Sunday, February 3, '84.My dear Friend:The noise of your success withHérodiadereaches me; but I lack that of the work itself, and I shall go to hear it as soon as possible, probably Saturday. Again new congratulations, andGood luck to you,CH.GOUNOD.
Sunday, February 3, '84.
My dear Friend:
The noise of your success withHérodiadereaches me; but I lack that of the work itself, and I shall go to hear it as soon as possible, probably Saturday. Again new congratulations, and
Good luck to you,CH.GOUNOD.
MeanwhileMarie Magdeleinewent on its career in the great festivals abroad. I recall the following letter which Bizet wrote me some years before with deep pride.
Our school has not produced anything like it. You give me the fever, brigand.You are a proud musician, I'll wager.My wife has just putMarie Magdeleineunder lock and key!That detail is eloquent, is it not?The devil! You've become singularly disturbing.As to that, believe me that no one is more sincere in his admiration and in his affection than your,BIZET.
Our school has not produced anything like it. You give me the fever, brigand.
You are a proud musician, I'll wager.
My wife has just putMarie Magdeleineunder lock and key!
That detail is eloquent, is it not?
The devil! You've become singularly disturbing.
As to that, believe me that no one is more sincere in his admiration and in his affection than your,
BIZET.
That is the testimony of my excellent comrade and affectionate friend, George Bizet—a friend and comrade who would have remained steadfast had not blind destiny torn him from us in the full bloom of his prodigious and marvelous talent.
Still in the dawn of life when he passed from this world, he could have compassed everything in the art to which he devoted himself with so much love.
As is my custom, I did not wait forManon'sfate to be decided before I began to plague my publisher, Hartmann, to wake up and find me a new subject. I had hardly finished my plaint, to which he listened in silence with a smile on his lips, than he went to a desk and took out five books of manuscript written on the yellow paper which is well known to copyists. It wasLe Cid, an opera in five acts by Louis Gallet and Edouard Blatt. As he offered me the manuscript, Hartmann made this comment to which I had nothing to reply, "I know you. I had foreseen this outburst."
I was bound to be pleased at writing a work based on the great Corneille's masterpiece, the libretto due to the fellow workers I had had in the competition for the Imperial Opera,La Coup de roi de Thulé, in which, as I have said, I failed to win the first prize.
I learned the words by heart, as I always did.I wanted to have it constantly in my thoughts, without being compelled to keep the text in my pocket, so as to be able to work at it away from home, in the streets, in society, at dinner, at the theater, anywhere that I might find time. I get away from a task with difficulty, especially when, as in this case, I am gripped by it.
As I worked I remembered that d'Ennery sometime before had entrusted to me an important libretto and that I had found a very moving situation in the fifth act. While the words did not appear sufficiently worth while to lead me to write the music, I wanted to keep this situation. I told the famous dramatist and I obtained his consent to interpolate this scene in the second act ofLe Cid. Thus d'Ennery became a collaborator. This scene is where Chimène finds that Rodriguez is her father's murderer.
Some days later, as I was reading the romance of Guilhem de Castro, I came across an incident which became the tableau where the consoling apparition appears to the Cid as he is in tears—the second tableau in the third act. I was inspired to this by the apparition of Jesus to Saint Julien the Hospitalier.
I continued my work onLe Cidwherever Ihappened to be, as the performances ofManontook me to the provincial theaters where they alternated it withHérodiadeboth in France and abroad.
I wrote the ballet forLe Cidat Marseilles during a rather long stay there. I was very comfortably established in my room, at the Hotel Beauveau, with its long latticed windows which looked out on the old port. The prospect was actually fairylike. This room was decorated with remarkable panels and mirrors, and when I expressed my astonishment at seeing them so well preserved, the proprietor told me that the room was an object of special care because Paganini, Alfred de Musset and George Sand had all lived there once upon a time. The cult of memories sometimes reaches the point of fetishism.
It was spring. My room was scented with bunches of carnations which my friends in Marseilles sent me every day. When I say friends, the word is too weak; perhaps it is necessary to go to mathematics to get the word, and even then?
The friends in Marseilles heaped upon me consideration, attention and endless kindness. That is the country where they sweeten the coffeeby placing it outside on the balcony, for the sea is made of honey!
Before I left the kind hospitality of this Phocean city, I received the following letter from the directors of the Opéra, Ritt and Gailhard:
"My dear Friend,"Can you set the day and hour for your reading of Le Cid?"In friendship,"E. Ritt."
"My dear Friend,
"Can you set the day and hour for your reading of Le Cid?
"In friendship,"E. Ritt."
But I had brought from Paris keen anguish about the distribution of the parts. I wanted the sublime Mme. Fidès Devriès to create the part of Chimène, but they said that since her marriage she no longer wanted to appear on the stage. I also depended on my friends Jean and Edouard de Reszke, who came to Paris especially to talk aboutLe Cid. They were aware of my plans for them. How many times I climbed the stairs of the Hotel Scribe where they lived!
