"My dear Master,"I scratch out the title, but I retain the memory of my great artistic joys whereManonholds a first place...."What a fine diamond!"LEONCARVALHO."
"My dear Master,
"I scratch out the title, but I retain the memory of my great artistic joys whereManonholds a first place....
"What a fine diamond!
"LEONCARVALHO."
His first thought was to reviveManonwhich had disappeared from the bills since the fire ofmournful memory. This revival was in October, 1892.
Sibyl Sanderson, as I have said, had been engaged for a year at the Théâtre de la Monnaie at Brussels. She playedEsclarmondeandManon. Carvalho took her from the Monnaie to reviveManonin Paris. The work has never left the bills since and, as I write it, has reached its 763rd performance.
At the beginning of the same yearWertherwas given at Vienna as well as a ballet:Le Carillon. The applauded collaborators were our Des Grieux and our German Werther: Ernest Van Dyck and de Roddaz.
It was on my return from another visit to Vienna that my faithful and precious collaborator Louis Gallet paid me a visit one day at Le Ménestrel. My publishers had arranged a superb study where I could rehearse my artists from Paris and elsewhere in their parts. Louis Gallet and Heugel proposed to me a work on Anatole France's admirable romanceThaïs.
I was immediately carried away by the idea. I could see Sanderson in the rôle of Thaïs. She belonged to the Opéra-Comique so I would do the work for that house.
Spring at last permitted me to go to the seashore where I have always liked to live and I left Paris with my wife and daughter, taking with me all that I had composed of the work with so much happiness.
I took with me a friend who never left me day or night—an enormous gray Angora cat with long silky hair.
I worked at a large table placed on a veranda against which the waves of the sea sometimes broke heavily and scattered their foam. The cat lay on the table, sleeping almost on my pages with an unceremoniousness which delighted me. He could not stand such strange noises and every time it happened he pushed out his paws and showed his claws as if to drive the sea away.
I know some one else who loves cats, not more but as much as I do, the gracious Countess Marie de Yourkevitch, who won the grand gold medal for piano playing at the Imperial Conservatoire of Music at St. Petersburg. She has lived in Paris for some years in a luxurious apartment where she is surrounded by dogs and cats, her great friends.
"Who loves animals, loves people," and weknow that the Countess is a true Maecenas to artists.
The exquisite poet Jeanne Dortzal is also a friend of these felines with the deep-green enigmatic eyes; they are the companions of her working hours.
I finishedThaïsat the Rue du General Foy, in my bedroom where nothing broke the silence except the crackling of the Yule logs which burned in the fireplace.
At that time I did not have a mass of letters which I must answer, as is the case now; I did not receive a quantity of books which I must run over so that I could thank the authors; neither was I absorbed in incessant rehearsals, in short, I did not lead the sort of a life I would willingly qualify as infernal, if it were not my rulenotto go out in the evening.
At six in the morning I received a call from my masseur. His cares were made necessary by rheumatism in my right hand, and I had some trouble with it.
Even at this early morning hour I had been at work for some time, and this practitioner, Imbert, who was in high good standing with his clients,brought me morning greetings from Alexander Dumas the Younger from whose house he had just come. As he came, he said, "I left the master with his candles lighted, his beard trimmed, and comfortably installed in his white dressing gown."
One morning he brought me these words—a reply to a reproach I had allowed myself to make to him:
"Confess that you thought that I had forgotten you, man of little faith."A. DUMAS."
"Confess that you thought that I had forgotten you, man of little faith.
"A. DUMAS."
Between whiles, and it was a delightful distraction, I had writtenLe Portrait de Manon, a delightful act by Georges Boyer, to whom I already owed the text ofLes Enfants.
Some good friends of mine, Auguste Cain, the famous sculptor of animals, and his dear wife, had been generous and useful to me in difficult circumstances, and I was delighted to applaud the first dramatic work of their son Henri Cain. His success withLa Vivandièreaffirmed his talent still more. The music of this work in three acts was the swan song of the genial Benjamin Godard.Ah! the dear great musician who was a real poet from his youth up, in the first bars he wrote. Who does not remember his masterpieceLe Tasse?
As I was strolling one day in the gardens of the dismal palace of the dukes d'Este at Ferrare, I picked a branch of oleander which was just in blossom and sent it to my friend. My gift recalled the incomparable duet in the first act ofLe Tasse.
During the summer of 1893 my wife and I went to Avignon. This city of the popes, theterre papale, as Rabelais called it, attracted me almost as much as that other city of the popes, ancient Rome.
We lived at the excellent Hotel de l'Europe, Place Grillon. Our hosts, M. and Mme. Ville, were worthy and obliging persons and were full of attention for us. That was imperative for I needed quiet to writeLa Navarraise, the act which Jules Claretie had entrusted to me and my new librettist Henri Cain.
Every evening at five o'clock our hosts, who had forbidden our door all day with jealous care, served us a delicious lunch. My friends, theProvençal poets, used to gather around, and among them was Felix Gras, one of my dearest friends.
One day we decided to pay a visit to Frédéric Mistral, the immortal poet of Provence who played a large part in the renaissance of the poetic language of the South.
He received us with Mme. Mistral at his home—which his presence made ideal—at Millane. He showed when he talked that he knew not only the science of Form but also that general knowledge which makes great writers and makes a poet of an artist. As we saw him we recalled thatBelle d'aout, the poetical story full of tears and terrors, then the great epic ofMirelle, and so many other famous works besides.
