dolce, lusingando

B bbbbb œ

œ œ n œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ

62

π

B bbbbb

nœ

67

&

bbbb

b b nb œœœ

? bb bbb

De Medicis.indd 444

œœ œ œ

Aœ

n˙

dolce vibrato

nœ 3

œ œ œ

œ estinto

Œ

?

nnnnn##

˙˙

œœ œ ˙ œ œ n œ n œ n ˙œ œ œ

œœ œ œA œ œ œ n˙

π

piu

n˙ bbb ˙˙˙ π bœ bœ

bœ

bbbbb

bœ

pp

n nn ˙˙˙ piu pp œ˙ œœ œœ

œ

œœ

- . . - . . 1er Mouvt sur la touche - . . œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ- œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. # œ- œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. 3 3 œ- œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ π3 3 -. .

1 Mouv #¯ n n n n n # # œj ‰ Œ q œ π estinto # œœ nnnnn## œ ‰ Œ œœœœœ œ J < er

œœ

bn œœœ π œ œ

AZ & ==

# œ- œ nœ nœ œ # œ œ n œ œ œ ## œœ n nn œœ œœ n# n ˙˙˙ n n œœ π n# ˙œ n œ n# œœ n œ nœ nœ œ œ nœ nœ #œ nœ 3

bbbbb

A˙

b˙

nœ

~~~~~~

b & b b b b n œœœ π ? bb œ bbb œ

delicatissimo

E ^3 ==

bbbbb

t

‰

œ œ

œ

j œ ‰

Œ

Ó

11/28/2018 5:35:44 PM

debussy’s g♯ /a♭ complex

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445

Example 16.4a–b. Cello Sonata in D Minor, third movement: voice-leading graphs. 

 

 





   



   











 





  























 

 



 






















 
 













 



























 





 

 


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& 

 



 





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$



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$

!









 
 























  

 





















dominant seventh chord itself is withheld until measure 64, at first by much prolonged diatonic dissonance (see the 7/5/4/2 sonority, m. 55), then (from m. 62) by the parallel dominant sevenths streaming from its own applied dominant, D♯. From a conventional harmonic viewpoint, the middle section’s elaborately prolonged G♯ relates straightforwardly to the prelude’s tonic C as an enharmonic spelling of its flat submediant (A♭). From another perspective, though, the stepwise approach to G♯ from above (mm. 40–46: C–B♭–A♭ = G♯) might be heard as an incomplete tetrachord, as if arrested en route to an anticipated

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Example 16.5. Type 1: 5–6–7 schema: “La cathédrale engloutie,” mm. 39–71.

˙ & 32 ˙˙˙

39

? 32

˙˙˙ ˙ w.

√Ów ˙˙ w .. ˙ & ww .. ˙ più p ww . ? w .. b ˙ Ó b˙ -

43

˙˙ ˙˙

˙˙ ˙˙ ˙˙˙ ˙

w .. wÓww .. www .. w .. ˙

˙˙˙ ˙

˙ -v

w √ √œœ Œ Ów . ˙˙ www ... ˙˙ œœ π www ... œ Œ Ó b˙ œ b˙ -

w .. ˙ www .. v www .. w .. w.

˙ v-

œœ Œ œœ œ Œ œ

√˙˙ ˙˙

^˙

-^ ˙

√Ów ˙˙ www .... ˙˙ più pp www ... Ó bw b w-

Ów www .... p www ... Ó b˙ b˙ -

œœ Œ œœ

œœ Œ œœ œ Œ œ

∑ ˙ ˙

?

#### ####

#w # w-

Type 1: stage 1

Un peu mois lent (Dans une expression allant grandissant)

? #### w ˙ π expressif et concentre ? #### w. w.

47

˙

˙

w. w.

˙ ? # # # # # www ... ˙

˙

? #### ˙ w.

˙˙˙ ˙

˙

Ó w.

52

6 __ __ 4

˙

˙

˙

˙

˙

˙ Ó w.

Ó

w˙ # ˙ & ˙ #˙ π w #˙ ˙

# ww˙˙..

˙ #˙

stage 2

˙

Ó ˙ #˙ w.

w. ˙ ˙

& # w ˙ww ... ˙ w.

˙w # ˙

˙

5 3

˙ n ˙˙˙

stage 3

˙ ˙ ˙

6 ________

?

π (7¢

Ó w. w.

˙w w˙ ˙ww ˙

˙ ˙

˙ ˙

(continued)

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Example 16.5.—(concluded)

œ ˙ # # # # ˙˙œœ œ ˙˙˙ &

56

˙ ? # # # # ˙˙˙ w. w.

˙ww ˙w

√

˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ww˙ f # ? # # # & ˙˙ ˙˙˙ ˙ ˙ w. ## & ##

59

˙˙ ˙

œ œ

˙˙œœ

p

˙ ˙ ˙ wwww ˙

? ˙ wwwww œ ˙ Œ œ

&5¥

- #### -˙ œ w- w ˙ ˙ œ ˙ n œ & # ˙ œ œ ˙ # # ˙˙ ˙˙ n n œœœ # œœ # ww w dim. ? # # # # ˙˙˙ n ˙˙ n œœ # œœœ ww ˙ œ w- X V&

## & # # www ... ww .. ? # # # # ww .. w. ˙ w-

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Ó? w-w ..

n w-

Ó

n w-

w-w ..

˙ ˙

˙˙œœ ˙˙˙œœ œ

˙˙ ˙

˙œ œ

˙ww ˙w

˙ ˙

˙ ˙

˙ ww˙

˙ ˙˙ ˙ ‹ # ˙˙˙

˙ ˙

˙ www˙ ˙˙

œ œ

˙˙ œ œ

˙ ˙˙˙˙

˙ ˙

˙w ˙w

wÓ . w.

63

67

˙w ˙w

œ ˙ ˙˙ w˙ œ ˙ w˙ œ ƒ œ & ˙˙˙˙ w˙ ˙ ww˙ j œ w.

œ œ

j œ

˙

molto

? # ˙˙

-

(V& ) ? ‹#

˙˙˙˙ ˙

p

# ˙˙˙

&

# ww # www # ww w

n˙ # ˙˙˙˙ p n ˙˙ ˙

œn œn œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ π ww ..

ww . # www .... ww .. wÓ .

w∑

nœnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

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chapter sixteen

Example 16.6. “La cathédrale engloutie”: voice-leading graph.      






































      



    












    




  
  




















 





 







     



   













 

 









        








! 





 








 



    



 










     

 




 



goal of the diatonic dominant G. To pursue this idea: given G♯’s slow process of transformation into a dominant seventh chord, the prolonged chromatic bass pitch might be interpreted as standing in for the expected diatonic dominant that never arrives, hence as assuming the role of a chromatic displacement of that diatonic dominant (♯V for ♮V). Such an interpretation fits well with both the slow-burning rhetorical buildup on G♯ (though note Debussy’s characteristic avoidance of the obvious in the non-coincidence of dynamic [m. 61] and harmonic [m. 64] climaxes) and the retransitional passage from m. 68, with its elliptical hint (but no more!) at a stepwise descent from V to I in the bass.11 This displaced dominant reading in turn opens up a new perspective on the formal process—a rotational one, emphasizing recurring cycles of ordered thematic/harmonic content, in distinction to the more conventional ternary parsing.12 In “La cathédrale engloutie” such a rotational orientation rather yields a two-part formal (and tonal-structural) process, as dual large-scale V–I discharges: the first diatonic, the second chromatically displaced (see ex. 16.6). The type 1 schema can be further elaborated by the introduction of a dominant thirteenth chord. This arises as an intensification of the schema’s V7 component, either in the two-chord reversible format (see ex. 16.1b) or as stage 3 of the complete schema (as shown in ex. 16.1d). Note that the enhanced

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dominant harmony always refers to a major mode tonic (by virtue of the major thirteenth, E♯ or F♮, above the root of the chord), never to a minor mode one. It can function in two ways: 1) in a traditional manner, as a diatonic intensification of V7, obeying the norms of tonal syntax (the chordal thirteenth as a downwardly resolving appoggiatura); or 2) more radically, as an independent sonorous object in its own right, in which the thirteenth is an integral “chord tone” with no obligation for downward resolution—indeed, with the potential (as ♯6 above the bass) to describe an upward passing motion from “6” (E) to “7” (F♯, as the chordal seventh).13

“De l’aube à midi sur la mer” In “De l’aube à midi sur la mer” (ex. 16.7), the V13 appears as an intensified substitute for V7, resolving traditionally (G♭–F♭). The type 1 schema takes the same two-stage reversible format seen in the Cello Sonata and elaborates it further here through a lazily drifting whole-tone inflection. The formal context is that of coda springboard, with A♭ as the movement’s large-scale cadential dominant, resolving to the tonic D♭ indirectly via an intervening plagal motion, IV–I.14 Expressively, the complex evokes a calm, still interlude between the surrounding depictions of the sea’s swelling grandeur. The type 1 complex can optionally be still further elaborated by the addition of a fourth stage, in a continued chromatic ascent of the upper voices from the dominant seventh (see ex. 16.1d). This characteristically results in thirdinversion seventh chords above the bass G♯/A♭. These can take two forms: 1) a “chromatic” version (A7, with root a semitone above the bass pedal—note the clash between G♮ in the upper voice of the chord and G♯ in the bass); or 2) a “diatonic” version (B♭7, with root a whole tone above the bass pedal, which itself doubles as the seventh of the chord’s upper voice). The move to this B♭7 chord constitutes a characteristic whole-step “lift” at the end of extended type 1 chord sequences, sometimes further emphasized by having the bass itself move up a whole step to B♭ (thus adding to the complex a root-position seventh chord on that pitch).

“Jeux de vagues” In “Jeux de vagues,” the expanded type 1 complex underpins a late buildup, in a climactic synthesis, or drawing together, of the strands of the movement, finally discharging into the coda like the breaking of a mighty wave (ex. 16.8).15 Stage 3 of the complex (“7” above the bass) is elaborated by semitonal voiceleading inflections producing a “kaleidoscopic” succession of varied chord structures (in the process implicating another type of the complex, type 2, to be considered below). One effect of these chordal inflections, and a characteristic elaborative feature of type 1 complexes in general, is the prominent

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Example 16.7. Type 1: V13 variant: “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”: voice-leading graph.


   




 











 




  



   

  

  









    

 











  










   

       

       
         

  




juxtaposition or alternation of two or more diatonic systems (what Richard Parks calls diatonic “referential collections”).16 The type 1 complex in “Jeux de vagues” provides a particularly wide-ranging illustration of this technique, with every referential collection (rc) from three sharps to seven (that is, rcs A major, E major, B major, F-sharp major, and C-sharp major) represented in the passage from measure 171 to measure 210.17 The extended complex ends with a climactic whole-step “lift” to B-flat (in this case also implicating the bass’s rise to root-position B♭7). In its larger tonal context, the bass pedal G♯ is the middle member of a tonic triad arpeggiation, but one deformed by a seismic chromatic shift. As in “La cathédrale engloutie,” the deep-level tonal structure features the chromatic displacement of the dominant, but here downwards to ♭V rather than upwards to ♯V.18 (Note the effect of this downward displacement on the upper^ ^ ^ 4–3 into an voice counterpoint, turning the standard neighbor-note formula 3– ^ ^ ^ enharmonic common-tone connection [3–♭4 –3].)

“Gigues” The three stages of the type 1 complex are conducive to further expansion on a large formal scale. An extreme example of this is found in the middle section of “Gigues,” with a temporal distribution or stratification of the three stages (exx. 16.9a–b).19 The tonal narrative of this piece involves a drama of three tonal centers—two real: F and A♭/G♯; another (D) aspired to but never attained. The outer sections of the form are dominated by F and A♭, which the last part reasserts (though in a veiled, shadowy fashion) after a highly unstable central section.20 The middle portion of the piece (ex. 16.9a) dramatizes a drawn-out tonal duality of G♯ (as the enharmonic guise of the home tonality A♭, from whose

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debussy’s g♯ /a♭ complex

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451

Example 16.8. Type 1: Further expansion of 5–6–7 schema: “lift” to B-flat: “Jeux de vagues”: voice-leading graph.         














 



                


 



 





 








   















 

  

 







    



  



 






   


  
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confines the music seems to seek to escape) and A as dominant of the key of D—a kind of tonal “Promised Land” which is ultimately, and tragically, unattainable. The G♯ strand of this duality is projected through a type 1 complex: stage 1: tonicized G-sharp minor, measure 121. But this soon peters out, and the type 1 complex is only resumed much later in: stage 2 (m. 172): E-major 36 as the harmonic setting for the climactic appearance of the folk tune “The Keel Row,” ubiquitous agent of the work’s unceasingly restless peregrinations. Stage 2’s E major is elaborated by a 5–6 contrapuntal motion (B–C♯, tonicizing the key of C-sharp minor (ex. 16.9b, m. 175) and leading directly to: stage 3 (m. 178): G♯7 as an abortive climax over the “wrong” dominant, followed by a collapse to its tritone-pole D (m. 184, but now in a context maximally removed from any possibility of tonic function as the work’s aspired-to tonal “Promised Land”), from the wreckage of which emerges (m. 186) the retransitional dominant preparation for the return of the work’s opening tonic, F (see ex. 16.9b).

The Type 2 Complex In contrast to the strongly directed linearity of type 1, the essence of the type 2 complex (see ex. 16.10) resides in a churning, circular harmonic activity, or “kaleidoscopic” character, manifest in: 1) varied seventh chord qualities:

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452

chapter sixteen

Example 16.9a. Type 1: Temporal expansion of three stages: “Gigues,” B section, overview.
  







 









 





 


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Example 16.9b. “Gigues”: B section, stages 2 and 3 of the Type 1 complex: voiceleading graph.























 



 





        





 

 





           















 









 





 





dominant, half diminished, fully diminished (though notably not minor or major seventh chords); 2) varied chordal inversions among seventh chords of the same quality: root-position, first, second, and third inversions. Given the constraint of the unchanging bass note, this will naturally also produce a varied succession of root transpositions, which will tend to emphasize those related by minor third. Regarding the question of possible specific influential precedents for the G♯/A♭ complex, such passages of kaleidoscopically shifting harmonies,

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453

Example 16.10. The type 2 complex: Repertoire of “kaleidoscope” harmonies.


 












        





  

 

    

 





































untethered from harmonic–functional syntax, are (not surprisingly) uncommon in pre-twentieth-century repertoire. One notable exception, all the more tantalizing for its sharing the same transposition level, occurs in measures 46ff. of the first movement (“Rêveries. Passions”) of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique (ex. 16.11): a slow-moving harmonic kaleidoscope over an A♭/G♯ pedal, in the formal context of the later stages of an extended slow introduction and at a pp dynamic level with the expressive effect of a sudden turn inward. Unlike Debussy’s characteristic type 2 seventh-chord construction, Berlioz’s harmonic kaleidoscope is almost entirely triadic (the exception being the diminished seventh harmony at m. 59). Although in its larger context the passage expresses submediant function, prolonged through a series of voiceleading inflections in the upper voices, on the surface the systematic representation of every possible consonant triad type (major and minor triads in root position, first inversion, and second inversion), together with microscopic motivic focus on each stage of the process, has the effect—radical indeed for its time—of disconnecting the passage from its frame of functional reference. Harmonic functionality is restored by its last stage, an applied diminished seventh leading to the scale step’s chromatically raised form (♮VI), securing the change of mode in preparation for the C-major Allegro. Considering its transposition level, it is tempting to speculate that this passage may have been influential on Debussy. At any rate it is certainly possible, given his well documented familiarity with, and admiration for, the work.21 The locus classicus of the type 2 complex is “Fêtes” (exx. 16.12a–b), where it occupies the entire central nocturnal procession, beginning pp as an evocation of spatial distance. The harmonic kaleidoscope cycles through a varied sequence of dominant, half-, and fully-diminished seventh chords. The theme’s transposed restatement (mm. 140ff.) preserves the ordered qualities in sequence, though it is (typically for Debussy) less systematic than it sounds. Note how Debussy artfully varies the transpositional distance between equivalent chords in the two statements: compare measures 124–31/140–47 (minor-third relation between equivalent roots) with measures 132–39/148–55 (tritone relation between equivalent roots).

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Example 16.11. Type 2 harmonic kaleidoscope in Berlioz, Symphonie fantastique, first movement, mm. 41–63.

b & b b 44 Œ

41

Fl.

Ob.

b & b b 44

Cl.B b

& b 44 Π&

44

Hn.C

&

4 4

Bsn.

? b 4 Πbb 4

Hn.E b

Vln.1

œœ ‰ Œ J ∑ œœ ‰ Œ J

œœ ‰ J j œ ‰ œ

Œ

b b œœ ‰ Ó J ∑

Œ

∑

œ ‰ Œ J

œ œ J ‰ b œJ ‰ Œ p

b 4 œ œ ‰ Jœ œ œ ‰ œ &bb 4 J

∑

∑

∑

bœ

Vln.2

˙æ

Vla.

B b b b 44 ˙ æ

˙æ

j œ œ

˙ æ

˙æ

˙æ

Vc.

D.B.

? b 44 ˙ bb

˙ ˙

bw bw

j œ

#œ

j œ nœ

bœ

j j b œ b œœ œ

nœ

j œ

œ

œ

j nœ

j œ œ

bœ œ J bœ œ J

œ

bœ

œ

Œ

p œ

œ

Œ

p œ œ œ œ p ∑

Œ

∑

∑

Ó

b 4 & b b 4 ˙æ

? b 44 ˙ bb

f œ œ f

∑

∑

œ bœ ‰ œ

f œ

∑

bœ ‰ Ó œ J

∑

nœ

∑

œ

œ

nœ

œ

nœ

f

j œ nœ S

j œ œ S j j nœ nœ œ S j j œ œ #œ S œ œ #œ J J S

nœ

Œ

œ p bœ

œ

œ

œ

œ nœ nœ

œ œ œ

p p p p p

j œ j œ œ J

j œ œ J

(continued)

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Example 16.11.—(continued)

œ

b &bb Œ

45

p

b &bb Π&b

œ

p œ œ p

Œ

& & ? b Œ bb b j & b b œ œœ b & b b œj œ œ B bbb œ J ? bb

œ œ

b œj œ

? bb œ b J

œ

œ œ p

Ó

∑

Ó

∑

Ó

∑ ∑

∑

∑

∑

œ

nœ

j œ

œ

œ

œ

Ó

∑ j œ

œ œ

j œ j œ j œ

œ nœ œ w S w S

c: VI

Œ Œ Œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

œ

œ

p

#œ #œ p ∑

Ó œœ

œœ

Ó

Ó pizz.

œ

pizz.

œ

pizz.

œ

Œ Œ Œ

nœ nœ œ w π w π

Œ

œ œ

p

Ó

Œ

Ó

Œ

Ó

∑ Œ

∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

Œ œ œ œ

Œ

Ó

Œ

Ó

Œ

Ó

w w 53-

(continued)

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Example 16.11.—(continued) 4

b œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ b ˙˙

b &bb Π49

π3

b &bb &b

π

3

& ? b bb bb

∑

De Medicis.indd 456

3

∑

∑

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ ˙˙ 3

3

œœ ‰ Œ J

3

œ ‰ Ó J

œ

œ bœ. œ œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

senza rallent.

6-

3

∑

œ œ œ bœ p B bbb Œ bœ F ? b bb w

b4 -

3

œœ J ‰ Œ

∑

arco

? b bb w

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ ˙˙

∑

. b œ. . . b Ÿœ œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ. œ œ. œ. œ . œ. b œ j ‰ Œ . œ ∏ legg.

con sord. arco

∑

& b

4

3

Œ

3 3 3 j œœ ‰ Œ Œ b œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ b ˙˙ π I. œ œ bœ. œ œ œ œ. bœ œ ∑ p

Œ

&

b &bb

œœ ‰ Œ J

senza rallent.

Ó œ

∑

œ

bœ œ

Œ

Ó

œœ Œ

. Ÿ œ. œ. œ œ. œ. . œ. œ. œ œ. œ œ nœ œ . œ. œ .

Ó

œ œ

Ó

œ

œ

œ bœ. œ

œ

œ œ

w

w

w

w

w

w

∑

Œ

Ó

53-

(continued)

11/28/2018 5:45:12 PM

Example 16.11.—(continued)

b &bb Œ

53

b &bb &b

3

bœ

3

œ J ‰ Ó

3

j ‰ Œ œ

nœ

#œ

∑

n Ÿœ

nœ

#œ n œ w

b w

w

De Medicis.indd 457

Œ

# # œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ 3

œ œ J

‰

Œ

Œ

π

∑

#œ œ

3

# # œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ 3

nœ #œ

Ó

Œ

3

3

∑ œ J

n œ. # œ. n œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. n œ. # œ ‰ Œ . n œ. # œj

Œ

3

∑

∑

b w

6b-

Œ

>œ >œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ

Ó Ó

B bbb Œ

#˙ #˙

p

b & b b n œœ # œ n œ œ

? bb

3

∑

b

‰

∑

∑

b &bb

? bb

3

#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

& ? bb

3

œœ J

∑ Œ

&

# n œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ # n ˙˙

∑ Ó

#œ œ

Ó

#œ

nœ

#œ

w w

___ b 4-

(continued)

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Example 16.11.—(continued) 56

&

# # ˙˙ bbb

b &bb &b & & ? b bb

œœ J ‰ Œ

Œ

œœ J ‰ Œ

Œ

œb œ .>œ œ

>œ œ >œ œ œ. œ.

œ.

œ≈

œ ≈ œ≈ œ œ

œ≈

p

œ p

œ

∑

>œ œ

. Ÿ # œ. n œ œ. œ. . œ. œ. œ œ.# œ bb n œ # œ œ # œ. . # œ. n œ. & b b &bb

# # œœ B bbb ? b bb ? b bb

∑

Œ

3

3

Œ

3

∑

∑ # ˙˙

n # œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ n # ˙˙ ..

Ó

3

3

3

œ ‰ Ó J

Œ

p3

j ‰Œ #œ

# œ n œ# œ œ Œ

> > > œ .œ œ œ .œ œ œ . œ œ

> œ œ .œ œ

> > > œ .œ œ œ .œ œ œ . œ œ

I. p nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n˙.

senza sord.

3

Ó Ó

#œ nœ #œ

3

Œ

Œ

Œ

œ J ‰ Ó œ J

3 3 3 # n œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

# n œœ

n œ n œn œ œ

∑

Œ

Ó

cresc. poco a poco

Ó

Œ

w

w

w

w

w

w

w

b

n œ œ3 œ œ œ3 œ œ 3œ œ

p cresc. poco a poco .. . # œ . . n œ. . Ÿ Ÿ # œ ‹ œ œ n œ. # œ œ œ. œ. œ œ. œ.# œ. . # œ‹ œ œ n œ. n œ œ n œ # œ. j ‰ Œ nœ

w

5

cresc. poco a poco

I.

p cresc. poco a poco # œ œ3 œ œ œ3 œ œ 3œ œ Œ # œœœœœœœ œ œ

œ œ .>œ œ

p

∑

Œ

∑

# # œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ # # ˙˙ ..

Œ

3 3 3 n n œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

nœ nœ bœ

(VIIK &

cresc.

)

(continued)

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Example 16.11.—(concluded)

b &bb

60

b &bb &b

3 n œ œ œ3 œ œ œ œ3 œ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J 3

& b

b &bb

Œ

nœ B b b b n n œœ

? bb

b n˙ S

b n˙ S n VI

De Medicis.indd 459

n ˙˙

F dim. ˙ n˙

3

3

3 œ œ œ3 œ ‰ ‰ n Jœ œ œ œ ‰

b nœ & b b nœ nœ

? bb

5

F dim. 3 œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ # Jœœ œœ œœ œœ ‰ ‰ Jœ œ œ œ # ˙˙ F dim. ˙ ∑ ˙ F dim. ˙˙ ∑ 3

&

? bb

3 œœ œœ œœ3 œœ n œœ œœ œœ3 œœ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J 3

n œŸ œ Œ

nœ œ

Œ œ

œœ bœ ˙ ˙

π ˙ ˙

π ˙˙ π ˙ ˙ π ˙˙

F dim. π ˙˙ ˙˙ 3 3 n œ œ œ œ ‰ Jœ œ œ œ F dim. π ˙˙ Ÿœ n ˙˙ œ œ æ æ π F dim. œ ˙ div. ˙ n œ n˙ ˙ œ œ œ æ æ F dim. π ˙ div.n ˙ arco ˙ ˙ Œ æ æ F dim. π div.˙æ ˙æ ˙ ˙ F dim. π œ œ ˙ œ F dim. π 5

˙˙

˙˙

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

cresc.

˙˙

ƒ n˙ ˙

∏ ˙ ˙ ∏ ˙ ˙ ∏ ˙ ˙ ∏ ˙˙

ƒ ˙ #˙ ƒ ˙ ˙ ƒ ˙˙ ƒ n˙ ˙ ƒ ˙˙ æ ƒ n˙ ˙ æ ƒ ˙ ˙ æ ƒ ˙æ ˙ ƒ œ ƒ

œ œ

∏ ˙ ˙ ∏ ˙˙ æ ∏ ˙ ˙ æ ∏ ˙ ˙ æ ∏ ˙æ ˙ ∏ ˙ ∏

n œœ œ J ‰ n œ ‰ œœ ‰ n œj ‰ œ J J œ œ n œ ‰ œ ‰ œœ ‰ n œj ‰ J J œ J

œ œ j œ œ J ‰ J ‰ n œJ ‰ œœ ‰ j œ ‰ Œ Ó œ œœ ‰ Œ J

Ó

j œ nœ nœ œ ‰ J ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰

n œœ pizz. œ J J ‰ n œJ ‰ œ ‰ j œ J unis.

arco œ J ‰ n œœ ‰ n œj ‰ j œ œœ J unis. arco pizz. œ nœ J ‰ J ‰ œœ ‰ œj J œ unis. n œ arco œ œ pizz. nœ J J ‰ J ‰ Jœ ‰ J

œ nœ J œ œ J

unis. pizz.

œ j œ œ ‰ ‰ J ‰ œJ ‰ J pizz.

arco

11/28/2018 5:52:02 PM

Example 16.12a–b. Type 2: “Fêtes”: voice-leading graphs.     







 







 








  













 



 

       
     

  

 

  


 







     

    
  



 

  





 
  
 

















 




    
    

 








 





 


 




 




 
 



 
  






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“Fêtes” is also one of a number of examples where the complex functions as the tonicized leading-tone, relative to a larger tonal context of A natural (major or minor). Here, the middle section’s local tonic of A♭ is accessed as the enharmonic upper fifth of the mediant C♯. As shown in example 16.12a, entrance to its rarefied sound world is by way of the dominant ninth chord on that pitch, from which the B section’s tonic “Tristan chord” half-diminished seventh is derived by subtracting the root C♯, leaving the four upper notes A♭–C♭–E♭–F. At the other end of the middle section, the exit from the complex is accomplished via the same process in reverse, adding the root D♭ (cf. m. 174).22 With their characteristically symmetrical and additive constructive basis, Debussy’s phrase structures can sometimes display an unexpected affinity with classical ones. Such is the case with the nocturnal procession theme, whose essential construction is that of a two-phrase hybrid as defined by William Caplin’s theory of classical formal functions (see ex. 16.12b), specifically, his hybrid category of compound basic idea (consisting of basic and contrasting ideas) plus continuation (incorporating the characteristic processes of fragmentation, harmonic acceleration, and increased rhythmic activity).23

The Type 3 Complex Type 3 is the simplest of the three complex types, consisting of a stable G-sharpminor or root position A-flat-major triad, more or less elaborately tonicized. The difference between this type and the first stage of a type 1 complex resides in the chord’s expansion through tonicization. If an E-major 36, as the central component of a type 1 complex, were to be preceded by an elaborately tonicized G♯ or A♭ 35, that would constitute a hybrid of the two types. Type 3’s most typical formal context is late in a piece, in the role of “coda springboard,” a dynamic and expressive retreat before the final tonic affirmation. It is also frequently associated with the above-mentioned tonal context of tonicized leading tone in the key of A. Two examples combining these key and formal associations are “L’isle joyeuse” (mm. 186ff.) and “Rondes de printemps” (mm. 134ff.). The “Passepied” from the Suite bergamasque (exx. 16.13 and 16.14) is of particular interest as the earliest instance (so far as I am aware) of the fully developed G♯/A♭ complex in Debussy’s music.24 The formal context here is that of the middle section and reprise (b–aʹ) of a small ternary scheme nested within a large middle (B) section (see ex. 16.13, mm. 76ff.). The characteristic association of the type 3 complex with the tonicized leading tone is already present in this work from Debussy’s early maturity (its tonic, A major, in turn functions as the tonicized mediant in the movement’s overall tonality of F-sharp minor). The complex’s temporal unfolding here also illustrates the type 3/

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462

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chapter sixteen

type 1 hybrid referred to above: the tonicized leading tone (in its enharmonic guise of A-flat major) moves to an E-major 36 at the center of the process (m. 88), with a sudden expressive withdrawal to ppp, and in the formal role of the small reprise (aʹ) within the large B section. The appearance of E 36 shifts the complex decisively to a type 1 track, but Debussy then skips the expected continuation to stage 3 of that type (G♯7), instead proceeding directly from stage 2 (E 36) to stage 4 (m. 91, as type 1’s terminal “lift” to a B♭ 24). Within the movement’s large-scale tonal structure, the complex is sandwiched between the mediant and dominant in a deep middleground arpeggiation I–III–V (ex. 16.14b). After the complex has run its course, the ensuing retransitional approach to the large reprise (mm. 98–109) offers a further demonstration of the real subtlety and originality Debussy’s tonal language had already attained in this relatively early work. See how the moment of thematic reprise/tonic return (m. 106) is exquisitely floated within the surrounding prolonged dominant, which then slowly drifts down to the structural tonic arrival in mid-phrase (m. 110; see ex. 16.14a).

Irregular Formats Some further instances of the complex are irregular (see table 16.1: “unique” examples). While they fit the profile of the complex both formally and expressively, they do so in technically idiosyncratic ways that do not explicitly conform to the three types, though they may incorporate selective aspects of them: 1.

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Progressions exhibiting selective ingredients of the established types, but deployed in unsystematic fashion. See, for example, measures 72ff. of Masques, much of which is constructed from characteristic type 1 harmonies: V9/V13, as well as 24 chords, but lacking the characteristic (E 36) nucleus and strongly goal-directed nature of type 1, and also incorporating a circular kaleidoscopic (type 2) aspect. The A♭ pedal passage at measures 18–50 of “Colloque sentimentale” from the second collection of Fêtes galantes is especially intriguing as a rare instance of the complex (albeit in irregular format) in the vocal music. The formal and poetic context is highly apt for the appearance of the complex: the interior dialogue of the two specters, reminiscing on their “extase ancienne” within the framing narrative of the song’s outer sections. The song’s overall tonal context is an extremely elliptical A minor (the tonic not established until the very last measure!), within which the complex relates to the dominant of D-flat major (reflected in the passage’s key signature, and complete with its own internal resolution to its implied D-flat “tonic,” m. 40). D♭ itself is probably best understood as enharmonic ♯III (C♯), relative to the overall tonic.

11/28/2018 5:55:13 PM

Example 16.13. Type 3 (including type 3/1-hybrid complex): “Passepied” (Suite bergamasque), mm. 64–115.

Allegretto ma non troppo

###

q = 100

& c n œœ œœ œœœ œœ œœœ n œœœ n -œ œ. . œ. . . œ ? ### c nœ œ œ nœ nœ œ œ

> # ˙˙˙

n œœœ œœ œœ œœ œœœ - œ. œ. œ. œ- nœ nœ œ œ nœ œ œ

œ

-œ . . . œœœ œœ œœ œœ œœ F œœ œœ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ > ˙

A: I

- . . . œœœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œœ # wwww S œ œ œ cresc.œ œ œ œ œ # ? ## œ œ œœœœœœ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ II&x # # # -œœ œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœœ œœ œ œ œ &

œ # œœœ œœœ œœœ œœœ œœœ œ œœ œœœœœ

68

## & # # œœœ œœœ œœœ œœ œœœ œ cresc. ? ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

72

œ œœœ # œœ ˙˙˙ œ œœ œœœœœ

# œœ ># œ f

# œœ

œ œ #œ

œœ

#œ œ

œ #œ

&œ

#œ œ bbbb

#œ Œ

bbbb

VIIX %

Type 3 3 œ˙ œ n œ˙ œ ˙˙ œ˙ œ œ˙ œ œ œ˙ œ ˙˙ 76 b œ œ & b bb π bb b b œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & œœ œ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ AZ : I

De Medicis.indd 463

(continued)

11/28/2018 5:55:20 PM

Example 16.13.—(continued) cédez

bb ˙ &bb

80

œ œ

˙

œ

œ

˙

œ

a Tempo

œ

bb & b b œ˙œ œ œ œ˙œ œ œ œ˙œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ˙ œ˙ œ˙ œ œ œ

w ?

œœ œœ

œ œ˙œ œ œ œ

V&

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Example 16.13.—(concluded)

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Example 16.14a. “Passepied” (Suite bergamasque): voice-leading graphs.










  




 







            





            














   
























                         
         
    
         
 









 

























 





  









 

  







        








  
  

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debussy’s g♯ /a♭ complex

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467

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The first part of the complex has an irregular format, oscillating neighboring diminished sevenths (on G and A♮) dissonant with the A♭ pedal, embedding a reference to a type 1 F-flat 36 (m. 28). The second part (mm. 33–39) then plays out a type 2 “kaleidoscope” of half- and fully-diminished seventh chords and dominant 56. The resumption of the complex after its internal “tonic” resolution reverts to the “dissonant” diminished sevenths before a whole-tone dissolution to the framing A minor. Conversely, directed chromatic progressions that do not refer to type 1, as in the late buildup at measures 535ff. of Jeux (dominant-ninth-based with a dissonant overlay of chromatic sixths, before sidestepping to V 34 of IV at the end, m. 561). Passages of exclusively whole-tone content, as in measures 57ff. of the Prélude from Pour le piano: characteristic of the G♯/A♭ complex formally, in its occupation of the entire middle section of a large ternary form; also tonally, in its massive expansion of the leading tone in A minor (cf. type 3 examples “Passepied,” L’isle joyeuse, and “Rondes de printemps”). The approach to the whole-tone complex, descending chromatically from C (mm. 51–57), also suggests the “arrested tetrachord” strategy observed in “La cathédrale engloutie” (mm. 40ff.; cf. ex. 16.5). Indeed, in the “Prélude” this aspect is projected quite explicitly by the context of the “arrested” tetrachord’s appearance, coming on the heels of two emphatic statements of the full tetrachord descent C–B♭–A♭–G, measures 43–51. Ostinatos from non-tertian sonorities, exemplified by a truly unique extended passage at measures 47ff. of the central movement (“Lent. Sombre”) from En blanc et noir: an interior buildup generating extreme tension (with clear programmatic implications in the quotation of the German chorale tune), layered ostinatos (an unprecedentedly angular effect—surely as close as Debussy ever came to emulating the style

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of his friend Stravinsky), and the idiomatic Debussyan technique of “clouding” the bass pedal in seconds (mm. 47ff.: A♭ clouded by G).25

“Pour les sonorités opposées” as Apogee of the G♯/A♭ Complex in Debussy’s Music The G♯/A♭ complex finds its widest ranging and most sustained expression in the étude “Pour les sonorités opposées,” a study in slowly shifting prismatic sonorities, as though viewing objects illuminated from various angles. The form is rather unusual for Debussy, comprising seven parts in an arch-like arrangement (see exx. 16.15 and 16.16). As noted by Richard Parks, the etude exhibits an extraordinary preoccupation with a single pitch class, G♯.26 Much of it consists essentially of a series of different harmonic settings of this pitch, as though Debussy were systematically trying them out, one by one. Section 1 presents G♯ as an unharmonized dominant pedal, embellished by the B♭7 “lift” motive as its upper neighbor (ex. 16.15, m. 6). Section 2 then takes this B♭ as IV of F minor. This key in its turn presents a new possibility of harmonizing the pedal tone A♭ which has now migrated from the bass to an upper voice (ex. 16.15, m. 7). The radically foreign sound of the new key derives from the complexity of its relationship to the tonic C-sharp minor, as an enharmonic spelling of minor ♯III (another instance of double mixture; cf. the above discussion of the Violin Sonata). Sections 3–5, at the center of the piece, play out the successive stages of a type 1 complex, thus: Stage 1 takes the form of a G-sharp-minor based circular wandering motive in eighth notes, suggestive of a treadmill (ex. 16.15, mm. 15ff.). (Although G♯ does not materialize as a clear bass pedal until measure 27, it effectively controls the “wandering” motion in parallel triads from measure 15 through metrical prominence, on the hypermetrical downbeats of the regularly repeating two-measure units, measures 15, 17 and following.) Stage 2 then locks into the type 1 complex with the arrival on an E-major 36 to a trumpet-like topos (military “clarion calls” according to Marianne Wheeldon, with programmatic reference to the composition’s wartime backdrop; see ex. 16.15, mm. 31ff.).27 Stage 3 continues to G♯7, via the dominant thirteenth chord, here in its upwardly passing guise: E–E♯ (V13)–F♯ (V7), expanding further to chromatic 24s and dominant ninths in a crescendo to ff, before abruptly subsiding to pp. The long central dominant pedal finally moves down to IV, against which harmony the returning clarion calls are evocatively dissonant at their original pitch (ex. 16.15, mm. 59ff.). The arch design then brings a return of the “treadmill” idea, on the minor dominant as before (ex. 16.15, mm. 63 ff.).

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Example 16.15. The G♯/A♭ complex: apogee and resolution in “Pour les sonorités opposées.”
 





  
 












      

 

         

 

            



 



 

 

       

    

   




    

     

  



             

   








    



 







        

 









    







  





  

  

                 



      











 



















  






 



 



 



    

  







  

 



   

 

 

 

   

 







   

       

  

      

   

     

 






 

      





  

 

 










 



      

    

 


   

        

       

 



   

    

  


  

 



               

 

  







        

   

  
 



   



  








  

   



  












 


  

   



  



 
  










 





   

  

      



 





     











 

 

    



















 

 



 



   









 





 





         







 

 









 

    







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473

The whole etude plays out an incomplete tonal structure (V–I) in C-sharp minor (ex. 16.16a–b). Tonic resolution is ambivalent to the end, in ever receding reverberations of the clarion calls, still at their original pitch level, now projecting a dissonant minor seventh B against the tonic triad (see ex. 16.15, mm. 68ff.). Yet it also brings a real sense of finality. Considered in the historical context of Debussy’s stylistic development over the years, I would suggest more than that—a final hard-won attainment of closure for a lifetime’s compositional preoccupation with this complex.28

Notes 1. 2.

3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8.

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For a wide-ranging historical exploration of this topic see Peter Williams, The Chromatic Fourth during Four Centuries of Music (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997). William Rothstein, “Chopin and the B-Major Complex: A Study in the Psychology of Composition,” Ostinato rigore, revue internationale d’études musicales 15 (2000): 149–72. See Jan Swafford, Johannes Brahms: A Biography (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1997), 45–46, 69. As in the Piano Sonata No. 3 in F Minor, op. 5 (i); Serenade No. 1 in D Major, op. 11 (i); String Sextet No. 2 in G Major, op. 36 (i); String Quartet No. 1 in C Minor, op. 51, no. 1 (i, iv); String Quartet No. 2 in A Minor, op. 51, no. 2 (i); Symphony No. 2 in D Major, op. 73 (iv); Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, op. 83 (ii); String Quintet No. 1 in F Major, op. 88 (i); Symphony No. 3 in F Major, op. 90 (i); Symphony No. 4 in E Minor, op. 98 (iii); Cello Sonata No. 2 in F Major, op. 99 (i); Violin Sonata No. 2 in A Major, op. 100 (i); Piano Trio No. 3 in C Minor, op. 101 (i, iv); Clarinet Quintet in B Minor, op. 115 (i); and Clarinet Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, op. 120/1 (i). Note the diversity of keys represented here. I include only those development sections where the tonicization of C-sharp minor is strongly projected as an independent event, and do not count instances where its appearance seems more incidental (e.g., as the result of a harmonic sequence). See Mark DeVoto, Debussy and the Veil of Tonality: Essays on His Music (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2004), chap. 2, esp. 33–39, 44–52. As in the apparent modeling of Ibéria on a much earlier three-movement work, the Fantasy in G—not only in overall tonal plan (G major–F-sharp major–G major) but in details of textural and harmonic strategies employed in throughcomposed transitions between movements in both works. See ibid., 46–48; also Boyd Pomeroy, “Toward a New Tonal Practice: Chromaticism and Form in Debussy’s Orchestral Music” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 2000), 436–40. Thanks to Edward Looney for preparing the music examples. I.e., chromatic alteration of both the scale step (♮VI) and the quality of the triad (major, versus the diminished triad which would naturally occur). See Edward Aldwell, Carl Schachter, and Allen Cadwallader, Harmony and Voice Leading, 4th ed. (Boston: Schirmer, 2011), 590ff.

11/28/2018 6:04:20 PM

474 9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19.

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In itself, this technique falls well within nineteenth-century norms: see, e.g., Brahms, Symphony No. 3 (iii), retransition, mm. 96–99. What is unorthodox is Debussy’s tertial extension of it to the dominant ninth chord. One could also invoke the “common-tone” augmented sixth technique here (common tone with the root of the E-major triad). No analytical approach yet devised can explain all aspects of tonal organization in Debussy’s music, and the Schenkerian one adopted here is no exception. But with its natural emphasis on contrapuntal (versus vertical chordal) aspects of tonal process, a Schenkerian approach is particularly conducive to engaging the kinds of compositional issues I consider here, involving the use of certain basic schemas subject to elaboration. Conversely, its very interpretive precision can also be instructive in its capacity to draw out a tension (or “gap” in its fit) between the theory and the music. In Debussy’s music this technique of chromatic displacement of the dominant chord, in both upward (♯V) and downward (♭V) directions, seems to be consistently associated with the musical depiction of elemental natural phenomena. I explore this topic (including an alternative analysis of “La cathédrale engloutie”) in “A Force of Nature: Debussy and the Chromatically Displaced Dominant,” in Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis, ed. David Beach and Su Yin Mak (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2016), 303–27. The view that the rotational principle might have a significant role to play in the workings of Debussy’s formal processes has recently been advocated by James Hepokoski, as an alternative to the well-nigh universally received wisdom of the ternary principle as the Debussyan formal schema par excellence. See Hepokoski, “Clouds and Circles: Rotational Form in Debussy’s ‘Nuages,’” Dutch Journal of Music Theory 15 (2010): 1–17. Regarding the complete chromaticization of an extended type 1 chord sequence: 5–6–♯6–7–♯7 (=♭8)–8, see the discussion below of “Pour les sonorités opposées.” Compare the same technique’s less traditional, and certainly less easily perceptible, deployment in the approach to the tonic reprise of the finale of the Cello Sonata, which similarly interpolates an independent surface resolution into the higher-level leading tone–tonic one (cf. ex. 4). Regarding Debussy’s ^ ^ ^ ^ deployment of an ascending (5– 6–7–8) Urlinie in this movement, with programmatic implications relating to the sun’s ascent from dawn to noon, see Pomeroy, “Toward a New Tonal Practice,” 138–71. For a detailed analysis of the complete movement see ibid., 458–506. The diatonic collections are classified according to the major-key reference of their scalar content, which may or may not equate to the actual tonal center of the passage in question. See Richard S. Parks, The Music of Claude Debussy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), esp. 22ff., 47ff. See also “La cathédrale engloutie,” mm. 47ff. (E major/B major). Some other examples are listed in table 1. See note 11 above. Examples 16.9a and b were originally published as examples 9 and 13 of Pomeroy, “Tales of Two Tonics: Directional Tonality in Debussy’s Orchestral

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debussy’s g♯ /a♭ complex

20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25.

26. 27.

28.

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Music,” Music Theory Spectrum 26 (2004): 87–118. Reproduced here with kind permission of University of California Press. See ibid., 90–105. See DM, 68, 266. Debussy famously revisited the procedure, to humorous effect, in mm. 61ff. of “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk.” See William E. Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). For an extensive analytical application of Caplin’s form-functional approach to music by Debussy see Avo Somer, “Musical Syntax in the Sonatas of Debussy: Phrase Structure and Formal Function,” Music Theory Spectrum 27 (2005): 67–96. Though given its already highly developed state in the “Passepied,” its possible origin in earlier pieces seems likely. This topic merits further investigation. See other examples in “Gigues,” mm. 164ff. (A♭ pedal clouded by G♭), and “Ondine,” mm. 54ff. (A clouded by G or vice versa—it is by no means clear which constitutes the “real” bass here). Parks, The Music of Claude Debussy, 37–40. See Marianne Wheeldon, Debussy’s Late Style (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 72ff. Wheeldon relates the “clarion call” topos to the influence on this étude of another closely contemporaneous work, the explicitly programmatic Berceuse héroïque. And notwithstanding its elliptical reappearance in one further piece, the first movement of the Violin Sonata, as discussed above.

