Gluck (Part II)

In the first installment of his two-part biography of Gluck (Berlioz on Music, #9), Berlioz related his overwhelming early experiences of Gluck’s music and summa- rized Gluck’s beginnings as a composer of Italian operas, most of little merit— with the notable exception of an aria from Telemaco (1765), which he lovingly and evocatively described. He then told of Gluck’s coming to maturity with his great operatic reform; of the rivalry between Gluck and Piccini; and of Gluck’s force of character in defending his music in performance. Continuing the biog- raphy, Berlioz now reviews Gluck’s French operas beginning with Iphigénie en Aulide (1774). He briefly evokes the popular Orphée (1774), then dwells on the French version of Alceste (1776) and on some unfortunate changes from the Italian libretto. With Armide (1777) he is especially interested in the line “Our general calls you back,” whose extraordinary effect is due in part, he concedes, to additions by French arrangers. He also speaks of Gluck’s masterpiece, Iphigénie en Tauride (analyzed separately in an extensive article: see website and #17); of Écho et Narcisse, his last opera; and finally, of the breadth of Gluck’s genius, capable of improvising French verse. In sum, Berlioz considers Gluck a great musical poet who, through an infusion of poetry into music, began the art’s emancipation from custom and routine. z June 8, 1834 Gazette musicale de Paris

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It was at about this time that du Roullet, the bailiff stationed in Vienna,1 brought the French poem Iphigenia in Aulis to Gluck’s attention.2 The idea of setting the final part to music had been suggested by Racine himself, and apart from a few lines of recitative that could well have been preserved just as they had been imagined by our great poet (and that were disfigured merely so du Roullet might play his part as arranger), we may say that the scenes were beautifully organized and ripe for great musical developments. The composer saw at a glance everything he could do with such a subject. He took it on and set it to music, though without knowing when it might be performed and without even seeking the slightest commitment from the Paris Opéra. Only after finishing his work did Gluck have a French friend of his contact the director of the Royal Academy of Music to propose mounting Iphigenia. Once the difficult negotiation was concluded to the satisfaction of both par- ties, the German composer came to France. Although he eventually met with brilliant success in the capital of the civilized world, his initial experiences were cruelly disappointing, as he had to confront some truly vile and ignoble plots. The partisans of Rameau, sworn foes of the admirers of Lully, joined forces with them to bring down the “Barbarian from the North,” and in this they were seconded by all the auxiliary fanatics that the partisans of Italian comic opera could assemble. It took nothing less than a direct order from Queen Marie Antoinette, who in Germany had been a pupil of Sir Willibald and maintained the most affectionate admiration for her teacher, to oblige the director of the Opéra to keep his word. After an almost unbelievable number of rehearsals necessitated by the per- formers’ insufficiencies and the upsetting of their routines, Iphigenia appeared. Its success was immense. The overture had to be played a second time. The triumphal chorus in the first act, the quartet, the trio, Clytemnestre’s swoon, the duet of Achille and Iphigénie, the religious hymns of sacrifice were all wildly applauded. I can understand such responses better than anyone, recall- ing, as I do, how my heart raced only some eight years ago at the opening measures of this opera now so utterly forgotten.3 Of all the works that Gluck

1. Berlioz gives du Roullet his title of bailli, an officer appointed by and thus loyal to the king rather than to local interests. 2. From the next sentence it is clear that Berlioz is referring to Racine’s play Iphigénie, which was of course written in verse. 3. The opera was performed on February 23, 1824, with Mme. Branchu as Clytemnestre and Dérivis as Agamemon (CM).

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composed for the French stage, Iphigenia in Aulis is the one that borrows least from his Italian scores. The only parts that he did not write especially for the Opéra are the introduction to the overture, derived from the aria in Telemaco “Ah! chi di voi m’addita,” and the famous chorus “Que de grâces!” based on a cavatina from La Clemenza di Tito, “Al mio spirto.”4 The dance numbers that we know differ from those in the printed score and are infinitely superior in every way. It appears that Gluck wrote them for a reprise of Iphigenia in which the conclusion was also changed. Orphée, with a style and shape more in keeping with Italian habits, recon- ciled its composer with the dilettanti for a while, but Alceste came along and destroyed those benefits of Orphée, and the opposition gathered new strength when this lugubrious drama appeared, on April 23, 1776. Du Roullet, the great arranger of the period, worked together with the composer to effect great changes from the original Italian version. These were not all felicitous. Here are the main ones: The lovely aria “Non, ce n’est point un sacrifice” was composed, words and music, for the French opera.5 On the other hand, the authors felt obliged to delete a really curious number in the Italian Alceste. It is a sort of measured recitative sung by Admète’s wife upon entering the underworld. “Chi mi parla! . . . che rispondo! . . . ah, che veggo! ah, che spav- ento! . . . ove fuggo! . . . ove m’ascondo! . . . ardo . . . gelo . . . manco . . . moro . . . e in tanta pena . . . il . . . vigor . . . mi resta . . . appena . . . per dolermi . . . e per . . . tremar.”6 The voice is accompanied pianissimo by muted strings on a sinister rhythm maintained insistently from beginning to end, like a muffled rustling that from the depths of Tartarus comes to freeze Alceste with terror. Each of the exclamations—“Qui me parle! . . . que vois-je! . . . où fuir! . . . je brûle . . . je gèle . . . je meurs, etc.” is followed by a syncopated chord in the lowest register of the oboes, bassoons, and clarinets; the effect is strange and lugubrious, and wondrous in that setting. Executed by a great actress and a fine orchestra, the piece would be frightening. I can’t understand why Gluck failed to include it in his French score. Still more puzzling is that he allowed his arranger to

4. gives the following references from : “Ah, who among you points to me,” “What CM GSW grace!” and “To my mind,” respectively. The aria from Telemaco is in Act I, sc. 6–7; the cava- tina from La Clemenza di Tito is in Act II, sc. 14; its theme is used for the “famous chorus” from Act I, sc. 4–5, “Que d’attraits. . . Que de grâces.” 5. “No, it is no sacrifice.” Act I, sc. 5. 6. “Who speaks to me . . . how do I answer . . . ah, what do I see . . . ah, what terror . . . where do I flee . . . where do I hide . . . I burn . . . I freeze . . . I grow weak . . . I die . . . and in such pain . . . I . . . barely have . . . the strength . . . to lament . . . to . . . tremble.” Act II, sc. 2.

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disarrange the beautiful flow of the great aria that ends the first act. Alceste hurls her challenge to the gods of the underworld; what she gets in response is a fearsome cry in the horns and trombones. This idea strikes me as beautiful in the French aria; in the original it is sublime. The Italian word ombre,7 stretch- ing over two long notes, gives the voice time to swell and at the same time gives extra saliency to the response of the gods, represented by the brasses;*8 the singing comes to a halt just when the orchestra starts. The same thing occurs with the second word, larve.9 Placed a fifth higher than the first,10 it gives rise to a frightening orchestral roar, the likes of which I am unaware of anywhere in opera. In the French translation, rather than the two words “ombre! . . . larve! . . .,” which would have been fine with the mere addition of an “s”, we have “divinités du Styx.”11 Consequently, instead of a smooth vocal phrase uttered complete in a single measure, the change produces five insipid repetitions of the same note for the five syllables “di-vi-ni-tés du Styx,” while the word “Styx” is thrown into the following measure at the very time when the instrumental cry covers it entirely. Besides, since the meaning is not complete in the measure where the voice sings alone, the orchestra gives the impression of starting up too soon, responding to an unfinished challenge. The rhymester was no doubt unable to get the two words “ombres, larves” to fit into his verse and, rather than provide a literal translation in prose, which would have worked perfectly, he profaned, marred, and disfigured the most stunning inspiration in tragic music. But oh, how important it was, that poetry by Monsieur du Roullet! The first performance of Alceste found little response, the audience not grasping even the hundredth part of the work’s beauties. Its reception seemed tantamount to failure. Gluck was pacing up and down in the lobby, receiving

7. . Shades 8. * Here Berlioz adds a note: Who doesn’t recall Mme. Branchu’s admirable impulse when, after her phrase “Divinités du Styx,” at the trombones’ answering cry, she would turn toward the orchestra producing these formidable voices and, with a new burst of energy and a wild-eyed mix of excitement and horror, disdainfully fling out the final line, “Je n’invoquerai point votre pitié cruelle [I refuse to seek your pitiless pity]"? Her scornful voice then took on such force, her expression was so grand, that the powerful orchestra of the Opéra faded away, vanquished in this fantastic struggle. Oh! she was great then, great as Gluck! She was sublime as his interpreter. 9. Spectres. 10. Actually a third higher; Berlioz made the correction in reusing this passage in JD, October 23, 1835. 11. “Stygian gods.”

