THE CONSERVATOIRE AND THE INSTITUTE
I received the official notice of my nomination as professor at the
Conservatoire and I went to Paris. I would have hardly imagined that I
had said good-by to my beloved house at Fontainebleau with no hope of
seeing it again.
The life which had now begun for me transplanted my summers of work in
the midst of quiet and peaceful solitude--those summers which I had
passed so happily far from the noise and tumult of the city. If books
have their destiny as the poet says (_habent sua fata libelli_), does
not each one of us follow a destiny which is just as certain and
irrevocable? One cannot swim against the stream. It is easy to swim with
it, especially if it carries one to a longed for shore.
I gave my course at the Conservatoire twice a week, on Tuesdays and
Fridays at half past one.
I confess that I was both proud and happy to sit in that chair, in the
same classroom where as a child I had received the advice and lessons
of my master. I looked upon my pupils as other or as new
children--grandchildren rather--who received the teaching which had come
to me and which seemed to filter through the memories of the master who
had imbued me with it.
The young people with whom I had to do seemed nearly my own age, and I
said to them by way of encouraging them and urging them on to work: "You
have but one companion the more, who tries to be as good a pupil as you
are yourselves."
It was touching to see the deferential affection which they showed me
from the first day. I was completely happy when I surprised them
sometimes chatting and telling their impressions of the work given the
day before or to be given to-morrow. At the beginning of my
professorship that work was _Le Roi de Lahore_.
Thus I continued for eighteen years to be both friend and "patron," as
they called me, of a considerable number of young composers.
Since I took such joy in it, I may perhaps recall the successes they won
each year in the contests in fugue, and how useful this teaching was to
me, for it obliged me to be very clever, face to face with a task, in
finding quickly what should be done in accordance with the rigorous
precepts of Cherubini.
How delighted I was for eighteen years when nearly annually the Grand
Prix de Rome was awarded to a pupil in my class! I longed to go to the
Conservatoire and heap the honors on my master.
I can still see, at evening in his peaceful salon with the windows
overlooking the Conservatoire's courtyard--deserted at that hour--the
good Administrator-General Emile Rety listening to me as I told him of
my happiness in having assisted in the success of "my children."
A few years ago I received a touching expression of their feeling toward
me.
In the month of December, 1900, I saw come to my publishers, where they
knew they could find me, Lucien Hillemacher, since dead, alas,
accompanied by a group of old Grand Prix. He delivered to me on
parchment the signatures of more than five hundred of my old pupils. The
pages were bound into a thin octavo volume, bound luxuriously in Levant
morocco, spangled with stars. On the fly-leaves in brilliant
illumination, along with my name, were the two dates: 1878-1900.
The signatures were preceded by the following lines:
_Dear Master:_
Happy at your nomination as Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor,
your pupils unite in offering you this evidence of their deep and
affectionate gratitude.
The names of the Grand Prix of the Institute who showed me their
gratitude in this way were: Hillemacher, Henri Rabaud, Max
D'Ollone, Alfred Bruneau, Gaston Carraud, G. Marty, Andre Floch, A.
Savard, Croce-Spinelli, Lucien Lambert, Ernest Moret, Gustave
Charpentier, Reynaldo Hahn, Paul Vidal, Florent Schmitt, Enesco,
Bemberg, Laparra, d'Harcourt, Malherbe, Guy Ropartz, Tiersot,
Xavier Leroux, Dallier, Falkenberg, Ch. Silver, and so many other
dear friends of the class!
Ambroise Thomas saw that I had no thought of standing for the Institute
as he had done me the honor of advising me and was good enough to warn
me that I still had two days left in which to send out the letter of
candidature for the Academie des Beaux Arts. He advised me to make it
short, adding that the mention of titles was necessary only when one
was able to ignore them. This sensible remark rather wounded my
modesty....
Election day was fixed for Saturday, November 30. I knew that there were
many candidates and that first and foremost among them was Saint-Saens,
whose friend and great admirer I was and always have been.
I yielded to Ambroise Thomas without the slightest expectation of being
elected.
