A Love For All Humanity
Gertrude von le Fort’s 1931 novella titled Die Letzte am Schaffot (translated in 1933 as The Song at the Scaffold) inspired George Bernanos to write the play Dialogues des Carmélites in 1949 which, after legal battles with Bernanos’s estate, became the primary source material for the composer Francis Poulenc’s libretto of the same name.
The opera, completed in 1956, presents the story of Blanche de la Force’s struggle to overcome myriad paralyzing fears to face death alongside the nonfictional Carmelite nuns of Compiègne, who famously martyred themselves in an effort to bring the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution to an end, being executed by guillotine on July 17th, 1794. With very little divergence from Bernanos’s text, Poulenc’s libretto contains dense discussion on prayer, religion, spirituality, faith, and martyrdom. For Poulenc, the intelligibility of the text was of the utmost importance. Of his compositional priorities, Poulenc shared this thought with an acquaintance during his writing process: “Since prosody for me is the great secret of this adventure, I want it to be so correct, so convincing that it could not be altered in any way. If Dialogues is not to be a mere sensationalist story, the precise tone of each phrase must express the spirituality that Bernanos was able to inject into LeFort’s novella.”
Poulenc achieves this clarity of text and feeling in numerous ways. First, he writes almost exclusively in an arioso style, or singing which falls somewhere between recitative and aria. This allows the text to be heard in a conversational manner, though never lacking in musicality. Second, his musical language is made up entirely of a small collection of recycled musical motives, being transposed, inverted or revoiced in different sections of the orchestra, so that clear associations between musical gestures and plot themes become obvious. Third, he writes with a brilliantly pedagogical understanding of the voice, with added attention to the relationship between voice and orchestra, as he himself professes: “[Dialogues] is wildly vocal. I am surveying each note and being careful to place the proper vowels on high notes. There is no need to question the prosody, for I believe every word will be understood. The essential phrases are nearly devoid of orchestra.” Lastly, Poulenc gives each character an unmistakably unique musical voice with regard to rhythm and melody, so that the audience may have a clear sense of that character’s inner monologue, lending focus to each individual character in the process.
Poulenc gives each character an unmistakably unique musical voice with regard to rhythm and melody, so that the audience may have a clear sense of that character’s inner monologue, lending focus to each individual character in the process.
This January, Houston Grand Opera mounted Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmélites for the first time since 1988, under the direction of Francesca Zambello and the baton of Patrick Summers. This production, a recycled effort of Zambello’s originally performed in 2015, was performed in French (against Poulenc’s expressed wish that the opera always be sung in the vernacular of the country in which it is staged). Though written in three acts, Zambello chose to stage the opera in two. The first act takes place as the French Revolution evolves in a tenebrous manner, while the second is set during the Reign of Terror—a superbly effective choice by Zambello to show the evolution of the dangers faced by the Carmelites.
The opera begins in the library of the Marquis de la Force, sung with strength though lacking in fatherly sympathy by Rod Gilfry. Interrupting the Marquis’s nap, his son, the Chevalier de la Force, shares his fervent concerns for his deeply troubled younger sister, Blanche. He attempts to convince his father that Blanche’s brusque and fearful nature is a sign of much more serious psychological problems. Just as the Marquis seems to have quelled his son’s concerns, Blanche enters the library accompanied by the only atonal chord of the opera. Blanche begs her father that she be allowed to join the Carmelite order, in the hope that she may overcome the fear and torment that is making her life so unhappy. Just as the atonal chord suggests, Blanche must be portrayed as, in the words of Poulenc, “sick and insane.” Natalya Romaniw, though vocally sound with regard to technique, personated Blanche without any hint of fear for the duration of the production. Her character was portrayed as if in control of both body and mind, almost calm and calculating. Poulenc stated that “the true subject of the play is the transferral of grace.” Without any representation of Blanche’s ever-present fear, there was no indication that the character had any obstacles to overcome on her path to grace. This derailed some of the most powerful moments of the opera, depriving them of philosophical and spiritual weight.
