and served by a French canon and priests. Every year, on the 1st of May
(the feast of the patron saint of Louis-Philippe), a musical Mass was
performed there. The duty of writing the music for the occasion devolved
on the Academy musical prize-holder for the previous year. The year I
went to Rome, the Mass (with full orchestral accompaniment) was written
by my comrade, Georges Bousquet. The following one, it would be my turn.
My mother, fearing my other duties at the Academy would not allow me
sufficient leisure to compose so important a work, sent me the Mass I
had written for St. Eustache. She had copied it herself from my
manuscript score, not caring to let that out of her own keeping or risk
losing it in the post.
My feelings when this fresh token of my mother's goodness and patience
reached me at Rome may easily be imagined. However, I did not do what
she suggested, for I considered it my bounden duty, as a conscientious
artist, to try and do still better work (no difficult matter, indeed),
and I worked on stoutly at the new Mass I had begun composing for the
King's fete-day. I finished it in due course, and conducted it myself.
This work brought me luck, and earned me the kindest of congratulations.
To it I owe my life appointment of "Honorary Chapel-master" to the
Church of San Luigi dei Francesi. Little did I foresee I should be asked
to give a performance of the work and conduct it in person the very next
year in Germany. Later on I will detail the consequences of this second
performance, and the benefits it brought me.[4]
The longer I stayed at Rome, the more irresistible I found the mystic
charm and matchless calm that reign within its walls.
Coming from the jagged, bold volcanic outline of the crater of Naples,
the simple, quiet, solemn lines of the Campagna, framed by the Alban,
the Latian, and the Sabine hills, Soracte the majestic, the mountains of
Viterbo, Monte Mario, and Janiculum, made me think of some open-air
cloister, quiet and serene. The village of Nemi, with its pretty lake
sunk in a great crater, and fringed with luxuriant vegetation, was one
of my favourite spots near Rome. The walk round the lake by the upper
road is one of the most beautiful that can possibly be imagined. I shall
never forget the beauty of that view, as I had the good luck to see it
one lovely day, at the close of which I watched the sun go down into the
sea from the heights of Gensano.
But the neighbourhood of Rome abounds in such exquisite scenes, objects
of endless pleasure trips for travellers and tourists--Tivoli, Subiaco,
Frascati, Albano, Ariccia, and a hundred other places, the happy hunting
grounds of landscape painters, not to mention the Tiber, many spots on
the banks of which are full of majestic beauty and grandeur.
* * * * *
In this memoir of my youthful days, I must not omit to mention, among
the artistic treasures which are Rome's special glory, a set of
masterpieces which share with the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel the
proud boast of being the glory of the Vatican. I mean those immortal
pictures by the painter Raphael, forming the collection known as "Le
Loggie e le Stanze." In the Stanza della Segnatura hang the immortal
canvases of the "School of Athens" and the "Disputa del Sacramento."
These two masterpieces, like many others from this unrivalled painter's
brush, are of a beauty which appears absolutely unapproachable.
Yet so irresistible is the ascendency of genius, that this Raphael, this
matchless painter whom history has set on the very pinnacle of fame, was
himself influenced by Michael Angelo. He felt the mighty Titan's grip,
he bowed before the giant's power, and his later works give ocular proof
of the homage he paid the sublime and almost supernatural genius that
dwelt within that powerful and gigantic brain.
Raphael may be the first of painters--Michael Angelo stands alone. In
Raphael's case, power expands and blossoms into charm; in Michael
Angelo's, on the other hand, charm seems to subjugate and govern power.
Raphael enraptures and captivates, while Michael Angelo fascinates and
overwhelms. One paints the earthly paradise; the other, like the
prisoner of Patmos, gazes with eagle eye even into the recesses of the
bright abode of the Archangels and the Seraphim.
These two great apostles would seem to have been called to stand side by
side in the high noontide of art, so that the calm and perfect beauty of
the younger might serve to temper the dazzling splendour revealed to the
poet-painter of the Apocalypse.
A detailed description of the innumerable art treasures of Rome would be
out of place in these recollections, of which the sole object has been
to relate the principal incidents of my early artistic career.
* * * * *
In the winter of 1840-41 I had the privilege of seeing and hearing the
sister of Madame Malibran, Pauline Garcia, who had just married Louis
Viardot, then Director of the Theatre Italien in Paris; they were, in
fact, on their honeymoon.
