Just as Lully was the glory of the seventeenth century, so French
musical genius is represented in the eighteenth by Rameau, the most
learned theorist and illustrious composer of his time.
Jean Philippe Rameau was born at Dijon on the 25th of September, 1683.
His father and mother were amateur musicians, and they carefully taught
their son the elements of the art of which he was destined to become
such a celebrated master. The little Rameau made very rapid progress,
and his numerous biographers are agreed that at the age of seven there
was no musical score which he could not execute at sight on the
harpsichord.
In spite of his extraordinary talent for music, Rameau’s parents did not
wish him to become an artist. They desired that he should enter the
magistracy, and placed him as a student in the care of the Jesuits. He
did not make much progress, however, and did not get beyond the fourth
class in Latin; for his head was full of music and he could not apply
himself to study, insomuch that he became a deplorable example for his
school-fellows. His copy-books were annotated with fragments of music
which passed through his mind and which he took a great pleasure in
putting upon paper. He was at last sent away from the Jesuit college as
an intractable pupil; he had but a very slight knowledge of Latin,
French, or history, and the same might be said of other subjects.
On returning to his family he gave himself up completely to the study of
the harpsichord and the organ, and also learned to play upon the violin.
As regards harmony, the youthful Rameau failed to get beyond the first
principles of that art-science, as he could not find in Dijon any
musician sufficiently well informed on the rules and practice of
counterpoint to perfect his knowledge of harmony. Who knows whether it
was not precisely this unfortunate blank in his studies which caused him
later on to undertake the theoretical inquiries into the formation of
chords that are the subject of his admirable treatises on harmony?
Before he had thoroughly learned the laws of harmony, Rameau, as yet a
beardless youth, yielded to the law laid down by the little winged god
whose name is Cupid. He fell madly in love with a widow who was his
neighbor. Everybody knows that nothing exercises a more unfortunate or
more beneficial influence over the mind of a young lover than the advice
given him by the woman he loves. Happily the widow gave good advice to
her adorer. She went so far one day as to reproach him with his
ignorance of the French language. “You spell like a scullion!” she told
him. Rameau did not die on the spot in consequence of this outrage, for
he was a strong-minded youth; but his face became scarlet, and he
promised to study—a promise he kept.
Rameau’s father, however, who desired to put an end to the intrigue
carried on by his son—who was as precocious in passionate gallantry as
he was talented on the harpsichord—broke off the liaison by sending him
to travel in Italy. Rameau did not tear himself away from his fair
neighbor without great emotion, his heart beating _prestissimo
appassionato_; but he was bound to obey the paternal behest.
The future author of “Castor and Pollux” was not yet eighteen years of
age when he arrived in Milan. The works of the Italian composers then in
vogue did not at all modify his taste, which was entirely the outcome of
his own peculiar character. He heard the music of Scarlatti, Lotti,
Duni, Caldara, Leo, and it caused him surprise rather than satisfaction.
He remained but a short time in the capital of Lombardy, and did not
continue his Italian excursion further than that point. He had but one
desire, and that was to return to France. Chance having brought him into
contact with a theatrical manager, who had come to Milan to get together
an orchestra and an operatic troupe for a tour in the south of France,
Rameau accepted an engagement as violinist. It was several years later
when he returned to Dijon. Whether or not he sought the widow for whom
he had felt such an affection history does not say. We are rather
inclined to think that he did not see her again, as he remained at Dijon
but a very short time. Henceforth, he patiently awaited the moment when
he should be able to go to Paris, to sit at the feet of eminent masters
who would perfect him in the art of composition.
Finally he left for the French capital, and arrived there in the course
of the year 1717, being then about thirty-four years of age. It was very
late to commence the study of an art of which he as yet only imperfectly
understood the technique. Especially was it late to dream of attaining
celebrity in theatrical music, access to which was always very difficult
for unknown composers.
Rameau at last believed that he had found a protector and a professor
who would be disposed to complete his musical education, in the person
of the organist Marchand, who was held in great esteem in Paris. But
Marchand at once detected the superior genius—although it was then in a
latent state—of the Dijon musician, and under the influence of fear and
jealousy he sent him away. He acted indeed in a most culpable manner
towards Rameau and showed unjust partiality to others, as we shall see.
