Introduction
Image: 1st scene of L’enfant et les sortilèges, as performed at the Paris première at the Théâtre de l’Opéra-Comique on 1 February 1926 (Durand et Cie; available via Gallica under
RAVEL 150 – A CELEBRATION
IN THREE PARTS, WITH THOMAS HAMPSON AND SYLVAIN FORT
- THE MÉLODIES – THOMAS HAMPSON
- THE OPERAS – SYLVAIN FORT
Hosted and Produced by Jon Tolansky, who provides this introduction
The legendary composer Maurice Ravel was born on the 7th of March 1875. The Hampsong Foundation celebrates his genius in vocal music with two in-depth podcasts investigating a selection from his mélodies and his two operas.
The selected mélodies are discussed by Thomas Hampson, whose stature both as a very great virtuoso baritone and a profoundly erudite scholar needs no introduction here. The mélodies podcast runs for a little over 1 hour 33 minutes, and it also contains some additional comments from the biographer of Ravel, the scholar and author Roger Nichols, whose highly lauded book is widely admired as the finest historical reference on Ravel – his comments are provided, with his kind permission, from Jon Tolansky’s archive.
The two operas, L’heure espagnole and L’enfant et les sortilèges, are discussed by Sylvain Fort, one of the world’s most highly acclaimed scholars, authors and experts not only on Ravel but also on a wide diversity of artistic and indeed additionally other subjects and genres. The opera podcast is in two parts: part one is L’heure espagnole, running for nearly 54 minutes, and part two is L’enfant et les sortilèges, running for a little over 57 minutes.
RAVEL 150 - A CELEBRATION OF THE MÉLODIES - THOMAS HAMPSON
Thumbnail image: Maurice Ravel in 1925 (Bibliothèque nationale de France)
Musical Illustrations – Mélodies (album information and song texts below):
Chants populaires: “Chanson espagnole” – Teresa Berganza & Dalton Baldwin
Chants populaires: “Mélodie italienne” – José van Dam & Dalton Baldwin
Histoires Naturelles: “Le Paon,” “Le Grillon,” “Le Martin-pêcheur” – Gabriel Bacquier & Dalton Baldwin
Mélodies hébraïques: “Kaddish” – José van Dam & Dalton Baldwin
Chansons Madécasses – Gérard Souzay & Maxence Larrieu (flute), Pierre Degenne (cello), Dalton Baldwin
Don Quichotte à Dulcinée – Martial Singher & Orchestre Pasdeloup, Piero Coppola
Ravel - Mélodies
Maurice Ravel
Chants populaires M A17 (1910)
1. Chanson espagnole
Teresa Berganza (mezzo-soprano)
José van Dam (baritone)
Gabriel Bacquier (baritone)
Dalton Baldwin (piano)
(Recorded: 1981 - 1983)
Warner Classics: 1984
Erato: 190295160333
Chanson espagnole
From CHANTS POPULAIRES
Ja qui te marchas pr'aguerra:
Non t'olvides d'aprendina
Quiche qued' a can'a terra.
La la la la ...
Castellanos de Castilla,
Tratade ben os grallegos:
Cando van, van como rosas,
Cando ven, ven como negros.
La la la la ...
Now that you are marching off to war
Don't forget to keep in touch
Wth those who are holding down the fort at home.
La la la la...
Castillans of Castille
Treat well the Galicians:
When they go, they go like roses,
When they come back, they come back as blacks.
La la la la...
Mélodie italienne
From CHANTS POPULAIRES
Vedo le mie miserie che sò granne!
Chiamo l'amòre mio, nun m'arrisponde!
I see my misery which is so great.
I call to my love, no one responds to me.
Le Paon (The Peacock)
From HISTOIRES NATURELLES – POEMS OF JULES RENARD (1864 – 1910)
Ce devait être pour hier. En habit de gala, il était prêt.
Il n’attendait que sa fiancée.
Elle n’est pas venue. Elle ne peut tarder.
Glorieux, il se promène avec une allure de prince indien
et porte sur lui les riches présents d’usage.
L’amour avive l’éclat de ses couleurs
et son aigrette tremble comme une lyre.
La fiancée n’arrive pas.
Il monte au haut du toit et regarde du côté du soleil.
