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- Sprache: Englisch
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MASTERS OF FRENCH MUSIC
Arthur Hervey
DOSSIER PRESS
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Copyright © 2016 by Arthur Hervey
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
AMBROISE THOMAS
CHARLES GOUNOD
CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS
JULES MASSENET
ERNEST REYER
ALFRED BRUNEAU
SOME OTHER FRENCH COMPOSERS
APPENDIX
Masters of French Music
By
Arthur Hervey
Masters of French Music
Published by Dossier Press
New York City, NY
First published circa 1922
Copyright © Dossier Press, 2015
All rights reserved
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PREFACE
THE READER WHO TURNS TO these pages with the idea of finding therein a large and exhaustive account of the composers mentioned, with a technical analysis of their works, will, I fear, be disappointed. My intention has been a far more modest one.
The dimensions of this volume would not have allowed me to devote that amount of space to each composer that might be considered due to his merits.
The object I have had in view has been to give an account of their lives and to draw attention to the tendencies exhibited in their works.
The French can boast a splendid musical record, particularly as regards the opera. Paris was for many years the centre towards which foreign artists were wont to gravitate. It was here that Gluck laid the seeds of his musical reforms; that Cherubini and Spontini lived and brought out their best works; it was the influence of French taste that caused Rossini to forsake the inartistic devices of his earlier Italian operas and write “Guillaume Tell,” his masterpiece; it was for Paris that Meyerbeer composed “Robert le Diable,” “Les Huguenots,” “Le Prophète,” and “L’Africaine;” that Donizetti wrote the “Favorite,” and Verdi, “Don Carlos.” It was Paris that Wagner had in his mind when he composed his “Rienzi.”
Then if we cast a glance at their native composers what treasures of melody, what grace, and what innate dramatic feeling do we not find in the works of Méhul, Boïeldieu, Auber, Hérold, Adam, Halévy, and others whose operas during the first half of the present century were heard all over Europe.
Of a different type to the above we meet the Titanic figure of Berlioz, whose influence has been so great over the younger generation of composers and whose orchestral innovations have borne such fruit. In the present volume I am only dealing with living composers, otherwise there are four who occupy prominent places in the records of contemporary music whose names would have been included, Bizet, Lalo, César Franck, and Léo Delibes.
Bizet, the gifted author of “Carmen,” the inspired musician who wrote “L’Arlésienne,” snatched away at the very moment when his genius was beginning to meet with recognition. Who knows what he might not have done had he lived! As it is, “Carmen” is probably the most generally popular opera that has been written by a Frenchman since Gounod produced his “Faust,” and Bizet was only thirty-seven years of age when he died!
Edouard Lalo, whose death occurred last year (1892), had to wait a long time before his merits received the recognition to which they were entitled. His popularity in France may be said to date from the time when his opera, “Le Roi d’Ys,” was first produced at the Opéra Comique some five years ago, when the composer had reached his sixtieth year. An opera of his entitled “Fiesque,” composed many years previously, was accepted by one manager after another, but some circumstance invariably occurred to prevent its being brought out. His ballet “Namouna” contains much that is both charming and original, yet it failed to captivate the public of the Paris Opéra when it was produced.
Amongst his orchestral works are to be found a fine symphony, which I remember hearing at one of the Lamoureux concerts in Paris and which ought to be given here; two Norwegian Rhapsodies, and the “Symphonie Espagnole” for violin and orchestra. The work he will probably be best remembered by is “Le Roi d’Ys.” A great admirer of Wagner, Lalo in this opera applies the master’s theories in a restricted sense only, and “Le Roi d’Ys” has a greater affinity with “Tannhäuser” and “Lohengrin” than with “Tristan” or the “Meistersinger.” His chamber compositions and orchestral works reveal a considerable amount of originality and knowledge of effect, allied to consistently elevated notions with regard to the æsthetics of his art. A tendency towards the employment of curious rhythms often imparts a peculiar “cachet” to Lalo’s compositions. In all his works he exhibits a complete mastery over orchestral resources, a branch of the art in which French composers as a rule excel.
