A Pelleas Cast That's All-French and All-Good
Rehearing the "legendary" first complete recording prompts some thoughts on the opera's unique vocal problems.
by Conrad L. Osborne
THIS RECORDING, MADE in Paris during the Occupation (1942), was the first complete inscription of Pelleas. It circulated here briefly on 78s after the war and briefly again on the Victor LCT series in the early LP days. It is heartening to see it back, even on an import basis, for al though Pelleas has been extremely fortunate in its recorded performances this set still has much to offer.
Prior to its appearance, there had been nothing approaching a complete disc performance. There were a four-record Victor album with Charles Panzera as Pel leas and a six-record set on Columbia. The former has never been on LP, but the latter turned up as Entre RL 3092. Though competent and idiomatic, it has no special secrets to reveal; if you want history for history's sake, though, it does afford the chance to hear the original Go-laud, Hector Dufranne. (It also features one of the bolder segues on record; apparently feeling that Golaud's "Quels enfants!" at the end of the Tower Scene was no way to sum up a Pelleas collection, the producers tacked on Arkel's "Si j'etais Dieu, j'aurais pitie du coeur des hommes," which is about like ending Boheme by joining "O Mimi, to put" and "Mimi!-Mimi! ")
. -------- Roger Desormiere-stressing simplicity and unity.
It is only with the two stereo recordings of this opera (the second Ansermet version, on London, and the Boulez, on Columbia) that record companies have moved away from predominantly native casts for this supposedly ultra-French piece. Among the many points made by Boulez in his interesting essay for the Columbia booklet, none is more surprising than his minimization of the importance of the work's Frenchness. Perhaps he sought to forestall critical clichés aimed at his Covent Garden cast, or perhaps he as the first Frenchman in history to stand innocent of linguistic snobbery. Whatever the case, the Desormiere performance offers an excellent test of the point, for of all the existing recordings, it can most easily be characterized as "old-school French," and its casting is formidable.
While I am far from suggesting that only French artists can render these roles, there is, to me, no question that important aspects of the work's performance are far better realized by representative French singers than by all but the most remarkable foreigners. Pronunciation as such is not the really important question. It is a matter of, first, the tensions set up between the meters, rhythms, and inflections of the words as spoken and the words as sung; and, second, the vocal "set" that emerges from the combination of the language and typical French vocal technique.
The French preoccupation with the word in singing (and with the word in the theater, for that matter) has of ten been commented upon, and, while the question is of ten exaggerated or facilely used to cover sins only half-apprehended, it is not a myth. One of the earliest important French treatises on singing (Jean-Baptiste Berard's L'Art du Chant, 1755, available in a translation by Sidney Murray published by the Pro Musica Press, Minneapolis) devotes nearly half its length to matters concerned not simply with vowel formation, but with the demands of articulation and declamation as such. These demands are by no means ignored in classical Italian theory, but the emphasis is peculiarly French and has endured.
The requirements of clear and nuanced articulation, of the exploration of the more subtle tensions between word and music, conflict to a degree with those of range extension, full development of resonance potential, and vital sustained vocal sound. At least from the time of Lully, there has been a strong tendency in French lyric theater to give the former requirements precedence over the latter. The traditionally French virtues were violated, and for a time overcome, by the Romantic onslaught and the glorious noises of the nineteenth-century grand op era, but the birth and growth of the melodie signaled their survival, and with Pelleas they returned to the operatic stage.
In almost all melodie writing after Berlioz (certainly in all the best of it-Faure, Duparc, Debussy himself, Poulenc) the voice is kept within a relatively restricted com pass of an octave plus a third or fourth (something that is by no means true in most Lieder writing), the tessitura sits in the lower-middle range to accommodate articulatory ease, and the basic dynamic scale is intimate.
