Charles Valentin Alkan The death of Alkan in March 1888 prompted the following poignant obituary notice: ‘CharlesValentin Alkan has just died. It was necessary for him to die in order to suspect his existence’ – a sad reflection on the obscurity into which a musician reckoned by Liszt to possess a technique greater than his own had fallen. The efforts of a few virtuosi such as Busoni, Petri and Sorabji to keep Alkan’s music alive achieved limited success and it was not until the 1950s and 1960s that the pioneering work of Raymond Lewenthal and especially Ronald Smith allowed a proper reevaluation of the man and his music. Unfortunately by that time the legend had gained currency of an obsessive, reclusive misanthrope, composer of monumentally unperformable piano works and musical eccentricities such as the Funeral March on the Death of a Parrot, with the only generally known fact of his life being the allegedly bizarre circumstances of his death. All legends however rest on a substratum of truth and there is no denying that Alkan was genuinely eccentric with certain personality traits bordering on the pathological, including an absolute control over the details of his life and the presentation of his works, an obsessive desire for privacy and an inflexible daily routine, any disruption of which was problematic. Whether he was a genuine misanthrope (a term he himself used) or was only able to engage with the world on his own terms is debatable: his concierge was famously instructed to turn away all visitors with the statement – ‘M. Alkan is not at home’ – yet in later life he was happy to engage with anyone, friend or stranger, who attended his twice weekly séances at the Salle Érard, demonstrating that he was quite capable of normal social intercourse when he wished it. As for his music, while certain pieces are indeed conceived and executed on a gigantic scale, most are no longer deemed unplayable – as the accompanying performances bear witness – and he also produced delicate miniatures of lyrical sensitivity and Satie-like wit as well as chamber music of classical rigour, all featured on this present set. The enigma at the centre of this story was born on 30 November 1813, the second of six children of Alkan Morhange and Julie Abraham, Ashkenazi Jews who came from Alsace to Paris where Morhange established a small school. When Charles-Valentin was enrolled in the Conservatoire at the age of six, it was under his father’s forename: the reasons for this are unclear but, given his young age, the adoption of this name, in which he was followed by his siblings, must have been the decision of his
2
parents. Alkan Morhange’s school specialised in the teaching of music, particularly solfège, and, in the words of one former pupil Antoine Marmontel (who was to reappear at a critical juncture in Alkan’s life) it became ‘a juvenile annexe to the Conservatoire’ to which Charles was duly admitted in October 1820. The following year he won the first prize for solfège, marking him out as the prodigy he was, and he went on to win the first prizes for piano (1824), harmony (1827) and organ (1834): the only major honour that eluded him was the coveted Prix de Rome, a failure shared by many distinguished French composers. His first public performance as a pianist was in April 1826, in a concert promoted by his father who, taking a leaf out of Leopold Mozart’s book reduced his son’s age by two years in the advertisements. Through his piano teacher at the Conservatoire, Pierre-Joseph Zimmermann, Alkan had already gained an entrée into the fashionable and aristocratic Parisian salons where he encountered a slightly older and equally prodigious keyboard performer – Franz Liszt. Alkan records that on first hearing Liszt play, he went home and wept tears of frustration at being made to feel ‘like a beginner’ in comparison. The two men later became friends and had mutual respect for each other’s musicianship (although Alkan was not very complimentary about Liszt as a composer). In 1827 he made a short tour of Belgium where he performed his charming but insubstantial Variations on a Theme by Steibelt (Op.1) but his real potential as a composer became evident with a concerto performed on 29 March 1832. This has been identified as the Concerto da camera (Op.10/1). It was long known only in Alkan’s version for solo piano, but the recent rediscovery of the orchestral parts reveals the ambition and maturity of the original concept. Its three sections are played continuously, following the precedent of Weber’s Konzertstück, linked by elements of cyclical repetition. In 1833 he visited London where he wrote the second Concerto da camera (Op.10/2) for piano and strings, dedicated to Henry Field of Bath (no relation to the inventor of the nocturne). A much shorter work in similar tripartite form, but with a closer thematic relationship between the sections, this became one of Alkan’s favourite concert pieces which he often played with string quartet accompaniment. A second visit to England in 1835 was the last time he left France or indeed Paris, so unlike the indefatigably itinerant Liszt, his reputation never developed outside his native land. In the 1830s he was moving in elevated social and artistic circles of Paris, with Dumas, George Sand and Chopin as neighbours in the fashionable Square d’Orléans. Chopin became a close friend and the two men occasionally performed together, on one occasion playing Alkan’s eighthanded arrangement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony along with Zimmerman and Ferdinand Hillier, an experience which apparently almost killed Chopin!
