Lully is justly considered the founder of opera in France, although he
was not the first to compose operas in the French language. Several of
his biographers assure us that he was of noble birth, supporting their
statements by the letters of naturalization granted him by Louis XIV.,
in December, 1661, in which the composer is called the son of Laurent
Lully, a man of quality, and Catherine del Sarte. It is, however, more
probable that he was the offspring of an obscure country miller who
dwelt near Florence, as stated by Guichard in a celebrated memoir which
he drew up at the time of his lawsuit for dissolution of partnership
with Lully, who had co-operated with him in the management of the Opéra.
By chance it came to pass that the Chevalier de Guise, when travelling
in Italy, discovered young Baptiste Lully in Florence, his native place.
The nobleman was impressed by the precocious intelligence that sparkled
so brightly in the boy’s eyes. He who was destined to become the founder
of lyric tragedy in France was singing popular songs, accompanying
himself upon the guitar, from instinct rather than training, for he had
never been taught to play that instrument, and possessed, as yet, only
the most primitive ideas regarding music. He was then about twelve years
of age.
At that time, people were not very musical in France, Italy being much
more advanced in that respect. In the era of Le Grande Monarque, “Le Roi
Soleil,” there were neither orchestras nor singers in the true sense of
the words, and opera was, so to speak, quite unknown.
The first musical play ever seen in France was produced on the occasion
of the marriage of Mlle. de Vaudemont, Marguerite de Lorraine,
sister-in-law of King Henri III., to the Duc de Joyeuse. It was
performed on the 15th of October, 1579, at the Château de Moustier, in
presence of ten thousand spectators, and the Italian, Baltazarini,
fulfilled the duties of impressario. He was ever afterwards known by the
name of Baltazar de Beaujoyeuse, and in this way the Duc de Joyeuse may
be said to have ennobled him.
This Italian had been brought to France by the Comte de Brissac, and
Catherine de Médicis appointed him musical director, with the dignity of
valet, to her court. He played the violin after the manner of a
virtuoso—for his time. It was this same Baltazarini who composed the
dance music in the opera-ballet “Cérès,” of which Claudin wrote the
vocal score.
Cardinal Mazarin was fond of musical plays, and in 1644 he caused to be
brought from Italy dramatic singers who, in the hall of the
Petit-Bourbon and in presence of the king, Louis XIV., gave a
representation of the “Festa della finta pazza,” a melodrama in five
acts interspersed with comic interludes. Two years later, the Abbé
Mailly organized a representation of a lyric tragedy entitled “Akebar,
Roi du Mogol,” which was given in one of the halls of the episcopal
palace of Carpentras.
The taste for music was gradually extending in the ranks of cultivated
French society, and Mlle. de Montpensier had asked the Chevalier de
Guise to bring for her from Italy—the cradle of opera—“a young musician
to enliven my house.”
“Will you come with me to Paris?” asked the Chevalier, addressing the
little singer and guitarist: to which the lad, without a moment’s
hesitation, and as if impelled by his destiny, joyfully answered, “Yes.”
Thereupon the twain set out for the French capital, and the Chevalier
_gave_ his Italian musician to “Mademoiselle.”
The grand-daughter of Henri IV. received Baptiste as she would have
received a pug dog,—an animal then very fashionable. For a few days she
amused herself with her little musician, then wearily cast him aside,
finally relegating him to her kitchens, where he was enrolled among the
scullions. It was thus that the nobility and clergy of that day were
wont to treat musicians, great and small. It must not be forgotten that
the Archbishop of Salzburg, who kept the divine Mozart in his service
for a certain time, made him wear livery and sent him to take his meals
in the kitchen with the servants.
While washing the dishes or stirring the kitchen fire, and possibly
while tasting the sauces, unknown to the _chef_, the little Florentine
lifted up his voice in song. In his spare time he played the guitar or
practised the violin, upon which instrument he is said to have become an
accomplished player.
Occasionally he was given verses, which he set to music with great
facility. To Lully is attributed the air which became so popular and
which is still sung, more particularly in the country districts, to the
words “Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot.”
