"Thou knowest not the day nor the hour." Scarcely two years ago the
great composer, whose recent death involves so irreparable a loss to the
world of musical art, was accosted, while in a Paris coffee-house, by a
friend recently arrived from Berlin.
"What do they say of me there?" asked Meyerbeer, after the first
salutations.
"They say, with regret, that you are just now as reticent as Rossini."
"Indeed!"
"Yet, after all, they add that you are busier than Rossini, for he is
doing nothing, and you, at least, have an opera in your portfolio."
"Ah! I see you are hinting about the 'Africaine'."
"Yes, I refer to the 'Africaine'."
"Bah! bah! The Parisians are in a great hurry about it. I am not dead
yet, and some fine day I will astonish them in a way they will
remember."
Providence decreed that this harmless boast, this careless prediction,
should come to nought. While he was yet working on the "Africaine", the
hand of death interposed, and, at the cold touch, the pen was laid
aside, the music-paper dropped unheeded on the floor, the piano was
silent, and the composer left forever the scene of his labors and his
triumphs. Few men might, at the last hour, be more justified in
pleading, with earnest anxiety,--"Not now!--not now!"
Biographers already differ about the date of Meyerbeer's birth, some
asserting that it took place in 1791, while the majority agree that the
day was September 5, 1794. Born of a rich family of Jewish bankers, he
was, at an early age, stimulated to honorable exertion by the success in
other pursuits of his brother William, the astronomer, and Michael, the
poet,--successes which, however, at this day, are chiefly remembered
from their association with the name made really famous by the composer.
His parents encouraged the talent of the youth, who, at as early an age
as Mozart himself, manifested plainly the possession of genius; and when
only five years old, the boy was placed under the instruction of Lanska,
a local celebrity of Berlin. Two years later, little Jacob was a fair
performer on the piano-forte, or such an instrument as at that time
served for the Erard, the Chickering, the Steinway of the present day.
He played, as a prodigy, at the most fashionable amateur-concerts given
at the Prussian capital; and a faded old copy of a Leipsic paper, which
bears the date of 1803, yet survives the destruction awarded to all old
newspapers, simply because it mentions the youthful prodigy--then nine
years old--as one of the best pianists of his native city.
One of those charming old musical enthusiasts who nowadays are met with
only in Germany--and but seldom there--about this time visited Berlin.
He heard little Jacob play, and at once predicted that the boy would
"one day become one of the glories of Europe," To take lessons in the
theory of music was the advice of this old enthusiast, the Abbe Vogler.
So the lad was transferred from the tuition of Lanska to that of Bernard
Anselm Weber, a former pupil of old Vogler, and at that time director of
the orchestra at the Berlin opera; and from this master the boy learned
the art of instrumentation and harmony, to a certain degree at least.
Weber was very fond of his pupil, and sent one of his fugues to Vogler,
to show the old man that he was not the only one able to turn out
accomplished scholars. Two months passed without any answer, and Weber
attributed the silence to jealousy, until, one day, a large roll arrived
at his house. It contained a complete "Treatise on the Fugue," written
entirely by the hand of the old master, and containing also a critical
analysis of little Jacob's work, exposing its errors, adding example to
precept, by contrasting with it a fugue written by the Abbe on the same
theme, and also subjecting the two compositions to a severe and logical
criticism, which only proved the superiority of the masterly hand over
the inexperienced.
Little Jacob was less mortified by this incident than was his poor
teacher, Weber. He took the manuscript, and, after a faithful study of
its contents, wrote another eight-part fugue, which he sent himself to
Vogler. The result was precisely as he desired: he became a pupil of the
old musician.
Among the central towns of Germany, few are more pleasing, and, perhaps,
none at all more utterly neglected, than Darmstadt. The capital of a
duchy, it contains a harmless, quiet little court, to which are attached
a court-church and a court-theatre, alternately attracting the attention
of the courtiers. The palace is a quaint old affair, on one side as
precise and finished as a modern Italian villa, but taking its revenge
by indulging on the opposite side in a series of wild irregularities as
incomprehensible as they are picturesque,--old towers, romantic
gateways, broken battlements, running ivies, and gay, green foliage,
uniting, in charming confusion, to form the most pleasing picture in the
dear, lazy old town.