At last the contracts were signed and finally the reading took place as the Opéra requested.
As I speak of the ballet inLe CidI remember I heard the motif, which begins the ballet, in Spain. I was in the very country ofLe Cidat the time, living in a modest inn. It chanced thatthey were celebrating a wedding and they danced all night in the lower room of the hotel. Several guitars and two flutes repeated a dance tune until they wore it out. I noted it down. It became the motif I am writing about, a bit of local color which I seized. I did not let it get away. I intended this ballet for Mlle. Rosita Mauri who had already done some wonderful dances at the Opéra. I even owed several interesting rhythms to the famous dancer.
The land of the Magyars and France have been joined at all times by bonds of keen, cordial sympathy. It was not a surprise, therefore, when the Hungarian students invited forty Frenchmen—I was one—to go to Hungary for festivities which they intended to give in our honor.
We started—a joyous caravan—one beautiful evening in August for the banks of the Danube, François Coppée, Léo Delibes, Georges Clairin, Doctors Pozzi and Albert Rodin, and many other comrades and charming friends. Then, some newspaper men went along. Ferdinand de Lesseps was at our head to preside over us, by right of name if not by fame. Our illustrious compatriot was nearly eighty at the time. He bore the weight of years so lightly that for a momentone would have thought he was the youngest in the lot.
We started off in uproarious gaiety. The journey was one uninterrupted flow of jests and humorous wit, intermingled with farce and endless pleasantries.
The restaurant car was reserved for us. We did not leave it all night and our sleeping car was absolutely unoccupied.
As we went through Munich, the Orient Express stopped for five minutes to let off two travelers, a man and a woman, who, we did not know how, had contrived to squeeze into a corner of the dining car and who had calmly sat through all our follies. As they left the train, they made in a foreign accent this rather sharp remark, "Those distinguished persons seem rather common." We certainly did not intend to displease that puritanical pair and we never overstepped the bounds of joviality and fun.
That fortnight's journey continued full of incidents in which jokes contended with burlesque.
Every evening, after the warmly enthusiastic receptions of the Hungarian youth, Ferdinand de Lesseps, our venerated chief, who was called in all the Hungarian speeches the "Great Frenchman,"would leave us after fixing the order of the next day's receptions. As he finished arranging our program, he would add, "To-morrow morning, at four o'clock, in evening dress." And the "Great Frenchman" would be the first one up and dressed. When we congratulated him on his extraordinary youthful energy, he would apologize as follows: "Youth must wear itself out."
During the festivities of every kind which they got up in our honor, they arranged for a gala spectacle, a great performance at the Théâtre Royal in Budapest. Delibes and I were both asked to conduct an act from one of our works.
When I reached the orchestra, amid hurrahs from the audience, only in Hungary they shout, "Elyen," I found on the desk the score ... of the first act ofCoppelia, when I had expected to find before me the third act ofHérodiadefor me to conduct. So much the worse! There was no help for it and I had to beat time—from memory.
The plot thickened.
The Forum from the First Act of Roma. See page 300The Forum from the First Act of Roma. Seepage 300
When Delibes, who had received the same honors that I had, saw the third act ofHérodiadeon his desk, with me rejoining my companionsin the audience, he presented a unique spectacle. My poor dear great friend mopped his brow, turned this way and that, drew long breaths, begged the Hungarian musicians—who didn't understand a word he said—to give him the right score, but all in vain.
He had to conduct from memory. This seemed to exasperate him, but Delibes, the adorable musician, was far above a little difficulty like that.
After this entertainment we were all present at an immense banquet where naturally enough toasts were de rigeur. I offered one to that great musician, Franz Liszt—Hungary was honored in giving him birth.
When Delibes's turn came, I suggested to him that I collaborate in his speech as we had done at the Opéra with our scores. I spoke for him; he spoke for me. The result was a succession of incoherent phrases which were received by the frantic applause of our compatriots and by the enthusiastic "Elyens" of the Hungarians.
I will add that Delibes and I, like all the rest, were in a state of delightful intoxication, for the marvellous vineyards of Hungary are verily those of the Lord himself. Something must be thematter with one's head, if he does not enjoy the charm of those wines with their voluptuous, heady bouquet.
Four o'clock in the morning! We were, as ordered, in evening dress (indeed we had not changed it) and ready to go to lay wreaths on the tomb of the forty Hungarian martyrs who had died to free their country.
But through all these mad follies, all these distractions, and impressive ceremonies, I was thinking of the rehearsals ofLe Cidwhich were waiting for my return to Paris. When I got back, I found another souvenir of Hungary, a letter from the author ofLa Messe du Saint Graal, the precursor ofParsifal:
"Most Honored Confrère:"The HungarianGazetteinforms me that you have testified benevolently in my favor at the French banquet at Budapest. Sincere thanks and constant cordiality."F. Liszt."26 August, '85. Weimar.