Il jette son cri diabolique:
Léon! Léon!
C’est ainsi qu’il appelle sa fiancée.
Il ne voit rien venir et personne ne répond.
Les volailles habituées ne lèvent même point la tête.
Elles sont lasses de l’admirer.
Il redescend dans la cour,
si sûr d’être beau qu’il est incapable de rancune.
Son mariage sera pour demain.
Et, ne sachant que faire du reste de la journée,
il se dirige vers le perron.
Il gravit les marches, comme des marches de temple,
d’un pas officiel.
Il relève sa robe
à queue toute lourde des yeux qui n’ont pu se détacher d’elle.
Il répète encore une fois la cérémonie.
It was to have been yesterday. In full regalia he was ready.
It was only his bride he was waiting for.
She has not come. She cannot be long.
Proudly he processes the with air of an Indian prince,
bearing about his person the customary lavish gifts.
Love burnishes the brilliance of his colours,
and his crest quivers like a lyre.
His bride does not appear.
He ascends to the top of the roof and looks towards the sun.
He utters his devilish cry:
Léon! Léon!
It is thus that he summons his bride.
He can see nothing drawing near, and no one replies.
The fowls are used to all this and do not even raise their heads.
They are tired of admiring him.
He descends once more to the yard,
so sure of his beauty that he is incapable of resentment.
His marriage will take place tomorrow.
And, not knowing what to do for the rest of the day,
he heads for the flight of steps.
He ascends them, as though they were the steps of a temple,
with a formal tread.
He lifts his train,
heavy with eyes that have been unable to detach themselves.
Once more he repeats the ceremony.
Le Grillon (The Cricket)
From HISTOIRES NATURELLES – POEMS OF JULES RENARD (1864 – 1910)
l’insecte nègre revient de promenade
et répare avec soin le désordre de son domaine.
D’abord il ratisse ses étroites allées de sable.
Il fait du bran de scie
qu’il écarte au seuil de sa retraite.
Il lime la racine de cette grande herbe propre à le harceler.
Il se repose. Puis, il remonte sa minuscule montre.
A-t-il fini? Est-elle cassée? Il se repose encore un peu.
Il rentre chez lui et ferme sa porte.
Longtemps il tourne sa celf dans la serrure délicate.
Et il écoute: Point d’alarme dehors.
Mais il ne se trouve pas en sûreté.
Et comme par une chaînette dont la poulie grince,
il descend jusqu’au fond de la terre.
On n’entend plus rien.
Dans la campagne muette, les peupliers se dressent
comme des doigts en l’air et désignent la lune.
the black insect returns from his outing
and carefully restores order to his estate.
First he rakes his narrow sandy paths.
He makes sawdust
which he scatters on the threshold of his retreat.
He files the root of this tall grass likely to annoy him.
He rests. Then he winds up his tiny watch.
Has he finished? Is it broken? He rests again for a while.
He goes inside and shuts the door.
For an age he turns his key in the delicate lock.
And he listens: Nothing untoward outside.
But he does not feel safe.
And as if by a tiny chain on a creaking pulley,
he lowers himself into the bowels of the earth.
Nothing more is heard.
In the silent countryside the poplars rise
like fingers in the air, pointing to the moon.
Kaddish
From DEUX MÉLODIES HÉBRAÏQUES
Diverâ ’khire’ outhé veyamli’kh mal’khouté behayyé’khön,
ouvezome’khôu ouve’hayyé de’khol beth yisraël
ba’agalâ ouvizman qariw weimrou: Amen.
Yithbara’kh Weyischtaba’h weyith paêr weyithromam
weyithnassé weyithhaddar weyith’allé weyithhallal
scheméh dequoudschâ beri’kh hou, l’êla ule’êla
min kol bir’khatha weschiratha touschbehatha
wene’hamathâ daamirân ah! Be’olma ah!
We ïmrou: Amen.
who art to renew the world and resurrect the dead.
May thy reign, Adonaï, be proclaimed by us, the sons of Israel,
today, tomorrow, for ever. Let us all say: Amen.
May thy radiant name be loved, cherished, praised, glorified.
