THE OLD CONSERVATOIRE
I cannot let the old Conservatoire in the Rue Bergère go without paying
it a last farewell, for I loved it deeply as we all love the things of
our youth. I loved its antiquity, the utter absence of any modern note,
and its atmosphere of other days. I loved that absurd court with the
wailing notes of sopranos and tenors, the rattling of pianos, the blasts
of trumpets and trombones, the arpeggios of clarinets, all uniting to
form that ultra-polyphone which some of our composers have tried to
attain--but without success. Above all I loved the memories of my
education in music which I obtained in that ridiculous and venerable
palace, long since too small for the pupils who thronged there from all
parts of the world.
I was fourteen when Stamaty, my piano teacher, introduced me to
Benoist, the teacher of the organ, an excellent and charming man,
familiarly known as "Father Benoist." They put me in front of the
keyboard, but I was badly frightened, and the sounds I made were so
extraordinary that all the pupils shouted with laughter. I was received
at the Conservatoire as an "auditor."
So there I was only admitted to the honor of listening to others. I was
extremely painstaking, however, and I never lost a note or one of the
teacher's words. I worked and thought at home, studying hard on
Sebastian Bach's _Wohltemperirte Klavier_. All of the pupils, however,
were not so industrious. One day, when they had all failed and Benoist,
as a result, had nothing to do, he put me at the organ. This time no one
laughed and I at once became a regular pupil. At the end of the year I
won the second prize. I would have had the first except for my youth and
the inconvenience of having me leave a class where I needed to stay
longer.
That same year Madeleine Brohan won the first prize in comedy. She
competed with a selection from _Misanthrope_, and Mlle. Jouassin gave
the other part of the dialogue. Mlle. Jouassin's technique was the
better, but Madeleine Brohan was so wonderful in beauty and voice that
she carried off the prize. The award made a great uproar. To-day, in
such a case, the prize would be divided. Mlle. Jouassin won her prize
the following year. After leaving school, she accepted and held for a
long time an important place at the Comédie-Française.
Benoist was a very ordinary organist, but an admirable teacher. A
veritable galaxy of talent came from his class. He had little to say,
but as his taste was refined and his judgment sure, nothing he said
lacked weight or authority. He collaborated in several ballets for the
Opéra and that gave him a good deal of work to do. It sounds incredible,
but he used to bring his "work" to class and scribble away on his
orchestration while his pupils played the organ. This did not prevent
his listening and looking after them. He would leave his work and make
appropriate comments as though he had no other thought.
In addition to his ballets, Benoist did other little odd jobs for the
Opéra. As a result one day, without thinking, he gave me the key to a
deep secret. In his famous _Traité d'Instrumentation_ Berlioz spoke of
his admiration for a passage in Sacchini's _Oedipus à Colone_. Two
clarinets are heard in descending thirds of real charm just before the
words, "_Je connus la charmante Eriphyle._" Berlioz was enthusiastic and
wrote:
"We might believe that we really see Eriphyle chastely kiss his eyes. It
is admirable. And yet," he adds, "there is no trace of this effect in
Sacchini's score."
Now Sacchini, for some reason or other which I do not know, did not use
clarinets once in the whole score. Benoist was commissioned to add them
when the work was revived, as he told me as we were chatting one day.
Berlioz did not know this, and Benoist, who had not read Berlioz's
_Traité_, knew nothing of the romantic musician's enthusiastic
admiration of his work. These happily turned thirds, although they
weren't Sacchini's, were, none the less, an excellent innovation.
Benoist was less happy when he was asked to put some life into
Bellini's _Romeo_ by using earsplitting outbursts of drums, cymbals, and
brass. During the same noise-loving period Costa, in London, gave
Mozart's _Don Juan_ the same treatment. He let loose throughout the
opera the trombones which the author intentionally reserved for the end.
Benoist ought to have refused to do such a barbarous piece of work.
However, it had no effect in preventing the failure of a worthless
piece, staged at great expense by the management which had rejected Les
Troyens.
I was fifteen when I entered Halévy's class. I had already completed the
study of harmony, counterpoint and fugue under Maleden's direction. As I
have said, his method was that taught at the Ecole Niedermeuer. Faure,
Messager, Perilhou, and Gigot were trained there and they taught this
method in turn. My class-work consisted in making attempts at vocal and
instrumental music and orchestration. My _Rêverie_, _La Feuille de
Peuplier_ and many other things first appeared there. They have been
entirely forgotten, and rightly, for my work was very uneven.
At the end of his career Halévy was constantly writing opera and
opéra-comique which added nothing to his fame and which disappeared
never to be revived after a respectable number of performances. He was
entirely absorbed in his work and, as a result, he neglected his classes
a good deal. He came only when he had time. The pupils, however, came
just the same and gave each other instruction which was far less
indulgent than the master's, for his greatest fault was an overweening
good nature. Even when he was at class he couldn't protect himself from
self-seekers. Singers of all sorts, male and female, came for a hearing.
One day it was Marie Cabel, still youthful and dazzling both in voice
and beauty. Other days impossible tenors wasted his time. When the
master sent word that he wasn't coming--this happened often--I used to
go to the library, and there, as a matter of fact, I completed my
education. The amount of music, ancient and modern, I devoured is beyond
belief.
