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Ravel L'Heure espagnole & L'Enfant et les Sortilèges 21, 23, 25 & 27 march 2025 Opera
Conductor Kazuki Yamada
Director Jean-Louis Grinda

Ravel L’Heure espagnole & L’Enfant et les Sortilèges

Opera
Friday 21 March 2025 - 20 h
Sunday 23 March 2025 - 15 h
Tuesday 25 March 2025 - 20 h
Thursday 27 March 2025 - 20 h
Opéra de Monte-Carlo

Musical (opera) in one act and 21 scenes
Music by Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)
Poem by Franc-Nohain (Maurice Étienne Legrand) based on his comedy of the same name (1904)
Premiere: Paris, Opéra-Comique, 19 may 1911


Lyric fantasy in two parts
Music by Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)
Libretto by Colette
Premiere: Monte-Carlo, Théâtre de l'Opéra, 21 March 1925

Coproduction with Opéra de Tours, Opéra Grand Avignon and Opéra royal de Wallonie

150th anniversary of Maurice Ravel's birth
*Centenary of the premiere of L'Enfant et les sortilèges

Our Ravel double-bill in March 2025 celebrates the centenary of L’Enfant et les Sortilèges’ world premiere in Monte Carlo to the day.

The first of his two operas, L’Heure espagnole, was premiered at the Opéra-Comique in 1911, where Ravel was first criticized for being too frivolous. Today, we might see the main character, Concepción, as a female version of Tony Curtis in the 1965 comedy Boeing-Boeing: the simultaneous arrival of various lovers for their rendezvous keeps her busy hiding them from one another – and mainly from the elderly clockmaker Torquemada, her husband.

In spite of their contrasting nature, the style and content of Ravel’s operas take us back to the Paris of Diaghilev, Coco Chanel, Colette, Picasso and Josephine Baker. People from all backgrounds, cultures and professions flocked to the French capital, turning it into a centre of avant-garde creativity. And in the winter they were off to Monte Carlo, where in 1925, Ravel’s fairytale L’Enfant et les Sortilèges received its world premiere.

Ravel’s colourful orchestration contains a mass of unusual instruments, it is exuberant and full of funny references – L’Enfant quoting fashionable dances from the 1920ies, such as the ragtime or foxtrot, at every step, whereas Spanish tunes and rhythms pervade L’Heure espagnole, a characteristic of so many of Ravel’s other celebrated works.

Production Team
Conductor | Kazuki Yamada
Director | Jean-Louis Grinda
Sets and Costumes | Rudy Sabounghi
Lighting design | Laurent Castaingt
Choreography | Eugénie Andrin
Choirmaster | Stefano Visconti
Videos | Jérôme Noguera, Micha Vanony
Assistant director | Vanessa d'Ayral de Sérignac
Repetitor | David Zobel
Cast/L'Heure espagnole
Concepción | Gaëlle Arquez
Gonzalve | Cyrille Dubois
Torquemada | Vincent Ordonneau
Ramiro | Florian Sempey
Don Inigo Gomez | Matthieu Lécroart
Orchestre Philharmonique de Monte-Carlo
Artists' biographies
Cast/L'Enfant et les sortilèges
The child | Gaëlle Arquez
The Mother | Axelle Saint-Cirel
The Bergère, the Owl | Julie Nemer
The China Cup, the Dragonfly, a Shepherd | Floriane Hasler
The Fire, the Princess, the Nightingale | Florie Valiquette
the clock, the cat | Florian Sempey
The Bat, a Shepherdess | Jennifer Courcier
The Female Cat, the Squirrel | Cécile Madelin
The armchair, The tree | Matthieu Lécroart
the Teapot, the Little Old Man (Arithmetic Book), the Tree Frog | Cyrille Dubois
Choir of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo
Orchestre Philharmonique de Monte-Carlo
Children's Choir of the Académie de musique Rainier III
Artists' biographies
Synopsis/L'Heure espagnole

