"Alcestis;" not Gluck's "Alcestis," but Lulli's. It was the first time
he had heard it, and his primary impression was that the music was
hard, dry, and stern. So much did he dislike it that he cried, "It's
horrible! It's dreadful! It isn't music at all! It's iron!"
Young and inexperienced as I felt myself to be, I naturally refrained
from arguing the point with a man I held in such profound respect, so I
waited till the storm blew over. Some time after, Monsieur Ingres
referred again to his first impression of this work, an impression which
I believe had already undergone some change, and said--
"By the bye! that scene of Lulli's 'Charon and the Shades'--I should
like to hear it again."
I sang it over to him once more; and this time, more accustomed no doubt
to that striking composer's rugged and uneven style, he grasped the
irony and banter in Charon's part, and the plaintive pleadings of the
wandering Shades, who cannot get across the river, not having
wherewithal to pay the ferryman.
By degrees he got so fond of the scene that it became one of his
favourites, and I was often called upon to sing it.
But his prime favourite was Mozart's "Don Giovanni," over which we often
sat till two in the morning. Poor Madame Ingres, dropping with sleep,
used to be driven to locking up the piano and sending us off to our
respective beds. Although he preferred German music, and had no
particular affection for Rossini, he considered the "Barbiere" as a
masterpiece. He had the highest admiration, too, for another Italian
maistro, Cherubini, of whom he has left such a magnificent portrait, and
whom Beethoven held to be the first musician of his age; no slight
praise from such a man. Well, we all have our tastes; why should not
Monsieur Ingres have his? To prefer one thing does not involve
condemning everything else.
A chance incident brought me into closer and more frequent intercourse
with Monsieur Ingres. Being very fond of drawing, I used often to carry
a sketch-book with me in my expeditions about Rome. One day coming back
from a stroll, I came face to face with Monsieur Ingres at the door of
the Academy. He caught sight of the sketch-book under my arm, and with
that bright and piercing glance of his, he said--
"What's that under your arm?"
I was rather confused, and made answer, "Why, Monsieur Ingres, it's
a--it's a sketch-book."
"A sketch-book! What for? Do you know how to draw?"
"Oh, Monsieur Ingres, no--I mean--yes--I can draw a little--but only a
very little."
"Is that so? Come, show me your book." He opened it, and came across a
little sketch of St. Catherine, which I had just copied from a fresco
said to be by Masaccio, in the old basilica of St. Clement, not far from
the Coliseum.
"Did you do this?" said Monsieur Ingres.
"Yes, sir."
"Alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"But--do you know you draw like your father?"
"Oh, Monsieur Ingres!"
Then he added, looking at me gravely--
"You must do some tracings for me."
Make tracings for Monsieur Ingres! work beside him, perhaps! Bask in the
sunshine of his talent! Warm myself in the glow of his enthusiasm! The
thought transported me with joy.
So every evening we worked side by side in the lamplight at this most
interesting occupation, I drawing as much profit from the study of the
masterpieces over which my careful pencil passed as from Monsieur
Ingres's delightful conversation.
I made about a hundred tracings for him of original prints, which I am
proud to think found place in his portfolios, and some of which were not
less than eighteen inches high.
One day Monsieur Ingres said to me, "If you like I will get you back to
Rome with the Grand Prix for painting."
"Oh, Monsieur Ingres!" I answered, "I could not give up my career and
take up a new one. Besides, I could never leave my mother a second
time."
However, as after all it was music I had come to Rome to study and not
painting, it behoved me to seriously seek for opportunities of hearing
some. Such opportunities were not exactly numerous, and, it must be
confessed, not particularly profitable nor useful either. In the first
place, as regarded religious music, the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican
was the only place where it was possible to hear anything decent, to say
nothing of its being instructive. What they called music in the other
churches was enough to make one shiver! Except in the Sistine Chapel,
and in that called the "Canon's Chapel" in St. Peter's, the music was
not merely worthless, it was vile. It is hard to imagine how such a
chamber of horrors could ever have come to be offered up to the glory of
God within those sacred walls. All the shabbiest tinsel and trappings of
secular music passed across the trestles of this religious masquerade.
