Camille Saint Saens - Musical Memories

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The festival lasted four days and there were six concerts--four with the
orchestra and a chorus. They gave the oratorio _Christus_, an enormous
work which takes up all the time allowed for one concert; the Dante and
Faust symphonies, and the symphonic poems _Ce qu'on entend sur la
montagne_ and _Tasso_, to mention only the most important works.

The oratorio _Christus_ lacks the fine unity of the _Saint Elisabeth_.
But the two works are alike in being divided into a series of separate
episodes. While the different episodes in _Saint Elisabeth_ solve the
difficult problem of creating variety and retaining unity, the parts of
_Christus_ are somewhat unrelated. There is something for every taste.
Certain parts are unqualifiedly admirable; others border on the
theatrical; still others are nearly or entirely liturgical, while,
finally, some are picturesque, although there are some almost confusing.
Like Gounod, Liszt was sometimes deceived and attributed to ordinary and
simple sequences of chords a profound significance which escaped the
great majority of his hearers. There are some pages of this sort in
_Christus_.

But there are beautiful and wonderful things in this vast work. If we
regret that the author lingered too long in his imitation of the
_Pifferari_ of the Roman campagna, on the other hand, we are delighted
by the symphonic interlude _Les Bergers a la Creche_. It is very simple,
but in an inimitable simplicity of taste which is the secret of great
artists alone. It is surprising that this interlude does not appear in
the repertoire of all concerts.

The Dante symphony has not established itself in the repertoires as has
the Faust symphony. It was performed for the first time in Paris at a
concert I organized and managed at a time when Liszt's works were
distrusted. Along with the Dante symphony we had the Andante (Gretchen)
from the Faust symphony, the symphonic poem _Fest Kloenge_, a charming
work which is never played now, and still other works. It would be hard
to imagine all the opposition I had to overcome in giving that concert.
There was the hostility of the public, the ill-will of the
Theatre-Italien which rented me its famous hall but which sullenly
opposed a proper announcement of the concert, the insubordination of the
orchestra, the demands of the singers for more pay--they imagined that
Liszt would pay the expenses--and, finally, complete--and expected
failure. My only object was to lay a foundation for the future, nothing
more. In spite of everything I managed to get a creditable performance
of the Dante symphony and I had the pleasure of hearing it for the first
time.

The first part (the Inferno) is wonderfully impressive with its
_Francesca da Rimini_ interlude, in which burn all the fires of Italian
passion. The second part (Purgatory and Paradise) combines the most
intense and poignant charm. It contains a fugue episode of unsurpassed
beauty.

_Ce qu'on entend sur la montagne_ is, perhaps, the best of the famous
symphonic poems. The author was inspired by Victor Hugo's poetry and
reproduced its spirit admirably. When will this typical work appear in
the concert repertoires? When will orchestra conductors get tired of
presenting the three or four Wagnerian works they repeat _ad nauseum_,
when they can be heard at the Opera under better conditions, and
Schubert's insignificant _Unfinished Symphony_.

* * * * *

The _Christus_ oratorio was given at the first concert of the festival
at Heidelberg. It lasted three hours and a half and is so long that I
would not dare to advise concert managers to try such an adventure. The
performance was sublime. It was given in a newly constructed square
hall. Cavaille-Coll, who knew acoustics, used to advise the square hall
for concerts but nobody would listen to him. Three hundred chorus
singers, many from a distance, were supported by an orchestra that was
large, but, in my opinion, insufficient to stand up against this mass of
voices. Furthermore, the orchestra was placed below the level of the
stage, as in a theatre, while the voices sounded freely above. Two
harps, one on the east side of the stage and one on the west, saw each
other from afar,--a pleasingly decorative device, but as annoying to the
ear as pleasing to the eye. The chorus and the four soloists--their task
was exceedingly arduous--triumphed completely over the difficulties of
this immense work and all the varied and delicate nuances were rendered
to perfection.

Liszt was far from professing the disdain for the limitations of the
human voice that Wagner and Berlioz did. On the contrary he treated it
as if it were a queen or a goddess, and it is to be regretted that his
tastes did not lead him to work for the stage. Parts of _Saint
Elisabeth_ show that he would have succeeded and the fashion of having
operas for the orchestra, accompanied by voices, which we enjoy to-day,
might have been avoided. He discovered a method, peculiarly his own, of
writing choruses. His manner has never been imitated, but it is
ingenious and has many advantages. The only trouble about it is that the
singers have to take care of details and shadings which is too often
the least of their worries. The German societies, where the members sing
for pleasure, and not for a salary, are careful to excess, if there can
be excess in such matters, and it is their great good fortune to be the
interpreters of choruses written in this manner.

