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C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-1

Chapter 9
Records (structs)
A Guide to this Instructor’s Manual:

We have designed this Instructor’s Manual to supplement and enhance your teaching
experience through classroom activities and a cohesive chapter summary.

This document is organized chronologically, using the same headings that you see in the
textbook. Under the headings, you will find lecture notes that summarize the section, Teacher
Tips, Classroom Activities, and Lab Activities. Pay special attention to teaching tips and
activities geared towards quizzing your students and enhancing their critical thinking skills.

In addition to this Instructor’s Manual, our Instructor’s Resources also contain PowerPoint
Presentations, Test Banks, and other supplements to aid in your teaching experience.

At a Glance

Instructor’s Manual Table of Contents

• Overview

• Objectives

• Teaching Tips

• Quick Quizzes

• Class Discussion Topics

• Additional Projects

• Additional Resources

• Key Terms

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-2

Lecture Notes

Overview
In Chapter 9, students will be introduced to a data type that can be heterogeneous. They
will learn how to group together related values that are of differing types using records,
which are also known as structs in C++. First, they will explore how to create
structs, perform operations on structs, and manipulate data using a struct.
Next, they will examine the relationship between structs and functions and learn
how to use structs as arguments to functions. Finally, students will explore ways to
create and use an array of structs in an application.

Objectives
In this chapter, the student will:
• Learn about records (structs)
• Examine various operations on a struct
• Explore ways to manipulate data using a struct
• Learn about the relationship between a struct and functions
• Examine the difference between arrays and structs
• Discover how arrays are used in a struct
• Learn how to create an array of struct items
• Learn how to create structs within a struct

Teaching Tips
Records (structs)

1. Define the C++ struct data type and describe why it is useful in programming.

Discuss how previous programming examples and projects that used parallel
Teaching
arrays or vectors might be simplified by using a struct to hold related
Tip
information.

2. Examine the syntax of a C++ struct.

3. Using the examples in this section, explain how to define a struct type and then
declare variables of that type.

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-3

Accessing struct Members

1. Explain how to access the members of a struct using the C++ member access
operator.
2. Use the code snippets in this section to illustrate how to assign values to struct
members.

Mention that the struct and class data types both use the member access
operator. Spend a few minutes discussing the history of the struct data type
and how it relates to C++ classes and object-oriented programming. Note that the
struct is a precursor to the class data type. Explain that the struct was
introduced in C to provide the ability to group heterogeneous data members
together and, for the purposes of this chapter, is used in that manner as well.
Teaching However, in C++, a struct has the same ability as a class to group data and
Tip
operations into one data type. In fact, a struct in C++ is interchangeable with
a class, with a couple of exceptions. By default, access to a struct from
outside the struct is public, whereas access to a class from outside the
class is private by default. The importance of this will be discussed later in the
text. Memory management is also handled differently for structs and
classes.

Quick Quiz 1
1. True or False: A struct is typically a homogenous data structure.
Answer: False

2. The components of a struct are called the ____________________ of the struct.

Answer: members

3. A struct statement ends with a(n) ____________________.

Answer: semicolon

4. True or False: A struct is typically defined before the definitions of all the functions
in a program.
Answer: True

Assignment

1. Explain that the values of one struct variable are copied into another struct
variable of the same type using one assignment statement. Note that this is equivalent to
assigning each member variable individually.

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-4

Note how memory is handled in assignment operations involving struct

Teaching
variables of the same type; namely, that the values of the members of one
Tip
struct are copied into the member variables of the other struct.

Comparison (Relational Operators)

1. Emphasize that no relational aggregate operations are allowed on structs. Instead,

comparisons must be made member-wise, similar to an array.

Ask your students why they think assignment operations are permitted on
Teaching
struct types, but not relational operations. Discuss the issue of determining
Tip
how to compare a data type that consists of other varying data types.

Input/Output

1. Note that unlike an array, aggregate input and output operations are not allowed on
structs.

Mention that the stream and the relational operators can be overloaded to provide
Teaching
the proper functionality for a struct type and, in fact, that this is a standard
Tip
technique used by C++ programmers.

struct Variables and Functions

1. Emphasize that a C++ struct may be passed as a parameter by value or by reference,

and it can also be returned from a function.

2. Illustrate parameter passing with structs using the code snippets in this section.

Arrays versus structs

1. Using Table 9-1, discuss the similarities and differences between structs and arrays.

Spend a few minutes comparing the aggregate operations that are allowed on
Teaching structs and arrays. What might account for the differences? Use your previous
Tip exposition on the history of structs and memory management to facilitate this
discussion.

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-5

Arrays in structs

1. Explain how to include an array as a member of a struct.

2. Using Figure 9-5, discuss situations in which creating a struct type with an array as a
member might be useful. In particular, discuss its usefulness in applications such as the
sequential search algorithm.

Ask your students to think of other applications in which using an array as a

member of a struct might be useful. For example, are there applications in
Teaching
which parameter passing might be reduced by using struct members in
Tip
conjunction with arrays? Also, are there other data members that would be useful
to include in the listType struct presented in this section?

3. Discuss situations in which a struct should be passed by reference rather than by

value. Use the sequential search function presented in this section as an example.

structs in Arrays

1. Discuss how structs can be used as array elements to organize and process data
efficiently.

2. Examine the employee record in this section as an example of using an array of

structs. Discuss the code for the struct as well as the array processing code. Use
Figure 9-7 to clarify the code.

Emphasize that using a structured data type, such as a struct or class, as the
Teaching element type of an array is a common technique. Using the vector class as an
Tip example, reiterate that object-oriented languages typically have containers such
as list or array types that in turn store objects of any type.

structs within a struct

1. Discuss how structs can be nested within other structs as a means of organizing
related data.

2. Using the employee record in Figure 9-8, illustrate how to reorganize a large amount of
related information with nested structs.

3. Encourage your students to step through the “Sales Data Analysis” Programming
Example at the end of the chapter to consolidate the concepts discussed in this chapter.

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-6

Quick Quiz 2
1. What types of aggregate operations are allowed on structs?
Answer: assignment

2. Can struct variables be passed as parameters to functions? If so, how?

Answer: struct variables can be passed as parameters either by value or by reference.

3. True or False: A variable of type struct may not contain another struct.
Answer: False

4. True or False: A variable of type struct may contain an array.

Answer: True

Class Discussion Topics

1. With the advent of object-oriented programming, is it ever necessary to use C-type
structs rather than classes? If so, when? What are the advantages or disadvantages of
each approach?

2. Discuss how the object-oriented concept of reusability relates to structs, structs

within arrays, arrays within structs, and structs within structs. Ask students to
think of some applications in which defining these data types for later use would be
beneficial.

Additional Projects
1. Write a program that reads students’ names followed by their test scores. The program
should output each student’s name followed by the test scores and the relevant grade. It
should also find and print the lowest, highest, and average test score. Output the name
of the students having the highest test score.

Student data should be stored in a struct variable of type studentType, which has
four components: studentFName and studentLName of type string, testScore
of type int (testScore is between 0 and 100), and grade of type char. Suppose
that the class has 20 students. Use an array of 20 components of type studentType.