The name of César Franck is less known in England. Although a Belgian by birth, he may through his long residence in France be reckoned amongst the composers of that country. His reputation has been steadily on the increase of late, and some of his enthusiastic admirers have not scrupled to call him the “French Bach.”
Perhaps we may one day have an opportunity of judging works such as “Ruth,” “Rédemption” and “Les Béatitudes,” which last is generally considered as his masterpiece.
Léo Delibes will be remembered chiefly through his exquisite ballet music, such as “Coppelia” and “Sylvia,” full of grace, charm and refinement, never commonplace, and bearing the stamp of a distinct individuality. His operas, “Le Roi l’a dit,” “Jean de Nivelle,” and “Lakmé,” do not show his talent off to the same advantage, albeit containing many delightful pages.
Léo Delibes’ music is typically French and is full of that “esprit” so characteristic of our neighbours. A pupil of Adolphe Adam, Delibes seems to have acquired his master’s lightness of touch and gift of melody, to which he was able to add a quality of distinction which the composer of “Le Postillon de Lonjumeau” did not possess.
It is, however, with the living that we are concerned, and, having paid a passing tribute to the memory of the above deceased musicians, I will now proceed with my task, once more claiming the indulgence of my readers, and begging them to bear in mind that, whatever defects may be noticeable in these imperfect sketches, I can at least claim that they have been written in perfect good faith.
ARTHUR HERVEY.
P.S.—Among the books that I have had occasion to consult I may mention especially Mons. Adolphe Jullien’s “Musiciens d’Aujourd’hui,” Mons. Pagnerre’s “Charles Gounod,” Mlle. de Bovet’s “Life of Gounod,” Mons. Hugues Imbert’s “Profils de Musiciens,” and “Nouveaux Profils de Musiciens.”
I also take this opportunity of expressing my indebtedness to my friend, Mr. Robin H. Legge, for having been instrumental in procuring for me information of a valuable nature.
A.H.
July 1893.
Note.—Since these sketches were written, the death of Charles Gounod has deprived France of one of her greatest musicians. The composer of “Faust” died on the 18th of October (1893), the anniversary of the first performance of his opera, “La Nonne Sanglante,” which was produced in 1854. His loss is one that will be mourned, not by France alone, but by all other nations, and Englishmen will not forget that their country was the birthplace of the “Redemption” and “Mors et Vita.”
A. H.
AMBROISE THOMAS
IT HAS BECOME A TRITE saying that music is the youngest of the arts. The truth of this is nevertheless indisputable, and the remark is perhaps more applicable to music as represented in the “lyrical drama” than in any other form. What pleases one generation is often distasteful to the next, and a period of twenty or even ten years has sometimes been sufficient to witness a thorough evolution in the methods and general style of dramatic music.
The career of the composer whose name heads this chapter is, from this point of view, interesting to study, and a cursory glance at the state of musical affairs at the time when he emerged from the Paris Conservatoire, having won the “Grand Prix de Rome,” will not be out of place, and may help towards forming a more accurate estimate of his talent.
