Opera Books

French Music in
the XIXth Century

By

Arthur Hervey

CHAPTER IX

BIZET AND THE RENAISSANCE

WHAT name can be more appropriately mentioned in connection with the Renaissance of French music than that of Bizet (b. 1838; d. 1875), the gifted composer whose Carmen is a landmark in the history of opera, and who was stricken down practically on the eve of what would, without doubt, have been an exceptionally brilliant career?
     Who can tell what the world has lost by the untimely death of Bizet, which took place on June 3, 1875, three months exactly after the production of Carmen, before this richly endowed musician had completed his thirty-seventh year?
     Mozart, Schubert, Weber, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schumanii, Bellini, Bizet, all taken in the full maturity of their powers, consumed in all proba-bility by the fire of the genius which burnt within them. Had they produced their best work? Who can tell?
     If Rossini had died after Guillaume Tell the world would have been scarcely any the poorer, and yet this opera seemed to foreshadow great things.
     On the other hand, if anything had happened to Wagner or to Verdi at the age of thirty-seven, the loss would have been incalculable. None of the later Wagnerian music-dramas would be in existence, and the most famous of the Verdi operas would never have been written. It is profitless, however, to indulge in speculations as to what might have happened had circumstances been different.
     Bizet during his short life achieved a great deal, and, judging by his last works, was on the high road to achieve a great deal more, for the barrier of prejudice that had impeded his progress at the outset of his career had gradually been removed, the horizon was clear, and the prospects of the younger French composers appeared particularly bright and hopeful.
     At the commencement of the ‘sixties, when Bizet had returned to Paris after his compulsory sojourn in Rome as winner of the Grand Prize, the musical movement which was to reach its florescence a few years later had been already started.
     The establishment of the" Concerts Populaires" by Pasdeloup had aroused an interest in the symphonic works of the great German masters. Occasionally some young French composer was able to find favour with the energetic chef d’orchest re. Bizet was one of the first to profit by Pasdeloup’s enterprise, and a Scherzo of his composition figured on one of the programmes in 1863, not long before the production of his first opera, Les Pêcheurs de Perles, at the Théâtre Lyrique.
     It was about this time that certain critics imagined they discovered traces of Wagnerian influence in his music, notably in the above-mentioned opera.
     Les Pêcheurs de Perks may be unequal as a whole, but it was a remarkable achievement for a young man of twenty-five.
     The Oriental colouring so vividly imparted to the music constitutes an undeniable charm. The languidly enervating melodies, full of luscious sweetness, are redolent of Eastern climes. The score is imbued with poetical sentiment, besides which it reveals a strong dramatic temperament.
     Bizet’s next opera, La Jolie Fille de Perth (1867), cannot be considered an advance, the style of the work being altogether too mixed. It would seem as if Bizet had wished to protest against the accusation of favouring Wagnerian theories, as his score abounds in concessions to vocalists. It stands to reason that there are some portions worthy of the composer. Among these may be men-tioned the irresistibly fascinating Bohemian dance, so wildly inspiriting and original in conception, suggestive of a frenzied dance of dervishes, which is now introduced into the fourth act of Carmen.
     A well-known critic in his notice of this opera, having drawn attention to certain concessions to the bad taste of the public, received a letter from Bizet, whom he did not know personally, thanking him for his remarks, and in the following words, which I will not spoil by translating, expressing his feelings on the subject : "J’ai fait cette fois encore des concessions queje regrette, je l’avoue. J’aurais bien des choses à dire pour ma défense..... Devinez les! L’Ecole des flonflons, des roulades, du mensonge, est morte, bien morte! Enterrons la sans larmes, sans regret, sans émotion et.... en avant!"
     Do not these words typify the man? Do they not show him to us as he then was, young, ardent, fearless, enthusiastic, eager to fight the battle of true art, accepting in the best spirit the just observations of the critic, seeking no excuse for what was after all a pardonable weakness in a beginner, due probably to the exigencies of vocalists?
     When Bizet again came before the public, he was in the full possession of his powers. His country had undergone a terrible ordeal and was barely recovering from the horrors of a foreign invasion and civil war. In a modest one-act work, Djamileh, he again evoked the splendours of the East, and this time expressed himself in a more personal manner. The delicate beauties of this exquisite little score were not grasped by the public. Yet in Djamileh and in the incidental music to Alphonse Daudet’s L’Arlésienne Bizet far surpassed his previous efforts. These works reveal an extraordinary sense of musical characterisation, an indefinable poetical feeling, and the possession of a rich vein of original melody.
     If in Djamileh Bizet enables us to inhale the fragrant perfumes of the East, in L’Arlésienne he carries us into the heart of Provence and allows us to bask in the genial warmth of the Southern sun. Later on, in Carmen he will take us to Spain and vividly bring before us the picturesqueness of the country which gave birth to a Cervantes and a Murillo.