11/28/2018 6:04:28 PM

Chapter Seventeen

The Games of Jeux Mark McFarland

The story is a familiar one: a ballet is premièred in Paris in the spring of 1913 by the Ballets Russes with choreography by Nijinsky. The ballet is considered the composer’s most modern work to date and soon viewed as one of the seminal works of the early century. After 1950 it elicits a number of analytic inquiries. These scholarly essays seek to find coherence through a variety of technical means but concentrate on the ballet score alone. One recent writer made this last point explicitly by basing his study solely on the “musical construction” since, as he argued, the interdisciplinary aspects of the work were soon forgotten after its première.1 This approach prompted another scholar—the former’s “public adversary, private pal”2—to question such studies of “the music itself” and to champion hermeneutics.3 It will be clear that I have been describing the première of Stravinsky’s Le sacre du printemps, though before this point in the story, the description could have applied equally well to the première of Debussy’s Jeux.4 To continue the similarities between these two ballets, scholarly inquiry into Jeux has concentrated on the musical score alone with little, if any, reference to ostensibly external factors. This study will instead be both analytical and hermeneutical, with the goal of showing that the formal organization of the ballet gains insight from the study not only of the music, but also of the stage directions, as well as of the contemporary events in Debussy’s personal life. An examination of Debussy’s life in the context of a study of Jeux might initially seem a fruitless line of inquiry. Debussy’s friendship with Stravinsky, however, turns out to have been a major event in the French composer’s life. Although the musical relationship between these two composers has most frequently been approached in terms of what Stravinsky learned from Debussy,5 this musical influence actually worked both ways. This is to say

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that Stravinskian fingerprints appear in Debussy’s compositions beginning in 1910. For example, Howat has noted “a methodical exploration of octatonic techniques” after 1910,6 the year the two composers met.7 This reaction was undoubtedly the result of Debussy’s unequivocally positive reaction to Petrushka, which prompted him to incorporate the Petrushka chord, using the same triads in the same inversions, into his little-known ballet Khamma (see ex. 17.1). Debussy also quoted passages from Le sacre, including the main theme from “The Ritual Action of the Ancestors,” in “Les tierces alternées” (ex. 17.2). The extent of Stravinsky’s influence on Debussy is documented elsewhere,8 but this study will begin with a heretofore unobserved aspect of this influence, one that is heard in the opening measures of Jeux and represents Debussy’s unique reaction to what Richard Taruskin describes as “The Rite’s governing principle par excellence.”9 Debussy famously sightread through Le sacre with Stravinsky at Louis Laloy’s house on June 9, 1912. This experience was tremendous, for Laloy later wrote “when they had finished, there was no question of embracing, nor even of compliments. We were dumbfounded, overwhelmed by this hurricane which had come from the depths of the ages and taken our life by the roots.”10 Debussy made his feelings regarding the ballet explicit later that year when he wrote Stravinsky “I still think of your Sacre du printemps at Laloy’s house. [. . .] It haunts me like a beautiful nightmare and I try in vain to recall the terrifying impression it made. That’s why I wait for the performance like a greedy child who’s been promised some jam.”11 The period of time between the four-hand performance of the ballet and Debussy’s letter to Stravinsky encompassed the composition of Jeux: Debussy met with Diaghilev and Nijinsky over lunch on June 24 to first discuss the project, and had the piano reduction of the ballet in the hands of his publisher Durand by September 12.12 It is therefore not surprising that the technique of accumulation, one of the most characteristic and ironically one of the least-studied aspects of Le sacre, prompted Debussy to incorporate his unique version of this technique into his own ballet. Taruskin defines accumulation as the process of beginning quietly and building to a concluding frenzy. He further notes that accumulation appears on a large scale, governing the overall shape of both the first and second tableaux, but also on the local level, with “The Dance of the Earth” serving as a paradigm for the latter time scale. Taruskin goes on to write that “the whole piece is a crescendo brought about by the seriatim addition to the texture of highly individualized separate ostinati.”13 His general comments regarding Le sacre also apply to Jeux; accumulation governs the crescendo that spans the entire ballet and also controls individual sections.14 His statement regarding separate ostinati, however, applies only to Le sacre. Debussy, of course, was primarily a harmonic composer, while Stravinsky was a contrapuntist. Despite the fact that there is invertible counterpoint in Jeux at no. 22 (ex. 17.3), this is the

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Example 17.1a. Stravinsky, Petrushka (1910–11), no. 51 and 51+1.







  








 




 


    







Example 17.1b. Debussy, Khamma (1911–12), mm. 158–60.


  
















  







  


  

  

  







  





   








Example 17.2a. Stravinsky, The Rite of Spring (1911–13), no. 132 to 132+2.


  
                                       





   

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479

Example 17.2b. Debussy, “Les tierces alternées” from Préludes, book 2 (1911–13), mm. 75–80.


  







  





 

   



  




  

   



 

 





 

   

   

   

   

   



 

 

 

 

 

  

  

   

   

  



 

 

   

 

 

 

exception rather than the rule for Debussy. In spite of the layers of orchestral filigree that make the full score of Jeux appear more contrapuntal than it actually is, the simple two-stave piano score provides an adequate representation of the ballet’s musical substance. Also, while Jeux and some of the works from his second book of piano preludes arguably constitute his most modern works, Debussy was, to paraphrase Stravinsky, incapable of serving as the vessel through which a work as dissonant as Le sacre could pass.15 This was likely a generational issue: Debussy, in spite of his protestations to the contrary, felt the influence of Wagner, while Stravinsky was among the first generations of composers who did not.16 Whatever the precise reason, the French composer’s enthusiasm for Le sacre before its première turned immediately to ridicule—he described the ballet on the day of its première as “primitive music with all modern conveniences,”17 adding later that “Le sacre disturbs me. [. . .] Negro drumming is not music after all”18—and this was, according to Orledge, one of the main causes for Debussy’s subsequent turn towards neoclassicism.19 Debussy’s reaction to accumulation in Le sacre, therefore, was not the contrapuntal piling up of static ostinati, but rather the appearance of another type of “concluding frenzy” that he had used in earlier works, though never before with the single-mindedness found in Jeux. This process was the creation of the chromatic aggregate through the systematic transposition by semitone of a musical idea.20 Just as Taruskin spoke of Stravinsky’s accumulation governing the time span of each tableau as well as at more local levels,21 the same is true of Debussy’s aggregate formation: the climax of the ballet appears immediately prior to the triple kiss, where Debussy creates aggregates in a variety of harmonic settings, about which much more will be said below, while aggregate

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Example 17.3. Jeux (1912–1913), no. 21–2 and 21–1.


 
   






  

 

 

 
   

    

  

 










    









 
  

 

  

  

 

formation is also used to end the opening sections of the ballet. The first of these scenes ends with the raising of the curtain at no. 6, while the second ends with the appearance of the tennis ball in the park at no. 8+3. Table 17.1 provides a list of all the individual sections of the ballet. While only aggregate formation has been discussed so far, other compositional devices for creating formal punctuation will be dealt with as they are introduced, beginning with the technique of harmonic implication and realization.22 Together, these various compositional techniques are deployed throughout the ballet to create a two-part form with introduction and coda as shown in table 17.1, and it is the change of these techniques and their interaction from section to section that is referred to in the title of this study.23 The orchestral filigree mentioned above is almost entirely chromatic in its pitch content. The frequent presence of chromatic runs leads to its gradual overwhelming of the musical material, whether diatonic, whole-tone, or octatonic, through the creation of the chromatic aggregate. This process of the chromatic set becoming synthesized with and eventually overwhelming the harmony of the musical material it embellishes occurs so frequently that Jeux is without question Debussy’s most chromatic work.24 This process of implying a harmony through an incomplete or impure form25 that later is realized in an unadulterated form appears frequently in Jeux, and not only to the chromatic set (though that is the most common).26 In the ballet’s introduction, it is the opening whole-tone music that becomes chromaticized. The latter set is immediately implied in the ascending chromatic line that clouds accountability to whole-tone collection B. The gradual

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Table 17.1. Formal sections of Jeux Section no.

Rehearsal nos.

Measure nos.

Stage action

Section 1

nos. 0–(5+3)

mm. 1–46

Prelude

Section 2

nos. 6–(8+2)

mm. 47–69

The curtain rises

Section 3

nos. (8+3)–(17-1)

mm. 70–138

Entrance of characters

Section 4

nos. 17–(23+2)

mm. 142–93

Dance of first, then second young girl

Section 5

nos. (23+3)–(26+6)

mm. 194–223

Reappearance of young man

Section 6

nos. 27–(32+7)

mm. 224–83

Dance of young man and first young girl

Section 7

nos. 33–(37+7)

mm. 284–330

Young man’s attention turns towards second young girl

Section 8

nos. 38–(48+7)

mm. 331–428

Dance of young man and second young girl

Section 9

nos. (48+8)–(50+11)

mm. 429–54

Second young girl comforts first young girl

Section 10

nos. 51–(52+7)

mm. 455–72

Young man separates the young girls’ heads

Section 11

nos. 53–(57+7)

mm. 473–514

“They don’t yet dare”

Section 12

nos. 58–(64+3)

mm. 515–64

“Drunken little Bacchantes”

Section 13

nos. (64+4)–(68+11)

mm. 565–604

Toujours très intense dans l’expression

Section 14

nos. 69–(79+4)

mm. 605–88

Triple kiss

Section 15

nos. 80–(81+7)

mm. 689–709

Second tennis ball falls



The orchestral score of Jeux (Durand no. 8842, 1913) contains 709 measures, while the piano reduction (Durand no. 8573, 1912) has only 708. This discrepancy is caused by an additional bar placed before the entrance of the bass line at the opening of section 8.

emergence of the chromatic set begins at no. 1, when a new figure—motives A and B, to use Pasler’s terminology27 (ex. 17.4)—descends by semitone from C♯ to B, with each note embellished with an upper neighbor. The development of this figure at no. 2 succeeds in increasing the chromatic saturation slightly through the exclusive use of chromatic neighbors. At no. 3 motive A/B is accompanied by chromatically ascending chords, which after four measures state the entire chromatic set with the exception of A♭ and A. With the development of this material at no. 3+4, an aggregate is formed, while the repetition of the final chord of this passage forms the section’s climax. The climax also serves as a link back to the whole-tone harmony of the opening measures, as this repeated chord exceeds collection A by a single pitch (a G♮, see ex. 17.5).

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Example 17.4. Jeux, no. 1 and 1+1.





 
 




 
  




























 

Section 2, which lasts from the raising of the curtain to the arrival of the tennis ball on stage, is also punctuated by aggregate formation. Here, though, the chromatic set gradually overwhelms diatonic, rather than whole-tone, harmony. The opening material of this section—Pasler’s motives C and D28 (ex. 17.6)—is on its first appearance accountable to C♯ Aeolian. The appearance of motive B, whose neighbor notes are now expanded to minor thirds to form set 6-1, begins the implication of the chromatic set and its synthesis with the diatonic. The balance between diatonic centricity and chromatic implication varies in the following measures, with an aggregate missing a single pitch formed at no. 7 (the pitch E is indeed present in these measures, though it is not part of the strict transposition of material here and is therefore discounted).29 The extended appearance of this material at no. 8 creates the climax of this section through complete aggregate formation (ex. 17.7). Before moving on to discuss the entrance of the ballet’s characters and the organization of its individual sections, the analytical methodology used in examples 17.5 and 17.7 must first be explained. In Pasler’s analysis of this ballet, she consistently invokes Cone’s theory of stratification, interlock, and synthesis. Cone famously introduced this theory to explain the frequent discontinuities found in Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind Instruments.30 Cone’s analysis identified the point of discontinuity as the stratification, or the movement from one distinct strand in the score to another distinct strand. When one strand was quickly abandoned, this abruptness implied a continuation; when another strand of this same music returned, the result was interlock between the similar, albeit non-adjacent, strands of a single line. The musical graphs that reflect this construction look much like some of Stravinsky’s late scores— Mouvements, for example—that indicate an instrument’s part only when it is actually playing, with blank spaces found between strands of its line when another instrument’s strand is sounding. Cone wrote that the goal of any work composed in this manner must be synthesis, or the gradual accommodation of the various lines into a single one. In the case of the Symphonies, the opening material and that first heard at no.

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Example 17.5. Jeux, stratified graph of section 1.




        

     



 

  

    



 

  

  



                 

  



   

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6 spawn their own lines, both of which are synthesized into the diatonic line that appears as the second musical event in the score and ultimately serves as the concluding chorale. To reflect synthesis in examples 17.5 and 17.7 and all subsequent examples, a single musical event will appear in the two lines it synthesizes. Open note heads will be used to indicate notes belonging to the line, while filled-in note heads will indicate notes foreign to this line. The different readings of this simultaneous event reflects its dual interpretation and the synthesis between two harmonies. Thus, the whole-tone opening of section 1 is synthesized with the chromatic set, which at first is only implied (an incomplete aggregate of tightly spaced semitones) but is fully realized at the climax of the section. Similarly, the diatonic set governs the opening of section 2, where it is initially synthesized with the chromatic. The latter set moves from implication to realization at the climax of the section. In both cases the opening harmony is overwhelmed and therefore disappears from the analytic graph at the section’s climax.31 The prelude “Ondine” most closely resembles the formal construction of Stravinsky’s Symphonies, yet Cone’s theory can be adapted even to a work with no formal disjunctions, such as “Brouillards.” In this case, Cone’s theory opens with, rather than moves towards, synthesis between the diatonic line of the left hand and the chromatic or octatonic complexes sonores that are formed through the superimposition of the right- and left-hand chords. The two harmonically static episodes in this prelude, the first chromatic and the second octatonic, represent the two instances of a single line accountable to a single scale, both of which emerge from the continuous synthesis of lines that dominate the work.32 A similar situation appears frequently in Jeux; indeed, as mentioned above and shown in examples 17.5 and 17.7, the chromatic set, in the form of chromatic scales and other chromatically transposed figures, frequently synthesizes this set with the harmony of the main material it embellishes. These few examples show that the critics of Cone’s theory interpret it as literally as possible in order to discredit it,33 rather than recognizing the various ways it can be manipulated by changing musical contexts. Debussy’s octatonic exploration and his increased focus on aggregate formation are a direct result of his exposure to Stravinsky’s ballets. These techniques, however, are not the only ones the French composer borrowed. Beginning in the ballet Khamma (1911–12), Debussy adopted the Russian tradition—found in The Firebird (1910) and Petrushka (1911)—of harmonic characterization between diatonic and chromatic (symmetrical) scales. This technique of Leitharmony is also used in Jeux harmonically to characterize the young man and the two young girls. The Russian tradition associated mortal characters with diatonic music and supernatural characters with chromatic music, which, with only three mortal characters, would obviously not work in Jeux. Debussy therefore adapts the strict Russian technique in a way that Stravinsky never attempted.

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The three characters of the ballet—the young man and the two young girls—first appear on stage in section 3. In response to this, the section is defined by its opposition between diatonic and chromatic harmony and the relation of this opposition to the stage action. The appearance of the young man and his lost tennis ball are both accompanied by diatonic music, while the arrival of the two young girls is accompanied by octatonic (Nos. 10–11)34 followed by chromatic harmony. While an aggregate is formed at no. 12 with the reharmonization of the previous theme, this does not mark the end of this section. Rather, it introduces for the first time another technique that Debussy uses to create formal boundaries: the reflection of the evolving stage drama through conspicuous deviation from the established Leitharmony to reflect the psychological state of the characters. At the end of this section (no. 13 to 16+3), for example, the Leitharmony is altered to portray musically the second young girl’s initial interest in the young man. Orledge has noted that the manuscript of the piano reduction contains stage directions by Debussy that do not appear in the other manuscript sources for this work.35 The first of these appears at this very point in the ballet, describing the action as follows: “the first young girl remains melancholy and apprehensive despite the tender enticements, the persistent invitations of the second, during which they both dance.”36 Orledge makes it clear that these stage directions were written by the composer precisely to synchronize the stage action and music, though unfortunately Nijinsky’s choreography made this synchronization mere wishful thinking.37 Although they were not ultimately incorporated into the ballet, the stage directions do help to explain the harmonic characterization of the following music. In fact, Debussy’s changing attitude towards the ballet’s plot—he initially refused the commission, calling the ballet subject “idiotic” while eventually arguing that Stravinsky’s proposed title Le parc was inferior, since it did not reflect the “horrible goings-on” among the three characters38—is a clear signal of the importance his annotations play in the organization of this work. The melancholy first girl is accompanied by whole-tone music at no. 12+6,39 while the abrupt shift in musical material at no. 13 likely represents the second girl’s first invitation to dance. This invitation theme is diatonic40 and represents the second young girl’s ultimate desire to dance with the young man by adopting his Leitharmony. A return to the opening chromatic and octatonic harmony reflects the first young girl’s ambivalence and marks the end of this section (see ex. 17.8). The second young girl’s deviation from the established Leitharmony is marked in the music example with a star, as are all similar passages in later examples. Further, while each strand is still graphically represented according to its harmonic content, the organization of this section and those that follow it is based primarily on the play of Leitharmony. For this reason, the various strands of each harmonic line do not create a single work.41

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Rather, a Cone-style graphic layout simply organizes the succession of thematic material in these sections to reveal when a character’s Leitharmony has been altered. When thematic connections are created within these sections, lines will be used to indicate them.42 The dance of each of the girls in section 4 foreshadows the desire that both young girls will soon have for the young man: both dances are ultimately diatonic, though the chromatic voice leading that opens each dance makes this ambiguous. Further, while both dances are similar, the second is notably more chromatic because of slight shifts in the harmony. Because the score does not specify the order in which the young girls dance—this is the only occasion in the score when the generic term “a young girl” is used—the play of Leitharmony in the previous section would suggest that it is the second girl who dances first, while the first girl’s dance follows. As in the previous section, the chromaticism that reflects the first young girl’s greater reluctance to dance is intensified at the end of the section and her chromatic Leithmarmony is reestablished. The large-scale organization of this section thus mirrors that of the previous one: section three begins with the young girls’ chromatic Leitharmony and ends with a deviation from it, while section 4 begins with a deviation from the young girls’ Leitharmony and ends with both octatonic harmony and a form-defining aggregate (ex. 17.9). The deviation from the established Leitharmony of the second young girl during sections 3 and 4 could simply result from a less strict adherence to this principle; it may even reflect Stravinsky’s use of Leitharmony in The Firebird, where the established harmonic characterization in the mimed scenes is broken in the danced scenes.43 These interpretations are undermined, however, in light of the following sections, those that make up most of the ballet’s action. During these scenes, allegiances are formed and broken among all the various combinations of the three characters, which then sets the stage for the one uninterrupted passage of the ballet that accompanies the climactic triple dance. The evolving nature of the relationship among the stage characters is accompanied by music that harmonically underlines this process, through both adherence to, and deviation from, the Leitharmony established with the entrance of the characters. The following analysis provides further commentary on this process, one that represents Debussy’s unique adaptation of the technique of Leitharmony. In section 5 the young man spies on the girls through some branches, appears before them, keeps them from running away, and invites them to dance. This section maintains a strict Leitharmony, with attention drawn to the hiding young man through the appearance of a typically Stravinskian melody that spans an (0, 2, 3, 5) tetrachord supported by C Dorian harmony. As the focus shifts to the subject of the young man’s attentions, the music creates an aggregate through the transposition of dominant seventh chords by

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Example 17.9. Jeux, stratified graph of section 4.

   
   




   





 

                  
          














    









 

 

 
  








descending semitones. The young man’s diatonic theme recurs after he appears before them, while whole-tone harmony accompanies their attempted escape. An alternation of whole-tone runs and dominant ninth chords accompanies the young man as he gently guides the girls back. The section ends with the return of the young man’s motive from the opening measures, although to express the young man’s desire to dance with the young girls, his diatonic theme has been recomposed so that it is accountable to the whole-tone harmony of the young girls from the preceding measures (ex. 17.10). The reharmonization of the young man’s motive was not included right away in the first draft of the score, but inserted later. Although the later addition of this passage can be read as a negation of the harmonic interpretation offered above,44 the fact that these measures were included at every later stage of the compositional

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process can be understood instead as confirmation of the composer’s changing Leitharmonic characterization. Section 6, like the three before it, features a play of Leitharmony. The frequent changes in harmony throughout the young man’s opening dance are, however, at first perplexing. The fluctuating nature of this material makes sense only when it is repeated as the first young girl joins the young man and the connection between the stage action and the music is clarified. The wholetone music that precedes the repetition of the dance music accompanies the first young girl when she runs towards the young man. This chromaticism continues at the beginning of their dance together, as he is incorporated into the first young girl’s harmonic realm. Their harmonic union does not last long, for the young man overreaches and demands a kiss. This action is accompanied by diatonic music, which contrasts with the chromatic music, first whole-tone and later octatonic, that accompanies the first young girl’s escape. The stage directions state that before no. 31 the young girl voluntarily rejoins the young man after having escaped from his attempts to kiss her. One might expect that as the young girl voluntarily rejoins the young man she would adopt his Leitharmony. This is not the case, however; instead, octatonic music appears before the diatonic music begins, when the young girl “lets herself go in his arms.” Although this music contains some biting dissonances and quickly moves between octatonic collections, the score indicates that it is to be played less vigorously (plus alangui). These score indications are quite specific, and lend themselves to the interpretation that even though the young girl rejoins the young man and voluntarily begins to dance with him again, the weakening of her music reflects the weakening of her will to resist him. This process ends in the final measures of the section, in which the seduction of the first young girl is accompanied by the young man’s diatonic theme (ex. 17.11). The seventh section, during which the young man’s attention is drawn towards the second young girl, follows the same Leitharmonic path as the fifth section, one devoted to the young man’s growing curiosity about the first young girl. The second young girl’s jealousy is depicted with chromatic harmony in the form of chromatic trichords, music that is juxtaposed four measures before no. 34 with the diatonic music of the other two characters from the previous section, thus highlighting the Leitharmonic motion of the first young girl. The chromatic trichords then return at no. 34, where they grow into whole-tone subsets that are transposed chromatically to create an aggregate. The second young girl then begins a mocking dance, which also creates an aggregate through the semitonal transposition of first-inversion dominant seventh chords. At no. 36 attention is drawn to the young man; Debussy’s stage directions read “ironic and mocking dance of the second young girl that the young man follows at first with amused curiosity.” To underline this change of focus, the semitonal transposition of the first-inversion seventh chord changes

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to create diatonic harmony over a pedal C. At no. 36+6, Debussy’s stage directions comment that the young man now follows the second girl’s dance “with increasing interest.” This growing desire to dance with the second girl is immediately foreshadowed in the chromaticization of his music: the first-inversion seventh chords begin to be transposed by single semitones to undermine the sense of diatonicism, while later the semitonal transposition of two lines in contrary motion ends the section with the creation of an aggregate (ex. 17.12). Section 8 begins as the young man invites the second young girl to dance. Perhaps because she is immediately willing to join the young man, this initial dance is accompanied by his diatonic harmony. While diatonic, this music nevertheless features slight differences in harmony between repetitions of the opening thematic material in order to depict the interplay of the two characters. Of interest is the young man’s statement “this is how we shall dance,” accompanied by music that, while diatonic, uses chromatic voice leading. When the second young girl repeats the same material in a mocking way, her version does not deviate by a single note from B♭ Mixolydian. The young man protests, saying “don’t make fun of me,” at the same time that the same melody is repeated in D♭ Mixolydian. Yet the melody in both cases begins on F, and so significantly more chromaticism appears in the young’s man’s version. This brief interchange between the characters, each breaking his or her respective Leitharmony in order to express his or her psychological state, clarifies the intimate connection between music and dance that Debussy envisaged. Once their dance begins at no. 41, it is diatonic. At no. 42+4 the score directions state “their dance becomes more tender,” followed by the second young girl playfully escaping and hiding from the young man; this stage action, showing the young girl who demands that the young man pursue her, is appropriately accompanied by chromatic music. The young man shakes branches to attract her attention, an action that is accompanied by octatonic music to express his desire to recapture her. Juxtaposed with this branch-shaking motive is the melancholy diatonic music of the first young girl, who is beginning to be sad at being alone, trapped by herself at this moment in the young man’s diatonic Leitharmony. The young man and the second young girl disappear from the stage momentarily during the first young’s girl’s melancholic music, only to reappear with the young man chasing the second young girl. Once again, his desire for her is expressed by the whole-tone reharmonization of the diatonic theme used earlier. Their dance together is accompanied by diatonic music, with the notable exception of nos. 46–48. There is no stage direction to explain the interpolation of octatonic music in these measures. In light of the events that play out in the following section between the two young girls, however, the octatonic harmony serves as a foreshadowing of the coming drama (ex. 17.13).

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Section 9 opens with a descending whole-tone line to express the first young girl’s anxiety turned to dejection. While this music fits her Leitharmony, this scale is not the harmonic goal to cure the girl’s melancholy. The music that begins at no. 49 implies octatonic harmony, which would return the girl to her home Leitharmony. The music actually fluctuates between octatonic collections too quickly for any single one to be heard, while the triads that are used synthesize this set with the diatonic. Interspersed with the first girl’s music are the diatonic entreaties of the second young girl who “tries in vain to restrain her.” Octatonic realization in the form of a single collection clearly projected is expressed in the transposition of triads by minor third. This music coincides with the stage directions “the second young girl succeeds in taking her in her arms.” Coherence within this section is therefore created by the synthesis between diatonic and implied octatonic harmony, and the eventual realization of this chromatic scale (ex. 17.14). Once the first young girl has been calmed down and returned to her proper Leitharmony, the next section begins at no. 51. The stage directions here state that “the young man intervenes by gently separating their two heads.” His desire to continue to dance with the girls is expressed by the following octatonic and chromatic music. There is a slight problem with each of these passages: the octatonic passage contains a single foreign pitch (C) and each of the two two-measure descending chromatic passages leaves out a single pitch (C♯ and F) in its aggregate formation. The repetition of this material coincides with the stage direction “they look around: the beauty of the night, the joy of the lights, everything tells them that they should give in to their imagination.” In giving themselves consent to continue their dance, the previous musical material is “corrected,” with the octatonic passage strictly accountable to collection (1, 2). Further, the descending chromatic figure is accompanied with ascending diminished triads, so that each of the two two-measure units completes an aggregate. This section, more than any other, unifies itself through the implication and realization of the two scales it employs (ex. 17.15). The second part of the ballet begins immediately before the start of the triple dance and ends with the climactic triple kiss. Whereas the ballet has been characterized by discontinuity up to this point, this second formal unit is continuous. As a result, the individual sections here are less pronounced than in the first unit, despite the fact that aggregate formation is the primary method of creating these formal divisions. Annotations appear in the opening measures of section 11: “He envisages unknown delights for the three of them and the intoxication of dancing all together” is set to music that implicates octatonic harmony45 juxtaposed with strictly diatonic runs; “They do not yet dare, but they are already halfway to agreeing” uses the same chromatic trichord motive from the earlier music, now creating diatonic harmony. In spite of these annotations, the fluctuating

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harmony in these measures bears no relation to the annotations and is the first indication that Leitharmony will not play the same role in this triple dance. Indeed, after the opening annotations, section 11 uses diatonic and wholetone harmony before creating an aggregate by systematically transposing dominant seventh chords, all of this without any further stage directions as a trigger (ex. 17.16). This same pattern continues in section 12. no. 58 contains a return of diatonic harmony after the chromaticism that ended the previous section, and Debussy writes here “A note: this should be more or less the triumph of Nijinsky [. . .] because, from this moment, the two girls are like small, drunken Bacchantes.” The change to whole-tone harmony at no. 61 coincides with the indication that “the three dance together from this point on.” Like the previous section, the fluctuating harmony does not support the score annotations. The most definitive proof of the disappearance of Leitharmony as a device of musical characterization appears in section 13, when the musical distinction at no. 67 between the annotation “Nijinsky on his own” followed two measures later by “the two girls” is made by texture and orchestration, with the same diatonic harmony maintained throughout this passage (ex.17.17). The preceding fluctuating harmony gives way at the beginning of section 13 to unadulterated diatonic harmony. This temporary lull in harmonic activity sets the stage for the ballet’s climax. This climax occurs in successive waves of aggregate formation, each one featuring synthesis with each of the Leitharmonies used previously in the ballet. This process begins at no. 73 with the rapid juxtaposition of octatonic collections. Each collection alone is incomplete; however, when the material from each collection is transposed by tritone, the entire passage creates an aggregate.46 This process continues at no. 75 with juxtaposed diatonic collections related by semitone (ex. 17.18). Finally, at no. 77+4, whole-tone trichords are systematically transposed to create an aggregate minus the pitches G♯ and D. This passage forms the climax of the ballet and leads directly into the diatonic triple kiss music, the tonic of which is the missing pitch G♯ while the bass of the second chord is the missing pitch D (ex. 17.19). The ballet’s climax serves as a compendium of its harmonic organization. Not only does each of the Leitharmonies used previously appear, but each is synthesized in turn with the chromatic set, a process that began in the ballet’s introduction and is used frequently as a form-defining gesture thereafter. This last point, mentioned above, makes this climactic gesture a large-scale replication of the small-scale gesture that is used frequently to close individual sections. The return of the opening whole-tone music from section 1 in the final section (15), tinged with a single chromatic pitch, highlights the distance traversed during the course of the ballet and the various harmonic games that were played.

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Example 17.18. Jeux, nos. 73 to 76-1: Octatonic and diatonic climax preceding triple kiss.

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Example 17.19. Jeux, no. 78-2 to 78+2: Whole-tone climax and triple kiss.

     


   







 

  

 

  

 
           

   




           
                               

Debussy, who famously quipped that Wagner was like “a beautiful sunset that was mistaken for a dawn,” was more of a Wagnerian than he would admit. The Leitmotivic organization of Pelléas et Mélisande alone is proof of this.47 Jeux, on the other hand, also uses repeating thematic material, although it is not strictly associated with any single character.48 In this sense, the basic thematic material and its extensive development as demonstrated by Eimert49 is a prime example of Kurth’s concept of Entwicklungsmotif, one that has no fixed association with a character and whose repetitions vary in appearance in order to promote the ongoing musical development.50 Debussy adopted the concept of Leitharmony after his introduction to Stravinsky and used it in not only in Jeux, but also in Khamma and La boîte à joujoux. While these last two ballets strictly follow their Leitharmonic organization, in Jeux Debussy initially sets forth the Leitharmony and then modifies it in order to reflect more precisely the stage action and the psychological state of the characters. Among the many factors that separated Debussy from Stravinsky was that the latter belonged to the first generation of composers uninfluenced by Wagner. Wagner described his use of leitmotives in The Ring by describing these as “plastic nature motives, which, by becoming increasingly individualized, were to serve as the bearers of the emotional subcurrents within the broad-based plot and the moods expressed therein.”51 While the Leitharmonic tradition extended back in Russian music history to Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila,52 it was Debussy who was able to fuse this harmonic characterization with Wagner’s expression of emotional subcurrents and moods. The combination of Debussy’s employment of Entwicklungsmotive, a Leitharmony linked directly to the stage drama, with an emphasis on the chromatic set (necessitating the use of Cone’s analytic methodology) provides new insight into this unique and remarkably complex ballet, one that has perplexed music analysts since its première one hundred years ago.

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See “Point of Order,” in Pieter C. van den Toorn, Stravinsky and The Rite of Spring: The Beginnings of a Musical Language (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987), 1–21. See the dedication in Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). In the preface to the book cited above, Taruskin quotes Tomlinson’s call for “a brand of interpretation that does not silence, efface, or absorb the other [extramusical elements] in the act of understanding it” (Gary Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993], 7) and writes “The name of that game is hermeneutics. It is what this book is all about (“Others: A Mythology and a Demurrer [by way of preface],” in Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically, xx). The most relevant chapter of Taruskin’s book for this current study is “Stravinsky and the Subhuman,” the first part of which was published previously as “A Myth of the Twentieth Century: The Rite of Spring, the Tradition of the New, and ‘The Music Itself,’” Modernism/Modernity 2, no. 1 (1995): 1–26. A defense of “the music itself” appeared as Pieter van den Toorn, “A Response to Richard Taruskin’s ‘A Myth of the Twentieth Century,’” Music Theory Online 1, no. 5 (1995): http://www.mtosmt.org/issues/mto.95.1.5/ mto.95.1.5.vdToorn.art. See Herbert Eimert, “Debussy’s Jeux,” Die Reihe 5 (1959): 3–20; Claudia Maurer Zenck, “Form- und Farbenspiele: Debussys Jeux,” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 33 (1976): 28–47; Markus Spies, “Jeux,” Musik-Konzepte 1–2 (1977): 77–95; Albert Jakobik, Claude Debussy: oder, Die lautlose Revolution in der Musik (Würzburg: Triltsch, 1977), 127–52; Lawrence Berman, “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun and Jeux: Debussy’s Summer Rites,” 19th-Century Music 3 (1980): 225–38; and Jann Pasler, “Debussy, Jeux: Playing with Time and Form,” 19th-Century Music 6, no. 1 (1982): 60–75. See, for example, François Lesure, “Debussy e Stravinski,” Musica d’oggi 2, no. 6 (1959): 242–44; Georges Jean-Aubry, “Debussy et Strawinsky,” Revue de musicologie (special Claude Debussy issue, 1962): 107–9; André Souris, “Debussy et Stravinsky,” Revue belge de musicologie 16 (1962): 45–56; Eric Walter White, “Stravinsky and Debussy,” Tempo 61–62 (1962): 2–5; Maurice Fleuret, “Debussy speaks of Stravinsky, Stravinsky speaks on Debussy,” Musical Opinion 86 (1963): 212–13; Edward Lockspeiser, “Diaghilev and Stravinsky,” in Debussy: His Life and Mind, vol. 2 (New York: Macmillan, 1965), 168–88; Jeremy Noble, “Debussy and Stravinsky,” Musical Times 108, no. 1487 (1967): 22–25; and Richard Taruskin, “Influence Abroad,” in Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996), 770–78. Roy Howat, “Modes and Semitones in Debussy’s Preludes and Elsewhere,” Studies in Music 22 (1988): 85. For more on the use of the octatonic in the music of Debussy and his contemporaries see Allen Forte, “Debussy and the Octatonic,” Music Analysis 10 nos. 1–2 (1991): 125–69; Steven Baur, “Ravel’s ‘Russian’ Period: Octatonicism in His Early Works, 1893–1908,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 52, no. 3 (1999): 531–92; Pieter van den Toorn,