But it wasn't enough just to read music--I needed to hear it. Of course
there was the Société des Concerts, but it was a Paradise, guarded by an
angel with a flaming sword, in the form of a porter named Lescot. It was
his duty to prevent the profane defiling the sanctuary. Lescot was fond
of me and appreciated my keen desire to hear the orchestra. As a result
he made his rounds as slowly as possible in order to put me out only as
a last resort. Fortunately for me, Marcelin de Fresne gave me a place in
his box, which I was permitted to occupy for several years.
I used to read and study the symphonies before I heard them and I saw
grave defects in the Société's vaunted execution. No one would stand
them now, but then they passed unnoticed. I was naïve and lacked
discretion, and so I often pointed out these defects. It can be easily
imagined what vials of wrath were poured on me.
As far as the public was concerned, the great success of these concerts
was due to the incomparable charm of the depth of tone, which was
attributed to the hall. The members of the Société believed this, too,
and they would let no other orchestra be heard there. This state of
affairs lasted until Anton Rubinstein got permission from the Minister
of Fine Arts to give a concert there, accompanied by the Colonne
orchestra. The Société fretted and fumed at this and threatened to give
up its series of concerts. But the Société was overruled and the concert
was given. To the general surprise it was seen that another orchestra in
the same hall produced an entirely different effect. The depth of tone
which had been appreciated so highly, it was found, was due to the
famous Société itself, to the character of the instruments and the
execution.
Nevertheless, the hall is excellent, although it is no longer adequate
for the presentation of modern compositions. But it is a marvellous
place for the numerous concerts given by virtuosi, both singers and
instrumentalists, accompanied by an orchestra, and for chamber music.
Finally, the hall where France was introduced to the masterpieces of
Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, whose influence has been so profound, is a
historic place.
Numerous improvements in the administration of the Conservatoire have
been introduced during the last few years. On the other hand, old and
honored customs have disappeared and we can but regret their loss. From
Auber's time on there was a _pension_ connected with the Conservatoire.
Here the young singers who came from the provinces at eighteen found
board and lodging, a regular life, and a protection from the temptations
of a large city, so dangerous to fresh young voices. Bouhy, Lassalle,
Capoul, Gailhard and many others who have made the French stage famous
came from this _pension_.
We also used to have dramatic recitals which were excellent both for the
performers and the audiences as they gave works which were not in the
usual repertoire. In these recitals they gave Méhul's _Joseph_, which
had disappeared from the stage for a long time. The beautiful choruses
sung by the fresh voices of the pupils made such a success and the whole
work was so enthusiastically applauded that it was revived at the
Opéra-Comique and won back a success which it has never lost. We also
heard there Gluck's _Orphée_ long before that masterpiece was revived at
the Théâtre-Lyrique. Then there was Méhul's _Irato_, a curious and
charming work which the Opéra took up afterwards. And there, too, they
gave the last act of Rossini's _Otello_. The tempest in that act gave me
the idea of the one which rumbles through the second act of _Samson_.
When the hall was reconstructed, the stage was destroyed so that such
performances are impossible. But to make up for this, they installed a
concert organ, a necessary adjunct for musical performances.
Finally, in Auber's day and even in that of Ambroise Thomas, the
director was master. No one had dreamed of creating a committee, which,
under cover of the director's responsibility, would strangely diminish
his authority. The only benefit from the new system has been the end of
the incessant war which the musical critics waged on the director. But
that did no harm, either to the director or to the school, for the
latter kept on growing to such an extent that it ought to have been
enlarged long ago. The committee plan has won and the incident is
closed. One may only hope that steps will be taken to make possible an
increase in the number of pupils since so many candidates apply each
year and so few are chosen.
As everyone knows, we have been struck by a perfect mania for reforms,
so there is no harm in proposing one for the Conservatoire. Foreign
conservatoires have been studied and they want to introduce some of
their features here. As a matter of fact, some of the foreign
conservatoires are housed in magnificent palaces and their curricula are
elaborated with a care worthy of admiration. Whether they turn out
better pupils than we do is an open question. It is beyond dispute,
however, that many young foreigners come to us for their education.
Some of the reformers are scandalized at the sight of a musician in
charge of a school where elocution is taught. They forget that a
musician may also be a man of letters--the present director combines
these qualifications--and that it is improbable that it will be
different in the future. The teachers of elocution have always been the
best that could be found. Although M. Faure is a musician, he has known
how to bring back the classes in tragedy to their original purpose. For
a time they tended towards an objectionable modernism, for they
substituted in their competitions modern prose for the classic verse.
And the study of the latter is very profitable.
Not only is there no harm in this union of elocution and music, but it
would be useful if singers and composers would take advantage of it to
familiarize themselves with the principles of diction, which, in my
opinion, are indispensable to both. Instead, they distrust melody.
Declamation is no longer wanted in operas, and the singers make the
works incomprehensible by not articulating the words. The composers tend
along the same lines, for they give no indication or direction of how
they want the words spoken. All this is regrettable and should be
reformed.
As you see, I object to the mania for reform and end by suggesting
reforms myself. Well, one must be of one's own time, and there is no
escaping the contagion.