Paris Classical Concerts

THE opera in Paris is in its decline. The once famous Italiens, where Tamburini, Rubini, Mario, Pasta, Grisi, and so many other voices of enchantment gave life to the compositions of Bellini, Donizetti, Rossini, was burned to the ground ten years ago, and the tradition of its composers, singers, and audience has perished with it. At the Grand Opéra, that funeral monument of the brilliant, music-fancying Second Empire, neither the best artists nor the great works of the present day are to be heard ; the orchestra and chorus are less than second rate; even the scenery is shabby. The Opéra Comique has an able manager, a good company, an excellent chorus, and a small but admirable orchestra; there new operas are brought out, old ones are revived, and the gems of the national school are given regularly. Two or three times a week, Auber, Boïeldieu, Méhul, Grétry, and other French composers are to be heard. But the Opéra Comique is limited by its very calling to operas of the lighter sort, and it has no first-rate singers of either sex. The tenors and baritones are unequal to giving even a work like Carmen its due effect. The prime donne last winter were Mademoiselle Van Zandt and Mademoiselle Nevada, young girls with charming voices and more or less talent; not artists in any sense of the term, although with study and experience they might become so. They are treated as stars, too ; the cariosity felt by idlers of pleasure and seekers for novelty about a new vocalist and a new, or newly revived, opera being turned to account by the manager to draw large houses on the nights when she sings, while the threadbare stock voices are left for Les Diamans de la Couronne, Le Pré aux Clercs, and other native productions, to which the middle-class Parisian public is fondly constant. Whether at the Grand Opera or the Comique, anybody who remembers what they both were fifteen years ago will be struck with the present dearth of fine singers and actors, of talent and training, on the French lyric stage.

To compensate for this grievous loss, a system of concerts has gradually come into existence, which, by their excellence and steadily increasing popularity, are working a revolution in musical taste. They cannot take the place of the opera as a resort for amusement, or as a form of social intercourse, but they open a far wider field of enjoyment, and one more fruitful of true delight, to the serious amateur. The mundane element is entirely absent ; there is nothing in those silent assemblages of men and women in street clothes, packed into a dirty, stuffy theatre of a winter afternoon, to recall or replace the aspect of the auditorium of the Italians or Grand Opéra in former days. The boxes, occupied by languid ladies in full dress, with bouquets, fans, and opera-glasses, and gentlemen in evening toilet, with a capejasmine at the button-hole: the visits from box to box; the general conversation between the acts; the subdued chitchat during the music, except when a favorite singer or famous air held the lively tongues in suspense ; the notorious interest of some well-known spectator — sometimes a great personage, sometimes a fair lady — in certain persons on the boards, which lent excitement to their exits and entrances ; the presence of the court; the arrivals and departures of birds of fashion, alighting between a dinner party and a ball to hear those other birds warble a cavatina or a finale ; the curiosity and partisanship at the first performance of a new work, or the appearance of a new artist; the indefinable emotions which a combination of lyric and dramatic art only can produce ; above all, the sense that the hearers belonged to the same world, that the opera house was in fact a vast drawing-room, creating a tacit accord and understanding throughout the audience, — these things are wanting at the weekly concerts of to-day. I will try and describe what there is to be had instead.

The concert is nearly as old a form of musical entertainment in Paris as the opera, and the two have grown up there side by side. The progress of their development belongs to the history of music, and would be out of place in an article which deals exclusively with the concert societies of the present period. The first of these organizations, both as regards age and excellence, is the Société des Concerts, which gives the concerts commonly known as those of the Conservatoire. It has been in existence for upwards of fifty years, and reckons among its members, living and dead, many celebrated musicians. It rose from the grave of the sacred concerts, which were created in the reign of Louis XVI., and expired under the Restoration,— a resurrection which took place on St. Ceciiia’s day, November, 1826, under interesting circumstances, Habeneck, the leader of the orchestra of the Conservatoire, or government school of music and declamation, asked his friends to breakfast with him on the festival of the patron saint of harmony, and to bring their instruments, He set them down first to play Beethoven’s Heroic Symphony. Hours went by, and everybody forgot about breakfast until late in the short autumn afternoon, when Madame Habeneek entered, and adjured them, in the name of Beethoven, to come to dinner. This meeting gave rise to others, for the sake of practicing; but there was no regular place of assemblage until Habeneek persuaded Cherubini, the composer, then director of the Conservatoire, to obtain leave from the ministry for a few concerts to be given in the music hall of the Conservatoire. The leader and his associates agreed to supply from their scanty purses the means of advertising, heating, and lighting the hall. M. de la Rochefoucauld, the proper authority, not only gave the desired permission, but passed a decree that the graduates of the Conservatoire should give six concerts annually, and appropriated two thousand francs from the budget to defray the original outlay. The first concert was given on the 9th of March, 1828. The programme consisted of the Heroic Symphony; a duet for soprano and contralto from Rossini’s opera of Sémiramide; a solo for the cornet-à-piston, then a new instrument, composed and executed by Meifred ; an air for soprano, by Rossini ; a concerto for the violin, by Rode, a prolific composer ; a chorus from the opera of Blanche de Provence, by Cherubini; the overture to his opera of the Abencerrages ; and the Kyrie and Gloria from his Coronation Mass. The auditorium was crowded, and so it has been from that day forth at every concert of the society.