The action takes place in Toledo, 18th century

The clockmaker Torquemada owns a flourishing workshop. Every Thursday evening, he leaves his shop to tend the municipal clocks. His wife Concepción takes advantage of his absence to receive her two lovers in turn, the poet Gonzalve and the banker Don Iñigo Gomez. But this particular Thursday there is a spanner in the works. First it is the muleteer Ramiro who is a hindrance to her plans. He has come to have the watch he inherited from his uncle fixed and is prepared to wait until Torquemada returns. To get rid of Ramiro, Concepción asks him to carry a heavy grandfather clock up to her bedroom. Ramiro is strong and easily carries out her request, disappearing just in time to avoid Gonzalve. The poet is more inspired to recite his silly verse than to lovemaking. Ramiro reappears and Concepción asks him to carry another clock upstairs, this one much heavier as she has concealed Gonzalve inside it. The muleteer is delighted to help Concepción out as a way of passing the time until Torquemada returns. At this very moment Don Iñigo appears. Concepción tells him, in turn, to hide inside a clock. The corpulent banker does so with great difficulty. The comings and goings of the clocks continue, with Concepción running from one clock to the other urging her concealed lovers to be patient. Ramiro is fascinated by this beautiful woman who treats him with such consideration (“Voilà ce que j’appelle une femme charmante!”) [That is a woman I call charming!]. Concepción moans about having such pitiful lovers (“Oh! la pitoyable aventure!”) [Such a pathetic adventure]. She is charmed by the ease with which the muleteer carries the clocks around, nothing like the wimps Gonzalve and Don Iñigo! So she asks Ramiro to bring the two clocks back down to the workshop and pulls him into her bedroom. When Torquemada returns Gonzalve jumps out of the clock and in order to avoid any suspicion he proceeds to purchase it. Don Iñigo is too big to escape unaided from the clock and has to be pulled out by Ramiro. Claiming he wanted to examine the mechanism closely, he also has to purchase his jail. Torquemada points out to Concepción that now she is left without a clock in her bedroom. His wife reassures him that she will rely on Ramiro to tell her the time, as punctually every morning he will pass by under the balcony with his mule.

 

Translated by Marry McCabbe

Origin and premiere

In 1904 Ravel discovered Franc-Nohain’s one-act comedy, L’Heure espagnole, at the Théâtre de l’Odéon in Paris and was charmed by the entire production. As he wrote in the 17 May 1911 edition of Le Figaro, he appreciated the blend of familiar conversation with intentionally absurd songs, in an environment made up of unusual and amusing sounds that fill the clockmaker’s shop, and, lastly, an opportunity to incorporate delightful Spanish-rhythmed music”. The very title of L’Heure espagnole [The Spanish Hour] resonated personally with Ravel: the clockwork mechanisms allude to Ravel’s father, an engineer of Swiss origin; the Spanish touch refers to Ravel’s fascination with Spain, a country he seldom visited but was close to as his mother was Basque. She had lived for many years in Madrid and had sung Spanish songs to her son.

In late April 1907 Ravel threw himself into writing the opera: I am doing 120 per (Spanish) hour, he wrote to his friend Jean-Aubry. It was out of the question that such an unconventional work could be produced at Opéra de Paris. So Ravel tried his luck with the director of the Opéra-Comique, Albert Carré, and sent him the first drafts of the piano score. Carré declined them as Ravel related to his friend Ida Gobetska (January 1908): Impossible to impose such a subject on the innocent ears of the Opéra-Comique subscribers. Imagine: these lovers stuck inside grandfather clocks and having to be carried upstairs to the bedroom! We all know what they are going to do!” Thanks to the kind assistance of one of Ravel’s earliest admirers, the influential author Louise Cruppi, he finally received Carré’s approval. The orchestration was completed on 14 March 1909, but the premiere was continuously delayed until 11 May 1911. In the second part of the programme, Carré presented Thérèse, a tragedy by Jules Massenet, set during the Terror and premiered four years earlier at the Opéra de Monte-Carlo – The two extremes of art!” as Alfred Bruneau resumed it in Le Matin. It received mixed reviews. Ravel’s orchestral and harmonic refinement certainly produced its effect, but many critics deplored that such talent had been wasted on such an insignificant subject. In fact, Ravel had deliberately chosen an exact opposite view to Pelléas et Mélisande (1893), the masterpiece that had drastically transformed French opera, against which any new work was still measured. In Pelléas as in L’Heure espagnole, a woman is involved with four men, one of whom is her husband. On one side, Debussy presents a tragedy in five acts brimming with mystery and nobility, meticulously composed to render every nuance of Maurice Maeterlinck’s prosody, a lavish orchestra, but one that also diffuses soft light, set in a timeless decor charged with symbols. On the other side, Ravel proposed a farce in one act, entrenched in the most trivial everyday life, with wacky situations and dialogues, lively music, a timeline restricted to one hour and a highly realistic decor.

