FROM CHERUBIN TO THERESE
I happened to see played at the Theatre-Francais three entirely novel
acts which interested me very much. It was _Le Cherubin_ by Francis de
Croisset. Two days later I was at the author's house and asked him for
the work. His talent, which was so marked then, has never ceased highly
to confirm itself.
I remember that it was a rainy day, as we were coming back by the Champs
Elysees from the glorious ceremony at the unveiling of the statue of
Alphonse Daudet, that we settled the terms of our agreement.
Title, subject, action, everything in that delightful _Cherubin_ charmed
me. I wrote the music at Egreville.
His Serene Highness the Prince of Monaco heard that _Le Cherubin_ was
set to music, and he remembered _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ which he had
welcomed so splendidly and which I had respectfully dedicated to him. He
had M. Raoul Gunsbourg propose to me that the first performance be
given at Monte Carlo. It is not difficult to imagine with what
enthusiasm I accepted this offer. Mme. Massenet and I went again to that
ideal country in that fairy-like palace of which we have retained such
imperishable memories.
_Le Cherubin_ was created by Mary Garden, the tender Nina by Marguerite
Carre, the bewitching Ensoleillad by Cavalieri, and the part of the
philosopher was filled by Maurice Renaud.
It was a really delightful interpretation. The evening was much drawn
out by the applause and the constant encores which the audience demanded
of the artists. It literally held them in an atmosphere of the wildest
enthusiasm.
Our stay at the palace was one continual series of inexpressible
delights which we were to experience again as the guests of that
high-souled prince of science.
Henri Cain, who had been my collaborator with Francis de Croisset in _Le
Cherubin_, amused me between times by making me write the music for a
pretty, picturesque ballet in one act, _Cigale_. The Opera-Comique gave
it February 4, 1904. The bewitching, talented Mlle. Chasle was our
Cigale, and Messmaecker, of the Opera-Comique, clowned the role of Mme.
Fourmi, Rentiere, in a mirth provoking manner!
I was by far the most entertained of those who attended the rehearsals
of _Cigale_. At the end was a scene which was very touching and
exquisitely poetical, where an angel with a divine voice appears and
sings in the distance. The angel's voice was Mlle. Guiraudon who became
Mme. Henri Cain.
A year later, as I have said, on February 14, 1905, _Le Cherubin_ was
sung at Monte Carlo and on the twenty-third of the following May the
Opera-Comique in Paris closed its season with the same piece. The only
changes at the latter were that Lucien Fugere took the role of the
philosopher and added a new success to the many that artist had already
achieved and that the role of Ensoleillad was given to the charming
Mlle. Vallandri.
[Illustration: Persephone in _Ariane_]
* * * * *
You will perhaps observe that I have said nothing about _Ariane_. The
reason for this is that I never talk about a work until it is finished
and engraved. I have said nothing about _Ariane_ or about _Roma_, the
first scenes of which I wrote in 1902, enraptured by the sublime
tragedy, _Rome_ _Vaincue_ by Alexandre Parodi. As I write these words
the five acts of _Roma_ are in rehearsal at Monte Carlo and the Opera,
but I have already said too much.
So I resume the current of my life.
_Ariane! Ariane!_ The work which made me live in such lofty spheres! How
could it have been otherwise with the superb, inspired collaboration of
Catulle Mendes, the poet of ethereal hopes and dreams!
It was a memorable day in my life when my friend Heugel told me that
Catulle Mendes was ready to read the text of _Ariane_ to me.
For a long time I had wanted to weep the tears of Ariane. I was thrilled
with all the strength of mind and heart before I even knew the first
word of the first scene.
We engaged to meet for this reading at Catulle Mendes's house, in the
artistic lodging of that great scholar and his exquisite wife who was
also a most talented and real poet.
I came away actually feverish with excitement. The libretto was in my
pocket, against my heart, as if to make it feel the throbs, as I got
into a victoria to go home. Rain fell in torrents but I did not notice
it. Surely Ariane's tears permeated my whole being with delight.
Dear, good tears, with what gladness you must have fallen during the
rehearsals! I was overwhelmed with esteem and attention by my dear
director, Gailhard, as well as by my remarkable interpreters.
In August, 1905, I was walking pensively under the pergola of our house
at Egreville, when suddenly an automobile horn woke the echoes of that
peaceful country.
Was not Jupiter thundering in the heavens, _Caelo tonantem Jovem_, as
Horace says in the Odes. For a moment I could believe that such was the
case, but what was my surprise--my very agreeable surprise--when I saw
get down from that thundering sixty miles an hour two travelers, who, if
they did not come from heaven, nevertheless let me hear the accents of
Paradise in their friendly voices.
One was Gailhard, the director of the Opera, and the other the learned
architect of the Garnier monument. My director had come to ask me how I
was getting on with _Ariane_ and if I were willing to let the Opera have
it.
We went up to my large room which with its yellow hangings of the period
might have easily been taken for that of a general of the First Empire.
I at once pointed out a heap of pages on a large black marble table--the
whole of the finished score.
At lunch, between the sardines of the hors d'oeuvre and the cheese of
the dessert, I declaimed several situations in the work. Then my guests,
put in a charming humor, were good enough to accept my invitation to
make a tour of the property.
It was while we paced under the pergola of which I have spoken, in the
delightfully fresh, thick shade of the vines whose leaves formed a
verdant network that we settled on the cast.
Lucienne Breval was to have the role of Ariane; Louise Grandjean that of
the dramatic Phedre, and by common consent, in view of her talent for
tragedy and her established success at the Opera, we decided on Lucy
Arbell for the role of the somber, beautiful Queen of Hell.
