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T h e m a s t e r m u s i c i a n s

Debussy

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T h e M a s t e r M u s i c i a n s

Debussy
å
Eric Frederick Jensen

1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jensen, Eric Frederick, 1951-
Debussy / by Eric Frederick Jensen.
pages  cm.—(Master musicians)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-19-973005-6 (hardcover: alk. paper)
1. Debussy, Claude, 1862-1918.  2. Composers—France—Biography. I. Title.
ML410.D28J46 2014
780.92—dc23
[B]   2013030027

1  3  5  7  9  8  6  4  2
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
 Contents

Preface  vii
Abbreviations for Frequently Cited Sources in Notes  xi

1 A Musician’s Apprenticeship��������������������������������������������������������������������������� 3
2 The Prix de Rome����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 19
3 Establishing a Reputation����������������������������������������������������������������������������� 36
4 Years of Struggle��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������53
5 Divagations, 1900–1904���������������������������������������������������������������������������������68
6 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910 �����������������������������������������������������84
7 The Final Years, 1910–­1918�����������������������������������������������������������������������������99
8 Debussy and the Arts ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 119
9 Student Compositions����������������������������������������������������������������������������������130
10 Compositions, 1888–­1893����������������������������������������������������������������������������� 142
11 Compositions, 1893–1899������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 161
12 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas ��������������������������������������������������������� 180
13 Compositions, 1900–1912������������������������������������������������������������������������������195
14 Compositions, 1912–1918�����������������������������������������������������������������������������226
15 Debussy as Critic�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������242

•  v  •
vi   •  Contents

Appendices
A. Calendar������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 254
B. List of Works������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 260
C. Personalia��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������273
Select Bibliography  279

Index  291
 Preface

N o composer of classical music is more popular today than claude

Debussy. Probably the best indication is the thousands of recordings of his
music. There are more than 100 of the Préludes for piano, for example, and nearly
300 of one of his earliest works, the Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun (with several
of the recordings more than a half century old). The popularity of his music has
helped define current performance practice. Debussy’s piano pieces are part of
the canon—taught and studied at practically all levels of skill and proficiency. In
opera houses and concert halls around the world, his compositions have become
staples of the repertory.
What is unusual about Debussy’s popularity is the breadth of its appeal. It is rare
to find a composer whose music attracts in substantial numbers those with little or
no background in classical music as well as those who have made it their life’s work.
Like the music of Chopin—one of Debussy’s favorite composers—his music has the
ability to entice listeners on many levels.
The basis of that appeal is the distinctive sound of his music. Although there have
been many imitators, more than a century after much of it was created, Debussy’s
music remains fresh and original.The core of its attraction is not a specific attribute
(its tunefulness, for example), but the effect of many elements—the combination of
melody, harmony, and rhythm, as well as its instrumentation and timbre. At its heart
is an engaging simplicity that defies traditional analysis and lends mystery to what
ultimately is an extremely refined and highly personal approach to composition.
Debussy lived long enough to experience fame, and his response to it was mixed.
He welcomed it for the income it provided, although there was never enough for
him to live without debt. But he resented the intrusions into his private life that
accompanied it. And he disliked being well known and categorized—as an
“Impressionist,” for example.
He was suspicious, too, of strict demarcations between “popular” and “classical”
music. Since he made a point of turning his back on much of the recent tradition
in Western classical music, he probably would have resented being viewed solely as
a “classical” composer in the sense that we use the term today. At the same time he
was wary of being “popular”—whether as a composer of “popular” music or as a
popular “classical” composer.To Debussy, popularity was usually the consequence of

•  vii  •
viii   •  Preface

pandering to public taste. He was proud of what he perceived of as his indebtedness

to no one and, especially at the outset of his career, was convinced his music would
be little appreciated by the masses.
A respectable portion of Debussy’s fame today is based on the popularity of a
dozen or so works, pieces like the Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, “Rêverie,” and
“Clair de lune.” But they are early compositions and representative of only a small
part of his work. Over a nearly forty-year period, Debussy composed several hun-
dred pieces, in a multitude of genres and a variety of styles. He made a point of not
repeating himself as a composer, and for listeners there are always surprises and dis-
coveries to be made.
One of the purposes of this book is to present Debussy’s music in all its variety.
But another, equally fascinating, is to explore his personality, at times elusive, often
contradictory, but centered in his devotion to music and in his ambition to create a
name for himself as a composer unlike any other.
This work is the first study of Debussy’s life and music in twenty years. During
that time a great deal of new information has become available concerning both his
life (especially the student years) and compositions. Notable publications include
François Lesure’s comprehensive biography of Debussy, first published in 1994.
Complementing it is the first complete, annotated edition of Debussy’s Correspondance.
Debussy wrote thousands of letters. But prior to the publication of the correspondence
in 2005, many had not appeared in print, and those that had, had often appeared in
periodicals rare and difficult to access.
In a similar manner, Debussy’s music is now accessible in a scholarly, complete
edition, started in 1985. To date, sixteen volumes (of a proposed thirty-four) have
appeared. Each supplies primary sources and subsequent revisions, and is more reli-
able and indicative of Debussy’s final thoughts than the standard editions available
(many of which rely on outdated texts, decades old). Thanks to a detailed Catalogue
of Debussy’s works, also prepared by François Lesure, new material has also been
provided on the dating of the music.1
Debussy is divided into separate biographical and musical sections. But I
encourage all readers, especially those uncomfortable with music terminology, to
look at the chapters that focus on music (Chapters 9–14). The opening of each dis-
cusses in a broad manner Debussy’s developing musical style. I have avoided using
jargon, instead focusing on Debussy’s changing approach to writing music.

1. An updated version of the catalog was published posthumously (Lesure died in 2001) in the
republication of his Debussy biography in 2003. It serves as the basis of the online list prepared by
the Centre du Documentation Claude Debussy (http://www.debussy.fr; available in both French
and English translation).
 Preface  •  ix

There are two chapters in Debussy that focus neither on his life nor music. In his
development as a composer, Debussy drew not just on musical models, but on all
the arts, including poetry and painting. His interest in the arts led to a wide variety
of labels being associated with his music and a great deal of confusion as to their
validity. Debussy’s fascination with the arts, its effect on his music, and the merit of
classifying his music as Impressionist or Symbolist is the subject of Chapter 8. The
final chapter of Debussy (Chapter 15) focuses on Debussy’s career as a music critic.
He was one of the finest of his time, and the reviews he wrote reveal a great deal
not just about his musical taste but about what he felt the role and function of music
should be.
Primary sources for this book are in French. Many of the English translations are
my own, but I have tried whenever possible to direct attention to English-language
editions and have used translations from them (Roger Nichols’s selection of
Debussy’s letters, for example). In those instances, I have compared the translation
with the original for accuracy and updated in the footnotes any changes that might
have occurred in dating, using the Correspondance as the source.
Debussy is a continuation in the Master Musicians Series of the volume written
by Edward Lockspeiser, first published in 1944, and revised and updated five times
over the next thirty-eight years. It was a book that inspired generations of readers
(myself included; I first read it nearly forty years ago). It is an honor to be part of
the tradition established by him, and a pleasure to be able to contribute to it.
My thanks to Suzanne Ryan, Editor-in-Chief of Humanities and Executive
Editor of Music at Oxford University Press, for her support and patience in pre-
paring this book for publication. Professor R. Larry Todd, editor of the Master
Musicians Series, provided timely criticism and insight. Jessen O’Brien, editorial
assistant at Oxford, has been a pleasure to work with and an expert guide in pre-
paring the book for the press.
Peter Veracka, director of the A. T. Wehrle Memorial Library of the Pontifical
College Josephinum, has been especially kind and helpful, and provided a large
number of the books and articles I needed for research. My thanks, too, to Alexandra
Laederich, Curator at the Centre de Documentation Claude Debussy, for her
assistance in providing the illustrations.
My wife, Allie, died shortly after I completed the first draft of Debussy. She was
an exceptional musician, and a great help and support in writing this book. Debussy
is dedicated to her memory.
Eric Frederick Jensen
Columbus, Ohio, 2013
 Abbreviations for Frequently Cited Sources in Notes

C Claude Debussy, Correspondance (1872–1918), ed. François Lesure

and Denis Herlin. Annotated by François Lesure, Denis Herlin, and
Georges Liébert. Paris: Gallimard, 2005.
D Marcel Dietschy, A Portrait of Claude Debussy. Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1994.
DL Claude Debussy, Debussy Letters, ed. François Lesure and Roger
Nichols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.
DM Claude Debussy, Debussy on Music, ed. Richard Langham Smith.
Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988.
DR Roger Nichols, ed. Debussy Remembered. Portland, OR: Amadeus
Press, 1992.
Ecrits Claude Debussy, Monsieur Croche et autres écrits, ed. François Lesure.
Paris: Gallimard, 1987.
LK Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind. 2 vols. London:
Cassell, 1962, 1965.
LS François Lesure, Claude Debussy. Paris: Klincksieck, 1994.

•  xi  •
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T h e m a s t e r m u s i c i a n s

Debussy
 l Chapter one
;
A Musician’s Apprenticeship

Men of genius are incapable of study in their youth. They feel intuitively that
they must learn everything differently from the masses.
Tolstoy, Notebooks ( January 1857)

D ebussy rarely spoke about his childhood. He always made a point of

guarding his privacy. But in this instance additional incentive was provided by
the stigma associated with the poverty and hardships of his youth. At times it had
been a struggle for him simply to survive.
In addition to the hard times, there had been profound differences between
himself and his family, distinctions that could only have become more unsettling as
he grew older. Approaching his fiftieth year, he dryly noted that one’s soul is
“bequeathed to us by a crowd of perfectly unknown people”—a remark probably
intended to refer more to his immediate family than to his ancestors, about whom
he knew little.1
The de Bussys (as they were originally known) have been traced as far as the
seventeenth century. They were wine-growers and tradesmen of little or moderate
means and lived in Burgundy. Around 1800 a member of the family settled in
Paris. Claude-Alexandre (1812–1889), the composer’s grandfather, was a carpenter.
Manuel-Achille (1836–1910), Debussy’s father, tried his hand at several trades,
including those of merchant, salesman, and marine. He was unsuccessful at all and
did not find steady employment until his son was an adult.

1.  Letter to André Caplet of 22 December 1911 in Claude Debussy, Correspondance (1872–1918),
ed. François Lesure and Denis Herlin (Paris: Gallimard, 2005), p. 1473. Hereafter abbreviated C.

•  3  •
4  •  debussy

Even as a child Debussy was distinctive. But what was most striking about his
family and ancestors was their normality. Business and trade was their sole occupa-
tion. With the exception of a paternal uncle who settled in England in the 1870s
and possibly taught piano privately, there is no indication of any particular interest
among the Debussys in the arts.2
Debussy’s father never received training for any profession. When he was eigh-
teen, he joined the marines serving part of the time in undetermined tropical isles.
In November 1861 when his enlistment had ended, he married Victorine-Joséphine-
Sophie Manoury (1836–1915), also of Burgundian heritage, and they lost little time
in starting a family. The first of five children was born on 22 August 1862 and
­baptized Achille-Claude.3 A sister, Adèle, followed less than a year later.
Debussy’s childhood coincided with the final years of the reign of Napoleon III
but reflected none of the glitter and pomp associated with it. These were difficult
times for the Debussy family. At first they lived above a small china shop that they
operated in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. But it was not successful and closed by the
end of 1864. Over the next few years the Debussys moved frequently, Victorine
working as a seamstress and Manuel as a traveling salesman. Not until 1868 did he
find regular employment as bookkeeper with a printing firm—only to have it end
two years later when war broke out with Prussia.
The Franco-Prussian War of 1870 culminated in the swift defeat of the French
forces and the capitulation of Napoleon III. It created months of political instability.
In Paris there was wide-spread refusal to accept the terms of surrender, and the city
prepared for a siege. Political radicals—many of them militant socialists—took
charge. The result was known as the Commune, and it resisted not just Prussian
forces but the remnants of the defeated French army who eventually were assigned
the duty of subduing what had become a bloody and protracted revolt.
During the Commune, Manuel Debussy enlisted in the National Guard, the
force that now found itself defending Paris against the assault of the French army.
He rose swiftly in the ranks, became a captain, and led an abortive attack at Issy, one
of the forts south of the Seine. Whether he was a supporter of the Commune or
merely one of thousands caught up in the events remains uncertain. But when the
movement was crushed in May 1871, he was put on trial and—despite his wife’s
appeal—was sentenced to four years in prison. The term was commuted (after he
had served one year) to four years’ suspension of his civil and familial rights.Virtually
nothing is known of the Debussy family during those years, but the times must

2.  No connection has been found with N. de Bussy, a sixteenth-century composer of chansons.
3.  During his youth, Debussy was known as Achille, and at the start of his career added some luster
to his name by the use of “Claude-Achille” and “de Bussy.” He did not begin consistently to refer
to himself as “Claude” until he was thirty.
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  5

have been extraordinarily challenging for them. Financial support from relatives or
friends would have been essential for their survival.
The Debussys’ eldest child was spared at least some of the horrors of the war and
the Commune. In 1870 he accompanied his mother to the south of France to visit
his paternal aunt, Clémentine. She was a year older than Debussy’s father and
recently married to Alfred Roustan, an innkeeper in Cannes.
Clémentine was a colorful character. In the 1860s she had mingled with high
society and for several years had been the mistress of a wealthy stockbroker, Achille
Arosa. She and Arosa were Debussy’s godparents, but it is uncertain how much
contact they actually had with the Debussy family.4 Perhaps Arosa gave his godson
expensive gifts, such as the tricycle seen in a photograph of Debussy at the age of
five. From time to time, he may have helped the family financially.
But beyond the wealth he possessed, Arosa was a man of culture with consider-
able interest in art. As he grew up, Debussy displayed similar tastes, and it has long
been assumed they had been fostered by meeting Arosa. That now seems unlikely.
Their relationship was not close. Even though he and Debussy stayed in touch after
the affair with Clémentine ended, Arosa in time became critical of his godson’s
“distant manner” and maintained that he would amount to nothing.5
Clémentine’s marriage to Alfred Roustan was an indication that her life had
entered a more stable and respectable phase. For Debussy the visit was one he long
remembered. In a letter written nearly forty years later he vividly recalled the coun-
tryside and the sea:

I remember the railway which passed in front of the house and the sea in the dis-
tance. . . . And there was also the road to Antibes where there were so many roses that
never in my life have I seen so many at one time. . . . With the recollection of a Norwegian
carpenter who sang from morning to night—some Grieg, perhaps?—I bring my
“Souvenirs” to a close. Rest assured that I will not turn them into an orchestral work
(“The Carpenter’s Apprentice”?).6

Debussy’s comments provide a rare glimpse of his youth. But they reveal more
about himself at age forty-five than about his childhood. Humor—such as the ref-
erence to the musical carpenter and the play on Dukas’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice—is

4.  On Debussy’s 1864 baptismal certificate, Clémentine’s identity is concealed by the fanciful
pseudonym, Octavie de la Ferronière. It is not known why the Debussys delayed their son’s
baptism for two years after his birth. His sister, Adèle, who was nearly a year older, was baptized
before him.
5.  Marcel Dietschy, A Portrait of Claude Debussy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), p. 9. Hereafter
abbreviated D.
6.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 24 March 1908 in C, p. 1076.
6  •  debussy

intended to divert attention from more intimate details. And the recollections
themselves focus on the countryside and casual encounters.There is no mention of
people whom he would have known well—such as his aunt—nor is there any ref-
erence to the circumstances surrounding the trip to Cannes.
Yet Clémentine—who is not mentioned in any of Debussy’s published
­correspondence—was by all accounts caring and loving, and to a great extent actu-
ally raised two of the Debussy children. In comparison, Debussy’s mother seems to
fare poorly. She herself admitted that she had no great fondness for children—and
that helps to explain Clémentine’s enlarged role. Victorine was also the discipli-
narian in the family, and according to one source (but not an eye-witness) she was
“very severe . . . frequently slapping” the children.7 One of Debussy’s friends in the
1880s described her as “very excitable.”8 But she had another side. She was a good
cook and “passionately devoted” to Claude.9 He was her favorite, and it was
Victorine Debussy—not the father—who took a more active role in his education
and the early stages of his career.
Debussy’s attitude toward his father was ambivalent. He once described him as
an “old scoundrel.”10 Yet he seemed to view his father’s conduct with tolerance and
amusement—and the man himself with affection. Not long after his death Debussy
described it as “a loss felt all the more deeply with each day that passes.” But, he
added, “we hardly ever had a thought in common.”11 The differences between them
could scarcely have been greater. His father’s taste in music, for example, was for
light opera (not surprisingly, a favorite among his son’s compositions was one of the
earliest and most conventional, L’Enfant prodigue). Claude, on the other hand,
seemed drawn to what was unconventional and distinctive, and in his adolescence
he displayed a refinement in taste and interests that could only have been puzzling
to many in his family.Yet there is no sign that these differences alienated him from
his parents. Perhaps the strongest indication of the regard in which Debussy held
them was the pleasure he experienced later in life in witnessing their enjoyment of
his growing fame.12

7.  Dolly Bardac in Roger Nichols, ed., Debussy Remembered (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1992),
p. 200. Hereafter abbreviated DR.
8.  Paul Vidal, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La Revue Musicale 7 (May 1926), p. 13.
9.  Ibid.
10.  Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind. 2 vols. (London: Cassell, 1962, 1965), I, p. 9.
Hereafter abbreviated LK.
11.  Letter to André Caplet of 21 November 1910 in C, pp. 1331–1332.
12.  During an eleven-year period, five children were born to Manuel and Victorine Debussy.
Debussy’s sister Adèle (1863–1952) eventually became a seamstress and never married. According
to an article published in the NewYork Times in 1909, she had “no sympathy with his compositions”
and “always refused to take any money from him” (David Grayson, “Claude Debussy Addresses the
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  7

Debussy’s father wanted his son to become a sailor, an idea that seemed to appeal
to the boy. But the visit to Cannes led to a change of plans. Clémentine arranged
for Debussy to have piano lessons with a local musician, Jean Cerutti (actually a
violinist by training).Years later Debussy described Cerutti to his first French biog-
rapher as an “elderly Italian professor.”13 But although he may have appeared old to
the nine-year-old, Cerutti was only forty-two. From him, Debussy remembered
learning the “first rudiments” of music, but he also noted that Cerutti found nothing
special in him.14
Cerutti’s evaluation did not discourage Debussy’s parents. After the family
returned to Paris, they mentioned the piano lessons to Charles de Sivry, a friend
whom Manuel Debussy had probably met in prison after the Commune. De Sivry
was a true bohémien and actively involved in Parisian artistic circles. He had close
connections with the literary scene and was a good friend of the writers Paul
Verlaine and Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. He was also an amateur musician, and his
mother, Antoinette-Flor Mauté de Fleurville, taught piano. De Sivry suggested that
Claude study with her.
Mme Mauté de Fleurville was forty-eight when she began teaching Debussy.
She was fond of playing the grande dame, as the flowery name she created for her-
self indicates: Mauté was the name of her second husband, “de Fleurville” was a
fanciful appendage. Her claim to fame was her assertion that she had been a student
of Chopin. On the surface, Mme Mauté did not seem much better qualified than
Cerutti, and in biographies of Debussy she has been routinely portrayed as a pre-
tentious dilettante who fortunately did her gifted pupil little harm.
But her affectations obscured her accomplishments. She was a good pianist
who actually may have studied with Chopin.15 And she was a superb teacher.Three
years before his death Debussy recalled her with extraordinary fondness, noting
that she had taught him “the little I know about the piano.” At the time he was
preparing an edition of some of Chopin’s piano pieces and wished that she were
still alive so that he could draw upon her knowledge: “she knew so many things

English-Speaking World: Two Interviews, an Article, and The Blessed Damozel,” Cahiers Debussy
16 [1992], p. 25).There were three other brothers: Eugène-Octave (1873–1877) died of meningitis.
Emmanuel (1867–1937) became a farmhand. Alfred (1870–1937) in his youth had artistic interests
similar to Debussy’s. He was later employed as an inspector for a railroad, and, according to
Debussy, his musical tastes favored the cabaret.
13.  Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles Fantaisistes, 1909), p. 11. D, p. 12.
14.  Laloy, p. 11.
15.  Chopin had many students—not all have been identified. No evidence has surfaced that she
was not his pupil (see Jean-Jacques Eigeldinger, Chopin: Pianist and Teacher, tr. Naomi Shohet,
Krysia Osostowicz, and Roy Howat [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986], p. 129).
8  •  debussy

about Chopin.”16 On another occasion—again, late in life—he noted that he had

been privileged to hear “only two fine pianists”: Liszt, and “my old piano teacher,
a small, stout woman who plunged me into Bach and who played his music as it
is never played now—putting life into it.”17 Debussy liked to exaggerate to make
a point. By placing Liszt and his “old piano teacher” on the same level there was
no better way to emphasize how greatly she had inspired him. He later said that
she had played a “considerable” role in his “musical formation, not only as pianist,
but also as creator.”18 Debussy never gave comparable praise to any other of his
teachers.
Mme Mauté—who charged nothing for her lessons with Debussy—provided
impetus to his growth as a musician. Unfortunately, details of her instruction are not
known, nor even how long Debussy studied with her. But at most it could only
have been for about a year. She must have encouraged Debussy’s parents to cultivate
their son’s gifts and probably suggested to them (who knew so little about music)
that their son would be best served by attending the Paris Conservatoire. She was
convinced that the standard approach of private piano study at home was ­insufficient
both to challenge him and develop his skills.
The decision was made to prepare Debussy as quickly as possible for the
Conservatoire. It might have been more prudent to go at a slower pace and gradu-
ally refine his technique. Not only had Debussy begun the study of music fairly late,
but in applying to the Conservatoire he would be compared to students older and
far more mature. There was always the risk that those who heard his performance
for admission might fail to recognize his accomplishments or would prefer more
established skills to developing the potential of a child. That autumn, Debussy and
156 other students applied for admittance to the piano program. He performed
Weber’s “Invitation to the Dance,” a challenging piece, and on 22 October
1­872—exactly two months after his tenth birthday—he learned that he was among
the thirty-three who had been admitted.

At the Conservatoire
Founded during the French Revolution, the Paris Conservatoire was the oldest
conservatory in Europe. The musical education offered to Debussy was substantial
and in all ways conventional—representative not just of the nineteenth century, but
of much of the twentieth century as well. Its goal was to produce skillful and

16.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 27 January 1915 in C, p. 1871.

17.  Conversation with Victor Segalen of 17 December 1908 in Annie Joly-Segalen and André
Schaeffner, eds., Segalen et Debussy (Monaco: Editions du Rocher, 1961), p. 107.
18.  Alfred Casella in DR, p. 97.
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  9

c­ ompetent musicians thoroughly grounded in their craft. Musical genius of any

kind had not been a concern of those drafting the curriculum.
In addition to study of their instrument, performers received training in music
theory and harmony, and participated in ensembles (the study of music history was
not yet a requirement).The goal was for all students to be immersed in studying and
making music with few other distractions. Debussy’s musical skills benefited from
that approach. But in time he found the academic rigor at the Conservatoire intol-
erable. His true growth as a musician came not from what he was taught but from
his opposition to it.
He spent nearly a dozen years at the school. Unlike his brothers and sister, it was
the only formal education of any kind he ever received. His mother took responsi-
bility for teaching him non-musical subjects at home. But although there is no
reason to believe that she did not take her duties seriously, the depth and breadth of
Debussy’s schooling outside of the Conservatoire was limited. It was not an
uncommon situation. Lack of a formal education was widespread in France at the
time. A quarter of those intending to marry were unable even to write their names
on their marriage certificates.19
The musical concentration at the Conservatoire developed Debussy’s musician-
ship in much the same way that rigorous physical training produces an athlete. It
made him aware of the extent of his musical abilities and, by comparison to class-
mates, encouraged his competitive spirit. But Debussy’s interests went well beyond
music. As he matured, he hungered for knowledge, especially about the arts. He
accomplished a great deal by educating himself, but gaps remained, and occasional
difficulty with grammar and syntax would sometimes prove an embarrassment.
Although it is unlikely that he grasped it at the time, Debussy’s admission to the
Conservatoire was an event of extraordinary significance to his parents. All their
hopes became centered on him. He was by far the most gifted of their children, and
the vision of him as a renowned pianist provided hope and solace for the difficulties
in their own lives. There is no indication that Debussy was thrust into that position
against his will or, as had been the case with Beethoven, driven to it. He seemed to
enjoy the challenges of his study and, as they increasingly came his way, the suc-
cesses. Perhaps he welcomed the stability provided by study at the Conservatoire.
For their part, Debussy’s parents willingly entrusted their son to the school, firm in
the conviction that it was the ideal source to develop and ripen his musical gifts.
Debussy’s formal study at the Conservatoire began on 25 October when he
enrolled in the piano class of Antoine Marmontel. It seemed to be a good choice.

19.  Not until 1882 did attendance at secondary school become compulsory. At the time it was
estimated that more than half a million children were not enrolled. See Jacques Chastenet,
La République des Républicains. 1879–1893 (Paris: Hachette, 1954), p. 74.
10  •  debussy

Marmontel was one of the most prominent figures at the Conservatoire, having
taught there since 1848. He was well regarded by his colleagues and had taught a
number of exceptional musicians—Bizet, for example.
But there were disadvantages to studying with him of which the Debussys were
unaware. He was a teacher, not a performer, and he lacked the technique to dem-
onstrate difficult passages for students. In addition he had no reputation for pro-
ducing outstanding pianists. His most famous students had been composers.
Part of the problem can be traced to Marmontel’s appointment to the
Conservatoire. The leading candidate for the position had been Charles-Valentin
Alkan. Not as well known today as he should be, Alkan was one of the most excep-
tional pianists of his generation, as well as a gifted composer and teacher. But his
candidacy fell victim to the politics of the Conservatoire. Since being hired,
Marmontel had focused on piano pedagogy, and had written a book (Les Pianistes
célèbres) containing biographical sketches of more than two dozen eminent pianists
of the century.
All this should not detract from Marmontel’s strengths: his musical sensitivity
and ability to teach not merely how to play the piano (that is, technique), but also
music. It was those traits that had so impressed pupils like Bizet. But if a student was
intent on a career as a piano virtuoso—and that was the obvious goal of both
Debussy and his parents—Marmontel’s teaching was open to criticism. An inter-
esting parallel is provided by the American composer Edward MacDowell who
came to Marmontel in 1876 with goals similar to Debussy’s. He was fifteen, highly
talented, and eager to learn. But he found Marmontel too pedantic. MacDowell
stayed with Marmontel for only about a year. After hearing a virtuoso performance
by Anton Rubinstein, he concluded: “I’ll never learn to play like that in the Paris
Conservatoire.”20 During the years when Debussy studied with Marmontel, his
studio was mediocre at best. The finest pianists were Debussy, Camille Bellaigue,
and Gabriel Pierné. Bellaigue became a music critic, Pierné a conductor and
composer.
Debussy’s study with Marmontel began well enough. The piano class met three
times a week, and Marmontel was impressed by what he saw. In his first detailed
evaluation, he described Debussy’s “marvelous progress” and predicted that he
would “become a great artist” (29 January 1873). Six months later he noted Debussy’s
“true artistic temperament.”21 These initial reactions emphasize Marmontel’s ability
to see beyond the piano and to recognize Debussy’s outstanding musicianship.

20.  Alan H. Levy, Edward MacDowell. An American Master (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 1998),
p. 12.
21.  John R. Clevenger, “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane
Fulcher (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), pp. 324, 325.
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  11

He made rapid progress. Debussy was soon playing pieces requiring substantial
technique, such as Ignaz Moscheles’s Allegri di bravura, op. 51. In July at the annual
jury, he was awarded a second certificate of merit (ranked seventh in a group of
fifteen) for his performance of the first movement of Chopin’s Second Piano
Concerto.The following year he received a first certificate of merit (fourth of four-
teen), once again for a work by Chopin (the Ballade No. 1, op. 23). Both are
demanding pieces, and for a twelve-year-old to perform them—and win an award
in the ­process—was impressive.
Even more astonishing was the rate at which Debussy learned.To be able to play
the Chopin concerto after only three years of piano study was exceptional.Although
it has become customary to deprecate his skills as a pianist, Debussy was extraordi-
narily gifted—in fact, a prodigy. Certificates were awarded at a public ceremony,
and these must have been occasions of celebration for the Debussy family—­
especially when the critic for L’ Art musical described him as “a budding virtuoso of
the first order.”22
There was a similar response to his first recitals. Marmontel arranged for Debussy
to participate in two concerts (16 January and 18 March 1876) in the small town of
Chauny. Debussy had a prominent role, performing fashionable fantasies on oper-
atic tunes, accompanying Léontine Mendès (a gifted fellow-student) in arias by
Fromenthal Halévy and Ambroise Thomas, accompanying a cellist in a Donizetti
fantasy, and participating in the performance of a Haydn trio. Local criticism was
rhapsodic.“This budding Mosart [sic] is a real devil,” exclaimed one reviewer,“What
verve! What spirit!” It seemed obvious, noted another, that he would become “a
renowned artist.”23
With less than four years of study at the Conservatoire, Debussy’s future could
not have appeared more promising. He made a striking impression—not just a
result of his youth, but also because of his demeanor and the intensity of his perfor-
mances. In appearance he resembled his father—small in stature, lively, somewhat
swarthy. His prominent forehead attracted attention. It had several bony protuber-
ances (most likely a result of benign bone tumors), and Debussy was self-conscious
enough to attempt during his adolescence to conceal them by combing his hair
over them.
Most memorable was his gaze. It was described by fellow students in a variety of
ways: “ardent,” “concentrated,” “intense.” To some he seemed “fierce,” and “unso-
ciable,” a bit like a wild animal.24 That marked his approach to the piano as well: at
times he seemed to attack it.

22.  François Lesure, Claude Debussy (Paris: Klincksieck, 1994), p. 28. Hereafter abbreviated LS.
23.  Ibid., p. 30.
24.  Ibid., p. 24.
12  •  debussy

But his refinement also set him apart. Classmates noticed that he preferred to
buy a delicacy to eat rather than purchasing something more substantial for less.
It was attributed to his “aristocratic tastes.”25 And he was fascinated by art. In one
instance, he mutilated a friend’s copy of the magazine Le Monde illustré, tearing
illustrations from it to hang on his wall—reproductions of paintings by Ernest
Meissonier, known for his vibrant and colorful scenes of the Napoleonic Wars.
Piano study was only one component of the program of study at the Conservatoire.
In November 1872 Debussy enrolled in a sight-singing (solfège) class taught by
Albert Lavignac. Lavignac later became famous as the editor of the monumental
Encyclopédie de la musique et Dictionnaire du Conservatoire. But at the time of his
contact with Debussy he was at the beginning of his career.
The solfège class became the foundation of Lavignac’s reputation. He did not
limit it to sight-singing and dictation but made it a general musicianship course that
was one of the most important—and most challenging—in the curriculum. Facility
was required for reading at sight in all the clefs (not just the treble and bass clefs
taught today), as well as skill in transposition. Debussy excelled and, despite being
the youngest, in his final year of study with Lavignac (1876) received a First Medal
in solfège.
But that same year also brought the first indications of problems. In their evalu-
ations, both Marmontel and Lavignac complained that Debussy needed to work
harder. They were convinced that he was relying too much on natural ability and
not putting enough effort into his studies. His jury appearance in 1876 seemed to
justify their concern. Debussy performed the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano
Sonata, op. 111, was only ranked eighth out of eighteen, and won no prize at all.
Marmontel described Debussy’s work during the year as “a bit muddled and scatter-
brained . . . he can do much better”—a judgment seconded by Lavignac.26
His jury performance the following year did not show much improvement.
Although Marmontel seemed pleased with what he saw as renewed effort on
Debussy’s part, it only resulted in a shared second prize (ranked fifth in a group of
twenty-one) for a performance of the first movement of Schumann’s Second Piano
Sonata, op. 22. Preparation for other classes provided no excuse. Study with Lavignac
had ended, and, although he was enrolled in a required ensemble class, Debussy
(like most other students) rarely bothered to attend. To some, Debussy’s piano
playing now seemed bizarre, capricious, and undisciplined. “He would literally
throw himself at the keyboard and force all his effects,” one student recalled. “He
seemed to be enraged with the instrument, abusing it with impulsive gestures, and

25.  Ibid., p. 28.

26.  Evaluations of 2 February and 20 June 1876 in Clevenger, “Training,” pp. 325, 326.
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  13

breathing noisily during the difficult passages.”27 Such idiosyncrasies could only
have worked against him at the juries. But those who heard Debussy play the piano
later in life—both in public and private—invariably remarked on his skill, artistry,
and extraordinary sensitivity.
A change in teacher might have improved the situation. During the two previous
juries not only had Debussy done poorly, there had been broad criticism of
Marmontel’s students in general. If nothing else, Debussy might have found a new
teacher and a different approach refreshing. He had been studying with Marmontel
for about a half dozen years.What had begun well had turned stale. Distancing him-
self from the disastrous events of the previous two years might have been helpful,
but he made no change in instructor. During his final two years with Marmontel
(1878 and 1879)—despite a generally positive evaluation—he won no additional
awards and was ranked at about the middle with other competitors (ninth of sev-
enteen; eighth of fourteen).
It was a dismal showing, and Debussy’s performance in his academic classes
offered no consolation. In November 1877 he enrolled as auditor in the harmony
and accompanying course (officially changed solely to harmony in the following
year) of Emile Durand.28 He was in the class for three years, but he and Durand
never established a rapport. Although Durand praised his musical aptitude, he char-
acterized his work in a manner identical to Marmontel: “muddled” and “scatter-
brained.”29
Fortunately, during this bleak period in Debussy’s life, Marmontel provided
encouragement. Despite the failures, he arranged for Debussy to become pianist
and musician factotum at the chateau of Chenonceaux in the summer of 1879. It
was a wonderful opportunity for him. The contrast between it and his mundane
existence (notably the crowded, three-room apartment he shared with his family)
could not have been more striking.
The chateau—a magnificent residence that had once been home to Diane de
Poitiers—was owned by Marguerite Pelouze, née Wilson. Daughter of a wealthy
Scottish engineer (who had presented Chenonceaux to her as a wedding gift) she
was charming and elegant (and the mistress of Jules Grévy, president of France). She
had a great interest in the arts and a particular admiration for Flaubert, who was an
occasional guest. In music,Wagner was her passion. Unfortunately, little is known of

27.  Gabriel Pierné, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La Revue Musicale 7 (May 1926), p. 10.
28.  Harmony students were expected to attend the music history class taught by Louis Bourgault-
Ducoudray. But there were no exams for this course—and no indication that Debussy ever both-
ered to attend.
29.  Evaluations of 19 January and 19 June 1878 in Clevenger, “Training,” pp. 334, 335.
14  •  debussy

Debussy’s experiences at Chenonceaux—not what music he played for Mme

Pelouze, not even the precise nature of his duties.
The music of Wagner, it may be presumed, made some appearance. At the time,
his stature in France was hotly debated. The performance of Tannhäuser at the Paris
Opéra in 1861 had created a scandal, and it was not until 1893 that the Opéra per-
formed another of his works. Although there were occasional performances in
France of excerpts in a concert version, those who wanted to see staged versions of
Wagner’s most recent music generally needed to travel to Germany.
Many of Wagner’s strongest supporters in France were writers or had distinct
literary interests. The Revue Wagnérienne (1885–1888; Mme Pelouze was one of its
founders) was created to gain wider appreciation for his music and included among
its contributors some of the most notable writers of the day, including Stéphane
Mallarmé, Catulle Mendès, and Villiers de l’Isle-Adam.
Among musicians, progressives often emulated Wagner. Conservatives (and this
would have included many of Debussy’s professors) castigated him. To play and
study Wagner’s music at Chenonceaux, even if only in piano reduction, would
have been exciting to Debussy—particularly given his later fascination with some
of it. But it would not have been his first contact with Wagner’s compositions. One
memorable evening after class at the Conservatoire he had been introduced to the
overture to Tannhäuser by Lavignac—who was to become one of the best known
of Wagner’s supporters in France. They became so immersed in their study that
they forgot the time, and on leaving found that the night watchman had locked
them in.
Debussy never made any direct reference to his stay at Chenonceaux, but at least
it provided distraction to the difficulties he was encountering at the Conservatoire.
Because of academic regulations, it had become impossible for him to continue
studying piano: students were dropped from a program of study if, after winning a
prize, they captured no additional prize in two consecutive years or did not win
one in three consecutive attempts.
On his return to Paris, Debussy continued in Durand’s harmony class and
enrolled in a new course devoted to accompanying. Taught by August Bazille, it
covered more than accompanying and included extensive sight-reading, sight
transposition, improvisational accompaniment to a melody, and piano reduction of
orchestral scores.
Debussy excelled. He was awarded the First Prize in accompanying—­
astonishingly, the only First Prize he ever received at the Conservatoire.
Earlier in his study, the award might have had some significance. Now, it had
little value. He had failed in piano. And his work in Durand’s harmony class had not
been much better: in the only two harmony competitions that he entered (1879
and 1880), he had done poorly. Debussy was now at a crossroads in his career, and
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  15

the study in Bazille’s class—no matter how successful—could only reinforce how
much he needed to evaluate his future.
Without a First Prize in piano, a career as a concert pianist was unrealistic.
Debussy’s only notable success—in Bazille’s class—would probably lead to little
more than journeyman work as an accompanist, possibly for an opera house or
choral group. According to his professors, Debussy’s predicament had been brought
about by his laziness and carelessness, and, given his musical gifts, by his unwilling-
ness to study. But a closer look reveals that Debussy’s failure was not a result of his
laziness, but of his challenging the program of study.
He consistently questioned the value of what he was taught and rejected what
appeared to be misguided and routine. He was also strongly independent and, com-
pared to other students, self-assured and unusually mature—not in the ways of the
world, but in assessing his artistic convictions.
Debussy’s professors found him to be a difficult pupil. The question he asked
most often was “Why?”:Why were only certain modulations acceptable? Why were
only particular chord sequences approved? Why did the sight-singing exercises
contain so little rhythmic inventiveness?
Much of Debussy’s questioning—long remembered by other students—focused
on rules that existed for their own sake. He was convinced that many were being
enforced only to enable students to compose like their teachers. In Bazille’s class he
was rebuked for his unconventional modulations (with understatement, Bazille
described him as being a “good harmonist but a bit fanciful”).30 In Durand’s harmony
class his homework presented solutions that were “ingenious, elegant, charming,
but in no way academic.”31 Although Debussy often seemed playful in these
­confrontations—enjoying the role of devil’s advocate—in the process he was devel-
oping characteristics of his own musical style.
Seen in that light, Lavignac’s assertion that Debussy was “scatter-brained in
theory, even though he understands it very well” makes some sense.32 He was care-
less because he was bored. And sometimes what was perceived as carelessness was
intended defiantly. In general his professors did not take it personally. Lavignac
seemed particularly understanding. At times even Durand (described by one stu-
dent as “a good professor, but intractable”) at least found Debussy’s unorthodoxy to
be clever.33 In his final evaluation he described Debussy as a “talented student who
has made great progress this year.”34 But what “progress” Debussy had made had

30.  Evaluation of 21 June 1880 in ibid., p. 336.

  idal, LS, p. 37.
31.  According to fellow-student, Paul V
32.  Evaluation of 9 June 1876 in Clevenger, “Training,” p. 333.
33. Vidal, “Souvenirs,” p. 12.
34.  Evaluation of 18 June 1880 in Clevenger, “Training,” p. 335.
16  •  debussy

been against the grain and was the result of a calculated adherence to the rules.
“The best thing one could wish for French music,” Debussy wrote in 1902, “would
be to see the study of harmony abolished as it is practiced in the conservatories.”35
Marmontel was also familiar with Debussy’s probing. It generally took the form
of improvisations, often preceding a lesson, and Marmontel admired their
independence and resourcefulness.36 Although Debussy never revealed his reaction
to him as a teacher—and thought more highly of Mme Mauté—Marmontel had
been a great help. During these difficult years at the Conservatoire, he consistently
responded in an encouraging manner, convinced of Debussy’s musical gifts, even if
they were not directed toward the piano.While he turned out to be the wrong type
of teacher to guide Debussy’s career as a piano virtuoso, he was an ideal one to
foster his musicianship.
Yet another instance of Marmontel’s support occurred in the summer of 1880,
when he arranged for Debussy to serve for several months as pianist for Nadezhda
von Meck and her family. This was the first of three occasions that Debussy would
spend with the von Mecks—an invaluable experience that, like his association with
Marguerite Pelouze, brought him into contact with people and ideas out of the
ordinary.
Nadezhda von Meck was a wealthy and eccentric Russian widow whose passion
was the music of Chaikovsky. For more than a dozen years she provided him with
a stipend to enable him to compose. But it was a gesture, generous as it was, that
Mme von Meck could easily afford. She lived extravagantly and owned residences
in and near Moscow, as well as in Ukraine. During the summer and autumn, much
of her time was spent traveling with family and servants to fashionable locations
throughout Europe.
Debussy’s duties for the von Mecks varied: playing in a piano trio; accompa-
nying her daughter, Julia (a singer, twenty-seven); teaching piano to her daughter,
Sonia (thirteen) and theory to her son, Alexander (sixteen). Perhaps the most trying
part were the piano duets with Mme von Meck. These almost always consisted of
pieces by Chaikovsky, far from a favorite with Debussy. Mme von Meck adored his
music: “When I play [the Fourth Symphony], a fever penetrates every fiber of my
being,” she wrote to Chaikovsky after a session with Debussy. “For an entire day
I am unable to recover from its effects.”37

35.  “The Orientation of Music” in Claude Debussy, Debussy on Music, ed. Richard Langham
Smith (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), p. 84. Hereafter abbreviated DM.
36.  Years later, as Debussy began his career as a composer, Marmontel jokingly referred to him as
“my second-prize winner of 1877.” LS, p. 66.
37.  Ibid., p. 45.
 A Musician’s Apprenticeship  •  17

In 1880 Debussy’s stay with the von Meck family began in July in Switzerland,
moved to France (the Midi, Paris, and Nice), and concluded in Italy. He quickly
grew in their affections. His musical abilities—particularly his facility in sight-­
reading—were much appreciated. The von Mecks also enjoyed his quick wit and
lively sense of humor, especially his skill at mocking the musical styles of popular
composers such as Charles Gounod and Ambroise Thomas. It was an exhilarating
and exciting time for him. To surrender this opulent and stimulating environment
for the dreary routine of life in Paris was difficult.When he left in November, Mme
von Meck was astonished to see him cry.
It was he who wrote asking to return. In July 1881 he traveled to Russia to meet
them, and then accompanied the family to Vienna and Italy, not returning to Paris
until early in December. In September of the following year he returned again and
followed a similar itinerary: Moscow (September) and Vienna (November), arriving
in Paris at the end of the month. Those three residences with the von Mecks were
a wonderful opportunity. Unfortunately, none of his letters from the time have sur-
vived, so many of the details of his stay—as well as Debussy’s reaction to them—are
lacking. But the trips served the purpose of the traditional “Grand Tour” and
exposed him to portions of Europe and a way of life he would never have been able
to experience on his own. It came at an ideal time, too—precisely when he was
giving thought to his future and had need of a more expansive frame of mind.
Debussy became attached both to the von Mecks and to their affluent way of
life. But his musical experience was also enriched, often in unexpected ways. He
long remembered hearing some gypsies perform in Moscow. And the daily musical
activities required him to maintain his skills as a pianist. By necessity, he became
familiar with much of Chaikovsky’s music and even prepared for publication a
four-hand piano transcription of portions of Swan Lake.
He was anxious to gain the approval of the von Mecks. In the beginning, unsure
of himself and eager to create an impression, Debussy added three years to his age
and claimed that he had won the First Prize in piano. Not content with being a
mere performer, he went on to talk of his accomplishments as a composer and his
study in the composition class of Jules Massenet, at the time the most popular com-
poser in France. His goal, he told them, was winning the Prix de Rome, the
Conservatoire’s prestigious award for the best student composer.
There was at least some measure of truth in what he was telling them. Debussy
was writing music: his first compositions were created around 1880 and include a
piano trio (written for the von Meck ensemble), several songs, his only symphony
(for piano, four-hands, from which an allegro survives), and a piano piece (Danse
bohémienne). They are far from accomplished pieces, but they do reveal talent. Most
seem to have been conceived with the von Mecks in mind, both as a means of
displaying his skill and as a token of his esteem.
18  •  debussy

Debussy presented the score of the symphony as a gift to Mme von Meck. In
her gracious response, she thanked him for his “charming symphony,” an apt reac-
tion to many of these early works.38 They are attractive, elegant, lyrical, and gener-
ally a cut above the typical salon piece whose intention is merely to please—so
much so that it seems likely that Debussy had earlier composed other pieces which
have not survived. What is surprising is the amount of originality. Even if only
­present in a subtle manner, from the start Debussy seemed determined to set
­himself apart.
These compositions were Debussy’s response to the crisis of 1880.They also help
to explain his failure as a virtuoso and his incessant questioning of musical grammar.
By 1877 he found himself attracted more to music than to playing the piano, more
interested in creating music than in performing it. And his probing in the classes of
Lavignac, Durand, and Bazille helped lay the foundation both for his study as a
composer and for his musical style.
When he described himself to the von Mecks as a student of Massenet, in his
own mind Debussy was probably stretching the truth only a little. It seems likely
that he had decided to enroll in Massenet’s class in the autumn. He was not unknown
to Massenet (who had been on the juries which had heard him perform the Chopin
Ballade in 1875 and Beethoven the following year). For anyone who wanted to
study composition, Massenet’s fame as a composer and popularity as a teacher made
him the obvious choice.
But in December 1880—about a month after his return to France—Debussy
enrolled not with Massenet but in the composition class of a comparative unknown:
Ernest Guiraud. It is not clear what happened. Although he later showed little
sympathy for Massenet’s music, at this stage in his career the prestige of Massenet’s
name would probably have been sufficient attraction in itself. Perhaps, because of
his late return, Debussy found Massenet’s class closed. Or Guiraud may have been
recommended by Marmontel, who thought highly of him. There also remains the
possibility that Debussy was actually denied admission to Massenet’s class—the
result of an academic career memorable for its failures.
But while the reason Debussy found himself in Guiraud’s class may never be
known, it turned out to be a stroke of good luck. Guiraud was skilled, knowledge-
able, and open-minded. The three and a half years that Debussy was to spend as his
student had its share of trials and tribulations. But it led to mutual respect, substan-
tial growth in Debussy’s musicianship, and the first recognition of his skills as a
composer.

38.  Letter of 20 February 1881 in C, p. 12.

 l C h a p t e r t wo
;
The Prix de Rome

To be popular, one must be a mediocrity.

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of
Dorian Gray (1890)

W hen Debussy enrolled in the composition class taught by Guiraud,

he knew little about him, and—since this was the first composition course
Guiraud had taught—absolutely nothing about the class. But Guiraud knew
something of Debussy. He had been on the juries that had heard him perform
Chopin in 1875 and Schumann two years later. It is also likely that he had discussed
Debussy with former professors, especially Marmontel. Guiraud had been a student
of Marmontel and winner of the First Prize for piano in 1858.
Debussy may have realized that he was fortunate to be studying composition at
all. He came with far fewer accomplishments than others in the program, as
comparison with recent winners of the Prix de Rome reveals. Prior to winning the
Prix in 1882 Gabriel Pierné had won First Prizes in piano, organ, and counterpoint
and fugue. Paul Vidal, his successor in 1883, had won a pair of First Prizes: in
­harmony, and in counterpoint and fugue. Those were the two areas in which
­composers were expected to excel. But Debussy’s study had been conspicuous by
its failure.
From a strictly practical point of view, it would have been far better to be in the
composition class of Jules Massenet.The function of a composition professor was not
just to teach. It was to assist students in finding employment and commissions—and
in those areas the prestige of Massenet was unequaled. Appointed professor of com-
position in 1878 after the success of his opera Le Roi de Lahore, his classes usually
contained about a dozen students and numerous auditors. He seemed to have the

•  19  •
20  •  debussy

Midas touch: former winner of the Prix de Rome, good friend of the current
director of the Conservatoire (Ambroise Thomas), recently elected to the Institut
de France—and he was only thirty-eight.
Debussy’s greatest fear may have been his concern that any composition teacher
would try to mold students in his image. But there would have been no danger of
that occurring with Massenet. He was, in the words of a former student, “an edu-
cator of the first rank. . . . By no means shallow or reactionary, and never academic.
He was able to understand natures that were very different from his own.”1
Guiraud was five years older than Massenet and had won the Prix de Rome in
1859. But none of the handful of operas and ballets he had composed since then had
met with particular success. In 1876 he became a member of the faculty at the
Conservatoire teaching harmony—a result not so much of his accomplishments but
of his friendships. Today he is mostly remembered because of his association with
Georges Bizet. After Bizet’s early death, Guiraud helped to popularize his work by
composing recitatives for Carmen and preparing the second of the L’Arlésienne Suites.
But in both instances, his efforts seem heavy-handed compared to Bizet’s.
In addition to study with Guiraud, that autumn Debussy was hired as accompa-
nist in the private voice studio of Victorine Moreau-Sainti. It was the type of work
frequently done by composition students at the Conservatoire. Debussy supple-
mented it by teaching piano privately.
Moreau-Sainti came from a distinguished family of singers. Her class (which
met twice weekly from November to June) attracted a large number of students,
especially well-to-do amateurs. Debussy took no pleasure in his association with
the group. He never cared for amateurism of any kind, especially when, as in this
case, snobbism played a role.
One student eventually caught his attention: Marie Vasnier. She was charming,
attractive, and artistic, with an exceptional soprano voice. At the time of their meet-
ing, Mme Vasnier was thirty-two and had two children, aged nine and eleven. Her
husband Henri (who was eleven years older) was a buildings registrar and an ama-
teur archaeologist.The Vasniers lived well and mixed in stylish circles. Debussy soon
became a frequent guest at their house, so much so that it seemed like a second
home to him. The Vasnier’s daughter, Marguerite, recalled that “between his father,
pretentious and not very intelligent, and the petty and narrow-minded ways of his
mother, [Debussy] was not happy at home”—a biased view of his family life
tailor-made by Debussy to gain sympathy.2 He must have been flattered by the
attention shown him. Mme Vasnier (whose name he persisted in spelling “Vanié”)

1.  Robert Orledge, Charles Koechlin (1867–1950). His Life and Works (Chur, Switzerland: Harwood
Academic, 1989), p. 5.
2.  Marguerite Vasnier, “Debussy à dix-huit ans,” La Revue Musicale 7 (May, 1926), p. 17.
 The Prix de Rome  •  21

encouraged him to compose, and a room was even set aside for him to work in. Her
husband took an interest in Debussy’s studies. And the children enjoyed his unpre-
dictable sense of humor—such as when he pretended his walking stick was a guitar
and serenaded them, or when he invited some passing street musicians into the
house and improvised with them.
Much was done to make him feel at home. He gave piano lessons for a while to
their daughter, who was amused by his ineptness. “An appalling teacher [with] not
an ounce of patience” was her verdict. Although he could be “moody” and “unso-
ciable” to guests invited to their home (it seems that he wanted the Vasniers all to
himself ), he was “utterly charming with those he liked.”3 Charm is not a trait noted
by Debussy’s classmates; however, in addition to his improved social skills, it seemed
to have blossomed during his stay with the von Mecks.
“You felt,” recalled Marguerite Vasnier, “that here was a personality.”4 He seemed
exotic: a Florentine from the Middle Ages, aVenetian nobleman of the Renaissance—
that was how two friends from school described him. His manner of speaking was
also distinctive: restrained (“as happens so often with people who are not satisfied
with clichés and think for themselves”). In his conversations it seemed as if he were
“trying his hardest to find a word supple enough to get across the nuance of an
impression or a point of view.”5
At the Conservatoire Debussy was hoping for a clean break with his piano
study—and of the disappointment associated with it. But his first year as a com-
poser did not go well. Guiraud’s evaluation was adequate (“Intelligent. Good stu-
dent”), but he did not think highly of the class as a whole—which had only three
other students in it.6 The academic year did not end on a positive note. Debussy’s
jury composition was criticized severely. “Shilly-shallying,” one judge concluded.
“Too much modulation, a poor path.”7
Guiraud became known for being relaxed with students, perhaps even a bit
slack. That may help to explain why Debussy decided to investigate the organ class
of César Franck. Franck, a gentle and fatherly figure revered by his students, had
been teaching organ at the Conservatoire since 1872. The administration paid little
attention to his accomplishments as a composer, and despite a growing reputation
(Franck had recently completed Les Béatitudes and the Piano Quintet), he was never
asked to teach a class in composition. As compensation, Franck expanded the

3.  Marguerite Vasnier in DR, pp. 20, 19.

4.  Ibid., p. 17.
5.  Raymond Bonheur in ibid., p. 10.
6.  John R. Clevenger, “Debussy’s Paris Conservatoire Training,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane
Fulcher (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 339.
7. Théodore Dubois in LS, p. 53.
22  •  debussy

content of his organ classes. Improvisation (and, as a corollary, composition) played

an important role, and it was not unusual for young composers to attend. Debussy
was curious about Franck. Although not enthusiastic about most of his composi-
tions (which, like much nineteenth-century music, he found burdened with senti-
ment), Debussy was fond of several, especially Les Béatitudes. Perhaps he thought
that Franck’s teaching would provide some stimulus to his work with Guiraud. But
while Debussy ended up enjoying aspects of the class, overall it was a disappoint-
ment. He was amused by Franck’s encouragement of students to modulate, only to
cut them off if he felt they became inventive (“Not too much . . . not too much”).8
But he retained respect for Franck, at least in part for what he felt was his absence
of worldliness (what he later described as Franck’s “soul of a child”).9
That summer Debussy returned to the von Mecks for the second time, visiting
both Russia and Rome. Writing songs was his primary interest, and he composed
more than a dozen in 1881. They are lyrical, often with great sensitivity to the text.
It has become commonplace to compare them to those of Massenet whose songs—
primarily written for the salon—were extremely popular. But the comparison does
Debussy an injustice. Although intended for the salon, Debussy’s are surprisingly
refined and original.
Many of these songs—as well as the nearly two dozen more he was to write over
the next three years—were intended for Mme Vasnier. She must have been an
extraordinary musician. The music he tailored for her voice is challenging and
requires unusual agility and sensitivity. After returning from his stay with the von
Mecks in December, Debussy spent more time with the Vasniers than ever, in the
process neglecting his study at the Conservatoire. Guiraud, who was not pleased by
his late return, was concerned. In a report of 11 January 1882 he continued to note
Debussy’s intelligence but felt that he “needed to be reined in.”10 His evaluation of
Debussy at the conclusion of the academic year was not particularly encouraging:
“Some progress. Poorly balanced temperament, but intelligent. Will succeed,
I  believe.”11 But, despite his concerns, that May he gave Debussy permission to
enter the competition for the Prix de Rome.
The Prix de Rome had been established in 1803 (the same year Berlioz was
born), its sponsor being the venerable Institut de France. Of the five academies that
comprised the Institut, it was the Académie des Beaux-Arts (that is, the Fine Arts:
visual arts and music) which was responsible for administering the Prix. In addition
to composition, prizes were offered in sculpture, engraving, painting, and architecture.

8.  Paul Vidal, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La Revue Musicale 7 (May, 1926), p. 14.
9.  Review of 13 April 1903 in DM, p.173.
10.  Clevenger, “Training,” p. 339.
11.  26 June 1882 in ibid., p. 340.
 The Prix de Rome  •  23

The objective of the Prix de Rome was admirable: to provide a period of financial
independence for young artists at the start of their career, creating an opportunity
for them to study and develop their skills. A modest stipend was supplied for four
years. Usually winners spent the first three years in Rome as the guest of the
Académie, but there was flexibility in the length of stay.
For composers, there were two stages in the competition. The preliminary
round lasted six days and was primarily academic. Entrants were housed at the
Conservatoire and were required to write a four-voice fugue (on a given theme)
and a short choral work, all without the use of a piano. Generally about a half
dozen students were permitted to pass from that trial to the more challenging final
stage: the setting of a cantata (the text was supplied) for soloists, chorus, and
orchestra. That round lasted twenty-five days during which the competitors were
given access to a piano but kept secluded. Conversations were monitored, as well
as visitors, who were only allowed at seven in the evening. About a week and a half
after the cantatas had been completed, they were performed in a version accom-
panied by piano, four-hands, before the members of the music section of the
Académie des Beaux-Arts—and a preliminary vote was taken. A performance
before the entire Académie followed. Journalists were present, and a final vote was
held to determine the winner. It was a prestigious affair and one in which politics
had its share.
To be successful as a composer in France, many thought it was essential to win
the Prix. More important than the stipend was the fame associated with it.
Employment and commissions followed. During Debussy’s involvement with the
Prix, the pupils of Massenet dominated the competition.
In this, his first attempt, Debussy did not get beyond the preliminary round. But
even entering the competition seemed premature. Known more for his iconoclasm
than his accomplishments, Debussy had only recently begun to study composition.
And he was the student of a teacher to whom few favors were owed.
During the year Debussy’s reputation as an enfant terrible had continued to
grow. In March 1882 he had attended the premiere of Edouard Lalo’s ballet,
Namouna. It met with a mixed reception: boos from conservative season-ticket
holders, cheers from young supporters—including Debussy.Years later, he reported
that he had been booted out of the performance because of his “noisy but forgiv-
able enthusiasm.”12 All of the composition students paid a price for his rowdiness:
the Conservatoire box was closed to them for several months.
Since his shift from performer to composer, Debussy had become more self-­
assured and increasingly more self-centered. From his earnings as accompanist he
regularly purchased books and small objets d’art, despite the fact that money was

12.  Review of 19 January 1903 in DM, p. 94.

24  •  debussy

still in short supply at home. And he ordered a set of visiting cards engraved with
the name “A. de Bussy,” an aristocratic touch intended to complement his association
with the Vasniers and a reflection of what he perceived as his growing stature as a
composer. On 12 May 1882 several of his works (including a Nocturne et scherzo for
cello and piano) received their premiere at the salon of the piano-maker, Flaxland,
sponsor of a series of recitals for amateurs. Debussy figured prominently in the
program as pianist, but what made the concert particularly meaningful for Debussy
was the participation in it of Mme Vasnier. She sang two of the songs he had written
for her (“Les Roses” and “Fête galante”) with himself as accompanist.
While Debussy that summer and autumn was enjoying the society of the von
Mecks for a final time, Guiraud traveled to Germany to hear the music dramas of
Wagner. The theater which Wagner had opened in Bayreuth in 1876 solely to per-
form his own compositions provided musicians from around the world with the
opportunity to attend superlative performances of his work. Debussy was to make
the pilgrimage to Bayreuth later. In 1882 Guiraud was among a sizable but select
French contingent and he enjoyed what he heard, particularly Parsifal. He was in
good humor as the 1882–1883 academic year started. But Debussy once again pro-
longed his stay with the von Mecks, and that, coupled with lax class attendance, was
enough to set Guiraud on edge.
“A bizarre, but intelligent temperament,” he wrote of Debussy in January 1883.
“Writes music poorly. Nonetheless has made progress.”13 The remarks emphasize
Guiraud’s exasperation, and they were seconded by other composers at the
Conservatoire who described Debussy’s work as “disorderly” and “strange.”14
Although Guiraud’s frustration is understandable, his assertion that Debussy wrote
music “poorly” comes as a surprise.What did he mean by it? One possibility may be
found in his use of the verb “écrire” (“to write”) instead of “composer”—since,
despite his fine musical hand, Debussy was generally careless in the use of accidentals
and other indications for performance.15 But rather than taking Guiraud’s comment
literally—that Debussy did not put music down on paper well—it seems more likely
that he felt Debussy’s apparent ignorance of academic methodology led him to write
music that was peculiar and violated textbook rules. In fact, by 1883 Debussy had
been creating compositions—some of the songs for Mme Vasnier, for example—that
were in many ways more interesting than the work of his teacher. But Guiraud knew
nothing of them since Debussy chose to keep them to himself.

13.  Report of 9 January 1883 in Clevenger, “Training,” p. 340.

14.  Comments of Thomas and Delibes concerning the Première Suite d’orchestre (1 February 1884)
in ibid., p. 341.
15.  See Roger Nichols, The Life of Debussy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 17.
 The Prix de Rome  •  25

At the time of Guiraud’s perplexing evaluation, Debussy was in the process of

arranging his songs for Mme Vasnier into an album to give her as a present.The best
of the set had been composed fairly recently and were settings of the poetry of Paul
Verlaine. Verlaine was an unusual choice for a student composer. He was not well
known, and Debussy’s enthusiasm for his poetry was a mark of discernment.
It ­elicited a new type of music from him, freed from convention, with greater use
of dissonance and with more declamatory vocal lines. These songs hardly seem the
work of a student. In works like “Mandoline” Debussy anticipates the more pun-
gent style of songs of twentieth-century composers such as Francis Poulenc (the
Chansons gaillardes, for example, completed in 1926).
At some point over the next few months Debussy showed Guiraud some of the
music he had been writing outside of class, in particular a large-scale project from
Théodore de Banville’s drama, Diane au bois. It was a decisive move. Had Guiraud
been small-minded, the quality and originality of Debussy’s work might have
aroused some envy. Instead he became a supporter, an advisor, and, in time, a good
friend. It was an uncommon relationship and attracted attention. Paul Vidal, a stu-
dent of Massenet, felt that Guiraud pampered Debussy and treated him “like a spoilt
child.”16
Guiraud’s change in attitude is evident in Debussy’s second attempt at the Prix that
May. He told Debussy that if he wanted to win, he needed to be more conventional.
This time Debussy was among the five who passed the preliminary round. The next
stage—the setting in seclusion of the cantata text—was an ordeal, but Debussy
managed to keep his sense of humor. The Vasniers were among his visitors, and their
daughter, Marguerite, seeing bars in the windows of his room wondered why they
were there. “No doubt because they think we’re wild beasts,” he replied.17
Assigned cantata texts tended to be stiff and archaic. That year’s selection, “Le
Gladiateur” by Emile Moreau, was somewhat better than average. Debussy did what
he could to find inspiration. He must also have felt pressured, for he was not a quick
worker. But he did a more than respectable job, producing moments of surprising
intensity in what has been described as a “miniature Wagnerian music drama.”18
On 22 June all the versions of “Le Gladiateur” were performed. As it turned out,
Debussy’s setting was not considered for the first prize but managed to get the
second prize (after being tied for it). That was an unexpected success, especially in
light of the typically strong showing by Massenet’s pupils.Winning the second prize
usually meant winning the first prize the following year, so there were expectations
for Debussy.

16.  DR, p. 24.

17.  Ibid., p. 20.
18.  John R. Clevenger, “Achille at the Conservatoire, 1872–1884,” Cahiers Debussy 19 (1995), p. 34.
26  •  debussy

Music critics present at the performance of the cantatas reacted favorably to his
work. The judges’ response was also encouraging, and mention was made of
Debussy’s “bountiful musical nature,” as well as “some striking dramatic effects.” But
their praise contained a warning. His music was, they felt, “ardent to the point of
intemperance”—a hint that if he hoped to win the first prize he had better create
a blander product.19
Paul Vidal was awarded the first prize in 1883. Now that he was to leave for
Rome,Vidal gave up his position as accompanist for an amateur choral society, La
Concordia, and recommended Debussy as his successor. It was not a particularly
accomplished group.20 By Debussy’s standards, its repertoire was narrow: a favorite
with the group were the choral works of Charles Gounod who was honorary
president of the society. But this was to turn to Debussy’s advantage. Much of
Gounod’s fame had been created by the success of two operas: Faust (1859) and
Mireille (1864). Although more recent works by him had not been as popular, his
reputation remained formidable. Gounod and Debussy knew one another, and
their association with La Concordia drew them into more frequent contact. In time
Gounod became a powerful supporter.
Despite his reservations, Debussy benefited from his association with La
Concordia. There were performances of significant works new to him: in January
1884, for example, excerpts were performed from Liszt’s Legend of St. Elizabeth as
well as Bach’s Cantata No. 106, one of his finest. But Debussy’s relationship with the
society was strained. He could not be relied upon to attend rehearsals and often
gave flimsy excuses for absences.
Still, his association with La Concordia entailed some recognition of his musical
accomplishments. Coupled with an improved relationship with Guiraud, the recent
second place in the Prix, and the inspiration provided by his friendship with the
Vasniers—Debussy’s spirits could only have been lifted. His self-assurance soared.
On one occasion he served as a substitute teacher in a composition seminar. “My
dear orphans,” he announced from the doorway, “in the absence of your parents,
I shall provide nourishment for you!” Instruction followed: “a rustling of misshapen
arpeggios, a gurgling of trills on three notes simultaneously, in both hands, and
chains of harmonic progressions which could not be analyzed according to the sac-
rosanct textbook.”21
Contributing to Debussy’s self-confidence were the strides he had been making
as a composer. The nearly dozen songs he composed in 1883 and 1884 maintain

19.  LS, p. 61.

20.  Gabriel Fauré described the chorus as “very mediocre, with a heavy, dull sound.” Jean-Michel
Nectoux, “Debussy et Fauré,” Cahiers Debussy 3 (1979), p. 14.
21.  According to Maurice Emmanuel who was a member of the class (DR, p. 21).
 The Prix de Rome  •  27

high standards. Most are settings of the poetry of Paul Bourget (whom Debussy
knew slightly and admired). But also among them is the first indication of his
interest in the esoteric poetry of Stéphane Mallarmé (“Apparition”). This out-
pouring of song was a direct result of Debussy’s association with Mme Vasnier. She
was, he confessed, “the only muse who has ever inspired in me anything resembling
musical sentiment (to speak only of that).”22 She had opened her home to him, and
offered praise, support, and encouragement. But by 1884 she had become more
than an inspiration: she and Debussy had become lovers.
The songs themselves give some indication of it. Many are love poems, increasingly
intimate in detail and desire: “This pillow during nights of madness/Saw our brows
united in sleep”; “The ardent intoxication of life/Weakens the delighted lover”; “For
love is stronger/Than the gods and death.” Debussy became hesitant to compete in the
forthcoming Prix de Rome, afraid that if he won, he would be separated from her.
Discretion was not foremost in his mind, and the affair did not long remain
private. Family and friends were horrified. To Debussy’s mother, Marie Vasnier was
immoral, preying on her son’s youth and inexperience. For Paul Vidal, it was “a sin-
ister tale of adultery . . . his succubus is battening on to all his little weaknesses. She’s
pretty and much pursued by admirers. . . .  I thought for a moment, last year, that art
had recovered its hold over him. . . .  But his present behavior fills me with
remorse. . . . His moral sense is undeveloped, he’s nothing but a sensualist.”23
Their affair lasted for several years. Debussy’s letters are the primary source of
information about it but contain few direct references. What is most striking is the
intensity of his passion. For at least a time, it became an obsession. But Vidal’s reac-
tion was excessive. Yes, there was a sensual side to Debussy—an aspect of his
character that over the years seemed to alienate several of his friends. But “Art” had
not lost its attraction. The large number of songs he produced are evidence of it.
And, despite reservations, Debussy continued to keep the Prix de Rome in mind.
That May he competed once again.The selected cantata text—“L’Enfant prodigue”
by Edouard Guinand—was a version of the biblical parable of the return of the
prodigal son. Debussy successfully completed the preliminary round and entered
into seclusion for the composition of the cantata. On 27 and 28 June the completed
works were performed. Debussy profited from outstanding singers supplied by
Guiraud to enhance the performance. Gounod too gave his support and, unlike the
previous year when there had been debate over giving him any prize at all, he was
awarded the first prize. “Very marked poetic sensibility, warm and brilliant coloring,
dramatic and lively music” was the response of the judges.24

22.  From Debussy’s dedication to her of “Tragédie.”

23.  Letter of Paul Vidal to Henriette Fuchs of 12 July 1884 in DR, pp. 24, 25.
24.  LS, p. 69.
28  •  debussy

For this, his third and final attempt at the Prix, Debussy had made a point of
following Guiraud’s advice. Some of the music he wrote for it is deliberately popular
in style, resembling Massenet, for example, or Delibes. Debussy wrote what he
knew would have broad appeal. But at the same time L’Enfant prodigue is an accom-
plished and skillful work, so much so that it is difficult to see how the judges could
have avoided giving him the prize.
News of his victory spread widely. “I’m not surprised,” wrote Nadezhda von
Meck when she learned of it. “He’s extremely gifted.”25 At home his success was
met with enthusiasm—and a sense of relief.
But Debussy reacted quite differently. He learned of his triumph while gazing at
some boats on the Seine, waiting outside the building where his cantata had just
been performed:

All at once someone tapped me on the shoulder and breathlessly said, “You have won the
prize.” Now I don’t know if you are going to believe this, but my heart sank. I had a
sudden vision of boredom, and of all the worries that inevitably go together with any
form of official recognition. I felt I was no longer free.26

Rome
Debussy was expected to arrive in Rome no later than January 1885. The primary
attraction the Prix held for him was its stipend: about 4,000 francs annually for
four years. In 1884 the city of Paris was sponsoring a music competition that
offered awards of 10,000 and 6,000 francs for a new composition, and it occurred
to Debussy that if he won that competition, the financial freedom it provided
would enable him to decline the Prix de Rome and remain in Paris with Marie
Vasnier. It was the type of impulsive act that was characteristic of him for much of
his life.
For the Paris competition Debussy needed to submit a work for soloists, chorus,
and orchestra—similar to what he had just done with L’Enfant prodigue, but of
greater length—on a theme neither theatrical nor religious.The deadline for entries
was 29 September. He had one work on hand that could have served as the basis for
a competition entry, a setting of Leconte de Lisle’s Hélène. But he was a deliberate
worker, and, despite his hopes, in the end had nothing ready.27

25.  Ibid., p. 59.

26.  Review of 10 June 1903 in DM, p. 211.
27.  The winning entry was Vincent d’Indy’s Chant de la cloche. Because he was a private student of
Franck and not of composition professors at the Conservatoire, d’Indy’s success came as a shock—
a point that Debussy savored.
 The Prix de Rome  •  29

There now seemed little choice but to prepare for Rome. But his infatua-
tion persisted. In the autumn he approached a recent acquaintance, Count
Giuseppe Primoli (a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte’s brother, Lucien),
requesting a loan to repay some debts and to buy “some flowers for her who
loves them so much!”28
Primoli was well known in both France and Rome, where his salon (which
included Henry James among its visitors) was one of the most exclusive. He had a
great interest in the arts, was a strong supporter of the Prix, and made a point of
being helpful to its winners. Debussy was to turn to him more than once for
assistance after he moved to Rome. But in this first instance Primoli did not respond
quickly enough, and Debussy wrote again, now claiming that he needed money for
a fine binding for his songs—a special album intended for Marie Vasnier.
Debussy delayed his departure for as long as possible, not leaving until 27 January
1885. That day he wrote from Marseille to Henri Vasnier, Marie’s husband, the first
in a series of letters to him. They make interesting reading. “I will never forget,
Monsieur,” he wrote not long after his arrival in Rome, “all that you have done for
me, and the place you made for me inside your family. I will do all that I can to
prove to you that I am not ungrateful.”29
In their correspondence Debussy shared thoughts, ideas, and concerns. Vasnier
responded with fatherly advice. Debussy had two ulterior motives: to maintain
contact with Marie, no matter how tenuous, and to complain bitterly of his lonely
and miserable existence in Rome.
Of the four years associated with the Prix, it was expected for winners to spend
at least the first two in Rome. Their residence was an elegant villa, the Villa Medici,
built in 1540 and renovated by the French early in the nineteenth century. The site
had been selected both for its beauty and for what was hoped was its ability to
foster in students a love for the arts. By all accounts (except Debussy’s) the villa was
exceptionally attractive, particularly the extensive gardens. Debussy found it all a
bore. “You speak of the tranquility the Villa has to offer,” he wrote to Vasnier that
September, “God knows, I could do with a bit less of it.”30
Years later, Debussy’s recollections of life at the Villa had not mellowed.The type
of communal life it represented would never have been congenial to him. But
nearly everything associated with the Villa became an irritation. He remembered
his room as one which the students had nicknamed “The Etruscan Tomb.”According
to Debussy, its green walls “seemed to recede as you moved toward them.” The meals,

28.  Letter of [November? 1884] in C, p. 19.

29.  Letter of early February 1885 in ibid., p. 23.
30.  Letter of 16 September 1885 in Claude Debussy, Debussy Letters, ed. François Lesure and Roger
Nichols (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), p. 11. Hereafter abbreviated DL.
30  •  debussy

he claimed, were unforgettable, particularly the “roba dolce,” a mixture that tasted
like gasoline and soured cream. All in all, it was “a diet that ruined one’s stomach for
life!”31
Debussy said that he spent little time with other students and described the sup-
posed “artistic milieu and jovial camaraderie” as “much overrated.”32 His aloofness
is confirmed by another Prix winner, Gabriel Pierné: “There was no real intimacy
between [Debussy] and the other students. He was very solitary, and fled our
company. He went out a great deal, roamed through antique shops, and made a
clean sweep of tiny Japanese objets which delighted him. He was scarcely seen
except at mealtime.”33 Unlike other composers in residence, he did not attend any
of the musical salons in the city.
But Paul Vidal—still in Rome as a result of his win in 1883—remembered
Debussy’s life as being quite different: “Even though he complained from time to
time of the lack of camaraderie in the Villa, he used to appear at the soirées given
by the director . . . playing piano duets and singing his songs, which everyone
adored. . . . He and I spent most of our time together, playing piano duet arrange-
ments of Bach’s organ works, which he was passionate about. We also studied the
two-piano arrangement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Chabrier’s Valses roman-
tiques, etc.”34
Vidal was also aware of Debussy’s complaints and realized that he was “terribly
bored. His only dream is of returning to Paris.”35 He knew firsthand why Debussy
was upset, for Vidal agreed with some of Debussy’s objections. “Rome is intoler-
able,” V  idal had recently written. “Life in the Villa is odious; there’s no stimulus to
compose anything.”36
The truth concerning Debussy’s life at Rome lies somewhere between Pierné’s
and Vidal’s accounts. He could keep to himself—just as he had at times at the
Conservatoire. But he never led the life of a hermit and would have chosen the
company of Vidal to that of Pierné (with whom he was not close). He preferred
associating with adults—such as Count Primoli—to mixing with students, in part
because he did not want to be seen as a student. But life in Rome was not as deso-
late as he wanted others to believe.That autumn he was more truthful (although the
root of his unhappiness—separation from Marie Vasnier—could not be revealed):

31.  Reviews of 10 June 1903 and May 1903 in DM, pp. 212, 198.
32.  Letter of early February 1885 to Vasnier in C, p. 23.
33.  Gabriel Pierné, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La Revue Musicale 7 (May, 1926), p. 11.
34.  DR, p. 8.
35.  Letter of 16 February 1885 in “Debussy de 1883 à 1885 d’après la correspondance de Paul Vidal
à Henriette Fuchs,” Revue de Musicologie 48 (1962), p. 100.
36.  Letter to Henriette Fuchs of 12 July 1884 in DR, p. 25.
 The Prix de Rome  •  31

“I’m not well and I’m not ill. I’m simply suffering from a malaise which can’t be
described, but which is a result of being where I don’t belong.”37
The purpose of his persistent complaints was to somehow justify leaving Rome.
“I may return to Paris sooner than you think,” he warned Vasnier shortly after his
arrival.38 Although Vasnier did everything he could to put him in a better frame of
mind—pointing out the beauties of Rome and the advantages of his situation—for
months Debussy continued to threaten to give it all up and return.
During his stay in Rome Debussy confided in Claudius Popelin (an artist living in
Paris), and in his son Gustave (a recent Prix winner).To them, he spoke of his predic-
ament, as well as the depth of his infatuation and despair.“My desires and conceptions
exist only through her,” he wrote.“This love is insane, I know, but the madness prevents
me from thinking.”39 It was the “madness” which tempted him to resign the Prix, and
it also was at the heart of his dissatisfaction and determination to return to France.
Winners of the Prix were not allowed to leave Italy without permission. In 1885
Debussy left twice. His first departure (perhaps without approval) occurred in late
April. He returned on 5 May, after having seen the Vasniers. His second visit to
France—in this instance he presented a trumped-up excuse for the director—was
in early July and lasted about two months. During this absence he visited the
Vasniers in Dieppe, where they were vacationing (during a later visit to Dieppe, the
painter, Jacques-Emile Blanche, claimed that he had seen Debussy scaling a rope
ladder, Marie waiting at the window).
The visits did nothing to temper either his ardor or dissatisfaction with life in
Rome. There was some relief that September in a working vacation at the seaside
residence of Count Primoli in Fiumicino. Primoli was away and Debussy had the
house all to himself. As always, the sea was a refreshing experience. To Vasnier, he
described Fiumicino as “a charming spot where the Romans come to bathe in the
sea. There is a little harbor with little boats—most entertaining and picturesque.”40
In addition to the vacation, Debussy had an unexpected musical pleasure: a
performance of masses by Palestrina and Orlando di Lasso in a small church in
Rome. It was a time of renewed interest in Renaissance music, and Debussy became
an enthusiastic admirer. “The effects which are produced simply from a profound
knowledge of counterpoint are truly astonishing,” he wrote to Vasnier. “There is a
twisting in the melodic lines that brings to mind the effect of the illuminations in
very old missals—and that also underlines the sentiment of the words.”41

37.  Letter to Vasnier from the end of November 1885 in DL, p. 15.
38.  Letter of early February 1885 in C, p. 23.
39.  Letter to Claudius Popelin on 24 June [1885] in ibid., p. 31.
40.  Letter of 29 January [1886] in ibid., p. 49.
41.  Letter from the end of November 1885 in ibid., pp. 44–45.
32  •  debussy

Palestrina was not new to Debussy. The Kyrie of the Pope Marcellus Mass had
been performed in April 1884 by La Concordia. But there were a number of ele-
ments which combined to make the Roman experience more memorable: a better
performance, the setting (a church about which Debussy raved), and the general
paucity of worthwhile music for him to hear. The striking comparison he made to
Renaissance visual art was characteristic of him. Debussy tended to think of the arts
in broad terms and often discovered fascinating correspondences. And there was yet
another attraction for Debussy in the music of Palestrina and Lasso: their distance
from the musical canon taught at the Conservatoire, which relied almost exclu-
sively on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century models.
The Renaissance music Debussy heard also provided a welcome departure from
the usual. Contemporary musical life in Italy held no attraction for him, particularly
Italian opera which Debussy dismissed as bloated and bombastic. But there were
some additional musical opportunities at the Villa.The director of the Académie for
most of Debussy’s stay was Ernest Hébert, a painter. He was a passionate music lover
and became fond of Debussy. Debussy dined regularly with the Héberts, performed
frequently for them (including several of his Bourget songs), and even served as
occasional accompanist for the director, an amateur violinist.
It was through Hébert that Debussy met Franz Liszt. Liszt was ­seventy-four and
spent part of each year in Rome. He enjoyed occasional contact with the Prix win-
ners at the Académie. On 8 January he was the dinner guest of the Héberts, and in
his honor Debussy and Vidal played a two-piano arrangement of his Faust
Symphony—during which Liszt fell asleep. The next day Debussy and Vidal accom-
panied the Héberts on a follow-up visit to Liszt, where it is likely they played
Chabrier’s Valses romantiques, a lively work whose novelty would have made it more
difficult for him to doze off.
Liszt had yet to play for them, and despite his age his virtuosity remained
impressive. The opportunity came on 13 January when he once again visited the
Héberts with Debussy present. For the past decade or so Liszt had been creating a
series of astonishing works, bold in their use of dissonance and audacious in their
expansion of tonality. They remained little known and mostly unpublished (some
who knew them even suspected that Liszt had become senile). Unfortunately, the
present occasion was entirely social, and foremost in Liszt’s mind were the tastes of
his hosts. He played not his new compositions, but several nearly a half century
old: “Au bord d’une source” (from the Années de Pèlerinage; Book I) and his tran-
scription of Schubert’s “Ave Maria.” Debussy long remembered the effects Liszt
created with his use of the pedals, but had he played a more recent work—Nuages
gris or En rêve, for example—Debussy would have been spellbound, both by their
originality and by their break with the tradition associated with the teaching at the
Conservatoire.
 The Prix de Rome  •  33

By 1886 Debussy’s passion for Marie Vasnier was waning, or at least in abeyance.
That February the Héberts were visited by friends, the Hochons (he was a professor
of medicine). Mme Hochon was exceptionally pretty, and interested in music.
Debussy was seen kissing her at the Villa, an incident that was recorded with sur-
prise by Mme Hébert in her diary—since for months the Héberts had known of
Debussy’s affair with Marie Vasnier.42 During July and August, Debussy was on
vacation in France. No references appear to the Vasniers, and about this time his
correspondence with Henri Vasnier lessens considerably.
With the attraction of Marie Vasnier dwindling, Debussy was spending more of
his time on music, as well as doing a great deal of reading. He wrote on several
occasions to a book dealer in Paris, Emile Baron, asking for recent works—includ-
ing Symbolist and Decadent writers (such as Joris-Karl Huysmans, Jean Moréas,
and Charles Morice), a translation of Shelley, the Revue indépendante (a leading
artistic journal), and Rosicrucian literature (the occult was much in vogue at the
time). The reading confirms Debussy’s eagerness to educate himself. But it also
reveals a strong interest in current literary trends in Paris and helps to explain why
Rome became little more than a prison to him. Debussy’s reading may have been
stimulating, but he accomplished little as a composer during 1885 and 1886. He was
required each year to complete a work of substance (referred to as an envoi) and to
submit it to the Académie for evaluation. Beyond those works, he only composed
about a half dozen songs. Eight months after his arrival in Rome, Debussy con-
cluded that his life there was “a wasted experience [that] has merely set me back.”43 In
many ways, he was right.
The Prix de Rome had been created with a focus on the visual arts. It was the
intention for young painters and architects who won the prize to experience the
grandeur that was Rome (especially its antiquities and Renaissance masters) and
use them as a foundation and source of inspiration. But for a composer—­particularly
one concerned with modernity like Debussy—living in Rome contributed far less.
For him, there had only been one notable musical experience: the moving encounter
with the music of Palestrina and Lasso. But that could just as easily have occurred
in Paris where there was a similar resurgence of interest. Contemporary Italian
music had little to offer him. Precisely at a time in his career when he wanted to
keep abreast of developments in the arts, Debussy found himself isolated from them.
While in Rome, he missed the final Impressionist exhibit (including Seurat’s
La Grande Jatte), and could only have learned belatedly of the publication of Jules
Laforgue’s Complaintes and Jean Moréas’s Symbolist Manifesto.