By his walk and vigor one recognized him as the child of the country, but he was a gentleman farmer, as the English say; although he is not any more a peasant on that account, as he wrote to Lamartine, than Paul-Louis Courier, the brilliant and witty pamphleteer, was a cultivator of vineyards.
We returned to Avignon full of the inexpressible enveloping charm of the hours we had passed in the house of this great, illustrious poet.
The following winter was entirely devoted to the rehearsals ofThaïsat the Opéra. I say at the Opéra in spite of the fact that I wrote the work for the Opéra-Comique where Sanderson was engaged. She triumphed there inManonthree times a week.
What made me change the theater? Sanderson was dazzled by the idea of entering the Opéra, and she signed a contract with Gailhard without even taking the mere trouble of informing Carvalho first.
Heugel and I were greatly surprised when Gailhard told us that he was going to giveThaïsat the Opéra with Sibyl Sanderson. "You've got the artist; the work will follow her!" There was nothing else for me to say. I remember, however, how bitterly Carvalho reproached me. He almost accused me of ingratitude, and God knows that I did not deserve that.
Thaïswas interpreted by Sibyl Sanderson; J. F. Delmas, who made the rôle of Athanaël one of his most important creations; Alvarez, who consented to play the rôle of Nicias, and Mme. Heglon, who also acted in the part which devolved upon her.
As I listened to the final rehearsals in thedepths of the empty theater, I lived over again my ecstatic moments before the remains of Thaïs of Antinoë, beside the anchorite, who had been bewitched by her grace and charm. We owed this impressive spectacle which was so well calculated to impress the imagination to a glass case in the Guimet Museum.
The evening of the dress rehearsal ofThaïsI escaped from Paris and went to Dieppe and Pourville, with the sole purpose of being alone and free from the excitements of the great city. I have said already that I always tear myself away in this fashion from the feverish uncertainties which hover over every work when it faces the public for the first time. No one can tell beforehand the feeling that will move the public, whether its prejudices or sympathies will draw it towards a work or turn it against it. I feel weak before the baffling enigma, and had I a conscience a thousand times more tranquil, I would not want to attempt to pierce the mystery!
The day after my return to Paris Bertrand and Cailhard, the two directors of the Opéra, called on me. They appeared to be down at the mouth. I could only get sighs from them or a word or two, which in their laconicism spoke volumes,"The press! Immoral subject! It's done for!" These words were so many indications of what the performance must have been.
So I told myself. Nevertheless seventeen years have gone and the piece is still on the bills, and has been played in the provinces and abroad, while at the Opéra itselfThaïshas long since passed its hundredth performance.
Never have I so regretted letting myself go in a moment of disappointment. It is true that it was only a passing one. Could I foresee that I should see again this same score ofThaïs, dated 1894, in the salon of Sibyl Sanderson's mother, on the music rest of the very piano at which that fine artiste, long since no more, studied?
To accustom the public to the work, the directors of the Opéra associated with it a ballet from the repertoire. Subsequently Gailhard saw that the work pleased, and in order to make it the only performance of the evening he asked me to add a tableau, the Oasis, and a ballet to the third act. Mlle. Berthet created this new tableau and Zambelli incarnated the new ballet.
Later, the title rôle was sung in Paris by Mlles. Alice Verlet and Mary Garden and Mme. Kousnezoff. I owe some superb nights at the Opérato them. Geneviève Vix and Mastio sang it in other cities. I wait to speak of Lina Cavalieri for she was to be the creator of the work at Milan, October, 1903. This creation was the occasion for my last journey to Italy up to now.
I regret all the more that I have given up traveling, for I seem to have become lazy in this regard, since my visits to Milan were always so delightful—I was going to say adorable—thanks to the friendly Edouard Sonzogno, who constantly paid me the most delicate and kindly attentions.
What delightful receptions, and perfectly arranged and elaborate dinners, we had at the fine mansion at 11 Via Goito! What bursts of laughter and gay sallies there were; what truly enchanted hours I passed there, with my Italian confrères, invited to the same love-feast as I, at the house of the most gracious of hosts: Umberto Giordano, Cilea and many others!
In this great city I had excellent friends and illustrious ones as well, as Mascagni and Leoncavallo, whom I had known before and had had as friends in Paris. They did not then foresee themagnificent situation they would create for themselves one day at the theater.
In Milan my old friend and publisher Giulio Ricordi also invited me to his table. I was sincerely moved at finding myself again in the bosom of the Ricordi family to whom I was attached by so many charming memories. It is unnecessary to add that we drank to the health of the illustrious Puccini.
Among my memories of Milan I have kept the recollection of being present at Caruso's debut. The now famous tenor was very modest then; and when, a year afterwards, I saw him wrapped in an ample fur-coat, it was obvious that the figures of his salary must have mountedcrescendo. As I saw him I did not envy him his brilliant fortune or his undoubted talent, but I did regret—that winter especially—that I could not put his rich warm coat on my back.... It snowed, indeed, in Milan, in large and seemingly endless flakes. It was a hard winter. I remember that once I hadn't enough bread from my breakfast to satisfy the appetite of some thirty pigeons which, shivering and trembling with cold, came to my balcony for shelter. Poor dear little creatures! I regretted that I could not do more for them.And involuntarily I thought of their sisters in the Piazza Saint Marc, so pretty, so friendly, who at that instant must be just as cold.