May it be blessed, sanctified, exalted, thy name which soars
above the heavens, above our praises, above our hymns,
above all our benisons. May merciful heaven grant us
tranquillity, peace, happiness. Ah!
Let us all say: Amen.
Le Martin-pêcheur (The Kingfisher)
From HISTOIRES NATURELLES – POEMS OF JULES RENARD (1864 – 1910)
Comme je tenais ma perche de ligne tendue,
un martin-pêcheur est venu s’y poser.
Nous n’avons pas d’oiseau plus éclatant.
Il semblait une grosse fleur bleue au bout d’une longue tige.
La perche pliait sous le poids.
Je ne respirais plus,
tout fier d’être pris pour un arbre par un martin-pêcheur.
Et je suis sûr qu’il ne s’est pas envolé de peur,
mais qu’il a cru qu’il ne faisait que passer
d’une branche à une autre.
As I was holding out my fishing rod,
a kingfisher came and perched on it.
We have no bird more brilliant.
He was like a great blue flower at the tip of a long stem.
The rod bent beneath the weight.
I held my breath,
so proud to be taken for a tree by a kingfisher.
And I’m sure he did not fly off from fear,
but thought he was simply flitting
from one branch to another.
Gérard Souzay - Ravel
Chansons madécasses
Gérard Souzay (baritone)
Maxence Larrieu (flute)
Pierre Degenne (cello)
Dalton Baldwin (piano)
Philips (Sequenza): 6527 154
CHANSONS MADÉCASSES
POEMS OF ÉVARISTE DE PARNY (1753 – 1814)
Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
L’oiseau nocturne a commencé ses cris,
la pleine lune brille sur ma tête,
et la rosée naissante humecte mes cheveux.
Voici l’heure; qui peut t’arrêter,
Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
Le lit de feuilles est préparé;
je l’ai parsemé de fleurs et d’herbes odoriférantes;
il est digne de tes charmes,
Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
Elle vient.
J’ai reconnu la respiration précipitée
que donne une marche rapide;
j’entends le froissement de la pagne
qui l’enveloppe; c’est elle,
c’est Nahandove, la belle Nahandove!
Reprends haleine, ma jeune amie;
repose-toi sur mes genoux.
Que ton regard est enchanteur!
Que le mouvement de ton sein est vif et délicieux
sous la main qui le presse!
Tu souris, Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
Tes baisers pénètrent jusqu’à l’âme;
tes caresses brûlent tous mes sens;
arrête, ou je vais mourir.
Meurt-on de volupté,
Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
Le plaisir passe comme un éclair.
Ta douce haleine s’affoiblit,
tes yeux humides se referment,
ta tête se penche mollement,
et tes transports s’éteignent dans la langueur.
Jamais tu ne fus si belle,
Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
Tu pars, et je vais languir dans les regrets et les désirs.
Je languirai jusqu’au soir. Tureviendras ce soir,
Nahandove, ô belle Nahandove!
~
AOUA
Aoua! Aoua! Méfiez-vous des blancs, habitans du rivage.
Du tems de nos pères, des blancs descendirent dans cette île.
On leur dit:
Voilà des terres, que vos femmes les cultivent;
soyez justes, soyez bons, et devenez nos frères.
Les blancs promirent,
et cependant ils faisoient des retranchements.
Un fort menaçant s’éleva;
le tonnerre fut renfermé dans des bouches d’airain;
leurs prêtres voulurent nous donner un Dieu
Que nous ne connoissons pas;
ils parlèrent enfin d’obéissance et d’esclavage.
Plûtot la mort!
Le carnage fut long et terrible;
mais malgré la foudre qu’ils vomissoient
et qui écrasoit des armées entières,
ils furent tous exterminés.
Aoua! Aoua! Méfiez-vous des blancs.
Nous avons vu de nouveaux tyrans,
plus forts et plus nombreux,
planter leur pavillons sur lerivage.
Le ciel a combattu pour nous.
Il a fait tomber sur eux les pluies,
les tempêtes et les vents empoisonnés.
Ils ne sont plus, et nous vivons,
et nous vivons libres. Aoua Aoua!
Méfiez-vous des blancs, habitans du rivage.
~
IL EST DOUX
Il est doux de se coucher, durant la chaleur,
sous un arbre touffu,
et d’attendre que le vent du soir amène la fraîcheur.
