read now and again that Meyerbeer's music is "very French." What is assuredly more French is this pleasant irony at the expense of operatic rhetoric.
IV
The Huguenots, presented in 1836 with a Parisian success equal to that of Robert, and a European success still more pronounced, is not a masterpiece. But it is Meyerbeer's masterpiece. Side by side with a certain quantity of rubbish there certainly occur powerful pages marked by superior mastery. But none of them have that natural charm and simplicity which characterise what is really fine and really good not only in delicate work, but equally in the serious and grand styles. Still, unless one is hopelessly prejudiced, one cannot withhold admiration from some scenes and one act which show an energy that is abundant though impure in form and colouring, a pompous but sustained eloquence, strong handling and firm balance. These qualities always secure an undeniable hold, if not on the heart, which is not touched, at any rate on the senses and on the understanding.
We must not be surprised that the Huguenots is the "book" that best inspired Meyerbeer. The musician used to indicate a subject to his librettist, and the latter made a scenario of it. Now I am convinced that of all the "books" on which he worked this one attracted him by less cold, artificial and material motives than the others. It flattered in Meyerbeer a latent hereditary religious hostility. A regrettable passion; granted, but we are talking art. And this passion was, like all passions, capable of mingling a certain ardour with its expression. Do
