drifts back in spite of himself; he should watch himself so as to avoid
that blunder. A picture in which there were no colors but blue and red
would be untrue to nature, and fatigue the eye. And thus the constantly
recurring rhythm in the score of _Robert le Diable_ makes the work, as
a whole, appear monotonous. As to the effect of the long trumpets, of
which you speak, it has long been known in Germany; and what Meyerbeer
offers us as a novelty was constantly used by Mozart, who gives just
such a chorus to the devils in _Don Giovanni_.”
By plying Gambara, meanwhile, with fresh libations, Andrea thus strove,
by his contradictoriness, to bring the musician back to a true sense of
music, by proving to him that his so-called mission was not to try to
regenerate an art beyond his powers, but to seek to express himself in
another form; namely, that of poetry.
“But, my dear Count, you have understood nothing of that stupendous
musical drama,” said Gambara, airily, as standing in front of Andrea’s
piano he struck the keys, listened to the tone, and then seated himself,
meditating for a few minutes as if to collect his ideas.
“To begin with, you must know,” said he, “that an ear as practised as
mine at once detected that labor of choice and setting of which you
spoke. Yes, the music has been selected, lovingly, from the storehouse
of a rich and fertile imagination wherein learning has squeezed every
idea to extract the very essence of music. I will illustrate the
process.”
He rose to carry the candles into the adjoining room, and before sitting
down again he drank a full glass of Giro, a Sardinian wine, as full of
fire as the old wines of Tokay can inspire.
“Now, you see,” said Gambara, “this music is not written for
misbelievers, nor for those who know not love. If you have never
suffered from the virulent attacks of an evil spirit who shifts your
object just as you are taking aim, who puts a fatal end to your highest
hopes,--in one word, if you have never felt the devil’s tail whisking
over the world, the opera of _Robert le Diable_ must be to you, what the
Apocalypse is to those who believe that all things will end with
them. But if, persecuted and wretched, you understand that Spirit of
Evil,--the monstrous ape who is perpetually employed in destroying the
work of God,--if you can conceive of him as having, not indeed loved,
but ravished, an almost divine woman, and achieved through her the
joy of paternity; as so loving his son that he would rather have him
eternally miserable with himself than think of him as eternally happy
with God; if, finally, you can imagine the mother’s soul for ever
hovering over the child’s head to snatch it from the atrocious
temptations offered by its father,--even then you will have but a faint
idea of this stupendous drama, which needs but little to make it worthy
of comparison with Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_. _Don Giovanni_ is in its
perfection the greater, I grant; _Robert le Diable_ expresses ideas,
_Don Giovanni_ arouses sensations. _Don Giovanni_ is as yet the only
musical work in which harmony and melody are combined in exactly the
right proportions. In this lies its only superiority, for _Robert_ is
the richer work. But how vain are such comparisons since each is so
beautiful in its own way!
“To me, suffering as I do from the demon’s repeated shocks, Robert spoke
with greater power than to you; it struck me as being at the same time
vast and concentrated.
“Thanks to you, I have been transported to the glorious land of dreams
where our senses expand, and the world works on a scale which is
gigantic as compared with man.”
He was silent for a space.
“I am trembling still,” said the ill-starred artist, “from the four bars
of cymbals which pierced to my marrow as they opened that short,
abrupt introduction with its solo for trombone, its flutes, oboes,
and clarionet, all suggesting the most fantastic effects of color. The
_andante_ in C minor is a foretaste of the subject of the evocation of
the ghosts in the abbey, and gives grandeur to the scene by anticipating
the spiritual struggle. I shivered.”
Gambara pressed the keys with a firm hand and expanded Meyerbeer’s theme
in a masterly _fantasia_, a sort of outpouring of his soul after the
manner of Liszt. It was no longer the piano, it was a whole orchestra
that they heard; the very genius of music rose before them.
“That was worthy of Mozart!” he exclaimed. “See how that German can
handle his chords, and through what masterly modulations he raises the
image of terror to come to the dominant C. I can hear all hell in it!
“The curtain rises. What do I see? The only scene to which we gave the
epithet infernal: an orgy of knights in Sicily. In that chorus in F
every human passion is unchained in a bacchanalian _allegro_. Every
thread by which the devil holds us is pulled. Yes, that is the sort of
glee that comes over men when they dance on the edge of a precipice;
they make themselves giddy. What _go_ there is in that chorus!