Muratore and Delmas were plainly indicated for Thesee and Pirithoues.
As he was going away, Gailhard, remembering the simple, confiding
formula by which our fathers made contracts in the good old days,
plucked a branch from a eucalyptus in the garden and said, waving it at
me:
"This is the token of the promises we have exchanged to-day. I carry it
with me."
Then my guests got into their auto and disappeared in the whirling dust
of the road. Did they carry away to the great city the near realization
of my dearest hopes, was what I asked myself as I climbed to my room. I
was tired and worn out by the emotions of the day and I went to bed. The
sun still shone on the horizon in all the glory of its fire. It
crimsoned my bed with its dazzling rays. I dreamt as I slept the most
beautiful dream that can delude us when a task has been fulfilled.
* * * * *
I now record a detail which is of some importance.
My little Marie Magdeleine came to Egreville to spend a few days with
her grandparents. I yielded to her curiosity and told her the story of
the piece. I had reached the place where Ariane is drawn into Hell to
find the wandering soul of her sister Phedre, and as I stopped, my
grand-child exclaimed at once:
"And now grandpapa we are going to be in Hell!"
The silvery wheedling voice of the dear child, her sudden, natural
question produced a strange, almost magical, effect on me. I had had the
intention of asking them to suppress that act, but now I suddenly
decided to keep it, and I answered the child's fair question, "Yes, we
are going into Hell." And I added, "We shall see there the affecting
figure of Persephone finding again with delight the roses, the divine
roses which remind her of the beloved earth where she lived of old, ere
she became the Queen of that terrible place with a black lily in her
hand for a scepter."
That visit to Avernus necessitates a stage setting and an interpretation
which I will deliberately designate as intensive. I had to go to Turin
(my last journey to that beautiful country) in pretty cold weather,
December 14, 1907, accompanied by my dear Henri Heugel to be present at
the last rehearsals at the Regio, the royal theater, where they were
putting on _Ariane_ for the first time in Italy. The work had a
luxurious stage setting and remarkable interpreters. The great artiste
Maria Farneti had the role of Ariane. I noticed particularly the special
care with which Serafin, the eminent conductor who was acting as stage
manager, staged the act in Hell. Our Persephone was as tragic as one
possibly could be; the aria of the Roses, however, seemed to me to be
lacking in emotion. I remember that I told her at the rehearsal,
throwing an armful of roses into her wide open arms, to press them to
her heart ardently, as she would do, I added, with a husband or a
beloved sweetheart whom she had not seen for twenty years! "From the
roses which disappeared so long ago to the dear adored one who is at
last found again is not so far! Think of that, Signorina, and the effect
will be sure!" The charming artiste smiled, but had she understood?
So _Ariane_ was finished. My illustrious friend, Jules Claretie, learned
of this and recalled to me the promise I had made him of writing
_Therese_, a lyric drama in three acts. He added:
"The work will be short, for the emotion it lets loose cannot be
prolonged."
I went to work on it, but I will deal with that presently.
I have alluded to the pleasure I felt at every rehearsal at the constant
happy discoveries in scenery or in feeling. Ah, with what constantly
alert and devoted intelligence our artists followed the precious advice
of Gailhard!
The month of June was, however, marked by dark days. One of our artistes
fell seriously ill and they fought with death for thirty-six hours in
order to save her. The work was all ready for the stage and as that
artiste was necessarily missing for several weeks, they suspended the
rehearsals during the summer. They were resumed at the end of September
when our artists were all well and together again. These rehearsals were
in a general way to go on during the month of October and we were to
appear at the end of the month.
What was said was done; rare promptness for the stage. The first
performance was on October 31, 1906.
Catulle Mendes, who had often been severe on me in his criticisms in the
press, had become my ardent collaborator, and, something worth noting,
he appreciated joyfully the reverence I had brought to the delivery of
his verses.
In our common toil, as well as in our studies with the artists at the
playhouse, I delighted in his outbursts of devotion and affection and in
the esteem in which he held me.
The performances followed each other ten times a month, a unique fact in
the annals of the theater for a new work, and this went on up to the
sixtieth performance.
Apropos of this, they asked Lucy Arbell, our Persephone, how many times
she had sung the work, feeling sure that her answer would be wrong.
"Why," she exclaimed, "sixty times!"
"No," replied her questioner, "you have sung it one hundred and twenty
times, for you are always encored in the aria of the Roses."
I owed that sixtieth performance to the new directors, Mm. Messager and
Broussan, and that seems to be the last of a work which started off so
brilliantly.
What a difference, I say again, between the manner in which my works
have been mounted for some years and the way they were put on when I was
beginning!
My first works were put on in the provinces with old scenery, and I was
compelled to hear the stage manager say things like this:
"For the first act we have found an old background from _La Favorita_;
for the second two sets from _Rigoletto_," etc., etc.
I recall an obliging director who on the eve of a first performance,
knowing that I lacked a tenor, offered me one, but warning me, "This
artist knows the part, but I ought to tell you that he is always flat in
the third act."
Which reminds me that in the same house I knew a basso who had a strange
pretension, still more strangely expressed, "My voice," said our basso,
"goes down so far that they can't find the note on the piano."
Oh, well, they were all valiant and honest artists. They did me service
and had their years of success.
But I see that I am loitering on the way in telling of these old times.
I have to tell of the new work which was in rehearsal in Monte Carlo--I
mean _Therese_.