am rather afraid that, in the enthusiasm aroused by his passage through
his native place, his fellow-townsmen may have laid violent hands upon
his person, and nailed him on a pedestal, as a statue dedicated to his
own glory! They are a hot-headed set at Marseilles, and quite capable of
anything of the sort! He might send himself in as the result of his
Academy work!
Good-bye, my dear Hector. You know how fond I am of you, so, as the
saying is, I salute you on both cheeks and on your left eye likewise. If
Courtepee[9] is still with you, tell him I grasp his hand with special
fervour. I hope you are full of health and spirits, both of you, and I
think if you are having the same weather as we are, you must be doing
wonderful good work. Good-bye again, dear friend,--Yours always,
CHARLES GOUNOD.
* * * * *
MY DEAR ARCHITECT,--I seize the opportunity our good musician's letter
gives me, to let you know I am alive. Our great sculptor Gruyere has
informed me you are struggling with an accumulation of head colds. I
trust the sun that shines o'er noble and voluptuous Venice will thaw the
ice winter has piled within your brain!
You had a great success at the Exhibition. Everybody was much struck by
your drawings, the Ambassador and his wife most of all. I do not mention
my own performances; they are neither important nor well executed enough
to be worth writing about. Our celebrated composer's Mass has had a
great success, both amongst ourselves and with the general public. It
was well performed, thanks to the activity he displayed in shaking up
all the old sleepy-heads! If you see Loubens,[10] pray give him my best
regards. What have you done with Courtepee? Can you get him up in the
mornings when you get up yourself, you early bird?
Farewell! If I can make myself either useful or agreeable to you,
command me.--E. HEBERT.
* * * * *
Murat absolutely refuses to write even two lines. He says he will write
later on.
CHARLES GOUNOD.
* * * * *
That is a lie!--MURAT.
III
_GERMANY_
My natural road from Rome to Germany lay by Florence into Northern
Italy, and so eastwards _via_ Ferrara, Padua, Venice, and Trieste.
Although I did make a halt in Florence, I cannot undertake to give a
full description of that city. Like Rome, it possesses an inexhaustible
store of art treasures. The Uffizi Gallery with its wonderful Tribune (a
very shrine of exquisite relics), the Palazzo Pitti, the Academy,
Churches and Convents, all teem with masterpieces. But even here, in
lovely Florence, Michael Angelo reigns supreme, from the proud eminence
of that wonderful and overwhelmingly impressive Medici Chapel, on which,
as on the Vatican at Rome, his genius has stamped its mark--unique,
incomparable, overshadowing every other.
Wherever Michael Angelo's hand has been, devoutest attention is
instinctively aroused; when the master speaks, all others hold their
peace. Nowhere perhaps is the mysterious power of supreme silence more
effectually shown than in the awe-inspiring crypt of the Medici Chapel.
How tremendous is that figure of the "Pensieroso" standing there
motionless like a silent sentinel over death, awaiting the blast of the
last trump! What repose and grace, too, in the figure of Night, or
rather of Sleep, "that knits up the ravelled sleave of Care," beside the
robust form of Day lying bound and fettered as it were, till the last
dawn shall come. It is the deep meaning hidden in all Michael Angelo's
work, as well as the combination of nature and fancy in the attitudes of
his statues, which gives them that intensity of expression so specially
characteristic of his mighty genius. The huge proportions of his figures
are but a type of the deep bed worn by the torrent of his mighty
thoughts, and thus it is that any imitation of a form of art which
nothing but his genius had power to fill and quicken is foredoomed to
seem both pompous and bombastic. But time and lack of funds forbade my
tarrying on my road to Germany, so I can do no more than mention
Florence, and the pleasant recollections I took away with me. I passed
through the deserted city of Ferrara, and spent a couple of days in
Padua to see the beautiful frescoes of Giotto and Mantegna.
During my stay in Italy I had made acquaintance with the three great
cities which are the art centres of that favoured land--Rome, Florence,
and Naples. Rome, the City of the soul; Florence, the City of the mind;
Naples, the home of brilliant sunlight, of wild and dazzling gaiety.
I was about to make the acquaintance of a fourth, which, like the
others, holds a great and glorious place in the history of art. For the
geographical position of the city has given Venice and Venetian art a
distinct and unique character of their own.
