Musical Memories | Page 5

scribble away on his orchestration
while his pupils played the organ. This did not prevent his listening and
looking after them. He would leave his work and make appropriate
comments as though he had no other thought.

In addition to his ballets, Benoist did other little odd jobs for the Opéra.
As a result one day, without thinking, he gave me the key to a deep
secret. In his famous _Traité d'Instrumentation_ Berlioz spoke of his
admiration for a passage in Sacchini's _Oedipus à Colone_. Two
clarinets are heard in descending thirds of real charm just before the
words, "_Je connus la charmante Eriphyle._" Berlioz was enthusiastic
and wrote:
"We might believe that we really see Eriphyle chastely kiss his eyes. It
is admirable. And yet," he adds, "there is no trace of this effect in
Sacchini's score."
Now Sacchini, for some reason or other which I do not know, did not
use clarinets once in the whole score. Benoist was commissioned to add
them when the work was revived, as he told me as we were chatting
one day. Berlioz did not know this, and Benoist, who had not read
Berlioz's _Traité_, knew nothing of the romantic musician's
enthusiastic admiration of his work. These happily turned thirds,
although they weren't Sacchini's, were, none the less, an excellent
innovation.
Benoist was less happy when he was asked to put some life into
Bellini's Romeo by using earsplitting outbursts of drums, cymbals, and
brass. During the same noise-loving period Costa, in London, gave
Mozart's Don Juan the same treatment. He let loose throughout the
opera the trombones which the author intentionally reserved for the end.
Benoist ought to have refused to do such a barbarous piece of work.
However, it had no effect in preventing the failure of a worthless piece,
staged at great expense by the management which had rejected Les
Troyens.
I was fifteen when I entered Halévy's class. I had already completed the
study of harmony, counterpoint and fugue under Maleden's direction.
As I have said, his method was that taught at the Ecole Niedermeuer.
Faure, Messager, Perilhou, and Gigot were trained there and they
taught this method in turn. My class-work consisted in making attempts
at vocal and instrumental music and orchestration. My _Rêverie_, La
Feuille de Peuplier and many other things first appeared there. They

have been entirely forgotten, and rightly, for my work was very
uneven.
At the end of his career Halévy was constantly writing opera and
opéra-comique which added nothing to his fame and which disappeared
never to be revived after a respectable number of performances. He was
entirely absorbed in his work and, as a result, he neglected his classes a
good deal. He came only when he had time. The pupils, however, came
just the same and gave each other instruction which was far less
indulgent than the master's, for his greatest fault was an overweening
good nature. Even when he was at class he couldn't protect himself
from self-seekers. Singers of all sorts, male and female, came for a
hearing. One day it was Marie Cabel, still youthful and dazzling both in
voice and beauty. Other days impossible tenors wasted his time. When
the master sent word that he wasn't coming--this happened often--I
used to go to the library, and there, as a matter of fact, I completed my
education. The amount of music, ancient and modern, I devoured is
beyond belief.
But it wasn't enough just to read music--I needed to hear it. Of course
there was the Société des Concerts, but it was a Paradise, guarded by an
angel with a flaming sword, in the form of a porter named Lescot. It
was his duty to prevent the profane defiling the sanctuary. Lescot was
fond of me and appreciated my keen desire to hear the orchestra. As a
result he made his rounds as slowly as possible in order to put me out
only as a last resort. Fortunately for me, Marcelin de Fresne gave me a
place in his box, which I was permitted to occupy for several years.
I used to read and study the symphonies before I heard them and I saw
grave defects in the Société's vaunted execution. No one would stand
them now, but then they passed unnoticed. I was naïve and lacked
discretion, and so I often pointed out these defects. It can be easily
imagined what vials of wrath were poured on me.
As far as the public was concerned, the great success of these concerts
was due to the incomparable charm of the depth of tone, which was
attributed to the hall. The members of the Société believed this, too,
and they would let no other orchestra be heard there. This state of

affairs lasted until Anton Rubinstein got permission from the Minister