_Quantum mutatus_.... Like the poet I may say, "What changes since that time?" To-day even the young pupils have only to _enter_ a compet.i.tion to get their pictures in the papers and at the very outset of their careers they are anointed great men. All this is accompanied by Baccha.n.a.lian lines and they are fortunate if in their exalted triumph they do not add the word "colossal." That is glory; deification in all its modesty. In 1859 we were not glorified in any such way.

But Providence--some called it Destiny--watched over me.

A friend, who to my great joy is still living, got me better lessons. He was not like so many friends I met later, who are ever in need of one's a.s.sistance; those who slink away when you want to be comforted in poverty; the friends who are always pretending that they defended you last night against malevolent attacks in order to show you their fine opinions, but at the same time torturing you by repeating the wounding words directed at you. I must add, however, that I have had truly genuine friendships, as I have found in my hours of weariness and discouragement.

The Theatre-Lyrique was then on the Boulevard du Temple and it gave me a place in its orchestra as kettle-drummer. Then, good Father Strauss, the orchestra leader at the Opera b.a.l.l.s, let me play the ba.s.s drum, the kettle-drums, the tam-tam, and all the rest of the resonant instruments.

It was dreadfully tiring to sit up every Sat.u.r.day from midnight until six in the morning, but all told I managed to make eighty francs a month. I felt as rich as a banker and as happy as a cobbler.

The Theatre-Lyrique was founded by the elder Alexander Dumas as the Theatre-Historique, and was established by Adolphe Adam.

I was living at the time at No. 5, Rue de Menilmontant, in a huge building, almost a city in itself. My neighbors on the floor, separated only by a narrow part.i.tion, were the clowns--both men and women--of the Cirque Napoleon which was near our house.

From my attic window I was able to enjoy--for nothing of course--whiffs from the orchestra which escaped from the popular concerts that Pasdeloup conducted in the circus every Sunday. This happened whenever the audience packed in the overheated hall shouted loudly for air and they opened the cas.e.m.e.nt windows on the third floor to satisfy them.

From my perch--that is the only thing to call it--I applauded with feverish joy the overture of _Tannhauser_, the _Symphonie Fantastique_, in short the music of my G.o.ds: Wagner and Berlioz.

Every evening at six o'clock--the theater began very early--I went by the way of the Rue des Fosses-du-Temple, near my house, to the stage door of the Theatre-Lyrique. In those days the left side of the Boulevard du Temple was one unbroken line of theaters. Consequently I went along the back of the Funambules, the Pet.i.t-Lazari, the Dela.s.s.e.m.e.nts-Comiques, the Cirque Imperial and the Gaite. Those who did not know that corner of Paris in 1859 can have no idea of it.

The Rue des Fosses-du-Temple, on which all the stage doors opened, was a sort of wonderland where all the supers, male and female, from all the theaters waited in great crowds on the dimly lighted pavements. The atmosphere was full of vermin and microbes. Even in our Theatre-Lyrique the musicians' dressing room was only an old stable in which the horses used in historical plays were kept.

Still, my delight was too great for words and I felt that I was to be envied as I sat in the fine orchestra which Deloffre conducted. Ah!

those rehearsals of _Faust_! My happiness could not be expressed when, from my own little corner, I could leisurely devour with my eyes our great Gounod who managed our work from the stage.

Many times later on when we came out, side by side, from the sessions of the Inst.i.tute--Gounod lived in the Place Malesherbes--we talked over the time when _Faust_--now past its thousandth performance--was such a subject for discussion and criticism in the press, while the dear public--which is rarely deceived--applauded it.

_Vox Populi, vox Dei!_

I also remember that while I was in the orchestra I a.s.sisted at the performances of Reyer's _La Statue_, a superb score and a tremendous success.

I can still see Reyer in the wings during the performances eluding the firemen and smoking interminable cigars. It was a habit he could not give up. One day I heard him tell about being in Abbe Liszt's room in Rome. The walls were covered with religious pictures--Christ, the Virgin, and the Saints--and he blew out a cloud of smoke which filled the room. In reply to his witty excuses about incommoding the "august persons," he drew the following reply from the great abbe. "No," said Liszt, "it is always incense."

For six months, under the same conditions of work, I subst.i.tuted for one of my fellows in the orchestra at the Theatre-Italien.

As I had heard the admirable Mme. Miolan-Carvalho in _Faust_--excellent singing--I now heard the tragediennes like Penco and Frezzolini and such men as Mario, Graziani, Delle Sedie, and the buffo Zucchini.

The last is no longer alive and our great Lucien Fugere of the Opera-Comique of to-day reminds me of him almost exactly. There is the same powerful voice and the same perfect artistic comedy.

But the time for the compet.i.tion of the Inst.i.tute approached. During our residence _en loge_ at the Inst.i.tute we had to pay for our meals for twenty-five days and also the rent of a piano. I got out of that difficulty as best I could; at any rate I forestalled it. All the same the money I had been able to put aside was insufficient and acting on the advice of a friend (giving and acting on advice are two entirely different things) I went to a p.a.w.nshop and p.a.w.ned my watch ... a gold one. It had adorned my fob since the morning of my first communion.

Alas! it must have been light weight, for they offered me only ...

sixteen francs!!! This odd sum, however, enabled me to pay for my meals.

But the charge for the piano was so exorbitant--twenty francs!--that I couldn't afford it. I did without it much more easily, for I have never needed its help in composing.