Cheerful or sad, sunlit or gloomy, rose-red or deadly pale, smiling or
darkly forbidding, each and all by turns, Venice is one perpetual
kaleidoscope, a weird mixture of the most contradictory impressions, a
pearl, I might almost say, cast into a dark and noisome place. Venice!
she charms like any sorceress! She is the native haunt of the most
radiant form of art. She has cast a flood of sunshine on the painter's
canvas!
Unlike Rome, which waits your pleasure, draws you slowly onwards step by
step, until you fall into an utter and never-ending thraldom of
admiration, Venice takes swift hold upon your senses, and fascinates you
at one fell swoop. Rome is serene and soothing, Venice heady and
exciting. The intoxication of her charms is tinged (it was at least in
my case) with a sort of nameless melancholy, like a captive's sense of
loneliness. Is it the shadow cast by the dark deeds of former days, to
which the city seems predestined by its very situation? It may be. But
whether it be so or not, I cannot fancy any one staying long in this
semi-amphibious City of the Dead without growing to feel half choked and
plunged into deep depression. With its sleeping waters lapping in dismal
silence round the walls of its old palaces, and its gloomy shadows
whence the groan of some murdered noble seems to float, Venice is a city
of terror; disaster hangs around her even now!
But yet, in the full sunlight, what can be more fairylike than the Grand
Canal, or those glittering lagoons whose waves seem made of liquid
light! What vivid power clings to those relics of departed splendour,
which seem to call aloud to the blue sky, beseeching it to save them
from the abyss that slowly but surely sucks them down, and will end some
day by engulphing them for ever!
Rome stands for meditation, Venice for intoxication. Rome is the great
Latin ancestress whose conquests are destined to give the world one
catholic and universal language--a prelude and a means to another
Catholicism, deeper and vaster yet. Venice is a true Oriental--Byzantine,
not Greek; she makes one think much more of Satraps than of Pontiffs,
of Eastern luxury rather than of Athenian or Roman dignity.
Even San Marco, with all its wonders, is more of a mosque than a
basilica or a cathedral; it appeals far more to the imagination than to
the deepest feelings of the soul. The splendour of the mosaics and
gilding, pouring a stream of dark rich tints from the roof of the dome
to its very base, is utterly unique. I know nothing like it either in
strength of colouring or powerfulness of effect.
Venice breathes passion, as distinct from love. I was bewitched the
moment I arrived, but I left it without the pang I felt on quitting
Rome--a sure sign and measure of the impression each city had produced
on me.
Naples is like a smile from Greece; the horizon glowing with purple and
azure, the blue sky reflected by the sapphire sea, even the ancient
name, Parthenope, carry us back to that brilliant civilisation on which
nature had bestowed such an exquisite setting. But Venice smiles on the
traveller in quite a different way. She is coaxing and she is false,
like a feast laid out on the trap-door of a dungeon. This doubtless is
why involuntarily I felt more relief than regret when I departed, in
spite of the masterpieces of art and the mysterious and magic charm I
left behind me.
A steamer bore me to Trieste, where I at once took the stage-coach for
Gratz. I halted on my way to visit the curious and wonderful stalactite
caverns of Adelsberg; they are like underground cathedrals. Crossing the
Carinthian mountains (whose ragged outline I consigned to my
sketch-book), I reached Gratz, and then Olmutz. Thence I went on by
railway to Vienna, my first stopping place on this German tour which it
was my one object to get through as quickly as possible, so as to
shorten my exile from my mother's roof.
Vienna is a very cheerful city. The inhabitants struck me as being much
more like Frenchmen than Germans. They are full of vivacity, high
spirits, good-humour, and gaiety.
I had brought no letters of introduction with me, and I did not know a
single soul. I took up my quarters in an hotel until I should be able to
find quieter and less expensive rooms. It was absolutely necessary, as I
was to make a stay of some months' duration, to cut my coat according to
my cloth. A travelling acquaintance had strongly advised me to board and
lodge in a private family, if possible; and I soon found an opportunity
of putting his advice to a practical test.
Nothing in the world would have induced me to let my mother stint
herself to swell my modest purse; even had I felt the least inclined to
unnecessary expenditure, the thought of her life of toil would have
overcome any such temptation. Board, lodging, and theatre expenses
(which last were a necessary item in my musical education) made up the
whole of my necessary outlay, and with due care and economy the amount
of my scholarship was quite sufficient to cover that.