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The Music of Igor Stravinsky (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); and Richard Taruskin, “Chez Pétrouchka: Harmony and Tonality chez Stravinsky,” 19th-Century Music 10, no. 3 (1987): 265–86. While Debussy had used the octatonic scale in one of his earliest songs, “Fleurs des blés” (ca. 1880), his exposure to Stravinsky coincided with the superimposition rather than the simple juxtaposition of triads and seventh chords belonging to the same octatonic collection. For a study of this musical influence see Mark McFarland, “Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into Their Musical Relationship,” Cahiers Debussy 24 (2000): 79–112. Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions, 957. Roger Nichols, Debussy Remembered (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1992), 240. Translated from Louis Laloy, La musique retrouvée (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1928). DL, 265. See “The Gestation of the Music” in OC series 5, ed. Pierre Boulez and Myriam Chimènes (Paris: Durand, 1988), xvii. Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions, 957. For details derived from sketch study on the care with which Debussy scored the triple kiss in order to make it the climax of the ballet see Robert Orledge, “The Genesis of Debussy’s Jeux,” Musical Times 128, no. 1728 (1987): 73. “I had only my ear to help me. I heard and I wrote what I heard. I am the vessel through which Le sacre passed.” Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Expositions and Developments (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1981), 147–48. Debussy’s complex relationship with Wagner is explored in Robin Holloway, Debussy and Wagner (London: Eulenburg, 1979). See also David Grayson, The Genesis of Debussy’s “Pelléas et Mélisande” (Ann Arbor: UMI Press, 1983), 225–75; Carolyn Abbate, “Tristan in the composition of Pelléas,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 117–41; Katherine Bergeron, “The Echo, the Cry, the Death of Lovers,” 19th-Century Music 18, no. 2 (1994): 136–51; David Code, “Hearing Debussy Reading Mallarmé: Music après Wagner in the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 54, no. 3 (2001): 493– 554; and François de Médicis, “Tristan dans La mer: le crépuscule wagnérien noyé dans le zénith debussyste,” Acta musicologica 79, no. 1 (2007): 195–251. Stravinsky’s connection to the German master is represented by his early visit to Bayreuth. See Igor Stravinsky, An Autobiography (New York: W. W. Norton, 1962), 38–40. DL, 270. Jean-Aubry, “Debussy et Strawinsky,” 109. Robert Orledge, Debussy and the Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 299. For a study of this topic in works throughout Debussy’s output, including the first two sections of Jeux, see Mark McFarland, “Transpositional Combination and Aggregate Formation in Debussy,” Music Theory Spectrum 27, no. 2 (2005): 187–220.

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21. Taruskin does not mention aggregate formation, though this is not to suggest that Stravinsky’s technique of accumulation and aggregate formation are mutually exclusive. A study of Stravinsky’s aggregate formation in Le sacre was delivered at the “Rethinking Stravinsky” conference in Salerno in 2012. See François de Médicis, “Unleashing the Spring: Stravinsky and the Unfolding of Contrasting Diatonic Regions,” Università degli Studi di Salerno, September 28, 2012. 22. I will use the term implication/realization for this harmonic technique with the full knowledge that these terms are already intimately associated with Meyer and Narmour’s theory of melodic structure and expectation, but applying it here to the harmonic realm. See Leonard B. Meyer, Explaining Music: Essays and Explorations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973), and Eugene Narmour, “An Alternative: Toward an Implication–Realization Model,” in Beyond Schenkerism: The Need for Alternatives in Music Analysis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977): 122–66. 23. The fifteen sections of the ballet are largely determined by the close connection between the music and the stage action, with a culminating gesture in one reflected in the other. Debussy’s personal annotations to the score, to be discussed in detail below, reveal the close connection between music and dance that the composer envisaged for this ballet. 24. This is not to say, however, that it represents the most complex use of the chromatic aggregate. Instead, it seems that Debussy’s experience composing Jeux in August–September of 1912 led to a more thorough exploration of the chromatic aggregate as formal articulation in the prelude Feux d’artifice, composed, according to Howat, between January and April 1913 (see “Chronology” in OC, series 1, vol. 5, ed. Roy Howat and Claude Helffer [Paris: Durand, 1985], xv). For an analysis of this prelude see McFarland, “Transpositional Combination,” 203–10. 25. These passages are placed in brackets in the following music examples. 26. This harmonic technique could be seen as an outgrowth of van den Toorn’s identification of octatonic/diatonic interpenetration in Stravinsky, though this label does not imply the forthcoming harmonic realization found in Debussy’s score. See van den Toorn, The Music of Igor Stravinsky, 43–45. 27. Pasler, “Debussy, Jeux,” 62. 28. Ibid., 70. 29. There is a small difference between the piano reduction and the orchestral score. The figure at no. 7+1 in the extra staff could be heard as a rhythmic diminution of the descending chromatic trichord and therefore as part of the transpositional process in these measures. Debussy eliminated this figure from the orchestral score, thereby supporting the idea that this effect was a deliberate one, which is to say that aggregate formation is most clear when all the notes belong to the strict transposition of material. 30. Edward T. Cone, “Stravinsky: The Progress of a Method,” Perspectives of New Music 1, no. 1 (1962): 18–26. 31. The return of the opening whole-tone chords at the end of section 1 represents a type of coda, one seen in several of the sections analyzed below where the climax of the section does not coincide with its final measures.

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32. For a complete analysis of both “Ondine” and “Brouillards” using Cone’s analytic methodology see Mark McFarland, “Debussy: The Origins of a Method,” Journal of Music Theory 48, no. 2 (2004): 295–324. 33. Hasty argues that absolute discontinuity is an impossibility (Christopher Hasty, “On the Problems of Succession and Continuity in Twentieth-Century Music,” Music Theory Spectrum 7 [1986]: 58–74). Kramer and Rehding argue that the disconnected fragments within a single strand produced through stratification do not form a seamless whole (Jonathan Kramer, “Moment Form in Twentieth-Century Music,” Musical Quarterly 64 [1978]: 177–94, and Alexander Rehding, “Toward a ‘Logic of Discontinuity’ in Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind Instruments: Hasty, Kramer and Straus Reconsidered,” Music Analysis 17 [1998]: 39–65), while van den Toorn argues that block juxtaposition in Stravinsky derives from the harmonic stasis inherent in the octatonic scale in tandem with contradictions in the rhythmic/metric design (Pieter C. van den Toorn, The Music of Igor Stravinsky). Van den Toorn’s reasoning leads him to describe the final C–E–G–B–D sonority of the Symphonies as “a terminating convenience, an expedient, a ‘device’” (p. 342), rather than the apotheosis of the work. 34. The melody here moves by chromatic motion, so the octatonic is partially hidden as a result. However, the Petrushka chord is sustained from no. 10 through no. 11 in the piano score, making the octatonic more obvious. Only the fifth of the component F-sharp triad is arpeggiated rather than sustained in the orchestral score. 35. Orledge, “The Genesis of Debussy’s Jeux,” 72. 36. “La première jeune fille reste mélancolique et craintive malgré les agaceries tendres, les invitations obstinées de la seconde, à ce qu’elles dansent toutes les deux.” These annotations appear on the piano reduction of the ballet made by an unknown copyist for Nijinsky’s use with handwritten annotations by Debussy, Nijinsky, and Diaghilev. This document is currently held in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University. I wish to thank Robert Orledge for providing me with the text of the original annotation in French. 37. Orledge, “The Genesis of Debussy’s Jeux,” 72. 38. See “The Scenario” in OC, xv–xvii. 39. Like the octatonic music at Nos. 10–11, here the whole-tone music is colored by notes foreign to the collection. The A in the melody is the most notable example, which, by its resolution to A♭, is seen retrospectively as a nonharmonic tone. 40. Here dominant seventh chords are found at transposition levels that create neither the whole-tone nor the octatonic scale. It is for this reason that the music is considered diatonic here. Because of the root motion of these chords (F♯, F, A, G♯, G, B♭), however, one could argue for the influence of the chromatic here as well. 41. This is true for the graph of section 3 as well as the other sections organized primarily by the play of Leitharmony. The “middleground” level reduction of these graphs emphasizes the disconnected nature of the various strands of each harmonic line. At the foreground, however, such connections are made.

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Pasler cites such a passage (no. 27-1 to no. 28-1) as her one example of stratification and interlock. See Pasler, “Debussy, Jeux,” 65. Although these foreground connections are not shown in the music examples in this study, they justify the use of Cone’s graphic analysis for these sections at the same time that they reveal the flexibility of this methodology. These lines are not intended to point out voice-leading connections, as do the unbroken lines used in Cone’s graphs of Stravinsky’s works (see Cone, “Stravinsky: The Progress of a Method,” 21). The thematic connections indicated by these lines will be discussed more fully below. Richard Taruskin, “From Firebird to The Rite: Folk Elements in Stravinsky’s Scores,” Ballet Review 10 (1982): 76. Walsh makes a similar argument based on the sketches of Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind Instruments and their chronology (Stravinsky’s last-minute addition of “adumbrative bits”) when he questions whether the complex montage form in the final score was intentional. See Stephen Walsh, “Stravinsky’s Symphonies: Accident or Design?,” in Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretations: Essays on Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music, ed. Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 35–71. This is true since the opening four measures of no. 53 are transposed up a tritone at two measures before no. 54. For a different interpretation of this passage, one that analyzes the entire passage as accountable to a single collection, see Forte, “Debussy and the Octatonic,” 150–51. For more information of the Wagnerian influence on this opera see Richard Langham Smith, “Motives and Symbols” in Claude Debussy: “Pelléas et Mélisande,” ed. Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 78–106. This is why lines in the music examples were necessary to point out the thematic connections between harmonically dissimilar material. In terms of Leitharmony, the changing associations in the ballet required not only Cone’s graphic analysis, but also the star symbol to indicate when the original harmonic characterization was broken. See the chart that relates many of the themes used in the ballet to two basic shapes in Eimert, “Debussy’s Jeux,” 15. Ernst Kurth, Romantische Harmonik und ihre Krise in Wagners “Tristan” (Bern: Haupt, 1920), 536. Richard Wagner, Gesammelte Schriften und Dictungen, vol. 6. (Leipzig: Fritzsch, 1872). Reproduced in Grove Music Online, s.v. “Leitmotif,” by Arnold Whittall, accessed December 17, 2012, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com. For more on the history of this tradition see Richard Taruskin, “Chernomor to Kashchei: Harmonic Sorcery; or Stravinsky’s ‘Angle,’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 38, no. 1 (1985): 72–142.

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Part Five

Performance and Reception

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Chapter Eighteen

Debussy and Late-Romantic Performing Practices The Piano Rolls of 1912 Jocelyn Ho

Claude Debussy is often viewed as a modernist composer, a pioneer of musical Impressionism who moved decisively away from romantic aesthetics and idioms. It seems logical to ask, then, whether Debussy’s performing practices were similarly modernistic. Did Debussy the pianist adopt a radically different performance style from his contemporaries, a style parallel to his radical compositional ideas? The perception of Debussy’s compositional language as decidedly postromantic/Impressionistic—nuanced, understated, and subtle—is firmly solidified among today’s musicians and well-informed audiences. To probe this, I conducted a small informal survey of my colleagues about their impressions of Debussy’s music. Their responses included “delicate,” “ephemeral,” “subtle,” and “distilled,” as well as more imaginative phrases such as “like a well-constructed dream” or “like a delicate and crystalline pastry, only faintly sweet.” Together these cues, creative as they are, suggest that in addition to a nuanced and colorful sound-world there is an element of restraint, delicately moderated balance, and painstakingly crafted structure in Debussy’s music. Indeed, such a view of beauty-as-careful-construction is explored elegantly in Roy Howat’s Debussy in Proportion.1 Although Debussy’s compositional traits are well known, the same cannot be said of his performance style. Nevertheless, the modern-day understanding

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of Debussy’s aesthetics has colored our perception of how his music ought to be played: restrained, yet infinitesimally nuanced. As a pianist I have come to know intimately this restraint and delicate balance in my own preparations of Debussy’s works for an informed public with certain expectations. I have compared the commonly accepted way of playing Debussy with my own artistic inclinations and propensity for historically informed performing practices. A well established twenty-first-century tradition of performing practices prescribes that rubato in Debussy’s music should be subtle and minimally applied, that nuances should be crafted from dynamics and touch, rather than through local rhythmic flexibility, and that score indications should be vigilantly observed to preserve Debussy’s intentions. According to this position, only through understated rubato and careful observation of every detail in the score can Debussy’s genius shine through. But I question these common assumptions, as they may be based on a false premise. Does the meticulous craftsmanship of Debussy’s compositions necessarily require a stifling, over-zealous adherence to the score? Is self-imposed performative restraint—a disciplining of the pleasurable urges derived from the ebbs and flows of musical phrases—a necessary characteristic of Debussyian playing? And how aligned (or misaligned) is today’s common practice with Debussy’s intentions to the extent that we can reconstruct them, with how he would have played his own music? Freshly examining Debussy the pianist and his performing tastes offers a new set of interpretive possibilities, options that might help liberate today’s performers from the modern strictures imposed upon Debussyian playing. Compositional control and performative restraint: the time has come to separate these two often conflated phenomena in order to examine the latter in earnest. In our binary differentiation between romantic and post-romantic compositional ideals it is easy to forget that the romantic performance traditions of Franz Liszt (1811–86) and Frederic Chopin (1810–49) were very much part of Debussy’s musical milieu. Debussy’s own pianism grew directly out of this tradition. In his youth Debussy studied with a pupil of Chopin, Madame Mauté de Fleurville; this first contact with the romantic master’s music surely laid the foundation to Debussy’s lifelong admiration of his music.2 Living at the turn of the century, Debussy was also in close artistic communication with performers who were well aligned with the traditions of romantic performing practices. The following intimate musical exchange with Liszt at the Villa Médici, where the young Debussy lived after he won the Prix de Rome, illustrates vividly such familiarity with contemporaneous pianists. Upon Liszt’s arrival for a brief visit in 1885, Debussy and Paul Vidal, a compatriot from the Paris Conservatoire, played Emmanuel Chabrier’s Valses romantiques for two pianos for the venerable master. Shortly after this occasion Liszt performed for Debussy in return. Debussy was greatly impressed by Liszt’s piano playing, especially his pedaling,

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which he described as “a form of breathing.”3 Another instance that highlights Debussy’s pianistic ability is a performance with Raoul Pugno at Paris Opéra in 1893 of a two-piano reduction of Richard Wagner’s Das Rheingold.4 More in his capacity as a composer, Debussy frequently listened to musicians play his own works in both private and public settings. Notable famous performers include Ignacy Jan Paderewski and George Copeland, who were both known for their romantic flair. Such accounts of close exchanges with pianists—in the role of both pianist and composer—remind us that Debussy was actively engaged in the circle of piano virtuosi and performers of his time. To discover the extent to which Debussy blended with or rejected the performance practices of his time, consultation of contemporary accounts of Debussy’s preferences would seem the most intuitive methodology. Yet even at first glance these often appear to be contradictory. Pianist E. Robert Schmitz remembered Debussy’s insistence on a strict adherence to the score, yet Debussy praised Paderewski, a pianist known for his unfettered freedom of expression and artistic license, for his novel and wayward interpretation of “Reflets dans l’eau.”5 The issues of rubato and rhythmic alteration are particularly contentious. Marguerite Long’s recollection in At the Piano with Debussy speaks volumes about Debussy’s changing attitudes towards the use of rubato: “‘You know my opinions on metronome marks,’ he wrote. ‘They are as proper in a bar as are the roses in the space of a morning.’ What caused me much amusement was to see how often the composer contradicted himself. How often he said, ‘To the metronome: to the metronome!’”6 Written evidence complicates our understanding of Debussy’s performing practices not only because it is contradictory but also because it requires careful contextualization. Late romantic performing practices generally went hand in hand with a certain level of freedom in interpretation that to the modern-day listener seems “uncontrolled,” “volatile,” or “too casual.”7 Qualifying descriptors such as “in moderation” and “subtle,” commonly found in treatises and manuals, cannot be taken at face value; what was judged to be subtle and in good taste in Debussy’s time might sound exaggerated and mannered today. In the same vein, written testimonies concerning Debussy’s opinions need to be taken with a grain of salt. Thankfully we have an alternative. The Welte-Mignon piano rolls of 1912 preserve Debussy’s own performances of fourteen pieces: the entire collection of Children’s Corner, “La soirée dans Grenade” from Estampes, five pieces from the first book of Préludes, La plus que lente (Valse), and D’un cahier d’esquisses.8 Although prominent scholars such as Howat, Charles Timbrell, Cecilia Dunoyer, and Richard Langham Smith have made significant inroads to the study of performance issues in a selection of these recordings, the piano rolls have yet to be examined comprehensively. Simply as an editorial source, the rolls reveal outright discrepancies: a tempo marking left out, for instance, in

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the famous case of metrical equivalence in “La cathédrale engloutie,” heard in the rolls but unmarked in the score. This important tempo change is now included in the latest Durand-Costellat edition by Howat.9 Both Timbrell’s and Dunoyer’s studies of the piano rolls are made within larger contexts—the former within the framework of Debussyian performance in general (not only of piano music) and the latter within a comparative study of Debussy to other so-called “Debussystes.” Still, their passing yet penetrating observations about rhythmic and tempo flexibility highlight stylistic tendencies that will seem somewhat eccentric to the modern-day listener. In light of the increasing attention to the rolls, however, it is Richard Langham Smith’s detailed analysis of selected works that decisively breaks ground. Langham Smith explicitly reveals the prevalence of romantic practices of rubato, arpeggiation, and dislocation (playing one hand after the other), thus spearheading the work of recasting Debussy as a late-romantic pianist.10 My essay builds on previous research, especially that of Langham Smith, to present for the first time a detailed, cross-sectional investigation of all the works on these rolls. Such a comprehensive study adds conclusive weight to the case for Debussy as a late-romantic pianist that previous studies have only touched upon. I will both examine the extent to which Debussy was steeped in late-romantic practices and reveal the individual stylistic trends of his performances. Drawing on a range of relevant published treatises of the romantic era as well as recordings by notable late-romantic pianists, I will demonstrate similarities between Debussy and his contemporaries. The current fashion of playing Debussy’s piano works with little deviation from the indicated tempi, with as scant arpeggiation and dislocation as possible, and with little or no rhythmic alteration (such as dotting, inégale, or “tripletizing”) does not withstand the historical scrutiny of these rolls. My critique of the performing practices heard in these rolls will suggest a renewed, more flexible and lively way of interpreting his piano works.

Listening to the Past Debussy’s piano rolls seem almost too good to be true: they provide firsthand witness to his pianism in more than an hour’s worth of music with a wide range of effects, tempi, and durations. Unlike written testimonies, where accounts and descriptions must be carefully contextualized within the expectations and conventions of the turn of the century, the recordings speak for themselves, giving us direct access to Debussy’s sound world. Debussy seemed to understand the ramifications of the nascent recording industry and was excited by them. In 1913, after he recorded his piano rolls, Debussy wrote the following note to Edwin Welte, one of the engineers of the piano rolls: “It is impossible

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to attain a greater perfection of reproduction than that of the Welte apparatus. I am happy to assure you in these lines of my astonishment and admiration of what I heard.”11 His enthusiasm for new recording technologies predated the piano rolls; almost a decade before making them, in 1904, Debussy commented that the gramophone would give music “a complete and meticulous immortality.”12 His remark reveals not only his approval of the gramophone but the importance that he accorded to the process of recording as a means of preserving musical performance for ages to come. Debussy’s endorsement of his piano rolls coupled with his high regard for recordings as a means of documentation implies that on some level he intended for these rolls to be heard and used by future generations. If Debussy’s piano rolls are such an unparalleled source of Debussy’s pianism, why have they not found their way to mainstream scrutiny? Truth be told, not every piece of information recorded on the piano roll could be regarded as trustworthy—specifically, those concerning dynamics and pedaling. Although the Welte-Mignon engineers claim that dynamics and pedaling were captured automatically on their mechanism, its process was a closely guarded secret. Also, dynamics and pedaling had to be interpreted by the engineers in order to be encoded as perforations onto the edges of the rolls.13 Compounded by the fact that the Columbia and Telefunken issues in the ’50s and ’60s with sloppy playbacks resulted in a bad reputation for Debussy’s piano rolls themselves, their use as a reliable, serious source for study has been shelved.14 In spite of some limitations, however, it is not all for naught; consensus among technical experts is that information about pitch, duration, and the placing of notes is preserved accurately on the rolls.15 And on a playback mechanism that is well adjusted, as in the recent Kenneth Caswell’s Claude Debussy, the Composer as Pianist (2000), the relative tempo changes within a piece are also deemed to be trustworthy.16 Still, even taking into account these newer issues with well adjusted playback mechanisms, the reception of the rolls has been tepid and attitude towards them circumspect. Howat’s analyses of their credibility have been a main driving force for the reluctant uptake of pianists and critics, and it is important to address some of his criticisms here before continuing. The most vocal case against the rolls, even though technicians have deemed certain aspects trustworthy, is that Debussy’s playing on them is astonishingly different from that heard in the 1904 acoustic recordings with Mary Garden, using a recording technology known to be less fraught with technical uncertainties.17 This is indeed the case—and very rightfully so. Here, Debussy assumes a largely different role: that of an accompanist to a widely successful operatic soprano. Even today, when liberties taken by operatic singers are much less than what they might have been a hundred years ago, pianists who have had experience as a vocal coach or accompanist understand that they must rein in their own

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ego, deferring to the soloist by providing a steady, musically tasteful but unassuming accompaniment. The pianist is expected to play his or her part in the background, allowing the singer to shine. One would certainly be unsurprised at Debussy’s deft and commendable change of style as a sensitive pianist well versed in contrasting styles of playing, be it accompanimental (as with Mary Garden) or soloistic (as in the piano rolls). In fact, taken as a whole, Garden’s vocal acrobatics and rhythmically free singing style against Debussy’s supportive, straight playing, is comparable to Debussy’s solo playing found in the rolls: while the left hand remains steady, the right hand displaces notes, alters rhythms, ignores bar lines and downbeat placements. Howat has merely shone a partial spotlight on Debussy’s accompanimental playing, using this incomplete snapshot as a generalization for his playing style. I argue that the acoustic recordings do not undermine but actually strengthen the picture painted by the rolls, adding to the portrait of Debussy as a multi-faceted pianist who could switch between acting as supportive accompanist and full-fledged soloist. The soloistic playing heard in the rolls is, in fact, typical of pianism at the turn of the century, and not, as Howat puts it, “odd” or “less tidy.” Neal Peres Da Costa’s Off the Record demonstrates that the kinds of “local rhythm and coordination across hands or chords” that Howat sees as suspicious are commonplace and widely practiced by late-romantic pianists in their solo playing.18 Howat’s other misgivings about inaccuracies in rhythm and the placement of notes in the piano rolls seem largely conjectural.19 The claim that Debussy’s pianistic technique confuses the piano roll mechanism, because it exploits “points of escapement and half-pedal,” begs experimental and empirical research to show the extent to which such a playing style may or may not affect piano roll capture. Similarly, while it may be true that production copies are not absolutely accurate to the original playback master, a few inaccuracies of notes scattered here and there in the copying process cannot possibly outweigh stylistic trends that can be heard across more than an hour’s worth of recording.20 Again, there is no research to speak to the statistical significances of these copying discrepancies, and for what they are worth, they may well be inconsequential. Lastly, to discount Debussy’s endorsement of the Welte piano rolls because of a hoped-for financial gain is speculative at best. What is most telling about Howat’s take on the piano rolls is that he still regards some parts of the rolls as “yielding remarkably convincing results”— results that are acceptable and convincing, perhaps, to selective twenty-firstcentury ears. His acceptance of some small-scale rhythmic alterations of the Habanera rhythm in “La soirée dans Grenade” undercuts his objections to the integrity of the rolls as a source for representing rhythmic details. To use Howat’s words, of the “multitude of hidden variables” that “affects what we hear from the rolls,” the most dominant may not be technical factors, but our very own habituated modes of listening and preconceptions that color what we

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deem as acceptable. An impartial rubric for what evidence to accept and what to discount must be established, and in this paper I base my analysis solely on information in the piano rolls that is deemed completely reliable (pitch, duration, placement of notes, and relative tempi within a piece). Dynamics and pedaling therefore will not be discussed. Musically, this translates to four categories that can be used to analyze Debussy’s playing: dislocation between the hands, unnotated arpeggiation of chords, metrical rubato (where the notes of the melody are rhythmically altered while those of the accompaniment remain unchanged), and tempo modification (where both hands change tempo together).21

Dislocation Dislocation is an expressive technique that is still heard to a certain extent in today’s performances; typically it serves to highlight a melody against its accompaniment. The two hands, aligned in the notation, are played slightly apart, thus resulting in a momentary displacement between the melody and the accompaniment. While playing that employs dislocation is often critiqued by modern pedagogues and critics as affected and idiosyncratic, nineteenthcentury treatises such as Malwine Brée’s Die Grundlage der Methode Leschetizky and Louis Adam’s Méthode de piano du conservatoire document the use of this technique for a variety of expressive effects.22 Recordings from around the turn of the twentieth century document its frequent use, particularly in pieces that have slower tempi and are more expressive in character.23 A cross-sectional investigation of these treatises and historical recordings reveals that pianists used dislocation with a fair degree of consistency in certain situations: • • • •

at the beginnings of phrases and usually on “important notes and strong beats,”24 for a softening effect on dissonances,25 in conjunction with “articulation signs such as the portato or slurred staccato,”26 and for “the expression of consecutive notes in a poignant melodic sequence.”27

Did Debussy apply dislocation according to these criteria, and if so, to what extent? His roll for La plus que lente reveals a liberal use of expressive separation of hands (ex. 18.1). In example 18.1 and all following examples, a slanted dashed line indicates a dislocation; double-dashed lines denote one that is especially spread out. In the first four measures of “La plus que lente,” the melody and the accompaniment are asynchronous over half of

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Example 18.1. La plus que lente, mm. 1–16.
     

    
































 












 





















 









    







 















    


























 


























 

       











 











 



  











 
 





 













  




 























   



 






























 


 
















the time when the notation specifies coincidence. Indeed, the liberal style of dislocation heard throughout the piece is reminiscent of the style of Chopin playing by Theodor Leschetizsky, a prominent nineteenth-century pianist and pedagogue. Example 18.2 shows the beginning of his 1906 piano-roll rendition of Chopin’s Nocturne in D flat Major, op. 27, no. 2.28 In these two examples both Debussy and Leschetiszky employ rubato, rhythmic alteration, and plentiful dislocations to create a sense of spontaneous expression. They use dislocation to highlight the beginnings of measures and certain poignant intervals, such as the extended major seventh in measures 2, 4, and 6 in the former, and the extended augmented fifth and fourth in measures 5 and 9 in the latter. Moreover, Debussy makes a less common dislocation of placing the right hand before the left in measure 15, heard also in measure 7 of Leschetizsky’s recording.

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Among all the pieces in the piano rolls, Debussy uses by far the most frequent dislocations in La plus que lente; indeed, the rather instructive tempo marking of Molto rubato (con morbidezza) at the beginning calls for a certain global expressivity that sets it apart from the other pieces. The occurrences of dislocations and the placement of markings in the score are, in fact, closely correlated. In all the piano roll pieces, the most frequently occurring score indication linked with the use of dislocation is the term expressif.29 Synchronous playing in pieces such as “Minstrels” and D’un cahier d’esquisses suddenly gives way to dislocations in the vicinity of this indication (exx. 18.3 and 18.4). By contrast, works that have no dislocations (“Danseuses de Delphes,” “La danse de Puck,” “The Snow is dancing,” and “The Little Shepherd”) do not contain the expressif marking at all, except for “The Little Shepherd,” where only the right hand plays in the expressif section and dislocation is thus not applicable. Dislocation is also heard in conjunction with more playful markings, such as Moquer in “Minstrels,” where it creates a jesting effect (ex. 18.5). Likewise, in “Jimbo’s Lullaby,” Debussy uses dislocation when the main theme is first heard with the accompaniment (mm. 21–28), highlighting the playfully gauche character of Jimbo the toy elephant, as indicated in the beginning. These examples suggest a correlation between score markings and the use of dislocation. Debussy’s artful use of the technique points to a correspondence between the score and specific performing practices that have been lost today, an important correspondence that allows expressive license and choice. Similar to late-romantic practice, Debussy’s dislocations enhanced the expressivity and spontaneity of melodic lines, created characterful and imaginative effects, and highlighted pertinent notes and harmonies. Table 18.1 surveys all the pieces with respect to their frequency of dislocations. A “frequent” use of dislocation implies that it is heard throughout the piece, “some use” signifies that it occurs in only a few sections, and “infrequent” denotes that it occurs less than two or three times. Table 18.1 shows that over half of the pieces on the rolls contain frequent or significant dislocations, and that these pieces are the slower and more expressive ones. Clearly, the practice of dislocation, mostly lost today, should be reconsidered in the light of markings in the score and tempi, given the sophistication and frequency with which Debussy used this expressive technique.

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Example 18.2. Chopin, Nocturne, op. 27, no. 2, mm. 1–9, piano roll played by Leschetizsky, 1906.



   











  
  



   

 















 













    



     

      







   

 

   




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Example 18.3. “Minstrels,” mm. 63–72.








 

 







  
   






 





  

  



 

 





    

 

        



          





    

    

 



 






      

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Example 18.4. D’un cahier d’esquisses, mm. 46–48.

 





   
  




       

   
    






































            
                                       














         




    

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Example 18.5. “Minstrels,” mm. 36–39.







  

















 

 

   





  


    

   

     











Table 18.1. Frequency of dislocations in Debussy’s piano rolls. Compositions with frequent dislocations

Tempo marking

“La plus que lente”

Lent (Molto rubato. Con morbidezza)

Compositions with some dislocations

Tempo marking

“La cathédrale engloutie”

Profoundément calme (Dans une brume doucement sonore)

“Minstrels”

Modéré (Nerveux et avec humour)

“La soirée dans Grenade”

Mouvement de Habanera (Commencer lentement dans un rythme nonchalamment gracieux)

“Jimbo’s Lullaby”

Assez modéré

“Golliwogg’s Cake-walk”

Allegro giusto

“D’un cahier d’esquisses”

Très lent (sans rigueur)

Compositions with no or infrequent dislocations

Tempo marking

“Danseuses de Delphes”*

Lent et grave

“La danse de Puck”*

Capricieux et léger

“Le vent dans la plaine”

Animé

“Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum”

Modérément animé

“Serenade for the Doll”

Allegretto ma non troppo. Très léger et gracieux

“The Snow is Dancing”*

Modérément animé

“The Little Shepherd”*

Très modéré

*

Indicates no dislocations.

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Unnotated Arpeggiation Another common and widespread keyboard practice heard on many early recordings is the use of unnotated arpeggiation—where two or more notes that should be sounded together are played asynchronously. Numerous written treatises certainly suggest that arpeggiation (both notated and unnotated) was an important practice from the seventeenth to the early twentieth century. For the late nineteenth century, Brée’s Die Grundlage der Methode Leschetizky is enlightening on the specificities of its application. Theodor Leschetizky’s pianism, although not associated directly with the French school of piano playing, can be said to assume special importance because it represents the stylistic traits of pianists in whom Debussy was interested. In addition to being a prolific and influential pedagogue, Leschetizky was a friend of Liszt and the teacher of Paderewski, both artists whom Debussy admired. According to Brée’s manual, unnotated arpeggiation can be used for: • • • • •

playing chords that are too wide for the hand to reach, creating a “tender or delicate effect” where the left-hand chord is played “flat” and the right-hand chord is arpeggiated, producing an “extremely slight retardation,” creating an “energetic” effect, bringing out polyphony in important moments.30

Pianists today apply unnotated arpeggiation mainly in the first instance, that is, out of necessity. Its execution should be swift and as inconspicuous as possible, lest it draw attention to itself. In contrast, however, Debussy often applies unnotated arpeggiation with a foregrounded expressive effect in mind; in this section I will show that Debussy played arpeggiations in all of the above situations documented by Brée—and more besides. In D’un cahier d’esquisses (ex. 18.4), Debussy arpeggiates chords that span a tenth, presumably out of necessity. This example, although unsurprising to us and not significant in itself, is important because it provides a benchmark for comparing the speed of arpeggiation: while it is fairly swift here, in all other observed instances of arpeggiation by Debussy (even those where the chords are significantly smaller), the speed is comparable or even slower. In other words, if physically necessary arpeggiations are associated with a certain degree of swiftness, then other chords that are of a similar or slower speed must also be intentional. “La soirée dans Grenade” (ex. 18.6) provides instances where the speed of arpeggiation is slower. Measures 96–98 in example 18.6 show the modulation into the new key of A major, and here Debussy noticeably softens the modulation by arpeggiating the right-hand chords, simultaneously easing the entry

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Example 18.6. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 96–98 (all arpeggiation markings are mine except where indicated in m. 97).

      

 

 

   




 

     



  



    
   



  

     










  

 

 

  



 





 



 
     




 




     




 




 



 



 



into the new key with a broadening of the tempo. In addition to demonstrating Brée’s instruction on how to arpeggiate—to create a “tender and delicate effect” with an “extremely slight retardation”—this excerpt reveals the characteristic laxity with which late-romantic performers interpreted the score. Although only one chord in measure 97 is specified as rolled (the chords in the last eighth-note beat as indicated in example 18.6), Debussy introduces additional arpeggiations before and after this harmony. This suggests that the notation of arpeggiation (and possibly other score markings as well) could be meant to apply within a sensible vicinity determined by performative license, rather than restricted to a literal reading. In contrast, the application of arpeggiation to several chords within a passage in the absence of arpeggiation notation occurs at the beginning of the piece (ex. 18.7). Here Debussy arpeggiates a few of the bell-like C♯ octaves in the right hand with varying degrees of speed. The arpeggiations and their varying speeds break up the rigidity of the recurring downbeat C♯ octaves that, if played synchronously, risk sounding too square and predictable. The last occasion in measure 14 is arpeggiated in an even more spread-out manner, perhaps to emphasize the last instance of the C♯ octaves in the highest register. Throughout “La soirée dans Grenade” the varied use of arpeggiation not only confirms Brée but also produces a degree of refreshing spontaneity that is rarely heard today, appropriately corresponding to the nonchalamment gracieux indication at the beginning of the piece. As lost correspondences between markings in score and expressive techniques emerge, we can compare Debussy’s correlations between indications in the score and expressive technique to those established by romantic norms, such as those documented in the early nineteenth century by prominent English pedagogue Philip Corri. In his extensive keyboard treatise, L’anima di

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Example 18.7. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 1–17.                   









  






        





       

  


        

   

                                     

         
        







 



 










 



  





   

   

 

   

  




 




 

  


                                 

     

    

     

    










       




 




                     



   




   




 




 

