WORK! ALWAYS WORK!
At the beginning of the preceding winter, Henri Cain proposed to Henri
Heugel a text for an opera based on Alphonse Daudet's famous romance
_Sapho_. He went to Heugel in order that I might the more certainly
accept it, for he knew the influence my publisher had with me.
I had gone to the mountains with a light heart. There was to be no
directing the Conservatoire and no more classes; I felt twenty years
younger. I wrote _Sapho_ with an enthusiasm I had rarely felt up to that
time.
We lived in a villa, and I felt far removed from everything, the noise,
the tumult, the incessant movement and feverish activity of the city. We
went for walks and excursions through the beautiful country which has
been praised so much for the variety of its scenery, but which was still
too much unknown. The only accompaniment of our thoughts was the murmur
of the waters which flowed along the roadside; their freshness rose up
to us, and often it was from a bubbling spring which broke the quiet of
luxuriant nature. Eagles, too, came down from their steep rocks,
"Thunder's abode," as Lamartine said, and surprised us by their bold
flights as they made the air echo with their shrill, piercing cries.
Even while I journeyed, my mind was working and on my return the pages
accumulated.
I became enamored with this work and I rejoiced in advance at letting
Alphonse Daudet hear it, for he was a very dear friend whom I had known
when we were both young.
If I insist somewhat of speaking of that time, it is because four works
above all others in my long career gave me such joy in the doing that I
freely describe it as exquisite: _Marie Magdeleine_, _Werther_, _Sapho_,
and _Therese_.
At the beginning of September of that year an amusing incident happened.
The Emperor of Russia came to Paris. The entire population--this is no
exaggeration--was out of doors to see the procession pass through the
avenues and boulevards. The people drawn by curiosity had come from
everywhere; the estimate of a million people does not seem exaggerated.
We did what everyone else did, and our servants went at the same time;
our apartment was empty. We were at the house of friends at a window
overlooking the Parc Monceau. The procession had scarcely passed when we
were suddenly seized with anxiety at the idea that the time was
particularly propitious for burglarizing deserted apartments and we
rushed home.
When we reached our threshold whispers were coming from inside, which
put us in a lively flutter. We knew our servants were out. It had
happened! Burglars had broken in!
We were shocked at the idea, but we went in ... and saw in the salon
Emma Calve and Henri Cain who were waiting for us and talking together
in the meantime. We were struck in a heap. Tableau! We all burst out
laughing at this curious adventure. Our servants had come back before we
had, and naturally opened the door for our friendly callers who had so
thoroughly frightened us for a moment. Oh power of imagination, how
manifold are thy fantastic creations!
* * * * *
Carvalho had already prepared the model of the scenery and the costumes
for _Cendrillon_, when he learned that Emma Calve was in Paris and put
on _Sapho_. In addition to the admirable protagonist of _La Navarraise_
in London and in Paris, our interpreters were the charming artiste Mlle.
Julia Guiraudon (later the wife of my collaborator Henri Cain) and M.
Lepreste who has since died.
I have spoken of the extreme joy I experienced in writing _Sapho_, an
opera in five acts. Henri Cain and dear Arthur Bernede had ably
contrived the libretto.
Never before had the rehearsals of a work seemed more enrapturing. The
task was both easy and agreeable with such excellent artists.
While the rehearsals were going on so well, my wife and I went to dine
one evening at Alphonse Daudet's. He was very fond of us. The first
proofs had been laid on the piano. I can still see Daudet seated on a
cushion and almost brushing the keyboard with his handsome head so
delightfully framed in his beautiful thick hair. It seemed to me that he
was deeply moved. The vagueness of his short sightedness made his eyes
still more admirable. His soul with all its pure, tender poetry spoke
through them.
It would be difficult to experience again such moments as my wife and I
knew then.
As they were about to begin the first rehearsals of _Sapho_, Danbe, who
had been my friend since childhood, told the musicians in the orchestra
what an emotional work they were to play.
Finally, the first performance came on November 27, 1897.
The evening must have been very fine, for the next day the first mail
brought me the following note:
_My dear Massenet:_
I am happy at your great success. With Massenet and Bizet, _non
omnis moriar_.
Tenderly yours, ALPHONSE DAUDET.