The first thing I saw advertised on the Viennese Opera posters was
Mozart's "Flauto Magico." I rushed forthwith and took the cheapest
ticket I could get, for the very top of the house. Modest as it was, I
would not have bartered it for an empire!
It was the first chance I had had of hearing that exquisite score, and I
was perfectly enchanted. It was thoroughly well rendered. Otto Nicolai
conducted the orchestra. The Queen of Night was very well played by a
singer of remarkable talent, Madame Hasselt Barth; the High Priest
Sarastro by a celebrated artist with a splendid voice, a first-class
method, and a magnificent style--Staudigl himself. The other _roles_,
too, were very carefully performed, and I still remember the sweet
voices of the boys who appeared as the three Genii.
I sent in my name (as an Academy student) to the Conductor, and asked if
I could see him. He sent for me, and I was conducted to his presence on
the stage itself, where he introduced me to the various artists, with
whom I kept up pretty close relations from that night out. As I could
not speak a single word of German, and as most of them knew little more
French, it was not easy to get on at first. While I was standing on the
stage, I was lucky enough to make acquaintance, also through Nicolai,
with a member of the orchestra, who spoke French. His name was Levy,
and he was the leading cornet-player. His son, Richard Levy, then
fourteen years old, held the same appointment at the Viennese Opera in
later years as his father had before him. He received me in the kindest
way, and asked me to call upon him. In a very short time we were firm
friends. He had three other children. The eldest, Carl Levy, was a
talented pianist and a skilful composer; the second, Gustave, is now a
musical publisher at Vienna; and the daughter, Melanie, a charming
creature, married the harpist Parish Alwars.
Through his kind offices, after a few weeks' residence in Vienna, I made
the acquaintance of Count Stockhammer, one of the most useful friends I
found there. He was President of the Philharmonic Society; and Levy, to
whom I had shown the Mass I wrote in Rome, took me to see him, and spoke
of the work in very favourable terms. The Count, with kindly
promptitude, offered to have it performed in the Church of St. Charles,
by the soloists, choruses, and orchestra of the Society.[11] The day
fixed was the 14th of September.
My work seemed to give general satisfaction, a fact of which Count
Stockhammer at once gave me the most substantial proof by asking me to
write a Requiem Mass--solos, choruses, and orchestral accompaniments--to
be performed in the same church on All Souls' Day, November 2nd.
I had a bare six weeks before me. The only chance of getting the work
done in time was to toil at it night and day, without rest or
intermission. I joyfully agreed to do it, and did not lose a moment in
beginning. The Requiem was ready by the appointed date. Thanks to that
universal diffusion of musical knowledge which is such a delightful and
peculiar feature in Germany, a single rehearsal sufficed to make it all
run smoothly. I was particularly struck by the facility with which mere
schoolboys read music at sight--as easily as if it were their mother
tongue. The choruses, too, were rendered to perfection. Among the
soloists was a man of the name of Draxler, still quite young, with a
magnificent bass voice. He and Staudigl were the leading basses at the
Opera. I heard some years later that Staudigl had gone mad, and died;
and Draxler, who took his place, still held it when I went back to
Vienna in 1868, twenty-five years after, to produce my opera "Romeo and
Juliet."
Some time before the performance of my Requiem, Nicolai had made me
acquainted with an eminent composer named Becker, who devoted himself
entirely to chamber music. A quartette party met at his house every
week, and Holz, the first violin, had known Beethoven very intimately; a
fact which, putting his own talent aside, made him very interesting
company. Becker was also considered the most capable musical critic in
all Germany at that time. He came to hear my Requiem, and published a
_critique_ couched in terms of such high compliment as to be an immense
encouragement to so young a man as I then was. My score, he said,
"though evidently from the hand of a novice whose style is still
unformed, and who has scarcely realised whither his powers may lead him,
displays a grandeur of conception which is exceedingly rare now-a-days."
This heavy piece of work, undertaken and carried through within such a
short space of time, knocked me up so completely that I fell ill with a
violent attack of sore throat, complicated with abscesses. Not wishing
to frighten my mother, I confided the true state of my health to nobody
except my dear friends the Desgoffes, who were then in Paris. The moment
Desgoffe knew I was lying ill in Vienna he left wife, daughter, and the
pictures he was painting for the Salon, without a moment's hesitation,
and started off to watch by my bedside and nurse me.
