Suite from Mother Goose

Maurice Ravel possessed a particular gift for evoking what he called “the poetry of childhood.” Much as dance is a guiding thread through several of his most important compositions, themes involving childlike fantasy also recur consistently across his works.

Both aspects — childhood and dance — converge in his composition inspired by fairy tales from Ma Mère l’Oye (Mother Goose). Ravel initially conceived this music as a piano duet for siblings Mimi and Jean Godebski. (Their parents, a Polish couple who held salons that attracted a remarkable array of Parisian artists, provided a kind of second home for the composer.) This version of Mother Goose emanates a beguiling intimacy and ravishing sense of color quite independent of the later orchestral version. Though written for the talented Godebski children, the kids weren’t up to the task of giving the work’s first public performance — they complained it would require too much practice — so it was premiered in 1910 by another pair of prodigies.

The following year, Ravel orchestrated these pieces, first as a suite, and later as the score for a ballet — with an altered order, added interludes, and a new opening sequence. For this, he concocted a scenario linking the famous fairy-tale stories drawn from Charles Perrault’s 1697 anthology as well versions by Baroness d’Aulnoy and Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont. The orchestral work is more often performed, following the order of the piano duet’s five movements.

The suite opens with Pavane of the Sleeping Beauty, which ushers us along with the princess into a dream state with its brief, stately processional and meltingly beautiful writing for woodwinds. At the same time, the Pavane’s sustained wistfulness hints at the ambivalence of Ravel’s summoning of childhood — a poignant past recaptured by the knowing adult’s memory.

Tom Thumb recounts the episode in which the poor woodcutter’s son tries to plan a way out of the woods by dropping breadcrumbs, only to discover (like Hansel and Gretel) that birds have eaten them. Little Tom (portrayed by the oboe) wanders in confusion, trying to find the path, while Ravel’s vivid depiction of the birds near the end shows off his facility for conjuring nature.

Miniature people also figure in Laideronnette, Empress of the Pagodas. Here, a princess has been made the ugliest woman in the world by a witch’s spell (“laid” in French means ugly). She finds herself transported into a magical kingdom where her miniature subjects, robed in gems, serenade her with an orchestra whose instruments (the “pagodas” in Ravel’s sense) are made of nutshells. Nuanced touches from the percussion enhance Ravel’s enchanting use of pentatonic scales, characteristic of the orientalist exoticism that was in vogue in France.

In Conversations of Beauty and the Beast, Ravel details this unlikely love story in three parts: the appearance of Beauty (played by the clarinet) in a Satie-like waltz, the gruff pleas of the Beast (contrabassoon), and the mixture of both in a duet. A glissando from the harp signals the Beast’s transformation into a handsome prince (now represented by violin).

The concluding tale, The Enchanted Garden, does not seem to be based on any particular story. It is a celebration of the splendor of a miraculous garden, where the sun never goes down and everyone lives a blessed and happy life. The music is a single crescendo, from soft and low string sonorities to a much louder feast of sound, resplendent with harp, celesta, and glockenspiel. The suite ends with the triumphant sounds of happily-ever-after.

— adapted from a note by Thomas May

Thomas May is a writer, critic, educator, and translator. A regular contributor to The New York Times, The Seattle Times, Gramophone, and Strings magazine, he is the English-language editor for the Lucerne Festival.