42.  According to Debussy’s friend, Pierre Louÿs, it was Mme Hochon who “ravished” Debussy. See
LS, p. 420.
43.  Letter to Vasnier of 16 September [1885] in DL, p. 12.
34  •  debussy

It might have been assumed that for someone with as strong an interest in the
arts as Debussy the exposure to Italian painting and architecture would have had a
profound effect. It did not. He noted with interest some work of Signorelli and
Raphael. But in general his mood was hardly receptive, feeling, as he did, like a cap-
tive. Unlike other winners of the Prix, there was no novelty in his situation. He had
already spent a fair amount of time in Rome with the von Mecks. All of this only
served to emphasize how different Debussy was from the usual winner of the Prix.
He had never fit the mold of a “student composer.” But to his professors in Paris—
those who evaluated what was supposed to be his yearly progress—he was not only
a student, but one on probation.
Their attitude was made clear in their criticism of the yearly envoi he sent to them.
The first was a symphonic ode Zuleima (an adaption of Heine’s Almanzor), based on
a poem by Georges Boyer. Debussy began the project with enthusiasm; like all the
envoi, it had been selected by him. But he soon tired of it, complaining of its Verdian
and Meyerbeer-like qualities. What provided Debussy’s attraction to Heine’s tale is
hard to fathom. It is an old-fashioned love story set among the Moors in Spain, with
all the trappings of grand opera. The committee that examined the score concluded
that Debussy seemed “tormented by the desire to produce the bizarre, the incompre-
hensible, the unperformable”—a clear indication in their eyes that he had returned to
his old ways.44 Unfortunately, Zuleima has been lost (perhaps destroyed by Debussy),
so there is no way of knowing why the committee found so offensive what he had
felt was so bland. But it is interesting to note that the envois of Vidal and Pierné—
both of whom were to have far smoother careers than Debussy—were praised.
Debussy’s second envoi, Printemps (Spring; for wordless chorus, piano, and orchestra),
was written in haste in 1887. He did not complete the orchestration. For the committee,
he supplied the piano score and a tale that the full score had been destroyed in a fire at
the bindery.The inspiration for it was a painting by a fellow student at the Villa, Marcel
Baschet—a work which in turn had been inspired by Botticelli’s Primavera. Botticelli’s
painting was widely admired in France at the time, and Debussy was not alone in
responding to it. In 1886 Ernest Chausson—who was to become a good friend of
Debussy—considered composing a tone poem based on it.
Debussy explained his intentions for the work in a letter to Emile Baron, mak-
ing clear to him that there was no detailed program associated with it because of his
dislike of them. “I wanted to express the slow and languid genesis of beings and
things in nature,” Debussy wrote, “then their flowering—concluding with a ­dazzling
delight at being reborn to a new life.”45 Debussy later returned to Printemps and

44.  John R. Clevenger, “Debussy’s Rome Cantatas,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 71.
45.  Letter of 9 February 1887 in C, p. 59.
 The Prix de Rome  •  35

began to orchestrate it in September 1908. But he soon lost interest. It is known

today in a revision—charming and tuneful—made by Henri Büsser in 1913 with
Debussy’s approval and assistance.
It is hard to believe that this is the same work that led to one of the most famous
criticisms in the history of music.When they received Printemps the committee was
outraged and detected at its core a “vague impressionism which is one of the most
dangerous enemies of truth in works of art.”46 What was meant is not at all clear.
The occasionally nebulous tonality and structure of Printemps might have been per-
ceived as “impressionistic,” but much of it, like L’Enfant prodigue, is (for Debussy)
quite tame.
The concept of “impressionism” in music—as we think of it today—did not
exist in 1887. What was probably intended was an attack upon new and unusual
elements in Debussy’s musical style, not that they sounded in some way “impres-
sionistic.” Impressionism in painting had been present in France for about a decade
and was still controversial. That it was new, different, and unconventional aroused
strong opposition and led to its being perceived by some as a threat to tradition. In
that sense, as being representative of new developments in the arts, Debussy’s music
was impressionistic—and unacceptable.
Printemps was Debussy’s final envoi from Rome. He left early in March 1887.
Most winners spent three years there, but he had spent two, all that was required.
Not long after his return to Paris, he wrote to Hébert thanking him for his kind-
ness. The last months spent in Rome, he confessed, now seemed like a “dreamlife,
immersed in my work, all my efforts devoted toward an elevated ideal of art without
concerning myself with the opinions of anyone.”47 Financial security, freedom from
daily concerns, the opportunity to be original and even experimental in one’s
work—those had been possible while living at the Villa. In Paris, forced to confront
the realities of life as a composer, Debussy finally realized that, with all its disadvan-
tages, there had been some benefit to his life in Rome.

46.  LS, p. 96.

47.  Letter of 17 March 1887 in C, p. 61.
 l Chapter three
;
Establishing a Reputation

The world is myself. It owes me its existence. I have created it with my senses.
It is my slave, and no one else has power over it.
Rémy de Gourmont, Sixtine. Roman de la vie cérébrale (1890)

A fter enduring a two-year exile in Rome, Debussy could only have

been exhilarated by his return to Paris. It was an unusually exciting time to live
there, especially for anyone with an interest in the arts. There was a constant stream
of new books, new music, and new paintings—all in a variety of styles that pro-
voked broad debate. Each set its own standard: Dynamism, Syntheticism, Integralism,
Neo-Romanticism, Primitivism—to name only a few. But among the literally
dozens of “isms” that flourished in the decades prior to the First World War—an
indication both of the vitality of the arts and of their disarray—three drew
conspicuous attention: Impressionism, Symbolism, and Naturalism.1
Impressionism, despite its popularity today, was unquestionably the most contro-
versial. It was criticized for what was seen as its peculiar, visual distortions of the
world and for its rejection of tradition. Everyday life served as its basis (often with
a modernist slant), but the deeply personal technique used to represent it—short
brushstrokes emphasizing dazzling color and light—was revolutionary.
In contrast, Symbolist art turned its back on the real world and focused instead
on a spiritual and visionary one founded in idealism. Content drew heavily on
myth and dream. But unlike Impressionist painting, the technique of Symbolist art

1.  A fuller discussion of Impressionism and Symbolism is found in Chapter 8. For additional reading,
see Belinda Thomson, Impressionism: Origins, Practice, Reception (London: Thames and Hudson, 2000),
and Kenneth Cornell, The Symbolist Movement (New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1951).

•  36  •
 Establishing a Reputation  •  37

could not have been more traditional in basis, using a meticulously academic style
to represent increasingly bizarre and mysterious images.
There was no literary counterpart to Impressionism, but Symbolist poets, nov-
elists, dramatists, and critics formed the avant-garde of the 1880s. Their work—a
favorite of Debussy—was attacked for its obscurity, eroticism, and extreme individ-
uality. It was frequently described as decadent, but among the Symbolist movement
itself “Decadence” was perceived as a separate trend, its defining trait being an
absence of idealism.
Symbolist literature often presented itself as an antidote to Naturalism, a popular
movement associated with the novelist Emile Zola and his followers. Naturalists—
and the academic school of painting which was in many ways their counterpart—
extolled realism, and their work was fastidious in its attempt to re-create the
everyday world, including aspects of it that would have been regarded as prosaic
(or  even offensive to the moral standards of the day). They adopted a measured
approach focusing on detail, and, in the visual arts, prized accuracy and objectivity.
Compared to the developments occurring in literature and the visual arts, the
musical world seemed rather dull. As always, opera remained the major musical
genre in France. But there was no sign of the changes that were occurring in the
other arts, except perhaps for the occasional exotic locale that bore superficial
resemblance to the Oriental and Middle Eastern settings favored by many Symbolists.
Massenet’s operas set the standard, and they were logical continuations of the grand
opéra formulated by Meyerbeer in the 1830s and the opéra-lyrique of Gounod.
What revolutionary tendencies existed in French music of the day were found
not in opera but in the activities of the Société Nationale de Musique. Founded in
February 1871, its goal was to foster French music, especially instrumental compo-
sitions. Symphonies, concertos, sonatas, chamber ensembles—all were part of a
genre that had been perceived as predominantly German, and in that sense the
formation of the Société Nationale was a response to the defeat suffered at German
hands in 1870. But there was a practical reason for the move as well. Performing
instrumental music required fewer resources and expense than opera or oratorio.
A large number of composers benefited from the sponsorship of the Société. But
as good as much of this music was—including not a few masterpieces—to some it
resembled a mutual admiration society. To those with more radical tastes like
Debussy, the works were too traditional. New ideas and new techniques had
changed French painting and literature. French music seemed poised for similar
change.
Debussy’s first concern on returning to Paris in 1887 should have been the prac-
tical one of laying the foundations for his career as a composer. He needed to main-
tain connections with the Conservatoire as well as to develop friendships with
those in positions of influence in the musical world. It would be helpful, for example,
38  •  debussy

to establish relations with Edouard Colonne and Charles Lamoureux, conductors

of the two major concert series in Paris. Equally important was becoming active in
the Société Nationale. But fame—and financial success—ultimately involved cre-
ating a successful opera. As a recent winner of the Prix de Rome, the path for
Debussy had been made easier. His success assured recognition, and it was tradi-
tional for the directors of opera houses in Paris to be receptive to Prix winners.
For most composers, the primary purpose of winning the Prix was to facilitate
entry into the highly competitive musical life in France. But as his letter to Hébert
revealed, almost immediately upon his return Debussy became disenchanted.
Winning the Prix was supposed to open doors. But that would be the case only if
the music he composed were in an easily understandable style. In other words, to
become popular Debussy needed to continue the deception he had begun with
L’Enfant prodigue. During the next half dozen years he was often at war with him-
self, unsure of what to do, and frustrated by his inability to make a name and earn
a living.
For a young composer, the Société Nationale provided an essential outlet. But
Debussy delayed becoming a member until January 1888. There had recently been
a change in administration, one that should have worked to his advantage. In
November 1886 Camille Saint-Saëns, a founder and prominent member, had
resigned. He was critical of Debussy’s music, and during his long life did all he
could to hamper his career.With Saint-Saëns’s departure, leadership more receptive
to Debussy had come into power. The new president was César Franck, but he was
merely the figurehead. Actual management of the organization was in the hands of
the two secretaries, Vincent d’Indy and Ernest Chausson. Both were former stu-
dents of Franck, and their standing in French musical circles was growing. Debussy
soon became friendly with them, if only on a superficial basis.
Of the two, d’Indy was the more powerful. He was nine years older than Debussy,
aristocratic, devoutly Catholic, and (despite his hero worship for Napoleon
Bonaparte) a monarchist. These were all traits that endeared him to a conservative
establishment for which Debussy had little sympathy. But there was common
ground. Like Debussy, d’Indy’s artistic interests went beyond music. He was well
read, interested in current trends, and a skillful watercolorist.
Both d’Indy and Debussy had received a standard musical training, although in
d’Indy’s case his—befitting his social standing—had been conducted privately (and
included study with both Marmontel and Lavignac). In 1872 he became a private
student of César Franck whom he greatly admired. He later did much to promote
Franck’s music and became his first biographer.
Study with Franck solidified d’Indy’s musical taste. He venerated a great deal of
the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century tradition that Debussy chose to ignore.
But after Franck was snubbed by the Conservatoire, d’Indy became wary of the
 Establishing a Reputation  •  39

musical establishment and more receptive to composers who were not part of it.
Like Debussy, he was critical of popular composers like Massenet. And he revered
Wagner. In d’Indy’s case, it was an admiration that began cautiously. And what he
particularly admired—the use of music to express sentiment and ideas—was not
what attracted Debussy.
During the 1880s d’Indy’s compositions were drawing attention. Wallenstein, op.
12 (a collection of three overtures inspired by Schiller and completed in 1881),
reflected his study with Franck. They are fairly conventional pieces, resembling at
times Liszt’s tone poems, but imaginatively orchestrated. Five years later, d’Indy
completed the Symphonie sur un chant montagnard français, op. 25, one of his most
popular works. It is a piano concerto of sorts, possessing great charm, and displaying
its Franckian tendencies both by its structure and concern with thematic unity. By
the mid-1880s, d’Indy was widely regarded as the most promising young composer
in France. But he was generous in his support of others, and was in a position to be
helpful to Debussy.
Debussy’s membership in the Société was a sensible first step in self-promotion,
but any attempt to launch his career was hampered by life at home, much of which
was in disarray. He still lived with his parents, and their financial situation had wors-
ened.There was pressure on Claude (who was now twenty-five) to establish his live-
lihood in a hurry. Debussy continued teaching piano, but never with pleasure. Starting
in 1889, he earned additional income by arranging for publication piano transcrip-
tions of orchestral compositions by Saint-Saëns. That, too, was unpleasant, both
because of the routine involved and because of his dislike of Saint-Saëns’s music.
Prix winners frequently began their careers by doing some teaching at the
Conservatoire or taking minor posts at the Opéra. That also had no appeal to
Debussy. But he did maintain cordial relations with Guiraud and even visited
Marmontel on occasion. The relationship with Guiraud was of real value—not
because it served to advance Debussy’s career, but because it provided an opportu-
nity for him to speak his mind. Even if Guiraud sometimes regarded Debussy as
eccentric, he was at least willing to listen.
Instead of ingratiating himself with the musical establishment, Debussy preferred
to avoid it. In September 1888 he was asked to supply an overture for a concert
sponsored by the Institut de France intended to honor recent Prix de Rome win-
ners. His eminently polite and sarcastic refusal—Debussy claimed he felt incapable
of providing a work “worthy of the Institute”—could only have irritated precisely
those musicians he should have been trying to charm.2 He also made no attempt to
enter the salons of the upper class—such as those of the Polignacs and Greffulhes—
which, for composers like Gabriel Fauré, became important sources of patronage.

2.  LS, p. 97.

40  •  debussy

From a purely practical point of view, it should have been important to Debussy to
cultivate the acquaintance of those who could advance his career. Instead, he seemed
eager to satisfy his curiosity and to become friends with those from whom he could
learn—in the process encountering new ideas and stimulus for his work.
In general during these years Debussy tended to avoid musicians, preferring
instead the company of writers and artists. He was intensely curious about the arts
and eager to learn more. The artistic and literary circles in which he moved were
informal, the number of participants fluctuating, the primary basis being a fondness
for debate and a habitual curiosity about the arts. Meetings were held in favorite
cafés and bistros, and Debussy soon became a habitué of several. At a tavern, Chez
Pousset, he probably came into contact with two of the best-known writers of the
time: Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and Catulle Mendès. Both were devoted Wagnerians
who earlier had been associated with the Parnassians—a literary group popular in
the 1860s and 1870s. At Pousset’s, Debussy would also have met Jules de Brayer, an
organist and ardent advocate of the music of Musorgsky, in addition to Gabriel
Mourey, a translator of Poe, one of Debussy’s favorite writers. He could also have
renewed acquaintance with Charles de Sivry, who was a regular visitor to Pousset’s.
At Thommen’s, Debussy met the poet and amateur musician Maurice Rollinat,
author of the popular Les Névroses (Neuroses), and the writers Louis le Cardonnel
and Charles Cros. Also a frequent visitor was the artist Adolphe Willette, a friend of
Vincent d’Indy and one of the first to treat the poster as an art form. Debussy
would have been attracted to his work, much of which recalls the commedia
dell’arte and the world of Verlaine’s “Fêtes galantes.” Willette provided an illustra-
tion for Debussy’s early setting of V  erlaine’s “Mandoline” (1890).
Similar surroundings were found at Weber’s, a tavern Debussy visited regularly
in the 1890s, and Reynold’s, a favorite haunt of  Toulouse-Lautrec. More elevated in
the artistic hierarchy was the Café Vachette where Debussy also spent time. A reg-
ular guest there was the poet Jean Moréas whose Symbolist Manifesto of 1886 helped
define the movement. Debussy knew Moréas and, according to the reminiscences
of friends, was a participant in the aesthetic debates that raged at the time.
During these years Debussy developed unusually close friendships with two
young men roughly his own age: Raymond Bonheur and Robert Godet. Bonheur
was a musician and a good friend of Chausson. He shared with Debussy a curiosity
and interest in all the arts. Godet’s abilities were many: novelist, journalist, linguist,
reclusive amateur composer (and Wagnerian). He was widely traveled, and also
friendly with Chausson.Those who knew him well described him as a humanist in
the true sense of the word.
Perhaps the most significant relationship for Debussy at this stage of his career was
with the bookseller and publisher, Edmond Bailly. Bailly had studied briefly at the
Conservatoire, but then had turned to literature and established a bookstore and
 Establishing a Reputation  •  41

press: the Librairie de l’art indépendant. It became a meeting place for many
prominent and promising writers and artists, including Villiers, Henri de Régnier,
Pierre Louÿs, André Gide, Odilon Redon, and Félicien Rops. The premises were
used for occasional art exhibitions. Musicians, too, were welcome, and a piano was
kept in the back.
Bailly’s interests were eclectic. His knowledge of Swedenborg and the occult was
extensive. And he was so fascinated by theosophy (a mystical religion that attracted
Alexander Scriabin and the painter, Jean Delville) that he became editor of a
popular, theosophical journal, Le Lotus bleu. Everything out of the ordinary seemed
to attract him. In music his tastes even included oriental music—a topic about
which Debussy was ignorant, but curious.
Debussy soon became a regular visitor to Bailly’s shop.While he admired Bailly’s
“truly artistic ideas,” he seemed most impressed by “his determination [that] some-
times puts mine in the shade.”3 Bailly became a supporter, and two of Debussy’s
earliest works, the Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire and La Damoiselle élue were published
by him, the latter in a luxurious limited edition.
The number of composers in whom Debussy showed interest was few. In the
late 1880s he became friendly with Paul Dukas, several years younger, and a stu-
dent of Guiraud at the Conservatoire. But although Debussy stayed in touch
with Dukas over the years and admired some of his music, they never became
close.
That was not the case with Erik Satie. “We never had to explain things to each
other,” Satie recalled. “Half a sentence was enough, because we understood each
other and, it seemed, had always done so.”4 Satie and Debussy probably first became
acquainted in 1887, but it was not until five years later that they began to spend time
with one another—discussing music, playing billiards, and also visiting Le Chat noir,
one of the most popular artistic cabarets in Paris.5 The meetings—usually at least
once a week—continued for more than twenty-five years. What ultimately drew
them together was the recognition that they were different from everyone else: two
kindred spirits bound by their unconventionality. When Debussy gave Satie a copy
of his Baudelaire songs, it was inscribed with humor and affection: “For Erik Satie,
genial musician of the Middle Ages, who has strayed into this century to the joy of
his good friend, Cl. A. Debussy.”6

3.  Letter to André Poniatowski of February 1893 in DL, p. 42.

4.  DR, p. 104.
5. The Chat noir regularly produced plays, often with music. Debussy enjoyed the entertainment
there, but was not, as has often been maintained, the house piano player. Nor, as it had been earlier
thought, had he been frequenting the café since the early 1880s.
6.  LS, p. 128.
42  •  debussy

The summer of 1889 marked the centenary of the French Revolution, and it
was celebrated by a grandiose exposition intended to put France’s prosperity on
display. French artistic and industrial accomplishments were the focus with the
Eiffel Tower, at the time the world’s tallest structure, created to exemplify it. The
Exposition was extensive—covering the Champ-de-Mars, the Trocadéro
Gardens, and part of the Esplanade of the Invalides—and drew huge crowds, in
part because the novelty of electricity attracted visitors at night. One of the most
popular portions of the Exhibition was devoted to France’s growing success as
an imperialist power.
In the past decade France had substantially increased its holdings and protector-
ates in Africa and Asia. There were exhibits devoted to these recent acquisitions, as
well as to those of other European nations. The intent was to present exotic cul-
tures, with scenes from daily life, along with examples of clothing, art, music, and
cuisine. Those displays were among the most popular at the Exhibition. To many,
they offered confirmation that life in much of the world was curious, barbaric,
primitive—and vastly inferior to Western civilization.7
Debussy responded differently. Two exhibits in particular drew his attention: a
drama with music by a theatrical troupe from Saigon, and concerts by a Javanese
gamelan (percussive, tuned instruments on which performers play modal music that
is exceedingly complex rhythmically). Ernest Chausson and the painter Henri
Lerolle were among the 875,000 visitors to hear the gamelan, and drew compari-
sons between the gamelan dancers and the exoticism of Symbolist art, describing
them as “figures from the paintings of Gustave Moreau come to life.”8 But Debussy
was captivated by the originality of what he saw and heard, and admired it all the
more because of its remoteness from Western tradition. These were, Debussy felt,
pure musicians with nature itself as their tutor. His romanticized perception (actu-
ally, mastery of the gamelan requires long study and meticulous rehearsal similar to
that for an orchestra) provided him with inspiration, and, as when he had seen
gypsies performing in Moscow, led to a far broader grasp of music’s potential than
that held by most of his contemporaries.
Associated with the Exposition were two concerts of Russian orchestral music,
including works by Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Musorgsky. Much of it was a
novelty, for at the time in France knowledge of Russian music was mostly limited
to that of Chaikovsky. The non-traditional elements in these concerts would have
piqued Debussy’s interest. Because his music was soon to show some similarity—

7.  For more information, see Annegret Fauser, Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair
(Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2005).
8.  Letter to Ernest Chausson of [June 1889] in Ernest Chausson, Ecrits inédits, ed. Jean Gallois and
Isabelle Bretaudeau (Paris: Editions du Rocher, 1999), p. 214.
 Establishing a Reputation  •  43

especially in the use of modality and timbre—the resemblances have sparked debate
concerning both the amount of Russian music Debussy actually knew, and when
he became familiar with it.
It had been assumed that he encountered a good deal of Russian music when
living with the von Mecks. But that was not the case. Chaikovsky dominated their
interest. Robert Godet recalled that Debussy showed him some songs by Borodin
and Balakirev that he had acquired while in Russia. But as for Musorgsky, whose
music was to have the most profound effect on him, Debussy stated firmly that
when he was in Russia “his name was never mentioned.”9 Within a few years
Debussy would acquire more in-depth knowledge of Russian music, especially of
Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov. But at the time of the Exposition, much of the music
would have been new and fascinating to him.
Additional influence on Debussy’s development as a composer was provided by
trips to Bayreuth in the summers of 1888 and 1889 to hear Wagner’s music dramas.
His visits coincided with those of a large French contingent undertaken for a
variety of reasons: to pay homage, to satisfy curiosity, or simply to be seen. Bayreuth
was a brilliant social as well as a musical event, and it was costly. Fortunately for
Debussy, Etienne Dupin, a wealthy financier with strong interests in the arts (and
to whom Debussy dedicated his Baudelaire songs), came to his assistance.
Debussy saw three of Wagner’s works: Parsifal and Die Meistersinger in 1888, and
Tristan in 1889. It was an unforgettable experience for him. Hearing Parsifal, he was
“moved to tears.”10 But he was also able to maintain some objectivity. Other French
composers who traveled to Bayreuth—including d’Indy, Chabrier, Magnard, and
Chausson—were overwhelmed.Wagner’s accomplishments appeared so stupendous
that they felt intimidated.
Debussy was more dispassionate. He discovered strengths and weaknesses in
Wagner’s music. Although he was aware of its innovations, Debussy’s musical con-
victions were so strong (and in time his individuality so pronounced) that he was
able to dissect and analyze Wagner’s musical style to his advantage.
The opportunities to hear Wagner, the gamelan from Java, music by Musorgsky
and Borodin—all within about a year—had a profound effect on Debussy as a musi-
cian. But focusing on his artistic development makes it easy to lose sight of his per-
sonality.What was he like during these years? What captured his interest? How did he
perceive himself? Some intriguing answers can be found in the responses he made in
1889 to a questionnaire, a popular form of amusement at parties at the time:

9.  Letter to Pierre Lalo of 23 June 1908 in DL, p. 192.

10.  Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles Fantaisistes, 1909), p. 23. Debussy’s reaction
was not unique: Hugo Wolf and Chabrier also wept during Parsifal; Guillaume Lekeu reported that
he fainted on first hearing the prelude to Tristan.
44  •  debussy

Your favorite virtue? Pride

Your favorite qualities in men? Will
Your favorite qualities in women? Charm
Your idea of happiness? To love
Your idea of misery? To be too hot
If not yourself, who would you be? A sailor
Your favorite prose authors? Flaubert and Edgard-Poè
Your favorite poets? Baudelaire
Your favorite painters and composers? Botticelli, Gustave Moreau, Palestrina,
Bach, Wagner
Your favorite heroes in fiction? Hamlet
Your favorite heroines in fiction? Rosalind
Your favorite food and drink? Russian food, coffee
Your pet aversion? Dilettantes, women who are too pretty
Which character in history do you most dislike? Herod
For what fault do you have the most toleration? Errors in harmony
Your favorite motto? Always upward [Toujours plus haut]11

There are many favorites of the Symbolists among his answers: Poe (the spelling
always seemed to present challenges to the French), Baudelaire, Botticelli, and
Moreau—all in their way Symbolist icons. These were unusual tastes, as were his
musical preferences (although the growing cult of Wagner placed him dangerously
close to fashionable trends). Shakespeare also makes an appearance, and Debussy’s
fondness for him was no passing fancy. Rosalind is a character in As You Like It, one
of his favorite plays. For many years he considered it for an opera.The tolerance for
“errors in harmony” speaks volumes for those who knew him at the Conservatoire.
But the manner in which he avoided answering the question about who he would
be, if not himself, is curious. A specific person would be the expected response,
possibly someone rich or famous. Instead he chose not an individual, but a rather
common profession (but one that reflected his own love for the sea). His preference
for “Pride” and “Will” bring to mind his admiration of Edmond Bailly’s “determi-
nation.” As for his favorite motto—”Toujours plus haut”—it was one to which he
would remain constant all his life.
During the years following his return from Rome Debussy needed regularly to
draw on his store of will and determination, for establishing a reputation came

11.  The questions are in English in the original. Debussy’s responses were first published in
December 1903. The entire questionnaire is reproduced in D, pp. 56–57.
 Establishing a Reputation  •  45

slowly. Few of his compositions appeared in print. In 1888 a set of songs, the Ariettes,
was published though not with a distinguished firm. Over the next few years they
were followed by a half dozen pieces for solo piano, a mixed bag including the Deux
Arabesques (printed by a noted publisher, Durand), as well as several bland salon
works such as the Tarentelle styrienne and Valse romantique. The primary purpose of
publication is to stimulate performances, but there were few of those. Two of the
Ariettes were performed on 2 February 1889 in a concert at the Société Nationale.
A lone reviewer praised them, but Debussy must have taken pleasure in the refer-
ence to his “searching out what is new, and fleeing from banality.”12
The most notable opportunity to present his music to the public occurred in
April 1890. Debussy’s final envoi for the Prix de Rome—a three-movement
Fantaisie for piano and orchestra—was scheduled for performance by the Société as
part of a concert conducted by Vincent d’Indy. This was the first occasion for both
the public and his peers to hear a work by Debussy of some length. But at the last
moment, he abruptly withdrew it. After rehearsal, d’Indy had decided to perform
only the first movement (apparently because of the length of the concert). Debussy
quietly removed his copies of the score from the stands of the musicians and wrote
to d’Indy explaining that he would prefer to have “a passable performance of all
three movements than a fine performance of the first.”13
Most composers would have been annoyed by d’Indy’s proposed cuts. Some might
even have considered withdrawing their work from performance. But few would have
walked away from an opportunity to have their music heard in such an important
setting. In the end Debussy’s impulsive act created no animosity with d’Indy. Perhaps
he felt that, since all the movements of the Fantaisie were united thematically, there was
sense to Debussy’s action. And in many ways it was just as well that there was no
performance. The Fantaisie does not show Debussy to advantage. He always remained
dissatisfied with it, and it was neither published nor performed in his lifetime.
Debussy placed much greater faith in the other major composition that occu-
pied his attention at the time: La Damoiselle élue.This was the third of his envois, and
much of 1887 and 1888 was spent on it. In both structure and content it is precisely
the type of cantata he would have preferred to have composed for the Prix de
Rome competition. Its text is taken from Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s poem, “The
Blessed Damozel.” Rossetti, and the Pre-Raphaelite School he represented, were
very popular in France in the 1880s, particularly among the Symbolists. More than
any other of Debussy’s compositions of the time, La Damoiselle élue had the poten-
tial to appeal to a broad base of the public. But Debussy did little to promote it, and
nearly five years passed before it was heard.

12.  LS, p. 102.

13.  Letter to d’Indy of 20 April 1890 in DL, p. 30.
46  •  debussy

In addition to his work on larger-scale compositions such as the Damoiselle, he

continued to be attracted to song. The Ariettes—his first song album (later issued as
the Ariettes oubliées)—was started in 1885, and completed two years later. It contains
settings of six poems by Verlaine. Like the earlier Verlaine songs, they are distinctive
and accomplished. Unfortunately, their partial performance in 1889 attracted little
attention. On completing the Ariettes Debussy began a set of songs devoted to poetry
of Charles Baudelaire—another poet whose work enjoyed favor with the Symbolists.
But he was unable to find a publisher for them, and the Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire
were published by subscription in February 1890 in an edition limited to 150 copies
(once again, the financial assistance of Etienne Dupin played a vital role).
The Baudelaire songs are very different in style from the Ariettes. They are
chromatic, extremely difficult to perform, and challenging enough to assure limited
recognition. That was Debussy’s intention. Their limited edition made clear that
they were intended not for the masses, but for the select few Debussy hoped would
find value in his music. Yet he surely had no idea that it would be fifteen years
before they were actually performed in public, and then only in part.
The esoteric appeal of the Baudelaire songs reappeared in a set of four songs
begun in 1892. For the Proses lyriques Debussy wrote not only the music, but the
words as well. Although his use of chromaticism is not as pronounced as in the
Baudelaire settings, the mannered text and music seemed once again to confirm
Debussy’s determination to attract the attention of a chosen few.
Debussy also wrote during these years a variety of works for piano. Several—
especially the Deux Arabesques and Petite Suite—are today among his most popular.
Much in them appears improvisatory, and probably grew from improvisations at the
piano. But this effect was one he deliberately cultivated, similar to the manner in
which an Impressionist painting often conveys the feeling of a sketch.
In Debussy’s piano compositions, melodies often trace graceful, flowing lines,
similar to an arabesque—a noticeable visual trait of art nouveau (an arts and crafts
movement allied to Symbolism). There is languor and studied simplicity, as well as
avoidance of any semblance of the grandiose. In appearance they are salon pieces,
but, unlike several other piano pieces from these years (such as the Tarentelle and the
Valse), Debussy transcends the genre. His pianistic style has been copied so fre-
quently that its originality is easily overlooked. But these early piano compositions
confirm both his affinity for the instrument and distinctive approach to it.
Like the songs, Debussy’s piano compositions at first attracted little attention.
Writing opera remained the usual means in France to achieve popularity, but it was
a path Debussy so far had avoided.There were two major, state-funded opera houses
in Paris: the Opéra and Opéra-Comique. Traditionally, they had been quite differ-
ent, with the repertoire at the Opéra-Comique being lighter in subject and with
spoken dialogue in place of recitative. But by 1900 these distinctions had blurred,
 Establishing a Reputation  •  47

the only real difference being the more conservative taste of the Opéra. To have a
work accepted for performance at either house was difficult, and all the harder for
Debussy who seemed less concerned with courting public favor than with bringing
into prominence his originality.
Although the idea of composing an opera never seemed far from his mind, the
decision to write one was thrust upon him. In 1890 he began to set to music
Rodrigue et Chimène by Catulle Mendès, a prolific novelist, poet, dramatist, and
critic. An old friend of both Villiers and Mallarmé, Mendès had begun his career as
a poet associated with the Parnassians in the 1860s. His writings covered a broad
assortment of topics, but a sizable portion of his reputation was based on his use of
taboo sexual themes—incest, for example, in Zo’har (1886) and lesbianism in
Méphistophéla (1890), a copy of which he gave to Debussy.
Mendès also had a strong interest in music. He was a devoted Wagnerian (he
published a study of Wagner in 1886) and had been among the first to champion his
work in France. Although strictly an amateur, Mendès was unusually knowledgeable
about music and musical life, at least in part because of his common-law marriage
with the composer, Augusta Holmès. Prior to working with Debussy, Mendès’s
most notable musical collaboration had been with Chabrier, for whom he wrote
Gwendoline (1885). But Chabrier was only one of many composers with whom he
worked. Among the list are d’Indy, Massenet, Camille Erlanger, Reynaldo Hahn,
and Debussy’s future disciple, André Caplet.
Mendès had heard Debussy’s Baudelaire songs in a private performance at
Chausson’s. Impressed by them, he decided to help find a publisher for the recently
completed Fantaisie (eventually purchased by Choudens, through his efforts). That
assistance has led to speculation that Debussy felt forced into collaborating with
Mendès. But he probably viewed Mendès’s progressive reputation with an open
mind and may even have hoped that his distinctive literary tastes could work to
their mutual advantage.
For a composer of Debussy’s youth and inexperience, the association with
Mendès lent plausibility to the project.14 Rodrigue et Chimène was based on the tale
of El Cid, and used as its primary source Corneille’s Le Cid (1636) and Guilhem de
Castro’s Las Mocedades del Cid (1621). But although the idea of the project may have
looked promising, Debussy probably did not know that the libretto given to him
was an old one, first written in 1878 and already rejected by other composers.
Whatever hopes Debussy may have had could only have vanished after reading
Mendès’s text.Thoroughly conventional in style and content, in many ways it actu-
ally resembled Zuleima, the envoi of which Debussy had been so critical. But even

14.  During this period Mendès was also working with Gabriel Pierné on a pantomime, Le Collier
de Saphirs (1891), and a ballet, Les Joyeuses Commères de Paris (1892).
48  •  debussy

if it had been better written, the chances that the opera would be successful—or
even performed—were slim. In 1885 Massenet had completed his own El Cid
opera, Le Cid. It was performed regularly through 1891, and by 1919 had been given
152 times at the Opéra—not an overwhelming success, but reason enough to avoid
duplication.
Debussy’s work on Rodrigue continued intermittently for nearly three years. He
never completed it. “My life is hardship and misery thanks to this opera,” he wrote
to Robert Godet, “Everything about it is wrong for me. . . . I long to see you and
play you the two acts I’ve finished, because I’m afraid I may have won victories over
my true self.”15 Most of three acts were completed (Mendès spoke of the opera as
containing four, but nothing of the fourth act has survived). It was a chore for
Debussy, but, despite his pessimism, in the end he produced some surprisingly effec-
tive music for portions of it.
Although it may have seemed paramount at the time, Debussy’s work on Rodrigue
was of far less consequence to his career than his meeting with Mendès’s good
friend, Stéphane Mallarmé—a meeting that in many ways seemed inevitable. They
were introduced to one another by the writer Ferdinand Hérold in the autumn of
1890. Mallarmé was forty-eight, and, famous both for his poetry and translations of
Poe, was regarded by many as the greatest writer in France. Like Debussy, he had
broad tastes in the arts, particularly in the visual arts where his interests ranged from
Japanese painting and woodcuts to, among the moderns, both the Impressionists
and Symbolists. Several painters were good friends, especially Whistler (Mallarmé
translated his “Ten O’Clock Lecture”) and Manet (with whom he collaborated on
a limited edition of Poe’s “The Raven”).
To many, Mallarmé’s poetry remained an enigma. Deliberately obscure and
ambiguous, it was impossible to grasp in a traditional manner—so much so that it
opened him to ridicule, making acceptance of his work difficult. Mallarmé actually
made his living as a teacher of high school English. But as prosaic as life in a lycée
could be, he managed to remain immersed in his art, convinced of the sacred basis
of poetry. In his final years he was at work on what he simply called “Le Livre,” a
work he described as an “Orphic explanation of the Earth.”16
Mallarmé’s home was regularly opened to guests on Tuesday evenings. At first
only old friends such as Mendès or Villiers regularly attended. But by the mid-
1880s—the result of growing mention of him in books like Verlaine’s Poètes maudits
(Cursed Poets) and Huysmans’ Against Nature—attendance at the salon started to
pick up. It began to attract a large number of young writers: Francis Viélé-Griffin,
André Gide, Paul Valéry, Charles Morice, René Ghil, Félix Fénéon, Gustave Kahn,

15.  Letter of [30] January 1892 in DL, p. 34.

16.  Gordon Millan, The Life of Stéphane Mallarmé (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994), p. 232.
 Establishing a Reputation  •  49

Camille Mauclair, Georges Rodenbach, Henri de Régnier, Pierre Louÿs—virtually

every writer of note of the coming generation. Although most of the guests were
poets and novelists, artists and composers were also welcome. Topics of discussion
were far-ranging. The atmosphere was relaxed, with humor and a continuous flow
of conversation usually gently guided by Mallarmé.
It was not easy to gain entry: Mallarmé made a point of meeting privately with
those he was considering inviting. But Debussy passed scrutiny. How frequently he
attended the salon is not known. It never became, as it did for many, a weekly ritual.
But Debussy was a regular guest and became friendly with Mallarmé, admiring
both the man and his work.
Mallarmé could only have been intrigued by Debussy. He was fascinated by
music, and composers were a rarity in his salon. Music for Mallarmé existed in mul-
tiple dimensions. He was obsessed, for example, with the sound and musicality of
his own writings, both poetry and prose. But he was also actively involved in con-
temporary music life—interested in Wagner and, since 1885, a regular visitor to the
Lamoureux concert series.
Mallarmé knew some of Debussy’s music, notably the Baudelaire songs, which
impressed him as they had Mendès. It was his esteem for Debussy that led to a pro-
posed collaboration. In 1862 Mallarmé had begun work on a poem intended for
the stage: Le Faune, intermède héroïque. As was so often the case with his poetry, it was
reworked for many years finally appearing in a limited edition in 1876 as L’Après-
midi d’un faune. A second edition appeared a decade later. Debussy knew the work,
and even gave a copy of it to Paul Dukas in May 1887.
In November 1890 Mallarmé took steps to have the poem staged at the Théâtre
d’Art, a theater that specialized in the avant-garde.Three months later an announce-
ment appeared in the press noting that the performance would include music by
Debussy. Here was a project that could provide Debussy both with a sense of
personal accomplishment and the potential to bring him before an artistic elite
whose opinion he valued. But for reasons unknown, plans for performance of the
poem were dropped. It must have been a disappointment, but Debussy was not put
off. He continued to think both about the poem and music suitable for it.
Since the possibility of a staged collaboration with Mallarmé seemed remote,
Debussy continued to work on Rodrigue et Chimène. His personal life at the time
remains a bit of a mystery. Early in 1891 in a letter to Robert Godet, he made passing
reference to a love affair that ended “miserably and cheaply. . . . I loved her so
much.”17 To whom he was referring remains unknown. But there were romantic
interests. In the late 1880s he had been attracted to Catherine Stevens, daughter of
the painter Alfred Stevens. Known for her beauty (and familiar enough with music

17.  Letter of [2 February 1891] in DL, p. 32.

50  •  debussy

to try her hand at composing), Debussy had made a point of sending a copy of his
Baudelaire songs to her. He was also an admirer of the sculptor, Camille Claudel.
Although their relationship is unclear, one of her works, La Valse, was displayed in his
workroom throughout his life.
Debussy’s most enduring relationship during these years was with Gabrielle
(Gaby) Dupont (1866–1945). They met in the spring of 1890. She was twenty-four
and a striking beauty with green, “catlike eyes.”18 Gaby, who had little interest in the
arts, had a good sense of humor as well as a strongly practical side. In the summer of
1892 (after finally moving out of his parents’ apartment) she and Debussy began
living together. It was the beginning of an affair that lasted for nearly eight years.
Debussy’s professional prospects at the time continued to be gloomy. He felt, as
he confessed to Godet, like “an exile with no future except to plod on dismally
from day to day.”19 By the autumn of 1892 he was describing his existence as little
more than a “black hole.” The situation was complicated by his parents who, anx-
ious for him to earn a living (his Prix stipend ended in the spring of 1889), inaugu-
rated what Debussy called a “needling campaign.”20
It had been more than five years since his return from Rome, and Debussy had
little to show for it. His former companions at the Villa seemed much better off.
Paul V   idal, for example, had become assistant chorus director at the Opéra (1889–
1892), and then director of singing and a conductor there (1892–1906). His oper-
etta, Eros, was produced in 1892. A ballet, La Maladetta, was performed at the Opéra
the following year.Vidal had not strayed from the path expected for a Prix winner.
Debussy had made a point of doing so, and found it rough going.
Had he taken a more active role in the Société Nationale, his situation might
have been more secure. A good pianist was always needed there, but he rarely vol-
unteered, and in the nine years after Debussy became a member, he performed in
only five concerts.21 Performances of his own music at the Société were infrequent:
the Ariettes previously mentioned, and then nothing until La Damoiselle élue in April
1893. It was galling for him to witness the success of those he was convinced were
far less gifted than himself—such as that of a recent Prix winner Gustave Charpentier,
the future composer of Louise. Charpentier’s La Vie du poète had been performed to
acclaim in May 1892. Debussy could not have been stronger in his criticism; he

18.  René Peter in DR, p. 33.

19.  Letter of [30] January 1892 in DL, p. 34.
20.  Letters to André Poniatowski of 5 October 1892 and February 1893 in ibid., pp. 39, 40.
21.  In February 1889 he accompanied two of his Ariettes. Nearly five years passed before he
returned: in January 1894 in a four-hands performance of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio espagnole,
followed in the next month as accompanist to two of the Proses lyriques. In February 1896 and
January 1897 he was the pianist in performances of Guillaume Lekeu’s Piano Quartet.
 Establishing a Reputation  •  51

described the piece as crude and sensational, and complained that it represented
ideals totally opposed to his own.
But there were some encouraging developments. The publication of the
Baudelaire songs was followed in late spring 1892 by La Damoiselle élue, issued by
Bailly in a handsome edition with a frontispiece by Maurice Denis. Although
known mostly for publishing young writers like Régnier and Louÿs, Bailly’s press
was a prestigious one, and Debussy’s latest compositions were attracting a small but
devoted following.
A more tangible form of support appeared later that summer when Prince
André Poniatowski, a friend of Bailly, took an interest in Debussy. It led to an offer
which seemed too good to be true: a concert solely devoted to Debussy’s music to
be performed in the United States. Poniatowski had a strong interest in the arts and
was married to an American. He was eager to promote relations between the two
countries, and was even hopeful that he could persuade Andrew Carnegie to
support Debussy for a time.
Debussy responded with enthusiasm. “I gladly accept your proposal—because,
no matter how you look at it, to be successful in Paris actually means relying on all
that is mediocre, sordid, petty, and shameful. . . .  Whatever may happen, I shall always
be grateful to you for having—in the midst of a utilitarian world—the imagination
to keep me in mind.”22 In the end, nothing came of Poniatowski’s project, but he
continued to take an interest in Debussy and, as he later put it, felt “morally obliged”
to provide him with financial assistance for several years.23
Poniatowski’s financial aid probably started in 1893.The performance on 8 April
of that year of La Damoiselle élue at the Société Nationale provided real justification
for it. Although attacked by some critics (there were complaints of excessive chro-
maticism), it was well received by connoisseurs and colleagues, and received an
encouraging review in Le Figaro. Among those warm in their praise were the artist
Odilon Redon (who gave Debussy one of his lithographs as a token of his appre-
ciation) and Vincent d’Indy.
But while an artistic success, the performance of La Damoiselle élue did not ease
any of Debussy’s financial concerns.The following month he grudgingly served as a
pianist for three lectures on Wagner (associated with the French premiere of Die
Walküre) presented by Mendès. The lectures were simplistic, and extraordinarily
popular. In the past, being involved in such a project would only have added to
Debussy’s gloom and frustration. But something had recently happened that provided
hope and encouragement. On 17 May—in the midst of his chores for Mendès—he
attended a performance of Maurice Maeterlinck’s drama, Pelléas et Mélisande.

22.  Letters to Poniatowski of 9 September and 5 October 1892 in C, pp. 109, 111.
23.  LS, p. 133.
52  •  debussy

Maeterlinck had a strong following in Paris, and Debussy knew a great deal of
his work. He admired his poems, Serres chaudes (Hot-House), and had been so taken
with the drama, La Princesse Maleine, that he had tried to get approval to set it to
music (as it turned out, Maeterlinck had already promised it to d’Indy). It was the
illusory qualities of Maeterlinck’s dramas that provided the basis of much of their
attraction. “They are real,” explained the Symbolist critic Rémy de Gourmont, “by
dint of their unreality.”24 Perhaps as early as 1892 Debussy had purchased a copy of
Pelléas et Mélisande.
As had been the case with Mallarmé’s Faune, the Paris premiere of Pelléas was
intended for the Théâtre d’Art.Two of Maeterlinck’s earlier dramas, The Intruder and
The Blind, had been given there to acclaim. Pelléas was scheduled for performance
on 11 March 1893, but financial complications delayed and then threatened to
cancel any performance at all. It took a heroic effort to arrange a single matinee at
the Bouffes-Parisiens.
For Debussy, it was an extraordinary experience. Pelléas et Mélisande is, by any
standard, remarkable : dream-like, evocative, and ethereal. Here, Debussy felt, was an
ideal basis for opera—not stilted and orthodox like Rodrigue et Chimène, but a drama
that complemented his own conception of what opera should be.
He asked his friend Henri de Régnier to serve as intermediary and to approach
Maeterlinck for permission to set Pelléas to music. No objections were raised, and
when he received word of Maeterlinck’s consent early in August, Debussy eagerly
began to set the text to music. From the start, Pelléas was intended to be different
from other operas. No librettist was consulted to turn the play into an opera. Nor
did Debussy attempt an adaptation himself. He set to music Maeterlinck’s drama as
published with surprisingly few cuts.
Debussy’s discovery of Pelléas provided a sense of direction to his work, similar
to his earlier discovery of the poetry of Verlaine. He found in it drama new in
content, new in style—so different from the typical productions of the day, that it
seemed to demand music free from convention and constraint. Although it would
be nearly a decade before Pelléas was performed, more than any other of his com-
positions it would establish his reputation and bring him fame so unexpected that
in many ways it was as much a burden as a blessing.

24.  Rémy de Gourmont, The Book of Masks, tr. Jack Lewis (Boston: John W. Luce, 1921), p. 23.
 l Chapter FOUR
;
Years of Struggle

The average man hates the artist from a deep instinctive dread of all that is
strange, uncanny, alien to his nature.
Arthur Machen, The Hill of Dreams (1907)

T he thirteen years from 1887—when Debussy returned from Rome—

until his marriage in 1900 have been portrayed as Debussy’s Bohemian
years. He associated almost exclusively with artists, writers, and musicians. Even
the expected mistress was part of the scene. It resembled a real-life dramatiza-
tion of the romanticized fiction popularized in books like Murger’s Scènes de la
Vie Bohème and Du Maurier’s Trilby—a concept that lives on in the image of
the “starving artist” existing on the fringe of respectable society.
But Debussy’s Bohemian life had only superficial similarity to one found in the
pages of a book. His need for money seemed continually to hound him. And tied
to it was his limited success in establishing a reputation. Progress in that area
remained slow because he seemed lackadaisical, at times even apathetic. La Damoiselle
élue provides the best instance. After he completed it, more than four years passed
before it was performed. Other composers—Magnard, for example—arranged spe-
cial concerts devoted to their own music.That possibility never seemed to occur to
Debussy, although he had friends who could have helped with the costs.
The time of his discovery of Pelléas coincided with a broadening of friendships for
Debussy. Probably the most important for the establishment of his reputation was the
relationship that developed with Ernest Chausson. Although they had known one
another for several years (a result of Chausson’s work as secretary for the Société
Nationale), their association had only been casual. Over the next year they became good
friends. Chausson, who was seven years older than Debussy, became an elder advisor.

•  53  •
54  •  debussy

Chausson’s interest in Debussy was very much in character. He recognized

Debussy’s gifts, soon became aware of the difficulties he was having, and was eager
to help. But he must also have recognized that he and Debussy had much in
common. Both were critical of a great deal of contemporary French music. And
both shared a deep interest not just in music, but in all the arts. Chausson admired
contemporary French painting and had broad tastes—from Corot to Gauguin.
Odilon Redon (who, in addition to being an artist, was a fine pianist and violinist)
was a good friend with whom Chausson performed chamber music. Literature, too,
was an attraction. Prior to taking up music, Chausson had given serious consideration
to becoming a writer, and had even begun a novel.
In artistic matters, Chausson could be unusually open-minded. Although active
in the Société Nationale, he was aware of its weaknesses. Its concerts, he wrote to
Debussy, sometimes resembled “doctoral exams” where composers seemed more
interested in showing off their skills than in writing good music.1 At the time of
their friendship Chausson’s stature as a composer was substantial and growing.
Among his most recent works were the Poème de l’amour et de la mer, op. 19 (1893),
the Symphony, op. 20 (1890), and the Concert, op. 21 (1891).
But despite having points in common, there were substantial differences, too.The
most obvious one was their social standing. Chausson had been raised in the upper
middle class amid wealth and comfort. His completion of law study in 1876 had
been unnecessary: there was never any need for him to earn a living. Unlike Debussy,
he could indulge his artistic tastes to the full, and he collected paintings by Degas and
Renoir, as well as manuscripts of writers whom he admired such as Villiers.
There were also differences in the musical training they had received. Chausson
had begun by studying composition at the Conservatoire with Massenet—but, like
d’Indy, he decided to become a private student of César Franck.That led to the adop-
tion of Franckian musical ideals, concepts that Debussy regarded with suspicion.
With the exception of the final years of his life, Chausson seemed tentative as a
composer. In Debussy he encountered a composer who, although much younger,
was both more original and self-assured. This artistic maturity could be intimi-
dating to Chausson and created a major source of friction between the men. But
ultimately the greatest difference between them was one of aesthetics. “One day or
another,” Chausson wrote in 1884, “I have no doubt that I can write a piece of
music of interest to some unconventional minds—but between that and a true work
of art there is a world of difference.”2 For Debussy, by its very nature “a true work
of art” would be unconventional—and often its appeal was esoteric.

1.  Letter of 12 November 1893 in C, p. 174.

2.  Letter to Paul Poujaud of [1884] in Ernest Chausson, Ecrits inédits, ed. Jean Gallois and Isabelle
Bretaudeau (Paris: Editions du Rocher, 1999), p. 172.
 Years of Struggle  •  55

Chausson owned a fine home in Paris, but, as a fashionable member of

society, he spent summers outside the city. In the summer of 1893 he rented a
house in Luzancy, along the Marne. Debussy was invited there twice, staying
first from 30 May until 3 June and again in mid-June. In addition to Chausson’s
family (and its four young children), also present at various times were Henri
Lerolle (a painter, and Chausson’s brother-in-law), and Raymond Bonheur.
Bonheur and Debussy were already good friends; Lerolle became one. This was
the first extended opportunity for Debussy and Chausson to know one another
better, and photographs taken during the visit have vividly captured the atmo-
sphere—from boating excursions (showing the men wearing vest and tie, a
reminder of how formal the days before the First World War could be) to
Debussy at the piano.
One of their most interesting activities involved the music of Musorgsky.
Chausson had a copy of Boris Godunov, and he and Debussy went through the score
in detail. Four years earlier, Debussy’s friend Robert Godet had borrowed a copy of
Boris from Jules de Brayer, an admirer of Musorgsky, and lent it to Debussy. But he
had only glanced at it, mostly because of his unfamiliarity with the Russian lan-
guage. Now he was fascinated by the music. Its use of modality would not have
been a novelty to him, since he had encountered similar instances in music of
Glinka while with the von Mecks. But Musorgsky’s original harmony—free of
academic restraint—would have intrigued Debussy, as would the dramaturgy, so
different from both Wagner and French opera. These were both concepts that later
influenced his work on Pelléas. And they were reinforced by additional study of
Musorgsky’s music, especially the songs.
During his stay with Chausson, Debussy was completing the Proses lyriques and
working on a string quartet. Chausson was busy as well. That summer he began
setting to music Maeterlinck’s poetic cycle, Serres chaudes. But his major concern
was the opera, Le Roi Arthus, for which he had written his own libretto based
on the Arthurian legends. He had started work on it in 1886 but did not finish it
for nearly a decade.
Debussy’s letters to Chausson reveal a great deal about their relationship. From
the start, he was deeply appreciative of Chausson’s interest in him and openly
expressed his gratitude, admitting that he was “profoundly happy” to be his friend—
”because in you artistic qualities are completed by human ones.”3 Their friendship,
Debussy felt, would become “the best and most profound” of his life.4 Chausson
responded warmly. “The affection you have shown me gives me great pleasure,
and I am deeply moved by it,” he wrote. “You know that you can count on my

3.  Letter of 26 August 1893 in DL, p. 48.

4.  Letter of [3 October 1893] in ibid., p. 59.
56  •  debussy

friendship—completely.”5 Chausson’s support went beyond words. He lent Debussy

money and was anxious to see him “relieved of material worries.”6
But although he felt indebted to him, Debussy was frank in explaining their
­different musical approaches, asking pardon if in commenting on Chausson’s scores
he had “sometimes spoken a bit brusquely.”7 When Chausson brought Arthus to
him, he bluntly pointed out what he felt to be its strong and weak points.
Chausson took the criticism in stride and became in Debussy’s words “a bit like
a big brother.” He felt Debussy needed someone to provide guidance to his life.
“As  for your sermons,” Debussy dryly commented, “I’ll always value them.”8
Chausson was a champion of middle-class values and was eager for his young friend
to settle down, have a job, and marry. He suggested that he take on more pupils or
find a music position of some sort. In the autumn of 1893 he tried to secure an
assistant conducting post for him at the casino in Royan, precisely the type of posi-
tion that Debussy had made a point of avoiding. Two years earlier it had been held
by Albéric Magnard who had had a miserable time, describing the work as “absurd
and anti-artistic.”9 But, although Chausson realized that Debussy deserved better,
he remained convinced that such a position was better than nothing at all, and an
essential first step toward more stable employment.
While at Luzancy, Debussy and Chausson spoke of Maeterlinck and of Debussy’s
work on Pelléas. Debussy began by setting one of the most dramatic scenes, the
death of Pelléas (Act IV, scene iv), but in early September he confessed to Chausson
that the result was too Wagnerian, and started over. He also continued to work on
the String Quartet. Debussy had extraordinary difficulty with the finale, which he
reworked three times. On its completion that November he sold the quartet to
Durand, but the 250 francs he received was token payment for his efforts.
That same month Debussy traveled to Belgium, the first trip of any length he
had made since returning from Rome. There were two people he wanted to meet.
In Brussels he was introduced to Eugène Ysaÿe, a virtuoso violinist who had done
much to promote the careers of d’Indy, Chausson, and Lekeu. He was active both
as a conductor and soloist (in addition to founding a string quartet). It was Debussy’s
hope to interest him in his own quartet. Chausson had paved the way by writing to
Ysaÿe, and he was receptive. Debussy played a great deal of his music for him and
was pleased by his enthusiastic response.

5.  Letter of [4 June 1893] in C, p. 134.

6.  Letter of [28 August 1893] in ibid., p. 152.
7.  Letter of 26 August 1893 in ibid., p. 151.
8.  Ibid.
9.  Letter to Emile Cordonnier from the end of September [1891] in Albéric Magnard, Correspondance.
(1888–1914), ed. Claire Vlach (Paris: Publications de la Société Française de Musicologie, 1997), p. 59.
 Years of Struggle  •  57

From Brussels, Debussy traveled to Ghent where he met Maurice Maeterlinck.

Although Debussy had already received permission to set Pelléas, he wanted to
­discuss details—and probably was also simply curious about an author whose work
he admired. Their meeting went well. But if he had hoped to establish a close
friendship, he was disappointed. Maeterlinck professed total ignorance of music, but
gave Debussy full authority to proceed, even suggesting sections of the play he
might want to cut.
Debussy was accompanied on the trip by a new friend, Pierre Louÿs—a writer
whom he had probably first met in the autumn of 1892 at Mallarmé’s. Over the
next eight years, Louÿs was to become extremely close to Debussy.
It was an unusual and in many ways an unlikely friendship. Louÿs—whose real
name was Louis (he changed the spelling to add an exotic touch, the final “s” not
being pronounced)—was eight years younger than Debussy. He possessed broad
culture and refinement, in addition to what his friend the writer Paul Valéry
described as “a seductiveness and an elegance which I have never come across in
anyone else.”10
Louÿs was well connected in the literary world. In 1893 he had just begun his
association with the Mercure de France, one of the leading Symbolist journals. His
best-known work, the novel Aphrodite, followed two years later. The collection of
poetry, Chansons de Bilitis (1894), and several novellas such as La Femme et le pantin
(The Devil Is a Woman; 1898) sold well and made him much better known than
Debussy during the time of their friendship.
Although he mixed in circles associated with Symbolism, Louÿs’s writings had
little in common with it. In his work, sensuality was a major characteristic; Aphrodite
was a defense of hedonism.The plot (set in antiquity) focused on the sexual encoun-
ters of a prostitute and included frequent graphic, sexual descriptions as well as
scenes of cruelty and depravity (including a crucifixion described in gory detail).
At  times the novel borders on the pornographic—and that helps to explain the
many French and English editions (usually privately printed) copiously illustrated.
Pornography was one of Louÿs’s hobbies. He collected it and wrote thou-
sands of pages of it: poems, novels, tales, dramas, and parodies. None of it was
published during his lifetime—it was so explicit that no legitimate publisher
would have touched it—but it was shared with friends, and it is reasonable to
assume that at some point Debussy was shown works like Louÿs’s Le Livre obscène,
Scènes de la vie érotique, or Trois Filles de leur mère. In sexual matters, Louÿs’s life
reflected his writings. He was fond of grisettes and prostitutes, many of whom
found their way into his “Chronological and Descriptive Catalogue of All the

10.  “At the Grave of  Pierre Louÿs,” in Paul Valéry, Masters and Friends, tr. Martin Turnell (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968), p. 285.
58  •  debussy

Women with Whom I Have Slept,” a project started in February 1892 and
embellished with photographs.
Eroticism is an essential trait in nearly all of Louÿs’s work, so much so that “the
majority saw nothing in his splendid books but apologies for the flesh and its plea-
sures.”11 But, concluded Valéry, animating it all was Louÿs’s “cult” for beauty as an
ideal.12 His writings also provide insight into aspects of human nature rarely depicted
by contemporary authors—what Joris-Karl Huysmans, in writing about the erotic
art of Félicien Rops (with whom, incidentally, Louÿs has much in common)
described as a “dark descent into the depths of the soul.”13 Louÿs was adamantly
opposed to what he believed was the rampant sexual hypocrisy of his day. His writ-
ings, he felt, were one way to expose and attack them.
Debussy enjoyed spending time with Louÿs. The unconventionality of his tastes
fascinated Debussy: the distinctive, oriental decor of his apartment, the presence of
Zohra bent Brahim (Louÿs’s Algerian mistress), the fascination with all of the arts,
and the casual, unpretentious atmosphere—usually smoke-filled, for both Debussy
and Louÿs were heavy smokers. But to Louÿs’s surprise, even though he described
Debussy as “handsome, virile, and very passionate,” he showed no interest at all in
participating in any of Louÿs’s sexual escapades.14
Debussy admired Louÿs’s urbanity and broad culture (he knew English and
German), even at times emulating it. But it is a mistake to perceive their relation-
ship as one dominated by Louÿs—as many studies of Debussy have done, several
even stating that Louÿs molded Debussy’s literary taste. Debussy’s preferences were
already well formed by the time of their meeting.15 In fact, it was their shared
artistic interests—Mallarmé and Bach, for example—that reinforced their friend-
ship. As for Louÿs’s fanatical Wagnerism, Debussy was gracious enough to overlook
it, though he did try to temper it.
Not much time passed before the trip taken with Louÿs in the autumn of 1893
brought tangible benefits to Debussy’s career. On 29 December 1893 his String
Quartet was performed at the Société Nationale by Ysaÿe’s quartet. Debussy’s piece
paid some homage to the style of César Franck, an approach that many members
of the Société welcomed. Although public reaction in general was tepid, there was
one particularly encouraging sign: praise for the quartet in the journal Art moderne.

11.  Ibid., p. 287.

12.  Ibid., p. 288.
13.  Joris-Karl Huysmans, Certains (Paris: Plon, 1908), p. 77.
14.  According to Louÿs, in contrast to his own promiscuity, Debussy limited his sexual relations to
five women during his life, all of them blonde. LS, p. 420.
15.  This misconception of their relationship can be traced to the chatty, unreliable, and often spiteful
recollections of the painter, Jacques-Emile Blanche.
 Years of Struggle  •  59

It was the work of the influential Belgian critic, Octave Maus. Maus was associated
with Les Vingt (later known as La Libre Esthétique), a modernist art group that
encouraged a variety of styles from Impressionist to Symbolist. Their exhibits
provided an important venue for new music as well, and Debussy would soon
benefit from their support.
Chausson also continued to be of help. He arranged for Debussy to present a
series of “Wagnerian Seances” at the home of his mother-in-law. Debussy was to
perform at the piano for two hours on Saturday afternoons, playing transcriptions
of Parsifal, Tristan, Die Meistersinger, and portions of Siegfried. He received an extraor-
dinary amount of money for the job. But it was an exhausting chore. Chausson also
attempted to launch Debussy into the upper echelons of Parisian society. He
provided entrée to the salon of Mme de Saint-Marceaux who had a strong interest
in music, especially that of Fauré. Debussy played much of his music for her,
including the Damoiselle, the Proses lyriques, and some excerpts from Pelléas. Mme de
Saint-Marceaux liked what she heard and took a genuine interest in him, but
Debussy found little in the salon that appealed to him.
Occasional performances at the Société Nationale remained the primary outlet
for Debussy’s music. Two of the Proses lyriques were performed on 17 February 1894
with Debussy as accompanist.Thérèse Roger, a member of Chausson’s circle, was the
singer. Critical reaction to the Proses was not kind. These were far more challenging
than the Quartet, and at least one critic found them to be astonishingly bizarre.
Roger (1866–1906) had also sung in the performance of the Damoiselle and—
although there is no indication that Debussy was captivated by her performances—a
great deal must have gone on behind the scenes. To the surprise of everyone, that
spring Debussy announced that he and Mlle Roger were engaged to be married.
A date was set for mid-April.The impulsiveness of Debussy’s act seemed in character,
but the idea of marriage did not—and some suspected the hand of Mme de Saint-
Marceaux who was known for her match-making skills. Chausson described him-
self as being “literally stupefied.”16 So was Louÿs. He was opposed to it, and
characterized Mlle Roger as a “drawing-room singer.”  “I am convinced,” he wrote
to his brother, “that it would be a bad marriage, and I am distressed about it for my
friend’s sake.”17
Other than their musical backgrounds, Thérèse Roger and Debussy seemed to
have little in common. She was not a beauty, like Gaby. And despite her skill in
performing songs by Chausson and Fauré, she was not known as a particularly
gifted singer. But Chausson and Henri Lerolle, eager to put the situation in the best
light possible, seemed pleased. Debussy confessed to Lerolle that it was all very

16.  LS, p. 149.

17.  D, p. 88.
60  •  debussy

much like a fairy tale, and that for some time he had felt a “profound tenderness”
toward her which he had not dared to express.18
At the time of his engagement Debussy was still living with Gaby Dupont, who
remained oblivious of what was happening.19 He now needed to find a way to end
their relationship amicably and at the same time to keep it all a secret from Mlle
Roger and her family. Unfortunately for Debussy, the Rogers received an anony-
mous note telling them of his duplicity. Although the contents of the letter are not
known, it seems that matters other than his affair with Gaby were mentioned—
debts, for example, perhaps even his previous relationship with Marie Vasnier.
The Rogers were outraged. Friends did not rush to his defense, and Debussy soon
found himself ostracized. Chausson wrote he was “despondent” about the “sordid
affair” and decided that it would be inappropriate for Debussy to continue his Wagner
seances.20 What seemed to make the matter worse was Debussy’s refusal to admit the
truth.“I can see,” explained Chausson,“how he might have told lies, watered down the
truth or put a different slant on things, even though that’s a stupid and pointless way of
behaving, but to lie directly to her face, with indignant protests, about something so
serious, that I cannot comprehend.”21 The engagement was broken off in mid-March.
Debussy tried to present a defense and even visited Mme de Saint-Marceaux in
an attempt to right the situation. Through it all, his most vigorous supporter was
Louÿs. On 22 March he wrote to Mme de Saint-Marceaux to try to exonerate
Debussy. Concerning the relationship with Gaby, Louÿs noted that Debussy had
intended breaking with her but was still searching for a gentle and appropriate way
to do so when news of his engagement was revealed. “As for the rumors you have
heard of his earlier life,” Louÿs wrote, “I can assure you that they are monstrous
slanders.” He concluded with sensible advice on the merit of anonymous letters—
“usually written by a liar and in any case by a coward.”22
Because of the scandal, many of Debussy’s friends broke with him. The most
severe loss was Chausson. A coolness developed between them, not merely because
of what was perceived as cavalier treatment of Thérèse Roger but also because of
Debussy’s financial irresponsibilities. But the entire affair seemed to cause Debussy
little pain. Perhaps—as his enemies had claimed—her dowry had been the major
attraction. As for the salons into which he had been introduced and which were
now closed to him, he had long felt they were a waste of his time.

18.  Letter to Henri Lerolle of [c. 24 February 1894] in C, p. 197.

19.  Although he mentioned in passing to Lerolle that Gaby had left in February, that does not seem
to have been the case.
20.  Letter of Chausson to Lerolle of 19 March 1894 in DR, p. 45.
21.  Letter of Chausson to Lerolle of 6 April 1894 in ibid.
22.  Letter of 22 March 1894 in ibid., p. 46.
 Years of Struggle  •  61

What puts the incident in perspective is Debussy’s conduct not long before the
engagement. At that time, he seemed charmed with Yvonne Lerolle, daughter of
Henri Lerolle. He gave her an exquisite Japanese fan, embellished with a few mea-
sures from Pelléas and inscribed: “In memory of her little sister, Mélisande.” He also
dedicated to her a set of piano pieces, Images—not the well-known collection of
later years, but an earlier group, first published in 1978. It seems possible that during
these months Debussy was looking for a way out of his relationship with Gaby. His
engagement to Thérèse Roger had been hasty—probably conceived as a way of fol-
lowing the “respectable” path endorsed by Chausson and others in his circle.
Debussy’s professional life seemed to suffer little from the scandal. Gradually, his
works were becoming better known. Prior to the incident, a concert devoted solely
to his music had been presented on 1 March 1894 in Brussels sponsored by Maus.
It was an extensive program, including the String Quartet, two of the Proses lyriques,
and the Damoiselle. Debussy was present and was pleased both by the quality of the
performances and by the audience’s reaction. Originally intended for inclusion was
his music for Mallarmé’s Faune, but it was not finished in time. He had been working
on it for months, not—as had been originally discussed—to accompany a presen-
tation of the poem but as an independent composition inspired by it. After his break
with Chausson, Debussy continued work on it and spent an increasing amount of
time on Pelléas, devoting the summer primarily to Act III.
Late in August Debussy began a new project, a collection of three pieces for
violin and orchestra that probably eventually became the Nocturnes. It was to be an
experiment in timbre, with the first using strings, the second winds (flutes, four
horns, three trumpets) and two harps, with all the forces united in the finale.
Debussy intended it for Ysaÿe, but he showed surprisingly little interest. In 1897
Debussy began to convert it to a more standard orchestral piece, but it was not
completed for another three years.
The premiere of the Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune finally occurred on 22
December 1894 at the Société Nationale.The performance was especially important
in Debussy’s mind because of its association with Mallarmé, and he took particular
interest in it, even attending rehearsals. Performances of his works had never been
wildly successful, and Debussy had relied on the scattered appreciation of connois-
seurs. In this instance—even though the performance was not polished—audience
response was so enthusiastic that, contrary to policy, the Faune was encored.
But although the audience may have been charmed, critics were not. The Faune
avoids many of the musical traditions that critics relied on as a basis for evaluation.
Its structure is nebulous, its tunefulness unconventional, its harmony audacious,
even its genre is uncertain: is it a short tone poem? an overture? Long familiar with
hostile reaction to his work, Debussy placed far greater weight on the opinions of
colleagues, and on that of Mallarmé himself who was enthralled by it. Additional
62  •  debussy

performances on 13 and 20 October 1895 as part of the Colonne concert series

were better in quality. Several critics—generally those with little musical training—
were delighted by it. But music critics in general continued to be hostile, one
­concluding that it was “empty and pretentious.”23
All of Debussy’s work thus far had been brought out by a variety of publishers.
He would gain greater prestige and stability if he were connected with a single
publisher—one who would not only guarantee to print his music but could also
provide either a stipend or advances on his work. After completing the Faune,
Debussy had the good fortune to become associated with Georges Hartmann, an
established publisher with a distinguished roster including Massenet. He bought the
Faune from Debussy at the bargain price of 200 francs. But it was the beginning of
a beneficial relationship. Hartmann helped to promote Debussy, whom he recog-
nized as a rising star. Probably starting in mid-1895, he gave Debussy a monthly
stipend of 500 francs.
It was money the composer very much needed. Debussy earned little from his
compositions, and not much more was available from other sources. He took occa-
sional musical odd jobs, continued to teach piano privately, and directed a small
choral group formed in 1894 by his friends the Fontaine family who were helpful
supporters. One member remembered his “angelic patience” with the group, not a
trait much in evidence in his work as a piano teacher where he ignored matters like
fingering and poked fun at repertoire that bored him.24 He even returned to his
Wagnerian duties in 1896 with weekly performances at the salon of Mme Godard-
Decrais.They must have been memorable—as he accompanied himself at the piano,
singing in a voice invariably described as rough and somewhat nasal.
With many of his friends vanished because of the Roger scandal, the two major
sources of stability in his life were his association with Louÿs and Gaby. Despite his
engagement to Thérèse Roger, Gaby stayed with him, contributing to their income
by work as a milliner. And through it all, Louÿs maintained a good relationship with
her. He genuinely cared for her, and treated Gaby with kindness and respect.
Despite the success of the Faune, this was a time when Debussy had real need of
support. On occasion he tried to brush off his problems with cynical observations
on the age: a time in which “Art,” he claimed, was no longer “something lofty and
disinterested, but just a way of making money within the reach of those who are
wedded to the respectable professions.”25 But remarks like these were only attempts
to minimize his depression, the “black melancholy” he had once mentioned to

23.  LS, p. 164.

24.  Mme Gérard de Romilly, “Debussy professeur, par une de ses élèves (1898–1908),” Cahiers
Debussy 2 (1978), p. 3.
25.  Letter to Jules Huret of 19 January 1898 in DL, p. 93.
 Years of Struggle  •  63

Chausson.26 He expressed himself openly to Louÿs, whose frequent travel abroad

gave Debussy little choice but to unburden himself in letters. In 1898 while in
Egypt, Louÿs received an especially bleak letter. “I feel alone and helpless,” Debussy
wrote. “Nothing has changed in the black sky which is the basis of my life, and I
scarcely know where I am going if not towards suicide—a foolish ending to
something that perhaps deserved better. I am tired of struggling against idiotic and
contemptible impossibilities.”27 Louÿs replied: “YOU ARE A GREAT MAN. I have
never said that to anyone before. Whatever your problems may be, that thought
must be foremost in your mind.”28 And he advised Debussy to continue to immerse
himself in his work, and to do all that he could to assure a performance of Pelléas.
During these years Pelléas remained Debussy’s primary concern. It was his most
substantial work, and he realized that his future would in all probability be deter-
mined by it. As he finished portions, he played them for friends to gauge their
response. Prior to their break Chausson had heard some of the early sections, but,
because of his work on Le Roi Arthus, refused to hear more—convinced that the
originality of Debussy’s work would affect his own.
Henri Lerolle, who had remained close despite the Thérèse Roger incident, heard
a great deal more of Pelléas and was enthusiastic. In December 1894 he invited Debussy
to play what he had completed thus far for several acquaintances. The setting was
more competitive than convivial, for Vincent d’Indy was scheduled to play portions
of his new opera, Fervaal. It was d’Indy’s major composition during these years and
was intended to rejuvenate French opera. On arriving, Debussy claimed that he had
left his own score at home, but after hearing Fervaal his coyness vanished, and his score
miraculously appeared. Its originality “really astonished” many of them, not least
d’Indy.29 As a result of private performances such as these, word of Pelléas spread, cre-
ating not only interest but extraordinary curiosity about it as well.
Debussy finished Pelléas (in piano score) in 1895. Soon after, several opportu-
nities to perform it appeared. In August or September Paul Larochelle, the new
director of the Théâtre Libre (an avant-garde theater), expressed interest in it, as did
the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre in 1896—but nothing came of either proposal. That same
year EugèneYsaÿe attempted to convince Debussy to allow him to perform excerpts
from Pelléas in Brussels. But Debussy rejected the offer, in part because he was
offended by the aggressive and self-serving manner in which Ysaÿe proposed the
project. But he replied with tact, writing that a partial performance would destroy
the dramatic unity intended. He also felt that there was always danger that the work

26.  Letter of [2 July 1893] in ibid., p. 47.

27.  Letter of 21 April 1898 in C, p. 398.
28.  Letter of 5 May [1898] in ibid., p. 400.
29.  Reaction of Paul Poujaud in D, p. 85.
64  •  debussy

would be perceived as being presented incomplete simply because no opera house

was willing to stage it in its entirety.
In 1898 Debussy was asked to supply incidental music for a performance in
England of Pelléas as a drama. Once again, he declined, and, without his approval—
which should have been necessary since he had the musical rights for the play—
music was provided by Gabriel Fauré. Debussy was furious. But he told Georges
Hartmann that he was not worried. There was, he wrote, considerable difference
between his music and that of Fauré, “the musical servant of a group of snobs and
imbeciles.”30 He was right about the differences in their music, but might have been
more concerned that whatever popularity Fauré’s production might have—and it
had been a success—would detract from the novelty of his own setting.
All of this interest in Pelléas should have been heartening to Debussy and should
have encouraged him to push for its premiere. But he left the matter in the hands
of Hartmann who was not aggressive. He recognized Debussy’s ability—and its
potential to earn money—but even though he was familiar with Pelléas, he seemed
unaware of its significance. So, as had been the case with La Damoiselle élue, a work
that could have opened doors for Debussy and made life much easier for him
remained unperformed.
Although Pelléas was Debussy’s major concern in the 1890s, there were quite a
few abortive projects stemming from his friendship with Louÿs. The first, dating
from September 1894, was a drama, Oedipe à Colonne, for which Debussy was to
supply incidental music. The play was intended to be jointly written by Louÿs and
Ferdinand Hérold, but it never went beyond the planning stage. A second project
followed seven months later. At first referred to as Le Roi des Aulnes, it was a fairy
tale conceived as an opera. It became Cendrelune (Cinderella), and two scenarios
(both in two acts) have survived. Although it continued to be mentioned as late as
May 1898, Debussy and Louÿs were unable to agree on its content, and no music
was composed. Of greater interest to Debussy was a setting based on a series of
poems (“Willowwood”) translated by Louÿs from Rossetti’s The House of Life. La
Saulaie occupied Debussy in 1896 and 1897, and portions (intended for baritone
and orchestra) were completed. But despite assertions in 1900 that he was working
on it, little was actually finished.
Louÿs seemed far more eager than Debussy that they collaborate. In November
1895 he approached him with the scenario for a ballet, Daphnis et Chloë. It was a
hasty and fairly nebulous plan, and, although Debussy wrote to Louÿs in May 1896
that he was working on it, his claim appears doubtful. An equally vague project
concerned Louÿs’s novel, Aphrodite. Debussy had written to Louÿs not long after its
publication offering praise (“unique . . . prodigiously supple”), but the generalities he

30.  Letter of 9 August 1898 in DL, p. 100.

 Years of Struggle  •  65

used indicate that he was choosing his words with care.31 Although he received
unofficial permission from Louÿs to adapt Aphrodite as an opera, he never did so.32
Related to an Aphrodite opera was Louÿs’s suggestion in 1897 for an Aphrodite ballet
or pantomime. Debussy did not oblige. Speed always seemed important to Louÿs in
these proposed collaborations. He failed to grasp Debussy’s meticulous pace, and
from the start that seemed to doom their work together. But it also seems clear that
none of the proposals caught fire with Debussy.
The comparatively few compositions completed by him in the period from
1895 to 1900 (that is, after Pelléas was finished) are indicative of the difficult times
he was having. Work continued on the Nocturnes, but with slow progress. Mostly it
was a question of projects or ideas for projects, all for various reasons abandoned.
Only one composition actually resulted from his friendship with Louÿs. In the
spring of 1897 he set to music “La Flûte de Pan,” the first of what would become
three songs from Louÿs’s Chansons de Bilitis—a popular collection of prose poems
originally presented by Louÿs as translations from ancient Greek. Debussy added to
it “La Chevelure” (The Tresses), and in the following year, “Le Tombeau des naïdes”
(The Tomb of the Naiads), the entire set being published in 1899 as Trois Chansons
de Bilitis.
In addition to these songs, Debussy worked on setting several of his own poems,
similar to what he had done with the Proses lyriques.They were given the title Nuits
blanches, and two (from a projected set of five) were written. But Debussy never
completed the set, and left them unpublished.
Perhaps the most obvious indication of how difficult a time Debussy was having
writing music is his involvement with Erik Satie’s piano pieces, Trois Gymnopédies.
In 1896 Debussy orchestrated the first and the third of them for performance at the
Société Nationale. It was a generous gesture for a good friend, and a gracious
attempt to make Satie’s work better known. But this was the only time that Debussy
ever orchestrated the music of someone else—and had his own muse not deserted
him, he might not have found time for it. Orchestration was never routine for
Debussy, but a crucial aspect of composition. His arrangements of the Gymnopédies
are inventive, extraordinarily sensitive, and extremely beautiful—all reasons that
Debussy’s settings remain today among the most popular of Satie’s music.
Debussy’s hopes remained focused on Pelléas, and, until it was accepted for
performance, he seemed incapable of applying himself for any length of time on
any other project. This uncertainty was a major source for his depression, and it
affected his life with Gaby, a relationship that at least in Debussy’s eyes was becoming

31.  Letter of 10 April 1896 in C, p. 310.

32.  Several composers showed interest in Aphrodite, including Puccini. It was set by Camille
Erlanger in 1906.
66  •  debussy

increasingly meaningless. In late 1895 or early in 1896, he proposed marriage to

Catherine Stevens. She turned him down, suggesting that he ask again after Pelléas
was performed. Then in February 1897 Gaby discovered a letter that gave proof of
his involvement with another woman. Debussy described the incident for Louÿs in
a curiously detached manner:

Gaby, she of the piercing eye, found a letter in my pocket which left no doubt as to the
advanced state of a love affair, and containing enough picturesque material to inflame
even the most stolid heart. Whereupon . . . Scenes . . . Tears . . . A real revolver and Le Petit
Journal there to record it all. . . . It would have been nice to have you here, my dear Pierre,
to help me recognize myself in all this third-rate literature.33

Debussy’s remarks are all that is known of the incident, and, while it has been
assumed that Gaby attempted to kill herself with the pistol, it would have been
equally acceptable in the canons of “third-rate literature” for her to have taken a
shot at Debussy. Nothing has been found in Le Petit Journal or any other newspaper.
Given the bantering tone often assumed by Debussy and Louÿs in their
correspondence, Debussy may have been more imaginative than factual in his
account.Whatever may have occurred, no one was seriously injured by it. A month
later, in a postscript to a letter, Debussy forwarded to Louÿs at Gaby’s request “her
nicest smile.”34 But their reconciliation, if it can be described as one, appeared casual
and haphazard.
A breakup seemed only a matter of time, and it was Gaby who made the first
move, leaving him in December 1898 to become the mistress of Count de Balbiani,
a South American banker. But despite the coldness of their final months, Debussy
did not forget their years together. In June 1902, after the long-awaited premiere of
Pelléas, he presented a score of it to her, inscribed: “To Gaby, princess of the myste-
rious kingdom of Allemonde. Her old devoted friend, Claude Debussy.”35
Debussy did not remain alone for long. Earlier that summer, he had met Marie-
Rosalie Texier (known as Lilly or Lilo, 1873–1932), a friend of Gaby. She was about
ten years younger than Debussy and had been living in Paris for three years working
as a model for fashion houses.Their first meeting did not impress him favorably. But
in the spring of 1899 Debussy began to see her regularly.The series of letters which
he wrote to her over the following months become extraordinarily intimate.When,
after about a month, Lilly attempted to break off their relationship, Debussy inten-
sified his courtship. What may have added to his passion was the announcement
by Louÿs of his engagement to the daughter of the poet, José Maria de Hérédia.