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musica, Corri writes that arpeggiations should be made when words such as con espressione, con anima, or dolce, etc. appear in scores.31 Even though Debussy’s indications are more specific than those cited by Corri, many other pieces in the rolls exhibit a close correlation between formal notation and unnotated arpeggiation. In “La cathédrale engloutie” tight arpeggiations in one section give way to more spread-out chords at measure 56. This coincides with the first appearance of an extended melody in the section marked dans une expression allant grandissant and expressif et concentré. The wide arpeggiations intensify the expressive melody, up to the climax in measures 61–62. At the appearance of molto diminuendo in measure 62, however, all arpeggiations abruptly cease. The sudden synchronous chords parallel the precipitous drop in dynamics and register that signify the section’s retreat. Whereas Corri stresses the attachment of arpeggiations to generic expressive indications, Debussy extends this practice to even more specific and vividly descriptive markings. Returning to Brée, elsewhere in the piano rolls Debussy uses arpeggiation for effects that are foreign to our ears. In La plus que lente the surprising arpeggiation of the right-hand octave Cs immediately preceding the appassionato section “energizes” (in Brée’s words) the downbeat at measure 46 (ex. 18.8). After the previous hesitancy, the slight lengthening of the preceding B♭ octave intensifies anticipation of the new, more forward-moving section, as if the waltzing dancers stand on tiptoe before landing on a definitive first beat. Whereas many performers today would not think twice about playing the upbeat octave Cs synchronously, or perhaps double-dotting them to emphasize the following downbeat, Debussy’s arpeggiation provides an alternative strategy, pulling us elegantly towards the downbeat in a way that mitigates the potential harshness of two consecutive octaves in the upper register of the piano. Finally, arpeggiating to separate two voices occurring in one hand, that is, to “bring out polyphony,” can be heard in almost half of the piano rolls that contain arpeggiation: in La plus que lente (mm. 1–5, ex. 18.1), “Golliwogg’s Cakewalk” (mm. 47–58, ex. 18.9), “La danse de Puck” (mm. 44–6), “Serenade for the Doll” (mm. 49–60) and “Le vent dans la plaine” (mm. 35–41). Of particular significance is the execution of the unnotated arpeggiations in measures 47 and 55 in “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” (ex. 18.9). Debussy’s left-hand arpeggiations of the G♭-D♭ chords in these measures unfold at precisely the same speed as the playful grace notes in the corresponding places in measures 49 and 57, as well as the ubiquitous grace notes in the right hand. Because the arpeggiations in measures 47 and 55 are played in such a similar way to the grace notes in the passage, Debussy sonically reframes the G♭-D♭ chords as a G♭ grace note tied to a long D♭ main note. Transforming from a static chord to an animated grace note figure, Debussy has created an entirely new sonic

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Example 18.8. La plus que lente, mm. 45–6.




   




 



       
   

  








    



 

  

   

 



entity in his execution of unnotated arpeggiation. The charming effect is drastically different from a literal interpretation of synchronous G♭/D♭ chords, where they would merely be heard as punctuations in the steady rhythm of the regular staccato G♭ eighth notes. However, here, the G♭/D♭ pairs become foregrounded as part of the playful grace-note texture. Moreover, the creation of this new entity has structural ramifications. These chord-turned-grace-notes contribute to a lighthearted symmetry around D♭ in the pair of two-measure phrases (mm. 47–48 and mm. 49–50, to which mm. 55–56 and mm. 57–58 are identical). The first phrase is heard to begin with an upward-swinging grace note (G♭ to D♭ in m. 47), while the second starts with a downward-moving one (E♭ to D♭ in m. 49). With a new sense of balance, they can almost be heard as elegant antecedent–consequent phrases. Together with the previous examples, this charming excerpt from “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” shows that Debussy’s performing practices were not only interpretive but creative—producing new structurally significant sonic associations. This bold exercise of performative license that oversteps our modern preconceptions of what a performer should do—interpret, but not create—gives us a glimpse of how today’s performers can assert their roles in reimagining a Debussyian performance aesthetic.

Metrical Rubato and Rhythmic Alteration Although almost defunct in modern pianism, the type of tempo rubato with a rhythmically free melody against a strict, regular accompaniment was commonplace in the late nineteenth century. This “metrical rubato” differs from the later Lisztian rubato in which both hands change tempo together.32 Karol Mikuli once articulated Chopin’s concern with balancing freedom of expression and regularity:

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Example 18.9. “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk,” mm. 47–58.
   



   
     

    
     


 

    

     



 

 

    

     

 



 














 



         

           


                 



    




 





        

    

     

 

     



     














         







    







 



 

   

         







           

     

In keeping time Chopin was inflexible, and many will be surprised to learn that the metronome never left the piano. Even in his oft-decried tempo rubato one hand—that having the accompaniment—always played on in strict time, while the other, singing the melody, either hesitated as if undecided, or, with increased animation, anticipating with a kind of impatient vehemence as if in passionate utterances, maintained the freedom of musical expression from the fetters of strict regularity.33

In her memoir of lessons with Debussy, Marguerite Long recalls that Debussy was particularly interested in Chopin’s method of playing.34 This provides a clue about Debussy’s tastes in rubato, since Chopin, as Mikuli suggests, was regarded as a master of metrical rubato. Historically, metrical rubato is linked to the practice of singers, who would take time freely over steady accompaniments. Pierfrancesco Tosi first coined the term rubamento di tempo (the stealing of time) in 1723 to characterize rubato in Italian arias of the late seventeenth century. Numerous eighteenth-century authors also addressed

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rubato in singing. In the nineteenth century Manuel García’s Traité complet de L’art du chant explains with clarity how metrical rubato differs from tempo modification: In order to make the effect of the tempo rubato perceptible in singing, it is necessary to sustain the tempo of the accompaniment with precision. The singer, free on this condition to increase and decrease alternately the partial values, will be able to set off certain phrases in a new way. The accelerando and rallentando require that the accompaniment and the voice move together and slow down or speed up the movement as a whole. The tempo rubato, on the contrary, accords this liberty only to the voice.35

Indeed, what García describes as tempo rubato occurs prominently in the acoustic recordings of Debussy accompanying Mary Garden. For instance, in “Green” (ex. 18.10), Debussy maintains a strict accompaniment “with precision,” in García’s words, whereas Garden prolongs certain syllables and alters duplet rhythms to unequal pairings. In these acoustic recordings with Garden, Debussy’s accompaniment differs markedly from his solo playing. Stricter and mindful of the liberty that is accorded “only to the voice,” Debussy provides a steady base from which Garden sings with rhythmic and expressive freedom.36 In marked contrast, the solo pianist Debussy invokes metrical rubato frequently, typically playing an expressive, free melody in one hand against a steady accompaniment in the other. The ways in which he applies metrical rubato are rich, varied, and sometimes unexpected. While it is usually the melody that is rhythmically altered in metrical rubato, in a few surprising instances the inverse happens—that is, the rhythm of the accompaniment is changed against a steady melody. In both D’un cahier esquisses (mm. 44–47) and “La cathédrale engloutie” (mm. 16–21), the right-hand melody consists of chordal, regular quarter notes while the left-hand accompaniment involves nonstop eighth-note triplets in a low register. In both of these passages, Debussy creates a striking effect: he keeps the blockish melody steady while fluidly altering the animated accompanimental triplets. Example 18.11 shows measures 16–21 of “La cathédrale engloutie.” The latest Durand-Costallat edition of this passage recognizes the alteration in measures 20–21 (as shown in the ossia), yet it does not show the extent of liberties taken by Debussy’s left hand. In his rendition of the passage, Debussy conjures up an image of the legend to which the title alludes with vividness: the massive cathedral, represented by the immovably steady right-hand chords, rises up out of the turbulent, unpredictable waves of the sea that are the left hand’s irregular triplet stirrings. Debussy’s imaginative extension of the typical “steady accompaniment and free melody” metrical rubato paradigm is representative of how he relates to late-romantic performing practices: rather than rejecting or strictly following them Debussy adopts and creatively tailors these performing traditions for his compositional goals.

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Example 18.10. “Green,” mm. 1–14, Mary Garden (soprano) and Debussy (piano), 1904 acoustic recording.
  

       
       




  

    
     


 

    

 

 





    

     

          



           

    

 





              







        

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Example 18.11. “La cathédrale engloutie,” mm. 16–21 (“L” indicates long, “S” indicates short).
   
    

 
 






   



 

     

  











 

   

 

   



 

 















  

 





 

                

















      









  




     











 
 




 

   



 









  









 












  

 









 



 

 

      

 

 

   

     







    
   



         




 

   

  

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The following case studies demonstrate this point even further, as I examine tempo rubato and specific types of rhythmic alteration to evoke dance genres and irony.

Dance Rhythms in La plus que lente and “La soireé dans Grenade” Historically, keyboardists were regularly expected to apply rhythmic alterations consonant with musical genres from sarabandes to allemandes, waltzes to mazurkas and polonaises. This is certainly true for the late nineteenth—early twentieth century, including Debussy. La plus que lente is based on the newly popular valse lente, which differed sharply from the brisker Viennese waltz. Brée’s advice on the execution of the (presumably Viennese) waltz rhythm, however, still applies: “An abbreviation of the first beat after striking it is permitted in waltz rhythm [. . .] By the wrist-movement one gives the accompaniment ‘swing’; but guard against overdoing it, otherwise the rhythmic effect becomes trivial.”37 In La plus que lente, Debussy indeed characteristically shortens the first beat in the bass, as heard in the left-hand dotting in the opening measures (ex. 18.1). However, Debussy goes beyond Brée’s advice and creates “swing” via other forms of rhythmic alteration. Eighth notes in the right hand are dotted, overdotted, and tripletized, and running notes take on creative, non-standard rhythms. For instance, Debussy groups straight eighth notes into threes to highlight a three-note motive in measures 27–29, as shown in example 18.12. In measure 33 he modifies five beamed eighth notes as an irregular rhythm (ex. 18.13). This approach echoes that found in numerous early twentieth-century recordings. In a 1905 piano roll of Chopin’s Nocturne in F-sharp Minor, Camille Saint-Saens tripletizes equal notes and dots notes of equal value (ex. 18.14). Although the genres differ, both Debussy and Saint-Saens use rhythmic alteration to create swinging or lilting effects absent in the literal notation.38 Just as Debussy alters more rhythms than our modern ears would expect in La plus que lente in order to evoke the slow waltz, so does he conjure up the exoticism of the Habanera in “La soirée dans Grenade,” not only through a characteristic rhythmic ostinato, but also through other surprising rhythmic alterations. Debussy’s encounter with a certain Spanish pianist serves as a revealing preface to this piece. After being appalled by this visiting artist’s performance of “La soireé dans Grenade” like “Hungarian music,” Debussy urged him to play, instead, in “the Spanish style.”39 Clearly, this Spanish performance style meant something very specific to Debussy, and we shall seek to uncover some of its traits that are, in fact, creative extensions of late-romantic practices.

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Example 18.12. La plus que lente, mm. 27–32.







   
                          







 

    
 



  



 

    




       




 




        



Example 18.13. La plus que lente, transcribed rhythm of m. 33.


  
 
         








 




   
    







Unlike the flowing, improvisatory form of La plus que lente, “La soireé dans Grenade” is more disjointed and composed of recurring sections, where one section is frequently cut off by the next section, which may bring a surprising contrast in affect, texture, or mood. These sections are relatively short (the shortest is as fleeting as four measures) but distinctly memorable, so that when they recur they are instantly recognizable. Debussy alters the rhythms of each section in unique ways, thus setting them apart from each other and emphasizing their disjointedness. The sectionalized, recurring nature of the piece’s form lends itself to a dreamy, montage-like experience, in which we cut

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Example 18.14. Chopin, Nocturne, op. 15, no. 2, mm. 1–5, Saint-Saëns, piano roll, 1905.

   

  
  






 
    

 




   


































    






 

     

 

  

























 











































































 



 







  





from an all-too-brief snippet of one scene to another, only to revisit the original scene before too long. While the piece is composed of recurring, disjointed sections, some unifying musical ideas, however, infiltrate the whole piece to offset any dangers of incoherence. For instance, the pervasive rhythmic ostinato based on the Habanera rhythm (𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯.𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮) binds the piece together. Despite the ostinato’s function as a lynchpin of compositional unity, Debussy does not play the rhythm uniformly throughout the piece as one might expect; instead, he uses various degrees of dotting that are seemingly random and spontaneous. This can be heard already in the first twelve measures, from a literal rendition (e.g., m. 4) to overdotting (e.g., mm. 5–6, ex. 18.7). The variability of dotting continues throughout, effectively conveying the lilting nonchalamment gracieux character of the Habanera. Debussy’s laxness in ostinato-playing will be surprising to many modern-day pianists; common practice dictates that the ostinato, being a figure of sameness and constancy, should be played uniformly.

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However, Debussy demonstrates that compositional unity does not require a sacrifice of performative freedom; rather, they coexist to create an inspired, convincing performance. The Habanera rhythm, pervasive throughout, sets the tone of Spanish exoticism from the very beginning. Soon after, a wailing melody begins to appear in measure 7. Debussy plays this opening melody, marked expressif et lointain, not only with a freedom characteristic of many early-twentieth-century recordings, but with a certain characteristic “Spanish style” as a “languid melody of the Moorish heritage of Spain,” in the words of contemporaneous pianist and friend Robert E. Schmitz.40 Here, the Spanish exotic melody is hypnotically angular: Debussy’s tripletization, his lengthening and rushing of notes, and his use of notes inégales make clear how rhythmic techniques could be liberally applied to evoke a sound that is lointain (distant), both physically and culturally. In particular, while modern pianists are expected to play triplets evenly, the lengthening of the first note of the triplet in measure 9 creates a surprisingly uneven effect that “squares off” the triplet. Debussy was not alone in producing jagged melodies out of unassumingly smooth ones; in fact, this kind of rhythmic alteration occurs frequently in other late-romantic contexts, albeit not necessarily for evoking exotic sounds. In Chopin’s Nocturne, op. 27, no. 2 (ex. 18.15) Leschetizky’s student John Powell creates a more angular rhythm in the modulation from the previously serene D-flat-major section to the more agitated and anxiety-laden B-flat-minor section.41 While angular rhythmic alterations are seldom heard today, both Powell and Debussy make them, but apparently for different reasons—one to convey anxiety, the other to evoke the exotic. The espressif et lointain marking certainly takes on a different meaning from what today’s pianists may have in mind. In the following brief section (measures 17–20, ex. 18.16) the way Debussy interprets tempo giusto is even more startling. Although the indication tempo giusto may imply strict time, nowhere in this section is the tempo steady.42 Rather, Debussy applies the tempo-modifying type of rubato, playing these measures with a distinct rushing of the sixteenth notes followed by a pulling back of the eighth notes, as indicated by the arrows.43 This tempo modification is heard again when the section is repeated in measures 29–32 and measures 92–95 (as a gesture in a larger section). Debussy’s execution highlights, in Schmitz’s words, the “rasgueado technique of the guitar” to which the figure alludes.44 Although Debussy’s playing seems contradictory to his indication, an explanation could be that his use of tempo giusto has an alternative meaning to the more common understanding of the term today. Instead, his marking may work on a princple similar to that of Chopin’s tempo giusto in some of his waltzes: whereas Chopin’s marking denotes characteristic waltz tempo and rhythmic alterations, Debussy’s denotes the rasgueado technique associated with the “Spanish style.”45

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Example 18.15. Chopin, Nocturne, op. 27, no. 2, m. 11, Powell, piano roll, 1929.




 






    


  








   




  
 







   























Example 18.16. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 17–20.




  

 

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Further rhythmic alterations in the supposed “Spanish style” surface in the très rythmé section in measures 38–60. Here Debussy’s rushing and dotting of sixteenth-note figures add a certain snappiness and vigor to this ff declamatory section; the verve and sense of abandon here contrast strikingly with the languidness and suggestiveness of the previous two sections. But whereas previously rhythmic alterations were applied with a certain degree of consistency across a whole section, in the très rythmé section the degree of snappiness gradually decreases. This parallels a diminishing intensity in both dynamics and register (ex. 18.17). As the musical drive dwindles, the rhythms are still played unevenly but are “tripletized” instead, yielding a more rounded and lilting effect (mm. 51 ff.). Finally, only a hint of inégale (marked by “L” for long and “S” for short) remains in measures 56–57. Schmitz calls this section a “full Habanera,” but Debussy’s performance shows more nuance than this description implies. Debussy indeed starts with a full Habanera playing style, including energetic dotting and snappy shortenings, but he gradually winds it down with increasingly mild and lilting alterations as the section subsides. The winding down or decrease in intensity characteristic of this très rythmé section is played out on a larger scale throughout the latter half of the piece. Debussy employs the milder and more gently lilting rhythmic alterations in later appearances of the très rythmé section theme (for instance, in mm. 98–102, ex. 18.18). The decrease in rhythmic zest as the piece nears its end also takes place in the recurrence of the tempo giusto: Debussy plays the very last appearance (mm. 128–29), in which the full, luscious chords are pared down to a single line in the left hand, in a slower tempo without any form of rhythmic alteration or tempo modification (ex. 18.19). The reduction in texture, the absence of the tempo modification associated with rasgueado, and the use of milder forms of rhythmic alterations cause a waning of energy as the piece comes to a close. However, the work concludes with the mouvement du début, where Debussy once again plays the opening languid melody with its original angularity, and the receding ostinato figure with overdotting (exx. 18.20 and 18.21). From the above structurally driven observations, Debussy’s “Spanish style” in “La soirée dans Grenade” may appear to demonstrate a spontaneity that is random and effortless; on the contrary, it shows careful consideration of both small-scale and large-scale structural experiences. Locally, the different rhythmic alterations in each section provide thrillingly transient snapshots of evening scenes from Grenada; vanishing after it has barely begun, each distinctively played section grips the listener and performer with the precarious exuberance of the moment-to-moment experience. On a larger scale, Debussy carefully applies the concepts of difference and sameness: the use of the same degree of rhythmic alteration in the very last statement accentuates the rounded form, one that balances the winding-down process of other musical ideas. Analyzing Debussy’s performing practices in “La soirée dans Grenade,”

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Example 18.17. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 41–60.   


       

    

 

      

 



  




 

   

         



 





     

   

                   

           

 

 

                 

       







 

  

 






    

   

   

  



 

    


     









       

 
  

          








 



   

 


      

   





 



 

  



 

 



 

  

 

 



  

 





        




 

      







 

  




       









  

 



       

     

 






      





 

 




   



 






















      







   





 









 

   

           



    













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Example 18.18. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 98–102.
 


   
      




     








  

 
             




            

   

     

  

  

  

   

  

     

 



                             

              



       







 









 





Example 18.19. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 127–29.
    





 
         

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Example 18.20. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 122–27.
    












     



  

                        

   

   



   
  








   

      

     






         

                 

     

  



  



 
    

 

Example 18.21. “La soirée dans Grenade,” mm. 133–36.



      

 
     
      
 







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we understand what the “Spanish (performing) style” might mean. Such insights into Debussy’s “Spanish style” and the equilibrium he strikes between moment-to-moment spontaneity and a structural arc are suggestive for our interpretations not only of other Spanish-inspired music, such as “La puerta del Vino” from the first book of Preludes, but his whole oeuvre.

Irony in “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum” In La plus que lente and “La soirée dans Grenade” Debussy alters rhythms in ways that are appropriate to the character of the pieces and largely in line with score indications. This is not the case in “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum.” In this piece the use of rhythmic alteration reverses conventional expectations. All signs point to an even rendition of the running notes: the indication égal et sans sécheresse (equal and without dryness) occurs at the very beginning; the title is based on Muzio Clementi’s 1817 set of finger exercises Gradus ad Parnassum; and the piano writing is indeed similar to that of a study. Nevertheless, Debussy contradicts this expectation from the very outset. Example 18.22 shows the first few measures, which contain various forms of rhythmic alteration including inégale, lombardic rhythms, lengthening of beats, and an accelerando. These techniques create both unsteadiness and an inclination toward expressive freedom, contrary to the title’s suggestion and the score indications. The use of inégale is even more exaggerated in the middle section marked expressif; the effect is far from subtle, as shown in example 18.23. The degree of inégale, especially in the almost exaggerated execution in the middle section, suggests a hidden agenda, one that seeks ironically to subvert the very purpose of the finger exercises. Expression and color win out over technical prowess. Debussy turns our whole preexisting notion of the piece upside-down: instead of being inspired by Clementi’s Gradus ad Parnassum, he performs a parodistic reaction to it. In the face of Debussy’s performance, the twenty-first-century pianist has a dilemma. Should she follow the score or follow the performance? Rather than framing the issue as a problem, I prefer to redefine the question in a way that allows for a fresh perspective on score interpretation. We have already seen that Debussy’s piano rolls open up new interpretive possibilities for the pianist. Chords can, in fact, be arpeggiated frequently, rhythms can be altered in creative ways, hands can be played one after another in numerous circumstances, and so on. In “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum,” Debussy offers another option— a radical one that is usually frowned upon—that is, to do the opposite of what the score indicates. His performance shows us that there is an option to deliberately not follow the score in the spirit of irony, humor, or mockery. The interpreter’s

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Example 18.22. “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum,” mm. 1–11. Inequality with respect to quarter-note beats:

Modérément animé S

4 &4 ≈

{

L

S

L

S

L

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

p égal et sans sécheresse

? 44 wj

w

œfi

Lombardic rhythm / backdotting

S

S

L

L

S

L

S

L

S

L

. .j . . ‰ œ œj ‰ œ œj ‰ œ œj ‰ œ .j ‰ .j ‰ .j ‰ œ & œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœœœ œœœœ œœœ œœœœœœœœœœœœœœœœ œ

3

{

œ˙ ™

? œ

œ

L S

6

& œ œœ œ

{

p

? œ

˙œ

œ

S

œ

œ

œœœ pp

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

L

œ œ œ œœœœœ œœ ? œ œ œ

œ

œ

œœ w- œ œ

œ

œ œ œœ œ

œœœ pp

œœœ

œ œ œœœ œ

œœ w- œœ

œœœ

Lengthened Accel.

œ œœ œ œbœ œ œ

9

?

{

?

pp

œœ w- œœ

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œ

œ œ œ bœ œ œbœ œ pp

œœœ

œœ w- œœ

œ

cresc.

œ#œ

œ œ œ nœ œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œ#œ

&

œ #œ

œœ

Lengthened

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Example 18.23. “Doctor Gradus Ad Parnassum,” mm. 37–44.
 


        

      
                             

















































  
 


















 







































 

 

                             



     
























relationship with the score is thus enriched: the artist and the score are in a constant dance where the performer sometimes accepts and sometimes rejects the performance directions. Hence the performer’s approach to a score is relational: the score calls for a reaction from the performer that can be either affirming (in most cases) or deliberately defying (for imaginative purposes). Disregarding the score as simply instructional, we can reframe the question as: what kind of reaction should the twenty-first-century pianist have to the score of “Gradus ad Parnassum,” where defiance is a valid reaction? Indeed, liberating the score from its one-sided instructional status to a relational one frees the modern pianist, who may also ask the same question about Debussy’s other works in ways that could be humorous, subversive, ironic, or playful.

Tempo Modification A final category of performing practices is the type of rubato where both hands accelerate or slow down together. Certain forms of tempo modification are actually quite familiar to today’s listeners: for instance, the use of unnotated rallentandi, the lengthening and delay of certain notes, to name just a couple. But Debussy also employs late-romantic tempo modification techniques that sound foreign to us, particularly an unexpected rushing forward of the music.

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Example 18.24. “La danse de Puck,” mm. 66–70.



    

 

      




                           





            

   
             
 

 






  



      







  

    













In the rolls Debussy uses these techniques in close association with structural events and certain score markings. Specifically, unnotated accelerandi are heard in conjunction with crescendo markings—for example in measure 11 of “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum” (ex. 18.22) and in measures 66–68 of “La danse de Puck” (ex. 18.24). In both cases Debussy highlights the structure of the music, driving towards the ends of long phrases that suddenly come to a halt in measures 12 and 69. While broadening towards the peak of a phrase is common in today’s performances, accelerating toward an abrupt stop can sound downright shocking. Unnotated accelerandi also occur in the context of compensatory rubato, in which slowing down in one place is compensated for by speeding up in another. Debussy uses compensatory rubato in a range of contexts. In La plus que lente, an accelerando is followed by a rallentando in measures 14–15 (ex. 18.25), creating an expressive push and pull. Similarly, as mentioned earlier, Debussy makes unexpected use of compensatory rubato in the tempo giusto section (mm. 17–20) of “La soirée dans Grenade” (ex. 18.16). In both of these instances the pushing and pulling of time are smooth; in other places, however, the effect can be jerky and awkward. In the passage marked quasi tamburo in “Minstrels” (ex. 18.26), Debussy surprisingly executes compensatory rubato in an exaggerated, unsteady manner. Much as with tempo giusto, the indication quasi tamburo (like a drum) suggests to the performer that the passage should

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Example 18.25. “La plus que lente,” mm. 11–16.  





      




       
  




 

  

 

 

   







 











             

  








   





 

Example 18.26. “Minstrels,” mm. 54–63.








 




     
  








          

     









         

     

       

   

     

   






 



     

    







             











         













                                              






 






    

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be played in strict time. But the impression of an unsteady, offbeat drummer adds to the quirky character of the piece, in the spirit of nerveux et avec humour. Some instances of rushing are so localized as to be highly destabilizing. For instance, in “Le vent dans la plaine,” the eighth notes in measures 51 and 53 (ex. 18.27) are rushed into triplets, contradicting the score marking of cédez; this creates a surprising effect of running into the sextuplets in the latter half of the measure. In “La danse de Puck,” the shortening of the second quarter-note beats in measures 21, 23, 49, and 50 creates a sense of unsteadiness, enhancing the capricieux character (exx. 18.28 and 18.29). Although these localized accelerandi might seem peculiar to us, they embody effects heard in other early twentieth-century recordings. For instance, in a 1905 piano roll performance of Mozart’s Larghetto arranged by the pianist himself (ex. 18.30), Carl Reinecke regularly rushes towards the main beats, creating a lunging or unsteady effect.46 A similar effect to examples 18.27 and 18.29, in which Debussy rushes towards the end of the phrase, can be heard in Leschetizsky’s performance of Mozart’s Fantasia in C minor, where he accelerates through the repeated perfect authentic cadences in the new key of G major (ex. 18.31).47

Large-Scale Tempo Modification as a Structural Device in “La cathédrale engloutie” In contrast to the small-scale tempo changes in the aforementioned pieces, Debussy plays “La cathédrale engloutie” with much more rhythmic regularity throughout. The tempo modifications are large-scale, varying from section to section rather than from measure to measure. The most celebrated case of unnotated tempo change is where he doubles the speed between measures 7 and 12, and again between measures 22 and 83. The metrical equivalence, marked in the latest Durand-Costallat score, dramatically alters a structural understanding of the piece, as noted by Howat.48 Other large-scale tempo changes also have an impact on the macroscopic structure. Schmitz describes the narrative of “La cathédrale engloutie” as follows: “From the misty calm of the opening, through the gradual emergence of the Cathedral, to the sonorous apex of its victory over the sea, and the receding, engulfing process of the last sections.”49 A closer analysis reveals two processes that resonate with Schmitz’s narrative: the first from measure 1 to measure 46, climaxing at measure 28 in the cathedral’s full “emergence,” and the second from measure 47 to the end, reaching a climax at measure 61 before the cathedral’s “recession.” The trough in measure 46 linking the first and second process is signified by a change in key signature (to C-sharp minor), the pianissimo dynamic, and the sparse texture.

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Example 18.27. “Le vent de plaine,” mm. 51–53. Cédez

{

? bb b b 4 bb4

fl a Tempo (Animé) &

{

51 œœœ. nœœ. b . 4 ?œ œ œ & b bbbb 4 œœœœn œœœ. œ

˙˙

bœ œ .J

œœœ

œ œ

6

œ .J

‰

œœœ

œ

“” œ. œœœ n

œœ. œ. . œ. . œœœ œœœœ œœœœ. œœ œœœ œœœœ œœœœ.

pp

‰

w w

œ œ œ 3

(TRIPLETIZED)

fl a Tempo . . œ bbb b œ. . ? œœœ nœœœœ b œœœ œœœ & b œœœn œœœ & b œ œ œ œ œ Cédez

{

? bb b b bb

{

53

˙˙

œ .J

6

œ .J

‰

‰

œœ œ 3

(TRIPLETIZED)

Example 18.28. “La danse de Puck,” mm. 21–25 (note that the bass B♭ and E♭ eighth-notes in m. 21 are omitted in the recording).




 


   





 
 

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Example 18.29. “La danse de Puck,” mm. 47–50.


    







   








 







  






  

  



   









 

  



 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

     

Example 18.30. W. A. Mozart (arr. Reinecke), Larghetto, mm. 1–8, Reinecke, Welte-Mignon piano roll, 1905. ! 

   









 





     





        



                

    


 

     



 

        





Example 18.31. W. A. Mozart, Fantasia in C minor, mm. 18–21, Leschetizsky, Welte-Mignon piano roll, 1905.



                                        









  







      












                  





          

                                           



       
      






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Debussy’s unmarked tempo changes certainly follow the two-process structure of the piece. In the first process (mm. 1–46), the tempo changes are gradual between sections (with unmarked rallentandi and accelerandi), while in the second process (mm. 47 to the end) the transitions are abrupt. Table 18.2 shows the tempo changes in the two processes. Figure 18.1 is a graphic depiction of table 18.2 and shows the trend from gradual to abrupt transitions. To continue Schmitz’s evocative metaphor, in Debussy’s performance the “emergence” of the cathedral is “gradual,” whereas the “receding, engulfing process” is terraced, as if the cathedral sinks in repeated jolts until only the calm sea remains in sight. Debussy highlights the structure through large-scale tempo changes, distinguishing between the cathedral’s appearance and its submergence through subtle but effective differences in transitions. Table 18.2. Tempi in “La cathédrale engloutie.” Section/musical event Start of first process

Bar 1–15

𝅘𝅥 = 62

16–19

𝅘𝅥 = 62

20–21

Accelerando

22–26

𝅗𝅥 = 74 Rallentando

𝆑

𝅗𝅥 = 62 Rallentando

Sonore sans dureté

Transition to climax Climax

27 28–38

Transition

39 40

″

Tempo

″ End of first process

41

𝅗𝅥 = 58 Rallentando

42–46

𝅗𝅥 = 43

Start of second process (marked with arrow in the graph in ex. 33)

47–61

𝅗𝅥 = 72

62–66

𝅗𝅥 = 56

67–83

𝅗𝅥 = 62

86–end

𝅘𝅥 = 44

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Score association peu à peu sortant de la brume Augmentez progressivement (sans presser)

Decrescendo Decrescendo 𝆏 Un peu moins lent (Dans une expression allant grandissant) Molto dim. Au mouvt, Comme un echo de la phrase entendue précédemment Dans la sonorité du début

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Tempo (quarterternote note or orhalf half notenote beats beats per minute) per minute)

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Change from gradual to abrupt tempo transiƟons

80

70

60

50

40

30

20

10

0 1

20

21

22

26

27

28

39

40

41

42

47

62

67

86

End

Bar number

Figure 18.1. Tempo Representation of “La cathédrale engloutie.”

Race and Parody in “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” and “Minstrels” In a final case study of tempo modification I consider two pieces, “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” and “Minstrels,” both problematic because of their reference to the racially charged cakewalk. Debussy’s execution provides insight into his attitude towards the popular American genre that had gained widespread attention in Paris.50 The cakewalk was originally an exaggerated dance by African-Americans that parodied the “elegant manners and fancy dances” of white slave owners; however, it was (rather ironically) later appropriated by white Americans in shows that were intended to degrade African-Americans, as evidenced in blackface minstrelsy.51 Troupes that featured both black and white dancers came to Paris from 1902 onwards; they were so popular that classes were even held for the Parisian public in order to demonstrate the steps of the cakewalk. James Deaville has pointed out that while “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” is based on an “authentic black” subject (that is, the black cartoon character Golliwogg) who danced the original African-American cakewalk, “Minstrels” is a freer adaptation of the white-appropriated version. Compositionally, “Golliwogg’s Cakewalk” features the original cakewalk rhythms while “Minstrels” contains more subtle allusions.52 Score markings in the two pieces point to differences in performance style that seem to support this distinction. Whereas “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” is marked Allegro giusto, which implies a strict keeping of time, “Minstrels” is to

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be played nerveux et avec humour, suggesting a freer expression. The former’s strictness is reinforced by Maurice Dumesnil’s recounting of Debussy’s insistence of a “strong, sharp, rhythm” that could be interpreted as encouraging incisiveness and precision.53 Despite these differences, however, Debussy uses a similar, exaggerated style of playing in both pieces, characterized by a jagged and unpredictable sense of pulse. This is unsurprising to us, given Debussy’s similarly inclined interpretation of tempo giusto in “La soireé dans Grenade.” Examples 18.32 and 18.33 present the beginnings of the two pieces. In both cases Debussy seemingly rushes or lengthens beats and motives at random, creating irregular durations from measure to measure. Upon closer inspection, however, some of these localized tempo modifications do not seem random at all: certain rhythmic figures across both pieces are always modified in the same way. For instance, Debussy consistently rushes the figure: 𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥, heard in measures 3–4, 32, 40, 113, and 120 in “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk,” and measures 14 and 24 in “Minstrels,” creating a surge toward the strong beat on the last note. Similarly, he rushes all “stand-alone” pairs of sixteenth notes (that is, those not in the context of larger groups of sixteenth notes) in both pieces (mm. 6 and 8 of “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” and mm. 16, 26, and 45–55 of “Minstrels”). The rushing of the sixteenth-note pair is often coupled with a significant lenghtening of the next eighth note (see ex. 18.32, mm. 6–7). Falling on different parts of the measure, the rushed sixteenth-note pairs create a sense of tottering unpredictability, contributing to the humourous effect. The original African-American cakewalk was a culturally driven expressive vehicle for mocking traditional Western dances; on a musical level, we might wonder precisely what affects, gestures, or sonic qualities were being mocked. In the piano rolls we have, in fact, an exemplar of Western dance that could serve as a point of reference: the waltz in La plus que lente. Although the waltz is just one of the many Western dances that may have been the object of parody, a comparative study of Debussy’s performing style in “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” and “Minstrels” on the one hand, and his style in La plus que lente on the other, provides deeper insights into his approaches to parody. Juxtaposing the two, we can indeed perceive their relationship: the unpredictable, irregular shortening of seemingly random beats can be heard as a parody of the waltz’s regular shortening of first beats; the quasi tamburo section (mm. 58–62, ex. 18.26) in “Minstrels” exaggerates the gentle push and pull of compensatory rubato (mm. 14–15, ex. 18.25) in La plus que lente; and the sudden changes of tempo in “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” and “Minstrels” mock the graceful ebb and flow of dances in La plus que lente. Debussy’s cakewalk is jagged, exaggerated, irregular, and unpredictable. Were the cakewalks that he heard also played in the same style? Surely if performers and even the general Parisian public were expected to dance the cakewalk, then such unpredictability and randomness in the music could

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Example 18.32. “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk,” mm. 1–15. 
 

      
  






     





         

 








 



     



     

        

      










  









           

        

    
                         