2. Write a program that lists all the capitals for countries in a specific region of the world.
Use an array of structs to store this information. The struct should include the
capital, the country, the continent, and the population. You might include additional
information as well, such as the languages spoken in each capital. Output the countries
with the smallest and largest populations.

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
C++ Programming: From Problem Analysis to Program Design, Eighth Edition 9-7

Additional Resources
1. Data Structures:
http://www.cplusplus.com/doc/tutorial/structures/

2. struct (C++):
https://msdn.microsoft.com/en-us/library/64973255.aspx

3. Classes, Structures, and Unions:

https://msdn.microsoft.com/en-us/library/4a1hcx0y.aspx

Key Terms
 Member access operator: the dot (.) placed between the struct and the name of one
of its members; used to access members of a struct
 struct: a collection of heterogeneous components in which the components are
accessed by the variable name of the struct, the member access operator, and the
variable name of the component

© 2018 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a
license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
Other documents randomly have
different content
mere trifle which threw open the gates of that paradise for which I had been
so blindly groping.
As yet I had never seen a full score; all I knew of printed music was a few
scraps of solfeggi with figured bass or bits of operas with a piano
accompaniment. But one day I stumbled across a piece of paper ruled with
twenty-four staves, and, in a flash, I saw the splendid scope this would give
for all kinds of combinations.
“What orchestration I might get with that!” I said, and from that minute
my music-love became a madness equalled only in force by my aversion to
medicine.
As I dared not tell my parents, it happened that by means of this very
passion for music, my father tried decisive measures to cure me of what he
called my “babyish antipathy” to his loved profession.
Calling me into his study where Munro’s Anatomy, with its life-size
pictures of the human framework, lay open on the table, he said:
“See, my boy, I want you to work hard at this. I cannot believe that you
will let unreasoning prejudice stand in the way of my wishes. If you will do
your best, I will order you the very finest flute to be got in Lyons, with all
the new keys.”
What could I say? My father’s gravity, my love and respect for him, the
temptation of the long-coveted flute, were altogether too much for me.
Muttering a strangled “Yes,” I rushed away to throw myself on my bed in the
depths of misery.
Be a doctor! Learn to dissect! Help in horrible operations! Bury myself in
the hideous realities of hospitals, wounds, and death, when I might tread the
clouds with the immortals!—when music and poetry wooed me with open
arms and divine songs.
No, no, no! Such a tragedy could not happen!
Yet it did.
My cousin, A. Robert—now one of the first doctors in Paris—was to
share my father’s lessons. Unluckily he played the violin well, being a
member of my quintette party, and, of course, we spent more time over
music than over osteology. Still he worked so hard at home that he was
always ready with his demonstrations, and I was not. Hence frequent
scoldings and the vials of my father’s wrath poured out on my poor head.
Nevertheless, by hook or by crook, I managed to learn all that my father
could teach me without dissections, and when I was nineteen, I consented to
go with Robert to Paris to embark on a medical career.

Before beginning to tell of the deadly conflict that, almost immediately

on my arrival in Paris, I began with ideas, people and things generally, and
which has continued unremittingly up to this day, I must have a short
breathing space.
Moreover, to-day—the 10th April 1848—has been chosen for the great
Chartist demonstration. Perhaps, in a few hours, these two hundred thousand
men will have upset England, as the revolutionists have upset the rest of
Europe, and this last refuge will have failed me. I shall know soon.
8 P.M.—Chartists are rather a decent sort of revolutionists. Those powerful
orators—big guns—took the chair, and their mere presence was so
convincing that speech was superfluous. The Chartists quite understood that
the moment was not propitious for a revolution, and they dispersed quietly
and in order. My good folks, you know as much about organising an
insurrection as the Italians do about composing symphonies.
12th July.—No possibility of writing for the last three months, and now I
am going back to my poor France—mine own country, after all! I am going
to see whether an artist can live there, or how long it will take him to die
amid those ruins beneath which Art lies—crushed, bleeding, dead!
Farewell, England!
France, 16th July.—Home once more. Paris has buried her dead. The
paving-stones, torn up for barricades, are replaced; but for how long?
The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is one mass of desolation and ruin; even the
Goddess of Liberty on the Bastille column has a bullet through her. Trees,
maimed and uprooted; houses tottering to a fall; squares, streets, quays, still
palpitating from the riot—all bear witness to the horrors they have suffered.
Who could think of Art at such a time! Theatres are closed, artists
undone, professors idle, pupils fled, pianists become street musicians,
painters sweep the gutters, and architects mix mortar in the national work-
sheds.
Although the National Assembly has voted a subsidy to the theatres, and
some help to the poorest of the artists, what is that among so many?
Take a first violin of the opera, for instance; his pay is nine hundred
francs a year, which is eked out by private lessons. What chance has he of
saving? Transportation would be a boon to him and his colleagues, for they
might earn a living in America, Sydney, or the Indies. But even this is denied
them. They fought for the Government and against the insurgents, and being
only deserving poor instead of malefactors, they cannot even claim this last
favour—it is reserved for criminals.
Surely this way—in this awful, hideous confusion of just and unjust, of
good and evil, of truth and untruth—this way doth madness lie!
I must write on and try to forget.
 IV