A year or two ago, the quiet, neglected little Darmstadt came
temporarily to the surface, and was seen of men. The Princess Alice of
England married the heir to the Duchy, and the event aroused (in England
especially) a natural curiosity as to the young lady's future home,--a
curiosity which has since quite died away. Darmstadt, about twenty years
ago, was also somewhat talked of in a distant Northern land; for from
the dull old Ducal palace went forth a pretty, delicate-looking girl,
who is now the wife of Alexander II, and the Empress of all the Russias.
In the Darmstadt picture-gallery is an old painting of the city as it
was just one century ago,--in 1764. It was a very little and a very
shabby city then. People dressed in the most ridiculous of costumes, and
the picture shows His Serene Highness, arrayed in scarlet and yellow,
getting out of a very clumsy, gilded carriage, amid the adulation of
bowing and wigged courtiers. When Meyerbeer was there, however,
Darmstadt was much as it is to-day,--a city so quiet that you might
almost pitch your tent in the middle of the principal street, and sleep
undisturbed for a week at least.
The Abbe Vogler was organist of the cathedral, an ugly, clumsy old
building, darkened by wide wooden galleries. Meyerbeer was a Jew, but
his parents were liberal enough to send him to the fireside of a
Christian, and the boy became an inmate of Vogler's house. For two
years he studied faithfully, and by that time was initiated, as he had
never been before, into the mysteries of counterpoint. For several years
after this he remained with Vogler, studying, working, composing, and
enjoying.
Indeed, the biographer who shall give us a permanent "Life of Meyerbeer"
must recur to the composer's sojourn in Darmstadt as the most romantic
phase of his existence,--when, away from the pleasures and temptations
of a great capital, free from the demands of society, with nothing to
distract his mind from Art, he consecrated his young life to her
service. His few associates of his own age were devoted to the same
cause, and all were certainly inspired by a mutual emulation. But only
one of the little group, besides the subject of this sketch, has left a
name to be remembered,--and that is Carl Maria von Weber. The other two
may have had as noble aspirations, as untiring energy, as passionate
ambitions; but Fate had decreed that Godefroy von Weber and Gaensbacher
should never win the world's applause. Carl Maria and Meyerbeer were the
"cronies" of the little school. They were constantly together; they
built their air-castles with a view to future joint occupancy; they made
their boyish vows of eternal friendship. Among the papers of Weber was
found, after his death, one bearing the title, "Cantata, written by
Weber for the Birthday of Vogler, and set to Music by Meyerbeer." The
words of Weber, it is said, are better than the music of his friend.
All these boys loved their old master, the Abbe, and knew no greater
pleasure than to enjoy his personal instructions. The duties of each day
were regular, simple, and gladly performed. The Abbe, in his capacity of
priest, began by celebrating a mass, at which Carl Maria von Weber
assisted, as little boys do in these times at every mass throughout the
land. Then, as a _maestro_, the Abbe apportioned to each of his pupils
the task for the day,--the _Kyrie_, the _Sanctus_, or the _Gloria in
Excelsis_. Vogler himself joined in the task, and the completed
compositions were sent to the various church-choirs in the Duchy for
performance. In the twilight hours, there were strolls about the quiet
streets of Darmstadt, in the Ducal gardens, or among the tombstones of
an old churchyard in the suburbs of the city. Outside the town there was
really little to attract the pleasure-seeker, for Darmstadt lies in a
flat, cultivated plain, and its surroundings are tame and monotonous. On
Sundays they all went to the cathedral, where there were two organs. The
Abbe played one, and as he finished some masterly voluntary or some
scientific fugue, his pupils would in turn respond on the other
instrument, at times playing fanciful variations, on some theme given
out by their teacher, and again wandering in rich extemporaneous
harmonies over the old yellow keys. Who knows but that, in this way, the
quiet, phlegmatic congregation of the Darmstadt cathedral may have
heard, unheedingly, from the hand of Weber, sweet strains which
afterwards were elaborated in "Oberon" and "Der Freischuetz"? or have
listened, with dreamy pleasure, to snatches of melody destined in future
years to be woven by Meyerbeer into the score of "Robert" or the
"Huguenots"?
