From a photograph made specially for this work.
]
Bizet left few manuscripts. He burned many shortly before his death. The
fragments of “Don Rodrigue” and “Clarisse Harlowe” were left in a
curious notation that is nearly hieroglyphical, not to be deciphered.
When Louis Gallet first met Bizet, he saw a forest of blonde hair, thick
and curly, which surrounded a round and almost child-like face. Bizet’s
figure was robust. In later years his features were firm, and his
expression was energetic, tempered by the trust, the frankness, and the
goodness that characterized his nature. He was very short-sighted, and
he wore eyeglasses constantly. His mouth lent itself as easily to
expression of mocking wit as to kindness. His love for his parents has
been already mentioned; his devotion toward his wife was such that she
told Gounod there was not one minute of the six years of marriage which
she would not gladly live over. He was a welcome companion, fond of jest
and paradox, frank and loyal. At the house of Saint-Saëns he played
gladly the part of Helen in Offenbach’s operetta. He was ever firm, even
extravagant in friendship, as when at Baden-Baden in ‘62 he challenged a
man who spoke lightly of Gounod’s “Queen of Sheba.” When the talk was
concerning musicians whom he loved, Bach, Mozart, Rossini, Verdi,
Gounod, his voice would lose its peculiar sibilance, and his hot
eloquence showed honesty as well as nimble wit and power of expression.
In all of the recollections of troops of friends, in his letters to
acquaintances and friends there is not a suggestion of mean action,
scheming purpose, low or narrow thought.
At the age of fourteen Bizet was a master of the pianoforte; his
technique was above reproach; he was particularly skilful in mixing his
colors: an exquisitely defined melody had its proper and characteristic
background. Halévy and Liszt are of the many witnesses to his
extraordinary talent for reading from score at sight. Reyer speaks of
his remarkable memory. And yet Bizet never appeared in public as a
pianist; although in certain salons of Paris his abilities excited
lively admiration.
So too his gifts as a composer for orchestra were more than ordinary;
but whenever he had an opportunity to write for the stage, he abandoned
any instrumental work that had interested him.
For Bizet obeyed the instincts of the French musician and looked to the
stage for enduring fame.
There is no need of close examination of “The Pearl Fishers,” and “The
Fair Maid of Perth.” We know the later works of Bizet, and therefore we
find hints of genius in the early operas. With the exception of the duet
of Nadir and Zurga and of a few pages saturated with local color, there
is little in “The Pearl Fishers” to herald the arrival of a master of
the stage. There are delightful examples of instrumentation in “The Fair
Maid of Perth”: the opera as a whole is conventional, and the solo
passages and the ensemble are often reminiscent: there is continual
homage to famous men: Gounod, Halévy, Verdi, Thomas, _et al._ Bizet had
not yet found the use of his own voice.
Nor would “Djamileh,” the satisfaction of the longing of Camille du
Locle for ideal musical revery, the sounding of the revolt against the
school of Scribe, carry the name of Bizet to after years. Its perfume is
subtle and penetrating; its colors delight trained eyes. It is a _tour
de force_. It has the affected frankness of a pastel in prose. The
hearer must be mastered by the spirit of the Orient to thoroughly enjoy.
The three comedians should be seen as in an opium dream.
The fame of Bizet must rest eventually on two works: “L’Arlésienne” and
“Carmen.”
I believe “L’Arlésienne” is the more artistic, the greater work. In
“Carmen” is the greater promise of what Bizet might have done. The music
of “L’Arlésienne,” is inseparably associated with success or failure of
the play itself and the abilities of play-actors. If the concert-suite
is played, it pleases; but apart from the representation of the dramatic
scenes, the music loses its true significance. The saxophone solo in the
Prelude, with its marvellous accompaniment, gratifies the ear in the
concert-room; but its haunting and melancholy beauty is intensified
tenfold when it is associated with the apparition of “The Innocent.” It
is impossible to over-rate the beauty, the passion, the dramatic fitness
of the music that accompanies the various scenes in the simple and
terrible drama of Daudet. The dialogue between _Mère Renaud_ and
_Balthazar_ when they meet after fifty years is touching; but the
_adagietto_, that softly tells of humble heroism, love preserved without
shame, the kiss given at last and without passion, longings and regrets
endured in silence, rises to a height of pathos that is beyond the reach
of words or pantomime. In connection with the scene and the dialogue the
_adagietto_ is irresistible in its effect; in the concert room, it is
simply a beautiful piece for muted strings. This play of Daudet is so
simple, so devoid of trickery that its popular and universal success is
extremely doubtful. The average spectator would fain see the unworthy
_Woman of Arles_ for whom _Fréderi_ burns in agony; the shepherd
_Balthazer_ seems to him a good, tiresome old man with a beard; _The
Innocent_, unless the part is played with rare finesse, becomes almost
ludicrous. Not until there is a return to the appreciation of simplicity
will this music of Bizet be known as the supreme example of music in the
domain of melodrama.