I would have hardly imagined that my neighbors would have bothered me so by their pounding on their pianos and by their singing at the top of their lungs. It was impossible to divert my thoughts or to escape their noise, as I had no piano, and, in addition, the corridors of our garrets were unusually reverberant.

On my way to the Sat.u.r.day sittings of the Academie des Beaux-Arts I often cast a sad glance at the grated window of my cell; it can be seen from the Cour Mazarine to the right in a recess. Yes, my glance is sad, for I left behind those old bars the dearest and most affecting recollections of my youth, and because they cause me to reflect on the unhappy times in my long life.

In the trial compet.i.tion in 1863 I was examined first and I kept the same place in the choral work. The first test was in the large hall of the ecole des Beaux-Arts which is entered from the Quai Malaquais.

The final decision was made the next day in the hall used for the regular sittings of the Academie des Beaux-Arts.

My interpreters were Mme. Van den Heuvel-Duprez, Roger and Bonnehee, all three from the Opera. With such artists I had to triumph. And that is what happened!

I went in first--there were six compet.i.tors--and as at that time one could not listen to the work of the other candidates--I went wandering haphazard down to the Rue Mazarine ... on the Pont des Arts ... and, finally, in the square court of the Louvre where I sat down on one of the iron seats.

I heard five o'clock strike. I was very anxious. "All must be over by now," I said to myself. I had guessed right, for suddenly I saw under the arch three people chatting together and recognized Berlioz, Ambroise Thomas and Monsieur Auber.

Flight was impossible. They were in front of me almost as if they barred my escape.

Ambroise Thomas, my beloved master, came towards me and said, "Embrace Berlioz, you owe him a great deal for your prize."

"The _prize_," I cried, bewildered, my face shining with joy. "I have the prize!!!" I was deeply moved and I embraced Berlioz, then my master, and finally Monsieur Auber.

Monsieur Auber comforted me. Did I need comforting? Then he said to Berlioz pointing to me,

"He'll go far, the young rascal, when he's had _less_ experience!"

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLA MEDICI

The winners of the Grand Prix de Rome for 1863 in painting, sculpture, architecture, and engraving, were Layraud and Monchablon, Bourgeois, Brune and Chaplain. Custom decreed--it still does--that we should all go to the Villa Medici together and should visit Italy. What a changed and ideal life mine now was! The Minister of Finance sent me six hundred francs and a pa.s.sport in the name of Napoleon III, signed by Drouyns de Luys, Minister of Foreign Affairs.

I then met my new companions and we went to pay the formal calls on the members of the Inst.i.tute before our departure for the Academie de France at Rome.

On the day after Christmas, in three open carriages, we started to pay our official calls which took us into every quarter of Paris where our patrons lived.

The three carriages, crowded with young men, real _rapins_, I had almost said gamins, mad with success and intoxicated by thoughts of the future, made a veritable scandal in the streets.

Nearly all the gentlemen of the Inst.i.tute sent out word that they were not at home--to avoid making a speech. M. Hirtoff, the famous architect, who lived in the Rue Lamartine, put on less airs and shouted out to his servant from his bedroom, "Tell them I'm not in."

I recall that of old the professors accompanied their pupils as far as the starting place of the diligences in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires.

One day as the heavy diligence with the students packed on the rear--the cheapest places which exposed them to all the dust of the road--was about to start on the long journey from Paris to Rome, M. Couder, Louis Philippe's favorite painter, was heard to say impressively to his special pupil, "Above all don't forget my style." This was a delightfully nave remark, but it was touching nevertheless. He was the painter of whom the king said, after he had given him an order for the museum at Versailles, "M. Couder pleases me. His drawing is correct; his coloring satisfies, and he is not dear."

Oh, the good, simple times, when words meant what they seemed to and admiration was just without that deifying bombast that is so readily heaped on one to-day!

I broke the custom and went on alone after making arrangements to meet my comrades on the road to Genoa where I would overtake them driving an enormous coach drawn by five horses. My plans were first to stop at Nice, where my father was buried, and then to go to embrace my mother who was living at Bordighera. She had a modest villa in a pleasant location in a forest of palms overlooking the sea. I spent New Year's with my mother, the anniversary of my father's death, hours filled to overflowing with tenderness. All too soon I had to leave her, for my joyous comrades awaited me in their carriage on the road of the Italian La Corniche. My tears turned to laughter. Such is youth!

Our first stop was at Loano about eight o'clock in the evening.

I have confessed that I was almost gay and this is true. Nevertheless I was a prey to indefinite thoughts; I felt myself almost a man, henceforth to be alone in life. I pondered over such thoughts, too reasonable perhaps for my years, while Italy's blossoming mimosas, lemon trees and myrtles threw around me their sweet disturbing odors. What a pleasant contrast it was for me who until then had only known the sour smell of the faubourgs of Paris, the trampled gra.s.s of their fortifications, and the perfume--I mean perfume--of my beloved wings of the stage.

We spent two days in Genoa visiting the Campo-Santo, the city's cemetery, so rich in the finest marble monuments, reputed to be the most beautiful in Italy. After that who can deny that self-esteem survives after death?

Next I found myself one morning on the Place du Dome at Milan walking with my companion Chaplain, the famous engraver of medallions, and later my confrere at the Inst.i.tute. We shared our enthusiasms before the marvellous cathedral of white marble dedicated to the Virgin by that terrible partisan leader Jean Galeas Visconti as a repentance for his life. "In that epoch of faith the world covered itself with white robes," thus spake Bossuet whose weighty eloquence comes back to me.