Francois Couperin and 'The Perfection of Music'

FRANÇOIS COUPERIN AND ‘THE PERFECTION OF MUSIC’

To Dame Gillian Weir

‘… the bringing together of French and Italian styles must create musical perfection.’ François Couperin L’Apothéose composé à la mémoire de l’incomparable Monsieur de Lully (1725)

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

DAVID TUNLEY

© David Tunley, 2004 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. David Tunley has asserted his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Gower House Croft Road Aldershot Hants GU11 3HR England

Ashgate Publishing Company Suite 420 101 Cherry Street Burlington, VT 05401–4405 USA

Ashgate website: http://www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Tunley, David 1930– François Couperin and ‘the perfection of music’. – Rev. ed. 1. Couperin, François, 1668–1733 – Criticism and interpretation I.Title 780.9'2 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Tunley, David. François Couperin and ‘the perfection of music’ / David Tunley p.cm. Includes list of works by Couperin (p. ), bibliographical references (p. ), and index. Contents: Couperin and his times – The French lyrical style – Italian influence on the French style – Sacred music – Works for harpsichord. ISBN 0–7546–0928 (alk. paper) 1.Couperin, Françoise, 1668–1733 – Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. ML410.C855T88 2003 780.9'2–dc22

2003063715

ISBN 0 7546 0928 6 Printed on acid-free paper Typeset in Times New Roman by Pat FitzGerald Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG Books Ltd, Bodmin, Cornwall.

Contents Introduction

vii

1

Couperin and his Times

1

2

The French Lyrical Style

23

3

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

38

4

Sacred Music

50

5

Chamber Music

75

6

Works for Harpsichord

100

Appendices A List of Works by François Couperin B Prefaces to Couperin’s Works C Entry on François Couperin in Titon du Tillet’s Le Parnasse françois (Paris, 1732, Suppl. 1743) pp. 664–6 D From Chapter 6 of Paris Ceremonial: Of organists and organs, for the use of all collegiate, parish and other churches of the city and diocese of Paris, by Martin Sonnet, Priest, Paris 1662, pp. 534–9 E Text and Translation of the Lessons from the First Nocturn of Matins for Maundy Thursday F Dance Forms in Couperin’s Music G Couperin’s Table of Ornaments Bibliography Index

121 129 148

151 153 157 162 164 169

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Introduction This book is both a second edition and a new publication. The starting-point was my short study of Couperin’s music published in the BBC Music Guide Series in 1982, but, loosened from the restrictions of space that governed all those useful little guides, I have been able to rework and expand the original to a point where a new title was appropriate. Whereas the earlier book was a more generalised account of Couperin’s music and written with the ‘musical layman’ in mind, the present book takes as its focal point Couperin’s concept of the ‘perfection of music’ through the union of French and Italian musical styles. This has meant a more analytical approach than before, but I have tried to keep technical language to a minimum so that the general reader is not forgotten Two chapters outline the basis of what I believe to be the contrasting main features of the two musical schools in the seventeenth- and early eighteenth-centuries and provide the touchstone for later considerations of Couperin’s music. Nevertheless, like much French music, Couperin’s cannot be considered merely in terms of notes on the page. Like all composers he was a product of his time and place – but what a time and a place they were! Working in the ambience of the most splendid court in Europe and in the exhilarating environment of Paris his music is indeed a mirror of the world in which he lived. I hope I have been able to recreate something of this, particularly in the opening chapter. In the twenty or so years since my original publication Couperin research has brought new insights into his music which I have incorporated into the present text. As always, James Anthony’s masterly French Baroque Music, which was published in a revised and expanded edition in 1997 not long before his death, continues to be an essential reference to all aspects of the French school, while a number of specialist studies on Couperin’s music have also appeared. Amongst the most important are papers from a Couperin conference held at Villecroze in the mid 1990s; a milestone article by Edward T. Corp published in 1998 and dealing with the court of James II and James III in exile in Paris and the influence this seems to have had in the dissemination of Italian music there; and most recently a book by Jane Clark and Derek Connon, The Mirror of Human Life: Reflections on François Couperin’s Pièces de Clavecin (2002). Undoubtedly, however, the most significant publication has been the revised edition of Couperin’s complete works by L’Oiseau-Lyre Press, the first volumes of this appearing in 1980 and still in progress. Whilst in no way diminishing the importance of the original edition of 1932–33 there is no doubt the revised edition brings Couperin research to a new level of expertise, partly through access to materials not available or unknown to Cauchie and his colleagues and partly because of the extremely high standard of modern musical scholarship that the present editors have brought to bear upon their publication. The Introductions to each of the revised volumes provides models of their kind. During the same period my own research has widened and the present book incorporates much that I have learnt and, hopefully, understood about French vii

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Introduction

music. I am grateful to the Editors of Australian Studies in French Literature for permission to quote verbatim from one of my articles. Where appropriate, source material has been quoted in translation in the text, the original being reproduced in the Endnotes. Nevertheless, except for the titles of Couperin’s works, the orthography has been modernised throughout this book. Amongst those to whom I am very grateful for their input into this book are Robin Adamson who checked my translations and helped unravel Couperin’s sometimes tangled prose and John Meyer who read the entire typescript and made invaluable suggestions on improving it. Others who helped me in countless ways are David Gething, Richard Hewison, James Humberstone, Peggy Lais, Judith Maitland, Milica Milic, Kerry Murphy, Evelyn Portek, Lionel Sawkins and Stewart Smith. I am also grateful to Music Sales for giving me permission to use my BBC Music Guide on Couperin as a basis for the present study. As usual, my sincere thanks go to Jenny Wildy, Music Librarian of the Wigmore Music Library at the University of Western Australia whose generosity in time and effort and her unique skills in tracking down elusive materials have become legendary in these parts. To my wife Paula go my affectionate thanks for, as she always does, easing the domestic path. I am, of course, delighted that Dame Gillian Weir has accepted the re-dedication of this book, for her influence on what understanding I have of Couperin’s keyboard music stems largely from her stylish performances. Yet, my deepest debt of gratitude for this book undoubtedly is to Rachel Lynch of Ashgate Publishing, for it was she who suggested that I might like to consider a second, enlarged edition of my earlier book. I needed no further urging to return to that wonderful repertoire and also to work again with a publishing company that in recent years has done so much for the cause of music scholarship, not least in the area of French music.

David Tunley University of Western Australia

Chapter 1

Couperin and his Times The history of European music is essentially the history of changing styles. This becomes strikingly evident with the development of polyphony which, as a uniquely European phenomenon, coincided with a new phase of Western civilisation in the eleventh and twelfth centuries; and from that time onwards European music has mirrored the restlessness of the European mind in its seemingly endless search for innovation and change. In a very real sense, this music is characteristically always in a state of transition. The emergence, growth and eventual disappearance of a style is a pattern familiar enough to those who have studied the various historical periods of music and while the rate of change may vary the forward thrust of development is ever-present. The earlier phase in the development of a style is usually marked by a quickened pulse, which slackens as the style matures and the forms are consolidated. Yet strangely, in the early and middle years of the seventeenth century this momentum apparently lost so much force in French music that the art seems to have settled into a long period of calm repose; and this was at the very time when Italian music was being swiftly borne by the powerful surge of that movement now usually described as the Baroque. The tranquil waters were deceptive. There were currents that carried French music into new parts, but they were more like little eddies, soon lost in the slow drift; then, towards the end of the century, the Italian flood broke its banks and washed into the music of France. One of the composers to feel and respond to the new force was François Couperin. At the time of his birth this was still over two decades away, during which time the precocious young musician absorbed all that was around him. He was born into an auspicious year for France. In that year, 1668, the young king Louis XIV signed the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle which concluded a war by which he had attempted to secure territories in the Spanish Netherlands that he believed were his by his marriage to the Spanish princess Marie-Thérèse. Although leading to war with the Dutch four years later, through the financial genius of his minister Colbert there ensued a twenty-year period of prosperity that enabled Louis to realise his grand plans for making France the cultural centre of Europe. Louis immediately made the momentous decision to start work on new plans that superseded earlier ones for the Palace of Versailles where Couperin was to be appointed in a part-time capacity twenty-five years later. His was the first of four court appointments in the history of the Couperin musical dynasty, which stretched from the late sixteenth- to the mid-nineteenth centuries. For the most part the Couperins worked at various churches in Paris, most notably at Saint-Gervais. While the name of Couperin has been traced back to the fourteenth century in the region of Brie, south-west of Paris, those with musical gifts started with Mathurin

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Couperin, a modest landowner born in 1569, who was admitted as a maître joueur d’instruments into the company of the ménestriers, a powerful guild that François was to pillory in one of his harpsichord pieces a hundred years later. Mathurin’s musical talents were passed down to his son Charles whose musical progeny included one of the finest harpsichord composers and players of his day, Louis. He and his brother François were uncles to the ‘famous’ François, or Couperin le grand, as he was to be called. Charles’s youngest son, also named Charles, was the father of the younger François, who passed on to his daughter Marguerite-Antoinette the gifts that enabled her to gain the position at Versailles as harpsichordist, which her father had taken over from D’Anglebert. When Couperin became too ill to continue in the position he relinquished it in favour of his daughter, who became the first woman to hold the appointment. His eldest daughter Marie-MadeleineCécile, who entered a convent, apparently was also musical. Of his two sons, one became a soldier, the other died very young. His cousin Marguerite-Louise, daughter of his uncle François, was another woman who enjoyed the hereditary gift to such an extent that she was appointed to the court in 1702 as singer and harpsichordist. Her younger brother Nicolas was to succeed his famous cousin as organist at Saint-Gervais, in his turn followed there by his son Armand-Louis and grandsons Pierre-Louis and Gervais-François, both of whom also played at other well-known Parisian churches. Gervais-François’s daughter Célèste-Thérèse, a musician of mediocre talent, brought to an end at her death in 1860 one of the longest European musical dynasties. Paris and Versailles were thus the main scenes of activity of this remarkable family. Not a great deal is known about Couperin’s life. What facts there are come from Titon du Tillet’s account in Le Parnasse françois (1743), a few archival documents and from the title-pages and prefaces to the composer’s published music. He was born on 10 November 1668 in Paris, and was only eleven when his father died. Such was the young boy’s precocity that the parish council appointed him to succeed his father when he reached the age of eighteen. Its confidence in the child was not misplaced, and a year before that birthday the church council agreed to pay him 300 livres a year until a formal contract was drawn up, suggesting that the young musician had already been Saint-Gervais’s organist for some time, even though the post officially was filled by Michel-Richard Delalande. The young Couperin’s training had been placed in the hands of Jacques Thomelin, organist at Saint Jacquesla-Boucherie, who was also one of the four organists at the Royal Chapel. A few months before his twenty-first birthday Couperin married Marie-Anne Ansault whose family enjoyed excellent business connections that were to usefully serve the young organist-composer, who, the following year, successfully obtained a sixyear royal privilège to publish his compositions. Following the death of Thomelin, Couperin auditioned to become an organist at the Royal Chapel at Versailles in 1693, and was chosen by the king himself, who declared the young man to be the ‘most experienced’ of all those who auditioned.1 He filled the post as one of the four part-time organists there, the others being Guillaume-Gabriel Nivers, Jean-

Couperin and his Times

3

Baptiste Buterne and Nicolas-Antoine Lebègue. While originally there had only been one full-time organist for the Royal Chapel, in 1678 the king decided that the position should be shared by four organists, each for three months. Taking over from Thomelin, Couperin, then aged twenty-five, was required to be at Versailles from January to March each year, so allowing him to serve Saint-Gervais for the remaining months. Soon afterwards he was also appointed harpsichord teacher to members of the royal family – the Dauphin (Duke of Boulogne), Anne de Bourbon, and Louis-Alexandre de Bourbon (Count of Toulouse). This appointment and other commitments at court led to an increasing presence at Versailles, particularly during the last two years of Louis’s reign when Couperin was required to be at court every Sunday evening to play chamber music for the ailing king. The Count of Toulouse, who under Couperin’s tuition became a good amateur musician and an ardent musiclover, was to maintain a group of musicians at his château at Rambouillet and at the Hôtel de Toulouse in Paris where Couperin undoubtedly performed, and he gave the composer a generous pension of 1000 livres.2 The relationship was probably strengthened in 1724 when Couperin acquired a house in the fashionable Rue des bons enfants opposite the stables of the Hôtel de Toulouse. After the king’s death in 1715 he secured the post of harpsichordist in the musique de chambre, which, for forty-three years, had been held by the now enfeebled Jean-Baptiste D’Anglebert, son of the famous seventeenth-century player and composer, an appointment, which, as we have seen, Couperin passed on to his daughter Marguerite-Antoinette when he himself began to feel the inroads of ill-health. Indeed, ill health constantly dogged him in later years. Couperin died on 12 September I733 and was buried in the church of Saint Joseph, part of the parish of Saint Eustache. Given that the relatively few documents relating to Couperin’s life offer us a glimpse into his professional rather than personal life, we might be forgiven for imagining that Couperin’s world was bounded by church, court and teaching. Yet, as Jane Clark and Derek Connon have recently shown, other evidence points to a far more colourful life in which he undoubtedly rubbed shoulders with writers, painters and actors. Not least of these were from the ribald and racy Italian troupe which Louis XIV disbanded in 1696 for obscene jokes about himself and his morganatic wife Mme de Maintenon. Those Italian actors and tumblers who stayed in France found outlet in the large and noisy – even dangerous – fairgrounds of Paris. And the evidence for this? The titles of his harpsichord works, which ‘are in a sense a musical autobiography’.3 The breadth of references to events and to people of all kinds and qualities suggest not an onlooker, but one who took part in and enjoyed the ebullient and vital life of Paris in its many guises. Derek Connon has shown how, judging from the titles: Couperin also shows a taste for literary works that reflect his own interest in les goûts réunis by blending the French with the Italian, whether it is French authors writing for Italian actors, the Théâtre Français stealing the use of music and dance that the Italians had made their own, or the unique blend of Italian characters and plots with French actors and authors found at the fairs.4

4

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Clearly, the blending of French and Italian styles was not confined to music, but was ‘in the air’, so to speak. We know something of his reading habits through the inventory drawn up after his death. The two hundred or so books listed in it were, on the whole, in the genres of satire, theatre and novels.5 As a young man Couperin had eagerly sought honours and titles. His first publication in 1692 describes the composer as Sieur de Crouilly (the area from where his father came), and about 1702 he was made a Knight of Rome and also received the Cross of the Knights of Latran, this giving him the right to call himself Chevalier Couperin. Yet the portrait we have of him shows no hint of arrogant bearing, and his many witty and playful pieces suggest a man of great charm and good humour. However, despite his great gifts as a performer, Couperin did not have the field to himself. His greatest rival as organist and harpsichordist was Louis Marchand (1669–1732), the brilliant but personally unattractive performer whom history remembers as disappearing from a contest at Dresden that was to be held between the Frenchman and J.S. Bach. According to D’Aquin du Châteaulyon – writing some twenty years after Couperin’s death – Marchand enjoyed the greater following in Paris and that for every two ‘defeats’ suffered to Marchand’s reputation at the hands of Couperin he gained twenty ‘victories’. Comparing these two leading performers of their day, both of whom had been child prodigies, connoisseurs considered Marchand to be the more brilliant and more naturally gifted, Couperin the more profound musician and a true man of genius.6 What effect did this have on Couperin? Certainly, one detects a degree of personal insecurity in some of the prefaces to his works. In that to his third book of harpsichord pieces, for example, he hopes that ‘grammarians and purists’ will forgive the style of his prefaces – and indeed, his writing is often cumbersome and unclear – while that of L’Art de toucher le clavecin has been described by Pierre Citron as giving the impression that Couperin’s comments, while often valuable, have been hastily thrown together.7 Couperin would, indeed, not have been the first child prodigy to have had a neglected general education and when moving from notes to words he may have felt at a disadvantage. As far as criticism of his music is concerned Couperin was very defensive, taking issue with those whom he describes as despicable ‘fault-finders’.8 Almost as though to bolster his selfesteem, on several occasions he points to his position as a court musician and his easy relationship with the king and members of the royal family. Couperin seemed as much at home in organ loft as in royal apartment, between the city of Paris and the palace of Versailles. Yet while the construction of the new palace had began in the year of Couperin’s birth it was to be fourteen years before Versailles was able to accommodate the whole court, which moved there permanently in 1682, and eleven years after that before Couperin was to work there. In the meantime Louis, as well as visiting his royal residences outside the capital, lived at the Louvre and the Tuileries, both palaces having undergone considerable renovation to make them attractive enough for a king who disliked

Couperin and his Times

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Paris and who sought every opportunity to visit Versailles to inspect what was to be the most enduring monument to his long reign. What we associate with musical life at Versailles – its ballets, operas, balls, and other diversions – had already been rehearsed, so to speak, in Paris, the difference being one of greater splendour in the new surroundings and, as the years passed, of increasing formality and insularity. The decade into which Couperin was born had witnessed the beginning of Louis XIV’s personal reign (Mazarin having died in 1661, the young monarch decided to rule without a First Minister) and the proliferation of those royal academies that were to be the chief propagators of the king’s image as conquering hero, benign and wise ruler, God’s chosen instrument, and patron of all the arts and sciences. Medals and inscriptions by the thousands, statues, paintings, tapestries and other icons, as well as the organisation and details of royal entries, public ceremonies and divertissements were worked on by members of the new academies: the Académie de Danse (1661), the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture (1663), the Académie Française de Rome (1666)9, and the Académie des Sciences (1666). Later were to come the Académie d’Architecture (1671) and in the same year the Académie d’Opéra (headed by Perrin and Cambert) to be replaced in the following year by Lully’s Académie Royale de Musique. Although ultimately under the power of the king, in practice these royal academies were controlled and regulated by Colbert – all but those in the field of music. In ballet and opera this was the sole prerogative of Lully; in religious music, however, control was in the hands of the maître de la Chapelle.10 As we have seen, it was the king himself who chose Couperin as organist of the Royal Chapel. Writing no operas or other theatrical works in which a text extolled the virtues of the king, Couperin’s part in projecting the monarch’s glory lay more in the fact that one of the finest composers and organists of the day was in his service. The only text he set that came close to glorifying the king was the psalm ‘Grant Victory to the king, O Lord’, which regularly came at the end of the royal mass each morning (see below). While the academies reflect a new bureaucratic and centralised control of the visual and literary arts, the organisation of music at court was of a tradition that stretched back to much earlier. Music at court – whether at Paris or Versailles – was performed by well over a hundred musicians belonging to the various musical organisations inherited by Louis XIV from his predecessors: that of the Chamber, Chapel, Great Stable and the Vingt-quatre violons du Roi. These court musicians were appointed in a hierarchical system of officiers, surintendants, sous-maîtres and ordinaires.11 all ultimately under the control of the king, himself knowledgeable in music. Unlike the ‘rank and file’ musicians (ordinaires), those in the higher ranks could sell or bequeath their court positions in a system known as survivance, this sometimes giving rise to those dynasties of musicians which seemed to be a feature of music at the French court. Thus, after Lully’s death that composer’s position as surintendant passed first to his younger, then to his elder son. We have seen this system at work in the case of Marguerite-Antoinette Couperin taking over her father’s position when he became too ill to continue as court harpsichordist.

6

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

When Couperin took up his position at the Royal Chapel Lully had been dead for six years, but his influence still cast a long shadow, for his music, like the paintings of Le Brun, the architecture of Perrault, the dramas of Corneille and Racine, embodied a distinctly French style in keeping with the grand manner cultivated by the king and his image-makers.12 Increasingly concerned with outpacing Italian culture, the king encouraged Lully to cultivate a style of music in which impressive and generous gestures took the place of striking modulations and dissonances to which many Italian composers were prone, moving instead in bland and simple, yet thoroughly effective harmony. Lully’s operas – themselves an extension of dramatised ballet – exerted a profound influence over all musicians in that country, and it is difficult to cite another instance in which the music of one man summed up the style of a whole epoch. His personal influence reached out much further than the court when he was given complete control over all public performances of dramatic music in France, none of which could take place without his express permission. If in the field of church music his hand had no controlling power, in the realm of dramatic music it was almost as absolute as that of the king who employed him. It is no mere artistic licence to place Lully, master of the heroic gesture, alongside those other great figures of French classicism. When permitted to form his own orchestra at court, called the Petits violons (in contrast to the Vingt-quatre violons du Roi), he did away with any improvised ornamentation (stemming from the tradition of decorating early lute-accompanied seventeenth-century airs) replacing it with a plainer manner of performance marked by a crisp precision attained through a style of bowing which was new to orchestral playing. As well as composing dances and airs for his ballets and operas, Lully moulded a style of vocal writing that became the pride of France although hardly the envy of Italy. It was a style in which declamation merged imperceptibly into lyricism, baffling the Italians who preferred to keep these two elements quite separate in recitatives and arias. Although the Italians may not have appreciated Lully’s vocal style, they (and the Germans) fully admired and imitated one feature of his operas and ballets: the ouverture. This was devised by Lully as a great fanfare to his courtly entertainments, commencing as it always did with majestic dotted rhythms giving way eventually to a more lively section in fugal style, and often concluding with dance movements. It was a musical form that found great favour outside France in orchestral and keyboard music, while in the country of its origin the ‘French Overture’ provided the only extended form of instrumental music until the later years of the seventeenth century. The central role played by the court in the musical life of France was strengthened through the publication and dissemination of court music by the royal printers – the Ballard family. The founder of this long dynasty of publishers, Robert Ballard (c. 1525–1588) had gained the title of Printer to the King in the middle of the sixteenth century and his descendants were to maintain the royal appointment for two hundred years. Their high standard established France’s reputation as the

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7

leading nation for music printing throughout the seventeenth century, although by clinging to moveable type the firm began to lose out to those who adopted the technology of music engraving that made its appearance in France at the beginning of the eighteenth century. With musical life largely centred at court, and given the king’s personal tastes – at least in public – it is small wonder that contemporary Italian baroque music excited little interest in France until towards the end of the century when Versailles’s long decline set in. Thus, while contemporary Italian composers were revelling in new ways to convey greater intensity and brilliance, those in France were looking at ways to refine their art. Growing up at a time when this process defined the French classical tradition in music, the precocious young Couperin absorbed its courtly style, its forms and genres with such spontaneity that his first compositions (the two organ masses of 1690) are also among his indisputable masterpieces. Yet before the century was over, François Couperin was also at the head of a movement which, from its encounter with Italian music, was to transform the French tradition he had inherited. Couperin’s court appointment being only for the first quarter of each year, most of his early career was centred on Paris, which by the beginning of the new century was overtaking Versailles as the hub of artistic life. Lively minds, tiring of the restrictions and restraints of Versailles, turned increasingly to Paris where the salon tradition, begun in the early years of the seventeenth century, was gaining new strength, offering far wider interests than those found in the hide-bound tradition at court. Although the ageing king still had fifteen years left, something of the spirit of the coming era seems to have permeated the capital. For example, it was at the Palais Royal, home of the future Regent, that Italian-inspired French cantatas and sonatas were nurtured by composers in the service of the Duke of Orleans. The duke was a lover of Italian music and had been taught composition by MarcAntoine Charpentier, himself trained in Italy. Paris was now a place for questioning traditional attitudes to science, religion, literature and ‘foreign’ music.13 Yet despite the increasing Italian influence eighteenth-century French music retained its essential elements. It was, like the older style, still an art of musical gesture rather than one of cogent argument. Just as the enchanting canvasses of Antoine Watteau reflected the moods and manners of an age in which society, less formal though no less polite than before, enjoyed the pleasures of the fêtes galantes, so too did the music of this same society acquire a nuance of movement embodying a seemingly easy and natural grace. It is unfortunate that the etiquette and deportment practised in eighteenth-century French society has been so mercilessly caricatured in comedies and operas as to give us the impression of affectation. Yet a seventeenth-century ‘courtesy manual’ criticises affectation as something that ‘tarnishes and soils the most beautiful things’.14 Gesture and noble bearing, studied and practised from the earliest years of childhood, produced a beauty and fluency of movement that we are much the poorer without today. The very acts of walking, bowing, of holding a fan or removing a hat, of entering a room or sitting in a chair,

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

the position of one arm in relation to the other, and these in relation to the rest of the body and head – all these movements and postures achieved a balletic grace as well as a nobility of manner gained through the rigorous discipline of courtly deportment. As we learn through the courtesy books and dance manuals of the time, the five basic positions of social dance (which were to form the basis of nineteenthcentury classical ballet) were also the basic ‘positions’ of deportment cultivated during the reign of Louis XIV. (He can be seen in many of his portraits holding one of the dance positions – even when playing billiards!) It is not the least surprising, therefore, that a society which developed physical movement to the level of an art, and which regarded the fine arts as a means of pleasing and touching its audience, should have cultivated a style of music in which subtle and expressive ‘gestures’ were preferred to thematic argument. As we shall see in later chapters, such a style strongly influenced French melody and harmony, giving to them a characteristic complexion that even the union with Italian music could not disguise. From deportment to dance was literally a mere step and dance held the central place in music at court. This was not only because of the young king’s passionate love of dancing and extraordinary expertise in it (inherited from his father Louis XIII), but also because the physical discipline required in mastering an art was seen as useful training for swordsmanship. This was a point made in the Lettres patentes establishing the Académie Royale de Danse in 1661.15 Moreover, the ancient Platonic concept transmitted to Renaissance man by Ficino and others still held sway in the seventeenth century, so that by dancing gracefully it was believed that one could catch something of that celestial harmony which ennobled the spirit of those who took part. No wonder, then, that social dance was called the danse noble. As France gained leadership over Italy in cultivating the manners of polite society, so French court dance became an essential accomplishment for the nobility, the lead being given by the king himself, who, it has been reported, assiduously practised the courante for some hours a day in his youth.16 At the formal court balls one’s skills were clearly on display, for unlike in later times the dances were performed by one couple only, everyone else looking on, the evening commencing with the king dancing with the queen. They then handed over to another couple in order of court precedence.17 The only ‘ensemble’ dances were the branle (with which court balls usually began) and the gavotte.18 Nevertheless, as Rebecca Harris-Warrick has pointed out, there were also other occasions when dancing was enjoyed in a less formal way, even though there is not a great deal known about this.19 Dance steps and floor patterns for both courtiers and professional dancers were worked out by the Académie Royale de Danse, its founder Pierre Beauchamps (1636–1705), credited with having devised a system of dance notation, which was refined and developed by Raoul-Auger Feuillet (c. 1660–1710) and Louis-Guillaume Pécour (1651?–1729) – two of the finest dancers in the realm. The dance forms were France’s most exportable musical commodity and they found their way into all countries of Europe, inspiring some of the finest music during the baroque period. With the notable exception of the sarabande and the

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passacaille from Spain, the chaconne from Mexico, the allemande from Germany and the gigue from England, most of the dances were native to France, having originated in the provinces and been brought to the court where they were refined and stylised through the Académie Royale de Danse.20 (A description of the most important dances will be found in Appendix F.) Although it formed the basis of theatrical dance, which included leaps and much agility, social or court dance was, by contrast, always elegant and smooth in execution, its movements an extension of courtly deportment, its steps forming a counterpoint against the rhythm of the music. Indisputably, dance in all its manifestations was the most important form of music in France. So influential was it in that country that it could truly be said that most music there aspired to the condition of the dance. As we shall see, Couperin’s output, though largely couched in French terms, covers a wide range of musical experience through the amalgam of French and Italian styles and forms. His early trio sonatas, as we might expect when the composer sought to emulate Corelli, catch much of the warmth and brilliance of the Italian sonata style, while in his harpsichord pieces the Italian elements are more subtly woven into the music. Yet even here we find a wealth of variety, some works, while unmistakably French, borrowing some of the techniques of thematic development common to Italian and German music of the day. Couperin believed that through the union of French and Italian styles music could be ‘perfected’. Before considering his works it is thus necessary to understand the nature of these two styles, which will be explored in the two chapters that follow. Before coming to the question of musical styles, however, a review of the musical forms and practices that were in vogue in France during Couperin’s career will be briefly considered next.

Seventeenth-century French Musical Forms and Practice As far as vocal music was concerned, the most popular form in France during the first half of the seventeenth century was the air de cour. The name, as well as the style, had its origins in the late sixteenth century, and musical traits from these closing years of the Renaissance were to persist in France for many decades. The air de cour was a strophic song for several voices or for solo voice with lute accompaniment, the two versions often existing side by side. The lute commonly used when accompanying the air de cour was a ‘tenor’ lute, a 10-course instrument, six of its courses tuned either to G-c-f-a-d1-g1 or to A-d-g-b-e1-a1, the remaining four ‘diapason’ strings providing four notes underneath the deepest fingered string and tuned to whatever low notes were required by the harmony.21 As the century wore on the name became retracted simply to air – a loose, generic term which covered different categories of song, like air sérieux, air à boire, air à danser, air tendre. Complementing the change in terminology and style was the replacement of the tenor lute by a larger instrument – the théorbe. Couperin was to leave some agreeable examples of the air sérieux and other songs.

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

While the solo song had also been extensively cultivated in Italy from the early years of the seventeenth century, there, however, it had been one of the vehicles to carry the new fervent and declamatory style that heralded the Baroque era. In that country lute accompaniment on its own had quickly given way to that provided by harpsichord or organ with bass viol or violoncello, combinations giving fuller rein to the harmonic intensity and richness characteristic of the new style being developed in that country. On the other hand, in France as late as 1668 the composer and teacher Bénigne de Bacilly would claim that the théorbe was far superior to the harpsichord when accompanying, as it did not obscure the voice.22 More intimate than the aria, the French air did not express the passionate intensity or display the bravura of its Italian counterpart. Quite the reverse. What virtuosity there was lay in the subtle, delicate yet complex art of melodic decoration. For the most part the French air is pervaded by a gentle languor or by the graceful rhythms of the dance. Only the drinking songs (airs à boire) caught a more energetic mood or enjoyed a hearty text. None, however, had much in common – either in spirit or technique – with the Italian baroque aria. Indeed, the term ‘baroque’ seems scarcely applicable to French music until well on in the second half of the century, and then merely in part. Even the one element of the Baroque era which seems to link its earliest to its latest exemplars is missing in French music until 1652 – figured bass. (For some historians the existence of this system throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries provides the only argument for placing Monteverdi with Bach under the canopy of the term ‘baroque’.) In France its use can be traced back to Du Mont’s Cantica Sacra in the middle of the century, but it was not necessarily widely practised in that country at that time. In 1660 Nicolas Fleury published his Méthode pour apprendre facilement à toucher le théorbe sur la basse continue, the same year that Michel Lambert published his first book of Airs in which he dispensed with lute tablature and, instead, used figured bass which (as he said) meant that the music could be more easily transposed for different voices.23 Despite Lambert’s example it was not, for example, until after 1672 that any of the airs in Ballard’s other great collection entitled Airs de différents autheurs à deux parties (1658–94) began to be issued with a figured bass accompaniment. The conservative nature of seventeenth-century French music is further illustrated by the fact that, whereas in Italy the harpsichord was increasingly supported by the cello, in France it was that noble old instrument from renaissance times which filled this role: the bass viol. The basse de viole, in fact, retained a special place in French music until well into the eighteenth century. In Italy and Germany it was largely a curiosity by this time, although Bach’s sixth Brandenburg Concerto shows that it was by no means extinct. In France, the pioneer composer of the Italian-inspired eighteenth-century French cantata claimed in the Preface to the first publications of this kind of music that ‘with only a solo voice, harpsichord and bass viol one can easily perform this chamber music’.24 Couperin’s continuo usually calls for organ or harpsichord with bass viol. As a solo instrument, particularly through the virtuosity of performer-

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composers such as Sainte-Colombe, Marin Marais, Jean Rousseau and others, bass viol playing developed to a very high level in France and lasted well into the eighteenth century when towards the end of his life Couperin composed two splendid and technically very demanding suites for the instrument. His most wellknown suites, however, are those found in his harpsichord music. The French school of harpsichord playing is generally considered to have been founded by Jacques de Chambonnières (c. 1602–72) who was court player to Louis XIII. He followed the lead given by the lutenists of his day, who, instead of playing in a strictly polyphonic style, gave the impression of an interplay of individual lines in the style brisé. To this Chambonnières and his school added the keyboard’s greater range of colour and sonority and developed a style that became the model for generations of harpsichord composers in France.25 For many people this kind of music seems to contain the quintessence of French music of that period, especially because of its rich and sophisticated ornamentation. For his harpsichord pieces, Chambonnières and those who followed him – D’Anglebert, Louis Couperin, Lebègue and many others – found in the dance an ideal model. The stately allemande and noble sarabande provided the serious moments, the bourrée and gigue the gayer ones. In the French courante lay the possibilities for exploiting rhythmic suppleness, and all these dances, together with the minuet, gavotte, passepied, rigaudon and others, found their way into the instrumental music of all countries. It is also worth noting that the passacaglia (passacaille) and chaconne, which were included in instrumental suites in all countries, were still being danced in France until the early eighteenth century, even though they appear to have lost all association with the ballroom elsewhere. In seventeenth-century France the only movements of the keyboard suite completely independent of the dance were the ‘unmeasured’ preludes of D’Anglebert and Louis Couperin; these provided the performer with the pitch only of the notes, leaving their rhythmic interpretation to improvisatory skill. With these models before him it is surprising that François Couperin left no examples of the form. He did, however, compose some ‘measured’ preludes, which he included in his pedagogical work L’Art de toucher le clavecin. If the influence of the dance was strongly exerted in harpsichord music and in some songs, it was of course at the very heart of those royal entertainments, the ballets de cour. The French counterpart of the English masque and Italian mascherata, the ballet de cour embraced dancing, dialogue and singing in allegorical homage to the king. With the appearance of the Italian-born Lully the ballet de cour entered a new phase, and in the hands of this composer was later to be transformed into French opera (tragédie lyrique) which, unlike that of Italy, extensively featured chorus and ballet, both integral features of the earlier form. Although Couperin wrote no operas, neither he nor any French composer of that time could escape the influence of tragédie-lyrique or ignore the presence of its originator, Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632–87), a composer to whom Couperin paid deep tribute in his orchestral suite entitled L’Apothéose composé à la mémoire de l’incomparable Monsieur de Lully (1725).

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

While Lully wrote some very fine motets, his was not the world of the chapel and organ loft. By contrast, this was very much the world inhabited by Couperin. The so-called grand motet, in which a large choir alternates with a small ensemble of soloists, the whole accompanied by orchestra and continuo organ, had been created in the middle of the century by Henry Du Mont (1610–84). He was appointed a sous-maître of the Royal Chapel in 1663 and the king was so taken by this kind of music, in which striking effects can be achieved through contrasting sonorities and textures, that the form was virtually adopted for the Royal Chapel – a kind of ‘house style’, so to speak. It fitted the liturgical service preferred by Louis XIV in his everyday observance: Low Mass in which the liturgy was spoken, not sung, the choir ‘adorning’ it with an opening grand motet (usually lasting 15 minutes) and followed at the Elevation of the Host by a petit motet for 1–4 voices with organ continuo. The end of the service was marked by a second grand motet sung appropriately to the words Dominum salvum fac Regem (‘Grant victory to the king, O Lord, and answer this day our appeal’). Yet, the majestic nature of the service was probably only fully realised when the Royal Chapel (as it stands today) was completed in 1713 – two years before the king’s death and 20 years after Couperin’s appointment. (Before this time Mass had been held in various temporary chapels at Versailles, the last of these – in operation for 30 years – conveniently at the east end of the king’s grand appartement.) Couperin’s appointment being that of organist rather than that of composer to the Royal Chapel may have been the reason why the majority of his motets were petits motets, perhaps composed less for Versailles than for St. Gervais. Nevertheless, Titon du Tillet wrote that Couperin also composed six grands motets, none of which have survived. Enhancing the liturgy, rather than being an essential part of it, both grands and petits motets were often performed as works in their own right – as concert pieces – such as at the Concert Spirituel in Paris from 1725 onwards. On the other hand, the organ masses (Couperin producing two masterpieces) fulfilled a true liturgical function. The form of the organ mass was an extension of the age-old custom of responsorial singing in which priest and choir alternated in the chanting of plainsong. With the development of polyphony the choral response was often couched in elaborate versions of the plainsong. In the organ masses the instrument took over the role of the choir, and by Couperin’s time the alternation of plainsong and organ response had become a tradition of many years’ standing. Airs, dance forms, instrumental suites, motets, organ masses, all these with their forms and characteristic French expression were inherited by Couperin from the musical tradition of his own country and his contribution to their repertoire will be examined in some detail in later chapters. Before concluding this chapter a few comments on French performance practice as it relates to Couperin’s music may be helpful. Examples illustrating these practices are found in later pages and are referred to below.

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Notational peculiarities A characteristic of much French instrumental music in Couperin’s day is the use of the G clef on the first line of the stave, a practice that died out soon after his death. This ‘French violin clef’ (as it is generally referred to) was scarcely ever used outside France, although Michel Corrette pointed to its use by Geminiani and Somis26, and indeed J.S. Bach wrote the recorder parts in his well-known aria ‘Sheep may safely graze’ from the secular cantata BWV 208 Was mir behagt, ist nur die munter Jagd using this clef. Being peculiarly French, it is surprising that Couperin used it in his sonatas that he passed off as ‘Italian’ works which later became Les nations. (See Chapter 5 for mention of Clés françoises in L’Apothéose de Lully.) Another form of notation that became obsolete soon after his death was croches blanches (white quavers), nowadays often described in musicological writings as ‘void’ notation. It is found in twenty-seven of his pieces (motets, Lecons de ténèbres, royal concerts, L’Apothéose de Lully and harpsichord pieces27), an example being reproduced in Chapter 6 of this volume. It was a relic of medieval mensural notation and obviously chosen by Couperin for his satirical piece Les fastes de la grande et ancienne Mxnxstrxndsx (see Example 6.2) to emphasise the antiquated nature of the closed society of ménestriers against which he had a running battle. Yet, archaic as the origins of the notation may have been, it was not actually outmoded in France until well into the third decade of the eighteenth century. That it was regarded by some composers as a useful form of notation until that time can be gauged by the fact that when Collin de Blamont republished his cantata Circé six years after the original had appeared in 1723 he still retained the void notation in one of the movements – this requiring a completely new engraving to take in his extensive revisions and additions to the work. It was a notation widely employed by Charpentier and De Lalande in their motets. What was its appeal to French composers and performers? At a time when French scores (unlike Italian) usually lacked tempo indications, it would seem that void notation was one way of suggesting a rather slow tempo. Judging by Sawkins’s research, this was certainly true of Lalande’s, and although Shirley Thompson28 believes that in Charpentier’s music void notation could mean either a slow or a (relatively) fast tempo (citing conflicting evidence from two theorists from the period), at least as far as Couperin’s music is concerned it strongly suggests a definite slackening of tempo. In his motets, for example, void notation is employed on a number of occasions for sections in a minor key following a major key or for texts that suggest a leisurely but flowing tempo. In the instrumental pieces the void notation is usually accompanied by words such as lentement, gravement, majestueusement, sans trop de lenteur, pointé-coulé. Such terms might thus be considered as refinements in tempo and expression of what is basically an ‘unhurried’ one. Although void notation was predominantly used for triple time, one of Couperin’s harpsichord pieces, La Langueur sous le Domino vert (13th Ordre) uses it in duple time with the unusual time signature of 1/2.

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Rhythmic ornamentation In a much-quoted phrase from his L’Art de toucher le clavecin Couperin remarked that: We [the French] notate our music differently from how we play it; the result is that foreigners play our music less well than we play theirs. On the other hand, the Italians write their music with the correct note-values with which they conceive their music.29

He was referring in particular to the French practice of notating a smooth flow of melody that in performance is to be played in a dotted rhythm. Although the convention of notes inégales (‘unequal’ notes) as it came to be called had been propounded by Caccini in his Le Nuove musiche of 1602 it does not seem to have taken on in Italian music. Certainly in Couperin’s day it was regarded as an essentially French practice. In a sense, it was a form of rhythmic ornamentation applied spontaneously in performance, which, like those more familiar forms of embellishment contributed to that ‘nuance of movement’ referred to earlier in this chapter. Indeed, one of the functions of ornamentation is to impart further suppleness of movement to the music. The nuances gained by the musical gesture through sensitive rhythmic ornamentation even had their counterpart in theatrical dance, particularly in the dances choreographed by Pécour, maître de ballet at the Opéra from 1687 to 1723.30 As in French music generally, dance ornaments were known as agrémens, and they served to embellish basic steps, imparting (as in vocal and instrumental music) a high degree of virtuosity and brilliance to performance. It may in fact have been French fascination with gesture and movement that led musicians to linger frequently over the first of a pair of notes (making up for this by playing the second one more quickly), imparting greater rhythmic vivacity and suppleness to an otherwise smooth rhythm. So much modern research has been applied to the question of notes inégales that it would be superfluous to say more here than that the extent to which a performer ‘ruffles’ the surface of the rhythm – from the extremes of a sharp, pointed style to one that is so languid as to be scarcely noticeable – depends entirely upon taste and sensitivity to the prevailing expression and tempo. To apply it mechanically would be tedious in the extreme. To ensure the gentlest possible notes inégales in his harpsichord piece Allemande La Laborieuse (2nd Ordre) Couperin even placed the unusual instruction: les doubles croches un tant-soit-peu pointés – ‘the semiquavers or 16th notes to be ever-soslightly dotted’. So widespread was the practice of notes inégales in France that it is more usual to find instructions when not to employ the convention, using phrases such as notes égales etc., as well as (more rarely) dots placed over the notes,31 these meaning, not staccato, but the passage to be played as written. This can be confusing in music intended to unite French and Italian styles, and there is such a passage in L’Apothéose de Lully (see Chapter 5). It was taken for granted that fast

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or angular passages were always to be played as written. So, too, was ‘foreign’ music, which perhaps explains why, when its smooth phrases already strongly suggest inequality, Couperin wrote the words pointé-coulé (dotted rhythm in a flowing style) at the head of the (Italian) Corranto in the 14th Concert to ensure performance in the French, not the Italian manner (see Example 5.6). Another form of rhythmic ornamentation – and one that had a wider application than just to French music – was the practice of performing some notated dotted notes in a much sharper rhythm than suggested by the notation, particularly in the majestic opening of the French Overture.32 This convention, too, has been widely explored in writings too numerous to mention here. Melodic ornamentation The seventeenth-century viol player Jean Rousseau claimed that music without ornaments was like ‘unseasoned food’33, the eighteenth-century composer Michel Corrette described it as being like an ‘uncut diamond’34. Much of it, however, was left to the discretion of the performer, the composer usually content to mark with a little cross those notes he wished to be embellished by singer or instrumentalist. On the other hand, for their harpsichord music most French composers (Couperin in particular) preferred to be more specific, indicating the various ornaments they required. (Couperin’s Table of Ornaments is reproduced in Appendix G.) Like many others of the time Couperin regarded the harpsichord as a ‘perfect’ instrument – perfect in all but its incapacity to swell and diminish its tone through finger action. Yet even the absence of this area of musical expression can be largely overcome, he declared, through recourse to the fine art of ornamentation ‘established by my predecessors and which I have tried to perfect.’35 Yet the primary role of ornamentation in Couperin’s harpsichord pieces, as in all his music, is an expressive one, a point easily overlooked if we think of it as only a means of extending the evanescent tones of a plucked instrument. It is true that Couperin himself alludes to this additional usefulness of ornamentation when applied to the harpsichord. He pointed out in his L’Apothéose de Lully that anyone who wished to perform that work on two harpsichords instead of on strings and wind could do this effectively, provided that the players extend the trills to the end of the note, for (as he says) the harpsichord is unable to sustain its tone for long.36 Nor can there be any doubt that some ornaments like the pincé (mordent) and the short fast trill can give a strong impression of dynamic accent to what is in reality a level tone. Yet to imagine that Couperin’s rich ornamentation is there primarily to compensate for any deficiencies in harpsichord tone is to miss the point, and in so doing to ignore the equally rich ornamentation found in almost all his music. For French composers, ornamentation was an essential element of musical expression and in the hands or the throats of the right performer ornamentation becomes dissolved into the flow of melody. Far from sounding as if it has been ‘added’ to the music, it seems to rise up from within, like a balletic movement held, extended or embellished by the

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

dancer. Burney’s complaint that Couperin’s music was ‘crouded and deformed by beats, trills and shakes’37 is less a criticism of the composer than an admission of the Englishman’s inability to understand the style. It goes without saying that in vocal music ornamentation is intimately related to the text. As will be discussed in the next chapter the art of diminutions or doubles, in which a simple melodic line is dissolved into ornamental phrases (see Example 2.4) was a feature of the French style in the seventeenth century, and although Caccini and other early Italian composers rejected the practice in their own music (dismissing it as outmoded) it came back into aria and sonata in the late seventeenth century in the form of cadenzas and richly embellished slow movements. The adagio and grave movements of Corelli’s violin sonatas, for example, were sometimes performed with rich extempore passage-work.38 As their fast movements left little opportunity for embellishment beyond the brittle mordent and the ringing cadential trill, it was to the slow movements that performers turned when wishing to exploit the art of ornamentation. On the other hand, lacking Italianate extremes of tempo, French music moved more moderately and was thus susceptible to the art of ornamentation throughout its varying movements. Tempo and expression Tempo as related to expression is taken up by Couperin as further examples of how Italian and French scores differ, in that the latter give no firm indication of speed. I find that we confuse metre [mesure] with what is called tempo [cadence ou mouvement]. Metre defines the length and regularity of the beat; tempo is literally the spirit and soul which is joined to it. Italian sonatas are scarcely susceptible to this interpretation of tempo. But all our pieces for violin, harpsichord, viols and so on, seem to want to express some sentiment. Thus, not having created signs or characters to communicate our distinctive musical ideas we try to remedy this by marking the beginning of our pieces with words such as ‘tenderly’ (tendrement), ‘brightly’ (vivement), etc., as close as we can to what we would like to be heard. I hope that someone will take the trouble to translate these for the help of foreigners so that they can have the means of judging the excellence of our instrumental music.39

Of the fifty or so words employed by Couperin to help performers interpret his music the most frequently encountered are légèrement, tendrement, gracieusement, gayement (gaiement) and vivement, none of which are, strictly speaking, words that indicate tempo.40 Yet, as Lionel Sawkins has pointed out, while lentement and vite (neither of which were used frequently by Couperin) are unambiguous in their indication of fast and slow, other words such légèrement and doucement were not only associated with style and mood, but were also understood by baroque musicians as indicating some kind of tempo.41 Thus, while légèreté might, at first sight be translated as ‘lightly’, Couperin’s indication ‘D’une légèreté modérée’ at

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the head of La Princesse de Chabeüil (15th Ordre) can most sensibly be interpreted as ‘moderately fast’. The ubiquitous tendre must have implied a relatively slow tempo as well as a tender sentiment if Couperin felt that pieces so marked needed to be played a little faster on the harpsichord than when played on other instruments because of its sound-decay. Couperin suggested that the impression of slowness could still be conveyed through the player’s taste and understanding of expression.42 Of course, words like impérieusement, languissement, grotesquement are obviously more related to a title, a programme or a text – imagined or real – than to a set tempo. As far as dance movements were concerned no indication was necessary, for their tempo and style were familiar to all musicians. Only when he combined a dance with a fanciful title did Couperin feel the need on some occasions to help the performer with a tempo or mood indication, with headings such as très tendrement at the beginning of a sarabande entitled Les Sentiments (lst Ordre). Arrangements and transpositions Couperin makes quite clear in his Prefaces and on his scores that many of his pieces may be rearranged effectively on instruments other than those for which they were initially composed. It is good to be reminded that Couperin was no ‘purist’ as far as instruments and voices were concerned. The composer himself points out that his orchestral suite L’Apothéose de Lully, for example, can be played on two harpsichords; some of the harpsichord duets can be played as solos by leaving out the middle line; almost all the Concerts royaux and Nouveaux concerts can be played by virtually any group of instruments (or harpsichord alone). Many of his harpsichord pieces may be played by flute, violin, viol etc., and he admits that his well-known Rossignol en amour (The Nightingale in Love, 14th Ordre) actually sounds better on recorder (flute à bec) than harpsichord. Although notated for soprano voices, Couperin suggested in the preface to them that his Leçons de ténèbres can be accompanied by organ or by harpsichord continuo with or without basse de violon or basse de viole43 and all voice-types can sing them – especially, as he says, because ‘most accompanists nowadays know how to transpose’. A neat technique for instrumental transposition that seems to have been widely current was first described in detail by Jean Rousseau in his Traité de la viole (1687) and later by Michel Corrette in his Méthode pour apprendre aisément à jouër de la flûte traversière (1735). It depended upon the player’s ability to read from a variety of clefs. ‘If the piece is in D and one wants to transpose it a tone higher to E, you must imagine that you are playing from C clef, third line, and if you want to transpose it a tone lower you must imagine that you are playing from C clef fourth line.’44 Following this method (provided that the instrumentalist could read from all the clefs – including the French violin clef) the music could easily be transposed to a number of other keys. (Even without recourse to the French violin clef Rousseau lists ten different keys available using this method.45) Naturally, octave transpositions were also often required to gain the appropriate register for the instrument.

