Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6: Le croc-en-jambe


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We must make use of this time to sell up. The crucial thing, given our perilous situation, is not to do anything rash. The ship is hired and stocked with provisions and sailors. During the night, the Renegade gets up, relieves the Jew of his wallet, purse, and jewels, boards the ship, and off he goes.

So far, the Renegade is nothing more than that. The Holy Inquisition came for the Jew the next morning, and put him on a nice, big bonfire a few days later. I wanted you to know how brilliant I am at my art, to compel you to admit that at least I have an original way of degrading myself, to make you think of me as the latest in a long line of glorious good-for-nothings, and proclaim: Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator [Long live Mascarillus, Master Trickster].

Come on, Mister Philosopher, make it joyful, all together now: Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator. And at that, he began to sing a fugue, a thoroughly singular one. At times, the melody was serious and full of majesty, at others, light and playful; one moment, he was imitating the bass, the next, the top parts; he would stretch out his arm and neck to show when to hold a note, performing and composing his own triumphal march, and showing he knew more about good music than good morals.

I stayed, with the aim of bringing the conversation round to some subject that would clear my soul of the horror that was overwhelming it.


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I became sombre despite myself. Are you feeling ill? We were both silent for a while, during which time he walked up and down, whistling and singing.

To get him to talk about his talent again, I said: What are you working on at the moment? By God, I can, I swear. You should hear how they sing the words! How true it feels! How expressive!

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What model does the musician choose when he writes a song? What is song? And so it is for all of us. Declamation, if the model is living and thinking; noise, if the model is inanimate. We should consider declamation as one line, and song as another line, winding its serpentine way around the first. The more confident and true the declamation, which in itself is a type of song, the more frequently the song line following it will cross back and forth: the truer the song will be, and the more beautiful. In these works, there are all sorts of characters, infinite varieties of declamation.

This is sublime, I assure you, and I should know. This tells you how difficult and how important it is to know how to do recitative well. Every age has its own apostle. They were convinced that after having cried along with a mother grieving for her son, and trembled at a tyrant ordering a murder, they would not be bored by all their whimsical fairyland, their insipid mythology, their sickly little madrigals which are as much a mark of the bad taste of the poet as they are of the poverty of the art which finds them acceptable. Oh good people! The true, the good, and the beautiful will always have their way.

Yawn away, gentlemen, yawn away at your leisure. The foreign god humbly goes to sit down next to the local idol on the altar; bit by bit, he grows stronger; and one fine day, he gives his companion a little shove, and booboom, down the idol falls. And the Jansenists can say what they like, but this way of doing politics, which achieves its goal without making a stir, without any bloodletting, without creating martyrs, without so much as a tuft of hair being pulled out, seems the best to me. I just say whatever comes to me.

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Good grief! Is it beautiful? How can you have two ears on your head and ask such a question? He started getting all impassioned and singing softly. Monseigneur, monseigneur, laissez-moi partir [Your Lordship, Sir, please let me leave] O terre! O Earth! A Zerbina penserete [Zerbina always on your mind] Sempre in contrasti con te si sta [I never know where I am with you]. He calms down, he is sorry, he complains, he laughs; never a false note, never out of time, always capturing the meaning of the words and the character of the music.

All the pawn-pushers had left their chessboards and gathered round him. The laughter was loud enough to bring the ceiling down. It had everything, exquisite singing, powerful expression, and great sorrow.


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  8. He emphasised those places where the composer had displayed particular mastery; if he abandoned the sung part, it was so as to pick up the instrumental line, which he would then suddenly drop to go back to the voice, weaving the two together in such a way as to respect the relation between each of the parts as well as the unity of the whole; capturing our souls and keeping them suspended in the strangest state I have ever experienced Was it admiration?

    Yes, it was! Was I moved? Yes, I was, but these feelings were tinged with ridicule, and it transformed their nature. The horns and bassoons, he did puffing his cheeks up like balloons, and making hoarse, low sounds; he made a piercing, nasal noise for the oboes; his voice catapulting up and down at incredible speed, he did as close an imitation of the strings as he could; he whistled the piccolos and cooed the flutes; shouting, singing, charging about like a madman, single-handedly doing the dancers, both male and female, the singers, both male and female, a whole orchestra, a whole opera company, dividing himself between twenty different roles; running around, suddenly stopping and looking like a man possessed, his eyes blazing, foaming at the mouth.