So no wonder I never tried it twice.
I generally went on Sundays to the musical mass at the Sistine Chapel,
often in the company of my friend and comrade Hebert.
But the Sistine! How shall I describe it as it deserves? That is a task
more appropriate to the authors of what we see and hear there, or rather
of what was heard there formerly. For if the sublime though, alas!
perishable work of Michael Angelo the immortal, already sorely damaged,
is still to be seen, the hymns of the divine Palestrina no longer
resound under those vaulted roofs, struck dumb by the political
captivity of the Sovereign Pontiff, the lack of whose sacred presence
their empty recesses seem so bitterly to mourn.
I went then to the Sistine, as often as I possibly could. The severe,
ascetic music, level and calm like an ocean horizon, serene even to
monotony, anti-sensuous, and yet so intense in its fervour of religious
contemplation as sometimes to rise to ecstasy, had a strange, almost a
disagreeable effect on me at first.
Whether it was the actual style of composition, then quite new to
me--the distinctive sonority of those peculiar voices, now heard for the
first time--or the firm, almost harsh attack, the strong accentuation
which gives such a startling effect to the general execution of the
score, by the way it marks the opening of each vocal part in the closely
woven web of sound--I know not. The first impression, unpleasant as it
was, did not dismay me. I returned again and again, until at last I
could not stay away.
There are certain works which ought to be seen or heard in the place for
which they were written. The Sistine Chapel, which stands unique upon
the earth, is one of the spots in question. The Genius who decorated
roof and altar-screen with his marvellous conceptions of the Genesis and
the Last Judgment, this painter of the prophets, himself a prophet in
his art, will doubtless be as eternally unmatched as even Homer or
Phidias. Men of that power and stature never have their equals. Each is
a being apart from every other. Each grasps a world of thought, exhausts
it, closes the book, and that which he has said, no man can ever say
again.
Palestrina gives, as it were, the musical translation of Michael
Angelo's great poem. I believe the two masters cast a mutual light on
our intelligence. The eyes' delight sharpens the oral comprehension, and
_vice versa_, so that one ends by wondering whether the Sistine, with
its music and its painting, is not the fruit of one and the same
artistic inspiration? Both are so perfectly and sublimely blended as to
appear the double expression of one thought--a single chant sung with a
twofold voice--the music in the air a kind of echo of the beauty which
enchants the eye.
Between the masterpieces of Michael Angelo and Palestrina such close
analogy of thought, such kinship of expression exist, that one is almost
forced to recognise the identity of the talents--I had almost said the
virtues--which each master-mind displays. Both have the same simplicity,
even humility of manner; the same seeming indifference to effect, the
same scorn for methods of seduction. There is nothing artificial or
mechanical about them; the Soul, wrapped in ecstatic contemplation of a
higher world, describes in humble and submissive language the sublime
visions that pass before its eyes.
Even the very character and colour of the music and painting in question
seem to indicate a deliberate renunciation. The art of the two masters
is a sort of sacrament, whose outward and visible sign is but a
transparent veil stretched between man and the divine and living Truth.
Wherefore neither of the two mighty artists attract at the first blush.
Generally speaking, exterior glitter is what charms the eye; but here we
have none of that. All the treasure lies beneath the surface. The
impression produced on the mind by one of Palestrina's works is much the
same as that given by one of Bossuet's most eloquent pages. There is no
specially striking detail, apparently, yet one is lifted into a higher
atmosphere. Language, the obedient and faithful exponent of thought,
leads the mind gently onward, without any temptation to turn aside until
the goal is reached and you are on the upper summit, led by a mysterious
guide, gentle, unwavering, unswerving, who hides the mark of his
footsteps, and leaves no trace behind.
It is this absence of visible effort, of worldly trick, and of conceited
affectation which makes the greatest works so unapproachable. The
intellect which conceives them, and the raptures they express, are alike
indispensable to their production.
But what shall I say of the prodigious, the gigantic talent of Michael
Angelo! The amount of genius he heaped up and lavished, both as a
painter and a poet, on the walls of this unique building, is beyond
anything man can measure.
