Camille Saint Saens - Musical Memories
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Camille Saint Saens >> Musical Memories
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When Perrin and his nephew du Locle opened the package of manuscripts
Meyerbeer had left, they were stupefied at finding no _L'Africanne_.
"Never mind," said Perrin, "the public wants an _Africanne_ and it shall
have one."
He summoned Fetis, Meyerbeer's enthusiastic admirer, and the three,
Fetis, Perrin and du Locle, managed to evolve the opera we know from the
scraps the author had left in disorder. They did not accomplish this,
however, without considerable difficulty, without some incoherences,
numerous suppressions and even additions. Perrin was the inventor of the
wonderful map on which Selika recognized Madagascar. They took the
characters there in order to justify the term Africanne applied to the
heroine. They also introduced the Brahmin religion to Madagascar in
order to avoid moving the characters to India where the fourth act
should take place. The first performance was imminent when they found
that the work was too long. So they cut out an original ballet where a
savage beat a tom-tom, and they cut and fitted together mercilessly. In
the last act Selika, alone and dying, should see the paradise of the
Brahmins appear as in a vision. But Faure wanted to appear again at the
finale, so they had to adapt a bit taken from the third act and suppress
the vision. This is the reason why Nelusko succumbs so quickly to the
deadly perfume of the poisonous flowers, while Selika resists so long.
The riturnello of Selika's aria, which should be performed with lowered
curtain as the queen gazes over the sea and at the departing vessel far
away on the horizon, became a vehicle for encores--the last thing that
was ever in Meyerbeer's mind. But the worst was the liberty Fetis took
in retouching the orchestration. As a compliment to Adolph Sax he
substituted a saxaphone for the bass clarinet which the author
indicated. This resulted in the suppression of that part of the aria
beginning _O Paradis sorti de l'onde_ as the saxophone did not produce a
good effect. Fetis also allowed Perrin to make over a bass solo into a
chorus, the Bishop's Chorus. The great vocal range in this is poorly
adapted for a chorus. Some barbarous modulations are certainly
apocryphal....
We are unable to imagine what _L'Africanne_ would have been if Scribe
had lived and the authors had put it into shape. The work we have is
illogical and incomplete. The words are simply monstrous and Scribe
certainly would not have kept them. This is the case in the passage in
the great duet:
O ma Selika, vous regnez sur mon ame!
--Ah! ne dis pas ces mots brulante!
Ils m'egarent moi-meme....
The music stitched to this impossible piece, however, had its
admirers--even fanatical admirers--so great was the prestige of the
author's name at the time of its appearance. We must not forget that
there are, indeed, some beautiful pages in this chaos. The religious
ceremony in the fourth act and the Brahmin recitative accompanied by the
_pizzicati_ of the bass may be mentioned as an indication of this. The
latter passage is not in favor, however; they play it down without
conviction and so deprive it of all its strength and majesty.
* * * * *
I said, at the beginning of this study, that we were ungrateful to
Meyerbeer, and this ingratitude is double on the part of France, for he
loved her. He only had to say the word to have any theatre in Europe
opened to him, yet he preferred to them all the Opera at Paris and even
the Opera-Comique where the choruses and orchestra left much to be
desired. When he did work for Paris after he had given _Margherita
d'Anjou_ and _Le Crociato_ in Italy, he was forced to accommodate
himself to French taste just as Rossini and Donizetti were. The latter
wrote for the Opera-Comique _La Fille du Regiment_, a military and
patriotic work, and its dashing and glorious _Salut a la France_ has
resounded through the whole world. Foreigners do not take so much pains
in our day, and France applauds _Die Meistersinger_ which ends with a
hymn to German art. Such is progress!
Something must be said of a little known score, _Struensee_, which was
written for a drama which was so weak that it prevented the music
gaining the success it deserved. The composer showed himself in this
more artistic than in anything else he did. It should have been heard at
the Odeon with another piece written by Jules Barbier on the same
subject. The overture used to appear in the concerts as did the
polonnaise, but like the overture to _Guillaume Tell_, they have
disappeared. These overtures are not negligible. The overture to
_Guillaume Tell_ is notable for the unusual invention of the five
violoncellos and its storm with its original beginning, to say nothing
of its pretty pastoral. The fine depth of tone in the exordium of
_Struensee_ and the fugue development in the main theme are also not to
be despised. But all that, we are told, is lacking in elevation and
depth. Possibly; but it is not always necessary to descend to Hell and
go up to Heaven. There is certainly more music in these overtures than
in Grieg's _Peer Gynt_ which has been dinned into our ears so much.
