ORPHÉE
We know, or, rather we used to know--for we are beginning to forget that
there is an admirable edition of Gluck's principal works. This edition
was due to the interest of an unusual woman, Mlle. Fanny Pelletan, who
devoted a part of her fortune to this real monument and to fulfill a
wish Berlioz expressed in one of his works. Mlle. Pelletan was an
unusually intelligent woman and an accomplished musician, but she needed
some one to help her in this large and formidable task. She was
unassuming and distrusted her own powers, so that she secured as a
collaborator a German musician, named Damcke, who had lived in Paris a
long time and who was highly esteemed. He gave her the moral support she
needed and some bad advice as well, which she felt obliged to follow.
This collaboration accounts for the change of the contralto parts to
counter-tenors. It also accounts for the fact that in every instance the
parts for the clarinets are indicated in C, in this way attributing to
the author a formal intention he never had. Gluck wrote the parts for
the clarinets without bothering whether the player--to whom he left a
freedom of choice and the work of transposition--would use his
instrument in C, B, or A. This method was not peculiar to Gluck. Other
composers used it as well, and traces of it are found even in Auber's
works.
After Damcke's death Mlle. Pelletan got me to help her in this work. I
wanted to change the method, but the edition would have lost its unity
and she would not consent. It was time that Damcke's collaboration
ended. He belonged to the tribe of German professors who have since
become legion. Due to their baneful influence, in a short time, when the
old editions have disappeared, the works of Haydn, Mozart, and
Beethoven, even of Chopin, will be all but unrecognizable. The works of
Sebastian Bach and Handel will be the only ones in existence in their
pristine purity of form, thanks to the admirable editions of the _Bach
und Händel Gesselschaft_. When Mlle. Pelletan brought me into the work,
the two _Iphigenie_ had been published; _Alceste_ was about to be, and
_Armide_ was ready. In _Armide_ Damcke had been entirely carried away by
his zeal for "improvements"--a zeal that can do so much harm. It was
time this was stopped. Not only had he corrected imaginary faults here
and there, but he had also inserted things of his own invention. He had
even gone so far as to re-orchestrate the ballet music, in the naïve
belief that he was bringing out the author's real meaning better than he
had done himself. It took an enormous amount of time to undo this
mischief, for I distrusted somewhat my own lights and Mlle. Pelletan had
too high an opinion of Damcke's work and did not dare to override his
judgment.
That excellent woman did not live to see the end of her work. She began
the preparation of Orphée, but she died almost at once. So I was left to
finish the score alone without that valuable experience and masterly
insight by which she solved the most difficult problems. And there were
real enigmas to be solved at every step. The old engraved scores of
Gluck's works reproduced his manuscripts faithfully enough, but they
bore evidence of carelessness and amazing inaccuracy. They are mere
sketches instead of complete scores. Many details are vague and
vagueness is not permissible in a serious edition. It follows that the
different editions of Gluck's works published in the Nineteenth Century,
however sumptuous or careful they may be, are worthless. The Pelletan
edition alone can be consulted with confidence, because we were the only
ones to have all extant and authentic documents in the library at the
Opéra to set us right. We had scores copied for actual performances on
the stage and portions of orchestral parts of incalculable value. In
addition, we had no aim or preoccupation in elaborating this material
other than to reconstitute as closely as possible the thought of the
author.
* * * * *
Switzerland is a country where artistic productions are not unusual.
Every year we have reports of some grandiose performance in which the
people take part themselves. They come from every direction to help,
even from a considerable distance, thanks to the many means of
communication in that delightful land. It is not surprising, therefore,
to learn that a theatre has been built in the pretty town of Mézières,
near Lusanne, for the performance of the works of a young poet, named
Morax. These works are dramas with choruses, and the surrounding country
furnishes the singers. The work given in 1911 was Allenor--the music by
Gustave Doret--and it was a great success.
Gustave Doret is a real artist and he never for a moment thought of
keeping the Théâtre du Jorat for his own exclusive use. He dreamt of
giving Gluck's works in their original form, for they are always altered
and changed according to the fancies or incompetency of the performers
or directors. They formed a large and influential committee and a
substantial guarantee fund was subscribed. Then they gave a brilliant
banquet at which the Princess of Brancovan was present. And Paderewski,
one of the most enthusiastic promotors of the enterprise, delivered an
eloquent address. No one should be surprised at either his zeal or his
eloquence. Paderewski is not only a pianist; he is a man of great
intellect as well,--a great artist who permits himself the luxury of
playing the piano marvellously.