33.  Letter of 9 February 1897 in DL, p. 88.

34.  Letter of 9 March 1897 in ibid., p. 92.
35.  D, p. 71.
 Years of Struggle  •  67

The wedding on 24 June was a major social event, for which at Louÿs’s request
Debussy wrote a march (now lost). The marriage of his closest friend heightened
Debussy’s sense of isolation.
In writing to Lilly, he made a point of describing not merely his love for her, but
what he could provide, mentioning how Pelléas would improve his stature. He
assured her that it would be performed that year. That was only a hope, but there
was at least some substance to it. In May 1898 Debussy had played Pelléas for Albert
Carré, manager of the Opéra-Comique, and André Messager, the music director.
Both had told him that they would stage the work, but no date had been set—for,
in addition to the formalities of a contract, Debussy had yet to orchestrate it.
The marriage of Debussy and Lilly occurred on 19 October in a quiet civil cer-
emony which included Satie and Louÿs among the witnesses. That day Debussy
quickly gave a piano lesson in order to have enough money to dine out with his
bride. Marriage seemed to agree with him, and his mood became brighter than it
had been in months. “Mademoiselle Lilly Texier,” he reported to Robert Godet,
“has exchanged her inharmonious name for that of Lilly Debussy, much more
euphonious as I’m sure everybody will agree.”36 But it is odd that just five months
earlier, when he had learned of Louÿs’s engagement, he had offered his congratula-
tions, but seemed to rule out anything similar for himself. “My old liaison with
Music,” he wrote, “prevents me from marrying.”37

36.  Letter of 5 January 1900 in DL, p. 109.This is an instance of Debussy imitating Louÿs.Writing
to Debussy, he announced his wedding in a similar manner: “Mademoiselle Louise de Hérédia has
exchanged her name for that of Louise Louÿs, more symmetrical and balanced.”
37.  Letter of 16 May 1899 in C, p. 479.
 l Chapter five
;
Divagations, 1900–1904

If you think of someone you have loved deeply, it will not be their words or
gestures that you will recall, but the silence you have shared. The quality of
those silent moments alone revealed the quality of your love, and your souls.
Maurice Maeterlinck, On Silence (1896)

D ebussy’s engagement to Therèse Roger in 1894 had largely been the

result of trying to meet the expectations of a new circle of friends. But his
marriage to Lilly Texier was his own doing. To some extent it appears that he
wanted companionship, especially after the recent breakup with Gaby. But Debussy
also seemed anxious for more stability in his life.

The home which he soon established with Lilly was cosy. Their small apartment was
meticulously clean and tidy. . . . From the windows you could see a little greenery, and
the peace and quiet were only troubled at certain times by the happy cries of children in
a school courtyard.
There was an atmosphere of intimacy and calm in the two small rooms joined by a
bay. One was Debussy’s studio where, on the desk, manuscripts, inkwells and pencils were
laid out in perfect order.There was also a divan, several Oriental carpets and, on the walls,
pictures by Henri Lerolle, Jacques-Emile Blanche, Thaulow, and drawings representing
Lilo Debussy, then at the height of her beauty. She had delicate features surrounded by
fair hair; she appeared to be the very incarnation of Mélisande. In the other room there
was an upright piano, books and scores.
If Lilo was not a musician (which her husband was glad of ), she was an accomplished
mistress of the household, always on the lookout for treats and cooking exquisite little
meals for him which he appreciated greatly and consumed with relish.1
1.  Madame Gérard de Romilly in DR, p. 58.

•  68  •
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  69

Adding to the ambiance were two cats. Debussy had a longstanding relationship
with cats. The pair he had with Lilly were granted unusual favors, including being
permitted to lounge “solemnly on the desk and, if they so wished, to sow disorder
among the pencils.”2 As had been the case with Gaby, Lilly managed much of the
household and kept it going on a small amount of money.
But even with his newfound domesticity, Debussy had little peace of mind. He
described himself as being in a “moribund, depressed state,” in part because of
concern over Pelléas et Mélisande.3 Albert Carré appeared willing to perform it
during the 1901 season, but no firm date had been set. Not having a performance
date was unsettling, and adding to Debussy’s apprehensions was the recent tri-
umph of Charpentier’s Louise at the Opéra-Comique, so very different from
Pelléas. “It fills to perfection,” he told Louÿs, “the need for vulgar beauty and
imbecile art proclaimed by the many.”4 Hartmann urged Debussy to complete
the score for Pelléas. There will be no real commitment, he wrote, until Carré has
“the score in hand.”5
Debussy continued to do what he could to provide additional income, including
occasional salon performances of  Wagner. The Nocturnes, finally finished to his sat-
isfaction, appeared in print in February 1900, and both Debussy and Hartmann
were hopeful that this substantial orchestral composition would do much to increase
his reputation.The two best venues for it were the Colonne and Lamoureux concert
series. But Colonne would not schedule it, and when it was shown to Camille
Chevillard, the new conductor of the Lamoureux series, he was far from enthusi-
astic. He agreed to schedule it, but only the first two movements because the third
movement required a female chorus. It was a fitting commentary on Debussy’s
beleaguered state that the sole performance of any of his music during these months
was of a salon piece: the Tarentelle styrienne, performed at a Société Nationale concert
on 10 March.
Just when it seemed that matters could not be bleaker, on 23 April 1900 Georges
Hartmann died. Hartmann and Debussy had not been close—they were far too
different in temperament—but the stipend that Hartmann supplied Debussy
remained his primary means of support. “I am truly sorry for his death,” Debussy
wrote.“He played his part with good grace and a smile, fairly rare among ­philanthropists
of art.”6 In his dealings with Debussy, Hartmann had been a businessman with a
touch of generosity. But the executor of his estate lacked even the semblance of a

2.  Ibid.
3.  Letter to Robert Godet of 5 January 1900 in DL, p. 109.
4.  Letter of 6 February 1900 in ibid., p. 110.
5.  Letter to Debussy of 4 January 1900 in C, p. 531.
6.  Letter to Louÿs of 25 April 1900 in ibid., p. 557.
70  •  debussy

philanthropist and was soon demanding that Debussy pay back advances that he
had received for his work.
Lilly was profoundly discouraged. Debussy did his best to lift her spirits,
telling her that they needed to “struggle a bit more. And for that I am counting
on you—my joy, my delight, my happiness, and also my greatest and most
beautiful hope.”7 Then in the midst of their worries, they discovered that she was
pregnant. Because of their precarious finances, there was a mutual decision for
an abortion, and Lilly spent about a week in mid-August at a clinic. Her health,
which had never been robust, became yet another cause for concern when an
examination revealed that she might have an early stage tuberculosis. Debussy
tried to remain positive. “So I conjure up smiles,” he confessed to Louÿs, “which
feel like tears.”8
There was some encouraging news that summer. On 24 August La Damoiselle
élue was presented as part of the official French contingent of concerts at the
Universal Exposition held in Paris. Its selection was an indication of Debussy’s
growing fame. And the performance itself he described as “unforgettable.”9 The
primary role was sung by Blanche Marot. “It was not possible for anyone to have
interpreted La Damoiselle élue with greater sensitivity and sincere feeling,” Debussy
told her.“At times you were able to withdraw so completely from the world around
you that the effect was unearthly.”10 She had also performed the Chansons de Bilitis
on 17 March at the Société Nationale, and in time would become closely associated
with Debussy’s music.
The Damoiselle met with a favorable reception by the public—and the usual
mixed one from critics. But one unusually supportive voice stood out: Pierre Lalo,
son of the composer, praised Debussy’s “melodic invention” as well as the origi-
nality and refinement of his harmonic approach.11 Lalo was to become one of
Debussy’s most ardent supporters, and Debussy took the unusual step of writing to
thank him for his review.
Criticism in general seemed to be gradually turning Debussy’s way. Some of this
was a result of the changing of the guard, as younger critics like Lalo and Gaston
Carraud stepped forward. But it was also becoming more common for composers
to serve as critics, even in major newspapers. That was particularly helpful for the
premiere of the Nocturnes, the first two of which (“Nuages” and “Fêtes”) were given

7.  Letter of 25 April 1900 in ibid., p. 556.

8.  Letter to Louÿs of 14 May 1900 in DL, p. 113.According to the editors of Debussy’s Correspondance,
Lilly had suffered a miscarriage (p. 566).
9.  Letter to Blanche Marot of 24 August 1900 in C, p. 565.
10.  Ibid.
11.  LS, p. 198.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  71

at the Lamoureux series on 9 December. Among those who wrote reviews of the
Nocturnes were Pierre de Bréville, Alfred Bruneau, and Paul Dukas—all of whom
were composers of some stature—and they tended to be more receptive and under-
standing of Debussy’s style. Overall, his music was beginning to receive a more
balanced and insightful appraisal.
Debussy could only have been heartened by reaction to the Nocturnes, and he
began 1901 in a better frame of mind. After what had been a period of comparative
stagnation, he started work on a new composition, a collection of three piano
pieces which would become Pour le piano. The surprising simplicity of the title was
revealing: its ambiguity set it apart from the programmatic titles for most piano
music. After their completion in April, Lindaraja (for two pianos, four-hands) fol-
lowed. His industry was a good sign. And his homelife with Lilly also seemed to be
going well. In January he gave her the score of the Nocturnes with the inscription:
“This manuscript belongs to my little Lilly-Lilo, all rights reserved. It is also a token
of my deep and passionate joy in being her husband.”12
Still, performances of Debussy’s works remained irregular. One of the most
unusual occurred on 7 February on the premises of the newspaper, Le Journal.
It was the result of a suggestion made to Debussy by Louÿs the previous October.
For the performance a series of a dozen tableaux vivants (with implied nudity)
was presented to the recitation of poems from the Chansons de Bilitis. Debussy
provided music arranged for two harps, two flutes, and a celesta (only the parts
for the flutes and harp have survived). The music was not intended to accom-
pany the reading of the poetry, but as a backdrop for the tableaux themselves.
The entire concept was a bit dated by 1901—it had been particularly popular in
Symbolist theater, where tableaux were often presented as an auxiliary to the
evening’s main entertainment—so it is not surprising that no additional perfor-
mances followed.
The need for more money provided the impetus two months later for Debussy’s
entry into the world of music criticism. Even though it had become an increasingly
common way for composers to supplement their income, Debussy’s credentials set
him apart. Not only was he a rising star, he also wrote well and with originality. But
becoming a music critic was not something he looked forward to. Writing did not
come easily to him, and the time spent attending concerts and preparing reviews he
would have preferred to spend composing.
Debussy served as music critic for La Revue blanche, one of the leading artistic
journals of the time, for about eight months (from April to December 1901). It was
an association of benefit both to himself and the paper. Debussy was engaging,

12.  D, p. 125.
72  •  debussy

witty, iconoclastic, and often startling in his unconventionality. He showed little

concern in offending anyone, and that in itself helped contribute to his popularity.
Much of what he wrote was imaginative and inventive, especially when Debussy
brought into play his fictional creation, Monsieur Croche. Croche, an outspoken
and opinionated anti-dilettante, made infrequent but unforgettable appearances in
the reviews, always adding spice with his blunt and controversial observations.
That May—not long after beginning work as a music critic—Debussy finally
received written assurance from Carré that Pelléas would be performed the follow-
ing year.While it was certainly welcome news, it was also a reminder that he needed
to begin orchestrating it. Maeterlinck soon learned of the forthcoming production,
and on 30 May he met with Debussy to discuss it in general terms. He was inter-
ested in giving the role of Mélisande to his longtime mistress, Georgette Leblanc, a
singer and actress. But Debussy put off making a decision, noting that it was not his
alone to make. Privately, he was extremely critical of Leblanc: “Not only does she
sing out of tune,” he told a friend, “she speaks out of tune.”13
That August Debussy took the first of what would become a series of regular
summer vacations visiting Lilly’s parents in Bichain in Burgundy. He stayed for
about a month, and enjoyed it. The countryside provided a welcome escape from
life in the city. As he explained to Raoul Bardac, a young man who had recently
started taking lessons in composition with him, in Burgundy it seemed as if he were
“at the opposite end of the earth from Paris.”14
On his return, he continued to work on the orchestration of Pelléas, all of which
was probably completed by September. But time was also devoted to the full
­premiere—that is, all three movements—of the Nocturnes on 27 October at the
Lamoureux concerts. Debussy felt that the conductor, Chevillard, was insensitive
and incapable of doing the score justice, suspicions that seemed to be confirmed
during rehearsal:

Debussy: “I would like it to be more nebulous.”

Chevillard: “Quicker?”
Debussy: “No, more nebulous.”
Chevillard: “Slower?”
Debussy: “More nebulous.”
Chevillard: “I don’t know what you mean. Gentlemen, let us begin again!”15

The performance was not as well-received as had been the premiere of the first
two movements; the final movement (“Sirènes”) was a bit rough, and there were

13.  Madame de Romilly in DR, p. 56.

14.  Letter of 31 August 1901 in DL, p. 120.
15.  LS, p. 208.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  73

complaints from critics about excessive chromaticism. But Lalo was fairly generous
in his praise, noting the “exquisite melodic contours” of the finale.16
Lalo was also supportive of Pour le piano which received its premiere at the
Société Nationale on 11 January 1902. The pianist was Ricardo Viñes, a friend of
Maurice Ravel and a great enthusiast for Debussy’s music.Viñes was thirteen years
younger than Debussy and passionate about literature (Poe and Baudelaire were
two of his favorites). His first meeting with Debussy the previous November—to
go over Pour le piano prior to its performance—was one Viñes had looked forward
to for a long time. Although they never became close (privately Debussy criticized
his playing as “too dry”),Viñes was entrusted with the first performances of several
of Debussy’s most important piano compositions.17 In his journal, Viñes described
the success of Pour le piano as “phenomenal.”18 Audience response was enthusiastic,
but critics tended to focus on the superficial charm of the pieces.
Two days after the performance of Pour le piano, rehearsals began for Pelléas et
Mélisande. For the next three months Debussy was to devote much of his time to
preparing for the premiere. He began by coaching the singers and was pleased by
the one chosen for Mélisande—not Georgette Leblanc as Maeterlinck had expected,
but Mary Garden, a member of the Opéra-Comique ensemble for several years.
“Your ears would have to be plugged to resist the charm of her voice,” he wrote of
her. “For my part, I can not imagine a more smoothly insinuating timbre. It is as if
it were tyrannical in its effect, for it is impossible to forget.”19
Pelléas et Mélisande required extraordinary sensitivity from the singers, who had
to abandon the type of vocal and dramatic display characteristic of the operatic rep-
ertoire. Much has been made of the ability of those who created the roles, especially
Mary Garden, with the implication that she had been sought out and nurtured for
her part. But nothing could be farther from the truth. She had recently won praise
in the title role of Charpentier’s Louise. In the year following Pelléas, she was to be
equally successful in La Reine Fiammette by Xavier Leroux—a tale of love and
intrigue set in the Italian Renaissance—to a text by Catulle Mendès and in a
musical style resembling Massenet’s. She excelled in standard repertoire. That she

16.  Ibid., p. 209.

17.  Conversation of 17 December 1908 in Annie Joly-Segalen, and André Schaeffner, eds., Segalen
et Debussy (Monaco: Editions du Rocher, 1961), p. 107.
18.  Nina Gubisch, “Le Journal inédit de Ricardo Viñes,” Revue Internationale de Musique Française 1
(1980), p. 224.
19.  Letter of 8 July 1902 to André Messager in C, p. 674. Mary Garden’s memoirs (an “as-told-to”
variety written with Louis Biancolli and published in 1951) contain some colorful Debussy anec-
dotes and are unreliable. In addition to her fondness for the picturesque, starting in 1945 she began
to suffer from senile dementia.
74  •  debussy

was able to enter so successfully into the world of Pelléas et Mélisande was a tribute
to her skill and sensitivity. For Debussy, it was simply a stroke of good luck that she
was available.
Although the selection of Mary Garden turned out to be ideal, it made a bitter
enemy of Maeterlinck. He regarded it as a personal affront that Georgette Leblanc
had been passed over and refused to let it go unchallenged. On 7 February he
brought the matter before the Société d’auteurs dramatiques, claiming that his
rights as author had been violated. At no time, he claimed, had Debussy been given
free rein to stage the opera as he saw fit. But in a letter to him of 1895 Maeterlinck
had done just that.
In mid-February both Debussy and Maeterlinck met with the Société to present
their case. But, as it became clear that Debussy had conducted himself in a manner
entirely within his rights, Maeterlinck decided to drop the Société, and go to court.
To Debussy, his behavior was “little short of pathological.”20 But worse was yet to
come. On 13 April—about two weeks before the premiere—Maeterlinck wrote an
open letter to Le Figaro. He claimed that the performance of Pelléas et Mélisande did
not acknowledge his “most legitimate rights”—and he hoped that its failure would
be “prompt and resounding.”21
After waiting for years to bring Pelléas to the stage, Debussy now found himself
in the odd position of being publicly attacked by its author. At the same time he
needed to avoid being distracted by Maeterlinck’s malice and focus his attention on
rehearsals. For, despite its uncommon musical style, the amount of rehearsal devoted
to Pelléas et Mélisande was no more than usual for a new work. Debussy took full
advantage of it and became involved with many details of production, such as the
stage lighting. Fortunately, he was dealing with a conductor sympathetic to the
score and eager for its success. André Messager’s skill and dedication soon earned
Debussy’s esteem. “You knew how to bring the music of Pelléas to life with a tender
delicacy I dare not hope to find elsewhere,” he wrote him not long after the
premiere.22 The greatest challenge for Debussy during the weeks prior to the first
performance was, slow worker that he was, the hurried creation of additional music
to allow more time for changes of scene.
With Maeterlinck’s open opposition and the absence of influential friends to
support the production, Debussy remained apprehensive and concerned about
“possible manifestations on the part of Leblanc-Maeterlinck.”23 The public dress

20.  Letter of 27 January 1902 to René Peter in DL, p. 123.

21.  D, pp. 114, 115.
22.  Letter of 9 May 1902 to Messager in DL, p. 126.
23.  Letter of [28 April 1902] to Gabriel Mourey in C, p. 651.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  75

rehearsal on 28 April was tense, and starting in the second act there were complaints
about the preciosity of the setting and Garden’s foreign pronunciation (she was
Scottish). But the premiere two days later was better received. Response from critics
and the public was generally favorable. Present were a number of young supporters,
such as Emile Vuillermoz, who were outspoken in their praise. But even more con-
servative musicians, like Massenet and Fauré, acknowledged some of the work’s
qualities.
Pelléas was so different from the usual fare that Debussy’s concerns were under-
standable. For, despite the eagerness expressed in avant-garde musical circles for
change in French opera, few could have expected a response as radical as Debussy’s.
Vincent d’Indy, whose Fervaal was regarded by many as providing new direction for
French opera, was disconcerted by its success—but fair-handed in his reaction to it.
“M. Debussy is something like a Monteverdi to us,” he drily noted.24
There were more than a dozen performances of Pelléas. “Each evening,” wrote
Le Figaro, “it wins a new victory with the public, and it is applauded by the most
famous composers. It has been a long time since a dramatic work has been so pas-
sionately discussed as Pelléas. . . . Such a production will remain a date in the history
of dramatic music.”25 Its success provided Debussy with the recognition to broaden
his reputation. Henri Büsser, who directed the chorus and made his debut as a con-
ductor with the final performances of Pelléas, recalled visiting Debussy shortly after
the premiere: “His young wife wanders in and out, arranging the flowers I’ve
brought them in a vase.This little room we’re in, with oil paintings, watercolors and
drawings on the walls, radiates happiness. The delightful Lilly is its source. She’s
happy that Pelléas is being produced. ‘It’s my work too,’ she says, ‘because I gave
Claude encouragement when he was despairing of ever seeing his work reach the
stage!’”26
For Debussy, it was exhilarating, but exhausting as well. “I’m suffering fatigue to
the point of neurasthenia,” he confessed to Godet. “I can only think that the labor
and nervous strain of these last months have finally got the better of me.”27 As a
break, he visited London from 12 to 20 July, a short trip undertaken at the invitation
of Messager who was director at Covent Garden from 1901 to 1905. Debussy
enjoyed it. Mary Garden was also there and made her Covent Garden debut as
Manon that same month. Particularly memorable was a performance of Hamlet
Debussy attended at the Lyric Theater. Mary Garden went with him and was

24.  26 March 1904 in the Revue bleue quoted in D, p. 120. The allusion is to Monteverdi’s role as
the founder of opera.
25.  Issues of 21 May and 22 June 1902 quoted in ibid., p. 121.
26.  DR, p. 80.
27.  Letter of 13 June 1902 in DL, p. 128.
76  •  debussy

a­ stonished at the depth of his reaction: “He seemed like a child in a trance. So pro-
foundly was he affected that it was some time before he could speak. I have never
known anyone to lose himself so completely in the spectacle of great art.”28
Debussy made the trip without Lilly, and his letters to her provide glimpses into
their relationship. The courtship had been passionate. Marriage had become rou-
tine. Much of his attraction seemed to have been based on what he saw as her
child-like simplicity. That helps to explain the increasingly infantile manner he
adopted in writing to her—a pose so unlike him, that whatever novelty it may have
possessed could only have become tiresome. “I loved your lack of courage very
much,” he wrote while in England. “You see, it is very nice to be the strong little
wife, but there are times when the strong little wife must have her weaknesses.That
adds an extra charm to her graciousness. . . . Would you believe that it is impossible
to get a good cup of tea? That makes me think of my rue Cardinet and the dear
little wife, who, among other gifts, possesses that of making tea. Ah! in England
there are no such wives as that; here they are wives for horseguards with their com-
plexions of raw ham and their movements like those of a young animal.”29
When Debussy returned from England, Lilly was ill, and her doctor recom-
mended a change of air. They went to Bichain, not returning to Paris until
15 September. But despite the nearly two months of free time, Debussy accom-
plished little.There was some revision of La Damoiselle élue in preparation for a new
edition—yet another indication of his growing fame (the Baudelaire songs had also
been republished). And as a means of settling with Hartmann’s executor (who sold
the rights of many of Debussy’s pieces in July 1902 to another publisher), new edi-
tions appeared of early piano works like the Ballade, Mazurka, and Valse.The success
of Pelléas made them far more valuable.
The remaining months of 1902 were concerned not with composition but with
preparations for the return to the stage of Pelléas on 30 October. Debussy continued
to take an active role in the production. A primary concern was the need for a new
Pelléas ( Jean Périer, who had done well as its creator, was not on the roster at the
time). And the producers also decided to have a woman rather than a child assume
the role of Yniold, a change that worked out well.There was even some thought to
having Pelléas portrayed by a woman—as had actually been the case in the stage
performance Debussy had seen in 1893—but after consideration the idea was aban-
doned. In addition to Pelléas, that November the Faune was performed by Chevillard.
And in the following month, the Damoiselle was performed at the Colonne Concert
Series with Mary Garden. Both works provided an outlet for what had become
clamorous support for his music by a growing number of admirers.

28.  DR, p. 73.

29.  Letter of 16 July 1902 in D, pp. 122–123.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  77

Official recognition of Debussy’s stature came early in the new year and was a
complete surprise. He was named a chevalier of the Legion of Honor. Debussy
owed the honor to the efforts of a recent friend, the music theorist and historian
Louis Laloy. Laloy’s academic background was enough to make Debussy wary, but
they got along well. Their friendship had as its basis an insightful review of Pelléas
that Laloy had written. He had wide-ranging interests. Like Debussy, he was fasci-
nated by the Far East and later became a specialist in Chinese music.
Another new friend was the writer, Paul-Jean Toulet. Toulet was five years
younger than Debussy and a dedicated non-conformist (his daily routine was to go
to bed at seven in the morning, and breakfast in the mid-afternoon). Like Satie, he
had a great sense of the absurd. For years he sent droll postcards and letters to him-
self, a selection of which were published posthumously as Lettres à soi-même (1927).
Toulet worked as a journalist and at the time he met Debussy had published
little: one novel and a translation of Arthur Machen’s The Great God Pan, neither of
which had attracted notice. He was soon to publish Mon Amie Nane—a novella
about a woman of easy virtue—followed by the works that are the basis of his
growing reputation today: the novel La Jeune Fille verte and the collection of
poems Les Contrerimes. Despite being an accomplished stylist—rich, polished, and
­fanciful—Toulet was little known during his life, and Debussy’s admiration for him
is yet another indication of his discriminating taste.30
The project that drew Toulet and Debussy together was a proposed adaptation
of Shakespeare’s As You Like It, a favorite of Debussy. Initial stages of the collabora-
tion were interrupted by Toulet’s visit to Southeast Asia in 1902–1903 (the fascina-
tion with the Orient was an additional interest he shared with Debussy). But even
though it was announced in the press in 1903 as forthcoming—and in one instance
as finished—this was another of Debussy’s projects that never made much
progress.
Debussy’s fame led to a brief return to music criticism. For about four months
beginning in January 1903 he wrote reviews for Gil Blas and was treated more as a
celebrity. His writing continued to probe contemporary musical life, such as d’Indy’s
new opera, L’Etranger, and a rare performance of Wagner’s Ring in London. But
there was a subtle change in his stance. Debussy now seemed more nationalistic. He
became impassioned in his defense of French music of the past—especially that of
Rameau—and argued that for more than a century French taste had been cor-
rupted by foreign influences.

30.  Both of Debussy’s new friends were habitual users of opium. It may come as a surprise to those
who view Debussy’s music as a series of dreamy reveries that he strongly disapproved of their habit.
It led to a rare lecture, and a warning to Toulet about the “sinister drug . . . an imagination as finely
balanced as yours is just the sort to suffer from it most.” Letter of 28 August 1903 in DL, p. 138.
78  •  debussy

As his fame grew so did performances of his music, not just in Paris but
throughout France. In addition to orchestral compositions like the Faune and
Nocturnes, the piano pieces, songs, and string quartet were regularly performed.
Sometimes it seemed more like a sporting event than a concert, with youthful fans
chanting: “De-bus-sy!” On 21 April 1903 the Schola Cantorum—a music school
co-founded and directed by d’Indy and, although devoutly academic, a welcome
alternative to the Conservatoire—presented a program devoted solely to Debussy’s
music.That same year La Damoiselle élue was performed by La Concordia, the choral
group for which Debussy had been accompanist prior to winning the Prix de
Rome.
In May Lilly left once again to visit her parents in Bichain. But Debussy did not
follow until later. With all the trials of Pelléas et Mélisande now behind him, he was
ready once again to focus on composition—a major reason he decided to stop
writing for Gil Blas. First if not in prominence then in need of being completed
was a commission two-years old to write a rhapsody for saxophone; the money
received for it had long been spent. The project itself was a challenge. “The saxo-
phone is a reedy animal with whose habits I’m largely unfamiliar,” he wrote to
Louÿs. “Is it suited to the romantic sweetness of the clarinets or the rather vulgar
irony of the sarrusophone (or the contra-bassoon)? In the end I’ve got it murmur-
ing melancholy phrases against rolls on the side drum.”31
More significant was a series of twelve Images. In July Debussy had signed a
contract with Durand for two sets of six pieces, one for solo piano, and another (five
were eventually completed) for either two pianos or orchestra. For the solo piano
pieces, Debussy had already chosen titles. What would eventually become the
orchestral Images had also been given titles at this early stage, but “Ibéria,” “Gigue
triste,” and “Rondes” would change to “Gigues tristes,” Ibéria,” and “Valse” in May
1905 before assuming their final titles.
Debussy went to Bichain in mid-July and did not return to Paris until 1 October.
He and Lilly rented a house that had formerly been an inn. “Here we are far from
the empty noise of the big cities,” he wrote.32 Debussy enjoyed the countryside,
took frequent walks, and even considered buying land there.
The peace and quiet provided stimulus for work beyond the Images. Debussy
completed Estampes (Prints), a collection of three pieces for solo piano (“Pagodes”
[Pagodas], “La Soirée dans Grenade” [Evening in Grenada], “Jardins sous la pluie”
[Gardens in the Rain]). And he started work on an orchestral composition—not
the Images—but an equally ambitious concept which at this stage he described as

31.  Letter of [early August 1903] in ibid., p. 136.

32.  Letter of [14 July 1903] to Fromont in D, p. 128.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  79

“three symphonic sketches entitled: 1. ‘mer belle aux îles Sanguinaires’; 2. ‘jeu de
vagues’; 3. ‘le vent fait danser la mer’; the whole to be called La Mer.”33 Debussy
eventually decided on a different set of titles: “De l’aube à midi sur la mer” (From
Dawn to Noon on the Sea), “Jeux de vagues” (Play of Waves), and “Dialogue du
vent et de la mer” (Dialogue of Wind and Sea). He made substantial progress, and
the entire composition was written in a year and a half—a rushed pace for Debussy.
It was all an indication of how eager he was to return to composition after the
months of distraction with Pelléas.
He did not write much music for the remainder of the year, the most notable
work being D’un cahier d’esquisses (From a Book of Sketches), an intriguing, short
piece commissioned by a magazine and which passed with little notice. But there
truly was little time available for writing music. Pelléas returned to the Opéra-
Comique at the end of October (with Debussy’s usual involvement), and there
were two new contracts. For Durand, Debussy agreed to write an opera based on
Poe’s tale, “The Devil in the Belfry.” It was a curious choice—a little-known work,
not in Poe’s typical macabre style. Debussy intended to complete the work by May
1905, at which point he hoped it would be taken up by the Opéra-Comique.
The second contract (a provisional one) engaged Debussy to complete Chabrier’s
opera, Briséïs; Chabrier had been working on this for many years, but as his health
declined, he had been unable to complete it. Only one act was in a finished state.
For the remainder (on a text by Catulle Mendès and Ephraïm Mikhaël) there were
sketches. D’Indy, a good friend of Chabrier, had originally consented to complete
the score but had discovered that there simply was not enough to work with.
Although Debussy was fond of Chabrier’s music, the idea that he would continue
the project seemed odd. Briséïs may very well be Chabrier’s dramatic masterpiece—
but Debussy’s musical style is far removed from it. Perhaps, like d’Indy, Debussy
eventually came to the conclusion that Chabrier’s sketches were too meager. For
whatever reason, nothing came of the project.
In 1903 the number of performances of Debussy’s music continued to grow. That
November the Faune was given in both the Colonne and Lamoureux series. The
German premiere occurred the same month with Ferruccio Busoni conducting the
Berlin Philharmonic—the most notable indication that interest in Debussy was
moving beyond the borders of France. The following year saw performances of
Estampes (at the Société Nationale on 9 January and soon elsewhere), the Damoiselle,
the Faune, and the Nocturnes. As an additional mark of acceptance Debussy was
appointed to the jury that determined the winner of the composition prize spon-
sored by the city of Paris, the same competition he had considered entering in 1884.

33.  Letter of 12 September 1903 to Messager in DL, p. 141.

80  •  debussy

The income that was provided by his growing fame was welcome, but the pop-
ularity was not. Celebrity was a mixed blessing for Debussy and in many ways
unexpected. He wanted to retain some of his anonymity and all of his privacy—and
did not, for example, like being recognized in public. The irony of the situation
could not have escaped him. For years he had ridiculed composers like Massenet
and Charpentier when they were in fashion. Now he was in fashion, and, for one
who had always distrusted the approval of the masses, it must have been a bit
unsettling.
As Debussyism and Debussyists came into existence, he did what he could to
distance himself from them. The most disturbing indication of his popularity was a
series of articles entitled “Pelléastres” that appeared in January 1904 (published as a
book six years later). They were the work of Jean Lorrain, born Paul Alexandre
Martin Duval. Lorrain, who was seven years older than Debussy, was a popular
writer and critic. There were two sides to his literary skills. His novels—such as
Monsieur de Bougrelon (1897), and Le Vice errant (1902)—exemplified the decadent
style. But he was better known as a newspaper critic whose sharp and caustic com-
ments often bordered on defamation.
Lorrain’s criticism was intended to be provocative. “What gives meaning to my
existence,” he boasted, “is the knowledge that I am odious to so many people. It’s a
delicious pleasure.”34 His diatribes had led to duels, including one with Marcel
Proust in 1897. But notoriety sold papers, and Lorrain was the highest paid jour-
nalist of his day. Although still widely read, by 1904 his popularity was on the wane.
In Pelléastres he attacked those who admired Debussy, and by implication Debussy
himself. The articles described in detail the “snobs and poseurs” infatuated not just
with Debussy’s opera but with his music in general.35
Over the years Debussy had encountered a good deal of adverse criticism. His
usual response was to ignore it. But he took personal offense at what Lorrain had
written and asked Louÿs how best to respond. He was advised to do nothing—and
to hold any response, should it be needed, for important music critics. It was good
advice, but there was cause for Debussy’s anger. Lorrain’s Debussyists were thrill-
seekers, eager for sensation in any form—jaded, pretentious, superficial, and, in
some instances, depraved. Debussy (“the leader of a new religion”) was represented
as seeming to share their ideals.36 It was a mockery for him to be associated with
such a crowd and understandable that he felt a response was needed. But in the end

34. Thibaut D’Anthonay, Jean Lorrain (Paris: Plon, 1991), p. 55.

35.  Jean Lorrain, Pelléastres (Paris: Albert Mericant, [1910]), p. 25.
36.  Ibid.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  81

he followed Louÿs’s advice. He was being baited, and a reply would have only
drawn more attention to what Lorrain had written.
During the first half of 1904 Debussy worked neither on La Mer nor the Poe
opera, but on several short works. The Trois Chansons de France was the first set of
songs he had written in five years.The poets selected (Charles d’Orléans and Tristan
L’Hermite) dated from the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries, respectively, and
were an indication of regard for France’s heritage similar to that expressed by
Debussy in his criticism for Gil Blas. He also spent time on incidental music for a
proposed performance of King Lear, although little was actually completed.
There was a more successful outcome for two dances intended for jury
performance at the Brussels Conservatory. Written for the chromatic harp with
orchestral accompaniment, the Deux Danses are among Debussy’s most engaging
works and were completed in a short period of time. But their charm and serenity
are a reminder of how dangerous it is to interpret a composer’s life by his music. At
the time he was writing the Danses, Debussy’s personal life was in turmoil.
The source of the tumult was the dedicatee of the Trois Chansons de France:
Emma Bardac. She was the same age as Debussy, married to a banker, and “pretty
with auburn hair and topaz-colored eyes.” She possessed, according to her daughter,
“an incomparable charm, to which nobody could remain insensible.”37 There were
similarities to Marie Vasnier. Both were sophisticated, wealthy, and part of an elegant
society which appreciated the arts. And like Marie Vasnier, Emma Bardac was also a
singer. She had inspired Fauré’s collection of songs, La Bonne Chanson, and for a
time had been his mistress.
Debussy had known Emma casually for several years. She was an admirer of his
music, and it was probably as a result of her interest that her son, Raoul, had taken
some private lessons with Debussy. How their relationship became more intimate
is not clear. In the fall of 1903 Debussy made a point of giving her a dedicatory
copy of Estampes. They began to meet frequently during the first months of 1904.
As late as July everything still had an appearance of normality in the Debussy
household. Louis Laloy visited the Debussys for lunch: “I was their only guest, and
both laughing made me admire their faience plates that they had caused to crackle
in the frying pan in order to imitate the real stoneware.”38 On 15 July Lilly left for
Bichain. Debussy told her he would follow in about a month as he had the previous
year. But she could only have sensed something was wrong. “You mustn’t think
I got any pleasure out of putting you so deliberately on the train,” Debussy wrote
to her. “It was hard for me! Only, for reasons I’ll explain to you later, it had to be

37.  Dolly Bardac in DR, p. 200.

38.  D, p. 133.
82  •  debussy

done. . . . Also, I’ve got to find something new, otherwise my reputation will suffer;
for some time I’ve been worried because I’m revolving in the same old circle of
ideas. . . . Life has its dangerous turning-points and in my case they’re complicated
by the fact that I’m both an artist (what a business!) and your husband. Try to
understand me and not be resentful.”39
A few days later he wrote again to his “little Lilly-Lilo,” explaining that an artist
was a “deplorable husband,” but that “a perfect husband often produced a pitiful
artist. . . . It’s a vicious circle.You’ll say that in that case, one shouldn’t marry? How
can I reply to such a question, sincerely believing as I have, that I’d be able to make
you happy entrusting yourself to me!”40
Debussy seemed to be preparing Lilly for a separation, implying that the problem
was not with her, but with him—a composer whose “old liaison with Music” made
marriage impossible. But despite reservations he may have had about marriage in
general, at the root of the situation were specific problems that had developed
be­tween himself and Lilly. Debussy had married her attracted by her youth, beauty,
charm, and girlishness. It was her vulnerability—that she would be his “dear little
wife”—which had appealed to him. As with Gaby, it had never been intended that
she would be a “soul mate,” one with whom he would share his music.
The same traits that had served as the basis of his attraction became the root of
his discontent. He questioned her fragility and lack of support during difficult
times, occasions when he had had to “conjure up smiles” to keep things going. He
later told her that he had “often tried to put on a bold front against adversity, but a
word from you would shatter all.”41 And her natural fondness for domesticity—
their neat, little apartment and the routine of their married life—now seemed to be
precisely what he did not want. During their divorce proceedings, Debussy accused
her of maintaining a “daily tyranny over my thoughts,” proof of which he claimed
in the reduced number of compositions he had produced during their marriage.42
It seems that, more than anything else, Debussy felt stifled and oppressed by their
relationship. But he had no idea how to improve it or resolve his predicament. He
had never told Lilly how difficult living with her had become. And she knew
nothing of his relationship with Emma Bardac.
“Everything about me is instinctive, unreasoned,” Debussy once confided to a
friend. “I’m not at all master of myself. And then there are times I can do nothing—
when I’m before a wall, asking myself if I’m going to jump over it or not.”43 In this

39.  Letter of 16 July 1904 in DL, pp. 147, 148.

40.  Letter of 19 July 1904 in C, p. 853.
41.  Letter of 11 August 1904 in ibid., p. 195.
42.  LS, p. 189.
43.  Conversation of 8 October 1907 in Segalen et Debussy, p. 71.
 Divagations, 1900–1904  •  83

instance, Debussy took the leap. On 30 July he fled with Emma Bardac to Jersey.
They soon settled in Pourville, not far from Dieppe.
It was not until mid-August that Debussy wrote to Lilly. He began with a lie—
“This letter comes to you from Dieppe where I am staying for a few days prior to
leaving for London with J. E. Blanche”—and then he asked her forgiveness for
what would follow. He admitted that he should have spoken to her before leaving,
but that he had never found the right moment and “perhaps, lacked the courage.”
“I have the greatest possible affection for you,” he wrote,“and that only makes more
difficult what I must frankly say to you today. After these days spent far from you—
where for the first time I was able to think dispassionately about our life—I am
convinced that I have never made you as happy as I should have. . . . I also remember
those moments of irritation when you asked me to give you your freedom. . . . It is
clear that this letter will cause you pain; it has been painful for me to write it. . . . My
final request is to ask you to preserve the memory of what we had without mixing
into it the narrow and ridiculous opinions of people who have never known love
or devotion.”44
There is no mention in the letter of Emma Bardac, although it was foolish of
Debussy to think that she would remain unknown. Instead, he tried to give the
impression that his flight had been selfless and generous. Since he had never been
able to make Lilly happy, he would set her free. But no matter how unhappy Lilly
may have been, the main reason Debussy left her was because he was unhappy.With
Emma Bardac he seemed to find the happiness that was missing. He may have felt
that in writing a letter to Lilly which skirted the issues and avoided the truth he was
taking the first step to resolve their problems. All it did was make matters worse.
Debussy’s initial reaction to the separation was one of relief. By escaping to
Pourville with Emma, he had distanced himself from a problem which, he seemed
to think, would soon take care of itself. He wrote to Jacques Durand, telling him
not to let anyone know where he was. And he returned to composing in a coun-
tryside he described as “delightful; even better I am at peace here, and completely
free to work—which hasn’t happened to me in a long time.”45

44.  Letter of 11 August 1904 in C, pp. 861, 862.

45.  Letter of [between 31 July and 4 August 1907] in ibid., p. 859.
 l Chapter Six
;
Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to
change his bed. This one would prefer to suffer before the stove, and that
other thinks that he would recover by the window. It always seems to me that
I will be better where I am not, and that question of removal is one that
I discuss incessantly with my soul.
Baudelaire, “Anywhere Out of the World”
(1868; translation by Stuart Merrill [1890])

D ebussy seemed convinced that his separation from Lilly would be a

simple matter of obtaining a divorce. He never considered how friends
and associates might react to his affair with Emma Bardac, nor did he anticipate
Lilly’s response. In mid-September 1904 he interrupted his stay in Pourville
to meet Lilly in Paris. He no longer knew, he told her, “what to do or what to
think. . . . More than ever I need tranquility—to the point of wishing I were
dead, since, whatever I do, someone will certainly be harmed by it.”1 On
20 September he returned to Paris with Emma, apparently at least for a time
living by himself. Negotiations with Lilly became protracted and charged with
emotion. She made it clear that she did not want the divorce and pleaded with
Debussy to return. On four occasions she threatened to kill herself.
It could not, then, have come as a surprise when on 13 October she attempted
suicide. She was rushed to a hospital after having shot herself in the stomach—a
severe wound from which recovery was slow. Details of the incident—including
Debussy’s initial reaction to it—are not known. But many of his friends responded

1.  Letter to Lilly of 14 September 1904 in C, p. 864.

•  84  •
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  85

sympathetically to Lilly, some even offering to help pay her medical expenses.
Through it all she continued to hope that it would somehow work out, as late as
March 1905 proposing a reconciliation to Debussy.
For months, Debussy’s marital problems had remained a private affair, though
with repercussions in musical circles.Then on 4 November the press assured a wide
audience for his troubles:

The young wife of a distinguished musician—regarded as the leader of the new school and
whose recent work, performed at a national theater, was much applauded and discussed—
attempted suicide a few days ago.This young woman—whose dark beauty was well known
in artistic circles—abandoned herself to despair on learning of the infidelity of her husband.
Oppressed by her great sorrow, she tried to starve herself to death, refusing all nourishment.
Then she decided to hasten her end by means of a revolver. Wounded by two bullets, she
was taken to a clinic in the Rue Bizet. Her condition today is somewhat reassuring. But a
divorce is pending. Her husband did not reconsider his original stance, and the hoped-for
reconciliation did not take place. The musician in question will marry the young wife
(already divorced) of a financier and devotee of the arts equally well-known in Paris.2

There was little accuracy in the lurid report: Lilly was not brunette; there was a
single gunshot wound; she was not taken to a clinic in the rue Bizet, but one in the
rue Blomet, and Emma Bardac was neither young nor “already divorced” (her
divorce did not become effective until May 1905). Lilly’s hunger strike seemed real
enough, but Debussy privately dismissed it as an act. Everything about the article
was intended to be sensational. In early January Le Figaro erroneously reported that
Lilly had tried once again to take her life.
The press coverage turned Debussy’s divorce into full-fledged scandal.There was
enough to make it juicy gossip, with aspects touching both the artistic world and
high society. Debussy always came off poorly—the prominent composer coldly
abandoning his young and beautiful wife, ignoring her pleas and suffering, driving
her to suicide, and taking solace in the arms of a wealthy socialite. He could only
have been horrified at seeing his life become a public spectacle. But there was little
he could do about it.There was enough truth in the account for it to stand unchal-
lenged. And Debussy found the whole situation so distasteful that the last thing he
wanted was to become further enmeshed in it.
“The nightmare”—as Debussy called it—seemed to come to an end in July
1905: a court-sanctioned resolution that required him to pay monthly alimony of
400 francs.3 But the disastrous consequences lingered and continued to affect both

2.  From Le Temps. The New York Herald had a similar report. LS, p. 265.
3.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [8] August 1905 in DL, p. 154.
86  •  debussy

his personal and professional life for years. It created a decisive break with the
past—a break which, at least in part, he clearly wanted. But it blackened him in the
eyes of many people.
To some, Debussy’s liaison with Emma Bardac and abandonment of Lilly
provided confirmation of his character: “a dreamer, a sensualist, a voluptuary.”4
“People have said,” wrote Paul Dukas, “that he was heartless, an egoist, a trifler with
the feelings of others, and Heaven knows what else!”5
In his correspondence, Debussy gave two reasons for leaving Lilly: their incom-
patibility, and his conviction that his creativity was stifled while living with her. But
few were aware of his view of the situation. And there were always those who
seemed unwilling to accept any explanation, who were convinced that Debussy
was a “trifler” and that Lilly was his innocent victim. Adding to it all was the wealth
of Emma Bardac’s family. One of her uncles was enormously rich. Debussy’s rela-
tionship with her was seen as merely a ploy to marry money. But when the uncle
died in February 1907, most of his wealth was left to charity.6
Debussy was aware of all the charges and insinuations—and was hurt by them,
particularly when their source was those whom he had believed were his friends.
The most steadfast in their support were Louis Laloy and Jacques Durand, but there
were many defections. Debussy became unusually sensitive, seeing snubs where none
were intended—as when on one occasion he wrote to a friend who in public had
failed to greet him, asking if it had been intentional. To Laloy he unburdened him-
self: “I have seen desertions taking place around me . . . ! Enough to be disgusted
forever with anything associated with the human race. . . . I will not recount what has
taken place: it is shabby, tragic and sometimes bears an ironic resemblance to cheap
novels. . . . In the end, it has caused me a great deal of pain.Was there some forgotten
debt to life I had to pay? I do not know.”7
Although Debussy was aware of the depth of the animosity toward him, he was
surprised by it and seemed unaware that there might be some justification for it.
While it would have been senseless for him to remain in a marriage he felt was
preventing him from writing music, he had acted egotistically and precipitately—
which was completely in character—and had given little thought to what might be
the consequences. His reaction to the incident was also completely in character: “It
seems I’m not permitted to have a divorce, like anyone else,” he told Durand.8

4.  Jacques-Emile Blanche in DR, p. 109.

5.  Ibid., p. 98.
6.  Emma was not, as had been assumed, disinherited because of disapproval of her association with
Debussy. See LS, p. 281.
7.  Letter of 14 April 1905 in C, p. 900–901.
8.  Letter of [31? October 1904] in ibid., pp. 872.
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  87

A decade earlier his divorce and affair might have passed without comment. But
now that he had become a celebrity, it was certain to attract attention.
Since by society’s standards the circumstances were unfavorable to Debussy, it
was not easy to defend him. Among his oldest friends, Satie continued his visits. But
not Louÿs. He came out strongly in support of Lilly. Writing to his brother about
the incident, he began by referring to “poor Mme Debussy” who had been “aban-
doned by her husband,” and expressed his willingness to have her stay at his home
during her convalescence.9 Over the years he and Debussy had drifted apart. They
saw one another with less frequency, and there was no longer the rapport they had
once had. In the summer of 1903, Debussy had removed a dedication to Louÿs from
the second of the Estampes. During this time Louÿs was entering a stage in his life
which would lead to tragedy—dependency on cocaine and alcohol, followed by
physical ills and increasing poverty.
The loss of friends made Debussy bitter and heightened his willingness to dis-
tance himself from others. He had never been easy to approach or to know. But
after his divorce he became even more remote. This side of him—described vari-
ously as a “show of paradox and often sarcastic and unkind irony” and “ill-restrained
wrath and irony”—became well known and gave him the reputation of being can-
tankerous.10 According to Emile Vuillermoz, “Debussy lived in a kind of haughty
misanthropy, behind a rampart of irony, protecting himself fiercely from bores and
fools. A triple, barbed ring of defensive paradoxes, biting persiflage and acute
mockery kept intruders at a distance.”11
But the misanthropy was not merely intended to ward off “intruders.” It was a
barrier, and a test for those whom he might eventually consider for friendship.
It had the unfortunate effect of preventing him from knowing some people whom
he might have liked: when the young, Hungarian composer, Zoltan Kodály, wanted
to meet Debussy in 1909, acquaintances assured him it was a waste of time because
he was so unapproachable. But there were at least a few who saw Debussy’s behavior
for what it was, “an almost incredible shyness which he disguised under a show of
paradox and often sarcastic and unkind irony.”12
The notoriety now associated with Debussy did not hamper his professional
reputation. But it was to his advantage that during these years the concert scene in
Paris was expanding. New series were being formed, including one sponsored by
Jacques Durand. And discontent with what was perceived as the insularity of the

9.  LS, p. 265. It was, incidentally, an odd stance for Louÿs to adopt. For years he had been having
an affair with his wife’s sister (married to Henri de Régnier).
10.  Reminiscences of Alfredo Casella and Georges Jean-Aubry in DR, pp. 97, 121.
11.  Ibid., p. 95.
12.  Alfredo Casella in ibid., p. 97.
88  •  debussy

Société Nationale led in 1910 to the creation of the Société Musicale Indépendente
(SMI). Gabriel Fauré served as president with the participation of a number of
young composers, including Ravel,Vuillermoz, Florent Schmitt, and André Caplet.
Performances of Debussy’s piano pieces and songs continued unabated. And the
String Quartet—which had become especially popular—was heard regularly. In
February 1905 there were premieres of two new piano pieces (Masques and L’Isle
joyeuse), as well as a major orchestral work eight months later: La Mer. In April
Pelléas et Mélisande reappeared at the Opéra-Comique in what was now a regular
occurrence. Even the bastions of the Conservatoire were stormed with a performance
of the Faune in December. As an indication of his prominence, in July Debussy
signed an exclusive contract with Jacques Durand, an association similar to the one
he had had with Hartmann. Debussy received 25,000 francs for the orchestral score
of Pelléas, and advances and loans regularly. He and Durand also became good
friends, and their correspondence provides many details of Debussy’s life during
these years.
The amount Durand paid for Pelléas was a smart investment. It continued to
become increasingly better known, and there were gradually performances outside
of France: Brussels and Frankfurt in 1907, and Cologne, Munich, Prague, Berlin,
Milan, and New York in 1908. Rome and London staged Pelléas in the following
year. Reaction was mixed—lukewarm at best in Germany, and hostile in Italy. But
the performances in Brussels and London were enthusiastically received. In both
latter instances Debussy went to supervise some of the rehearsals, and, in what was
to become his usual reaction, was critical of what he found. In Brussels he con-
demned the singers and orchestra “whose Flemishness is about as flexible as a 100
kg. weight . . . the woodwind thick and noisy, the brass, on the other hand, stuffed
with cotton wool. . . .  Added to which they have a disconcerting gift for mangling
the simplest rhythm. . . . In short, a constant and utterly exhausting struggle to arrive
at something tolerable.”13 In London he complained that he had “to take on the
role of electrician, stage-hand—God knows how it will end! . . . They want to do in
a week what would require a month’s work. . . . I’ve done all that I can and my
artistic conscience will be clear.”14
As his fame grew, Debussy found he was even welcomed by musical offi-
cialdom. In a surprising move in February 1909 he accepted a position on the
Conseil Supérieur at the Conservatoire, his reputation as an iconoclast being
secure enough for the appointment to be noted with astonishment by Le Figaro.
But the Conservatoire, now under the direction of Fauré, was making an
attempt at modernization—so the overture to Debussy made sense. He found the

13.  Letter to Louis Laloy of 23 January 1907 in DL, pp. 176–177.

14.  Letter to Durand of 18 May 1909 in C, p. 1179.
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  89

Conservatoire to be “the same gloomy, dirty place” of his youth “where the dust
of unhealthy traditions still sticks to the fingers.”15 But he did discover some
compensation in the juries he attended, with some fine woodwind players, and,
in Guiomar Novaes, a young pianist of distinction. His association also led to the
composition of several pieces for the juries.
The increasing number of performances of his work fed the growth of
Debussyism. The critic Camille Mauclair was unusual in noting that Debussy was
actually “an isolated figure . . . the exact opposite of the leader of a school of compo-
sition.”16 Most critics were eager to associate him with the work of a large number
of younger composers, from Florent Schmitt to Déodat de Séverac. It seemed to
make no difference to them that their musical styles differed widely.
No composer suffered more from this than Maurice Ravel. In time, both he and
Debussy were generally perceived as the embodiment of Impressionism in music,
much as Haydn and Mozart have been paired with eighteenth-century Classicism.
The label has done a great deal to blind many to the substantial differences in their
music.
Debussy and Ravel knew one another and had mixed reactions to each other’s
work. Ravel was fifteen years younger and had long admired Debussy’s music. He
prepared at Debussy’s direction a piano reduction of the third movement of the
Nocturnes. And his enthusiasm for Pelléas led him to attend all fourteen perfor-
mances of its first run. Debussy was aware of Ravel’s accomplishments. Several of
Ravel’s most characteristic works date from early in their association: Jeux d’eau was
composed in 1901, and the String Quartet followed two years later.
The first indication of friction between them occurred in April 1907 when
Pierre Lalo published a letter which Ravel had written to him in the previous year.
In it Ravel took offense at supposed innovations in Debussy’s manner of writing for
the piano—noting that they had first appeared in Jeux d’eau. Lalo was by this time
no supporter of Debussy, and his publication of the letter was obviously intended
to stir up trouble. Debussy was annoyed by the remarks, and in private became
increasingly critical of Ravel’s music: he described the Histoires naturelles as “artificial
and chimerical,” while conceding that “Le Cygne” was “very pretty music.”17
But what really seemed to anger Debussy was Ravel’s assertion that Debussy had
actually stolen from him, placing in “La Soirée dans Grenade” (one of the piano
Estampes) a device for the pedal first used in Ravel’s “Habanera.” The accusation in
no way hampered Ravel’s continued admiration for much of Debussy’s music. But
Debussy became increasingly disparaging. Ravel, he concluded, was “extraordinarily

15.  Letter to Caplet of 25 November 1909 in DL, p. 216.

16.  Camille Mauclair, La Religion de la musique (Paris: Fischbacher, 1924), p. 268. Written in 1908.
17.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 25 February 1907 in DL, 177.
90  •  debussy

gifted, but what annoys me is the attitude he adopts of being a ’conjuror,’ or rather
a Fakir casting spells and making flowers burst out of chairs.”18 When he heard
Ravel perform his Valses nobles et sentimentales, Debussy concluded that “a good deal
more can be done with that music!”19
In keeping with the growing international scope of his fame, the first biography
of Debussy was published in 1908 in London by Louise Liebich. The first French
biography (written by Laloy) appeared a year later. Both books were brief and
included little biographical information. Each was intended more as an apprecia-
tion of Debussy’s musical style than an in-depth study of his work.
Laloy’s book was followed in 1910 by a pamphlet, The Case of Debussy. It contained
an article, “M. Claude Debussy et le snobisme contemporain” by Raphaël Cor
(published the previous year in the Revue du temps présent), and the results of a ques-
tionnaire about Debussy sent to 100 notables (of whom twenty-nine responded).
The booklet was largely unflattering, and the article was highly critical, condemn-
ing both Debussy’s music and its influence on musical taste. Should anyone at the
time have felt smug about Debussy’s stature, the pamphlet was confirmation that
there remained a contingent adamantly opposed to him. Perplexed by his newest
works (especially La Mer), some critics who had praised Debussy’s earlier work—
Pierre Lalo, for example—now became hostile. Convinced that Debussy was leading
an entire generation down the wrong path, they were eager to present other French
composers as alternatives.
The music of d’Indy was frequently put forth as an antidote. D’Indy held a
prominent position in French musical life, both as teacher and composer. His
compositions—such as the Second Symphony, op. 57 (1903)—had a strong fol-
lowing and drew on precisely the type of tradition Debussy shunned. But it was
simplistic to regard d’Indy and Debussy as being on opposite sides of the fence.
D’Indy was not necessarily the traditionalist and conservative that some por-
trayed him as being. In works such as the Jour d’été à la montagne, op. 61 (1905),
there are, beyond the “impressionistic” program of the music itself, occasional
harmonies as provocative as any by Debussy, and an inventive and subtle
handling of the orchestra.
The situation was further complicated by d’Indy’s admiration for some of
Debussy’s music. In frequent demand as a guest conductor, d’Indy made a point of
performing Debussy’s works, including the Faune in Russia and the Nocturnes in
both Italy and the United States. He also came out in support of Pelléas. But starting
in 1905 criticism of d’Indy’s music from ardent Debussyists such as Vuillermoz set
the stage for warfare between the two camps.

18.  Letter to Louis Laloy of 8 March 1907 in ibid., p. 178.

19.  Reminiscences of Casella in DR, p. 97.
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  91

Privately, both Debussy and d’Indy could be critical of one another. Debussy felt
that the Schola Cantorum (which d’Indy directed) was rigidly dogmatic, and sev-
eral times he commented on “the mediocrities who run it.”20 But neither d’Indy
nor Debussy gave public support to their partisans. The differences between both
their compositions and their musical aesthetic were obvious. But in his occasional
forays into music criticism Debussy made a point of being fair-handed in his eval-
uation of d’Indy and unusually generous in his praise. Each respected the another
despite reservations about the music. “I love and admire you because of your art,”
d’Indy once wrote to Debussy—and while the warmth of feeling was never shared
by Debussy, he supported d’Indy’s artistic integrity.21
In addition to d’Indy, at about this time Paul Dukas was put forth as a rival to
Debussy. Dukas did not compose a great deal, and his previous works—such as the
Symphony (1896) and The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (1897)—presented few of the mod-
ernistic traits of Debussy’s music. But the moderate success of his opera Ariane et
Barbe-bleue (1907) increased his standing. Both it and the piano Variations (1903)
were presented by critics as preferable to the “debaucheries” and “exquisite seduc-
tions of the Debussyists.”22 He and Debussy had long been friends, but their rela-
tionship had taken a turn for the worse following Debussy’s divorce. By the time of
Ariane, they had become amicable once again, but in private Debussy was critical of
Dukas’s opera and irritated by the attempt to present it as superior to his own work.
Fortunately, as had been the case with d’Indy, neither Dukas nor Debussy permitted
himself to be drawn into a public debate.
Debussy’s detachment from musical politics was characteristic. He showed little
interest in politics in general. The major political events of his day—the rise of
Boulangerism in France in the late 1880s, the extraordinary scandals associated with
the attempt to build the Panama Canal in the 1890s, the confrontation with Germany
in Morocco in 1905—all passed without comment. As for the Dreyfus case, indica-
tions are that he was pro-Dreyfus. In January 1899 he signed a manifesto (published
in Le Temps) calling for moderation in the affair. And the Revue blanche, for which he
had been music critic, was avowedly a Dreyfus supporter.What is clear is that he did
not share the opinion of adamant anti-Dreyfusards like d’Indy and Louÿs.
Attacks on Debussy’s music and the promotion of d’Indy and Dukas did nothing
to stem the tide of Debussyism. But despite Debussy’s aversion to the entire con-
cept (and loathing of the supposed existence of a “Debussy School”), the advantage
to it lay in the opportunity it presented for him to come into more frequent contact

20.  Nina Gubisch, “Le Journal inédit de Ricardo Viñes,” Revue Internationale de Musique Française 1
(1980), p. 193.
21.  Léon Vallas, Vincent d’Indy. La Maturité, La Vieillesse (1886–1931) (Paris: Albin Michel, 1950), p. 321.
22.  Jean Huré in the Monde musical of 15 March 1907 quoted in LS, p. 301.
92  •  debussy

with young composers. Once the preliminaries were over, Debussy could be kindly
and helpful. To both Edgard Varèse and Manuel de Falla, Debussy offered advice,
encouragement, and even recommendations to publishers. He was, wrote Varèse, “a
man of great kindness, intelligence, fastidiousness, and wide culture. . . . He was in his
middle forties when I first knew him, I in my early twenties, but he treated me
simply as a colleague without the least condescension.”23
One young composer with whom Debussy became particularly close was André
Caplet. In many ways Caplet—both a conductor and a Prix de Rome winner in
1901—became his amanuensis. They first met in October 1907, and Debussy soon
developed a high regard for him. Caplet shared with Debussy an interest in litera-
ture, especially Poe. A  nd he became helpful in a number of ways. A
  s a conductor, he
was able to promote Debussy’s music. But he also did not turn away from more
routine tasks, such as in the summer of 1909 helping correct the proofs for Rondes
de printemps, one of the orchestral Images.
Debussy also became friendly during these years with the young writer, Victor
Segalen. Segalen had long been an admirer of Debussy’s music when, in 1906, he
took the decisive step of knocking on his door. His purpose was to approach
Debussy about collaborating on an opera, Siddartha, based on the life of Buddha.
The idea appealed to Debussy, and rather than turning his back on the offer of an
unknown author, he considered the concept. It eventually led to work on an opera
based not on Buddha, but on the legend of Orpheus. Debussy went through
Segalen’s text in detail in 1908, but despite his fascination with it, he never wrote
any music for it.
As Debussy’s fame increased it led to increased demand for his music and count-
less imitations.Vuillermoz warned that if Debussy did not “decisively retake” lead-
ership of contemporary music, he would discover that “the entire young, parasitic
generation which has grown around his work [would produce] music à la
Debussy . . . better than himself!”24 Vuillermoz was also irritated by old works of
Debussy which were now presented in new garb—such as Debussy’s orchestration
of “Jet d’eau” from the Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire. It is obvious that Debussy was
doing all he could to use as many of his earlier compositions as possible. In 1907 he
worked on L’Enfant prodigue for a new edition. That same year saw the first
performance of Henri Büsser’s orchestration of the Petite Suite.
Part of the problem was that during the four years following his break with Lilly,
Debussy actually composed little. It comes as no surprise that he found it hard to
write music during the stressful time of the divorce. “I feel nostalgia,” he confessed

23.  Louise Varèse, Varèse. A Looking-Glass Diary (New York: Norton, 1972), p. 45.
24.  Review of 3 March 1907 in LS, p. 289.
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  93

to Messager, “for the Claude Debussy who worked so enthusiastically on Pelléas—

between ourselves, I’ve not found him since.”25 But during those first months
Debussy still managed to complete a fair amount of music for La Mer.The compar-
atively dry period followed. In 1905 he finished the first three Images for piano.
In the summer of 1906 he worked on Ibéria from the orchestral Images, but, as he
admitted to Durand, he continued “to wallow in the midst of Nothingness.”26 The
following year was more fruitful with the completion of the remaining Images for
piano, and some work on the Rondes for the orchestral Images. But in 1908 the small
set of piano pieces, Children’s Corner, was the most sizable work he composed. In
addition there was his usual involvement with projects, all of which were abortive,
including the projected opera with Segalen on Orpheus and one with Gabriel
Mourey on the Tristan legend.
With the continued success of Pelléas, Debussy’s interest in operatic projects
never faltered. Despite his involvement with Segalen and Mourey, in the summer
of 1908 he began work on another opera, an adaptation of Poe’s tale, “The Fall of
the House of Usher”—a project that would occupy him off and on for the rest
of his life. He even signed a contract with the Metropolitan Opera House in New
York, granting them first performance rights (as part of a double bill with The
Devil in the Belfry). But despite his assurance to Durand that he was “working like
a factory,” there was not a great deal of music to show for it.27 These were obvi-
ously not the times of plenty that he had hoped would result from his separation
from Lilly.
In December 1908 the short scores for both Ibéria and Rondes de printemps were
finally completed.That for Gigues followed the next month—and with it the arduous
task of creating the orchestral Images neared completion. In December 1909 he began
work on a rhapsody for clarinet as part of the jury evaluation at the Conservatoire.
And that same month saw the beginning of work on the first book of Préludes (a set
of twelve) for piano, the set being rapidly completed in January 1910. A collection of
songs, the Trois Ballades de François Villon, followed four months later.
But even with the promotion of student compositions like L’Enfant prodigue,
Debussy was unable to keep pace with his living expenses. Since his separation
from Lilly, he had been living well above his means. He and Emma (including for
their first six years together, her daughter Dolly) settled in an aristocratic neigh-
borhood near the Bois de Boulogne. It was a good home for entertaining: elegant
and fashionable. Regular visitors included Laloy and Caplet. Satie came frequently
for lunch, Toulet for dinner on Thursday. There was a room set aside for Debussy’s

25.  Letter of 19 September 1904 in DL, p. 149.

26.  Letter of 18 April 1906 in C, p. 951.
27.  Letter of 17 July 1907 in DL, p. 180.
94  •  debussy

work located on the ground floor “with spacious bay windows which flooded it
with light.”28

His study, the “sacred room of the house,” was typical of its master. It was not a large or
cluttered room, such as one is accustomed to associate with a busy composer. Everything
in it was carefully selected and refined. In spite of the fact that he was a man of wide
reading, the books in his study did not number more than a hundred or so, and these were
only authors that Debussy had chosen as his particular favorites—Rossetti, Maeterlinck,
François Villon in an old edition, Mallarmé. There was a small upright piano, in one
corner between the light high windows, a desk on which there were several small carved
wooden animals, a bowl of beautiful goldfish. The colors of the room were subdued, the
furnishings practical. Only a few precious prints and watercolors adorned the walls.29

His work table was always in order, with pens ready for use. Prominently in place
was a wooden statue of a toad Debussy had named Arkel (after the character in
Pelléas), and which was regarded as a good-luck charm. There was also a profusion
of cut flowers, even during the winter.
The study looked out on what Debussy liked most about his new home: the
garden. He had designed it and did some work in it. It was a constant source of
inspiration. “On fine days, he walked along a garden path and noted down his
musical ideas in a little red leather notebook which never left his pocket.”30 “I can
look into my garden,” he once told a newspaper interviewer, “and find there every-
thing that I want.”31
With the exception of 1908 and 1909 (when there was not enough money),
Debussy and Emma took vacation trips each summer. These were in many ways
essential for him. He needed the change of scene—just as he had welcomed the
summer trips to Burgundy while married to Lilly. In 1909 he noted that staying in
Paris for the summer necessitated adapting to the noise of “the suburban railway”
near his home. His quip—“one doesn’t need to hear the song of the nightingale—
the song of the trains is much more in tune with modern artistic preoccupations”—
shows what he missed.32 In July 1905 he and Emma visited Eastbourne, and briefly
London. Eastbourne (which he described as a “charming, peaceful spot”) he
enjoyed, but London he found to be “rather dreary.”33 Most of August 1906 they

28.  E. Robert Schmitz in DR, p. 194.

29.  Ibid., p. 168.
30.  Dolly Bardac in ibid., p. 199.
31.  Interview of 16 May 1909 in David Grayson,“Claude Debussy Addresses the English-Speaking
World: Two Interviews, an Article, and The Blessed Damozel,” Cahiers Debussy 16 (1992), p. 24.
32.  Letter to Jean-Aubry of 9 September 1909 in DL, p. 214.
33.  Letters to Durand of 26 July 1905 and to Laloy of 13 September 1905 in ibid., pp. 153, 160.
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  95

spent near Dieppe, and August 1907 in Pourville. As always, Debussy loved being
near the sea, but he hated the hotel they stayed in and described Pourville as “apart
from the sea . . . an odious place where the people are slightly more ridiculous than
elsewhere. My strongest desire is to escape as soon as possible.”34 It was impossible
for him to write any music.
Debussy’s vacations were intended to provide both a relaxing change of scene
and inspiration. Those in 1906 and 1907 failed to provide the stimulus he had
hoped for. But at least life at home seemed more agreeable.There were indications
of his attachment to Emma, who, unlike Lilly, became associated with several of his
works. His term of endearment for her was “chère petite mienne” (my own little
dear), often abbreviated “p.m.” It found its way into the completed draft of La Mer
(5 March 1905): “for my own little dear whose eyes laugh in the shadows.”35 For
Fêtes galantes he asked Durand to include a “slightly mysterious” dedication: “In
gratitude for the month of June 1904, followed by the letters, A.l.p.M.”36 The
letters were an abbreviation for “à la petite mienne,” the date a reference to their
declaration of love.
Debussy also gave Emma little piano pieces as gifts on her birthday and Christmas
(including one with a humorous commentary on its seventh and ninth chords).
But what provided the strongest of bonds to their relationship was the birth on
30 October 1905 of a daughter, Claude-Emma. She was soon nicknamed Chouchou
(Darling), and Debussy’s attachment to her and enchantment with her could not
have been greater. Fatherhood added a new dimension to his life. “Let me wish you
happiness on the birth of your little daughter,” Debussy wrote to Varèse. “You will
see how much more beautiful this is than a symphony and that the caress of a child
of one’s own is better than glory.”37
But despite his joy at being a father, Debussy’s reservations concerning marriage
persisted.“Calm does not inhabit my soul,” he wrote to Laloy in the autumn of 1907.
“Is it the fault of the feverish landscape in this part of Paris . . . ? Is it because I am
definitely not made for domestic life?”38 There is no more substantial proof of
this  ambivalence than his reluctance to marry again. Debussy and Emma had
been living together for nearly three and a half years before they were married on
20 January 1908. More than six years later Debussy reiterated his conviction that—
despite the love he had for his family—“an artist needs to be as free as possible

34.  Letter to Victor Segalen of 26 August 1907 in ibid., p. 183.

35.  D, p. 137.
36.  Letter of [between 31 July and 4 August 1904] in C, p. 859.
37.  Letter of [23 October 1910] in Varèse, Diary, p. 91.
38.  Letter of 15 October 1907 in C, p. 1036.
96  •  debussy

in life.”39 He feared domestication. And judging from a formal portrait of himself

and Emma taken in 1912 in which Debussy appears as an uneasy embodiment of
bourgeois contentment, there was justification for his concern.
Adding to Debussy’s apprehension was the cost of maintaining “domestic life.”
He was earning far more money now than he had in the past—both because of
more performances and because of his association with Durand. At a time when 90
percent of the population in France earned less than 2,500 francs per year, he
received 25,000 francs for the orchestral score of Pelléas alone.
In 1906 in Paris a member of the middle class earned from 4,000 to 5,000 francs
per year. A doctor earned 14,000.40 But Debussy discovered that it was necessary to
earn far more to maintain the type of household—including servants—associated
with his new lifestyle. His annual rent was 8,000 francs. Servants cost an additional
2,000. With food, clothing, and miscellaneous expenses, he would probably have
needed at least 20,000 francs yearly.41 Despite substantial advances from Durand, he
was consistently short.
From 1907 to 1914, Debussy received on average about 16,000 francs per year
from Durand. His average deficit during these years exceeded 28,000 francs—and
at his death he owed Durand more than 66,000 francs.42 Some additional income
was provided by Emma who had inherited a 5,000-franc annuity from her uncle,
Daniel Osiris. But maintaining a sufficient income became a losing battle to
Debussy. “Whatever ingenious plans I invent,” he wrote to Durand, “I always end
up 3,000 francs short, and even by selling my soul to the devil I don’t know where
I shall find them.”43 In 1912 Debussy asked Laloy if he knew anyone willing to lend
him 20,000 francs as quickly as possible. He was even willing to pay 5,000 or 6,000
francs interest on the loan.
It has generally been assumed that Debussy’s predicament was his own fault—
that it was “his craving for luxury and his extravagance” that led to the need for
more money.44 But although Debussy was the first to admit that he managed money
poorly, the life that he was leading with Emma was one that she had always had and
expected to continue. Debussy obviously enjoyed aspects of this new ­lifestyle. But

39.  François Lesure, “Une Interview romaine de Debussy (février 1914),” Cahiers Debussy 11
(1987), p. 7.
40.  Jacques Chastenet, Histoire de la Troisième République. Jours inquiets et jours sanglantes. 1906–1918
(Paris: Hachette, 1955), pp. 157–158.
41.  Christophe Charle,“Debussy in Fin-de-Siècle Paris,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 287.
42.  Ibid., pp. 288, 289.
43.  Letter of 19 July 1911 in DL, p. 244.
44.  Léon Vallas, Claude Debussy. His Life and Works (Oxford: Oxford, 1933), p. 242.
 Notoriety and Respectability, 1904–1910  •  97

the costs of maintaining it became a frightful burden for him, and, more than once,
he considered moving elsewhere to save money.
The need for more money was the primary reason Debussy decided to start
conducting his own music. Earlier in his career he had shown little interest in it,
turning down the chance to conduct La Damoiselle élue for Colonne in December
1902, and an offer in August 1906 from the London Philharmonic. But conducting
paid well, and on 12 January 1908 Debussy made his debut with La Mer. It was
because of the challenges it presented that he received the offer. Colonne had been
scheduled, but rehearsals had gone poorly and Debussy was cautiously approached.
Chevillard had also had problems with the score for the premiere in 1905, resulting
in a performance barely satisfactory.“The man should have been a wild beast tamer,”
Debussy concluded. “There is clearly so little of the artist in him.”45
La Mer is filled with challenge for a conductor, and Debussy was nervous about
accepting the offer. But despite his “furiously beating heart,” rehearsals went well.
“It’s the first time I’ve tried my hand at orchestral conducting,” he commented,
“and certainly I bring to the task a candid inexperience which ought to disarm
those curious beasts called ‘orchestral musicians.’”46 Audience response was enthu-
siastic—not because of his conducting skills but because of the opportunity it pre-
sented to pay homage to the composer. Debussy was called back on stage nearly a
dozen times to clamorous applause. But the incident did not lead to a swelled head.
“It is entertaining to search for orchestral color by means of a little baton,” he con-
cluded, “but it resembles an exhibition—and the success awaiting you isn’t all that
different from an illusionist, or an acrobat who has completed a dangerous leap.”47
The following month Debussy conducted La Mer and the Faune in London for
a high fee. In February 1909 there was a return engagement, this time for the Faune
and the Nocturnes. Thus far fortune had favored him. In London the orchestra had
even rehearsed the pieces prior to his arrival. But during the performance of “Fêtes”
he made a mistake during a tempo change, and tried to get the orchestra to stop. It
did not—and the performance continued without a hitch.
Debussy never wanted to conduct and never enjoyed it. “I am ill before, during
and after!” he admitted.48 Nerves were obviously a factor, but there was no sign of
them on stage. He appeared calm and collected—if anything, too much so. It soon
became evident to musicians that his conducting skills were limited and that he was
content—like many composers before and since—to go through the paces, though
at times it must have felt like walking through a minefield.

45.  Letter to Durand of 10 October 1905 in C, p. 925.

46.  Letter to Segalen of 15 January 1908 in DL, p. 186.
47.  Letter to Paul-Jean Toulet of 22 January 1908 in C, p. 1061.
48.  Reminiscences of Casella in DR, p. 96.
98  •  debussy

What bothered Debussy more than the conducting itself was the time it con-
sumed. Conducting and writing music criticism were both activities that took him
away from what he wanted to do: write music. But in the end, it made little
difference how successful his compositions were. Composing simply did not bring
in enough money to maintain the fashionable lifestyle he had adopted. He had
assumed that with success his life would become both more productive and more
manageable. Instead the need for additional income was as much of a burden as it
had ever been. At times he longed for the old days: “for the Claude Debussy who
worked so enthusiastically on Pelléas”—a time when life seemed less complicated,
and when achieving a measure of recognition seemed to be the solution to all of
his problems.
 l C h a p t e r se v e n
;
The Final Years, 1910–1918

The higher civilization rises, the more vile man becomes.

General Karl von Einem, Commander, German
Third Army, April 1915

D ebussy turned fifty in 1912—the same year in which the one

hundredth performance of Pelléas was celebrated. A decade had passed since
its premiere, and during those years his fame had continued to grow. But he now
seemed more driven than ever, not because of ambition unsatisfied, but because of
growing debt. As it mounted, he desperately asked for 6,000 francs from Durand.“It
hasn’t been a question of ‘advances’ between us for a long time!” he admitted. “But
I no longer know what to do.”1
It was the lack of money that led to his eagerness to take on more substantial—
and better paying—projects. In September 1910 Debussy was asked to compose
music for an unusual ballet. Khamma had a fanciful Egyptian scenario and was being
commissioned by Maud Allan, a dancer who (like Loïe Fuller and Isadora Duncan)
was known for her provocative performances. The commission, Debussy confessed,
had been accepted for “reasons of domestic economy.”2 He would soon discover
that this was one project it would have been better to avoid.
Maud Allan (1873–1956), a Canadian who had settled in San Francisco, was
gifted musically, but not until in her early twenties did she decide to try music as a
profession. In 1895 she traveled to Berlin to study, and six years later entered the
master piano class of Ferruccio Busoni. Busoni was one of the finest pianists of the
1.  Letter of 3 September 1913 in C, p. 1662.
2.  Letter to Godet of 6 February 1911 in DL, p. 235.

•  99  •
100  •  debussy

day, but his students varied widely in their ability. Entry to the master classes (for
which there was no charge) often seemed capricious.
Allan never drew on her music study to make a career as a pianist. Instead,
despite having no formal training in dance, she began to experiment with the
­possibilities of applying natural and spontaneous movements to popular pieces like
Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song.” Busoni and others were impressed and offered
encouragement. It led to Allan’s dancing debut in Vienna in 1903, followed by
­successful appearances a year later in Paris and London.
Her signature piece became The Vision of Salomé (with music by Marcel
Rémy)—a subject whose mixture of morbidity and sexuality contemporary audi-
ences seemed to find irresistible. There were expressions of concern over supposed
nudity and indecency in the production, but extraordinary praise as well. It was,
concluded one London critic, “a reincarnation of the most graceful and rhythmic
forms of classic Greece . . . music turned into moving sculpture.”3
Allan remained in London for nearly a year and a half—the time of her greatest
triumphs. But she soon realized that to maintain a measure of novelty she needed
to expand her repertoire. Commissioning a new piece from Debussy seemed a
certain means of attracting publicity. And he could only have been dazzled by the
amount he was offered: 20,000 francs, with an advance of 10,000.
Many of the problems that grew out of the project resulted from the ambiguity
of the contract. Despite his exclusive association with Durand, the firm was not
consulted (Debussy may have hoped to avoid paying any commission). But had
Durand’s staff been involved, the contract would have been far more precise: omit-
ted from it were essential matters, such as the length of the score and the size of the
orchestra.
Disagreements between Debussy and Allan soon developed, and Durand was
finally contacted in desperation in April 1912 to rewrite the contract. He provided
an accurate and detailed transcription of the original, but Allan wanted more. She
demanded that the score not be published until she performed it. And she felt that
the music (at that stage completed in piano score) was too short. There were other
concerns. Why, she wondered, had the work not been dedicated to her?
The matter of dedication was the easiest for Debussy to solve (he dedicated it to
no one). But her proposed alteration of the score created an impasse. When Debussy
refused to comply, Allan responded with a mixture of wheedling and threats: “I am
sure both you and Mons. Durand would be the last persons to wish me to feel
unhappy with the result of our labors. Of course, if you will not lengthen and revise
it in parts I shall be compelled to have this done by another. . . . This, however, would

3.  In the Observer (March 1908) quoted in Felix Cherniavsky, The Salomé Dancer.The Life and Times
of Maud Allan (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1991), p. 164.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  101

not be in keeping with either your or my artistic ideas, therefore, I see only one way
out and that is for you to realize the position I am in and how very much it means
to me and be kind and do as I ask you.”4 Allan was nothing if not persistent, and the
project was to drag on for years with continued attempts at resolution.
In addition to Khamma, the autumn of 1910 saw the birth of another major
project, one more flattering to Debussy, but equally hair-raising in its effect. In late
November Debussy received an effusive letter from the Italian writer, Gabriele
d’Annunzio, asking whether Debussy “loved” his poetry and announcing that
he wanted to work with him on a “long-meditated Mystery.”5 The letter was the
initial step in a calculated campaign. D’Annunzio spared no effort to captivate
Debussy, as well as his family and friends. In the end Debussy became involved in a
hybrid project that seemed destined at best for limited success.
Although little remembered today, d’Annunzio was one of the major literary
figures of the time. He was very highly regarded in France where, for over a decade,
translations of his work had appeared soon after their publication in Italy. In novels
like Il piacere (The Child of Pleasure, 1889), and Il fuoco (The Flame of Life, 1900; seri-
alized that May in the Revue de Paris), d’Annunzio became known for his decadent
tone and scandalous content—with murder, madness, and eroticism as recurring
themes. His dramas—written for the greatest actresses of the day such as Sarah
Bernhardt and Eleonora Duse (d’Annunzio’s mistress for eight years)—had been
less successful. But while that did not bode well for his work with Debussy, his well-
publicized love affairs and extravagant tastes assured d’Annunzio of the type of
celebrity that attracted audiences.
D’Annunzio arrived in Paris in March 1910 to flee his creditors. He soon became
the darling of fashionable society—including the Rothchilds and Countess
Greffulhe—and for months was a frequent item in newspapers. Although the two
men had friends in common like Gabriel Mourey and Count Primoli, d’Annunzio’s
social circles were not Debussy’s, and there was no contact between them. Debussy’s
knowledge of and reaction to d’Annunzio is not known. But it would have been
impossible for him not to take notice of his arrival in France.
By 1910 much of d’Annunzio’s writing seemed out of fashion, heavily indebted
to Symbolist and Decadent themes that had been popular decades earlier. But
Debussy had never been associated with a writer so widely known, and when
d’Annunzio approached him he probably felt that d’Annunzio’s celebrity in itself
was an indication of the probable success of their collaboration. “The thought of
working with you,” he quickly responded, “gives me a kind of fever in advance.”6

4.  Letter of 26 June 1912 in C, p. 1524. In English.

5.  Letter of 25 November 1910 in ibid., p. 1335.
6.  Letter of 30 November 1910 in ibid., p. 1339.
102  •  debussy

Debussy’s enthusiasm would have been dampened had he known that a number of
other composers had been considered for the project before him, including Schmitt,
Roger-Ducasse, and Henry Février.
D’Annunzio favored flamboyance—in their correspondence Debussy soon
became “O Claude roi” and “Claude de France.” But Debussy took it in stride,
admitting annoyance with the relationship only “now and then.”7 Through it all he
maintained a positive attitude. After text and music were completed, a more relaxed
and genuine relationship emerged between the two.
Debussy soon discovered that d’Annunzio’s “long-meditated Mystery” was a
free adaptation of episodes from the life of St. Sebastian. Rather than a drama, ballet,
or an opera, the work was an unpredictable mixture of them all, intended to show-
case the dancer Ida Rubinstein (who would portray the saint). Debussy offered no
criticism of the premise, and both the bizarrely androgynous casting and its reli-
gious association seemed to intrigue him:“the cult of Adonis is connected with that
of Jesus, which is very beautiful.”8
The horrific martyrdom of St. Sebastian (bound to a tree, his body was riddled
with arrows) was, like Salomé, a theme dear to Symbolism. It had become an obses-
sion for d’Annunzio. He traced the source of his fascination to one of his mistresses
who, after a session of lovemaking, observed that d’Annunzio’s body was “speckled
with violent kisses” in a manner resembling the saint’s fatal wounds.9
D’Annunzio’s goal for his Martyrdom was to produce a spectacle focusing on the
clash between pagans and Christians in the first century. He conducted research in
the Bibliothèque Nationale, and, despite having limited knowledge of the language,
decided to write in French in order to circumvent any rights of his Italian publisher.
He also benefited from the help of friends, including the poet and socialite, Robert
de Montesquiou. Montesquiou—who had served as the primary model for the
eccentric hero of Huysmans’s Against Nature—was also a good friend of Ida
Rubinstein, and he was eager to assist in the project.
For d’Annunzio, the participation of Ida Rubinstein was essential. She, too, was
a flamboyant personality. Born in Russia to wealth and privilege, her exotic and
singular beauty had attracted extraordinary attention in Paris, this despite her hav-
ing only minor roles in the Ballets Russes productions of Cléopâtre ( June 1909) and
Schéhérazade ( June 1910). Like Maud Allan, she had had no formal training in dance
and relied on her skills as an actress and mime. D’Annunzio was convinced that she
would create the ideal St. Sebastian.