Meilhac and Halévy in the libretto of “Carmen,” feel constantly the
pulse of the audience.
The opera is not a sustained masterpiece. The want of action in the
third act is not atoned for by a display of musical inspiration. With
the exception of the trio of card-players, the music of this act is far
below that of the other three. But, with the omission of this act, how
frank, how intense, how characteristic, is the music that tells of a
tragedy of universal and eternal interest.
For _Carmen_ lived years before she was known by Merimée. She dies many
deaths, and many are her resurrections. When the world was young, they
say her name was Lilith, and the serpent for her sake hated Adam. She
perished that wild night when the heavens rained fire upon the Cities of
the Plain. Samson knew her when she dwelt in the valley of Sorek. The
mound builders saw her and fell at her feet. She disquieted the
blameless men of Ethiopia. Years after she was the friend of Theodora.
In the fifteenth century she was noticed in Sabbatic revels led by the
four-horned goat. She was in Paris at the end of the last century, and
she wore powder and patches at the dinners given by the Marquis de Sade.
In Spain she rolled cigarettes and wrecked the life of _Don José_.
The dramatic genius of Bizet is seen fully in his treatment of this
character. She sings no idle words. Each tone stabs. There are here no
agreeable or sensuous love passages; as Bellaigue remarks, there is not
a touch of voluptuousness in the opera. The soldier is under the spell
of a vain, coarse, reckless gipsy of maddening personality. He knows the
folly, the madness of his passion; he sees “as from a tower the end of
all.” These characters are sharply drawn and forcibly painted. There is
free use of the palette knife; there is fine and ingenious detail. The
singers sing because it is the natural expression of their emotions;
they do not sing to amuse the audience or accommodate the stage
carpenter. The orchestra with wealth of rhythm and color italicizes the
song; prepares the action; accompanies it; or moralizes. Apart from the
technical skill shown in the instrumentation, the great ability of Bizet
is seen in his combining the French traditions of the past and the
German spirit of the present without incongruity. Here is a departure
from old models, and yet a confirmation. The quintet is sung because
thereby the feeling of the scene is best expressed; five people are not
introduced because the quintet is an agreeable combination of voices.
The unmeaning vocal ornaments found in the earlier operas of Bizet have
disappeared. He uses his own manly, intense speech. He expresses his own
thoughts in his own way. He does not care whether his work is opéra
comique or grand opera, or melodrama. His sole object is to tell his
story as directly and as forcibly as possible.
In a world of art that is too often ruled by insincerity, a lusty,
well-trained voice aroused the attention. Suddenly the voice was hushed.
Only with the silence, came the hearty approval of the great audience.
Bizet met with no popular success during his lifetime. Now “Carmen”
holds the stage; “L’Arlésienne” excites the admiration of all musicians;
the earlier operas have been revived and sung in foreign languages. In
his own country he was from the start known vulgarly as “one of the most
ferocious of the French Wagnerian school”: an absurd charge: for in no
one of his operas is there recognition of the peculiar theories of
Wagner. Bizet followed the traditional formulas: he used the air, the
concerted pieces, the formal divisions and subdivisions. The orchestra
assists the singer; it does not usurp his place. Without doubt he
learned from Wagner in the matter of orchestral expression, as Wagner
learned from Weber and Meyerbeer; as one sensible man does from his
predecessors. There was nothing new in Bizet’s use of the typical
motive; it was similarly employed by Grétry, Auber, Halévy.
Melody, expressive harmony, ingenious counterpoint, an unerring sense of
the value of a peculiar tone of an instrument or the advantage of a
combination of instruments,—these were used by the Bizet of later years
simply to express truth. This was the purpose of his life; this was the
motto of his existence. No one could be more refined than he in musical
expression; no one could be more seemingly brutal. The glowing words
that he wrote concerning Verdi in the Revue Nationale show his one
prevailing thought: “Let us then be frank and true; let us not demand of
a great artist qualities which he lacks, and let us profit from the
qualities which he possesses. When a passionate, violent, even brutal
temperament; when a Verdi presents us with a strong and living work full
of gold and mud, of gall and blood, let us not go to him and say coldly,
‘But, my dear Sir, this is wanting in taste, it is not _distingué_.’
_Distingué!_ Are Michael-Angelo, Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Beethoven,
Cervantes, and Rabelais _distingués_?”
It is presumptuous, it is impossible to anticipate the verdict of Time
the Avenger. It is not improbable, however, that the future historian of
the opera will class Bizet with Wagner and Verdi as the men of mighty
influence over the opera of the last years of this century. “Carmen”
was, perhaps, a promise, a starting point, rather than a fulfillment.
But if the young and fiery composers of Italy of to-day turn reverently
toward Verdi and Wagner, they also read lovingly the score of “Carmen.”
[Illustration: Philip Hale]
[Illustration: [Music]]
[Illustration: