My Recollections Part 24

A curious coincidence which I did not learn until long afterwards was that the heroine (Lucy Arbell) of _Persephone_ and _Therese_, as well as the beautiful Dulcinee (in _Don Quichotte_) was also among the salesgirls. She was only twelve or thirteen at the time, but in the midst of the general panic she found an exit behind the Hotel du Palais and succeeded in saving her mother and several others. This showed rare decision and courage for a child.

Since I have spoken of _La Terre Promise_, I may add that I had an entirely unexpected "hearing." Eugene d'Harcourt, who was so well thought of as a musician and a critic, the greatly applauded composer of _Ta.s.se_ which was put on at Monte Carlo, proposed to me that he direct a performance at the church of Sainte Eustache with an immense orchestra and chorus.

The second part was devoted to the taking of Jericho. A march--seven times interrupted by the resounding outbursts from seven great trumpets--ended with the collapse of the walls of that famous city which the Jews had to take and destroy. The resounding clamor of all the voices together was joined to the formidable thunder of the great organ of Saint Eustache.

With my wife I attended the final rehearsal in a large pulpit to which the venerable cure had done us the honor of inviting us.

That was the fifteenth of March, 1900.

I return to _Cendrillon_. Albert Carre put on this opera with a stage setting which was as novel as it was marvellous.

Julia Guiraudon was exquisite in the role of Cendrillon. Mme. Deschamps Jehin was astonis.h.i.+ng as a singer and as a comedienne, pretty Mlle.

Emelen was our Prince Charming and the great Fugere showed himself an indescribable artist in the role of Pandolphe. He sent me the news of "victory" which I received the next morning at Enghien-les-Bains, which with my wife I had chosen as a refuge near Paris from the dress rehearsal and the first performance.

More than sixty continuous performances, including matinees, followed the Premiere. The Isola brothers, managers of the Gaite, later gave a large number of performances, and a curious thing for so Parisian a work was that Italy gave _Cendrillon_ a fine reception. This lyric work was given at Rome thirty times--a rare number. The following cablegram came to me from America:

_Cendrillon hier, success pheno menal_.

The last word was too long and the sending office had cut it in two.

It was now 1900, the memorable time of the Great Exposition.

I had scarcely recovered from the fine emotion of _La Terre Promise_ at Saint Eustache than I fell seriously ill. They were then going on with the rehearsals of _Le Cid_ at the Opera which they intended to revive.

The hundredth performance was reached in October of the same year.

All Paris was en fete. The capital, one of the most frequented places in the world, became even more and better than that: it was the world itself, for all people met there. All nations jostled one another; all tongues were heard and all costumes were set off against each other.

Though the Exposition sent its million of joyful notes skyward and could not fail to obtain a place of honor in history, at nightfall the immense crowd sought rest from the emotions of the day by swarming to the theaters which were everywhere open, and it invaded the magnificent palace which our dear great Charles Gamier had raised for the manifestations of Lyric Art and the religion of the Dance.

Gailhard had come to call on me in May when I was so ill and had made me promise to be present in his box at the hundredth performance which he more than hoped to give and which as a matter of fact took place in October. That day I yielded to his invitation.

Mlle. Lucienne Breval and Mm. Saleza and Frederic Delmas were applauded with delirious enthusiasm on the night of the hundredth performance. At the recall at the end of the third act, Gailhard, in spite of my resistance, pushed me to the front of his box....

It is easy to imagine what happened on the stage, in the Opera's superb orchestra, and in the audience packed to the roof.

CHAPTER XXIII

IN THE MIDST OF THE MIDDLE AGES

I became very ill at Paris. I felt that the path from life to death was so easy, the way seemed so gentle, so restful, that I was sorry to find myself back in the harsh, cutting troubles of life.

I had escaped the sharp cold of winter; it was now spring, and I went to my old home at egreville to find nature, the great consoler, in her solitude and peace.

