Chapter XII: Part 12

Here then is one of the causes that made amateurs rebel, on principle, against the innovations of this great composer; but another cause, inherent in the soul of Berlioz, repelled timid people. It was his spirit of intolerance and of exclusive self-admiration. Carried along by the impulse of the time and the desire to insure victory for his art theories, Berlioz did not hesitate to attack the reputations of the most cherished idols of the hour; therefore, whether he wrote, or whether he spoke, he indulged his natural disposition to exaggerate everything with virulent indignation, and outbursts of mad enthusiasm in support of the artistic faith that swayed him. The public did not and could not understand him, and irritated by his fierce aggressive tone, held itself instinctively on guard against the creations of this fighting innovator and stood ready to pay him the price of his contempt for it. Between a rancorous public offended by the disdain this iconoclast manifested for its tastes, and an artist who never exhausted the taunts he had in store for it, there was always an antagonism, skilfully intensified by the personal foes of the master and which ceased only at his death.

Antagonism is the true word, for Berlioz in his vocal works at least never departed from the models so dear to the public. In fact, so far as opera is concerned, he remained ever the disciple and admirer of Spontini and of Gluck, without dreaming that he was destined soon to initiate a revolution in this branch of musical art. Even when, at the height of his own romantic fervor, he broke down the barriers of the symphony, there always remained in Berlioz an instinctive respect for consecrated forms; and as soon as he passed from the concert-room to the stage he conformed in the most ingenious manner imaginable to the old methods in all his works written with an eye to the opera house. He was deliberately revolutionary in the symphony only, and that chiefly in respect to instrumentation.

With this creator, endowed with a phenomenal genius in a certain way, the ideas regarding the essential conditions of musical art were so unsettled, and changed so often from one time and from one style to another, that he would have been puzzled to formulate them with any exactness. He emitted fire and flames, he hurled curses and roared bitter denunciations, but when it came to deciding the ideal that an artist should follow or the absolute principles he should adopt, he did nothing.

There exists a radical difference between the two great musicians who have convulsed the musical world in the second half of this century. The later-comer, Richard Wagner, pursued a fully defined ideal, a single problem, on the solving of which he had long concentrated his thoughts and all the force of his genius, viz.:—the fusion of music and the drama. He kept steadily in this one path and brought the music-drama to the highest point it is possible for it to attain. Berlioz, on the contrary, realized at one stroke all the modifications that seemed to him desirable to fasten upon the symphony and the opera. He did not seek an integral reform, but simply wished to enrich each branch of musical art with new descriptive and picturesque elements. But while his flexible brain turned now toward the stage, now toward the church, or the concert-room, he did not deviate much from the traditional forms, though he endowed them with new and wonderful characteristics.

Warmly romantic with Shakespeare, purely classic with Virgil, who were his literary deities, he was eclectic in literature as in music. The splendid lyric accents of Gluck are not in full harmony with the deep poetic and chivalric inspiration of Weber, and the lack of resemblance between Spontini and Beethoven is still more striking, yet Berlioz loved them all. It matters not that Berlioz confounded these masters in his religious admiration of them and made for himself a double personality, repudiating all rule and tradition when he wrote for the orchestra and for the concert stage, and becoming a pious observer of hallowed forms when he turned to the theatre. In his _Les Troyens_, the voice parts are of a wholly classic purity while the orchestra abounds in modern romanticism; in _Béatrice et Bénédict_, delightful inspirations, exquisite in their poetry, are mingled with the conventional forms that Berlioz mercilessly condemned in the works of others: inexplicable vocal flourishes, repetitions of words, outrages on prosody, the clipping of rebellious words; all this by a composer in whose eyes correct declamation was a fundamental essential of song.

Such was the composer Berlioz, such the critic, and the critic was not unhelpful to the composer. In fact, all that he was in France, all that he was able to win, during his lifetime, he owed to his position as a writer for the press and as the friend of influential journalists. But he made many enemies, less by the aggressiveness of his writings than by his caustic wit. There was in him an imperative necessity to tell the public his hates and his loves, and if he did not always feel free to give bold expression to the disgust with which certain works filled him, he invariably let his contempt be seen through his polished and even laudatory phrases. At least, nobody was ever deceived. The musician in Berlioz is impassioned, now tender, now vigorous. It is the same with the writer. His style is picturesque and incisive, sometimes trivial. Side by side are exclamations of admiration and contempt; quasi religious respect and genuinely holy anger, all equally energetic and sincere—the word and the blow. To appreciate this at its full value, it suffices to select at hazard one of the collection of articles published by himself in book form under the titles, _Les Soirées de l’orchestra, Les Grotesques de la musique_, in which the humorist tone prevails and _A travers chants_, which contains his most serious thoughts; the two volumes of letters published after his death, _Correspondance inédite et lettres intimes_; and finally his amusing and fascinating _Mémoires_, in which he travesties himself unreservedly and confuses somewhat the dates and facts. This book is a genuine romance.

Berlioz, bitter and unsympathetic as it here pleases him to appear, was wholly unconventional; he was the athlete constantly stripped for the combat, and armed for the fight. How different from the Berlioz seen in his profession and in society! As much as those, who knowing him but slightly, judged him hard and unsociable, so much did those to whom his affections went out, laud his extreme kindness and his tenderness of feeling. He was not prepossessing in appearance or manner. His esteem and friendship had to be won little by little, in order to open by some means or other, the way to his heart. He no sooner found himself among friends, than his spirits rose and often urged him into countless pleasantries. Nevertheless, even toward these he showed the most variable disposition: he would arrive sullen and morose, and then without warning, would break into wild and infectious gaiety, to fall just as suddenly into icy reserve. A troublesome thought would suffice for this, and it only needed an inopportune word to make him intractable. If he chanced to be in the mood for brilliant paradoxes or merry persiflage, it was necessary to refrain from interrupting or opposing him. In the heat of conversation, no matter how serious, he loved to utter wretched puns, and absurd verbal extravagances. These irrepressible sallies, at which he was generally the only one to laugh, were something very serious in his eyes. “Genius is akin to madness.”