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Couperin is often linked with Rameau, as Bach is with Handel. Jean-Philippe Rameau, however, was twenty years younger than Couperin, and although he too was influenced by the Italian school, he was not part of that generation of composers who initially expanded and transformed the French classical tradition. His early career was largely concerned with his remarkable theoretical writings and with a few short compositions. His handful of cantatas were nearly all composed in the 1720s, by which time the form had reached its maturity in France. These, the most Italianate of his works, were somewhat in the nature of apprentice-pieces to his most enduring productions – his operas, all of which were composed after Couperin’s final publication of 1730. Rameau’s greatness lay in his operas, a genre which Couperin never touched, preferring instead the more intimate style afforded by chamber music and harpsichord. Together, however, their output covers almost the entire range of French baroque music upon which they placed the unmistakable marks of genius. Both composers also published important pedagogical works, Rameau on harmony, Couperin on harpsichord playing. The former’s Traité de l’harmonie (1722) was the most important attempt to codify the harmonic practice of his day, providing the basis for most textbook teaching of the subject for the next two hundred years; the latter’s L’Art de toucher le clavecin (1716) remains one of the most informative sources about French harpsichord performance. It also contains some interesting reflections about teaching the instrument to young children. So concerned was he about the dangers of unsupervised practice that he recommended locking the harpsichord between lessons so (as he says) his young pupils ‘will not ruin in a moment all that I have been trying to instil over three-quarters of an hour’. To emphasise the point he mentions that he himself always pocketed the key of the instrument! Equally unorthodox was his approach to the question of when his pupils should learn to read music. He writes: Children should only be shown notation after they have played a number of pieces. It is almost impossible, while they are looking at the music, for their fingers not to miss the notes and twist themselves, or that even the ornaments are changed. Moreover, memory is developed much better when learning by heart.46

Those familiar with the educational philosophy of Shin’ichi Suzuki will recognise that Couperin anticipated by over two hundred and fifty years the approach of this remarkable Japanese teacher whose method has spread throughout the world. Perhaps it is just further confirmation that in François Couperin we encounter one of the liveliest minds of the period. Coming from an era so different from our own there is perhaps a tendency to regard Couperin’s music as over-refined and precious. But we should not imagine for a moment that Couperin’s music is merely a mirror of what we tend, erroneously, to imagine was an artificially elegant – almost inhuman – society, music that reflected only the graceful movements of aristocratic deportment. It is true that good breeding

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demanded total observance of what was called complaisance – a quality once described by Shirley Wynne as an eighteenth-century ‘cool’, the demeanour which in all appearances was one of ‘controlled vitality’.47 Yet Couperin must have felt as deeply as any man, and in his music how much he suggests by a single, penetrating glance. ‘Controlled vitality’ is indeed the perfect description of his music, a trait that remained powerfully present, even when Couperin embraced the Italian style and wedded it to what he had inherited from his native tradition. Just as politeness and noble bearing were everyday acts in the cultivated circles of eighteenth-century French society, so Couperin’s music was for everyday use. We do it no service by imagining otherwise, for beneath its elegant surface lies that robustness which usually accompanies the finest art.

Notes 1

Le Roi … après avoir entendu plusieurs organistes pour juger de celui qui serait le plus capable de remplir la charge d’organiste de la musique de sa chapelle, vacante par le décès de Jacques Thomelin, sa Majesté a fait choix de François Couperin comme le plus expérimenté en cet exercice …’ Brevet d’organiste du Roy pour François Couperin, Minutes of the Secrétariat de la Maison du Roi, 26 December, 1693 at Versailles. Reproduced in Marcelle Benoit, Musiques de Cour : Chapelle-Chambre-Ecurie 1661–1733 (Paris, 1971), 136–7. 2 Couperin eut l’honneur de montrer à jouer du Clavecin à M. le Duc de Bourgogne, Dauphin de France, de même qu’à Madame Ann de Bourbon Douairière de Conti, & à M. Louis-Alexandre de Bourbon, Comte de Toulouse, qui lui a continué une pension de mille livres jusqu’à sa mort.’ Titon du Tillet, Le Parnasse françois (Paris, 1727, with Supplements, 1743, 1755, 1760), 664. 3 Jane Clark and Derek Connon, ‘The mirror of human life’: Reflections on François Couperin’s Pièces de Clavecin (Huntingdon, 2002), 10. 4 Jane Clark and Derek Connon, 46. 5 See Pierre Citron, Couperin (Paris, 1956), 22–3. 6 ‘Ces deux Hommes supérieures partageaient le public dans leur temps, & se disputaient mutuellement la première place. Marchand avait pour lui la rapide exécution ; le Génie vif & soutenu, & des tournures de chant que lui seul connaissait. Couperin moins brillant, moins égal, moins favorisé de la nature, avait plus d’Art, & suivant quelques prétendus connoisseurs était profond. Quelquefois, dit-on, il s’élevait au-dessus de son Rival, mais Marchand pour deux défaites gagnait vingt victoires ; il n’avait guères d’autre épithète que celle de Grand ; c’était un homme de génie.’ D’Aquin de Châteaulyon, Siècle littéraire de Louis XV (Paris and Amsterdam, 1754), 107. 7 Pierre Citron, 76. 8 See Davitt Maroney, ‘Couperin et les Contradicteurs’: la révision de L’Art de toucher le Clavecin, François Couperin : Nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 163–86. 9 The famous Académie Française had been founded by Richelieu in 1635, principally to publish a dictionary of the French language. The Académie Française de Rome was a different institution, the purpose of which was to train young French artists in Rome. 10 This was traditionally an honorary position given to a high-ranking churchman, See James R. Anthony, French Baroque Music from Beaujoyeulx to Rameau (Portland, 1997), 24.

20

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

11 For an account of some of the problems that were to arise from hostility between these positions see John E. Morby, ‘The Great Chapel-Chamber Controversy’, Musical Quarterly, LVIII/3 (1972), 383–97. 12 For an account of the ‘image-making’ processes that attended Louis XIV at various periods in his life see Peter Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV (London, 1992). 13 See Marguerite Glotz and Madeleine Maire, Salons du XVIIIe siècle, (Paris, 1949) for a discussion of the place of the salons in eighteenth-century French society. 14 ‘… il me semble qu’on peut dire que comme cette grâce dont nous parlons, s’étend universellement sur toutes les actions, & se mêle jusque dans les moindres discours, il y de même une règle générale qui sert sinon à l’acquérir, du moins à ne s’en éloigner jamais. C’est de fuir comme un précipice mortel cette malheureuse & importune Affectation, qui ternit & souille les plus belles choses.’ Le Sieur Faret, L’Honneste-Homme, ou, l’Art de plaire à la cour (Paris, 1630), 34. 15 Robert Isherwood, Music in the Service of the King (New York, 1973), 153. 16 Pierre Rameau, Le maître à danser (Paris, 1725), 110. See also Wendy Hilton, ‘A Dance for Kings: the Seventeenth-century French Courante’, Early Music, V/2 (1977), 160–72. 17 Wendy Hilton, Dance and Music of Court and Theater: The French Noble Style 1690–1725 (London & Princeton, 1981), 11. 18 The custom of commencing a ball with the branle stemmed from the 1630s. Mersenne describes six types of branle which were danced one after the other by as many people who wished to take part. ‘Or il y en a de six espèces, qui se dansent maintenant à l’ouverture du Bal les uns après les autres par tant de personnes que l’on veut.’ Mersenne, Harmonie universelle (Paris, 1636), vol 2, 167. 19 Rebecca Harris-Warrick, ‘Ballroom dancing at the Court of Louis XIV’, Early Music, XIV/1 (1986), 41–9. 20 For an account of how the ‘lascivious’ Spanish sarabande was transformed into the courtly French sarabande see Patricia Ranum, ‘Audible rhetoric and mute rhetoric: the seventeenth-century French sarabande’, Early Music, XIV/1 (1986), 22–34. 21 For a consideration of possible transpositions to suit the singer’s vocal range in this lute-accompanied repertoire see David Tunley: ‘Tunings and transpositions in the early seventeenth-century French lute air – some implications’, Early Music, XXI/2 (1993), 203–9. 22 Bénigne de Bacilly, Remarques curieuses sur l’art de bien chanter (Paris, 1668), 17–18. An English translation by Austin B, Caswell is published under the title A Commentary upon the Art of Proper Singing (New York, 1968). 23 Michel Lambert, Les airs de Monsieur Lambert (Paris, 1666), Avant-propos (Foreword). 24 ‘Ainsi avec une seule Voix, un Clavecin, & une Basse de viole, on peut aisément faire une Musique de Chambre.’ Jean-Baptiste Morin, Preface to Book One of his Cantates Françoises à une et deux voix (Paris, 1706). 25 For a famous description of Chambonnières style of playing and that of some his contemporaries see Lettre de Mr. Le Gallois à Mlle. Regnault (Paris, 1680), which has been translated and annotated by David Fuller in ‘French harpsichord playing in the seventeenth century’, Early Music, IV/1 (1976), 22–6. 26 Michel Corrette, Le parfait maître à chanter (Paris, 1758), Chapter 2. He points out that ‘it is now only found in older French music for violins, oboes and flutes.’ 27 Lionel Sawkins, ‘Doucement and légèrement: tempo in French Baroque Music’, Early Music, XXI/3 (1993), 365–74. 28 Shirley Thompson, ‘Once more into the void: Marc-Antoine Charpentier’s croches blanches reconsidered’, Early Music, XXX/1 (2002), 83–92.

Couperin and his Times

21

29 ‘C’est que nous écrivons différemment de ce que nous éxécutons ; ce qui fait que les étrangers jouent notre musique moins bien que nous ne faisons la leur. Au contraire, les Italiens écrivent leur musique dans les vraies valeurs qu’ils l’ont pensée.’ Couperin, L’Art de toucher le clavecin, 39. 30 See Margaret Mullins, ‘Music and Dance in the French Baroque’, Studies in Music, XII (1978), 45–67. 31 An example where this is made explicit by the composer is in Clérambault’s cantata Apollon (1717) where he writes at the head of one of the movements: ‘All the quavers or eighth-notes what have dots above [or below] them must be performed as notes égales, the others as notes inégales.’ 32 For an overview of research and with conclusions reached by its author, see Stephen E. Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration and Seventeenth-and Eighteenth-Century Music (New York, 1993). 33 Jean Rousseau, Traité de la viole (Paris, 1687), 75. 34 Michel Corrette, Le parfait maître à chanter (Paris, 1758), 47. 35 François Couperin, Pièces de clavecin Bk 1 (1713), Preface. 36 François Couperin, Preface to L’Apothéose de Lully (1725). 37 Charles Burney, A General History of Music (London, 1776, 2nd ed. 1789). Burney’s comment ‘… his pieces are so crouded and deformed by beats, trills, and shakes, that no plain note was left to enable the hearer of them to judge whether the tone of the instrument on which they were played was good or bad’ was not included in the first edition. It is taken from Mercer’s two-volume publication of the 1789 edition, (London, 1935), 976. 38 See Neal Zaslaw, ‘Ornaments for Corelli’s Violin Sonatas, op. 5’, Early Music, XXIV/1 (1996), 95–115, and Peter Walls, ‘Performing Corelli’s Violin Sonatas, op. 5’, Early Music, XXIV/1 (1996), 133–42. 39 Francois Couperin, L’Art de toucher le clavecin, 40–41. 40 The following indications (with modern spelling) in Couperin’s music are given in order of frequency: légèrement (légèreté), gaiement, tendrement (tendre), gravement sans lenteur, gracieusement, vivement, lentement (lent), marqué, modérément, coulé (coulament), doux, mesuré, affectueuesement, noblement, vîte, également (égale), lié, naivement, louré, avec vivacité, animé, majestueusement, rondement, amoureusement, galament, languissement, nonchalament, uniment, voluptueusement, agréablement, douloureusement, fièrement, impérieusement, luthé, pesamment, sans langueur, audacieusement, délicatement, dolemment, élégamment, ferme, flatté, gaillardement, grotesquement, patétiquement, proprement, relevé, sans vîtesse. For an examination of a number of these words and their influence on interpretation, see Huguette Dreyfus, ‘Observations sur les termes “Affectueusement”, “Gracieusement”, “Légèrement”, “Sans lenteur”, “Tendrement”’, François Couperin : Nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 187–94. 41 Lionel Sawkins, ‘Doucement and légèrement’, 365–73. 42 ‘A l’égard des pièces tendres qui se jouent sur clavecin, il est bon de ne les pas jouer tout-à-fait aussi lentement qu’on le ferait sur d’autres instruments, à cause de peu de durée de ses sons, la cadence et le goût pouvant s’y conserver indépendamment du plus, ou du moins de lenteur.’ François Couperin, L’Art de toucher le clavecin, 42. 43 The basse de violon was a member of the violin, not the viol, family and was tuned in fifths from the B below the bass clef. It was eventually superseded by the violoncello. 44 Michel Corrette, Méthode pour apprendre aisément à jouër de la flûte traversière (Paris, 1735), 49. 45 Jean Rousseau, Traité de la viole (Paris, 1687), 116–51.

22

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

46 François Couperin, L’Art de toucher le clavecin, 12. 47 Shirley Wynne, ‘Complaisance, an Eighteenth-Century Cool’, Dance Scope (American Dance Guild), 5/1 (1970), 22–35.

Chapter 2

The French Lyrical Style ‘Douceur’ was the word most commonly used during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries by the French to describe their characteristic style of melody, whether found in songs or in instrumental works. It suggests not only sweetness and gentleness, but also something unforced and simple. It was moulded from constraints imposed by the poetic text, by the figures of the dance forms and by the contours of the style inherited from the Franco-Netherlandish masters of renaissance times that held sway in France for many years into the seventeenth century. We will commence with settings of secular French poetry.

The Melodic Style of French Airs Under the influence of the Renaissance, a close union of poetry and music had been forged towards the end of the sixteenth century in some countries, notably Italy, France and England, in an attempt to reach the Platonic ideal of the inseparability of word and note. The idea of writing poetry in the ‘quantitative measures’ of classical Greek poetry (in which the rhythmic patterns came about through syllable length rather than accent) had been revived by some enthusiasts in those countries, resulting in a short-lived, rather arcane literary, form. What success the Frenchman Antoine Baïf may had over Italian and English poets might be explained through the quality of the musical settings his poetry enjoyed – particularly those by Claude Le Jeune. The opening of Le Jeune’s well-known Revecy venir du Printans (see Example 2.1) illustrates the style in which the long syllables were to set to minim or half-note values, the short syllables to crotchet or quarter-note values. Although Baïf’s Académie de Poésie et de Musique was a cult sworn to secrecy, the union of ‘quantitative’ verse (known as vers mesurés) with music (musique mesurée) became well-known in France with the eventual publication of this kind of music.

&b œ œ ˙

œ ˙

œ ˙

Re - ve - cy

ve - nir

du Prin - tans

Example 2.1

˙

œ œ ˙ L'a - mou - reuz'

œ ˙

œ ˙

˙

et bel - le sai - son.

Revecy venir du Printans (Claude Le Jeune)

Translation: See the return of springtime, the loving and beautiful season

If as a literary movement vers mesurés was short-lived, Baïf’s general concept of French prosody as being a controllable interplay of long and short syllables was

24

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

far-reaching in its influence on French music. It was a concept kept alive throughout the seventeenth century and well beyond it.1 It is easy to see why song composers found it useful, part of the art of song writing being to fit appropriate note-values to the syllables of the text. Baïf’s procedure for deciding which syllables in a word were long or short have not survived, but three influential books listed how they could be worked out. The fact that they often differ in detail is indication alone of just how artificial the practice was. The three publications were Marin Mersenne’s Harmonie universelle (1636), Bénigne de Bacilly’s Remarques curieuses sur l’art de bien chanter (1668) and Jean-Léonor Grimarest’s Traité du récitatif (1707).2 Of these only Bacilly’s was written especially for singers, Mersenne’s being part of his encyclopaedic survey of music and Grimarest’s a treatise on correct punctuation and pronunciation. All three, however, believed that only through well-spoken French would be revealed the secrets of its prosody, not so much referring to its everyday conversational use, but to the art of oratory. It is no wonder, then, that the Italian-born Lully was recommended to listen to the celebrated actress Mlle de Champmeslé in order to master his adopted language and to learn how to set it to music. Such was Lully’s eventual knowledge of French prosody that his musical settings earned the almost unqualified approval of the fault-finding Grimarest, who found in Bois épais from Amadis the perfect matching of syllable, note and sentiment.3 Some of the distinctive qualities of French lyricism were firmly established long before Lully arrived in Paris, as in the airs de cour. Then, the term meant music that was light-hearted and simple, of the kind that Adrian le Roy (1571) said used to be called voix de ville; yet many of the airs de cour were also polished and graceful, seventeenth-century refinement of their style perhaps coming about through their courtly provenance. Faret’s courtesy book L’Honneste-Homme ou l’Art de plaire à la cour (1630) gives a glimpse of what courtliness in France could mean. Like Castiglione’s idealised Italian courtier of the previous century, the idealised French courtier or honnête homme of the seventeenth century was seen as combining physical and moral courage with social graces like the cultivation of polite and witty conversation with women, dancing and a general fondness for the arts, including music. Faret recommended that a courtier should play the lute and guitar. Above all, he should cultivate: a certain négligence which hides artifice and which suggests that your actions are spontaneous and without difficulty. To my mind this is the purest source of good grace; for everyone knowing how difficult it is to attain excellence admires those who succeed easily; while on the contrary, the finest and rarest things lose their value when they bear the signs of labour.4

It is not difficult to be persuaded by their melodies alone that many airs gained their graceful expression by being nurtured in a courtly atmosphere, although it must be admitted that at the beginning of the century manners at the court of Henri IV were far from refined, the soldier-king being more at home in a military camp

25

The French Lyrical Style

than a court. Rather, the qualities that were seen to contribute to the formation of the honnête homme (or ‘gentleman’) were encouraged in the salons of the time, the first of these being Mme de Rambouillet’s famous chambre bleue which opened its doors early in the century. As far as the court goes it may have been in the Queen’s apartments that the airs de cour were encouraged and savoured, for shortly after his marriage to the music-loving Maria de Médicis in 1600 Henri IV provided her with her own musical establishment, the Musique de la Reine. Forsaking devices through which music may gain instant appeal many airs de cour give delight through their elusive and irregular rhythms and subtle figuration, gaining their remarkable beauty less through passion and directness than through charming eloquence and delicacy of expression, as in Antoine Boesset’s Que n’êtes-vous lassées to words by François de Malherbe. (Example 2.2). It is hard to escape the belief that the rhythmic suppleness of such songs was partly due to the influence of musique mesurée of the previous century.5 Yet few seventeenth-century airs de cour can be properly placed in that specialized genre; rather, they borrow its rhythmic innovations without observing its restrictions. Indeed, some of the early seventeenth-century airs de cour display a seemingly wilful disregard for niceties of word-setting. Yet despite this, the sixteenth-century humanist tradition, which had encouraged the view that words and music were as one, remained a powerful influence throughout French song writing (and eventually opera) in France for a long time.6

&b œ œ œ Que n'ê - tes -

&b ˙ De

& b œ. me

œ

j œ. #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ vous

˙

trou - bler

œ œ J

œ.

Re - bel - ler

Example 2.2

-

las - sé

œ

œ

ma

rai

œ œ J mon

-

œ

â - me

œ œ œ œ œ. Mes tris - tes

es

˙

œ

Œ

pen

˙.

..œ .

nœ œ J

son?

Et

faire a - vec

˙ Con

-

œœœœœ ˙

˙

˙

œ œ œJ œ

tre

sa

gué

-

sé - es

œ œ ˙. que blâ

-

j œ w -

..

ri - son.

Que n’êtes-vous lasseés (Boesset)

Translation: Why do you not tire, my sad thoughts, of troubling my mind, and causing my soul foolishly to rebel against its cure?

Because of the closeness between melody and text it is not possible to study seventeenth-century French vocal music without some mention of its poetry and, in particular, that of François de Malherbe. Like Ronsard and other humanist poets of the previous century François de Malherbe (1555–1628) had been moved by a vision of the classical past. He, however, saw the marriage of poetry and music based not upon youthful passion

26

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

and ardour, but upon the virtues of decorum and grace; a harmonious relationship allowing a conventional idea to be expressed in a well-turned phrase. To achieve this, Malherbe purged poetry of many of the words that Ronsard and the Pléiade had introduced into the language, creating instead a distinctively ‘poetic’ vocabulary beyond which to venture was to be in decidedly bad taste. It was an attitude to poetry that was to last a very long time and, as far as the air de cour was concerned, led to a narrow range of expression both in words and music, this standing in sharp contrast to the Italian arias of the same period. Malherbe also created new rules concerning the niceties of caesura placement and of rhyme, and insisted that each line be self-contained. Further refinement of the style led to what is known as précieux poetry, cultivated first in Mme de Rambouillet’s salon. The result was light, lyrical verse which was clear, sonorous and highly-stylised. What French poetry lost in fire and imagination, French song gained in a repertoire of verse ideal for elegant musical setting, either as a solo song accompanied by lute or as a part-song, and often published in two such versions. In contrast, from 1627 Ballard also began publishing a twenty-volume series entitled Chansons pour danser et pour boire, comprising very simple tunes, either unharmonized (as in the case of the dancing songs) or with a bass part (as in the case of the drinking songs). These and the much more highly-prized airs de cour were the main categories of song until the second half of the century. In 1658 appeared the first volume of another Ballard series: Airs de différents autheurs à deux parties. Running to thirty-seven volumes (the last in 1693), the collection reflects new directions that French song was taking. Most songs were now simply called airs, the majority classified as either air sérieux or air à boire and although described as being in two parts, the lower voice (which could be sung or played) was merely the bass support, at first only implying the harmonies until much later in the series when figured bass was added. As might be expected, the interest lies in the melodic line, which seems not only to explore more expressive resources in order to draw out the poetry, but which follows its prosody with far more care than usually found in the earlier repertoire. In the first volume of the series was a song by Michel Lambert, a composer whose airs have been described by Catherine Massip as bringing this form of vocal art to its apogee.7 Appointed maître de musique de la chambre du Roi in 1661 Michel Lambert (1610–96) enjoyed that position for the rest of his life, as singer, composer and teacher. His 1660 collection (which went through four editions) was dedicated to Pierre de Nyert (c. 1597–1682), an amateur lutenist and singer, who, following a sojourn in Italy returned to France where he set about reforming French singing along Italian lines. With his appointment as valet de chambre to Louis XIII in 1638 his influence touched many singers at court, including Michel Lambert who seems to have been the first to transmit de Nyert’s method to the younger generation. Unfortunately, no clue to such a singing method was left either by de Nyert or by Lambert, the latter expressing his frustration at being unable to write anything down about it as everything depended upon the ‘manner of teaching’.8

27

The French Lyrical Style

While retaining the courtly tradition of earlier songwriters, Lambert’s airs sensitively reflect both the sentiment and structure of the poetry he set. So much so that a number of the airs referred to by Bénigne de Bacilly as models of song writing in his Remarques curieux sur l’art de bien chanter come from Lambert. It was a style, as we shall see later, that had a deep influence on the young Couperin. An example is Lambert’s Inutiles pensers from the 1660 collection (Example 2.3). The text is by an anonymous poet who, following the procedures laid down by Malherbe, ensured that each half of the two twelve-syllable lines (alexandrines) is a grammatical entity, and also that the rhyming scheme alternates between masculine and feminine rhythmic endings, (i.e. the last syllable ending either on the beat or immediately after it). With its climaxes on expressive words like abandonner, désespoir, and on the phrase le désir de la voir, this beautifully shaped melody has its own allure. Yet the composer has also closely observed the principles of long and short syllables as set out by Bacilly – a true union of word and note.

&3 Ó

œ œ .. ˙ . I - nu

6

& Œ œ ˙. 2.

& #w

bœ œ. œj ˙. de ma

Cro - yez

15

& ˙ - ter

˙ m'ô

Example 2.3

Œ œ œ œ w

˙

d'a- ban - don - ner

Syl

˙ -

nœ

˙

˙

˙.

et

de

mon

dé

˙.

œ ˙

ter

la

dou- leur

œ œ .. ˙

poir,

˙

- ti - les pen - sers

En - fants 11

œ ˙

vous

œ œœ ˙ sans

m'ô

w

œ œ

ter

le

w

dé - sir

-

#œ œ de

la

-

- ses

w

1.

voir.

-

˙

w

vi 1.

œ

vi

˙

2

3 -

e

#w

œ œ ..

poir,

I - nu

˙

˙

˙

e,

m'ô

-

œ œ .. w. 2.

Cro - yez

voir.

Inutiles pensers (Michel Lambert)

Translation: Useless thoughts of abandoning Sylvia, Children of my grief and despair, Do you believe that unless you take from me my life, you can take from me my desire to see her?

The text, with the caesurae (i.e. the grammatical ‘breaks’ in the middle of the alexandrines) marked with asterisks, is as follows (with modern spelling and added capitalisations):

28

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’ Inutiles pensers* d’abandonner Sylvie, Enfants de ma douleur* et de mon désespoir, Croyez-vous sans m’ôter la vie, M’ôter le désir de la voir.

Taking the words separately and listing them according to Bacilly’s classification and rules, by underlining the long syllables we can judge in the table below how closely the composer has followed the principles of syllable length as set out in Remarques curieuses sur l’art de bien chanter. As Bacilly’s treatise runs to a hundred pages on the topic of syllable length alone, any attempt to sum up his ideas in a few words obviously runs the risk of over-simplification. Yet much of Bacilly’s comments deal with exceptions and modifications, few of which come into consideration in analysing Lambert’s setting of these words. 1. The penultimate syllable of all feminine-ending words (i.e. ending with e, es) – whether two or more syllables – is always long: Inutiles Silvie vie 2. The penultimate syllable of a masculine-ending word is usually short: Pensers enfants douleur croyez ôter désir d’abandonner désespoir 3. Monosyllables may be short or long (or semi-long) depending on context (which Bacilly describes in detail): de ma et (invariably short) la le In addition, Bacilly states that all syllables may be lengthened at the ends of lines, at the caesurae and if they contain an n or s.

True to French tradition, Lambert’s airs of 1660 provide an ornamental version for the second verse. But in contrast to the earlier style of diminutions practised in the air de cour, Lambert’s are lighter and more closely aligned with the text, the new decorative style having the additional purpose of correcting faults in word-setting that so often happens in later verses of a strophic song. We can see this very clearly in the second verse of Inutiles pensers (the first half of which is reproduced in Example 2.4). In measure eight, if sung to the rhythm of the first verse, the two syllables of ‘elle’ would be given equal length; yet, as a two-syllable feminine rhythm the first syllable should be long and the second short, a situation accomplished through Lambert’s diminutions at this point. So, too, does ‘humeur’ in measure two come closer to the two-syllable masculine rhythm through the phrasing of its first syllable, which begins on a short unaccented note. According to Bacilly, faulty word-setting could also be moderated by tasteful singing, for as well as mastering the art of diminutions singers were expected to embellish their lines with a variety of appropriate ornaments. Such ornaments, however, were not usually indicated by the composer, for as Bacilly points out:

29

The French Lyrical Style As in all things a difference is made between beauty and ornament, and it is the same in song, where, without doubt, a piece of music can be beautiful and will not give pleasure because of a performance which lacks the necessary ornaments, most of which are not marked on the copy, either because there are no appropriate signs for them, or because too many signs would clutter and obscure the line of the air and cause confusion; besides, there is no point in including them if singers do not know how to perform them appropriately.9 Original melody

&3Ó

œ œ

Ó

Decorated version

& 3Ó 4

&

&

Ó

w

˙a

coeur

& ˙. coeur

˙

contre

el

œ contre

Example 2.4

vrai

son

hu

œ œ

.. ˙ .

Il

est

vrai

Œ œ œ œ

˙ -

meur

œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J son

2˙

œ œ œ laœ bœ œ J

nœ

˙

est

la

& ˙.

œ

Il

˙

7

.. ˙ .

hu

˙

w ne

gê

-

2˙

˙

w

gê

-

ne

˙

˙.

le

cha

-

meur

tient mon âme

Œ œ œ œ œ œ œR tient mon âme

Œ œ ˙. et

com

œ œ ˙

et com - bat

œ -

que

-

à

bœ

œ.

j œ

bat

dans

mon

œ œ bœ œ œ +œ. dans mon

3 #w 1

jour,

œ œ ..

œ. bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ 3 #w J

œ œ ..

Il

est

el

Il

est

-

-

le

cha

-

que jour

Inutiles pensers (2nd verse)

Translation: It is true her ill-humour pains my heart, which beats against it every day

Like Que n’êtes-vous lassées (Example 2.1), Inutiles pensers seems to eschew those short repetitive melodic and rhythmic patterns that give such driving force to the Italian style, the presence of which is certainly a help in listening to music, providing a degree of pleasurable predictability that is undoubtedly part of the reason why Italian (and German) baroque music finds a ready audience. Generally lacking these devices French music of the same period is something of an acquired taste. The absence of such aural ‘landmarks’ in much seventeenth-century French music suggests that many of the works were written for a sophisticated rather than for a ‘popular’ audience. Of course, not all songs of the period are like this. There are many airs à danser and airs à boire that reveal their popular destination through their isorhythmic structure and general simplicity. Yet those that fall into the category of ‘serious’ songs depend far less for their appeal upon those motivic

30

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

devices readily exploited by the Italians. Their beauty rests in those shapes or spans of notes that reach out to the next, one complementing the other and exploring new levels, now rising, now falling, and tracing a line to a climax after which the melody reaches a point of final repose. Its essence seems to be in the dynamic process of ‘unfolding’. Thematicism is as irrelevant, as it would be in the lines of Gregorian chant and renaissance polyphony.10 It would seem that respect for the text was one of the factors that discouraged French composers from generating their vocal melodies by means of sequences and motivic development, for such devices call either for extended melismas or for constant repetition of words or phrase fragments, a point strongly made by Bacilly when comparing French and Italian attitudes towards song writing: Italian arias certainly have some advantage over French airs, particularly in large-scale works; but I don’t know if this advantage doesn’t spring from the fact that the Italian language permits liberties that French does not allow, its strictness (and perhaps it is too strict) holding a tight rein on composers and often preventing them from doing what their genius would like; for, as well as the liberties enjoyed in setting Italian, as, for example, elisions which can be suppressed as one wants (this is not permitted at all in French), it is permitted to repeat Italian words as many times as pleases the composer; so that from four short lines of verse can be made a long aria, thanks to these repetitions (which are used even more in Latin), even those words which scarcely merit consideration and which would be ridiculous in our language which through custom (which as I said before is too strict), it is only permitted to repeat those words, which must moreover be of a certain gentle and personal character in our airs; whereas in Italian or Latin arias all kinds of words may be used that critics won’t find fault with.11

It is not surprising then that the French air was essentially of modest dimensions. At the time of Couperin’s birth and his youth the ‘pure’ French style of lyricism stemming from its association with poetry dominated – indeed, directed – music in that country, its simplicity and elegance standing in strong contrast to the intensity, vigour and experimental nature of Italian musical expression. The influence of the text on the melodic construction was in many cases, however, also complemented by that of the dance, which, as we have seen, exercised a decisive power not only over music but over French social life generally.

The Influence of the Dance on French Melodic Style The dance can be seen as strongly influencing the formation of the French lyrical style, not only in instrumental music, but also in vocal music, particularly from the time of Lully whose operas and other theatrical works abound in airs that spring from the forms and gestures of ballet and courtly dance. This influence can be seen in the clear-cut rhythmic phrasing, made explicit by cadence points, although – as in a number of the dances themselves – not necessarily in phrases of equal length.

31

The French Lyrical Style

In Lully’s example below, the melody, though dance-like, is also still nevertheless moulded by concerns over the long and short syllables, and typically in this style, where repetition of the text is concerned, it is usually the whole phrase (either melodically or its rhythmic pattern) that is repeated. Particular dance forms can be found in vocal music of the time, but it is more the spirit of the dance which permeates so many airs, not only those in the category air à danser, but songs which are far more sophisticated than those. Even in many sacred works the spirit of the dance is not far away, not least in those by Couperin. This we shall see in many of the movements in his two organ masses and in a number of his motets, particularly those for solo voice and continuo. Those who are familiar with a number of Purcell’s anthems will not be unduly disturbed by such seeming secularity – reflective indeed of the spirit of the age, particularly in France and England.

j œ. œ œ. œJ œ œ

j œ œ. œJ ˙ & C œ. œ œ. J Vous de - vez vous a - ni - mer

& œ.

j œ œ.

j œ #˙

vez

vous a - ni - mer

& ˙

j œ ˙.

faut

œ.

ho - no - rer

Example 2.5

œ.

œ œ. J

j œ #˙

D'une

ar - deur

nou - vel

œ

-

D'une ar - deur nou - vel

˙.

œ

Cy - bèle

il

˙ faut

∑

Ó

le;

œ. œj Vous de

Ó

˙ -

Ó

˙

∑

Ó

Œ œ

le

S'il

œ

œ

en - cor

˙ plus

œ.

œ ˙ J l'ai - mer.

Air from Atys I/viii (Lully)

Translation: You must be inspired by a new ardour. To honour Cybelle she must be loved still more

French Settings of Latin Texts When composers in France turned from writing airs sérieux and other characteristic French secular songs to setting Latin texts they entered a different tradition, the roots of which were in sacred polyphony of the previous century. As Bacilly has pointed out, now freed from those constraints imposed by French texts, composers could mould their melodies without having to preserve syllable length, caesurae or having to avoid word-repetition and long melismas. In other words, they turned from a textdominated style to one in which the main concern was shaping the melody in those long-breathed arches which lay at the heart of the Franco-Netherlandish polyphonic tradition. This tradition was still widely embraced in France during the first sixty years of the seventeenth century, i.e. from the masses of Du Caurroy (who became surintendant de la musique at the court of Henry IV) to those by a host of now littleknown conservative composers who maintained the stile antico long after it had

32

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

become outmoded in other countries. A simple example of this is this extract from the setting of the Magnificat (soprano line only) by Nicolas Formé (1567–1638).

˙

œ œ ˙.

œ œ. œJ œ œ ˙

Si - cu lo - cu - tus

est, si - cut

lo - cu - tus est ad pa - tres nos

&b c ˙

œ œ ˙

Example 2.6

œ ˙

œ ˙ -

tros

Magnificat (Formé)

Yet, despite the different influences on sacred and secular melodies they still have much in common: supple rhythm, beautifully-shaped and smooth lines and an absence of sequential writing. Their similarities become apparent if the above example is compared with Boesset’s Que n’êtes-vous lassées and Lambert’s Inutiles pensées. It is hard to escape the conclusion that the secular style (at least in the serious airs) was still deeply touched by the conservative practices of Renaissance sacred music. This impression is reinforced even visually – in the publication format of the hundreds of songs issued by Ballard in his collection Airs de différents autheurs à deux parties, which up to as late as 1685 retained the Renaissance practice of notating the parts without bar-lines and placing them on separate pages. (A significant exception to that format was Lambert’s Airs of 1660, which had been published in score by Richer, who incorporated the new technique of music engraving rather than the old-fashioned moveable type favoured by Ballard. The latter’s conservative attitude eventually led to the decline of the family firm in the eighteenth century as other music publishers took up the new technology).

Lully’s Declamatory Style Although François Couperin wrote no operas, and what cantatas he may have written have not come down to us, a few observations on Lully’s declamatory or recitative style must be made, for no French composer of that time was uninfluenced by it. As is well-known, Lully resisted writing operas until 1672, declaring that the French language was not suitable for recitatives – at least in the Italian style.12 His mind was changed only because of the success of the composer Robert Cambert (c. 1627–77) and librettist Pierre Perrin (1620–75) with their dramatic works, particularly Pomone, which was performed three years after the establishment of their Académie d’Opéra. This fell into bankruptcy in 1672. Into the gap flew Lully with an immediate proposal for an Académie Royale de Musique, and from then until the year of his death in 1687 flowed a steady stream of tragédies-lyriques that set the seal on French opera for many years to come. Standing apart from Italian opera was his style of recitative that scrupulously observed the prosody of the poetic texts.

The French Lyrical Style

33

While there is no reason to doubt the important part that Mlle de Champmeslé and other great stage performers of the day played in helping Lully gain his knowledge of the art of French declamation, it would be surprising if Bacilly’s ideas did not exert an equally strong influence on the composer. As well as to his own music, Bacilly refers approvingly many times to the songs of Lambert, who in 1662 had welcomed Lully as a son-in-law. It is inconceivable that Lully was not influenced by the older man’s insistence that the structure of the text must be mirrored in the music: highlighting the ends of lines and marking the caesurae etc. by making these focal points coincide – where possible – with the first beat of a bar, as well as, of course, observing ‘correct’ syllable lengths. Lambert had already shown the way to do all this in his airs (see Example 2.2); Lully applied the same principles to longer dramatic texts, replacing melodic turns of phrase with declamatory ones. In aligning the focal points of the poetic structure with the first beat of the bar, bar lengths might vary, necessitating changes of time-signature – in contrast to Italian recitativo secco.13 Unlike in Italian opera where recitative and aria are kept apart, in the Lullian-style recitatives declamation and air often merge imperceptibly. The following extract from Armide illustrates all these points. Quinault’s text is set out below with the rhythmic focal points of the poetry underlined and the caesurae marked with an asterisk. Unlike at all other rhythmic focal points of the poetry only at the sixth line of the text is the strong syllable at the caesura not placed on the first beat of a bar. With no operas or cantatas that have come down to us we do not know if Couperin would have adopted the Lullian-style declamation (as did Rameau in his dramatic works) or that of recitativo secco (as Morin and Bernier did in their cantatas). As we shall see in Chapter 4 his Leçons de ténèbres include movements entitled récitatif. In one sense they are close to Lully’s approach in that they are not in ‘free’ rhythm (like recitativo secco) but in measured note-values. But in setting the Latin text Couperin had no need to observe the niceties of French poetry, which, as we have seen in Lully’s declamation, led to changing time-signatures and the diminution of some note-values. What links these movements to recitative style are the long-held chords accompanying the solo voice. Yet even this feature may not be sustained throughout the whole movement. Another term used by Couperin and other French composers was récit, but, confusingly, this was not an abbreviation for récitatif. When French cantata composers, for example, wrote their declamatory movements they used the newlycoined word récitatif, whether or not it resembled recitativo secco or the Lullian style. In the ballet de cour it generally meant a solo song at the beginning of an entrée or section.14 In organ music it meant a solo stop. The term récit de basse was often used for music of any style sung by a bass voice, perhaps merely to distinguish the part from that of the continuo.

34

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Renaud Armide j œ œ œ œ n œ #œ œ œ œ j r j r r b œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œc ‰ n œ . œ œ R & b b c J J J R R 3 œR œR œ œnœ œ œ R R J R R J J J JR D'u - ne vai -ne ter - reur pou - vez - vous être attein -te, Vous qui fai -tes trem bler ce té -né - breux séjour? Vous m'ap - pre

j œ b œ œœ & b b c J J œ œJ œ 3 nœ ‰ J

lies pour la

&

œ

Gloire

Gloire

a - vant que de m'ai - mer Vous la cher chez par - tout d'une ar - deur

œ œ œ œ J J J J est

Example 2.7

u - ne

ri

œ œj J

#œ -

va

-

le

Qui

œ J

œ J doit

œ

tou - jours

œ. m'a

œ J -

Œ œ œ Vous brû -

œ. œ œ œJ œ. œ œ œj œ œj œ œJ œJ ˙ J J J J J

œ

˙

crain - te.

L'A - mour m'ap - prend à con - naî - tre la

nez à con - naî - tre l'A - mour,

œ & œ œ

œ œ c œ œ œJ œ œ œ nnn 3 œ œ ‰ Œ J J J J J J

œœ œ œ œ J J sans é - ga - le; La

˙

lar - mer,

‰

œ J La

Armide V/i (Lully)

Renaud D’une vaine terreur* pouvez-vous être atteinte, Vous qui faites trembler* ce ténébreux séjour? Armide Vous m’apprenez à connaître l’Amour, L’Amour m’apprend à connaître la crainte. Vous brûlez pour la Gloire* avant que de m’aimer, Vous la cherchez partout (*) d’une ardeur sans égale; La Gloire est une rivale Qui doit toujours m’alarmer. Translation: Renaud Can you suffer from empty fears, You, who cause this shadowy place to tremble? Armide You teach me to know Love, Love teaches me to know fear. You burn for Glory before loving me. You search for it everywhere with unrivalled ardour. Glory is a rival who must always fill me with alarm.

Stylistic Implications of French Lyricism As can be seen from the melodies that have been reproduced in this chapter their overall structure consists of one phrase simply complementing what has gone before, producing an effect of ordered symmetry, which (as we shall see in the next chapter) stands in striking contrast to the way Italian composers more usually generated their melodies through the process of motivic development. The result was that, at their most characteristic, Italian structures give the impression of organic growth through the tendency to develop the short rhythmic/melodic motives into longer sequential patterns. Thus, there is an element of ‘thematicism’ in the bel canto aria which is absent from the French air.15 What are we to make of a melodic style in which the landmarks so familiar in Italian Baroque music are missing in the French? The first thing is to cast off any preconceived ideas about the importance of ‘thematic development’ or ‘thematic conciseness’ and to recognise that there is

The French Lyrical Style

35

a vast amount of music in which this plays no part at all. What does seem to be universal is melodic shape upon which at certain times and in certain schools the notion of thematicism has been imposed. Thus, one needs to see beyond the familiar processes of the baroque and classical periods to the wider concept of musical lyricism, embodied as much in the songs of the fourteenth century as in those of Webern in the twentieth, in Gregorian chant and sixteenth-century polyphony – as well as in the melodies of Bach and Handel and others. What is generally found in fine melodic writing is a flight of notes grouped into different spans, each span complementing the others to produce an overall satisfying shape. One of the most satisfying musical shapes is the arch, shown to perfection in the music of Palestrina and other sixteenth-century composers. The gradual ascent to the peak and the gentle descent to the cadence give to their sacred works a superb sense of melodic poise. Combined with the absence of melodic angularity and lengthy sequential passages the resultant style is similar in many way to features of the French lyrical tradition inherited by Couperin, whether in sacred, secular, vocal or instrumental music. Through retaining much of the prima prattica of the sixteenth century long after it had given way to seconda prattica in seventeenthcentury Italy, French composers found the roots of that douceur which lies at the heart of the French style. It was thus not only respect for the text that led composers in France to avoid sequential patterning and short repetitions, but also deference to past practice, which to a certain extent can be recognised also in the harmony. One has the feeling that, as in Renaissance practice, it is the melody that creates the harmony rather than the other way round. Some of these points will be taken up in the next chapter, but we will conclude this one by drawing together the threads of the points made so far in examining a work that may be fairly described as a classic example of the pure French style as inherited by François Couperin. In it we see the vocally-inspired French lyrical style translated into an instrumental piece by his uncle Louis Couperin: an Allemande. Most stylised dances such as the Allemande have a limited range of rhythmic patterns; yet within these limitations Couperin provides a seemingly free, almost fantasia-like melody, reminiscent of the elusive rhythms of the air de cour. There is no sequential patterning (either in melody or bass), its form generated by phrases that complement each other as they rise and fall, reaching the climax on the high G before falling to the final cadence in this first section of the piece whose melodic compass does not exceed an octave. As in many sacred vocal works of sixteenthcentury polyphony, the cadences are mostly ‘covered’ by other voices or parts, lending a seemingly unbroken flow of melody, even though this is a dance where one might expect a more square-cut phrase structure. The music flows with grace and charm in a style that combines simplicity with refinement (see Example 2.7). Not all of Louis Couperin’s pieces, however, are as simple as this. His Tombeau de Mr de Blancrocher, for example, is one of a number of powerful utterances within the range of what the French regarded as good taste. Nor should it be thought that all of Louis Couperin’s works (and those of his contemporaries) completely avoided

36

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

touches of sequential development and melodic patterning. When they occur they are just that – touches of a technique that was not to be exploited until much later when Couperin and others embraced the Italian style, expanding the range of French musical expression, yet retaining much that they held dear.

j j œ œ œ œ. œ #œj. œ œ œ œœ œ œ. œœ R J J j j j j j j j j œœ ‰ œ œœ œ œ œ œ#œ ‰˙ œ œ œ œœ œ ?c ‰ œ œ œ œ ˙ J ˙ ‰ Ó j ≈ œ œ œ œ œJ œ. œ œ

& c œœœ

{

r ≈œ œ

j œr œ . œr œ. œ œ œœ #œœ ˙ œ œœ. œ ˙œ œ œ ˙ ˙ ‰˙ œ œj œ ? œ. œ œ œ˙ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ. œ œ œ ‰ œ J J œ. J œ & œ

{

œ.. ˙

& ˙œ #œ ? œ˙ œ. œ .

{

Example 2.8

˙œ #œ œ œœ. œ œ J

œœ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ #œ #œ œ Œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ˙ ˙œ

œœj œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ #w w w œœ œ ˙œ œ œ w w

Allemande (Louis Couperin)16

Notes 1

2 3 4

5 6

As late as 1772 Raparlier, a singing teacher at Lille, was publishing his Principes de musique, les agréments du chant et un essai sur la prononciation, l’articulation et la prosodie de la langue françoise (Lille, 1772) in which he stressed the need to observe correctly the long and the short syllables. For a more detailed account see: David Tunley, ‘The Union of Words and Music in Seventeenth-Century French Song: the Long and the Short of it’, Australian Journal of French Studies, XXI/3 (1984), 281–307. Jean-Léonor Le Gallois, sieur de Grimarest, Traité du récitatif (Paris, 1707), 204. ‘… d’user par tout d’une certaine négligence qui cache l’artifice, & témoigne que l’on ne fait rien que comme sans y penser, & sans aucune sorte de peine. C’est ici à mon avis la plus pure source de la bonne grâce.’ L’Honneste-Homme ou L’art de plaire à la court (Paris, 1630), 35. See D.P. Walker, ‘The Influence of musique mesurée à l’antique, particularly on the airs de cour of the early seventeenth century’, Musica Disciplina, II (1948), 141–63. For a recent and exhaustive study of the relationship between words and music in seventeenth-century French song see Patricia M. Ranum, The Harmonic Orator: The Phrasing and Rhetoric of the Melody In French Baroque Airs (New York, 2001).