Thus the quiet music life at Darmstadt passed on, each of the four boys
living but for their art. Meyerbeer was the foremost in success; for,
when but seventeen years old, he wrote a religious _cantata_, called
"God and Nature," which, performed before the Duke, secured to him the
title of Composer to the Court. In 1811 a still greater excitement
disturbed the serenity of Meyerbeer's period of study. Vogler closed his
school, and started with his scholars on a tour through the principal
cities of Germany. Each of the young composers carried with him a
portfolio of original compositions, though they were generous enough to
consider a manuscript opera by Meyerbeer, called "The Vow of Jephthah,"
as the ablest work, and at Munich aided heartily in preparing it for
the stage. In this critical Bavarian capital Meyerbeer made his first
appeal to public favor as an operatic composer,--and failed. He was not
hissed or ridiculed, but "The Vow of Jephthah" fell coldly on the
audience, and was shortly withdrawn.
Doubting whether he was destined to succeed as a composer, Meyerbeer
went to Vienna, a city not unfrequently called by musicians Pianopolis,
and there he heard Hummel play the piano. He had already taken a few
lessons of Clementi, but no sooner did he listen to the former master
than he recognized his own inefficiency, and saw work before him. He
determined to unite in himself, as a pianist, the brilliancy of
execution of Clementi, and the charm, the grace, and purity of Hummel's
style. He succeeded, and made his _debut_ at a concert at Vienna with
the most flattering applause. At this day the amateur would give much to
hear exactly how such men as Meyerbeer, and Hummel, and Clementi played,
and to compare them with Thalberg, Gottschalk, and Satter. It is
impossible to say in what respects Meyerbeer may have fallen behind or
surpassed these accomplished executants; but certain it is, that, in the
beginning of the present century, and while scarce out of his teens, the
favorite pupil of the Abbe Vogler was the favorite pianist of the Vienna
public.
Yet, after all his triumphs in the concert-room, he yearned for the
greater triumphs of the stage, and leaving the piano to his renowned
successors, Chopin and Liszt, he turned again to composing. He wrote an
opera called "The Two Caliphs," which, like his previous effort, was
replete with strange harmonies, very sparing in melody, and met with the
same (lack of) success. The celebrated Metternich--an authority in Art
as well as in diplomacy--was present at the production of "The Two
Caliphs," but only once ventured to applaud. The old master, Vogler, and
the dearer friend, Von Weber, still encouraged the young composer with
their approbation, and only blamed a stupid audience that would not
discern the beauties appreciable by their sharper ears.
Meyerbeer had good sense, and with a modesty perhaps more unusual in a
musician than in any one else, he was disposed rather to blame himself
than the public. A prominent amateur composer of Vienna--Salieri by
name--advised him to go to Italy; and to Venice, as the nearest point,
he hastened without delay.
In these days of universal travel, when every tourist can talk glibly of
the different theatres and composers of the Old World, it seems almost
incredible that a young man of wealth and taste like Meyerbeer should
not have visited Italy till almost forced to do so. Yet such was the
case. Meyerbeer was a man of one idea, and that idea was music. No
journey which had any other object possessed attractions for him. To the
influences of history, to the grandeur of that land which should not be
named without an almost holy veneration, he was quite indifferent. It
was not the Caesars that drew him to Italy, nor the Popes, nor the
Raphaels, nor the Michel Angelos,--it was Rossini and the modern opera.
At that time the composer of "Semiramide" was at the height of his
popularity, and Meyerbeer heard "Tancredi," and for the first time felt
the delicious fascination of Italian melody. He determined to transplant
it into the rugged soil of his own masculine musical science; and three
years after the Rossinian revelation at Venice, his first Italian opera,
"Romilda e Costanza," was produced at that dismal old metropolis of
necromancy, Padua, Signora Pisaroni taking the principal part. It
pleased, as did his next work, "Semiramide Riconosciuta," produced at
Turin, though neither was so successful as his "Emma di Risburgo," first
heard at Venice, and for some time a rival in popularity to "Tancredi."
At this period Meyerbeer adopted the name of Giacomo,--the Italian
translation of Jacob,--which he ever after retained. His true name was
Meyer Liebmann Beer, but he suppressed the Liebmann, because that word
in German, when joined with Beer, could by weak punsters be translated
into "a philanthropic bear"; so he Italianized his pre-nomen, dropped
his middle name, and joined the two other words in one,--the result of
all these liberties in nomenclature being "Giacomo Meyerbeer."