It is impossible to give an analysis of this vast work here. We have
already spoken of the charming interlude, _Les Bergers a la Creche_.
This pastoral is followed by _Marche des Rois Mages_, a pretty piece,
but a little overdeveloped for its intrinsic worth. The vocal parts,
_Beatitudes_ and _Le Pater Noster_, would be more suitable in a church
than in a concert hall. Then come some most brilliant pages, _La Tempete
sur le lac de Thiberiade_, and _Le Mont des Oliviers_, with its baritone
solo, and finally, the _Stabat Mater_, where great beauties are combined
with terrible length. But nothing in the whole work impressed me more
than Christ's entrance to Jerusalem (orchestra, chorus, and soloist) for
the reading alone gives no idea of it. Here the author reached the
heights. That also describes the delightful effect of the children's
chorus singing in the distance _O Filii et Filiae_, harmonised with
perfect taste.

While I listened to this beautiful work, I could not help thinking of
the great oratorios which crowned Gounod's musical career so gloriously.
Liszt and Gounod differed entirely in their musical temperaments, yet in
their oratorios they met on common ground. In both there was the same
drawing away from the old forms of oratorio, the same search for realism
in the expression of the text in music, the same respect for Latin
prosody, and the same belief in simplicity of style. But while there is
renunciation in the simplicity of Liszt, who threw aside worldly finery
to wear the frock of a penitent, on the contrary Gounod appears to
return to his original bent with an almost holy joy. This is easily
explained. Liszt finished his life in a cassock, while Gounod began his
in one. So, despite Liszt's superior refinement, and putting aside
exceptional achievements, in this branch of art Gounod was the victor.
As there is an _odor di femina_ there is a _parfum d'eglise_, well known
to Catholics. Gounod's oratorios are impregnated with this, while it is
found in _Christus_ very, very feebly, if at all. The _Missa Solemnis_
must be examined to find it to any extent in Liszt's work.

All the necessary elements were combined at Heidelberg to produce a
magnificent production of Faust and Dante. The orchestra of more than
one hundred musicians was perfect. The period when the wind instruments
in Germany were wanting both in correctness and quality of sound has
passed. But the orchestra conductors have to be taken into account. In
our day these gentlemen are _virtuosi_. Their personalities are not
subservient to the music, but the music to them. It is the springboard
on which they perform and parade their all embracing personalities. They
add their own inventions to the author's meaning. Sometimes they draw
out the wind instruments so that the musicians have to cut a phrase at
the end to catch their breath; again they affect a mad and unrestrained
rapidity which allows time neither to play nor to hear the sounds. They
hurry or retard the movement for no reason besides their individual
caprice or because the author did not indicate them. They perpetrate
music of such a disorganized character that the musicians are utterly
bewildered, and hesitate in their entrances on account of their
inability to distinguish one measure from another.

The delightful _Purgatoire_ has become a deadly bore, and the enchanting
_Mephistopheles_ has been riddled as by a hailstorm. Familiarity with
such excesses made me particularly appreciative of the excellent
performance that Wolfrum, the musical director, obtained in the vast
_Christus_ concert.

Among the conductors was Richard Strauss who cannot be passed over
without a word. Certainly no one will hope to find moderation and
serenity in this artist or be surprised if he gives his temperament free
rein, and rides on to victory undisturbed by the ruins he leaves behind.
But he lacks neither intelligence nor elegance, and if he sometimes goes
too fast he never overemphasizes slowness. When he is conducting, we
need not fear the desert of Sahara where others sometimes lead us. Under
his direction _Tasso_ displayed all its wealth of resources and the
jewel-like _Mephisto-Walzer_ shone more brightly than ever before.

I can speak but briefly of the numerous soloists. We neither judge nor
compare such talents as those of Busoni, Friedheim, and Risler. We are
satisfied with admiring them. However, if a prize must be awarded, I
should give it to Risler for his masterly interpretation of the great
_Sonata in B minor_. He made the most of it in every way, in all its
power and in all its delicacy. When it is given in this way, it is one
of the finest sonatas imaginable. But such a performance is rare, for it
is beyond the average artist. The strength of an athlete, the lightness
of a bird, capriciousness, charm, and a perfect understanding of style
in general and of the style of this composer in particular are the
qualifications needed to perform this work. It is far too difficult for
most _virtuosi_, however talented they may be.

