Ravel wrote something so difficult he couldn't even play it, and he even dared to criticize others' performances! Linda Carducci and John Banther dive into a work that challenges the most virtuosic of soloists, its frightening accompanying poetry, and what exactly makes it so difficult. 

Show Notes

Performance of Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit

Alice-Sara Ott

The Poetry by Aloysius Bertrand

These translations are from PoetryInTranslation.

Ondine

"...I thought I heard,

Enchanting sleep, some vague harmony,

As like murmurings rose, all about me,

Songs, weaving many a sad tender word."

Charles Brugnot, Les deux Génies.

— ‘Listen! — ‘Listen! — It is I, Ondine, who brushes with drops of water your window’s sonorous panes lit by the dim rays of the moon; and there, in her silk moiré dress, is the lady of the manor, who contemplates from her balcony, the beauty of the starry night, and of the slumbering lake.

Every wave’s an Ondine swimming the current, each current a path that winds towards my palace, and my palace is built of water, on the floor of the lake, in a triangle of fire, earth and air.

Listen! — Listen! — My father beats the frog-loud surface with a branch of green alder, and my sisters caress with arms of foam fresh islands of reeds, irises, water lilies, or laugh at the bearded weeping-willow fishing the stream.’

Murmuring her song, she begged me to set her ring on my finger, to wed an Ondine and visit her palace, there to be king of the lake.

But when I replied that I loved a mortal, sulking and disappointed, she wept a few tears, gave a burst of laughter, and vanished in showers of water, streaming white down my stained-glass windows tinted with blue.

Le Gibet

"What do I see moving about the gibbet?"

Goethe

Ah! Could it be that I hear the cry of the nocturnal breeze, or the hanged man’s sigh from the sinister gallows-tree?

Could it be some lurking cricket that chirps in the sterile ivy and moss with which its wood is mercifully veiled?

Could it be some buzzing fly sounding its note round those deaf ears in a fanfare of halloos?

Could it be some beetle that plucks a blood-wet hair from his naked head, in its uneven flight?

Or some spider embroidering half-an-ell of muslin as a cravat for his broken neck?

It’s the bell that rings on the city wall, below the horizon, and below the carcass of the hanged man lit by the setting sun.

Scarbo

"He looked under the bed, in the sideboard,

in the hearth — no one there. He failed

to see how he had entered or escaped."

Hoffman, Night Pieces.

Oh! How often I’ve heard and seen Scarbo, when at midnight the moon shines in the sky like a silver shield on an azure banner strewn with golden bees!

How often I’ve heard his murmur of laughter in the shadows of my alcove, and his nails squeak on the silk of the curtains round my bed!

How often I’ve seen him descend from the cornice, pirouette on one foot, and roll through the room like a spindle loosed from a witch’s distaff.

If I thought he’d grown faint, now the dwarf loomed between myself and the moon, like the bell-tower of a Gothic cathedral, the golden bell on his pointed cap ringing!

But soon his body turned blue, as diaphanous as the wax of a taper, his face turned pale as the wax of a candle – and he was suddenly extinguished.