Poulenc, F

Poulenc — Trio for Oboe, Bassoon, and Piano




Fran­cis Jean Mar­cel Poulenc (1899 – 1963) had an upbring­ing that could hardly have been more for­tu­nate, given his even­tual career. He was born in Paris to a wealthy fam­ily of phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal man­u­fac­tur­ers. The arts were an impor­tant part of the Poulenc house­hold, and the young boy’s inter­est in them was encour­aged, espe­cially by his mother, her­self a pianist of some tal­ent. At the age of five, Poulenc began piano lessons with her. She steered him to the music of Mozart, Chopin, Scar­latti, and Couperin and later fos­tered his explo­rations of com­posers such a Debussy, Ravel, and Stravin­sky. She also firmly resisted all attempts to force her son into the rigid, scholas­tic edu­ca­tion of the day. From her brother, Poulenc’s Uncle Papoum, young Fran­cis devel­oped a life­long delight in Parisian the­ater and café life in all its forms.

At six­teen, Poulenc began study­ing with Ricardo Viñes, a pianist who often per­formed the works of his friends Ravel and Debussy and who was a staunch sup­porter of avant-garde music. It was through Viñes that Poulenc met Erik Satie, who would be a great influ­ence on him. While still a teenager, Poulenc met Auric, Honeg­ger, and Mil­haud, and to them he ded­i­cated his first pub­lished com­po­si­tion, Rap­sodie négre. Writ­ten in 1917 and revised in 1933 Rap­sodie négre made it clear, once and for all, that Poulenc and the French musi­cal estab­lish­ment of the time were unsuited to each other. The direc­tor of the Paris Con­ser­va­tory told the eighteen-year-old com­poser, “Your music stinks, it is noth­ing but a load of balls. Are you try­ing to make a fool of me? Ah, I see you have joined the gang of Stravin­sky, Satie and com­pany. Well then, I’ll say goodbye.”

Though Poulenc briefly stud­ied with Ravel, Charles Koech­lin was the one who gave the young man the ground­ing he needed in order for his pro­found musi­cal indi­vid­u­al­ity to blos­som con­fi­dently. Today, the indi­vid­u­al­ity of his music has made Poulenc the dom­i­nant mem­ber of Les Six, a com­poser whose stature seems to grow with time. While he was alive, how­ever, Poulenc’s works were often treated dis­mis­sively, lead­ing the com­poser to remark to a friend that though he was “not intox­i­cated with the idea of being a Grand Musi­cian, it nonethe­less exas­per­ates me to be thought of by so many peo­ple as noth­ing more than a ‘petit maître éro­tique’.” His col­league Igor Stravin­sky thought oth­er­wise: “You are truly good, and that is what I find again and again and again in your music.”

The wit, ebul­lience, and Gal­lic charm that mis­tak­enly led peo­ple to under­value Poulenc’s music — as well as the superb crafts­man­ship which Stravin­sky and other com­posers so admired — are fully present in Poulenc’s Trio for Oboe, Bas­soon, and Piano. Writ­ten in Cannes in 1926 and ded­i­cated to Manuel de Falla, the Trio reflects the composer’s own con­sid­er­able abil­i­ties as a pianist (he often per­formed in con­cert and toured sev­eral times with the bari­tone Pierre Bernac and later with soprano Denise Duval) and his love of wind instruments.

The Trio is in three move­ments. The first (marked Presto) begins with a sixteen-measure intro­duc­tion, slow — one might almost say por­ten­tous — and com­pletely oppo­site to the play­ful qual­ity of the rest of this move­ment, which one writer has called “rococo crossed with Offen­bachian opéra bouffe.”  The more lyric sec­ond move­ment (Andante) demon­strates fully the composer’s aston­ish­ing melodic gifts, cou­pled with his abil­ity to use sub­tle har­monic shifts to alter the emo­tional color of the music. The last move­ment (Rondo) is a rol­lick­ing mod­ern ver­sion of the baroque French gigue, mod­i­fied by Poulenc’s own sen­si­bil­i­ties. The entire work is delight­ful, potent, and sec.

This arti­cle appeared orig­i­nally in the pro­gram book of the San Fran­cisco Sym­phony and is used here with per­mis­sion.



Francis Poulenc — Sonata for Horn, Trumpet, and Trombone




In the hands of a less sophis­ti­cated com­poser than Fran­cis Poulenc (1899 – 1963), a sonata for horn, trum­pet, and trom­bone could eas­ily turn out of be an exer­cise in bom­bas­tic noise. In Poulenc’s hands, the unusual instru­men­ta­tion is a con­stant delight, his writ­ing for each par­tic­i­pant rang­ing from mel­low lyri­cism to brash exuberance.

