A VISIT TO VERDI FAREWELL TO AMBROISE THOMAS
Henri Cain had accompanied us to London and came to see me at the
Cavendish Hotel, Jermyn Street, where I was staying.
We remained in conference for several hours reviewing different subjects
which were suitable for works to occupy me in the future. Finally we
agreed on the fairy story of Cinderella: _Cendrillon_.
I returned to Pont de l'Arche--a new home for my wife and me--to work
during the summer.
Our home was most interesting and even had a historical value. A massive
door hung on enormous hinges gave access on the street side to an old
mansion. It was bordered by a terrace which looked down on the valley of
the Seine and the Andelle. La Belle Normandie indeed offered us the
delightful spectacle of her smiling, magnificent plains and her rich
pastures stretching to the horizon and beyond.
The Duchess of Longueville, the famous heroine of La Fronde, had lived
in this house--it was the place of her loves. The seductive Duchess with
her pleasant address and gestures, together with the expression of her
face and the tone of her voice, made a marvellous harmony. So much so
that a Jansenist writer of the period said, "She was the most perfect
actress in the world." This splendid woman here sheltered her charms and
rare beauty. One must believe that they have not exaggerated about her
for Victor Cousin became her posthumous lover (along with the Duc de
Coligny, Marcillac, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and the great Turenne;
he might have been in less brilliant company); but as we said, the
illustrious eclectic philosopher dedicated to her a work which was no
doubt admirable in style but which is still considered one of the most
complete examples of modern learning.
She was born a Bourbon Conde, the daughter of the Prince of Orleans, and
the fleurs de lys which were hers by right were still visible on the
keystones of the window arches of our little chateau.
There was a large white salon with delicately carved woodwork, which was
lighted by three windows overlooking the terrace. It was a perfectly
preserved masterpiece of the Seventeenth Century.
The room where I worked was also lighted by three windows and here one
could admire a mantel, a real marvel of art in Louis XIV style. I found
a large table of the same period at Rouen. I was at ease at it because I
could arrange the leaves of my orchestral score on it.
It was at Pont de l'Arche that I learned one morning of Mme. Carvalho's
death. This was bound to plunge the art of singing and the stage in deep
mourning for she had been with her masterly talent the incarnation of
both for long years. Here too I received the visit of my director, Leon
Carvalho, who was terribly stricken by her death. He was overcome by
this irreparable loss.
Carvalho came to ask me to finish the music of _La Vivandiere_, a work
on which Benjamin Godard was working, but which the state of his health
led them to fear he would never finish.
I refused this request curtly. I knew Benjamin Godard and his
strong-mindedness as well as the wealth and liveliness of his
inspiration. I asked Carvalho not to tell of his visit and to let
Benjamin Godard finish his own work.
That day ended with a rather drole incident. I set out to get a large
carriage to take my guests to the station. At the appointed time an open
landau appeared at my door. It had at least sixteen springs, was lined
with blue satin, and one got in by a triple step-ladder arrangement
which folded up when the door was closed. Two thin, lanky white horses,
real Rossinantes, were harnessed to it.
My guests at once recognized this historic looking coach for they had
often met its owners riding in it on the Bois de Boulogne. Public malice
had found these people so ridiculous that they had given them a nickname
which in the interests of decorum I must refrain from mentioning. I will
only say that it was borrowed from the vocabulary of zoology.
Never had the streets of that little town, usually so calm and peaceful,
echoed with such shouts of laughter. They did not stop till the station
was reached, and I will not swear that they were not prolonged after
that.
* * * * *
Carvalho decided to give _La Navarraise_ at the Opera-Comique in May,
1895.
I went to Nice to finish _Cendrillon_ at the Hotel de Suede. We were
absolutely spoiled by our charming hosts M. and Mme. Roubion. When I was
settled at Nice, I got away to Milan for ten days to give hints to the
artists of the admirable La Scala Theatre who were rehearsing _La
Navarraise_. The protagonist was Lison Frandin, an artist known and
loved by all Italy.