"Most Honored Confrère:
"The HungarianGazetteinforms me that you have testified benevolently in my favor at the French banquet at Budapest. Sincere thanks and constant cordiality.
"F. Liszt."
26 August, '85. Weimar.
The stage rehearsals ofLe Cidat the Opéra were carried on with astonishing sureness and skill by my dear director, P. Gailhard, a master of this art who had been besides the most admirableof artists on the stage. He did everything for the good of the work with an affectionate friendship. It is my pleasant duty to pay him honor for this.
Later on I found him the same invaluable collaborator whenArianewas put on at the Opéra.
On the evening of November 20, 1885, the Opéra billed the first performance ofLe Cid, while the Opéra-Comique played the same eveningManon, which had already passed its eightieth performance.
In spite of the good news from the general rehearsal ofLe Cid, I spent the evening with the artists atManon. Needless to say all the talk in the wings of the Opéra-Comique was of the first performance ofLe Cidwhich was then in full blast.
Despite my apparent calmness, in my inmost heart I was extremely anxious, so the curtain had hardly fallen on the fifth act ofManonthan I went to the Opéra instead of going home. An irresistible power pulled me thither.
As I skirted the outside of the house from which an elegant and large crowd was pouring, I overheard a snatch of conversation between a well known journalist and a reporter who hurriedlyinquired the results of the evening. "It is splitting, my dear chap."
I was greatly troubled, as one would be in any case, and ran to the directors' room for further news. At the artists' entrance I met Mme. Krause. She embraced me in raptures and said, "It's a triumph!"
Need I say that I preferred the opinion of this admirable artiste. She comforted me completely.
I left Paris (what a traveler I was then!) for Lyons, where they were giving bothHérodiadeandManon.
Three days after my arrival there, as I was dining at a restaurant with my two great friends Josephin Soulary, the fine poet ofLes Deux Cortèges, and Paul Marieton, the vibrant provincial poet, I was handed the following telegram from Hartmann:
"Fifth performance ofLe Cidpostponed a month. Enormous advance sale returned. Artists ill."
I was nervous at the time; I fainted away and remained unconscious so long that my friends were greatly alarmed.
At the end of three weeks, however,Le Cidreappeared on the bills, and I realized once more that I was surrounded by deep sympathy, as the following letter shows:
"My dear Confrère:"I must congratulate you on your success and I want to applaud you as quickly as possible. My turn for my box does not come around until Friday, December 11th, and I beg you to arrange forLe Cidto be given on that day,Friday, December 11."H.D'ORLEANS."
"My dear Confrère:
"I must congratulate you on your success and I want to applaud you as quickly as possible. My turn for my box does not come around until Friday, December 11th, and I beg you to arrange forLe Cidto be given on that day,Friday, December 11.
"H.D'ORLEANS."
How touched and proud I was at this mark of attention from his Royal Highness the Duc d'Aumale!
I shall always remember the delightful and inspiring days passed at the Chateau de Chantilly with my confrères at the Institute Léon Bonnat, Benjamin Constant, Edouard Detaille, and Gérôme. Our reception by our royal host was charming in its simplicity and his conversation was that of an eminent man of letters, erudite but unpretentious. It was captivating and attractive for us when we all gathered in the library where the prince enthralled us by his perfectsimplicity as he talked to us, pipe in his mouth, as he had so often done in camp among our soldiers.
Only the great ones of earth know how to produce such moments of delightful familiarity.
AndLe Cidwent on its way both in the provinces and abroad.
In October, 1900, the hundredth performance was celebrated at the Opéra and on November 21, 1911, at the end of twenty-six years, I read in the papers:
"The performance ofLe Cidlast night was one of the finest. A packed house applauded enthusiastically the beautiful work by M. Massenet and his interpreters: Mlle. Bréval, Mm. Franz and Delmas, and the star of the ballet, Mlle. Zambelli."
I had been particularly happy in the performances of this work which had preceded this. After the sublime Fidès Devriès, Chimène was sung in Paris by the incomparable Mme. Rose Caron, the superb Mme. Adiny, the moving Mlle. Mérentié, and particularly by Louise Grandjean, the eminent professor at the Conservatoire.
On Sunday, August first, Hartmann and I went to hearParsifalat the Wagner Theater at Bayreuth. After we had heard thismiracle uniquewe visited the capital of Upper Franconia. Some of the monuments there are worth while seeing. I wanted especially to see the city church. It is an example of the Gothic architecture of the middle of the Fifteenth Century and was dedicated to Mary Magdalene. It is not hard to imagine what memories drew me to this remarkable edifice.
After running through various German towns and visiting different theaters, Hartmann, who had an idea of his own, took me to Wetzler, where he had seen Werther. We visited the house where Goethe had written his immortal romance,The Sorrows of Young Werther.