I have to confess to a flagrant but entirely innocent joke that I played at a dinner of Sonzogno's, the publisher. Everyone knew of the strained relations between him and Ricordi. I slipped into the dining room before any of the guests had gone in and placed under Sonzogno's napkin an Orsini bomb, which I had bought and which was really awe inspiring—be reassured, it was only of cardboard and from the confectioner's. Beside this inoffensive explosive I placed Ricordi's card. The joke was a great success. The diners laughed so much that during the whole meal nothing else was talked about and little attention was paid to the menu, in spite of the fact that we knew that it must inevitably be appetizing, like all those to which we had to do honor in that opulent house.
I always had the glorious good fortune to have as my interpreter ofSaphoin Italy La Bellincioni, the Duse of opera. In 1911 she continued her triumphal career at the Opéra in Paris.
I have mentioned that Cavalieri was to createThaïsin Milan. Sonzogno insisted strongly thatI should let her see the part before I left. I remember the considerable success she had in the work—al teatro liricoof Milan. Her beauty, her admirable plasticity, the warmth and color of her voice, her passionate outbursts simply gripped the public which praised her to the skies.
She invited me to a farewell dinner at the Hotel de Milan. The table was covered with flowers and it was laid in a large room adjoining the bedroom where Verdi had died two years before. The room was still furnished just as it had been when the illustrious composer lived there. The great master's grand piano was still there, and on the table where he had worked were the inkstand, the pen and the blotting paper which still bore the marks of the notes he had traced. The dress shirt—the last one he wore—hung on the wall and one could still see the lines of the body it had covered.... A detail which hurt my feelings and which only the greedy curiosity of strangers can account for, was that bits of the linen had been boldly cut off and carried away as relics.
Verdi! The name signifies the whole of victorious Italy from Victor Emanuel II down to our own times. Bellini, on the other hand, is theimage of unhappy Italy under the yoke of the past.
A little while after the death of Bellini in 1835—that never to be forgotten author ofLa SomnanbulaandLa Norma—Verdi, the immortal creator of so many masterpieces, came on the scene and with rare fertility never ceased to produce his marvellous works which are in the repertoire of all the theaters in the world.
About two weeks before Verdi's death I found at my hotel the great man's card with his regards and best wishes.
In a remarkable study of Verdi Camille Bellaigue uses the following words about the great master. They are as just as they are beautiful.
"He died on January 27, 1901, in his eighty-eighth year. In him music lost some of its strength, light and joy. Henceforth a great, necessary voice will be missing from the balance of the European 'concert.' A splendid bower has fallen from the chaplet of Latin genius. I cannot think of Verdi without recalling that famous phrase of Nietzsche, who had come back from Wagnerism and had already turned against the composer: 'Music must be Mediterraneanized.' Certainly not all music. But to-day asthe old master has departed, that glorious host of the Doria palace, from which each winter his deep gaze soared over the azure of the Ligurian sea, one may well ask who is to preserve the rights and influence of the Mediterranean in music?"
To add another of my memories ofThaïsI recall two letters which must have touched me deeply.
August 1, 1892...I brought a little doll Thaïs to the Institute for you, and as I was going to the country after the session and you were not there, I left it with Bonvalot and begged him to handle her carefully....I return in a day or so, for on Saturday we receive Frémiet who wishes me to thank you for voting for him.GEROME.
August 1, 1892
...I brought a little doll Thaïs to the Institute for you, and as I was going to the country after the session and you were not there, I left it with Bonvalot and begged him to handle her carefully....
I return in a day or so, for on Saturday we receive Frémiet who wishes me to thank you for voting for him.
GEROME.
I wanted this colored statuette by my illustrious colleague to place on my table as I wroteThaïs. I have always liked to have before my eyes an image or a symbol of the work on which I am engaged.
The second letter I received the day after the first performance ofThaïsat the Opéra.
Dear Master:You have lifted my poorThaïsto the first rank of operatic heroines. You are my sweetest glory. I am delighted. "Assieds-toi près de nous," the aria to Love, the final duet, is charmingly beautiful.I am happy and proud at having furnished you with the theme on which you have developed the most inspiring phrases. I grasp your hand with joy.ANATOLEFRANCE.
Dear Master:
You have lifted my poorThaïsto the first rank of operatic heroines. You are my sweetest glory. I am delighted. "Assieds-toi près de nous," the aria to Love, the final duet, is charmingly beautiful.
I am happy and proud at having furnished you with the theme on which you have developed the most inspiring phrases. I grasp your hand with joy.
ANATOLEFRANCE.
I had already been to Covent Garden twice. First, forLe Roi de Lahore, and then forManonwhich was sung by Sanderson and Van Dyck.
I went back again for the rehearsals ofLa Navarraise. Our principal artists were Emma Calvé, Alvarez and Plancon.
The rehearsals with Emma Calvé were a great honor for me and a great joy as well, which I was to renew later in the rehearsals forSaphoin Paris.
The Prince of Wales, later Edward VII, attended the first performance ofLa Navarraise.
The recalls of the artists were so numerous and enthusiastic that finally they called for me. As I did not appear, for the good reason that I was not there, and could not be presented to thePrince of Wales who wanted to congratulate me, the manager could find only this way to excuse me both to the prince and to the public. He came on the stage and said, "M. Massenet is outside smoking a cigarette and won't come."
Doubtless this was true, but "the whole truth should not always be spoken."
I returned on board the boat with my wife, Heugel, my dear publisher, and Adrien Bernheim, the Governmental Commissary General of the subsidized theaters, who had honored the performance with his presence. Ever since he has been one of my most charming and dearest friends.
