Composer: Lili Boulanger (Born in Paris in 1893; died in Mézy-sur-Seine, France in 1918)

Work composed: 1775

World premiere: This orchestral version was first performed on March 13, 1921, at the Paris Conservatoire, with Rhené-Baton conducting the Concerts Pasdeloup Orchestra.

Instrumentation: piccolo, 2 flutes, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, bass clarinet, 2 bassoons, sarrusophone (a metal reed instrument, now substituted by a contra-bassoon), 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, 2 percussionists (playing triangle, small snare drum [sometimes substituted by castanets], suspended cymbal), celesta, harp, strings

D’un Matin de printemps

Lili Boulanger was born into Parisian musical nobility and was surrounded by music and musicians of the highest quality before she could walk or speak, including Gounod, Massenet, Widor, and Saint-Saëns. Her paternal grandfather, Frédéric, was a distinguished cellist, her grandmother, Juliette, a celebrated singer. Her father, Ernest, was a well-regarded composer and teacher, and her mother, Raissa Mychetsk, was of Russian nobility and a gifted singer and teacher. Lili’s older sister, Nadia, approached prodigy status, and indeed, by the age of two, Lili herself was heralded as a prodigy by several great musicians. One of them was the famous French composer and (soon-to-be) director of the Paris Conservatoire, Gabriel Fauré, also a close family friend, who was the first to discover that Lili had perfect pitch.

Lili used to accompany her sister, Nadia, to music classes as Nadia took lessons at the Paris Conservatoire with Fauré. And by age four, Lili was enrolled there, too. She soon excelled in piano, harp, cello, violin, and organ, but her truest gifts became apparent in composition. By all accounts, Lili was jaw-droppingly talented. However, she was dogged by ill health her entire life, the most pernicious being a lifelong debilitating gastro-intestinal disease (diagnosed at the time as intestinal tuberculosis, but may in fact have been Crohn’s Disease, which wasn’t a known diagnosis until 1932). That illness would end her life in 1918 at the age of 24. Her sister Nadia became one of the greatest composition teachers in the 20th Century – mentor to hundreds, including the likes of Aaron Copland and Darius Milhaud and Astor Piazzolla. But when Lili died, Nadia rarely composed again, saying that the talent died with her sister, and she became a tireless champion of Lili’s compositions for the rest of her life.

In her brief 24 years of life, Lili composed prolifically. Had she survived her illness, she likely would have claimed her place among some of the finest composers from France, alongside Debussy and Ravel. She was certainly headed in that direction in 1913 by becoming the first woman to ever win the Prix de Rome prize – an extremely important French award for composition. The prize won her a publishing contract and quieted the male-dominated Parisian musical circles who warned of the péril rose (“pink peril”) of women entering the compositional world. And though this great career boost opened more doors and encouraged her success, Lili ‘s illness claimed her energy, and within a few years, her life.

By 1917, Lili was bedbound, but very much still writing music. Late in that year she began two particularly fine works as companion pieces: d’un Soir triste (“Of a Sad evening”) and d’un Matin de printemps (“Of a Spring morning”). Both were based on the same, short musical theme (an eight-measure theme with a free-flowing melody that rustles about, first generally upwards, and then back to its starting note – a melody ripe for development). But where d’un Soir triste grows into a work of near heartbroken grief, d’un Matin de printemps takes the theme into light, energy, and joy. These two works were finished in 1918 and are the last works that Lili could write in her own hand. Though music continued to flow, Lili was too weak to physically write the notes, and her sister Nadia copied down the notes as Lili dictated to her. Both of the companion pieces were written in several instrumental versions, beginning as pieces for violin and piano. Matin was also scored for flute and piano, and for piano trio.

Matin begins with a distinctly sparkling sound – as the strings pulse quietly and crisply, glints of bright light gleam from the triangle. Boulanger has already captured the brimming of life on a Spring morning in just this opening. The eight-measure melody then presents itself, and the music is marked to be played Assez animé – leger – gai (quite animated – light – cheerful). The theme here is almost weightless and gleeful, as opposed to Soir’s darker musical character.

Soon, additional instruments join the jubilance, and Boulanger’s musical methods are very much Impressionistic – chords are complicated and almost jazz-sounding, giving more importance to the mood, color, and character of the sounds than lyricism. Boulanger loved the kind of sonic color-washes that Impressionism came to be known for – lots of instruments playing separate, intricate parts, all contributing to a kind of glorious cloud of sound. Boulanger leads us through several eruptions of sound and volume, capturing the beautiful chaos that is Spring. But a middle section, marked Mystérieux, soutenu. Poco Rubato (mysterious, sustained, somewhat elastic [in tempo]”) evokes a darkness – for from out of the depths of the sunless Winter comes Spring. This section also makes a nod to Matin’s companion piece, briefly replaying the two pieces’ common theme, now slowed down and gloomy, as it is presented in Soir. It’s difficult, too, not to imagine that in all the frenzy of life that Boulanger was composing, she must have been constantly reminded of her own infirmity and approaching death. But this Mystérieux moment is fleeting. The quicker tempo of the beginning then returns and the theme is mostly restored to its Spring-like élan. Boulanger also blends in some beautifully evocative orchestral effects – one such moment happens soon after this new tempo arrives – the violins dance into a series of ascending glissandi, ending in harmonics overtop of quietly pulsing winds and the shimmer of a suspended cymbal. Matin then bustles forward, the lushness of Spring all around – the energy and volume build up increasingly, additional instruments join in to add vigor and color – everything bursting with liveliness. The final section includes extroverted brass playing and then, as a delightful touch, the works conclude with a delightful chortle and exclamation mark – a gleeful glissando, and a final ker-plunk in the brass and strings.