‘For in the heavens, as on earth,
His mother prays for him.’
Then begins the struggle between the unknown powers and the one man who resists them with all the fires of hell. To understand it, you must listen to Bertram’s entrance, which the great composer accompanies by an orchestral ritornello echoing Raimbaut’s ballad. What art! What unity in all the parts, what power of construction! A wriggling devil is hidden underneath. With Alice’s terror, as she recognizes the devil of her own village of Saint-Michel, the combat of the two principles is launched. The musical theme is developed—and by what varied phases! Here is the antagonism necessary to any opera, powerfully revealed by a splendid recitative between Bertram and Robert, like the kind Glück composed:
‘Never shall you know the powers of my love.’
“That diabolical C-minor, Bertram’s terrible bass which begins to undermine and ultimately destroy every effort of this man of violent temper. To me, this whole part of the score is terrifying. Must crime have its criminal, and the executioner his prey? Will disaster consume the artist’s genius? Will disease overcome its victim? Can the guardian angel save the Christian? Then comes the finale, the gambling scene in which Bertram torments his son, arousing terrible emotions. Robert, despoiled, furious, destroying everything in sight, seeking to murder everyone with fire and sword, seems indeed his son so like him at this moment. What cruel gaiety in Bertram’s ‘I laugh at your blows!’ And what lurid colors the Venetian barcarole casts on this finale! What bold transitions bring this criminal father back onstage to drag Robert to the gaming table! This beginning is overwhelming for anyone who can develop the themes in his own heart, granting them the scope the composer has compelled them to communicate. There was nothing but love to set against this great symphony of voices—in which the same means are never used twice: it is unified yet varied, which is the characteristic of everything great and natural. I breathe freely; I inhabit the elevated region of a chivalrous court. I hear Isabelle’s lovely, melancholy phrases, and the double chorus of women echoing each other, reminiscent, perhaps, of the Moorish accents of Spain. At this point the terrible music is sweetened by mellower tones, like a calming storm, until we hear that graceful, flowery duet, so carefully modulated, which has no counterpart in the preceding music. After the tumult of the heroes’ camp and the adventurers’ uproar comes this picture of love. My gratitude, poet, for my heart couldn’t have held out much longer! If I didn’t gather the wildflowers of a French opéra comique, if I couldn’t hear the gentle laughter of a woman who can love and console, then I couldn’t endure the terrible dark notes of Bertram’s reappearance, answering his son with that ‘If I permit it!’ when he promises his adored princess to triumph with the weapons she gives him. To the hope of the gambler reformed by love, the love of the most beautiful woman—for such is this ravishing Sicilian maiden, her falcon’s eyes so sure of her prey! What performers this composer has found! To this man’s hopes, Hell opposes its own in that sublime cry: ‘Beware, Robert of Normandy!’ How could you help but admire the grim horror that fills those long, splendid notes of ‘in the nearby forest’? All the enchantment of Jerusalem Delivered is in them, as all of chivalry is in that chorus with its Spanish rhythm and in the tempo di marcia. Not to mention the originality of that allegro, the modulation of the four kettledrums (tuned to C, D, and C, G) combined with the grace of the tournament fanfare! All the movement of the heroic life of the age is there; you feel it in your soul, at once a romance of chivalry and a poem. The exposition is over, the music’s resources seem to be exhausted, you’ve heard nothing like it, and yet all is homogenous. You have seen human life in its one and only true expression: Shall I be happy or unhappy? Ask the philosophers. Shall I be damned or saved? Ask the Christians.”
Here Gambara ended on the chorus’s final note, drawing it out in a melancholy chord, and stood to pour himself another full glass of Giro. This semi-African wine rekindled his countenance, which the impassioned performance of Meyerbeer’s score had turned somewhat ashen.
