This chapter serves to point up the significant position of ballet within Ravel's smallish oeuvre, and the idea of dance forms as a way of connecting between music and choreography, focused on movement, phrases (enchaînements) and patterning. Additionally, these two arts share an interest in animating space and time; as Mackrell comments, ‘Space isn't simply a neutral area where the dance takes place. Like the stillness between movements, it's part of the dance itself’, and ‘It is rhythm too that allows choreographers to play with Time – to drive it forward, freeze it or make it race.’ Although music and choreography exist as autonomous arts, they may still come together for greater collective effect. Despite our main focus on the musical portrayal of dance, ideas from classical ballet and flamenco will influence analytical readings of Daphnis et Chloé, La Valse and Boléro (works whose main embodiment is as ballet rather than as piano music). The first quotation heading this chapter is used to encapsulate Ravel's highly stylised and varied approach to dance (exemplified by Daphnis); the second quotation suggests the obsession intrinsic to closed dance forms which leads to Ravel's ‘apotheosis of the dance’ as a glorified ideal, followed by its destruction in La Valse and Boléro. (For more on the ‘dance-machine’ trajectory, see Mawer, Chapter 3.)

On 5 June 1821, only five months before a provincial stagecoach deposited an unsuspecting young medical student named Hector Berlioz in the “capital of the world,” Gioachino Rossini's Otello had its overwhelmingly successful Parisian première, sparking the first skirmishes in an all-out paper war that was to be officially “declared” on the very eve of Berlioz's arrival. Written for Naples and based partly on Jean-François Ducis's French adaptation of Shakespeare's tragedy, Otello (1816) was the first of the twenty-nine-year-old Pesarese's serious operas to be produced at the Théâtre Royal Italien by a management still so partial to the older Italian school of comic opera that it had only reluctantly presented Il barbiere di Siviglia two years before. For comparison's sake, Rossini's radically new setting had been faced off against Paisiello's genteel thirty-seven-year-old one, and an aggressive advance publicity campaign waged in the press by the paisiellisti. When the senior Barber closed after only two performances, other comic operas by Rossini, including the clever Italiana in Algeri, were given in eviscerated versions adapted to older Parisian taste yet borrowing so promiscuously from works soon to reach the stage as to hasten Rossini's reputation for repeating himself. When the semi-serious Cenerentola was given in 1822, for example, the over-worked heroine had already been “deflowered” by the buffo Turco in Italia in 1820, her music set to new words. And Torvaldo e Dorliska, a lesser opera semiseria quickly pronounced a “bad parody” of a revolutionary-era rescue opera then enjoying a revival at the Opéra Comique (Cherubini's Lodoïska), had been mounted that same year seemingly to provoke just such unflattering comparisons.

For Berlioz, music journalism was a double-edged sword: a financial necessity and a burden, on the one hand; an opportunity to make his views heard and to change public taste, on the other. During nearly four decades of activity as a music critic he left over nine hundred journalistic items ranging from opera and concert reviews to stories, discussions of aesthetics, and technical articles on conducting, organology, and pitch. Musical insight and literary flair combined to produce a body of criticism unparalleled in its richness but tinged, for the modern reader, with the regret that in writing so much journalism Berlioz necessarily wrote less music. Yet in using criticism to justify his art, Berlioz was at the forefront of a nineteenth-century tradition presaged by E. T. A. Hoffmann and continued by both Schumann and Wagner – a tradition of educative and even propagandistic writing (at its Wagnerian extreme) that acknowledged and attempted to close the gap between avant-garde composition and a predominantly bourgeois public with considerable purchasing power but conservative taste.

The peril of such didactic writing lay in the critic's duty to denounce what he saw as artistically suspect, which in Berlioz's case meant the music of contemporaries almost all of whom were more commercially successful than he. As a critic of integrity, Berlioz had little option but to allow his readership to know, or at least to glean, his own points of view; as a composer in need of support from more established figures at the Opéra, Conservatoire, and Académie des Beaux-Arts, he could ill afford to be perceived as a petulant spoiler of reputations.