I knew Werther's letters and I had a thrilling recollection of them. I was deeply impressedby being in the house which Goethe made famous by having his hero live and love there.
As we were coming out Hartmann said, "I have something to complete the obviously deep emotion you have felt."
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a book with a binding yellow with age. It was the French translation of Goethe's romance. "This translation is perfect," said Hartmann, in spite of the aphorismTraduttore traditore, that a translation utterly distorts the author's thought.
I scarcely had the book in my hands than I was eager to read it, so we went into one of those immense beer halls which are everywhere in Germany. We sat down and ordered two enormous bocks like our neighbors had. Among the various groups were students who were easily picked out by their scholars' caps and were playing cards or other games, nearly all with porcelain pipes in their mouths. On the other hand there were few women.
It is needless to tell what I endured in that thick, foul air laden with the bitter odor of beer. But I could not stop reading those burning letters full of the most intense passion. Indeed what could be more suggestive than the followinglines, remembered among so many others, where keen anguish threw Werther and Charlotte into each other's arms after the thrilling reading of Ossian's verses?
"Why awakest me, breath of the Spring? Thou caresseth me and sayeth I am laden with the dew of heaven, but the tune cometh when I must wither, the storm that must beat down my leaves is at hand. To-morrow the traveler will come; his eye will seek me everywhere, and find me no more...."
And Goethe adds:
"Unhappy Werther felt crushed by the force of these words and threw himself before Charlotte in utter despair. It seemed to Charlotte that a presentiment of the frightful project he had formed passed through her soul. Her senses reeled; she clasped his hands and pressed them to her bosom; she leaned towards him tenderly and their burning cheeks touched."
Such delirious, ecstatic passion brought tears to my eyes. What a moving scene, what a passionate picture that ought to make! It wasWerther, my third act.
I was now all life and happiness. I was wrapped up in work and in an almost feverishactivity. It was a task I wanted to do but into which I had to put, if possible, the song of those moving, lively passions.
Circumstances, however, willed that I put this project aside for the moment. Carvalho proposedPhoebéto me and chance led me to writeManon.
Then cameLe Cidto fill my life. At last in the summer of 1885, without waiting for the result of that opera, Hartmann, Paul Milliet, my great, splendid collaborator inHérodiade, and I came to an agreement to take up the task of writingWerther.
In order to incite me to work more ardently (as if I had need of it) my publisher—he had improvised a scenario—engaged for me at the Reservoirs at Versailles, a vast ground floor apartment on the level of the gardens of our great Le Notre.
The room in which I was installed had a lofty ceiling with Eighteenth Century paneling and it was furnished in the same period. The table at which I wrote was the purest Louis XV. Hartmann had chosen everything at the most famous antiquarians.
Hartmann had special aptitude for doing hisshare of the work. He spoke German very well; he understood Goethe; he loved the German mind; he stuck to it that I should undertake the work.
So, when one day it was suggested that I write an opera on Murger'sLa Vie de Bohème, he took it on himself to refuse the work without consulting me in any way.
I would have been greatly tempted to do the thing. I would have been pleased to follow Henry Murger in his life and work. He was an artist in his way. Théophile Gautier justly called him a poet, although he excelled as a writer of prose. I feel that I could have followed him through that peculiar world he created and which he has made it possible for us to cross in a thousand ways in the train of the most amusing originals we had ever seen. And such gaiety, such tears, such outbursts of frantic laughter, and such courageous poverty, as Jules Janin said, would, I think, have captivated me. Like Alfred de Musset—one of his masters—he had grace and style, ineffable tenderness, gladsome smiles, the cry of the heart, emotion. He sang songs dear to the hearts of lovers and they charm us all. His fiddle was not a Stradivarius,they said, but he had a soul like Hoffman's and he knew how to play so as to bring tears.
I knew Murger personally, in fact so well that I even saw him the night of his death. I was present at a most affecting interview while I was there, but even that did not lack a comic note. It could not have been otherwise with Murger.
I was at his bedside when they brought in M. Schaune (the Schaunardo ofLa Vie de Bohème). Murger was eating magnificent grapes he had bought with his last louis and Schaune said laughing, "How silly of you to drink your wine in pills!"
As I knew not only Murger but also Schaunard and Musette, it seemed to me that there was no one better qualified than I to be the musician ofLa Vie de Bohème. But all those heroes were my friends and I saw them every day, so that I understood why Hartmann thought the moment had not come to write that so distinctly Parisian work, to sing the romance that had been so great a part of my life.
As I speak of that period which is already in the distant past, I glory in recalling that I knew Corot at Ville-d'Avray, as well as our famous Harpignies, who despite his ninety-two years is,as I write, in all the vigor of his immense talent. Only yesterday he climbed gaily to my floor. Oh, the dear great friend, the marvellous artist I have known for fifty years!