Yet Ravel was not a writer of vaudeville. If there was one fault he deplored, it was prosaism. He distanced himself from everything, saw everything through filters: childhood, humour, exoticism or fantasy, even – in the case of L’Heure espagnole all four at once. Who actually are these characters, who in the final quintet remove their masks and address the audience, ridiculing everything that has been going on before? Are they still the characters they would have us believe to be until then, or skilful puppeteers manipulating puppets that are effigies of themselves? If Franc-Nohain let us draw our own conclusions, Ravel provided an answer in music. Beginning with the wonderful prelude, there are persistent rhythms and delightful sounds of the clocks, mechanical toys, automated musicians, exotic birds, carillons, Swiss cuckoos, that inhabit Torquemada’s workshop, sounds provided by the xylophone, the rattle, bells, sleigh bells, the whip and all the percussions that Ravel scatters through the substantial orchestra. In the words of the muleteer Ramiro: we should just let ourselves be lulled by the regular tic-tac of all these pendulums. These sounds rhythm the comings and goings, between the shop and the bedroom, of the grandfather clocks where the suitors hide – the comical transposition of the cupboards in boulevard plays. But they also shroud this world obsessed by time – the supreme incarnation of rationality – with an aura of childlike magic and Spanish dances. The five characters appear to be swallowed up in this strange universe that they cannot comprehend, as though relegated to the rank of toys by these mechanical objects that, in many ways, seem more alive than them.

 

Claire Delamarche

Synopsis/L'Enfant et les Sortilèges

In a house in the Normandy countryside the Child is sitting in his room. He should be doing his homework, but feels too lazy. When his mother sees this she punishes him and gives him only unsweetened tea and dry bread for dinner. Alone in his room, the Child flies into a terrible rage, smashing the teapot and teacup, tormenting the squirrel and the cat, overturning the kettle on the fire, ripping off the wallpaper, swinging from the pendulum of the grandfather’s clock and breaking it, and, finally, in a huge outburst of laughter, ripping up his schoolbooks and notebooks: “Hurray, no more lessons! No more homework! I am free, free, naughty and free!

Exhausted, he flops into an armchair, but it gives way beneath him. The magic spells have begun: objects and animals, first in the house, then in the garden, will come alive and express to the increasingly terrified Child their grievances and their desire for vengeance.

The Armchair, the Bergère, and the Comtoise Clock rebel against the little tyrant. Then it is the turn of the Wedgwood teapot and the Chinese teacup, speaking in English-Chinese gobbledygook. The Fire flares up, threatening: “I warm up the good ones, but burn the bad ones!” The shepherds and shepherdesses from the torn wallpaper lament their unhappiness at being separated. The reassuring figure of the fairytale Princess appears, but the storybook has been ripped apart and she has fallen away into oblivion. The Child is heartbroken by her disappearance: “Oh my rosebud...”

His torn up notebooks then appear, the terrifying Old Man Arithmetics torments the Child with unsolvable problems in an utterly confusing crescendo. The tormented Child tries to play with the Cat, but it turns its back on him and goes off to play in the garden with the female Cat which purrs flirtatiously to him. The Child follows the cats and finds himself in an enchanted garden, wafting in the twilight breeze. But this paradise soon takes on a sinister appearance. The Tree and its companions lament the wounds the Child inflicted on them with his knife. The Dragonfly weeps for its companion which the Child had caught and pinned to the wall. The Bat, the Squirrel and the Frog join in with their recriminations. The Child begins to realize how he wicked he has been and, seeing the animals’ loving behaviour towards each other, feels the burden of his solitude and cries out for his mother. All the animals crowd round to attack him; the Squirrel is wounded in the fight. The Child uses his own ribbon to bandage up the Squirrel’s injured paw. The furious animals are moved by this gesture and join together in calling for the Mother. As the dawn lights up the countryside and, accompanied by the gentle chorus of the animals now at peace, the Child holds out his arms to the silhouette who has come to rescue him: “Mother!