I learned that my beloved friend and famous collaborator had been
present at the first performance, at the back of a box, although he had
stopped going out save on rare occasions.
His appearance at the performance touched me all the more.
One evening I decided to go to the playhouse, in the wings, and I was
shocked at Carvalho's appearance. He was always so alert and carried
himself so well, but now he was bent and his eyes were bloodshot behind
his blue glasses. Nevertheless his good humor and gentleness toward me
were the same as ever.
His condition could but cause me anxiety.
How true my sad presentiments were!
My poor director was to die on the third day.
Almost at the same time I learned that Daudet, whose life had been so
admirably rounded out, had heard his last hour strike on the clock of
time. Oh mysterious, implacable Timepiece! I felt one of its sharpest
strokes.
Carvalho's funeral was followed by a considerable crowd. His son burst
into sobs behind his funeral car and could scarcely see. Everything in
that sad, impressive procession was painful and heartrending.
Daudet's obsequies were celebrated with great pomp at Sainte Clotilde.
_La Solitude_ from _Sapho_ (the entr'acte from the fifth act) was played
during the service after the chanting of the _Dies Irae_.
I was obliged to make my way almost by main force through the great
crowd to get into the church. It was like a hungry, eager reflection of
that long line of admirers and friends he had during his lifetime.
As I sprinkled holy water on the casket, I recalled my last visit to the
Rue de Bellechasse where Daudet lived. I had gone to give him news of
the theater and carried him sprays of eucalyptus, one of the trees of
the South he adored. I knew what intense pleasure that would give him.
* * * * *
Meanwhile _Sapho_ went on its way. I went to Saint Raphael, the country
where Carvalho had liked to live.
I relied on an apartment which I had engaged in advance, but the
landlord told me that he had let it to two ladies who seemed very busy.
I started to hunt another lodging when I was called back. I learned that
the two who had taken my rooms were Emma Calve and one of her friends.
The two ladies doubtless heard my name mentioned and changed their
itinerary. However, their presence in that place so far from Paris
showed me that our _Sapho_ had necessarily suspended her run of
performances.
What whims will not one pardon in such an artiste?
I learned that in two days everything was in order again at the theater
in Paris. Would that I had been there to embrace our adorable fugitive!
Two weeks later I learned from the papers in Nice that Albert Carre had
been made manager of the Opera-Comique. Until then the house had been
temporarily under the direction of the Beaux-Arts.
Who would have thought that it would have been our new manager who would
revive _Sapho_ considerably later with that beautiful artiste who became
his wife. But it was she who incarnated the Sapho of Daudet with an
unusually appealing interpretation.
Salignac, the tenor, had a considerable success in the role of Jean
Gaussin.
At the revival Carre asked me to interweave a new act, the act of the
Letters, and I carried out the idea with enthusiasm.
_Sapho_ was also sung by that unusual artiste Mme. Georgette Leblanc,
later the wife of that great man of letters Maeterlinck.
Mme. Brejean-Silver also made this role an astonishingly lifelike
figure.
How many other artists have sung this work!
The first opera put on under the new management was Reynaldo Hahn's
_L'Ile de Reve_. He dedicated that exquisite score to me. That music is
pervading for it was written by a real master. What a gift he has of
wrapping us in warm caresses!
That was not the case with the music of some of our confreres. Reyer
found it unbearable and made this image-raising remark about it:
"I just met Gretry's statue on the stairs; he had enough and fled."
That brings to mind another equally witty sally which du Locle made to
Reyer the day after Berlioz's death,
"Well, my dear fellow, Berlioz has got ahead of you."
Du Locle could permit himself this inoffensive joke for he was Reyer's
oldest friend.
I find this word from the author of _Louise_ whom I knew as a child in
my classes at the Conservatoire and who always felt a family affection
for me:
Midnight, New Year's Eve.
_Dear Master_:
Faithful remembrance from your affectionate on the last day which
ends with _Sapho_ and the first hour of the year which will close
with _Cendrillon_.
GUSTAVE CHARPENTIER.
_Cendrillon_ did not appear until May 24, 1899. These works presented
one after another, at more than a year's interval however, brought me
the following note from Gounod:
"A thousand congratulations, my dear friend, on your latest fine
success. The devil! Well, you go at such a pace one can scarcely keep up
with you."