7.  Claude Debussy, Lettres de Claude Debussy à sa femme, Emma, ed. Pasteur Vallery-Radot (Paris:
Flammarion, 1957), p. 48.
8.  Letter to Godet of 6 February 1911 in C, p. 1384.
9.  John Woodhouse, Gabriele D’Annunzio. Defiant Archangel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), p. 56.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  103

Debussy was well paid for his part in the project. The contract, signed on
9 December, assured him 20,000 francs (with an immediate advance of 8,000), as
well as a percentage from performances. He was optimistic, but admitted to Caplet
that he “perhaps still had time to indulge in a folly, even to . . . make a mistake.”10
It was just as well that Debussy had few illusions about the project. He had yet
to see a word of d’Annunzio’s text. And the premiere was scheduled for May. “They
say some composers can write regularly, so much music a day,” Debussy once said
in an interview. “I admit I cannot comprehend it.”11 Yet that was precisely what he
would have to do to complete Le Martyre de Saint Sébastien in time.
The text began to arrive bit by bit in mid-January. Debussy, adopting the style
of d’Annunzio, praised the “ever-burgeoning splendor” of the work.12 The text, he
claimed, was “so lofty and other-worldly, the music is very difficult to find.”13 But
the rushed pace became too much. Panic set in, and Debussy eventually called in
Caplet to help with the orchestration.Without his assistance, it would have been an
impossible task: rehearsals actually started in April—even before all the orchestra-
tion was finished.
The production was expected to be spectacular and attracted a good deal of
attention. Less than a week before the premiere, what was perceived as the sacrile-
gious nature of d’Annunzio’s Mystery led to it being denounced by the Archbishop
of Paris. For d’Annunzio—who believed that all publicity was good publicity—it
provided an opportunity to heighten the controversy and increase ticket sales.
Rather than offering a detailed defense, he and Debussy countered by describing
their work as “profoundly religious.”14
The premiere on 22 May perplexed both public and critics. A mixture of drama
and ballet more than four hours in length seemed to test the patience of everyone.
There was praise for the exotic scenery created by Léon Bakst, but broad criticism
of Ida Rubinstein’s strong Russian accent. Many found the text pretentious; some
found it vulgar. And devotees of Debussy’s music complained that there was less
than an hour of it scattered throughout the work. Eagerly anticipated, the Martyre
was regarded as a disappointment, and it had only ten performances.
D’Annunzio appeared satisfied nonetheless. For years, he continued to mention
to Debussy the possibility of another collaboration.That nothing came of it was just

10.  Letter of 14 February 1911 in C, p. 1392.

11.  New York Times interview of 26 June 1910 in David Grayson, “Claude Debussy Addresses the
English-Speaking World: Two Interviews, an Article, and The Blessed Damozel,” Cahiers Debussy 16
(1992), p. 26.
12.  Letter to d’Annunzio of 29 January 1911 in DL, p. 233.
13.  Letter to d’Annunzio of [20 February 1911] in C, p. 1396.
14.  LS, p. 340.
104  •  debussy

as well. Two other d’Annunzian extravaganzas were similarly unsuccessful: La

Parisina (1913) with music by Mascagni, and La Pisanelle ou la mort parfumée (1913)
with music by Ildebrando Pizzetti (and Ida Rubinstein in the title role).
Complementing his involvement with Khamma and the Martyre, Debussy
continued to work as a guest conductor in major European cities. In late
November 1910 he appeared on the podium in Vienna, scheduled to conduct a
lengthy program, including the Petite Suite, the Faune, the Nocturnes, La Mer, and
Ibéria. But he was hampered by both lack of rehearsal time and the awkwardness
of having his instructions to the orchestra transmitted by an interpreter. It was a
challenge, and Debussy joked with Emma that “with these ‘brutes,’ it’s like being
an animal trainer in a cage of wild beasts. He can’t take his eyes off them or he’s
‘done for.’”15 Perhaps he gained in the process some sympathy for Chevillard,
whom he had criticized in nearly identical words five years earlier. In the end, it
was necessary to cut both La Mer and the Nocturnes, but Debussy was enthused
by what he described as a “stunning” performance of Ibéria (“I’ve never heard it
like that before”).16 Vienna was followed by three days in Budapest (from 3 to
6  December). There he was not called upon to conduct but to perform as
­pianist—including Estampes and Children’s Corner—and serve as accompanist for
the Proses lyriques.
In the following year, the major conducting trip was in June to Turin where, as
part of a series of concerts associated with an international exposition, Debussy
conducted the Faune and Ibéria in addition to short works by Chabrier, Dukas, and
Roger-Ducasse. Accompanied by Emma and Chouchou, it was intended to be
more in the nature of a diversion. But it turned out to be a disaster. All of his short-
comings as a conductor were revealed. Fortunately, the young conductor Vittorio
Gui assumed direction of rehearsals, and when Debussy conducted the performance,
all went well. Gui’s assessment of Debussy as a conductor was damning: “His beat
was uncertain, his head was always buried in the scores (and it was his own music!),
he lacked control over others and over himself, and even turned over the pages of
the score with the hand that held the baton! . . . He conducted as best as he could,
woodenly, mechanically, without fire and without really leading his forces; no
calamities, but no poetic feeling.”17 Debussy would hardly have endorsed Gui’s eval-
uation of his skills as a conductor, but he would have admitted that conducting was
never more than a job, and, as he once put it, was intended “to win the approval of
an audience made up for the most part of idiots.”18

15.  Letter to Emma of 2 December 1910 in C, p. 1342.

16.  Letter to Emma of 3 December 1910 in DL, p. 229.
17.  DR, pp. 226, 229.
18.  Letter to Emma of 2 December 1910 in DL, p. 228.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  105

Debussy’s experience in Turin had been exhausting, and on his return his physi-
cian advised rest. August was spent in Houlgate, not far from Pourville. But as
always, while he found the sea and nature restful, Debussy was annoyed by the
crowds and their noise. “I’m doing precisely nothing,” he wrote to Caplet, “not out
of idleness but because it’s impossible to think amid this caravanserai.”19
That October Debussy gave serious consideration to traveling to the United
States where he was becoming better known. There was already the contract with
the Met for the Poe operas. Now he received an invitation to conduct Pelléas at the
Boston Opera House, where Caplet was conductor and where in 1909 Pelléas had
already been given.The new performance was to be a model one, and Debussy was
excited by it.
Some attraction for the trip seemed to be provided by the opportunity to spend
time away from Emma. Married life continued to be a trial for Debussy. Unlike
Lilly, Emma was a talented musician, and in marrying her perhaps he had hoped to
share more of his artistic interests. But the real problem was Debussy’s worldview—
overwhelmingly self-centered, and, as he himself admitted, often at war not merely
with convention, but with reality. “Those around me persist in not understanding
that I have never been able to live in a real world of people and things,” he told
Durand.“And that is why I have this irrefutable need to escape and become involved
in adventures which seem inexplicable because they involve a man no one recog-
nizes. A
  nd perhaps that is what is best in me! Besides, an artist by definition is a man
accustomed to dreams and who lives among phantoms. . . . How could it be expected
that this same person would be able to follow in his daily life the strict observance
of traditions—laws and other barriers erected by a hypocritical and cowardly
world.” 20
This stance deeply affected his relationships and his work as a composer. It was,
he felt, essential to “suppress what devours the best of our thought in order to reach
a point where we only love ourselves with a fierce scrupulousness. But it is the
opposite which happens: first a family—which clutters and obstructs the way, either
with too much kindness or by providing blind serenity. Then come the Mistresses
or the Mistress (with whom one hardly reckons), too happy to lose oneself in
oblivion.”21
The situation was not helped by Emma’s reaction to Debussy’s proposed trip to
Boston. She strongly opposed it. “You know what a horror I have of contradiction?”
he wrote to Caplet. “And I imagined the natural thing would have been to support
me as lovingly as possible! T
  he thought of describing to you the continual ­arguments

19.  Letter of 15 August 1911 in ibid., p. 246.

20.  Letter of 8 July 1910 in C, p. 1299.
21.  Letter to Caplet of 22 December 1911 in ibid., p. 1473.
106  •  debussy

and battles was so painful, I’ve put off writing to you as long as possible! . . . Frankly,
I’m extremely depressed.”22 At one point Debussy felt he was at “a dangerous turning
point,” and a separation was considered.23 He and Emma discussed it, and she went
so far as to contact an attorney.
To Debussy, married life could be a numbing experience. Near the end of
their stay at Houlgate, he wrote to Durand: “The truth is that we have to admit
we don’t know why we came. Is it really that we’ve lost the ability to enjoy
things together? I don’t know. But apart from the air we’re breathing, which
human industry hasn’t been able to do anything about, everything else is less
than mediocre.”24 The latter half of 1911 was a low point in Debussy’s marriage.
In later years, although friction continued, the bond between him and Emma
seemed much stronger.
His love for their daughter, Chouchou, added another dimension to marriage.
“Chouchou’s smile helps me through some of the darker moments,” he confessed
to Godet.25 To those who saw them together, the depth of his love for her was
obvious: “she was the center around which his affections revolved and everything
else in his life was subordinated to this dominating emotion.”26
He took extraordinary interest in her development, watched as she learned to
play the piano, and was amused by her childish attempts at writing music.There was
a striking physical resemblance between the two. And their temperaments were
alike as well: strong-willed, independent, sensitive, and gifted. All of Debussy’s
friends were charmed by her.The extent of his own attachment can be seen not just
in the music she inspired—Children’s Corner, for example—but in his willingness to
immerse himself in her world, such as in the following series of postcards he sent to
her while visiting Vienna in 1910:

1. Once there was a papa who lived in exile . . .

2. and every day he missed his little Chouchou.
3. The inhabitants of the city saw him walking past and murmured ‘Why does that
­gentleman look so sad in our gay and beautiful city?’
5. So Chouchou’s father went into a shop run by an old, very ugly man and his even
uglier daughter; he politely removed his hat and using deaf-mute gestures asked for
the most beautiful postcards they had, so that he could write to his darling little

22.  Letter of [17 November 1911] in DL, p. 247.

23.  Letter to Caplet of 23 March 1910 in C, p. 1259.
24.  Letter of 26 August 1911 in DL, p. 246.
25.  Letter of 18 December 1911 in ibid., p. 250.
26.  Maggie Teyte in DR, p. 150.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  107

daughter. . . . The ugly old man was very moved by this and as for his daughter, she
died on the spot!
6. The said papa went back to his hotel, wrote this story which would make a goldfish
weep, and put all his love into the signature below, which is his greatest claim to
fame.
LepapadeChouchou27

The difficulties with Emma and cancellation of the trip to Boston were only
part of the reason for Debussy’s depression. First, there had been the less than
positive public and critical response to the Martyre. And then, after all the effort it
had involved, Debussy had been able to compose little.Work on the Poe operas was
stagnant. “Everything is as dull as a hole in the ground,” he wrote.28
It was not until the first half of 1912 that he became more involved with music
with a return to Khamma. Although he knew that the complications with Maud
Allan lowered expectations for a performance soon, he remained hopeful of
becoming involved in a project that could be both financially and artistically
rewarding.
The most likely source for work of that type seemed to be the Ballets Russes
directed by Serge Diaghilev. Since their first productions in Paris in 1909, they had
been phenomenally popular, much of it a result of Diaghilev’s sharp business and
artistic sense. He excelled in providing novelty.
Diaghilev had first made a name for himself as founder and editor of the journal
Mir Iskusstva (The World of Art, 1898–1904). Its success was due in part to his com-
prehensive knowledge of contemporary art, literature, dance, and music. In 1908 he
had staged Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov in Paris. It became the hit of the season and
led in the following year to performances of excerpts from Glinka’s operas, as well
as ballets to music by Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov.
There was much about Diaghilev’s productions that enthralled French audi-
ences, but one of the major attractions was their exoticism. Much of the music was
new and novel, and the subject matter was colorful and distinctive. Originality was
heightened by the astonishingly gifted group Diaghilev had assembled. His dancers
were superb, especially Vaslav Nijinsky. Michel Fokine, an admirer of Isadora
Duncan, was the primary choreographer. Fokine’s ballets were distinctive, innova-
tive, and frequently inspired by Russian folklore. The ballets themselves were com-
plemented by extraordinarily bold and colorful scenery (exemplified by the work
of Bakst).

27. The text has been written on six postcards (the fourth is missing) which depict “Austrian
­soldiers in a variety of humorous situations.” DL, p. 229.
28.  Letter to Caplet of 22 December 1911 in ibid., p. 252.
108  •  debussy

Debussy had been the first French composer of note approached by Diaghilev
to write for the Ballets Russes. He had been asked to prepare a score for the 1910
season on a scenario set in eighteenth-century Venice (Masques et bergamasques).
Although Debussy, unlike most of Paris, had been far from enthusiastic about the
performances of the Ballets Russes, this topic—with possible echoes of Verlaine and
the commedia dell’arte—was of interest to him. He wrote the scenario himself (in
the process angering Laloy who thought that he was going to collaborate on it), but
did not write any music—probably because of his preoccupation with the Maud
Allan and d’Annunzio projects.
The phenomenal success of the Ballets Russes continued with Stravinsky’s
Firebird (1910) and Petroushka (1911). For the 1912 season Diaghilev decided to
produce a ballet using the Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun. Instead of Fokine,
Nijinsky was assigned to be the choreographer, his debut in this role. Using the
images on Greek vases as an inspiration, Nijinsky created gestures deliberately
stiff and angular. In striking contrast to Debussy’s fluid and graceful score,“dancers
moved in grooves across the stage, feet parallel, hips and faces toward the wings
and upper bodies twisted toward the audience.”29 Debussy was horrified. He felt
the dancers resembled “puppets” or “cardboard figures.”30 Adding to his disgust
was the conclusion of the ballet where Nijinsky (as the faun) appeared to simulate
orgasm.
But despite his dissatisfaction with the production, what reservations Debussy
may have had about the Ballet Russes were overcome by financial need. On 18 June
1912 he signed a contract to compose music for a new ballet, Jeux. Its ambiguous
scenario (by Nijinksy) was based on the search for a lost tennis ball. Debussy was to
receive 10,000 francs for it, providing the piano score by the end of August, and the
orchestral score by the end of March 1913. By Debussy’s standards, it was going to
be quick work—but at least at a slower pace than that for the Martyre. Debussy
responded to the challenge, and completed Jeux within the guidelines.
Plans for the usual vacation by the sea were abandoned in 1912 and 1913. There
simply was not enough money. In November 1912 Debussy even took up a short
stint as music critic (at 500 francs per article) for S.I.M (Société Internationale de
Musique), a journal more scholarly in tone and edited by Vuillermoz. He acquired
additional income by conducting, including on 26 January 1913 the premiere of all
of the orchestral Images (in the Colonne series), and Ibéria on 15 and 22 October
(part of the short-lived Nouveaux Concerts aux Champs-Elysées).

29.  Stephanie Jordan, “Debussy, the Dance, and the Faune,” in James R. Briscoe, ed., Debussy in
Performance (New Haven, CT: Y   ale University Press, 1999), p. 126.
30.  François Lesure, “Une Interview romaine de Debussy (février 1914),” Cahiers Debussy 11
(1987), p. 5.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  109

Despite his dislike of conducting, Debussy knew that he could substantially sup-
plement his income by conducting more extensively outside of France. That led in
1913 to his acceptance of an offer from Serge Koussevitzky to visit Russia.31
Koussevitzky had begun his career as a virtuoso double bassist and had traveled
widely, appearing in 1908 as soloist with the Colonne orchestra. But his ambition lay
in conducting and promoting new music, directions he was able to pursue thanks to
the wealth of his wife’s family. In 1909 he founded a publishing firm, the Editions
Russes de Musique, and became a strong advocate for the music of Scriabin. That
spring he appeared as guest conductor of the Colonne orchestra and in the autumn
inaugurated a series of concerts in Moscow and St. Petersburg with his own orchestra.
He hired the services of well-known performers—such as violinist, Fritz Kreisler—
and made a point of including the works of contemporary composers in his pro-
grams. In 1910 he toured on the Volga, an ambitious attempt to bring music to many
who had never before had the opportunity to hear an orchestra.
Although Debussy had mixed feelings about traveling to Russia, Koussevitzky
did all he could to make it a success. He was a gracious host, and Debussy spent the
first half of December in Russia as his houseguest.  There were visits to both Moscow
and St. Petersburg where he conducted staples such as La Mer, the first two of the
Nocturnes, and the Faune. There was also time to meet with Diaghilev to discuss
progress with Jeux.
The trip went well. Debussy was not unknown in Russia (among other works,
the first two Nocturnes had been performed in Moscow in 1910), but there had been
a mixed reaction to his music, with more old-fashioned musicians, such as Rimsky-
Korsakov, expressing disfavor. During the visit, there was some criticism of his
conducting:  “In his performance there is not even a shade of temperament. Evidently
he is pleased if he has not missed a bar or waved his baton an extra quarter.”32 But
Debussy had nothing but praise for Koussevitzky’s orchestra and could only have
been moved by the testimonial of a group of Russian musicians presented to the
“illustrious master” shortly before his departure.33
Debussy was missed at home, and that led to a testy exchange with Emma on a
sensitive topic. “I have returned from rehearsal,” Debussy wrote to her from Moscow,
“and in great haste want to tell you that I love you, that you are my perfect petite
mienne, and that nonetheless I feel wretched. Do you realize that you wrote: ‘I don’t

31.  Prior to accepting Koussevitzky’s offer, Debussy had agreed to perform with another Russian
concert series, the Concerts Siloti. Alexander Siloti had performed Debussy’s music and been a sup-
porter. But Koussevitzky’s payment was higher, and that was the determining factor for Debussy.
32. Vicot Walter in the Russian Musical Gazette in Moses Smith, Koussevitzky (New York: Allen,
Towne, and Heath, 1947), p. 70.
33.  LS, p. 373.
110  •  debussy

know how I will not bear a grudge against your music’? Don’t you think that’s
enough to be a bit unsettling? First of all, between yourself and music—if there were
to be any jealousy, it would be on music’s side. And if I continue to make music and
to love it, it is because I owe to it—this music which you treat so poorly—meeting
you and loving you. Rest assured that if I were to stop composing, it would probably
be you who would no longer love me, for neither the rather limited charm of my
conversation nor my physical advantages would be sufficient to keep you.”34 Emma’s
remark had brought into the open once again what Debussy perceived as the unending
conflict between his art and his role as husband, and by this time it probably seemed
to him that there would never be a satisfactory resolution to the problem.
The trip to Russia was followed in February 1914 by visits to Rome (18–24
February) and the Netherlands (26 February–2 March). Neither was undertaken
with any enthusiasm. In Rome he conducted La Mer, Rondes de Printemps, the
Faune, and the Marche écossaise. In Amsterdam he conducted the first two Nocturnes,
the Faune, and the Marche. Both visits went reasonably well, although response was
more favorable in Amsterdam. For one young American sight-seeing in Rome, the
opportunity to see Debussy was too good to be missed. But she left disappointed:
“I had made a fine mental picture of him based on his erratic music; imagine my
surprise when a stocky French-shopkeeper-looking person appeared and waved
the baton absolutely without magnetism. . . . The large audience was divided in its
opinion, some applauding, others hissing. One man finally expressed himself by
yelling, ‘Alla porta!’ (Show him the door!).”35
Italy and the Netherlands were followed by two more trips, Debussy’s final jour-
neys beyond the borders of France. On 28 April he made a quick visit to Brussels,
where, as part of a private concert of his works, as pianist he performed the Estampes,
two Images, and three Préludes. On 17 July he appeared as conductor at Queen’s Hall
in London, directing a program of smaller pieces that included the Faune. As he
reflected on what had become the routine of his life, he could only have been dis-
turbed by the absence of music as an ideal, and the prominent role it had assumed
for him as a business.
Debussy wrote comparatively little music during the years 1912–1914. The first
year—which included the completion of Jeux—was the most productive. Gigues
was finished that October. Work was also continued on Khamma. By that autumn
the piano score was ready to be engraved. But after beginning the orchestration,
Debussy lost interest in it. It was completed by Charles Koechlin under Debussy’s
supervision early in the new year.

34.  Letter of 8 December 1913 in C, p. 1717. It is curious that in Segalen’s text of the Orpheus
opera intended for Debussy, Eurydice expresses similar jealousy of Orpheus’s music.
35.  Pauline Stiles, New Footprints in Old Places (San Francisco: Paul Elder, 1917), p. 114.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  111

The major composition for 1913 was the second book of twelve Préludes for
piano, completed in January. Debussy himself performed the first three to an enthu-
siastic audience at the Salle Erard on 5 March, followed by a partial performance
one month later by Viñes at the Société Nationale. During the summer there was a
return to song. The Trois Poèmes de Mallarmé were completed in July. But Debussy’s
pleasure in the project was diminished when he learned that Ravel was also working
on a Mallarmé set, even using (but in a chamber setting, as distinct from Debussy’s
version for voice and piano) two of the same poems.
Debussy also began work in 1913 on La Boïte à joujoux (The Box of Toys), a ballet
for children conceived by the painter André Hellé. Debussy’s love for Chouchou
provided the inspiration.The piano version was finished in all essentials in October,
but as usual the orchestration was a laborious process. Debussy worked on it inter-
mittently until November 1917. It was eventually finished by André Caplet after
Debussy’s death. The remaining composition for the year was Syrinx (a short piece
for solo flute)—the only piece that resulted from a proposed collaboration between
Gabriel Mourey and Debussy for incidental music to his drama, Psyché, a project
dating back to 1909. In 1914 only one work of substance was composed: the
Epigraphes antiques, a collection of pieces for piano, four-hands, completed in July.
They used as a basis the incidental music Debussy had written in 1901 for Louÿs’s
Chansons de Bilitis.
He was discouraged by this lack of productivity. “I have to confess that for a long
time I have been sinking,” he wrote to Godet. “I feel myself declining frightfully!
Ah! the ‘magician’ which you once admired in me—where is he?”36 His discour-
agement was heightened by the fate of the two most substantial compositions cre-
ated during these years: Khamma and Jeux.
Difficulties with Khamma had never been resolved. Because of her dissatisfaction
with the length of the score, in January 1913 Durand gave back to Maud Allan the
10,000 francs she had paid Debussy. She was even permitted to commission another
composer to set her scenario to music.
But she still had hopes of using Debussy’s score. Her concern with its shortness
now shifted to its orchestration, and she asked Debussy to arrange it for a smaller
ensemble, the type, she said, she would be more likely to encounter on tour. Debussy
responded in his most courteous manner giving her permission to have it redone as
she saw fit—at the same time making a point of taking no responsibility for the result.
Maud Allan never staged Khamma, and its first performance had to wait until 1924.
Debussy held far greater hopes for Jeux.The long-awaited premiere occurred on
15 May 1913, but two factors were working against it. Nijinsky’s choreography was
even more stylized than what he had created for the Faune, the basis for it being the

36.  Letter of 14 July 1914 in C, p. 1836.

112  •  debussy

rhythmic concepts of Jacques Dalcroze. Time was expressed by movement of the

arms, and note duration by movement of the feet and body. The virtuosic display
traditionally associated with nineteenth-century ballet was essentially eliminated. In
many ways Nijinsky’s choreography was innovative and anticipated later twentieth-
century styles. But neither Debussy nor the audience cared for it.
The second factor contributing to Jeux’s being overlooked was the production
two weeks later of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring (also choreographed by Nijinsky). So
much attention was focused on what was seen as its scandalous nature, that Jeux was
soon forgotten. The circumstances could not have been more unfortunate. One of
Debussy’s most interesting and distinctive works passed unappreciated. But that did
not prevent him from having a warm—although somewhat diffident—admiration
for Stravinsky’s music.
Debussy was familiar with all of Stravinsky’s major works of the time, including
Firebird and Petroushka, and established a cordial friendship with him. To Stravinsky,
Debussy spoke of the “sonorous magic” of Petroushka and the haunting “beautiful
nightmare” of the Rite.37 “My dear Stravinsky,” he wrote, “you are a great artist!”38
Chouchou also entered into the spirit of Stravinsky’s music. She composed what
Debussy described as a “fantasy on Petroushka to make tigers roar.” “Although I have
threatened her with all kinds of torture,” he told Stravinsky, “she continues to assert
that ‘you’d find it very beautiful.’”39
In private Debussy was far more critical of Stravinsky, describing him as a “spoilt
child” and a “young savage” who as he grew older would become “intolerable.”40
He expressed concern that he was “leaning dangerously towards Schoenberg,” the
type of music which—although his knowledge of it was limited—Debussy regarded
as empty, pretentious, and stupefyingly Germanic.41
Although it had been some time since he had had a major success, the reception
of Jeux did not diminish Debussy’s reputation. A “Debussy Gala” organized by
Vuillermoz about a month after the premiere of Jeux put a variety of his works on
display, including several of the new Préludes and older compositions like the Proses
lyriques—all a confirmation that his supporters remained ardent. But Debussy
continued to worry, confiding to Durand that were it not for “my little Chouchou,
I would blow out my brains, despite the baseness and absurdity of the act. . . . To
struggle alone is nothing! But to struggle with a family is abominable!”42

37.  Letters of 13 April 1912 and [7 November 1912] in DL, pp. 256, 265.
38.  Letter of 24 October 1915 in ibid., p. 308.
39.  Letter of [7 November 1912] in C, p. 1554.
40.  Letter to Godet of 4 January 1916 in DL, p. 312.
41.  Letter to Godet of 14 October 1915 in ibid., p. 306.
42.  Letters of 30 August and 15 July 1913 in C, pp. 1659, 1641.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  113

He seemed convinced that his situation could not become more unbearable. But
like everyone else he failed to anticipate the effects of a world war. During the late
summer of 1914 as political tensions rose after the assassination of Archduke
Ferdinand in Sarajevo, to many the likelihood of war at first seemed a blessing. In
France it was regarded as the ideal opportunity to reoccupy Alsace and Lorraine
and to take revenge on Germany for the defeat of 1870. It was intended to be a
short war—the armies would return victorious in time for Christmas. On 1 August
France mobilized its troops.
Debussy had never been patriotic and had long been openly critical of the dangers
of its excess.“I’m quite devoid of sang-froid,” he wrote Durand,“and even more so of
the military mentality, never having had occasion to handle a gun.”43 He seemed
astounded at the depth of passion aroused by the outbreak of war, noting that even
Paul Dukas “declares he’s as ready to get his head blown off as the next man.”44 But
Debussy soon found himself caught up in the fray, not least because Emma’s son and
son-in-law were in the army.When German forces, violating Belgian neutrality, came
close to capturing Paris, Debussy along with many others fled the capital for safety.
On 4 September he and his family received a safe-conduct pass for Angers, where
they remained for about a month. As the severity of the war increased—and with it
daily reports in the press of “Hun atrocities”—Debussy’s attitudes hardened. He
regarded the German forces with increased loathing and hatred.
After the battle of the Marne in the autumn of 1914, Paris seemed no longer in
danger, but the conflict entered a new stage, that of trench warfare. Technological
developments added new brutalities: poison gas, the tank, aerial combat, and bomb-
ings. Debussy was spared these horrors. But life in Paris was especially hard, with
increasing shortages of food and fuel, and a steady increase in their cost.45 Musical
life was cut back as well.
Fortunately, additional work was found for Debussy with Durand. Not only did
the war stir up resentment toward German music, it also made a substantial amount
of music from German publishers unavailable. Durand attempted to fill the gap, and
Debussy worked on editions of selected works of Chopin and Bach. He also entered
the field of composer as propagandist. He contributed a short piano piece, Berceuse
héroïque, to a collection honoring the King of Belgium—a widely sympathetic figure
because of the invasion and occupation of his country by the Germans.
The Berceuse was followed by several other pieces similar in intent. In 1915
Debussy wrote both the words and music for a song, “Noël des enfants qui n’ont

43.  Letter of 8 August 1914 in DL, p. 291.

44.  Letter to Durand of 18 August 1914 in ibid., p. 292.
45.  Debussy’s last musical autograph—an improvisatory piano piece thirty-one measures in length—
was presented as a form of payment to his coal-dealer, probably in February or March 1917.
114  •  debussy

plus de maison,” in which his sentiments became more straightforward (“They

burnt our school; they burnt our teacher, too”). And in the following year he began
a cantata about Joan of Arc, Ode à la France, set in Rheims (whose cathedral, destroyed
by German shelling, had become a symbol both of French fortitude and German
barbarity).
During the first years of the war Debussy’s spirits alternated between outrage
and despair. He was pained and angered by Germany’s invasion of France, and his
sense of confusion and helplessness was only increased by the heavily censored
accounts of the war he read each day in the press. It was impossible for him to write
music. When he was offered the use for the summer of a small villa (“Mon Coin”)
near Pourville, he jumped at the chance. It became more than a welcome change
of scene. Everything about “Mon Coin” seemed to lift his spirits. He was particu-
larly enchanted by the garden, which at the summit presented a wonderful vista of
the sea.
Debussy’s letters reflected his new frame of mind. Rarely had he seemed so
happy.  At “Mon Coin”—isolated from the continual reminders of war, and installed
in a home in which he wished he could live forever—Debussy’s creativity returned
in such profusion that even he seemed at times astonished by it.
During the summer of 1915 he composed a large body of his most imaginative
and most innovative work, including En blanc et noir (for two pianos), the piano
Etudes (a set of twelve), the sonata for cello, and the sonata for flute, viola, and harp.
The sonatas were the first in an ambitious set of six, intended to include sonatas for
violin; oboe, French horn, and harpsichord; trumpet, clarinet, bassoon, and piano;
and for the last sonata, a return of all of them with the addition of string bass.These
are not sonatas in the nineteenth-century sense but instead draw their inspiration
from eighteenth-century French models—the type of music Debussy had been
praising for years in his music criticism.
It was as if he were living a new life. “I am relearning music,” he wrote. “There is
an emotional effect one gets from placing the right chord in place which is impossible
in the other arts. Pardon me. I am acting as if I have discovered music, but, in all mod-
esty, that’s a bit how I feel.”46 The idea of returning to the routine of life in Paris was
inconceivable.“If I had a great deal of money,” he told Durand,“I would immediately
buy ‘Mon Coin’—in gratitude for having once again found the ability to think and
to work.When I think of the emptiness of last year, I get shivers up my spine, and fear
returning to Paris and the factory of nothingness which my study had become!”47
But despite the serene setting in which they were produced, Debussy was con-
vinced that these new compositions came into existence “not so much for myself,

46.  Letter to D. E. Inghelbrecht of 30 September 1915 in C, p. 1937.

47.  Letter to Durand of 1 September 1915 in ibid., p. 1926.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  115

[but] to offer proof, small as it may be, that 30 million Boches can not destroy
French thought. . . . I think of the youth of France, senselessly mowed down by
those merchants of ‘Kultur’. . . . What I am writing will be a secret homage to them.”48
At a time of horror and wanton destruction, it was his intention to replace “a little
of the beauty” that was being lost.49
Debussy worked feverishly at “Mon Coin,” waiting until the last possible
moment before returning to Paris in mid-October. His spirits survived the change
of scene well. But his physical condition had for some time been troublesome. It
is not known precisely what the problem was, but that November he decided to
see a physician. The diagnosis, coming as it did after the gloriously revitalizing
experiences of the previous months, was a shock: cancer. Debussy was made
aware of its serious nature but not told that his illness (cancer of the rectum)
could be fatal.
Cancer had probably been present for years, but not enough is known of
Debussy’s medical history to determine when distinctive symptoms of the cancer—
substantial bleeding, digestive complications including severe cramps, and gradual
weight loss—first appeared. It is unlikely that the digestive complaints noted by
Debussy in his correspondence in 1907 and 1909 (always assumed by his biogra-
phers to have been the first signs) were an indication of cancer—for it would have
had to have spread at an astonishingly slow rate for Debussy to have continued a
normal life until 1915.50 But by that November the cancer had probably entered a
calamitous stage; possibly a partial obstruction had occurred.
Debussy’s physicians decided to perform a colostomy, an unusual and perilous
procedure for the time. A primitive type of bag—probably of animal skin—
would have been attached, and with no antibiotics, the danger of infection was
high. The operation was scheduled for 7 December, and the night before—well
aware that he might not survive it—Debussy wrote a note to Emma, telling her
of his love, and asking her to love him “in the person of our little Chouchou . . . you
are the only two for whose sake I do not want to leave this earth altogether.”51
The operation went well. But it was the beginning of months of pain and
suffering.
Debussy was greatly weakened, and recovery was slow. For four months (and
intermittently thereafter) he took morphine to ease the pain. It was essential to him,
but its dulling side effects took their toll.“There is something broken in this curious

48.  Letter to Durand of 5 August 1915 in ibid., p. 1915.

49.  Letter of 14 October 1915 in DL, p. 305.
50.  My thanks to Dr. Thomas Anderson (Columbus, Ohio), a cancer specialist who has provided
me with details on the nature and historical treatment of cancer.
51.  Letter of 6 December 1915 in DL, p. 310.
116  •  debussy

mechanism which was my brain,” he told Godet.52 Its continued use also contrib-
uted to the insomnia that plagued him.
In mid-January 1916 he received additional treatment: the use of radium to
shrink and destroy his tumor. It was an advanced concept; only after the Second
World War did it become more widely used. Fortunately for Debussy, as a result of
the Curies’ work, Paris was a center for the study of radium. For his treatment, pel-
lets would have been inserted for monitored periods of time. The amount that he
would have been given could only have been guessed at, since there were so few
previous cases to use as a basis.
All in all, painful as it was, Debussy received treatment truly extraordinary for
the time. Both the operation and the radium must have successfully localized the
tumor, or he would never have been able to survive for as long as he did. But
despite the best efforts of his physicians, the tumor remained active. That would
explain the gradual change in his appearance, and the shock many experienced on
seeing him “very emaciated, his complexion sallow and ashen.”53 Photographs taken
in 1917 reveal an astonishing amount of weight loss, his clothes hanging limply on
him. “I don’t take this tattered body for walks anymore,” he told Godet, “in case I
frighten little children and tram conductors.”54
Through it all Debussy remained stoic, and at first hopeful of a return to health.
“I watch the hours go past, each the same as the other and still worth living when
they’re not too painful,” he wrote in the midst of his radium treatment.55 He
inquired about the proofs of the Etudes, and that summer Emma reported that he
was occasionally at work. But by June he was losing patience, wondering if his
­illness was “incurable,” in which case, he told Durand, it would have been better had
he known from the start.56
Like many, he began to view the war in a different light; 1916 had seen the
horrors of Verdun and the Somme. Mutinies broke out in the French forces in May
and June 1917 (although their extent was concealed from the public). The years of
carnage had made a straightforward patriotic stance simplistic. “When will hate be
exhausted?” Debussy wrote. “Or is it hate that’s the issue in all this? When will the
practice cease of entrusting the destiny of nations to people who see humanity as a
way of furthering their careers?”57 In the midst of it all, there were still financial
worries (one wonders how he managed to pay for his treatment), including a court

52.  Letter of 3 December 1916 in C, p. 2052.

53.  According to one who saw him in 1917 in D, p. 183.
54.  Letter of 11 December 1916 in DL, p. 320.
55.  Letter to Godet of 4 February 1916 in ibid., p. 314.
56.  Letter of 8 June 1916 in C, p. 2000.
57.  Letter to Godet of 4 February 1916 in DL, p. 314.
 The Final Years, 1910–1918  •  117

order for payment to Lilly of 30,000 francs alimony. It had been nearly six years
since Debussy had paid any (although she had received payments directly from his
publisher).
He wrote to Durand noting his continued interest in the Poe operas, but although
little work was done on them, music was not abandoned. The third of his sonata
series—that for violin—was completed in the early months of 1917. And there were
still thoughts of projects seemingly forgotten, such as the collaboration with Toulet
on As You Like It. In November 1917 he sketched about a dozen pages for the Ode à
la France. But nothing followed. “I feel only horrible fatigue and this distaste for
activity, a result of my last illness. . . . Where are the beautiful months of 1915?”58
There was some attempt at normality. The premieres of his most recent compo-
sitions kept him before the public’s eye—the Cello Sonata was performed in
London in March 1916, and at the end of the year there was a performance of four
of the Etudes and the Sonata for Flute, Viola, and Harp. “It’s by a Debussy I no
longer know,” he told Godet.59
On occasion Debussy would attend a concert, and as late as December 1916 even
performed En blanc et noir with Roger-Ducasse as part of a benefit to raise money
for clothing for prisoners of war. Vacations remained important for the family. Part
of the autumn of 1916 was spent in Moulleau near Arcachon, and the following
summer in Saint-Jean-de-Luz.The trips provided some distraction. But he could not
wait to escape from the hotel in Moulleau (“the very walls are hostile”).60
Visits of friends helped to pass the time. Satie came by regularly and did what he
could to provide some cheer. But his visits ended in the summer of 1917, the result
of disagreement over his recent work. Each was too stubborn to give in to the
other, until months later Satie, learning how ill Debussy had become, wrote to rees-
tablish their friendship.
During the closing months of 1917 Debussy’s condition worsened noticeably.
He became so weak that Emma began to answer his correspondence for him. Hope
for a recovery of any kind was abandoned.
The final days of his life occurred in the midst of a massive German offensive,
begun on 21 March 1918 in a final, desperate attempt to capture Paris. Jacques
Durand visited Debussy two days later. He tried to raise his spirits by talking of
improvement—but Debussy affirmed that he knew the end was near (“only a
matter of hours”).61 And he described the terror of the preceding night when,

58.  Letters to Durand of 22 July 1917 and [12] September 1917 in C, pp. 2131, 2148.
59.  Letter of 11 December 1916 in DL, p. 320.
60.  Letter to Durand of 12 October 1916 in ibid., p. 318.
61.  LS, p. 406.
118  •  debussy

d­ uring a bombardment, he had not had the strength to get out of bed to seek
shelter in the cellar—only to have his wife and daughter refuse to leave his side.
After Durand’s visit, Debussy’s condition steadily continued to deteriorate. On
24 March he was substantially weaker and spoke with great difficulty. He died in his
sleep during the evening of the following day and was buried four days later. There
were few obituaries, and those that appeared were surprisingly perfunctory. It was
Chouchou—twelve years old at the time—who, in a letter to her stepbrother
Raoul, best expressed the sense of loss:
Mama was called to Papa because the nurse found him to be ‘very bad’!—Two doctors
were sent for at once, and they both said he should be given an injection so that he would
not suffer. Then I understood. Roger-Ducasse who was there said to me, “Come,
Chouchou, kiss your Papa.” T   hen all at once I thought that it was over. W
  hen I went back
into the room, Papa was asleep and breathing regularly, but in very short breaths. He
continued to sleep like that until 10 o’clock at night and then gently, like an angel, he fell
asleep forever. What happened after, I can’t describe.  A torrent of tears wanted to flow
from my eyes but I immediately held them back because of Mama. All night, alone in
Mama’s big bed, I was unable to sleep for a minute. I felt feverish and my dry eyes gazed
at the walls and I couldn’t believe the truth!
The next day far too many people came to see Mama, so that by the end of the day
she could hold out no longer—it was a release for her and for me. Thursday arrived,
Thursday when he would be taken from us for ever! . . . I summoned up all my courage.
I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t shed a tear: tears held back are worth as much
as tears shed, and now it is night forever. Papa is dead. Those three words, I don’t under-
stand them or rather I understand them too well. . . . Think now and then of your poor
little sister who would like so much to hold you and to tell you how much she loves you.
Do you understand everything I feel and which I can not put into words?62

62.  Letter of 8 April 1918 in C, pp. 2195–2196. Chouchou died from diphtheria sixteen months later.
 l Chapter eight
;
Debussy and the Arts

The morbidness of the modern French mind is well known and universally
admitted, even by the French themselves; the open atheism, heartlessness,
flippancy, and flagrant immorality of the whole modern French school of
thought is unquestioned. If a crime of more than usual cold-blooded atrocity
is committed, it generally dates from Paris or near it;—if a book or a picture is
produced that is confessedly obscene, the author or artist is, in nine cases out of
ten, discovered to be a Frenchman. The shop-windows and bookstalls of Paris
are of themselves sufficient witnesses of the national taste in art and literature,—a
national taste for vice and indecent vulgarity which cannot be too sincerely
and compassionately deplored.
Marie Corelli, Wormwood (1890)

M ore often than not, composers are content to write music, and
their interest in the other arts is minimal.There have been exceptions, and at
first glance Debussy might seem to be one of them. But, by the standards of his day,
it would have been odd if he had focused solely on music. Debussy lived at a time
when composers in France appeared constrained by music, when they prided
themselves not just on their knowledge of the arts, but on their accomplishments
in them. Chausson, for example, was an art collector and unpublished novelist.
Magnard and Lekeu were poets. D’Indy was a skillful water-colorist.
Composers’ interests in the arts found a counterpart in artists’ and writers’ fascination
with music. Some, like Whistler, gave their paintings titles based on musical compositions.1

1.  One, the Symphony in White #2, inspired a poem by Swinburne, in the process combining
image, word, and, by implication, music.

•  119  •
120  •  debussy

Poets, like Mallarmé, focused on the musicality of their verse. René Ghil went a
step further and associated color and timbre with his poetry. In his Traité du verbe
(1886, with a preface by Mallarmé) he assigned colors and specific instruments to
vowels, for example: I (blue; violin); O (red; brass instruments)—all of which was
meant to be seen and heard by the reader as a complement to the poems. There
were attempts, too, to emphasize the kinship among the arts. The group of Belgian
writers and artists, “La Libre Esthétique,” promoted joint exhibitions and concerts
(including one by Debussy in 1894).
But despite this widespread fascination with the arts, three factors set Debussy
apart: the breadth of his interests, the discernment in his taste, and the manner in
which the arts served as a source of inspiration—even at times as a model—for
some of his music.
We know from his correspondence and from the recollections of his fellow stu-
dents at the Conservatoire that Debussy’s interest in the visual arts and literature
began early in life. It was an interest that he pursued on his own, and it intensified
in his late teens, largely as compensation for the formal education he had never
received. He read voraciously, the well known (Balzac, Dickens) and the lesser
known ( Jean Richepin, Jules Laforgue). By the time he left for Rome he knew the
literary scene in Paris well and complained about his isolation from it.
It was an extraordinarily robust time for literature. One contemporary text listed
fifty-five distinct literary groups, running the stylistic gamut from free verse to
“poésie scientifique” (René Ghil) and “poésie esotérique” (Edmond Schuré and
Villiers de L’Isle-Adam).2 Debussy was familiar with many of those groups, and
enjoyed—especially in his youth—keeping up with literary trends. His interest led
to association with writers such as Henri de Régnier (at the time, one of the most
admired writers in Europe) and a close friendship with Pierre Louÿs. These rela-
tionships also bolstered his self-confidence and encouraged him to write and set his
own poetry to music, as in the Proses lyriques and Nuits blanches.
In later years Debussy’s literary discernment led him to select as friends and col-
laborators several of the most talented writers of a younger generation. Victor
Segalen and Paul-Jean Toulet were little known at the time, but just as he had been
among the first to detect special qualities in Verlaine’s verse, he was among the first
to appreciate their equally distinctive style.
Debussy never established a friendship with a visual artist comparable to the ones
he had with writers. But we know that he was fascinated by the visual arts. “He was
always sorry,” wrote a piano pupil, “he hadn’t taken up painting instead of music.”3

2.  Florian-Parmentier [Serge Gastein], Histoire contemporaine des letters francaises de 1885 à 1914 (Paris:
Eugene Figuière, [1914]).
3.  Madame Gérard de Romilly in DR, p. 54.
 Debussy and the Arts  •  121

To Edgard Varèse he confided: “I love images almost as much as music.”4 His tastes
were broad and included among nineteenth-century artists Turner, Goya, the Pre-
Raphaelites, Moreau, Whistler, Redon, Degas, Monet, and Hokusai.
Some of Debussy’s interest in art can be seen in his concern about the appear-
ance of his compositions in print—from the deluxe editions of the Damozel to ink
color and word placement in those published by Durand. A more curious link to
the visual arts is the monogram based on his initials that Debussy created for him-
self, with the “C” encircling the “D.” It is a device often associated with artists, and
that connection may have added appeal to Debussy.
There is not a great deal of evidence to make the case, but Debussy also had talent
as an artist.The cover he drew for Children’s Corner, for example, (including a fanciful
interpretation of Golliwogg, one of the characters in it) is fanciful and charming.
From friends (“The most powerful influence on Debussy was that of writers,
not of composers”) to the press (“He is the Verlaine of music”), Debussy’s interest
in and indebtedness to matters artistic and non-musical became common
knowledge.5 When critics created a school of Impressionism in music, Debussy
became its most senior member, so much so that over the decades the connection
of Debussy with Impressionism has become all but unassailable.  What was meant by
use of the term? What were the advantages in applying it to his music?

Impressionism
“Impressionist” was first associated with Debussy’s compositions in 1887 while he
was a student at Rome. It was intended negatively by his teachers and referred not
specifically to the movement (which was solely in the visual arts at the time), but to
what was perceived as the non-traditional basis (and poor quality) of his music.
The initial Impressionist exhibition had occurred thirteen years earlier in Paris.
From the start it was perceived as revolutionary. Among the artists first represented
were many who would be closely associated with the movement, including Claude
Monet, Camille Pissarro, Pierre-August Renoir, Alfred Sisley, and Berthe Morisot.
The next Impressionist exhibition was held in 1876; the final one, the eighth, in
1886 (not all were marketed as being Impressionist, but that was how they were
generally perceived). The very existence of the exhibitions gave them a revolu-
tionary air—since they were created as a means of challenging the conservative
taste represented in the annual official exhibits (known as Salons, and first established
in 1667).There was strong public interest in the salons with typically several ­hundred

4.  Letter of [12 February 1911] in C, p. 1389.

5.  Paul Dukas in DR, p. 98; quoted in Stefan Jarocinski, Debussy: Impressionisme et symbolisme (Paris:
Editions du Seuil, 1970), p. 139.
122  •  debussy

thousand visitors for each—and corresponding interest in the exhibits presented in

contrast (or opposition) to them.
Debussy was only twelve when the Impressionists first made a name for them-
selves. The artists associated with the movement were not of his generation but of
his father’s. During the 1890s, when Debussy was beginning his career, many of the
Impressionist artists were ending theirs. At the same time there was growing
acceptance of their work, and appreciation of their style. Linking it to music was
but a small step.
Contemporary attempts to define Impressionism tended to be polemical, but
the Irish novelist (and occasional art critic) George Moore provided one in 1893
that, brief as it is, serves as a good point of departure. Moore had studied painting
in France and knew many of the artists associated with the movement.
“Impressionism,” he concluded, “is a word which has lent itself to every kind of
misinterpretation, for in its exact sense all true painting is penetrated with impres-
sionism, but, to use the word in its most modern sense—that is to say, to signify the
rapid noting of illusive appearance—Monet is the only painter to whom it may be
reasonably applied.”6
Although limiting Impressionism to Monet is deliberately provocative, Moore, in
very few words, has captured much of the essence of Impressionism.The crux of his
definition—the “rapid noting of illusive appearance”—was accomplished in painting
with a focus on color and light (and less on line and detail). Bold, forceful brush-
strokes were often used to produce a luminosity that resulted in blurred imagery.
Subject matter was equally distinctive.There was a concern with modernity. But
there was an interest as well in subjective interpretation of natural scenes, and in
painting out-of-doors. The goal was to work quickly and simply—to capture the
substance of a scene, an approach that led to criticism that what was produced was
not a finished product but hastily assembled sketches.
Critics were quick to pick up on a connection between Debussy’s compositions
and painters associated, if only vaguely, with Impressionism. The Nocturnes, for
example, were linked to Whistler. But the initial basis for the connection—as in so
many of Debussy’s compositions—was that the artist and composer had used the
same title. It was the similarity between the titles of some of Debussy’s music and
titles for Impressionist paintings that supplied what many were convinced were the
strongest, initial linkage between them.
Descriptive titles found in both music and the visual arts seemed to invite inter-
pretation. Debussy’s first biographer singled out “Reflets dans l’eau” (Reflections in
the Water, one of the piano Images), labeled it an “impressionist sketch,” and, invent-
ing a poetic program, described the piece as a “delicate reproduction in harmonic

6.  George Moore, Modern Painting (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1893), p. 84.
 Debussy and the Arts  •  123

sound of shimmering waters and of the shifting, dazzling reflections seen in their
depths. The rippling flow and trickle of a running stream is heard, the cool, trans-
lucent effect and gurgle of disturbed water is given, and throughout the piece the
constant mobility of the trembling, wavering shadows is maintained.”7 Attaching
programs to instrumental compositions without any had a long history in the
nineteenth century. There is nothing new either in the approach or concept of the
program created for “Reflets,” except that it has been tailored to bring to mind
what might be a verbal description of an Impressionist painting.
More often than not, Debussy’s contemporaries labeled his music Impressionistic
without explanation, the assumption being that listeners knew only too well why
it was. “One can not imagine a symphony more delicately Impressionistic [than the
Nocturnes],” wrote one critic.8 But complicating any attempt to identify specific
“Impressionistic” musical qualities in Debussy’s music was the freewheeling use of
identical terminology in both art and music criticism, a result of the kinship felt to
exist among the arts (as when George Moore remarked on the “harmony of color,
[and] the melody of composition” in a painting by Whistler).9
Debussy’s friend and biographer Louis Laloy cautiously applied the term
“Impressionist” to Debussy’s music in the broadest possible sense. It was, he wrote,
“purely auditory, just as Impressionist painting is completely visual”—a rather
open-ended conclusion.10 More commonly, Impressionist qualities were perceived
as general components of Debussy’s sound. Louise Liebich presented two: sound as
color (timbre?), and harmony as color and light. Debussy, she explained, “employs
sounds as colors and blends them in varied juxtaposition, forming them into deli-
cately tinted sonorous aggregations; or he invests certain chords with an existence
either sufficient unto itself or renders it capable of germination and developing a
series of shaded, many-hued chord sequences [sic]. Fluid, flexible, vivid, these
beautiful harmonies, seemingly woven of refracted rays of light, merge into infinite
melody of a free, flowing rhythm . . . .   His own art and that of painting are in some
instances almost identical in method, for his employment of chords and their com-
binations resembles the manipulation of colors by a Le Sidaner, a Whistler, or a
Manet.”11 To Liebich, then, one of the primary similarities is the relationship be­­
tween Debussy’s harmonic approach (“chords and their combinations”) and a paint-
er’s palette. But what precisely was meant? How did Debussy “employ” his chords?

7.  Mrs. Franz Liebich, Claude-Achille Debussy (London: John Lane, 1908), p. 62.
8.  Quoted in François Lesure, “Debussy, le Symbolisme, et les arts plastiques,” Cahiers Debussy 8
(1984), p. 3.
9.  Moore, p. 11.
10.  Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles Fantaisistes, 1909), p. 51.
11.  Liebich, pp. 27–28, 10.
124  •  debussy

And what direct connection was there between their use and a painter’s “manipula-
tion of colors”?
Contemporary definitions of musical impressionism are not much help. Reliance
was on broad, innocuous generalizations.The one by Edward Dent in A. Eaglefield-
Hull’s A Dictionary of Modern Music and Musicians (1924), is one of the most compre-
hensive: “Impressionism: music intended to convey some suggestion of a landscape,
or of a picture in which color is more important than outline, the melodic line in
such cases being ill-defined and fragmentary, while subsidiary figures of accompa-
niment are much developed, often in rapid movement, the object of which is to
produce a general effect of timbre rather than a clearly intelligible succession of
notes. Similar effects are also obtained by slow harmonies based on chords which
an older generation would have regarded as discords, but which the present day
regards as agreeable consonances.”12 As with Liebich, color (timbre) is a key element
with “slow harmonies” (in lieu of Liebich’s “employment of chords”) an important
component.
Dent’s definition, complemented by general comments made by Debussy’s con-
temporaries, helps bring us closer to understanding why the similarity between
Debussy and Impressionism was believed to be strong.  There are musical corre-
spondences to Moore’s “rapid noting of illusive appearance,” and specific musical
devices to help explain the core of Dent’s definition: the “general effect of timbre
rather than a clearly intelligible succession of notes.”
The Impressionist concern with color would have a counterpart in Debussy’s
nonfunctional harmony (where each chord can be heard as a separate entity, and
not part of a conventional progression). In that sense, the blurred imagery of a
painting by Monet, would be similar to the “blurred” harmonic effect in Debussy’s
music, the result of his slow harmonic rhythm, and the use of ninth and eleventh
chords which, as Dent pointed out, “an older generation would have regarded as
discords.” Color, too, is a characteristic of Debussy’s innovative instrumentation, one
that focuses on the unique sound quality of each instrument, both by itself and as
an ensemble instrument (mixing and blending with other instruments whether in
a chamber or orchestral setting).
The Impressionists’ lack of focus on line (a departure from tradition) could be
seen as similar to Debussy’s lack of interest in traditional musical structure. Their
concern with sketches (as opposed to the meticulously finished work of an acade-
mician) brings to mind Debussy’s interest in improvisation, specifically his attempts
to create an illusion of improvisation in some of his compositions. Some critics,
incidentally, referred to Monet’s paintings as “improvisations.”13

12.  A. Eaglefield-Hull, ed., A Dictionary of Modern Music and Musicians (London: J. M. Dent, 1924).
13.  Joris-Karl Huysmans, L’Art moderne (Paris: Plon, [1883]), p. 292.
 Debussy and the Arts  •  125

But alongside these similarities, there are notable differences. In contrast to the
illusive outline of many Impressionist works, Debussy’s music can be extraordi-
narily precise and detailed. It had to be so to create the effect he wanted, and that
is true even when he was trying to create the effect of improvisation. At the same
time, there is no musical counterpart to the often bold, dynamic brush strokes
found in some Impressionist art. On the contrary, Debussy’s music is often aston-
ishingly restrained and delicate (as, admittedly, can be the effect of Impressionist
painting).
Although there are stylistic similarities between the music of Debussy and
Impressionist art, it should come as no surprise that he did not like the comparison.
He felt that it cast doubt on his originality. But he admitted a connection of sorts.
Concerning the Images he wrote: “I tried to make ‘something else’ of them and to
create—in some manner—realities—what imbeciles call ‘impressionism,’ a term as
poorly used as possible, especially by art critics.”14 By “realities” Debussy seemed to
be referring to the approach he also followed in La Mer, where he based his music
not on an intermediary—like a painting of the sea—but on reality: the sea itself.
That helps to explain a response he once made to a compliment by EmileVuillermoz.
“You do me a great honor,” Debussy wrote, “by calling me a student of Claude
Monet.”15 To Debussy, both he and Monet were constant students of nature, using
it as a source of inspiration and basis for their art. And in that sense—and that
alone—Debussy acknowledged an affinity with Impressionism.

Symbolism
From the start there were critics who refused to associate Debussy’s music solely
with Impressionism. “Debussyism,” wrote Louis Laloy, “corresponds to symbolism
in poetry and impressionism in painting.”16 Louise Liebich agreed: “By inclination
and temperament Debussy is in close sympathy with the school of painters called
impressionists and with the class of poets styled symbolists.”17 Because of profound
aesthetic differences between the two movements, connecting Debussy’s music
with both Impressionism and Symbolism only seems to confuse the matter.
Symbolism took shape later than Impressionism (in tangible form, in September
1886 with the Symbolist Manifesto written by the poet Jean Moréas). Moréas,
whose connection with Symbolism was short-lived, emphasized its idealism, its
fondness for dreams, and its preference for feeling over intellect.

14.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [end March–early April] in C, pp. 1080–1081. He is referring to
the orchestral Images.
15.  Letter of 25 January 1916 in DL, p. 313.
16.  Laloy, p. 50.
17.  Liebich, p. 24.
126  •  debussy

“What is the meaning of Symbolism?” asked Rémy de Gourmont, its most dis-
cerning critic. “Practically nothing, if we adhere to the narrow etymological sense.
If we pass beyond, it may mean individualism in literature, liberty in art, abandon-
ment of taught formulas, tendencies towards the new and strange, or even towards
the bizarre.”18 Gourmont’s list of characteristics hints at its connection with an
allied movement: Decadence (identified by another contemporary critic, Arthur
Symons, as differing from Symbolism by its “spiritual and moral perversity”).19 Yet
another trait of Symbolism—and one that contributed to its mystery—was perhaps
best expressed by Mallarmé. “Paint not the thing itself,” he wrote, “but the effect
which it produces.”20
Symbolism, unlike Impressionism, was associated with both the visual arts and
literature. In painting it exhibited a variety of styles, from the academic (Gustave
Moreau) to the near abstract (Thorn Prikker). Subject matter focused on myth and
dream. But even works that appeared straightforward, such as Puvis de Chavannes’s
“Young Girls by the Sea” (1879; a depiction of three young women in hieratic poses
along the seashore) could, in Symbolist eyes, take on an entirely different meaning.
Rather than three individual women, it was, in the interpretation of the poet and
critic Gustave Kahn, “the same woman in three different physical attitudes . . . the
same woman at three different times, in three different acts of her life: young at the
moment of expectation, at the moment of the call, at the moment at which her
throbbing drives bend back on themselves—when she comes to weep the eternal
battle of the sexes.”21
Gustave Moreau—selected by Debussy in 1889 as one of his favorite artists—
was the most venerable of the Symbolist painters. One of his earliest paintings,
“Oedipus and the Sphinx,” had won a medal at the salon of 1864. His artistic credo
was reflected in much of his work: “I believe neither in what I touch nor in what
I see. I believe only in what I do not see and only in what I feel.”22
Literary Symbolism embodied similar ideals and characteristics. During the
1880s and 1890s it had become the dominant movement in France for poetry, the
novel, and criticism. Among its most famous writers were two closely associated

18.  Rémy de Gourmont, The Book of Masks, tr. Jack Lewis (Boston: John W. Luce, 1921), p. 10.
Gourmont’s essay was first published in 1890.
19.  From an essay by Symons written in 1893. Quoted in Roger Lhombreaud, Arthur Symons
(London: Unicorn Press, 1963), p. 226.
20.  Quoted in Gordon Millan, The Life of Stéphane Mallarmé (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux,
1994), p. 118. Mallarmé uses “paint” not literally but in a general sense, as “depict” or “represent.”
21.  Quoted in Puvis de Chavannes. 1824–1898, ed. Louise d’Argencourt et al. (Ottawa: National
Gallery of Canada, 1977), p. 154.
22.  Pierre-Louis Mathieu, Gustave Moreau. (Boston: New York Graphic Society, 1976), p. 173.
 Debussy and the Arts  •  127

with Debussy’s work: Stéphane Mallarmé and Maurice Maeterlinck. There was an
astonishing variety of content within the movement, including a great deal that, to
use Gourmont’s words, exhibited “the new and strange”: Georges Rodenbach’s
Bruges-la-Morte (1892), Edouard Rod’s La Course à la mort (1885), and Rachilde’s
La Marquise de Sade (1887).Their cultivation of the bizarre was a factor in their pop-
ularity. There was also a concern with music in Symbolist literature, not just with
the musicality of verse but in connecting poetry with music, as in Stuart Merrill’s
Les Gammes (Scales; 1887) and Gustave Kahn’s Palais nomades (1887; it contained
musical titles interspersed with prose poems).
In both Symbolist literature and the visual arts there was interest in états d’âme—
soul-states, that indefinable complex of feelings and emotions that symbolized the
ever-changing human spirit.Words were used to represent and elucidate soul-states
in novels, poetry, and dramas. Artists represented them by color and line.
The connection between Symbolism and Debussy’s music seems to make sense,
not least because of his musical settings of two Symbolist masterpieces: The Afternoon
of a Faun, and Pelléas et Mélisande. Beyond that there is Debussy’s professed admira-
tion for Moreau and Mallarmé (the latter, he wrote in 1913, had had “a considerable
influence on the very quiet musician I was at the time”).23 But although contem-
porary critics took note of Symbolists traits in Debussy’s music, they limited them-
selves to the broadest of generalities in attempting to describe them: “[Debussy’s
music] approximates to the art of the symbolists by its appeal to the imagination, by
its power of suggesting the most subtle soul-states, and by its gift of evoking the
magic atmosphere of legend and dream.”24
Actually some prominent aspects of Impressionism can also be associated with
Symbolism.There are, first of all, the titles.What may appear as generically Impressionist
ones—”By the Seashore,” for example—in different hands become decidedly Symbolist
(see Puvis de Chavannes’s painting mentioned earlier, or Emile Verhaeren’s poem,“Au
bord de l’eau”).Yet another point: the reference to “suggestion” in Dent’s definition
of musical Impressionism brings to mind Mallarmé’s “Paint not the thing itself, but
the effect which it produces.”
What complicates any attempt at definition is that several of the musical charac-
teristics associated in Debussy’s compositions with Impressionism, can just as easily be
associated with Symbolism. For example, the “blurred” tonal effect (slow harmonic
rhythm, nonfunctional harmony) can create an effect comparable to dream-like,
Symbolist reverie. Debussy’s avoidance of traditional music structure and harmony
can be seen as an instance of Gourmont’s “abandonment of taught formulas.”

23.  Letter to Dr. Edmond Bonniot of 7 August 1913 in C, p. 1650.

24.  Liebich, p. 29.
128  •  debussy

The music of Debussy the Symbolist sounds very much like that of Debussy the
Impressionist. But by the 1970s increasingly he was linked to Symbolism instead.25
In the end, Debussy’s interest in (and indebtedness to) the arts only confused the
issue. In an attempt to understand music that is, on the one hand, fresh and direct
in its appeal, and, on the other hand, elusive and difficult to classify, critics established
links between it and well-known artistic styles of the day. Those links provided
insight into some of Debussy’s compositions. But as a description for all of his
work—or a majority of it, or even for the most significant works—it was
inadequate.
In addition to knowing about Debussy’s interest in the arts, we know that he
thought of music in broad terms and at times used the other arts to enhance his
perspective. Privately he compared his piano pieces, En Blanc et noir, to works of art
by Velázquez and Goya. When his friend Henri de Régnier remarked to him that
words, used too frequently, lose their effect, he thought of how the same happened
in music. As for painting, he felt that music in one respect had an advantage: “it can
centralize variations of color and light of a similar aspect—a point rarely observed,
though quite simple.”26 Such comments illustrate Debussy’s sensitivity, as well as his
willingness to compare and adapt the arts to musical ends.
But Debussy’s interest in the arts did more than offer inspiration for his compo-
sitions. In the 1880s his settings of Paul Verlaine’s poetry provided a new direction
for his music. In a similar manner his songs based on the poems of Pierre Louÿs and
Charles d’Orléans became extraordinary musical reflections on the texts.27 These
are instances of his sensitivity to poetry and of his ability to use its style to create a
musical idiom intimately allied to it.
The same is true of his only completed opera, Pelléas et Mélisande (1893–1902).
Here Debussy’s sensitivity to Maeterlinck’s prosody produced music of marvelous
nuance, his goal being both to complement the text and enhance the drama. The
concept of enhancement was also in his mind when writing the Prelude to the
Afternoon of a Faun (1894). Here the intent was to interpret the sound and sense of
Mallarmé’s poem in an entirely subjective manner. And once again the result was
music as free from convention as was Mallarmé’s poetry—and so faithful in its way
to Mallarmé’s intentions as to astonish the poet.
Of the instances just mentioned, the settings of Verlaine, Maeterlinck’s drama,
and Mallarmé’s poem have a strong connection to Symbolism. But a number of

25.  See Jarocinski, Debussy. Impressionisme et symbolisme.

26.  Letter to Raoul Bardac of 24-25 February 1906 in C, p. 942.
27.  But not his settings of Charles Baudelaire, which were used more as an instance to adapt
Wagnerian concepts.
 Debussy and the Arts  •  129

Debussy’s works have a similar kinship with Impressionism. Many of the Images for
piano, for example, evoke an Impressionist gallery, as do the movements comprising
the Nocturnes and Estampes (see Chapters 11 and 13).
But while there are compositions by Debussy whose connection to Symbolism
and Impressionism helps to provide greater understanding of them, a substantial
number stand apart. How can Jeux be categorized? Or the sonatas of his final years?
In his later compositions Debussy increasingly moved away from influences in lit-
erature or the visual arts to write more absolute music. His concern was with
sonority, with extending the types of sound usually associated with musical instru-
ments, with malleability of structure, and with using select musical compositions
from the past as a point of departure.
The purpose of associating a composer with a particular style—such as Classical,
or Romantic, or Impressionist—is to provide insight into his or her work. Though
it stands on its own merits, music does not exist on its own. It reflects the person
who composed it and the cultural tastes of the time. That was particularly true of
Debussy, who was enthralled by the arts. The breadth of his interests—from con-
temporary art and literature to eighteenth-century French chamber music—was
extraordinary, and since those interests often found expression in his music, it com-
plicates any attempt at a label. To classify him as an Impressionist, or Symbolist, or
as a bit of both is simplistic. His music displays such variety that categorization only
limits our understanding and appreciation of it.
 l Chapter nine
;
Student Compositions

There is no excellent or supreme beauty without some strangeness in the

proportion.
Frances Bacon, Novum Organum (1620)

Instrumental Works
Chamber:  Piano Trio
Piano:  Danse bohémienne; Le Triomphe de Bacchus; Printemps;
Première Suite d’orchestre (also for orchestra)

Vocal Works
Songs:  “Nuit d’étoiles” (Banville); “Mandoline” (Verlaine); “Romance” (Bourget);
“Pantomime” (Verlaine); “Fleur des blés” (Girod); “Rondel chinois”(?); “Clair de lune”
(Verlaine); “En sourdine” (Verlaine); “Fantoches” (Verlaine); “Apparition” ((Mallarmé)
Cantatas and Works for the Stage:
Diane au bois; Le Gladiateur; L’Enfant prodigue
Hélène

M ost of Debussy’s student compositions were not published during his 

lifetime. Later in his career, when there was a market for any work by him,
he was probably tempted to recycle some of these early pieces. But he must also
have realized that had he authorized their publication, it would have seemed as if
he were trying to profit from purely apprentice exercises. Still, it is surprising that it
took so long for them to appear in print—and that nearly a century after his death,
so many still remain in manuscript. One would have thought that for a composer
of Debussy’s stature, curiosity alone would have justified publication.

•  130  •
 Student Compositions  •  131

The reluctance to publish them is the result of hasty evaluation. Léon Vallas, for
decades the most prominent of Debussy’s biographers, examined in manuscript sev-
eral of Debussy’s student works and was critical of them. When some of the early
songs appeared in print in the 1920s,Vallas concluded that they were clumsy, ama-
teurish, and best left unpublished. Although his criticism was based on only a small
portion of Debussy’s youthful work (and, in some instances, only a brief examina-
tion of them), his opinion became widely adopted and led to the standard percep-
tion of Debussy as a late bloomer—one whose skills as a composer became apparent
only years after he had left the Conservatoire.
Few bothered to take a closer look at Debussy’s student works, yet anyone
approaching them with an open mind could only have been struck by their accom-
plishments. There was much of interest—and not merely because they provided
glimpses into his youthful tastes and development. Although awkward in spots, they
show a great deal of craftsmanship, all the more noteworthy given the complex
musical language of the late nineteenth century.
Ultimately what makes these early works so remarkable is their beauty.
Craftsmanship can be taught, and Debussy worked diligently to acquire it. But from
the start, the musical substance of his work—his inspiration—reveals him to be a
superb musician of enormous potential.
Among Debussy’s first compositions is his only piano trio, written in 1880 for
the ensemble at Nadezhda von Meck’s of which he was a part. Chamber music in
general enjoyed increased popularity in France after the Franco-Prussian War, pri-
marily because of the efforts of the Société Nationale. An area of particular interest
was instrumental music—which (with the exception of solo piano compositions)
had been neglected in France during the first half of the century. For Debussy’s
piano trio, there would have been no shortage of models from the regular concert
series at the Société, including chamber compositions with piano by Alexis de
Castillon,Vincent d’Indy, Edouard Lalo, and Camille Saint-Saëns.
Debussy’s Piano Trio (not published until 1986) has a great deal of charm. As
would be expected, it has four movements, but in this instance the second movement
is an elegant scherzo (in which he makes clever use of pizzicato strings).The Trio is
lyrical and overwhelmingly tuneful. Chamber music of this type would usually
contain one or more movements in sonata form, but even at this early stage
Debussy’s disdain for set structures is apparent. Only one movement—the finale
(twenty measures of which have been reconstructed from the cello part)—bears a
remote resemblance to sonata form. Rather, Debussy’s concern is with thematic
contrast (there are four distinct theme groups in the first movement alone). The
sheer profusion of melody serves as the basis of the trio’s major flaw: its lack of
cohesiveness. The effect is often that of a potpourri, with a series of striking mel-
odies somewhat indiscriminately linked.
132  •  debussy

Still, the Trio is a respectable effort, especially since prior to it Debussy had com-
posed very little. He presented a manuscript copy of the trio (with the dedication,
“many notes accompanied by many regards”) to his former harmony teacher, Emile
Durand—a gesture which has been interpreted as indicating that, despite differ-
ences, their relationship was cordial.1 But Debussy’s presentation could just as easily
have been intended as a declaration of independence, and proof, in spite of Durand’s
evaluation of him in class, of his accomplishments. No matter what the motivation
may have been, Durand would not have been pleased by its structural laxness.
A few months before the trio, Debussy composed a Danse bohémienne for solo piano
(not published until 1932). It was known to Mme von Meck who attempted to interest
Chaikovsky in it, but his response was not encouraging. He dismissed it as a “pretty
thing, but rather short, with themes which lead nowhere and an unsettled structure
which lacks unity”—a frank evaluation.2 The Danse is salon music, the type of piece
which might have been included by a composer in an album of miscellanies. It is quite
repetitive (dances tend to be) and not as accomplished or challenging as the Trio.
It is surprising that during these years Debussy did not draw on his training as a
pianist to compose more substantial works for piano. Perhaps he was afraid of being
perceived more as a pianist than as a composer. But instrumental music itself seemed
to hold little attraction for him. Although he did compose several works for piano,
four-hands—including a Symphony in three movements (December 1880 and
January 1881), written for the von Mecks (the first movement, an allegro, sounds a
bit Brahmsian), and an “Andante” and “Diane Overture” (1881; dedicated to
Guiraud)—Debussy showed much greater interest in song.3 From 1879 to 1885 he
composed about forty songs on a variety of texts, and they constitute his major
accomplishment as a composer during these years.
Most people familiar with nineteenth-century art song associate it with the
German Lied and the songs of Schubert, Schumann, and Brahms. The French
counterpart—the “mélodie”—has a much smaller following, in part because on
first hearing the mélodie often seems less tuneful than the Lied. The mélodie was
humble in origin, developing from the “romance,” a genre popular in France from
the Napoleonic era through the 1840s. Romances were generally slight pieces,
intended for performance at home by amateurs. They tended to be lyrical, quite
simple, and with rudimentary piano accompaniment.

1.  LS, p. 48.

2.  Ibid., p. 46.
3.  In June 1882 he also composed two salon pieces: an “Intermezzo” for cello and piano (part of a
projected suite for cello and orchestra), and a “Nocturne et Scherzo” (for cello with piano accom-
paniment). Both were arranged for violin as well. Another “Intermezzo” (intended for orchestra
and surviving for piano, four-hands) was inspired by Heine’s “Lyric Intermezzo.”
 Student Compositions  •  133

The mélodie, although still directed toward the salon, displayed greater refine-
ment. It began to make its appearance as enthusiasm for the romance waned.
Berlioz, Meyerbeer, and Liszt composed quite a few, as did later composers such as
Gounod, Delibes, and Saint-Saëns. But by the time Debussy turned to it, the
­mélodie was still more a popular than an artistic genre. Massenet was the most
fashionable composer of mélodies. He wrote more than 250, issuing them individ-
ually and in albums. The poetry he set was frequently sentimental, written by
popular poets of the day who often also wrote opera librettos. Massenet’s mélodies
were known for their lyricism (a reflection of his success in opera) with moder-
ately ­difficult piano accompaniments. But his finest settings—such as the group of
five comprising Poème d’Octobre published in 1878—rise above the usual level of
the salon and, like the posters of Toulouse-Lautrec and Mucha, are strikingly evoc-
ative of la Belle Epoque.
Massenet’s mélodies were representative of the most popular type. Those of his
contemporary, Henri Duparc, tended to be more challenging and were directed
toward connoisseurs. A student of Franck, Duparc was plagued by self-doubt and
published little. His greatest accomplishment is seventeen songs, composed from
1868 to 1884 (although most did not appear in print until the 1890s). His choice of
poets—including Jean Lahor, Leconte de Lisle, Théophile Gautier, and Charles
Baudelaire—was far removed from the fashionable writers selected by Massenet.
And Duparc’s music was equally distinctive: adventurous, often daring harmonically,
and intimately linked to the text. Duparc’s mélodies are more characteristic of the
type of mélodie Debussy was to create.
Debussy’s first songs (composed in late 1879) were set to texts of the popular
Romantic poet, Alfred de Musset.4 It was a conventional choice, but Debussy was
soon to find Romanticism—in both literature and music—sentimental and melo-
dramatic. More characteristic was his next choice of poet: Théodore de Banville.
Banville’s poetry may not have been particularly innovative for the 1880s (he had
been associated twenty years earlier with the Parnassians, who produced, in reaction
to Romanticism, a more “classical” style). But his work remained distinctive enough
to have a select following, an indication both of the breadth of Debussy’s reading
and the growing refinement of his taste.
Debussy’s setting of Banville’s “Nuit d’étoiles” (Starry Night) was composed
early in 1880 and published two years later—the first of his works to appear in print.
It represents well his earliest songs. The use of arpeggios in the piano to create a
strumming effect imitative of the lyre referred to in the poem is a nice touch. But
it is burdened by convention, with four-bar lyricism à la Massenet and a piano part

4. Two are known: “Madrid” (which remains unpublished) and “Ballade à la lune” (which is
known only by a reference to it by Debussy’s friend, Paul Vidal).
134  •  debussy

subservient to the vocal line. It can be gracious and tuneful, but the same may be
said of many other mélodies of the day.
In 1881 Debussy composed about a dozen songs, using additional poems of
Banville as well as poetry by Leconte de Lisle (who also had ties to the Parnassians).
In general Debussy’s very first songs can give the impression of melody thrust upon
the text, but these new songs are far more skillfully handled.The music shows unusual
sensitivity to the poetry and an increased role for the piano—all accomplished
without sacrificing lyricism. His mastery of the Massenet-like mélodie of the day is
demonstrated in little gems, such as his setting of André Girod’s “Fleur des blés”
(Wheat Flower). Several of the poems set in 1881 are love poems, not surprising
given their association with Marie Vasnier—twenty-seven of Debussy’s early songs
were written with her in mind. But also present is wit and irony seen, for example,
in the exoticism of  “Rondel chinois,” a fanciful parody of the current fad for exot-
icism found in operas such as Massenet’s Roi de Lahore and Delibes’s Lakmé.
What becomes increasingly apparent in these settings is Debussy’s astonishing
poetic sensibility. His reading and interpretation of poetry were intense—a passion-
ate combination of intellect and imagination—and his music reflected it. In that
sense, the finest of Debussy’s songs exist both as a piece of music and as an interpre-
tation of the text.
Poetry was a powerful source of inspiration to him, so much so that Debussy’s
music could be transformed by it. Such was the case in 1882 with his settings of
Paul Verlaine. Although frequently associated with the Symbolists, Verlaine’s
poetry stands apart. He was about twenty years older than most of the writers
connected to the movement. The scandal that surrounded him—his alcoholism
and tumultuous affair with Arthur Rimbaud—attracted as much attention as his
writing. Although Debussy is not believed to have known Verlaine, there was a
personal connection. In the early 1870s during Verlaine’s infatuation with
Rimbaud, he was married to Mme Mauté’s daughter and lived for a time with
the family. Debussy was already studying at the Conservatoire so he probably
had no direct contact with Verlaine, but it would be unlikely if he had not heard
about him.
In his poetry Verlaine made a point of distancing himself from French literary
tradition. For centuries, the standard line of verse in France had been the alex-
andrine: twelve syllables with a caesura (or cadence) at the halfway point. Verlaine
played with the alexandrine in a variety of ways—altering the placement of the
caesura, using an odd number of metrical feet, and introducing internal rhyme. As
a result, he abandoned the traditional rhetorical style of much nineteenth-century
French poetry. His rhyme schemes and meter became unpredictable; the use of
assonance and alliteration became prominent.
To set V  erlaine’s poetry to music, a new and more flexible compositional ap­­
proach was essential. Symmetrical phrasing, operatic lyricism, and luxuriant harmony
 Student Compositions  •  135

in the style of Massenet would be incongruous. The music Debussy created for
Verlaine’s poems was unlike any he had written, with a free-flowing and declama-
tory vocal line, and considerable freedom in the use of dissonance (inevitably as a
commentary on the text).
In choosing Verlaine, Debussy was well ahead of his time.Verlaine did not emerge
from obscurity until the publication of Jadis et Naguère in 1884 (Gabriel Fauré’s
well-known settings of Verlaine’s “La bonne Chanson,” for example, were not com-
pleted until a decade after Debussy’s). Debussy set four poems of Verlaine to music
in 1882:“Clair de lune” (Moonlight),“En sourdine” (Muted),“Fantoches” (Puppets),
and “Mandoline.” They were written for Marie Vasnier, and because they were
­tailored to her strengths, make exceptional demands on the voice, especially in the
upper register (“En sourdine” is a notable instance).
Debussy revised the first three of the Verlaine poems, publishing them in 1903
as the first set of Fêtes galantes. These later settings (that for “Fantoches” greatly
resembles the 1882 version; the others are new) remain much better known than
Debussy’s student efforts. But the earlier versions have much to commend them.
The enfant terrible of the Conservatoire soon makes an appearance. In
“Mandoline” (supposedly in C major, but with modal implications), the opening
arpeggios consist of two open fifths placed on top of one another—emphasizing
the ninth (A), but concocted to imitate the open strings of the mandolin.The reit-
erated Gs could not make the entry of the voice (outlining a D minor triad) more
startling (Example 9-1a).

9-1a  “Mandoline”
136  •  debussy

The role of the piano is pivotal—creating in its way duets for piano and voice. But
even today what is most striking is Debussy’s audacity: “Mandoline” seems to have no
ending. Following a decisive statement of the tonic (C major), there is silence, then
G—a playful ambiguity identical to the opening measures of the song (Example 9-1b).

9-1b  “Mandoline” (1890 version; in the earlier setting the voice is an octave higher)

Because it has been routine for so long to belittle his student compositions, it is
easy to overlook their innovations. Debussy’s contemporaries did not. “Mandoline”
was first published in 1890, and the composer Charles Koechlin was astonished by
what he found in it. “There were several chords at the start,” he recalled, “which
revealed to me all sorts of modulatory possibilities.”5
Debussy composed about a dozen songs in 1883 and 1884. Half use the poetry
of Paul Bourget, a poet and novelist who was coming increasingly in vogue. These
settings were among those Debussy performed to acclaim at the Villa during his
stay in Rome, and their popularity is not surprising. They are lyrical in a more
conventional manner than the Verlaine songs, but Debussy’s more orthodox
approach implies no abandonment of his poetic sensibility. For “Romance,” a series
of repetitive pianissimo seventh chords creates a marvelously static effect, intended
as a musical counterpart to the silence referred to in the poem (Example 9-2).

