Histoires naturelles (1906)

Le Paon

Le Grillon

Le Cygne

Le Martin-Pécheur

La Pintade

Ravel was probably first attracted to Jules Renard’s Histoires naturelles by the high quality of the artists - Toulouse-Lautrec in 1899, Bonnard in 1904 - who had illustrated the earliest editions. On reading the text, which consists of dozens of short characterizations of the birds and animals of the farm and surrounding countryside, he must have been delighted to find a kindred spirit: Renard’s unsentimental and often ironic attitude to his subject offsets but does not conceal his affection for them. Having promised the poet that he would “say with music what you say with words,” he boldly set the prose texts as prose, ignoring the mute ‘e’ which counts as a syllable in conventional musical prosody - a feature which in the opinion of many of his contemporaries reduced the songs to café-concert or musical-hall status.

The major musical interest in Histoires naturelles is not so much the truthful rather than melodious vocal line as the extravagantly witty, brilliantly colourful and discreetly affectionate piano part. In Le Paon, strutting about in his best clothes as though it were his wedding day, the peacock is accompanied in his progress by the stately dotted rhythms of the Baroque French overture. Perhaps the most inspired setting from the colouristic point of view is Le Grillon, where Renard associates the cricket’s chirping with some domestic activity, like winding his tiny watch or turning a key in a delicate lock, and where between disconcerting silences Ravel reflects its metallic sound in glittering high-pitched dissonances. In Le Cygne the swan floats on ripples of Debussy-like impressionism until its poetic pretension are drily dismissed. Le Martin-Pêcheur, where a kingfisher robs an angler of his breath by perching on the end of his fishing rod, is a precarious study in suppressed motion and scarcely whispered commentary. La Pintade is just the opposite: the self-consciously ugly and aggressive guinea-fowl attacks its fellows in a vigorous Spanish dance rhythm and utters her piercing cries in a volley of repeated notes.

Le Paon

Le Grillon

Le Cygne

Le Martin-Pécheur

La Pintade

Jules Renard was most reluctant to give Ravel permission to set his Histoires naturelles to music. What, he asked, could a composer possibly add to these little poems in prose? Although the poet did yield in the end, he was so unimpressed by Ravel’s claim that intended simply “to say with music what you say with words” that he made it his business to stay away from the first performance - which is just as well, since the Société Nationale in 1907 was not ready for such a radical departure from what was conventionally expected of the mélodie. Ravel’s worst offence was to ignore the mute ‘e’ which is counted as a syllable in setting French verse but which remains silent in every day speech - a feature which in the opinion of many of his contemporaries reduced the songs to café-concert or musical-hall status. “I like Ravel very much,” said his old teacher Gabriel Fauré, “ but I wish he wouldn’t set such things to music.”

The major musical interest in Histoires naturelles is not so much the strictly functional vocal line as the extravagantly witty, brilliantly colourful and discreetly affectionate piano part. In Le Paon, strutting about in his best clothes as though it were his wedding day, the peacock is accompanied in his progress by the stately dotted rhythms of the Baroque French overture; his “diabolical cry” of “Léon! Léon!” is heralded by a crescendo of discords and his ceremonial display of his tail feathers signalled by a dramatic glissando in both hands. Perhaps the most inspired setting from the colouristic point of view is Le Grillon, where Renard associates the cricket’s chirping with some domestic activity, like winding his tiny watch or turning a key in a delicate lock, and where between disconcerting silences Ravel reflects its metallic sound in glittering high-pitched dissonances.

In Le Cygne, ostensibly chasing reflections of clouds in the water, the swan floats on ripples of Debussy-like impressionism until its poetic pretension are drily dismissed in the end. Le Martin-Pêcheur, where a kingfisher robs an angler of his breath by perching on the end of his fishing rod, is a precarious study in suppressed motion and scarcely whispered commentary. La Pintade is just the opposite: the self-consciously ugly and aggressive guinea-fowl attacks the chickens and the turkey-hen in a vigorous Spanish dance rhythm and utters her piercing cries in a volley of repeated notes.