masses for orchestra, the little oratorio, Tobie, some hymns, and some motets as a relief from his dramatic compositions. In the winter following Roméo, he passed several months at Rome with his old friend of the Villa Medicis, the painter Hérbert, who had become its director, and there, under the influence of that mystic atmosphere which had so powerfully fascinated him when an unknown youth, as a mature man with a reputation he took from the Scriptures the subject of the Redemption, the poem of which he wrote, and some of the movements. Twelve years elapsed before he entered the third phase of his career.

III.

This last is not the least beautiful phase of it. I do not mean in what concerns his genius, which I leave to its own light by which it is sufficiently illuminated, so much as from the spiritual point of view. He was now safe from the storms of passion, and had arrived in full possession of the virility of his mind and the youth of his heart at the age of calm meditation, and the serenity of a Christian added to that of a philosopher he had entered alive into immortality, resting in the love of his intimates and the radiation of a glory by which he never allowed himself to be dazzled he became a typical sage of old, seated beneath the shade of vine and fig-tree planted with his own hands. But he did not renounce life. The chagrin of his declining years supported with a calmness which made a sorrow rather than a bitterness of it -was the gradual weakening of his creative power, which however did not weaken the intensity of his sensations and the vivacity of his conceptions. To this displacement of equilibrium between the moral and the physical he would have preferred death. But the art was not dead during those last years so dear to those who loved him, and, moreover, the man remained, the man in full possession of himself, and that man was worth the artist.

Let others judge Gounod the musician he belongs to all. Let those who knew his moral being say what he was. Gounod had his faults, being only mortal; but they passed without leaving a

shadow on his soul, which was bright and generous as the sun. He had within him an universal love, the indescribable serenity of strength, the imperishable youth of great hearts. His sincerity was manifest and pure as gold. His charm and seduction were irresistible. He had a broad understanding and a sparkling wit. He was full of affectionate good-nature and familiar graciousness, delicate politeness, caressing affability, wide benevolence and kind indulgence. Who of those who knew him well will ever forget him as an incomparable talker overflowing with spiritual abundance and fervid eloquence? What an inexhaustible attraction there was in those philosophic discourses in which he delighted, based upon strange commentaries of the Holy Scriptures and the Fathers! No more than he had abandoned the beliefs of his youth had he forgotten the teachings of the great ecclesiastical school of the Carmelites, and he would not have found more difficulty in writing a volume of exegesis than an opera. But upon his theological studies he had built a religion more philosophic than dogmatic, free from symbols and ceremonies. It was not from a desire of speaking that he indulged in these discourses it sprang from the desire of convincing you of the harmony between reason and faith. And his arguing was so ingenious, his erudition so vast, his warmth so persuasive, that, so long as you were under the fascination of his words, it seemed impossible to doubt.

It was this broad, reasoned esotericism which the carpings of the envious, the silliness of the ignorant, the cheap disdain of vulgar souls for what they could not understand, transformed into the absurd legend of a bigot entering the confessional after a rehearsal, of a fanatic prostrating himself on the flags in a mystic ecstasy after having written a page of the most sensual love. And in the France of to-day, where many persons think it in good taste to sneer at all strong conviction, especially religious conviction, this was cited as proof of his being half mad. "Why beslaver me?" said the glow worm to the frog. "I have not done you any harm. "You shine," was the reply. I was speaking of reason. In no one

did I ever find it clearer and more concentrated than in this vibrant and sensitive being, who was at times carried away by his feelings, but who stopped at the point at which loss of self-control would have commenced. Did he not say "Every work of art must blossom forth beneath the personal light of sensibility, to be consummated in the impersonal light of reason?" And likewise: "In art the real by itself is the servility of a copy, but the ideal by itself is the aberration of a chimæra."