PARIS

When Robert and I got to Paris in 1822, I loyally kept my promise to my

father by studying nothing but medicine. My first trial came when my
cousin, telling me that he had bought a subject, took me to the hospital
dissecting room.
But the foul air, the grinning heads, the scattered limbs, the bloody cloaca
in which we waded, the swarms of ravenous rats and sparrows fighting for
the debris of poor humanity, overwhelmed me with such a paroxysm of wild
terror that, at one bound, I was through the nearest window, and tearing
home as if Death and the Devil were at my heels.
The following night and day were indescribable. Hell seemed let loose
upon me, and I felt that no power on earth should drag me back to that
Gehenna. The wildest schemes for evading my horrible fate—each madder
than the last—chased each other through my burning brain; but finally, worn
out and despairing, I yielded to Robert’s persuasion, and went back to the
charnel house.
Strange to say, this time I felt nothing but cold, impersonal disgust,
worthy of an old soldier in his fiftieth battle. I actually got to the point of
ferretting in some poor dead creature’s chest for scraps of lung to feed the
sparrow-ghouls of this unsavoury den, and when Robert said, laughing:
“Hallo! you are getting quite civilised. Giving the birds their meat in due
season!”
I retorted: “And filling all things living with plenteousness,” as I threw a
blade-bone to a wretched famished rat that sat up watching me with anxious
eyes.
Life, however, had some compensations.
Some secret affinity drew me to my anatomy demonstrator, Professor
Amussat, probably because he, like myself, was a man of one idea, and was
as passionately devoted to his science—medicine—as I to my beloved art,
music. His marvellous discoveries have brought him world-wide fame, but,
insatiable searcher after truth as he is, he takes no rest. He is a genius, and I
am honoured in being allowed to call him friend.
 I also enjoyed the chemistry lectures of Gay-Lussac, of Thénard (physics)
and, above all, the literature course of Andrieux, whose quiet humour was
my delight.
Drifting on in this sort of dumb quiescence, I should probably have gone
to swell the disastrous list of commonplace doctors, had I not, one night,
gone to the Opera. It was Salieri’s Danaïdes.
The magnificent setting, the blended harmonies of orchestra and chorus,
the sympathetic and beautiful voice of Madame Branchu, the rugged force of
Dérivis, Hypermnestra’s air—which so vividly recalled Gluck’s style, made
familiar to me by the scraps of Orpheus I had found in my father’s library—
all this, intensified by the sad and voluptuous dance-music of Spontini, sent
me up to fever-pitch of excitement and enthusiasm.
I was like a young man, who, never having seen any boat but the cockle-
shells on the mountain tarns of his homeland, is suddenly put on board a
great three-decker in the open ocean. I could not sleep, of course, and
consequently my next day’s anatomy lesson suffered, and to Robert’s
frenzied expostulations I responded with airs from the Danaïdes, humming
lustily as I dissected.
Next week I went to hear Méhul’s Stratonice with Persuis’ ballet Nina. I
did not think much of the music, with the exception of the overture, but I
was greatly affected by hearing Vogt play on the cor anglais the very air
sung, years before, by my sister’s friends at my first communion in the
Ursuline chapel. A man sitting near told me that it was taken from
d’Aleyrac’s opera Nina.
In spite of this double life of mine and the hours spent in brooding over
my hard fate, I stuck doggedly to my promise for some time longer. But,
hearing that the Conservatoire library, with its wealth of scores, was open to
the public, I could not resist the temptation to go and learn more of my
adored Gluck. This gave the death-blow to my promise; music claimed me
for her own.
I read and re-read, I copied, I learnt Gluck’s scores by heart, I forgot to
eat, drink, or sleep, and when at last I managed to hear Iphigenia in Tauris, I
swore that, despite father, mother, relations and friends, a musician I would
be and nothing else.
Without waiting till my courage oozed away, I wrote to my father telling
him of my decision, and begging him not to oppose me. At first he replied
kindly, hoping that I should see the error of my ways; but, as time went on,
he realised that I was not to be persuaded, and our letters grew more and
more acrimonious, until they ended in a perfect bombardment of mutual
passion and recrimination.
In the midst of the storm I started composing, and wrote, amongst other
things, an orchestral cantata on Millevoye’s poem The Arab Horse.
I also, in the Conservatoire library, made friends with Gerono, a pupil of
Lesueur, and, to my great joy, he offered to introduce me to his master, in the
hope that I might be allowed to join his harmony class. Armed with my
cantata, and with a three-part canon as a sort of aide-de-camp, I appeared
before him. Lesueur most kindly read through the cantata carefully, and said:
“You have plenty of dramatic force, plenty of feeling, but you do not know
how to write yet. The whole thing is so crammed with mistakes that it would
be simply waste of time for me to point them out. Get Gerono to teach you
harmony—just enough to make my lectures intelligible—then I will gladly
take you as a pupil.”
Gerono readily agreed, and, in a few weeks, I had mastered Lesueur’s
theory, based on Rameau’s chimera—the resonance of the lower chords, or
what he was pleased to call the bass figure—as if thick strings were the only
vibrating bodies in the world, or rather as if their vibrations could be taken
as the fundamental basis of vibration for all sonorous bodies!
However, I saw from Gerono’s manner of laying down the law that I must
swallow it whole, since it was religion and must be blindly followed, or else
say good-bye to my chance of joining Lesueur’s class. And such is the force
of example that I ended by believing in it so thoroughly and honestly that
Lesueur considered me one of his most promising and fervent disciples.
Do not think me ungrateful for his kindliness and for the affection he
shewed me up to his last hour, but, oh! the precious time wasted in learning
and unlearning his mouldy, antediluvian theories.
At one time I really did admire his little oratories, and it grieved me
sorely to find my admiration fading, slowly and surely. Now I can hardly
bear to look at one of his scores; it is to me as the portrait of a dear friend,
long loved, lost and lamented.
When I compare to-day with that far-off time when, regularly each
Sunday, I went to the Tuileries chapel to hear them, how old, how tired, how
bereft of illusions I feel. That was the day of great enthusiasms, of rich
musical passions, of beautiful dreams, of ineffable, infinite joys.
As I usually arrived early at the Chapel Royal, my master would spend
the time before service began in explaining the meaning of his composition.
It was as well, for the music had no earthly connection with the words of the
mass!
Lesueur inclined mostly to the sweet pastorals of the Old Testament—
idylls of Naomi, Ruth, Rachel—and I shared his taste. The calm of the
unchanging East, the mysterious grandeur of its ruins, its majestic history, its
legends—these were the magnetic pole of my imagination. He often allowed
me to join him in his walks, telling me of his early struggles, his triumphs
and the favour of Napoleon. He even let me, up to a certain point, discuss his
theories, but we usually ended on our common meeting-ground of Gluck,
Virgil and Napoleon. After these long talks along the edge of the Seine or
under the leafy shade of the Tuileries gardens, I would leave him to take the
solitary walks which had become to him a necessity of daily life.
Some months after I had become his pupil, but before my admission to
the Conservatoire, I took it into my head to write an opera, and nothing
would do but that I must get my witty literary master, Andrieux, to write me
a libretto. I cannot remember what I wrote to him, but he replied:
“Monsieur,—Your letter interests me greatly. You cannot but succeed in
the glorious art you have chosen, and it would afford me the greatest
pleasure to be your collaborateur. But, alas! I am too old, my studies and
thoughts are turned in quite other directions. You would call me an outer
barbarian if I told you how long it is since I set foot in the Opera. At sixty-
four I can hardly be expected to write love songs, a requiem would be more
appropriate. If only you had come into the world thirty years earlier, or I
thirty years later, we might have worked together. With heartiest good
wishes,
“Andrieux.”
“17th June 1823.”
M. Andrieux kindly brought his own letter, and stayed a long time
chatting. As he was leaving he said:
“Ah! I, too, was an ardent lover of Gluck ... and of Piccini,[2] too!!”
 This failure discouraged me, so I turned to Gerono, who was something
of a poetaster, and asked him (innocent that I was) to dramatise Estelle for
me. Luckily no one ever heard this lucubration, for my ditties were a fair
match for his words.
This pink-and-white namby-pamby effusion was followed by a dark and
dismal thing called The Gamester. I was really quite enamoured of this
sepulchral dirge, which was for a bass voice with orchestral accompaniment,
and I set my heart on getting Dérivis to sing it.
Just then the Theatre-Français advertised a benefit for Talma—Athalie,
with Gossec’s choruses. “With a chorus,” said I, “they must have an
orchestra. My scena is not difficult, and if only I can persuade Talma to put it
on the programme Dérivis will certainly not refuse to sing it.”
Off I posted to Talma, my heart beating to suffocation—unlucky omen!
At the door I began to tremble, and desperate misgivings seized me. Dared I
beard Nero in his own palace? Twice my hand went up to the bell, twice it
dropped, then I turned and fled up the street as hard as I could pelt.
I was but a half-tamed young savage even then!
 V