If Cherubini had more than his share of the first programme, the second was composed entirely of Beethoven’s music, the concert being to his memory ; the fourth was dedicated to Mozart, and the first of the second season to Haydn. A review of the programmes of those earliest years of the society’s existence, as well as of its concerts last winter, shows extraordinary impartiality within certain limits. Beethoven always has the first place, other classical composers receive the second honors; modern standard musicians are more sparingly admitted, and I believe that it is a fixed practice, if not rule, of the society to perform no work which has not received the stamp of public approbation. The decision as to the acceptance of a new composition rests with a jury of twelve, chosen by lot from and by the members of the society, who have already heard it in private. There are a good many formalities prescribed by the regulations of the association, but the main difficulty lies in obtaining a first hearing. The society, to which none but a French citizen and a pupil of the Conservatoire can belong, is no doubt the highest tribunal of musical criticism extant; and it is due to its severe requirements that its concerts have been maintained at the height of perfection for which they have long been proverbial.

This wholesome conservatism, however, bore hard upon youthful composers. A young man, who had suffered from it himself, and been forced into other occupations for want of an opening in the direction of his tastes and desires, on finding himself, later, in a position to follow his natural bent, devoted the remainder of his life to founding an association for giving concerts at which the music of unknown authors should be performed as well as that of acknowledged masters. This was M. Jules Pasdeloup, the father of the select popular concert. The orchestra which seconded him in his courageous and generous enterprise was formed by him of undergraduates of the Conservatoire, but not to the exclusion of others. The programmes at first consisted chiefly of Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn ; Weber and Mendelssohn were heard oftener than at the Conservatoire, and the names of rising young composers, like Gounod, Lefébure-Wély (so well known to American young ladies a quarter of a century ago by his Cloches du Monastère, and long organist at the church of the Madeleine in Paris), and St. Saëns, found a place beside those of the great dead. M. Pasdeloup’s energy and enthusiasm stimulated him to the most ambitious undertakings: he introduced Mozart’s Escape from the Seraglio to the Parisians, and, also, if I am not mistaken, Meyerbeer’s Struensee, besides many of Schumann’s compositions. His concerts met with instantaneous favor, and the halls where they were given were crowded by eager listeners, but for ten years after their foundation they did little more than pay their expenses. At length M. Pasdeloup, moved by the twofold and almost incompatible desire to bring the best music within the reach of poorer hearers and to increase the receipts of his faithful orchestra and chorus, took the bold step of hiring an immense building with five thousand seats, and putting down the prices to the lowest possible rates : the charge for the best places was about a dollar and a quarter ; the next, which are really full as good, rather less than a dollar ; and so on through several grades to the third gallery at twenty cents ! Here weekly, during six months, the masterpieces of the old and new schools of music have been given for the last twenty years ; the disinterested man who directs the concerts finding his reward in sharing his pleasure with thousands of listeners, in educating and raising the taste of his countrymen, and in directing their attention and applause to the achievements of foreign genius. M. Pasdeloup is a composer himself, and he has sacrificed his personal aspirations to this higher purpose. It has given him some fame, but as to fortune, the concerts are not absolutely self-supporting. The French government, always liberal to deserving efforts for the improvement and pleasure of the public, allows twenty thousand francs a year to keep up the Concerts Populaires, as they are called, and to supplement the small gains of the musicians who take part in them.

The success of M. Pasdeloup’s enterprise does not stop with his own concerts. Within the last decade two brilliant musical associations have sprung up in emulation of his : the Association Artistique at the Théâtre du Châtulet, directed by M. Colouue, and the Société des Nouveaux Concerts at the Theatre du Château d’Eau, by M. Lamoureux, formerly leader of the Grand Opéra. At both these places there are weekly concerts from the middle of the autumn until Easter ; so that for nearly half the year ten or twelve thousand people, of all classes of society, can forget the cares of common life for one afternoon in the seven, to be transported into the higher regions of thought, feeling, and enjoyment. This is a priceless gift to have bestowed upon one’s fellow-citizens.

There is a marked difference between these various performances, not in quality alone, but in character, those at the Conservatoire holding the first rank. It is difficult to obtain tickets for them, there being but nine hundred seats, every one of which belongs to members or to regular subscribers. The same people retain them for a lifetime, and at their death the privilege passes to their heirs. The same faces may be seen in the same places year after year, until the eager young listeners have become attentive aged ones ; enjoying the music less, understanding it better; taking it patiently for rest and recreation, perhaps for oblivion, instead of passionately forcing it into relation with their own personal hopes, fears, hate, love, or anguish. When the old, regular occupant of a seat disappears, and a new one sits in his stead, he is generally a son, nephew, or grandson of the former possessor. The owners of seats cannot always attend the performances, and then they offer their tickets to friends, or send them to the office of the society, for the benefit of melomaniacs who are willing to take the various steps necessary for securing them. These consist in sending your name to the secretary of the society on the Thursday before the concert which you wish to attend, — Sunday being the day of the performance,— and in going to the office on Saturday, when you take your place in a file and wait until your name is called, which is done in the order of your application, when you receive one of the returned tickets, if any remain. If there have been too many before you there is still the chance of going on Sunday at the hour of the concert, tickets often being sent in at the last moment; then, by scuffling with others in like plight with yourself, you may obtain a first-class seat for twelve francs, or an inferior one for eight, — there is nothing to Be had, I believe, at less than five. The great objection to waiting until Sunday is that all the public concerts are given on the same day at the same hour, and at points very remote from each other; so that if you fail of getting in at the Conservatoire you must miss the first piece on the programme anywhere else and run the risk of losing the concert altogether. After the music begins there is seldom room left except for standing.