Femmes, approchez.
Tandis que je me repose ici sous un arbre touffu,
occupez mon oreille par vos accens prolongés.
Répétez la chanson de la jeune fille,
lorsque ses doigts tressent la natte,
ou lorsqu’assise auprès du riz,
elle chasse les oiseaux avides.
Le chant plaît à mon âme.
La danse est pour moi presque aussi douce qu’un baiser.
Que vos pas soient lents;
qu’ils imitent les attitudes du plaisir
et l’abandon de la volupté.
Le vent du soir se lève;
la lune commence à briller
au travers des arbres de la montagne.
Allez, et préparez le repas.
Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove!
The nocturnal bird has begun its cries,
the full moon shines overhead,
and the new-born dew moistens my hair.
Now is the hour; who can be delaying you,
Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove!
The bed of leaves is prepared;
I have strewn it with flowers and sweet-smelling herbs;
it is worthy of your charms,
Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove!
She comes.
I recognized her breathing,
quickened by her rapid walk;
I hear the rustle of the loin-cloth
wrapped around her; it is she,
it is Nahandove, lovely Nahandove!
Take breath, my little love;
rest on my lap.
How bewitching your gaze is!
How quick and delightful is the motion of your breast
beneath a caressing hand!
You smile, Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove!
Your kisses reach right into my soul;
your caresses set all my senses ablaze:
stop, or I shall die.
Can one die of delight,
Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove?
Pleasure passes like lightning.
Your sweet breath falters,
your moist eyes close,
your head falls gently forwards,
and your ecstasy dies, giving way to languor.
Never were you so lovely,
Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove!
You leave, and I shall languish in sorrow and desire.
I shall languish until evening.
You will return tonight, Nahandove, o lovely Nahandove!
~
AOUA
Aoua! Aoua! Beware of white men, dwellers of the shore.
In our fathers’ time, white men landed on this island;
they were told:
here are lands, let your women work them;
be just, be kind and become our brothers.
The white men made promises,
and yet they made entrenchments too.
A menacing fort was built;
thunder was stored in muzzles of cannon;
their priests pressed on us a God
we did not know;
they spoke finally of obedience and slavery.
Sooner death!
The carnage was long and terrible;
but despite the thunder they spewed
and which crushed whole armies,
they were all wiped out.
Aoua! Aoua! Beware of white men.
We have seen new tyrants,
stronger and more numerous,
setting their tents on the shore:
heaven has fought on our behalf;
has hurled rains upon them,
storms and poisoned winds.
They are no more, and we live,
and live in freedom. Aoua!
Beware of white men, dwellers of the shore.
~
IT IS SWEET
It is sweet to lie in the heat
beneath a leafy tree,
and wait for the coolness of the evening wind.
Women, draw near!
While I rest here beneath a leafy tree,
fill my ear with your long-drawn tones.
Sing the song of the young girl who,
when her fingers braid her plaits,
or when she sits beside the rice,
chases off the greedy birds.
Song pleases my soul;
dance is for me almost as sweet as a kiss.
Let your steps be slow;
let them mime the gestures of pleasure
and the abandon of passion.
The evening breeze begins to stir;
the moon begins to gleam
through trees on the mountainside.
Go, prepare the feast.
Don Quichotte à Dulcinée
Martial Singher (baritone)
Orchestre Pasdeloup
Piero Coppola (conductor)
Disque "Gramophone": DA-4866
Don Quichotte à Dulcinée
Text: PAUL MORAND (1888 – 1976)
Si vous me disiez que la terre
À tant tourner vous offensa,
Je lui dépêcherais Pança:
Vous la verriez fixe et se taire.
Si vous me disiez que l'ennui
Vous vient du ciel trop fleuri d'astres,
Déchirant les divins cadastres,
Je faucherais d'un coup la nuit.
Si vous me disiez que l'espace
Ainsi vidé ne vous plaît point,
Chevalier dieu, la lance au poing.
J'étoilerais le vent qui passe.
Mais si vous disiez que mon sang
Est plus à moi qu'à vous, ma Dame,
Je blêmirais dessous le blâme
Et je mourrais, vous bénissant.
Ô Dulcinée.