Poulenc was born in Paris and, before he was twenty years old, became a mem­ber of “Les Six,” the group of six young French com­posers that included Erik Satie, Arthur Honeg­ger, and Dar­ius Mil­haud. Though Poulenc cer­tainly was suc­cess­ful at writ­ing large works (among them choral pieces such as his Sta­bat Mater, as well as three operas), most of his out­put is on a smaller scale. He was a bril­liant song writer, some­times cre­at­ing mas­ter­pieces less than a minute long. In his cham­ber music he occa­sion­ally delighted in writ­ing for unusual com­bi­na­tions of instru­ments, such as his Sonata for Two Clar­inets (1918), Sonata for Clar­inet and Bas­soon (1922), and, of course, the present work, from 1922 (revised in 1945).

In his book My Many Years, pianist Arthur Rubin­stein refers to the “sub­tle sim­plic­ity” of Poulenc’s piano works, adding, “Because they always seemed to remind you of some­thing, I some­times accused them of being sim­ple pas­tiches. But later I learned bet­ter. Poulenc was one of the bravest musi­cians of his time. He accepted all the influ­ences with­out qualms but some­how a strik­ing per­son­al­ity emerged.”

Cer­tainly his Sonata for Horn, Trum­pet, and Trom­bone could remind lis­ten­ers of an eighteenth-century diver­tisse­ment, at least in spirit. But this short work (its three move­ments last less than ten min­utes) could only be the prod­uct of a twentieth-century French­man. The com­poser used his melodic gift lav­ishly in the sonata, but the melodies are often over­shad­owed by Poulenc’s over­flow­ing wit, which, in true Parisian fash­ion, some­times bor­ders on the acerbic.

The entire work is suf­fused with a play­ful­ness and a sense of delight that is extremely sophis­ti­cated. As Roger Nichols writes in his essay on Poulenc in The New Grove Dic­tio­nary of Music and Musi­cians, “The open­ing trum­pet theme…needs the cor­rec­tion of only three ‘wrong’ notes in the first four bars for it to con­form with eighteenth-century har­monic prac­tice — as it were, Per­golesi with his wig awry.”

For Poulenc, a sense of light­ness was one of the defin­ing char­ac­ter­is­tics of French music. “You will find sobri­ety and dolor in French music just as in Ger­man or Russ­ian,” he said in 1950. “But the French have a keener sense of pro­por­tion. We real­ize that somber­ness and good humor are not mutu­ally exclu­sive. Our com­posers, too, write pro­found music, but when they do, it is leav­ened with that light­ness of spirit with­out which life would be unendurable.”

This arti­cle orig­i­nally appeared in the pro­gram book of the San Fran­cisco Sym­phony and is used here with per­mis­sion.

The delight­ful photo of Poulenc is by Fred Plaut, cour­tesy of the Fred and Rose Plaut Papers at the Irv­ing S. Gilmore Music Library, Yale Uni­ver­sity, box 18.

Francis Poulenc — Dialogue des Carmélites

KEY ART guillotine


Who could have pre­dicted that one of the very few operas writ­ten after 1950 to suc­cess­fully enter the inter­na­tional reper­toire, would be an opera about a group of nuns and their mar­tyr­dom dur­ing the French Rev­o­lu­tion? Yet, from its pre­mière at La Scala (in Ital­ian) on Jan­u­ary 26, 1957 Dia­logues des Car­mélites quickly made its way through the major opera the­aters — Paris, San Fran­cisco, Covent Gar­den, Vienna — and it remains a sta­ple of the reper­toire, grow­ing in pop­u­lar­ity with the pas­sage of time.

And who would have thought such an opera would be writ­ten by Fran­cis Poulenc, a com­poser bet­ter known at the time as “the play­boy com­poser,” a mem­ber of the cir­cle of com­posers dubbed Les Six, whose music often sparkled with wit, charm and insou­ciance, and who delighted in regal­ing Parisian soci­ety with tales of his homo­sex­ual affairs?

Poulenc was born into a rather wealthy Parisian fam­ily on Jan­u­ary 7, 1899. (The money came from a fam­ily phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal com­pany that would later become part of the giant Rhôné-Poulenc chem­i­cal firm.) His first piano lessons were from his mother, and at the age of six­teen he began study­ing with the famous pianist Ricardo Viñes, a friend of Debussy and Ravel, who had pre­miered many of their works in his recitals.

By the time young Fran­cis began work­ing with Viñes, he had already devel­oped what his father called “odd tastes” in music. Thanks to an insa­tiable appetite for music, and the where­withal to buy scores, he was famil­iar with works by Stravin­sky (he had attended per­for­mances of The Rite of Spring in 1914 at the Casino de Paris), Bartók and Schoen­berg, to say noth­ing of the more tra­di­tional com­posers. His life­long eclec­tic taste in music was care­fully nur­tured by his mother’s brother, “Uncle Papoum,” a bach­e­lor who loved every­thing from opera to café music, was a habitué of the the­ater, had known Toulouse-Lautrec and was equally at home in Parisian soci­ety — and who was delighted to intro­duce his young nephew Fran­cis to all of it.

