My Recollections Part 16

That fortnight's journey continued full of incidents in which jokes contended with burlesque.

Every evening, after the warmly enthusiastic receptions of the Hungarian youth, Ferdinand de Lesseps, our venerated chief, who was called in all the Hungarian speeches the "Great Frenchman," would leave us after fixing the order of the next day's receptions. As he finished arranging our program, he would add, "To-morrow morning, at four o'clock, in evening dress." And the "Great Frenchman" would be the first one up and dressed. When we congratulated him on his extraordinary youthful energy, he would apologize as follows: "Youth must wear itself out."

During the festivities of every kind which they got up in our honor, they arranged for a gala spectacle, a great performance at the Theatre Royal in Budapest. Delibes and I were both asked to conduct an act from one of our works.

When I reached the orchestra, amid hurrahs from the audience, only in Hungary they shout, "Elyen," I found on the desk the score ... of the first act of _Coppelia_, when I had expected to find before me the third act of _Herodiade_ for me to conduct. So much the worse! There was no help for it and I had to beat time--from memory.

The plot thickened.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Forum from the First Act of Roma. _See page 300_]

When Delibes, who had received the same honors that I had, saw the third act of _Herodiade_ on his desk, with me rejoining my companions in the audience, he presented a unique spectacle. My poor dear great friend mopped his brow, turned this way and that, drew long breaths, begged the Hungarian musicians--who didn't understand a word he said--to give him the right score, but all in vain.

He had to conduct from memory. This seemed to exasperate him, but Delibes, the adorable musician, was far above a little difficulty like that.

After this entertainment we were all present at an immense banquet where naturally enough toasts were de rigeur. I offered one to that great musician, Franz Liszt--Hungary was honored in giving him birth.

When Delibes's turn came, I suggested to him that I collaborate in his speech as we had done at the Opera with our scores. I spoke for him; he spoke for me. The result was a succession of incoherent phrases which were received by the frantic applause of our compatriots and by the enthusiastic "Elyens" of the Hungarians.

I will add that Delibes and I, like all the rest, were in a state of delightful intoxication, for the marvellous vineyards of Hungary are verily those of the Lord himself. Something must be the matter with one's head, if he does not enjoy the charm of those wines with their voluptuous, heady bouquet.

Four o'clock in the morning! We were, as ordered, in evening dress (indeed we had not changed it) and ready to go to lay wreaths on the tomb of the forty Hungarian martyrs who had died to free their country.

But through all these mad follies, all these distractions, and impressive ceremonies, I was thinking of the rehearsals of _Le Cid_ which were waiting for my return to Paris. When I got back, I found another souvenir of Hungary, a letter from the author of _La Messe du Saint Graal_, the precursor of _Parsifal_:

"Most Honored Confrere:

"The Hungarian _Gazette_ informs me that you have testified benevolently in my favor at the French banquet at Budapest. Sincere thanks and constant cordiality.

"F. Liszt."

26 August, '85. Weimar.

The stage rehearsals of _Le Cid_ at the Opera were carried on with astonishing sureness and skill by my dear director, P. Gailhard, a master of this art who had been besides the most admirable of artists on the stage. He did everything for the good of the work with an affectionate friendship. It is my pleasant duty to pay him honor for this.

Later on I found him the same invaluable collaborator when _Ariane_ was put on at the Opera.

On the evening of November 20, 1885, the Opera billed the first performance of _Le Cid_, while the Opera-Comique played the same evening _Manon_, which had already pa.s.sed its eightieth performance.

In spite of the good news from the general rehearsal of _Le Cid_, I spent the evening with the artists at _Manon_. Needless to say all the talk in the wings of the Opera-Comique was of the first performance of _Le Cid_ which was then in full blast.

Despite my apparent calmness, in my inmost heart I was extremely anxious, so the curtain had hardly fallen on the fifth act of _Manon_ than I went to the Opera instead of going home. An irresistible power pulled me thither.