When the work was done, I went to M. Carvalho's on the twenty-fifth of May. I had secured Mme. Rose Caron, then at the Opéra, to aid me in my reading. The admirable artiste was beside me turning the pages of the manuscript and showing the deepest emotion at times. I read the four acts by myself, and when I reached the climax, I fell exhausted, annihilated.
Then Carvalho came to me without a word, but he finally said:
"I had hoped you would bring me anotherManon! This dismal subject lacks interest. It is damned from the start."
As I think this over to-day, I understand his impression perfectly, especially when I reflect on the years I had to live before the work came to be admired.
Carvalho was kind and offered me some exquisite wine, claret, I believe, like what I had tasted one joyous evening I readManon.... My throat was as dry as my speech; I went out without saying a word.
The next day,horresco referens, yes, the next day I was again struck down, the Opéra-Comique was no more. It had been totally destroyed by fire during the night. I hurried to Carvalho's. We fell into each other's arms, embraced each other in tears and wept. My poor director was ruined. Inexorable fate! The work had to wait six years in silence and oblivion.
Two years before the Opéra at Vienna had put onManon; the hundredth performance was reached and passed in a short time. The Austrian capital had given me a friendly and enviable reception; so much so that it suggested to Van Dyck the idea of asking me for a work.
Now I proposedWerther. The lack of good will on the part of the French directors left me free to dispose of that score.
The Vienna Opéra was an imperial theater. The management asked the Emperor to place an apartment at my disposal and he graciously offered me one at the famous Hotel Sacher beside the Opéra.
My first call after my arrival was on Jahn, the director. That kindly, eminent master took me to the foyer where the rehearsals were to be held. It was a vast room, lighted by immense windowsand provided with great chairs. A full length portrait of Emperor Francis Joseph ornamented one of the panels; there was a grand piano in the center of the room.
All the artists forWertherwere gathered around the piano when Jahn and I entered the foyer. As they saw us they rose in a body and bowed in salutation.
At this touching manifestation of respectful sympathy—to which our great Van Dyck added a most affectionate embrace—I responded by bowing in my turn; and then a little nervous and trembling all over I sat down at the piano.
The work was absolutely in shape. All the artists could sing their parts from memory. The hearty demonstrations they showered on me at intervals moved me so that I felt tears in my eyes.
At the orchestra rehearsal this emotion was renewed. The execution was perfection; the orchestra, now soft, now loud, followed the shading of the voice so that I could not shake off the enchantment.
The general rehearsal took place on February fifteenth from nine o'clock in the morning until midday and I saw (an ineffable, sweet surprise)in the orchestra stalls my dear publisher, Henri Heugel, Paul Milliet, my precious co-worker, and intimate friends from Paris. They had come so far to see me in the Austrian capital amid great and lively joys, for I had really been received there in the most exquisite and flattering manner.
The performances that followed confirmed the impressions of the beautiful first performance of February 16, 1892. The work was sung by the celebrated artists Marie Renard and Ernest Van Dyck.
That same year, 1892, Carvalho again became the director of the Opéra-Comique, then in the Place du Chatelet. He asked me forWerther, and in a tone so full of feeling that I did not hesitate to let him have it.
The same week Mme. Massenet and I dined with M. and Mme. Alphonse Daudet. The other guests were Edmond de Goncourt and Charpentier, the publisher.
After dinner Daudet told me that he wanted me to hear a young artiste. "Music herself," he said. This young girl was Marie Delna! At the first bars that she sang (the aria from the great Gounod'sLa Reine de Saba) I turned to her and took her hands.
Posthumia (Roma) See page 297Posthumia (Roma) Seepage 297
"Be Charlotte, our Charlotte," I said, utterly carried away.
The day after the first performance at the Opéra-Comique, in January, 1893, I received this note from Gounod:
"Dear Friend:"Our most hearty congratulations on this double triumph and we regret that the French were not the first witnesses."The following touching and picturesque lines were sent me at the time by the illustrious architect of the Opéra."Amico mio,Two eyes to see you,Two ears to hear you,Two lips to kiss you,Two arms to enfold you,Two hands to applaud you.and"Two words to give thee all my compliments and to tell thee that thyWertheris an excellent hit—do you know?—I am proud of you, and for your part do not blush that a poor architect is entirely satisfied with you."CARLO."
"Dear Friend:
"Our most hearty congratulations on this double triumph and we regret that the French were not the first witnesses."
The following touching and picturesque lines were sent me at the time by the illustrious architect of the Opéra.
"Two words to give thee all my compliments and to tell thee that thyWertheris an excellent hit—do you know?—I am proud of you, and for your part do not blush that a poor architect is entirely satisfied with you.
"CARLO."
In 1903, after nine years of ostracism, M.Albert Carré revived this forgotten work. With his incomparable talent, his marvellous taste, and his art, which was that of an exquisite man of letters, he knew how to present the work to the public so as to make it a real revelation.