9-2  “Romance”

5.  Robert Orledge, Charles Koechlin (1867–1950). His Life and Works (Chur, Switzerland: Harwood
Academic, 1989), p. 5.
 Student Compositions  •  137

One additional Verlaine poem was set in 1883: “Pantomime.”Verlaine drew out
the best in Debussy, and in this instance he seemed particularly attracted to
Verlaine’s irony—a characteristic of the poetry, incidentally, of another of Debussy’s
favorite writers, Jules Laforgue. “Pantomime” is a spirited work and an early indi-
cation of Debussy’s fondness for the commedia dell’arte (similar themes in the
poetry of Banville also attracted him). At times, its brash tunefulness brings to
mind the music hall. The opening sets the stage for its mocking tone. Statements
of the tonic are playfully avoided, as in Example 9-3 where the piano at first
emphasizes the leading tone (D sharp; mm. 2–3, 5–6), but then descends by half
step to F natural, making all the more startling the appearance of E major in the
tenth measure:

9-3  “Pantomime”

As Debussy prepared for what was to be his final attempt for the Prix de Rome,
fewer songs were composed. The most interesting is his setting of Mallarmé’s
“Apparition,” a poem that had only recently appeared in print (November 1883) in
the journal Lutèce. Mallarmé’s hermetic poetry was to have a profound effect on
Debussy, but this first encounter is a bit of a disappointment. Much of Mallarmé’s
work is visionary and dazzling. Ambiguity is an important element—with the
sounds of words and their meaning often of equal significance, and with meaning
itself condensed and obscured.
Unlike the Verlaine songs, Debussy’s setting of Mallarmé does not go far enough
in its unconventionality. There is too much that recalls his settings of Bourget’s love
138  •  debussy

poems, resulting in music that seems fragmented and at times at odds with the text.
There is also a concern with the grand gesture, creating precisely the type of theatrical
statement that Debussy made a point of avoiding in his later settings of Mallarmé.
But perhaps it is unfair to expect so much so early in his career—for there is a great
deal in the music that complements the poem, such as the wonderfully nebulous
effects of the opening ninth chords in the piano’s upper register (with the indication
that they be performed “rêveusement”: “in a dream-like manner”).
Although songs were the major focus during these years, several projects indi-
cated Debussy’s interest in the stage. It was typical of Debussy throughout his career
to contemplate writing for the theater; few projects, however, went beyond the
planning stage.While in Rome he considered an adaptation of Flaubert’s Salammbô,
but nothing came of it. The most substantial project during these years was an
adaptation of Banville’s drama, Diane au bois (based on Ovid). Debussy was fasci-
nated by its possibilities and worked on it intermittently from 1883 to 1886. His
“Diane Overture” of 1881 (for piano, four-hands) may have been intended to be
part of it. But only two additional segments were completed: parts of scenes iii and
iv from Act II, a total of twenty-nine pages for soprano and tenor with piano
accompaniment. Debussy probably was drawn to the dream-like elements of
Banville’s play (similar in that sense to his later interest in Maeterlinck’s Pelléas et
Mélisande). For a while he considered using Diane instead of Zuleima as his first
envoi from Rome.6
Prior to Diane au bois, Debussy had shown interest in two other Banville works.
In 1882 he set portions of Banville’s play, Hymnis. And that same year, inspired by
Banville’s poem, “Le Triomphe de Bacchus à son retour des Indes,” Debussy com-
posed Le Triomphe de Bacchus for piano, four-hands (“Divertissement,”  “Andante,”
“Scherzo,”“Marche et bacchanale”). It was followed (1883–84?) by a more ambitious
suite, the Première Suite d’orchestre consisting of four movements (“Fête,” “Ballet,”
“Rêve,” and “Cortège et bacchanale”).7 In addition to the pieces associated with
Banville, Debussy’s work with Leconte de Lisle’s Hélène was considered as an entry
piece for the city of Paris competition in 1884. It was a “lyric scene” for soprano,
chorus, and orchestra first started in 1881, but he completed only fragments.
All of these compositions were works conceived by Debussy beyond those in
the classroom, and reveal a great deal about both his interests and his industry. But
he also remained active in Guiraud’s class, and produced a number of pieces associ-
ated with the Prix de Rome competition:

6.  For further discussion of these fragments (including previously unpublished excerpts), see L,
pp.  76–81, and James R. Briscoe, “To Invent New Forms”: Debussy’s Diane au bois,” Musical
Quarterly 74 (1990), pp. 131–169.
7.  The version for piano, four-hands has survived. An orchestral setting lacks the third movement.
 Student Compositions  •  139

1882: “Salut printemps” (Probably as practice for the competition, Debussy also set the
­cantata, “Daniel,” by Emile Cicile.)
1883: “Invocation” and Le Gladiateur
1884: “Le Printemps” and L’Enfant prodigue

Le Gladiateur was the cantata for which Debussy was awarded second prize. It is
clearly a student work, with a number of clichés that confirm his study of contem-
porary French opera (and its fondness for diminished seventh chords at moments
of dramatic intensity). But it also reveals Debussy’s interest in Wagner (especially in
the use of leitmotivs) and, not surprising given the songs he had composed, displays
a “sensitivity to poetic values.”8
Debussy’s winning entry of 1884—L’Enfant prodigue—is more accomplished.The
text includes roles for the Prodigal Son (Azaël), his parents (Lia and Siméon), and
chorus, and is an adaptation of the biblical tale. In composing it, Debussy adhered to
Guiraud’s advice and wrote in a more conventional style. L’Enfant prodigue was cre-
ated with the clear intention of offending no one and of pleasing as many as possible.
For it, Debussy drew on the style of two of the most popular composers of the day,
Massenet and Delibes—a selection made all the easier by the similarity between the
exotic setting of L’Enfant prodigue and several of their operas.
It was Debussy’s good fortune that the tale of the Prodigal Son enjoyed renewed
popularity at the time in France, including versions by popular painters such as
Puvis de Chavannes. After Debussy became better known, he decided to revise the
work, and it is this version (1906–1908, apparently with assistance from André
Caplet) that is heard today. When he reexamined it prior to revision, Debussy was
astonished to find how inept his original scoring was, even claiming to find some
double stops for the English horn.
Exoticism is an essential element of the work and a major reason for its popu-
larity. It makes an appearance in the very first measures: the plaintive cry of the oboe
is intended to be evocative of the Middle East. But equally striking is Debussy’s imi-
tation of the lyrical, operatic style characteristic of Massenet (see Example 9-4 on
the following page).
For a student work, L’Enfant prodigue is remarkably skillful. Much of the music is
enjoyable, tuneful, and memorable.Yet—despite moments of dramatic effectiveness—
to those familiar with Debussy’s later music, it seems like the work of someone else. It
remains a tribute to his facility. He was able with comparative ease to write in the fash-
ionable manner of his day. To the judges, it must have seemed as if he were a budding
Massenet. But Debussy’s subterfuge—and the artistic compromise it entailed—was not
to his liking. He was never particularly pleased by the popularity of L’Enfant prodigue.

8.  John R. Clevenger, “Debussy’s First ‘Masterpiece.’ Le Gladiateur,” Cahiers Debussy 23 (1999), p. 13.
9-4  L’Enfant prodigue
 Student Compositions  •  141

After settling in Rome, Debussy was obliged to produce one major composition
each year as an indication of his activity and development. These yearly envois were
sent to Paris for evaluation. Invariably, reaction to them was not favorable. Zuleima,
sent in 1886, has been discussed in Chapter 2. Printemps was hurriedly completed the
following year. It was condemned for its supposed impressionistic qualities. But what
was actually disliked in the work was its departure from convention—and, in that
sense, the criticism was probably taken by Debussy as confirmation of his success.
Printemps is known today in a revision prepared in 1913 by Henri Büsser and
authorized by Debussy (with some assistance on his part). The original has been
considerably reworked: the chorus has been removed and the orchestration is far
more sophisticated than would have been true of Debussy in 1887. Much of it seems
intended to please, especially the work’s beguiling lyricism.Yet the tonal ambiguity
of its primary theme and the defiance of textbook harmony would probably have
been sufficient to set the committee on edge.
They were also perplexed by its structure.“The first movement of the symphonic
piece of M. Debussy is a sort of adagio prelude, of a reverie and affectation that lead
to confusion,” they wrote. “The second movement is a bizarre and incoherent
transformation of the first.”9 To their credit, the committee recognized that the
second movement was based on thematic material from the first. It might have
helped Debussy’s case if they had known why. As he explained in a letter to Emile
Baron, “the slow and languid genesis of beings and things in nature” (Movement I)
leads to “their flowering—concluding with a dazzling delight at being reborn to a
new life” (Movement II)—so there was a sound poetic reason for using the same
music in both movements.10
In 1889 Debussy had considered reworking Printemps for possible performance
at the Société Nationale. He described it not as a choral work—for the chorus had
“no words and is handled as if it were part of the orchestra”—but as a “symphonic suite
with chorus.”11 For that reason, he felt that it would be a challenge to perform, a reac-
tion that seems to indicate that he was hesitant in entrusting it to the Société. But
at the time he was creating works more indicative of new directions in his style—
most notably, the Fantaisie for Piano and Orchestra and Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire—
and that, coupled with his invariable reluctance to revise old pieces, helps to explain
why the proposed revision was delayed for nearly twenty-five years. By then, the
situation had changed: his popularity was so great that any new piece he had writ-
ten was eagerly awaited.

9.  John R. Clevenger, “Debussy’s Rome Cantatas,” in Debussy and His World, ed. Jane Fulcher
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 71.
10.  Letter of 9 February 1887 in C, p. 59.
11.  Letter to Ernest Chausson of 7 March 1889 in ibid., p. 70.
Plate 1: While living with the von Mecks, Debussy regularly performed as part of a piano trio (he is on the
right; the others are P. Danilchenko and Ladislas Pachulsky). One of his first compositions was written for the
group in 1880.
Plate 2: Debussy at the time he was living at the Villa Medici, after winning the Prix de Rome, painted
by fellow-student, Marcel Baschet. His stay there, he wrote in 1885, was “a wasted experience [that] has
merely set me back.”
Plate 3: Debussy playing through the score of Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov while visiting the Chaussons
in 1893 at their summer residence in Luzancy. Chausson, standing alongside Debussy, became a strong
supporter and advisor.
Plate 4: Debussy in 1897 relaxing in the apartment of the writer Pierre Louÿs, along with Louÿs’s
Algerian mistress, Zohra bent Brahim.
Plate 5: Debussy in May 1902 with his first wife, Lilly Texier. Alongside are the composer, Paul Dukas;
the music critic, Pierre Lalo; and Adrien Dukas, Paul’s brother.
Plate 6: The cover for Debussy’s La Damoiselle élue by Maurice Denis (1870–1943) published by Edmond
Bailly in 1892. The graceful, flowing line of her hair exemplifies the arabesque characteristic of art
nouveau.
Plate 7: Debussy with his second wife, Emma Bardac. After their marriage, they lived in an elegant home
in an aristocratic neighborhood near the Bois de Boulogne. But despite the popularity of his music,
Debussy was constantly in debt.
Plate 8: Debussy at his work table in his study. Prominently displayed behind him is one of his favorite
pieces: a wooden statue of a toad he named Arkel after the character in Pelléas.
Plate 9: Debussy with his daughter, Chouchou. She was the light of his life and inspired several of his
compositions, including Children’s Corner (1908).
Plate 10: Debussy at the seashore with Chouchou during a vacation to Houlgate in 1911. He was
annoyed by the crowds of tourists. “I’m doing precisely nothing, not out of idleness, but because it’s
impossible to think amid this caravanserai.”

Plate 11: A formal portrait of Debussy

by Paul Nadar (1856–1939) taken in
1909. Debussy made fun of the stiff
pose and joked to Nadar that the
image was worthy of posterity.
Plate 12: Debussy in his garden, a constant source of inspiration to him. “On fine days, he walked along
a garden path and noted down his musical ideas in a little red leather notebook which never left his
pocket.”
Plate 13: The cover for La Mer (1905). Its basis is the crest of a wave adapted from a print by the Japanese
artist Hokusai (1760–1849): “The Hollow of the Wave Off Kanegawa.”
Plate 14: Debussy in 1917. Cancer took a severe toll on him. “I don’t take this tattered body for walks
anymore,” he wrote in 1916, “in case I frighten little children and tram conductors.”
Plate 15: Portrait of Debussy in 1913 by Ivan Thièle (1877–1948). This is an etching from the original
charcoal drawing, and was first printed in 1927 in the deluxe edition of Debussy’s correspondence with
his publisher.
 l Chapter ten
;
Compositions, 1888–1893

In music, then, rather than in poetry, is to be found the true type or measure of
perfected art. Although each art has its incommunicable element, its untranslatable
order of impressions, its unique mode of reaching the “imaginative reason,” yet
the arts may be represented as continually struggling after the law or principle
of music, to a condition which music alone completely realises.
Walter Pater, “The School of Giorgione” (1877)

Instrumental Works
Piano:  Deux Arabesques; Mazurka; Rêverie; Ballade slave; Tarentelle styrienne; Valse roman-
tique; Suite bergamasque; Nocturne; Petite Suite
Orchestra and Concerto:  Fantaisie for Piano and Orchestra; Marche des anciens comtes de
Ross (Marche écossaise)

Vocal Works
Songs:  Ariettes [oubliées] (Verlaine); Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire; Fêtes galantes (Verlaine);
Proses lyriques (Debussy)
Opera and Cantata:  La Damoiselle élue; Rodrigue et Chimène

D ebussy was only three months short of his thirty-first birthday

when he attended the unique performance in Paris of Maeterlinck’s Pelléas et
Mélisande. Although it provided him with a goal, it also brought to mind how little
he seemed to have accomplished. Debussy could only have been concerned with
the lack of recognition for his work thus far. But despite his growing impatience,

•  142  •
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  143

much had been achieved. During the years immediately following his return from
Rome, in working to establish a reputation he had done much to create the
foundation of his musical style.
It was not as if he were uncertain about the sound he wanted to create. He
described precisely what he was looking for and how it would be produced: “Sound
must be drowned.”  “The tonal scale must be enriched by other scales.”“Minor thirds
and major thirds should be combined.” These statements were all part of a concept
expressed in conversations with Ernest Guiraud in 1889 and 1890—­conversations so
unusual that another student present actually took notes:

Debussy: Classical signifies major and minor. In the classical style chords are resolved.The
classical style implies near modulations (a closed circle). Romantic: a label that to my
mind has no significance. The language of Schumann, Berlioz, and Liszt is the classical
language. I hear in them all the same kind of music.
Guiraud: But this insipid, continuous music [the music of Wagner]. No scenes, no cuts.
You can’t say it is anything like Mozart!
Debussy: I shouldn’t say it is the opposite of Mozart. It’s a later development. No square-
cut phrases, nevertheless Wagner develops in the classical manner. Wagner merely aban-
doned the perpetual perfect cadence and the hateful six-four chord. . . .
Guiraud: But what about his treatment of the voices?
Debussy: Yes, there we find a difference, but not a musical difference. Is it new? It may
seem to resemble the spoken language; and it doesn’t follow the four-bar phrase. There
are no recitatives in the Italian manner and no lyrical arias. The words are subordinated
to the orchestral accompaniment, but not sufficiently. It is music that sings too continu-
ously. Singing should be reserved for certain points.
Guiraud: What kind of poet would you yourself have in mind?
Debussy: One who only hints at what is to be said. The ideal would be two associated
dreams. No place, nor time. No big scene. No compulsion on the musician, who must
complete and give body to the work of the poet. Music in opera is far too predominant.
Too much singing and the musical settings are too cumbersome. The blossoming of the
voice into true singing should occur only when required. A painting executed in gray is
the ideal. No developments merely for the sake of developments. A prolonged development
does not fit, cannot fit, the words. My idea is of a short libretto with mobile scenes. . . .
[The discussion then turned to concepts of rhythm and harmony.]
Debussy: No faith in the supremacy of the C major scale.The tonal scale must be enriched
by other scales. . . . Rhythms are stifling.Rhythms cannot be contained within bars. . . . Relative
keys are nonsense too. Music is neither major nor minor. Minor thirds and major thirds
should be combined, modulation thus becoming more flexible. The mode is that which
one happens to choose at the moment. It is inconstant. . . .
Guiraud: (Debussy having played a series of intervals on the piano):What’s that?
144  •  debussy

Debussy: Incomplete chords, floating. Il faut noyer le ton [The sound must be drowned].
One can travel where one wishes and leave by any door. Greater nuances.
Guiraud: But when I play this it has to resolve. [Guiraud plays a Neapolitan sixth chord.]
Debussy: I don’t see that it should.Why? . . . There is no theory.You have merely to listen.
Pleasure is the law.1

Debussy’s comments—made at a time when he was probably working on the

Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire, the Fantaisie, and the Petite Suite—confirm his
independence of mind, but they also reveal much about the type of music that
interested him. His refusal to accept the commonplace distinction between “Classic”
and “Romantic” provided a sense of direction for his own compositions. It was a
perception based on his discovery that the aesthetic differences separating classicism
and romanticism masked strong similarities in their musical style. His stance per-
mitted him to assume a broad and expansive view of musical tradition and to create
a deeply personal interpretation of it—with Berlioz, Schumann, and Liszt as repre-
sentatives of a “classical language.”
But it is also clear that Debussy’s primary concern was with sound—not tradition—
and certainly not with rules sanctioned or governed by tradition. Anything that did
not produce the sound he wanted became irrelevant. An equally important aspect
was the manner in which that sound would be created: by “nuance”—a subtle
approach, and one in deliberate contrast to the dramatic and emotional ­climaxes
characteristic of nineteenth-century music.
Debussy’s sensibility—exemplified by the statement, “Il faut noyer le ton”—
emphasized an affinity for ambiguity. Tonality continued to be present in his music,
but in a new manner—more expansive, and with less distinction between major
and minor. Tonality was also “enriched” by the use of scales other than major and
minor, that is, different modes such as the whole tone scale. But Debussy’s concern
with ambiguity went beyond tonality. Articulation and texture could also be
­softened, in the process minimizing the difference between melody and harmony,
and leading to what contemporary critics often complained was an emphasis on
harmony alone.
The ideas Debussy expressed to Guiraud were not ones he had only recently
articulated. Aspects of them are present in his student compositions, particularly
the Verlaine songs. But beginning in the late 1880s, their presence becomes more
­pervasive. At the same time—while he gradually asserted his independence as a
composer—Debussy’s musical language and the goals he worked toward became
more closely allied to a personal musical aesthetic.

1.  Maurice Emmanuel (who became a critic and music historian) was a student of Guiraud and
was present at about a dozen meetings between him and Debussy. He published a transcription of
their conversations in 1926 in his study of Pelléas et Mélisande. Translation in LK, I, pp. 204–207.
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  145

At its heart was a dissatisfaction—in some instances, a contempt—for contempo-

rary French music.To Debussy, most of the work performed at the Société Nationale
was conventional and academic. As for French opera, it was vapid. Massenet’s operas,
he maintained, displayed “an extraordinary talent for satisfying all that is poetically
empty and lyrically cheap in the dilettante mind! Everything in it contributes to
providing mediocrity.”2 Convinced that the masses were only attracted to what was
simplistic and shallow, Debussy was suspicious of any composer who (like Massenet)
was popular. And he was also convinced that his own subjective and idealistic
­conception of music would appeal only to a select minority.
Debussy was intrigued by the elusive and evanescent qualities of music, charac-
teristics he believed were a world apart from the sordid, callous, and ignoble stan-
dards of his day. Music, he wrote, was “a dream from which the veils have been
lifted. It’s not even the expression of a feeling, it’s the feeling itself.”3 His connection
of music with dream and feeling was not unique. Similar concepts were champi-
oned by the Symbolists. For years Debussy had been attracted to dream-like settings
for his music, using texts by Banville and Mallarmé.
His association of music with feeling also resembled the view held by the
Symbolists. It differed from the common nineteenth-century belief in music’s
ability to express specific emotions (such as grief or joy). As Debussy put it, music
was “the feeling itself ” (and not an intermediary). His view was allied to the con-
cept of “états d’âme” (soul-states) current in Symbolist literature and painting (see
Chapter 8). Music and, to a lesser extent, the visual arts were prized for their ability
to communicate with precision what words alone could not: specific states of
soul—not individual emotions, but entire, often complex, states embodying, say,
happiness and elation, or despair, anger, and remorse.
One of Debussy’s first steps in developing his own musical style was to reject
much of what his contemporaries most valued: the traditional view of Western
music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It served as the foundation at the
Conservatoire, and he concluded that it was essential to get away from it “as soon
as possible in order to look for and discover one’s individuality.”4
His contempt for “classical masters”—such as Beethoven (whom he “claimed to
abhor”)—was well known among friends and acquaintances.5 But there were excep-
tions. At Rome, Paul Vidal saw Debussy enjoying performances of Beethoven’s
Fifth Piano Concerto and Second Symphony—so there was some posturing in his

2.  Letter to André Poniatowski of February 1893 in DL, p. 41.

3.  Ibid.
4.  Claude Debussy, Monsieur Croche et autres écrits, ed. François Lesure (Paris: Gallimard, 1987),
p. 278. Hereafter abbreviated Ecrits.
5.  Paul Vidal, “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy,” La Revue Musicale 7 (May, 1926), p. 14.
146  •  debussy

manner. Debussy always took pleasure in shocking the crowd, and there was no
easier way for him to do it than by attacking their idols.
The classical style was confining and predictable to Debussy, and his interest in com-
posers associated with Romanticism—Schumann, for example—was selective.What he
preferred was any kind of music that differed from the academic models exhibited at the
Conservatoire. The earliest recorded instance of this was his admiration for the gypsy
music he heard in Moscow while with the von Mecks. It was, in the words of his first
French biographer, important as “the initial instance of music without rules.”  6
Another example is his enthusiasm for the compositions of Palestrina and
Orlando di Lasso that he encountered in Rome. After returning to Paris, Debussy’s
interest in music of the Renaissance grew. There was a revival of early music under
way, and in the vanguard were the concerts created by Charles Bordes at Saint-
Gervais. Debussy attended several, on at least one occasion bringing Mallarmé
along. “It is incredibly beautiful,” he wrote after hearing a mass by Palestrina.
“Although written in a strict manner technically, its effect is one of perfect white-
ness, and emotion is not expressed (as it has come to be) by shrieks and roars, but
by melodic arabesques. It is the result to a certain extent of the contours, and the
interlacing of the arabesques—producing something which seems to be unique:
harmony created by melody!”7 Paul Dukas recalled that at about this time he and
Debussy would play pieces by Palestrina together, arranging them as piano duets.
Aspects of Palestrina’s style appealed to Debussy because they provided confirma-
tion of his own beliefs.The “perfect whiteness”—a wonderful phrase that emphasizes
Debussy’s visual affinity—was a result of the absence of histrionics and melodrama
typical of nineteenth-century music. And he seemed pleased that although its “strict
manner” embodied more than enough rules to satisfy academics, these were not the
rules taught at the Conservatoire. In the end, what seemed most to impress him was
the effect of Palestrina’s counterpoint: “harmony created by melody”—an unusual
observation, and one that could also be applied to some of Debussy’s music.
Debussy was charmed by what he perceived as the essence of Palestrina’s melody:
melody as arabesque. Arabesque was popular at the time in the visual arts where it was
represented as a free-flowing, graceful, and rippling line—both languid and dynamic.
Odilon Redon, a Symbolist painter and lithographer, complained of a “preoccupation”
with it.8 And there can be little doubt that at times it must have seemed as if the arabesque

6.  Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles Fantaisistes, 1909), p. 15. The incident was
also mentioned in Daniel Chennevière’s early study of Debussy (1913).
7.  Letter to André Poniatowski of February 1893 in C, p. 116. The work was his Missa brevis for
four voices.
8.  Douglas Druick, ed., Odilon Redon. Prince of Dreams, 1840–1916 (Chicago: Art Institute of
Chicago, 1994), p. 236.
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  147

had invaded the arts. (A particularly fine instance is the outline of the maiden’s hair in
the illustration created by Maurice Denis for the cover of Debussy’s La Demoiselle élue.
Debussy gave Redon an inscribed copy of it. See Plate 6.)
Arabesque was also a pervasive component in the Japanese art admired by
Debussy. And it was frequently found in art nouveau—an arts and crafts movement
allied with Symbolism—where it found expression in furniture, book design, even
the wrought iron entrances of the recently opened Métro in Paris. The arabesque
motif was so prevalent in fin-de-siècle France that Debussy’s allusion to it comes as
no surprise. But to apply it as he did to Palestrina’s music was striking. Arabesque as
melody represented true melody to Debussy, and he discovered it in all music he
admired, including that of Bach.
Debussy’s interest in the music of the distant past was not limited to that of the
Renaissance. He was equally fascinated with Gregorian chant, which was also per-
formed at Saint-Gervais. Chant was being rediscovered in Paris during the 1880s and
1890s, primarily through the research of the monks at Solesmes. Debussy attended sev-
eral performances, not in the romanticized style (often with keyboard accompaniment)
that had become prevalent, but in a style which attempted authenticity. As with the
music of Palestrina, he took pleasure in the arabesque-like quality of the melodic line.
Both chant and Palestrina’s compositions were a revelation to him. One friend
meeting Debussy after a performance at Saint-Gervais detected “a light in his eyes
such as I had never seen before, and coming over to me, he expressed his intense
emotion in these simple words: ‘Now that’s music!’ ”  9
Debussy’s compositions created in the half dozen years after his return from
Rome confirm his eagerness to produce music as distinctive and original as the
music he admired. But the varied content of his compositions also reveals the diffi-
culties and frustration Debussy encountered. He needed to establish a reputation,
but preferred not to pander to the tastes of the public. He wanted to appeal to con-
noisseurs, but soon realized that it was unlikely that their support would provide
sufficient income. He wanted the recognition of colleagues, but seemed convinced
that they would be unable to appreciate his style. In the end, he tried to appeal to
all with, not surprisingly, very limited success.
His compositions during these years fall into three broad categories (with some
overlapping):

1. those intended to provide income (salon works, such as the Mazurka and
  Valse romantique).
2. those intended to win the esteem of colleagues, usually containing elements of their style
(the Fantaisie and Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire, for example).

9.  Léon Vallas, Claude Debussy. His Life and Works (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1933), p. 38.
(Translation corrected.)
148  •  debussy

3. those written primarily to please himself, with minimal concern with sales (such as La
Damoiselle élue).

Debussy began by producing works of marked originality such as the Ariettes,

and La Damoiselle élue. But when these did not sufficiently boost his career, his
compositions became wider in their appeal. Piano pieces like the Mazurka, Ballade
slave, Tarentelle styrienne, and Valse romantique—all composed in 1890— recall the
salon, and were works he privately belittled.10 They are all fairly inconsequential,
often in straightforward ternary form, and with noticeable padding. The Nocturne
(1892) also draws on the salon, but there are similarities to the manner of Fauré,
and a more demanding and refined technique needed for performance.
In general these works are simple to play and easy to listen to. Melody, often
vocal in style, is emphasized. And the composers who served as Debussy’s models
never seem to be too distant. The pieces contain some nice individual touches:
clever variation of the two-measure cells of the Ballade, for example, or the expanded
tonality of the middle section of the Chabrier-like Tarantelle styrienne—a composer
admired by Debussy for his willingness to flout the rules.11
In some of his compositions Debussy was able to transform the generic salon
style of his day. Rêverie (1890), Suite Bergamasque (“Prélude,” “Menuet,” “Clair de
lune,” and “Passepied”; 1890, rev. 1905), and Deux Arabesques (1888–1891) became
extraordinarily popular. They make limited technical demands on the performer
(an important element for sales), are constructed in a straightforward manner (usu-
ally in ternary form), and contain a great deal of repetition (making them both
easier to learn and easier to grasp). Their simplicity is striking. But despite their
popularity they represented an approach that Debussy simply did not like. In 1905
he described the Rêverie as “without importance . . . bad.”12
In all of these works, Debussy is at his most charming. Their freshness and
novelty contribute greatly to their appeal, an appeal based largely on his con-
ception of the arabesque. The distinction between melody (often vocal in
nature) and harmony (as an accompaniment to it) is deliberately obscured. In
the first of the Arabesques, arpeggios create a melodic arabesque. The famous
opening of  “Clair de lune” is similar—a melding of melody and harmony,
varied in cells two measures in length, and with the flow of the arabesque
beginning in m. 5 (Example 10-1).

10.  Both the Ballade and Tarentelle were reissued in 1903, the former simply as Ballade and the latter
as Danse.
11.  Chabrier’s influence can also be found in the exuberant rhythms of the Tarentelle. And his sense
of the absurd is reflected in the title. It has that exotic touch essential for sales, but no musical con-
nection to Styria, a remote Austrian province.
12.  Letter to Madame Fromont of 21 April 1905 in C, p. 904.
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  149

10-1  “Clair de lune”

A pair of works for piano four-hands was also composed during these years: the
Marche des anciens comtes de Ross (commonly known as the Marche écossaise) and the
Petite Suite (consisting of “En Bateau,” “Cortège,” “Minuet,” and “Ballet”; 1888–
1889). Both have become popular in orchestral versions.13
The Marche was an unusual commission given to Debussy in 1890, the story of its
creation sounding too good to be true. A Scottish general approached Debussy for a
march for his clan (Ross of Rosshire). The general supplied the tune. Debussy used
it for the basis of a light-hearted and lively piece.The piano version is delightful, but
its orchestration (with the tune now given to the trumpet) is a real crowd-pleaser.
Debussy later made a point of frequently including it in programs he conducted.
The Petite Suite is similar in style to the Suite bergamasque: charming, captivating,
and a stylish blend of salon and originality. But, as with all of these works, Debussy
did little to promote it. The Suite was performed at the home of the publisher
Jacques Durand in March 1889, and some weeks later (with the assistance of Paul
Dukas) in Guiraud’s composition class. It was a token effort, and audience response,
noted Durand, “was kind, but no more than that.”14
In contrast to the piano works, the songs composed during these years admit
little compromise. The type of melody popular in the nineteenth-century—cantabile,

13.  Debussy first orchestrated the Marche (entitling it Marche écossaise) c. 1893 and it was performed on
29 May 1894. It was reorchestrated in 1908.The Petite Suite was orchestrated by Henri Büsser in 1907.
14.  DR, p. 30.
150  •  debussy

with symmetrical phrasing, a tune easily remembered and easily hummed—rarely

makes an appearance. But although Debussy’s songs are not tuneful in a conven-
tional manner, they could hardly be more lyrical. The melodic style is one of
restraint and refinement, coupled with an extraordinary sensitivity to the text.There
is an intimacy to them, and the surest means of assuring a poor performance is to
present them in an operatic manner.
The Ariettes (“C’est l’extase” [It is Ecstasy], “Il pleure dans mon coeur” [It Cries in
My Heart], “L’Ombre des arbres” [The Shadow of the Trees], “Chevaux de bois”
[Wooden Horses], “Green,” and “Spleen”; 1885–1888), Fêtes galantes (“En sourdine”
[Muted],“Fantoches” [Puppets], and “Clair de lune”; 1891), and Trois Mélodies (“La mer
est plus belle” [The Sea Is More Beautiful],“Le son du cor s’afflige” [The Sound of the
Horn Is Sorrowful], and “L’échelonnement des haies” [The Row of Hedges]; 1891) all
use poems of Verlaine.The Fêtes had been previously set by Debussy in 1882.“Fantoches,”
the second in the group, is quite close to the earlier setting. But “En sourdine” and “Clair
de lune” are new. Both now seem more sophisticated and provide greater musical con-
trast. But some of the spontaneity of the earlier settings has been lost. The pentatonic
opening, for example, of “Clair de lune” seems recherché—but then that seems to be a
trait for which Debussy is striving in many of the songs composed during these years.
“En Sourdine” works particularly well. The syncopated beginning of the open-
ing motive in the piano (intended as a representation of the song of the nightingale
referred to in the text) is hypnotic in its effect and a marvelous musical counterpart
to Verlaine’s poetry. In comparison, the Trois Mélodies seem more heavy-handed.
“L’Echelonnement des haies” uses as its primary theme one very similar to the
Tarentelle styrienne for piano. In the song it becomes ponderous and obtrusive, and a
distraction to the words of the poem.
The six songs in the Ariettes are a fin-de-siècle counterpart to the disconsolate lover
in Romantic song cycles such as Schumann’s Dichterliebe or Schubert’s Die schöne
Müllerin.The sentimental title is deceptive. Actually these poems revel in the decadent
spirit of the day, documenting a love satiated, vitiated, and filled with spleen.
All of the songs display Debussy’s expanded conception of tonality. Seventh and
ninth chords appear with regularity (and are usually treated as consonances). Closely
related key centers are avoided. And modes unusual for the time are used (“Spleen,”
for example, has a pentatonic beginning). One of the most striking aspects of these
songs is the manner in which Debussy’s music enhances the text. The tone is set in
the very first song, “C’est l’extase.” A chain of pianissimo seventh and ninth chords
(with the indications “lent et caressant” in the piano and “rêveusement” in the
voice) complement the languid sensuality of the poem.
In “Il pleure dans mon coeur” the incessant pattern of sixteenth notes re-­creates
the monotony of incessant rain. And who else but Debussy could have produced
the wonderfully hushed climax that follows (beginning with the words “Ce deuil
est sans raison” [There is no reason for this mourning])? The utter absence of
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  151

energy at the song’s conclusion (“Mon coeur a tant de peine” [My heart has so
much pain]) is accentuated by an extended piano/pianissimo decrescendo—lasting
for eighteen beats with the vocal line dropping from C sharp to D sharp.
The poem most popular in style is “Chevaux de bois,” a depiction of a Sunday
visit to the merry-go-round at a fair. For it, Debussy said that he drew on his rec-
ollection of music for the fair in St. Cloud. The simplicity of the poem is comple-
mented by the folk-like tune he wrote for it. It begins in what seems straightforward
E major—but with a chromatic twist at the end of the phrase, producing tonal
ambiguity (Example 10-2). At each appearance the tune is in a different tonality
(E flat, G), creating tension as it rises, and returning to E as the ride winds down.

10-2  “Chevaux de bois”

Debussy’s rhythmic inventiveness in these songs is subtle. In the opening of

“Chevaux de bois” the incessant 3 and 2 fanfare-like pattern is abruptly syncopated
to draw attention to the voice’s entrance (Example 10-3).

10-3  “Chevaux de bois”

Debussy’s songs were often criticized for what was regarded as their excessive
chromaticism. But its use in the Ariettes was comparatively tame. Only after ­completing
this set did he introduce chromaticism in an extended and deliberately provocative
manner, initiating a brief phase in his musical style in which he allied himself with
new trends from Germany.
152  •  debussy

The first works to display extreme chromaticism were the Cinq Poèmes de
Baudelaire (“Le Balcon” [The Balcony], “Harmonie du soir” [Evening Harmony],
“Le Jet d’eau” [The Fountain], “Recueillement” [Meditation], and “La Mort des
amants” [The Death of Lovers], 1887–1889) (Example 10-4).

10-4  “Recueillement”

The selection of Baudelaire’s poetry was a good choice—not least because of

Baudelaire’s well-known admiration for Wagner. When Debussy set these poems to
music, Baudelaire had been dead for more than twenty years. But there was renewed
interest in his work. He had been awarded a place of honor both in the Symbolist
Manifesto of Jean Moréas and in Joris-Karl Huysmans’s popular novel, Against Nature.
For his settings, Debussy chose five of the best-known poems from Baudelaire’s Les
Fleurs du mal—each poem selected to illustrate the variety of the collection. Unlike
the Ariettes, they are linked by no particular theme, although there are in each sim-
ilar thoughts of love, melancholy, and resignation.
The inspiration for the chromaticism in them was provided by the music of Wagner.
For a time it became an obsession for Debussy—a result of trips to Bayreuth in 1888
and 1889—so much so that the opening of “Recueillement” is a loosely disguised rem-
iniscence from Tristan. By exploiting chromaticism (one of Wagner’s most notable
musical characteristics), Debussy seemed intent on drawing attention to himself—both
from colleagues and from the literary circles in France infatuated with Wagner.To those
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  153

who may have wondered how Wagner’s musical style could be adapted to the French
language, the Cinq Poèmes were intended to provide an answer.
The first of the set, “Le Balcon,” is more like a scene from an opera than a song.
It is nine pages in score, lasts nearly eight minutes in performance, and has about a
dozen major changes in tempo. The piano has a dominant role, much like a
Wagnerian orchestra. The increased prominence and fuller texture for all of the
Baudelaire songs was clearly by design: in 1907 Debussy orchestrated “Le Jet d’eau,”
the third of the set.
The approach is cerebral. Vocal lines appear mannered and contrived. Even today,
listening to them is not easy: there is little contrast, and slow, measured tempi are the norm.
Concessions to popular taste are rare (such as the climax on the words “Nous échangerons
un éclair unique” [“We will share a single bolt of lightning”] in “La Mort des amants”).
For many years the sole performance of the Cinq Poèmes was a private one in 1890
sponsored by Ernest Chausson. But it was of great importance to Debussy and con-
vinced many in the audience that he was a rising star. The Baudelaire settings were
viewed as a response to those who felt that French music was unable or incapable of
responding to Wagner’s harmonic innovations. Even years later, however, critics found
the songs abrasive.Writing in 1895 in Le Guide Musicale, Georges Servières complained
of the “incorrect harmony, the incessantly loose and broken rhythms, the unsingable
intervals in the melodic line,” as well as the inevitable “abuse of chromaticism.”15
Although Debussy’s music had routinely drawn adverse criticism, Servières’s
remarks expressed the sense of outrage and indignation that was becoming common
in response to much of his work. It seems inexplicable today, but the rationale for
it becomes much clearer by examining the music of Debussy’s French contempo-
raries. The songs of popular composers such as Massenet (written in a manner that
would have appealed to critics like Servières) seem tame and innocuous in contrast,
conceived for the salon, and with a broad market in mind. But even comparison to
the songs of a musical progressive—those of Ernest Chausson—confirms how
unusual Debussy’s settings must have appeared.
From the start, Chausson’s songs had been distinctive, in part because his earliest
efforts showed little affinity to French musical tradition and reflected admiration for
composers like Robert Schumann. Chausson had written more than two dozen songs
prior to beginning in the summer of 1893 a setting of the five poems comprising
Maeterlinck’s Serres chaudes (Hot-House). They were dedicated to and premiered by
Debussy’s fiancée at the time,Therèse Roger. Maeterlinck’s unusual Symbolist imagery
inspired some of Chausson’s most innovative music. Yet when placed alongside
Debussy’s settings of Baudelaire or Verlaine, they seem to be from a bygone age.
Chausson, too, was an admirer of Wagner, but his harmony always remains firmly
rooted in tradition. His rhythms are static and repetitive, and melodic lines consist of
15.  LS, p. 109.
154  •  debussy

neat four-bar phrases. It is not surprising that many critics were perplexed by Debussy’s
songs.There was absolutely nothing else like them at the time (Example 10-5).

10-5  Chausson: “Serre d’ ennui”

The final song collection written by Debussy during this period was in many
ways his most distinctive. The Proses lyriques (1892–1893) were composed to four of
his own poems: “De rêve” (Of Dream), “De grève” (Of Shore), “De fleurs” (Of
Flowers), and “De soir” (Of Evening). Their literary style is mannered and broadly
Symbolist. It has become commonplace to compare them to the poems of Mallarmé,
but more striking is the influence of two Belgians: Maeterlinck and Georges
Rodenbach. Two of the poems—”De rêve” and “De grève”—were published
(thanks to the assistance of Henri de Régnier) in Entretiens politiques et littéraires, a
revue edited by the Franco-American poet, Francis Vielé-Griffin.That Debussy was
able to write both his own poetry and music may seem a rare accomplishment, but
among his contemporaries Guillaume Lekeu, Albéric Magnard, and Guy Ropartz
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  155

also set their own poems to music. It was, after all, a time which prized the affinities
among the arts.What set Debussy’s Proses lyriques apart were the Symbolist qualities
of his verse—and the startling music he created for it.
The Proses lyriques share several traits with the Baudelaire settings. Both are
intensely cerebral. In the Proses this approach can become so marked that the songs
verge on the pretentious.Yet the very artificiality of the music is one of its strengths,
creating an ideal counterpart to the mannered text. As in the Baudelaire settings, the
piano often takes on the role of an orchestra.16 But unlike the expansive scena-like
settings in the Cinq Poèmes, the Proses are much more fragmented, a result (best seen
in “De rêve”) of highlighting each musical phrase as a distinct, repetitive pattern. In
“De rêve” the constant reappearance of the two-measure cell that serves as the
motivic basis of the song becomes a fixation. But in “De fleurs” the repetition and
static vocal line serve the text well, producing a pattern of monotony and ennui
evocative of the text. The most accessible of the set is “De soir,” more diatonic and
clearly written to charm. In that sense, the music also reflects the poetry, which is less
esoteric and more in the style of the Verlaine poems Debussy admired.
Aspects of the Proses lyriques anticipate later developments in Debussy’s music.
The whole tone scale is prominent in “De rêve.” And the static vocal line and
dramatic intensity of “De grève” brings to mind the sensitive, declamatory style that
was to characterize his opera, Pelléas et Mélisande (Example 10-6).

10-6  “De grève”

16.  In the late 1890s, Debussy orchestrated part of “De grève.” Early in 1901 he considered com-
pleting the settings for performance at the Société Nationale, but lost interest in the project.
156  •  debussy

Debussy’s songs played an important role in making him better known, but it
was in larger-scale compositions that he hoped to build his reputation. Many pro-
jects attracted his attention,. Most were scarcely started—not necessarily because
Debussy quickly lost interest, but because he was a slow worker and a perfectionist.
Although he may have entered into a project with élan, he never did so with the
intention of finishing it quickly.
Among the projects contemplated during these years was a proposed collabo-
ration with the poet and Poe translator, Gabriel Mourey. In 1891 he announced a
collection of prose poems, L’Embarquement pour ailleurs (Embarking Elsewhere)
with a “symphonic commentary by C. A. Debussy.”17 Debussy and Mourey shared
similar interests, but there is no indication that this work went beyond the planning
stages.
Of greater significance was Debussy’s attraction to Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’s
bizarre drama, Axël. Axël—widely regarded at the time as Villiers’s masterpiece—is
epic (a performance lasts nearly four hours) with similarities in plot and atmosphere
to Tristan and Pelléas. It was a favorite of the Symbolists. Debussy apparently set one
scene of the drama to music in the late 1880s, but no additional information about
the project is known. Despite its attractions, as an opera Axël would have required
extensive cutting and skilled adaptation, and this may have discouraged Debussy
from working full-time on it.
In addition to Axėl, Debussy briefly contemplated providing incidental music
for Les Noces de Sathan (The Marriage of Satan), a drama by Jules Blois, a friend of
Mourey and secretary to Catulle Mendès.This was an occult work—but not, as the
title implies, satanic in basis. At the time Debussy had a strong interest in the occult
(it plays a role, too, in Axël), yet he found little in the play to interest him. When he
discovered that the musical forces necessary to perform the work probably did not
exist, he bowed out.
The composition for which Debussy entertained the highest hopes at this time
was La Damoiselle élue (1887–1888) which he described as “a little oratorio, in a
mystic, slightly pagan vein.”18 It was intended as his third envoi for the Prix de
Rome. Reaction by the committee was critical but surprisingly mild. Debussy’s
music was described as “poetical and not devoid of charm”—although it was noted
(“with regret”) that some disturbing elements remained.The committee concluded,
however, that these irregularities appeared “justified in a way by the nature of the
subject”—that is, the “fairly obscure prose” of the text.19

17.  LS, p. 123.

18.  Letter to André Poniatowski of 9 September 1892 in DL, p. 38.
19.  LS, p. 96.
 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  157

The “fairly obscure prose” selected by Debussy was a French translation of “The
Blessed Damozel,” a poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Rossetti (1828–1882) was
one of the founders of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and an accomplished poet
and painter. He was known for both his personal charm and eccentricities (his pet
wombat being a favorite among his friends). Rossetti’s work was popular in France
and appeared in translation in books and periodicals.20
Part of the attraction to Rossetti was the Pre-Raphaelite style itself—broadly
similar to art nouveau. Debussy was fond of it. A visitor to his apartment in 1893
was struck by the reproductions of Pre-Raphaelite art on the walls. But there was
particular interest in France in Rossetti.Verlaine even wrote as a tribute the poem,
“Monna Rosa d’après un tableau de Rossetti” (Monna Rosa. After a Painting by
Rossetti).
Rossetti’s fame was to a certain extent a result of the notoriety associated with his
work. The Times of London in 1851 blasted his painting for its “affected simplicity,
senile imitation of a cramped style, false perspective, crude colors, morbid infatua-
tion, and the sacrifice of beauty, truth, and genuine feeling, to mere eccentricity.”21
His poems were attacked for their eroticism, and became associated with Swinburne
and the “Fleshly School of Poetry.” But there were strong supporters. Walter Pater
praised Rossetti’s work for possessing “a poetic sense which recognized no conven-
tional standard of what poetry was called upon to be”—and it was this unconven-
tionality which attracted Debussy.22
“The Blessed Damozel” was published in 1850 and became one of Rossetti’s
best-known poems.23 Its subject is physical and spiritual love; its style, archaic
and naive. Much about the poem—including those instances when sound seems
to take priority over intelligibility—recalls Poe, and that may have provided
some measure of attraction to Debussy. He arranged Rossetti’s poem for female
voices (solo and chorus) with orchestra, setting about half of the original text.
Debussy, who did not know English, used translations of the poem by Gabriel
Sarrazin.24

20.  Debussy’s brother, Alfred, translated an excerpt from Rossetti’s “The Staff and Scrip” for the
Revue indépendent in 1887. Alfred’s literary interests during these years were strong, and this was
probably the time of the closest attachment between him and his brother.
21.  Arthur C. Benson, Rossetti (London: Macmillan, 1926), p. 44.
22. Walter Pater, “Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” in Appreciations, with an Essay on Style (London:
Macmillan, 1890). The essay was written in 1883.
23.  Rossetti rarely illustrated his own poems, but the popularity of “The Blessed Damozel” led to
a commission for him to create a painting on the subject, completed in 1878.
24.  But Debussy’s ignorance of English did not prevent him from preparing in 1908 a piano-vocal
score of the work in English—with countless errors in accent.
158  •  debussy

The premiere of La Damoiselle élue at the Société Nationale on 8 April 1893 was
an event of major importance to Debussy. Colleagues and friends were greatly
impressed, but criticism was mixed. Although praised for his “subtle and rare art,”
Debussy was attacked for what was seen as his excessive use of chromaticism. He
was blamed for having created a “very sensual, decadent” work—a remark that
should have been gratifying since it indicated how successful he had been in trans-
mitting the voluptuous elements of Rossetti’s poem.25
Like L’Enfant prodigue, La Damoiselle élue is known today in a later revision
(done in 1907–1908). A comparison of the two cantatas shows refinement of
Debussy’s style in the revision, both in craftsmanship and artistry. The arioso
of  the Damozel is subtle and more supple. And although there are occasional
passages that recall contemporary French opera, they are not as prominent as in
L’Enfant prodigue. Continuity is maintained by a variant of the Wagnerian leit-
motiv. There are recurring melodic motives, the most important being the
arpeggiated first inversion chord which begins the piece and serves as a struc-
tural pivot.
The orchestra is unusually prominent, and its delicate display of color provides
effective contrast to the predominantly declamatory vocal setting. Perhaps the
major flaw in La Damoiselle élue is its lack of variety, due at least in part to the use
of female voices only. Debussy did not help matters by using the chorus in a con-
sistently homophonic and static manner.
The “little oratorio” was intended for an ideal audience—an aspect emphasized
by the limited edition of La Damoiselle élue issued by Bailly. Those were not Debussy’s
intentions with the two other major compositions he composed during these years:
the three-movement Fantaisie for Piano and Orchestra (1889–1890) and Rodrigue et
Chimène (1890–1893).The Fantaisie—conceived as his final envoi but never submit-
ted—is a surprisingly conventional work that draws on the style of Franck and his
followers.There are similarities in both structure and genre, for example, to Vincent
d’Indy’s Symphonie sur un chant montagnard français, op. 26 (Symphony on a French
Mountain Air; 1886).
Debussy probably hoped that the Fantaisie would appeal broadly to members
of the Société Nationale, in the forefront of which were students and admirers
of Franck. In common with Franckist works, the Fantaisie uses cyclical struc-
ture, a musical device in which Debussy had previously shown little interest.
Perhaps that explains why his use of it comes across as mostly academic. An
association between the gamelan Debussy heard at the 1889 Universal Exposition
and the pervasive ­ostinato rhythm of the final movement of the Fantaisie is a

25.  LS, p. 134.

 Compositions, 1888–1893  •  159

possibility—but arguments presented for a direct stylistic connection are less

convincing.
The Fantaisie was withdrawn by Debussy from a scheduled performance at the
Société in April 1890. He was disturbed to learn that only the first movement
would be performed.While his decision may in part have been motivated by pique,
there was a practical musical decision for his action: the first movement simply does
not stand well on its own, especially since all three movements of the Fantaisie are
linked motivically.
Although Debussy later mentioned thoroughly revising the work for
performance, he never did so. “I’ve been intending for a long time to rework it
almost entirely,” he wrote in 1910. “Since 1889, when it was written, I’ve changed
my views about how to combine piano and orchestra. The scoring would have to
be altered too, to avoid a slightly ridiculous contest between the two characters!”26
Debussy did find time to make some changes in the score, mostly lightening the
texture. But he never began more extensive revisions. His musical style had changed
considerably in the twenty years since he had composed the Fantaisie. There was
so much in it needing revision that he may have felt overwhelmed by the idea of
reworking it.
Debussy’s association with Catulle Mendès and work on Rodrigue et Chimène has
been discussed in Chapter 3. The libretto consisted of four acts, for which the last
has not survived. Acts I and III exist in short score, Act II in a piano-vocal score.
None of the acts are complete. For example, choral parts are only sketched in the
first act, and some pages from Act II have been lost. All three acts were frequently
reworked by Debussy, and legibility of the score has suffered.
Rodrigue et Chimène is known today in a version consisting of the first three acts,
edited by Richard Langham Smith and orchestrated by Edison Denisov. To those
eager for any work by Debussy—even one in a fragmentary state—this edition is
welcome. Despite the missing finale, the opera is comprehensible as it stands. The
problem lies in its authenticity. Supplementary text had to be written to complete
the three acts. And in addition to those parts for which little or no music survived,
there is the orchestration for this new setting—wonderfully effective, but in the
manner of Debussy’s mature style, not that of the early 1890s.
Sections of Rodrigue et Chimène—but surprisingly few, given the conventional
libretto—sound as if they could have been written decades earlier (such as the first
act chorus à la Meyerbeer, “Du vin! du vin!”). Mendès’s text is a world apart from
the operatic ideals expressed by Debussy in his conversations with Guiraud. Much
of the music, however, is more than respectable, and some (such as that of Act II,

26.  Letter to Edgard Varèse of 10 August 1909 in DL, p. 211.

160  •  debussy

scene ii) has some of the flavor of the declamatory style of Pelléas. It is not surprising
that when Debussy played the opera for Paul Dukas, Dukas was struck by the
“dramatic breadth of particular scenes.”27 For, despite the mediocrity of the libretto,
Debussy produced some fine music and in the process gained valuable experience
for working on more substantial works for the stage.

27.  LS, p. 141.

 l Chapter eleven
;
Compositions, 1893–1899

I would rather do without potatoes than without roses. There is nothing truly
beautiful except what is of no possible use. Everything useful is ugly, for it
expresses a need.
Théophile Gautier, Preface to Mademoiselle de Maupin (1835)

Instrumental Works
Chamber:  String Quartet, op. 10
Orchestra:  Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun; Nocturnes

Vocal Works
Songs:  Trois Chansons de Bilitis (Louÿs)

I t is surprising that, according to his friend Robert Godet, Debussy did

not care for Gautier’s novel, Mademoiselle de Maupin. Its style is distinctive, its
plot is captivating, and there are statements in the Preface—in many ways an
artistic manifesto—with which he certainly would have agreed. Much of it pays
tribute to the concept of “art for art’s sake,” an idea that intrigued Debussy.
The premise—that art requires no justification or validation to exist, and that it
need serve no particular purpose or function—had his support. He was even
willing to draw upon it in the manner of Gautier—writing, in a letter to the art
critic Octave Maus, of “that forgotten truth . . . ‘art is completely useless.’ ”1

1.  Letter to Octave Maus of [mid-September 1903]in C, p. 184.

•  161  •
162  •  debussy

Art was “useless” in part because it did not fit into a utilitarian world. It defi-
nitely did not provide a dependable source of income nor should it be expected
to (one of Debussy’s mantras later in life). But there was a role for art, and meaning
for music.
In his evolving program of music’s qualities, Debussy began by emphasizing
what music was not to do: it was not intended to make people “think.” 2 He was dis-
tancing himself from much nineteenth-century music (especially German music)
with its aura of profundity. Attending a concert was not supposed to be a philosophical
experience with head in hand and furrowed brow. Rather Debussy wanted to
“make people listen, in spite of themselves”—an extraordinary challenge for any
composer, but surprisingly modern in its approach.3 Once the audience had been
captivated, it would be transported, as if it “had dreamt, for a moment, of a chime-
rical land.”4 This revelatory experience—with its emphasis on dreams and the
imagination—owed much to Symbolism.
How would the audience be drawn into his music? Debussy believed that one way
was to create compositions that were new and original—pieces which, as he once put
it, exhibited his “latest experiments in musical chemistry.”5 But the ingredients in his
experimental laboratory were not complex.“More and more I am convinced,” Debussy
wrote, “that music by its very nature can not be adapted to a rigorous and traditional
form. It is filled with color and rhythm.”6 His focus on the general and often elusive
qualities of music was in deliberate contrast to what he had been taught.
Debussy made very similar remarks concerning the performances of the gypsy
violinist, Radics, whom he heard in 1910. Young musicians, he wrote, could use
Radics as a source of inspiration, “not by copying his performances, but by trying
to transpose their freedom, their gift for evoking color and rhythm.”7 Radics’s
ability to make people listen was a result of his focus on the essence of music (its color
and rhythm).That essence could not be found in a classroom. Nature was its source,
and close observation of it provided the key to its creation: “You learn orchestration
far better by listening to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind than by consulting
handbooks in which the instruments look like anatomical specimens and which, in
any case, contain very incomplete information about the innumerable ways of blending
the said instruments with each other.”8

2.  Letter to Paul Dukas of [11 February 1901] in C, p. 162.

3.  Ibid.
4.  Ibid.
5.  Letter to Eugène Ysaÿe of 13 October 1896 in DL, p. 87.
6.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 3 September 1907 in C, p. 1030.
7.  Letter to Gusztáv Bárczy of 19 December 1910 in ibid., p. 1361.
8.  Letter to Charles Levadé of 4 September 1903 in DL, p. 140.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  163

If Nature provided the key to understanding music, tradition was typically

its  nemesis. Academic tradition remained the foundation of training at the
Conservatoire, and Debussy waged war against it, both in the press and in his own
compositions. His rationale was closely articulated in letters to the music critic,
Pierre Lalo. In 1901 Debussy told him that he was “only trying—and very tim-
idly—to free music from a heritage of burdensome traditions, falsely interpreted,
which very well might crush it if care is not taken!”9 Four years later when Lalo
became a harsh critic of his music Debussy justified their parting with the follow-
ing words: “The heart of the matter is that you love and defend traditions which,
for me, no longer exist or, at least, exist only as representative of an epoch in
which they were not all fine and valuable as people make out; the dust of the past
is not always respectable.”10
One of the most notable characteristics of that dusty tradition was its unques-
tioning imitation, especially of eighteenth-century classical style (and sonata form).
Debussy was especially irritated by the concept of “development.” “You know how
little love I have for developmental padding,” he wrote to one of his pupils.“It’s seen
long service at the hand of the masters and it’s time we started to replace it by a
more rigorous selection of ideas.”11 Charles Koechlin recalled that when Debussy
“found himself faced with the sort of cold musical development that people call
‘well-made’ (what he termed ‘mandarin labours’) he could be heard to say: ‘That’s
architecture, not music.’ ”12
Equally abhorrent to Debussy was the nineteenth-century preoccupation with
bathos and sentiment. When coaching the singer, Jane Bathori, for a performance
of the Trois Chansons de Bilitis he made a point of commenting at the end of “La
Chevelure”: “Above all, no romantic shudder.”13
Tradition not only led musicians astray, it became a burden to them. Some were
preoccupied with the past, and their music became unnecessarily complex. “One
thing I’d like to see you free yourself from,” he advised Chausson, “is your preoccu-
pation with the inner parts of the texture. . . . It would be more profitable, I feel, to
go about things the other way round, that’s to say, find the perfect expression for an
idea and add only as much decoration as is absolutely necessary.”14 Debussy was
convinced that the antidote to a preoccupation with musical tradition was in a return
to natural, musical simplicity.

9.  Letter to Lalo of [c. 10 November 1901] in C, p. 168.

10.  Letter to Lalo of 25 October 1905 in DL, p. 163.
11.  Letter to Raoul Bardac of 24/25 February 1906 in ibid., p. 166.
12.  Recollection of Charles Koechlin in DR, p. 101.
13.  Jane Bathori, “Les Musiciens que j’ai connus. II. Debussy,” Recorded Sound (Spring 1962), p. 176.
14.  Letter to Chausson of [24 October 1893] in DL, p. 58.
164  •  debussy

Were contemporary critics aware of his distinctive perception of music? Only

one, his friend Louis Laloy, noted that Debussy in writing music “had listened to the
voice of nature”—a comment that could only have come from Debussy himself.15
To many, Debussy’s compositions were seen as unnatural and contrived.
Writing about the Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun in L’Echo de Paris, Victorin
Joncières classified Debussy as a “decadent composer who, it is said, affects a profound
disdain” for all music composed before him.16 The composer and critic Alfred Bruneau
described the Prelude as nebulous and effeminate: “to be frank, I prefer an art that is
more clear-cut, more robust, more masculine.”17 Frequently associated with this sup-
posed effeminacy was the languor of Debussy’s music, its “dream-like” qualities. Some
of that can be traced to the effect of repetition, as well as the absence of abrupt con-
trast. But Debussy’s non-functional harmony often creates a sense of drifting and
inertia. Although one of Debussy’s biographers came to his defense and made a point
of affirming that he was “not merely a dreamer of beautiful dreams,” here at least there
seems to be confirmation that he had met one of his musical goals: that of moving an
audience as if it “had dreamt, for a moment, of a chimerical land.” 18
To many contemporaries this effect had been primarily created by a combination
of structure (or, rather, its absence) and harmony.Writing in 1907 Lawrence Gilman
noted that “one is struck, first of all, in savoring his art, by its extreme fluidity, its
vagueness of contour, its lack of obvious and definite outline.”19 The “fluidity” and
“vagueness of contour” has some association with Debussy’s melodic line (the ara-
besque), but the intention is to point out the absence of easily discernible, tradi-
tional, musical structure. The music itself was, according to Gilman, “a rich and
shimmering texture of blended chord groups, rather than a pattern of interlaced
melodic strands.”20 Harmony, then, was a significant component of Debussy’s style,
but arranged in an unorthodox manner. Complicating harmonic analysis, Gilman
continued, was the use “almost continuously, as the structural basis of his music, [of ]
the medieval church modes.”21 To another contemporary critic, Louise Liebich, it
was not the church modes, but Debussy’s “frequent use” of the whole tone scale.22

15.  Louis Laloy, Claude Debussy (Paris: Les Bibliophiles Fantaisistes, 1909), p. 73.
16.  Review of 13 October 1895 quoted in C, p. 280.
17.  Bruneau in Le Figaro in 1895 quoted in LS, p. 164. Bruneau’s opinion was shared by Charles
Ives for Debussy’s music in general.
18.  Mrs. Franz Liebich, Claude-Achille Debussy (London: John Lane, 1908), p. 2.
19.  Lawrence Gilman, Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande. A Guide to the Opera (New York: Schirmer,
1907), p. 9.
20.  Ibid., p. 10.
21.  Ibid., p. 15.
22.  Liebich, p. 41.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  165

It was not unusual for critics to realize that Debussy’s music could not be
grasped using eighteenth and nineteenth-century standards. But even those who
regarded his music favorably were confused by his departure from tradition and
were reduced to identifying components (such as modality) and exaggerating their
role.“He introduced the Orient into music,” concluded one biographer.“With him, clas-
sicism is dead forever.”23 An odd pronouncement. But by substituting “tradition” for
“classicism,” it would have met with Debussy’s approval.
The non-traditional elements in Debussy’s music have always been an obstacle to its
academic analysis. Since he did not follow conventional models, what served as its basis?
The idea of creating a new set of rules to replace the old was far from his intention.
It is helpful from the start to think of Debussy’s music simply as sonority—and
to take his musical basis (“color and rhythm”) as a point of departure. Simple
effects, such as silence, are used to enhance the effect of sound. And timbre and tex-
ture play extraordinary roles—both serving at times to create or delineate musical
sections in a manner similar to what had traditionally been assigned to tonality.
Rhythm is used by Debussy to create the “fluidity” noted by contemporary critics.
Associated with it is the idea of improvisation, an effect simulated by unpredictable
rhythmic configurations and changes of tempo. Debussy cherished every musical
performance as unique and did not want the written page to stifle interpretation.
Debussy’s melodies are distinctive. Given their brevity and limited range, many can be
described as motivic. But they are rarely used as a basis for traditional motivic development.
Rather the idea is one of the arabesque with variation and growth from it.
Especially in his instrumental compositions, melody and harmony seem uniquely
integrated. “A musical idea,” Debussy wrote, “contains its own harmony (or so
I believe); otherwise, the harmony is merely clumsy and parasitical.”24 Ignorance
of  his intentions led many contemporary critics to complain about the absence
of melody in his music (a stance that infuriated Debussy). It also helps to explain why
so much analysis of Debussy’s music focused on harmony, often to the exclusion of
other musical parameters.
The harmonic basis of much of Debussy’s music rests on an expanded percep-
tion of the home key (the tonic). Full statements of the tonic are avoided. In fact,
they are often only implied (by, for example, closely related keys such as the domi-
nant or subdominant). Harmony remains tertian—with widespread use of seventh
and ninth chords as consonances—but progressions are non-traditional, and, by
textbook standards, unpredictable.
Debussy’s harmonic approach has been described as “non-functional”—that is,
harmony does not follow traditional rules and patterns. While expanding the tonic,

23.  Daniel Chennevière, Claude Debussy et son oeuvre (Paris: Durand et fils, 1913), p. 15.
24.  Letter to Mme. Gérard de Romilly of [c. 15 September 1902] in DL, p. 132.
166  •  debussy

he also expanded the range of acceptable harmony. Common are unorthodox chord
progressions and unresolved dissonance. Chords are often altered by diatonic satura-
tion: the addition of pitches to standard chords so that reference is made to the entire
diatonic scale. Another characteristic of Debussy’s music are chains of parallel
chord progressions (with the parallel fifths prohibited in the textbooks he studied),
a device known as planing (Example 11-1). Incidentally, these are not devices
annotated by contemporary critics. Their attention rarely went beyond what they
felt were the music’s more “exotic” traits, such as the use of the whole tone scale or
other modes.
11-1  “D’un cahier d’ esquisses”

Debussy’s compositional approach was determined by what pleased his ear, not
by rules. How he went about it—the process of composition—remains mostly a
mystery. Few sketches survive: “I destroy everything which doesn’t satisfy me,” he
confessed.25 But he also destroyed preliminary sketches, probably to ensure that no
one would be able to pry into his manner of composition. Even though it is a late
work, the best sense of his approach can be gleaned from one of the most complete
surviving sets of sketches, that for Jeux (1912).
The initial particelle for Jeux consists of four staves with “practically no” indica-
tion of tempo, dynamics, or articulation—and “no more than a dozen indications

25.  Quoted in Roy Howat, “A Thirteenth Etude of 1915: The Original Version of Pour les arpèges
composés,” Cahiers Debussy 1 (1977), p. 20.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  167

of instrumentation.”26 The particelle was followed by a piano score reduction that

was submitted to his publisher. About six months later Debussy began work on a draft
version of the orchestration (but we know that for the Faune and the Nocturnes, the
orchestration was added to the particelle itself, so it seems that a complete draft version
of the orchestration was special to Jeux). Each of these stages of composition was an
essential component in its evolution, and all witnessed modifications and alterations.The
process continued even after the score had been published. Later, when he conducted his
own compositions, Debussy regularly made changes in the score for revised editions.
The Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun exemplifies Debussy’s emerging musical
style. Its genre (unlike nearly all of Debussy’s orchestral works) is surprisingly direct:
a tone-poem with Mallarmé’s poem, The Afternoon of a Faun, as its basis. But its
sound and structure differ greatly from the more standard tone-poems of, for
example, Liszt or d’Indy. The premiere was conducted by Gustave Doret on 22
December 1894 at the Société Nationale in a program that also included works by
Glazunov, Saint-Saëns, and Franck. It was a mediocre performance, despite Debussy
having followed the rehearsals closely—but it won strong audience support.
Mallarmé’s poem was originally conceived in 1862 as dramatic verse for recita-
tion at the Comédie française (but was not accepted for production). It is a mono-
logue by the faun, about 100 lines in length, its content ambiguous and wistful.
Known at first as “Le Faune, intermède heroïque,” the title was changed in the
summer of 1875 to “Improvisation d’un Faune.” That autumn it was published for
the first time (in a limited edition) and with the title by which we know it today.
Debussy became directly involved with the Faune in 1890 when he was asked to
write incidental music for a reading of it. When that performance failed to occur,
he continued the project on his own. He probably began composing the Faune in
1892, completing orchestration in late October 1894.
Its structure is ternary. But demarcations for each section vary with the listener.
The lack of agreement is not surprising. It is a free and organic structure—and one
that gives the impression of natural growth from the opening measures.
There are two primary melodic ideas: Theme A (mm.1–4; flute), and Theme B
(mm.55–60; woodwinds) (Examples 11-2a and 11-2b on page 168).Theme A outlines the
tritone, with chromatic descent and ascent. Its range and pattern embody Debussy’s
understanding of melody as arabesque. Tonality is vague, but “E” is implied (the tritone
itself implies tonal ambiguity, but its use here is not in the often harsh manner of
Schoenberg or Scriabin). Theme B is more vocal in nature. Unlike the single-measure,
cell-like repetition of T
  heme A, it is composed of two-measure units, and is more lively,
with a triplet figure (entering in m. 62) offering rhythmic variety. Its tonality is “D flat,”

26.  Myriam Chimènes, “The Definition of Timbre in the Process of Composition of Jeux,” in
Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 5.
168  •  debussy

11-2a  Prélude à l’ aprés-midi d’ un faune

11-2b  Prélude à l’ aprés-midi d’ un faune

with its nebulousness emphasized by the bass outline of the diminished fifth (D flat-G).
Both Themes A and B have the same dynamic level (piano), and similar indications of
expression (“doux et expressif ” for Theme A and “expressif et très soutenu” for Theme B).
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  169

The first section begins with varied statements of Theme A (three complete
ones in the first thirty-one measures) with solo flute prominent, and ending with
an unusual full cadence (m. 30). Mm. 31–55 are more episodic. They begin with
reminiscences of Theme A for mixed orchestra, then a fresh melodic idea is intro-
duced in m. 37 which is taken up by the violins three measures later.
The second section (mm. 55–79) provides contrast and variety. It accomplishes
this with greater tunefulness and stronger tonal implications. Contrast is also
provided by surprise (such as the disjointed effect of the hemiola in m. 66).
A restatement of the first section begins on m.79. But because this is a variant of
Theme A—augmented, and outlining a perfect fourth—the listener does not receive
the sense of resolution that would accompany a literal restatement of Theme A.
There is intentional ambiguity. Is this section (which lasts until m. 94) the actual
reappearance of Theme A, or is its role to set the stage for the return of Theme A?
Mm. 94–110 mark the appearance of Theme A in its original form. It is followed
by a codetta and conclusion in E major.The listener, then, hears three broad ­sections
in the Faune: A: mm. 1–55; B: mm. 55–79; A1; mm. 79–110. Even if mm. 79–94 are
heard as a transition to the return of A (and as part of B), the effect of B still is that
of an interlude.
Sections are delineated not just by contrasting thematic material and tonality.
There is contrasting use of timbre and texture as well. Section A, for example, has a
thinner texture with a greater use of the orchestra as a chamber ensemble. But any
tripartite division of the Faune should not divert attention from the astonishing
cohesiveness of the piece—an accomplishment enhanced by the  improvisatory
effect created by the score. This improvisatory character—and the unpredictability
associated with it—helps to explain its continued novelty. Even after repeated
hearings—and few works have been performed more frequently than the Faune—
the listener always seems to discover something new: a subtle change in instrumen-
tation, for example, or harmony. That is especially true with its dynamics, the Faune
being a study in gradations of piano and pianissimo. Silence, too, is important (see, for
example, the effect of m. 6—an entire measure of silence).
The orchestration is astonishingly inventive. Debussy did not approach the
orchestra like his contemporaries. He avoided doubling for its own sake and never
used timbre as a device simply to provide variety or contrast.
The orchestra for the Faune is large, but Debussy revels in the solo possibilities of
each instrument. The opening theme is shared by flute, clarinets, French horn, and
harp. At times it creates a chamber effect unheard of for the time, never more striking
than at the conclusion, where the opening theme is taken up by the harps and
French horns in turn (Example 11-3 on the next page). The strings do not have the
dominant role—as they do in nineteenth-century orchestral pieces in general—nor
is melody automatically allotted to the violins. Prominence is given to unexpected
170  •  debussy

11-3  Prélude à l’ aprés-midi d’ un faune

instruments, for example, the flute. Also revealing is what Debussy does not use: there
are no trumpets or trombones in the orchestra, and the use of percussion is selective
and restrained.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  171

The Faune often exhibits the “dreaminess” and “languor” noted by contempo-
raries in Debussy’s music in general. But it is an effect created by precision and
clarity: with repetition, emphasis on the low end of dynamics, non-functional har-
mony, and timbre. Imagine, for example, if the solo flute were replaced or its part
shared by an oboe. There is only a single mention of a flute in the poem (as well as
“tuyaux” [pipes]). A less imaginative composer might have opted at some point for
the more conventional (and rustic) sound of the oboe.
From the start, people were curious about specific connections between Debussy’s
music and Mallarmé’s poem. Did, for example, musical sections correspond to lines
from the poem? To the music critic,Willy, Debussy offered a characteristic commen-
tary on the Faune: “Is it perhaps the dream left over at the bottom of the faun’s flute?
To be more precise it is the general impression of the poem. If the music were to
follow it more closely it would run out of breath. . . . All the same it follows the
ascending shape of the poem as well as the scenery so marvelously described in the
text, together with the humanity brought to it by thirty-two violinists who have
got up too early! As for the ending, it’s a prolongation of the last line: Couple fare-
well, I go to see what you became.”27
Given the cryptic nature of Mallarmé’s poem, Debussy’s “general impression” is
a sensible musical response. The goal for Debussy was to produce music evocative
of the text. And in this he may have been guided by the original idea of providing
music to accompany a reading of the poem. For his intention seems to have been
to produce music that is unobtrusive and subdued, expressive and rich in color.
The ternary structure, too, may reflect that original intention. Mallarmé’s poem
does not fall into three sections. But there were three sections in the title originally
chosen by Debussy for his composition: Prélude, Interlude et Paraphrase finale pour
l’après-midi d’un faune. The terminology corresponds well with the musical content.
The title was promoted for the all-Debussy concert held in Brussels in March 1894,
but the composition was not finished in time for performance. There are several
possibilities to explain why the title was eventually simplified. Perhaps Debussy
thought it was too long (or pretentious). But he may also have felt that it removed
some of the mystery from his approach.
Mallarmé received a note from Debussy inviting him to attend the premiere and
to hear “the arabesques . . . dictated by the flute of your faun.”28 “I wasn’t expecting
anything like that!” he told Debussy after the performance. “The music prolongs the
emotion of my poem and conjures up the scenery more vividly than any color.”29

27.  Letter to Willy (Henri Gauthier-Villars) of 10 October 1895 in DL, pp. 84–85. In December
1904 he described his setting as a “very free illustration” of the poem (C, p. 875).
28.  Quoted in LS, p. 157.
29.  Quoted by Debussy in a letter to Georges Jean-Aubry of 25 March 1910 in DL, p. 218.
172  •  debussy

There could be no greater praise: Mallarmé was taken not just by the sonority of
Debussy’s music, but by how closely it brought to life and complemented his work.
While composing the Faune, Debussy was also working on his only string
quartet. He wrote it during a time when he was enjoying close camaraderie with
Chausson, and it shows the influence of Chausson’s and Franck’s music. But unlike
his previous composition indebted to the Franck School—the Fantaisie for Piano—
Debussy was more satisfied with the result.
It became one of his most popular works, both among audiences and musi-
cians. Magnard, in general not an admirer of Debussy’s music, wrote of its “admi-
rable savagery.”30 And Daniel Chennevière proclaimed it as “perhaps Debussy’s
masterpiece”—a surprising remark, since by the time he was writing (1913) Debussy
had completed far more substantial works, like Pelléas and La Mer.31
Throughout his career, Debussy made a point of avoiding standard musical
genres. Except for a youthful piano piece, he composed no work entitled “symphony,”
for example, and the sonatas he wrote did not draw on the musical models that
attracted his contemporaries. His only string quartet is also his only work with an
opus number (op. 10), and it is hard to escape the feeling that its addition was
intended by Debussy as a fitting ironic touch.
The String Quartet was first performed by the Ysaÿe Quartet on 29 December
1893 at a Société National concert. It has the standard four movements, with the
scherzo placed second. The Quartet adopts the cyclic principle favored by Franck
and his followers.32 There are two primary themes in the first movement, the first
of which is used to tie together all four movements:
11-4a  String Quartet, 1st movement

30.  Letter to Guy Ropartz of 16 March [1902] in Albéric Magnard, Correspondance (1888–1914), ed.
Claire Vlach (Paris: Publications de la Société Française de Musicologie, 1997), p. 185.
31.  Chennevière, p. 30.
32.  The influence of Edvard Grieg’s String Quartet also appears likely. See Michael Strasser,
“Grieg, the Société Nationale, and the Origins of Debussy’s String Quartet,” in Berlioz and Debussy:
Sources, Contexts, and Legacies. Essays in Honor of François Lesure, ed. Barbara L. Kelly and Kerry
Murphy (Burlington: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 103–117.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  173

11-4b  String Quartet, 2nd movement

11-4c  String Quartet, 3rd movement

174  •  debussy

11-4d  String Quartet, 4th movement

Debussy found composing the quartet to be a chore. He complained to Chausson

of the difficulties: “As for the finale of the Quartet, it is not what I want it to be. And
that is after three unsuccessful attempts!”33 He wanted to dedicate it to Chausson
despite his misunderstanding and apparent lack of enthusiasm for it.“I was really upset
for several days ,” Debussy wrote to him, “by what you said about my quartet, as I felt
that it only increased your partiality for certain things which I would rather it encour-
aged you to forget. Anyway I’ll write another which will be for you, in all seriousness
for you, and I’ll try to bring some nobility to my forms.”34
It is uncertain where the lack of “nobility” lay. Possibly Chausson felt that
Debussy did not make good enough use of the cyclic possibilities, or he may have
been disturbed by the exuberant playfulness of the scherzo. What is clear is that
Debussy was bothered by Chausson’s reaction, especially since he had taken efforts
to write in a manner respected more by Chausson than himself. The Quartet was
eventually dedicated to the Ysaÿe Quartet. But Chausson actually quoted the pri-
mary theme from it near the conclusion of the first movement of his own String
Quartet, op. 35 (1898; Chausson died before being able to finish it). This quota-
tion—written at a time when he and Debussy were no longer friendly—may have
been intended as a bit of nostalgia, or perhaps as a gesture toward rapprochement.
Debussy’s handling of traditional form is successful in the quartet because of his
assimilation of it. It does not become, as was so often the case with the Fantaisie for
piano, an exercise in imitation. Much of its success can be traced to the nature of
the primary theme. It is cellular and lends itself well to transformation.The contrast
within it (especially the intervals of major second, minor third, and minor sixth, and
the triplet figure) provides the basis for variety within the Quartet itself. Other
composers tended to approach thematic transformation in the manner of Wagner

33.  Letter to Chausson of [2 July 1893] in C, 79.

34.  Letter to Chausson of [5 February 1894] in DL, 65.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  175

and his use of the leitmotiv as if it were essential for the listener to identify each
appearance (and at times as an opportunity for the composer to show off his skill).
In contrast (and unlike the Fantaisie where the building-blocks are readily apparent),
in Debussy’s Quartet thematic material is manipulated with much resourceful-
ness—but integrated seamlessly.
In addition to his friendship with Chausson, the 1890s were a time of close
contact between Debussy and Pierre Louÿs. Although many projects were contem-
plated, the Trois Chansons de Bilitis are the only substantial composition that resulted.
Debussy selected three poems—“La Flûte de Pan,” “La Chevelure,” and “Le
Tombeau de Naïades”—all taken from the first part of Louÿs’s popular collection.
These poems are among the most poignant in the set—and not representative of
the graphic eroticism more common to it. Debussy began composition rapidly
(“La Flûte de Pan” was completed in June 1897, “La Chevelure” in early July), but
the remaining song was not finished until March of the following year.
Debussy’s music suits the texts extremely well. Louÿs originally presented the
poems not as his own, but written by Bilitis, a Greek courtesan of the sixth century
b.c.To match the supposed antiquity and “oriental” flavor of the text, Debussy used
great simplicity in his settings. The vocal line is mostly declamatory and chant-like,
and there is greater use of modes (pentatonic for “La Flûte de Pan,” Lydian for “La
Chevelure”). “La Chevelure” is the most “Western” in its approach, with touches of
an operatic love-scene on the text “la bouche sur la bouche” (mouth on mouth).
But the settings are most effective in simpler passages, such as in “La Flûte de Pan”
(11 measures from the end) where Debussy creates a startling transition by unex-
pectedly shifting to G major.
For the half dozen years or so starting in 1894 Debussy wrote surprisingly little.
It was a frustrating time for him, and he later blamed the lack of productivity in part
on his troubled home life. Many of the aborted projects conceived during this time
were related to Louÿs—an opera (or ballet or pantomime) based on his Aphrodite
(1897), incidental music for Oedipe à Colonne (1895), Daphnis et Chloë (a ballet; 1895–
1897), and an opera, Cendrelune (1895–1898). Debussy made some progress on a song
cycle taken by Louÿs from Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s collection of sonnets, House of
Life. La Saulaie (Willowwood) was begun in 1896 and Debussy worked on it sporad-
ically as late as 1900. Three pages of music (for baritone and orchestra) survive.
Much of the interest in collaboration seems to have been Louÿs’s. In addition to
the Chansons de Bilitis only one slight composition stemmed from their friendship:
incidental music for the recitation of twelve poems from the Bilitis collection (pre-
sented as part of a series of tableaux vivants).The score was for the unusual ensemble
of two harps, two flutes, and celesta; the unique performance occurred on the pre­
mises of Le Journal in February 1901. Debussy later put the music to use by arranging it
for piano, four-hands, in the Epigraphes antiques (1914).
176  •  debussy

Debussy considered many projects besides those with Louÿs, but he actually
accomplished little. In 1894 two chamber works were contemplated: a violin
sonata and a second string quartet, but he wrote no music. Two years later he had
the idea of producing incidental music for Verlaine’s Les Uns et les autres (1896),
but no music resulted; in the following year nothing came of the idea of writing
music for a pantomime, Le Chevalier d’Or, to a scenario by the wife of the artist,
Jean-Louis Forain. There was also a follow-up to the Proses lyriques: a set of five
songs (with poems by Debussy), entitled, Nuits blanches. He worked on them in
1897–1898. Although announced in 1900, they were not published until 2000
(only two survived in manuscript). In a similar manner, he made little progress in
1898 on a projected orchestration of the Proses lyriques (only “De Soir” and “De
Grêve,” partially completed).
Given the difficulty Debussy had during these years in committing himself to
the completion of any project, it is gratifying that he finished the most substantial
one of all: a series of three orchestral pieces eventually known as the Nocturnes.
It has long been assumed that their origin can be traced to a series of sketches, the
Scènes au Crépuscule, that Debussy wrote in 1892–1893. The Scènes were inspired by
ten poems (it is not known which ones) from the Poèmes anciens et romanesques
(1890) by Debussy’s friend, Henri de Régnier. But an examination of the sketches
has revealed no direct musical connection to the Nocturnes.35
The Nocturnes are tenuously linked to a work of the same name intended by
Debussy for the violin virtuoso, Eugene Ysaÿe. It was based on an unusual concept.
“I am working on three Nocturnes,” he wrote Ysaÿe, “for violin and orchestra. The
orchestra for the first consists of strings, the second of flutes, four horns, three trum-
pets and two harps, and the third will combine both ensembles. It is an examination
of the various arrangements which produce a single color, similar to what has been
done in painting: such as a study in gray.”36
The idea was inspired by the paintings of  Whistler. Using musical titles,Whistler
created several works that were intended as studies in timbre, for example, the
“Symphony in White, No. 2.” Whistler was particularly known for his nocturne
paintings, especially the “Nocturne in Blue and Silver” (c. 1872) and the more
abstract “Nocturne in Blue and Gold: The Falling Rocket” (c. 1874). They did
much to build his reputation, especially in France where he had a strong following.
“Above all others,” wrote George Moore in his study of contemporary painting,
“he is surely the interpreter of the night.”37

35.  See Denis Herlin, “Trois Scènes au Crepuscule (1892–1893): Un premier projet des Nocturnes,”
Cahiers Debussy 21 (1997), pp. 3–24.
36.  Letter to Ysaÿe of 22 September 1894 in C, p. 106.
37.  George Moore, Modern Painting (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1893), p. 22.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  177

Ysaÿe was interested in what Debussy was attempting. But when Debussy
showed him what he had written, for reasons unknown, in November 1896 Ysaÿe
withdrew from the project. Perhaps he did not feel that Debussy’s experiment in
timbre was effective. Or he may have felt there was insufficient display for the
violin—that the work was not enough of a concerto. But it is interesting that all
went well with another elaborate work written for him at about this time: Chausson’s
Poème (full title: Poème symphonique pour violon et orchestre, op. 25; 1896).
Debussy continued work on the Nocturnes, removing references to the solo
violin and arrangement in timbre. Not until December 1899 was it completed, and
he complained to his publisher Georges Hartmann—who was eager to see the
composition in print—that it had given him “more trouble than the five acts of
Pelléas.”38 He told Louÿs that the slow pace was a result of challenges at home: “The
three Nocturnes have been infected by my private life, first full of hope, then full of
despair and then full of nothing! I’ve never been able to work at anything when my
life’s going through a crisis.”39
The Nocturnes consist of three programmatic movements: “Nuages” (Clouds),
“Fêtes” (Festivals), and “Sirènes” (Sirens).What is their genre? Symphony? A collec-
tion of tone poems? Orchestral suite (such as Chabrier’s Suite pastorale; 1888)? The
situation is complicated by the program (if not written, then authorized by Debussy)
that accompanied the first performance:

The title of nocturnes is to be interpreted in a wider sense than that usually

given to it, and most especially is it understood as having a decorative meaning.
Therefore the usual form of nocturne has not been considered, and the word is
to be accepted as signifying in the amplest manner diversified impressions and
special lights.
Nuages: the unchanging aspect of the sky, and the slow solemn movement of
the clouds dissolving in grey tints lightly touched with white.
Fêtes: the restless dancing rhythm of the atmosphere interspersed with sudden
flashes of light. There is also an incidental procession (a dazzling imaginary
vision) passing through and mingling with the revelry; but the background of
uninterrupted festival is persistent with its blending of music, and luminous dust
participating in the universal rhythm of all things.
Sirènes: the sea and its perpetual rhythm, and then amid waves silvered by
moonbeams is heard the laughter and mysterious song of passing sirens.40

38.  Letter to Georges Hartmann of 16 September 1898 in DL, p. 100.

39.  Letter to Louÿs of 27 March 1898 in ibid., p. 94.
40.  Liebich, pp. 42–43 (with slight change for accuracy).
178  •  debussy

In the end Debussy only increased confusion by retaining the title “nocturnes”—
and its implied connection to Whistler—even though the idea of creating a related
musical counterpart had been abandoned. These pieces are not musical nocturnes
(or notturnos, or night-pieces, or nachtstücke) as audiences might expect. No
specific reference to the night is intended. Instead Debussy supplied his own defi-
nition: “impressions and special lights.” The program and the title were sufficient,
incidentally, for contemporary critics to note a connection between the Nocturnes
and Whistler.
In its initial conception the Nocturnes would have been a concerto (with the
standard three movements), and presented as a study in timbre (with titles?). When
completed, the concerto and timbre concepts were no longer present. Contemporary
critics were not sure what to make of the work.
All three movements are in ternary form. But the structure for “Nuages” is
ambiguous and could just as easily be seen as variations (arabesques) on two themes
(mm. 1–4 in clarinet and mm. 5–8 in English horn). The key is B minor.
“Fêtes,” Debussy told a friend, was inspired by “distant memories of a festival in
the Bois de Boulogne” which included a procession of heavy cavalry.41 It begins in
a lively 4/4 (actually, 12/8) with the three primary sections (preceded by twenty-six
measures of introduction) set off by dramatic change in theme, rhythm, and timbre.
The key is A major (with section B in A flat major).
“Sirènes” adds a female chorus to the orchestra, an addition that, because of the
cost, has worked against complete performances of the Nocturnes. There is no text;
Debussy uses the chorus solely as an instrument. His goal was to produce an ethe-
real sound, and—for the time—his handling of the chorus is novel.The temptation
is to think he might have been better served if electronic instruments such as the
ondes martinet had been available. But a female chorus serves the femme fatale
implications of the program perfectly, its unearthly effect heightened by the absence
of language.
Debussy made clear that he viewed the chorus as part of the orchestra. He
wanted it placed “within the orchestra and not before it, otherwise an effect dia-
metrically opposed to what I am looking for will result. It is essential that this group
of voices have no greater importance than any other section of the orchestra. It
must not ‘stand out,’ but ‘mix in.’  ”42
“Sirènes” is in B major. Its close relationship to the tonality of  “Nuages” adds
some credence to the “symphonic” nature of the Nocturnes. Early analysts such as
Liebich claimed all three movements were unified by statements of the initial
theme from the first movement. But that is not the case. There is a recollection of

41.  Letter to Dukas of [11 February 1901] in DL, p. 117.

42.  Letter to an unknown correspondent of 30 December 1903 in C, p. 812.
 Compositions, 1893–1899  •  179

it in the finale, but the thematic content of each of the Nocturnes is as distinctive as
their titles.
If the Nocturnes can be seen as a symphony, it is one against the grain. That is
made clear in the final movement where the chorus appears, not, as in Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony, to add words (with a human element) and to enhance the stan-
dard instruments of the orchestra, but rather to add timbre (and dehumanize it) to
generate an unearthly effect.
Liebich concluded that the Nocturnes were a “category of free symphonies,” a view
shared by many contemporaries.43 But Debussy’s subtitle—”triptyque symphonique”—
provides a more accurate interpretation. The three movements do not duplicate a
triptych in the usual sense with three paintings united by subject. But they do
­create a picture gallery with a landscape, a genre piece, and a mythical subject
(popular, incidentally, among Symbolist painters).The result is an orchestral set sim-
ilar in concept to the three piano pieces Debussy assembled under the title Estampes
(Prints) in 1903. The Nocturnes are nearly twice the length of the Estampes. But
Debussy’s intention seems to have been to adapt for orchestra a genre associated
with the piano—in the process intentionally blurring distinctions between them.