Among the women singers I shall only mention Madame Cahier from the
Viennese Opera. She is a great artist with a wonderful voice and her
interpretation of several _lieder_ made them wonderfully worth while.
Madame Cahier interpreted the part of Dalila at Vienna with Dalmores,
so it can easily be appreciated how much pleasure I took in hearing her.

A final word about the Dante Symphony. I have read somewhere that Liszt
used pages to produce an effect which Berlioz accomplished in the
apparition of Mephistopheles in _Faust_ with three notes. This
comparison is unjust. Berlioz's happy discovery is a work of genius and
he alone could have invented it. But the sudden appearance of the Devil
is one thing and the depiction of Hell quite another. Berlioz tried such
a depiction at the end of the Damnation, and in spite of the strange
vocabulary of the chorus, "Irimiru Karabrao, Sat raik Irkimour," and
other pretty tricks, he succeeded no better than Liszt. As a matter of
fact the opposite was the case.

CHAPTER XIII

BERLIOZ'S REQUIEM

The reading of the score of Berlioz's _Requiem_ makes it appear
singularly old-fashioned, but this is true of most of the romantic
dramas, which, like the _Requiem_, show up better in actual performance.
It is easy to rail at the vehemence of the Romanticists, but it is not
so easy to equal the effect of _Hernani_, _Lucrece Borgia_ and the
_Symphonie fantastique_ on the public. For with all their faults these
works had a marvellous success. The truth is that their vehemence was
sincere and not artificial. The Romanticists had faith in their works
and there is nothing like faith to produce lasting results.

Reicha and Leuseur were, as we know, Berlioz's instructors. Leuseur was
the author of numerous works and wrote a good deal of church music. Some
of his religious works were really beautiful, but he had strange
obsessions. Berlioz greatly admired his master and could not help
showing, especially in his earlier works, traces of this admiration.
That is the reason for the syncopated and jerky passages without rhyme
or reason and which can only be explained by his unconscious imitation
of Leuseur's faults. In imitating a model the resemblances occur in the
faults and not in the excellences, for the latter are inimitable. So the
excellences of the _Requiem_ are not due to Leuseur but to Berlioz. He
had already thrown off the trammels of school and shown all the richness
of his vigorous originality to which the value of his scores is due.

In his _Memoirs_ Berlioz related the tribulations of his _Requiem_. It
was ordered by the government, laid aside for a time, and, finally,
performed at the Invalides on the occasion of the capture of Constantine
(in Algeria) and the funeral services of General Damremont. He was
astonished at the lack of sympathy and even actual hostility that he
encountered. It would have been more astonishing if he had experienced
anything else.

[Illustration: Hector Berlioz]

We must remember that at this time Berton, who sang _Quand on est
toujours vertuex, on aime a voir lever l'aurore_, passed for a great
man. Beethoven's symphonies were a novelty, in Paris at least, and a
scandal. Haydn's symphonies inspired a critic to write, "What a noise,
what a noise!" Orchestras were merely collections of thirty or forty
musicians.

We can imagine, therefore, the stupefaction and horror when a young man,
just out of school, demanded fifty violins, twenty violas, twenty
violoncellos, eighteen contrabasses, four flutes, four oboes, four
clarinets, eight bassoons, twelve horns, and a chorus of two hundred
voices as a minimum. And that is not all. The _Tuba Mirum_ necessitates
an addition of thirty-eight trumpets and trombones, divided into four
orchestras and placed at the four cardinal points of the compass.
Besides, there have to be eight pairs of drums, played by ten drummers,
four tam-tams, and ten cymbals.

The story of this array of drums is rather interesting. Reicha,
Berlioz's first teacher, had the original idea of playing drum taps in
chords of three or four beats. In order to try out this effect, he
composed a choral piece, _L'Harmonie des Spheres_, which was published
in connection with his _Traite d'Harmonie_. But Reicha's genius did not
suffice for this task. He was a good musician, but no more than that.
His choral piece was insignificant and remained a dead letter. Berlioz
took this lost effect and used it in his _Tuba Mirum_.

However, it must be confessed that this effect does not come up to
expectations. In a church or a concert hall we hear a confused and
terrifying mingling of sounds, and from time to time we note a change in
the depth of tone but we are unable to distinguish the pitch of the
chords.