One day were sent to him some couplets that were far from laudatory of
the proud princess, his mistress. The verses greatly diverted Baptiste,
who composed a pretty air to the words, and sang it to every one. This
afforded much amusement in the kitchen of haughty “Mademoiselle,” who,
hearing of the insult, caused her audacious and disrespectful
scullion-composer to be expelled from her house.
In his secret heart, the great musician, that was to be, felt glad when
thus disgraced. He was free; penniless, it is true, but courageous and
full of hope in the future. He began to study harmony under Gigault, the
organist of St. Nicolas-des-Champs, and ultimately succeeded in gaining
admittance to the Grande Bande des Violons du Roi, which consisted of
forty performers. Some few airs which he wrote for the violin were
favorably received and rendered in the presence of the Le Grande
Monarque himself. His Majesty was, indeed, so pleased with the young
artist (Lully was then nineteen), that he appointed him Inspector of the
violins. And this was not all, for the king organized for Lully’s
satisfaction another band of musicians, called Les Petits Violons, in
order to distinguish them from the “Grande Bande.”
From that moment a brilliant future awaited the composer. His agreeable
manners, docile spirit, and a certain wild audacity, that did not
diminish his profound deference for his benefactor, the king, won and
retained the royal favor; genius did the rest.
The little band of violinists, thanks to their skilful training under
the direction of Lully, achieved wonders, far outstripping the original
band in regard to both time and accuracy of execution.
Being now in high favor at court, Lully was authorized to compose dance
tunes for the ballets that Louis XIV. caused to be performed nearly
every year, and in which his Majesty himself participated. Later he
composed the entire musical portion of these entertainments, which were
sometimes called “Mascarades.” He was uniformly successful, and Fortune
had evidently chosen him for her own.
Enterprising and full of confidence in his talent and _savoir-faire_,
Lully, having formed a friendship with Molière, did not hesitate to
appear as a comedian and to perform in the pieces that were represented
in the great dramatist’s theatre. In 1669, he took the _rôle_ of
Pourceaugnac in the piece of that name, and the Mufti in “Le Bourgeois
Gentilhomme.”
Certain writers, contemporaries of Lully, foremost among whom must be
mentioned the great Racine and the no less illustrious La Fontaine, have
passed a somewhat harsh judgment on the composer’s character. It is true
that he sometimes showed himself a most abject sycophant in presence of
the nobility at court, and especially before the king. But what courtier
was not humble in presence of the sovereign of that court? Still, in
spite of his humility before the great, Lully did not completely lose
his dignity. On certain occasions his retorts to influential persons at
court, and even to the king himself, were characterized by remarkable
boldness. Two examples may be given to show the droll and daring humor
of the celebrated composer.
It happened, one day, that the Marquis de Louvois, the powerful minister
of Louis XIV., taunted Lully with having secured the king’s friendship
solely by his talent for buffoonery. To this the musician, drawing up
his head proudly, made the fearless reply, “Zounds! you would do as much
if you could!”
Again, at the first performance of “Armide” at Versailles, Félix Clément
tells us, some unforeseen difficulties prevented the raising of the
curtain at the appointed time. The king, becoming impatient at the
delay, sent one of the officers of his guard to inform Lully of his
dissatisfaction. The words, “The king is waiting,” elicited from the
composer a reply as sharp as it was wanting in respect. “The king,” said
he, “is master here, and nobody has the right to prevent him waiting as
long as he likes!”—a quip more witty than prudent. The courtiers
believed that the man who dared to make such a reply was irretrievably
lost; and when “Armide” was given at the Royal Academy of Music on the
15th of February, 1686, the audience, fearful of compromising themselves
if they applauded the work, received it in a depressingly frigid manner.
Convinced of the merit of his score, Lully had it executed a few days
later for his own satisfaction (as did the king of Bavaria, recently,
with Wagner’s lyric dramas at the theatre of Bayreuth). Louis XIV.
hearing of this, and feeling that a work which had been pronounced good
by _his_ musician could not be otherwise, set the seal of his praise on
the score of “Armide,” which immediately obtained a signal success and
was even proclaimed the best work that Lully had written.
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