1785: The première of Concerto de la Grâce des Canards in Versailles
La Gazette des Harmonies et des Plaisirs du Roi
It was with that mixture of pious expectation and discreet malice which constitutes the true spirit of our Court that the audience assembled last Thursday in the Marble Hall, summoned by the promise of a new concerto from Comte Séraphin de Canardelle‑Montmorin d’Aubespine‑de‑Mallard, Compositeur du Roi, Intendant des Plaisirs Harmoniques et des Jardins Aquatiques de Versailles. The title alone—“Concerto de la Grâce des Canards”—caused both fans to flutter and eyebrows to rise: it is not every day that one is invited to elevate the palmipede.
The Comte, entering with his habitual air of distracted modesty (the only modesty now tolerated in high society), greeted the Queen with a bow just short of irreverence and took his place at the harpsichord, that most aristocratic of domestic altars. Behind him, the orchestra glittered like an inventory of royal favours: flutes in pale blue, oboes solemn as confessors, bassoons of that particular chocolate hue which our painters reserve for both velvet and sin.
The opening movement, “Allegro fluviale, “Le réveil des nids””, begins without the customary fanfare. Instead, two flutes murmur a figure that could be mistaken for the first yawn of dawn upon a pond. Presently, the oboes reply with a phrase whose rhythm suggests a cautious waddle; then, the violins, in a series of ascending ornaments, appear to shake invisible droplets from invisible wings. It is all very pretty, and for a moment one fears prettiness will be the whole argument.
But Comte Séraphin, who reads philosophy more than is healthy in a court musician, soon complicates the charm. In the middle section he introduces a harmonic turn on the wordless theme that left even the more hardened duchesses momentarily uncertain as to whether they were licensed to smile. An elderly marquise behind me whispered, “It is as if the water doubted its own reflection.” This may have been an excess of poetry, but one must allow something to the elderly.
Some purists complained afterwards that the bassoons were made to imitate the quacking of ducks. This is unjust. The bassoons did not imitate; they alluded. There is a distinction known to every person of breeding, though rarely to the critics. Had they truly imitated, the Comte would have been banished to the Opéra‑Comique, which is, as we know, the spiritual Bagne of good taste.
The second movement, “Adagio piumé, “Rêverie sur l’étang””, is where the scandal—such as it was—gently unfolded itself. The strings entered muted, a chiffon of sound laid over the attentive silence of the court. Above them, a single oboe traced a line so simple that one suspected mischief. Little by little, harmonic shadows gathered beneath this line, as though clouds were forming under the water rather than above it.
Here the Comte permitted himself progressions that would alarm our more conservative theoreticians. One old disciple of Rameau, seated to my left and armed with a well‑thumbed copy of the “Traité d’harmonie”, murmured, “He errs, he errs,” with the satisfaction of a man whose indignation has been long rehearsed. Yet the Queen, I am told, pressed her fan to her heart—the surest sign that the composer had succeeded in his most delicate enterprise: making feeling arrive before understanding, and to remain after it had departed.
At one particularly unexpected modulation—a soft, gliding transition that seemed less a change of key than a change of temperature—a page dropped a silver tray at the back of the hall. The resulting clatter was taken by some as an intentional percussive effect, by others as heaven’s protest. The Comte, unperturbed, merely smiled into the keys and prolonged the phrase as if to say: “Even accidents must be notated.”
The finale, “Rondeau, “Le Bal des Palmipèdes””, restored gaiety—or what passes for gaiety in this year of grace, when our pleasures already suspect themselves. The principal theme, in a lilting triple time, calls irresistibly to mind the sight of well‑bred ducks advancing with ludicrous dignity along the terraces of the Grand Canal. There are syncopations that resemble the polite slips of court conversation, and a passage for solo violin and bassoon which an impudent attaché described as “the duet of a duchess and her confessor crossing a slippery floor.”
It was in this movement that the Comte’s orchestral skill shone most clearly. He distributes his colours as a good host distributes his guests: never allowing the talkative to monopolise the evening, always ensuring that even the dullest instruments leave with the illusion of having shone. The horns bark discreetly from distant meadows; the clarinets (those charming interlopers) insinuate themselves into the company like provincial cousins newly presented at court.
One passage, near the close, deserves particular mention. The strings sustain a shimmering chord—too rich for piety, too delicate for vulgarity—over which the woodwinds sketch a series of small, ascending figures, like bubbles of air rising through clear water. Just as the ear prepares itself for the expected resolution, the Comte diverts the harmony sideways into a place neither sombre nor bright, but curiously suspended. A pause follows, brief yet deep, in which the entire hall seems to hold its breath. It is as though our amiable ducks, having paddled so tirelessly, suddenly discover that the pond has no banks.
Some detected in this moment a philosophical insolence ill‑suited to court entertainment. A pamphlet, circulating already this morning in the cafés of the Palais‑Royal, accuses the composer of insinuating “subversive metaphysics under cover of feathers.” This seems harsh. If our age cannot sustain a metaphor without fearing a revolution, the fault lies not in the metaphor but in the age.
As to the reception, it was as divided as good manners permit. The Queen applauded with that measured enthusiasm which indicates both favour and the expectation of future obedience. The King, we are told, remarked only that the ducks of the Trianon had never been so honoured, which, coming from his Majesty, may be considered an almost reckless compliment. The younger ladies, for their part, whispered that they would never again be able to watch the swans without suspecting them of intellectual pretensions.
Among the gentlemen, opinions followed the usual party lines of harmony. The disciples of German severity grumbled about “frivolous sensuality of colour,” while the devotees of Italian grace found the work “too reflective to be truly charming.” One cannot help noticing that the first faction never dances, and the second rarely thinks; thus are the arts of Europe fairly represented in miniature.
In the corridors afterwards, I encountered the Abbé de C——, that seasoned observer of our musical and moral foibles. “My dear sir,” he said, adjusting his lace cuffs with theological precision, “this concerto proves once again that the Almighty favours the duck. For only a creature that is neither wholly of the water nor wholly of the air could inspire a music so indecisively delightful.” I ventured that mankind shares the same amphibious condition between earth and heaven. He replied, “Yes, but men lack feathers, and therefore the necessary modesty.”
What verdict, then, may one safely deliver without offending either art or etiquette? It is perhaps wisest to say that “Le Concerto de la Grâce des Canards” has succeeded in its principal aim: to render the Court slightly more conscious of having feet. Whether the work will descend through the ages, we cannot yet tell. But if, in some distant and unimaginably sober century, a scholar should unearth this score, he will surely conclude that in 1785, at least for an hour, Versailles granted to its ducks what it so rarely grants to its philosophers—a graceful hearing.
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