In this strange condition of affairs Gluck found his new sphere of
labor--Gluck, himself overflowing with the revolutionary spirit, full
of the enthusiasm of reform. At first he carried everything before him.
Protected by royalty, he produced, on the basis of an admirable libretto
by Du Rollet, one of the great wits of the time, "Iphigenia in Aulis."
It was enthusiastically received. The critics, delighted to establish
the reputation of one especially favored by the Dau-phiness Marie
Antoinette, exhausted superlatives on the new opera. The Abbé Arnaud,
one of the leading _dilettanti_, exclaimed: "With such music one might
found a new religion!" To be sure, the connoisseurs could not
understand the complexities of the music; but, following the rule of all
connoisseurs before or since, they considered it all the more learned
and profound. So led, the general public clapped their hands, and agreed
to consider Gluck as a great composer. He was called the Hercules of
music; the opera-house was crammed night after night; his footsteps
were dogged in the streets by admiring enthusiasts; the wits and poets
occupied themselves with composing sonnets in his praise; brilliant
courtiers and fine ladies showered valuable gifts on the new musical
oracle; he was hailed as the exponent of Rousseauism in music. We read
that it was considered to be a priceless privilege to be admitted to
the rehearsal of a new opera, to see Gluck conduct in nightcap and
dressing-gown.
Fresh adaptations of "Orpheus and Eurydice" and of "Alceste" were
produced. The first, brought out in 1784, was received with an
enthusiasm which could be contented only with forty-nine consecutive
performances. The second act of this work has been called one of the
most astonishing productions of the human mind. The public began to show
signs of fickleness, however, on the production of the "Alceste." On the
first night a murmur arose among the spectators: "The piece has fallen."
Abbé Arnaud, Gluck's devoted defender, arose in his box and replied:
"Yes! fallen from heaven." While Mademoiselle Levasseur was singing one
of the great airs, a voice was heard to say, "Ah! you tear out my ears;"
to which the caustic rejoinder was: "How fortunate, if it is to give
you others!"
Gluck himself was badly bitten, in spite of his hatred of shams and
shallowness, with the pretenses of the time, which professed to dote on
nature and simplicity. In a letter to his old pupil, Marie Antoinette,
wherein he disclaims any pretension of teaching the French a new school
of music, he says: "I see with satisfaction that the language of Nature
is the universal language."
So, here on the crumbling crust of a volcano, where the volatile French
court danced and fiddled and sang, unreckoning of what was soon to
come, our composer and his admirers patted each other on the back with
infinite complacency.
But after this high tide of prosperity there was to come a reverse. A
powerful faction, that for a time had been crushed by Gluck's triumph,
after a while raised their heads and organized an attack. There were
second-rate composers whose scores had been laid on the shelf in the
rage for the new favorite; musicians who were shocked and enraged at the
difficulties of his instrumentation; wits who, having praised Gluck for
a while, thought they could now find a readier field for their quills
in satire; and a large section of the public who changed for no earthly
reason but that they got tired of doing one thing.
Therefore, the Italian Piccini was imported to be pitted against the
reigning deity. The French court was broken up into hostile ranks. Marie
Antoinette was Gluck's patron, but Madame Du Barry, the king's mistress,
declared for Piccini. Abbé Arnaud fought for Gluck; but the witty
Marmontel was the advocate of his rival. The keen-witted Du Rollet
was Gluckist; but La Harpe, the eloquent, was Piccinist. So this
battle-royal in art commenced and raged with virulence. The green-room
was made unmusical with contentions carried out in polite Billingsgate.
Gluck tore up his unfinished score in rage when he learned that his
rival was to compose an opera on the same libretto. La Harpe said: "The
famous Gluck may puff his own compositions, but he can't prevent them
from boring us to death." Thus the wags of Paris laughed and wrangled
over the musical rivals. Berton, the new director, fancied he could
soften the dispute and make the two composers friends; so at a
dinner-party, when they were all in their cups, he proposed that they
should compose an opera jointly. This was demurred to; but it was
finally arranged that they should compose an opera on the same subject.
"Iphigenia in Tauris," Gluck's second "Iphigenia," produced in 1779, was
such a masterpiece that his rival shut his own score in his portfolio,
and kept it two years. All Paris was enraptured with this great work,
and Gluck's detractors were silenced in the wave of enthusiasm which
swept the public. Abbé Arnaud's opinion was the echo of the general
mind: "There was but one beautiful part, and that was the whole of it."
This opera may be regarded as the most perfect example of Gluck's
school in making the music the full reflex of the dramatic action. While
Orestes sings in the opera, "My heart is calm," the orchestra continues
to paint the agitation of his thoughts. During the rehearsal the
musician failed to understand the exigency and ceased playing. The
composer cried out, in a rage: "Don't you see he is lying? Go on, go
on; he as just killed his mother." On one occasion, when he was praising
Rameau's chorus of "Castor and Pollux," an admirer of his flattered him
with the remark, "But what a difference between this chorus and that of
your 'Iphigénie'!" "Yet it is very well done," said Gluck; "one is only
a religious ceremony, the other is a real funeral." He was wont to say
that in composing he always tried to forget he was a musician.