“And that there be nothing lacking in this composition,” he continued, “the great artist has generously given us the one comic duet which the devil could afford: the temptation of a poor troubadour. He sets the jest beside the horror, a jest which destroys the only reality that appears in the sublime fantasy of his work: the pure and tranquil love of Alice and Raimbaut, whose life will be troubled by anticipated vengeance. Only a great soul can feel the nobility which inspires these delicate melodies; they have neither the garishness of our Italian music nor the vulgarity of Parisian street ballads. They have a kind of Olympian majesty. We hear the bitter laughter of a divinity set against the surprise of a troubadour—a troubadour as Don Juan! If it were not for this greatness at this point, we should return all too abruptly to the opera’s pervasive color, marked by that horrible rage in diminished sevenths, resolved in an infernal waltz which brings us face-to-face with the demons at last. With what vigor Bertram’s verses stand out in B-minor from the infernal chorus depicting that fatherly feeling which in these demonic songs mingles with a dreadful despair! Then the ravishing transition to Alice’s arrival with the ritornello in B-flat! I can still hear those angelic songs of heavenly freshness—the nightingale after the storm! You hear the grand conception of the ensemble in every detail, for how could we withstand the devils swarming in their pit were it not for Alice’s marvelous aria:
‘When I set out from Normandy!’
“The golden thread of that melody continues throughout the entire length of the powerful harmony—it is like a heavenly hope, and with what profound skill it keeps returning! Genius never releases the guidelines of science. Here Alice’s song in B-flat is united with the F-sharp dominant of the infernal chorus. Can you hear the orchestra’s tremolo when Robert is summoned to the council of demons? Bertram comes onstage here, and this is the high point of the musical interest, a recitative comparable to anything the greatest masters have devised, the intense struggle in E-flat between the two athletes, Heaven and Hell, the one with its ‘Yes, you know me now!’ on a diminished seventh, the other with its sublime ‘Heaven is with me!’ in F. Hell and the Cross are in each other’s presence here. Then come Bertram’s threats to Alice, so violent and touching, the genius of evil revealing itself so readily and prevailing, as always, by an appeal to self-interest. Robert’s entrance, which brings us to the magnificent unaccompanied trio in A-flat, establishes a first engagement between the two rival forces for possession of the man. You see how explicitly this is expressed,” Gambara observed, synopsizing the scene with an impassioned execution which thrilled Andrea. “This whole avalanche of music, from the four-four time of the kettledrums, has made for this combat of the three voices. The magic of evil triumphs! Alice flees, and we hear the duet in D between Bertram and Robert, the devil sinking his claws into Robert’s heart, lacerating it all the more fiercely to seize it for his own, making use of everything: honor, hope, infinite and eternal delights—everything is made to glow before his eyes; as he did with Jesus, he sets Robert on the pinnacle of the temple and shows him the treasures of the earth, evil’s jewel casket. He tests his courage, and the man’s noblest feelings explode in this cry:
‘To the knights of my country
Honor was ever their guide!’
“And to crown the work, here is the theme with which the opera began so fatally, the principal song in that magnificent evocation of souls:
‘Hear me, you Nuns, asleep
Beneath this marble slab?’
“Gloriously sustained, the music ends with the allegro vivace of the bacchanal in D-minor. It is Hell which triumphs! The music rolls out, enveloping us in its seductive folds. The infernal powers have seized their prey; they hold him fast and dance around him. Behold him lost, this noble genius, born to conquer and to reign! The devils are merry, poverty stifles genius, passion will destroy the knight.”
Here Gambara worked up a variation of the bacchanal for his own
purposes, improvising ingenious variations and accompanying himself with a mournful voice, as though to express his own intimate sufferings.