I learned that her Majesty Queen Victoria summoned Emma Calvé to Windsor to singLa Navarraise, and I was told that they improvised a stage setting in the queen's own drawing room, which was most picturesque but primitive. The Barricade was represented by a pile of pillows and down quilts.
Have I said that in the month of May precedingLa Navarraisein London (June 20, 1894), the Opéra-Comique gaveLe Portrait de Manon, an exquisite act by Georges Boyer, which was delightfullyinterpreted by Fugère, Grivot and Mlle. Lainé?
Many of the phrases ofManonreappeared in the work. The subject prompted me to this, for it is concerned with Des Grieux at forty, a poetical souvenir of Manon long since dead.
Between whiles I again visited Bayreuth. I went to applaud theMeistersingers of Nuremburg.
Richard Wagner had not been there for many a long year, but his titanic soul ruled over all the performances. As I strolled in the gardens about the theater at Bayreuth, I recalled that I had known him in 1861. I had lived for ten days in a small room near him in the Chateau de Plessis-Trévise, which belonged to the celebrated tenor Gustave Roger. Roger knew German and offered to do the French translation ofTannhauser. So Richard Wagner came to live with him properly to set the French words to music.
I still remember his vigorous interpretation when he played on the piano fragments of that masterpiece, then so clumsily misunderstood and now so much admired by the whole world of art and music.
Henri Cain had accompanied us to London and came to see me at the Cavendish Hotel, Jermyn Street, where I was staying.
We remained in conference for several hours reviewing different subjects which were suitable for works to occupy me in the future. Finally we agreed on the fairy story of Cinderella:Cendrillon.
I returned to Pont de l'Arche—a new home for my wife and me—to work during the summer.
Our home was most interesting and even had a historical value. A massive door hung on enormous hinges gave access on the street side to an old mansion. It was bordered by a terrace which looked down on the valley of the Seine and the Andelle. La Belle Normandie indeed offered us the delightful spectacle of her smiling, magnificent plains and her rich pastures stretching to the horizon and beyond.
The Duchess of Longueville, the famous heroine of La Fronde, had lived in this house—it was the place of her loves. The seductive Duchess with her pleasant address and gestures, together with the expression of her face and the tone of her voice, made a marvellous harmony. So much so that a Jansenist writer of the period said, "She was the most perfect actress in the world." This splendid woman here sheltered her charms and rare beauty. One must believe that they have not exaggerated about her for Victor Cousin became her posthumous lover (along with the Duc de Coligny, Marcillac, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and the great Turenne; he might have been in less brilliant company); but as we said, the illustrious eclectic philosopher dedicated to her a work which was no doubt admirable in style but which is still considered one of the most complete examples of modern learning.
She was born a Bourbon Condé, the daughter of the Prince of Orleans, and the fleurs de lys which were hers by right were still visible on the keystones of the window arches of our little chateau.
There was a large white salon with delicately carved woodwork, which was lighted by three windowsoverlooking the terrace. It was a perfectly preserved masterpiece of the Seventeenth Century.
The room where I worked was also lighted by three windows and here one could admire a mantel, a real marvel of art in Louis XIV style. I found a large table of the same period at Rouen. I was at ease at it because I could arrange the leaves of my orchestral score on it.
It was at Pont de l'Arche that I learned one morning of Mme. Carvalho's death. This was bound to plunge the art of singing and the stage in deep mourning for she had been with her masterly talent the incarnation of both for long years. Here too I received the visit of my director, Léon Carvalho, who was terribly stricken by her death. He was overcome by this irreparable loss.
Carvalho came to ask me to finish the music ofLa Vivandière, a work on which Benjamin Godard was working, but which the state of his health led them to fear he would never finish.
I refused this request curtly. I knew Benjamin Godard and his strong-mindedness as well as the wealth and liveliness of his inspiration. I asked Carvalho not to tell of his visit and to let Benjamin Godard finish his own work.
That day ended with a rather drole incident. I set out to get a large carriage to take my guests to the station. At the appointed time an open landau appeared at my door. It had at least sixteen springs, was lined with blue satin, and one got in by a triple step-ladder arrangement which folded up when the door was closed. Two thin, lanky white horses, real Rossinantes, were harnessed to it.
My guests at once recognized this historic looking coach for they had often met its owners riding in it on the Bois de Boulogne. Public malice had found these people so ridiculous that they had given them a nickname which in the interests of decorum I must refrain from mentioning. I will only say that it was borrowed from the vocabulary of zoology.
Never had the streets of that little town, usually so calm and peaceful, echoed with such shouts of laughter. They did not stop till the station was reached, and I will not swear that they were not prolonged after that.
Carvalho decided to giveLa Navarraiseat the Opéra-Comique in May, 1895.
I went to Nice to finishCendrillonat the Hotelde Suede. We were absolutely spoiled by our charming hosts M. and Mme. Roubion. When I was settled at Nice, I got away to Milan for ten days to give hints to the artists of the admirable La Scala Theatre who were rehearsingLa Navarraise. The protagonist was Lison Frandin, an artist known and loved by all Italy.
As I knew that Verdi was at Genoa, I took advantage of passing through that city on the way to Milan to pay him a visit.
When I arrived at the first floor of the old palace of the Dorias, where he lived, I was able to decipher on a card nailed to the door in a dark passage the name which radiates so many memories of enthusiasm and glory: Verdi.
He opened the door himself. I stood nonplussed. His sincerity, graciousness and the nobility which his tall stature gave his whole person soon drew us together.