“Berlioz, one of the most eminent musicians of all time, perhaps the most extraordinary artist in every way who ever lived.” Thus he was characterized by M. Reyer in speaking at the foot of Berlioz’s statue. He was, truly, an extraordinary artist in every sense; apostle and sectarian at one and the same time; one who conceived great things and sometimes partly realized them; who was in turn sarcastic and sentimental, emotional and passionate almost to weeping; who nourished an intolerant worship of his art and never knew moderation in his judgments; who was gifted with admirable creative faculties and opened new paths to the art of instrumentation; who was in perpetual strife with the pretenders of true melody, to whom he never yielded; who aimed to be at once as noble and as majestic as Spontini, as imaginative and as impassioned as Weber, as sweet and as tender as Virgil, as sublime and as trivial as Shakespeare, as grand and pathetic as Goethe and Beethoven, yet who knew how to be himself by force of will and loftiness of genius. Berlioz had a rare grasp of mind, and was keenly sensitive to the beauties of certain great literary works, hence the “romantic movement” in France deeply influenced him. With enormous will power and bordering on insanity, he aspired in his youthful dreams to be considered, some day, the Victor Hugo, the Delacroix of musical art, and, in some respects, his aspiration was more than realized—after he was dead!

AMBROISE THOMAS

_Reproduction of a photograph from life, by E. Pirou, Paris._
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CHARLES LOUIS AMBROISE THOMAS

Ambroise Thomas was born in Metz on the fifth day of August, 1811. He was the son of a musician and received his first instruction in music from his father. In his earliest childhood he developed a talent for music and when only four years of age he began his musical studies. Three years later he had instruction on the violin and piano, for which latter instrument he manifested a special gift, and he was already an excellent performer on it, when, in 1828, at the age of seventeen, he was admitted to the Paris Conservatoire and became the pupil of Zimmermann in piano playing, of Dourien for harmony, and of Lesueur for composition. Kalkbrenner, then in the height of his fame, took a great interest in the boy and aided his study of the piano, while Barbereau gave him lessons in counterpoint. He was a diligent student, and one year after his entrance to the Conservatoire he won the first prize for piano playing. The year following, he carried off the first prize for harmony, and two years later the Grand Prix was awarded him; and when only twenty-one, he went to Italy at the expense of the State, remaining there for the prescribed three years, and studying conscientiously. During this period he wrote a string quintet; a quartet for strings; a trio for pianoforte, violin, and ’cello; a fantasia for pianoforte and orchestra; a fantasia on Scotch melodies, for piano; six capriccios in the form of waltzes, for piano; two nocturnes for piano, a rondo for four hands, for the same instrument; six Italian songs; three motets, with organ, and a requiem, with orchestra. These works were all published, as was also his prize cantata “Hermann and Ketty.” They are now forgotten, but they were then evidences of great industry and of a leaning in the direction of what was most worthy in the art into which the young musician had been born, and they attracted earnest critical attention.

He returned to Paris early in 1836, and at once sought for a hearing at the Opéra Comique, the first ambition of a young French composer. He did not have long to wait, for in August, 1837, his one-act opera, “La Double Echelle,” was performed, and so favorably received that he obtained a firm foothold at the opera house and produced there “Le Perruquier de la Régence,” three acts (1838); “Le Panier Fleuri,” one act (1839). In the meanwhile, encouraged by his success, he aspired to the Académie, and in 1839 produced there, in collaboration with Benoist, La “Gipsy,” a ballet in two acts. He also composed for the same establishment “Le Comte de Carmagnola” (1841); “Le Guerillero” (1842); and “Betty,” a ballet in two acts (1846). None of these was successful. At that time Auber, Halévy, Meyerbeer and Donizetti were composing for the Académie, and it was not easy for a young artist to hold his own against them. Thomas had not neglected the Opéra Comique, for which he wrote “Carline” (1840); “Angélique et Médor” (1843); “Mina” (1843), all of which failed to make any favorable impression on the public. Discouraged by the lack of success that attended his efforts, he ceased to write for the lyric stage, and for five years remained silent. When he was heard again it was in “Le Caïd,” a three-act comic opera, which was produced in 1849, and achieved a brilliant success, making a tour of Europe. It was followed in 1850 by “Le Songe d’une nuit d’été,” in three acts. This opera was no less fortunate in the reception accorded it, and at once gave Thomas a foremost place among the young French composers of the day. Then came “Raymond,” three acts (1851); “La Tonelli” (1853); “La Cour de Célimène” (1855); “Psyché” (1857); “Le Carnaval de Venise” (1857); “Le Roman d’Elvire.” Some of these obtained slight temporary success, but not one of them won the popularity that attended “Le Caïd” and “Le Songe.” Again Thomas retired from view, and this time it was six years before he produced another opera.

