A SOIREE
In the spring of 1910 my health was somewhat uncertain. _Roma_ had been
engraved long before and was available material; _Panurge_ was finished
and I felt--a rare thing for me--the imperative need of resting for some
months.
But it was impossible for me to do absolutely nothing, to give myself up
completely to _dolce farniente_, delightful as that might be. I looked
around and found an occupation which would weary neither my mind nor
heart.
I have told you that in May, 1891, when the house of Hartmann went
under, I entrusted to a friend the scores of _Werther_ and _Amadis_. I
am speaking now only of _Amadis_. I went to my friend who opened his
strong box and brought out, not banknotes, but seven hundred pages (the
rough draft of the orchestration) which formed the score of _Amadis_ and
which had been composed at the end of 1889 and during 1890. The work had
waited there in silence for twenty-one years!
Amadis! What a pretty libretto I had in _Amadis_! What a really novel
viewpoint! The Knight of the Lily is poetically and emotionally
attractive and still remains the type of the constant, respectful lover.
The situations are enchanting. In short what resurrection could be more
pleasing than that of the noble heroes of the Middle Ages--those
doughty, valiant, courageous knights.
I took this score from the safe and left in its place a work for a
quartet and two choruses for male voices. _Amadis_ was to be my work for
that summer. I began to copy it cheerfully at Paris and went to
Egreville to continue on it.
In spite of the fact that this work was easy and seemed to me such a
soothing and perfect sedative for the discomfort I felt, I found that I
was really very ill. I said to myself that I had done well in giving up
composing in my precarious state of health.
I went to Paris to consult my physician. He listened to my heart, and
then, without hiding from me what his diagnosis had revealed, said,
"You are very sick."
"What," I exclaimed, "it is impossible. I was still copying when you
came."
"You are seriously ill," he insisted.
The next morning the doctors and surgeons made me leave my dear quiet
home and my beloved room.
A motor ambulance took me to the hospital in the Rue de la Chaise. It
was some consolation not to leave my quarter! I was entered on the
hospital records under an assumed name for the physicians feared
interviews, however friendly, which would have been demanded and which I
was absolutely forbidden to grant.
My bed, through a most gracious care, was in the best room in the place
and I was much moved by this attention.
Surgeon Professor Pierre Duval and Drs. Richardiere and Laffitte gave me
the most admirable and devoted care. And there I was in a quiet which
wrapped me in a tranquillity the value of which I appreciated.
My dearest friends came to see me whenever they were allowed. My wife
was much upset and had hurried from Egreville bringing me her tender
affection.
I was better in a few days, but the compulsory rest imposed on my body
did not prevent my mind working.
I did not wait for my condition to improve before I busied myself with
the speeches I would have to deliver as president of the Institute and
of the Academie des Beaux-Arts (the double presidency fell to me that
year) and though I was in bed packed in ice, I sent directions for the
scenery of _Don Quichotte_.
Finally I got back home.
What a joy it was to see my home again, my furniture, to find the books
whose pages I loved to turn, all the objects that delighted my eyes and
to which I was accustomed, to see again those who were dear to me, and
the servants overflowing with attentions. My joy was so intense that I
burst into tears.
How happy I was to take up again my walks, although I was still
uncertain from weakness and had to lean on the arm of my kind brother
and on that of a dear lady! How happy I was during my convalescence to
walk through the shady paths of the Luxembourg amid the joyous laughter
of children gamboling there in all their youthfulness, the bright
singing of the birds hopping from branch to branch, content to live in
that beautiful garden, their delightful kingdom....
Egreville, which I had deserted when I so little dreamed of what was to
happen to me, resumed its ordinary life as soon as my beloved wife, now
tranquil about my fate, was able to return.
The summer which had been so sad came to an end and autumn came with its
two public sessions of the Institute and the Academie des Beaux-Arts, as
well as the rehearsals of _Don Quichotte_.
An idea of real interest was submitted to me between times by the
artiste to whom the mission of making it triumph was to fall later. I
turned the idea to account and wrote a set of compositions with the
title proposed by the interpretess, _Les Expressions Lyriques_. This
combination of two forces of expression, singing and speaking,
interested me greatly; especially in making them vibrate in one and the
same voice.
Moreover, the Greeks did the same thing in the interpretation of their
hymns, alternating the chant with declamation.
And as there is nothing new under the sun, what we deemed a modern
invention was merely a revival from the Greeks. Nevertheless we honored
ourselves in doing so.