There are few good places at the Conservatoire: one does not hear very well in the boxes ; in the parquet, all the seats not too near the orchestra are good ; but the centre of the hall is chilly at the opening of the concert and stifling at the end, while in the amphitheatre, which is under the skylight close to the roof, and opposite the chandelier, the temperature must be upwards of ninety degrees Fahrenheit from the first, and the seats have no back. Yet in listening to the concert every discomfort is forgotten. It is nearly impossible to describe playing the characteristic of which is its perfection. The sovereign charm of the orchestra of the Conservatoire is its finish, and this is produced by a combination of all the qualities which give us pleasure in music, each in a high degree, none falling short of the rest. First comes the primary one of strict precision in time and tune and observance of rhythm and accent; then follow sonority, brilliancy, delicacy, fineness of modulation, power, perception, expression, — above all, the unanimity which in certain passages sounds like the even respiration of one great being, the breathing of some gigantic incorporation of harmony, in a happy dream. Again and again I have roused myself from the unreflecting enjoyment of merely hearing the music, in order to listen for flaws in the execution, but I never detected a single want or weak point. I am unable to explain the superiority of Richter’s Viennese orchestra, which lifts one higher in the spheres of pure, lyrical pleasure, and brings one into the actual embrace of music as an ambient element, like air or water; I can only say that it is more glorious than the Conservatoire, — that it has more inspiration.

The vocal portions of the concerts of the Conservatoire are not up to the instrumental. The solo singers do not always meet the highest standard ; the chorus is not in as perfect drill as the orchestra, and there are sometimes uncertainty and feebleness in the opening bars. They give the music with great expression and effect, however, and the collective result of each individual’s being a trained singer cannot be imagined by people who have heard only choruses composed of men and women singing by ear for the most part, or with a knowledge of music, but uot of vocalization.

The auditorium of the Conservatoire is unlike that of any other place of musical entertainment in Paris. There is something official and respectable about its dingy, old-fashioned decorations, its Pompeian red walls inscribed with famous names, the aspect and demeanor of the audience. The last is unique. There are a few women of fashion in the boxes, but the majority of the hearers are men, — men not of elegance, but of distinction. As a rule they are decorated ; the little red ribbon is to be seen on the lapel of almost every coat. They are the leaders of the press and of the literary and artist world, musicians, politicians, physicians, but, except the last, not men of science. It would be easier to count the unknown than the well-known hearers. Their heads and faces are marked by talent. There is great diversity among them : from specimens of the Gallia comata tribe, which still affects shagginess, to close-trimmed, smooth-chinned members of the ministry, or men of letters, who in the fullness of years and honors have put away childish things in the form of long beards and frowzy hair. They are an audience of connoisseurs : faint, scarcely audible murmurs, a slight catching of the breath, and other sounds of disapprobation, more felt than heard, instantly follow a false note or faltering bar; their applause is moderate, but prompt and exquisitely discriminating; they seldom ask for the repetition of a piece of music, and when they do they obtain it more by persistency than by vehemence in clapping and crying “ Bis.” The unwritten criticism of these concerts is no unimportant part of the training at the Conservatoire.

Next in order of excellence comes the Société des Nouveaux Concerts, founded and directed by M. Lamoureux, which gives its concerts at the theatre of the Château d Eau, named from a large fountain falling over steps, — a style of ornamental water-works called château d’eau by the French. The theatre has two thousand seats, and although these concerts are but in their third year now (1883—84), there is not room enough for those who wish to attend them. The difficulty has been met by giving two series, of ten each, A and B, or Pairs and Impairs (odd and even), numbered one, three, five, etc., and two, four, six, etc., with the same programme twice in succession ; A No. 1 being the same as B 2, A 3 as B 4, and so on. It is supposed that the same people will not subscribe to both series. The repetition of the programme was common to all the concert societies a year ago, and the great success of certain compositions occasionally induced the leader to give them three weeks running ; but M. Lamoureux announced at the opening of the present season that no programme would be repeated more than once.

The same qualities which distinguish the concerts of the Conservatoire are to be found in a less degree in those of the Nouveaux Concerts. The simultaneousness with which the violinists draw the bow is beautiful to see ; it looks as if all the instruments moved together by machinery. The result is a smoothness hardly surpassed at the Conservatoire itself : the crescendo and decrescendo passages, how rapid so ever the tempo, swell and sink with an imperceptible gradation, like the rising and falling of the wind; in the majestic ebb and flow of Beethoven’s symphonies the effect resembles the sublime harmonies of Nature obeying her eternal laws. The delicacy of the players is not less marvelous ; under their bows the violin passages at the opening of the overture and finale to the Midsummer Night’s Dream sound like the singing of midges, so fine and thin and clear, and the flutes in the scherzo seem sustained by one long breath throughout the entire movement. The flute-playing in this orchestra is so exquisite that it accounts for the favor which that now neglected instrument once enjoyed.

