Part 10

M. Saint-Saens has had the rare honour of becoming a classic during his lifetime. His name, though it was long unrecognised, now commands universal respect, not less by his worth of character than by the perfection of his art. No artist has troubled so little about the public, or been more indifferent to criticism whether popular or expert. As a child he had a sort of physical repulsion for outward success:

"De l'applaudissement J'entends encor le bruit qui, chose assez etrange, Pour ma pudeur d'enfant etait comme une fange Dont le flot me venait toucher; je redoutais Son contact, et parfois, malin, je l'evitais, Affectant la raideur."

Of applause I still hear the noise; and, strangely enough, In my childish shyness it seemed like mire About to spot me; I feared Its touch, and secretly shunned it, Affecting obstinacy.

These verses were read by M. Saint-Saens at a concert given on 10 June, 1896, in the Salle Pleyel, to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of his debut, which he made in 1846. It was in this same Salle Pleyel that he gave his first concert.]

Later on, he achieved success by a long and painful struggle, in which he had to fight against the kind of stupid criticism that condemned him "to listen to one of Beethoven's symphonies as a penance likely to give him the most excruciating torture." And yet after this, and after his admission to the Academy, after Henry VIII and the Symphonie avec orgue, he still remained aloof from praise or blame, and judged his triumphs with sad severity:

"Tu connaitras les yeux menteurs, l'hypocrisie Des serrements de mains, Le masque d'amitie cachant la jalousie, Les pales lendemains

"De ces jours de triomphe ou le troupeau vulgaire Qui pese au meme poids L'histrion ridicule et le genie austere Vous mets sur le pavois."

M. Saint-Saens has now grown old, and his fame has spread abroad, but he has not capitulated. Not many years ago he wrote to a German journalist: "I take very little notice of either praise or censure, not because I have an exalted idea of my own merits (which would be foolish), but because in doing my work, and fulfilling the function of my nature, as an apple-tree grows apples, I have no need to trouble myself with other people's views."

You will know the lying eyes, the insincerity Of pressures of the hand, The mask of friendship that hides jealousy. The tame to-morrows

Of these days of triumph, when the vulgar herd Crowns you with honour; Judging rare genius to be Equal in merit to the wit of clowns.

Such independence is rare at any time; but it is very rare in our day, when the power of public opinion is tyrannical; and it is rarest of all in France, where artists are perhaps more sociable than in other countries. Of all qualities in an artist it is the most precious; for it forms the foundation of his character, and is the guarantee of his conscience and innate strength. So we must not hide it under a bushel.

* * * * *

The significance of M. Saint-Saens in art is a double one, for one must judge him from the inside as well as the outside of France. He stands for something exceptional in French music, something which was almost unique until just lately: that is, a great classical spirit and a fine breadth of musical culture--German culture, we must say, since the foundation of all modern art rests on the German classics. French music of the nineteenth century is rich in clever artists, imaginative writers of melody, and skilful dramatists; but it is poor in true musicians, and in good and solid workmanship. Apart from two or three splendid exceptions, our composers have too much the character of gifted amateurs who compose music as a pastime, and regard it, not as a special form of thought, but as a sort of dress for literary ideas. Our musical education is superficial: it may be got for a few years, in a formal way, at a Conservatoire, but it is not within reach of all; the child does not breathe music as, in a way, he breathes the atmosphere of literature and oratory; and although nearly everyone in France has an instinctive feeling for beautiful writing, only a very few people care for beautiful music. From this arise the common faults and failings in our music. It has remained a luxurious art; it has not become, like German music, the poetical expression of the people's thought.