Berlioz made it easy to become acquainted with his short stories when he included them in Les Soirées de l'orchestre, a comic masterpiece that appeared in 1852 and has remained in print to this day. The creation of that volume out of previously published stories, biographies of composers, and other journalistic writing about music was a stroke of literary genius parallel to the musical inspiration, six years before, of La Damnation de Faust, which cast into dramatic form the individual scenes he had set from Goethe's poem in 1828. Of such mid-career recastings the most famous contemporary example was Balzac's Comédie humaine, announced in 1842 on the basis of previous and projected writings, and still in progress at the writer's death in 1850. It seems fitting that Berlioz should mention Balzac at the start of both Les Soirées and its sequel of 1859, Les Grotesques de la musique. By their extraordinary range and variety, Berlioz's two volumes put one in mind of a human comedy of the musical world – comedy both in the usual sense of farce, wit, irony, and humor, and in the Balzacian sense (derived from Dante) of drama in the world-theatre of human events.

The many masks of Ravel

Our image of Maurice Ravel is still partly obscured by mystery and intangibility, and by some lingering misunderstandings. This situation arises as a result of various factors: Ravel's own actions, his elusive blend of French, Basque and Spanish traits and the quirks of reception across the years (for instance, the emphasis on his undoubted skills of orchestration has to some extent down-played the actual substance of much of his orchestral music). Even in his lifetime, an interviewer for De Telegraaf exclaimed, literally and figuratively: ‘It is not easy to find the hiding place of Maurice Ravel.’

How then might we think about Ravel? He himself sometimes adopted the metaphor of masks, so popular in contemporary dramatic and balletic productions. Castigating the self-conscious academicism of Georges Witkowski, a pupil of d'Indy, he declared: ‘How far this repulsive intellectual logic is from sensibility! Nevertheless, behind this dour mask, one discerns a profound, vibrant musician at every moment.’ Among Ravel's early biographers, Vladimir Jankélévitch, especially, developed this image of masks in relation to the composer's compositional aesthetic: ‘Ravel is friend to trompe-l'œil, deceptions, merry-go-round horses and booby-traps; Ravel is masked.’

So what is the nature of the masks, or distorting mirrors, behind which we might seek Ravel? (In posing this question, we're aware of the impossibility of the quest: in peeling off one mask there is invariably another beneath; furthermore, the masks are so bound up with Ravel's identity that, at one level, they are part of him. No mask: no Ravel.)

Berlioz was no ordinary symphonist. In the course of his career he wrote four works that he himself categorized in that genre, but not one of these is traditional in either form or style. By far the most famous of the group is the Symphonie fantastique, a work whose curious autobiographical program and unusual orchestrational effects have kept it alive in the orchestral repertory ever since its première in 1830. The other three symphonies of Berlioz are less well known, but equally non-traditional. Harold en Italie makes use of a concerto-like solo viola to help depict recollections of Italy. Roméo et Juliette draws heavily on the use of solo and choral singing to reinterpret Shakespeare's drama. And the Symphonie funèbre et triomphale is clearly a work for concert band. In many ways these works are not symphonies at all – at least not when measured against the familiar German repertory of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. Berlioz's symphonies frustrate and defy attempts at traditional generic classification by presenting listeners with an exceptional fusion of elements drawn from both opera and symphony. The result is something completely new – an unorthodox hybrid genre for which he coined the term “dramatic symphony.”

Symphonie fantastique (1830)

Berlioz's first symphony appeared only three years after the death of Beethoven – a fact that bears keeping in mind as one assesses the remarkable innovations in this work. What shocked and intrigued listeners at the première was the extremely detailed program that Berlioz attached to the work and distributed to the audience in the form of a printed leaflet. That a symphony could be inspired by a “poetic idea” was something Berlioz surely learned from Beethoven, whose Third and Fifth Symphonies he had heard in performance only two years earlier. But that a symphony could be so unreservedly autobiographical and self-confessional, in the manner of contemporary French and English literature (where novels of this type had been popular for some years), was fresh to music at that [53] time.