CHERUBINI

A short time after this M. Masson, choirmaster of St Roch, suggested that I

should write a mass for Innocents’ Day.
He promised me a month’s practice, a hundred picked musicians, and a
still larger chorus. The choir boys of St Roch should copy the parts carefully,
so that that would cost me nothing.
I started gaily. Of course the whole thing was nothing but a milk-and-
water copy of Lesueur, and—equally of course—when I showed it to him he
gave most praise to those parts wherein my imitation was the closest.
Masson swore by all his gods that the execution should be unrivalled, the
one thing needful being a good conductor, since neither he nor I was used to
handling such vast masses of sound. However, Lesueur most kindly induced
Valentino, conductor of the opera, to take the post, dubious though he was of
our vocal and instrumental legions.
The day of the general rehearsal came, and with it our vast masses—
twenty choristers (fifteen tenors and five basses), twelve children, nine
violins, one viola, one oboe, one horn, one bassoon.
My rage and despair at this treatment of Valentino—one of the first
conductors in the world—may be imagined.
“It’s all right,” quoth Master Masson, “they will all turn up on the day.”
Valentino shrugged his shoulders resignedly, raised his baton, and they
started.
In two seconds all was confusion; the parts were one mass of mistakes,
sharps and flats left out, ten-bar pauses omitted, a little further on thirty bars
clean gone.
It was the most appalling muddle ever heard, and I simply writhed in
torment. There was nothing for it but to give up utterly my fond dream of a
grand orchestral performance.
Still, it was not lost time as far as I was concerned, for, in spite of the
shocking execution, I saw where my worst faults lay, and, by Valentino’s
advice, I rewrote the whole mass—he generously promising to help me
when I should be ready for my revenge.
But alas! while I worked my parents heard of the fiasco, and made
another determined onslaught by ridiculing my chosen vocation, and
laughing my hopes to scorn. Those were the bitter dregs of my cup of
shame; I swallowed them and silently persevered.
Unable, for lack of money, to employ professional copyists, and being
justly afraid of amateurs, when my score was finished I wrote out every part
myself. It took me three months. Then, like Robinson Crusoe with the boat
he could not launch, I was at a stand-still. How should I get it performed?
Trust to M. Masson’s musical phalanx? That would be too idiotic. Appeal to
musicians myself? I knew none. Ask the help of the Chapel Royal? My
master had distinctly told me that was impossible, no doubt because, had he
allowed me such a privilege, he would have been bombarded with similar
requests from my fellow-students.
My friend, Humbert Ferrand, came to the rescue with a bold proposal.
Why not ask M. de Châteaubriand to lend me twelve thousand francs? I
believe that, on the principle of it being as well to be hanged for a sheep as a
lamb, I also asked for his influence with the Ministry. Here is his reply:
“Paris, 31st Dec. 1824.
“Monsieur,—If I had twelve thousand francs you should have them.
Neither have I any influence with the ministers. I am indeed sorry for your
difficulties, for I love art and artists. However, it is through trial that success
comes, and the day of triumph is a thorough compensation for past
sufferings. With most sincere regret,
“Châteaubriand.”
Thus I was completely disheartened, and had no plausible answer to
make when my parents wrote threatening to stop the modest sum that alone
made life in Paris possible.
Fortunately I met, at the opera, a young and clever music-lover, Augustin
de Pons, belonging to a Faubourg St Germain family, who, stamping with
impotent rage, had witnessed my disaster at St Roch. He was fairly well off
then, but, in defiance of his mother, he later on married a second-rate singer,
who left him after long wanderings through France and Italy.
 Entirely ruined he returned to Paris to vegetate by giving singing lessons.
I was able to be of some use to him when I was on the staff of the Journal
des Débats, and I greatly wish I could have done more, for his generous and
unasked help was the turning-point of my career, and I shall never forget it.
Even last year he found life very hard; I tremble to think what may have
become of him since the February revolution took away his pupils.
Seeing me one day in the foyer, he shouted:
“I say, what about your mass? When shall we have another go at it?”
“It is done,” I answered, “but what chance have I of getting it
performed?”
“Chance? Why, confound it all, you have only got to pay the performers.
How much do you want? Twelve or fifteen hundred francs? Two thousand?”
“Hu-s-s-sh, don’t roar so, for heaven’s sake! If you really mean it I shall
be most grateful for twelve hundred francs.”
“All right. Hunt me up to-morrow and we’ll engage the opera chorus and
a real good orchestra. We must give Valentino a good innings this time.”
And we did. The mass was grandly performed at St Roch, and was well
spoken of by the papers. Thus, thanks to that blessed de Pons, I got my first
hearing and my foot in the stirrup—as it were—of all things most difficult
and most important in Paris.
I boldly undertook to conduct the rehearsals of chorus and orchestra
myself, and, with the exception of a slip or two, due to excitement, I did not
do so badly. But alas! how far I was from being an accomplished conductor,
and how much labour and pains it has cost me to become even what I am.
After the performance, seeing exactly how little my mass was worth, I
took out the Resurrexit—which seemed fairly good—and held an auto-da-fé
of the rest, together with the Gamester, Estelle, and the Passage of the Red
Sea. A calm inquisitorial survey convinced me of the justice of their fate.

Mournful coincidence! After writing these lines I met a friend at the

Opéra Comique, who asked:
“When did you come back?”
“Some weeks ago.”
“Then you know about de Pons? No? He poisoned himself last week. He
said he was tired of living, but I am afraid that, really, he was unable to live
since the Revolution scattered his pupils.”
Horrible! horrible! most horrible!
I must rush out and work off this horror in the fresh air.

Lesueur, seeing how well I got on, thought it best for me to become a
regular Conservatoire student and, with the consent of Cherubini, the
director, I was enrolled.
It was a mercy I had not to appear before the formidable author of Medea,
for the year before I had put him into one of his white rages by thwarting
him.
Now the Conservatoire had not been run on precisely Puritanic lines, so,
when Cherubini succeeded Perne as director, he thought proper to begin by
making all sorts of vexatious rules. For instance, men must use only the door
into the Faubourg Poissonière and women that into the Rue Bergère—which
were at opposite ends of the building.
One day, knowing nothing of the new rule, I went in by the feminine
door, but was stopped by a porter in the middle of the courtyard and told to
go back and all round the streets to the masculine door. I told the man I
would be hanged if I did, and calmly marched on.
I had been buried in Alcestis for a quarter of an hour, when in burst
Cherubini, looking more wicked and cadaverous and dishevelled even than
usual. With my enemy, the porter, at his heels, he jerked round the tables,
narrowly eyeing each student, and coming at last to a dead stop in front of
me.
“That’s him,” said the porter.
Cherubini was so furious that, for a time, he could not speak, and, when
he did, his Italian accent made the whole thing more comical than ever—if
possible.
“Eh! Eh! Eh!” he stuttered, “so it is you vill come by ze door I vill not
’ave you?”
“Monsieur, I did not know of the new rule; next time——”
“Next time? Vhat of zis next time? Vhat is it zat you come to do ’ere?”
“To study Gluck, Monsieur, as you see.”
“Gluck! and vhat is it to you ze scores of Gluck? Vhere get you
permission for enter ze library?”
 “Monsieur” (I was beginning to lose my temper too), “the scores of
Gluck are the most magnificent dramatic works I know, and I need no
permission to use the library since, from ten to three, it is open to all.”
“Zen I forbid zat you return.”
“Excuse me, I shall return whenever I choose.”
That made him worse.
“Vha-Vha-Vhat is your name?” he stammered.
“My name, Monsieur, you shall hear some day, but not now.”
“Hotin,” to the porter, “catch ’im and make ’im put in ze prison.”
So off we went, the two—master and servant—hot foot after me round
the tables. We knocked over desks and stools in our headlong flight, to the
amazement of the quiet onlookers, but I dodged them successfully, crying
mockingly as I reached the door:
“You shan’t have either me or my name, and I shall soon be back here
studying Gluck.”
That was my first meeting with Cherubini, and I rather wondered whether
he would remember it when I met him next in a less irregular manner. It is
odd that, twelve years later, in spite of him, I should have been appointed
first curator, then librarian of that very library. As for Hotin, he is now my
devoted slave and a rabid admirer of my music. I have many other Cherubini
stories to tell. Any way, if he chastised me with whips, I certainly returned
the compliment with scorpions.
 VI

