MY RETURN TO PARIS
My comrades went with me to the station "dei Termini," hard by the
Diocletian ruins. They did not leave until we had embraced warmly and
they stayed until my train disappeared beyond the horizon. Happy beings!
they would sleep that night at the Academie, while I was alone, torn by
the emotions of leaving, numbed by the keen, icy December cold, shrouded
in memories, and, unless fatigue aided me, unable to sleep. Next day I
was in Florence.
I wanted to see again this city with the richest collections of art in
Italy. I went to the Pitti Palace, one of the wonders of Florence. In
going through the galleries it seemed to me as though I were not alone,
but that the living remembrance of my comrades was with me, that I was a
witness of their enthusiasms and raptures before all the masterpieces
piled in that splendid palace. I saw again the Titians, the Tintorets,
the works of Leonardo, the Veronese, the Michel Angelos, and the
Raphaels.
With what delightfully charmed eyes I admired anew that priceless
treasure, Raphael's masterpiece of painting, the "Madonna della
sedella," then the "Temptation of St. Anthony" by Salvator Rosa placed
in the Hall of Ulysses, and in the Hall of Flora Canova's "Venus,"
mounted on a revolving base. I studied, too, the works of Rubens,
Rembrandt and Van Dyck.
From the Pitti Palace I went to be astounded anew by the Strozzi Palace,
the most beautiful type of Florentine palace. Its cornice, attributed to
Simon Pollajo, is the most beautiful known to modern times. I saw once
more the Buboli gardens, beside the Pitti Palace, designed by Tribolo
and Buontalenti.
I finished the day with a walk in the so-called Bois de Boulogne de
Florence, the Cascine Walk, at the western gate of Florence, between the
right bank of the Arno and the railroad. It is the favorite walk of the
elegant and fashionable world of Florence, the city called the Athens of
Italy. I remember that evening had already fallen and as I was without
my watch--I had left it at the hotel--I asked a peasant I met on the
road what time it was. The answer I received was so poetically turned
that I can never forget it, "_Sono le sette, l'aria ne treme
ancor!..._"
"It is seven o'clock. The air still trembles from the sound."
I left Florence to continue my trip by the way of Pisa.
Pisa seemed to me as depopulated as if it had been swept by the plague.
When one considers that in the Middle Ages it was a rival of Genoa,
Florence, and Venice, one feels puzzled by the comparative desolation
that envelops it. I remained alone for nearly an hour on the Piazza del
Duomo, looking with curiosity on the masterpieces which raise their
artistic beauty there, the Cathedral or Le Dome de Pisa, the Campanile,
better known as the Leaning Tower, and last, the Baptistiere.
Between the Dome and the Baptistiere stretches the Campo Santo, the
famous cemetery. The earth for this cemetery was brought from Jerusalem.
It seemed to me that the Leaning Tower was only waiting until I had
passed, unlike the Campanile of Venice, in order to bring down deadly
destruction on me. On the contrary, it appears that the tower, which
aided Galileo in making his famous experiments on gravitation, was
never more secure. This is proved by the fact that the seven great
bells which sound in full swing several times a day have never affected
the strength of this curious structure.
Here I come to the most interesting part of my journey--after I left
Pisa, huddled under the top of the diligence, which followed the shores
of the Mediterranean, by Spezzia as far as Genoa. What an unreal journey
that one of mine was along the ancient Roman Way on the top of the rocks
which overlook the sea! I journeyed as though I were in the car of a
capricious balloon.
All the way the road skirted the sea, sometimes cutting through forests
of olives, and again rising over the tops of the hills where one
overlooked a wide horizon.
It was picturesque everywhere; there was always a variety of astonishing
views along this way. Traveling as I did by the light of a magnificent
moon, it was most ideally beautiful in its originality with its villages
in which one saw at times a lighted window in the distance and this sea
into which one could see to fathomless depths.
During this journey it seemed to me that I had never accumulated so many
ideas and projects, obsessed as I was by the thought that in a few
hours I would be back in Paris and that my life was about to commence.
I traveled from Genoa to Paris by rail. When one is young, one sleeps so
well! I woke up shivering. It was freezing. The piercing cold of the
night had covered the car windows with frosty ornaments.
We went by Montereau, and Paris was almost in sight! I could not imagine
then that some years later I should own a summer house in this country
near Egreville.
What a contrast between the beautiful sky of Italy, that eternally
beautiful sky, sung by the poets, which I had just left, and the one I
saw again, so dark, gray, and sullen!