3
By the end of the decade, Alkan was producing the music which was to establish him as not only one of the 19th century’s foremost keyboard exponents but also one of its most original composers. The Trois Morceaux dans le genre pathétique (Op.15) are much grander in scale and conception that anything he had written previously. Liszt, to whom they are dedicated, had a generally favourable reaction to them, although expressing reservations at the complete absence of tempo or dynamic markings, but Schumann’s review was scathing, condemning their ‘vulgarity’ and ‘inner futility’! ‘Aime-moi’ begins as a Chopinesque nocturne but soon develops into a piece seemingly designed, in Ronald Smith’s words, for ‘an extinct race of seven fingered pianists’. ‘Le vent’, a fiendish chromatic and tremolando study probably influenced by Liszt’s ‘Chasse-neige’, and ‘Morte’, dismissed by Schumann as ‘endless boredom’, is a study in the macabre, introducing the Dies irae motif in standard and inverted forms, with tolling B flats anticipating ‘Le Gibet’ in Gaspard de la Nuit. Op.16 is more conventional: the first three pieces comprise the Scherzi de bravoure – an increasingly frenetic waltz with a chiming music box trio, a quasi-menuetto whose fearsome double octave passages belie its title, and a ‘well-nigh unplayable’ prestissimo – followed by three sets of more standard variations. Two contemporary works bear high opus numbers that give a misleading impression of their place in Alkan’s development: the Op.74 miniatures display the other side of his musical personality and were originally published without opus number as 12 Morceaux charactéristiques before their reissue in 1872 as Les Mois, (although the final one, L’Opéra, a parody of Meyerbeer at his most grandiloquent, has no obvious seasonal associations). The Op.76 Grandes Études present studies for left and right hands separately and together: in the first (which only received its first performance in 1908 by Busoni), the thumb takes the melody, in the second, an extended Paganini–like set of variations, the fifth finger. It is hard to believe that so far only one hand has been employed and when the two are reunited in the third piece, Alkan continues to challenge the player with rapid octaves spaced a double octave apart. In 1838 Alkan entered the first of his long periods as a recluse. While there was no obvious reason for his withdrawal from society and the concert platform, the birth around this time of ÉlieMiriam Delaborde, generally believed to be his illegitimate son, is a possible factor. This relationship has never been proved and Delaborde’s status as Alkan’s pupil, concert partner, fellow devotee of the pedal piano, legatee and editor, although indicating some close bond between them, is not in itself conclusive. However, the fact that neither man ever denied the general and openly expressed assumption that they were father and son suggests that this was indeed the case. Alkan did not
4
cease composing in his seclusion and began to explore chamber music with the Grand Duo concertant (Op.21) and the Piano Trio (Op.30) both of 1841. The first is in strict classical format with a sonata-form opening movement, a tripartite second subtitled L’Enfer (Hell) plunging to the depths of the keyboard in its final bars and a breakneck finale to be played Aussi vite que possible. The Trio’s movements are unusually in the same key (G major/minor) – the first, a scherzo in the manner of Mendelssohn (to whom Alkan sent a presentation copy), the second, a dialogue between strings and piano, similar to the corresponding movement of Beethoven’s G major concerto but with the roles reversed and a sonata-form finale. Alkan’s remergence in 1844 coincided with the publication of a large number of works, both on a smaller scale, e.g. the first Nocturne (Op.22) and Alleluia (Op.25), and more substantial, e.g. the Marche funèbre (Op.26) and Marche triomphale (Op.27). Obviously related in concept if not style to Berlioz’s massive symphony of 1840, the first march is a sound picture with muffled drums and tolling bells, the second, shorter and less subtle, ‘a huge swaggering affair, mildly oriental and of pulverising virtuosity’ in Smith’s words. Although Alkan’s return to the concert platform in 1844 was initially welcomed, he began to attract criticism for his uncompromising choice of repertoire which made no concession to popular taste. His apparent indifference to his own reputation