French musical exoticism in the nineteenth century

On 8 December 1844 Félicien David's symphonic ode Le Désert took Paris by storm. Although David had actually travelled to the Far East as a member of the Saint-Simonian expedition to find a female Messiah in 1833, it was his imaginative translation of his exotic musical souvenirs into an acceptable Westernised format which led to their success. In fact, had he incorporated melodic augmented seconds, rediscovered modes and Glinka's new whole-tone scale within his pot-pourri of melodrama, pedal-points, arabesques, conventional chromatic harmony and bombastic choruses in praise of Allah, all the clichés of nineteenth-century musical exoticism would have been present, leaving successors such as Bizet and Delibes with only the prospect of subtle refinement of his ideas. Even the perceptive Berlioz was bowled over by David's achievement, and surprisingly more by the musical qualities of Le Désert than by its then-novel pseudo-orientalism. ‘A great composer has just appeared; a masterpiece has been unveiled’, he enthusiastically exclaimed. ‘David writes like a master: his movements are carved out, developed, and transformed with as much tact as science and taste, and he is a great harmonist. His melody is always distinguished, and he orchestrates extraordinarily well.’ The same accolade would have been far more justifiable had it appeared after the first performance of Ravel's Shéhérazade songs in May 1904, and if he never passed judgement on David's ‘masterpiece’ and had little respect for Berlioz as a composer, Ravel knew better than anyone that authenticity was far less important than imagination and technique when it came to a successful exotic representation.

Many of the presuppositions and practices that prevail in contemporary aesthetics and literary criticism originate in writings from the Romantic decades. So do several positions to which the contemporary climate is hostile. Hence Romanticism is often regarded as the root of contemporary attitudes – the beginning of Modernism which, conversely, is viewed as late Romanticism – and likewise, not infrequently, as the source of the troubles from which we are now at last freeing ourselves. Obviously, no period of the past has a monopolistic claim to be the origin of the modern (or the postmodern); nor do Modernism and postmodernism begin in and as anything other than themselves, whatever elements in the past may have inspired them. Still, it is generally agreed that the writing about literature from the period between 1780 and 1830 has a special bearing on the present.

Increasingly since the Romantic era literary criticism has been concerned not just with works but with writers and readers. When Wordsworth's Preface to Lyrical ballads defines the poet as ‘a man speaking to men’, he is, to be sure, making a point about the democratization of letters (‘man’=common man) and missing one about the situation of women and women writers; both of these issues are discussed in this volume. But he is also making a novel statement about the communicative value of literature. The writer does not just provide moral exempla and frame a golden world; literature is there to be read and understood. One important new strand of Romantic criticism thus turns its attention to hermeneutics and interpretation: how do readers grasp what authors are saying? Criticism grows at once (though not always in the same writers) more psychological and more technical, two functions often joined in Romantic rhetorical theory and in its deconstructive avatars.

Ravel's popular, if somewhat misleading, identification as an ‘impressionist’ composer depends on three categories of his achievement: orchestral music, piano music and vocal music, including operas as well as songs. His chamber music is of another stripe, revealing another all-important side of his musical persona: it is classically based absolute music, without ties to texts, literary references or descriptive titles. In this regard as in so many others, he is like Debussy, but, while Debussy's chamber music frames his career at beginning and end, Ravel's chamber music follows his career throughout, providing significant landmarks at different stages.

Ravel's chamber music, like his piano music, inclines to formal variety, yet always as concisely and precisely as the classical masters whom he so much admired. One never finds the formal adventurousness and only seldom the textural experimentation that characterise the musical ‘impressionism’ of his most radical piano works like Gaspard de la nuit. Yet the essential wholeness of Ravel's personal style is never in doubt; the highly individual melodic idiom and the integrity of his harmonic language are unified between the chamber music and all the other works, in continuous evolution from the beginning of his maturity to the end of his career.

Many celebrated authors, Rousseau and Chateaubriand among them, have written memoirs that became the crowning achievements of their literary careers. But such achievements have been rare among musicians, and it is surely Berlioz who gives us the first great example. Grétry preceded him, of course, by beginning to bring out memoirs (while he was still living) in 1791. Berlioz probably knew this book – an amalgamation of biographical matters and technical details – but his musical and literary skills were frankly superior to Grétry's. One of Berlioz's heroes, Carl Maria von Weber, also wrote a somewhat autobiographical novel, but Berlioz, though probably aware of its existence, could not have read the whole text, which was published only in German. So Berlioz was a pioneer, and a rather unique one at that, for most composers, when they felt the need to express something, usually expressed it in music. How is it that Berlioz did so in writing?