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scarcely have helped them. Indeed, a 1913 silent video of African-American cakewalk dancers shows audiences clapping and swaying in regular beats, certainly more regular and predictable than Debussy’s execution.54 His performance of “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” might hence be thought of as a parody on a parody, where his jagged and exaggerated rhythms are a mocking take on the actual cakewalk (itself a multilayered parody).55 Moreover, Debussy’s parody is based on the physicality and bodily experience of the cakewalk, typified by exaggerated movements, contorted positions, and awkward bodily gestures. The awkward, angular tempo changes and rhythmic alterations in the two pieces embody the kind of dance moves experienced in the cakewalk. Debussy’s performative parody is thus a bodily one, and it is unabashedly exaggerated and mocking, informed by the awkward and contorted physicality of the dance itself. In light of this, Debussy’s performance offers us a glimpse into attitudes of his time: his mockery of the physicality of African-American dance moves resonates with what historian Eric Lott calls the “subjection of black maleness” through parody. Driven by a white racist fear of the African-American body, Lott remarks, blackface minstrelsy was a way to minimize and subjugate it through ridicule and belittlement.56 While the compositions in themselves are problematic, the racist attitudes are given a shockingly concrete corporeality in Debussy’s explicit performative parody of physical movements. His playing and

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its underlying racial connotations beckon us to reflect deeply on modern-day programming and contextualization of these pieces.57 Debussy’s flexibility with rhythm and tempo offers new and often startling perspectives on these frequently heard pieces. His liberty, creativity, and variety in tempo modification accords with late-romantic practices. While a “subtle” use of rubato is often advocated in performance treatises, this is emphatically not the case in Debussy’s playing. The imaginative ways in which he executes rhythmic alterations and tempo modifications should encourage today’s pianists to experiment with forgotten practices.

Conclusion To address the question asked at the outset: does playing of Debussy necessarily need to be restrained and held back, even though surges of energy, bursts of humor, and ebbs and flows of contrasting affects bubble forth in his vivid writing? The piano rolls tell us that the answer is a resounding no. They show us that today’s self-disciplined, all-too-refined Debussy playing sometimes stifles the creative possibilities that his music offers the performer. Some might argue that the composer as pianist has much broader artistic license in interpreting his own works than another pianist; thus, so goes the argument, we must not dare to take on the freedoms that Debussy does himself. But this would seem to defy common sense: why would any composer record his or her own work with artistic license, if not to encourage others to play it with an equal dose of freedom? The piano rolls reveal unequivocally that Debussy invoked a rich array of performing styles rooted in late romantic performing practices otherwise indiscernible in his scores. While some of Debussy’s practices are implied in his notation, others contradict it altogether. These contradictions make us uncomfortable. They challenge the well ingrained modern notion of “fidelity to the score,” encouraging more nuanced and creative approaches to score interpretation. The recollection of an orchestral rehearsal under Debussy’s direction by the oboist François Gillet supports this: [. . .] “un peu plus vite ici” [. . .] So Chevillard said: “Mon cher ami, yesterday you gave me the tempo we have just played.” Debussy looked at him with intense reflection in his eyes and said: “But I don’t feel music the same way every day.”58

The implications of Gillet’s encounter are far-reaching. The flexibility with which Debussy responds to his own music suggests that his own tastes were

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changeable. Modern pianists often engage in a futile search for a single authentic interpretation grounded in a close adherence to the letter of the score. Debussy’s piano rolls and Gillet’s recollection make clear that his intentions could change from one day to another. Thus any “authoritative intention” must give way to multiple intentions. Debussy’s praise of George Copeland’s59 and Paderewski’s alternative interpretations reinforce the problematic nature of attempts to pin down any composer’s authoritative intentions. Instead, it invites us to encourage a dynamic relationship between the composer and the interpretive, creative performer. How likely is it that Debussy’s attitudes towards performance and creativity were unique? Debussy’s piano rolls of 1912 suggest not just a reassessment of performing practices in his own music but a fresh look at the relevance of recordings to performing practices more generally.

Notes 1.

Roy Howat, Debussy in Proportion: A Musical Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). 2. Marguerite Long, At the Piano with Debussy, trans. Olive Senior-Ellis (London: Dent, 1972), 12–13. 3. Edward Lockspieser, Debussy: His Life and Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 81–83; Victor Segalen, Annie Joly-Segalen, and André Schaeffner, eds., Segalen et Debussy (Monaco: Rocher, 1962), 70–71, 74–75, 77–78, 80–81, 83–85, 96–100, 107–8, 134–35, in Roger Nichols, Debussy Remembered (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1992), 148–49; Marguerite Long, At the Piano with Debussy, trans. Olive Senior-Ellis (London: Dent, 1972), 6–9, 12–15, 19, 24, 36, 45–5, in Nichols, Debussy Remembered, 177. 4. Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind, 89–90. 5. E. Robert Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy (New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1950), 35; and “A Plea for the Real Debussy,” The Etude (December 1937): 781–82, in Nichols, Debussy Remembered, 171, 161. 6. Long, At the Piano with Debussy, 44–45. 7. Robert Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2004), 35–36. 8. Whether the piano rolls were recorded in 1912 or 1913 is debatable but not of significant consequence to the findings in this paper. See Charles Davis Smith and Richard James Howe, The Welte-Mignon: Its Music and Musicians (Vestal: Vestal Press for the Automatic Musical Instrument Collectors’ Association, 1994), 356. 9. OC, series 1 (Œuvres pour piano), vol. 5, Préludes, ed. Roy Howat (Paris: Durand-Costallat, ca. 1985). 10. Cecilia Dunoyer, “Debussy and Early Debussystes at the Piano,” in Debussy in Performance, ed. James R. Briscoe (New Haven: Yale University Press, ca. 1999).

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11. Kenneth K. Caswell, liner notes to Claude Debussy, The Composer as Pianist: All His Known Recordings, The Caswell Collection, vol. 1 (Austin: Pierian Recording Society, 2000). 12. Arbie Orenstein, Ravel: Man and Musician (New York: Dover, 1991), 247. 13. Denis Hall, “The Reproducing Piano—What Can It Really Do?,” The Pianola Journal 14 (2001): 7–9. 14. While the disapproval of the piano rolls by Debussy’s stepdaughter, Mme de Tinan, is often cited to discredit the rolls, it should not be given substantial weight, as she listened to the suboptimal 1962 Telefunken LP version. Howat, Debussy in Proportion, 159, and “Debussy’s Piano Music: Sources and Performance,” in Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 102. 15. Hall, “The Reproducing Piano,” 19. 16. In addition to The Caswell Collection, Tacet also released a more recent, albeit lesser known issue in 2009, entitled The Welte-Mignon Mystery Vol. 12, Debussy and Ravel Today Playing All Their 1912 Interpretations. The playback mechanism for the Tacet recording was adjusted by one of the experts in the field, Hans-W. Schmitz. A noncommercial recording has also been generously made and provided to me by Denis Hall in 2012. These recent recordings, made independently by different, well respected experts, corroborate to give the rolls tremendous credibility. Aside from some minor differences in resonance and pedaling, and an insignificant spattering of wrong notes (perhaps from minor errors in the roll-copying process), the relative tempo relationships and instances of dislocation, unnotated arpeggiation, rhythmic alterations, and tempo modifications are heard all across the board. Given its accessibility and its endorsement by Hall, I will be using the Caswell Collection as a basis of this essay. Claude Debussy, The Composer as Pianist: All His Known Recordings, the Caswell Collection, vol. 1 (Austin: Pierian Recording Society, 2000); Debussy and Ravel, The Welte-Mignon Mystery Vol. 12, Debussy and Ravel Today Playing All Their 1912 Interpretations (Stuttgart: Tacet, 2009); Claude Debussy, Richard Buhlig, and Rudolph Ganz, recording provided by Denis Hall, 2012. 17. Roy Howat, “Review: Claude Debussy, the Composer as Pianist: All His Known Recordings—The Caswell Collection, vol. 1, Pierian Recording Society, Pierian 0001,” The Pianola Journal—Journal of the Pianola Institute 13 (2000): 37. 18. Roy Howat, The Art of French Piano Music: Debussy, Ravel, Fauré, Chabrier (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), 316; Neal Peres Da Costa, Off The Record: Practices in Romantic Piano Playing (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). 19. Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 316–19. 20. There are several stages to the Welte’s roll-copying processes. The original roll was made while the pianist played; from that a second master was copied carefully and checked against the original for accuracy. Production copies were then made from this second master via a perforating machine. Slight errors could creep into the production copies. Hall, “The Reproducing Piano,” 23. 21. These categories define the chapters in Peres Da Costa, Off The Record. I use them here because they provide an effective way to comprehensively and

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22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42.

43.

44. 45.

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clearly analyze performing practices at the turn of the twentieth century in comparison with romantic playing practices. Malwine Brée, Die Grundlage der Methode Leschetizky (Mainz: Schott, 1902), trans. Dr. T. H. Baker as The Groundwork of the Leschetizky Method (New York: Haskell House, 1902); Louis Adam, Méthode de piano du conservatoire (Paris: Magasin de Musique du Conservatoire, 1804/5). Peres Da Costa, Off the Record, 46. Brée, Die Grundlage der Methode Leschetizky, 72–73. Frank Merrick, “Memories of Leschetizky,” Piano Journal (London) 1, no. 2 (1980): 13. Adam, Méthode de piano du conservatoire, 156. Peres Da Costa, Off The Record, 49. Markings by Peres Da Costa in Off the Record, 73. As I will discuss later, this term is also associated with other performance practices, such as arpeggiation and rhythmic alteration. Brée, Die Grundlage der Methode Leschetizky, 70–73. Philip Antony Corri, L’anima di musica (London: n.p., 1810), 76–77. The treatise was one of the most extensive and influential piano methods of its time, appearing in several editions. See Grove Music Online, s.v. “Corri,” by Peter Ward Jones, J. Bunker Clark, and Nathan Buckner, accessed July 20, 2017, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com. For a comprehensive treatment of the two types of rubato see Richard Hudson, Stolen Time: A History of Rubato (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994). Karol Mikuli, “Introductory Notes,” in Frederic Chopin’s Complete Works for the Piano (New York: Schirmer, 1895), unpaginated [1]. Long, At the Piano with Debussy, 19. Manuel Garcia II, A Complete Treatise on the Art of Singing: Part Two, trans. Donald V. Paschke (New York: Da Capo Press, 1972), 75–76. Claude Debussy, “Green” from Ariettes Oubliées (Paris: Jobert, 1903). Brée, Die Grundlage Der Methode Leschetizky, 70–71. Transcribed version by Peres Da Costa, Off the Record, 208. Segalen, Joly-Segalen, and Schaeffner, eds., Segalen et Debussy, in Nichols, Debussy Remembered, 146. Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy, 86. Transcribed version by Peres Da Costa, in “Performing Practices in LateNineteenth-Century Piano Playing” (PhD diss., University of Leeds, 2001), 261. In fact, Schmitz advised this section to be played in a “live and precise” way, not illogically deduced from only the indication given. Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy, 87. A fuller treatment of tempo modification is in the next section, but for the sake of completeness in the analysis of “La soireé dans Grenade,” I have included this particular example here. The rasgueado technique is a strumming style often associated with flamenco guitar playing. Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy, 87. David Fallows, “Tempo Giusto,” in Grove Music Online.

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46. Wolfgang A. Mozart, Larghetto aus dem Krönungs-Concerte (D dur No. 20) für Pianoforte solo zum Concertvortrage, arr. Reinecke (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1874), 2. 47. Wolfgang A. Mozart, Fantasie in C Minor, K. 475, ed. W. Plath and W. Rehm (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1986), 71. 48. Roy Howat, Debussy in Proportion, 159–60. 49. Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy, 158. 50. For a detailed historical account of the reception of the cakewalk and American dance troupes that came to Paris see James Deaville’s article “Debussy’s Cakewalk: Race, Modernism and Music in Early Twentieth-Century Paris,” La revue musicale OICRM 2, no. 1 (2014), http://revuemusicaleoicrm. org/rmo-vol2-n1/debussy-s-cakewalk/. 51. Grove Music Online, s.v. “Cakewalk,” by H. Wiley Hitchcock and Pauline Norton, accessed June 1, 2015, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 52. Deaville, “Debussy’s Cakewalk.” 53. Dumesnil, “Coaching with Debussy,” in Nichols, Debussy Remembered, 162. 54. The video footage was part of a three-hour installation at the Museum of Contemporary Art in New York. Bert Williams, Sam Lucas, et al., 100 Years in Post-Production: Resurrecting a Lost Landmark of Black Film History, video installation, curated by Ronald Magliozzi (New York: MOMA, 2014). Online video: https://www.moma.org/explore/multimedia/videos/311/1522 (accessed June 1, 2015). 55. Deaville makes the observation in his article about Debussy’s cakewalk being a triple parody and suggests that it is perhaps a hyper-racialized take; Debussy’s performance affirms this racial reading of the piece. Deaville, “Debussy’s Cakewalk.” 56. Eric Lott, Love and Theft: Blackface Minstrelsy and the American Working Class (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 115–17. 57. In another article I offer a detailed gesture-based analysis of how Debussy’s performance of “Minstrels” relates to the cakewalk and race. See Jocelyn Ho, “Towards an Embodied Understanding of Performing Practices: A Gestural Analysis of Debussy’s ‘Minstrels’ According to the 1912 Piano Rolls,” La revue musicale OICRM 2, no. 1 (2014), http://revuemusicaleoicrm.org/rmo-vol2-n1/ towards-an-embodied-understanding-of-performing-practices/. 58. François Gillet to Marie Rolf, March 17, 1974, in Nichols, Debussy Remembered, 183. (Italics original.) 59. George Copeland, “Debussy, The Man I Knew,” The Atlantic Monthly (January 1955): 35–38, repr. in Nichols, Debussy Remembered, 165.

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Chapter Nineteen

Marius-François Gaillard’s Debussy Controversies and Pianistic Legacy Caroline Rae

A prominent figure in the Parisian musical milieu during the interwar years, Marius-François Gaillard (1900–73) achieved considerable success as both a pianist and a conductor, while his compositional activities were recognized by René Dumesnil in La musique en France entre les deux guerres 1919–1939, where he was acknowledged as among the most notable French composers of his generation.1 Yet Gaillard has since been relegated to little more than a footnote in French music of the period, despite making an important contribution to Parisian musical life and leaving a significant Debussyan legacy. In addition to promoting new music of the age through founding an orchestra and concert series bearing his name for which he conducted many works by his contemporaries, including the Paris première of Varèse’s Intégrales (revised version),2 Gaillard became the first pianist to perform the (then) complete works of Debussy in public in 1920.3 This remarkable feat, which is at least as historically important as Alfred Cortot’s more often cited première of Debussy’s Fantaisie in December 1919, has received little attention, Debussy scholars remembering Gaillard more for the controversies surrounding his completion of the composer’s unfinished cantata Ode à la France.4 Repeating his Debussy cycles several times in both Paris and South America, Gaillard subsequently made the largest collection of commercial recordings of Debussy’s piano works by any individual pianist up to 1930.

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So how did a figure of such ability and versatility fade into obscurity? Did Gaillard diversify his musical activities too widely? Did the Debussyan controversies that dogged his early career result in professional alienation, or were there other reasons for the rapid decline of his career after the Second World War? This essay will address these questions while exploring Gaillard’s credentials as a viable Debussyste, and propose that the quality of his achievements as a performer merits his reinstatement in the pantheon of great twentiethcentury French pianists. Gaillard first established his name as a pianist. He studied at the Paris Conservatoire with the redoubtable Louis Diémer as well as with Georges Falkenberg, and thus descended from a distinguished French pianistic tradition, the genealogy of which merits scrutiny. Diémer had been a pupil of that pillar of the late nineteenth-century pianistic establishment at the Paris Conservatoire, Antoine-François Marmontel, who studied with one of the most influential teachers of the first half of the nineteenth century, Pierre Zimmerman. (Marmontel was also Debussy’s teacher.) Through their long respective tenures at the Paris Conservatoire, and publication of various treatises and méthodes, Zimmerman, Marmontel (père) and Diémer effectively established the French school of pianism.5 Diémer also became one of the most eminent French virtuosi at the turn of the twentieth century and through his teaching at the Conservatoire (where a major prize was founded bearing his name) spawned his own illustrious twentieth-century dynasty: in addition to Gaillard, his pupils included Alfred Cortot, Marcel Ciampi, Lazare-Lévy, Yves Nat, Edouard Risler and Robert Casadesus.6 While Diémer’s style of playing has been likened to that of Saint-Saëns in its sheer brilliance and clarity, his teaching was renowned for its strict adherence to the musical text and focus on finger technique through the systematic study of Bach.7 (Diémer was also a harpsichordist and an important figure in the French early music revival.) The clarity, accuracy and even the unusually fast tempi of Gaillard’s Debussy recordings suggest he owed much to his studies with Diémer. That Gaillard’s performances avoided the somewhat clinical virtuosity also associated with Diémer’s playing may have been attributable to the influence of his other teacher Georges Falkenberg (with whom Messiaen also later studied).8 A student of the renowned Chopin pupil Georges Matthias, Falkenberg was more concerned with issues of pianistic tone, color, and resonance, as is revealed in his treatise Les pédales du piano (1892), which proposes detailed techniques and methods of notation for both the sostenente and una corda pedals, and with which Debussy was more than likely to have been familiar.9 Thus Gaillard’s pianism was nurtured through an ideal pairing of teachers: one an almost unparalleled master of virtuosity, the other descended from the more poetic tradition of Chopin—a model combination, not least for the performance of Debussy.

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Winning his première médaille and premier prix d’excellence in 1916, the young Gaillard first became known during the First World War when his performances of works by Debussy, Ravel, Granados, and Koechlin at the Salle Gaveau charity concerts for the “blessés de la guerre” received critical acclaim.10 He subsequently became a regular soloist with the orchestras of both the Concerts Colonne and Pasdeloup. Although Gaillard’s playing attracted the attention of Debussy at this time, it is not known whether he visited the ailing composer or performed for him privately.11 Nevertheless, Gaillard was a keen advocate of Debussy, and shortly after the Armistice (still aged only nineteen) he travelled to Alsace and then into Germany—to Frankfurt and as far as Berlin—to promote “modern” French music, notably Debussy, in recitals and illustrated talks. That Gaillard also gave lectures suggests he was a competent German speaker, an attribute that later would have eased liaison with the German military administration for the many official concerts he mounted during the German Occupation of Paris. Following the Liberation, Gaillard received the most severe punishment accorded to any French musician by the Comité de purification in 1944. When Gaillard returned to Paris after his early German sojourn he was still only twenty; it was then that he performed his first cycle of the (then) complete piano works of Debussy in a series of three recitals at the Salle Gaveau as part of the commemorative celebrations of 1920.12 His cycle received a surprisingly lukewarm appraisal from Nadia Boulanger. Writing in Nos loisirs: revue de la femme et du foyer (a sort of French Woman’s Weekly), Boulanger acknowledged that Gaillard had “rendered a real service to the [Debussyan] cause” but described his recitals as “among the least interesting hommages” of the season because of what she considered the monotony of devoting even one entire concert, let alone three, to the work of a single composer.13 Debussy’s widow, Emma, was of a different opinion and was sufficiently impressed with Gaillard’s achievement to present him, in 1921, with one of her late husband’s manuscripts: a first version of the “Étude pour les arpèges composés.”14 Gaillard returned the compliment by dedicating “Ki-Fong,” one of the songs of his Mélodies chinoises (1921), to “Madame Emma-Claude Debussy.” Setting Toussaint’s French translation of text by the eighth-century Chinese poet Li-Tai-Po, “Ki-Fong” fuses subtle orientalisms with almost pure Debussyism in terms of pianistic texture, vocality, and harmonic language; the opening ornamented fifth in the piano’s bass part (which is also heard at the end) alludes to Debussy’s prelude “La puerta del Vino,” which begins on the same pitches (see ex. 19.1).15 Many of Gaillard’s other early works are similarly Debussyan in character, and in 1922 he composed an orchestral epitaph to Debussy’s memory titled À celui qui fut toute la musique. Encouraged by his contact with Emma Debussy, Gaillard gave his second public performance of the (then) complete Debussy piano works at the

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Théâtre des Champs-Élysées on successive Mondays over a two-week period in March 1922 (March 13, 20, and 27). The concert leaflet records that Gaillard performed on a Gaveau piano. He organized his cycle into three gargantuan recitals (each of which began at the late hour of 9.00 p.m.) reflecting a broad chronological sweep (see table 19.1): the first comprised the early individual pieces, Deux arabesques, Pour le piano, the first and would-be second Suite bergamasque, and both sets of Images; the second was devoted to the Préludes, while the third comprised Estampes, Children’s Corner, the remaining occasional pieces known at the time, and the twelve Études. Although it is impossible to know which published editions Gaillard may have used, it is likely that he was sensibly working from the most recent available, as the Ballade and Danse were billed under their newer short titles rather than according to those of the earlier Choudens editions, Ballade slave and Tarentelle styrienne.16 The early Danse bohémienne (1880) did not feature in Gaillard’s programs, as the work remained unpublished until Schott’s edition of 1932.17 Similarly, Gaillard could not include the other short piano works that have since been rediscovered.18 Of particular interest in Gaillard’s first program is the grouping together of Masques, D’un cahier d’esquisses, and L’isle joyeuse according to Debussy’s original plan as a set. There was no precedent for performing these pieces together as a result of the complicated circumstances of their publication, which resulted in their appearing individually; Debussy’s idea for a second “new” Suite bergamasque was consequently abandoned.19 Although Ricardo Viñes premièred Masques and L’isle joyeuse as a pair in 1905, Gaillard’s insertion of D’un cahier d’esquisses as the central item in the triptych suggests that he was aware of Debussy’s original plan, which was most probably made known to him by Emma Debussy, with whom he was in regular contact at the time. Nevertheless, his ordering of the three early pieces, Ballade, Danse and Valse romantique—with the Ballade first—suggests that Gaillard was not aware of their possible grouping as an early triptych in which the Danse (Tarentelle styrienne) would constitute the opening piece. Gaillard repeated his Debussy cycle at the Teatro Opero in Buenos Aires in August 1922 during a concert tour of South America in which he gave more than one hundred recitals of Debussy and other French piano music. Continuing to perform Debussy’s piano works throughout the 1920s, Gaillard embarked on his series of Debussy recordings in March 1928. Sixteen 78 rpm records of twenty-seven pieces recorded on a Pleyel piano were released by the French company Disques Odéon over a period of three years to October 1930 (see table 19.2). According to Philippe Morin, these recordings were also released in the USA by Decca.20 Bearing witness to a level of musicality and pianism of the highest order, Gaillard’s series (hitherto not examined in the Debussy literature) represents the largest body of Debussy’s recorded piano

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Table 19.1. Gaillard’s programming for his Debussy cycle at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, March 1922. Works performed first half of recital (performance order)

Works performed second half of recital (performance order)

March 13, 1922

Rêverie Ballade (Ballade slave) Danse (“Tarentelle styrienne”) Valse romantique Deux arabesques Suite bergamasque (“Prélude,” “Menuet,” Clair de lune,” “Passepied”) Mazurka Nocturne Pour le Piano

Masques D’un cahier d’esquisses “L’isle joyeuse” Images I Images II

March 20, 1922

Douze préludes I

Douze préludes II

March 27, 1922

Estampes Children’s Corner Hommage à Haydn La plus que lente Berceuse héroïque

Douze études

Date

music by an individual performer up to the eve of the Second World War. It was eventually equalled by Walter Gieseking, whose recordings of all the Debussy piano works then known was completed in 1954. Gaillard’s nearest rivals around 1931—in terms of sheer quantity of recordings—were Alfred Cortot and Marcel Ciampi. Cortot recorded Children’s Corner between May and December 1928 (starting three months after Gaillard’s first record release) and the first book of Préludes over a four-year period from 1928 to 1931. Ciampi also recorded the first book of Préludes from 1928 to 1929 (and “Feux d’artifice” from book 2 in 1931), though only eight of his recordings were actually released.21 Although Cortot and Ciampi made significant contributions to the recorded performance of Debussy and set out with the worthy objective of recording complete works, their individual recordings nevertheless totalled fewer pieces and fewer discs overall than those of Gaillard’s series. Gaillard was not the first pianist to record Debussy’s music. Following Debussy’s 1913 piano rolls for Welte-Mignon (which, according to Roy Howat,

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“La fille aux cheveux de lin,” Préludes I

″

“Toccata,” Pour le piano

“Minstrels,” Préludes I

“Prélude,” Pour le piano

1929: January 28

″

Ballade

″

“Danseuses de Delphes,” Préludes I

“La cathédrale engloutie,” Préludes I

November 22

April 5

“La soirée dans Grenade,” Estampes

″

“Sarabande,” Pour le piano

XXP 6820-4

“Reflets dans l’eau,” Images I

July 20

″

XXP 6819-2

Arabesque no.2

″

171057

Ki 2334-2

Ki 2333-3

Ki 2332-2

Ki 2181-1 Ki 2182-2 [two sides]

Ki 1972-1 Ki 1973-2 [two sides]

Ki 1970-2 Ki 1971-3 [two sides]

XXP 6707

XXP 6706

Ki 1579-1

166193

166192

166 192

166175

171081

171081

166151

166150

171071

171071

166084

166084

XXP 6607-4 Ki 1578-1

Rêverie Arabesque no.1

″

March 22/28

171057

XXP 6606

“Jardins sous la pluie,” Estampes

Catalogue number

1928: March 22

Side id.

Title

Date

Table 19.2. Gaillard’s Debussy recordings for Disques Odéon 1928–30

2′ 20″

1′ 55″

2′ 52″

2′ 29″ 2′ 07″ [5′ 06″ in total]

3′ 53″

3′ 50″

2′ 30″ 3′ 00″ [5′ 30″ in total]

2′ 37″ 2′ 30″ [5′ 07″ in total]

3′ 52″

4′ 00″

2′ 38″

3′ 03″

3′ 40″

3′ 30″

Performance duration

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Ki 2950

“Général Lavine eccentric,” Préludes II “Pagodes,” Estampes

″

″

June 6

″

XXP 7144-2 XXP 7145-2 Ki 3719-2 Ki 3720-2 [two sides]

“Prélude,” Suite bergamasque “Clair de lune,” Suite bergamasque “Menuet,” Suite bergamasque

″

Masques

″

October 23

166316 166317

Ki 3367-1 Ki 3368-1 Ki 3369-1 [two sides]

“Ondine,” Préludes II

″

166362

171109

171109

166316

XXP 7081-3 Ki 3366-1

Valse romantique

171105

171105

166262

166262

171102

171102

166193

“Hommage à S. Pickwick Esq . . . ,” Préludes II

XXP 7080-2

Ki 2951

XXP 7021-2

La plus que lente

XXP 7020-1

“La puerta del vino,” Préludes II

Mazurka

1930: February 3

Ki 2335-2

″

“La sérénade interrompue,” Préludes I

″

[unknown: recording as yet unobtainable]

4′ 05″

3′ 28″

2′ 48″ 2′ 25″ [5′ 10″ in total]

3′ 03″

2′ 36″

3′ 30″

3′ 53″

2′ 22″

3′ 15″

3′ 30″

2′ 50″

2′ 26″

570

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were probably recorded between 1910 and 1912), internationally known nonFrench virtuosi including Moiseiwitsch, Rachmaninov, Paderewski, Grainger, Godowsky, and Hambourg all recorded individual piano works on 78 rpm discs during the period from 1916 to 1926.22 While these recordings are testimony to the growing popularity of Debussy’s piano music outside France, the works chosen for performance tended towards popular lollipops such as “Clair de lune,” “Dr. Gradus ad Parnassum,” and “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk,” the durations of which conveniently suited the limitations of early 78 rpm recording capabilities. Paderewski, however, made the more unusual choice of recording “Reflets dans l’eau” (for which he had also cut a rather inaccurate piano roll in 1912), thus illustrating an admirable desire to explore a more complex aspect of Debussy’s compositional style and pianism.23 After Gaillard began releasing the first of his Debussy discs, Myra Hess was among the first to record the notoriously virtuosic showpiece “Poissons d’or” in 1929, and the same year recorded two of the Préludes, “La fille au cheveux de lin,” and “Minstrels,” these following her first Debussy recording in 1926 of “La cathédrale engloutie.” Although the American pianist George Copeland had worked with Debussy and was largely responsible for introducing his music to American audiences, his few recordings were not made until 1933. E. Robert Schmitz’s recordings of Debussy’s Préludes were not made until even later (after 1940), though he also recorded two pieces from the Children’s Corner in 1928. Other French pianists who had worked with Debussy, including Marguerite Long, made surprisingly few recordings of his music during the interwar period; Long’s versions of La plus que lente, “Jardins sous la pluie,” and the two Arabesques were recorded from 1929 to 1930. Perhaps most surprising in terms of the lack of Debussy recordings is Ricardo Viñes; despite having premièred so many of Debussy’s piano works, and being the only pianist whom Debussy honoured with a dedication, he recorded just two pieces, “Poissons d’or” (for which he was the dedicatee) and “La Soirée dans Grenade” (both in 1930). Denise Molié and Moriz Rosenthal also made individual recordings of popular Debussy pieces, including “Jardins sous la pluie,” “Poissons d’or,” and “La puerta del Vino,” around 1930. Thus, Gaillard’s series of 1928–30 not only represents the largest set of Debussy recordings by any individual pianist of the time but also presented a broader view of Debussy’s compositional style and pianism than those of his contemporaries. In addition to being the first pianist to record the complete Estampes, Pour le piano, and the two Arabesques (which predate those of Marguerite Long by a year) as well as all but one of the pieces from the Suite bergamasque, Gaillard also made the first recordings of lesser known works—the Ballade, Mazurka, Danse, and Valse romantique, as well as the notoriously tricky Masques—and was not discouraged by the limitations of contemporary recording technology, which required longer pieces (such as Masques, the Ballade, “La

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cathédrale engloutie,” and the “Sarabande” from Pour le piano) to be divided over two sides of a 78 rpm disc. He was also among the first after Paderewski to record “Reflets dans l’eau,” producing a rather more textually accurate performance than his distinguished Polish contemporary. It is also useful to consider the Debussy works that Gaillard did not record, or get around to recording, by October 1930; his avoidance of any piece from the already popular Children’s Corner may have been due to the release of Cortot’s recording in 1928, the same year that his own first discs appeared. Gaillard may have avoided “Poissons d’or” for similar reasons, the appearance of recordings by Myra Hess in 1929 and Viñes in 1930 being hard to compete with in the United States as well as in France by a pianist who was less well known internationally. Nevertheless, he did record popular works such as “Clair de lune,” “La cathédrale engloutie,” and La plus que lente in addition to a slightly more unusual selection of Préludes from both books. Given Gaillard’s performances of the complete Debussy cycles at the Salle Gaveau and Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, it is possible (if not probable), that he was planning to record the complete works for Disques Odéon, a venture that would not have been unrealistic either musically or commercially, especially with the then recent release of the complete Préludes book 1 by Cortot. Alas, the effects of the Wall Street Crash of 1929, which hit Europe in 1931, resulted in French recording companies drastically curtailing their activities as a result of the economic crisis; any plans Gaillard may have had for a more substantial Debussy recording project would have become impossible for reasons of finance and commerce. Nevertheless, Gaillard did make further recordings during the 1930s of works by composers other than Debussy. He recorded several of his own compositions for Disques Odéon with the cellist Jeanne Gautier in June 1933, and in May 1936 and March 1937 recorded orchestral works by J. C. Bach, Mozart and Haydn, with himself as conductor, for Disques Pathé.24 During the period Gaillard made his 78 rpm Debussy piano recordings, he also cut a number of Pleyela “reproducing” piano rolls, which included various pieces not otherwise represented in the Disques Odéon collection: “La danse de Puck” from Préludes book 1, Hommage à Haydn, and the Berceuse héroïque. He also made reproducing roll recordings of works he simultaneously recorded on disc: the complete Estampes, Mazurka, Valse romantique, and Ballade. His rolls of music by composers other than Debussy included the complete Saudades do Brasil of Milhaud, selections from Granados’s Goyescas, several pieces by Chabrier, various Chopin studies and a selection of Bach preludes (without their corresponding fugues).25 But what of Gaillard’s pianism? While a detailed investigation of all Gaillard’s Debussy recordings falls beyond the scope of the present study, some examples should nevertheless be considered. His recording of “Reflets dans l’eau,” made on July 28, 1928, is the only one yet to be re-mastered in a

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modern format.26 It demonstrates not only the highest standard of pianism in terms of finger dexterity, clarity of articulation, and tone control, but is also one of the most textually accurate interpretations of its time, being remarkably precise in terms of its adherence to the notation of the score and lack of performance errors.27 Overall, his performance demonstrates an almost classical approach in its avoidance of the unmarked tempo fluctuations that are common in many later recordings, especially by non-French pianists. (There are nevertheless some un-notated accelerandi and ritardandi in the opening section of the piece.) Gaillard achieves expressivity more through tone production, voicing of chords, nuancing of inner parts, and enhancing resonance with subtle and unusually clean use of the sustaining pedal to create a harmonically clear interpretation. His pedaling and articulation also demonstrate impressive clarity in his recording of “La Soirée dans Grenade” (a work often clouded with over-pedaling), which compares favourably with that of Viñes. Gaillard’s performance of “Reflets dans l’eau” is remarkable for its speed; clocking in at an astounding 4ʹ1″, it is one the most rapid performances on any recording. This may have been the result of his comparative inexperience with sound recording; “Reflets dans l’eau” was recorded in only his third session of July 1928 and was the longest piece he had attempted by that date. The restrictions of contemporary recording techniques, even with the new electrical technology, may have encouraged fast performances in order to fit onto one side of the 78 rpm disc, although up to five minutes per side was nevertheless available, suggesting that the rapid tempo was the result of choice rather than necessity. Yet, despite its brilliance of tempo, Gaillard’s performance sounds less rushed, notably in the passagework, than Paderewski’s longer 4ʹ28″ recording of 1926, and is as expressive as Gieseking’s still longer 1936 recording (4ʹ38″). Performances of “Reflets dans l’eau” have become progressively longer since the 1940s and into modern times: Gieseking’s 1948 recording was the first to break the five-minute barrier, while those of Cécile Ousset (1988) and Pascal Rogé (2007) push towards a possibly excessive six minutes.28 Gaillard’s predilection for unusually fast tempi, a trait he may have inherited from his teacher Louis Diémer, is also evident in his recordings of the two Arabesques, as well as “Pagodes,” though the performances do not sound rushed or breathless because of his remarkable finger dexterity, evenness of touch, and clarity of pedaling. (Indeed, they have something in common with the modern performances of Michel Beroff.) Gaillard’s approach, which is characterized by a slightly dry sound in Debussy’s virtuoso pieces, is particularly suited to “Jardins sous la pluie” and the outer movements of Pour le piano. His recording of “Clair de lune” is also faster than those of his contemporaries and lasts a mere 4ʹ13″: Moiseiwitsch’s (1916) is 4ʹ25″; Percy Grainger’s (1926) 4ʹ24″; and Leopold Godowsky’s (1926) 4ʹ26″. Yet at no time does Gaillard’s interpretation sound hurried; presenting a beautifully poetic reading, he focuses on

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voicing, nuance, and tone color, and eschews the more indulgent rubatos of his non-French contemporaries in favor of a more classical precision that is in keeping with the French pianistic tradition from which he descended. Gaillard presents similarly controlled but expressive performances of other contemplative pieces, including the prelude La fille aux cheveux de lin, in which he not only follows Debussy’s metronome marking almost exactly, but adheres to the cédez and au movement indications precisely without adding extraneous rubatos of his own. Again, his expressivity is achieved through careful attention to tone color and balance between the hands, as well as voicing within in each hand to achieve Debussy’s doucement expressif. Modern interpretations, especially by non-French pianists, tend to romanticize Debussy’s contemplative pieces, a notable example being Lang Lang’s televised 2011 recording of La fille aux cheveux de lin, which departs from Debussy’s score not only in tempo and pace but also in adding several un-notated chordal arpeggiations.29 One of the best ways of assessing a pianist’s familiarity with French, and particularly Debussyan, performance practice is to consider how the notorious problem of meter is approached in “La cathédrale engloutie.” Not only is this prelude among those without a metronome marking, but Debussy also failed to indicate the tempo change that should occur at measure 7 (after the opening introduction), where the quarter-note beat of the opening becomes that of the new movement in half notes. (Equivalent passages occur at measures 13, 22, and 84.) The prime source for this performance practice is Debussy’s recording on the Welte-Mignon piano roll of 1913.30 When Gaillard recorded this prelude in 1928 (nearly two years before that of Cortot in 1930), knowledge of the “correct” tempo requirements would have been communicated through word of mouth via a teacher or Debussy’s widow, through hearing a “correct” performance, or through familiarity with Debussy’s piano roll. Prior to Gaillard’s recording of the piece, the only available recordings were those of Debussy, Myra Hess, and Mark Hambourg; both of the latter performed “La cathédrale engloutie” without the appropriate tempo changes. Although Marcel Ciampi’s recording of the prelude was made in October 1928, one month before Gaillard’s November recording, it was not released until April 1929.31 Gaillard was thus the first pianist after Debussy to perform the tempo changes correctly in a commercial recording, and was among the first pianists to do so in public performance. Despite Gaillard’s impressive contribution in terms of Debussy recordings and performances, his remarkable pianism has since been largely forgotten, not only because of the rarity of his recordings themselves, but also because during the 1930s he decided to develop his career in a different direction, progressively curtailing his pianistic activities in favour of conducting and composing. His reputation as a pianist gradually waned, despite occasional performances during the 1940s, and even beyond, that included a repeat of