~
Chanson épique
Bon Saint Michel qui me donnez loisir
De voir ma Dame et de l'entendre,
Bon Saint Michel qui me daignez choisir
Pour lui complaire et la défendre,
Bon Saint Michel veuillez descendre
Avec Saint Georges sur l'autel
De la Madone au bleu mantel.
D'un rayon du ciel bénissez ma lame
Et son égale en pureté
Et son égale en piété
Comme en pudeur et chasteté:
Ma Dame.
(Ô grands Saint Georges et Saint Michel)
L'ange qui veille sur ma veille,
Ma douce Dame si pareille
À Vous, Madone au bleu mantel!
Amen.
~
Chanson à boire
Foin du bâtard, illustre Dame,
Qui pour me perdre à vos doux yeux
Dit que l'amour et le vin vieux
Mettent en deuil mon cœur, mon âme !
Je bois
À la joie !
La joie est le seul but
Où je vais droit ... lorsque j'ai bu !
Foin du jaloux, brune maîtresse,
Qui geint, qui pleure et fait serment
D'être toujours ce pâle amant
Qui met de l'eau dans son ivresse !
Je bois
À la joie !
La joie est le seul but
Où je vais droit ...
Lorsque j'ai bu !
Were you to tell that the earth
Offended you with so much turning,
I'd dispatch Panza to deal with it:
You'd see it still and silenced.
Were you to tell me that you are wearied
By a sky too studded with stars -
Tearing the divine order asunder,
I'd scythe the night with a single blow.
Were you to tell me that space itself,
Thus denuded was not to your taste -
As a god-like knight, with lance in hand,
I'd sow the fleeting wind with stars.
But were you to tell me that my blood
Is more mine, my Lady, than your own,
I'd pale at the admonishment
And, blessing you, would die.
O Dulcinea.
~
Epic Song
Good Saint Michael who gives me leave
To behold and hear my Lady,
Good Saint Michael who deigns to elect me
To please her and defend her,
Good Saint Michael, descend, I pray,
With Saint George onto the altar
Of the Madonna robed in blue.
With a heavenly beam bless my blade
And its equal in purity
And its equal in piety
As in modesty and chastity:
My Lady.
(O great Saint George and great Saint Michael)
Bless the angel watching over my vigil,
My sweet Lady, so like unto Thee,
O Madonna robed in blue!
Amen.
~
Drinking song
A pox on the bastard, illustrious Lady,
Who to discredit me in your sweet eyes,
Says that love and old wine
Are saddening my heart and soul!
I drink
To joy!
Joy is the only goal
To which I go straight... when I'm... drunk!
A pox on the jealous wretch, O dusky mistress,
Who whines and weeps and vows
Always to be this lily-livered lover
Who dilutes his drunkenness!
I drink
To joy!
Joy is the only goal
To which I go straight...
When I'm drunk!
RAVEL 150 - L'HEURE ESPAGNOLE - SYLVAIN FORT
Musical Illustration – L’heure espagnole
L’heure espagnole – Isabelle Druet, Frédéric Antoun, Marc Barraud, Luca Lombardo, Nicolas Courjal, Lyon National Orchestra, Leonard Slatkin
L’heure espagnole
Isabelle Druet
Frédéric Antoun
Marc Barraud
Luca Lombardo
Nicolas Courjal
Lyon National Orchestra
Leonard Slatkin (conductor)
Naxos: 8.660337
Synopsis: L’heure espagnole
Time: 18th century
Place: The workshop of the clockmaker Torquemada in Toledo, Spain.
The opera takes place in 21 scenes, with an introduction.
Torquemada is at work in his shop when the muleteer Ramiro stops by to have his watch fixed, so that he can fulfill his duties at collecting the town’s post. It is Thursday, the day that Torquemada goes out to tend the municipal clocks, so Ramiro must wait. Torquemada’s wife, Concepción, enters to complain that her husband hasn’t yet moved a clock into her bedroom. After Torquemada has left, she takes advantage of his absence to plan assignations with gentleman friends. However, the presence of Ramiro is initially a hindrance. So she asks him to move a grandfather clock to her bedroom, which he agrees to do.