This does not mean that the music should be "spoken" or that a full and beautiful tone, bound into a good legato line (what Gerard Souzay aptly terms "French bel canto"), is not called for. It does imply a technical structure in which a soft, heady texture is worked down into the lower parts of the range. This tends to limit a voice's capacity to sing strongly at either extreme of the com pass, and nearly all the accomplished singers of the melodie have been middle-range sopranos or mezzos or lyric baritones-one is hard put to it to think of an exception. The French language, with its nasal diphthongs and "mixed" vowel sounds, further encourages this vocal approach.
The vocal categories created by these technical pre written for by Debussy in Pelleas et Milisande. As Boulez observes (and the point is equally valid with respect to the other roles), this places Pelleas in the "classic tenor" category, by which, it must be emphasized, he means the pre-Romantic definition. And the role does cover precisely the tenor range written for by Handel and Mozart-C below middle C to the G above it, with occasional climactic excursions to G sharp and A. But Boulez does not remark the very important differences in these types of vocal writing. In classic writing there is generally a bravura element, a place for brilliance of sound and projective emphasis, a use of sustained vocalization and of wide intervals, that implies a technique adapted to demands of the theater. In Penetts these are all absent almost entirely. The text moves faster or slower, one syllable per note, with hardly a sustained sung vowel; intervals of more than a third startle by their displacement of the usual melodic progression. The roles are written for melodie singers-but melodic, singers rudely thrust onto the grand opera stage behind an orchestra of far greater dynamic, harmonic, and coloristic range than classical vocalists ever faced. Further, they are expected to handle the articulatory problems in equalized fashion throughout the range and at a pitch that has risen since classical days.
Thus, very special and specifically French vocal con formations are called for. Frequently the roles of Meli sande, Pelleas, and Golaud are effectively taken by singers ill-suited to almost everything else in operatic repertory, while excellent operatic singers of perfectly good taste sing the parts with vocal comfort but some how sound "wrong." And foreign singers who pronounce and comprehend French well have difficulty suggesting the pull between music and text; Debussy's setting is often at its most fascinating and expressive when imposing a rhythmic monotony on lines that, when spoken, have far more variety or when actually narrowing or going against the inflectional range of the spoken line.
On records, several prominent non-French artists have shown real expertise and sensitivity in these areas Victoria de los Angeles, the Melisande of the Cluytens performance (Angel mono, deleted), and George Lon don, the Golaud of the second Ansermet effort (Lon don), are in this grouping and bring major voices to bear on their music. On Boulez' own recording, Elisabeth Saderstram, Yvonne Minton, and George Shirley all cope with general success, and Soderstrom and Shirley give highly individual performances of great expressivity. (It should be noted that exactly because he is not a tenor of the heady French sort Shirley is able to create some very dramatic, dark-colored moments in the lower part of the range-as at his description of the heavy, damp air in the grotto at the opening of Act III. Scene 3 or the recitation of his father's words at the beginning of Act IV-as well as provide a more authentic climax at "Je l'ai trouve" than most singers are able to manage.) If one must decide between artists who are exceptional but not French or artists who are French but not exceptional, then no doubt we would usually prefer the 'former to the latter. In the case of the Desormiere recording, the choice isn't forced upon us, because its cast is both all-French and all-excellent. There is no weak point-as each voice enters, a few bars are enough to tell us that the role is in the hands of a singer who is a capable vocalist, a good musician, a sensitive interpreter.
Irene Joachim has a bright, solid soprano of real definition; Jacques Jansen owns a lucid, pretty tenor with a touch of metal missing in most of the breed (don't judge him by the later Cluytens recording-he is fifteen years fresher here); the baritone Etcheverry reveals a large, warm baritone of admirable suppleness. The supporting roles are superbly taken: The Genevieve is Germaine Cernay, a singer of major roles (she was a well-known Carmen) who sounds in her imposing prime, though in fact the recording was almost simultaneous with her retirement; the Arkel is Paul Cabanel, a true basse chan tont who sings a big, smooth line; the Yniold is Leila Ben-Sedira, a light soprano who also sang leading roles in important houses. The role of the Doctor, by the way, is sung by the bass Narcon, who had been the Arkel of the old Columbia excerpts set.