I passed unutterably charming moments in his presence, as we talked with the most delightful simplicity in his bedroom and then on the terrace of his sitting room from which we looked over the port of Genoa and beyond on the deep sea as far as the eye could reach. I had the illusion thathe was one of the Dorias proudly showing me his victorious fleets.
Lucy ArbellLucy Arbell
As I was leaving, I was drawn to remark that "now I had visited him, I was in Italy."
As I was about to pick up the valise I had left in a dark corner of the large reception room, where I had noticed tall gilt chairs which were in the Italian taste of the Eighteenth Century, I told him that it contained manuscripts which never left me on my travels. Verdi seized my luggage, briskly, and said he did exactly as I did, for he never wanted to be parted from his work on a journey.
How much I would have preferred to have had his music in my valise instead of my own! The master even accompanied me across the garden of his lordly dwelling to my carriage.
When I got back to Paris in February, I learned with the keenest emotion that my master Ambroise Thomas was dangerously ill.
Although far from well he had dared the cold to attend a festival at the Opéra where they had played the whole of that terrible, superb prelude toFrançoise de Rimini.
They encored the prelude and applauded Ambroise Thomas.
My master was the more moved by this reception, as he had not forgotten how cruelly severe they had shown themselves toward this fine work at the Opéra.
He went from the theater to the apartment he occupied at the Conservatoire and went to bed. He never got up again.
The sky was clear and cloudless that day, and the sun shone with its softest brilliance in my venerated master's room and caressed the curtains of his bed of pain. The last words he said were a salutation to gladsome nature which smiled upon him for the last time. "To die in weather so beautiful," he said, and that was all.
He laid in state in the columned vestibule of which I have spoken, at the foot of the great staircase leading to the president's loge which he had honored with his presence for twenty-five years.
The third day after his death, I delivered his funeral oration in the name of the Société des Auteurs et Compositeurs Dramatiques. I began as follows.
"It is said that a king of France in the presence of the body of a powerful seigneur of hiscourt could not help saying, 'How tall he was!' So he who rests here before us seemed tall to us, being of those whose height is only realized after death.
"To see him pass in life so simple and calm, in his dream of art, who of us, accustomed to feel him kindly and forbearing always at our sides, has seen that he was so tall that we had to raise our eyes to look him fairly in the face."
Here my eyes filled with tears and my voice seemed to die away strangled with emotion. Nevertheless I contained myself, mastered my grief, and continued my discourse. I knew that I should have time enough for weeping.
It was very painful to me on that occasion to see the envious looks of those who already saw in me my master's successor at the Conservatoire. And as a matter of fact, this is exactly what happened, for a little afterwards I was summoned to the Ministry of Public Instruction. At the time the Minister was my confrère at the Institute, Rambaud the eminent historian, and at the head of the Beaux-Arts as director was Henri Roujon, since a member of the Académie des Beaux-Arts and the permanent secretary.
The directorship of the Conservatoire was offeredme. I declined the honor as I did not want to interrupt my life at the theater which took my whole time.
In 1905 the directorship was offered me again, but I refused for the same reason.
Naturally, I tendered my resignation as professor of composition at the Conservatoire. I had only accepted and held the situation because it brought me in touch with my Director whom I loved so much.
Free at last and loosed from my chains forever, during the first days of summer my wife and I started for the mountains of Auvergne.
At the beginning of the preceding winter, Henri Cain proposed to Henri Heugel a text for an opera based on Alphonse Daudet's famous romanceSapho. He went to Heugel in order that I might the more certainly accept it, for he knew the influence my publisher had with me.
I had gone to the mountains with a light heart. There was to be no directing the Conservatoire and no more classes; I felt twenty years younger. I wroteSaphowith an enthusiasm I had rarely felt up to that time.
We lived in a villa, and I felt far removed from everything, the noise, the tumult, the incessant movement and feverish activity of the city. We went for walks and excursions through the beautiful country which has been praised so much for the variety of its scenery, but which was still too much unknown. The only accompaniment of our thoughts was the murmur of the waters which flowed along the roadside; their freshness rose up to us, and often it was from a bubbling springwhich broke the quiet of luxuriant nature. Eagles, too, came down from their steep rocks, "Thunder's abode," as Lamartine said, and surprised us by their bold flights as they made the air echo with their shrill, piercing cries.
Even while I journeyed, my mind was working and on my return the pages accumulated.
I became enamored with this work and I rejoiced in advance at letting Alphonse Daudet hear it, for he was a very dear friend whom I had known when we were both young.
If I insist somewhat of speaking of that time, it is because four works above all others in my long career gave me such joy in the doing that I freely describe it as exquisite:Marie Magdeleine,Werther,Sapho, andThérèse.
At the beginning of September of that year an amusing incident happened. The Emperor of Russia came to Paris. The entire population—this is no exaggeration—was out of doors to see the procession pass through the avenues and boulevards. The people drawn by curiosity had come from everywhere; the estimate of a million people does not seem exaggerated.
We did what everyone else did, and our servants went at the same time; our apartment wasempty. We were at the house of friends at a window overlooking the Parc Monceau. The procession had scarcely passed when we were suddenly seized with anxiety at the idea that the time was particularly propitious for burglarizing deserted apartments and we rushed home.
When we reached our threshold whispers were coming from inside, which put us in a lively flutter. We knew our servants were out. It had happened! Burglars had broken in!
We were shocked at the idea, but we went in ... and saw in the salon Emma Calvé and Henri Cain who were waiting for us and talking together in the meantime. We were struck in a heap. Tableau! We all burst out laughing at this curious adventure. Our servants had come back before we had, and naturally opened the door for our friendly callers who had so thoroughly frightened us for a moment. Oh power of imagination, how manifold are thy fantastic creations!
