The Washington herald., 1912-08-18

sicians, like poets, must be the inter.
prefers of true emotion. To feel. to
make others feel-therein lies the whole
secret
MY time was nearly up at the Villa
Medlci. and but a few days separated
me from the hour in which ] had to
say good-by to my happy life-a life full
Of work. full Of sweet tranquility OF
mind, a life such as / never have lived
again. s.
1t was on December II, 1866, that ]
had to prepare for my departure: new
ertheless, / could not persuade myself
to bid adieu to Rome. 1t was Rome
that bade me adieu, and this is how
she did it. 1t was o'clock in the aft
ernoon. 1 was alone in my room, stand
ing before the window. looking through
the glass at the great city outlined In
gray against the light still remaining
from a lovely clear sunset This view is
forever imprinted on my memory. and
at the time / could not detach myself
from it Alas! Little by little shadow
crept over one corner Of the sky, spread
ing and spreading until finally Rome
had disappeared altogether. I have
never forgotten those moments. and II
is in remembering them that 1 evoke
my youth.
Journeyed TO India.
Il notice that 1 am saying but little
of music, and that 1 seem to care more
for what strikes the eye than for what
charms the ear. Let US open together
some. of my orchestral scores There
on / am in the habit of writing the day
and the hour, and sometimes an account
OF events of my life. Some OF these
have afforded me suggestions for my
work. The first part OF Mary Mag
dalene'' begins AT the gates of Mag
dala. evening" II was in truth of Mag
dala that / was then thinking: my i'm
agination journeyed to far Judea, but
what really moved me was the remem-
brance of the Roman Campagna, and
this remembrance IL was that 1 obeyed-
l followed the landscape l had really
known; therein was its accent, its ex-
act impression. Afterward, in writing
the ''Erinnyes." the love that / felt for
an exquisite Tanagra terra-cotta dictat-
ed to me the dances for the first act
Leconte de Lisles admirable drama.
Later, while / was arranging the score
OF the ''Roi de Lahore" near me was
little Indian box whose dark blue en-
amel spotted with bright gold contin-
ually drew my eyes to II. All my de-
light, all my ardor came from gazing
at this casket, where In 1 saw the whole
of India,
The Franco-R ussiRn War.
great part Of the life of the musician
whose modest beginnings were saluted by
firing in the streets. In 1So-a dismal
data for my poor dear countryside Prus-
sian cannons, answering those of Mort
often lugubriously punctuated
the fragments that l tried to write dur
Ing the short moments of rest that guard
duty, marching around Paris, and mill
tary exercises on the ramparts, left U.s.
There the musician, in the physical
weariness Of this novel life, vainly try
ing to ind a few moments of forgetful-
ness, did not altogether abdicate his
rights. In the leaves OF a finished score,
but one which will never be brought be-
fore the public. 'Meduse,' find annotat-
ed the patriotic cries Of the people, and
the echoes of the 'Marsellaise sung by
the regiments as they passed my little
house on their way TO battle. And so in
other fragments 1 can read the bitter
that moved me when. having
to Paris before 1t was invested.
was inspired by the woeful times that
We're upon us during the long winter of
that terrible year.
Were Dismal Days.
'Oh, the unforgettable pain and sor-
row of those dismal days when our
hearts plunged so quickly from COM
forting enthusiasm to the darkest de-
spair!-when weeks of uncertainty and
Of waiting were scarcely frightened by
rare letters, received one knew not
how or whence, and bringing us news
Of ancient date concerning the far-off
families and the dear friends we no
longer hoped to see again, Then came
the last effort. the last struggle at
Buzenval; the death OF my poor friend. |
the painter Henri Regnault; then the
most terrible trial of all. whose shameful
reality made us forget cold, hunger, all
hat We had endured-the armistice, |
which in our wearied but far from re- |
signed hearts rang the knell of our last |
and righteous anger. Yes, truly, during |
hose dark days OF the siege of Paris, il |
was indeed the image of my dying coun- |
Try that lay bleeding in me, feeble in |
strument that I was, when, shivering |
with cold, my eyes blinded with tears, |
the bars of the 'Poeme du |