In the second tableau, Blanche is interviewed by the Mother Superior in the parlor of the Carmelite convent at Compiègne to assess her dedication to, and correct any misunderstandings she may have about, the Carmelites. The wisdom and spiritual maturity of the Mother Superior was communicated quite effectively by Patricia Racette, though the tessitura was uncomfortably low for the soprano. This tableau requires a great deal of restraint by the conductor to allow for the intellectually complex dialogue to be sung with lucidity so that it may be contemplated in real time. In this tableau, the Mother Superior discusses the most vital aspects of the Carmelite order with lines such as “Does it make sense for any one of us to find herself freed of all, if she is not also set free from herself—that is to say from her own detachment from life?”, “The most dangerous of our desires are those we are fond of calling our illusions,” and “Each and every prayer—even the prayer of a little shepherd who tends his flock—is really the prayer of all the world.” Here, Maestro Summers’s tempi were much too lively for this discussion to have a proper impact.
Constance explains: “I would say there might be someone that in the hour of their death finds their final moments surprisingly easy, and that they feel quite comfortable. We die not for ourselves alone, but we die for each other, or probably even instead of each other.”
As previously mentioned, the recycling of musical gestures or motifs serves the purpose of providing associations between music and feeling. There are greater implications of this musical repetitiveness, however. During the second tableau, the Mother Superior tells Blanche that “It never was the purpose of our Order to mortify the soul, nor are we a conservatoire of virtue. We’re nothing but a house of prayer! Prayer alone justifies our whole existence.” Poulenc’s perpetual use of recycled material can perhaps be understood as a constant prayer of sorts. That is to say, each sister has their own form of prayer, or musical voice, which represents that of the world. The only respite from this musical language of prayer comes in the music given to the revolutionaries and the men of the de la Force family.
The third tableau finds the nuns performing household chores as the audience is introduced to Constance de Saint-Denis, a young, ebullient nun, sung by Lauren Snouffer. Snouffer immediately set herself apart from her colleagues, singing with a marvelous variety of color and feeling throughout the opera. Constance is a difficult role to portray without lending a sense of frivolity or childishness to the character, an obstacle Snouffer overcame with stunning success. The most mystically inclined nun in the opera, Constance prophesies to Blanche that she has “always known that God would be kinder than to let [her] grow old and that [she and Blanche] would die together the same day.” Though the rhythm and tessitura of Constance’s music is anxious and stratospherically high for most of the opera, her prophetic music is calm, contemplative and possesses great potential for creating magical moments. Unfortunately, maestro Summers’s spry tempi made these potentially magical moments impossible.
The final scene of the first act, the fourth tableau, contains the key to understanding the story Poulenc wanted to tell. The Mother Superior suffers greatly on her deathbed, voicing doubts about God and manically imploring Blanche to overcome her fears as she passes away. Constance explains the brutal death to Blanche, who struggles to understand, in the following tableau, foreshadowing Blanche’s dignified sacrifice: “I would say there might be someone that in the hour of their death finds their final moments surprisingly easy, and that they feel quite comfortable. We die not for ourselves alone, but we die for each other, or probably even instead of each other.” Hence, Blanche adopts as her Carmelite name Blanche of the Agony of Christ.
Following the Mother Superior’s death, the New Prioress, Madame Lidoine, is introduced in the ceremony of obedience. Sung by Christine Goerke with impressive vocal and physical tranquility, Madame Lidoine emerged as a force of sagacity and motherly care. Goerke handled the forte sustained legato of the role with admirable aplomb, even as the exhaustingly high tessitura could have easily made storytelling difficult. Mother Marie, who had been second in command at the time of the Mother Superior’s death, was sung by Jennifer Cano. The dynamic between Madame Lidoine and her counterpart, Mother Marie, manifested itself as a power struggle rather than a complex alliance built on taking care of the convent and its sisters. Cano struggled to define Marie’s inherently intricate personality, moving with constant perturbation and singing without variety of expression. Although the requirements for the role of Lidoine are more obvious than those of Marie, there was little for Goerke to work with in her dialogues with Cano.