[Illustration: Dulcinee (_Don Quichotte_)]
Since then and ever since I have seen audiences greatly captivated by
these compositions and deeply affected by the admirable personal
expression of the interpretess.
* * * * *
As I was correcting the last proofs of _Panurge_ one morning, I received
a kindly visit from O. de Lagoanere, the general manager of the Theatre
Lyrique de la Gaite. The libretto of _Panurge_ had been entrusted to me
by my friend Heugel and its authors were Maurice Boukay, the pseudonym
of Couyba, later Minister of Commerce, and Georges Spitzmuller. De
Lagoanere came in behalf of the Isola brothers to ask me to let them
have _Panurge_.
I answered to this proceeding, which was as spontaneous as it was
flattering, that the gentlemen's interest in me was very kind but that
they did not know the work.
"That is true," the amiable M. Lagoanere answered at once, "but it is a
work of yours."
We fixed on a date and before we separated the agreement was signed,
including the names of the artists proposed by the directors.
Some weeks ago my good friend Adrien Bernheim came to see me and between
two sugar plums (he is as much of a gourmand as I am) proposed that I
should take part in a great performance he was organizing in my honor
to celebrate the tenth anniversary of that French popular charity
"Trente Ans de Theatre." "In my honor!" I cried in the greatest
confusion.
No artist, even the greatest, could help being delighted at lending his
presence at such an evening.
After that, day by day, and always at my house, in the sitting room in
the Rue de Vaugirard, I saw gathered together, animated by an equal
devotion of making a success, the general secretaries of the Opera and
the Opera-Comique, Mm. Stuart and Carbonne, and the manager of the
Theatre Lyrique de la Gaite, M. O. de Lagoanere. My dear Paul Vidal,
leader of the orchestra at the Opera and professor of composition at the
Conservatoire, was also there.
The program was settled out of hand. The private rehearsals began at
once. Nevertheless the fear that I felt and that I have always had when
I make a promise, that I may be ill when the moment for fulfilment
comes, caused me more than one sleepless night.
"All's well that ends well," says the wisdom of the nations. I was
wrong, as you will see, to torture myself through so many nights.
As I have said, no artist would have felt happy, if he had not shared in
that evening by giving his generous assistance. Our valiant president,
Adrian Bernheim, by a few words of patriotism induced all the professors
of the Opera orchestra to come and rehearse the various acts
interspersed through the program at six twenty-five in the evening.
Nobody dined; everyone kept the appointment.
To you all, my friends and confreres, my sincere thanks.
I cannot properly appraise this celebration in which I played so
personal a part....
There is no circumstance in life, however beautiful or serious, without
some incident to mar it or to provide a contrast.
All my friends wanted to give evidence of their enthusiasm by being
present at the soiree at the Opera. Among them was a faithful frequenter
of the theaters who made a point of coming to express his regret at not
being able to be present at this celebration. He had recently lost his
uncle, who was a millionaire and whose heir he was.
I offered my condolences and he went.
What is funnier is that I was obliged to hear fortuitously the strange
conversation about his uncle's funeral he had with the head undertaker.
"If," said the latter, "Monsieur wants a first class funeral, he will
have the entire church hung in black and with the arms of the deceased,
the Opera orchestra, the leading singers, the most imposing catafalque,
according to the price."
The heir hesitated.
"Then, sir, it will be second class; the orchestra from the
Opera-Comique, second rate singers--according to the amount."
Further hesitation.
Whereupon the undertaker added in a sad tone,
"Then it will be third class; but I warn you, Monsieur, it will not be
gay!" (sic).
As I am on this topic I will add that I have received a letter of
congratulations from Italy which concludes with the usual salutations,
but this time conceived as follows:
"Believe, dear sir, in my most sincere _obsequies_." (Free translation
of _ossequiosita_.)
Sometimes death has as amusing sides as life has sad ones.
Which brings to mind the fidelity with which the Lionnet brothers
attended burials.
Was it sympathy for the departed or ambition to see their names among
those distinguished persons mentioned as having been present? We shall
never know.
One day in a funeral procession Victorien Sardou heard one of the
Lionnets say to one of his neighbors, with a broken-hearted air, while
giving the sad news about a friend's health, "Well, it will be his turn
soon."
These words aroused Sardou's attention, and he exclaimed, pointing to
the brothers,
"They not only go to all the burials; they announce them!"