43.  Liebich, p. 43.

 l C h a p t e r t w e lv e
;
Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas

What strange air one breathes here!

Villiers de l’Isle-Adam,
Axël (1890)

F or a composer to be successful in France during the nineteenth

century it was essential to be successful as a composer of opera. The Prix de
Rome provided an indication of the prevailing musical taste. Its basis was a compo-
sition, generally dramatic in content, for solo voices, ensemble, and chorus. While
not an opera—that would have required too much time to compose—it resembled
one. Winners of the Prix, like Debussy, were expected to build on their reputation
by composing an opera not long after their return to Paris.
But Debussy was slow to follow the accepted path. If he wrote an opera, he wanted
to create one unlike any other.The first requirement was a libretto that would inspire him,
one, as he told Guiraud, that “only hints at what is to be said.The ideal would be two
associated dreams. No place, nor time.” What he was looking for was a world apart
from the usual opera of the day ( like Rodrigue et Chimène). He had tried to create
something more to his taste. But his attempt to adapt dramatic scenarios from less con-
ventional works (like those of Leconte de l’Isle or Banville) had not been successful.
Basically two predominant opera styles were current in Europe: Italian (repre-
sented by Verdi and later Puccini), and German (Wagner and his followers). French
opera, though rooted in tradition, was more of a hybrid. The most popular, that of
Massenet, combined elements of grand opera (established by Giacomo Meyerbeer
in Paris in the 1830s) with aspects of lyric opera (Gounod and Thomas). None of
those approaches appealed to Debussy.

•  180  •
 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  181

No one was more aware of literary trends than Debussy, and he knew of the
attention being directed toward the unusual dramas of the future Nobel laureate,
Maurice Maeterlinck. They were in the Symbolist manner of works Debussy
admired ( like Axël ), but were more concise and broader in their appeal. Performances
in Paris of Maeterlinck’s “The Intruder” and “The Blind” in 1891 had been very
successful. His “Pelléas et Mélisande” was eagerly awaited, but because of financial
complications, it was presented in only a single matinee performance on 17 May
1893. Debussy was present, as were distinguished representatives of all the arts,
including Mallarmé, Whistler, Régnier, and Louÿs.1
Debussy had read “Pelléas et Mélisande” before the performance and probably
had been struck by its potential as a libretto.2 But seeing the play had a powerful
impact on him. The performance was by all accounts striking, clothed in the dis-
tinctive dramaturgy associated with Symbolist works for the stage.
Despite its qualities as a drama, “Pelléas et Mélisande” was an odd choice for an
opera. Based on the operatic standards of the day, it was totally unsuitable. There is
little action. There are no aria-like sections, or ensembles, or distinction between
contemplative scenes. In fact much of it seems deliberately anti-operatic and in
opposition to nineteenth-century operatic convention.3
As set by Debussy, the opera opens with Golaud, lost in a forest, coming upon a
mysterious, young woman (Mélisande) weeping beside a fountain. In spite of her
fear, he manages to persuade her to leave with him. Six months later in a letter to
his half-brother, Pelléas, Golaud announces his marriage to Mélisande and return to
his ancestral home: the castle of his grandfather, King Arkel. Mélisande soon feels
oppressed by the castle and the gloom of the surrounding forest. Life with Golaud
is strained, a tension that is exacerbated when she carelessly loses her wedding ring.
At the same time she gradually grows closer to Pelléas. Golaud becomes aware of
their relationship and suspicious, using his young son from an earlier marriage,
(Yniold), in an attempt to spy on them. Eventually he tells Pelléas to avoid Mélisande,
using as a basis her “delicate condition” (Mélisande is pregnant). But he continues
to keep the pair under observation, and at the very moment when they first declare
their love, he rushes upon them and kills Pelléas. The opera concludes with

1.  For additional study of Pelléas, see David Grayson, The Genesis of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande
(Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1986), and Roger Nichols and Richard Langham Smith, Claude
Debussy. Pelléas et Mélisande (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). For detailed informa­
tion on all of Debussy’s works for the stage (including ballets and abortive projects), see Robert
Orledge, Debussy and the Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982).
2.  He had previously been interested in Maeterlinck’s “Princess Maleine,” but rights had already
been granted to d’Indy.
3. That would not have been by design. Maeterlinck was not musical, and he conceived “Pelléas
et Mélisande” solely as a play, not as a statement on opera.
182  •  debussy

Mélisande’s death, not long after having given birth prematurely. For much of the
time Golaud is by her side, overwhelmed by remorse, but obsessed by her betrayal.
The basis of the plot—the love between a wife and her husband’s brother—is far
from original. But its presentation is. Mélisande, Golaud, and Pelléas inhabit their
own dream-like world. Their grasp of reality is limited. Their speech and behavior
are child-like.Words are spoken without concern for their impact. Attempts at con-
cealment of thought or action are clumsy and simplistic. Communication often seems
indirect, as if the characters were addressing themselves first and anyone who might
be present as an afterthought. The dream-like—or, if you prefer, nightmarish—
qualities of this somber drama are enhanced by the strongly realistic basis of the
plot, but a plot presented by essentially abnormal personalities. Golaud, for example,
seems delusional, and on the verge of madness.
Conspicuous by their absence are the high-flown phrases and sentiments of
­nineteenth-century romanticism. But the general absence of emotional display only
lightly covers the profound transformation taking place within Pelléas, Golaud, and
Mélisande. That change—and the soul-states which trace it—is the focus of the play.
Traditionally if a composer had been interested in “Pelléas et Mélisande” as an
opera, Maeterlinck’s text would have served as a point of departure. A writer would
have been commissioned to prepare an adaptation. That was not Debussy’s inten-
tion. For his musical setting, he assembled the libretto himself, making frequent, but
minimal cuts (generally of repetitious text, a hallmark of Maeterlinck’s style). Four
scenes (with no bearing on the primary action) were omitted in their entirety. But
for the most part, Debussy set to music the text as Maeterlinck had written it.
The staging of the play—in many ways remarkable—was a major source of
inspiration for Debussy’s musical approach. Pelléas, for example, had been played by
a woman. But most memorable had been the visual impact of the sets and the style
of acting.
Few stage properties had been used. Instead there had been an emphasis on
painted paper and “abstract foliage.”4 Lighting was dim; makeup was a pale gray.The
acting was typical of Symbolist plays: “hieractic gesture, stylized posing, and mono-
tone declamation.”5 The tone was similar to that used for the recitation of poetry:

I believe it was there [at the Théâtre d’Art] that for the first time poems were said as they
should be said. Thus the syllabic music achieved through natural accentuation of long syllables
and short syllables based on the premise that the poet did not choose short or long syllables
without an intention, and that in order to give a poetic line its meaning, we need only

4.  Contemporary review quoted in Frantisek Deak, Symbolist Theater.The Formation of an Avant-Garde
(Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), p. 166.
5.  Ibid., p. 54.
 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  183

stress where the syllable is deep with sound, and glide over the mute and the “weak”
­syllables, without arbitrary effect left to an actor’s caprice.6

The goal was to rely on simplicity to create an aura of mystery and detachment
from reality. Contemporary reviews noted that the speech patterns of the actors
provided glimpses into their souls, and comparisons were made to their words as
“chant.”7 Although one reviewer complained that the actors spoke “in a tone of
recitative with an irritating monotony,” the general response was favorable.8
Debussy was excited by the possibility of “Pelléas et Mélisande” as an opera.
Unlike nearly all of his other operatic projects, he took on this one without regrets
and without hesitation, receiving permission to use the text from Maeterlinck in
August 1893. Debussy may have begun composition earlier but did not work in
earnest until late in August. Two years later, on 17 August 1895, composition (short
score, excluding orchestration) was basically completed.
During that time he was absorbed with other pieces (like the Marche écossaise,
the String Quartet, and the Faune), but Pelléas remained the focus, even if
Debussy’s approach seemed scattered. He began by setting the most extraordinary
(and atypical) scene from the drama: Act IV, scene iv, the scene where Pelléas and
Mélisande confess their love and are surprised by Golaud. Its intensity proved
a  challenge, and he had to rework it twice: in September–October 1893
(Debussy claimed the previous version sounded too much like Wagner), and
in May 1895.
From that scene, Debussy jumped to the beginning of the drama, and from
December 1893 through February 1894 set Act I to music. Act III (which shows
Golaud’s growing paranoia) and the remainder of Act IV (using the scenes with
Yniold as a pivot) followed:

Act III, scene i May–June (July?) 1894

Act III, scene ii July–August 1894
Act III, scene iii August 1894
Act IV, scene iii August 1894
Act III, scene iv August–September 1894
Act IV, scenes i, ii January–February? 1895

Debussy composed Act V in April–June 1895 before turning to Act II to complete

the opera (June–August 1895).

6.  Charles Morice quoted in ibid., p. 172.

7.  Ibid., p. 189.
8.  Ibid., p. 167.
184  •  debussy

Debussy’s compositional process for Pelléas consisted of making an initial draft

(done in haste), followed by a short score with revisions. Many of the changes
focused on the text, often subtle ones intended to enhance clarity and meaning.
The vocal score was probably not fully completed until April 1900 (at the insistence
of Debussy’s publisher, and in preparation for rehearsals), and was revised in the
summer of 1901. Orchestration went smoothly over a three- to four-week period
early in 1902 (with additional revisions later, based on performance).
One of the greatest challenges facing Debussy was inherent in the plot of Pelléas.
Its climax occurs in Act IV with Golaud’s discovery of Pelléas and Mélisande. How
could Debussy retain audience interest for an additional act? How could he reduce
its sentimentality and maintain a semblance of reality in Mélisande’s lengthy
deathbed scene? He responded with understatement, by quickening the pace, and
by treating Act V almost as an epilogue.
While composing Pelléas Debussy immersed himself in the text. Portions were
played for friends. Letters documented his absorption. The scene in the vault was
“full of deceitful terror, and mysterious enough to give vertigo to the most hard-
ened souls. . . . Now I am at work on the scene between father and son. . . .There is
a ‘petit père’ there that gives me nightmares.”9
Once the opera had been accepted and a date set for its performance, he became
actively engaged in how it would be presented on stage. Rehearsals began on
13 January 1902 and lasted until the premiere on 30 April. Debussy was present for
sixty-nine days of them, an extraordinary amount. But he was convinced that Pelléas
needed unusual guidance to ensure adequate presentation.
Fortunately he was seconded in his work by the conductor, André Messager.
Messager, a popular composer of operetta, seemed an unlikely supporter, but he grasped
the significance of Pelléas and early on convinced the management at the Opéra-
Comique of its importance—and of the possibility that it might attract a following.
Debussy was equally fortunate to have for the roles of Pelléas and Mélisande two
singers who were gifted musicians and able to respond to the new style the opera
represented. Jean Périer excelled as Pelléas, and, as Mélisande, Mary Garden drew
exceptional praise (despite criticism of her French pronunciation; she was born in
Scotland and had lived in the United States).
Two factors contributed to Périer’s and Garden’s success in Pelléas et Mélisande:
their acting skill, and their ability to sidestep operatic tradition. Their performance
has led to the myth that they were extraordinary finds by Debussy. But both were part
of the standard troupe at the Opéra-Comique and were also successful in more conven-
tional operas. Garden had made her debut two years earlier in Charpentier’s Louise, a
role she loved—and one that could not have been more different from Mélisande.  After

9.  Letter of [28 August 1894] to Henry Lerolle in C, p. 220.

 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  185

Pelléas et Mélisande she appeared as Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata. That was followed by
starring roles in the standard repertory (she became a favorite in Massenet’s Thaïs).
There has never been an opera quite like Pelléas et Mélisande, and that has worked
to its advantage. Many who do not like opera in general, find it to be an exception.
Others, more tradition-bound, find it to be a refreshing change. From the start,
reaction to it was unpredictable. Audiences generally enjoyed it (a small, energized
minority developed into a cult following). There was strong appeal to the younger
generation, especially composers.
Criticism in the press ran the gamut. To traditionalists, Debussy was nothing less
than the “head of the anarchists in music.”10 Debussy’s former collaborator, Catulle
Mendès, expressed disappointment. Debussy had missed the “poetic essence,” he
claimed, and the result was similar to what some had criticized in the performance
of the play: “systematic exaggeration of monotony.”11 But there was also approval in
unexpected quarters. Massenet, who heard it in rehearsal, described it as “so new, so
unexpected.”12
A common complaint was that the music had too complementary a role, and
that the emphasis was on the text (producing the type of “monotony” Mendès
mentioned). Richard Strauss went even further. Pelléas et Mélisande, he concluded,
was “not music.”13 But it continued to attract audiences, and reached its hundredth
performance at the Opéra-Comique in January 1913. Figures for the first half of the
twentieth century are impressive: 343 performances, ranking fifteenth overall (first
on the list, with 1,808 performances, was Bizet’s Carmen).
The authors of early studies of Debussy were enthralled with Pelléas et Mélisande.
Louise Liebich wrote that Pelléas constituted nothing less than “an epoch in the his-
tory of operatic music. . . . [It was] entirely without precedent, bearing no resem-
blance to any other opera.”14 Lawrence Gilman was equally effusive. It was “not
simply a new manner of writing opera, but a new kind of music . . . this dim and
wavering and elusive music, with its infinitely subtle gradations, its gossamer fineness
of texture, its delicate sonorities, its strange and echoing dissonances, its singular
richness of mood, its shadowy beauty, its exquisite and elaborate art.”15

10.  Arthur Pougin quoted in Jann Pasler, “Pelléas and Power: Forces behind the Reception of
Debussy’s Opera,” 19th-Century Music 10 (1987), p. 262.
11.  Ibid., p. 250.
12.  Demar Irvine, Massenet: A Chronicle of His Life and Times (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1997),
p. 243.
13.  LS, p. 285.
14.  Mrs. Franz Liebich, Claude-Achille Debussy (London: John Lane, 1908), p. 79.
15.  Lawrence Gilman, Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande. A Guide to the Opera (New York: Schirmer,
1907), pp. 3, 4–5.
186  •  debussy

Singled out for discussion was the manner in which Debussy had set the text
to music: it not only avoided traditional distinctions between recitative, arioso,
and aria, but the Wagnerian concept of “endless melody,” as well. Gilman described
it as “virtually a chant; an opera in which there is no vocal melody whatsoever,
and comparatively little symphonic development of themes in the orchestra.”16
Liebich reacted similarly, writing of the opera’s “intensified speech occasionally
resembling plain or Gregorian chant.”17 Actual resemblance between Debussy’s
setting and plainchant is slight. And the reference to “no vocal melody whatso-
ever” is wide of the mark. What those statements emphasize is how unusual
Debussy’s music must have sounded at the time, and how difficult it was to try to
explain what made it so.
We know that Debussy worked hard to create a unique, declamatory style. One
objective during the course of his revision was to produce the effect of more
natural speech patterns (and at the same to undo the occasional bad habit, such as
predictable phrasing). As in his songs, Debussy was acutely sensitive to words,
meaning, and drama. When in the final act Golaud asks for Mélisande’s forgiveness,
in order to heighten its effect there is suddenly no orchestral accompaniment.
Debussy’s effort to create music to enhance, yet not overwhelm, the text, led him
back to the essence of the spoken word. Sung text, he advised Manuel de Falla in
1911, should not last longer than speech.The style and dramatic pace of Maeterlinck’s
text lent itself singularly well to that type of musical approach.
Operatic, vocal lyricism is absent from Debussy’s score. On the one hand there are
no lengthy speeches or soliloquies in Maeterlinck’s setting that could function as an
aria. But even when an opportunity arises—as in Mélisande’s song in Act III—Debussy
turned his back on operatic tradition and created instead a folk-like setting.
Since much of Debussy’s vocal line is nuanced, relying on repetition of notes and
stepwise motion, any departure from it can become strikingly lyrical, as in the fol-
lowing instance from Act IV. Here the effect is further enhanced by slowing the
pace from eighth to quarter notes (Example 12-1 on the next page).
The style Debussy created for Pelléas has tended to complicate performance,
where an emphasis has sometimes been placed on acting over musicality. In
moments of great intensity—Act IV, for example—there has been a tendency for
singers to turn to spoken word or to offer only an approximation of the pitch
notated in the score—as if, for some reason, music were no longer suitable. But
Debussy went to great pains to be precise in his notation, and it always works.When
he did not want notated pitch, he indicated it (as in Golaud’s poignant “ahs” in the
final act; in an earlier version Debussy had actually set them to music).

16.  Ibid., pp. 49–50.

17.  Liebich, p. 68.
 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  187

Even today Debussy’s handling of the text seems a marvel, a synthesis of word
and music that appears completely natural. But what makes it particularly effective
is the role of the orchestra. Voice and orchestra are not independent. But in a
reversal of traditional roles, the orchestra is often more “melodic.” There is variety
of tone and timbre, and greater lyricism. But it is complementary, and subdued
(Debussy’s dynamic indications, often piano, are a key).
At times the orchestra provides commentary on the text.The sudden appearance of
the harps, for example, in the grotto scene in Act III, scene iii, has the effect of a bolt
of light. Equally effective are the orchestral interludes, most of which originally were
no more than several dozen measures in length. Debussy was asked to expand them for
12-1  Pelléas et Mélisande

continued
188  •  debussy

12-1  Continued

performance to allow time to change scenery on stage. But beyond that practical need,
they often provide a moment of catharsis, helping to dissipate some of the stress and
emotion of the previous scene while providing a transition to the new one.
Much of the drama in Pelléas occurs not in exterior action but as character devel-
opment—as a response to what has become an increasingly untenable situation.That
inward tension and its progression is a characteristic of Symbolist drama, and one that
draws heavily on the concept of soul-states. Debussy’s concern with it helped fashion
his music, and provides further insight into his intentions. “On hearing opera,” he
wrote, “the spectator is accustomed to experiencing two distinct sorts of emotion: on
 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  189

the one hand the musical emotion, and on the other the emotion of the characters—
usually he experiences them in succession. I tried to ensure that the two were per-
fectly merged and simultaneous. Melody, if I dare say so, is antilyrical. It cannot express
the varying states of the soul, and of life. Essentially, it is suited only to the song that
expresses a simple feeling.”18 Being “antilyrical” was one way to express in music the
complexity of a soul-state.Yet another device Debussy employed was to adapt in his
own manner the concept of the leitmotiv developed by Richard Wagner.
Debussy had mixed feelings about Wagner’s music. It was, he felt, inimitable, with
glorious elements, but the summation of an age. Parsifal (“of the utmost beauty”)
was the work of Wagner that Debussy most admired.19 But he was critical of
Wagner’s use of leitmotivs in his music dramas, comparing them to “calling cards”
which tended to disrupt rather than enhance the dramatic flow.20
In Pelléas et Mélisande Debussy associated readily identifiable musical motives with
the primary characters. Each is clearly recognizable, by both pitch and rhythm (for
example, the triplet and dotted rhythm for Golaud, as well as the repeated major
second: Example 12-2).They reappear subtly and unobtrusively. Often their function
is more as a musical representation of a soul-state than of a person or a situation (as in
Wagner)—and their change and transformation is a musical response to the com-
plexity of the emotions, feelings, and thoughts embodied by the soul-state.

12-2  Pelléas et Mélisande

Debussy’s use of leitmotivs was noted by audiences and critics. Too much was
made of them. Maurice Emmanuel, for example, identified thirteen major ones,
and analyzed the entire opera with them as the basis.21 Although the leitmotivs are

18.  Interview in Le Figaro of 16 May 1902 in DM, p. 80.

19.  Review of 6 April 1903 in DM, p. 167.
20.  For a full discussion of Debussy’s understanding of  Wagner, see Robin Holloway, Debussy and
Wagner (London: Eulenburg Books, 1979).
21.  Maurice Emmanuel, Pelléas et Mélisande de Debussy (Paris: Mellottée, [1924]).
190  •  debussy

one of the most obvious musical characteristics of the opera, focusing on them
tends to detract from the other musical elements of the score.
Many of the expected features of Debussy’s music are found in Pelléas: modality,
non-functional harmony, varied repetition of cells as a means of musical development.
More debatable is the claim of tonality as means of musical symbolism. It was, we
know, a device favored by composers such as Vincent d’Indy. His letters confirm
that, like Debussy, he thought of leitmotivs as symbolic of musical soul-states. But on
a larger dimension d’Indy created tonal architecture designed to enhance an opera’s
symbolism. In Fervaal (1895) D major represented light and triumph; A flat minor
was associated with suffering. Some have seen similar symbolism in Pelléas et Mélisande
with, for example, F sharp major as the equivalent of “light, revelation, vision.”22 The
case of proof, however, is not as strong—both because Debussy’s tonality is less
clear-cut than d’Indy’s, and because Debussy never referred to its use.
D’Indy was Debussy’s greatest rival at the time of Pelléas. His opera, Fervaal, was
intended as a regeneration of the genre in France. D’Indy wrote the text himself
and worked on the score for six years. First performed at the Opéra-Comique in
1898, its basis was legend; its setting, the Saracen invasion of the Cévennes in the
eighth century. D’Indy was an admirer of  Wagner, and Wagner’s style permeates all
elements of Fervaal. In that sense Fervaal was typical of many fin-de-siècle operas.
It is difficult today to grasp the astonishing effect Wagner’s music had on French
composers of the time. “Yesterday,” Emmanuel Chabrier wrote to his wife, “I heard
Parsifal for the first time. I have never in all my life had an artistic experience at all
comparable to this; it is overwhelming: one comes out after each act (I do, at least)
absolutely overcome with admiration, bewildered, distraught with tears running
down one’s cheeks.”23 In trying to create a new style of opera, French composers
fell under Wagner’s spell (Chabrier’s unfinished Briséïs [1894], and Chausson’s Le Roi
Arthus [1895], are good examples). Debussy’s independent stance was unique.24
Except to increase the vogue of Maeterlinck, the success of Pelléas did not alter
operatic taste in France. The Massenet style continued to be popular, whether by
him or in the hands of other composers, such as Xavier Leroux and Henry Février.25

22.  Arthur B. Wenk, Claude Debussy and Twentieth-Century Music (Boston: Twayne, 1983), p. 48.
23.  Letter to his wife of 22 July 1889 in Rollo Myers, Emmanuel Chabrier and His Circle (London:
J. M. Dent, 1969), p. 85.
24. The search for possible influences on Pelléas led beyond Wagner and the use of leitmotivs to
Debussy’s supposed indebtedness to Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov (1874). But although he had access
to the score, rather than specific musical traits what they share is a departure from operatic
convention. In style and content (Boris is, after all, basically a historical drama), Pelléas et Mélisande
and Boris Godunov are a world apart.
25.  Even if, as in the case of Février’s Monna Vanna (1909), the source was a play by Maeterlinck.
 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  191

D’Indy followed Fervaal with L’Etranger (1903).The influence of Wagner was dimin-
ished. But even though the text (again his own work) could not be more Symbolist,
the music owes little to Pelléas (excepting perhaps its preference for greater musical
simplicity).
The exception was Dukas’s Ariane et Barbe-bleue (1907), a sparkling work based
on Maeterlinck’s play of the same name. Dukas adapted Debussy’s approach in
Pelléas, but with less circumspection for the text (and Debussy’s declamatory style).
Debussy was not impressed. He complained to Dukas that “throughout, at every
turning, the music dominates the words.”26 Privately he described Ariane et Barbe-
bleue as “a masterpiece, but not a masterpiece of French music”—a dubious pro-
nouncement that says more about Debussy’s growing nationalism than his critical
judgment.27
The popularity of Pelléas et Mélisande led to the expectation that Debussy would
soon favor the public with another opera. But he was fearful of repeating himself
and cautious in selecting another subject. In 1895 he had briefly considered a tale
by Balzac,“La Grande Bretêche.” It is in the frenetic style of Pétrus Borel with over-
tones of Poe: a husband revenges himself on his wife by entombing her lover alive.
Nothing came of the idea, but it gives some indication of Debussy’s interests. Of the
many plans for opera after Pelléas, two seemed to hold his attention: an adaptation
of Shakespeare’s As You Like It (1902–1904), and an opera based on the legend of
Orpheus (1907–1909). But no music was composed for either one.
Debussy eventually settled on a little-known short story by Poe: “The Devil in
the Belfry” (1839). Poe was extraordinarily popular in France where he had had the
benefit of two translators of genius: Charles Baudelaire and Stéphane Mallarmé. For
years he had been one of Debussy’s favorite writers.
The tale selected by Debussy is not in the gothic genre generally associated with
Poe but is a humorous piece intended for the local press. Poe wrote several stories
like it, with an affinity for the “tall tales” popular at the time in the United States.
The plot is basic: the devil disrupts life in a dull and conventional Dutch village
(with the name of V   ondervotteimittiss) by having the town clock strike thirteen.
Unlike Poe’s tales that focus on the macabre, the intent in “The Devil in the
Belfry” is to entertain with humor and hyperbole. The following extract (where
Poe explains how Vondervotteimittiss received its name) is typical of its style:

Among a multitude of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned, some
sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which ought to be considered satis-
factory. Perhaps the idea of Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is

26.  Letter of 8 May 1907 in DL, p. 178.

27.  Letter to Vittorio Gui of 25 February 1912 in C, p. 1494.
192  •  debussy

to be cautiously preferred:—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege Donder—Votteimittis,

quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol: pro Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still
countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the summit of the steeple of
the House of the Town-Council. I do not choose, however, to commit myself on a theme
of such importance, and must refer the reader desirous of information, to the “Oratiunculæ
de Rebus Præter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See, also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27
to 5010, Folio, Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher; wherein
consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries
of Gruntundguzzell.28

What attracted Debussy to Poe’s short story (it is only about a half dozen pages
in length)? The humor can be heavy-handed, but absurdity, exposure of human
folly, satire on conventionality—all were aspects with appeal to Debussy. He also felt
that the type of devil Poe created (“ironical and cruel”) was much more effective
than the traditional one.29 And then there is the important role of sound: the tolling
of the clock’s bell in the belfry, and the devil himself, a virtuoso bass fiddler and
dancer extraordinaire.
But there were real difficulties in adapting the story as an opera (or, for that
matter, as a drama). It is a fable (Poe originally subtitled it, “An Extravaganza”), so
much so that depicting its fantastic occurrences on stage would be a challenge.
Then there is the narration itself. Much of it is descriptive with commentary on
past occurrences intended to set the scene. All would need to be summarized and
transferred to the stage to explain the devil’s presence.
Debussy began work on The Devil in the Belfry in the summer of 1902. In
October 1903 he signed a contract with Durand stipulating that the work would be
in two acts, and would be completed by May 1905. But although he worked spo-
radically on the project until 1912, he made little progress. In the end there are only
six pages of notes (with a summary of the text) and three pages of music, all bearing
the date 25 August 1903. While at work on the score, Debussy wrote to Durand
of a distinctive manner he had developed in writing for voices. But there is no way
of knowing what he intended based on what has survived. About a dozen measures
of the music were used by Debussy in the brief piano piece, “Morçeau de concours,”
published in Musica in 1905.
Because of Debussy’s lack of progress, he was given an extension to April 1907.
In the following year he signed an additional contract for its production with the

28.  The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, ed. John H. Ingram. 4 vols. (London: A. & C. Black, 1899), II,
p. 300. Incidentally, Baudelaire retained “Vondervotteimittiss” in his translation, but Debussy did
not use it.
29.  Letter to André Messager of [9 June 1902] in C, p. 668.
 Pelléas et Mélisande and the Poe Operas  •  193

Metropolitan Opera in New York City, but with an important addition. The Devil
in the Belfry was intended to be part of a double-bill along with another opera based
on Poe: “The Fall of the House of Usher” (1839).30
Debussy’s interest in adapting “The Fall of the House of Usher” was nearly two
decades old. Around 1890 he contemplated an orchestral piece based on it. He
probably started creating a libretto in 1908 and began composing music the follow-
ing year. As with The Devil in the Belfry, his work was irregular, but it continued as
late as 1916. What have survived are two versions of the text (a twenty-seven-page
sketch and a final version of seventeen pages) and twenty-one pages of music for
voice and piano (with some orchestral indications).
“The Fall of the House of Usher” is one of Poe’s best-known works, a tale of
unremitting gloom and depression, chronicling the hypersensitivity, incipient mad-
ness, and death of Roderick Usher. Usher is an aesthete and a musician known for
his “wild improvisations” on the guitar.31 The story is set as the first-person narrative
of a friend of Usher and is almost entirely descriptive. Only Usher speaks. In creating
his libretto, Debussy increased the role of a very minor character (a physician), in
the process presenting dramatic possibilities but minimizing the effect of the gradual,
but inexorable dissolution of Usher.
Not enough material has survived to assemble an edition of The Fall of the House
of Usher that can accurately reflect what Debussy ultimately wanted the work to be.
One attempt at completing Debussy’s unfinished work was made in 1979 by Juan
Allende-Blin and has been published and recorded.32 There are interesting moments
in it (Debussy seems to have captured some of the eerie, ominous atmosphere well),
but at best it can only provide glimpses of what may have been intended. Debussy
completed no music for substantial portions of the text, and none of the
orchestration.
Why after more than fifteen years was Debussy unable to complete either of his
Poe operas? Involvement with other musical projects was undoubtedly an impedi-
ment. But he was also concerned about comparisons with Pelléas et Mélisande.
Debussy was determined that his next opera would be completely different, and
not another version of Pelléas. That required a different type of text and a different
approach—and, although he may not have recognized it, there are strong similar-
ities in style, plot, and mood between Pelléas and Usher. There also must have been
at least some anxiety that whatever he wrote might not match the success of Pelléas,
both financially and critically.

30.  Also part of the contract was a Tristan opera. Debussy was candid with the Met management
on the implausibility of completing all the works.
31.  Works, I, p. 186.
32.  Another version by Carolyn Abbate and Robert Kyr was performed in 1977.
194  •  debussy

Yet an additional obstacle was psychological. Debussy never appeared resolved

to compose music for The Devil in the Belfry. As had been the case with so many
operatic projects, he seemed to lose interest in it, even though he occasionally made
an effort to return to it.
But that was not the case with The Fall of the House of Usher. Debussy became
obsessed with it. Letters to friends record his fascination. “I am living,” he wrote to
Durand, “in “The House of Usher” . . . it bears no resemblance to a rest home, and
at times I leave it with my nerves stretched as tautly as those of a violin.”33 Poe, he
confessed, “holds nearly an agonizing tyranny over me.”34
The “insufferable gloom” and “utter depression of soul” that permeates “The
Fall of the House of Usher” is skillfully manipulated by Poe and can produce an
uncanny effect on a sensitive reader.35 For Debussy, that was not the type of immersion
in the subject that had proved so beneficial in composing Pelléas et Mélisande. It was as
if it had become a struggle to maintain the sense of detachment necessary to compose,
as if composing itself had become an ordeal.The result—a composer so captivated by
his subject that he is unable to finish his work—is not as far-fetched as it may appear,
and worthy in itself of a tale by Poe.
But Debussy may also have felt stymied by his attempt to adapt the story as an
opera. His libretto seems several steps removed from Poe and lacks the brooding
atmosphere that is such a crucial component of the tale. In the end, it is hard to
believe that Debussy was completely satisfied with the text he had produced, yet
another factor that may have contributed to The Fall of the House of Usher remaining
little more than a fragment.

33.  Letter of 15 July 1910 in C, p. 1302.

34.  Letter to André Caplet of 21 September 1909 in ibid., p. 1214.
35.  Works, I, p. 179.
 l C h a p t e r t h i rt e e n
;
Compositions 1900–1912

In fact the best pupil from my point of view will be the “bad” pupil, the one
who takes nothing on trust!
Pierre Boulez, “The Teacher’s Task” (1961)

Instrumental Works
Solo Piano:  Images oubliées (1894); Pour le piano, Images (Books I and II);
Estampes; L’Isle joyeuse; Masques; D’un cahier d’esquisses; Pièce pour piano (Morçeau de concours);
Children’s Corner; “The Little Nigar”; Hommage à Haydn; Préludes (Books I and II); La
plus que lente (also for orchestra)
Two Pianos: Lindaraja
Chamber:  Rhapsody for Clarinet (with piano; also for orchestra)
Petite pièce for Clarinet (with piano)
Orchestral and Concerto: La Mer; Rhapsody for Saxophone and Orchestra (completed
after Debussy’s death by Roger-Ducasse); Deux Danses (for harp and orchestra); Images
pour orchestre
Ballet:  Khamma

Vocal Works
Songs:  Fêtes galantes (2nd series) (Verlaine); Trois Chansons de France (Charles d’Orléans,
Tristan L’Hermite); Trois Chansons de Charles d’Orléans; Trois Ballades de François Villon;
Le Promenoir des deux amants (Tristan L’Hermite)
Works for the Stage:
Incidental music for King Lear; Le Martyre de St. Sébastien

•  195  •
196  •  debussy

W hile still a student Debussy decided that it was essential to ­discard

much of what he was being taught. Blindly adopting rules and traditions
produced music that was bland and predictable. There was the added risk that it
might become fashionable. So it could only have been a shock for Debussy to
discover after the success of Pelléas that his own music was becoming popular.
What he wrote was in vogue, and widely imitated. Although he may have been
amused at first by references in the press to a “School of Debussy” or to “Debussy
and His Followers,” in time the idea only horrified him.
There were in Debussy’s eyes three major drawbacks to fame.The loss of privacy
annoyed him.Then there were the simplistic labels—like Impressionism—that were
applied to his music. Finally, there seemed to be a widespread belief that somehow
his music fit into a mold, that what he composed would be predictable and a con-
tinuation of what he had previously produced.
He was determined to remain distinctive, and to write music free from formulas.
But it was not a simple task. “For every bar [I write] that has some freedom about
it,” wrote Debussy while at work on his Poe operas,“there are twenty that are stifled
by the weight of one particular tradition; try as I may, I’m forced to recognize its
hypocritical and destructive influence. The fact that this tradition belongs to me by
right is hardly relevant.”1
*****
No work serves as a stronger point of demarcation between Debussy and his contempo-
raries than La Mer. It revealed an entirely new compositional approach, and one so distinc-
tive that it alienated and perplexed many who had been eager supporters of his music.2
Composing La Mer was a grueling project. Debussy dedicated more than a year and
a half to it—from August 1903 to March 1905. Its source of inspiration testified to the
depths of his recollections and sensibility, for La Mer was begun far from the sea, deep
in the heartland of France during a visit to his in-laws in Burgundy. By the time it was
completed, Debussy had left Lily and established a new life with Emma Bardac.
Given the extraordinary changes in his personal life (and the slow pace adopted
by Debussy in general on a new work), La Mer was completed rapidly. Unlike the
major orchestral work that preceded it—the Nocturnes—he did not complain about
writing or finishing La Mer. Yet it is a far more complex work than the Nocturnes
and provided much more of a challenge.
Its complexity is not readily apparent. La Mer is an instrumental composition with a
program inspired by nature, the type of program with broad appeal not just in the open-

1.  Letter to André Caplet of [22 December 1911] in DL, p. 252.

2.  For additional study of La Mer, see Simon Trezise, Debussy. La Mer (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1994).
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  197

ing decade of the twentieth century but for much of the nineteenth century as well.
Bodies of water, whether lakes, streams, or the sea, were a popular musical subject.
Paul Gilson’s La Mer provides an interesting comparison. Gilson, a Belgian com-
poser, was three years younger than Debussy. La Mer (1892) was his first major com-
position, and it became one of his most successful.
Gilson’s La Mer is an orchestral composition with a poem as its basis, but vague in
genre (it is identified neither as a tone poem nor a symphony).The subtitle is “symphonic
sketches,” and there are four, each with a title: “Lever de soleil” (Sunrise), “Chants et
danses de matelots” (Sailors’ Songs and Dances), “Crépuscule” (Twilight), and “La
Tempête” (The Tempest).The program offers a bit of everything, from sailors at leisure
to the changing faces of nature. Gilson’s musical approach could not be simpler. As a
unifying device, a single, easily recognizable theme appears in all the movements.
On the surface Debussy’s La Mer shows similarity to Gilson’s. “I am working,” he
wrote at the beginning of the project, “on three symphonic sketches entitled: 1.
‘Mer belle aux iles sanguinaires’; 2. ‘jeu de vagues’; 3. ‘le vent fait danser la mer’; the
whole to be called La Mer.”3 As the project progressed over the next eighteen
months, three basic components remained unchanged: that La Mer consisted of
symphonic sketches, that there were three of them, and that each had a title.
The titles were eventually altered, and the ones selected by Debussy—“De l’aube
à midi sur la mer” (From Dawn to Noon at Sea), “Jeux de vagues” (Play of the
Waves), and “Dialogue du vent et de la mer” (Dialogue of the Wind and the Sea)—
were an improvement. They are less restrictive than the original titles, more poetic,
more evocative, and, in the case of the final movement, they avoid the association
with dance (and the ballet).
Unlike Gilson’s, Debussy’s La Mer focused solely on the sea. People may be
implied as observers, but the commonplace associations of Gilson’s titles have been
deliberately avoided. And while the temptation might be strong to associate
Debussy’s titles to paintings or prints with similar names, there is no indication that
was his intention. Unlike the Nocturnes that drew directly on the visual arts, La Mer
draws solely on nature. There is no intermediary.
One curious link between Debussy and Gilson is the description of their work
as “symphonic sketches.” Each could just as easily have been called a symphony.
Gilson’s format is identical to a typical four-movement symphony (with the second
movement as a scherzo). Debussy only uses three movements (Fast-Slow-Fast). But
for a symphony to have three movements was not unusual in France.

3.  Letter to André Messager of 12 September 1903 in DL, p. 141. The Iles sanguinaires are part of
an archipelago near Ajaccio, Corsica. There has been speculation that the odd, original title of the
first movement may have been derived from a short story by Camille Mauclair, or from a news-
paper’s daily meteorological update (“la mer est toujours belle aux Iles Sanguinaires”). LS, p. 246.
198  •  debussy

Debussy avoided the title “Symphony,” both because he questioned the vitality
of its tradition and because he wanted to avoid easy categorization. But beyond
that—and this may have been the reason the concept of “sketches” appealed to
Gilson as well—the subtitle helped to provide specificity. Unlike sketches as images,
these were musical sketches from nature. To Debussy there was yet another reason
for the subtitle’s appeal. “Sketches” gives the impression of a work still evolving,
dashed off, improvisatory—all elements that Debussy tried to capture in his music.
By writing music inspired by the sea, Debussy could draw on a potentially broad
base of interest. There was a fascination among the arts with the sea, an appeal that
surpassed genre and artistic credos to include Impressionist seascapes, Symbolist
painting (such as Alphonse Osbert’s Hymne à la mer [1893]), as well as poetry (Francis
Vielé-Griffin and Jean Richepin, for example). But Debussy’s attraction to the sea
went beyond current interest. As a child he had been captivated by his first view
of the Mediterranean at Cannes and later expressed interest in becoming a sailor.
As an adult, he found that a vacation by the seashore (curiously, Debussy was unable
to swim) provided both relaxation and regeneration for work. He was an acute
observer of the sea. The idea, then, of composing a piece of music inspired by the
sea was in many ways a fulfillment for him of deeply held convictions.
Debussy was also concerned about the appearance of La Mer in print. For the cover,
rather than a generic illustration (or, more likely, none at all), a detail was adapted (the
crest of a wave) from a print by the Japanese artist, Hokusai: “The Hollow of the Wave
Off Kanegawa” (one of his Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji, 1820–1829). It was a striking
choice—exotic, distinctive, yet wonderfully conceptualized. There was the advantage
that Hokusai had a growing circle of admirers in France, including Gauguin.4
Since Pelléas, each new work by Debussy found an eager audience. But those
who had expected something in his previous manner were disappointed by La Mer.
Critics were confused. They noted the general resemblance to a symphony but
found that using the symphonic repertory as a point of comparison led to confu-
sion. A symphony—whether one in name or disguised under another, like Gilson’s
La Mer—organized its musical material in a traditional manner and presented it in
easily comprehensible structures. Debussy did neither.
How, then, did La Mer actually compare with contemporary symphonies in
France? Some composers continued the standard nineteenth-century approach
established in Germany: four movements, in contrasting tempi (Fast-Slow-Moderate-
Fast). D’Indy and Magnard followed that practice but adapted the cyclic principle as
a unifying device. D’Indy’s Second Symphony (1903) is in four movements and is
based on a pair of theme groups, both of which reappear as a grandiose conclusion
in the finale. Magnard’s Fourth Symphony (1913) adopts a similar approach.

4.  A print of Hokusai’s “Wave” hung prominently in Debussy’s study.

 Compositions 1900–1912  •  199

But there was no rule restricting the number of movements to four. The sym-
phonies of Franck (1888), Chausson (1890), and Dukas (1896) all contained three
(Fast-Slow-Fast). Using their work as a basis, Debussy’s La Mer certainly looked like
a symphony—but one with titles (and a program of sorts).
Whether three or four movements, symphonies used contrast, typically melodic
and tonal, to delineate structure. For a listener, identifying tonal centers requires per-
fect pitch. But many in the audience listened for and identified melodies, and used
their reappearance to determine compositional process and the evolving musical
structure.5 When traditional structures were adopted, audiences could locate their
position within a piece (the recapitulation in sonata form, for example), and would
then be able to anticipate—if only in a general sense—the next likely musical event.
Over time (and, in the case of long-familiar structures like sonata form, over gener-
ations) the listening experience became predictable and comforting (much like a journey,
the direction set with minimal variation, the path well trodden, accompanied by rec-
ognizable but changing scenery). It was the coupling of the new with the predictable
that provided both the charm and firm grounding for the listener.
But both seem to be missing from La Mer.There is some tunefulness, and a good
deal of contrast. Listeners can hear when a melody enters or when bold change
happens. They can recognize when structural transformation has occurred. But
because traditional forms are not being indicated by these shifts, listeners are left
adrift.To recognize that a structural change has occurred but not to know what role
it plays appears pointless. What is its relationship to what has come before? And
where is it going? Those seem to be unanswered questions in La Mer.
The most ingenious attempt to solve the riddle of its musical structure uses golden
section as its key.The concept of golden section has been used in the visual arts since
antiquity and is said to be based on a proportion ubiquitous in nature. It is represented
by the following theorem: the ratio of the shorter to the longer length is equal to the
ratio of the longer to the whole (b/a = a/a+b; the ratio equals approximately .618).
In the visual arts, that position may indicate the focal point of an image (for example,
placement of a halo). Golden section was in vogue in fin de siècle Europe, and was
used by painters like Seurat and Segantini. Debussy likely came into contact with the
concept early, perhaps through his association with Edmond Bailly.
Transferring the golden section to music is not easy.The proportion would be indi-
cated by an important structural change, perhaps the entry of new thematic material, or
the significant return of a theme heard previously. But what should be used as the basis
of measurement? Beats? Bars? The performance time of the composition? In the visual
arts, the eye can see the structural point of reference. But how can the ear hear it?

5.  See Eric F. Jensen, “Sound as Symbol: Fin de Siècle Perceptions of the Orchestra,” Music Review
57 (1996), pp. 227–240.
200  •  debussy

One Debussy scholar, Roy Howat, used bars as a basis and justified its selection
by pointing to what he felt was a clue in a letter by Debussy. Looking through the
proofs of Estampes, Debussy complained to his publisher that a measure—“necessary
from the point of view of number; the divine number, as Plato and Mlle Liane de
Pougy would say, though each for a different reason, admittedly”—was missing.6
The tone of the letter is bantering, and the meaning unclear. But using Debussy’s
comment as a point of departure, Howat examined several of Debussy’s composi-
tions, including La Mer, to see if golden section were present.
Golden section in music is not as far-fetched a concept as it might appear. Béla
Bartók, for one, used it. And it seems likely that the idea of reproducing in his music
a proportion present throughout nature would have had appeal to Debussy. But the
examples presented by Howat are not convincing.There do not seem to be enough
significant structural points in Debussy’s compositions to coincide with golden
section—at least not without some proportional adjustment.
But even if the idea of replicating nature in his music did appeal to Debussy, how would
he have reacted to the idea of creating it through such a tedious and mechanical manner?
Conventional musical development (as in sonata form) he dismissed as “mandarin labors.”
“That’s architecture,” he once told Charles Koechlin,“not music.”7 Would he have felt the
same about golden section? And there may be another reason the practice might not have
appealed to him.Although it had the advantage (in Debussy’s eyes) of being a compositional
concept not taught in music conservatories, golden section remained associated
with the Western tradition from which Debussy was increasingly distancing himself.
Much of the novelty of structure in La Mer can be traced to Debussy’s approach
in earlier orchestral compositions like the Faune and the Nocturnes. The basis is the
same: repetition and variation of two- and four-bar phrases. In La Mer that repeti-
tion takes on added meaning: musical repetition becomes a counterpart to the
repetitive motion of water.
Like the ocean’s waves, Debussy’s musical phrases are never identical. In earlier
compositions the final measure of a phrase often served as a bridge to a new musical
idea or a variant. But there is a difference in its application in La Mer. Previously the
principle was applied in the context of broad, structural outlines—generally an
ABA form—and the repetition and variation was contained within, while helping
to differentiate musical sections. In La Mer there is no set form, like ABA or sonata.
The structure itself is unique and is generated in a continuous and unpredictable
manner by a succession of musical ideas—not by their position within a traditional,
recognizable structure.

6.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [18 September 1903] in DL, p. 137.The piece in question is “Jardins
sous la pluie.” Liane de Pougy was a well-known courtesan of the time.
7.  DR, p. 101.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  201

Debussy’s approach is cellular and brings to mind Bach’s. Bach’s motivic cells
relied more on imitation and less on predictable phrase length (and often more than
one were presented simultaneously). But Debussy achieves the same generative
effect in his music, one of natural growth and expansion. The most significant
change is that phrases are no longer conceived as a component of a section or
­subdivision, a concept that encouraged listeners in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries to keep track of what had happened musically in order to determine what
point they had reached in their musical journey (and where they were going).
In La Mer the focus is on the present. There are no structural formulas, no
­padding—every bar is essential and serves in the growth of the composition. That
explains the root of the problem contemporary critics had with La Mer, even though
they were unable to explain it. Based on its appearance, La Mer was a symphony.
They listened and looked for traditional symphonic structures—and were soon lost.
There were no comprehensible points of reference. This was not the familiar path.
The novel approach Debussy adopted for La Mer assures that it always appears
fresh and inventive. The structure is astonishingly subtle and flexible, and it varies
not just from listener to listener, but from hearing to hearing. What is heard, and
how it is interpreted, depends on what the listener chooses to emphasize.
To begin to follow the compositional process in La Mer, focus on what is being
heard at the moment. Listening remains an evolving presentation, but Debussy’s prac-
tice becomes clearer by concentrating on patterns (the two- and four-measure repet-
itive phrases of La Mer).The last movement,“Dialogue du vent et de la mer,” is a good
place to start. Here the compositional procedure is followed with an almost rigorous
logic. Listen to the opening phrase, its varied repetition, and transition to new material.
Hear how phrases exist independently but flow easily into one another, how the
music itself is generated in a natural process (but with no direct relationship to the
traditional tonal or thematic centers that used to serve as structural markers). It is an
exciting experience—lively, unpredictable, and a world apart from the music people
in Europe had been listening to for hundreds of years.
Despite its apparent freedom, there are parameters in place for the innovative
structural process Debussy developed for La Mer. Associated with it are musical
concepts more conventional in basis that help to remove some of its novelty and
provide cohesion. The sound of La Mer is based on concepts long associated with
Debussy’s music: melody as arabesque; nonfunctional harmony; exoticism (as in the
use of whole tone and pentatonic scales in the first movement). Debussy also
adapted a method associated with Franck and his school: a primary theme, varied
and appearing in all three movements as a unifying device. There are several readily
identifiable elements in it, rhythmic (the triplet) and melodic (ascending minor
third; descending major and minor seconds—Example 13-1 on the next page).
In the first movement this theme reappears near the end of the movement as the
climax (the appearance of the sun at midday). In the second movement it appears
13-1  La Mer: “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  203

with less emphasis (based mostly on the triplet figure). For the final movement, the
second half of the theme receives prominence (Example 13-2).

13-2  La Mer: “Dialogue du vent et de la mer”

Debussy’s thematic transformation is by design far less obtrusive than Franck’s. But
he seems to emphasize a connection with the Franckian School by using in the last
movement a theme that alternates between flat sixth and natural sixth (implying major
and minor mode), a notable characteristic of Franck’s melodic style. At the most
exciting moment in the movement, Debussy presents simultaneously this Franck-like
theme in the woodwinds alongside the primary theme in the brass (Example 13-3).
13-3  La Mer: “Dialogue du vent et de la mer”
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  205

13-3  Continued
206  •  debussy

Debussy’s use of rhythm in La Mer is extraordinarily supple. The major seconds

that begin “De l’aube à midi sur la Mer,” when echoed by the harps, give the impres-
sion of wave-like, repetitive patterns. On another level, intricate rhythmic patterns—
each associated with a particular timbre—yield a dense, multi-layered approach that
Debussy developed with uncanny effect in later works, like the Images pour orchestra.
Among audiences and critics there was no real understanding of what he had
accomplished in La Mer. Even the best-intentioned of admirers were confused by
it (Daniel Chennevière in his early biography of Debussy, for example). But prob-
ably the most disappointing response was that of Pierre Lalo. Lalo’s previous criti-
cism seemed to indicate a kindred spirit. Now he attacked more than the music.
He criticized Debussy’s sensibility and musicianship, and focused on what he
described as the artificiality of La Mer. It was, he wrote, “a reproduction of nature;
a wonderfully refined, ingenious, and carefully composed reproduction. . . . I do not
hear, I do not see, I do not smell the sea.”8
Debussy felt compelled to respond to Lalo. He began with an air of detachment:
“There’s no problem in your not liking La Mer and I’ve no intention of complaining
about it. I shall perhaps suffer regret that you haven’t understood me and astonish-
ment at finding you (though one such occasion doesn’t establish a habit) in agreement
with your fellow music critics.” But anger mounted as he continued to write: “You
say—keeping your unkindest cut for the last—‘that you do not see or smell the sea
throughout these three sketches’! That’s a large claim and I don’t know who is going
to evaluate it for us. . . . I love the sea and I’ve listened to it with the passionate respect
it deserves. If I’ve been inaccurate in taking down what it dictated to me, that is no
concern of yours or mine.You must admit not all ears hear the same way. The heart
of the matter is that you love and defend traditions which, for me, no longer exist or,
at least, exist only as representative of an epoch in which they were not all as fine and
valuable as people make out; the dust of the past is not always respectable.”9
*****
In addition to La Mer Debussy composed more than two dozen works during the
first twelve years of the twentieth century. They represent a wide variety of styles.
Not all made a point of avoiding “the dust of the past.” Much depended on their
intended market (and Debussy’s often pressing need for additional income).
The first compositions of the new century—Lindaraja, and the Rhapsody for
Saxophone ( both written in 1901)—adopt a simpler musical style, a reaction per-
haps to the less than rousing response given to the Nocturnes. But it was also a time

8.  Review of 16 October 1905 in Le Temps quoted in DL, p. 164.

9.  Letter of 25 October 1905 in ibid., pp. 163–164.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  207

when Debussy needed to focus his attention on the forthcoming premiere of Pelléas
and had little time or energy for other projects.
Lindaraja is a light, entertaining piece for two pianos, four-hands. The title was
taken from the name of one of the courtyards of the Alhambra in Grenada. The
engaging and distinctive style of Lindaraja (such as the habanera rhythm) anticipates
other Spanish-inspired pieces by Debussy (“La Soirée dans Granade” in Estampes
and “Ibéria” in the orchestral Images). Lindaraja is in ternary form with arabesque-
like elaboration of its two primary themes. But Debussy did not show much interest
in it. He made no attempt to publish it, and there is no mention of it in his
correspondence. It did not appear in print until 1926.
The Rhapsody for Saxophone was commissioned by Elise Hall using the oboist
of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Georges Longy, as intermediary. Mrs. Hall, a
skilled saxophonist and a wealthy patron of the arts, was the primary supporter of
the Orchestral Club of Boston, an organization conducted by Longy that focused
on contemporary music. About this time she also commissioned works for saxo-
phone from d’Indy and Charles Loeffler. Debussy worked on the Rhapsody inter-
mittently from 1901 to 1911, but never finished it. Years after the commission had
been spent, he admitted Mrs. Hall was still asking about it.
His lack of enthusiasm for the project was a result of ambivalence. “The saxo-
phone,” Debussy wrote, “is a reedy animal with whose habits I’m largely unfamiliar.
Is it suited to the romantic sweetness of the clarinets or the rather vulgar irony of
the sarrusophone (or the contra-bassoon)? In the end I’ve got it murmuring mel-
ancholy phrases against rolls on the side-drum. . . . The whole thing’s called ‘Rapsodie
arabe.’ ”10 Although the title Rapsodie arabe was dropped, the work retained a Spanish/
Moorish flavor. It is a short, single-movement concerto about ten minutes in length
with three primary themes, all recognizably “Spanish” sounding. But Debussy’s lack
of interest in the saxophone did not work in the piece’s favor. The writing is so
removed from the distinctive sound of the sax that the score could just as easily be
adapted for clarinet—or even viola.
At about the same time—and as a sign of his growing fame—Debussy was asked
to write a short piano piece for the journal, Musica. Published in January 1905, it was
part of a contest in which readers were asked to identify six unattributed pieces by
well-known and very different composers (the others were Cécile Chaminade,
Saint-Saëns, Massenet, Gaston Serpette [an operetta composer], and Rodolphe
Berger [known for his popular dances for piano]). Debussy’s composition (Morçeau
de concours) is a slight piece, only about a minute in length, and is based on a sketch
from his projected opera, The Devil in the Belfry.

10.  Letter to Pierre Louÿs of [beginning of August 1903] in DL, p. 136. Other titles considered:
Rapsodie orientale and Rapsodie mauresque.
208  •  debussy

Similar in style and approach was a short work for piano commissioned by the
Société Internationale de Musique to honor the centenary of the death of Franz
Joseph Haydn. Published in the Revue Musicale in January 1910, versions by other
notable French composers were part of the presentation, including Dukas, Reynaldo
Hahn, d’Indy, Ravel, and Charles Widor. All used the same theme, an anagram (with
substitution when necessary) approximating the musical spelling of H (B natural in
German nomenclature)-A-Y (d)-D-N (g). Haydn had never been a favorite with
Debussy, and the piece he wrote is of little interest.
Also dating from this time are two pieces for clarinet written for performance and
evaluation at the juries of the Conservatoire: the Petite pièce (for clarinet and piano; com-
posed in July 1910) and the Première rapsodie (clarinet and piano, January 1910; orches-
trated in 1911).The Pièce is less than two minutes in length, monothematic, and bland (it
was intended as a sight-reading piece). The Rapsodie is more challenging. Debussy
described it as one of his “most amiable,” and it is pleasant and unpretentious.11 The
clarinet shows to advantage (it is on display throughout most of the movement’s nearly
nine minutes), with two strongly contrasting themes and the opportunity for much lyr-
icism. The orchestral version is also effective, even though there is a reliance on the
strings (unusual for Debussy, but hardly surprising given the intended audience).
Works commissioned from Debussy, whether the source was an individual or an
institution, are generally a disappointment. They provided little inspiration, and
Debussy seemed eager to pocket the fee and move on. The exception was a
commission in 1904 from the Brussels Conservatory.The idea behind it was to pro-
mote a new instrument: the chromatic harp. It was cross-strung and marketed by
the firm of Pleyel as an improvement over the pedal harp advocated by their rival
Erard. The advantage was supposed to be its simplicity, but the harp never caught
on. Performances today use the pedal version.
Debussy’s Deux Danses pour harpe (for solo harp with string accompaniment) consist
of a “Danse sacrée” and a “Danse profane.” They are charming, elegant, and serene—
but they met with a surprisingly mixed reception at their premiere on 6 November
1904 as part of the Colonne concert series. Gabriel Fauré, writing for Le Figaro, was
dismissive:“Over and over one encounters the same harmonic singularities. Sometimes
they seem curious and seductive—and at other times simply unpleasant.”12
Both recall the antiquity of Debussy’s Bilitis settings. The theme for the “Danse
sacrée” is not by Debussy but by Francisco de Lacerda, a Portuguese composer based
in Paris. Debussy discovered it in the Revue Musicale published under the title, “Danse
du voile.”Although not indicated in the score, Debussy freely acknowledged the source
of the melody and later became a generous supporter of Lacerda, a student of d’Indy.

11.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 8 December 1911 in C, p. 1468.

12.  Review of 7 November 1904. LS, p. 267.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  209

One source of the success of Debussy’s Danses is the vivid contrast between them.
Debussy alluded to it when he referred to the “‘gravity’ of the first, and the ‘grace’ of the
second.”13 The “gravity” of the opening dance is indebted to its stately tempo and sin­
gular modality. The “grace” of the second owes much to the ­arabesque-like unfolding
of the melodic line. But perhaps the most beguiling aspect of the Danses is their orches-
tration. A major challenge for Debussy was to provide contrast in timbre (using only
strings), yet not to overshadow the harp. He achieved his goal with characteristic subtlety
and delicacy—an approach that demands ­sensitivity from the conductor in in­terpreting
Debussy’s use of silence and reliance on a full spectrum of subdued dynamics.

The Songs
Debussy’s commissions were a result of his growing fame but incidental to his
direction as a composer. As in the past, song and solo piano were major outlets for
his music, both as a primary source of income and as a way to enhance his reputa-
tion. He published five sets of songs in the early 1900s. The first was a return to
Verlaine; the others were indicative of a new interest.
The Fêtes galantes I consist of three texts by Verlaine, poems Debussy had previ-
ously set as a student and returned to in 1892. They were not published, however,
until 1903. Fêtes galantes II followed one year later (with three poems by Verlaine:
“Les ingénus,” “Le Faune,” and “Colloque sentimental”). As with the first set, sim-
plicity is their essence, but with more variety and playfulness. There is a wonderful
sense of irony, as in the understated commentary on the text at the end of “Les
ingénus” (“That our soul since that time trembles and is astonished”; heightened by
Debussy with change in tempo and register in the piano, and, harmonically, with
the tonal ambiguity of an augmented triad).
The remaining four sets of songs—Trois Chansons de France (1904), Trois Chansons
de Charles d’Orléans (1898, 1908), Le Promenoir des deux amants (1910), and Trois
Ballades de François Villon (1910)—share a common link: Debussy’s increasing nation-
alism. As in his music criticism, Debussy turned to the music and literature of
France—often to the distant past—as a source of inspiration.
The Charles d’Orléans songs are for a cappella four-part mixed chorus.The first
(“Dieu! qu’il la fait bon regarder!” [God, how good it is to look on her!]) and third
(“Yver, vous n’estes qu’un vilain” [Winter, you are nothing but a knave]) were
composed in April 1896 for the Fontaines’ choral group that Debussy directed. The
second (“Quand j’ay ouy le tabourin” [When I heard the drum], for solo tenor or
baritone and chorus) was completed in 1908. All three are a surprising departure
from Debussy’s usual style. They are madrigalesque, lyrical with little dissonance,
and, in the final piece of the set, there is even some imitation in stile antico.

13.  Letter to Manuel de Falla of 13 January 1907 in DL, p. 176.

210  •  debussy

Debussy continued to use the poetry of Charles d’Orléans in the Trois Chansons
de France: the first “Rondel. Le temps a laissé son manteau” (Time has left its
mantle), and third, “Rondel. Pour ce que Plaisance est morte” (Since pleasure is
dead). The second song from the set (“La Grotte”) is by Tristan L’Hermite.
Republished two years later alongside two other poems by L’Hermite (“Crois mon
conseil, chère Climène” [Trust my advice, dear Climène] and “Je tremble en voyant
ton visage” [I tremble at seeing your face]), this new set was published under the
title, Le Promenoir des deux amants. Debussy’s tribute to the poetic heritage of France
concluded with the Trois Ballades of V   illon: “Ballade de Villon à s’amye” [Ballad of
Villon to his friend], “Ballade que Villon fait à la requeste de sa mère pour prier
Nostre-Dame” [Ballad written by Villon at the request of his mother as a prayer to
Our Lady], and “Ballade des femmes de Paris” [Ballad of the women of Paris].
All of these songs share limited audience appeal. There is, first of all, the poetic
language. Charles d’Orléans (1394–1465), François Villon (1431–c.1463), and Tristan
L’Hermite (1601–1655) used a vocabulary and style far removed from modern prac-
tice. While working on the Trois Chansons de Charles d’Orléans, Debussy actually
turned to the scholarly Louis Laloy for assistance in understanding them.
That remains a problem for audiences today. At the same time Debussy’s music is
extraordinarily distinctive. It is, as always, intimately crafted to the text.That is especially
the case with the Villon settings where there is a fluidity and flexibility that seem to
defy notation. Much of the music is extremely simple, and driven by one or two rudi-
mentary motives.There are deliberate “archaisms”—such as modality and parallel, open
fourths and fifths. But that “sound” had become a natural part of Debussy’s musical
language by 1910. Perhaps most striking is the subdued and reflective temper of most
of these songs, aspects that do not work to their advantage in a concert hall setting.

Music for Piano

Unlike the songs, the music for piano that Debussy composed during these years
has broad appeal and has made itself at home among both amateurs and profes-
sionals. It contains some of his best-known work, including Pour le piano, Estampes,
the two sets of Images, Children’s Corner, and the Préludes.
Pour le piano (1901) has become one of Debussy’s most popular pieces. The title
itself appears vague and perfunctory—very much against the grain of the florid,
programmatic titles popular in nineteenth-century piano music.The three pieces in
the set have titles associated with Baroque keyboard music: “Prélude,” “Sarabande,”
and “Toccata.” Each is distinctive (but not at all Baroque-sounding). The “Prélude”
and its extensive cadenza emphasize the improvisatory. The “Toccata” is the show-
piece of the set. In between is the more lyrical “Sarabande.” All three pieces are in
the style of Debussy’s piano pieces of the 1890s.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  211

The “Sarabande” is actually a reworking of a composition with the same title

composed seven years earlier. That earlier “Sarabande” was published alone in
February 1896 in the magazine, Le Grand Journal. But it was intended as part of a
set, one that was not published until 1977 with the title, Images oubliées (not be con-
fused with the other sets of piano Images composed by Debussy in 1901–1905 and
1907). Debussy wrote this first set for Yvonne Lerolle, daughter of his friend Henry
Lerolle. They were completed in the winter of 1894 and dedicated to her.
The dedication to Mademoiselle Lerolle provides insight, both into Debussy’s per-
ception of their relationship and his musical intentions. He alluded to the personal
nature of the pieces, describing them as “‘conversations’ between the Piano and
Oneself.”14 As in Pour le piano, there are three pieces in the set with the “Sarabande”
second in order. But these 1894 Images are far from polished. The opening piece
(“Mélancolique et doux”) is strongly improvisatory but not related thematically to the
“Toccata” in Pour le Piano.The whimsical finale is entitled “Quelques aspects de ‘Nous
n’irons plus au bois,’” a reference to the quotation in it of a French nursery tune much
loved by Debussy.15 The “Sarabande” is captivating, and its melodic charm is prob-
ably what convinced Debussy to put it to use, even if only published separately.
After the success of Pelleas Debussy turned in his piano work to a style less
indebted to his earlier music. The change first became apparent in Estampes (1903),
and in what was likely intended as a set comprising Masques, D’un cahier d’esquisses,
and L’isle joyeuse (1903–1904, for the group). These are the first piano works, too,
that readily bring to mind the typical Debussy “sound,” one that owes a great deal
to the way he played the piano.
Debussy performed in public infrequently and never enjoyed fame as a pianist.
The most insightful accounts of his performances are from those who heard him in
private. In his home in the Bois de Boulogne Debussy had three pianos. There was
a Pleyel in his office (supplied by the firm without charge). He owned two others: a
Bluthner (known for its warm tone) and a Bechstein upright.The Bluthner contained
an unusual feature: an extra set of strings in the upper register.They were not struck
by the piano’s hammers but vibrated when those alongside were played.
There was general agreement about what set Debussy apart from other pianists.
His tone, described as “the most elusive and ethereal,” was accompanied by a “soft,
deep touch which evoked full, rich, many-shaded sonorities.”16 “Personally I have
never heard more supple, elegant or velvety playing,” wrote Emile Vuillermoz. “He
obtained sonorities from the piano which softened the angles and asperities generated

14.  C, p. 227. Debussy mentioned an additional piece, a waltz, but it has not been found.
15.  “Nous n’irons plus au bois” also appears in the song, “La belle au bois dormant” (1890),
Estampes, and in Rondes de printemps of the orchestral Images.
16.  Maurice Dumesnil in DR, p. 159; Louise Liebich in ibid., p. 202.
212  •  debussy

by his forward-looking inspiration.”17 The composer Alfredo Casella was convinced

that Debussy’s pianism was impossible to duplicate: “Not that he had actual virtu-
osity, but his sensitivity of touch was incomparable; he made the impression of
playing directly on the strings of the instrument with no intermediate mechanism;
the effect was a miracle of poetry. Moreover he used the pedals in a way all his own.
He played, in a word, like no other living composer or pianist.”18 The printed scores
only give an indication of this fluidity, for, as Debussy himself put it, “pedaling can
not be ­written down. It varies from one room, or one hall, to another.”19
Characteristics of Debussy’s piano playing—“elusive,” “supple,” “elegant”—can also
be applied to elements of his piano music during the next decade.

Estampes
Estampes (Prints), like the Nocturnes, consists of three pieces with titles intended to
invoke images associated with the visual arts: “Pagodes,” “La Soirée dans Grenade,”
and “Jardin sous la pluie.”The concept for Estampes drew on the popularity of print-
making in France at the time.There was an extraordinary variety available—Japanese
prints were especially popular—and in his titles Debussy brought together a bit of
everything, from the glamor of the Orient to a landscape evocative of an Impressionist
painting. Debussy was particularly concerned about the set’s appearance in print,
discussing with Durand the typeface and color of the cover (blue and pale gold).
“Thank you,” he wrote to him, “for humoring my cover mania.”20 Over the years
Debussy became increasingly involved in the visual presentation of his music.
All of the Estampes adopt a broad ternary structure, but their contrasting musical
styles set each piece apart. The exoticism of “Pagodes” is stimulated both by its
pentatonicism and by a percussive, tam-tam-like effect recalling the gamelan. Its
peculiarity struck listeners at the time, one admirer confessing that it “strikes the ear
as almost ugly. Then the ear gets caught with a certain bizarre charm and the final
effect is one of odd stimulation.”21
In “La Soirée dans Grenade” the habanera is used with effect (see mm. 38–66).
“Jardin sous la pluie” was, according to Jacques-Emile Blanche, inspired by a June
rainstorm at his home during which everyone sought refuge inside except Debussy.
For reasons unknown, two nursery tunes are quoted in it: “Do, do, l’enfant do,” and
“Nous n’irons plus au bois.” Both are adapted to produce the type of lively finale
Debussy preferred for sets of this type.

17.  Ibid., p. 156.

18.  Charles Timbrell, “Debussy in Performance,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, ed.
Simon Trezise (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 261.
19.  Dumesnil in DR, p. 163.
20.  Letter of [27 August 1903] in DL, p. 138.
21. William H. Daly, Debussy: A Study in Modern Music (Edinburgh: Methuen Simpson, 1908), p. 41.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  213

Images
Estampes was followed by two works similar in intent, the Images (set 1: 1901–1905,
“Reflets dans l’eau,” “Hommage à Rameau,” “Mouvement”; set 2: 1907, “Cloches à
travers les feuilles” [Bells through the Leaves],“Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut”
[And the Moon Descends on the Temple Which Was], “Poissons d’or” [Golden Fish]).
Debussy took unusual pride in the first set: “Without false vanity,” he wrote, “I believe
these three pieces work together well, and will take their place in piano literature.”22
Four of the Images have strongly visual titles, two with specificity. “Cloches à
travers les feuilles” derives from a narrative by Laloy of a rural scene on All Saint’s
Day with the tolling of bells from Vespers. “Poissons d’or” was inspired by a black
and gold, lacquered, Japanese panel owned by Debussy showing two carp swimming
beneath a weeping willow.
There are two exceptions to titles with a visual emphasis:“Hommage à Rameau,”
and “Mouvement.” The pair are in a broadly ternary structure reminiscent of the
Estampes. The homage is (appropriately) a Debussyan sarabande. “Mouvement”
serves as a lively finale to the first set of Images. Its tonality is tantalizingly ambig-
uous. At the conclusion C seems to be the key, but extensive diatonic saturation
(especially the B flats) provides an unexpected element of shock.
It is an instance, too, of what Debussy meant when he made reference to his
“most recent discoveries of harmonic chemistry” (words he used to describe
“Reflets dans l’eau”).23 Some of this “harmonic chemistry” was rooted in modality
(such as the pentatonicism of “Reflets,” “Poissons,” and “Et la lune”). But there is
also an increasingly layered approach, one that often leads to the use of three
staves—not because it would have been impossible to notate the music on two, but
because the use of an additional staff provides greater clarity. It removes the appear-
ance of textural density, and emphasizes the many musical events occurring simul-
taneously. In “Cloches,” for example, Debussy creates a marvelously hypnotic effect
(recalling what Bartók would develop in works like his Out-of-Doors, 1926) with
repetitive clusters of pitches in close proximity (especially major and minor sec-
onds). Notated on two staves, it would have appeared cluttered. The additional staff
provides independence to the musical idea, while at the same time integrating it
into what is happening elsewhere.
As in much of his earlier work for piano, the Images are founded on the structural
principle created by two contrasting themes. Listeners can follow their movement,
and track an ABA form. But—and this is especially true in the second set of Images—
the increasing reliance on varied repetition (which on the printed page, the eye still
perceives as sectionalism) creates a sense of extraordinary fluidity to the ear. At the

22.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 11 September 1905 in C, p. 919.

23.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [18] August 1905 in DL, p. 155.
214  •  debussy

same time, it becomes much more of a challenge to distinguish the thematic contrast
which is the basis of the structure. Here, then, seems to be a step toward the compo-
sitional approach Debussy used in La Mer.

The Second Suite bergamasque

For both Estampes and the Images, Debussy drew on the visual arts to complement
his music. The linkage for the other piano set from this period—Masques, D’un
cahier d’esquisses, and L’isle joyeuse—was more musical.They were intended as a suite
to be called, Suite bergamasque. But Debussy’s earlier work of the same title was
being republished by Hartmann’s heirs. That seemed to eliminate his interest both
in the title and in the idea of issuing the three pieces together. The first and third
eventually appeared separately.We know that Debussy intended to complete the set
with a “Deuxième Sarabande.” But no such piece was published, and it appears
likely that D’un cahier d’esquisses was the work in question.24
D’un cahier d’esquisses is a curiosity.There is no manuscript for it (and no mention
of it in Debussy’s published correspondence). It was first published (under the title
Esquisse) in February 1904 in the magazine, Paris illustré (which commissioned it).
Later that year it was issued by Schott in Brussels. Both incidents are odd. Debussy
had had no previous contact with either the magazine or Schott. Adding to the
oddity is the music itself.While it makes no great demands on the technique of the
performer, it is not the type of salon music a magazine would usually be interested
in publishing. It is in D flat major, improvisatory, and with distinctly indeterminate
structure. Although it does not follow the compositional approach used by Debussy
for La Mer, its arrangement and use of registers can appear orchestral—so it may
have been conceived as a study for La Mer.
The other components of Debussy’s suite are less experimental. L’Isle joyeuse and
Masques are complementary. For L’Isle joyeuse, there was a biographical association: the
‘joyous isle’ is a reference to the Isle of Jersey where Debussy lived that summer with
his new love, Emma Bardac. Debussy compared it to Watteau’s idyllic painting,
L’Embarquement pour Cythère (1717), though the music was, he wrote,‘less melancholy.’25
Both L’Isle and Masques were revised in the summer of 1904, and both are in the broad
ternary form characteristic of Debussy’s larger scale works for piano prior to La Mer.
In style Masques is toccata-like and percussive, L’Isle joyeuse more lyrical (and in Debussy
words, “difficult to play . . . [because] it joins together force with grace”).26

24.  See Roy Howat, “En Route for L’Isle Joyeuse: The Restoration of a Triptych,” Cahiers Debussy
19 (1995), pp. 37–52.
25.  Letter to Désiré Walter of 13 July 1914 in C, p. 1835.
26.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [12 October? 1904] in ibid., p. 869.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  215

Children’s Corner
The market for pieces like L’Isle joyeuse—and for Debussy’s piano work in
­general—was mixed. Who was the intended audience? Amateur? Professional?
Both? And what was the milieu: concert, or performance at home? By requiring
increasingly greater technique (both physical and interpretative), Debussy seemed
to be ruling out typical amateur performances for many of his most recent compo-
sitions. That was not the case, however, with his next piano set, Children’s Corner,
which was intended for a specific niche in the home market.
The set came about as the result of a request for a piece from a piano teacher,
Octavie Carrier-Belleuse. She was assembling an introductory piano course.
Debussy responded in March 1906 with a short piece, “Sérénade à la poupée,” and
then decided to build a collection around it. Five additional pieces were added, and
the work was completed in July 1908.
The project was of special interest to Debussy. He drew the illustration for the
cover himself (including a character from the set: Golliwogg) and was particular
about the coloring for publication (incidentally, the original background was gray,
not, as in current editions, yellow). Children’s Corner was in print by 30 September
(Chouchou’s birthday) with the dedication:“For my dear little Chouchou, with her
Father’s tender apologies for what is about to follow.”
Works of this type fall into two categories: pieces written for children to study and
perform (with the goal of developing their musicianship), or pieces written for adults
(with the intention of evoking recollections of childhood). Children’s Corner is a unique
blend of the two, but with an emphasis on the latter. Their closest parallel is Robert
Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood (1839). But Debussy’s pieces are not drawn from
Schumann’s idyllic, idealistic world.They are more personalized—and more whimsical.
Many of the pieces are directly connected to Chouchou. Several use as a basis
the concept of her toys coming to life, and singing or dancing: Jimbo, for example
(actually a mispronunciation of its English name, Jumbo; Chouchou had an English
governess, hence also the English title for the set). Popular at the time were ornate,
mechanical toys, such as those produced by Fernand Martin. His “La Danseuse de
cakewalk” and “Bamboula” may have provided inspiration for one of the most
popular pieces in Children’s Corner: “Golliwogg’s Cakewalk.”
The cakewalk was an African American plantation dance, taken up by minstrel
shows in the latter nineteenth century. It was characterized by high-stepping and
prancing. Music for it was in the style of ragtime: a heavily syncopated tune with a
repetitive, steady, and rhythmically predictable accompaniment. Debussy loved rag-
time’s playfulness and simplicity.
In addition to “Golliwogg,” he wrote another cakewalk for piano (“The Little
Nigar”), published in 1909 in Théodore Lack’s Methode élémentaire de piano. Perhaps
it was originally conceived as a sketch for “Golliwogg.” Both are meant as fun.Their
216  •  debussy

harmony is erratic (and at times mismatched with the tune) and parody both rag-
time and classical music.27
Humor is an important element not just of “Golliwogg’s Cakewalk” but of many
of the pieces in Children’s Corner. It is a distinctive kind of humor—playful, capricious,
at times slightly mocking. It can have a curious effect on the listener, creating a
sense of ironic detachment—as if it were intended by Debussy as a defense against
the world of enchantment he has conjured.
All of the pieces in Children’s Corner are unpretentious. But their brevity and
simplicity are deceptive. The first piece in the set, “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum,”
begins with monotonous repetition of a scale in the style of a typical, beginner’s
etude. Debussy’s performance indication (“without dryness”) does little to moderate
the bleakness. But as the piece moves along, it becomes more demanding techni-
cally—and more tuneful.There is no reason, Debussy seems to be saying, why exer-
cises should be tedious.
“Jimbo’s Melody” is a wonderful example of the great care Debussy took in
­creating these pieces—and of the unexpected discoveries within them. There are

13-4  “Jimbo’s Melody”

27. Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde is recalled in mm. 61–80 of “Golliwogg,” marked “with great
emotion.”
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  217

two strongly contrasting themes in the piece. Theme A (pentatonic) has been
­constructed with fluidity and transcends notions of a bar line. Theme B is more
conventional and more repetitive. When Theme A appears for the final time, it is
transformed by what seems to be a new accompaniment. But actually what Debussy
has done is adapt Theme B as the accompaniment. For the listener it is a moment
of extraordinary poignancy, at least in part because of the unexpected linkage of
what had been two entirely disparate musical ideas (Example 13-4).

