Anna Livia Plurabelle gets a thrill out of historic places. It gives her a thrill to stand on the battleground of Thermopolae, to tour the cells of The Tower where James I of Scotland, Sir Walter Raleigh and, incidentally, the Kray Brothers languished. To stroll through Lamb House in Rye through which, it might be imagined, swish the ghosts of both Henry James and E. F. Benson. But the past associations of a particular place don’t move me much at all; if there’s something to see there in the present, great, that’s interesting, but just the fact that someone famous’ feet trod there means nothing to me.
I am not so blasé when it comes to aural experiences. Hearing the voice of Eliot or Dylan Thomas or Gertrude Stein in those wonderful Caedmon recordings brings up a kind of worshipful frisson beyond just the pleasure of hearing great poetry read well. I discovered a similar, but even more intense delight in listening to the Romophone CD set, “Reynaldo Hahn: The Complete Recordings.” (Used copies are going for $300 on Amazon.)
I am not so blasé when it comes to aural experiences. Hearing the voice of Eliot or Dylan Thomas or Gertrude Stein in those wonderful Caedmon recordings brings up a kind of worshipful frisson beyond just the pleasure of hearing great poetry read well. I discovered a similar, but even more intense delight in listening to the Romophone CD set, “Reynaldo Hahn: The Complete Recordings.” (Used copies are going for $300 on Amazon.)
These songs by Proust’s early lover and life-long best friend move me much more, I think, than even a recording of Proust himself would. (In a Google search I could not find a reference to any recording of Proust, which is surprising, since there is even a recording of Tennyson reading, and Proust was technologically up-to-date enough to subscribe to théâtrephone, with which he could listen to opera through his telephone. He became enchanted with Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande after hearing it over the telephone.)
Why does it move me so much more to think that Proust just might have been sitting in the studio while Hahn recorded this than it would to have a drink in the café in Deauville where, from a window above the street, Marcel first saw Albertine and her friends come romping? I don’t have the answer to that question. Just a quirk, I guess.
Offrande by Verlaine. (Verlaine’s original title was the English word, Green.) Sung by Reynaldo Hahn, accompanying himself on the piano. Recorded, August 21, 1909.
Why does it move me so much more to think that Proust just might have been sitting in the studio while Hahn recorded this than it would to have a drink in the café in Deauville where, from a window above the street, Marcel first saw Albertine and her friends come romping? I don’t have the answer to that question. Just a quirk, I guess.
Offrande by Verlaine. (Verlaine’s original title was the English word, Green.) Sung by Reynaldo Hahn, accompanying himself on the piano. Recorded, August 21, 1909.
And, Proust aside, this is absolutely delightful. It is one minute long, the refrain of a song from Hahn’s operetta O Mon Bel Inconnu. Libretto by Sacha Gretry, sung by Hahn joined by one of the loves of my life, Arletty, the squeeky-voiced femme fatale of Les Enfants du Paradis. (I know, I know, after the war she was imprisoned for having an affair with a Luftwaffe officer. "Mon coeur est français mais mon cul est international," she explained.)
To top off this delicious mille-feuille, the cherry on top, is the title of the song: Qu’est-ce qu’il faut pour être heureux?
Okay, okay. I’m a hopeless francophile. I admit it.
From 1934.
Okay, okay. I’m a hopeless francophile. I admit it.
From 1934.
Finally, Hahn’s setting of Verlaine’s Paysage Triste, sung by Guy Ferrand, accompanied by Hahn. From 1937.
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