Benoist was less happy when he was asked to put some life into Bellini’s Romeo by using earsplitting outbursts of drums, cymbals, and brass.  During the same noise-loving period Costa, in London, gave Mozart’s Don Juan the same treatment.  He let loose throughout the opera the trombones which the author intentionally reserved for the end.  Benoist ought to have refused to do such a barbarous piece of work.  However, it had no effect in preventing the failure of a worthless piece, staged at great expense by the management which had rejected Les Troyens.

I was fifteen when I entered Halevy’s class.  I had already completed the study of harmony, counterpoint and fugue under Maleden’s direction.  As I have said, his method was that taught at the Ecole Niedermeuer.  Faure, Messager, Perilhou, and Gigot were trained there and they taught this method in turn.  My class-work consisted in making attempts at vocal and instrumental music and orchestration.  My Reverie, La Feuille de Peuplier and many other things first appeared there.  They have been entirely forgotten, and rightly, for my work was very uneven.

At the end of his career Halevy was constantly writing opera and opera-comique which added nothing to his fame and which disappeared never to be revived after a respectable number of performances.  He was entirely absorbed in his work and, as a result, he neglected his classes a good deal.  He came only when he had time.  The pupils, however, came just the same and gave each other instruction which was far less indulgent than the master’s, for his greatest fault was an overweening good nature.  Even when he was at class he couldn’t protect himself from self-seekers.  Singers of all sorts, male and female, came for a hearing.  One day it was Marie Cabel, still youthful and dazzling both in voice and beauty.  Other days impossible tenors wasted his time.  When the master sent word that he wasn’t coming—­this happened often—­I used to go to the library, and there, as a matter of fact, I completed my education.  The amount of music, ancient and modern, I devoured is beyond belief.

But it wasn’t enough just to read music—­I needed to hear it.  Of course there was the Societe des Concerts, but it was a Paradise, guarded by an angel with a flaming sword, in the form of a porter named Lescot.  It was his duty to prevent the profane defiling the sanctuary.  Lescot was fond of me and appreciated my keen desire to hear the orchestra.  As a result he made his rounds as slowly as possible in order to put me out only as a last resort.  Fortunately for me, Marcelin de Fresne gave me a place in his box, which I was permitted to occupy for several years.

I used to read and study the symphonies before I heard them and I saw grave defects in the Societe’s vaunted execution.  No one would stand them now, but then they passed unnoticed.  I was naive and lacked discretion, and so I often pointed out these defects.  It can be easily imagined what vials of wrath were poured on me.