The journey from Paris to Vienna took five or six days at that time. It
was now mid-winter, December in fact, and what would have been bad
enough in any case at that season, was made far worse by the serious
illness my poor friend contracted on the way. When he arrived at Vienna
he stood sorely in need of care himself. Yet he spent no fewer than
twenty-two days at my bedside, snatching a few moments' sleep on a
mattress on the floor, and watching over my every movement with the most
motherly care. He only left me and returned to Paris when the doctor had
satisfied him that I was completely convalescent.
Such friendship is not often met with; but, indeed, Providence has been
more than good to me in that respect.
The success of my Requiem had made me alter my plans as to my stay in
Germany, and I determined to prolong my sojourn in Vienna. Count
Stockhammer gave me a fresh commission on behalf of the Philharmonic
Society. This time it was a vocal Mass without accompaniment, to be sung
in Lent in the same church, dedicated to St. Charles, my patron saint. I
was glad to take this fresh opportunity, not only of gaining practice in
my art, but also of getting my work performed--a rare and precious
privilege at the opening of any man's career. This was the second
considerable piece of work I did at Vienna, and my last. I left that
city immediately after the performance for Berlin, _via_ Prague and
Dresden, in neither of which towns did I stay long. But I felt I must
not leave Dresden without visiting that admirable museum which, among
other treasures, contains the famous Madonna by Holbein, and that other
wonderful Madonna known as the "San Sisto," painted by Raphael's
master-hand.
As soon as I reached Berlin I went, according to her request, to call on
Madame Henzel. But within three weeks I was seriously ill again, this
time with internal inflammation, and that just when I had written my
mother that I was about to start homewards, and that we should soon be
reunited after our weary separation of over three and a half years.
Madame Henzel at once sent her own doctor to me, and to him I presented
the following ultimatum--
"Sir, I have a mother waiting for me in Paris, counting the hours till I
get back; if she were to hear I am prevented from getting home by
illness, she would probably start off to join me, and she might quite
possibly lose her reason on the road. She is getting old. I must make up
some explanation of my delay, but it can only be a very short one. I can
only give you a fortnight, either to bury me or set me on my legs
again."
"Very good," quoth the doctor; "if you will make up your mind to obey my
orders, you may travel in a fortnight."
He kept his word; on the fourteenth day I was out of the wood, and eight
and forty hours after I had started for Leipzig, where Mendelssohn was
living, with a letter of introduction to him from his sister, Madame
Henzel.
Mendelssohn received me wonderfully--I use the expression advisedly, to
describe the condescension extended by such an illustrious man to a
youth who could not in his eyes have been more than a novice. I can
truly say that for the four days I spent at Leipzig he devoted himself
to me. He questioned me about my studies and my works with the keenest
and sincerest interest. He made me play some of my later efforts to him,
and gave me precious words of approbation and encouragement. One
sentence only will I quote; I am too proud of it ever to have forgotten
it. I had just played him the "Dies Irae" from my Vienna Requiem. He laid
his finger on a passage written for five voices without accompaniment,
and said--
"My boy, that might have been written by Cherubini!"
Such words from such a master are better than any decoration--more
precious to their recipient than all the ribbons and stars in Europe.
Mendelssohn was Director of the "Gewandhaus" Philharmonic Society. As
the concert season was over, there were no meetings of the society going
on, but he showed me the delicate kindness of calling its members
together for my benefit. Thus I heard his beautiful work known as the
"Scotch Symphony" in A Minor, and he afterwards gave me the full score
endorsed with a few kind words in his own handwriting.
Too soon, alas! the early death of that splendid genius, in the heyday
of his beauty and his charm, was to transform this friendly memento into
a treasured and precious relic. He died only six months after the
charming woman to whom I owed my acquaintance with her gifted brother.
Mendelssohn did not confine himself to calling the Philharmonic Society
together for my benefit. An admirable organist himself, he was anxious I
should make acquaintance with some of the numerous and admirable works
composed by the mighty Sebastian Bach for the instrument over which he
reigned supreme. With this object, he had the old organ at St.
