In this strange condition of affairs Gluck found his new sphere of
labour--Gluck, himself overflowing with the revolutionary spirit, full
of the enthusiasm of reform. At first he carried everything before
him. Protected by royalty, he produced, on the basis of an admirable
libretto by Du Rollet, one of the great wits of the time, "Iphigenia
in Aulis." It was enthusiastically received. The critics, delighted to
establish the reputation of one especially favoured by the Dauphiness
Marie Antoinette, exhausted superlatives on the new opera. The Abbé
Arnaud, one of the leading _dilettanti_, exclaimed--"With such music
one might found a new religion!" To be sure, the connoisseurs could
not understand the complexities of the music; but, following the rule
of all connoisseurs before or since, they considered it all the more
learned and profound. So led, the general public clapped their hands,
and agreed to consider Gluck as a great composer. He was called the
Hercules of music; the opera-house was crammed night after night; his
footsteps were dogged in the streets by admiring enthusiasts; the wits
and poets occupied themselves with composing sonnets in his praise;
brilliant courtiers and fine ladies showered valuable gifts on the new
musical oracle; he was hailed as the exponent of Rousseauism in music.
We read that it was considered to be a priceless privilege to be
admitted to the rehearsal of a new opera, to see Gluck conduct in
nightcap and dressing-gown.
Fresh adaptations of "Orpheus and Eurydice" and of "Alceste" were
produced. The first, brought out in 1784, was received with an
enthusiasm which could be contented only with forty-nine consecutive
performances. The second act of this work has been called one of the
most astonishing productions of the human mind. The public began to
show signs of fickleness, however, on the production of the "Alceste."
On the first night a murmur arose among the spectators--"The piece has
fallen." Abbé Arnaud, Gluck's devoted defender, arose in his box and
replied, "Yes! fallen from heaven." While Mademoiselle Levasseur was
singing one of the great airs, a voice was heard to say, "Ah! you tear
out my ears;" to which the caustic rejoinder was, "How fortunate, if
it is to give you others!"
Gluck himself was badly bitten, in spite of his hatred of shams and
shallowness, with the pretences of the time, which professed to dote
on nature and simplicity. In a letter to his old pupil, Marie
Antoinette, wherein he disclaims any pretension of teaching the French
a new school of music, he says--"I see with satisfaction that the
language of Nature is the universal language."
So, here on the crumbling crust of a volcano, where the volatile
French court danced and fiddled and sang, unreckoning of what was soon
to come, our composer and his admirers patted each other on the back
with infinite complacency.
But after this high tide of prosperity there was to come a reverse. A
powerful faction, that for a time had been crushed by Gluck's triumph,
after a while raised their heads and organised an attack. There were
second-rate composers whose scores had been laid on the shelf in the
rage for the new favourite; musicians who were shocked and enraged at
the difficulties of his instrumentation; wits who, having praised
Gluck for a while, thought they could now find a readier field for
their quills in satire; and a large section of the public who changed
for no earthly reason but that they got tired of doing one thing.
Therefore, the Italian Piccini was imported to be pitted against the
reigning deity. The French court was broken up into hostile ranks.
Marie Antoinette was Gluck's patron, but Madame Du Barry, the king's
mistress, declared for Piccini. Abbé Arnaud fought for Gluck; but the
witty Marmontel was the advocate of his rival. The keen-witted Du
Rollet was Gluckist; but La Harpe, the eloquent, was Piccinist. So
this battle-royal in art commenced and raged with virulence. The
green-room was made unmusical with contentions carried out in polite
Billingsgate. Gluck tore up his unfinished score in rage when he
learned that his rival was to compose an opera on the same libretto.
La Harpe said--"The famous Gluck may puff his own compositions, but he
can't prevent them from boring us to death." Thus the wags of Paris
laughed and wrangled over the musical rivals. Berton, the new
director, fancied he could soften the dispute and make the two
composers friends; so at a dinner-party, when they were all in their
cups, he proposed that they should compose an opera jointly. This was
demurred to; but it was finally arranged that they should compose an
opera on the same subject.
"Iphigenia in Tauris," Gluck's second "Iphigenia," produced in 1779,
was such a masterpiece that his rival shut his own score in his
portfolio, and kept it two years. All Paris was enraptured with this
great work, and Gluck's detractors were silenced in the wave of
enthusiasm which swept the public. Abbé Arnaud's opinion was the echo
of the general mind--"There was but one beautiful part, and that was
the whole of it." This opera may be regarded as the most perfect
example of Gluck's school in making the music the full reflex of the
dramatic action. While Orestes sings in the opera, "My heart is calm,"
the orchestra continues to paint the agitation of his thoughts. During
the rehearsal the musician failed to understand the exigency and
ceased playing. The composer cried out, in a rage, "Don't you see he
is lying? Go on, go on; he has just killed his mother."
On one occasion, when he was praising Rameau's chorus of "Castor and
Pollux," an admirer of his flattered him with the remark, "But what a
difference between this chorus and that of your 'Iphigenia!'" "Yet it
is very well done," said Gluck; "one is only a religious ceremony, the
other is a real funeral." He was wont to say that in composing he
always tried to forget he was a musician.