It is precisely the humanity and mundanity of the revolutionaries that makes their relationship to the guillotine so horrifying.
The second act begins in the throes of the Reign of Terror. The Chevalier de la Force visits the convent to try to convince his sister Blanche that she would be safer leaving France with him than remaining with her sisters. Inexplicably, the Chevalier, sung by studio artist Eric Taylor, appeared in both of his scenes to be suffering from fear and anxiety far more than his sister. His character lacked refinement, moving awkwardly on the stage and singing with a shouted approach to the top of the staff. Still, the duet between Taylor and Romaniw was deeply moving, thanks to Poulenc’s richly romantic writing in this tableau. Regrettably, for the remainder of the opera, Blanche’s inner turmoil and her journey to becoming a dignified martyr was of secondary importance while political unrest and the misfortune of the sisters became the focal point.
Dressed in jarringly silly garb reminiscent of Les Miserables, the revolutionaries appear with increasing regularity for the remainder of the opera to inform the sisters of their standing with the state. The timelessness of the nuns’ habits made the decision to dress the revolutionaries so garishly a puzzling one; as if the audience might not be able to distinguish between nun and rebel. The stage direction of the revolutionaries was stiff and robotic, striving to underscore their lack of humanity compared to that of the nuns—a disappointing choice. As one of the revolutionaries admits to Mother Marie, “Can you believe that I am like the rest of them? In our Church at home, I served two years as sacristan; our noble priest… I loved him like a brother. Yet I’ve no choice but to howl with all the wolves!” It is precisely the humanity and mundanity of the revolutionaries that makes their relationship to the guillotine so horrifying.
A redemptive aspect of the staging was the portrayal of sisterhood and community amongst the nuns. They moved as one body to great effect, always being aware of each other, processing and posing in a highly stylized manner around an immense cross for the entirety of the second act (though the cross itself became somewhat of a distraction as they literally carried it). Their genuine familial dynamic made a lasting impression and served to imbue their collective sacrifice with greater significance.
Hildegard Bechtler’s minimalist sets, centered around a revolving circular platform and high, unadorned walls, never distracted from the importance of the text and provided the opportunity for the nuns to be the center of attention. Her postmodern, industrial design felt vacant and made the cloistered nature of the convent palpable. This bare aesthetic combined wonderfully with the lighting design of Mark McCollough to create impressions of coldness and warmth. Among the artists involved in the production, Bechtler and McCollough’s visions were the most impressively realized. Nevertheless, the entire company underwhelmed in the final tableau.
The sisters’ martyrdom and their prayers, as we are reminded throughout the opera, are performed out of love for all men; their entire existence is concerned only with prayer for the world. However, as their time came to approach the guillotine, they were directed to chant the Salve Regina on the opposite side of the stage from the revolutionaries and Parisian folk – the people for whom their prayer is meant. The sisters were surrounded by golden light, facing each other as they chanted, as though they were not of this world. The guillotine was represented by a rectangular hole in the set’s wall from which the golden light emanated.
As each sister arrived in the frame of golden light, she turned to the audience for a brief moment and made performative gestures such as lifting their hands to the heavens. Not only did the sisters seem unconcerned with those whom they profess to pray for, but their sacrifice took on an air of pomposity—decidedly not saintly behavior. The revolutionaries and Parisian folk were unsurprisingly not awestruck by the sisters’ sacrifice, as they were in le Fort’s novella and Bernanos’s play, but instead casually strolled off stage as though nothing had transpired. The tableau ended with the feeling that Zambello and company did not quite understand what the opera was about, or at least did not understand how to tell the story as effectively as possible.
The seriousness and thoughtfulness with which Poulenc composed this work requires an unusual level of seriousness and thoughtfulness on behalf of the singers, conductor and director. While Zambello and company were not quite up to the intellectual task, Poulenc’s vision is self-evident and makes clear that this work ought to be included in the ever shrinking opera canon and deserves regular performance.