“Against that chorus--the reality of life--the simple life of every-day
virtue stands out in the air, in G minor, sung by Raimbaut. For a moment
it refreshed my spirit to hear the simple fellow, representative of
verdurous and fruitful Normandy, which he brings to Robert’s mind in the
midst of his drunkenness. The sweet influence of his beloved native land
lends a touch of tender color to this gloomy opening.
“Then comes the wonderful air in C major, supported by the chorus in C
minor, so expressive of the subject. ‘_Je suis Robert_!’ he immediately
breaks out. The wrath of the prince, insulted by his vassal, is already
more than natural anger; but it will die away, for memories of his
childhood come to him, with Alice, in the bright and graceful _allegro_
in A major.
“Can you not hear the cries of the innocent dragged into this infernal
drama,--a persecuted creature? ‘_Non, non_,’” sang Gambara, who made the
consumptive piano sing. “His native land and tender emotions have come
back to him; his childhood and its memories have blossomed anew in
Robert’s heart. And now his mother’s shade rises up, bringing with it
soothing religious thoughts. It is religion that lives in that beautiful
song in E major, with its wonderful harmonic and melodic progression in
the words:
“Car dans les cieux, comme sur la terre,
Sa mère va prier pour lui.
“Here the struggle begins between the unseen powers and the only human
being who has the fire of hell in his veins to enable him to resist
them; and to make this quite clear, as Bertram comes on, the great
musician has given the orchestra a passage introducing a reminiscence of
Raimbaut’s ballad. What a stroke of art! What cohesion of all the parts!
What solidity of structure!
“The devil is there, in hiding, but restless. The conflict of the
antagonistic powers opens with Alice’s terror; she recognizes the devil
of the image of Saint Michael in her village. The musical subject
is worked out through an endless variety of phases. The antithesis
indispensable in opera is emphatically presented in a noble
_recitative_, such as a Gluck might have composed, between Bertram and
Robert:
“Tu ne sauras jamais à quel excès je t’aime.
“In that diabolical C minor, Bertram, with his terrible bass, begins his
work of undermining which will overthrow every effort of the vehement,
passionate man.
“Here, everything is appalling. Will the crime get possession of the
criminal? Will the executioner seize his victim? Will sorrow consume
the artist’s genius? Will the disease kill the patient? or, will the
guardian angel save the Christian?
“Then comes the _finale_, the gambling scene in which Bertram tortures
his son by rousing him to tremendous emotions. Robert, beggared,
frenzied, searching everything, eager for blood, fire, and sword, is his
own son; in this mood he is exactly like his father. What hideous glee
we hear in Bertram’s words: ‘_Je ris de tes coups_!’ And how perfectly
the Venetian _barcarole_ comes in here. Through what wonderful
transitions the diabolical parent is brought on to the stage once more
to make Robert throw the dice.
“This first act is overwhelming to any one capable of working out the
subjects in his very heart, and lending them the breadth of development
which the composer intended them to call forth.
“Nothing but love could now be contrasted with this noble symphony of
song, in which you will detect no monotony, no repetitions of means and
effects. It is one, but many; the characteristic of all that is truly
great and natural.
“I breathe more freely; I find myself in the elegant circle of a gallant
court; I hear Isabella’s charming phrases, fresh, but almost melancholy,
and the female chorus in two divisions, and in _imitation_, with a
suggestion of the Moorish coloring of Spain. Here the terrifying music
is softened to gentler hues, like a storm dying away, and ends in the
florid prettiness of a duet wholly unlike anything that has come before
it. After the turmoil of a camp full of errant heroes, we have a picture
of love. Poet! I thank thee! My heart could not have borne much more. If
I could not here and there pluck the daisies of a French light opera, if
I could not hear the gentle wit of a woman able to love and to charm,
I could not endure the terrible deep note on which Bertram comes in,
saying to his son: ‘_Si je le permets_!’ when Robert had promised the
princess he adores that he will conquer with the arms she has bestowed
on him.
“The hopes of the gambler cured by love, the love of a most beautiful
woman,--did you observe that magnificent Sicilian, with her hawk’s eye
secure of her prey? (What interpreters that composer has found!) the
hopes of the man are mocked at by the hopes of hell in the tremendous
cry: ‘_A toi, Robert de Normandie_!’