Many famous artistes have sung the rôle since that time: Mlle. Marie de l'Isle, who was the first Charlotte at the revival and who created the work with her fine, individual talents; then Mlles. Lamare, Cesbron, Wyns, Raveau, Mmes. de Nuovina, Vix, Hatto, Brohly, and ... others whose names I will give later.
At the revival due to M. Albert Carré,Wertherhad the great good fortune to have Léon Beyle as the protagonist of the part; later Edmond Clément and Salignac were also superb and thrilling interpreters of the work.
But to go back to the events the day after the destruction of the Opéra-Comique.
The Opéra-Comique was moved to the Place du Chatelet, in the old theater called Des Nations, which later became the Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt. M. Paravey was appointed director. I had known him when he directed the Grand-Théâtre at Nantes with real talent.
Hartmann offered him two works: Edouard Lalo'sLe Roi d'Yaand myWertheron sufferance.
I was so discouraged that I preferred to wait before I let the work see the light.
I have just written about its genesis and destiny.
One day I received a friendly invitation to dine with a great American family. After I had declined, as I most often did—I hadn't time, in addition to not liking that sort of distraction—they insisted, however, so graciously that I could not persist in my refusal. It seemed to me thatperhaps my afflicted heart might meet something there which would turn aside my discouragements. Does one ever know?...
I was placed beside a lady who composed music and had great talent. On the other side of my neighbor was a French diplomat whose amiable compliments surpassed, it seemed to me, all limits.Est modus in rebus, there are limits in all things, and our diplomat should have been guided by this ancient saying together with the counsel of a master, the illustrious Talleyrand, "Pas de zele, surtout!"
I would not think of telling the exact conversation which occurred in that charming place any more than I would think of giving the menu of what we had to eat. What I do remember is a salad—a disconcerting mixture of American, English, German, and French.
But my French neighbors occupied my entire attention, which gave me the chance to remember this delightful colloquy between the lady composer and the diplomat.
The Gentleman.—"So you are ever the child of the Muses, a new Orphea?"
The Lady.—"Isn't music the consolation of souls in distress?"
The Gentleman (insinuatingly).—"Do you not find that love is stronger than sounds in banishing heart pain?"
The Lady.—"Yesterday, I was consoled by writing the music to 'The Broken Vase.'"
The Gentleman (poetically).—"A nocturne, no doubt...."
I heard muffled laughter. The conversation took a new turn.
After dinner we went into the drawing room for music. I was doing my best to obliterate myself when two ladies dressed in black, one young, the other older, came in.
The master of the house hastened to greet them and I was presented to them almost at once.
The younger was extraordinarily lovely; the other was her mother, also beautiful, with that thoroughly American beauty which the Starry Republic often sends to us.
"Dear Master," said the younger woman with a slight accent, "I have been asked to come to this friendly house this evening to have the honor of seeing you and to let you hear my voice. I am the daughter of a supreme court judge in America and I have lost my father. He left mymother, my sisters, and me a fortune, but I want to go on the stage. If they blame me for it, after I have succeeded I shall reply that success excuses everything."
Without further preamble I granted her desire and seated myself at the piano.
"You will pardon me," she added, "if I do not sing your music. That would be too audacious before you."
She had scarcely said this than her voice sounded magically, dazzlingly, in the aria, "Queen of the Night," from theMagic Flute.
What a fascinating voice! It ranged from low G to the counter G—three octaves—in full strength and in pianissimo.
I was astounded, stupefied, subjugated! When such voices occur, it is fortunate that they have the theater in which to display themselves; the world is their domain. I ought to say that I had recognized in that future artiste, together with the rarity of that organ, intelligence, a flame, a personality which were reflected luminously in her admirable face. All these qualities are of first importance on the stage.
The next morning I hurried to my publisher'sto tell him about the enthusiasm I had felt the previous evening.
I found Hartmann preoccupied. "It concerns an artist, right enough," he said. "I want to talk about something else and ask you, yes or no, whether you will write the music for the work which has just been brought me." And he added, "It is urgent, for the music is wanted for the opening of the Universal Exposition which takes place two years from now, in May, 1889."
I took the manuscript and I had scarcely run through a scene or two than I cried in an outburst of deep conviction, "I have the artiste for this part. I have the artiste. I heard her yesterday! She is Mlle. Sibyl Sanderson! She shall create Esclarmonde, the heroine of the new opera you offer me."
She was the ideal artiste for the romantic work in five acts by Alfred Blau and Louis de Gramont.
The new director of the Opéra-Comique, who always showed me deference and perfect kindness, engaged Mlle. Sibyl Sanderson and accepted without discussion the salary we proposed.
He left the ordering of the scenery and the costumes entirely to my discretion, and made methe absolute master and director of the decorators and costumers whom I was to guide in entire accordance with my ideas.