Every art has traversed a period of degeneration, when true æsthetics have been neglected and men of undoubted talent, or even genius, have been unable to free themselves from the shackles of a vitiated taste. This applies, perhaps, more to music than to any other art, probably for the reason that in this case the demand upon the intellect is proportionately greater, and a certain degree of culture is absolutely necessary for its due appreciation. There is a semblance of truth in the contention advanced by Rubinstein, that music is the reflex of its time, and even re-echoes the political events and general state of culture of the age. The following paradoxical opinion of the eminent Russian composer and pianist, taken from his “Conversation on Music,” is well worth quoting in extenso: “I can follow musically even the events of our century. Our century begins either with 1789, the French Revolution (musically with Beethoven), or the year 1815 is to be looked upon as the close of the eighteenth century, disappearance of Napoleon from the political horizon, the Restoration, &c. (musically the scholastic-virtuoso period: Hummel, Moscheles, and others); flourish of modern philosophy (third period of Beethoven); the July Revolution of 1830, fall of the Legitimists, raising the son of Philippe Egalité to the throne, the Orleans dynasty, democratic and constitutional principle in the foreground, monarchical principle in the background, 1848 in sight (Berlioz); the Æolian harp of the Polish rebellion of 1831 (Chopin); romanticism generally and its victory over the pseudo-classic (Schumann); flourish of all the arts and sciences (Mendelssohn); the triumph of the bourgeoisie, in sense of material existence, a shield against all disturbing elements of politics and culture (Capellmeister music); Louis Napoleon becomes Emperor (Liszt, the virtuoso, becomes the composer of symphonies and oratorios); his reign (the operetta a branch of art); the German-Franco war, Germany’s unity, the freedom of Europe resting on ten millions of soldiers, change in all formerly accepted political principles (Wagner, his music-drama, his art principles, &c.).”
We are able with a tolerable degree of certainty to determine the period when a house was built by the style of its architecture, just as we experience no difficulty, as a rule, in discovering the date when a picture was painted through details that unmistakably reveal the epoch when the artist lived, even if the subject he may have chosen to illustrate be ever so remote. The well-known picture by Paul Veronese of the “Marriage Feast of Cana” is a case in point.
In respect to music, a similar law would appear to govern its manifestations, and special characteristics are associated with the productions of different epochs. This is made evident by the non-success that attends the composer whose genius impels him onward towards new and unknown horizons. Woe be to the one who has the temerity to forestall his own generation. Although immortality and a tardy homage to his memory may be his reward, these will perhaps scarcely afford compensation for the trials and hardships endured whilst battling for sheer existence in this vale of tears. It is a moot consideration whether the wisest course to adopt is that followed by Hector Berlioz, or the one that has brought prosperity as well as celebrity to Ambroise Thomas; for whereas the former may result in post-mortem panegyrics, the latter procures a more immediate recompense, and may lead to the directorship of the Paris Conservatoire.
There is something inexpressibly sad in the evanescence of music, and in thinking of the comparatively small number of compositions destined to survive their age. In this respect music is at a decided disadvantage in comparison with the sister arts; the fact of the former being essentially creative possibly accounting in some measure for this. At any rate, whereas masterpieces of classic art, such as “The Dying Gladiator” and the “Apollo Belvedere” remain unrivalled and do not betray a vestige of their antiquity, much of the music composed fifty years ago has become so hopelessly old-fashioned that it can scarcely be listened to with patience.
Is it that in this special case familiarity breeds a larger dose of contempt than usual? The fact has been proved over and over again, that compositions that seem absolutely incomprehensible to one generation, are accepted as comparatively simple by the next; whereas those that have caught on with the public at once very soon lose their hold.
The great test of an art work, as such, is its truth of expression. The moment this is wanting, its value diminishes, and it is powerless to survive the caprice of fashion.
Thus we find that those works into which composers have poured their innermost feelings, untrammelled by any desire to purchase an ephemeral popularity at the cost of the sacrifice of principle, are those that have remained. This is so much the case with stage works that it is necessary to state it definitely before proceeding any further.
For years the operatic composer was almost entirely at the mercy of the singer, and it has required many efforts on the part of great artists to shake off the load, the final emancipation being effected through the agency of one whose genius towers far above that of his contemporaries, and whose influence upon music has been as widespread as it has been beneficial. Need I say that I allude to Richard Wagner?