In 1851 he became a member of the Institute, and in 1852, Professor of Composition in the Conservatoire. Up to this time Thomas had distinguished himself as a fluent and refined melodist, and by his piquant orchestration; he was also noted as a master of musical comedy. Nevertheless he had not yet been able to win for himself a rank equal to that of Auber, and in French comic opera, “Le Maçon,” “Fra Diavolo,” “Le Domino Noir,” and “Les Diamants de la Couronne,” which had been composed before Thomas went into his second seclusion, still surpassed all that the latter had produced, and survive to this day, while, with the exception of “Le Caïd,” none of Thomas’s operas antecedent to 1850 are ever performed.

In 1866 “Mignon” was heard, and Thomas at once leaped to world-wide fame. The work had an overwhelming success, and has been given in every opera house in the world. Two years later this masterpiece was followed by “Hamlet,” which was equally successful in France, though it has not, elsewhere, proved as popular as “Mignon.” On the strength of these two fine operas he was appointed, in 1871, to fill the position of Director of the Conservatoire, left vacant by the death of Auber. His other compositions, not yet mentioned, are a cantata composed for the inauguration of a statue to Lesueur (1852); a “Messe Solennelle” (1857); a “Marche Réligieuse” (1865); “Hommage à Boïeldieu,” composed for the centenary of Boïeldieu (1875), and many part songs, among them “La Vapeur,” “Le Chant des Amis,” “Le Tyrol,” “France,” “L’Atlantique,” “Le Carnaval de Rome,” “Le Traineaux,” “Le Temple de la Paix,” “La Nuit du Sabbat,” some of which are works of the highest merit, in their order. In 1874 was produced “Gille et Gilleton,” a one-act comic opera, written, however, in 1861. “Psyché” was revived in 1878 with additions, but though the music is full of graceful beauty, and was warmly praised, it made no marked impression on the general public. After “Hamlet,” Thomas did not bring forward another opera for fourteen years, and then he made another brilliant success with “Françoise di Rimini” (1882), in which was some of the finest music he had ever written, especially in the prologue and in the fourth act. He was now seventy-one years of age, and could well rest on the laurels he had won. From that date until the present (1893), he has produced no new lyric work, his only contribution to the stage of the opera being a ballet founded on “The Tempest,” by Shakespeare (1889), which, though remarkable as the effort of a man seventy-eight years old, was not destined to be numbered among his successes. In fact, with this work his career as a composer appears to have ended. He received the grand Cross of the Legion of Honor in 1880. At the age of eighty-two, he is still fulfilling his duties at the Conservatoire, in which institution he has worked many important and useful reforms. He has improved the method of instruction, has instituted lectures on the general history of music; has founded an orchestral class and compulsory vocal classes for reading at sight, and has raised the standard of solfeggio teaching. Not only this, but he has been largely instrumental in increasing the salaries of the professors, and has enlarged the prosperity of the institution until it has reached a point that makes it almost self-paying. Thomas has lived a wholly artistic life and has, fortunately, escaped most of the severer trials experienced by the majority of those who have devoted themselves to that branch of his art which has brought him fame and competence. He is given to physical exercise, is fond of country life, has a villa at Argenteuil and an island home at Zillieo, in Brittany. He is not without literary talent and his tastes are refined. He is an enthusiastic collector of bric-a-brac, and rarely fails attendance at any of the more important auctions at the Hotel Druot.

Fac-simile autograph manuscript of an “Album Leaf” written by Ambroise
Thomas.
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Ambroise Thomas’ life as a composer for the Paris opera houses covered fifty-two years. In that time he wrote much charming music, but he never developed any individuality of style, never wrote anything so distinctively his own that it could at once be attributed to him by reason of any characteristics belonging peculiarly and distinguishingly to him. His earlier operas, produced between 1837 and 1848, are marked by refinement of taste, and graceful finish in workmanship. After that and until 1860 his method underwent a change, and he sought brilliancy and piquancy, as instanced in “Le Caïd,” and gradually warmed into poetic feeling and deeper sentiment, departing, in the meanwhile, from the conventionalities that Rossini and other Italian composers had fastened on French opera music. His growth in his art has been steady from the very outset, but if he has ceased to write after “Le Roman d’Elvire,” which ended this period of his musical development, his fame as a composer would hardly have survived down to the present time. From the opera just named to “Mignon” was an enormous stride, and the brilliant reputation this work made for him was sustained by “Hamlet” and “Françoise di Rimini.” But even these, his masterpieces, do not present him in the light of a composer who had something to say that had not been said before. His art evolution had enlarged his method of thought and had enabled him to give a wider scope to his talents, but it had not endowed him with a style that set him apart from other composers. We hear of the style of Auber, and it brings a clear idea of a strongly marked musical individuality to our mind. The same may be said of the style of Meyerbeer and also that of Gounod; but to speak of the style of Thomas would be to convey no such distinct and instant suggestion of a definite and an unmistakable originality, like that which pertains essentially to Bizet.