Richter of Vienna, M. Deldevez of the Conservatoire at Paris, and M. Lamoureux belong to the same school of conductors. It is most interesting to watch their mode of leading. They seem to do scarcely more than beat time quietly; a slight inclination of the bow, now in one direction, now in another, the raising of a forefinger for a second, are their only gestures. They stand at the desk as tranquil and impassive as diplomatists, yet every musician on the platform is completely under their influence. M. Lamoureux exceeds every one in Paris in his ascendency over his orchestra ; it is so absolute that it gives the spectator a sense of despotism in the man, that supreme autocracy which controls the very personality of others, He never appears to look after his musicians ; they look after him. I became convinced, by long observation and comparison, that the mode of playing of an orchestra expresses the temperament of the leader. Its physiognomy is another curious peculiarity. Every player has his own individual expression of face, and it is amusing to mark the intentness, fervor, security, carelessness, or indifference with which each performs his part; the anxious glances which some constantly dart at the leader, while others seldom or never turn their eyes towards him. But besides this, they have a collective countenance, the concrete of their predominating state of mind. At the Conservatoire it is that of a body of men who know their work so well that they do it serenely, without reference to any one else, although there is a perfect mutual understanding between them and their leader ; their gaze is fixed on their music, while he on his side rarely looks away from his score. Lamoureux’s orchestra has less tranquillity ; they work steadily, but anxiously, under the eye of their master. The contrast of M. Colonne’s with both the preceding is very striking: eyes, heads, chins, are incessantly turning towards the leader; there is an active communication between him and his players, as rapid and spasmodic as the working of an electric telegraph. M. Colonne always reminded me of a charioteer, whip aloft in one hand, with the other checking and guiding a hundred horses, in full career and on the point of breaking loose. He has a wonderful way of holding them in, urging them on, soothing and stimulating them by motions of his head, hand, or foot, by the sound of his voice and the mobility of his features. He leads with every nerve and muscle, and he seems to throw himself into every one of his players. I have seen him rousing his chorus by singing with them, while conducting them and the orchestra through one of Berlioz’s intricate counter-movements.

The concerts of the Société Artistique, directed by M. Edouard Colonne at the Théâtre du Châtelet, rank third. They are inferior to M. Lamoureux’s in many respects: the orchestra does not always play in exact time, some of the instruments are occasionally out of tune, the brass cannot be counted upon at critical moments, there is a little irregularity and roughness in the general effect. Having admitted these shortcomings, I hasten to add that nowhere in Paris, the Conservatoire not excepted, can such performances be heard as at the Châtelet. M. Colonne possesses in the highest degree the gift which the French call le diable au corps, that union of fire and energy which dashes at difficulties, carrying everything before it, and this he infuses into his musicians. Their mode of playing is more spirited than that of any other orchestra in Paris ; they have an impetuosity which is allied to the genius of certain great works. The way in which they give the Rakoczy March, from the Damnation de Faust, illustrates the term of furia francese, which the Italians of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries gave to the onslaught of the French troops in the days of their great captains. The squadrons of Magyars charge by with irresistible rush, their barbaric strains mingling with the echoes of clashing arms and wild cries. I received the most tremendous musical impression of my life at M. Colonne’s first Wagner memorial concert, given on the 25th of February, 1883. The selections began with the overture to the Tannhaüser, followed by the prelude to the third act, and Wolfram’s recitative as the pilgrim train advances through the valley on the way back from Rome, singing its sweet and solemn chorus. The fervent, heart-broken prayer of Elisabeth came in order, and the tender apostrophe to the evening star by her faithful, hopeless lover, closing with the minstrels’ festal march and chorus. The constant progression through so many different emotions of an intense and absorbing nature, the increasing sonorousness and scope of the harmony, gradually released the musical sensibilities from the trammels of personality and the musical intelligence from the limits of attention, until the being was merged in tides of sound which seemed to beat against the bounds of space. The sense of might in the music was overwhelming. The excitement was indescribable, and pervaded the atmosphere ; leader, orchestra, audience acting and reacting upon each other with an electrical interchange of feeling. The impression cannot be conveyed in words, which sound exaggerated while falling infinitely short of the truth. As the climax slowly subsided, old Joseph Dessauer’s criticism on Wagner in Vienna ten years before came back to me : “ He is a cataclysm.” In fact, the music had swallowed us alive, like a gulf. The excitable audience was wrought into a frenzy, in which other passions than melomania had a share. There was in some hearers real antipathy to the composer, in others animosity to him as a German, and these prejudices struggled fiercely against the dominating power of the music and the rapturous enthusiasm of the majority. The grandeur of the Tannhaüser, the charm of the spinning chorus from the Flying Dutchman, the gravity and interest of the prelude to Parsifal, kept the dissidents in check until the wild gallop of the Valkyrie began. The stern daughters of Odin rode on the whirlwind above the din of the battle-field, sweeping mortals with them on their breathless course; and then the storm burst in hisses, hooting, stamping, shrill whistles, calls, cries, and counter-cries : “ That’s not music! ” “ Bravo! bravo ! bravissimo ! ” “ If the Germans want to hear it, let them go hear it at home ! ” “ Bis ! bis ! ” (Again, again.)

“You sha’n’t have it!” “Superb! Magnificent ! ” “ Stop it! ” “ Turn out the blackbirds ! ” (the men with the whistles.) “ Down with the circus-riders ! ” This last bit of wit at the expense of the Valkyrie raised a laugh which almost turned the scale; but the applause was redoubled to counterbalance the joke, and in the end, after a tumult which was nearly a riot, the ayes had it. The Chevauchée was repeated amid deafening shouts, and again the terrible riders thundered through the air, while the battle raged below. When it was over, and M. Colou\nne came forward in response to the acclamations of the panting orchestra and breathless audience, every hair of his well-brushed brown curls stood on end.