As I have said, the score of _Cendrillon_, written on a pearl from that
casket of jewels "Les Contes de Perrault," had been finished a long
time. It had yielded its turn to _Sapho_ at the Opera-Comique. Our new
director Albert Carre told me that he intended to give _Cendrillon_ at
the first possible chance, but that was six months away.
I was staying at Aix-les-Bains in remembrance of my father who had lived
there, and I was deep in work on _La Terre Promise_. The Bible furnished
a text and I got out an oratorio of three acts. As I said, I was deep in
the work when my wife and I were overcome by the terrible news of the
fire at the Charity Bazaar. My dear daughter was a salesgirl.
We had to wait until evening before a telegram arrived and ended our
intense alarm.
A curious coincidence which I did not learn until long afterwards was
that the heroine (Lucy Arbell) of _Persephone_ and _Therese_, as well as
the beautiful Dulcinee (in _Don Quichotte_) was also among the
salesgirls. She was only twelve or thirteen at the time, but in the
midst of the general panic she found an exit behind the Hotel du Palais
and succeeded in saving her mother and several others. This showed rare
decision and courage for a child.
Since I have spoken of _La Terre Promise_, I may add that I had an
entirely unexpected "hearing." Eugene d'Harcourt, who was so well
thought of as a musician and a critic, the greatly applauded composer of
_Tasse_ which was put on at Monte Carlo, proposed to me that he direct a
performance at the church of Sainte Eustache with an immense orchestra
and chorus.
The second part was devoted to the taking of Jericho. A march--seven
times interrupted by the resounding outbursts from seven great
trumpets--ended with the collapse of the walls of that famous city which
the Jews had to take and destroy. The resounding clamor of all the
voices together was joined to the formidable thunder of the great organ
of Saint Eustache.
With my wife I attended the final rehearsal in a large pulpit to which
the venerable cure had done us the honor of inviting us.
That was the fifteenth of March, 1900.
* * * * *
I return to _Cendrillon_. Albert Carre put on this opera with a stage
setting which was as novel as it was marvellous.
Julia Guiraudon was exquisite in the role of Cendrillon. Mme. Deschamps
Jehin was astonishing as a singer and as a comedienne, pretty Mlle.
Emelen was our Prince Charming and the great Fugere showed himself an
indescribable artist in the role of Pandolphe. He sent me the news of
"victory" which I received the next morning at Enghien-les-Bains, which
with my wife I had chosen as a refuge near Paris from the dress
rehearsal and the first performance.
More than sixty continuous performances, including matinees, followed
the Premiere. The Isola brothers, managers of the Gaite, later gave a
large number of performances, and a curious thing for so Parisian a work
was that Italy gave _Cendrillon_ a fine reception. This lyric work was
given at Rome thirty times--a rare number. The following cablegram came
to me from America:
_Cendrillon hier, success pheno menal_.
The last word was too long and the sending office had cut it in two.
* * * * *
It was now 1900, the memorable time of the Great Exposition.
I had scarcely recovered from the fine emotion of _La Terre Promise_ at
Saint Eustache than I fell seriously ill. They were then going on with
the rehearsals of _Le Cid_ at the Opera which they intended to revive.
The hundredth performance was reached in October of the same year.
All Paris was en fete. The capital, one of the most frequented places in
the world, became even more and better than that: it was the world
itself, for all people met there. All nations jostled one another; all
tongues were heard and all costumes were set off against each other.
Though the Exposition sent its million of joyful notes skyward and could
not fail to obtain a place of honor in history, at nightfall the immense
crowd sought rest from the emotions of the day by swarming to the
theaters which were everywhere open, and it invaded the magnificent
palace which our dear great Charles Gamier had raised for the
manifestations of Lyric Art and the religion of the Dance.
Gailhard had come to call on me in May when I was so ill and had made me
promise to be present in his box at the hundredth performance which he
more than hoped to give and which as a matter of fact took place in
October. That day I yielded to his invitation.
Mlle. Lucienne Breval and Mm. Saleza and Frederic Delmas were applauded
with delirious enthusiasm on the night of the hundredth performance. At
the recall at the end of the third act, Gailhard, in spite of my
resistance, pushed me to the front of his box....
It is easy to imagine what happened on the stage, in the Opera's superb
orchestra, and in the audience packed to the roof.