She was not yet eighteen, and her first appearance on the boards had
been a great success. I had the honour and pleasure, in the drawing-room
at the Academy, of accompanying her performance of the well-known and
immortal air from "Robin Hood." I was amazed by the already majestic
talent of this mere child, who then promised to be, and eventually
became, a great celebrity.
I did not meet her again until ten years later. It is a curious fact,
that at the age of twelve, when I first heard Malibran sing in Rossini's
"Otello," I made up my mind to embrace a musical career; _ten_ years
later, when I was twenty-two, I made the acquaintance of her sister,
Madame Viardot; _ten_ years later again, when I was thirty-two, I wrote
the part of "Sappho," which she created with such brilliant success on
the operatic stage, for the same lady.
That same winter I had the good fortune to meet Fanny Henzel,
Mendelssohn's sister. She was spending the winter at Rome with her
husband, who was painter to the Prussian court, and her son, who was
still a young child.
Madame Henzel was a first-rate musician--a very clever pianiste,
physically small and delicate, but her deep eyes and eager glance
betrayed an active mind and restless energy. She had rare powers of
composition, and many of the "Songs without Words," published among the
works and under the name of her brother, were hers.
Monsieur and Madame Henzel often came to the "Sunday evenings" at the
Academy, and she would sit down to the piano with the readiness and
simplicity of one who played because she loved it. Thanks to her great
gifts and wonderful memory, I made the acquaintance of various
masterpieces of German music which I had never heard before, among them
a number of the works of Sebastian Bach--sonatas, fugues, preludes, and
concertos--and many of Mendelssohn's compositions, which were like a
glimpse of a new world to me.
Monsieur and Madame Henzel left Rome to return to Berlin, and there I
met them again two years later.
* * * * *
Before he left the Academy, Monsieur Ingres was good enough to make me
a parting gift, which I value both as a proof of his regard and as a
specimen of his talent. He did a pencil portrait of me, sitting at the
piano with Mozart's "Don Giovanni" open before me.
I was deeply conscious of the loss his departure would be to me, and of
how much I should miss the healthy influence of an instructor whose
artistic faith was so strong, whose enthusiasm was so infectious, and
whose teaching was so trustworthy and aimed so high. Every art demands
something beyond mere technical knowledge and special handicraft, beyond
the fullest, nay, the most absolutely perfect acquaintance with and
practice in the various processes. These are absolutely necessary, of
course, but they are only the tools with which the artist works, the
outward form and envelopment of each particular branch. But in each art
there is a something, the exclusive property of none, still common to
them all, higher than all, in default of which they fall to the level of
mere handicrafts. This something, which, itself unseen, imbues the whole
with life and soul--this constitutes the art itself.
Art is one of the three great transformations which reality, brought
into contact with the human mind, and looked at in the ideal and
all-powerful light of the good, the beautiful, and the true, is bound to
undergo. Art is neither an utter dream nor an exact copy; it is neither
the mere ideal nor the merely real. It is like man himself--the meeting
and fusion of the two. It is unity in duality. Inasmuch as it is ideal,
it soars above us. Were it only real, it would be below us. Morality is
the humanisation, the incarnation of good; science is that of truth, and
art is that of beauty.
And Monsieur Ingres was a true apostle of the beautiful. It was the
breath of his nostrils; his lectures proved it as well as his
works--more so indeed, perhaps; for, as a man with a strong creed is
generally a man full of great longings, the very fervour of those
aspirations will often carry him far above the ordinary beaten track.
From the heights thus gained he shed as much light on a musician's as on
a painter's work, ushering us all into the presence of the universal
sources of the highest truths. By showing me the real nature of true
art, he taught me more about my own than any number of merely technical
masters could have done.
Though time allowed of my deriving but little benefit from our
invaluable intercourse, yet that little made a permanent impression on
me, and left a precious memory to console me for the loss of his actual
presence.
In the month of April 1841, Monsieur Ingres was succeeded by Monsieur
Schnetz, a well-known painter, whose success and popularity were mostly
earned by his qualities of feeling and expression. He was a kind and
amiable man, full of mother-wit, very cheerful and cordial with the
students. In spite of a pair of bushy black eyebrows, which lost
themselves in a thick head of hair and almost concealed his forehead,
Monsieur Schnetz's expression was gentle and good-humoured, and he was
the essence of a thoroughly "good fellow."