If I was agreeably satisfied by this state of affairs, M. Paravey for his part could not but congratulate himself on the financial results fromEsclarmonde. It is but just to add that it was brought out at the necessarily brilliant period of the Universal Exposition in 1889. The first performance was on May 14 of that year.
The superb artists who figured on the bill with Sibyl Sanderson were Mm. Bouvet, Taskin, and Gibert.
The work had been sung one hundred and one consecutive times in Paris when I learned that sometime since the Théâtre Royal de la Monnaie at Brussels had engaged Sibyl Sanderson to createEsclarmondethere. That meant her enforced disappearance from the stage of the Opéra-Comique, where she had triumphed for several months.
If Paris, however, must needs endure the silence of the artiste, applauded by so many and such varied audiences during the Exposition, if this star who had risen so brilliantly above the horizon of the artistic heavens departed for a time tocharm other hearers, the great provincial houses echoed with the success inEsclarmondeof such famous artistes as Mme. Bréjean-Silver at Bordeaux; Mme. de Nuovina at Brussels, and Mme. Verheyden and Mlle. Vuillaume at Lyons.
Notwithstanding all this,Esclarmonderemained the living memory of that rare and beautiful artiste whom I had chosen to create the rôle in Paris; it enabled her to make her name forever famous.
Sibyl Sanderson! I cannot remember that artiste without feeling deep emotion, cut down as she was in her full beauty, in the glorious bloom of her talent by pitiless Death. She was an ideal Manon at the Opéra-Comique, and a never to be forgotten Thaïs at the Opéra. These rôles identified themselves with her temperament, the choicest spirit of that nature which was one of the most magnificently endowed I have ever known.
An unconquerable vocation had driven her to the stage, where she became the ardent interpreter of several of my works. But for our part what an inspiring joy it is to write works and parts for artists who realize our very dreams!
It is in gratitude that in speaking ofEsclarmondeI dedicate these lines to her. The many people who came to Paris from all parts of the world in 1889 have also kept their memories of the artiste who was their joy and who had so delighted them.
A large, silent, meditative crowd gathered at the passing of the cortège which bore Sibyl Sanderson to her last resting place. A veil of sorrow seemed to be over them all.
Albert Carré and I followed the coffin. We were the first behind all that remained of her beauty, grace, goodness, and talent with all its appeal. As we noted the universal sorrow, Albert Carré interpreted the feeling of the crowd towards the beautiful departed, and said in these words, eloquent in their conciseness and which will survive, "She was loved!"
What more simple, more touching, and more just homage could be paid to the memory of her who was no more?
It is a pleasure to recall in a few rapid strokes the happy memory of the time I spent in writingEsclarmonde.
During the summers of 1887 and 1888 I went to Switzerland and lived in the Grand Hotel at Vevey. I was curious to see that pretty town atthe foot of Jorat on the shores of Lake Geneva and which was made famous by its Fête des Vigerons. I had heard it praised for the many charming walks in the neighborhood and the beauty and mildness of the climate. Above all I remembered that I had read of it in the "Confessions" of Jean Jacques Rousseau, who, at any rate, had every reason to love it,—Mme. de Warens was born there. His love for this delightful little city lasted through all his wanderings.
The hotel was surrounded by a fine park which afforded the guests the shade of its large trees and led to a small harbor where they could embark for excursions on the lake.
In August, 1887, I wanted to pay a visit to my master Ambroise Thomas. He had bought a group of islands in the sea near the North Coast and I had been there to see him. Doubtless my visit was pleasant to him, for I received from him the next summer in Switzerland the following pages:
ILLIEC, Monday, August 20, 1888Thanks for your good letter, my dear friend. It has been forwarded to me in this barbarous island where you came last year. You remind me of that friendly visit of which we often speak,but we regret that we were only able to keep you two days.It was too short!Will you be able to come again, or rather, shall I see you here again? You say you work with pleasure and you appear content.... I congratulate you on it, and I can say without envy that I wish I were able to say as much for myself. At your age one is filled with confidence and zeal; but at mine!...I am taking up again, not without some difficulty, a work which has been interrupted for a long time, and what is better, I find that I am already rested in my solitude from the excitement and fatigue of life in Paris.I send you the affectionate regards of Mme. Ambroise Thomas, and I say au revoir, dear friend, with a good grip of the hand.Yours with all my heart,AMBROISETHOMAS.
ILLIEC, Monday, August 20, 1888
Thanks for your good letter, my dear friend. It has been forwarded to me in this barbarous island where you came last year. You remind me of that friendly visit of which we often speak,but we regret that we were only able to keep you two days.
It was too short!
Will you be able to come again, or rather, shall I see you here again? You say you work with pleasure and you appear content.... I congratulate you on it, and I can say without envy that I wish I were able to say as much for myself. At your age one is filled with confidence and zeal; but at mine!...