     What further delightful excursions might have been made in the fascinating company of Bizet had not death ruthlessly intervened, we can but imagine! Several works were sketched out by him, but these were left in so unfinished a state that they could not be completed.
     Carmen, however, remains to us. Its influence has not only made itself felt in France but has extended to Italy and may be noted in the melodramatic productions that have for some years found favour in the land of song.
     In this musical drama, for so it may in truth be termed, Bizet asserts his independence in a surprising manner. Although hampered to a certain extent by the forms of the Opéra Comique genre, he contrived to rise above them. Carmen appeals to the heart, it is intensely human. The characters are not artificial, they live and carry conviction. We have to do here with no mere operatic puppets but with men and women, creatures of flesh and blood. The admirable book constructed by Meilhac and Halévy on Mérimée’s story is palpitating with interest. As a drama it would in itself enchain attention. With Bizet’s music its power is intensified a hundred times. Carmen, c’est une belle page d’art sous une vraie tranche de vie :—thus has a French writer (E. de Solenière) summed up Bizet’s masterpiece.
     It is very difficult to define precisely what constitutes the quality known as originality. In music such a thing as absolute originality does not and cannot exist, for reasons upon it which is unnecessary to insist, but which are perfectly obvious. Every composer must inevitably at the outset of his career be subjected to different influences. These will react upon his musical temperament in many varied ways. They will colour his thoughts, take possession of him in a manner, and possibly, however paradoxical it may sound, help him to strike out a path of his own. The spirit of eclecticism pervades the age, and there can be little doubt but that this is a good thing. Thus does German music find ready appreciation in Paris, while a reciprocal feeling exists in Berlin with regard to French music. In Italy, composers eagerly study the works of German and French masters, while England has of late not been uninfluenced by the music of Russia, which may possibly prove an effective antidote to the dull imitations of Brahms.
     Through all this free trade in art music has unquestionably proved a gainer. It is no longer strictly encompassed by geographical boundarylines. The cry for nationalism in art certainly still resounds, and it is right that it should do so, for no artist should wilfully seek to imitate the characteristics of an alien land. Rather should he study them, and if they are adaptable to his own nature, there is no reason why he should not profit by them. That a musician can do this while remaining absolutely national in his style has been already shown in the case of Gounod.
     With Bizet the extraneous musical influences were at least as varied, with Saint-Saëns we will see later on that they have proved even more so. The above three composers are, nevertheless, thoroughly typical of their country.
     By sending the winners of the Prix de Rome to spend three years in the Eternal City, it would seem as if the intention were to induce young French composers to interest themselves in the music of Italy. Bizet’s first operas certainly show that he was to some extent an admirer of Verdi, if the harmonic texture of these works suggests the refining influence of Gounod. Many of his compositions also divulge his fondness for masters. such as Mendelssohn, Schumann, Chopin. Yet Bizet remains essentially personal and essentially national. Explain this how you will.
     The composer’s musical profession of faith was set forth in an article he contributed to the Revue Nationale in 1867.
     In this he declared himself opposed to the spirit of system in art and to divisions, sub-divisions, classifications, "these definitions, sometimes obscure, always useless or dangerous." "For me, he writes, " there only exist two sorts of music—the good and the bad!"
     This is all very well, but when will musicians agree among themselves as to what is good and what is bad?
     Certain masters are universally recognised and placed beyond the pale of discussion. But when it comes to contemporary musicians, opinions vary considerably. The battle of words has raged over many composers, As it was formerly with regard to Wagner and Berlioz, so it is to-day with regard to Richard Strauss and Bruneau, and so it will be to-morrow with some other musician who expresses himself unconventionally.
     The following passage, taken from the same article, conveys an idea of the enthusiastic, warmhearted nature of the artist who wrote Carmen:
     "No, beauty does not age! Faith does not die! ... The artist has no name, no nationality; he is inspired or he is not; he has genius, talent, or he has none; if he has some, he should be adopted, loved, acclaimed; if be has none he should be respected, pitied, forgotten."
     In writing this Bizet did not, however, take into consideration the fact that genius is not invariably understood at once. He was, unfortunately, himself destined to be a victim of public incomprehension. In his case the fact is the more surprising for the reason that his music is so clear in design, so utterly devoid of needless complications. Of course, it must be remembered that as he died so young, the public had not, in his lifetime, sufficient time to know his works. Had he but lived he would have found fame and fortune awaiting him, for the world did not take very long to discover the merits of Carmen.