Thomas's--the very instrument Bach himself used--examined and repaired,
and there for two long hours and more he revealed an unknown world of
beauty to my wondering ears.
Finally, to crown it all, he presented me with a collection of motets by
this same Bach, who was a sort of god to him, in whose school he had
been formed from infancy, and whose Passion music, "according to St.
Matthew," he had conducted and accompanied by heart before he was
fifteen.
Such was the kind treatment I received at the hands of that most lovable
of men, that splendid artist, that magnificent musician, cut off, alas!
in the flower of his age (just eight-and-thirty), snatched from the
plaudits he had earned so well, and from the yet more glorious results
the later efforts of his talent might have yielded. Strange is the fate
of genius, even when endued with the charm possessed by his! It was not
till Mendelssohn himself was dead that the ears which would not hearken
in his lifetime learnt to appreciate the exquisite works which are now
the joy and delight of every subscriber to the Conservatoire concerts.
Once I had seen Mendelssohn I could think of nothing except of getting
back as fast as possible to Paris and to my beloved mother. I left
Leipzig on May 18, 1843. I changed carriages seventeen times on the
road, and travelled four nights out of six. At length, on May 25, I
reached Paris, where my life was to enter on a new and different phase.
I found my brother waiting for me when the mail-coach arrived, and
together we hurried to that beloved home into which I was about to carry
so much new happiness, and return to so much that I had left behind.
IV
_HOME AGAIN_
Whether my three and a half years of absence had wrought a mighty change
in my appearance, or my last illness (still very recent) and the stains
of travel had played havoc with my looks, I know not, but anyhow my
mother did not recognise me when I arrived. True, I had a budding beard,
but such a slight one, that any one might have counted every hair.
During my absence my mother had left the Rue de l'Eperon, and settled
down in the Rue Vaneau, in the parish known as "Les Missions
Etrangeres," the church of which stands at the corner of the Rue du Bac
and the Rue de Babylone. There a post awaited me which was to fill up my
time for several years to come. The priest of this parish, the Abbe
Dumarsais, had formerly been chaplain at the Lycee St. Louis. His
predecessor at the Missions Etrangeres was the Abbe Lecourtier.
While I was in Rome at the Academie de France, the Abbe Dumarsais had
written to offer me, on my return, the appointment of organist and
chapel-master to his parish. This I had accepted, but under certain
conditions. I had no notion of taking any advice, and still less any
orders, on musical matters, from priest or parish authorities, or
anybody else. I had my own ideas, my own opinions, my own convictions.
In short, I meant either to have my own way about the music, or not have
anything to do with it. That was flat. However, my conditions were
accepted, and all should have gone smoothly.
But old habit is hard to break. My predecessor had accustomed the worthy
parishioners to a style of music quite different from that which I had
brought back with me from Rome and Germany. Palestrina and Bach were
deities in _my_ eyes, and I was casting down the idols _they_ were
accustomed to worship.
The means at my disposal were almost _nil_. Besides the organ--a small
and very inferior instrument--I had two basses, a tenor, and one
choir-boy, without reckoning myself, who was chapel-master, organist,
singer, and composer all in one. I had to do my best with what I found
to my hand, and the necessity which forced me to use these very modest
resources to the best possible advantage was of real benefit to me in
the long run. Things went on well enough at first, but I guessed, from a
sort of coldness and reserve I noticed, that I was not altogether in the
good books of the congregation. I was not mistaken. About the end of my
first year of office, the priest sent for me, and confided to me that he
had to endure many complaints and reproaches from his flock. Monsieur or
Madame So-and-so did not consider the musical part of the service the
least bit cheerful or entertaining. He therefore suggested to me to
"change my style," and to "give in to them a little."
"My dear Abbe," I said, "you know our bargain. I didn't come here to
consult the taste of your parishioners, but to improve it. If they don't
like my 'style,' as you call it, there is a simple way out of the
difficulty. I will resign, you can reappoint my predecessor, and
everybody will be satisfied. The matter is entirely in your own hands."
"Very well," said the Abbe; "all right. I accept your resignation."
Thereupon we parted the best of friends. I had not been home for more
than half an hour when the Abbe's servant knocked at my door.
"Well, Jean, what is it?"
"Sir, Monsieur Abbe would like to see you."