As he knew that I had spent several years in studying Gluck's works
under the microscope, so to speak, Gustave Doret did me the honor to ask
my advice. His choice for the opening work was _Orphée_, which requires
only three principals, Orpheus, Eurydice, and Love. It has become the
custom to add a fourth, a Happy Spirit, but this spirit is one of
Carvalho's inventions and has no reason for existence.
There are, however, two _Orphée_. The first is _Orfeo_ which was written
in Italian, on Calzabigi's text, and was first presented at Venice in
1761. The rôle of Orpheus in this score was written for a contralto and
was designed for the eunuch Quadagni. The Venetian engravers of that day
were either incompetent or, perhaps, there were none, for the scores of
Gluck's _Alceste_ in Italian and Haydn's _Seasons_ were printed from
type. However that may be the score of _Orfeo_ was engraved in Paris.
The composer Philidor corrected the proofs. He little thought that
_Orfeo_ would ever get so far as Paris, so he appropriated the romanza
in the first act and introduced it with but slight modifications into
his opéra-comique _Le Sorcier_. Later on Marie Antoinette called Gluck
to Paris and thus afforded him the opportunity for the complete
development of his genius. After he had written _Iphigenie en Aulide_,
performed in 1774, especially for the Opéra, he had the idea of adapting
_Orfeo_ for the French stage. To tell the truth he must have thought of
it before, for _Orphée_ appeared at the Opéra only three months after
_Iphigenie_ and it had been entirely rewritten in collaboration with
Moline. The contralto part had been changed to tenor and so the
principal rôle was given to Legros.
While it may be true that the author improved this work in the French
version, it is not true in every case. There is some question whether
the overture existed in the Italian score. It is generally believed that
it did, but there are old copies of this version in existence and they
begin the opera with the funeral chorus and show no overture at all.
This overture, although the _Mercure de France_ treats it as a
"beautiful symphonic piece which serves as a good introduction to the
work," in reality does not resemble the style of the rest at all. It in
no way prepares for that admirable chorus at the beginning--unequaled of
its kind--which Orpheus's broken hearted cry of "Eurydice! Eurydice!"
makes so pathetic.
The first act of _Orfeo_ ends in a tumultuous effect of the stringed
instruments which was evidently intended to indicate a change of scene
and the appearance of the stage settings of the infernal regions. This
passage does not appear in the French _Orphée_ and it is lacking in the
engraved score, where it is replaced by a bravura aria of doubtful
taste, accompanied by a single quartet. Whether the stage managers
wanted an entr'acte or the tenor, Legros, demanded an effective aria, or
for both these reasons, a reading of the manuscript indicates how
absolutely the author's meaning was changed. There is no doubt that
except for some such reason he would have changed this aria and put it
in harmony with the rest of the work.
For a long time this aria was attributed to Bertoni, the composer, and
Gluck was accused of plagiarizing it. As a matter of fact, and to the
contrary, this aria came from an older Italian opera of Gluck's. Bertoni
not only imitated it in one of his scores, but he had the hardihood to
write an _Orfeo_ on the text already followed by Gluck in which he
plagiarized the work of his illustrious predecessor in a scandalous
fashion.
This same aria, changed with real genius and performed with prodigious
eclat by Madame Viardot, and re-orchestrated by myself, was one of the
strongest reasons for the success of the famous performances at the
Théâtre-Lyrique. But it is well understood that it could not properly
find a place in an edition where the sole end was artistic sincerity and
purity of the text.
From this point of view it would seem that the best manner of giving
_Orphée_ would be to conform to the author's definitive version. A tenor
would have to take the part of Orpheus, since we no longer have male
contraltos, and to keep to this kind of a voice in _Orphée_ we would
have to have recourse to what is called, in theatrical terms, a
_travesti_. There are obstacles to this, however. The pitch has changed
since the Eighteenth Century; it has gone up and it is now impossible,
or nearly so, to sing the rôle written for Legros. The contraltos of the
Italian chorus have become the counter-tenors, who, for the same reason,
find themselves struggling with too sharp notes.