Thus, doubly armed with an Italian name and an Italian reputation, he
returned to Germany, but was coldly welcomed. Even Weber charged him
with being a renegade to the cause of German Art, and, while "Emma di
Risburgo" was played at one of the Berlin theatres, had "The Two
Caliphs" revived at another. Meyerbeer thus could have heard his two
styles of composition exemplified in the same night. Weber, indeed,
always looked upon Meyerbeer's Italian operas as a sad falling away from
grace, and in a letter written to his brother, Godefroy,--the fourth of
the little group of Darmstadt students,--says,--
"Meyerbeer has promised on his return to Berlin to write a German opera.
God be praised for it! I appealed strongly to his conscience in the
matter."
Returning to Italy, Meyerbeer produced "Margherita d' Angiu" at La
Scala, Milan, following it with "L'Esule di Granata"; and then in 1824
Venice saw and heard the "Crociato." This last opera made the tour of
the world, carried the name of the composer to every place where musical
art was cultivated, and won for Meyerbeer, from the distant Emperor of
Brazil, the decoration of the Cross of the South.
In Paris alone--Paris, which afterwards made such an idol of the
composer--did the "Crociato" fail to meet with immediate success. In
nonsense and folly it may be truly said of the Parisians that "a little
child shall lead them"; and so it happened on this occasion. In the
admirable quartette of the second act a child is introduced, as in
"Norma," to awaken the sympathies of an untractable tenor papa. This
juvenile, by no means a young Apollo, took not the slightest interest in
the music, and was so indifferent to the publicity of the situation, so
utterly _blase_, (and sleepy,) as to yawn during the most affecting
passages. At the first yawn, the audience smiled; the _prima donna_,
proceeding with her part, exclaimed in tragic Italian, "Restrain thy
tears!"--and the child gaped again for the second time, while the
audience grinned. "Heaven will comfort thee!" shrieked the
singer,--whereat the child gave such a prodigious yawn that the house
burst into laughter, and the vocalist could not finish the piece.
In 1827 Meyerbeer married, and retired from public life for a while. Two
of the children born to him died, their loss casting so deep a shade on
his soul that for nearly two years he composed only religious music to
words selected from the Book of Psalms, or written by Klopstock. He also
wrote a collection of melodies, among them an elegy entitled "At the
Tomb of Beethoven." But erelong the glorious old instinct for operatic
composition returned. On the seventeenth of September, 1829, M. Lubbert,
then director of the opera, received a letter couched in these terms:--
"_17 Septembre, 1829_.
"J'ai l'honneur de vous prevenir, Monsieur, que par decision
de ce jour j'ai accorde a M. Meyerbeer, compositeur, ses
entrees a l'Academie Royale de Musique....
"L'Aide-de-Camp du Roi,
"Directeur-General des Beaux-Arts,
"VICOMTE DE LAROCHEFOUCAULD."
And two years later, on the twenty-first of September, 1831, Dr. Veron,
the successor of Lubbert, opened his doors for the first performance of
"Robert le Diable." This wonderful and popular opera was written in
French, to a _libretto_ sent to Berlin by Scribe, and was at first
intended for the Opera Comique, but its three acts were subsequently
increased to five, and its destination changed to the Grand Opera.
Meyerbeer himself had to bear much of the expense of preparing the
stage-appointments, though not to such an extent as on the production of
his "Romilda" in Italy, when he bought the _libretto_, gave the music
gratis, paid the singers, and provided the costumes.
Dr. Veron, in his Memoirs, gives an amusing account of the accidents
which attended the first production of "Robert." In the third act, a
chandelier fell, and the _prima donna_ Dorus had a narrow escape from
being hit by the falling glass; after the chorus of demons, a cloud,
rising from the cave to hide the stage, reached a certain elevation, and
then, giving way, tumbled on the boards, nearly striking Taglioni the
dancer, who, as _Elena_, was extended on her tomb, ready for the next
scene; and in the last act, Nourrit, the _Robert_ of the evening, in the
excitement of the moment, leaped down the trap-door by which Levasseur
(the _Bertram_) had just disappeared. This last event received different
interpretations. On the stage there was alarm and weeping, because it
was then thought Nourrit in his leap had been killed or maimed; by the
audience it was supposed that the author intended _Robert_ should share
with _Bertram_ the infernal regions; while _under_ the stage Levasseur
greeted the tenor with mingled surprise and disgust:--"_Que diable
faites vous ici? Est ce qu'on a change le denouement?_" Luckily, Nourrit
was unhurt, the curtain was raised again, the singers made their
conventional acknowledgments, and the names of the authors were
announced amid the wildest enthusiasm.