The French Lyrical Style 7 8 9

10 11

12

13

14 15 16

37

Catherine Massip, L’Art de bien chanter : Michel Lambert (1610–1696) (Paris, 1999), 283. ‘Un de ses chagrins, à ce qu’il dit, c’est de ne pouvoir laisser par écrit sa science, car tout cela dépend de la manière, qu’on ne saurait exprimer.’ Tallement des Réaux, Historiettes [1657–59] (Paris, 1960), vi, 129. ‘Comme en toutes choses on fait différence entre la beauté & l’agrément, il en est de même dans le Chant, où sans doute une Pièce de Musique peut être belle, & ne plaira pas, faute d’être exécutée avec les ornements nécessaires, desquels ornements la plupart ne se marquent point d’ordinaire sur le papier, soit parce qu’en effet ils ne se pussent marquer par le défaut des Caractères propres pour cela, soit que l’on ait jugé que la trop grande quantité de marques embarrasserait & ôteroit le netteté d’un Air et ferait quelque sorte de confusion’ Benigne de Bacilly, Remarques curieuses sur l’art de bien chanter (Paris, 1679), 135. For further comments on this see David Tunley, ‘Couperin and French Lyricism’, Musical Times, CXXIV (1983), 543–5. ‘Les Airs Italiens ont assurément quelque avantage par dessus les Français, particulièrement pour les grands Récits; mais je ne sais si cet avantage n’est pas fondé sur ce que la Langue Italienne a bien des Licences que la Française n’a pas, dont la sévérité (peut-être trop grande) tient les Compositeurs en bride, & les empêche souvent de faire tout ce que leur génie leur inspire; car outre les Licences qui se pratiquent dans la Langue Italienne, comme par exemple les Elisions que l’on supprime quand l’on veut (ce qui ne se permet point dans le Français ;) il est permis de répéter les Paroles Italiennes, tant qu’il plaît aux Compositeurs : de sorte que de quatre petits Vers on peut faire un fort grand Air, à force de Répétitions (ce qui se pratique encore dans le Latin) & même des Répétitions de mots qui semblent n’en valoir pas la peine, & qui seraient ridicules dans notre Langue, où par un usage (peut être, comme j’ay dit, trop sévère) il n’est permis de répéter que bien à propos les Paroles, qui d’ailleurs doivent être d’un certain caractère doux & familier dans nos Airs ; au lieu que dans le Chant Italien ou Latin, toutes sortes de termes peuvent être usités, sans que les Critiques y puissent trouver à redire.’ Bacilly, 92. In contrast, the earliest cantata composers in France – Morin, Bernier – convincingly demonstrated in their works which began appearing in the first years of the eighteenth century that the French language can be effectively set in the style of recitativo secco, although other cantata composers such as Clérambault, Rameau and Campra retained the Lullian style. The unit of measure being a crotchet or quarter-note, a notational problem arose when duple time was needed, for the time-signature of 2/4 did not emerge in France until the eighteenth century. Lully’s solution was to use the alla breve in conjunction with diminution of the written minims or half-notes. For further points about Lully’s recitatives see: Lois Rosow, ‘French Baroque Recitative as an Expression of Tragic Declamation’, Early Music XI/4 (1983), 468–79; Margaret Seares, ‘Aspects of Performance Practice in the Recitatives of Jean-Baptiste Lully, Studies in Music VIII (1974), 8–16; David Tunley, ‘The Union of Words and Music in Seventeenth-Century French Song: the Long and the Short of it’, Australian Journal of French Studies, XXI/3 (1984), 281–307 and the same author’s ‘Grimarest’s Traité du Récitative – glimpses of performance practice in Lully’s operas’, Early Music XV/3 (1987), 361–4. See James R. Anthony, French Baroque Music from Beaujoyeulx to Rameau (Portland, 1997), 45. See David Tunley, The Eighteenth-century French Cantata (Oxford, rev. 1997), 27–45, for a detailed discussion of French and Italian styles. Edited by Davitt Maroney, Pièces de Clavecin de Louis Couperin (Editions de L’OiseauLyre, Monaco, 1985), 153.

Chapter 3

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style A desire to emulate the artistic achievements of Renaissance and Baroque Italy was as strong in seventeenth-century France as it was in other parts of Europe. The Académie française de Rome was created in 1666, for example, so that gifted young French artists could be trained in Rome, on their return offering their skills to the king. The great Bernini himself, master of the grand Baroque style, had been called to Paris by the king in 1665 to suggest plans for Versailles (although these were eventually turned down), and the Italian influence remained strong even when French artists and designers were developing their own distinctive national style. This was to be achieved in music most of all by Lully, whose works were seen to radiate in sound the splendour of a court that was at the centre of a newly-forged French culture. It was inevitable that the king should be seen as its champion. Yet, notwithstanding Louis XIV’s public pronouncements on the superiority of French music (particularly later in his reign),1 Mazarin had seen to it that Italian music and musicians were brought to court for the young king’s enjoyment and instruction – as well as for his own political purposes. It would be surprising indeed if the king had not acquired a taste for this alluring music. According to Le Cerf de la Viéville the king did indeed enjoy Italian music. After pointing to Louis’s love of music generally and his discerning judgement of it he wrote: Even in Lully’s lifetime the King enjoyed a beautiful Italian piece when one was presented to him. He had a motet of Lorenzani sung for him five times. He was fond of the air of M. de La Barre, attributed to Luigi, etc. He had, as he still has, among his singers some castrati, in order to have them sing arias from time to time, something in which I agree that they are excellent.2

The Italian connection at the French court, however, had begun much earlier than at the time of Mazarin – at the very beginning of the century when Caccini and his family were invited to Paris by Henri IV’s new bride, Maria de Médicis. Her wedding celebrations in Florence in 1600 had included music by Caccini and others who were experimenting with the new style of singing and innovative compositions in the dramatic genre that later would be called ‘opera’, although it was not until towards the middle of the century that Italian operas were actually staged in France. Between 1645 and 1662, through the political exertions of Mazarin, the court heard six Italian operas: La Finta pazza (Sacrati), Egisto (Cavalli), Orfeo (Rossi), Le Nozze di Peleo e di Teti (Caproli), Xerxes and Ercole amante (both by Cavalli). They were all produced with the technical wizardry of Torelli’s stage machinery. Of them, the first three were produced during Louis XIV’s

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

39

early childhood, the last three when he was a young man highly skilled in music and passionately devoted to it. His reaction to them is not recorded, but their lack of success in winning general approval is usually considered to be due to French hostility towards Mazarin through deep distrust of his political motives. The only fruit that these enterprises bore was not to ripen until a decade later when, inspired by the possibilities of setting the French language in a truly dramatic way, the first French operas were composed. Before this, as we have seen, it was the simple air that held pride of place in vocal music in France. Yet, although Mersenne had claimed that it was the songs of Boesset, Guédron, Chancy, Moulinié and other masters of the air de cour which one should imitate when trying to write beautiful melodies,3 he also admired the Italian style; in particular the new singing techniques which went hand in hand with it.4 Indeed, Mersenne believed it was necessary for singers to study in Italy, or, at the very least, for them to read Caccini’s famous treatise Le Nuove musiche which had been published some thirty years before.5 While he felt that both French and Italian schools shared some ideals, such as the need for clear diction and a knowledge of where to place the appropriate ornaments, some of which (like trills and mordents) were common to both schools, it was, in the actual vocal technique of ornamentation that Italian and French singing diverged. The art of diminutions or doubles (called passaggi in Italian) so disliked by Caccini,6 was, as we have seen, an essential element of the French style and was to remain so in its vocal and instrumental music well into the eighteenth century. Like Couperin many years later, Mersenne, saw the possibility of uniting some of the features of the two styles, believing that it was by including Caccini’s new ornaments – especially the emotional esclamazione, which involved diminishing and swelling the tone – that French singers could ‘add that more pathetic quality of the Italians to the beauty, purity and delicacy of ornamentation which our musicians perform with such grace when, having a good voice, they have learned to sing from the great masters.’7 The singer and teacher Pierre De Nyert (c. 1597–1682) was another influential musician who believed that French and Italian styles of singing could be united. He had travelled to Rome in 1633 in the entourage of the French Ambassador and while there came into contact with Italian singers with whom he studied. On his return to Paris (where he was appointed premier valet to Louis XIII and later to Louis XIV) he is said to have reformed French singing along Italian lines.8 These reforms included clarity of diction, an element of French singing which seems to have outlasted the other reforms for a very long time, for as late as the beginning of the nineteenth century commentators described French singers as having excellent diction but poor vocal qualities. (This not remedied until another injection of Italian methods was administered by Garat, Choron, Garcia and above all by Rossini in the 1820s when he became Musical Director of the Théâtre-Italien in Paris.9) From contemporary descriptions of De Nyert’s influence, however, it may be assumed that he returned to France imbued with enthusiasm for the kind of singing that had swept over Florence and Rome at the beginning of the century at the time of the

40

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

first experiments with opera. Cavaliere describes the desired qualities thus: ‘A good singer must have a beautiful voice with good attack, must sing firmly, with emotion, softly and loudly, without passaggi, and in particular, must express the words so well that they are understood, accompanying them with gestures and movements.’10 In uniting French and Italian schools the only quarrel that De Nyert would have had with Cavalieri’s description would have been with the ban on passaggi. So far the influence of Italy has been described only in terms of performance. What of its influence on composition?

The Spread of Italian Music in France and Aspects of its Style It is not at all surprising that the strongest Italian influences on French composition came about in sacred music when composers turned to Latin texts. Here they were freed from having to observe those musical procedures described by Bacilly in the previous chapter which were considered essential when setting French poetry. Nor should it surprise us that, given the conservative nature of French composition generally, it was not until the middle of the century that unmistakable signs of seconda prattica can be found in it. The first of these signs was the adoption of figured bass continuo in the publication of Du Mont’s Cantica sacra of 1652, although, as Anthony points out, Moulinié’s Meslanges de sujets chrétiens, cantiques, litanies et motets, mis en musique à 2, 3, 4 & 5 parties avec une basse continue had been circulating in manuscript a few years before this.11 Other features of early Italian Baroque music were, on the one hand, the composition of works for solo voice and continuo, and on the other, those with rich and constantly varying textures in the concerted (concertato) style. The Italian models were well-known in France. For reasons largely connected with divisions within the church in France – which in some places banned the use of instruments – it was in the motet rather than in settings of the mass that Italian practice found fullest outlet, for the motet had no fixed function in the liturgy.12 The concerted style wore its most French expression in the so-called grand motet, created by Du Mont and adopted as the ‘official’ style for the Royal Chapel. In contrast, the petit motet involved no full chorus, but nevertheless very often exploited concertato effects within its resources. No grands motets by Couperin have survived and he wrote no masses, but his 30 motets and élévations comprise works that abundantly reveal his debt both to the Italian masters and to his French predecessors such as Boesset, Moulinié, Du Mont and others, as well as to composers belonging more to his own generation, such as Lully, Lalande and Charpentier. When Couperin took up his appointment as part-time organist at the Royal Chapel in 1693 Louis XIV’s reign had already entered its declining years, and artistic life at Versailles was one of the many activities affected by this change of fortune. Various reasons have been ascribed to the decline. Ironically, the ‘great days’ of the reign were coming to an end soon after the king and his court took

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

41

up permanent residence at Versailles in 1682. The following year the queen died and soon afterwards Louis secretly married Mme de Maintenon who turned the king away from pleasures to piety. In the early years of the next century the ageing king was confronted by the deaths of members of his family in direct line to the throne as well as by others for whom he had affection. Most of all, his reign was deeply troubled by political events and wars, draining the country’s prosperity and eventually casting a shadow over court-life. In 1685 Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes which, issued by Henri IV in 1598, had given certain rights and privileges to French Protestants, bringing to an end the brutal religious wars in France. Now old wounds were re-opened and some thousands of French Huguenots fled to protestant Holland, England and Prussia, taking with them skills in various fields – a gain to those countries but a decided loss to France. Moreover, their more liberal attitudes towards politics, religion, science and society fostered publications unthinkable in France at that time, but which, finding their way back there, were like straws in the wind that would gather force in that country later next century. Louis’s territorial ambitions led to conflicts that would bankrupt France by the end of his reign and even court musicians (like all other court appointments) had at various times a special tax levied on their salaries to help pay for the heavy costs of war.13 As the century wore on, the stiflingly formal atmosphere at court and the king’s growing parochialism – and who could blame him for believing that France now led the world in all matters artistic, surrounded as he was by the glorious architectural achievement of Versailles, the art that adorned it and the music that was performed there – all this encouraged lively minds to turn to the more liberal life of Paris. Before the century was out the two centres, though only seventeen miles from each other, seemed worlds apart; one the bastion of conservatism, the other forward-looking and cosmopolitan. Thus, it was in Paris that Italian music, sacred, secular, vocal and instrumental, was fostered. One of the outlets for performances of Italian music towards the end of the century was the presbytery of Saint-André-des-Arts, a Parisian church whose foundations were laid six centuries before its demolition in the early nineteenth century and which over a long period had housed the tombs of many illustrious people. Voltaire was baptised there in 1694. The curé of Saint-André-des-Arts in the late seventeenth century was Nicolas Mathieu whose large library (given him by the pro-Italian François Raguenet) included volumes of works by Rossi, Cavalli, Cazzati, Carissimi, Legrenzi, Melani, Stradella and Bassani, and whose music-room resounded each week to music by these and other Italian composers.14 Michel Corrette, composer and teacher claimed that it was here that a sonata by Corelli was heard for the first time in Paris.15 Recent research has also pointed to another centre of musical Italianism in France: the court of the exiled English king, James II, and his Italian wife, Mary of Modena, who, following England’s ‘glorious revolution’ of 1688, were given refuge in France. In an illuminating study, Edward T. Corp has described the musical establishment that James II brought with him and his family from Whitehall to St-Germain-en-

42

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Laye.16 It included a number of Italian musicians under the direction of Innocenzo Fede who had studied and worked in Rome before joining the King’s new Catholic chapel at Whitehall as Master of the Music. As at Versailles, music at the château at St-Germain-en-Laye near Paris was to form an integral part of daily life there, not only in the chapel, and in ceremonials, but also in the royal apartments and the very fine court theatre. The theatre came into its own after the death of James II in 1701 when his son James III encouraged the lively cultivation of secular music in which his pious father had shown little interest. From the start it was Italian repertoire that dominated music at the exiled court, which was to become a centre of such music in Paris. Corp makes a convincing case for its influence on Couperin, citing his relationship with Delalande who had been associated with the young composer first at St Gervais and then at the Royal Chapel at Versailles. With Louis XIV being host to the exiled king, the courts of Versailles and St-Germain-en-Laye enjoyed a royal rapport that cannot have failed to include the two illustrious court musicians. Moreover, Delalande’s parents were involved with the day to day running of the château at St-Germain-en-Laye. Some evidence of Couperin’s relationship with the exiled court can also be seen from the names of three of his compositions. The first of these was an early sonata in the Italian style called La Steinkerke commemorating a battle in 1692 at which the new English king – William III – was defeated by a French army that included some of James II’s Irish troops. The other two were harpsichord pieces published a few years later: La Milordine (dedicated to the duchess of Berwick) and Les Plaisirs de St-Germain-en-Laye. Another royal centre of Italianism in Paris towards the turn of the century was the Palais Royal, home of Philippe III, Duke of Orléans who – on the death of Louis XIV – became Regent of France. Not only was the Duke an avid music-lover; he was also a composer who, according to Titon du Tillet, had written a considerable number of motets and two operas.17 His teacher was Marc-Antoine Charpentier who had studied in Italy with Carissimi and who undoubtedly inspired in his royal student a love of Italian music. It was at a time when French instrumentalists were still having to come to grips with the technical demands of the Italian masters. According to Michel Corrette (who, at the distance of half a century later, may have distorted the scene to make his point more strongly), when the Duke wanted to hear Corelli’s newly-published solo sonatas (Opus 5) there were no violinists in France capable of playing them,18 a situation, however, that was soon to remedied as the taste for Italian music became more widespread and techniques developed to perform it. It was at the Palais Royal where the Italian-inspired cantate française was nurtured, three of the Duke’s musicians – Morin, Bernier and Battistin – composing the first of these works in what was to become one of the most popular genres in the first half of the eighteenth century. Couperin is said to have composed some, but they have never been found. Music-lovers outside these circles were not denied access to Italian music – at least in terms of musical scores. To judge from the extraordinarily large collection of Italian arias held by the Bibliothèque nationale, and believed to have been

43

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

compiled at this period, Paris was awash with music by composers such as Scarlatti, Carissimi, Stradella, Bononcini and many others, some in manuscript copies as well as in French publications, such as Ballard’s series Airs italiens (1703–7) and the same publisher’s Les Meilleurs airs italiens (1708).19 Quite unexpectedly, in those published anthologies are found ‘Italian’ arias by Marchand, Brossard, Campra, La Barre, Bouvard and Clérambault – indicative of the musical climate of the time – often using Italian texts most of which, according Le Cerf de La Viéville, were written in Paris.20 Taking advantage of the fashion for Italian music in Paris Couperin himself was to pass off his first trio sonatas as being written by an anonymous Italian composer. Given the French penchant for heated debate it was inevitable that the merits and shortcomings of French and Italian music were endlessly argued in tract and pamphlet. Sometimes offering useful insights into the musical styles and practices of the time, they usually convey only stereotyped generalities. Clearly, we need to examine the kinds of Italian works that were making an impression on French composers and audiences towards the end of the seventeenth century. As in the previous chapter we will begin with a typical vocal work – an Italian aria by Steffani – and examine its melodic style. Although the tempo is unmarked in the original the words (‘A flash of uncertain hope is the only beam that remains to me amid the cloud of sorrow’) suggests andante doloroso. Born in the same year as Corelli, Agostino Steffani (1653-1728), an influential opera composer based mainly in north Germany, visited Paris some time between 1678 and 1679. The aria Un Balen from his opera Enrico Leone (1689) provides

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44

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

a fairly typical example of Italian lyrical writing in the mid-baroque era before voices vied with instruments in agility and bravura. As shown at Example 3.1 the vocal line is generated from two versions of the same figure, marked a and a*. These two figures are clearly the germ of the whole melody. Not only do they dominate it, but they also give shape to the rising sequence at bars 9–10 and the falling sequence at bars 10–11. Another structural feature is the opening gesture in bar 1 (its second half containing the melodic motive) followed by a repetition and extension of the pattern, a device that is also present at the words è’l sol raggio. Thus, the melody has been generated essentially by motivic patterns, the presence of which give musical shape, unity and onward thrust to the music. This is not meant to suggest that every Italian aria of the period will exhibit this technique, but it is found sufficiently widely in the repertoire to assert that it is characteristic of the melodic style generally. As such, it stands in contrast to the French style as we saw it in the previous chapter. Woven into the melody are also those ubiquitous musical fibres – scales and broken-chords or arpeggios – which provide much of the ‘filling’ in baroque (and, later, classical) music. The persistence of figures and patternings as illustrated above is seen even more vividly in Corelli’s sonata from his Op. 5 (Example 3.2). It has been reproduced here with the simplest possible realisation of the continuo accompaniment in order to compare its harmony and melody with French examples in Chapter 2. It will be seen that the melodic line is moulded by the instrument’s capacity to execute wide leaps and – in other works – characteristic bowing effects and repeated notes which Corelli and others incorporated into their thematic material. As in Un balen, not only do the motives or figures impart unity to the work, but in ‘decorating’ simple lines (such as the scale segment linking E–B from the beginning to the end of the first line) the motives constitute part of the directional flow of the music. What is more, the patterns of many an Italian melody are inextricably linked with the harmonic progressions outlined by the bass line, vividly illustrated in Corelli’s sonata. One such harmonic progression found in abundance in Italian baroque music is the ‘cycle of fifths’. Very often, only a segment of the cycle of fifths might be used, sometimes in the process of modulation (especially the II–V–I segment). Another favourite pattern was a descending or ascending stepwise progression of first inversion chords. So abundantly were these two harmonic formulae employed at this time that Manfred Bukfozer once claimed that there is scarcely a page in baroque music in which they cannot be found.21 He was, of course, referring to Italian (and Italian-influenced) music of the mid- to late-Baroque. Above all, there was the tonality generating influence of the dominant–tonic relationships, directing the modulatory, and often chromatic, course of the music. So potent and pervasive are these chordal progressions that they might be said to be part of a ‘syntax’ of tonality that developed in the Italian school. To illustrate two of these patterns as found in Corelli’s sonata they have been reduced to their ‘formulae’ in the appropriate keys at Example 3.3. Of all progenitors

45

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

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Sonata Op. 5, No. 8 (Corelli)

of tonality the cycle of fifths is undoubtedly the most powerful, illustrative of the hierarchical chordal relationships that are found in this kind of harmony, at the pinnacle of which stands the dominant–tonic progression of a particular key. The assertion of key, the relationship between triads and the potential for modulation gives to tonal music as developed by the Italians much of its character and logic.

46

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’ bars 3–6& 3-6 & 13–15(with 13-15 (with lst inversions)

15–16 bars 15-16

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It was also inevitable that through the harnessing of melodic patterns to harmonic ones another unifying element in the Italian school should emerge: that of ‘harmonic rhythm’. This is simply the rate of chordal change per bar, which in the Italian school, particularly from the time of Corelli onwards, regulated the harmonic flow in a few patterns throughout a movement. In the extract from Corelli’s sonata the harmonic rhythm alternates between stretches of two chords per bar (on the beats 1 and 3) and four chords per bar (on each beat). In summary, a comparison between Corelli’s sonata and Louis Couperin’s harpsichord work cited in the previous chapter (Example 2.7) reveals the stylistic gap between the classical French school and that of the Italian mid-Baroque. There are no constantly recurring melodic or harmonic patterns in Louis Couperin’s piece and hence no unifying harmonic rhythm. Its melodic range is limited to an octave and its style is smooth and elegant. Clearly, its appeal lies in a direction different from Corelli’s – in Louis Couperin’s, the fascination of the seemingly capricious; in Corelli’s the satisfaction of the predictable. From a comparison of the harmony alone emerges an important point. Through the organisation of chordal flow in Italianate tonality, harmony tends to direct and absorb the other musical elements. Such is its influence that the melody often appears to be the surface of the harmony and seeming to have a life of its own. In contrast, the very conservative nature of the classical French style links it more to Renaissance practice in which it is the melody that directs the harmony, taking it into progressions that do not necessarily generate the kind of tonality associated with Italian baroque music. Together with harmonic and melodic styles different from French ones went Italian forms not adopted in France until towards the end of the seventeenth century and beyond. These were primarily sonatas and cantatas. Of those by Corelli his trio sonatas came first (1681–94) and were undoubtedly the model for Couperin’s set, originally passed off as works by a Sardinian composer (see Chapter 5). At the turn of the century French cantatas modelled along Italian lines were composed by Jean-Baptiste Morin (1677–1745) and Nicolas Bernier (1665–1734), inspiring a vogue for these kinds of works that attracted almost all composers in France. Some, like Campra, Clérambault and Rameau, retained the Lullian style of declamation

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

47

for the recitatives; others, including Morin and Bernier, wedded their texts to the imported recitativo secco style. Those early French cantatas appeared some twenty-five years before Couperin spoke of uniting French and Italian styles in his Apothéose de Lully (1725). Whereas he spoke only in very general terms some of the cantata composers were more specific. Thus, Morin claimed that he was ‘retaining the sweetness of our French style of melody, but with greater variety in the accompaniments and employing those tempos and modulations characteristic of the Italian cantata’. Campra wrote of striving to ‘retain the beauty of our melody, of our expression and of our kind of recitative, which, according to my opinion is the best’, whilst ‘mixing the delicacy of French music with the vivacity of Italian music’. The two previous chapters have attempted to tease out some of the technical features of the two schools – to which should be added their opposing performance practices. The next three chapters will describe the part that these elements of French and Italian music played in Couperin’s works.

Notes 1

2

3

The most famous of the king’s public pronouncements was recalled by Le Cerf de la Viéville, when a young French violinist who had studied with Corelli was presented at court and played an Italian work for the king, who then commanded one of the court violinists to play something by Lully. ‘That is my taste’ was the royal response. ‘Un Courtisan hors de la foule, qui avait vanté au Roi ces symphonies [italiennes] lui amena le petit Batiste, Violon Français, qui a joint trois ou quatre années d’étude sous Corelli, à une disposition surprenante. Les intérêts d’Italie étaient en bonne main. Vous concevez que le petit Batiste avait encore étudié sa leçons … . Le Roi écouta avec toute l’attention que l’Italie pouvait souhaiter, & lors qu’elle s’attendait à être admirée, Qu’on me fasse venir, dit-il, un violon de ma Musique. Il en vient un, on ne le nomme point, c’en fut apparemment quelqu’un d’un mérite médiocre, qui se rencontra là. Un air de Cadmus, dit le Roi. Le Violon joue le premier d’où il se ressouvient, un air simple, uni; et Cadmus n’est pas celui de nos Opéra d’où l’on eût le mieux aimé en prendre un, si cela avait été prémédité. Je ne saurais que vous dire, Monsieur, dit le Monarque au Courtisan, voilà mon goût, à moi: voilà mon goût.’ Jean-Laurent, Le Cerf de la Viéville, Comparaison de la musique italienne & de la musique française (Brussels, 1704), 350–51. ‘Du vivant de Lulli même, le Roi goûtait une belle Pièce Italienne, quand on lui en présentait une. Il le fit chanter cinq fois un motet de Lorenzani. Il aima l’air de Mr de la Barre attribué à Luigi, etc. Il avait, comme il a, dans sa Musique quelque Castrati, pour entendre d’eux quelques airs de temps en temps, en quoi je suis convenu qu’ils sont excellents ; mais il était pourtant attaché aux Opéra de Lulli, à la musique & aux Musiciens de France ; & depuis la mort de Lulli, il n’a point changé de goût.’ Le Cerf de la Viéville, 349. ‘La seconde industrie consiste en l’imitation, à la lecture, & à la considération des Airs, & des Chants de ceux qui ont le mieux réussi en cette matière, tels que sont entre les Français, Claudin, Guédron, Boesset, Chancy, Moulinié, &c. La troisième chose est, que l’on doit bien considérer, comprendre, & exprimer le sens, & l’intention des paroles, & du sujet, afin de l’accentuer & de l’animer en telle sorte, que chaque partie

48

4

5

6

7

8

9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’ face tout l’effet dont elle est capable.’ Marin Mersenne, Harmonie universelle (Paris, 1636), vol. 2, 363. For an interesting commentary on the new style of Italian singing at the beginning of the seventeenth century see David Galliver, ‘Cantare con Affetto – keynote of the Bel Canto’, Studies in Music, VIII (1974), 1–7. This is a companion piece to the same author’s ‘Cantare con la Gorga: the Coloratura Technique of the Renaissance Singer’, Studies in Music, VII (1973), 10–18. ‘Ceux qui n’ont pas la commodité de voyager, peuvent du moins lire Jules Caccin, appelé le Romain, qui fait imprimer un livre de l’Art de bien chanter, à Florence l’an 1621 [1602], dans lequel il distingue les passages propres aux Instruments d’avec ceux qui servent à la voix, & divise les principales beautés des chants en augmentation & affaiblissement de la voix, ce qu’il appelle Crescere, e scemare della voce, en exclamation, & en deux sortes de passages, qu’il nomme Trillo, & Gruppi, lesquels répondent à nos passages, fredons, tremblements, & battements de gorge.’ Mersenne, vol. 2, 357. ‘… passaggi were not devised because they are essential to good singing style but rather, I believe, as a kind of tickling of the ears of those who hardly understand what affective singing really is. If they did understand, passaggi would doubtless be loathed, there being nothing more inimical to affective expression.’ Giulio Caccini, Le Nuove Musiche (1602), ed. H. Wiley Hitchcock (Madison, 1970). ‘Mais nos Chantres s’imaginent que les exclamations & les accents dont les Italiens usent en chantant, tiennent trop de la Tragédie, ou de la Comédie, c’est pourquoi ils ne veulent pas les faire, quoi qu’ils dussent imiter ce qu’ils ont de bon & d’excellent, car il est aisé de tempérer les exclamations, & de les accommoder à la douceur Française, afin d’ajouter ce qu’ils ont de plus pathétique à la beauté, à la netteté, & à l’adoucissement des cadences, que nos Musiciens font avec bonne grâce, lors qu’ayant une bonne voix il ont appris le méthode de bien chanter des nos Maîtres.’ Mersenne, vol. 2, 357. ‘… de Niert prit ce que les Italiens avoient de bon dans leur manière de chanter, et le mêlant avec ce que notre manière avait aussi de bon, il fit cette nouvelle méthode de chanter que Lambert pratique aujourd’hui, et à laquelle peut-être il a ajouté quelque chose. Avant eux on ne savait guères ce que c’était que de prononcer bien les paroles.’ Tallement Des Réaux, Historiettes (1657–59, published Paris, 1929), vol. 6, 127. See David Tunley, Salons, Singers and Songs: a background to Romantic French song 1830–1870 (London, 2002), 42 ff. ‘… che il cantante habbia bella voce, bene intuonata, e che la porti salda, che canti con affetto, piano, e forte, senza passaggi, & in particolare, che esprima bene la parole, che siano intese, & le accompagni con gesti, & motivi non solamente di mani, ma di passi ancora che sono aiuti molto efficaci à muovere l’affetto.’ Emilio de Cavalieri, Rappresentatione di Anima e di Corpo (Rome, 1600), A Lettori. See also David Galliver, ‘Cantare con Affetto – Keynote of the Bel Canto’, Studies in Music, VIII (1974) 1–7. James R. Anthony, French Baroque Music from Beaujoyeulx to Rameau (Portland, 1997), 202. Denise Launay, ‘Church Music in France 1630–60’, New Oxford History of Music, 5 (1975), 427. Marcelle Benoit, Versailles et les musiciens du roi 1661–1733 (Paris, 1971), 171. Michel Le Moël, ‘Un foyer d’italianism à la fin du XVIIe: Nicolas Mathieu, curé de Saint-André-des-Arts’, Recherches dans la musique française classique, III (1963), 5–10. Michel Corrette, Le maître de clavecin pour l’accompagnment (Paris, 1753), Preface. Edward T. Corp, ‘The Exiled Court of James II and James III: A Centre of Italian Music in France, 1689–1712’, Journal of the Royal Musical Association, CXX, 1995, 216–31.

Italian Influences on the French Classical Style

49

17 Titon du Tillet, Le Parnasse françois (Paris, 1727, with Supplements), 679–80. 18 Michel Corrette, Le maître de clavecin, Preface. 19 One of the ms collections under the title Cantate et Ariette Italiano di diverti authori (H659) is truly monumental. See also Catherine Massip, ‘Airs français et italiens dans l’édition française 1643–1710’, Revue de Musicologie, 77/2 (1991), 179–85. 20 ‘Comme la plupart des paroles Italiennes que nous chantons sont faites à Paris …’ Le Cerf de La Viéville, 17. 21 Manfred Bukofzer, Music in the Baroque Era (New York, 1947), 220.

Chapter 4

Sacred Music While the name of François Couperin is not immediately associated in popular imagination with sacred music it is appropriate to begin with this genre. Not only does it represent the major concentration of his activities as a composer in his youth and early maturity; his music for the church also includes some of his finest works. These are contained in the two organ masses, his many motets and perhaps, above all, his Leçons de ténèbres.

The Two Organ Masses The Messe pour les paroisses (Parish Mass) and the Messe pour les couvents (Convent Mass) are both contained in Couperin’s Pièces d’orgue issued by the publisher Ballard in 1690. ‘Publication’ is perhaps too strong a word for a volume of music in which only the title-page is printed, the music itself being written out by a professional copyist from Couperin’s own lost manuscript. Although a few inferior editions of Couperin’s Pièces d’orgue were made in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Ballard’s single issue was only discovered in the early years of the twentieth century at the library of Carpentras in southern France, thus offering the first reliable source for a modern edition. This appeared in Volume XII of the complete works published by L’Oiseau-Lyre in 1933. Unknown at that time, however, was another professionally copied version (differing in details from the other) that existed in the library at Versailles. It has been conjectured by the editors of the revised edition of Couperin’s complete works that the Versailles version was conceived as a ‘presentation’ copy from the young composer anxious to display his credentials at court, while that of Carpentras was destined for wider circulation. Both the Carpentras and Versailles copies became the basis of the revised edition of the two organ masses published by L’Oiseau-Lyre in 1982. Before coming to the works themselves it is helpful to know something about the kind of instrument for which Couperin wrote. French organ building during the seventeenth century had developed along lines quite different from those in Germany.1 Certainly there were superficial similarities: the grand orgue (or main manual) which was associated with a large number of pipes placed above the player’s head corresponded to the Hauptwerk of the German instrument, while the positif de dos with its more intimate character (its pipes in a higher register than those of the grand orgue) was placed, like the Rückpositif, behind the player’s back. But whereas German instruments developed considerable resources in other manuals, particularly the pedals, those in France relied largely upon the grand orgue and the positif de dos; even the pedals on seventeenth-century French organs

Sacred Music

51

were, in a sense, ‘extras’. Thus most of the movements of Couperin’s two masses can, with notable exceptions, be played without pedals. But above all, it was the tonal quality that distinguished French from German instruments. While German builders produced organs which featured transparent and bright sounds ideal for the polyphonic music being written by the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century German masters, French builders sought tonal variety and colour. They made much use of the tierce, a rank of pipes which sounded a note two octaves and a third above a stronger ‘foundation’ note, reinforcing the fifth harmonic, and imparting to registrations which required the tierce a sonority very characteristic of the French classical organ. This practice of artificially bringing into prominence a particular overtone gave rise to stops known as ‘mutations’ and these (which included the nazard and larigot) were richly exploited by French builders, providing tonal combinations distinctly different from German instruments. They also developed to perfection the more robust reed stops, two of which became indispensable: the trompette (on the grand orgue and pedal) and the cromhorne (on the positif). Another reed, the voix humaine, was also found on most large instruments, but curiously enough was missing from Couperin’s instrument at Saint-Gervais. The carefully calculated relationships between groups of stops on the two essential manuals led to a standardisation of registration unknown in Germany. That called the plein jeu (the most characteristic sound of the classical French organ) was the result of a combination of stops from both grand orgue and positif, producing a rich, brilliant and dynamic tone to which composers turned for strong, direct utterances, like the opening Kyrie movements of the two masses. The registration known as the tierce en taille, with its poignant tenor solo wreathed in a halo-like accompaniment, called out for music of noble eloquence. Indeed, in French organ music, sound and sentiment were related to a degree unknown elsewhere. So strong was this relationship that composers very often gave the registration as the title of a movement, as can be seen in the following list of movements in two organ masses: Messe pour les paroisses Plein chant du premier Kyrie, en Taille Fugue sur les jeux d’anches Récit de Chromhorne. 3e Couplet Dialogue sur la Trompette et le Chromhorne. 4e Couplet Plein chant. 5e et dernier Couplet du Gloria Plein jeu. Et in terra pax Petitte fugue sur le Chromhorne. 2e Couplet Duo sur les Tierces. 3e Couplet Dialogue sur les Trompettes, Clairon et Tierces du Grand Clavier, et le Bourdon avec le Larigot du Positif. 4e Couplet Trio à 2 dessus de Chromhorne et la basse de Tierce. 5e Couplet Tierce en Taille. 6e Couplet Dialogue sur la Voix humaine. 7e Couplet Dialogue en trio du Cornet et de la Tierce. 8e Couplet Dialogue sur les Grands jeux. 9e et dernier Couplet

52

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’ Offertoire sur les Grands jeux Plein chant du premier Sanctus en Canon Récit de Cornet. 2e Couplet Benedictus, Chromhorne en Taille Plein chant de l’Agnus dei en Basse et en Taille alternativement Dialogue sur les Grands jeux. 3e Couplet d’Agnus Deo gratias. Petit plein jeu Messe pour les couvents Plein jeu. Premier Couplet du Kyrie Fugue sur la Trompette. 2e Couplet du Kyrie Récit de Chromhorne Trio à dessus de Chromhorne et la basse de Tierce. 4e Couplet du Kyrie Dialogue sur la trompette du grand clavier et sur la montre, le bourdon et le nazard du positif. 5e et dernier Couplet du Kyrie Plein jeu. Premier Couplet du Gloria Petitte fugue sur le Chromhorne. 2e Couplet Duo sur les Tierces. 3e Couplet Basse de Trompette. 4e Couplet Chromhorne sur la Taille. 5e Couplet Dialogue sur la Voix humaine. 6e Couplet Trio. Les dessus sur la tierce et la basse sur la trompette. 7e Couplet Récit de tierce. 8e Couplet Dialogue sur les Grands jeux. Dernier Couplet Offertoire sur les Grands jeux Premier Couplet du Sanctus Récit de Cornet. 2e Couplet Elévation. Tierce en Taille Agnus Dei Dialogue sur les Grands jeux. Dernier Couplet d’Agnus Dei Deo Gratias. Petit Plein jeu

Clearly, all registration depended upon the resources of each instrument, but nevertheless there existed a remarkably high degree of tonal standardisation in France during the seventeenth century. Composer-performers such as Lebègue gave suggestions in their publications about which stops to use for certain registrations (like the plein jeu), and because some organs of the period have now been restored we have a very good idea how works like Couperin’s two organ masses sounded in those days. (This is in striking contrast to what little we know about the registration of German baroque organ music.) Because Couperin’s organ music was conceived in terms of the classical French organ, it goes without saying that it will sound almost unintelligible if played on a nineteenth-century romantic organ. Some of the Messe des paroisses looks rather dull on paper. Yet when played on an instrument that possesses a close approximation to the tonal resources of Couperin’s, it achieves a haunting beauty through the combination of its musical thought and the sensual allure of the sound itself. Although Couperin’s two works are thoroughly enjoyable in purely musical terms, they were composed to serve a liturgical function. The so-called organ mass was

Sacred Music

53

an extension of the age-old custom of responsorial singing in which priest and choir alternated in the chanting of plainsong. With the development of polyphony the choral response was often couched in elaborate versions of the plainsong. In the organ masses the instrument took over the role of the choir, and by Couperin’s time the alternation of plainsong and organ response had become a tradition of many years’ standing, regulated by procedures laid down by the Church in France. While these procedures or cérémoniales varied in detail from place to place, in general terms they were very similar.2 As organist at Saint-Gervais, Couperin was expected to follow the procedures relating to musical performance laid down in the Caeremoniale Parisiense drawn up in 1662 for the diocese of Paris. As this document has sometimes been misinterpreted, giving the impression that the organ mass was bound by many strict regulations even to the point of specific registrations, we reproduce relevant passages in Appendix D. Far from being hampered by many restrictions, the organist or composer had merely to ensure that out of the twenty or so occasions when the organ alternated with choir or priests in their chanting of the ordinary of the mass, seven of these instrumental responses should use the plainsong chosen for that service. This had to occur at the first and last utterance of the words Kyrie eleison, at Et in terra pax, Suscipe deprecationem nostram, In gloria Dei Patris, Amen, at the first Sanctus and Agnus Dei. As far as registration was concerned, the organist was only required at certain points (suscipe deprecationem, tu solus Altissimus Jesu Christe, during Holy Communion, the elevation of the Host and Chalice and at ‘the solemn verse of the sequence’) to choose quiet stops ‘so that greater devotion is created in the soul of the clerics and people’. The organ was to remain silent throughout the Credo. As far as the plainsong responses are concerned, unlike the style of singing recommended by the monks of Solesmes and authorised by the Vatican in the early twentieth century, plainsong in France in Couperin’s day was sung in metrical, not free, rhythm. During the seventeenth century liturgical music in France had distanced itself from Roman usage – hence the various cérémoniales – and amongst the Gallican reforms were those that involved plainchant. Organist and composer Guillaume-Gabriel Nivers (1632–1714) was one who led the way in providing instruction in the performance of plainchant, his Dissertation sur le chant grégorien (1683) and Méthode certaine pour apprendre le plainchant (1698) being contemporary with Couperin’s two organ masses. It would seem that the Caeremoniale Parisiense may not have extended to closed establishments such as convents; certainly Couperin’s Messe pour les couvents has no plainsong basis at all, being freely-composed throughout. Even his Messe pour les paroisses, which is based upon the chant Cunctipotens Genitor Deus does not fully observe the requirements of the Caeremoniale. The sixth organ response or couplet of the Gloria, for example, corresponds to the words Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem nostram – one of the occasions when the plainsong phrase at these words was required to be sounded, yet this movement is freelycomposed, with only the merest hint of the plainsong through the drooping phrase which steals throughout the movement. As noted earlier, Couperin’s registration

54

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

here (for tierce en taille) calls on one of the instrument’s loveliest sounds. On all other occasions in his Messe pour les paroisses Couperin observes the requirements related to plainsong, either by sounding it in long notes (as in the first and final Kyrie (see Example 4.3), in the first Sanctus where it is treated in canon between the two lower parts, and in the Agnus Dei where it stands in strong relief to the four other voices which weave a flowing fugue around it) or by moulding its notes into a fugue-like subject as shown in Example 4.1 below from the Messe pour les paroisses. &

(chant segment)

œ

œ

A

œ

œ

œ

œ

-

-

œ

-

(men)

m œ mœ œ m˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 3 œ #œ

& 3∑

∑

m ˙

m. œ M œ œ J m m Œ Œ œ œ œ œ # œ # ˙ œ # œ # œ œ œ œ œœœ

Grand Clavier

∑

œ

œ

Messe pour les paroisses

Example 4.1

The presence of the plainsong can be traced to other movements as well as those required by the Caeremoniale, as for example in the second couplet of the Kyrie (a fugal movement), or in the movement which follows it, where the same notes form the framework of a shapely melody given out by the sweet tones of the cromhorne:

& 44

(chant segment)

& 44

Cromhorne

œ

œ

œ

œ

-

œ

œ

ri

-

œmb .

œ J

œ

&

&

Ky

œ

mœ

e

r œ

œ

Example 4.2

Œ

œ. bœ œ

-

e

œ

œ

bœ -

-

œ . œ bœ

Messe pour les paroisses

œ

mœ.

œ

œ -

-

œ

œ -

-

m œ. œ œ bœ œ œ . œ œ.

j œ

Sacred Music

55

On at least one occasion (the second couplet of the Gloria) the organ takes up the musical phrase of the vocal response which precedes it, as though commenting on what has just passed, a situation, of course, which occurs only when the Messe pour les paroisses is performed in its liturgical context. For most modern listeners their experience of both works is more likely to be from a concert performance, or a recorded one – this at least having the likelihood of being played on an appropriate instrument. Like many a work originally destined for the liturgy, Couperin’s Messe pour les paroisses and Messe pour les couvents are both thoroughly satisfactory as concert works, each being in the nature of a suite of twenty-one contrasting and, for the most part, fairly short movements. Both masses are as much concerned with matching the colourful ceremony enacted below the organ-loft as with evoking a devotional atmosphere. They bring together elements of the majestic, the theatrical, the worldly – these being projected by organ tones which seem to leap from the instrument – as well as the quietly reflective. In their variety of styles Couperin’s two organ masses mirror something of the progress of French organ music during the seventeenth century. Thus, the first Kyrie from the Messe pour les paroisses with its somewhat austere polyphony weaving its voices around the long notes of the plainsong betrays its debt to the earlier generation of Titelouze, Roberday and others, much of whose music gives the impression of being ‘played’ motets.

œ œ œ #œ œ œ Œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œœ˙ w œ ? c œ œ ∑œ #œ œ œ ∑ œ w œ œ w ˙. œœ w œ œ œ œ œœ ˙ ˙ Œ

&c Ó

{

j Œ œ. œ & ˙ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ w œ w w ? w œ œ w ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ Œ

{

Example 4.3

œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ w œ. œ œ œ œ

Veni creator (Titelouze)

Although more polyphonic than Couperin’s Kyrie from the Messe des paroisses (Example 4.4) – it is, in fact, a canon at the octave between upper and lower voice – the kinship between it and Titelouze’s Veni creator is clear. Although not as strange as some of Roberday’s harmony with its sometimes quirky chromaticism, the movement from Couperin’s organ mass above is still somewhat removed from the familiar harmonic procedures found in music from the same period by Italian or German composers. Harmonies such as at Examples 4.3 and 4.4 seem to belong more

56

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

to the old viol fantasias of late Renaissance times. The constant fluctuation between major and minor versions of a chord produces a chromaticism very different in its feel from that practised by contemporary Germans and Italians. James Anthony’s description of seventeenth-century French harpsichord music as operating in a ‘pretonal shadow zone’ is equally applicable here. He writes: ‘It is both an irritant, to those of us who unfortunately began life with a built-in tonal bias, and at the same time a constant delight to have one’s tonal compass totally disoriented.’3

& C œœ œ # œœ œœ œ˙ # œ #˙˙ œ Pedalle w ? C œ œ œ œ #w œ œ œ nœ

œ˙ . œ œ # œœ w œ œ œ œ

œ˙. œ ˙ œ œw œ œ œ

˙. œ œ ˙ #œ œw œ #œ œ

˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ & œœ #œœ #œ˙ œ n˙ ˙ w w ? #œ #œ œ œ #w œ œ œ œ #w œ œ œ œ

œœ œ œœ #œœ #œ w œ œ œ œ

˙ ˙

{

{

& ˙œ œ œ˙ œ ? w œ œ œ bœ

{

Example 4.4

œ˙ œ œ œœ b œœ œœ bœœ œœ b ˙˙. n ˙ œ . w œ œ œ #œ w œ œ œ œ bw œ œ œ œ

#˙˙

w œ œ œ œ

˙.

∑

œ

w œ œ œ œ

Messe pour les paroisses

Yet between the time of Jehan Titelouze (c. 1562–1633) and François Couperin organ music in France underwent considerable developments. Organ building along the lines described earlier (with which also went light key action offering the player opportunities for harpsichord-like ornamentation) and the influence of dance music and air de cour, led to a leavening of the serious and polyphonic style characteristic of the music of the earlier generation of French organ composers. This urbane approach is evident in Couperin’s immediate predecessors: Henry Du Mont, Louis Couperin and especially Guillaume-Gabriel Nivers, organist at Saint-Sulpice, who in 1678 was appointed one of the team of organists at the Royal Chapel which Couperin was to join fifteen years later. Thus, cheek-by-jowl with movements like that of Example 4.4 are those that sound a lighter note, such as the Récit de tierce from the Messe pour des couvents, the style inspired by his uncle and especially by Nivers. It is not only in his dance-like movements and fugal writing in which the technique is applied with the lightest possible touch that Couperin reveals his French musical

57

Sacred Music

&

{

# Tierce Π3

œ

œ

˙. ?# 3 ˙.

&

{

μ μ¶ μ¶ μ œ œ œ œ œ œ. J œ œœ œ ˙œ œ œœ ˙˙ œœ œ˙

μ œ¶ μ œ.

Jeux doux

#μ œ.

+ œ œ J

œ œ œ

œ œ. œj ˙. ˙. ?# œ œ œ

Example 4.5

¶ œ œ œ. œ μ œ. œ J œ. œj œ. œ ˙.

+ μ¶ μ #œ. œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ. œ J J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. ˙ œ

œ

+μ¶ œ ˙. ˙.

œ

œ

Récit de tierce (Couperin)

inheritance; a melody such as that found in the Elévation of the Messe pour les couvents (a movement which in this mass replaces the Benedictus and fulfils the role of a motet) is inconceivable in terms of the Italian baroque music of that day. It unfolds in an almost improvisatory way.

˙ #œœ œ. & C #˙˙.. œ. Tierce œ œ œ m ? C Œ ‰ J œœ Fond d'orgue

{

de flûte œ ?Pedalle C ˙.

Example 4.6

w

j #œœ.œ œ œj #˙œ. œ œ œ ˙. œ #œ. œ. œ . œ #œ ˙ #˙ J œ œ œ#mœ#œ #œ#œ œ œ œ. œ mœ. œœ œ. œ œ. J J J w

œ œ ˙

‰œ œÓ œ J œœ ‰Ó

w

Messe pour les couvents

So dependent is this music upon both the registration of the tierce en taille and the loving hand of a player who understands the style, that on paper (or at the piano) it seems to make little sense. For example, with a registration that puts all parts into the same tonal focus, the sharp dissonance at the entry of the tenor (taille) on the last beat of the first bar in Example 4.6 is ugly. Given the right artist and instrument, this passage comes into its own, radiating an atmosphere of solemn devotion and quietude. If Couperin’s two organ masses are in the pure style of the French tradition he inherited as a boy and young man at the organ of Saint-Gervais, the same cannot be said of his next compositions for church use.

58

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

The Motets Not all of Couperin’s motets have survived. Thirty of them, variously called Elévations, Versets and Motets have been found, all in the genre of the petit motet, although Couperin is also reputed to have composed six grands motets all of which have been lost. (See Chapter 1 for a description of the liturgical function of these two types.) Except for the three sets of Versets, which were published by Ballard from 1703 to 1705, and Venite exultemus Domino, which appeared in the same publisher’s Meslanges de musiques latines (1726),4 the remainder existed in manuscript copies only until the twentieth century. The primary source of Couperin’s unpublished motets had been a manuscript score at Versailles in the hand of the scribe who had also been responsible for the Versailles copy of the two organ masses. This manuscript contained thirteen of the composer’s motets, described as Elévations, which were published in 1933 in the L’Oiseau-Lyre edition of what was then regarded as Couperin’s complete works. Unrecognised until the 1970s, however, were twelve more in an immensely large and precious manuscript collection at the College of St. Michael and All Angels at Tenbury Wells in England. This had been bequeathed to it to secure this collegiate church’s financial future by its wealthy founder, Oxford Professor of Music, Sir Frederick Ouseley (1825–89). The collection was originally the music library of Couperin’s royal student and patron the Count of Toulouse, the volumes copied by Louis XIV’s royal librarian André Danican Philidor and other scribes. Fortunately, the collection, passing to various members of the count’s descendants, escaped the excesses of the Revolution, ending up in King Louis-Philippe’s library at the Palais Royal. After his death in 1850 it was auctioned in Paris, much of it purchased by William Hope, a banker of English origin who had been granted French nationality by Louis-Philippe. Some sixty-seven books and 295 volumes of manuscript were somehow acquired by Ouseley for the College, although at that stage the volumes containing Couperin’s motets were not included. These came into the Tenbury collection some sixty years later when another sixty volumes, which had been purchased by another buyer at the original auction, turned up in Paris. Edmund Fellowes acquired them in 1935 on behalf of the College at Tenbury where he was curating the music library. It was too late to include them in L’Oiseau-Lyre’s great edition, which had been published three years earlier, but in any case, strangely, Fellowes did not appear to have recognised the significance of Couperin’s ‘new’ motets. This recognition had to wait until 1970 when Philippe Oboussier came across them, publishing their first modern edition a few years later. The final stage in this extraordinary history of events came in 1978. Because of financial problems, the College was forced to sell its Toulouse-Philidor collection, thus giving an opportunity for its return to France where it now remains, having been bought by the French Government for the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris and the Bibliothèque de Versailles. These sources have thus offered not only the opportunity for publishing the previously unknown motets, but, because they also

Sacred Music

59

contain additional manuscript copies (in score and some parts) of those already known, they have helped to establish a basis for an edition of the motets more definitive than those which were published in 1932.5 The texts of Couperin’s motets come from biblical sources such as psalms, the liturgy and from a repertoire of material specially written for the purpose by Pierre Portes. There had already appeared a source of motet texts in Latin written by Pierre Perrin for the Royal Chapel in the mid-1660s, but Couperin turned for some of his texts instead to later ones, those by Portes, who in 1685 published over one hundred in his Cantiques pour les principales festes de l’année, pour toutes les solemnitez … The nine used by Couperin are indicated in the list of his compositions in Appendix A. As the editors of the revised edition of Couperin’s motets have pointed out, Couperin followed Portes’s structural divisions of the texts, but not the poet’s recommendations about the vocal resources to be used.6 Only four motets can be dated. The earliest of these is Laudate pueri Dominum in a manuscript at Versailles put together by Philidor in 1697 containing motets by Lalande, Mathau, Marchand, Couperin and Dubuisson, but there is no reason to believe that Couperin’s motet was composed that year. Appointed as organist at Versailles in 1693 it may well have been composed and performed there any time from then onwards. On the other hand, his three Versets were composed expressly at the command of the king and performed before him at Versailles in 1703, 1704 and 1705. Ballard’s publications makes this clear on their title-pages, where we are also told that the composer’s solo motet Qui dat nivem (a verse from the psalm Lauda Jerusalem) had been performed for the king in 1702, sung by Couperin’s cousin Marguerite-Louise at her first appearance as ordinaire de la musique de la chambre. The remaining motets are from undated manuscripts. Attempts to date these on stylistic grounds such as French versus Italian styles are invariably thwarted because Couperin separated or brought the two styles together with varying emphases throughout his life as the occasion demanded. It is, therefore, not surprising that Qui dat nivem with its pretty roulades for voice and flutes written to display his cousin’s light and dexterous voice (qualities confirmed by Titon du Tillet) and with its suave phrases moulded in the rhythm of a gavotte, was in an essentially French style – no doubt calculated to win royal approval for Marguerite-Louise’s court début. A characteristic French touch is the continuo line lifted high into the treble register and played by violin and continuo (see Example 4.7). The result is a delicate sonority frequently found in secular French cantata scores and in some operas. It is encountered again in Couperin’s Quatre Versets of 1703 which at the beginning catches a delicately French expression, the voices of Mlles Couperin and Chappe entwining in a duet described by the composer as being ‘for voices alone, without bass continuo or any other instruments.’ The three collections of Versets also contain felicitous touches of orchestration, as for example in Dux itinerus fuisti (a setting of verse 10 from Psalm 74) scored for what the composer has described as a symphonie à deux choeurs, one group

60

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

being made up of wind instruments, the other of strings, providing a delightfully antiphonal style of accompaniment for the bass soloist. The French provenance of a number of motets is in no doubt.

# (flutes) & ∑ Ó

&

+ œ œ œ #+œ œ œ œ +œ œ

œœœ œœ œ œ œ œœœœ

# œ œ œ #œ+ œ œ œj +œ œjœ œ œœœœ œ œ. œ œ +œ œ J œR œ œ œ œ œ #œJ Qui dat

# & ∑

ni - vem si - cut

la - nam ne

-

bu - lam

si - cut

ci - ne - rem spar

-

œ œ œ #œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ b5

#3

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ #œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ+ œ #œ œ œ nœ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ #œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ- œ œ œ- œ œ - #œ ‰ - Œ Ó∑ & J

&

Example 4.7

Qui dat nivem

On the other hand Regina coeli laetare (from the Tenbury collection) with its extreme vocal demands, high tessitura, wide leaps and sequential passages is a far cry from le goût français. As with the majority of Couperin’s motets there is no indication of where or when this brilliant work was performed – perhaps for his patron the Count of Toulouse, or at the exiled English court or at the Palais Royal for the Duke of Orleans – certainly for devotees of the Italian style who would have delighted in the bell-like peals of bravura that bring this work to a magnificent conclusion as revealed in Example 4.8. In between these two polarities of French and Italian styles of Qui dat nivem and Regina coeli laetare lie the majority of Couperin’s motets. It is to be expected that those composed at the order of the king (the Versets or psalm verses of 1703–05) – emphasize French traits, but nevertheless Couperin’s new-found enthusiasm for the Italian style was certainly not smothered in these very lovely works for which he enjoyed performances by some of the finest singers of both the chambre du roi and the Royal Chapel: the sopranos Marie Chappe and Marguerite Antoinette Couperin, the two Italian castrati Hiacinthe Mazza and Antonio Paccini, the hautecontre Guillaume de Pont, the tenor Abbé Jacques D’Estival and the basses Jacques

61

Sacred Music

#œ & J

œ œ œ œ. J J J

ya

le - le - ya

#

œ

œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ‰ œ J J J J J Al - le - lu - ya

œ œj ˙ & Œ J O pro no - bis De ra œ œœœœœœœœœœœœœœ œ ?# #œ œ

œ œ J

7 2

# & œ

œ

œ

œ J

6

#œ

2 7

6

#œ -

œ

œ

6 5

#3

œ

œ

O - ra

pro

œ œ œ œ œ J œJ J œ œ J um Al - le - lu - ya

œ

œ

œ

œ

6

6 5

#3

œ œ œ œJ œJ œj œj j œ œ œ œJ œJ œj œj j œ J J J œ J J J

no - bis de um Al - le - lu - ya Al - le - lu - ya Al - le - lu - ya Al - le - lu j j j # œ œJ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ j j j œ œ j j J & J J R J œ œ œ J J œj œ œj œ œ œ œJ œJ œj œ Al - le - lu - ya Al - le - lu - ya Al œ - œle - luœ - yaœ Al - le - lu - ya Alœ - œle - luœ - yaœ Al - le - lu œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ?# œ œ 6

Example 4.8

6 5

#3

6 #6

6 #6

6 #6

6 #6

Regina coeli laetare

Hyvet de Beauprès, Jacques Basteron, Antoine Du Four and Abbé Claude Michau. Except for one of the movements in the Versets of 1704 where he requires all the tenors and basses of the Royal Chapel to participate – each part singing in unison – or in another where tutti sopranos alternated with soprano soloists, the Versets were sung by the performers listed above in solos, duos and trios. Only occasionally are choral forces required (as in some movements of Motet de Ste Suzanne), but these are not in more than three parts. The motets cover a wide range of styles and vocal and instrumental textures, ranging from robust and virtuosic works to those in a much simpler style – particularly the élévations, performed usually by one or two soloists with organ continuo at one of the most solemn moments in the mass – amongst which are passages of extraordinary beauty, the originality of which is sometimes disguised by their very simplicity. For example, in the Sept Versets of 1704, for the setting of the words from Psalm 84 (Salutare tuum da nobis) – a movement composed for the haute-contre Du Four – Couperin conceived a passage of harmony remarkable for its piquant false-relations. Like a number of passages in the motets and other works, this kind of writing seems to embody a very French approach to harmony: the use of dissonance for the purpose of ‘colour’ rather than for tonal ‘direction’ (see Example 4.9). On the other hand, the purposeful tread of harmony is also very evident in those works that emulate Italian models, particularly in the sequential

62

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

melismas that lend great brilliance to Couperin’s motets. Some indulge in delightful word-painting, such as at the end of Aspiratio mentis ad Deum where aeternum is held on a high G for six bars. Yet, some of Couperin’s most memorable motets are the simplest, like Tantum ergo sacramentum for soprano, alto and bass with continuo, the unusual progression from G minor to E minor (bars 10–11) providing an exquisite touch, its overall style recalling that of Mozart’s endearing Ave verum corpus (Example 4.10).

œ œ+ #œ

+ œ nœ nœ

œ œ+ #œ

+ œ nœ nœ

œ +œ #œ

œ #˙+

œ œ+ œ

œ +œ œ

œ œ+ œ

œ +œ œ

œ +œ œ

œ ˙+

-

œ œ œ

tu - um da

no - bis. da

no -

Accompagnement

&b 3 &b 3

sa

3

6 #4

6 4

Example 4.9

-

lu - ta

?b œ œ œ 6 #4

6 4

6 4

6 #4

-

re

œ œ œ 6 #4

6 4

6 #4

œ œ œ 6 4

6 4

6 #4

œ œ œ

#4 6

6 4

6 #

œ 6 4

˙ #3

Sept Versets (1704)

In a way not encountered elsewhere in his music – and perhaps not even in that of his French predecessors and contemporaries – Couperin lovingly dwells on the phrases at the words O clemens, O pia, O dulcis, O virgo Maria in his solo setting of Salve Regina (Example 4.11). From the same motet come passages that could easily have slipped from Italian works in their motivic construction, their melodic and harmonic patterning (including sequences of sevenths) giving a typical baroque thrust to the tonality (Example 4.12). Couperin’s motets thus cover a wide range of styles and techniques, including ground bass (Salvum me fac Deus), Corellian trio sonata textures (Ad te levavi oculos meos), grandiose and brilliant works, intimate and simple ones. They are indeed a fruitful meeting-ground of French and Italian traditions. Yet undoubtedly the finest of his sacred vocal works were his settings for tenebrae, composed towards the end of his involvement in motet writing and for which he was to put aside the overtly Italian style and write a work that was distinctly French and undoubtedly one of his finest creations.

Leçons de ténèbres Like the two organ masses, Couperin’s Leçons de ténèbres were composed for use in a service; yet, like them, they can be appreciated away from their liturgical

63

Sacred Music

. bœ bœ œ œ. œ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ. œ ˙ &b C ˙ J J Tan - tum er - go sa - cra- men tum ve - ne - re j j œ . C b ˙ œ œ œ œ. œ & ˙ œ #œ œ #˙ œ. œ ˙ Tan - tum

er - go sa - cra- men

-

tum

Tan - tum

er - go sa - cra- men

-

tum

œ œ œ œ. œ bw J

? C ˙. b

b6 4

&b ˙

Ó

i,

&b ˙

?b

i,

i,

?b

˙.

œ #œ œ œ. œ ˙ J

7

˙.

œ

˙.

œ

Tan - tum

˙.

Ó

˙

#

6

œ

mur

cer

-

nu

-

mur

cer

-

nu

˙

œ œ bœ œ w

6

9 ___ 6 7 (D)

˙

˙.

er - go sa - cra- men - tum

Tan - tum

Ó

˙

6

Tan - tum

Ó

ve - ne - re

˙

b7

-

œ œ ˙ #œ. œj ve - ne - re mur cer nu j j œ bœ . œ ˙ œ œ œ. œ œ

˙

œ œ œ œ. œ bw J

? b C ˙.

œ. œj

œ œ ˙

œ

˙

ne - re -

ve

-

ne - re - mur

ve

-

ne - re - mur

er - go sa - cra- men - tum

œ #˙

˙

œ œ œ œ

#6

œ œ

-

n˙.

˙

#3

6 4

ve

œ œ œ. œ ˙ ˙ J er - go sa - cra- men - tum œ œ œ. œ ˙ ˙ J

œ œ œ. œ ˙ J

7

œ œ œ œ

˙

#5

# 7

˙

mur

˙

˙

Example 4.10 Tantum ergo sacramentum fort b doux ˙. œ ˙ ˙. œ w ˙ ˙ œj ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ b & ˙ ˙ ˙

O

cle mens O

˙ n˙

? bb b˙ &b

œj

˙

pi - a

? bb ˙

˙

6 EE

Ó ˙ O

˙

pi - a

˙ n˙ ˙

6 EE

œj

Ó

˙ n˙

˙

dul - cis

˙

dul - cis O

O

˙

6

6 EE

˙

7

EE E E

˙

j œ

˙.

O

vir - go

˙

bœ œ ˙

6

Example 4.11 Salve Regina

Ó

vir - go

b3

Ma - ri

-

˙ n˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ E

˙

˙ 4

w

˙ -

w 3

cle mens O

#3

3

œ w

O

˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w

w

4

Ma - ri

a.

-

˙

a.

˙.

O

œ ˙

________

6

64

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

œœœœœ

&3 œ œ œ œ œ œ te ad nos

con - ver

-

-

œ œ. œ œ œ ˙

? ˙ 3

œ. œ œ J & j

ver

-

?œ˙ 7

6

œ

te

œ œ œj ˙ 7

Œ œ

-

-

-

7

ad

7

nos

6 5

con - ver - te

te

œ œ œj ˙

6

3

6

4

con - ver

œ œ œ

œ

4

6 4

6

œœœ œ

œœ ˙

ad

+ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ ˙ J J J

œ œ œj ˙. 6 4

œ œ œ+ œ

œœ ˙ 6 __

6

œœœœœ

6 5

C˙ -

˙

7

nos cpn -

bœ

6

Ó

te

C˙

Ó

3

Example 4.12 Salve Regina setting. They were written for the office of matins during Holy Week when the ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ are sung or recited in their entirety over Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Although he published only the first three tenebrae lessons Couperin clearly intended at that time to complete the whole cycle, having been encouraged by their success when performed at an abbey for women at Longchamps in the Bois de Boulogne,7 This community of dames religieuses, who had invited Couperin to compose his settings, would undoubtedly have been the recipient of the remaining six Leçons that Couperin claimed to have been working on in 1716.8 The manuscript of these has never been found, perhaps destroyed when the abbey was suppressed in 1790 during Revolutionary times. Couperin explained that the remaining Leçons would follow the pattern of those for the first day, i.e. the first two would be for solo voice with continuo, and the third for two voices and continuo. Ever the realist, Couperin recommended that, although the works were notated for sopranos, they could be sung by any kind of voice, transposing the notes if necessary to an appropriate key, making the comment that ‘nowadays most people who accompany singers know how to transpose.’ Couperin was certainly not the only composer to recommend alternative voicetypes with transposition when the occasion demanded. There are, for example, a number of similar comments on cantata scores, as, for instance in Campra’s Le lis et la rose which, though scored for haute-contre, is also suitable, according to the composer, for soprano voice when transposed down a tone. (See Chapter 1 for a description of transposition through clef substitution.) The ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ the Prophet consist of five ‘elegies’ mourning the destruction of Jerusalem. A feature of the original Hebrew poems was that they took the form of alphabet ‘acrostics’, each verse beginning with a characteristic Hebrew letter which, in some cases, led to setting out the entire Hebrew alphabet in order. When the poems were translated into Latin this scheme disappeared, but it became

Sacred Music

65

traditional to precede each Latin verse with the original Hebrew letter. Although meaningless in their new context, these vestigial traces of the original poetic form were incorporated into the Gregorian setting of the text, a practice also followed by many composers from early times to the present day. The settings of these letters thus form little ‘preludes’ to each verse, as we shall see in Couperin’s setting. The first of the eight canonical hours, the office of matins is held at night, the gradual extinguishing of the candles during this office in the last three days of Holy Week leading to the name tenebrae (shadows). Couperin describes his Leçons as being written for Wednesday; in reality they form part of the observances for Maundy Thursday, Couperin’s comment being explained by the fact that matins began just before midnight. In practice, during the time of Louis XIV, Tenebrae actually began in the afternoon of Wednesday, perhaps, as James Anthony suggests, to encourage attendance at the services.9 The office of matins is divided into three parts called nocturns, each part consisting of three psalms and three lessons, each of which is followed by a responsory. During Tenebrae the three lessons of the first nocturn of each evening are devoted to the ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’, the first nocturn of Maundy Thursday taking the first fourteen verses, framing them with the non-scriptural words: Incipit Lamentatione Jeremiae prophetae10 and Jerusalem, convertere Dominum Deum tuum. The text of the opening of the first lesson is as follows: Incipit Lamentatio Jeremiae prophetae (Here begins the Lamentations of Jeremiah the Prophet) Aleph Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo? Facta est quasi vidua, Domina gentium: princeps provinciarum facta est sub tributo. (How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people? how is she become as a widow! She that was great among the nations, and princess amongst the provinces, how is she become a tributary!) Beth Plorans ploravit in nocte, et lachrymae ejus in maxillis ejus: non est qui consoletur eam ex omnibus charis ejus. Omnes amici ejus spreverunt eam, et facti sunt ei inimici. (She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: among her lovers she hath none to comfort her: all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they have become her enemies.)

(The complete text, taken from the King James Version, is reproduced in Appendix E.) Although the ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ have been recited or sung during matins since medieval times, amongst the reforms of the Council of Trent in the sixteenth century was the provision of two ‘official’ melodic formulae, one for the Latin, the other for the Hebrew letters. The following reveals the close relationship between the two chants (one being merely the closing notes of the other) and the way they are used throughout the office.

66

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

(a)

& œ

œ

œ bœ

In - ci - pi

œ

œ

œ

œ

La - men - ta - i - o

œ

œ

œ

œ

Je - re - mi - ae

œ

œ

Pro - phe

œ

œ

-

tae.

(b)

& œ œ œ œ œ œ A-

leph

(c)

& œ œ w

bœ œ œ œ

œ ..

Quo - mo - do sedet solo civitas ple - na po - pu - lo; fa - cta est quasi vidua do - mi - na Gen - tium:

& œ

œ w

œ œ œ œ œ

prin - ceps provinciarum facta est sub tri

bu - to

Example 4.13 Traditional chant formulae for the ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ There is obviously very little musical interest when the ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ are chanted this way. Fortunately, few musical restrictions were placed upon services for Tenebrae, thus permitting polyphonic settings and, with the appearance of monody at the end of the sixteenth century, settings for solo voice and continuo (or ensemble). In seventeenth-century France both kinds were composed, but that for solo voice and continuo was taken up with such enthusiasm from the middle of the century that French composers seem to have adopted the form as their own. Amongst the leading composers of the time who contributed settings were Michel Lambert, Marc-Antoine Charpentier (who, in typical fashion composed six different settings of the nine lessons to suit every occasion – some with continuo, some with orchestra or ensemble), Lalande and Bernier. Couperin was, thus, only one in a long line of French composers who wrote music for this service. There can be little doubt that these works, with their highly emotional texts inspiring some of the most eloquent music from their composers, were high points in the musical celebration of Holy Week, attracting immense congregations to some of the most fashionable churches. It scandalised Le Cerf de la Viéville that opera-singers were often engaged to perform at them, and although he does not specifically name the Abbey at Longchamp in his diatribe,11 merely mentioning a ‘well-known convent’ (‘un couvent marqué’), this was, indeed, one of the most fashionable places to hear music at Easter, sung and performed by soloists and

67

Sacred Music

choirs from the Opéra. A few years after Couperin had composed his (unpublished and lost) set of six leçons France’s most celebrated opera singer of the day Mlle Le Maure retired to the Abbey for three years where she gave performances which drew enormous crowds, as did the ‘angelic’ performances there during Holy Week by the nuns whom she had taught. The phrase ‘doing tenebrae’ (faire Ténèbres) meant going to hear Easter matins at the Abbey at Longchamps or elsewhere.12 As will be seen from different settings of Incipit Lamentatio below, these works did indeed require skilled solo singers. The examples commence with Couperin’s setting, the chant set out in small notes above Couperin’s music, which, like those of his contemporaries, translates the simple chant into the sophisticated language of his day. Couperin # œ & #C

œ

In -

ci

-

# . & #C œ In

# & #

-

œ

œ

pit

La

œ -

men

œ œJ ˙ J

œ.

ci - pit

La - men - ta

-

œ

œ

ta -

ti

+ œ.

œ ˙ J -

-

œ

œ

o

Je

œ œ œJ ˙ . RR -

œ -

œ

œ

œ

re - mi - ae

Pro

+ œ.

œ œ ˙ J J

ti - o

Je - re - mi

œ

œ J

ae

-

-

Pro-

œ

phe

-

# œ˙ & #J phe

-

-

-

-

œ. œ œ œ œ œ

˙

-

-

-

-

-

tae.

œ. œ œ +œ. œ œ ˙

˙ œ œ œ œ œ. œJ ˙

-

Ó

tae.

Lambert (BN ms Rés 585)

+j j j j j œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙

j j œ œ ˙

& b c ˙.

ci - pit p

-

In

-

la

-

men - ta

+ j r & b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ ˙ -

mi

ae

pro -

phe

-

ae

-

re - mi - ae

pro - phe

j j Œ œj œ œjœ œ œ œ œ œ œ Je - re - mi

-

-

-

w tae.

(note-values as in the original ms)

Example 4.14 Settings of Incipit Lamentatio

j œ

Je - re -

ti - o

+ r j r œ œ. œ œ œ œ ˙ œ. . œ œ œ œ b œ œ. œ. œ œ œ. œ œœœœ œ œ & œ Je

œ.

ae

68

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Example 4.14 (cont’d) Charpentier (H 96)

&b c Ó

Œ œj œr œr ˙

j j œ œ œ

In - ci - pit

la - men - ta

m j j r r œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ Œ œ œ -

m m j r j r r & b œ œ. œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ. œ œ ˙ m &b ˙

-

-

pro - phe

mi - ae

-

tae

m œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

-

-

-

ti - o

Je - re

œ œ œ œ. œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ jm œ. œ œ. œ œ ˙

Ó

Lalande (Paris, 1730)

## & # C ˙.

œ œJ ˙

m r Œ œ œ. œJ œ œ œ œ œJ ˙ ti - o

-

o - ra

In - ci - pit

œ. œ œ. œ œmœ. œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ .œ J J + - ae

Je - re - mi

pro- phe tae

+ + ## + œj œ. œœœ. ˙ ‰ œ œ œ œ. œœœ. œœ ˙ ‰ œ œ œ ˙ + ˙ & # œ. œœ œœ. œœ -

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

w -

Bernier (Bibl. Lyon, ms 133.971)

&c Ó

œ. œJ œR ˙

+ œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œR Mœ œ. œ œ. œ œ œ œ J R

In - ci - pit

La -

M Mœ. œ œ œ œœœ & J ae

pro - phe

-

men - ta

-

-

tio -

-

Je - re mi

M œ ≈ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ œ œ. œ œ ˙

Ó

tae

While not required by the Ceremoniale parisiense to include the chant formulae most composers, like those above, commenced their settings with highly decorated versions of it, transforming especially the austere and brief melodic fragments of the Hebrew letters into cantilenas of extraordinary beauty and long-breathed spans Some took this style beyond the Incipit Lamentatio and into the early verses of the Lamentations as did Lambert and Charpentier, where it will be seen (Example 4.15) that these composers achieved a musical balance between chant and melisma, the repeated notes of the plainsong being followed by very florid passages. Lambert seemed to revel in writing extended melismas, some of which, as the work progresses, move further away from the chant and take up an entire line of music.

69

Sacred Music

Lambert (BN ms Rés 585)

j j j j & b ˙. œ œ ˙ œ. œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œ.œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ ˙. œ Quo - mo do

se - det so - la ci - vi - tas

ple

+ r r & b œœœœ œ œ œ œœœœœœ˙ œœœœœ˙ w

tri -

bu

-

+ b œ. & œ œ œ œ.

-

po

fac - ta

est

sub

rr j . œ ˙ œ . œ œ ˙ œœœœœœ. œœœJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

-

to fac - ta est

fac

j œ

+ œ. œ œ œ œ œ ˙

tri -

bu

œ œ œ œœ.

sub

na

+ œ. œœœœj˙ œjœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œœ˙

rum.

+ & b œ œ œ œj œ œœœœ. œœœ œ œ ˙

-

fac - ta est qua si vi - du- a domina gen - ti um prin ceps

+ & b œ. œJ œ. œJ œ œœœœœ œ œœœœœ˙ w pro vin - ci - a

-

+ + Œ œ œ œœjœj˙ œ. œjœ. œj˙ œ.jœrœ œ. œj˙ œ œ.œ œ

pu lo

-

-

-

ta est

w to.

Charpentier (H 96)

&b c Ó

j j j mj r r r r j œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ. Quo - mo - do

j r œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ ple -

se - det so - la ci - vi - tas

na

r & b œ mœ. 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 ˙ po

-

fa - cta

pu - lo

m œ œ. bœ nœj. œr œbœ œ mœ œ.j œr J R

j j j r j mr r & b œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ . œJ ˙ est qua - si vi - du - a do - mi - na

gen - ti - um

m m m œ j œ œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œr œ œ ˙ &b œ œ est

sub

tri bu

-

to

Œ œ.j œr

prin - ci - pes pro - vin - ci - a - rum

fa - cta

j œ . œ ˙ nœ. œJ œœ. œ œ. œ œ fa - cta est

Example 4.15 Settings of the Quomodo sedet In contrast, settings of the same words by Lalande and Couperin reveal through their ‘plainer’ style some of the changes that were coming into the French classical tradition in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. That by Lalande confirms Lionel Sawkins’s belief that the versions we have of that composer’s three surviving Leçons, posthumously engraved in 1730, date from his last years. Like Lalande’s, that by Couperin (Example 4.16) is in striking contrast to those of the two

70

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

earlier composers, Lambert and Charpentier, and yet while diminution-like passages are missing in his setting there can be no doubt about its French provenance. Unlike the earlier settings, the ornamentation is not ‘built-in’, so to speak, but is added by the performer at the points where Couperin has added little crosses. These may be interpreted in a variety of ways according to the taste and skill of the singer. Although of the three settings of Quomodo given here only Couperin’s is reproduced in full, it is in fact considerably longer than those by Lambert and Charpentier and is constructed along lines that many French composers in the eighteenth century found useful. As pointed out in Chapters 2 and 3, the French melodic style is characteristically made up of phrases that complement each other rather than those which flower through the process of motivic development. Even in the Italian-inspired cantate française most composers largely retained the French melodic style. Like the cantata composers whose respect for their French poetic texts discouraged mere word-repetition, in his Leçons de ténèbres Couperin repeated whole lines, rather than words or short phrases, of his text (even though setting Latin freed him from the French conventions outlined in Chapter 2). As will be seen from Example 4.17, the melodic phrases accompanying the text repetition often mirrored only the musical rhythm of the original, leaving Couperin to explore new melodic contours. In the analysis above, the symbols A* B* C* indicate that these phrases are based on the rhythms of A B C, often slightly varied in an ornamental way. The structure of Couperin’s melody (A B C A* B* C* B* (fragment)) is only one of many combinations of phrase-structures – and in fact, is not found again in his Leçons. Sometimes, Couperin repeats phrases (and sections made up of them) exactly – sometimes as a ‘recapitulation’ – but in all of them the style is the same. It is true that there are a few sequential passages as in Example 4.16 (bars 13–16, 31–34), but these are far removed from Italian practice. The melody of Quomodo sedet sola civitas begins very simply and gently – with a total span of forty bars there is no need for impatience! – and at bar 33 the melody reaches its climax on top G, followed by a gentle descent to the final cadence. It is a superbly shaped musical line. Yet is it sufficient for the setting of such a powerful text? The music of Quomodo certainly displays few tragic overtones, but we must see it in its context, for it is only the beginning – almost like a narration that surveys the scene before entering it. The next movement, Plorans ploravit, plunges into an expression of deep anguish as can be seen in the opening of this remarkable movement (Example 4.17). One of the highlights of the work is the setting of the words Recordata est Jerusalem from the second Leçon (Example 4.19). For this Couperin chose the form of the ground bass. One has only to recall movements such as the Crucifixus in Bach’s Mass in B minor to recognise how in the hands of the masters the tension between the static and the dynamic, the circumscribed and the free, has inspired some of the most eloquent passages in music and Recordata est Jerusalem is no exception. Its vocal line, seemingly spontaneous and free, searches out the boundaries imposed by the form, and in so doing finds an intensity of expression

71

Sacred Music

# &#Ó

œ. œJ A

Quo - mo 7

# ˙ &# lo?

˙

+ + œ. œj ˙

œ œ

+ œ œ œ. œJ ˙

+ œ . œ œ. œJ œ. œJ J

do

quo - mo - do

se - det

so - la

ci - vi - tas

ple - na po -

œ œ j J #œ ˙

r + œ œ #œ. œ #˙

j œ

-

B œ. œ ˙ J

+ + + œ œ. œ œ. œ œ œ. œ ˙ J œ J

Fa - cta est

qua - si

+ ## . j œ. œ œj ˙ œ œ & J

13

-

vi

˙

ceps pro - vin - ci - a - rum

# &#˙ - to.

25

# &#˙ lo?

Quo - mo - do

quo - mo - do

# œC* œ. œ œ+. œ ˙+ J R &# J prin - ceps pro - vin - ci - a -

œ.

bu

-

œ

˙

so - la

-

œ œj˙ J -

na

po

j œ. œ œj˙

+ j œ œ œ œ. œJ œ w

vi - du - a,

do - mi - na Gen - ti - um:

+ + œ. œ œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œj˙ J J a - rum fa - cta

œ J ˙

+ ˙

w

fa -

est

sub

tri - bu

-

to.

cta

tri -

sub

est

œ. #œ œ œ.

r œ œR

pu

œ. œJ

fragment from B* j nœ

nœ .

to,

ci - vi - tas

prin - ceps pro - vin - ci

rum

-

ple -

cta est

31

tri - bu

j œ

se - det

qu - si

# ˙ &#

+ œœœœ. rœr œ. œj ˙ #œ

œ. œj

Fa - cta

fa -

prin -

ti - um:

+ œ nœ œ œ œ ˙

œ œ

36

-

Gen

C

˙

+ + œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ . œJ #˙

+ + + B* œ. r œ œ. œ œ œ œ œœ ˙ J est

do - mi - na

prin - ceps pro - vin - ci - a - rum fa - cta est

+ A* œ. œ œ. œ œ œ. œ ˙ J J

19

du - a,

+ œ œ. œ œ. œJ œj œ œ œ . œj œ.

pu

Example 4.16 Quomodo sedet sola civitas (Couperin)

&C

j ˙ œ. œ #˙+ œ œ+ ˙ œ. œbœ ˙ Œ bœ bœ œJ œ ˙ J Plo- rans plo - ra - vit in

?C w 8

#7 8 5 4 2

no

w

w

#6

6

-

et

cte,

#˙ ˙ 6

b6

la

-

w b7

+ j j+ j j œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œj chrymae

bw 6

7

in ma - xil - lis

e - jus

6

˙

˙

#3 7

6 4

#3

Example 4.17 Plorans ploravit not usually associated with eighteenth-century French music. Six cycles of the bass propel the movement, its cadence points overlapping rather than coinciding with those of the melody, so avoiding a sectionalised form. At the words cum caderet populus ejus in manu hostili, et non esset auxiliator (‘when her people fell into the hand of the enemy, and none did help her’) the vocal line gradually rises to the

72

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

powerful, heart-rending climax on top G, previously touched only as an ornamental note, but now held and repeated in a cry of despair.

+ + ˙ ˙ +˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ j ˙ ˙ ˙. r ˙. ˙ # ˙. ˙ ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙ ˙#˙#˙ J & # 23 J ˙ ˙ ˙. R J˙J R ca - de - ret

? ## 3 ˙. 2

e - jus in

˙.

˙.

˙ ˙

6

6 5

5th cycle

#6

7 E

#3

˙

˙

˙

#˙ n˙

____

6

7

+ + ˙ ˙+ ˙ ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ # ˙ ˙ ˙ # ˙ ˙ J #˙ ˙

# ˙ &#

? ## #˙ n˙ a

-

-

6 __ 4 3 3

-

˙ 6 4

-

˙

-

˙.

-

˙ #3

6 5

-

tor, et

˙

˙

-

non es

˙ J -

˙ set

6

7

-

-

#6

˙ #˙ n˙

____

˙.

˙.

-

-

6th cycle

7 ___ #3

˙. ˙ ˙ # ˙ ˙ J & # ˙. ˙ ˙ ˙J ˙ ? ## ˙

ho - sti - li, et non es - set au - xi - li

ma - nu

po - pu - lus

6

˙ . ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ +˙ J R #˙

au - xi - li

6

n˙

-

a

˙

w -

tor.

˙

w

4 3

Example 4.18 Recordata est Jerusalem (See Chapter 1 for comments about ‘void’ notation.) Yet, the work reaches perhaps its most intense moment in the third Leçon at the words posuit me desolatum (‘he leaves me desolate’), the repetition of this phrase reaching up to G above the stave and plunging down to G# – a minor octave below – over a poignantly dissonant harmony.

# j j & #C œ œ œ ˙ po - su - it

? ## C #˙ 6

me

˙

œ.

j j ˙ œ . j j œœ j #œ #œ #œ œ Œ J J œ œj #œ œ œ œ œ

de - so - la - tam, po - su - it

me

n˙

w

w

D

8 E

___________________

Example 4.19 (De excelso misit ignem)

de - so -

to - ta

la - tam

w ____________ #5

7 2 #5

6

73

Sacred Music

With the addition of the second voice in this Leçon come increased resources as the two vocal parts entwine in expressive counterpoint at the words that close each lesson: the supplication that Jerusalem may turn again to the Lord their God. One can only regret that Couperin’s remaining settings have not survived, for the three that have come down to us are without a doubt amongst his masterpieces and, indeed, are amongst the finest works of the French Baroque.

# & #C

∑

# & #C Ó

Œ ‰ œj œ. Je - ru

? ## C œ œ œ œ

œœœœ+ . œ œ. J Je - ru sa - lem, + + œ . œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œœœœ. œj œ. œj ˙ ∑

œ œ 7

-

sa lem, Je ru

œ œ œ œ œ œ ____

____

j Œ ‰ œ œ.

Ó

6 D ____ 3

7 ____ 6

____

-

-

œ œ 6 5

œ œ

_____

6

sa- lem,

-

œ œ œ œ

____

2 5

+ œœœœ+ . œJ œ+ œ œ . œ œ œ œ . œ + œœ ˙ ˙ J ˙ J sa -lem con ver - te - re ad Do - mi num De um tu ++ + + ## œ. œœœœ . œ œ Œ Œ j . œœ j j œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ #˙ J & # œ œ œ J sa lem, con - ver - te re ad Do mi num De - um tu ru œ œ œ œ œ ? ## œœ w œ ˙ œœ ˙ ˙ # œ. &#

E

_____

____

6

6

6 5

D

6

6 5

6 4

œ ˙ J Je - ru j j œ œ ‰œ

#3

____

˙ um,

˙

6

Je

____

Ó

Ó

um,

œœ œœ ________

Example 4.20 Jerusalem, convertere Notes 1 2 3 4 5

See Fenner Douglass, The Language of the Classical French Organ (New Haven, 1969) Edward Higginbottom, ‘French Classical Organ Music and the Liturgy’, Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 103 (1976–77), 19–40. James R. Anthony, French Baroque Music from Beaujoyeulx to Rameau (Portland, 1997), 301. Ballard’s attribution of this motet to the composer Danielis has been disputed by the editors of the revised edition of the Oeuvres complètes de François Couperin who include it in volume 5 (1995). Two volumes have already appeared as revised editions of L’Oiseau-Lyre’s Oeuvres complètes, edited by Kenneth Gilbert, Davitt Moroney and Orhan Memed, 1985 and 1995. For a more detailed description of the Toulouse-Philidor collection see Kenneth Gilbert et al., Oeuvres complètes de François Couperin, vol. V (1995). See also E.H. Fellowes, ‘The Philidor Manuscripts, Paris, Versailles, Tenbury’, Music & Letters, XII

74

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

(1931), 116–29, and Phillipe Oboussier, ‘Couperin Motets at Tenbury’, Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, XCVIII (1971–72), 17–29. 6 Oeuvres complètes, vol. 5 (1995), 18–20. 7 See Appendix E for Couperin’s Preface to his Leçons de ténèbres. 8 Preface to the Second Livre de pièces de Claveçin (1791). 9 Anthony, French Baroque Music, 260. 10 At the third lesson (Holy Saturday) the text is preceded by Incipit oratio Jeremiae prophetae. 11 Jean-Laurent, Le Cerf de La Viéville, Comparaison de la musique italienne et de la musique françoise – Discours sur la musique d’Eglise (Brussels, 1705–6), 183–93. 12 Jacques Hillairet, Dictionnaire historique des rues de Paris (Paris, 1985), vol. 1, 223.

Chapter 5

Chamber Music Les Nations Although it was not until the last eleven years of his life that Couperin actually began publishing any instrumental ensemble music, his interest in this genre stemmed from his earliest years as a composer when, like so many of his generation in France, he was fired with enthusiasm for the newly-discovered Italian instrumental style. This we learn from his account of the genesis of Les Nations, a collection of four extended trio sonatas published in I726, but composed some thirty or more years earlier. He explains: It is a few years now since one part of these trios was composed; a few manuscripts of them were distributed about, but I have little faith in them because of the negligence of the copyists. From time to time I have added to their number, and I believe that lovers of the true will find them to their liking. The first sonata in this collection is also the first that I composed and the first of its kind to be composed in France. It has quite a singular story. Charmed by the sonatas of Signor Corelli and by the French works of M. de Lulli, both of whose compositions I shall love as long as I live, I ventured to compose a sonata myself which I arranged to have played by the same group as I had heard play Corelli’s. Knowing how keen the French are on foreign novelties in all matters, and lacking confidence in myself, I did myself a favour through an inoffensive stratagem. I pretended that a relative of mine that I actually do have [his cousin Marc Roger Norman] and who is attached to the court of the King of Sardinia, had sent me a sonata by a new Italian composer. I arranged the letters of my name so as to form an Italian name which I gave instead. The sonata was received with much acclaim and I will say nothing further in its defence. I wrote others and my Italianised name brought me, wearing this mask, great applause. Fortunately my sonatas enjoyed sufficient favour for me not to blush at my subterfuge. [The Preface is reproduced in full in Appendix B.]

Comments by Couperin found elsewhere suggest that some of these early works which found their way into Les Nations (forming, as Couperin says, the opening movements to the four suites which were written at a much later date) were composed in the early 1690s. This was some eleven years after the appearance of Corelli’s influential first set of trio sonatas of 1681, and Couperin’s youthful essays are clearly indebted to them. Couperin’s autograph manuscript of the works is lost – and hence the Italian anagram of his name which would have appeared on the title-page can only be conjectured – but two copies of three of the four sonatas have survived under the titles of La Pucelle, La Visionnaire and L’Astrée, these names being altered when Couperin revised and published them some 35 years later in Les Nations. If Couperin were wishing to pass his works off as those by an Italian composer, it would be surprising if in the lost autograph the works had been described as

76

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

anything else but sonatas in contrast to his later terminology sonades, a word that Couperin felt should enter the French language as had sérénade (to replace serenata), also believing that cantade should replace cantata. Both words failed to enter the popular lexicon. In the entire French cantata repertoire, for example, there is only one instance of the terminology cantade (by the obscure composer Brunet de Molan). On the title-page of the manuscript copy of Couperin’s early trio sonatas held in Paris (VM7 1156) they are described as Quatre sonates à 2 violons, basse de viole et basse continüe. The Italian trio sonata in its fully developed style was indebted to two major influences: the violin and the voice, the fast movements using themes moulded by techniques natural to the agile stringed instrument, the slow movements filled with a lyrical expression that sprang from the aria. Such was the flexibility of the medium that the trio sonata was cultivated in Italy more widely than any other instrumental form. On the other hand, France (like England) had cultivated the viol fantasia as the central medium of instrumental chamber music during the seventeenth century, although the contrapuntal and ‘learned’ style inherited from the fantasias of the Renaissance gave way in the middle of the century to the simpler style of the dance suite. French regard for viols – especially the basse de viole – remained high throughout the whole century, virtuosi like Sainte-Colombe and Marin Marais helping to maintain the status of the instruments in France long after they had surrendered to the violin and cello elsewhere. Couperin retained a deep affection for that bass instrument, writing some very fine solo works for it. It is surprising that for a work meant to be passed off as Italian, the upper parts in the two early manuscript copies that have survived are notated with the French violin clef (G on the first line of the stave) rather than the ‘foreign’ clef (G on the second line), and that French rather than Italian words are used at the headings of movements. As for the violin, even though the instrument was not specified in the eventually published score, his trio sonatas display aspects of that instrument’s technique. Yet, not only does the music itself reveal its violinistic inspiration; a notice in 1727 advertising the publication of Les Nations describes the work as written for first and second violins with continuo.1 While the basse de viole remained Couperin’s favoured stringed instrument for basso continuo, the violoncello was also beginning to show its worth in France. Looking back to that time Michel Corrette in his tutor for violoncello wrote that ‘although composers of sonatas and cantatas at the beginning of the century scored them for bass viol … that did not prevent them from being played by cello to great approval’.2 It is true that there are a few places in Les Nations where the bass line reaches down to B (not available on the violoncello), but this is compensated for by the greater resonance of the violoncello which, as Corrette also points out, is useful for an instrument playing the fundamental of the harmony. By comparing a movement from Corelli’s Op. l, No. 3 with one from La Françoise which employs similar thematic material it is clear that Couperin was basing his work upon Corelli’s model and yet, despite obvious similarities, a performance

77

Chamber Music

of each movement in its entirety conveys the distinct impression of two different musical personalities. In the working out of the material Corelli the violinist lets his string technique take over much of the thematic development, expanding the phrases to a degree not followed by Couperin. Even in simple scale passages Corelli covers a wider span than does Couperin. Such points of difference are small – as indeed we would expect when one composer sought to emulate the other. Nevertheless they reflect, albeit dimly, those unconscious attitudes to musical style inherited by each composer. This prevented Couperin’s most Italianate works from sounding like slavish imitations of Corelli. (Thus had Purcell retained his musical personality when composing his trio sonatas ‘in just imitation of the most fam’d Italian masters’ as he wrote in the Preface to his 1683 set). In Couperin’s works the less expansive phrase and the preference for stepwise movement are characteristic of the French approach which almost always sought suaveness and grace, qualities still present in Couperin’s trio sonatas despite their vivacity and energy. (a)

#

Gayement

˙ & c ‰œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

#œ

˙

œ

(bars 1-3)

Allegro

(bars 18-19)

# œœ œœ˙ & #c ‰ œ œ œ œ œ

(b)

(bars 1-3)

Example 5.1

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ mœ œ œ

#œ

œ

#œ

#œ œ œ œ œ

œœ

œœœœœ

œ œ J

(bars 17-18)

(a) La Françoise (Couperin) and (b) Sonate a tre, Op. 1, No. 3 (Corelli)

The subtle contrast between the two composers’ styles becomes more obvious in later passages from the same movements quoted earlier. Interestingly, it is Couperin’s harmony that is the more intense in these two following passages, as in the augmented fifth chord in the second bar and the strange harmonic lurch at the end of the extract, whereas Corelli’s harmony, largely directed by the sequential (and violinistic) patterns of the upper parts, is predictable. The ornamentation seems to have been kept to a minimum in the original version.3 He added considerably more when revising the sonatas for publication, and with this increased level of ornamentation the French character of the slow sections in particular becomes more obvious as will be seen in this comparison of the opening movements of Corelli’s 6th trio sonata and Couperin’s L’Espagnole. Nevertheless it is, of course, possible to find whole passages in the sonatas of both composers where the convergence of their styles outweighs the differences. In general terms, however, while there are similarities of style, the overall impression of distinctive musical personalities remains.

78

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

m , # œœ œœœœœ ˙ J J J & (Gayement)

(a)

# œ & ‰ #œ œ#˙ (bars 23-26) 7 #3

(b)

(b)

˙

˙

E

#3 ________ 6

7

? ### (bars 11-15)

œ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ ˙ . œ œ #œ œ ˙ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ 6 5

6

7 #

6 5

6

# 6 4

7

6

6

œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ˙ œ œœ œ Œ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œ ˙ 6

4 2

5

6

E

œœ œ œ œœ œ 4 2

œ #

4

6

(a) La Françoise (Couperin) and (b) Sonate a tre, Op. 1, No. 3 (Corelli)

Example 5.2

œ μ œ œ b &b c Œ b œ μ œ œ &b c Œ ? b c œ ˙ nœ b

(a)

7 5 #3 ___ 6 ______ #5 7 2

œ œ œ œœ œœ

œ

##œ ˙ &# œ

## &#

œ#œ œ œ ˙

˙

? # œ #œ

œnœ mœ. œ œ, œ œ œ ˙ J m ˙ #œ œ œ. œ œ Œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ ˙ #œ œ

œ œ#œ œ ˙ J

Gravement, et mesuré

2

œ J

œ œ μ œ œ

E

2

bœ œ μ œ œ μ œ œ œ œ

μ M μ nœ nœJ œ œ œ œ nœ ˙

œ ˙

œ

œ J

b3 6 5

6 §3

5

6

6 5 b3

D B

6 4

5 7 2

œ Œ Ó

μ œ œœ œ Œ Ó

œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ bœ œ œ 6

œ J

5 4

œ

μ œ &œ œ œ

6 §3

6

7 b3

5

Grave # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœœ œ œœœ. œœ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ J & #c J

(b)

# œ. œ œ. œ œ. . & # c œ œ œ œJ J J ? ## c œ #œ œ. j ˙ œ . œj œ. œ 7

Example 5.3

6

6

6

7

6

œ œ. J

œ œ. J

j œ œ.

j œ œ.