The spirit of routine, so engrained in the human mind, has also much to account for in preventing the development of music as represented in the opera. It is far from my desire to say anything in disparagement of a form of art such as the “opéra comique,” a genre that has been illustrated with so conspicuous a degree of success by composers such as Grétry, Monsigny, Dalayrac, Nicolo, Boiëldieu, Hérold, and Auber. At the same time, it must be admitted that the ideal aimed at by modern French musicians is altogether a higher one. The “lyrical drama” has usurped the place of the old “opéra comique,” and those composers whose inability or disinclination have kept them from following the prevalent movement, have perforce drifted into that mongrel species of art known as the “opérette.” From an æsthetic point of view the change is emphatically for the better, as the “opéra comique,” corresponding to the German “Singspiel,” and to our “ballad opera,” and consisting of an amalgam of speech and song, being neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, is utterly inconsistent with logic.
That there is still, however, a place for works coming under the denomination of a modernised form of “opéra comique,” as distinct from the “opérette,” without pretensions of too lofty an order, is evidenced by the delightful works of the late Léo Delibes, “Le Roi l’a dit,” “Jean de Nivelle,” and “Lakmé”; and more recently by Mons. Chabrier’s “Le Roi Malgré Lui” and Mons. Messager’s “La Basoche.”
In the year 1832, when Ambroise Thomas had completed his twenty-first birthday, the Rossini fever was at its height. Beethoven was comparatively little known in France, and those amongst his symphonies that had been brought to a hearing had excited more wonder than admiration.
“Il ne faut pas faire de la musique comme celle-là,” Lesueur had said to Berlioz after having listened to the C Minor Symphony; “Soyez tranquille, cher maître, on n’en fera pas beaucoup,” had been the answer vouchsafed by the future author of “La Damnation de Faust.” In the meanwhile Boiëldieu never lost the opportunity of playing through Rossini’s operas to his pupils, and descanting upon their merits. It is indeed difficult to account for the extraordinary influence exercised by Rossini over his contemporaries. That his “facile” melodies should have proved agreeable to the general public, and his florid ornamentations grateful to the singers, “passe encore.” But that an entire generation of composers should have been so fascinated by the sham glitter of his brilliant though shallow compositions as to follow his methods in so faithful a manner, is incomprehensible. It is eminently to the credit of French taste that “Guillaume Tell,” his only really great work of serious import, should have been written for the Paris Grand Opéra.
Entirely devoid of artistic conscience or of any of those lofty aspirations towards the ideal that stamp the true artist, be his name Bach or Beethoven, Schubert or Schumann, Berlioz or Wagner, Rossini deliberately squandered his genius. Success seems to have been his only object, and this once acquired he was content to idle away the remainder of a long existence, sublimely unconscious of the great musical upheaval that was being accomplished by genuine workers in the cause of art.
What can we think of a composer who could employ the same overture to precede operas so widely different in regard to their subject-matter as “Elisabetta, Regina d’Inghilterra” and “Il Barbiere”? What of the musician who thought that a brilliant martial strain was the right musical interpretation of the sublime and poignant words expressive of Mary at the foot of the Cross? “Cujus animam gementem, contristantem et dolentem”; words of indescribable sadness and depth; a mother mourning her Divine Son; a theme unexampled in point of pathos and emotion, set to a melody that would be in its proper place in some pageant descriptive of the triumphal entry of a conqueror into a city!
What, again, of the composer who could prefix a tragedy like “Othello” with an overture fit for an “opéra bouffe?” And what would be said nowadays of the musician who, finding himself short of an idea, pilfered that of another composer, as Rossini did in “Il Barbiere,” the trio in the last act of which being palpably taken from Haydn’s “Seasons”? The greater a man’s genius—and no one would dream of denying this attribute to Rossini—the greater his responsibility. Noblesse oblige. In order that I may not be accused of formulating too harsh a judgment upon the Italian master, I will quote the following words of Blaze de Bury, his friend and admirer: “Avec du génie et les circonstances, on fait les Rossini; pour être Mozart ou Raphaël, Michel Ange ou Beethoven, il faut avoir quelque chose de plus: des principes.”