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A volume might be filled with his aperçus, which were so profound, so subtle, so ingenious, and expressed in such graphic and precise terms, on art questions, which he treated from the standpoint of beauty alone without prejudice of system or school, and in general on the whole range of ideas,, none of which were strange to him. He has sometimes been taxed with affectation in his discourses and in his writings. That is because allowances are not made for the metaphorical and lyrical form in which, through the rich excess of his imagination, he was wont to clothe his thought. But with him, naturalness, simplicity, and clearness quickly claimed their rights, and at bottom he was so absolutely genu ine," that these nuances only served to brighten his language and vary it with the added charm of a grain of subtlety. In fact, among the few things that annoyed him were those ludicrous formulæ of philosophy and psychology, with which certain small sects of the modern French school attempt to deluge musical art. Benevolent and paternal as he was to the young men, careful as he was to respect their independence and originality, he never ceased putting them on guard against this danger. Another eccentricity of the day which troubled him was the morbid pessimism of our sombre, troubled, anæmic, neuropathic generation, which is unsound when sincere, sinful when affected. As for the pernicious blague which has penetrated Parisian society from top to bottom, he was horrified at it, in its origin as in its form. His language, which was very free but full of tact, his manners, whose familiarity and ease did not exclude the perfect distinction of a delicate organization-he was patri

cian to the tips of his fingers-were a constant protest against the strange ways of speaking habitual in the best society. Not that he disliked fooling or bantering or joking even in the French style; but he never passed the bounds of good taste, and he always remembered what we too often forget nowadays, that laughing at everything means debasing and destroying everything. It did not prevent him, however, from wielding irony in a very pleasant way, but it was irony clothed in a smile-the skin was only grazed and not bruised.

Must his memory be defended against the reproach of self-infatuation? It would be an insult if I had not seen the charge in print lately. The only answer to be made to it is, that it can only emanate from a person who did not know or did not understand him. Neither honor, nor respect, nor fortune, nor glory changed the simplicity of his frank and lovable character. Can more be expected? Must a great man entirely ignore himself? He loved to be praised, no doubt-so do others who have less right to it. But he loved especially to be loved. He hated commonplace compliment, and despised flatterers. Granted that he was ready to talk about himself; but with what attentive interest, with what tender kindness he would also speak to you about yourself! And what could be more interesting than to hear him recall the memories of his long and brilliant career or reveal the secret of his thought and the spirit of his work? But never did an arrogant word or movement escape him, and if he did justice to the children of his genius, it was because he could not contradict every one's opinion. Moreover, the consciousness of his own worth did not blind him to that of others. What is the modesty of a great man but that? Self-infatuation, like affectation, belongs to the weak and the young. Age and talent diminish arrogance, giving place to legitimate self-respect.

But why dwell upon the past? We have now to mourn our loss, for he has entered into the bosom of the infinite intelligence, of the absolute beauty, of the eternal light. Such was his con ception of the future life that was his

constant hope, his cherished and infrangible belief. "In the order of time," he said, "life precedes death, but in the order of eternity death precedes life. Life is that which dies every day, and death is the end of itdeath which is the birth of that which dies not again forever." That was the idea which inspired Mors et Vita, commencing with a Requiem and finishing with the vision of the Apocalypse: Cælum novum, nova terra. He was ready for his earthly end, he awaited it with calm brow and heart at peace. Even as life smiled on him, so did he smile on death.

MARIE ANNE DE BOVET.

II.

It is impossible to judge the work of an artist without first carefully inquiring what was the ideal, what were the tendencies, and what was the spiritual condition of the generation immediately preceding that of the artist in question?

The brain of a composer is a sort of sponge that absorbs every day the multiple impressions of life, preserves them a longer or shorter period, and then, one day, reproduces them either spontaneously or under the influence of the will, with a relish, an intensity, a coloring, more or less powerful, and more or less personal.

Such is the phenomenon which is called "creation.'

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Indeed, spontaneous generation does not exist in this order of things; the idea which seems to us newest always proceeds from another idea. "On est toujours le fils de quelqu'un," affirmed Beaumarchais a hundred years ago, and nothing since then has proved the contrary.

At the time at which Gounod was born musically-speaking, that is to say, about 1836, when he was eighteen years old, symphonic music did not exist in France; six or seven years had scarcely passed since the Société des Concerts du Conservatoire gave periodic recitals in their small-proportioned hall, which was closed to the general public, and hardly allowed of one thousand subscribers listening to the chefs-d'œuvre of the masters.