MY FATHER’S DECISION

The hostility of my people had somewhat died down, thanks to the success
of my mass, but, naturally another reverse started it with renewed fury.
In the 1826 preliminary examination of candidates for admission to the
Institute I was hopelessly plucked. Of course my father heard of it, and
promptly wrote that, if I persisted in staying on in Paris, my allowance
would stop.
My dear master kindly wrote asking him to reconsider his letter, saying
that my eventual success was certain, since I oozed music at every pore. But,
by ill luck, he brought in religious arguments—about the worst thing he
could have done with my free-thinking father, whose blunt—almost rude—
answer could not but wound Lesueur on his most susceptible side. From the
beginning:
“Monsieur, I am an atheist,” the rest may be guessed. The forlorn hope of
gaining my end by personal pleading sent me back to La Côte, where I was
received frostily and left to my own reflections for some days, during which
I wrote to Ferrand:
“No sooner away from the capital than I want to talk to you. My journey
was tiresome as far as Tarare, where I began a conversation with two young
men, whom I had, so far, avoided, thinking they looked dilettanti. They told
me they were artists, pupils of Guérin and Gros, so I told them I was a pupil
of Lesueur. They said all sorts of nice things of him, and one of them began
humming a chorus from the Danaïdes.
“The Danaïdes!” I cried, “then you are not a mere trifler?”
“Not I,” he answered; “have I not heard Dérivis and Madame Branchu
thirty-four times as Danaüs and Hypermnestra?”
“O-o-oh!” and we fell upon each other’s neck.
“I know Dérivis,” said the other man.
“And I Madame Branchu.”
“Lucky fellows!” I said. “But how is it that, since you are not
professional musicians, you have not caught Rossini fever and turned your
backs on nature and common sense?”
“Well, I suppose it is because, being used to seeking all that is grandest
and best in nature for our pictures, we recognise the same spirit in Gluck and
Salieri, and so turn our backs on fashionable music.”
“Blessed people! Such as they are alone worthy of being allowed to listen
to Iphigenia!”

Again my parents returned to the charge, telling me to choose my

profession, since I refused to be a doctor. Again I replied that I could and
would only be a musician and must return to Paris to study.
“Never,” said my father, “you may give up that idea at once.”
I was crushed; with paralysed brain I sank into a torpor from which
nothing roused me. I neither ate nor spoke nor answered when spoken to, but
spent part of the day wandering in the woods and fields and the rest shut up
in my own room. I was mentally and morally dying for want of air. Early
one morning my father came to my bedside:
“Get up and come to my study,” he said, “I want to talk to you.” He was
grave and sad, not angry.
“I have decided, after many sleepless nights, that you shall go back to
Paris, but only for a time. If you should fail on further trial, I think you will
do me the justice to own that I have done all that can be expected, and will
consent to try some other career. You know my opinion of second-rate poets
—every sort of mediocrity is contemptible—and it would be a deadly
humiliation to feel that you were numbered among the failures of the world.”
Without waiting to hear more, I promised all he wished. “But,” he
continued, “since your mother’s point of view is diametrically opposed to
mine, I desire, in order to avoid trouble, that you do not mention this, and
that you start for Paris secretly.”
But it was impossible to hide this sudden bound from utter despair to
delirious joy and Nanci, my sister, with many promises not to tell, wormed
my secret out of me. Of course she kept it as well as I did, and by nightfall,
everyone, including my mother, knew my plans.
Now it will hardly be believed that there are still people in France who
look upon anyone connected with theatres or theatrical art as doomed to
everlasting perdition, and since, according to French ideas, music hardly
exists outside a theatre, it, too, shares the same fate.
 Apropos of this I nearly made Lesueur die of laughing over a reply of one
of my aunts.
We were arguing on this very point, and I said at last:
“Come, Auntie, I believe you would object to have even Racine a
member of your family!”
“Well, Hector,” she said seriously, “we must be respectable before
everything.”
Lesueur insisted that such sentiments could only emanate from an elderly
maiden aunt, in spite of my asseverations that she was young and as pretty as
a flower.
Needless to say, my mother believed I was setting my feet in the broad
road that led not only to destruction in the next world, but to social ruin in
this. I quickly saw by her wrathful face that she knew all, and did my best to
slink out of her way, but it was useless. Trembling with rage and using “you”
instead of the old familiar “thou,” she said:
“Hector, since your father countenances your folly I must speak and save
you from this mortal sin. You shall not go; I forbid it. See, here I—your
mother—kneel at your feet to beg you humbly to give up this mad design
and——”
“Mother! mother!” I interrupted, “I cannot bear it! For pity’s sake don’t
kneel to me.”
But she knelt on, looking up at me as I stood in miserable silence, and
finally she said:
“You refuse, wretched boy? Then go! Drag our honoured name through
the fetid mud of Paris; kill your parents with shame and disgrace. Curses on
you! You are no more my son, and never again will I look upon your face.”
Could narrow-mindedness towards Art and provincial prejudice go
farther? I truly believe that my hatred of these mediæval doctrines dates
from that horrible day.
But that was not the end of the trial.
My mother hurried off to our little country house, Le Chuzeau, and when
the time of my departure came my father begged me to make one final effort
at reconciliation. We all went to Le Chuzeau, where we found her reading in
the orchard. As we drew near she fled. We waited, we hunted, my father
called her, my sisters and I cried bitterly, but all in vain. Without a kind word
or look from my mother, with her curse upon my head, I started on my life’s
career.
 VII