Debonair Fran­cis Poulenc

When Poulenc attempted to study at the Paris Con­ser­va­tory he was told, “Your work stinks! I see you’re a fol­lower of the Stravin­sky and Satie gang. Well, good­bye!” But when he per­formed the offend­ing piece, Rap­sodie nègre, at a con­cert in 1917, it was admired, and he became seri­ous about his com­pos­ing. How­ever, it was not until 1944, hav­ing writ­ten a wide vari­ety of music, that Poulenc turned to opera for the first time. The result was Les mamelles de Tirésias, an opéra bouffe, based on the play by sur­re­al­ist poet Guil­laume Apol­li­naire, whose works had also inspired some of Poulenc’s songs.

Mamelles de Tirésias is utterly enchant­ing, delight­ful non­sense, Parisian — and Poulenc — to the core, by turns witty and silly, abound­ing with melody, “odd” in har­mony and instru­men­tal col­ors that are per­fect for the moment. Through­out it is per­me­ated with an utter love of life itself. It could not be more oppo­site to his next opera, Car­mélites.

In the early 1950s (sur­pris­ingly, the exact date seems to be open to ques­tion), Poulenc was approached by the Ital­ian music pub­lish­ing house Ricordi about a com­mis­sion for La Scala. Ini­tially Ricordi was inter­ested in a bal­let, pos­si­bly on the sub­ject of Saint Mar­garita of Cor­tona. Though Poulenc was inter­ested in writ­ing a work for La Scala, he could not work up enthu­si­asm for the bal­let. But while on a con­cert tour of Italy, he met with the direc­tor of Ricordi, Guido Val­carenghi, and sug­gested an opera instead of a bal­let. Val­carn­nghi sug­gested the play Dia­logues des Car­mélites by George Bernanos.

Poulenc had already seen the play — twice — but he had never thought about set­ting it to music. “I bought the book and decided to reread it,” he later wrote. “For that, I sat down at the out­doors café Tre Scalini on the Piazza Navone. It was ten in the morn­ing. At noon I was still there, hav­ing con­sumed a cof­fee, an ice cream, an orange juice, and a bot­tle of Fuggi min­eral water to jus­tify my pro­longed pres­ence. At twelve-thirty I was drunk with enthu­si­asm but the final ques­tion remained — would I find the music for such a text? I opened by chance the book and forced myself instantly to trans­late into music the first sen­tences I read.…As incred­i­ble as it may seem, I imme­di­ately found the melodic line. Des­tiny had decided.” Des­tiny might have inspired Poulenc that morn­ing in a Roman café, but the com­po­si­tion of the whole opera would drag on for some time and take an enor­mous toll on the composer’s men­tal as well as phys­i­cal health.

Georges Bernanos

The story of a group of nuns who are guil­lotines dur­ing the French Rev­o­lu­tion was orig­i­nally told by one of the sur­viv­ing nuns in her mem­oir, which then served as the basis for a novel Die let­zte am Schafott (The Last to the Scaf­fold) by Gertrud von le Fort, who seems to have given her own name to the main char­ac­ter, Blanche del la Force. The novel, in turn, was adapted as a screen­play (and dra­matic play) by Georges Bernanos. Unfor­tu­nately, the adap­ta­tion rights had been sold to Emmet Lav­ery, and it was only after lengthy nego­ti­a­tions that he agreed to allow Poulenc to set the work to music, as long as Lavery’s name appeared on every pro­gram and score of Poulenc’s opera — which it does.

In August 1953 Poulenc began work­ing seri­ously on Car­mélites and soon found that immers­ing him­self in the emo­tional world of his char­ac­ters was aggra­vat­ing his own hypochon­dria. He became con­vinced that he had stom­ach can­cer, and it was only with dif­fi­cultly that his doc­tors con­vinced him all the tests were neg­a­tive. In 1954 he went through what was described as “six weeks of anx­ious near-madness” before recov­er­ing enough to go on tour with bari­tone Pierre Bernac. But in Novem­ber the com­poser had to break off the tour and return to Paris to be admit­ted to a clinic for a three-week cure for his insom­nia. In a bizarre twist of fate, Poulenc’s younger lover, Lucien Rou­bert, came down with pleurisy in April 1955 as Poulenc began near­ing the end of his new opera. That August as Poulenc fin­ished the work, he later recalled telling his cook, “I have fin­ished: Mon­sieur Lucien will die now.” That’s exactly what happened.

