IN THE MIDST OF THE MIDDLE AGES
I became very ill at Paris. I felt that the path from life to death was
so easy, the way seemed so gentle, so restful, that I was sorry to find
myself back in the harsh, cutting troubles of life.
I had escaped the sharp cold of winter; it was now spring, and I went to
my old home at Egreville to find nature, the great consoler, in her
solitude and peace.
I brought with me a voluminous correspondence, letters, pamphlets and
rolls of manuscript which I had never opened. I intended doing so on the
way as a distraction from the boredom of the journey. I had opened
several letters and was about to unroll a manuscript, "Oh, no," I said,
"that's enough." As a matter of fact I had happened on a work for the
stage.
Must the stage follow me everywhere, I thought. I longed to have nothing
more to do with it. So I put the importunate thing aside. Yet as I
journeyed along, to kill time, as they say, I took it up again and
settled myself to run through that famous manuscript notwithstanding
whatever desire I may have had to the contrary.
My attention was at first superficial and inattentive, but gradually it
became fixed. Insensibly I began to read with interest; so much so that
I ended by feeling real surprise--I must confess that it even became
stupefaction.
"What," I exclaimed, "a play without a part for a woman except for the
speechless apparition of the Virgin!"
If I was surprised and stupefied, what would be the feelings of those
who were used to seeing me put on the stage Manon, Sapho, Thais and
other lovable ladies. That was true, but in that they would forget that
the most sublime of women, the Virgin, was bound to sustain me in my
work, even as she showed herself charitable to the repentant Juggler.
I had scarcely run through the first scenes, when I felt that I was face
to face with the work of a true poet who was familiar with the archaism
of the literature of the Middle Ages. The manuscript bore no author's
name.
I wrote to my concierge to find out the origin of this mysterious
package, and he told me that the author had left his name and address
with explicit instructions not to divulge them to me unless and until I
had agreed to write the music for the work.
The title _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ followed by the sub-title "Miracle
in Three Acts" enchanted me.
The character of my home, a relic of the same Middle Ages, the
surroundings in which I found myself at Egreville, were exactly suited
to give me the desired atmosphere for my work.
The score was finished and the time came to communicate with my unknown.
At last I learned his name and address and wrote to him.
There is no doubt about the joy with which I did so, for the author was
none other than Maurice Lena, the devoted friend I had known at Lyons
where he held the chair of Philosophy.
My dear Lena then came to Egreville on August 14, 1900. We hurried to my
place from the little station. We found in my room spread out on the
large table (I flatter myself it was a famous table for it had belonged
to the illustrious Diderot) the engraved piano and vocal score for _Le
Jongleur de Notre Dame_.
Lena was dumbfounded at sight of it. He was choked by the most
delightful of emotions.
Both of us had been happy in the work. Now the unknown faced us. Where
and in what theater were we to be played?
It was a radiant day. Nature with her intoxicating odors, the fair
season of the fields, the flowers in the meadows, the agreeable union
which had grown up between us in producing the work, everything in fact
spoke of happiness. Such fleeting happiness, as the poetess Mme. Daniel
Lesaeur has told us, is worth all eternity.
The fields recalled to us that we were on the eve of the fifteenth of
August, the Feast of the Virgin, whom we had sung in our work.
As I never had a piano at home, especially at Egreville, I was unable to
satisfy my dear Lena's curiosity and let him hear the music of this or
that scene.
We were strolling together near the hour of vespers towards the old,
venerable church, and we could hear from a distance the chords of its
little harmonium. A mad idea struck me. "Hey! What if I should suggest
to you," I said to my friend, "what if I propose to you something which
would be impossible in that sacred place in any other way, but
certainly very tempting! Suppose we go into the church as soon as it is
deserted and returned to holy obscurity. What if I should let you hear
fragments of our _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame?_ Wouldn't it be a divine
moment which would leave its impression on us forever?" And we continued
our stroll, the complacent shade of the great trees protecting the paths
and roads from the sting of a too ardent sun.
On the morrow--sad morrow--we parted.
The following autumn, the winter, and finally the spring of the
succeeding year passed without any one coming to me from anywhere with
an offer to produce the work.
When I least thought of it, I had a visit as unexpected as it was
flattering from M. Raoul Gunsbourg.
I delight in recalling here the great worth of that close friend, his
individuality as a manager, and his talent as a musician, whose works
triumph on the stage.
Raoul Gunsbourg brought me the news that on his advice H. S. H. the
Prince of Monaco had designated me for a work to be put on the stage of
the theater at Monte Carlo.
_Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ was ready and I offered it. It was arranged
that his Serene Highness should deign to come to Paris and hear the work
in person. That hearing occurred, as a matter of fact, in the beautiful,
artistic home of my publisher Henri Heugel. The Prince was entirely
satisfied; he did me the honor to express several times his sincere
pleasure. The work was put in study and the later rehearsals were in
Paris under Raoul Gunsbourg's direction.
In January, 1902, my wife and I left Paris for the Palace of Monaco,
where his Serene Highness had most cordially invited us to be his
guests. What a contrast it was to the life we had left behind!