What has been termed the “golden epoch” of the “grand opéra” was at this time at its apogee, and the period often years from 1828 to 1838 witnessed the production upon the same boards of Auber’s “La Muette de Portici,” known here as “Masaniello,” Rossini’s “Guillaume Tell,” Halévy’s “La Juive,” and Meyerbeer’s “Robert le Diable” and “Les Huguenots.”
It has been too much the fashion in recent years to decry the works of Meyerbeer, and to lay stress upon their shortcomings whilst giving but a grudging half-hearted acknowledgment to the many undeniable beauties that pervade them. Against so unjust a verdict I desire emphatically to protest, for however much Meyerbeer may have sacrificed for the sake of effect, there can be no doubt that he contributed in a large measure towards raising the operatic standard, then at a very low level.
If we find the rich crop of wheat not devoid of chaff, we must at any rate admit that the former is of excellent quality. To be the author of “Les Huguenots,” the fourth act of “Le Prophète,” and the music to “Struensee,” not to speak of many another dramatic masterpiece, is in itself a sufficient title to rank amongst the greatest musicians of the age.
It would occupy too much space were I to enter further into a question which I may in the course of this volume have occasion to allude to again. I will therefore terminate these preliminary observations by stating the position occupied by the three great emancipators of dramatic and instrumental music—Berlioz, Liszt, and Wagner—at the time I mention, circa 1832. The first was endeavouring to obtain a hearing for works that were condemned as incoherent and unintelligible, the second had achieved high fame as a pianist, and the third was qualifying for the humble position of “Capellmeister” in a German provincial town. The charge of incoherence was destined to cling to Berlioz even unto the end, whilst the colossal reputation of Liszt as an executant for a long while caused his labours as a creative musician to be underrated. As to Wagner, the number of misrepresentations that he had to live through are too numerous and too well known to mention.
Time, however, sets all things right, and the three masters are little by little gaining the position in public estimation to which they are entitled.
Ambroise Thomas was born at Metz on the 5th of August 1811, the same year as Liszt. He entered the Paris Conservatoire, of which institution he is at the time I am writing the honoured director, in 1828, and studied there under Zimmerman, Dourlen, and Lesueur; also receiving instructions from Kalkbrenner, and Barbereau. The vein of sentiment which in later years was to be so prominent a feature in his compositions must have been noticeable even at that time, for it is said that his master Lesueur, on being told that the future author of “Mignon” was seventh in the class, remarked: “Thomas est vraiment ma note sensible.” (The seventh note of the scale, or what we in England call the leading note, is known in French as “la note sensible.") Having won the “Prix de Rome” in 1832, for a cantata entitled “Herman et Ketty,” Ambroise Thomas repaired to Italy, where he spent the following three years according to the usual custom.
It must have been about this time that he composed the trio and “Caprices en forme de Valses” for piano, marked respectively Opus 2 and 4, which were appreciated in the following terms by Schumann.
“We come to an extremely pleasant composition, a ‘salon trio,’ during which it is possible to look around without completely losing the musical thread; neither heavy nor light, neither deep nor superficial, not classical, not romantic, but always euphonious and in certain parts full of beautiful melody; for instance, in the soft leading motive of the first movement, which, however, loses a great deal of its charm when it reappears in the major, and even sounds commonplace,” etc.
“The ‘Caprices’ of Thomas move in a higher circle than Wenzel’s ‘Adieu de St. Petersbourg,’ but, notwithstanding the evident application and the great amount of talent evinced, are nothing more nor less than higher-class Wenzel; ‘lederne’ German thoughts translated into the French language, so pleasant that one must needs beware of them, and so pretentious that one could well get vexed with them. Occasionally the composer wanders into mystic harmonies, but, soon frightened at his own temerity, returns to his natural mode of expression, to what he possesses and is able to give. But what do I expect? The ‘Caprices’ are pretty, sound well,” etc.