But enough of this. I must stop with the operas, for to consider the
rest of his music would necessitate a study of its own and that would
take us too far afield. My hope is that these lines may repair an
unnecessary injustice and redirect the fastidious who may read them to a
great musician whom the general public has never ceased to listen to and
applaud.
CHAPTER XXI
JACQUES OFFENBACH
It is dangerous to prophesy. Not long ago I was speaking of Offenbach,
trying to do justice to his marvellous natural gifts and deploring his
squandering them. And I was imprudent enough to say that posterity would
never know him. Now posterity is proving that I was wrong, for Offenbach
is coming back into fashion. Our contemporaneous composers forget that
Mozart, Beethoven and Sebastian Bach knew how to laugh at times. They
distrust all gaiety and declare it unesthetic. As the good public cannot
resign itself to getting along without gaiety, it goes to operetta and
turns naturally to Offenbach who created it and furnished an
inexhaustible supply. My phrase is not exaggerated, for Offenbach hardly
dreamed of creating an art. He was endowed with a genius for the comic
and an abundance of melody, but he had no thought of doing anything
beyond providing material for the theatre he managed at the time. As a
matter of fact he was almost its only author.
He was unable to rid himself of his Germanic influences and so corrupted
the taste of an entire generation by his false prosody, which has been
incorrectly considered originality. In addition he was lacking in taste.
At the time they affected a dreadful mannerism of always stopping on the
next to the last note of a passage, whether or not it was associated
with a mute syllable. This mannerism had no purpose beyond indicating to
the audience the end of a passage and giving the claque the signal to
applaud. Offenbach did not belong to that heroic strain to which success
is the least of its cares. So he adopted this mannerism, and often his
ingeniously turned and charming couplets are ruined by this silly
absurdity now gone out of fashion.
Furthermore, he wrote badly, for his early education was neglected. If
the _Tales of Hoffman_ shows traces of a practised pen, it is because
Guiraud finished the score and went out of his way to remedy some of
the author's mistakes. Leaving aside the bad prosody and the minor
defects in taste, we have left a work which shows a wealth of invention,
melody, and sparkling fancy comparable to Gretry's.
Gretry was no more a great musician than Offenbach, for he also wrote
badly. The essential difference between the two was the care, not only
in his prosody but also in his declamation, which Gretry tried to
reproduce musically with all possible exactness. He overshot the mark in
this for he did not see that in singing the expression of a note is
modified by the harmonic scheme which accompanies it. It must be
recognized, in addition, that many times Gretry was carried away by his
melodic inventiveness and forgot his own principles so that he relegated
his care for declamation to second place.
What hurt Gretry was his unbounded conceit, with which Offenbach, to his
credit, was never afflicted. As an indication of this, he dared to write
in his advice to young musicians:
"Those who have genius will make opera-comique like mine; those who have
talent will write opera like Gluck's; while those who have neither
genius nor talent, will write symphonies like Haydn's."
However, he tried to make an opera like Gluck's and in spite of his
great efforts and his interesting inventions, he could not equal the
work of his formidable rival.
* * * * *
Although he was not a great musician, Offenbach had a surprising natural
instinct and made here and there curious discoveries in harmony. In
speaking of these discoveries I must go slightly into the theory of
harmony and resign myself to being understood only by those of my
readers who are more or less musicians. In a slight work, _Daphnis et
Chloe_, Offenbach risked a dominant eleventh without either introduction
or conclusion--an extraordinary audacity at the time. A short course in
harmony is necessary for the understanding of this. We must start with
the fact that, theoretically, all dissonances must be introduced and
concluded, which we cannot explain here, but this leading up to and away
from have for their purpose softening the harshness of the dissonance
which was greatly feared in bygone times. Take if you please, the simple
key of C natural. _Do_ is the keynote, _sol_ is the dominant. Place on
this dominant two-thirds--_si-re_--and you have the perfect dominant
chord. Add a third _fa_ and you have the famous dominant seventh, a
dissonance which to-day seems actually agreeable. Not so long ago they
thought that they ought to prepare for the dissonance. In the Sixteenth
Century it was not regarded as admissible at all, for one hears the two
notes _si_ and _fa_ simultaneously and this seems intolerable to the
ear. They used to call it the _Diabolus in musica_.