The music of Thomas is always polished and delicate; his operas show that he has an innate feeling for dramatic effect; his musical comedies are models for the intimate blending of music with the spirit of the words and the stage situations. His harmonies are rich and flowing, and impart to his work a decided air of refined elegance. His instrumentation emphasizes convincingly his thorough mastery over the resources of the modern orchestra and a sensitive appreciation of the characteristic tone-color of the different instruments. His scores are never overloaded, and as the rule the right touch is always put by him in the right place. The voice is never overwhelmed by the orchestra. With all these merits he is rarely if ever emphatic, and strength and intensity of passion are not among his musical gifts. Love, melancholy, gaiety and poetic tenderness are the sentiments in which he excels. Fire, and a vigorous sweep of emotional feeling are not within his power to depict. The changes in the style of his scores are the changes that the varying musical tastes of the times brought about. He never formed these tastes, but he invariably followed them. His earlier operas are in the vein of Auber or of Rossini, sometimes of both in combination. When the fashion of the day called for more dramatic expression he followed in the footsteps of Halévy. Later, when brilliancy, tunefulness and graceful commonplace were the vogue, he had no scruple against modelling himself on Clapisson. It was not until Gounod had risen into fame and “Faust” became the rage, filling the music-loving world with delight, that Thomas found it possible to write “Mignon” and “Hamlet,” in both which operas the influence of the younger composer is shown on almost every page. Thomas has not the gift of originality, but he has the gift of receptivity and the faculty of assimilation largely developed. Twice he went into seclusion, and each time when he reappeared it was with a style in harmony with that of the favorite opera composers of the hour. There is nothing culpable in this, for it proves conclusively, that Thomas was always an untiring student. It is undeniable, that on every occasion his style underwent a radical change, it showed an advance in the broader and more impressive essentials of his art, and added to the fame of the composer. The works in which he will live are those which belong to his last period.

AMBROISE THOMAS.

Reproduction of a lithograph portrait published by Becquet of Paris.
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Not so with his greater confrère Halévy, whose first grand successes, “La Juive” and “L’Eclair,” were his only masterpieces. Thomas has not reached the height to which Halévy soared in either of these operas. “Mignon” and “Hamlet” are, however, works of no common order. The former has won a place in the repertory of every opera house in Europe. There is much of genuine poetic feeling in the music, and the score, as a whole, is distinguished by grace, melodiousness, delicacy of taste, and that effect of spontaneity that is understood as inspiration. Fine discrimination has been shown in giving each character its appropriate musical expression, and the skill with which the people of the story are contrasted cannot be too warmly praised. The “Connais-tu le pays,” the “swallow” duet, the prayer of Mignon, the romance of Wilhelm, the polonaise of Felina, have become justly celebrated. The orchestration is exquisite in its delicate finish and its ingeniously varied but always artistic color. That it has achieved a permanent place on the opera stage is beyond question. “Hamlet” is more ambitious, and though not without a certain nobility of style, is little else than a more elaborate “Mignon.” In it the composer says nothing that he has not already said in the last-named work, the only change being a somewhat more earnest method of expression. In this opera it was claimed that Thomas “has indicated to young composers the line at which the new school should stop, under penalty of exceeding the bounds of lyric art”; but Thomas, though undoubtedly a musician of talent, knowledge and experience, has never shown such originality as to entitle him to be considered a reformer, and as yet there has not been, even in his own country, any propaganda to spread a knowledge of him through the world. “Hamlet” may be considered the extreme point that French grand opera had reached in the direction of the Wagnerian music-drama up to the time that it appeared. The Gounod influence is still clearly apparent in it, but the Wagner influence also makes itself felt in the effort to break away from conventional models and to substitute expressive declamation for more rhythmical melody. The mad song of Ophelia is, perhaps, the most effective number in the opera. “Françoise de Rimini” went a step further than did “Hamlet” toward a predetermined departure from the old school of operatic music to the new. The composer authorized the statement that the prologue to the work would be a profession of musical faith, which he had long contemplated and in which he would mark definitely how closely symphonic music can be allied with the lyric drama; after which the curtain was to rise on music essentially “theatrical,” or, if a better word should be demanded, “human.” The prologue is certainly as strong and masterly, but it has in it nothing of a symphonic quality, and, as a profession of faith, proved to be of no permanent value save as an evidence of the highest point which the composer’s musical development had reached. This portion of the opera and the fourth act are by far the finest achievements of Thomas. The orchestra through the whole opera is treated with consummate power, notably in the beautiful effects obtained by unaccustomed groupings of the different instruments. In the ingenious blendings of tone-color that are produced by combining widely varying timbres with a skill as profound as felicitous; the richness, ripeness, and perfection of the scoring generally; as well as the masterly discretion observed in maintaining a judicious balance between the orchestra and the singers, the score may be justly given a place among the most masterly that modern musical art has produced. For the rest, despite some splendid dramatic moments in the work and the faultless finish of its workmanship as a whole, it is to be doubted if it will live. But how few works do live! Many glorious operas have been written since “Don Giovanni” and “Fidelio” saw the light, and yet not one has appeared that has yet been accorded a place by their side. Hundreds of operas that met with a brilliant and deserved success in their day, have fallen gradually into the background; operas by Spontini, who, in “La Vestale,” just escaped producing an immortal masterpiece; by Cherubini, whose “Les Deux Journées” came nearer winning the third place than any opera since; by Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi, Meyerbeer, whose “Les Huguenots” is his only work that bids fair to survive; by Weber, whose “Der Freischütz” alone promises to last. The supreme operas of the world might be named on the fingers of one hand. Mention of Wagner has been avoided because he is yet to experience the test of time,—that incorruptible and most pitiless of critics. It is the fate of some admirable and justly honored composers to learn their ultimate reputation with posterity during their lifetime. Among these, we think, is Ambroise Thomas, and that reputation will include respectful consideration for an eminent and able musician, who constantly grew in his art; while it will accord him a prominent place in the ranks of wholly estimable opera composers of the second order.

GEORGES BIZET

_Reproduction of a photograph from life, by Carjat & Cie., Paris._
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ALEXANDRE CÉSAR LÉOPOLD BIZET.