I brought with me a voluminous correspondence, letters, pamphlets and rolls of ma.n.u.script which I had never opened. I intended doing so on the way as a distraction from the boredom of the journey. I had opened several letters and was about to unroll a ma.n.u.script, "Oh, no," I said, "that's enough." As a matter of fact I had happened on a work for the stage.

Must the stage follow me everywhere, I thought. I longed to have nothing more to do with it. So I put the importunate thing aside. Yet as I journeyed along, to kill time, as they say, I took it up again and settled myself to run through that famous ma.n.u.script notwithstanding whatever desire I may have had to the contrary.

My attention was at first superficial and inattentive, but gradually it became fixed. Insensibly I began to read with interest; so much so that I ended by feeling real surprise--I must confess that it even became stupefaction.

"What," I exclaimed, "a play without a part for a woman except for the speechless apparition of the Virgin!"

If I was surprised and stupefied, what would be the feelings of those who were used to seeing me put on the stage Manon, Sapho, Thas and other lovable ladies. That was true, but in that they would forget that the most sublime of women, the Virgin, was bound to sustain me in my work, even as she showed herself charitable to the repentant Juggler.

I had scarcely run through the first scenes, when I felt that I was face to face with the work of a true poet who was familiar with the archaism of the literature of the Middle Ages. The ma.n.u.script bore no author's name.

I wrote to my concierge to find out the origin of this mysterious package, and he told me that the author had left his name and address with explicit instructions not to divulge them to me unless and until I had agreed to write the music for the work.

The t.i.tle _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_ followed by the sub-t.i.tle "Miracle in Three Acts" enchanted me.

The character of my home, a relic of the same Middle Ages, the surroundings in which I found myself at egreville, were exactly suited to give me the desired atmosphere for my work.

The score was finished and the time came to communicate with my unknown.

At last I learned his name and address and wrote to him.

There is no doubt about the joy with which I did so, for the author was none other than Maurice Lena, the devoted friend I had known at Lyons where he held the chair of Philosophy.

My dear Lena then came to egreville on August 14, 1900. We hurried to my place from the little station. We found in my room spread out on the large table (I flatter myself it was a famous table for it had belonged to the ill.u.s.trious Diderot) the engraved piano and vocal score for _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_.

Lena was dumbfounded at sight of it. He was choked by the most delightful of emotions.

Both of us had been happy in the work. Now the unknown faced us. Where and in what theater were we to be played?

It was a radiant day. Nature with her intoxicating odors, the fair season of the fields, the flowers in the meadows, the agreeable union which had grown up between us in producing the work, everything in fact spoke of happiness. Such fleeting happiness, as the poetess Mme. Daniel Lesaeur has told us, is worth all eternity.

The fields recalled to us that we were on the eve of the fifteenth of August, the Feast of the Virgin, whom we had sung in our work.

As I never had a piano at home, especially at egreville, I was unable to satisfy my dear Lena's curiosity and let him hear the music of this or that scene.

We were strolling together near the hour of vespers towards the old, venerable church, and we could hear from a distance the chords of its little harmonium. A mad idea struck me. "Hey! What if I should suggest to you," I said to my friend, "what if I propose to you something which would be impossible in that sacred place in any other way, but certainly very tempting! Suppose we go into the church as soon as it is deserted and returned to holy obscurity. What if I should let you hear fragments of our _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame?_ Wouldn't it be a divine moment which would leave its impression on us forever?" And we continued our stroll, the complacent shade of the great trees protecting the paths and roads from the sting of a too ardent sun.

On the morrow--sad morrow--we parted.

The following autumn, the winter, and finally the spring of the succeeding year pa.s.sed without any one coming to me from anywhere with an offer to produce the work.

When I least thought of it, I had a visit as unexpected as it was flattering from M. Raoul Gunsbourg.

I delight in recalling here the great worth of that close friend, his individuality as a manager, and his talent as a musician, whose works triumph on the stage.

Raoul Gunsbourg brought me the news that on his advice H. S. H. the Prince of Monaco had designated me for a work to be put on the stage of the theater at Monte Carlo.