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Henry Dehlinger

Preludes of T.S. Eliot

in Four Movements

for Voice, Cello & Piano or Voice, Viola & Piano

Buy at J.W. Pepper!
Preludes of T.S. Eliot by Henry Dehlinger

TITLE
Preludes of T.S. Eliot in Four Movements

DURATION
13¾ minutes

YEAR OF COMPOSITION
2020

INSTRUMENTATION 
High Voice, Cello & Piano

High Voice, Viola & Piano (Coming Soon)

LICENSING
American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP)

WORLD PREMIERE
Fall 2021

PURCHASE
J.W. Pepper

0:00/???
  1. 1
    Preludes of T.S. Eliot I 2:42
    0:00/2:42
  2. 2
    Preludes of T.S. Eliot II 2:02
    0:00/2:02
  3. 3
    Preludes of T.S. Eliot III 4:18
    0:00/4:18
  4. 4
    Preludes of T.S. Eliot 4:09
    0:00/4:09

COMPOSER'S NOTE

Preludes of T.S. Eliot is a setting of T.S. Eliot's four part poem, which examines the crucible of isolation in modern urban life. I composed it over March and April of 2020, in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic.

As in much of Eliot’s early poetry, the drab cityscape is the star of the show. The very sounds of the words, with their hard consonants and blunt dissonant rhymes, dictate the melancholic mood and melodic character of my musical setting. 

I originally scored it for voice, cello and piano and followed that up in 2021 with an arrangement for voice, viola and piano, which I wrote for Jim Kelly, President & CEO of National Philharmonic and viola player.

In turns, it is both literal and impressionistic and a fitting prelude to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, Eliot’s modernist opus that I adapted into a rhapsody for voice and orchestra in 2017. 

In much of the work, the cello (or viola) is every bit as prominent as the voice. So much so that I would characterize the third and fourth movements especially as soulful duets featuring the two instruments.

The civilizational malaise depicted in Preludes speaks to us more clearly now, perhaps, than it did over 100 years ago (Eliot composed the poem between 1910 and 1911, before the eruption of World War I). In the 21st century, the “grimy scraps” and “vacant lots” and “conscience of a blackened street” haunt us still.

    THE TEXT 

    I 

    The winter evening settles down 
    With smell of steaks in passageways. 
    Six o'clock. 
    The burnt-out ends of smoky days. 
    And now a gusty shower wraps 
    The grimy scraps 
    Of withered leaves about your feet 
    And newspapers from vacant lots; 
    The showers beat 
    On broken blinds and chimney-pots, 
    And at the corner of the street 
    A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.  

    And then the lighting of the lamps. 

    II 

    The morning comes to consciousness 
    Of faint stale smells of beer 
    From the sawdust-trampled street 
    With all its muddy feet that press 
    To early coffee-stands. 
    With the other masquerades 
    That time resumes, 
    One thinks of all the hands 
    That are raising dingy shades 
    In a thousand furnished rooms. 

    III 

    You tossed a blanket from the bed, 
    You lay upon your back, and waited; 
    You dozed, and watched the night revealing 
    The thousand sordid images 
    Of which your soul was constituted; 
    They flickered against the ceiling. 
    And when all the world came back 
    And the light crept up between the shutters 
    And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, 
    You had such a vision of the street 
    As the street hardly understands; 
    Sitting along the bed's edge, where 
    You curled the papers from your hair, 
    Or clasped the yellow soles of feet 
    In the palms of both soiled hands. 

    IV 

    His soul stretched tight across the skies 
    That fade behind a city block, 
    Or trampled by insistent feet 
    At four and five and six o'clock; 
    And short square fingers stuffing pipes, 
    And evening newspapers, and eyes 
    Assured of certain certainties, 
    The conscience of a blackened street 
    Impatient to assume the world. 

    I am moved by fancies that are curled 
    Around these images, and cling: 
    The notion of some infinitely gentle 
    Infinitely suffering thing.  

    Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; 
    The worlds revolve like ancient women 
    Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

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