My second and third years at the Academy were spent under his rule. He
was very fond of Rome, and circumstances helped him to indulge his
preference, for he was Director of the Academy of France three times,
and left none but kindly memories behind him.
By rights my residence in Rome should have ended with the year 1841, but
I could not make up my mind to depart, and obtained the Director's
permission to prolong my stay. I remained at the Academy five months
beyond the regulation period, and did not leave it until forced to move
by the fact that the state of my finances only barely permitted my
getting on to Vienna, where the money for the first six months of the
third year of my scholarship was to be remitted to me.
I will not attempt to describe my grief at quitting the Academy, at
parting with my beloved fellow-students, and leaving Rome itself, where
I felt my affections were so deeply rooted. My comrades accompanied me
as far as Ponte Molle (Pons Milvius), and after the most cordial of
farewells, I climbed into the post-cart which was to tear me (there is
no other word) from my two happy years in that land of promise.
I should have been less down-hearted had I been going straight home to
my beloved mother and brother, but I was faring alone into a country of
strangers, of whose very language I was utterly ignorant; no wonder the
outlook was cheerless and dark to me. As long as I could see it from the
road, I kept my eyes on the dome of St. Peter's--the crown of Rome and
of the universe--then the hills hid it utterly. I fell into deepest
musing, and wept like any child.
LETTERS
I
MONSIEUR LEFUEL, Artist, _Poste Restante, Nice-maritime_.
ROME, _21st June, Monday_.
DEAR GOOD FRIEND,--As it is much more natural and proper for a child to
hasten to answer his father, than a father his child, I will begin by
apologising for not having sooner acknowledged your last letter dated
from Mantua. But it has been in spite of myself, I do assure you. I have
had a great deal of writing to do lately, and it is not finished even
yet. It is really quite a business (and something else as well) to have
to thank people in writing for an interest they merely express through a
third person, and which you cannot acknowledge in the same coin.
However, I ought to be thankful, and I must not turn up my nose at the
idea of bestirring myself a little. Otherwise people might say, "Well,
it's easy enough to rid him of that trouble." Eh, dear boy? So I confide
this to nobody but yourself and trusted friends like you.
Let me tell you I have done your commission about that coat of yours,
which we had been wandering round and round for ever so long, "getting
hot," as they say at hide and seek. It has seen daylight at last, and is
none the worse; no ugly creases, nor moth of any sort. Likewise I gave
your friendly messages to our comrades, who all wanted to know where you
wrote from.... I replied that your letter came from Mantua. Whereupon
ensued various conversations, both private and general, anent your
specially favoured position, especially since a like favour has been
refused to Gruyere, who also applied for leave to travel, and declares
he brought very good reasons to support his request. I did not choose to
talk too much about you, for fear of heating opinions which were already
unfriendly, but I did reply at once to a remark made by a person who
shall be nameless, to the effect that it was neither very delicate nor
very straightforward on your part, last year, to go to Florence in the
first instance, when you had been granted permission, by special favour,
to go to Naples.
I combatted that idea with all my might, at the same time refusing to be
drawn into a discussion which might have degenerated into a dispute. And
then, dear Hector, if you only knew how some people's tempers have
altered since you went away! If it goes on, I really believe you will
find some individuals with their noses in the air, as people call it. I
am not the only person that strikes, and I think it can hardly escape
your notice too.
As to myself, in another ten days I shall start for Naples, and I expect
to spend six weeks or two months, not at Naples itself, but in the
kingdom and the islands. The month of September I shall probably spend
at Frascati, so as to get a good look, and a last one, at that splendid
Monte Cavi, of which I am very anxious to make some studies. If you
write to me, direct to the _Poste Restante_ at Naples. I will go and
fetch my letters when I am in town, and have them sent after me wherever
I may be. I have been making a tour, quite lately, in the mountains near
Subiaco, Civitella, Olevano, &c. I saw much that was beautiful, but what
interested me most was the Convent of San Benedetto at Subiaco. I saw
and felt things there that I shall never forget.