For this to have come about, it was surely necessary that Berlioz not be one of those children who, from earliest childhood, are destined for music either by family tradition or by recognition of extraordinary skill, and who are thus encouraged first and foremost to develop their musical talents at the expense of all others – something that, for such individuals, usually leads to underdeveloped literary skills and ineptitude in confronting the written word. Berlioz – son of a doctor, recipient of a bachelor's degree, medical student, and, from the moment of his arrival in Paris, companion to young people literally starved for literature – was in no way devoted solely to the cult of music.

To whom did the critic speak, and who could occupy the office of ‘critic’? This chapter explores the roles of men and women of ‘letters’ in the Romantic age as a framework for understanding the vocation of Romantic criticism. Until the beginning of the nineteenth century, critics and reviewers of poetry, drama or the novel worked within the wider context of two closely related early modern categories: ‘polite literature’ and the ‘republic of letters’. The crisis of both categories, between 1780 and 1830, produced changes in culture and criticism that would profoundly alter the status of literature itself in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. ‘Polite letters’ embraced the genres of historiography, natural philosophy, moral philosophy and political discourse as well as poetry, drama and criticism itself, while significantly excluding the new genre of the novel. Resting on this basis, the early modern idea of a ‘republic of letters’ defined a territory that existed on no European map – an ‘elusive, often deliberately mysterious domain’, as Elizabeth Eisenstein remarks – yet shaped the self-understanding of European criticism until the last decade of the eighteenth century.

At that point, the historian's road map to the republic of letters becomes more obscure. By 1800 its authority over the organization of reading and writing seems to have diminished as quickly as Edmund Burke's ‘political Men of Letters’ were discredited in the French Revolution controversy of the 1790s. Instead of an idealized unity of critical reasoners embedded in modern print culture, the republic of letters became in the Romantic age a confusing clash of those ‘sects and systems’ that, according to David Hume, the early modern republic had triumphantly suppressed.

We may well wonder which of his works Berlioz – and his contemporaries – understood as “religious.” In the eighteenth century, the phrase “religious music” would have been widely understood as indicating the repertories used in worship services by the Catholic Church and by the various Protestant denominations. It was certainly not music for the concert hall or opera house, since, as everyone knew, these were places of secular entertainment, where at times immodest socializing and even licentious behavior could easily be found. Furthermore, these secular venues were in those years developing the apparatus of the modern public concert scene: the musicians' pay derived from the take at the box office, and thus the audience's curiosity and approval needed to be repeatedly won through newspaper advertising and wall-sized placards, journalists' reviews, and word of mouth. Only one genre – the oratorio – crossed over between these sharply distinct cultural spheres; in the hands of Handel, Haydn, and, in France, Mondonville and Rigel, it brought Bible stories into the hurly-burly of public concert life.

But the oratorio prefigured larger changes within the musical life of the West. The increasing cultural importance of the concert hall and opera house in the decades around 1800 allowed composers and audiences to take more seriously the kinds of music that could be made there; and this frank, if by no means consistent, incursion of seriousness made those places as natural a home as the church for the occasional exploration of religious and other spiritual (philosophical, ideological) thought and imagery.

Literary and cultural history is a hard task to pursue under the tutelage of postmodernity. Grand or master narratives are now discouraged, so that no one can any longer confidently propose Hegelian sequences describing the organic unfolding of events through time, or the immanent relation between phenomena within time, in the manner of the traditional Geistesgeschichte. The prevailing admonitions commonly appear as moralexhortations, telling us that to proliferate grand narratives is repressive and reprehensible. But the difficulties are also and even more exigently epistemological: how do we know how one thing is connected with another within a history or a culture? What does it mean to speak, as Hazlitt and many others did, of the ‘spirit of the age’? How can one prevent even the simplest of little narratives from escalating into something grander, whether by tacit assumption or empirical accretion? Perhaps the safest literary history is once again the most traditional: that showing the influence of one writer or writing upon another, with citations in place and cases closed. But it is hard to restrict ourselves to this kind of literary history because we still inherit an Enlightenment disposition to do so much more, to explore and explain the inherence of literature and literary criticism to culture and history on the grandest scale.