This is not to imply that there are no vocal imperfections. Joachim sometimes has a touch of flutter in her tone; Jansen gets a bit thin and tight with one or two of the high climaxes; and just because Etcheverry is the type of baritone suited to most of the demands of Golaud, he runs into trouble when he tries to be forceful on a top F on an open vowel (at "Je ne dormirai pas avant avoir la bague"-but the Fs and F sharp in Act IV, on closed vowels, are fine). On balance, though, this cast has a remarkable consistency of vocal command.
The vocal expertise is hand in glove with the un-self conscious ease of the interpretations. The question, I think, is not whether or not there is a mist over the work, but whence it arises. The mist is very much to the point, for it is created by the characters, who spend nearly all their time attempting to evade responsibility for actions they wish to take.
In the fog and shadow of their self-delusions, things are very mysterious and many accidents happen, all of which turns out to be perfectly in accord with the obvious but unacknowledged wishes of the characters. The performers must suggest that, on some level, the characters sense what they are about but are at pains to hide the knowledge from themselves and each other. Their conversations thus proceed in a natural and simple fashion, marked by brief stops and hesitations or by quick little changes of subject when things get too warm, and the sense of this is fluently conveyed by Desormiere's singers--the scenes fall into place without strain or special emphasis.
The conductor's reading reflects the same basic approach. Generally quite broad and deliberate, it places a stress on the simplicity and unity of the melodic gestures, and on the sung line (in the orchestra as well as on stage), as the dominant element in the music. This is reinforced by the nature of the recording, which of course does not have the range and depth of the more recent ones and which places the singers quite close, so that except in the interludes the orchestra assumes an accompaniment position behind the voices. Un-question ably this is a disadvantage, for it is the orchestra that provides not simply the texture, or tonal environment, but also much of the developing inner drama so explicitly avoided by the characters.
It is in this latter capacity that the Boulez reading, through its precision of small melodic gestures and rhythmic figures, is so often illuminative. I confess that the Boulez performance still seems to me a bit of a fuss. I find myself absorbed and admiring from moment to moment but apt, at the end of a scene, to have felt it didn't quite happen--the moments happened, but the scene did not. Everyone tries a little too hard, there is too much demonstration. The case is not strengthened by the fact that both the Golaud of Donald Maclntyre and the Arkel of David Ward are the least successful attempts at those roles on record, despite their obvious application to the task. It is a performance of much interest and many beauties, worth heating for the lucidity and elegance of its orchestral playing, the thoughtfulness of its approach.
The Desormiere performance and recording could not be more different. Because of the age of the sound, it will not be the choice for most collectors who can accommodate only one version. But for those with room for an alternative to one of the more up-to-date recordings, and for those with a particular interest in a performance in which the burden of the drama is carried with ease by a strong, stylish cast, this is a welcome and valuable re-entry. The pressings (in manual sequence) have traces of echo at scattered moments. The accompanying booklet has some annotations, in French only, but no libretto.
Debussy: Pelleas et Melisande.
Melisande Pelleas Golaud Arkel Genevieve Yniold Doctor
Irene Joachim (s) Jacques Jansen (t)
Etcheverry (b) Paul Cabanel (bs) Germaine Cernay (ms) Leila Ben-Sedira (s) A Narcon (bs)
Choeurs Yvonne Gouverne; orchestra, Roger Desormiere, cond. EMI ODEON 2C 153 12513/5, $23.94 (three discs, re-channeled, manual sequence) [recorded 1942] (distributed by Peters International, 600 Eighth Ave., New York, N.Y.).
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(High Fidelity, Apr. 1975)
Also see:
Classical Record Reviews (HF mag., Apr. 1975)