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his Debussy complete works cycle at the Salle Gaveau in 1941. That he did not make sound recordings (as a pianist) of works other than by Debussy consequently resulted in a lower international profile than those of his more eminent pianistic contemporaries. Another contributory factor was the controversy that arose surrounding his completion and première of Debussy’s Ode à la France. Gaillard’s success as a performer of Debussy’s music at the time of his first cycles of the complete piano music resulted in more extended contact with Emma Debussy. Soon after his 1922 Debussy cycle at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, Emma rediscovered the much searched-for manuscript and sketches of Debussy’s unfinished Ode à la France. Together with Louis Laloy, with whom Debussy had been collaborating on the work since its inception in 1916, Emma entrusted Gaillard with completion of the cantata, as well as with the orchestration of Debussy’s early Le triomphe de Bacchus. At the same time, Gaillard also undertook arrangements of Debussy’s Invocation and Printemps, possibly at Emma’s behest. Despite the jealousies aroused among other Debussystes at the time, who considered Gaillard too young and inexperienced to be entrusted with these tasks, Emma’s decision was both practical and convenient. While she must have been of the opinion that Gaillard’s musical, and Debussyan, credentials were sufficiently meritorious to enable him to undertake the tasks effectively, it was also fortuitous that Gaillard was in the process of establishing his own orchestra and concert series. The Orchestre and Concerts Marius-François Gaillard were established at the Salle Gaveau in the autumn of 1928 and became known for their aim to promote new French music. The first performances of the Ode à la France, Le triomphe de Bacchus and Gaillard’s new arrangements of both Invocation and Printemps (re-titled Salut printemps) took place at the Salle Pleyel on April 2, 1928, at a gala concert organized by Emma Debussy to commemorate the tenth anniversary of her late husband’s death. The concert also featured extracts from Rameau’s Castor et Pollux and, somewhat curiously, the first French performance of Bach’s cantata Sehet, Welch eine Liebe, BWV 64. Gaillard conducted an orchestra assembled from players of the Société des Concerts du Conservatoire who were to form the backbone of his own Orchestre MariusFrançois Gaillard. Marianne Wheeldon has discussed the controversies surrounding the premiere of the Ode à la France and traced the anti-Gaillard campaign that was initiated in the Parisian musical press.32 Gaillard’s name loomed large in the gala program not only as conductor, but also as heir apparent to Debussy’s legacy through the inclusion of his other Debussy arrangements. To assert his Debussyan authority after the gala, not least over those Debussystes who had publicly opposed his involvement, Gaillard published all four of his completions and arrangements with Choudens in 1928, the same year that he embarked on his series of Debussy piano recordings for Disques Odéon.

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Although the invitation to complete, orchestrate, arrange, and conduct the 1928 Debussy gala concert represented an unequivocal public assertion of Emma’s admiration for Gaillard as a more than viable Debussyste, the honor of which the young pianist-composer could hardly refuse, the project was a poisoned chalice; Gaillard became embroiled in an affaire de scandale that tarnished his reputation to such an extent that even decades later he was described in a letter from André Schaeffner to Marcel Dietschy in disparaging terms: “How fortunate that the orchestration of Khamma was confided to Koechlin and not to Marius-François Gaillard, Emma’s little gigolo and author, with Laloy, of that false or partly-false Ode à la France.”33 Whether Gaillard’s association with Emma was more than that of a protégé remains unknown, but the controversies surrounding the 1928 Debussy gala concert cast a shadow over his career that was sufficiently long to contribute to his professional demise in the years after World War II. That Gaillard published his completion of the Ode à la France, as well as his other Debussy arrangements, and embarked on his series of Debussy recordings the same year as the gala concert, would have further enraged those who had opposed his involvement. Furthermore, Gaillard used the Debussy gala concert as a springboard for the launch of his conducting career; not only did he found an orchestra bearing his own name drawn from the players who participated, but the works by Rameau and Bach that he programmed for the gala became signature pieces of his later conducting programs well into the war years. This must have appeared to be a virtuosic manipulation of adverse publicity to Gaillard’s detractors, who included Émile Vuillermoz, Paul Dukas, Émile Inghelbrecht, André Messager, and Raoul Bardac. Their revenge was an indifference to Gaillard’s subsequent achievements: his Debussy recordings, his orchestra with its noble aims to promote new music, and his compositions. Gaillard was unfortunate to have made powerful enemies. If that was not enough adversely to affect the reception of his work— and it probably was—Gaillard’s bad luck and questionable judgment persisted into the war years. After establishing himself as a conductor during the 1930s (his performances included appearances with the Orchestres des Concerts Colonne and Lamoureux as well as the French Radio Orchestra and Prague Philharmonic), he managed to enhance his career further during the Occupation.34 He reinstated the Concerts Marius-François Gaillard in 1941, this time at the Théâtre des Ambassadeurs, and renamed his now larger ensemble the Orchestre Symphonique Marius-François Gaillard. His approach to orchestral programming changed radically in favour of pandering to the tastes of the occupying powers; in addition to large amounts of Bach and Schubert, Gaillard fully embraced the Mozart fervour of the 1941 anniversary year and conducted the official German-organized celebration concert at the Salle Pleyel.35 He was also closely involved with Radio Paris, then run by the

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Nazi authorities, and made officially sponsored recordings for Disques Odéon, which had come under Nazi directorship as early as 1936. Gaillard’s courting of favor from the occupying German authorities extended to composition; he provided an original score for a 1941 revision of Georges Méliès silent film Les hallucinations de Baron Münchhausen, which was screened in Paris to promote German taste and culture, and to prepare the way for Goebbels’s promotion of Josef von Básky’s 1943 film Münchhausen.36 Gaillard did not entirely abandon his devotion to French music, even during the war years. In addition to repeating his Debussy piano cycle at the Salle Gaveau in 1941 and billing himself in memory of Debussy as “Marius-François Gaillard musicien français,” he conducted performances of Berlioz’s La damnation de Faust and Honegger’s Le roi David, and recorded orchestral works by Fauré and Chabrier, though the latter were never released.37 These performances were not sufficient to prevent him from coming under the scrutiny of the Comité national d’épuration des professions d’artistes dramatiques, lyriques et de musiciens exécutants for collaborationist activities. On September 30, 1944, Gaillard was listed in Les lettres françaises among the musicians—including Alfred Cortot, André Coeuroy, Florent Schmitt, and Émile Vuillermoz—who were to be investigated as part of the “purification trials” that followed the Liberation. Gaillard was tried and received the most severe punishment of all by being barred from public performance, publishing, or receiving royalties for a year.38 Gaillard had hoisted himself with his own petard, creating the most effective revenge for his Debussyste detractors. Despite the devastating punishment for his wartime involvement with the occupying powers, Gaillard had one last hurrah. After the period of his sanction, Gaillard and his orchestra were chosen to perform at a gala concert celebrating the “Mouvements unis de la Résistance” in the presence of Vincent Auriol, the first President of the new Fourth Republic. The concert took place at the Salle Pleyel on March 10, 1948, and included the première of Gaillard’s orchestral work, Sortilèges exotiques, composed especially for the occasion. Despite this high-profile event, which appeared to exonerate his reputation, neither Gaillard’s conducting, performing, or compositional career ever recovered, and he gradually withdrew from the public arena entirely. By the 1960s he was in declining health and he died in 1973 almost entirely forgotten. Gaillard’s story is thus a sad one. Had he devoted himself to his career as a pianist, he would not only have avoided the controversies surrounding the commemorative Debussy gala concert of 1928, as well as the punishments that followed his wartime activities, but might also have built upon his significant Debussyan accomplishments to expand his performing repertoire at least to other twentieth-century works. As a pianist Gaillard had the

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potential to achieve a reputation at least equivalent to that of Marcel Ciampi, Gieseking, or Viñes in his performances of French and twentieth-century music; he stemmed from a distinguished pianistic tradition that would certainly have enabled him to do so. Gaillard diversified his attentions too widely and became the victim of both controversy and circumstance. Yet his recordings survive and are testimony to a remarkable ability that, during the interwar years, may have influenced the interpretations of other more renowned Debussy interpreters. It is to be hoped that more of Gaillard’s recordings will become available in a modern format to enable a wider assessment and enjoyment of his inspired pianistic contribution. Despite the controversies that tarnished his reputation during his lifetime, Gaillard’s pianistic legacy deserves rediscovery to ensure his rightful place as a missing link in the history of French pianism.

Notes 1. 2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

7.

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René Dumesnil, La musique en France entre les deux guerres 1919–1939 (Paris: Milieu du monde, 1946), 214–15. A friend and associate of Varèse, Marius-François Gaillard conducted the première of the revised version of Intégrales at the Salle Gaveau on April 23, 1929. According to Varèse’s correspondence with Jolivet, it was Gaillard who reintroduced Varèse to Paris upon his return from New York in 1928 (see Christine Jolivet-Erlih, ed. Edgard Varèse–André Jolivet Correspondance 1931–1965 (Geneva: Contrechamps, 2002), 113. For further details concerning Gaillard’s orchestra and conducting activities see Caroline Rae, “Debussyist, Modernist, Exoticist: Marius-François Gaillard Rediscovered,” The Musical Times 152, no. 1916 (Autumn 2011): 59–80. This last fact is sadly overlooked by Celia Dunoyer in her article “Debussy and Early Debussystes at the Piano,” in Debussy in Performance, ed. James R. Briscoe (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999), 91–118, but is acknowledged by Charles Timbrell in “Debussy in Performance,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, ed. Simon Trezise (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 267. See Marianne Wheeldon, “Debussy’s Legacy: the Controversy over the Ode à la France,” The Journal of Musicology 27, no. 3 (2010): 204–41. Charles Timbrell, French Pianism: An Historical Perspective (London: Kahn and Averill, 1999), 38 and 50. Diémer’s “grand-pupils,” in direct line of pianistic descent, included many of the greats in the next generation of twentieth-century French pianists: Yvonne Lefébure, Vlado Perlemuter, Marcelle Meyer, Monique Haas, Yvonne Loriod, Claude Hellfer, and Geneviève Joy. Charles Timbrell, French Pianism, 194.

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578 8. 9.

10. 11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

21.

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See Jean Wiéner’s recollections of Diémer’s playing in his memoirs Allegro appassionato (Paris: Fayard, 2012), 27. See Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 46–47. Referring to a letter of September 1, 1915, from Debussy to his publisher Jacques Durand that includes discussion of pedaling as “a kind of breathing,” Lockspeiser suggests that Debussy was basing his ideas on the techniques espoused in Falkenberg’s treatise. In The Art of French Piano Music (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), 271, Roy Howat has indicated that Lockspeiser was probably correct in this assertion. Both Falkenberg and Debussy also published short pieces in Théodore Lack’s Méthode de piano (Paris: Leduc, n.d.). Gaillard’s many concert reviews are preserved in the Fonds Gaillard at the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Nicolas Southon, “Une correspondance entre André Schaeffner et Marcel Dietschy: dialogue et controverses debussystes (1963–1971),” Cahiers Debussy 34 (2010): 117. Additional short piano works by Debussy have since been discovered by the Debussy scholar Roy Howat. See Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 198–202. “L’effort de Marius-François Gaillard rend donc une véritable service à la cause [Debussy] qui nous est chère [. . .] Parmi les hommages les moins intéressants n’est pas celui rendu par Marius-François Gaillard.” Nadia Boulanger in Nos loisirs: revue de la femme et de la foyer 23 (February 1, 1921): 34–35. Emma Claude Debussy’s dedication “à Marius François Gaillard” [sic] is dated March 23, 1921. The Étude retrouvée, a first version of “Pour les arpèges composés” (1915) was discovered in 1977 and is published in facsimile edition by Theodore Presser (1980), together with a realized version by Roy Howat. Gaillard’s Mélodies chinoises were published by Editions Choudens in 1926. For further information on Gaillard’s compositions see Caroline Rae, “Debussyist, Modernist, Exoticist,” 59–80. See Roy Howat “Avant-propos,” OC, series 1, vol.1 (Paris: Durand, 2000), xi–xviii. Ibid., xi. These include the Images oubliées (1894), first published in 1977; the Morceau de concours (1905), published by Durand in 1980; Pour le vêtement du blessé (1915), published in 1933; Élégie (1915), rediscovered in the 1970s and first published by Jobert in 1978; and Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon (1917), discovered in 2001 and first published in 2003. See Howat, The Art of French Piano Music, 198–200. See Roy Howat, “En route for L’isle joyeuse: the Restoration of a Triptych,” Cahiers Debussy, 19 (1995): 35–52, and The Art of French Piano Music, 200–201. I am indebted to Philippe Morin for making the original recordings available to me and for providing catalogue details and recording dates from his extensive personal archive. Details of Marcel Ciampi’s unreleased recordings have been made known to me by Philippe Morin.

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22. Mark Hambourg also recorded “Clair de lune” and “Jardins sous la pluie” in 1928 and 1929, respectively. 23. Prior to 1928 “Reflets dans l’eau” was also recorded by Irène Scharrer (Gramophone, 1926) and Leopold Godowsky (Brunswick, 1925). In addition to Gaillard, other early recordings include Anderson Tyrer (Edison Bell, 1928), Denise Molié (Gramophone, 1928), Moritz Rosenthal (Parlophone, 1929), Eileen Joyce (Parlophone, 1935), Armando Palacios (Odéon, 1936), Jean Doyen (Gramophone, 1943), and Artur Rubinstein (Victor, 1945). 24. Gaillard conducted recordings of three keyboard concertos with Marguerite Rœsgen-Champion as soloist: J. C. Bach Concerto in C Major (n.d.); (unspecified) Mozart Concerto in F Major K. 37 in May 1936; Haydn Concerto in D Major, op. 21, in March 1937. All were released on Disques Pathé. 25. Albert M. Petrak ed., Pleyela Piano Roll Catalog (Warrensvills Heights, OH: Reproducing Piano Roll Foundation, 1997–2009). 26. Gaillard’s 1928 recording of “Reflets dans l’eau” is available on a collection of historic recordings of Debussy’s piano works, In memoriam Claude Debussy: Images pour piano (Ysaye Records, BnF IM01, 2009). This disc also includes performances by Claudio Arrau, Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, Jean Doyen, Walter Gieseking, Marcelle Meyer, Ignacy Jan Paderewski, Arthur Rubinstein, and Ricardo Viñes. 27. Paderewski made two recordings of “Reflets dans l’eau,” both for Victor, in 1924 and 1926. Other recordings of the piece before 1928 were made by Irène Scharrer (Gramophone, 1926) and Leopold Godowsky (Brunswick, 1925). By 1945 recordings had been made by Anderson Tyrer (Edison Bell, 1928), Denise Molié (Gramophone, 1928), Moritz Rosenthal (Parlophone, 1929), Eileen Joyce (Parlophone, 1935), Armando Palacios (Odéon, 1936), Jean Doyen (Gramophone, 1943), and Artur Rubinstein (Victor, 1945), in addition to Gaillard’s (Odéon 1928). 28. Roy Howat’s recording of “Reflets dans l’eau” (Tall Poppies TP094, 1997) is almost unique among those of the modern era in being less than five minutes’ duration. 29. At the time of writing, Lang Lang’s 2011 recording of “La fille aux cheveux de lin” is available on YouTube (accessed February 2013). 30. See Roy Howat, “Critical Notes,” OC, series 1, vol. 5 (Paris: Durand-Costallat, 1985), 167. 31. I am indebted to Philippe Morin for providing these dates taken from his extensive recording archives. 32. See Marianne Wheeldon, “Debussy’s Legacy,” 304–41. 33. “Quelle chance que l’orchestration de Khamma ait été confiée à Koechlin, et non point à Marius-François Gaillard, le petit gigolo d’Emma et auteur, avec Laloy, de ce faux ou demi-faux Ode à la France.” Letter from André Schaeffner to Marcel Dietschy dated January 12, 1971, reproduced in Nicolas Southon, “Une correspondence entre André Schaffner et Marcel Dietschy: dialogue et controverses debussyistes,” Cahiers Debussy 34 (2010): 114.

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34. Mobilized on September 1, 1939, Gaillard returned to Paris in the autumn of 1940 following the fall of France. 35. Mozart was among several composers whom the occupying Nazis endeavored to appropriate for propaganda purposes, most notably in the anniversary year of 1941. 36. Josef von Básky’s celebrated film Münchhausen (1943) was made while the German Universum Film-Aktien studios were under control of propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels. 37. Gaillard’s recordings of Fauré’s Masques et bergamasques (March 9, 1942) and Chabrier’s Suite pastorale (June 5, 1942) were both made for Disques Odéon. 38. I am indebted to Leslie Sprout for making this information known to me.

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Chapter Twenty

Fashioning Early Debussy in Interwar France Barbara L. Kelly

In the years immediately following Debussy’s death in 1918 initial assessments of his significance as a composer tended to concentrate on his middle-period works, which seemed to represent him at his most characteristic.1 At this early stage, there was some agreement that Debussy’s reputation had been shaped by his most memorable and characteristic repertoire, from Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune to the second book of piano preludes. The late works still remained to be fully understood beyond their association with the anguish and struggle of a dying patriotic composer (as Marianne Wheeldon and others have shown), and relatively little was known about Debussy’s early works and career.2 Henry Prunières, the director of La revue musicale, addressed this neglect by devoting a second special issue of his journal to “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy” in 1926, which consisted of extracts from his letters to Henri Vasnier, unpublished early songs, numerous testimonies of those who knew him in his youth and early career, such as Gabriel Pierné, Robert Godet, and Maurice Emmanuel, as well as a study by Charles Koechlin of Debussy’s unpublished early songs. The volume provided new insights into a hitherto unexplored and undocumented part of Debussy’s career. Prunières took the opportunity to publish four early songs in the musical supplement of the special issue, which initiated debates about their intrinsic value and the extent to which they shed light on Debussy’s early style. At stake was what image of Debussy should be remembered, recorded, and published for posterity. There was reluctance on the part of his former colleagues, wife, critics, and biographers to portray a less than perfect side of his genius. At the same time, there was an overreliance on testimony and the presentation of personal documents, including the Vasnier

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letters, which subsequent research has shown to have been incorrectly ordered and dated. The posthumous documents relating to early Debussy informed subsequent biographies and critical studies of the composer, starting with the Koechlin (1927) and Léon Vallas biographies (1926, 1932, and 1944).3 In this essay, I tease out the significance of the first attempts to reconstruct and scrutinize the early musical life and work of their near contemporary Debussy. In so doing, I build on the recent scholarly work devoted to Debussy’s early compositions by Marie Rolf, Denis Herlin, Richard Langham Smith, James Briscoe, John Clevenger, and many others.4

Homage to Debussy Henry Prunières described his first act as director of his new journal La revue musicale in 1920 as an homage to Debussy and an important step in projecting an image of the recently deceased composer on the international stage.5 This tribute of words and music, which appeared as the second issue in December 1920, has been recognized as a landmark by a number of musicologists and biographers.6 It was also a topic of national and international importance with which Prunières could attract attention and financial backing for his new journal, although the issue was certainly not without its detractors.7 But less scholarly attention has been paid to the second special issue devoted to Debussy in May 1926 called “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” even though arguably it provoked more debate in the press and in subsequent Debussy publications, including in Vallas’s 1932 biography and in articles published in La revue musicale in 1934 (see figure 20.2 for the table of contents). Prunières declared that he was primarily motivated to publish this more specialized tribute because of his access to unpublished letters and songs by the composer. Although Marguerite Vasnier allowed Prunières to consult the letters,8 he appears to have purchased the songs from the Vasnier family.9 Another motivation, although undeclared, was financial, since by 1926 Prunières no longer had the backing of La nouvelle revue française.10 The controversy that resulted from the publication of these private and suppressed sources involved a number of people with a vested interest in Debussy’s legacy. First, Emma Debussy, the composer’s widow, wanted Prunières to eliminate grammatical and stylistic errors in the youthful composer’s correspondence with Monsieur Vasnier. She had the support of Louis Laloy, a close friend, former spokesman for and collaborator of the composer. Prunières refused in a strongly worded letter to Emma Debussy; he regarded it as a matter of principle to publish a truthful rather than a falsified version of the letters:

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I was astonished by your letter. It is without precedent that the descendants of a great man are opposed to the publication of youthful letters when they don’t contain any details capable of undermining his glory. That Debussy did not possess the epistolary style at the age of 20 that he would acquire a few years later is in no way offensive to his memory. I swear that no one respects Debussy’s memory more than me: my first act in founding my review was to erect this monument, which was Le tombeau de Debussy, and which has contributed to making him better known and liked abroad. If the publication of the letters with simple typographical and linguistic corrections, and if need be, certain cuts, doesn’t seem possible to you, I will content myself to write my own article on Debussy and the Villa Médicis based on unpublished documents, where I will use the contents of the letters. However, I cannot, in all sincerity—because of my scruples as a historian and archivist—publish the letters in a form that does not correspond to the original.11

Prunières reminded her that Mme Vasnier’s daughter had equal rights over the publication of the letters, despite their private contents. Indeed, he claimed that their existence had motivated him to organize the special issue devoted to his early career, “and if today they constitute but a very small chapter, this does not diminish their importance for Debussy biography.”12 Apparently, true to his word, Prunières compromised; he wrote the article “À la villa Médicis,” in which he quoted extensively from the unpublished correspondence, adding a footnote to address the issue of Debussy’s youthful writing style: “We felt that we had to respect Debussy’s awkward and often incorrect turns of phrase. As a result, we can see more clearly the distance he travelled to become an excellent writer with a lively, dynamic, and original style.”13 Prunières goes beyond extracting excerpts of the letters, citing them almost in entirety and weaving a narrative about Debussy’s activities and state of mind; in so doing, he provides new insights into this formative but hitherto unknown period of Debussy’s life. The letters not only reveal his attachment to both M. and Mme Vasnier, but also trace his personal and artistic struggle from the time he first arrived in Rome until the end of his Roman exile. Prunières vividly portrays the discontented and restless young Debussy’s yearning for the comfort and support of the Vasnier family, while at the same time revealing his quest to invent new forms and sonorities. He also makes use of the 1921 edition of Monsieur Croche to corroborate Debussy’s sense of lost freedom when he heard that he had won the Prix de Rome. The article provided the basis for subsequent studies on Debussy’s Roman years. The Vasnier letters presented Prunières with a number of challenges. First, he took the decision to follow the order established by M. Vasnier, who had classified and numbered the letters himself.14 He seemed aware, however, that

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Figure 20.1a–b. Debussy, autograph letter to M. Vasnier, late June 1885. Paris, collection of E. Van Lauwe. Used with permission.

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this is probably not the chronological order and, indeed, establishing a reasonable ordering has preoccupied scholars ever since. It is noteworthy that Lesure in his 1993 edition of the letters accepts some of Prunières’s dating, with notable exceptions. Nevertheless, Prunières’s chronology differs significantly from the Lesure/Herlin (2005) edition, as table 20.1 demonstrates.15 The biggest impact of the incorrect ordering is on the narrative Prunières constructs around the letters to account for Debussy’s years in Roman exile. Prunières’s acceptance of Vasnier’s dating means that he is two years out in some cases, for instance in the final two letters. This creates confusion over Debussy’s activities while in Rome and produces a lack of clarity over references to short trips to Paris and some confusion over the genesis of works such as Zuleima and Diane au bois.16 The original ordering makes it impossible to trace the progress and inevitable conclusion of the friendship between Debussy and his older mentor, M. Vasnier. By reassigning a number of Prunières’s later letters to 1885 and early 1886, based on Debussy’s evolving signature, we can see that their epistolary exchange ended much earlier than Prunières led us to believe. Rather than giving the impression of being stuck in a repetitive cycle of apparent artistic impotence and discontent, Debussy ceased his complaints to Vasnier over a year before he finally left Rome for Paris on March 2, 1887. The intensity of this exchange in 1885, therefore, mirrors the still palpable strength of his passion for Mme Vasnier, as his letters to other correspondents—in particular, Claudius Popelin—testify.17 Mme Hébert, wife of the director of the Villa Médicis, noted in her journal that the painter Baudry told them about Debussy’s liaison with Mme Vasnier in December 1885.18 It is reasonable to assume that Debussy finally found his resolve, possibly aided by the revelation of the affair to Vasnier himself, in early 1886, which was precisely when the letters between the two men ceased. The letters are thus a testament not only to the unequal relations between the two men, but mark the end of the affair between the young Debussy and his singing muse, Mme Vasnier.19 It is tempting to believe Prunières when he argues so defiantly with Emma Debussy over the scholarly need to retain Debussy’s youthful epistolary inaccuracies. A closer scrutiny of the letters shows that Prunières was not quite true to his word. There are certain very minor differences in wording (such as a difference in tense, verb or phrasing) between his version and that established by Lesure and Herlin, which could amount to differences in deciphering Debussy’s hand writing. The cuts that Prunières promised are not implemented to hide a lack of writing ability; they are with few exceptions employed to eliminate most of the final and occasional introductory greetings to the family. In one instance Prunières cuts a few lines that could be seen as excessive self-pity, beginning the letter of January 29, 1886, mid-sentence with his condolences at the news of the artist Baudry’s death. Much more significant, however, are the substantial changes to punctuation. It is clear that the young Debussy was at

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January 27, 1885 Début février 1885 June 4, 1885

Not included.

Not included.

November 24, 1885 January 29, 1886

1. January 27, 1885

2. No date: “quelques jours plus tard”

3. June 4, 1885

4. August 1885

5. September 16, 1885

6. November 24, 1885

7. January 29, 1886.

Lesure 1993

Prunières 1926

Table 20.1. Early Debussy.

January 29 [1886]

[fin novembre 1885]

September 16 [1885]

[début septembre 1885?]

June 4, 1885

[début février 1885]

[January] 28, 1885

Lesure/Herlin 2005

No opening and closing greeting in Prunières and Lesure (1993). No reference to “ma triste personne”; the letter in the first two sources opens with an acknowledgement of “la mort de [Paul] Baudry.” Lesure (1993) follows Prunières’s punctuation.

Final greeting is missing in Prunières and Lesure (1993). Changes in punctuation.

Prunières omits initial paragraph and a longer passage in the third paragraph. Differences in punctuation. No final greeting.

Prunières makes a few cuts. Differences in punctuation. Prunières omits the final greeting.

Occasional changes in punctuation in the 2005 edition, with commas replacing Prunières’s periods. Prunières and Lesure (1993) omit final greetings to Mme Vasnier and the children.

Differences in punctuation in the Lesure/ Herlin.

No differences, apart from 2005 dating.

Comments

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[fin juin 1885]

October 19, 1885

Tuesday [May 1885]

[February 24, 1887]

9. No date given [1886]

10. October 19, 1886

11. Mardi [beginning of 1887]

12. No date [1887]

[April 23, 1885]

[February–March 1885]

October 19 [1885]

[fin juin 1885]

[mi-mai 1885]

No omissions or differences.

The letter is two years out of its chronology. Changes in punctuation and one instance of a difference in wording in the 2005 edition: “et pour que cela me soit vraiment profitable.” Lesure (1993) follows Prunières except for dating.

Well-known letter in which he discusses the need to invent new forms, a task that might be beyond him. Only one difference in punctuation. Final greeting missing in Prunières.

Some differences in punctuation and wording. The 2005 edition adheres to the original wording in the phrase: “qui font partie des ennuis,” but Prunières follows the original word order “amical intérêt.” The autograph shows that Debussy’s punctuation was often unclear and that he had a tendency to omit full stops. Prunières adds these more liberally than Lesure/Herlin. The final greeting is missing in the Prunières and Lesure (1993).

No differences in punctuation. Incomplete letter in all three sources.*

Denis Herlin has now consulted the autograph letter. He notes differences in one phrase and in the use of commas and periods. The only missing text in Prunières consists of a final greeting to Mme Vasnier, Marguerite and Maurice. Personal communication with Denis Herlin.

*

[fin juin 1885]

8. May 5 [1886]

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this stage unable to punctuate effectively, using full stops in place of commas and not bothering to make clear breaks between sentences. While we could regard these slips as the equivalent of informal texting today, these letters were not written to a peer, but to somebody who acted as his mentor and benefactor. An examination of the beginning of the autograph letter of dated as “Fin Juin” by Lesure and Lesure/Herlin, reveals the inconsistency and unorthodoxy of Debussy’s punctuation (see figs. 20.1a-b).20 Prunières was not alone in making the letters coherent; while his interventions are considerable, Lesure and Herlin faced the same problem in the 2005 edition, applying a lighter touch that retained the spirit of Debussy’s sentences.21 It is certainly no surprise that Prunières makes these editorial changes. What is more surprising, however, is the vehemence with which he stands up to Debussy’s widow. Although rarely changing the actual words Debussy writes, by correcting these errors silently he is arguably complicit with Emma Debussy in wishing to project a more sophisticated and erudite image of the young composer.22 Having been motivated by the opportunity to publish these early Debussy letters, Prunières commissioned a number of first-hand accounts of Debussy’s early and student years for the special issue “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” and in so doing, created a document of considerable value that combined memoir and scholarship in a fascinating, if sometimes uneasy, balance.

Competing Narratives of Genius and Influence The 1926 issue is also significant for articles by Maurice Emmanuel and Charles Koechlin that portray Debussy’s early achievements in opposing terms.23 Emmanuel claimed that Debussy’s originality was manifest from his conservatoire days and that he chose to hide it in his earliest works. He claims: “[. . .] still young, due to an exceptional precociousness, the musician knew the language that he must ‘write’ one day; but, in his youthful compositions, he refused or held himself back from doing so; thus appearing to contradict already established convictions.”24 Emmanuel was right to qualify the word “write” because his assertion is made on the evidence of hearing Debussy’s improvisations at the piano; according to Emmanuel, he had not yet learned how to capture his audacities in writing: Thanks to patience, trial and error, through early creative attempts, some of which are exquisite works, he fixed the language that he worked out at the piano at the age of fifteen in the improvisations he did after class behind his teachers’ back [or] sometimes with their tacit agreement. He had completely acquired this very personal language at the age of twenty, at the time when

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Figure 20.2. Table of contents for La revue musicale special issue “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy.”

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his composition studies were leading him towards the big competitions. But he practiced it in secret on the Conservatoire pianos, as much for his own pleasure as for alarming his fellow students; he didn’t make use of it in his “assignments.”25

Emmanuel gives a dramatic account of experiencing these moments of revelation, where the young student shows his true self to the chosen few. He portrays Debussy as a nonconformist, a rebel, but also, arguably, as a saintly figure who has permitted his peers to see him in a momentarily transfigured state. The disappointment when they are confronted by the reality, conformity, and success of L’enfant prodigue is palpable.26 Maurice Emmanuel’s accounts of Debussy’s frenzied search for harmonic novelty at the piano, which was corroborated by the testimony of other fellow students, notably Paul Vidal and Raymond Bonheur, has persisted in biographies from Vallas to the present day.27 The story too has been passed on from generation to generation at the Conservatoire, given Emmanuel’s appointment as Professor of Music History at the Paris Conservatoire in 1909. Charles Koechlin, in his chapter “Quelques anciennes mélodies inédites de Claude Debussy,” took issue with Emmanuel’s view that Debussy’s originality was nascent and sprang from within him.28 He argued that Debussy was a late bloomer (à formation lente) as a composer;29 rather than possessing a fully developed musical character as a student, Debussy’s originality evolved out of his encounter and transformation of numerous sources, to which he was exposed only after his Roman exile: Franck, Wagner, Chabrier, Fauré, Lalo, Duparc, and Mussorgsky.30 This was not to diminish his originality, which was an issue of concern for certain commentators on Debussy, particularly for Robert Godet.31 In making the case that tradition was acquired and learnt, Koechlin was willing to contradict Emmanuel’s testimony. Indeed, he asserted that “from an analytical perspective [. . .] the harmonic language of early Debussy is neither revolutionary nor (barring exceptions) very new”;32 in his view, Ravel and even Milhaud showed greater signs of originality at a young age.33 Rather, he argued that Debussy’s genius emerged slowly and after his return from Rome, when he was exposed to disparate influences.34 Far from the heightened reality of a possessed youth, Koechlin offered an alternative image of an originality achieved by hard work, considerable patience, concentration, and solid technique.35 This difference between Emmanuel and Koechlin attracted attention in the press, most notably from Paul Landormy, who, in a series of articles titled “Debussy inconnu,” publicly challenged Emmanuel’s claim that Debussy deliberately hid his progressive inclinations from his Conservatoire professors.36 He rejected Emmanuel’s suggestion that Debussy possessed two characters: one was “a musician liberated from all constraint,” while the other was

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“a fairly timid practitioner” who was unable “to believe [that] he could write down the audacities [dictated by] his natural instinct.” In Landormy’s view, this was unlikely, because Debussy was the opposite of “a timid spirit.”37 He went further by suggesting that Emmanuel’s testimony was suspect; indeed, he had been “a victim of illusion.” Given the conservative nature of Conservatoire teaching, he argued, any slight harmonic audacity would appear revolutionary.38 While Landormy was willing to question Emmanuel’s youthful memories, he remained more cautious of openly disagreeing with another witness, who had a special status as one of Debussy’s closest friends and confidents, Robert Godet.39 Yet in taking on Emmanuel, both Koechlin and Landormy were able and willing to challenge the nostalgia and reverence that surrounded the deceased Debussy, which no doubt contributed to the view that Debussy’s genius was evident from the beginning. Landormy, in his review of all the written contributions to the special Debussy issue, returned several times to question the reliability of testimony and the elusive nature of historical “truth” when piecing together Debussy’s life: “We can see with hindsight that Debussy’s friends and fellow students were not always in agreement and that it is sometimes very difficult to extract a reasonable truth from their contradictions. The truth! The historical truth! What an elusive thing!”40 The importance of this special issue was considerable not only for making available a body of testimony and documents, but also for igniting many debates about questions of originality, influence, and interpretation, questions that were to remain relevant to scholars, performers, and the public for generations.

Weighing the Value of Debussy’s Early Songs Prunières’s role as editor extended not just to the letters but to the songs themselves. While he felt the need to correct, albeit silently, the incorrect punctuation of the young composer, his editing approach to the songs was less intrusive. Two of the four songs included in the musical supplement of the 1926 special issue, “Clair de lune” and “Pantomime,” come from the Recueil Vasnier.41 Prunières follows the manuscript of “Clair de lune” closely, staying faithful to the original down to the articulation. He adds some dynamics using parenthesis and occasionally suppresses other markings (e.g., a crescendo three measures from the end). Prunières’s editorial interventions are generally reserved for clarifying accidentals, which are not marked (but are expected) in the manuscript, and standardizing the appearance of the notes (unbeamed sixteenths in the vocal line and enharmonic equivalents). In just two places does the published score differ in the actual notes: in the phrase “Les arbres et sangloter. . .,” the word “et” is set to an E in the manuscript and a G in the published score; the sixteenth note on the third syllable of “san-glo-ter” is a B in

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the manuscript and a C in the score. Although these instances are very minor, there is no lack of clarity in the manuscript that might account for them. There are more differences between the manuscript and Prunières’s score in the song “Pantomime.” In this song (and in Apparition) he adds an editorial note: “Markings in parentheses are [the result of] mistakes in the autograph.”42 This enables him to add missing clef changes (measures 4, 61, and 69), many missing but implied accidentals, and the occasional absent rest. But there seem to be omissions or inconsistencies on Prunières’s part too. For instance, at measure 32 (“Verse une larme méconnue”) he does not retain the staccato sixteenth notes in the left hand, but does so when the right hand enters two measures later; they are omitted again in the right but not in the left hand when the parts converge at measure 36. In this phrase too, only the first of four accompanying right-hand chords is spread; this indication is also missing in the subsequent phrase. The Andante section is characterised by rising arpeggio figures, which should be slurred. Prunières misses a few of these in measures 53–55. He also misses the pp marking in the fifth measure of the postlude, but corrects the missing change to bass clef. Such details suggest slightly less care in preparing Debussy’s unpublished songs for public consumption than one might expect from the editor, given his evident reverence for the composer and his training as a scholar.43 Koechlin touches on the “esprit de recherche historique” that motivated Prunières to make these “drafts” public.44 In raising the question about whether works that were never intended for publication should be made public in this way, he touches on a controversy that would exercise certain Debussy supporters, particularly Vallas and Vuillermoz. His answer is clear: while they would have little interest for the public or for “snobs,” they would be of interest to musicians eager to trace Debussy’s artistic career, and to critics and pedagogues.45 Koechlin was frank in emphasizing the unequal quality of Debussy’s early songs in his essay, “Quelques anciennes mélodies inédites de Claude Debussy.” While he argues that some passages anticipate the chefs-d’oeuvres to come, the weaker mélodies give valuable insight into his “naïve and youthful musical thought,” the “unexpected and isolated treasures,” revealing the “complete extent of the Master’s evolution from the first version of “En sourdine,” for instance, until the Ballades de Villon.”46 Given Koechlin’s preoccupation with the idea of evolution, not simply within a composer’s output, but between one musical generation and another, it is unsurprising that he was fascinated by the early works because of the insight these “drafts” could give into the composer’s compositional development. Placing the four hitherto unpublished works into the context of Debussy’s better known early mélodies, he draws connections between “Pantomime,” Pierrot and “Fantoches,” shows how Apparition anticipates the Cinq poèmes de Baudelaire and L’enfant prodigue, and compares this early version of “Clair de lune” to its better known revision as well as to the Ariettes

