In any discussion of the French and their influence on classical music, names such as Debussy, Fauré, Saint-Saëns, Bizet or Ravel inevitably come up, and logically so. However, having contemplated and executed pieces of her work, I feel compelled to mention Cécile Chaminade as well, as another representative of the purest French style romantique.

Born in Paris in 1857 into famille bourgeoise, her mother, a pianist, introduced her to the instrument at an early age. Bizet, who was a neighbour and friend of the family back in Le Vésinet, recognised and championed her talent. After performing publicly for the first time in 1877 at La Salle Pleyel, Chaminade continued cultivating what would become a glamorous, accessible, and technically polished French Romantic style, akin to that of Moszkowski, Godard or even Saint-Saëns—the latter being a composer she had particularly adored and to whom she was a dear friend. From 1892 onwards, she was patronised by Queen Victoria, who was fond of both her music and her as a person. After this, she became remarkably popular in the United States, where she frequently toured. In 1913, she was awarded the Légion d’Honneur, the first female musical composer to receive it. Leaving around four hundred works, Chaminade retired in 1928, saw her health deteriorate and died isolated, partly forgotten, in Monte Carlo, Monaco, in 1944.

Were you to listen enough to what the academia has to offer, you would realise that there is a conundrum surrounding ‘salon music’ and its exponents, and this is a label that is often attributed to Chaminade. This is effectively uncontestable: I cannot, in my view, accord her work the same degree of atemporality as I might to some within her circle. The enchanting nature of her works, pertaining to a definite style in music, makes her an ‘artisan of small ornamental creations’, which would be an analogous profession doomed to a certain intrascendence. In spite of this, I would like to remark, the way she conveys such a recognisable sentiment and atmosphere cannot be ignored when seeking to appreciate the melodies through which one learns to love classical music, particularly compositions at the piano. Quite beautifully, this quality has reminded me, within the world of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, of the relevance of these petites phrases of Chaminade, conveyed through the emblematic Sonate de Vinteuil. Nostalgia everywhere.

I am convinced this is the essence of the melomaniac who is artfully driven to have a piece for every moment of their day, or perhaps in their repertoire. I invite you to listen to La Lisonjera, Op. 50; the Arabesque No. 1, Op. 60; and her impressive Concertstück in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 40, especially the interpretation on display by Rosario Marciano with the Orchestra of Radio Luxembourg. As a final, fairly pointless comment, I found a substantial similarity with an equally lesser-known pianist, Sergei Bortkiewicz, whom I enjoy from time to time. Listening to ‘salon music’ has never done anyone any harm!