The musicians of the day were Ros

sini, who had produced Guillaume Tell in 1829; Hérold, Le Pré-aux-Cleres in 1832; Halévy, La Juive in 1835; Meyerbeer, Les Huguenots in 1836; Auber, who since 1820 had furnished the Opéra Comique with a new work every year. Not one of these composers was a symphonist in the true sense of the word.

And Mozart? you will say. It is true, Don Giovanni was admired. It was Don Giovanni, too, that decided the career of Gounod, who was fond of relating how he was captivated by it the first time he heard it at the Théâtre Italien. He was then only fourteen years old, and the memory of that evening remained through his whole life.

Yes, certainly, Mozart was known at Paris, but scarcely in any other capacity than as a musician for the theatre.

A symphonist is one who takes a theme of four notes and out of them constructs a long piece of music; for example, Beethoven and the allegro of the symphony in C Minor. Everything not directly derived from the initial theme, everything foreign to the theme, or to the philosophic idea contained in the theme, is severely proscribed. A long piece of music requires an architecture that obeys the same laws of number as the façade of a palace with its centre and its wings; the same perfect symmetry belongs to both. An admirable symphony may be written that evokes no precise idea, that has no literary meaning. The talent of the symphonist consists in the development of the pure musical idea.

On the stage, it is quite the reverse ; there are no more developments, no more deductions, no more thematic unity; the aim is to fit the words precisely, to clothe as clearly as possible the text of the poet, and to interpret as energetically as possible the movement of the scene. Let us say at once it is subjective art. Though we may cull from the immense collection of operas two or three scenes like the finale of Don Juan, the Bénédiction des Poignards, the Chevauchée des Walkyries, where the music seems to move freely, while expressing the dramatic situation with rare intensity, these two or three scenes are the exception. On the stage architectural

proportions count for very little, and the great symphonic law of number remains a dead letter. Every one knows that omissions and additions are made in the course of the rehearsal of a dramatic work without the least injury to the whole. Sometimes even whole scenes disappear, yet the balance is not in the least affected, and the listener suspects nothing.

The French of 1836-1840 admired Lulli, Gluck, Mozart, Grètry, Méhul, Rossini, Auber, Meyerbeer, Hérold, Halévy; they were passionately enthusiastic for those born singers, Lablache, Nourrit, Levasseur, Rubini, Tamburini, Duprez; for Malibran, Stolz, Falcon, Damoreau, etc. Music interested them through the medium of the interpreter. It was scarcely understood at all except at the Opéra, the Opéra Comique, and the Théâtre Italien. Imagine a man at that time being seized with a mad love for a different form of art! Imagine him resisting the current of the day, and quietly composing symphonies without the least hope of hearing his compositions played! In 1839 Gounod won the grand prize for composition and went to Rome. There, for the first time, he heard Palestrina; there, too, a happy chance revealed Beethoven to him. Fanny Mendelssohn has preserved in her letters to her brother the memory of those meetings at the Villa Médicis, during which the young Gounod expressed in passionate apostrophes the enthusiasm with which he was filled on hearing the last sonatas (then quite new to him) of the master of Bonn.

After Gounod left Rome he travelled through Germany. At Vienna, about 1843, he composed a mass without accompaniment: the great shade of Palestrina haunted him; the critics pointed it out. At Leipzig he presented himself to Mendelssohn: "Is it not about you, sir, that my sister has so often talked in her letters ?" "Yes, Maitre! I owe her much. She taught me to understand Beethoven, and procured me the great honor of being received to-day by Mendelssohn!"

The author of Paulus and Elie received his future confrère with much courtesy and welcomed him to his house. Fanny Mendelssohn had revealed Beet

hoven's genius to the young student. Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy revealed to him the work of Bach.

Gounod often told me of that unforgettable evening in the church of St. Thomas, at Leipzig, where stands the old organ of John Sebastian Bach. The church was empty. "Stop down there," said Mendelssohn, who went up to the gallery and began to improvise on the choral-" Durch Adams Fall." Every one knows what an improviser he was, and that evening, whether it was owing to the fascination of the theme or the desire to captivate his single listener, he surpassed himself. For two hours the instrument vibrated as if it recognized the powerful hand of old, as if it recalled the harmonies of the Titan of music. "Great shivers ran along my spine," said Gounod, when calling to mind that unparalleled experience, "and every time I think of it I seem to feel those shivers again!"