Palestrina was the first to employ it in an anthem. Opinions differ on
this, and certain students of harmony pretend that the chord which
Palestrina used only has the appearance of the dominant seventh. I do
not concur in this view. But however the case may be, the glory of
unchaining the devil in music belongs to Montreverde. That was the
beginning of modern music.
Later, a new third was superimposed and they dared the chord
_sol-si-re-fa-la_. The inventor is unknown, but Beethoven seems to have
been the first to make any considerable use of it. He used the chord in
such a way that, in spite of its current use to-day, in his works it
appears like something new and strange. This chord imposes its
characteristics on the second _motif_ of the first part of the _Symphony
in C minor_. This is what gives such amazing charm to the long colloquy
between the flute, the oboe and the clarinets, which always surprises
and arouses the listener, in the _andante_ of the same symphony. Fetis
in his _Traite d'Harmonie_ inveighed against this delightful passage. He
admits that people like it, but, according to him, the author had no
right to write it and the listener has no right to admire it. Scholars
often have strange ideas.
Then Richard Wagner came along and the reign of the ninth dominant took
the place of the seventh. That is what gives _Tannhauser_, and
_Lohengrin_ their exciting character, which is dear to those who demand
in music above everything else the pleasure due to shocks to the nervous
system. Imitators have fallen foul of this easy procedure, and with a
laughable naivete imagine that in this way they can easily equal Wagner.
And they have succeeded in making this valuable chord absolutely banal.
[Illustration: Jacques Offenbach]
By adding still another third we have the dominant eleventh. Offenbach
used this, but it has played but a small part since then. Beyond that we
cannot go, for a third more and we are back to the basic note, two
octaves away.
But innovations in harmony are rare in Offenbach's work. What makes him
interesting is his fertility in invention of melodies and few have
equaled him in this. He improvised constantly and with incredible
rapidity. His manuscripts give the impression of having been done with
the point of a needle. There is nothing useless anywhere in them. He
used abbreviations as much as he could and the simplicity of his harmony
helped him here. As a result he was able to produce his light works in
an exceedingly short time.
He had the luck to attach Madame Ugalde to his company. Her powers had
already begun to decline but she was still brilliant. While she was
giving a spectacular revival of _Orphee aux Enfers_, he wrote _Les
Bavards_ for her. He was inspired by the hope of an unusual
interpretation and he so surpassed himself that he produced a small
masterpiece. A revival of this work would certainly be successful if
that were possible, but the peculiar merits of the creatrix of the role
would be necessary and I do not see her like anywhere.
It is strange but true that Offenbach lost all his good qualities as
soon as he took himself seriously. But he was not the only case of this
in the history of music. Cramer and Clementi wrote studies and exercises
which are marvels of style, but their sonatas and concertos are tiresome
in their mediocrity. Offenbach's works which were given at the
Opera-Comique--_Robinson Crusoe_, _Vert-Vert_, and _Fantasio_ are much
inferior to _La Chanson de Fortunio_, _La Belle Helene_ and many other
justly famous operettas. There have been several unprofitable revivals
of _La Belle Helene_. This is due to the fact that the role of Helene
was designed for Mlle. Schneider. She was beautiful and talented and had
an admirable mezzo-soprano voice. The slight voice of the ordinary
singer of operetta is insufficient for the part. Furthermore, traditions
have sprung up. The comic element has been suppressed and the piece has
been denatured by this change. In Germany they conceived the idea of
playing this farce seriously with an archaic stage setting!
Jacques Offenbach will become a classic. While this may be unexpected,
what doesn't happen? Everything is possible--even the impossible.