Gluck, however, a few months subsequent to this, was so much
humiliated at the non-success of "Echo and Narcissus," that he left
Paris in bitter irritation, in spite of Marie Antoinette's pleadings
that he should remain at the French capital.
The composer was now advanced in years, and had become impatient and
fretful. He left Paris for Vienna in 1780, having amassed considerable
property. There, as an old, broken-down man, he listened to the young
Mozart's new symphonies and operas, and applauded them with great
zeal: for Gluck, though fiery and haughty in the extreme, was
singularly generous in recognising the merits of others.
This was exhibited in Paris in his treatment of Méhul, the Belgian
composer, then a youth of sixteen, who had just arrived in the gay
city. It was on the eve of the first representation of "Iphigenia in
Tauris," when the operatic battle was agitating the public. With all
the ardour of a novice and a devotee, the young musical student
immediately threw himself into the affray, and by the aid of a friend
he succeeded in gaining admittance to the theatre for the final
rehearsal of Gluck's opera. This so enchanted him that he resolved to
be present at the public performance. But, unluckily for the resolve,
he had no money, and no prospect of obtaining any; so, with a
determination and a love for art which deserve to be remembered, he
decided to hide himself in one of the boxes and there to wait for the
time of representation.
"At the end of the rehearsal," writes George Hogarth in his _Memoirs
of the Drama_, "he was discovered in his place of concealment by the
servants of the theatre, who proceeded to turn him out very roughly.
Gluck, who had not left the house, heard the noise, came to the spot,
and found the young man, whose spirit was roused, resisting the
indignity with which he was treated. Méhul, finding in whose presence
he was, was ready to sink with confusion; but, in answer to Gluck's
questions, he told him that he was a young musical student from the
country, whose anxiety to be present at the performance of the opera
had led him into the commission of an impropriety. Gluck, as may be
supposed, was delighted with a piece of enthusiasm so flattering to
himself, and not only gave his young admirer a ticket of admission,
but desired his acquaintance." From this artistic _contretemps_, then,
arose a friendship alike creditable to the goodness and generosity of
Gluck, as it was to the sincerity and high order of Méhul's musical
talent.
Gluck's death, in 1787, was caused by over-indulgence in wine at a
dinner which he gave to some of his friends. The love of stimulants
had grown upon him in his old age, and had become almost a passion. An
enforced abstinence of some months was succeeded by a debauch, in
which he drank an immense quantity of brandy. The effects brought on a
fit of apoplexy, of which he died, aged seventy-three.
Gluck's place in musical history is peculiar and well marked. He
entered the field of operatic composition when it was hampered with a
great variety of dry forms, and utterly without soul and poetic
spirit. The object of composers seemed to be to show mere contrapuntal
learning, or to furnish singers opportunity to display vocal agility.
The opera, as a large and symmetrical expression of human emotions,
suggested in the collisions of a dramatic story, was utterly an
unknown quantity in art. Gluck's attention was early called to this
radical inconsistency; and, though he did not learn for many years to
develop his musical ideas according to a theory, and never carried
that theory to the logical results insisted on by his great
after-type, Wagner, he accomplished much in the way of sweeping
reform. He elaborated the recitative or declamatory element in opera
with great care, and insisted that his singers should make this the
object of their most careful efforts. The arias, duos, quartets, etc.,
as well as the choruses and orchestral parts, were made consistent
with the dramatic motive and situations. In a word, Gluck aimed with a
single-hearted purpose to make music the expression of poetry and
sentiment.
The principles of Gluck's school of operatic writing may be briefly
summarised as follows:--That dramatic music can only reach its highest
power and beauty when joined to a simple and poetic text, expressing
passions true to Nature; that music can be made the language of all
the varied emotions of the heart; that the music of an opera must
exactly follow the rhythm and melody of the words; that the orchestra
must be only used to strengthen and intensify the feeling embodied in
the vocal parts, as demanded by the text or dramatic situation. We get
some further light on these principles from Gluck's letter of
dedication to the Grand-Duke of Tuscany on the publication of
"Alceste." He writes:--"I am of opinion that music must be to poetry
what liveliness of colour and a happy mixture of light and shade are
for a faultless and well-arranged drawing, which serve to add life to
the figures without injuring the outlines; ... that the overture
should prepare the auditors for the character of the action which is
to be presented, and hint at the progress of the same; that the
instruments must be employed according to the degree of interest and
passion; that the composer should avoid too marked a disparity in the
dialogue between the air and recitative, in order not to break the
sense of a period, or interrupt the energy of the action.... Finally,
I have even felt compelled to sacrifice rules to the improvement of
the effect."
We find in this composer's music, therefore, a largeness and dignity
of treatment which have never been surpassed. His command of melody is
quite remarkable, but his use of it is under severe artistic
restraint; for it is always characterised by breadth, simplicity, and
directness. He aimed at and attained the symmetrical balance of an old
Greek play.
_HAYDN._