Meanwhile, she waits for Gonzalve, a poet. He arrives, and is inspired to poetry, but not to lovemaking, where Concepción would prefer the latter. When Ramiro is about to return, she sends him back saying that she chose the wrong clock. She then has the idea of having Gonzalve hide in one clock so that Ramiro can carry him upstairs. After Gonzalve is concealed, Don Iñigo, a banker and another of Concepción’s gentleman friends, arrives. When Ramiro returns, she persuades him to carry up the clock with Gonzalve concealed in it, and she accompanies him.
On his own, Don Iñigo conceals himself in another clock. Ramiro enters, asked to watch the shop, and musing on how little he understands of women. Concepción then summons him back upstairs, saying that the clock’s hands are running backwards. She and Don Iñigo try to communicate, but Ramiro arrives back with the other clock. Don Iñigo has hidden himself again, and Ramiro now carries up the clock with Don Iñigo upstairs.
With Gonzalve now downstairs, Concepción tries to turn him away from poetry towards her, but Gonzalve is too absorbed to follow her lead. Ramiro returns, and Gonzalve must conceal himself again. He offers to take the second clock up again. Impressed by how easily Ramiro carries the clocks (and their load) upstairs, Concepción begins to be physically attracted to him.
With Gonzalve and Don Iñigo now each stuck in clocks, Torquemada returns from his municipal duties. Both Gonzalve and Don Inigo eventually escape their respective clock enclosures, the latter with more difficulty. To save face, they each have to purchase a clock. Concepción is now left without a clock, but she muses that she can wait for the muleteer to appear regularly with his watch repaired. The opera ends with a quintet finale, as the singers step out of character to intone the moral of the tale, paraphrasing Boccaccio:
“Entre tous les amants, seul amant efficace,
Il arrive un moment, dans les déduits d’amour,
Où le muletier a son tour!”
“Among all lovers, only the efficient succeed,
The moment arrives, in the pursuit of love,
When the muleteer has his turn!”
(Source: Wikipedia)
RAVEL 150 - L'ENFANT ET LES SORTILÈGES - SYLVAIN FORT
Thumbnail image: 2nd scene of L’enfant et les sortilèges, as performed at the Paris première at the Théâtre de l’Opéra-Comique on 1 February 1926 (
Musical Illustration – L’enfant et les sortilèges
L’enfant et les sortilèges – Françoise Ogéas, Camille Maurane, Colette Herzog, Heinz Rehfusss, Jeanne Berbié, Jeannine Collard, Michel Sénéchal, Sylvaine Gilma, Orchestre National Chorus and Orchestra, Lorin Maazel
L’enfant et les sortilèges
Françoise Ogéas
Camille Maurane
Colette Herzog
Heinz Rehfuss
Jeanne Berbié
Jeannine Collard
Michel Sénéchal
Sylvaine Gilma
Orchestre National Chorus and Orchestra
Lorin Maazel (conductor)
Deutsche Grammophon: 00028944976922
Synopsis: L’enfant et les sortilèges
Place: An old-fashioned Normandy country home
Part 1
This is the story of a rude child who is reprimanded by the objects in his room, which he has been destroying. After being scolded by his mother in the beginning of the opera, the child throws a tantrum, destroying the room around him and harming the animals nearby. He is then surprised to find that the unhappy objects in his room come to life. The furniture and decorations begin to talk; even his homework takes shape as it becomes an old man and a chorus of numbers. They all sing out the pain and misery that the child inflicts on them and their wishes to punish him for his misdeeds.
Part 2
The bedroom becomes a garden filled with singing animals and plants which have been tortured by the child. The child attempts to make friends with the animals and plants, but they shun him because of the injuries he did to them earlier, before they could talk. They leave him aside, and in his loneliness, he eventually cries out “Maman”. At this, the animals turn on him and attack him in an act of vengeance, but they wind up jostling among each other as the child is tossed aside. At the culmination, a squirrel is hurt, which causes the other animals to stop fighting. The child bandages the squirrel’s wound and collapses exhausted. Seeing this act of kindness, the animals have a change of heart toward the child, and decide to try to help him home. They mimic the cry of “Maman”, carry the child back to his house, and sing in praise of the child. The opera ends with the child singing “Maman”, as he greets his mother, in the very last bar of the score.
(Source: Wikipedia)