“Do you hear the heavenly laments of neglected love?” he continued. “Isabelle calls to Robert amid the great chorus of the knights entering the tournament, in which motifs of the second act reappear, so we can see how the third act concludes in a supernatural atmosphere. Real life resumes. This chorus subsides at the approach of Hell’s seductions, represented by Robert with the talisman, and the wonders of the third act will continue. Here we have the duet between tenor and violin, where the rhythm indicates the brutalities of an omnipotent man, and where the princess, by plaintive moans, tries to recall her lover to reason. The composer has put himself in a difficult situation here, and has triumphed by the most delicious piece in the whole opera. What an adorable melody in the cavatina ‘Mercy for you!’ Every woman has understood its meaning, for all saw themselves embraced and ravished onstage. This piece alone would make the opera’s fortune, for every woman has fancied herself at grips with some violent knight. There was never such passionate, such dramatic music. Then the whole world turns against the reprobate. We might find fault with this finale for its similarity to that of Don Giovanni, but there is this enormous difference in the situation: Isabelle is inspired by a noble faith, a true love which will save Robert; for he scornfully repulses the infernal power confided to him, while Don Giovanni persists in his unbelief. This reproach, moreover, is one that can be made to all composers who have written finales since Mozart. The finale of Don Giovanni is one of those classical forms composed for all time. At the very end, religion ascends omnipotent with a voice which overwhelms the world, summoning all miseries to console them, all repentances to reconcile them. The entire audience is stirred by the accents of this chorus:
‘Wretched or guilty men,
Hasten to approach!’
“In the horrible tumult of unchained passions, no holy voice would have been heard; but at this critical moment, it is the voice of the divine Catholic Church that rings forth, rising effulgent above all the rest. Here I was amazed to find, after so many harmonic treasures, that the composer devised a new vein for the splendid number Glory unto Providence, written in the manner of Handel. Robert enters, lacerating our souls with his ‘If I could only pray!’ Impelled by Hell’s decrees, Bertram pursues his son and makes a final effort. Alice comes to reveal the mother, and then we hear the great trio toward which the whole opera has been moving: the triumph of the soul over matter, of the spirit of good over the spirit of evil. The songs of faith disperse the evil choruses; joy is transcendent, but here the music weakens: I see a cathedral rather than hearing the concert of euphoric angels, some divine prayer of delivered souls applauding the union of Robert and Isabelle. We must not remain under the weight of Hell’s enchantments; we need to emerge with hope in our hearts. As a Catholic composer, I needed another prayer from Moses. I’d like to know how Germany would have contended with Italy, what Meyerbeer would have done to compete with Rossini. Yet despite this minor defect, the composer might point out that after five hours of music so substantial as this, Parisians prefer a flourish to a masterpiece! You’ve heard the cheers this work has received—it will have five hundred performances. If the French have understood this music...”
“It’s because it presents ideas,” the count interrupted.
“No, it’s because it offers—and with what authority!—the image of struggles in which so many perish, and because each individual existence is drawn to it by the memory of its own experience. And I, wretched as I am, I’d have been satisfied to hear those celestial voices I’ve dreamed of so often.”
At this moment Gambara fell into a sort of musical ecstasy and began to improvise the most melodic and harmonious cavatina Andrea had ever heard, a divine song divinely sung, the theme of which had a grace comparable to that of the O filii et filiae, but filled with delights only the highest musical genius could devise. The count remained plunged in intense admiration: the clouds dispersed, the blue of the sky reappeared, figures of angels appeared and raised the veils which hid the sanctuary, the light of heaven fell in floods. Soon silence reigned. Andrea, startled to hear nothing more, stared at Gambara who, his eyes fixed and his body rigid, breathed a single word: God! The count waited until the composer descended from the enchanted realms to which he had mounted on the iridescent wings of inspiration, and resolved to enlighten him with the very illumination he had brought down with him.
“Well now,” he said, offering Gambara another full glass and toasting him with his own, “you see that this German has created, as you say, a sublime opera without concerning himself about theory, while the composers who write grammars of their art like literary critics are quite capable of being detestable musicians.”
“Then...you don’t like my music?”
“I say no such thing, but if instead of seeking to express ideas, and if instead of carrying musical principles to extremes, in which you lose sight of your goal, you were simply willing to awaken certain sensations, you would be better understood—unless in fact you have mistaken your vocation altogether. You are a great poet.”
“So!” cried Gambara. “Twenty-five years of study in vain! You would have me study the imperfect language of men, when I hold the key to the Celestial Word! Oh, if you were right, I would rather die...”
“You? No. You are great and strong; you will begin your life again, and I shall sustain you. We will present to the world the rare and noble alliance of a rich man and an artist who understand each other.”
“Do you really mean it?” asked Gambara, struck with a sudden stupor.
“As I’ve already told you, you’re more of a poet than a musician.”
“Poet! Poet! That’s better than nothing. Tell me the truth, whom do you prize more, Homer or Mozart?”
“I admire them equally.”
“Word of honor?”
“Word of honor.”
“Hmm...One word more. What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?”
“By naming them together in that fashion, you’ve judged them.”
The count’s carriage was at the door. The composer and his noble physician were driven in a few moments to Gambara’s new lodgings; they hurried up the stairs and in another moment were in Marianna’s presence. As he burst in, Gambara threw himself into his wife’s arms. As he did, Marianna stepped back and turned her head aside; her husband did the same, leaning toward the count.
“Ah, monsieur,” Gambara said in a hollow voice, “at least you might have left me my madness.” Then his head dropped, and he fell to the floor.
“What have you done?” cried Marianna, giving her husband’s body a glance in which pity struggled with disgust. “He’s dead drunk!”
The count, with the help of his footman, gathered Gambara in his arms and laid him on his bed. Andrea left, his heart filled with a dreadful joy.
The next day the count deliberately let the usual time of his visit go by; he was beginning to fear that he had duped himself and paid too dearly for the comfort of that wretched household, its peace now forever troubled.
Presently Giardini appeared, bringing a note from Marianna. “Come,” she had written, “the damage is not so great as you would have liked, cruel man!”
“Eccellenza,” said the chef, while Andrea was dressing to go out, “you were a magnificent host last night, but you must agree that apart from the wines, which were splendid, your maître d’hôtel served no single dish worthy to figure on the table of a true gourmet. And you won’t deny, I suppose, that the viands you were served in my house the day you did me the honor of sitting at my table were infinitely better than any of those which sullied your magnificent silver service last night. Hence this morning I awoke thinking of the promise you had made me of a chef’s position. I now consider myself as attached to your household.”
“The same thought occurred to me some days ago,” replied Andrea. “I had mentioned you to
the secretary of the Austrian Embassy, and you may henceforth cross the Alps whenever you choose to do so. I have a castle in Croatia which I seldom visit, and there you may combine the functions of concierge, wine steward, and maître d’hôtel on a salary of two hundred écus. This same emolument will be paid to your wife, who will tend to the rest of the household service. You may perform your culinary experiments in anima vili, which is to say, on the stomachs of my vassals. Here is a check on my bank for your traveling expenses.”
Giardini kissed the count’s hands, as is the Neapolitan custom.
“Eccellenza,” he said, “I accept the check without accepting the situation you offer, as it would be a dishonor to myself to abandon my art, declining the verdict of the finest gourmets, who are without a doubt those right here in Paris.”
When Andrea finally arrived at Gambara’s apartment, the composer rose and came to meet him.
“My generous friend,” he said with the most open expression, “either you took advantage of the weakness of my constitution yesterday in order to play a trick on me, or else your own brain is no more proof than mine against the vapors of our good Latian wines. I prefer this latter supposition, for I should rather doubt your stomach than your heart. Whatever the case, I forever renounce the frequentation of wine, whose abuse led me the other night into many blameworthy follies. When I think that I nearly...” Here he darted an apprehensive glance at Marianna. “As for the wretched opera you obliged me to listen to, I have given the matter some thought. It is no more than music produced by the most ordinary means, no more than mountains of notes heaped up, verba et voces: the dregs of that ambrosia which I quaff in deep draughts as I create the celestial music it is given to me to hear. I have recognized the origin of those mangled phrases. The man’s Glory unto Providence is a little too like a piece by Handel; the chorus of knights riding to battle is closely related to the Scottish tune in La Dame blanche; and if indeed the opera pleases as much as it appears to do, it is because the music derives from anyone and everyone, hence its popularity. I must leave you, dear friend, since this morning my head is filled with ideas which seek only to ascend toward God on the wings of music; but I wanted to see you, to speak to you. Farewell! I go to ask pardon of the muse. We shall dine together this evening, but no wine, not for me at least. Oh yes, I am quite determined...”