PRIVATION

Once back in Paris, and fairly started in Lesueur’s class, I began to worry
about my debt to de Pons.
It would certainly never be paid off out of my monthly allowance of a
hundred and twenty francs. I therefore got some pupils for singing, flute and
guitar, and, by dint of strict economy, in a few months I scraped together six
hundred francs, with which I hurried off to my kind creditor.
How could I save out of such a sum? Well, I had a tiny fifth-floor room at
the corner of the Rue de Harley and the Quai des Orfèvres, I gave up
restaurant dinners and contented myself with a meal of dry bread with
prunes, raisins or dates, which cost about fourpence.
As it was summer time I took my dainties, bought at the nearest grocer’s,
and ate them on that little terrace on the Pont Neuf at the foot of Henry IV.’s
statue; watching the while the sun set behind Mont Valerien, with its
exquisite reflections in the murmuring river below, and pondering over
Thomas Moore’s poems, of which I had lately found a translation.
But de Pons, troubled at my privations—which, since we often met, I
could not hide from him—brought fresh disaster upon me by a piece of well-
meant but fatal interference. He wrote to my father, telling him everything,
and asking for the balance of his debt. Now my father already repented
bitterly his leniency towards me; here had I been five months in Paris
without in the least bettering my position. No doubt he thought that I had
nothing to do but present myself at the Institute to carry all before me: win
the Prix de Rome, write a successful opera, get the Legion of Honour, and a
Government pension, etc., etc.
Instead of this came news of an unpaid debt. It was a blow and naturally
reacted on me.
He sent de Pons his six hundred francs, and told me that, if I refused to
give up my musical wild-goose chase, I must depend on myself alone, for he
would help me no more.
As de Pons was paid, and I had my pupils, I decided to stay in Paris—my
life would be no more frugal than heretofore. I was really working very
steadily at music. Cherubini, of the orderly mind, knowing I had not gone
through the regular Conservatoire mill to get into Lesueur’s class, said I
must go into Reicha’s counterpoint class, since that should have preceded the
former. This, of course, meant double work.
I had also, most happily, made friends some time before with a young
man named Humbert Ferrand—still one of my closest friends—who had
written the Francs-Juges libretto for me, and in hot haste I was writing the
music.
Both poem and music were refused by the Opera committee and were
shelved, with the exception of the overture; I, however, used up the best
motifs in other ways. Ferrand also wrote a poem on the Greek Revolution,
which at that time fired all our enthusiasm; this too I arranged. It was
influenced entirely by Spontini, and was the means of giving my innocence
its first shock at contact with the world, and of awakening me rudely to the
egotism of even great artists.
Rudolph Kreutzer was then director of the Opera House, where, during
Holy Week, some sacred concerts were to be given. Armed with a letter of
introduction from Monsieur de Larochefoucauld, Minister of Fine Arts, and
with Lesueur’s warm commendations, I hoped to induce Kreutzer to give my
scena.
Alas for youthful illusions!
This great artist—author of the Death of Abel, on which I had written him
heaven only knows what nonsense some months before—received me most
rudely.
“My good friend” (he did not know me in the least), he said shortly,
turning his back on me, “we can’t try new things at sacred concerts—no time
to work at them. Lesueur knows that perfectly well.”
With a swelling heart I went away.
The following Sunday Lesueur had it out with him in the Chapel Royal,
where he was first violin. Turning on my master in a temper, he said:
“Confound it all! If we let in all these young folks, what is to become of
us?”
He was at least plain spoken!
Winter came on apace. In working at my opera I had rather neglected my
pupils, and my Pont Neuf dining-room, growing cold and damp, was no
longer suitable for my feasts of Lucullus.
 How should I get warm clothes and firewood? Hardly from my lessons at
a franc a piece, since they might stop any day.
Should I write to my father and acknowledge myself beaten, or die of
hunger in Paris? Go back to La Côte to vegetate? Never. The mere idea filled
me with maddening energy, and I resolved to go abroad to join some
orchestra in New York or Mexico, to turn sailor, buccaneer, savage,
anything, rather than give in.
I can’t help my nature. It is about as wise to sit on a gunpowder barrel to
prevent it exploding as it is to cross my will.
I was nearly at my wits’ end when I heard that the Théâtre des
Nouveautés was being opened for vaudeville and comic opera. I tore off to
the manager to ask for a flautist’s place in the orchestra. All filled! A chorus
singer’s? None left, confound it all! However the manager took my address
and promised to let me know if, by any possibility there should be a vacancy.
Some days later came a letter saying that I might go and be examined at the
Freemason’s Hall, Rue de Grenelle. There I found five or six poor wights in
like case with myself, waiting in sickening anxiety—a weaver, a blacksmith,
an out-of-work actor and a chorister. The management wanted basses, my
voice was nothing but a second-rate baritone; how I prayed that the examiner
might have a deaf ear.
The manager appeared with a musician named Michel, who still belongs
to the Vaudeville orchestra. His fiddle was to be our only accompaniment.
We began. My rivals sang, in grand style, carefully prepared songs, then
came my turn. Our huge manager (appropriately blessed with the name of St
Leger) asked what I had brought.
“I? Why nothing.”
“Then what do you mean to sing?”
“Whatever you like. Haven’t you a score, some singing exercise,
anything?”
“No. And besides”—with resigned contempt—“I don’t suppose you
could sing at sight if we had.”
“Excuse me, I will sing at sight anything you give me.”
“Well, since we have no music, do you know anything by heart?”
“Yes. I know the Danaïdes, Stratonice, the Vestal, Œdipus, the two
Iphigenias, Orpheus, Armida——”
 “There, that will do! That will do! what a devil of a memory you must
have! Since you are such a prodigy, give us “Elle m’a prodigué” from
Sacchini’s Œdipus. Can you accompany him, Michel?”
“Certainly. In what key?”
“E flat. Do you want the recitative too?”
“Yes. Let’s have it all.”
And the glorious melody:

“Antigone alone is left me,”

rolled forth, while the poor listeners, with pitifully down-cast faces, glanced
at each other recognising that, though I might be bad, they were infinitely
worse.
The following day I was engaged at a salary of fifty francs a month.
And this was the result of my parents’ efforts to save me from the
bottomless pit! Instead of a cursed dramatic composer I had become a
damned theatre chorus-singer, excommunicated with bell, book and candle.
Surely my last state was worse than my first!
One success brought others. The smiling skies rained down two new
pupils and a fellow-provincial, Antoine Charbonnel, whom I met when he
came up to study as an apothecary. Neither of us having any money, we—
like Walter in the Gambler—cried out together:
“What! no money either? My dear fellow, let’s go into partnership.”
We rented two small rooms in the Rue de la Harpe and, since Antoine
was used to the management of retorts and crucibles, we made him cook.
Every morning we went marketing and I, to his intense disgust, would insist
on bringing back our purchases under my arm without trying to hide them.
Oh, pharmaceutical gentility! it nearly landed us in a quarrel.
We lived like princes—exiled ones—on thirty francs a month each. Never
before in Paris had I been so comfortable. I began to develop extravagant
ideas, bought a piano—such a thing! it cost a hundred and ten francs. I knew
I could not play it, but I like trying chords now and then. Besides, I love to
be surrounded by musical instruments and, were I only rich enough, would
work in company with a grand piano, two or three Erard harps, some wind
instruments and a whole crowd of Stradivarius violins and ’cellos.
 I decorated my room with framed portraits of my musical gods, and
Antoine, who was as clever as a monkey with his fingers (not a very good
simile, by-the-way, since monkeys only destroy) made endless little useful
things—amongst others a net with which, in spring-time, he caught quails at
Montrouge, to vary our Spartan fare.
But the humour of the whole situation lay in the fact that, although I was
out every evening at the theatre, Antoine never guessed—during the whole
time we lived together—that I had the ill-luck to tread the boards and, not
being exactly proud of my position, I did not see the force of enlightening
him. He supposed I was giving lessons at the other end of Paris.
It seems as if his silly pride and mine were about on a par. Yet no; mine
was not all foolish vanity. In spite of my parents’ harshness, for nothing in
the world would I have given them the intense pain of knowing how I gained
my living. So I held my tongue and they only heard of my theatrical career
—as did Antoine Charbonnel—some seven or eight years after it ended,
through biographical notices in some of the papers.
 VIII

