[Illustration: THE FOYER OF THE OPERA-HOUSE] The Conservatoire is another national institution. Like the Academy and the Comédie Française, it is a home of traditions. The airy foreigner who wishes to assist at one of its concerts cannot hope to open its doors with a golden key. Its seats are subscribed for and constitute personal property. Should the foreigner be fortunate enough to possess a friend with one of these seats who is willing to sacrifice a concert for his benefit, he will hear a marvellous orchestra. For a short time the scene of this unique harmony of sound was shifted from the neighbourhood of the Upper Boulevards to the boards of the Opera-house, and the result was sheer disaster. The orchestra of the Conservatoire is just suited to its own select little hall, but it is too delicate, too perfect, for transposition to a big theatre like the Opera-house of Paris. There you need instrumentation of a coarser quality, music less subtly rendered. Where the polka may be fitly danced, the _pavane_ would be out of place. M. Taffanel, the able conductor of the Conservatoire orchestra, cannot compare with the great German conductors; he has not the genius of Mottl, nor the magical temperament of Weingartner, nor the individuality of the French conductor, the late Lamoureux. But in his quiet, measured way he is an incomparable artist, to judge him by the results of his lead. When Weingartner and Mottl conduct, the attention is continually drawn to them. Indeed, in the case of Weingartner, who is unreasonably affected, and, like every other artist with a “temperament,” is apt to exaggerate its privileges, the audience is ever more conscious of him than of his instruments. He is a superb master, but one wishes him less histrionic. Now, M. Taffanel has not a suspicion of affectation or histrionism. He is simplicity itself, the very model of impersonality. He so effaces himself that you are conscious of his presence only by the perfection of his orchestra. He is so easy and subdued that he hardly seems necessary in this admirable triumph of art. Of course, as his house is the home of tradition, Wagner is excluded. Wagner dominates outside, but in here it is the masters consecrated by unmixed approval who rule the ear. Mounet-Sully will read to you, in his inimitable, sombre Byronic way, the ravings of Manfred, while Schumann will roll your soul over the crests of musical passion. Beethoven will speak to your heart and brain like a god, and Mozart will captivate you with his joyous melody and sweetness, but not a note of Wagner, the modern Colossus. It is well that this exclusive home of music should be kept up upon its aristocratic traditions—the best orchestra of the world and the least accessible; but the evil effect of exclusiveness is at once visible in a glance around at the audience. Daudet has written that the French do not in their hearts really like classical music. I think it is true. They delight too much