I have had news from home lately. They are all well, and send you
affectionate messages. They tell me Urbain had written you to Genoa, so
that you might find the letter there on the 15th. I don't know how he
makes out you will be at Genoa then, but, anyhow, I fancy his reckoning
is at fault. However, the letter had better be there before you than
after. You are sure to get it when you leave Milan, or you could, if you
liked, have it sent you by some friend. Then my mother says Blanchard
has been so excessively kind as to make a small drawing of your portrait
for Urbain, which has touched both mother and son immensely. Blanchard,
so my mother tells me, has had a bad attack of fever since he got back
to Paris, but he is much better now. He has dined with my people several
times since his return, and my mother says he is very pleasant, has very
nice ways, and she likes him because he strikes her as being very
good-natured.
You doubtless know, if you have come across any French newspaper, that
our friend, Jules Richomme, has not been admitted to compete for the
Grand Prix. I am very much distressed at the news, for his sake and that
of his family, who so greatly desired to see him win the Prize and come
to Rome. I am sure now to see him in Paris, for even if he won the Prize
next year, he would not start until after my return. And how goes your
work, my dear fellow? Your portfolios must be getting handsomely filled,
methinks! Write me all about it--how you are--what you are doing. Though
I'm not absolutely sharp in your line of occupation, I think my
eagerness to know about everything that interests and pleases you will
rub up my wits to a certain extent, at all events. Anyhow, I put myself
into your hands to tell me what you like. So long as it does not bore
you nor waste your time, tell on!
Farewell, dear Hector. Keep well, and keep me in your affection--that
last being a good work, which shall bring you manifold reward!
Mind you are as exact in giving me your successive addresses as I shall
be in sending you mine, during my journey and after it.
I salute you, with all filial fondness.
CH. GOUNOD.
II
MONSIEUR H. LEFUEL, _Architect, Academie de France, Villa Medicis,
Rome_.
NAPLES, _Tuesday, July 14, 1840_.
MY DEAR HECTOR,--I wish I could have written these few lines which I now
send you by Murat[5] sooner. But the fact is that up to the present I
have barely had time to write a tolerable scrawl to my brother; and here
in Naples, where I made some acquaintances three months ago, my first
duty has been to go round and pay calls. However, I hope to have more
time to spare in future. I have written to Desgoffe also, and would
gladly have done as much by our good Hebert; please make all sorts of
excuses to him for me. He will certainly hear from me direct one of
these days, almost at once indeed, for I am thinking, though not quite
decidedly as yet, of starting on Wednesday or Thursday in next week to
see Ischia and Capri, returning to Naples by Paestum, Salerno, Amalfi,
Sorrento, and Pompeii. A twelve days' trip or thereabouts.
I hope, my dear fellow, your health has been good since I
left,--Desgoffe's as well. I beg he'll see you do not work too hard! It
must be very hot now where you are. Here in Naples it is sometimes very
close; to-day, for instance, it is overwhelmingly thundery and
oppressive, but the sea-breeze is not unpleasant, and as we live almost
on the sea-shore, we get the benefit of it, and make the most of its
freshness.
Naples (I mean the town, of course) bores me more than ever. I am very
curious to see Capri and Ischia, and also Paestum. Yesterday at long last
I went up to the Camaldoli; the view is wonderful, especially over the
wide expanse of sea. You know how I love the sea. The longer one looks
at it, the better one understands that simple horizontal line beyond
which one can fancy infinite space stretching away for ever. To-morrow
afternoon at four, if the weather keeps fine, we mean to go up Vesuvius
and watch the sunset; we shall spend the night there, to see the
moonlight on the bay, and the sunrise next morning. You see our
expedition promises to be delightful.
The day before yesterday I had a letter from my mother, forwarded from
Rome. If it was you who sent it on, dear Hector, accept my best thanks.
My mother and my good brother Urbain send you many friendly messages.
What do you think of Monsieur Ingres's picture? Write and tell me, or
else slip a line into Desgoffe's letter, when he answers mine. Address
your letters to "La Ville de Rome, Quai Santa Lucia, Naples." If I am
not there when they arrive, I shall find them when I get back.
Please tell Hebert that I should much like to have his opinion of
Monsieur Ingres's picture as well as yours; although I can hardly expect
to hear from him until I write myself.