What we call the French Revolution has functioned from the first both as an instance of and an apparent solution to this problem of cause and effect in culture and history. Unlike many other ‘revolutions’ whose presence marks the narratives of historians and critics – agricultural, industrial, demographic, consumer and so on – the French Revolution seems to have had a clear beginning in 1789 and an end by 1815 if not before.

Ravel and authority: the Conservatoire and the Prix de Rome

Ravel informed Cipa Godebski in Spring 1914: ‘I am transcribing a Forlane by Couperin. I will see about getting it danced at the Vatican by Mistinguett and Colette Willy in drag.’ This excerpt reveals Ravel's decidedly ambivalent attitude towards the establishment which was so marked during his early career and which he directs here towards the Church and hostile critics. Klingsor noted that the young Ravel was ‘given to mocking but [was] secretly set in his purposes’, while Cortot recalled ‘a deliberately sarcastic, argumentative and aloof young man, who used to read Mallarmé and visit Erik Satie’. Both these descriptions touch on crucial aspects of Ravel's character: a conflict between ‘individual consciousness’ and conformity. Ravel's sense of direction was already well developed from his days at the Conservatoire. He had willingly succumbed to the influence of Poe and Mallarmé, and his musical tastes included Chabrier and the anti-establishment figure, Satie. Much to the frustration of some of his teachers, Ravel was only teachable on his own terms. Reports from Bériot, his piano teacher, indicate an untameable temperament which is ‘not always with full control’ and ‘needs to be held in check’, and even the sympathetic Fauré damns with faint praise, stating that he was, in time, ‘less exclusively attracted than before by pursuit of the excessive’.

Ravel, that master of tender irony, has left in his wake two supreme ironies: of being viewed as archetypally French, and of his musical forms often being viewed as conventional. French though he was, his temperament, humour, expression and technique are all distinct from French habits and stand out, by their incisiveness and bursts of raw sensuality, even from his contemporaries Fauré and Debussy. Besides the technical daring inherited from his Swiss-born engineer-inventor father, the foreign element that most strongly colours Ravel's character and music is the Basque-Spanish heritage of his mother. In a letter of 1911 to Joaquín Turina, written from Spain, Ravel signs himself off, ‘A thousand friendly greetings from your (or my) motherland’, and his letters from the Basque region or to relatives there are peppered with Basque phrases as well as Basque forms of place names.

Viñes and the early piano music

Ravel's closest and most influential childhood friendship, from the age of thirteen, was with Ricardo Viñes. A month older than Ravel, Viñes arrived from Barcelona with his mother in 1887 to study in Bériot's Conservatoire class (which Ravel joined in 1889); apparently it was the two mothers who first met, in 1888, with Mme Ravel delighted to discover a fellow-Spanish-speaker. In their teenage years, Viñes introduced Ravel to the prose poems of Gaspard de la nuit and then, in 1907, introduced him to Manuel de Falla (just before Ravel repaid Viñes handsomely for that introduction to Gaspard); above all, it was Viñes whose brilliant and subtle piano playing first brought a whole series of piano masterworks to the public.

When Berlioz's Grand Traité d'instrumentation et d'orchestration modernes appeared at the end of 1843, the work was already known to the readers of the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris, for it had been published there as “De l'instrumentation” – sixteen feuilletons that appeared from 21 November 1841 to 17 July 1842. In this series, whose “heroes” are the instruments of the orchestra, Berlioz considers that aspect of musical composition in which he had proven to be particularly inventive. The works that he had already written – three symphonies, the Requiem, Benvenuto Cellini – demonstrated the essence of what he brought to the art of instrumentation. In fact his interest in the subject seems to have been born with his very first musical impressions, if we are to believe his early letters, his first articles, and especially his Mémoires.

Beyond his own taste and intuition, what kind of guidance could be found, in the eighteen-twenties, by a young composer who was fascinated by the alchemy of the orchestra? “My two masters [Lesueur and Reicha] taught me absolutely nothing about instrumentation,” writes Berlioz in chapter 13 of the Mémoires: