f himself and his work.
There was little of that masterly prevision of effect in his mind which
is one of the attributes of the higher imagination. His operas, though
most elaborately constructed, were often entirely modified and changed
in rehearsal, and some of the finest scenes both in the dramatic and
musical sense were the outcome of some happy accidental suggestion at
the very last moment. "Robert," "Les Huguenots," "Le Prophete," in the
forms we have them, are quite different from those in which they
were first cast. These operas have therefore been called "the most
magnificent patchwork in the history of art," though this is a harsh
phrasing of the fact, which somewhat outrides justice. Certain it
is, however, that Meyerbeer was largely indebted to the chapter of
accidents.

The testimony of Dr. Veron, who was manager of the Grand Opera during
the most of the composer's brilliant career, is of great interest, as
illustrating this trait of Meyerbeer's composition. He tells us in his
"Memoires," before alluded to, that "Robert" was made and remade
before its final production. The ghastly but effective color of the
resuscitation scene in the graveyard of the ruined convent was a
change wrought by a stage manager, who was disgusted with the chorus of
simpering women in the original. This led Meyerbeer to compose the
weird ballet music which is such a characteristic feature of "Robert le
Diable." So, too, we are told on the same authority, the fourth act of
"Les Huguenots," which is the most powerful single act in Meyerbeer's
operas, owes its present shape to Nourrit, the most intellectual and
creative tenor singer of whom we have record. It was originally
designed that the St. Bartholomew massacre should be organized by _Queen
Marguerite_, but Nourrit pointed out that the interest centering in the
heroine, Valentine, as an involuntary and horrified witness, would be
impaired by the predominance of another female character. So the plot
was largely reconstructed, and fresh music written. Another still more
striking attraction was the addition of the great duet with which
the act now closes--a duet which critics have cited as an evidence
of unequaled power, coming as it does at the very heels of such an
astounding chorus as "The Blessing of the Swords." Nourrit felt that
the parting of the two lovers at such a time and place demanded such an
outburst and confession as would be wrung from them by the agony of
the situa