What a masterly grouping of the events and personages which sum up and
symbolise the whole essential history of the human race! What a
wonderful conception is that double row of prophets and sibyls, those
seers of either sex, whose gaze pierces the darkness of the future, and
in whose persons the omniscient Spirit is carried through the ages! What
a volume of teaching is that vaulted ceiling covered with the pictured
story of our human origin, and whereon the colossal figure of the
prophet Jonah, cast out of the belly of the whale, is linked with the
triumph of that other Jonah, snatched by the power of His own might out
of the darkness of the tomb, and victorious over death itself!
What a sublime and gorgeous Hosanna seems to rise from the legion of
angels twisting, as it were, and wreathed in ecstasy about the sacred
instruments of His Passion as they bear them across the luminous sky,
right up into the highest places of the heavenly glory; while in the
lower spaces of the picture the cohorts of the lost stand out, gloomy
and despairing, against the last livid gleams of a light that seems to
bid them farewell to all eternity. And on the vault itself again, what
an eloquent and pathetic reproduction do we see of our first parents'
early days! What a revelation in that tremendous creative gesture, which
gives the "living soul" to the inanimate image of the first man, thus
putting him in conscious relation with the principle of his being! What
a sense of spiritual power in the empty space, so significant in its
very narrowness, left by the painter between the finger of the Creator
and the form of the creature; as though he would bid us mark that the
Divine will knows neither distance nor impediment, and that for the
Deity desire and accomplishment are but one act.
What beauty in the submissive attitude of the first woman, drawn from
Adam's side in his deep slumber, as she stands for the first time before
her Creator and Father! How wonderful is the transport of filial
confidence and passionate gratitude in which she bends before the Hand
which beckons, and blesses her, with such calm and sovereign tenderness!
But even were I to pause at every step, I could touch no more than the
fringe of this wondrous poem, the vastness of which fairly turns one
giddy. This huge collection of biblical pictures might almost be called
the Bible of the art of painting. Ah! if young people only guessed what
an education for their intelligence, what mental pabulum for all their
future, this sanctuary of the Sistine Chapel holds, they would spend
their days in drinking in its lessons. Characters formed in such a noble
school of fervour and contemplation will soar far above any
self-interest or regard for notoriety.
It was my duty to study opera, as well the sacred music of which the
services in the Pontifical Chapel preserved the best traditions. The
operatic repertoire at that date consisted mostly of works by Bellini,
Donizetti, and Mercadante. All these, though full of characteristic
qualities, and even marked from time to time by the personal inspiration
of their authors, were, as their general outline and _ensemble_ will
prove, little more than parasitic creepers round that vigorous trunk,
the genius of Rossini. Neither its vigorous strength nor its majestic
stature were theirs, yet it was often hidden, for the time being, under
the passing splendour of their ephemeral foliage.
There was but little advantage, from a musical point of view, in
listening to these operas. The performances were very inferior to those
at the Theatre Italien in Paris, where the same works were interpreted
by the best artists of the day. The stage-management, too, was often
literally grotesque. I remember going to a performance of "Norma," at
the Apollo Theatre in Rome, at which the Roman warriors wore firemen's
helmets and tunics, and yellow nankeen trousers with cherry-coloured
stripes. It was utterly ridiculous, and might have been a Punch and Judy
show.
Consequently I did not patronise the theatre much, and found I did far
better to study my favourite scores--Lulli's "Alcestis," Gluck's
"Iphigenia," Mozart's "Don Giovanni," Rossini's "William Tell"--in my
own rooms.
Over and above the time I spent in close companionship with Monsieur
Ingres during the famous "tracing" period, I had the good luck to get
his leave to watch him in his studio. It may be imagined I made the most
of the permission. I used to read to him while he was painting, and many
a time have I dropped my book and watched him at his work. Thus I had
the good fortune to see him resume and finish his exquisite picture
"Stratonice," which was acquired by the Duc d'Orleans, and also his
"Vierge a l'Hostie," intended for Count Demidoff's gallery.