“And are not you struck by the gloom and horror of those long-held
notes, to which the words are set: ‘_Dans la forêt prochaine_’? We find
here all the sinister spells of _Jerusalem Delivered_, just as we find
all chivalry in the chorus with the Spanish lilt, and in the march tune.
How original is the _allegro_ with the modulations of the four cymbals
(tuned to C, D, C, G)! How elegant is the call to the lists! The whole
movement of the heroic life of the period is there: the mind enters into
it; I read in it a romance, a poem of chivalry. The _exposition_ is now
finished; the resources of music would seem to be exhausted; you have
never heard anything like it before; and yet it is homogeneous. You have
had life set before you, and its one and only _crux_: ‘Shall I be happy
or unhappy?’ is the philosopher’s query. ‘Shall I be saved or damned?’
asks the Christian.”
With these words Gambara struck the last chord of the chorus, dwelt on
it with a melancholy modulation, and then rose to drink another large
glass of Giro. This half-African vintage gave his face a deeper flush,
for his passionate and wonderful sketch of Meyerbeer’s opera had made
him turn a little pale.
“That nothing may be lacking to this composition,” he went on, “the
great artist has generously added the only _buffo_ duet permissible for
a devil: that in which he tempts the unhappy troubadour. The composer
has set jocosity side by side with horror--a jocosity in which he mocks
at the only realism he had allowed himself amid the sublime imaginings
of his work--the pure calm love of Alice and Raimbaut; and their life is
overshadowed by the forecast of evil.
“None but a lofty soul can feel the noble style of these _buffo_ airs;
they have neither the superabundant frivolity of Italian music nor the
vulgar accent of French commonplace; rather have they the majesty of
Olympus. There is the bitter laughter of a divine being mocking the
surprise of a troubadour Don-Juanizing himself. But for this dignity we
should be too suddenly brought down to the general tone of the opera,
here stamped on that terrible fury of diminished sevenths which resolves
itself into an infernal waltz, and finally brings us face to face with
the demons.
“How emphatically Bertram’s couplet stands out in B minor against that
diabolical chorus, depicting his paternity, but mingling in fearful
despair with these demoniacal strains.
“Then comes the delightful transition of Alice’s reappearance, with
the _ritornel_ in B flat. I can still hear that air of angelical
simplicity--the nightingale after a storm. Thus the grand leading
idea of the whole is worked out in the details; for what could be more
perfectly in contrast with the tumult of devils tossing in the pit than
that wonderful air given to Alice? ‘_Quand j’ai quitté la Normandie_.’
“The golden thread of melody flows on, side by side with the mighty
harmony, like a heavenly hope; it is embroidered on it, and with what
marvelous skill! Genius never lets go of the science that guides it.
Here Alice’s song is in B flat leading into F sharp, the key of the
demon’s chorus. Do you hear the tremolo in the orchestra? The host of
devils clamor for Robert.
“Bertram now reappears, and this is the culminating point of musical
interest; after a _recitative_, worthy of comparison with the finest
work of the great masters, comes the fierce conflict in E flat between
two tremendous forces--one on the words ‘_Oui, tu me connais_!’ on a
diminished seventh; the other, on that sublime F, ‘_Le ciel est avec
moi_.’ Hell and the Crucifix have met for battle. Next we have Bertram
threatening Alice, the most violent pathos ever heard--the Spirit of
Evil expatiating complacently, and, as usual, appealing to personal
interest. Robert’s arrival gives us the magnificent unaccompanied trio
in A flat, the first skirmish between the two rival forces and the man.
And note how clearly that is expressed,” said Gambara, epitomizing the
scene with such passion of expression as startled Andrea.
“All this avalanche of music, from the clash of cymbals in common time,
has been gathering up to this contest of three voices. The magic of evil
triumphs! Alice flies, and you have the duet in D between Bertram and
Robert. The devil sets his talons in the man’s heart; he tears it to
make it his own; he works on every feeling. Honor, hope, eternal and
infinite pleasures--he displays them all. He places him, as he did
Jesus, on the pinnacle of the Temple, and shows him all the treasures of
the earth, the storehouse of sin. He nettles him to flaunt his courage;
and the man’s nobler mind is expressed in his exclamation:
“Des chevaliers de ma patrie
L’honneur toujours fut le soutien!