Carvalho had already prepared the model of the scenery and the costumes forCendrillon, when he learned that Emma Calvé was in Paris and put onSapho. In addition to the admirableprotagonist ofLa Navarraisein London and in Paris, our interpreters were the charming artiste Mlle. Julia Guiraudon (later the wife of my collaborator Henri Cain) and M. Lepreste who has since died.
I have spoken of the extreme joy I experienced in writingSapho, an opera in five acts. Henri Cain and dear Arthur Bernéde had ably contrived the libretto.
Never before had the rehearsals of a work seemed more enrapturing. The task was both easy and agreeable with such excellent artists.
While the rehearsals were going on so well, my wife and I went to dine one evening at Alphonse Daudet's. He was very fond of us. The first proofs had been laid on the piano. I can still see Daudet seated on a cushion and almost brushing the keyboard with his handsome head so delightfully framed in his beautiful thick hair. It seemed to me that he was deeply moved. The vagueness of his short sightedness made his eyes still more admirable. His soul with all its pure, tender poetry spoke through them.
It would be difficult to experience again such moments as my wife and I knew then.
As they were about to begin the first rehearsalsofSapho, Danbé, who had been my friend since childhood, told the musicians in the orchestra what an emotional work they were to play.
Finally, the first performance came on November 27, 1897.
The evening must have been very fine, for the next day the first mail brought me the following note:
My dear Massenet:I am happy at your great success. With Massenet and Bizet,non omnis moriar.Tenderly yours,ALPHONSEDAUDET.
My dear Massenet:
I am happy at your great success. With Massenet and Bizet,non omnis moriar.
Tenderly yours,ALPHONSEDAUDET.
I learned that my beloved friend and famous collaborator had been present at the first performance, at the back of a box, although he had stopped going out save on rare occasions.
His appearance at the performance touched me all the more.
One evening I decided to go to the playhouse, in the wings, and I was shocked at Carvalho's appearance. He was always so alert and carried himself so well, but now he was bent and his eyes were bloodshot behind his blue glasses. Nevertheless his good humor and gentleness toward me were the same as ever.
His condition could but cause me anxiety.
How true my sad presentiments were!
My poor director was to die on the third day.
Almost at the same time I learned that Daudet, whose life had been so admirably rounded out, had heard his last hour strike on the clock of time. Oh mysterious, implacable Timepiece! I felt one of its sharpest strokes.
Carvalho's funeral was followed by a considerable crowd. His son burst into sobs behind his funeral car and could scarcely see. Everything in that sad, impressive procession was painful and heartrending.
Daudet's obsequies were celebrated with great pomp at Sainte Clotilde.La SolitudefromSapho(the entr'acte from the fifth act) was played during the service after the chanting of theDies Irae.
I was obliged to make my way almost by main force through the great crowd to get into the church. It was like a hungry, eager reflection of that long line of admirers and friends he had during his lifetime.
As I sprinkled holy water on the casket, I recalled my last visit to the Rue de Bellechasse where Daudet lived. I had gone to give himnews of the theater and carried him sprays of eucalyptus, one of the trees of the South he adored. I knew what intense pleasure that would give him.
MeanwhileSaphowent on its way. I went to Saint Raphael, the country where Carvalho had liked to live.
I relied on an apartment which I had engaged in advance, but the landlord told me that he had let it to two ladies who seemed very busy. I started to hunt another lodging when I was called back. I learned that the two who had taken my rooms were Emma Calvé and one of her friends. The two ladies doubtless heard my name mentioned and changed their itinerary. However, their presence in that place so far from Paris showed me that ourSaphohad necessarily suspended her run of performances.
What whims will not one pardon in such an artiste?
I learned that in two days everything was in order again at the theater in Paris. Would that I had been there to embrace our adorable fugitive!
Two weeks later I learned from the papers inNice that Albert Carré had been made manager of the Opéra-Comique. Until then the house had been temporarily under the direction of the Beaux-Arts.
Who would have thought that it would have been our new manager who would reviveSaphoconsiderably later with that beautiful artiste who became his wife. But it was she who incarnated the Sapho of Daudet with an unusually appealing interpretation.
Salignac, the tenor, had a considerable success in the rôle of Jean Gaussin.
At the revival Carré asked me to interweave a new act, the act of the Letters, and I carried out the idea with enthusiasm.
Saphowas also sung by that unusual artiste Mme. Georgette Leblanc, later the wife of that great man of letters Maeterlinck.
Mme. Bréjean-Silver also made this rôle an astonishingly lifelike figure.
How many other artists have sung this work!
The first opera put on under the new management was Reynaldo Hahn'sL'Ile de Rêve. He dedicated that exquisite score to me. That music is pervading for it was written by a real master.What a gift he has of wrapping us in warm caresses!
That was not the case with the music of some of our confrères. Reyer found it unbearable and made this image-raising remark about it:
"I just met Gretry's statue on the stairs; he had enough and fled."
That brings to mind another equally witty sally which du Locle made to Reyer the day after Berlioz's death,
"Well, my dear fellow, Berlioz has got ahead of you."
Du Locle could permit himself this inoffensive joke for he was Reyer's oldest friend.
I find this word from the author ofLouisewhom I knew as a child in my classes at the Conservatoire and who always felt a family affection for me:
Midnight, New Year's Eve.Dear Master:Faithful remembrance from your affectionate on the last day which ends withSaphoand the first hour of the year which will close withCendrillon.GUSTAVECHARPENTIER.