Whatever these men play has the same brio ; no Parisian orchestra approaches them in rendering Wagner, Berlioz, and contemporary composers of their school. Although power and passion are their characteristics, it must not be supposed that they are lacking in sweetness and tenderness. They struck me as excelling in the latter, especially in accompanying the voice, whether in solo or chorus ; the softest human notes are not softer than their pianissimo playing. But their strong point is their ability to sway an assemblage, and make it thrill and vibrate like a crowd under the influence of a strong popular sentiment; and their impulse undoubtedly comes from the stimulating quality of their leader.

Twelve years ago I went for the first time to one of the Concerts Populaires, led by M. Pasdeloup. They were then the only musical recreation of a high order in Paris, except the concerts of the Conservatoire. I remember the mixture of amusement and annoyance with which I perceived the strong stable smells (the building being the winter circus), the shabbiness of the audience, the discomfort of the seats. As soon as the music began I forgot every drawback to enjoyment. There was a symphony of Beethoven’s performed by over ninety instruments ; I had never heard anything like it before, and I was transported with delight. M. Pasdeloup was then valiantly combating his countrymen’s prejudice against Wagner, amounting in many of them to positive hatred, and exasperated by the anti - German rage left by the recent Franco-Prussian war. The first attempt to perforin his music at the Cirque d’Hiver was met by such obstreperous opposition that it had to be given up. This was in the autumn of 1872. It was the autumn of 1882 before I attended another Concert Populaire. Beethoven’s Second Symphony was given, among other things, and for the first time in Paris the prelude to the Parsifal, with the hymn of the knights of the San Graal. Every seat was occupied, and before the latter production began, the house filled until there was no standing room. The audience listened to it in perfect silence, and it was repeated without objection.

To my disappointment, I found that the orchestra was not so good as formerly, or that the other concerts of which I have spoken had raised my standard very much. The time and tune were occasionally faulty ; there was an absence both of delicacy and of volume, of fine shading, and above all of unanimity, of common impulse. M. Pasdeloup did not seem to have his players thoroughly in hand; he did not hold them together, like the other leaders; he lacked vigor, and at the same time repose. I heard his orchestra several times during the season of 1882-83, and was forced regretfully to acknowledge that it is but third-rate. Yet some great American cities might be thankful if they could have such concerts every week, or even every month, for half the year. No lover of music can cease to feel the utmost gratitude to M. Pasdeloup for the noble work be has done. There is something, too, most amiable and expansive in his presence and individuality ; there is a genuine, genial enjoyment of music for itself alone ; when a composition is well played he looks as happy as a child. " There is not one of the leaders who loves music so heartily and with so much disinterestedness as he,” said a distinguished composer to me of M. Pasdeloup. It must have been a real satisfaction, therefore, to many people that the first Concert Populaire of the present season, 1883-84, was a great improvement on those of last year. Mendelssohn’s Scotch Symphony was beautifully given, with great spirit and expression, and the accompaniment to Mozart’s Piano Concerto in E flat was not less well performed. The latter is a very fine thing, one of twenty-seven similar compositions by the same master, of which but two or three are known even in Europe. M. Pasdeloup announced in his prospectus, last September, that he should give the greater number of them in the course of the winter, M. Theodore Ritter taking the piano part. This gentleman once had a great reputation as a player of Beethoven, but sank into obscurity from too great partiality to his own compositions. His touch is a trifle heavy and hammer-like on the accented notes, but otherwise his playing is the very model of classic style ; it has largeness, solidity, sobriety, a crystalline, cleanfingered precision, and in the forte passages real majesty. The Concerto is a very fine production, with a breadth and massiveness which recall Beethoven and Gluck rather than Mozart, yet with the distinctive tenderness and grace of the last. The programme was made up by St. Saëns’s Jeunesse d’Hercule, an air for violoncello and harp from Beethoven’s ballet of Prometheus, and the overture to Weber’s Oberon. It was a truly delightful concert.

It is usual at all these performances to have concertos and vocal and instrumental solos of a very high order. Most of the foreign musical celebrities who come to Paris in winter appear at one or more of the popular classical concerts during their stay, and there are distinguished French artists who are seldom heard elsewhere. Their names have not reached this country, yet they are greatly superior to many favorites of our public. The concert associations, true to one of the principles of their institution, also admit youthful performers as well as composers : young men and women, destined to become famous, make their first trembling appearance at the Cirque d’Hiver, the Châtelet, and the Château d’Eau. Great good-nature is shown, by both the audience and the musicians, to beginners. They seldom need indulgence, however, for any shortcomings, except those of timidity and inexperience; they have the careful training and hard study of long years to sustain them before they venture to present themselves even to such lenient bearers. Their talent may develop, and their power and facility increase, but the technical part of their art must be mastered before they take the first step in public. For others very little allowance is made; hisses and exclamations of displeasure are heard almost simultaneously with a false note or slovenly passage. The audiences are all keenly critical ; in other respects there is a marked difference between them : that of the Conservatoire is decorous and fastidious, that of the Cirque d’Hiver easy-going and plebeian ; the Chateau d’Eau is harder to please, and rowdy, and although violent scenes are less frequent there than at the Châtelet, which is extremely Bohemian, I heard an attempt to give Berlioz’s Carnival Romain an encore put down, in spite of M. Lamoureux, by hooting and braying, in imitation of the too asinine blasts of the horns. The large proportion of poor people in them all is a very interesting and touching element : hundreds of men who cannot afford to pay for a seat come in before the great work of the programme, — most often one of Beethoven’s symphonies, — and stand through it, many of them through the entire performance. A very pathetic group is the common one of a shabbily dressed young couple, with a baby. The babies, as a general rule, are good; but the funniest row I witnessed at the Château d’Eau was caused by one who whimpered during the adagio of Beethoven’s Third Symphony. After the poor mortified mother had withdrawn with the offending infant, — no easy matter through the closely packed crowd, — uncomplimentary remarks and epithets continued to fly about, which provoked the father to reply angrily; upon which arose cries of “ Turn him out! ” A grave-looking, middle-aged man suddenly said, from the other side of the theatre, “ It was enough to make the child ill to bring it into such an atmosphere: that is why it cried.” The sententiousness with which this opinion was delivered caused general laughter, in the midst of which somebody cried out, “ Now, then, steam up ! ” to the orchestra, which had stopped playing, and the concert went on. But there are always many very little children present, who are evidently brought for their own enjoyment, and they do enjoy wonderfully, some sitting like statues, others nodding their heads and beating time with their tiny hands, smiling gleefully at each other.