In the Seventeenth Century the French pitch was even more flat, and it
is a great pity, for it is almost impossible to perform our old music,
on account of the insuperable obstacles. This is not the case in
Germany, however, or in Italy, and that is the reason why the works of
Sebastian Bach and Mozart can be sung. The same is true of Gluck's
Italian works.
This was the reason that Doret gave the part of Orpheus to a contralto,
just as is done at the Opéra-Comique. The poetic character of the part
of Orpheus lends itself excellently to such a feminine interpretation.
But in resuming the key of the Italian score, it is necessary to go
back, at least to a considerable degree, to the instrumentation. By a
curious anomaly the beautiful recitative, accompanied by the murmur of
brooks and the songs of the birds, is in C major in both scores. The
author could not have changed them. On the contrary he modified his
instrumentation greatly, simplified and perfected it.
We know that the authors, in utter defiance of mythology, wanted a happy
ending and so brought Eurydice back to life a second time. Love
accomplished this miracle and the work ended with the song "Love
Triumphs," which is exceedingly joyful and in harmony with the
situation. They did not want this ending, which was in _Orfeo_ and which
Gluck retained in _Orphée_, at the old Théâtre-Lyrique and the
Opéra-Comique, and they replaced it with a chorus by Echo and Narcissus.
This chorus is charming, but that does not excuse it. Joy was what the
author wanted and this does not give joy at all. Gluck's finale is
regarded as not sufficiently distinguished, but this is wrong. The real
finale was sung at Mézières and it was found that it was not at all
common, but that its frank gaiety was in the best of taste.
Gluck had no scruples about grinding several grists from the same sack
and drawing from his old works to help out his new ones. So the
parasitical aria attributed to Bertoni was written by Gluck in the first
place in 1764 for a soprano. He wove this into his opera _Aristo_ in
1769. This is also true of the trio, _Tendre Amour_, which precedes the
finale in the last act. A serious-minded analyst might be tempted to
admire the profound psychology of the author in mingling doleful accents
with expressions of joy, but he would have his labor for his pains. The
trio was taken from the opera _Elena e Paride_, where Gluck expressed
strongly wrought up emotions. Doret did not keep these two passages and
one can't blame him. On the other hand, he retained, by making it an
entr'acte, the _Ballet des Furies_. This was taken from a ballet, _Don
Giovanni o il convitato de pietra_, which was performed at Vienna in
1761. This passage was used as the accompaniment to Don Juan's descent
into Hell, surrounded by his band of demons.
Many of Gluck's compatriots came to Mézières to see _Orphée_ and they
were loyal enough to recognize the superiority of the performance. Some
even had the courage to say, "We murder Gluck in Germany."
I discovered that fact a long time ago. In my youth I was indignant when
I saw Paris, where Gluck wrote his finest works, quite neglecting them,
whereas Germany continued to promote them. In those days I was
frequently called to the other side of the Rhine to play in concerts,
and I watched for a chance to see one of these masterpieces which had
been forgotten in France. So it was with the liveliest joy that one day
I entered one of the leading German theaters where they were giving
_Armide_. What a hollow mockery it was!
Madame Malten was Armide, and she was everything that could be wished in
voice, talent, style, beauty and charm. She spoke French without an
accent and was as remarkable as an actress as a singer, so she would
without doubt have had great success at the Opéra in Paris. She was
Armide herself, an irresistible enchantress.
But the rest! Renaud was a raw boy, and his shaven chin brought out in
sharp relief enormous black moustaches with long waxed ends. He had a
voice, to be sure, but no style, and no understanding of the work he was
trying to interpret.
Hidradot is an old sorcerer tempered in the fires of Hell. He enters,
saying:
"I see hard by Death that threatens me,
And already old age, that has chilled my blood,
Is on me, bowing me beneath a crushing burden."
Imagine my surprise at seeing come on the stage a magnificent specimen
of manhood, with a curled black beard, in all the glory of his youth and
vigor superbly arrayed in a red cloak trimmed with gold!
The stage setting was also extraordinary. In the second act Renaud went
to sleep at the back of the stage, forcing Armide to speak the whole of
the beautiful scene which follows, one of the most important in the
part, at a distance from the footlights and with her back to the
audience.