Midnight, New Year's Eve.
Dear Master:
Faithful remembrance from your affectionate on the last day which ends withSaphoand the first hour of the year which will close withCendrillon.
GUSTAVECHARPENTIER.
Cendrillondid not appear until May 24, 1899. These works presented one after another, at more than a year's interval however, brought me the following note from Gounod:
"A thousand congratulations, my dear friend, on your latest fine success. The devil! Well, you go at such a pace one can scarcely keep up with you."
As I have said, the score ofCendrillon, written on a pearl from that casket of jewels "Les Contes de Perrault," had been finished a long time. It had yielded its turn toSaphoat the Opéra-Comique. Our new director Albert Carré told me that he intended to giveCendrillonat the first possible chance, but that was six months away.
I was staying at Aix-les-Bains in remembrance of my father who had lived there, and I was deep in work onLa Terre Promise. The Bible furnished a text and I got out an oratorio of three acts. As I said, I was deep in the work when my wife and I were overcome by the terrible news of the fire at the Charity Bazaar. My dear daughter was a salesgirl.
We had to wait until evening before a telegram arrived and ended our intense alarm.
A curious coincidence which I did not learnuntil long afterwards was that the heroine (Lucy Arbell) ofPerséphoneandThérèse, as well as the beautiful Dulcinée (inDon Quichotte) was also among the salesgirls. She was only twelve or thirteen at the time, but in the midst of the general panic she found an exit behind the Hotel du Palais and succeeded in saving her mother and several others. This showed rare decision and courage for a child.
Since I have spoken ofLa Terre Promise, I may add that I had an entirely unexpected "hearing." Eugene d'Harcourt, who was so well thought of as a musician and a critic, the greatly applauded composer ofTassewhich was put on at Monte Carlo, proposed to me that he direct a performance at the church of Sainte Eustache with an immense orchestra and chorus.
The second part was devoted to the taking of Jericho. A march—seven times interrupted by the resounding outbursts from seven great trumpets—ended with the collapse of the walls of that famous city which the Jews had to take and destroy. The resounding clamor of all the voices together was joined to the formidable thunder of the great organ of Saint Eustache.
With my wife I attended the final rehearsalin a large pulpit to which the venerable curé had done us the honor of inviting us.
That was the fifteenth of March, 1900.
I return toCendrillon. Albert Carré put on this opera with a stage setting which was as novel as it was marvellous.
Julia Guiraudon was exquisite in the rôle of Cendrillon. Mme. Deschamps Jehin was astonishing as a singer and as a comedienne, pretty Mlle. Emelen was our Prince Charming and the great Fugère showed himself an indescribable artist in the rôle of Pandolphe. He sent me the news of "victory" which I received the next morning at Enghien-les-Bains, which with my wife I had chosen as a refuge near Paris from the dress rehearsal and the first performance.
More than sixty continuous performances, including matinées, followed the Première. The Isola brothers, managers of the Gaîté, later gave a large number of performances, and a curious thing for so Parisian a work was that Italy gaveCendrillona fine reception. This lyric work was given at Rome thirty times—a rare number. The following cablegram came to me from America:
Cendrillon hier, success pheno menal.
The last word was too long and the sending office had cut it in two.
It was now 1900, the memorable time of the Great Exposition.
I had scarcely recovered from the fine emotion ofLa Terre Promiseat Saint Eustache than I fell seriously ill. They were then going on with the rehearsals ofLe Cidat the Opéra which they intended to revive. The hundredth performance was reached in October of the same year.
All Paris was en fête. The capital, one of the most frequented places in the world, became even more and better than that: it was the world itself, for all people met there. All nations jostled one another; all tongues were heard and all costumes were set off against each other.
Though the Exposition sent its million of joyful notes skyward and could not fail to obtain a place of honor in history, at nightfall the immense crowd sought rest from the emotions of the day by swarming to the theaters which were everywhere open, and it invaded the magnificent palace which our dear great Charles Gamier hadraised for the manifestations of Lyric Art and the religion of the Dance.
Gailhard had come to call on me in May when I was so ill and had made me promise to be present in his box at the hundredth performance which he more than hoped to give and which as a matter of fact took place in October. That day I yielded to his invitation.
Mlle. Lucienne Bréval and Mm. Saléza and Frédéric Delmas were applauded with delirious enthusiasm on the night of the hundredth performance. At the recall at the end of the third act, Gailhard, in spite of my resistance, pushed me to the front of his box....
It is easy to imagine what happened on the stage, in the Opéra's superb orchestra, and in the audience packed to the roof.
I became very ill at Paris. I felt that the path from life to death was so easy, the way seemed so gentle, so restful, that I was sorry to find myself back in the harsh, cutting troubles of life.
I had escaped the sharp cold of winter; it was now spring, and I went to my old home at Égreville to find nature, the great consoler, in her solitude and peace.
I brought with me a voluminous correspondence, letters, pamphlets and rolls of manuscript which I had never opened. I intended doing so on the way as a distraction from the boredom of the journey. I had opened several letters and was about to unroll a manuscript, "Oh, no," I said, "that's enough." As a matter of fact I had happened on a work for the stage.
Must the stage follow me everywhere, I thought. I longed to have nothing more to do with it. So I put the importunate thing aside. Yet as I journeyed along, to kill time, as they say,I took it up again and settled myself to run through that famous manuscript notwithstanding whatever desire I may have had to the contrary.