I shall never forget the impression this _Tuba Mirum_ made on me when I
first heard it at St. Eustache under Berlioz's own direction. It
amounted to an absolute neglect of the author's directions. The
beginning of the work is marked _moderato_, later, as the brass comes
in, the movement is quickened and becomes _andante maestro_. Most of the
time the _moderato_ was interpreted as an _allegro_, and the _andante
maestro_ as a simple _moderato_. If the terrific fanfare did not
become, as some one ventured to call it, a "Setting Out for the Hunt,"
it might well have been the accompaniment for a sovereign's entrance to
his capital. In order to give this fanfare its grandiose character, the
author did not take easy refuge in the wailings of a minor key, but he
burst into the splendors of a major key. A certain grandeur of movement
alone can preserve its gigantesque quality and impression of power.

Granting all his good intentions, in trying to give us a suggestion of
the last judgment by his accumulation of brass, drums, cymbals, and
tam-tams, Berlioz makes us think of Thor among the giants trying to
empty the drinking-horn which was filled from the sea, and only
succeeding in lowering it a little. Yet even that was an accomplishment.

Berlioz spoke scornfully of Mozart's _Tuba Mirum_ with its single
trombone. "One trombone," he exclaimed, "when a hundred would be none
too many!" Berlioz wanted to make us really hear the trumpets of the
archangels. Mozart with the seven notes of his one trombone suggested
the same idea and the suggestion is sufficient.

We must not forget, however, that here we are in the midst of a world of
romanticism, in a world of color and picturesqueness, which could not
content itself with so little. And we must remember this fact, if we
would not be irritated by the oddities of _L'Hostias_, with its deep
trombone notes which seem to come from the very depths of Hell. There is
no use in trying to find out what these notes mean. Berlioz told us
himself that he discovered these notes at a time when they were almost
unknown and he wanted to use them. The contrast between these terrifying
notes and the wailing of the flutes is especially curious. We find
nothing analogous to this anywhere else.

The delightful _Purgatoire_, where the author sees a chorus of souls in
Purgatory, is much better. His Purgatory has no punishments nor any
griefs save the awaiting, the long and painful awaiting, of eternal
happiness. There is a processional in which the fugue and melody
alternate in the most felicitous manner. There are sighs and plaints,
all haunting in their extreme expressiveness, a great variety beneath an
appearance of monotony, and from time to time two wailing notes. These
notes are always the same, as the chorus gives them as a plaint, and
they are both affecting and artistic. At the end comes a dim ray of
light and hope. This is the only one in the work save the Amen at the
end, for Faith and Hope should not be looked for here. The supplications
sound like prayers which do not expect to be answered. No one would dare
to describe this work as profane, but whether it is religious or not is
a question. As Boschot has said, what it expresses above all is terror
in the presence of annihilation.

When the _Requiem_ was played at the Trocadero, the audience was greatly
impressed and filed out slowly. They did not say, "What a masterpiece!"
but "What an orchestra leader!" Nowadays people go to see a conductor
direct the orchestra just as they go to hear a tenor, and they arrogate
to themselves the right to judge the conductors as they do the tenors.
But what a fine sport it is! The qualities of an orchestra conductor
which the public appreciates are his elegance, his gestures, his
precision, and the expressiveness of his mimicry, all of which are more
often directed at the audience than at the orchestra. But all these
things are of secondary consideration. What makes up an orchestra
conductor's worth are the excellence of execution he obtains from the
musicians and the perfect interpretation of the author's meaning--which
the audience does not understand. If such an important detail as the
author's meaning is obscured and slighted, if a work is disfigured by
absurd movements and by an expression which is entirely different from
what the author wanted, the public may be dazzled and an execrable
conductor, provided his poses are good, may fascinate his audience and
be praised to the skies.

Formerly the conductor never saluted his audience. The understanding was
that the work and not the conductor was applauded. The Italians and
Germans changed all that. Lamoureux was the first to introduce this
exotic custom in France. The public was a little surprised at first, but
they soon got used to it. In Italy the conductor comes on the stage
with the artists to salute the audience. There is nothing more laughable
than to see him, as the last note of an opera dies away, jump down from
his stand and run like mad to reach the stage in time.