CHAPTER XXII
THEIR MAJESTIES
Queen Victoria did me the honor to receive me twice at Windsor Castle,
and Queen Alexandra paid me the same honor at Buckingham Palace in
London. The first time I saw Queen Victoria I was presented to her by
the Baroness de Caters. She was the daughter of Lablache and had one of
the most beautiful voices and the greatest talent that I have ever
known. This charming woman had been left a widow and so she became an
artist, appearing in concerts and giving singing lessons. At the time of
which I speak she was teaching Princess Beatrice, now the mother-in-law
of the King of Spain. In all the glory of the freshness of youth, the
Princess was endowed with a charming voice which the Baroness guided
perfectly. The Princess received Madame de Caters and myself with a
gracefulness which was increased by her unusual bashfulness. Her
Majesty, in the meantime, was finishing her luncheon. I was somewhat
apprehensive through having heard of the coldness which the Queen
affected at this sort of audience, so I was more than surprised when she
came in with both hands extended to take mine and when she addressed me
with real cordiality. She was very fond of Baroness de Caters and that
was the secret of the reception which put me at my ease at once.
Her Majesty wanted to hear me play the organ (there is an excellent one
in the chapel at Windsor), and then the piano. Finally, I had the honor
of accompanying the Princess as she sang the aria from _Etienne Marcel_.
Her Royal Highness sang with great clearness and distinctness, but it
was the first time she had sung before her august mother and she was
frightened almost to death. The Queen was so delighted that some days
later, without my being told of it, she summoned to Windsor, Madame Gye,
wife of the manager of Covent Garden,--the famous singer Albani--to ask
to have _Etienne Marcel_ staged at her own theatre. The Queen's wish was
not granted.
I returned to Windsor seventeen years later, in company with Johann
Wolf, who was for many years Queen Victoria's chosen violinist. We dined
at the palace, and, if we did not enjoy the distinction of sitting at
the royal table, we were nevertheless in good company with the young
princesses, daughters of the Duke of Connaught. We were lodged at a
hotel for the honor of sleeping at the Castle was reserved for very
important personages--an honor which need not be envied, for the
sleeping apartments are really servants' rooms. But etiquette decrees
it.
Dinner was over, and princes in full uniform and princesses in elaborate
evening dress stood about, waiting for her Majesty's appearance. I was
heartbroken when I saw her enter, for she was almost carried by her
Indian servant and obviously could not walk alone. But once seated at a
small table, she was just as she had been before, with her wonderful
charm, her simple manner and her musical voice. Only her white hair bore
witness to the years that had passed. She asked me about _Henri VIII_,
which was being given for the second time at Covent Garden, and I
explained to her that in my desire to give the piece the local color of
its times I had been ferreting about in the royal library at Buckingham
Palace, to which my friend, the librarian, had given me access. And I
also told how I had found in a great collection of manuscripts of the
Sixteenth Century an exquisitely fine theme arranged for the
harpsichord, which served as the framework for the opera--I used it
later for the march I wrote for the coronation of King Edward. The Queen
was much interested in music in general and she appeared to be
especially pleased in this discussion. His Highness the Duke of
Connaught wrote me that she had spoken of it several times.
The musical library at Buckingham Palace is most remarkable and it is a
pity that access to it is not easier. Among other things, there are the
manuscripts of Handel's oratorios, written for the most part with
disconcerting rapidity. His _Messiah_ was composed in fifteen days! The
rudimentary instrumentation of the time made such speed possible, yet
who is there to-day who could write all those fugue choruses with such
speed? The fugue manner, which seems laborious to us, was current at
the time and they were practised in it. The library also contains works
of Handel's contemporaries, which are executed with the same mastery. We
cannot say whether they were written with the same rapidity as Handel's,
but it is easy to see that there was a general ability to do so, just as
now it is a matter of common attainment to produce complicated
orchestral effects, the possibility of which the old masters had no
conception. What made Handel superior to his rivals was the romantic and
picturesque side of his works; probably also, his prodigious and
unvarying fertility.
The last word has been said about Queen Victoria, yet the peculiar charm
which radiated from her personality cannot be too highly praised. She
seemed the personification of England. When she passed on, it seemed as
though a great void were left. All King Edward's splendid qualities were
necessary to take her place, combined with the effect of the world's
surprise at discovering a great king where they had expected to see
only a brilliant prince who had been a constant lover of pomp and
pleasure.
