THE GRAND PRIX DE ROME
So I had won the first prize on the piano. I was doubtless as fortunate
as I was proud, but it was out of the question for me to live on the
memory of this distinction. The necessities of life were pressing,
inexorable, and they demanded something more real and above all more
practicable. I really could not go on accepting my dear sister's
hospitality without contributing my personal expenses. So to ease the
situation I gave lessons in solfeggio and on the piano in a poor little
school in the neighborhood. The returns were small, but the labor was
great. Thus I drew out a precarious and often difficult existence. I was
offered the post of pianist in one of the large cafes in Belleville; it
was the first cafe to provide music, a scheme invented to hold the
customers, if not to distract them. The place paid me thirty francs a
month!
_Quantum mutatus_.... Like the poet I may say, "What changes since that
time?" To-day even the young pupils have only to _enter_ a competition
to get their pictures in the papers and at the very outset of their
careers they are anointed great men. All this is accompanied by
Bacchanalian lines and they are fortunate if in their exalted triumph
they do not add the word "colossal." That is glory; deification in all
its modesty. In 1859 we were not glorified in any such way.
But Providence--some called it Destiny--watched over me.
A friend, who to my great joy is still living, got me better lessons. He
was not like so many friends I met later, who are ever in need of one's
assistance; those who slink away when you want to be comforted in
poverty; the friends who are always pretending that they defended you
last night against malevolent attacks in order to show you their fine
opinions, but at the same time torturing you by repeating the wounding
words directed at you. I must add, however, that I have had truly
genuine friendships, as I have found in my hours of weariness and
discouragement.
The Theatre-Lyrique was then on the Boulevard du Temple and it gave me a
place in its orchestra as kettle-drummer. Then, good Father Strauss, the
orchestra leader at the Opera balls, let me play the bass drum, the
kettle-drums, the tam-tam, and all the rest of the resonant instruments.
It was dreadfully tiring to sit up every Saturday from midnight until
six in the morning, but all told I managed to make eighty francs a
month. I felt as rich as a banker and as happy as a cobbler.
The Theatre-Lyrique was founded by the elder Alexander Dumas as the
Theatre-Historique, and was established by Adolphe Adam.
I was living at the time at No. 5, Rue de Menilmontant, in a huge
building, almost a city in itself. My neighbors on the floor, separated
only by a narrow partition, were the clowns--both men and women--of the
Cirque Napoleon which was near our house.
From my attic window I was able to enjoy--for nothing of course--whiffs
from the orchestra which escaped from the popular concerts that
Pasdeloup conducted in the circus every Sunday. This happened whenever
the audience packed in the overheated hall shouted loudly for air and
they opened the casement windows on the third floor to satisfy them.
From my perch--that is the only thing to call it--I applauded with
feverish joy the overture of _Tannhauser_, the _Symphonie Fantastique_,
in short the music of my gods: Wagner and Berlioz.
Every evening at six o'clock--the theater began very early--I went by
the way of the Rue des Fosses-du-Temple, near my house, to the stage
door of the Theatre-Lyrique. In those days the left side of the
Boulevard du Temple was one unbroken line of theaters. Consequently I
went along the back of the Funambules, the Petit-Lazari, the
Delassements-Comiques, the Cirque Imperial and the Gaite. Those who did
not know that corner of Paris in 1859 can have no idea of it.
The Rue des Fosses-du-Temple, on which all the stage doors opened, was a
sort of wonderland where all the supers, male and female, from all the
theaters waited in great crowds on the dimly lighted pavements. The
atmosphere was full of vermin and microbes. Even in our Theatre-Lyrique
the musicians' dressing room was only an old stable in which the horses
used in historical plays were kept.
Still, my delight was too great for words and I felt that I was to be
envied as I sat in the fine orchestra which Deloffre conducted. Ah!
those rehearsals of _Faust_! My happiness could not be expressed when,
from my own little corner, I could leisurely devour with my eyes our
great Gounod who managed our work from the stage.