When I had paid for my journey and a few small expenses, I had left in
my pockets the sum of ... two francs!
How joyful I was, when I reached my sister's house! Also, what
unforeseen good fortune!
It was raining in torrents and my precious two francs went to buy that
indispensable _vade mecum_, an umbrella. I had not needed one during my
entire stay in Italy. Protected from the weather I went to the Ministry
of Finance where I knew I should find my allowance for the first
quarter of the new year. At this time the holders of the Grand Prix
enjoyed a pension of three thousand francs a year. I was still entitled
to it for three years. What good luck!
The good friend, whom I have already mentioned, had been forewarned of
my return and had rented a room for me on the fifth floor of No. 14, Rue
Taitbout. From the calm and quiet beauty of my room at the Academie, I
had fallen into the midst of busy, noisy Paris.
Ambroise Thomas introduced me to wealthy friends who gave famous musical
evening entertainments. I saw there for the first time Leo Delibes,
whose ballet _La Source_ had already won him a great reputation at the
Opera. I saw him direct a delightful chorus sung by fashionable ladies
and I whispered to myself, "I, too, will write a chorus. And it will be
sung." Indeed it was, but by four hundred male voices. I had won the
first prize in the Ville de Paris competition.
My acquaintance with the poet Armand Silvestre dates from this time. By
chance he was my neighbor on the top of an omnibus, and, one thing
leading to another, we got down the best of friends. He saw that I was
a good listener, and he told me some of the most drolly improper
stories, in which he excelled. But to my mind the poet surpassed the
story teller and a month later I had written the _Poeme d'Avril_,
inspired by the exquisite verses in his first book.
As I speak of the _Poeme d'Avril_, I remember the fine impression it
made on Reyer. He urged me to take it to a publisher. Armed with a too
flattering letter from him I went to Choudens to whom he recommended me.
After four futile attempts I was finally received by the wealthy
publisher of _Faust_. But I was not even to show my little manuscript. I
was immediately shown out. The same sort of reception awaited me at
Flaxland's, the publisher, Place de la Madeleine, and also at Brandus's,
the owner of Meyerbeer's works. I considered this altogether natural,
for I was absolutely unknown.
As I was going back (not too bitterly disappointed) to my fifth floor on
the Rue Taitbout, with my music in my pocket, I was accosted by a fair,
tall young man, with a kindly, intelligent face, who said to me:
"Yesterday I opened a music store near here in the Boulevard de la
Madeleine. I know who you are and I am ready to publish anything you
like." It was Georges Hartmann, my first publisher.
All I had to do was to take my hand from my pocket and give him the
_Poeme d'Avril_ which had just received such a poor reception elsewhere.
It is true that I made nothing out of it, but how much I would have
given--had I had it--to have it published. A few months later lovers of
music were singing:
_Qu'on passe en aimant!_
_Que l'heure est donc breve_
As yet I had neither honor nor money, but I certainly had a good deal of
encouragement.
Cholera was raging in Paris. I fell ill and the neighbors were afraid to
come and see how I was. However, Ambroise Thomas learned of my dangerous
illness and my helpless distress and visited me in my room accompanied
by his doctor, the Emperor's physician. This brave and fatherly act on
the part of my beloved master affected me so much that I fainted in bed.
I must add that this illness was only fleeting and that I finished ten
pieces for the piano for which Girod, the publisher, paid me two
hundred francs. A louis a page! To that benevolent publisher I owed the
first money I made from music.
* * * * *
The health of Paris improved.
On the eighth of October I was married in the little old church in the
village of Avon near Fontainebleau.
My wife's brother and my new cousin, the eminent violinist Armingaud,
the founder of the famous quartet, were my witnesses. However, there
were others too. A flock of sparrows came in through a broken window and
out-chirped one another so that we could scarcely hear the words of the
good cure.
His words were a kindly homage to my new companion and encouragement for
my still uncertain future.
After the wedding ceremony we walked in the beautiful forest of
Fontainebleau, where I seemed to hear, in the midst of the magnificence
of nature, verdant and purple in the warm rays of the bright sun,
caressed by the songs of the birds, the words of that great poet Alfred
de Musset:
"_Aime et tu renaitrais; fais-toi fleur pour eclore._"
We left Avon to pass a week at the seashore, in a charming solitude _a
deux_, often the most enviable solitude. While I was there, I corrected
the proofs of the _Poeme d'Avril_ and the ten piano pieces.
To correct proofs! To see my music in print! Had my career as a composer
really begun?