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oubliées and even to Pelléas in its natural simplicity and in “the perfect alliance of melody, chords and poetry.”47 Koechlin attaches considerable importance to the calibre of the poets Debussy set, placing the Verlaine settings (including “Pantomime” and “Clair de lune”) and the Mallarmé (Apparition) above his numerous settings of the Paul Bourget:48 “it was Verlaine and not M. Paul Bourget, who led Debussy on the path to his own personality.”49 Koechlin searches for traces of debussysme in early songs such as “Clair de lune,” finding in it fewer of the now familiar harmonic traits, such as successive ninths and chains of parallel perfect chords, than in “a personal inspiration.”50 His major “discovery” is that Debussy had not yet invented the musical vocabulary that would become such a trademark; his compositions were conservative because he was musically isolated at the Conservatoire, with little access to the new music of Wagner, Franck, Duparc, Fauré, or Chabrier.51 Identifying Debussy’s main sources of inspiration as Chopin and Massenet, he appears most bothered by the reality of Debussy’s Massenet heritage, which he teasingly calls a “poison.”52 Despite his evident discomfort that Debussy “ingested” Massenet, Koechlin reveals independence by being prepared to make unpopular assertions and challenge prevailing attitudes. In this vein he asserts that Debussy benefited not only from Mussorgsky’s influence but also from that of Wagner and Franck; despite Debussy’s antipathy towards these two composers, they were an essential part of the period from 1887 to 1892, which “led him to the String Quartet, the Proses lyriques [and] to Pelléas.”53 Koechlin’s critique gives further clarity to Debussy’s Roman exile. The letters between M. Vasnier and Debussy reflect not only his enforced separation from his beloved Mme Vasnier, they also express anguish at his artistic isolation and a recognition of his need to experience contemporary music and literature in Paris in order to find answers to his numerous questions about form, color, and expression. Koechlin, in drawing attention to the inadequacies of the mélodies written for Mme Vasnier, confirms the insufficiency of his musical inspiration before his return to Paris in 1887. Koechlin shows his independence once more by tackling the issue of humour in Debussy’s writing, which is not a side of Debussy that has tended to receive much attention. The song Pierrot, reveals the “debussyste humour that we love in ‘Fantoches,’ in some of the Préludes, in Children’s Corner and in Boite à joujoux, and which would have been completely confirmed in the long awaited (but sadly never written) chef-d’œuvre, Le diable dans le beffroi.”54 Robert Orledge’s recent reconstruction and completion of Le diable dans le beffroi has enabled us to glimpse this comic vein.55 Koechlin claims that it is “the realisation of comedy in Debussy’s work that reveals his creative originality,”56 and he lists a number of other composers who shared a predilection for the comic: Chabrier, Satie, Ravel, Auric, Maxime Jacob. While historians of French music have been willing to recognize the importance of humor in these other

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composers, it is generally underplayed in writings on Debussy, most likely as an implicit result of efforts to portray him as a suitable figurehead of French cultural achievement. The musicologist and critic Léon Vallas (1879–1956) did not contribute to “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy.” Although an ardent follower of Debussy since 1903, unlike many of his peers, he did not know Debussy personally, but followed his career from a distance, compiling press cuttings about the debates surrounding debussysme from the time of Pelléas onwards. He published a number of volumes devoted to Debussy (in 1926, 1927, 1932, and 1944) and in constructing the composer’s life drew extensively on the Revue musicale articles of 1926, which had appeared just in time for his first biography.57 Vallas relies on Prunières’s Vasnier extracts and Emmanuel’s testimony in his short 1926 biography but passes little comment or judgment on the early songs. He does identify L’enfant prodigue as “predebussyste” and indebted to Massenet.58 Nevertheless, he was much more open in his assertions and criticism in his second study of 1932, Claude Debussy et son temps. This second biography caused a scandal or an affaire, not immediately, but two years after its publication.59 The affaire was public and emerged in several issues of La revue musicale between May and December 1934, though there is a wider context that is evident from unpublished letters and articles from the Vallas and Prunières archives. The debacle reveals the tensions between musicologists and friends of Debussy over how to commemorate and control the public understanding of the deceased composer, and in so doing it raises important questions about authority and scholarship in the interwar period. A significant area of contention in this affaire concerned the publication and performance of youthful works that the composer had withheld. Vallas not only questioned the value of the mélodies written for Mme Vasnier, but criticised Prunières for publishing them. His censure was brief, severe and curt: Charles Koechlin has written a thoughtful study of these youthful attempts in the Revue musicale of May 1926. Four of them appeared in the same issue of this review: Pantomime, Clair de Lune [. . .] Pierrot, Apparition. An historical curiosity, indiscreet, if not useless, explains, although does not excuse, this posthumous publication; the author would have condemned it, as well as the publication of other works, which have recently appeared.60

Prunières’s response reveals not only a sense of indignation at Vallas’s criticism but a different attitude towards respecting the intention of the deceased composer: “I don’t see how showing Debussy’s first attempts would be indiscreet. We have always welcomed with interest the revelation of the first works of a great musician. [. . .] As for being useless, on the contrary, one needs only to skim through the melodies to see how much they are interesting and characteristic of Debussy’s musical approach around 1882.”61 This was an attitude

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that Vallas had long maintained towards posthumous Debussy projects, including even the performance of L’enfant prodigue in 1919.62 He declared in Le progrès de Lyon: “What possesses the publisher to think that this retrospective ‘creation’ would be of any value? Scarcely has a musician died than we exploit him like a forest: he is cut to pieces.”63 Vallas, Godet, and Prunières clashed again over the issue of publishing Debussy’s Fantaisie on the grounds that it was against the composer’s wishes.64 Godet quotes, or rather remembers, the composer’s last words to him on the subject: “It would need to be reorchestrated; I don’t like it quite enough for that.”65 Here we have opposing approaches to conserving Debussy’s heritage. On the one hand, according to Prunières, anything that leads to a deeper understanding of a major composer is valuable and enriching. On the other hand, Vallas argued that it was important to respect the wishes and intentions of a composer not only during his life but afterwards; indeed, an interpretation of his ideas should shape his legacy. Yet, Godet, in his response, claimed to have had the privilege of hearing the composer’s final thoughts. This clash of approaches revealed a major source of tension for Godet, Prunières, and Vallas concerning the status of testimony and who had the right and the authority to interpret the wishes and thoughts of a composer such as Debussy.66 The debate about whether or not Debussy’s suppressed early works should be performed or made publically available also raises important questions about which Debussy should be remembered for posterity. Prunières and Godet disagreed with Vallas in maintaining that the early works give insight into discovering the true Debussy, and in this respect they sided with Koechlin’s portrayal of an emerging composer who was not yet quite himself. Yet while Prunières and Godet could see the value in publishing and performing Debussy’s predebussyste works, they were highly sensitive to Koechlin’s emphasis on influences, particularly when they were identified by Vallas. The affaire shows how Prunières and Godet were particularly loath to admit any suggestion of excessive influence, indeed borrowings, because of the implication of lack of originality. Godet in his article for the 1926 special issue, “En marge de la marge,” downplays the influence of the Russian composers, particularly Mussorgsky, on Debussy.67 Vallas, in openly disagreeing with Godet’s conclusions, opened himself up for attack in the affaire Vallas-Prunières.68 It is clear from these debates and battles that the issue of interpretation of sources was important for the first generation of witnesses and scholars engaged in shaping a public understanding of Debussy’s significance. The 1926 special issue devoted to “La jeunesse de Debussy” had a very different function from the 1920 tribute. While the latter was a monument in words and music in homage to Debussy, the 1926 volume constituted an important primary source for biographers and scholars. The resulting debates give a fascinating insight into musicology in action in interwar France; they also show

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the process by which the documents became part of the narrative of Debussy’s artistic development. A reading of these sources reveals that there was little consensus about the significance and value of the composer’s youthful works at this early stage. Although testimony, in the form of reminiscences and memoirs, is given considerable status by Henry Prunières, it is selectively questioned by Landormy and Vallas. Issues of musicological method figure prominently; Prunières’s apparent refusal to defer to the composer’s widow reveals a real commitment to standards of scholarship. The disagreement between Vallas, on the one hand, and Prunières and Godet, on the other, about the legitimacy of performing and publishing suppressed works is also important in understanding the unresolved debates about respecting and interpreting the revered composer’s intentions. Indeed, the question concerning who has the authority to interpret the musical sources is central to the Prunières–Vallas dispute. The bitterness of this affaire indicates just how difficult it was to achieve a critical consensus around the early career of France’s most recent secular saint. Prunières argued that he felt compelled to expose Vallas’s biography because of what he felt was at stake for posterity: because it was the most complete and documented book on Debussy to date, “he risks circulating numerous legends that will be difficult to eradicate later.”69 Yet Vallas was by no means the only mythmaker; Debussy’s friends and associates also played a considerable role. And although we perpetuate the often vivid recollections about the youthful Achille Claude Debussy, we continue to rethink these narratives today.

Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

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Marianne Wheeldon observes that the articles of the first Revue musicale special issue devoted to Debussy (1, no. 2, “À la mémoire de Claude Debussy,” December 1, 1920) concentrated on Debussy’s middle period, scarcely mentioning his early works and only briefly addressing the late works. See Wheeldon, Debussy’s Late Style (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 121, 125, 128. In the 1920 special issue (see note above) only Suarès, Cortot, and Jean-Aubry discussed the composer’s late works: Suarès, “Debussy,” 118–21; Cortot, “La musique pour piano de Debussy,” 127–50; Jean-Aubry, “L’oeuvre critique de Debussy,” 191–202. Charles Koechlin, Debussy (Paris: Henri Laurens, 1927); Léon Vallas, Debussy (Paris: Plon, 1926), Vallas, Les idées de Claude Debussy, musicien français (Paris: Les Éditions musicales de la Librairie de France, 1927); Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps (Paris: Alcan, 1932); and Vallas, Achille-Claude Debussy (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1944). Marie Rolf, “Debussy, Gautier, and ‘Les Papillons,’” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 99–116; John

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Clevenger, “Debussy’s Rome Cantatas,” in ibid., 9–98; James Robert Briscoe, “The Compositions of Claude Debussy’s Formative Years (1879–1887)” (PhD diss., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1979); C; Richard Langham Smith, “Debussy and the Pre-Raphaelites,” 19th-Century Music 5, no. 2 (1981): 95–109. 5. See Henry Prunières, letter to Emma Debussy, March 11, 1926, Archives Henry Prunières. I am grateful to René Prunières for giving me a copy of this letter. See also Prunières, letter to André Caplet, June 11, 1920 (F-Pn, Musique, N.L.a. 269 [74]). I am grateful to Denis Herlin for giving me a copy of this letter. 6. See Wheeldon, Debussy’s Late Style, and Barbara L. Kelly, “Remembering Debussy in Interwar France: Authority, Musicology, and Legacy,” Music and Letters 93, no. 3 (2012): 374–93. 7. His choice of composers for the musical supplement certainly attracted criticism, causing the Président du Conseil d’Administration, M. Berly, for instance, to resign his position and withdraw his support. Letter from Prunières to Monsieur Le Bœuf, January 27, 1921, MUS MS 4147/XXI/1/69, B-KBR, Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique, Brussels; Barbara L. Kelly, “Enjeux de mémoire après la mort de Debussy: Débats entre Prunières, Vallas et Vuillermoz,” in Regards sur Debussy, ed. Myriam Chimènes and Alexandra Laederich (Paris: Fayard, 2013), 401–20. 8. See Prunières’s note at the start of his article “À la Villa Médicis,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7 (special issue, “La jeunesse de Claude Debussy,” May 1, 1926): 23. 9. The manuscripts for two of the songs, Pierrot and Apparition plus Rondel chinois were purchased from Henry Prunières by Carl Engel for the Library of Congress, probably in the 1930s. The Library of Congress note reads “Trois Chansons / Autographes / de Claude Debussy / Expédiés par / M. Henry Prunières / 132 Bd Montparnasses / Paris / Conformément aux instructions / de M. Carl Engel,” ML96.D346 (Case). The manuscripts of “Pantomime” and “Clair de lune” form part of the Recueil Vasnier, Musique, F-Pn, MS-17716 (1–9). I am grateful to Marie Rolf and Denis Herlin for their help in locating these sources. Perusal of a version of “Clair de lune” at the Newberry Library, Chicago (VM 1621. D28cL) confirms it to be a different version of this early song. I am grateful to the Newberry Library for sending me a copy of this manuscript. 10. I am grateful to Michel Duchesneau for drawing my attention to this financial aspect. See his “La revue musicale (1920–1940) and the Founding of a Modern Music,” in Music’s Intellectual History: Founders, Followers and Fads, ed. Zdravko Blazekovic and Barbara Dobbs Mackenzie, RILM Perspectives (New York: RILM, 2009), 743–50. 11. “Je suis très étonné de votre lettre. Il est, je crois, sans exemple que les héritiers d’un grand homme se soient opposés à la publication de lettres de jeunesse lorsque celles-ci ne contiennent aucun détail susceptible de nuire en quoi que ce soit à sa gloire [. . .] Que Debussy n’ait pas possédé à 20 ans le style épistolaire qu’il devait acquérir quelques années plus tard, cela n’a pourtant rien d’offensant pour sa mémoire [. . .] Je vous jure que personne n’a plus que

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12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23.

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moi le respect de la mémoire de Debussy: en fondant ma Revue mon premier acte a été de lui élever ce monument qu’a été le Tombeau de Debussy et qui a [. . .] contribué encore à le faire connaître et aimer dans bien des pays étrangers [. . .] Si la publication des lettres avec de simples corrections, de fautes d’orthographe et de français, et au besoin quelques coupures, ne vous parait pas possible, je me contenterai alors d’écrire moi-même un article sur Debussy à la Villa Médicis d’après les documents inédits où j’utiliserai la matière de ces lettres, mais, en toute sincérité, je ne puis, par un scrupule d’historien et d’archiviste que je suis, publier des lettres sous une forme qui ne correspond aucunement à l’original.” Letter from Henry Prunières to Emma Debussy, March 11, 1926, Archives Henry Prunières. I am grateful to René Prunières for giving me a typed copy of this letter. “Et si aujourd’hui elles n’en constituent plus qu’un très petit chapitre, ce n’en est pourtant pas le moins important au point de vue de la biographie de Debussy.” Letter from Prunières to Emma Debussy, March 11, 1926. “Nous avons cru devoir respecter les tournures gauches et souvant [sic] incorrectes de Debussy. On mesure mieux ainsi le chemin parcouru par lui, qui, peu d’années plus tard, allait se révéler un maître écrivain au style alerte, nerveux et original. Il y a d’ailleurs parfois déjà d’heureuses trouvailles d’expression dans ces lettres d’adolescent de génie.” Prunières, “À la Villa Médicis,” 23–42. Ibid., 21. Table 20.1 shows that Lesure in 1993 accepted the ordering for the first seven letters and the final letter, but redates letters 8–11. Herlin takes this further in the 2005 edition, tweaking many of the dates and reassigning Prunières’s final letter to April 23, 1885. Debussy made a short trip to Paris, arriving on April 27, 1885, and a longer trip from July 8 to ca. August 31, 1885. These dates are confirmed by Mme Hébert’s diary, which records that Debussy returned on September 2, 1885. I am grateful to Denis Herlin for sharing extracts of the diary, which is at the Musée Hébert, Paris. See Debussy to Claudius Popelin, June 24 [1885] in C, 31; there is also an allusion to not making a resolution about the affair in his letter to Popelin of December 7, 1885, 46. See ibid., 45n1; Hébert was director of the Villa Médicis in 1885. I am grateful to Denis Herlin for making autograph letters and transcriptions available to me and discussing the implications of the revised dating. Debussy to M. Vasnier, [end of June 1885], Autograph letter, Private Collection of E. Van Lauwe (Paris). I am grateful to Denis Herlin for allowing me to see a copy of this letter. See also C, for a literal transcription of Prunières’s letter no. 2 [beginning of February 1885], Annexe II, 2208–9. Lesure and Herlin replace many of the full stops with commas in the letters before 1892. See editorial note in C, xviii–xix. Prunières alters one phrase in Prunières’s letter no. 11 [February–March 1885]. See table 20.1 above. Maurice Emmanuel, “Les ambitions de Claude-Achille” and Charles Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies inédites de Debussy,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7:

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24.

25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40.

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43–50 and 115–40. See also Maurice Emmanuel’s accounts of Debussy’s student days in “Pelléas et Mélisande” de Debussy, Etude et analyse (Paris: Editions Mellottée, 1926), 9–20. See Denis Herlin, “Maurice Emmanuel: Un regard impartial sur Debussy,” in Maurice Emmanuel, compositeur français, ed. Sylvie Douche (Prague: Éditions Bärenreiter, 2007), 49–80. “[. . .] Tout jeune, par une précocité exceptionnelle, le musicien savait la langue qu’il devait ‘écrire’ un jour; mais, dans ses compositions de jeunesse, il s’en refusa ou en restreignit l’emploi; infligeant ainsi d’apparentes contradictions à des croyances déjà assises.” Emmanuel, “Les ambitions de ClaudeAchille,” 43. “À force de patience et de tâtonnements, à travers des essais dont quelques-uns son œuvres exquises, il a fixé le langage qu’à l’âge de quinze ans il ébauchait au piano, dans des improvisations, après la classe, à l’insu de ses professeurs; quelquefois avec leur consentement tacite. Cette langue si personnelle, il la possédait intégrale, vingt ans, à l’époque où ses études de composition l’amenaient au seuil des grands concours. Mais s’il la pratiquait en cachette, aux claviers du Conservatoire, autant pour son plaisir que pour l’effarement de ses camarades, dans ses ‘devoirs,’ il n’en usait pas.” Emmanuel, “Les ambitions de Claude-Achille,” 45–46. Raymond Bonheur, “Souvenirs et impressions,” and Paul Vidal, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7: 3–9 and 11–16. Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 115–40. See also Steven Huebner’s contribution in this volume. Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 116. Ibid., 132–35. Robert Godet, “En marge de la marge,” La revue musicale 7, no. 7: 51–86. Godet downplays the influence of Russian music on Debussy for fear that it will detract from his originality. This issue emerges as a point of contention in the affaire Prunières–Vallas. See also Paul Landormy, who identifies the issue of influence as a contested area in “Debussy inconnu,” La victoire (August 31, 1926): 2. “À l’analyse [. . .] la langue harmonique de l’ancien Debussy n’a rien de révolutionnaire ni même (sauf exception) de très nouveau.” Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 129. Ibid., 131. Ibid, 129, 131, 133, 139–40. Ibid., 139–40. Landormy, “Debussy inconnu,” 2. “Un musicien libéré de mainte contrainte [. . .] un praticien assez timide pour ne pas croire à la possibilité de fixer par l’écriture les audaces de son génial instinct [. . .] esprit timoré.” Ibid. Ibid. He declares himself unable to choose from among Godet’s, Laloy’s, and Bonheur’s accounts of Debussy’s discovery of Mussorgsky. Ibid. “Nous nous apercevrons, chemin faisant, que les amis et les camarades de Debussy ne sont pas toujours d’accord entre eux et qu’il est quelquefois bien

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41.

42. 43.

44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55.

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difficile de dégager de leurs contradictions une vérité un peu certaine. La vérité! La vérité historique! Quelle chose fuyante!” Ibid. Landormy returned several times to the debate between Emmanuel and Koechlin. See his “Debussy inconnu,” La revue Pleyel 41 (February 1927): 156–58 and La revue Pleyel 48 (April 1927): 223. Recueil de mélodies dédiées à Marie-Blanche Vasnier, MS Gr-Rés. 17716 (1–9). A study of a manuscript of “Clair de lune” at the Newberry Library, Chicago (VM 1621. D28cL) confirms it to be a different version of this early song. See note 9 for a complete list of sources for the musical supplement. See Marie Rolf’s introduction to her edition of the early songs for a comprehensive discussion of sources. Claude Debussy, Mélodies, Vol. II: 1882–1887, ed. Marie Rolf, Œuvres complètes‚ Ser. II/2 (Paris: Durand Editions, 2016). “Les indications entre parenthèses font défaut sur l’autographe.” The issue of scholarly training and practices is an area of debate between Prunières and Vallas in the affaire Prunières–Vallas. See Barbara L. Kelly, “Remembering Debussy in Interwar France,” 389–90. They argued later over Prunières’s Monteverdi edition. See Pascal Denécheau, “Les vicissitudes de l’édition Lully-Prunières,” in Henry Prunières (1886–1942): Un musicologue engagé dans la vie musicale de l’entre-deux-guerres, ed. Myriam Chimènes, Florence Gétreau, and Catherine Massip (Paris: Société française de musicologie, 2015), 263–94. Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 116. Ibid. “La grâce naïve et jeune de la pensée musicale [. . .] des trouvailles imprévues— isolées [. . .] ces ébauches nous donnent l’entière mesure de l’évolution du maître, depuis la première version d’ ‘En sourdine,’ par exemple, jusqu’aux Ballades de Villon.” Ibid., 115–16. “L’alliance parfait de la mélodie, de ces accords, et de la poésie.” Ibid., 129. Ibid., 118–20. “Ce fut Verlaine, non M. Paul Bourget, qui mena Debussy dans le chemin de sa propre personnalité.” Ibid., 119. “Une inspiration personnelle.” Ibid., 129. Ibid., 132. Ibid., 138. For a discussion of Debussy’s indebtedness to Conservatoire musical traditions, including Massenet and Thomas, see Jann Pasler, “Mélisande’s Charm and the Truth of Her Music,” in Rethinking Debussy, ed. Elliott Antokoletz and Marianne Wheeldon (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 55–75. “Qui le conduisit au Quatuor à cordes, aux Proses lyriques, à Pelléas.” Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 133–34 and 136. “Humour debussyste que nous aimons dans le ‘Fantoches,’ dans certains des Préludes, dans les Children’s Corner et la Boite à joujoux, et [. . .] que ce chefd’œuvre tant souhaité (hélas, jamais écrit), Le diable dans le beffroi, aurait affirmé tout entier.” Ibid., 120. Robert Orledge’s reconstruction of Le diable dans le beffroi was performed during the Montréal celebrations to mark the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Debussy’s birth in March 2012.

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56. “La réalisation du comique chez Debussy, [qui] révèle l’originalité créatrice.” Koechlin, “Quelques anciennes mélodies,” 120. 57. Léon Vallas, Debussy (Paris: Plon, 1926), Les idées de Claude Debussy, musicien français (Paris: Les Editions musicales de la Librairie de France, 1927), Claude Debussy et son temps (Paris: Alcan, 1932), Achille-Claude Debussy (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1944). 58. Vallas, Debussy, 1926, 26. 59. For a full account of the “affair” see Kelly, “Remembering Debussy in Interwar France,” 374–93, and “L’affaire Prunières–Vallas,” in Henry Prunières: Un musicologue engagé de l’entre-deux-guerres. 60. “Une curiosité historique, indiscrète sinon inutile, explique, si elle ne peut l’excuser, cette publication posthume; l’auteur l’aurait condamnée comme l’édition d’autres œuvres, qu’on a faite récemment.” Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps, 45. 61. “Je ne vois pas en quoi montrer les premiers essais d’un Debussy serait indiscret. On a toujours accueilli avec intérêt la révélation des premières œuvres d’un grand musicien. C’est évidemment la découverte qui semble indiscrète à M. Vallas puisqu’on ne s’est pas avisé de lui en demander l’autorisation préalable. Quant à être inutile, il n’y a qu’à parcourir ces mélodies pour voir combien elles sont au contraire intéressantes et caractéristiques de l’attitude musicale de Debussy vers 1882.” Prunières, “Autour de Debussy,” La revue musicale (May 1934): 358. 62. Vallas seems to have been unaware that Debussy returned to this early work later in his career. See Denis Herlin, “Une nouvelle jeunesse pour L’enfant prodigue,” in Le concours du Prix de Rome de Musique (1803–1968), ed. Julia Lu and Alexandre Dratwicki (Lyon: Symétrie, 2011), 607–39. 63. Léon Vallas, Le progrès (November 18, 1919), Ms Vallas 51, Archives Léon Vallas. He shared this attitude with Vuillermoz, who opposed the performance of Debussy’s Fantaisie in 1922. Vallas retained a copy of an article Vuillermoz wrote on the subject in 1922: Emile Vuillermoz, “La musique” (March 20, 1922), Ms Vallas 86: Dossier Claude Debussy, Archives Vallas. 64. See Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps, 64–65. 65. “Il faudrait la réorchestrer, je ne l’aime plus assez pour cela.” Godet, La revue musicale (June 1934): 22. 66. The ethics of respecting the wishes of a composer or writer continues to be an issue of concern. See for example Randall R. Dipert, “The Composer’s Intentions: An Examination of their Relevance for Performance,” The Musical Quarterly 66, no. 2 (April 1980): 205–18. See also Ulrik Volgsten and Yngve Åkerberg, “Copyright, Music, and Morals: Artistic Expression and the Public Sphere,” in Music and Manipulation: On the Social Uses and Social Control of Music, ed. Steven Brown and Ulrik Volgsten (New York: Berghahn Books, 2006), 336–64. 67. Godet, “En marge de la marge,” 73–76. 68. Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps, 88; Prunières, “Autour de Debussy,” 356–57. 69. “Il risqué de mettre en circulation mainte légende qu’il sera par la suite fort difficile d’extirper.” Prunières, “Autour de Debussy,” 350.

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Contributors Katherine Bergeron is president of Connecticut College in New London, Connecticut. She won the Otto Kinkeldey award from the American Musicological Society for Voice Lessons: French Mélodie in the Belle Époque. Matthew Brown is a professor of music theory at the Eastman School of Music of the University of Rochester. He is currently coauthoring A Companion to Heinrich Schenker’s “Theory of Harmony” and has recently published papers on Dukas’s Piano Sonata in E-flat Minor and on the literary origins of Maeterlinck’s Pelléas et Mélisande. David J. Code is a reader in music at the School of Culture and Creative Arts, University of Glasgow. His publications include a biography of Debussy for Reaktion Press and articles on the poetry of Mallarmé, the music of Debussy and Stravinsky, the choreography of Nijinsky, and music in the films of Stanley Kubrick. Mark DeVoto is professor emeritus of music at Tufts University. He has published extensively on Schubert, Debussy, Ravel, and Alban Berg, and edited the revised fifth edition (1987) of Walter Piston’s Harmony. Michel Duchesneau is a professor of musicology at Université de Montréal and director of the Observatoire interdisciplinaire de création et de recherche en musique (OICRM). His latest publications include an edited collection about the writings of composers, as well as articles about French music criticism and musicology at the turn of the twentieth century and about French musicology and the musical press between 1889 and 1914. David Grayson is a professor of music at the University of Minnesota. For the Debussy Œuvres complètes he is editing Pelléas et Mélisande, the vocal score of which was published in 2010. Denis Herlin is director of research at the Centre nationale de la recherche scientifique (CNRS) and Institut de recherche en Musicologie (IreMus) and

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International Chair in Musicology at the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester (2017–19). His latest publications include articles on Debussy’s letters and De Rêve, as well as two critical editions: François Couperin’s Premier livre de pièces de clavecin and Chambonnières’s The Collected Works (with Bruce Gustafson). Jocelyn Ho is both a theorist and a keyboardist, as well as an assistant professor of performance studies at the University of California at Los Angeles. Her latest articles focus on embodied gestures and performance issues in Debussy’s “Minstrels” and “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk,” Takemitsu’s Rain Tree Sketch II, and her own composition for piano and mobile phone gestures, Sheng. Roy Howat is a concert pianist and research fellow at the Royal Academy of Music and the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland. Besides critical editions of Debussy, Fauré, and Chabrier and numerous recordings, his many publications include two seminal monographs, Debussy in Proportion and The Art of French Piano Music: Debussy, Ravel, Fauré, Chabrier. Steven Huebner is James McGill Professor of Musicology at McGill University. His latest publications include the monograph Les Opéras de Verdi: Éléments d’un langage musico-dramatique and articles on Magnard’s Bérénice and Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmélites. Julian Johnson is Regius Professor of Music at Royal Holloway, University of London. His recent publications include the monograph Out of Time: Music and the Making of Modernity, the coedited volume Transformations of Musical Modernism, and an article on Debussy’s Verlaine songs. Barbara L. Kelly is a professor of Musicology and director of research at the Royal Northern College of Music. She has published widely on French music in the early twentieth century. Her latest monograph is Music and Ultra-Modernism in France: A Fragile Consensus. Richard Langham Smith is a research professor at the Royal College of Music in London. His work on Debussy includes a realization of the composer’s unfinished opera Rodrigue et Chimène for the Œuvres complètes. He has also published a “performance Urtext” of Carmen with Peters Edition. Mark McFarland is an associate professor at Georgia State University in Atlanta. His research involves the music of Debussy, Stravinsky, and the tonal jazz repertory.

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605

François de Médicis joined the Université de Montréal as a musicology and theory professor in 1998. With Sylvain Caron and Michel Duchesneau, he coedited Musique et modernité en France (1900–1945), and his monograph, La Maturation artistique de Debussy (1884–1902): Style et politique musicale, is forthcoming. Robert Orledge is emeritus professor of music at the University of Liverpool. He has published books on Fauré, Debussy, Satie, and Koechlin and now specializes in completing and orchestrating Debussy’s unfinished masterpieces, including La Chute de la maison Usher and the Nocturne and Poème for violin and orchestra. Boyd Pomeroy is an associate professor of music theory at the University of Arizona’s Fred Fox School of Music. Recent publications include chapters in the University of Rochester Press collections Bach to Brahms and Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis, and the entry “Schenkerian Analysis” for Oxford Bibliographies Online. Caroline Rae is a reader in music at Cardiff University and concertizing pianist and has published widely on twentieth-century French music as well as on the musical writings of Alejo Carpentier. Her latest book, André Jolivet: Music, Art and Literature, is the first on the composer in English. She was series adviser to the Philharmonia Orchestra for their landmark festival City of Light: Paris, 1900–1950, and has been a programming consultant to the BBC National Orchestra of Wales. Marie Rolf is senior associate dean of graduate studies and a professor of music theory at the Eastman School of Music of the University of Rochester. She recently edited a volume of songs for the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy that were composed between 1882 and 1887. Recent articles examine an early version of “Colloque sentimental” and explore the relationship between Debussy and General Meredith Read. August Sheehy is an assistant professor of music history and theory at Stony Brook University. He received his PhD from the University of Chicago and is currently writing a monograph about sonata form and politics.

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Index Abbate, Carolyn, 8, 331–33, 349 Abravanel, Claude, 29 Académie nationale de musique, 4. See also Opéra Garnier Adam, Louis, 519; Méthode de piano du conservatoire, 519 Adler, Guido, 380 Adorno, Theodor Wiesengrund, 133, 143, 377 Albéniz, Isaac, 289 Alhambra Theatre (London), 260 Allan, Maud, 265 Andrée, Jeanne, 109, 111–13, 119, 123n18 Anima Eterna Brugge, 21 Ansermet, Ernest, 53 Antonioli, Jean-François, 50 arabesque, 8, 14n27, 24, 147, 151, 154, 163, 172n39, 257, 278, 282, 378, 396 Audran, Edmond, 111–12; La mascotte, 111–12 Auric, Georges, 593 Auriol, Vincent, 576 Avonde, Théodore, 180 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 397 Bach, Johann Christian, 571 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 5, 396–97, 563, 571, 574–75; Accompanied Sonatas for Violin and Cello, 396; Cantata Seheti, Welch eine Liebe, BWV 64, 574; Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue in D Minor, BWV 903, 396; Toccata in G Minor, BWV 915, 396 Back, Regina, 47

De Medicis.indd 607

Baconnière, 36n22 Bailly, Edmond, 293n1, 321n14 Ballets russes, Les, 10, 476 Banville, Théodore de, 2, 26, 57, 58, 61, 78–79, 81, 122n4, 237, 279, 291, 295n25, 371, 379–80; Les cariatides, 58; Diane au bois, 380; “Fête galante,” 274, 291; “Les roses,” 61 Bardac, Raoul, 575 Bärenreiter, 46–48, 50, 51, 55n21 Barraqué, Jean, 29, 170n9 Barrère, Georges, 22 Barrès, Maurice, 109 Barthes, Roland, 133, 172n26; “Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narratives,” 172n26 Bartók, Béla, 1, 4 Baschet, Ludovic, 110 Baschet, Marcel, 110, 123n12 Baschet, René, 110 Básky, Josef von, 576, 580n36; Münchhausen, 576, 580n36 Baudelaire, Charles, 8, 31, 127, 138, 160–61, 173n41, 177, 195, 229, 330–31, 339–40, 340, 344, 347–48, 351, 355, 363, 379, 425, 592; “Correspondances,” 348; Les fleurs du mal, 348; “Harmonie du soir,” 8, 330–31, 339, 344–48 Baudry, Paul, 585–86 Bauër, Henry, 179–80 Bavouzet, Jean-Efflam, 50 Bayreuth Festival, 59, 413 Beauvais (tapestry manufacturer), 304 Bechstein (piano), 22

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608

❧ index

Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1, 178, 193, 396, 419–20; Coriolan Overture, 178; Fidelio, 420; Leonore Overture, 178, 420; Piano Sonata in C Minor, op. 111, no. 32, 396; Prelude, op. 39, no. 2, 419; Symphony no. 3 in E-flat Major, 419; Symphony no. 5 in C Minor, 419 Benedictus, Louis, 307, 322nn35–36, 323n36; Les musiques bizarres à l’exposition, 307, 322nn35–36, 323n36 bent-Ali, Meryem, 148 bent-Brahim, Zohra, 148 Berg, Alban, 432–33; Wozzeck, 432–33 Bergeron, Katherine, 7, 162–63, 353– 65, 376 Berlioz, Hector, 254, 269, 453–60, 576; La damnation de Faust, 576; Symphonie fantastique, 453–60 Bernard, Émile, 131, 324n62 Béroff, Michel, 572 Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal (Paris), 69 Bibliothèque musicale François Lang, 75, 90. See also Fondation Royaumont Bibliothèque nationale de France, 4, 28, 66, 79–80, 90–93, 578n10; Fonds Gaillard, 578n10; Gallica, 4 Bing, Siegfried, 129, 168, 170n9, 273, 294n7, 303 Bizet, Georges, 110, 273, 281, 283–88, 288, 295n29, 296n33, 297n46; L’arlésienne, 296n33; Carmen, 27, 35n14, 112, 273, 281, 283–85, 285–86, 295n29, 296n33; “Chanson bohème,” 283–84; “Habanera,” 283–84, 286; “Séguedille,” 283–84, 288, 297n46 Blanche, Jacques-Émile, 304 Bloom, Harold, 229, 237 Boieldieu, François-Adrien, 180 Bollinger (family), 59 Bonheur, Raymond, 228, 582 Bonnard, Pierre, 130, 170n11, 303; Ducks, Heron and Pheasants, 130; Ensemble champêtre, 170n11; Marabout

De Medicis.indd 608

and Four Frogs, 130; Méditérranée, 170n11 Borodin, Alexander, 200–201; Mlada, 200. See also Five, The; Mighty Handful; Russian composers Boucher, François, 300 Bouchor, Maurice, 58, 78–79, 82, 91–92, 102nn45–46, 110, 314; “Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau,” 82, 102n45; Noël, ou le mystère de la nativité, 110; Poëmes de l’amour et de la mer, 78, 102n45 Bouffes-Bordelais (Bordeaux), 112 Bouilhet, Louis, 24, 58; “Chansons des brises,” 58 Bouillette, 304 Boulanger, Nadia, 564 Boulez, Pierre, 32–33, 52, 167–68, 257, 353 Bourget, Paul, 107, 110–13, 115–16, 118–19, 138, 371, 376, 593; Les aveux, 107, 112–13, 118; Poésies 1876–1882, 112, 118 Brahms, Johannes, 256, 436, 474n9; Symphony no. 3 in F Major, 474n9 Braswell, Suzanne, 347 Brayer, Jules de, 314 Brendel, Franz, 167 Bréville, Pierre de, 102n45; “Chanson triste,” 102n45 Bruneau, Alfred, 4, 9, 110, 175–88, 190–91, 193, 195, 198–201, 204–6, 209–11, 214–15, 216n5, 217nn6–7, 217n9, 218n18, 218n19, 222n48, 224n62; Adagietto, 217n9; L’attaque du moulin, 173, 182, 206, 209–11, 215, 223n61; Dix lieds de France, 177; Geneviève, 174; Kérim, 224n62; Messidor, 195; L’ouragan, 217n6; Penthésilée, 180, 195, 217n9; Le rêve, 175– 76, 179–80, 182–84, 184–86, 186–88, 190–91, 195, 198–99, 204–5, 215, 217n6, 217n29, 217n30, 224n62; Six chansons à danser, 177 Bulla, François, 63 Burkhart, Charles, 43, 398

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index Burne-Jones, Edward, 7 Busser, Henri, 102n42, 260, 266–67 Cabaner, Ernest, 102n42 Cafarelli, Count Maximilien de, 59 Cafarelli, Countess Lucie de, 60. See also Kunkelmann, Lucie Cahiers Debussy, 3, 29–30, 65 Caplet, André, 255, 260, 265–67 Carnot, Sadi, 128 Carraud, Gaston, 220n34 Casadesus, Robert, 555 Cassard, Philippe, 50 Cayla, Melle S., 115 Cellarius, Henri, 338 Centre de documentation Claude Debussy, 29–30, 50, 55n21 Cernuschi, Enrico, 273 Cézanne, Paul, 129 Chabrier, Emmanuel, 4, 180–82, 184, 281, 295n29, 514, 571, 576, 580n37, 590, 593; España, 295n29; Gwendoline, 180, 182, 184; Suite pastorale, 580n37; Valses romantiques, 514 Chaplin, François, 50 Charlot, André, 260 Charpentier, Gustave, 217n7, 254 Chantilly (porcelain), 304 Chausson, Ernest, 4, 27, 79, 102n45, 134, 177, 181–82, 303, 312–13, 321n14; Le roi Arthus, 182 Chavannes, Pierre Puvis de, 128–29, 131 Cheng, François, 314, 317–19 Chevillard, Camille, 557 Chopin, Frédéric, 39, 172n39, 260, 326, 330–31, 334, 338–40, 342, 420, 426, 436, 514, 520, 522, 530–31, 535, 537–39, 563, 571, 593; Ballade in F Major, op. 38, no. 2, 420; Grande valse brillante in A Minor, op. 34, no. 2, 339–40; Grande valse brillante in E-flat Major, op. 18, 326, 330; Nocturne in D-flat Major, op. 27, no. 2, 520, 522, 538–39; Nocturne in F-sharp Major, op. 15, no. 2,

De Medicis.indd 609

❧ 609

537; Nocturne in F-sharp Minor, op. 48, no. 2, 535; Scherzo in B-flat Minor, op. 31, no. 2, 420; Waltz in D-flat Major, op. 64, no. 1 (“Minute Waltz”), 338, 340 Choudens, 2, 110, 183–84, 186–88, 190–91, 198–99, 209–10, 565–66, 574, 578n15 Ciampi, Marcel, 3, 563, 567, 573, 577 Claudel, Camille, 7, 109, 304, 314–15, 321n14; La valse, 314 Claudel, Paul, 302 Clementi, Muzio, 544; Gradus ad Parnassum, 544 Coelho, Campos, 54n7 Coeuroy, André, 576 Cogeval, Guy, 32, 35n16 Coleridge, Samuel, 133 Columbia, 517 Comité national d’épuration des professions d’artistes dramatiques, lyriques et de musiciens exécutants, 576 Concerts Colonne, 564, 575 Concerts Lamoureux, 178, 217n9, 575 Concerts Pasdeloup, 564 Concordia, La, 228 Cone, Edward T., 5, 482, 485, 489, 505, 510nn41–42, 510n48 Conseil supérieur des beaux-arts, 321n11 Conservatoire (Paris), 2, 4–5, 59, 99n12, 176, 180, 215, 225–28, 254– 55, 273, 281, 296n34, 322n34, 396, 415, 514, 519, 563, 574, 588, 590–91, 593 Copeland, George, 3, 515, 558, 570 Coppola, Piero, 26 Corri, Philip, 527, 529; L’anima di musica, 527, 529 Cortot, Alfred, 562–63, 567, 571, 573, 576 Coste (baritone), 60 Croiza, Claire, 3, 25–26 Cros, Charles, 58, 78–79, 82, 84, 90, 102n42; L’archet, 58, 78, 82, 84, 90; Le coffret de santal, 78, 82, 84 cubism, 168

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610

❧ index

Dante Alighieri, 408 Darcours, Charles, 179 Dargomyjski, Alexandre, 200 Daumier, Honoré, 131 Davison, Archibald, 28 Debuchy, Armel, 112 Debussy, Claude “âme évaporée, L’” 111. See also Deux Romances Andante cantabile, 3, 426 “angélus, Les” 114, 426–27. See also Six melodies “Apparition,” 2, 57, 232, 244–47, 248, 251, 371–76, 379–80, 384, 387, 592–94 “archet, L’” 5, 58, 61, 63, 78–79, 82, 84–86, 90, 95, 101n26. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts Ariettes oubliées, 51, 59, 127, 217n9, 238, 255, 592. See also “C’est l’extase”; “Chevaux de bois”; “Green”; “Spleen” Axel, 3 “baisers, Les” 122n4 “balcon, Le” 194–95, 221n44. See also Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire Ballade, 418n32 “Ballade slave,” 39, 566–68, 570–71. See also Pièces pour piano “Barcarolle,” 3 “Beau soir,” 111, 426 “belle au bois dormant, La” 113, 116, 119, 399, 401–5, 411, 415, 424. See also Six mélodies; Trois melodies “Berceuse,” 3 Berceuse héroïque, 267, 318, 567, 571 boîte à joujoux, La, 260, 505, 593 “Brouillards,” 485. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) “Bruyères,” 376, 403. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) “cathédrale engloutie, La” 43, 47, 439, 443, 446–48, 450, 467, 516,

