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"'Nos amants sont en guerre, Vole, mon coeur, vole." He hummed the lines over and over, watching through his half-shut eyes the torture he was inflicting. "Oh, Mother of God," she whispered, "have mercy! Can you not see, do you not know? I am not as you left me." "Yes, my wife, you are just the same; not an hour older. I am glad that you have come to me. But how they will envy Pretty Pierre!"
Le Dieu des Amants, &c. After all that we had heard, and all that is known over the whole world, of the unbridled licentiousness and savage ferocity of the French soldiers, we were not a little surprised to find, that this and other songs written in good taste, and expressing sentiments of a kind of chivalrous elevation and refinement, were popular in their ranks.
"'Nos amants sont en guerre, Vole, mon coeur, vole." He hummed the lines over and over, watching through his half-shut eyes the torture he was inflicting. "Oh, Mother of God," she whispered, "have mercy! Can you not see, do you not know? I am not as you left me." "Yes, my wife, you are just the same; not an hour older. I am glad that you have come to me. But how they will envy Pretty Pierre!"
Debussy's ancestry is not easily traced. Wagner, whom he has amused himself by decrying in the course of his critical excursions, shaped certain aspects of his style. In some of the early songs one realizes quite clearly his indebtedness to the score of Tristan; yet in these very songs say the Harmonie du Soir and La Mort des Amants (composed in 1889-1890) there are amazingly individual pages: pages which even to-day sound ultra-modern. And when one recalls that at the time these songs were written the score of Parsifal had been off Wagner's desk for only seven years, that Richard Strauss was putting forth such tentative things as his Don Juan and Tod und Verklärung, that the "revolutionary" Max Reger was a boy of sixteen, and that Debussy himself was not yet thirty, one is in a position forcibly to realize the early growth and the genuineness of his independence. Adolphe Jullien, the veteran French critic, discerns in his earlier writing the influence of such Russians as Borodine, Rimsky-Korsakoff, and Mussorgsky a discovery which one finds some difficulty in crediting. Later, Debussy was undoubtedly affected, in a slight degree, by César Franck; and there were moments happily infrequent during what one may call his middle period, when a whiff of the perfumed sentiment of Massenet blew disturbingly across his usually sincere and poetic pages. But for traces of Liszt, or Berlioz, or Brahms, one will search fruitlessly. That he does not, to-day, touch hands at any point with his brother musicians of the elder school in France with such, for example, as the excellent and brilliant and superbly unimaginative Saint-Saëns goes almost without saying. With Vincent d'Indy, a musician of wholly antipodal qualities, he disputes the place of honor among the elect of the "younger" school (whose members are not so young as they are painted); and he is the worshiped idol of still younger Frenchmen who envy, depreciate, and industriously imitate his fascinating and dangerously luring art. He has traveled far on the path of his particular destiny; not since Wagner has any modern music-maker perfected a style so saturated with personality there are far fewer derivations in his art than in the art of Strauss, through whose scores pace the ghosts of certain of the greater dead. All that Wagner could teach him of the potency of dissonance, of structural freedom and elasticity, of harmonic daring, Debussy eagerly learned and applied, as a foundation, to his own intricately reasoned though spontaneous art; yet Wagner would have gasped alike at the novelty and the exquisite art of Pelléas et Mélisande, of the Nocturnes, even of the comparatively early Prélude
Referring to the bouquet that she had pinned into the Marquis's buttonhole, he said: 'Il y a des amants partout où il y a des oiseaux et des roses. And again: 'Les regardes des amoureux sont la lumière comme le baiser est la vie du monde. After dinner no time was lost, although the Marquis pleaded fatigue, in settling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest.
And still no one passed. Suddenly the soft whistling of a tune came through the hot air. A tune she had learned in Paris. "C'etait deux amants." "Hi!" cried Betty in a voice that was not at all like her voice. "Help! Au secours!" she added on second thoughts. "Where are you?" came a voice. How alike all Englishmen's voices seemed in a foreign land! "Here on the island!
"Don't let them sing it again never any more that song." "And what, Madam?" "That one 'us les amants changent des maîtresses!" A moment later she whispered, "I am afraid." Marshaling to the imperious orders of the tempest, and crowding close upon the flaming standards of the lightning, the armies of the clouds came on.
This is her reply: 'Your kind favour came duly to me, and as your message to your Spirit Friend was delivered previously, that is, as soon as it was written, I had no further effort to make than to convey the following to you: 'Amants, heureux amants, voulez-vous voyager! Que ce soit aux rives prochaines. Patience, je n'en ai pas quand je suis si près et si loin de vous.
Of course, I shall never care for anyone ever again unless he were to love me for years and years before he ever said a word, and then I might say I would try. And try. But fall in love? Never again! Oh, good gracious, there he is, and I've not begun to get ready." Temple was whistling Deux Amants very softly in the courtyard below. She put her head out of the window.
But what was the meaning of all the imputations she had read of in those interesting French novels in Paris? the languors and lassitudes and tremors of breakfasting love! There was just such a scene as this in one she had devoured on the boat. A dejeuner of amants certainly they had not been married, there was that want of resemblance, but surely this could not matter?
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