Alexandre César Léopold Bizet was born in Paris, Oct. 25th, 1838. His godfather called him “Georges,” and as “Georges,” Bizet is known to the world at large.

The father of Bizet was an artisan, who, at the age of twenty-five, studied music, and became a teacher of singing. He outlived his son. The mother was a sister of the wife of Delsarte. She was a pianist of ability, a “first prize” of the Conservatory. From her Bizet learned the alphabet and musical notation. From his father he learned the use of the pianoforte, and the elements of harmony.

The boy did not wish to be a musician; he hankered after the literary life. “When I was a child,” Bizet told Gallet, “they hid my books to keep me from abandoning music for literature.”

Although he was not of the required age, Bizet passed brilliantly, in his tenth year, the entrance-examination of the Conservatory, where he studied the pianoforte under Marmontel, the organ under Benoist, counterpoint and fugue under Zimmermann; and after the death of the latter, he studied composition under Halévy. He won a prize before he was eleven years old, the first of many prizes:—

First solfeggio prize (1849); second pianoforte prize (1851), and the first pianoforte prize (1852); first “accessit d’orgue” (1853), second prize (1854), first prize (1855); second prize in fugue (1854), first prize (1855); second “grand prix de Rome” of the Institute (1856), and first “grand prix” (1857).

In 1856 Offenbach, manager of the Bouffes-Parisiens, proposed a competition in operetta. The libretto was “Doctor Miracle.” Seventy-eight composers appeared; six were found worthy, and the prizes was awarded _ex aequo_, to Bizet and Lecocq. The music of the latter was first heard April 8th, 1857; the music of Bizet was heard April 9th. The public was impartially cold.

Toward the end of 1857 Bizet started on his journey to Rome. He journeyed leisurely, and entered the city Jan. 28, 1858. It was in 1859 that he sent, according to rule, a composition to the “Académie des Beaux-Arts”; it was not a mass however; it was an operetta in Italian: “Don Procopio,” in two acts. The reviewer, Ambroise Thomas, praised the ease, the brilliancy, “the fresh and bold style” of the composer, and he deplored the fact that Bizet had not given his attention to a work of religious character. The score of this operetta is lost. In 1859 Bizet traveled in Italy and obtained permission to remain in Rome during the one year, that, according to tradition, should be spent in Germany. He sent to the Académie “Vasco de Gama,” a descriptive orchestral composition with choruses; three numbers of an orchestral suite; and, if Pougin is correct, an operetta in one act, “La Guzla de l’Emir”; but Pigot claims that this latter work was not begun until after the return to Paris.

He returned and found his mother on her deathbed. He was without means, without employment; and he was crushed by the death of the one for whom he was eager to work day and night. He once wrote to her from Rome, “100,000 francs, the sum is nothing! Two successes at the Opéra Comique! I wish to love you always with all my soul, and to be always as to-day the most loving of sons.”

He was a “prix de Rome,”—too often an honor that brings with it no substantial reward. He was a “prix de Rome,” as was the unfortunate described by Legouvé:

“Listen to the wretched plight
Of a melancholy man,
A young man of sixty years,
Whom they call ‘un prix de Rome.’”

Burning with desire to write for the operatic stage, he gave music lessons. Dreaming of dramatic situations and grand finales, he made pianoforte arrangements of airs from operas written by others.

The Count Walewski granted Carvalho, the manager of the Théâtre-Lyrique, a subsidy of 100,000 francs, on the condition that an important work by a “prix de Rome” should be produced each year. Bizet was the first to profit thereby. He wrote the music for “The Pearl Fishers.” The text was by Carré and Cormon, and the opera was produced with gorgeous scenic setting, Sept. 30, 1863. The opera was given eighteen times, and it was not sung again in Paris until 1889, at the Gaité, and in Italian, with Calvé and Talazac, when it was only heard six times.

It is stated in Pigot’s “Bizet et son Œuvre” that Blau and Gallet wrote a libretto, “Ivan, the Terrible,” which was set to music by Bizet in the style of Verdi. Gallet says that neither he nor Blau wrote a word of such a libretto.

In 1866 Bizet worked at the orchestral composition which three years later was played at a Concert Pasdeloup and was then called “Souvenirs de Rome”; he temporarily abandoned it on the receipt of a libretto by Saint-Georges and Adenis, founded on Sir Walter Scott’s “The Fair Maid of Perth.” While he composed the music of this opera, he supported himself by giving lessons, correcting proofs, arranging dance music for orchestra, and writing songs. He often worked fifteen or sixteen hours a day. His letters of this year end with one and the same cry: “I must make my living.” This pursuit of a living brought early death.

The score of “The Fair Maid of Perth” was finished in six months, but the opera was not produced at the Théâtre-Lyrique until the 26th of December, 1867. There were twenty-one representations. In 1890 there were eleven representations at the Eden Theatre (Théâtre-Lyrique).

It was in 1867 that Bizet wrote the first act of “Malbrough,” an opérette bouffe, which was given at the Athénée. In 1868 or 1869 he wrote the music of an opérette-vaudeville, “Sol-si-ré-pif-pan,” for the Menus-Plaisirs, and he did not sign the score.

It was also in 1867 that he appeared as a writer on musical subjects. His first and last article was published in the first number of the Revue Nationale, Aug. 3rd. His pseudonym was “Gaston de Betzi.”