7

6

7

j œ#œ . œ œ œ œ. J j œ #œ #œ œ. œ œ. J 6

7 6 5

4

j œ œ J 3

(a) L’Espagnole (Couperin) and (b) Sonate a tre, Op. 1, No. 3 (Corelli)

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Chamber Music

Les Nations comprises what Couperin called four ordres (meaning a self-contained collection of pieces in the same key – see Chapter 6), each one falling into two parts: the earlier composed trio sonatas and a suite of dance movements. The full title reads: LES NATIONS SONADES et Suites de SIMPHONIES EN TRIO En quatre Livres Séparés pour la Comodité Des Académies de Musique Et des Concerts particuliers

The works appear in the following order: Premier Ordre La Françoise (originally called La Pucelle) Allemande Première Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande Gigue Chaconne ou Passacaile Gavotte Menuet

Second Ordre L’Espagnole (originally called La Visionnaire) Allemande Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande Gigue Lourée Gavotte Rondeau Bourrée

Troisième Ordre L’Impériale (originally called L’Astrée) Allemande Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande Bourrée Gigue Rondeau Chaconne Menuet

Quatrième Ordre La Piédmontoise Allemande Courante Second Courante Sarabande Rondeau Gigue

It will be seen that each of the four ordres is a sizeable work, and all the more so in that the opening trio sonatas alone each comprise six to nine movements. (L’Impériale is twice as long as any trio sonata by Corelli.) If Couperin avoids the dance forms in his opening sonatas, nevertheless the spirit of the dance is never far away, especially in the slow movements. It was, of course, in the movements which follow the trio sonatas that Couperin’s French manner – now given full rein – stood in strong relief to Corelli’s style – and this even when the Italian master employed the dance forms derived from France. If Corelli’s penchant for the ‘sonata style’ helped mould his dance movements, the converse was true for Couperin.

80

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

The preface to Les Nations tells of the composer’s plan to compile another collection of similar works, as he already had ‘a sufficiently great number of trios’ to form the basis. No such volume appeared, but amongst those which he may have had in mind to incorporate in the second collection could have been La Superbe and La Steinkerke, two trio sonatas left unpublished at his death. The latter piece, however, is one of his few disappointing works, being a ‘battle-piece’ written to celebrate the victory of the Maréchal de Luxembourg over William III in 1692. There is yet another work, and a very fine one, which remained unpublished: La Sultane; but it is very doubtful if Couperin was referring to this as it is a quartet and not a trio sonata. When Les Nations was published in 1726 Couperin had already been publishing books of instrumental chamber music over the previous four years, the first of these being the Concerts royaux and the Nouveaux concerts.

Concerts royaux and Concerts nouveaux As the name suggests, Couperin’s Concerts royaux (1722) were written for the pleasure of Louis XIV– as were those in the second volume, the Concerts nouveaux (1724). Like Les Nations, they were published some years after their composition, the king having died in 1715, after which Couperin was no longer working at Versailles. The aged monarch had enjoyed them so much that he had commanded Couperin and his fellow musicians to play from the collection nearly every Sunday during the years I7I4 and 1715. It is not hard to see why they gave such pleasure to Louis XIV, for the works largely sprang from the courtly tradition of French dance forms following a Prelude with which commenced each of the fourteen suites or ordres – terms, however, not used on the scores. Couperin composed four Concerts royaux and ten Nouveaux concerts, the latter collection bound and published in a volume called Les Goûts réunis which also included his newly-composed Le Parnasse, ou L’Apothéose de Corelli. Irrespective of which collection they come from, because they comprise a single genre, the fourteen sets will be referred to here simply as Concerts, each given their number in order of appearance. For the royal performances of the earlier collection, Couperin at the harpsichord had been joined by the violinist François Duval, André Danican Philidor who played oboe and bassoon (amongst a number of instruments), Hilaire Verloge (also known as Alarius) who was a bass violist, and the bassoonist Pierre Dubois. Yet in fact the majority of the fourteen Concerts were composed without specific instrumentation in mind, most of them being set out on two staves only – like a keyboard piece. More usually the upper stave contains only one line of melody, but it may also contain two. Almost any of the usual ‘dessus’ instruments (flute, oboe, violin, treble viol, etc.) may play these, although some movements seem to suggest by the style of writing that Couperin may have had in mind a particular instrument not specified on the score. The lower stave usually comprises a single bass part which, with its figured-bass, is obviously most appropriate for harpsichord

Chamber Music

81

either alone or with bass viol (or cello) or bassoon. Couperin also alludes to the possibility of using théorbe (bass lute) in place of harpsichord. Indeed so flexible is the scoring that almost all the pieces can – as Couperin suggests – be played by harpsichord alone. Nevertheless, on occasion – sometimes for single movements, sometimes for complete works – Couperin does indicate some preference in instrumentation, the viols being favourites. In the twelfth Concert, written for ‘two viols or other equal instruments’ (instruments à l’unisson), the composer goes further than in most of the other works by suggesting that this particular work sounds at its best without any harpsichord or théorbe, underlining the recommendation by not providing a figured bass (except in the Prélude where some accompanied passages are set off in contrast to those marked viols sans accompagnement. The Concerts are thus remarkable for the freedom of choice in the way of instrumentation, and on this score alone should be better known than they are to performers of baroque ensemble music. But more than this, they should be more widely known because of the fascination of the music itself, which brings together a rich variety of styles and boundless imagination within the confines of the genre. While only one movement makes overt reference to Italy (Courante italienne in the fourth Concert) many of the characteristics of Italian music are woven into the overall style of the works; these Concerts remain, however, unquestionably the product of a French musical mind. The collection commences with one of Couperin’s finest lyrical inspirations – a solemn melody of Bach-like nobility and spaciousness. Yet its long-breathed phrases are shaped not through the typical Italian/German processes of motivic development, but through the infinite variation of three basic shapes or gestures which are present throughout the entire movement. As the expressive and rich ornamentation tends to hide these seminal sources, the three shapes (marked a, b, c) are set out separately from the melody in the next example. Fused together these shapes produce long spans that recall the style of melodic writing that we encountered in the Leçons des ténèbres and elsewhere. All that is missing is a text in which the repetition of complete verbal phrases is mirrored by melodic ones varied in rhythm and pitch. It is a perfect example of the vocally-inspired French lyrical style translated into instrumental terms. Not every Concert commences with an air of such nobility, some opening movements (Concerts Nos 2, 5, 9, 13) striking a far lighter note. But in all cases, the Preludes afforded Couperin the opportunity to draw out his lyrical gifts in forms far freer than those of the dance movements with their sectional structures and stylised rhythms. The first of the more stylised movements following the Preludes is usually an allemande, a dance originating in Germany, probably in the fifteenth century, and which by 1588 was rather sedate. Médiocre gravité is the description given by Arbeau in Orchésographie, his famous dance treatise of that year.4 Yet a dancenotated allemande which has come down to us from the end of the seventeenth century suggests that by then it was light and graceful.5 So varied is the music that

82

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’ A

#a & œ

cœ œ œ œ œ Mœ. m M M ≈ r œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ œjœ œjœ Œ œ m m M œ œ œ mœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ ___________

œ

b

œ Gravement m m # M œ. œ &Cœ œ. M ? #C œ œ œ œ œ

6

A*

#œœ &

œœ œ œ M m # œ œ. œ œ œj œ J & J J œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ M ?# m œ œ œ nœ œ œ 6

5 4

#6

7

6 D 3

8 _______ E

œ #3

Example 5.4

6 4

D

6

#6

6

œ

œ œ

D _____ 6

6 5

6

7 #5 3 2

b # cœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ & #œ M M # m œ œ œ œ œ mœ œ œ œJ #œ œJ œ. œ œ œ œJ œ & #œ

?#

m œœ

#œ œ œ œ M M œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œœJ #œ . œ M œœ œœ œ œ

b

#œ œ Mœ œ. œ nœ m j #œ œ œœ œœ Œ μ¶ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ

‰ œJ œ œ œ œ œ

mœ œ

6

œ

œa

œ

3

œ

œ œ œ J

§3 ___ 5 6

#6 7 4 #3

œ

mœ. œ ˙˙ ˙

œ œ œ

6 ____ #3 ___ 7 4

μ¶ # œ œ œ œ

Prelude, Concert No. 1

bears the title during its long history that it is very difficult to characterise its style. Moreover, to add to the confusion, it would seem that the allemande as ballroom dance and the allemande as instrumental piece parted company some time during the seventeenth century. What characteristics the instrumental form may have acquired in France at this time very often disappeared entirely when transplanted to suites composed elsewhere, as in the trio sonatas of Corelli where one allemande is marked to be played grave and the next presto. One is forced to the conclusion that in such cases the composer merely applied the term to a movement in duple or quadruple time and which appeared fairly early in the order of dances in a suite or sonata. In the keyboard music of the mid-seventeenth-century harpsichord composer Chambonnières the allemande is usually characterised by a quadruple metre

83

Chamber Music

and a melody flowing in semiquavers (sixteenth notes), often beginning with an up-beat. The tempo of such pieces is largely determined by the fairly luxuriant ornamentation indicated by this composer, but the spirit seems close to Arbeau’s médiocre gravité. As seen in the next chapter, all of Couperin’s keyboard allemandes are in the Chambonnières tradition and contain some of his most profound and striking pages. In his Concerts, however, only one (No. 10) catches this sedate spirit. Most of the others, marked légèrement or vivement are far more fleet-footed. But what is even more striking (in comparison with his keyboard movements) is that more than half the allemandes in the Concerts take up a truly Corellian stance and, commencing with fugal entries, are far more like sonata than dance movements. Indeed the second Concert contains a movement actually called Allemande fuguée, a title which Couperin could have applied quite widely to a number of pieces in the collection. Couperin’s term fuguée should not be taken too seriously, however, for his contrapuntal designs are very free and, unlike Bach’s fugues, are apt to lapse into lively melodic figures with bass accompaniment occasionally unified by snatches of imitation here and there. Even the impressively titled Air contrafugué from the same Concert as the Allemande fuguée is in no way as alarming as its name might suggest. In this delightful piece Couperin merely plays one half of the theme against the other half and, although the movement demonstrates some textbook counterpoint, Couperin’s learning is worn so lightly that the music gives the impression only of good-humoured badinage. It is only in the Fugueté of the final Concert that a purer contrapuntal style is sustained and in the imitative working out of material Couperin gives us passages of striking chromaticism (see Example 5.5).

mœ , œ 6 &8 œ ?6 œ 8

m #œ nœ J œ œ œ œ #œ

____

#6

§3 7

E

m ,œ #mœ nœ œ J J œ J œ bœ œ œ nœ b3 ___ #6 §3 7

E

mœ , J œ

'

œ'

m m œ œ b œ œ œ œ. œ œ.

m œ bœ J

j œ bœ œ œ nœ œ . œ œ œ bœ œ

b3 ___

4 b3 6 7 3

_____ 6

E

5

b7

T mb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ m j, œ œœ m œ #œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ m ? , œ œ œ œ œ bœJ ‰ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ nœbœ œj ‰ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ

œ & œj ,

m œ bœ J

E ____ b34 b3 b7

6 ______

6

Example 5.5

Fugueté, Concert No. 14

#6 _______

__ 6

#3

5 D

84

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

If, in the main, the national styles become so fused as to become one, the Concerts also contain two dance forms which Couperin sets apart: the French and Italian versions of the courante, their juxtaposition found in the fourth Concert. The Italian corranto, originating in the sixteenth century, was a lively dance in triple metre commencing with an up-beat. Couperin provides us with a classic example, its Italianism strengthened through the imitative entries at the beginning of each section (Example 5.6).

m M M œ œ œ #mœ œ œ œ # œœœ œœœ œ œ œ#œnœ œ #œ œJ #œ. œJ #œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œjœœjœj & 43 œœœ œœœœ Pointé-Coulé œœ œ œ œ œœœ œ œœœœœœ ?#3 ‰ Œ ∑ Œ ‰ 4 Gayement

#3

Example 5.6

________

6 _____

7

#3

#3 ________

#6

Corranto, Concert No. 14

The French courante, on the other hand, was far more sophisticated in its rhythm, fluctuating between a duple and a triple grouping of notes giving rise to the characteristic hemiola rhythm. It is often quite ambiguous. For example, while the first measures can be heard in groupings of either twos or threes, the fifth is clearly a triple metre, as is most of the bass line. This rhythmic ambiguity provides much of the fascination of the French version of the courante, as will be seen in the analysis of the rhythmic structures of the Courante from Concert No. 4 at Example 5.7, their dual nature as much in the treble part as in the bass. Galament

m T j œ œ œ œ. œ m j œ #œœ mœœ. œ œ œj˙œœ ˙˙ œ mœ œJMÓœ. œJ œ œ J J œœ

groups of 3

# # 3 œ œ. & # # 2 J œœ..

groups of 2

groups of 3 œ ? #### 32 ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ

6 5

####œJMœ. œœJ œ J &

œ J

6 4

œ. œ œ œ J œ

m œ œ. œJ œJ ˙˙˙...

œ œ œ mœ œ ? #### œ. œJ 3

Example 5.7

E

6

œ

B

œ.

œ œ nœ mœ œ J

#6

D

6

6

M œœœœ œ œ mœ. œ œ œ œJ œ. œJ J

mœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n ˙ œ œœ # œœ œ 6

Courante, Concert No. 4

6 5

3

6

D

6

E

Chamber Music

85

Another dance which featured the hemiola rhythm was the loure (a much slower dance than the courante), an example of which is in Concert No. 8. Sub-titled dans le goût théâtral, this Concert is one of the longest in the collection and, appropriately, commences not with a Prelude but with a French Overture suggestive of the grandeur of the stage rather than the intimacy of the salon. Another form reserved for this Concert is a Grande Ritornèle, the term borrowed from the tragédie-lyrique where it fulfilled the role of an orchestral interlude. Apart from these two movements it is perhaps the preponderance of airs (six in all) and the absence of the allemande and courante (rarely found in the tragédie-lyrique) that imparts a ‘theatrical’ flavour to this work, together with the final ‘scene’ depicting the followers of Bacchus in a rustic frolic. So unusual is the form and orchestral texture of this Concert in the series that the conductor/scholar Peter Holman believes that the work is a ‘short score’ of a full orchestral suite of a forgotten and lost stage-work, making a convincing argument for this on the basis of precedents and parallels in the music of Lully and others.6 More programmatic than the Concert dans le goût théatral – at least as far as picturesque titles is concerned – is the Italian-named Concert No. 9: Ritratto dell’Amore (Portrait of Love). Most of its movements (with titles in French!) are dances, even if they are not specified as such. Thus we have L’Enjouement (a ‘Corellian’-type allemande), Les Grâces (French courante), La Noble fierté (sarabande), La Douceur (forlane), L’etc coetera (minuets). Only Le je-ne-sçayquoi and La Vivacité are not obviously dances, while the unsectionalised structure of the opening movement, Le Charme, provides a parallel with the Preludes of other Concerts. Among the other dance forms found in the fourteen Concerts are: rigaudon, gavotte, forlane, sicilienne, and chaconne and they carry some of Couperin’s most imaginative and picturesque ideas. The sarabandes in Nos 3, 9 and 12 are very powerful works, while the forlane in No. 4 is among the composer’s most enchanting creations. The rondeau, with its recurring refrain and so-called couplets (or intervening ‘episodes’) was a favourite form of Couperin and under this heading come Echos (No. 2), Chaconne légère (No. 3), Musète dans le goût de Carillon (No. 5), Air tendre (No. 8), and Rondeau (No. 10). The Musète dans le goût de Carillon stands in strong contrast to the Muzette of the third Concert. With its bass drone sounding throughout, the latter is typical of the so-called musette in which a certain rustic simplicity is achieved through imitation of the little bagpipe of the same name. The Musète dans le goût de Carillon, while free from the restriction of an actual drone, still conveys something of its effect by the reiteration of short phrases and repetitive harmony suggestive of peals of bells. This gift for translating the picturesque into music is encountered time and time again, as, for example, in the Plainte from the tenth Concert. In this work Couperin conjures up the almost physical presence of grief, by a little figure that tries convulsively to rise, falling back each time, as though powerless to shake off grief. Unlike most of the other Concerts this work specifically calls for performance by treble and bass viols, instruments that Couperin loved all his life.

86

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Lentement, et doulouresement

# # lere Viole & # c Œ . œ œ œ. œ œ .œ 2eme Viole ? ### c Œ œ . œ œ œ sans accords ? ###Basse c˙ Ó

m 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 œ. œ œ œ. œ œ

.. ˙

Ó

œ. œ œ . œ œ.

Ó

˙

## & # œ. œ œ . œ œ . œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ . œ œ. œ œ. œ œ m œ œ. œ œ . œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ . œ œ. œ œ. œ œ ? ### ? ###

˙

Example 5.8

Ó

˙

Ó

˙

Ó

˙

m 1' .. œ. œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ mœ. œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ ..

œ œ

œ.

œ œ. œ œ

œ

..

Plainte, Concert No. 10

Le Parnasse ou L’Apothéose de Corelli Some thirty years separate Couperin’s trio sonatas emulating the example of Corelli and those which he wrote in tribute to the same composer in 1724. Le Parnasse ou L’Apothéose de Corelli appeared at a time when Couperin’s publications were exclusively in the field of instrumental ensemble music (1722 to 1728), the composer then in his middle-fifties, his reputation at its height and his genius in full bloom. By this time his publications included the Lecons de ténèbres, three of the four books of harpsichord pieces and the treatise L’Art de toucher le clavecin. After this period only the final book of harpsichord pieces was to come. L’Apothéose de Corelli is thus one of the works of his maturity, and as such it forms an interesting comparison with the early trio sonatas.7 Far from inhibiting the Italianate gestures, Couperin’s advancing years seem to have strengthened them, the first movement mirroring the expansiveness of an Italian grave. The French provenance of the work is revealed above all through its programmatic nature, bringing the two schools into a relationship that reflects the overall title of the volume: Les Goûts réunis. Its seven movements are entitled: Corelli at the foot of Parnassus asks the Muses to receive him. Charmed by the good reception given him at Parnassus, Corelli expresses his joy. He continues his journey with those who are accompanying him.

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Chamber Music

# œ œmœ. œ œ œ & # c œ œ. œ œ. œ # ∑ & #c œœœ œœ œœ œœœ ? ## c œ œ Gravement

6

# &#

œ. œ œ

# &#œ ? ##

œ

__

6 ___ D 3

Example 5.9

6 __ D 3

7

__ 6

7 #3

4 3

___

E

6 4 3

6

œ œ œmœ. œ . œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œmœ. œ œ. œ œmœ œ œ m œ. œ œ. J ‰ œj œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ __ __ __ __ __ __

m œ œœ #œ

œœ œœ 7

__

m œ œœœ œ œ œ m œ. œœœ œ . œ ∑ œ. œ œ œ #œ #œ œ œ ‰ œj ‰ œj œ

œ. œ œmœ. œ œjœ

7 #3

5 4

§

E

3 2

E

3 2

5

6

6 5

L’Apothéose de Corelli – opening movement

Corelli drinking at the fountain of Hippocrene. His companions continue on. Corelli’s exhilaration through drinking the waters of Hippocrene. After his exhilaration Corelli sleeps. His companions play the following ‘Sleep Music’. The Muses awaken Corelli and place him next to Apollo. Thanksgiving from Corelli.

The picture of Corelli drinking at the Fountain of Hippocrene (traditionally the wellsprings of art) is painted in one of Couperin’s loveliest movements. In it a little undulating figure suggestive of the rippling waters is set against a slower-moving phrase, and from these simplest of materials emerges music of extraordinary beauty. Cast in a simple form in which the ideas constantly return, its texture is nevertheless one of seemingly endless variety as the phrases flow from one voice to another in every conceivable combination: now in imitation, now together; first in one register, then another. Seemingly so simple and artless, it is a finely distilled product of imagination and craftsmanship. Corelli is placed next to Apollo while a brilliant fanfare-like movement is played, after which he gives thanks in an energetic piece featuring a fine syncopated fugal subject. As will be seen from the extract from the final movement of Le Parnasse ou L’Apothéose de Corelli (Example 5.11), with this work Couperin’s debt to the Italian master is fully paid.

88

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

# œ œœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœ Œ & #2 œ w mœ # ˙ œ œ ˙ œ œœ ˙ Œ & #2 œœœœœœœœ œ w m w w ˙ ˙ ˙. B ## 2 Œ? œœœœœœœœ Moderément

# &#

6

˙

˙

7

˙

6

˙

˙

#˙

˙

˙

w # ˙ ˙ ˙ &#˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ œœœœœœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ ?## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ 5 ______ 4

6

______

5 ______ #3 4

______

3 2

______ 6 ______

5 ______ 3 2

5

______

Example 5.10 L’Apothéose de Corelli (Corelli at the Fountain of Hippocrene) Gaÿement mj ## c Œ ‰ œ œœœ J œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ J J œJ œJ œ œ œ #œ œ ≈ œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ & # ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ ‰ œ œ œ#œ œ œ & #c J

? ## c

∑

∑

∑

m # œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ. & # #œ œ œ#œ œj ‰ ‰ œJ œ m # j j œ œJ œ œ œ œ #œ & # #œ œ œ #œ J J J ? ## ∑ Œ ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ œ #3

6 __

∑

m œ œ œ œ #œ œ j œ œ #6

#7 7

Example 5.11 L’Apothéose de Corelli (final movement)

œ ‰ J œ œ ≈œœ œœœœœœœœ œ œJ œ J 6 #3

3 6 D

___

6 ___ 4 2

œ J 6 5 3

Chamber Music

89

L’Apothéose composé à la mémoire de l’incomparable Monsieur de Lully In the following year (1725) Couperin published his homage to Lully in which he also paid further tribute to Corelli by placing both musicians together on the heights of Parnassus. Seemingly the very embodiment of Italian and French music of the time, the two composers were, however, not exact contemporaries, Lully belonging to a slightly earlier generation, Corelli outliving him by nearly thirty years. In fact, the previous work – L’Apothéose de Corelli – was published only nine years after Corelli’s death. Yet despite the difference of age, both men were essentially composers of the mid-Baroque who consolidated the techniques of late seventeenth-century music in their countries, and provided the basis for the next and final stages of that style era. As far as French music was concerned L’Apothéose de Lully, together with much of Couperin’s other music, is representative of this last phase. If its new concepts are implicit in the music, some of the fanciful titles to the movements of this work define the new style quite clearly, and in so doing make explicit his ideals of unifying French and Italian styles. Like L’Apothéose de Corelli the work is programmatic: Lully in the Elysian Fields performing with musicianly Shades. Air for the same performers. Mercury’s flight to the Elysian Fields to warn that Apollo is about to descend. The Descent of Apollo who comes to offer his violin to Lully and a place on Parnassus. Subterranean rumblings from Lully’s contemporaries. Laments from the same, played by flutes or very sweet-toned instruments. The raising of Lully to Parnassus. Welcome – half friendly, half hostile – given to Lully by Corelli and the Italian Muses. Lully’s thanks to Apollo. Apollo persuades Lully and Corelli that the bringing together of French and Italian styles must create musical perfection. Air léger (Lully playing the melody, Corelli accompanying him). Second Air (Corelli playing the melody, Lully accompanying him). The Peace of Parnassus which, following a protest from the French Muses, is made on condition that when their language is spoken there one will henceforth say Sonade and Cantade, as one says Ballade and Sérénade.

As well as giving us some of Couperin’s most attractive pages, L’Apothéose de Lully provides a witty commentary in music on the two main national styles of the day, the significance of the subtly allusive writing no doubt being clear to Couperin’s contemporaries. As might be expected from their titles, the first seven movements are wholly French in style. Thus, the scene of the Elysian Fields is painted through music redolent of that ‘sweet languor’ of the goût français, its simple, smooth melody wreathed in delicate ornamentation.

90

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

m &b2 œ œ œ œ

m œ œ œ #œ

j #œ

1er dessus de Symphonie

œ œ mœ œ

œ J

Gravement

m & b 2 œ œ œ #œ

˙

˙

m #˙

Ó

˙

˙

m ˙

Ó

2e dessus de Symphonie

?

b2˙

Basse d'Archet

Ó

˙

Ó

œ œ bœ œ ____

6 D 3

œ œ mœ œ #3 _________

œ œ mœ œ m œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ 6

b3 6 5

6 4

#3

Example 5.12 L’Apothéose de Lully The graceful air which follows is moulded by the gestures of the dance, while the appearance of Mercury is heralded by the kind of picturesque figuration which Lully himself had so often used to suggest the rush of wind or the play of zephyrs (see Example 5.13). Similarly, while more demands are placed upon some of the instruments than are found in Lully’s scores, Couperin’s ‘subterranean rumblings’ could, nevertheless, have come from many a page of the earlier composer’s operas. And yet, through its delicate scoring and exquisite ornamentation, the Lament that follows that movement conveys, in characteristically French fashion, so much through so seemingly little (Example 5.14). With the appearance of Corelli and the Italian Muses who welcome Lully to Parnassus a change steals over the music, for the solemn opening of a sonata da chiesa (significantly, marked largo in place of gravement) is sounded, and there ensues a movement rich in motivic figuration, entwined suspensions and counterpoint, all supported by the treading bass of the continuo. Like many an Italian movement, this one immediately repeats its opening statement in a new key, and to ensure an Italianate performance the players are instructed to avoid the French habit of altering the rhythm, the score being marked notes égales and marquées. Lully’s reply to this Italian welcome stands in firm contrast and we are back to the world of courtly charm, although Couperin goes considerably further than Lully did in the art of ornamentation and in the extension of musical ideas. Apollo’s conviction that the union of French and Italian style will bring about the ‘perfection of music’ is demonstrated in what Couperin describes as an Essai en forme d’Ouverture played by the two composers and their respective Muses accompanied by continuo. The French Overture, invented by Lully and widely adopted by composers inside and outside France, traditionally commences in a majestic style proclaimed by strong, dotted rhythms, this giving way to a faster section which in the hands of Italian and German composers became the vehicle for vigorous fugal writing and instrumental display. So, in the Essai we find Lully’s style

91

Chamber Music

(a) L'Envie distribue des serpents aux Vents qui forment autour d'elle des manières de tourbillons

œj œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœœ œœ.œ œ œœ c & J ˙ . violons j œ B c œœ ˙œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœ. œ. œ œ J J viols ˙ ?c œ ˙ Vite

˙. œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ + œ.

œœj œ. J œ.

≈œ.œœ œœ œœœ œ œœ œœ œ + œ œ. œ œœ. œœj J

≈ œœ œœ J j + œ œœœ œœœ œœ œ œœ.œ œœ œœœ

œ œ œœ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ ˙ œœ œ

œ œœ œ œœ œœ

viols de basse

(b) Très viste m œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœœœ œ b œœ œœœœœœœœœœœœ œ œ œj & b 68 ‰

m œ œœœœœœœœ b6 ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j b œ œœœœœœœœœœœœ œ œ œ & 8 œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ ? bb 6 œ. J J 8

Example 5.13 (a) Cadmus et Hermione (Lully) and (b) L’Apothéose de Lully Plaintes des Mêmes: pour des Flûtes, ou des Violons tres adoucis

m m œ œm, n œ œ œ n œJMœ. œ œ , œ œ b œ œ. œ œ mœ. œ œ J J J œœ œ œ mœ , œ œ œ œJ œ. b œJ œm, œ m œ œ m œ . nœ œ œ œ œ mœ. œ J J J , , m œ. œnœ œ œ œ œJ œ. œJ œ œ œ œ nœ . œj œ bœ b˙ J

b 3 œ b œ œ œJb œ. b & 4 M b 3 œ œ œ œ œ. b J & 4

b3 & b 4 nœ œ œ 6 b6 3 3

6 3

b6 3

6 6 3 3

3 §6

3 3 6 §6

Example 5.14 L’Apothéose de Lully

6 6 3 b3

3 §6

6 b6 b6 3 3 3

6 3

7 3 _____ §3

6 D 3

92

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

in evidence in the opening section, and Corelli’s in the second; as a compliment to each other both composers and their Muses play very largely in unison, as though to show that each is capable of playing like the other. Thus, the first section having paid tribute to the originator of the form, the second offers homage to Corelli and the Italian sonata style. After this it is time not merely to juxtapose the two styles but to unite them, and the two airs which follow the overture accomplish this in a delightfully witty way. The music is a duet (without continuo) between Lully and Corelli. The Frenchman leads off with a terse fugue-like subject and, as though bowing in response to this most tactful opening gambit, Corelli replies with the same. The courtesies having been observed, Lully’s theme dissolves into a sweet and flowing melody adorned with coulades – typically French ornaments that add smoothness to expressiveness – while Corelli develops the sonata-style opening into an accompaniment largely made up of arpeggios and almost wholly devoid of ornamentation. (Example 5.15) It is only in the second half of this air that Lully adjusts his style to catch the Italian spirit of his partner (see Example 5.15). The roles of melodist and accompanist are then reversed in the second air, and the key now being minor, Corelli can exploit something of the famous Italian pathos, this reaching its peak four bars from the end in a poignant chromatic chord – the so-called Neapolitan sixth (see Example 5.16). These two short airs thus present a microcosm of the two different worlds of French and Italian styles, sometimes juxtaposed, sometimes united in Couperin’s works. Air léger Lulli, joüant le Sujet; et Corelli l'accompagne

&

&

# œ

#

3

œ

3

œ Œ Œ

# m˙ 1

&

&

mœ.

œ M˙.

œ

œj

œ

œ ,

M˙

œœ J

œj

œ J

œ , œ œj œ œj œ

œ œj œ œj œ

œ mœ.

œ J

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

m2 .. ˙

#œ œ œ œ œ œ .. œ

œj

œ

œ œ

,

.. œ ..

œ

œ

œ nœ œ œ œ

,

œ

#œ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

, # j œ mœ. 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 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ #œ

Example 5.15 L’Apothéose de Lully

.. ..

93

Chamber Music Second Air Corelli joüant le Sujet à son tour, que Lulli accompagne

& b 43

œ

œ.

bœ mœ J #œ.

œ mœ J

j œ

œ.

œ #m˙ J

œj

œ

œ

œ J

œ.

œ bœ œ & b 43 œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ œœ bœ . œ œ œ œ . œ m œ. œ œ ˙. œœœœ .. .. nœ œ œ œ J m T m . . b Œ . nœ b˙ & œ # ˙ œ œ œ œ #œ œ . . œ œ n œ œ ˙

&b

œj

On joue ces 2 Airs deux

fois chacun alternativement œ œ #œ œ b œ œ œ œ œ. n œ œ #œ œ œ #mœœ œ ˙. œ œ œ œ œœœ J .. & b #œ œ œ

&b œ

œ #œ

œ.

j bœ œ œ n œ ˙

#œ œ œ

œœ˙

˙.

..

Example 5.16 L’Apothéose de Lully Although having no impact on the actual sound, in the original score Couperin visually reinforces the stylistic differences by writing Lully’s part (and that of his Muses) using the French violin clef – a kind of ‘in-joke’ for the performers. (This has not been reproduced in the examples.) Convinced by this demonstration, all the musicians are called upon to execute a splendid finale, described, of course, by the newly-coined term Sonade en trio, in which French and Italian styles join together to confirm Apollo’s declaration that musical perfection will be achieved through their union. It might be asked if L’Apothéose de Lully is a mere pastiche in which Couperin’s musical personality is largely withdrawn in order to serve the poetic programme. The answer is an emphatic no. In this work, as well as in L’Apothéose de Corelli and Les Nations, Couperin absorbed the Italian manner into his own technique which remained always the servant of his peculiarly French imagination. Even when recalling the Lullian tradition it was the spirit rather than the letter of his style which Couperin sought, for indeed he put words into Lully’s mouth, so to speak, that the older master would have rejected, such as the style of ornamentation. It would seem that Lully was not drawn to the rich style of embellishment much in vogue in the Vingt-quatre violons du Roi at the time of his arrival from Florence, and when given his own orchestra (the Petits violons) he trained it to play in a clean and incisive way that became famous throughout Europe. Even in his vocal music there is little ornamentation, for his was the heroic gesture of the

94

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

tragédie-lyrique. The style of ornamentation which we most usually associate with the French school sprang from the more intimate music of the salon – in lute airs and harpsichord suites. Couperin was the chamber musician par excellence, and his works inevitably exploited the subtle art of ornamentation, even in those pages of the present work where he invoked the grand presence of Lully. It is thus not a work in imitation, but a work in homage.

Pièces de violes An air of mystery surrounds Couperin’s compositions for solo bass viol. In 1743 Titon du Tillet spoke of an unpublished Concert de violes (a title that has never been found), but not of his Pièces de violes, which had, in fact, been published in 1728, a few years before Couperin’s death. Of the eleven copies that he possessed at his death only one has survived. That the composer decided not to have his full name displayed on the title-page, but only the letters F.C., hiding his identity until 1922 when it was confirmed by Charles Bouvet, deepens the mystery, for on all other works Couperin’s name is proudly shown. Couperin’s reticence may have been, as suggested by Laurence Dreyfus, that he felt ‘somewhat humbled by his first and only attempt to enter the hermetic world of the solo bass viol’.8 The Pièces de violes is also the composer’s only publication without a Preface. We have seen how in later life Couperin suffered from increasing ill-health and, if the works were written near the time of publication, he may have believed that this was to be his last work. (In the event, it was not to be, for he published his fourth book of harpsichord pieces in 1730). As Davitt Maroney and Kenneth Gilbert have observed, the two suites which make up the work have an overall ‘funereal tone’, including a movement that the composer may well have felt personally appropriate: Pompe funèbre (funeral procession).9 And what more fitting swan-song than music for that most intimate of instruments, the bass viol, composed, not for the world at large, but for that small circle of exceptional players of the instrument? On the other hand, Julie Anne Sadie has argued on stylistic grounds that these works were composed not around 1728, but as early as 1711 ‘when Louis XIV mourned the death of the Duchesse de Bourgogne, a plausible figure in homage for the Pompe funèbre’.10 It seems that the Pièces de violes will remain something of an enigma. They were composed for solo instrument accompanied by continuo (harpsichord together with another bass viol) and in a tradition inherited from his predecessors and developed by some of his contemporaries. That he felt that this tradition was essentially French is suggested by the fact that the two works are described as suites rather than sonades, and perhaps, most of all, because with the exception of two pieces in the second collection, they are dance movements rather than character pieces. In the hands of magnificent players like Sainte-Colombe and Marin Marais, the solo bass viol entered its most illustrious period of popularity – unfortunately a relatively short one, as the instrument was overtaken (as it had been in Italy and

Chamber Music

95

Germany many years before) by the violoncello when tastes were changing and larger sonorities were called for. Its last great surge came towards the middle of the eighteenth century in the music of Jean-Baptiste Forqueray who composed some works of such technical complexity (heavily weighted with Italianate harmony) as to remove them from the hands of all but virtuosi. The great Marin Marais (who had studied the instrument with Sainte-Colombe and composition with Lully) was indeed as much a composer as a performer. As far as his works for bass viol are concerned they contain some of the masterpieces of French chamber music, such as the Tombeau de M. Sainte-Colombe (Book 2), its outpouring of grief almost too great to bear, and the well-named Le labyrinth (Book 4), one of a group of pieces whose originality is matched only by its technical difficulty. The instrument that Couperin and his contemporaries wrote for comprised seven strings with a three-and-a half octave range from A below the bass clef (sometimes tuned down to low G) to e in the top space of the treble clef. When used as a continuo instrument in many French cantatas its ability to effectively inhabit bass, tenor and treble registers made it a particularly useful instrument, doubling or ornamenting the continuo bass, as well as providing obbligatos when needed (sometimes, for example, to replace a flute). As a solo instrument its wide range opened up eloquent expressive resources, as did its subtle bowing techniques. Of the latter, Julie Anne Sadie has written that ‘the expressive potential of the viol bow led players to develop an unparalleled range of bow strokes’, also pointing to the nine such strokes listed by Loulié and the six ways listed by Le Blanc by which Marais varied his basic bow stroke.11 In the hands of virtuosi, these sophisticated and highly refined techniques, combined with those related to fingering, phrasing and timbre, raised the status of the bass viol to that once enjoyed only by the lute. And, as with lute music, that for the bass viol was mainly composed by expert performers. Couperin, however, did not play the bass viol; yet for this extraordinarily idiosyncratic instrument he composed two very fine suites.12 That Couperin was a harpsichordist and not a bass viol player is betrayed immediately by the signs for ornamentation springing from keyboard practice, while a number of ornaments intimately associated with bass viol music are not called upon at all. In an illuminating study Laurence Dreyfus has pointed to the difficulties encountered when performing Couperin’s Pièces de violes, including the composer’s apparent misunderstanding of bow weight direction leading to ambiguity of bow signs and phrasing, as well as some unplayable double-stops. Dreyfus concludes: It is ironic that Couperin copied his harpsichord articulation into his viol pieces since all Baroque articulation originally stems – it can be argued – from the binary logic of bowing on stringed instruments, which can empirically distinguish weak bows from strong bows. Couperin is not thinking of this issue most of the time which is why he obtains such interesting musical results. Not everything that he composes in these pieces is musically satisfying on the instrument for which it was composed, however, and it is surely a matter for performers to decide how these works must be

96

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’ adapted to some notion of idiom as surely it was decided in the eighteenth century by those viol players who got hold of the eloquent music and made sense of it in their own time.13

While this obviously poses problems for the performer, as far as the listener is concerned Couperin’s two suites – eloquent testimony to his genius – are immensely satisfying. Whether or not Couperin felt that his own end was near, Pompe funèbre is a movingly sombre work in which the opening motive treads its way relentlessly throughout the entire piece.

μ B ###2 œ. œ œ. œ œ ˙ J Très gravement /

? ###

1

2˙

˙ B ### ˙

Ó˙

? ### ˙

˙

6

œ œ. œ μ œ. J J ˙

˙

˙

j [μ] œ œ. œ œ ˙ œ.

6

6

˙

' _____ 6' _______

7

5

œ Œ œ œ˙ ˙ __Ó œ . œ. J J ˙ œJ' ˙' μ ˙ #˙ ˙ ˙ E 7 '

˙

μ _ ______ ˙ ˙ ' œ. œ œ' ˙

˙

˙

˙

Óμ ˙ ' œ. œ œ. œ œ' J œ. œ œ. œ œ J `

j œ ' '

˙

'

'

˙

`

_______________

μ Ó . œ œ ˙ μ______ œ_______ ' œ œ' Ó' / ' ˙ œ. ˙ ˙ ˙ E

Example 5.17 Pompe funèbre

Vocal Chamber Music Under this heading come the twelve secular songs for one or more voices which Couperin wrote at various times in the middle years of his career. Nine of them were published in Ballard’s popular monthly collection – his Recueils d’airs sérieux et à boire. A seemingly insatiable appetite for amorous and convivial songs had (as we have seen in Chapter 2) developed during the seventeenth century and the presses of the Ballard family worked hard to satisfy it, turning out each year hundreds of airs à boire, airs sérieux, airs tendres, brunettes, and so on. While the drinking songs (airs à boire) were easily identifiable by their texts (enjoying greater freedom from the restrictions imposed by ‘good taste’ when it came to setting serious poetry) a blurred line separated the various categories of amorous songs. What was common to them all, however, was their musical simplicity. Couperin’s contribution to the repertoire was no exception. In those published in the Ballard anthologies we see Couperin at his most French, as much in his earliest (Qu’on ne me dise plus,

97

Chamber Music

1697) as in his last (Les Pellerines, 1712). For Ballard’s 1701 anthology Couperin composed Doux liens de mon coeur, the text of which was the translation of a duet by Scarlatti that had been published in the same series the previous month. His brunette, Zéphire, modere en ces lieux (1711) is shown below, together with the doubles for the second verse, and it will be seen that Couperin still delighted in composing music in the quintessentially French tradition of Lambert and others well after his encounter with Italian music.

+ j + # Œ Œ œ .œ . œ ‰ œJ œ œ œ œJ ˙ 3

œ œ nœ œ œJ #˙ J

Tendrement

&

Zé - phi - re

?#3

&

.. ˙

˙.

# ˙2 re:

?# ˙

œ

_________

j j œ œ .. ˙

œ œj ˙ J

œ œ œ aœ ferœ - mé ˙

Le som- meil

œ

..

b

E

œ

b7

#4

6

œ

œ œ. 6

3

#4

j œ œ œ œœ œ ˙ 6

E

6

6 4

7

-

&

vous,

qui

bai -

gnez

de

# œ nœ. œ œ œ. œ #œ. œ œ œ . œ j œ œ J J J R œ J J bords

de

son

lit

de

vos

˙

ver - du

#œ

˙

1

j j 2 œ œ.. ˙.

re.

Le som - re.

œ .. . ˙

3

j r j œ. œ œ œ.j œ œj œ œJ . œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ ˙ J J

Et

Zé

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ..

œœœœ

DEUXIEME COUPLET

#3 & 4œ

œ ..

#

4

œ œ œJ œJ œjœ+ œj ‰ œrœj œj œ ˙ +

les yeux De l'in - hu - mai - ne que j'a - do

6 E

6

b 6 5

re:

ses Flo

˙ nœ œ ˙

œ #œ œ œ

˙

œ

-

L'ar - deur dont tu ca - res

mo - de - re en ces lieux

˙

1 j œ œJ ˙ #œ ˙

flots

œ Les

˙ re.

Example 5.18 Zéphire, modere en ces lieux (first verse and opening of second verse) Four vocal duets (one without continuo) include the setting of some delightful lines by La Fontaine called Epitaphe d’un paresseux (Epitaph to a lazy man). Finally there are four trios, one of which (Saisons du temps) was published in 1712 as a vaudeville, a term which meant at that time a song in popular style. It has all the heartiness of a drinking song without its characteristic text. The other three were unpublished until 1933 (in the complete works). They are Trois vestales champêtres et trois policons, La Femme entre deux draps, and A moy! tout est perdu. Apart from their musical worth, these first two help to round out Couperin’s personality for us, giving it perhaps a more human quality than is suggested by his aristocratic art; for if the first of these trios has indecent overtones, the second – a three-part canon – is explicitly bawdy! Of the three, the musical palm must go to A

98

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

moy! – tout est perdu!, a splendidly conceived canon or round, the most remarkable feature of which is the textural variety which has been ‘built in’ to the piece through the imaginative construction of the long opening phrase of the leading voice. The opening of this piece up to the entry of the third voice is given below. Two of the solo songs – La Pastorale and Les Pellerines – are met again in the first book of his Pièces de clavecin published a year later and it is to Couperin’s harpsichord music that we turn in the next chapter.

≈ œr œrœr

Gravement

& C ‰ œJ ˙ A moi!

+ & ˙.

j œ

des -

+ ˙

œ ˙

-

ti - né

∑

&

˙

tout est per du!

∑

r ‰ œ œj. œ b˙ J

j+ j jj ‰ œ œj. œ œ ‰ œr œr œ œ œ. œr ˙. R

Mo -ment fa - tal!

Af freux dé - bris! Je succombe à ma dou leur. Cru - el - le

‰œ ˙ J

œ

e!

≈ œrœr œr

Quels cris!

‰ œr œr œj œj œ.j œr ˙.

& œ bris!

& œ - e!

& œ

Œ ‰

Hé quoi?

‰ œJ ˙

A moi!

≈ œr œr œr

œœ ˙

plo - ra

˙ -

le

œ œ. œ + ‰J J R ˙ T'es - tu fait mal?

œ ‰ œJ œ. J R ˙

Af - freux dé

œ. œ œœr . œ ˙ œ J ble jour - né +j ˙ ˙. œœ

des

-

ti

œ˙ ‰J

-

+ ˙

+˙

né -

Œ

Quels cris!

œ˙ ‰J

Œ

‰ œJ œ. œ b˙

Quels cris! j+ j j j ‰ œ œj. œR œ ‰ œr œr œ œ œ. œr

Mo ment fa - tal!

Af freux dé - bris!

Que dis - tu

˙

-

˙

œ

Œ ‰ œR œR ˙

tout est per du!

œ. œ œJ ˙ J

Cru - el

Que dis - tu?

Hé quoi?

e!

& ‰ œJ ˙

Mo - ment fa - tal!

Quel mal - heur! Dé

Je suc - combe à ma dou - leur.

‰ œJ ˙

˙

Œ œ.j œr œr œ œ

Œ

j + ‰ œ œj. œ R

T'es - tu fait mal?

‰ œ œj. œr b˙ J

tout est per du!

˙

œ ‰ œJ œ. J R ˙

Que dis - tu?

Hé quoi!

‰œ ˙ J A moi!

œ ˙ & ‰ J

Œ ‰ œR œR ˙

œ ˙

T'es - tu fait mal?

Je succombe à ma dou

Example 5.19 A moi! Tout est perdu! (canon à 3)

Notes 1 2

‘… premiere & seconde dessus de Violon, Bass d’Archet & Basse Chiffrée.’ Mercure de France (March 1727), 50, and quoted in the Preface to the revised edition, L’OiseauLyre (1986). Michel Corrette, Méthode théorique et pratique pour apprendre en peu de temps le violoncelle dans sa perfection (Paris, 1741; repr. 1972), Préface.

Chamber Music 3 4 5 6 7

8 9

10 11 12

13

99

Two manuscripts, not in Couperin’s hand, have survived in Paris from the time when these works were composed. Thoinot Arbeau, Orchésographie (Langres, 1588), 67. Pierre Rameau, Le maître à danser (Paris, 1725), 58–64. Peter Holman, ‘An orchestral suite by François Couperin?’, Early Music 14/1 (1986), 71–6. Julie Anne Sadie, however, believes that both L’Apothéose de Corelli and L’Apothéose de Lulli were composed between 1713 and the death of the king in 1715. See ‘Devils and Archangels: The French fascination with ultramontane music’, François Couperin : Les Rencontres de Villecroze (Villecroze, 1995), 158–9. Laurence Dreyfus, ‘’Idiomatic Betrayals: Couperin as composer for the viol’, François Couperin : nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 220. Kenneth Gilbert & Davitt Maroney (eds), Oeuvres complètes de François Couperin, L’Oiseau-Lyre, 2nd ed. 1992, Préface. Gilbert and Maroney also point to the fact that, unlike earlier publications which carried the phrase that his works may be purchased from the ‘home of the author’, that phrase is missing, suggesting that Couperin believed he was dying. They also suggest Titon du Tillet may have confused what he called a Concert de violes with the sonade La Sultanne (sic) which features two bass viol parts in addition to the continuo bass. François Couperin : nouveaux regards (papers and discussions at a colloquium on Couperin at Villecroze) (Villecroze, 1995), 221. See Julie Anne Sadie, The Bass Viol in French Baroque Chamber Music (Michigan, 1980), 106. Perhaps a parallel could be drawn with another ‘idiosyncratic’ instrument that has attracted a number of non-playing twentieth-century composers: the guitar. Amongst the undoubted twentieth-century guitar masterpieces are Michael Tippett’s The Blue Guitar and Benjamin Britten’s Nocturnal after John Dowland, neither of these composers being guitarists. Perhaps for this very reason they were able to avoid those clichés that spring too easily to the performer-composer, and, instead wrote original works that challenged themselves as composers and their dedicatees as performers. Laurence Dreyfus, ‘Idiomatic Betrayals’, 220.