An interesting incident, of which I was an eye-witness, occurred in
connection with this latter picture. In the original composition, the
foreground contained, instead of the Pyx with the holy elements, an
exquisite figure of the Holy Child lying asleep on a cushion, one hand
still holding the tassel with which it had been playing. The exquisite
little creature, with its tender plump body, was (or, at all events,
seemed to me) a perfect gem, not only in ease and beauty of attitude,
but in grace of drawing and charm of colour.
Monsieur Ingres himself appeared pleased with it, and when the waning
daylight forced him to stop painting, I left him well content with his
day's work. Next afternoon I went back to the studio, and, to my
horror, the figure was gone! He had destroyed the whole of his work, and
removed every trace of it with the palette-knife.
"Oh, Monsieur Ingres!" I cried in dismay.
"Well, yes," he said; and then again decisively, "Yes, I was right!"
The glory of the divine symbol had come to him as something higher than
the bright human reality of the infant figure, and therefore more worthy
of the Virgin's adoration of her Son. He had not shrunk from sacrificing
a masterpiece to truth.
This noble choice, this disinterested integrity, stamp him as one of
those whose privilege and reward it is to enjoy unquestioned authority
as a guide and teacher of man.
* * * * *
Among my contemporaries at the Academie de France at Rome were a number
of young fellows who have grown famous since those days, among them
Lefuel, Hebert, and Ballu the architect, all of them members of the
Institut de France at this present time, as well as many others who have
either gained distinction or been snatched away by an early death before
they could realise their country's hopes. I will instance Papety the
painter, Octave Blanchard, Buttura, Lebouy, Brisset, Pils, the sculptors
Diebolt and Godde, the musicians Georges Bousquet and Aime Maillard--all
of them sons of that much-abused Alma Mater which, in succession to
Hyppolyte Flandrin and Ambroise Thomas, produced Cabanel, Victor Masse,
Guillaume, Cavelier, Georges Bizet, Baudry, Massenet, and a host of
other eminent artists whose names I might add to this list, already long
enough, in all conscience.
We students were often asked to parties at the French Embassy. It was
there I met Gaston de Segur for the first time. He was then an attache,
but, as everybody knows, he afterwards became the saintliest of bishops,
and, as I thankfully recollect, one of my best and dearest friends.
Though our headquarters were at Rome, we were allowed and expected to
travel about and visit other parts of Italy.
I shall never forget the impression Naples made on me on my first
arrival with my comrade, Georges Bousquet, now no more. He had won the
Grand Prix for music the year before. We had travelled with the Marquis
Amedee de Pastoret, who had written the words of the cantata which had
won my prize for me.
It all seemed to me like a vision or a fairy tale. The bewitching
climate, which sets one a dreaming of Grecian skies; the sapphire bay,
set in its frame of isles and mountains, whose slopes and peaks glow in
the sunset with tints so magic and ever changing, that the rarest stuffs
and brightest jewels are colourless and dull beside them. All around one
the endless wonders of Vesuvius, Portici, Castellamare, Sorrento,
Pompeii, and Herculaneum, of Ischia, Capri, and Posilipo, Amalfi and
Salerno; and Paestum, with its splendid Doric temples, once lapped by the
blue waters of the Mediterranean.
It was the absolute reverse of the effect produced by the first sight of
Rome! Here the charm was instantaneous.
When to all these natural fascinations we add the interest attaching to
the museum (the "Studii" or Museo Borbonico), crammed with a unique
collection of masterpieces of antique art unearthed for the most part at
Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Nola--cities which lay buried for more than
eighteen centuries beneath the lava of Vesuvius--the immense attraction
this city presents to any artist may be conceived.
I was lucky enough to visit Naples thrice during my residence in Rome,
and among the most vivid and striking recollections I took away with me
was my memory of beautiful Capri, so wild and yet so smiling, with its
rugged rocks and verdant slopes.
