photo: adam cuerden · public domain ↗Claude Debussy arrived in Paris a laureate of the Prix de Rome, France's top composition prize, and left, three decades later, having rewritten what French music could sound like. His formative years ran through three overlapping obsessions: an early, nearly total submission to Wagner, sealed by two pilgrimages to the composer's own festival at Bayreuth; a discovery of Mussorgsky's unruly, unacademic Russian scores through the Parisian salon circuit of the 1880s and '90s; and a bohemian friendship with Erik Satie, struck up over drinks at the Chat Noir cabaret in 1890. Each pulled him away from German symphonic weight toward something more spoken, more colored, more his own — a harmonic language that reached its fullest statement in the opera Pelléas et Mélisande (1902) and outlasted every fashion it briefly wore.
In the summer of 1893, at a friend's country house on the Marne, Debussy played Boris Godunov to anyone who would listen — "indefatigable at the piano," as his companion Raymond Bonheur remembered it, "he initiated us to this extraordinary work." That same season he began sketching his own opera, Pelléas et Mélisande. Eight years later, reviewing Mussorgsky's song cycle The Nursery, Debussy praised a composer working "without procedures, without desiccated formulas" — the credo he had already put into practice, trading symmetrical melody for something closer to sung speech.
listen forCue up the Coronation Scene from Boris Godunov, then a scene from Pelléas et Mélisande: both abandon tidy, symmetrical tunes for vocal lines that rise and fall like speech, harmonized in blocky, bell-like chords that sit rather than resolve. Mussorgsky's crowd shouts in jagged, unbalanced phrases; Debussy's lovers murmur in the same unforced, syllable-by-syllable rhythm, with the melody following the words instead of the other way around.
Debussy heard the first act of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde in March 1887 and pronounced it, on the spot, "decidedly the finest thing I know." He made two pilgrimages to the composer's own festival at Bayreuth, and later admitted that as a young Prix de Rome laureate he had been "wagnérien jusqu'à l'oubli des principes les plus simples de la civilité" — Wagnerian to the point of forgetting his manners. That December he composed "La Mort des amants," setting Baudelaire in the same suspended, straining harmony he had just heard — the surrender that came before the long fight to shake it off.
listen forPlay the Prelude to Tristan und Isolde against Debussy's "La Mort des amants," composed the same year he first heard it: both hang a melody over chords that keep almost resolving and never quite do, stretching the harmony until it aches. Debussy shrinks Wagner's orchestra down to a single voice and piano, but the technique — chromatic lines sliding past each other, delaying the cadence — is the same trick, borrowed before he spent the next decade writing his way out from under it.
Debussy and Erik Satie met at the Chat Noir cabaret in 1890, where Satie earned his keep as house pianist. Six years later Debussy did something composers rarely do for a living friend: he orchestrated two of Satie's Gymnopédies, dressing up piano pieces the concert world had ignored for a real orchestra, and conducted their premiere at the Salle Érard, a Paris concert hall, in 1897. A later, much-repeated account has Satie needling him toward restraint — "the orchestra shouldn't grimace when a character comes on stage" — advice audible in the hushed, undemonstrative scoring Debussy gave Pelléas et Mélisande five years on.
listen forCompare Satie's original piano Gymnopédie No. 1 with Debussy's own orchestration of it: the harmony barely changes note for note, but Debussy's scoring — pale strings and single winds, no doubling, no swell — answers the question of what static, unresolved chords should sound like dressed for a concert hall. It is the clearest evidence anywhere in his catalogue of one composer's ear working directly through another's material.