The Préludes
Debussy’s Préludes are, like Children’s Corner, short, programmatic pieces (though for
the Préludes the titles appear at the end of each piece and in parentheses—all part of
Debussy’s attempt at assuring that the music take precedence over the program).
There are two sets and twelve pieces in each, but they are not intended to cover all
major and minor keys, as had become traditional. Neither is there any performance
indication. Whether they should be performed as a set or individually is left to the
pianist’s taste. Technical requirements vary from the moderate to the very challeng-
ing, indicating Debussy’s interest in attracting as broad a market as possible.28
The first book of Préludes was composed quickly, from 7 December 1909 to
4 February 1910. Sketches survive for three of them (numbers 2, 8, and 10) in a
sketchbook from 1907–1908, so the idea for creating them was not immediate. The
second book was composed at a more leisurely pace during 1911 and 1912. Each set
is distinct in both content and style.
Debussy did not want the titles to take precedence, but in many instances they
are helpful aids in interpretation.29 In the first book, “Danseuses de Delphes”
(Delphic Dancers) refers to a Greek sculpture (in the Louvre) that represents three
women in a ritualistic dance. “Voiles” is ambiguous and can be translated as either
“sails” or “veils,” the latter possibly a reference to the veil dancing made famous by
Loïe Fuller. The title for “Le Vent dans la plaine” (The Wind on the Plain) is taken
from Charles-Simon Favart’s drama, Ninette à la cour (1753) which in turn was
quoted as an epigraph in Verlaine’s “C’est l’extase langoureuse” (set by Debussy in
1887). A similar poetic connection exists for two other titles: “Les sons et les par-
fums tournent dans l’air du soir” (Sounds and Perfumes Swirl in the Evening Air)
and “La Fille aux cheveux de lin” (The Girl with the Flaxen Hair). The former is
from Baudelaire’s “Harmonie du soir” (set to music by Debussy in 1889); the latter
is the fourth of Leconte de Lisle’s “Chansons écossaises” (set by Debussy in 1881).

28.  “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’Ouest” (from the first set) could not be more virtuosic and at times
brings to mind “Mazeppa” from Liszt’s Transcendental Etudes.
29.  Most of the interpretation and sources—some of it speculative—for Debussy’s titles is a result
of research, not of information supplied by Debussy.
218  •  debussy

Literary associations are likely for three additional preludes in the first book. “La
Cathédrale engloutie” (The Sunken Cathedral) is indebted to a Breton legend that
tells of a sunken city whose cathedral spire periodically appears above the water’s
surface, accompanied by the chanting of monks.30 “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’Ouest”
(What the West Wind Saw) may have been inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s
tale, “The Garden of Paradise.” And there are two possibilities for “La Danse de
Puck”: Kipling’s Puck stories and Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Tracking sources for the titles for the second set of Préludes is more challenging.
“Feuilles mortes” (Dead Leaves) may come from the title of a poem by Debussy’s
friend, Gabriel Mourey; the poetic phrase, “La terrasse des audiences du clair de
lune” (The Terrace for Moonlight Audiences) may have been taken from a very
matter-of-fact newspaper article on the coronation of George V. “Canope” was an
ancient Egyptian city whose name was adapted for small ritual, funeral urns (canopic
jars). Debussy owned a pair and kept them on his work table. Like Lindaraja, “La
puerta del vino” is associated with the Alhambra, in this instance the name of a
Moorish gate.
As in the first set, several of the Book II Preludes have a literary connection.
“Hommage a S. Pickwick Esq. P.P.M.P.C.” is a reference to the droll hero of
Dickens’s Pickwick Papers (P.P.M.P.C. = Perpetual President and Member of the
Pickwick Club). The title, “Les fées sont d’exquises danseuses” (The Fairies Are
Exquisite Dancers) is taken from an illustration by Arthur Rackham for J. M. Barrie’s
Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens (1907). In a similar manner, “Ondine” may have
been inspired by a Rackham illustration for La Motte-Fouqué’s novella, Undine.
Both were likely encountered as reading for Chouchou.
With “Feux d’artifice” (Fireworks) we are on surer ground. It refers to the fire-
work celebrations associated with Bastille Day in France (and the “ Marseillaise” is
quoted in it to provide a French flavor—just as “God Save the King” adds an English
touch to the Pickwick homage). “General Lavine excentric” is another of Debussy’s
cakewalks, in this case the inspiration being the American clown, Edward Lavine.31
The music for the first book of Préludes is rich in variety but owes much stylis-
tically to Debussy’s previous piano music. “La Fille aux cheveux de lin” is an elegant
example of melody as arabesque. And there is no better instance of Debussy’s min-
gling of modality and pandiatonicism than “La Cathédrale engloutie” (a curious
point is the conventional crescendo climax, a device all the more effective because
so rarely encountered in Debussy’s music).
“Minstrels” is yet another of Debussy’s ragtime pieces, probably inspired by a
minstrel show he had seen in Eastbourne in 1905. It is, like all of his “rags,” a playful

30.  A similar legend served as the basis for Edouard Lalo’s opera, Le Roi d’Ys (1888).
31.  Lavine performed in Paris in 1910 and 1912. It was said he played the piano with his toes.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  219

pastiche. “La Sérénade interrompue” evokes Spain (and alludes to Debussy’s Ibéria,
discussed later in this chapter).
In the second book of Préludes tonality is expanded, and there is greater use of
dissonance (“Bruyères” [Moors] and “Feuilles mortes” are good examples). But even
more striking is how idiomatic the pieces are. Debussy takes full advantage of the
extensive and varied sounds only the piano can produce. “Les fées sont d’exquises
danseuses” showcases trills. In “Ondine” rapid runs and arpeggios obscure pitch and
tonality. In “Feux d’artifice” glissandos produce the same effect.These are all, of course,
devices not original to Debussy. But the manner in which he uses them—often
simultaneously—is individual and emphasizes how involved he was with the concept
of sound as distinct from pitch. At the same time Debussy’s use of three staves in the
second set of Préludes (although not always necessary) emphasizes once again his con-
cern with clarity; the additional staff helps the performer track Debussy’s musical
thoughts through what often becomes a veritable maze of pitches. For “Feux” Debussy
even devised four note heads of different size to differentiate musical material.

Music for Orchestra

Debussy’s concern with timbre—coupled with the expansive range of sound he
increasingly exploited for the piano—found a direct outlet in the music he wrote
for orchestra. One orchestral project was conceived as a companion to the Images
for solo piano and derived from Debussy’s intent in writing a series of musical
images for two pianos. The two pianos concept evolved into the Images pour orches-
tre, Debussy’s largest instrumental work. It contains five movements: Gigues (1912),
Ibéria (1906–1909) (itself consisting of three movements: “Par les rues et les che-
mins” [In the Streets and Byways], “Les parfums de la nuit” [The Fragrances of the
Night], and “Le matin d’un jour de f ête” [The Morning of the Day of a Festival]),
and Rondes de printemps (1905–1909).
Like La Mer, the Images pour orchestre are difficult to categorize. Their title and
conception brings to mind the piano Images. But the imagery for the orchestral
Images is quite different. The titles are more poetic than visual. At their center is
what might best be described as a genre piece, Ibéria. But at either end are dances
(even though imagery of some type might be associated with them). Debussy’s
approach for this orchestral set is distinctive—different not just from the direct
linkage to the visual arts characteristic of the piano Images, but distinct, too, from
the picture gallery concept of the Nocturnes.
Debussy gave the subtitle “triptych for orchestra” to the Nocturnes. Some have
applied a similar approach to the Images pour orchestre, dividing the work into a trip-
tych (Gigues-Ibéria-Rondes de printemps), occasionally with subdivision of Ibéria as a
separate triptych. But does the approach add to our understanding of the work? For
220  •  debussy

the Nocturnes the idea of a triptych helped to link movements disparate in content,
creating for the listener a linear track—a musical counterpart to what might be the
effect of viewing paintings (images) alongside one another. But there is no indica-
tion that Debussy intended a similar approach for the Images pour orchestre.
Instead the Images rely on musical parameters for their linkage. Of the five move-
ments in the Images, the first and last, and second and fourth, are comparable in size
and effect. At the center is the most intense and concentrated movement of the set:
Les parfums de la nuit. The result can be seen as an arch: A-B-C-B-A.
The musical style of the Images is indebted to La Mer. There is the same reliance
on the musical moment to generate structure, but it is created with greater reli-
ance on variation (complemented by the introduction of new musical material),
and less on repetition.To the listener, it produces a greater sense of discontinuity, an
effect that Debussy deliberately cultivated by juxtaposing strongly contrasting, even
incongruous, musical elements.
The opening of Gigues evokes the essence of music: a single pitch gradually
varied by timbre. The initial theme that serves as the movement’s basis is folk-like
(and rustic sounding). But because it appears fragmented—with permutations well
into Gigues—listeners with a traditional approach in mind are deceived, convinced
for much of the piece that they are listening to an elaborate introduction and
waiting in vain for a full statement of the theme. As in La Mer, the structure relies
on expansion of the moment.
Rondes de printemps is similar. The primary theme is motivic and presented as
fragments with variants. But here the effect is far more disruptive. Much of the
musical material is strongly contrasting and presented not in the generative manner
of La Mer but in sections of widely varying and unpredictable length. About halfway
into the movement, the tune, “Nous n’irons plus au bois,” becomes recognizable.
But deconstruction of the tune continues, and there is no full statement of it until
nearly the end, a moment of extraordinary resolution for the listener.32
Ibéria is the longest of the Images. It would be impossible to imagine a more vivid
musical evocation of Spain—a country, incidentally, that Debussy never visited.The
initial piano sketches for it were produced in 1906–1908. An orchestral draft fol-
lowed that autumn, and he produced the final version in the spring of 1909. The
Spanish flavor is pronounced, most notably with rhythm (sevillana, seguidilla, haba-
nera), and timbre (even including castanets).33 The primary theme from the very
beginning of the first movement appears in all three movements.

32.  In a broad sense, there is structural resemblance to d’Indy’s tone poem, Istar (1896), a theme
and variation in reverse order.
33.  For a full discussion of Ibéria, see Matthew Brown, Debussy’s Ibéria (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2003).
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  221

One of the most striking elements of Ibéria is Debussy’s manipulation of time and
movement. In “Par les rues et les chemins,” phrases are frequently elided, giving the
effect (depending on the musical material at hand) not of progressive, forward movement,
but of hesitancy or delay. At times, too, varied repetition becomes ­circuitous, a retracing
of direction.These effects obscure the listener’s perception of the music’s motion, adding
a level of complexity that can lend unusual drama to the simplest devices—such as the
return of the primary theme near the end of the first movement. Debussy’s use of the
orchestra enhances the effect, as in the following example from “Les parfums de la nuit”
(Example 13-5 on the next page) where the layers of sound produce an extraordinarily
intricate texture—but one so tightly knit and cohesive it is as if movement were
suspended.There is independence of line and great variety of timbre: nine different
types of sound predominantly in the upper register (with divided strings—but no
basses—performing with tremolos, harmonics, mutes, and on the fingerboard).
Despite the splendor of Ibéria (and of the orchestral Images as a unit), the work,
many would agree, is less successful than La Mer. The most likely explanations
are the sense of musical discontinuity experienced by the listener and the order of
the movements as a whole. To listen to the Images as Debussy intended them to be
heard—ending with Rondes de printemps—seems a disappointment. It appears to
end weakly, with inadequate emphasis. That has led to experimentation with the
order of the Images in performance, placing Ibéria at the end. But while the close of
“Le matin d’un jour de fête” is more vigorous, the ending still seems inconclusive.
Debussy knew precisely what effect he was creating by ending the Images with
Rondes de printemps. The music, he explained, was “immaterial and as a result one
can not manage it like a robust symphony.”34 By placing Rondes at the end, Debussy
seems to be demonstrating that the Images were neither robust nor a symphony.
Instead he has relied on the broader effect of all five movements (and the arch they
created). A more rousing conclusion might have made the Images more of a crowd
pleaser. But listening to the five movements in the order Debussy planned makes
sense—and highlights (in a manner recalling the symmetry in Bach’s cantatas) his
well-developed sense of architecture.
One other orchestral work dates from these years: La plus que lente (The Even
Slower Waltz) (subtitled in the original piano version: Valse pour piano). Published in
1912 (the piano setting was written two years earlier), it emulates the type of music
performed at a bistro or brasserie.35 La plus que lente demonstrates how convincingly
Debussy was able to push a popular idiom to its limits. Its audacious and unex-
pected harmonies are engaging, the excessive syncopation is amusing—all produce
a charming yet slightly demented version of the pop music of the day.

34.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 3 September 1907 in C, p. 1030.

35. There has been speculation that it was intended as a take-off on Massenet’s popular “Valse très lente.”
222  •  debussy

13-5  Iberia: “Les parfums de la nuit”

 Compositions 1900–1912  •  223

The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, Khamma, and Projects for the Stage
During these years Debussy was involved in a substantial number of collaborative
projects. Most were abandoned. In 1902 he discussed using Shakespeare’s As You
Like It as the basis for an opera with Paul-Jean Toulet. But although the play was a
favorite with Debussy and a libretto was finished, he wrote no music (Debussy
continued to refer to the project as late as 1917).36
In tune with previous interests was a projected scenario for the Ballets Russes:
“Masques et bergamasques” (1909). Set in eighteenth-century Venice, Louis Laloy
was selected to provide the text. But it was Debussy who went ahead and sketched
the scenario (but no music). Another project, “Crimen amoris,” was similar in
theme. It was to be based on Verlaine’s “Fêtes galantes,” with Charles Morice sup-
plying the text. A contract was signed in May 1912 (updated in January 1913 with
the addition of Laloy). Announced as part of the 1912–1913 season at the Opéra,
Debussy did not progress beyond some sketches for the work.
The most intriguing collaborations during these years were operatic works
inspired by the legends of Tristan, Siddhartha, and Orpheus. Gabriel Mourey devel-
oped the text for Tristan. Debussy discussed the project (anti-Wagnerian in basis) in
1907–1908. The press picked up on it, and mention was made of it as late as 1914.
But despite Debussy’s enthusiasm (“Frankly the whole project is so attractive, I’m
almost frightened of getting the libretto”), he wrote no music.37
Victor Segalen provided the momentum for the Siddhartha and Orpheus pro-
jects. At first Debussy was enthusiastic about the possibilities of Siddhartha (1906–
1907; based on the life of Buddha), but backed out, claiming he was incapable of
writing suitable music. That became a major reason, as well, for the lack of progress
with Orpheus: “As for the music to accompany the drama, I hear it less and less.
And then, one does not make Orpheus sing, because he is song itself.”38 In 1907–
1908 Debussy received the text in stages from Segalen and was pleased by much of
it. Published in 1921, Segalen’s Orphée is a reverie, very much in the style of the
Symbolists. Debussy suggested some cutting for the sake of simplicity and com-
plained of  “too much lyricism” in the fourth act.39 But despite being a project with
appeal to both men, no music was composed. Segalen was persistent and wrote to
Debussy about their project in 1916, years after substantive work on it had halted.
One bright spot among these projects was Debussy’s involvement with André
Antoine’s production of King Lear. Some music for it was completed. The idea was to
provide incidental music, and Debussy planned a prelude and three interludes, in

36. The Shakespeare project led to another based on a play: in June 1904 he expressed interest in
writing music for the drama Dionys, by Joachim Gasquet.
37.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [6–8 August 1907] in DL, p. 182.
38.  Letter to Victor Segalen of 5 June 1916 in C, p. 1999.
39.  Conversation of 6 May 1908 in DR, p. 146.
224  •  debussy

addition to background music for two scenes: “Le sommeil de Lear,” and “Le Roi Lear
dans la lande.” He worked at it in the fall of 1905—mention of it being made as late as
the following summer—but only two pieces were finished: a short fanfare and “Le
Sommeil de Lear.” Neither was used in the production, but both (the dream-like scena
that would not have been out of place in Pelléas, and the mellow fanfare) are effective.
Of the proposed and contemplated collaborations during these years, Debussy com-
pleted only two in their entirety: The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, and Khamma. It can be
no coincidence that they were the only collaborations that promised to pay well.
The Martyrdom consists of five acts (called “mansions” by Debussy’s collaborator,
Gabriele d’Annunzio):“La Cour de lys” (The Court of Lilies),“La Chambre magique”
(The Magic Room), “Le Concile des faux dieux” (The Council of False Gods), “Le
Laurier blessé” (The Wounded Laurel), and “Le Paradis” (Paradise). Debussy’s endorse-
ment of the text—“the poem is of great beauty, and it contains real treasures in the
field of imaginative lyricism”—was more in the vein of publicity for the forthcoming
performance.40 Despite d’Annunzio’s bombastic setting, Debussy continued to hope
for the best. Perhaps he felt that d’Annunzio’s text resembled that for Rameau’s opera
Hippolyte et Aricie (at the time being rediscovered), a libretto he described as “poetically
quite abominable, but having the makings of a varied and entertaining spectacle.”41
Debussy received d’Annunzio’s text piecemeal during January and February 1911,
with all of the text in hand in early March.The music was scheduled to be completed
by 15 May, and that left little time for Debussy to compose it. André Caplet was con-
tacted to help (primarily with the orchestration). Debussy closely supervised his work.
The orchestration of the second, third, and fourth Mansions was mostly done by
Caplet. Debussy orchestrated all of the fifth Mansion, most of the first, as well as scene
ii in the second, scenes ii and vii in the third, and scene ii in the fourth.
The music for the Martyrdom (choral settings, instrumental preludes, and inter-
ludes) comprises about an hour in a work nearly five hours in length. It would be
difficult for the music not to be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of spoken text.
Even so, the music is a disappointment. Much of it is clichéd and predictable—in its
way a suitable counterpart to d’Annunzio’s drama.The most successful pieces are the
chamber-like choral settings; perhaps the weakest is the conclusion (an alleluia).
When it became clear that the Martyrdom was not the success that Debussy had
hoped for, Caplet worked to arrange portions as an orchestral suite (“fragments
symphoniques”), and it is in these excerpts that the work is best known today. In
1922 Ida Rubinstein revived the drama (with Debussy’s music), hoping that an
abridged version might be more successful. But it, too, failed to please.
Unlike the Martyrdom, Debussy came to hold no illusions about the possibility
of success for Khamma. Collaboration with Maud Allan could not have been more

40.  Interview of 18 January 1911 in DM, p. 244.

41.  Review in Le Figaro of 8 May 1908 in ibid., p. 228.
 Compositions 1900–1912  •  225

tortuous.The scenario, set in ancient Egypt at the Temple of Amon-Re, was created
as a showpiece for her. The god is implored by his grand priest to rescue the city,
which is under attack. With a series of three dances, Khamma persuades the god to
intercede, but sacrifices her life in the process.
The piano version is the only music for the work solely by Debussy. He lost
interest in the project (not least because of Allan’s demands) and eventually asked
Charles Koechlin to do the bulk of the orchestration. Koechlin was an admirer of
Debussy’s music, especially Pelléas. He was also an experienced and gifted orches-
trator, of his own music and others’.42
Debussy orchestrated the beginning of Khamma. Koechlin’s goal became (in his
words) “to remain within the orchestral ‘color’” of what Debussy had done.43 He
and Debussy met once a week from 14 December 1912 to 31 January 1913. “We
didn’t chat,” Koechlin recalled. “We concentrated on my orchestration, which he
was happy with, although he warned me that it might be rather hard to perform.”44
Khamma was not performed until 1924 (in a concert version). Koechlin’s role
remained a secret and only became widely known after World War II.
Khamma is rarely heard today, surprisingly so for a work that was written during a
time when Debussy was in his prime. But its absence from the repertoire is not as great
a loss as it might seem. In its orchestral setting Khamma simply does not sound like
Debussy. That is not a disparagement of Koechlin, who was a fine orchestrator and a
gifted composer. But he was not Debussy, and what he produced, while faithful to the
notes, could never capture Debussy’s unique orchestral sound. Khamma makes clear that
orchestration was an essential component in Debussy’s compositional process, one that
provided more than a measure of vitality.The piano version—conceived by Debussy not
as a piece for solo piano but more as an orchestral reduction—merits greater attention. It
is there that the listener can best experience what Debussy described as “the trumpet calls
which evoke the riot and conflagration—and which send chills up your spine.”45
Khamma is sectional and episodic (about twenty minutes in length), and not in the
generative style of La Mer. Three musical motives serve as its basis (the predominant
one, emphasizing the intervals of a major and minor second, appears in scene 1, mm.
14–17). The ending is a bit of an anti-climax (both plot and music seem to drag after
Khamma’s death)—and that in itself might work against Khamma gaining an audi-
ence, either by means of orchestra or piano. Still, Khamma contains sections of extraor-
dinary beauty, especially in the first dance. One can only speculate how much better
known it might be today had Debussy been fully committed to the project.

42.  He had orchestrated Fauré’s Pelléas et Mélisande (1898) and Saint-Saën’s Lola (1901).
43.  Robert Orledge, “Debussy’s Orchestral Collaborations, 1911–13. 2. Khamma,” in Musical Times
116 (1975), p. 31.
44.  DR, p. 102.
45.  Letter to Jacques Durand of [1 February 1912] in C, p. 1491.
 l C h a p t e r f o u rt e e n
;
Compositions, 1912–1918

We came to seriously believe that it was absolutely essential for an artist to be

“original,” to  provide the public with a work that was completely different
from anything that had ever appealed to them in the past.
Téodor de Wyzéwa, Nos Maîtres (1895)

Instrumental Works
Solo Piano: La Boïte à joujoux (orchestral version by André Caplet); Berceuse
héroïque (also for orchestra); Douze Etudes; Page d’album; Elégie; Les soirs illuminés
Two Pianos: Six Epigraphes antiques (originally piano, four-hands); En Blanc et
noir
Chamber: Syrinx (for solo flute); Sonata for Cello; Sonata for Flute,Viola, and
Harp; Sonata for Violin
Ballet: Jeux

Vocal Works
Songs: Trois Poèmes de Mallarmé; “Noël des enfants” (Debussy)
Choral: Ode à la France (unfinished)

“T he general effect [of Debussy’s music],” stated baker’s biographical

­Dictionary of Musicians in 1919, “is that of monotony. . . . After Pelléas et
Mélisande there is no advance, not one feature which is not familiar from the
­earlier works; rather a decline, for the music seems to become even more

•  226  •
 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  227

intangible.”1 In his study of contemporary music Cecil Gray agreed, but placed
the start of the decline after La Mer, attributing it to “premature exhaustion and
sterility. By the time Debussy had reached his fullest maturity he had no longer
anything left to say.”2 Such pronouncements—especially from usually discerning
critics, like Gray—illustrate widespread misunderstanding of Debussy’s music.
There were those who (like Pierre Lalo) were devoted to his earlier compositions,
detected a difference in his later works, and were disconcerted and perplexed by
it. Then there were those who felt that there had been no change at all, and that
Debussy was simply repeating himself.
By design there had been consistent development and change in Debussy’s
music over the years, but much of it had either passed unnoticed or been misun-
derstood. Complicating the situation was the work of a new generation of com-
posers. By 1912 the non-traditional approach adopted by Debussy was being put
into practice by others—especially Stravinsky. It placed Debussy in a difficult posi-
tion. Unlike those who were offended by the novelty of new musical styles, his fear
was of being out-paced.

*****
Although completed nearly six years before his death, the ballet, Jeux, was Debussy’s
last orchestral composition. It has long attracted a devoted following, but it remains
one of his lesser-known works—and a bit of an enigma.3
The motivation for its composition was financial. Debussy was eager to share in
the success of the Ballets Russes. Diaghilev had discussed with him in 1909 the idea
of a collaboration, for which Louis Laloy was to write the scenario and Debussy the
music. In the end Debussy sketched the scenario, but no music (for what received
the tentative title of “Masques et Bergamasques”). The Ballets Russes production
of  the Faune (with what was regarded as at least one sexually explicit moment)
­followed in May 1912 with choreography by Nijinsky.
That production only emphasized that France’s best-known composer had yet
to compose any original music for the Ballets Russes. An agreement was reached
in June 1912 between Debussy and Diaghilev. Debussy was to receive 10,000
francs, with the piano score due at the end of August and the orchestral score at
the end of March 1913. It was, by Debussy’s standards, to be quick work.

1.  Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, 3rd ed., revised and enlarged by Alfred Remy
(New York: Schirmer, 1919). The text was written prior to Debussy’s death.
2.  Cecil Gray, A Survey of Contemporary Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1924), p. 107.
3.  Herbert Eimert’s essay on Jeux in Die Reihe in 1957 helped to establish interest in it among the
avant-garde.
228  •  debussy

Nijinsky supplied the scenario, one that was vague and general enough to provide
freedom to the composer, but hardly inspired:
In a park, at dusk, a tennis ball is lost; a young man and two girls are eagerly looking for
it. The artificial light from large electric lamps spreads a fantastic glow all around them
and gives them the idea of playing childish games: aimlessly they hunt each other, hide,
give chase, quarrel and sulk; the night is warm, the sky clear and gentle, they kiss. But the
innocent charm is broken by a tennis ball, thrown by some malicious hand. Surprised and
frightened, the young people disappear into the deep shadows of the park.4

Jeux consists of five musical sections, each closely allied to the plot of the scenario:

Section 1 Introduces the characters.

Until section mark 17; about 3 minutes in length
Half of this section sets the scene before the curtain rises, and consists of two
distinct motives: 1) three rising semitones, and 2) a descending outline of an
augmented triad.
Section 2 The girls dance (the young man is not present).
This section lasts until section mark 27 (about 2 minutes in length), and is set
off from the previous section by lively syncopation.
Section 3 The youth returns and dances with the first girl.
Until section mark 35 plus 6 measures; about 2 ½ minutes in length
Set off by abrupt change in timbre and texture.
Section 4 He dances with the second girl.
Until section mark 51 (about 4 ½ minutes in length)
Set off by pizzicati.
Section 5 All three dance
Until section mark 80, with the remainder as a coda (which draws on the
introduction); about 5 1/2 minutes, with about 1 minute for the coda.

The two themes from the introduction (Example 14-1, on following page) serve as
the basis for subsequent musical material in the ballet. See, for example, how the
first theme (now in contrary motion) is used as a bridge to Section 3.The thematic
transformation used by Debussy is subtle, so much so that it is possible to listen to
Jeux many times without noticing it.

4.  See Claude Debussy, Oeuvres complètes, ed. Pierre Boulez and Myriam Chimènes,Vol.VIII, Jeux.
(Paris: Durand-Costallat, 1988), p. ii. Nijinsky later wrote that the idea for the scenario came from
Diaghilev, a case of erotic wishful-thinking, with himself as the youth and two boys replacing the
women.
14-1  Jeux
230  •  debussy

The compositional process in Jeux resembles the generative approach used in

La Mer and the Images pour Orchestre. But it has been adapted to the plot of the
scenario. Each section has distinctive musical material, suitable for the mood and
action of the scenario. And even though much can in some measure be traced to
music heard earlier, its transformation is so complete that the musical effect of
Jeux is one of astonishing variety. The construction is seamless, with each section
providing impetus toward the climactic dance in Section 5. Debussy’s harmonic
approach (part of his “musical chemistry”) is more adventurous than usual.5
The works of Stravinsky he had examined provided some impetus.
There is a more expansive view of tonality in Jeux (the emphasis on the
augmented triad opening the work helps to prepare the listener for it), and disso-
nance is more biting and acerbic. Coupled with it is a noticeable increase in volume,
along with repetitive, driving rhythms. But these are not the pounding rhythms of
Stravinsky. They are still characterized by great suppleness and fluidity, and give, as
does much of Jeux, the effect of inspired improvisation.
Perhaps the greatest marvel of Jeux is its orchestration.While working on the piano
score, Debussy wrote: “I am thinking of that orchestral color which seems to be illu-
minated from behind, and for which there are such marvelous displays in Parsifal.”6
The idea, then, was to produce timbre without glare, subdued (its source almost con-
cealed), but to do so with clarity and precision. How Debussy achieved that effect
requires a look at the standard perception of the role of orchestration at the time.
Orchestration became an increasingly important part of the compositional pro-
cess during the nineteenth century, a time when the size of the orchestra (and its
audience) increased significantly. Berlioz’s treatise on orchestration (1844) was the
first to systematically approach the subject. Many others (all dependent on his
work) followed. The goal was to reveal the mysteries of orchestration by focusing
on its craft. What pitches could instruments play? What did they sound like in
­various registers? What instruments sounded well together? These and other
fundamental questions were answered concisely, often using excerpts from nine-
teenth-century compositions as examples.
For most composers orchestration was the final stage in the process of composi-
tion.The music already existed in a version for piano. Now it was simply a matter of
dressing it up, of rearranging the sound using well-practiced techniques as the basis.
Orchestration was the final step for Debussy as well, but for him it was a crucial,
and in many ways the most important, component in the process. How important

5.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 9 August 1912 in C, p. 1536. Also included in the chemistry was the
octatonic scale. See Sylvia Kahan, In Search of New Scales. Prince Edward de Polignac, Octatonic Explorer
(Rochester: Boydell & Brewer, 2009).
6.  Letter to André Caplet of 25 August 1912 in C, p. 1540.
 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  231

it was—and how gifted he was as an orchestrator—becomes clearer after listening

to works intended for orchestra, but orchestrated by someone else (as was Khamma),
or by listening to a version of his piano pieces orchestrated by another hand
(Children’s Corner). Rather than focusing on fidelity to pitches, Debussy was
concerned with their implications. He tried to envision what was missing from the
page. And he was fascinated by new combinations of instruments, never forgetting
the basic premise that the same pitches sound completely different (and with com-
pletely different effect) when performed on different instruments. Orchestration
was never an automatic process for Debussy. And it was disingenuous for him to
present as original works pieces, such as Khamma, that had been orchestrated by
someone else.
It should come as no surprise that Debussy was not an admirer of books on
orchestration. He felt they relied on formulas. Debussy countered with Nature as a
teacher and once recommended learning how to orchestrate by listening to the
“sound of leaves rustling in the wind.”7 As for his own approach, he rarely put into
words his concept of the orchestra. But on one occasion he offered some general
advice to a friend: “As for the disposition of the orchestra, the strings should make,
not a barrier, but a circle around the others. Split up the woodwind. Mix the bas-
soons up with the cellos, the clarinets and oboes with the violins; so that their
entries don’t sound like somebody dropping a parcel.”8
In the short score for Jeux (with four staves) Debussy provided “no more than
a dozen indications of instrumentation.”9 But he took the unusual step of pro-
ducing a draft orchestral score in March and April 1913 as preparation for the final
version. He used the ensemble as a unit with full effect but never lost sight of the
individual capabilities of each instrument, or of the advantages of a chamber-like
effect. There are novelties, such as the surprising appearance of the tambourine in
the next to last measure. And there is the increasing use of groups as soloists, espe-
cially in the strings. But most noticeable is the manner in which thematic material
is shared among instruments, an approach that could appear choppy or contrived
but in Debussy’s hands seems natural and effortless. He used orchestration to create
focal points and to direct the ear to specific locations in the score—not to sections
(the usual manner of composers), but to strands. In Example 14-2 (pages 232-233)
there is spontaneous movement from strings to French horns to bassoons to clar-
inets to flutes (with harps).

7.  Letter to Charles Levadé of 4 September 1903 in DL, p. 140.

8.  Conversation with Victor Segalen of 17 December 1908 in DR, p. 149.
9.  Myriam Chimènes, “The Definition of Timbre in the Process of Composition of Jeux,”
in  Debussy Studies, ed. Richard Langham Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1997), p. 5.
14-2  Jeux
 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  233

14-2  Continued
234  •  debussy

After completing Jeux Debussy had high hopes for it. But he did not take into
account Nijinsky’s choreography, nor the work that was scheduled to be performed
next on the Ballets Russes schedule: the premiere of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. Not
only did the scandal created by Stravinsky’s ballet tend to efface recollection of Jeux,
but the Stravinsky work was given a large number of rehearsals, limiting the time
available to prepare Jeux.
Debussy’s private reaction to Nijinsky’s choreography was candid. “It is hor-
rible!” he wrote.10 For the Faune, Nijinsky had emphasized stiffness. Choreography
for Jeux was less extreme, but it remained in complete contrast to the fluidity and
suppleness of Debussy’s score. In its emphasis on the ungainly, Nijinsky’s choreog-
raphy was ahead of its time—just as it was ahead of its time in presenting choreog-
raphy that did not complement the music, but was in conflict with it. But it was a
disservice to Debussy’s intentions.
From the completion of Jeux until the summer of 1915 Debussy composed little.
He was frustrated by his lack of productivity and complained about it. There were
many likely contributing factors. His personal life was a disappointment. Marriage
remained a challenge, and there was a continual need for money to maintain the
lifestyle associated with it. But his artistic life was also in disarray. Audiences seemed
to prefer his earlier compositions. Adding to his concern was the fear that the music
he was composing had become too dependent on the styles he had created.
The outbreak of the First World War made even day-to-day life a challenge. But
the artistic implications of the war were particularly alarming to Debussy. The
growing success of the German army placed in jeopardy the French culture that
had become an increasingly important component of his artistic stance.
At times it must have seemed like a hopeless situation. In 1913, in addition to
Jeux, he completed only three small works: Trois Poèmes de Mallarmé, La Boïte à jou-
joux, and Syrinx. The Mallarme settings—“Soupir” (Sigh), “Placet futile” (Futile
Petition), and “Eventail” (Fan)—were finished that summer. The piano version of
the Boïte was composed from July to October (for the orchestral version, Debussy
orchestrated several dozen measures at the beginning; the remainder was done by
André Caplet after Debussy’s death).
The Mallarmé songs are short pieces, averaging only about two and a half
­minutes for each. Debussy’s satisfaction with them was offset by Ravel’s setting to
music at the same time two of the same texts (although in a chamber setting
for  nine instruments). Like much of Debussy’s late music, they are performed
­infrequently—and deserve to be much better known.

10.  Letter to Robert Godet of 9 June 1913 in C, p. 1619.

 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  235

Simplicity and restraint are primary characteristics of them.There is tonal ambi-

guity, extreme fluidity, and, for listeners even today, a sense of suspense, a result of
the unpredictability of the music.The frequent changes in tempo sound improvisa-
tory. Much of the vocal line resembles heightened speech, but one in which even
rudimentary movement becomes lyrical. The lulling effect of the broadly tertian
harmony produces a dream-like and hypnotic atmosphere that is an ideal counter-
part to Mallarmé’s poetry.
La Boïte à joujoux is a ballet for children (originally conceived for puppets) based on
a scenario by the children’s book illustrator, André Hellé. Like Children’s Corner it
was associated in Debussy’s mind with Chouchou (and her toys). It is light and enter-
taining, consisting of a prelude, an epilogue, and four scenes.The plot tells of toys coming
to life and of the complications of a toy soldier’s love for a doll (the soldier is represented
by the main theme from “The Little Nigar”). Unlike Khamma where the piano version
was conceived from the start as an orchestral reduction, the piano score for the Boïte
is charming—and in many ways more engaging than Caplet’s orchestral score.
Syrinx, a short piece for unaccompanied flute, was written in November 1913.
Although the project dated to 1909, it is the only piece that Debussy completed
as  incidental music for Gabriel Mourey’s verse play, Psyché (first performed in
December 1913). It is about three minutes in length, and although Debussy’s
­ultimate intentions for it are unclear (the title is the publisher’s), it has become a
standard part of the flautist’s repertoire. Syrinx gives the impression of an extraordi-
nary improvisation, its lyricism rooted in Debussy’s concept of the arabesque.
Over the next eighteen months Debussy continued to write little. Even the
number of projects he attempted fell off considerably.There is only one of substance.
On 21 November 1913 Debussy signed a contract to provide a one-act ballet (with
scenario by Georges de Feure) for performance in London. It was known as “La Palais
du silence,” (later, “No-Ja-Li”). The subject was to be Chinese (with a gamelan
orchestra), and Debussy was expected to provide a piano score by April 1914. He only
completed some sketches, and when the ballet was created as part of a medley at the
Alhambra Theater on 4 May, Büsser’s orchestration of Printemps was substituted.11
The most substantial composition of 1914–1915 was, strictly speaking, not even
new.The Six Epigraphes antiques (for piano, four-hands; later arranged for two-hands)
are an adaptation—at first thought of as a suite—of some of the music Debussy had
composed in 1901 for the readings of excerpts from Louÿs’s Chansons de Bilitis. He
had composed twelve pieces for that performance at the offices of Le Journal. Now

11. There was also a project with Charles Morice for a “lyric tale” for the Opéra entitled Crimen
amoris (1912–1915). Its basis was the poetry of V
  erlaine. Later Louis Laloy became part of the abor-
tive project with the title changed to Fêtes galantes.
236  •  debussy

he drew on half of them for the Epigraphes (in order of adaptation: original numbers
1, 7, 2, 10, 8, and 12). The music is very much in the style of Debussy’s Bilitis songs.
Other than the Epigraphes, his compositions during these years were limited to
pieces related to the First World War. The art of propaganda was in its infancy but
developed quickly. The first cause célèbre of the war was Germany’s violation of
Belgium’s neutrality in its invasion of France.The Rape of Belgium was used effec-
tively to paint a portrait of Hun barbarism, its foil being the heroic, but helpless,
defense of Belgium by its small army.
Debussy was involved in one of the earliest projects associated with the fall of
Belgium. In November 1914 his Berceuse héroïque (there is both a piano and an
orchestral version) was published in King Albert’s Book. A Tribute to the Belgian King
and People from Representative Men and Women throughout the World. Proceeds from the
sale of the book were donated to the Daily Telegraph Belgium Fund.
The popular English novelist Hall Caine was listed as “general organizer” for King
Albert’s Book. There were more than 200 contributors, from all branches of the arts.
The emphasis was on those from Great Britain, but there was an international and
populist flavor to the publication. Elgar, Jack London, Edith Wharton, Walter Crane,
André Messager, Maeterlinck, and Anatole France were among the contributors.
The Berceuse is a simple, well-crafted, and somber piece, about four minutes in
length. It quotes the Belgian national anthem. Debussy described his contribution
as “melancholy and discreet . . . with no pretensions other than to offer a homage to
so much patient suffering.”12 A “berceuse” is a lullaby, hardly an apt title for the
mood of Debussy’s music. Its selection was intended to be ironic, and a way to bring
to mind the suffering of the children in Belgium as a result of the war.
The Berceuse was followed by two extremely short, minor piano pieces: Page d’album
and Elégie. Page d’album was composed in June 1915 for a concert series sponsored by a
philanthropic group devoted to supplying clothing to the wounded. Emma was involved
with the project, and that helps to explain Debussy’s participation.13 The Elégie, a
simple and solemn work, was published six months later in facsimile in Pages inédites
sur la femme et la guerre. Profits from sale of the book were intended for war orphans.
That same month Debussy completed his final work inspired by the war effort:
“Noël des enfants qui n’ont plus des maisons” (Christmas of Homeless Children).
The focus was again on children as an illustration of the horror and atrocities of war.
Debussy composed both the words and music for this straightforward, strophic
setting. Its recurrent refrain—“Revenge the children of France!”—gives an indica-
tion of its mood and intent.14 But Debussy’s approach was subtle. Rather than have

12.  Letter to Emile Vuillermoz of 25 January 1916 in DL, p. 313.

13.  It was not published until 1933.
14.  During 1916–1917 Debussy also completed a few sketches for a patriotic choral work, Ode à
la France. Completed and arranged by Marius-François Gaillard, it was premiered in 1928.
 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  237

the music document the horrors described in the text, it enhances the naiveté of
the children and their reaction to a frightful situation.
Between the composition of the Berceuse and the Elégie lay one of Debussy’s
most productive periods. After years of creative frustration, Debussy discovered in
the summer of 1915 inspiration in the rural seclusion of “Mon Coin.” Its beauty and
serenity led to the creation of his five final compositions.
En Blanc et Noir (for two pianos) was composed from 4 June to 20 July 1915.Writing
an original piece of music for two pianos was unusual for Debussy, but he wanted timbre
of a particular type.The title gives some indication of its starkness. Debussy felt that the
pieces “draw their color, their emotion, simply from the piano, like the ‘grays’ of 
Velázquez.”15 The work was originally called Caprices en blanc et noir, and another source
of inspiration for them was Goya’s Los Caprichos (1799). Goya’s etchings focus on human
folly and share with some of Debussy’s music for En Blanc et Noir an emphasis on the
grotesque.“I must confess,” Debussy wrote to Durand,“that I have slightly changed the
color of the second Caprice . . . it was becoming too black, and nearly as tragic as a Caprice
of Goya.”16 In the end, “caprice” was dropped from the title because of Debussy’s reali-
zation that the pieces would then be confused with the standard musical caprice.
In this, the first of his works from “Mon Coin,” Debussy was unable to leave the
war behind. Each piece is prefaced with an excerpt from a French poem (for the
second, it is Villon’s “Ballade contre les ennemis de la France”). The first piece in
the set (all three are untitled) is the most accessible. It is primarily monothematic,
sectional, and of the three, the lightest in mood.
The second piece is the odd one of the group. Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress Is
Our God”—as a symbol of the Germans—is quoted and distorted nearly beyond
recognition. Representing the French are echoes of the “Marseillaise,” and bugle
calls. It is a dramatic piece, stark, disjunct, and one of Debussy’s most dissonant.
In some ways it is a curious throwback to earlier “battle” pieces of music, Biber’s La
Battalia (1673), for example. The concluding piece in the set is, like the first, mono-
thematic. Near the conclusion, it restates the main theme from the second piece.
En Blanc et Noir was followed by a set of twelve Etudes for piano (23 July to 29
September).There can be a dry and forbidding connotation to the word, etude, but
Debussy was unusually enthusiastic about these. He told Durand that “they will
occupy a special place.”17 And he put a great deal of care and effort into them,
entirely recasting “Pour les arpèges composés.”18

15.  Letter to Robert Godet of 4 February 1916 in DL, p. 314.Velázquez relied heavily on grays and
blacks in his paintings.
16.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 14 July 1915 in C, p. 1909.
17.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 27 September 1915 in ibid., p. 1939.
18.  See Roy Howat, “A Thirteenth Etude of 1915:The Original Version of Pour les arpèges composés,”
in Cahiers Debussy 1 (1977), pp. 25–36.
238  •  debussy

Rather than the student etude (such as the one Debussy made fun of in Children’s
Corner), these etudes draw on the nineteenth-century concept of the etude de concert,
the type of etude written by piano virtuosi like Alkan, Henselt, and Chopin.
Debussy’s ideal is made clear by his dedication: “To the Memory of Frédéric
Chopin.” (François Couperin was also considered as a possible dedicatee.)
They are presented in two sets of six, but not arranged by key centers. Each set mixes
etudes focusing on technique with those more concerned with the exploration of piano
sonority. Debussy aims at encouraging self-reliance: no fingering is supplied. Humor,
too, is an essential component. “A little charm,” Debussy explained to Durand, “never
did any harm.”19 “Pour les agréments,” the eighth in the set, Debussy compared to a
“Barcarolle on the sea, a bit Italian,” possibly an allusion to Chopin’s Barcarolle, op. 60.20
The Etudes are extraordinarily difficult pieces to perform.The physical demands
are many (such as the sixth which focuses on scales but asks that they be performed
contrary to habit—without using the thumbs). The challenge to Debussy was to
create entire pieces based on the repetition of a particular pattern (like scales or
thirds), and yet retain the listener’s interest. Debussy’s sense of humor—such as the
consistent “wrong” notes in the first etude—helps.
Several of the Etudes are strikingly dissonant. What makes the dissonance so
effective (in “Pour les quartes” and “Pour les sonorités opposés,” for example) is
both its abrasiveness and the contrast produced. It is a concept Debussy uses more
consistently in the Etudes than in any other of his piano pieces.
Much has been made of the “modernistic” tendencies of these Etudes, and the
more prominent use of dissonance is one indication of it. But compared to the
younger generation making a name for itself (Stravinsky, for example), Debussy was
more restrained. In the last etude (“Pour les accords”) the emphasis is on driving,
rhythmic patterns, but Debussy still manages to convince the listener that the piano
is more a melodic than a percussive instrument.21
Debussy’s last compositions were a set of sonatas. He explained to Durand that
he would compose six of them and among the group would be solo sonatas for
popular instruments like the violin, as well as unusual combinations. Debussy lived
to complete three: the Cello Sonata (July and August 1915), the Sonata for Flute,
Viola, and Harp (September and October 1915), and the Violin Sonata (October
1916 to April 1917). They were signed, “Claude Debussy, musicien français”—an

19.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 28 August 1915 in C, p. 1925.

20.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 12 August 1915 in ibid., p. 1920.
21.  Debussy composed one final piece for piano in February–March 1917: Les soirs illuminés.
Intended as payment for his coal merchant (when heat was at a premium, and at his request), it is
a sketch inspired by Baudelaire’s “Le Balcon.” It was published in 2003.
 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  239

indication not just of Debussy’s nationalism during a time of war, but of the heri-
tage he drew upon for writing them.22
The sonata as a genre was alive and well in France during the final decades of
the nineteenth century and opening decades of the twentieth. The model was the
four-movement variety that had been developed, primarily in German-speaking
lands during the 1800s. Sonatas for violin provide a good example.There were three
outstanding ones composed by Debussy’s contemporaries: Guillaume Lekeu (1890),
Albéric Magnard (1901), and Vincent d’Indy (op. 59; 1904). Each is more than twice
the length of Debussy’s sonata for violin. And all draw on the grandiloquent tradi-
tion of nineteenth-century virtuosity. Franck is their model, and the sonata struc-
tures and cyclic principle which he advocated are adapted by them.
Not surprisingly, Debussy’s sonatas are quite different. They are shorter than the
standard sonata, call for unusual instruments, do not use sonata form, and avoid
­virtuosity in the grand style. Why, then, did he call them “sonatas”? What Debussy
actually had in mind in writing his sonatas was French chamber music of the eigh-
teenth century. It was more intimate in nature, more indebted to dance, and, com-
pared to later sonata structures, far more unpredictable.That Debussy would turn to
these lesser known accomplishments of a distinguished French legacy—and use
them as a point of departure—was very much in character.
The Cello Sonata is the most extroverted of the sonatas completed. It contains three
movements (with the titles “Prologue,”  “Sérénade,” and “Finale,” the last two move-
ments to be played without pause). Debussy wrote that he “loved its proportion and
form, nearly classical in the good sense of the word.”23 In the first movement the cello
is lyrical and self-reliant, so much so that at times it seems as if the piano accompaniment
is merely an afterthought. The structure is heard as ABA since there is an easily recog-
nizable return of the opening theme. But there is actually no B—that is, no new thematic
material to serve as contrast. Rather Debussy relies on the type of generative composi-
tional approach of La Mer.The entire length of this first movement, incidentally, would
approximate the size of an exposition section in the sonatas of his contemporaries.
The finale is similar in conception, though with cyclic overtones since the pre-
sentation of the wonderfully soaring melody that Debussy created for it is inter-
rupted by rubato recollections from the second movement. As had been the case
with En blanc et noir, that movement is an oddity: grotesque (with unexpected
dance-like segments), brittle, dissonant, and filled with humor. Debussy may have
had characters from the commedia dell’arte in mind. But it also recalls Poe’s devil
in “The Devil in the Belfry,” and perhaps that served as a source of inspiration.

22. The fourth sonata was planned for oboe, French horn, and harpsichord; the fifth for trumpet,
clarinet, bassoon, and piano; and the sixth for the previous instruments with addition of string bass.
23.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 5 August 1915 in C, p. 1916.
240  •  debussy

14-3  Violin Sonata

 Compositions, 1912–1918  •  241

The Sonata for Flute, Viola, and Harp (originally conceived with oboe instead
of viola) is Debussy’s version of a trio sonata but with equality for each of the
instruments. Like the Cello Sonata, there are three movements (“Pastorale,”
“Interlude,” “Allegro moderato ma risoluto”), but the dramatic change in texture
and tonality within the Interlude can give the impression to the listener of several
movements instead of a single one. The opening theme of the “Pastorale” (with its
emphasis on the intervals of minor and major third, and perfect fourth) serves as the
basis for much of the thematic material in the sonata.An excerpt from the “Pastorale”
is restated at the end of the finale, providing unity as well as a sense of finality.
Debussy drew on the timbre of the instruments with extraordinary effect.
Distinctive qualities (such as the rich, mellow sound of the viola) are highlighted, as
well as unusual combinations (viola harmonics with harp), all emphasizing Debussy’s
inventiveness.The sonata overall creates a sense of extraordinary serenity, all the more
remarkable given the trauma Debussy had experienced as a result of the war.
The Violin Sonata was Debussy’s last work. Completing it was difficult, both
because the pace of war in 1916 and 1917 produced additional hardship (it was the
time of Verdun and failure on the Somme) and because Debussy’s illness and
treatment often left him exhausted. Creating a finale that satisfied him (like the
other sonatas, there are three movements) was a challenge.24
Unlike the two previous sonatas, the Violin Sonata relies less on the generative
concept Debussy had adopted for much of his later work and more on thematic con-
trast.There is one primary theme in the first movement (heard at the very beginning
in the violin, and outlining a major seventh), and a contrasting motive. They appear
simultaneously near the conclusion of the movement (Example 14-3 on page 240).
The biting dissonance and humor of the second movement (“Intermède”) is a
counterpart to the Cello Sonata’s “Sérénade.” The finale begins with a surprising,
literal restatement of the theme from the first movement. Like the “Intermède” there
are dance-like elements in the finale, though in this instance Debussy seems to have
contemporary, popular dance in mind (see the section marked “le double plus lent”).
With extended trills in the violin and a tolling, bell-like ostinato in the piano, Debussy
concludes the sonata with a dramatic burst of excitement and exhilaration.
Permeating all three movements is Debussy’s vision of the gypsy violinist Radics,
a performer whom he admired for his extraordinary musicality.There are aspects that
sound “gypsy-like”—the provocative glissandos, for example. But Debussy’s concern
was less with specific elements than with encouraging performances in the spirit of
Radics, performances that embodied music’s essence: its “color and rhythm.”

24.  See Denis-François Rauss, “‘Ce terrible finale’: les sources manuscrites de la sonate pour vio-
lon et piano de Claude Debussy et la genèse du troisième mouvement,” in Cahiers Debussy 2 (1978),
pp. 30–62.
 l Chapter fifteen
;
Debussy as Critic

Critics are people who trade on the authority and name of newspapers to talk
about something of which they know nothing.
Debussy, conversation with Sylvain Bonmariage

D ebussy’s involvement with music—as conductor, performer, composer,

teacher, and critic—could not have been more active. But only composing provided
real satisfaction to him. Performing, teaching, and conducting were nuisances, necessary
for income and publicity. As for music criticism, it paid poorly, provided meager recog-
nition, and ate up valuable time that could be better spent composing—all good reasons
why Debussy managed to avoid writing any music criticism until he was nearly forty.
By the time Debussy began his career as a critic in 1901, it had become common
in France for composers—even those with negligible literary skills—to supplement
their income by writing for the press. Had he wanted to, Debussy could have become
a critic years earlier. He was enormously interested in all the arts, wrote well, and was
close to writers who could have recommended him to the leading papers of the day.
But Debussy had several concerns. First, becoming a critic might imply a lack of
success as a composer (as one early study reported: “[Debussy] has even resorted—
one wonders how desperately—to the writing of music criticism for various jour-
nals and reviews”)1. He was also a slow worker.Writing did not come easily to him.
Would he be able to write to order? Would he be able to meet deadlines? 2

1.  Lawrence Gilman, Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande.A Guide to the Opera (New York: Schirmer, 1907), p. 8.
2.  His anxiety helps partially to explain why at times he resorted to rewriting old material for
­different papers.

•  242  •
 Debussy as Critic  •  243

Despite Debussy’s reservations, there were definite advantages to bringing his

name before a broader public. At the start of the twentieth century his reputation
was beginning to grow, and interest in him and his work was increasing. Although
untested as a writer, he was well-read and intimate with the literary, artistic, and
musical scene. He was known to be an original. It remained to be seen whether he
could write in a way to attract readers and sell papers.
Debussy began writing music criticism in April 1901 and worked sporadically at
it for about a dozen years. He started with one of the most prestigious papers of the
day, La Revue blanche, but stayed for only eight months, giving overwork—he was
preparing Pelléas for its premiere—as one of his reasons for leaving.
More than two years passed before he again wrote any music criticism, this time
for Gil Blas ( January–June 1903). Gil Blas was more lively and entertaining than La
Revue blanche, and for it Debussy’s reviews were paired with those of the popular
writer, Colette. Her current bestsellers were novels written in the guise of a naive,
provincial schoolgirl: Claudine. And it was Claudine’s unsophisticated reviews that
were published alongside Debussy’s, providing an additional level of humor now
that Debussy was the famous composer of Pelléas.
In the years following his work with Gil Blas, Debussy wrote for the press
­infrequently. He returned on occasion—concerned by the rise of “pretentious
mediocrity”—and chose topics meaningful to him for journals such as Musica, and
papers like Le Figaro and Le Matin.3 His final criticism was for a more scholarly
journal: Société Internationale de Musique (SIM ; 1912–1914). His intent was to try to
“put things back where they belong: in an attempt to recover the values falsified by
arbitrary judgements and capricious interpretations.”4 His friends Emile Vuillermoz
and Louis Laloy were associated with SIM—and that overcame Debussy’s suspicion
of academics sufficiently for him to contribute nearly a dozen articles.

*****
Debussy’s start in musical journalism was auspicious. La Revue blanche was one of the
finest artistic journals of the day. Founded in 1889, it was published twice per month and
was an intriguing blend of intellectual and entertaining content. Contemporary French
literature was a major focus, including the avant-garde (Alfred Jarry was a frequent
contributor). Many of Debussy’s friends had been published in La Revue blanche,
including Mallarmé, Régnier, Louÿs, and Toulet. But it was truly cosmopolitan,
and writers outside France, such as Tolstoy and Hamsun, also received attention.
In addition to literature, a great deal of space was devoted to the visual arts, a
reflection of the tastes of the publisher, Thadée Natanson, who was an avid art

3.  Letter of 10 March 1906 to Louis Laloy in DL, p. 167.

4.  Letter to Robert Godet of 18 January 1913 in ibid., p. 269.
244  •  debussy

collector. Natanson’s preferences were seen as well in his choice of editor. Félix
Fénéon, a well-known art critic and supporter of Seurat, served in that
capacity from 1895 to 1903. That helps to explain the wide range of artists
who were contributors to La Revue blanche (Edouard Vuillard, Pierre Bonnard,
and Toulouse-Lautrec). In addition, Félix Valloton regularly supplied portraits of
notables of the day.
Coverage of literature and the visual arts was exceptional. That for music was
mediocre. The first music critic for La Revue blanche was Willy (Henri Gauthier-
Villars, husband of Colette). Although he was one of the most popular critics of the
day (in such demand that he hired others to write under his name), his knowledge
and background in music were negligible. To supplement Willy, Alfred Ernst, a
Wagnerian, wrote occasional music columns.
Debussy’s immediate predecessor—and at the time the most regular music con-
tributor to La Revue blanche—was Alfred Corneau, music critic from 1898 to 1901.5
But there continued to be additional contributors, such as Edouard Dujardin (novelist,
poet, and Wagnerian), who supplied a study of Beethoven’s late works.
The uneven and often superficial music criticism in La Revue blanche prior to
Debussy’s arrival is surprising. Nantanson’s wife Misia took an active role in the
publication—and she was an accomplished musician. A talented pianist and student
of Fauré, she was also a good friend of Mallarmé (for whom she regularly played).
She might have had a part in hiring Debussy, but he had many friends associated
with the journal, any one of whom could have been influential in his employment.6
No matter who might have been responsible for bringing Debussy on board, it can
be no coincidence that his initial work for La Revue blanche corresponded with a
time of increased debt for him. Music criticism was one of the few ways he could
hope to increase his income.
Debussy’s first article appeared on 1 April 1901, the last, eight months later.
During that time Debussy contributed eight pieces, more frequently at the
beginning of his association. He began his declaration of war against the critical
standards of his day with disarming bluntness:

What you will be finding here are my own sincere impressions, exactly as I felt them—
more than criticism, which is all too often no more than a brilliant set of variations on the
theme of “you didn’t do it as I would, that’s your mistake,” or even “you have talent, I have
none, and that certainly cannot go on.” I shall try to see the works in perspective, to dis-
cover the various seeds from which they spring, and what they contain of inner life.7

5.  He was also music critic for the paper, Le Matin.

6.  Both she and her husband were aware of his reputation: he had privately performed portions
of Pelléas for them.
7.  Review of 1 April 1901 in DM, p. 13.
 Debussy as Critic  •  245

There was little revolutionary about Debussy’s agenda. It was how Debussy expressed
himself—as much as what he had to say—that captured readers’ attention. His style was
light, yet assured; almost conversational, yet always bearing the conviction of his musical
expertise. His reviews were amusing, flippant, caustic, outspoken, shocking, and invari-
ably entertaining.What ensured their freshness was their wit and unpredictability:

We heard Monsieur Léopold Auer, violin soloist to his Majesty the Emperor of Russia.
He showed enormous talent playing a concerto by Brahms and a melancholy serenade by
Tchaikovsky. These two works competed with each other in boredom.8

The attraction that binds the virtuoso to his public seems much the same as that which
draws the crowds to the circus: we always hope that something dangerous is going to
happen. Monsieur Ysaÿe is going to play the violin with [the conductor] on his shoulders.
Or [the piano virtuoso] will finish by seizing the piano with his teeth.9

Monsieur Chagnon [father of a child prodigy] complains that his son hasn’t a good
enough piano, and that he can go to the Conservatoire only once a week. . . . These two
problems are easily remedied: let his son not go to the Conservatoire at all, and let him
spend the money thus saved on a better piano.10

Debussy lost little time in introducing a fictional character into his reviews—
one who made few appearances but who came to represent much of Debussy’s
critical stance: Monsieur Croche. Debussy offered only a vague, general description
of Croche: “short and wizened . . . [he] spoke very softly and never laughed.”11 The
choice of name was clever. “Croche” means eighth-note, so a musical connection
was established. But the word also brings to mind “crochet” (hook, spiked), implying
that he might not be the most amiable of characters.
Croche battled mediocrity and championed the unconventional. Often he
became a spokesman for some of Debussy’s most controversial opinions and in that
sense seemed useful in distancing Debussy from possible retaliation.
Croche was blunt, and a master at confrontation, but much more than a skillful antag-
onist. Debussy made him a philosopher of profundity, and one who, like himself, was
often perplexed by the dullness and unthinking acts of those around him:“Just remember,”
he observed, “something which is truly beautiful commands only silence. Every day we
witness the magical beauty of the sunset. Does one think of applauding that?”12

8.  Review of 16 March 1903 in ibid., p. 146.

9.  Review of 1 May 1901 in ibid., p. 26.
10.  Review of 30 March 1903 in ibid., p. 158.
11.  Review of 1 July 1901 in ibid., p. 45.
12. Ibid., p. 46.
246  •  debussy

Croche appeared (or was mentioned) in fewer than a half dozen of Debussy’s
reviews (he briefly reappeared in 1903 in Gil Blas), but he enjoyed a broad measure
of popularity, one that led to charges if not of plagiarism, then of something close
to it. Paul Valéry detected a strong similarity between his own creation, Monsieur
Teste, and Debussy’s Monsieur Croche—an impression that many shared. Teste had
first appeared in Valéry’s “Soirée of Monsieur Teste” in Le Centaure in 1896. Debussy
knew of Teste (he and Valéry were friends).
Although Messieurs Teste and Croche share some personal features and idiosyn-
cracies, there are far more differences between them. Croche is less cryptic in his
pronouncements, for example, and far more intelligible. He is also much more of
an iconoclast. Teste could have served as inspiration to Debussy. But the actual
source may have been closer at hand: in many ways Croche bears an uncanny
resemblance to Debussy’s good friend, Erik Satie.13
Debussy’s light and engaging style tended to obscure his seriousness of purpose.
He was on a mission to expose what he felt was lacking in contemporary music life
and to offer suggestions to remedy the situation. Over the years his focus remained
the same. But because of friends and colleagues who might have taken his criticism
too personally, he made a point of tempering his views. On its own, then, Debussy’s
published music criticism presents only what he wanted the public to see. A
complete view needs to draw on his private opinions as well, and those are scattered
throughout his correspondence.

*****
One of the foundations of Debussy’s music criticism was his unusual perception of
the role of nature in music. Music, he wrote, approaches “the mysterious correspon-
dences between Nature and the Imagination.”14 He discovered practical examples
of it in musical compositions. In looking for something good to say about
Beethoven’s “Pastoral” Symphony he made a point of attributing to the music the
“sentimental transposition of what is ‘invisible’ in nature.”15 Bach and his use of the
melodic arabesque was another instance, one where “music was subject to laws of
beauty inscribed in the movement of nature itself.”16
Debussy’s somewhat mystical convictions might seem out of place with the mod-
ernist stance of some of his compositions and writings—but they are very much in

13.  Robert Orledge, “Debussy and Satie,” in Debussy Studies, Richard Langham Smith, ed.
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 163.
14.  “Why I Wrote Pelléas,” April 1902 in DM, p. 61.
15.  Review of 16 February 1903 in Ecrits, p. 96.
16.  Review of October 1902, in DM, p. 84.
 Debussy as Critic  •  247

accord with his view of the essence of music, for which he is indebted to the
Symbolists. It also brings to mind his seeing Nature as a teacher (of orchestration,
for example), and ultimately as an inspiration for simplifying the process of learning.
“Let us purify our music,” he wrote in one of his last articles.“Let us work to relieve
its congestion.”17
The “congestion” was, Debussy felt, layers of encumbrances added by tradition.
In his criticism he did all he could to fight against its unthinking acceptance.
“Beethoven’s real lesson to us,” he wrote, “was not that we should preserve age-old
forms, nor even that we should plant our footsteps where he first trod. We should
look out through open windows into clear skies.”18 Too much attention, he believed,
was paid to “the ‘authorities.’ It seems to me they stifle a more individual voice
within.”19 He was eager for people to think for themselves, to study and evaluate
music on their own. And he was irritated by complacency.“I admire Beethoven and
Wagner,” he wrote, “but I refuse to admire them because they have been deemed to
be masters. Never!”20
Uncritical attachment to “The Masters” led to the creation of a repertory that
was moribund. That was one reason Debussy showed interest in the music of lesser
known composers. Writing of the music of Alessandro Scarlatti (1660–1725; the
little-known father of Domenico), he dryly noted that “we are perhaps wrong in
playing the same old things time and time again.”21
Music education became a major target for his criticism. Institutions like the
Conservatoire were responsible for perpetuating much of the tradition that Debussy
found so stifling. In one review he singled out a composer’s youth as his salvation.
There was still, he explained, “time to get rid of his present respect for what he has
been taught and exchange it for a mind of his own, free of any arbitrary formulae.”22
And he was infuriated by the basis for determining excellence at the Conservatoire—
competitions that only led to “creating more and more idiots.”23 “Among the insti-
tutions on which France prides itself,” concluded Monsieur Croche, “do you know
of any more ridiculous than the Prix de Rome?”24

17.  Review of 1 November 1913 in Ecrits, p. 247.

18.  Review of 1 April 1901 in DM, p. 15.
19. Ibid., p.16.
20. Interview of 18 January 1911 in Ecrits, p. 318.
21.  Review of 13 April 1903 in DM, p. 174.
22.  Review of 15 March 1913 in ibid., p. 285.
23.  Review of 14 February 1909 in ibid., p. 238.
24.  Review of 15 November 1901 in ibid., p. 52.
248  •  debussy

Competitions, Debussy maintained, tended to reward upper-level mediocrity

(or at least the readily comprehensible), and led both to a deterioration of artistic
standards and misconceptions concerning art’s function and stature. Winners of the
Prix needed to “be told that Art must be loved through all its visions, all its miseries,
and should never be relied upon to supply a ‘job.’”25 Debussy felt that the teaching
of Art and an emphasis on its craft had led to some curious misconceptions: “When
will someone come along and put an end to this dreadful notion, so popular at the
moment, that it is as easy to be an artist as a dentist?”26
Think for yourself—Question tradition—Be suspicious of what you are taught.
These were not concerns of the typical music critic. Such statements have led to
Debussy’s music criticism being described as the “first major outpouring of anarchist
ideas in music.”27 But while it may make sense to associate him with a form of
intellectual anarchism—directed in particular to a younger generation—it is mis-
leading to couple him with anarchism as a political movement, a branch of which
was prominent in France in the 1890s and early 1900s.
Although there were sympathizers in the arts for anarchism (including Mallarmé),
many who supported its philosophy were at the same time horrified by its violence.
Anarchist bombings, murders, and assassinations—terrorist acts characterized at the
time as “anarchism in practice”—became increasingly common in France during
the 1890s. But there is no indication that Debussy supported anarchism. And his
view of art—which was always critical of the taste of the masses—differed from the
broadly egalitarian standards adopted by the anarchists.True—he placed “value . . . on
independence” and “derided . . . institutionalism,” both traits of anarchism.28 But the
principles of Debussy that most resembled those of anarchism—opposition to
convention, suspicion of tradition, an emphasis on self-reliance—were ideals held
in common with many artists (and hardly the hallmarks of anarchism).
As a music critic, Debussy continued to question the “authorities.” His stance deter-
mined his view of music history and made him wary of a great deal of nineteenth-
century music that served as the basis of the repertory. He admired Chopin for example,
but liked only some of the early piano music of Schumann. Schumann’s settings of
Heine’s poems—which were often singled out for their sensitivity—he criticized for
their ignorance of Heine’s “fine spirit of irony.”29 Debussy was convinced that many

25.  Review of May 1903 in Ecrits, p. 179.

26.  Review of November 1912 in DM, p. 265.
27. Ibid., p. 9.
28.  Déirdre Donnellon, “The Anarchist Movement in France and Its Impact on Debussy,” Cahiers
Debussy 33 (1999), pp. 53, 54.
29.  Review of March 1911 in DM, p. 250.
 Debussy as Critic  •  249

well-known genres had served their purpose. He wrote of the “uselessness of the
symphony since Beethoven” and described the Opéra as “a place where monumental
luxury is unable to conceal the poverty of what is performed.”30
The type of change essential for the growth of French musical life was, Debussy
felt, opposed by most French composers of his day, especially the most illustrious.
Debussy was openly critical of prominent figures like Fauré (“the Master of Charms”).31
Whatever good he discovered in the music of his contemporaries was consistently
overshadowed by its drawbacks. These were discussed openly in letters to friends.
For publication, his reservations were often concealed by hyperbole. For one review
he described Paul Dukas’s Piano Sonata as “somewhat special,” and concluded
that “by its grandeur of conception it takes its place immediately after the sonatas of
Beethoven” (hardly intended as a compliment coming from Debussy).32
The music of Vincent d’Indy was a special case. Debussy admired d’Indy’s
artistic convictions, if not his musical style. Above all, he wanted to avoid the con-
troversy fueled by those in the d’Indy and Debussy camps. In print he made a point
of being praiseworthy, sometimes excessively. For d’Indy’s opera, L’Etranger, “the
music appeared to be very beautiful, but as if enclosed; it stupefied with such mas-
tery that one scarcely dared to be moved—that would not have been respectable.”33
In private, he was more blunt, criticizing d’Indy’s dogmatic approach.
Debussy was far warmer in his praise of Russian music—in part because of its
distance from Western conventions. He described Rimsky-Korsakov’s Antar as a “pure
masterpiece of renewal in which [he] sends the traditional forms of the symphony
packing.”34 Musorgsky’s music, he concluded, is “unique. . . . There is no question of any
such thing as ‘form,’ or, at least, any forms there are have such complexity that they are
impossible to relate to the accepted forms—the ‘official’ ones.”35
Debussy’s knowledge of contemporary music from countries other than France
was surprisingly sketchy. He knew little of Mahler (though Mahler had conducted
all of Debussy’s major orchestral works).36 He was more familiar with Richard
Strauss. They had met at a lunch arranged by his publisher, Jacques Durand. Strauss

30.  Reviews of 1 April 1901 in ibid., p. 15, and of 9 March 1903 in Ecrits, p. 116.
31.  Review of 9 March 1903 in DM, p. 138.
32.  Reviews of 15 April 1901 and May 1903 in Ecrits, pp. 31, 178.
33.  Review of 12 January 1903 in ibid., p. 70.
34.  Review of 16 March 1903 in DM, p. 147.
35.  Review of 15 April 1901 in ibid., pp. 20–21.
36. Incidentally, the often cited incident of Debussy, Pierné, and Dukas walking out in protest at a
performance of Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 (17 April 1910) has no basis in fact. It is unlikely that
Debussy would have found much to admire in Mahler’s music, but the episode is entirely out of
character (and would have made little sense).The source for it is Alma Mahler’s unreliable memoirs.
250  •  debussy

used the occasion to talk about the intricacy of copyright laws, a disappointment
to Debussy who had hoped for a less worldly discussion. According to Durand,
Debussy “generally dealt with embarrassing situations by thinking of something
else and losing himself in his dream world. Lunch therefore passed in active
conversation on the part of Strauss and obstinate silence on that of Debussy.”37
Debussy knew most of Strauss’s best-known pieces. Privately, he described Salomé
as “an absolute masterpiece,” but he was more critical of the tone poems (Till Eulen­
spiegel, for example).38 In general Debussy discovered in Strauss’s music “curious
similarities” to the Symbolist paintings of Arnold Böcklin.39 Precisely what Debussy
had in mind he never revealed. But it is the type of comparison to the visual arts that
appealed to him. He found it interesting, too, that in Ein Heldenleben Strauss “no
longer uses the rigorous architectural methods of a Bach or a Beethoven. Instead he
develops with rhythmic colors.”40 But privately Debussy had previously concluded
that Ein Heldenleben was no more than “a good solid piece,” and one that required a
“strong stomach to swallow.”41
Arnold Schoenberg’s music he found to be indigestible, even though his first-
hand knowledge of it was slight. Apparently he never heard any performances of it.
Varèse said that he showed Debussy Schoenberg’s Three Piano Pieces, op. 11, and Five
Pieces for Orchestra, op. 16. What particularly bothered Debussy about it was its for-
eignness. He was concerned that it might become popular enough to serve as a
model in France.
For, despite Debussy’s contempt for tradition, there was one tradition he came
increasingly to champion: that of French music. That tradition, he wrote, was char-
acterized by “clarity of expression, concise and compact in form, qualities particular
and significant to French genius.”42 It was, he concluded, a tradition that was in
danger of vanishing, the culprits being “influences from the North and from
Byzantium.”43 French composers had been too eager to emulate foreign music.
Wagner—”a beautiful sunset that has been mistaken for a sunrise”—was the most
recent example.44 He had devised “a number of formulas to accommodate music
for the theatre. One day we shall recognize their complete uselessness.”45

37.  Recollection of Jacques Durand in DR, p. 120.

38.  Letter to Gabriel Astruc of 23 May 1907 in DL, p. 179.
39.  Review of December 1912 in DM, p. 270.
40.  Review of 30 March 1903 in ibid., p. 160.
41.  Letter of 4 March 1900 to Georges Hartmann in DL, p. 111.
42.  Review of 2 February 1903 in Ecrits, p. 91.
43.  Letter to d’Annunzio of 12 June 1913 in DL, p. 273.
44.  Review of January 1903 in DM, p. 83.
45.  Review of 15 May 1901 in Ecrits, p. 41.
 Debussy as Critic  •  251

Debussy was convinced that the bane of foreign influence on musical life in
France had existed long before Wagner. Earlier in the century Rossini and Meyerbeer
had corrupted French taste. And in the 1700s, there had been Gluck. Debussy main-
tained that he was the composer who had first set French music astray.
Since his student days Debussy had been critical of Gluck, a composer who had
long been idolized in France for the dramatic effectiveness of his operas. But there
was nothing Debussy could find in his favor. He criticized the “very poor” prosody
of Gluck’s settings, and Gluck’s “habit of impolitely interrupting the action,”
destroying dramatic coherence.46 The collaboration between Debussy and Victor
Segalen on an Orpheus opera had been intended, he said, to right the wrongs of
Gluck’s Orfeo (1762)—a setting Debussy felt was banal and sentimental.
By imitating Gluck (and following advocates of his style such as Spontini), com-
posers had allowed the French tradition Debussy cherished to be forgotten. Its last true
representative—Jean-Philippe Rameau—had been dead for nearly a century and a half.
In both his correspondence and music criticism Debussy extolled the “perfect taste and
strict elegance” of Rameau’s music.47 And he paid tribute to him in his own music (the
“Hommage à Rameau,” for example, in the first set of the Images for piano). The rela-
tionship was symbolized to perfection in a concert given by Debussy’s amanuensis,
André Caplet, in 1912: it was devoted solely to the music of Debussy and Rameau.
Rameau at the time was little known. Debussy’s praise began in 1903 (inspired
by a performance he saw of the first two acts of Castor et Pollux [1737]). He never
wavered in his support and became convinced that the “purely French tradition”
that Rameau exemplified provided not only a true and distinctive path for contem-
porary music but an antidote to the corruption of foreign influence.48
Debussy’s enthusiasm for Rameau came at what he believed was a crucial time
for the development of music in France. But his glorification of French music—
combined with a willingness to emphasize weaknesses at the expense of strengths
in other composers—led at times to negativism and unmerited fault-finding. At its
worst it became narrow-minded provincialism, as when he claimed Dukas’s Ariane
et Barbe-bleue was “not a masterpiece of French music.”49 Even prior to the rampant
nationalism fostered by the Great War, Debussy was using fidelity to his perception
of French musical tradition as a measure of excellence.
Debussy’s relationship with Igor Stravinsky was affected by it, even though they were
on friendly terms. Here it was not a question—at least in public—of Stravinsky not
writing French music. In the years preceding the First World War Stravinsky became

46.  Reviews of 23 February 1903 and 2 February 1903 in ibid., pp. 101, 91.
47.  Letter to Louis Laloy of 10 September 1906 in DL, p. 172.
48.  Review of 2 February 1903 in DM, p. 112.
49.  Letter of 25 February 1912 to Vittorio Gui in DL, p. 256.
252  •  debussy

a phenomenon, and Debussy was fascinated by his music. Privately, he described

Firebird as “not perfect [but] an excellent piece of work.”50 After hearing Petrushka
he wrote to Stravinsky: “You will go beyond Petrushka—that’s certain—but you can
already be proud of what this work represents.”51 As for the Rite of Spring, he con-
fessed it “haunts me like a beautiful nightmare.”52
Debussy’s fulsome compliments are an indication both of his recognition of
Stravinsky’s accomplishment and astonishment by it.53 But privately, he was far
more critical: “[Stravinsky] says: my Firebird, my Sacre, like a child saying : my top,
my hoop. And that’s exactly what he is—a spoilt child. . . . He’s also a young savage
who wears noisy ties and kisses the ladies’ hands while treading on their toes.When
he’s old, he’ll be intolerable.That’s to say, he won’t be able to tolerate any music; but,
for the moment, he’s amazing.”54
Debussy’s music criticism generally tried to give the impression of being above
the fray. But he never regarded or treated any composer as an equal. His own music,
he felt, was unique; his only real competitor was himself. That helps to explain why
he felt intimidated by Stravinsky’s originality, why, given his preoccupation with
French elegance, he dismissed him as barbaric—and why he never took the time to
write a review on Stravinsky’s behalf.
Debussy reserved wholehearted praise for those who were no longer alive,
Musorgsky, for example. Bach became a special instance of it: “a benevolent God to
whom musicians should offer a prayer before setting to work in order to protect
themselves from mediocrity.”55
Debussy was enthralled by what he described as Bach’s use of melody as arabesque,
a characteristic of his own music as well. In a Bach violin concerto, he discovered
“nearly intact that ‘musical arabesque.’ . . . Bach, in reworking the arabesque, made it
more supple, more fluid, and despite the severe discipline that the great master imposed
on beauty, it is imbued with a constantly renewed, free fantasy that astonishes us even
today. In Bach’s music it is not the character of the melody that affects us but its curve.
Even more often it is the parallel movement of several lines whose meeting—whether
fortuitous or by agreement—stirs our emotions.”56 At times Debussy felt transported

50.  Letter of 8 July 1910 to Jacques Durand in ibid., p. 221.

51.  Letter of 13 April 1912 in C, p. 1503.
52.  Letter of [7 November 1912] to Stravinsky in DL, p. 265.
53. The complex relationship between Debussy and Stravinsky is documented in Mark McFarland,
“Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into Their Musical Relationship,” Cahiers Debussy 24
(2000), pp. 79–112.
54.  Letter to Robert Godet of 4 January 1916 in DL, p. 312.
55.  Review of 15 February 1913 in Ecrits, p. 228.
56.  Review of 1 May 1901 in ibid., p. 34.
 Debussy as Critic  •  253

by Bach’s music: “It haunts us long after it is ended, so that on coming out into the
street one cannot but be astonished that the sky is not more blue, and that the Parthenon
does not rise out of the ground before one’s very eyes.”57
What generally served as the basis for Debussy’s admiration was Bach’s uncon-
ventionality—the “freedom and fantasy in both composition and form,” the fact that
Bach “scorned harmonic formulae.”58 “I acknowledge,” he concluded, “one great
master. . . . This is Bach; but I will not say the same of Beethoven, as I consider him a man
of his epoch, and with a few exceptions his works should have been allowed to rest.”59
There were times—always when an audience was not present—that he felt less
compelled to place Bach on a pedestal. In 1917 when preparing an edition of Bach’s
violin sonatas he complained that if “the old Saxon cantor hasn’t any ideas he starts
out from any old thing and is truly pitiless. In fact he’s only bearable when he’s
admirable. Which, you’ll say, is still something! At the same time, if he’d had a
friend—a publisher perhaps—who could have told him to take a day off every
week, perhaps, then we’d have been spared several hundreds of pages in which you
have to walk between rows of mercilessly regulated and joyless bars, each one with
its rascally little ‘subject’ and ‘countersubject.’  ”60
At the encouragement of Godet and Laloy—and to provide an additional source
of income—in 1913 Debussy collected some of his music reviews for publication as
a book.The idea of preparing a book about music—in contrast to writing criticism
for the press—appealed to Debussy and had long been at the back of his mind. It
provided more permanence and put on display the breadth of his writing. He
selected barely half of what he had written, edited it sparingly, and in March 1914
was at work checking the proofs. But because of the war, publication of Monsieur
Croche, Antidilettante (in an edition of only 500 copies) was delayed until 1921—
three years after Debussy’s death. Even incomplete, it served its purpose and drew
attention both to his skill as a writer and to his artistic beliefs.
Although a century has passed since it was written, Debussy’s music criticism remains
a model of its kind. Much of its vigor can be traced to its uncompromising idealism and
to its willingness—even eagerness—to go against the grain. Debussy wanted to animate
and provoke discussion not just about individual pieces of music, but about the role and
function of Art itself. He accomplished his goals without giving the impression of
preaching, and with a refreshing freedom from cant. And even though a good portion
of the music he examined was ephemeral, the incessant questioning of convention that
served as the basis for his criticism has assured its freshness and vitality.

57.  Review of 15 January 1913 in DM, p. 276.

58.  Reviews of 1 November 1913 and October 1902 in ibid., pp. 297, 84.
59. Interview of 6 August 1908 in ibid., p. 233.
60.  Letter to Jacques Durand of 15 April 1917 in DL, p. 323.
l Appendix A
;

Calendar

Year Age Life Contemporary musicians and events

1862 Birth on 22 August of Delius born;
Achille-Claude to
Manuel-Achille and
Victorine Debussy at
Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
Les Miserables

1864 1 Baptized on 31 July. Meyerbeer dies;

Toulouse-Lautrec
born;
Richard Strauss born.
1866 4 Busoni born;
Satie born;
Austro-Prussian War.
1868 6 Family settles in Paris. Rossini dies.
1870 8 In Cannes. Lekeu born;
First music lessons. Franco-Prussian War.
1871 9 Begins piano lessons in Auber dies.
Paris with Mme Mauté.
1872 10 22 October: admitted to Scriabin born;
Conservatoire.
Vaughan Williams born.