“And finally, to crown the work, the theme comes in which sounded
the note of fatality at the beginning. Thus, the leading strain, the
magnificent call to the deed:
“Nonnes qui reposez sous cette froide pierre,
M’entendez-vous?
“The career of the music, gloriously worked out, is gloriously finished
by the _allegro vivace_ of the bacchanalian chorus in D minor. This,
indeed, is the triumph of hell! Roll on, harmony, and wrap us in
a thousand folds! Roll on, bewitch us! The powers of darkness have
clutched their prey; they hold him while they dance. The great genius,
born to conquer and to reign, is lost! The devils rejoice, misery
stifles genius, passion will wreck the knight!”
And here Gambara improvised a _fantasia_ of his own on the bacchanalian
chorus, with ingenious variations, and humming the air in a melancholy
drone as if to express the secret sufferings he had known.
“Do you hear the heavenly lamentations of neglected love?” he said.
“Isabella calls to Robert above the grand chorus of knights riding forth
to the tournament, in which the _motifs_ of the second act reappear to
make it clear that the third act has all taken place in a supernatural
sphere. This is real life again. This chorus dies away at the approach
of the hellish enchantment brought by Robert with the talisman. The
deviltry of the third act is to be carried on. Here we have the duet
with the viol; the rhythm is highly expressive of the brutal desires of
a man who is omnipotent, and the Princess, by plaintive phrases, tries
to win her lover back to moderation. The musician has here placed
himself in a situation of great difficulty, and has surmounted it in the
loveliest number of the whole opera. How charming is the melody of the
_cavatina ‘Grâce pour toi!’_ All the women present understood it well;
each saw herself seized and snatched away on the stage. That part alone
would suffice to make the fortune of the opera. Every woman felt herself
engaged in a struggle with some violent lover. Never was music so
passionate and so dramatic.
“The whole world now rises in arms against the reprobate. This _finale_
may be criticised for its resemblance to that of _Don Giovanni_; but
there is this immense difference: in Isabella we have the expression of
the noblest faith, a true love that will save Robert, for he scornfully
rejects the infernal powers bestowed on him, while Don Giovanni persists
in his unbelief. Moreover, that particular fault is common to every
composer who has written a _finale_ since Mozart. The _finale_ to _Don
Giovanni_ is one of those classic forms that are invented once for all.
“At last religion wins the day, uplifting the voice that governs worlds,
that invites all sorrow to come for consolation, all repentance to be
forgiven and helped.
“The whole house was stirred by the chorus:
“Malheureaux on coupables,
Hatez-vous d’accourir!
“In the terrific tumult of raving passions, the holy Voice would have
been unheard; but at this critical moment it sounds like thunder; the
divine Catholic Church rises glorious in light. And here I was amazed to
find that after such lavish use of harmonic treasure, the composer
had come upon a new vein with the splendid chorus: ‘_Gloire à la
Providence_’ in the manner of Handel.
“Robert rushes on with his heartrending cry: ‘_Si je pouvais prier_!’
and Bertram, driven by the infernal decree, pursues his son, and makes a
last effort. Alice has called up the vision of the Mother, and now comes
the grand trio to which the whole opera has led up: the triumph of the
soul over matter, of the Spirit of Good over the Spirit of Evil. The
strains of piety prevail over the chorus of hell, and happiness appears
glorious; but here the music is weaker. I only saw a cathedral
instead of hearing a concert of angels in bliss, and a divine prayer
consecrating the union of Robert and Isabella. We ought not to have been
left oppressed by the spells of hell; we ought to emerge with hope in
our heart.
“I, as musician and a Catholic, wanted another prayer like that in
_Mosé_. I should have liked to see how Germany would contend with Italy,
what Meyerbeer could do in rivalry with Rossini.
“However, in spite of this trifling blemish, the writer cannot say that
after five hours of such solid music, a Parisian prefers a bit of ribbon
to a musical masterpiece. You heard how the work was applauded; it will
go through five hundred performances! If the French really understand
that music----”
“It is because it expresses ideas,” the Count put in.
“No; it is because it sets forth in a definite shape a picture of the
struggle in which so many perish, and because every individual life is
implicated in it through memory. Ah! I, hapless wretch, should have been
too happy to hear the sound of those heavenly voices I have so often
dreamed of.”