prompted the influential critic François-Joseph Fétis, who was generally well-disposed to him, to accuse Alkan of deliberately choosing obscurity out of wilful neglect. In the late 1840s, he published three works of a scope and conception that surpassed anything he had previously produced. The 25 Préludes, dans tous les tons majeurs et mineurs (Op.31) were advertised as being for ‘piano or organ’ but since some cannot be played easily on either instrument and a few on neither, Alkan probably intended them all for the pedal piano. This curious hybrid instrument which incorporates a pedalboard into the mechanism of a piano was a particular favourite of Alkan’s, who owned an Érard grand version (he also left money in his will for the establishment of a prize for pedal piano at the Conservatoire, a bequest which was declined!) The Préludes are set out in three suites which progress through the 24 major and minor keys in a pattern of rising fourths and falling thirds, beginning and ending on C major (hence the odd numbered total). They explore the history of keyboard music (3, 10, 15) various technical styles (1, 2, 14, 18) and paint impressionistic pictures (11, 12, 22) the most evocative and popular of which is ‘La chanson de la folle au bord de la mer’ (8). Many have religious and specifically Hebraic overtones, e.g. 4, 5, 6 (based on the Hasidic melody Rikud), 13 and 25. At the other end of the scale is the Grande Sonate ‘Les Quatre Âges’ which
5
predates and almost certainly influenced Liszt’s B minor sonata. Alkan sets out his conception of the sonata in a preface in which he also argues that knowledge of the composer’s intentions can only deepen players’ understanding of the work without necessarily compromising or restricting their individual intepretation of the music. The basis of this highly unconventional work is a progression through four decades of a man’s life from the age of 20, such that it opens with a scherzo and diminishes in tempo with each successive movement. The scherzo, which Lewenthal described as ‘a tone poem within a tone poem’, encapsulates the young man’s mood swings, exemplified in expressive markings such as palpitant, bravement, timidement, victorieusement. The opening bars of the second movement, subtitled ‘Quasi-Faust’, anticipate those of the Liszt sonata – a short double motif and insistently repeated notes marked sataniquement. Both le diable and le seigneur make their appearances – surging arpeggios covering the entire span of the keyboard surrendering to a chant-like motif. The lyrical third movement depicts ‘happy family life’ at 40 – its middle section subtitled ‘les enfans’ (the misspelling may be a deliberate), perhaps a poignant vision of what Alkan knew he would never achieve himself. Its closing section – a hymn-like melody with light carillon accompaniment – is preceded by a few bars marked 10 heures, the time Alkan invariably retired, leaving social gatherings abruptly when the clock struck, as if to indicate ‘Time for bed’. The final movement, Prométhée enchaîné, is headed by a quotation from Aeschylus’ play ending ‘Look and see if I deserve the torments I endure’. Alkan obviously believed life to be over at 50, despite the fact that his father, to whom the work is dedicated, was then a vigorous 67 years old. The following year Alkan produced a work which matched the sonata in scope: 12 Études dans tous les tons majeurs (Op.35). Set out in two books and progressing in ascending fourths from A major, it mingles fearsome technical studies like Allegro barbaro (5) – which certainly influenced Bartók’s work of the same name – and the contrapuntal study No.9 with programmatic works like No.7 – which although differing in its circumstantial detail is obviously based on the last three movements of the ‘Pastoral’ Symphony – and impressionistic pieces like Chant d’amour – Chant de mort (10) in which a parodic transformation of the first lyrical theme is introduced into the second in the manner of the final movement of the Symphonie fantastique. Having composed such works, which pushed pianistic technique to its limits and to which one suspects only Alkan himself could fully do justice, he was robbed of the opportunity to show them off when the turmoil of the 1848 Revolution emptied Paris of his potential audience. Then another event occurred which was to have a profound effect on his life. Zimmerman retired from his
6
position as professor of piano at the Conservatoire and Alkan, his most illustrious pupil who towered over all other French pianists, not least the two other main candidates, was the obvious choice to succeed him. However Marmontel, his old schoolmate from the 1820s and who had himself studied under Alkan, decided to apply and by astute politicking gained the support of the head of the Conservatoire, Auber, to become a serious rival for the post. Alkan, concerned that someone of such obviously inferior talent should take what he considered his by right, began a campaign of letter writing to his influential friends (among them George Sand) and government officials promoting his case (and less forgivably) denigrating Marmontel. For a man who was so reticent in promoting himself and his music, this whole episode caused Alkan serious anguish and in the end his efforts were to no avail with Marmontel appointed to the post. This setback affected him deeply and prompted another much longer withdrawal from the social and musical life of Paris. Alkan was not however inactive, spending his time in composition and the study of Talmud and the Old and New Testaments, which he also translated. In 1857 he began issuing a large number of works on which he had been working for the previous decade, including the monumental 12 Études dans tous les tons mineurs (Op.39) which contains a symphony and concerto for piano, an overture and a set of variations. The three pieces which preceded this formidable array offer no concessions to the listener or the player: a prestissamente set at e = 160 which has been calculated to require 16 notes per second, a vigorous rhythmic study related to Haydn’s Op.76/2 and a Scherzo diabolico which lives up to its name. The four movements of the symphony (Nos. 4–7) are linked by motivic transformation and comprise a sonata-form first movement (exposition, vast development, recapitulation and short coda) another funeral march, a minuet, but only nominally, its ‘cosmic swing’ comparable to a Bruckner scherzo and a finale which picks up the octave figures of the preceding movement and proceeds as a ‘Ride in Hell’. The Concerto (Nos.8–10) is on an even grander scale – its first movement is over 70 pages long – and is conceived along the lines of Bach’s Italian Concerto with ‘orchestral’ tutti and ritornelli and ‘solo’ passages. The tripartite Ouverture (11) is quixotically placed near the end of the set which closes in (relatively) modest style with Le Festin d’Ésope (Aesop’s Feast), a short sequence of variations on a theme which Alkan marks senza licenza quantunque (with no licence whatsoever). Although some of the variations contain animal effects (22 and 23), the piece is not based on the well-known Fables but the story in which the slave Aesop prepares two banquets for his master’s guests using the same simple ingredient (an ox tongue) cooked in a variety of ways – the culinary equivalent of variations
7
upon a theme. The Grande Sonate de concert (Op.47) also published in 1857 eschews the eccentricity which sometimes attaches to his piano works and shows Alkan as much more than just a keyboard virtuoso. First performed by Alkan and Auguste Franchomme, for whom Chopin wrote his cello sonata, it proved very popular in his lifetime although it has been unaccountably neglected since. The second and final movements are a siciliana and saltarella respectively, the former headed by a quotation from the Old Testament Book of Micah, ‘as dew from the Lord, as showers upon the grass that tarrieth not for man’, hinting at the depths beneath the apparent simplicity of the music. The Sonatine (Op.61) and Esquisses (Op.63) both date from 1861. The first although more compact than many of Alkan’s pieces is by no means a slight work – Sorabji described it in terms of a Beethoven sonata written by Berlioz, which is most apparent in the virtuoso third movement. The set of short sketches, Esquisses, seem to have been accumulated over a long period and like the Op.25 Préludes progress through the major and minor keys in a pattern of rising fourths and falling thirds beginning and ending on C major. They provide an overview of various styles and genres of different musical periods: the-pre-baroque (3, 4, 6), baroque (13, 15, 19, 15, 27), 18th century (17, 31, 32), dance (24, 37, 40, 47), chanson (33, 26), étude (2, 3, 41) and impressionistic/ programmatic pieces (4, 8, 7, 14, 20, 22, 23, 29, 39), and comprise his last major extended work for solo piano. He continued