After that night Meyerbeer had to pay no more money to get his operas on
the stage. The tables were so completely turned that he thenceforth
could command almost any price he chose to ask. To follow his career
more minutely, after this period of his emergence into the bright light
of fame, would be but to recount a story with which almost every one is
familiar.
The "Huguenots" was the next opera, and it was produced only after
infinite delays; indeed, just before the rehearsal, Madame Meyerbeer
fell ill, and her husband decided to convey her to Italy. He took the
music from the orchestra desks, forfeited a fine of thirty thousand
francs, and a few hours later he and his "Huguenots" were on the way to
Nice. When finally produced at Paris, this opera was as well received as
the "Robert." It appears, that, after the first general rehearsal,
Nourrit, the tenor, found fault with the sublime music of the fourth
act. Meyerbeer returned home in a very unpleasant frame of mind, and
told his troubles to the friend with whom he lodged. "If I only had,"
said he, "a few stanzas to arrange as an _andante_ and _duo_, all would
be right. But I cannot ask Scribe to add more verses." The friend
immediately called a literary acquaintance, Emile Deschamps, who was
playing cards in a neighboring _cafe_, explained to him the situation,
and in a few minutes the verses were written. It was about midnight, and
the composer, seating himself at the piano with the words before him, in
a fever of inspiration threw out the splendid _duo_ between _Raoul_ and
_Valentine_ which closes the act, and which always equally enchants
performers and audience; and when this music was performed at the next
rehearsal, the orchestra, players, and vocalists carried the composer in
triumph on the stage to receive their spontaneous plaudits and
congratulations, while Nourrit embraced him with tears of delight.
Eight years later came another triumph of elaborate Art in "Le
Prophete," a work which is generally underrated by the leading French
critics, though it contains many of the very noblest inspirations of the
genius of Meyerbeer. To this opera followed "L'Etoile du Nord," and "Le
Pardon de Ploermel," while to these will soon follow "L'Africaine," so
long promised, and in behalf of which the composer was visiting Paris at
the time of his death. The score of the opera has been completed since
1860.
On Friday, the twenty-second of April last, Meyerbeer dined alone at his
residence, his meal being, as usual, very frugal. On Saturday, the
twenty-third of April, he felt unwell, but a physician was not sent for
till the next week, and in the mean time Meyerbeer was busy
superintending the copyists engaged in his house on the score of
"L'Africaine," for which he had, instead of his customary orchestral
introduction, just written a long overture. On the following Sunday, the
first of May, his disorder, which was internal, grew worse, and his
weakness increased so that he became almost irritable about it,--he was
so anxious to continue at the work of the orchestration of his new
opera, and so annoyed by the illness which prevented him. His family
were sent for by telegraph, but were mostly too late to hold converse
with him; for on Sunday night, before they arrived, he turned in his bed
and bade them farewell with a faint smile, as he said, "I now bid you
good-night till to-morrow morning." These were his last words; for when
the morning was come, and daylight peered into the windows of the tall
house at Paris, he was shadowed by the mystery of that night which
awaits a resurrection-morning.
Among his papers in his travelling-portfolio was found a packet marked,
"To be opened after death," containing directions, written in German, of
which the following is a literal translation:--
* * * * *
"I desire the following details to be observed after my decease.
"I wish to be left lying on my bed, with my face exposed to view, just
as I was previously to my death, for four days, and on the fifth day to
have incisions made in the brachial artery and in the foot. After this,
my body is to be conveyed to Berlin, where I wish to be interred in the
tomb of my dearly beloved mother. Should there be no room, I beg that I
may be laid by the side of my two dear children, who died at a very
early age.
"Should I happen to die far from those related to me, the same measures
are to be pursued, and two attendants are to watch my body day and night
to see whether I do not give any signs of life.
"If, owing to any particular circumstances, it is necessary to take me
to a dead-house, I desire, that, according to custom, little bells shall
be fastened to my hands and feet, in order to keep the attendants on the
alert.