Dia­logues des Car­mélites is in three acts, divided into twelve scenes and five inter­ludes with nine brief pieces of orches­tral music con­nect­ing them. Some of the indi­vid­ual scenes only last a few min­utes, and they can seem so slight at the time — one might almost say incon­se­quen­tial — one might won­der, “Why did Poulenc bother to include that scene?” A good exam­ple is the scene between Blanche and Con­stance where they dis­cuss death and its impli­ca­tions. As Denise Duvall, for whom Poulenc wrote the part of Blanche, observed: “How dif­fi­cult it is to sing it the way Poulenc wanted, mak­ing it impor­tant and at the same time not overtly so. It is the sort of scene the pub­lic must remem­ber later, but not be par­tic­u­larly struck by while it is tak­ing place.”

The score of Car­mélites is almost painted. Poulenc builds it up in a series of deft, brief tonal brush strokes, as an artist would con­struct an Impres­sion­ist paint­ing, with the suc­ces­sion of one brief scene after another. As the opera grad­u­ally unfolds, the drama is built almost imper­cep­ti­bly, layer upon layer.

Poulenc with his Blanche, Denise Duval

There are few lush melodies in Car­mélites, few exam­ples of the rich orches­tral tex­tures of which Poulenc was capa­ble. The sweet­est music often goes to the nuns as they sing their reli­gious ser­vices. But what Poulenc does so superbly is to set the words of the libretto with extra­or­di­nary clar­ity in a way to under­score their drama musi­cally. As Duval pointed out, “Poulenc was so attached to the beau­ti­ful text that he wanted the orches­tra to be ever so light, so every word sung could be heard. The dif­fi­culty in singing Blanche is over­whelm­ing, for it must remain within a total purity of line, almost a trans­parency. And one must be made of stone is one is not over­come by emotion.”

Poulenc’s use of music goes far beyond mere word set­ting in Car­mélites. His score is a mar­vel of con­vey­ing the psy­cho­log­i­cal nuances of the drama and how his char­ac­ters feel about their sit­u­a­tion.  One exam­ple is the orches­tral music that always appears around Blanche’s father. Aside from the nuns’ choral music, this is the most lux­u­ri­ous music in the opera. It is music one could com­fort­ably sink into, and wrap around one­self. (And, as such, it is starkly dif­fer­ent from most of the rest of the opera which often involves ter­ror and anx­i­ety of one kind or another.) The music tells us that Blanche feels safe and secure, loved and pam­pered by her father in a unique way. Every time her father or her home is men­tioned in the opera (as when her brother vis­its her in Act II), this music reap­pears briefly, giv­ing that unique emo­tional tinge to the scene. When Blanche tells her brother “I am now a daugh­ter of God,” the orches­tra lets us know that Blanche means this lit­er­ally, because the music has the same color as the music for her father the Mar­quis. Sim­i­larly, when Blanche expresses her con­cern that the Chap­lain must flee, the Chaplain’s music tells us Blanche sees him as a father fig­ure, a source of author­ity, but also a source of guid­ance and comfort.

This is, per­haps, a clue to why an opera about a group of nuns has become so pop­u­lar with con­tem­po­rary audi­ences. Aside from the reli­gious choral music Poulenc wrote for the nuns, he did not write music for nuns, but for women who hap­pened to be nuns. Poulenc brings each of the major char­ac­ters to life in her own unique way, not as a nun, but as a human being, with pri­vate emo­tions and fears who must meet her des­tiny in her own way.

What intrigues us about Blanche is not her voca­tion, but Blanche her­self. How does a neu­rotic, almost hys­ter­i­cal young woman, in the grip of a life and death sit­u­a­tion, find the courage — and the grace — to do what she knows she must do?

Though Poulenc was a worldly man (and one who thor­oughly enjoyed his world­li­ness), he had a deep, intro­spec­tive side that could express itself through reli­gion. A cou­ple of years before writ­ing Car­mélites Poulenc com­posed his Sta­bat Mater, and wrote to a friend, “By the way, you know that I am as sin­cere in my faith, with­out any mes­sianic scream­ings, as I am in my Parisian sexuality…My musi­cal tone is spon­ta­neous, and in any case, I think, truly personal.”

Per­haps that is why the pub­lic responds to Car­mélites so read­ily. It is the composer’s own per­sonal wrestling with death, with anx­i­ety, with the desire to truly believe his per­sonal reli­gion — expressed through Blanche and the other nuns as they are faced with their own mor­tal­ity — that moves us so.  It is the hon­esty and courage of this quest that inspires us in the audi­ence, what­ever our per­sonal reli­gious views. Because, after all, we, too, face the same Unknown.

This arti­cle orig­i­nally appeared in the 2001 Aspen Opera The­atre pro­gram book.