De Medicis.indd 610

525, 529, 532, 534, 549, 552–53, 568, 570–71, 573. See also Préludes (premier livre) “C’est l’extase,” 255, 426. See also Ariettes oubliées Cello Sonata in D Minor, 440, 441, 444–45, 449, 474n14 “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest,” 42, 46, 256. See also Préludes (premier livre) “Clair de lune,” 34n3, 567, 569–72. See also Suite bergamasque “Clair de lune” (mélodie), 2, 57, 105, 108, 135, 143, 145–47, 323n36, 376, 433n1, 591–94. See also Fêtes galantes (d’après Verlaine, 1912– 1915); Fêtes galantes (série 1) Chansons de Bilitis, 59, 89, 132, 136–37, 146, 148, 150, 159, 161, 166–68, 172n34, 173n49, 376. See also “La chevelure”; “La flûte de Pan”; “Le tombeau des naïades” Chanson des brises, 24, 58, 81, 93, 95. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts “Chanson espagnole,” 11n3, 106–7, 288–89, 293. See also Recueil Vasnier “Chevaux de bois,” 426. See also Ariettes oubliées “chevelure, La” 136, 149, 150–51, 154–56, 158, 161–62. See also Chansons de Bilitis Children’s Corner, 46, 255, 515, 566– 67, 570–71, 593. See also “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum”; “Golliwogg’s Cake Walk”; “Jimbo’s Lullaby”; “The Little Shepherd”; “Serenade for the Doll”; “The Snow Is Dancing” chute de la maison Usher, La, 3, 8, 23, 257, 266–68 Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire, 31, 127, 138, 160, 592. See also “Le balcon”; “Le jet d’eau”; “La mort des amants”; “Recueillement” “cloches, Les,” 111, 426. See also Deux Romances

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index “cloches à travers les feuilles, Les,” 194. See also Images (série 2, pour piano) “collines d’Anacapri, Les,” 44–45, 256. See also Préludes (premier livre) “Colloque sentimental,” 46, 132, 137, 162–63, 165, 166, 426, 438, 462. See also Fêtes galantes (série 2) “Coquetterie posthume,” 11n3, 106– 7, 282. See also Recueil Vasnier “Cortège,” 426. See also Petite suite D’un cahier d’esquisses, 40–41, 515, 521, 524–26, 532, 566–67 damoiselle élue, La, 26, 321n14, 422, 424 Daniel, 3 “Dans le jardin,” 114, 427. See also Six mélodies Danse bohémienne, 566 “danse de Puck, La,” 521, 525, 529, 547, 549–51, 571. See also Préludes (premier livre) “Danseuses de Delphes,” 42–43, 46, 54n7, 521, 525, 568. See also Préludes (premier livre) “De grève,” 267. See also Proses lyriques “De l’aube à midi sur la mer,” 439, 449–50. See also La mer “De rêve,” 196–97. See also Proses lyriques “De soir,” 267. See also Proses lyriques “Des pas sur la neige,” 44–45, 47, 256, 317, 333. See also Préludes (premier livre) Deux arabesques, 426, 566, 567–68, 570, 572 Deux Romances, 111. See also “L’âme évaporée”; “Les cloches” diable dans le beffroi, Le, 3, 39, 593 Diane au bois, 3, 23, 26, 182, 184, 229, 232, 237–43, 248, 421, 585 Divertissement, 3 “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum,” 423, 525, 544–47, 570. See also Children’s Corner

De Medicis.indd 611

❧ 611

Douze études, 38, 53n2, 267, 340, 435, 566–67. See also “Pour les arpèges composés”; “Pour les ‘cinq doigts’”; “Pour les sonorités opposées” “échelonnement des haies, L’,” 139, 143–44, 418. See also Trois mélodies de Paul Verlaine Églogue, 78 Élégie, 38–39 “elfes, Les,” 5, 58, 65, 78, 81, 83, 86–89, 91, 95, 97n4. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts En blanc et noir, 397, 416, 439, 467 “En sourdine,” 66, 105, 108, 132, 135, 143–47, 150, 248, 376, 592. See also Fêtes galantes (d’après Verlaine, 1912–1915); Fêtes galantes (série 1) enfant prodigue, L’, 107, 176, 228, 232–33, 235–38, 252n34, 590, 592, 594–95 Estampes, 169n1, 265, 272, 290, 304, 307, 407–8, 515, 566–71. See also “Jardins sous la pluie”; “Pagodes”; “La soirée dans Grenade” “Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut,” 397–98. See also Images (série 2, pour piano) “Éventail,” 362, 364–66, 370, 372–73, 376. See also Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé Fantaisie, 13n22, 21, 194, 221n44, 424–25, 465n6, 562, 595 “Fantoches,” 105, 108, 135, 143–46, 172n29, 593. See also Fêtes galantes (d’après Verlaine, 1912–1915); Fêtes galantes (série 1) “faune, Le” 162–63, 165–66. See also Fêtes galantes (série 2) “fées sont d’exquises danseuses, Les,” 371. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) “Fête galante,” 11n4, 167. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts; Sept poèmes de Banville

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612

❧ index

Debussy, Claude—(cont’d) “Fêtes,” 421, 438, 453, 460–61. See also Nocturnes Fêtes galantes (d’après Verlaine, 1912– 1915), 105–6. See also “Clair de lune”; “En sourdine”; “Fantoches”; “Mandoline”; “Pantomime”; Recueil Vasnier Fêtes galantes (série 1), 108, 132, 135, 143, 146, 150, 165–66, 172n51. See also “Clair de lune”; “En sourdine”; “Fantoches” Fêtes galantes (série 2), 132, 136, 148, 165–66, 172n51, 462. See also “Colloque sentimental”; “Le faune”; “Les ingénus” “Feuilles mortes,” 377. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) “Feux d’artifice,” 5, 256, 508n24, 567. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) fille aux cheveux de lin, La (song), 35, 98n10 “fille aux cheveux de lin, La,” 23–24, 78, 403, 568, 570, 573. See also Préludes (premier livre) “Fleurs des blés,” 507n7 “Flots, palmes et sables,” 24, 102n38 “flûte de Pan, La,” 136, 150–54, 160–61, 163, 376. See also Chansons de Bilitis “Gigues,” 257–58, 269, 408, 418n32, 439, 450, 452. See also Images (pour orchestre) gladiateur, Le, 3, 252n34 “Golliwogg’s Cake Walk,” 424, 525, 529–31, 553–56, 570. See also Children’s Corner “Green,” 255, 532–33. See also Ariettes oubliées Hommage à Haydn, 567, 571 “Hommage à Rameau,” 52. See also Images (série 1, pour piano) “Ibéria,” 257, 265, 272, 290, 398, 408, 418n32, 473n6. See also Images (pour orchestre)

De Medicis.indd 612

“Il dort encore,” 11n4. See also Sept poèmes de Banville Images (pour orchestre), 257, 265, 272, 290, 408, 411. See also “Gigues”; “Ibéria”; “Rondes de printemps” Images (série 1, pour piano), 47, 52–53, 399, 407, 566–68. See also “Hommage à Rameau”; “Mouvement”; “Reflets dans l’eau” Images (série 2, pour piano), 47, 52–53, 275, 397–98, 566–67. See also “Les cloches à travers les feuilles”; “Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut”; “Poissons d’or” Images oubliées, 2, 25, 53n2, 403, 405. See also “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois,’” 399–402, 405–7, 415 “ingénus, Les,” 136, 162–64, 166. See also Fêtes galantes (série 2) Intermezzo, 3 “Invocation,” 11n2, 282, 574 isle joyeuse, L’, 40–41, 44, 256, 421, 425, 438, 461, 467, 566–67 “Jane,” 78 “Jardins sous la pluie,” 44, 317, 399, 401, 407–10, 415, 568, 570, 572. See also Estampes “jet d’eau, Le,” 267, 424–25. See also Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire Jeux, 10, 29, 256–60, 262, 264–65, 265, 307, 439, 467, 471–77, 479– 85, 487, 490–91, 493, 495–99, 501–3, 505, 508n24 “Jeux de vagues,” 267, 421, 439, 449–51. See also La mer “Jimbo’s Lullaby,” 521, 525. See also Children’s Corner Khamma, 256–57, 260–65, 477–78, 485, 505, 575 “lilas, Le,” 11n4. See also Sept poèmes de Banville “Little Shepherd, The” 521–25. See also Children’s Corner

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index “Madrid,” 281, 288 “Mandoline,” 66, 105, 108–10. See also Fêtes galantes (d’après Verlaine, 1912–1915) Marche écossaise, 39, 194, 257 martyre de Saint-Sébastien, Le, 260 Masques, 40, 438, 462, 566–67, 569–70 “matelot qui tombe à l’eau, Le,” 5, 58, 79, 80, 82–84, 86, 89, 91, 95. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts Mazurka, 40, 110, 567, 569–71 “Menuet,” 58, 76, 280. See also Petite suite “Menuet,” 425, 567, 569. See also Suite bergamasque mer, La, 40, 52, 129, 139, 169n1, 222n48, 248, 260, 267, 275, 301, 313, 317, 358, 421, 423, 433n4. See also “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”; “Jeux de vagues” “mer est plus belle, La,” 114, 135, 139–43. See also Six mélodies; Trois mélodies de Paul Verlaine “Minstrels,” 49, 51, 521, 523, 525, 547–48, 553–54, 556, 568–70. See also Préludes (premier livre) “Morceau de concours,” 39–40 “mort des amants, La,” 248. See also Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire “Mouvement,” 44, 407, 424. See also Images (série 1, pour piano) “Musique,” 11n3, 107. See also Recueil Vasnier Nocturne (pour piano), 113, 124n39, 433n1 Nocturnes (for orchestra), 52, 133, 175. See also “Fêtes”; “Nuages” No-ja-li, 3, 256, 260. See also Le palais du silence “Nuages,” 154, 421. See also Nocturnes “Nuit d’étoiles,” 2, 63, 66, 87, 101n27, 424 Nuits blanches, 3

De Medicis.indd 613

❧ 613

Ode à la France, 2, 554, 574–75 “Ondine,” 485, 569. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) Overture for Diane, 3, 221n44 “Pagodes,” 13n22, 272, 304, 307, 317, 569. See also Estampes palais du silence, Le, 3, 260. See also No-ja-li “Pantomime,” 2, 57, 105, 108, 591– 94. See also Fêtes galantes (d’après Verlaine, 1912–1915) “papillons, Les,” 86, 102n40, 107 “parfums de la nuit, Les” (from Ibéria, see also Images pour orchestre), 265, 425 “Passepied,” 438, 461, 463–67, 567. See also Suite bergamasque “Paysage sentimental,” 6, 105, 107– 19, 121. See also Recueil Vasnier; Six mélodies; Trois mélodies Pelléas et Mélisande, 7, 9, 21–22, 24, 26–27, 29, 31–33, 51–52, 87, 89, 113, 116, 133, 139, 148, 160, 162, 167, 175, 179–80, 182, 184, 189, 192–94, 204, 206–8, 212–15, 226–27, 229, 244, 248–49, 251, 256–59, 264, 267, 275, 308, 353–59, 361–64, 377, 380, 397–98, 421–24, 427–33, 505, 593–94 Petite suite, 58, 76, 97n4, 280, 426. See also “Menuet”; “Cortège” Pièces pour piano, 39. See also “Tarentelle styrienne” (also as “Danse”); “Ballade slave”; “Valse romantique” “Pierrot,” 2, 57–58, 60, 63, 68, 76–78, 81, 87, 89, 92, 94, 592–94. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts “Placet futile,” 372, 374–75. See also Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé plus que lente, La, 25, 515, 519–21, 525, 529–30, 535–36, 544, 547– 48, 554, 567, 569–71

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614

❧ index

Debussy, Claude—(cont’d) “Poissons d’or,” 44, 52, 129, 256, 275, 277, 570–71. See also Images (série 2, pour piano) Pour le piano, 39, 47–48, 52, 407, 418n30, 427, 438, 467, 566–68, 570–72. See also “Prélude”; “Sarabande”; “Toccata” “Pour les arpèges composés,” 53n2, 564. See also Douze études “Pour les ‘cinq doigts,’” 424. See also Douze études “Pour les sonorités opposées,” 435, 440, 468–72. See also Douze études “Prélude,” 47–48, 407, 438, 467, 568. See also Pour le piano Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, 5, 21, 26, 133, 149, 154, 160, 175, 217n7, 257, 366, 369, 380, 383, 398, 423, 425–26, 428–29, 581 Préludes (premier livre), 11n1, 22, 42–43, 46, 50, 54n7, 54n15, 290, 333, 347–48, 380, 403, 515, 566–71, 593. See also “La cathédrale engloutie”; “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest”; “Les collines d’Anacapri”; “La danse de Puck”; “Danseuses de Delphes”; “Des pas sur la neige”; “La fille aux cheveux de lin”; “Minstrels”; “La sérénade interrompue”; “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir”; “Le vent dans la plaine”; “Voiles” Préludes (deuxième livre), 11n1, 22, 42, 50, 54n7, 290, 333, 347–48, 376, 380, 403, 479, 566–67, 569–71, 593. See also “Brouillards”; “Bruyères”; “Les fées sont d’exquises danseuses”; “Feuilles mortes”; “Feux d’artifice”; “Ondine”; “La puerta del Vino”; “La terrasse des audiences au clair de lune”; “Les tierces alternées” Première suite d’orchestre, 3, 58, 81

De Medicis.indd 614

printemps, Le, 3, 11n2, 256, 574. See also Salut printemps Printemps (1887), 224n62, 260, 421, 425–26 Proses lyriques, 148, 194, 196, 267, 593. See also “De grève”; “De rêve”; “De soir” “puerta del Vino, La,” 256, 290, 433n1, 544, 564, 569–70. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) Quatre chansons de jeunesse, 108 “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous n’irons plus au bois,’” 399–402, 405–7, 415. See also Images oubliées Recueil Vasnier, 2, 94, 105–8, 113–15, 117–18, 120, 143, 278, 282, 285, 426, 591. See also “Fêtes galantes” (Paul Verlaine): 1. “Pantomime,” 2. “En sourdine,” 3. “Mandoline,” 4. “Clair de lune,” 5. “Fantoches”; “Chanson espagnole” (Alfred de Musset); “Coquetterie posthume” (Théophile Gautier); “Musique” (Paul Bourget); “Paysage sentimental” (Paul Bourget); “Regret” (Paul Bourget); “Romance” (Paul Bourget), “Silence ineffable de l’heure”; “Romance” (Paul Bourget), “Voici que le printemps”; “La romance d’Ariel” (Paul Bourget). See also Vasnier manuscript “Recueillement,” 426. See also Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire “Reflets dans l’eau,” 47, 55n21, 397, 515, 568, 570–72. See also Images (série 1, pour piano) “Regret”, 11n3, 107, 376. See also Recueil Vasnier Rêverie, 11n4, 40, 58, 66, 68, 91, 94, 110, 567–68. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts; Sept poèmes de Banville; Le zéphyr Rodrigue et Chimène, 3, 23–24, 27, 39, 177, 182, 184, 194, 214–15, 229, 248, 250, 262, 265–68, 421–22 roi Lear, Le, 3

11/28/2018 6:23:52 PM

index “Romance,” “Silence ineffable de l’heure,” 11n3, 107. See also Recueil Vasnier “romance d’Ariel, La,” 11n3, 107. See also Recueil Vasnier “Romance,” “Non les baisers d’amour,” 58, 63, 79, 81, 86, 92, 95. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts “Romance,” “Voici que le printemps,” 107–8, 113–14, 119. See also Recueil Vasnier; Six mélodies; Trois mélodies Rondel chinois, 6, 58, 60, 65, 68, 71–73, 87, 93–94, 267, 272, 275, 278–80, 282–83, 291, 294n3. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts “Rondes de printemps,” 257, 399, 401, 408, 410–15, 439, 467. See also Images (pour orchestre) “roses, Les,” 11n4, 58, 61–66, 68, 89, 92, 94. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts; Sept poèmes de Banville Salut printemps, 11n2, 574. See also Le printemps “Sarabande,” 39, 52, 418n30, 427, 568, 571. See also Pour le piano saulaie, La, 3 “Séguidille,” 6, 24, 58, 106–7, 272, 281–85, 287, 290, 294n3, 297n40 Sept poèmes de Banville, 2. See also “Fête galante”; “Il dort encore”; “Le lilas”; “Rêverie”; “Les roses”; “Sérénade”; “Souhait” “Sérénade,” 11n4. See also Sept poèmes de Banville “Serenade for the Doll,” 525, 529. See also Children’s Corner “sérénade interrompue, La,” 44, 290, 569. See also Préludes (premier livre) Six mélodies, 114. See also “Les angélus”; “La belle au bois dormant”; “Dans le jardin”; “La mer est plus belle”; “Paysage sentimental”; “Romance,” “Voici que le printemps”; Trois mélodies

De Medicis.indd 615

❧ 615

sketchbook “croquis musicaux”, 58, 79–87, 90–93, 103n47 “Snow Is Dancing, The,” 521, 525. See also Children’s Corner “soirée dans Grenade, La,” 289, 515, 518, 525–28, 535–36, 539–44, 547, 554, 568, 570, 572. See also Estampes soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon, Les, 3, 25, 38 “son du cor, Le,” 139. See also Trois mélodies de Paul Verlaine “sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir, Les,” 8, 326–34, 338, 340–41, 344–45, 347–48. See also Préludes (premier livre) “Souhait,” 11n4. See also Sept poèmes de Banville “Soupir,” 166, 359, 361–67, 372, 381n3. See also Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé “Spleen,” 238, 248. See also Ariettes oubliées String Quartet, 194, 248, 314, 420, 433n1, 593 Suite bergamasque, 40, 425, 433n1, 435, 438, 461, 463–67, 566–67, 569–70. See also “Clair de lune”; “Menuet”; “Passepied” Symphonie, 39 “Tarentelle styrienne,” 39–40, 426, 566–67 (also as “Danse”). See also Pièces pour piano “terrasse des audiences au clair de lune, La,” 5. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) “tierces alternées, Les,” 49, 477, 479. See also Préludes (deuxième livre) “Toccata,” 52, 427, 568. See also Pour le piano “tombeau des naïades, Le,” 136, 149–51, 154, 155–59, 161–63. See also Chansons de Bilitis triomphe de Bacchus, Le, 2–3, 81, 426, 574

11/28/2018 6:24:00 PM

616

❧ index

Debussy, Claude—(cont’d) Trois ballades de François Villon, 138, 167, 267, 592 Trois chansons de Charles d’Orléans, 169n1 Trois chansons de France, 137, 163 Trois scènes au crépuscule, 3 Trois mélodies, 113, 116, 119. See also “La belle au bois dormant”; “Paysage sentimental”; “Romance,” “Voici que le printemps” Trois mélodies de Paul Verlaine, 110, 127–28, 134–35, 146. See also “L’échelonnement des haies”; “La mer est plus belle”; “Le son du cor” Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé, 127, 138, 167, 366, 369, 371, 376, 378–81, 385, 388n1, 388n7. See also “Éventail”; “Placet futile”; “Soupir” “Valse romantique,” 39, 566–67, 569–71. See also Pièces pour piano “vent dans la plaine, Le,” 43, 525, 529, 549–50. See also Préludes (premier livre) Violin Sonata, 2, 167, 435, 440–42, 468 “Voiles,” 194. See also Préludes (premier livre) zéphyr, Le, 58, 63, 66, 68, 91, 94, 103n51. See also Kunkelmann manuscripts; Rêverie Zuleima, 585 Debussy, Emma, 102n40, 564, 566, 574–75, 582, 585, 588 debussysme, 5, 331, 434, 516, 563, 574–76, 594–95 Decca, 566 Decelle, 304 Degas, Edgar, 7, 303 Delibes, Léo, 103n47, 108, 181, 273, 288; Les filles de Cadix, 289; Lakmé, 273 DeLone, Peter, 397 Denis, Maurice, 26, 128–30, 303, 321n14

De Medicis.indd 616

Denisov, Edison, 39 Derrida, Jacques, 384–85, 391n52; Of Grammatology, 385 Des Houx, Henri, 179 Désormière, Roger, 26 Dessay, Natalie, 24; “Clair de lune,” 24 Devillez (art critic), 312 Diaghilev, Sergei, 477, 509n36 Diémer, Louis, 563, 572, 577n6 Dietschy, Marcel, 28, 29, 36n22, 575; La passion de Claude Debussy, 28 Dietz, Marie, 59 Dillard, Marius, 68, 93, 275, 278, 282, 291, 295n22; Angoisses, 68; Rondels, 68; Rondel chinois, 278, 282, 291 Disques Odéon, 566, 568–69, 571, 574, 576, 580n37 Disques Pathé, 571, 579n24 Dola, Georges, 113, 124n41 Doret, Gustave, 4 Dubois, Théodore, 59, 99n12, 103n47, 108, 396, 399; Notes et études d’harmonie, 396; Traité de contrepoint et de fugue, 399 Dukas, Paul, 4, 575 Dumesnil, Maurice, 3, 256, 554 Dumesnil, René, 562; La musique en France entre les deux guerres 1919– 1939, 562 Dunoyer, Cecilia, 515–16 Duparc, Henri, 88, 590, 593; Au pays où se fait la guerre, 88; Le galop, 88; Le manoir de Rosemonde, 88; La vague et la cloche, 88 Dupin, Étienne, 109 Dupont, Paul, 113–14, 117–19 Durand, Émile, 226–27, 281 Durand, Jacques, 38, 41–47, 51, 54n7, 99n12, 108, 110–11, 233, 250, 256, 265–67, 272, 304, 340, 397, 410, 416, 477, 481, 600n41; Œuvres complètes (1985), 3, 23–25, 31, 38–40, 42–50, 52–53; Œuvres complètes (série V, Vol. 11, 2018), 267, 600n41 Durand-Costallat, 41, 516, 532, 549 Duret, Théodore, 170n9, 303

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index Earl of Ross March, 39 Eastman School of Music (Rochester), 24 Eco, Umberto, 148 École des Beaux-Arts, 129 Eimert, Herbert, 29, 505 Elder, Mark, 52 Eliot, Thomas Stearns, 228, 237, 244 Elgar, Edward, 46 Elkan-Vogel, 2 Emmanuel, Maurice, 225–30, 297n48, 581, 588, 590–91, 594 Engel, Carl, 294n3 Erlanger, Camille, 181–82 Erard, 21 Ernst, Alfred, 179 Eschig, Max, 114–15 exoticism (also exotic), 6–7, 13n22, 24, 148, 161, 172n34, 272–73, 275, 279, 281, 290, 302, 312, 315, 324n52, 535, 538 Fabre, Gabriel, 102n42 Falla, Manuel de, 258–59, 289 Falkenberg, Georges, 563, 578n9; Les pédales du piano, 563 Fauré, Gabriel, 4, 9, 46, 108, 128, 255, 376, 390n47, 576, 580n37, 590, 593; Masques et bergamasques, 580n37; Poèmes d’un jour, 128 Fayard, 28 Février, Jacques, 52 Five, The, 252, 412. See also Borodin, Alexander; Mighty Handful; Mussorgsky, Modest; Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai; Russian composers Flaxland, 66, 103n51 Focillon, Henri, 133–34, 160; Vie des formes, 133 Folies-Dramatiques, 111–12 Fondation Royaumont, 71, 75–76, 90, 259–60. See also Bibliothèque musicale François Lang Fontaines, (Belgian sculptor), 312 Forte, Allen, 4, 29; Structure of Atonal Music, 4

De Medicis.indd 617

❧ 617

Foster, Nigel, 34n8, 272 Fra Angelico, 129 Franck, César, 59–60, 99n13, 215, 294n3, 420, 590, 593 French Radio Orchestra, 575 Fromont, Eugène, 108, 249. See also Jobert Fuchs, Henriette, 228 Fux, Johann Joseph, 397 Gallet, Louis, 223n61 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 347 Gaillard, Marius-François, 2, 8, 562–77, 577n2, 578n10, 578n15, 579n24, 580n34, 580n37; “KiFong” (Mélodies chinoises), 564–65; Mélodies chinoises, 564–65; Sortilèges exotiques, 576 Galerie Durand-Ruel, 303 Galerie Georges Petit, 303 García, Manuel, 532; Traité complet de l’art du chant, 532 Garden, Mary, 3, 25, 51, 517–18, 532–33 Gardiner, John Eliot, 22–23, 52 Gardner, Errol, 46 Gasparin, Edith de, 97n4 Gassier, Alfred, 60, 101n21 Gauguin, Paul, 129–31, 324n62 Gauthier-Villars, Henry, 60. See also L’Ouvreuse du Cirque d’Été; Willy Gauthiez, Pierre, 408 Gautier, Jeanne, 571 Gautier, Judith, 252n29. See also Mendès, Judith Gautier, Théophile, 106–7, 281–83, 292; “Séguidille,” 281–83, 292 Gaveau (piano), 566 Gedalge, André, 254, 399, 415; Third Symphony in F major, 415; Traité de la fugue, 399 Geffroy, Gustave, 303 German Universum Film-Aktien, 580n35 Gevaert, François-Auguste, 161; Histoire et théorie de la musique de l’antiquité, 161

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618

❧ index

Gibbons, William, 132, 134, 148, 150, 172n26 Gide, André, 148 Gieseking, Walter, 50, 567, 572, 577 Gilbert, William Schwenck, 273; The Mikado, 273 Gillet, François, 557–58 Giotto, 129 Girod, Veuve, 111 Giroud, Vincent, 216n5 Glazunov, Alexander, 201 Glinka, Mikhaïl, 200, 257, 505; Ruslan and Lyudmila, 505 Glyndebourne, 33 Godard, Amédée, 111, 181; L’Amour qui passe, 111 Godard, Benjamin, 181–82; Jocelyn, 181 Godet, Robert, 6, 39, 78–79, 109, 134, 217n7, 301, 305, 307–8, 314–15, 317, 320n6, 321n14, 581, 590–91, 595–96 Godowsky, Leopold, 570, 572 Godøy, Rolf Inge, 333 Goebbels, Joseph, 576, 580n36 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 87, 230; The Erl-King, 87 Goncourt, Edmond, 273, 319, 323n49; L’intérieur du flot en face de Kanagawa (à Tokaïdô), 319 Goncourt brothers, Edmond and Jules, 273, 323n49 Gonse, Louis, 303, 321n11; L’art japonais, 303 Goujon, Jean-Paul, 27 Gould, Glenn, 21 Gounod, Charles, 60, 100n15, 108, 228, 232; Faust, 112; Mireille, 112 Gounod, Jean, 60 Gouzien, Armand, 179 Goya, Francisco de, 7, 297n42 Grainger, Percy, 570, 572 Granados, Enrique, 289, 564, 571; Goyescas, 571 Grandmougin, Charles, 128 Grieg, Edvard, 226 Grimm, Jacob, 334 Grimm, Wilhelm, 334

De Medicis.indd 618

Groneman, Isaäc, 307; De gamĕlan te Jogjåkărtå, 307 Groux, Henry de, 7 Guégan, Stéphane, 32, 35n16 Guette, Raoul de la, 111 Guinand, Edouard, 3 Guiraud, Ernest, 227–28, 230, 254, 281, 296n34, 333, 395, 415–16 Haas, Monique, 577n6 Hading, Jane, 111 Haguenauer, Jean-Louis, 50 Hahn, Reynaldo, 376 Hambourg, Mark, 570, 573, 579n22 Hamelle, 110, 114, 119, 123n16 Harunobu, Suzuki, 313 Hartmann, 234, 322n35 Hatten, Robert, 336, 338 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 567, 571 Hébert, Ernest, 229, 598n18 Hébert, Mme Gabrielle (Gabrielle d’Uckermann), 108, 118, 585 Heidsieck (Family), 59 Helffer, Claude, 577n6 Henle, 2, 47, 51, 55n21 Hermite, Tristan l’, 137, 163 Hess, Myra, 570–71, 573 Hillemacher, Lucien, 181–82 Hiroshige, Utagawa, 129, 273, 279, 304, 306, 312–14, 316, 318, 324n50, 324n62; The Bridge in the Rain, 273, 279; Fifty-Three Stations of the Tôkaidô, 316, 318; Flowering Plum Tree, 273; Une pagode dans un parc, 304, 306 Hoérée, Arthur, 2, 53n2, 108, 114, 119 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 436; Conseiller Krespel (The Cremona Violin), 78; The Tales of Hoffmann, 78 Hokusai, Katsushika, 7, 129, 273, 301, 312–16, 319–20, 320n6, 323n49, 324n50, 325n74; From the Sea Off the Coast of Kanagawa, 319; Great Wave off Kanagawa, 273, 319; Manga, 314– 16, 318; Mount Fuji Seen Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji, 312; View Offshore

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index from Kanagawa Beneath the Wave, 319; The Wave, 319 Honegger, Arthur, 576; Le roi David, 576 Hüe, Georges, 181–82 Hugo, Victor, 162 Hyspa, Vincent, 113, 138, 401 Ibert, Jacques, 108 Immerseel, Jos van, 21 Impressionism, 7–9, 20, 24, 129, 177, 303, 315, 317, 513 Inayat Khan, 305 Indy, Vincent d’, 4, 59, 99n13, 100n17, 108, 176–82, 184, 215, 220n34, 222n48, 254; Le chant de la cloche, 178, 180, 182; Cours de composition musicale, 220n34; Fervaal, 178–79, 182, 184, 218n18, 220n34; Un jour d’été à la montagne, 59; Symphonie cévenole, 220n48; Wallenstein, 100n17, 178, 222n48 Inghelbrecht, Désiré-Émile, 3, 29, 53, 575 Jackendoff, Ray, 5; Generative Theory of Tonal Music, 4–5. See also Lerdahl, Fred Jacob, Maxime, 593 Jankélévitch, Vladimir, 351n37, 378, 380, 389n29 Japon artistique, Le, 129, 168, 170n9, 294n7, 303 japonism (also japonist), 129–30, 168, 170n9, 301–3 Jarocinski, Stefan, 7 Jean-Aubry, Georges, 79, 113, 119 Jobert (music editor), 2, 108. See also Fromont, Eugène Jolivet, André, 577n2 Joncières, Victorin, 179 Joos, Maxime, 319 Joy, Geneviève, 578n6 Joyce, James, 40; Finnegans Wake, 40 Kabisch, Thomas, 46 Kabuki theater, 310–11, 313, 323n43 Kaiser, Henri, 99n12

De Medicis.indd 619

❧ 619

Kandinsky, Vassily, 363 Kaslik, Vaslav, 32 Katz, Adele, 4, 397–98 Kawakami, Otojirô, 310–11 Kerst, Léon, 179 Kerval, Henry, 59–60. See also Kunkelmann, Henry Kieffer, Alexandra, 351n37 Kihei, Sanoya, 316 Koechlin, Charles, 57, 163, 220n36, 225–26, 228–29, 231, 244, 248, 254– 55, 259–62, 266, 564, 575, 581–82, 588, 590–95 Koechlin, Raymond, 303 Kunichika, Toyohara, 129 Kuniyoshi, Utagawa, 129–30; The Wrath of Igagoe, 130 Kunkelmann, Ferdinand, 59 Kunkelmann, Henry, 5, 9, 57–65, 68, 71–74, 76–79, 81–90, 99n12, 100n15, 100n17, 101n21, 101n25, 294n3; Andante, 60; Ave Maria, 59; “En avril,” 60; “Marche au calvaire,” 60; “Les plus belles fleurs,” 60; Serenade, 60; Valse, 59; Wedding March, 60. See also Kerval, Henry Kunkelmann, Lucie (Countess Cafarelli), 59–60 Kunkelmann, Théodore, 59 Kunkelmann manuscripts, 5, 57–104, 278, 294n3. See also L’archet; Chanson des brises; “Les elfes”; “Fête galante”; “Le matelot qui tombe à l’eau”; “Non les baisers d’amour”; “Pierrot”; Rêverie; “Romance,” Rondel chinois; “Les roses”; Le zéphyr Kurth, Ernst, 505 La Tombelle, Fernand de, 99n12 Lado-Bordowski, Yves, 65 Laforgue, Jules, 79 Lalo, Édouard, 110, 590 Laloy, Louis, 2, 36n23, 113, 119, 256, 293n1, 310, 312, 397–99, 415, 477, 574–75, 582; Claude Debussy, 113; La musique chinoise, 310

11/28/2018 6:24:45 PM

620

❧ index

Landormy, Paul, 226–27, 590–91, 596 Lang Lang, 573 Laparcerie, Cora (Marie-Caroline), 60 Launay, Georges, 179 Lauwe, Eric Van, 90, 584 Lavoix, Henri, 167, 173n55; Histoire de la musique, 167 Lazare-Lévy, 563 Lecocq, Charles, 111–12; La fille de Madame Angot, 111; La marjolaine, La, 111; Le petit duc, 112; La princesse des Canaries, 111 Leconte de Lisle, Charles-Marie-René, 23–24, 58, 78–79, 83, 87, 96, 97nn3– 4; Églogue, 78; Les elfes, 58, 96, 97nn3–4; La fille aux cheveux de lin, 23–24, 78; Jane, 78; Poèmes antiques, 78; Poèmes barbares, 58, 78 Lefébure, Yvonne, 577n6 Leighton, Angela, 133–34, 160; On Form, 133 Leoncavallo, Ruggero, 108 Lerner, Bennett, 50 Lerolle, Henry, 26, 312, 364 Leroux, Charles, 308; Airs japonais et chinois, 308 Leroux, Xavier, 177, 181–82, 228 Leschetizsky, Theodor, 519, 520, 522, 526, 538, 549, 551 lettres françaises, Les, 576 Leyssieux, Florence, 305, 322n25 liberté, La, 180 Library of Congress, 294n3 libre esthétique, La, 314 Liszt, Franz, 108, 200, 222n48, 514, 526, 530; Eine Faust Symphonie, 200 Li-Tai-Po, 564 Lockspeiser, Edward, 1, 7, 19–20, 26, 28–30, 36n22, 170n9, 324n62, 347, 578n9; Debussy: His Life and Mind, 19–20, 36n22; Music and Painting, 20 London Peters Edition, 46–47, 49 London Song Festival, 272 London World’s Fair (1862), 303

De Medicis.indd 620

Long, Marguerite, 3, 332, 515, 531, 570; At the Piano with Debussy, 515 Loriod, Yvonne, 577n6 Lot, Louis, 21 Louvre, Museum, 281, 312 Louÿs, Pierre, 27, 35n14, 127, 136, 148– 50, 161–62, 173n49, 217n7, 293n1, 313; “La chevelure,” 136, 148, 150; “La flûte de pan,” 136, 149, 150; “Le tombeau des naïades,” 136 Lugné-Poe, Aurélien-Marie, 31, 37n35 Maeterlinck, Maurice, 27, 29, 31–34, 37n35, 215, 354–55, 357–58, 363–64, 377, 389n24; Carnets de travail, 27; La princesse Maleine, 215 Magnard, Albéric, 4, 177, 181–82, 184, 218n13, 220n34; Yolande, 177, 184, 220n34 Mahler, Gustav, 132, 176, 217n6, 256, 420 Mallarmé, Geneviève (Mme E. Bonniot), 388n7 Mallarmé, Stéphane, 7, 26, 127, 138, 149, 162, 167, 168–69, 244, 303, 321n14, 366–67, 362, 369, 371, 373, 376–81, 383–87, 388n1, 388n7, 388n10, 391n56, 593; “Apparition,” 388n10; “Autre éventail,” 388n7; “Éventail,” 366, 371, 377, 379, 383, 388n1; “Placet futile,” 388n10; “Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,” 162; “Sainte,” 390n37; “Soupir,” 366–67, 376, 379, 388n1, 388n3, 388n10 Mallord, Joseph, 7 Manet, Édouard, 321n13; Olympe, 321n13; Portrait d’Émile Zola, 321n13 Marmontel, Antoine-François, 228, 563 Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 334 Marx, Roger, 129, 170n6 Mascagni, Pietro, 108, 230 Massenet, Jules, 4, 5, 9, 108–9, 177, 180–82, 184, 200, 225–32, 234, 237– 38, 244, 248, 252n34, 254, 273, 415, 593–94; Le cid, 108, 273; Ève, 230; Grisélidis, 230; Hérodiade, 227, 232,

11/28/2018 6:25:03 PM

index 234, 238; Le mage, 109, 200; Manon, 227, 232; Phèdre, 230; Le roi de Lahore, 182, 184, 232, 273; Werther, 182, 230 Matisse, Henri, 128, 317 Matthias, Georges, 563 Mauté de Fleurville, Antoinette, 514 McCombie, Elizabeth, 379 McGuinness, Patrick, 377 Meck, Nadezhda von, 201, 228, 281, 296n33 Méliès, Georges, 576; Les hallucinations du Baron de Münchhausen, 576 Mendès, Catulle, 177, 215 Mendès, Judith, 68, 252n29; Le livre de Jade, 68. See Gautier, Judith Mérimée, Prosper, 35n14 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 378 Messager, André, 112, 325n75, 575; La fauvette du temple, 112; François les bas bleus, 112 Messiaen, Olivier, 204, 563 Meyer, Marcelle, 577n6 Mighty Handful, 201. See also Borodin, Alexander; Five, The; Mussorgsky, Modest; Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai; Russian composers Mikuli, Karol, 530–31 Milhaud, Darius, 571, 590; Saudades do Brasil, 571 Moiseiwitsch, Benno, 570, 572 Molié, Denise, 570 Molinari, Bernardino, 256 Monet, Claude, 30, 273, 303, 312, 320, 324n62 Monsieur Croche, 10, 161, 583 Monteux, Pierre, 3, 53 Moreau, Gustave, 7 Moreau-Sainti, Victorine, 24, 64, 66, 288 Moreto, Agustín, 60; San Gil de Portugal, 60 Morin, Philippe, 566 Mourey, Gabriel, 29 “Mouvements unis de la Résistance,” 576

De Medicis.indd 621

❧ 621

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 257, 264, 267, 419, 549, 551, 571, 575, 580n35; Fantasia in C Minor, 549, 551; Larghetto, 549, 551; The Magic Flute, 419 Mueller, Richard, 221n44 Musée de l’Orangerie, 31 Musée des arts décoratifs, 304 Musée d’Orsay, 110 Musset, Alfred de, 106, 281, 288, 293; Contes d’Espagne et d’Italie, 281 Mussorgsky, Modest, 204–5, 259, 590, 593, 595; Boris Godunov, 204–5. See also Five, The; Mighty Handful; Russian composers Nabis, 128, 130 Nanga School, 320, 325n76 Nat, Yves, 563 naturalism, 180 neo-traditionalism, 129 Nijinsky, Vaslav, 307, 476–77, 486, 500 Norrington, Roger, 23 Noske, Frits, 88 Odéon, 60 Opéra Garnier, 60, 110, 200, 515. See also Académie nationale de musique Opéra-Comique, 4, 22, 179, 215, 218n18, 219n29, 296n33 Orchestre Symphonique Marius-François Gaillard, 574–75 Orléans, Charles d’, 163 Ousset, Cécile, 572 Paderewski, Ignacy Jan, 22, 515, 526, 558, 570–72, 579n27 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 396 Paris illustré, 40 Paris World Fairs: 290; “1878,” 201, 303, 321n18; “1889,” 4, 7, 176, 199, 221n44, 279, 301, 305, 307, 311, 313–14, 322n34; “1900,” 7, 294n7, 308, 310, 311, 313, 323n48 Parnassian, 26, 78 parodie, La, 102n42 Pater, Walter, 133

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622

❧ index

Pedrell, Felipe, 290 Peres Da Costa, Neal, 518; Off the Record, 518 Perlemuter, Vlado, 52, 577n6 Pessard, Émile, 103n51, 179; Les joyeusetés de bonne compagnie, 103n51 Peter, René, 36n23, 217n7, 316, 321n14, 420 Petit théâtre, 110 Photiadès, Constantin, 57–58, 76, 97n4, 98n4 piano roll, 4, 8, 22, 25, 42–44, 54n17, 513–61, 567, 570–71, 573; Peyela, 571; Welte-Mignon, 42–43, 46, 47, 53n6, 515–18, 559n20, 567, 573 Picasso, Pablo, 128 Pich, Edgar, 78 Pierné, Gabriel, 108, 181–82, 217n7, 265, 271n24, 581 Pillement, Jean-Baptiste, 304–5, 322n22 Piper (Family), 59 Pissarro, Camille, 324n62 Planès, Alain, 21, 50 Pleyel (piano), 566 Poe, Edgar Allan, 23, 27, 39; The Devil in the Belfry, 39; The Fall of the House of Usher, 39 Pommeraye, Henri de la, 179 Poniatowski, André, 230 Popelin, Claudius, 585 Popelin, Gustave, 30 post-Impressionism, 26, 128, 130, 513 post-romanticism, 513 Pougin, Arthur, 179 Poulenc, Francis, 48 Powell, John, 538–39 Prado, Museum, 281, 296n31 Prague Philharmonic, 575 pre-Raphaelite, 7, 32–33, 37n35 Primoli, Giuseppe Napoleone, 108 Prix de la ville de Paris, 215 Prix de Rome, 5, 107, 110, 176, 215, 227–28, 232, 237, 254, 281, 297n39, 396, 415, 420, 514, 583 Proust, Marcel, 315, 380, 385; Le temps retrouvé, 380

De Medicis.indd 622

Prunières, Henry, 6, 57, 97n1, 294n3, 581–83, 585, 586–88, 591–92, 594– 96, 599n31. 600n43; Le tombeau de Debussy, 583 Puccini, Giacomo, 108 Pugno, Raoul, 177, 515 Rabaud, Henri, 108 Rachmaninov, Sergei, 46, 570 Radio Paris, 575 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 52, 396, 574– 75; Castor et Pollux, 574; Les fêtes de Polymnie, 396 Ravel, Maurice, 9, 20, 46, 108, 254–55, 258–59, 267, 269, 271n27, 281, 295n29, 303, 376, 388n1, 564, 590, 593; Boléro, 295n29; L’heure espagnole, 295n29; Rapsodie espagnole, 295n29; Sites auriculaires, 295n29; Trois poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé, 388n1 Reber, Napoléon Henri, 181 Reihe, Der, 29 Reinecke, Carl, 549, 551 Renoir, Pierre-Auguste, 30 Resink, Gertrudes Johannes, 307, 322n30 Reyer, Ernest, 108, 181–82, 227 Richault, 60 Richepin, Jean, 110 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 10, 200–203, 222n48, 254, 429; The Maid of Pskov (Pskovityanka), 200–203, 222n48; Scheherazade, 428–29, 431; Snegurockka, 10. See also Five, The; Mighty Handful; Russian composers Risler, Edouard, 563 Rivière, Henry, 312; Les trente-six vues de la Tour Eiffel, 312 Rochegrosse, Georges, 110 Rodin, Auguste, 314, 324n62, 377; La cathédrale, 377 Roederere (Family), 59 Rogé, Pascal, 572 Rosenthal, Moriz, 570 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 7, 29 Roth, François-Xavier, 21, 98n5 Rouen-Artiste, 68, 275

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index Rousseau, Henri (le Douanier), 21 Royal College of Music, 20, 24 Rubinstein, Ida, 260 Ruskin, John, 315; The Bible of Amiens, 315 Russian composers, 4–5, 226, 595. See also Borodin, Alexander; Five, The; Mighty Handful; Mussorgsky, Modest; Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai Said, Edward, 272 Saint-René Taillandier, Dagmar, 97n4 Saint-René Taillandier, Gabriel, 60, 97n4, 99n12 Saint-Saëns, Camille, 108, 110, 181–82, 227, 535, 537, 563; Samson et Dalila, 110 Salabert, 2, 108, 114–15, 119 Salle Gaveau, 564, 571, 574, 576, 577n2 Salle Pleyel, 574–76 salon indépendant, Le, 169 Salzer, Felix, 4, 397–98 Satie, Érik, 4, 27, 254–55, 267, 422, 424, 593; Gymnopédies, 267; Prélude to Le fils des étoiles, 422, 424 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 380; Course in General Linguistics, 380 Savard, Augustin, 179, 218n19 Saxe (porcelain), 304 Schaeffner, André, 222n56, 575 Schenker, Heinrich, 4, 29, 396–98, 415, 416n6, 420, 474n10; Der Freie Statz, 396, 415 Schmitt, Florent, 254, 576 Schmitz, Élie Robert, 3, 341, 515, 538, 540, 549, 552, 570 Schoenberg, Arnold, 1, 8, 193, 420 Schoenewerk (editor), 110–11 Schola Cantorum, 254 Schott (editor), 2, 40, 566 Schubert, Franz, 5, 49, 87, 128, 132, 326, 330–31, 334–38, 341–42, 420, 575; The Erl-King, 87; Impromptu, Op. 90, No. 2, 420; Valse noble, Op. 77, No. 6, 326, 330, 334–35, 337–38 Schumann, Robert, 128, 131–32, 256, 396; Dichterliebe, 131; Six Études in

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❧ 623

the form of a canon for a piano or pedal organ, Op. 56, 396 Scriabin, Alexander, 4 Second Viennese School, 4 Segalen, Victor, 264, 293n1 Serpette, Gaston, 112; Le château de TireLarigot, 112 Sérusier, Paul, 130–31, 134; La cueillette des pommes, 130–31, 134 (“Triptych of Pont-Aven”) Servières, Georges, 116 Shakespeare, William, 29; Lady Macbeth, 363 Sharaku, 321n13 Sheppard, Craig, 50 Shi, Su (Su Tung-Po), 303 Shostakovitch, Dmitri, 255 siècles, Les, 21 sirène musicale, La, 113–14 Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, 574 Société nouvelle d’éditions musicales, 113, 116, 118–19 Société nationale de musique (SNM), 4, 128, 177, 201, 217n9, 222n48 Sorbonne, University, 128 Souffrin, Eileen, 26 Soult, Marshal, 281 Stadsarchief Gent, 29 Stein, Peter, 32 Steinway, 21–22 Stenzl, Jürg, 22 Stevens, Alfred, 321n14 Stevens, Leopold, 321n14 Stoullig, Edmond, 376–77 Strauss, Richard, 108, 176, 217n6, 264 Stravinsky, Igor, 1, 4–5, 9–10, 27, 176, 255, 262–64, 273–74, 321n13, 468, 476, 477–79, 482, 485–86, 489, 505, 507n7, 508n21, 508n26, 509n33, 510n42, 510n44; The Firebird, 485, 489; Mouvements, 482; Petrushka, 262–64, 477–78, 485; Le sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring), 10, 476–79; Symphonies of Wind Instruments, 5, 482, 485, 510n44

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624

❧ index

Sullivan, Arthur, 273; The Mikado, 273 Svoboda, Josef, 32 Symbolism, 7–9, 20, 24, 26, 32–33, 129, 131, 143, 168, 177, 303, 315, 354, 378–79 Synnestvedt, Magnus, 310 Tanguy, Julien François (Père Tanguy), 273 Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich, 281, 296n33, 420; Swan Lake, 281 Teatro Opera in Buenos Aires, 566 Telefunken, 517, 559n14 Thaulow, Frits, 7 Théâtre de la Monnaie (Brussels), 4 Théâtre des Ambassadeurs, 575 Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, 566–67, 571, 574 Théâtre des Nouveautés, 112 Théâtre du Capitole (Toulouse), 112 Théâtre du Casino (Dieppe), 111 Théâtre Gérard Philippe (Saint-Denis), 32 Thomas, Ambroise, 103n47, 108 Tinan, Hélène de, 559n14 Tellier, Henri, 59 Teyte, Maggie, 3, 25 Tiersot, Julien, 307–11, 313, 322n34, 323n36; Piece for koto, 311; “Yuki no Ahista”, 309 Timbrell, Charles, 515–16 Tortelier, Yan Pascal, 52 Toscanini, Arturo, 53, 102n40 Tosi, Pierfrancesco, 531 Toulet, Paul-Jean, 217n7, 293n1 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 7, 303, 320 Toussaint, Franz, 564 Toyokuni, 170n9 Truc, Georges, 26 Turner, William, 7 union littéraire des poètes et prosateurs, L’, 68–70, 275 Ukiyo-e, 130, 168, 273, 279, 313 Urtext, 25, 44, 49–50

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Utamaro, Kitagawa, 129, 273, 275, 312– 14, 323n49; Portrait of Wakatsuru, 275 Valéry, Paul, 378 Vallas, Léon, 6, 28, 36nn22–23, 418n34, 582, 590, 592, 594–96, 599n31, 600n43, 601n62; Claude Debussy et son temps, 594 Van Gogh, Vincent, 129–31, 168–69, 273, 279, 303, 312 Varèse, Edgard, 562, 577n2; Intégrales, 562, 577n2 Varney, Louis, 112; L’amour mouillé, 112; Les petits mousquetaires, 112 Vasnier (family), 176, 582 Vasnier, Henri, 215, 229, 238, 581–85, 593 Vasnier, Marguerite, 68, 278, 582–83, 587 Vasnier, Marie-Blanche, 24, 26, 30, 57, 59, 61, 68, 86, 89, 102n40, 103n51, 103, 105–9, 122n4, 143, 177, 219n28, 238, 244, 251, 275, 278, 282, 288, 297n41, 373–74, 583, 585–87, 593–94 Vasnier manuscript, 2, 61–66, 68, 71–74, 76–77, 89, 94, 102n37, 105–6, 108, 113–15, 117–18, 120–21, 143, 278, 282, 288, 426, 583, 591. See also Debussy, Recueil Vasnier Velázquez, Diego, 281, 321n13 Verdi, Giuseppe, 108, 420–21; Falstaff, 420 Verhaeren, Émile, 168 Verlaine, Paul, 26–27, 46, 58, 79, 89, 105–10, 127–28, 134–36, 139, 143, 148, 162–63, 168, 280, 295n25, 295n28, 376, 379, 388n10, 390n51, 593; “L’absente,” 109; Fêtes galantes, 134, 162, 295n25, 390n51; Sagesse, 134, 139 Vick, Graham, 33 Vidal, Paul, 103n51, 108, 110, 177, 227–28, 294n13, 514, 590; “Marche du roi nègre,” 110

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index Villa Médicis, 30, 105, 108, 110, 118, 281, 514, 583, 585 Villon, François, 138, 167–68, 267, 592 Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, 3 Viñes, Ricardo, 3, 42, 54n7, 265, 289, 566, 570–72, 577, 579n26 Vitez, Antoine, 33 Vitu, Auguste, 179 Vuillard, Édouard, 26, 303 Vuillermoz, Émile, 318, 575–76, 592, 601n63 Walter, Désiré, 256 Wagner, Richard, 1, 4, 5, 9, 31, 59, 87, 102n42, 146, 149, 160–62, 166–68, 173n49, 175–80, 193, 200–201, 214, 218n15, 218n19, 220n34, 222n48, 225–26, 229–31, 238, 244, 248, 252n29, 262, 264, 308, 311, 354–55, 420–22, 479, 505, 515, 590, 593; Götterdämmerung (Le crépuscule des dieux), 200, 222n48, 420; Die Meistersinger (Les maîtres chanteurs), 178, 420; Parsifal, 60, 229, 262, 264; Das Rheingold, 177, 420, 515; The Ring, 59, 82, 505; Ring of the Nibelungs (Anneau des Nibelungen), 420; Tannhäuser, 161, 220n34; Tristan chord, 146–47, 155,

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❧ 625

160–62, 166, 244, 248, 262, 422–23, 431, 461; Tristan und Isolde (Tristan et Iseult), 87, 160–61, 229, 230, 238, 244, 248, 251, 422–23; Die Walküre, 87, 200 Watteau, Antoine, 26–27, 256, 273, 279, 304; L’embarquement pour Cythère, 256; Fêtes galantes, 26–27 Weber, Carl Maria von, 420; Der Freischütz, 420 Welsh National Opera, 32 Welte, Edwin, 516 Whistler, James Abbott McNeill, 7 Widor, Charles-Marie, 108, 254; Technique de l’orchestre moderne, 254 Wilder, Victor, 177, 179 Wiener Urtext, 44 Willette, Adolphe, 109–10 Willy, 60, 100n17. See also GauthierVillars, Henry Wolfson, Susan, 133 Woman’s Weekly, 564 Wood, Henry, 237 Woodfull-Harris, Thomas, 47 Zimmerman, Pierre, 563 Zola, Émile, 9, 177, 223n61, 321n13; L’attaque du moulin, 223n61; La débâcle, 223n61

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668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620-2731, USA PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.urpress.com

Debussy’s Resonance Edited by

François de Médicis

8 and

Steven Huebner

8

8

8 8

Cover image: Léon Bakst, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, 1912. © CNAC/MNAM/ Dist. RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY.

Edited by

FRANÇOIS DE MÉDICIS is professor of music at the Université de Montréal. STEVEN HUEBNER is professor of music at McGill University.

de Médicis

CONTRIBUTORS: Katherine Bergeron, Matthew Brown, David J. Code, Mark DeVoto, Michel Duchesneau, David Grayson, Denis Herlin, Jocelyn Ho, Roy Howat, Steven Huebner, Julian Johnson, Barbara L. Kelly, Richard Langham Smith, Mark McFarland, François de Médicis, Robert Orledge, Boyd Pomeroy, Caroline Rae, Marie Rolf, August Sheehy

and

“A major contribution to the theoretical study of Debussy’s musical structures. The articles, which include fascinating reflections on the rediscovery of early Debussy works and the creation of the complete edition and, most strikingly, a rich and extensive body of essays on the analysis of his music, are at the cutting edge of Debussy scholarship. The volume will become a staple in future work on Debussy.” —Simon Trezise, Trinity College Dublin

8

Debussy’s Resonance

he music of Claude Debussy has always been widely beloved by listeners and performers alike, more perhaps than that of any of the other pioneers of musical modernism. However rich in itself, his creative output also participated, and continues to participate, in a network of cultural connections, the scope and meaning of which can only be gleaned through multiple interpretive frameworks. Debussy’s Resonance offers twenty new studies by some of the most active and respected English- and French-language scholars of French music. The book treats a large swath of the composer’s music, from previously unexplored mélodies of his early years to late pieces such as the ballet Jeux and the Douze Études, and takes into consideration the numerous contexts that helped shape the works and the different ways that musicologists and critics have explained them.

Huebner

T