"Having always feared being buried alive, my object in giving the above
directions is to prevent the possibility of any return of life.
"The will of God be done, and His name sanctified and blessed in heaven
and on earth! Amen!"
* * * * *
All these directions were complied with; while the funeral
arrangements--in Paris at least--were very theatrical and "Frenchy,"
though at Berlin they were conducted with greater dignity. The line of
procession, led by a band playing extracts from Meyerbeer's music,
passed the Opera Comique and the Grand Opera, both of which were dressed
in black. Auber was among the pall-bearers, and Gounod among the
mourners. Behind the coffin were carried on a cushion the various
decorations with which sovereigns and societies had decked the composer.
At the Northern Railway station, (also draped in mourning,) orations
were delivered, _and applauded_ by the listeners, and sometimes
interrupted by the impatient steam-whistles of departing trains. An
incident of the funeral was the decoration of the _catafalque_ with a
silver cross: Meyerbeer was a Jew, and the inconsistency was not noticed
till there was barely time to tear away the Christian emblem before the
body of the Israelite composer was laid in its place. That same night,
at the Grand Opera, the "Huguenots" was performed, and never did Sax,
Gueymard, Faure, and Beisal sing or act with greater effect. After the
fourth act the curtain was raised; and while the orchestra played the
Coronation March from the "Prophete," the bust of the composer was
crowned with laurel by the performers.
The family, in accordance with the curious European custom, sent around
to their friends a circular worded as follows:--
"Sir,--Madame Meyerbeer (widow); Mlles. Cecile and Cornelie
Meyerbeer; the Baron and Baroness De Korf, and Son; M. and
Madame Georges Beer; M. and Madame Jules Beer and Children;
M. and Madame Alexandre Oppenheim; M. and Madame S. de
Haber, Madlle. Laure de Haber; and Madlle. Anna Eberty, have
the honor to announce to you the sad loss they have just
suffered by the death of M. Giacomo Meyerbeer, their
husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, uncle, and
great-uncle, who died at Paris on the 2nd May, 1864, aged
seventy-two."
Meyerbeer was, up to the last, full of plans for the future, and while
getting "L'Africaine" ready was looking for the _libretto_ of a comic
opera to compose "for amusement," as a repose between grander works. It
is said that he has left another completed opera, on the Biblical story
of Judith and Holofernes; and he also had a vague idea of writing a
grand historical opera on an English subject, the idea having been
suggested by a visit to the Princess Theatre, London, when Charles Kean
was playing, with unusual scenic accessories, Shakspeare's "Henry VIII."
The proposed opera was to have been equally as grand a work as the
"Huguenots," and the peculiarities of old English music--the style of
melody of Locke, Purcell, and Arne--were to have been imitated with that
skill of which Meyerbeer was so eminently a master. He never would write
an oratorio, because he had no hope of excelling Mendelssohn in that
branch of musical art. His last composition was an aria written to
Italian words for a Spanish lady-friend, the Senorita Zapater; and he
was about to arrange the accompaniment for the orchestra when his last
illness came on.
Personally, Giacomo Meyerbeer had many characteristics which were not
inviting. He was fond of money, yet willing to lavish it whenever Art
demanded the sacrifice. He took snuff, and wore green spectacles, was
careless, often shabby in his dress, and would stroll through the
streets of Paris wearing a wretched hat, inwardly composing music as he
walked along; on grand occasions, however, he would go to the opposite
extreme in matters of toilet, and appear radiant with the numerous
decorations presented to him by the different sovereigns of Europe. He
knew the power of the press, and was not too delicate to invite the
leading critics to elaborate dinners at the Trois Freres the night
before a first performance.
It is not intended here to enter into a critical or scientific analysis
of Meyerbeer as a composer. As far as the present development of Art
would indicate, his name seems to us destined to go down to posterity
encircled by a fadeless halo of glory; and at the same time we must
remember that there have been other composers who, though now forgotten,
yet in their time and at their death have similarly impressed their
contemporaries. But certain it is, that, in our day and generation, and
at least during the life of every one now existing, the fame of
Meyerbeer will be brilliant indeed, and the music of the "Robert," the
"Huguenots," and the "Prophete" will challenge the admiration and love
of all susceptible to the influence of the grandest and noblest strains
that musical science has yet evoked.