One evening we left Paris buried in glacial cold beneath the snow, and,
behold, some hours later we found ourselves in an entirely different
atmosphere. It was the South, La Belle Provence, the Azure Coast. It was
ideal! For me it was the East almost at the gates of Paris!
The dream began. It is hardly necessary for me to tell of all the
marvelous days which went like a dream in that Dantesque Paradise, amid
that splendid scenery, in that luxurious, sumptuous palace, all balmy
with the vegetation of the Tropics.
The first performance of _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ was given at the
Monte Carlo Opera on Tuesday, February 18, 1902. The superb protagonists
were Mm. Renaud, of the Opera, and Marechal, of the Opera-Comique.
A detail which shows the favor with which the work was received is that
it was given four times in succession during the same season.
Two years later my dear director Albert Carre gave the first performance
of _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ at the Opera-Comique with this ideal
cast: Lucien Fugere, Marechal, the creator of the part, and Allard.
The work long ago passed its hundredth performance at Paris, and as I
write these lines _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ has had a place in the
repertoire of the American houses for several years.
It is interesting to note that the Juggler was created at the
Metropolitan Opera House by Mary Garden, the dazzling artist who is
admired as much in Paris as in the United States.
My feelings are somewhat bewildered, I confess, at seeing the monk
discard his frock after the performance and resume an elegant costume
from the Rue de la Paix. However, in the face of the artist's triumph I
bow and applaud.[1]
[1] The transposition of the tenor part to the soprano register
seems an intolerable musical solecism, and a woman playing a
serious and inevitably male character grotesquely absurd. The terms
in which Massenet here expresses his objections to this
indefensible procedure are gentle and but mildly ironical compared
with those he used to the translator. Massenet was simply furious.
With flaming eyes--and how his wonderful eyes could flame!--and
voice vehement with indignation and unutterable scorn, he said to
me, "When I wrote that work I little thought the monk's habit would
ever be disguised in a petticoat from the Rue de la Paix."]
As I have said, this work had to wait its turn, and as Carvalho had
previously engaged me to write the music for _Griseldis_, a work by
Eugene Morand and Armand Silvestre, which was much applauded at the
Theatre-Francais. I wrote the score at intervals between my journeys to
the South and to Cap d'Antibes. Ah, that hotel on the Cap d'Antibes!
That was an unusual stay. It was an old property built by Villemessant,
who had christened it correctly and happily "Villa Soliel," and which he
planned for journalists overtaken by poverty and old age.
Imagine, if you can, a large villa with white walls all purple from the
fires of the bright sun of the South and surrounded by a grove of
eucalyptus trees, myrtles and laurels. It was reached by shady paths,
suffused with the most fragrant perfumes, and faced the sea--that sea
which rolls its clear waters from the Azure Coast and the Riviera along
the indented shores of Italy as far as ancient Hellas, as if to carry
thither on its azured waves which bathe Provence the far off salutation
of the Phocean city.
How pleased I was with my sun-flooded room, where I worked in peace and
quiet and in the enjoyment of perfect health!
As I have spoken of _Griseldis_, I will add that as I had two works
free, that and _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_, my publisher offered Albert
Carre his choice and he took _Griseldis_. That is why, as I have said,
_Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ was put on at Monte Carlo in 1902.
So _Griseldis_ got the first start and was given at the Opera-Comique
November 20, 1901.
Mlle. Lucienne Breval made a superb creation of it. The baritone,
Dufranne, made his first appearance in the role of the marquis,
Griseldis's husband, and made a brilliant success from the moment he
came on the stage; Fugere was extraordinary in the role of the Devil,
and Marechal was a tender lover in the part of Alain.
I was very fond of this piece. Everything about it pleased me.
It brought together so many touching sentiments: the proud chivalric
appearance of the great, powerful seigneur going on the Crusades, the
fantastic appearance of the Green Devil who might be said to have come
from a window of a medieval cathedral, the simplicity of young Alain,
and the delightful little figure of the child of Griseldis! For that
part we had a tiny girl of three who was the very spirit of the theater.
As in the second act the child on Griseldis's knees should give the
illusion of falling asleep, the little artiste discovered all by herself
the proper gesture which would be understood by the distant audience;
she let her arms fall as if overcome with weariness. Delightful little
mummer!
Albert Carre had found an archaic and historic oratory which was
artistically perfect, and when the curtain rose on Griseldis's garden,
it was a delight. What a contrast between the lilies blooming in the
foreground and the dismal castle on the horizon!
And the scene of the prologue with its living background was a fortunate
discovery.
What joys I promised myself in being able to work at the theater with my
old friend Armand Silvestre. A year before he had written me, "Are you
going to let me die without seeing _Griseldis_ at the Opera-Comique?"
Alas, that was the case, and my dear collaborator, Eugene Morland,
helped with his poetical and artistic advice.
As I was working on _Griseldis_, a scholar who was entirely wrapped up
in the literature of the Middle Ages and was interested in a subject on
that period, entrusted me with a work which he had written on that time,
a very labored work of which I was not able to make much use.
I had shown it to Gerome, whose mind was curious about everything, and
as Gerome, the author and I were together, our great painter whose
remarks were always so apropos, ready and amusing said to the author who
was waiting for his opinion, "How pleasantly I fell asleep reading your
book yesterday."
And the author bowed entirely satisfied.