Origin and premiere

The origin of L’Enfant et les Sortilèges [The Child and the Spells] dates back to 1916, when Jacques Rouché, director of Opéra de Paris, commissioned Colette to write the libretto for a “ballet-féerie”. According to the author’s memoirs (Journal à rebours [Looking Backwards]), she wrote the first draft in a record time of eight days – under the title Ballet pour ma fille [Ballet for my Daughter]. The following year Ravel enthusiastically agreed to set the text to music, its childlike and magic universe corresponded so well to his character. However, after receiving the text he gave no sign of life for several months. He eventually met with Colette on 27 February 1919 and proposed certain changes: “Could the squirrel’s tale be developed? Imagine everything a squirrel could say about the forest, and what that would sound like in music! Another thing: what would you think if the cup and the teapot were in black Wegwood [sic], singing a ragtime? I must admit that I am carried away at the idea of two negroes singing a ragtime at the Académie nationale de musique. Note that the form of a single couplet, with refrain, is perfectly adapted to the movement of this scene: complaints, recriminations, fury, pursuit. You might object that you do not practise Negro-American slang. For someone like me who doesn’t speak a word of English, I’d do the same as you: I’d muddle through.֨”

However, various other projects took constant priority over this work: concert tours, other compositions (in particular La Valse, Tzigane, the Sonata for Violin and Cello). It was the director of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo Raoul Gunsbourg, who gave the final impetus. He took over the project, made the composer sign a contract stipulating that the manuscript would be submitted before 31 December 1924. Ravel finally plunged into the score. L’Enfant et les Sortilèges was performed at Salle Garnier on 21 March 1925, conducted by Victor de Sabata. The rehearsals had taken place in a heated atmosphere of frequent clashes with Sergei Diaghilev, whose Ballets Russes were to perform the dance scenes. Nevertheless, it was a brilliant success. And the work by Colette and Ravel totally eclipsed Philippe Bellenot’s one-act musical Un début [A Start], that was performed during the first half. One of those behind this triumph was the young George Balanchine (21 years old), who with this opera signed his first choreography for the Ballets Russes.

 

The Work

Ravel relished the libretto’s naive candour, its unrestrained fantasy and the savoury mumbo-jumbo that Colette placed in the mouths of exotic objects: the English Teapot’s “I boxe you, I marm’lad’ you” threatening the Child, the “Ping pong Mah-jong” of the China Teacup, who speaks half in Japanese: “Harakiri, Sessue Hayakawa”, she also said, in homage to the famous Japanese actor, the future Colonel Saito in the film Bridge over the River Kwai (1957). The music glides deliciously through this gallery of incredible characters, from the Teapot’s foxtrot to the China Teacup’s pentatonic melodies, from the Fire’s absurd coloraturas to the Shepherds’ and Shepherdessses’ Renaissance pastiche, the Cats’ languorous meows, from the Dragonfly’s lascivious waltz to the crazy whirlwind of numbers when the Old Man (alias Arithmetic) appears or to the Tree’s disturbing glissandos on augmented fourths. The orchestra dazzles, there is an abundance of unusual percussions: wind machine, crotales, rattle… even a slide whistle and a cheese grater. Ravel uses the mysterious sounds of the now obsolete luthéal, created by the Belgian organ builder Georges Cloetens, for which Ravel also wrote Tzigane: a hybrid piano whose sonorities are extended by stops, producing sounds similar to a harpsichord or cimbalom. As indicated by Ravel, the luthéal is often replaced today by a prepared piano. With its wonky sonority this instrument provides the spice of the ridiculous minuet of the Armchair and the Bergere Chair.

