Listening to the Met's broadcast of Poulenc's Dialogues des Carmélites, last night did what it always does: makes me think . . . and write, too much. I remembered numerous conversations and arguments about the opera, and one in particular.
Roughly twenty years ago I was embroiled in a conversation with a group who made known their very strong feelings about this opera. More simply put: they hated it.
One wrote that Poulenc's opera is only for "religious nuts," adding "I can see how someone who wasn't religious at all would be totally put off by this . . . plus the misogynism and rejection of sexuality put me off too ... there are a lot of things in this opera that you have to overlook just to enjoy the music."
This sentiment was followed by a strong pronouncement that condemned Poulenc as "completely irresponsible" in his selection for his largest work, "particularly doing so after the murder of millions of Jews and others at his doorstep . . . . how dare he trivialize that with his little antique tragedy when the whole world was still reeling, and just beginning to recover and understand what had taken place."
Wow. I argued how I believed the very removal of the then immediate present (the end of WWII), as well as the timelessness (or, at least, of a time far removed) of the 1789 Carmelites incident, actually spoke far better to the ideas of senseless death, war and the human condition. Not only that, but it could do so in a far more contemplative and profound manner than any "Anti-Nazi Opera," possibly could. Further to that is, Poulenc's unique compositional style is immediately recognizable as more prone towards intimate storytelling rather than grand pageantry and war scenes, or their aftermath.
Instead, he presents us with a group of women at another perilous time in human history, joined together ,yes,by religion, but also something much more than that. The sense of community is unique among cloistered people, and Poulenc delves into that life with details raning from the mundane to the extraordinary.
Early on, Sister Constance speaks of dying in place of another, which we know as "the transference of grace." This echoes a sentiment that seemed to speak to Poulenc in more ways than one, and the culmination of it, I believe, is reached with the final chop of the guillotine: this sisterhood has, as their Saviour, gone to slaughter, willingly accepting martyrdom.
There are so many ideas Poulenc presents in this opera, and I believe one of the reasons his insistence that it be translated, sung and understood in the vernacular of its audience is his precision in setting the text, the attention to the tale's intimate so that every part of it could be understood, even if we don't agree on what it is we're understanding.
One need not be a Catholic or religious at all to understand that a strong belief of all faiths is that of unity: the many becoming part of the one. In such communities we take on and share the burden of another. I also believe It's why we as a species have created Saints. We pray to now divine beings who once were human. They "know" better than purely celestial creatures such as God, or the angels, the profound depth of human suffering.
Returning to the Transference of Grace, who knows if my suffering - or even my death - can in some way have an effect, or possibly even alleviate completely the pain and suffering of another? I have always held that Madame de Croissy's agonizing death, wracked with terrors of doubt and fear, of the end of all these women believed, was, unknowingly, her gift to the perpetually anxious and terror-stricken Blanche, who, when the time comes, can now accept her death with peace and in the company of her sisters. Regardless of what "I" personally believe - that's some pretty powerful stuff!
We know Poulenc was an often conflicted soul - not in the "spiritual suffering" way, but like many of us, trying to find some sort of balance between the spiritual and the secular. A worldly man he was nonetheless, prone towards "bouts" of the spiritual. Years ago I was moved when learning how, following the tragic death of his close friend, Pierre-Octave Ferroud, Poulenc decided to make a pilgrimage, far out into the countryside where he prayed and meditated at the Chapel of the Black Virgin of Rocamadour. If I recall, he described the experience on his way home as an epiphany, and penned, almost immediately, his Litanies a la Vierge noir. It's among, the finest of his smaller choral works, and every bar is filled with a genuine sense of spiritual mystery.
I used to joke that no French composer was capable of truly separating the sacred and profane, but look at the popular operas of Saint Saens; Massenet; Gounod, and there is something there! But, I believe Poulenc's opera addresses many issues
Universally, and despite the very specificity of its French Revolution setting, it is ultimately a story that could take place at nearly any given time in any part of the world.
I've always held this opera close to my heart, yet also know people who genuinely despise it on many grounds.
Personally, since first hearing it as a boy, and then in my teens experiencing the amazing, John Dexter production it has, despite affected me on myriad levels, not the least of which is spiritually, which is an odd thing coming from a non-believer. In this sense it stands alongside Bach's Matthäus-Passion, and Wagner's Parsifal. Not bad company to be in.
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