The excellence of the work of English choristers has been highly and
justly praised. Perhaps it would be fairer not to praise them so
unreservedly when we are so severe on our own. Justice often leaves
something to be desired. At all events it must be admitted that Berlioz
treated the voices in an unfortunate way. Like Beethoven, he made no
distinction between a part for a voice and an instrument. While except
for a few rare passages it does not fall as low as the atrocities which
disfigure the grandiose _Mass in D_, the vocal part of the _Requiem_ is
awkwardly written. Singers are ill at ease in it, for the timbre and
regularity of the voice resent such treatment. The tenor's part is so
written that he is to be congratulated on getting through it without any
accident, and nothing more can be expected of him.

What a pity it was that Berlioz did not fall in love with an Italian
singer instead of an English tragedienne! Cupid might have wrought a
miracle. The author of the _Requiem_ would have lost none of his good
qualities, but he might have gained, what, for the lack of a better
phrase, is called the fingering of the voice, the art of handling it
intelligently and making it give without an effort the best effect of
which it is capable. But Berlioz had a horror even of the Italian
language, musical as that is. As he said in his _Memoirs_, this aversion
hid from him the true worth of _Don Juan_ and _Le Nozze di Figaro_. One
wonders whether he knew that his idol, Gluck, wrote music for Italian
texts not only in the case of his first works but also in _Orphee_ and
_Alceste_. And whether he knew that the aria _"O malheureuse Iphigenie"_
was an Italian song badly translated into French. Perhaps he was
ignorant of all this in his youth for Berlioz was a genius, not a
scholar.

The word genius tells the whole story. Berlioz wrote badly. He
maltreated voices and sometimes permitted himself the strangest freaks.
Nevertheless he is one of the commanding figures of musical art. His
great works remind us of the Alps with their forests, glaciers,
sunlight, waterfalls and chasms. There are people who do not like the
Alps. So much the worse for them.

CHAPTER XIV

PAULINE VIARDOT

Alfred de Musset covered Maria Malibran's tomb with immortal flowers and
he also told us the story of Pauline Garcia's debut. There is also
something about it in Theophile Gautier's writings. It is clear from
both accounts that her first appearance was an extraordinary occasion.
Natures such as hers reveal themselves at once to those who know and do
not have to wait to arrive until they are in full bloom. Pauline was
very young at the time, and soon afterwards she married M. Viardot,
manager of the Theatre-Italien and one of the finest men of his day. She
went abroad to develop her talent, but she returned in 1849 when
Meyerbeer named her to create the role of Fides in _Le Prophete_.

Her voice was tremendously powerful, prodigious in its range, and it
overcame all the difficulties in the art of singing. But this
marvellous voice did not please everyone, for it was by no means smooth
and velvety. Indeed, it was a little harsh and was likened to the taste
of a bitter orange. But it was just the voice for a tragedy or an epic,
for it was superhuman rather than human. Light things like Spanish songs
and Chopin mazurkas, which she used to transpose so that she could sing
them, were completely transformed by that voice and became the
playthings of an Amazon or of a giantess. She lent an incomparable
grandeur to tragic parts and to the severe dignity of the oratorio.

I never had the pleasure of hearing Madame Malibran, but Rossini told me
about her. He preferred her sister. Madame Malibran, he said, had the
advantage of beauty. In addition, she died young and left a memory of an
artist in full possession of all her powers. She was not the equal of
her sister as a musician and could not have survived the decline of her
voice as the latter did.

Madame Viardot was not beautiful, indeed, she was far from it. The
portrait by Ary Scheffer is the only one which shows this unequalled
woman truthfully and gives some idea of her strange and powerful
fascination. What made her even more captivating than her talent as a
singer was her personality--one of the most amazing I have ever known.
She spoke and wrote fluently Spanish, French, Italian, English and
German. She was in touch with all the current literature of these
countries and in correspondence with people all over Europe.

She did not remember when she learned music. In the Garcia family music
was in the air they breathed. So she protested against the tradition
which represented her father as a tyrant who whipped his daughters to
make them sing. I have no idea how she learned the secrets of
composition, but save for the management of the orchestra she knew them
well. She wrote numerous _lieder_ on Spanish and German texts and all of
these show a faultless diction. But contrary to the custom of most
composers who like nothing better than to show their compositions, she
concealed hers as though they were indiscretions. It was exceedingly
difficult to persuade her to let one hear them, although the least
were highly creditable. Once she sang a Spanish popular song, a wild
haunting thing, with which Rubinstein fell madly in love. It was several
years before she would admit that she wrote it herself.

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