I was later admitted to Buckingham Palace to play with Josef Hollman,
the violinist, before Queen Alexandra. We both were eager for this
opportunity which we were told was impossible. The Queen was very busy,
and, in addition, she was in mourning for the successive deaths of her
father and mother, the King and Queen of Denmark. Suddenly, however, we
learned that she would receive us. She was pale and appeared to be
feeble, but she received us with the utmost cordiality. She spoke to me
about her mother, whom I had seen at Copenhagen with her sisters the
Empress Dowager of Russia, and the Princess of Hanover whom politics
deprived of a crown which was hers by right. I have a very pleasant
recollection of this visit. I do not know how it happened but I remained
speechless at this lead from the Queen. She brought the subject up a
second time and my timidity still prevented my responding. I ought to
have had many things to say to one so obviously eager to listen. This
Queen of Denmark, with her eighty years, was the most delightful old
lady imaginable. Erect, slight, alert of mind and unfaltering of speech,
she reminded me vividly of my maternal great-aunt, that extraordinary
woman, who gave me my first notions of things and directed my hand on
the keys so well.
A singer whom I had never seen or heard of, but of whom I had heard poor
reports, had written Queen Louise that I wanted to accompany her to
court. The Queen asked me if I knew her and if what she had written was
true. My surprise was so great that I could not repress a start, which I
followed by an exclamation of denial, which appeared to amuse her
greatly. "I did not doubt it," she said, "but I'm not sorry to be sure."
Queen Alexandra was accompanied by Lady Gray, her great friend, and the
hereditary princess of Greece. After M. Hollman and I had played a duet,
she expressed a desire to hear me play alone. As I attempted to lift the
lid of the piano, she stepped forward to help me raise it before the
maids of honor could intervene. After this slight concert she delivered
to each of us, in her own name and in that of the absent king, a gold
medal commemorative of artistic merit, and she offered us a cup of tea
which she poured with her royal and imperial hands.
Other queens have also received me--Queen Christine of Spain and Queen
Amelie of Portugal. After Queen Christine had heard me play on the
piano, she expressed a desire to hear me play the organ, and they chose
for this an excellent instrument made by Cavaille-Coll in a church whose
name I have forgotten. The day was fixed for this ceremony, which would
naturally have been of a private character, when some great ladies
lectured the indiscreet queen for daring to resort to a sacred place for
any purpose besides taking part in divine services. The queen was
displeased by this remonstrance and she responded by coming to the
church not only not incognito, but in great state, with the king (he was
very young), the ministers and the court, while horsemen stationed at
intervals blew their trumpets. I had written a religious march
especially for this event, and the Queen kindly accepted its dedication
to her. I was a little flustered when she asked me to play the too
familiar melody from _Samson et Dalila_ which begins _Mon coeur s'ouvre
a ta voix_. I had to improvise a transposition suited for the organ,
something I had never dreamt of doing. During the performance the Queen
leaned her elbow on the keyboard of the organ, her chin resting on one
hand and her eyes upturned. She seemed rapt in exstasy which, as may be
imagined, was not precisely displeasing to the author.
The press of the day printed delightful articles about the scene, but
with no pretense to accuracy. I had nothing to do with that in any way.
Her Majesty Queen Amelie of Portugal once honored me in a distinctive
manner. She received me alone without any of her ladies of honor, which
allowed her to dispense with all etiquette and to have me sit in a chair
near her. In this intimate way she entertained me for three-quarters of
an hour asking questions on all sorts of subjects. I had the chance to
tell her how the oriental theme of the ballet in _Samson_ had been given
to me years before by General Yusuf, and to give her many details of
that interesting personage of whom she had heard her uncles speak.
"I am going to leave you," she said at last, "but not because I want to.
If one conscientiously practices the _metier_ of being a queen, one
doesn't always find it amusing."
What would that unhappy woman have said, could she have foreseen the
calamities that were to befall her!
In Rome I had the honor to be invited to a musicale at Queen
Margharita's. The great drawing-rooms were filled with great ladies
laden down with family jewels of fabulous value. All the music was
terribly serious. Now this kind of music does not make for personal
acquaintance, especially as all these great people were victims of a
boredom they did their best to conceal. Afterwards the two queens wanted
to talk to me. Queen Helene, who is a violinist, told me that her
children were learning the violin and the cello, an arrangement I
praised highly, for the exclusive devotion to the piano in these later
days has been the death of chamber music and almost of music itself.
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