I am taking up again, not without some difficulty, a work which has been interrupted for a long time, and what is better, I find that I am already rested in my solitude from the excitement and fatigue of life in Paris.
I send you the affectionate regards of Mme. Ambroise Thomas, and I say au revoir, dear friend, with a good grip of the hand.
Yours with all my heart,AMBROISETHOMAS.
Yes, as my master said, I did work with pleasure.
Mlle. Sibyl Sanderson, her mother and three sisters were also living at the Grand Hotel at Vevey and every evening from five o'clock until seven I made our future Esclarmonde work on the scene I had written that day.
AfterEsclarmondeI did not wait for my mind to grow fallow. My publisher knew my sad feelings aboutWertherwhich I persisted in being unwilling to have given to a theater (no management had then made advances to obtain the work) and he opened negotiations with Jean Richepin. They decided to offer me a great subject for the Opéra on the story of Zoroaster, entitledLe Mage.
In the course of the summer of 1889 I already had several scenes of the work planned out.
My excellent friend the learned writer on history, Charles Malherbe, was aware of the few moments I made no use of, and I found him a real collaborator in these circumstances. Indeed, he chose among my scattered papers a series of manuscripts which he indicated to me would serve in the different acts ofLe Mage.
P. Gailhard, our director at the Opéra, was as ever the most devoted of friends. He put the work on with unheard of elaborateness. I owed to him a magnificent cast with Mmes. Fierens and Lureau Escalaïs and Mm. Vergnet and Delmas. The ballet was important and was staged in a fairylike way and had as its star Rosita Mauri.
Although it was knocked about a good deal by the press, the work ran for more than forty performances.
Some were glad of the chance to seek a quarrel with our director who had played his last card and had arrived at the last month of his privilege. It was useless trouble on their part. Gailhard was shortly afterwards called upon to resume the managerial scepter of our great lyric stage. I found him there associated with E. Bertrand whenThaïs, of which I shall speak later, was put on.
Apropos of this, some verses of the ever witty Ernest Reyer come to mind. Here they are:
You may be astonished at never having seen this work of Reyer's played. Here is the theme as he told it, with the most amusing seriousness, at one of our monthly dinners of the Institute, at the excellent Champeaux restaurant, Place de Bourse.
First and Only Act!
The scene represents a public square; on the left the sign of a famous tavern. Enter from the right a Capuchin. He stares at the tavern door. He hesitates; then, finally, he decides to cross the threshold and closes the door. Music in the orchestra—if desired. Suddenly, the Capuchin comes out again—enchanted, assuredly enchanted by the cooking!
Thus the title of the work is explained; it has nothing to do with fairies enchanting a poor monk!
The year 1891 was marked by an event which had a profound effect on my life. In the month of May of that year the publishing house of Hartmann went out of business.
How did it happen? What brought about this catastrophe? I asked myself these questions but could get no answer. It had seemed to me that all was going as well as could be expected with my publisher. I was utterly stupefied at hearing that all the works published by the house of Hartmann were to be put up at auction; that they would have to face the ordeal of a public sale. For me this was a most disturbing uncertainty.
I had a friend who had a vault, and I entrusted to him the orchestral score and piano score ofWertherand the orchestral score ofAmadis. He put these valueless papers beside his valuables. The scores were in manuscript.
I have already written of the fortunes ofWerther, and perhaps I shall ofAmadis, the text of which was by our great friend Jules Claretie of the French Academy.
As may be imagined, my anxiety was very great. I expected to see my labor of many years scattered among all the publishers. Where wouldManongo? Where wouldHérodiadebring up? Who would getMarie Magdeleine? Who would have mySuites d'Orchestra? All this disturbed my muddled brain and made me anxious.
Hartmann had always shown me so much friendliness and sensitiveness in my interests, and he was, I am sure, as sorrowful as I was about this painful situation.
Henri Heugel and his nephew Paul-Émile Chevalier, owners of the great firm Le Ménestrel, were my saviors. They were the pilots who kept all the works of my past life from shipwreck, prevented their being scattered, and running the risks of adventure and chance.
They acquired all of Hartmann's assets and paid a considerable price for them.
In May, 1911, I congratulated them on the twentieth anniversary of the good and friendly relations which had existed between us and at thesame time I expressed the deep gratitude I cherish towards them.
How many times I had passed by Le Ménestrel, and envied without hostility those masters, those published, all those favored by that great house!
My entrance to Le Ménestrel began a glorious era for me, and every time I go there I feel the same deep happiness. All the satisfactions I enjoy as well as the disappointments I experience find a faithful echo in the hearts of my publishers.
Some years later Léon Carvalho again became the manager at the Opéra-Comique. M. Paravey's privilege had expired.
I recall this card from Carvalho the day after he left in 1887. He had erased his title of "directeur." It expressed perfectly his sorrowful resignation: