Ernest Reyer
“Nowadays, more than ever, musicians have the leisure to occupy themselves with other things than music.”
These bitter words, savouring of disappointed expectations, occur in the preface to the volume entitled Notes de Musique, written by Ernest Reyer and published in 1875.
Since that time the author of the above lines has received a tardy compensation for a somewhat unaccountable neglect, and his operas “Sigurd” and “Salammbô” have achieved what promises to be a permanent success at the Paris Opera.
Although the composer of these works is but little known in this country, yet he none the less occupies an honourable position in the front rank of modern musicians. His “Sigurd,” which was given at Covent Garden some few years since, did not meet with the success due to its unquestionable merits.
A man of strong convictions, imbued with a high ideal and averse to anything approaching the spirit of compromise, Ernest Reyer had to wait longer before receiving due recognition than if he had been disposed to pander to the taste of the public at the cost of his artistic principles. This he has never done but he has been satisfied to work quietly and wait patiently until his hour should arrive, careless of popularity, and content to devote his talents to the sole cause of art. Born on Dec. 1, 1823, at Marseilles, Ernest Reyer at the age of sixteen went to Algeria, where he spent some time, living with his uncle, who had an appointment in the province of Constantine.
It may be that the early influences of the milieu in which he was thrown may have had something to do with developing a tendency he exhibited later on of setting Oriental subjects to music. His first important work was an eastern symphonic ode, entitled “Le Sélam,” the words of which were by Théophile Gautier, produced in 1850. This composition had the misfortune to come a little too late. Félicien David, in his “Désert,” had already musically illustrated a subject in many ways similar, and the success of his work proved detrimental to that of his younger colleague.
Many years later (in 1876), Ernest Reyer was destined, curiously enough, to succeed Félicien David as a member of the Institute.
The début of Reyer as a dramatic composer dates from the year 1854, when “Maître Wolfram,” a one-act opera, was produced at the Opéra Comique. This was followed in 1858 by “Sacuntala,” a ballet, at the Opéra; and in 1861 by “La Statue,” at the Théâtre Lyrique. It was this last work which brought the composer’s name in a prominent manner before the public. The distrust that existed at that period against all musicians holding so-called “advanced” ideas naturally affected Ernest Reyer, who was known to be an intimate friend of Berlioz, and to hold unorthodox views with regard to the nature of dramatic music. “Le Sélam” had come too late, “La Statue” arrived too soon. At a time when the beauties of “Tannhaüser” were unrecognised and this work had been hissed off the stage, when even Gounod’s “Faust” was looked upon with suspicion, it is not surprising that a work exhibiting qualities of so serious a nature as “La Statue” should have met with only a partial success. At the same time the qualities abounding in this work were recognised by the press, and its author was by common consent classed among the most rising composers and looked upon as one from whom much was to be expected.
“La Statue,” in its original form, included spoken dialogue. On the occasion of its revival at the Opéra Comique in 1878, the composer set this to music, to the great advantage of his work, thereby insuring that continuity which nowadays is rightly regarded as essential in operas of serious import.
The music to this work is impregnated with an indefinable Oriental colouring which imparts to it an undoubted measure of charm.
To Félicien David must be accorded the credit of being perhaps the first to employ distinctively Eastern characteristics. It was doubtless this that helped to ensure the prodigious success that attended “Le Désert.” Without in any way laying himself open to the charge of plagiarism, Reyer may be said to have followed in his footsteps with conspicuous success. Since then many composers have treated Oriental subjects, and have endeavoured to invest their music with the peculiar “cachet” associated with the East. Amongst these may be mentioned Bizet, in his “Pêcheurs de Perles” and “Djamileh,” Rubinstein in “Feramors,” Goldmark in “The Queen of Sheba,” Saint-Saëns in “Samson et Dalila,” Massenet in “Le Roi de Lahore,” Bruneau in “Kérim,” and Villiers Stanford in “The Veiled Prophet.”
Bizet considered “La Statue” as the most remarkable opera that had been given in France for twenty years. It is sad that this, in company with many other works of value, should never have been offered to the judgment of the British public.
The composer’s next operatic venture took place on German soil. It was at Baden-Baden, at that period in the prime of its glory and the chosen playground of Europe, that “Erostrate,” a two act opera, was brought out in the summer of 1862.
Nothing at that moment seemed to presage any strained relations between France and Germany. French tourists came in crowds to the gay watering-place and deposited their offerings with a light heart in the temple of chance presided over by Mons. Bénazet; that very same year a cantata, the words of which were by Méry and the music by Reyer, given at Baden-Baden, celebrated the praises of “The Rhine, symbol of peace.”
Quantum mutatus ab illis. The French element disappeared with the war of 1870, and the suppression of the tables has long since brought Baden-Baden down to the same level of respectability as many another “Kurort.”
Musical amateurs sojourning in the picturesque valley of the Grand Duchy of Baden at this epoch seem to have had a good time of it.
Berlioz was in the habit of directing every year a grand festival at which were performed extracts from his orchestral works. Reyer states that each concert given by Berlioz used to cost a matter of 20,000 francs to Mons. Bénazet the energetic head of the “Kurhaus.” Certain it is that this enterprising director must have had strong musical proclivities, for it is to his initiative that the production of Berlioz’s “Béatrice et Benédict” is due. This work served to inaugurate the opening of the new theatre at Baden. Two days later witnessed the first performance of Reyer’s “Erostrate,” which was shortly afterwards followed by another new work, “Nahel,” by Henry Litolff. “Erostrate” seems to have pleased the cosmopolitan public of Baden better than it did Parisian amateurs when it was transferred to the Grand Opéra ten years later, where it was only accorded two representations. The composer was reproached at this time for having dedicated his score to the Queen of Prussia. As if it were possible for any one, in 1862, to foresee the course of events that were destined to happen in 1870. Patriotism occasionally seems to have the effect of deadening the intelligence.
It certainly appears strange that after the favourable reception accorded to “La Statue” in 1861, Reyer should have been ostracised from the Paris theatres, if we except the two performances of “Erostrate” in 1872, and the revivals of “Maître Wolfram” in 1873, and of “La Statue” in 1878, for a period of twenty-four years, when he made a triumphal reappearance at the Opéra with “Sigurd.” This last opera had been performed the year before at Brussels.
The Belgian capital seems to be a sort of refuge for those French composers who experience a difficulty in obtaining a hearing in their own country.
It was at the Théâtre de la Monnaie that the following operas were first produced: Reyer’s “Sigurd” and “Salammbô,” Massenet’s “Hérodiade,” the brothers Hillemacher’s “St. Mégrin,” Godard’s “Jocelyn,” and Chabrier’s “Gwendoline.” It was also there that some of Wagner’s later music dramas were heard for the first time in French.
“Sigurd” had been composed many years previous to its production on the stage, and fragments had frequently been introduced into the concert-room. I recollect myself hearing an important extract performed at one of the far-famed Conservatoire concerts, and the overture at one of Pasdeloup’s concerts, in 1876. The subject of this opera is taken from the same source as Wagner’s “Ring des Nibelungen.”
Sigurd and Siegfried are one and the same individual, and many of the incidents of the French composer’s opera are identical with those that occur in the “Götterdammerŭng.” This is, of course, unfortunate, and although it has been pointed out that Reyer composed his work before the completion of the “Ring,” yet he must have been aware that the German master was treating the same subject, considering that Wagner had published the poem of his four works as far back as 1853. Notwithstanding the reputation he had already achieved, endless difficulties had to be surmounted before Reyer was able to get his work performed. The nature of the subject frightened Mons. Halanzier, the then director of the Paris Opéra, who imagined that the barbarous sounding names of the leading characters might prove objectionable to the public. Who had ever heard of Sigurd, Hagen, Gunther, or Hilda? The last name seemed especially to act upon his nerves. “Why not call her Bilda?” he exclaimed. “Do I call you Balanzier?” answered Reyer. There was nothing for the luckless composer to do but wait for another opportunity, which happily occurred some years later.
It is immensely to the French composer’s credit that, in spite of inevitable comparisons, he should have been able to succeed as well as he has.