to issue volumes of Recueils de chants, ‘songs without words’ in Mendelssohnian vein, adding Op.65 (1866), Op.67 (1868) and Op.70 (1872) to the two-volume Op.38 of 1857. These are some of his most accessible compositions, in particular the Barcarolle (Op. 65/6) which Smith aptly described as ‘the piece by Mendelssohn Gershwin forgot to write’. From the mid-1860s he concentrated his composing energies on works for pedal keyboard instruments – organ, harmonium and pedal piano. Although an accomplished organist – he had after all won the Conservatoire first prize and for a brief period been organist at the Paris Synagogue – he did not appear especially interested in the instrument either as performer or composer. The only works specifically written for organ are the Pro organo (1850) and the Petits Préludes (1859), neither of which utilise the full range or possibilities of the instrument. Others designate either organ or pedal piano – the 13 Prières (Op.64) and the 12 Études d’orgue pour les pieds seulement (both 1866) – with harmonium added as an option for Opp. 66 and 72. Alkan probably intended all these works to be performed on the pedal piano – no alternative is offered for the Impromptu sur un choral de Luther (Op.69) – and only suggested alternatives to satisfy his publishers who probably saw little commercial potential in works for an instrument played by few
8
and owned by even fewer. All are now usually performed, transcribed as necessary, on the organ, but it would be nice to be able to hear them on the instrument for which they were written and whose special sonic qualities no doubt influenced their composition. In the early 1870s Alkan began contemplating a return to the concert platform but the Siege of Paris and turbulent events of the Commune and its suppression delayed that event. However, in 1873 a newspaper announcement marked the end of his 25-year period of seclusion: ‘CharlesValentine Alkan the eminent pianist who has condemned himself to retirement far too long returns to the fore.’ He advertised a series of six concerts at the Salle Érard – the Petits Concerts – beginning on 15 February 1873, for which he devised challenging programmes drawn from the keyboard music across the ages. However, having been absent form the concert platform for so long, he suffered a few memory lapses in the first concert and, realising that he had to reacclimatise himself rapidly to the experience of playing in public, opened up his rehearsals to anyone who wished to attend. This proved successful in calming his nerves and he must have found the experience fruitful since from then until shortly before his death he continued to hold what would now be termed ‘open sessions’ every Tuesday and Thursday, when he would play for anyone who turned up at the Salle Érard to hear him, including Busoni who reported himself ‘riveted to the spot by the expressive, crystal clear playing’. The Petits Concerts became an annual fixture in the Parisian musical calendar until 1877, with Alkan exploring the entire range of the piano repertoire and occasionally programming his own works save the most challenging ones which by now were beyond even his capabilities. By this time he had more or less ceased composing, with the last original published work being the Toccatina Op.75 (1872), and after 1877, when the concerts were discontinued, he retreated into the shadows in which he remained until he died aged 85 on 29 March 1885. Even the circumstances of his death became the subject of lurid speculation: he was supposedly crushed by a bookcase which he had brought down upon himself when reaching up for the Talmud on its top shelf (traditionally no other book can be placed higher than it), and was found dead with the sacred volume clutched in his hand. In reality he seems to have suffered some form of collapse in his kitchen, and although he may have upset an item of furniture in the process, he was alive when discovered and died a few hours later in his bed. Only four people attended his funeral in the Jewish section of the Montmartre cemetery. 훿 David Moncur
9
Also available on Brilliant Classics and Piano Classics:
10
Locatelli: Complete Edition 94358 21CD
Chopin: Complete Edition 94660 17CD
Stabat Mater 95370 14CD
Liszt: Hungarian Rhapsodies Vincenzo Maltempo PCLD0108 2CD
Requiem 95104 16CD
Satie: Complete Piano Music 95350 9CD
Liszt: The Great Piano Works 95564 15CD
Lyapunov: 12 ĂŠtudes Op.11 Vincenzo Maltempo PCL0124
11