Chapter 6

Works for Harpsichord To claim that Couperin is best known as a harpsichord composer is not at all to say that – beyond a handful of pieces – his music for the instrument is widely known. While his complete works for harpsichord have been magnificently recorded, the chances of hearing concert performances of a good cross-section of them are still relatively rare. Moreover, while almost all the harpsichord music of Bach and a fair proportion of Scarlatti’s transfers quite readily to the piano, Couperin’s loses much of its essential character this way; and thus his music has not passed to any extent into the hands of pianists, domestic or professional. In any case, it is highly doubtful whether, had this happened, it would have served the composer well, even though – as has been noted in an earlier chapter – Couperin himself was happy with his music being performed on a variety of instruments. The piano, however, does not readily lend itself to his harpsichord music. In any case, Couperin does not make it easy for the performer. The technical demands posed by the ornamentation alone are daunting, to say the least. These, together with the challenges of many of the brilliant or virtuoso pieces, may partly account for the reason why Couperin’s harpsichord music is not as well known as that of his German and Italian contemporaries. Moreover, a fine harpsichord technique is in itself no guarantee of a persuasive performance of Couperin’s music, this ultimately resting upon a knowledge of and a feeling for the French style. Exactly the same could, of course, be said about performing the music of the French harpsichord school as a whole. Indeed, it would be a mistake to view Couperin in isolation from the tradition which nourished his art, and equally wrong to regard his predecessors – Chambonnières, D’Anglebert, Louis Couperin and others – as merely paving the way for him. They did this, of course; but while the younger man was to make the art of harpsichord composition peculiarly his own, there are many individual works by the composers mentioned above which are in no way inferior to those of the more famous Couperin. In some ways D’Anglebert and Louis Couperin went further than did François, who, for example, left alone the so-called ‘unmeasured preludes’ which the two earlier men had developed. Yet he did so for a reason, believing that although a ‘prelude’ is by nature a ‘free’ composition, there are few performers who are capable of realising the unmeasured music spontaneously. He further explains that his preludes, although written in traditional notation should be played very freely, without paying too much attention to the note-values (unless marked mesuré). The difference between the two styles – measured and free – he declares, is like that between poetry and prose.1 Couperin’s luxuriantly embellished lyricism had its precedents in the suave melodies of Chambonnières, his seriousness and gravity in the suites of D’Anglebert,

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while his fondness for the picturesque stems from the gallic tradition as a whole. Yet looking back a few years on Couperin’s harpsichord works Titon du Tillet wrote that ‘one can say that they were in a new style and original character.’ Certainly, where Couperin stands above his predecessors and contemporaries is in the extraordinary variety of styles and techniques brought together in the four books, and in the sheer range of his musical imagination, fertilised by the French encounter with Italian music. Nevertheless, his harpsichord music is steeped in the tradition cultivated and developed by a small group of composer/performers that surrounded Jacques Champion Chambonnières (c. 1601–72). Such were his musical gifts that Chambonnières took over his father’s position at court at the age of some ten or eleven years. The family had acquired semi-noble status and enjoyed a manor home not far from the Couperins in Brie. Chambonnières was at the height of his career in the mid-century when, according to Titon du Tillet, the three Couperin brothers – Louis, Charles and the elder François – decided to serenade the composer on his birthday at the family manor. Louis’s talents, in particular, so impressed the famous man that he later presented him in Paris and at court. The three appear to have later studied with him. Thus the Couperin family had personal as well as musical reasons to respect Chambonnières. In 1657, however, he was dismissed from his position as royal harpsichordist (because, so it was said, that, magnificent player as he was, he was unable to accompany from figured bass2). According to Titon du Tillet, Louis Couperin was offered his position which, out of loyalty to the man to whom he owed so much, he refused to take.3 Chambonnières sold his position to his one-time student Jean-Henri D’Anglebert (1635–91) who held it officially until his death, even though his son was appointed his successor for life in 1674. Because of failing eyesight and health, the son, in turn, gradually had to relinquish his duties (but apparently not his salary), the younger François Couperin standing in for him on many occasions and eventually taking over the position in 1715. This he passed on to his daughter Marguerite-Antoinette as he, too, became too ill to carry on his duties towards the end of his life. As well as the three Couperin brothers and D’Anglebert, those who studied with, or who were encouraged by, Chambonnières were Lebègue, Hardel and Nivers. The company of the most illustrious French harpsichordists was, indeed, a small and enclosed world. Chambonnières’s works, which were not published until 1670 – well after his saddened years – comprise two books of dance movements: allemandes, courantes, sarabandes, gaillardes, gigues, pavanes, minuets, canaries, chaconnes, voltes, a few of which have fanciful names, such as Allemande La Dunquerque, Courante Iris, etc. Unlike Couperin’s titles, however, they do not appear to have any programmatic significance and were probably so-named either as a dedication, a momento or merely for reference purposes. They are also works for contemplation rather than dancing. A number of them are provided with ornamental versions (doubles) and they established the distinctive character of the French harpsichord school. That this was based on the dance forms hardly needs emphasising.

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

Its keyboard style embraced the counterpoint of the viol fantasia (one of Chambonnières’s gigues is in canon, and there are often passages in two-part imitation), but the polyphony is ususally leavened by lute-like texture in which the parts are suggested rather than truly delineated, short phrases or even single notes appearing and disappearing at will. Above all, there is a sweet and intimate lyricism, gently ornamented, that catches something of that suppleness of rhythm that we have seen in the air de cour. In Chambonnières’s pieces even the normally clear-cut rhythm of the gigue can hover – courante-like4 – ambiguously between duple and triple metres as in the next example.

μ j μ jμ μ w w. œ. œ œ œ œ. œJ w œ . œ œ œ œœ n œœ œ. œ. œ. œ œμ ˙ . œ. œ œ œ μ œ. œJμ œ. œ ˙˙ ˙ œ œ Ó Ó ˙ J w . J

μ μ j # & # 64 œ. œ œ œ œ . œj w

{

? ## 6 4

Example 6.1

∑

˙

œJ œ J

Gigue La Madelainette (Chambonnières)

Thanks to the encouragement and probably the influence of Chambonnières, Louis Couperin (c. 1626–61) was appointed organist at Saint-Gervais shortly after his appearance in Paris, and soon afterwards also enjoyed the patronage of a well-known diplomat Abel Servien whose château at Meudon the young musician frequently visited. It may have been at Meudon that Louis Couperin met the German composer Froberger, then visiting Paris, and whose improvisatory-like playing of works such as his Tombeau written on the death of his newly-found friend the lutenist Blancrocher, inspired the Frenchman to compose the first of his magnificent ‘unmeasured’ preludes. This, his Prélude à l’imitation de Mr Froberger, initiated a French repertoire of works in which the performer is presented with a form of notation where only the pitch of the notes is unambigious. This fashion stretched over some seventy years and included pieces by Lebègue, Jacquet de La Guerre, D’Anglebert, Marchand, Clérambault, Le Roux and Rameau.5 As we have seen, François Couperin, however, preferred to notate his Préludes in the normal way and to give (as he says) the performer latitude in interpreting the note values.6 All such works by Couperin are in his L’Art de toucher le clavecin. An extract from a work by Louis Couperin is provided in Chapter 2 at Example 2.7. One further illustration of his style at its most impressive is reproduced below. It is the opening of his Passacaille from his 5th Suite, its sombre eloquence intensified by the powerful dissonances in the dark, lower register of the instrument. ‘Sombre’ is a word that can also be applied to many of the works of Jean-Henri D’Anglebert (1635–91) whose four suites (which comprised dances, unmeasured preludes and some transcriptions of operatic extracts from Lully) were published two years before his death. His pieces are more concentrated than those of his master, and although they often reveal a more consistent style of counterpoint in

103

Works for Harpsichord

˙˙ .. ?3 ˙.

{

œ œœ ˙˙˙

j j œj ˙ ˙˙œ œ œbœ œ œ ˙˙œ. ˙ Ó Ó

?3 Ó ˙ bœ. j bw. œ ˙ w.

Example 6.2

b˙

˙

Œ˙ œj ˙ bœ œœ œÓ˙˙œ . ˙˙Ó˙ w w.

˙ .. ˙˙.

j . œ. œ w ˙ ˙

j œ.. œœ œœ œœ. œ J ˙

Passacaille, 5th Suite (Louis Couperin)

which motives and phrases may be pursued throughout an entire piece, there is no doubting the keyboard inspiration of his music. Its wonderfully rhetorical expression is heightened by ornamentation of such sophistication and variety that with the 1689 publication a table of twenty-nine symbols was issued with instructions for how to interpret them. Such then is the legacy inherited by François Couperin. Before coming to his works themselves a few comments on the kind of instrument that they were written for may be helpful.

French Harpsichords Whereas the German word Klavier (often spelt clavier) was used as a generic term to include any stringed keyboard instrument (harpsichord, spinet, clavichord), the French terms clavecin and clavier were specific. The former denoted the harpsichord, the latter the keyboard section (or manual) of that instrument. Even with its possibilities for tonal nuances, unlike in Germany the clavichord was not popular with musicians in France. They preferred the brilliance and richness of quillplucked strings to the gentle and intimate murmurs of an instrument whose tone was produced by the key-lever itself pressing on the string, offering the performer direct control over the tone. On the other hand, the spinet, known in France as épinette and closely related to the harpsichord, was very common there. Most works for keyboard by Couperin can be played on it. It differed from the harpsichord only by virtue of its shape, its strings running parallel to the keyboard instead of meeting it. Its restrictions were precisely those of a one-manual harpsichord, and therefore only those pieces which require two manuals (and these are very few) cannot be played on it. Thus, although Couperin refers almost always to harpsichord, most of what he says is applicable also to spinet. During the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries French harpsichord makers were strongly influenced by the Antwerp workshop of the famous Ruckers family whose instruments were in constant demand in France, Germany and England. Their exceptionally good tone was so admired that when in the eighteenth century composers and performers began to demand a wider compass than available on

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

their seventeenth-century models, many Ruckers harpsichords were reconstructed rather than abandoned; in fact few have survived in their original state. This process of reconstruction, known in France as ravalement, so occupied the energies of the foremost French makers at the turn of the century – such as the Blanchet family – that this has been advanced as the main reason why so few actual Blanchet harpsichords have been located.7 Few French harpsichords from the seventeenth century have survived at all. Those that have are largely modelled on the Ruckers type with its sensitive action and brilliant, yet rich tone. It would seem that at the turn of the century the French harpsichord in Couperin’s youth was typically a two-manual instrument, the upper manual featuring an eight-foot register (i.e. its notes sounded at the pitch of the depressed keys), while the lower manual contained both an eight-foot and a four-foot register (i.e. the four-foot producing notes sounding an octave above the depressed keys). The two manuals could be coupled together by pulling the lower one out towards the player, thus engaging the mechanism. (There are some pieces by Couperin where the player is instructed on the score to do the opposite i.e. to push back the lower manual.) The compass of the French instrument at this time was nearly four and a half octaves from G (one and a half octaves below middle C) to three octaves above middle C). The lowest octave, on most keyboard instruments before 1700, was a so-called ‘short octave’. This arrangement took advantage of the fact that because so few composers of those days employed many chromatic notes in the lowest octave, the keys associated with these rarely-used notes could be used for strings tuned below the lowest key provided on the instrument (in Couperin’s youth usually B), thus extending the compass downwards without widening the construction of the keyboard. Other devices such as ‘split keys’, whereby the front section of a ‘black’ key8 played one note and the back section another, were also incorporated into the keyboard. Hence, although a harpsichord in use at the end of the seventeenth century might have B as its lowest key, the range of the instrument could be extended by tuning B down to G and ‘splitting’ keys C# and D# so that they sounded not only these notes but low A and B as well. The scale thus produced ran from G A B C C# D and chromatically up to high C. Harpsichords with solid C# and D# keys produced a scale G A B C D E F F# chromatically up to high C. During the eighteenth century ravalement was concerned very largely with reconstructing the keyboard to provide a full chromatic scale and to widen the range still further at either end. As far as tone and action were concerned the best earlier instruments were regarded as already having reached a state of perfection. Although this final development in harpsichord construction was undoubtedly commencing in France in the early eighteenth century it is a fact that none of Couperin’s works for the instrument include a low G# or C#. Low B is frequently found, but only in one piece (La Bandoline, 5th Ordre) does this particular note share the music with a low B natural. It would seem that certain pieces by Couperin could be played on harpsichords with a ‘short octave’ only if the string were retuned

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105

to B or B natural as the pieces required. That La Bandoline was composed for the new harpsichords is also confirmed by the fact that in one bar Couperin calls for a low F (i.e. a tone below the seventeenth-century compass), and shown in the original publication as a lozenge-shaped note. It is curious that this extended range should be confined to one piece only, and that from the first book, for despite the fact that the last two books were published at a time when the move towards a wider compass was well under way, he never again required the low F. On the other hand, the later books reflect the trend towards providing additional notes at the higher end. In the first two books (1713 and 1717) top C is the highest note. Having made tentative appearances in the third book C# and D become quite common in the last (1730). It was within these boundaries that Couperin moved with apparent freedom, his works for the instrument exploiting almost every technical possibility afforded by the harpsichord.

Couperin’s Publications of Harpsichord Pieces Couperin wrote 234 harpsichord pieces, all of which are contained in his four books and his L’Art de toucher le clavecin. In place of the word suite Couperin described the twenty-seven groupings of works as being in ‘ordres’. The French term suite, meaning a group or pairing of dances in the same key, has been traced back to the mid-sixteenth century and was gradually adopted in other countries. Strangely, it was not used by Chambonnières, D’Anglebert or Louis Couperin to describe their works and had to wait for Nicolas Lebègue’s collection of 1687. It may well have been that François Couperin envisaged right from the start that his collection of harpsichord pieces would go well beyond the mere sequence of dance forms implied by the term suite, preferring instead the term ordre with its more widely embracing connotation of an ‘ordered arrangement’ of pieces. (The Italian equivalent ordine was also occasionally used in music to mean a grouping of pieces, including in Giovanni Battista Brevi’s trio sonatas of 1693.9) Such an ‘ordered arrangement’ is achieved largely through the unity imposed by the key-schemes, each ordre being in one particular key – both in its major and minor versions. Only in the 25th Ordre, in C major/minor, is there a piece out of the prevailing tonality: La Visionaire, written in the relative key of E major, a procedure which Couperin felt impelled to explain in the Preface to Book Four.10 Like Couperin’s terminology sonade, that of ordre was not generally adopted by his contemporaries. Book 1, containing Ordres 1–5, appeared in 1713, and although the composer was by then forty-five years old and well-known, apart from his songs in Ballard’s anthologies, it was his first engraved publication, for it will be recalled that his two organ masses had been issued by Ballard in manuscript copies only. Book 2, containing Ordres 6–12, is undated, but evidence points to 1717 as being the likely

106

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

year of publication. The two remaining books came out in 1722 (Ordres 13–19) and 1730 (Ordres 20–27). They thus cover a span of seventeen years, the last of the collections appearing two years before his death in 1733.

Ornamentation If in most vocal music in France ornaments were usually indicated by a little cross, the actual choice of ornament being left largely to the discretion of the singer, in harpsichord music, on the other hand, it was more specific, especially in Couperin’s pieces. So that they could be embellished precisely as he wanted he attached a list of ornaments and how to play them to the first of his collections of Pièces de clavecin, three years later touching upon the same subject in his L’Art de toucher le clavecin. His irritation that performers were still not following his instructions some six years after that is clearly communicated in the Preface to his third book (1722): I am always surprised (after the care I have taken to indicate the ornaments appropriate to my pieces, about which I have given, separately, a sufficiently clear explanation in a Method under the title The Art of Playing the Harpsichord) to hear people who have learned them without following the correct method. It is an unpardonable negligence, especially since it is not at the discretion of the players to place such ornaments where they want them. I declare, therefore, that my pieces must be played according to how I have marked them, and that they will never make a true impression on people of real taste unless played exactly as I have marked them, neither more nor less.

His explanations were necessary, not because his ornaments were very different from those in use, but because there was no universal agreement about how they should be notated. In his Explication des Agréments, et des Signes (see Appendix G) published in the first book were the relatively ‘standard’ signs for trills, mordents, appoggiaturas, turns, etc., as well as some that were new. Up until then the most detailed list and explanation of harpsichord ornamentation had come out some twenty-five years earlier from D’Anglebert, many of whose signs and terminology were personal to him. Interestingly, it was D’Anglebert’s signs and execution for trills that J. S. Bach copied into the Clavier-Büchlein compiled for his son Wilhelm Friedemann rather than Couperin’s, whose harpsichord pieces he greatly admired. In fact, Couperin’s notated demonstration of how to play the common ornaments is quite basic in comparison to D’Anglebert’s illustration, especially in the case of the trill. Yet perhaps D’Anglebert’s execution of this ornament had so passed into common practice in France that Couperin felt no need to take it further. Indeed, Couperin’s comment that the execution of ornaments (particularly their speed) is dependent on the length of the note being embellished may have been tacit recognition that their interpretation goes well beyond what he has written about them.11 Nevertheless, it is strange that in the pieces themselves Couperin often calls for a trill to be combined with a turn (the two signs placed on top of

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each other, as in Example 6.7) but gives neither the sign nor an explanation in his table on how he wants this performed.12 There are a number of inconsistencies and ambiguities in the four books, some of which may perhaps be blamed on the engravers and some perhaps on Couperin himself. These have been commented upon in some detail by Kenneth Gilbert, who also points out that modern editions of Couperin usually make no distinction between Couperin’s signs for short and long trills (a slight lengthening of the usual sign for the latter) and between his distinctly different lines for ties and slurs.13 In some ways D’Anglebert goes further than Couperin does in recommending how to perform some other ornaments. For example, he shows more ways of handling the arpeggiation of a chord, and whereas Couperin’s coulé or ‘slide’ is restricted to joining two notes only a third apart, D’Anglebert’s examples also include filling in the interval of a fourth. On the other hand, Couperin introduces what he describes as a suspension – delaying the sound of a note by imagining a rest at its beginning. This device and his aspiration – where the value of the note is shortened at the end (and, though not so-named is also included by D’Anglebert as useful before a trill or a mordent) – are more in the nature of ‘expression’ rather than ‘ornamentation’. So, too, are Couperin’s lines indicating legato touch (lié), while in his third book he introduces signs looking like large ‘commas’, that require the player to mark the end of a melodic or harmonic phrase by a tiny break in the sound. Finally, although Couperin makes no mention of notes inégales he includes the notation of quavers or eighth notes slurred in pairs with dots over the second of each, which in performance reverses the dotted rhythm of the usual inégales. Couperin's notation œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. &

Example 6.3

played

œ œ. œ œ. œ œ . œ œ .

From Explication des Agréments, et des Signes

It comes as no surprise that Couperin, like his predecessors, provided florid alternatives for some of his harpsichord pieces, as for example in the well-known Le Rossignol en amour (14th Ordre). Our next illustration comes from the 1st Ordre – a courante, which is notated first in a simple style, then followed by an ornamented version of the melody under which the original bass line is retained (see Example 6.4).

Pictorial and Programmatic Elements Couperin’s practice of giving fanciful titles to his harpsichord pieces had its origins in the music of Chambonnières and the earliest works of the French harpsichordists

108

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

(a)

j j œ #œ œjœ œ œ œœ.. œ œ. œ. œ μ # Œ œ ? b 3 ‰ Œ œ œ œ˙. œ bœ œ œ œ 2 ˙. œ Óœ Ó œ ˙

{

bœ œ œ œ œ

‰ œ œ œ œœ ˙˙.. ˙. œ˙ ˙ œ œ œ#œ œ œ

∏∏∏

œ ˙. & b 32 J ˙˙..

œμ œ œ œ œμ œ . œJ œj˙ . nœ. œ œ œ. œœ#μ œœ.. œ œ œ. J œ. œJ#μ J jœ œ ˙œ œœ œ œ œ ˙. œ œœœ œ œ œ #‰˙ œ œ #œœ œ œ ˙. ?b ˙

œ J

j

œ &b

{

œ œ

(b) Dessus plus Orné sans changer la Basse

œ ˙. & b 32 J ˙˙ ..

{

?b3 ‰ 2

œœœ

œœ

bœ. œ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ #œ

m# # œ œ˙. Œ ˙. œ

œ

bœ

j nœ

œ

œ œ œœœ œ

œ œœ œ

œœ ..

j m œ œœ..

œ œ

j œ

Œ œ ˙

4

4

{

∏∏∏∏

& b ˙˙.. ˙.

?

Œ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ # œ œ bœœ

Example 6.4

œœœ œj˙ . œ œ #œ œ œ œ. œœ. œnœmœ. œ

œ m. . j ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ. œœ. œ #œ

Œ ˙ œ œœœ

˙œ

œ

œ œ ˙. #˙ . œ œ œ

(a) Première Courante (lst Ordre) and (b) Première Courante, with double (lst Ordre)

who, in turn, had borrowed the habit from the lutenists of the late sixteenth century. Gaultier the Elder, for example, liberally sprinkled his lute dances with titles such as Courante des anges, La Superbe, La Pleureuse and so on, apparently also establishing the tradition of giving a feminine form to the descriptive word. Not all French harpsichordists, however, followed the lead of the lutenists or of Chambonnières. D’Anglebert gave no such titles to any of the movements of his published suites, but this is not surprising, for his works, maintained a gravity of expression that rather sets them apart. Even Chambonnières gave titles to only twenty out of his 150 or so pieces, and Louis Couperin to many fewer. Yet right

Works for Harpsichord

109

from the start Couperin enjoyed adding picturesque names to various movements in his ordres, a practice that increased as he moved more and more into the genre of the ‘character piece’. More than anyone, Jane Clark has penetrated many of the mysteries surrounding the titles and in so doing has linked them very closely to the society in which Couperin moved (see Chapter 1). Much lies beneath the surface. Thus the seemingly innocent Soeur Monique (18th Ordre) is a portrait of a woman of ill-repute.14 Many of the pieces are coded satires of famous figures of the day – even of Mme de Maintenon – as well as affectionate portraits of friends and references to literary and theatrical events. Undoubtedly, those in Couperin’s wide circle would have understood the veiled allusions that added an extra level to their enjoyment. But it may be questioned as to whether – at our distance – the titles are truly significant, especially when it is recalled that the composer himself had no hesitation in changing the original titles of his early trio sonatas when they were published many years later as Les Nations. Yet, as Derek Connon has said: the communicative power of the music is undoubtedly increased by an understanding of the titles, particularly when so many turn out to indicate an ironic stance or hidden meaning, for, as well as adding an extra musical dimension, they may also clarify the implications of certain aspects of the music. If an understanding of the titles is desirable for the listener, it is surely vital for the performers, since it may well have a significant influence on the way a piece should be played.15

This, of course, is certainly true of pictorial and programmatic works which provide clues to interpretation and appreciation. Yet whether truly programmatic or not, the very act of naming the pieces in the way he did betrays Couperin the Frenchman, the fanciful element in music traditionally having a strong appeal for the gallic mind. ‘Our music, whether it be for violin, harpsichord, viol or any other instrument, always seems to want to express some sentiment’, claimed Couperin, pointing to the way that French composers, unlike the Italians, even regarded metre and tempo in terms of moods (see Chapter 1). The fanciful element is charmingly portrayed and readily appreciated in those pieces by Couperin which have a visual or onomatopoeic suggestion: Papillons (Butterflies), Le Reveille-matin (The Alarm Clock), Le Carillon de Cythère (Bells of Cythera), Les Petits moulins à vent (Little Windmills), Les Tricoteuses (The Knitters – finishing with the disaster of dropped stitches), to mention just a few. If the warbling of birds is sounded just once in the 1st Ordre (Le Gazouillement) it reappears in the 14th Ordre (Le Rossignol en amour and Les Fauvettes plaintives). On a much larger canvas than those mentioned above is Les Folies françoises, ou Les Dominos from the 13th Ordre. The picturesque title alludes to the costumes (dominos) worn by guests at a masked ball. Each cloak and cowl is in a different colour and allegorises twelve virtues, qualities, temperaments or characters: Virginity (an invisible colour), Modesty (pink), Ardour (crimson), Hope (green), Faithfulness (blue), Perseverance (grey), Languor (purple), Coquetry (different

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

colours), Aged Lovers and Retired Financiers (dark red and feuillemorte), Gentle Cuckoos (yellow), Taciturn Jealousy (dark grey), Despair (black). Another series of portraits spread over various movements is Les Petits âges (7th Ordre): L’Enfantine, L’Adolescente, Les Délices. It is not surprising that it is in the multi-movement works where we find the more truly programmatic pieces such as La Triomphante (10th Ordre) – a battle-piece evoking the sounds of war, joy of the victors and a fanfare – and, above all, Les Fastes de la grande et ancienne Mxnxstrxndsx (Ordre 11). This curious title refers to a powerful guild of Parisian instrumentalists which, in 1693 and I707, had attempted to prevent Couperin and other harpsichordists from teaching their instrument unless they joined the Ménestrandise (hence, of course, Couperin’s thinly-disguised title), by obtaining from it the licence of Master. His appeals to Parliament succeeded on both occasions and he immortalised his victory in this satirical masterpiece. Its first ‘act’ is entitled Les Notables et Jurés-Mxnxstrxndxurs which, with its personalities and the solemn dignity of the music, could only refer to the legal court where Couperin’s case was argued. Those who belong to the ancient guild are parodied mercilessly in the next three acts: hurdy-gurdy players, jugglers, tumblers and acrobats in the company of bears and rnonkeys. The infirm and the limbless, all still in the service of the guild, are caricatured in music of slow and jerky gait, picturing the painful procession of dislocated legs and bent-over bodies. Les Disloqués m m m m b3 b & 2 ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙ . ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙ . ˙ ˙. ˙ . ˙ ˙. ˙ . ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙. ˙ n ˙ . ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙. ˙ r Les Boiteux r ? b 3 ‰ Ó Œ ‰ ˙r ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ ˙r ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ ˙r ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ #˙ ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ ˙ b2 ˙ #˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙

{

b & b . ˙ ˙. ˙ . ˙ ˙ ˙ ? b b˙ ∑ Œ ‰ n˙ b b˙ n˙ R

{

Example 6.5

m m ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙ . b˙ ˙ . ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙. ˙ ˙ . ˙ ˙ . ˙ ˙ ˙. ˙. ˙ r r ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ ˙ ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ ˙ ˙ ∑ Œ ‰ ˙R ˙ ˙ ˙

Les notables et Jurés-Mxnxstrxndxurs (11th Ordre)

At last, all are put into total disarray by drunkards, bears and monkeys, the scene pictured in music of great brilliance and pictorial suggestion, even to the sound of the walking sticks (mentioned by Couperin in the score) heard tapping away as the invalid musicians hobble from the disorder. ‘Void’ notation (see Chapter 1) visually adds a touch of antiquated practice. Couperin returned only once more to the artifice of substituting x’s for vowels in the title of a work: Les Culbutes Jxcxbxnxs (19th Ordre) Here, however, the

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significance of the title remains obscure. Its last word clearly refers to the Jacobins (or the Dominican order), but Jane Clark casts doubt on an earlier assumption that the ‘somersaults in bed’ (culbutes) refer to the lax morals of the order.16 While their titles will no doubt always pique our curiosity, it would at the same time be a pity to imagine that Couperin’s music depends for its effect upon the presence of non-musical elements. To be sure, in a good number of pieces they add an additional delight; but as in all fine music ‘meaning’ is revealed through the musical imagination of the composer – here in abundance.

Forms Most of Couperin’s harpsichord pieces are in two-part (A B) form with repeat signs placed at the ends of both sections. Sometimes the very last phrase of the piece is given an additional repetition at the reprise of B, and occasionally (as we have seen) Couperin provides optional florid versions for the repeats. This two-part structure dominates all but two of the named dance movements: allemande, courante, sarabande, gavotte, gigue, menuet, canaries, passepied, rigaudon, sicilienne (see Appendix F). While these dances make up at least half the movements in the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 8th Ordres, the later Ordres reveal a shift away from them towards more programmatic or ‘character’ pieces. Yet the spirit, if not the form, of the dance may not be far away, as in some of these later pieces like La Régente ou La Minerve (15th Ordre), La Superbe ou La Forqueray (17th), L’Audacieuse (23rd), La Convalescente (26th), which are, in reality, all allemandes. Nevertheless, there are also many movements which owe little to dance tradition. The trend away from dance forms can be seen as early as the 4th Ordre which contains no dances so-called (even though the final piece, Le Reveil-matin is patently a gigue). The two dance movements not in the sectionalised A B form are the chaconne and passacaille (passacaglia). The words themselves had become synonymous by the second half of the seventeenth century, so that it is not unusual to find the same piece described as chaconne in one source and passacaille in another; nor to find (as in La Françoise from Les Nations) a movement described as chaconne ou passacaille. No amount of analytical ingenuity can unravel the difference between them. A distinction was once made by Sebastien de Brossard suggesting that the passacaille was slower than the chaconne, its melody more tender, its expression more heightened and therefore almost always in the minor key.17 While the comment on tempo may have been correct (as far as dancing was concerned) the rest is in no way borne out by the evidence of the many pieces which have come down to us, either as dances or as instrumental pieces. As far as French music is concerned the terms must be regarded as interchangeable. What binds the chaconne and passacaille together is the invariable presence of a recurring set of harmonies in cycles of four or eight measures upon which variations (both melodic and harmonic) are based. The characteristic harmonies

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François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

found in these two forms, in which one cycle flows into the next, spring from the stereotyped basses, usually in a rising or falling scale (or part of it) often combined with leaps which establish clear tonality. In practice, there are very few chaconnes or passacailles in French music which employ a strict ground bass.18 Perhaps the closest is a chaconne danced by Egyptians and Ethiopians in Lully’s opera Phaeton. Indeed there is only one example of a strict ground bass in all the Ordres – Les Folies françoises (13th Ordre) – and this is not a chaconne/passacaille dance-type. Characteristic of these dances (which were usually performed at the conclusion of an act in the tragédie lyrique) was that the music of each cycle should explore new possibilities, unfolding and opening up new material in a ceaseless flow of melody and harmony. In chaconnes and passacailles composed for dancing it was most unusual for the music of previous cycles to be recalled. The style is magnificently caught in L’Amphibie (24th Ordre), headed Noblement, mouvement de Passacaille. One of Couperin’s truly great works, it illustrates all the stylistic features of the form described above, except that the opening cycles are recalled at the conclusion. Its opening cycles are reproduced in the next example.

Æ j j ### œœ j . œj & 3 œ. œJ œjœœ ˙œ. œ œ œŒ œœ œ μ μ # œ ˙ ? ### 3 ˙ œ Œ˙ Œ œ œ . œ Æ œ μ j ### μ œ. œ œ. Œ & œœ œJ œ œ œ ˙˙ Noblement, mouvement de Passacaille

{ {

? ###

μ œ œ œ

Example 6.6

μ œ. ˙.

œœœ

˙. œ. j œ. œ œ. œ œ œ œ. œœ œœ J J

μ œ œj œ μ œ œ ˙. œJ

œœ

œ œ œ

j j j j œj μ œ. œ œ œ œ œjœœ ˙œ. œ œ œŒ œœ. œ ˙. J μ μ # μ œ œ œj œ μ œœ œ Œ˙. Œ œœœœœœ Œ Œ œ ˙ ˙. œJ œ

L’Amphibie (24th Ordre)

If L’Amphibie closely resembles the form and style of those chaconnes and passacailles composed for dancing, it is not, however, typical of the majority of French works which go by that name when written purely for instrumental performance, especially those for the harpsichord. From the time of Chambonnières onwards composers from the French clavecin school were fond of grafting on to these yet another musical form: the rondeau (A B A C A etc.). Thus the majority of harpsichord pieces called chaconne or passacaille feature a refrain (rondeau) with intervening episodes (couplets), retaining at the same time those other features noted above. Couperin’s Passacaille (8th Ordre) is in this more typical form of

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Works for Harpsichord

the ‘rondeau passacaille’, this noble and monumental work providing a worthy companion to L’Amphibie. Rondeau

˙

? ## ˙

˙œ

∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏

˙ j œ #œ ˙ œ. œ ˙ œ œ ˙˙˙

Example 6.7

#œ

˙

œ

˙œ

#œ

# & # #œœ #œœœ œœœ œ

{

jœ ˙ œœ. ˙ œ œ #œ

#œœ #œœ œœœ œ œ

1er Couplet œj

&

œ. œ

œ n œœ m © #œ

j μ œ. œœ #œœnœ. J

j j j œ. œœ œœ œ œœ œ. J J μ μ j œ #œ. œJ œ œ œ . œ œ. œ œ. œœ

œ. œœ œ # œœ n œœ..

#

œœ œ

œ

˙

˙˙ #œ ˙˙ Œ œ. œ œ œœœ œœ # œ œ œœ. œ ˙œ Œ œ

∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏

{

œ n œœ m © #œ

∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏

#œ œ. œ œ œœœ œœ ? ## œ œ ˙œ Œ 3 œ.

∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏

# & #3

Passacaille (8th Ordre)

La Favorite (3rd Ordre) is a ‘rondeau chaconne’, but this piece departs from tradition by being in quadruple instead of triple metre, linked to the dance by virtue only of its grave and stately movement, and of course by its cyclic structure. At first sight, the bass line seems to go beyond the stereotyped patterns typical of the chaconne and passacaille, but in fact Couperin has disguised this through figuration of what is simply a descending chromatic scale-segment common to countless ostinato types. Another old dance often employing a characteristic bass melody was the romanesca, and although not so called, Couperin’s Les Baricades mistérieuses is a kind of romanesca in that it takes up the old dance melody in the bass for much of the time. However, as in La Favorite, Couperin changes its metre from triple to quadruple and employs the rondeau form. Les Baricades mistérieuses is one of his finest works, the piece unified by the ubiquitous presence of a single figure developed in grand and sonorous expression throughout (see Example 6.9). Before leaving the cyclic-form pieces, mention must be made of Les Folies françoises; ou, Les Dominos (13th Ordre). We have already seen that the title refers to characters in a masked ball but its full significance is only revealed when the work is placed in relationship to Corelli’s famous La Folia variations for violin and continuo. This is composed upon a recurring melody and bass known as Les Folies d’Espagne, and, as Pierre Citron has shown, the extraordinary affinity between Corelli’s work and Les Folies françoises leaves no doubt at all that Couperin was paying yet another tribute to the Italian musician whom he admired so greatly.19 Although the two pieces have different basses and are in different keys (Corelli’s

114

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

being D minor, Couperin’s being B minor), provided that adjustments are made to the accidentals, the upper melody of Les folies françoises can be played with Les Folies d’Espagne. Couperin’s piece is the one example in the keyboard Ordres of a strict ground bass, each of the twelve movements representing one cycle of the long basso ostinato. There are, in fact, only a few examples even of the ‘free’ cyclic forms in Couperin’s Ordres. The great majority of pieces are in two-part (A B) form and the sectional rondeau (of which there are some forty examples). Couperin turned to the rondeau particularly for more extended music, although there are also a number of very short rondeaux, including some with only one couplet. The two-part and rondeau forms provide the structure for almost all the pieces, whether they be single movements or those comprising two or more movements. Thus, La Triomphante (10th Ordre) has three parties: Bruit de guerre (rondeau), Allégresse des vainqueurs (rondeau), Fanfare (A B). What is common to all the multi-movement works is that at least one partie is in the major or minor version of the prevailing key. Couperin’s structural schemes are thus very clear, but in two works he organises the form very ingeniously. L’Epineuse (26th Ordre) is a ‘rondeau within a rondeau’, the fourth couplet containing a second rondeau. Far more complex is Les Gondoles de Délos (23rd Ordre) in which his two basic forms (rondeau and A B) are combined.

Style in Couperin’s Harpsichord Works As described earlier some of the techniques of the French clavecin school had their roots in the those of the seventeenth-century French lutenists whose style brisé considerably influenced the texture of keyboard writing. One aspect of this technique is that the notes of a chord are not all played simultaneously, but one after the other. A sense of movement, lightness of touch, and a melodic line which, shared by more than one part, is woven into the arpeggiated texture, are the chief features of the style and it is easy to see how such a technique admirably suited the harpsichord, especially as the quickly fading sonorities of that instrument could be kept alive by the constant sounding of different notes of the chord. Traces of the style brisé are found throughout Couperin’s harpsichord pieces, but in some – such as Les Charmes (9th Ordre), reproduced in Example 6.8 – he actually describes them as luthé. The notation of La Mézangère (10th Ordre) even quite closely resembles the literal transcription of lute tablature. When playing the first of these two pieces the harpsichordist is instructed to hold the notes so that the chords achieve full resonance – as on the lute where the strings freely vibrate until the next notes are plucked from them. Not surprisingly, it is the style brisé that dominates a piece from the 21st Ordre described by Couperin as being ‘dans le goût de la harpe’. In works like Les Ombres errantes (25th Ordre) and Les Idées heureuses (2nd Ordre) – the manuscript which Couperin is holding in the famous portrait of him

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Works for Harpsichord

j j œj μ j & 3 œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ œœ . œ #œ.œ œ œ œœ . œ œ .œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œJ œ œ œœ#.œ œœ œ J J Luthé, et lié ˙ œ ˙˙ œœ ˙˙. œ Œ Œ œ #œ ˙ ?3 œ œ ˙. Mesuré, sans lenteur

{

j & œœœ œ ˙œ. œ œ œ œ ? Œ˙. Œ

j œ

{

Example 6.8

#œ

œ

j œ

œ.

œ

j j œ œ #œ œœ .. #œ œ œœ . œ œ. œ nœ œ J œ œ ˙ œ œ œ .. œ œ

Les Charmes (9th Ordre)

engraved by Jean Jacques Flipart after André Boüys – to mention but two, Couperin employs the style brisé technique to produce passages of eloquent dissonance, as each group of held notes becomes blurred against the others in ever-shifting harmony. The most celebrated of these is Les Baricades misterieuses.

jœ œ œ ? bb ‰ œ œJ œ. Vivement

{

? bb Œ

œ œœ œ . œ œ œ œ œœ. œ J J .J

œ ˙œ œ

.. ˙œ

˙

˙

μ œœ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ. œ œ œ œ J J J J J ‰Œ

œ

œ ˙

˙

˙

œ

œ ˙

˙

˙

œ

œ œ œ ? bb ‰ œ œJ œ. œ

œœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ˙ œ œ œ œœ œ J J J J J J

? bb œ ˙

œ

{

˙

Example 6.9

˙

œ ˙

˙

˙

œ

œ ˙

˙

˙

œ

œ ˙

˙

˙

œœ

Les Baricades mistérieuses (6th Ordre)

The technique is perhaps taken to its ultimate in Les Tours de passe-passe (22nd Ordre), in which the melody so often is shaped by notes played by the left hand crossing over the right, its visual effect giving meaning to an otherwise enigmatic title. Only one other piece was written for ‘cross-hands’ on one manual. This was La Sézile (20th Ordre), described as a pièce croisé sur le grand clavier – terminology which, in the light of five other works in the collection, is rather confusing. Each

116

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

of these five (Les Bagatelles 10th Ordre), Le Tic-toc-choc; ou Les Maillotins (18th Ordre), Le Dodo; ou L’Amour au berceau (15th Ordre) and two Menuets croisés (22nd Ordre) is also called pièce croisée, but was in fact composed to be played on two manuals, for the two hands pass in and out of the same register and so would collide on one manual. Yet, always the realist, Couperin suggested to those performers not possessing the larger instrument that they could still play these works if they transposed the right or left hand up or down an octave. Furthermore, he recommended these pieces to players of the viol, the violin or the flute for duet performance, provided – in the case of the flute – that the performer who is taking the lower part adjusts the notes up an octave when they go out of range at the cadences. For those who like playing duets Couperin provides La Juillet (14th Ordre), Musette de Choisi (15th Ordre), Musette de Taverni (15th Ordre) and La Létiville (16th Ordre). Each being set out on three staves of music, they can be played either on two harpsichords (the bass line being duplicated) or on a two-manual harpsichord, in which case one player takes the top line of music only. Obligingly, Couperin has written these pieces in such a way that the middle line may be omitted, thus making these pieces also available for solo performance! On the other hand, the Allemande à deux clavecins (3rd Ordre) presumes the full resources of two players and two harpsichords who together produce a work of rich sonority. If some of Couperin’s harpsichord pieces are suitable for performance on flutes, viols and other instruments, there are others of course which are so bound up with keyboard techniques that they are virtually untranslatable. Such a work is Le Reveille-matin (4th Ordre) in which the sweet sleep suggested by the opening melody is constantly disturbed by the rude janglings of the alarm clock. On many occasions Couperin explores the sombre tones of the harpsichord’s lower register, an impressive, yet clear sonority that can in no way be matched by the piano which tends to make works like Les Silvains (1st Ordre) – notated entirely in the bass clef – sound rather lack-lustre. In other works it is the brilliant high register with which Couperin makes great play. His lyrical genius found many an outlet in the ordres for harpsichord, from the tuneful simplicity of the well-known Soeur Monique (18th Ordre) to the noble utterance of La Raphaèle (8th Ordre); and while it would be idle to deny that much of Couperin’s lyricism is couched in the elegant and urbane language of French court music, there are works like La Superbe; ou La Forqueray (17th Ordre) which, through the gradual unfolding of long phrases and in the loftiness of thought, can be compared only with the music of J.S. Bach. There are some technical reasons also why La Superbe; ou La Forqueray recalls the style of Bach. They are concerned with the processes of motivic development on which, as we have seen in an earlier chapter, so much Italian – and hence German – music is based. It will be noted that the following extract displays scarcely any ornamentation except for ringing mordents and short trills, strengthening further the impression that Couperin has for a moment moved away from the French style. It is something which can be

117

Works for Harpsichord

seen in some of the earliest as well as the latest Ordres and first encountered in La Diane (2nd Ordre) in which the hunting calls of the Goddess of the Chase are woven into the thematic material. Characteristic of the style are running passages shared by both hands, often in imitation, as seen in La Diligente (2nd Ordre), La Lutine (3rd Ordre), Fureurs bachiques (4th Ordre), L’Etincelante ou La Bontemps (11th Ordre), L’Atalante (12th Ordre), Le Turbulent (18th Ordre), La Couperin (21st Ordre), La Bondissante (21st Ordre), and Saillie (27th Ordre. With La Bersan (6th Ordre) Couperin goes further afield than ever in highly-wrought imitation and closely-knit texture inspired by Italian techniques. Légèrement

b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ .œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . &b c œ ‰ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? bb c ‰ Œ .. ‰

{

bœ & b œœ

‰

{

œ œ œ b œ œ œ œ n œmœœœ œ mœ œ œ œ œ m J œœ

? bb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

b nmœ &b

m œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œœœ œœ œ

‰

{

œ œ œ

œ

? bb œ œ œœœœœœ

œ

œ

œ

œ.

œœœœœœœœ

œ J

‰

œ

mœ œœ

nœ J

œœœ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œœœœœœœ œœ

œ

œ

œ

œ b nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ mœ b œ &

{

? bb œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

nœ

œ

œ

œ

œœœ œ œ

œœ

œ

Example 6.10 La Bersan (6th Ordre) And Couperin’s harmony? At the height of the controversies which raged in Paris at the end of the seventeenth century over the virtues or vices of French or Italian music, champions of the foreign style were fond of comparing the harmonic daring of the Italian with the ‘timidity’ of the French. We have seen how it was largely

118

François Couperin and ‘The Perfection of Music’

as a result of Italian influence that French composers began to explore the wider implications of tonality and the expressive possibilities of rich harmony. It is true that in the pages of some seventeenth-century composers there are moments of powerfully dissonant harmony (as, for example, in Louis Couperin’s Passacaille quoted earlier but these were less the result of foreign influence than of personal idiosyncrasies. As François Couperin once wrote, ‘I love much better the things which touch me than those which surprise me’,20 we should not expect to find ‘daring’ harmonies in his music. It is more in its sense of tonal stability and forward thrust that shows how the composer absorbed the harmonic techniques of the Italians. Yet in his harpsichord music we constantly come across little ‘brushstrokes’ of harmony which add fascinating colours to the music, many of which would probably never have occurred to an Italian composer whose cast of mind tended to think in terms of modulation or key-change if striking effects were required. Here is a passage from the well-named La Mistérieuse (25th Ordre) in which the key of A minor is ruffled, yet not shaken by the very curious appearances of B in the right hand, and the simultaneous use of D natural and D# in the next measure. The piece is marked Modérement.

œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œm. œ mœ œ œ œ œ ≈ œbœ œ ≈ œnœ œ ≈ œb œ œ & J J R J R J R œ ? œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj

{

m ≈ ≈ œnœ œ œ œnœ#œ œ œœœ. œ J mœ m T œ #œœ œ œ nœ œ œ œ

Example 6.11 La Mistérieuse (25th Ordre) To ears attuned to the style, these are fascinating little touches, and all the more effective because they are not over-done. The harpsichord pieces as a whole provide a never-ending source of fascination, as much in their imaginative strokes as in the sheer range of musical experience they convey. Yet, while the prevailing mood of his harpsichord music is one of good humour and courtly grace, the dark shadows that sometimes fall over its pages remind us that here is a reflection not just of an idealised world, but that of our own. That his expressive power owed much to the union of French and Italian styles can be in no doubt. Just as his musical style reached out to the polarities of the French classical tradition and to the Italian baroque, sometimes separating them, more often fusing them, so too was his inspiration sparked by both the comédie humaine in which he lived and worked and by that indefinable ‘other-world’ to which the greatest artists can transport us. If his music is couched in a language of infinite refinement, we are so much the better for it.

Works for Harpsichord

119

Notes 1

2

3 4 5

6 7 8 9

10 11

12

13

‘Prélude est une composition libre, où l’imagination se livre à tout ce qui se présente à elle. Mais, comme il est assez rare de trouver des génies capable de produire dans l’instant, il faut que ceux qui auront recours à ces Préludes-réglés, les jouent d’une manière aisée sans trop s’attacher à la précision des mouvements, à moins que je ne l’ai marqué exprès par le mot de : Mésuré. Ainsi, on peut hazarder de dire, que dans beaucoup de choses, la Musique (par comparaison à la Poésie) a sa prose et ses vers.’ [A prélude is a free composition, where the imagination is open to all that presents itself. But as it is rare enough to find talents capable of playing spontaneously, it is necessary that those who have recourse to these measured preludes play them in an easy manner without being over-concerned with rhythmic precision – unless I have marked it expressly with the word ‘measured’. Thus, one can dare to say that in many instances, music (in comparison to poetry) has its prose and its lines of verse.] L’art de toucher le clavecin, 60. ‘Who doesn’t know that Monsieur de Chambonnières couldn’t accompany and that it was because of this that he had to give over his position at court and come to an agreement with Monsieur D’Anglebert …’ [ … qui est-ce qui ne sçait pas que Monsieur de Chambonnières ne sçavait pas accompagner, & que ce fut pour ce sujet qu’il fut obligé de se défaire de la charge qu’il avait chez le Roi, & de s’en accommoder avec Monsieur D’Anglebert.] Réponse de Monsieur Rousseau … reproduced in François Lesure. ‘Une querelle sur le jeu de la viole’, Revue de Musicologie, XLV (1960), 181–199. Titon du Tillet, Le Parnasse françois (Paris, 1727), 402. See Chapter 5, Example 5.7. For important modern studies of the form see: Colin Tilney, The Art of the Unmeasured Prelude for Harpsichord, France 1660–1720 (London, 1991), 3 vols: (1) Facsimiles, (2) Modern Transcriptions, (3) Commentary); Preface to Alan Curtis’s edition of Louis Couperin’s Pièces de clavecin (Paris, 1970), See note 1. Raymond Russell, The Harpsichord and Clavichord, (London, 1959), 58. ‘Black key’ is used in its modern sense. In Couperin’s day the colours were often reversed. Olivier Baumont, ‘L’ordre chez François Couperin’, François Couperin : nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 29. In this article Baumont suggests that Couperin may have been influenced by Louis XIV’s desire to have a specifically French ‘order’ of Architecture (to complement the Doric Order, etc.), thus giving his own musical use of the term a national significance. For possible clues to the meaning of this title and the significance of its key of Emajor see Jane Clark and Derek Connon, The Mirror of human life’: Reflections on François Couperin’s Pièces de Clavecin (Huntingdon, 2002), 103–4. ‘C’est la valeur des Notes qui doit déterminer la durée des pincés, des ports voix; et des Tremblements.’ [It is the note-values that determine the length of the mordents, the appoggiaturas and the trills.] Explication des Agréments, et des Signes in Pièces de clavecin (1713). See Appendix G where this table has been reproduced. The editors of the revised edition of Couperin’s works have convincingly shown how, far from being a perfectionist over his publications, Couperin was often extremely inconsistent in his notation, especially of ornaments. (See the editors’ Introduction to Les Nations.) Kenneth Gilbert, ‘Des barricades toujours mystérieuses – Ambiguïtés et curiosités dans la notation des Pièces de Clavecin’, François Couperin : nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 65–78.