FAILURE

It was at this time that I wrote the Francs-Juges and, after it, Waverley.
Even then, I was so ignorant of the scope of certain instruments that, having
written a solo in D flat for the trombones in the introduction to the Francs-
Juges, I got into a sudden panic lest it should be unplayable.
However one of the trombone players at the opera, to whom I showed it,
set my mind at rest.
“On the contrary,” said he, “D flat is a capital key for the trombone; that
passage ought to be most effective.”
Overjoyed, I went home with my head so high in the air that I could not
look after my feet, whereby I sprained my ankle. I never hear that thing now
without feeling my foot ache; probably other people get the ache in their
heads.
Neither of my masters could help me in the least in orchestration—it was
not in their line. Reicha did certainly know the capacity of most wind
instruments, but I do not think he knew anything of the effect of grouping
them in different ways; besides it had nothing to do with his department,
which was counterpoint and fugue. Even now it is not taught at the
Conservatoire.
However, before being engaged at the Nouveautés I had made the
acquaintance of a friend of Gardel, the well-known ballet-master, and he
often gave me pit tickets for the opera, so that I could go regularly.
I always took the score and read it carefully during the performance, so
that, in time, I got to know the sound—the voice, as it were—of each
instrument and the part it filled; although, of course, I learnt nothing of
either its mechanism or compass.
Listening so closely, I also found out for myself the intangible bond
between each instrument and true musical expression.
The study of Beethoven, Weber and Spontini and their systems; searching
enquiry into the gifts of each instrument; careful investigation of rare or
unused combinations; the society of virtuosi who kindly explained to me the
powers of their several instruments, and a certain amount of instinct have
done the rest for me.
Reicha’s lectures were wonderfully helpful, his demonstrations being
absolutely clear because he invariably gave the reason for each rule. A
thoroughly open-minded man, he believed in progress, thereby coming into
frequent collision with Cherubini, whose respect for the masters of harmony
was simply slavish.
Still, in composition Reicha kept strictly to rule. Once I asked his candid
opinion on those figures, written entirely on Amen or Kyrie eleison, with
which the Requiems of the old masters bristle.
“They are utterly barbarous!” he cried hotly.
“Then, Monsieur, why do you write them?”
“Oh, confound it all! because everyone else does.”
Miseria!
Now Lesueur was more consistent. He considered these monstrosities
more like the vociferations of a horde of drunkards than a sacred chorus, and
he took good care to avoid them. The few found in his works have not the
slightest resemblance to them, and indeed his

“Quis enarrabit cœlorum gloriam”

is a masterpiece of form, style and dignity.

Those composers who, by writing such abominations, have truckled to
custom, have prostituted their intelligence and unpardonably insulted their
divine muse.
Before coming to France Reicha had been in Bonn with Beethoven, but I
do not think they had much in common. He set great value on his
mathematical studies.
“Thanks to them,” he used to say, “I am master of my mind. To them I
owe it that my vivid imagination has been tamed and brought within bounds,
thereby doubling its power.”
I am not at all sure that his theory was correct. It is quite possible that his
love for intricate and thorny musical problems made him lose sight of the
real aim of music, and that what the eye gained by his curious and ingenious
solution of difficulties the ear did not lose in melody and true musical
expression.
 For praise or blame he cared nothing; he lived only to forward his pupils,
on whom he lavished his utmost care and attention.
At first I could see that he found my everlasting questions a perfect
nuisance, but in time he got to like me. His wind instrumental quintettes
were fashionable for a time in Paris; they are interesting but cold. On the
other hand, I remember hearing a magnificent duet, from his opera Sappho,
full of fire and passion.

When the Conservatoire examinations of 1827 came on I went up again,

and fortunately passed the preliminary, thereby becoming eligible for the
general competition.
The subject set was Orpheus torn by the Bacchantes. I think my version
was fair, but the incompetent pianist who was supposed to do duty for an
orchestra (such is the incredible arrangement at these contests) not being
able to make head or tail of my score, the powers that were—to wit,
Cherubini, Päer, Lesueur, Berton, Boïeldieu and Catel, the musical section of
the Institute—decided that my music was impracticable, and I was put out of
court.
So, after my Kreutzer experience of selfish jealousy, I now had a sample
of wooden-headed sticking to the letter of the law. In thus taking away my
modest chance of distinction did none of them think of the consequences of
driving me to despair like this?
I had got a fortnight’s leave from the Nouveautés for the competition;
when it was over I should have again to take up my burden. But just as the
time expired I fell ill with a quinsy that nearly made an end of me.
Antoine was always trotting after grisettes and left me almost entirely
alone. I believe I should have died without help had I not one night, in a fit
of desperation, stuck a pen-knife into the abscess that choked me. This
somewhat unscientific operation saved me, and I was beginning to mend
when my father—no doubt touched by my steady patience and perhaps
anxious as to my means of livelihood—wrote and restored me my
allowance.
Thanks to this unhoped-for kindness, I gave up chorus-singing—no small
relief, since, apart from the actual bodily fatigue, the idiotic music I had to
suffer from would soon have either given me cholera or turned me into a
drivelling lunatic.
 Free from my dreary trade I gave myself up, with redoubled zest, to my
Opera evenings and to the study of dramatic music. I never thought of
instrumental, since the only concerts I had heard were the cold and mean
Opera performances, of which I was not greatly enamoured. Haydn and
Mozart, played by an insufficient orchestra in too large a building, made
about as much effect as if they had been given on the plaine de Grenelle.
Beethoven, two of whose symphonies I had read, seemed a sun indeed, but a
sun obscured by heavy clouds. Weber’s name was unknown to me, while as
for Rossini——
The very mention of him and of the fanaticism of fashionable Paris for
him put me in a rage that is not lessened by the obvious fact that he is the
antithesis of Gluck and Spontini. Believing these great masters perfect, how
could I tolerate his puerilities, his unmerciful big drum, his constant
repetition of one form of cadence, his contempt for great traditions? My
prejudice blinded me even to this exquisite instrumentation of the Barbiere
(without the big drum too!) and I longed to blow up the Théâtre Italien with
all its Rossinian audience and so put an end to it at one fell swoop. When I
met one of the tribe I eyed him with a Shylockian scowl.
“Miscreant!” I growled between my teeth, “would that I might impale
thee on a red-hot iron.”
Time has not changed my opinion, and though I think I can refrain from
blowing up a theatre and impaling people on hot irons, I quite agree with our
great painter, Ingres, who, speaking of some of Rossini’s work, said:
“It is the music of a vulgar-minded man.”
 IX

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

Here is a picture of one of my opera evenings.

It was a serious business for which I prepared by reading over and
studying whatever was to be given.
My faithful pit friends and I had but one religion, with one god, Gluck,
and I was his high priest. Our fanaticism for our favourites was only
equalled by our frantic hatred of all composers whom we judged to be
without the pale.
Did one of my fellow-worshippers tremble or waver in his faith, promptly
would I drag him off to the opera to retract—even going so far sometimes as
to pay for his ticket. On one special seat would I place my victim, saying,
“Now for pity’s sake don’t move. Nowhere else can you hear so well—I
know because I have tried the right place for every opera.”
Then I would begin to expound, reading and explaining obscure passages
as I went along; we were always in very good time, first to get the places we
wanted; next, so as not to miss the opening notes of the overture; lastly, in
order to taste to the uttermost the exciting, thrilling expectation of a great
pleasure of which one knows the realisation will exceed one’s hopes. The
gradual filling of the orchestra—at first as dreary as a stringless harp; the
distribution of the parts—an anxious moment this, for the opera might have
been changed; the joy of reading the hoped-for title on the desks of the
double-basses, which were nearest to us; or the horror of seeing it was
replaced by some wretched little drivel like Rousseau’s Devin du Village—
when we would rush out in a body, swearing at all and sundry.
Poor Rousseau! What would he have said if he could have heard our
curses? He, who thought more of his feeble little opera than of all the
masterpieces through which his name lives. How could he foresee that it
would some day be extinguished for ever by a huge powdered periwig,
thrown at the heroine’s feet by some irreverent scoffer. As it happened, I was
present that very night and, naturally, kind friends credited me with this little
unrehearsed effect. I am really quite innocent, I even remember being quite
as angry about it as I was amused—so I do not think I should or could have
done such a thing. Since that night of joyous memory the poor Devin has
appeared no more.
But to go back to my story.
Reassured on the subject of the performance, I continued my preachment,
singing the leading motifs, explaining the orchestration and doing my best to
work my little gang up to a pitch of enthusiasm, to the great wonderment of
our neighbours who—mostly simple country folks—were so wrought upon
by my speeches that they quite expected to be carried away by their
emotions, wherein they were usually grievously disappointed.
I also named each member of the orchestra as he came in and gave a
dissertation on his playing until I was stopped short by the three knocks
behind the scenes. Then we sat with beating hearts awaiting the signal from
Kreutzer or Valentino’s raised baton. After that, no humming, no beating
time on the part of our neighbours. Our rule was Draconian.
Knowing every note of the score, I would have let myself be chopped in
pieces rather than let the conductor take liberties with it. Wait quietly and
write my expostulations? Not exactly! No half-measures for me!
There and then I would publicly denounce the sinners and my remarks
went straight home.
For instance, I noticed one day that in Iphigenia in Tauris cymbals had
been added to the Scythian dance, whereas Gluck had only employed
strings, and in the Orestes recitative, the trombones, that come in so
perfectly appropriately, were left out altogether.
I decided that if these barbarisms were repeated I would let them know it
and I lay in wait for my cymbals.
They appeared.
I waited, although boiling over with rage, until the end of the movement,
then, in the moment’s silence that followed, I yelled:
“Who dares play tricks with Gluck and put cymbals where there are
none?”
The murmuring around may be imagined. The public, not being
particularly critical, could not conceive why that young idiot in the pit
should get so excited over so little. But it was worse when the absence of the
trombones made itself evident in the recitative.
Again that fatal voice was heard:
 “Where are those trombones? This is simply outrageous!”
The astonishment of audience and orchestra were fairly matched by
Valentino’s very natural anger. I heard afterwards that the unlucky
trombones were only obeying orders; their parts were quite correctly written.
After that night the proper readings were restored, the cymbals were
silent, the trombones spoke; I was serene.
De Pons, who was just as crazy as I on this point, helped me to put
several other points straight but once we went too far and dragged in the
public at our heels.
A violin solo advertised for Baillot was left out. We clamoured for it
furiously, the pit fired up, then the whole house rose and howled for Baillot.
The curtain fell on the confusion, the musicians fled precipitately, the
audience dashed into the orchestra smashing everything they could lay hands
on and only stopping when there was nothing left to smash.
In vain did I cry:
“Messieurs, messieurs! what are you doing? To break the instruments is
too barbarous. That’s Father Chénié’s glorious double-bass with its diabolic
tone.”
But they were too far gone to listen, and the havoc was complete.
This was the bad side of our unofficial criticism; the good side was our
wild enthusiasm when all went well. How we applauded anything
superlative that no one noticed, such as a fine bass, a happy modulation, a
telling note of the oboe! The public took us for embryo claqueurs, the claque
leader, who knew better and whose little plans were upset, tried to wither us
with thunderbolt glances, but we were bomb-proof.
There is no such enthusiasm in France nowadays, not even in the
Conservatoire, its last remaining stronghold.
Here is the funniest scene I ever remember at the opera. I had swept off
Leon de Boissieux, an unwilling proselyte, to hear Œdipus; however,
nothing but billiards appealed to him, and, finding him utterly impervious to
the woes of Antigone and her father, I stepped over into a seat in front,
giving him up in despair.
But he had a music-loving neighbour and this is what I heard, while my
young man was peeling an orange and casting apprehensive glances at the
other man, who was evidently in a state of wild excitement.
 “Sir, for pity’s sake, do try to be calm.”
“Impossible! It’s killing me! It is so terrible, so overwhelming!”
“My good man, you will be ill if you go on like this. You really
shouldn’t.”
“Oh! oh! Leave me alone! Oh!”
“Come! come! Do cheer up a bit. Remember it is nothing but a play.
Here, take a piece of my orange.”
“It’s sublime——”
“Yes, it’s Maltese——”
“What glorious art!”
“Don’t say ‘No.’ ”
“Oh, sir! what music!”
“Yes, it’s not bad.”
By this time the opera had got to the lovely trio, “Sweet Moments,” and
the exquisite delicacy of the simple air overcame me too. I hid my face in
my hands, and tears trickled between my fingers. I might have been plunged
in the depths of woe.
As the trio ended two strong arms lifted me off my seat, nearly crushing
my breast-bone in; the enthusiast, recognising one fellow-worshipper
amongst the cold-blooded lot around, hugged me furiously, crying:
“B-b-b-by Jove, sir! isn’t it beautiful?”
“Are you a musician?”
“No, but I am as fond of it as if I were.”
Then, regardless of surrounding giggles and of my orange-devouring
neophyte, we exchanged names and addresses in a whisper.
He was an engineer, a mathematician! Where, the devil, will true musical
perception next find a lodging, I wonder? His name was Le Tessier, but we
never met again.
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