Indeed, a pupil of Halévy, on being suddenly introduced by Mendelssohn to John Sebastian Bach, was bound to get a good shock-especially a pupil like Gounod, whose analytic and admirative faculties were developed to the highest pitch.

He was a good listener, and enjoyed a good memory. The impression produced by Palestrina was never effaced. "I wish," he said to us, "to build myself a cell of perfect harmony, and live there for the rest of my days." One of his great joys was to have the chorals of Bach played to him. "C'est de la moëlle de lion," he would cry, raising his arms to heaven. At the Institut, when he passed before Beethoven's bust, he never missed marking with his finger on the marble the time of the four initial quavers of the Symphony in C minor: then bowing very low he saluted.

But though he admired and was thoroughly versed in Palestrina, Bach and Beethoven, his true master, his ancestor, his counsellor, his ideal, his god, was he who had caused his first heart-beatings when he was fourteenthe immortal author of Don Giovanni. It was from him that Gounod had received the coup de foudre, and to this passion of his early boyhood he remained loyal all his life.

When I said just now that the theatrical was a subjective art, I did not mean that it was an inferior art. In classifying the masterpieces of the human. mind, no one would ever place Don Juan in the second rank. And does not the musician who signed his name to Sapho, Polyeucte, Faust, and Roméo, belong to the family of the great," as M. Ingres said?

We do not doubt it for one moment. He was one of the greatest dramatic musicians of the age, the greatest that our country has produced.

His literary education-he knew his classics by heart; the openness of his mind to all influences-he could talk sensibly on any subject; his lack of nervousness, uncommon among artists -all these qualities drew him toward a special ideal of art, an astounding combination of cloudy lyrism and frank clearness, of sensuality and mysticism, of naïve faith and spiritual irony. That ideal could only be realized on the stage. Gounod needed a text to interpret, human sentiments to express. In fine, the word was necessary to him. And in that art which consists in making verses of a poet sing, he has no superior.

To-day, the musician who repeats the words of his text, who is bad at manipulating long and short syllables, and does not respect the cesura, is doomed to failure. The time of the Italian felicità has passed; music and poetry tend every day to draw nearer each other, to live together in perfect harmony, each engaged in praising the other, as in a well-conducted household.

To Gounod we owe this progress of to

day. He spoke so well, he articulated so clearly, he sang in accents so true and so just!

No

It was said at his funeral that the accents he put into the mouths of Faust, Marguerite, Juliette, Roméo, are definitive for all those who seek in music the echo of their feeling. The vast majority of the audience remain almost insensible to the dramatic truth of the lyric drama. Provided the music accompanying the action fascinates, they ask no more. The fate of Gounod's operas is partly explained by that. music is more seductive. The melodious caresses which the master poured forth in profusion throughout his work express so marvellously the sentiments which, for the greater number, accompany the idea of passion, that these melodies in passing through many mouths have become the language of passion itself. . . At certain moments all young girls are more or less Juliettes, and all young men Roméos.

A further explanation of the success of Gounod's operas is to be found in the technical purity and clearness of his orchestration. With him, as with Mozart, there is nothing useless, nothing that does not harmonize with the expression of the whole one desires not a note more, not a detail less. There is never meagreness, and never excessive sound; one has only to listen and admire without reserve. And all this technique, so far as the interpreters of his music are concerned, lies within the limits of easy execution.

The "masters" alone write like that.
Fortnightly Review.

A REMARK of M. Richet, the eminent French psychologist, may be said to strike the key note of the following essay. M. Richet is arguing (in 1884) for the genuine character of "Somnambulism," by which he means provoked somnambulism, hypnotic phenomena. "If the phenomena are simulated," says M. Richet, "then the skill, the

perfection, the universality of the imposture, everywhere and always, constitute one of the most extraordinary phenomena in the records of science." This I chanced to read, after publishing an article on "Comparative Psychical Research" in the CONTEMPORARY for September, 1893. In that paper, having given a selection of reported