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Jane Clark and Derek Connon, 89. Jane Clark and Derek Connon, 7. Jane Clark and Derek Connon, 93. ‘Toute la difference est que le mouvement en est ordinairement plus grave que celui de la chaconne, le chant plus tendre et les expressions moins vives, c’est pour cela que les Passacailles sont presque toujours travaillées sur des Modes mineurs, c’est à dire, dont la Médiante n’est éloignée de la Finale que d’une 3e mineure.’ Sebastian de Brossard, Dictionaire de musique [sic] (Paris, 1704), entry on ‘Passacaglio, veut dire, Passacaille, c’est proprement une chaconne.’ 18 On the other hand, strict ground basses can be found in vocal music of the period, such as in Couperin’s and Lalande’s Lecons de ténèbres (Jerusalem, convertere …) and in a few of the cantatas by Battistin, Clérambault and La Guerre. 19 Pierre Citron, ‘Autour des Folies françaises’, Revue Musicale, numéro spécial 226 (1955), 89–96. 20 François Couperin, Pièces de clavecin (1st book, 1713), Préface.

Appendix A

List of Works by François Couperin HARPSICHORD PREMIER LIVRE (1713) Premier Ordre Allemande L’Auguste Première Courante Dessus plus orné sans changer la Basse Seconde Courante Sarabande la Majestueuse Gavotte Ornemens pour diversifier la Gavotte précédente sans changer la Basse La Milordine, Gigue Menuet Double du Menuet précédent Les Silvains Les Abeilles La Nanète Les Sentimens, Sarabande La Pastorelle Les Nonètes : Première Partie : Les Blondes Seconde Partie : Les Brunes La Bourbonnoise, Gavote La Manon L’Enchanteresse La Fleurie ou la tendre Nanette Les Plaisirs de St-Germain-en-Laye Deuxième Ordre Allemande La Laborieuse Première Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande la Prude L’Antonine

Gavotte Menuet Canaries Double des Canaries Passepied Rigaudon La Charoloise La Diane Fanfare pour Suitte de la Diane La Terpsicore La Florentine La Garnier La Babet Les Idées heureuses La Mimi La Diligente La Flateuse La Volupteuse Les Papillons Troisième Ordre La Ténébreuse Première Courante Seconde Courante La Lugubre, Sarabande Gavotte Menuet Les Pélerines La Marche La Caristade Le Remerciement Les Laurentines L’Espagnolète Les Regrets Les Matelotes Provençales La Favorite, Chaconne à deux tems La Lutine

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Quatrième Ordre La Marche des Gris-vêtus Les Baccanales : Première Partie : Enjouemens bachiques Seconde Partie : Tendresses bachiques Troisième et dernière partie : Fureurs Bachiques La Pateline Le Réveil-matin Cinquième Ordre La Logivière, Allemande Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande la Dangereuse Gigue La Tendre Fanchon La Badine La Bandoline La Flore L’Angélique La Villers Les Vendangeuses Les Agrémens Les Ondes DEUXIÈME LIVRE (1716–17) Sixième Ordre Les Moissoneurs Les Langueurs-tendres Le Gazouillement La Bersan Les Baricades Mistérieuses Les Bergeries, Rondeau La Commère Le Moucheron Septième Ordre La Ménetou

Les Petits âges : La Muse naissante L’Enfantine L’Adolescente Les Délices La Basque La Chazé Les Amusemens Huitième Ordre La Raphaéle Allemande L’Ausoniéne Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande L’Unique Gavotte Rondeau Gigue Pasacaille La Morinéte Neuvième Ordre Allemande à deux clavecins La Rafraîchissante Les Charmes La Princesse de Sens L’Olimpique L’Insinuante La Séduisante Le Bavolet flotant Le Petit-deuil. Ou les trois veuves Menuet Dixième Ordre La Triomphante : Première Partie Seconde Partie Troisième Partie La Mézangère La Gabriéle La Nointéle La Fringante

Appendix A: Works

L’Amazône Les Bagatelles Onzième Ordre La Castelane L’Etincelante, ou La Bontems Les Graces-naturéles, Suite de la Bontems La Zénobie Les Fastes de la grande et ancienne Mxnxstrxndxsx PREMIERE ACTE Les Notables et Jurés Mxnxstrxndxurs SECONDE ACTE Les Viéleux et les Gueux TROISIEME ACTE Les Jongleurs Sauteurs et Saltimbanques, avec les Ours et les Singes QUATRIEME ACTE Les Invalides, ou gens estropiés au Service de La grande Mxnxstrxndxsx CINQUIEME ACTE Desordre et déroute de toute la troupe, causé par les Yvrognes, les Singes et les Ours Douzième Ordre Les Juméles L’Intîme La Galante La Coribante La Vauvré La Fileuse La Boulonoise L’Atalante TROISIÈME LIVRE (1722) Treizième Ordre

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Les Lis naissans Les Rozeaux L’Engageante Les Folies françoises, ou les Dominos : La Virginité sous le Domino couleur d’invisible La Pudeur sous le Domino couleur de Roze L’Ardeur sous le Domino incarnat L’Esperance sous le Domino vert La Fidélité sous le Domino bleu La Persévérance sous le Domino gris de lin La Langueur sous le Domino violet La Coquéterie sous diférens Dominos Les Vieux galans et les Trésorieres suranées sous des Dominos pourpres, et feüilles mortes Les Coucous bénévoles sous des Dominos jaunes La Jalousie taciturne sous le Domino gris de Maure La Frénésie, ou Le Désespoir sous le Domino Noir L’Ame-en-peine Quatorzième Ordre Le Rossignol en-amour Double du Rossignol La Linote-éfarouchée Les Fauvétes plaintives Le Rossignol-vainqueur La Julliet Le Carillon de Cithére Le Petit-rien Quinzième Ordre La Régente ou la Minerve Le Dodo ou L’Amour au Berceau : piéce croisée

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L’Evaporée Muséte de Choisi Muséte de Taverni La Douce, et piquante Les Vergers fleüris La Princesse de Chabeüil ou La Muse de Monaco Seizième Ordre Les Graces incomparables ou La Conti L’Himen-amour Les Vestales L’Aimable Thérése Le Drôle de Corps La Distraite La Létiville Dix-septième Ordre La Superbe ou la Forqueray Les Petits moulins à vent Les Timbres Courante Les Petites Chrémiéres de Bagnolet Dix-huitième Ordre Allemande La Verneüil La Verneüilléte Soeur Monique Le Turbulent L’Atendrissante Le Tic-Toc-Choc ou Les Maillotins : piéce Croisée Le Gaillard-boiteux Dix-neuvième Ordre Les Calotins et Les Calotines ou la Piéce à tretous : Les Calotins Les Calotines L’Ingénuë L’Artiste Les Culbutes Jxcxbxnxs

La Muse-Plantine L’Enjoüée QUATRIÈME LIVRE (1730) Vingtième Ordre La Princess Marie La Boufonne Les Chérubins ou L’Aimable Lazure La Croûilli ou La Couperinéte La Fine Madelon La Douce Janneton La Sezile, Piéce croisée sur le grand Clavier Les Tambourins Vingt-unième Ordre La Reine des coeurs La Bondissante La Couperin La Harpée, Piéce dans le goût de la harpe La Petite pince-sans-rire Vingt-Deuxième Ordre Le trophée Premier Air pour la Suite du Trophée Second Air Le Point du jour, Allemande L’Anguille Le Croc-en-jambe Menuets croisés : Premier Minuet Second Minuet Les Tours de Passe-passe Vingt-Troisième Ordre L’Audacieuse Les Tricoteuses L’Arlequine Les Gondoles de Délos Les Satires : Chevre-pieds

Appendix A: Works

Vingt-Quatrième Ordre Les Vieux seigneurs, Sarabande grave Les Jeunes seigneurs, cy-devant les petits maîtres Les Dars-homicides Les Guirlandes Les Brinborions La Divine-Babiche, ou Les Amoursbadins La Belle Javotte, autre l’Infante L’Amphibie Vingt-Cinquième Ordre La Visionaire La Mistérieuse La Monflambert La Muse victorieuse Les Ombres errantes Vingt-Sixième Ordre La Convalescente Gavote La Sophie L’Epineuse La Pantomime Vingt-Septième Ordre L’Exquise, Allemande Les Pavots Les Chinois Saillie

Gigue Minuet en Trio Deuxième Concert Prélude Allemande fuguée Air tendre Air contrefuguée Echos Troisième Concert Prélude Allemande Courante Sarabande grave Gavotte Muzette Chaconne légere Quatrième Concert Prélude Allemande Courante françoise Courante à l’italiéne Sarabande Rigaudon Forlane Cinquième Concert Prélude Allemande Sarabande grave Gavote Muséte dans le goût de carillon

CHAMBER MUSIC Concerts royaux (1722) and Nouveaux concerts (1724) Premier Concert Prélude Allemande Sarabande Gavotte

Sixième Concert Gravement et mesuré Allemande à 4 tems légers Sarabande mesurée Air de diable Siciliéne

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Septième Concert Gravement, et gracieusement Allemande Sarabande grave Fuguéte Gavote Siciliéne Huitième Concert dans le goût théatral Ouverture Grande ritournéle Air Air tendre Air léger Loure Air Sarabande grave, et tendre Air léger Air tendre Air de Baccantes Neuvième Concert intitulé Ritratto dell’amore Le Charme L’Enjoüement Les Graces, Courante françoise Le Je-ne-scay-quoi La Vivacité La Noble fierté, Sarabande La Douceur L’Et coetera, ou Menuets Dixième Concert Gravement et mesuré Air tendre et louré Plainte, pour les violes ou autres instrumens a l’unisson La Tromba Onzième Concert Majestueusement, sans trop de lenteur Allemande

Seconde Allemande, plus légére Courante Seconde Courante Sarabande, très grave, et très marquée Gigue lourée Rondeau Douzième Concert à deux violes, ou autres instrumens à l’unisson [Prélude] Badinage Lentement; et patétiquement Air Treizième Concert à deux instrumens à l’unisson Vivement Air Sarabande Chaconne légere Quatorzième Concert et dernier de cet oeuvre Gravement [Prélude] Allemande Sarabande, grave Fuguéte Le Parnasse ou L’Apothéose de Corelli – grande sonade en trio (1724) Concert instrumental sous le titre d’Apothéose composé à la mémoire de l’incomparable Monsieur de Lully (1725) Les Nations : sonades et suites de simphonies en trio (1726) La Françoise [La Pucelle] L’Espagnole [La Visionnaire] L’Impériale La Piemontoise [L’Astrée]

Appendix A: Works

Pièces de violes (1728) Première Suite Prelude Allemande légere Courante Sarabande grave Gavotte Gigue Passacaille ou Chaconne Deuxième Suite Prelude Fuguette Pompe funébre La Chemise-blanche Unpublished sonades La Pucelle La Visionnaire L’Astrée La Steinquerque La Sultane SECULAR VOCAL (1697–1712) Airs sérieux : Qu’on ne me dise plus Doux liens de mon coeur La Pastorelle Les Solitaires A l’ombre d’un ormeau Zéphire modere en ces lieux Faisons du temps un doux usage Les Pellerines : La Marche La Caristade Le Remerciement Air à boire : Epitaphe d’un paresseux Canons : La femme entre deux draps A moy ! Tout est perdu !

Trois Vestales champêtres et trois poliçons

SACRED Pièces d’orgue (1690) Messe à l’usage ordinaire des Paroisses Messe propre pour les couvents de religieux et de religieuses Leçons de ténèbres Premier Jour Pour le Mercredy (c. 1713–17) Première Leçon (à une voix) Seconde Leçon (à une voix) Troisième Leçon (à deux voix) Quatre Versets (from Ps. CXVIII) (1703) Qui dat nivem Tabascere me Ignitum eloquiam tuum Adolescentulus sum Justitia tua Qui dat nivem Sept Versets (from Ps. LXXXIV) (1704) Converte nos Numquid in aeternum Ostende nobis Audiam quid loquatur Misericordia et veritas Veritas de terra Et enim Dominus Sept Versets (from Ps. LXXIX) (1705) Qui regis Israël Excita potentiam tuam Vineam de Aegypto Dux itineris fuisti

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Operuit montes Extendit palmites suos Deus virtutum convertere Elévations et Motets divers O misterium ineffabile* O amor O gaudium* Aspiratio mentis ad Deum* Venite exultemus Domino* Quid retribuam tibi Domine* Audite omnes et expanescite* Victoria, Christo resurgenti* Magnificat Laetentur coeli Festiva laetis cantibus* Precatio ad Deum* Jucunda vox Ecclesiae Dialogus inter Jesum et Hominem (* Text by Pierre Portes)

Douze Motets divers (Tenbury Collection) Respice in me* Ornate aras* Domine salvum me fac Regem Resonent organa* Tantum ergo sacramentum Exultent superi Ad te levavi oculos meos Salvum fac Deus Salve Regina Usquequo Domine Lauda Sion salvatorem Regina coeli laetare (* Text by Pierre Portes)

PEDAGOGICAL L’Art de toucher le clavecin (1716; rev. 1717) Règle pour l’accompagnement (ms)

Appendix B

Prefaces to Couperin’s Works Pièces de clavecin (Premier livre, 1713) Il m’a été impossible de satisfaire plus tôt les désirs du public en lui donnant mes pièces gravées: j’espère qu’il ne me soupçonnera pas d’avoir affecté ce retardement pour piquer d’avantage sa curiosité, et qu’il me pardonnera la lenteur du travail en faveur de l’exactitude. On sait assez qu’un auteur n’a que trop d’intérêt de donner une édition correcte de ses ouvrages, lorsqu’ils ont eu le bonheur de plaire: s’il est flatté par les applaudissements des connaisseurs, il est mortifié par l’ignorance et les fautes des copistes: c’est le sort des manuscrits recherchés. J’aurais voulu pouvoir m’appliquer il y a longtemps à l’impression de mes pièces. Quelques-unes des occupations qui m’en ont détournées [sic] sont trop glorieuses pour moi pour m’en plaindre: il y a vingt ans que j’ai l’honneur d’être au Roi et d’enseigner presque en même temps à Monseigneur le Dauphin Duc de Bourgogne et à six Princes ou Princesses de la Maison Royale; ces occupations, celles de Paris et plusieurs maladies doivent être des raisons suffisantes pour persuader que je n’ai pu trouver au plus que le temps de composer un aussi grand nombre de pièces, puisque ce livre en contient soixante et dix et que je compte en donner un second volume à la fin de l’année. J’ai toujours eu un objet en composant toutes ces pièces: des occasions différentes me l’ont fourni. Ainsi les Titres répondent aux idées que j’ai eues; on me dispensera d’en rendre compte; cependant, comme, parmi ces Titres, il y en a qui semblent me flatter, il est bon d’avertir que les pièces qui les portent sont des espèces de portraits qu’on a trouvé quelques fois assez ressemblants sous mes doigts, et que la plupart de ces Titres avantageux sont plutôt donnés aux aimables originaux que j’ai voulu représenter, qu’aux copies que j’en ai tirées. Il y a plus d’un an qu’on travaille à ce premier Livre. Je n’y ai épargné ni la dépense ni mes peines; et l’on ne devra qu’à cette extrême attention l’intelligence et la précision qu’on remarquera dans la gravure. J’y ai mis tous les agréments nécessaires. J’y ai observé perpendiculairement la juste valeur des temps et des notes; et à proportion du savoir et de l’âge des personnes, on trouvera des pièces plus ou moins difficiles, à la portée des mains excellentes, des médiocres et des faibles. L’usage m’a fait connaître que les mains vigoureuses et capables d’exécuter ce qu’il y a de plus rapide et de plus léger ne sont pas toujours celles qui réussissent le mieux dans les pièces tendres et de sentiment, et j’avouerai de bonne foi que j’aime beaucoup mieux ce qui me touche que ce qui me surprend. Le Clavecin est parfait quant à son étendue, et brillant par lui-même; mais, comme on ne peut enfler ni diminuer ses sons, je saurai toujours gré à ceux qui, par un

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art infini soutenu par le goût, pourront arriver à rendre cet instrument susceptible d’expression: c’est à quoi mes ancêtres se sont appliqués, indépendamment de la belle composition de leurs pièces; j’ai tâché de perfectionner leurs découvertes; leurs ouvrages sont encore du goût de ceux qui l’ont exquis. A l’égard de mes pièces, les caractères nouveaux et diversifiés les ont fait recevoir favorablement dans le monde, et je souhaite que celles que je donne qu’on ne connaissait point aient autant de réussite que celles qui sont déjà connues. J’ai été obligé, pour faciliter l’intelligence et la manière de toucher mes pièces dans l’esprit qui leur convient, d’établir de certains signes pour marquer les agréments, ayant conservé autant que je l’ai pu ceux qui étaient en usage; on trouvera les uns et les autres à la fin de ce livre, avec l’explication. J’avais dessein de marquer par des chiffres les doigts dont il faudrait se servir, du moins à de certains endroits qui ne sont pas indifférents; mais cela aurait jeté de la confusion dans la gravure; d’ailleurs l’habileté de certaines personnes semble me devoir rassurer sur l’équivoque; et en tous cas, je me ferai toujours un plaisir d’éclaircir les doutes qu’on pourra avoir. Translation It has been impossible for me to satisfy sooner the wishes of the public in giving it my published pieces: I hope that it will not suspect me of having arranged this delay the more to excite its curiosity, and that it will forgive my slowness in the interests of correctness. I am only too well aware that it is extremely important for an author to give a correct version of his works when they have had the good fortune to have given pleasure; although he is flattered by the applause of connoisseurs, he is mortified by the ignorance and faults of copyists: this is the fate of carefully prepared manuscripts. I should have liked a long time ago to be able to apply myself to the publishing of my pieces. Some of the commitments which have prevented this are so much to my glory that I cannot complain; twenty years ago I had the honour of being with the King and virtually at the same time teaching music to Monseigneur le Dauphin, Duke of Burgundy and to six Princes and Princesses of the Royal Household; these commitments and those in Paris, and several illnesses, must suffice as reasons why I have not been able in addition to find time to compose many pieces, since this volume contains 70 and I plan to offer a second volume at the end of the year. I have always had a purpose in mind in composing all these pieces: different occasions have provided me with one. The titles reflect the ideas I have had. I shall be excused for not accounting for them; however, since among the titles there are those that appear to flatter me, it is as well to mention that the pieces that carry these titles are kinds of portraits which have sometimes been found to be quite a good likeness under my fingers, and that most of these flattering titles belong rather to the charming originals that I wanted to portray than to the copies of them which I have drawn.

Appendix B: Prefaces to Couperin’s Works

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For more than a year I have been working on the first volume. I have spared neither cost nor effort; and it is only this utmost attention that is responsible for the thought and precision that will be observed in the engraving. I have included all the necessary ornaments. I have aligned the notes vertically according to their proper values; and in proportion to the knowledge and age of the performers, the pieces will be found more or less difficult, within the capacity of excellent, middling and weak players. Experience has made me recognise that strong hands, capable of playing the most rapid and agile pieces, are not always the most successful in tender and expressive ones, and I freely admit that I much prefer music that touches rather than surprises me. The harpsichord is perfect in its range and brilliant in itself; but as one cannot swell or diminish its sounds, I shall always be grateful to those who, through consummate art sustained by taste, can manage to make the instrument capable of expressing feeling; it was to this end that my predecessors dedicated themselves, quite apart from their beautiful compositions; I have tried to perfect their revelations; their works are still to the taste of those with exquisite discernment. With regard to my pieces, the new and diverse characteristics have led to their being received favourably in the world, and I hope that those presented here that are not yet known will be as successful as those that are. I have been obliged, so as to facilitate the understanding and the appropriate way of playing my pieces, to adopt certain signs to indicate the ornaments, retaining as many as I can of those that were in use: both will be found, with the explanation, at the end of this book. I had intended to mark the fingering which should be used, at least in certain places that are not unimportant; but that would have caused confusion in the printing; moreover, it seems the skill of certain people should reassure me about any ambiguity; and in any case, I shall always be pleased to clarify any doubts people might have.

Leçons de ténèbres (between 1713 and 1716) Je composai il y a quelques années trois Leçons de Ténèbres pour le Vendredi Saint, à la prière des Dames Religieuses de L** où elles furent chantées avec succès. Cela m’a déterminé depuis quelques mois à composer celles du Mercredi et du Jeudi. Cependant je ne donne à présent que les trois du premier jour, n’ayant pas assez de temps d’ici au Carême pour faire graver les six autres. Les premières et secondes Leçons de chaque jour seront toujours à une voix, et les troisièmes à deux; ainsi deux voix suffiront pour les exécuter; quoique le Chant en soit noté sur la clef de dessus, toutes autres espèces de voix pourront les chanter, d’autant que la plus part des personnes d’aujourd’hui qui accompagnent savent transposer. Je donnerai les six autres trois à trois si le Public est content de

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celles-ci. Si l’on peut joindre une basse de Viole ou de Violon à l’accompagnement de l’Orgue ou du Clavecin, cela fera bien. Translation A few years ago I composed three Tenebrae Lessons for Good Friday at the request of the nuns of L[ongchamp], where they were sung with success. For the last several months this has made me determined to compose those for the Wednesday and the Thursday. However, I am only offering here the three for the first day, not having had enough time before Easter to get the other six engraved. The first and second Lessons for each day will still be for one voice, and the third Lesson for two: thus two voices will suffice for their performance; although the voice part is written for the treble clef, all other kinds of voices can sing them, especially as most accompanists nowadays know how to transpose. I shall give the public the six others, in two groups of three, if it is content with the present ones. If a bass de viole or a basse de violon can be added to the organ or harpsichord accompaniment, that will do very well.

L’Art de Toucher le Clavecin (1716; revised 1717)) La Méthode que je donne ici est unique, et n’a nul rapport à la Tablature, qui n’est qu’une science de Nombres; mais j’y traite sur toutes choses (par principes démontrés) du beau Toucher du Clavecin. J’y crois même donner des Notions assez claires (du goût qui convient à cet instrument) pour être approuvé des habiles, et aider ceux qui aspirent à le devenir. Comme il y a une grande distance de la Grammaire à la Déclamation, il y en a aussi une infinie entre la Tablature et la façon de bien-jouer. Je ne dois donc point craindre que des gens éclairés s’y méprennent; je dois seulement exhorter les autres à la docilité, et à se dépouiller des préventions qu’ils pourraient avoir; au moins les dois-je assurer tous, que ces principes sont absolument nécessaires pour parvenir à bien exécuter mes Pièces. Plan de cette Méthode La position du corps, celle des mains, les agréments qui servent au jeu, de petits exercices préliminaires et essentiels pour parvenir à bien jouer, quelques remarques sur la manière de bien doigter, relatives à beaucoup d’endroits de mes deux livres de Pièces, huit préludes diversifiés, proportionnés au progrès que je suppose qu’on doit faire, dont les doigts sont chiffrés, et que j’ai entremêlés d’observations pour exécuter avec goût, sont les parties de cet ouvrage. La modestie de quelques-uns des plus habiles Maîtres de Clavecin, qui, sans répugnance, m’ont fait l’honneur à différentes fois de venir me consulter sur la manière et le goût de toucher mes pièces, me fait espérer que Paris, la Province, et les

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Etrangers, qui tous les ont reçues favorablement, me sauront gré de leur donner une méthode sure pour les bien exécuter; et même c’est ce qui m’a déterminé à la donner entre mon premier Livre de pièces et le Second qui vient d’être mis au jour. Pour la facilité de ceux qui jouent les pièces de mes deux livres, j’expliquerai et je chiffrerai les endroits les plus équivoques; et l’on pourra tirer de ces exemples des conséquences utiles pour d’autres occasions. L’âge propre à commencer les enfants est de six à sept ans; non pas que cela doive exclure les personnes plus avancées; mais naturellement, pour mouler et former des mains à l’exercice du Clavecin, le plus tôt est le mieux; et comme la bonne grâce y est nécessaire, il faut commencer par la position du corps. Pour être assis d’une bonne hauteur, il faut que le dessous des coudes, des poignets et des doigts soit de niveau; ainsi on doit prendre une chaise qui s’accorde à cette règle. On doit mettre quelque chose de plus, ou de moins haut sous les pieds des jeunes personnes à mesure qu’elles croissent, afin que leurs pieds, n’étant point en l’air, puissent soutenir le corps dans un juste équilibre. La Distance à laquelle une personne formée doit être du clavier est à peu près de neuf pouces, à prendre de la ceinture, et moindre à proportion pour les jeunes personnes. Le milieu du corps et celui du clavier doivent se rapporter. On doit tourner un tant soit peu le corps sur la droite étant au clavecin; ne point avoir les genoux trop serrés, et tenir ses pieds vis-à-vis L’un de L’autre; mais surtout le pied droit bien en dehors. A l’égard des grimaces du visage, on peut s’en corriger soi-même en mettant un miroir sur le pupitre de l’épinette ou du clavecin. Si une personne a un poignet trop haut en jouant, le seul remède que j’ai trouvé est de faire tenir une petite baguette pliante par quelqu’un, laquelle sera passée par-dessus le poignet défectueux, et en même temps par-dessous l’autre poignet. Si le défaut est opposé, on fera le contraire. Il ne faut pas, avec cette baguette, contraindre absolument celui, ou celle qui joue. Petit à petit ce défaut se corrige, et cette invention m’a servi très utilement. Il est mieux et plus séant de ne point marquer la mesure de la Tête, du corps, ni des pieds. Il faut avoir un air aisé à son clavecin, sans fixer trop la vue sur quelque objet, ni l’avoir trop vague; enfin regarder la compagnie, s’il s’en trouve, comme si on n’était point occupé d’ailleurs. Cet avis n’est que pour ceux qui jouent sans le secours de leurs livres. On ne doit se servir d’abord que d’une épinette ou d’un seul clavier de clavecin pour la première jeunesse; et que l’une ou l’autre soient emplumés très faiblement; cet article étant d’une conséquence infinie, La belle exécution dépendant beaucoup plus de la souplesse et de la grande liberté des doigts, que de la force; en sorte que dès les commencements, si on laisse jouer un enfant sur deux claviers, il faut de toute nécessité qu’il outre ses petites mains pour faire parler les touches, et de là viennent les mains mal placées et la dureté du jeu.

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La douceur du toucher dépend encore de tenir les doigts le plus près des touches qu’il est possible. Il est sensé de croire (l’expérience à part) qu’une main qui tombe de haut donne un coup plus sec que si elle touchait de près, et que la plume tire un son plus dur de la corde. Il est mieux, pendant les premières leçons qu’on donne aux enfants, de ne leur point recommander d’étudier en l’absence de la personne qui leur enseigne. Les petites personnes sont trop dissipées pour s’assujettir à tenir leurs mains dans la situation qu’on leur a prescrite; pour moi, dans les commencements des enfants, j’emporte par précaution la clef de l’instrument sur lequel je leur montre, afin qu’en mon absence ils ne puissent pas déranger en un instant ce que j’ai bien soigneusement posé en trois quarts d’heures. Séparément des agréments usités, comme les tremblements, pincés, ports-devoix, &c, j’ai toujours fait faire à mes élèves de petites évolutions des doigts, soit de passages, ou de batteries diversifiées, à commencer par les plus simples, et sur les tons les plus naturels; et insensiblement je les ai menés jusqu’aux plus légers et aux plus transposés. Ces petits Exercices, qu’on ne saurait trop multiplier, sont autant de matériaux tout prêts à mettre en place, et qui peuvent servir dans beaucoup d’occasions. J’en donnerai quelques modèles à la suite des agréments ci-après, sur lesquels on en pourra imaginer d’autres. Les personnes qui commencent tard ou qui ont été mal montrées feront attention que comme les nerfs peuvent être endurcis ou peuvent avoir pris de mauvais plis, elles doivent se dénouer ou se faire dénouer les doigts par quelqu’un, avant que de se mettre au Clavecin; c’est-à-dire se tirer ou se faire tirer les doigts de tous les sens; cela met d’ailleurs les esprits en mouvement, et l’on se trouve plus de liberté. La façon de doigter sert beaucoup pour bien jouer; mais, comme il faudrait un volume entier de remarques et de passages variés pour démontrer ce que je pense et ce que je fais pratiquer à mes élèves, je n’en donnerai ici qu’une notion générale. Il est sûr qu’un certain chant, qu’un certain passage étant fait d’une certaine façon, produit à l’oreille de la personne de goût, un effet différent. Réflexion Beaucoup de personnes ont moins de disposition à faire des tremblements et des ports-de-voix de certains doigts: dans ce cas je conseille de ne point négliger de les rendre meilleurs en les exerçant beaucoup. Mais, comme en même temps les meilleurs doigts se perfectionnent aussi, il faut s’en servir par préférence aux moindres, sans aucun égard à l’ancien usage de doigter, qu’il faut quitter, en faveur du bien jouer d’aujourd’hui. Autre Réflexion On ne devrait commencer à montrer la tablature aux enfants qu’après qu’ils ont une certain quantité de pièces dans les mains. Il est presque impossible qu’en

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regardant leur Livre, les doigts ne se dérangent et ne se contorsionnent, que les agréments même n’en soient altérés; d’ailleurs, La mémoire se forme beaucoup mieux en apprenant par cœur. Autre Réflexion Les hommes qui veulent arriver à un certain degré de perfection ne devraient jamais faire aucun exercice pénible de leur mains. Celles des femmes, par la raison contraire, sont généralement meilleures. J’ai déjà dit que la souplesse des nerfs contribue beaucoup plus au bien-jouer, que la force; ma preuve est sensible dans la différence des mains de femmes à celles des hommes; et de plus, la main gauche des hommes, dont ils se servent moins dans les exercices, est communément la plus souple au clavecin. Dernière Réflexion Je crois qu’on n’a pas douté en lisant jusqu’ici, que je n’aie supposé qu’on a dû enseigner d’abord aux enfants le nom des notes du clavier. Translation The method I offer here is unique, and has no connection with the system of fingering charts which is only a science of numbers; but in it I deal with everything (through proven principles) relating to playing the harpsichord beautifully. I believe I even provide sufficiently clear concepts (about the style suited to this instrument) to be approved by experts and which will help those who aspire to become expert. Just as there is a great distance between grammar and rhetoric, there is also an infinite distance between fingering charts and fine playing. I thus have no fear of being misunderstood by enlightened people; I have only to exhort the others to be obedient and to rid themselves of any prejudices they might have; at least, I must assure everyone that these principles are absolutely essential to succeed in playing my pieces correctly. Plan of this Method The position of the body, that of the hands, the ornaments which contribute to the performance, the essential little preliminary exercises to achieve good playing, some comments about good fingering applicable to many passages in my two books of pieces, eight different preludes arranged according to the progress I believe should be possible – the fingering of these being marked – interspersed with observations on how to play with taste, these make up the sections of this work.

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The modesty of several of the most accomplished masters of the harpsichord, who, without hesitation, have done me the honour at different times of consulting me about the manner and style of playing my pieces, has allowed me to hope that players in Paris, the provinces and foreigners, all of whom have welcomed them, will be grateful that I have published a reliable method for performing them well; actually, it was this that made me determined to publish this method in between my first book of pieces and the second one which has just appeared. For the ease of those who play the pieces from my two books, I shall explain and finger those passages that are the most problematic; and from these examples can be drawn useful applications for other occasions. The correct age for children to start playing is from six to seven; not that this should exclude older people; but naturally to mould and form the hands for playing the harpsichord, the sooner the better; and as a becoming posture is necessary, we must start with the position of the body. To sit at the correct height, the lower part of the elbows, wrists and fingers must be level; thus a chair must be used that meets this requirement. Under the feet of young people something of an appropriate height must be placed, as they grow, so that their feet do not dangle in the air but can support the body evenly. The distance at which a grown person must sit from the keyboard is about nine inches at the waist, and accordingly less for young people. The middle of the body must be placed at the middle of the keyboard. When at the harpsichord one must turn the body just a little to the right, not have the knees too close together, keep one’s feet parallel to one another, but above all have the right foot well out. As for facial grimaces, you can correct these yourself by placing a mirror on the music stand of the spinet or harpsichord. If a person holds the wrist too high when playing, the only remedy I have found is to have someone hold a small flexible strip of wood above the problem wrist and under the other one. If the problem is the reverse, do it the other way. One must not, with the small strip of wood, totally impede the playing. Gradually the problem corrects itself, and this solution has proved very useful to me. It is better and more seemly not to beat time with the head, the body or the feet. One must appear at ease at the harpsichord, without looking too fixedly at anything, and not appear too vague; nor, finally should one look at the audience as though one were not otherwise occupied. This advice is only for those who are playing without the help of their music scores. A spinet or a one-manual harpsichord should be used with the very young; and whichever it is should have soft quills; this is a matter of very great importance, since beautiful playing depends much more on the suppleness and great freedom of the fingers than on force; thus from the very beginning, if a child is allowed to play on a two-manual instrument, he is obliged to force his little hands to make the keys speak, resulting in badly placed hands and hardness of tone.

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Delicacy of touch also depends on holding the fingers as close to the keys as possible. It is logical (apart from one’s experience) that a hand which falls from a height gives a drier sound than when it is close and is pressed down on the keys and that a quill draws a harder sound from the string. It is better, during the first lessons with children, not to recommend that they practise if their teacher is absent. Little children are too undisciplined to keep their hands in the position that has been prescribed for them; as for me, when teaching children at the beginning, as a precaution I take away the key of the instrument on which they have been learning so that during my absence they cannot ruin in a moment what I have been carefully building up over three quarters of an hour. Separately from the usual ornaments, such as trills, mordents, appoggiaturas etc., I have always made my students do little finger movements, be they melodic or rythmic patterns, commencing with the simplest and in the most natural tones, imperceptibly leading them to the lighter and more complex ones. These little exercises, of which one cannot have enough, are so many materials ready to be put in place and they can be used for many occasions. I shall give several models at the end of the list of ornaments below, upon which others can be based. People who begin late or who have been badly taught will take care that, since the nerves can become insensitive or twisted, they will have to loosen their fingers or have them loosened by someone else before they take up the harpsichord; that is to say, they will have to massage, or get someone else to massage their fingers; besides this stimulates the mind and they will feel freer. Good fingering greatly helps good playing; but as an entire book of comments and different excerpts would be needed to demonstrate what I think and what I get my students to do, I shall only offer a general idea here. It is certain that a particular melody or a particular passage being played in a certain way produces a different effect on the ear of someone with taste. Reflection Many people have less aptitude for playing trills and appoggiaturas with certain fingers; in this case, I advise not neglecting to improve them through much exercise. But, at the same time, as the stronger fingers are also improving, they should be used in preference to the weaker ones, without regard for the earlier style of fingering which must be avoided in favour of today’s good practice. Another Reflection Children should only be shown notation after they have played a number of pieces. It is almost impossible, while they are looking at the music, for their fingers not to miss the notes and twist themselves, or that even the ornaments are changed. Moreover, memory is developed much better when learning by heart.

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Another Reflection Men who wish to achieve a degree of mastery should never do any exercise that is painful for their hands. Women’s hands, on the contrary, are generally better. I have already said that the suppleness of the nerves contributes to performance much more than does force; my proof lies in the difference between the hands of women and those of men; and, moreover, a man’s left hand, which they use less in practice, is generally the more supple at the harpsichord. Final Reflection I am sure that no-one believes, having read so far, that I propose that one should teach the names of the notes to children from the beginning.

Pièces de clavecin (Second livre, 1716–17) Enfin, voici le second Livre de mes pièces de Clavecin, que je croyais cependant pouvoir mettre au jour dès la même année que le premier a paru. Quelques égards m’en ont détourné : 10 J’ai cru qu’il fallait laisser un intervalle plus considérable pour donner le temps aux personnes qui jouent les pièces du premier de les posséder suffisamment; 20 La composition de neuf Leçons de Ténèbres à une et à deux voix, dont les trois du premier jour sont déjà gravées et en vente; 30 Une méthode qui a pour tître L’Art de Toucher le Clavecin, très utile en général, mais absolument indispensable pour exécuter mes pièces dans le goût qui leur convient, et que j’ai jugé devoir placer entre mes deux livres; 40 Un retour d’attention pour un des illustres de nos jours qui vient de donner encore un livre de Viole, et dont je ne devais pas traverser la gravure puisqu’il n’avait pas interrompu celle de mon premier livre de Clavecin, ayant tous deux le même graveur; 50 Toujours des devoirs, tant à la cour que dans le public, et par-dessus tout une santé très délicate. Enfin, pour tâcher de marquer ma sensibilité aux amateurs de mon premier livre et répondre à l’empressement qu’ils font paraître pour avoir le second, je l’ai grossi de deux Ordres de plus que le précédent; aussi le vendra-t’on, par rapport à l’augmentation de dépense, 2lt de plus que l’autre. Je ne dois pas oublier d’expliquer, avant de finir ce petit discours, que la méthode intitulée L’Art de Toucher le Clavecin, dont je viens de parler, renferme, entre autres choses, huit Préludes propres à tous les âges et à toutes les sortes de mains; que les doigts dont il faut les exécuter y sont marqués par des chiffres, et même que j’ai composé ces Préludes exprès sur tous les Tons de mes Pièces, tant celles de mon premier Livre que celles dont ce second-ci est rempli. Ceux qui auront accepté la méthode en question en 1716 pourront me la renvoyer, pourvu qu’elle n’ait point été reliée ni gâtée, et je leur en ferai donner gratis un autre exemplaire, de l‘impression de 1717, où est un supplément relatif au second livre de mes pièces de Clavecin.

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Tous ces Ouvrages se trouvent aux adresses indiquées à la première page de ce livre. Translation At last, here is the second book of my harpsichord pieces, which, however, I had believed could be ready in the same year as the first book. Several considerations have diverted me from it: 1. I believed it was necessary to leave a much longer period to allow time for those who are playing pieces from the first book to be able to master them; 2. The composition of nine Tenebrae Lessons for one and two voices, of which the three for the first day have already been published and are on sale; 3. A method entitled The Art of Playing the Harpsichord, generally useful but which I consider absolutely essential in order to play my pieces in the appropriate style, and which I have judged necessary to place between my two books; 4. Attending once again to the needs of one of the celebrated people of our time who has just published another book of pieces for the viol, which I did not want to get in the way of, since he had not interrupted the production of my first book of harpsichord pieces, both of us having the same engraver; 5. As always, my commitments at court as well as in public, and above all my very delicate health. Finally, so as to endeavour to show my appreciation to admirers of my first book and to respond to the eagerness they showed to have a second one, I have enlarged it by adding two Ordres more than in the first; because of the added expense, it will thus cost two livres more than the other. I must not forget to explain, before finishing this little discourse, that the method called The Art of Playing the Harpsichord about which I have just spoken, includes among other things, eight Preludes suitable for all ages and for all kinds of players; that the fingering which must be employed to play them is marked by numbers, and that I have composed the Preludes specially in all the keys of my pieces, both those in my first book and those in the second. Those who bought the Method just mentioned in 1716 can return their copy to me, provided that it has not been bound or spoiled, and I shall give them free of charge another copy from the second edition of 1717 which includes a supplement related to the second book of my harpsichord pieces. All these works may be found at the addresses indicated on the first page of this book.

Pièces de clavecin (Troisième livre, 1722) – originally published in the same volume as Les concerts royaux (see below) J’espère que les amateurs de mes Ouvrages s’apercevront, dans ce troisième livre, que je redouble d’ardeur pour continuer à leur plaire; et j’ose me flatter qu’il leur plaira, au moins, autant que les deux volumes qui l’ont précédé.

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On trouvera un signe nouveau dont voici la figure ’; c’est pour marquer la terminaison des Chants ou de nos Phrases harmoniques, et pour faire comprendre qu’il faut un peu séparer la fin d’un chant, avant que de passer à celui qui le suit. Cela est presque imperceptible en général, quoi qu’en n’observant pas ce petit Silence les personnes de goût sentent qu’il manque quelque chose à l’exécution; en un mot, c’est la différence de ceux qui lisent de suite, avec ceux qui s’arrêtent aux point et aux virgules. Ces silences se doivent sentir sans altérer la mesure. On trouvera dans ce 3me livre des pièces que je nomme Pièces-croisées. On se souviendra que dans le Second, page 62, il y en a une de cette espèce, qui a pour titre Les bagatelles; c’est précisément ce que j’appelle Pièce-croisée. Ainsi celles qui porteront ce même titre devront être jouées sur deux Claviers, dont l’un soit repoussé ou retiré. Ceux qui n’auront qu’un Clavecin à un Clavier, ou épinette, joueront le dessus comme il est marqué et la Basse une octave plus bas; et lorsque la Basse ne pourra être portée plus bas, il faudra porter le dessus une Octave plus haut. Ces sortes de pièces, d’ailleurs, seront propres à deux Flûtes ou Hautbois, ainsi que pour deux Violons, deux Violes, et autres instruments à l’unisson; bien entendu que ceux qui les exécuteront les mettront à la portée des leurs. Je suis toujours surpris (après les soins que je me suis donné pour marquer les agréments qui conviennent à mes Pièces, dont j’ai donné, à part, une explication assez intelligible dans une Méthode particulière, connue sous le titre L’Art de Toucher le Clavecin) d’entendre des personnes qui les ont apprises sans s’y assujettir. C’est une négligence qui n’est pas pardonnable, d’autant qu’il n’est point arbitraire d’y mettre tels agréments qu’on veut. Je déclare donc que mes pièces doivent être exécutées comme je les ai marquées, et qu’elles ne feront jamais une certaine impression sur les personnes qui ont le goût vrai tant qu’on n’observera pas à la lettre tout ce qu j’y ai marqué, sans augmentation ni diminution. Je demande grâce à Messieurs les Puristes et Grammairiens sur le style de mes Préfaces: j’y parle de mon Art, et si je m’assujettissais à imiter la sublimité du leur, peut-être parlerais-je moins bien du mien. Je n’aurais jamais pensé que mes Pièces dussent s’attirer l’immortalité; mais depuis que quelques Poètes fameux leur ont fait l’honneur de les parodier, ce choix de préférence pourrait bien, dans les temps à venir, leur faire partager une réputation qu’elles ne devront originairement qu’aux charmantes parodies qu’elles auront inspirées. Aussi marquai-je d’avance à mes associés bénévoles, dans ce nouveau livre, toute la reconnaissance que m’inspire une société aussi flatteuse, en leur fournissant, dans ce troisième ouvrage, un vaste champ pour exercer leur Minerve. Translation I hope that admirers of my works will notice in this third book that I am redoubling my efforts to continue pleasing them; and I dare to flatter myself that it will please them at least as much as the two previous books have done.

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A new sign will be found which is the figure ’; it is to mark the end of a melody or of my harmonic phrases, and to make it clear that players should make a little break at the end of a melodic phrase before going on to the next. Generally it is almost imperceptible, although when this little silence is not observed people of taste feel that something is missing from the performance; in a word, it is the difference between those who read through without a break and those who stop at full stops and commas. In observing these the tempo must not change. You will find in this third book pieces that I have called ‘cross-pieces’. It will be recalled that in my second book, on page 62, there is a piece of this kind entitled Les Bagatelles; it is exactly what I call a cross-piece. Thus, the pieces that bear this title must be played on two keyboards, one of which can be pulled out or pushed in. Those who have only a single manual harpsichord or spinet will play the top part as it is notated and the bass part an octave lower; and when the bass part cannot be played lower it will be necessary to transpose the treble part an octave higher. Pieces of this kind, moreover, are suitable for two flutes or oboes, as well as for two violins, two viols and other instruments at the same pitch; naturally those who play them will adjust them accordingly. I am always surprised (after the care I have taken to indicate the ornaments appropriate to my pieces, about which I have given, separately, a sufficiently clear explanation in a Method under the title The Art of Playing the Harpsichord) to hear people who have learned them without following the correct method. It is an unpardonable negligence, especially since it is not at the discretion of the players to place such ornaments where they want them. I declare therefore that my pieces must be played according to how I have marked them, and that they will never make a true impression on people of real taste unless played exactly as I have marked them, neither more nor less. I ask for understanding on the part of purists and grammarians about the style of my Prefaces: in them I speak of my Art and if I forced myself to imitate their sublime style, perhaps I should speak less well of my own. I should never have thought that my pieces would achieve immortality; but since several famous poets have done them the honour of parodying them, this mark of favour could well, in time to come, mean that my pieces share a reputation that they will owe originally to the charming parodies they have inspired.* So, to my benevolent associates I record in advance the extreme gratitude which such a flattering association inspires in me, by providing in this third volume a vast field to which they can apply their Muse. * Two of the pieces parodied were Les vestales and Soeur Monique.

Les Concerts Royaux (1722 – published in the same volume as above) Les pièces qui suivent sont d’une autre Espèce que celles que j’ai données jusqu’à présent. Elles conviennent non seulement au Clavecin, mais aussi au Violon, à la Flûte, au Hautbois, à la Viole et au Basson. Je les avais faites pour les petits

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Concerts de chambre où Louis quatorze me faisait venir presque tous les dimanches de l’année. Ces pièces étaient exécutées par Messieurs Duval, Philidor, Alarius et Dubois: J’y touchais le Clavecin. Si elles sont autant du goût du Public qu’elles ont été approuvées du feu-Roy, j’en ai suffisamment pour en donner dans la suite quelques volumes complets. Je les ai rangées par tons, et leur ai conservé pour titre celui sous lequel elles étaient connus à la Cour en 1714 et 1715. Translation The pieces that follow are of another kind from those I have offered up till now. They suit not only the harpsichord, but also the violin, flute, oboe, viol and bassoon. I had composed them for the little chamber concerts to which Louis XIV had me come almost every Sunday of the year. These pieces were performed by Duval, Philidor, Alarius and Dubois: I played the harpsichord. If they are as much to the taste of the public as they were approved by the late king, I have a sufficient number of them to offer subsequently several complete volumes. I have put them in the order of their keys, and have retained the titles by which they were known at court in 1714 and 1715.