Many times later on when we came out, side by side, from the sessions of
the Institute--Gounod lived in the Place Malesherbes--we talked over the
time when _Faust_--now past its thousandth performance--was such a
subject for discussion and criticism in the press, while the dear
public--which is rarely deceived--applauded it.
_Vox Populi, vox Dei!_
I also remember that while I was in the orchestra I assisted at the
performances of Reyer's _La Statue_, a superb score and a tremendous
success.
I can still see Reyer in the wings during the performances eluding the
firemen and smoking interminable cigars. It was a habit he could not
give up. One day I heard him tell about being in Abbe Liszt's room in
Rome. The walls were covered with religious pictures--Christ, the
Virgin, and the Saints--and he blew out a cloud of smoke which filled
the room. In reply to his witty excuses about incommoding the "august
persons," he drew the following reply from the great abbe. "No," said
Liszt, "it is always incense."
For six months, under the same conditions of work, I substituted for one
of my fellows in the orchestra at the Theatre-Italien.
As I had heard the admirable Mme. Miolan-Carvalho in _Faust_--excellent
singing--I now heard the tragediennes like Penco and Frezzolini and such
men as Mario, Graziani, Delle Sedie, and the buffo Zucchini.
The last is no longer alive and our great Lucien Fugere of the
Opera-Comique of to-day reminds me of him almost exactly. There is the
same powerful voice and the same perfect artistic comedy.
But the time for the competition of the Institute approached. During our
residence _en loge_ at the Institute we had to pay for our meals for
twenty-five days and also the rent of a piano. I got out of that
difficulty as best I could; at any rate I forestalled it. All the same
the money I had been able to put aside was insufficient and acting on
the advice of a friend (giving and acting on advice are two entirely
different things) I went to a pawnshop and pawned my watch ... a gold
one. It had adorned my fob since the morning of my first communion.
Alas! it must have been light weight, for they offered me only ...
sixteen francs!!! This odd sum, however, enabled me to pay for my meals.
But the charge for the piano was so exorbitant--twenty francs!--that I
couldn't afford it. I did without it much more easily, for I have never
needed its help in composing.
I would have hardly imagined that my neighbors would have bothered me so
by their pounding on their pianos and by their singing at the top of
their lungs. It was impossible to divert my thoughts or to escape their
noise, as I had no piano, and, in addition, the corridors of our garrets
were unusually reverberant.
On my way to the Saturday sittings of the Academie des Beaux-Arts I
often cast a sad glance at the grated window of my cell; it can be seen
from the Cour Mazarine to the right in a recess. Yes, my glance is sad,
for I left behind those old bars the dearest and most affecting
recollections of my youth, and because they cause me to reflect on the
unhappy times in my long life.
In the trial competition in 1863 I was examined first and I kept the
same place in the choral work. The first test was in the large hall of
the Ecole des Beaux-Arts which is entered from the Quai Malaquais.
The final decision was made the next day in the hall used for the
regular sittings of the Academie des Beaux-Arts.
My interpreters were Mme. Van den Heuvel-Duprez, Roger and Bonnehee, all
three from the Opera. With such artists I had to triumph. And that is
what happened!
I went in first--there were six competitors--and as at that time one
could not listen to the work of the other candidates--I went wandering
haphazard down to the Rue Mazarine ... on the Pont des Arts ... and,
finally, in the square court of the Louvre where I sat down on one of
the iron seats.
I heard five o'clock strike. I was very anxious. "All must be over by
now," I said to myself. I had guessed right, for suddenly I saw under
the arch three people chatting together and recognized Berlioz, Ambroise
Thomas and Monsieur Auber.
Flight was impossible. They were in front of me almost as if they barred
my escape.
Ambroise Thomas, my beloved master, came towards me and said, "Embrace
Berlioz, you owe him a great deal for your prize."
"The _prize_," I cried, bewildered, my face shining with joy. "I have
the prize!!!" I was deeply moved and I embraced Berlioz, then my master,
and finally Monsieur Auber.
Monsieur Auber comforted me. Did I need comforting? Then he said to
Berlioz pointing to me,
"He'll go far, the young rascal, when he's had _less_ experience!"