The orchestral opulence explodes at the beginning of the second part, in the magnificent nocturnal music marking the entrance of the Child into the enchanted garden: the lavish instrumentation, the abundance of mysterious noises. It is one of the rare passages where Ravel suddenly seems to take the mask off and dares to reveal raw emotions. Another moment of grace is in the only true aria of the opera “Toi, le cœur de la rose” [“You, the heart of the rose”], when, in despair, the Child laments the disappearance of the Princess. A third comes at the end of the work, when the animals chorus hails the Child’s return to kindness (“Il est bon, l’enfant”) [“He is good, the child”]. To signify the end of the Child’s spiritual journey and his accession to a new awareness, Ravel chose the most formal form of music: the fugue. The Child’s last cry, when the curtain falls, rings out like the signal of a rebirth: “Maman!”. A new dawn rises in a quasi-sacred atmosphere.

 

Claire Delamarche
Translated by Mary McCabe

Maurice Ravel and the operatic genre

Ravel was as successful in composing works for piano as for orchestra, chamber music, songs, concertos and ballets. Yet there was one genre that seemed to resist him, namely opera. His first opera project, inspired by One Thousand and One Nights, never materialised, and only the overture Shéhérazade (1898) remains, not to be confused with the three songs set to poems by Tristan Klingsor, composed in 1903 under the same title.  After abandoning this project he toyed, equally unsuccessfully, with the idea of setting to music Gerhardt Hauptmann’s play La Cloche engloutie [The Sunken Bell], translated into French by the composer Ferdinand Hérold. He set aside this opera to devote himself to L’Heure espagnole, followed by Daphnis et Chloé, the ballet commissioned by Sergei Diaghilev for the Ballets Russes, and which occupied his entire time from 1909 to the premiere in 1912. This project was swallowed up forever when war was declared.

The Cloche, however, did not totally disappear as Ravel took a few pages from the drafts for L'Enfant et les Sortilèges, premiered at Monte Carlo Opera on 21st March 1925, in particular the theme of the Tree and the Frog chorus. From 1928 Ravel envisaged for the last time writing an opera: Jeanne d’Arc, based on Joseph Delteil’s novel. He also considered composing a ballet-oratorio drawn from the One Thousand and One Nights, Morgiane. Illness and death prevented him from achieving these projects.

Therefore, Ravel did not leave behind an actual opera, as he described L’Heure espagnole as a “comédie musicale” and L’Enfant et les Sortilèges as a “fantaisie lyrique”. Why did this genre resist him? The answer lies undoubtedly in his personality.

Those who frequented Ravel portray him as a man full of contradictions. Very meticulous, he liked order and detested compromise. His sharp features, his thin lips indicated perhaps a cutting wit, but his eyes could also shine with gentleness and joy. He did not often express his opinion, and when he did it was in a sharp and decisive manner. But his most noticeable character trait was undoubtedly a reserve bordering on coldness: this modest man displayed very little of his emotions or his intimacy, and was offended if others did. This aspect of his character was probably in total contradiction with the very concept of an opera, an extrovert genre par excellence. Nevertheless, his enthusiasm, although contained, would surface and he showed himself to be good company, with an anecdote always at hand to tell.

A born optimist, Ravel literally collapsed in 1916 when his mother died. In 1921, after a severe depression, this man, who had never owned his own home, acquired the Belvédère, in Montfort-l’Amaury (forty kilometres south-west from Paris). Renovated from top to bottom, this house became the reflection of his soul. The heavy family furniture rooted it in the bourgeois tradition of the previous century, and Madame Ravel’s portrait was placed over the piano, a source of eternal inspiration. With such solid foundations, and within an orderly framework, one’s imagination can take flight. Ravel recreated a fantasy Orient and an idealised Antiquity, juxtaposing rare Japanese prints with cheap chinoiseries (cheap chinoiseries that he took great delight in seeing his visitors rave over). In his bedroom he surrounded himself with illustrated books, animals, patience games and mechanical toys. If we add to these the garden, tiny but arranged in such a manner as to provide an air of mystery and an impression of stretching as far as the Rambouillet Forest, we have the perfect reflection of the extraordinary world of L’Enfant et les Sortilèges to which Ravel devoted much of his time composing in Montfort. Inside this world, and behind a wall of protective screens (childhood, humour, fantasy, exotism) Ravel was able to express his emotions, in particular his unbearable solitude after losing his adored mother. For a person as acutely sensitive as Ravel, these masks also provide the essence of L’Heure espagnole.