     Saint-Saëns, in writing about his great friendship for Bizet, alludes to the trait of out-spokenness which they possessed in common, and adds the following remark : "Otherwise, we differed in every respect, each pursuing a different ideal; he, seeking passion and life above all; I, pursuing the chimera of purity of style and perfection of form." Passion and life indeed overflow in Carmen, and cause one to forget the artificiality of the operatic form. The story unfolds itself to the accompaniment of music alternately light, strenuous, or pathetic as the situations demand it.
     Nietzsche has seen in Carmen the antithesis of Wagnerism; it is difficult to perceive why. The intimate connection between words and music is one of the great points insisted upon by Wagner, and this is precisely one of the prominent features of Carmen. Does not also the leitmotiv appear, somewhat tentatively, it must be admitted, in this work? That strangely alluring theme which is heard at the end of the prelude is identified throughout with the character of the heroine, and conveys an impression of impending doom.
     Saint-Saëns had also toyed with the leitmotiv in his Samson et Dalila, a work which was written before the production of Carmen, although its first performance did not take place until two years later.
     As I’ have before remarked, Carmen is constructed according to the usual operatic pattern, and it is all the more extraordinary that Bizet should have been able to vivify and enlarge the consecrated forms held in such honour at the Opéra Comique. In leaving this work as a legacy to the world, Bizet effectively pointed to the road which his successors were to follow in their search after dramatic truth.
     The ideas concerning operatic reform, which had been germinating for some years, were gradually acquiring a hold in all countries. Tristan und Isolde and Die Meistersinger had been produced iii Germany, and had evoked the strangest comments from those who had not heard them. In Italy the lead had been given by Verdi, who had practically turned his back upon the past by writing Aïda. The appearance of Boïto’s Mefistofele had also caused a commotion, and the musical world has been waiting in vain ever since for a successor to this remarkable work.
     Ponchielli, a composer who is not sufficiently known in England, was following the movement of the day. In France, as we have already seen, Gounod had gained a bloodless victory and cleared the way for eager followers.
     During the period which preceded the production of Carmen several musicians who have since come to the fore were actively working, hut they had not yet succeeded in obtainimig any great celebrity as dramatic composers. Saint-Saëns had triumphed in the concert-room, and Massenet’s sacred cantatas, Marie-Magdeleine and Eve, had brought his name prominently before the public. Joncières’s two early operas, Sardanapale and Le dernier jour de Pompéi, had proved failures.
     Ernest Reyer had, on the other hand, as far back as in 1861, drawn attention to himself by La Statue, an opera on an Oriental subject, but since then, excepting Erostrate, a work which, after having been brought out originally at Baden, had been accorded two performances at the Grand Opéra, soon after the Franco-German War, he had produced nothing.
     Victor Massé had endeavoured to enlarge his style and adapt it to more modern requirements. His Paul et Virginie at the time of its production obtained more success than Carmen, but is now forgotten.
     Paladilhe, whose " Mandolinata" was sung everywhere, had penetrated to the Opéra Comique with a little one-act piece, Le Passant, and L’Amour Africain, a charming and refined work in which some critics fancied they discovered the inevitable Wagnerian influences, though where these could be detected it is difficult to see. L’Amour Africain has the lightness of touch discernible in all Paladilhe’s works. It belongs essentially to the time of its production, the ‘seventies, and betokens its author’s admiration for Gounod and Bizet.
     César Franck and Lalo were little known, although they were both considerably the seniors of the composer of Carmen.
     Léo Delibes had written the ballet of Coppelia, and was shortly to produce Sylvia, one of the most delightful examples of its kind. He had, after writing a number of operettas, penetrated into the Opéra Comique stronghold with Le Roi l’a dit, in which he had proved himself a worthy successor of Auber.
     In the meanwhile the excellent Pasdeloup, whose fame as a conductor was shortly to be eclipsed by that of his successors, Lamoureux and Colonne, was continuing his Wagnerian propaganda. Every Sunday afternoon his concerts at the Cirque d’Hiver were crowded. It became the correct thing to go either to the Conservatoire or to Pasdeloup’s on Sunday afternoons, and as admittance to the former temple of art was extremely difficult to obtain, the latter profited thereby.
     Society was beginning to show some interest in serious music, and when Colonne, in 1874, started his series of concerts at the Châtelet Theatre, he did not lack patronage. With great astuteness, this conductor realised that the time was ripe for bringing forward the works of Berlioz. Wagner was triumphing in Germany, why not attempt to make Berlioz triumph in his own country? The intention was a laudable one, and M. Colonne’s venture was crowned with every success. La Damnation de Faust, which had landed poor Berlioz into pecuniary difficulties when he first produced it at his own risk, now proved a powerful attraction. The Berlioz cult progressed rapidly, and with it followed an increased interest in the productions of the rising French composers of the day. The subsequent chapters of this volume will show to what this has led.

Last updated October 21, 2006