•  254  •
 Appendix A  •  255

Year Age Life Contemporary musicians and events

Whistler’s Nocturne
in Blue and Silver
1873 11 Manuel Debussy is released John Stuart Mill dies.
after serving two years in
prison, a result of his
participation in the
Commune.
1876 13 16 January: first public Goetz dies;
performance.
Jack London born.
1879 17 Summer: at Chenonceaux. Zulu War.
Removed from piano
program at
Conservatoire.
First compositions.
1880 18 Summer: travel with the von Offenbach dies;
Mecks.
Accompanist in Moreau- Medtner born.
Sainti’s singing class.
December: enters
Guiraud’s
composition class.
1881 19 Summer: in Russia and Italy Musorgsky dies;
with the von Mecks.
Bartók born.
Bruckner’s Fourth
Symphony
1882 20 Start of affair with Marie Rossetti dies;
Vasnier (or 1883).
Writes first Verlaine
songs.
July: first attempt at Prix de Stravinsky born.
Rome.
Final stay with the von Parsifal
Mecks.
From the Cradle
to the Grave
Redon’s A Edgar Poe
256  •  Appendix A

Year Age Life Contemporary musicians and events

1883 21 June: awarded 2nd place in Wagner dies;
the Prix de Rome.
Webern born.
1884 21 June: wins the Prix de Rome Siege of Khartoum
with L’Enfant prodigue.
Huckleberry Finn
Manon
1885 23 January: arrives in Rome. Hugo dies;
Complains about his life Berg born.
there.
Brahms’s Fourth Symphony
1887 25 March: returns to Paris. Borodin dies.
1888 26 First trip to Bayreuth. Alkan dies.
La Damoiselle élue Mörike-Lieder
1889 27 Summer: attends Universal Villiers dies;
Exhibition.
Second trip to Bayreuth. Khnopff ’s Memories
Petite Suite
Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire
1890 28 Spring: meets Gaby Dupont. Franck dies.
Autumn: begins to attend
Mallarmé’s mardis.
1892 30 Beginning of friendship with Milhaud born.
Pierre Louÿs.
Bruges-la-Morte
1893 31 May: attends performance of Gounod dies;
Pelléas et Mélisande. Chaikovsky dies.
Friendship with Chausson.
August: begins composition of
Pelléas.
December: premiere of String
Quartet.
1894 32 February: brief engagement to Chabrier dies;
Thérèse Roger.
December: premiere of Lekeu dies;
Prélude à
Warlock born;
 Appendix A  •  257

Year Age Life Contemporary musicians and events

l’après-midi d’un faune. Mahler’s Second Symphony
Monet’s Rouen Cathedral
Delville’s Angel of Splendor
1895 33 Completes vocal score of Godard dies;
Pelléas.
Morisot dies;
Hindemith born.
Moreau’s Jupiter and Semele
1897 35 February: Gaby attempts Brahms dies.
suicide.
1899 37 19 October: marriage to Lilly Chausson dies;
Texier.
Poulenc born.
Boxer Rebellion
1900 38 February: publication of the Nietzsche dies;
Nocturnes.
Mahler’s Fourth Symphony
1901 39 April: becomes music Verdi dies.
critic for La Revue
blanche.
1902 40 30 April: premiere of Pelléas. The Hound of the Baskervilles
1903 41 Signs contract for The Devil in Wolf dies;
the Belfry.
Estampes Whistler dies;
First airplane flight.
D’Indy’s Second
Symphony
1904 42 August: leaves Lilly and settles Dvorak dies; Russo-Japanese War
with Emma Bardac in
Pourville.
October: Lilly attempts
suicide.
1905 43 Signs exclusive publishing Strauss’s Salomé
contract with Jacques
Durand.
30 October: birth of
Chouchou.
La Mer
258  •  Appendix A

Year Age Life Contemporary musicians and events

1907 45 Works on the orchestral Grieg dies.
Images.
Images (2nd Series)
1908 46 12 January: makes debut as a MacDowell dies.
conductor with La Mer. Gaspard de la nuit
30 January: marries Emma
Bardac.
Begins work on The Fall of the
House of Usher.
Children’s Corner
Ibéria
1910 48 September: signs contract for Der Rosenkavalier
Khamma.
28 October: death of Manuel Prometheus
Debussy.
November–December: The Firebird
conducts in Vienna and
Budapest.
Préludes, Book I
1911 49 22 May: premiere of The Mahler dies.
Martyrdom of St. Sebastian.
Petroushka
June: conducts in Turin.
1912 50 29 May: performance of the Massenet dies;
Faune at the Ballets Russes. Sinking of Titanic
Continued financial Pierrot lunaire
difficulties.

Préludes, Book II
1913 51 January: premiere of the Rite of Spring
orchestral Images.
15 May: premiere of Jeux.
December: conducts in
Moscow and St. Petersburg.
Trois Poèmes de Mallarmé
1914 52 February: conducts in Rome Magnard dies;
and Amsterdam.
 Appendix A  •  259

Year Age Life Contemporary musicians and events

April: conducts in Holland.

September: temporary move First World War.
to Angers because of the
German invasion.
1915 53 July–October: settles at “Mon Scriabin dies;
Coin.”
Diagnosis of cancer. Gourmont dies.
Etudes; En Blanc et Noir;
Cello Sonata;
Sonata for Flute,Viola, and
Harp
1916 54 Condition gradually worsens. Battle of the Somme;
Battle for Verdun.
Nielsen’s Fourth
Symphony
1917 55 May: premiere of the Violin Degas dies.
Sonata.
October Revolution
1918 56 25 March: death of Debussy
1919 16 July: death of Chouchou
l Appendix B
;

List of Works

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Instrumental
Piano
Solo
Danse bohémienne Summer 1880 1932
Deux Arabesques 1890–1891 1891
Mazurka 1890–1891 1903
Rêverie 1890 1891
Tarentelle styrienne 1890 1891
1903 (as
Danse)
Ballade slave 1890 1891
1903 (as
Ballade)
Valse romantique 1890 1891
Nocturne 1892 1892
Images oubliées Winter 1894 1977
1.  Lent
2. Sarabande
(first published: 1896)
3.  Quelques aspects de
“Nous n’irons plus
au bois”

•  260  •
 Appendix B  •  261

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Pour le piano 1894–1901 1901
1.  Prélude
2.  Sarabande
3. Toccata
Images (1st Series) 1901–1905 1905
1.  Reflets dans l’eau
2.  Hommage à Rameau
3.  Mouvement
Estampes July 1903 1903
1.  Pagodes
2.  La Soirée dans Grenade
3.  Jardins sous la pluie
L’Isle joyeuse 1903–August 1904 1904
Masques 1903–July 1904 1904
D’un cahier d’esquisses January 1904 1904
Pièce pour piano End 1904 1905
(Morçeau de concours)
Children’s Corner 1906–July 1908 1908
1. Docteur Gradus ad
Parnassum
2.  Jimbo’s Lullaby
3.  Serenade for the Doll
4. The Snow Is Dancing
5. The Little Shepherd
6.  Golliwogg’s Cake Walk
(set was orchestrated by
Caplet in 1908)
Images (2nd Series) October 1907 1908
1.  Cloches à travers les feuilles
2. Et la lune descend sur le
temple qui fut
3.  Poissons d’or
The Little Nigar (Cake-Walk) 1909 1909
Hommage à Haydn 1909 1910
262  •  Appendix B

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Préludes (Book I) December 1909– 1910
February 1910
1.  Danseuses de Delphes
2. Voiles
3.  Le Vent dans la plaine
4.  “Les sons et les parfums
tournent dans l’air du soir”
(Baudelaire)
5.  Les collines d’Anacapri
6.  Des pas sur la neige
7.  Ce qu’a vu le vent d’Ouest
8.  La Fille aux cheveux de lin
9.  La Sérénade interrompue
10.  La Cathédrale engloutie
11.  La Danse de Puck
12.  Minstrels
La plus que lente 1910 1910
(see also Orchestral)
Préludes (Book II) 1911–1912 1913
1.  Brouillards
2.  Feuilles mortes
3.  La Puerta del Vino
4. Les Fées sont d’exquises
danseuses
5.  Bruyères
6.  “Général Lavine” eccentric
7. La Terrasse des audiences
du clair de lune
8.  Ondine
9. Hommage à S. Pickwick
Esq. P.P.M.P.C.
10.  Canope
11.  Les Tierces alternées
12.  Feux d’artifice
 Appendix B  •  263

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Bérceuse héroïque November 1914 1915
(see also Orchestral)
Page d’album June 1915 1933
Douze Etudes July–September 1915 1916
Book I:
1. Pour les “cinq doigts”
d’après M. Czerny
2.  Pour les tierces
3.  Pour les quartes
4.  Pour les sixtes
5.  Pour les octaves
6.  Pour les huit doigts
Book II:
7. Pour les degrés
chromatiques
8.  Pour les agréments
9. Pour les notes répétées
10. Pour les sonorités
opposées
11. Pour les arpèges composés
12.  Pour les accords
Elégie December 1915 1997
Les Soirs illuminés February–March 1917 2003
Four-hands
Symphony in B minor 1880–1881 1933
Andante cantabile Early 1881 2002
Diane, Overture 1881 2002
Le Triomphe de Bacchus Early 1882 2002
Divertissement Summer 1884 2002
Petite Suite 1888–1889 1889
1.  En bateau
2.  Cortège
3.  Menuet
4.  Ballet
264  •  Appendix B

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Suite bergamasque 1890–1905 1905
1.  Prélude
2.  Menuet
3.  Clair de lune
4.  Passepied
Marche écossaise sur un thème populaire 1890 1891
(Marche des anciens comtes de Ross)
(see also Orchestral)
Six Epigraphes antiques July 1914–1915 1915
(uses musical material from
Musique de scène pour les
Chansons de Bilitis;
see Chamber)
Two Pianos, four-hands
Lindaraja April 1901 1926
En Blanc et Noir June–July 1915 1915
Chamber
Piano Trio in G Major September— 1986
October 1880
Intermezzo 1882 1944
(for cello and piano)
Nocturne et scherzo June 1882 Unpublished
(for cello and piano)
String Quartet, op. 10 1892–1893 1894
Musique de scène 1900–1901 1971
(for Chansons de Bilitis)
(for 2 flutes, 2 harps, and celesta;
the celesta part is absent from the
surviving MS)
First Rhapsody for Clarinet December 1909– 1910
January 1910
(with piano accompaniment)
(see also Concerto)
Petite Pièce July 1910 1910
(for clarinet and piano)
 Appendix B  •  265

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Syrinx 1913 1927
(for solo flute)
Sonata for Cello and July–August 1915 1915
Piano
Sonata for Flute,Viola, September–October 1915 1916
and Harp
Sonata for Violin and Piano October 1916–April 1917 1917
Concertos
Fantaisie for piano and 1889–1890 1920
orchestra
Rhapsody for saxophone 1901–1911 1919
and orchestra
(completed by
Roger-Ducasse)
Two Dances (for harp April–May 1904 1904
and strings)
1.  Danse sacrée
2.  Danse profane
First Rhapsody for December 1909–1911 1911
Clarinet
Orchestral
Intermezzo June 1882 2002 (4-hands)
Première Suite d’orchestre January 1883 Unpublished
1.  Fête
2.  Ballet
3.  Rêve
4. Bacchanale (Cortège
et Bacchanale)
Zuleima (G. Boyer 1885 Lost
after Heine)
Printemps February 1887 1904 (4-hands)
(originally for piano, chorus,
and orchestra;
Büsser orchestration: 1913)
Marche écossaise sur 1893–c.1908 1911
un thème populaire
266  •  Appendix B

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
(Marche des anciens
comtes de Ross)
Prélude à l’après-midi d’un 1891–September 1894 1895
faune
Nocturnes 1897–December 1899 1900
1.  Nuages
2.  Fêtes
3. Sirènes
(with female chorus)
La Mer August 1903–March 1905 1905
1. De l’aube à midi
sur la mer
2.  Jeux de vagues
3. Dialogue du
vent et de la mer
La plus que lente 1910 1912
Images for Orchestra
1.  Gigues 1912 1913
2.  Ibéria 1906–1909 1910
a. Par les rues et
les chemins
b. Les parfums
de la nuit
c. Le matin d’un
jour de fête
3.  Rondes de printemps 1905–1909 1910
Berceuse héroïque December 1914 1915
Ballets
Khamma 1911–1912 1912
(orchestrated by Koechlin)
Jeux August 1912–April 1913 1913
La Boïte à joujoux July–October 1913 1913
(orchestrated by Caplet)
Vocal
Solo Songs
Madrid (Musset) End 1879 Unpublished
 Appendix B  •  267

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Nuit d’étoiles (Banville) 1880 1882
Rêverie (Banville) 1880 1984
Caprice (Banville) 1880 1966
Aimons-nous et dormons End 1880 1933
(Banville)
Les Baisers (Banville) Early 1881 Unpublished
Rondel chinois (?) Early 1881 Unpublished
Mélodie (Léon Valade after Early 1881 Unpublished
Heine)
Jane (Leconte de l’Isle) Early 1881 1982
La fille aux cheveux de lin Early 1881 Unpublished
(Leconte de l’Isle)
Fleur des blés (Girod) Early 1881 1891
Rondeau (Musset) Summer 1881 1932
Souhait (Banville) October–November 1984
1881
Triolet à Philis (Zéphir) November 1881 1932
Les Papillons (Gautier) End 1881 2004
L’Archet (Cros) End 1881 Unpublished
[Les Baisers d’amour] End 1881 Unpublished
(Bouchor)
[Chanson triste] (Bouchor) End 1881 Unpublished
Les elfes (Leconte de l’Isle) End 1881 Unpublished
Fantoches (1st version) Jan. 1881 Unpublished
(Verlaine)
Les Roses (Banville) Early 1882 1984
Sérénade (Banville) Early 1882 1984
Pierrot (Banville) Early 1882 1969
Fête galante (Banville) Early 1882 1984
Il dort encore Early 1882 1984
(Hymnis; Banville)
Le lilas (Banville) April 1882 1984
Flots, palmes, sables June 1882 Unpublished
(A. Renaud)
En sourdine (1st version) September 1882 1944
(Verlaine)
268  •  Appendix B

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Mandoline (Verlaine) November 1882 1890
Séguidille (Gautier) End 1882 Unpublished
Clair de lune (1st version) End 1882 1969
(Verlaine)
Pantomime (Verlaine) Early 1883 1969
Coquetterie posthume March 1883 1983
(Gautier)
Romance (Bourget) September 1883 1983
Musique (Bourget) September 1883 1983
Paysage sentimental November 1883 1891
(Bourget)
Romance (Bourget) January 1884 1903
Apparition (Mallarmé) February 1884 1969
La Romance d’Ariel February 1884 1983
(Bourget)
Regret (Bourget) February 1884 1983
Ariettes oubliées (Verlaine) 1903
1.  C’est l’extase langoureuse March 1887
2.  Il pleure dans mon cœur March 1887
3.  L’ombre des arbres January 1885
4. Tournez, tournez January 1885
5. Voici des fruits January 1886
6. Les roses étaient toutes January 1886
rouges
(The set was entitled Ariettes when first published in 1888. The title became Ariettes
oubliées when issued by Fromont in 1903.)
Romance (Bourget) 1885 1891
Les Cloches (Bourget) 1885 1891
Barcarolle (Guinand) c.1885 Unpublished
Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire 1890
1.  Le Balcon January 1888
2.  Harmonie du soir January 1889
3.  Le Jet d’eau March 1889
4.  Recueillement 1889
5.  La Mort des amants December 1887
 Appendix B  •  269

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
La Belle au bois dormant July 1890 1903
(Hypsa)
Beau soir (Bourget) 1890 or 1891 1891
Trois Mélodies (Verlaine) 1891 1901
1. La mer est plus belle
que les cathédrales
2. Le son du cor s’afflige
vers les bois
3. L’échelonnement des
haies moutonne à l’infini
Fêtes galantes (1st set) (Verlaine) 1891–1892 1903
1.  En sourdine (2nd version)
2.  Fantoches (2nd version)
3.  Clair de lune (2nd version)
Les Angélus (G. Le Roy) February 1892 1893
Proses lyriques (Debussy) 1892–July1893 1895
1.  De Rêve
2.  De Grève
3.  De Fleurs
4.  De Soir
Chansons de Bilitis (Louÿs) June 1897–
August 1898
1. La flûte de Pan 1899
2. La Chevelure 1897
3. Le Tombeau des naïades 1899
Berceuse (for solo voice) April 1899 Unpublished
from La Tragédie de la mort
(René Peter)
Nuits blanches (Debussy) May–September 1898 2000
1.  Nuits sans fin
2.  Lorsqu’elle est entrée
Dans le jardin (Gravollet) May 1903 1905
Fêtes galantes (2nd set) 1904 1904
(Verlaine)
1.  Les Ingénus
270  •  Appendix B

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
2.  Le Faune
3.  Colloque sentimental
Trois Chansons de France 1904 1904
(Charles d’Orleans,
Tristan L’Hermite)
1. Rondel
(“Le temps a laissé”)
2.  La Grotte
3. Rondel (“Pour ce
que Plaisance”)
Trois Ballades de François Villon May 1910 1910
1.  Ballade de Villon à s’amye
2. Ballade que Villon fait à la
requeste de sa mère pour prier
Nostre-Dame
3.  Ballade des femmes de Paris
Le Promenoir des deux amants 1910
(Tristan L’Hermite)
1. La Grotte (see Trois 1904
Chansons de France)
2. Crois mon conseil, chère 1910
Climène
3. Je tremble en voyant ton 1910
visage
Trois Poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé Summer 1913 1913
1.  Soupir
2.  Placet futile
3.  Éventail
Noël des enfants qui n’ont plus de November 1915 1915
maison (Debussy)
Duets
Eglogue (Leconte de l’Isle) January 1882 Unpublished
(S, T)
Ode bachique (Hymnis; Summer 1882 Unpublished
Banville)
(S, T, with piano)
 Appendix B  •  271

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
Chanson espagnole (Musset) Early 1883 1983
(for two voices in the same range)
Choral
Chanson des brises (Bouilhet) Early 1882 Unpublished
(for soprano and three female voices)
Le Printemps (de Segur) May 1882 1928; 1956 (orch.)
(for female voices and orchestra)
Invocation (Lamartine) May 1883 1928; 1957 (orch.)
(for male voices and orchestra)
Le Printemps (Barbier) May 1884 Unpublished
(for chorus and orchestra)
Trois Chansons de Charles 1908
d’Orléans
1. Dieu! qu’il la fait bon April 1898
regarder!
2. Quand j’ay ouy le tabourin 1908
3. Yver, vous n’estes qu’un April 1898
villain
Opera, Cantata, and Works for the Stage
Hélène (Leconte de l’Isle) Early 1881 Unpublished
Incomplete.
Daniel (Emile Cicile) Early 1882 Unpublished
(Cantata for three soloists and orchestra)
Diane au bois (Banville) 1883–1885 Unpublished
Incomplete.
Le Gladiateur (E. Moreau) June 1883 Unpublished
L’Enfant prodigue (Guinand) May 1882 1907
(extensively revised in 1907)
La Damoiselle elue (Rossetti; tr. 1887–1888 1903 (revised)
Sarrazin)
Axël (Villiers de l’Isle-Adam) c. 1890 Unpublished
Incomplete.
Rodrigue et Chimène (Mendès) 1890–1893 2003
Incomplete.
Pelléas et Mélisande (Maeterlinck) 1893–1902 1904
272  •  Appendix B

Date of Date of
Composition Publication
The Devil in the Belfry (Poe) 1902–1911 2006
(Le Diable dans le beffroi)
Incomplete.
Incidental Music for King Lear 1904 2006
1.  Fanfare
2.  Le Sommeil de Lear
Incomplete.
The Fall of the House of Usher 1908–1917 2006
(Poe)
(La Chute de la Maison Usher)
Incomplete.
The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian February–May 1911 1911
(mostly orchestrated by Caplet)
 l Appendix c
;

Personalia

Allan, Maud (1873–1956).  Dancer. Raised in San Francisco, Allan was self-taught. She
became famous for free-spirited interpretations of well-known pieces like
Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song.” But her reputation was established by the sexuality of
The Vision of Salomé (with music by Marcel Rémy). In 1910 she approached Debussy
with a commission for Khamma, an exotic ballet set in ancient Egypt. Debussy com-
mitted himself to the project but completed only the piano score.
d’Annunzio, Gabriele (1863–1938).  Novelist, poet, and dramatist. Although d’Annunzio
was the most prominent Italian writer of his generation, the widespread success of his
poetry, novels, short stories, and plays was unable to support his extravagant lifestyle.
In 1910 he left Italy to escape debts. His collaboration with Debussy on The Martyrdom
of St. Sebastian was part of a campaign to establish a new life for himself in France.
After the First World War, d’Annunzio became an ardent nationalist and supporter of
Mussolini.
Bailly, Edmond (1850–1918).  Bookseller, publisher, writer, and amateur composer. Debussy
was a regular visitor to his shop. There he met some of the most famous writers and
artists of the time, many of whom were part of Bailly’s circle. Bailly published in
­luxurious format Debussy’s Blessed Damozel and Five Poems of Baudelaire.
Banville, Théodore (1823–1891).  Poet. Banville’s first works were published in the 1840s and
were much indebted to the poetry of Victor Hugo. In the 1870s he was associated with
the Parnassians, a school of poetry that focused on craft and objectivity, and was
opposed to the sentimentality of Romanticism. While a student, Debussy was strongly
attracted to Banville’s poetry and left unfinished an adaptation of his drama, Diane au
bois (1863).
Baudelaire, Charles (1821–1867).  Poet, critic, translator, and Wagnerian. Baudelaire’s col­
lection of poems, The Flowers of Evil (1857), included taboo sexual content for which
the author was successfully prosecuted for obscenity. His work grew in popularity after
his death and was championed by the Symbolists. Debussy’s settings of Baudelaire’s
poems ­(1887–1889) are among his most chromatic and helped to establish his reputa-
tion as a rising star.

•  273  •
274  •  Appendix C

Büsser, Henri (1872–1973).  Prolific composer and conductor. Büsser was a ­student of
Gounod and Franck, and winner of the Prix de Rome in 1893. He was associated with
Debussy both as conductor (he succeeded André Messager during the first run of
Pelléas et Melisande) and arranger (he orchestrated Debussy’s Printemps and Petite Suite).
In the 1930s and 1940s Büsser was a professor of composition at the Conservatoire. He
was elected to the French Academy of Fine Arts in 1938.
Caplet, André (1878–1925).  Conductor and composer. Winner of the Prix de Rome in
1901, Caplet often served as Debussy’s amanuensis. As a conductor (he led the Boston
Opera from 1910 to 1914), he was in a position to make Debussy’s music better
known. His ability as a composer was particularly valuable to Debussy, both in helping
to complete large-scale works like The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian and in preparing
orchestral versions of others (including La Boïte à joujoux). He shared with Debussy an
interest in Poe and in 1923 wrote an instrumental chamber piece inspired by Poe’s
“Masque of the Red Death”: Conte fantastique d’après Poe.
Chabrier, Emmanuel (1841–1894).  Composer. Obliged until 1880 to earn his living as a
bureaucrat in the Ministry of the Interior, Chabrier is best known today for lively and
spirited pieces like España and the Pièces pittoresques. Debussy admired the unconven-
tionality of his music. But there was also a more “serious” side to Chabrier, best seen
in the opera, Briséïs.This work was left unfinished at his death; Debussy was approached,
but declined to complete it.
Charpentier, Gustave (1860–1956).  Composer. Charpentier was a student of Massenet and
winner of the Prix de Rome in 1887. Unlike Debussy, he soon made a name for him-
self as a composer. His opera, Louise (1900), is an early example of naturalism (it
depicts lower middle-class life in Paris), and was an immediate success. Debussy dis-
liked both the content and musical style and was disturbed that a work so different
from Pelléas et Melisande seemed to set the tone for the age.
Chausson, Ernest (1855–1899).  Composer. Chausson became an important supporter of
Debussy not long after Debussy’s return from Rome. Independently wealthy, he rec-
ognized the young composer’s extraordinary ability and was eager to help. Their
relationship ended abruptly after the fiasco of Debussy’s engagement to Therèse
Roger, who was a friend of Chausson. Chausson died in a freak bicycle accident.
Claudel, Camille (1864–1943).  Sculptor. Sister of the writer, Paul Claudel. Around the age
of twenty, she became associated with Auguste Rodin (1840–1917) as student, lover,
and inspiration. Extraordinarily gifted, she soon established a reputation for her work
on its own merit but began to exhibit bizarre and unpredictable behavior. She was
committed to an asylum for the mentally ill in 1913, and, despite support from the staff
for her release, spent the remainder of her life in confinement.
Dalcroze, Emile (1865–1950).  Swiss music educator. Dalcroze’s method (of which eurhyth-
mics was a part) associated movement with specific musical concepts. Vaslav Nijinsky
adapted Dalcroze’s models for the choreography he created for Debussy’s Jeux, an
approach that Debussy privately attacked. Dalcroze’s concepts continue to be taught
in seminars and workshops around the world.
Diaghilev, Serge (1872–1929).  Impresario. After being associated with theatrical produc-
tions in St. Petersburg, Diaghilev conquered Paris with performances of Russian music
in 1907 and 1908. He created the Ballets Russes and over the years commissioned
music from Stravinsky, Poulenc, Satie, and Ravel, among others. His sole commission
from Debussy was Jeux, one of the composer’s most inventive works.
 Appendix C   •  275

Dukas, Paul (1865–1935).  Composer. Best known today for his tone poem, The Sorcerer’s
Apprentice (1897), Dukas was a perfectionist who composed comparatively little. He
and Debussy knew one another for decades and got along well, but they never became
close. His Ariane et Barbe-bleu (1907) is, along with Debussy’s Pelléas, one of the most
original French operas of the time. Dukas became a professor of composition at the
Conservatoire in 1928.
Fénéon, Félix (1861–1944).  Art critic. Fénéon, a champion of Seurat and neo-Impressionism,
was editor at the Revue blanche where Debussy began his career as a music critic. His
involvement with the anarchist movement led to one of the most celebrated trials of
the time. Fénéon was acquitted of having planted and detonated a bomb at a restaurant
in Paris (as a result of which the Symbolist poet, Laurent Tailhade, had lost the use of
an eye).
Flaubert, Gustave (1821–1880).  Novelist. An impeccable stylist, Flaubert wrote in opposi-
tion to Romantic sentiment. Madame Bovary (1857) is a realistic account of a woman’s
attempt to counter the banality of her life (because of the novel, Flaubert was unsuc-
cessfully tried for obscenity). Flaubert was admired by Marguerite Pelouze and was a
regular guest at her residence, Chenonceaux, where Debussy spent the summer of
1879.
Franck, César (1822–1890).  Belgian composer. A child prodigy, Franck settled in Paris in
the 1830s where he became a student at the Conservatoire. For much of his life he
made his living as an organist and was associated with Sainte-Clotilde Basilica from
1858 until his death. He became professor of organ at the Conservatoire in 1872
where his skill in improvisation and growing reputation as composer attracted young
composers like Debussy. He also taught composition privately. Among his pupils were
Vincent d’Indy, Guillaume Lekeu, and Ernest Chausson.
Gourmont, Rémy de (1858–1915).  Novelist, poet, and critic. Gourmont was the leading
critic for Symbolism and a founder of the Mercure de France. Disfigured by lupus, he
led an increasingly private life. His novel, Sixtine (1890), was both provocative and
highly cerebral, and exemplified many of the tenets of Symbolism.
Ghil, René (1862–1925).  Poet. At first a disciple of Mallarmé, he soon set out on his own,
becoming one of the most distinctive poets of his day. Ghil was fascinated by the
interrelationships among the arts. He developed in his poetry the concept of “verbal
instrumentation” in which timbre and color were associated with particular vowels.
Huysmans, Joris-Karl (1848–1907).  Novelist and critic. Huysmans began as a writer of
fiction associated with the Naturalist school of Zola. But he changed course dramat-
ically with Against the Grain (1884), a novel that documents the bizarre tastes of its
jaded hero. It became one of the best-known works associated with the decadent side
of Symbolism. It was followed by Down There (1891) which focusesd on contemporary
practice of satanism. Huysmans’s later novels explored mysticism and complemented
his move toward acceptance of Catholicism.
d’Indy, Vincent (1851–1931).  Composer, educator. No musician was more influential in
French musical life of his day than d’Indy. He was a prolific composer, active world-
wide as a conductor, and a founder of the Schola Cantorum which, after the
Conservatoire, was the most significant establishment for training musicians in France.
Despite the differences in style and aesthetic in their music, d’Indy and Debussy were
publicly respectful of one another, and d’Indy was a sincere admirer of some of
Debussy’s compositions.
276  •  Appendix C

Lekeu, Guillaume (1870–1894).  Belgian composer. In the late 1880s Lekeu and his family
settled in Paris where he became a student of Franck (whom he idolized). After
Franck’s death he studied for a time with d’Indy. Eugène Ysaÿe became a strong sup-
porter, and it was for him that Lekeu wrote his two most mature works, a violin sonata
and a piano quartet. Like all students of Franck, Lekeu shows influences of Franck’s
style, mostly structural, in his music; at the same time his work displayed extraordinary
mastery for one so young. Lekeu died of typhus, leaving his piano quartet unfinished.
Maeterlinck, Maurice (1862–1949).  Belgian poet, essayist, and dramatist. Maeterlinck was
one of the most influential writers associated with Symbolism. His idealistic essays
(such as those collected in The Treasure of the Humble, 1896) and enigmatic plays (like
Pelléas) attracted wide criticial and popular notice, leading to the Nobel Prize for
Literature in 1911. Musicians were fascinated by Maeterlinck’s dramas, and a large
number of composers wrote music inspired by his work (including, in addition to
Debussy, Schoenberg, Fauré, Loeffler,Vaughan Williams, and Sibelius).
Magnard, Albéric (1865–1914).  Composer. Magnard was independently wealthy and pub-
lished privately many of his compositions, a lifestyle that unfortunately misled some
contemporaries into thinking of him as a gentlemanly, amateur composer. Foremost
among Magnard’s instrumental works are four symphonies that cover the gamut of his
career and are among the most ambitious orchestral compositions of the day. Magnard
died in the opening weeks of the First World War in a suicidal attempt to defend his
home from German troops.
Mallarmé, Stéphane (1842–1898).  Poet. Mallarmé was the leading poet of Symbolism,
famous for his weekly salons (Debussy was an irregular visitor) where many of the
most famous writers and artists of the day met to discuss their art. Debussy came into
contact with Mallarmé’s arcane work early in his career and was profoundly affected
by it.
Mendès, Catulle (1841–1909).  Poet, critic, novelist, and dramatist. Mendès wrote in a variety
of styles for a variety of markets. He started in the 1860s as a poet associated with the
Parnassians. But his passion for the music of Wagner seemed to provide him with a
new sense of direction. The novels that Mendès came to be known for were often
psychological in mood with a focus on sexuality (Zo’Har, 1886; Méphistophéla, 1890).
Debussy’s proposed collaboration with Mendès on the opera, Rodrigue et Chimène, was
a disappointment to them both.
Messager, André (1853–1929).  Composer and conductor. As a conductor Messager was
equally at home in Covent Garden and Paris. Much the same was true of the oper-
ettas he composed. They invariably charmed whether in French or English produc-
tions. But despite several attempts, his “serious” operas never gained an audience. His
association with Debussy was crucial to his success. Messager was among the first to
recognize Pelléas as a masterpiece, and he worked on its behalf at the Opéra-Comique
(where he conducted the first performances).
Monet, Claude (1840–1926).  Artist. Known for his landscapes (including scenes from his
garden) and seascapes, Monet became the best-known artist associated with
Impressionism. Debussy was an admirer of his work and was privately flattered by
comparison to him (not based on similarity of style, Debussy felt, but similarity of
artistic stance and intention).
Moreau, Gustave (1826–1898).  Artist. Moreau was the eldest and most prominent painter
associated with Symbolism. His first success was in 1864 with the enigmatic Oedipus
 Appendix C   •  277

and the Sphinx. Moreau’s painting became increasingly hermetic, culminating in works
like Jupiter and Semele (1895), a jewel-like canvas teeming with symbols. Moreau
bequeathed his art and studio to the state, which continues to administer it as a
museum in Paris.
Nijinsky, Vaslav (1890–1950).  Dancer. Nijinsky was the most gifted male dancer in the
Ballets Russes. He was also the lover of its director, Serge Diaghilev, who did much to
promote Nijinsky’s career until Nijinsky’s marriage in 1913. Nijinsky created the cho-
reography for the Ballets Russes productions of Debussy’s Faune and Jeux, productions
that Debussy felt ill-suited his music.
Pierné, Gabriel (1863–1937).  Conductor, composer. Pierné was a fellow student of Debussy
at the Conservatoire and went on to win acclaim in France. His involvement as con-
ductor with the Concerts Colonne began in 1903 and continued for more than thirty
years. He composed in a wide variety of genres, including orchestral, chamber, and
opera. Pierné was elected to the French Academy of Fine Arts in 1924.
Poe, Edgar (1809–1849).  Writer. Poe’s reputation in the United States has never been as
enthusiastic as the one he has in France. There the full spectrum of his poetry and
tales has been admired, not least because of the wonderful translations of it by Charles
Baudelaire and Stéphane Mallarmé. Debussy was enthralled by Poe’s writing and
spent many years working on operatic adaptations of two short stories (“The Fall of the
House of Usher” and “The Devil in the Belfry”), but left both unfinished at his
death.
Rameau, Jean-Philippe (1683–1764).  Composer, music theorist. Rameau came from a
musical family, and until the early 1720s he made his living primarily as an organist.
Theoretical publications (1722, 1726), both learned and practical, helped to broaden
his reputation. But his fame came to rest on a series of operas and ballets (including
Hippolyte et Aricie and Castor et Pollux) composed during the 1730s and received to
acclaim. Rameau remained little more than a relic of the past until a revival of interest
in his work during the 1890s, with Vincent d’Indy as one of its leaders. At that time
several of Rameau’s operas were performed, and a complete edition of his composi-
tions was initiated. Debussy became one of Rameau’s most outspoken champions,
hailing him as an ideal of French genius.
Ravel, Maurice (1875–1937).  Composer. Like Debussy, Ravel was a student who found the
academicism at the Conservatoire to be stifling. His repeated failure to win the Prix
de Rome became scandalous. Ravel’s international reputation took off after the end of
the First World War. That was particularly the case in the United States and the
United Kingdom, where his music found an enthusiastic public, and where com-
posers as diverse as Gershwin and Vaughan Williams were admirers of it. Ravel’s music
has often been coupled with Debussy’s, but while there is superficial similarity in
sound, their style and structure differ considerably.
Redon, Odilon (1840–1916).  Artist. Redon’s reputation was made with imaginative series of
lithographs, one of which was inspired by Poe, and all of which focused on the bizarre.
During the 1890s Redon turned to oils and pastels, producing a series of still lifes,
portraits, and mythological subjects of astonishingly vibrant color. Redon was also a
gifted amateur musician and admirer of Debussy’s music.
Régnier, Henri de (1864–1936).  Poet, novelist. A patrician and influential disciple of
Mallarmé, Régnier made his debut as a poet in 1889. He later (primarily in the first
decade of the twentieth century) published short stories and novels. Régnier’s work,
278  •  Appendix C

while distinctive, is indebted to a classical tradition and owes little stylistically to

Mallarmé. He was a good friend of Debussy in the 1890s, and helped him gain per-
mission to set Maeterlinck’s Pelléas et Mélisande to music. Régnier was elected to the
French Academy in 1911.
Satie, Erik (1866–1925).  Composer. Satie was one of the most unconventional and inven-
tive composers of his generation. His dry and lively wit plays an important part in his
music, whether in the form of  “incorrect” harmonic progressions or unexpected text
published in the score to complement the music. Satie and Debussy were extraordi-
narily close, a friendship that ­survived all trials over nearly three decades.
Verlaine, Paul (1844–1896).  Poet. Verlaine’s first poetry appeared in the 1860s and showed
many of the stylistic characteristics of the Parnassians. His later works (such as Jadis et
naguère [1884]) were championed by the Symbolists. Debussy was the first composer
to recognize Verlaine’s unique poetic sensibility and create comparable music for it.
Vidal, Paul (1863–1931).  Composer, teacher. Vidal was a fellow student of Debussy at the
Conservatoire and winner of the Prix de Rome in 1883. In addition to writing music,
he worked as a conductor at the Opéra and Opéra-Comique in the 1890s and early
1900s. He eventually became a professor of composition at the Conservatoire.
Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Auguste de (1838–1889). Writer. Villiers was a brilliant but eccen-
tric writer who developed a strong following among the Symbolists. His focus was
the bizarre and unusual (Contes cruels, 1883). Villiers worked off and on for the final
two decades of his life on Axël, an occult drama with Wagnerian overtones that
Debussy considered setting to msic.
 Select Bibliography

Correspondence and Writings

Avec Stravinsky. Monaco: Editions du Rocher, 1958.
Debussy, Claude. Correspondance (1872–1918). Edited by François Lesure and Denis Herlin.
Annotated by François Lesure, Denis Herlin, and Georges Liébert. Paris: Gallimard,
2005.
Debussy, Claude. Debussy Letters. Edited by François Lesure and Roger Nichols. Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.
Debussy, Claude. Lettres de Claude Debussy à sa femme, Emma. Edited by Pasteur Vallery-Radot.
Paris: Flammarion, 1957.
Debussy, Claude. Debussy on Music. Edited by Richard Langham Smith. Ithaca, NY: Cornell
University Press, 1988.
Debussy, Claude. Monsieur Croche et autres écrits. Edited by François Lesure. Paris: Gallimard,
1987.
Joly-Segalen,  Annie and André Schaeffner, eds. Segalen et Debussy. Monaco: Editions du
Rocher, 1961.
Prunières, Henri. “A la Villa Médicis.” La Revue Musicale 7 (May 1926), pp. 23–42.
Timbrell, Charles. “Claude Debussy and Walter Rummel: Chronicle of a Friendship, with
New Correspondance.” Music & Letters 73 (1992), pp. 399–406.
Tosi, Guy, ed. Claude Debussy et Gabriele d’Annunzio. Correspondance inédite. Paris: Denoël,
1948.
Toulet, P.-J. Correspondance de Claude Debussy et P.-J.Toulet. Paris: Le Divan, 1929.

Reminiscences
Bathori, Jane. “Les Musiciens que j’ai connus. II Debussy.” Recorded Sound (Spring 1962),
pp. 174–180.
Bonheur, Raymond. “Souvenirs et impressions d’un compagnon de jeunesse.” La Revue
Musicale 7 (May 1926), pp. 3–5.
Koechlin, Charles. “Souvenirs sur Debussy.” Cahiers Debussy 7 (1983), pp. 3–6.
Koechlin, Charles. “Souvenirs sur Debussy, la Schola et la S.M.I.” Revue Musicale 15 (1934),
pp. 241–251.
Mourey, Gabriel. “Souvenirs sur Debussy.” Cahiers Debussy 15 (1991), pp. 55–58.
Nichols, Roger, ed. Debussy Remembered. Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1992.
Peter, René. Claude Debussy. Paris: Gallimard, 1931.
Pierné, Gabriel. “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy.” La Revue Musicale 7 (May, 1926), pp. 10–11.
Régnier, Henri de. “Souvenirs sur Debussy.” La Revue Musicale 7 (May, 1926), pp. 89–91.
Romilly, Mme Gérard de. “Debussy professeur, par une de ses élèves (1898–1908).” Cahiers
Debussy 2 (1978), pp. 3–10.

•  279  •
280  •  Select Bibliography

Vasnier, Marguerite. “Debussy à dix-huit ans.” La Revue Musicale 7 (May 1926), pp. 17–22.
Vidal, Paul. “Souvenirs d’Achille Debussy.” La Revue Musicale 7 (May 1926), pp. 12–16.

Books: Debussy, Debussy’s Music

Abravanel, Claude. Claude Debussy, a Bibliography. Detroit: Information Coordinators, 1974.
Almendra, Julia d’. Les Modes grégoriens dans l’oeuvre de Claude Debussy. Paris: G. Enault, 1948.
Barraqué, Jean. Debussy. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1994.
Boulez, Pierre. Orientations. Collected Writings. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1986.
Boulez, Pierre. Relevés d’apprenti. Paris: Editions du Deuil, 1966.
Briscoe, James R. Claude Debussy: A Guide to Research. New York: Garland, 1990.
Briscoe, James R., ed. Debussy in Performance. New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1999.
Brown, Matthew. Debussy’s Ibéria. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.
Chennevière, Daniel. Claude Debussy et son oeuvre. Paris: Durand et fils, 1913.
Cogeval, Guy and François Lesure, eds. Debussy e il simbolismo. Rome: Fratelli Palombi,
1984.
Daly, William H. Debussy. A Study in Modern Music. Edinburgh: Methuen Simpson, 1908.
Dietschy, Marcel. A Portrait of Claude Debussy. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994.
Emmanuel, Maurice. Pelléas et Mélisande de Debussy. Paris: Mellottée, 1950.
Fulcher, Jane, ed. Debussy and His World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001.
Gilman, Lawrence. Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande. A Guide to the Opera. New York: Schirmer,
1907.
Grayson, David A. The Genesis of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande. Ann Arbor: UMI Research
Press, 1986.
Holloway, Robin. Debussy and Wagner. London: Eulenburg Books, 1979.
Howat, Roy. Debussy in Proportion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983.
Ingelbrecht, Germaine and D. E. Claude Debussy. Paris: Costard, 1953.
Jankelevitch,Vladimir. Debussy et le mystère de l’instant. Paris: Plon, 1976.
Jarocinski, Stefan. Debussy. Impressionisme et symbolisme. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1970.
Laloy, Louis. Claude Debussy. Paris: Les Bibliophiles Fantaisistes, 1909.
Lesure, François. Catalogue de l’oeuvre de Claude Debussy. Paris: Fayard, 2003. See also the
online list provided by the Centre du Documentation Claude Debussy: http://www.
debussy.fr/cdfr/centre/centre.php.
Lesure, François. Claude Debussy. Paris: Klincksieck, 1994. (Republished by Fayard in 2003
with a revised list of works.)
Lesure, François. Claude Debussy avant Pelléas, ou les années symbolistes. Paris: Klincksieck,
1992.
Lesure, François. Debussy (Iconographie musicale). Geneva: Minkoff, 1980.
Liebich, Mrs. Franz. Claude-Achille Debussy. London: John Lane, 1908.
Lockspeiser, Edward, ed. Debussy et Edgar Poe. Documents inédits. Monaco: Editions du Rocher,
1961.
Lockspeiser, Edward. Debussy: His Life and Mind. 2 vols. London: Cassell, 1962, 1965.
Nichols, Roger. Debussy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973.
Nichols, Roger. The Life of Debussy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
Nichols, Roger and Richard Langham Smith. Claude Debussy. Pelléas et Mélisande. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1989.
 Select Bibliography   •  281

Orledge, Robert. Debussy and the Theatre. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982.
Parks, Richard S. The Music of Claude Debussy. New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1989.
Roberts, Paul. Images: The Piano Music of Claude Debussy. Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press,
1996.
Smith, Richard Langham, ed. Debussy Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1997.
Thompson, Oscar. Debussy: Man and Artist. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1937.
Trezise, Simon. Debussy. La Mer. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994.
Trezise, Simon, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Debussy. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2003.
Trillig, Johannes. Untersuchungen zur Rezeption Claude Debussys in der zeitgenössichen
Musikkritik. Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1983.
Vallas, Léon. Achille-Claude Debussy. Paris: PUF, 1949.
Vallas, Léon. Claude Debussy et son temps. Paris: Albin Michel, 1958.
Vallas, Léon. Claude Debussy. His Life and Works. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1933.
Vallas, Léon. The Theories of Claude Debussy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929.
Weber, Edith, ed. Debussy et l’évolution de la musique au XXe siècle. Paris: Editions du Centre
National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1965.
Wenk, Arthur B. Claude Debussy and the Poets. Berkeley: University of California Press,
1976.
Wenk, Arthur B. Claude Debussy and Twentieth-Century Music. Boston: Twayne, 1983.
Zenck-Maurer, Claudia. Versuch über die wahre Art, Debussy zu analysieren. Munich: Emil
Katzbichler, 1974.

Books Related to Debussy

Literature, the Visual Arts, Cultural History

Aranjo, Daniel. Paul-Jean Toulet (1867–1920). La vie—l’oeuvre. 2 vols. Pau: Marrimpouey Jeune,
1980.
Becker, Jean-Jacques. The Great War and the French People. Providence, RI: Berg, 1993.
Bernier, Georges. La Revue blanche. Paris: Editions Hazan, 1991.
Bertrand, Adrien. Catulle Mendès. Paris: Sansot, 1908.
Billy, André. L’Epoque 1900. Paris: Tallandier, 1900.
Bulteau, Michel. Présence de Paul-Jean Toulet. Paris: La Table Ronde, 1985.
Chaix, Marie-Antoinette. La Correspondance des arts dans la poésie contemporaine. Paris: Alcan, 1919.
Chastenet, Jacques. Histoire de la Troisième République. Jours inquiéts et jours sanglants (1906–
1918). Paris: Hachette, 1955.
Chastenet, Jacques. Histoire de la Troisième République. La République des Républicains (1879–
1893). Paris: Hachette, 1954.
Chastenet, Jacques. Histoire de la Troisième République. La République triomphante (1893–1906).
Paris: Hachette, 1955.
Clive, H. P. Pierre Louÿs (1870–1925): A Biography. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978.
Cornell, Kenneth. The Symbolist Movement. New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1951.
D’Anthonay, Thibaut. Jean Lorrain. Paris: Plon, 1991.
Dantzig, Charles. Rémy du Gourmont. Paris: Editions du Rocher, 1990.
Da Silva, Jean. Le Salon de la Rose+Croix (1892–1897). Paris: Syros Alternatives, 1991.
282  •  Select Bibliography

Daudet, Léon. Souvenirs littéraires. Paris: Grasset, 1968.

Deak, Frantisek. Symbolist Theater. The Formation of an Avant-Garde. Baltimore, MD: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1993.
Delevoye, Robert. Symbolists and Symbolism. Geneva: Skira, 1982.
Druick, Douglas, ed. Odilon Redon. Prince of Dreams, 1840–1916. Chicago: Art Institute of
Chicago, 1994.
Dumas, Véronique. Le Peintre Symboliste: Alphonse Osbert (1857–1939). Paris: CNRS Editions,
2005.
Fauser, Annegret. Musical Encounters at the 1889 Paris World’s Fair. Rochester, NY: University
of Rochester Press, 2005.
Gaubert, Ernest. Rachilde. Paris: E. Sansot, 1907.
Ghil, René. De la poésie scientifique. Paris: Messein, 1909.
Goldwater, Robert. Symbolism. New York: Harper & Row, 1979.
Goujon, Jean-Paul. Pierre Louÿs, une vie secrète (1870–1925). Paris: Seghers, 1988.
Gourmont, Rémy de. The Book of Masks. Translated by Jack Lewis. Boston: John W. Luce,
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Bertrand, Anne. “Debussy et Jacques-Emile Blanche.” Cahiers Debussy 17/18 (1993–1994),
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Bleau, Alexandre. “Chemins de Mallarmé. Un état de la question.” Cahiers Debussy 32 (2008),
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Branger, Jean-Christophe. “Une oeuvre de jeunesse inédite de Debussy: la Première Suite
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Briscoe, James R.“Debussy d’après Debussy:The Further Resonance of Two Early Mélodies.”
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Briscoe, James R. “Debussy, Franck, and the ‘Ideas of Sacrifice.’ ” Revue Belge de Musicologie
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Chimènes, Myriam. “La Chimie musicale de Khamma.” Cahiers Debussy 12/13 (1988–1989),
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Chimènes, Myriam. “Les Vicissitudes de Khamma.” Cahiers Debussy 2 (1978), pp. 11–29.
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Christoforidis, Michael. “De la composition d’un opéra: conseils de Claude Debussy à
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Clevenger, John R. “Achille at the Conservatoire (1872–1884).” Cahiers Debussy 19 (1995),
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Clevenger, John R. “Debussy’s First ‘Masterpiece.’ Le Gladiateur.” Cahiers Debussy 23 (1999),
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Cobb, Margaret G. “Au Temps de La Demoiselle élue.” Cahiers Debussy 12/13 (1988–1989),
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Cobb, Margaret G. “Debussy and Le Roman de Rosette.” Cahiers Debussy 22 (1998), pp.
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Cobb, Margaret G. “The Several Versions of “Trois Mélodies de Claude Debussy.” Cahiers
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Dal Molin, Paolo and Jean-Louis Leleu. “Comment composait Debussy: les leçons d’un
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Davidian,Teresa. “Debussy, d’Indy, and the Société Nationale.” Journal of Musicological Research
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Davidian, Teresa. “Debussy’s Fantaisie: Issues, Proofs and Revisions.” Cahiers Debussy 17/18
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Delage, Roger. “Debussy et Chabrier.” Cahiers Debussy 17/18 (1993–1994), pp. 57–64.
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Goldman, David Paul. “Esotericism as a Determinant of Debussy’s Harmonic Language.”

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Grayson, David. “Bilitis and Tanagra: Afternoons with Nude Women.” In Debussy and His
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Herlin, Denis. “Le Dédale des corrections dans ‘Sirènes.’ ” Cahiers Debussy 12/13 (1988–1989),
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Hirsbrunner,Theo.“Zu Debussys und Ravels Mallarmé-Vertonungen.” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft
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Howat, Roy.“Debussy et les musiques de l’Inde.” Cahiers Debussy 12/13 (1988–1989). pp. 141–152.
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Jensen, Eric F. “Towards a Symbolist Aesthetic in Music: The Work of Guillaume Lekeu.”
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Jensen, Eric F. “Satie and the Gymnopédie.” Music & Letters 75 (1994), pp. 236–240.
Jensen, Eric F. “Sound as Symbol: Fin de Siècle Perceptions of the Orchestra.” Music Review
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Jordan, Stephanie. “Debussy, the Dance, and the Faune.” In Debussy in Performance, edited by
James R. Briscoe. New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1999, pp. 119–134.
Kasaba, Eiko. “Le Martyre de Saint Sébastien. Etude sur sa genèse.” Cahiers Debussy 4/5 (1980–
1981), pp. 19–37.
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57–78.
Koechlin, Charles. “Pelléas et Mélisande, étude inédite présentée et établie par Aude Chaillet.”
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Lado-Bordowsky, Yves A. “L’Archet. Un Croquis musical de Debussy.” Cahiers Debussy
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Lado-Bordowsky, Yves A. “La Chronologie des oeuvres de jeunesse de Claude Debussy
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Laloy, Louis. “Claude Debussy et le Debussyisme.” Société Internationale de Musique 6 (1910),
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Lesure, François. “Crime d’amour ou Fêtes galantes. Un Projet verlainien de Debussy.” Cahiers
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Lesure, François. “Debussy et le Chat Noir.” Cahiers Debussy 23 (1999), pp. 35–43.
Lesure, François. “Debussy et le syndrome de Grenade.” Revue de Musicologie 68 (1982),
pp. 101–109.
Lesure, François.“Debussy, le Symbolisme, et les arts plastiques.” Cahiers Debussy 8 (1984), pp. 3–12.
Lesure, François. “La Longue Attente de Pelléas (1895–1898).” Cahiers Debussy 15 (1991),
pp. 3–12.
Lesure, François. “Raymond Bonheur: Un ermite, ami de Debussy.” Cahiers Debussy 17/18
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Malvano, Andrea Stefano. “Claude Debussy à l’Exposition internationale de Turin en 1911.”
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Martins, José Eduardo. “Les trois dernières lettres connues de Chouchou Debussy.” Cahiers
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McFarland, Mark. “Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into Their Musical Relationship.”
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Mouton, Henri. “Les Rapports d’Indy—Debussy,” Schweizerische Musikzeitung 113 (1973),

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Mueller, Richard. “Javanese Influence on Debussy’s Fantaisie and Beyond.” 19th-Century
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Nadeau, Roland. “Brouillards: A Tonal Music.” Cahiers Debussy 4/5 (1980–1981), pp. 38–50.
Nectoux, Jean-Michel. “Debussy et Fauré.” Cahiers Debussy 3 (1979), pp. 13–30.
Nectoux, Jean-Michel. “Debussy et Mallarmé.” Cahiers Debussy 12/13 (1988–1989), pp.
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Nichols, Roger. “Debussy’s Two Settings of ‘Clair de lune.’ ” Music & Letters 48 (1967),
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Nichols, Roger. “The Reception of Debussy’s Music in Britain Up to 1914.” In Debussy
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Orledge, Robert. “Another Look Inside Debussy’s ‘Toybox.’ ” Musical Times 117 (1976),
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Orledge, Robert. “Debussy’s Musical Gifts to Emma Bardac.” Musical Quarterly 60 (1974),
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Orledge, Robert. “Debussy’s Orchestral Collaborations, 1911–13. 2. Khamma,” Musical Times
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Orledge, Robert. “Debussy’s Piano Music.” Musical Times 122 (1981), pp. 21–27.
Pasler, Jann. “Debussy’s Jeux: Playing with Time and Form.” 19th-Century Music 6 (1982),
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Pasler, Jann. “Pelléas and Power: Forces behind the Reception of Debussy’s Opera.” 19th-
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Rauss, Denis-François. “ ‘Ce terrible finale’: les sources manuscrites de la sonate pour violon et
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Smith, Richard Langham. “La Genèse de La Damoiselle élue.” Cahiers Debussy 4/5 (1980–1981), pp.
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Smith, Richard Langham. “ ‘La Jeunesse du Cid’: A Mislaid Act in Rodrigue et Chimène.”
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Smith, Richard Langham. “Rodrigue et Chimène. Genèse, histoire, problèmes d’édition.”
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Spencer, Williametha. “The Relationship between André Caplet and Claude Debussy.”
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 Index

Alkan, Charles-Valentin, 10, 238 Bonheur, Raymond, 40, 55

Allan, Maud, 99–100, 102, 107, 108, 111, 224, 225 Bonnard, Pierre, 244
Allende-Blin, Juan, 193 Bordes, Charles, 146
Andersen, Hans Christian, 218 Borodin, Alexander, 42, 43, 107
d’Annunzio, Gabriele, 101–04, 108, 224 Botticelli, Sandro, 34, 44
Antoine, André, 223 Boulez, Pierre, 195
Arosa, Achille, 5 Bourget, Paul, 27, 32, 136, 137
Art nouveau, 46, 147, 157 Boyer, Georges, 34
Auer, Léopold, 245 Brahms, Johannes, 132, 245
Brayer, Jules de, 40, 55
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 8, 26, 30, 44, 58, 113, 250 Bréville, Pierre de, 71
Bacon, Francis, 130 Bruneau, Alfred, 71, 164
Bailly, Edmond, 40–41, 51, 158, 199 Burgundy, 3, 4, 72, 76, 78, 81, 94, 196
Bakst, Léon, 103, 107 Busoni, Ferruccio, 79, 99, 100
Balakirev, Mily, 43 Büsser, Henri, 35, 75, 92, 141, 149, 235
Ballets Russes, 102, 107, 108, 223, 227, 234
Balzac, Honoré de, 120, 191 Caine, Hall, 236
Banville, Théodore de, 25, 133–34, 137, 138, Cannes, 5, 7, 198
145, 180 Caplet, André, 47, 88, 92, 93, 103, 105, 111, 139,
Bardac, Raoul, 72, 81, 113, 118 224, 234, 235, 251
Baron, Emile, 33, 34, 141 Carnegie, Andrew, 51
Barrie, J. M., 218 Carraud, Gaston, 70
Bartók, Béla, 200, 213 Carré, Albert, 67, 69, 72
Baschet, Marcel, 34 Carrier-Belleuse, Octavie, 215
Bathori, Jane, 163 Casella, Alfredo, 212
Baudelaire, Charles, 44, 46, 73, 84, 133, 152, 191 Castillon, Alexis de, 131
Bayreuth, 24, 43, 152 Castro, Guilhem de, 47
Bazille, August, 14–15, 18 Cerutti, Jean, 7
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 9, 12, 18, 30, 145, 179, Chabrier, Emmanuel, 30, 32, 43, 47, 79, 104, 148,
244, 246, 247, 249, 250, 253 177, 190
Belgium, 56–57, 61, 63, 81, 88, 110, 171, 113, 208, Chaikovsky, Peter, 16, 17, 42, 43, 132, 245
214, 236 Chaminade, Cécile, 207
Bellaigue, Camille, 10 Charpentier, Gustave, 50, 69, 73, 80, 184
Berger, Rodolphe, 207 Le Chat noir, 41
Berlioz, Hector, 22, 133, 143, 230 Chausson, Ernest, 34, 38, 40, 42, 43, 47, 53–56,
Bernhardt, Sarah, 101 59–61, 63, 119, 153, 163, 172, 174, 175,
Bizet, Georges, 10, 20, 185 177, 190, 199
Blanche, Jacques-Emile, 31, 58, 68, 83, 212 Chevillard, Camille, 69, 72, 76, 97, 104
Blois, Jules, 156 Chopin, Frédéric, 7–8, 11, 18, 19, 113, 238, 248
Böcklin, Arnold, 250 Cicile, Emile, 139
Bonaparte, Napoleon, 12, 29, 38 Claudel, Camille, 50

•  291  •
292  •  Index

Colette, 243, 244 As You Like It, 77, 117, 191, 223
Colonne, Edouard, 38, 62, 69, 76, 79, 97, 108, Axël, 156
109, 208 Ballade slave, 76, 148
Commedia dell’arte, 40, 108, 137, 239 “La belle au bois dormant,” 211
La Concordia, 26, 32, 78 Berceuse héroïque, 113, 236, 237
Conservatoire, Paris, 8–9, 30, 32, 37, 39, 41, 44, 54, Bilitis, incidental music, 71, 111, 175, 235–36
78, 88–89, 93, 120, 131, 134, 145, 146, La Boïte à joujoux, 111, 234, 235
163, 208, 245, 247 Chansons de Bilitis, 65, 70, 163, 175, 208, 236
Cor, Raphaël, 90 Le Chevalier d’or, 176
Corneau, Alfred, 244 Children’s Corner, 93, 106, 121, 210, 215–17,
Corneille, Pierre, 47 231, 235, 238
Crane, Walter, 236 Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire, 41, 43, 46, 47, 49,
Croche, Monsieur, 72, 245–46, 247, 253 50, 51, 76, 92, 128, 141, 144, 147, 152,
Cros, Charles, 40 153, 155, 217, 238
“Clair de lune” (for piano), 148–49
Dalcroze, Jacques, 112 “Clair de lune” (for voice and piano), 130,
Debussy, Adèle, 4, 6 135, 150
Debussy, Alfred, 7, 157 “Crimen amoris,” 223, 235
Debussy, Chouchou, 95, 104, 106–07, 111, 112, 115, La Damoiselle élue, 41, 45, 50, 51, 53, 59, 61,
118, 215, 218, 235 64, 70, 76, 78, 79, 97, 148, 156–58
Debussy, Claude-Alexandre, 3 “Daniel,” 139
Debussy, Claude (Achille-Claude) Danse bohémienne, 17, 18, 132
Ancestry, 3 Daphnis et Chloë, 64, 175
And arabesque, 42, 146–47, 148, 164, 165, 167, Deux Arabesques, 45, 46, 148
171, 201, 207, 209, 218, 235, 246, 252 Deux Danses for Harp, 81, 208–09
And Bach, 147, 201, 221, 246, 252–53 The Devil in the Belfry, 79, 81, 93, 107, 117,
And music of the Renaissance, 31–32, 146 191–94, 207, 239
And Russian music, 42–43, 53, 249 Diane au bois, 25, 138
Arts as inspiration for his music, 25, 52, 119–29, “Diane Overture,” 138
134–35 Elégie, 236
As an Impressionist, 121–25, 127, 129, 196 L’Embarquement pour ailleurs, 156
As conductor, 97–98, 104, 105, 108–09, 110, En blanc et noir, 114, 117, 128, 237
149, 167, 242 L’Enfant prodigue, 6, 27–28, 35, 38, 92, 93,
As music critic, 71–72, 77, 108, 242–53 139–40, 158
As pianist, 11, 12–13, 211–12 “En sourdine,” 135, 150
As piano teacher, 20, 21, 39, 62 Epigraphes antiques, 111, 175, 235–36
Early childhood, 4–8 Estampes, 78, 79, 81, 89, 179, 200, 207, 210,
Early family relationships, 3, 4, 6 211, 212, 213
Final illness, 115–18 Etudes, 114, 116, 117, 237–38
Gardening, 94, 114 The Fall of the House of Usher, 93, 107, 117,
Gypsy music, 17, 42, 146, 162, 241 193–94
Improvisation, 16, 22, 46, 113, 124–25, 165, 169, Fantaisie for piano and orchestra, 45, 47, 141,
198, 210, 211, 214, 230, 235 144, 147, 158–59, 172, 174, 175
Interest in the arts, 9, 12, 30, 31, 33, 34, 40, 77, “Fantoches,” 135, 150
119–29, 250 “Fête galante” (Banville), 24
Modality, use of, 135, 144, 150, 155, 164–66, 175, “Fêtes galantes, I”, 135, 150, 209
190, 201, 209, 210, 213, 217, 218 “Fêtes galantes, II,” 95, 209
Musical compositions and projects “La Fille au cheveux de lin” for piano, 217
Aphrodite, 64–65, 175 “La Fille au cheveux de lin” (Leconte
“Apparition,” 27, 137–38 de l’Isle), 217
Ariettes oubliées, 45, 46, 50, 148, 150–51, 152 “Fleur des blés,” 134
 Index  •  293

“Le Gladiateur,” 25–26, 139 And contemporary opera, 190–91

Hélène, 28, 138 Composition of, 183–84
Hommage à Haydn, 208 Contemporary criticism, 185–86
“Hymnis,” 138 Musical style, 186–90
“Intermezzo,” 132 Original staging, 182–83
Images (Orchestra), 78, 92, 93, 104, 108, 110, Rehearsals, 184
125, 206, 207, 211, 219–22, 230 Text, 181–82
Images (Piano), 78, 93, 110, 122, 129, 210, Petite Pièce for Clarinet, 208
213–14, 251 Petite Suite, 46, 92, 104, 14, 149
Images oubliées, 61, 211 Piano Trio, 17, 131–32
“Invocation,” 139 La Plus que lente, 221
L’Isle-Joyeuse, 88, 211, 214, 215 Pour le piano, 71, 73, 210–11
Jeux, 108, 109, 110, 111–12, 129, 166–67, Préludes for piano, 93, 110, 111, 112, 210, 217–19
227–34 Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, 49, 52,
Khamma, 99–101, 107, 110, 111, 224–25, 231 61–62, 76, 78, 79, 88, 90, 97, 104, 108,
King Lear, 81, 223–24 109, 110, 111, 127, 128, 164, 167–72, 183,
Lindaraja, 71, 206–07, 218 200, 227, 234
“The Little Nigar,” 215, 235 Première Suite d’orchestre, 24, 138
“Mandoline,” 25, 40, 135–36 “Le Printemps,” 139
Marche ecossaise, 110, 149, 183 Printemps, 34–35, 141, 235
The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, 101–04, Le Promenoir des deux amants, 209, 210
107, 108, 224 Proses lyriques, 46, 50, 55, 59, 61, 65, 104, 112,
Masques, 88, 211, 214 120, 154–55, 176
Masques et bergamasques, 108, 223, 227 Psyché, 111, 235
Mazurka, 76, 147, 148 Rêverie (piano), 148, 260
La Mer, 79, 81, 88, 90, 93, 95, 97, 104, 109, Rhapsody for Clarinet, 93, 208
110, 125, 172, 196–206, 214, 219, 220, Rhapsody for Saxophone, 78, 206–07
221, 225, 227, 230, 239 Rodrigue et Chimène, 47–48, 49, 52,
Morçeau de concours, 192, 207 158–60, 180
Les Noces de Satan, 156 Le Roi des Aulnes (Cendrelune), 64, 175
Nocturne et scherzo, 24, 132 “Romance,” 136
Nocturne, 148 “Rondel chinois,” 134
Nocturnes, 61, 65, 69, 70, 71, 72, 78, 79, 89, 90, “Les Roses,” 24
97, 104, 109, 110, 122, 123, 129, 167, “Salut printemps,” 139
176–79, 196, 197, 200, 206, 212, 219–20 La Saulaie, 64, 175
“Noël des enfants qui n’ont plus de Scènes au Crépuscule, 176
maison,” 113–14, 236–37 “Siddhartha,” 92, 223
“Nuit d’étoiles,” 133 “Les soirs illumines,” 238
Nuits blanches, 65, 120, 176 Sonata for Cello, 114, 117, 129, 239
Ode à la France, 114, 117, 236 Sonata for Flute,Viola, and Harp, 114, 117,
Oedipe à Colonne, 64, 175 129, 241
Orpheus, 92, 93, 110, 191, 223, 251 Sonata for V   iolin, 117, 129, 241
Page d’album, 236 Sonata for V   iolin, projected, 176
“La Palais du silence,” 235 Sonatas, projected, 114, 238–39
“Pantomime,” 137 String Quartet, 55, 56, 58, 61, 78, 88, 89,
Pelléas et Mélisande, 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61, 172–75, 183
63–64, 65, 66, 67, 69, 72, 73–77, 78, 79, String Quartet, projected, 176
88, 89, 90, 93, 94, 96, 99, 105, 127, 128, Suite bergamasque, 148, 149, 214
138, 142, 155, 156, 160, 177, 193, 194, Symphony, 17, 18, 132, 172
196, 198, 207, 211, 224, 225, 226, Syrinx, 111, 234, 235
243, 244 Tarentelle styrienne, 45, 46, 69, 148, 150
294  •  Index

Debussy, Claude (Achille-Claude) (continued) Elgar, Edward, 236

Le Triomphe de Bacchus, 138 Emmanuel, Maurice, 26, 144, 189
Tristan, 93, 193, 223 England, 4, 64, 75, 76, 77, 83, 88, 90, 94, 97, 100,
Trois Ballades de François Villon, 93, 209, 210 110, 117, 157, 235, 236
Trois Chansons de Charles d’Orléans, 128, Erlanger, Camille, 47, 65
209, 210 Ernst, Alfred, 244
Trois Chansons de France, 81, 209–10
Trois Mélodies (Verlaine), 150 Falla, Manuel de, 92, 186
Trois Poèmes de Mallarmé, 111, 234–35 Fauré, Gabriel, 26, 39, 59, 64, 75, 81, 88, 135, 148,
D’un cahier d’esquisses, 79, 166, 211, 214 208, 225, 244, 249
Les Uns et les autres, 176 Favart, Charles-Simon, 217
Valse romantique, 45, 46, 76, 147, 148 Fénéon, Félix, 48, 244
Vasnier songs, 24, 26–27, 29, 134–35 Février, Henry, 102, 190
Zuleima, 34, 47, 138, 141 Le Figaro, 51, 74, 75, 85, 88, 208, 243
Non-musical education, 9 Flaubert, Gustave, 13, 44, 138
On harmony, 16, 44, 95, 146, 165 Fokine, Michel, 107, 108
Orchestration, 61, 65, 124, 141, 143, 149, 158, Fontaine family, 62, 209
159, 162, 167, 169–70, 176, 178, 187, 206, Forain, Jean-Louis, 176
209, 221, 225, 230–31, 247 France, Anatole, 236
Physical appearance, 11 Franck, César, 21–22, 28, 38, 39, 54, 58, 133, 158,
Ragtime, use of, 215–16, 218–19 167, 172, 199, 201, 203, 239
Debussy, Emma, 81–86, 93, 94, 95, 96, 104, 104–07, Franco-Prussian War, 4, 37, 113, 131
109, 113, 115, 116, 117, 196, 214, 236 Fuller, Loïe, 99, 217
Debussy, Lilly, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 75, 76, 78,
81–87, 92, 93, 94, 95, 105, 117 Gaillard, Marius-François, 236
Debussy, Manuel-Achille, 3, 4, 6–7, 9, 11 Gamelan, 42, 43, 158, 212, 235
Debussy,Victorine, 4, 6, 9, 27 Garden, Mary, 73, 75, 76, 184
Decadent style, 33, 37, 80, 101, 150, 158, 164 Gasquet, Joachim, 223
Degas, Edgar, 54, 121 Gauguin, Paul, 198
Delibes, Léo, 24, 28, 133, 134, 139 Gautier, Théophile, 133, 161
Delville, Jean, 41 Ghil, Réné, 48, 120
Denis, Maurice, 51, 147 Gide, André, 41, 48
Diaghilev, Serge, 107, 108, 109, 227, 228 Gil Blas, 77, 78, 81, 243, 246
Dickens, Charles, 120, 218 Gilman, Lawrence, 164, 185, 186
Dieppe, 31, 83, 95 Glazunov, Alexander, 167
Donizetti, Gaetano, 11 Glinka, Mikhail, 55, 107
Doret, Gustave, 167 Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 251
Dujardin, Edouard, 244 Godet, Robert, 40, 43, 48, 49, 50, 55, 67, 75, 106,
Dukas, Paul, 5, 41, 49, 71, 86, 91, 104, 113, 146, 149, 111, 116, 117, 161, 253
160, 191, 199, 208, 249, 251 Gounod, Charles, 17, 26, 27, 37, 133, 180
Du Maurier, George, 53 Gourmont, Rémy de, 36, 52, 126, 127
Duncan, Isadora, 99, 107 Goya, Francisco de, 121, 128, 237
Duparc, Henri, 133 Gray, Cecil, 227
Dupin, Etienne, 43, 46 Gregorian chant, 147, 186
Dupont, Gaby, 50, 59–61, 62, 65–66, 68, 69, 82 Grévy, Jules, 13
Durand, Emile, 13, 14, 15, 18, 132 Grieg, Edvard, 5
Durand, Jacques, 45, 56, 78, 79, 83, 86, 87, 88, 93, Gui,Vittorio, 104
95, 96, 99, 100, 105, 106, 111, 112, 113, Guinand, Edouard, 27
114, 116, 117, 118, 121, 149, 192, 194, 212, Guiraud, Ernest, 18, 19–21, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28,
237, 238, 249–50 39, 41, 131, 138, 139, 143–44, 149,
Duse, Eleonora, 101 159, 180
 Index  •  295

Hahn, Reynaldo, 47, 208 Le Cardonnel, Lois, 40

Halévy, Fromenthal, 11 Leconte de l’Isle, Charles Marie, 28, 133, 134, 138,
Hamsun, Knut, 243 180, 217
Hartmann, Georges, 62, 64, 69, 76, 88, 177, 214 Lekeu, Guillaume, 43, 50, 56, 119, 154, 239
Haydn, Joseph, 11, 89, 208 Lerolle, Henri, 42, 55, 59, 60, 61, 63, 68, 211
Hébert, Ernest, 32, 33, 35, 38 Leroux, Xavier, 73, 190
Heine, Heinrich, 34, 132, 248 Le Sidaner, Henri, 123
Hellé, André, 111, 235 L’Hermite, Tristan, 81, 210
Henselt, Adolf von, 238 “La Libre Esthetique,” 59, 120
Hérédia, Jose Maria de, 66 Liebich, Louise, 90, 123, 124, 125, 164, 178, 179,
Herod, 44 185, 186
Hérold, Ferdinand, 48, 64 Liszt, Franz, 8, 26, 32, 39, 133, 143, 144, 167, 217
Hokusai, 121, 198 Late works, 32
Holmès, Augusta, 47 Literature, occult, 33, 41, 156
Huysmans, Joris-Karl, 33, 48, 58, 102, 152 Loeffler, Charles, 207
London, Jack, 236
Impressionism, 35, 36–37, 89, 121–25, 127, Lorrain, Jean, 80–81
129, 196 Louÿs, Pierre, 41, 49, 51, 57–58, 59, 60, 62, 63–65,
D’Indy, V
  incent, 28, 38–39, 40, 43, 45, 47, 51, 52, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 78, 80, 81, 87, 91, 111,
54, 56, 63, 75, 77, 78, 79, 90–91, 119, 131, 120, 128, 175, 177, 181, 235, 243
158, 167, 181, 190–91, 198, 207, 208, 220, Luther, Martin, 237
239, 249
Fervaal, 63, 75, 190–91 MacDowell, Edward, 10
Ives, Charles, 164 Machen, Arthur, 53, 77
Maeterlinck, Maurice, 51–52, 55, 56, 57, 68, 72, 73,
James, Henry, 29 74, 94, 127, 128, 138, 142, 153, 154, 181,
Jarry, Alfred, 243 182, 183, 186, 190, 191, 236
Joan of Arc, 114 Magnard, Albéric, 43, 53, 56, 154, 172
Joncières,Victorin, 164 Mahler, Gustav, 249
Mallarmé, Stéphane, 14, 27, 47, 48–49, 52, 57, 58,
Kahn, Gustave, 48, 126, 127 61, 94, 111, 120, 126, 127, 128, 137–38,
Kipling, Rudyard, 218 145, 146, 154, 167, 171–72, 181, 191,
Koechlin, Charles, 110, 136, 163, 200, 225 234–35, 243, 244, 248
Koussevitzky, Serge, 109 Manet, Edouard, 48, 123
Kreisler, Fritz, 109 Marmontel, Antoine, 9–13, 16, 18, 19, 38, 39
Marot, Blanche, 70
Lacerda, Francisco de, 208 Martin, Fernand, 215
Lack, Théodore, 215 Mascagni, Pietro, 104
Laforgue, Jules, 33, 120, 137 Massenet, Jules, 17, 18, 19–20, 22, 23, 25, 28, 37, 39,
Lahor, Jean, 133 47, 48, 54, 62, 73, 75, 80, 133, 134, 135,
Lalo, Eduard, 23, 131, 218 139, 145, 153, 180, 185, 190, 207, 221
Lalo, Pierre, 70, 73, 89, 90, 163, 206, 227 Mauclair, Camille, 49, 89, 197
Laloy, Louis, 77, 81, 86, 90, 93, 95, 96, 108, 123, 125, Maus, Octave, 59, 61, 161
164, 210, 213, 223, 227, 235, 243, 253 Mauté de Fleurville, Antoinette-Flor, 7–8, 16, 134
La Motte-Fouqué, Friedrich de, 218 Meck, Nadezhda von, 16–18, 21, 22, 24, 28, 34, 43,
Lamoureux, Charles, 38, 49, 69, 71, 72, 79 55, 131, 132, 146
Larochelle, Paul, 63 Meissonier, Ernest, 12
Lasso, Orlando di, 31, 32, 33, 146 Mendelssohn, Felix, 100
Lavignac, Albert, 12, 14, 15, 18, 38 Mendès, Catulle, 14, 40, 47–48, 49, 51, 73, 79, 156,
Lavine, Edward, 218 159, 185
Leblanc, Georgette, 72, 73, 74 Mendès, Léontine, 11
296  •  Index

Mercure de France, 57 Pougy, Liane de, 200

Merrill, Stuart, 84, 127 Poulenc, Francis, 25
Messager, André, 67, 74, 75, 93, 184, 236 Pourville, 83, 84, 95, 105, 114
Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 34, 37, 133, 159, 180, 251 Pre-Raphaelites, 45, 121, 157
Mikhaël, Ephraïm, 79 Prikker, Thorn, 126
Monet, Claude, 121, 122, 124, 125 Primoli, Guiseppe, 29, 30, 31, 101
Montesquiou, Robert de, 102 Prix de Rome, 17, 19, 22–23, 25, 26, 27–28, 29, 31,
Moore, George, 122, 123, 124, 176 33, 38–39, 45, 50, 78, 92, 137, 138, 156,
Moréas, Jean, 33, 40, 125, 152 180, 247–48
Moreau, Emile, 25 Puccini, Giacomo, 65, 180
Moreau, Gustave, 42, 44, 121, 126, 127 Puvis de Chavannes, Pierre, 126, 127, 139
Moreau-Sainti,Victorine, 20
Morice, Charles, 33, 48, 223, 2235 Rachilde, 127
Morisot, Berthe, 121 Rackham, Arthur, 218
Moscheles, Ignaz, 11 Radics, 162, 241
Mourey, Gabriel, 40, 93, 101, 111, 156, 218, Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 77, 213, 224, 251
223, 235 Raphael, 34
Mozart, Wolfgang, 11, 89, 143 Ravel, Maurice, 73, 88–90, 111, 208, 234
Mucha, Alfons, 133 Redon, Odilon, 41, 51, 54, 121, 146, 147
Murger, Henri, 53 Régnier, Henri de, 41, 49, 51, 52, 87, 120, 128, 154,
Musorgsky, Modest, 40, 42, 43, 55, 249, 252 176, 181, 243
Boris Godunov, 43, 55, 107, 190 Rémy, Marcel, 100
Musset, Alfred de, 133 Renoir, Pierre-Auguste, 54, 121
La Revue blanche, 71, 91, 243–44
Napoleon III, 4 Richepin, Jean, 120, 198
Natanson, Misia, 244 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 42, 50, 107, 109, 249
Natanson, Thadée, 243–44 Rod, Edouard, 127
Naturalism, 36–37 Rodenbach, Georges, 49, 127, 154
Nichols, Roger, 24 Roger, Thérèse, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 68, 153
Nijinsky,Vaslav, 107, 108, 111, 112, 227, 228, 234 Roger-Ducasse, Jean, 102, 104, 117, 118
Novaes, Guiomar, 89 Rollinat, Maurice, 40
Ropartz, Guy, 155
d’Orléans, Charles, 81, 128, 209–10 Rops, Félicien, 41, 58
Osbert, Alphonse, 198 Rosicrucianism, 33
Osiris, Daniel, 86, 96 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 45, 64, 94, 157–58, 175
Ovid, 138 Rossini, Gioachino, 251
Roustan, Clémentine, 5, 7
Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 31–32, 33, 44, Rubinstein, Anton, 10
146–47 Rubinstein, Ida, 102, 103, 104, 224
Parnassian, school of poetry, 40, 47, 133, 134 Russia, 16, 17, 42, 43, 44, 55, 90, 102, 107, 109–10,
Pater, Walter, 142, 157 146, 245, 249
Pelouze, Marguerite, 13–14, 16
Périer, Jean, 76, 184 Saint-Marceaux, Madame de, 59, 60
Pierné, Gabriel, 10, 19, 30, 34, 47, 249 Saint-Saëns, Camille, 38, 39, 131, 133, 167, 207
Pissarro, Camille, 121 Sarrazin, Gabriel, 157
Pizzetti, Ildebrando, 104 Satie, Erik, 41, 65, 67, 77, 87, 93, 117, 246
Poe, Edgar, 40, 44, 73, 79, 81, 92, 93, 105, 107, 117, Trois Gymnopédies, 65
156, 157, 191–94, 196, 239 Scarlatti, Alessandro, 247
Poniatowski, André, 51 Schmitt, Florent, 88, 89, 102
Popelin, Claudius, 31 Schoenberg, Arnold, 112, 167, 250
Popelin, Gustave, 31 Schola Cantorum, 78, 91
 Index  •  297

Schubert, Franz, 32, 132, 150 Valéry, Paul, 48, 57, 58, 246
Schumann, Robert, 12, 19, 132, 143, 144, 146, 150, Vallas, Léon, 131
153, 215, 248 Vallotin, Félix, 244
Schuré, Edmond, 120 Varèse, Edgard, 92, 95, 121, 250
Scriabin, Alexander, 41, 109, 167 Vasnier, Henri, 20–21, 24, 25, 29, 31, 33
Segalen,Victor, 92, 93, 110, 120, 223, 251 Vasnier, Marguerite, 20–21, 24, 25, 27
Segantini, Giovanni, 199 Vasnier, Marie, 20–21, 22, 25, 29, 30, 31, 33, 60, 81,
Serpette, Gaston, 207 134, 135
Servières, Georges, 153 Velásquez, Diego, 128, 237
Seurat, Georges, 33, 199, 244 Verdi, Giuseppe, 34, 180, 185
Séverac, Déodat de, 89 Verhaeren, Emile, 127
Shakespeare, William, 44, 75, 77, 81, 191, 218 Verlaine, Paul, 7, 25, 40, 46, 48, 52, 108, 120, 121,
As You Like It, 44, 77, 117, 191, 223 128, 134–37, 144, 150, 153, 155, 157, 176,
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 33 209, 223, 235
Signorelli, Luca, 34 Vidal, Paul, 15, 19, 25, 26, 27, 30, 32, 34,
Sisley, Alfred, 121 50, 145
Sivry, Charles de, 7, 40 Viélé-Griffin, Francis, 48, 154, 198
Société Nationale de Musique, 37, 38, 39, 45, 50, Villa Medici, 29–30, 136
51, 53, 54, 58, 59, 61, 65, 69, 70, 73, 79, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Auguste, 7, 14, 40, 41, 47,
88, 111, 131, 141, 145, 155, 158, 159, 48, 54, 120, 156, 180
167, 172 Villon, François, 94, 210, 237
Spain, 34, 78, 207, 218, 219, 220, 221 Viñes, Ricardo, 73, 111
Spontini, Gaspare, 251 Vuillard, Edouard, 244
Stravinsky, Igor, 108, 112, 227, 230, 234, 238, Vuillermoz, Emile, 75, 87, 88, 90, 92, 108, 112, 125,
251–52 211, 243
Stevens, Alfred, 49
Stevens, Catherine, 49–50, 66 Wagner, Richard, 13–14, 24, 39, 43, 44, 47, 49, 51,
Strauss, Richard, 185, 249–50 55, 60, 69, 77, 139, 143, 152–53, 174, 180,
Swedenborg, Emanuel, 41 183, 189, 190–91, 216, 244, 247, 250, 251
Swinburne, Algernon, 119, 157 Parsifal, 24, 43, 59, 189, 190, 230
Symbolism, 33, 36, 46, 57, 102, 125–29, 147, Watteau, Antoine, 214
162, 190 Weber, Carl Maria von, 8
Symons, Arthur, 126 Wharton, Edith, 236
Whistler, James McNeill, 48, 119, 121, 122, 123,
Thaulow, Frits, 68 176, 178, 181
Theosophy, 41 Widor, Charles, 208
Thomas, Ambrose, 11, 17, 20, 24, 180 Willette, Adolphe, 40
Tolstoy, Leo, 3, 243 Willy (Henri-Gauthier-Villars), 171, 244
Toulet, Paul-Jean, 77, 93, 117, 120, 223, 243 Wyzéwa, T éodor de, 226
Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 40, 133, 244 Wolf, Hugo, 43
Turner, Joseph Mallord William, 121
Ysaÿe, Eugène, 56, 58, 61, 63, 172, 174,
United States of America, 88, 93, 105, 107, 184, 176–77, 245
191, 193, 207
Universal Exposition of, 1889, 42–43, 158 Zola, Emile, 37