As I skirted the outside of the house from which an elegant and large crowd was pouring, I overheard a s.n.a.t.c.h of conversation between a well known journalist and a reporter who hurriedly inquired the results of the evening. "It is splitting, my dear chap."

I was greatly troubled, as one would be in any case, and ran to the directors' room for further news. At the artists' entrance I met Mme.

Krause. She embraced me in raptures and said, "It's a triumph!"

Need I say that I preferred the opinion of this admirable artiste. She comforted me completely.

I left Paris (what a traveler I was then!) for Lyons, where they were giving both _Herodiade_ and _Manon_.

Three days after my arrival there, as I was dining at a restaurant with my two great friends Josephin Soulary, the fine poet of _Les Deux Corteges_, and Paul Marieton, the vibrant provincial poet, I was handed the following telegram from Hartmann:

"Fifth performance of _Le Cid_ postponed a month. Enormous advance sale returned. Artists ill."

I was nervous at the time; I fainted away and remained unconscious so long that my friends were greatly alarmed.

At the end of three weeks, however, _Le Cid_ reappeared on the bills, and I realized once more that I was surrounded by deep sympathy, as the following letter shows:

"My dear Confrere:

"I must congratulate you on your success and I want to applaud you as quickly as possible. My turn for my box does not come around until Friday, December 11th, and I beg you to arrange for _Le Cid_ to be given on that day, _Friday, December 11._

"H. d'Orleans."

How touched and proud I was at this mark of attention from his Royal Highness the Duc d'Aumale!

I shall always remember the delightful and inspiring days pa.s.sed at the Chateau de Chantilly with my confreres at the Inst.i.tute Leon Bonnat, Benjamin Constant, Edouard Detaille, and Gerome. Our reception by our royal host was charming in its simplicity and his conversation was that of an eminent man of letters, erudite but unpretentious. It was captivating and attractive for us when we all gathered in the library where the prince enthralled us by his perfect simplicity as he talked to us, pipe in his mouth, as he had so often done in camp among our soldiers.

Only the great ones of earth know how to produce such moments of delightful familiarity.

And _Le Cid_ went on its way both in the provinces and abroad.

In October, 1900, the hundredth performance was celebrated at the Opera and on November 21, 1911, at the end of twenty-six years, I read in the papers:

"The performance of _Le Cid_ last night was one of the finest. A packed house applauded enthusiastically the beautiful work by M. Ma.s.senet and his interpreters: Mlle. Breval, Mm. Franz and Delmas, and the star of the ballet, Mlle. Zambelli."

I had been particularly happy in the performances of this work which had preceded this. After the sublime Fides Devries, Chimene was sung in Paris by the incomparable Mme. Rose Caron, the superb Mme. Adiny, the moving Mlle. Merentie, and particularly by Louise Grandjean, the eminent professor at the Conservatoire.

CHAPTER XVII

A JOURNEY TO GERMANY

On Sunday, August first, Hartmann and I went to hear _Parsifal_ at the Wagner Theater at Bayreuth. After we had heard this _miracle unique_ we visited the capital of Upper Franconia. Some of the monuments there are worth while seeing. I wanted especially to see the city church. It is an example of the Gothic architecture of the middle of the Fifteenth Century and was dedicated to Mary Magdalene. It is not hard to imagine what memories drew me to this remarkable edifice.

After running through various German towns and visiting different theaters, Hartmann, who had an idea of his own, took me to Wetzler, where he had seen Werther. We visited the house where Goethe had written his immortal romance, _The Sorrows of Young Werther_.

I knew Werther's letters and I had a thrilling recollection of them. I was deeply impressed by being in the house which Goethe made famous by having his hero live and love there.

As we were coming out Hartmann said, "I have something to complete the obviously deep emotion you have felt."

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a book with a binding yellow with age. It was the French translation of Goethe's romance. "This translation is perfect," said Hartmann, in spite of the aphorism _Traduttore traditore_, that a translation utterly distorts the author's thought.