    What did I not see him do?

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    He wept, he laughed, he sighed; he gazed tenderly or serenely or intensely; he was a woman, overcome with sorrow; he was an unfortunate man, giving in to despair; he was a temple going up; birds falling silent at sunset; water burbling in a cool and solitary grove, or gushing forth in torrents from the mountain tops; a storm, a tempest, the cries of those about to perish, together with the howling of the wind and the crashing of the thunder; he was night in all its darkness, he was shadow and silence, for even silence can be painted in sound.

    Worn out with exhaustion, like a man emerging from a long sleep or from deep concentration, he was unable to move, he was stupefied, stunned. He kept on looking around, like a man lost and trying to work out where he was. He waited for his strength and wits to come back; he kept mechanically wiping his face. Why are you laughing and looking so surprised? I challenge you to improve on the Ah! At this point, his voice swelled; he held the notes; the neighbours came to their windows; we stuck our fingers in our ears.

    He added: This is when you need really good lungs, proper organs, some serious air capacity. Lyric poetry is yet to be born. These expressions need to come thick and fast; the phrasing needs to be tight; the meaning cut off, left hanging; the composer needs to be able to freely arrange the whole and each of the parts, to leave out or repeat it, to add what he feels is missing, to twist it and turn it inside out like a polyp, without destroying it; all of which makes French lyric poetry much harder than languages that use inversion, which do these things all by themselves Cruel barbarian, plunge your dagger into my breast.

    I am ready for the fatal blow. I am fading, I am dying A secret fire inflames my senses Cruel love, what do you want from me? Do not deprive me of that sweet tranquillity that gave me such delight Bring me back from madness The tune is almost always the culmination of the scene. We need exclamations, interjections, half-finished or broken-off phrases, affirmations, negations; we appeal, we invoke, we shout, we moan, we weep, we laugh out loud.

    None of that wit, none of those epigrams, none of those dainty thoughts. Not at all! It needs to be more energetic, less mannered, more truthful.

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    Simple speeches, the shared voices of passion are all the more important when the language is monotonous and unaccented. The animal or human cry gives it its accent. While he was telling me all this, the people who had crowded round us, who had either not understood or not been interested in what he was saying, given that children, like adults, and adults, like children, would always rather have fun than learn anything, had moved away; everyone had gone back to their games; and we were back by ourselves in our corner. It came over me quite unexpectedly.

    I feel completely shattered. All my strength is gone; and I have a bit of a pain in my chest. We order beer and lemonade. He pours himself two or three large glassfuls and downs them one after another. Then, like a man coming back to life, he coughs loudly, stretches, and says: But in your opinion, Milord Philosopher, is it not rather odd that a foreigner, an Italian, one Duni, should be the one to come and teach us how to put accents into our music, how to make our melody obey movement, tempi, interval, declamation, without harming the prosody?

    Woe is me! He downs two, three, without realizing what he was doing. The paternal molecule was hard and obtuse, and that accursed first molecule has absorbed everything else. A great waster is a great waster, and is in no way a specimen.


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    He is already greedy, duplicitous, thieving, lazy, and a liar. I fear it runs in the family. A musician! Do you realise that it might be easier to find a child able to govern a kingdom and be a great king than to find one who could ever become a great violinist! Come along every day from seven-thirty to nine in the evening, give her a lesson, and I will give you twenty-five louis a year. The rest of the day will be yours to do with what you like. Gold, gold. Gold is everything; and without it, the rest is nothing.

    I take the louis out of my pocket. I show it to him admiringly. I look up to heaven. I kiss the louis in front of him. And to make him really understand the importance of the sacred coin, I make my voice tremble when I point out all the things you can buy with it, a fancy jerkin, a fancy cap, a tasty cake.

    One must turn a blind eye.

    Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6:  Le croc-en-jambe Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6: Le croc-en-jambe
    Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6:  Le croc-en-jambe Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6: Le croc-en-jambe
    Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6:  Le croc-en-jambe Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6: Le croc-en-jambe
    Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6:  Le croc-en-jambe Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6: Le croc-en-jambe
    Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6:  Le croc-en-jambe Harpsichord Pieces, Book 4, Suite 22, No.6: Le croc-en-jambe

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