The position of organist at the Church of St. Paul becoming vacant, it
was submitted to public competition. Rameau, being obliged to work to
keep the pot boiling, presented himself as a competitor against one
Daquin, who was an indifferent organist, and still more indifferent
composer. Marchand was appointed judge of the competition. According to
the testimony of all who were present at this interesting trial, Rameau
stood forth immensely superior to Daquin. Nevertheless Marchand decided
in favor of the latter, and consequently the position was given to him.
After this check, Rameau was obliged to accept a place as organist at
Lille. He left Paris regretfully; but his departure was a source of
great satisfaction to Marchand, who feared his presence there.
Rameau did not remain long at Lille. He had a brother at Clermont, in
Auvergne, who was a musician of some talent, and organist of the
cathedral of that city. Wishing to retire, he offered Jean Philippe the
position which he was leaving, and the place being a remunerative one,
Rameau accepted. He was, however, to his deep regret, obliged to enter
into an engagement for a certain number of years, for towards Paris his
eyes were ever turned.
Situated in the midst of the mountains, the town of Clermont was at that
time very little visited by strangers, and Rameau concentrated himself
in his own personality. He wrote motets and pieces for the harpsichord.
There, too, he reflected upon the natural laws governing the formation
of chords, the theory of which had not then been expounded. After deep
and continuous study—like Newton when he discovered the law of
gravitation—Rameau at last discovered the secret of harmony. To him
belongs the glory of being the first to formulate these laws, in his
first work, of which we shall speak presently.
Four years had passed away, yet Rameau was bound to remain at Clermont
for several years more, in accordance with the terms of his agreement;
but he still saw Paris in his dreams, Paris, the only city where he
could produce his compositions and his book on theory. He was, however,
held in great esteem at Clermont, and in spite of his repeated attempts
to cancel the agreement he was unable to do so. He then devised a plan
by which he should be sent away from his church for reasons contrary to
those which were advanced by the friends and admirers who desired him to
remain there. They thought that he was an inspired organist and that his
harmonies were of an elevated and powerful character. Rameau suddenly
began to play on his noble instrument like an ignorant musician,
destitute of ideas, bringing forth such discordant and frightful sounds
that the clergy were scandalized and the faithful stopped their ears.
Remonstrances were made to him. He answered that he could do no better;
that it was in this wise that the noble art of the organist had been
suddenly revealed to him, and that he should always play in this manner.
He was accordingly dismissed and received his discharge with infinite
joy. At the last service which he attended, when his successor sat by
his side, he ceased his practical joking and played upon the organ in
such a manner as to compel the admiration of all who heard it. He was
determined that they should regret his departure, and he succeeded
marvellously.
Thus Rameau returned to Paris, where, in the course of a short time, he
published his treatise on harmony. But the subject was so novel and the
explanations given by the author so abstruse that musicians failed to
understand it. This, however, did not prevent them from speaking of it
malevolently, with the naive and base assurance born of ignorance and
vanity. Profoundly saddened but not discouraged by this result, he
turned to composition for the renown which was not accorded to him as a
theorist.
Rameau wrote with rare facility cantatas with choruses, sonatas, and
other pieces for the harpsichord, which caused him to be regarded with
great interest by the public. Pupils came to him and he obtained the
position of organist at the church of Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. He
would have been perfectly happy in this position, had he not yearned for
a grander destiny, of which mention has already been made—success as a
composer of grand opera.
To test his strength he made his debut in a small theatre, as the author
of the scores for several pieces written by his fellow-Dijonais, the
poet Piron, of happy memory, with songs and dance-tunes, which did not
pass unnoticed. Then, resuming his labors on musical theory, he
published his second book on the subject. This book, like the first, did
not escape the malevolent criticism of ignorant persons; but this tended
to spread abroad the name of the author, which came to be talked of in
spite of the efforts made to keep it secret. Rameau’s instrumental music
began to be sought after, and his pieces for the harpsichord were played
everywhere. This result was not what he had hoped to attain: conscious
of his superiority as a dramatic composer, his goal, as we know, was the
Académie de Musique. He applied to the echoes of the neighborhood, that
is to say, to all the lyric poets who had a reputation. These turned a
deaf ear to his request, being fearful of collaborating at the debut
(always an uncertain matter) of a composer in so difficult, so complex
an art as lyric tragedy.
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