As American concert-goers may be curious to know what sort of music draws thousands of hearers weekly, who cannot pay above a quarter of a dollar for their pleasure, I will give a few of last season’s programmes, fair samples of the rest. At M. Pasdeloup’s Concert Populaire on October 22, 1882, was given, Beethoven’s Second Symphony; dance music by Rameau (an old-fashioned composer of Louis XV.’s time) ; a piano-forte Concerto by Litolff; the overture to Weber’s Oberon ; the prelude to Wagner’s Parsifal. On February 25, 1883, selections from Velléda a new opera by M. Charles Leuopveu, one of the “jeunes,” as the rising composers are called; Schumann’s Symphony in B flat; fragments from the opera of Dardanus, by Rameau ; a piano-forte Concerto by Henselt, opus 16 ; and the Wedding March from Lohengrin. At the Château d’Eau, M. Lamoureux’s orchestra gave on January 28, 1883, the Michel Angelo overture, by Niels W. Gade ; fragments from Gluck’s Armida; Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, with chorus; an Aria by Lotti (an Italian composer of the early eighteenth century) ; and the overture to Oberon. On March 11, 1883, a memorial concert to Wagner, selections from the Flying Dutchman ; the prelude to Parsifal ; selections from the Meistersänger; selections from Lohengrin ; and Liszt’s Fantaisie Hongroise, played by Madame Essipoff. At the first concert of this season, November 4, 1883, the overture to Jessonda, by Spohr ; Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony ; España, a fantasy by M. Chabrier, one of the jeunes; Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream music ; Berlioz’s overture to the Carnival Romain. At the Chatelet, March 4, 1883, the first part of the programme consisted of Mozart’s overture to the Marriage of Figaro, and selections from Melka, an operetta or cantata by 31. Charles Lefebvre, a jeune,— lovely music, of a pure, plaintive character, excellently written, and full of sweet, sustained melody, very different from that of the younger contemporary French composers as far as I know them ; the second part was devoted to Wagner, and contained selections from Tannhaüser, the Flying Dutchman, the Walküre, Parsifal, and Lohengrin. In the course of the past season I heard M. Colonne give Berlioz’s Damnation de Faust repeatedly, Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream music, selections from L Arlésienue by Bizet, the composer of Carmen, Berlioz’s Funeral March for Hamlet, and fragments from his Romeo and Juliet. The concerts of the Châtelet opened this season with the Damnation de Faust, and the orchestra struck me as having gained in smoothness and selfpossession during the holidays, without having lost a spark of their wonderful fire. I regret very much not having more of their last year’s programmes, but it will be seen by the above list that the Association Artistique, while not neglecting the classic and standard composers, gives more time to modern and contemporary ones. The choice of music at the concerts of all the societies is very judicious. The admission of youthful talent and the revival of the charming and sentimental old-fashioned Italian and French masters keep the public from becoming too conservative in these matters.

It may interest some of my readers to know the statistics of one of the popular classical concert associations. M. Colonne was kind enough to give me the following facts with regard to the Association Artistique, and although each society has its particular rules and conditions they are alike in general plan.

The Concerts du Châtelet have entered upon their tenth year. When M. Colonne made the venture there was no capital to start with. Subscribers were obtained at the rate of five, four, two and a half, and two francs, and even at a franc and a half and a franc, a concert, according to the place; the weekly sale of seats at those prices had to provide the rest. The performers are members of the society ; M. Colonne is the president. The proceeds of the concerts are divided among them respectively at the end of the year in ratio of their individual importance. They were obliged to divide twice during the first season, in order to keep their organization together; that year they made but ten thousand francs. The hire of the theatre and incidental expenses come to about one thousand francs a concert. The house holds two thousand people, and is almost always literally full, but there are nearly two hundred complimentary tickets. The subscribers represent about a tenth of the receipts. There is also a long list of honorary members, whose annual subscription is fixed at twentyfive francs, which admits them to the general rehearsal previous to each concert, although not to the concert itself. Some of these members generously contribute larger sums for the encouragement of the concerts, and from these sources the receipts last year were eighteen thousand francs. The first year, as has been said, the clear gains were only ten thousand francs ; last year they were sixty-nine thousand. The government has granted the association a yearly subsidy of ten thousand francs.

The orchestra consists of one hundred and four instruments,—eighteen first and sixteen second violins, fourteen violas, twelve bass, and twelve doublebass viols, thirteen wooden wind instruments and twelve brass, with half a dozen more, too diverse for classification. The chorus comprises about a hundred and fifty men and women, who are not members of the society, however. The performers are allowed to belong to other musical associations, to play elsewhere, to have other occupations, provided that these do not interfere with their presence at the concerts of the Châtelet and the three weekly rehearsals for each, which M. Colonne requires ; nothing else is exacted. W hen the season is over they are entirely at liberty. M. Colonne himself goes to some bathing station, or as we say springs, taking part of his orchestra with him, and making it up from chance material. He and his assistants are forced to do this, or something else, to eke out their annual gains.