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condolences from his friends, when a weeping child came and threw himself into his arms, shouting “Oh, what barbarians! what wretches! They have no heart, no guts! God keep me from ever writing anything for them!” “That’s all right, my boy,” answered Gluck; “in twenty years they’ll come around.” The child was Mozart. The public understood the work of the master sooner than he had expected, for the fourth performance brought a burst of enthu- siasm. Still, the blow had hit home. Mozart’s impression of Parisian coldness was ineradicable, and he never did compose anything for France. Armide appeared in 1777. Its success, more prompt than that of Alceste, was nonetheless disputed in the press, and Gluck was so irritated by the bit- ter criticism that he entered the fray himself—as I’ve said elsewhere12—to answer his detractors. To this initial mistake he added his inability to contain his ill humor, thereby giving the barking mongrels who had upset him the unhoped-for satisfaction of seeing the great man take notice of them. Their approach was to blame Gluck for his lack of melody. No melody?! Gluck! Oh, poor fellows! What, then, is Renaud’s descriptive aria “Plus j’observe ces lieux” or his duet with Armide or the first-act aria “La chaîne de l’hymen,”13 or the duet between Ubalde and the Nymph or the dance numbers in the second act? And what of those pure, calm, blissful Elysian Fields choruses in Orphée and the protagonist’s romance in the first act and his singing when confronted by the Furies? And Alceste’s arias “Je n’ai jamais chéri la vie” and “Ah, divinités implacables!”14 I am citing the sweet and tender melodies; there are others, of course—sad, grave, religious; and there are violent, terrifying, searing ones. But for the gentlemen in question, if there’s no dancing, there’s no melody. They recognize simplicity only in platitudes and grace only in insipidity. For them, the street song with a dash of refinement is the model for any musical production. For these brilliant and profound censurers, the flageolet is the symbol of melody, just as the bass drum symbolizes rhythm. Many recent discussions have been prompted by Ubalde’s famous exclama- tion “Notre général vous rappelle.”15 Gluck has been denied authorship of the idea of this trumpet call, which reminds Renaud of his passion for arms and revives the young hero’s love of glory powerfully enough to leave no place in his heart for sensual love. Here are the facts. In the printed score of Armide,

12. GM, June 1, 1834 (Berlioz on Music, #9). 13. “The more I observe this place” and “The chain of marriage,” respectively. 14. “I have never cherished life” and “Ah, implacable gods!” respectively. 15. “Our general calls you back.”

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the line I have just quoted is accompanied by nothing more than strings and kettledrums. The clangor tubarum, which ordinarily brings the audience to its feet with shouts of admiration, was added by Rey, who conducted the Opéra orchestra about twenty years ago.16 Moreover, in Gluck, “Notre général vous rappelle” is stated only once, and in the key of C. Gardel is responsible for the admirable idea of repeating it.17 When Renaud, moved to pity, is ready to renounce his resolution upon seeing the despair of his beautiful mistress, he begins in D minor this recitative phrase: “Trop malheureuse Armide, hélas! que ton destin est déplorable!”18 And the two warriors, Ubalde and the Danish knight, interrupting him with a more emphatic repetition, in D major, of “Notre général vous rappelle,” break the final ties holding him back and lead him, burning with enthusiasm, far away from the eyes that had fascinated him. It is dreadful that we cannot attribute to Gluck alone this sublime idea, which, following no model, has remained unimitated to this day; neverthe- less, we have to acknowledge that the basic idea was his. Quinault would never have thought of it.19 The four words from which Gluck was able to draw such an effect open the otherwise mediocre aria “La victoire vous garde une palme immortelle.”20 Gluck isolated those words and presented them by themselves in the grandiose, laconic manner that is his trademark. It is so unexpected, such a bolt of lightning, so completely consonant with Renaud’s sudden reaction to the dazzling sight of the diamond shield that even the person least receptive to the impressions of poetic music cannot fail to be profoundly moved. Momentarily discouraged by the persistent opposition he was encounter- ing at every step, Gluck determined to bring his musical career to a close with Armide. Fortunately, it didn’t happen. To Guillard, who had sent him his poem Iphigenia in Tauris,21 he replied, “Come see me in a few days; I’ll have

16. Jean-Baptiste Rey (1734–1810), French composer active at the Opéra, where he conducted

many works by Gluck and Piccini. 17. Pierre-Gabriel Gardel (1758–1840), French dancer, choreographer, and musician. Berlioz mentions him as “celebrated ballet master” in Mem. (­chapter 13), and in a letter of May 1828 says he was among those who interceded in favor of his attempts to have one of his works per- formed by the Opéra’s Concerts spirituels (CG 1:181). In 1860 he alludes critically to Gardel’s tampering with Gluck’s score (CG 6:141). 18. “Too unfortunate Armide, alas! what a deplorable fate you have!” 19. Philippe Quinault (1635–1688), French writer known principally as the librettist for Lully, who had composed a prior Armide (1686). 20. “Victory will grant you a deathless wreath.” 21. Nicolas-François Guillard (1752–1814), French librettist.

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read your work closely, and we’ll talk about it.” A week later Guillard arrived. Without a word, Gluck led him to the piano and played him half of the first act, which he had already composed. It seemed that his muse, grown limp with Quinault’s poetry, full of “desires, “pleasures,” “tenderness,” “youth,” “soul,” “ardor,” wanted to brace itself anew and regain its dark energy among the barbarian tribes of the Black Sea, in a drama from which the word “love” was wholly absent. General opinion holds Iphigenia in Tauris to be Gluck’s masterpiece. He was sixty-five years old when he wrote it. While the works of his mature years had appeared sparkling with verve, strength, and expressiveness, the work of the agèd man seemed even more engaging in its depth of thought, greatness of conception, and boldness of execution. In a weak moment, Piccinni let a few tactless friends persuade him to write music for another text*22 on the same subject. The two Iphigenia in Taurises were presented at more or less the same time in the same theater. The furor on both sides grew at the time to an extent hard to imagine today. The work of the Italian composer is cer- tainly not devoid of merit. Oreste’s aria “Et tu dis que tu m’aimes” is utterly beautiful,23 but his rival was too able a jouster, especially on the field where Guillard had positioned him, for victory to remain in doubt. The artists at the Opéra were so smitten by Gluck’s Iphigenia that when general rehearsals began, not one wanted to take advantage of the rule that allowed one-third of the orchestra to be absent at a given time. Everyone knows Gluck’s famous reply to the musicians when Oreste sang “Le calme rentre dans mon cœur.”24 In this admirable scene, the violins and cellos express a sort of palpitation, broken with laments and groans, while a muffled rumble in the violas evokes the remorse that haunts the patricidal Oreste even in his sleep. That is all so far from portraying calm, and contrasts so oddly with the words, that at the first run-through the players feared they were mistaken. Gluck cried out excitedly, “Don’t stop! He’s lying! He killed his mother!”25 The dress rehearsal gave rise to a curious incident. They had just finished. Gluck, still onstage, hears an usherette shout angrily at a stranger. He inquires into the reason for the quarrel; a very young man, trembling, comes forward and explains to Gluck that, unable to afford a ticket for the premiere of the

22. *Berlioz adds a note: It is fair to say that it is awful.

23. “And you say that you love me.” 24. “Calm returns to my heart.” 25. On this incident, see n. 9 of the essay on Iphigénie en Tauride (Part IV), on the website.

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new masterpiece scheduled for the next day, he had planned to hide in a box, hoping not to be noticed by the doorkeepers.

“You meant to spend the night here?” “Yes, my lord.” “And the whole following day, without eating?” “Oh, my lord, if it took only two days of not eating to see Iphigenia, I would be in bliss!” “Well, then, come see me tomorrow. I promise you a ticket for the performance.”

The poor young man, drunk with joy at having spoken to Gluck, hardly slept more soundly that night than if he had spent it in a box at the Opéra. The next morning he made sure not to forget the promised ticket. As he handed him the ticket, Gluck asked what the young man was doing in Paris. He was studying music and had even already written the score of a short one-act work. Gluck asked to see it. The sureness of style and precocious competen- cies that the great master detected there aroused his interest in the composer. He counseled him through the short time before his return to Germany, and these lessons proved so fruitful that, five or six years later, Grétry greeted a new, wonderfully energetic piece with the cry, “It’s enough to crack the roof of the theater with the skulls of the audience.” The piece was the Jealousy Duet from Euphrosine. The poor young man was Méhul. In his final work, Gluck reused several fragments of his Italian operas. The piece “Ô malheureuse Iphigénie,”26 where the voice, in admirable dialogue with an oboe, intones, over a repeated figure in the cellos, one of the greatest, most beautiful, most noble melodies I know of—this superb aria, I say, was composed in Naples for the singer Caffarelli and inserted into La Clemenza di Tito.27 Since the Neapolitan maestri couldn’t find anything else to criticize in the composition of this quickly celebrated piece, they faulted it for mis- takes in harmony. There is a long hold in the vocal part while the orchestra runs through a harmonic progression whose final chord clashes with the voice in a frightful dissonance. The words not only justify this musical boldness, but also give it the highest degree of pathos; in French it underlies the verse

26. “Oh, unfortunate Iphigenia”

27. Majorano Gaetano Caffarelli (1710–1783), celebrated castrato, for whom Gluck created the role of Sesto in La Clemenza di Tito (The Clemency of Titus, 1752).

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“Mêlez vos cris plaintifs à mes gémissements.”28 But the learnèd professors, delighted with their discovery of a seeming error by the asino tedesco, rushed to Durante,29 the patriarch of Italian harmonists, to show him the incrimi- nated passage. “I cannot judge the regularity of these chords,” he replied, “but I can affirm in all honesty that not one of us would fail to take satisfaction in such an inspiration.” The vigorously orchestrated fourth-act aria in A, “Je t’implore et je trem- ble,”30 is the same as Circe’s in Telemaco: “S’a estinguere non bastate.”31,32 Écho et Narcisse was staged in the course of the same year. This delightful composition, filled with the sweetest melodies and the freshest, most har- monious choruses, experienced the fate that seems inevitable for everything calm and contemplative. It was deemed cold and had barely a dozen perfor- mances. A. Nourrit sang two fragments of it, inserted into Orphée when the latter was revived eight years ago: the vibrant aria “ô transport, ô désordre extrême” and the enchanting “Le Dieu de Paphos.”33 Gluck had tried his hand at light opera, but with much less success, as proven by Cythère assiégée and L’Arbre enchanté,34 both printed in Paris. They prompted Father Arnaud to remark, “Hercules wielded a club more readily than a spindle.”35 Before leaving for Vienna, Gluck began his opera Les Danaïdes,36 which was later completed by his pupil Salieri. We have no knowledge of the part that the illustrious teacher played in the score.37 It appears that his musical career came to close with a De profundis, which had been commissioned for the funeral of a German prince. The work, printed in Paris after the composer’s

28. “Combine your plaintive cries with my groans”

29. Francesco Durante (1684–1755), Italian composer and teacher of Pergolesi and Paisiello, among others. 30. “I implore you and I tremble,” 31. “Lest you not suffice to extinguish . . .” 32. * It is curious that the general outline of this piece, which Gluck used a second time in Antigono and then a third in Iphigenia, occurs almost in its entirety in a sonata by Sebastian Bach. 33. “Oh, extreme disorder” and “The God of Paphos.” 34. Cythera under Siege and The Enchanted Tree, respectively. 35. François Arnaud (1721–84), French writer, initiator of the quarrel between the partisans of Gluck and those of Piccini. 36. The Daughters of Danaus. 37. In fact, the work is entirely by Salieri.

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death, is one of those that best reveal his great superiority in the depiction of sad and painful feelings. It is regrettable that we hear it so seldom. Rich in the gifts of fame and fortune, Gluck died in Vienna of a stroke on November 15, 1787, leaving an estate of 600,000 pounds. The great artist had been endowed by nature with all the qualities of a true poet and man of genius. His field of knowledge was not limited to music alone, for he was fluent in several languages and, steeped in French literature,*38 he was able to overcome difficulties that would have been insurmountable for many others. Reflections on his general system of dramatic music, on his knowledge of har- mony, on his melodic style, and on the progress that he brought to orchestra- tion in France would lead us too far afield and take us beyond the bounds of this article. But to render a final tribute to the author of so many remarkable creations, I must say that, of the composers of the past century, Gluck appears to be the one whose efforts contributed the most to hastening the veritable emancipation of the art of music and the moment when poetry and music will be synonymous for all fervent souls and lofty minds.

HECTOR BERLIOZ

38. * He gave proof of it at the staging of . During a rehearsal, at the end of an act Armide that he found unsatisfactory, he said, “After such threats of hatred, Armide cannot simply leave the stage; she must speak in turn!” And picking up his pen, he immediately improvised, forthwith, with words and music, the following passage:

Oh, heaven! what a horrible threat! I shudder! . . . All my blood runs cold! Love! powerful love! come calm my fright And take pity on a heart that surrenders to you! (Armide, Act III, sc. 5) Berlioz is signaling as notable the fact that this passage is composed in French, in well-wrought ten-syllable rhyming lines [Ed.].

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