As I knew that Verdi was at Genoa, I took advantage of passing through
that city on the way to Milan to pay him a visit.
When I arrived at the first floor of the old palace of the Dorias, where
he lived, I was able to decipher on a card nailed to the door in a dark
passage the name which radiates so many memories of enthusiasm and
glory: Verdi.
He opened the door himself. I stood nonplussed. His sincerity,
graciousness and the nobility which his tall stature gave his whole
person soon drew us together.
I passed unutterably charming moments in his presence, as we talked with
the most delightful simplicity in his bedroom and then on the terrace of
his sitting room from which we looked over the port of Genoa and beyond
on the deep sea as far as the eye could reach. I had the illusion
that he was one of the Dorias proudly showing me his victorious
fleets.
[Illustration: Lucy Arbell]
As I was leaving, I was drawn to remark that "now I had visited him, I
was in Italy."
As I was about to pick up the valise I had left in a dark corner of the
large reception room, where I had noticed tall gilt chairs which were in
the Italian taste of the Eighteenth Century, I told him that it
contained manuscripts which never left me on my travels. Verdi seized my
luggage, briskly, and said he did exactly as I did, for he never wanted
to be parted from his work on a journey.
How much I would have preferred to have had his music in my valise
instead of my own! The master even accompanied me across the garden of
his lordly dwelling to my carriage.
* * * * *
When I got back to Paris in February, I learned with the keenest emotion
that my master Ambroise Thomas was dangerously ill.
Although far from well he had dared the cold to attend a festival at the
Opera where they had played the whole of that terrible, superb prelude
to _Francoise de Rimini_.
They encored the prelude and applauded Ambroise Thomas.
My master was the more moved by this reception, as he had not forgotten
how cruelly severe they had shown themselves toward this fine work at
the Opera.
He went from the theater to the apartment he occupied at the
Conservatoire and went to bed. He never got up again.
The sky was clear and cloudless that day, and the sun shone with its
softest brilliance in my venerated master's room and caressed the
curtains of his bed of pain. The last words he said were a salutation to
gladsome nature which smiled upon him for the last time. "To die in
weather so beautiful," he said, and that was all.
He laid in state in the columned vestibule of which I have spoken, at
the foot of the great staircase leading to the president's loge which he
had honored with his presence for twenty-five years.
The third day after his death, I delivered his funeral oration in the
name of the Societe des Auteurs et Compositeurs Dramatiques. I began as
follows.
"It is said that a king of France in the presence of the body of a
powerful seigneur of his court could not help saying, 'How tall he
was!' So he who rests here before us seemed tall to us, being of those
whose height is only realized after death.
"To see him pass in life so simple and calm, in his dream of art, who of
us, accustomed to feel him kindly and forbearing always at our sides,
has seen that he was so tall that we had to raise our eyes to look him
fairly in the face."
Here my eyes filled with tears and my voice seemed to die away strangled
with emotion. Nevertheless I contained myself, mastered my grief, and
continued my discourse. I knew that I should have time enough for
weeping.
It was very painful to me on that occasion to see the envious looks of
those who already saw in me my master's successor at the Conservatoire.
And as a matter of fact, this is exactly what happened, for a little
afterwards I was summoned to the Ministry of Public Instruction. At the
time the Minister was my confrere at the Institute, Rambaud the eminent
historian, and at the head of the Beaux-Arts as director was Henri
Roujon, since a member of the Academie des Beaux-Arts and the permanent
secretary.
The directorship of the Conservatoire was offered me. I declined the
honor as I did not want to interrupt my life at the theater which took
my whole time.
In 1905 the directorship was offered me again, but I refused for the
same reason.
Naturally, I tendered my resignation as professor of composition at the
Conservatoire. I had only accepted and held the situation because it
brought me in touch with my Director whom I loved so much.
Free at last and loosed from my chains forever, during the first days of
summer my wife and I started for the mountains of Auvergne.