As for the orchestra, sometimes it followed Gluck's text and sometimes
it borrowed bits of orchestration which Meyerbeer had written for the
Opéra at Berlin. This orchestration is interesting, and I know it well
for I have had it in hand. It is only fair to say that Gluck, from some
inexplicable caprice, did not give the same care to the instrumentation
of _Armide_ that he did to _Orphée_, _Alcesti_, and the _Iphigenies_.
The trombones do not appear at all and the drums and flutes only at rare
intervals. Re-orchestration is not absolutely necessary and Meyerbeer's
is no more reprehensible than those with which Mozart enriched Handel's
_Messe_ and _La Fête d'Alexandre_. What was inadmissible was not
deciding frankly for one version or the other. It was like a badly
patched coat which shows the old cloth in one place and the new in
another.
Afterwards I saw _Armide_ treated in another way.
Did you ever happen to cherish the memory of a delightful and
picturesque city, where everything made a harmonious whole, where the
beautiful walks were arched over by old trees--and later come back to it
to find it embellished, the trees cut down, the walks replaced by
enormous buildings which dwarfed into insignificance the ancient marvels
which gave the city its charm?
This was the case with me when I saw _Armide_ again in a city which I
shall not name. The opera had been judged superannuated and had been
"improved." A young composer had written a new score in which he
inserted here and there such bits of Gluck as he thought worthy of being
preserved. A costly and magnificently imbecile luxuriousness set off the
whole piece. I may be pardoned the cruel adjective when I say that in
the scene of Hate, so deeply inspired, and which takes place in a sort
of cave, they relegated the chorus to the wings to make a place for
dragons, fantastic birds beating their wings, and other deviltries.
This, of course, deprived the chorus of all its power and distinction.
But the best was at the end of the second act. The forest with its
trees, grass and rocks entirely disappeared in the flies taking Renaud
and Armide with it and the spectator was left, for some unknown reason,
looking at a background surrounded by mountains. Then, by a marvel of
mechanism, there appeared to the sound of ultramodern music, Renaud
sleeping on a bed of state, with Armide standing at the foot and
stretching forth her hand with a gesture of authority, declaiming in a
solemn tone,
"Rinaldo, I love you!"
and the curtain fell to the applause of the audience.
* * * * *
We owe much to Germany in music, for it has produced many great
musicians. It can set off against our trinity of Corneille, Racine, and
Molière, the no less glorious Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. But Germany
seems to have lost all respect for the meaning of its own music and for
its own glories. Instead of watching over the purity of the text of its
masterpieces, it alters them at its pleasure and makes them all but
unrecognizable. We abuse nuances but they were rare in earlier days. An
orchestra conductor who performs symphonies by Haydn and Mozart, even by
Beethoven, has the right to make additions. But it is intolerable that
the scores should be printed with these nuances and bowings which are in
no way due to the author and which are imposed by the editor.
Nevertheless, that is what happens, and it is impossible to tell where
the authentic text ends and the interpolation begins. In addition, the
interpolation may be the exact contrary of what the author intended.
This evil is at its worst in piano music. Our famous teachers, like
Marmontel and Le Couppey, have published editions of the classics which
are full of their own directions. But the player is forewarned; it is
the Marmontel or Le Couppey edition and makes no pretence of
authenticity. In Germany, however, there are supposedly authentic
editions, based on the originals, but which superimpose their own
pernicious inventions on the author's text.
The touch of the piano used to be different from what it is to-day. The
directions in Mozart's and Beethoven's works show that they used the
execution of stringed instruments as their model. The touch was lighter
and the fingers were raised so that the notes were separated slightly,
and not run together except when indicated. The supposition is that this
must have led to a dryness of tone. I remember to have heard in my
childhood some old people whose playing was singularly hopping. Then,
there came a reaction, and with it a passion for slurring the notes.
When I was Stamaty's pupil, it was considered most difficult to "tie"
the notes; that required, however, only dexterity and suppleness. "When
she learns to 'tie,' she will know how to play," said the mother of a
young pianist. Nevertheless, the trick of perpetual _legato_ becomes
exceedingly monotonous and takes away all character from the pianoforte
classics. But it is insisted on everywhere in the modern German
editions. Throughout there are connections seemingly interminable in
length, and indications of _legato_, _sempre legato_, which the author
not only did not indicate, but in places where it is easy to see that he
intended the exact opposite.