It was summer time when I first went there, under brilliant sunshine and
in torrid heat. The only possible way of existing in the daytime was
either to shut oneself up in one's room and try to get a little coolness
and sleep in the dark, or else to jump into the sea and stay there,
which I was always delighted to do. The beauty of the night in such a
climate, and at that season, is well-nigh unimaginable. The vault of
heaven literally quivers with stars like an ocean with waves of light,
so full does infinite space appear of twinkling tremulous luminaries.
During my fortnight's stay I often sat listening to the eloquent silence
of these phosphorescent nights. I would perch myself on some steep rock,
and stay for hours gazing out on the horizon, rolling a big stone down
the precipitous slope from time to time, to hear it bound and bound till
it struck the sea below and raised a ruffle of foam. Now and again a
solitary night-bird uttered its mournful note, and made me think of
those weird precipices whose horror Weber has rendered with such
marvellous power in that immortal incantation scene in "Der Freischuetz."
It was during one of these nocturnal rambles that the first idea for the
"Walpurgis Night" in Goethe's "Faust" struck me.
I never parted with the score; I carried it about with me everywhere,
and jotted down in stray notes any idea which I thought might be useful
whenever I made an attempt to use the subject for an opera. This I did
not attempt until seventeen years afterwards.
However, back to Rome and to the Academy I had to go. Pleasant and
seductive as Naples was, I never stopped there for any length of time
without wanting to get back to Rome. A kind of home-sickness would seize
me, and I would leave without a shadow of regret the spot where I had
spent so many happy hours. In point of fact, and in spite of all her
splendour and prestige, Naples is a noisy, shrill-voiced town, restless
and riotous. Her inhabitants squabble and talk and quarrel and argue
from dawn till dark, and from dark till dawn, on those quays of hers,
where rest and silence are equally unknown. Wrangling is the normal
condition of the Neapolitan. You are fallen upon, besieged, haunted by
the indefatigable persecutions of _facchini_, shopkeepers, drivers, and
boatmen, who would think but little of carrying you off by force, and
every one of whom offers to serve you for less money than his fellow.[3]
Once back in Rome, I set seriously to work. This was in the autumn of
1840.
In spite of her professional duties, which engaged her on week-days from
morn till night, my mother still found time to write to me often and
fully. She must frequently have cut short her hours of sleep so as to
give me this proof of her constant and tender care. The very length of
her letters bore sufficient witness to the amount of time, robbed from
her nightly rest, she had devoted to them. I knew she had to rise every
morning at five, to be ready for her first pupil, who came at six, and
that often her breakfast hour was absorbed by another lesson, during
which, instead of a proper meal, she would swallow a bowl of soup, or
perhaps take nothing but a crust of bread and a glass of wine and water.
I knew her daily round lasted till six o'clock every evening, and that
after her dinner she had a hundred and one household duties to attend
to. Besides, she had many people to write to as well as me, and, what is
more, she was a Dame de Charite, and often worked with her own hands to
clothe her poor. Nothing but the complete orderliness and method with
which she laid out her time could ever have enabled her to do so much;
but those two essential and fundamental qualities, without which life
can be neither occupied nor useful, were hers in the highest degree.
But she had quite given up that pestilential habit of "paying visits,"
which simply means wasting one's time from Monday morning to Saturday
night in going to other people's houses and wasting theirs; _killing_
that time, in fact, which kills those who misuse it with sheer
weariness.
And so we were brought up on short but pithy maxims, flung to us, as it
were, with the brevity of a woman who could not spare time to chatter.
"Waste not, want not," and so forth.
A family friend once said to me, "Your mother is not one wonder to me,
but two; I cannot conceive how she finds time to do so much, or all the
money she gives away." _I_ know well enough how she found both. In her
own good sense and powerful will. The more she had to do, the more she
did. Just the converse of Emile Augier's clever saying, which has much
the same meaning, "I have been so idle, I haven't had time to do a
single thing."
Now and again my dear excellent brother would slip a word of good and
friendly advice into my mother's letters to me. I stood much in need of
it, for steadiness was never my strong point, I fear; and weakness,
uncounterbalanced by good sense, becomes a power for evil. Alas! I know
too well how little I profited by all his warnings, and I cry, _Mea
culpa_.