Hereupon Gambara fell into a musical day-dream, improvising the most
lovely melodious and harmonious _cavatina_ that Andrea would ever hear
on earth; a divine strain divinely performed on a theme as exquisite as
that of _O filii et filiœ_, but graced with additions such as none but
the loftiest musical genius could devise.
The Count sat lost in keen admiration; the clouds cleared away, the blue
sky opened, figures of angels appeared lifting the veil that hid the
sanctuary, and the light of heaven poured down.
There was a sudden silence.
The Count, surprised at the cessation of the music, looked at Gambara,
who, with fixed gaze, in the attitude of a visionary, murmured the word:
“God!”
Andrea waited till the composer had descended from the enchanted realm
to which he had soared on the many-hued wings of inspiration, intending
to show him the truth by the light he himself would bring down with him.
“Well,” said he, pouring him out another bumper of wine and clinking
glasses with him, “this German has, you see, written a sublime opera
without troubling himself with theories, while those musicians who write
grammars of harmony may, like literary critics, be atrocious composers.”
“Then you do not like my music?”
“I do not say so. But if, instead of carrying musical principles to an
extreme--which takes you too far--you would simply try to arouse
our feelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you have
mistaken your vocation. You are a great poet.”
“What,” cried Gambara, “are twenty-five years of study in vain? Am I to
learn the imperfect language of men when I have the key to the heavenly
tongue? Oh, if you are right,--I should die.”
“No, no. You are great and strong; you would begin life again, and I
would support you. We would show the world the noble and rare alliance
of a rich man and an artist in perfect sympathy and understanding.”
“Do you mean it?” asked Gambara, struck with amazement.
“As I have told you, you are a poet more than a musician.”
“A poet, a poet! It is better than nothing. But tell me truly, which do
you esteem most highly, Mozart or Homer?”
“I admire them equally.”
“On your honor?”
“On my honor.”
“H’m! Once more. What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?”
“You have measured them by naming them together.”
The Count’s carriage was waiting. The composer and his noble physician
ran down-stairs, and in a few minutes they were with Marianna.
As they went in, Gambara threw himself into his wife’s arms, but she
drew back a step and turned away her head; the husband also drew back
and beamed on the Count.
“Oh, monsieur!” said Gambara in a husky voice, “you might have left me
my illusions.” He hung his head, and then fell.
“What have you done to him? He is dead drunk!” cried Marianna, looking
down at her husband with a mingled expression of pity and disgust.
The Count, with the help of his servant, picked up Gambara and laid him
on his bed.
Then Andrea left, his heart exultant with horrible gladness.
The Count let the usual hour for calling slip past next day, for he
began to fear lest he had duped himself and had made this humble couple
pay too dear for their improved circumstances and added wisdom, since
their peace was destroyed for ever.
At last Giardini came to him with a note from Marianna.
“Come,” she wrote, “the mischief is not so great as you so cruelly meant
it to be.”
“Excellenza,” said the cook, while Andrea was making ready, “you
treated us splendidly last evening. But apart from the wine, which
was excellent, your steward did not put anything on the table that was
worthy to set before a true epicure. You will not deny, I suppose, that
the dish I sent to you on the day when you did me the honor to sit down
at my board, contained the quintessence of all those that disgraced your
magnificent service of plate? And when I awoke this morning I remembered
the promise you once made me of a place as _chef_. Henceforth I consider
myself as a member of your household.”
“I thought of the same thing a few days ago,” replied Andrea. “I
mentioned you to the secretary of the Austrian Embassy, and you have
permission to recross the Alps as soon as you please. I have a castle
in Croatia which I rarely visit. There you may combine the offices of
gate-keeper, butler, and steward, with two hundred crowns a year. Your
wife will have as much for doing all the rest of the work. You may make
all the experiments you please _in anima vili_, that is to say on the
stomach of my vassals. Here is a cheque for your traveling expenses.”
Giardini kissed the Count’s hand after the Neapolitan fashion.
“Excellenza,” said he, “I accept the cheque, but beg to decline the
place. It would dishonor me to give up my art by losing the opinion of
the most perfect epicures, who are certainly to be found in Paris.”
When Andrea arrived at Gambara’s lodgings, the musician rose to welcome
him.