I had spent the day as usual giving lessons in the various parts of
Paris. That morning, however, I had said to Hartmann, my publisher, that
I should be at the house of a pupil, No. 11, Rue Blanche, that evening
between five and six. And I said, laughing, that he would know where to
find me to announce the result whatever it was. Whereupon Hartmann said
grandiloquently, "If you are a member of the Institute this evening, I
will ring twice and you will understand me."
I was about to begin work at the piano, my mind all on my work, on the
_Promenades d'un Solitaire_, by Stephen Heller (What a dear musician,
that Alfred de Musset of the piano, as they called him!) when two sharp
rings of the bell sounded. My heart stopped. My pupil could not make
out what was the matter.
A servant dashed in and said, "There are two gentlemen who want to
embrace your professor." Everything was explained. I went with those
"Messieurs," even more startled than happy, and leaving my pupil
probably better pleased than I was.
When I reached home I found that I had been preceded by my new and
famous colleagues. They had left their congratulations with my concierge
signed Meissonier, Lefeul, Ballu, Cabanel. Meissonier had brought the
report of the sitting signed by him, which showed the two votes, for I
was elected on the second ballot. That was certainly an autograph the
like of which I would not receive twice in my life!
A fortnight later, according to the custom, I was introduced in the
Salle des Seances of the Academie des Beaux-Arts by Comte Delaborde, the
permanent secretary.
A new member had to wear a black coat and a white tie, and going to the
reception in dress clothes at three o'clock in the afternoon, one would
have thought I was on my way to a wedding.
I took my place in the chair which I still occupy. That takes me back
more than thirty-three years!
A few days later I wanted to take advantage of my privileges by
attending the reception of Renan. The ushers did not know me yet, and I
was the Benjamin of the Academie. They would not believe me and refused
to let me in. One of my colleagues, and not the least of them, Prince
Napoleon, who was going in at the same time, told them who I was.
While I was making the usual round of visits of thanks, I called on
Ernest Reyer at his picturesque apartment in the Rue de la Tour
d'Auvergne. He opened the door himself and was much surprised to see me
for he knew I must know that he had not been altogether favorable to me.
"I know," I said, "that you did not vote for me. What touched me was
that you did not vote against me!" This put Reyer in good humor, for he
said, "I am at lunch. Share my fried eggs with me!" I accepted and we
talked a long time about art and its manifestations.
For over thirty years Ernest Reyer was my best and firmest friend.
As one might imagine, the Institute did not sensibly modify my
position. Indeed it made it somewhat more difficult, as I wanted to get
on with the score of _Herodiade_, and so stopped several lessons which
were my most certain sources of revenue.
* * * * *
Three weeks after my election a monster festival took place at the
Hippodrome. More than twenty thousand people took part. Gounod and
Saint-Saens conducted their own works. I had the honor of directing the
finale of the third act of _Le Roi de Lahore_. Everyone remembers the
prodigious effect of that festival which was organized by Albert
Vizentini, one of the best companions of my childhood.
While I was waiting in the green-room for my turn to go on, Gounod came
in haloed with triumph. I asked him what he thought of the audience.
"I fancied that I saw the Valley of Jehosophat," he said.
An amusing detail was told me afterwards.
There was a considerable crowd outside and the people kept on trying to
get in notwithstanding the loud protests of those already seated. Gounod
shouted so as to be heard distinctly, "I will begin when everyone has
_gone out!_" This amazing exclamation worked wonders. The groups which
had blocked the entrance and approaches to the Hippodrome recoiled. They
vanished as if by magic.
The second of the Concerts Historiques, founded by Vaucorbeil, the
Director of the National Academy of Music at the time, took place at the
Opera on May 20, 1880. He gave my sacred legend _La Vierge_. Mme.
Gabrielle Krauss and Mlle. Daram were the principals and splendid
interpreters they were.
That work is a rather painful memory in my life. Its reception was cold
and only one fragment seemed to satisfy the large audience which filled
the hall. They encored three times the passage which is now in the
repertoire of many concerts, the prelude to Part IV, _Le Dernier Sommeil
de la Vierge_.
Some years later the Societe des Concerts du Conservatoire twice gave
the fourth part of_ La Vierge_ in its entirety. Mme. Aino Ackte was
really sublime in her interpretation of the role of the Virgin. This
success was completely satisfying to me; I had nearly said, the most
precious of revenges.