And then Bizet busied himself in the completion of “Noah,” a biblical opera left unfinished by Halévy; in arranging operas for pianoforte solo; in original compositions for the pianoforte, as his “chromatic variations.” He wrote music for the text of “The Cup of the King of Thule”; he called it “wretched stuff” and destroyed it. His “Souvenir de Rome, fantaisie symphonique” was played at a Concert Populaire in 1869. In that same year, June 3rd, he was married to Geneviève Halévy, the daughter of the composer. After the invasion of France, Bizet served in the National Guard, and his letters during those bloody days reveal the depth of his patriotism and his disgust at the incompetence and corruption in high places.

In 1872 (May 22) a little work in one act was brought out at the Opéra Comique. It was called “Djamileh”; the text was by Gallet, the music was by Bizet. It was given ten or eleven times; and Saint-Saëns, infuriated at the Parisian public, wrote biting verses:

“The ruminating bourgeois, pot-bellied and ugly, sits in his narrow stall, regretting separation from his kind; he half-opens a glassy eye, munches a bon-bon, then sleeps again, thinking that the orchestra is a-tuning.”

Carvalho, manager of the Vaudeville, dreamed of reviving the melodrama. He first caught his playwright, Daudet; he secured Bizet as the musician; the result was “L’Arlésienne,” which was first produced Oct. 1, 1872. The music included twenty-four numbers, orchestral and choral. The score was designed for the particular orchestra of the Vaudeville. Bizet rearranged for full orchestra the numbers that make up the Suite No. 1, and the Suite was first played at a Concert Populaire Nov. 10, 1872. He also revised the other numbers, and the revision was used at the revivals at the Odéon in 1885 and 1887. The Suite No. 2 was arranged by Ernest Guiraud.

The overture, “Patrie,” was first played at a Concert Populaire in February, 1874. Bizet experimented with texts suggested for an opéra comique; he finally chose “Carmen,” the text of which was drawn by Meilhac and Halévy from a tale by Merimée. The opera was produced at the Opéra Comique, March 3, 1875, with the following cast: Carmen, Galli-Marié; Micaëla, Marguerite Chapuis; Don Jose, Lhérie; Escamillo, Bouhy. It was about this time that Bizet was decorated with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor.

“Carmen” was no more successful than its predecessors. Bizet mourned its failure. For some time he had fought bravely against melancholy. At the age of thirty-six, he exclaimed, “It is extraordinary that I should feel so old.” Attacks of angina had been periodical for some years. He would jest at his suffering: “Fancy a double-pedal, A flat, E flat, which goes through your head from ear to ear.” He had abused his strength by over-work. Suddenly, at midnight, he died in Bougival, where he was resting. It was June 3rd, three months after the first performance of “Carmen.” The widow was left with a five-year-old son.

BIZET’S TOMB IN PÈRE LACHAISE. PARIS.

From a photograph made specially for this work.
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Bizet left few manuscripts. He burned many shortly before his death. The fragments of “Don Rodrigue” and “Clarisse Harlowe” were left in a curious notation that is nearly hieroglyphical, not to be deciphered.

When Louis Gallet first met Bizet, he saw a forest of blonde hair, thick and curly, which surrounded a round and almost child-like face. Bizet’s figure was robust. In later years his features were firm, and his expression was energetic, tempered by the trust, the frankness, and the goodness that characterized his nature. He was very short-sighted, and he wore eyeglasses constantly. His mouth lent itself as easily to expression of mocking wit as to kindness. His love for his parents has been already mentioned; his devotion toward his wife was such that she told Gounod there was not one minute of the six years of marriage which she would not gladly live over. He was a welcome companion, fond of jest and paradox, frank and loyal. At the house of Saint-Saëns he played gladly the part of Helen in Offenbach’s operetta. He was ever firm, even extravagant in friendship, as when at Baden-Baden in ‘62 he challenged a man who spoke lightly of Gounod’s “Queen of Sheba.” When the talk was concerning musicians whom he loved, Bach, Mozart, Rossini, Verdi, Gounod, his voice would lose its peculiar sibilance, and his hot eloquence showed honesty as well as nimble wit and power of expression. In all of the recollections of troops of friends, in his letters to acquaintances and friends there is not a suggestion of mean action, scheming purpose, low or narrow thought.

At the age of fourteen Bizet was a master of the pianoforte; his technique was above reproach; he was particularly skilful in mixing his colors: an exquisitely defined melody had its proper and characteristic background. Halévy and Liszt are of the many witnesses to his extraordinary talent for reading from score at sight. Reyer speaks of his remarkable memory. And yet Bizet never appeared in public as a pianist; although in certain salons of Paris his abilities excited lively admiration.

So too his gifts as a composer for orchestra were more than ordinary; but whenever he had an opportunity to write for the stage, he abandoned any instrumental work that had interested him.

For Bizet obeyed the instincts of the French musician and looked to the stage for enduring fame.

There is no need of close examination of “The Pearl Fishers,” and “The Fair Maid of Perth.” We know the later works of Bizet, and therefore we find hints of genius in the early operas. With the exception of the duet of Nadir and Zurga and of a few pages saturated with local color, there is little in “The Pearl Fishers” to herald the arrival of a master of the stage. There are delightful examples of instrumentation in “The Fair Maid of Perth”: the opera as a whole is conventional, and the solo passages and the ensemble are often reminiscent: there is continual homage to famous men: Gounod, Halévy, Verdi, Thomas, _et al._ Bizet had not yet found the use of his own voice.

Nor would “Djamileh,” the satisfaction of the longing of Camille du Locle for ideal musical revery, the sounding of the revolt against the school of Scribe, carry the name of Bizet to after years. Its perfume is subtle and penetrating; its colors delight trained eyes. It is a _tour de force_. It has the affected frankness of a pastel in prose. The hearer must be mastered by the spirit of the Orient to thoroughly enjoy. The three comedians should be seen as in an opium dream.