Give my love to my little brother Vauthier, who will not forget me, I
hope. Tell Fleury[6] how sorry I was not to say good-bye to him before
starting, and finally, give all my comrades, individually and
collectively, my best wishes, in our time-honoured fashion.
Farewell, dear Hector. I send you my best love, with all my heart too,
for indeed I feel our common exile with threefold bitterness out
here.--Your very affectionate
CHARLES GOUNOD.
* * * * *
Guenepin[7] will write to you in a day or two. He sends you many
friendly greetings. He is a very good fellow, and we have had a pleasant
journey, although we have never had more than three or four hours in
bed. But that's a trifle. When you write, pray let me know if Desgoffe
has sent again to fetch my score of "Der Freischuetz" from Prince
Soutzo's.
III
MONSIEUR HECTOR LEFUEL, _Poste Restante, Venice_.
ROME, _April 4, 1841_.
BELOVED AND REVERED PARENT,[8]--Your afflicted child has been racking
his poor brain to know where he should write to you, and was beginning
in fact to have serious doubts of the reality of the affection his
ancient relative professes for him. However, he now rejoices to have
learnt through Monsieur Schnetz that the undaunted centenarian has
removed himself from Florence to Bologna, on his way to Venice as fast
as he can get there.
To Venice, therefore, does his son, greatly comforted by the joyful
news, indite the following epistle to inform him, firstly, that he
himself is in rude health, and secondly, that his musical Mass has had a
great success, not only among his fellow-students here, but also among
the uninitiated vulgar. The thought of his venerable friend's delight at
once occurred to the composer, and was indeed a potent factor in his
legitimate joy in his success. He begs to add that he unceasingly
deplores the absence of his aged kinsman, the person he naturally clung
to most while he was here, and of whom Fate has so cruelly and
inopportunely bereft him.
I too have news from Paris, my dear good Hector. My letters are full of
friendly messages for you. My mother, why, I know not, was under the
impression I should see you again within a month or two; I have
undeceived her on that head, and I am very sure she regrets it much. And
then you will not have heard the news I have about Urbain, news that
gave me a great thrill of joy at first, which changed to deepest
disappointment when the end of the paragraph appeared. It was neither
more nor less than the idea of his coming out to Sicily and Rome, but it
is all off now, and this is why.
The Marquis de Crillon, who has always taken a great interest in my
family, being himself about to travel in Sicily, desired to find a
talented and educated artist; a really earnest man, in fact, to keep him
company. He thought of Urbain, so calling at our house one day, he laid
his plan before my mother. She thanked him for his goodness, told him
how deeply she appreciated his kind thought, and seized the earliest
opportunity of speaking to my brother. He, after short though serious
reflection, made up his mind to accept Monsieur de Crillon's offer. When
it came to taking leave of his clients, he saw such long faces
everywhere, and the regret at his departure was so general--everybody
vowed it would be so impossible to find such delicacy, such integrity,
and the other good and estimable qualities you know him to possess, in
any other man--that getting away began to look far from easy. But there
is more besides. Here is what really put the spoke in his wheel. All his
future interests were suddenly threatened with compromise for lack of
ten or twelve thousand francs. You will easily imagine that under such
circumstances he was forced to stay in Paris. I am very uneasy about
this somewhat critical state of things, and wait impatiently for news of
what has happened next. I will let you know in my next letter. Poor
Urbain, so good a fellow, who has worked so hard! Luckily he has plenty
of pluck, and will bear the most unpleasant ordeal bravely, but all the
same it is very hard on him.
I had heard, dear Hector, you had written to Gruyere. I was beginning to
grow jealous, when Hebert said to me, "Cheer up, it's only about
something he wants him to do for him!" So I took comfort in the hope
that I should shortly hear from you myself. I must tell you that the
proofs of friendly interest shown me by many of my comrades here, and
notably our good little painter Hebert, have made me very happy. I have
the keenest sense of gratitude for the care and attention with which I
saw him listen to the rehearsal of my Mass. No indifferent person would
have bestowed them, and it is always a pleasure to be able to mention a
case of sympathetic interest. Knowing your affection for Hebert, I
rejoice to tell you this, for I feel sure your regard for him will not
be lessened on account of that he bears me. His health is as rude as
mine, and, like all the rest of our comrades here, he bids me send you
many greetings. I am going to see if he is at home, and try to get him
to add a line or two at the end of this letter.