My attention was at first superficial and inattentive, but gradually it became fixed. Insensibly I began to read with interest; so much so that I ended by feeling real surprise—I must confess that it even became stupefaction.
"What," I exclaimed, "a play without a part for a woman except for the speechless apparition of the Virgin!"
If I was surprised and stupefied, what would be the feelings of those who were used to seeing me put on the stage Manon, Sapho, Thaïs and other lovable ladies. That was true, but in that they would forget that the most sublime of women, the Virgin, was bound to sustain me in my work, even as she showed herself charitable to the repentant Juggler.
I had scarcely run through the first scenes, when I felt that I was face to face with the work of a true poet who was familiar with the archaism of the literature of the Middle Ages. The manuscript bore no author's name.
I wrote to my concierge to find out the origin of this mysterious package, and he told me thatthe author had left his name and address with explicit instructions not to divulge them to me unless and until I had agreed to write the music for the work.
The titleLe Jongleur de Notre Damefollowed by the sub-title "Miracle in Three Acts" enchanted me.
The character of my home, a relic of the same Middle Ages, the surroundings in which I found myself at Égreville, were exactly suited to give me the desired atmosphere for my work.
The score was finished and the time came to communicate with my unknown.
At last I learned his name and address and wrote to him.
There is no doubt about the joy with which I did so, for the author was none other than Maurice Léna, the devoted friend I had known at Lyons where he held the chair of Philosophy.
My dear Léna then came to Égreville on August 14, 1900. We hurried to my place from the little station. We found in my room spread out on the large table (I flatter myself it was a famous table for it had belonged to the illustrious Diderot) the engraved piano and vocal score forLe Jongleur de Notre Dame.
Léna was dumbfounded at sight of it. He was choked by the most delightful of emotions.
Both of us had been happy in the work. Now the unknown faced us. Where and in what theater were we to be played?
It was a radiant day. Nature with her intoxicating odors, the fair season of the fields, the flowers in the meadows, the agreeable union which had grown up between us in producing the work, everything in fact spoke of happiness. Such fleeting happiness, as the poetess Mme. Daniel Lesaeur has told us, is worth all eternity.
The fields recalled to us that we were on the eve of the fifteenth of August, the Feast of the Virgin, whom we had sung in our work.
As I never had a piano at home, especially at Égreville, I was unable to satisfy my dear Léna's curiosity and let him hear the music of this or that scene.
We were strolling together near the hour of vespers towards the old, venerable church, and we could hear from a distance the chords of its little harmonium. A mad idea struck me. "Hey! What if I should suggest to you," I said to my friend, "what if I propose to you something which would be impossible in that sacred placein any other way, but certainly very tempting! Suppose we go into the church as soon as it is deserted and returned to holy obscurity. What if I should let you hear fragments of ourLe Jongleur de Notre Dame?Wouldn't it be a divine moment which would leave its impression on us forever?" And we continued our stroll, the complacent shade of the great trees protecting the paths and roads from the sting of a too ardent sun.
On the morrow—sad morrow—we parted.
The following autumn, the winter, and finally the spring of the succeeding year passed without any one coming to me from anywhere with an offer to produce the work.
When I least thought of it, I had a visit as unexpected as it was flattering from M. Raoul Gunsbourg.
I delight in recalling here the great worth of that close friend, his individuality as a manager, and his talent as a musician, whose works triumph on the stage.
Raoul Gunsbourg brought me the news that on his advice H. S. H. the Prince of Monaco had designated me for a work to be put on the stage of the theater at Monte Carlo.
Le Jongleur de Notre Damewas ready and I offered it. It was arranged that his Serene Highness should deign to come to Paris and hear the work in person. That hearing occurred, as a matter of fact, in the beautiful, artistic home of my publisher Henri Heugel. The Prince was entirely satisfied; he did me the honor to express several times his sincere pleasure. The work was put in study and the later rehearsals were in Paris under Raoul Gunsbourg's direction.
In January, 1902, my wife and I left Paris for the Palace of Monaco, where his Serene Highness had most cordially invited us to be his guests. What a contrast it was to the life we had left behind!
One evening we left Paris buried in glacial cold beneath the snow, and, behold, some hours later we found ourselves in an entirely different atmosphere. It was the South, La Belle Provence, the Azure Coast. It was ideal! For me it was the East almost at the gates of Paris!
The dream began. It is hardly necessary for me to tell of all the marvelous days which went like a dream in that Dantesque Paradise, amid that splendid scenery, in that luxurious, sumptuouspalace, all balmy with the vegetation of the Tropics.
The first performance ofLe Jongleur de Notre Damewas given at the Monte Carlo Opéra on Tuesday, February 18, 1902. The superb protagonists were Mm. Renaud, of the Opéra, and Maréchal, of the Opéra-Comique.
A detail which shows the favor with which the work was received is that it was given four times in succession during the same season.
Two years later my dear director Albert Carré gave the first performance ofLe Jongleur de Notre Dameat the Opéra-Comique with this ideal cast: Lucien Fugère, Maréchal, the creator of the part, and Allard.
The work long ago passed its hundredth performance at Paris, and as I write these linesLe Jongleur de Notre Damehas had a place in the repertoire of the American houses for several years.
It is interesting to note that the Juggler was created at the Metropolitan Opera House by Mary Garden, the dazzling artist who is admired as much in Paris as in the United States.
My feelings are somewhat bewildered, I confess,at seeing the monk discard his frock after the performance and resume an elegant costume from the Rue de la Paix. However, in the face of the artist's triumph I bow and applaud.[1]