Ravel

L'Enfant et les Sortileges, an opera ballet by Maurice Ravel with a libretto by Mme. Colette, was recently given its premier in Monte Carlo, will be heard in Paris next season and thereafter brought to the U. S.

The Libretto. L'Enfant, a favored one, constantly companioned by such birds and beasts as cats, bats, dragonflies and a squirrel, is untransfigured by the gentleness that attends his living, hut ridden with black bile and curious humors. Does he learn his lessons? Far from it; this enfant, is idle and, when his Hainan reproves him for his lassitude, assuredly with justice, ho surrenders himself to rancor, beating the floor with his heels, chasing the cats, the squirrel and committing many acts of violence. Then it is that he hears the old clock sing, with much clucking of the tongue, a lament for the days when its pendulum would work all night; the china gods complain in childish voices; the teapot collogue with the teacup. Amazed, lie tries to hide near the fireplace, but the fire comes from its kennel to nip him in the breeches.

Enchantment transports him into a dark valley. The moon lifts the white of an eye over a cloud, but lightless in the glade he wanders; the forest talks to him in many voices; night presses her hands over his eyes. Ever lie hear.; in his heart the voice of the once happy squirrel, reproaching him for the hurt he did her furry side, her tender paw, and he weeps with regret in the sullen copice, uncomforted. The squirrel, unable to support any longer the pain of her wound, falls swooning at his feet. He picks her up. He bandages with fumbling care her paw in a silk ribbon. Ah, how they rejoice then, the creatures who before harangued him ; how shyly they regard him, transfixed at his compassion ! Now he will learn his lessons. . . .

The Score. The music never interprets the fantasy, but plays with it, mocks it--rolls it ahead like a ball, follows after on subtle feet. The work is, in pattern, like those opera ballets of the 18th Century. Everything is a dance ; the chair-song a minuet; the fire-talk a gigue; dragon flies weave to the slow air of a waltz; the teapot chortles in a foxtrot. It is music that smiles over its shoulder, that caresses only with the tips of its fingers, and laughs at itself in its own mirrors.