Les Goûts réunis and Nouveaux concerts (1724 – including L’Apothéose de Corelli) Le titre de ce nouveau Livre, non seulement servira à le distinguer de ceux que j’ai donnés, mais convient encore à marquer la diversité des Caractères qu’on y trouvera rassemblés. Le goût Italien et le goût Français ont partagé depuis longtemps (en France) la République de la Musique; a mon égard, J’ai toujours estimé les choses qui le méritaient, sans acception d’Auteurs, ni de Nation; et les premières Sonates Italiennes qui parurent à Paris il y a plus de trente années, et qui m’encouragèrent à en composer ensuite, ne firent aucun tort dans mon esprit, ni aux ouvrages de Monsieur Lulli, ni à ceux de mes ancêtres, qui seront toujours plus admirables qu’imitables. Ainsi, par un droit que me donne ma neutralité, je vogue toujours sous les heureux auspices qui m’ont guidé jusqu’à présent. La Musique Italienne ayant le droit d’ancienneté sur la nôtre, on trouvera à la fin de ce volume une grande Sonade-en-Trio, qui a pour tître l’Apothéose de Corelli. Une légère étincelle d’amour-propre m’a déterminé à la donner en Partition. Si quelque jour ma Muse s’élève au dessus d’elle-même, j’oserai entreprendre aussi, dans un autre genre, celle de l’incomparable Monsieur de Lulli, quoique ses seuls ouvrages dussent suffire pour l’immortaliser. Les nouveaux concerts que je donne ici pourront être joints, sous une même reliure, avec les quatre premiers que j’ai donnés dans mon troisième livre de pièces de

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Clavecin; je dois même présumer que les accompagnateurs trouveront leur compte dans la façon régulière dont je les ai chiffrés. On souhaite que je donne mes Trios; mais ce ne peut être que pour l’année prochaine, vers le mois de Juillet. Translation The title of this new volume will serve not only to distinguish it from those I have already published, but is also appropriate in indicating the diversity of characters which are assembled here. Italian and French styles have for a long time (in France) shared the Republic of Music; for my part, I have always esteemed those things which have merit, without distinction of author or nation; and the first Italian sonatas which appeared in Paris more than thirty years ago, and which afterwards encouraged me to compose some, did no disservice to my mind, either to the works of Lully or to those of my forebears, who will always be as admirable as they are inimitable. Thus, by the right which my neutrality confers on me, I always sail under the favourable auspices that have guided me up to the present. Italian music having the right of seniority over ours, there will be found at the end of this volume a grand Trio Sonata entitled The Apotheosis of Corelli. A little flash of self-esteem made me publish it in score. If one day my muse rises above herself, I shall also dare to undertake, in a different genre, one in homage to the incomparable Lully, although his own works must be sufficient to immortalise him. The ‘new concerts’ which I have published here can be bound in the same volume with the first four I published in my third book of harpsichord pieces; I must in fact presume that accompanists will find the ordered way in which I have numbered them helpful. It is hoped that I shall publish my trios; but that can only be for next year, about July.

L’Apothéose de Lully (1725) Si le désir de réussir de plus en plus dans quelque ouvrage peut rendre le dernier encore meilleur, j’aurai de quoi remplir le zèle qui m’a animé à composer celuici. Ma Minerve m’a poussé à l’entreprendre presque aussitôt que j’en ai eu formé le Plan; d’ailleurs je l’avais fait espérer au Public dans le Livre de Concerts que j’ai donné au mois de Juillet dernier. Tout ce que j’appréhende, en voulant faire honneur au plus grand homme en Musique que le dernier siècle ait produit, c’est de diminuer le préjugé de ceux qui ne connaissent ses ouvrages que par la Renommée; car d’ailleurs ce qu’il a fait pour le Théâtre est au-dessus de toutes louanges; &

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de ma part, c’est plutôt un hommage que je prétends rendre à sa Mémoire, qu’un panégyrique harmonique que j’ai prétendu faire. Avis Ce Trio, ainsi que l’Apothéose de Corelli, et le Livre complet de Trios que j’espère donner au mois de Juillet prochain peuvent s’exécuter à deux Clavecins, ainsi que sur tous autres instruments. Je les exécute dans ma famille, & avec mes élèves, avec une réussite très heureuse, savoir, en jouant le premier dessus & la Basse sur un des Clavecins; & le Second, avec la même Basse sur un autre à l’unisson. La vérité est que cela engage à avoir deux exemplaires, au lieu d’un; & deux Clavecins aussi. Mais je trouve d’ailleurs qu’il est souvent plus aisé de rassembler ces deux instruments, que quatre personnes faisant leur profession de la Musique. Deux épinettes à l’unisson (à un plus grand effet près) peuvent servir de même. La seule chose qu’il faille observer, c’est de se régler toujours sur la valeur des notes pour les agréments qui doivent la remplir. Les instruments d’archet soutiennent les sons; & au contraire, le Clavecin ne pouvant les perpétuer, il faut de toute nécessité battre les cadences, ou tremblements & les autres agréments, très longtemps; & moyennant cette attention l’exécution n’en parâitra pas moins agréable; d’autant que le Clavecin a dans son espèce un brillant, & une netteté qu’on ne trouve guère dans les autres instruments. Je continuerai mes ouvrages dans la forme où j’ai donné les précédents, pour la commodité de ceux qui en veulent faire relier plusieurs dans un seul volume. Translation If the desire to succeed more and more in some works can make the latest one still better, it is this that will have filled me with the zeal to compose this work. My muse urged me to undertake it almost as soon as I had formulated the plan for it; moreover, I had allowed the public to hope for it in the book of Concerts that I published in July last year. All I want, by attempting to honour to the greatest man in music the last century produced, is to diminish the prejudice of those who know his work only by reputation; for, moreover, what he produced for the theatre is beyond all praise; and on my part, it is more a homage that I claim to offer to his memory than a musical panegyric. Notice This trio, like the Apotheosis of Corelli, and the complete book of trios that I hope to publish next July, can be played on two harpsichords, as well as on any other instrument. I play them with my family and students very successfully: namely by playing the first treble part and the bass on one of the harpsichords, and the second treble part, with the same bass, on another tuned to the same pitch. The

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truth is that this requires two copies instead of one, and two harpsichords as well. But, nevertheless, I find that it is often easier to find two instruments than four professional musicians. Two spinets tuned to the same pitch can be used (often to very good effect) in the same way. The only thing that must be observed is always to control the length of the ornaments which must correspond to the length of the notes. Bowed instruments sustain sounds; on the contrary, since the harpsichord is unable to carry them on, it is absolutely necessary to keep the cadences, trills, and other ornaments going for a very long time; and provided this is done, the execution will not seem less pleasing; especially as the harpsichord possesses a brilliance and clarity that is not much found in other instruments. I shall continue writing my compositions in the format of the previous ones for the convenience of those who want to bind several of them in a single volume.

Les Nations (Aveu de l’Auteur au Public, 1726) Il y a quelques Années, déjà, qu’une Partie de ces Trios a été composée : il y en eut quelques Manuscrits répandus dans le monde, dont je me défie par la négligence des Copistes. De temps à autre, j’en ai augmenté le nombre; et je crois que les Amateurs du vrai en seront satisfaits. La première Sonate de ce Recueil fut aussi la première que je composai, et qui ait été composée en France. L’histoire même en est singulière. Charmé de celles du signor Corelli, dont j’aimerai les œuvres tant que je vivrai, ainsi que les ouvrages français de Monsieur de Lulli, j’hasardai d’en composer une, que je fis exécuter dans le Concert où j’avais entendu celles de Corelli. Connaissant l’âpreté des français pour les nouveautés étrangères sur toutes choses, et me défiant de moi-même, je me rendis, par un petit mensonge officieux, un très bon service. Je feignis qu’un parent que j’ai, effectivement, auprès du Roy de Sardaigne, m’avait envoyé une Sonate d’un nouvel Auteur italien: Je rangeai les lettres de mon nom de façon que cela forma un nom italien, que je mis à la place. La Sonate fut dévorée avec empressement, et j’en tairai l’apologie. Cela cependant m’encouragea. J’en fis d’autres; et mon nom italianisé m’attira, sous le masque, de grands applaudissements. Mes Sonates, heureusement, prirent assez de faveur pour que l’équivoque ne m’ait point fait rougir. J’ai comparé ces premières Sonates avec celles que j’ai faites depuis, et n’y ai pas changé ni augmenté grand-chose. J’y ai joint seulement de grandes Suites de Pièces auxquelles les Sonates ne servent que de Préludes ou d’espèces d’introductions. Je souhaite que le Public désintéressé en soit content. Car il y a toujours Contradicteurs, qui sont plus à redouter que les bons Critiques, dont on tire souvent, contre leur intention, des avis très salutaires. Les premiers sont méprisables, et je m’acquitte d’avance envers eux avec usure. Il me reste un nombre assez considérable de ces Trios pour en former dans la suite un Volume aussi complet que celui-ci.

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Translation It is a few years now since one part of these trios was composed; a few manuscripts of them were distributed to the public, but I have little faith in them because of the negligence of the copyists. From time to time I have added to their number, and I believe that those who love truth will find them to their liking. The first Sonata in this collection is also the first that I composed and the first of its kind to be composed in France. It has quite a singular story. Charmed by the sonatas of Signor Corelli, whose compositions I shall love as long as I live, and by the French works of M. de Lully, I ventured to compose a sonata myself which I had played by the same group as I had heard play Corelli’s. Knowing how avid the French are for foreign novelties of all kinds, and lacking confidence in myself, I did myself a favour by telling a white lie. I pretended that a relative of mine that I actually do have [his cousin Marc-Roger Norman] and who is attached to the court of Sardinia, had sent me a sonata by a new Italian composer. I arranged the letters of my name so as to form an Italian name which I gave instead. The sonata was received with much acclaim and I shall say nothing further in its defence. However, that encouraged me. I wrote others and my italianised name brought me, in disguise, great applause. Fortunately, my sonatas enjoyed sufficient favour for me not to blush at my subterfuge. I have compared these first sonatas with those I have written since and have not changed or added anything much. I have simply included some long suites to which the sonatas merely act as preludes or a kind of introduction. I hope that the unbiased public will be pleased with them. For there are always prejudiced fault-finders who are more to be feared than those who criticise fairly, for these often unintentionally give some very good advice. The former are despicable and I am always ready to pay them back with interest. I have a sufficiently great number of these trios to make another volume of them later on, just as large as this one.

Pièces de clavecin (Quatrième livre, 1730) Il y a environ trois ans que ces pièces sont achevées. Mais, comme ma santé diminue de jour en jour, mes amis m’ont conseillé de cesser de travailler et je n’ai pas fait de grands ouvrages depuis. Je remercie le Public de l’applaudissement qu’il a bien voulu leur donner jusqu’ici, et je crois en mériter une partie par le zèle que j’ai eu à lui plaire. Comme personne n’a guère plus composé que moi dans plusieurs genres, J’espère que ma Famille trouvera dans mes Portefeuilles de quoi me faire regretter, si les regrets nous servent à quelque chose après la Vie; mais il faut du moins avoir cette idée pour tâcher de mériter une immortalité chimérique où presque tous les Hommes aspirent.

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Translation It is about three years since these pieces were completed, but, as my health worsens day by day, my friends advised me to stop working and I have composed no major works since then. I thank the public for the favourable reception it has been pleased to give them up to now, and I believe I have partly earned it through the zeal I have shown in pleasing it. As there is scarcely anyone who has composed in various genres more than I have, I hope that my family will find in my portfolios things that will cause me to be missed, if such feelings are useful to us in any way after our life is over; but one must at least have this idea, so as to try to merit an imaginary immortality to which almost all men aspire.

Appendix C

Entry on François Couperin in Titon du Tillet’s Le Parnasse françois (Paris, 1732, Suppl. 1743) pp. 664–6 François Couperin Parisien, Organiste de la Chapelle. Mort à Paris le 12 Septembre 1733 dans la 65 année de son âge, inhumé en l’Eglise de S. Joseph, Aide de la Paroisse de S. Eustache Son père, Charles Couperin, Organiste de l’Eglise de S. Gervais, fut un des meilleurs Organistes de son tems; il mourut âgé de 40 ans en l’année 1679 et eut pour fils celui dont on parle ici, qu’il laissa âgé de dix ans, & hors d’état d’avoir pû profiter de ses leçons & de son sçavoir; mais le jeune Couperin trouva en Tomelin, Organiste de l’Eglise S. Jacques de la Boucherie, homme très-celebre dans son Art, un second pere, qui se fit un plaisir de le perfectionner dans l’Orgue & et le Clavecin, & dans la Composition. François Couperin avoit des dispositions si grands pour son Art, qu’en peu de tems il devint excellent Organiste, & qu’il fut mis en possession de l’Orgue qu’avoit eu son pere. Pendant plus de trente ans qu’il a eu cette Orgue, il attiroit un grand concours de monde, & d’habiles Musiciens qui l’écoutaient avec beaucoup de plaisir, & qui admiraient son beau génie, & son heureuse exécution. Le Roi Louis XIV lui donna vers l’an 1700 la place d’Organiste de sa Chapelle, & depuis il le reçut en survivance à la Charge de Clavecin de sa Chambre, dont le sieur d’Anglebert est Titulaire. Couperin eut l’honneur de montrer à jouer du Clavecin à M. le Duc de Bourgogne, Dauphin de France, de même qu’à Madame Anne de Bourbon Douairière de Conti, & à M. Louis-Alexandre de Bourbon, Comte de Toulouse, qui lui a continué une pension de mille livres jusqu’à sa mort. Le grand nombre des Oeuvres de Couperin, fait connaître la beauté & la fécondité de son génie. Il a fait graver diverses Pièces de Clavecin, en quatre volumes in folio; on peut dire qu’elles sont d’un goût nouveau, & d’un caractére où l’Auteur doit passer pour Original. Ces Pièces remplies d’une excellent harmonie, ont un chant noble & gracieux; & ce chant même a paru si beau & si naturel qu’on a composé des Paroles sur la Musique de quelques-unes; elles peuvent être joüées sur le Violon & sur la Flute, de même que sur le Clavecin. Ces Pièces ont fait honneur à leur Auteur, non seulement dans toute la France, mais encore dans les pays étrangers; elles sont très-estimées en Italie, en Angleterre & en Allemagne. Son divertissement

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intitulé, Les Goûts réunis, ou L’Apothéose de LULLY & de CORELLI a eu la même vogue que les Pièces précédentes. Ces livres se vendent chez Christophe Ballard Imprimeur du Roi, & chez François Boivin à la Regle d’Or ruë S. Honoré, de même qu’un livre de Trio de Violons. Couperin a fait encore plusieurs autres Ouvrages qui n’ont point encore été gravés ni imprimés; sçavoir, un Concert de violes; des Cantates; des Leçons de Tenebres; une grande quantité de Motets dont douze à grand Chœur ont été chantés à la Chapelle du Roi devant Louis XIV, qui en fut très satisfait, de même que toute la Cour. La Demoiselle Louise Couperin sa cousine, Musicienne-Pensionnaire du Roi, y chantoit plusieurs Versets avec un grande légéreté de voix, & un goût merveilleux. Couperin a été marié à la Demoiselle Marie-Anne Ansault, dont il a eu deux filles, dignes héritieres des talens de leur Père pour toucher l’Orgue & le Clavecin : l’aînée s’appelle Marie-Anne, elle est Religieuse Bernardine de l’Abbaye Royale de Maubuisson près Pontoise; & la cadette se nomme Marguerite-Antoinette. Le Roi a accordé à celle-ci en faveur de la manière sçavante & admirable dont elle joüe du Clavecin, une grâce singuliere, c’est la survivance qu’avait son Père de la charge de Clavecin de la Chambre, qui s’en était démis deux ans avant sa mort. (Charge, qui n’avoit été remplie jusqu’à présent que par des hommes.) C’est elle qui l’exerce dans tous les Concerts se font dans les Appartemens du Roi & de la Reine, le Titulaire étant trop vieux pour en remplir les fonctions. Le Roi a choisi aussi cette Demoiselle pour montrer à joüer du Clavecin à Mesdames de France. (pp. 664–6) Translation François Couperin Parisien, Organist of the Royal Chapel, died in Paris on 12. September 1733 in the 65th year of his life, buried in St Joseph’s Church, in the Parish of St Eustache His father, Charles Couperin, Organist of the Church of St. Gervais, was one of the best organists of his time; he died at the age of 40 in 1679, leaving a son, of whom we speak here, aged ten years, who was unable to take advantage of his (father’s) lessons and experience; but the young Couperin found in Thomelin, organist of the Church of St. Jacques de la Boucherie, and a man very distinguished in his art, a second father who had the pleasure of developing his skills as organist, harpsichordist and composer. François Couperin had such great natural gifts for his art that he soon became an excellent organist, and took the place of his father at the organ. During more than 30 years while he was at this organ, he drew large crowds and skilled musicians who listened to him with great pleasure and who admired him for his genius and fine playing. Towards 1700 King Louis XIV appointed him as organist of his Chapel and later took over the position of Chamber Harpsichordist from D’Anglebert. Couperin

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had the honour to teach harpsichord to the Duke of Burgundy, Dauphin of France, as well as to the Dowager Madame Anne de Bourbon de Conti and to M LouisAlexandre de Bourbon, Count of Toulouse, who provided him with a life pension of a thousand livres. The beauty and richness of his genius was made known through Couperin’s large output of works. He published various harpsichord pieces in four folio volumes; one can say that they were in a new style and of original character. These pieces, filled with excellent harmony, have noble and gracious melodies; these same melodies seem to be so beautiful and natural that words have been written for some of them; they can be played on violin and on flute as well as on harpsichord. These pieces do honour to their composer not only throughout France, but also in foreign countries; they are highly regarded in Italy, England and Germany. His divertissement called Les Goûts réunis or L’Apothéose de Lully and de Corelli have enjoyed the same vogue as the previous ones. These publications are sold by Christophe Ballard, Royal Printer, and by François Boivin at the Règle d’Or in rue St-Honoré, as well as his Livre de Trio de Violons. Couperin has composed several other works which have not yet been engraved or printed; namely, Un Concert de violes, Cantates; Leçons de ténèbres; a large number of Motets of which a dozen for large choir have been sung at the Royal Chapel in the presence of Louis XIV who was very pleased with them, as was the whole court. His cousin Mlle Louise Couperin – now retired court musician – sang several Versets there with remarkable lightness of voice and wonderful style. Couperin married Marie-Anne Ansault from whom he had two daughters, worthy inheritors of their father’s gifts as organist and harpsichordist: the elder, MarieAnne, is a Benedictine nun at the Royal Abbey of Maubisson near Pontoise; and the younger is Marguerite Antoinette. Because of her knowledge and skill of harpsichord playing, the king, with singular favour, allowed the latter to take over the duties that her father had held as harpsichordist in the royal chamber which he had relinquished two years before his death (a post which up until then had been filled only by men). It was she who performed in all the concerts in the king’s and the queen’s apartments, the official harpsichordist being too old to fulfil his duties. The king also chose this young woman to teach harpsichord to the Princesses of France.

Appendix D

Paris Ceremonial From Chapter 6: Of organists and organs, for the use of all collegiate, parish and other churches of the city and diocese of Paris, by Martin Sonnet, Priest, Paris 1662, pp. 534–9 WHEN THE ORGAN IS TO BE PLAYED 11 At Mass it is played at the Kyrie eleison; at the Gloria in excelsis; at the repetition of the Alleluia with its neum, and at the last neum of the Alleluia before the gospel; at the sequence; at the offertory as far as the preface, unless a homily is given at that time or an announcement made, in which case the playing of the organ would cease and resume afterwards up to the preface; at the Sanctus and at the Benedictus, after the elevation of the Blessed Sacrament, up to the Lord’s prayer; at the Agnus Dei; and at the Deo gratias after the Ite missa est …. It is not played at the Credo, but this is to be chanted.

WHEN THE NOTES OF THE PLAINSONG ARE TO BE PLAYED 16. The plainsong is to be played by the organ during certain prayers both at Mass and the Hours to guide the celebrant, the singers and other officiants and the whole choir during the sacred liturgy and to give the correct pitch to the singers, lest cacophony and dissonance of voices result from its omission. I7. Therefore at Mass the plainsong is played at the first and the last Kyrie eleison; at Et in terra pax etc.; at Suscipe deprecationem nostram; at In gloria Dei Patris. Amen; at the sequence; at the first Sanctus; at the Agnus Dei; and at the Domine salvum fac regem.

WHEN THE ORGAN IS TO BE PLAYED EXPRESSIVELY, SERIOUSLY, SMOOTHLY, SWEETLY AND HARMONIOUSLY, IN ORDER TO MOVE CLERGY AND PEOPLE TO GREATER DEVOTION 22. At Mass, at Suscipe deprecationem and at Tu solus altissimus Iesu Christe; at the solemn verse of sequences in which an invocation is made, whether this be

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sung three times or only once; after the elevation of the Blessed Sacrament; and also while Holy Communion is being administered.

Appendix E

Text and Translation of the Lessons from the First Nocturn of Matins for Maundy Thursday Lesson 1 Aleph Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! Facta est quasi vidua, Domina gentium: princeps provinciarum facta est sub tributo. How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people! How is she become as a widow! She that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary! Beth Plorans ploravit in nocte, et lachrymae ejus in maxillis ejus: non est qui consoletur eam ex omnibus charis ejus. Omnes amici ejus spreverunt eam, et facti sunt ei inimici. She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: among all her lovers she hath none to comfort he: all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies. Gimel Migravit Juda propter afflictionem et multitudinem servitutis: habitavit inter gentes, nec invenit requiem: omnes persecutores ejus apprehenderunt eam inter angustias. Judah is gone into captivity because of affliction, and because of great servitude: she dwelleth among the heathen, she findeth no rest: all her persecutors overtook her between the straits. Daleth Viae Sion lugent, eo quod non sint qui veniant ad solemnitatem: omnes portae ejus destructae, sacerdotes ejus gementes, virgines ejus squalidae, et ipsa oppressa amaritudine. The ways of Zion do mourn, because none come to the solemn feasts: all her gates are desolate: her priests sigh, her virgins are afflicted, and she is in bitterness. He Facti sunt hostes ejus in capite, inimici ejus locupletati sunt; quia Dominus locutus

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est super eam propter multitudinem iniquitatum ejus: parvuli ejus ducti sunt in captivitatem, ante faciem tribulantis. Her adversaries are the chief, her enemies prosper; for the Lord hath afflicted her for the multitude of her transgressions: her children are gone into captivity before the enemy. Jerusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum. Jerusalem, turn to the Lord thy God. Responsory: In monte Oliveti ... Lesson 2 Vau Et egressus est a filia Sion omnis decor ejus: facti sunt principes ejus velut arietes non invenientes pascua: et abierunt absque fortitudine ante faciem subsequentis. And from the daughter of Zion all her beauty is departed: her princes are become like harts that find no pasture, and they are gone without strength before the pursuer. Zain Recordata est Jerusalem dierum afflictionis suae et praevaricationis, omnium desiderabilium suorum, quae habuerat a diebus antiquis, cum caderet populus ejus in manu hostili, et non esset auxiliator: viderunt eam hostes, et deriserunt sabbata ejus. Jerusalem remembered in the days of her affliction and of her miseries all her pleasant things that she had in the days of old, when her people fell into the hand of the enemy, and none did help her: the adversaries saw her, and did mock at her sabbaths. Heth Peccatum peccavit Jerusalem, propterea instabilis facta est: omnes, qui glorificabant eam, spreverunt illam, quia viderunt ignominiam ejus: ipsa autem gemens conversa est retrorsum. Jerusalem hath grievously sinned; therefore she is removed: all that honoured her despise her, because they have seen her nakedness: yea, she sigheth, and turned backward. Teth Sordes ejus in pedibus ejus, nec recordata est finis sui: deposita est vehementer, non habens consolatorem: vide, Domine, afflictionem meam, quoniam erectus est inimicus.

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Her filthiness is in her skirts; she remembereth not her last end; therefore she came down wonderfully; she had no comforter. O Lord, behold my affliction: for the enemy hath magnified himself. Jerusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum. Jerusalem, turn to the Lord thy God. Responsory: Tristis est anima mea ... Lesson 3 Jod Manum suam misit hostis ad omnia desiderabilia ejus: quia vidit gentes ingressas sanctuarium suum, de quibus praeceperas ne intrarent in ecclesiam tuam. The adversary hath spread out his hand upon all her pleasant things; for she hath seen that the heathen entered into her sanctuary, whom thou didst command that they should not enter into thy congregation. Caph Omnis populis ejus gemens, et quaerens panem: dederunt pretiosa quaeque pro cibo ad refocillandam animam. Vide, Domine, et considera, quoniam facta sum vilis. All her people sigh, they seek bread; they have given their pleasant things for meat to relieve the soul: see, O Lord, and consider; for I am become vile. Lamed O vos omnes, qui transitis per viam, attendite, et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus: quoniam vindemiavit me, ut locutus est Dominus in die irae furoris sui. Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in day of his fierce anger. Mem De excelso misit ignem in ossibus meis, et erudivit me: expandit rete pedibus meis, convertit me retrorsum: posuit me desolatam, tota die moerore confectam. From above hath he sent fire into my bones, and it prevaileth against them: he hath spread a net for my feet, he hath turned me back: he hath made me desolate and faint all the day. Nun Vigilavit jugum iniquitatum mearum: in manu ejus convolutae sunt, et impositae collo meo: infirmata est virtus mea: dedit me Dominus in manu, de qua non potero surgere.

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The yoke of my transgressions is bound by his hand: they are wreathed, and come up upon my neck: he hath made my strength to fall, the Lord hath delivered me into their hands, from whom I am not able to rise up. Jerusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum. Jerusalem, turn to the Lord thy God.

(Translation from the King James Version, 1611)

Appendix F

Dance Forms in Couperin’s Music Allemande Although no longer danced in Couperin’s time the allemande remained a favourite first movement in an instrumental dance suite, its somewhat grave and noble style seen as an appropriate opening gesture. The serious style of this dance, which apparently originated in Germany in the fifteenth century, was noted by Arbeau in his Orchésographie (1588) who described it as a rather sedate dance (médiocre gravité) in four slow beats in which the couples advanced in procession. When it dropped out of favour as a ballroom dance in the seventeenth century, retaining its identity only as an instrumental piece, it developed a stereotyped anacrusis opening flourish of three semiquavers or sixteenth-notes and a more sophisticated musical character.

Bourrée One of the most popular seventeenth-century dances both in the ballroom and on the stage, the bourrée was light and fast in two beats to the bar (invariably notated in alla breve). Despite its popularity Couperin included only two examples of this dance, both of them in his collection Les Nations.

Canaries Arbeau did not share the belief in his day that this dance originated from the Canary Islands, but rather from an exotic ballet with the dancers dressed as savages in highly coloured feathers. It became popular in France in the seventeenth century, especially in the ballet de cour and in later stage works. It was a very lively (and difficult) dance for two people, and although the example of its music given by Arbeau is in simple duple time the later form is in compound duple time, with sharp dotted rhythms and an anacrusis start. It is, thus, not unlike a gigue. Couperin’s sole example comes from his 2nd Ordre for harpsichord, which he also provides with a double.

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Chaconne and Passacaille Theorists (such as Brossard) seem to have made distinctions between these two dances that were not observed by composers. Couperin used the terms interchangeably (see pp. 114–15). Although by Couperin’s day neither chaconne nor passacaille were being danced in the ballroom, they were often incorporated into French operas, their length and grandeur being useful for bringing a scene or an act to an impressive conclusion. The possibility for them becoming long and expansive dances lay in the fact that the music was based on a repeating set of harmonies or bass lines, this cyclic form usually extending through a rondo structure in which the opening theme alternated with contrasting refrains (couplets). Their grandeur came from the slow, relentless tread of the music, almost invariably in triple time, although Couperin also provides a most unusual example of a chaconne in duple time – La favorite in the 3rd keyboard Ordre.

Courante During the seventeenth century the courante changed from a lively duple dance, as described by Arbeau, into a slower one, the music (notated in 3/2 or 6/4) flowing ambiguously between duple and triple rhythms. After the opening ensemble dances (branles or gavottes) the courante was the first of the dances for just two people – the ‘exhibition’ dances, so to speak, that were at the heart of the formal court balls. Requiring great control and nobility of carriage rather than brilliant technical movements, it was nevertheless one of the most difficult dances to master and was Louis XIV’s favourite. The principal step, the temps de courante or pas grave, set the restrained tempo and serious character of dance. While by the end of the seventeenth century the courante was no longer a popular dance in the ballroom, its place in the instrumental suite (perhaps because of its musical interest through subtle, shifting rhythms) seemed assured during the first half of the next century. As in the ballroom where it had followed the opening dance, so in the suite it followed the opening allemande. Couperin clearly demonstrated the difference between the French courante and the Italian corrento in the fourth of his Concerts royaux.

Forlane The fourth of Couperin’s Concerts royaux also provides his only example of the forlane, a dance that originated in northern Italy in the sixteenth century and which was particularly associated with Venice where it was a fairly lusty courtship dance. When brought to the French court in the following century it was transformed into a more refined dance, although still energetic. On stage it seems to have been often associated with gypsies and so on (as in Campra’s Le carnaval de Venise of 1699).

Appendix F: Dance Forms in Couperin’s Music

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It was in a bright compound rhythm (usually notated in 6/4) danced by one or two couples. Its music involved considerable phrase repetition.

Gavotte In its earliest court appearances in the seventeenth century the gavotte, which originated as a folk dance in Brittany, was closely associated with the opening ensemble dances known as branles in which the dancers performed in a circle. Indeed, the gavotte can be considered as a special category of the branle. In later years it was also danced by one couple, both forms enjoying popularity in the ballroom and on the stage. In the eighteenth century the dance known as contredanse often used music written for the gavotte. It was a brisk duple time dance (usually notated in alla breve) commencing with an anacrusis on the second beat and moving in four- or eight-bar phrases in a fairly simple musical style against which were danced a great variety of steps. If included at all in the instrumental suite its uncomplicated and tuneful musical style led to the gavotte being placed after the more serious movements (allemande, courante, sarabande). Thirteen of them (sometimes spelt as gavote) are found in Couperin’s keyboard and orchestral works, one of which – in the first book of harpsichord ordres – is provided with a double.

Gigue The gigue was introduced into France in the middle of the seventeenth century by the lutenist Jacques Gautier who, while working in London as a court musician, became familiar with the British dance called the jig. On his return to France he and other lutenists, as well as harpsichordists, included it in their instrumental suites, but it also became popular as a dance in the ballroom and on stage. It is predominantly a fast dance in compound duple time, with sharp, pointed rhythms. In the instrumental suites composers, including Couperin who wrote nine gigues, often employed imitative counterpoint between treble and bass parts and exploited the technique of style brisé (see pp. 131–3).

Loure It has been suggested that the name of this dance may come from the bagpipe-like instrument from Normandy called the louré. The dance became popular towards the end of the seventeenth century mainly on the stage where its virtuosity was appreciated. Its principal step was a coup de mouvement (a step and a spring) which Pierre Rameau described as being ‘placed in the dance in different ways

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and so appropriately that it seems that the leg expresses the notes’. Nevertheless, musically the loure was a slow dance – a slow gigue, in fact – the two dances sharing the compound duple metre and characteristic anacrusis at the beginning. Couperin composed a loure for the theatrically-inspired eighth concert and also what he described as a gigue lourée in his eleventh concert.

Menuet The origins of this dance are contradictory and unclear. What is known, however, is that it was introduced to the French court in the middle of the seventeenth century, its elegance and grace quickly making it the most favoured ballroom dance. It was a dance for two people, each facing the other at opposite ends of an imaginary Z or S shaped line, passing each other in the middle of this floor pattern. The basic step was a pas de menuet, a series of four steps which extended over two bars of music, thus forming a counterpoint of 3/2 against the 3/4 of the music. It remained popular in the ballroom and in the instrumental suite for many years. Couperin’s nine menuets are found in his works for harpsichord and chamber music.

Passacaille see Chaconne

Passepied Originally from Brittany the passepied was introduced into the French court at the time of Louis XIV where it was changed from a duple metre dance to a triple metre one and given the same steps as a menuet, but in a faster tempo. Like the menuet it was a dance for two people. Couperin’s sole example of a passepied is in his second harpsichord ordre.

Rigaudon A dance similar to the bourrée, the rigaudon borrowed steps from a number of other dances although it also featured its own pas de rigaudon described as an energetic kicking and jumping step. It was a fast dance in duple time with a short anacrusis and four-bar phrase lengths. There were a number of early provençal folkdances of the same name but their relationship with the popular court dance of the second half of the seventeenth century is unclear. Couperin’s two rigaudons come from the 2nd harpsichord Ordre and the 4th Concert.

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161

Sarabande The courtly French sarabande has little to do with the Spanish zarabanda from which it was derived and which was transformed from what was once described as a wild and lascivious dance into a serious and stately one for ballroom and stage. In its later form it seems to have taken on a number of guises from slow to fast, depending upon the aim of the choreographer. The emphasis upon the second beat of its triple metre is a feature of many sarabandes. Couperin included twentytwo such dances in his works for harpsichord and chamber music, many of them marked sarabande grave.

Sicilienne Little is known about this dance, either its Italian origins or its steps. Judging by the music it was brisk dance in compound duple time. Couperin left only one example – the final movement in his 5th harpsichord Ordre. Sources. Readers are referred to modern publications listed in the Bibliography by Rebecca Harris-Warrick, Wendy Hilton, Francine Lancelot, Meredith Little, Betty Mather, Margaret Mullins, Patricia Ranum.

Appendix G

Couperin’s Table of Ornaments

Appendix G: Couperin’s Table of Ornaments

163

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Dreyfus, Laurence, ‘Idiomatic Betrayals: Couperin as composer for the viol’, François Couperin : nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 205–20. Faret, Le Sieur, L’Honneste-Homme, ou, l’art de plaire à la cour (Paris, 1630). Fellowes, E.H.,‘The Philidor Manuscripts, Paris, Versailles, Tenbury’, Music & Letters, XII (1931), 116–29. Fuller, David, ‘French harpsichord playing in the seventeenth century: after Le Gallois’, Early Music, IV/1 (1976), 22–26. Galliver, David, ‘Cantare con la Gorga: the Coloratura Technique of the Renaissance Singer’, Studies in Music, VII (1973), 10–18. Galliver, David, ‘Cantare con Affetto – keynote of the Bel Canto’, Studies in Music, VIII (1974), 1–7. Gilbert, Kenneth, ‘Les barricades toujours mystérieuses – Ambiguïtes et curiosités dans la notation des Pièces de clavecin’, Couperin : nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 65–78. Glotz, Marguerite and Maire, Madeleine, Salons du XVIIIe siècle, (Paris, 1949). Grimarest, Jean-Léonor Le Gallois, sieur de, Traité du récitatif (Paris, 1707). Harris-Warrick, Rebecca, ‘Ballroom dancing at the Court of Louis XIV’, Early Music, XIV/1 (1986). Hefling, Stephen E., Rhythmic Alteration in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Music (New York, 1993). Higginbottom, Edward, ‘French Classical Organ Music and the Liturgy’, Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 103 (1976–77), 19–40. Hillairet, Jacques, Dictionnaire historique des rues de Paris (Paris, 1985), 2 vols. Hilton, Wendy, ‘A Dance for Kings: the Seventeenth-Century French Courante’, Early Music, V/2 (1977), 160–72. Hilton, Wendy, Dance and Music of Court and Theater: The French Noble Style 1690–1725 (London & Princeton, 1981). Holman, Peter, ‘An orchestral suite by François Couperin?’, Early Music 14/1 (1986), 71–6. Isherwood, Robert, Music in the Service of the King (New York, 1973). Lancelot, Francine, ‘L’écriture Feuillet: Regards sur terminologie et typologie’, recherche en danse, w/4 (1985), 19–28. Launay, Denise, ‘Church Music in France 1630–60’, New Oxford History of Music, 5 (1975). Jean-Laurent, Le Cerf de la Viéville, Comparaison de la musique italienne et de la musique françoise (Brussels, 1704). Le Moël, Michel, ‘Un foyer d’italianism à la fin du XVIIe: Nicolas Mathieu, curé de SaintAndré-des-Arts’, Recherches dans la musique française classique, III (1963), 5–10. Ledbetter, David, Harpsichord and Lute music in 17th-Century France (Bloomington, 1987). Lesure, François, ‘Une querelle sur le jeu de la viole’, Revue de Musicologie, XLV (1960), 181–99. Little, Meredith E., ‘Dance under Louis XIV’, Early Music, III/4 (1975), 331–40. Maroney, Davitt, ‘Couperin et les Contradicteurs’: la révision de L’art de toucher le Clavecin’, Couperin: Nouveaux regards (Villecroze, 1995), 163–181. Massip, Catherine, ‘Airs français et italiens dans l’édition française 1643–1710’, Revue de Musicologie, 77/2 (1991), 179–85.

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Index Académie d’Architecture, 5 Académie d’Opéra, 5, 22 Académie de Danse, 5, 8, 9 Académie des Sciences, 5 Académie Française de Rome, 38 Académie Royale de Musique, 5, 32 Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, 5 Air à boire, 9, 10, 29 Air à danser, 9, 29, 31 Air de cour, 9, 24–6, 28, 35, 38, 56, 102 Air sérieux, 9, 31 Air tendre, 9 Allemande, 9, 11, 35, 81–3, 85, 111 Arbeau, Thoinot, 81, 83 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 13, 18, 35, 106 Bacilly, Bénigne de, 10, 24, 27–30, 31, 33, 40 Baïf, Antoine, 23–4 Ballard family and publications, 6–7, 26, 32, 43, 50, 58–9, 96 Ballet de cour, 11, 33 Bassani, Giovanni Battista, 41 basse de viole (bass viol), 10, 17, 76, 94–6 basse de violon, 17 Basteron, Jacques, 61 Battistin (Jean-Baptiste Stuck), 42 Beauchamps, Pierre, 8 Beauprès, Jacques, 61 Bernier, Nicolas, 42, 46, 66–70 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 38 Blanchet (family), 104 Boesset, Antoine, 25, 32, 39 Bononcini, Giovanni Maria, 43 Boulogne, Duke of, 3 Bourbon, Anne de, 3 Bourgogne, Duchess of, 94 Bourrée, 11 Bouvard, François, 43 Branle, 8 Brevi, Giovanni Battista, 105 Brossard, Sebastian de, 43 Brunet de Molan, 76 Burney, Charles, 16 Buterne, Jean-Baptiste, 3

Caccini, Giuliano, 14, 16, 38, 39 Caeremoniale Parisiense (Paris Ceremonial), 53 Cambert, André, 43, 46–7 cantade, 76 Cantata (cantate française), 42, 46–7 Caproli, Carlo, 38 Carissimi, Giocomo, 41, 42, 43 Cavalieri, Emilio de, 40 Cavalli, Francesco, 38 Cazzati, Maurizio, 41 chaconne (see also passacaille), 9, 11, 85, 111–12 Chambonnières, Jacques de, 11, 82, 100–102, 105, 107–8, 112 Champmeslé, Mlle de, 24, 33 Chancy, François, Sieur de, 39 Chapelle Royale see Royal Chapel Chappe, Marie, 59, 60 Charpentier, Marc-Antoine, 7, 13, 40, 42, 66–70 Clérambault, Louis-Nicolas, 43, 46, 102 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, 1, 5 College of St. Michael and All Angels, 58 Collin de Blamont, François, 13 Concert Spirituel, 12 Corelli, Arcangelo, 9, 16, 42, 44–6, 76–7, 82–3, 86, 89, 113 Corrette, Michel, 15, 17, 41, 42, 76 Couperin, Family, 2 Charles (2), 2, 101 Louis, 2, 11, 35–6, 46, 56, 100–102, 105, 108, 118 Marguerite-Antoinette, 2, 5, 60, 101 Marguerite-Louise, 2, 59 Couperin, François (Le Grand) works cited sacred Ad te levavi oculos meos, 62 Aspiratio mentis ad Deum, 62 Dominum salvum fac Regem, 12 Dux itinerus fuisti, 59 Laudate pueri, 59 Leçons de ténèbres, 13, 17, 62–73 Motet de Ste Suzanne, 61 Qui dat nivem, 59, 60 Regina coeli laetare, 60 Salve Regina, 62–3

170

Index

Couperin, François (Le Grand) works cited sacred (contd) Salvum me fac Deus, 62 Tantum ergo sacramentum, 62–3 Venite exultemus Domino, 58 Versets, 58, 59, 61 chamber music Air contrafugué, 83 Air tendre, 85 Allemande fuguée, 83 Chaconne légère, 85 Concert dans le goût théatral, 85 Concerts (royaux & nouveaux), 13, 17, 80–86 Echos, 85 Fugueté, 83 L’Apothéose de Corelli, 80, 86–8 L’Apothéose de Lully, 11, 14, 18, 86, 89–94, 102 L’Astrée, 75 L’Enjouement, 85 L’Espagnole, 77 L’etc coetera, 85 La Douceur, 85 La Françoise, 76, 111 La Noble fierté, 85 La Pucelle, 75 La Steinkerke, 42, 80 La Sultane, 80 La Superbe, 80 La Visionnaire, 75 La Vivacité, 85 Le Charme, 85 Le je-ne-sçay-quoi, 85 Les Grâces, 85 Les Nations, 13, 75–80 Musète dans le goût de Carillon, 85 Muzette, 85 Pièces de violes, 94–6 Plainte, 85–6 Ritratto dell’Amore, 85 Rondeau, 85 Vocal chamber music, 96–8 harpsichord Allemande à deux clavecins, 116 Allemande La Laborieuse, 14 Fureurs bachiques, 117 L’Amphibie, 112 L’Art de toucher le clavecin, 11, 14, 18, 86, 102 L’Atalante, 117

L’Audacieuse, 111 L’Epineuse, 114 L’Etincelante, 117 La Bandoline, 104 La Bersan, 117 La Bondissante, 117 La Convalescente, 111 La Couperin, 117 La Diane, 117 La Diligente, 117 La Favorite, 114 La Juillet, 116 La Létiville, 116 La Lutine, 117 La Mézangère, 114 La Milordine, 42 La Misterieuse, 118 La Princesse de Chabeüil, 17 La Raphaèle, 116 La Régente, 111 La Sézile, 115 La Superbe, 111, 116 La Triomphante, 110, 114 La Visionaire, 105 Le Carillon de Cythère, 109 Le Dodo, 116 Le Gazouillement, 109 Le Reveille-matin, 109, 111, 116 Le Rossignol en amour, 17, 107, 109 Le Turbulent , 117 Les Bagatelles, 116 Les Baricades mistérieuses, 113 Les Charmes, 114 Les Culbutes Jxcxbxnxs, 110 Les Fastes de la grande et ancienne Mxnxstrxndsx, 110 Les Fauvettes plaintives, 109 Les Folies françoises, 109–10, 112, 113–14 Les Gondoles de Délos, 114 Les Idées heureuses, 114 Les Ombres errantes, 114 Les Petits âges, 110 Les Petits moulins à vent, 109 Les Plaisirs de St Germain-en-Laye, 42 Les Sentiments, 17 Les Silvains, 116 Les Tic-toc-choc, 116 Les Tours de passe-passe, 115 Les Tricoteuses, 109

Index Menuets croisés, 116 Musette de Choisi, 116 Musette de Taverni, 116 Papillons, 109 Passacaille (8th Ordre), 112 Première courante (1st Ordre), 108 Saillie, 117 Soeur Monique, 109, 116 courante, 8, 11, 81, 84, 85, 102 D’Anglebert, Jean-Baptiste, 2, 3 D’Anglebert, Jean-Henri, 2, 11, 100, 102–3, 105, 106, 108 D’Estival, Abbé Jacques, 60 danse noble, 8 Delalande, Michel-Richard, 2, 13, 40, 59, 42, 66–70 diminutions, 16, 39, 97, 101 doubles (see diminutions) Du Caurroy, Eustache, 31 Du Four, Antoine, 61 Du Mont, Henry, 10, 12, 40, 56 Dubois, Pierre, 80 Duval, François, 80 entrée, 33 epinette (spinet) see harpsichord Faret, Sieur, 24 Fede, Innocenza, 42 Fellowes, Edmund, 58 Feuillet, Raoul-Auger, 8 Fleury, Nicolas, 10 Forlane, 85 Formé, Nicolas. 32 Forqueray, Jean-Baptiste, 95 French violin clef, 13, 76, 93 Froberger, Johann Jacob, 102 Gaultier, Ennemond, 108 Gavotte, 8, 11, 85 Gigue, 9, 11, 102, 111 grand motet, 12, 40, 58 Grimarest, Jean-Léonor, 24 ground bass, 112 Guédron, Pierre, 39 Handel, George Frideric, 18, 35 harpsichord, 15, 103–5 Henri IV, 24, 31, 41 Hyvet de Beauprès, Jacques, 61

171

James II, 41–2 James III, 42 La Fontaine, Jean de, 97 La Guerre, Jacquet de, 102 Lalande, Michel-Richard, See Delalande Lambert, Michel, 10, 26–8, 32, 33, 66–70, 97 Le Blanc, Hubert, 95 Le Cerf de la Viéville, Jean-Laurent, 43 Le Jeune, Claude, 23 Le Maure, Catherine-Nicole, 67 Le Roux, Gaspard, 102 Le Roy, Adrian, 24 Lebègue, Nicolas-Antoine, 11, 52, 101 Legrenzi, Giovanni, 41 Lorenzani, Paolo, 38 Louis XIII, 8, 11, 26, 39 Louis XIV, 1, 3–5, 8, 12, 38, 39, 40–41, 43, 65, 80 Louis-Philippe, 58 Loulié, Etienne, 95 Loure, 85 Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 5, 6, 11, 24, 30–31, 32–4, 38, 40, 89, 95, 102, 112 lute, 9, 114 luthé, 114 Maintenon, Françoise d’Aubigné (Mme de), 3, 41, 109 Malherbe, François de, 25–6 Marais, Marin, 11, 76, 94–5 Marchand, Louis, 4, 43, 59, 102 Mary of Modena, 41 Mathieu, Nicolas, 41 Matho, Jean-Baptiste, 59 Mazarin (Giulio Mazarini), 5, 38–9 Mazza, Hiacinthe, 60 Médicis, Maria de, 25 Melani, Alessandro, 41 Ménestrandise, 110 ménestriers, 2, 13 Mersenne, Marin, 24, 39 Michau, Abbé Claude, 61 minuet, 85 Morin, Jean-Baptiste, 42, 46–7 Moulinié, Etienne, 39, 40 musete, 85 musique mesurée, 23, 25 Nivers, Guillaume-Gabriel, 2, 53, 56, 101

172 notes égales, 14 notes inégales, 14 Nyert, Pierre de, 26, 39, 40 ordre, 79, 105 organ mass, 12, 50–57 organs, French compared with German, 50–52 Orléans, Duke of (Philippe III), 42 ornaments, (and ornamentation), 14, 15–16, 106–7 Ouseley, Sir Frederick, 58 ouverture (French Overture), 6, 85, 90 Paccini, Antonio, 60 Palais Royal, 42, 58 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 35 passacaille see chaconne passepied, 11 Pécour, Louis Guillaume, 8, 14 Perrin, Pierre, 32, 59 petit motet, 12, 40, 58 Philidor, André Danican, 58, 59, 80 Pont, Guillaume de, 60 Portes, Pierre, 59 Prelude (measured and unmeasured), 100, 102 Quinault, Philippe, 33 Raguenet, François, 41 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 18, 46, 102 ravalement, 104 récit, 33 récit de basse, 33 récitatif, 33 recitativo secco, 33, 46 rigaudon, 11 Roberday, François, 55 rondeau, 85, 112–14

Index Ronsard, Pierre de, 26 Rossi, Luigi, 38, 41 Rousseau, Jean, 11, 15, 17 Royal Chapel, 2, 3, 5, 6, 12, 42 Ruckers (family), 103–4 Sacrati, Francesco, 38 Saint Eustache, 3 Saint Joseph, 3 Saint-André-des-Arts, 41 Sainte-Colombe, Sieur de, 11, 76, 94–5 Saint-Gervais, 1, 2, 3, 12, 42, 57, 102 Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie, 2 sarabande, 8, 11, 85 Scarlatti, Alessandro, 42, 97 sicilienne, 85 Sonade, 89, 93, 105 Steffani, Agostino, 43–4 Stradella, Alessandro, 41 style brisé, 11, 114–16 suite, 79, 105 survivance, 5 tempo, 16–17 théorbe, 9, 10, 81 Thomelin, Jacques, 2 Titelouze, Jehan, 55–6 Titon du Tillet, Evrard, 2, 12, 42, 59, 94, 101 Torelli, Giacomo, 38 Toulouse, Count of (Louis-Alexandre de Bourbon), 3, 58–9 tragédie-lyrique, 11, 32 transposition (into different keys), 17 vaudeville, 97 Verloge, Hilaire (also known as Alarius), 80 vers measurés, 23 void notation (croches blanches), 13, 72