Ravel Edition

One might say that the fate of Ravel’s Sémiramis is akin to the destiny of humankind controlled by the Moirai in Greek mythology, its very existence “hanging by a thread”, or rather, hanging by one single line. Because without the handwritten entry in the diary of Catalan pianist Ricardo Viñes (1875-1943), the composer’s childhood best friend, we would not be able to even begin to determine the historiography of this juvenile work, preserved as a manuscript in Ravel’s home until it was acquired by the Bibliotèque nationale de France in June 2000. Viñes, who had a photographic memory and would meticulously record the day’s activities in his notebook, reported on 7 April 1902 that he had gone to the Paris Conservatoire in the morning to “hear Ravel’s Cantata Sémiramis, which the orchestra studied, rehearsed and played, conducted by Taffanel.”  He goes on to divulge that the composer’s family, his professor Gabriel Fauré and fellow students also attended this play-through. 

Now, a researcher’s initial reflex when looking for traces and commentaries on an event like this is to rush to the archives of the abundance of artistic press of the time. But our excitement was swiftly eclipsed by frustration: there was nothing about this performance at the Conservatoire in any newspapers. Yet Ravel was clearly already a prominent figure on the Parisian scene. Two days earlier, Viñes had indeed premièred Jeux d’eau for piano: a performance that received high praise from journalists. Yet on the “1902” page in Paul Taffanel’s (1844-1908) diary, which is held at the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris, there is no trace, no mention whatsoever of Sémiramis by Ravel. Nor is there anything in the Conservatoire’s archives, located in the National Archives. In 1975 in his cardinal work on Ravel, Arbie Orenstein was the first to ever allude to this youthful opus, considering it a “student assignment”. Faced with an almost complete void of any proof that this work ever existed, we return to the words of Viñes, who clearly specifies “in the morning”. What sort of public concert takes place in a conservatory classroom on a weekday morning? Rather than a public performance, it now seems logical that these pages, written on a date still impossible to pinpoint, based on a former libretto set for the 1900 Prix de Rome competition, were performed during an orchestral class, like a sort of laboratory experiment: one of the rare private moments during which a young composer could hear his work performed by an orchestra. 

And only now, 123 years later, is it thanks to the initiative of the New York Philharmonic and Gustavo Dudamel that Sémiramis has finally made it out of the confined walls of a classroom to those of a real life concert hall. An opportunity to sample the orchestral talents of a very young composer, who was at the time so clearly enchanted by the oriental undertones of Rimsky-Korsakov, Borodin and Balakirev.

François Dru – December 2024  (Reproducing this text in full or in part is strictly prohibited without prior authorisation from Ravel Edition).

On the 26th of June 2000, a number of workings and manuscripts by the young Maurice Ravel were sold at public auction, sourced from the archives at his home “le Belvédère” in Montfort-l’Amaury. Amongst his harmony exercises and rough drafts was one particularly interesting finding: the twenty-seven-year-old composer’s musical setting of the beginning of a cantata, Sémiramis, based on a libretto set for the Prix de Rome in 1900… something that those who are familiar with the history of the competition will find somewhat surprising. Whilst Ravel did indeed enter for the first time that year, he was eliminated in the first round and was therefore not invited to the Château de Compiègne, where the finalists were required to compose a cantata on a new libretto in just one month, resulting in the crowing of Sémiramis by Florent Schmitt in June 1900. 

And so a stormy companionship ensued between Ravel and the Prix de Rome, culminating in a famous episode in the history of French music, known as the “Ravel Affair”: a resounding media coup through which pro-Ravelites cried scandal over Ravel’s fifth and final failed attempt at the prestigious academic competition. Taking stock of the facts today, we can pull apart the legend of the so-called “l’affaire Ravel” and appreciate the great injustice to which this already very prominent thirty-something composer fell victim, faced with an ageing and sclerotic judging panel who were clearly unable to appreciate his talent. It was indeed during this very year that Ravel completed his first fugue with an aberrant unresolved major seventh chord, making a mockery of the competition that was increasingly slammed for being out of step with the modernity of musical creation at the time. 

Despite being criticised for its very nature (a “false and harmful” genre according to Ravel’s composition teacher Gabriel Fauré), the Roman cantata over the years became a codified exercise in its own right, with the expectation that all young composers should prepare for it if they were to stand a chance at being awarded the coveted Grand Prix de Rome. This meant arriving at the Château de Compiègne with musical ideas that could be reused with little effort, not least because the librettos were almost always inspired by ancient or oriental themes that favoured the use of quaint, easily recyclable material. 

It's also interesting to note several self-quotations in the cantatas that Ravel composed during the years in which he reached the final round of French music’s most prestigious competition: in 1902 he composed a work based on a libretto that had in fact been set two years earlier. Ravel’s Sémiramis is nonetheless a very fine concert work, reflecting a composer who was already in full command of his craft, whose pedagogical purpose makes the composer’s models and inspiration all the more salient: Rimsky-Korsakov’s orchestra can be heard in the background, and the harmonic language is at times reminiscent of Franck and Debussy. Sometimes even the spectre of Wagner hangs in the air. In the end, and this is the most important point, we are given a glimpse of what would soon become Ravel’s brilliant, distinctive signature. And so as we listen to this work, the work of a student, we can perhaps forgive the members of the Académie des Beaux-Arts for having been so unfair on Ravel, for posterity has certainly avenged him.

Gabriel Durliat – December 2023  (Reproducing this text in full or in part is strictly prohibited without prior authorisation from Ravel Edition).