Besides these regular weekly orchestral performances, no month goes by in Paris, from November until May, without bearing its crop of musical entertainment in the shape of chamber concerts, piano-forte recitals, matinées and soirées, by French and foreign musicians. Each of the great piano factories has a pretty hall in its back buildings, where small audiences listen to their favorite artists. I never passed through the warerooms, on my way to the Salle Herz, Salle Pleyel, or Salle Erard, without admiring the instruments, which stand in rows, of every size and shape that pianos may be, and regretting that with us they are such hopelessly ugly pieces of furniture. The great secret of their good looks in France is their extreme simplicity. They have none of the scroll-work and jigsawing which disfigure those in this country; they are for the most part perfectly plain, of every sort of wood, light and dark, dead, oiled and varnished ; the shapes of the bodies and legs are good ; in short, they are designed with so much good sense and good taste that an upright piano is positively an ornamental object, while one may have even a concert-grand without introducing a hideous monster into one’s drawing-room.

It was in a brilliant assemblage at the Salle Erard that I heard M. de Beriot, the son of the great Maria Malibran and of her small husband, Charles de Beriot. The young man is a pianist and composer, and has a high standing with the dilettanti in Paris. Perhaps the proverb concerning gift horses seals most people’s lips as to his performances, for he only invites his acquaintance to his concerts, which are private, and my cards of admission were sent me by a French friend. The programme was made up chiefly of M. de Beriot’s productions, which are as commonplace and uninteresting as his father’s. His playing is admirable as far as regards mere touch and execution, and has the agreeal>le and indefinable quality of taste ; but it is perfectly cold, and without feeling of any sort. In the concerted pieces he was assisted by a portion of Lamoureux’s orchestra, but they were so subordinated to the piano that they could not rise above its mediocrity. Madame Sophie Menter, the court pianist of Vienna, gave a series of concerts at the Salle Herz, if I remember rightly. She is a very pretty young woman, with a childlike roundness and softness of appearance, and plays with extraordinary power and execution, but in a hard and heartless manner ; nevertheless, she spun Mendelssohn’s Fileuse off her fingers with bewildering rapidity and deftness, and an enchanting effect of playing with the keys rather than upon them, which won an encore from the wellpleased audience. Madame Essipoff was in Paris at the same time, delighting her select world of diplomatists and women of fashion. She has a more perfect command of the piano and its resources than Madame Menter, or indeed any other woman I have ever heard ; her force and fire are prodigious, especially considering her delicacy of execution ; she wants tenderness and subtlety of expression, but her playing is splendid. She was sometimes assisted by a compatriot, M. Brandoukoff, on the violoncello, who supplied the expression, the depth, the soul, which she does not convey, while he made his instrument perform feats which seemed possible to the violin alone. There are elements of enthusiasm and rapture in M. Brandoukoff’s playing which affect the hearer as one is seldom affected except by the voice, and more potently in that his music is without words. He impressed me as a man of real genius and as having a musical organization of the highest order.

But to enumerate the occasional concerts of this sort which are to be heard in Paris during the winter would make too long a list. The musical season closes in the spring, when the races begin, and the delightful days come, when everybody wishes to be out-of-doors. The performances at the Conservatoire, Chateau d’Eau, Châtelet, and Cirque d’Hiver end at Easter. Their orchestras, or portions of them, continue to be heard at the Troeadéro, where there are concerts at all times of year, with Maurin, the foremost Parisian violinist, and other celebrated names on the programmes ; but notwithstanding a good selection of music and musicians, the matinées which I attended in that huge hall were dull and uninteresting. At the close of the regular season, however, there are apt to be a few benefits, or charity concerts, at which the great virtuosos of Europe are gathered, like the sun’s rays in a burning-glass. Two of these took place late in the spring of 1883, at the Cirque d’Eté, on the Rond Point of the Champs Elysées. At both I was fortunate enough to hear M. Planté, the most accomplished and finished pianist alive. This gentleman, being rich, allows himself to live as he likes, and to play when and where he likes, or not at all. His home is in the Landes, the region of great pine woods and sea-breezes, where the shepherds go about upon stilts. There he lives in retirement most of the year, making an annual visit to Paris, and occasionally traveling to other countries. In the former he usually gives one concert, seldom more, — an event to which the musical world looks forward with great eagerness and excitement. Last spring, after M. Planté was known to be in town, weeks went by ; his adorers were on the tip-toe of expectation; it was bruited about that he had been playing at private houses in strict secrecy, but no concert was announced. At length, losing patience, people went to inquire at the principal music shops, where advertisements appear and tickets are sold; the answer was, M. Planté did not intend to give a concert that season. The disappointment was great, and great was the joy when an entertainment was proclaimed under the auspices of certain charitable and patronizing ladies in aid of their blind asylums, at which M. Planté would play. The programmes promised a great deal of other talent, and the first-class seats sold at twenty francs; the second, which were the dozen upper rows of benches, without backs, at ten. The circus was crowded, nevertheless ; the body of the house filled with persons who meet only on rare and special occasions of this sort. There were women of high rank and piety from the seclusion of the Faubourg St. Germain, who never deigned to appear at the courts of Louis Philippe or Napoleon the Third any more than at M. Grévy’s receptions ; relics and representatives of each of those dynasties ; ladies who sail with the wind, and whose colors are neither Bourbon, Orleanist, nor Republican, but those of the season ; and the men who are at the beck and call of the different patronesses. The very variety made the social aspect of the affair one of extreme exclusiveness, and it recalled descriptions from Feuillet’s and Cherbuliez’s novels. There is always some curiosity felt about the personal appearance of celebrities of any kind. M. Planté is slight, pale, and gentleman-like, looking on the whole not unlike a certain good type of American, and with nothing of the lion about him except the superfine manner in which he poised his fingers upon the keyboard. He was supported by M. Faure, the first baritone in Europe, the most perfect and delicious singer of our day. He has not been heard at the opera in Paris for some years, to which its deterioration is partly due, as the presence of so gifted and conscientious an artist must necessarily keep up the standard of an entire company. M. Faure gives as much attention to the acting as to the singing of his parts. It is said, as an instance of his painstaking, that previous to appearing in Les Huguenots he practiced playing at cup and ball for six weeks, in order never to miss the catch once, as he wished to introduce it in a scene at the court of Charles IX., the game having been in fashion at that time. He bestows the same scrupulous study upon his music, to which he adds a rich and mellow voice, a faultless method, and great general intelligence. M. Faure is a dark, handsome, thoughtful-looking man, who appears taller than he is from a Spanish gravity and dignity of bearing. The music was beautiful, but the bills of fare of benevolence are always too full. Besides Planté and Faure there was Carlotta Patti, who sang with a science and style to throw her more famous little sister into the shade ; and there was the fiery M. Colonne, with a portion of his orchestra, and M. Delsart, a distinguished violoncellist. Actors and actresses from the Théâtre Français were advertised, but they were unexpectedly prevented from coming, and were replaced by others of less renown, who recited humorous and sentimental poems. There was too much of it, but the audience agreed that it was a great success, and the lady managers were complimented and congratulated with much effusion by their acquaintance.