Correspondances - L'Enfant et les sortilèges

Maurice Ravel to Colette, march 1925

In spite of the disastrous state of the musical material, we managed to get through the score, thanks to a superior orchestra and a truly extraordinary conductor. We are rehearsing this evening at the Italian style theatre; the premiere is set for the 21st. The orchestra, the chorus, the soloists, the ushers  – and I almost forgot Gunsbourg – are all thrilled: it’s a good sign. Come quickly, your flat awaits you at the Hôtel de Paris, where the food is indigestible and neat.

 

Colette Œuvres complètes Paris Le Fleuron Flammarion 1948-1946 in Looking Backwards 1941

The score of L’Enfant et les Sortilèges is now famous. How can I express my emotion at the first burst of tambourines accompanying the procession of shepherds? The moonlit glow of the garden, the flight of dragonflies and bats… ’Isn’t this fun?’ said Ravel. However, a cluster of tears tightened my throat: the Beasts, with a hurried whisper, barely syllabic, bent over the Child, reconciled… I had not foreseen that an orchestral wave, studded with nightin-gales and fireflies, would lift my modest work so high.

 

rené Leon to Diaghilev, 14 march 1925

It is not a question of the reputation of the Ballets Russes, nor of Serge de Diaghilev, director of the Ballets Russes, nor of collaborating with this or that author of operas, it’s simply a question of putting your ballet master [editor’s note: the young George Balanchine, prepared for a glorious future] and your troupe at the disposal of the Director of the Opéra, so that he can bring to fruition the operas he is mounting… As for your letter in which you inform me that the piano scores for the ballets that you have to provide in the operas were given to you too late, and that Ravel’s music seems very complicated to you, it is really curious that these difficulties should have arisen a few hours after an incident that you apparently had with Maurice Ravel in the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris, after which you said, and several witnesses heard it: I will not provide dance in his opera.

 

Raoul Gunsbourg to rené léon, 22 march 1925

You are aware of the great difficulties I encountered during the rehearsals of Ravel’s work, which were only temporarily resolved because yesterday, in the first act of this work, five of the ten dancers who were to dance the little Louis XV ballet were missing. In response to my angry comments, the stage manager Kremeneff told me to talk to Diaghilev.

 

Maurice Ravel to Victor de Sabata, written from the Hôtel de Paris the day after the premiere of L'Enfant et les Sortilèges

My dear friend,
I did not tell you enough during the rehearsals, those terrible rehearsals when we all had to act as proofreaders, and during which I suffered no less than you, I assure you: I failed to tell you enough how touched I was by the high artistic standards that you, the prodigious conductor, and your orchestra of virtuosos brought to the accomplishment of such a difficult work.
You have given me one of the most profound joys of my career, and I would like to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for my success last night.
Affectionately yours

Maurice Ravel
Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo, 22 March 1925

 

Victor de Sabata to his brother Amedeo, shortly before the premiere of L'Enfant et les Sortilèges

Dear Amedeo,
I bring you the latest news about L’Enfant... in no particular order. At last I know in what key the work ends! The last section of the score arrived yesterday from Paris, though I’ve already rehearsed most of it with the orchestra!
Stunning! The curtain falls on the Child’s last word: ‘Mummy!’ – scenically it’s not easy for us, it sounds like Ravel wrote it on purpose to show us how little he cared about a ‘theatrical ending’, at least in the commonly accepted sense. And what a page! Moving! Marvellous! This chorus in the purest madrigal style, and yet so Ravelian, which in the repeat follows the opening bars of the first tableau!
Wait until you hear it!
That’s all for now. You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do. I have to go.

Your Victor
Monte Carlo, 1925