During his sojourn in the eternal city, Thomas made himself popular with all who came across him, and was alluded to by Ingres, the celebrated painter, at that time head of the school whither were sent the successful young artists and musicians who had won the “Prix de Rome,” as “l’excellent jeune homme, le bon Thomas.”
The operatic career of the composer of “Mignon” dates from the year 1837, his first venture being a one-act comic opera entitled “La Double Échelle,” produced at the Opéra Comique. This was succeeded the following year by “Le Perruquier de la Régence,” three acts, at the same theatre; and in 1839 by “La Gipsy,” a ballet at the Opéra, in collaboration with Benoist, and “Le Panier Fleuri,” at the Opéra Comique.
The prolific nature of the composer’s talent was further illustrated by the production in quick succession of “Carline” (1840), “Le Comte de Carmagnole” (1841), “Le Guerillero” (1842), and “Angélique et Médor” (1843), none of which obtained any appreciable success. It was otherwise with “Mina,” a three-act comic opera, produced at the Opéra Comique in 1843, which enjoyed a certain vogue at the time, but has not survived.
The first permanent success achieved by Thomas was with “Le Caïd,” a light opera given in 1849, which rapidly became popular, and is regarded by some as the precursor of the style of opéra bouffe which was destined later on to achieve so great a notoriety at the hands of Offenbach and his imitators. This is scarcely a correct view to take, as the innate refinement of a nature such as that of Ambroise Thomas has little in common with the vulgarities associated with the genre. “Le Caïd,” in which the composer amusingly parodies the absurdities associated with the now happily obsolete Italian opera style of the period, would nowadays pass muster as a high-class opérette. This bright little score is full of that esprit of which French composers seem to possess the secret, and is wedded to an exceedingly amusing libretto. “Le Caïd” has remained popular in France, and occupies a permanent place in the répertoire of the Paris Opéra Comique.
Before proceeding with the composer’s operatic career, it may be well to mention a phase in his existence during which he bravely performed his duties as a citizen. At the time of the political troubles of 1848, when art was forcibly relegated into the background, Ambroise Thomas donned the uniform of a garde national. It is related that one night, when passing under the windows of his friend and collaborator Sauvage, with whom he was at that moment working, he shouted out to him, brandishing his gun, “This is the instrument upon which I must compose to-day; the music it produces requires no words.”
Happily Thomas was able soon to revert to more pacific and profitable occupations.
The composer’s next work was of a different nature, and if “Le Songe d’une Nuit d’Été” ("A Midsummer Night’s Dream"), given at the Opéra Comique in 1851, did not achieve a similar success to “Le Caïd,” it possessed merit of a higher order, and is even now still occasionally performed.
This opera has nothing to do with Shakespeare’s comedy, as its name might imply. Curiously enough, the immortal bard is made to figure as the hero of the piece. He is represented as a drunkard, who is rescued by Queen Elizabeth from his evil habits through a stratagem, by which he is made to see the veiled figure of a woman, when he is recovering from a drunken bout, whom he mistakes for the embodiment of his own genius, and who threatens to abandon him unless he promises to reform. It is strange that such a farrago of nonsense should have been deemed worthy of serving as an operatic text.
“Raymond,” a three-act opera, founded upon the story of the Man with the Iron Mask, followed the above work in 1851. The overture is the only number that has survived. It is a brilliant orchestral piece, somewhat in the style of Auber.
In the course of the same year Ambroise Thomas was elected a member of the Institute in the place of Spontini. It can scarcely be said that this brought him much luck, for of the five operas that he wrote within the ten succeeding years, not one has kept the stage. They need not detain us long. Their names are “La Tonelli” (1853); “La Cour de Célimène” (1855); “Psyché’” (1857), a revised version of which was produced at the Opéra Comique in 1878; “Le Carnaval de Venise” (1857); and “Le Roman d’Elvire” (1860).