The second and last appearance of M. Planté was on June 1, again at the Cirque d’Eté, at the Festival Pasdeloup. The founder of the Concerts Populaires was present with the flower of his orchestra, M. Faure, Madame Gerster, and other musicians of note. The programme was as follows : Overture to Ruy Blas, Mendelssohn ; Arioso from Hérodiade, Massenet, sung by Faure; Romance from Mozart’s Bill Concerto and an andante and polonaise of Chopin’s, played by Planté; “Ah non giunge ” from La Somnambula, by Madame Gerster; Air from Beethoven’s ballet of Prometheus, with harp and violoncello solos by MM. Hasselmans and Vandergucht ; Romance from Un Ballo in Maschera, by Faure; Andante and Scherzo, Weber, Gavotte from Iphigenia, Gluck, Romance, Schumann, Danse Hongroise, Brahma,by M. Planté; Theme and variations, Mozart, by M. Grisez, an eminent, clarionet player, and all the stringed instruments ; “ Je crois,” a composition of M. Faure’s, sung by himself, and Gounod’s Au Printemps, also sung by him, and accompanied by Plante and the orchestra; Chopin’s Etude in A flat, a melody by Rubinstein, a waltz by Raff, and tarantelle by Gottschalk, forming one clause, played by Planté ; Arditi’s Fior di argherita, by Madame Gerster ; and the overture to Oberon.

It was a real festival. It was one of those chosen hours when a happy magnetism pervades an assembly, and a subtle sympathy envelops them in one sensation. M. Pasdeloup led, his orchestra performed, the other artists played and sang, as if it were a royal wedding “ once upon a time,” and the fairies were showering gifts on the whole company. Planté’s style is the most consummate art; smoothness, facility, refinement, can go no further on the piano. Grace and elegance are the characteristics of his playing, but he puts forth surprising power without the slightest effort. It is only when he plays Chopin that one is conscious that he has his limits ; he does not possess the intensity, the lyrical passion, to interpret that suffering soul. But M. Planté is peerless among contemporary pianists. Liszt I never heard, but Thalberg could not be compared with him, Bülow is cold and mechanical, and Rubinstein crude beside him. He played that day with an expression and a touch of ardor which had not made themselves felt at the previous concert. Faure sang divinely. Madame Gerster had twice her wonted brilliancy and charm, and her pleasing personality enhanced the effect. The audience was in raptures, in ecstasies. But the artists were singing and playing for themselves and each other, mutually inspired and delighted. The climax was reached when the two idols of Parisians, Faure and Planté, gave Gounod’s lovely spring song with orchestral accompaniment. It was a magical achievement of delicacy and lightness. M. Faure’s faintest tones and M. Planté’s ethereal fingering were audible through the whispered harmonies of the orchestra, modulated to the last degree of pianissimo. The ravishing sweetness and sentiment with which Faure gave the melody can hardly be forgotten by any one who heard it on that day. As he sang and Planté played and the orchestra murmured of spring, nature and the human heart seemed reviving and awakening to youth, hope, romance, love, and the poetry of existence. The audience sat entranced until the last chord died away, and then broke into transports. As the concert ended, they poured into the warm, bright air of the summer afternoon, with eyes shining and cheeks flushed or pale with exquisite emotion, and seemed to diffuse a higher enjoyment among the pleasure-seekers under the flowering chestnut avenues of the Champs Elysée. Planté and Faure lingered and talked beside the fountain near the door until everybody else had gone, as it loath to break from the spell which had held them and their hearers. This memorable day closed the musical season of 1882—83.