The fame of Bizet must rest eventually on two works: “L’Arlésienne” and “Carmen.”

I believe “L’Arlésienne” is the more artistic, the greater work. In “Carmen” is the greater promise of what Bizet might have done. The music of “L’Arlésienne,” is inseparably associated with success or failure of the play itself and the abilities of play-actors. If the concert-suite is played, it pleases; but apart from the representation of the dramatic scenes, the music loses its true significance. The saxophone solo in the Prelude, with its marvellous accompaniment, gratifies the ear in the concert-room; but its haunting and melancholy beauty is intensified tenfold when it is associated with the apparition of “The Innocent.” It is impossible to over-rate the beauty, the passion, the dramatic fitness of the music that accompanies the various scenes in the simple and terrible drama of Daudet. The dialogue between _Mère Renaud_ and _Balthazar_ when they meet after fifty years is touching; but the _adagietto_, that softly tells of humble heroism, love preserved without shame, the kiss given at last and without passion, longings and regrets endured in silence, rises to a height of pathos that is beyond the reach of words or pantomime. In connection with the scene and the dialogue the _adagietto_ is irresistible in its effect; in the concert room, it is simply a beautiful piece for muted strings. This play of Daudet is so simple, so devoid of trickery that its popular and universal success is extremely doubtful. The average spectator would fain see the unworthy _Woman of Arles_ for whom _Fréderi_ burns in agony; the shepherd _Balthazer_ seems to him a good, tiresome old man with a beard; _The Innocent_, unless the part is played with rare finesse, becomes almost ludicrous. Not until there is a return to the appreciation of simplicity will this music of Bizet be known as the supreme example of music in the domain of melodrama.

Meilhac and Halévy in the libretto of “Carmen,” feel constantly the pulse of the audience.

The opera is not a sustained masterpiece. The want of action in the third act is not atoned for by a display of musical inspiration. With the exception of the trio of card-players, the music of this act is far below that of the other three. But, with the omission of this act, how frank, how intense, how characteristic, is the music that tells of a tragedy of universal and eternal interest.

For _Carmen_ lived years before she was known by Merimée. She dies many deaths, and many are her resurrections. When the world was young, they say her name was Lilith, and the serpent for her sake hated Adam. She perished that wild night when the heavens rained fire upon the Cities of the Plain. Samson knew her when she dwelt in the valley of Sorek. The mound builders saw her and fell at her feet. She disquieted the blameless men of Ethiopia. Years after she was the friend of Theodora. In the fifteenth century she was noticed in Sabbatic revels led by the four-horned goat. She was in Paris at the end of the last century, and she wore powder and patches at the dinners given by the Marquis de Sade. In Spain she rolled cigarettes and wrecked the life of _Don José_.

The dramatic genius of Bizet is seen fully in his treatment of this character. She sings no idle words. Each tone stabs. There are here no agreeable or sensuous love passages; as Bellaigue remarks, there is not a touch of voluptuousness in the opera. The soldier is under the spell of a vain, coarse, reckless gipsy of maddening personality. He knows the folly, the madness of his passion; he sees “as from a tower the end of all.” These characters are sharply drawn and forcibly painted. There is free use of the palette knife; there is fine and ingenious detail. The singers sing because it is the natural expression of their emotions; they do not sing to amuse the audience or accommodate the stage carpenter. The orchestra with wealth of rhythm and color italicizes the song; prepares the action; accompanies it; or moralizes. Apart from the technical skill shown in the instrumentation, the great ability of Bizet is seen in his combining the French traditions of the past and the German spirit of the present without incongruity. Here is a departure from old models, and yet a confirmation. The quintet is sung because thereby the feeling of the scene is best expressed; five people are not introduced because the quintet is an agreeable combination of voices. The unmeaning vocal ornaments found in the earlier operas of Bizet have disappeared. He uses his own manly, intense speech. He expresses his own thoughts in his own way. He does not care whether his work is opéra comique or grand opera, or melodrama. His sole object is to tell his story as directly and as forcibly as possible.

In a world of art that is too often ruled by insincerity, a lusty, well-trained voice aroused the attention. Suddenly the voice was hushed. Only with the silence, came the hearty approval of the great audience. Bizet met with no popular success during his lifetime. Now “Carmen” holds the stage; “L’Arlésienne” excites the admiration of all musicians; the earlier operas have been revived and sung in foreign languages. In his own country he was from the start known vulgarly as “one of the most ferocious of the French Wagnerian school”: an absurd charge: for in no one of his operas is there recognition of the peculiar theories of Wagner. Bizet followed the traditional formulas: he used the air, the concerted pieces, the formal divisions and subdivisions. The orchestra assists the singer; it does not usurp his place. Without doubt he learned from Wagner in the matter of orchestral expression, as Wagner learned from Weber and Meyerbeer; as one sensible man does from his predecessors. There was nothing new in Bizet’s use of the typical motive; it was similarly employed by Grétry, Auber, Halévy.

Melody, expressive harmony, ingenious counterpoint, an unerring sense of the value of a peculiar tone of an instrument or the advantage of a combination of instruments,—these were used by the Bizet of later years simply to express truth. This was the purpose of his life; this was the motto of his existence. No one could be more refined than he in musical expression; no one could be more seemingly brutal. The glowing words that he wrote concerning Verdi in the Revue Nationale show his one prevailing thought: “Let us then be frank and true; let us not demand of a great artist qualities which he lacks, and let us profit from the qualities which he possesses. When a passionate, violent, even brutal temperament; when a Verdi presents us with a strong and living work full of gold and mud, of gall and blood, let us not go to him and say coldly, ‘But, my dear Sir, this is wanting in taste, it is not _distingué_.’ _Distingué!_ Are Michael-Angelo, Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Beethoven, Cervantes, and Rabelais _distingués_?”