If this is the case, what shall be said of marking the fingering on all
the notes--which often makes good playing impossible. Liszt taught
hundreds of pupils according to the best principles, yet such erroneous
principles have prevailed!
Disciples of the ivory keys are numerous in our day. Everybody wants to
have a piano, and everybody plays it or thinks he does, which is not
always the same thing, and few really understand what the term "to play
the piano," so currently used, means.
The harpsichord reigned supreme before the appearance of the piano--an
instrument which is beloved by some and execrated by others. To his
utter amazement Reyer was considered an enemy of the pianoforte. The
harpsichord has been revived of late so that it is needless to describe
it. It lacks strength, and that was the reason it was dethroned in a
period when strength was everything. On the other hand, it has
distinction and elegance. As the player can not modify the intensity of
the sound by a single pressure of the finger--in which it resembles the
organ--like the organ, with its multiple keyboards and registers, the
harpsichord has a wide variety of effects and affords the opportunity
for several octaves to sound simultaneously. As a result, while music
written for the harpsichord gains in strength and expression on the
modern instrument, it often assumes a deceptive monotony for which the
author is not responsible.
The players of the harpsichord were ignorant of muscular effects; there
was nothing of the unchained lion about them. The delicate hands of a
marquise lost none of their gracefulness as they skimmed over the
keyboards, and the red or black keys emphasized their whiteness.
The introduction of the hammer in the place of the tiny nib permitted
the modification of the quality of sound by differences in the pressure
of the fingers, and also the production at will of such nuances as
_forte_ and _piano_ without recourse to the different registers. This is
the reason why the new instrument was first called the pianoforte. The
word was long and cumbersome and was cut in half. When it became
necessary to _assault_ the note, they used the phrase "to hit the
forte." The papers which gave accounts of young Mozart's concerts
praised him for his ability to "hit."
Nevertheless one did not hit hard. These keyboards with their limited
keys responded so easily that a child's fingers were sufficient. I first
played on one of these instruments at the age of three. It was made by
Zimmerman, whose son was Gounod's father-in-law.
Later, the weight of the keys was increased to get a greater volume of
sound. Then, when long-haired _virtuosi_, playing by main strength,
produced peals of thunder, they really "_toucha du piano_."
* * * * *
To return to _Orphée_ and end as we began, I have to make a painful
confession. If the works of Gluck in general and _Orphée_ in particular
have had a happy influence on our musical taste, a passage from this
last work has been a noxious influence,--the famous chorus of the demons
"_Quel est l'audacieux--qui dans ces sombres lieux--ose porter ses
pas?_"
In the old days French opera was based on declamation and it was
scrupulously respected even in the arias. There is a fine example of
this excellent system in Lully's famous aria from _Medusa_ to prove what
strength results from a close relation between the accent of the verse
and the music. Gluck was one of the most fervent disciples of this
system, but _Orphée_, as we know, was derived from _Orfeo_. The question
was whether he could even think of suppressing this spectacular chorus
with its amazing strength which was one of the principal reasons for the
work's success. Unfortunately the music of the chorus was moulded on the
Italian text, and each verse ended with the accent on the antepenult,
which occurs frequently in German and Italian, but never in French. And
they sing:
Quel est l'auDAcieux
Qui dans ces SOMbres lieux
Ose porTER ses pas
Et devant LE trepas
Ne frémit pas?
As French is not strongly accented such faults are tolerated. Gluck's
theme impressed itself on the memory, so that he dealt a terrific blow
to the purity of prosody. We gradually became so disinterested in this
that by Auber's time scarcely any attention was paid to it. Finally,
Offenbach appeared. He was a German by birth and his musical ideas
naturally rhymed with German in direct contradiction to the French words
to which they applied. This constant bungling passed for originality.
Sometimes it would have been necessary to change the division of a
measure to get a correct melody, as in the song:
Un p'tit bonhomme
Pas plus haut qu'ça.
In such a case we might say that he did wrong for the mere pleasure of
going astray. But popular taste was so corrupted that no one noticed it
and everybody who wrote in the lighter vein fell into the same habits.
We owe a debt of gratitude to André Messager for breaking away from this
manner and setting musical phraseology aright. His return to the old
traditions was not the least of the attractions of his delightful
_Véronique_.
But we are wandering far from Gluck and _Orphée_, although not so far
as we might think. In art, as in everything, extremes meet, and there
are all kinds of tastes.