To bring this about we should need a combination of conditions that are very rare in France; though such conditions went to the making of Camille Saint-Saens. He had not only remarkable natural talent, but came of a family of ardent musicians, who devoted themselves to his education. At five years of age he was nourished on the orchestral score of Don Juan; as a little boy

"De dix ans, delicat, frele, le teint jaunet, Mais confiant, naif, plein d'ardeur et de joie,"

he "measured himself against Beethoven and Mozart" by playing in a public concert; at sixteen years of age he wrote his Premiere Symphonie. As he grew older he soaked himself in the music of Bach and Haendel, and was able to compose at will after the manner of Rossini, Verdi, Schumann, and Wagner. He has written excellent music in all styles--the Grecian style, and that of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. His compositions are of every kind: masses, grand operas, light operas, cantatas, symphonies, symphonic poems; music for the orchestra, the organ, the piano, the voice, and chamber music. He is the learned editor of Gluck and Rameau; and is thus not only an artist, but an artist who can talk about his art. He is an unusual figure in France--one would have thought rather to find his home in Germany.

But ten years old, slightly built and pale, Yet full of simple confidence and joy (Rimes familieres).

In Germany, however, they make no mistake about him. There, the name of Camille Saint-Saens stands for the French classical spirit, and is thought worthiest to represent us in music from the time of Berlioz until the appearance of the young school of Cesar Franck--though Franck himself is as yet little known in Germany. M. Saint-Saens possesses, indeed, some of the best qualities of a French artist, and among them the most important quality of all--perfect clearness of conception. It is remarkable how little this learned artist is bothered by his learning, and how free he is from all pedantry. Pedantry is the plague of German art, and the greatest men have not escaped it. I am not speaking of Brahms, who was ravaged with it, but of delightful geniuses like Schumann, or of powerful ones like Bach. "This unnatural art wearies one like the sanctimonious salon of some little provincial town; it stifles one, it is enough to kill one." "Saint-Saens is not a pedant," wrote Gounod; "he has remained too much of a child and become too clever for that." Besides, he has always been too much of a Frenchman.

Sometimes Saint-Saens reminds me of one of our eighteenth-century writers. Not a writer of the Encyclopedie, nor one of Rousseau's camp, but rather of Voltaire's school. He has a clearness of thought, an elegance and precision of expression, and a quality of mind that make his music "not only noble, but very noble, as coming of a fine race and distinguished family."

He has also excellent discernment, of an unemotional kind; and he is "calm in spirit, restrained in imagination, and keeps his self-control even in the midst of the most disturbing emotions." This discernment is the enemy of anything approaching obscurity of thought or mysticism; and its outcome was that curious book, Problemes et Mysteres--a misleading title, for the spirit of reason reigns there and makes an appeal to young people to protect "the light of a menaced world" against "the mists of the North, Scandinavian gods, Indian divinities, Catholic miracles, Lourdes, spiritualism, occultism, and obscurantism."

His love and need of liberty is also of the eighteenth century. One may say that liberty is his only passion. "I am passionately fond of liberty," he wrote.

And he has proved it by the absolute fearlessness of his judgments on art; for not only has he reasoned soundly against Wagner, but dared to criticise the weaknesses of Gluck and Mozart, the errors of Weber and Berlioz, and the accepted opinions about Gounod; and this classicist, who was nourished on Bach, goes so far as to say: "The performance of works by Bach and Haendel to-day is an idle amusement," and that those who wish to revive their art are like "people who would live in an old mansion that has been uninhabited for centuries." He went even further; he criticised his own work and contradicted his own opinions. His love of liberty made him form, at different periods, different opinions of the same work. He thought that people had a right to change their opinions, as sometimes they deceived themselves. It seemed to him better boldly to admit an error than to be the slave of consistency. And this same feeling showed itself in other matters besides art: in ethics, as is shown by some verses which he addressed to a young friend, urging him not to be bound by a too rigid austerity:

"Je sens qu'une triste chimere A toujours assombri ton ame: la Vertu...."

and in metaphysics also, where he judges religions, faith, and the Gospels with a quiet freedom of thought, seeking in Nature alone the basis of morals and society.

I know that a vain dream of virtue Has always cast a shadow on your soul (Rimes familieres). ]

Here are some of his opinions, taken at random from Problemes et Mysteres:

"As science advances, God recedes."

"The soul is only a medium for the expression of thought."