It is presumptuous, it is impossible to anticipate the verdict of Time the Avenger. It is not improbable, however, that the future historian of the opera will class Bizet with Wagner and Verdi as the men of mighty influence over the opera of the last years of this century. “Carmen” was, perhaps, a promise, a starting point, rather than a fulfillment. But if the young and fiery composers of Italy of to-day turn reverently toward Verdi and Wagner, they also read lovingly the score of “Carmen.”

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CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS

_Reproduction of a photograph from life, by Eug. Pirout, Paris._
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CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS

The eminent composer, Camille Saint-Saëns, was born in Paris, October 9, 1835. While yet an infant he manifested an innate gift for music. We are informed by the most reliable of his biographers, his grand-aunt, that, observing the deep attention with which the child listened to music, she gave him his first lessons on the piano when he was scarcely three years old. It would not be easy to find a record of earlier precocity. His mother relates, when her son began to play the first exercise, C, D, E, F, G, she discovered him playing it with only the right hand, using the other hand to press the weak little fingers down, in order to sound each note distinctly. It was ingenious, almost virtuosity! That a child like Saint-Saëns should make rapid progress was inevitable. When his fingers were sufficiently strong to strike the keys of the pianoforte without great effort, his grand-aunt, believing that she had reached the end of her task with him, placed him in charge of a professional teacher of the pianoforte. It was not long before this teacher was replaced in turn, by a master worthy of such a pupil, and wholly capable of guiding his studies. This master was Stamaty, and the choice was admirable. In addition to Stamaty, who was only a teacher of the pianoforte, M. Maledan, an able instructor in harmony and theory and a man of decided talent, was engaged to guide the more serious musical studies of young Saint-Saëns.

The boy was ten years old when his mother resolved that he should make the acquaintance of some of the notabilities of the musical world before making his first appearance in public. To this end she gave a private soirée at her house, the result of which was echoed through the press of Paris. The lad performed, with Stamaty, one of Mozart’s Sonatas for four hands with surprising ease and in remarkable sympathy with the composer’s style. Then, with a quartet accompaniment, he performed some of the works of the great masters, including fugues by Bach, a concerto by Hummel, and Beethoven’s concerto in C minor.

A few months later, he made his début before the public in a concert given in the Pleyel Salon, so much favored of artists, and where Chopin and Rubinstein, not to name other great pianist-composers, also made their first bow before a Parisian audience. Little Camille, as he was then styled, achieved a flattering success. The most eminent critics sang his praises and predicted a great future for him. Never did they prophesy with more true foresight than they did on that occasion. _L’Illustration_ published his portrait, and there were some who went so far as to draw a comparison between him and the incomparable Mozart!

This brilliant début in nowise spoiled the young pianist; on the contrary, its effect only increased his zeal for study. He attended the course of lessons in composition under Halévy at the Conservatoire as an _élève auditeur_, literally, a listening pupil, for one year. He then obtained admission to the organ class where he won the first prize. Encouraged by his success he next appeared as a competitor at the Institut (Prix de Rome), but failed. He never again crossed the threshold of the Institut de France until long afterward, when he was received with honor and glory as a member of the “Section Musicale.” When he competed for the Prix de Rome, he was only seventeen years of age, but he had already attained celebrity as a pianist and an organist, and had also distinguished himself as the composer of several important scores. One of these was an ode to St. Cecilia, for chorus, solo, and grand orchestra, which was performed by the Société Sainte Cécile, of which Seghers was the leader. The newspapers were as severe upon Saint-Saëns as a composer, as they had been satisfied with his début as a pianist. “In the absence of inspiration of the first order, or of brilliant genius,” writes the critic of the Gazette Musicale, “it could be wished that the composer showed a little more _fougue_ and dash, were it only in a few paltry flights which reveal a young artist’s desire to create for himself an individual style.”

With Saint-Saëns inspiration came later, and it was pure inspiration, without fault, and was not wanting in originality.

The young composer soon avenged himself for these harsh criticisms, by composing his first symphony, in E flat, which was also executed by the Société Sainte Cécile. The great artist of the future had not then reached his sixteenth year. The work was well calculated to encourage the highest hopes for the future of the symphonist, and these hopes were abundantly realized by his last and admirable symphony in C minor, a composition which indeed may be considered a genuine masterpiece. The first symphony by the lad of sixteen met with a full measure of applause; it has been published and is still frequently played with success. It appears in the catalogue of his complete works as the musical leaflet No. 2. The second symphony, in F major, was performed for the first time in 1856 by the Philharmonic Society of Bordeaux, and also met with a warm welcome. A third symphony in D does not appear in the catalogue, which also does not mention the second symphony, the only symphonies named being those in E flat, in A minor (Leaflet 56) and in C minor (Leaflet 78). It would seem, therefore, either that two of the five symphonies written by Saint-Saëns have not been published, or that this _complete_ catalogue, printed by his publishers, Durand et Schoenewerk, of Paris, is _incomplete_.

I have purposely omitted to mention four concertos for piano and orchestra, because these productions, which are of a high order, have brought to mind an incident which is worthy a special place in this biography.