“Sigurd” is full of dramatic power, and bears evidence of the constant endeavour of the composer to fit his music to the sense of the words, avoiding as much as possible any of those conventional effects so dear to the uneducated section of the public. His style has been described as proceeding from Gluck and Weber, whilst his admiration for Berlioz and Wagner reveals itself in the richness and variety of his instrumentation. This appreciation is perfectly correct, and although his operas may be criticised in some respects, they reveal a true artistic temperament both in their method and execution. It may be said with truth that Reyer’s individuality is not of the most marked, that his melodies sometimes lack distinction, and that his inventive faculty is scarcely equal to his skill in making the most of his materials; but none will contest the true artistic feeling that presides over all his compositions, or deny him the possession of strongly pronounced convictions impelling him to do his utmost towards raising the standard of operatic art.
After having been the first town to offer hospitality to “Sigurd,” Brussels was destined to have the primeur of “Salammbô,” the last opera that Reyer has composed, which was brought out in 1890 with great éclat, and produced later on in Paris, where it at once succeeded in establishing itself in the favour of the public. Perhaps of somewhat less sustained interest than “Sigurd,” the music of “Salammbô” shows the same tendencies on the part of its composer to adhere to a strict interpretation of the drama, and contains many pages of great beauty. Those who have read Flaubert’s powerful and imaginative work will probably consider it somewhat unsuited for the purposes of a “lyrical drama.” It must be admitted, however, that the composer has found in it a subject well adapted to his artistic temperament, and that it has enabled him to produce a work which is an honour both to himself and to his country.
The production of “Salammbô” in London is an event much to be desired, and a revival of “Sigurd” would also be of the greatest interest. Now that the British public are more familiarised with Wagner’s “Nibelungen Ring” they would be able to draw interesting comparisons between the treatment of the same legend by the German master and the French composer.
If Reyer has acquired a well deserved reputation in France as a composer, he is equally well known as a writer on music, and for many years has occupied the post of critic to the Journal des Débats, formerly held by Berlioz.
The opinions advanced by Reyer have always been remarkable for sound common sense. An intimate friend and ardent admirer of Berlioz, he enjoys the credit of having been one of the first in France to recognise the genius of Wagner.
The perfect honesty of his convictions is apparent to those who read his writings with care, and it may in passing be noted to his honour that when the course of time and increased acquaintance with his subject have caused him to modify any previously expressed opinions, he has never hesitated to say so. No one is infallible, but many pretend so to be.
When travelling in Germany in 1864 Reyer, who was already a strong admirer of Wagner’s earlier works, had occasion to run through the score of “Tristan,” then still unperformed. The first impressions produced upon him by this most complicated of scores was not a favourable one, and Reyer in stating this avowed that his admiration for the German master would stop at “Lohengrin,” until the beauties of the “Nibelungen Ring” should have been revealed to him.
In 1884 when the first act of “Tristan” was given at one of Mons. Lamoureux’s concerts, Reyer made amends for the appreciation somewhat hastily recorded by him twenty years previously by expressing his intense admiration for the wondrous beauties of this sublime work. “What a metamorphosis,” he wrote, “had taken place in my musical faculties during twenty years! But also what a difference in the execution! It was the first time that I was hearing ‘Tristan’ with the orchestra.”
Reyer in his criticisms has always held up the banner of high art, and his writings will doubtless not have been without influence in determining the nature of the musical movement in France during these last few years. His admiration for Berlioz has not diminished, whilst his admiration for Wagner has increased. Apropos of the “Proserpine” of Saint-Saëns, he wrote: “We are practically all affected with Wagnerism, perhaps at different degrees; but we have drunk and we will drink at the same source, and the sole precaution for us to take is not to drown our own personality.”
This frank avowal may not be to the taste of all French composers, but it is none the less true.
Ernest Reyer has almost entirely confined himself to operatic compositions. He is not a quick worker, and his operas all bear evidence of thought and an avoidance of claptrap effects.
He is still a bachelor and has the appearance rather of a retired military officer than of the traditional musician. Reyer is bibliothécaire of the Opéra, and inhabits a quiet little apartment on a fifth floor, where he is able to work undisturbed and meditate upon the trials and uncertainties of a composer’s existence.