Gluck, however, a few months subsequent to this, was so much humiliated
at the non-success of "Echo and Narcissus," that he left Paris in bitter
irritation, in spite of Marie Antoinette's pleadings that he should
remain at the French capital.
The composer was now advanced in years, and had become impatient and
fretful. He left Paris for Vienna in 1780, having amassed considerable
property. There, as an old, broken-down man, he listened to the young
Mozart's new symphonies and operas, and applauded them with great zeal;
for Gluck, though fiery and haughty in the extreme, was singularly
generous in recognizing the merits of others.
This was exhibited in Paris in his treatment of Méhul, the Belgian
composer, then a youth of sixteen, who had just arrived in the gay city.
It was on the eve of the first representation of "Iphigenia in Tauris,"
when the operatic battle was agitating the public. With all the ardor
of a novice and a devotee, the young musical student immediately threw
himself into the affray, and by the aid of a friend he succeeded in
gaining admittance to the theatre for the final rehearsal of Gluck's
opera. This so enchanted him that he resolved to be present at the
public performance. But, unluckily for the resolve, he had no money, and
no prospect of obtaining any; so, with a determination and a love for
art which deserve to be remembered, he decided to hide himself in one of
the boxes and there to wait for the time of representation.
"At the end of the rehearsal," writes George Hogarth in his "Memoirs
of the Drama," "he was discovered in his place of concealment by the
servants of the theatre, who proceeded to turn him out very roughly.
Gluck, who had not left the house, heard the noise, came to the
spot, and found the young man, whose spirit was roused, resisting the
indignity with which he was treated. Méhul, finding in whose presence
he was, was ready to sink with confusion; but, in answer to Gluck's
questions, he told him that he was a young musical student from the
country, whose anxiety to be present at the performance of the opera
had led him into the commission of an impropriety. Gluck, as may be
supposed, was delighted with a piece of enthusiasm so flattering to
himself, and not only gave his young admirer a ticket of admission, but
desired his acquaintance." From this artistic _contretemps_, then, arose
a friendship alike creditable to the goodness and generosity of Gluck,
as it was to the sincerity and high order of Méhul's musical talent.
Gluck's death, in 1787, was caused by overindulgence in wine at a dinner
which he gave to some of his friends. The love of stimulants had grown
upon him in his old age, and had become almost a passion. An enforced
abstinence of some months was succeeded by a debauch, in which he drank
an immense quantity of brandy. The effects brought on a fit of apoplexy,
of which he died, aged seventy-three.
Gluck's place in musical history is peculiar and well marked, he entered
the field of operatic composition when it was hampered with a great
variety of dry forms, and utterly without soul and poetic spirit. The
object of composers seemed to be to show mere contrapuntal learning, or
to furnish singers opportunity to display vocal agility. The opera, as
a large and symmetrical expression of human emotions, suggested in the
collisions of a dramatic story, was utterly an unknown quantity in art.
Gluck's attention was early called to this radical inconsistency; and,
though he did not learn for many years to develop his musical ideas
according to a theory, and never carried that theory to the logical
results insisted on by his great after-type, Wagner, he accomplished
much in the way of sweeping reform. He elaborated the recitative or
declamatory element in opera with great care, and insisted that his
singers should make this the object of their most careful efforts. The
arias, duos, quartets, etc., as well as the choruses and orchestral
parts, were made consistent with the dramatic motive and situations.
In a word, Gluck aimed with a single-hearted purpose to make music the
expression of poetry and sentiment.
The principles of Gluck's school of operatic writing may be briefly
summarized as follows: That dramatic music can only reach its highest
power and beauty when joined to a simple and poetic text, expressing
passions true to Nature; that music can be made the language of all the
varied emotions of the heart; that the music of an opera must exactly
follow the rhythm and melody of the words; that the orchestra must be
only used to strengthen and intensify the feeling embodied in the
vocal parts, as demanded by the text or dramatic situation. We get some
further light on these principles from Gluck's letter of dedication to
the Grand-Duke of Tuscany on the publication of "Alceste." He writes: "I
am of opinion that music must be to poetry what liveliness of color and
a happy mixture of light and shade are for a faultless and well-arranged
drawing, which serve to add life to the figures without injuring the
outlines;... that the overture should prepare the auditors for the
character of the action which is to be presented, and hint at the
progress of the same; that the instruments must be employed according to
the degree of interest and passion; that the composer should avoid too
marked a disparity in the dialogue-between the air and recitative, in
order not to break the sense of a period, or interrupt the energy of the
action.... Finally, I have even felt compelled to sacrifice rules to the
improvement of the effect."
We find in this composer's music, therefore, a largeness and dignity
of treatment which have never been surpassed. His command of melody is
quite remarkable, but his use of it is under severe artistic restraint;
for it is always characterized by breadth, simplicity, and directness.
He aimed at and attained the symmetrical balance of an old Greek play.